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fuckyeahdindjarin · 7 months ago

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Prima Nocta

Marcus Acacius x Virgin!F!Reader oneshot

{ Main Masterlist }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: Tomorrow, you will marry your husband-to-be. But tonight - it belongs to his father.

Word count: 6k

Warnings: DUB CON only due to nature of prima nocta, both parties enthusiastically consent, twist on prima nocta, unspecified age gap, loss of virginity, dirty talk, oral sex (F receiving), fingering, dry humping, unprotected sex, unrealistic descriptions of first sexual experience, all manners of historical inaccuracies and linguistic anachronisms sorry not sorry, ignores the events of the movie so you can consider this an AU, Marcus is widowed and has a son, shall we call this bfd: Ancient Rome version lmao

Notes: I'm a bit rusty for sure, but I had the absolute best time writing this oneshot. It's a departure from my usual themes to say the least, but once this idea took hold of me it never let go. I know prima nocta is meant to be invoked on the wedding night, but I like the idea of it being the night before so I made it so 🤷🏻‍♀️ Gorgeous dividers by @firefly-graphics as always.

He thought he had gotten away with it. Having lived more than fifty winters in the capital and outlasting eight emperors, he regrets to confess that he is still none the wiser.

It would have been such a clever manoeuvre. Palming off a generous but very much unwanted gift from the emperors, and marrying off his son in one fell swoop.

He should have been suspicious of their swift assent to his proposal. In his eagerness to bow out of their audience, it had been convenient to dismiss the flash of malice in their eyes.

And in the snake pits of Roman court, no misstep goes unexploited.

He is not proud that he is caught off guard by the emperor’s closest advisor who intercepts his walk home from the armoury, even less so of his ineloquent response to the missive handed to him.

‘What is this?’

‘Urgent word from the emperors, sir.’

Cold sweat prickles the back of his neck as he stares unseeingly at what is scrawled on the parchment.

‘I cannot,’ he blurts out, indignance rising fast and hot in his chest. ‘I will not.’

‘You think it wise to twice refuse the emperors’ generosity, general?’

General. To him, the culmination of a lifetime of service and sacrifice. To them, an instrument of bloodshed in war, a plaything in peacetime.

Desperate, he tries a different tact. ‘The right of the first night belongs to the emperors. I dare not commit sacrilege.’

‘It is not sacrilege if it is freely bequeathed upon you, general.’

There is no mistaking the warning lilt in the last word, and he has no answer.

‘The hour grows late. You had better not keep the bride waiting,’ says the advisor with an air of finality before retreating into the shadows.

Marcus shudders at the cold that settles into the empty space, fingers stained with ink from the now crumpled dispatch.

He remembers nothing of the remainder of his short journey to his quarters. As the front door swings open, he realises there is something in the night air that is out of place.

Sea salt.

You are here.

Would you be demure? Frightened? You are of royal lineage, a lady of the small but proud coastal kingdom strong-armed by Rome into an unequal treaty for its profitable trading posts, in return for the mercy of not being razed to its fertile grounds.

And now, you are lowered to marry a general’s son.

Worse, lowered to have your virginity taken by his father.

Candlelight spills from the crack underneath the door to his bedchamber. Marcus takes a deep breath, and pushes it open.

You hear him. The swish of fabric, the slide of leather soles on marble.

The general is here.

Your hand in marriage is part of the terms of the treaty, and the missive that sent for you announced your match as the widowed hero general. You had him cast on the wretched journey from your home as one of the domineering, brutish soldiers now garrisoned at your family’s kingdom - only to be told on your arrival that you will be marrying his son instead.

Relief at the news that your future husband would not be decades older than you is instantly snatched away by furtive whispers of prima nocta.

Your future father-in-law will take you first.

The humiliation is bitter on your tongue. You are Rome’s to marry off, hers to give to whomever she pleases -

But she won’t break you.

The door creaks. You stand tall and hold your ground.

He sweeps into the room with an air of well-worn authority, the cloak on his back dark as the shadows that nip at his heels.

The candles flicker when he sheds the heavy robes with a smooth sweep of his arm.

You stare, in a manner that would have had your lady-in-waiting tutting. But you are alone, very much so, with this man not ten paces from you.

General Marcus Acacius.

He is older, certainly old enough to have a son your age. But you had not imagined him so - strong, for the lack of a more imaginative word. His shoulders are broad under his wine red tunic, and you can see the muscles in his arms flex as he clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. From where you stand, you can hardly see any silver in his dark curls.

Marcus unflinchingly assesses you right back.

No, you are decidedly not demure. Or frightened. Far from it.

You are defiant, even as you observe him with evident curiosity. Your head held high, a telltale sign of your noble breeding, mouth set in a stern line while your eyes burn bright with a proud fire.

Judging the silence has gone on long enough, he breaks it with a formal, ‘My lady.’

‘General,’ you answer steadily.

The door slams shut belatedly behind him, and you flinch - the first glimpse of weakness you concede.

Marcus breathes in, delivering his next sentence with as much composure as he can muster. ‘I expect you have been informed of the - formalities that we are to perform tonight.’

You grind your teeth so hard you are astonished that your jaw doesn’t crack.

Your virtue is just a formality.

Refusing to dignify his question with an answer, you nod once.

He watches you wordlessly, and you meet his gaze. You thought you would find something else there, not the regret that you see.

Turning away from you, he reaches for the amphora on the table.

‘Wine?’

‘Yes, please.’

The wine is drunk in silence and moderation. Him at his desk, you perched on the end of the bed.

As you sip, pacing yourself, you observe the general discreetly from across the small distance between you.

To say that you are disconcerted by his behaviour would be an understatement.

You assumed that he asked for this - for the perverse pursuit of deflowering his son’s bride-to-be while eschewing the unwanted responsibility of a wife.

Yet, watching him stare pensively into his goblet, lips pursed in a pout that is almost sullen, you are not so certain anymore.

When you bring your drink to your mouth to find it empty, you clear your throat. ‘I have to wake up early tomorrow morning - for the wedding.’

The general starts before collecting himself, drawing himself up to his full height as he sets down his cup with a heavy clunk. ‘Understandably, my lady.’

Then he moves, charting a course across the room, licking his thumb and index finger to douse the candles dotted around the space.

The thought comes to you unbidden - he has thick fingers. And big hands.

Your cheeks tingle with heat.

Soon the chamber is cloaked in darkness, save for the candles next to the bed, the warm light pooling in the most inviting manner on the soft surface despite your trepidation. You long to rest your aching feet.

He comes to a standstill on the other side of the bed, as if waiting for you to take the lead. You cannot decide whether you are thankful for him not imposing on you, or frustrated at him for not taking the lead in what is very much unfamiliar territory.

In the end, the desire to get off your feet wins out, and you gesture at the bed. ‘Shall we…?’

‘Certainly.’ He bends down, you assume to take off his sandals. You do the same, toeing off the soft leather slides the maids had you change into when they dressed you.

Once barefoot, you climb in with as much grace as you can summon, acutely aware that you have an audience. Your knees sink into the mattress, and you’re relieved that it is stuffed with feathers, luxuriously giving under your weight. Shifting primly, you find your back against the headboard, cushioned by equally soft pillows.

The general follows suit, the frame creaking as he eases onto the suddenly too small bed, strong shoulders brushing yours as he settles next to you.

You stare hard at the back of your hands, the only way to stop your gaze from wandering to the span of his fingers splayed wide on sturdy thighs, or lower to the bony ridge of his knees - gods, you must be unwell, since when have you been drawn to knees?

You are still questioning the state of your sanity when the general, who has been nothing but unperturbed and composed since he stepped into the room, stumbles over his words in a manner that is neither, as if he had held the question behind his teeth for too long.

‘Are you - are you absolutely certain - in no doubt - that you are… untouched?’

His question stings like salt in a festering wound. Indignant doesn’t even begin to describe the retort you spit at him. ‘Yes, I am. Are you?’

Peering at you sideways, his eyes widen at your outburst, and fear briefly flits across your heart that you have overstepped.

But then, he surprises you with a smile. ‘You bite, don’t you?’

You let your shoulders sag, too far gone to hold onto your facade.

‘It’s been a long day, sir,’ you admit. ‘To be frank, I just want to get this over with and forget it ever happened.’

He pauses at your confession, as if weighing his options. Then he shifts, and says, ‘The reason I ask if you were untouched is because, if you were not - we could have just pretended we did this.’

You frown. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I did not invoke prima nocta, it was imposed upon me. The emperors are displeased that I turned down the betrothal, this is their way of punishing me for my ungratefulness.’

Oh.

As much as you didn’t want this either, your pride suffers to hear him describe it as a punishment.

‘I know…’ you stumble, halting to steel yourself. ‘I know I am nothing like the women here in Rome. I spend too much time in the sun, and my hands are rough from working with horses -’

‘Why do you say that?’ he interrupts you.

You look away. ‘That is why you do not wish to marry me, is it not? And why you do not want this - why you do not want me.’

The general sits up, palms on the mattress to support his weight, the lines on his forehead deepening with a frown. ‘No, that is not the reason. You are young, you deserve a husband who can build a life with you in the years to come. Not a washed-up widower.’

The bitterness in his voice turns your head.

‘You’re not washed up, from what I hear.’ Somehow, you find the courage to add boldly, ‘Or from what I see.’

Letting your eyes trail unabashedly over his broad frame, a thrill chases through your blood when you notice his Adam’s apple bob with a tight swallow. He’s so close that you know you’re not imagining the heat seeping into your bones.

