#creating your own lip shade

[dazzlingjaeyun]

ʙʀᴜɪꜱᴇꜱ – ꜱɪᴍ ᴊᴀᴇʏᴜɴ

engineering major!jake x nursing student fem!reader

୨୧ genre: strangers to implied lovers, mostly angst & smut, MDNI | words: 17.3k | cw: jake is very in love but also lowkey emotionally unavailable, mentions of blood and injuries, self-indulgent shade on iced americano, HANDS (also self-indulgent),  jake has one wet dream, munch jake,  fingering – also semi-public (in his car),  mentions of orgasm denial, marking and biting, dry humping, nipple play,  unprotected sex, creampie, praise, aftercare!! ୨୧ 

read this as a standalone or as a prologue to bandaids! if you've already read bandaids, you can still read this one after. it'll make sense both ways ><

hanna says: huge thank you to @brklynbabyjay and @jayparked for brainstorming a lot with me & helping me with the plot. thank you su for betaing me for this monstrosity and thank you snail for giving me the idea for the title. i appreciate you so so much. also congrats to @tmrwsuns for not losing your mind (and ears) when i yapped about this too much. thank you for hyping me up instead! ily all and this wouldn't have been possible without you <3

mature content under cut, minors do not interact!

“J-Jake,” you mumble out, your fingers tightening the grip on his hair, pulling a little harder – just enough to create the perfect sense of pain. Jake opens his eyes and looks up to you, the sight alone enough to make him bring a finger up to your leaking hole while his tongue keeps focusing on your clit. Your eyes are shut almost a little too tightly, eyebrows firmly drawn together, and bottom lip pulled between your teeth, although that’s barely enough to muffle the pretty moans and whimpers that Jake so badly needs to hear.

It’s almost pathetic how his heart skips a beat at just how easily his finger slides in, how with each pump of it, he can practically see the air getting knocked out of your lungs. When he closes his lips around your clit to gently suck it between his teeth and your head falls back, perfectly displaying the dark red spots he left there so carelessly just minutes ago, he can’t help but let his free hand slip under the soft fabric of his sweatpants, palming his pulsating length through his boxers.

A low groan escapes his lips, sending a wave of vibration through your core that has you bucking up your hips. The movement forces Jake’s eyes shut, his hand almost instinctively leaving his own body and instead reaching for your hip to pull you even closer to his face. 

The second he opens his eyes, the bright rays of sunlight that peak through his curtains force him to squeeze them shut again – only to be met with the same image: you squirming underneath him, legs shaking around his head that you desperately try to pull closer.

Suddenly, his usually loose shirt feels too tight, his light blanket too heavy, and he’s hyper aware of the way his dark bangs stick uncomfortably to his sweaty forehead. He forces his tired lids to lift again and slowly sits up, leaning his back against the headboard of his bed and running his hand through his hair first and then over his face. 

With a sigh, Jake tugs at his shirt, loosening it from his body in an attempt to cool down. His eyes scan the room – books carelessly scattered across his desk, clothes piling up on the chair and the  gym bag with his favorite pair of boxing gloves dangling from it – searching for something, anything, that could distract him from his painfully throbbing hard-on.

Yet, as if he isn’t trying so hard to think of anything other than you, his gaze lands on a few loose papers piling up on the edge of his desk: The notes he took during last week’s statistics class, looming over him like a cruel reminder of the deal that got him into this very situation in the first place.

Back then, when you mutually agreed to help each other, when he promised to send you his notes in return for you taking care of his bruises whenever practice got too rough. The image of your big, innocent eyes as you inspected his bleeding knuckles and the little gash right under his eye only twists the knife of guilt further in his chest.

Jake’s mind flashes back to that one statistics lecture – the only one he was late to. How every seat in the back was taken and he had to awkwardly walk down the stairs to the very front of the lecture hall, feeling all eyes on him as if he walked the walk of shame. How he sat next to you, simply because it was the very first seat he could spot, and he accepted anything to spare him further embarrassment or a comment from the lecturer who had already been eyeing him with raised eyebrows and ‘annoyed’ written all over his face.

He only exchanged a quick, rather forced, smile with you, before rummaging around his backpack until he found a few loose papers and a single pen. Back then, he wasn’t sure if you tried to be subtle as you glanced at his desk from the corner of your eye, observing his rather poor set up, but he noticed nonetheless. Glancing back, he saw you equipped with various pens and highlighters in different colors, yet the notepad in front of you was empty save for the date you’d neatly noted down in the right corner.

You quickly averted your gaze again, glancing back and forth between your empty paper and the lecturer. The crease between your eyebrows got deeper with each phrase he uttered, and your hand stayed rooted in place. Knowing you were supposed to take notes, that there was no way to pass that class otherwise, the professor’s words began to blur together until they were nothing but a fog that clouded your understanding until all hope of making sense of the content disappeared.

Jake on the other hand quickly scribbled down words and formulas, his pen moving over the paper with ease while his focus remained almost entirely on the lecturer and the slides that he projected onto the wall. You eyed his paper again, trying to somehow make sense of the words and numbers, trying to find something you could copy by any chance – just so you wouldn’t leave the lecture hall with an empty notepad again like you’d done the previous two weeks.

But when you tried to catch another glimpse of his notes, his hand quickly rushed over the page while noting down another apparently important point the professor had just made – and your eyes landed on his knuckles.

“They’re not supposed to be that red,” you blurted out your first thought before you could stop yourself. It took Jake a few seconds to fully register your words, but his hand slowly came to a halt as he turned his head your way. He furrowed his brows in a mixture of surprise and confusion, but you barely noticed, your gaze now focused on the gash under his eye. “Neither this,” you added, a little quieter this time.

He didn’t reply, just looked at you with a blank, unreadable expression that forced you to swallow so heavily you were sure it would have been audible hadn’t it been for the lecturer’s endless ramble. You could feel your shoulders tensing as seconds went by without any response from him, and although you pressed your lips together slightly, the silence felt so oddly oppressing that you couldn’t hold back from breaking it again.

"Looks a little puffy too,” you scanned his face for any reaction before averting your eyes as if that could stop him from keeping his on you.

“It’s a bit swollen,” he replied after a while, causing your head to snap back to him, eyes slightly widening in surprise. The boy offered the hint of a smile that was gone so quickly that you barely had enough time to register, let alone reciprocate it.

“Do they hurt?” you asked, letting your eyes wander from the bruise under his eye back to his knuckles, “or feel warm?”

He curled his fingers, clenching his hand into a weak fist before replying with a short nod that you saw from the corners of your eyes, “a little bit of both.”

You hummed. “Might be getting infected.”

When he just wordlessly blinked at you again, you added, “I have some stuff if you wanna clean them up after the lecture.” This time, his reaction was almost immediate, although wordless yet again. He creased his brows another time, scanning your face up and down as if he wasn’t quite sure if he should be confused or suspicious.

“I’m in nursing school,” you clarified. “So yeah, I carry like a mini first-aid kit with me pretty much all the time.” 

Jake’s lips formed a silent ‘oh’ as he nodded understandingly, fingers hovering over his notes almost absentmindedly while he seemed to consider your offer. “I mean,” he began, eyes flashing to the rows behind from where he’d registered a quick ‘sh’, and nodded again. “Alright,” he whispered before offering another quick smile that felt a bit more honest and a lot less awkward than before, and focusing on the lecture again. 

As soon as the professor dismissed the class, you closed your still empty notepad and collected your unused pens before neatly packing them into your bag and instead pulling out a small pouch, while Jake just carelessly shoved his papers into his own backpack, leaving them half crumpled. When you turned to face him, you found his eyes on you already, his expression a mix of uncertainty and expectation.

You wordlessly pulled a small bottle of hand sanitizer out of the pouch and rubbed some of the liquid into your hands. Then, you took out a few antiseptic wipes, carefully tore open the packaging, and extended your arm to signal him to give you his hand.

His skin felt warm against yours, softer than you expected, as his long, slender fingers curled around yours to keep his hand in place, while you gently wiped off the remnants of his wound with your other hand. You watched intently as his veins became a little more present each time the sting of the antiseptic made him tighten his grip around your fingers. Then, you added a little bit of ointment, wrapped a bandage around the wound, and repeated the routine with his other hand.

As you leaned closer to examine the gash on his face and the faintest hint of your perfume tickled Jake’s nose, his breath flattened subconsciously. His eyes landed on your face, now close enough for him to notice the various shades of color in your eyes and the way your lashes curled up perfectly. Jake pulled his lower lip in between his teeth and gently bit down to stop his lips from curving into a smile at your focused expression and your slightly parted lips. Only when you gently tapped over the wound itself did he instinctively pull back just slightly, scrunching his nose in discomfort.

“Sorry.” You pressed your lips together in a tight, apologetic smile that Jake just dismissed with a smile of his own.

“That looks bad,” you mumbled as you carefully applied a thin layer of ointment.

“The other guy looks worse,” Jake stated with a mixture of triumph and amusement, earning himself a look from you that clearly showed you were trying not to snort. “I bet.”

Once you added a small band-aid, although Jake refused at first, you leaned back in your seat to examine his face and hands from a bigger distance. “Much better,” you said with a faint smile. “If they don’t heal, you should get proper medical help though.”

Jake bit back a smile and opted for a nod instead. “Thank you, I owe you.” This time, it was you dismissing his words with a shake of your head and a simple, “you’re good.”

He looked at you for a moment, as if waiting for you to row back on it. But when you didn’t, he slowly stood up from his seat. You mimicked the movement, slung your bag over your shoulder and wordlessly followed him to finally exit the lecture hall.

“Actually,” you said just before he reached the door. He turned back around, his eyebrows slightly raised to show he was listening. “Would you mind sharing your notes with me? I… have nothing,” you asked, avoiding his eyes out of sheer embarrassment. 

“Oh, sure, I got you,” he replied so casually you almost felt stupid for hesitating before. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and handed it to you, “Just save your number, I’ll send them to you later.” Nodding, you took the phone from his hand, making sure your fingers didn’t brush against his hurt ones in the process, and quickly typed in your number.

Jake quickly glanced at his phone once you gave it back, just long enough to catch your contact name, before he shoved it back into his pocket. “See you around, Y/N,” he said with a soft smile. And with that, he walked out the door.

That’s how you and Jake, who had first introduced himself as Jaeyun when he’d sent you the notes later that night, found yourselves in some sort of agreement: Every time you helped him patch up his bruises, he sent you his lecture notes. 

And yes, after some time, Jake started sharing his notes without asking for anything in return, as did you whenever he needed your help outside of your statistics schedule. But none of your interactions ever went in a way that would allow his mind to go down the alley of imagining you in any form of sexual context.

The loud ring of his alarm pierces through the silence, startling him and pulling him back to the moment – back to his bedroom that still holds way too little oxygen. Shifting uncomfortably, he reaches for his phone to turn off his alarm, only to be directly met with your name on his lockscreen. The short “thank you! :)” you sent about an hour ago, probably when you saw the lecture notes he’d sent you the evening before. Probably while he was still asleep, dreaming about nothing other than having his face buried deep between your thighs.

With a groan, Jake tosses his phone to the side, lets his head hit the headboard again, and brings his hands up to his shoulders in an attempt to knead away the tension in his muscles. Yet, no matter how hard he tries to refuse, the image of you seems to flood his mind all over again each time he does so much as blink – and even the smallest movements of his hips force him to swallow down a whimper from how sensitive his cock feels against the restraints of his boxers.

Sighing, Jake slumps further against the headboard, spreads his legs just a little to sit more comfortably and takes a deep breath before consciously closing his eyes and really allowing himself to let his mind drift back to you one last time. How he grips your hips to pull you so close to his face that your taste and scent completely take over his senses. How your moans come dulled from how hardly you’re pressing your thighs around his head. How you’re shaking underneath him, clenching so deliciously around his tongue every time he lets it sink in between your folds.

His hand itches to reach for his cock, but he presses his fingers into the mattress instead, fisting the sheets to physically hold himself back from doing so. Then, just as his mind replays your image – of how you look under him, hair sweatily sticking to your pretty face and neck covered in purple love bites – he forces his eyes open again. Clenching his teeth, he sits up straight and lets his face fall into his hands.

“Fuck this,” he murmurs to himself, before he swings his legs off the bed and gets up. He pulls his shirt over his head as he walks to the bathroom, dropping it on the floor along with the rest of his sleeping attire and stepping under the shower where he lets cold water run over his body until it washed away every last thought of you.

Once Jake arrives at the gym, determined to ditch classes in order to keep his mind off of you, he immediately starts his usual warm-up routine, but neither running nor stretching nor the music blasting through his headphones is enough to really achieve that. A tap on his shoulder interrupts his wandering thoughts mid-stretch. When he turns around, he’s met with his friend Sunghoon’s face.

“No classes today?” the younger one asks, to which Jake just shrugs. “If you will.”

Sunghoon looks him up and down for a moment, not missing the hint of distress on his face, but he decides to not ask any questions. Instead, he tilts his head towards the ring in the middle of the room. “Wanna go a few rounds then?” Jake responds with a nod, mimicking his friend as he wraps his hands, straps on his gloves and pops in his mouthguard.

Muscle memory helps him to dodge the first few blows and even land a hit or two. But then, avoiding another dangerously close punch, he makes the mistake of shutting his eyes just for a split second mid-flinch. Yet, it’s enough for a flash of you to run through his mind; a tiny fragment of his dream replaying until a jolt of pain rushes through his head and pushes the image away with force. 

Sunghoon’s eyes widen as he steps back, clearly surprised that he, in fact, landed the punch he aimed right at Jake’s jaw so obviously. “What the fuck?”

Jake just quickly shakes his head, blinking the stars away. “Again,” he orders, repositioning himself before continuing. But just when he thinks his focus is at its peak again, his mind cruelly shifts back to how easily your arousal coated his lips and chin. And then, another punch right to his ribs makes him lurch forward, the air getting knocked out of his lungs in a choked grunt. 

“Focus, Jake,” Sunghoon says, voice laced with a mixture of confusion and warning. “How did you not see that one coming?” He aims another punch that Jake avoids with a step just at the last moment. “You’re slow as hell today, what’s up with you?”

Jake straightens his back and tilts his head to both sides to quickly stretch the tense muscles in his neck. “Nothin’,” he mumbles back, taking a short, yet deep breath in before aiming a hit Sunghoon easily, almost lazily, avoids. The latter raises an eyebrow, waits for just a second and then counters. Jake dodges the first punch, but the second hits him right on the opposite side of his jaw, quickly followed by a third against his ribs.

Scoffing, Sunghoon drops his arms and takes a step back. “Nope,” he says after a while of watching Jake recover from the pain. “We’re not doing this when you don’t even try.”

Before Jake can object, Sunghoon takes off his gloves, slipping through the ropes and out of the ring. Jake wipes his jaw with his forearm, hissing at the stinging pain as his sweaty skin meets the open wound. He bites down on the glove, using his teeth to abruptly pull at the strings before sliding it off his hand and doing the same on the other side. Then, he shoves them into his bag, jaw clenched so tightly in frustration it almost aches. Because even now, all that’s on his mind is you.

Just an hour later, Jake finds himself in front of your door. After taking a deep breath, he slowly rings your bell, the rush of his own blood in his ears muffling the sound that echoes through the door. Admittedly, he hesitated for a good thirty minutes before even contacting you, typing in his message and deleting it again. But despite really wanting to see anyone but you right now, he could already imagine your scolding voice if he didn’t show up. Something about how you’d told him time and again that he should come to you whenever he needed his bruises patched up and blah blah.

“Oh God,” your quiet gasp snaps him back to reality. Only now does he realize you already opened the door and, judging from your reaction, took in the image of his battered face. Before he can react, you reach for his arm, pull him inside and close the door behind him. You wordlessly guide him to the bathroom where you motion him to sit down on the edge of the bathtub before you grab a small emergency kit from the drawer under the sink.

Jake watches you as you move – quickly but precisely, washing your hands and separating cotton pads to soak them up with an antiseptic whose scent stings almost uncomfortably in his nose. When you turn back around, he quickly looks down. Only when you place your index finger under his chin to carefully lift his head do his eyes meet yours again – and he feels his jaw tensing just by the way you scan his face with that familiar, worried expression of yours. Because once it makes his chest feel tight with endearment, it’s quickly replaced by a wave of guilt. Your simple, innocent touch is enough to make him shiver, his mind immediately racing with a million way too inappropriate thoughts and the desperate attempt to push them all away. 

Angling his face to the side, you carefully tap the cotton pad over the wound on his jaw first. “Relax,” you murmur so quietly it might as well have been a whisper when you feel him clenching his teeth even harder. You flicker your eyes up to his briefly only to find them squeezed shut – something he’s never done before. The sight makes you bite the inside of your cheek, the thought of him actually being in pain tugging at your heart just a little.

Turning his face to the other side, you take a new wipe to clean up the slightly smaller bruise there. Once you’re done, you apply a thin layer of ointment to both before letting go of his chin. Just as you want to take a step back, he opens his eyes – and although they seem to hold a vulnerability you’ve never seen before, they soften a little at the sight of yours.

“Thank you,” he mumbles after a while, eyes not leaving yours this time. He’s found himself in that position several times before; sitting on the edge of your bathtub with you standing in between his legs. Yet for the first time, his hands itch to reach out to you.

“Does the other guy look worse again?” you try to joke, but the hint of worry in your voice betrays you. Jake’s lips still twitch up into a soft smile as he shakes his head.

You slowly take a step back to create a bigger distance between you and lean against the sink. And although Jake should feel relieved by the newfound space that makes breathing a little easier again, a tiny part of him wants to pull you back right where you stood two seconds ago.

“So, are you finally gonna tell me how you end up like this every other day? Cause if not, I might start thinking you’re doing some kind of shady stuff.” You cross your arms in front of your chest.

Jake chuckles softly. “I actually do it for fun,” he begins, “and for career reasons, I guess. I’ve been boxing ever since I was a teenager and I wanna go pro.” He studies your face for a second before he continues. “That’s why I don’t put too much effort in my engineering degree, you know. I’m just… kinda doing it ‘cause my parents don’t approve of the whole boxing thing. But that’s always been my first choice.”

There’s something about the hint of pride in his voice that warms your heart, despite the worry that also settles somewhere there. “So, you’re getting beat up for your dreams?” you ask, drawing a quiet laugh from Jake.

“Hey, I beat up people too,” he defends.

“Yeah. And I don’t know if I think that’s a solid career plan.”

Jake halts for a moment and searches your eyes again, expecting that disapproving look he usually got when he shared his plans with anyone. But he only finds a hint of worry instead – and he quickly tries to dismiss the way his heart squeezes ever so slightly. “Now you sound like my parents, too.” 

“Well, thanks to them, you go to college and I won’t fail statistics,” you say with a chuckle.

Jake just responds with a soft smile that’s somehow still enough to spread a warm, cozy feeling all across your chest.

“Good, because medicine can’t afford to lose its best future nurse.”

“Break time,” Jake’s voice cuts through the silence so firmly that you flinch, pen gliding over your notes and crossing some of the words out. You look around the library to find around a dozen other students glaring in your direction, and quickly offer them an apologetic smile before your eyes dart back to Jake.

“I’m not done yet,” you reply, forcing your focus back on the textbook in front of you – until Jake takes the pen from your hand, places it between the open pages and closes the book. “But you’ve been studying non-stop for almost three and a half hours now. I can see your brain fuming,” he sighs. Just as you open your mouth to oppose, he shakes his head and gently presses his index finger against your lips.

“You know that suggesting a break when you’ve been the one to doomscroll this whole time is crazy, right?” you  mumble against the digit. He lets it rest on your lips for another second, and you swear you can see his gaze dropping – but before you can think about it, he looks up again.

“Coffee,” he suggests, although it sounds more like an order. Biting your lip, you debate whether to agree or to bury your head in your books again.

“Coffee it is,” you finally say with a sigh before collecting your stuff and shoving them back into your bag.

The walk to the small campus café is silent, but while it feels like a much needed break for you, it just seems to give Jake’s mind time and space to wander. Every time your shoulders bump against his or his fingers brush yours while walking, even if just for a fragment of a second, his skin starts buzzing. 

By the time you reach the counter, his throat feels so tight that simply asking for your order takes all the effort he can muster. For a second, you eye him with furrowed brows, not quite sure if his jaw is really as tight as it looks or if it’s just the different light inside the store that casts a weird shadow there. 

“I’ll go with a caramel macchiato.”

“Suits you,” Jake responds without thinking, only realizing what he said when your brows draw together again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He hesitates for a moment. Then, he takes a deep breath that he masks with a shrug. “You’re also sweet.”

You look at him in disbelief, and he almost rows back on his words, until you let out a quiet chuckle. “If that’s you trying to make me pay for your coffee, it’s not working. And by the way, americano is ass. Literally doesn’t even taste like coffee, it’s just colored water and–” 

But Jake doesn’t even listen anymore, busy struggling to ignore the pang in his chest just because you remember his usual order. He bites back his comment about how ‘coffee isn’t coffee either if it contains more syrup than anything else’, instead placing the order and paying before you even get the chance to take out your wallet.

Once you settle on a small table, the silence between you feels relieving – as if your brain finally got the chance to shut off after hours of trying to fit half a semester of pharmacology into your head. Jake, on the other hand, doesn’t feel half as relaxed, seemingly not able to peel his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries.

You look around the café for a while, watching people come in and leave, until your eyes settle on Jake again. His gaze is intense, filled with something you can’t really read, but it sure is enough to make your heart skip a beat. Enough to suddenly make you feel smaller, tension creeping into your body again.

“What?” you ask so quietly you’re not sure if he even hears over the background noise of the store. Jake only shakes his head in response and drops his gaze to his hands. Your eyes follow his and you allow yourself to watch him play with his rings for a while – turning them, sliding them off and back onto his fingers, knuckles slightly red and veins oh so prominent. Your mind wanders, replaying fragments of every time you cleaned the blood or dirt off his knuckles, or how you taped band-aids around his fingers. Of how his hands felt in yours, fragile but somewhat good, somewhat safe. 

“You’ve got something on your mouth,” Jake’s voice makes your head snap back up. As you try to wrap your head around how long you’ve been zoned-out, Jake reaches forward, wipes his thumb over the corner of your mouth and holds it in front of your lips. You part them just enough to close them around the tip of his finger and lick off the whipped cream, cheeks heating up so quickly you’re sure it’s evident. But Jake doesn’t notice, and if he does, he doesn’t point it out.

Instead, he leans back casually and grabs his drink again. “Do you wanna go back to the library?”

To his surprise, you shake your head. “My brain’s mushy, I feel like I won’t even remember what I studied today.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re always stressing too much. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

Once you sit down in the passenger seat of Jake’s car, you immediately slump against the leather, lean your head against the window and let the glass cool down your pounding temple. Jake gets in the driver's seat, but instead of starting the engine, he looks at you with his head tilted to the side. “Tired? Or frustrated?” 

With a sigh, you lift your head and turn around to face him. “I usually feel better after a break, but now I really don’t.”

“Maybe you need a… different kind of break,” he hesitates, eyes dropping to your lips for the blink of an eye, so short you barely register it. “Release some stress, you know.”

“Oh, are you volunteering?” You laugh, but Jake doesn’t reply, doesn’t laugh – doesn’t even tear his eyes away from yours. He just shrugs.

In no time, your smile fades, your eyes widen and your breath gets caught in your throat so quickly that it’s hard to speak. “I–... I was joking.”

“Well, I’m not,” he says, face as calm as ever, when in reality his heart seems to be racing a marathon and his palms begin to feel sweaty.

“Did you get hit in the head last practice?” You try to joke, but the small tremble in your voice betrays you.

He absentmindedly pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth as his eyes drop from your eyes to your lips and back up again, holding your gaze as though he could see right through the chaos that is your thoughts. Feeling your heartbeat picking up and your breath coming shorter, you try to swallow down the lump that begins to form in your throat. Jake seems to lean just a hint closer, wetting his lips with his tongue – but just as you want to lean forward too, he suddenly pulls away and sits back in his seat, head falling against the headrest with a sigh. He resists the urge of running his hand through his hair in frustration, before turning his head to the side to look at you again.

“Sorry. I probably did get hit in the head,” he mumbles.

You look at him for a moment, trying to gather your courage to say something, but the words don’t come until he reaches for the key to start the car.

“That’s so unfortunate,” you say, making him stop, “I liked the idea.”

The words make Jake’s eyes dart back to you, and for a while, he just looks at you with an unreadable expression, scanning your face as if trying to find out whether you’re joking. But your gaze is steady and your lips don’t twitch in an attempt to bite back a smile or a laugh. You just lean in a little, then stop to give him time to react. Jake’s eyes never leave yours as he mirrors the gesture.

He leans closer until you can feel the ghost of his breath fanning over your skin, letting goosebumps erupt from just that – and then, as if you’re pulled towards each other by force, you close the distance until his lips are on yours. 

He kisses you softly at first, hesitantly, as though he’s trying to savor how soft your lips feel or how effortlessly they move in sync with his. Heart beating so fast you can feel it in your throat, you reach out to get ahold of his collar and pull him closer. You feel his hands cupping your cheeks, fingertips pressing against your skin like you’d slip away otherwise. But instead, you curl your fingers around the fabric harder and tug on it with just enough force for your teeth to clash.

“Come here,” Jake murmurs against your lips, dropping his hands to your hips and carefully pulling you over the middle console and onto his lap. He kisses you again, this time with more urgency. Your hands find their way around his neck, fingers weaving through his hair and tugging on the ends when he gently bites your lip.

The space between you feels too small and not big enough at the same time, and you’re not sure whether you want to pull away or scoot closer. But before you can make up your mind, Jake tightens his grip on your hips and pulls you in until your torsos touch and you can feel his chest rising and falling against yours as he gently pulls away from the kiss.

“Feel better already?” He asks, voice slightly hoarse and lips softly brushing yours. Jake squeezes your hips as your hands slide from the back of his head down to his shoulders, solely to hold himself back from shuddering at the simple touch. 

“Don’t know,” you reply, smiling against his lips. “Might need a little more to convince me.”

You feel him reciprocating your smile before he kisses you another time. His hands tentatively slide under the hem of your shirt and to your lower back, just resting on your skin, while yours brush over his collarbones and to his chest, where you feel  his heartbeat quickening under your fingertips. 

Jake tilts his head to the side to deepen the kiss, and almost immediately, your hands rush up to his neck again, tugging on his hair just enough to draw a low groan from him. His hands move up and down your waist as though he’s trying to memorize every inch of your body. You slowly pull back, just enough to whisper his name against his lips like it’s the only thing you know how to say. His fingers dig into your skin ever so gently as he leans down to leave soft kisses against your jaw, making your breath stutter and your lips part. 

His touch feels somewhat urgent, yet not rushed – and though your heart aches at how gently he takes his time, how he pulls away barely enough to look at you just to make sure you’re okay, you can’t help the heat that spreads up your spine and down to your core. “Jake,” you whisper again, shuddering as he hums against your neck before he pulls back and scans your face for any signs of discomfort. “Want me to stop?” 

The way you shake your head almost frantically draws a chuckle from Jake. Leaning forward again, he continues to kiss your neck down to your collarbones, one hand still pressing into the flesh of your hips while the other begins to fidget with the waistband of your pants.

Your breath hitches as he slowly slides his hand past it, thumb carefully grazing over your clothed clit. “Let me take care of you,” Jake says so quietly it almost comes out as a whisper. He pulls his hand away, waiting for your response while slowly but steadily sliding the rings off his fingers.

Nodding slowly, you take a deep breath as he pulls your underwear to the side and slides a finger through your folds, collecting your slick and tracing it up to your clit again. You rest your head on his shoulder, letting the scent of his cologne tickle your nose as your breath gets shakier each second his finger carefully rubs over your sensitive bud.

You want to tell him you want more, but not trusting your voice you just buck your hips forward slightly. Jake, who understands wordlessly, bites back a smile as you can’t seem to help the quiet whimper at the feeling of his digit prodding at your entrance. “That what you want?” He asks, voice so confident it only intensifies the feeling of being completely put into his hands. You just manage a quiet hum that gets stuck in your throat as he slowly pushes the finger in, immediately curling it so perfectly that you could almost forget it’s the first time he’s ever touched you like that.

Continuing his antics, he carefully adds a second finger, angling them just right to hit the sweet spot that draws a quiet moan from you. The sound is enough to cause a shiver to run down Jake’s spine –  and suddenly, all he wants is to hear it again.

He gently presses his thumb against your clit, not able to hold back the quiet groan as he feels you clenching around his fingers. As your grip on his shoulders tightens and your breath comes even more ragged, he places a gentle kiss on the crown of your head. “Everything still okay?”

The softness in his voice makes your heart flutter a little as you try your best to stay composed enough to nod. “Just… please don’t stop,” you murmur, voice almost breaking at the end. Your breath feels hot against Jake’s neck, yet it makes him shiver. Every curve of his fingers seemingly guided solely by your sounds and the way you arch into him, Jake closes his eyes to focus only on the way your breath grows heavier as each stroke brings you closer to release.

“Let go for me, hm?” Jake asks so gently it fully contrasts the pace of his fingers, making your heart squeeze just as your orgasm hits you with a force that has you digging your fingers into his shoulders. Jake continues, helping you ride out your high, until pleasure gives way to pain and you manage a choked out ‘too much’. He pulls away quickly but carefully, slightly shaking his shoulder to get you to lift your head.

“Hey,” his eyes search yours as he gently rubs your back underneath your shirt, “you alright?” Taking a deep, shaky breath, you nod and back it up with a soft smile. Jake’s eyes drop to your lips once more, but he doesn’t lean in. Instead, he pulls your head to his shoulder again and just holds you there until your breath evens out.

When you open your eyes again and your gaze falls directly onto his strained pants, you slowly trace one hand from his shoulder down his torso. Jake’s eyes flutter shut as his cock twitches in anticipation – but just as your fingers ghost over his clothed length, he grabs your wrist to stop you. When you lift your head and give him a questioning look, he just offers a smile in return, lifts your hand to his lips, and places a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

“You don’t owe me anything, you know. I just wanted you to feel good.” You open your mouth, but he shakes his head, reassuring, “I’m okay, really. Let’s take you home, yeah?”

Even days later, you don’t talk about what happened, or how steadily he held your hand when he insisted on walking you up to your apartment. Neither about how he randomly starts coming over just to bring you snacks from the convenience store close to his gym whenever he heads home from practice. Not even after you notice that whatever he brings is always something you mentioned craving just a little while ago. 

And technically, things stay the same, except that they don’t, really. Jake still sits next to you in statistics lectures. He still takes the notes while you’re trying to figure out what’s going on, still sends them to you unasked. But now, he doesn’t pull away when his knee brushes yours under the table, and you swear he softly bumps his hand against yours on purpose while writing.

