♡ the bakery ♡

Fem! Law School Harvey Dent, who gets paired with you for a group assignment, is dismayed when you constantly contact her for unrelated matters.

Fem! Law School Harvey Dent, who begrudgingly joins you for a celebratory night out when you hand in the godawful assignment, who panics when you drag her to the dance floor and hold her waist, dancing close enough that your chest brushes her and she can smell your hair.

Fem! Law School Harvey Dent, who has dedicated herself to her studies, to proving that she's better than any man who can't even study anymore without her mind trailing back to the way you'd felt spooning her when the two of you had drunkenly fallen into your bed.

Fem! Law School Harvey Dent, who sees red when she stumbles across some creep who won't take no for an answer, who kicks him in the balls and drags you away with a possessive grip, because obviously you need her protection, no other reason.

Fem! Law School Harvey Dent, who lies awake at night, sick to her stomach because she's not supposed to feel this way about another girl, who closes her eyes to banish her father's voice and to better picture your form as her hand slips between her legs, trying to imagine it's you touching her, even though she knows you'll never feel the same.

Fem! Law School Harvey Dent, who sees you kiss another girl and feels the world fall away beneath her, because she hadn't realised you were—like her—and who was that random girl you'd deemed good enough? Why wasn't it her?

Fem! Law School Harvey Dent, who confronts you in your dorm, tears in her eyes and cutting words on her tongue as she crowds into your space as you stare up at her with wide eyes and a smile that turns predatory the longer she bares her heart.

Fem! Law School Harvey Dent, who doesn't know what to do with herself when you shove her onto your bed and straddle her waist, breath hitting her collarbone as you ask if she's ever done this before.

Fem! Law School Harvey Dent, whose shame and embarrassment disappear the second your tongue is on her, one hand tangled in your hair, the other in the sheets as she writhes beneath your touch.

Fem! Law School Harvey Dent, who can't stand to see you so much as smile as another girl, whose possessive fury bubbles beneath her skin until you drag her back to your room, and prove that she's the only one you've got eyes for.

Fem! District Attorney Harvey Dent, who's already fighting an uphill battle to be taken seriously that only gets so much worse once you graduate and move in together. who has to sneer at the men in the precinct who always look at you with hungry eyes she wants to rip from their heads.

Fem! District Attorney Harvey Dentwho can't legally marry you but gets you that ring anyway and makes you wear it everywhere just to prove you're off limits.

Fem! District Attorney Harvey Dent, who can deal with the disparaging comments until they're aimed at you, who starts to turn her eyes on the officers she works with, systematically taking down every corrupt pig who's ever had anything to say about you.

You are, of course, as the beloved house-cat is inclined to luxuriate in the space between fondness and aggravation, to engage in a dollop of mischief. 

But at the very least, today you can make pretense that you operate in the spirit of scientific exploration. 

That’s what you tell yourself at least, during the onset of your experiment begun at the conclusion of patrol. When you say Tim’s name across the precipice of concrete ledge, your smile coy and coquettish in nature; his eyes gawkish and ogling as they find visual purchase upon yours. 

You’re dedicated to the task of swaying Tim, that you do not take ken of the other pairs of eyes that drag onto the meter of your form. But this will have consequences that you will make dedicated interaction with later. For now, all you do is extend your arms to Red Robin in come-hither appropriation. 

“Tim,” You plead in adjusted, sympathetic pitch—already he is crossing the rubicon to make diligent approach to you, moth to proverbial flame—“—Come cuddle with me.” 

His shoulders broaden, his eyes brighten at the task that you’ve given him, something stalwart takes hold of his frame. Makes him fill the suit in more valiant fashion than prior occasion. Again, you both are ignorant to the glares that are exchanged, the mouthed words that are given credence in conversation you are not party to. 

All you can focus on are those blue eyes in domino-mask that are aching to prove themselves worthy of the task. His arms look to make union between yours, his teeth issuing dissipating fog from the endured chill.