Silence stretches between you, charged with a consciousness that creeps in and spreads. Two souls from different worlds and stations put in a situation in which neither of you had a hand. This may not be how you imagined giving away your virtue - far from it - yet your stomach twists in anticipation.

You glance upwards, only to find him already watching you.

Something has shifted when you so bravely reached out and tipped the balance with your words. He can tell that you are not one for flippant flattery, and it takes him a moment to collect himself, harder said than done with the blood roaring in his ears.

When he speaks, it comes out in a much lower register than he intends, so much so it sounds like a secret.

‘You say you just want to get this over with. But I can - I can make it good for you. It doesn’t have to be something you want to forget.’

Your eyes widen and your lips part, and heat blooms almost uncomfortably in his chest. ‘You would do that for me?’

‘I will serve you in whatever way you ask of me tonight, my lady.’

Never have mere words, albeit delivered in such a delicious baritone, moved you so. You came in expecting to have your virtue stripped from you, the same way Rome callously stole you away. Where you thought humiliation and dishonour awaited, this man is offering deliverance and devotion - if only for one night.

Your throat tight with emotion, you nod in lieu of a spoken answer.

Marcus is deliberately slow in his movements, wanting you to feel safe in his presence. ‘How much do you know? So I know what I need to teach you.’

Despite yourself, shyness rears its head and you mumble, ‘I’ve - I’ve heard stories. I know what… happens… between a man and a woman in the bed chamber.’

He nods reassuringly, making you feel less of a fool for the juvenile answer you gave. ‘And has anyone touched you before?’

There’s no mistaking the lurch in your stomach as your heart hammers violently. ‘No. No one. Never.’

The protector in him stirs, summoned to duty, warring with the desire that seethes under his skin like the unholy flames of Vesuvius. He fears it is a quickly losing battle.

Reading the desire in your endearingly open face, Marcus reaches over you to settle one hand on your hip as he leans close, his breath warm on your cheek.

‘Have you ever kissed a man?’ he rasps.

You shake your head, eyes fixated on his mouth, framed by a tidy moustache. He is so close that you can see his beard is flecked with silver.

You swear the general is leaning into you, and every inch of you is on tenterhooks, enraptured by his proximity -

‘You should save it for your husband.’

You barely forestall the whine of protest that teeters on the tip of your tongue, pinching your lips together, but his lopsided smile tells you that he knows.

‘I can kiss you elsewhere though.’

‘Oh,’ you inhale shakily when he dips to mouth at the side of your neck, landing on your pulse point in a suckle. Your whole body arches off the bed, hands gripping the sheets, head spinning at all the sensations that are new to you - the burn of his stubble, the cool trail his lips leave behind -

Then the palm on your hip pulls you into him, sprawling you against the wide cage of his body, your breasts pressed against his broad chest. The dress they put you in is thin, and the fabric rubs against your pebbling nipples as his kisses travel daringly low.

‘Am I going too fast?’ he pauses, voice strained.

Breathlessly, you shake your head.

‘If you want me to stop, or wait, you say the word. Understood?’

‘Yes, general.’

Two words he hears daily from his men, and yet from your lips, they unleash a dangerously feral side of him.

More. Is the only coherent thought that remains.

Impatient hands reposition you so that you are astride him, and he groans when you slot flush in his lap. He watches your eyes widen at what you feel between your legs. Your dress rides up, and his blood rushes south at the bare expanse of your inner thighs on his skin.

‘I want to see you,’ he speaks plainly, palms squeezing the dip of your waist. ‘May I undress you? Please?’

All decorum flees you, and you might have chanted yes, yes, yes to his question.

Dropping your chin, you watch his thick fingers nimbly undo the knot holding the front of your dress together. The silk capitulates like water, tumbling down in delicate drapes around your waist, baring you to his heated gaze.

‘You are beautiful,’ he declares with a solemnity that steals your breath.

And it is easy to believe him, the way his dazed eyes trail over your breasts, before his hands follow. Calloused palms, which you are sure have held many a sword in triumph, now cup your tender flesh in reverence.

Your head lolls to the side as he teases you, but when he rolls his hips upwards, your eyes snap to the pained expression on his face. You’ve heard ladies in court whispering over wine about length and girth, but nothing could prepare you for the thrill of feeling a man’s undeniable desire for you.

Instinct guides you, moving your hips so that you are grinding against his length, seeking relief from what is building deep within you.

‘Do what feels good,’ the general murmurs encouragingly, palms on the small of your back to let you take control.

And just like that, you are thrown back to one summer’s day in your youth. You were bathing in a rock pool, under the spray of a waterfall in perfect solitude when you accidentally slipped forwards on the smooth stone surface. The unexpected sensation between your legs ripped through you like lightning on a clear day. And you chased that feeling, hips undulating until you shuddered and cried out. Knees trembling in the aftermath, you never dared to seek it out again, but neither did you forget.

And now, years later, you finally know what had transpired. Pleasure. And this time, under the general’s hooded gaze, you pursue it with single-minded determination.

Marcus wishes you knew how beautiful you are in this very moment. Breasts swaying in tandem while you rock back and forth on his clothed length, eyes glazed, every whimper from your swollen lips making him throb harder for you.

‘Good girl,’ he rasps, throat tight. ‘Take your pleasure. Take what you need.’

And when he sucks your nipple into his mouth, you wail, tipping forward at an angle that unexpectedly takes you apart.

The waves that wash over you are more intense than you remember, and you are sure that has to do with the man holding your hips to his as you buck, and the warm swirl of his tongue against your breasts, sucking and nipping as you come down from your high.

‘That was not your first time,’ he states as a matter of fact when the white noise in your ears finally fades.

‘It happened once, a long time ago, and I didn’t understand then -’

‘And now you do.’

‘Yes, general.’

This time, he lets loose a moan at your words. ‘I can feel your wetness through your dress.’

Confused, you look down, and your cheeks burn when you spot the dark patch on the delicate fabric. ‘Oh, I -’

‘It’s natural,’ he assures you. ‘The wetness makes it easier for -’

It dawns on you when you feel his hardness twitch under you. Oh.

‘It - you feel -’ you stutter, struggling to comprehend how the girth of what you are sitting on could possibly fit inside you.

Taking your hand, Marcus presses a chaste kiss to your palm, eyes warm and open.

‘We will take it slow. I will use my fingers first, to prepare you for me,’ he explains patiently. ‘I promised I would make it good for you, did I not?’

‘You did.’

And you have complete faith in him.

Your knees knock into each other hopelessly when he slides you off his lap, and he has to bodily prop you up against the pillows. Sinking into the soft feathers, you watch him kneel between your parted legs, and you feel so safe even as he towers over you.

‘May I disrobe you?’

You bite your bottom lip, and nod.

Except it’s not a disrobing, it’s nothing near as civil as that. The general rips the rest of your dress clean down the middle, rendering you completely bare beneath him.

Marcus knows should be ashamed of his brash behaviour. But how could he when you react so viscerally, jaw slack as your chest heaves in unmitigated desire?

His gaze shamelessly trail over every curve and dimple, from the breasts he has tasted to where your knees are demurely closed, and knowing that he is the first - the only - to have laid eyes on you makes him impossibly hard.

It matters not that you are not his to keep. This will always be his.

‘You are exquisite,’ he professes, voice tight.

You duck your head, more shy of his compliments than being nude before him. ‘You don’t have to.’

Sliding a finger under your chin and tilting your head until you meet his gaze, he assures you, ‘I mean every word.’

Then he moves down the bed until he can rest his weight on his elbows, and you startle when rough palms glide over the outside of your thighs, stopping at your knees.

He pauses to give you time. ‘Are you certain you wish to continue?’

Your answer is a confident yes.

Then, as if opening the shell of Venus, he delicately pries your knees apart, and his breath hitches as you are revealed to him.

He is aware that he’s staring like an imbecile, words failing him. As the silence stretches on, you become self-conscious.

‘General,’ you demur, moving to cover yourself.

Shaking his head, he finally says, ‘Forgive me, but you are perfect.’

Then he looks up at you with such intensity that has you struggling to catch your breath, and without breaking eye contact, he bows his head -

And closes his lips over you there.

You are wholly unprepared - no one has ever gossiped about this in court. Your hips buck violently off the bed, but Marcus holds you down with reassuring hands, suckling on the pearl between your thighs with gentle laps of his tongue.

‘Oh, oh, oh,’ you stuttter, torn between watching the man wreak the most devastating pleasure on you and averting your gaze.

You’ve only ever known worship to be pious, and yet, this most vulgar adulation is the closest you’ve been to the gods.

His beautiful curls brush the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, catching the candle light as he moves, and the crook of his nose - so proud even with the scar on its bridge - draws patterns on your skin as he stakes his claim where no one has ever touched you.

You quickly realise that what you felt just now in the general’s lap was insignificant and thin in comparison. This pleasure is all-consuming, something divine that has you weak and trembling all over. All you hear are slick, wet sounds of tongues and lips, and your own whimpers between garbled groans.

Marcus feasts on you, unapologetically. Flattening his tongue, he tastes you in broad sweeps, moaning into your sweet cunt as you writhe above him, your needy mewls driving him to the edge of madness. You taste like fig - the earthiness of the purple peel, ripe sweetness of the pink flesh.

