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swordgrace · 10 months ago

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𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐎𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒’ 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ jacaerys velaryon x female betrothed reader.

SYNOPSIS: jacaerys is reminded of his betrothed’s unwavering loyalty, and her affections. he is more than desperate to indulge.

note: jacaerys is nineteen, reader is eighteen.

format: one-shot — not requested.

word count: 5.8K.

warnings: SMUTTY SMUT (mdni), porn with little plot, risk of getting caught (dragonstone library), talk of insecurities, jacaerys is needy and sweet in this, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, handjob, lots of jace moans in this fic, brief dry humping, wet/rain jacaerys, table sex, making out, hair-pulling kink, unprotected sex, p in v sex, jace & reader have only been with one another, soft ending + aftercare

author’s note: I know that this isn’t What Honor Demands (please don’t be mad) but I did want to put a sprinkle of Jace content out there for you all! please be kind to one another, and thank you for reading & supporting my work! I love you all dearly! :))

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐧. 𝐓𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐬, 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐭.

Dragonstone’s hallowed hallways and winding corridors were scattered with the occasional Kingsguard, watchful gaze hovering about as you went on your way. Sleep eluded you, reclusive as ever, leaving you with nothing but a mind full of ceaseless thoughts.

Groggy footfalls fell across ancient stone as you carried yourself toward the library within the labyrinth of Dragonstone, in-search of your betrothed.

Pensive and frustrated as of-late, Jacaerys spent much of his evenings surrounded by endless piles of literature to preoccupy his mind, or nights spent on the back of Vermax beneath the open air. You did not begrudge him of his desire for space, but you sorely missed his presence — your bed felt exceedingly empty.

A silent yawn wrought your lips as you slipped between massive slabs of dark wood, the groaning of the doors reverberating throughout the cavernous alcove. Thunder shook the skies around Dragonstone, and with it, a torrent of rainfall that smacked against the dark stone surrounding the island.

It was there in the library that you saw Jacaerys, tousled curls slicked by the deluge, framing his face in such a princely manner that it stole your breath away. Your humble beginnings as a mere young maiden sworn to wed the heir to the Iron Throne had blossomed, flourishing into a loving relationship between yourself and the Prince.

All men that you had glanced upon paled in comparison to Jacaerys Velaryon, whose features were framed in such a regal light. The illumination of the hearth set his flesh ablaze with a burnished gold, brows creased in concentration as he leaned over a thick, dilapidated volume.

Prying his gaze away from dust-laden parchment, his eyes found you, his betrothed, captivating in your silken slip and woolen robe. His throat bobbed as he swallowed the sudden onslaught of nerves in your presence, an involuntary yet consistent response.

You treated him to a kindly smile, warm enough to soothe his shivering bones, doublet soaked from riding in the deluge. Part of him was stung with guilt for abandoning you each night to sulk in sullen silence, but he did not want to burden you with his feelings of inferiority.

Amber hues seemed transfixed upon you, taking in your ethereal sight, silks the color of Lady’s Lace, robe embossed with cerulean stitching. Your tresses were somewhat disheveled from rest, disagreeing with the pillows.

Abandoning his mindless studies, he sat straighter, shoulders squared as if to fill in the fullness of his height. You approached, aura gentle and thoughtful, as if you could pinpoint the source of his misfortune. “Is everything alright?” Jacaerys inquired, perplexed as to why you were out of bed so dreadfully late.

“It is,” A dismal yawn slipped through your teeth as you came to stand near him, circling around the stone table, noticeably lower in stature. “I fear that the raging weather has left me unable to find sleep.” You were from a place where such furious storms were uncommon.

As if he were to blame for this happenstance, Jacaerys appeared apologetic, fingers clenching together. “You have my apologies, my Lady. I hadn’t expected this deluge to carry on this late into the night.” With a begrudging sigh, he peered toward the stained glass windows littered throughout the library.

An amiable burst of laughter tore forth from your lips, head canting to one side as you rounded the table, gaze picking apart the various texts and heaps of parchment that lined the stone. “You’ve nothing to apologize for, Jacaerys. It seems you’ve taken advantage of the opportunity.” You gestured to his state of dishevel.

“Like yourself, sleep evaded me. I needed to find some reprieve; a thunderstorm seemed better than nothing.” His reply seemed strained with underlying frustration, as if the chord would snap within him at any given moment.

Your velveteen digits graced his shoulder, caressing circles into the muscle there, even if it were concealed by the thick wool of his doublet. Even if he did not speak it into existence, your comforting embrace brought him a semblance of warmth that little else could provide.

Drowning himself in reading now seemed incomprehensible, paling in comparison to the mere grace of your presence. “You seem very hard at work,” You chimed, lowering yourself into the high-backed chair to his left. “The subject of your studies?”

Jacaerys didn’t smile, yet the tension in his shoulders began to unfurl, as if your very presence willed him to do so. Nimble digits flipped through a page or two, the parchment worn and thin from many decades of dormancy and little use. “Targaryen bloodlines.”

There was some discomforting twinge within his tone, as if the very notion brought about complex feelings. It was his idea to invite Dragonseeds into their home, yet he hadn’t fully realized what harm it had caused to his claim. This vexation had developed into a thorn in his side, tearing open a wound that he thought he’d healed from.

He had dealt with the uncomfortable truth of his bastard heritage all his life — and now, he was made to confront it, see it in its unpleasantness. Even the unconditional love of his mother could not shield him from the vile insults, from the crass tongues of those who saw him for what he was — the bastard.

Your countenance wavered, empathy sinking into your gaze, brows softening as you folded your hands within your lap. Jacaerys had never fully confided in you the plain truth of his bloodline, but you had an inkling of his heritage — that hadn’t changed how you felt.

Wordlessly, you reached for his hand, and it was Jacaerys that brought your interwoven fingers to rest atop your knee. He did not need to vocalize it — he knew that you knew. Part of him was grateful that you never questioned it, or him.

“Understand that I will fight with you — fight for you. No amount of blood or worthiness shall change that.” You assured, collected and tender as you traced your thumb across his knuckles. They were disarmingly soft, pad of your finger brushing over the veins in his hand.

Jacaerys exhaled, sinking backward into the bite of the wooden chair, dark brows furrowing together. “It seems as if you are the only one that will.” His confession was a heavy-handed one, filled with an immeasurable melancholy that you wished you could rip away.

It was all that consumed him as of-late — his claim to the Iron Throne, the lack of reassurance from his mother, who seemed to drown herself in prophecy and history instead of his defense. Jacaerys felt as if he were adrift, alone in the black sea, threatened to be pulled beneath the tempestuous tides.

The touch of your hand was what kept him anchored, still bound to this reality, to the inevitability of war. Soon, he would face the Greens in the battlefield — and what then, if the war was won? His mother would sit the Iron Throne, and who would succeed her?

His half-brothers had all the hallmarks of a true Targaryen — violet irises, pale tresses, dragon eggs placed in their cradles. Who would follow him? Plain-featured, dark hair, amber-flecked hues that bore a striking resemblance to the former Commander of the City Watch.

With a sullen heart, Jacaerys glanced at you, his beloved, your countenance bathed in the waning glow of the firelight. An ardent fondness reached your stare, keeping his hand rooted against your knee. He idly plucked at the ivory silk of your shift, chest blossoming with a trembling exhale.

“You must forgive me for my absence as of-late,” Jacaerys felt as if he owed you an apology. For nearly a fortnight, he had kept you at arm’s length, for fear that he would tarnish your bond with his intrepid mind and distressed musings. “I haven’t intended to distance myself from you.”

“Jacaerys,” With a gentle hum, you brought your other palm beneath his, cradling his hand between your own, his flesh icy compared to your magnetizing warmth. “I know what burden you bear, and I know how distraught you’ve been. I cannot fault you for wanting space.” Even then, he felt as if that wouldn’t suffice.

“My misfortune is not an excuse to leave my betrothed unattended,” Resolute, he looked at you with such arduous devotion, one reserved only for a paramour. “Whatever burden I bear, I wish to endure it by your side, or not at all.” Whatever he did to deserve you, he was quite uncertain.

Betrothals were not easy to navigate — when he first found himself speaking to you, he feared the crushing weight of disappointment or a loveless match, something only formed from duty. He was pleasantly surprised by your willingness to discover the soul that rested beneath titles and propriety.

Another smile crossed your features, and it stayed this time, his heart galloping within his chest at your resplendent beauty.

There was a kindness that touched your gaze, one that he was unaccustomed to. He was often looked upon by strangers with indifference or contempt, and those who questioned his bloodline only glowered with vitriol and a thinly-veiled bitterness.

“Allow me to share in your sorrows with you,” At your insistence, Jacaerys did not make any attempt to protest the subject of your words — he knew that you wouldn’t allow it. “Whatever obstacles come hurling your way, know that we can brave it together, not apart.”

A lighter sentiment touched his features, then. He was no longer marred by frustration and helplessness, but newfound confidence. It was subtle, but you could see it reach his eyes, amber hues that danced with such an intense affection for you.

“As long as you permit me to assist in whatever tribulations you might face yourself,” It wouldn’t have been justified to make you wade through his obstacles without fighting your own hand-in-hand. “You are my betrothed. I should hope you will always rely upon me.” With a reassuring squeeze, you smiled at him.

“Rely upon one another, and let out hearts beat as one,” A tenderness gripped the tone of your resonance, as silky as the very gown you wore. “Until our last days or the end of our story.” The finality of your words filled him with an indescribable sense of optimism and hope.

Jacaerys adjusted his hand, but only to lift yours to his lips, gracing your velvet knuckles with his plush lips, eyelashes fluttering in your direction. Youthful eagerness and crackling ardor took over — he stared at you with a renewed compassion.

The sight of you in your evening slip made his heart pound against his ribcage, as if it had dropped right into his stomach. Sometimes he behaved as if he hadn’t touched you before — as if this were the first time all over again. “You continue to bewitch me,” Jacaerys murmured, canting his head to one side. “I love you for it.”

A smattering of heat blossomed across your features, the familiar warmth crawling down the length of your spine, resulting in a subtle shiver. “I wasn’t aware,” You mused, a certain flair within your voice that subtly invoked more than just romanticism and sweet words. “Is that a constant feeling?”

Swallowing the lump of boyish nerves that gathered within his throat, Jacaerys regarded you with a rather incendiary warmth, his gaze that of an unrestrained lover. “It is rather persistent,” Excitement began to stir within the pit of his stomach. “Especially now.”

Seven Hells, you deserved to be put to the lash for the lascivious thoughts you had.

It was as if the atmosphere had shifted entirely, from one of two youths navigating their troubles, to the first inklings of shared desire and appreciation. You hadn’t expected the suddenness of this shift, but you welcomed it regardless, belly stirring with butterflies.

Digits tightened into your silken skirts, in a valiant attempt to relieve some of the anticipation you were experiencing. Your intimate relationship with Jacaerys had always been in the sanctity of your bedchambers — achingly sweet and exploratory, but now, it had some element of thrill to it, especially if you opted to act.

Admittedly, the sight of him disheveled and dampened from the raging deluge had roused a familiar fire within your loins, producing a hint of slick between your thighs. Acting on impulse here, in the library of all places, broke all bonds of propriety — but neither of you paid it any mind.

Leaning forward within his seat, Jacaerys wordlessly beseeched you for a kiss, soft mouth inviting as ever, lips flushed and rosy. Without hesitation, you moved to meet him halfway, lost within the throes of your gentle entanglement. He was always gentle — that would never change, no matter his demeanor.

With all the tenderness of a gallant lover, Jacaerys ensured that he savored your kiss, eyelids fluttering shut as he reached to smooth his palm across your thigh. He shivered at the sensation, able to feel the outline of your pliant curves through the obscenely-thin silks.

He smelled of damp petrichor and old books, laden with dust, as if he’d spent all of his days rotting away within the depths of rain-soaked parchment. Your conjoined hands wove together, and you guided him until both of his palms planted themselves atop your thighs, sinking into their plushness.

Once the fire was stoked, it was difficult to smother it.

“Here?” Your shrewd voice interrupted his string of salacious fantasies, none of them pious enough to confess to. Jacaerys felt embarrassed for what he thought, for what he intended to do — perhaps he would seek absolution on the morrow.

“It is an ungodly hour,” Jacaerys reassured you, but in your defense, part of him feared the potentiality of being caught. “I don’t suspect anyone would come searching.” His suggestion was open-ended, but he did offer you an out, soothingly caressing along your legs. “Would you prefer if we retired to our chambers?”

Some sharp pang of exhilaration stoked the fire within your belly — coupling here filled you with the unfamiliar thrill of trying something daring. Instead of answering verbally, you resorted to action, rising from your rickety chair to toss one leg over his hips, sinking yourself down into the firmness of his lap.

Jacaerys’s expression was one of complete and utter bewilderment, but of the best sort — he was ensnared, simply put. A scarlet flush rose to his features, painting his visage with a bright-red shade. His breath audibly hitched within his throat, palms settling against the swell of your hips.

“It is the hour of the bat,” You agreed, heart hammering erratically beneath your breast, until you could bear it no longer. “Let that be our shield.” Once the words had escaped you in a breathy exhale, Jacaerys captured your mouth in an explosive kiss.

His passion would never be mistaken for roughness — your betrothed was as kindly and spirited as they came; you collapsed beneath his tender hand. Those dexterous fingers of his kneaded into your waist, traveling along your curves, longing to feel your naked flesh without obstruction.

A low groan blossomed within his chest when your digits flew to the nape of his neck, threading themselves into his soaked tresses. He was painfully handsome like this, damp from the rain, gaze full of ardor and silently pleading for your touch, hands wandering anywhere and everywhere.

Gathering your skirts as politely as he could, Jacaerys inched the fabric up along your legs, shivering in delight at the sight of your exposed skin. One would think he’d never glimpsed a woman before, the way he reacted whenever he saw you.

The soft pads of his fingertips glided along your bare thigh, allowing the silk of your shift to gather around your hips. His growing erection helplessly strained at the front of his breeches, and the desperate ache was only furthered when you ground yourself into him.

A gasp was shared between you both, skin becoming unbearably warm as you rocked your hips into him, finding your unholy friction. It only became increasingly heated, knowing that you wore nothing beneath your nightgown, and Jacaerys let out a wanton groan when you moved against him.

“Jacaerys,” Breathless and drunk upon desire, you felt his mouth seek yours again, coaxing you in for another kiss. There was desperation laced within his actions, finding his solace in the endless map of your lips, committing every detail to memory. “Touch me.”

Bringing his palm to your chest, Jacaerys needed no instruction when it came to caressing your breast, thumb rolling over your peaking nipple through thin silk. You were the first girl he’d laid with — if the Gods were kind, you would be the last.

Unexpectedly, your satiny lips found the column of his throat, pressing a string of appreciative kisses there as he kneaded your chest. A sweet, keening groan escaped him, abashed at your embrace. Between the ministrations of your fingers in his tresses and mouth on his neck, he feared oblivion.

A sharp clap of thunder shook the skies, yet it did not perturb either of you, ceaselessly carrying on in your needy coupling. One of your palms drifted to his chest, gripping at the embroidered velvet, pushing his collar aside to kiss his neck.

His digits tightened at the material bunched around your hips, eyes fluttering shut in a state of bliss, toying with your nipple as it pebbled beneath his touch. Jacaerys’s mouth watered involuntarily at the thought of tasting you, which he hoped would come soon, if you permitted him to do so.

You enjoyed his softness, his throat quivering beneath your lips, offering his subservience to you freely. A breathy grunt of your name cascaded from his mouth, prompting you to shiver within his embrace. Gods, that sound — it would be emblazoned in your mind for days to come.

With a gentle shrug of your shoulders, you let the woolen robe glide from your body, pooling on the cool stone below. Another downward brush of your hips sent the both of you reeling, clothed bulge grinding against your needy core, prompting you to shudder.

Jacaerys turned, bringing his soft lips back to yours, seizing your mouth in a blazing kiss. He continued to palm at your breast, cupping the pliant mound within his hand, evoking another whimper from you. Neediness took root, firmly planting itself within his stomach.

“Might I taste you?” He breathed against your lips, giving you pause as you regarded him with a simmering adoration. Jacaerys had done it once before, and he often thought of it in private moments, or sometimes recklessly at supper or during small council meetings.

Sheepishly, your head bobbed up and down in a lackadaisical nod, unable to mask your excitement at such a proposal. Wordlessly, he coaxed you up from his lap, nearly groaning at the loss of friction, though he suspected there would be ample opportunities for more later that night.

