#anton riize

your boyfriend is the kind of guy who loves to use your boobs as a pillow, nearly making them spill out of your shirt with how much he snuggles his face to them because he needs the skin to skin contact. anton's a goner when you bring one of your hands to the back of his head to play with his hair while the other caresses his bare back, needy whines coming from his mouth as he shifts on top of you. you can feel something pressing against the soft insides of your right thigh and it doesn't take long until anton starts humping his semi hard cock on you, his breath coming out shallow—which leads to his open mouth getting drool all over your shirt and breasts while his grip on your hip tightens to hold you in place.

"oh, fuck– oh, baby... mhm, you feel so fucking good," he barely manages to let the words out with how much he's moaning, the friction on his sensitive dick, the soft skin of your boobs under his cheek and the way your nails scratch his scalp just right, pulling his hair every so often when he grinds too hard onto you... it's all too much. anton feels like he could cum from just this, but he can't. he won't.

though his right arm stays under you to keep you place, his left hand hastily moves to your shirt, his actions nearly aggressive as he pulls it down and guides your nipple to his mouth. you giggle at how eager anton always gets when he wants to have you in his mouth, but it's quickly suppressed by a heavy sigh when you feel anton's tongue licking the underside of your boob before sucking on your nipple as if expecting something to come out, already feeling yourself getting wet from his ministrations. he keeps his hand on your right breast to angle it towards his mouth as he refuses to lift his head from your left one, all while he still humps your thigh, albeit more clumsily now.

you hiss when he pulls back from your boob after a particularly hard suck, and the cold air hitting your spit slicked nipple makes it even harder, much to anton's delight. "need you in my mouth all the time, fuck," he moans, this time lifting his head so he can lick the entirety of your breast before starting to suck on your nipple again. he moves so he's sitting back on his haunches, placing your legs on either side of his waist before pulling the other side of your shirt so both your tits are out.

the first few times anton fucked you, he always went straight to your boobs first, which led you to try and take off your shirt to make things easier for him. depending on the day, he either would either whine or groan, but anton never let you take if off during foreplay—in his sick, perverted mind, he gets off so bad on seeing you all fucked out under him, the wetness oozing out of your pussy staining your panties and your tits pressed together, all bitten and slick with his spit, spilling out of your shirt in a tight fit. anton groans at the sight, "my baby looks so fucking good for me... i love you so much, you're so fucking pretty."

you grab anton by his hair again, a loud moan coming out of his mouth as you pull him towards you. anton barely has time to place his forearm next to your head to brace himself before your lips are on his, kissing him sloppily just the way he likes. in this position, he can hump your pussy instead of your thigh, and that's exactly what he does. anton angles his hips so his hard cock can grind on your neglected clit, all while you're kissing the air out of him and his free hand plays with your boob, lightly squeezing it and pulling on your pebbled nipple. when you pull back, you can feel anton's dick twitch against your pussy and inside his pajama shorts as he watches the string of saliva that still connects your mouths, licking it before pressing another wet, fat kiss on your lips.

anton doesn't waste time getting back to your tits, though, pressing both of them together before alternating between licking and sucking each of them. you let out whiny moans, needing some stimulation on your slick, empty cunt again, so you use your legs that are still wrapped around his waist to pull anton closer to where you need, making his dick perfectly grind against your clit. you keep using your legs to basically get him to fuck you through your clothes, making the two of you whiny messes, letting out loud moans you're sure your neighbors are hearing.

you can feel anton lose his focus on your tits due to how good you're making his dick feel. he stopped sucking on your nipples to just having his open mouth around one of them as he moans uncontrollably, his spit leaking out of his mouth and making its way under your shirt. when anton feels like he's getting too close to cumming, he grips your hips so fucking tight to stop you it makes you whine. he moves to kiss you messily again, your tongues sliding against each other in a way that makes your pussy clench around nothing. he's breathless as he says against your lips "baby, please, let me fuck this pussy. god, fuck. wanna fuck you so bad, i love your fucking pussy." anton can feel his sanity slipping even further when you let out an airy laugh and say "yeah? you wanna put your big cock inside me? you need it, baby?"

anton nods eagerly, his hold on your hips getting impossibly tighter as he tries to stop himself from grinding down on you, knowing he's too close to cumming inside his shorts. "i need it so much, baby, your pussy feels so fucking good on my cock. best pussy i've ever fucked, please!" as much as you love having a man like anton—big, hot, insanely handsome—nearly crying as he begs to fuck you, you feel like you're two seconds away from absolutely losing it if you don't impale yourself on his dick. you push his shoulder slightly to get him off of you, telling him "sit up, baby" when he whines, thinking you're gonna leave him like this. when he sees you pulling your panties down, his eyes glint with a newfound desperation as he quickly discards his pajama shorts, moaning when the cool air hits his cock that's been drooling with precum from the moment you put your hands on his hair.

it takes all your might to focus on just telling anton to rest his back against the headboard and not lean down to put that perfect, twitching fat dick of his inside your mouth. you lick your lips as if you could already feel the taste of his skin and precum on your tongue, but you unfortunately have more pressing matters at the moment. as you lift one leg to straddle anton's lap, his left hand immediately finds your waist, finally tugging on the hem of your shirt to take it off of you. anton then pulls you flush against his chest as his other hand holds the base of his dick to slide his slick head against your folds, making you both sigh needily. before you can cuss him out for taking too long, he pushes your hips down in one swift motion, forcing a loud whine out of your throat as you feel your pussy get completely stuffed from his big cock.