Then your hands wind into his hair, pulling him closer, ankles hooking over his shoulders. He groans harder, the sound rattling in his ribs as you soak his beard. Surrendering any last vestiges of shyness, you rock against his tongue, nails scratching his scalp as you whine louder into the night air.

Moans that will echo long after you’re gone.

The thought alone hardens his resolve to mark you unequivocally. You’re close, your pliant body quivering and breaths coming in shallow gasps now. He peers up at you, but your eyes are sealed shut and upturned at the gods, your breasts heaving.

Gently, he eases one finger inside you, and he grunts at how easily he slides in. You barely react, and so he pushes back in with two, coaxing a cry from you. Your cunt clenches as he gently thrusts his digits in and out, stretching your tight walls.

‘Oh gods. Oh gods,’ you pant violently.

You’re close, so close. He wants to warn you of what is to come, but it feels like sacrilege to tarnish the moment with words. When he feels you begin to quiver, he laves at your clit harder, burying his fingers inside you to the knuckle, until he feels you crest and break.

‘Gods, oh gods - Marcus!’

The cry of his name catches him off guard. He nearly loses control right there and then, as you ride out your high on his fingers, but by some miracle he holds out through gritted teeth. He devotes his attention to kissing his way up your body, from the slick inside of your thighs, to the side of your hip, making you jump when he sucks on your sensitive breasts.

You stare at his mouth with wild, dark eyes, and him at yours, but he vowed to leave your first kiss to your husband. Girding his self-restraint, he asks, ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes, Marcus.’

His cock twitches at the sound of his name on your lips. He wants to hear you say it in all manners of ways - whisper it, gasp it, scream it. And by the cheekiness in your smile, it’s clear that you know what he’s thinking.

Your eyes drop to where his hardness is pressed against you. ‘Will you teach me how to please you, general?’

He swallows a groan, the animal in him rattling the bars of its cage. He replies diplomatically, ‘I will teach you how to teach your husband.’

In one smooth tug, he shucks off his tunic, then his loincloth, and he tries not to be self-conscious under your watchful gaze. Pulling you against him, skin on naked skin, he smears kisses along the side of your neck, smiling at your answering shudder. In return, you run your lips and scrape your teeth over his collarbone.

Taking your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm, he slides it all the way down his chest and wraps your fingers firmly around his throbbing cock, his pained moan in your ear.

Eyes wide, you marvel at the size of him in your grip. ‘You are so big.’

Marcus curses through clenched teeth. ‘You are an insolent girl.’

With a wicked glint in your eyes, you correct yourself, ‘You are so big, general.’

If he wasn’t so aroused, he would have chuckled at your cheek. Instead, he growls, ‘Such insubordination.’

Tilting your head to one side, you grin. ‘And how would you discipline me, sir?’

He lets the silence linger for a beat, allowing anticipation to build as one big hand splays over your ass, hot lips brushing the shell of your ear. ‘I would deny you my cock, my lady. Let your sweet cunt weep for me, empty, not knowing how good it would feel to have me deep inside you.’

You are unsure if you are more shocked at the explicitness of his words, or at the gush of wetness that has you pressing your thighs together. If you had to wager a guess, he is just as affected as you by the way his length pulses in your grasp.

Marcus smiles as he takes in the way your body reacts to him. ‘But how can I deny such a lovely, desperate creature such as yourself?’

A sob escapes you. ‘Please, Marcus - I’m yours to take.’

With that, all self-restraint abandons him, and his lips crash into yours. At the back of his mind, he knows you deserve a better first kiss, something gentle and sweet. But to your credit, you seem to take it in stride, winding your arms around his neck with a deep groan as he deepens the kiss. Opening up your mouth, he sweeps his tongue against yours, making sure you taste yourself and the pleasure that he had wrung from you.

When he reluctantly pulls back for air, you hum, ‘I thought you said I should save that for my husband.’

He all but snarls, ‘Damn your husband.’

The possessiveness in his tone sends you reeling, and his resolve wears even thinner when your cunt brushes against him, so wet and soft, begging for him.

‘I cannot wait any longer,’ he declares.

You bite your lip beseechingly. ‘Please, Marcus, I cannot either.’

He braces himself above you on strong arms, until all you can see is him, backlit by the soft candlelight. Beholding his beauty - the wisps of gray at his temples, the scar lining his cheekbone - your breath catches at the tenderness in his eyes as he stares down at you.

Holding the base of his cock, Marcus notches himself at the entrance of your cunt, trembling as he holds himself back.

‘I will go slow,’ he assures you. ‘If it hurts, you tell me to stop. Understood?’

Your mouth dry, you can only nod.

Holding your gaze, Marcus rolls his hips ever so slowly, jaw slack when he breaches you, inch by tortuous inch.

He is barely inside you and you already feel so unfathomably full.

‘Marcus,’ you gasp when it gets impossibly tight, nails digging into his broad shoulders.

He stops, and whispers encouragingly, ‘You are doing so well for me, taking me so beautifully. Just breathe.’

In between his patient, languid kisses, you unfurl, and Marcus gently pulls back, before pushing into you, deeper this time.

When you cry out, he shushes you, brushing the wet corners of your eyes with his lips. ‘Does it hurt?’

You shake your head. ‘No, it’s just - so much.’

‘I know, I can feel how tight you are gripping me,’ he mumbles into your neck, throbbing inside you while he holds himself still as you adjust. ‘Brave, sweet girl.’

When you find your voice again, you give him cheek. ‘I am a woman now, general.’

He smiles at you - a warm curl that crinkles the corners of his eyes endearingly - and claims your lips again. Feeling the tension seep out of your body, he thrusts shallowly so you can learn the movement of his hips. When he hits a spot that makes your jaw drop and your hips buck, he pulls all the way back, and drives himself to the hilt in one smooth motion.

And with that, you become a part of his soul, and his yours. His chest swells with the fiercest possessiveness and the greatest honour all at once, despite knowing that the circumstances that brought you together will inevitably tear you asunder at the break of dawn.

‘Marcus!’ you choke on a sob, throwing your head back, your walls clutching his cock in a merciless grip.

‘There she is,’ he grunts, mouth scraping the shell of your ear. ‘Say my name like that.’

And you do, over and over again, as he fucks into you. His pants land harshly in the crook of your neck with every thrust, hands greedily squeezing all the skin he can find - the curve of your ass, the dimple in your waist, your thigh to hitch it over his hip.

Looking down at you, eyes drunk and unfocused as you stare back at him, each squeeze of your wet cunt around him, every breath from your lips feels sacred.

He is seized by a sudden need to know. ‘How does it feel?’

Your eyes soften, and he shudders when you cup the side of his face to bring his nose to yours. ‘Divine.’

Marcus loses himself in you, in the wet squelch of your cunt around his length, the way your tightness takes every thrust. Words of praise that he doesn’t even hear tumble from his lips and onto every inch of skin he can reach as you cling to him, scraping your nails down his back and digging into the meat of his ass.

Pitching forward to press a hard kiss to you, he says, ‘I want you to fall apart for me again.’

‘Please, Marcus, please.’

Pushing himself up to his knees, still buried deep inside you, he spreads your thighs obscenely wide over his hips, and he moans at the sight of your cunt so full of him. With hooded eyes, he sucks on two of his thick fingers and brings them between your legs, carefully drawing circles on your clit, knowing that you are already sensitive from cumming twice for him before.

Your face twists in agony as he builds you towards another climax, patiently weaving the web of pleasure that wounds you tighter and tighter until your spine feels like it will snap in two. ‘Marcus, oh - don’t stop, don’t stop, oh gods -’

He bares his teeth as he feels you start to clench around him. ‘That’s it, that’s it. Cum on my cock, let me feel you, give it to me.’

Your peak crashes into you relentlessly, and as you are swept away, you can only wail and thrash, while Marcus curses and stutters unintelligibly above you as he spins out of control.

He had every intention to pull out, but it is as if some higher power is determined to foil his plans. With a guttural roar, his hips snap flush against yours, big palms grasp you so hard by the waist that you squeal, and he spills into you in hot gushes, once - twice - and again until he is spent.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

He doesn’t know if he said that aloud or if it was a trick of the mind. All he knows is that he eventually collapses bonelessly onto you, skin fused together with sweat and cum as your breaths become one in the crisp night air.

It is him who breaks the stillness, his old bones creaking when he stirs to relieve an ache in his back. His softened cock slides out of you, prompting you to whine in protest. He grunts when he looks down to see his cum dribble out of your cunt, leaving a pearly trail on the inside of your thighs.

When he meets your eyes, there is no awkwardness in the silence. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to spill my seed inside you. That was reckless.’

Your heart skips a beat at his admission, and you can’t hide the pride in your voice. ‘Do I make you reckless, general?’

He tries and fails to be stern in his answer, the tenderness with which he brushes his nose on your cheek giving him away. ‘I know better than to encourage your insolence with an answer.’

You are far from discouraged though, quite the opposite. Knowing you have this man - who commands armies of thousands - at your mercy is a siren’s call.

Peering at him from under your eyelashes, you curl one leg around his waist. ‘Do you want to be reckless again?’

He huffs, but a smile breaks through. ‘Have you ever been told that you are a cocktease?’

You hum teasingly. ‘I have never heard that word before, but I like it.’

‘You do?’ he breathes against your lips. ‘You like being my cocktease?’

‘Yours, general.’

Marcus is astounded when he feels himself harden again, and he moans as you press open-mouthed kisses down his neck. ‘What spell have you cast on this old man, my little cocktease?’