Using the table as a brace, you watched as your betrothed knelt before you, like a sinner coming to confess within the boughs of a sept; his confession whispered between your legs. Your woolen robe served as a suitable cushion beneath his knees, and he happened to unclasp his own cloak.

Peering at you through thick eyelashes, Jacaerys gingerly guided the silken slip up along your legs, watching with rapturous interest as you let it gather at your hips. He kissed his way up the length of your leg, letting them drape on either side of his shoulders.

Your hand came to rest against his crown of dampened curls, a shudder rolling down his spine at the sensation of your fingers gripping his tresses. Inhaling a gust of your saccharine scent, Jacaerys kissed his way to the gathering slick between your thighs, palms smoothing themselves against your legs.

A heat so feverish that it nearly destroyed you, his tongue raked hot embers over your cunt, tracing along the length of your slit before dipping between your folds. A gasp tore past your mouth; ecstasy beyond comprehension, gnawing away at your bones.

Jacaerys dutifully lapped at your core, nose brushing against your mound, tongue dancing from the pearl of your cunt to your entrance, his movements repetitive. A sigh of delight floated into the air, your pleasure made known as you lightly tugged on his tresses.

Soft, pleading moans reverberated throughout the library, and you were lost within the labyrinth of his affections. Your hips involuntarily jerked and jolted forward, rocking down into his mouth, evoking a throaty groan from your betrothed.

His name floated from your mouth like a prayer, reverent and gasping, as if it were the only word you knew. Your mind was foggy with the haze of desire, one that you found yourself caught within. A string of crass sounds emanated from below; soft, needy lips hungrily kissing along your cunt.

Steeped within your slit, the taste of you ambrosial, Jacaerys continued his ministrations, tongue flicking along your core, making a sluggish ascent toward your clit. Soft palms caressed your thighs, thumbs drawing patterns into your satiny flesh.

Even the finest of stouts could not contest your sweetness, arousal thick upon his tongue, like the nectar of an unfurling flower. Jacaerys’s mouth lapped along your cunt, until he found the clutch of nerves at the hood of your slit.

His eagerness was palpable through each flick of his tongue, lost within the oasis between your legs. A myriad of soft whimpers and whines escaped you, hand gingerly tugging on Jace’s hair as he showered your cunt in an alternation of steady licks to lingering ones.

Deliberately, he stoked the fire churning within your belly, teasing your pearl with feather-light kisses and circles of his tongue. A strained moan escaped you, prompting you to fist at his tresses, burying your digits within rain-slicked curls, involuntarily bringing him closer into the warm apex of your thighs.

Bathed in the sienna embers that crackled from the hearth, Jace appeared more handsome than ever, completely and utterly captivating. If it were up to him, he would’ve been content to stay here forever, pleasure you over and over again until you collapsed.

The short, dizzying gasp that tore past your mouth spurred him on, as he pressed another string of kisses against your slit. The continued sensation of your digits carding through his curls made him sigh with elation.

Again, he traveled to your pearl again, gently suckling upon the bundle of fiery nerves. Your poor thighs rattled on either side of his head, twitching with throes of ecstasy as he toyed with your clit.

“Jace,” Seven Hells, you sounded so divine. Through parted lips and wanton moans, you sighed his name, wanting him to continue exactly as he was. He could feel the pleading resonance within your sweet tone, bringing him to heel. “Gods, don’t stop!”

Jacaerys felt another groan stir within his chest, one that seemed caught within the bottom of his throat. He allowed himself a brief respite to catch his breath, peering at you from between your legs. “There?” He’d asked, watching your head ecstatically bob up and down.

A short, sporadic huff left you, followed by a string of incoherent pleas. “Y—Yes!” Your whine was somewhat shy, the vibrato of it quieting down, as if you suddenly feared becoming caught in the act. “Jacaerys, please!” You begged, and who was he to deny you?

Pursing his lips around your pearl, he gingerly suckled on the sensitive bud, drawing forth an unholy myriad of moans and whines from your mouth. Such sounds left their brand upon him, a shiver cascading down his spine as he pleasured you.

The incessant throbbing of his cock within his breeches made his yearning grow tenfold, feeling it strain against the woolen cloth. He continued to suck at your clit with a palpable gentleness, noticing the way in which your body quivered and writhed from pleasure.

Jacaerys alternated between the greedy suckling of your pearl and broad laps of his tongue, lulled into submission by the crescendo of your moans. You brazenly tugged at his damp curls, other hand snug against the wet fabric of his doublet.

Bliss and pleasure wracked themselves across your body, bringing with it a fire so great that it demanded to be extinguished. Jacaerys’s mouth was wonderful in every way imaginable, his pouty lips dancing wherever they pleased across your aching cunt.

Your hand skirted backwards, accidentally knocking over a stack of books, rolls of parchment fluttering to the stone floor below. With a needy desire to chase after your release, you rocked your hips forward, evoking a strangled groan from your betrothed.

He could feel the arousal mounting within his own body, and the constant quivering of your legs as he brought you closer to your release. Jacaerys continued to caress along your legs, from thigh to calf, mouth happily buried within the warm apex between your legs.

That sensation of your digits brushing across his scalp made him shiver, tongue delicately flicking from your entrance to swollen pearl before he began to suck on it again. Such noises would make a septa flush from their crassness, causing his belly to swirl with fire.

“Jace — Oh! Jace, Jace!” Abandoning the use of his true name, you sang his moniker to the high Heavens, feeling your release come swiftly, an incendiary wave of heat that threatened to consume you completely. You moaned, hips stuttering as you let bliss take over you.

Jacaerys caught the onslaught of your nectar, consuming every drop that you gave him with a neediness, cock twitching within his trousers. He cleaned you up with soft, short laps of his tongue, feeling you everywhere — burned into his mind, permeating his lips.

With a shaky exhale, you felt his head leave your legs, and your grip fell away, watching as he stood to find his place against you. “Such sweet torment,” Jacaerys murmured, nudging his forehead against yours. “You bring me to ruin.” He sighed, feeling your fingers move to the front of his doublet.

“I should be the one saying that,” Your laughter was brief and fleeting, a smitten smile tugging at either corner of your mouth. “Gods, you are so wonderful — so handsome, so perfect.” The sound of your resplendent praise made Jacaerys flush, wide-eyed and wanton.

His newfound closeness, standing in between your legs, allowed for your palms to cup his face, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones. “I need you,” Jacaerys confessed, his timbre husky, throaty with desire as he nearly pleaded with you. “If you’ll let me — please.”

Wordlessly, your hands flew to the front of his breeches, brushing against his clothed erection. Jacaerys groaned, countenance one of desperation as you untied the laces, freeing his cock from its confines.

You stroked along his length, causing him to shiver, cock warm and aching within your delicate grasp. Jace buried his face near your shoulder, brows furrowing together as you treated him to the soft embrace of your hand.

Dragging your palm along his cock, his hips involuntarily rocked forward, galloping after the friction. You felt his mouth plant strings of hasty kisses all along your shoulder, toward the dip of your neck, and then against your throat.

Gently guiding yourself backwards, various objects clattered against the stone table, a book being pushed off of the edge as Jacaerys moved forward. The tip of his flushed cock glided through your slick folds, prompting the both of you to sigh together.

“May I?” Jacaerys huffed, wide-eyed and completely and utterly flustered, so trapped within his own desire that it nearly rendered him speechless. With a quick bob of your head, he rocked forward, groaning in delight as your tight cunt throbbed around his aching member.

Using one palm to brace yourself against the table, your other arm flew to drape around his neck, mouths breathlessly clamoring together, seeking one another. You kissed him, doing little to mask your rapturous hunger as he sank forward, cock nearly kissing your womb.

A tempestuous clap of thunder made you jump, goosebumps cascading down your spine as an onslaught of rain ripped against the stone surrounding the library. The sight of his disheveled tresses and unbuttoned tunic made you unbearably hot, lips torn apart as soft, pleading whines escaped you.

One arm caged itself around you, his palm stroking at the curve near your ribcage, the other lifting your leg to hitch it around his hips. Jacaerys had not an ounce of desire to become rough with you — invigorated, perhaps, but he fully intended on savoring you.

His initial thrusts were somewhat sporadic and awkward, the follies of inexperienced youth, but he soon found his pace, cock gently gliding in and out of your cunt. Wanton sighs escaped his plump lips, brows creased in concentration as his head neared yours.

A soft groan resonated beside your ear as Jace adopted a sluggish rhythm, not wanting to intensify things too quickly. Your eyes fluttered shut, body content to bend to his thrusts, grow accustomed to his pace. He reciprocated your kiss, black curls falling in front of his temples.

There was something endearing about his slight clumsiness, the way in which his hand occasionally fumbled around your body. With time, he suspected that he would know you quite well — physique included. His digits kneaded into your leg, tracing from knee to haunch, holding you close.

The intermingled sounds of your desperate lovemaking soon floated into the air, a myriad of moans and sharp exhales; sighs of a deeply devoted passion. Your fingers raked across the nape of his neck, finding their purchase within his tousled curls.

He groaned your name, the sound only a lover could make, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment. Gods, he wouldn’t last long like this. Jacaerys felt your knee squeeze his waist, your other leg draped off of the table, legs spread apart for him.

The silk of your nightgown pushed toward your stomach, loins exposed to the brush of cooler air. “Jace,” You moaned, pressing a string of quick, rushed kisses all along his jaw, evoking another groan from between his lips. Your cunt clenched around his cock, drowning in the pleasure. “Jace!”

His pace was leisurely, yet twinged with desperation, as if he were burning with a longing to be close to you. His cock pulsed inside of you, throat blossoming with another throaty groan. Before you could whimper, he involuntarily smothered it with a kiss.

Each rock of his hips was intended to be disarmingly gentle, ensuring that every inch of his length bottomed out inside of you. Your stomach swirled with molten heat, coagulating as slick arousal as you felt it collect between your legs.

Every worry that had permeated his careworn mind was pushed to the recesses, something to be abandoned in the wake of your presence. His need for you, his love — it outweighed everything else. Whenever you kissed him, he could feel your ardor seep into his bones, consuming him to his very core.

Jacaerys’s breath became labored, another groan threatening to burst from his chest as his cock throbbed with an incessant pleasure. His muscles tightened, feeling your other leg move up to wrap around his hips altogether, drawing him into the warmth of your embrace.

Your arm lowered, and your back finally flattered entirely against the stone table, amidst parchment and tomes, dust-laden volumes that framed your head. The lick of firelight bathed you in an ethereal glow, stealing away Jace’s resolve.

He rocked into you, thrusts becoming a touch quicker in-spite of his encroaching release. Jacaerys covered you with his body, dark curls framing his countenance; a curtain of concentration. He moved to grab your hands, fingers twining together as he kissed you.

Gods, you were perfect — it was all he could think about, your grace and poise, your captivating beauty as he thrust his cock in and out of you, visage rosy and flushed. With another rock of his hips, length buried deep within you like a sword within a sheath, he shuddered.

His release felt overwhelming, a hot tidal wave that caused the tension in his stomach to unfurl completely. Hot ropes of his spend found its place within your womb, causing you to groan. Jacaerys rocked forward, gentle as could be, filling you with his seed.

With his composure in dire need of repair, he took a moment to catch his breath, lips curling into a smile. He could not mask his happiness in the wake of your tryst, moving off of you with a brief exhale.

“Are you alright?” Jacaerys’s warm timbre blanketed you immediately, and he went about correcting his trousers before attending to you. He adjusted your slip, assisting you in tugging it back into place until you seemed somewhat less disheveled.

“Of course,” Your own smile was demure, sheepish as you smoothed your palms across your silken sleeves. “And you?” With a gentle hum, you stepped forward to fasten the many silvery clasps of his doublet, noticing the flush of scarlet that had settled into his cheeks.

“Perfect,” Through thick eyelashes, Jacaerys gazed down at you with such adoration that you could drown in it. He held your waist, thumb drawing circles into your ribcage. “I wanted to thank you for ensuring my wellbeing. It is I that should be attending to you.”

With a brief shake of your head, you brought your palms to his chest, brows knitting together. “We are betrothed, Jacaerys. We can attend to one another,” You insisted, leaning up upon your toes to plant a kiss against his jaw. “We will do plenty of that once we are wed.”

Jacaerys’s countenance softened, and his muscles still burned from the exhilaration of your coupling. He looked toward the state of the table — parchment on the floor, scrolls scattered everywhere. “I love you.” He said through a thin smile, gracing the crown of your head with a kiss.

“I love you,” You assured, following the line of his gaze towards the disarrayed table. “Though, we should clean all of this up. What will Maester Gerardys say if he finds the library in this state?” You mused, a twinkling of mirth settling within your gaze.

“We could say that we were hard at work,” Jacaerys crooned, playful as could be as he retrieved your robe, bringing it over your shoulders before he scooped you up within his arms. “Studying.”

“Oh,” A gasp of surprise left you, but joy and happiness were soon to follow as he held you, forehead pressing against yours. “Are you saying that we should study more often?” You mumbled, and that caused Jacaerys to blush again, features unbelievably heated.

“At your earliest convenience.”

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon x y/n #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys velaryon #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #game of thrones x reader #house of the dragon smut #jacaerys x you

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iamnotoriginalphil · 8 months ago

Text

To Be Taught a Lesson (Professor!Agatha Harkness x f!Reader)

Synopsis: Agatha has some anger to work out. Lucky for her, you happen to be right within touching distance.

Words: 6.9k

Warnings: Student/teacher relationship, power imbalance, toxic relationship, age gap (all 18+), corruption kink if you squint, bondage, swearing, degradation, marking, vibrator, begging, jealousy, possessiveness, overstimulation, dom!Agatha, sub!R

Tags: @sasheemo @buttercandy16 @chlondykebar @toomanylesbiancouples @midnight-lestrange @babybeeelle

You were curled up on the swing on Agatha’s back porch. Large swathes of skin were on show, your legs bare despite the chill in the air. Her sweater, the cashmere one that had cost an arm and a leg, looked good on you. With your head bent over the book in your lap, hair falling forward from where it had come free from the bun you’d thrown it into that morning, sunlight hitting your body, you glowed.

She looked away from you, back to the garden. The gardener had returned, planting something for the first blush of spring. You hadn’t even seemed to notice his arrival, buried in a book you’d been pouring over for days now. She knew that book. It was achingly familiar, the leather cover and embossed letters like a dream from another lifetime.

You tucked a lock of your hair behind your ear. Her eyes followed it, lingering long after your fingers had fallen back into your lap. Your teeth were worrying at your lower lip, a move that had grown familiar over the months of watching you. Every time you read, lost in thought, working on something, those teeth would sink in and she would feel her entire body come alive. Knowing what it felt when it was her teeth had only made the entire experience worse.

She wasn’t sure you knew exactly how tempting you were. You’d wandered into that library, in that insufferable bore’s home, and she’d known she had to have you. All wide eyed innocence and desperation, you’d been delicious from the moment she’d laid eyes on you.

And then you’d proven yourself to be exceptional.

Now, knowing you, knowing your body and your soul, there was nothing she wouldn’t do to keep you. Some nights she’d watch you sleep, worn out from her ministrations, and feel her heart squeeze. It wasn’t fair, how you impacted her, the effect you had on her, and you had no idea. None. That with a single word you could bring her to her knees.

You glanced up, lips parted on a soft sigh, eyes alighting on her. Your smile was immediate, your entire being brightening, melting back into the cushions on the swing. Your foot was on the wooden slats of the porch, gentle rocking yourself, bare leg making her mouth water.

“Anything else you need, Miss Harkness?”

She snarled, turning towards the gardener lingering was at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes widened, taking a step back from her.

“No,” she replied, the eye roll obvious in her voice, “get out.”

She watched him scurry away, a sick sense of pleasure coursing through her body. She shook her hair back from her face, her finger brushing back those strands caught in the wind. When she turned back to you, it was to find sparkling eyes and a hidden smile turned in her direction. The warmth that melted through her veins left her feeling unsettled.

“Do you aim to scare everyone you cross paths with?” you asked, slowing your rocking.

“Do I scare you, pet?” she asked in return.

You shook your head, lip caught between your teeth, keeping your pretty smile from blooming over your face. You made such a nice picture, in her clothes, bruises on your skin left from her lips and her fingers, looking at her like she was the only thing you could see. She wanted to devour you, to chain you up and keep you from ever leaving, to hold you so close and so gentle that nothing ever happened to you.

She sauntered towards you, hands in pockets, staring down at you. You watched her, mouth falling open, eyes sweeping over her body. She revelled when you looked at her like that, like she was every dream you’d ever had, like you were an innocent hoping to be corrupted.