After all, your request was not borne of nothing. You merely needed appropriate instigation to bring him to you.

“You cold right now?” He asks, and when his arms encircle the span of your figure; it is resuscitative balm. He is personal knight in radiating armor, his hands gentlemanly and unyielding down the length of your back—they reside in the prescience of your upper back, gloved fingers darting over your shoulder-blades. 

“Course I am,” You respond, letting your teeth chatter for auditory measure, making jagged interval of the condensation that champs through your teeth. “Figured I could get a two-for-one handling the cold.” 

Tim nods as though you have suggested sage, excellent idea, the tick of his smile smug. The grasp of his arms careful and deliberate in choosing adequate spot to best allocate warmth. 

“Sure—”—He agrees, and his voice darts in lower register of huskiness, making access to heat pooling in junction of your legs—“—Hope you don’t mind my reach.” 

“I don’t.” And to better emphasize your point, you allow your head to rest on the firm plateau of his shoulders, to feel the unyielding armor and firm flesh-and-blood muscle that lies beneath. If he articulates stuttered breath, his heart traitorous in indication of exhalation—then you ignore this as well. 

All you surrender to the nuance of muscle, to better jar the pentameter of his pulse, is a murmured, “You feel good in my arms like this.” 

His chuckle is demarcated in the reverb of the ear cupped to his body, made double in the wintry air that you cling to him for comfort from. And his heart: it thunders with the implacability of a man too nervous to ruin a good thing. 

“Been waiting to hear you say that.” He makes in confidence to you, a secret that he carries with utmost sanctity. Even though the two of you cannot suffer under the illusion that you are alone on this rooftop, at the conclusion of your duties.

The best he may do is keep this to the mutual cradle of each others arms. And his hand palms flat over the span of your back, greedy to memorize the terrain of your body that is immutable under him. 

“Does it compare to what you thought?” You ask, nuzzling the sink of your cheek against him—prompting another treasonous noise to escape him. You can’t help but smile at how easy of a task it is to unmoor this studious vigilante. 

“Even better.” He mutters, and there’s a forlorn yearning that is made nascent in this admission. Something stirs in the housing of your ribs and draws saccharine-sweet, delightfully opalized in the mien of how he holds you. 

“Careful—”—you tease back in lilting cadence—“—I might ask you to keep doing this.” 

And when his arms clutch about you to better maintain the privilege, his voice speaks at odds to the dictation of the request. 

“Oh, no, that would be horrible.” He jokes, to better ensure that you don’t realize that you’re already in too deep with one brother made notch on the bedpost. But you won’t realize this until later. 

It’s an unspoken rule that whenever someone is on patrol, the others are set as watchmen to carry the torch for their return. The others have undertaken the expectation, and you yourself are no stranger to the task given you. But it’s always expected, unspoken rule and unwritten custom of tantamount significance. 

You’re not tired as you sprawl across the comfortable chair sequestered in necessary arrangement, in the depths of the cave. The darkness has long since lost frightening quality, and the shadows that keep menacing curvature around recessed walls and low-hanging stalactite have grown to comfort you. 

The cave is a safe haven where all little bats and birds come home safe. And so you sit with your fellow charge for the night, and wait. 

Your gaze meanders away from the territory his broad-shouldered form has taken up, that thatch of white hair that shocks through the dark—to the time that is delineated in artificial bearings on the screen. 

“They’re back late.” You comment, looking at the hours that have continued in irrevocable passage. You don’t let yourself worry. Not until the sunrise returns in cresting arrival to summon the dawn. 

“Better they’re out with company,” Jason reassures you.

His voice is composed with corrugated intonation, amber whiskey and slow-spooned molasses that sinks through the arteries of your veins, the channels of your body. It imparts experience and comfort that you seek with the unspoken question you make. 

“Yeah,” You agree, once again returning your long-reaching gaze to beyond. The light at the end of the tunnel displays pinhole of nighttime sky—and with them, the prodigal children yet to return. “They’ll have each other’s backs.” 

