hi hi ! i’m M. i’m 21, a college student, and i love to write.
request rules ~
i write for anyone & everyone! please please please be specific with the requests! just giving me a name will put your request last, as it requires me to create my own scenario and can lead to writer’s block.
things to take into consideration ~
smut is written here! every fic that has smut is marked w/ (s). please take that into consideration, as what you do from here is up to you.
things i WILL NOT write ~
NONE of the -cests. no incest, stepcest, etc.
no sexual assault, or anything within that range.
the most i will do is implicit consent, where consent isn’t given within the story but it’s obvious.
wanna join the taglist?
now that we’ve gotten to know each other, please enjoy! muah.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I love how you write Michael and just for that, I have a request! You know that interview he did with Oprah where she asked him if he was a virgin (🙄🙄🙄🙄) and he said he’s a gentleman. Well on tv, he was all shy and polite but when they left, he reminded his wife/gf how much of a freak he is 🥵
Gentleman
Contains: black reader, explicit content, strong language, Oprah feature, established relationship, husband! Michael
Summary: Michael was used to invasive questions and he never gave a direct answer but as Michael’s wife, you absolutely know the truth.
Now playing: Speechless - Beyoncé
Michael's face was nothing but embarrassed as Oprah asked him the intrusive question. "Are you a virgin?" Michael gasped in astonishment. “How could you ask me that question?” An embarrassed smile appearing on his face.
“I’m just-I just wanna know.” Oprah shrugged as if he didn’t visibly look uncomfortable. “I’m a gentleman.” Michael nodded.
“You’re a gentleman?”
“I’m a gentleman.”
Everyone knew who you and Michael were, they couldn’t even imagine you guys in that light. His heavenly wife who only spoke highly of him, voice just as soft as his.
Hearing that interview only further set the theory that you guys are truly the epitome of pureness, grown adults that are just so innocent.
That may just be the farthest thing from the truth.
•••
“Nooo, don’t cry, you can take it.” Michael cooed in your ear as he made you bounce on his hard length. It felt so deep inside of you that tears rolled down your face.
“I-I can’t.” You cried, legs shaking as you struggled to ease back down on his dick. “You want some help, angel?”
You nodded, hoping he’ll just flip you over, and grind into you as usual. Instead, his large palm pressed against your back to have you lay on him.
“Hold on to me.” He said. You wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face into the crook of his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around you to hold you down. You felt him adjust himself, planting his feet on the bed.
Suddenly, he thrusted up into you, sending his dick farther up into you. “Michael-” you whimpered into his ear. “Shhh, you doing so good.” He stroked your hair.
Your eyes rolled back as he continued pumping inside of you. You were split over his dick, whimpers and cries spilling out. Occasional groans left his mouth, holding you down to keep you from squirming.
As much as you hate to admit it, you were in fact a runner. Michael was definitely blessed in that area, leaving you pressing his against his abdomen or trying to run half the time.
Only getting 10x more aroused when he drags you back or holds you down, reminding you that you can take it.
“That feel good?” He asked making you nod. His balls slapped against your ass everytime he bottomed out, arousal surrounding his dick and your thighs.
“Let me hear you, baby.”
“Y-yes, it feels so good.”
You were practically fighting for you life as his hips did not let up. “P-please!” You begged, hands coming to pry at his arms around you.
He didn’t budge, a ruthless pace still set in motion. “Cum f’me, so I can eat your pretty pussy.” He said. You immediately clenched around him, sending you spiraling into your orgasm.
His hips continued to slap against you as he fucked you through your orgasm. Your heart was pounding, body shuttering at the mind blowing orgasm.
He kept his words true, turning you over so you could lay flat on your back. “Mmm, you look pretty, baby.” He cooed, lightly gliding his fingers through your pussy.
Your legs quivered, almost shutting close before his other hand spread them back open. “I-I need a break.” You moaned, hands coming up to cover your face.
“After this, angel.” Before you could respond he enclosed his lips around your swollen clit, giving it a firm suck.
Your hands flew to his curly hair, tossing your head to the side.
michael gets a therapist though not for the right reasons
tags. smut MDNI, fingering, porn w/o plot, uhm michael bein a munch, he’s a lil mean too (just bitter), softdom!mike(kinda), post divorce (dick) yayy, HIStory!era, blackfem!reader
note. one thing imma do is write for HIStory era if no one else will. this came to me in a dream and a reblog. i really just wanted fuck him after the divorce and yet that’s not what this is lmao
wc. 1.3k
You weren’t exactly sure how you had found yourself in this position.
Again.
Body slotted under Michael’s on his big plush couch that you knew had to cost an obscene amount of money. His big hands gripping at your hips and lips pressed to yours, devouring your moans.
You were going to lose your job. You were sure of it.
“Michael,” you parted your lips from his, or tried to, head tilting back to the arm of the couch. But he just chased after you with his lips, begging for that connection.
“Michael, we need to talk about-” your voice trailed off as his lips connected to your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses, tongue gently tracing over the sensitive skin. You couldn’t form a thought let alone a word. He just felt too good against you, rubbing up against all the right spots with his big hands. Gripping your breast over your shirt, big palms engulfing your hips and pulling you closer.
“I don’t wanna talk.” he snaked his hand underneath your smart button up top. You’d attempted to look professional for today's session. But that was all thrown out of the window now as his hands worked at the buttons with deft precision, slipping the fabric off your shoulders.
He reached a hand behind your back and unclipped your bra next, without even lifting his head from your neck.
“The whole point of- shit,” you're cut off by his hands gripping your thighs, fingers splayed wide and gripping the flesh, wrapping them around his waist, slotting himself between your legs.
The motion had your skirt riding up and you could feel his dick, hard through his pants, rubbing right over your dripping sex. Grinding slow, body rolling like you’d seen him do many times, and hard like he just couldn’t get enough. Like he was trying to burry himself in you.
It took you a moment to remember your earlier thought, “The whole point of this is to talk,” you attempted to keep your voice even but the slow torturous grind of his hips had you throbbing. The friction just too much. The warm heat of his body over yours.
He was giving increased attention to your neck and god he was such a good fucking kisser. It honestly wasn’t fair. You should have never let him kiss you.
“Your marriage, your ex-wife, that’s why I’m here.” he didn’t seem to like that based on the huff of breath that left his nose.
“If that’s what you choose to believe.” you weren’t entirely sure what that meant.
And you didn't get a chance to ask when he suddenly pulled up from you. It registered then when you gazed up at him, curls falling loosely around his shoulders and face, that he was fully clothed and that you were the only one naked, the cool air of his home causing goosebumps all over your exposed skin.
“Okay, you wanna talk? Let’s talk then.” he clicked his tongue, hands gripped your thighs, dragging you further down till you were flat on your back, then he smoothed his hands up your hips and gripped the hem of your panties pulling them down.
Your eyes widened, a breath getting caught in your throat. But you didn’t stop him as he exposed your pussy to his hungry eyes.
And you were embarrassingly wet. No amount of soft ambient lighting was gonna hide that.
“You’re sure that's what you wanna do? Talk?” he pointedly stared down in between your legs, a pool of slick gathering and dripping from you.
You nodded again, a lump in your throat at the attention.
In reality you weren’t so sure anymore. He just sighed and tucked your panties into his back pocket.
“Okay you start then.” and with that he shifted down till his face was between your legs, throwing them over his shoulders, and licking a long stripe over your cunt.
“How am I supposed to- ohmygosh fuck!” your voice broke on a moan, something pitchy and desperate, your breathing picking up. You registered his hand patting your thigh, not enough to hurt, just to get your attention.
“Watch your mouth. N’ go ahead, floors yours.” and he dipped his head back down, lips moving to suck your clit that he found faster than any man you’d ever been with. The pressure had your legs trembling a bit and he’d barely done anything.
You wracked your brain, attempting to form a coherent thought that wasn’t his tongue working between your legs, lewd noises of him slurping and dipping his tongue between your folds gathering your wetness on his tongue that was rolling agonizingly over your clit.
Fuck this man could eat. Of course he could.
He’d just started and you could feel your stomach starting to quiver with the need to cum and completely soak his face. He hit a particularly good spot and you close your thighs around his ears, hips lifting to grind into the pleasure of his mouth.
“Hm- jus like that mama.” he hummed, the vibrations of his voice pulling you closer to the edge. You were humping his mouth now and he seemed to be enjoying it, pulling your hips closer and bringing a finger up to slip inside you.
You were crying out, his name, anything really.
“Didn’t you wanna talk about somethin’?” you think you heard him say.
“Hmm?” too fucked out to notice. He almost laughed.
“I said,” his lips smacked as he detached himself from your slit, to your disappointment.
Fuck why’d he stop. You weren’t above begging.
“Didn’t you wanna talk?”
He picked his head up and you looked down at him tilting your head. And that was a big mistake because seeing Michael Jackson between your legs, eyes blown a bit wider than normal gazing into you, the lower half of his mouth dripping.
It was an unfair sight.
So much so that it took you a moment to realize that his fingers had stopped inside you.
“Why’d you stop?” you were full on pouting now, completely pathetic but you needed more, you were so close.
He just smirked at you pulling his fingers out of your fluttering pussy, your walls gripping him tight trying to drag him back in. You knew he noticed as his eyes were trained on his fingers.
Thankfully, he didn’t comment on it.
“I thought you wanted to ask me questions.” he feigned innocence like he hadn’t been the one to orchestrate this distraction.
“Cant it wait till after? Please, I wanna cum.” you were whining and you knew it. But you didn’t care.
“Nu uh, you wanted t’a ask your questions, now's your chance.” he looked so pleased with himself and you just sighed, head tilted back. He got you so pent up just to pull this shit. He could be so cruel. Or just annoying.
“Fine, what feelings are most common for you these days and where do they manifest in your body?” he took a moment to think before answering.
“Well recently, I’ve been feeling very impassioned… or aroused,” he paused before looking directly into your eyes “and that manifests exactly where you think it would.” you swallowed.
You distantly registered the way he’d been grinding his hips into the couch as he ate you out, seeking stimulation you would happily provide. If he ever let you.
This wasn’t going in the healing direction you’d initially imagined but you pressed on, hyper aware of his still fingers inside you.
You’d give anything for him to keep going. You hoped he’d fuck you soon.
“Alright, how are you coping with these sudden emotions and are they healthy forms of coping?” he took that moment to take his thumb into his mouth, sucking gently, before bringing the digit down to rub circles on your clit, picking the stimulation back up.
“I’d say they were pretty healthy.” fortunately for you, he was done talking now bringing his mouth back down to continue working you back up.
Through that whole “conversation”, if you could even call it that, you’d just gotten wetter and wetter, slick dripping down onto his couch. He didn’t seem to mind the mess. If anything, he just made it worse.
His grip on your thighs tightened as he pushed them higher as he lapped at you, his fingers hitting that spot inside that caused your back to arch, and it was driving you crazy.
“Hmm Mike- m’gonna cum please don’t stop.” your words came out in a breathy whine as he pulled out sounds you’d never heard yourself make.
You weren’t sure you could come back after this. Not for a therapy session anyway.
“Please cum for me, wanna taste you, need t’a feel it baby.” and here he was begging you to come on his tongue.
Though you thought it was more for your benefit than his.
He was relentless as he worked you up not giving you a moment to breathe, constant pleasure and stimulation coiling tight in your gut till the built up pressure snapped and you came on his tongue.
And he eagerly lapped your folds clean, tongue licking a wide stripe up your pussy.
Once he was done he brought his fingers to his mouth like he hadn’t had enough after eating you out straight from the source.
summary ~ you see your husband michael shirtless, well as you always do… but this time feels even better.
includes ~ the fluffiest of fluff // husband!michael // wife!reader // they’ve known each other since childhood but that detail only matters once.
a/n ~ this is my apology fic for being gone for so long. i saw this pic of mikey after a while and got inspired. if this is butt bare w me. pls enjoy :3
————————————————————————
The first thing you noticed wasn’t the silence.
It was the sunlight.
Golden afternoon light spilled through the bedroom windows in wide, warm strips, catching the floating dust in the air and turning the room into something almost dreamlike. The curtains swayed lazily from the ceiling fan, and somewhere downstairs the washing machine hummed through another cycle.
You’d only come upstairs to grab your phone.
That was all.
Instead, you stopped dead in the doorway.
Michael stood in front of the dresser with his back to you, completely unaware you’d wandered in. His pajama pants hung low on his hips, one sock was half on, and a white towel rested around his neck from the shower he’d taken a few minutes earlier.
His shirt was nowhere to be found.
He was absentmindedly searching through one of the drawers, humming under his breath.
You smiled automatically.
Then your eyes drifted higher.
Across his shoulders.
His back.
The soft constellation of vitiligo that spread over his skin like clouds crossing a midnight sky.