She knew you were anything but innocent.

“I could, if you liked,” she said, stopping in front of you, “would you like to be scared?”

“I’d rather get my heart rate up over something else,” you said in that way that sounded so sweet but let her now what a naughty pet you could be.

Your hand reached for her, clutching at her shirt, tugging on her until she was close enough to curl her hands around you, to seek out your bare skin, to make you shiver. She skimmed her fingertips along your leg, pausing at the hem of the sweater you were in.

“I believe this is mine,” she said, pinching it.

“You can have it back if you want,” you said, stretching your leg out in a move that had her wanting to sink her teeth into your skin, “but you��ll have to take it off me yourself.”

You had grown so much since that girl she’d first met, careful to always say the right thing, stealing glances, wanting something you thought you couldn’t have. She chuckled, running her fingertips back down your leg, luxuriating in the warm skin under her touch.

“I wouldn’t bother,” she said.

You pouted and she knew you were doing your best to tempt her.

“It looks so pretty on you. Why deny myself the pleasure of seeing you in it?” she murmured.

Your eyes brightened, your smile turning pleased. She loved when she could please you. Your gaze turned down, head dipping, hair falling into your face, hiding you from her.

“None of that, kitten,” she said, her fingers raising your chin again.

Your fingers were still clutching her shirt. When you tightened them, pulling her closer, she let you without argument, wanting it as much as you seemed to.

“Sit with me?” you asked, and she couldn’t say no to you.

Your legs shifted as she sat beside you, feet pressing into her thigh. It was like you were unable to stay away from her, to keep yourself from touching her in some way. It had been so long since someone had been so intent on her. You’d made your promises of forever, but your actions were what made her believe there was a chance they would be true. You always reached for her, the moment she was in the same room. Your eyes always turned to her. Your entire focus caught on her. It was nice to know she was the only thing you could see.

“What are you reading, kitten?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.

“A manual on how to be a witch,” you replied, smile turning impish.

She could imagine you as a witch. Dancing under the moonlight with a group of women, power coursing through your veins, brewing up potions. You’d take to it like a duck to water, your natural habitat. You’d be formidable with magic running in your veins.

“The one I sent you for?” she asked, delicate as she could be.

“Rio returned it,” you said, eyes darting up to her then back down to the book in your lap.

“How kind of her.” She wasn’t trying to hide her sarcasm.

“Are you mad?” you asked.

“Not at you, kitten.”

She curled her fingers around your ankle, tugging until your foot was in her lap. With a featherlight touch, she ran her index finger along the arch of your foot. You squirmed, trying to pull out of her hold. She did it again, tightening her hold, refusing to let you go.

“Agatha,” you whined and she so loved that sound. Her name on your lips was a delight she wasn’t sure she would ever grow tired of.

“Yes, pet?” she asked, still stroking your skin.

“Tickles,” you complained.

She continued for another few moments, enjoying the way you wiggled, the noises of complaint you made, but the way you stopped trying to pull away. She wasn’t lying when she’d told you she had complete control over your body. And the best part was the way you submitted to her so easily. She loved how easily she could take control, and how easily you let it go.

She placed your foot down again, stopping the torture. Holding it in her lap, she began the rocking of the swing again. Your toes flexed against her thigh. When she looked back to you, you were watching her with such a heartbreakingly fond expression on her face. It made her want to bury herself in you.

“So have you learnt how to be a witch?” she asked rather than letting herself examine that too closely.

“Maybe,” you said, “can I try reading your palm?”

“Are you hoping to read my fortunes?” she asked, but she was already presenting her hand to you, turning her body so she was sitting crossed legged across from you. You moved your body to mirror her.

“Perhaps I just want to know if fate knows what I know,” you said, taking it in both of yours.

“And what do you know?” she asked.

You flashed her a smile.

“That our lives will be entwined forever.”

You bent your head over her palm, fingertips tracing over whatever you saw there. She let herself study you as you did, the way she had lost hours to in her office, in her bed, on her couch. Every time she found something new in your features, something new to enjoy, something new that delighted her. Your face was more familiar to her than her own, and yet she couldn’t look away.

“So there’s your life line,” you said, finger brushing her skin like she was something precious, “it’s nice and long so you’ll probably live forever.”

You glanced up at her, grinning. Her own smile was an automatic response. Your fingertips were still brushing over her palm, making her head spin.

“It says you’re vibrant and full of life. No breaks in it either so you should have good health. No need for that nurses outfit I bought then.”

Her fingers closed around yours, holding them still.

“And when did you have time to go buy a nurse outfit?” she asked.

“A few years ago for halloween,” you replied, “I got a lot of free drinks in it.”

She gritted her teeth, knowing it was irrational to be mad about any liaisons you’d had before meeting her but just the thought of anyone looking at you with lust had her blood boiling. You were hers, and if she had her way, everyone would know that. She’d have her name branded over your skin and ensure anyone who looked at you felt the fear they should. No one crossed her and no one coveted what was hers.

Not when it came to you.

“And you wanted to wear it for me?” she asked through her gritted teeth.

“I thought you might like it,” you said, looking at her through your eyelashes.

Oh, you could ruin her with just that look.

“Of course, maybe you’d prefer me in something else,” you said, “I could dress up as a witch for you if you’d like.”

“You think I’d like you to dress up for me?” she asked.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t like to see me in my sexy little outfits?”

You were playing with fire. You had to know that. And yet you kept smiling at her like you were some kind of fucking angel.

“Go back to your palm reading,” she said, rather than giving you an answer.

You lingered, eyes sparkling at her, before looking down at her palm once again. She released your wandering fingers. You began tracing her skin again.

“The head line. A nice long clear line. You’re clever, but then, everyone knows that. A brilliant mind for a brilliant woman.” Your voice was so soft, “but this curve means you’re creative.”

Your lips ticked up and she was desperate to know what you were thinking. She could have asked but the answer might shatter her.

“And there’s your fate line. It starts where your life line does, speaking to your ambition and self-confidence. It’s not very clear though, so you might not have good luck. I think.”

Your self deprecating chuckle was familiar to her in a way that made her heart skip a beat. She knew you so well.

“Your marriage line is short so you might never get married and if you do it’ll be later in life.”

She felt her breath catch.

“And then there’s your love line.” You glanced up at her again before returning back to her hand, “interesting. Very interesting.”

“What is?” she asked, surprised how much she wanted to hear your answer.

“This says you’re going to have a happy long love.” Your fingers were still stroking over her skin, “and that you’re an exceptional lover.”

“It does not,” she said but she was smiling.

“It does. Right here.”

You tilted her palm towards her, your finger running along one of the line on her palm. She looked at it, more focused on the look of your skin against hers. You stroked her palm again and tilted it back towards yourself, holding it in your lap like it was something to be treasured.

“And then hand shape matters too,” you said.

You had begun to draw patterns on her palm, and she could see the cogs working in your brain. The book was still in your lap, just underneath her hand, the image of a palm facing up towards you. She wished she had a window into your brain, that she could rifle through your thoughts the way she could through that book.

“Agatha,” you said, voice quiet and she knew you weren’t about to tell her about her hand shape.

“Yes, pet?” she asked, bracing for whatever was about to come out of your mouth.

“Who’s Wanda?”

She hadn’t braced well enough.

It was like being kicked in the gut, her breath rushing out of her. Her ribs ached and heart was squeezing hard. It was as if her vision was tunnelling, focused on that one point of contact between you, her hand and yours and that damned book. She should have never sent you to go get it.

“Where did you get that name?” she asked, her voice not sounding her own.

You flinched back, hands dropping hers and you looked up at her. Your wide eyed innocence wasn’t what she wanted to see.

“Rio. She said… she said I should know what happened,” you said.

“She had no right,” she snarled.

Her anger propelled her out of the swing, leaving you behind as she tried to get a handle on the emotions coursing through her body. You stayed behind, giving her space, not drawing closer the way you often did.

“Is she why you hate Rio?” you asked.

“No,” she said, “that’s a different issue entirely.”

The swing creaked. She couldn’t look at you, not when there was still so much anger in her. If she did she might break you, irreversibly, and just the thought of destroying you had her seizing with panic. So it was better she continued looking out over her garden rather than face you.

“Why can’t you tell me?”

Her eyes squeezed shut, not liking how lost you sounded. There was so much you didn’t understand, so much she hadn’t told you. It wasn’t lying. It wasn’t. She’d been waiting.

She’d had to be sure you wouldn’t be like Wanda.

“Is it really that bad?” you asked.

“Does it matter?”

She turned to you. You’d pulled your knees up, curling your arms around your legs, chin resting on top. Watching her with those big sad eyes that she was certain could get her to do anything, you were so solemn. Her fingers clenched at her side, fighting against the impulse to reach out.

“She was your student, right?” you asked, “I know there were others, that I’m not the first.”

“Rio shouldn’t have told you that,” she said.

“I’m glad she did. I want to know,” you said.

She turned her face away from you, leaning back against the railing.

“And it doesn’t matter. Because I know I’ll be the last one.”

Her head snapped towards you. You were still watching her, so serious, and so perfect. She had no idea how something so lovely had landed in her lap.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“Just that I plan on never letting you go. No one will come after me. This is it. And if you’re not okay with that I don’t really give a fuck. I’ll convince you if you’re not but there will never be anyone else for me but you,” you said, so fierce. Fire ran through your veins and it left her breathless.

She should have never doubted you.

“Wanda was my student ten years ago. The last student I mentored. I fell in love and she didn’t. When she graduated, and she graduated top of her class under my guidance, she took something from me. The book I’d been working on. She took it and when I confronted her about it she threatened to go to the administration about our relationship,” she said, the secrets finally spilling forth, “last I heard she was married with twin boys. Rio made sure to keep me abreast of her situation.”

“Agatha,” you sighed.

She hated the pity in your voice. Shaking her head, she turned back to the garden.

“She took everything from me. She’s the reason my career has stagnated for so long. I can’t move forward with my research without her destroying me and it feels unfinished so I can’t move on to something new,” she said.

The swing creaked again. She couldn’t bear to look at you, to see the pity she knew would be swimming in your eyes. There was a reason she hadn’t told you. Any weakness couldn’t be shown. She was strong and capable and there were no chinks in her armour. No chance of hurting her.

Arms curled around her body, tugging her towards a warm body. Your chin hooked over her shoulder, tightening your arms around her.

“You didn’t deserve that,” you said, voice soft, but there was steel there.

“No, I didn’t,” she replied.

“I’ll curse her for you,” you offered, “make it so she can’t even say your name.”

“Don’t tempt me, kitten.”

You nuzzled against her neck, lips brushing over her skin. She lent back, letting you hold her up. Pressing a kiss to her skin, you hummed. She let out a long breath, fingers twining through yours.

“Whatever you want, I’ll do it,” you murmured into her neck.

You’d been nothing but good to her. So sweet and so pliable and so accommodating. You were a literal dream for her.

So why was her stomach still roiling?

“Rio had no right to bring this up with you,” she said after a moment of silence.

“She’s had no right to do any of it,” you said.

She spun in your arms, slow as she thought over what she wanted. Mostly, she needed an outlet for her anger and there were no little students around to bear the brunt of it. No, all she had was you.

“You should have walked away when she tried to talk to you,” she said.

“Agatha, she had me pinned to a tree,” you said, fingers gently brushing her hair away from her face.

That was a bit of information you’d failed to mention when reporting back to her.

“She did?” Her fingers caught your chin, forcing you to look at her, “was she flirting with you?”

“Maybe.”

Her hold on you tightened. You shifted your weight from foot to foot but you didn’t try to pull away from her. Your lips parted and you were a picture of temptation.

“You don’t know? Or you don’t want to tell me the truth?” she asked, voice lowering.

You were close enough she could feel you shiver.

“I don’t think she was serious about it,” you said.

“You don’t know her like I do,” she said, “such a pretty little thing like you? She could never resist.”

“I’m not that irresistible,” you laughed.

You had no idea.

“Oh my sweet kitten.” Her nails dug in to your skin, “such a good girl. So innocent. You’re a siren call to her. You are everything that tempts her.”

“I’m not that innocent,” you pouted.

“You’re right. She doesn’t know what a naughty pet you can be.”

She spun the two of you, pressing your back into the railing. You gasped and your eyes widened. That was the innocent look she was talking about. It was the one that would drive Rio wild if she saw it. But if anyone was going to corrupt you, it was going to be her.

“Agatha,” you said, voice small and desperate and so delicious she wanted to drown in it.

“But she can’t have you, can she, pet?” she asked, tipping your chin up.

“No,” you said.

“Because you belong to me, don’t you, pet?” she asked.

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Then go be a good girl and wait for me on the bed.”

She let you go and stepped back. You lingered a moment, staring into her face, before you scrabbled away, rushing to follow her orders. She watched you, something dark curling through her veins. You paused, looking back at her over your shoulder, her sweater clinging to your curves. With a sly smile, you ran up the stairs, bare legs flashing.

You were in so much trouble.

She flicked the cover of the book closed, wrinkling her nose at the entire thing. Throwing it onto the kitchen counter, she was not being careful with it. If Rio was going to plant a reminder of her presence in her home, she wasn’t going to treat it with any kind of reverence. No, that would be kept all for you.

You were kneeling in the middle of her bed, the sweater pooling around the top of your thighs, hair loose. Teeth were worrying at your lower lip and your eyes were bright. You’d tugged the sleeves over your hands, looking the picture of innocence. You’d understood exactly what she wanted.

She was never letting you go.

“Look at you, following instructions for me,” she murmured, stepping into the room proper.

“Anything for you,” you said.

Her fingertips ghosted over the apple of your cheeks, looking down on you. Your eyes watched her from under lowered lashes, blinking as she let herself touch you. You were so plaint beneath her fingers.

“What am I going to do with you?” she asked, eyes sweeping over your body.

“Whatever you want,” you replied, sounding so breathless she’d be worried if she didn’t know it was all an act to excite her.

“That’s right, pet. I’ll do whatever I want to you and that pretty pussy between your thighs,” she said.

You made such a wonderful little noise. Leaning down, she let her breath ghost over your lips, grinning when you tipped your face up, straining towards her. She shoved you back, your back hitting the mattress. Crawling over your body, she felt you squirm.

“Are you wet, pet?” she asked.

“Uh huh,” you said.

“Are you making a mess on my cashmere sweater?” she asked.

You made another small noise. Her fingers dipped down, feeling how wet you were, seeking out evidence of you dripping onto her very expensive sweater. She already had a plan of how to punish you for it.

She grinned.

“Would you look at that,” she murmured, “I’ve barely touched you and you’re already dripping for me.”

“Want you, Agatha,” you whined.

“You’re always such a desperate little thing. I bet you’d let anyone fuck you if they could get you off,” she said.

“No, no, only you,” you said.

“Don’t lie to me, pet. When Rio had you pinned to that tree I bet you were gagging to have her knuckles deep inside of you. If she offered you’d jump at the chance. You’re such a desperate little slut you don’t care who it is as long as it feels good,” she said, fingers featherlight as they ran through your folds.

“Only you,” you whimpered again, hips bucking into her hand as you tried to urge her on.

“I bet you got yourself off to the feeling of her pinning you to that tree. Was that why you came home so desperate for me? You got down on your knees right there in the kitchen for me because she left you all riled up. Should I send her a thank you note for sending you home in such a state?” she asked, watching you while her fingers brushed over your clit.

“Agatha,” you moaned, fingers clenching in her sheets.

“Or maybe I should offer her a go with you? A nice thank you for all the pleasure I’ve gotten from you. I’m sure you’d enjoy that,” she said, knowing she was being mean but not caring.

“No,” you moaned.

“No you wouldn’t enjoy that? Because I think you would. I think you’re such a slut it doesn’t matter who you’re in bed with. You don’t discriminate as long as they can fuck you good and proper,” she said, “you’re nothing but a dirty whore.”

“Agatha,” you whimpered.

She removed her hand from between your legs, forcing her fingers between your lips. You lapped at her skin, licking away the mess you’d made, sucking on them until your cheeks hollowed. You were watching her, such heat in your eyes it made her feel on fire.

She drew them from between your lips, wiping them dry on the sweater still encasing your body. With swift hands, she tugged it off your body, throwing it aside. Completely bare before her, all she could think of was the way you’d been sauntering around the house all morning like that. Nothing but a thin sweater between her and your body. You were such a little tease, knowing exactly what it would do to her.

“Parading yourself around in front of the gardener like that, I bet you would have let him take you right there on the lawn,” she said, “I bet you would have liked it if I’d watched.”