"fuck, toni, that's it" you moan you set a quick pace on his dick, exerting yourself to the max as you need to almost stand completely on your knees so you can ride the entirety of anton's length before sliding back down. even if riding your boyfriend is tiring, you keep letting out high pitched whines every time you bottom out, feeling high off the way he makes you feel so fucking full. anton, on the other hand, feels his dick get even harder from how warm and tight your walls feel sliding against him, the wet sound of your ass hitting his thigh making you both delirious. what really gets him going, though, is hearing you whimper when his hands on your hips slightly shift your position so his fat tip nudges the deepest parts of your pussy. one of anton's moves from your hip to curl around the hair at the back of your head, tugging on it just enough for it to sting a little as he pulls your face closer to his. his tongue wastes no time diving into your mouth as soon as your lips touch, sliding against yours in a rapid but sensual rhythm that had you both moaning into each other's mouths. when anton pulls back, he leans away only enough for him to be able to whisper against your lips "i swear to god this pussy was made to take my dick. i love it so much," making you whine as you felt yourself gushing and clenching even more around him.

anton feels like he could seriously detach himself from how good you're making his dick feel and cum solely from watching you rolling your eyes back due to the almost painful pleasure you're feeling. the way your boobs move up and down, in tandem with your movements on his cock, feel downright hypnotic—he only realizes he had been staring at them with an open mouth like a freak when your hand slides up from his shoulder towards his face, using your index finger on his chin to make him look you in the eyes while your thumb cleaned the saliva that had drooled from his mouth as he was gawking at you. you then slowly move your thumb from the corner of his lips and into his awaiting mouth, feeling yourself smirk as anton closes his eyes and moans around your finger, feeling you slow down your pace until you're grinding down on him instead.

when anton opens his eyes again, he barely looks into your eyes before his gaze drops to your boobs again, squeezing your waist tightly. he mumbles something around your thumb and you pull it out of his mouth to let him speak. anton lets out a raspy and hushed "need them in my mouth so damn bad," before he plants both his feet on the mattress and slides down on it so he's now lying on his back. you position your hand flat beside his face to support yourself as you playfully roll your eyes, letting out a breathy laugh while you caress his soft cheek with your free hand, saying "you're such a perv." anton laughs too, but he quickly masks it with an exaggerated pout. he pushes the side of his face further against your palm like a needy cat as he blinks up at you before he brings his hand to yours, holding it so he can press a kiss to your palm without breaking eye contact. when anton brings his hand back to your waist, he says "i just love you too much, baby. could worship you all day..."

that seals the deal for you. you can't spend another second feeling him twitching impatiently inside you, so you just decide to give the man what he wants—you lean down so you're supporting yourself on your forearm instead of your palm and use your free hand to guide one of your breasts towards anton's parted lips, the corner of his eyes already lift up with happiness. the moment he latches onto your nipple, anton's hands slide down to your hips to hold you firmly as he starts to quickly thrust into you from below. you whine loudly from how hard and fast he's fucking you, just the way you like, and you use the hand from the arm supporting you to tug at his hair, trying not to let your body give up and fall on top of his. "toni," you whimper, pulling his hair harder to alleviate some of the immense pleasure you were feeling. "your dick feels too good– oh my god, it's too fucking good!"

anton moans around your tit when he feels you pulling on his hair, feeling himself getting close from all the stimulation—your filthy words ringing in his head, the pain on his scalp, your wet pussy clenching tightly around him and your nipple getting harder and harder against his tongue—so he moves one hand to find your clit, his fingers almost slipping past it from how wet you are. in the back of your mind, you think it's all too much much for him to be sucking your tit, fucking you that fast and now he's trying to stimulate your clit too, but the thought quickly slips from your mind when his fingers start rubbing it in fast up and down movements.

"fuck, fuck, fuck, toni, i'm cumming, plase don't stop!" you manage to say between loud moans, and anton lets your breast fall out of his mouth to groan "fuck, yeah. cum on my cock, baby, i wanna feel it." hearing those words is all that was left for you to finally reach your breaking point, opening your mouth in a silent moan as you feel yourself spasming on anton's dick.

when it's finally over, you're gasping for air as you let your body slump over anton's, feeling too weak to keep holding yourself up. you let out quiet little cries as anton keeps fucking you fast and steady, laughing deliriously between groans with how good he felt "you're amazing, baby, fuck. i'm gonna cum so fucking much inside you," he says as he uses the hand that was previously on your clit to hold your hair and keep it away from your neck so he could kiss it. you feel tears sliding down your face as anton's thrusts get impossibly faster, and he groans against your neck "oh, pretty girl, i love using your pussy so much– i'm gonna cum! i'm gonna cum so much inside you, okay? take it– fuck, take it all, please!"

you're not even registering his words anymore from how overstimulated you feel, just nodding along to whatever anton is saying and begging him to finish already—both because you're so tired and because you absolutely love when he cums inside, "please, toni! give me your cum, please, baby!" anton groans loudly, latching his mouth onto your neck before wrapping his arms around your waist to hold you flush against him, fucking a few more hard thrusts into you before he stalled, lifting his hips from the mattress with how hard he pushed into you. all you can do is sigh and sniff tiredly against anton's hair as you stop crying, your entire body trembling as you feel your pussy get even more stuffed, both from anton's big cock and his cum—which, as he promised, was a lot.

anton keeps holding you on top of him as you both calm down, waiting for your breaths and hearts to slow down and pressing reassuring kisses to your shoulder. when he feels like he can move again, anton gently pushes you away from him to lay you down on the mattress, chuckling when you groan in complaint as you feel his dick slide out of you and his load start to drip down your thighs. he gets on his haunches between your legs again, being careful to keep some distance between both your crotches are you're still sensitive.

