(This is my second fic :P don't judge!)
Warnings: Smut 18+, Biting, Marking, P in V, Jackson Bottom, Dom Reader,
Characters: Jackson Jekyll x FemReader
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
She felt the tremor run through him before he made a sound—a fine shaking under her thighs, transmitted through the plaid wool and the thin cotton beneath. Jackson's hands hovered somewhere near her knees, not quite touching, like he'd forgotten they were attached to his body. His glasses had slipped down his nose. She could see her own reflection in them, a dark shape against the warm lamplight of his dorm room.
The skin just above his bow tie tasted like salt and cheap detergent and something underneath that was just him—clean and nervous and real. She'd left a ring of teeth marks there, already reddening. He swallowed under her mouth, his throat working, and she felt the vibration of it against her lips.
She bit down on his collarbone, harder this time, and his voice cut off into something that wasn't quite a word. His hips bucked up involuntarily, and she pressed her weight down, grinding her fishnet-clad thigh against the rough denim of his jeans. The friction sent heat up through her, and she heard the small, broken sound he made—caught somewhere between a moan and a plea.
She pulled back, letting her teeth drag across the reddened skin before releasing him. His collarbone was already marked, a dark crescent she could see herself in, and she traced her tongue over it, tasting the salt of the broken skin. He shuddered beneath her, his hands finally finding her waist, gripping the fabric of her gothic skirt with shaking fingers.
"That's it," she murmured against his skin. "Hold onto me."
He did. His fingers curled into the black fabric, pulling her closer, and she felt the desperate edge in his grip. She ran her nails down the yellow of his collared shirt, leaving parallel pink lines from his sternum to his belt. He gasped, his back arching, and she watched his face twist with the shock of it—the pleasure and the sting tangled together.
His eyes found hers, wide and dazed behind his glasses. The hazel was dark, the pupil blown wide. She could see herself in them again, but this time she wasn't a reflection—she was the only thing in the room he was seeing.
She leaned down and bit the curve of his neck, just below his jaw, where his pulse jumped against her teeth. He cried out, a strangled sound that cut off when his own hand clamped over his mouth. She grabbed his wrist and pinned it to the mattress beside his head, her mouth still pressed to his throat.
"Don't hide them," she said, her voice low against his skin. "I want to hear every single one."
His hand relaxed under hers, and she laced their fingers together, pressing his palm flat to the cheap sheets. His breath was coming in ragged, uneven gasps, and she watched his chest rise and fall under the plaid fabric, watched the pink lines she'd left peeking through the gaps in the pattern.
She sat up, straddling him, and looked down at her work. The mark above his bow tie. The crescent on his collarbone. The bruise blooming on his neck. He was still fully dressed—sweater vest, collared shirt, bow tie, jeans, sneakers—and he was already ruined. She liked that.
Her black hair fell forward as she reached for the knot of his bow tie, her fingers brushing against his throat. He held his breath. She worked the fabric loose, pulling the blue silk away from his collar and letting it fall onto the pillow beside his head. His glasses were next—she slid them off his face carefully, folding them and setting them on his nightstand within reach.
"You don't need these," she said. "You're only looking at me."
He blinked up at her, his eyes even more vulnerable without the frames, and she felt the ache in her chest that only he could make her feel. She reached for the hem of his sweater vest, pulling it up—he lifted his shoulders, letting her peel it over his head, and it joined his bow tie on the growing pile. The yellow collared shirt went next, the buttons slipping through her fingers one by one until she could spread the fabric open and see all that pale, trembling skin.
He was all sharp angles and awkward limbs, ribs visible when he breathed, the silver of his eyebrow piercing catching the light. She ran her hand down his chest, feeling the flutter of his heartbeat under her palm, and he shivered.
"You're beautiful like this," she said, and it wasn't a line—it was the truest thing she'd said all week.
A flush crept up his neck, spreading across his cheeks. "I—I'm not—"
She leaned down and bit his chest, just to the left of his sternum, and his protest dissolved into a choked sound. She held the bite for a moment, feeling his skin give under her teeth, then released it and soothed the red mark with her tongue. His hand found her hair, fingers tangling in the black strands, and she felt the tension in his grip—like he was drowning and she was the only thing keeping him above water.
She worked her way down his chest, leaving a trail of marks: a bite on his ribcage that made him gasp, a kiss on his stomach that made him shiver, a mark on his hip that made him buck against her. Each one was a claim, a piece of herself she was leaving behind, and he took them all with trembling submission, his hands clutching at her shoulders, her hair, the sheets, anything within reach.
When she reached the waistband of his jeans, she paused, looking up at him through her lashes. He was watching her, his chest heaving, his lips parted, the marks she'd left across his torso already darkening. His hand found hers, and he squeezed it—not hard, just enough. A question. A permission she hadn't needed but wanted anyway.
She unfastened his jeans and pulled them down his narrow hips, his sneakers catching for a moment before she worked them off entirely. His boxers were plain, gray, and tented with an erection he was too nervous to hide. She ran her hand over the cotton, feeling the heat of him through the fabric, and he whimpered—a small, desperate sound that went straight through her.
"Please," he said, his voice cracking.