“There’s no one but you,” you whispered.

She scoffed but her hands were busy on your skin, feeling how soft it was beneath her touch. You arched into her, presenting yourself so beautifully for her. Fingers pinched at your nipples, watching the way your eyes slid closed, lips parting in a soft sigh. You knew how to drive her wild, to tempt her into losing control.

She would not be losing control.

With a strong grip, she manoeuvred you further up the bed. Catching both of your wrists, she lent over the top of you, securing them above your head. You tugged on them, your bonds, finding them unforgiving. Agatha grinned down at you.

“No chance of you slipping away to one of those other beds you warm now. Maybe I’ll leave you tired up here for days, use you to my heart’s content until you’re all fucked out,” she mused, finger tips brushing down your body.

She paused on your nipples, flicking them. You hissed, arching up into her touch, looking at her from under hooded eyelids. That was the look of her pet who thought she was going to get exactly what she wanted. The kind who thought she could get what she wanted by pouting her pretty lips and doing what she was told. The kind that thought she was a good girl.

How wrong you were.

It wasn’t until you were squirming on the mattress, your nipples pinched between her fingers, that she considered what she should do to you first. Spread out for her, bare to her gaze, you were the most beautiful view. She licked a long strip between your breasts.

“You’re so easy, pet. You’d let anyone tie you up like this,” she murmured into your skin.

You shook your head, whimpering when she harshly twisted one of your nipples. You were always so responsive to her, just a sweet little thing for her, just as she knew you would be that first time she laid eyes on you. Every part of you yearned to please her and you’d never made a secret of that fact. It alway sent a thrill through her.

“Should I keep you right here? Never let you escape?” she asked.

“Please,” you begged, “keep me forever.”

Her nose brushed along the soft curve of your breast, lips pressing to your skin. Your spine arched, offering yourself up to her. Such a good pet. Her teeth sunk in, your gasp gratifying. She wanted to see her teeth marks for days to come, your body marked as hers. She’d collar you, her name burned into your skin, make it clear to anyone who so much as glanced at you who you belonged to.

“You are rather beautiful,” she murmured, “I can’t blame them all for wanting you.”

Your fingers clenched around nothing, hips shifting on the mattress. Straddling you, she could see the way your eyes were beginning to glaze over, lips parted as you watched her, breathing growing faster under her hands.

“Who wouldn’t want you?” she asked, still gazing down on you.

She ran her hands down your body, leaving your breasts behind. Your skin was so warm against her palms. She could spend forever touching you and it would never be enough.

“You’re entirely too temping, pet. You have no idea what you do to me,” she said.

“Agatha,” you whimpered, “please.”

“Let me taste you.”

She slipped down your body, strong hands pulling your thighs apart. You were glistening in the afternoon light, so beautiful for her, and all for her. She lingered, drinking in the moment, wanting to feel the power she held.

Burying herself between your legs, she let herself taste you. She would never grow tired of that taste, the way you always exhaled softly, the cant of your hips towards her mouth. You never made it a secret how much you wanted her, how good she made you feel, how much you desired her. Even when she wasn’t between your legs, you desired her. Every single part of her. Even the bits she wasn’t always sure about.

Her fingers dug in as she held your legs open, wider than she knew was comfortable for you, but she didn’t care. She was made to fit between them and she would do what she wanted to get closer. You let out a shuddery breath, hips bucking into her mouth.

Her tongue teased you, grin hidden when you moaned her name. If only all those other stuffy professors could see her good girl, tied up and desperate for her touch. They would be shocked how dirty you could be. That wide eyed innocence was nothing but an act and just knowing she brought out this side of you with so little work was such a turn on.

You were begging her, a constant stream of words. You were writhing against the mattress, hips pressing closer to her. Her lips wrapped around your clit, that wonderful bundle of nerves that had you turning into a babbling mess. She dragged her eyes up your body, finding you watching her already. She flushed, loving being watched by you. Your eyes were the only ones she wanted on her, and just a glance from you could turn her breathless. A lovestruck fool. That’s what you’d turned her into.

It was pathetic.

She stopped going easy on you, turning rough again. This was all your fault. You encouraged everyone to become enamoured with you. She watched the way people looked at you when you walked across campus with her. They feared her but they were drawn to you. And the worst of it was you clearly didn’t realise it.

She wanted to snarl at the crowds of people who looked at you like you were something to covet. Like they wanted you. Like they could have you.

She had to teach you to stop encouraging them.

You cried out her name and she realised without even planning it, she’d made you cum. She’d been distracted, missing it. Too bad for you. You’d just have to go again. And she wouldn’t be stopping until she’d drunk her fill.

You whimpered, straining against your bonds, but you didn’t try and get away from her. She’d trained you so well. You took everything she gave, no questions asked.

She watched the way pleasure played over your face. It was a heady feeling, knowing she was the cause of that. She gave you no time to catch your breath, wanting to watch you. She was greedy, she knew it, but why bother denying herself when she knew you weren’t going to complain. Your legs were trembling, and your breathing was unsteady.

She loved the way you moaned her name.

Your body tensed, hips rising to meet her mouth. She lapped at you, refusing to miss a drop. You whimpered, a soft mewling noise, trying to move your hips away from her. Her hands only held you tighter, bruising your pretty skin, wanting more. She always wanted more of you.

“Agatha,” you pleaded, “it’s too much.”

“It’s too much when I say it’s too much,” she said.

But, looking at your face, the way you were wriggling, the squirming, she sat back on her haunches. And even so, you made a pained noise when she stopped touching you.

You watched her as she got off the bed. Her eyes swept over your body, lingering as she thought about all the things she wanted from you. She ran her fingertips along the arch of your foot, enjoying the way you squirmed.

“I’ll be right back,” she promised.

She considered her collection of toys. She had her favourites but now it was about you. Plucking one up, she turned to you. You were watching her from under hooded eyes, hair sticking to your temple, legs pressed together again. A smirk stretched over her face.

“Come on, pet. Show me how pretty your pussy is,” she said.

You parted your legs again, welcoming her back to her rightful place. The buzz of the vibrator in her hand had your breath hitching.

“Agatha,” you said.

“I know you can do better than that. You’re usually so insatiable. Don’t tell me you don’t want this,” she tutted.

When she pressed the vibrator between your legs, a strangled groan came from your lips. Your hips were already rising to meet it, squirming as you rolled against it. She held it there, watching you rut against her like the animal you were. All those crowds of people had no idea you were such a desperate little slut. That you would do anything to get your orgasm.

That you would do anything to get her to give you an orgasm.

She lent forward, capturing one nipple between her lips. She was harsh with you, refusing to be gentle, to go easy on you. This was what you deserved, welcoming Rio into your life to flirt and stir up trouble. That woman would never do this to you. She’d make sure of it.

You were arching up into her mouth, giving her everything. There was no chance anyone else was ever going to have you like this. No one else deserved to see you like this. This was only for her.

The noise you made was music to her ears. It only made her press the toy against you harder. You were whimpering above her, shuddering, tugging on your bonds. She let her teeth sink in to your skin, tasting you, ignoring the way you whined.

Your legs were pushing together, her hand caught between them. Tutting, she sat up again. Leaving the vibrator between your legs, she shuffled down the mattress. Catching one ankle, she tugged it towards the corner of the bed, securing it in place. You were looking at her with big pleading eyes but she ignored you, doing the same with the other ankle. You were spread out for her, swollen and dripping, making a mess of the sheets.

“No point complaining now, pet. You’re the desperate little slut willing to do anything for an orgasm. I’m just giving you exactly what you want. You don’t get to decide how many you get. Just be thankful I’m so willing to indulge you,” she said.

You made such a small noise, soft and sweet and so pathetic it made her grin. She swept her fingers through your folds, gathering your wetness. Her tongue dragged up her finger before sliding it between her lips. Her other hand found the vibrator again, pressing it to your clit, harsh, unrelenting, forcing you to feel more.

Even as you made those noises your hips kept rolling against the vibrator, grinding against it. It was like you couldn’t help it. Even when it was too much you wanted more.

She wouldn’t survive losing you.

Your back arched up off the mattress, almost bowing in half. Her name was barely intelligible on your lips but she knew. You only saw her. She was the only one to you. And she was going to make sure it stayed that way.

She slipped between your legs again, needing to taste you again. You whimpered but you didn’t argue this time. You were so well trained.

She lavished attention on you, tasting deeper, her tongue teasing at your entrance. Your eyes were squeezed closed but she could see the tear slipping down into your hair.

“Come on, pet. You can give me one more, can’t you?” she asked.

You nodded your head. She sucked a bruise into the skin over your hip, knowing she’d want to see it later. Returning to your throbbing core, she let her tongue penetrate you, licking deeper. She wanted to feel it this time.

When your internal muscles clenched and you made a broken noise above her, she knew. Turning off the vibrator in her hand, she tossed it aside, pressing a chaste kiss to your swollen clit. You shifted your hips away, but it was sluggish.

She was gentle as she moved down your legs, untying you. Her hands were soft as they stroked over your skin. Pressing soft kisses to your skin, she climbed up your body. She tugged the bonds off your wrists, lowering your arms. Your wrists were rubbed raw, bruises already forming on your skin. You shuffled closer to her, boneless and graceless, letting her rub the circulation back to your hands.

“You did so well for me,” she murmured.

You mumbled something, too quiet for her to hear. She pressed kisses to the top of your head, keeping you resting against her body. Her fingers ran through your hair, untangling the knots she knew she’d caused.

“I’ll be back in a second,” she said after a while.

“‘Kay,” you said, sounding so tired.

She lingered in the doorway for a moment, gazing down at you. You were so soft and malleable, worn out from everything she’d put you through. She would happily spend the rest of her life seeing you like this.

You were everything she’d ever wanted. She ached with it, how much she wanted you. Not even just sexually. It was everything about you that she wanted at all times of the day. Even the few times you weren’t with her, she missed you. It was ruining her.

You were ruining her.

With a warm flannel she cleaned you up, careful with your body. You let her, so pliable in this state. She pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your knee, nose nuzzling at your skin. You giggled, quiet, a little slurred. She tossed the flannel aside and crawled back up to you.

Her arms curled around you, letting you sprawl over her chest. You pressed your face into the crook of her neck, your breath ghosting over her skin. She trailed her fingertips up and down your spine, feeling you melt against her.

“No one even comes close to comparing to you,” she whispered, not sure if you could hear her.

Your lips brushed against her skin and you let out a soft sigh. She tightened her arms around you, refusing to let go. You burrowed closer, needy for her. She kept pressing kisses to your hairline, listening to your breathing, stroking your skin.

“Do you really think I’m irresistible?” you asked after some time had passed.

“You have no idea,” she replied.

You made a pleased little sound, wiggling closer.

“You know it doesn’t matter because no one will ever replace you, right?” you asked.

“I know,” she said, and it was so easy to believe it.

Your head tilted up and she felt you kiss the underside of her jaw. She threaded her fingers through yours, holding your hand.

“You know, you never finished reading my palm,” she said, looking down at your joined hands.

“What?” You sounded so sweetly confused.

“You said hand shape matters. So what hand shape do I have, kitten?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter.” You tilted your chin up to look her in the face, “as long as we’re together you’re going to have a wonderful life.”

Maybe you could read the future because that sounded accurate to her. With you by her side, the future looked so much brighter than she ever could have expected. She couldn’t wait to experience it with you.

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness imagine #agatha harkness #agatha all along

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kittenan · 2 months ago

Text

The Art of Obedience

Pairing: 20 y/o curious college student!reader × 33 y/o famous anonymous kink author!Namjoon

Word Count: ~7k+

Warnings: Explicit smut, BDSM elements (tying up, spanking, fingering, blindfolding, rough sex, edging, orgasm denial, squirting), power dynamics, daddy issues, slow corruption, filthy dirty talk, praise kink, degradation kink, possessiveness, mild fluff, emotional vulnerability. All activities are consensual with safewords established.

The library is a labyrinth of secrets, its air thick with the musk of old books and unspoken desires. You’re on your tiptoes, stretching for a book you’ve only heard rumors about: The Art of Obedience by RM, hidden in the restricted section like a dirty little secret. Your fingers graze its worn leather spine, the title sending a shiver down your spine, when another hand—big, warm, and far too confident—brushes yours.

You gasp, startled, and the book crashes to the floor with a thud that echoes like a slap in the silent library. Your cheeks blaze as you stammer an apology, but a voice stops you��deep, velvety, laced with danger.

“Careful, sweetheart,” it purrs, amusement curling around the words like smoke.

You look up and fuck, you’re not ready. He’s towering, a wall of lean muscle in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that could snap you in half. Dark hair falls into sharper eyes, gold-framed glasses perched low, and his lips—god, his lips—curve into a smirk that screams trouble. He’s older, maybe mid-thirties, but the way he’s looking at you makes your thighs clench involuntarily.

“I—I didn’t mean to—” you start, voice barely a whisper.

He crouches, slow and deliberate, picking up the book. His fingers linger on the cover, thumb tracing the embossed RM. like it’s a lover’s skin. He placed this copy here himself, months ago, under his secret pen name—a test, a game to see who’d dare touch it. And now you, a wide-eyed college girl dripping with innocence, are reaching for his filthy words.

He straightens, eyes raking over you—slow, predatory, like he’s already fucking you in his head. “Interesting choice,” he murmurs, flipping the book open with a casual flick. The pages fall to a chapter on submission, and his smirk deepens. “What’s a sweet thing like you doing with a book like this? Researching for a boyfriend?”

Your throat tightens, heat pooling low in your belly. “N-no, I am single. I was… just curious.”

“Curious,” he repeats, stepping closer, close enough that you can smell him—clean soap, leather, and something dark, like bourbon and sin. “That’s a dangerous word, little girl. Curiosity gets you wet in places you don’t understand yet.”

You try to step back, but the bookshelf digs into your spine. Trapped. His gaze is a physical thing, heavy and hot, stripping you bare. He holds the book out, dangling it like bait. “Take it,” he says, voice low, commanding. “But if you do, you’re mine to teach. You ready to learn what this book really means?”

Your fingers tremble as you reach for it. His hand doesn’t budge, forcing you to lean into his space, your chest brushing his. Your breath hitches, and you catch the faintest twitch in his jaw, like he’s holding back from devouring you right here.

When your fingers close around the book, his brush yours again, deliberate and lingering. “Good girl,” he whispers, the words dripping with mockery and promise. “Lesson one: always listen when someone more experienced offers you help.”

“Lesson two: you don’t touch what’s mine without permission. And this—” he taps the book, “—is mine. Just like you’re about to be.”

You’re already fucked, and you haven’t even said yes out loud.

A week later, you’re in a private reading room at the back of the library, the door locked with a soft click that feels like a gunshot in your chest. Namjoon leans against the oak table, arms crossed, his presence filling the room like he owns it. The book sits between you, its leather cover gleaming under the dim light.

“Rules first,” he says, voice low and firm, like he’s already got you under his thumb. “You say ‘red’ to stop. ‘Yellow’ to slow down. Nothing means you’re good. Got it?”

You nod, mouth dry, pussy already throbbing. “Yes.”

His eyebrow arches, sharp and expectant. “Yes, sir,” you correct, voice shaking.

His lips twitch, a flicker of approval. “Good girl. Stand up.”

You do, legs wobbly, and he’s behind you in an instant, his heat pressing against your back. You feel the smooth silk of his tie slide over your wrists, cool and tight as he binds them behind you. The knot is firm, leaving you helpless, your arms pinned and your pulse hammering in your clit.

“Feel that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and teasing. “That’s what it’s like to be mine. Completely at my mercy, but safe. You trust me, don’t you?”

“Y-yes, sir,” you whisper, cunt slick with need.

He steps in front of you, fingers grazing your jaw, tilting your chin up. His eyes are molten, searching, and his thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing just enough to make you part your mouth. “So fucking innocent,” he says, voice dark. “You’re trembling already, and I haven’t even touched you.”

You whimper, and he leans in, lips hovering over yours, so close you can taste the mint on his breath. “I’m gonna make you beg for it,” he whispers, “make that pretty little pussy drip just from my words.” His fingers slide down your neck, ghosting over your collarbone, then lower, circling your nipple through your shirt. It’s hard, aching, and he pinches it lightly, making you gasp.

“Not yet,” he says, stepping back, leaving you panting, tied up, and so fucking wet you’re soaking your panties. He picks up the book, casual as hell, like he didn’t just set your body on fire. “Read the first page. Out loud.”

“W-what?” you stammer, cheeks burning.