You still take care of his wounds after practice. It’s just that now, you text him every night to make sure he really is okay – even if he leaves your place just an hour earlier. And on some days, he doesn’t go home at all. You start keeping his favorite cereal in your kitchen cupboard, and suddenly, the mug he uses for his morning coffee becomes only his, and you stop using it.

He still looks after you, paying attention to your study habits and making sure you’re taking breaks. But now, taking breaks means having his head buried between your thighs. And now, revising means trying to remember what you studied just an hour ago while his fingers work you closer and closer to release, only granting it when you get the answers right.

“Metoprolol,” he reads what feels like the twentieth flashcard, thumb drawing soft circles over your clit. You sigh, closing your eyes and focusing on the feeling, until it suddenly stops. When you open your eyes, you find Jake already looking at you, waving the flashcard like a reminder. “Metoprolol,” he repeats.

“That’s a beta-blocker,” you grumble, wiggling your hips to get Jake to continue, but he just drops the flashcard to your mattress and grips your hips firmly enough to stop you.

“And what’s a beta-blocker?” He asks, biting the inside of his cheek to hold back his grin as you roll your eyes.

“You know what a fuckass beta-blocker is, Jake.”

He raises an eyebrow, slowly pulling his hand away from your core. “Come again?”

For a while, you just look at him, jaw clenched and hoping he’ll eventually give up on your pharmacology revision. But he just looks at you with an almost bored expression, not making any attempt to continue. 

“They lower heart rate and blood pressure,” you sigh, now giving him an almost pleading look. He hums, letting his thumb ghost over your skin without really touching you. “They’re usually used for hypertension or after heart attacks to–” you cut off as he finally slips a finger into your aching hole.

The first ring of your doorbell barely catches your attention, muffled like a quiet disturbance somewhere further away. But when it rings again and a third time only shortly after, you push your chair back with a sigh and stand up. Your knees almost buckle and your spine cracks uncomfortably, shoulders hurting as you roll them back in an attempt to release the tension that’s been building up from sitting for countless hours.

The fourth ‘ding’ has you rolling your eyes annoyedly. A shiver runs over your scalp and down your spine as you release your hair from the tight bun you kept them in, only now realizing that the hairstyle probably contributed greatly to the pounding in your head. You ruffle them a bit, trying to adjust them so they fall into your face to cover as much of your reddened, puffy cheeks as possible, while you drag yourself to the door and open it without a glance through the small peephole.

The air from outside immediately hits you, clinging to your bare legs uncomfortably. It takes just a look at Jake’s gym bag to recognize him, but your eyes still slowly wander up his torso and to his face.

“Are you hurt?” you try to ask, but the words only come out half. You clear your throat and ask again, scanning his face for any visible bruises, but finding nothing but a hint of concern etched onto his features.

“No,” he replies, studying your face the same way you do with his and pulling his brows together a little tighter at the sight of your glassy eyes and the circles forming underneath them. “You didn’t reply to my messages all day and that’s… kinda unlike you. So I wanted to check in on you.”

“I was studying,” you mumble.

Jake sighs almost inaudibly, just loud enough for you to register the faint sound of it. “I can see that. You look like hell.”

You meet his gaze for a second before you avert your eyes. “Thanks, Jake. Flattering.”

He ignores your remark, still scanning your face. “Were you crying?” he asks, but you don‘t reply.

Without another word or an invitation, Jake takes a step towards you, closing the door behind him with a soft click and dropping his bag to the floor. “Come on, you should really take a break,” he says softly, and although the familiar hint of concern in his voice usually causes a gentle warmth to spread across your chest, this time it feels close to infuriating. You can feel how your shoulders tense again at his suggestion and you immediately shake your head in response. 

“You’ve probably been sitting at your desk for hours. It‘s okay to slow down a bit,” Jake says so soothingly it nearly comes off as belittling. He keeps searching your face for any type of reaction, his gaze suddenly so heavy on you that you almost begin to feel small. “You‘re not going to get anything done if you‘re this exhausted,” he tries again.

“I don‘t have time for a break. Not everyone can afford to fall behind and fail their classes, Jake!” You snap, the words spilling out in a tone much harsher than intended and before your brain even finishes your thoughts. It takes only a flicker of your eyes up to his face to see his reaction – his jaw tightening slightly and a small wrinkle forming on his forehead, not from concern this time, but from irritation.

He stays silent for a moment. “That wasn‘t necessary,” he finally mumbles, the earlier softness in his voice now replaced by something firmer. You open your mouth to apologize, but your throat tightens, closes up, makes it hard to speak or even swallow down your apology.

But just seconds later, Jake lets his shoulders fall with a soft sigh, the tension on his face slowly dissolving. He takes another slow step forward and reaches out to gently place his cold hands on your heated cheeks, cupping your face with a grip ever so lightly, as though he‘s giving you every chance to pull away and step back. “It‘s okay,” he reassures quietly. “I shouldn‘t have pressured you.”

Your throat tightens even more as you look up at him the second before tears begin to blur your vision – and just when you want to turn your head away, Jake tightens his grip. Closing your eyes instead, you grit your teeth as hard as you can when one tear rolls down your cheek and you feel Jake’s thumb gently wiping it away.

When you open your eyes only to find his eyes filled with more warmth and softness than ever before, you sniff once, mumble a low, “I’m sorry,” and pull back with a little more strength.

“Wanna rant about how annoying classes are?” he asks softly, tilting his head to the side, but you slowly shake your head. “Do you want me to leave?” He bites the inside of his cheek, regretting the question before he even finished asking it. But to his surprise, you shake your head again.

“Stay,” you confirm quietly, just loud enough for him to catch. His hand itches to reach out to you again – to pull you in and hold you close until he’s made sure that you’re okay. But instead, he just nods. “Movie?” He suggests so gently that your heart almost skips a beat at his attempt to still keep you away from your desk, just not as pushy as before.

When you settle on the sofa next to Jake, he places his arm on the cushions behind you. You stare at the screen, but you don’t really pay attention to whatever is playing. All you can focus on is Jake; the scent of his body wash, the way just sitting next to him leaves the palm of your hands sweaty despite the air conditioning, and how his arm behind you makes you feel so close to him, although he doesn’t touch you. You glance down right in time to catch Jake spreading his legs a little further – just enough for his knee to softly brush against yours.

Tentatively, you lean closer until your head reaches his shoulder. He lets his arm slide off the cushions and around your shoulder almost instantly, pulling you more in so your head rests fully on his shoulder. You stay like that in silence, Jake absentmindedly letting his fingers slide up and down your arm, until you scoot a little closer. He reaches for your thigh with his free hand, slowly curling it around the inside of it just to place your leg on top of his own.

“Is this okay?” he asks quietly as he lets his hand rest on your knee. 

The simple, innocent contact is enough to make your breath hitch, enough to let goosebumps erupt on every inch of skin he touches. Not trusting your voice, you opt for a quick nod of your head that draws a sheepish smile on Jake’s face.

You stay like that for a bit, both pairs of eyes on the screen without really paying attention. Jake traces gentle patterns on your skin, trying his best to not be too obvious about how he follows every small twitch of your thigh or every inch you slowly scoot closer. Skin crackling under his touch, a soft sigh gets caught in your throat as he slings his arm around your waist and pulls you onto his lap.

“Better?” he asks quietly, almost inaudible over the sound coming from the TV. You reply with a hum, before hesitantly draping your arms around his neck. Your fingers gently lace through his hair as you lean forward to rest your head on his shoulder again. His hands settle on the small of your back, just holding you in place for a while.

Although neither of you speaks, the show that’s playing slowly wanders to the very back of your mind, attention zeroing in on the sound of Jake’s steady breaths and the feeling of your body gently pressed against his, somewhat peaceful, yet unsettling at the same time. Not enough.

As if reading your mind, Jake softly tugs at your sweater to wordlessly gain your attention. Shifting slightly, you lift your head from his shoulder to look at him. His eyes find yours immediately, softening just a bit at how they now seem much calmer than before. You allow yourself to get lost in his brown orbs, and, for the very first time, embrace the warmth that spreads through your chest. You're so absorbed in his eyes that you don’t even acknowledge the strand of hair falling onto your face until you feel Jake gently tugging it behind your ear. 

His hand lingers on your cheek as his eyes dip down to your lips. Chest buzzing from your quickening heartbeat, you tentatively lean a little closer. He lets his hand slide to the back of your head and gently pushes you forward until his breath fans over your lips – and before he can ask, you close the last bit of distance between you.

Surprised at first, Jake reacts quickly, eyes closing and lips moving effortlessly in sync with yours. His fingertips gently press against your scalp as he angles his head slightly to deepen the kiss. The blissful shiver his touch sends down your neck draws a whimper from you, so quiet you would have thought it went unnoticed by Jake if it wasn’t for the twitch of his fingers. When you slowly pull back, breaths coming more ragged, his hand moves from the back of your head down to your neck, fingers curling around your throat ever so gently – just enough to pull you back in.

He kisses you almost feverishly now, earlier hesitation gone as he glides his tongue against yours and gently bites on your lower lip. Each of his antics has you pulling on his hair a little harder, sending blissful shivers down his spine at the memory of all the times he felt that same tug on his scalp with his face buried in between your thighs.

Slowly pulling back and allowing both of you to breathe, his hand drops from your neck to your hips, pushing past the hem of your sweater to rest on your bare skin. Then, his lips are on you again, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses against your jaw, your neck, the spot right under your ear and your collarbone. He sucks on your skin, gently bites down wherever he knows it will draw a quiet moan from you, and quickly licks over the bruised skin to soothe it – all while firmly holding you close to him, fingers almost boring into your skin. 

His other hand toys with the fabric of your sweater, softly tugging on it without making any attempt to rid you of it. But the ache between your legs only grows bigger with every second that passes with him marking what seems like every accessible inch of your skin. You let your hands sink to his shoulders, squeezing softly to get his attention, but his lips stay attached to your collarbone, leaving yet another love bite.

Only when you manage to mumble his name, voice breathy and almost breaking at the end of the syllable does he pull back to look at you. “Take it off,” you mutter – and before he can open his mouth to ask if you’re sure, you beat him to it with a quiet “please.” He nods, hands sliding to the hem of your sweater to slowly, almost shakingly push it up. Trying his best to keep his eyes on yours, he can’t help but peek down as he carefully pushes the piece of clothing over your head and drops it somewhere on the sofa.

“So pretty,” he whispers, leaning forward again to softly place his lips on top of yours, hands sliding up hesitantly before cupping your boobs and giving them a gentle squeeze that draws another quiet moan from you. His lips trail down your neck again, touch gentle yet somewhat impatient, until he reaches your chest.

Raising his head to look up at you, he waits until you give a short nod, before attaching his lips to one nipple. The content sigh that leaves your lips at the contact shoots right to his hardening cock. Eager to draw another one from you, he flattens his tongue against the bud, gently sucking on it right after. Once the quiet moan reaches his ears, the corners of his lips curl up into a smirk. He pulls off to come eye-level with you, chuckling softly as he catches the hint of disappointment on your face at the loss of contact.

“Don’t hold back,” he orders, voice not as firm as he initially planned, but the hint of softness makes your heart flutter a little. “I know you can be louder than that. Let me hear you, hm?” He asks, bringing two fingers in front of your lips. You slowly open your mouth just enough for him to push the digits past your lips and onto your tongue. Keeping your eyes on his, you hesitantly start sucking on his fingers, not missing how his jaw tenses although his expression never falters once.

“I said let me hear you,” he repeats, voice dipping lower – just enough to make another shiver run down your spine, but you stay silent. He pulls his fingers out with a tsk. “You’re not usually this shy, what’s up today?”

Instead of waiting for a response, his mouth is on your nipple again, the fingers that pressed down on your tongue just moments ago coming up to flick and twist the other one. Your head lolls back with a shaky breath, nails digging a little deeper into his clothed shoulders.

There’s a part of you that wants to keep holding back, not only out of shyness, for this is the first time Jake has ever seen you shirtless. It’s the way his antics grow messier, almost desperate to finally get the reaction he wants, that just feels too good. While you’re busy wondering if just nipple stimulation has ever caused your underwear to stick to your drenched core this much, one particularly harsh pull rips a surprised moan from you. 

Although you keep your eyes closed, partly to spare you from embarrassment, you can feel Jake smiling against your skin. You subconsciously slide forward, his hardening cock pressing against your heat, and the tiny bit of friction is enough for you to clench around nothing. When you press against him again, Jake curses under his breath, but you don’t quite catch what he says. Both his hands are quick to land on your ass, fingers digging into the plush skin while he guides you, and the way the outline of his clothed hard-on perfectly presses against you draws whimper after whimper from you.

Your eyes roll back each time his tip meets your pulsating clit, the sensation feeling almost overwhelming despite the layers of fabric between you. Not knowing how to deal with the mix of not wanting to stop and really, really wanting more, his name leaves your lips in a moan that has his hips stuttering for a second.

“What do you want?” he asks softly, tilting his head to the side the adorable way he often does when talking or listening to you.

Instead of replying, you only press against him harder. His eyes roll back with a low groan, but he refuses to give in.

“Use your words, pretty.”

“Want you,” you murmur, and although he really wants to hear you say it again, he’s too impatient to make you repeat yourself. Instead, he quickly manhandles you from his lap onto the sofa, your back pressed against the cushions as he hovers over you and starts leaving more kisses from your neck over your chest and stomach down to the waistband of your shorts. He quickly pulls it in between his teeth and down your legs without breaking eye contact. Once your shorts and underwear are carelessly discarded somewhere on the floor, his hands find their way to your thighs, spreading them apart to put your dripping core perfectly on display for him. 

You let your forearm fall over your eyes as you feel the familiar heat creeping up on your cheeks, feeling timid no matter how many times he’s already seen you like this. The feeling of two fingers gently sliding in between your glistening folds makes you arch your back, and although you can’t see him, you can practically hear Jake’s grin as he speaks, “so wet just for me?”

Again, he doesn’t wait for your response and licks one long stripe from your hole up to your clit, where he circles the bundle of nerves with his tongue before tentatively sucking it between his lips. The moan that rips from your throat only motivates him to do it again, making your back arch off the sofa again. When his tongue finds your hole, his nose bumps against your clit, drawing another whimper from you while he laps up everything you give him with a content hum.

Just as he focuses on your clit again, grabbing your thighs and placing your legs over his shoulders to bury his face deeper between them, you manage a quiet “stop” in between moans.

Jake quickly sits back on his knees and brings his hands to your thighs to gently massage them. “Is everything okay?” The soft look he gives you makes your heart skip a beat, your chest feeling warm with endearment.

“I just… I want you,” you admit, watching as his eyes widen.

Suddenly, Jake’s throat feels dry, and his chest rises and falls quicker as he tries his best to find a different meaning to your words than the one he initially comes up with. “What do you mean by that?”

You hesitate for a moment. “I want you to–... I need you to fuck me.”

Jake’s hands come to an immediate halt, as he swallows the lump in his throat to physically hold his jaw from dropping at your words.

“Fuck, you can’t say this like that,” he mutters.

You don’t respond, just look up at him with pleading eyes as you can practically see his brain short-circuiting.

“I don’t have any con–”

“I don’t care,” you interrupt him, “please, Jake.” Grabbing the collar of his shirt, you pull him in for a soft kiss that completely contrasts the urge in your core. He immediately melts into the kiss, reciprocating it with the same tenderness, until he pulls back way too soon and pulls his shirt over his head.

Your hands find his skin, marvelling at the toned chest and abs he’s been hiding from you. Jake sighs softly at the contact, muscles contracting under your touch as your fingers curl under the waistband of his sweatpants to pull them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free, perfectly hard with beads of precum dribbling down the sides. You reach out, but Jake grabs your wrist to stop you. His other hand pushes your leg more to the side before he carefully guides his tip through your wet folds, over your clit and down to your leaking hole. He hisses at the feeling, clenching his jaw tight to hold back from moaning just from the feeling of your arousal alone. 

“Jakeee,” you whine, bucking up your hips just enough for his tip to slide in. Choking back a groan, he places one hand on your knee to angle your leg so that he can properly line himself up with your entrance. He looks at you as if scanning your face for any kind of uncertainty, but before he can ask if you’re sure, you nod.

Jake slowly pushes in, head thrown back as your warm walls welcome him inch by inch. His fingers dig into the flesh of your leg as he tries to hold onto whatever little sanity he has left in him and give you time to adjust.

“Doing so good for me already,” he mumbles more to himself than to you, but the praise is enough for you to clench around him in a way that draws a hiss from him while his eyes shut close. He wants to tell you how you can’t do that to him just yet, but he doesn’t trust his voice. Just as he tries to focus on not bursting without having even moved, your gentle grip on his biceps makes him open his eyes.

“You can move,” you say softly. And so he does, head dropping to the crook of your neck as he slowly starts moving.

Although the stretch feels amazing, the way his hips roll against yours so perfectly, hitting all the right places in a way you haven’t felt before, something feels off. You try to angle your hips differently, to change the placement of your legs, squirming under him for less than three seconds before he quickly comes to a halt. He lifts his head, eyes searching yours as his hand quickly comes up to cup your cheek.

“Hey… what’s wrong? Do you want to stop?” He asks so gently it almost hides the breathlessness in his voice.

You shake your head, letting out a shaky breath as you feel your body tensing in frustration. “No, I just… I don’t know what’s wrong,” you murmur. Suddenly, you feel a lump forming in your throat again, the stress from earlier mingling with the newfound frustration now.

“Babe,” he coos, the sudden nickname bringing your attention back to him. “We’ve never done this before. It’s okay if something doesn’t work out immediately.” His thumb brushes against your cheek tenderly, and leaning into his touch, you slowly start relaxing.

Jake slides his hands under your back, pulling you with him as he sits up and positions you on his lap without slipping out of you. You hold onto his arms again while you slowly sink down on his lap fully, gasping softly at how deep he reaches now. “Let’s try this,” he suggests, hands sliding down your back to your hips. He gently lifts you up a little before he guides you back down, shivers running over his body at the soft moan you let out.

“Just go with whatever feels good for you,” he says, voice so gentle you completely miss the way he’s losing his mind internally.

“But you–”

“Don’t worry about me, you feel perfect for me,” he reassures before you can voice your doubt.

So you start, going slowly, hesitantly at first, then a bit faster – this time quickly finding a rhythm that feels just right for both of you.

“Fuuuck,” Jake pants as his head falls back against the sofa and his fingertips bore a little harder into the flesh of your hips. Your hands weakly grab onto his shoulders for support as you feel the burn in your thighs intensify.

“Just a little longer, baby. Can you do that for me?” He asks when you slow down, lazily grinding on him rather than riding him. His voice is breathy – laced with a strange mix of exhaustion and lust that is enough to send shivers down your spine.

You nod tiredly, though you can’t fully register what he even asked for. His voice is muffled by the ringing in your ears; the only thing you can truly focus on is the way he fills you up so perfectly and how fresh waves of pleasure shoot through your entire body every time your clit rubs against his pelvis.

Jake lifts his head from the sofa to take a better look at your face, and if it didn’t boost his ego so much that your cheeks were flushed, your eyes almost teary and your lips slightly bruised from all the kissing, he would almost feel pity for you. 

“So pretty like that… Such a good girl for me,” he breathes, but his words don’t quite reach you. You let your head fall into the crook of his neck where every breath of yours covers his skin in goosebumps and every little whimper makes his cock twitch inside you.

You barely register how he tightens his grip on your hips until he holds you down firmly enough to stop your movements. Before you can even lift your head to look at him, he bucks his hips up, his tip kissing your cervix so deliciously that you can’t hold back a surprised moan as your nails dig deeper into the skin of his shoulders.

Jake’s eyes flutter shut at the way your walls clench around him. He rolls his hips into yours another time, leaning his head against the cushions again and relishing how good you feel around him, how your warm slick coats his length and drips down his thighs. 

His hands find their way to your ass, lifting you up just slightly, only to roughly push you down to meet his next thrust.

The world around him suddenly goes quiet – the sound of the TV playing in the background, even the quiet hum of the air conditioning that Jake always hears – none of these reach his ears anymore. The only thing he can focus on are your moans that echo off the walls, each of them only spurring him to make you feel better, to make you moan louder.

You can barely hear the string of curses he mutters under his breath, but his breathy whimpers pierce through the wall of pure pleasure, shooting straight to your core. Your legs feel numb, but the way he whines just a little louder and grabs your ass just a little tighter whenever he reaches so deep you’re sure you could see the bulge in your stomach if you had the strength to lift your head from his shoulder motivates you to keep going.

Jake moves one hand up to the back of your head, fisting some of your hair and pulling your head back so gently it’s almost endearing compared to his thrusts. “Keep your eyes on me, baby,” he mutters, holding back a moan at just the sight of your fucked out expression.

Your entire body is tingling, making it hard to not squeeze your eyes shut. “I said eyes on me,” Jake manages between whimpers, focusing his own gaze fully on your face. He can literally see how each snap of his hips brings you closer to release, and god does he love to see it. How he has you right where he wanted you for so long, how he can draw those pretty moans from you, how he doesn’t even need you under him to have full control over your pleasure.

“Jake,” his name rolls off your lips with a moan that makes his hips stutter, his jaw tensing as he tries to solely focus on not letting go just yet.

His hand slowly lets go of your hair and roams over your body, leaving goosebumps in its trace. He cups your breasts, gently squeezes your waist, places his hand on the small of your back to pull you impossibly closer until he finally settles for your clit. A small sigh escapes your lips when he starts to rub slow circles around the bud. You let your head fall on Jake’s shoulder again, strands of hair sticking to your forehead, your cheeks, covering your eyes that you shut tighter with each snap of his hips.

Jake feels his abdomen tighten, his thighs shaking as every thrust knocks the breath out of your lungs all over again. His fingertips dig deeper into your skin, relishing how fast your arousal covers his other hand and how each of your moans bring him closer to the edge.

A murmured “don’t stop,” is all you can muster as you feel the tension in your body reach the unbearable. The sensation makes your head spin – your clit throbbing under his touch, your walls clenching around him tighter and tighter and your skin tingling on every inch your bodies meet.

You can’t even warn him before your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave, leaving your body shaking and your nails digging into the skin of his shoulders.

“Fuck, I–” Jake cuts off, his eyes rolling back as he feels his cock twitching. He places both hands on your back, pulling your chest flush against his, so close that you can feel his heart beating rapidly against yours, as he finally allows himself to let go.

He lazily thrusts his hips up a few more times, not only riding out his own high but yours too, before he stops completely and lets his head fall back against the sofa again. Your heavy exhales hit Jake’s sweaty neck as you try to catch your breath, forcing another shiver down his spine. He lets his fingers brush up and down your back gently, waiting for both of your heartbeats to slow down while he softly murmurs words you’re still too far gone to understand.

Only when you slowly lift your head from his shoulder does he open his eyes to look at you. The corners of his lips curl up, offering a smile that feels so warm you almost don’t notice how your body temperature slowly begins to drop.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice ever so gentle although slightly hoarse, as one of his hands lets go of your back and instead moves up to your face to carefully brush your hair out of your face.

You reply with a short nod, tiredly reciprocating his smile. “I’m tired,” you mumble, which earns a soft chuckle from Jake.

“Shower or bath?” he asks, letting his hand rest on your cheek and softly brushing his thumb up and down your skin. You allow yourself to lean into his touch slightly, yet you pout your lips, “nothing.”

Smiling softly, Jake leans forward to press a light kiss against your forehead. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”

Jake drops his hands to your hips, slowly lifting you up once you exhale to carefully pull out of you. Only when he gently sets you down on the sofa do your legs stop shaking. “Good job,” he mumbles. Then, he pushes himself up from the sofa, picks up his sweatpants from the floor and quickly slides them on.

You watch him, gaze wandering over his bare back, the marks your nails left on his skin and the way his muscles slightly flex with each small movement, before he turns around with a soft smile and leaves the living room.

Your eyes are barely open when he comes back with a glass of water in one hand and a dampened washing cloth in the other. He hands you the glass with a soft smile, waiting for you to drink and placing it on the coffee table after. Then, he motions you to lay back with a gentle push against your shoulders. Placing his hands on each of your knees, he slowly spreads your legs apart to carefully clean you up.

The warm fabric feels soft and the way Jake wipes it over your sore skin ever so gently makes your heart flutter as the familiar warmth of just being around him spreads through your chest. Just as your eyes begin to close, the feeling of Jake’s soft lips against your forehead makes you open them again. He’s leaning over you, eyes and smile filled with something between warmth and fondness.

“You hungry?” he asks so quietly he might as well have whispered as he reaches out to gently tuck some strands of hair behind your ear.

Your tired eyes light up at the mention of food. “Can we order pizza?”

Jake nods with a chuckle. After finding his phone somewhere on the floor, he hands it to you. “Choose what you like, I’ll be right back, yeah?” Already invested in the options, you barely register Jake leaving the room again, until he returns with a shirt in his hand. You would have mistaken it for one of yours, if not for the bigger size and the unmistakable scents of his detergent and cologne as he carefully pulls it over your head and guides your arms through the sleeves.

“I always keep an extra one in my bag,” he explains before you can open your mouth to ask.

Trying to dismiss the bubbly feeling in your stomach, you nod in response and mouth a quick ‘thank you’. Jake offers another gentle smile, before taking his phone from your hands, choosing his food and placing the order. The two of you just wait in silence, you sitting on Jake’s lap, one of his hands around your waist to hold you close while he rubs soothing circles onto your back with the other.

After you finish your food – well, Jake’s food, simply because you liked it better than your own and he immediately switched the two boxes – he curls one arm around your waist and the other under your knees and picks you up to carry you to the bedroom where he gently lays you down on your bed before crawling in next to you.

As if it was second nature, his arms find their way around your body again, pulling you in and holding you so close it almost feels like he never wants to let you go again. And despite being too tired to really think about it, you can’t help but wish he means it.

“Jake?” His name rolls off your lips before you can stop it.

You feel his chest vibrate underneath your head as he hums in response. You hesitate for a bit, letting his slow breaths lull you in until you feel yourself drifting off and you barely register the confession you mumble right before sleep pulls you under.

“I really like you.”

The next morning, you wake up from a shiver running over your body. Eyes still shut, you scoot closer to Jake, expecting to be embraced by the warmth of his body, but his side feels even colder.  When you slowly open your eyes, you’re met by the bright sunlight that shines through your curtains, and an empty other half of the bed. You hold your breath for a moment, checking for any sounds coming from the bathroom or the kitchen, for quiet footsteps outside your room. But when you hear nothing, the apartment feeling more silent than ever before, you push the air out through your nose. 

Although your body feels heavy, your legs and core a little sore, you slowly sit up and reach for your phone on your nightstand. As soon as you grab it, your screen lights up with Jake’s name, the pile of messages he sent the day before, and one from only 43 minutes ago.

Jake: had to leave early for practice and didn’t wanna wake you up :( hope you slept well tho. you looked cute haha. text me when you’re awake?

Biting your lip to hold back a smile, your eyes skim over the previous messages – his question if you wanted to grab dinner after practice, his repeated attempts to ask if you’re okay, if you’re really just studying for so long, or if he did anything to upset you – before they land on the most recent message again. You quickly type your reply and hit send, before falling back into bed, pulling the blanket over your body and letting Jake’s scent take over your senses until you’re fully embraced by it.

When he responds just a little later than usual that day, you don’t think much of it. He tells you about practice, how he doesn’t have any bad bruises this time, and even sends you a picture for proof. You smile at his messages like you’re used to by now, and your heart does that little jump when he sends a voice note to wish you sweet dreams later that night.

Then, little by little, his replies begin to come later, his calls less frequently. He slowly replaces the occasional forehead kisses for kisses on your cheek, or sometimes, none at all. And although you try to shove it away, sometimes you can’t help but think about it. You begin to wonder whether his touch really feels a little less soft than usual, or if your mind is just playing games with you. If his message was intended to sound a bit colder, or if you’re reading too much into it.

He never brings up your quiet confession, and you don’t either, unsure if he even heard, when in reality the four words are constantly replaying in his mind. When you repeat them without saying them, just because your touch is so much softer than before. Because your eyes search for his more often, and the look in them makes his heart drop. And sometimes, when he keeps his hand around yours a bit longer, you allow yourself to think that he might not let go. You almost ask. But each time, he quickly pulls away, changing the topic as though he’s terrified of what could happen if he gives you enough time to think.

Yet, he’s still around. He still comes over after practice, still eats dinner with you, still checks in on you, and still stays when you’re studying. Just not as frequently, and seemingly not as whole-heartedly.

“This one looks painful,” you mumble, standing between Jake’s legs as you clean up a cut on his lips. He doesn’t reassure you that it’s fine. Instead, he just responds with a hum that sounds more indifferent than anything else. His breath flattens when you finish up by applying some of your favorite chapstick to his lips like you usually do, its familiar scent flooding his senses until all he can think about is how it tastes on your lips. And for a second, he seems like he might lean in. But then he stands up so rapidly that his forehead almost clashes with yours, mumbles a quick thank you, something about having to run errands, and rushes out of the door with nothing more than a short goodbye-kiss to your cheek.

Jake doesn’t send you his usual good night text that night – neither the night after. He stops coming over as much. Because he’s tired, busy, or already has plans. But when you tell him that you miss him, he still responds that he does too. Until he doesn’t respond at all.

You reassure yourself he’ll text tomorrow, but tomorrow turns into the day after tomorrow, and then into the day after that. Your follow-up message remains unanswered, and the next one stays a draft until you eventually erase it.

After that, you only see him once. He walks past you in the college hallways, so quickly that you have just enough time to catch a glimpse of the angry red bruise blooming right over his cheekbone. You almost turn around, almost call his name and reach out to ask if he’s okay, but he’s gone before you can second-guess it. And you don’t see him again until he rings at your door a few days later.

“Can we talk?”

Jake almost shoots the question at you, as if he’d forget it if he didn’t get it out fast enough. You look him up and down for a moment, silently wondering why, suddenly, he wants to talk, when he’s been so painfully obvious at avoiding you for what felt like an eternity.

At first, you don’t reply, stuck between having no words to say and having too many. A part of you wants to slam the door in his face, another one wants to hear him out, and despite the feeling of discomfort in your stomach, one part in the very back of your heart hopes that this somehow means something good. “About?”

“Us.”

You swallow lightly, yet it’s enough for Jake to register. When you step to the side to let him in, he hesitates for the blink of an eye. Then, he comes in, waits until you close the door, and hesitates again when you look at him expectantly, before he takes a deep breath in and finally speaks.

“I don’t know where this is leading, and I don’t know where you want this to lead.” He takes a break, eyes searching yours as if searching for the confession you’re not ready to make a second time.