“Better to pass the time,” Jason suggests, his gaze unnoticed in your periphery, the desire unspoken even in prose of his syllables, “If you got someone to keep you warm.” 

You let your worry transition into bewilderment, into curiosity. And then, finally, into sluggish comprehension as you take the way those thighs, housed in grey sweatpants, have spread wider on the chair.

How those abyssal green eyes are watching you, like predator encroaching through the tall grass, awaiting the lowering defenses of prey. 

You recall your interaction with Tim from the previous week, earmarked by the shoal of those warm hands, the oasis of his body in frigid weather. And the cave is no stranger to chill: though you have yet to ever find salve like this. 

“Oh,” You let smile take foundation on your face, let sly, wily approach bleed into your answer. “You’re offering?” 

“Saw you ask Tim.” His face remains impartial of any emotion. But his shoulders school out to make sacrifice of his body, his legs pitch and tilt open. Beckoning you to the temple that he willingly offers shelter in. 

“Thought I’d nominate myself.” He concludes; and then: smile takes crooked posture. Crooked, playful, attractive posture. Those eyes are daring you to play the tête-à-tête he’s brandished as challenge your way. 

“I only asked Tim,” You proper up buttress of defense—after all, you must explain the anthropological aspect of your study, “Because I'm conducting research.” 

“Yeah?” His teeth are given perfect exhibition, canines taking prescience in the pronunciation. “How’s that work?” 

“Trying to ask people to cuddle—”—You return in coy answer, keeping yourself neutral, though your smile is traitorous to a fault—“—And see who’s the best.” 

His smile does not waver. But his body seems to grow in proud stature: you cannot deny yourself a visual glimpse of the testament of anatomy he has become over the years. 

“Well, come on over, sweetheart,” Jason returns, his finger tapping careful metronome on the chair, “Come test me out.” 

The way he offers it is layered in entendre, implicative of further exploration of the body. You try to avoid clotted swallow to regulate the pulse ascending to the nape of your tongue. Try to deny peristalsis that will allow you better means to focus. You rivet your attention on closing the distance instead. 

Your limbs carry so much more gravity, when you are the one that must make consumptive act to walk over to him. To allow your body admission to the cradle of his—to have no more than mere fabric separate the encompassing swathe of his body and yours. 

He’s hot—every square inch of him blazes in heady, sweltering thoroughfare. And his arms, coiled with the task of enfolding around your waist are both protective and ardent. 

“Rest your head on me,” His words carry gentility that the hunger of his body belies, “I don’t mind.” 

And so you do, letting your temple settle into the hollow of his neck, curling up upon the altar of muscle made yours. He feels so good to the touch, his hands of chivalrous navigation. 

“What do you think?” He asks, and his question is a rumble of sensation that makes circuitous route through your body. 

“Think,” You admit with growing smile, “I’m finding my judgment shifting.”

“Good.” His hands settle on the crook of your arm, intent to keep you in his embrace. “Good.” 

You have made yourself comfortable enough that you don’t see the satisfaction inlaid to the spread of his smile. But you don’t realize the dangerous waters you grow deeper into, when Jason is so excellent to hold. 

The eldest of the brothers is made available at more convenient time: when you have been granted reprieve of duties, rotational shift of the team determining that you will not be the one with harboring lantern.

But even then, you both cannot make orbit out of the heavenly body that is Wayne Manor: and so the two of you make residence in the living room, a quiet movie making sedative, somnolent ambience. 

But the two of you are distracted by matters of other things. Your arms have beckoned out to the brother who has yet to be tested, but it is not without him to luxuriate in being smug. A trait he has passed on to all of his siblings. 

And so he leans back, those toned arms spreading about the backing of the couch. His smile cocky and of cavalier clarity as he looks keenly upon you. 