He smirks, settling into a chair, legs spread wide, bulge obvious in his slacks. “You heard me. Read. Let’s see how good you are at following orders.”

You stumble through the words, voice shaking as you read about surrender, about giving yourself over completely. Every sentence feels like a caress, his eyes locked on you, devouring every flush, every hitch in your breath. When you finish, he stands, slow and deliberate, and unties your wrists, his fingers lingering on the faint red marks.

“Go home,” he says, voice soft but commanding. “Touch yourself daily until we meet again. Think about me. But you don’t come. Not until I say so.” - He gives his card. "Call me in case you need help."

You leave, pussy throbbing, mind spinning, already desperate for more.

You’re five minutes late to the next meeting, and Namjoon’s waiting, eyes dark and dangerous, like a predator who’s been kept waiting too long.

“Late,” he says, voice a low growl. “You know what that means.”

“I’m sorry, I—” You said. "The Bus-"

“No excuses.” He’s in your space before you can blink, towering over you, his hand tipping your chin up so you can’t look away. “You need to learn what happens when you make me wait.”

Your stomach flips, arousal pooling between your thighs. “W-what happens, sir?”

He doesn’t answer, just points to the table. “Bend over. Now.”

You obey, heart pounding, bending over the polished wood, hands braced on the table. The anticipation is electric, your body humming as he steps behind you. His hands lift your skirt, slow and deliberate, exposing your thighs, then your ass, your panties clinging to your soaked cunt. The air is cool against your skin, and you shiver, feeling utterly exposed.

“Count,” he orders, voice like velvet and steel.

His hand comes down, a sharp smack on your ass, the sting blooming hot and sweet. “One,” you gasp, voice trembling.

Another spank, harder, the heat spreading through your core. “Two.”

By five, your skin is burning, and you’re dripping, the fabric of your panties sticking to your swollen folds. He pauses, fingers grazing the edge of your underwear, so close to where you’re aching but not touching. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust. “So fucking wet already, and I’ve barely started. You love this, don’t you?”

You whimper, too turned on to be ashamed. “Y-yes, sir.”

Another spank, and this time you moan, loud and needy, your clit throbbing. His hand lingers, fingers slipping under the fabric, brushing the slick heat of your pussy but not pushing inside. “Such a dirty little girl,” he says, teasing, his touch gone before you can beg for more. “You want it so bad, but you don’t get to have it yet.”

He pulls your skirt down, leaving you trembling, unsatisfied, your ass stinging and your cunt aching. “Same time next week,” he says, voice calm, like he didn’t just wreck you. “And don’t you dare touch yourself until then.”

You leave, a mess of need, your body screaming for release you’re not allowed to take.

You’re on time this week, heart racing as you step into the reading room. Namjoon’s waiting, a black silk blindfold dangling from his fingers, his eyes dark with intent. Your pussy clenches at the sight, already wet, already his.

“Trust me?” he asks, voice soft but heavy, like he’s asking for your soul.

“Yes, sir,” you breathe, and he ties the blindfold over your eyes, plunging you into darkness. Every sound is sharper—his footsteps, the rustle of his clothes, the hitch in his breath. He guides you to the table, lifting you so you’re perched on the edge, thighs spread.

“Spread your legs wider,” he commands, and you do, skirt riding up, panties exposed. His hands slide up your thighs, slow, torturous, until he’s peeling your underwear off, leaving you bare. The air hits your slick folds, and you bite your lip, aching for his touch.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and then his fingers are there, teasing your entrance, circling your clit with featherlight strokes. You moan, hips bucking, but he grips your thigh, holding you still. “Not yet. You beg for it first.”

“Please, sir,” you whimper, voice breaking. “Please touch me. I need your fingers inside me. I need to come.”

He chuckles, low and filthy. “That’s better.” One finger slides inside, slow and deep, stretching you, then another, curling against that spot that makes you see stars. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles, and you’re shaking, so close it hurts.

“Look at this greedy little cunt,” he says, voice rough. “Sucking my fingers in like it’s starving. You’re so fucking tight, baby. Gonna feel so good when I finally fuck you.”

You’re whining now, desperate, the blindfold amplifying every sensation. His fingers pump faster, wet sounds filling the room, and you’re right there, teetering on the edge. “Please, sir,” you sob. “Please let me come. I can’t—I need it.”

“Come for me,” he growls, and you do, shattering, your pussy clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through you. His fingers don’t stop, curling harder, thumb pressing relentless circles, and something builds—intense, overwhelming. You cry out as your body convulses, a gush of wetness soaking his hand, the table, your thighs. You’re squirting, the release so powerful it leaves you trembling, oversensitive, a whimpering mess.

“Fuck,” Namjoon groans, voice raw with awe. “Look at that. You’re fucking perfect, baby, squirting all over me like a good little slut.”

He pulls his fingers out, and you hear him suck them clean, moaning like he’s savoring every drop. The blindfold comes off, and his eyes are wild, pupils blown, but there’s a flicker of something softer—something that scares him.

“You’re too fucking perfect,” he says, kissing your forehead, gentle and jarring after the filth. “Rest up. We’re far from done.”

The fourth meeting is different. Namjoon’s hungrier, rougher, like he’s been holding back too long. You’re on your knees, wrists tied with his tie, his hands fisted in your hair as he guides you closer to his cock, straining against his slacks. The book’s open on the table, and you spot something—a scribbled note in the cover: Kim Namjoon as well as RM. Both handwritten signatures side by side, RM's signature same as printed inside the book.

Your breath catches. “You’re… R.M.?”

He freezes, then laughs, dark and dangerous, tugging your hair to tilt your face up. “Caught me, baby. Now you know who’s been writing the shit that gets you so wet. And you’re still gonna let me ruin you.”

You’re too shocked, too turned on to argue. He kisses you, hard and possessive, teeth clashing, tongue claiming your mouth like he owns it. Clothes rip—your shirt’s buttons scatter, his belt clanks, your skirt’s yanked down. He lifts you onto the table, spreading your thighs wide, and pauses, just looking at your dripping cunt.

“Fuck, you’re a masterpiece,” he growls, and then he’s pushing inside, thick and long, stretching you so good it’s almost too much. You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, and he fucks you like he’s claiming you, each thrust deep and punishing.

“Mine,” he snarls, hands gripping your hips, leaving bruises. “This pussy’s mine. No one else gets to fuck you like this. Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp, clenching around him, already close. “Only yours, sir.”

He groans, slamming harder, the table creaking. “Gonna fill you up,” he says, voice raw. “Make you mine for good.” His thumb finds your clit, rubbing fast, and you come undone, screaming his name, your pussy milking his cock as he spills inside you, hot and thick.

You’re both panting, sweaty, tangled together. He brushes your hair back, eyes soft for the first time, like he’s scared of what’s between you. “Don’t tell anyone,” he says quietly. “About the book. It’s just… a side hobby. Don't need attention.”

“I won’t,” you whisper, and he kisses you, slow and deep, like he’s sealing a promise. His cock buried deep inside you, hot and unyielding.

Weeks later, you’re back in the library, the familiar scent of old books wrapping around you like a lover’s embrace. You’re seated at a secluded table, The Art of Obedience open in your lap, every filthy page now a map of your own desires. You’ve read it cover to cover, each chapter a spark that ignites memories of Namjoon’s hands, his voice, his cock. Your thighs press together under the table, your panties already damp just thinking about him.

Across from you, Namjoon’s writing in a leather-bound notebook, his glasses low on his nose, that same predatory focus in his eyes. He’s been working on something new, he said, a chapter written just for you. The thought alone has kept you on edge all day, your body humming with anticipation, your cunt aching for what he might have in store.

He glances up, catching you staring, and his lips curve into a smirk that’s pure sin. “Done daydreaming?” he asks, voice low, teasing. He slides the notebook across the table, the pages open to a freshly inked chapter. “Read it. Out loud. Let’s see how you handle it.”

Your breath catches, heat flooding your core. You take the notebook, fingers trembling slightly, and begin to read, your voice soft but steady, though every word feels like it’s unraveling you.

The chapter is titled “Lessons in Lust” It begins with a description of a woman—clearly you, though unnamed—kneeling before a man, her wrists bound with silk, her body bare except for a thin lace garter. The man’s voice is described as a low growl, commanding her to spread her thighs wider, to show him how much she wants him. The prose is vivid, explicit, detailing the way her arousal drips down her inner thighs, the way her clit pulses with every word he speaks.

“You’re so fucking desperate for me, aren’t you?” he says in the text, and you can almost hear Namjoon’s voice in your head, feel his breath against your ear. “Look at that pretty cunt, begging for my cock. But you don’t get it yet. Not until you’re crying for it.”

He teases her, his fingers tracing her folds, collecting her slick and spreading it over her clit, but never giving her enough. He edges her, bringing her to the brink again and again, until she’s sobbing, pleading, her body shaking with need. The scene shifts—he bends her over a table, her cheek pressed to the wood, and spanks her, each strike making her wetter, her moans louder. He whispers filthy promises, telling her she’s his, that no one else will ever make her feel this way. “You’re mine to break,” he says, “mine to fuck, mine to ruin. And you love it, don’t you? You love being my dirty little girl.”

Your voice falters as you read, your pussy throbbing, soaking through your panties and onto your skirt. You shift in your seat, trying to relieve the pressure, but it’s no use—every word is a pulse straight to your clit. Namjoon’s watching you, his gaze heavy, his hand resting on his thigh, fingers twitching like he’s holding back from touching you right here.

“Keep going,” he says, voice rough, his own arousal evident in the tightness of his jaw.

You swallow, continuing, your cheeks burning.

The man finally gives in, sliding his cock into her, slow at first, letting her feel every inch. He fucks her hard, relentless, the table shaking beneath them. He pulls her hair, forcing her to arch back, and whispers in her ear, “Come for me, baby. Show me how much you need this.” She does, her body convulsing, squirting around him, soaking his cock, the table, the floor. He doesn’t stop, fucking her through it, claiming her completely.

You finish the page, voice barely a whisper, your body trembling with want. Your cunt is so wet you can feel it dripping, your thighs slick under the table. Namjoon leans forward, his eyes dark, dangerous, and so fucking pleased.

“Liked that, didn’t you?” he murmurs, standing and rounding the table. He stops behind you, his hand sliding over your shoulder, fingers brushing the nape of your neck. “You’re soaked just from reading it. I can smell how much you want me.”

You whimper, head tilting back as his fingers trail lower, dipping under your collar to graze your skin. “Please, sir,” you whisper, already desperate.

He chuckles, low and filthy, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “Oh, baby, we’re gonna make that chapter real. But not here. Tonight, in my bedroom. You’re gonna show me just how much you want to be my good girl.”

He pulls back, leaving you panting, and slides the notebook into your hand. “Finish your reading,” he says, smirking. “I want you thinking about me all day, dripping for me until I’m ready to fuck you senseless.”

You nod, too overwhelmed to speak, your body alive with need. As he walks away, you open the book again, knowing every page is a promise of what’s to come—and you’re already his, completely.

A/N: "This library’s closed, but I hope Namjoon’s lessons left you soaked and begging for more of my words. Tell me your dirty thoughts in the comments. Hey @namluvili hope you like it."

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @btsstraykidsateez . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @namluvili . @mytaegiheart . @@dear-mono . @lilyficrec

Important Update: Please check out this post and support on backup account.

Do Follow my backup account : @kittenan2

#bts fanfic #bts smut #bts #bts namjoon #namjoon smut #namjoon #rm #bts rm #namjoon x reader #rm x reader #rm smut

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idkyetxoxo · 2 months ago

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Three | Where Smoke Lingered | Little Star

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.2k

Warnings - Mentions of domestic abuse, slight angst

<- prev || series masterlist || next ->

The house had finally settled into silence. An oppressive, suffocating quiet that seemed to press against the walls like a breath held too long in the lungs waiting to collapse.

Everyone had gone to bed, or at least to the semblance of sleep.

Amren had returned to her apartment in the city without a word. Mor had gone with her but she hadn't said goodbye either. The way her eyes had darted, catching on every shadow, every scrape on the wall, like she expected the house to shatter beneath her feet.

She hadn't looked at me. Couldn't. As if my presence was too painful to acknowledge.

Cassian, Azriel, and Rhys had retreated to their rooms, each one taking their guilt and fury with them, no doubt combing over the wreckage of the night, grasping at broken threads, replaying words spoken and those that should have been.

No one had followed me. No one had stopped him.

The small home library was dim when I stepped in, the faelight from the hallway casting long, shivering shadows across the spines of books I'd once loved.

Everything was smaller somehow. Duller. Like the air itself had forgotten how to hold colour.

My breath caught violently in my chest as my gaze swept the room. Daeron stood by the fireplace. Still. Silent.

The worst version of himself—the calm kind.

That calm wasn't peace, it was control. Measured cruelty. The kind of stillness that only came before a storm or after something precious had already been broken.

His expression was unreadable, but there was a satisfaction to his stillness, a smugness to the silence that exuded from him.

Something about it felt intentional, like he was waiting for me to fall apart, and he was already savouring the taste of it.

My eyes flicked to the windowsill with mounting dread, and the cold inside me turned to panic.

The book. My mother's book. My book.

It was gone.

The same one she gave me when I was little, the one that smelled like jasmine and old parchment and her. The one that had lived on that sill since the day she was murdered.

I'd read it a hundred times, a thousand. Memorised the words not just on the page, but how they made me feel—safe, grounded, whole. A tether to a world where she still existed.

I moved without thinking. Fingers trembling, I tore through cushions and blankets, checked under tables, behind shelves, desperate and fumbling. I checked places it couldn't be, wouldn't be.

I didn't care. I had to find it. It was more than a book. It was the last real piece of me.

All the while, he watched.

He watched me fall apart. Not with confusion or concern but interest. Like he was studying something. Like he was savouring the unravelling of something delicate.

"Where is it?" I asked finally, my voice a raw whisper. My throat burned. My chest ached.

The air had thickened, turned noxious, and something inside me, something quiet and precious, began to crack under the weight.

He didn't answer at first.

Instead, he tilted his head and then slowly, deliberately pointed to the fireplace behind him.

I didn't understand at first. I didn't want to. But then the smell hit me. Burning leather. Charred paper. Memory turned to smoke.

I stumbled forward, my steps clumsy, my hands clutching at nothing. The flames licked hungrily at what remained.

Blackened, curling pages. The gold embossing melted and twisted. The spine cracked and split, the story bleeding into flame.

My mother's handwriting, the notes in the margins—ashes. All of it. Gone.

It wasn't just a book. It was her voice. Her warmth. Her comfort. Her love. And now it was smoke in my lungs, soot on my skin.

My knees almost gave out.

I turned to him with wide, disbelieving eyes. My magic, a thing I hadn't touched in years, fluttered weakly in my blood, responding to my grief like a ghost too long ignored.

He didn't flinch.

"Do not mourn too long," he said with a shrug, already turning his back, like what he'd done was inconvenient, trivial. At the doorway, he paused, one hand braced against the frame. "I expect you to pay for how your family treated me tonight. Come to your room when you're done with the weeping."

The words clawed at my insides.

"Why?" It left me without meaning to. Barely a breath, more ache than question.

He turned, eyes empty of remorse. "Don't pretend you don't know."

Then he was gone.

And I stood there alone, the scent of burning still clinging to the air, watching the ashes of my mother's voice dissolve into nothing.

That was the moment I understood, really understood what my family had been trying to make me see all these years.

He doesn't hurt me. He erases me completely.

The next morning, I woke to find him gone.

The room was quiet, sterile in its stillness, no trace of him left behind, save for the evidence etched into my skin.

Bruises bloomed like poisonous flowers across my thighs, ribs, wrists. My jaw ached from where his hand had gripped too tightly. My lip was split again, a thin line of dried blood cracking as I moved.

But it wasn't the physical pain that hurt most. It was the silence inside me.

The kind of silence that only comes after you've screamed and screamed and screamed.

I moved like something newly dead, dressed in the dark with trembling fingers. I couldn't look in the mirror. I couldn't stay in that room where the walls still echoed with his voice and the smoke of my mother's book clung to the air like grief.

So I went to the kitchen.

The motions were automatic, muscle memory from a life that no longer belonged to me. My hands found the ingredients with the ease of habit. I didn't think. I just did.

Chocolate chip cookies.

The kind Rhys always claimed he could smell from miles away. The kind Cassian would devour in seconds, crumbs on his shirt, chocolate on his grin.

The kind my mother used to make with me on quiet evenings, when everything felt okay.