The patches climbed one shoulder blade, curved around his ribs, disappeared beneath his arm before reappearing over the center of his back. Some were sharp around the edges, others feathered delicately into his complexion like watercolor paint bleeding across paper.
They were beautiful.
Not because they made him different.
Not because they were tragic.
Simply because they were him.
Your husband had spent years with the world examining every inch of his body like it belonged to them.
Speculating.
Judging.
Turning something deeply personal into headlines and late-night punchlines.
You knew all of that.
You also knew that when he caught his reflection unexpectedly, there were still days he stared a little too long.
Days where he’d tug his sleeves down.
Days where he quietly reached for makeup before cameras.
Days where you could tell old wounds were whispering in his ear.
You hated those whispers.
Today, though…
Today the sun loved him.
It caught every curve of his shoulders, every muscle in his back, every patch of skin until he looked like someone painted by hand instead of born.
Your heart squeezed.
Without thinking—
“Mikey.”
He looked over one shoulder.
“Hm?”
You were still frozen in the doorway.
His eyebrows pinched together.
“What?”
Your voice came out softer than intended.
“…You’re so pretty.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“You.”
You pointed at him like it was obvious.
“You’re so pretty.”
For a second he simply stared.
Then, almost instinctively, his hand reached for the towel around his neck.
“…Baby.”
“No.”
You walked toward him before he could pull it around himself.
“I mean it.”
He gave the tiny, embarrassed laugh that always escaped whenever he didn’t know what to do with affection.
“You always say things.”
“I do.”
“You exaggerate.”
“I really don’t.”
You stopped in front of him.
Now you could see everything.
The patches that crossed his collarbone.
The ones wrapping around his chest.
One that curved beneath his left shoulder.
Another disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants.
You’d seen him shirtless hundreds of times over the years.
Late-night movies.
Lazy Sundays.
Vacations.
Sleepy mornings.
None of it was new.
Yet somehow every single time, your heart reacted like you’d just discovered something precious.
Michael shifted under your gaze.
“…What?”
“You have no idea how gorgeous you are.”
His ears immediately turned pink.
“Oh, stop.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ve seen me before.”
“I know.”
“So why’re you looking at me like that?”
“Because I like looking at my husband.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You are impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
His smile tried to stay hidden.
It failed.
He laughed so hard his shoulders shook.
“You are ridiculous.”
“I know.”
He covered his face with one hand.
You gently pulled it away.
“I’m not joking.”
His laughter faded.
The room settled into something quieter.
Your thumb brushed absentmindedly over one of the patches near his shoulder.
“I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”
His eyes dropped.
“I do see myself.”
“I know.”
“…Sometimes that’s the problem.”
Your heart cracked just a little.
You reached both hands up to cup his face.
“I know people haven’t been kind.”
He didn’t answer.
“I know they’ve made you feel like your body belongs to everyone.”
Silence.
“I know they’ve made you question things you never should’ve had to question.”
His jaw tightened.
“But when I look at you…”
You smiled.
“I don’t see headlines.”
“I don’t see rumors.”
“I don’t see any of the garbage people spent years saying.”
Your fingers traced along his cheek.
“I see the man I married.”
“The sweetest person I’ve ever known.”
“The funniest.”
“The gentlest.”
“The one who cries during animal rescue commercials.”
“I do not—”
“You absolutely do.”
His lips twitched.
“…Sometimes.”
“Mhm.”
“And I see someone who just happens to have really beautiful skin.”
He looked unconvinced.
“It isn’t weird to you?”
“What?”
“The…” he gestured vaguely toward himself.
“…The spots.”
“No.”
“You don’t miss…”
He hesitated.
“…How I looked before?”
You frowned.
“There isn’t a before.”
He blinked.
“You.”
You poked his chest lightly.
“You’re still you.”
“You’ve always been you.”
“I didn’t marry one version of you.”
“I married Michael.”
His eyes softened.
You continued.
“If tomorrow every single spot disappeared…”
“…I’d still think you were beautiful.”
“If tomorrow there were twice as many…”
“…I’d still think you were beautiful.”
“If your hair turned green overnight…”
“…Okay, I’d have questions.”
He laughed.
“But you’d still be beautiful.”
“What if I lost all my hair?”
“You’d be beautiful.”
“What if I got old?”
“You already are old.”
“My goodness.”
“You walked right into that one.”
He nudged your shoulder.
“You little brat.”
“You married me.”
“I made mistakes.”
“You made an excellent decision.”
He smiled despite himself.
You leaned forward and kissed one patch near his collarbone.
Then another.
Then the one on his shoulder.
“What’re you doing?”
“Loving my husband.”
“You can do that without kissing every inch of me.”
“I don’t know…”
You kissed another.
“I think this method is working.”
He laughed quietly.
“You know…”
he said after a moment.
“…I used to hate when people looked.”
You looked up.
“I know.”
“They’d stare.”
“Whisper.”
“Point.”
“Like I couldn’t see them.”
His fingers absentmindedly played with the edge of the towel.
“I’d start wondering what they were thinking.”
You rested your forehead against his.
“When I look at you…”
He met your eyes.
“…What’re you thinking?”
You smiled so brightly it made him grin before you’d even answered.
“I’m thinking…”
“I somehow convinced the prettiest man in the entire world to marry me.”
He laughed.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Absolutely.”
“You need glasses.”
“I have amazing vision.”
“Clearly not.”
You reached behind him, grabbed the mirror that leaned against the dresser, and angled it toward the both of you.
“There.”
He instinctively looked away.
You gently touched his chin.
“No.”
“Look.”
“I don’t…”
“Please.”
After a long hesitation, he lifted his eyes.
The reflection showed the two of you standing shoulder to shoulder.
Your arms around his waist.
His hair still damp.
Vitiligo dabbled across his chest like marble.
Sunlight wrapping around him so gently that every pale patch seemed to glow.
He was breathtaking.
You looked at him through the mirror instead of directly.
“See that?”
He stayed quiet.
“That’s the man who makes strangers smile without trying.”
“The man who apologizes to spiders before putting them outside.”
“The man who still kisses me goodbye even if he’s leaving for five minutes.”
A tiny smile appeared.
“That’s the man who sings to our plants because he thinks it’ll help them grow.”
“They do grow.”
“They’d grow anyway.”
“You don’t know that.”
You laughed.
“No, I don’t.”
You rested your chin against his shoulder.
“And that’s the man who somehow still doesn’t realize how beautiful he is.”
He stared at himself.
Not critically.
Not analytically.
Just…
Looking.
After several seconds he quietly said—
“I’ve never really thought about it like that.”
“I know.”
“I always wondered what everyone else saw.”
You squeezed his hand.
“You wanna know what I see?”
He nodded once.
“I see art.”
His eyes flickered toward yours.
“I see someone who survived things most people couldn’t imagine.”
“I see softness.”
“I see kindness.”
“I see home.”
“And I see a man whose skin tells part of his story.”
You smiled.
“And I happen to think it’s a beautiful story.”
He swallowed.
“…You really think I’m pretty?”
You looked offended.
“Michael Joseph Jackson.”
He laughed.
“I think you’re devastatingly pretty.”
He ducked his head, laughing harder now, cheeks flushed.
“No one’s ever called me devastatingly pretty.”
“That’s because they were cowards.”
“Cowards?”
“They lacked vision.”
He wrapped his arms around your waist.
“You are completely impossible.”
“And yet…”
“And yet.”
“…you’re my favorite person.”
He kissed your forehead.
“You know…”
he murmured.
“…I think you’re prettier.”
You gasped dramatically.
“Michael.”
“What?”
“You can’t use my own line against me.”
“I just did.”
“I was having a moment.”
“So am I.”
You pretended to sigh.
“I’ll allow it.”
He smiled with that quiet, boyish warmth that still managed to make your stomach flutter after all these years.
The sunlight had shifted again, catching the pale patches on his shoulder one last time.
You reached up, smoothing a damp curl away from his face.
“Mikey?”
“Hm?”
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“You really are so, so pretty.”
This time he didn’t argue.
He only smiled. A small, genuine smile that reached his eyes, and leaned down to kiss you, the afternoon light settling over both of you as though it agreed.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
hello diva 💯i need a fanfic of nerdy/sub jermajesty but he gets DOWNN in the bedroom 👀
Contains: black reader, explicit content, strong language, nerd! Jermajesty, established relationship
Summary: You and Jermajesty are complete opposites and there’s a few reasons why you guys work so well.
“Girl, he jumps at your beck and call.” Your friend said, glancing back at Jermajesty who carried your shopping bags behind you.
“He just loves me.” You shrugged, looking into your iPhone camera to make sure your lipgloss wasn’t smudged.
Your friends often question you and Jermajesty’s dynamic. He was the type to draw cartoon characters, rave about the latest comics, and know every anime reference.
You’re the type of girl who always needs a night out, a reality tv show addict and quick to cuss someone out.
No one saw it happening and somehow ya’ll have been together for a year already. “How do you guys do it?” Your bestfriend questioned.
•••
Jermajesty’s room was filled with posters, Spider-Man, Batman, demon slayer, you name it. Mini figuring decorated shelves and manga stacks in random corners.
Above his bed was a large pink American flag with your face plastered on it which he adored so much. If you looked closely there were also dark marks on the wall from his headboard slamming against it.
“S-slow downnn.” You whined. You were on your back as Jermajesty thrusted into you from the side, the position made him nudge your cervix, causing your back to arch.
“Nah baby, you can take it. You doing good.” He said in your ear. Your eyes rolled back as his hand trailed down to slowly rub your clit. The extra sensation made your legs shake, grabbing onto his wrist.
“Let me go baby, let me make this pussy cum.” He whispered before sucking on your neck.
You released his wrist, deciding to grip the sheets instead. His hips picked up the pace, grinding in to you with a determined focus. “Fuck! You’re gonna make me cum baby.” You moaned out.
The pulsing ball formed in your stomach and he took the chance to take his nipple into your mouth. That was the final push, as your orgasm washed over you.
Your pussy only created more lubricant, making him slide in and out quickly, hand still rubbing at your clit. After a few seconds, you grew sensitive, body twitching at the overstimulation.
“M-Maj, I can’t.” You bit your lip, his tongue flicking against your nipple sending pleasure everywhere.
Jermajesty was a freak, a very needy one at that. His stamina was ridiculous, being able to go round after round. You never went unsatisfied, having multiple releases during one round.
He finally let you free, pulling his dick out of you. “Turn over f’me.” He told you. “Damn, I can’t get a break.” You groaned, still feeling your clit pulse.
He rolled his eyes, gently grabbing you by your waist to flip you on your stomach. He positioned himself on his stomach behind, lifting your hips so your dripping pussy was in front of his face.
Before you could process anything, his tongue found your clit, flicking against it quickly. “Waitttt.” You moaned, legs quivering. He slurped on your already sensitive pussy, hands reaching to grip your ass.
You couldn’t stop the natural grind against his face, pleasure increasing as your sensitivity calmed down. He moaned against your core, sending vibrations to your clit.
He used one hand to slap your ass making you jolt with a moan. He used his tongue licking a stripe from your clit to your entrance, plunging his tongue in.
Your eyes rolled back as your hands gripped the sheets, bunching them between your fingers. He dragged your hips back and forth, fucking you onto his tongue.
You slowly felt another orgasm building inside of you, attention focused on the way his tongue roamed inside of you.
“I-I’m cumming.” You warned shaking around him. You reached your peak once again, cumming in his awaiting mouth.
•••
Your attention was drawn back to your bestfriend, snapping her fingers in front of your face. “Hello?” She said, concerned etched on to her face.
“He just makes me happy.” You answered with a shrug. “Baby, we can go get the new volume now.” You told him, causing him to pick up his walking speed.
yeah, there’s ANOTHERRRR THIEF 😭 and they stole THE SAME STORY from @babyjslovergirl
og on the left, fraud bitch on the right!
just because you changed up some words don’t make it less weird, you bitches are truly out of yall fucking minds.
as far as the other loser bitch, @musialaslut goes, they just deleted/disabled their account, but of course there are other weirdos still around stealing shit from more writers than this.
they have more fics up, PLEASE check if your stories are being stolen by these random ass new “writers”
and to everyone who has fallen victim (like me) to unimaginative bitches like this, i’m so sorry like i can’t believe shit like this is still happening
FRAUD WATCH SO FAR: @musialaslut ( deleted acc for now), @jaafarsaura , @ratzworld (deleted for now)
pairing - college nerd! jaafar jackson x black fem!reader
rating - explicit (18+)
word count - 3.4k
summary - after finding jaafar’s journal, you have to find out for yourself if he’s really as innocent as everyone thinks.
warnings - smut, profanity, secrecy, invasion of privacy, he’s not as innocent as they said, you should’ve minded your business, obsessive thoughts, p in v, spitting, hair pulling, imagination and pet names, spanking, praise just filith
A/n: my first Jaafar fic i hope you all enjoy it! 😋
photo credits: @onlyonemack ★
Jaafar’s dorm looked like it always did: textbooks everywhere, half-empty water bottles scattered around, and sketches covering half of his desk.