You subconsciously pick at your nails as the silence seems to stretch the small space between you infinitely. Then, taking a deep, shaky breath, you break it. “If this is about the other night, we can just forget it.”

“Did you mean what you said?” He asks quickly, sternly, voice laced with a tone that tells you there’s no correct answer to the next question. “About liking me?” 

You hold his gaze for a while, trying to make out the emotion his brown orbs hide, but to no avail. So you lower your eyes before slowly nodding your head yes – and with each passing second in silence, the air only seems to thicken with tension.

“We should stop whatever this is,” he says with an unfamiliar coldness, as if he’s trying to prove there’s no room for argument – as if the lack of an answer wasn’t the answer already. And although meeting your expectation, the words still hit you like a punch to the gut, causing your head to snap up to look at him again, only to find nothing of the usual softness on his face.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words get stuck in your throat, clogging your airways until it feels hard to breathe. Jake’s eyes flicker down to his hands, observing his bruised knuckles, before he brings them back up and locks them with yours. 

“If you want more than this, we should stop,” he repeats matter of factly, eyes never leaving yours. “I can’t be the guy you need, much less deserve. I’m not gonna take you on nice dates or be there for you on call. It took me years getting to where I am now, and I’ll work harder to get where I want to be. I can’t do it halfway, Y/n. And I won’t choose you over boxing.”

“You should have thought about that before you started to act like my boyfriend.”

Jake’s eyes widen slightly at your words. He looks at you for a while, a hint of tension in his jaw, until he visibly gulps and lowers his gaze. “I didn’t mean to–”

“Oh, you didn’t?” Your interruption makes his eyes snap back to you, the sarcastic undertone in your voice drawing his brows together. “I thought you were sure when you started all this, my bad.”

“Listen, I wasn’t trying to mess with you,” Jake replies, the slight tremble in his voice mirroring the one in his hand as he runs it through his hair, pushing back some strands that fall right over his eyes again the second he lets go. 

“It just didn’t feel that casual to me,” you mumble, unsure if he hears, or if you even meant for him to. 

But his eyes widen again, a wave of something similar to panic washing over his face. “It wasn’t casual,” he defends, almost stumbling over his own words from how fast he spits them out. And for a second, you allow a spring of hope to bloom in your chest, allow yourself to breathe – until his words snatch the air away from you once more.

“I just can’t give you more.”

You look at him, eyes boring into his as if you could find a glimmer of something else behind them. Something that tells you he doesn’t mean it, that he’ll change his mind. But he stays silent, just holding eye contact for a moment before breaking away from it.

“Right,” you say quietly, but Jake still catches the way your voice cracks a little, and he swears his heart does the same when you continue, “you could just give me enough until I slept with you.”

“Huh?” He exclaims almost a little too loudly, taking a step forward to reach out to you, simply because he lacks ideas of what else to do – but you quickly step back, eyes shooting up to his in a way that tells him to keep his distance.

“Y/n, that’s not true.”

“Well, the shoe fits,” you reply, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

He shakes his head, clenching his hands into fists to refrain from reaching out again. “That’s not true,” he repeats.

“If it wasn’t casual, what was it then?”

Your question comes quietly, but surprisingly stable. You hold Jake’s eyes, even when your throat starts burning from how tight it feels and you really want to look away just to hide the tears that you feel pricking at your eyes. But you don’t have to, because Jake is the first to look away, eyes wandering to the side to look right past you and thinning his lips as though keeping them sealed.

“Okay. Got it.”

And with that, you open the front door again and tilt your head toward it to wordlessly signal him to leave.

“Dude,” Sunghoon groans frustratedly as Jake barely dodges another punch the younger throws at him. “You’re slower than a sloth,” he continues, but Jake doesn’t reply – just stumbles back a step to avoid another hit.

“That girl still taking up all your focus?”

Jake’s eyes dart up immediately, eyebrows pulling together and lips parting ever so slightly, yet he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he steps forward, aiming for his friend’s ribs. Blocking the blow with his arm, Sunghoon’s lips curl up to a grin that tells Jake he’s simply trying to get any type of reaction from him.

“The one you were desperately trying to reach a few weeks ago, if you remember,” he clarifies unnecessarily, voice laced with mocking innocence, as if Jake could have forgotten who he means. 

“We’re not talking anymore,” he replies finally, voice tight enough to show he’s not willing to talk about it.

“But you’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” Sunghoon presses with another question that earns him a quick but sharp punch to the gut instead of an answer. He winces at first, but the initial cough from the air being pushed out of his lungs violently soon turns into an amused chuckle.

“Take that as a yes,” he mumbles before collecting himself and standing up straight despite the dull pain in his stomach. “Then she must have been really clingy. Or a really good fuck.”

Jake clenches his jaw tightly, the line between his brows deepening further. “Stop speaking about her like that.”

“You didn’t deny it,” Sunghoon replies, not even trying to hide the grin on his face as he watches Jake practically imploding.

“Shut up,” he growls, “that’s not how it was.”

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, replacing his  teasing look with a more serious one. “How was it then?”

Jake’s face slowly relaxes, the tension disappearing little by little until there’s nothing left of it. He opens his mouth, closes it, and repeats the process once more before he slowly lowers his gaze to the floor and takes a deep breath.

“I don’t know. Good. She felt good to be around. Calming, if that makes sense. She seemed comfortable and just herself with me, and…” 

Sunghoon doesn’t reply, just hums to tell the older to keep going.

“I’m probably making that up, but I think sometimes she smiled a bit more when I was around and then my heart did that thing and it made me want to make her smile forever?”

“And how did you mess up?”

The question causes Jake to look up again, cluelessly blinking at his friend.

“You said you’re not talking anymore,” Sunghoon continues, “but it sounds like she really liked you. So: How did you mess up?”

“She does like me!” Jake exclaims so quickly he almost stumbles over his own words. “Or… did. I don’t know. I told her I can’t give her more than that and she got it all wrong, talking about how I could give her just enough until she slept with me and–”

“Woah, hold on,” Sunghoon interrupts with one hand held up, “I know you’re not an asshole, why are you acting like one?”

Jake doesn’t reply at first, just replays his friend’s question over and over in his mind.

“I just… look, she deserves the world, okay? And I’m just so caught up in boxing, and I need to focus if I wanna go pro.”

Again, Sunghoon’s eyebrow shoots up. “She ‘deserves the world’, so you go give her nothing? Doesn’t sound logical to me.”

“But making this professional has been my goal for years and–”

“I know. Did she make you choose?”

Jake hesitates, then slowly shakes his head.

“So you just freaked out.”

“I didn’t freak out.”

“I’ve known you for years now, and as your friend I feel entitled to tell you that 99% of the time you’re the epitome of freaking out,” Sunghoon deadpans. “Do you have feelings for her?”

Jake gives Sunghoon a look that somehow says everything  and nothing at once, and it’s just enough for the younger to understand.

“You’re in love with her.”

Jake hesitates, holding his breath for just a second, before pushing the air out with a sigh. Then, he slowly nods. “I am.”

“Then why’d you drop her, dumbass?” Sunghoon asks, throwing his head back with exaggerated frustration. But Jake just slips through the ropes of the ring and rips off his gloves – completely oblivious to the fact that, just around the corner, with his words echoing in your mind, you’re holding a little tighter onto the shirt you intended to give back to him. 

Diploma in one hand, you wince at the pain in your heels as you slowly push through the crowd of people. You’re almost at the exit, eager to catch some fresh air after what felt like hours of ceremony, when a soft tap on your shoulder makes you turn around. And suddenly the noise around you fades, as though the world stopped for a moment.

You look at Jake, his own diploma in one hand and a small bouquet of flowers in the other, and your breath catches in your throat when he slowly reaches out to hand it to you. Goosebumps erupt on your hand, shooting up your arm and down your spine, when his fingers softly brush yours as you hesitantly take the flowers from his hand.

“Congratulations,” Jake mumbles so quietly you don’t catch it, just reading it off his lips. He wants to tell you that he knew you’d make it, that he’s proud of you, that he hopes you’re proud of yourself, too. That he misses you to a point where it hurts, and that just seeing you again made his heart skip several beats. But the words stay on the tip of his tongue, slowly evaporating into thin air with every second he doesn’t get them out.

“Congrats to you too. Didn’t think you’d graduate, given you don’t have time for Plan B,” you manage, although the words taste bitter, feel forced, and make Jake gulp visibly. But he notices the soft look on your face, the apology in your eyes that contrasts the harsh tone of your voice, and he knows that you’re not really trying to hurt him – just trying to protect yourself from getting hurt first. 

He stays silent for a while, pulling his lower lip between his teeth, and releasing it again before responding. “Well, someone once told me that getting beat up for my dreams isn’t a solid career plan.”

Before you can help it, the corners of your lips twitch just a little, barely enough for Jake to see the faintest hint of a smile. 

“Oh, and you listened to that someone?”

“Only ‘cause that someone is special… and definitely not Plan B,” he says with a shrug that looks way too forced to make it appear casual. 

You absentmindedly tighten your grip around the flowers, wanting to snap back a reply to hide that the walls you’ve been building around yourself aren’t so stable after all – but your mind blanks. 

And Jake swears he would take the snarkiest remark, but your silence and the insecure look on your face makes his chest tighten uncomfortably.

“Anyway, you should go celebrate with your family and–”

“They didn’t come,” you interrupt with a shake of your head.

“Huh?” He surprisedly raises his eyebrows.

“My family didn’t make it. Too much work, or no flights, or whatever,” you shrug, slightly shifting from one foot to the other as if that could loosen the tension you feel creeping up your spine.

“Do you wanna join mine?” He blurts out before he can stop himself. “It’s… nothing fancy, just dinner. You should come.”

This time, it’s your eyebrows that shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“You should come.”

For a while, you just look at him. Take in the hint of hope on his face, the way he slightly raises his eyebrows in anticipation, and the way he starts fumbling with the diploma in his hand. And you try hard to ignore how your chest warms at the simple habit of his that somehow makes you realize just how much you missed him. 

“Did you mean it?” The words come out before you think about it, surprising both of you.

Jake furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “What? Of course. You shouldn’t be alone today.”

“No, I mean… Did you mean it when you said you were in love with me?”

You watch as his eyes widen and his adam’s apple pops up and down as he gulps. He opens his mouth, but you beat him to it. “I was going to return your shirt, and I guess I overheard your conversation. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, you guys just don’t know how to talk in normal volume.”

Jake looks at you with a face that doesn’t quite give away what he’s thinking – something like a strange mix of shock, relief, and uncertainty. Face paling, he waits and waits for the realization to settle, searches for things to say, but suddenly it feels like he lost all the words he once knew.

“I… Yeah, I meant it,” he begins slowly. “I didn’t realize it before– I mean, honestly, I did. I knew I liked you, but–”

“You freaked out,” you interrupt, trying to imitate Sunghoon’s tone of voice, but you can’t help the hint of sadness coating your words.

Jake reciprocates your half-smile for a second, then he nods with a sigh.

“I did freak out. Listen, I’m sorry for the way I left things, and I know sorry isn’t gonna make it better magically, but…” He trails off and lowers his head. “You mean a lot more to me than I showed you, and I’d like to prove that to you at least today.”

You gulp as if that could help you get rid of the lump that has been forming in your throat the second you turned around and faced him. And despite it getting only harder to breathe when his eyes find yours, you don’t look away this time. Instead, you let his gaze steal the air from your lungs little by little as you keep searching for the slightest hint of insincerity. But even as seconds turn into what feels like an eternity, you find nothing that makes you doubt he means it. So you slowly nod.

“Fine. But only ‘cause I really want dinner,” you give in, and although you try to sound stern, you can’t help but mirror Jake when his lips curl up just a little.

When Jake introduces you to his family, you learn that he’s been talking about you – ‘once or twice’, according to him, and ‘the entire fucking time’, according to his brother. Your eyes shoot to Jake, who just scratches his neck sheepishly, but the honesty in his look makes it hard for you to really shrug it off. 

He stays close to you throughout the entire evening. Wherever you’re walking, his hand hovers over the small of your back just enough to prove he’s there without really touching you – and during dinner he sits next to you, perfectly distanced for your legs to not brush against each other’s but so you can still feel the warmth of his body. And although his family includes you into the conversation just perfectly, he occasionally nudges your shoulder and looks at you with a questioning look to make sure you feel okay.

When you bid goodbye to his parents and brother later that night, you’re so busy thinking about how oddly comfortable you feel, that you don’t notice how Jake struggles to hide the oh so evident adoration in his eyes. The need to keep you close. But he swears that even if you decide you never want to see him again after this night, the soft smile on your face is enough for him, as long as he was the one who painted it there.

He insists on walking you up to your apartment, hand itching to reach for yours, but he quickly shoves it in the pocket of his dress pants. Once you stand in front of your door, you hesitate to look for your key. Instead, you turn around to face him.

“Thank you for inviting me,” you say quietly, offering him a tiny smile that he immediately reciprocates. 

“Thank you for coming with me,” he replies so gently your knees almost buckle just at that.

“Well, I told you I really wanted dinner,” you try to joke, but your voice sounds far more charged. Jake smiles nonetheless.

For a while, you just stand there, looking at him without feeling like you’re drowning. You can almost see it on his face how he wants to take a step closer, but refuses to give in to it. And despite everything, you’re the one to do that instead. Jake’s breath flattens as he looks down to you, wanting nothing more than to close the distance between you, but he doesn’t move – doesn’t back away either when you slowly bring your hands up to his jacket and pull him down until your lips almost touch.

He gulps as he reaches for your waist with shaky hands to pull you in more, trying to ignore the way his heart skips a beat once he feels your body against his. And when you slowly angle your head up to close whatever distance was left between you, the goosebumps that erupt on his body almost make him shudder. His fingers dig into your waist softly, almost like he’s trying to remind himself that you’re real, while his lips gently move against yours in a way that makes you feel like he never left. 

Nearly overwhelmed by the feeling, you allow yourself to melt into his touch until you slowly, almost reluctantly, pull away for air. Jake’s breath brushes your lips as he gently rests his forehead against yours, eyes still closed.

“Fuck, I’m so in love with you,” he mutters, not even registering the words until he said them. 

When he feels you tensing just slightly, he quickly takes a step back. “Sorry, I–... You don’t have to say it back, I just– sorry I shouldn’t have said that,” he stumbles over his own words, only stopping his ramble when you take a step forward again and tenderly place one hand on his chest. Then, you curl your fingers around the fabric of his shirt just enough to pull him in again. 

You kiss him so softly it proves not only that you feel the same, but also that you’re not yet ready to really tell him again. That you want to let him in, but still make sure he keeps one foot out the door. And for now, that’s enough for Jake. 

His touch is gentle when his hands cup your face, thumbs carefully sweeping over your cheeks as he pulls away the second time.

“You mean a lot to me, Y/n,” he confesses, intentionally this time, steadily, although his voice shakes a bit. “I’m sorry I ever made you think otherwise.”

Your heart squeezes not only at his words, but the way they feel more genuine than anything he’s ever told you before. And you can’t help the soft smile when you look right into his eyes again and find nothing but endearment and honesty.

“You did prove that to me today,” you mumble, smiling a little brighter at the evident relief on his face.

“Will you let me prove it again?” He asks tentatively, the glimmer of hope in his voice making you chuckle softly.

“I’ll see.”

© dazzlingjaeyun, 2025. please do not copy.

join my taglist here | masterlist

[readwritealldayallnight]

You know the woman in line behind you is getting impatient, hearing her not so subtle exasperated sigh as you continue to search through your bag, your cheeks burning a deeper shade of crimson when you catch the barista’s tight lipped smile in your direction, her attempt at reassuring you as part of her job, though you can tell she wishes you’d hurry up as well

As if your debit card declining a mortifying four times hadn’t been enough, but then your attempt at using your credit card was just as unsuccessful, the sound of the failed transaction on a stupid 6£ drink sounding out for everyone in queue to know how broke you really were

Embarrassment coursing through your veins, already thinking about how you’ll never have the guts to come back to this cafe again as you desperately search for enough spare change at the bottom of your purse to cover this morning’s coffee, your scrambling comes to a pause when a large shadow suddenly eclipses the overheard lighting above you

In the midst of your frantic searching, a tall figure has come to stand just next to you, their gloved hand stretching past your figure to tap a card against the machine, the happy beep of the teller confirming the transaction’s been accepted this time

“I’ve got tha’ for ya.” A deep, gravelly Manchester accent mutters low enough for only you to hear, before the figure tries to retreat back into queue unnoticed

You eyebrows shoot up in shock, the barista equally appearing surprised but not displeased as she finally gets to hand you your drink and quickly wish you a good day before she’s already trying to help the woman waiting behind you

You step aside out of the queue, swinging your head around to try and spot your mystery saviour who stepped in and helped you out without even needing so much as a thanks in return apparently

You spot him instantly, the absolute size of him easily giving him away. No one else in the small cafe could have created such a large, intimidating shadow, let alone spoken in such a deep voice that sent chills down your spine

He stands a head above anyone else in queue, currently last in the line after he stepped out to pay for you. He’s wearing a simple black medical mask on the lower half of his face, a black hoodie with the hood pulled over his head offers you only a small glimpse of his eyes, which are noticeably pointed at the ground at the moment

You’re walking towards him before you even realize it

“Th- thank you. I don’t-” You’re cut off when those same eyes glance up to meet your own, stealing your breath away. He seems almost as surprised that you’re speaking to him as you were when he stepped in and paid for you, his eyes betraying his shock for only a fraction of a second before he’s steeling himself and his eyes darken. You get the vague impression that he isn’t someone who’s used to being caught off guard

“I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t here.” You say to him, wanting to express just how grateful you are to him for his random act of kindness, but he says nothing in return, hardly blinking once as he simply stares back at you

“I can’t understand why my cards weren’t working today. I promise I don’t like- this isn’t a thing I do. Go into coffee shops and pretend I can’t pay, hoping someone else will…” You awkwardly laugh to yourself, beginning to ramble in an effort to fill in the silence

“Anyways I just, really wanted to say thank you. I don’t know how to repay you.” You’re scrambling now, attempting to save face as this man just looks at you, an arm beginning to swing your purse off your shoulder in hopes of maybe finding enough change to appease this guy

“Not necessary.” The deep voice finally says again, his eyes leaving yours to scan you from top to bottom and then back up again, almost examining the sight before him. You almost feel like a deer caught in the headlights for a moment, seeing the mask moving along with the sound of that gravelly voice an enrapturing vision

“Oh- well I- I mean that’s really nice of you, but I swear I can pay you back.” You recognize that feeling beginning to swirl low in your stomach, familiar with the warmth gathering in the apples of your cheeks; your body realizing it a split second before your brain catches up. You’re kind of into this guy. You can’t see much of his face, but the sliver you do see certainly isn’t unattractive, his height and build speaks for itself, with a voice like that and the fact that he’s just saved your butt and expected not even a thanks in return, you’re wondering if he’s too good to be true

“Do you come here often?” You’re asking him before you can stop yourself, watching a single one of his eyebrows arching ever so slightly. “I just mean that- I come here a lot- sometimes. And if you’re here next time I’m here, then maybe I can pay you back, buy you a drink.”

You’re losing confidence the longer he stands there, not answering. What were you thinking? This guy was just trying to be nice, get the annoying girl holding up the line out of the way so that people can order their drinks and go about their day, and here you are holding him up even longer-

“If it’ll make ya happy.” He’s suddenly answering, snapping you out of your downward spiral. If you could see the grin that slowly creeps upon your face, you might be otherwise embarrassed, but right now you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Oh okay, amazing. I mean- yeah that would- that would be cool. Okay.” You reply, glancing at your watch. “I’m not sure for you, but um, I’m almost always here each Sunday. Around this time.”

“I’ll be here next Sunday. Around this time.” He says matter-of-factly.

“Next in line please.” The barista at the corner calls out, interrupting the two of you. You glance back to see that it’s now his turn to order, feeling bad that you’re about to hold up the queue yet again.

“Great. I’ll see you Sunday then. Thank you again, seriously. I really owe you one.” You say, gripping the straps of your bag tighter as you offer him a sheepish smile before ducking out of the busy cafe, a small grin playing across your face.