“About time you ask me.” He gloats—and yet in the gloat is an assertion of wounded nature. He smarts at being asked last, at being final rung on the ladder. You will have to earn your way to enjoy the presence of his body. 

You offer initial statement to the tableau, still keeping your arms aloft. “Figured it was perfect because we’re watching a movie.” 

He makes a harrumph, jilted cuddler left standing at the altar. His smile is of roguish cadence, daring you to keep trying. Daring you to seduce him your way. 

“But that’s the only reason?” He retreats to offense—still smiling, still daring. “Am I just convenient eye candy to you?” 

You roll your eyes, though remain steadfast to the cause. As your eyes take exploration over him, he can’t help but proffer out aspects of his body ideal to the cause. Those impressive shoulders. That toned chest, the ample thighs. 

All yours for the taking—should he allow it. Your voice is dry. “You’re being neither convenient nor eye candy right now.”

“Oh,” And here he clasps crumpled fist to the spot his heart takes residence in, “Like an arrow through the heart.” 

“More like duct tape on the mouth.” You grumble, but he’s had his moment to whinge in despair. You clamber over to let yourself take position on the spread of his body, something his hands are eager to guide you along to.

They dare at the very mores of social propriety, lingering on access of thigh, on structure of ribcage—on the small of your back which summons instinctive shiver—

But you’ll give him one thing. He is an excellent cuddler, the shape of his body perfect diameter to yours, the warmth that he exudes of perfect distinction to the cool air of the room itself. And when you rest your weary head upon the slope of his shoulder, you can feel the exulting triumph that radiates off of him. 

“Well?” He asks, keeping a mockery of demure comportment in his voice. Playing the innocent, when he is anything but. “How do I shape up?” 

“Pretty good,” you admit as you match your body in perfect slot against his, “Pretty good.” 

“As I thought.” He returns with subdued glee. And if you are not given opportunity to leave his arms, the abode of his body until the movie has concluded—well, it’s not as if you were making marked effort to leave. 

“I think this will make them mad,” You assert from the support of Bruce’s enfolded arms, “But I think that you’re the best for it.” 

“That’s a surprise,” Bruce says in dry monotone. His heart is careful dirigible that resounds through the carriage of your ear pressed upon it. “Why is that?” 

“Because you’re a dad, Bruce,” You return with abject fondness that you don’t make disguise of. His chuckle, amused notion at this, takes deep root through you as it rumbles by. “Dads always are the best cuddlers.” 

“And because the other three you’ve tested it with have nefarious intentions?” Bruce asks in further wry inquiry—how very like a father—your second father by any means—to get to the arterial heart of the matter.

You dither in silence for a second as he carries you further up the stairs in the clasp of those careful arms. 

“I don’t think they’re nefarious,” You offer carefully. “But they are obvious.” 

“But have any of them won the test?” He asks—and it’s clear he’s not asking about your scientific method. You know what he’s asking about. So the two of you while in this comfortable silence as he continues to be vessel up into the darkness for you. 

“I’ll have to think on it a little more.” You admit to him. “Maybe even do some more testing.” 

“Better do it quick,” Bruce returns in deadpan. “I think they’re going to do something stupid.” 

“When do they not?” You ask—again, another mirthless chuckle. But he doesn’t dispute this. 

“Let me know when you do,” Bruce returns, “So then I can finally reduce my painkiller intake.” 

Your shared, quiet chorus of laughter carries you both up the stairs, and into the quiet of the night retiring into silent repose. 

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The floor hummed with the vibration of the bass, a reverberation you felt up to your eardrums. The music enveloped you and urged everyone to dance to it's high intensity rhythm, as the neon lights flashed around erratically.

It wasn't odd for you to find yourself in the middle of a dance floor in the weekends, sweating the stress of the week away, and if you were lucky enough, you would end up enticing a man right between your legs to relax you further.