You’d been in his dorm for about twenty minutes while he went to look for the charger he swore he left in one of his friend’s rooms. The second the door shut behind him, your eyes drifted toward one of his dressers. One of the drawers was slightly open, just enough for you to catch sight of something black tucked inside.
You knew you probably shouldn’t look, but curiosity got the best of you. Rumors about Jaafar had always been weird. Half the girls on campus swore he was innocent to the point of being clueless, just some shy little architecture nerd who spent more time studying than doing anything else.
Before you could really think about it, you reached into the drawer and pulled the journal out.
The leather felt worn beneath your fingers, the edges softened like he’d opened it a hundred times before.
A bookmark stuck out near the middle. You hesitated for a second before flipping to that page and starting to read.
The very first line made your stomach tighten instantly.
You stared at the page, rereading it slower this time. Then it hit you the conversation from the other day.
You and your friend, laughing, talking about him without thinking much of it. Your stomach dropped as the words clicked into place. He wasn’t talking about some random girl. He was talking about you.
You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the edge of the journal. After a moment, you flipped to the next page anyway, too curious to see what else he had written about you.
There are pages and pages of more, each entry more explicit than the last. He describes you in vivid detail, the way you move, the sounds you'd make, the things he wants to do to your body every filthy scenario.
The door handle rattled, and you shoved the journal back into the drawer as quickly as you could, closing it, your heart in your ass as Jaafar stepped inside, holding the charger. You quickly tried to act normal.
“Found it,” he said, voice soft like always. But now you knew what lived behind that softness.
“Sorry it took so long. After I got the charger, I stopped to grab a drink,” he said. “The machine was out of my favorite, so I had to-” He stopped suddenly, his eyes landing on you.
Something flickered across his face. “You okay? You look… kinda flushed.”
“Ohhh, I’m fine,” you said too quickly. “It’s just a little hot in here, you know.”
He paused, studying you. His gaze flicked to the dresser drawer, now shut a little too neatly.
"You sure?" He pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger.
“Just thinking,” you said, trying to sound casual, as if you hadn’t just read about him wanting to fuck you.
His head tilted slightly. "About what?"
Your pulse hammered. The air in the room felt thicker. You were thinking about his words.
Oh … fuck it.
"About this," you said, reaching into the draw pulling the journal from its hiding spot.
His face went pale. His mouth opening and closing for a second he looked like a deer caught in headlights. "That's you shouldn't-"
"I read it." Your voice came out steadier than you expected, though your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.
"All of it. Well, most of it.”
"That's private you know."
"Really?" You held the journal up, your thumb brushing over the worn leather. "Because it sounds like you've been thinking about me a lot. In very un-private ways."
His jaw tightened. For a long moment, he didn't say anything. Then he set the charger down as he took a step toward you.
"You think you know me," he said, his voice lower now, rougher. "You think I'm just the shy, nerdy guy who can't talk to girls. Who couldn't possibly have a single filthy thought in his head."
"I did think that," you admitted, your heart racing. "Until I found this."
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell his cologne.
"So now you know." His hand reached out, and for a moment you thought he was going to take the journal. Instead, his fingers brushed against yours, trailing up your wrist.
"Now you know what I think about when I can't sleep. What I think about when you're sitting right next to me, laughing at something stupid, and all I can imagine is bending you over and fucking you until you scream."
Your breath hitched. Gosh, you wanted him to fuck you. His hand kept moving, sliding up your arm, over your shoulder, until his fingers tangled gently in the hair at the nape of your neck.
"Go ahead," he murmured, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind your ear. "Tease me. Laugh at me. Tell me I'm a pathetic pussy for writing all of that down instead of doing anything about it."
Suddenly, you felt the need to push him more.
“Everyone thinks you’re so innocent,” you said, throwing the journal down on the bed, trailing your hand down his arm and letting a hint of mockery slip into your voice.
“Sweet, shy Jaafar. You probably never even kissed a girl, right?” You paused, watching his reaction. “But here you are, writing about putting me through the mattress.”
His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist.
"Say that again?"
You smiled, feeling the thrill of pushing his buttons. "Sweet, shy Jaafar-"
He pulled you hard against his chest, his mouth crashing into yours. He kissed you all demanding, hungry, nothing like the shy boy who can barely hold eye contact. His hands weaved into your curls, his fingers twisting the strands pulling but not hard enough to hurt, but enough to let you know who's in control here.
“Bet,” he whispered against your lips. “I’m going to show your ass.”
“Yes, please,” you smirked, giving him all the consent he needed.
He effortlessly lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you to the bed. Thankfully, he had a full-sized bed, unlike those tiny ass dorm beds you couldn’t stand. You were so grateful that this college allowed you to choose different-sized beds.
"You talked about me too. I didn’t forget ," he says, climbing onto the bed after you, settling between your legs. "I heard you. The other day with your little friend. You said I was probably inexperienced."
"You think I'm all talk?" he said, pulling his belt free letting it drop to the floor. "You think I don't know what to do with a woman?"
He crawled onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs.
"Let me show you exactly what I've been writing about."
He grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head in one motion. Then your bra, his fingers working the clasp with ease..
He bent down and took one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking hard while his thumb worked the other. The sensation shooting straight to your pussy.
"Fuck," you gasped.
“That’s just the beginning,” he mumbled, pulling back.
He worked his way down your body, kissing, biting, leaving marks. When he reached your pants, he unbuttoned them and tugged them down your legs, along with your panties.
He sat back, staring at you lying bare before him.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "Even better than I imagined."
He leaned forward, his mouth hovering inches from your pussy. "You're gonna taste so good."
But instead of diving in, he sat up again, reaching for his journal on the bed. He opened it to a marked page.
"I wrote this one down a few weeks ago," he said. " m’gonna show you how it goes."
He tossed the journal to the side, sliding his palms up the insides of your thighs, spreading you further until you were completely exposed to him.
Leaning in, he dragged his tongue in one long, slow stroke from your entrance up to your clit.
You gasped. He didn’t give you time to recover. He licked again, firmer this time, circling your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it between his lips. One hand stayed on your thigh, holding you open. The other slid two fingers through your slick and pushed inside without warning.
“Shit…Jaafar.”
His fingers curled, finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur. He pumped them steadily, tongue never stopping its attention to your clit.
“Put your hands above your head,” he said against your skin. “If you move them I’ll stop.”
You obeyed instantly, fingers twisting into the sheets above you. Jafaar rewarded you by adding a third finger, stretching you open while his tongue worked faster. The wet sounds filled the small room his mouth on you, your own desperate breathing, the slick slide of his fingers.
“You taste so fucking good,” he muttered. “Been wanting to bury my face here since the first time I saw you in those shorts. Thought about it every night. Jerked off coming all over my chest thinking about how you’d sound when I made you come on my tongue.”
Your back arched off the bed. The pressure was building so fast, coiling tight in your lower belly. Jaafar felt it. He sucked harder on your clit crooking his fingers just right.
“You gonna come already? Go ahead then. Let me feel it.”
Your thighs clamped around his head as the orgasm ripped through you, hips bucking against his mouth. He licked you through it, fingers still moving, drawing it out until you were shaking.
He slowly pulls his fingers out and brings them to his mouth, sucking on them. He makes a low, appreciative sound.
"Taste better than I imagined."
His chin was shiny with your slick. He wiped it with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving yours.
“Still with me?” he asked.
You nodded, breathless.
“Good because i wanna do more.”
He stood up and removed everything except his cardigan and shirt. He pushed his pants down, along with his boxers.
His dick sprung free, settling against his belly button, thick and already leaking at the tip. He wrapped a hand around the base and gave it a slow stroke as he hopped back on the bed.
The sight makes your mouth water. He's not small. Not by a long shot.
“See what you do to me?” he said. “Been hard since I walked in and saw you looking all guilty.”
He leaned down and spat directly onto your pussy. The warm saliva trickled down and he caught it with two fingers, pushing them back inside you.
“Look at this pretty pussy,” he murmured. “All puffy and wet, you’re so tight,” he said. “Gonna feel so good around my dick.”
He worked his fingers in and out a few more times, scissoring them to stretch you. Then he pulled them free and lined himself up.
He pushes in slowly, letting you feel every inch. He's bigger than you expected, stretching you in a way that borders on too much, but he doesn't stop until he's buried to the hilt.
Your hands fly up, gripping his shoulders.
“Fuck! Jaafar, you’re so big!” You mewl.
“I know, sweetheart, but you can take me.”
“Can’t you?” he asks, pausing for a moment.
“Yes, I can take it, pleaseeee.”
“Goddamn,” he groaned, biting his lip to stifle a whimper. “You’re squeezing me so tight. Like you don’t want to let me go.” He stills, letting you adjust.
"I've wanted this for so long," he murmurs. "Wanted you for so long. You have no idea what it was like watching you walk around.”
“Knowing I couldn’t have you, everyone thought I was too soft, too gentle to pull you.”
"But I'm not," he continues, his rhythm building. "I'm not gentle. I'm not soft. I'm the guy who's been fantasizing about fucking you into this mattress for months."
He reaches up and grabs your face, squishing your cheeks together.
“Tell me what you want,” he demands, his hips thrusting into you with urgency.
“I want you” you whined.
His speed picks up, each thrust harder than the last. The bed creaks beneath you. Your hands find the sheets once more, gripping them as he takes you apart.
"Tell me I'm innocent now," he growls, driving into you.
"Tell me I'm inexperienced."
You can barely form words. "You're not ah fuck-"
"That's right." He leans over, his mouth at your ear.
a/n: (if ykyk)
"I've been dreaming about having you in this position.”
He pulls out, and before you can protest, he's turning you over, pushing you onto your stomach. He grabs your hips, pulling them up, positioning you on your side.
As he moved you into position you had one knee bent forward, the other leg stretched straight.
Jaafar stays upright behind you on his knees. His cardigan brushing your lower back every time he shifts.
He grips the base of his dick and lines up again, pressing the swollen head against your entrance until it parts you.
He pushes in slow, letting you feel every ridge and vein stretch your walls. The angle from this height drives him straight forward instead of down so the pressure against your front walls build fast.
He bottoms out and holds there, hips flush to your ass. One hand stays planted on your hip. The other lifts and comes down hard across your right cheek. The slap cracks through the room. Heat blooms under your skin and you jerk forward moaning but his grip keeps you in place.
“Fuck,” he mutters, watching the print rise. He pulls back until only the head stays inside, then drives forward again.
“I love the way your ass jiggles.” You wiggle your ass in response, and he spanks you again, this time lower, catching the curve where your ass meets your thigh.
The sting mixes with the thick slide of his dick making you clench around him.
His knees stay planted wide for leverage. The wet sound of your pussy gripping him grows louder with each pass. He reaches down, spreading your cheeks with one hand, watching the way his dick disappeared inside you.
“Keep your leg up,” he says. You hook your top knee higher and he groans when the new angle lets him sink another half inch. His big palm cracks across your ass again, harder, the sound sharp. Your skin burns and you push back into the next thrust without thinking.
He leans forward, chest hovering over your back but never dropping his weight.
He pulls your hair next. His fingers gather your hair up into a makeshift ponytail, tugging your head back until your neck arches. The pull makes your spine curve. He uses the new angle to fuck you harder, the head of his dick dragging across that spongy spot inside you every stroke.
He spanks you again, open palm, right where the skin is already tender. Your ass jiggles under the impact, and he watches it ripple.
“Tell me how it feels.”
“Full,” you answer. “Deep, so deep.”
"You like that?" He was breathing hard, his lip tucked between his teeth.
"You like being taken like this? Like being treated like the filthy little fantasy you read about?"
“Yes, oh… Fuck, yes.”
“Right there,” you whine as he hits your g-spot.
"Yeah?" He focuses his thrusts, aiming for that spot. "Right there, Mama?"
"Yes, yes, fuck, Jaafar, right there."
He starts to move long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. You could feel the muscles in his thighs flexing against the backs of your legs.
Your mouth keeps falling open. You reach back and grab his wrist where he’s holding your hip.
He pulls almost all the way out, pauses, then slams back in until his hips smack your ass. The force rocks you forward. He does it again, slower this time, letting you feel every inch leave and return. Your walls flutter around him and he groans, low and rough.
“Gonna come if you keep squeezing me like that,” he warns.
“Then come,” you say. “I want it.”