You grin, letting him ease you onto your back so he can settle between your thighs again. ‘The kind that lasts until dawn.’

Eventually, morning must break, sure as the moon turns and the sun rises. In the golden rays of day, you will wed his son in ironic, virginal white, showered in rose petals. He will look on from the side in his finest ceremonial robes of red, as you walk away from him and into your new life as someone else’s wife.

But in the velvety folds of this night and many more to come, safely ensconced in the deepest corners of his memories, in lands far away, in war and in peace, there he keeps you - where you are not.

More notes: Thank you for reading! As usual, comments/reblogs/asks would be very much appreciated 🥰 I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I loved writing it!

#prima nocta #marcus acacius fanfiction #gladiator ii fanfiction #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x f!reader #marcus acacius x fem!reader #marcus acacius oneshot #marcus acacius smut #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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rangertessadarling · 1 year ago

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yes yes Will is very cute and very innocent and sweet and all but may I remind you that he's also essentially a trained killer?

I know his badassery in the department of 'he could crush you between his shoulder blades' has been discussed many times so today we're just gonna discuss his short fuse.

Will Treaty's got a temper. No joke, he does.

You hurt his loved ones? Yeah, he's gonna find you and murder you. You get on his nerves one too many times? He will threaten to put you in prison for the rest of your life just cuz he can.

Remember when he literally started dragging the snobby Makindaw secretary back toward the invaded castle to turn him over to the murderous Scotti? Yeah that was literally only because he was being annoyed and full of himself, and Will was already on the verge of a breakdown because the ✨love of his life✨ was locked in a tower, so an obnoxious secretary who thinks he's worth more than he is? Yeah, get out.

oh oh also remember in The Lost Stories? When he's interrogating the suspect for all those strange instances at Castle Redmont? And the suspect keeps lying and stuttering through his answers and Will literally slams his fists on the desk and yells at him to not waste his time? He was probably using this as an intimidation tactic to get the guy to fess up (it worked) but we all know Will was probably, rightfully, and legitimately pissed off. The man is BUSY, he ain't got time in his schedule for people to fuck around during an interrogation and make him go through more work than he has to.

Oh also remember when he gave a guy into slavery? .... yeahhhhh not much to say about that

Also remember when he was captured by Ruhl and Ruhl was all like "bro why you chasing me downnnn what did I dooo?" like an asshole, and Will just very evenly, very calmly and quietly says "You killed my wife"

he's not screaming at the guy, he's not cursing him out and feverishly trying to escape, he's CALM, and he asserts AUTHORITY because even in a situation where he is literally held captive he gives off the energy that he's in control. Even when we ALL know that he was dying inside and probably desperately wanting to murder Ruhl where he stood.

If y'all can remember any other instances, I'd be happy to be reminded of them, Will is awesome. that's it. that's the post.

#rangers apprentice #ranger's apprentice #will treaty #tessa's headcanons #Tessa thirsting after Will again #Will Treaty is hot

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orphicmeliora · 1 month ago

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Panty sniffer Caleb except it's comedy.

You were just looking for a missing sock. One sock. That's it.

But what you find instead is your six-foot-something husband crouched by the laundry basket like he’s disarming a bomb—except the bomb is your underwear.

You freeze in the doorway. He doesn’t see you yet. He's on a mission. A perverted, laundry-scented mission—his expression tender, reverent.

With all the focus of a Deepspace pilot, Caleb lifts your favorite pair of panties from the pile like they're a love letter written in lace. He squints at it, rubs the crotch between his fingers like he’s testing the thread count for softness, and then—

He brings it up to nose and inhales.

Deeply.

Like a sommelier with no shame.

You make a sound. You’re not even sure what kind of sound—somewhere between a gasp and a squeaky door hinge. Caleb turns around, eyes wide, nose still buried in lace. You both lock eyes.

Time stops.

You hear distant thunder. Somewhere, a dog howls. You're frozen. Caleb's frozen. Time's frozen. You think distantly, all that's left is to put on a blond wig and sing Let It Go in a blizzard.

“...I can explain,” he says, still holding the underwear like it’s a peace offering.

You raise your hand. “Don’t. Just don’t.”

He closes his mouth immediately.

"I'm going to pretend this never happened," you declare, backing away slowly like he’s a raccoon in the pantry.

Caleb nods like he’s at a peace treaty signing.

You turn to leave—but then it hits you.

“…Wait. Is this why you never complain about doing laundry?”

Caleb stares at the ceiling like the answers are hidden in the light fixtures.

“…It’s possible.”

“I’m right here, Caleb! A living, breathing woman! With skin and body heat! Why the hell do you need my underwear?!”

He shrugs helplessly. “...Force of habit?”

“HABIT?! HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN A HABIT?!”

He’s pale now. His soul has exited the chat. "Honey, listen—"

You grab your head like you're in a telenovela. “My husband is a panty-sniffing laundry goblin. This is my villain origin story.”

“You make it sound worse when you say it out loud—”

“OH, I’M SORRY, IS THE SHAME GETTING LOUD FOR YOU NOW?!”

You storm off, dramatically, like a woman wronged by both love and polyester blends. Caleb tries to chase after you but trips over a basket. Underwear flies everywhere.

One lacy pair lands on his head like a tiny, tragic hat.

As you march down the hallway, muttering “I married a pervert,” one deeply disturbing thought slips in—quiet, traitorous:

...Why was that weirdly hot?

“Wait. How many times, Caleb?”

He frowns. “What kind of answer are you looking for? Ballpark? Weekly average?”

“CAL—”

#do you guys think that it'd be in the same verse as letters unsent?#meliora writes #love and deepspace #caleb x reader #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x you #love and deepspace caleb #lads caleb #lnds caleb

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viaxslz · 1 month ago

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⭔﹐⌗ ATTENTION ﹕ᶻz﹒

享受 ! .°. ݁₊ 𐙚 gn!reader, cw: established relationship, post argument, making up, cold shoulders, pet names, oh take me back to this era 😭😭, not proofread :P

CHAN

You’ve been giving Chan the cold shoulder for hours after your argument. arms crossed, death glare loaded, and air pods in even though they’re not playing anything. Chan knows he's in trouble. You’re not even acknowledging the dog pics he sent you. The dog pics. That’s when he knows it’s serious. Cue Chan pacing back and forth in the living room like a sitcom dad. He's googling "how to apologize to your emotionally intelligent but terrifyingly stubborn significant other who might actually kill you with their eyes." No real help. He decides to go with the classic Chan combo: guilt + dramatic flair + ✨stupid charm✨. Next thing you know, he’s dramatically fake-sniffling outside your door with a Bluetooth speaker playing “Apologize” by OneRepublic at full volume. “Baby… it’s too late to apolo—oh wait, no, it’s NOT too late! That’s why I’m here!” You crack the door open just to glare, and that’s when he shoves a plate of perfectly microwaved dino nuggets into your hands like it’s a peace treaty. “I made these with love. And regret. Mostly regret. But also love.” You’re still silent. So he pulls out his final weapon: a handwritten letter addressed to “The Love of My Life (Who Could Annihilate Me With One Look).” It’s full of sappy lines like “Your silence hurts more than leg day” and “You’re my favorite notification and also includes a stick figure drawing of you kicking his butt, labeled “Me if I ever mess up again.” You finally snort, trying to stay mad but failing. He gasps. “Was that a laugh? Did you just—was that forgiveness I heard in your nose?” You: “That was me trying not to choke on a nugget, actually.” Chan grins like he just won an Oscar. “I’ll take it.” And before you know it, you’re in his arms, still pretending you’re annoyed, while he whispers sweet apologies into your ear and asks if you want to co-parent a puppy someday because, you know, trust rebuilding.

LEE KNOW

Minho isn’t the type to beg for forgiveness. At least, that’s what he tells himself. In reality, he’s been sulking in the kitchen for an hour, dramatically peeling oranges like they personally offended him because someone (you) won’t talk to him after your argument. He’s not even sure who was right anymore. Probably you. But admitting that out loud would break his cool, and that’s illegal in Minho Land. Instead, he starts making increasingly loud commentary to his cats. “Soonyoung, do you think I was being unreasonable? Hmm? No? Exactly. At least someone understands me.” You’re in the next room, scrolling on your phone, clearly ignoring him. He walks by casually and accidentally drops a photo of you two on the floor. “Oops,” he says way too loudly. “Didn’t mean to drop this beautiful memory we shared when we were still talking to each other like normal, emotionally stable people.” Still nothing. You don’t even blink. That’s when he resorts to phase two: petty bribery. He slides a plate of your favorite snack across the table toward you without saying a word. There’s a sticky note on it that says: “I’m still mad but I miss you more. Don’t let the cat eat this.” You glance at it, unimpressed. So he ups the ante and sends you a meme one of himself, edited to look like he’s crying in a corner with the caption: “Me after realizing I can’t win a fight against my insanely hot and emotionally intelligent partner.” Finally, you let out a laugh, and he looks up from across the room like a cat that’s pretending it doesn’t care but has been watching you the whole time. “Oh, so you do still love me,” he smirks, leaning against the counter. You: “I still haven’t forgiven you.” Minho: “That’s okay. I forgive me for both of us.” You roll your eyes and throw a pillow at him. He catches it, kisses it dramatically, and says, “Tell your representative we accept the terms.” Later, he lets Dori sit in your lap while he curls up next to you, whispering, “I hate fighting with you. Let’s not do that again. Unless you’re into angry make-ups. In which case, I’m very available.”