you're still kind of out of it, your eyes closed, when your boyfriend leans down to press a chaste kiss against your lips, barely having the energy to kiss him back. anton proceeds to press kisses all over your cheeks, forehead, jaw and neck, mumbling against your skin "that was so good. you're so good to me, my love," making you smile and sigh happily. when you don't say anything back, anton pulls back to get a better look at you and says teasingly "what? i fucked you too good and now you can't speak, baby, is that it?"

you finally open your eyes to give a deadpan look to your boyfriend, saying begrudgingly "you're so annoying..." anton laughs, lightly pinching your side and making you flinch, "oh, so now you can speak?" you just roll eyes, barely stopping yourself from laughing too. he moves to lay beside you, pulling you close to him so your head is resting on his chest and his fingers are tracing shapes on your back.

anton has half a mind to grab tissues from his bedside table to clean you up when you distract him by asking "are we really gonna stay in bed?" you slightly lift your head from anton's chest to look at the time on anton's clock at said bedside table, letting your head fall back down as you comment "it's, like, way past noon. aren't you hungry?" you don't have to see it when you're able to hear the cheeky smile on anton's face as he says "babe, my mouth was full ten minutes ago. i'm doing great." you playfully push his body away from yours in mock exasperation, which gives anton the opening he needs to quickly lean down and give a quick suck to one of your nipples. you push him away again, laughing, "oh, my god! you're worse than a baby!"

anton just smiles up at you, moving up to kiss your lips before a smirk takes over his face. you feel one of his hand sneaking its way on the side of your body as he says "besides, even if i start feeling hungry, i have a full course meal waiting for me right here." before you can ask him what he means, anton's fingers find your pussy again, making your body twitch from sensitivity as they slide through your folds to gather the remnants of your slick and his cum. anton brings his now wet fingers to his mouth, groaning in delight at your combined taste.

he pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a pop, smiling deviously as he says "delicious." as you stare at him, you swear you feel yourself start getting wet again, so you pull anton towards you to kiss him hard, feeling his spit slicked hand hold your hip tightly as anton moves his body from his side to fit between your legs again. you speak against his lips "you're a freak."

"just for you," anton smiles before leaning down to kiss you again.

You lift the tiny black tube like a trophy. “One—perfectly legal—eyeliner. Waterproof. Hypoallergenic. Not responsible for life decisions.”

Anton snorts. “We’re doing a fake tattoo, not a binding contract.”

“Yeah, but still. Waterproof. Foolproof. Regret-proof.”

“Is it artist-proof?”

“No such thing,” you say.

He laughs—quiet, but real—and gestures for you to come inside the living room. You do, trying not to notice the lazy confidence in his movements, or the fact that your heartbeat’s already pretending to be percussion.

“Where do you want me?” he asks.

You glance up from the coffee table, where you’re unboxing the eyeliner. “For the tattoo or… in general?”

He raises a brow. “For the tattoo.”

“Shame,” you say before you can stop yourself. He blinks—once, slow—and you’re the first to look away.

“You say that now.”

He steps back so you can pass, and you feel it again—the hush that likes to sit in the space right by your ribs when he’s close.

You’re just friends.

You have been for so long that the word has grown complicated edges. But it still fits the mouth, most days.

Friends who trade playlists and send each other pictures of ugly cafés that serve perfect coffee. Friends who know exactly when to push and when to shut up. Friends who, apparently, draw temporary tattoos on each other’s stomachs because some friend made an offhand comment about Anton “maybe trying an ink moment one day,” and your brain took a running jump at the idea.

The living room is half studio. Coiled cables asleep under the desk. A cello leaning in the corner like a tall, patient friend. He has that small lamp on—the one that throws a pool of amber light over the rug, as if you’re supposed to confess something in it. You make yourself busy instead, setting your bag on the couch, rolling up your sleeves, twisting the eyeliner open to check the fineness of the felt tip.

“You’re really trusting me with this?” you tease. “A needle would be more permanent, but probably less wiggly.”

“I trust you,” he says, simple as a chord played clean. No rust, no drama. It lands somewhere low and steady.

You try not to show what the word does to your pulse. “Okay then. Design brief time.”

He wanders to the speaker, puts on something you both love—piano that threads through a lo-fi drum like a heartbeat that won’t call itself that. “Nothing too much,” he says. “Just…lines. Under the ribs. Maybe something that follows the muscle. If we hate it, we wipe and start over.”

“If we hate it, you pretend it’s art,” you correct, and he laughs, soft.

It’s absurd how many years you’ve known the choreography of his laugh. The way it starts quiet and widens, like the moment sound engineers push the fader up and up until the track sits perfectly in the mix.

You watched that happen slowly with him: the shy boy who learned to speak more where the music didn’t, the young man who asks you what you think and actually waits.

He pulls his hoodie over his head and tosses it onto the arm of the couch, unhurried, absolutely sure you will not combust. You won’t. You won’t. You will set the eyeliner down gently on the coffee table instead of clutching it like salvation.

Beneath the white tee there is a line where cloth ends and skin begins, and then his hands hook the hem, and the shirt lifts. When he lifts off his shirt, you think maybe this was a terrible idea. His shirt rides up just enough to show the edges of toned skin, and you swear the air gets heavier.

“I thought you said we’d draw, not stare,” he says lightly.

“I’m visualizing the composition,” you mutter, rolling up your sleeves. “Don’t distract the artist.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

He’s teasing, but there’s warmth under the words, a familiarity that makes your stomach do something traitorous. You kneel on the rug, holding the eyeliner like it’s a scalpel. He leans back a little—enough for the lamplight to fall over his stomach, the faint rise and fall of breath.