I clung to that memory like a lifeline, like if I stirred the batter just right, if I measured perfectly, if I didn't drop a single grain of sugar—maybe I could still be that girl. The one before the erasure.

The timer beeped, breaking through the fog. I opened the oven door, expecting comfort.

Instead, the smell hit me first—burnt. Acrid. Wrong.

The cookies were blackened discs, charred beyond saving. I blinked at them, not understanding.

I had made this recipe in my sleep. Hundreds of times. I knew it better than I knew myself.

I reached for the tray with my bare hands. The heat seared into my palms, but the pain didn't register.

I just stood there. Holding onto failure. Holding onto ashes again.

Then, warm hands, scarred hands took the tray from mine, gentle but firm, setting it on the counter with a hiss of cooling metal.

Azriel. I hadn't heard him come in. I didn't know how long he'd been watching. He said nothing.

Instead, he turned me gently toward him, his touch light like he thought I might shatter. Maybe I already had.

His hazel eyes met mine—seeing, not just looking. My own eyes burned, raw and red, not from the oven heat. My lip quivered.

Still, he didn't speak. Didn't ask.

He just wrapped his arms around me and held me.

My body sagged into his, a sob catching somewhere deep in my chest that wouldn't come out. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to go back.

Before last night. Before the fireplace. Before him.

But all I could do was stand there, clinging to Azriel, my hands scorched and useless, my heart cracked open.

It wasn't fair. None of it was fair.

And maybe Azriel couldn't fix it. But he didn't try to.

He didn't offer hollow promises or quiet revenge. He just held me. A steady, silent shield against the wreckage I'd become.

My voice cracked as I finally spoke, the question tumbling out like a stone too heavy to carry any longer.

"Does he hate me?" I asked. "Is he... disappointed?"

I leaned back, just enough to see his face, Azriel's face, carved in the kind of stillness only someone who'd survived their own darkness could wear.

Hazel eyes met mine. Steady. Searching.

Eyes I had known for years, eyes that had seen through me and past me and still stayed.

There was a shift in them now, soft and solemn. As if something had finally clicked into place. As if he was watching the version of me I had tried so long to hide begin to resurface—damaged, yes, but still here.

"Rhys could never hate you," Azriel said softly. The truth in his voice was absolute. "Not even close."

The shadows, his shadows, slipped from his skin to mine, curious and tender. They skimmed over my arms, brushing at my hands, whispering against my neck like they remembered me, too. Like they missed me.

Azriel's thumb grazed my bottom lip, feather-light, pausing at the cracked skin. His brows furrowed, not with anger but grief. His grief. For me.

Gentle hands. So unlike his. So unlike the last seven years.

"You don't have to carry all of it, you know."

I blinked, pulling back just enough to look at him. "What?"

He glanced down, then up again. "The guilt. The shame. The silence. None of it belongs to you."

I shook my head, a bitter laugh caught in my throat. "Doesn't feel that way."

"I know," he said simply. "But feeling it and deserving it aren't the same."

His voice wasn't soft for comfort, it was soft because he meant every damn word. Like he was giving me something delicate, he didn't think I'd believe.

"You didn't choose this," he continued. "It didn't happen because of you."

I swallowed hard. "I let it happen to him."

Azriel's jaw tensed, a flicker of something dark in his eyes, but not at me. Never at me.

I looked away, staring at the ruined cookies on the counter.

"Az," I breathed, my voice thin against the weight of it all, ignoring the pulsing pain from my palms. It didn't matter now.

He hummed in response, quiet as the hush between heartbeats. "Yes?"

My gaze fell away from his, and yet the words rose unbidden, slipping from some hidden part of me that had never stopped hoping someone might understand.

"He erases me completely."

There it was. Laid bare. No metaphor. No veiled meaning. Just the truth.

I didn't know why I said it. I couldn't explain the reason or the timing or what part of me still had enough fight left to confess it. I just knew I had to say it—to him.

Azriel stilled.

I felt it in his body, in the way his breath caught, in the way his arms tightened just enough around me without ever hurting.

And I felt it again in the small, silent ache that passed between us, shared like a secret.

His heart physically ached. I could feel it, like the shadows themselves carried the tremor of it.

And then he pulled me in again, closer this time. One hand stroking my hair, the way he had when I was younger. When Spring Court dreams turned to nightmares, when betrayal had carved a hollow so deep in my chest, I feared I would never feel warmth again.

He hadn't known what to say back then, either. But he had never needed to.

He just held me. Like now. Quietly. Surely. With a kind of love that didn't ask for anything in return.

Later, with my hands bandaged and raw, I found myself wandering back to the library, drawn to it like a tether I couldn't see. Something pulled at me, soft and persistent, threading its way through the hollowness that had taken up residence in my chest.

The moment I stepped through the doorway, I felt it.

The air had shifted.

Golden light poured through the tall windows, spilling over the spines of the books in long, honeyed stripes. Dust floated in slow circles, caught midair like falling stars.

Everything looked the same. Familiar shelves, worn chairs, the quiet hum of stillness, but something was different. Something was waiting.

It sat on the windowsill, right where the original had always lived. The spot where I'd curled up countless nights, the place where stories had wrapped around me like blankets.

A book. Not the book. Not the one Daeron had burned to ash in the flames. That one was gone. Lost forever. But this...

This was a copy.

Bound in the same aged leather, edges worn like it had lived another life before finding its way to me. Wrapped neatly in a familiar blue ribbon.

There was no note. No signature. Just this quiet offering, this breath of memory returned.

I hesitated. My fingers, still stinging beneath the gauze, trembled as I reached for it. I sank to the floor beneath the window, book in my lap, the ribbon slipping away like water through my hands.

I opened it slowly. The pages whispered as they turned, soft as a lullaby.

There it was. My favourite page. My mother's favourite line. The one she used to read with a smile in her voice and a tear in her eye. The one that had always felt like home.

Except now, beneath that line, something new had been written.

Delicate, careful script. Ink pressed just a little too hard into the page, like the writer's hand had been shaking.

"You are not what he did to you."

I stared at the words, and the world cracked wide open inside me.

Because I knew that handwriting. I would know it anywhere.

A/n - So we've further established that Daeron is a piece of shit x

I originally made her a baker just because I love baking but it ended up fitting the story so well, it's a perfect way to mirror her rise and fall!

Also there's a little easter egg hidden in this chapter for something coming later. I tried to keep it cryptic, so I doubt anyone will catch it... but if you do, we're basc on the same wavelength :)

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts so please don’t be afraid to share them <3

(i’m posting this from my phone on vacation hopefully i didn’t fuck up the format 😭😭)

Little Star tag list - @jaybbygrl @writtenbypavani @fall-winter-heart97 @coeurdeveea @lilg101010 @krazykangaroo712 @moonlitlavenders @lil-lupa @jasmineee05 @pinksnowtiger @yourdarkrose @nerdybee123 @bookwormysblog @thoughtfulcoffeeflower @suspicious-stain-in-spain @anainkandpaper @theflowerswillbloom @queenoffeysand @historygeekqueen @lexi-in-wonderland @tele86

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mahalachives · 3 months ago

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Part 2: Plot Twist: You're All Fictional

Summary: You were just rereading A Court of Thorns and Roses in bed when the universe decided to yeet you straight into Prythian, landing face-first in Rhysand’s lap. Now, you're a pajama-clad disaster with Cheeto fingers, emotionally harassing Azriel, befriending Mor, verbally sparring with the High Lords, and naming feral chickens after the Shadowsinger. You may not know why you’re here, but one thing’s for sure: you’re going to make it everyone's problem.

Genre: crack humor, drabble, minor az x reader (bcus why not)

Oops, I tripped Into Prythian - Masterlist

You had been in Prythian for exactly one week, and it was time to address the most pressing issue of all.

These people didn’t know they were in a book series.

You discovered this terrifying fact over dinner, when you accidentally let it slip that Feyre’s “entire life arc” hit harder than your student loan debt.

Feyre paused mid-bite. “My what?”

Cassian looked up, suspicious. “What did you say?”

You blinked. “Uh. Your... life arc. Like, the plot. The narrative. The emotional beats? No?”

Nesta slowly set down her fork. “Why does she sound like Gwyn when she’s two poems deep into a wine night?”

So naturally, because you had zero impulse control and no concept of self-preservation, you decided to fix the situation.

By holding a book club.

You gathered the entire Inner Circle in the House of Wind library and dramatically unveiled the stack of ACOTAR books Mor had helped you recreate with a little Illyrian smuggling and Helion’s glamour spells.

“Welcome,” you declared, arms outstretched, “to your unsolicited literary awakening.”

Rhysand eyed the books like they were cursed. “You’re telling me someone… wrote down our lives?”

“Multiple someones,” you said solemnly. “And then sold them. Worldwide.”

Azriel’s jaw ticked. “So strangers know... everything?”

You nodded. “Everything.”

Cassian leaned forward, grinning. “Even about-”

“Yes, Cassian,” you interrupted. “Even that.”

He fist-pumped. “Nice.”

Feyre picked up A Court of Mist and Fury, frowning as she flipped through the pages. “Why does this make me sound like a YA protagonist with trauma and a painting fetish?”

“Because you are,” you said helpfully.

She blinked.

Nesta grabbed Silver Flames and skimmed a few pages before muttering, “Well. This is uncomfortably accurate.”

Cassian peeked over her shoulder. “They really wrote that scene? That scene?”

Nesta smirked. “Word for word.”

Rhysand was halfway through A Court of Frost and Starlight when he scowled. “Why does this one feel like filler?”

“Because it is,” you and Nesta said in perfect unison.

Mor, gleeful, held up Wings and Embers. “Wait-does this mean Cassian is officially a simp?”

“Yes,” you said. “Certified. Trademarked. Embossed in gold.”

Cassian threw a pillow at you. “And what about you? Are you in these books?”

You shrugged. “Sadly, no. I am but a humble interdimensional interloper. However…” You dramatically pulled out a custom-made novella cover with YOU x AZRIEL: Mating Bond Mayhem printed on it in shimmering Night Court silver.

Azriel stared at it like it personally offended him.

“Please tell me that isn’t real,” he muttered.

You winked. “It is in my heart.”

Rhys flipped open A Court of Thorns and Roses, reading aloud. “He was the most beautiful male I’d ever seen.’”

You leaned in. “Yes. And that’s Tamlin. Remember him?”

Rhys dropped the book like it burned. “Unclean.”

Feyre giggled.

Nesta snorted.

Even Azriel’s shadows flared like they were trying not to laugh.

Then Elain, who had been quietly reading in the corner, finally looked up.

“I like this version of me,” she said softly.

Everyone froze.

You blinked. “You… what now?”

Elain held up A Court of Silver Flames, pointing to a scene where she verbally eviscerates Lucien. “I like that I get mad. That I have feelings. That I say things.”

Cassian whispered, “Oh gods. She's awakening.”

Azriel looked genuinely alarmed.

“Elain,” Feyre said slowly, “you’re always allowed to say things.”

“I know,” Elain replied, deadly calm. “But now I have dialogue.”

Mor cackled.

Nesta looked like she’d been waiting years for this. Rhysand leaned over to Feyre and whispered, “Do we… encourage this?”

You stood and raised your hands. “Friends. Fae. Chaos incarnate. I have one final proposal.”

Cassian perked up. “Does it involve more books?”

“No,” you said gravely. “It involves us starting a book club.”

Rhys groaned. “We live the events already, why would we-”

“Because,” you interrupted, “it’s different when you know spoilers.”

Azriel narrowed his eyes. “Spoilers?”

You grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know who your mate is?”

Everyone froze.

You turned dramatically toward him. “Spoiler alert: It’s me.”

Azriel turned and walked away.

You cupped your hands around your mouth and yelled after him, “I HAVE FANFICS TO PROVE IT.”

He didn’t stop.

But Elain, flipping through A Court of Mist and Fury again, murmured, “Wait… what’s fanfic?”

And you smiled.

Because Prythian wasn’t ready.

And neither were they.

To be continued.

#acotar #azriel x oc #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x you #rhysand #cassian #feyre acotar #nesta acotar #mor acotar #elain acotar #sarah j maas

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acornsalessealsstamps · 2 months ago

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Add a charming touch to your book collection with this personalized library embossing seal. Featuring a winsome daisy design, this 1-5/8" press leaves a crisp imprint of your name—ideal for bibliophiles who love marking their literary treasures in style.

#library embossing seal #custom book embosser #personal library stamp #book ownership seal #daisy embossing stamp #embossed name stamp #gift for bibliophiles #custom desk embosser #book lover gift #floral library seal #personalized book stamp #1-5/8 embossing seal #name embosser for books #custom bookplate stamp #embossing press for books

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enflixx · 2 months ago

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rush week - jake sim

summary: You choose UCLA over the future you once planned with your high school boyfriend. And now you're ready for something new even if you’re not sure what that is yet. But between a wild Rush Week party, a flirty basketball player named Jake, and late-night walks that turn into something more, you start to realize that letting go might lead you exactly where you're meant to be.

genre: fluff, fraternities

warning(s): small kiss near the end

word count: 6062

You always knew you were going to UCLA.

It was your first choice, your dream. You’d written your PIQ’s from a coffee shop window during the rain, imagining yourself rushing through Bruin Walk with a hot latte in hand and a tote bag full of potential. You saw yourself laying out on Janss Steps, sitting in Kerckhoff Coffee House between classes, pulling all-nighters in Powell Library with the kind of friends who became family. Even participating in the famous UCLA undie run. You belonged here.

But for a while, you almost gave it all up.

Jayden, your ex high school boyfriend of nearly three years, got into the University of Rochester. You were supposed to follow him. You told yourself you’d make it work. That maybe the snow wouldn’t bother you. That maybe love was worth putting your own dreams on hold.

But somewhere between his vague career goals and your growing resentment for cold weather, you realized he wasn’t someone you could build a future with. Not if that future meant giving up your own.

So you broke up with him before graduation. You cried in your car, he called you selfish, and then… you let go.

And now, here you are. Standing on the ninth floor of Rieber Terrace, boxes in hand, and heart racing with possibility.

“UCLA, baby!” Olivia cheers, holding a fuzzy pink pillow above her head like it’s a trophy.

Your best friend was bright, bold, and fiercely loyal. She claimed the bed by the window and already hung up her decorative fairy lights before you even finished unpacking your first box.

You laugh as you drop your suitcase on the floor. “You realize we’re gonna be sweating bullets in ten minutes, right?”

“Worth it.” She twirls like a chaotic welcome committee. “We did it. No Rochester. No regrets. UCLA only.”

A knock hits your open dorm door, followed by a familiar voice.

“You guys decent?”

It’s Jay, Olivia’s on-and-off boyfriend since her first campus tour last year. He’s a junior built like he played every high school sport at once, and has that older frat boy charm that’s both charming and intimidating. He has a duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a Sigma Nu cap on backwards.

“Jay!” Olivia lights up and jumps into his arms. “You came!”

“I said I’d help you move in, didn’t I?” He kisses her cheek, then nods at you. “Hey, nice to see you here.”

“Yeah, good thing I'm not miles away at Rochester,,” you replied.

“Bruin blue looks good on you.” Jay flashes a grin, eyes trailing from your worn-in Adidas to the scrunchie on your wrist like he’s taking in your whole freshman vibe. He sets down the duffle bag he brought with a soft thud. “You girls got plans for tonight?”

“Unpacking and blasting Sabrina,” Olivia teases, tossing another decorative pillow onto her bed.

“Wrong answer.” He digs into the side pocket of his bag and tosses her a sleek gold card, its edges embossed with the Sigma Nu crest. The lettering glints in the afternoon light like it was made for VIPs. “Rush week kickoff. Big party at our house. You’re both invited.”

Olivia practically squeals. “You’re letting freshmen in?”

“Special guests,” Jay says, winking like he’s doing you both a favor. Then he leans against the doorframe, looking especially pleased with himself. “Plus… someone’s gotta meet Jake.”

You blink. “Jake?”

“Jake Sim,” he says casually, like the name should mean something to you. “Point guard. My one and only best friend.”

You exchange a glance with Olivia, but Jay’s eyes stay on you, and something about his tone makes your stomach twist.

“He’s kind of a legend around here,” Jay adds, voice dipped in something just shy of awe. “Runs the court like it’s stitched into his DNA. Frat royalty. He’s picky as hell about the parties he shows up to, but he’ll for sure be at this one.”

“What, like campus-famous?” you ask, skeptical.

Jay chuckles, pushing off the doorframe. “Let’s just say girls know who he is. Professors know who he is. Hell, even the security guards nod when he walks by.”

You raise an eyebrow and scoff. “Sounds like a lot of ego.”