Ghost watches your figure through the large windows as you walk out of the shop, across the street, disappearing into the crowd of morning goers strolling about. Only once he cannot see you anymore, does he walk up to the counter, slipping a 20£ note to the barista along with a slight nod of acknowledgement, before he himself is turning to walk out of the cafe, empty handed, intent on catching up to you from a distance.

~~~~~~~~~~

Part 2

AKA Ghost has been stalking you for months and finally comes up with a way to have you approach him

[lovebugism]

✶ ┄ HOUNDS OF LOVE !

part one | part two

summary: you and marcus live lightyears apart within the city walls when emperor geta takes a greater liking to you than expected. you start to find a strange sense of understanding within the crazed emperor, while general acacius plots your escape. (11k)

pairing: marcus acacius / f!reader, emperor geta / f!reader

contents: established relationships, angst, hurt/comfort, cw for mentions of war, mentions of sex work, brief mentions of emotional abuse (geta has anger issues he's working on), swearing, smut 18+ (dubcon, unprotected sex, exhibitionism & voyeurism) (this is another dark fic!! please heed the warnings!!)

“Meet me in the garden,” you pant against the General’s mouth as you kiss him with a desperate sort of fervor. It’s all wet and hungry and unforgiving, like biting into an apple. “At sunset, on the morrow. Say you’ll meet me there.”

Despite your delicate touch, you cradle Marcus in a most violent hold. You keep him impossibly close with one hand wrapped around his neck, tanned and taut with the strain of war. Your other twists in his hair, dancing through the greying curls of fine silk. You embrace the General within the candlelit crypt where, before now, only death seemed to roam.

Marcus stands as still as the statues of ghosts surrounding you. You lick into his mouth like you plan to breathe life back into his lungs, even while he withers into nothingness at your feet. A thin layer of your spit coats the scruff of his chin. He balls his calloused hands into fists at his sides and pretends a part of you isn’t glittering upon him. He holds onto plausible deniability like a shield.

“It is not safe,” Marcus murmurs in a gruff whisper when you pull back to take a breath. His lidded eyes dart over your kissed face — gaze heavied, lips swollen. Beautiful devil, fallen angel. “You know this.”

Not anymore, he wants to say. Not while you belong to Them.

“Why not?” you challenge, always so girlishly gentle in your stubbornness. “Everyone will be at the feast, Marcus— No one will see us, I’m sure of it.”

Your eyes flit between his kissed mouth and dark-eyed gaze. Universes shine in your irises despite the shadows of the labyrinthine tomb. Marcus feels a white-hot knife twisting in his chest as he resists the urge to hold you.

“It���s the world we live in now, petal. There is little use in questioning it.”

“But why?” you question, anyway. “Why must we live in this world, hm? The war is over— We could make our own, somewhere far away from the city. Somewhere no one could ever find us—”

You create heavens with your naivety.

Marcus burns them down with words.

“The Emperors would not stand for losing their general. For them, the war is never finished,” the General interjects in a sorrowful deadpan, aching when your face twists with grief. “And if they misplaced you? They… They would burn cities to the ground in their hunt… They would set the world aflame before they stopped searching for you.”

Marcus knows this because he knows himself — every star in the sky would burn out before he stopped looking for you. He knows this, too, because he knows the Emperors. Perhaps better than anyone else in the entire world. 

Geta and Caracalla were born with the belief that they possessed ownership over everything they touched. Anyone stealing from their Empire would meet a swift and tortuous demise. They were merciless gods who dangled life and death on their fingertips. Only those who kissed the ring would make it out of their rule alive.

And you knew it, too. 

That was the worst part of it all: you knew it.

Tomorrow comes and passes like rolling summer clouds, slow and heavy and suffocating. You watch from the royal garden as the sky turns from a glittering sapphire to milky shades of peach and lavender. Another day gone by that you’ve spent grieving on your own. 

Though time marches mercilessly on, threatening to untie unbreakable bonds, it changes little of how much you and Marcus have grown together. Like cherry trees kissed with the promise of spring, with your roots tangled gracelessly together. It’s a knot that cannot be undone, not even by the promise of death. 

And for that, you figure you must be grateful.

Because as you sit on the stone steps of an artificial lake, twirling your fingers in the warm water of the koi pond, you wonder how dreadful it must be for the multi-colored carp. To swim in circles your whole life, to think the world is only as big as the bricks holding you hostage. 

At least you know what it means to grow up in the rolling green of an infinite countryside. At least now you have gardens to roam in the greatest city in the world. At least now you get to live.

A breeze sweeps suddenly through the garden, rippling the crystalline water and rustling the bright green leaves over your head. It carries the soft sound of footsteps scraping the stone trail. Your ears perk, your heart stops, and your head whips over your shoulder. You hope to see Marcus standing at the steps below you.

Your chest tightens and deflates all at once at the sight of Emperor Geta.

He’s adorned in his white-gold cloak, with his laurels sat atop his strawberry-blonde curls, and carrying a jeweled ring on each finger. The sunlight paints the man in flaxen rays of light. The rainbow-colored flowers seem to bloom with every one of his steps. All you can think is how beautiful he is — much too pretty to be so cruel.

“I did not mean to frighten you,” the Emperor concedes, eyes wide and palms splayed in surrender. His sandals scuff the cobbles with each hesitant stride.

“No, of course not,” you blurt with a rapid shake of your head, a quickness sure to give away your choked-back terror. “I just… I only thought you’d be at the dining hall with the rest of the court.”

“I was. Until the handmaidens notified me of your absence.”

You meet his wide-eyed expression with a narrowed gaze, lips curling into an unsure smile. “How can I be absent from a place I do not belong, Your Majesty?” you quip, though your voice threatens to shake.

Geta’s brows furrow. His ringed fingers twitch at his sides. “Belong?” he echoes.

“The feast is for nobility, and I grew up in a brothel,” you answer, giggling quietly under your breath. “I am certainly the farthest thing from royalty.”

You flash him a gentle smile and playful gaze, but the Emperor only frowns. 

He can hardly stomach the thought of it — of his most precious thing living in the countryside, surrounded by filth, touched by unworthy hands. He’s glad you’re now, where only he can touch you. Where he can make you clean.

“There is a place for you there, nonetheless,” Geta tells you and takes another step closer. He stands at the bottom of the stone steps and tilts his chin to his chest. His chocolate eyes harden as he presses more firmly, “And I will see that you attend.”

His sudden glacial disposition makes your stomach wrench. You’ve grown so used to him now, learned all the ways to keep him satisfied, that you’ve forgotten how quickly angered he can be. You don’t want to remember his wrath. 

You nod at the invitation with a wavering smile, knowing you aren’t at liberty to turn him down, and rise from your spot by the pool.

You hold your gown in both hands as you descend the stairs, flinching slightly when Geta rushes to help you. Sometimes, you think he can sense your worry, or that he regrets snapping at you the way he does. Either way, his efforts to pivot the situation are apparent to you — like he never learned how to apologize, so he’s forced to improvise in the matter.

His warm, petaled hand engulfs you to ease you down the tricky cobbles. 

“I only mean that… it is strange. Being without there… Or anywhere, really,” he admits, talking slowly like each word is foreign to him. His gaze darts from yours to the vacant path ahead. “I find that I am looking for you in places I knew you could not be. It’s foolish, I know.”

His gentleness is perhaps more striking than his rage.

“It isn’t foolish, Your Majesty,” you insist as you reach the bottom of the staircase. You peer at him through your lashes and fake another smile. “I just didn’t know you were such a poet.”

Geta doesn’t understand your meaning. Where was the poetry in his words? How did such burdensome feelings of tenderness make him a poet? 

“Neither did I,” he muses, guiding you out of the garden with his hand in yours.

Though still riddled with feelings of uncertainty, Geta is strangely moved by how you’re looking at him now — with the sun sparkling in your softened gaze, more gentle than anyone deserves to be looked at. So he figures he can be a poet for you, if he must.

You bathe again in the rosehip oil Geta always insists you wear, and dress yourself in the fine silk gown you know he prefers. The pale blue fabric drapes off your shoulders and flows to your ankles, cinched at the waist with a jewel-encrusted belt of gold. Your skin and body are adorned, in this moment alone, with perhaps more money than you’ve ever seen in your life. 

The thought makes your head swim as you amble to the dining hall. 

The silent guards at your side make no effort to rush you for fear of the Emperors’ wrath. Still, though, the notion that they are commissioned to ensure your attendance is not lost on you. Any attempt to flee will surely be met with force — if not from the knights, then from Geta himself.

The feasting is long done by the time you arrive. Mingling bodies flit around the crowded manor in a blur. Live music swells distantly as rose petals fall from thin air to decorate the marble floor. You wring your hands nervously together as you weave through the bustling court, gravitating to the large open window at the back of the hall — where you know the Emperors rest on their plush, velvet chaises.

Caracalla notices you first.

The boy rises from his lounged position — laurels crooked on his blonde head and robe shifting up his pale thighs — and smiles at you with all his crooked teeth. His lone golden tooth glints in the sunlight. 

“You showed,” he announces to no one in particular, just before his wild head swivels to his brother on the other side of the couch. “See, brother? I told you there was naught to worry about. Did I not?”

Geta does not appear happy to see you. His features remain in an emotionless scowl while his smokey eyes rake over your form. “You did,” he responds distantly, if only to appease his younger brother.

Caracalla doesn’t seem to notice the tension caging him on both sides as he flashes you another toothy grin. “He threatened to send the Praetorians after you,” he lilts like it’s some kind of silly secret. 

The Emperors’ bodyguards line the wall behind them, as well as all the entrances and nearly every window. They were like your Marcus — military veterans, strong and sharp and ruthless — though you imagine the only soft side you’ll ever see of them is a fist. They are certainly not the kind of people you want sent after you.

“Well, you were right, Your Majesty,” you grin. “There was naught to worry about. I was simply making myself presentable for the court.”

Caracalla holds his ringed hand out for you as you near him. You bend at the waist to kiss the emerald on his ring finger. The motion is muscle memory to you now. “You look beautiful,” he slurs like a child. “Like a fairy, almost.” 

“You flatter me, Your Majesty,” you nod politely and rise to full height again. 

You feel his ocean eyes on your body as you pass him by, glassy and sparkling with a boyish sort of wonder. A stark contrast to the way his brother glares daggers at you. 

“You certainly took your time,” Geta monotones in place of a greeting.

You stand obediently at his side and twist your clammy hands into knots. “I was only getting dressed, Your Majesty. I wanted to look pretty for you—”

“Nonsense,” the Emperor spits and turns away. You’re always pretty, he’d say if he could get the words out. Instead, he softens his suddenly hardened edges and flashes you a gentler glance. “I thought you’d defied me,” he confesses, as though in lieu of an apology for his fleeting hysterics.

“I couldn’t,” you murmur with a quiet smile.

Not wouldn’t, he notices. Not shouldn’t.

But couldn’t. Like your body was fated to listen to his command.

A funny feeling sparkles like gold in his chest. It makes him fidget uncomfortably on the couch. “Sit down,” he instructs with a wave of his ringed hand before slouching back in his seat, pale arms splayed along the edge of it. His brows pinch when you descend onto the empty spot beside him. “Not there.”

You freeze in place. Your eyes widen and dart to his thighs, spread out and hidden beneath the skirt of his robe. You look to Geta once more and cower beneath his expectant look. You sink hesitantly onto his lap, feeling like your heart’s in your throat as you lean into his chest. 

Your unsure hands curl around his shoulders. His curls brush your cheek. He smells overwhelmingly of musk and wine and cinnamon. Something about it makes you dizzy.

You survey the room from your position in Geta’s lap. Most people aren’t looking, you find, too busy talking and flirting and dancing together. A few noblemen across the way leer incredulously at you, though, like they’re trying to gauge if they know you from somewhere. You presume you likely slept with one or more of their sons during the war, most of which are likely dead now.

A few women crowd behind the chaise — all dressed in muted shades of silk, all dripped in jewels and gold. They’re pretty, effortlessly so, as they talk into their goblets full of wine. Some looked relieved to have the Emperors’ attention off of them. Others sneer at you for it, having no idea you’d switch places with them in a heartbeat if you could.

Your eyes dart across the dining hall, almost instinctually so. They lock immediately with Marcus the moment he enters the room. 

The General wears his black-gold armor and a faraway look in his eye as he leads a group of foreign gladiators into the manor. A hush lulls over the crowd, which parts for him without thinking. Marcus navigates through it with an absentminded sternness, like every step is muscle memory. 

He softens only when his gaze meets yours. 

His puffed-out chest deflates with a wavering exhale at the sight of you, a lamb on the lap of a man who holds a knife to your throat. He blames himself for it most of all, knowing he’s the one that brought you to slaughter. 

“Finally!” Caracalla shouts into the silence, voice ringing through the hushed court. “Where have you all been— In the showers together?” 

A bout of laughter rolls over the crowd as the blonde boy leans over to you. You try not to grimace at the bitter smell of wine on his breath. “Who nearly missed the games, little dove,” he croons too close to your ear. 

The nickname makes you tense. You muster a smile, anyway, and remind yourself to breathe. “What a shame that would’ve been,” you lilt in response.

“The armor is tricky, Your Majesty,” Acacius confesses, voice deep like a cathedral organ. “Especially for those who have not donned it before. Such as yourself.”

There is a bite to his words despite their monotoned delivery. Caracalla pays it no mind as he lounges back on the couch, wine sloshing in the chalice he holds in a limp hand. “Get it out with it, then,” he slurs.

Each gladiator faces the other. One is tall and sturdy, like an oak tree. The other is shorter and lankier, much too young and far too pretty to fight in such gruesome battles. As Marcus’ voice booms throughout the quiet dining hall to introduce them — The Barbarian versus The Might Vincenzo — Geta presses his mouth to your ear. 

“Which one shall we bet on, little dove?” he whispers to you as his hand curls tighter around your waist. His other idles over your skirt, pale and jeweled and warm, though his long fingers threaten to dip between your thighs.

You blink hard to keep your head from swimming. “Hm?”

“Which one of these imbeciles do you think will win?” Geta repeats.

“Oh, um, I— I don’t know, Your Majesty,” you stammer in response. It’s hard to think about anything other than how close Marcus is to you now. How pretty and wartorn he looks. How desperately you wish to hold him.

“Just guess,” the Emperor presses, squeezing softly at your hip. “It’s only for entertainment, anyway.”

How could certain death possibly entertain you? your mind races as your mouth blurts, “The little one, then.”

“Really?” Geta hums in amusement. His dark eyes, smudged with brown liner, squint softly at your glossy profile. They flit across your features like he’s seeing you for the very first time, though you aren’t looking back at him to notice. “Hm. I would’ve picked the oaf.”

“Well, it is the most obvious choice, Your Majesty. Though, I find it’s often the smaller ones that surprise you—” 

You turn your head to look at him. Your breath catches audibly in your throat when you find the Emperor much closer than expected. He’s so close your eyes nearly cross to meet his gaze. So close, that the tip of his large nose threatens to brush the bridge of yours. So close, you get drunk on the alcohol tainting his breath.

Geta’s wine-stained mouth curls upwards in a cynical smile. “They do, indeed,” he croons quietly, raspberry breath fanning warm over your jaw. 

Chills pebble along your skin accordingly. It takes great strength from you to break his magnetic chocolate gaze. You turn away from the Emperor and focus instead on the gladiators circling one another. Vincenzo moves in seemingly practiced motions, unfazed by the brutality of such duels. The nameless Barbarian houses a great sadness in his young eyes — a hardened look of regret, perhaps, for what he knows he must do. 

“Let’s not entertain them for our amusement, brother,” the Barbarian mutters lowly to his opponent, blade hanging limp at his side.

The larger man charges like a rhino. A deep roar sounds in his throat as he thrusts his knife towards the younger boy’s neck. The Barbarian dodges the swing with ease, possessing all the swiftness of a snake as he ducks past his opponent and slices his muscular bicep with one fell swoop.

The crowd gasps in a mixture of horror and amusement as Vincenzo’s blood drips onto the floor like deep red wine. It stains the marble in fat droplets, blending with the rose petals littered at the gladiators’ feet.

You flinch at the sight. Your breath hitches as you turn away — eyes squeezed shut, brows tightly furrowed. Geta chuckles with merriment. You feel it rumbling in his chest as he murmurs, “Don’t be frightened, little dove. It’s only a game.”

Something in you aches when the Emperor reaches for the jeweled goblet at his side. Your fearful eyes remain fixed on his face while the hall erupts in a symphony of violence — of battle cries and laughter, of dropped blades and dull smacks. 

“Here,” Geta offers with the wine in hand. “Drink. It will calm your nerves.”

He presses the rim of the chalice to your mouth. His gaze never waves from your lips as they part to welcome the bittersweet raspberry. The wine pools like blood on your tongue. It tastes like guilt going down.

Dusk falls over the city like a wounded swan. The velvet darkness outside your window makes shadows of everything it touches, only partially diminished by blinking stars and waning silver moonlight. The crescent shape of the bright white orb would fit just perfectly beneath Marcus’ jaw, you think to yourself. 

The thought alone sends a warm, melancholic feeling down your spine — with such an intensity only the tenderness of twilight could elicit.

You slide from the crimson satin of your mattress with a tight chest. You migrate towards the entrance — bare feet padding faintly along the floor, thin cotton nightgown trailing behind you. You stand before your bedroom door and rap your knuckles rhythmically against the wood. 

Twice, once, three times. 

And then you wait.

“It’s me,” you hear Marcus murmur from the other side.

Your heart swells like sunshine in your throat. You smile wide despite yourself, with no one else around to see it. “It’s been Romulus for nearly a fortnight,” you tell him, panting slightly from where you’d held your breath in anticipation. “I was starting to think you’d been banished from your post here forever.”

“You know the Emperor likes to torture me,” he quips, though his usual monotone never wavers. 

It might’ve been easier on you both, if Geta had shipped him off to lead another meaningless campaign. At least then Marcus could miss you from leagues away. Instead, he has to guard your bedroom door and miss you from the other side of it. Torture is an understatement.

“Well, I quite like it when you’re here,” you confess quietly, tracing shapes onto the doorframe with an absentminded hand. “Makes me feel safe.”

You wait patiently for a response.

“Good,” is all the General can think to reply.

Your face pinches with concern. Your chest does, too. “Are you angry with me?”

“Why should I be angry with you?”

“I don’t know… Our conversations together have grown so short— I worry you do not wish to speak with me at all.”

Though you cannot see him, Marcus flinches at your words. He stands like a statue outside your door, in the middle of the dim corridor, and glares over his shoulder into nothingness. “It isn’t true,”  he insists, voice low but honeyed still. “I wish to speak with you always.”

“Then why do you not?”

“Because it isn’t safe,” he repeats, though you never seem to hear him.

“Will it ever be?”

Marcus goes silent as he ponders for a moment. Quiet engulfs the bedroom all over again, filled only by crackling candles. “No,” he answers after a few long moments. “Not for a long while.”

You feel like he’s stabbed you with a freshly sharpened blade, right between your ribcage and into your bleeding heart. It would hurt less, anyway.  “Why?” you wonder aloud in a pained whimper, knowing the answer will do nothing more than twist the knife.

The answer sits ready on Marcus’ tongue, as though the question of why has plagued him long before you asked it.

“Because I… I ruined you. By bringing you here.”

“You saved me,” you correct.

“I destroyed you,” he retorts, voice heavy with choked-back emotion.

“I would be dead if it weren’t for you,” you remind him of the blatant reality, which threatens to consume you every time you see his face. You wish you were holding it now, cradling Marcus’ bearded cheeks in your supple palms, so that he might understand the weight of your words. “I would’ve lost everything if you hadn’t taken me with you. I would’ve been tortured, probably killed. But now I get to—”

The word gets caught in your throat. You swallow hard and fake a smile at nothingness. The pretending comes naturally to you now.

“Now I get to live. Both of us do.”

There is a brief moment of knowing silence. This isn’t what living is supposed to feel like — fleeting touches in dark crypts and whispered conversations through bedroom doors. Both of you know it, but it’s a truth too brutal to admit out loud.

“Marcus?”

“Yes?”

“You know… We aren’t unspectacular things, Marcus,” you speak slowly and with a strangled intention. “We’ve already come so far. We’ve survived so much— We can survive a little more, can’t we? Until it’s safe again?”

“I don’t presume we have any other choice.”

“We don’t,” you sigh. “Because I love you.”

“I know,”  Marcus nods, with an air of surrender in his words. “Because I love you, too.”

You fall into the heavy wooden door as though it were your lover’s body. You did not need to see him to feel held by him. He hadn’t touched you, and he didn’t need to. His presence alone affects you in such a way that it feels like he has been caressing you for a long, long time.

Marcus’ heavy armor clunks faintly on the other side of the door as he stands up straighter. Emperor Geta enters his line of sight, a shadow slinking down the candlelight corridor. He clears his throat. “Your Majesty—” the General announces, for you and you alone.

He hears your feet pad against the floor as you scurry from the entrance.

“Dog,”the Emperor greets in a cynical deadpan. 

His sandals scuff the cobbles when he stands before the taller man. The torches hanging on the walls bathe Geta’s face in flickering amber hues, highlighting his tired features where the makeup had worn throughout the day. He seems weighed down by a certain kind of grief. The kind that makes Acacius feel ten feet tall.

“Have you been guarding my Empress like a good little hound?”

Marcus nods politely, though the term of endearment catches him momentarily off guard. To be the Emperor’s whore was one thing, but it was entirely another to be referred to in such high regard. The General tries to contemplate what that must mean as he answers, “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Geta grins despite his visible fatigue. “Good boy.”

You’re already back in bed by the time the door swings open. You lounge along the expensive satin sheets and pretend you’ve done nothing but wait obediently for the Emperor, while simultaneously swallowing down any remaining feelings of longing and heartache.

Geta enters the room like a rolling storm cloud. He wears all the chaos of the day in his mussed blonde curls, smudged makeup, and wrinkled garb — a palpable sort of disarray. You scramble on the mattress to greet him, like you often do, until he dismisses you with a wave of his hand.

“No. Don’t,” he commands. “Stay there. Don’t get up.”

You obey, freezing partially upright, with your elbows holding most of your weight. Your face swirls with concern at his look of annoyance. Your heart drops to your stomach in fear.

“Are you alright?” you ask him, though the Emperor pays you little mind as he migrates to the table by the window. 

He pours himself a chalice of wine. The glugging flagon fills the heavy silence. You swallow hard and stare timidly at the back of him. “Are you angry with me?” you repeat once more — a question that seems to accompany womanhood, especially when bound by the innate violence of man.

“I couldn’t be,” Geta answers like it’s obvious, sparing you a fleeting glance over his shoulder. He turns away to down the full goblet in three lengthy gulps, then wipes his stained mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s only my brother,” he confesses through labored breaths. 

Your worry lessens, but only slightly.

“Is he alright?”

“He’s acting like a child,” Geta spits, angered all over again, as he pours himself another cup. “More so than usual.”

“Has something happened?” 

“Nothing that should concern you.”

“Well, it’s certainly bothering you, Your Majesty,” you coo in slow and calculated measures as you rise from the many cushioned pillows. “So, forgive me, but it cannot help but concern me as well.”

Geta is unaccustomed to such tenderness. He tenses beneath it, glances hesitantly over his shoulder like he plans to find a ghost sitting in your place — as though he’d only heard the words in the wind and not from your mouth. A foreign feeling swirls again in his hollow chest, like a blizzard of snow or a flurry of rose petals.

“He’s jealous of me. Just as he always has been,” the Emperor tells you as he stalks toward the bed. He gestures mindlessly with his hands, and the wine sloshes over the rim of the gold chalice until it hits the stone floor. He raises it to his mouth, tips his head back, and down the bittersweet pomegranate.

His neck is long and milky white. His protruding adam’s apple bobs with each languid swallow. A drop of deep red trails from his mouth and down his chin once he’s finished. He rubs it away with a fist. You forget to stop staring.

“Lay down,” he commands, chest heaving. 

Your body obeys without a second thought. You lie back on the velvet cushions, docile and willing, in a way that comes naturally to you now. You’ve been Geta’s thing for so long that a part of you has grown used to it. Needy for it. 

The mattress dips beneath the Emperor’s wait as he kneels beside you. Your mind starts to reel. 

Your brain seemingly anticipates an inevitable pleasure, which comes to you like clockwork most nights. It makes your mouth water like a drooling hound that knows when it’s feeding time. A funny feeling stirs in the pit of your belly and pools like honey in your undergarments. Your thighs clench together when a subtle throbbing begins to pound between them.

You should be grateful when Geta crawls beneath the sheets only to rest his head on your chest.

You’re shocked, most of all, by such a foreign act of tenderness.

Your breath catches when his cheek presses to your breast. He nods gently to rub his burning skin over the smooth cotton. A deep exhale fans from his nose as he rests his body weight against you. 

You cradle him with hesitant hands and remind yourself to breathe. Your fingers scratch lightly over his clothed shoulder while your others comb through his strawberry-blonde locks. It’s a warmth so foreign to the two of you that it threatens to bring you both to tears.

“He says he wants someone like you— my brother,” Geta admits after a few moments of long silence.

“A whore?”

“A paramour,” the Emperor corrects, face twisted in irritation at your use of the term. He focuses on the muffled sound of your heartbeat when anger threatens to consume him. A heavy sigh deflates his chest. His anxious fingers twist in your nightgown. “I told him he could have his pick— Between us, we have plenty of women to go around, but… He insists his mind is stuck on you.”

Your bated breaths come to you in trembling inhale-exhales. You hope he doesn’t sense how frightful his words have made you. 

Geta is cruel, yes, but he is at most times predictable. Though Caracalla may be kind, he is most of all volatile. And there is nothing more dangerous than an erratic, easily excitable ruler.

“And what did you tell him?” you wonder with a feigned sense of curiosity.

“That you were mine, of course,” Geta blurts like it’s obvious. “He offered to share, to which I told him that he should be grateful that I’m sharing the throne alone with him… And now he’s off with his monkey, crying like a child…”

You feel strangely comforted by his words. You breathe a sigh of relief through your nose and rake your fingers through his blonde-brunette curls. “Your brother is a fragile thing, Your Majesty,” you advise in gentle murmurs. “You must be gentle with him.”

“I don’t know how to be gentle with anything,” Geta confesses, half-muffled into your chest. “Least of all, with someone like him.”

“Shall I speak with him? Perhaps I can calm him— make him understand?”

“It’s my burden alone.”

“It is mine as well, Your Majesty. So that mustn’t be true.”

Geta turns slowly to face you, with all the hesitance of someone unused to such kindness. His chin rests on your clothed sternum and bobs with each word. “You shouldn’t have to carry it,” he whispers into the honeyed silence of the candlelit bedroom.

You muster a small smile. “I know. But I will, anyway,” you shrug. “When you care for someone, your brain has little say in the matter.”

Geta falters at your admission. A foreign emotion swims in his chocolate button eyes. He’d rather blame it on the flickering flames strewn around the room. “Is that what this is?” he mutters, almost to himself, when he finds the breath to say the words.

Your fingers in his hair slow to a stop. “What do you mean, Your Majesty?”

“This… This tenderness,”  the Emperor answers, spitting the word like it’s the first time he’s ever tasted it. His face scrunches distantly, as if it were sour on his tongue. “Sometimes it overwhelms to the point of tears. It’s a… a blinding radiance, like… a knife— lodged somewhere deep in the body…”

You cup Geta’s freshly shaven face between two, gentle hands. He swears he sees the sun.

“Why do you speak of love like it hurts you, Your Majesty?”

He swallows hard. “Because it does,” he confesses before rising from your body. 

You mourn his warmth as he swings his legs over the side of the mattress. He sits with his back facing you. His dove white robe hangs off one pale shoulder when he bows his head.

“I never believed in it as a child— the permanence of it all, of… love. And yet, I… I find myself longing for it anyway. Like a fool.”

You rise on one elbow and resist the urge to touch him. “Wanting to be understood by someone doesn’t make you a fool, Your Majesty.”

“I know that I… That I haven’t been the most gentle with you at times. But I am… I am sorry for it,” Geta tells you in near inaudible murmurs, flashing you a sheepish glance over his freckled shoulder. “I understand it must be difficult for you.”

“What, Your Majesty?”

“To be caught between all that was. And all that must be.”

Your stomach wrenches at his words. Your chest tightens beneath the weight of them until you have to fight for every wavering breath. You take a trembling inhale and rise so you’re sitting at his side, taking careful calculation in the following words you speak.

“We cannot… We cannot choose who we love, Your Majesty. We can fight ceaselessly against it, perhaps, but it doesn’t change fate.” 

You reach out for him with one tremoring hand. You rake a rogue curl behind his ear and hope he doesn’t know Marcus’ face is the one stained permanently behind your eyelids. 

“We love who we love, Your Majesty. And the rest stay ghosts.”

Geta’s eyes glitter with an emotion you’ve not seen from him before. His dark eyes flit between both of yours, as though searching for something in your gaze — sincerity, perhaps, or maybe an equal sense of longing. 

You blink, and his mouth is on yours. Geta kisses you back onto the velvet-satin and settles over you once more. It’s wet. Hungry. Unforgiving.

You kiss him back with a similar intensity, clutching his robe in both hands, desperate to understand him.

Marcus remains on the other side of your door — an invisible ghost, an unwilling witness. He hears all of it, as clearly as he would if he were seeing it with his own eyes. A hollow feeling of yearning and hunger gnaws at the pit of his stomach as he tries to imagine your pleasured form. The painting behind his eyelids is blurred and distorted with time.

He wishes he could see you now, even with Emperor Geta fucking you into the mattress.  He could pretend that he was the one fucking you, at least, and let the image alone bring his withered form back to life. 

You’re together in his head, entwined still, with your mouths bruised in a relentless kiss.

Marcus hopes you’re still together in yours, too.

General Acacius spends most of his nights in the crypt, which he feels is rather fitting for a half-dead thing like him. When he is not surveilling your bedroom door, or being otherwise taunted by Emperor Geta, he finds a strange sanctuary in the dreary tombs. It is perhaps the only place where he is left alone. 

Caracalla is petrified by thoughts of ghosts, and Geta detests history, so neither is likely to show their face in such an ancient mausoleum. Which is ideal for someone plotting an insurrection.

You find him there in the wee small hours of the late, late night. He wears a deep red cloak over his white robe, perhaps to conceal himself, as he shuffles around the room to snuff out flickering candles. You wonder who he lit them for because you know he does not need them. He’s grown too used to navigating in the shadows.

Your sandals scuff suddenly against the damp cobbles. Marcus does not seem startled by the intrusion. He knew you were there by the sweet scent of your perfumed body alone. There is nothing about you he would not immediately notice.

“What are you doing here?” he wonders with his back facing you, voice low with a timbre that bounces off the tomb walls.

“I wanted to see you,” you answer sheepishly.

Marcus says nothing in response.

You wring your hands into knots and shift your weight on your feet. He extinguishes the torch on the far wall, and shadows engulf the windowless crypt — save for one lone candle flickering atop Emperor Commodus’ cracking tomb. Your eyes flit from the flame to Marcus’ silhouette, gaze swimming with uncertainty.

“May I ask you a question?”

“I don’t see why not,” he monotones and flits across the room like a ghost.

“What do you do down here?” you ask. When your voice inevitably trembles with distant alarm, you quip, “I only mean it mustn’t be healthy— Spending so much time in the dark.”

“It’s none of your concern,” Marcus insists with a venom that makes you flinch. He hooks his pointer finger around the hook of the candle holder, and the dancing flame paints his statuesque features in shades of amber. He softens immediately at the sight of you.

“I just do not wish to incriminate you,” the wartorn man confesses.

Your chest aches with an immediate concern. “What does that mean? Please do not tell me that you’re doing something perilous—”

“No,” Marcus interjects firmly, then amends. “Not yet, at least.”

“Explain it to me, then. Help me understand.”

“It’s best you do not know, petal. It’s safer that way.”

The word alone makes you cross. You wish he’d stop using it.

“But I will tell you when the time is right, I swear,” he assures you, though his voice threatens to tremble with wavering strength. His dark eyes flit between both of yours, heavy with an emotion you cannot place. “I will keep you safe no matter what, you know that—”

“It’s not me I’m worried about, Acacius,” you murmur with a stern glint in your eye, clutching the downy fabric of his robe in your fists.

“There is naught to worry about, petal. I assure you.”

Marcus takes a step closer to you despite the voice of reason in his head telling him otherwise. He lifts his free hand and swipes a callused palm over your cheek, soft and warm with sleep. You lean into his touch like a cat. A funny feeling blossoms in his chest.

“I’ve been thinking… About what you said some days ago… Making a new world for ourselves…” He talks slowly and deeply and nearly to himself. You nod against his palm to egg him onward. “You were right. We deserve better than this— Why should we have to live like dogs?”

Marcus swipes his thumb over your jaw and takes another daring step closer. You feel the heat from the candle he holds in his free hand, though your eyes remain on his face. You couldn’t look away from him if you tried. A part of you is hesitant to blink even, for fear that you might miss him for a millisecond too long.