“Hey,” he says, as if you’re already halfway to the door. “You okay?”

“Yup,” you say, with the voice of someone who absolutely does not notice the soft map of his abdomen, the lines like brackets around breath. “Just trying to remember where I put—”

“The eyeliner is in your hand,” he says, and you look down to find it there, snug against your fingers like something that knows more than you do.

“Right.” You clear your throat and turn toward him. “Okay. Lay down. I need a flat canvas.”

He settles on the edge of the couch, spine a careful line, knees a little open. He’s taller without the hoodie, somehow. He has always been all long lines and quiet strength, like his instrument. You kneel on the rug, and now the space between your bodies is just air—warm, shared, thin.

The lamp hums. The music drips time.

You try not to let your brain wire elsewhere.

The first stroke is tentative, a thin line tracing the edge of his ribs. The felt tip glides easily, the skin warm under your touch. His abs tense slightly—involuntary—and you can’t tell if it’s from nerves or something else.

“Ticklish?” you ask, half-smile, half-dare.

“A little,” he admits. “You’re… close.”

You try to make it sound like you don’t notice. “That’s kind of the point.”

He huffs a laugh, eyes flicking toward you—then staying there. It’s too quiet after that. Just the sound of your breath and the soft drag of eyeliner. You move to draw another line, your knuckles brushing him by accident. His breath catches.

You don’t apologize.

“Do you know,” he says after a moment, voice lower, “you do this thing every time?”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you’re fine.”

You blink, keep your gaze fixed on the line you’re drawing. “I am fine.”

He hums, unconvinced. “Right. That’s why your hand’s shaking.”

You scoff, though your pulse jumps. “Maybe you’re just a bad canvas.”

“Maybe you’re just nervous,” he murmurs, leaning slightly closer.

You look up, ready with something sharp, but he’s already watching you—eyes dark, expression unreadable. The room feels too small.

You grin, because that’s what you do when you’re cornered. “If I was nervous,” you say, “it’s only because I don’t want to ruin your abs. They deserve better art direction.”

He laughs, quiet and breathy, but doesn’t look away. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you say, “you keep inviting me over.”

The smile lingers on his face, but something shifts in the air—the playful tone stretches thin, and underneath it hums something older.

You change the topic.

“So,” you say, because words are a kind of lid and you need one. “We’re tracing the obliques. Maybe a curve like this…” Your hand hovers at his hip, not touching yet. “…and then a thin line running up here. Think calligraphy. Minimal. Pretend I’m ink and you’re paper.”

“Poetic,” he murmurs, and when you dare to glance up, he’s wearing that look—the one that means he’s watching you think. He does it like you’re a good song. You feel seen and flattered and terrified.

“I’ll start light,” you tell him. “If it tickles, don’t laugh. You’ll ruin my masterpiece.”

“Would never,” he says.

You use the back of your knuckles first, easing your hand against the warmth of him, letting your skin tell your brain this is real. He inhales, slow—heavy, and the muscles shift under your touch like fish under clear water.

You have painted hundreds of lines in your life.

None of them were on him.

Careful.

You put felt to skin and draw the first small stroke, a testing dash along the slope of his hip. The eyeliner leaves a narrow ribbon, dark and obedient. You’re close enough to see goosebumps pebble and fade. His hand, relaxed on his knee, tightens just a fraction. Not a flinch. More like a hello.

“Cold?” you ask.

“Fine,” he says. His voice comes out lower than it was a second ago.

Years, you think. Years of this. Years of cups warming your hands on his couch while he mixes a bass line, years of walking side by side and never bumping shoulders because it would break the spell, years of hungry jokes that you both pretend are just jokes.

Well, who’s to blame, honestly?

You add a second stroke, curving the line to hug the edge of his abdomen. The felt tip glides. You are absurdly, disastrously careful. You want the tattoo to look effortless; you want your hands not to shake; you want not to want this so hard you can taste it. You breathe and the scented lamp breathes with you. It smells like someone’s kitchen at night.

The second stroke finishes.

“Do another one here,” he says, voice lower, bringing your hand in his and guiding it just above his waist.

You ignore how warm his hand engulfs yours.

You move the eyeliner there, trying not to tremble. “Bossy.”

“You like that,” he says, almost absentmindedly.

Your hand hesitates for half a second—enough for him to notice. His eyes lift to yours, and the faint curve of his lips is gone now.

“Anton,” you start, but he only tilts his head.

“What?”

“This is—”

“Nothing?” he finishes for you, soft but edged.

You don’t answer. You draw instead—the thin black line curving just above his waist, the shape of something you can’t name. Your hand lingers too long, your thumb brushing over the line to “smooth” it. His breath hitches again, and that’s when you realize how close you’ve gotten—the space between you measured in heartbeats now.

His voice drops. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Playing.”

You set the eyeliner down carefully, because suddenly your hands don’t feel steady at all. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.”

You force a smile, leaning back. “You’re the one who asked me to draw on you. Don’t make it weird.”

“It’s already weird,” he says, and there’s no teasing left in it—just quiet honesty.

You swallow. “Then maybe we stop before it gets worse.”

A pause. Silence.

You clear your throat. “Look down?”

He looks, and for a second your eyes meet across the distance of his torso, as if your gaze could touch him too. You don’t want to think about what the gaze intended—what it thought of behind that head.

You blink first. You always blink first. It has kept you safe and starved in equal measure.

“Okay,” you say, swallowing. “Now the thin accent line—here.” You hover the tip just under the nearest rib, trace a path you can already see. It’s a dangerous place to write. If you misjudge the curve, the whole design will feel off. The thought makes your hands quieter, steadier.