He shakes his head once. “Not yet.” He leaves you empty for three long seconds, then pushes back in with one smooth stroke.
The sudden fullness makes you gasp. He spanks you twice quickly, left then right, the slaps landing on already heated skin.
“Fuck, listen to that creamy ass pussy you just creaming on me, baby,” he panted. “Taking every inch like you were made for it. Bet you’ve been thinking about this too, haven’t you? Wondering what it would feel like to have me buried in you.”
All that came out of your mouth were broken moans.
His glasses slide down his nose, and you reach back to push them up, settling the frames back into place.
“Thanks, baby.” He grunts out, hypnotized by the way your pussy is swallowing his dick.
He spits down, this time directly onto where you're joined, the wetness combining with where you're already slick. "That's fucking perfect," he groans.
He reaches down, grabs your ankle, and lifts your straight leg higher so your thighs open wider. The new position lets him bottom out completely.
He stops and flips you onto your back. His dick is still hard, glistening with your white slick. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, leaning down, folding you in half like a pretzel.
“Wanna see your pretty face closer,” he said.
He slid back inside with a smooth thrust. The new angle made him go so deep that you could swear you felt him in your throat. His pubic bone pressed against your clit with every stroke.
The little chain he always wore dangled in front of you, and you took that as an opportunity to suck it into your mouth while staring him dead in the eyes.
“You look so fucking sexy with my chain in your mouth. Fucking hell.”
As you held the chain in your mouth, he moaned, “Tell me how it feels.”
“So fucking good,” you managed. “Don’t stop please don’t stop.”
“I’m not stopping until you come on this dick,” he promised.
The filthy promise sent another wave of heat through you. Jaafar’s rhythm grew rougher.
You both didn’t care that people could hear you two outside the dorm. Now, they’ll finally know that he’s not all sweet and innocent. The wet sound of skin on skin filled the room.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear you moan like that. To feel you clench around me. To watch your tits bounce while I fuck you senseless."
Another spank lands, this one lower, catching the side of your thigh. The sting travels straight to your pussy, and you clamp down around him. He curses under his breath and fucks you through the squeeze, his dick twitching inside you.
"Squeezing me so good, fuck," he grunted. "This is exactly what I fantasize about every night. You here in my room, taking me like a good girl."
You moaned, unable to form words. The pleasure was building, coiling tight in your belly.
"You like being fucked by the shy nerd, don't you?" he said, lightly slapping your face.
"The one everyone thinks is so damn inexperienced. Tell me how much you like it."
"I love it," you gasped. “You’re fucking me so good, shit.”
"Louder."
"I LOVE IT!"
He lowers his head, kissing you, swallowing your moans. His tongue slides against yours as he pulls back a little to bring his fingers down between your legs. More wetness spreads over your clit as he rubs it in, circles it with his thumb.
"So fucking nasty," you breathe.
"You like it."
He's right. You do. The wetness, the slick sound of his hand moving against you, the way his eyes watch his own fingers work.
He removes his fingers, placing them in his mouth, sucking his fingers clean.
“Tastes so fucking good.”
He pounds into you, faster, harder, and you can feel yourself tightening around him as he hits your sweet spot perfectly.
"I'm gonna—" you start.
"I know." He reaches down and presses on your lower stomach, right above where he's buried inside you. "I can feel it. You're squeezing me so fucking tight."
Your hands find his shoulders, digging into the fabric of his cardigan, the one he’s still wearing. The contrast is absurd: this nerdy, shy-looking boy in only a shirt and cardigan, fucking you into the mattress as if he’s been waiting for years.
"Come for me," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word, breaking the facade for just a second. "Please, I need to feel you come on my dick."
The please does it.
You come hard, your back arching, your nails digging into his shoulders through the wool. He keeps fucking you through it, drawing it out, and you can hear yourself making sounds you've never made before.
"That's it, that's it, fuck." He's close, you can tell by the way his rhythm stutters, the way his breath catches. "Where do you want it?" He was going to nut in you anyways, but he still wanted to ask you.
“I’m on the pill. In me.”
He comes with a groan that's almost a whimper, burying his face in your neck as he pumps into you.
You can feel him, hot and thick, filling you up, your walls clenching around him as he spills inside you. His whole body shaking from the force of it.
For a long moment neither of you moved. The only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant noise of campus life outside the window.
"Holy shit," he murmurs against your skin.
He eases out carefully. A trickle of his cum follows, sliding down your spent pussy. He watches it with heavy-lidded eyes before reaching down and pushing it back inside you with two fingers.
“Keep that in there,” he said quietly. “Want you to feel it for the rest of the day.”
The lens of his glasses is fogged up. He collapses beside you, one arm draped over your waist.
You turned your head to look at him. “So… everyone’s wrong about you.”
You’re in your late 20s, hangouts and parties on the weekends kinda gal and in a serious relationship with Anthony and not sure if you’re ready for kids and marriage yet. But he’s ready and been pushing for that so everything kinda clashes. Make it angsty?
not yet.
an anthony joshua fic
summary - requested!
includes - tons of angst // fluff, but minimal i'd say // boyfriend!anthony // girlfriend!reader // small age gap
a/n - this one hit harddd. i hope you truly enjoy.
The house was too quiet in that specific way it got when he was not asleep, but had stopped doing anything else. No television murmuring from the lounge. No music from the kitchen. No low phone call carrying through the hallway. Just silence, heavy and waiting, broken only by the soft click of your heels against the floor as you slipped inside and closed the door behind you as carefully as you could.
It was nearly three in the morning.
You winced before you even turned around.
Not because you had done anything wrong. Not really. You had gone out with your girls. You had danced. You had laughed. You had taken too many pictures in the bathroom mirror and screamed along to songs that used to mean everything to you at twenty-two. You had drunk enough to feel warm, but not enough to be reckless. You had texted Anthony twice, once to say you had gotten there and once to say you were on your way home.
You were grown.
Late twenties, bills paid, career handled, serious relationship, keys to the kind of house younger you would have walked past slowly just to stare at.
Still, the sight of Anthony sitting in the dim light of the front room made you feel like you had been caught sneaking in after curfew.
He was on the sofa, elbows on his knees, phone loose in one hand. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and joggers, the kind of simple clothes that somehow looked expensive on him because everything did. His watch caught the lamp light when he lifted his head.
For a second, he just looked at you.
Not angry.
That would have been easier.
Anthony angry had volume sometimes. Not shouting, never careless, but firm. Direct. A sharpness in his tone that made it clear he had already thought through every word before he said it.
This was quieter.
Worse.
His eyes moved over you slowly, taking in the dress, the coat draped over your arm, the smudged lip gloss, the tiredness you had been holding off until the second you walked through the door.
“You’re home,” he said.
You set your clutch on the entry table. “Yeah.”
“You had fun?”
There was nothing wrong with the question.
That was why it irritated you.
You looked away, toeing off one heel. “I did.”
“Good.”
You slipped off the other shoe, then bent to line them up near the wall because you needed something to do with your hands.
Anthony watched.
“You could’ve gone to bed,” you said.
“I wasn’t tired.”
“You have training in the morning.”
“I know.”
The silence stretched.
You took off your coat slowly. “Okay.”
He leaned back against the sofa, his face unreadable. “Okay?”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you act calm, but you’re actually waiting for me to guess what you’re upset about.”
His jaw moved slightly.
“I’m not upset you went out.”
You laughed once under your breath, because that was a very specific denial. “I didn’t say you were.”
“I’m not.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not,” he repeated, like he needed you to believe him.
You turned to face him fully. “Then what is it?”
Anthony looked down at the phone in his hand, then set it on the coffee table.
“It’s three in the morning.”
“I texted you.”
“That’s not what I said.”
You crossed your arms, suddenly too aware of how cold the house felt against your bare legs. “I know what time it is.”
“Do you?”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”
His eyes came back to yours.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m talking to you like my woman coming home at three in the morning from a party every other weekend might be something we should discuss.”
There it was.
The room seemed to tighten around the words.
You stared at him. “Every other weekend?”
Anthony exhaled through his nose, controlled but tired. “You know what I mean.”
“No, say what you mean.”
“I mean I don’t know how long we’re meant to keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This.” His hand moved between you, not angry, just frustrated. “Me living one way, you living another, and both of us pretending the gap isn’t getting wider.”
Your heart kicked once against your ribs.
You looked away first.
That annoyed you too.
Because the truth was, you had felt the gap.
You had felt it at dinners when his married friends talked about school runs and baby names while you sat there with a wine glass in your hand, smiling too hard. You had felt it when his mum called and asked sweetly, carefully, if you had thought about what kind of wedding you wanted one day. You had felt it when Anthony lingered too long near baby clothes in department stores, acting like he was looking at trainers on the next rack.
You felt it every time he said “our kids” like they were already somewhere in the future, waiting for you both to catch up.
“I’m not pretending,” you said quietly.
Anthony’s face changed.
Not much.
But enough.
“Then you know.”
You swallowed. “Know what?”
“That I’m ready.”
The words were soft.
They still hit hard.
You closed your eyes briefly. “Anthony.”
“I am.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been honest about that.”
“I know you have.”
“And I need you to be honest with me.”
You opened your eyes again. “I have been.”
“No.” His voice stayed calm, but something hurt moved beneath it. “You’ve been avoiding it.”
Your chest tightened.
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.”
“It can be true and still not be fair.”
Anthony stood then, and somehow the room felt smaller. He did not come toward you right away. He just stood there, tall and tired and too beautiful for a conversation that hurt this much.
“I’m not asking for a baby tomorrow,” he said.
“It feels like you are.”
“I’m asking if we’re building toward the same life.”
“I don’t know.”
The second you said it, you wished you could pull the words back.
Anthony went still.
You watched them land.
The house seemed to fall silent all over again.
“You don’t know,” he repeated.
Your throat burned. “Not like that.”
“How do you mean it then?”
“I mean…” You pressed your fingers to your temple, trying to think through the alcohol, the exhaustion, the sudden ache in your chest. “I mean I love you. I mean I want to be with you. I mean I see a future with you, but every time you talk about marriage and babies, it feels like the future starts sprinting at me.”
Anthony stared at you.
“And I know that sounds bad,” you continued. “I know it does. But I’m trying to be honest.”
“It sounds like you’re scared.”
“I am.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
“Of us?”
“Of disappearing.”
His expression shifted, confusion cutting through the hurt.
You looked down at your hands. “I’m scared of waking up one day and realizing I became someone’s wife and someone’s mother before I figured out who I was outside of everybody needing something from me.”
Anthony’s face softened, but only slightly.
“I’m not trying to take you from yourself.”
“I know you’re not trying to.”
“But you think I will.”
You hated the quiet in his voice.
You hated that you could not immediately say no.
“That’s not what I said.”
“You don’t have to.”
Your eyes filled, and you looked away before he could see too much.
Anthony rubbed a hand over his mouth and turned slightly, staring at nothing for a moment. The lamp light caught the hard line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the heaviness he was trying to hold without letting it spill everywhere.
“I thought we were past this,” he said.
You blinked. “Past what?”
“The uncertainty.”
That stung.
You laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “I’m uncertain about kids, Anthony. Not you.”
“Those things aren’t separate to me.”
“They are to me.”
He looked back at you.
You could see the problem in his eyes immediately.
For him, love moved forward. Love had a direction. Love was not just dates and holidays and sleeping in the same bed. It was vows. A home. Children. Family dinners. A life with roots deep enough to outlast the noise. He was not asking because he wanted to trap you. He was asking because, to him, commitment was not real until it had somewhere to go.
But for you, love had always felt more complicated.
You had watched women disappear into love before. Aunts who used to dress up and laugh loudly at parties until motherhood made them tired in ways nobody thanked them for. Friends who swore nothing would change after marriage, then slowly stopped answering messages unless their husbands were busy. Women who were praised for sacrificing pieces of themselves until there was almost nothing left but usefulness.
You wanted love.
You wanted Anthony.
You just did not want to become a before-and-after story.
“I don’t want to lose you,” you said.
Anthony’s brows drew together. “Then don’t.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is to me.”
“That’s because you already know what you want.”
“And you don’t.”
“Not yet.”
He breathed out slowly.
There it was.
Not yet.
The two words that had become a wall between you.
Not yet when he asked if you wanted to look at rings.
Not yet when he mentioned moving somewhere with more space.
Not yet when he talked about children with your eyes and his stubbornness.
Not yet when he looked at you across breakfast and said he wanted forever like it was obvious, like forever did not require you to become a different person to survive it.
Anthony nodded once, almost to himself.
“I’m going to bed,” he said.
Your stomach dropped.
“That’s it?”
He looked exhausted then. Not physically, though you knew he was that too. Emotionally exhausted. Tired of reaching for a future you kept stepping back from.