Jay just grins. “Nah. That’s the thing he doesn’t need ego. He’s just Jake. You’ll see.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving behind the gold invitation, the faint scent of cologne, and a new name lingering in your mind like a dare.

Jake Sim.

You don’t know him yet.

But apparently… everyone else already does.

By the time you’re getting ready, the sun’s gone down and your nerves are creeping up.

You stand in front of the mirror, tugging the hem of your jean mini skirt and adjusting the white tube top that hugs your body just right. Your hair is curled in soft beach waves and your lip gloss is shiny enough to catch the dorm lights. Olivia leans in beside you, applying her lashes with her steady, trained hand.

“You look so cute girl.” She says as she looks over.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.” She caps the glue and turns to you, lashes fluttering dramatically. “Listen. I know you’ve been all closed off since Jayden and what not. But this is college. You’re allowed to flirt. To have fun, especially how you treated your senior summer”

You give her a skeptical look.

“And don’t roll your eyes about Jake,” she adds, grinning. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“That he’s probably a player who sleeps in basketball jerseys and wouldn’t remember a girl’s name if it was tattooed on his arm?”

“Exactly.” She smirks, stepping into her nude heels. Her green satin mini dress catches the light, hugging her curves like it was made for a night like this. “Which is why you need to talk to him. You’re too in your head.”

You don’t answer, but deep down… maybe she has a point.

You slip into your platform boots, swipe one last coat of gloss, and spray some perfume at the base of your neck. The music from another dorm echoes faintly through the walls, guess someone’s already pregaming and it hits you all at once that this is your life now. UCLA. Westwood. Nights out with no curfew and no one waiting on the other end of a phone.

By 9:15, you're both heading down the elevator, giddy and glowing, your arms linked like it’s a homecoming dance. The air is warm and golden, the city buzzing even as the sun dips below the horizon.

“Sigma Nu’s like, a ten-minute walk,” Olivia says, scrolling through her phone. “Right on Gayley. We’ll hear it before we even see it.”

The sidewalks are alive with other students dressed up and headed in the same direction, laughter spilling into the air like music. You pass neon scooters tipped against streetlights, clusters of partygoers sharing disposable vapes and energy drinks. You feel a slow, humming thrill start to build in your chest.

When you reach Gayley Avenue, the street is already a scene with cars inching past with their windows down, music thumping from every direction, and the unmistakable glow of a college party in full swing just up ahead.

“Yup,” Olivia says, pointing at the white house with columns wrapped in twinkle lights. “There it is.”

The Sigma Nu house.

There are people flooding the front lawn, red solo cups in hand, a fake velvet rope barely holding the chaos at bay. Someone’s standing on the porch with a megaphone, trying to rally the crowd, and above it all, you spot the signature gold crest of the fraternity shining against the night sky.

“Okay,” Olivia says, giving your hand a squeeze. “This is it. Night one of UCLA.”

And with that, you both step into the buzz of it all heart pounding, breath held, walking straight into something that feels a lot like the beginning of everything.

You barely make it through the front hall before Jay spots you both.

“Ladies!” He grins, pulling Olivia into a quick kiss and nodding toward the back. “Come say hi to the guys.”

You trail behind them, catching glimpses of Greek letters on jerseys, someone shotgunning 2 seltzers on the kitchen counter, and a couple making out under a Sigma Nu banner like it’s a scene from a teen movie.

Jay wraps an arm around Olivia’s waist and says something about upstairs shots, then turns to you. “You good?”

You nod. “Yeah, I’ll wander.”

And you do, but out of the crowded hallway and into the kitchen, which is quieter but still buzzing.

You’re reaching for a drink when someone steps beside you.

“Water?” a mysterious voice says. “Smart move.”

You glance over and there he is.

Jake.

You recognize him immediately. Tall. Lean muscle under a vintage Lakers tee. A backwards UCLA cap over dark hair, low on his forehead. His eyes are sharp but amused, and his smile is wide, like he’s never had to try hard for attention.

“I wasn’t sure the kitchen was still part of the party,” you say.

“It’s where the real ones hide.” He bumps his shoulder lightly into yours. “I’m Jake.”

You give him your name, surprised when he repeats it back like he means to remember it.

“Jay’s been talking about you,” he says, sipping his drink. “Said you’re Olivia’s best friend. Smart. Cutthroat. UCLA top choice?”

You blink. “He said all that?”

Jake shrugs, leaning casually against the counter. “He left out the part about you being gorgeous.”

You raise a brow. “Smooth.”

“Hey, I try.” He grins and shrugs, then nods toward the living room. “Wanna go out there?”

You hesitate at first, but the music is good and his smile is infectious. So you follow him.

You dance. Not the awkward kind, but the good kind. The kind that feels like laughing. Like swaying and spinning and singing half the lyrics wrong. Jake never gets too close, never pushes it, but he pays attention. He notices when you stumble slightly, when you laugh too hard, when you mouth the lyrics to a 2000s throwback.

It’s... not what you expected.

You're mid-spin when your phone buzzes.

Olivia [10:06 PM]: Staying w Jay tonight. You good?

You stare at the message, the blue glow from your phone lighting your face in the dim living room. The text doesn’t surprise you, but it still surprises you a little. You slip the phone into your mini bag, trying not to overthink it.

Jake notices the shift in your energy immediately as he’s been dancing with you long enough to know when your mood flickers. His hands rest gently on your waist, steady like he’s done this a hundred times before, but not in a way that makes you feel like just another girl.

“You good?” he asks, leaning in so only you can hear him over the music.

You nod, brushing a strand of hair out of your lip gloss. “Yeah Liv ditched me for her boyfriend… again. Classic.”

Jake huffs a small laugh, eyes glinting and looking around. “Ruthless. You wanna go somewhere else?”

You glance around. The party’s still packed with the lights strung between trees, the bass rattling the air, couples swaying close, some dancing like they’ve known each other forever. But even with the crowd, it kind of feels like it’s just you and him.

“I mean… not yet,” you say honestly. “My feet are killing me though.”

“Say less.” He gently pulls back, nodding toward the house. “C’mon. Let’s grab a drink, and take five.”

You follow him inside, weaving through clusters of people until you’re tucked in the kitchen, where the noise fades just enough for conversation. He pours you a Sprite without asking hands it over without the pressure.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t take you for a mind reader.”

“I clocked you weren’t drinking earlier,” he says with a lazy smile. “Didn’t wanna assume.”

“Look at you. Respectful and observant?”

Jake grins, leaning back against the counter next to you. “Don’t ruin my reputation. I’m supposed to be the cocky one.”

You laugh into your cup. He’s not what you expected at all. For someone whose name gets tossed around like he’s a campus legend, Jake Sim is… chill. Easy. Not trying too hard to be anything.

“So…” he says after a moment. “Why UCLA?”

You pause, surprised by the question. “Honestly? It was my dream school. I almost didn’t end up here though.”

His brows lift. “Wait, why?”

“I was supposed to follow my ex to the University of Rochester,” you say, kind of embarrassed. “I thought I owed it to him. We were together for years. But it didn’t feel right. I kept picturing myself there and it felt… wrong. Like I’d be living his life, not mine.”

Jake’s quiet for a second, then nods. “That’s tough but respect for choosing yourself.”

You shrug. “Kinda felt like I was blowing up my whole life. But yeah I think I’m for sure where I’m supposed to be.”

He’s looking at you in this thoughtful way that makes your skin buzz. “You are.”

You blink, heart jumping just a little. “What about you? Why UCLA?”

He chuckles. “Basketball, obviously. But also—" he pauses, scratching the back of his neck, “—LAs my home. I wanted to stay close. Didn’t think I’d like it this much though.”

The two of you linger there for a while longer, sipping drinks, talking about dumb orientation stuff, professors you’re both nervous about, the weird flex of having to buy scantrons in 2025. It’s easy. Comfortable. The kind of conversation you didn’t know you needed.

Eventually, you glance at the time and sigh. “Okay, now I should probably head back.”

Jake straightens up. “Want me to walk you?”

You give him a look. “You don’t have to.”

He tilts his head, a crooked smile displayed across his face. “I know I don’t. But I want to.”

And that shuts you right up.

He grabs his jacket off the couch before you leave, draping it over your shoulders without asking. It smells good, a little like his cologne, and weirdly clean.

The walk back is slow. Quiet. The party fades behind you, replaced by crickets and the hum of the city around campus. He asks about your major, your schedule, whether or not you’re scared of 8 a.m. lectures. You ask about his team, how often they travel, whether the pressure ever gets to him.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “But it’s worth it. I love it too much.”

When you reach your dorm, neither of you moves right away. He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks at you like he’s trying to memorize this version of the night.

“Thanks for walking me,” you say, soft.

“Thanks for dancing,” he says back, equally soft.

You smile, pulling the jacket tighter. “Night, Jake.”

“Night.” He pauses, like he might say something else but just gives you a nod instead.

You head upstairs alone, your heart weirdly light. You don’t know if this means anything, or if it was just a one-night spark, but for the first time in a long time you’re not thinking about Jayden. Or Rochester. Or what you left behind.

All you’re thinking about… is right now.

And maybe just maybe Jake Sim.

It’s been a week since the Sigma Nu party, but your mind keeps pulling pieces of it back. The glint of string lights. Jake’s jacket draped over your shoulders. The way his voice dipped when he asked if he could walk you home, like he was trying not to make it a big deal.

You haven’t seen him since. You figured you probably wouldn’t. That night felt like a bubble, one of those weird college moments that starts and ends in a haze of music and too much Sprite.

But now it’s Thursday afternoon, and you’re making your way to Bio 5A with a textbook in one hand, Starbucks in the other just trying to stay awake long enough to survive your professor’s ramble about cell theory. The halls in the science building are buzzing, students rushing in and out of rooms, phones glued to their hands.

You’re scrolling through your Canvas notifications when you hear someone call your name.

“Hey.”

You glance up and there he is, leaning against the wall like he owns it—backpack slung over one shoulder, curls a little messier than you remember, in an oversized UCLA hoodie and basketball shorts. Jake Sim.

You blink. “Oh hey.”

He flashes that same lazy, lopsided grin. “Didn’t think I’d see you around the STEM kids.”

You laugh. “Bio lecture. Unfortunately.”

“Ohh I see.” He pushes off the wall, falling into step beside you like it’s nothing. “How’s week two treating you?”

“Chaos,” you say. “I already missed an assignment and had a full-on meltdown over my laundry card not working.”

Jake snorts. “Haha. The true freshman experience.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “What about you? Where’re you headed?”

“Practice.” He tilts his head toward the gym across campus. “We’ve got a game tomorrow. First home game of the season.”

“Oh yeah?” You pause. “Big deal?”

He shrugs like it’s not, but the flicker in his eyes says otherwise. “Kind of.”

You adjust your grip on your textbook, nerves buzzing for no real reason. “Well, good luck. Not that you need it or whatever.”

Jake stops walking, and you do too right in front of the lecture hall doors. His eyes settle on you like he’s figuring something out.

“You know you should come.”

You blink. “To the game?”

“Yeah.” His smile turns soft. “It’d be cool to see you there.”

There’s a long beat where you think maybe he didn’t mean it like that. But then he gives you a little nod, like it’s sealed.

“Tomorrow night. I’ll leave your tickets with Jayl.”

Your brain short-circuits for half a second. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, sure.”

“Cool.” He flashes you one last grin, then jogs backward a few steps before turning down the hallway. “Later, Bio Girl!”

You walk into lecture five seconds later than you should, cheeks warm. You slide into a seat near the middle and open your laptop, but your focus is shot.

The professor launches into a rant about organelles and cellular respiration, but all you can think about is him, in that hoodie, grinning at you like the offer was just for you. Like tomorrow night might actually mean something.

And you hate to admit it, but... part of you really hopes it does.

The stadium is packed. And the whole place hums with energy with students crammed into the bleachers, gold and blue foam fingers waving, someone with a painted chest chanting “UCLA” like their life depends on it.

You’re in the second row, sandwiched next to Olivia and Jay, who somehow managed to snag prime seats. Olivia’s already cheering, bouncing on her toes. Jay, meanwhile, is practically vibrating, yelling out plays like he’s the coach.

“Let’s gooo, Jake!” he hollers when the players run onto the court for warmups.

Your eyes scan the lineup, and then there he is.

Jake Sim. Number 5. Point guard. UCLA stitched in gold across his chest.

He’s bouncing a ball between his hands, focused, all sharp edges and muscle and clean movement. There’s no sign of the laid-back guy who walked you home that night. On the court, he’s laser precision, locked in. It's... kind of insane to watch.

Jay claps his hands and looks over to you. “You’re about to see why every girl on campus suddenly loves basketball.”

“I’m just here for the student-athlete academic excellence,” you deadpan.

He smirks. “Yeah yeah, okay.”

The game kicks off, and Jake is everywhere, fast breaks, no-look passes, pulling up from the three-point line like it's nothing. The crowd loses it every time he scores. And yeah, okay, you’ll admit it, you’re losing it too. He looks so in his element, it’s impossible not to get swept up.

By the time the buzzer sounds, UCLA’s up by 12, and the whole arena erupts.

You’re lost in the rhythm of it when, out of nowhere, Jake glances up at the stands. His eyes lock onto yours from across the court. You freeze, then catch the subtle wave of his hand he’s signaling for you, then to the locker room.

Your heart skips, and you’re not sure whether you should feel excited or nervous, so you do both. You glance over at Olivia, who’s bouncing on her feet, her eyes glued to the game.

“Olivia,” you lean in, trying to keep your voice steady. “Jake… wants me to meet him by the locker room.”

Olivia blinks, looking confused at first before her eyes widen. “Wait, what?”

“I know, it’s weird,” you shrug, trying to keep your cool. “But he waved at me and pointed, so…”

Jay turns around just then, catching the tail end of the conversation. He grins, an eyebrow raised. “You should go, then. We’ll catch up with you later. You’re not gonna leave him hanging after that, right?”

You bite your lip, still feeling like this whole situation is just too surreal. “Uh, sure. But could you two walk me there?”

Olivia smirks, knowing exactly what’s going on. “Of course. Wouldn’t let you wander around alone, especially not with him.” She winks. “Go get ‘em, girl.”

Jay pulls olivia’s arm. “Come on, we’ll head down to the player’s lounge, let her do her thing.”

You give a nervous laugh, feeling the weight of their teasing, but it doesn’t matter because the butterflies in your stomach are making it hard to focus.

The three of you make your way through the crowd, navigating the bleachers and sidestepping excited fans heading toward the exits. When you finally get to the lower level of Pauley Pavilion, Jay waves at a security guard, who gives you all a nod and lets you through a small side door into a hallway.

The atmosphere changes instantly quieter here, with the occasional sound of sneakers squeaking on the gym floor and faint echoing cheers in the distance. Olivia stays close, though you can feel the air between you and her buzzing with curiosity.

“You okay?” she asks softly.

“Yeah, just… nervous.”

Jay rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of amusement in his voice. “What, you’ve talked to him once, and now you’re acting like it’s your first date?”

You roll your eyes at him. “Shut up.”

You follow them through the crowd, down the concrete tunnels of the stadium, heart thudding for a whole different reason now. Jay gives a little nod to a security guard, who lets you all through to a hallway lined with trophy cases and championship banners.

“This is where you wait,” Jay tells you with a grin, nudging your arm. “Don’t pass out when he takes his shirt off.”

You roll your eyes, planting yourself near the wall. Jay and Olivia keep walking further down toward the players’ lounge, giving you space.

Minutes pass. You try not to stare too hard at the double doors across from you until they swing open.

Jake steps out, still towel-drying his hair. His face is flushed, skin glowing, an everyday tee shirt clinging to his chest. He’s got his jersey in one hand, gym bag slung over the other shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, smile blooming as soon as he sees you.

You smile back, feeling weirdly shy. “Hey. Good game.”

“You watched?”

“Obviously,” you say, stepping into stride beside him as he starts walking toward the exit. “You know Jay screamed your name so many times I think he lost his voice.”

Jake laughs, a low sound that makes your stomach flip. “Sounds like him.”

You glance at him. “You were amazing. Like… actually. I was kind of blown away.”

He glances over at you, eyes warm. “Thanks. Means more coming from you.”

The walk is quiet for a second. Not awkward just comfortable. The buzz of the game still lingers in the air.

When you reach the stadium parking lot, he unlocks a sleek black car and opens the passenger door for you.

“Wow,” you tease, sliding in. “Fancy rides and post-game invites. You’re really pulling out the charm.”