CHANGBIN

Changbin messed up. He knows it. You know it. The neighbors probably know it because you haven’t responded to a single thing he’s said in two hours and he’s been dramatically sighing every five minutes like someone just told him protein shakes were banned. He starts pacing the apartment like he’s mentally preparing for a final boss fight. Even his muscles look tense. He mutters to himself like a stressed-out drama lead. "Okay Changbin, you’ve survived leg day, you’ve survived Jihoon’s cooking, you can survive this." He tries casual tactics first. Walks by you holding a gallon of water like he’s not suffering. Drops a casual “sup” in the most broken voice ever. You don’t even blink. So he levels up: Operation Cute & Desperate. You hear rustling in the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, he walks out in your hoodie, the one that’s comically tight on him and a headband with little bear ears. His arms are crossed. His face is dead serious. “I’m here to apologize,” he says, voice an octave higher. “As your oversized emotional support bear.” You blink. He waddles closer, overly dramatic. “I’ve been thinking about my actions. While lifting. And crying. Slightly. Okay maybe a lot. But my point is look into these bear ears and tell me you don’t miss me.” You burst out laughing. He grins like he just benched 300 pounds of forgiveness. But he’s not done. He dramatically pulls out a tiny tub of ice cream from behind his back like it’s an engagement ring. “I come bearing peace offerings and high-calorie emotional healing. If this doesn’t work, I’ll let you pick the next gym playlist. Even if it’s… ballads.” You, narrowing your eyes: “Even the sad ones with rain sound effects?” He winces. “Even those.” You pull him into a hug, bear ears squishing slightly, and he lets out a victorious sigh.

HYUNJIN

The argument was dumb. Like, really dumb. Something about the dishes and his suspicious ability to avoid them like they’re cursed. But now you’re not talking to him, and Hyunjin is spiraling. He’s lying facedown on the floor like a Victorian man fainting in a corset. Felix: “Dude, are you okay?” Hyunjin, muffled into the carpet: “No. My soulmate hates me and the world has lost color.” He tries texting you, but you left him on read. Tragic. So he gets creative. You walk into the living room and freeze. There’s a handwritten note taped to the wall that says: “In this house, i love and respect the queen (you). Even when she is intimidating and scary and not talking to me.” Below it: a trail of rose petals… leading to the kitchen… where you find Hyunjin in an apron, holding a vacuum cleaner in one hand and a spatula in the other like some kind of domestic apology warrior. “I have vacuumed. I have cooked. I have suffered.” You stare at him. He drops the spatula. “Do I get forgiveness points if I say you’re prettier when you’re mad?” You squint. “No.” He gasps. “How dare. I’m literally groveling. Do you know how much I hate crumbs on my socks? I vacuumed for you. That’s love.” You try to keep a straight face, but he’s got that kicked puppy look and there’s flour in his hair. It��s… kind of adorable. “I’m still mad.” He nods solemnly, walks over, and holds up a crayon drawing of the two of you holding hands, labeled: “Me + The Love of My Life (please forgive me I am weak without you)” You burst out laughing, finally giving in. He beams like he just won an award. Hyunjin, hugging you tightly: “I’ll do dishes every day this week.” You: “And next week.” Hyunjin: “Let’s not push it.”

HAN

Han is not handling this well. You're ignoring him and he’s been pacing the room like a raccoon on Red Bull. The argument was over something stupid (probably him forgetting to text you back because he was distracted by a pigeon outside), but now you’re giving him the silent treatment and he’s one sad meme away from spiraling. He sends you a voice note titled “Please Listen or I Will Cry in Public” You open it. It’s just him saying “hi” in 27 different accents, followed by a long sigh and then: “I miss you. Also, I stubbed my toe and I feel like that’s karma.” Still no response. So he launches Operation Desperate But Make It Stupid™. You walk into the kitchen to find a post-it note stuck to your favorite snack: “This snack is yours. So is my heart. Please take both.” Then there’s another note on the fridge: “If this is where the cold stuff goes, why are you being so cold to me :(((((” Another one on the toilet: “I flushed my pride. Let me back in your heart.” You’re trying not to laugh, but it’s becoming physically impossible. Then you hear him yell from the living room: “BABY PLEASE I CAN’T WORK UNDER THESE CONDITIONS. I TRIED TO WRITE LYRICS AND THEY TURNED INTO A SAD POEM ABOUT YOUR LEFT EYEBROW.” You peek your head out and he’s sitting dramatically on the floor with a ukulele he can’t play, strumming random strings while freestyle rapping an apology. “I was dumb and now I’m numb, You’re my queen and I’m your crumb, Forgive me please, or I’ll become…A worm.” You: “…A worm?” Jisung: “An unlovable worm.” You finally burst out laughing. He scrambles to his feet like he just got a Grammy and hugs you tight, not letting go. “I’m sorry. I was dumb. I always mess things up but I don’t wanna mess us up. You mean too much to me, even more than ramen. That’s serious.” You: “Even more than convenience store ramen at 3am?” He gasps. “Don’t make me say it again. It hurts.”

FELIX

You’re mad. And Felix? He’s a walking apology wrapped in sunshine and panic. He’s been following you around the apartment at a five-foot distance like a sad Roomba. Every time you turn, he freezes like he’s been caught committing a crime. He tries whispering your name dramatically like a telenovela character. “Y/N… Y/N, please… don’t do this. Not like this. Don’t ghost me while we’re still in the same house. It’s emotional terrorism.” You ignore him. So he leaves and comes back wearing the most ridiculous outfit known to mankind: your fuzzy pink robe, heart-shaped sunglasses, and a single oven mitt. “Look,” he says, dead serious. “This is what losing your affection did to me. I have no sense of fashion. No sense of self. I tried to toast bread but forgot to plug in the toaster.” You raise an eyebrow. So he ups the ante. Grabs your plushie and gently makes it “walk” toward you with a high-pitched voice. “Hi! I’m Mr. Snuggles and I think you should forgive Lixie because he’s really sorry and his freckles are crying.” You cover your face trying not to laugh. “Help what???” Then he puts the plushie down, sighs deeply, and finally drops the crack for a second. “I know I hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to. I’d never do anything to make you feel ignored or unimportant, but I messed up. So… I’ll keep making a fool of myself until you smile again.” You glance up, and he’s got his arms wide open like a dramatic K-drama confession, still in your robe. You: “You look like a chaotic sleepover aunt.” Him, with the brightest grin: “But am I your forgiven chaotic sleepover aunt?” You sigh, walk over, and hug him. He melts immediately, nearly collapsing with relief. “I’ll be better,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “I promise. Even if I have to learn how to use the toaster properly.”

SEUNGMIN

The argument was small but loud. And now you’ve gone full cold shoulder. No eye contact. No banter. No sarcastic jabs. Nothing. For Seungmin, that’s worse than death. At first, he tries to out-ignore you out of pure spite. He walks past you dramatically sipping water like he’s never been hydrated a day in his life. Slams the cup down. Sighs. Doesn’t look at you. Repeats. Then he escalates. You walk into the kitchen and the fridge has a post-it that says: “This is where cold things go. Just like your heart apparently.” You spot your favorite snack on the counter. The packaging is untouched… but there’s another note: “I was going to eat this out of petty revenge, but I remembered I’m a good person. Unlike some people.” You almost laugh. Almost. Later, you hear him muttering while gaming: “Wow, teammates who actually listen… must be nice…” You finally lose it and throw a pillow at him. He catches it midair like a smug little gremlin and smirks. “So you can still see me. Thought I turned invisible.” You: “You’re so dramatic.” Seungmin, fake offended: “I haven’t even started yet.” Then he softens. Just a little. Barely. “I don’t like fighting with you. And I definitely don’t like not talking to you. I’m still mad, but I miss you more.” He walks over, hands in pockets, and says it without looking directly at you. “I’m sorry for being a jerk. I’m working on it. Please don’t stay mad too long, okay?” You stare at him. He stares at the floor. “…Also I may or may not have named your pillow Kevin and cried into him last night.” You: “You WHAT—” Seungmin: “Shhh. Kevin and I are going through a lot.”

JEONGIN

Jeongin, immediately after the argument: “I don’t care. I’m not apologizing. I was RIGHT.” Jeongin, 20 minutes later, whispering to Hyunjin: “She’s not looking at me. Should I fake an injury?” Hyunjin: “What kind?” Jeongin: “Emotional.” Cue Operation Unbothered (but obviously very bothered). He starts acting extra around the house. Slams drawers. Loudly types on his phone with the keyboard click sounds on. Walks past you with exaggerated sighs and occasional mutters like: “Guess I’ll just go be emotionally damaged… ALONE.” You stay silent. Now it’s desperation hour. He walks in wearing a crown made from a cereal box, holding a mop like a sword. “I have returned from the Kingdom of Regret. I bring apologies and emotional growth.” You blink. He bows deeply, knocking the crown off his head. “Your silence wounds me, fair lady. I shall now sing of my sorrow.” You: “Jeongin, don’t—” Too late. He whips out his phone, plays the most dramatic instrumental music he can find, and starts fake-sobbing like he’s in a historical drama. “Forgive me, for I was young and foolish—AND STUPID. MOSTLY STUPID.” You’re cackling at this point, and he breaks character instantly, grinning like he just won the lottery. “AH, SHE SMILES. I AM REDEEMED.” You: “You’re so annoying.” Him, smug: “But… forgiven?” You roll your eyes, tug him into a hug, and he melts instantly, still holding the mop. “Next time,” you mumble, “just say sorry like a normal person.” He grins into your shoulder. “Where’s the drama in that?”