He angles your gently head upward with his weathered palm. You can smell the musk on his tanned skin from here, as well as the ale and mint leaves on his breath. It’s dizzying. The ground seems to sway under your feet at the dwindling proximity between you.

“We love each other, don’t we?” he murmurs in a honeyed voice.

You nod without a second thought. Your mouth waters with the hopes of tasting him.

He nods with you. “So fuck the war.”

Marcus ducks down to press his mouth to yours. His lips swallow your own in a kiss, lingering and languid and deep enough to drown in. 

You melt into his touch with a heavy sigh exhaled through your nose. The warm breath fans across his unshaven cupid’s bow while your hands migrate to his hair. You twist the greying tendrils in your fingers, keeping him impossibly close against you. 

When Marcus goes to grip the fabric of your nightgown in both his hands, the candle holder tumbles to the ground. The gold clatters audibly across the cobbles. The wax light falls on his side, and the flame begins to dwindle on the murky stone floor. 

You wonder, briefly, if it will take fire — if the smoke will give you away, or if the tomb and all its history will burst into flames, or if the inferno will take you and Marcus with it.

Though it snuffs quickly out, bathing the two of you in a navy blue darkness, you figure you wouldn’t care if it did burn you to ash. Not as long as Marcus was there to kiss you into embers.

Marcus’ face consumes your dreams. 

The details are blurred with the haze of sleep, but he was there — touching your face, asking to try again. You merged into one another like ghosts. Like drops of melted honey. Like lovers of Pompeii turned to ash. Every day, you tell yourself that it is unsafe to love him more than you do now. And yet he haunts your dreams, and yet you find more love in you for him.

And yet…

A violent hand pulls you from your gentle slumber. It jerks mercilessly at your arm, snatching you from your peaceful dreams and waking you into a nightmare.

“Wake up!” a strident and familiar voice bellows into the quiet bedroom, lit only by the faint blue of an early morning. The words are punctuated by another rough tug at your wrist. You awake to the sharp aching in your fingers.

“Wha—” you slur, trying to blink away the bleary mist as you lift your heavy head from the pillows. “What’s going on? What’s happened?”

“Up!”

You’re urged from the mattress by the unforgiving fingers digging bruises on your arm. You squint through the sleep and ebbing darkness to find Geta looming over you — blonde curls mussed on his head, swollen eyes wide and wild, velvet robe askew on his shoulder to reveal his pale chest. His skin there is flushed red with anger. You don’t know what you did to deserve his wrath.

“Geta?” you gasp through a faint whimper in your throat, trying to pull your wrist from his grip. He only holds you tighter. “What are you doing— You’re hurting me.”

“Liar!” is all he shouts in response, like he doesn’t even hear you.

The crazed Emperor drags you out of bed just to drop you to the cobbles. The thin sleeves of your nightgown slip off your shoulder; the skirt of it bunches at your thighs. You make yourself as small as possible as you shrink away from the man towering above you. 

“I don’t understand,” you squeak through the heart in your throat.

“Liar!” he shouts again.

His voice rings through the shadowed bedroom. You cower in response. He sobers at the fear twisting your features, but only slightly. His heart pounds hard against his ribcage, beating red-hot rage through his veins. He can hardly hear you through the rushing in his ears.

“What have I done?” you whisper, voice trembling.

“You have made…” Geta trails off, swallowing the emotion threatening to strangle him. He blinks away burning tears and spits, “A mockery of me.”

Fear ebbs into confusion. “I have not—”

“You lie!”

“I do not!” The volume of your voice startles even you. You blink up at him with wide, pleading eyes, searching for any ounce of mercy within him. 

You find none. 

Just a man made of towering orange flames, threatening to set you ablaze. 

“I have given up everything to be here,” you whimper. “To be at your side. To understand you—” 

“Make no mistake… Your lies no longer have an effect on me, little dove,” Geta interjects through a bout of cynical laughter. He shakes his head and grins despite the tears glittering in his eyes. “You think you are so clever. That you were brought here, to my Empire, to be cherished...”

The Emperor takes slow, daunting steps towards you. You shrink away from him and choke back a sob bubbling in your throat. Tears fall from your lashes in fat droplets down your burning cheeks. 

Geta grins like it pleases him.

“Let me be clear, so there is no longer any misunderstanding…” he tells you, speaking in slow, deep murmurs as he crouches before you. You can see the flecks of gold glimmering in his deep brown eyes from here. You can see the fire swimming within them, too, as he assures you, “You were created merely for me to destroy you.”

The throne room is absent of its usual bright red roses and ornate gold decoration. The chandelier overhead has not yet been lit. Instead, the spacious room is illuminated by an ever-rising sun — which basks everything it touches in shades of melancholy blue. 

The servants light torches along the wall while you and Marcus stand together before the scowling Emperor. Something about it strikes a feeling of nostalgia in your chest, though these circumstances are much different than the ones you were brought here under. Geta no longer looks at you with lust in his dark eyes. He looks at you, instead, with betrayal.

“Thanks to the civic virtue of some good men…” the eldest Emperor quavers into the silent room. “…Your insurrection has been revealed.” 

Your stomach twists at his words. Your mouth falls softly agape with shock. Of any explanation you could’ve been given upon your sudden imprisonment, you couldn’t have expected this one. You thought, perhaps, that he had somehow found out about your meetings in the crypt with Marcus. You would’ve been able to stomach that, at least. Your love for Acacius is something you’d be willing to die by.

But not this.

Not something you were completely unconscious of.

Geta continues tearily. “The honor… The dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you— All this, you have forfeited by your treachery.”

“Emperor Geta, please,” Marcus sighs. His deep voice echoes through the empty throne room like a heavenly, sorrowful instrument. He bows his head and swallows hard, knowing now that he must beg for mercy. Not for himself. But for you. 

“Torture me, if you wish, but let her go. She had no part in this—”

“Forgive me,” Geta spits emotionlessly. “But I have no cause to believe you, General.”

Marcus turns to you then, tired eyes wide and pleading. “Tell him. Go on, it’s alright,” he urges gently, though your silence makes his chest ache. “Petal, tell him— Tell him you were unaware.”

You say nothing.

“Tell him!”he repeats in a shout that rings through the quiet throne room. His trained apathy splinters for the first time in front of Geta. He is perhaps more fearful now than he has ever been before. No war was nearly as frightening as the thought of losing you.

“What does it matter?” you mutter in response, voice fragile like glass. “He made up his mind the moment he found out.”

“Then take me if that’s what you want,” Marcus says, pleads to the merciless Emperor. His sandals scuff the stone floor as he takes a step closer in surrender.  “Put me in the Colosseum— Crucify me on the royal steps, if you must— But please, do not make her suffer for something I brought upon her. Do not punish her for my sins.”

“You are the Great General Acacius…” Geta croons bitterly. “What could one more splash of blood possibly mean to you?”

“Everything,” Marcus answers without a second thought, voice heavy with a predestined grief. “It would mean everything.”

Something in Geta shifts. You see it flickering in his dark, teary eyes. A surge of power, almost, like a stroke of bright white lightning. The corner of his pink mouth twitches as he tilts his chin upward. “Step back ten paces,” he commands suddenly.

Marcus’ brows pinch first in confusion, then relax a moment later when he inevitably obeys. His feet sound along the cobbles as he takes ten slow steps backward. He mourns the distance it puts between the two of you.

“Turn around,” Geta’s voice echoes through the vacant throne room.

You hear Marcus take a wavering breath in. He spins on the heel of his leather sandal until his back is facing you. His heavy eyes flutter shut as his chin falls to his chest. He searches for an ounce of hope within himself, knowing he’d lost all of it some time ago now.

The Emperor smirks. “Good dog.”

Acacius seethes.

Geta’s dark eyes, rimmed red with emotion, flit back to you. Something heavy settles in the pit of your stomach — dread, perhaps, or maybe acceptance for what’s surely to come. 

“Was it a lie?” 

“What?” you ask with bated breath.

Geta shrugs, then readjusts his robe when it falls from his shoulder. “Any of it.”

“No.”

“Tell the truth.”

“I am.”

Geta snarls at your subdued emotion. “I am the Emperor of Rome. I could have my pick of whores— You being here is a privilege. Do you understand?”

You nod once. “Yes.”

“You came from filth— to the greatest city in the world,” Geta spits the words like so many drops of venom. He waves his hands up and down your form, pale fingers now void of their usual gold rings. “You were just… some whore without a face before I made you better. I did this!” 

He gestures wildly around the darkened manor, voice breaking at the volume of his shouting. His robe falls askew to reveal more of his bare chest as spit coats his bitten lips. You remain in place while the Emperor inches closer. The fear has left you, as well as any instinct to cry — your grief is too violent for that now.

“I brought you here,” Geta convinces himself. His saliva splatters on your cheek in faint droplets. Tears glitter on his cheeks like stained glass windows. A fire flickers in the deep brown of his eyes. 

“I willed this— I cared for you with every bit of conscience as I was born with.” He takes a deep breath and steps back, shaking his head in disgust. “And yet…”

He turns away. 

You’re able to take in a deep breath for the first time in several minutes when he parts from you. The leadened weight on your chest remains.

“If you do not wish to be here, I certainly will not make you,” Geta rambles in teary blubbers. “One whore is as good as any other— Perhaps I can find one who is capable of pretending she cares.”

You step towards his retreating form. “Geta—”

“Go!” he shouts, looking back at you with a crazed look in his sleep-worn eyes. He wipes spit from his chin and quietens, strangled by an unavoidable emotion. “Now. Walk through those doors, and I promise no harm will come to you. Just do not stand before me and patronize me in this way, I will not stand for it.”

His promise makes your chest swell with hope. You remain frozen even still, stuck at an unnavigable crossroads. Such assurances of safety mean little to you when Marcus

has a sword to his throat. 

You look at the man over your shoulder. He has not moved from his spot some feet behind you. His back still faces you, though you notice his hands are balled into trembling fists.

Even if it were true — even if Geta really planned to let you go without a knight slitting your throat — it would mean little without Marcus. You would not know where to go without him. You would not be able to live with yourself if you left him here, not knowing what Geta planned for him. You would be away from the city, yes, but it would not be freedom.

Your instinctual will for survival is replaced by the primal need to keep Marcus alive.

To do that, you must reach for the bloodied hand of death.

You turn away from your lover — away from the opened cage door and the promise of freedom — and rush to the heartbroken Emperor. You clutch his cotton robe in your fists and tug at the gold trim to pull him closer. You meet him in the middle, entwining your mouth with his.

You kiss him. Hard. With enough ardor to snatch the breath from his lungs. His pink lips part for yours, almost instinctually so, and you swipe your tongue over the rough pad of his own. He tastes of sleep and honey and very distantly of wine. He gets heavy against you as he falls into your kiss. His hands cling to the skirt of your nightgown until his fists start to shake.

You pull away only when he’s melted for you all over again, when the red-hot anger has ebbed from his milky white body. A thin string of saliva keeps you connected until it splits against your chins.

“I know… I know you are hurt, Your Majesty,” you speak in slow murmurs, and through uneven breaths. Your fearful eyes dart over his face and find him utterly kissbitten — mouth swollen, eyes heavy, cheeks flushed. “And I know that it is difficult to forget pain. But I’ve found it’s harder to remember happiness. Glory.”

Each word from your mouth is stamped with intention. 

You speak of glory only with the hopes that he might remember his many useless wars, all of which Marcus has won for him without complaint. There would be no Empire to rule without the Great General Acacius, who dares not to sneak a glance at the two of you over his shoulder. He, instead, keeps his heavied gaze on the torch hanging by the door. The flame sears his vision until he can see you dancing within it.

“We have no scar to show from sweetness, do we?” you quaver with a forced smile, cupping Geta’s burning cheeks between both your hands. You swipe your thumb over a fat tear clinging to his cheekbone. “How can we allow ourselves to be blinded by anger when there is still so much love?” 

Geta snivels and rests his forehead against yours. His long lashes flutter against his glowing cheeks.

“I wept for you,” the Emperor confesses quietly, words weighed down by tears. “I had come to believe that… If I wanted something badly enough, the sheer strength of my desire would make it mine. I see now that it was foolish—”

“Perhaps it is true,” you whisper to him, breaths entwining and kissing both your cheeks. If he notices your voice shaking, you hope he confuses it with desire and not with fear. “Perhaps that is why I’m standing here now. Because I am yours…”

A moment of silence lulls over the blue hour. The quiet feels deafening in the large throne room, quelled only by the sound of heavy breathing. Yours hitches in your throat when Geta parts wordlessly from you. He sniffles once, then exhales hard through his mouth. 

Your gaze remains fixed on his face in an unwavering stare as you try to gauge his reaction. His features are emotionless, but his heavy-lidded eyes flit back and forth between yours — as though he, too, were trying to measure your sincerity. 

Your fate, in that split second, teeters on a knife’s edge. You hold your breath and wait for him to raise his hand. Not to hit you, maybe, but to sic his guards upon you like dogs — either to drag you into a cell or to be kind enough to kill you on the spot.

Geta lifts his palms only to cradle your jaw between them. His long fingers wrap around your neck like he intends to choke you there. He drags your mouth back to his instead. Your noses smush together with the intensity of his touch. It’s all teeth and tongue and spit. Desire and anger and grief. A billion things he licks into your mouth.

The weight of his hunger smothers you. Consumes you. He could kill you this way, if he wanted. There is little difference, you’ve found, between a bite and a kiss. It only matters how deep he buries his teeth into you.

Your chin shines with his spit when he parts from you. Geta’s chest heaves with labored breaths, flushed and swelling with proud. He hasn’t yet let go of your neck. You wonder if he can feel your thrumming pulse against his fingers.

“Show me, then,” he pants. “That you’re mine… Prove it to me.”

The Emperor goes to step back from you. Your hands dart for his wrists, holding him there when he threatens to pull them away. Geta’s eyes widen in shock.

“Don’t make him watch,” you plead in a delicate whisper.

His wide, chocolate eyes flit over your shoulder. He seems to forget about Marcus’ presence until that very moment. He looks back to you, at the plea swimming in your eyes, and nods once in response. 

“Take him,” he calls to the knights lurking in the darkness.

Their heavy armor clinks together as they comply without complaint. They lead Marcus to the door with their hands on the hilts of their swords. You watch him leave from over your shoulder, in the very corner of your eye. You hope he understands, but you wouldn’t blame him if you didn’t. You find it hard to forgive yourself even now.

Marcus always said that people find out who they truly are during times of war. Maybe this is who you are. Maybe you cannot kiss the devil without taking some of his sin.

The door closes with a heavy thud across the room. 

The weight of being alone with the Emperor washes heavily over you. Like drops of ice-cold rain. Like warm, melted honey.

Geta peers at you with a similar uncertainty. Head bowed slightly, wide eyes glittering from beneath his lashes. You do what you have always done — take care of this man the way he’s asked you to, placate his anger with your body. Giving yourself away is as natural as breathing most days.

“Sit down, Your Majesty,” you urge in a gentle whisper.

The Emperor listens as obediently as his knights. 

The sound of his sandals padding along the cobbles fills the suffocating quiet. He descends upon his throne like he was made for it, spreading his legs before him and propping his arms along the golden rests. He looks like a painting upon his seat of power, bathed in the deep blue of an early morning. An angel dragged to hell.

Geta watches you with an unwavering stare as you take slow steps toward him. His brown-eyed gaze goes glassy at the sight of you, an angelic thing all dressed in white. His thighs part to welcome you between them. He tenses under your palms when they smooth over his milky white chest, past the sparse chestnut hair littered there and down to the tie of his robe.

His stomach rises and falls in heavy, uneven pants under your touch. You unknot the string with bated breath, then brush the golden trimming to his sides. He’s bare underneath it, likely from where he’d been brutally roused from his slumber. His cock is on immediate display — resting on his fuzzy thighs, half-hard and glowing red at the tip.

You descend to your knees to take care of him on instinct. His hands dart to your shoulders to stop you. “Ride me,” he commands, though it sounds more like a plea as it spills his swollen mouth.

Wordlessly, you straddle his thighs. The cotton fabric of your nightgown bunches at your hips. You spit into your palm and reach between your bodies for his cock in a single practiced motion. He feels like velvet in your fist. 

Geta’s nostrils flare with a heavy exhale when your hand drags up the length of his cock. His head tips back onto his throne when your fist falls back down again. Your lips find the expanse of his long, white neck like a deep-seated compulsion. You kiss his pulse as though it were his mouth. He cradles the crown of your head and brings his lips to your ear.

“You love me,” he sighs within a moan when your thumb brushes the head of his drooling cock.

You can’t tell if it’s a command to repeat the words back to him, or an affirmation he repeats only for himself. Either way, you nod in response and line his stiff cock at your entrance. Geta’s mouth parts in a silent moan at the feeling of your silky cunt. 

“I do,” you whisper just before you mount him. 

There is a dull ache in your belly when he pierces you, though you’ve grown accustomed to his length with time. Your satin folds split to welcome every inch of him accordingly. Your hips rock back and forth over his supple thighs and your velvety walls pulse around him, swallowing him further inside.

Your breathy moans entwine and fill the air. You keep a white-knuckled grip on the back of the golden throne as you ride him, without break and without mercy — in spite of the burning sensation in your thighs. You tell yourself it’s to finish him quickly, though a primal part of you chases after your own pleasure.

Geta’s breaths leave his parted mouth in huffed exhales as you bounce on top of him. He mourns the sight of him disappearing in and out of your glistening pussy but fights to keep his eyes open to watch the rest of you. Your fucked-out face swirls in a mixture of concentration and pleasure as Geta lifts his hand for the collar of your gown.

He unties the dainty knot at your sternum and tugs the fabric down your chest, baring your breasts for him. His mouth waters at sight of your plush skin, moving in time with your rhythmic grinds over his lap. 

A strangled moan sounds in your throat when he takes your left nipple in his mouth. You caress the back of his head, twisting your fingers in his honey hair in an effort to keep him close. He runs the rough pad of his tongue over your sensitive tit and smiles when he hears you whimpering. 

“You love this,” he mutters against your chest. “You love when I fuck you. ”

You nod until the words catch up with you. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“God—” he grunts through gritted teeth, tipping his head back when one particular grind makes him twitch inside you. His hands grip your thighs over your skirt. His fingers threaten to sear bruises onto your skin. “Your pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it?”

You nod again.

His right hand parts from you only to come down a moment later. The dull smack of his palm against your clothed hip echoes through the throne room. “I don’t think I heard you.”

“Yes,” you squeak with your face scrunched, trembling when your clit drags across the thatch of pubic hair at the base of Geta’s cock.

“Who’s cunt is this?”

“Yours—”

His hand lifts again. You hear the impact of his palm against your ass before you feel it, a subtle stinging you find a strange comfort in. Geta laughs in maniacal, breathy chuckles when you keen for him. 

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yours!” you exclaim in a feeble gasp, clutching the Emperor to your chest. You shudder on top of him when an orgasm rakes suddenly through your body. It flows quickly and without mercy, but never quite ebbs. You’re left a whimpering, weeping mess while the aftershocks of your pleasure consume you. 

“It’s yours,” you squeak in nearly inaudible blubbers, pressing your kissed mouth to the shell of Geta’s ear, repeating the phrase like it’s the only one you remember. “’S your pussy… It’s yours…”

The words alone are enough to make Geta burst inside of you. 

He tenses all over. His dull nails press crescent shapes into the skin of your thighs. His rosy mouth parts to exhale a guttural moan. You feel his cock jerk with your drooling confines right before he spits several loads of cum inside you. Your cunt pulses around him, instinctually milking him for every drop of liquid pleasure, and a whimper sounds in Geta’s throat.

You feel it bloom in the pit of your belly like a flower — something soft and warm and seeping. As the two of you relax against one another with wavering exhales, you feel his cum leaking out of you like drops of summer rain. It pools on his lap and drips down to the throne underneath him, tainting the gold with a mixture of your sin.

It proves a point. Marks a territory.

Geta swells with pride.

Your back slouches as you melt into his body. You hide your burning face in his neck as his feverish grip on you loosens. Geta twitches beneath you when your cunt pulsates around his softening cock. “Mm…” you hear him hum, mixed with a laugh you feel rumbling in his chest. His head tilts back as a lopsided smile tugs deliriously at his mouth.

He runs a gentle hand up and down your spine, a reminder of his being there despite your feeble efforts to dissociate your brain from your body. You can’t ignore the warmth of his touch on your tingling skin, or the way your hearts press together and beat to the same rhythm.

A distant feeling of acceptance pools in the pit of your belly along with the Emperor’s cum. Your grief is a much more discreet thing, however, and you miss Marcus like an unstitched wound that won’t stop bleeding. Like a knife lodged somewhere deep in the body.

“I think… I think I’ve found an adequate punishment for the General,” Geta pants, the crooked grin audible in his words. “Perhaps he will learn his lesson when I’ve fucked a child into you—”

You tense when the Emperor’s palm splays over your stomach.

“—Perhaps then he’ll understand that you’re mine.”

[santaasi]

bet on you

pairing: james potter x grumpy!reader

summary: james bets you that if he wins his next match, you owe him a date. he wins, of course — but you’re not going to make it easy for him.

warnings: fluff, grumpy x sunshine, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language

word count: 3.0k

a/n: there are so many of you who followed me for james content after obviously blind so i just decided to give you a little thank u for all your love and support.

ᯓ★ now playing…

niall horan - must be love

"YOU’RE TOO COCKY FOR SOMEONE WHO WAS NEARLY THROWN OFF HIS BROOMSTICK LAST MATCH, POTTER."

Your voice was dry, unimpressed, but James only grinned wider, twirling his wand between his fingers as he lounged on the Gryffindor common room sofa. His Quidditch robes were still rumpled from practice, the fabric clinging in places where the sweat hadn’t entirely dried. His hair — Merlin, his hair — was an absolute disaster, even by James Potter standards, the dark curls damp and sticking up in every possible direction, like he’d flown straight through a hurricane and come out victorious on the other side.

You sat across from him, arms folded tight against your chest, doing your best impression of someone completely indifferent to his presence. The common room was warm, the low glow of the fireplace painting everything in shades of gold and crimson, and yet you wrapped your blanket more tightly around your shoulders, as if that might stop the ridiculous, treacherous pounding of your heart.

James tilted his head, eyes twinkling behind the reflection of the flames in his glasses. Too charming for his own good.

“You wound me, sweetheart,” he sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "I was merely faking vulnerability — to lull the Slytherins into a false sense of security.”

You snorted, gaze fixed on the fire. “Right. And I suppose you meant to drop the Quaffle against Ravenclaw?”

James gasped, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose in a performance of deep, personal offense. “First of all, I didn’t drop it — I strategically redirected it. And second, I think you underestimate my skills, and frankly, that hurts.”

You rolled your eyes, fully prepared to come up with something scathing in response, but then James — the menace — moved.

He dropped onto the couch beside you with all the grace of a kneazle leaping onto its favorite perch, effortlessly invading your space, his weight shifting the cushions beneath you. You sucked in a sharp breath as his arm draped over the back of the sofa, boxing you in.

A strangled noise escaped your lips before you could stop it. You shoved at his shoulder in a pathetic attempt to create distance, but James only laughed, low and amused, his body warm beside yours, radiating that post-match heat.

That sound — that deep, genuine laugh — sent something fluttering through your stomach, something entirely inconvenient. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to scowl harder, hoping to smother whatever the hell was happening inside you.

James, of course, remained completely unbothered. If anything, he leaned in closer, his grin widening. “Plus,” he murmured, voice lilting with amusement, “how can you expect me to play properly when the most beautiful girl in Hogwarts is watching me from the stands, sweetheart?”

Your head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. His smile was positively criminal — all mischief and confidence, his hazel eyes glinting with unspoken challenge.

James and his bloody charm.

Your frown deepened, but it was becoming harder and harder to hold onto. He looked so pleased with himself, sitting there with his damp curls tumbling over his forehead, a few unruly strands falling into his eyes. Your fingers twitched — traitorous things — itching to push them back, just to feel how soft they were.

Absolutely not.

You turned away sharply, hoping he hadn’t noticed the way your breath hitched.

Damn James Potter.

You needed to think about anything else.

Quidditch.

Yes. Quidditch.

James was a good player — some might even say exceptional (and maybe you were one of them, in the privacy of your own thoughts). But you’d rather kiss the Giant Squid than admit that to his face. His ego was already large enough to smother the entire wizarding world; the last thing he needed was your praise fueling it further.

It was your duty — no, your moral obligation — to keep him grounded. To roll your eyes at his dramatics, to scoff at his flirtations, to challenge him at every opportunity.

Even if, in moments like this, when the firelight danced across his face and his laughter filled the spaces between you, your resolve felt dangerously fragile.

Even if, against all reason and logic, you were already hopelessly, disastrously in love with him.

But he didn’t need to know that.

So you bit your bottom lip, let out a quiet chuckle, and looked back at him with a slow, knowing smirk.

“Right,” you said, voice dripping with amusement. “Because obviously your Quidditch skills depend entirely on me.”

James grinned, delighted, like you’d just paid him the highest compliment in the world.

“Exactly,” he said, nudging your shoulder. “Finally, she admits it.”

You huffed, shaking your head, but even as you turned away, you knew he could see the smile threatening at the corners of your lips.

Damn him.

James leaned forward, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips again. “Alright,” he drawled, mischief dripping from every syllable. “Let’s make this more interesting.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, but the way his hazel eyes glinted in the firelight sent a prickle of warning down your spine.

“If we win against Slytherin this weekend,” he continued, his voice low and coaxing, “you have to ask me out.”

You blinked.

What did he just say?

For half a second, your brain short-circuited, your thoughts stuttering to a halt like a broomstick caught in an unexpected gust of wind. But you recovered quickly, forcing out a chuckle that (hopefully) hid the way your pulse had just launched itself into orbit.

“You say that like it’s some kind of real challenge,” you scoffed, tilting your head. “Gryffindor always wins.”

James only shrugged, all casual confidence, but his smirk deepened. “Then you’ve got nothing to lose, do you?” He leaned in slightly, his voice laced with unmistakable amusement. “Unless, of course, you’re afraid.”

You rolled your eyes, exhaling through your nose as you turned to face him fully, arms crossing over your chest. Your faces were too close — close enough that you could make out the faint freckle just beneath his left eye, close enough that you caught the lingering scent of grass and wind still clinging to his robes.

And yet, you refused to back away.

At least outwardly. Inside, your heart was performing a particularly violent tango with your liver at the mere thought of going on a date with James bloody Potter.

“I just don’t think it’s a fair bet,” you replied smoothly, ignoring the treacherous heat creeping up your neck. “Gryffindor wins practically every match.”

James hummed, tilting his head as if considering this, though the glimmer of mischief in his gaze suggested he already had a counterattack prepared. “Alright,” he conceded, pretending to think. “Then name your terms. If we lose…” He paused for dramatic effect, then grinned. “I’ll do whatever you want. No complaints. For an entire week.”

Your lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he echoed, looking far too pleased with himself.

You feigned deep contemplation, tapping a finger against your chin, though in reality, you were far too aware of the way James was watching you, waiting, expecting you to take the bait.

“That’s quite the offer,” you mused. “But don’t expect me to go easy on you when you lose, Potter.”

James laughed, bright and easy, before holding out his hand. “Shake on it?”

Your fingers clasped his, and the moment your hands met, a strange sort of certainty settled in your stomach — heavy and inevitable.

Because James Potter had never lost.

And somehow, you didn’t think this time would be an exception.

THE DAY LEADING UP TO THE FINAL MATCH FLEW BY FASTER THAN THE GOLDEN SNITCH IN THE DYING MOMENTS OF GAME.

James was a blur of scarlet and gold, barely more than a passing shadow in your periphery. You caught glimpses of him at breakfast — hair even messier than usual, eyes alight with that reckless, competitive fire — before he was gone again, dashing out to the Quidditch pitch to practice some new, impossible maneuver.

He was taking your bet far too seriously.

And you hated the way your stomach clenched at the thought.

By the time the match arrived, the air at the Quidditch stadium was thick with tension and the unmistakable electric hum of anticipation. The whole school had turned out, huddled together under the late spring sky, the Gryffindor stands an unbroken wave of red and gold. And you — against all better judgment — were sitting among them, wrapped in James’s scarf, the same one he’d tossed around your shoulders before the game with an infuriating grin.

"For good luck," he’d said, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. And then, lowering his voice, he’d added, "Enjoy the view, sweetheart. After I win, you’re in for the most unforgettable date of your life."

Cocky bastard.

Now, watching the game unfold, you realized with a sinking feeling in your chest that James hadn’t been bluffing.

Gryffindor wasn’t just winning.

They were annihilating Slytherin.

And James — Merlin help you — was everywhere.

He weaved through the air with impossible speed, dodging Bludgers with infuriating ease, stealing the Quaffle like it had never belonged to anyone else, and scoring goal after goal as the Slytherins scrambled to keep up.

Then, just because he could, he banked his broom hard, looped right past the Gryffindor stands, and — of course — paused just long enough to wink at you before somersaulting through the air and landing another goal.

Show-off.

You scowled. The worst part was, it was impressive.

By the time the final whistle blew, Gryffindor had obliterated Slytherin by at least a hundred points. The stands exploded — cheers ringing through the stadium, banners waving wildly, students practically falling over themselves in celebration.

Amid the chaos, James ripped off his helmet, ran a hand through his already wind-wrecked hair, and turned — scanning the crowd, searching.

His gaze found yours in an instant.

And then he winked.

Smug. Smug, insufferable bastard.

The taste of defeat curled bitter on your tongue as you shot to your feet, yanking James’s scarf tighter around your neck before storming toward the exit.

Behind you, James’s name was being shouted from every direction, his teammates tackling him in celebration, the crowd chanting in triumph.

And yet — somehow — you knew his eyes were still on you.

You may have lost the bet.

But you weren’t about to make this easy for him.

THE COLD NIGHT AIR CURLED AROUND YOU LIKE AN OLD FRIEND, slipping through the courtyard’s stone archways and brushing against your skin. You leaned back against the weathered wall, staring up at the sky as the first stars flickered into existence — tiny, distant lights swallowed by the vast darkness above. This was your sanctuary, your quiet refuge from the chaos that raged inside Gryffindor Tower.

And tonight, there was plenty of chaos.

Sirius had cranked up the music, turning the common room into a swaying, smoke-filled mess of bodies. The scent of butterbeer and firewhiskey clung to the air, laughter rang out over the sound of a badly tuned guitar, and James — bloody James Potter — was undoubtedly at the center of it all, basking in his victory like the smug, overgrown golden retriever he was.

You had slipped away the first chance you got. You never did well with crowds, especially after a match like that. The noise, the movement, the suffocating heat of so many people in one space — it was too much. You preferred the quiet, the stillness.

But, of course, James Potter never let you have nice things.

You sensed him before he spoke — his presence a familiar, buzzing warmth in the air. And knowing this, he didn’t waste any time.

“So,” came his voice, smooth and laced with amusement. “About that date.”

You sighed, long and dramatic, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze. He stood in front of you, still wearing that victorious grin, hair a tousled mess from the game, his uniform untucked like he had just thrown his robes aside before heading out to find you.

"I suppose I did agree to this," you mused, drawing out the words.

James nodded eagerly. “You did agree.”

You hummed, pretending to think. “Alright, then. You can take me to Hogsmeade this weekend.”

James beamed, already straightening up. “Brilliant! I’ll pick you up at—”

“But,” you interjected, holding up a single finger, “only if you prove that you’re worth my time.”

James halted mid-sentence. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and his hand came up to scratch the back of his head — his signature I-don’t-like-not-knowing-things move.

For a split second, he looked adorably confused, like a puppy who’d just been denied a treat. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

“What does that mean?” he finally asked, narrowing his eyes at you in suspicion.

You shrugged, pushing off the wall. “Let’s see how dedicated you are, Potter.”

His lips curled into a lopsided grin as he folded his arms across his chest. “Are you testing me?”

“Obviously.”

You took a step closer, your head tilting slightly as you met his gaze. His brown eyes gleamed under the soft glow of torchlight, catching every flicker of warmth from the flames. The moment stretched, charged with something unspoken, something electric.

Then you exhaled, a small cloud of condensation forming in the night air, and added, "Think of this as a trial."

James let out a laugh, shaking his head. “Merlin, you’re a menace.”

You smirked. “What, afraid you won’t be able to impress me?”