“I don’t want to say something I can’t take back.”
The tears in your eyes finally slipped.
You wiped them quickly, frustrated with yourself. “So you’re just going to walk away?”
“I’m trying not to fight with you.”
“We’re already fighting.”
“No,” he said, voice low. “I’m fighting. You’re running.”
You stared at him.
The words struck clean.
Anthony seemed to regret them almost immediately, but he did not take them back.
You stepped back like distance could make the hurt smaller.
“Goodnight,” you said.
His face tightened. “Y/N.”
“No, you’re tired, right? Go to bed.”
He looked at you for a long second.
Then he turned and walked upstairs.
You stood in the front room until you heard the bedroom door close.
Only then did the first sob break out of you.
The next morning, Anthony was gone before you woke up.
That was normal.
Training started early. Discipline ruled his life in a way that sometimes amazed you and sometimes made you feel like a badly organized person standing next to a monument. He had always moved with purpose. Even in rest, Anthony seemed intentional. He woke up knowing what the day required of him.
You woke up with swollen eyes and a headache, still wearing the T-shirt you had pulled on after crying in the bathroom for twenty minutes.
His side of the bed was made.
Yours was not.
That bothered you more than it should have.
On the kitchen island, there was a bottle of water, painkillers, and a plate covered with foil.
Toast. Eggs. Fruit cut neatly into pieces.
You stared at it.
Then you cried again because he was angry and hurt, but he had still left you breakfast.
That was Anthony.
That was why this hurt.
If he had been cruel, leaving would have been easier. If he had shouted, if he had mocked your fears, if he had made you feel stupid for not being ready, you could have built a wall out of anger and stood behind it proudly.
But he loved you carefully.
Even when he did not understand you.
Even when he was disappointed.
Even when his version of love and yours were standing on opposite sides of the room.
Your phone buzzed around noon.
Anthony:
hope you ate. ill be late.
You stared at the message for a long time before replying.
You:
i ate. thank you.
The three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then nothing.
You set the phone down.
The distance between you grew in small, polite ways after that.
Anthony still kissed your forehead before leaving if you were awake, but sometimes it felt like habit was doing the work his heart was too tired to do. You still asked about training. He still answered. You still ate together when his schedule allowed. He still touched your waist when passing behind you in the kitchen, but his hand did not linger.
No one shouted.
No one slammed doors.
That made it worse.
Because the relationship did not collapse loudly.
It became careful.
You hated careful.
By Friday, your friends noticed.
You were in the bathroom of a lounge, standing beneath warm lights while music thudded through the walls, trying to fix your lip liner with a hand that would not steady.
Your friend Amara watched you through the mirror.
“You don’t even want to be here.”
You capped the liner. “Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I came out, didn’t I?”
“That is not the same thing.”
You looked at her reflection. “Please don’t.”
She softened. “Did something happen with Anthony?”
You looked down.
That was answer enough.
Amara stepped closer. “What happened?”
You leaned against the sink, suddenly tired. “He wants marriage. Kids. The whole thing.”
“And you don’t?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
“I hate that answer.”
“It’s an honest answer.”
“It feels like a selfish one.”
“Not being ready for a baby is not selfish.”
“I know that in theory.”
“But not with him.”
Your mouth twisted.
Amara sighed gently. “Because he’s Anthony.”
Because he was Anthony.
Because he was steady and protective and grown. Because he looked at children like they were miracles instead of permanent interruptions. Because he had done so much, seen so much, carried so much, and somehow still wanted softness at the end of the day. Because he could have chosen anyone and had chosen you, not casually, not vaguely, but with both feet planted.
And there you were, still wanting loud weekends and last-minute trips and nights out with your friends where nobody needed anything from you except your half of the Uber.
“I love him,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“What if love isn’t enough?”
Amara’s face softened in the mirror.
You hated the sadness there.
“It might not be,” she said quietly.
The truth sat between you, ugly and unavoidable.
When you got home that night, Anthony was not on the sofa.
The house was dark.
You should have felt relieved.
Instead, you stood in the foyer with your keys in your hand and felt the full weight of what it would mean if one day he stopped waiting for you completely.
You found him in the bedroom, awake, sitting against the headboard with a book open in his lap.
He looked up when you came in.
“Hey,” you said softly.
“Hey.”
You set your bag down near the dresser.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then Anthony closed the book.
“You alright?”
The question was simple.
The concern in it hurt.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
He watched you for a moment. “Have a good night?”
You shrugged. “It was fine.”
“Just fine?”
You looked at him.
His face was calm, but there was something guarded in his eyes now. Something that had not been there before. Like he was no longer sure what parts of your life he was allowed to ask about.
“I kept thinking about you,” you admitted.
Anthony’s expression changed.
You took off your earrings slowly. “That sounds romantic, but it was mostly awful.”
His mouth lifted faintly, but the smile did not stay.
You sat on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t want us to become this.”
“This?”
“Polite.”
He looked down at the book in his lap. “Neither do I.”
“Then talk to me.”
“I have.”
“Talk to me again.”
Anthony was quiet for a long moment.
Then he set the book on the nightstand.
“I don’t know what to say that I haven’t said.”
“Say what you feel.”
“You want that?”
“Yes.”
His eyes met yours.
“I feel like I’m asking you to choose a life with me, and you keep choosing the door.”
Your throat tightened.
“That’s not fair.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep saying things that make me sound careless.”
“I don’t think you’re careless.”
“Then what?”
“I think you’re scared. I think every time I get close to asking for more, you remind yourself of all the ways more could trap you.”
You looked away.
Anthony’s voice softened. “And I understand fear. I do. But sometimes it feels like I’m paying for things I didn’t do to you.”
The words landed heavier than the argument from before.
Because there was truth in them.
You had not meant to make him carry every story you had ever seen. Every woman who lost herself. Every relationship that had taken more than it gave. Every fear passed down to you quietly, dressed up as warnings and jokes and “enjoy your freedom while you can.”
Anthony had never asked you to shrink.
But the life he wanted still scared you.
You looked back at him, eyes burning. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “I’m not asking for an apology.”
“I know, but I am. Because I think I’ve been acting like if I don’t talk about it, I don’t have to decide.”
“And?”
“And that’s not fair to you.”
His face shifted with the words, but he stayed quiet.
You drew in a shaky breath. “But I need you to hear me too.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m not saying no to you.”
Anthony’s jaw tightened.
“I’m not,” you insisted. “I’m saying I’m not ready for marriage right now. I’m not ready to be pregnant right now. I’m not ready to become somebody’s mother before I’ve had a chance to sit with the version of myself that exists outside of being somebody’s daughter, somebody’s girlfriend, somebody’s future wife.”
He looked at you steadily.
“I know you see marriage as building,” you said. “I know you see kids as love becoming something bigger. And that’s beautiful. I mean that. But when you bring it up over and over, it starts to feel like the woman I am right now is just a waiting room for the woman you actually want.”
Anthony’s face fell.
“No.”
“That’s how it feels.”
“No,” he said again, firmer, and leaned forward. “That is not what you are to me.”
Your tears slipped before you could stop them.
“I don’t want to disappoint you.”
His expression broke a little.
“You think you disappoint me?”
“Don’t I?”
He stared at you like the question hurt him.
“You frustrate me,” he said. “You scare me sometimes. You make me wonder if I’m holding on to a future you’ll never want.” His voice roughened slightly. “But disappoint me? No.”
You pressed your lips together.
Anthony reached for your hand, then stopped himself halfway like he was not sure he had permission.
That hurt most of all.
You closed the distance and took his hand.
His fingers wrapped around yours immediately.
“I want to marry you,” he said quietly. “I’m not saying that to pressure you. I’m saying it because it’s true. I want a home with you that feels settled. I want children. I want family. I want to come back from all the noise and know what I’m coming back to.”
“You have that.”
“Do I?”
You flinched.
His grip tightened. “I’m not saying you aren’t enough. I’m saying I don’t know if we want the same ending.”
“Maybe I’m not at the ending yet.”
Anthony’s eyes searched yours.
You continued, voice shaking, “I’m still in the middle. I’m still figuring out what I want my life to feel like before I start making promises that affect people who don’t even exist yet.”
“Our children,” he said softly.
You looked down. “See?”
“What?”
“You say it like that.”
“Because that’s how I think of them.”
“I know. And I think that’s beautiful. But it also makes me feel like I’m already failing people who aren’t here because I’m not ready to want them the way you do.”
Anthony went quiet.
You wiped your cheek with the back of your hand.
“I don’t want to have a baby because I’m scared of losing you,” you said. “And I don’t want to marry you just because I know you’re tired of waiting. That would not be love. That would be fear.”
Something in his eyes softened painfully.
He brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles once.
The tenderness almost undid you.
“I don’t want fear,” he said.
“I know.”
“I want you.”
You let out a shaky breath.
“But I want all of you,” he continued. “Not a version that resents me in five years because I asked for too much too soon.”
You nodded, tears falling harder now.
“I don’t know what to do,” you admitted.
Anthony looked down at your joined hands.
For the first time in a long time, he looked lost too.
“I don’t either.”
That was the scariest answer.
Because Anthony always knew.
He knew how to train. How to focus. How to survive pressure. How to walk into arenas full of noise and come out still standing. He knew what he wanted from life with a clarity you envied.
But now he sat in front of you, holding your hand like he was afraid one wrong move would make you vanish.
“What if we take marriage off the table for a while?” you asked quietly.
His eyes came back to yours.
You rushed to explain. “Not forever. Just… no hints. No ring conversations. No baby comments when we pass kids in shops. No family jokes about when it’s our turn. No pressure disguised as cute little moments.”
Anthony listened, face unreadable.
“And in return,” you said, “I stop running from the conversation completely. I go to therapy. Or we go together. I actually ask myself what I want instead of just reacting to what scares me.”
His thumb moved once over your hand.
“How long is a while?”
The practical question hurt, but you understood why he asked.
You could not give him mist.
Not anymore.
“Six months,” you said. “And then we talk. Really talk. Not in between events or after parties or when we’re already upset. We sit down and talk about whether we’re moving in the same direction.”
Anthony was quiet.
Too quiet.
Your stomach twisted.
“And if that’s too long,” you said, voice breaking, “I understand.”
He looked at you sharply.
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re already preparing me to leave.”
“Aren’t you?”
His face tightened.
You hated yourself for asking.
Anthony let go of your hand and stood, walking toward the window.
For a moment, he said nothing.
You sat on the bed, heart pounding, watching the line of his back.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
“I’ve never wanted to be the man begging someone to choose him.”
You closed your eyes.
“And I know you love me,” he said. “I do. But sometimes I feel like I’m standing there with my hands full of everything I want to give you, and you’re looking at it like it’s a cage.”
You covered your mouth with one hand.
He turned back to you.
“I don’t want to be your cage.”
“You’re not.”
“I don’t want to become one either.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
The echo of your own uncertainty came back to you, and it hurt.
Anthony walked back to the bed slowly. This time, he sat beside you, close enough for your shoulders to touch.
“I can give you six months,” he said.
Your breath caught.
“But I need you to not use six months as a hiding place.”
“I won’t.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“And I need to know you’re not just keeping me because losing me scares you more than choosing me.”
That one cut deep.
You turned toward him.
“I choose you every day.”
His eyes searched yours.
“Even when I’m scared,” you said. “Even when I don’t know how to answer the big questions. Even when I’m out with my friends and pretending my life is simpler than it is, I still come home to you. Not because I have to. Because you’re where I want to be.”
Anthony looked down.
For a second, he seemed to be holding himself together by force.
Then he reached up and touched your face, wiping a tear with his thumb.
“I need to feel that,” he said.
“I know.”
“Not just hear it after we’re both hurt.”
You nodded.
“I know.”
His hand stayed against your cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For making you feel like now wasn’t enough.”
Your face crumpled.
He pulled you into him then, and the second his arms closed around you, the full weight of the past week broke open. You cried against his chest, fingers gripping his shirt, while he held you with one hand at the back of your head and the other around your waist.
It did not fix anything.
Not completely.
That was the uncomfortable truth.
Love did not magically turn you into someone ready for marriage. His apology did not erase his longing for children. Your tears did not remove the question waiting six months down the road.
But for the first time in days, he felt like yours again.
And you felt like his.
Not future wife.
Not potential mother.
Not a woman failing to become ready fast enough.
Just you.
The woman who loved him.
The woman who was still scared.
The woman he was still choosing to hold.
Later, after both of you had cried more than either of you would ever admit out loud, you ended up in the kitchen wearing one of his hoodies, sitting on the counter while he made tea.
The house was quiet again.
Different this time.
Anthony moved around the kitchen slowly, shoulders less tense than they had been before. He poured hot water into two mugs, added honey to yours without asking, then brought it over.
You took it with both hands. “Thank you.”