“Only for you,” he shoots back, smirking as he rounds the front and gets in.

The drive back to campus is short, but it’s easy. You can still feel the energy of the game buzzing in your veins, and the quiet hum of the car’s engine almost feels like it matches the rhythm of your thoughts. Jake is relaxed behind the wheel, his hands loosely gripping the steering wheel as he navigates the streets.

“So,” you start, trying to break the silence, “I think I might just be a basketball fan now.”

Jake laughs, glancing over at you for a second, his eyes soft but amused. “Glad I could make a convert out of you.”

You grin. “You were like… on fire. All those three-pointers or something?”

“Had to, or Coach would’ve killed me,” he says with a wink. “Nah, but seriously, the team was on point tonight. Felt good playing.”

“You mean you were on point,” you tease, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “The rest of the team was just lucky to have you.”

Jake chuckles, but then a familiar song starts blaring from the car’s speakers, and it’s like an immediate shift in energy. It’s a classic Justin Bieber’s “baby”—the kind of throwback song you never expect to hear on a night like this.

Jake’s eyes light up as he turns the volume up, grinning. “Oh hell yeah. This takes me back.”

You laugh and quickly join in, both of you singing along terribly, but with full enthusiasm to the cheesy verses. Jake’s voice cracks in places, and you can’t help but giggle, your nerves settling as you belt out the lyrics in the car.

By the time the song finishes, you’re both breathing a little harder, still laughing, and clearly more relaxed than you’ve been all night.

“Okay, okay, I’ll admit, I’m a little bit of a legend when it comes to this song,” Jake teases, wiping his forehead dramatically.

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

He just grins, and before you can say anything else, the next song kicks in—Britney Spears’ “Toxic.” You both groan in mock horror, but Jake immediately starts singing along, doing the full Britney falsetto.

You join in, and suddenly the whole car is alive with the sound of 2000s pop. The music is loud enough that you both get lost in it, completely ignoring how ridiculous you sound. When the chorus hits, Jake spins the wheel with exaggerated gestures, “I’m addicted to youuu, don’t you know that you’re toxic?!”

You throw your head back, laughing so hard you almost can’t catch your breath. “You are so extra,” you tease, trying to recover your voice.

“You know you love it,” Jake shoots back, eyes twinkling as he holds the note, getting louder just to mess with you.

Before long, you’re both shouting along to the next song, Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie.” You and Jake start doing the most ridiculous dance moves from your seats, pretending to shimmy and shake to the beat, even though you’re both clearly off-beat.

“Okay, but like seriously could I pull off the belly dancing moves in public?” Jake says between laughs.

“Only if you want to get mobbed by girls,” you reply, giggling.

Jake flashes you a smirk. “Not the worst thing that could happen.”

You roll your eyes, but deep down, you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. This is what you didn’t expect from the guy you’d seen from a distance, the guy everyone seemed to know. But here he is, singing Britney and Shakira like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

After a few more songs, the energy starts to slow. You’ve both burned through all the 2000s hits you can remember and have settled into a more comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t feel awkward, but instead just calm.

You glance out the window, watching the familiar streets of campus pass by. You’re not ready for the ride to end, but you know it’s coming soon.

“Thanks for inviting me,” you say quietly, still holding his jersey in your lap. “I needed this. Tonight. All of it.”

Jake looks over at you, his expression softening. “I’m glad you came. Seriously.”

The car pulls into the parking lot outside your dorm, and you realize you really don’t want the night to end. But you know it has to. You need to get back to your dorm, and he has to get some rest for tomorrow’s practice.

Jake parks the car, but neither of you makes a move to get out immediately. The radio plays low, some random song you can’t quite place. It feels comfortable.

“I don’t want to go,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

Jake glances at you, his smile turning into something a little more genuine, \“I don’t either.”

You let out a soft laugh, feeling a flutter in your chest. “But we kinda have to, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, but the reluctance in his voice is obvious. He glances down at the jersey in your hands. “Take it. I know I have a bunch of them, but this one’s special. Really.”

You nod, folding it carefully, still warm from the game. “I will. Thanks.”

Jake takes a deep breath, then opens his door, and you do the same. As you get out, you hold the jersey a little tighter against your chest, reluctant to let it go.

Before you close the door, Jake calls out. “Hey, wait. Promise me you’ll wear it sometime.”

You laugh, blinking in surprise. “Are you serious? In public?”

“Yeah. Why not?” He shrugs, still leaning against the car. “I’ve got a ton of them. But this one, you should keep.”

You bite your lip, feeling the weight of it in your hands. “Alright. I’ll wear it. For you, Jake.”

He gives you that crooked grin of his. “Good. I’ll be expecting you to wear it to the next game.”

You grin back, feeling lighter than you have all night. “It’s a deal.”

You open the door slowly, still not ready to break whatever this is, but knowing you kind of have to.

“Night, Jake.”

“Night, Bio Girl.”

You close the door with a soft click and start walking back to the dorm, the jersey pressed tight to your side. You glance over your shoulder one last time to see him already getting in the elevator, giving you one final wave before the doors close.

You take a deep breath as you make your way inside, the warmth of the jersey against your side a reminder of the night. A reminder of Jake.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the blinds, soft and golden, warming the skin of your bare arms where they peek out from under the comforter. You stretch, blink slowly, and roll over toward the edge of your bed with your eyes landing on Jake’s jersey, still draped over your desk chair.

You smile, sitting up and grabbing it. It’s wrinkled now, the “UCLA” letters slightly folded, but still smells faintly of detergent and something boyish, maybe sweat, but in a good way.

You shake it out, and something small flutters to the floor.

It’s a sticky note. You pick it up, brow furrowing, and read the messy scrawl written across the back:

Jake – XXX-XXX-XXXX (only text if you liked the game )

You snort, rolling your eyes. Cocky. But the butterflies still show up anyway.

You [10:26]: I liked the jersey better than the game tbh.

Jake [10:26]: bold start.

You [10:27]: bold handwriting.

Jake [10:27]:I take offense.

You [10:28]: you should. it’s worse than my bio notes.

Jake [10:28]:wanna tell me that to my face over coffee?

read

You meet outside the Starbucks already spotting Jake leaning against the brick wall, hoodie thrown over his head, sweatpants and beat-up Nikes completing the “effortless athlete” look. His phone’s in one hand, but he’s already smiling when you approach.

“You’re early,” he says.

“You’re wearing slippers in public.”

“They’re sneakers,” he protests, then looks down. “Okay, fine. Maybe slippers.”

You laugh, falling into step beside him as the line inside creeps forward. Jake taps the glass, studying the pastries like it’s a museum exhibit.

“You look like a caramel person,” he says suddenly.

You glance up at him. “And you look like someone who drinks black coffee and lectures people about it.”

He gasps. “I’m offended.”

“You should be.”

When it’s your turn to order, you tell the barista who was tall, broad-shouldered, and clearly too confident, that you’ll have an iced caramel latte. He writes your name on the cup, eyes lingering just a beat too long.

Jake doesn’t notice until you get your drink and there’s something else scrawled under your name.

“Text me sometime :)” with a phone number.

Right there. On your cup.

Jake freezes when he sees it, mid-sip of his own cold brew.

“Wow,” he says, blinking. “Okay. Damn. Starbucks just giving out boyfriends now?”

He turns to face the barista, “She’s good,” he says coldly, taking both drinks and your hand.“She already has someone’s number.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

“Territorial,” he mutters, then leans in. “And maybe a little jealous.”

You grin into your straw.

You walk around campus after your lectures, neither of you really in a rush. The sun’s out, glinting off windows and warming your shoulders as you stroll past Royce, then down toward the sculpture garden. It’s calm. Almost too calm, for how fast your heart’s going.

Jake’s walking close, his fingers brushing yours sometimes. And even though you’re talking about stupid things like how vanilla tastes better than caramel or whether the 2000s were peak music you can feel the shift in the air.

He looks at you when you laugh. Not like a friend. Not like someone who just wants to flirt for the day.

Like someone who sees you. And likes what he sees.

You’re halfway down the steps when the conversation slows. The campus hum fades into the background. You look over at him.

And that’s when it happens.

No warning. No awkward setup.

Just silence… then lips.

His mouth finds yours like it’s instinct. Soft and steady. Like he’s been waiting for the right second. Your hand curls around his hoodie, grounding yourself, and his fingers ghost the side of your jaw, gentle but sure.

When you finally pull back, neither of you says anything for a moment.

Then Jake lets out a slow breath, eyes still on yours. “Been wanting to do that since the party,” he murmurs.

You bite your bottom lip, heart thudding. “Took you long enough.”

He grins

The walk back to your dorm was filled with laughter and smiles. But this time, you don’t head inside right away. You linger outside the door, and he does too.

“I had a good time today,” you say, voice soft.

Jake shifts his weight, hands deep in his hoodie pocket. “Me too.”

The silence that settles between you is quieter now. Calmer.

Then he says it.

“That kiss…” he trails off, eyes locking with yours. “That wasn’t just fun for me.”

Your breath hitches.

“I don’t wanna wonder where we stand,” he adds. “Or sit back while random dudes write their number on your cup. I like you. And I wanna be the only one kissing you.”

You blink, cheeks warm but not from the sun.

“Then don’t worry,” you whisper. “You are.”

His smile spreads, slow and real.

“Cool,” he says. “And by the way I’m really not trying to share you with Mr. Starbucks.”

You laugh, pulling open the dorm door.

“Night, Jake.”

“Night, Bio Girl.”

As you step inside, jersey still folded neatly over your arm, you realize something strange.

You’re not thinking about Jayden. Or Rochester. Or all the things you left behind.

You’re thinking about caramel lattes and crooked handwriting. About slow walks and quiet kisses.

You’re thinking about Jake.

And it feels good.

Like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

#enflixx #enhypen #enha #enhypen jake #jake sim #enhypen imagines #enha imagines #enhypen x reader #enha x reader #enhypen fluff

91 notes · View notes

novaursa · 9 months ago

Text

The Games We Play

- Summary: The dragon catches Otto’s attention, and he decides to charm you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Otto Hightower

- Note: The reader is the younger sister of Viserys and Daemon.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Next part: ambition of the heart

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The corridors of the Red Keep stretch before you, gilded by the warm glow of the morning sun, filtering through the windows. The tapestries sway with the faint breeze, but your attention is on a page of a history book about Old Valyria, which you clutch with both hands as you walk.

Your brother, King Viserys, had gifted you this particular tome, knowing how fascinated you were by dragon lore. But as you turn the page, you nearly stumble over the hem of your gown, the sudden sound of footsteps catching you off guard. You look up to find Lord Otto Hightower approaching, his expression warm yet carefully measured, as if he is calculating every word he’s about to say.

“Ah, Lady Y/N,” Otto begins, his tone gentle, though you catch the way his eyes sweep over you with a touch more interest than is typical. “You appear most immersed in your studies. May I ask what has captured your attention today?”

You give him a polite smile, lifting the book to show the embossed cover. “A history of Valyrian customs, my lord. It speaks of the rites and traditions our ancestors held dear.” Your voice holds genuine excitement, your mind already drifting back to the text. Otto, however, is more interested in your smile than in the book.

He clears his throat, trying to lean just slightly closer without appearing improper. “A most fascinating subject, indeed. Perhaps you might enlighten me with some of that knowledge over a walk in the gardens later?”

Before you can even formulate a reply, Viserys appears around the corner, oblivious to the undercurrent in the conversation. “Ah, Otto, Y/N! What a happy coincidence. I was just about to ask Y/N to join me in the Small Council chambers. I thought she might offer some insight.”

Otto’s lips twitch, the friendly mask slipping just a little, though he recovers quickly. “Of course, Your Grace. Her wisdom is always a boon.” He steps back with a courtly bow, but you don’t miss the way his eyes linger on you as Viserys leads you away, completely unaware of the exchange.

The next encounter is by the training yard. Daemon’s laughter rings out as he spars with Ser Harwin Strong, the clash of blades echoing in the brisk morning air. You watch from the sidelines, amusement curving your lips as Daemon lands a particularly cheeky blow against Harwin’s side, earning him a grunt of irritation.

A voice speaks up beside you, smooth and almost conspiratorial. “Your brother always had a flair for the dramatic, didn’t he?”

You glance to your side, finding Otto there, hands clasped behind his back as he observes Daemon with a raised brow. He offers you a small, knowing smile, and you nod, the corner of your mouth quirking up.

“He’s always believed that swordplay is as much about showmanship as it is about skill,” you reply, amusement tinging your words.

Otto seizes the moment, leaning in slightly as if to share a secret. “Perhaps you would prefer a quieter setting, my lady—something more suited to your interests? A stroll through the library, perhaps? I would be most honored to accompany you.”

You blink, caught off guard by the offer, and are about to respond when Daemon’s voice cuts through the air like one of his blades. “Careful, Hightower. My sister’s too good for the likes of you.” He grins wickedly, tossing his practice sword to a waiting squire. “And she doesn’t need a shadow breathing down her neck.”

You glance at Daemon, trying to suppress a sigh. Otto stiffens beside you, his expression momentarily tight, but he forces a gracious chuckle. “A jest as sharp as your sword, Prince Daemon.”

Daemon claps you on the shoulder, ignoring Otto altogether. “Come, Y/N. You’ve seen enough of Hightower’s dour face for one day.”

You glance back at Otto, who offers a strained smile as Daemon drags you away, muttering under his breath about meddling advisors and their hidden motives.

During supper, Otto’s attempts are more subtle, but no less apparent to those who know where to look. As you sit next to Alicent, your brother’s new wife, Otto keeps finding reasons to address you directly, his voice warm and tinged with admiration.

“I trust the evening finds you well, Lady Y/N? The cook prepared your favorite roast, I believe,” Otto remarks, a meaningful gleam in his eye as he gestures to the dish before you.

You murmur your thanks, a little puzzled by his attentiveness but assuming it’s mere politeness. Alicent, however, stiffens beside you, her fork pausing mid-air as she glances sharply between you and her father.

“Father, I did not realize you were so concerned with Y/N’s tastes,” she remarks lightly, though her tone holds a note of warning. Her eyes meet yours, a question in their depths.

Otto only smiles, lifting his goblet. “One must pay attention to the finer details in life, Alicent. It’s what makes one a capable advisor, after all.” He casts a quick, almost shy glance in your direction, and you catch a hint of something earnest behind his carefully constructed facade.

Before you can respond, Viserys claps his hands together, drawing attention back to him. “Ah, yes, the finer details. That reminds me—Y/N, have you considered taking a seat at the council yourself? Your insights are always so valuable.”

Otto’s expression falters, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face as the king unknowingly redirects the conversation away from his attempts at wooing. He sips from his goblet, though his gaze keeps drifting to you throughout the meal, undeterred by the setbacks.

It’s in the gardens, a week later, that he makes another attempt, catching you after your walk with Alicent. As she steps away, leaving you alone among the rosebushes, Otto approaches, brushing a stray leaf from your shoulder with a practiced air.

“Lady Y/N,” he says, his voice lowering as if to make this moment more intimate. “I do hope you’ve been enjoying your time in the Red Keep. It must be lonely without the presence of a companion to share your thoughts with.”

You tilt your head, studying him with a curious smile. “I have my family, Lord Otto, and the company of friends. Though I appreciate your concern.”

For a moment, you see the faintest hint of uncertainty in his eyes, as if he’s weighing whether to speak plainly or continue his subtle dance around the subject. But before he can decide, Daemon strides into the garden, his expression darkening as he spots the two of you together.

“Isn’t there a council meeting you should be attending, Hightower?” Daemon’s tone is pointed, his arm slipping around your shoulders in a gesture that is both protective and possessive. “Or perhaps you’re looking to add ‘gardener’ to your list of titles?”

Otto’s jaw tightens, but he bows with forced politeness. “Prince Daemon, always a pleasure. I shall leave you both to your... conversation.”

As he walks away, his shoulders a little more rigid than before, you can’t help but stifle a laugh, leaning into Daemon’s side. He rolls his eyes but smirks, shaking his head as if the whole ordeal is a great joke.

“What exactly did he think he’d accomplish? Flirting with a dragon in front of me, no less.” He squeezes your shoulder. “You’d best keep an eye on that one, Y/N. The only thing more dangerous than a snake is a lovesick one.”

You chuckle, glancing back to where Otto’s figure disappears around a corner, already plotting his next approach. Though you don’t quite understand what he’s after, you can’t deny that his efforts—though misplaced—are amusing.

And as you return to the keep with Daemon at your side, you can’t help but wonder if Otto Hightower might just be as persistent as he is ambitious.

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