“Breathe,” he says, breathlessly. You’re not sure who he’s telling. You exhale anyway. The line appears where you want it, a simple arc, intimate in its simplicity. You could stop now and it would already look like something meant.

“You’re really good at this,” he adds, and you almost ruin the next stroke.

“I draw things all the time. You know this.” You hear your own voice, bright with a kind of practiced carelessness you could probably sell for money.

“Not like this,” he says, softer. “Not…on me.”

The song changes. The piano keeps talking.

“You’re going to smudge it if you keep flattering me,” you warn, because banter is a fence and fences keep the deer out. You nudge his knee with the back of your hand, a friendly press.

He takes it as you meant it; you wish he wouldn’t, and also that he would.

He goes quiet then—comfortably quiet, the way he gets when he’s focusing. You draw three more lines: one that echoes the curve you made, one that cuts across at a deliberate angle, one that disappears into the hollow near his side like a secret. The design starts to grow bones. It looks like motion. It looks like restraint. It looks—goodness help you—like longing you can see.

Anton shifts just enough to bring him closer, leaning back on his hands to get a better view. The shift pulls his body long, the clean stretch of stomach a map your fingers want to memorize. The move also brings his face down toward yours, closing the altitude until you could count each of his lashes if you were rude enough to stare.

You are not rude; you are a coward. You look at the tattoo instead, and because you’re a professional at pretending, your voice comes out light. “We’re halfway. You doing okay? Need a break?”

“I’m good.” He’s watching you again. “You’re the one concentrating like you’re defusing a bomb.”

“I am.” You add a tiny dot at the end of one line, a punctuation. “There are very few absolutes in this world, but ruining your abs on a Tuesday would be one of them.”

He laughs, and the sound tips your line a hair; you catch it, correct it, make the tilt look purposeful. It’s a small miracle. He watches you pull off the save like he expected it, like he knows how your brain thinks around mistakes. He has known you so long that of course he does.

“Do you want this to mean something?” you ask, and it’s a question about the tattoo, and also not. “Or just pretty lines?”

His gaze flickers to your mouth and back—not in a way that presumes, just a low, honest circuit that makes your breath stumble. “Everything means something,” he says, and then, gentler: “Even if we don’t say it.”

You’re the one to look away again. You are always the one to step back onto the safe part of the path. “Okay,” you murmur, businesslike. “Then it means ‘good angles and symmetry.’”

You work in silence for a while—not empty silence, but the charged kind that asks for attention without making demands. Every time the felt touches him, his stomach tightens slightly, then eases. Every time your hand braces at his side, heat collects under your palm like a secret that doesn’t want to be secret anymore. You place another line and see him swallow. You pretend not to.

A memory moves through you—the third winter of your friendship, when he let you put your freezing hands under his sleeves while you both waited for the night bus. He didn’t joke. He just held still. That’s what he does: he holds still for you in a world that doesn’t.

If you were braver, you would say something now. If you were reckless, you would press your mouth to the clean skin by the sharp new line you’ve drawn and make your mark in two inks at once. Instead you wear the same old disguise: You paint and you talk about nothing.

“Do you think,” you ask, “you’d ever get a real one? For real?”

“Maybe,” he says. “If I found the thing I wanted to keep.”

Your hand stutters and recovers. “Hm.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” You’re almost done. That makes something in you panic. The scene will end; the spell will break. You will put the cap back on the eyeliner and say something chirpy, and he will pull his shirt down and you will go back to being people who only sometimes stand so close the room feels the size of a breath.

You draw the last small curve, a grace note that pulls the whole design together. It is undeniably beautiful. It is also unbearable.

“Okay,” you say, too fast. “That’s it. Don’t move for, like, thirty seconds. I’ll—uh—grab tissues? In case I need to clean an edge.”

You rock back on your heels, already retreating, reaching for the coffee table, for your bag, for anything that looks like distance. Your heart’s doing that runaway thing—it doesn’t trust you either.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s soft, warning and wonder together. You keep going anyway. You toss the eyeliner in your bag, rummage like the right napkin will make this a different story.

“Looks good,” you say—brisk, bright, safe. “I’ll take a picture, send it to you, you can decide if you want me to redo any—”

“Quit.” The single word is gentle, but it hits like a hand catching the back of your sweater just before you step off a curb you didn’t see. “Stop playing.”

You blink. “What?”

“Quit pretending this doesn’t mean anything,” he says, voice low, steady. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Anton—”

He leans forward, the motion slow, deliberate, until you can feel his breath near your cheek. “You keep pulling away like I’m going to let you,” he murmurs. “Like I don’t notice.”

Your throat feels tight. “If I don’t?”

His smile is small, almost sad. “Then maybe I do.”

You freeze. Your fingers close uselessly around nothing. You tell yourself you don’t know what he means.

You do.

He leans forward, and the couch sighs with him. Your name in his mouth is quieter than the lamp hum, but you hear it fine. One of his hands comes down to the rug, steadying. The other finds yours where it’s busy being frantic inside your bag. He doesn’t pull. He just covers your hand with his own—warm over warm—and you realize how long you’ve been cold.

“Anton,” you start, and the word is a little frayed. You pull back out of habit; his fingers follow, not trapping, just present. You are good at this—the art of slipping sideways, the quick joke, the neat turn into less. It has saved you a hundred times. It has cost you, too.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do. You always do, in the end.

He isn’t smug or triumphant or anything you could fight against. He’s steady. His eyes are the same quiet as the cello in the corner. He looks down at the design you drew on him, then up again. You know what it says. You wrote it.