He nodded.
You watched him lean back against the opposite counter, arms crossed, eyes lowered.
“What are you thinking?” you asked.
He glanced up.
“Honestly?”
“Yes.”
“That I still want to marry you.”
Your chest tightened.
“But,” he added gently, “I don’t want you walking down the aisle toward me while part of you is looking for an exit.”
Tears threatened again, but you blinked them back.
“I don’t want that either.”
He nodded.
You looked down at your mug. “And I still want to go out sometimes.”
His mouth twitched faintly.
“I know.”
“And I don’t want you to look at me like I’m less serious because I like music and dancing and being with my girls.”
His expression sobered.
“I don’t think you’re less serious.”
“Sometimes it feels like you do.”
He accepted that with a small nod. “Then I’ll work on that.”
You looked at him.
“And I’ll work on not using going out as a way to avoid coming home to hard conversations,” you said.
Anthony’s face softened.
“That would help.”
You took a sip of tea, then made a face because it was too hot.
He noticed immediately. “Careful.”
“I know.”
“You still burnt yourself.”
You rolled your eyes, but the tiny moment of normalcy settled something in your chest.
After a while, you said, “Six months.”
Anthony nodded. “Six months.”
“No ring talk.”
“No ring talk.”
“No baby hints.”
He sighed softly, but nodded. “No baby hints.”
“And no letting your aunties corner me at dinner.”
That got a real smile out of him, brief but beautiful. “I’ll do my best.”
“No, you’ll do better than your best. Your aunties are professional interrogators.”
“They mean well.”
“They mean business.”
He laughed quietly.
You had missed that sound.
He looked at you then, and the laughter faded into something softer.
“What?” you asked.
“I love you.”
You swallowed.
The words were not new.
But after everything, they felt different.
Not lighter.
Truer.
“I love you too,” you said.
Anthony crossed the kitchen slowly, stopping between your knees. He took the mug from your hands and set it beside you, then rested his palms on the counter on either side of your hips.
“Can I kiss you?”
The question hurt in the tenderest way.
Like he was reminding you that he could be careful with more than your fear.
You nodded.
“Of course.”
His kiss was slow.
Not hungry. Not demanding. Just warm and steady, his mouth moving against yours like an apology, a promise, and a question all at once. You kissed him back with both hands against his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your palm.
When he pulled away, he stayed close.
Forehead to forehead.
Breathing the same air.
“I don’t want to lose you,” you whispered.
His eyes closed briefly.
“You haven’t.”
“Not yet?”
He opened his eyes.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
The words could have hurt.
But they did not.
Not this time.
Because there was another meaning there now.
Not yet did not have to be a rejection.
Not yet could be a pause.
A breath.
A space where love was allowed to grow without being forced to become something too soon.
Anthony brushed his thumb along your thigh.
“I need patience,” you said.
“I need honesty.”
“You’ll have it.”
“You’ll have patience.”
You searched his face. “Even when it’s hard?”
“Especially then.”
You nodded slowly.
Outside, the city moved on without you. Somewhere, your friends were probably still awake, sending pictures to the group chat. Somewhere, people were coming home from parties, climbing into taxis, laughing in heels, kissing on sidewalks, making promises they were ready for and some they were not.
Inside, you sat on the kitchen counter in the quiet with the man you loved standing between your knees, both of you holding the fragile middle ground like it was something sacred.
There would be more arguments.
You knew that.
There would be days when Anthony’s longing showed before he could hide it, and days when your fear rose before you could soften it. There would be dinners where someone asked too many questions. Nights where you came home late and found him asleep instead of waiting. Mornings where you wondered if six months was a gift or a countdown.
But there would also be this.
His hand warm against your skin.
Your tea cooling beside you.
The honesty neither of you had wanted, but both of you had needed.
You leaned forward and kissed his jaw.
Anthony’s arms slid around your waist.
“You’re still going out next weekend?” he asked.
You pulled back, suspicious. “Is that a trick question?”
“No.”
“Maybe.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
You sighed. “Yes.”
His mouth curved faintly.
“But I’ll come home earlier,” you said.
“You don’t have to do that just because of me.”
“I’m not.” You touched his chest lightly. “I want to.”
Anthony studied you for a second, then nodded.
“And Sunday,” you added, “we can have breakfast. No phones. No training talk. No future talk. Just us.”
His expression softened.
“Just us,” he repeated.
For now, that was enough.
Not forever, maybe.
Not an answer to every question.
But enough to get you both through the night.
Enough for Anthony to pull you down from the counter and into his arms.
Enough for you to hold him back, not as a woman ready for everything he wanted, but as a woman willing to stop running from the truth.
Enough for the two of you to turn off the kitchen light and walk upstairs together, hand in hand, toward the life you had not figured out yet.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: You and Maj exchange pictures for the first time and even think about meeting up!!
Warnings: Use of the n word
Pairing: Jermajesty x Black!reader
a/n: my ass forgot i can only have 10 images in a post so this part might look discombobulated prolly. also be nice about my edit. im a lil rusty and i dont wanna hear not one mean thing. Yall will feel my boot. 😭
okayyy what abt something where jermajesty goes over to readers house for the first time, and sees she has a pole in her living room and begs her to put on a show for him n it leads to smut
Nasty dancer
Contains: black reader, explicit content, strong language, choking,
“Baby what the fuck?” Jermajesty stood at the entrance of your front door, mouth gaped open. “What?” You asked him confused, “I know you see that big ass pole right there.”
You shrugged, “Yea I practice sometimes.” He turned to you before looking you up and down and licking his lips. “You tryna show me something?”
You rolled your eyes with a laugh, “Go have a seat then.” You motioned to the couch. He didn’t hesitate, practically running to take a seat. You already had a two piece tank top and shorts set on so you were dressed for the occasion.
You went to turn on your speaker and put on your pole playlist, first song being, ‘body party’ by Ciara. You adjusted your LED lights to a dark blue, “ooo shit!” Jermajesty called out making you laugh.
He can’t take nothing serious. You made your way to the front of the pole, gripping it with both hands. You started moving your hips to the beat. You bent over slowly caressing your leg making Jermajesty let out a deep breath.
You came back up and rolled down into a squat. As soon as you stood up straight, you pulled yourself up on to the pole, legs straight as you swung around. Jermajesty was captivated, adjusting his basketball shorts feeling his boner rising.
You wrapped both legs around the pole, bringing yourself up higher. You leaned back, spreading your legs into a V as you continued to spin. Jermajesty was practically drooling at this point, watching you move smoothly.
You wrapped one leg around the pole, leaning farther back to lie upside down as you swung. He felt like he was watching a fairy the way you flowed into the next move. His boner was about to bust out of his shorts at this point.
You came back up to a sitting stance, legs straight as you slowed down the swinging, easing yourself to the floor. As you got closer to the ground, you swung one leg back, landing into a split. You looked at Jermajesty who still had his mouth open.
“Get your sexy ass over here like now.” He said making you giggle. You stood up to walk over and when you were close enough, he pulled you in by your waist.
Your lips immediately met each other, lips softly pressed together. You felt his hands travel to your ass, giving it a soft squeeze. His head turned to the side to deepen the kiss, easing his tongue into your mouth.
The way his hands trailed over your body made you wet, craving more of him. Y’all were still making out as you sat on his lap to straddle him, the tension only rising.
You grinded down on him feeling his bulge rub against your cloth covered clit. You let out a moan and sat up to slide your tank top off, letting your breasts spill out.
Jermajesty bit his bottom lip, ready to ravish you right there in the moment. He turned you over, laying you flat on the couch as he laid himself between your legs. “Pretty self.” he mumbled as he kissed your inner thighs.
He pulled your shorts off, “no underwear? You plotting and shit.” You rolled your eyes with a laugh which was quickly cut off when he placed his mouth on you.
His tongue glided through your folds before taking your clit into his mouth. “Fuck.” You moaned hand reaching down to his head. He licked and sucked on your pussy as if he were starving.
He slipped his ring and middle finger into your wet hole, fucking you open making your back arch. As his fingers curled, he flicked your clit with his tongue at a rapid speed. “MAJ FUCK!” You wouldn’t be surprised if the neighbors could hear you.
You began to feel the familiar sensation in your stomach, “I’m bout to cum.” Your hands gripped the edge of the couch and he pulled back for a split second, “gimme that shit.” He went back in, speeding up his movements.
Your legs shook as your orgasm crashed down on you, the tremor in your stomach felt so intense as he didn’t let up. He found your taste intoxicating, not wanting to stop but he was ready to fuck the shit out of you after that performance.
“Get up ma.” He said standing and tapping your leg. You let out a sigh before standing, curious on what he’s about to do. “Go put your hands on the pole and bend over f’me.”
Your eyebrows raised in surprise but you listened displaying your ass to him. You heard him rustling behind you as he slipped out of his shorts and boxers. His hand slapped your ass with a bite of his lip.
“You ready?”
“Fuck, give it to me.” You begged.
He slowly entered you making both of you groan as the stretch. He didn’t give much time for you to adjust, the need to drill you being too strong. His hips slapped against your ass while he bit his lip.
“Oh my goddd.” You moaned gripping the pole tighter. ‘Redbone’ played in the back along with the sounds of pleasure in the room. “Tell me how much you love this shit.”
“I love it, baby, shitttt.” He smacked your ass again, not slowing down his movements. “You wet as fuck” He pointed out hearing the squelching noises every time he entered.
“all f’me right baby?” You nodded too fucked out to respond. He pulled out, and dragged you back to the couch. “Spread ‘em.” He demanded and you happily obliged.
He entered once again now in missionary, and he wrapped one hand around your back. You cried out, toes curling at him digging in you. “Wet ass pussy, fuck! You bout to make me nut.”
Your eyes rolled back, clenching around him. “My baby bout to make a mess?” He cooed and you nodded quickly feeling the rising knot in your stomach, ready to push out.
His free hand came to rub at your clit quickly, “Wet your dick up ma, give it to me.” You moaned loudly as you squirted over him, coating his abdomen in your juices.
He was practically glistening under the dark blue lights making the scene much more intimate. Every time he slightly pulled out, more spurts were released turning him on to no end.
“Shitttt.” He said pulling out to stroke his dick, cumming on your stomach. You both were trying to catch your breath as ‘Wine Pon You’ played.
“Can you do a split on the dick though?”
A/n: Jermajesty having the same angle every photo be killing me😭
▸ ⋆˙⟡♡ A/N when writing this i was thinking of a black reader, but race isn’t specified—so anyone can read it. also, this was supposed to be manipulative!jermajesty but i got lazy and couldn’t think of ideas LMFAO… so this is what i could get my brain to muster up. this was actually for my friend who wanted manipulative!jermajesty @morutefawns AJSJSJS im sorry ho
jermajesty jackson.
jermajesty is a name that’s been woven into your life for as long as you can remember, a name that feels as familiar as your own. you knew him before either of you could properly walk, before either of you could form complete sentences. your mothers liked to joke that you met in diapers and simply never left each other’s side afterward.
you grew up together in every sense of the phrase.
you watched him scrape his knees on the pavement after attempting some ridiculous stunt on his bike. you sat beside him in classrooms, shared lunches, celebrated birthdays, and spent countless summers running through sprinklers until your fingers wrinkled.
you watched him stumble through puberty, too.
watched his voice crack at the most unfortunate moments imaginable.
watched his face break out with acne that had him staring miserably into bathroom mirrors for months.
watched him complain endlessly about his hair, his height, his jawline—things that seemed to bother him far more than they bothered anyone else.
and then, somehow, he grew into himself.
the awkward limbs evened out. his shoulders broadened. his features sharpened.
one day you looked at him and realized the gangly boy you’d spent your entire childhood tormenting had somehow become unfairly attractive.
it annoyed you more than you’d ever admit aloud.
and jermajesty had watched you grow up, too.
he’d seen every phase.
every bad haircut, every embarrassing fashion choice, every crush, every tearful breakdown over something that seemed like the end of the world at sixteen.
he knew all the versions of you.
the stubborn version.
the dramatic version.
the version that cried during movies but swore she wasn’t crying.
he knew them all.
the two of you were practically family—there were framed photographs sitting on shelves in both of your homes. pictures from birthday parties, school dances, vacations, random afternoons neither of you could even remember anymore.
there was one your mother particularly loved keeping on display.
you and jermajesty together, you missing your front teeth, and jermajesty with his signature adorable gap out while you both stand side by side in matching halloween costumes.
jermajesty hated that picture.
which only made your mother display it more proudly. “look how cute you two were,” she’d say every single time guests came over.