PERM TAGLIST 📌🔖 ──── @the-sea-called-history02 @oc3anfloor @queenofdumbfuckery @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @my-neurodivergent-world @bookswillfindyouaway @beal-o @velvetmoonlght

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spectrumpulse · 2 years ago

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horny-marbles · 22 days ago

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Hey babe can I pretttttyy please request some Ben Drowned my queen my diva literally anything smut ;) or fluff is amazing with me if not it’s totally fine much loveee <3

bro i have so much shit with ben in my notes app from a few months ago when i was fixated on him it's not even funny. headsup that i hc him as a chill ass stoner with piercings because hot! 🤓☝🏻 kissiesss enjoy <33

(also can you tell i like the word molasses lmfao)

Wetware (BEN Drowned x F!Reader)

CW: drug use and sex under the influence, oral (f receiving), face sitting and rimming, light nipple play on ben, riding, creampie

summary: you and your weed bud get bored of smoking and lounging and decide to try something new.

wordcount 5.2k + a little bonus (epilogue?) at the end because i heart ben fr

Ben’s room is a black hole of time. You’ve gotten lost in it more times than you can count—somewhere between a third bowl and the fourth replay of whatever pixelated horror game playthrough he was hyperfixated on that week. There’s no clock in here. No windows, either, not really—just blackout curtains held up with thumbtacks and stubbornness. It could be 3AM or noon, it doesn't matter.

You’re sinking into Ben’s mattress like it’s got a personal vendetta against spinal support, the springs threatening to divorce the fabric entirely every time you shift. It’s not gross, not really—just lived in. The pillows are criminally soft, like they’ve been through a hundred late-night existential crises and held strong. The air smells like weed ghosts, synthetic berry vape, and Ocean Breeze air freshener that expired in spirit if not in can. It’s too warm, too humid, your skin already buzzing under your clothes—but it's comforting. Familiar. Kinda gross actually. Whatever.

This is where you always end up. When the world gets loud, when your head’s heavier than your spine can carry, when you both decide—without words—that it’s a “fuck everything” kind of night. No better place to waste time than this little cocoon of LED hell and lava lamp glory. Neon signs blink overhead in god-awful Comic Sans. One says “NO THOUGHTS, JUST VIBES.” The other one is just a glowing PNG of Shrek’s face, flickering like it's high with you. He swears they're ironic, but you don't really believe him.

Ben’s across from you on the bed, one leg draped lazy over the side, arms behind his head like he owns the place—which, okay, he does, but it’s more about how he owns it. Effortless. Messy. Cocky in a way that never tips into annoying. His eyes catch the LED glow like they were made for it—red pinprick pupils in oceans of black, alien and warm all at once. That shaggy ass hair always in his face, and he never fixes it. You don’t think he’s looked in a mirror on purpose in years.

You’ve been his smoke buddy since forever. It just happened. One shared joint on the porch after a rowdy party in the mansion you both bailed on early, and suddenly you were always crashing here. Sometimes in the same bed, sometimes on the floor. No weirdness. No expectations. Just easy passes of the blunt and lazy banter between coughs.

But tonight’s different.

You’re both cross-legged, facing each other like it’s a summit meeting, except instead of discussing treaties, you’re cradling two little capsules in the sweaty curve of your palms.

Molly. Because weed’s gotten too safe, too expected. Too routine. You needed something new. Something soft-edged and alive under the skin. And Ben just shrugged and said, “Sure,” like you’d asked if he wanted Taco Bell instead of McDonald’s.

He rolls his capsule between his fingers. His nail polish is chipping, some see-through black from last week still clinging to the corners. You feel the shape of this night settling over you just watching his fingers move. Not heavy. Just close. Intimate in that slippery way—like if either of you thought about it too hard, it might feel like more than it is. But you’re too chill to overthink. That’s the whole point.

“Bottoms up, bro,” he mumbles, voice thick with cotton and calm, and you both knock yours back like it’s communion.

Ben’s gone quiet. Not unusual. He’s a drifter when he’s high, floats between tabs and videos and zoning out completely. But this isn’t that. He’s on his back beside you, head pillowed on his arm, watching the LED lights morph from pink to blue to red again like they’re telling a story. You’re turned toward him, fingers curled loosely under your cheek, your body floppy in that too-much-sensation kind of way. Like every nerve ending’s been gently unsheathed and is just vibing out under your skin.

You feel it in the edges first—like your thoughts are melting down the inside of your skull, softening at the corners. Breath deepens without asking. Jaw’s a little tight, but not in a bad way—like your body’s clenching in on itself, holding on before it lets go. Your heartbeat thuds a little louder than it should, pulsing in your ears like background bass. You blink slower. The lights go smeary at the edges. You feel the mattress underneath you in high-definition, every lump and warmth patch suddenly personal, almost intimate. Your teeth feel good. Everything is soft. Everything is so fucking good.

The LEDs don’t flicker anymore—they pulse. Soft waves of color across the walls. Everything feels like it’s syncing. Like the room has a heartbeat, and it’s climbing up your spine.

You and Ben haven’t said much in a while. Haven’t needed to.

The silence isn’t heavy. It’s glowing.

It’s been—what, thirty-five minutes? Forty? Doesn’t matter. You feel him now. Not just his presence, but the gravity of him. Like he’s warmer than the rest of the room. Like your chest expands more when he breathes. Like his exhale brushes your skin even though he’s a full arm's length away.

You laugh, breathless, for no reason. He turns his head, sluggish and drowsy, and smiles like your laugh was a spell.

You blink at him. He blinks back. His pupils are blown, looking like they could swallow you whole and you wouldn’t even mind. There’s a line of soft blue light tracing the bridge of his nose, the slope of his cheekbone, the little dip at the corner of his mouth.

“Shit,” he says softly, like it’s a revelation. “You look crazy good in this lighting.”

You snort, eyes rolling but heart thudding, and it’s stupid how warm your cheeks feel. “Shut the fuck up. You’re literally glowing like a Twilight vampire.”

He just grins wider, and it’s lazy and beautiful in a way that doesn’t even make sense. You’ve looked at him a thousand times—lit by smoke clouds and YouTube autoplay and dying lamps—but now it’s like his skin is gold leaf. Like every freckle, every lazy shift of his lips, every breath is shining.

“You’re high as shit,” he says, voice honey-slow, syrup-lazy.

“So are you,” you shoot back, but you’re smiling stupidly. Your face feels too big for your skull. Ben lets out this slow, breathy laugh, and fuck, even that feels good. You watch his jaw flex with the smile, the little hitch in his shoulder when he shrugs like he can’t even be bothered to be cocky about it.

He shifts a little closer. Doesn’t say anything, just lets his fingertips brush the soft inside of your wrist, featherlight, and you both inhale like it’s the first time you’ve ever touched anything. You roll your arm a little, letting his fingers graze along the underside. Your skin sings under the touch, tingles that chase each other like static up your elbow, your shoulder, your spine.

“Dude," you murmur, voice wobbly with the hug of seretonin, "touching stuff feels insane right now.”

Ben’s grin goes lopsided. “Yeah?”

You grab his hand lazily, your fingers barely holding his, just enough contact to spark fireworks in your palm. “Yeah,” you whisper, and your voice sounds thick and sweet and sleepy. “Touch my arm.”

He does. Slow, dragging his fingertips up from your wrist to your shoulder, and fuck. It’s nothing. It’s everything. You feel each ridge of his fingerprint like it’s being engraved. You suck in a breath, involuntary, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

Your fingers are still tangled with his. You roll onto your back and tug his hand with you so he follows, half-leaning over you now, both of you blinking slow, pupils so wide you’re practically seeing stars.

His hand finds your waist—slow and curious—and the second his fingers touch the curve there, you moan. Barely audible. Embarrassing. Real.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, pressing your face into your elbow. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Nah,” he says, voice dropped to something low and smooth and warm. “Don’t even trip.”

His hand spreads across your waist, fingers dragging up the fabric of your shirt, and it feels like lightning. You both start laughing, delirious and giddy, like you’re high on each other instead of this fucked up little pill you don't even remember where you got it from.

You open your mouth to say something stupid—probably “your hand feels like velvet, what the fuck”—but he kisses you instead.

And ohhh.

It’s soft. Like kissing in a dream, like your mouths are made of heat and velvet and instinct. No teeth, no rush. Just press and melt. His lip ring is warm against your mouth, smooth, the perfect little edge in all that softness. You let out this tiny sound—barely anything—and he presses closer.

His hand slides to your jaw, just his fingertips touching you, like he’s scared to press too hard and pop the bubble. His lips taste like whatever berry vape he’d been hitting earlier and maybe a little weed residue, maybe a little Ben—static? It doesn't matter. He kisses like it’s just something to do, like breathing, like gravity pulling him closer.

Your whole body is heat and nerves and cotton. You kiss back lazily, high and weightless, lips dragging open just enough to deepen it a little. Just enough to breathe into his mouth, and when you do, he shudders. Just a little. Just enough for you to feel it in your chest.

You murmur against his lips, “Is it just me or does this feel crazy good?”

His mouth brushes your jaw, his voice low and cracked open, “It’s not just you.”

Your lips find his again—hot, open, slower now. Tongue against tongue in a wet slide that feels like drowning in syrup and rapture. Your mouths fit like they’ve done this a hundred times. Like they’ll do it a hundred more. There’s nothing messy about it. No grabbing. No biting. Just this lazy, drugged gravity pulling you back into each other every time you drift a millimeter apart.