“I like our lines,” he says. “All of them. The ones on me and the ones between us. But this—” His thumb lifts, barely there, skimming the back of your hand like the promise of a stroke you could still draw. “This thing you do. The way you make it a game.”

“It’s not a game,” you say, too quickly. Your face is hot. The room shrinks to the radius of your joined hands.

“I know,” he says. “That’s the point.”

You could joke. You could tell him to practice his cryptic producer lines somewhere else. You could find a sentence that sends you back up onto the river path where the air is thin and safe. You feel all the old exits like doors in a hallway you could sprint. None of them feel like air.

He tilts his head, a tiny, helpless smile breaking through like the sun under thick clouds. “You’re a major tease,” he says, but it’s not accusation, not cruel; it sounds almost fond, like he’s naming a mischievous cat that keeps knocking pens off the desk. “And I don’t mind—most days. I like when you’re here, in whatever way. But I—” He exhales. “I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t know what this is.”

For a moment, neither of you move. The world narrows to lamplight, the faint scent of tea, the warmth of his hand as it finds your wrist. His thumb grazes your pulse—a barely-there touch, but it unravels you anyway.

You breathe his name—not quite a word, not quite a warning—and the sound seems to undo something in both of you.

He exhales slowly, eyes dropping to your lips, then back up, like he’s asking without asking.

You could close the distance. You could make it easy.

But you just whisper, “Anton…” and let the silence hang there—heavy, suspended, the kind that hums right before something gives.

And when his forehead touches yours—barely, just enough to feel it—you don’t move. You let the moment breathe. You let the question stay unanswered.

The eyeliner is still open on the table, black and waiting, but neither of you look at it again.

You breathe heavily now, feeling his breath on yours as you wait on nothing.

“Tell me you don’t want this.” He whispers, his eyes desperately searching yours for a dare to deny once again.

You swallow your breath, your answer.

“Tell me. Use your words.” He pleads, brows furrowed in frustration though his roaming hand already reaches for your hip.

It presses gently on your hip, and only when he used his thumb to circle patterns on them did you break.

“I want this, Anton,” You confess, like a forbidden secret just unfolded—and his adam’s apple bobs from swallowing earnestly, “I want you.”

For a second, the world paused. Like an almost. Almost, the thread snaps. Almost, your emotions burst out of the jar you forced it into.

And then.

And then you bring your gaze up to his, and the clock ticks once more.

He pushes his lips on yours—hungry and starved and wanting more.

You grip his forearm to stabilize yourself, not expecting the impact and letting out a noise of surprise.

Somehow, that encouraged him more.

His other hand held the other side of your hip, and in an instant—as if you weigh nothing, he lifts you up and reverses your positions, holding your hips steady as he pushes you down on the couch.

He deepens the kiss, and you let him, hands latching onto his hair as years and years of pent up frustration releases.

Years of ignoring the obvious tension. Years of toying around thin ice.

You part after a while, short of breath and dazed.

“Do you like it?” you ask, and you’re not asking about lines.

He gives you that look. Midsummer, all warmth, all patience—except that earnest longing he hid underneath is obvious now. “Yeah,” he says, still catching his breath back. “I like it.”

You laugh—a little wrecked around the edges, but it feels good. You reach for the eyeliner again, not to flee this time but to ground yourself in the thing that brought you here. “One last dot,” you announce, “so the composition feels intentional.”

“Everything’s intentional,” he says, and you shake your head because he stole your line and made it better. He watches you place the dot, a tiny star where two arcs nearly meet. He watches like it’s also his story.

“Don’t move,” you murmur, and he doesn’t. You blow gently across the fresh ink and he shudders. The air returns to your lungs like it’s been waiting.

“Photo?” you ask.

“For me,” he says, possessive—“Not for anyone else.”—but it’s not a rule; it’s a wish.

You nod, and you’re gentle with the angle, with the light, with the possessiveness in both your chests that doesn’t demand an explanation tonight. The photo captures shadow and line and the hint of your fingers near the edge of the frame.

You send it to him. His phone hums on the table; he doesn’t check it. He looks at you.

Only you. Only ever you.

And perhaps, under the moonlight, the both of you were always supposed to happen, no matter how far you try to run.

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he deliberately attached his lips to your nipple, moving with caution as the warmth of his saliva spread onto your chest. his hand toyed with your free breast, groping it as he lost all his senses, too immersed with busying his mouth. 

using all the persistence you had in your body, you kept silent, letting your boyfriend use your unaware – to him, at least – body however he wanted. yet, when the tip of his tongue swirled along your nipple, you couldn’t help but arch your back into his touch, giving into the tease. 

“god, you respond so well to my touch, baby.” he muttered to himself, beginning to grind against your leg. you could feel him getting harder, imprint getting more obvious as he rubbed himself on you. 

you thought that you had hidden the fact that you were completely awake well, not a single peep slipping out. until he pulled away from your breast. the sensation of the cooling air hitting the saliva on your nipple elicited a soft yelp that was just loud enough for anton to hear. 

he froze hearing your voice, heart dropping to his stomach as he realised how your breathing was fluctuating, unlike when you were asleep. “fuck.” his eyes widened in fear. “y/n, i’m sorry. i promise this is the only time i’ve ever done this and it’ll be the last! and i–” 

but you didn’t care. you pulled him back into your chest without a second to spare. “baby, i don’t care.” you ran a hand through his hair, carding through the longer parts. 