“please stop showing people that.”
you’d laugh every time.
that was the thing about jermajesty.
for most of your life, he was easy.
easy to understand,easy to predict, easy to love. of course.
until somewhere along the way, things got… strange.
not all at once. but who knew eventually you guys would become fuck buddies?
you definitely didn’t. but it didn’t matter when it was moments like these when he drilled his cock into—thick and heavy. you were laying on your back as he pushed in slowly.
“fuck mama.. so tight f’me.” he mumbled underneath his breath—his pace quickening quickly as he started to thrust in and out of you. your walls fluttering open for him and your slick quickly coating his shaft.
jermajesty was big to say the least, when he first took it out—it was heavy. 9.2 inches with girth you never even could of imagined.
the burning sensation you felt at first rapidly turned into pleasure as the repetition of his hips kept going. your head throwing back against the soft frilly pillow and your pretty dark curls scattering across it.
“fuck pa—!” you moaned out, chilling air grazing your perky brown nipples as they bounced with the rhythm of his pace, your pretty tits making a scene only he could watch.
“i know baby, i know.” he said between a grunt, his hand coming to your face grabbing it firmly so he could position your sweet fucked out face to where he wanted it to be.
he held your face in his big soft calloused hands as he watched your expressions contort, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you clenched and unclenched around him. it was a pretty scene—like it was straight of of a porno scene. he would keep you here for hours like this if he could.
“that feel good mama?—mm shit takin it so deep,” he growled, he let out a strangled moan himself when he started feeling your hips suddenly starting to chase his. fortunately for you, you boosted his ego. and pace. “you want this dick that bad mama—huh?” he said with a chuckle, pulling all the way out pulling a whine from you, your mouth hung open to protest—but only before he shoves it back in fully to the hilt filling you up.
you let out a loud whine as you felt your walls be invaded so harshly. he was splitting you open so nicely, wet creamy lewd noises filled the hair as your hips kept bumping into each others.
“so pretty baby,” jermajesty panted out—“look so pretty under me like this, hm? the boy you known since you was a little girl fuckin your brains out,” he clicked his tongue and shook his head, looking far too entertained by your sudden inability to speak. his eyes glossy and filled with lust.
“i remember when you used to make fun of me when we were younger—saying i’d never get a girlfriend. but now you drunk for my dick huh? ‘gon eat this pretty pussy after this mama.”
his gaze lingered on your face for a moment longer than necessary, eyes falling onto your lips where a deep pout was and a whine was dragged out of your throat at this words. already thinking about how his mouth was gonna be suckled onto your puffy hole for another hour.
he noticed the pretty pout and the whine that was drawled out of your throat, teasing hung smirk gracing his lips. “yeah? you wan’ me to eat this pretty pussy mama? i know you do.” he questioned at first but ended his sentence with absolutely certainty, you felt one of his big hands slowly catching your throat and airway in his grasp as you felt his other—push two long slender fingers inside you.
“fuck jer—!” you cried, your eyes getting wet as you shook your head with the last bit of strength you’ve mustered up. “i-it’s too—“ the bastard actually had the nerve to laugh, watching you struggle to tell him it was too much—clearly boosting his ego as his other hand tightened against your throat.
.“it’s too much jer!” you finally got out, breath catching in your throat as you started to squirm harder then before, your pussy quickly getting overstimulated and desperately sucking in and out. your throat getting dry at his tight grip resting on your throat.
“nah, you ‘gon take this shit. i don’t care.” a low chuckle rumbled from his chest as he somehow managed to quicken his pace—making you meek and writhe underneath him.
he leaned down and kissed that pretty pout of yours, all of it was too much truly. but you melted into his kiss regardless as you cried into his mouth as he brought you over the edge.
but like jermajesty said, you were definitely gonna take that shit. so to your very little surprise—he finished inside of you and pulled out with a groan.
“there goes my sweet girl.. i ‘ain forget about you” he mumbled, his voice now hoarse as you didn’t even notice he pried your weak numb legs open—and was now talking to your sore puffy cunt. but you definitely noticed now when his thick thumb slipped inside of you and pressed on your clit. ♡
Summary: Thinking you were texting your ex one last time, you failed to realize you put his number in wrong, with that being said you made a new friend.
Warnings: Just use of the n word and just running someone over with a car lmao.
Pairing: Jermajesty x Black!reader
a/n: just a lil something something to keep my account alive while i write my other stories.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Can you do a Devin booker fic where the reader, his gf finds a text from an ex gf & it just so happens to be the nigh Devin gets his ankle injury so she has to take care of him. At the end it ends up being nothing but she was being so petty about it but Devin lowkey loves it because he sees how much she loves him :)
stank ass attitude
a devin booker fic
summary - requested!
includes - angst to fluff back to angst and fluff again // boyfriend!devin // girlfriend!reader // established relationship
a/n - what a cute request! i hope you love. created a fake ex since i would hate to speak badly on any girly he used to be with. it wasss gonna be longer, but then i realized i was yapping so i trimmed it.
————————————————————————
You knew better than to look.
That was the first thing.
You trusted your man! You were not the type of girlfriend who went digging through a phone looking for problems that might not even exist. You knew what kind of life Devin lived, knew there were always messages, always people reaching out, always somebody from somewhere trying to find a way back into his orbit.
You also knew his phone had been sitting faceup on the kitchen island for nearly twenty minutes, buzzing every few seconds while he was upstairs getting ready to leave.
At first, you ignored it.
You were doing a good job too.
You stood at the sink rinsing out your mug, letting the warm water run over your fingers while the phone buzzed once. Then again. Then twice in a row.
You dried your hands slowly.
The mature thing would have been to walk away.
You actually turned to do exactly that.
Then the phone lit up again.
/maya
i know this might be random but can we talk?
The towel in your hand went still.
You stared at the screen.
Maya.
Not a teammate. Not a trainer. Not his brother. Not somebody from his agency. Not one of the million group chats he pretended did not stress him out.
Maya.
The ex-girlfriend.
Not his most recent ex, not even the one that came up often, but the one who had existed in that strange category that was almost worse. The one people swore he had been serious about. The one whose name came up in comment sections whenever you posted a picture with him, because the internet had no respect for peace.
You did not pick up the phone.
You wanted credit for that.
You did, however, stand there and stare at the notification until the screen went black.
From upstairs, Devin called, “Baby, you seen my black hoodie?”
Your eyes stayed on his phone.
“No.”
There was a pause.
“The one with the little logo on the sleeve.”
“No, Devin.”
Another pause.
“You good?”
You looked toward the ceiling like he could see you through it. “Amazing.”
There was a longer pause after that, and you could almost picture him standing in the closet, hoodie half in his hand, eyebrows raised because he knew your tones better than you wanted him to.
“Why’d you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like I asked you if you hid evidence.”
You let out a humorless little laugh and turned back to the sink. “I don’t know, Devin. Did you?”
Footsteps moved upstairs.
A few seconds later, he appeared on the staircase in sweats, a black compression shirt, and one sock. His hair was freshly cut, his chain resting against his chest, his expression halfway between confused and amused.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“You said it like it meant something.”
“I said no.”
“No, you said ‘No, Devin.’ That’s different.”
You leaned against the counter and folded your arms. “Wow. Look at you paying attention to tone. Growth.”
His eyes narrowed, but there was still a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Okay. What did I do?”
“Why do you assume you did something?”
“Because you’re standing like you’re about to cross-examine me.”
“I’m just standing.”
“That is not regular standing.”
You looked away first, which annoyed you because it made you feel guilty, and you had not even done anything except accidentally notice something that was glowing in your face.
His phone buzzed again.
Both of you looked at it.
The kitchen got quiet.
Devin walked over slowly, picked it up, and the second he saw the screen, his face changed. Not dramatically. Not in a way that screamed guilt. It was worse than that because it was subtle, a small shift in his eyes, a moment of recognition before he locked the phone and set it back down.
You tilted your head.
“Interesting.”
He looked at you. “It’s not what you think.”
You laughed once. “That is such a classic sentence.”
“Baby.”
“No, because that sentence has never made anything better in the history of relationships.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “I didn’t even open it.”
“Congratulations.”
“She just texted.”
“And I just saw.”
“She hasn’t texted me in months.”
“Oh, so we keep track?”
Devin’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “We?”
“You, apparently.”
He stared at you for a second, then his mouth twitched.
That made you even madder.
“Are you smiling?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m trying not to because I know you’re mad.”
“Trying not to laugh at your girlfriend being upset is actually not the respectful choice you think it is.”
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“You're not taking this seriously.”
He pressed his lips together, but his shoulders moved with one silent breath of amusement.
You pointed at him. “See?”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am.” He stepped closer, hands raised like he was approaching something wild. “I’m sorry. For real. I’m not laughing because it’s funny. I just know you.”
“You know me?”
“Yes.”
“And what exactly do you know?”
“I know you’re about to be mad all night and still ask me if I ate after the game.”
You blinked, offended mostly because he was right.
“I’m not asking you anything.”
“You’re gonna ask if I stretched.”
“I hope you don’t.”
His head tilted. “That’s crazy.”
“I hope you go out there cold as a lunchable.”
“Wow.”
“You and Maya can discuss hamstring mobility.”
His smile broke through fully then, and you hated how much you wanted to smile back.
“I don’t want to discuss anything with Maya,” he said.
“Clearly she wants to discuss something with you.”
“I don’t know what she wants.”
“Then answer.”
He looked at you carefully. “You want me to answer?”
“I mean, she asked if y’all could talk. Go talk.”
“Right now?”
“Sure.”
“In front of you?”
“You got something to hide?”
“No.”
“Then answer.”
Devin picked up his phone, unlocked it, and opened the message. His face stayed calm as he read it, but you could see him processing. He scrolled slightly, then let out a breath.
“What?” you asked.
He looked at you. “It’s about her brother.”
That was not the answer you expected.
Your arms loosened a little despite yourself. “What about him?”
“He’s doing some charity event in Phoenix next month. She said he wanted to reach out through my foundation, but she didn’t want it to be weird.”
“Oh.”
The word came out smaller than you wanted it to.
Devin turned the phone so you could see the message, but you did not move closer.
You were mad, not illiterate.
“I’m not reading all that.”
“You told me to answer.”
“And now I’m telling you I don’t care.”
“You very clearly care.”
“I cared five minutes ago. I’ve grown.”
He gave you a look. “In five minutes?”
“I’m a fast learner.”
Devin sighed, still holding the phone out. “Baby, look at it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“Because then I have to be reasonable, and I’m not done being irritated.”
There it was again, that almost-smile.
He lowered the phone.
“You know I love you, right?”
You looked at him sharply. “Do not start using love as a distraction.”
“It’s not a distraction.”
“It is. You’re standing here in one sock trying to be charming because you know I’m mad.”
“I am charming.”
“You're late.”
He looked down at his foot like he had forgotten. “I am late.”
“Go be late somewhere else.”
“You’re not coming?”
You hesitated.
You had planned to go. You were dressed for it already, in jeans, a cropped jacket, and the sneakers he bought you after you kept stealing his. Your bag was on the counter. Your lip gloss was in your pocket.
But now you felt ridiculous.
Too mad to be normal, not mad enough to justify staying home. It was an awful emotional category.
“I don’t know.”
Devin’s face softened.
“Come with me.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you there.”
“Maya can go.”
He exhaled your name like a warning, but there was no heat behind it.
You looked down at your nails. “What?”
“You know that’s not even close to funny.”
“It was a little funny.”
“It was not.”
“It was to me.”
He stepped closer, close enough that you had to look up at him. “Come to the game.”
You hated the way his voice softened when he really wanted something from you. It made it harder to stay sharp.
“I’m still mad.”
“I know.”
“I’m not wearing your jersey.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I’m not clapping extra loud.”
“You never clap extra loud.”
“I’m not giving you a good-luck kiss.”
“That one hurt.”
“Good.”
He dipped his head, trying to catch your eyes. “Can I give you one?”
“No.”
He paused, then nodded. “Okay.”
That made you even more annoyed, because he respected it immediately, and now you had nothing to push against.
He turned to go back upstairs.
“Where are you going?” you asked.
“To get my other sock.”
You looked at his phone still in his hand. “And text your ex?”
He stopped on the first stair and looked back.
“I’m texting her that she can email the foundation.”
“Oh.”
“And then I’m deleting the thread, since apparently my phone is a crime scene.”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t delete it. That looks suspicious.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Frame it. Preserve the evidence.”
He laughed, openly this time.
You grabbed your bag off the counter and walked past him toward the door.
“Wait,” he said, still smiling. “So you’re coming?”
“I’m coming because I already did my makeup.”
“Of course.”
“And because I want nachos.”
“Nothing to do with me?”
“Not a thing.”
He nodded slowly, eyes warm. “Cool.”
You opened the door.
Behind you, he said, “I love you.”
You paused for half a second, just long enough for both of you to notice.
Then you walked out.
“I know,” you called over your shoulder.