James didn’t falter. If anything, he leaned in, closing the space between you just enough that you caught the scent of his cologne — something warm, like cedar and a hint of cinnamon.

Your breath hitched when his fingers brushed against your cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

His voice dropped, smooth as velvet. “Oh, sweetheart, I know I can make an impression on you.”

Your heart lurched, traitorous thing that it was.

For a moment, just one moment, you were completely caught in his orbit. Your eyes flickered to his lips — damn him for standing so close, for smelling so good, for looking at you like that. Heat crept up your spine, and you nearly leaned into him, nearly—

But then you recovered.

Rolling your eyes, you stepped past him, shoulders brushing as you went. “We’ll see, Potter.”

And with that, you left him standing there, his victorious smile turning into something else entirely — something intrigued, something thrilled.

James Potter lived for a challenge.

And Merlin, you had just given him one.

JAMES POTTER TRIED.

He tried so hard.

It started small. He brought you textbooks between classes, even the ones you definitely didn’t need, just so he had an excuse to linger. He saved a seat for you at breakfast, nudging aside a stunned first-year with a casual, “Sorry, mate — reserved.”

Then, he got bolder.

A bouquet of daisies — enchanted to float in perfect formation — drifted onto your desk in Transfiguration, twirling in the air before settling neatly beside your parchment. You watched them with narrowed eyes as James, sitting two rows back, shot you a wink.

At one point, he even physically shoved Peeves aside when the poltergeist attempted to douse you in ink. “Bugger off, Peevesy,” James said cheerfully while you stared, half-impressed, half-mortified.

It was cute. It was infuriating.

The final straw?

A stunning display of desperation: an entire stash of Chocolate Frogs left on your bed, stacked like a damn shrine to your stubbornness.

That was it. Enough was enough.

That evening, you stormed into the Gryffindor common room, where James lounged on the couch with Sirius and Remus. Sirius was draped across the armrest, half-asleep, while Remus read with an air of deep patience, no doubt enduring whatever nonsense James had been spouting for the last hour.

James looked up as you approached, his brown eyes wide, pupils dilating like a puppy seeing its favorite person walk through the door. The firelight caught in his glasses, flickering gold against the lenses. It was annoyingly reminiscent of the night you had made this stupid bet, and that alone made you want to hex something.

He blinked. “Uh—”

Before you could think twice — before your pride could scream turn around and flee — you grabbed him by the front of his shirt, yanked him up to his feet, and kissed him.

The room went completely still.

The kiss was quick but firm, proof of your surrender, of your utter defeat at the hands of James bloody Potter. His lips were warm and slightly chapped from the cold, and for the first time all week, he wasn’t talking. When you pulled away, James looked thoroughly wrecked — eyes wide, lips parted, hair even more disheveled than usual.

Sirius, naturally, ruined the moment.

“Finally,” he muttered with a long-suffering sigh.

James, still stunned, exhaled sharply. “Damn it.”

You huffed, flustered beyond belief. “You’ve won. Come back tomorrow at two. Bye.”

And with that, you spun on your heel, eager to escape before your brain caught up with what had just happened. But James, damn his Quidditch reflexes, recovered faster than you did. His hand caught your wrist before you had taken a full step, and in one smooth motion, he pulled you right back into his chest.

A disgruntled noise escaped your lips as you landed against him.

James grinned down at you, his voice low and maddeningly smug. “Oh, I know.”

You glared up at him, rolling your eyes so hard they might have fallen out of your head — but your lips twitched, betraying you. James saw it, of course. Smug bastard.

Without missing a beat, he tugged you down onto the couch beside him, tucking you against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arm settled around your waist, warm and comfortable, and when he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, you swore your heart forgot how to function.

Sirius groaned. “Great. Now we have to deal with this.”

Remus, without looking up from his book, simply hummed. “Called it.”

James ignored them entirely, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against your hip as he returned to whatever ridiculous conversation they had been having before you stormed in.

You didn’t move away.

After all, a bet was a bet.

hey-hey! <3

thank you so much for taking the time to read my work — it truly means the world to me. if you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear your thoughts! comments, likes, and reblogs not only make my day but also inspire me to keep writing. seriously, every little bit of support fuels my motivation!

if you have any requests, feel free to send them in my inbox! I’d love to bring your ideas to life. and also if you'd like to be added to the taglist, feel free to dm me or leave a comment, and I’ll make sure to include you.

thanks again for being here — you’re amazing!

                                     – your santi 🪐

masterlist

[mortanko-sims]

GLOSSIM LIP GLOSS SET

I've created this gloss long time ago, so I wanted to check if I still like it. I still do, maybe even more than before, so I updated the previews.

35 different colors + 35 softer versions of each shade, so it would match any sim.

Please do not reupload or claim as your own ❤️

❀ Teen - Elder

❀ Base game compatible

❀ Slider compatible

❀ Custom thumbnail

❀ Disallowed for random

Tag me if you use my CC, I'd love to see it!

----

DOWNLOAD HERE (patreon, free)

More of my CC here.

----

@mmoutfitters, @maxismatchccworld, @sssvitlanz

[gf2bellamy]

bet — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you and spencer have a bet on who is going to be the first to expose your relationship content warnings: mention of a victim a/n: when i tell you this took me ages omg i was struggling

You and Spencer had a bet. 

A ridiculous, entirely unnecessary bet, but a bet nonetheless.

The stakes? Bragging rights, and the satisfaction of being able to tease the other endlessly.

The challenge? Who would be the first to slip up and accidentally reveal your secret relationship to the rest of the BAU team. 

Both of you knew that secrecy wasn’t exactly your strong suit. Between Spencer’s tendency to ramble when nervous and your habit of wearing your emotions like a neon sign, it was only a matter of time before someone pieced it all together.

And that was what made the bet so much fun��because neither of you wanted to be the one to crack first. 

Some mishaps had already happened, moments that came far too close to giving you both away. 

Like the time Derek had caught Spencer staring at you during a team briefing. “Hey, Pretty Boy, you got something to add, or are you just lost in thought over there?” Derek had teased, a smirk tugging at his lips. Spencer, predictably, had flushed a deep shade of red and stumbled over a vague response. 

And, of course, who could forget the case in Chicago when Hotch had walked into the room just as Spencer had brushed a strand of hair out of your face? The gesture had been so natural, so tender, that even Hotch had paused for a fraction of a second before continuing his sentence. You could’ve sworn he’d given you a knowing glance, though he hadn’t said a word. 

Right now, you were sitting at your desk, trying (and failing) to focus on finishing your report on the case from two days ago.

“Spence, what was the address of the place where we found the second victim?” you asked, tapping your pen on the paper as you glanced up at your boyfriend sitting across from you at his desk.

“1375 Oakridge Drive,” he replied almost automatically, barely looking up from his own report.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, jotting it down and trying not to get distracted by the little curl of hair falling onto his forehead.

The bullpen was unusually quiet.

That peace didn’t last long, though, as Derek and Garcia burst into the room, engaged in what sounded like a very enthusiastic debate. 

“Reid, listen to this!” Derek called out, cutting across the bullpen as Penelope trailed behind him, waving her arms dramatically. Both you and Spencer instinctively looked up from your work.

“Okay,” Derek began, leaning one arm casually on the divider of Spencer’s desk. “Do you think watching a rom-com with someone is romantic?” 

“Specifically with a friend,” Penelope interjected, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because apparently, Mr. ‘Romance Expert’ here thinks it is!” 

Derek rolled his eyes. “Come on, Penelope. It can be romantic. I mean, think about it—it’s all cozy, emotional, and half the time someone ends up crying or sharing popcorn. You’re telling me that doesn’t create a vibe?” 

Spencer blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. He sat up straighter, adjusting his tie slightly as he considered his answer. 

“Well,” he began, his voice contemplative, “the concept of watching a romantic comedy doesn’t inherently equate to a romantic interaction. However, if the participants have underlying romantic feelings, the environment—such as sharing an intimate space or engaging in emotional dialogue—could certainly facilitate a sense of connection. For example, I—” 

He froze mid-sentence, his brain catching up with his mouth as he realized where he was going. 

Oh no. 

Your eyes widened in panic as you watched Spencer flounder. His lips parted as though he might try to backtrack, but the damage was already done. 

“For example…?” Derek prompted, his brows shooting up, clearly intrigued. 

Spencer quickly cleared his throat, fumbling for a save. “Uh, hypothetically. I mean, generally speaking. Like, if two people…were, um, interested in each other—not me, of course—then maybe…” His voice trailed off as he glanced at you. 

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, knowing full well that he was treading dangerously close to losing the bet. 

Derek narrowed his eyes, studying Spencer for a moment. “Hmm,” he said slowly, drawing out the syllable. “You’re acting a little weird there. Something you wanna share with the class?” 

“Nope!” Spencer said quickly, shaking his head so forcefully it made his curls bounce. “Absolutely nothing.” 

Penelope raised an eyebrow, looking between you and Spencer with suspicion. “Uh-huh. If you say so.” 

You decided to intervene before they could dig any deeper. “Alright, Garcia, what’s your stance on the rom-com thing?” you asked, redirecting the conversation. 

The distraction worked, and Penelope launched into an impassioned argument, effectively pulling Derek’s attention away from Spencer.

You shot Spencer a look across the desks, mouthing close call. He gave you an apologetic shrug, his cheeks still faintly pink. 

Two days later, you made the mistake. The one that was ten times worse than the rom-com slip-up Spencer had made. 

You were in the file room, buried in paperwork that Hotch had assigned to you earlier that morning. The hours had been long and draining, and you’d barely made a dent in the pile.

Derek was there too, flipping through some files, his eyes narrowing in concentration, while Garcia sat at the table, her usual flair of colorful banter filling the otherwise quiet room.

She wasn’t doing much work, but she was keeping the rest of you entertained with her gossip. 

“This is tiring,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible as you stretched and yawned.

You handed Derek a file, trying to keep your energy up, though it was clear you weren’t succeeding. 

Spencer, who had been quietly scanning through a set of documents, glanced up at you, and then took a step closer. “You should go take a break and grab a coffee,” he suggested, his voice warm and concerned. “I’ll take these off your hands.” 

You spun around to face him, smiling at the sight of him standing there, his sleeves rolled up and his hair slightly tousled.

His expression was a mixture of concern and adoration, and you couldn’t help the little flutter in your chest. 

You smiled at him, genuinely grateful for the offer. You’d been working for hours, and the fatigue was beginning to take its toll. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice soft with appreciation. Without thinking, you leaned in slightly and planted a quick kiss on Spencer's cheek, your hand instinctively resting on his face—something you'd done countless times without giving it much thought.

The moment your lips brushed his skin, time seemed to slow. You pulled back almost immediately, but not fast enough. Your heart skipped a beat as you looked up into Spencer’s eyes, wide and shocked.

His brown eyes were locked on yours, the same stunned expression mirroring your own. 

It was like a slow-motion realization hit you both at the exact same time—you just kissed him. 

Before either of you could process what had happened, a loud gasp echoed from behind you. 

“Oh my god!” Garcia squealed, her voice thick with excitement. 

You felt your face burn as you snapped your eyes shut. You could practically hear Derek’s mischievous chuckle follow suit. 

Spencer's back stiffened, and you knew exactly what was coming next. 

“Well, well, well,” Derek's voice rang out, full of teasing amusement, “Look what we got here” His tone was almost dramatic as he clapped Spencer on the back. 

“Way to go, my man! Getting the girl!” Derek cheered loudly. 

You dropped your hand from Spencer’s face to his chest, your shoulders slumping as you sighed loudly.

It was out in the open now—so much for the bet. 

Penelope’s voice cut through the air like a burst of confetti. “I knew it! I’ve been saying it for months, but nobody would listen to me!”

She was practically bouncing on her feet as she grinned at the both of you, clearly pleased with herself. 

Spencer gave you a nervous but warm smile. You could tell he was about to say something, but before he could, you were swarmed by both Derek and Garcia. 

“I knew you two were together,” Garcia squealed, pulling you into a tight hug. “Oh my god, you two are so cute.” 

Derek, on the other hand, ruffled Spencer’s hair. “I’m proud of you, man.” 

You could feel your pulse racing as you glanced at Spencer, who was doing his best to keep his usual composure, but the hint of a smile tugging at his lips betrayed him.

He gave you a look that could only be described as amused exasperation, as if asking, Well, I guess we don’t need to worry about hiding it anymore, do we? 

A quiet laugh escaped your lips. Spencer’s smile softened as his hand reached for yours.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured softly, leaning in a bit closer to him. “I didn’t mean for this to—” 

He cut you off with a gentle squeeze of your hand, his voice just low enough for only you to hear. “It’s okay,” he whispered, “I think it’s about time they found out.” 

Later that night, you and Spencer were lying in bed. Your head rested on his chest, and your fingers absentmindedly drew soft circles over his chest as you listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath you.

His hand was gently resting around your waist, his thumb lightly brushing over the skin of your arm. 

"Today was fun," you murmured into his chest, the sound muffled but sincere. 

“A lot of fun,” he chuckled, the vibration of his laugh resonating through his chest. 

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself, remembering the teasing from Derek and Garcia, and the way everything had just spilled out into the open.

“I for sure thought you’d be the one to lose the bet,” you teased, your voice light and playful. 

Spencer raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a soft smile. "I didn’t," he said, his voice playful but confident. 

“Why is that?” you asked, lifting your head just enough to prop yourself up on your elbow. Spencer met your gaze, his smile never wavering.

He was looking down at you with that soft affection that always made your heart skip a beat.

"You're more obvious than me," he said, brushing a strand of hair out of your face with his fingers, the touch tender. 

You immediately furrowed your brow, sitting up a little straighter. “No I’m not,” you said, a playful frown tugging at your lips. 

But the moment his fingers gently brushed your hair again, any trace of the playful frown disappeared. A warm smile spread across your face, unable to resist the effect his touch had on you. 

Spencer tilted his head, his eyes glinting with that teasing spark you knew so well. “Oh really?” he said, his voice laced with amusement, his gaze never leaving yours. 

You rolled your eyes at him, but the smile on your face betrayed you. “Okay, maybe,” you admitted with a mock sigh, before leaning back down onto his chest. 

Spencer’s laughter rumbled softly in his chest as he kissed the top of your head.

You snuggled closer to him, your face against his chest once more, feeling the beat of his heart beneath you.

"Goodnight, Spence," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. 

"Goodnight," he replied, his hand gently squeezing your waist as he kissed your forehead one last time. 

[nanamisgirly]

༊࿐ ͎. Tell me what to do, Mr(s). General ft. husband!Caleb

୨୧ — SYN. if I say that I have no idea for synopsis is that wrong? if I say it's just Caleb being a total whimpering mess under his wife during a dry humping session IS THAT WRONG????

୨୧ — cw. please is used a looot, sub Caleb, crying Caleb, dom wife, possessive wife, praising and degrading Caleb, dry humping, cumming in pants, Caleb in uniform, needy Caleb, orgasm denial (ig), hint kink for voyeurism, pussy drunk caleeeeb

୨୧ — wc. 1.9k (I enjoyed this sooo much)

˖ 𑣲 comments and reblogs are always appreciated ma girliees <333

walking like a predator toward where your pretty husband caleb is sat—on a chair you previously put in the center of your shared room, ordering him to sit the moment he came home from his shift.

you trail a slow circle around him in heels and nothing else but the outfit you mischievously picked : sheer purple mesh that hugs your waist like a vice, a deep purple thong with a satin bow that barely covers anything, and a strappy harness that cups your tits. 

sinful.

“look at you, sitting so pretty for me,” you murmur, stopping in front of him, standing in between his strong, spread legs. caleb is still in his uniform, medals catching the low light, posture straight and big round puppy eyes looking at you like you hug the stars.

that big, terrifying colonel everyone salutes is just your sloppy little husband.

you take his hat, putting in your head as you settle onto his lap, “you're going to repeat after me,” you purr, voice husky and cruel. “only listen to my general,” you drag the hat lower over your brow, covering fully your eyes so he can only focus on your mouth and the smirk curving your lips. “tell me what to do, Mrs. General.” your face leans closer to his, noses brushing, your fingers curl around the back of his neck.

caleb hesitates—just a beat—and you feel his cock twitch beneath you, thick and already straining. his fingers dig into the side of the chair, trembling with restraint since you told him not to touch.

“only—only listen to my General…” his voice cracked, needy. “tell me what to do, Mrs. General.”

“gooood boy,” you coo against his lips—hips rolling against his cock through the layers of fabric. you're practycally naked and he's wrapped in stiff military fabric, but you've never felt this powerful. and he's never looked so vulnerable.

“you wear all these stripes and stars,” you whisper into his ear, grinding down slow, torturous. you create nothing but friction between your slick cunt and the thick ridge of him under those perfect, rigid military lines. “you snap at your subordinates like you've got bite…little do they know you're pathetic for your wife.”

he gasps through gritted teeth, muscles tensing, whole body locked up under the unrelenting drag of your hips. you smirk as his cock twitches, again, and again, and again. you grind down harder—rubbing your soaked panties over his shaft, smearing everything—until his lashes flutter and his head tips back slightly until his cheeks are flushed with the prettiest shade of red. 

he chokes on your name and says, “i-i know…i'm—ngh, pathetic. . .”

he bucks up helplessly, jaw slack, hair sticking to his forehead from how hard he’s sweating. your hands push him back down by the shoulders like you’re disciplining a misbehaved pet.

“god, you’re such a slut for it,” you sneer, dragging your soaked pussy over his cock slowly. “all that bark with everyone else—but me? you’d let me ride your face in front of the whole damn base if i snapped my fingers.”

caleb's eyes fly open at your words, pupils blown wide—you're probably fucking his mind upside down right now too. because he actually wouldn't mind drop to his knees in front of his whole bigrade—tongue out, begging for a taste—just to make you moan, to let them see who really owns him.

and you notice how his whimpers just grew louder from this idea, “oh, caleb… you're dirty. y'know that?” you grind harder, slower, meaner, your slick soaking through the lace of your panties and bleeding into the fabric of his pants—his cock an angry, twitching bulge pinned between you. “you're so desperate you'd let everyone see you losing your mind over your wife's pussy, letting them see how embarassing you can get..” you bite his earlobe hard enough to let him moan. “you're just a good little toy in uniform after all, a cock that leaks and cries ridiculously.”

and he nods. he nods.

his eyes are glassy, his warm purple had been swallowed by his pupils, his lips are parted and his knuckles are white from how hard he's holding onto the edge of the chair, still not touching you because you haven't let him. even his cheeks are streaked with real tears—shame and heat knotting his gut. 

“you gonna ruin your stupid pants while i hump you like a pillow?” you taunt, licking the salt from his cheek.

“please—fuck, fuck—please, p-please—i can't…please, fuck—please..” his head lolls back, he can't align two words together—he physically and mentally can't— not when he can feel your clit deliciously dragging over his swollen tip trough both layers, the texture unbearable. his thighs keep jolting up, poor boy thinks he might accidentally fuck you through his pants if he bucks just right.

and with his head throwing back, he give you a full view on that poor vulnerable throat—his Adam's apple bobbing helpless so you lean in and bite—the hat tumbles from your head, falling to the floor as your mouth seals over his neck, sucking hard, tongue swirling around it, lips locked around the bob like it's candy.

he chokes on the noise he makes—he's so easy.

you pull off with a lewd pop, spit shining on his neck, and you grin right into his glassy-eyed face. “do you like this, caleb? like being my little cockdoll in uniform?” you grind harder, and his eyes roll back— for a second he thinks he's gonna pass out.

you tilt your head, feigning sweetness as you watch him gasping. “that's okay, baby. you don't need thoughts after all." you kiss with fake gentleness his lips. “you just need to sit there and take it like the good little pillow fuck you are.”

“god—please—please, i'm…oh fuck, please—l-lemme touch y-you, fuck—please?” caleb's whole boyd is twitching, he's trying so hard not to rut up in case you might pull back. he's waiting for you to tell him what to do. he's sure if you ever decide to pull his pants and boxers down, you'd find so much precum soaked into them it'd look like he already came :(

his dick is so painfully stiff now there's no room left inside his boxer. it's straining against his waistband, trapped and pulsing, soaking through with pre that won't stop leaking.

“you're truly pathetic..” you say calmly, almost bored. “you're panting and soaking through your uniform like a teenager…caleb, did you wear those to work? your dump little cock all strained up in your pants to the idea of my pussy?”

“n-no, i—i didn't—” he's blinking fast, trying to focus, but his vision blurs.

“oh. so you didn't think about me while you were out playing hero? or the villain?” your hips grind down again—meaner, heavier. “not even once, pretty? not once while you were out flashing your badge, big man, that you imagined crawling home just to hump yourself stupid under me?” your voice drops, “you didn't think about how good it would fell to rub that needy, swollen cock against your wife's cunt?”

“fuck—fuck i did…” he chokes, “i did, i swear—just—it won't stop—i c-can't stop it—” his whole body's coiled tight, begging for release. his cock pulses again and again, fat and rigid. and it hurts so bad now it’s almost unbearable. his boxers are soaked through, sticking to him, wet and hot and suffocating.

“gonna blow in your fucking boxers just from me grinding on you. not even touching your cock. not even letting you inside.” you snarl, leaning close. “put your hands on my hips, now.”

no matter how much you were trying to play rude, you were just as desperate as him, and you also couldn't finish if he wasn't touching you. caleb doesn't need you to repeat twice, his hands are flying to your hips—gripping hard, his face is burning, tears watering his cheeks, tongue pressed to the back of his teeth like he's trying to hold onto the last scrap of dignity he has left, muffling all the pornographic moans he's making.

“you’re gonna make a mess right in your little cop costume,” you whisper against his mouth, not kissing, just hovering. “and for what? a few strokes of my pussy on your clothed cock?” you pant, sweat dripping down your neck and caleb's gaze is locked there—tongue almost stinging out, in wants to lick it, taste every inch of you, bury himself in your skin.

“please,” he gasps, hips jolting again, “please—I don’t care, I don’t—just let me, let me cum, i’ll do anything, i’ll ruin these pants, i’ll say thank you while i’m fucking leaking, i don’t care—please—” you raise an eyebrow, mocking as he continues. “i need—fuck, i need it…i'll clean it, all of it. . i swear—mghn, just—please, please let me cum…”

your breath hitches. 

you like it.

you like him like this—shaking under you, begging like something desperate and yours. it hits you in a wave, just like always : feral, possessive, overwhelming. you need him to break underneath you, to be a mess and only for you, only because it's you.

your hips stutter. just a friction. he moans, high, and it shreds through you.

“you feel that?” you snap, grabbing his jaw and tilting his head back, your own voice shaking now. “you feel how wet i am? what you're doing to me only by sitting there and whimpering for me?” his mouth drops open in a silent cry and just as you insert your thumb in his mouth, his hips snap up with a sharp, helpless jerk. 

he's so close, he swears he can taste it.

the fabric between you is completely soaked, clinging to every inch of him—your slick and his precum smeared into one hot, humiliating mess. his purple eyes disappear behind fluttering lids, his lips sucking greedily on your thumb, his moans vibrating through your whole body. “go on,” you hiss against his cheeks, nuzzling it, “cum in your pants for me. make a mess, ruin yourself like a good boy. pour so much cum that i can feel it through my panties.”

his hands are definitely going to leave bruises on your hips from how tightly he's groping you. his hips are having a mind of their own now, rubbing onto your clit, “fuck—fuck, oh god, fuck, ‘s too good, i’m—babe, fuck—”

his whole body convulses, once, twice—and he breaks.

his cock pulses hard against you, unloading into his boxers in hot, thick spurts, so much he actually whimpers from the pressure, from the pure relief. his thighs are trembling, his stomach twitching with every wave of release, and he’s gasping through it like he doesn’t even know what’s happening to him.

his forehead drops to your chest, breath hitching, and he’s sobbing. quiet, frantic little gasps. “thank you—thank you—oh my god—thank you—” he babbles, his words melting into your skin.

you’re still grinding, just enough to keep him oversensitive, to let him feel how wet he’s made you too. your fingers slide into his damp hair pulling his head back. his cheeks are flushed and wet, his eyes swollen. “you did so good, pretty boy.” 

you press your mouth to his, just a soft peck. “so so good for me, my dear.” you let your tongue glide out, slowly, lazily tracing his bottom lip—a question.

and he parts for you immediately, no hesitation in sight—he's just open and eager to obey you. your tongue slip into his mouth, claiming him all over again—sucking his tongue between your lips in a messy rhythm. your mouths mold onto each other, wet and rough, spit glistening down your chin. 

your brows pinch together, tight with something deeper than lust and all he can do is kiss you back, sloppy and dazed, hands still gripping your hips like you're anchoring him down to reality. 

(or heaven he doesn't know at this point)

  ˶‾᷄ ⁻̫ ‾᷅˵ 

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ You test out a new lipstick

(Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Tartaglia)

Tw: smooches! Shield your eyes!

Oh, would you look at that, you bought a new lipstick. You just need to test whether it wears down quickly or leaves any mark. 

✧ Pierro is in a haste. You blurt out that you need a new lipstick once, and the next thing you know, he purchases several high-quality ones for you. Offering you swatches of colors, makeup removers, different shades, and lipstick textures, he observes with analytical admiration as you sit in front of a mirror and apply the lipstick carefully. 

One last step is missing – to try its imprint. The Jester is ready to reach for a napkin to let you try. But you only smiled. Before he can comprehend, your hand reaches to turn his head and gently guides him closer to your lips until you sweetly capture his. It’s not often that The Jester experiences a complete blank out, but when you deliberately trace your lips across his skin and start preparing his face with kisses, how else is he supposed to react? Hold in his hitched breaths? Not deepen the kisses to relish the ambrosia of your lips?

Suffice it to say, you are proud of the imprints on his pale skin. He seems even prouder, wearing them like a badge of honor, despite his stoic appearance.

✧ You asked Il Capitano to evaluate the new shade of lipstick you bought. Like any loving partner, the honorable Captain stated honestly that any hue suits you elegantly. Even if his knowledge of cosmetics is minimal, he felt delighted and proud of your looks.  

But that wasn’t the issue. Now you were standing in front of him, smiling menacingly.  

“What is it, my treasure?”  

You stepped closer.  

“Dear…?”  

You stepped even closer. Oh no, thought the Captain, he’s in danger. His pleas for reason and mercy went unheard. Instead, he faced a bigger battle—a battle that left his helmet not with scratches but with various imprints of your kisses. You stood triumphantly, happy with your lipstick and the numerous marks on his helmet and neck. 

Il Capitano lost the battle that day. 

✧ At last, Il Dottore mused to himself, the perfect hue of lipstick designed scientifically for you. You voiced your issue in finding a suitable shade of makeup for yourself, hence you asked none other than your beloved to find a logical solution. So he took matters into his own hands to find the best chemical solution and accurately create the best shade to match your skin. 

Naturally, it was a success. With his gloves stained in various colorful substances, he proudly handed you a slender tube with a delicate black cap from the table as if it were a casual concoction he could make on a whimsy. Hence, you thanked him and blithely applied it on the spot.

“Dottore, it turned out magnificently!” – you said as you looked into the reflection of your face. But when you turned to look at him, Dottore’s complexion went vaguely blank. “Hm, what is it? Isn't it good? You made it matte, too.” 

He silently stepped forward; even behind his black mask, you could sense his full attention zooming on the beauty of your lips. 

"Well, true... I formulated it to be stain-proof, so it won't smudge as you go about your day. However," - he hummed, his hand cupping your jawline warmly. "Every product requires assiduous testing. We could conduct a few tests of our own to ensure its performance. If I may," 

Of course, he would test it personally. Of course, he then captures your lips in a kiss, his hand on the back of your head, his touch an ardent mix of passion and desire. He explores your mouth, his tongue caressing yours with a fervor, wanting to test how long the lipstick will last under the pressure of his kisses. You should've expected this, as his other hand encloses around you to press you flush against him. 

"Ah... interesting. It's held up quite well. There's no transfer on your skin or mine, but I do think further testing is necessary."

“Enough, enough! That’s plenty of testing from you!” 

✧ Scaramouche dislikes shopping. It’s a hassle, truly. You requested him to accompany you on a leisurely stroll, oblivious of your trap to drag him to some quick shopping. Except this quick shopping turned into a full-blown shopping spree. The question is: was he here to accompany you or to pull you away from wasting all your Mora on fleeting indulgences?

“No, you don't need any more clothes. You have plenty of unworn ones.”

“No, we don't need any more plushies, your bed is already littered with them.”

“And no, you already had some snacks on the way here. Stop buying more!”

You couldn't escape his stern reminders, even if they were practical. However, there was still one shop you left as an ace up your sleeves. Before finishing today's trip, you encouraged The Balladeer to join you in cosmetics shopping. Your innocent smile spoke promises of letting him choose your new lipstick color if he so desired, and the allure of it caused him to halt. 

“... Me? Why must I choose? Can't you pick a simple color and call it a day, huh?” - Scaramouche feigned annoyance when, in reality, he quickly grabbed your arm and led you hastily to the boutique. “We'll quickly buy one, but don't get any ideas that we're staying here for any longer.”

Poor Harbinger; he didn't have to lie to himself so cruelly. The two of you stayed in the boutique for a long while, not because you were indecisive, but because Scaramouche suddenly took the matters with utter seriousness. Should he suggest a carnelian shade? It would match with his own red eyeshade. Or perhaps a darker one would suit your complexion? Especially if you decided to leave contrasting lipstick imprints all over his porcelain skin- 

Scaramouche shook his head. Your voice interrupted his train of thought.

“Um… Scara, sweetie? Could we decide already? We spent the whole day in this shop.”

“We'll buy all of them, then,” - he held up your face, his full focus on you as you timidly averted your gaze. “Here. Now let me help you apply it.” 

✧ Pantalone sat behind his desk, fingers intertwined thoughtfully. Silver glasses cast a shadow upon his already darkened gaze. His expression, unfortunately, was far from pleased. 

“L-lord Harbinger Regrator,” – the Fatui subordinate uttered. “It is with utmost sorrow that I must inform you that- that the cosmetologists you hired have not finished their work. They are still in the process of creating the products you requested.” 

The silence of the office was deafening. The Harbinger granted no mercy with his prolonged pause.

“... I commission the best cosmetologist in all of Teyvat, and they still dare to waste my Mora and time? Is this some frivolous matter for them?” - The Harbinger's hands sternly pressed against the table, his voice raised “My beloved requested a new lipstick! They deserve the best of the best, as soon as possible!” 

“Uh, honey… I am still here in the room.” - your voice interjected awkwardly. Indeed, it's true; you are sitting nearby, blinking in confusion. You waved at the Fatui subordinate to take it easy, signaling sympathetically that your partner was having another one of his ambitious episodes. 

“Honey, my love, this is no fleeting matter! I wanted you to get the highest, custom-made quality for cosmetics. You rarely ask for anything, but when you do, I can't just let you down!” 

“It's just lipstick…! I didn't even say what color or kind I wanted.”

“And that's precisely why you shall get all of them. You there,” - he signaled back to the subordinate swiftly. “Quick, send the letters to those cosmetic chemists to hurry up if they want to make themselves worth the Mora. Delays are not negotiable.”

With the Fatui worker scurrying away in a hurry, Pantalone sighed deeply before plopping down beside you on the sofa of his office. You patted his back, amused by his sudden precedence over something so mundane. 

“There, there, Pantalone. You know it's nothing urgent. It's just lipstick.”

“Not any lipstick. Your lipstick, darling! I need to see you don the most dazzling color on your lips.” He turned to gently trace his thumb across your jawline, his voice softening. “...The lips that should be showering me with kisses and leaving lipstick prints on my skin.”

You laughed heartily – “Oh, so that's what it's all about? You know, makeup or no makeup, I can still kiss y-”

You didn't register how The Harbinger's head bowed lowly in reverence. “I would pay you any amount of Mora for you to do so.” 

Pantalone truly knows how to blow up over the most bizarre things. Either way, as the weeks passed, the newly ordered cosmetics did arrive as instructed. How did people know? Because Pantalone didn’t shy away from flaunting the traces of your delicate lips on his neck and blouse. A testament to stolen kisses and intimate moments behind closed doors. His triumphant grin says it all. 

✧ Your ever-observant boyfriend, Tartaglia, noticed you mulling something over by the mirror. You seemed in deep focus, a new item in your hands as you inspected your visage. You tried on a new lipstick! 

Childe, being the endearing goofball that he is, complimented your new purchase with delight. You appreciated his knack for noticing even the smallest changes, even if you didn't directly tell him you tried on something new. All was well! 

Or was it? For beneath his easygoing smile, in the deepest recesses of his soul, Tartaglia was begging, crying, screaming. He wanted to hold your face in his palms and kiss you senseless. He wished to taste the sweetness of your lips until this adorable color of your lipstick was smeared on both of your faces. He wished to soak in the warmth of your pecks and kisses, dreaming for your touch to litter his face with imprints.  