That was your mission this week. Seduction. Hence why you were wearing your sluttiest dress, that barely covered your pretty little ass, and you'd done your make up with cutting edge precision. No man around you would be safe from your bedroom eyes, the generous cleavage accentuated with tasteful jewelry, and the most lethal smirk painted in a shade of glossy, maroon red.

And you had been approached by many, which meant part of your mission had been successful. Now all that was left to do was to find someone that was appealing to your eyes.

You had been pulled away from the dance floor by your friend, as she spoke about getting some much needed refreshments. You couldn't blame her: the stifling heat of the summer was only accentuated by the press of bodies against each other.

And so you found yourself in the bar, reunited again with the rest of your friend group. They were talking and laughing animatedly with some other group. One of your friend's caught your eye, and she grinned. "Hey, don't you know Jason?"

She gestured to a hunk of a man you failed to see how you'd failed to see. But when you did see him, it was impossible to notice anyone else, he occupied your entire field of vision, with his broad shoulders and big arms that strained against a simple black t-shirt, the cargo pants he wore that he was filling pretty nicely, and a face that seemed to be carved by the angels in heaven themselves. Target acquired.

It wasn't until you met his eyes, deep, intense, ever-consuming, that something tugged in the depths of your memory. High school days, that now seemed so far away, and those same eyes staring straight through you, at your very soul in the crowded hallways.

He had been a scrawny kid then, with his knobbly knees that always had scratches on them, and his quick wit in class that made everyone envious. And you? You'd been what some would call a mean girl (you would now call it being a pathetic kid that took out her own insecurities on others. Therapy did that to you). Not something you were proud of now, but you couldn't erase the past. But you could hope that Jason wouldn't remember your meanness towards him.

Except that intense way he looked at you, the flush of his cheeks in the pallor of his skin, the furrow of his thick brows… yeah, he definitely remembered.

White-hot shame filled your cheeks, flooded your being, and suddenly the summer felt even more unbearable.

The conversation around you shifted to other topics, something you weren't paying much attention to. Instead you were left to ponder on your mistakes ten years ago, materialized as a Greek god of a man. You watched as he took just two wide steps to collapse the distance between you.

You swallowed hard, hand finding purchase on the bar top to stabilize you now that Jason had entered your life. Re-entered. "I don't know if you remember me," you said in an uncharacteristically meek tone.

"Hard to forget you." His voice had changed. Once squeaky and filled with cracks, it was now deep, and rumbly. You didn't know if it was that sexy quality to his timbre or the words themselves, but you now felt all that heat that had presented itself as shame shifting inside your body, rushing, with the speed of dripping honey, down to your lower belly.

"Yeah, well… this would be easier if you had," you murmured. He seemed to hear, even over the music that played way too loud. You saw his lips curve into a smirk, lopsided and almost cruel in it's attractiveness. You supposed you deserved all that cruelty.

"What would be easier?" Fuck. He'd drawn closer, and the words were whispered straight to your ear, his full lips brushing the shell of your ear. You wondered were else you could lead those lips. If they would feel just as silky soft, or it he'd be rough with his mouth? How would his teeth feel, nipping at your own lips?

You swallowed hard, feeling as if you were swallowing on nails instead of air. "Apologizing."

"Now that's something I never thought I'd see in my life," he said, his eyes coming into view. Had they always been this sparkling green color? Or was memory playing tricks on you? "Thank god I got a second chance…"

Again you felt the uncomfortable heat of shame washing all over you. What did it say about you if it only served to make you wetter?

"I mean it," you said, shaking your head. "I was a lonely, stupid girl who thought she could be cool or some shit by being mean to people. Not something I'd like to be remembered as, and I know words mean squat in front of all the damage I did, but I still feel like it's my obligation to apologize. So, I'm sorry."

Jason considered you for a few seconds that stretched too long. At first it was his eyes boring into yours. And then his searing gaze shifted. To the bare skin of your decolletage, to the silken dress that draped delectably over your body, to your legs, almost entirely bare thanks to the length of the dress —or lack there off. Slowly, his gaze made the path back to your eyes, and you were sure that a different expression had entered his eyes. Something akin to hunger. You felt your mouth dry up, anticipation of his next words hang over you like a guillotine waiting to be dropped.