“yo, chill.”

after the incident about a week ago; after letting yourself freak out about it first, you became pretty content with the fact that you smashed your best friend. despite your perfectly rational fear that things would become awkward after, your friendship remained relatively normal. emphasis on relatively. however, the fact that things didn’t become awkward between you two meant there was absolutely no deterrent against doing it again…. and again, and again.

your roommate wondered why the hell you had overstayed at anton’s by like a lot of days... your friends wondered why you were either late or absent to all the recent gatherings. it was because anton was insatiable. like he couldn’t get up off you.

nestled between your open legs in his bed, anton moved his hips over yours, “i can’t help it. when you touch me, i’m instantly hard. it’s like muscle memory.”

“ou, don’t do that.” you sighed out, trying to ignore the heat pooling between your thighs, “i-i need to get— i have to meet my friends.”

he whined in response grinding down into you, “i know, i know. i won’t keep you long…”

“toni…” you knew and he that he was full of shit. but the featherlight feel of his lips brushing your neck pushed all the rational thoughts out of your head. “okay, okay, fine.”

with your permission, anton’s mouth was immediately on yours, kissing you all sloppy and holding your neck to keep you in place. slowly, he continued humping into you and you wrapped your legs around his waist, crossing them at the ankles.

“fuck, you’re so— you feel warm. i could cum like this.” anton whimpered.

you held onto his shoulder, “wait, i want you inside me…”

didn’t you have somewhere to be..?

already sitting up to strip his clothes, anton laughed, “don’t you have somewhere to be, though?”

you rolled your eyes as you started pulling down your leggings. “just— let’s just not ask questions right now.”

through hooded eyes, you watched as anton pushed his boxer briefs down, letting his dick spring up against his lower ab. you were expecting him to start teasing you. anything but the way he immediately leant down to press an open-mouthed kiss to your pussy.

“i could never get tired of doing this…”

you slid your fingers into his soft hair, tugging gently and sighing heavily. “anton, please.”

“hm? give me a second.” the sound of anton humming vibrated through his lips around your clit, making your eyes roll back. “i’m tryna get you wet for me.”

“i already am—” you whined desperately but anton continued with no remorse.

he flattened his tongue against your pussy, licking a long stripe upwards and your hips bucked into his mouth. “this pretty pussy tastes so good…” moaning against you, he pushed his tongue inside of you and with each twitch of your hips, your clit bumped against his nose. you were so overwhelmed with pleasure that you felt tears start to well up in your eyes. it took everything in him to pull away, but he was feeling like if he didn’t fuck you soon? he could die.

anton tapped his dick against your now puffy pussy lips a couple times before sliding in with comfortable ease. you immediately had to dig your nails into him. he should not have gotten you that close.

anton pressed a kiss just below your earlobe, “i’m gonna put it in, okay, baby?”

you nodded at him and he rubbed his tip against you sensitive clit before finally bottoming out inside of you with a quiet moan, immediately starting to roll his hips into yours with rhythmic ease.

“fuck, you’re wet… does it feel good?”

wrapping your legs around his waist, you nodded.

“yeah? it feels good? let me rub that clit, baby.” he sat upright on his knees, still fucking into you and started rubbing small circles on your bundle of nerves, making you cry out.

“anton—” you cut yourself off with a low moan.

“you feel so fucking good around me.” anton whined above you, “s-so good to me… hah.”

the sound of his hips smacking into the backs of your thighs grew louder as his thrusts be came more shallow and irregular. he was making it very clear that he was getting close.

“are you gonna cum for me, toni?” you stroked his hair and his face contorted in pure pleasure. he couldn’t answer you.

“please?” you pecked his lips and he couldn’t stop his eyes from rolling back. the tip of his dick pushing against that spongy spot inside you with each thrust had him weak. you wanted nothing more in this moment than for him to cum inside you, because you knew the noises he would make could finish you off.

anton was resilient; determined to keep going for you. he leant forwards again, shifting his weight onto his hands and expertly grinding his hips into yours. this however gave you the perfect angle to start kissing at his shoulders, the crook of his neck, his jaw, his face. he knew it was coming. or was hoping at least. anton opened his mouth slightly and again, your lips met his in a fervent kiss.

he attempted to muffle his moans against your lips but it was no use for him. he was already there. anton pulled his lips away from yours to release a string of high pitched moans and curses as his hips stuttered against you. the friction of his pelvis against your clit triggering your own orgasm.

“anton—”

“mmph.. f-fuck, i’m cumming. i’m cumming for you.” anton’s brows were furrowed in pure pleasure as he fucked his warm load into you. “fuck, baby, take my cum… just like that.”

anton’s body fell limp on top of yours. you gently dragged your nails up and down his back, laughing at the way he twitched as a result.

“toni… you sound so pretty.”

anton breathed out a shy laugh. “stop. i’m embarrassed.” he was breathless.

you let out a content sigh, allowing your eyes to dart around to the clock on your wall. yeah, no way you were making it to whatever plans you had. you were gonna have to start making up some excuse real fast because you knew this wasn’t going to be the last time this happened. nor did you want it to be.

even when you two were actively fucking anton had to have some part of you in his mouth or on his tongue. 

specifically, he always found an excuse to play with your tits. claiming that it was to please you.

although it was abundantly clear to the both of you who truly enjoyed it more.  

it’s the tail end of your period and although anton insisted…you opt against period sex. 

so now you lay sprawled out in bed, dry humping your boyfriend like a crazed freak. 

anton’s lengthy body is slotted between your legs; the weight of his hardened cock against your thigh is no help in soothing the agonizing ache of your cunt. each drag against his thigh sending a wave of pleasure from the pit of your stomach up through your chest.

your tits are beyond swollen, sensitive to the touch.

and anton’s busy making a whiny mess of you. 

your shirt is completely deformed from the way he continuously yanked at it to tongue at your nipples. begging, “please.” in his featherlight voice just swearing he just wanted to make you feel good, despite the way he’s rock hard and rutting against the underside of your thigh.

his hand, gentle in contrast with his mouth, cradles your unoccupied mound. 