Did he say all of that? Of course not. He kept beaming at you in adoration, his smile tender while his thoughts devouring. Yet, after days of wrestling with his unspoken desires, Childe devised a plan – a very, very subtle plan.

“Oh nooo,” - he lamented dramatically, leaning against the doorway with a hand draped theatrically over his forehead. “If only my beloved was here to bestow me some loving kisses, especially when they look so alluring in their new lipstick! If only!” 

You raised an eyebrow at Tartaglia’s shenanigans as if asking him: Really? What is this damsel in distress act? Nonetheless, luckily for the 11th, his oh-so-subtle hints hit the mark, because you happily cupped his cheeks and smooched them with fervor, feeling his warm skin under your lips as he chuckled.  

Needless to say, your lipstick didn’t stand a chance.

[thecoochiefairy]

bratty. toji.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 7.8K words. blackfem!characters, drabble, toji fushiguro, drifter!toji, grumpy!toji, sweet!toji, dominant!toji, nasty sex, car sex, sweet sex, black woman, vaginal penetration, rough, lil bit of sweet talkin’, hair pulling, creaming, oral [f], choking, praising, LOTS of dirty talk, missionary, condomless sex, fingering, bratty main character, kissing, spanking, minors aren’t welcome!

━━ 𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ my man, my man. my man. plz listen to all the songs attached within the drabble! it’ll give you the full experience. the song i chose for toji felt so him coded.

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ :: slow strokes. nasty ass. you hear that, baby?

PINK METALLIC BEAMED UNDER THE STARS OF THE NIGHT, your grin from ear to ear as you watched people snap pictures of your flawlessly wrapped car. It was a 2001 Honda S2000, Hello Kitty headlights blinking rapidly in the back, magenta LED lights glowing underneath the vehicle, the inputted speakers shaking the ground as Aghora Hills fell on the next mixture within your playlist. Suki, you called her. 

You were unsure of how you’d been surviving for most of the night, the skimpy chrome heels you wore thin as a needle, shorts having your ass poke out the bottom, top clinging against your pierced nipples. Beauty was pain. You pull the dark tresses of your  curls behind your ear, pressing your brown and mauve lip combination together impatiently. 

It was the monthly car meet, a high influx of people showing up to show off their custom vehicles, motorcycles—or even to simply network, share knowledge and socialize. You had worked on your own car with your bare hands, never shying away from people complimenting it. Your father had been a mechanic for years, teaching you the ways to create your dream car. Here it was. 

But besides all that, you were irritated at the moment. Your boyfriend was supposed to show up with his car, telling him that you didn’t want to be a part of the drifting show, saying that you’d sit in the passenger seat of his and look pretty. As always, he’d reply back. 

But he was late. An hour and a half to be exact, and the only people you had accompanying you was Suguru and Satoru, here with their own cars, but also trying to lessen your irritation.  

“Want some of my churro?” Satoru asks, waving the sugary dessert in front of your face. Your arm is crossed as you lean along your vehicle, shaking your head as you say, “No. You shouldn’t be eating that shit either, it gives you gas.”

They were essentially attached at the hip, your bodyguards if your dilatory ass man wasn’t around. They were even dressed similarly tonight. Both of them were wearing long sleeve black tops clinging to their muscular frames, Satoru’s dark shades shining under the light as he leaned along his own car. Suguru was a bit grumpy at the moment because he couldn’t find a cigarette off of anyone, re-tying his hair into a low bun, trying to keep his patience with his high energy friend. 

Satoru frowned, icy blue eyes faintly blinking as he narrowed them, “You lie. That was only that one time!”

Suguru’s hand clutched around the top of the churro, snatching it from his friend. His long hair shined beneath the lights bathing along the other vehicles as he snapped to him, “Give me that. Your farts could clear a whole fuckin’ continent. You know you’re lactose.”

Satoru pouts, puffing out his bottom lip and shoving his hands into the confines of his pant pockets as he rocks back and forth on his heels. He crosses one ankle across the other as he lets out a sigh. His azure hues land back onto you, “C’mon. Cheer up. Pretty girl.”

“I’m fine,” you brush off, “He’s always late. I asked him once to be on time—the drifting show starts in less than an hour!”

Satoru rolled his eyes, “You should know by now that he just does what he wants.”

Suguru chimed in as he shoved the churro back into whatever food bag he had, “Maybe he found someone better than your hotheaded ass.”

“Awe, jealous that you can’t have me? Yeah, shut the fuck up,” you punch his arm, moving forward anyway as he tries to duck your swing. You then say, “That’s why both of y’all cars are ugly!”

Satoru’s eyes widen, mouth slacking open as Suguru’s arms drop to his sides—incredulous. He huffed out a scoff, “My car looks good as fuck!”

Satoru crosses his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes at you as he adds, “I agree with Suguru. Mine looks great.”

Your eyes move over to their vehicles you talk shit on, seeing Suguru’s Porsche 911 GT3 R, navy blue with black interior. It contrasts in Satoru’s shiny white Ferrari SP-8, the wheels even a stark alabaster color. You shrug, “They’ alright.”

“Yeah, whatever. Don’t be mad cause you got a man that can’t be on time for you,” Suguru glances out to the crowd of people, standing in lines at the food trucks, drinking their livers away before the actual shows begin. 

You raise an eyebrow, “Want a scratch on that expensive ass car of yours? ‘Cause my fingers feel itchy.” 

Satoru let out a whistle as he took a step back, leaning back against his car. He smirked, icy eyes flickering between you two, “Aye, chill. This night is supposed to be fun. No reason to get violent. Let’s do a Baddie-Baddie Shot O’ Clock! Where’s my Cognac?!”

He dips inside the window of his car to search, your crossed arms shifting as you watch two girls begin to walk towards you. You assume it’s for them to compliment your car. 

“Hey, where’s Fushiguro? Is he bringing his truck?”

The question is followed by giggles, your eyebrow raising in between the two blondes as you say, “Excuse me?” Ignoring the way Suguru mutters, “Uh oh,” while Satoru still searches within his seats for the bottle.

They’re both dressed the exact same—which was creepy—their heels matching their short skirts and crop tops. The taller of the two pushes her blonde locks behind her shoulder as she repeats herself, “Fushiguro. The guy with the Dodge RAM truck? He’s coming, right? He’s sooo fucking hot!” 

“He is!” 

Both of the girls began to giggle again, it almost makes you want to slam their heads together, hoping they’d morph into one and disintegrate. You were known to be a crash out, uncaring of where your anger had you end up. 

Satoru’s hand finally pulls out a thick glass decanter of Cognac, the bottle making a satisfying thud against the window of his car. He glances between you and the girls, almost feeling sorry for them.

You began to giggle aggressively with them, emphasizing on your dramatization of how they sound. You then say, “My man is running late, but the groupie section is right here, actually! Did you buy a ticket?”

They both blink owlishly, the expression making them look more bimbo-like. They’re visibly confused, as if you were speaking a language they could barely understand, the shorter of the two asking, “What groupie section?” 

Satoru snickers, attempting to hold back his laughter while Suguru’s eyes narrow.

Satoru took his chance to make a comment after finally containing his amusement. He cleared his throat, taking a few steps in your direction as he raised the decanter. 

“We don’t gotta fight, me and my friend can actually escort you ladies to his section—“

Suguru waves, “I don’t even like blondes.”

“Satoru, please shut the fuck up,” you warn, “Are y’all dense? I just said my man, meaning you need to step the fuck back.”

The shorter blonde girl’s head tilts to the side, clearly still not understanding what you’re implying. Her lips pursed together as she pouts, “Who’re you?” 

“And why are you so aggressive?” the tallest of the girls asks, blonde tresses shaking as she cocks her head to the side.

Satoru was about to make another comment on it, but one look from you shuts him up and has him chugging a shot of alcohol. He swallows it, a grimace taking over his 

expression as he wipes his lips with the back of his hand.

“I’m the bitch who’s about to give you the brain you don’t have!” 

You’re like a wind up toy, coaxed in reaction when someone pulls you. You were too busy giving these girls the business to notice the monster truck that screeches as it parks close by, sleek black—windows tinted—Dodge Ram 3500 terrifying in comparison to the other cars. The spiked wheels, blinding headlights and LED strips along the bottom excel along the concrete. He already knows you’re somewhere cussing someone out. 

Dropping down from the truck, his leather jacket and hefty boots hit the ground as he’s already coming towards you. You’re lunging towards the women who squeal like school girls, feeling an arm tug around your hips, yanking you back, scarred lip already pressed along your ear as his deep voice transfers up to your brain.

“Knock it off.” 

The sudden gruff of his voice, so close to your ear, it makes you pause. You look up at him, his expression stern while the girls from before took the chance to scurry away before you could get to them. They were smart at least.

“I wouldn’t have done shit if you’d been here already,” you’re already glaring, finally turning your head to look up to him.

His expression doesn’t falter, if anything it hardens as his jaw clenches. He still has an arm wrapped around your middle, keeping you in place while he glances over to Satoru and Suguru, who try to not look at him, knowing your already shitty mood would only be made worse by the addition of their commentary. 

“And where the fuck were y’all at when she was about to beat up two girls, Barbie and Ken?” Toji’s glare follows Satoru and Suguru, seeing as they only watched.

Satoru frowns at that, “I’m not liking your attitude. Am I Barbie? I hope I’m Ken.”

Suguru crossed his arms over his chest, not looking guilty in the slightest as he replied, “We were just letting her get that shit out of her system. Stopping her would’ve made it worse. You know that.” 

Toji’s lips press into a thin line at that, knowing that what Suguru said was in fact true. Though, the last thing he wanted was for you to get into a physical fight in the middle of a car meet, surrounded by at least 400+ people. 

“You’ done with your temper tantrum?” he asks rather than comments, his dark eyes locking back onto yours.

“Are you?” You snarl back, ignoring as he now fully pins you against your car, your back along the pink wrap as he traps you with his large arms.

Your attempt to be bitchy didn’t affect him as much as you thought it would, only having the effect of narrowing his eyes at you. 

Toji was a tall man, especially when compared to you, even with your heels on, you still have to look up at him. He doesn’t care that you’re pissed off at the moment. 

You cross your arms, “What? Am I annoying you or something?”

“You’re being a pain in the ass is what you’re being. You knew I wasn’t gonna come on time. You just wanted to be here early.”

“Oh, so he does know why I’m mad. Good use of your comprehension skills!” You’re incredibly sarcastic, giving him a big smile. 

His fingers reach out, gripping your chin as he angles your face to look at him. You were always a mouthy thing. Especially when you get in a mood like this. It’d be cute if it wasn’t something you were capable of continuing on for hours. 

“Cut it the fuck out. I’m here now. Just say you missed me.”

You huff, but nonetheless, he was right. It was coming from a place of hoping he’d been here already, wanting to enjoy your time with him at a place you loved attending. 

You then admit with less aggression, “I just wanted you to be here with me.” 

Toji knows you. He’s heard this pouty voice from you so many times. 

He leans in, locking an arm around the back of your neck to pull your face close to his, “You’ done acting up now?”

His forehead touches yours as you then say softly, “Maybe.”

Goddamn it. You were too cute. He hated when you got in a mood like this because he was so hard-wired to respond to it with something soft in return. He then let his arm drag down to your ass, gripping the flesh in his hold, “You were smart to put this flimsy ass outfit on while you weren’t around me.”

“Can you just say I look pretty?” You ask, smacking your lips, immediate irritation crawling back in your veins, attempting to turn your face away from him when he pulls it back.

His lips twitch up at the sight of that irritated expression taking over again. The fact that you were pouting made his heart clench in an annoying way that he didn't fully understand. He loved when you were difficult, because he knew how to handle you. He pulls your chin back to him again. 

“You look pretty as fuck, baby,” he responds, his tone smooth as he gives you a smirk, “Although you don’t need the compliment. You know you look good.”

You roll your eyes, briefly pulling them back to the crowd of people. When you meet his face again, you’re immediately pulled in. Those damn grey eyes. Your lashes flutter as you lean up, accepting the kiss he was waiting for, feeling your face go warm as he sloppily tongues you down, never caring if anyone was around to do it.

It’s a bruising and possessive kiss that sends chills down your spine, his tongue dominating over yours as he pushes you back against your car. He can already feel the heat rising in you, the way your skin felt warm on his and how your body pressed against his. Your head even tilts back a bit, your hand clutching the bottom of his shirt to keep your weight steady. 

“Alright, nasty asses,” Suguru interrupts, Satoru beside him who’s dry heaving at the sight, “Y’all done fighting? Can we enjoy our night?” 

When you pull back, your cheeks are sure to be a little red, hiding your face within his chest as you hear his deep tone chuckle from that.

Toji glances at the two over your head, almost smug at the sight of them being visibly irritated at the kiss, “Shut the fuck up, dweeb.” 

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Satoru groans out, clutching the decanter in his hand, “Now, can we show everyone your pretty Suki? Let's do some shots! You hear that? Your favorite song is playing!” 

It was in fact one of your favorite songs from when you were a little girl, Move Ya’ Body by Nina Sky. Satoru begins to wave his hands above his head from side to side, causing you to shake your head with a giggle, “You’re a terrible bottle girl.”

“I’d make bank,” Satoru smacks his lips, “C’mon, Suguru. Dance with me!”

Suguru deadpans, “I’m not dancing.” 

Satoru groans, “I’m a ray of sunshine with three clouds trying to rain down on me, and that’s cool! Fuckin’ haters!”

That makes all three of you laugh, but he was right, it was time to enjoy the night. The drift show began to start— this was something that put you in your element. It was a different experience each time, especially drifting with three different men. 

You always hopped into Satoru’s Ferrari first—essentially the warm up—Satoru was entirely too safe considering his car was his precious baby. You enjoyed yourself nonetheless, hollering with him as he swerved around the parking lot with other vehicles. 

He could accelerate his car, but drifting with it was out of the question. It was better to leave it to the actual drifters like Toji and Suguru. 

Suguru was next. He was the complete opposite, reckless to be the perfect word. But it was the adrenaline you looked for within Satoru. 

You watch Toji within his truck from across the Porsche you sit in, seeing as Toji tosses a cigarette to Suguru with a warning, “Keep my girl safe as fuck, unless you want your heart to be pulled out through your ass.”

“Aye, don’t worry,” Suguru responds, giving the middle finger to Toji, one hand on the wheel while the other laid behind your seat as he grins, “I’m about to show 

Princess how to really drift a fuckin’ car.” 

Toji throws an equal finger up to him, watching as you lean over his friend's lap playfully, taking the cigarette to press in between Suguru’s lips, his smirk cocky as you light the object for him. You can feel Toji’s glare as you hear him call, “Quit being fuckin’ cute.”

That’s the last thing you hear as Suguru takes off, your head reaching out the window as you shriek in a girly manner, his one hand on the wheel twisting as music hums against the speakers, 4X4 by Don Toliver vibrating the entire car. 

Suguru was a good drifter, not as great as Toji, but enough that it had you cheering and laughing with him as he weaved through abandoned parking spots, just missing the car swiveling next to him. There was a moment when he almost lost control, causing you to scream and slap his arm.

He smirked beside you, enjoying the slap, “Oh, you liked that shit, huh?” 

You managed to smack his bicep again, “No, I did not! I’d like all four tires to stay on the ground while I’m in your car!”

“Should’ve stayed with your man then.”

And then, there was Toji. There was only one word that came to mind—effortless. He was a professional, your giggle unable to stop itself as he aggressively picked you up to place you in his truck with his wheels being high, smacking your ass as you jumped into the large seat. You’re all riled up from previous activities, seeing his muscular frame leaned back into the seat, engine roaring as he begins revving it up. You’re already climbing halfway out of the window, your hair a little messy from the wind, a nonetheless flawless look to you.

He glances over at you, his eyes locking onto your nearly hanging body sticking out of the passenger window of his truck. He smirks at the sight of you, the way you looked like a woman who was having the time of her life. You probably were enjoying yourself, with your messy hair and flushed cheeks. 

He reaches out to smack your ass again, the force rocking your body forward, “Sit down.”

You playfully swirl your hips, the shot you’d finally accepted from Satoru beginning to kick in. Of course, you don’t listen, arching your back farther outside of the window, heels pointed towards him, showing off your back dermals. 

When he steps his foot on the gas, he grunts as he grips the back of your shorts to pull you somewhat back, brilliant with his hands as he’s already burning the tires rubber, swerving dangerously, always knowing exactly which way he wants to go.

The song ILUV by Yeat plays exactly on time. Toji was a demon behind the wheel. He was capable of spinning his truck around, leaving behind clouds of black smoke, burning through tires faster than anyone at the car meet. He was cocky, but he was good. He’d been doing this longer than anyone else at these kinds of meets, and it showed. It didn’t come as a shock when he took every sharp turn perfectly, even on two wheels for some seconds. 

He loved when you got loud. The sound of your laughs, shouts and screams fueled the adrenaline that pumped through his veins. You were a sight to behold, sitting in his passenger seat, body half-hung out the window with your hair flying around. 

When you turn back to him, your dopamine levels sky high—it riles you up even more. His dark hair, muscles flexing as he’d removed his jacket before he turned on the truck, strident jaw clenching from the cigarette between his lips. You couldn’t help it—maybe it was also that shot you’d taken—but you were horny.

 You crawl over your seat, making your way onto him. You made sure his eyes were still in sight of driving the truck as you sat on his lap, dragging your mouth along his neck, grinding yourself against him with a breathless giggle.

His head tilts back slightly as you begin to nibble on his throat, his hands gripping the steering wheel a bit more tightly, muscles tensing under your body. You were the very definition of a distraction, your giggles against his skin sending heat right to the pit in his stomach. 

One of his hands reaches out to grab the back of your shorts, gripping the material to keep your hips rolling against his. “You’re needy as fuck tonight.”

Your tongue flattens along the skin of his throat, seeing the bruise that comes from your actions, fingers clutching for his belt as you lightly moan as a response.

He groans as you lick on his neck, leaving behind a spot of saliva in the process. He feels the way your hands grip his belt, pulling at the leather material, your small fingers slipping under his shirt, pressing against his taut stomach. 

He can feel the growing bulge in his pants from your movements, the friction against the thick material only adding more sparks in the pit of his gut.

 “Quit playing, you’re gonna cause a fuckin’ car wreck if you keep it up, baby.”

Yet you continue anyway, a throb producing between your legs as you drag yourself along his bulge. You hold onto him when you feel him do a harsh swerve, not realizing it was purposeful, making you scream out in fear as you panic, “Sorry!” 

Once you realize, you punch his arm, “Fushiguro!”

“Just making sure you pay attention,” he grins, grabbing the back of your thighs, angling you sideways as you now pout.

When the drift show ends, it’s finally the moment you’d been waiting for overall—the race. You hadn’t customized this car with a supercharger and a performative exhaust system for nothing. 

You smile as you rev your engine loudly beside Suguru, Satoru and Toji’s vehicles, other cars included.

Suguru had his car next to yours, the loud revving of the engine causing him to smirk over at you. “I’m eating the fuckin’ dust!”

You had Toji and Satoru on the other side of you, Satoru’s windows rolled down, his white hair ruffling against his face from the wind of the other vehicles. “Shittt, not if I win!”

“The fuck y’all won’t—they got four grand on this shit!” Toji calls out, watching you as you sit in your seat, your foot holding down the gas.

“Stop putting money on shit, broke bitch!” Suguru raises his middle finger, the both of them flicking off each other. 

You then call out, “Y’all talking too much shit to be losers!” 

And just like that, the flag is thrown, tires screeching horrifyingly as you take off, expertly making your way through every. single. car.

You were an experienced driver and it showed, especially when you began to pick up speed, your hands gripping the wheel tightly and eyes narrowed. You had a lead over everyone, including Toji who was right behind you in his truck. He was keeping up with you, even when you passed car after car. 

Suguru and Satoru were slightly behind, but quickly catching up, just barely though. They were no match for the way you weaved through everyone, taking each turn with ease.

You were neck and neck with Toji. You watched as his engine matched your speed, the two of you excellerating as you approached the finish line. In a last ditch effort, you put more force into it, the force of the engine making your body lean back into the seat as you watched your speedometer rise higher. 

Unfortunately, your man still ended up winning. You could hear his low voice howling as he sped farther down, quickly turning the car around as all the others had begun slowing down, pulling back to where your car halted. As everyone begins to circle around one another, you lean along your car, rolling your eyes as you knew his cocky ass would never let this go. 

You turn towards Suguru and Satoru as they’re talking massive amounts of shit, ignoring Toji’s heavy steps behind you as he wraps his arm around your neck from behind, you roll your eyes as his hands immediately travel towards your ass.

Satoru was practically shouting as he approached your car, his fist reaching out to hit the top of it several times, “I want my payout! I got second place!”

“Ask your friend who was talking all that shit to pay you out! I’m taking my woman somewhere with that money!” 

That makes you suppress a giddy smile, not wanting to give him the satisfaction as you turn around, “Mmm, what else do I get, since you’re in such a good mood?” 

You giggle as he pulls your legs around his waist, grunting as you give him pecks along his mouth.

“Anything you want, baby. That smell good ass Miss Dior, a pink Telfar. Whatever your fuckin’ heart desires.”

“What about me?” Satoru says, fluttering his eyelashes.

Toji pulls back, scrunching up his face as Satoru leans into him before he says, “You get a fart, bitch.” 

As the night continues on, you’re standing around with Toji, Suguru and Satoru as they mingle and socialize with other men, the decrease of women making you want to leave. At this point, you were ready to be somewhere secluded, riding your man in the nastiest way you could. Yet he’s more occupied with his friends.

You lean your head on his shoulder, which makes him turn his head down towards you. You mumbled lowly, “I’m ready to go,” knowing that he wasn’t. 

“We’ve only been here for an hour.” He retorts, leaning down to speak into your ear, his voice low, “You can wait a little longer.”

You become drastically more horny just from him speaking in your ear, and even more impatient at his decline. You raise your hand to grip his hair, pulling him down to kiss you, sucking his lips into your mouth, uncaring if anyone watched.

That got his attention real quick, his body twisting to face yours at the kiss, his jaw clenching at your grip on his hair. When your lips move against his, his mind goes blank, a growl pulling from his mouth as he pulls back with a warning, “Chill.” 

Whatever. You fully roll your eyes, dropping your hand as you say, “I’m going to your truck. Go fuck your friends since they have your attention.” 

He can’t help but glare as he watches you stomp over to his truck, his dark eyes locked on your hips as you move further away. You hopped within the backseat, your aching feet causing you to remove your heels and fully lay your body out to scroll on your phone. He was used to your attitude, and he was extremely patient with it. But you’d worked on his nerves a couple of times tonight, and he was now weighing his options of letting it be, or knocking that shit out of your system.

His jaw clenched as he raises off of the hood of Satoru’s car, already walking away while Suguru calls, “Yo! You’ leaving, Fushiguro?”

“Nah. I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” he doesn’t turn back, hopping into his driver's seat. 

Your head sits up as you hear the door open and shut, “Are we leaving?” 

He doesn’t say anything as he pulls off. Your face pulls into a frown, sitting in between the middle part of the back seat as you frown, “Are you ignoring me?” 

Once again, nothing. You scoff, crossing your arms, “Typical.” 

He ends up going to a roof top not too far from where everyone was, the lot surprisingly empty as you make it to the top. You become more irritated, narrowing your eyes as you start again, “Fushiguro—“

He’s already climbing into the backseat with you, causing you to scoot closer to the door, thinking maybe he was fed up with your shit. You thought he was gonna rough you up just in the way you liked, or even put you in your place. Either way was in your favor. 

But instead, he clutches your face, rubbing your cheek with his thumb as he asks, “You need me, baby?” 

You blink at the question. It makes your throat go dry, and as you search his eyes, there’s no anger in them. He just needs you to answer. 

So you reply softly, “…Yes.”

His fingers dig into your cheek, forcing your head back slightly as he moves in close, his warm breath ghosting over your lips.

The softness is unexpected. It makes you a little more relaxed as he grunts,”Let me take care of you,” hovering himself above you, your back now pressing against the seats. 

“You’ comfortable?” He questions within your ear, his voice sounds concerned. Your breath hitches lightly as his gentle touch. You were unsure why this sudden moment had your spine tingle. At that, you nod your head as you pull him closer, giving him a soft peck on the lips. 

“Now you wanna be sweet and shit.”

You’re silent, your eyes fluttering shut as you feel your cheeks becoming warm. Toji brings your face a centimeter closer, gently pressing your lips together by the drag of your throat. You feel as his full lips overpowered yours, overlapping along your mouth as he sucked your tongue. It makes your breath hitch, pressing your hand along his forearm, your nails lightly digging into the skin. 

He was nasty in the best way. He kept sucking against your lips, beginning to nod his head back and forth, thrusting his own tongue in between, the erotic pleasure of it all making your eyes roll to the back of your head. You try to keep your head from spinning as you reach up to pull his hair, deepening the kiss, enjoying the feeling it gave you. It made you shy, you could admit.

He could feel your body begin to tremble as he kisses in between your shoulder and neck, the taste of your skin being sweet on his tongue.

Your eyes fluttered shut, breathing slightly heavy as you dug your nails into his hair—you hadn’t felt this good in a while. 

You shiver in between your light giggle, “I—It tickles…” 

He chuckles against your skin, his tongue licking along the sensitive spot as he gruffly says, “You’re so fuckin’ sensitive.”  

At the drop of his words, your head lightly kneels back, a light gasp coming from you. It was soft, tiny, feminine.

His hand moved further up your thigh, placing a leg over his shoulder as he sucked the skin of your ankle. His tongue tasted every inch he could, wanting to get more of you in his mouth.

With him being hovered over you, his hand was trailing along your inner thighs, the ball of your foot fidgeting along his shoulder. It made you naturally use your free hand to slow down his, knowing that wouldn’t stop him. 

He pressed his forehead against yours, your eyes coming  down to watch your legs becoming trapped on both sides of his shoulders, his fingers coming down between your hips, making you full on jump. 

“My shy, pretty ass baby.” 

You felt like you couldn’t breathe, nowhere to hide as your face felt on fire, feeling your hips tilt up from the reaction of his hand. His fingers grazed over your clit, and your hips were so warm, you almost felt cold. 

Your chest began to lightly come up and down, digging your teeth into your bottom lip as your thighs wanted to close at the feeling. Your inhales were low, hesitant, as your exhales were able to hear, shaky in your throat. 

You struggled even more with your breathing, your thighs trying to close, face scrunched up in concentration...it only turned him on more.

He applied pecks against your throat, telling you gruffly, “Spread your legs more.” 

His voice within your ear makes your eyes want to flutter shut. You attempt to listen, pulling your thighs more apart, feeling as he begins to rub at your swollen clit slowly, your opening squelching from how you had become.

He growled low in his throat as he watched you squirm and struggle to breathe. It was like a challenge, getting under your skin like this.

“Imma’ put a finger in there,” he tells you, your heart in her ears, unable to prepare as he stroked his index finger along your pussy, before slowly sinking it in between your folds. He leaned up as he kissed your ankle, pumping slowly, your walls tightening heavily around his knuckle.

Your mouth dropped open the moment he came back down to kiss you. You lightly cried along his lips, broken and whiny as you warned, “T—Toji…”

He chuckled lowly at your whimpering protest, “Relax. Imma’ add another finger.” 

You feel a stretch, aching with a burn that feels a little too good, it makes your knees weak.

“Ooh, fuck,” he grunts, your face turning away from his again as you pull his head down with another gasp, wanting to hide your face next to his ear. He talks to you, “You’re so fuckin' tight…”

He punctuated his words with a thrust of his finger, your juices dripping down his wrist as he fucked you gently with it, thumb circling your clit. 

Your head fell back, making him kiss into your neck more—which made your mouth part— trembling as you tried to grip at the back of his hair. You were always trying to keep yourself together in moments like this, not wanting to be embarrassing. You finally get a clutch at the back of his hair as you whine softly, “Don’t talk like that…”

"You're so fuckin' perfect," he ignored your plea , nipping at your pulse point, "I could play with this pretty ass pussy all night...You hear her? She keep suckin’ my fuckin’ fingers in.” 

And your pussy was. His fingers were too familiar, dragging in, coming out more soaked than before. You were practically gushing on them, your abdomen tightening each time his palm grazed your clit from how deep his knuckles went in.

A messy moan parts from your mouth, broken and struggling, quickly hushing itself as you suck in an inhale to quiet yourself. Your face is hot as you raise the back of your hand to your mouth, covering the sound you made.

"Fuck all that holding back. Imma’ make you cum on my fingers.” 

He slowly withdraws his fingers from your heat, bringing them up to your lips, smearing your arousal across them. 

"Open up," he instructs, holding his coated fingers near your mouth, "Clean them off. Taste your pussy."

His mouth is volatile, you’re never sure if you can handle it. You part your lips, feeling him slide his fingers to the back of your throat, choking lightly on them as you taste your arousal. It was sweet, tangy almost. 

When he pulls them out, he grunts, “Good fuckin’ girl,” roughly pulling you into a kiss, spreading your legs wider as he fucks his fingers back inside of you. His arm traps the back of your knees, keeping your thighs spread completely open, allowing you to feel everything. Your lids blink rapidly, clawing at the skin of his arms as you nearly fight with him, gasping out, “O—oh my god. Toji.” 

“You’ sound cute as fuck. Haven’t heard you like this in a minute,” he brings his ear closer to your lips, “Keep talking to me, pretty. Tell me how you feel.”

You can’t exactly see his face, which makes you more comfortable as you express in urgency, “Fingers feel too big…” you whimper, “…but it feels good…”

"My dick is bigger. Imma’ keep my fingers deep where you need them most," he growls lowly in your ear, twisting his hand to push deeper inside, "I’m not gonna pull them out until you cum. So take my shit like a big girl, I know you can.”

You close your eyes to shield your red face, his finger hitting a particularly good spot, which makes you nearly jump out of your skin, thighs wanting to slam shut, jolting upwards, whimpering as he tugs you back.

"Nuh uh, keep 'em wide," he demands firmly, thrusting his fingers harder against that sensitive spot, curling them to hit your g-spot directly which makes you moan out, quickly pressing your hand to your mouth again, “You’re clenching around my fingers hard as fuck. You’re about to cum.”

“Toji,” you can’t stop that pleading whimper, wishing he’d stop talking. It makes you gush even more on his fingers, tightening your hold on his arms, “Your mouth is bad…”

“You love how I’m talking to you, nasty ass.” 

He starts pumping his fingers faster, twisting and curling them to stimulate your inner walls, "Stop makin' those fuckin’ noises and cum already. Them’ little cute ass whimpers making me wanna put my mouth on you, let you gush all on my face. Don’t piss me off.”

You gasp out, “I…think I’m cumming…” you feel numb, your walls kidnapping his fingers, so much that he couldn’t move them anymore. Your hips tremble as your thighs shudder chaotically, holding onto him as you groan out a deep moan, sticking your own fingers into your mouth to hush your sounds. 

Too blinded by your own pleasure, your brain is fuzzy as Toji unbuckles the belt of his pants, pulling out the heavy weight of his dick that slaps along his abdomen, fingers cuffing his fat tip that smushes along the sensitive gush of your folds. 

The pressure in between your legs is at its peak, seeing as Toji hovers atop of you, pressing his forehead against yours as he begins nudging himself inside. You’re chest to chest. You feel like you’re being torn, an aching pleasure that always makes your eyes roll back. Your legs shudder ridiculously as you gasp, pressing your hand along his abdomen, that inexplicable pinch all the way to your chest. It’s like the deepest cramp you’ve ever experienced, if that cramp was twisted with an intense amount of pleasure. 

You whimper as you feel his arm reach down, taking your hand within his palm as he grunts, “Hold it,” listening with a pout as you intertwine your fingers together.

He slowly sinks deeper into you. His muscles flex beneath your touch, the ridges of his abdomen pressed firmly against your palm. 

With each inch he buries inside, your body clenches around him, the sensation bordering on pain yet feeling so good as your back arches beneath him. You can see the effort it takes for him to hold still, his control evident in the tautness of his jaw. 

“I'm tryna to go slow, baby. I know,” he coos to you, bottoming out, filling you completely.

Your eyes are fluttering shut at the fullness, pulling your face up to drag your mouth along his, digging your fingers into the palm of his hand as let out a long, desperate moan. You feel yourself gush in between his balls pressed along the back of your thighs, gasping deeply as the pressure builds up before finally releasing.

He groans lowly, a rumble vibrating through his chest as he feels your walls spasm around him. "Ooh, shit, baby. Cumming all on this dick. Goood fuckin’ girl,” he praises, his voice husky with desire.

Keeping your hand captive in his, he lifts it to his lips, planting a gentle kiss on your knuckles before bringing it back down to rest on his side once more. Withdrawing almost all the way, he lets you adjust to the emptiness before pushing back in, setting a steady, deep rhythm. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the car, mingling with your ragged breathing and muffled cries.