"You're right, words mean squat. But there is a way you could make up for it all…"

And that's how you ended up in his apartment. Your softness under his hardness as he pressed you against a wall. It was as if it had been his turn to be mean after all these years: his rough hands were demanding over your soft skin, his full mouth harsh against yours.

He was as greedy with his actions as he'd been with his gaze in the club. He took your mouth in quick swipes of his tongue, silken against your own. His teeth made delicious friction with your lower lip, gathering the gloss there and tasting it slowly.

His tempo varied: he started slow, got increasingly fast, and just when you'd start to moan and whine, the lack of oxygen making you dizzy, he'd slow down.

Everything combined… well it was making you feel woozy. You felt yourself melt against the wall, against his chest, as if you were made of nothing more that beeswax and he was the brightest flame.

His hands were just as restless. He pressed them against your waist, wide and warm even through the silk of your dress. He bunched the flimsy fabric, and the dress lifted to his whims. Not once did his mouth leave yours as his hand wandered down to feel the skin newly exposed. Rough callouses against the supple skin of your stomach made you shudder against his chest, a soft sigh escaping your mouth and slipping past his lips.

When his knuckles dipped lower and he noticed the lack of fabric, he pulled away. "No panties?" he spoke, his voice no more than a rough rasp. He smirked, his tongue peeking between his lips to swipe at the shared saliva that had gathered on his lower lip. You watched the movement, all to enticing in its simplicity. "Such a slut, hmm?" The degrading words only served to get you more hot and bothered.

His hand slipped between your leg, and he found exactly what he had been hoping for. You were dripping, a wetness that gathered and became borderline uncomfortable. He swiped the tips of his fingers through the wetness, humming in appreciation.

You bit your lower lip, the moan that rose in your throat muffled. He found your clit expertly, and flicked it once, then twice, observing you as if you were nothing more than a specimen under a microscope. He gathered your reaction, your little sounds that slipped against all resistance. The shame and arousal that came from his intense look.

When you tried to look away, overpowered by his gaze, his free hand came up to your jaw and angled your face so you kept looking at him. And as he maintained that eye contact, his fingers, now all wet and slippery thanks to your desire, slipped right into you.

You gasped, unprepared by the intrusion of two thick digits. He wasn't kind with it, even if he must've known that he wasn't slender by no means. He pushed them in completely, and without giving you time to adjust, he started to scissor you open.

You were rendered stupid: all you could do was moan out some variation of "oh, Jason…" over and over again.

His warm hand was still cupping your face, and he switched his gaze from your heavy-lidded eyes down to where his hand was working you without mercy. You were dripping even more wetness all over his fingers and palm, and you could see the reaction that it incited in Jason. You saw his pupils dilate and contract several times, the way his breath became in short, labored puffs against your own lips, and the way his pants seemed even more tight than they'd already been.

It didn't take much for you to get pushed down the edge, just a well placed swipe of his broad palm against your clit, with enough pressure, and an expert curl of his mean fingers. And the damn broke. It felt overpowering, the high that took over you. Waves of pleasure crashed over the shore of your body, and in their wake, you felt like a shell, wrung out of all energy. You had to grip Jason's beefy arms to keep yourself upright, a fact that didn't help his smugness.

He retracted his hand, covered with your essence, glinting in the warm light of his apartment. "Look at what I did to you… all this from scrawny little Jason, huh?"

You flushed even more than you already were. You shook your head, lowering the hem of your dress. "Not my fault you got so… hot." He probably didn't need the ego boost, but this was atonement, right?

And if you thought that this had been enough pay back for Jason… you soon realized you were sorely mistaken, because this had been nothing more than just the beginning. You watched as he licked his hand clean, his eyes rolling back in pleasure. You wondered when he'd gained all this sex appeal.