Every inch of him feels woven through every pore on your body. Every place he touches you, you feel ten times over, and it sends this slow throb through you—low, soft, but steady.

You hum against his mouth, light and dazed.

“Feel good?” he mumbles, lips brushing yours, voice scratchy like he hasn’t talked in a hundred years.

“Mmmhm.” You nod once, small. “So good I might cry.”

Ben lets out a quiet, surprised little laugh—breathy and deep, warm where it puffs against your cheek. “You’re such a lightweight.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, fingers skating under the hem of his hoodie, “you feel stupid good too.”

His breath catches, just slightly, when your palm flattens against the bare skin at his hip. He's so warm and smooth it almost feels fake. You trail your hand up, slowly, just feeling. Muscles shifting under your palm like slow waves, the stretch of them under soft skin. You feel like you could cry just from the warmth pooling in your gut.

“Jesus,” you murmur, “what the fuck are you made of?”

Ben groans, low in his throat, and that’s when he finally presses his hips just a little closer—barely a grind, barely a shift—but the heat of him slots perfectly against you and fuck. It’s not frantic. It’s not a need. It’s just there. Like his body wants to be against yours. Like it was always gonna end up here.

The throb between your legs tightens, sudden and thick, and the moan that slips out of you again sounds so helpless it makes his lips stutter on yours. He stills. Smirks a little, but his breath shakes. “That was so hot,” he murmurs, voice low and so close. “Fuck, you sound hot.”

His hands slide under your thighs, gripping just enough to guide, and you shift without thinking, letting him tug you upward and over until you’re straddling him. The movement’s effortless, but it feels like the earth tilting. Like gravity changed its mind.

Your hips start rolling before your mind can even catch up, like it just started happening. You’re barely aware of it, but the friction is fucking heaven, slow grinds over the hard line of his cock under his sweats. His hands are on your waist, guiding the motion—not pulling, just letting it happen. You kiss through it, drugged and soft and soaked between your thighs.

He’s looking up at you through drags of his mouth over yours like you hung the stars just by sitting there. He grunts, tilting his hips up into the drag of your cunt—just once, slow—and he murmurs low and sweet and way too casual for how hard he sounds, “Wanna sit on my face, pretty?”

You whimper. Like a full-body shiver that leaks out your throat. The words hit somewhere between your ribs and your cunt, hot and sudden and unbearable. You swear you nearly cum just from hearing him say it. The audacity. The casualness. You clutch at his shoulders, blink down at him like he just opened the fucking gates of heaven.

“Fucking—yeah,” you gasp, already shifting. You scramble up to your knees, laugh breaking out when you nearly fall sideways because your limbs are all molasses and light. Ben steadies you with a soft noise, then just lays back, arms folded behind his head, that stupid stoned smirk on his face like he’s the pillow now.

You pull your shirt off awkwardly—get it halfway stuck, then give up and shove it over your tits, braless and flushed and fucking glowing. His eyes drop there instantly. Lingers. His tongue wets his lower lip and he mutters something that sounds close to awe as you start crawling up his chest.

And when you do—when you finally get your knees to the mattress and your thighs cage in his face—you hesitate just long enough to process what’s happening. Just long enough to see his face under you—black eyes locked on your dripping cunt like it’s sacred, watching the sway of your tits, hands coming up to grip your thighs just under the curve of your ass, holding you steady.

“C'mon, pretty,” he groans, voice so fucking deep it vibrates through your whole lower body, “have a seat.”

Then you lower yourself—and his mouth meets you.

And holy. shit.

The second your cunt touches his mouth, it lights you up. It’s like being kissed by heat itself. His tongue drags flat and slow from your entrance to your clit, lapping with a pressure so lazy and steady it feels like it’s been happening forever. His nose presses right against you, his mouth open and eating like you’re ripe fruit—sweet, messy, tender. There’s nothing polite about it. He’s fully in it, no teasing, no precision. Exploring for himself as much as he's pleasing you.

You moan, broken and loud, hand flying to his head to hold on. His hair’s soft and sweaty, and you can feel the way his mouth curves into a grin under you.

“Jesus fuck, Ben—”

He groans, nosing deeper, sucking your clit just once—slow—and you swear your brain fractures. You jerk, thighs quaking, hands flailing for something to hold, something to feel so you don't yank on his hair because the sensation is so good it’s horrifying.

“Ben—fuck,” you gasp, breath snapping in half. “Fuck—”

His arms wrap around your thighs, strong and steady, pulling you down until you’re seated fully against his face. Sloppy, deep licks that dip and circle and press up into you with devastating slowness. He tilts his head just a bit and stays there, lips wrapped soft around your clit, tongue flicking slow, deliberate circles until your whole body is tightening.

Your body’s gone nuclear. Like your skin is lighting up, nerves raw and too alive, every drag of his tongue a lightning bolt that melts back into syrup. It’s lazy. It’s wet. You’re gushing on his mouth and he just takes it. Tongue buried, lips parted, devouring.

He hums low like it’s good, like you taste good, and the vibration punches right through your clit and lands somewhere deep in your stomach. You roll your hips once, instinctive, and a moan punches out of him right into your cunt, like you just gave him a hit of something purer than anything he’s ever smoked.

He noses up into your clit as he works, lips soft and open, tongue licking slow under the hood with maddening care. One of his hands slips up, palm cupping your hip like he’s grounding himself there, the other sliding back to your ass, pulling you closer, tighter, until your pussy grinds against him again—this time on his face.

He tilts his head just enough to suck your clit into his mouth—soft and slow and so fucking good—and your whole body jerks. Your hands tighten on the headboard, tits bouncing slightly with the movement, and Ben opens his eyes just to watch.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice muffled but needy, “ride my fuckin’ face.”

Your hips start to move without you thinking—just lazy little rocks, forward and back, riding his face like it’s the only rhythm left in the universe.

Ben’s hands tighten, fingers bruising in the best way, and his thumbs pull your cheeks apart just slightly, spreading you open so he can really lick you. You gasp again, voice wrecked. He laughs under you, muffled and arrogant and so pretty.

He watches your tits bounce softly with each breathless grind, eyes heavy-lidded and drunk with it, like he’s seeing a dream in real time. His tongue is relentless. Your thighs are shaking. And then, just to watch your reaction, his tongue slips lower, past your dripping hole, licking a slow, slick line across your rim.

Your whole body jolts like he electrocuted you. You freeze for half a second—but your pussy pulses in response, clenching around nothing so tight it aches. You can’t even speak. Your chest heaves. Your thighs twitch. And he hums, pleased, like this was the plan all along.

At first it’s just a breath. A ghost of a tease. He licks between your cheeks, slow and unbothered, casual as hell, just a lazy upward drag of his tongue over your ass. Your breath catches, whole body jolting, and you whimper—high and confused and wrecked.

You barely notice your hand creeping down your chest, palming your own breast like you need the grounding. He groans under you again, tongue still moving in sync with the tiny, wet grinds of your hips over his mouth and nose, slow and deliberate—back and forth between your soaked cunt and your ass.

You come like your body’s caving in on itself.

No warning. No rhythm. It cracks through you in pulses, long and drawn out, muscle-deep and fucking perfect—like it’s wringing you out. Your thighs lock around his head, hands flying to the wall to stay up, and your mouth drops open on a soundless moan as your whole body shudders. Pussy pulsing so tight you feel it squeeze his tongue. Brain splitting like lightning down your spine. Your muscles melt but your nerves won’t stop firing.

You feel crazy. You feel amazing. Like your brain doesn’t know what to do with all the good. The molly, the mouth on you, the weight of your body draped over his head while the room glows warm and golden around the edges. Your skin’s sticking to his in spots. Everything feels hazy and whole. Like this is the best place on earth to die.

His hands move with you—up, warm and slow, from your ass to the small of your back. One of them slides higher, fingers spread wide like he wants to hold your whole spine in his palm. The other comes around, smooth over your ribs, thumbing just under your tit before finally cupping one with lazy reverence.

Then, all slow grin and and eyes glinting redder, he mumbles,

“So, like… you gonna ride my dick too, or you need a nap first?”

You snort. Half laugh, half moan, rolling your hips once like your body’s answering before your mouth can.

“Jesus—Ben—”

But you’re already climbing back down his chest, already fumbling for his waistband like you’re drawn to it, not choosing.

He just grins up at you, eyes low-lidded and glowing.

“C’mon, dude. You gotta know I’m dying over here.”

And he is. His dick’s flushed and hard and slick at the tip, twitching against his stomach like it’s got a pulse of its own.

You wrap your hand around it, slow, just to guide him, and his hips lift like he can’t help it. You have to take a moment just to admire the throb in your hand, the flex of his stomach, the glimpse of teeth showing when they sink into his bottom lip. And when you sink down, when your pussy finally wraps around him, hot and soaked and still fluttering from your orgasm, your hips stall. His jaw drops. Both of you go still.

It’s like a fucking detonation. A slow-blooming, devastating kind of silence. It’s not even how tight you are—though you are—it’s how hot it feels. How slick, how intimate, how molly makes it feel like he’s not just inside you, but part of you. Like your whole body was waiting for this exact moment to exist. You clench once, and his hips jerk like you electrocuted him.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters, voice caught somewhere between a moan and a sigh.