“toni,” you sigh, jaw borderline unhinged with the way your mouth is wide open—whimpers seeming to be the only way you can indicate to him that he’s making you feel good. 

“shit—baby, you look so pretty like this,” he groans, “wish i had a photo of your tits.” his words are muffled by your cleavage.

you can tell he didn’t intend for you to hear the second part, but he commits.

“proof that you let me do whatever i want when i get you like this.” 

you whine, legs twitching near his hips that force you wide open.

“then take one.” 

his eyes momentarily got wide at the suddenness of those three words.

“yeah? you wanna pose for me?” he urges, eyeing the way you’re covered in the sheen of his spit, scattered hues of violet already in bloom across your entire chest. 

you don’t have to oblige again before he’s already got his film camera in the hand that isn’t squeezing each of your tits, grip embedded like he’s got a hold on a piece of memory foam. 

he hisses at the way your plush flesh bulges from each space between his slender fingers.

you’re embarrassingly responsive as you let anton have his way with you, the noises that fall rushed from between your lips meet his ears, unwavering and combined with the shuttering of his camera. your cheeks flushed, eyes glossed over as they take in the mess of your boyfriend while he’s straddled above you. 

his hair is tousled from the way you ran your fingers through it moments ago, a thin layer of sweat altering the way his shirt clings to his sculpted upper body.

your cunt clenches around nothing.

“gonna develop every. single. photo.” anton mumbles from behind the camera.

your doe eyes peer up at him through the lense. pleading, although you’re not sure what for.

"say cheese." he snorts sarcastically.

*click*

the shutter sounds and a brief flash blinds you.

“for all the nights that i have to be away from you,” anton continues, throwing the camera to the side of your body not caring how it lands on the mattress with a faint thud. 

then his hips are flush against yours, the press of his cock against your clit that’s completely covered makes your thighs shake.

“maybe i’ll scatter the photos across the bed, fuck my hand, wishing it was you touching me instead—cum all over the prints, paint your tits...this pretty face.” he rolls his hips forwards, bringing a hand up to tilt your head towards him. his sentence is punctuated with the way your lips part in a moan.

the way the blood leaking from your insides mixes with your arousal is embarrasingly erotic. each time anton grinds between your hips a squelch can be heard.

you feel disgusting, but the feeling fades immediately when you consider how anton was ready to stick his dick in you earlier despite the crimson beneath your soiled panties. that was a dead give away that you being on your period didn't actually matter to him much.

you lose it, biting down on your tongue to contain yourself.

“you’d like that, hmm?” your boyfriend taunts, his hips not stopping but instead pressing harder. he’s watching your face with intent to watch your resolve continue to slip.

“pretending you don’t, always coy with me so i get embarrassed for wanting this.” he tugs on one of your nipples particularly rough, then he lands an open handed strike in the same spot, watching the way it bounces back right in front of his face.

you yelp, head lulling back between your shoulder blades. both your eyes grow extremely heavy before they fall shut.

“my dirty girl.”

you’re gushing at the lewdness of the nickname, your ankles that are now locked behind him cause the heels of your feet to dig into his lower back.

then his lips are on you again, soothing the increased throbbing of your poor buds.

anton takes both your breasts in his hands, pressing them together until your nipples almost create an arrow pointing directly towards his greedy mouth.

parting his lips he holds out his tongue, flattening it and shaking his head side to side against your nipples that grow even harder than before at the sensation.

the way you choke on a whimper makes his stomach flip, his brows furrow at the feeling of his cock sloppily leaking into his boxers.

“anton—oh my god!” you practically scream, imagining how your throat will ache in the hours to follow.

the thought that you weren’t the one that was supposed to enjoy any of this more than anton is furthest from your mind.

all you can do is reel at the feeling, pussy beginning to spasm. 

it doesn’t take much longer before you start to cum in your shorts, entire body trembling while you hold onto anton like he’d disappear into thin air.

you can feel the heat of his own release against your thigh. his tip damp through the rough barrier of his pants. he’s persistent in smearing his cum against your legs that are still spread impossibly wide. both your hips continue in motion until his cock begins to soften.

anton releases your nipple from his mouth with a pop, bottom lip glistening as it’s connected to you by a singular string of his salvia.

you’re spent, painfully overstimulated now. you attempt to physically recoil against his touch. hissing when he places one last kiss to each of your tits before attempting to fix the disarray of your garments.

when both your bra and shirt are somewhat back in place you’re huffing, struggling to catch your breath. but your mind begins to venture.

your heart hammers in your chest at the thought of how many photos he’d taken, and you become dizzy with the uncertainty of his true intended use.

anton would never show the photos to anybody other than you.

he’d actually rather die than let someone else see the way you looked underneath him: fucked out, clothes messily pulled aside, covered in the evidence of just how much you belonged to him. the thought never crossed his mind. but you knew that.

that’s not why your heart was near lurching out of your chest.

you could only pray that he’d use the pictures of you to get him through a lonely night or two…or three.

but the mental image of him taking a massive hand to yank at his angrily leaky cock while he panted and whimpered as his stomach flexed, sweat soaking every inch of him—it was enough to send one final gush of wetness from of your cunt.

because he’d be doing it while looking at a plethora of photos that would reveal your tits that you let him bruise and abuse.