Devin laughed from inside the house, and against your will, the sound softened the edge of your anger.
Only a little.
The game felt longer than usual.
Maybe because you were annoyed. Maybe because Devin kept glancing toward you like he was checking whether you were still mad. Maybe because every time he scored, your body wanted to react before your pride could stop it.
So you sat there with your arms crossed, face carefully neutral, while the people around you jumped up and cheered.
“You are so childish,” his friend said beside you after Devin hit a tough shot over two defenders.
“I’m focused.”
“Sure...”
“I’m observing.”
“You didn’t even clap.”
“He'll live.”
He laughed under his breath. “You know he can see you, right?”
“Good.”
And Devin could.
You knew he could because after the next timeout, he looked directly at you from near the bench. His face was serious at first, sweaty and focused, but then his eyes dropped to your crossed arms and unimpressed expression, and his mouth curved.
You narrowed your eyes.
He shook his head slightly, amused, then turned back to his coach.
You hated that he thought you were cute when you were mad.
Actually, you hated that he was right to think it, because being loved through your attitude was dangerously disarming.
By the third quarter, your irritation had settled into something quieter. You were still annoyed, but not because you truly believed anything was happening with Maya. That part had mostly dissolved the second he showed you the message. What remained was the ugly little feeling underneath it.
The reminder that Devin was Devin.
That people would always reach for him. Past, present, future. Women who knew him before you, women who thought they could know him after you, women who believed proximity was possibility. He was handsome and talented and private in a way people mistook for mystery. He could walk into a room and shift the temperature without trying.
You trusted him.
You did.
But sometimes trusting him did not stop the world around him from feeling too loud.
You were thinking about that when he went down.
It happened fast.
One second he was moving with the ball, sharp and controlled, and the next his foot came down wrong. His body reacted before anyone else did. He pulled up, stumbled, and grabbed at his ankle as he tried to keep himself upright.
The entire arena seemed to inhale.
You stood immediately.
All the pettiness left your body so quickly it almost made you dizzy.
“No,” you whispered.
Beside you, someone said, “Damn, damn, damn.”
Devin tried to take a step and winced.
Your heart dropped into your stomach.
The trainers were already moving toward him. One of his teammates put a hand on his back, and Devin nodded like he was listening, but you knew his face. You knew when he was trying to be calm because cameras were on him. You knew when pain had settled into his body but his pride would not let it show all the way.
He looked toward the seats.
For one second, his eyes found yours.
You forgot everything except wanting to get to him.
By the time you were allowed near the tunnel, he was already being helped back, his arm around a staff member’s shoulder, jaw tight. He saw you waiting and tried to straighten.
You pointed at him. “Do not.”
Even hurt, even irritated, even with his weight shifted off one foot, Devin’s eyes warmed.
“Hey,” he said.
“Do not ‘hey’ me. Sit down.”
A trainer guided him into the medical room. You followed without asking if you were allowed, because nobody in that hallway had the emotional strength to stop you.
The second Devin was seated, you crouched in front of him and looked at his ankle.
It was already swelling.
Your chest tightened.
“How bad?” you asked the trainer.
“We’re going to evaluate it, ice it, and see how he responds,” the trainer said carefully. “We’ll know more after imaging if needed.”
You nodded, then looked at Devin.
“How bad?” you repeated.
He gave you a little shrug. “I’m straight.”
You stared at him.
He sighed. “It hurts.”
“Thank you for joining reality.”
The trainer glanced between you and clearly decided not to comment.
Devin leaned back against the table, watching you as you stood and grabbed the water bottle nearby. You opened it and handed it to him.
He took it. “I thought you were mad at me.”
“I am.”
“You’re taking care of me.”
“Just drink the damn water.”
His lips twitched.
You looked at the trainer. “Does he need to keep it elevated?”
“Yes, that would help.”
You turned back to Devin. “Leg up.”
He obeyed immediately, which would have been satisfying if you were not so worried.
The trainer wrapped his ankle and got ice situated while Devin sat there doing his best version of calm. You knew it was mostly for your benefit. He kept his breathing steady, kept his shoulders relaxed, kept making small jokes with the staff, but every now and then his fingers would flex against the edge of the table.
You saw all of it.
Eventually, once the first round of evaluation was done and the staff stepped out to coordinate next steps, the room got quiet.
You sat in the chair beside him.
Devin looked over at you. “You okay?”
Your head snapped toward him. “Am I okay?”
“I’m just asking.”
“You’re sitting here with your ankle looking like a dinner roll, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”
“A dinner roll is crazy.”
“It’s swollen.”
“I know.”
“Are you in a lot of pain?”
“It’s manageable.”
“Devin.”
He looked at you for a long second, then softened. “Yeah. It hurts.”
Your anger wavered again, replaced by something warm and scared and tender.
You reached for his hand without thinking.
He looked down as your fingers wrapped around his.
Neither of you said anything at first.
Then he quietly asked, “Still no good-luck kiss?”
You let go of his hand.
He laughed, then immediately winced.
“See?” you said. “That’s what you get.”
“For asking for affection?”
“For irking me while you're injured.”
“I’m trying to lighten the mood.”
“Lighten your ankle.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“You understood me.”
He smiled, and you looked away because the sight of him smiling through pain made you want to cry.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“Baby.”
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said baby.”
“Because your face changed.”
“My face is fine.”
He lowered his voice. “Come here.”
You did not move.
“I’m not giving you a kiss.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were going to.”
“I was not.”
“You’re always asking for kisses.”
“From my girlfriend? That’s insane.”
You gave him a look, but he held out his hand anyway.
You stared at it for a few seconds before taking it again.
His thumb moved over your knuckles.
“I’m okay,” he said softly.
“You don’t know that yet.”
“I know.”
“So don’t say that.”
“Okay.” He squeezed your hand. “I’m here.”
That was somehow worse.
Your eyes burned, and you hated it. You hated that the same man you had been planning to ignore for at least forty-eight hours could scare you half to death in a second. You hated that his ex’s name on his phone had felt huge until he was limping through a tunnel, and then it became nothing but a stupid little notification in a world where bodies could fail and people you loved could hurt.
“You scared me,” you said, barely above a whisper.
His face softened completely.
“I know.”
“I was mad at you.”
“I know that too.”
“And then you got hurt, and I forgot I was mad.”
His thumb kept moving slowly over your hand. “You can be mad again once we leave.”
“Oh, I plan to be.”
He laughed under his breath. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah.”
“You want me mad?”
“No.” He paused. “A little.”
You stared at him. “Excuse me?”
He looked too pleased with himself for a man wearing an ice pack. “Not mad mad. Just you mad.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It is.”
“No, it is not.”
“It is when you care so much you start acting like you don’t.”
Your mouth opened, then closed.
He watched you carefully, eyes tired but warm.
“You think I don’t know the difference?” he asked.
You looked down.
“I wasn’t acting like I don’t care.”
“Baby, you told me to go out there cold as a lunchable.”
You pressed your lips together.
“You said Maya could come watch me play.”
“She could have.”
“She could not have.”
“You’re right. Security would have stopped her.”
He laughed again, softer this time.
You sighed and rubbed your thumb over his hand. “I was being petty.”
“I noticed.”
“Don’t sound so happy about it.”
“I’m not happy you were upset.”
“But?”
His smile faded into something gentler. “But I like knowing you don’t play about me.”
You rolled your eyes, but your chest warmed.
“That’s so dumb to say.”
“Maybe.”
“It was not cute. I was spiraling.”
“You were jealous.”
“I was observant.”
“You were jealous.”
“I was concerned about boundaries.”
“You told me to preserve the evidence.”
You looked away. “I stand by that.”
He squeezed your hand. “You can ask me anything. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“I mean it. Even if you think it sounds petty.”
“Especially if it sounds petty?”
“Especially then.”
You looked back at him.
He was serious now. The teasing had left his face, replaced by the Devin he was when it was just the two of you. Quiet. Focused. Careful with your feelings even when he did not always understand them right away.
“I don’t want you sitting with stuff alone,” he said. “If something feels weird, ask me.”
“You’re not going to get defensive?”
“I might, if you come at me crazy.”
Your eyebrows rose.
He quickly added, “But I’ll try not to.”
“Smart correction.”
“I’m injured. Be nice.”
“I am being nice. I haven’t even brought up the fact that you almost smiled when I was mad.”
His eyes moved over your face, and his expression shifted into something that made your attitude feel suddenly thin.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you love me.”
“I do love you.”
Your throat tightened.
You hated how easily he could undo you when he was gentle.
“Well, I’m still mad,” you said, voice softer than before.
“I know.”
“And I’m still not wearing your jersey next game.”
“That’s fine.”
“And you’re not allowed to get hurt again.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
You reached up and brushed a piece of lint off his shoulder, mostly because your hands needed somewhere to put the worry.
“You need anything?” you asked.
His smile returned, small and sweet. “There it is.”
“What?”
“You taking care of me.”
“I was already taking care of you.”
“Yeah, but now you’re not pretending you hate it.”
You gave him an unimpressed look. “Do you want water or not?”
Jermajesty was on his back in the middle of your bed, completely naked, wrists tied loosely to the headboard with one of his own silk ties. His chest was heaving, curls damp with sweat, and his pretty brown eyes were already glassy with desperation.
You’d been at this for almost an hour.
You straddled his thighs, slowly stroking his thick, aching dick with a slick hand. He was painfully hard, flushed dark at the tip, leaking steadily onto his stomach. You’d already made him cum twice, once in your mouth, once riding him slow and deep, but you hadn’t stopped.
Not even close.
“Baby… please,” he whimpered, hips twitching as you twisted your wrist on the upstroke. “I can’t… m' so sensitive.”
You leaned down, brushing your lips against his ear while still stroking him.
“You can take it,” you whispered, voice soft but firm. “You’re my good boy, Maj. You gon' give me everything tonight.”
He let out a broken moan, head falling back against the pillow. His wrists tugged weakly at the tie, not really trying to escape — just overwhelmed.
You kissed down his chest, sucking marks into his smooth brown skin, then moved lower. When you took him into your mouth again, he cried out, hips jerking.
“Fuck— it's too much, ma,” he gasped, but his cock twitched hard on your tongue.
You sucked him slow and deep, hollowing your cheeks while your hand worked the base. Every time he got close, you pulled off just enough to edge him, letting him calm down before starting all over again. His thighs trembled beneath you. Tears were already gathering in the corners of his eyes.
“You look so pretty when you’re falling apart for me,” you murmured, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock. “My sweet, sensitive boy.”
“Please,” he begged, voice cracking. “Need to cum again… can’t take it.”
You smiled against his skin and sank down on him fully, taking him to the back of your throat. Jermajesty moaned loudly, hips bucking as you worked him with your mouth and hand. When he was right on the edge again, you pulled off and climbed on top of him, sinking down onto his cock in one smooth motion.
He cried out, back arching off the bed.
You rode him slowly at first, deep, grinding rolls of your hips that made him whimper and moan beneath you. Every time he got close, you slowed down or stopped completely, ignoring his desperate pleas.
“Baby… I’m begging you,” he sobbed, tears finally slipping down his cheeks. “Please let me cum. I need it so bad. I’ll be s' good for you.”
You leaned down, kissing his tears away while still moving on him.
“Not yet,” you whispered. "Want you to feel everything.”
You rode him harder, bouncing on his dick while rubbing your clit against him. Jermajesty was a mess — crying, moaning, begging so prettily as you used him. His wrists tugged at the tie, body trembling with overstimulation.
When you finally felt him throbbing inside you, right on the edge again, you leaned down and whispered against his lips:
“Cum for me, baby. Fill me up.”
He came with a broken sob, hips jerking as thick ropes of cum flooded deep inside you. But you didn’t stop. You kept riding him through it, grinding down hard as he twitched and whimpered from the sensitivity.
“Too much— fuck, it’s too much,” he cried, tears streaming down his face. But his dick stayed hard inside you, betraying how much he loved it.
You rode him through a third orgasm, then a fourth, milking him completely dry until he was shaking, sobbing, and babbling your name like a prayer. Only then did you finally slow down, still seated on him as you leaned forward and kissed him softly.
“You did so good for me,” you praised, wiping his tears with your thumbs. “My perfect boy. Gave me everything.”
Jermajesty was still trembling, breathing ragged, eyes wet as he looked up at you with pure adoration and exhaustion.
“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely. “So much.”
You untied his wrists and gently pulled off him, then curled up beside him, pulling his head to your chest. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, hiding his face in your neck as the last of his tears slowed.
You stroked his curls, kissing the top of his head while he came down from the intense high.
“I’ve got you,” you murmured. “Always.”
Jermajesty held you tighter, breathing you in like you were his safe place.
And in that moment, he was completely, beautifully yours.