You start to move eventually. Slow. Just a tiny grind forward, a slow circle back. Not even up and down yet. Just wet, slow drags. Like your body’s trying to memorize him from the inside out. You’re both gasping, breathing harder, but there’s no rush in it. No urgency. Just pleasure. Thick and consuming.

“You feel so fucking good,” he breathes, barely audible, like he’s praying to your cunt. And fuck, maybe he is with the way his head drops back to the pillow, throat exposed, jaw slack, brows furrowed like he’s on the edge of something just from the way you’re grinding on him.

You drag your hands up his sides, still moving slow. The friction is everything. Your clit brushes against his pelvis with every roll, every grind, and you can feel yourself start to tremble again, thighs burning but too high to care. His hands find your hips, not to guide—just to hold. Fingers twitching like he wants to tell you to slow down—if going any slower is even possible—but his body saying otherwise.

Your palms slide under his shirt, pushing it up inch by inch. The way it rides up under your fingers makes your mouth water. It bunches under his arms, revealing his stomach, his chest, and when his pierced nipples come into view—flushed and tight from the heat of you or both—you lean down, lips brushing over one.

He twitches. Breath stutters.

You lick. Just a soft kitten lick. Then another.

Ben chokes on a moan. Hips buck helplessly up into you, cock grinding deeper inside you.

“Fuck, dude—”

You do it again. A slow lick around the ring, then another just beneath it, teasing, playful. Your hips never stop moving, just grinding down into his cock like you know how deep he is, how he’s splitting you open and making you whole at the same time.

He grabs your ass tighter now, still not forcing, just grounding, needing.

“Gonna fuckin’ cum, what the fuck," he breathes, eyes fluttering open just to watch you mouth at his chest. “What the fuck are you doing to me.”

You grin against his skin, eyes glazed and happy and wrecked.

“Riding your dick,” you whisper, and he groans like you just blessed him.

You lean back slow, hands smoothing down his stomach again, and you plant your palms on his waist, arch your spine just to feel how your tits bounce with the motion—half for yourself, half because you know he’s watching.

His gaze stays on you like he’s seeing you for the first time and the thousandth all at once. His pupils are blown wide and bright, lips parted like he can’t even close them without gasping. There’s sweat at his hairline. His chest is heaving.

Then, for one perfect second, his face twitches. Just a shift—mouth curling up into this crooked, gritted-teeth grin like the sight of you fucking yourself on him is too much to bear but he loves it.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty it’s pissing me off,” he mutters, voice low and dazed and almost laughing.

You bark a breathless giggle and bounce a little harder on him just for that. And he groans, eyes rolling halfway back, hands flexing on your hips like he’s trying to be chill, but his body’s begging for more.

His hips roll up under yours with slow precision, timed to every bounce like a perfect rhythm only the two of you know. Slow. Deliberate. Meeting your movement with this thick, upward grind that punches a moan right out of you. Not fast, not rough—just deep. Skin slapping sticky where you’re soaked all over him now, the noise heavy and lewd.

“Yeah, fuck me, just like that—holy shit—"

He moans it like a prayer, voice cracking as you grind down harder to match his thrusts. Your clit’s catching on the base of him just right, and your walls pulse so tight around his dick you can feel the way he throbs inside you. Every drag is wet and obscene, every slide in so thick and hot it feels like your brain’s sloshing in your skull. The molly makes it bloom. Every sensation feels like it echoes, spreads, deepens.

Ben’s head drops back, throat arched, his hands gripping you firm but not forceful—like he’s bracing for impact. His abs flex under your palms every time he fucks up into you, low and slow, building the pressure like he knows you’re both about to see God in a minute or two.

“Jesus—” he breathes, jaw tight, “fucking Christ, love this fuckin' pussy, baby, ride it, c'mon—I'm close, fuck, please—”

You whimper and keep riding, chasing the drag, the slide, the stretch. The friction is everything. Wet and relentless and perfect. The way he fills you, the way your bodies meet with slick, noisy thrusts—it’s like being gutted slow, like a star collapsing in on itself.

You slam down once more and his hips snap up into you at the same time, so deep you choke, stars bursting behind your eyes, and you come. Together. Throb on throb, your bodies synced up like it's something celestial.

Second orgasm hits hard, violently soft, like you're being peeled open from the inside and having honey poured over every exposed nerve ending. Your whole body seizes up, mouth open in a silent scream as your pussy milks him through it, sucking him deeper. He spills into you with a whiny, cracked “fuckfuckfuck—goddamn—”, hips jerking, breath breaking apart against your neck as he holds you down through every pulse. You feel every throb deep inside you, feel the warmth spread between your thighs like it’s part of the drug, like it’s burning you alive from the core out.

You’re shaking. Still grinding just a little, just enough to ride out the waves. Your legs are jelly, your hands barely holding you upright as you collapse forward, sweaty chest pressed to his, your face buried in his neck.

Ben’s arms wrap around you, loose but strong, and he breathes through his nose, still catching up. One hand runs up your back, gentle, and the other smooths down to your ass again like he just needs to feel you.

Neither of you says anything for a long moment. Just breath. Just skin. Just that slow, echoing after of molly and sex and feeling way too much to care.

You don't even realize you’ve slumped off of him until your cheek’s mashed against his chest and he’s laughing, soft and breathless, palm skating down your spine with the weight of molasses.

“Bro,” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded and voice fried. “That was... unholy.”

You hum something between a laugh and a wheeze, forehead sticky against his skin. “I think I saw God.”

He snorts. You feel it rumble through his chest, and for some reason that makes your heart twitch. He lifts a lazy hand to push your hair out of your face, fingers catching in it but not bothering to fix anything, just letting it tangle. His other hand's still on your ass, more out of habit than intention. Neither of you move to clean up yet. Just breathing. Heavy and slow. Still connected in the heat of it, even if his dick slipped out somewhere along the way and left a mess between your thighs.

Eventually—slowly—you peel yourself up with a grunt and a stretch, making some squelchy sound that earns a quiet “ew dude” from him and a slap to his chest from you. He wheezes out a laugh again.

“Okay, okay,” he says, sitting up just enough to grab a crumpled hoodie off the floor. He tosses it toward your legs like a sad little towel, and you use it without complaint. Still giggling, still glowing.

Once the worst of the mess is handled with zero grace and zero effort, you both flop back down into the sheets. He groans, rolls over enough to reach into the drawer next to the bed, and pulls out a pre-roll like it’s a religious relic. Or more like something to dampen the horrendous comedown that's looming just around the corner.

“You’re disgusting,” you mumble, watching him dig around for a lighter with one eye half open.

“I’m thriving,” he corrects, sparking the joint with practiced laziness. The tip glows red-orange in the blue-pink lava lamp haze, smoke curling into the air like incense for a post-sex shrine. He takes a long drag, then offers it to you without looking.

You take it, hit it, let the smoke settle in your lungs like it’s a warm bath.

Then his voice, low and sleepy against your forehead, smoke soft in his exhale, "Yo. You wanna hit Waffle House in, like, three hours?”

You giggle into his neck.

“Absolutely.”

BONUS:

The Waffle House parking lot is mostly empty, just one tired cook inside and a waitress who gave you the side-eye when you walked in to grab your to-go order like you were smuggling out contraband. Ben didn’t step a toe out of the car—too many security cams, one too many people who’d ask why his pupils are glowing red like a demon on a bender.

He waited slouched in the passenger seat, hoodie up, tapping at the cracked dashboard with fingers twitchy from the tail-end of a serotonin flood. When you slid back into the car with a bag full of grease and sugar, he moaned like you just proposed marriage.

Now you’re parked under a busted streetlamp, eating waffles and hashbrowns out of styrofoam with plastic forks, legs up on the dash, his seat fully reclined. He looks like sin. Hoodie half-off, hair a wreck, the last of the weed still burning slow in the ashtray. He smells like syrup and sweat and sex and smoke.

You're still giggling at nothing.

"Why," you say, licking butter off your thumb, "does Waffle House always taste like it was made by someone who’s lived through war."

Ben stares at you like you’re the second coming. “Because it was, bro.”

You laugh hard enough to choke on syrup, and he takes the opportunity to steal a bite off your plate with no remorse. The light from the LED “OPEN 24 HOURS” sign flashes red across his face every few seconds, making him look even less human than usual. But to you, right now, it’s just... hot. You’re high and full and floaty. He looks sticky-sweet and stoned and so fucking pretty in that lazy post-fuck way, lips glossy with syrup and smiling like a troublemaker.

You lean across the console and kiss him.

It starts soft. Just sugar on lips, mouths sticky from breakfast-for-dinner. He tastes like maple and smoke and something a little burnt, and your brain short-circuits at how good it is. You lick into it, messy and slow, and he hums low in his throat like it’s better than dessert. Your fork clatters somewhere by your feet but you don’t care—your hand’s cupping his jaw, and he’s tugging you halfway into his lap.

His tongue drags syrup off your bottom lip like he’s starving. You moan into it, more sound than intention. He grins crooked, still kissing you, still high, mumbling against your mouth:

“We might have peaked tonight, can't even lie.”

“Mmm,” you breathe back, not even pretending to disagree.

Neither of you stops. Not for a while.

Eventually, when your food’s cold and your thighs are back across his lap and he’s kissing your cheek with lazy pecks just to hear you giggle again, he sighs through his nose and rests his head back against the seat.

“I think,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, “we should definitely fuck in this lot before we come down and contemplate suicide for the next week.”

You laugh into his shoulder.

“Absolutely.”

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