"Fuck, doll," he said, his lips glinting with some of your cum. He swiped it clean with a flick of his tongue. "You taste divine. I think you need to taste yourself, hmm?"

With none too gentle pulls of his hands, you found yourself being thrown on his bed, a small squeak escaping your lips. You watched as he loomed over you, watched as he shrugged his shirt off with a quick and graceful movement. Some day, you'd ask about all the scars that littered his muscular torso. Some day, because you knew this wasn't going to be a one time thing. Some day, because right now, your eyes were too busy taking him in. Too busy tracing the movement of his fingers as they nimbly undid his belt.

Your mouth dried up as he pushed his pants down, and with it went his boxers. And lord, were you blinded by the sheer size of him. His cock was heavy and hard, already flushed a pretty pink color at the tip and leaking. It was some forbidden fruit you were too eager to taste. So you reached for it. Only to be swatted lightly by him at the wrist.

You looked up at him with doe eyes, and his chest stuttered with his breath. "Relax doll, you'll have your go at it," he cooed. "But it's not reward mean girls day, is it? It's punish mean girls…"

He lowered himself over you, his mouth coming over yours demandingly. You responded with reciprocal fervor, your hand coming up to thread in his silk soft hair. His hand came down between your legs once again, as if he couldn't resist your pussy. You moaned against his mouth when he brushed against your folds.

"Still so eager," he murmured against the corner of your mouth. You panted in response. "Once isn't enough for this doll, hmm?"

You shook your head, chasing his mouth with yours. He pulled away, not very far, but far enough to be out of reach. Your hazy and muddled mind, silly with desire didn't register his lifting hand until it was too late. You felt a sharp slap against your clit, making you mewl and reach for him in desperation.

Your response must've pleased Jason greatly, because he didn't hesitate to flip your position and make you get on his cock. You struggled to take him, and he showed no mercy, his hands demanding at the plush flesh of your hips, pushing himself in with an expert thrust of his hips.

You whined and scratched at his chest, your sharp nails digging into the hard muscle there, leaving angry red marks. "Jay…" you protested against the fullness, the uncomfortable feeling.

You felt him press his lips against your cheek, a sneer curling them. "I know, doll. But you were so wet and eager for this cock, yeah? So you got to bounce on it."

You were still adjusting, blinking away the tears of pleasurable pain, so you didn't move just yet. His hand came down your ass, hard and fast, pushing a gasp out of your mouth.

"Baby, ride," his words were sweet, but his tone was anything but. So you complied, and the fast pace you set made him grip your hips tighter, his head thrown back in pleasure as you squeezed him inside you.

The angle, the girth of him, the length… it all made you hit a delectable spot inside you every time you bounced back down. It didn't take long before the uncomfortable feeling became pleasure, growing inside your body exponentially, threatening to break some limit inside you.

He watched greedily as you bounced, the ripples it made on your body, obscured by the dark fabric of the dress. So he took it off desperately, throwing it aside somewhere in his room.

When your pace started to slow down, he spanked your ass again, and his merciless ways only made your desire heighten.

He probably saw the way your body was starting to tense, so he slid his fingers between your bodies, finding purchase on your puffy clit. He drew relentless circles around the bundle of nerves, determined to wring out every drop of pleasure from inside you.

You let out a lewd moan of his name as the pleasure reached crescendo, and it all came crashing down, your hips stuttering as you came all over his cock, squeezing him greedily.

"Oh fuck, doll," he grunted, his brows furrowed in concentration. "If you squeeze me that hard, I'm going to come…"

You were deaf to his words, your limbs twisting with pleasure as he kept going at it on your clit. Until the euphoria burned you, and the pleasure melted into pain. You pushed at his chest and got off his cock, a feat made easy by the slippery mess you'd made.

Your breath was labored as you tried to come down from your high and down to earth. You let out a sigh, and knew that you were probably going to be ruined by him forever.