You finally find words to say, but they come out in pathetic whimpers, chest heaving up and down as you pant, “Feel so full, baby. Just n—needed you…” your eyes begin to glisten with pleasured tears, your other hand reaching around to claw at his back, “Harder. H—harder, please.*”

“Harder, baby?” He mocks your words in your tone, arrogantly chuckling as you sniffle in response, whiny, “Yeah…”

A smirk plays on his lips at your desperate pleas, his movements becoming more forceful as he pounds into you. A serenade of skin ricocheting, his dick dropping in and out, bruising your outer walls. 

One of his hands slides down to grip your hip, using it to pull you onto him harder while the other continues to hold your interlaced fingers.

You take your free hand, using it to spread yourself as you whimper pathetically, “Yeah, Daddy. Ughn, right there,” blabbering nonsense, only focusing on the way his dick sinks deeper and deeper each time.

“This how you wanna be fucked?”

He then raises arm, muscles flexing within the veins as he clutches the door handle above your head, shoving his hips down, watching as you frown, you’re being fucked too good. 

You brokenly gasp, blinking your tears away as you drag out, “Ba-by, I…” you can’t stop gasping, “Love the way you handle my pussy, baby…”

He leans closer, arm still flexing above your head as he deeply grunts, “Keep talking.” 

Your face is warm at that, and you nod, trying to make your words sensible as you say, “Been wanting you to fuck me like this all night…”

“Just like this, huh?” He gives a hard thrust, a whine coming from you as you kneel your head back, groaning as you yank his face closer to yours, spreading your legs wider, letting him go even deeper. 

“Augh—oh my fuckin’ god, baby.” 

You’re spent, crazy even, taking your free hand as you go in between your hips, grabbing for his dick that drops in and out, wrapping your fingers around the base as you help him fuck you. The wrist of your palm bounces and rubs along your clit, and you softly cry, “Justttt like that.”

He starts moving faster, the car rocking from the force of his thrusts, your moans echoing off the metal. His grey eyes narrow, fixated on your face as he watches you fall apart under him. 

With each snap of his hips, his tip hits that sweet spot inside you, making you writhe and beg for more. The wet sounds of sex fill the air, mixing with your needy whines until you're a mess of pleasure and desperation. 

"You never took dick like this. Always running from me,” he pulls his hand out of yours, raising your legs directly next to his face on each side of his head—you hated this position. You were trapped. 

“‘Can feel you milking my shit, sucking me in deeper,” he’s circling his hips, impaling himself inside, watching as your pussy becomes creamier each time he pulls out.

You’re silent at this point, unable to talk, move, anything. You try to place your hand over your mouth, or even pull him closer to scream, but he’s there, snatching your hand away, and you can’t hold yourself back anymore.

As you lose control, he wraps an arm around your waist, gripping your hip tightly as he continues to pound into you mercilessly. His other hand reaches up to cover your mouth, muffling your screams as he fucks you senseless. 

“Should let you be loud as fuck. Put the fuckin’ windows down,” he grunts, “Cum on Daddy’s dick, baby. This what you’ been crying for all night. I need it. Imma’ drink it all up.” 

Your body shakes violently, overwhelmed by the intensity of his thrusts and the stifling of your sobs. He doesn't relent, driving into you with unbridled passion, determined to claim every ounce of pleasure from your quivering form.

“Toji—” you’re clawing him at this point, another orgasm hitting you, your abdomen trembling as his tip coats white, and you’re crying like a baby.

“‘Fuck are you crying for? This is what you wanted. Spread your pussy. Open that shit up, I’m not done with you.”

You’re a sobbing mess, listening to him nonetheless, taking your shaking hands down as you spread yourself more, watching him go in and out, in and out. You’re unable to do anything else, bringing your face up to meet him as your eyes roll back, “Fuuuck.”

He smirks, pleased with your submission as he claims your lips in a dominating kiss, swallowing your cries of ecstasy. His tongue invades your mouth, mimicking the deep, hard thrusts of his dick.

“You’ cumming again?” He questions, only messing with you, knowing you were.

His face is shoved into your cheek as he cockily laughs, your teary eyes rolling back as you grunt out, “I’m cumming again.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeahhh.”

“Who’re you doing all that for?”

“You, baby. Fu-ck,”  your last curse is as if you’re mad at him, your cum dripping onto the seats, spreading all along his abdomen as you spurt out again.

You’re about to black out, your fuzzy state of mind begging him in a whine, “Cum in me. Cum in meee, baby.” 

But he’s already pulling out, leaning down as he shakes his head chaotically, running his heavy and long tongue all around your pussy, cleaning you up as your legs shake as if you’d been tased. He can see you’re finally coming back down, toes curling as you hold your legs, almost covering your face with them as you put your knees to your chest. Now you’re realizing everything you’ve said.

He smacks his lips, “Don’t do that,” pulling your legs open to look at you, “You okay, baby?" His voice is calm, almost tender, a stark contrast to the brutal fucking he just gave you. 

He gently strokes your thigh, waiting for you to come back to yourself. "You’ good now?”

You blink a couple of times, searching his face in almost disbelief. You nod your head, wiping your eyes as you ask, “…Can I have a kiss?”

He smiles, tilting his head to the side, “Cute ass," leaning in, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss. His warmth envelops you, soothing the aftermath of your intense climax. You feel him gently rub his tip in between your folds again, whimpering against his mouth as he chuckles against yours, spanking you harshly as he then says, “We need to head back.”

“You love me? You’re not mad at me?” You ask softly, keeping his face hovered along your mouth.

He pulls back, looking at you seriously, “Never mad at you, baby. Just frustrated when you act up. You’ ready to go?” 

You blink, tilting your head as you then say, “Maybe I wanna act up a little more.” 

“That’s cool. Imma’ fuck you outside this car next.” 

“Fushiguro!” 

“Fushiguro!” he mocks back in a girly squeal, ignoring your groan as he sucks your mouth into a kiss. He was gonna love you in any mood you were in. 

“Yeah, okay. Shut that shit up. Get dressed.”

[pinkboaclub]

Kitten

Summary: Your boyfriend, Harry is a tattoo artist, when you two decide to get tattoos together late at night, he can’t help himself after tattooing your ass for an hour.

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, fem!reader, dom!harry, daddy kink

"Alright, baby, just hold still for me," Harry's deep voice rumbled as he leaned over your body. Your sundress was rolled to your hips as his tattoo gun buzzed against your right ass cheek.

This was a random idea you two had in the middle of the night, getting matching tattoos. Harry being a tattoo artist and owning a tattoo shop made it easy to drive over at 1 am. Of course if he was going to do your tattoo, it only made sense, in your sleepless minds, that you do his.

"Remember to keep the gun steady," Harry had instructed you, his eyes filled with amusement as he watched you, his hand guiding yours, as you etched 'DADDY' into his right upper thigh. The room was dimly lit, the only sound being the soft whirring of the tattoo gun and the occasional snicker escaping from Harry's lips.

You had been nervous, but Harry's reassuring whispers of "That's it, you're doing great, baby" had calmed your trembling hands. When you finally finished, you both looked down at the fresh ink with a mix of pride and disbelief.

After taping a layer of gauze to his thigh, Harry immediately picked you up and placed you stomach down on his bench.

"Now it's your turn, kitten," Harry said with a wink as he grabbed his chair and wheeled it closer to you. You felt his calloused hands draw the outline of where your new tattoo would be.

You took a deep breath, feeling both excitement and a hint of pain as Harry began to work. The buzzing of the needle grew louder as it pierced your skin, creating the outline of the word 'kitten'. You couldn't help but whimper a little, but Harry's gentle strokes and soothing words kept you grounded. After every wipe away of ink, he would place a kiss on your other cheek, you both laughed at first, but the gesture made your heavy breathing softer.

As the minutes ticked by, the adrenaline of the spontaneous decision started to wear off, and the exhaustion from the long day began to set in. You felt your eyelids growing heavier, your body succumbing to the comfort of Harry's touch and the rhythmic buzz of the tattoo gun. "You okay, kitten?" he checked in, his voice a gentle rumble in the quiet room. You nodded with your eyes still closed. "You're doing so well. Just a little more, then we'll be done." he cooed.

With a few more precise movements, Harry finished up the shading on the 'N' in 'kitten'. He rolled his chair back to admire his work, his eyes filled with satisfaction as her looked at your ass, now marked by him. You felt a shiver run down your spine as he leaned in and placed a tender kiss just below the fresh ink. "So beautiful," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

He stood up, and you felt his hands slip your dress to gently lift it up your back, leaving it bunched up just under your shoulders. Harry's gaze never left yours in the mirror, and you watched as his pupils dilated with desire. The air grew thick with anticipation as he took a step closer, his tattooed hand sliding around to cup your cheek and turning your face towards him. "You're so beautiful, baby," he whispered before capturing your mouth in a slow, sensual kiss. His tongue danced with yours while his other hand trailed down your spine to rest on the small of your back.

With a low growl, Harry's demeanor shifted from gentle to dominating. He gripped your hip, his hand moving to pull down your thong. He stepped back, admiring the view of your now bare ass with the new ink.

"Spread your legs for me, but stay laying on your tummy." he ordered, his voice firm yet tender. You complied immediately, feeling a rush of vulnerability as you exposed yourself to him. He stepped closer, his hand moving to cup your wet core before his thumb began to circle your clit with expert precision. "Look at how eager you are, baby." He leaned in and spat on your pussy, the warmth of his saliva making you gasp.

With a predatory grace, Harry aligned his hardened length with your entrance and pushed in without hesitation. You moaned into the bench pillow as he filled you up completely. His grip tightened on your hip, guiding his thrusts deep and slow. Each time he pulled out, you felt the stickiness of his spit mingling with your arousal, heightening the sensation of his thrusts.

"Daddy," you whimpered, your voice muffled by the leather. Harry's response was a low, animalistic grunt, his pace increasing as he claimed you with every powerful stroke. He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back as his other hand snaked up to play with your nipples, pinching and rolling them until they were hard peaks of pleasure.

His hand moved back to your ass, his thumb tracing the fresh ink as he fucked you, marking his territory with every thrust.

"Are you Daddy's good girl?"

You nodded, your voice trembling as you murmured, "'m Daddy's good girl." The words sent a jolt of electricity through your body, the kink of the scene only adding to the intensity of your arousal.

The smell of ink and sex filled the air as Harry's grip on your hips tightened. He leaned in closer, his hot breath fanning against your neck as he whispered dirty, degrading things in your ear, pushing you further into your submissive role. "You like it when Daddy's rough with you, don't you? You like being my slut?" he groaned. You could only nod, as he picked up the pace, pounding into you with a fierce need that made the bench shake.

With every thrust, Harry's spit-slicked thumb circled your clit, bringing you closer and closer to the edge of orgasm. "Come for me, baby," he urged, his voice thick with desire. You felt your body tighten, the pleasure building until it was too much to handle. You let out a muffled scream as your climax hit, your muscles clenching around his cock, sending him over the edge as well.

With a final, powerful thrust, Harry pulled out, his cock glistening with your arousal. He reached down and painted your un-inked ass cheek with his cum, leaving a sticky, hot trail across your skin. "So perfect," he murmured, his eyes never leaving the mess he'd made.

Harry grabbed his phone from the nearby counter. He snapped a picture, capturing the moment with a sense of ownership and pride. The image was a stark contrast: the delicate 'kitten' tattoo on one side, his hot, white cum on the other. You felt a thrill at the thought of the photo, the evidence of his claim on you, his brand of love and dominance.

Harry took a paper towel and gently wiped the warm cum from your ass. His touch was surprisingly tender, a stark contrast to the raw passion that had just consumed both of you. He threw the towel away and reached out to stroke your hair, his hand moving in slow, calming motions that made you melt into the bench. "Did a good job for me, baby," he murmured, his voice soothing as he praised you for your obedience and the pleasure you had brought him.

Despite the tenderness, his grip on your hair was firm, reminding you of your place. "You're so beautiful, kitten," he said, his thumb tracing the line of your cheek as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "And now, you have a permanent reminder of who you belong to."

[thisrots]

thinkin about puppy girl vi humping the couch while ur gone!

𐂯 warnings: puppy play(?), brat!sub!solo!vi, in a relationship/lives with you, modern au(?), she’s pretty pathetic in this, the title says it all… lol

𐂯 word count: 620

vi absolutely adored you. loved you so much she truly couldn’t stand to be apart from you. every time you left for work, your precious girl watched from the end of the hallway, bluer than normal puppy eyes begging for you to stay.

“I’ll be home later, okay? Be good while I’m gone!”

shut.

she was alone, once again.

though this time, there was a familiar warmness spreading between her plush thighs. a flutter in her lower tummy, making her bite down on her bottom lip as her legs rubbed together to create friction.

god, you should’ve fucked her before you left.

“Ngghh!” vi mewled out, an obscenely loud shlick of her puffy pussy sliding across the couch arm echoed in the living room. she was ass naked, mindlessly grinding her hips back and forth against the couch, sharp canines sinking into her pouty bottom lip.

this was totally your fault. for leaving her again, not thinking of her needs before you decided to go make money to keep a roof over your heads or whatever. her pretty, swollen clit blushed pink, dragging it up and down against the arm, tongue lapped out and slobbering drool onto the ground.

“Feels s’good—Guhh! Please, please, puhlease!”

poor, helpless mutt sounded like such a desperate slut, begging at an inanimate object, plump ass jiggling with each buck of her hips. she always did have a humping problem, constantly waking up to vi and her hot cunt pressed up against your thigh in the middle of the night, or walking in on her coming all over your pillow. if she was a real dog, at this rate, you’d probably have to get her fixed.

her calloused palms pawed at the couch, fingers gripping onto it so she could fuck herself better against it. it didn’t compare to your pussy, of course, but she’d take whatever she could get.

fuck, did vi miss you. you’d just left about an hour ago, but she still missed you. she remembered your sweet scent, and how your voice would melt into her ears like syrup. she imagined your pussies colliding, desperately rutting her puppy cunt against yours. or how you’d let her lap on your clit when she was a good girl, rewarding her with coming in her mouth.

but, there’d be no reward tonight. all because your stupid pup just couldn’t keep it in her pants.

her other hand groped at her own breast, fingers twiddling with her nipple, moaning from her own sensitivity. she could feel her climax creeping up, slick hole weeping onto the couch, big palms sweaty and thighs shaking. she’d been restlessly humping for more than an hour now, her little bundle of nerves twitching with urgency, needy whimpers bouncing off the walls.

“C-coming, coming, uunghh!” vi’s eyes glossed, unfocused on the world around her, the only concern she had at the moment was cumming with her heart’s desire. her hips lifted up, slimy string of wetness sticking to her swollen, abused pussy, dribbles of squirt painting the couch a darker shade of grey as she came.

the warmth spilling out of her pussy was addictive, rubbing herself raw, spurts still leaking as she rode out her orgasm on the now saturated couch. she truly was just a dog marking her territory.

she stared at the dampened stain as it seeped into the sofa arm. it was completely ruined, obviously, and she should be scared. should be absolutely petrified of what’s to come when you get home.

instead, she smirked. taking a picture of her artwork and immediately sending it to you, along with a couple other pictures that involved her nude parts.

vi: guess you should stop leaving me alone, huh?

divider credit!

[kisakis-boyfriend]

I just know for a fact that Neuvillette has the wettest pussy… he's literally the hydro dragon sovereign, his pussy has to live up to that title too. 🤤

It's a bit inappropriate for the Iudex to think of such a thing, but Neuvillette can't help how high he gets just from the sound of his own cunt.

He'll overstimulate himself just to coax out those juicy noises…creating puddles all over his private chambers in the process. His poor bathroom receives most of the abuse; the floors are constantly slippery from all of Neuvillette's slick. It runs down his legs, overflowing while the draconian man leans against the wall, fingers desperately moving to bring out as much wetness as possible.

Even after he cums, another wave of juices will unexpectedly gush out, catching him off guard and forcing a pitiful whine through his lips.

—

Neuvillette will lock himself in the bathroom, strip, jump in the large bathtub, and then make himself squirt over and over — filling the tub almost a quarter of the way! By the time he's too exhausted to move, he already feels dehydrated. Yet, he remains in the tub full of his own cum and fluids, reimagining the sounds of his cunt as it clenched around his own digits, before spraying another round of fluid between his legs.

—

You're lucky if your cock doesn't drown while you're fucking him. Your dragon husband is so needy, always eager to get in bed with you, since you make him feel so loved!

Please use towels though…or do it in some place that's easy to clean if it gets soaked… Neuvillette can't help how his body reacts! Squirting nonstop is just how you know you're doing a good job! So please keep thrusting like that, and don't stop holding his broad chest while he cums around your dick, please? 🥺

—

Modern day Neuvillette films his soaking wet pussy while he rides some dildo that's supposed to be an "aquatic dragon dick". It's all shades of blue, fading into a dark purple at the tip, and the shaft is lined with ridges and bumps for added pleasure.

Of course, he has invested in a waterproof setup for his cam shows. Can't have his phone dying on him during a perfect orgasm, right? The kind of climax where his legs shake, and the toy keeps squishing with every slam of Neuvillette's hips, even though he's quivering he'll still ride that dragon dick!

Modern day Neuvillette squeals whenever he has a vibrator held against his tdick. If you place the camera close enough, and keep the vibe on high, Neuvillette will cum all over the camera — giving the audience a wonderful show~

[g1rld1ary]

who's your friend? - james potter x reader

wc: 745 summary: james tries a pick up line on you at a party me: this is tiny but i wanted to just write something after such a long time not touching anything bc of uni!! a contribution to modern au for @acourtofchaos festival!

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

the party you were at was kind of lame. the drinks were gone, the music was lame, and your friend was draped over some guy’s lap. you knew you weren’t going to get her back anytime soon, and you didn’t know that you even minded — it only meant you’d have to plaster on a fake smile for another hour.

you thought about finding your own man to throw yourself at, but honestly no one you’d seen yet was giving you much inspiration, but maybe that was just because of your sour mood.

you rummaged around in your bag, searching for something to occupy your time, settling on redoing your lip combo in the tiny compact you brought along everywhere. that could only keep you busy for so long though, and you were once again looking around the party for something to occupy your attention.

unbeknownst to you, someone else had set their eyes on you, keenly observing you carefully, pencil lining your lips.

“who’s that?” james asked, lounging coolly against the party host’s kitchen island, drink in hand. his eyes were locked on your figure, dabbing lip gloss onto your lips, eyebrows slightly furrowed in focus.

“dunno, must be a friend of a friend. fit though,” sirius replied, hardly moving from his position sprawled across remus.

“don’t be crude. she’s gorgeous.” james looked remarkably like a puppy, unable to stop looking at you.

“go talk to her then, prongs. she’s just a girl,” remus suggested, hand subconsciously rubbing circles on sirius’ skin, the other hand lazily holding the neck of a beer bottle.

james nodded, bouncing on his heels to hype himself up, breathing in and out a few times to gather the nerve. sirius and remus exchanged a look, unused to seeing james nervous to approach a girl.

“hi,” james said, drawing your attention.

“hey,” you replied, sliding your makeup back into your little purse.

“enjoying the party?” he asked, and you quirked an eyebrow, trying to assess his intentions. you thought he might’ve been hitting on you, but he wasn’t getting as close or as sleazy as most of the twenty-something party guys you usually met.

“i suppose so,” you replied, “but i’ve been ditched, so… what about you?”

“oh! yeah, it’s fine. not cool you got ditched though.” your lips twitched into the beginnings of a smile, somehow charmed by the boy.

james eventually did remember to introduce himself, engaging you in smalltalk for another minute, which was longer than you anticipated.

“so…” he trailed off, suddenly growing nervous. “my friend thinks you’re cute.”

you raised your eyebrows, surprised it took him this long to get to his mission.

“which friend would that be?” you glanced behind him to the group of three boys, very unsubtly watching your interaction.

“me.” your eyes snapped back to james, not the answer you were expecting. you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you, lighthearted surprise at his terrible pickup line.

james smiled at your smile, the two of you creating a moment in the middle of the chaos of the party.

“would my friend be able to get your number?” he asked, and you subconsciously tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“i mean, yeah why not,” you laughed, writing your number on his (attractively big) hand, “you can tell him i think he’s kinda cute.”

“awesome!” he laughed, the other hand going to rub the back of his neck. “well, i should probably get back to my friends, but it was really nice to meet you.”

“yeah, you too, james. you can tell your friend it’s nice to meet him as well.” james flushed a brilliant shade of red, nodding and stuttering as he stumbled his way back to his friends, who were all eagerly awaiting a full report of the conversation.

you’d finally found your friend, who’d been turned off of her man for one reason or another, pulling her aside to point out james.

“he’s cute!” she cried, squealing until you had to slap your hand over her mouth. you’d obviously drawn the attention of his dark-haired friend, who was laughing at both of you. you dragged her out of the room before he could draw james’ attention and embarrass you further, but a smile was blooming on your lips as you remembered james’ ridiculous pickup line.

[suksatoru]

╰┈➤ husband!satoru x pregnant!reader ೃ⁀➷

husband satoru, who finds himself swinging open the door to your shared home every time—panting from how fast he'd ran to see his favorite girl as his eyes widen in pure delight at the mere sight of you. a happy "baby!" leaving his lips as he makes his way towards you—arms outstretched towards your smiling figure and prepared to tell you just how much he'd missed you as he cradled the growing bump on your stomach

husband satoru, who is always a step ahead of you. need a drink? he has the overflowing and cold glass in his hands before you can even finish your sentence. don't feel so good? he's already by your side, massaging any aches and whispering encouraging words into your ear—telling you how proud he is of you and how his little girl's kicks came from his strong legs, a teasing smile on his lips as he eased your pain with his gentle and strong reassurance.

husband satoru, who's practically jumping up and down while you guys shop for baby clothes. his eyes are wide and bright as they light up at the matching family set that caught his gaze. his hands gently leading you towards them as he speaks - "we can all have matching pj's, babe! matching pj's!"

husband satoru, who cries more than you when you're giving —he is a nervous wreck that is only soothed when your baby girl is residing in your arms and crying, a healthy sign as he peers down to find his own eyes looking back at him—the familiar shade of blue so wonderful that he's crying all over again.

husband satoru, who insists that you need a bigger bed to rest in, and the hospital doctors comply right away. but once the doctors leave after the bed transfer, he's crawling oh so lovingly into the bed with you as you gently bob the small baby in your arms to sleep—too deprived from his sweet girl's touch as he peppers kisses all over your face.

he'd carefully take the small baby from your embrace when seeing your tired smile, and you'd sigh as you snuggled closer and breathed in his comforting smell. he kisses your head gently before moving to your baby's small forehead next, in total awe at the most perfect thing you could have ever created. her small hand would remain latched onto satoru's hand. you know she'd absolutely be spoiled to death with the way your husband's eyes gleamed with nothing but adoration and pure love.

husband satoru, who cherishes and bathes in your radiance like a flower in the sun.

[m-ayo-o]

soft sukuna !!! <3 nsfw; abstaining from sex until he realises his baby has a little praise kink!!

"sukuna.. i can't.."

you tell him with a small pout on your lips.

after last time you thought he might be more careful, maybe showing you a little mercy. but no.

your boyfriend wants to fuck, and it seems that he won't be giving up on that idea anytime soon.

"why not?" he grunts his reply, nipping at your earlobe with his body pressed against yours.

your cheeks burn with the feeling of his voice in your ear.

but you squeeze his leg and push on him, creating a small gap between your bodies.

"told you.. already.."

your eyes focus everywhere but his, while his explore your entire body as you squirm beneath him.

"mmh" he vocalises that he doesn't care about what you just said, bringing his hand under your chin to tilt your face up.

"tell me again"

your eyes dart around, then are forced into contact with his.

he gives you a deep, hard stare. maroon irises never leaving yours.

his thumb starts to tug at your bottom lip with impatience.

however much you know he's doing this to humiliate you, or for his own gratification, you don't want him to lose his patience.

"too.." your eyes dip away from his one more time. he gives your chin an encouraging squeeze, a hint of a smirk showing on his lips.

"too big.."

you admit it. again.

that you're abstaining from sex because he hurt you so bad last time that you're scared to do it.

you've been resisting for a whole week!

and damn, it's getting difficult to deny his advances now it's been that long. with him in close proximity, every day, teasing you.

he knows you want it.

but he also knows that it will hurt you.

so he's been working on wearing you down until you start to enjoy the stinging sensation of a cock that's just too big for your tight little hole.

he's going to get you there eventually.

he knows you already enjoy mild pain...

spanking, love bites, grabbing, choking.

but he never knew it would end up like this.

"i'll go easy on you.." he promises, lips moving closer to yours.

you try to back up but your head is still caught in his grasp.

"uh uh. not today sweetheart"

he's let you get away from him a few times this week; slipping through his fingers with a lie in the form of an excuse.

"you don't need to make excuses with me"

his eyes can pick apart your lies in any case. you know there's no point.

"i want to make you feel good"

your lip is between your teeth, eyes wide, your brain scrambling to consider what you're being offered right now.

he's bending over backwards to ensure you get a good fuck.

can you trust him?

~

"nnghh- su-sukuna-"

you lie back on the bed with his cock nudging at your sweet entrance.

that's where he wants to be.

he's got tunnel vision now.

after he gave you one orgasm with his fingers, to loosen you up, he couldn't wait any longer.

the way your pussy gripped over his fingers made him seethe with anger that his cock wasn't deep inside you, coated with your slick.

"ughh-" he sighs out, black ink hooking over his heaving chest.

he's getting so impatient now and you really need him to calm down or he's going to hurt you again.

this is how it always happens.

a kind of aggression takes over his body when he gets like this.

angry that your pussy won't let him in.

angry that he can give you pleasure with his fingers.

with his mouth.

but oh no, that's not what he wants.

he wants you cumming on his cock.

and that's what he's going to get.

regaining his composure, his eyes focus on your body again.

crimson meets pretty pink, the shade of your flushed pussy lips.

and he stares intently, smoothing his hands over your tummy.

"calm down, sweetheart"

he hums, sounding almost caring.

"i need you to relax for me, ok?"

you nod and place a hand around one of his wrists.

"please.. can i hold your hand?" you ask, batting your lashes.

ugh. this lovey dovey shit makes his blood boil.

but for you?

"sure, princess"

his fingers lace with yours, palms together, pressed to the pillow.

he takes a few deep breaths, encouraging you to do the same, as your body eases up and starts to relax, just like he asked.

"good girl" he coos, squeezing your hand gently.

he feels your pussy flutter gently against his tip, that's pressed hard and leaking on your wet body.

without realising what he's doing, only understanding that you like this- the way he's talking to you right now- he suddenly learns that you need him to reassure you.

you want him to be soft and gentle with you.

so that's what he's going to give you.

"that's it, baby," his voice is so calm and soothing, you listen to every word with your eyes glistening.

"you're doing so well, i just need you to open up for me, okay?"

the sinister, curling rasp is almost lost from his voice, being replaced by a tone so unfamiliar you question that this is really your man above you right now.

"s- sukuna?"

"uh huh?" he looks up from your pussy, where your bodies are connecting with strings of your wetness, to your pretty face.

oh god, your gorgeous face.

and for once, you don't look scared of him.

you're smiling at him; you look excited.

fuck that's got him going more than he'd like to admit.

"thank you.." your eyes sparkle with that pretty smile and he swears he can't help that feeling deep in his chest.

he supresses an eye roll and nudges his forehead against yours.

you know you better watch it with the romantic stuff or he might change his mind.

but for now, he's got you. and you've got him.

he presses on your thigh, opening your legs wider, and he starts moving his hips.

the smooth, thick tip of his cock glides into you.

"fuck-" he sighs over your lips, feeling as shocked as you.

that shouldn't have been so easy.

but it was.

"well done, baby.." he coos, rewarding you with a tender kiss.

"think you can take a little more for me?"

a little? sure.

"uh huh," you nod, eager to please this kind, sweet side of your man.

"good.." the tone of his voice makes you melt into the cushions that he placed under you, for your comfort.

your body feels so open to him right now, he pushes a little further.

hips sliding smoothly closer.

"nghh- ah-" the noises come out of your throat without thinking, your free hand landing on the back of his head where the dark hair of his undercut meets his neck.

"good?" he pushes you to answer, his smirk growing wider.

and you can't lie to him, it feels amazing.

"y-yes.."

he can feel your hand squeezing on his and he knows you're ready for more.

a few more inches.

"thaat's it, baby" he eases it in, your legs opening wider and hooking around his back.

god he thought he understood what you liked so well?

hot, passionate, rough sex.

yeah, it's great. it's fun.

but every now and then even the kinkiest girls need a break.

"nearly all the way, sweetheart" his voice finds your ears again when you're feeling so close to bliss already.

he peers down between your bodies, getting hot and messy, his abs rubbing against your soft, plushy stomach, and he realises how close you are to taking him whole.

the sight of that makes his cock swell and throb, sending another wave of pure ecstasy through you.

"easy, easy baby--"

he draws in a sharp breath and you can see him struggling, teeth sinking into his lower lip.

"can feel you squeezing me... tight.." he moans.

"gonna.. go all the way in now, ok?"

you nod and he leans down over you, pressing his lips to your neck with his arms caging you in. your hands find his shoulders, his back, his hair, anything to grab onto.

"uhh- baby.."

he chokes out, feeling the warmth of your pussy over his whole cock.

"took all of me.. fuck.."

his hips start moving slowly, in tandem with the strings of disbelieving sighs that flow out of his mouth.

"you're not hurting, huh?"

he checks, pulling himself all the way out before sinking right back in again when you shake your head.

he sees your eyes roll back, your hand clasping over your mouth to suppress a loud whimper.

"d-doesn't hurt- at all--" you manage to get out between your heavy, pleasured breaths as he eases himself in and out of you.

"good," he looks down at your expression- seeing his girl like this makes his heart swell. he needs to tell you.

"good girl"

that will have to do for now.

feeling your whole body reaction to his praise is good enough.

next time maybe he'll surprise you with a few more words...

[invincibledc]

MORE JACK X BATSIS READERRRR👹👹👹

۶ৎ𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐧’ 𝐋𝐢𝐩𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬

────୨ৎ────

𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 (𝐎𝐂) 𝐗 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐈𝐒!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

𝜗𝜚 Synopsis: testing different shades of lipstick, Jack is definitely the guy to be the test dummy, all for it, and all for you.

𝜗𝜚 Genre: Drabble/fluff

𝜗𝜚 Info: this OC is an OC I’m written for my own amusement. He’s the son of Harley Quinn and joker. Full name, Jacklyn Oswald Quinn. I got bored. Reader is the twin sister of Damian, but Damian is the older twin of course. Jack is older than reader by a year. Jack and reader are age 15-17 here. Im only a writer so you can imagine who he looks more like but all I can is he is handsome canonically in my head and anything. Boy’s crazy but handsome.

𝜗𝜚 Word count: 423

“Try my lips in the next shade, please. I'm begging you,” Jack demands, watching you apply another lipstick that perfectly complements your complexion.

“Jack, patience is a virtue,” you reply firmly, earning an annoyed groan from him as he sprawls back on your bed. His feet tap rhythmically against the floor in frustration.

You’ve been testing various shades of lipstick on him, leaving his face marked with a rainbow of colors. He’s been restless since he snuck into your room, clearly craving your attention.

“Babe, as much as I love you, you're driving me crazy here.” He stands up from the bed, looming over you as you focus on a new shade at your vanity of makeup and perfumes.

You can feel his presence, strong and undeniable, making you pause. You glance at him in the mirror and see his eyes revealing the impatience he’s trying to contain.

His hands slide over your hips, giving them a possessive squeeze as he leans his body into yours, his chest pressing against your back. He tilts his head toward yours, demanding your attention even if you’re still occupied.

“Listen, I’ll be a good boy,” he says lowly, his raspy voice sending a shiver down your spine. You couldn’t hold back any longer as you looked at him with soft eyes.

“Alright, fine,” you finally say, and a broad smile spreads across Jack’s face, his eyes sparkling with delight.

“Yay!” he exclaims, his excitement palpable as he gazes at you like you’re the one who created the stars. Without hesitation, he leans in closer, making you laugh at his eagerness.

“Alright, here’s your reward for being my little test subject.” You cup his face with one hand and give him a quick peck on the lips.

But just as you start to pull away, Jack insists, pressing his lips against yours with a newfound intensity. He draws you in closer, holding you firmly in his arms, craving more.

He licks the bottom of your lip, squeezing your hips, ending up with you gasping. He forced his tongue into your mouth, and you accidentally whined against his lips.

Jack has you on his lap when he finally has you on the bed with him, his lips leave yours, and you start to catch your breath. Looking at the boy who held a smug grin.

“Wasn't that amazing?” his voice low and hoarse.

Your mind came out of your shock, eyes narrowing despite the flushed expression.

You bonked him hard on his head, leaving him to whine.

“Owww!!”