Jason still wasn’t done with you. “Here, have a taste of yourself.” He grabbed you by your hair and pulled your mouth down on his cock. You let out a surprised sound, not contraire at all.

You eagerly licked off all the mess you’d made over him, the sweet tartness of your own body mixed with the saltiness of his pre, before he pushed you down by the nape of your neck. Your jaw hurt as you tried to take him in entirely. He hit the back of your throat repeatedly, fucking your mouth with fervor. The tears in your eyes, smearing the mascara down to your cheeks didn’t deter him, only served to propel him more.

As your head bobbed and you struggled to take him, your throat contracting over his tip, he made a guttural sound. You knew he was close. And he’d been so mean to you all evening, so you decided to use your teeth too. Literally.

As soon as he felt the slight pain on his cock, he started to push you away by the hair.

You watched as he came, spurts of it hitting your chest. Watched as all his meanness melted away when he came, leaving only a deliciously flushed man who was tried to regain the upper hand.

You moved up his body, your mouth slanting over his. “Was that apology enough?”

He let out a chuckle. “I don’t know doll. I think you’ll have to start apologizing more frequently.”

he reaches up to pull the fabric out of his mouth and says "yeah? you gonna be good 'n cum for me? you're gonna be so so sooo good for me, baby? hm?"

"yes fuck yes yes yes," you hiss with desperation breathlessly, and he takes that as his cue to sink deeper, slowly, into your wet heat. you still for a moment. both of you do. he lets out a deep groan, his body buckling as you writhe beneath him, your eyes rolling so hard you can almost damn near see your brain. he leans up to push your knees to your chest, adjusting comfortably inside of you as you pulse and clench around his length. your hands shoot up and your nails dig into his shoulders as he begins to grind, rolling his hips painfully slow. he throws his head back, moaning and gripping onto your legs for support

you feel the pressure blooming in sporadic waves and you begin to wiggle erratically, pure little giggles escaping between breathy moans and swears. one of his hands strokes the plush of your hip as he grinds into you faster, a sloppy grin stretching across his face. "come on, angelface," he rasps, "gimme some more of those adorable sounds while i fuck the shit out of you." he peppers kisses allll over your face — not a single bit of surface left un-affectioned. "you're so pretty, baby, i'm losing my fucking mind, i can't believe i get to make you cum like this, you have no idea how long, baby, please cum please cum please pretty baby —"

his stern dirty-talk dissolves into heady whines as you tighten around him

"i can't take it 'nymore, 's toom - 's too muh —"

"fuck. fuck —" he adjusts your bodies so that you're flush up against each other, your leg hooked over his waist, arms linked around his neck, your foreheads and breaths touching and intermingling. he catches your chin between his thumb and knuckle of his pointer finger, firmly swiping away at the trail of spit. "look at me. look at me when you cum. don't stop. remember who made you fuckin' cum like this"

"dick .... nn —" you feel absolutely weightless as your body gives in, hands and feet clenching almost painfully as his thrusts become more shallow with his release that follows shortly after. you feel his fingertips delicately trailing up and down the middle of your stomach, and you can't help but giggle and shake your head

"hm?" he coos, exhaling quite laboriously from his nostrils as he tilts his head and guides a lock of hair out of your face. "no? no what, goofball?"

he doesn't quite get an answer, just your head snuggling up into the crook under his chin as you come down from your orgasm after a while. the room falls silent, and he starts to pull away to start the aftercare

"no —" you fuss, snatching him back towards you while another drunken giggle bubbles out of you

he laughs, his blissful smile pressing dimples into the brackets of his lips. "alright, alright. little while longer. just 'cause you're so fucking cute right now. then i'm gonna clean you up, wait 'til the room stops spinning like this and prepare for round two because i just gotta make you giggle like that again"

you shush him then mumble something that sounds like "not cute" or "cuddle me". something like that, he supposes