She didn't make him ask twice. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down, freeing his cock against his stomach—already hard, already leaking, the tip flushed and wet. She wrapped her hand around him, and he cried out, his hips jerking, his hand flying to his mouth again.
His hand dropped to the sheets, fisting the fabric, and she stroked him slowly, watching his face contort—his eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck straining. He was beautiful like this, undone and unravelling, and she wanted to mark every inch of him.
She leaned down and took him in her mouth.
He sobbed—a raw, broken sound that cut through the humid air of his dorm room. His hand found her hair again, not pulling, just holding, like he needed something to anchor himself to the world. She took him deep, feeling the weight of him on her tongue, the salt of his skin, the way he throbbed against the roof of her mouth. She worked him with her lips and her tongue, finding the rhythm that made his breath catch, that made his thighs tremble, that made his fingers tighten in her hair.
She pulled off, just long enough to say, "Not yet."
He made a sound of pure frustration, his head falling back against the pillow, and she smiled against his skin as she worked her way back up his body, leaving fresh marks along the way—his hip, his stomach, his ribs, the swell of his chest. When she reached his mouth, she kissed him, and he tasted himself on her lips, the intimacy of it making him groan.
"You're still dressed," he managed, his voice hoarse.
"I know." She reached for the hem of her top, pulling it over her head and tossing it aside. The black lace of her bra sat against her pale skin, and his eyes dropped to her chest, his breath catching. She unclasped it slowly, letting him watch, letting the anticipation build, and when she finally shrugged it off, his hands found her immediately—tentative at first, his palms pressing flat against her ribs, then sliding up to cup her breasts.
"Like this," she said, guiding his thumbs to her nipples. "Like you mean it."
He did. He rolled them between his fingers, watching her face, and she let her eyes flutter shut, let him see the effect he was having. She guided one of his hands down her body, past her stomach, past the waistband of her skirt, and pressed it against the heat between her legs. He gasped when he felt how wet she was, the fabric of her panties soaked through.
"This is what you do to me," she said, her voice low. "This is what you've been doing to me all semester, Jackson."
His fingers pressed harder, searching, and she arched into his hand, a moan escaping her. He found the rhythm before she guided him—circles, pressure, the right amount of everything—and she rode his hand, her forehead pressed to his, her breath mixing with his. When she came, it was sudden and sharp, her body clenching around nothing, a cry tearing from her throat. He watched her with wide eyes, his hand still pressed against her, feeling the aftershocks ripple through her.
She caught her breath, then reached down, pushing her skirt and panties aside, and guided him to her entrance.
His eyes went wide. "Wait—"
"I—" He swallowed, his hands shaking against her hips. "I've never—"
She stilled. The room went quiet except for the hum of the fan and the distant sound of music from another dorm. She looked down at him—his flushed skin, his swollen lips, the marks she'd left across his body like a map of her desire. He was trembling, not from fear but from the weight of the moment, from the trust he was placing in her hands.
"I know," she said softly. "That's why I'm here."
She lowered herself onto him, slow, inch by inch, feeling him stretch her open. His mouth fell open, a broken sound escaping him as she sank down, taking him fully inside her. She paused when he was buried to the hilt, letting them both adjust, her thighs trembling against his hips.
He did. His eyes were glassy, red-rimmed, full of something that looked too much like awe. She held his gaze as she began to move—slow, deep rolls of her hips that made him gasp with every thrust. His hands found her waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, and she welcomed the marks he was leaving on her.
She starts speeding up but soon they both become close so their movements start getting sloppy.
"You feel—" His voice broke. "God, Y/N, you feel—"
She leaned down and bit his shoulder, hard, and he came with a cry that she felt through every part of her, his hips bucking up as he pulsed inside her. She held the bite until he stopped trembling, until his body went limp beneath her.
When she pulled back, the mark on his shoulder was dark, perfect, the shape of her teeth clear against his skin. She traced it with her fingertip, and he flinched slightly, oversensitive.
"There," she said. "Now everyone will know."
He laughed—a breathless, disbelieving sound—and pulled her down against his chest, wrapping his arms around her. She let him, resting her cheek over his heartbeat, feeling it slow beneath her ear.
His hand found her hair, stroking the black strands, and she felt him press a kiss to the top of her head.
"I don't think I can move," he said.
"Good." She tilted her head up, her teeth grazing the mark she'd left on his collarbone. "You ready for round two?" Her voice was low, teasing, but her thighs trembled.
He nodded, his glasses folded on the nightstand, his eyes dark and focused on her face. "Yes."
"Y/N." He swallowed. "Please."
She sank onto him again in one smooth motion, and they both gasped. He was already sensitive, already raw, and she felt every shudder pass through him as she began to move—faster this time, deeper, the angle different. She rode him hard, her nails digging into his chest, leaving fresh red lines over the old ones. His hands found her hips, gripping, guiding, and she let him take control for a moment, let him set a rhythm that made his breath catch.
"You feel—" He couldn't finish. His head fell back, his throat exposed, and she leaned down to bite the hollow of it, just below his Adam's apple.
She felt the pressure building in her own body, the slow coil tightening with each thrust. She focused on the feeling of him inside her, the way he filled her completely, the way his hands trembled on her waist. She wanted to feel him come again, wanted to feel him lose control a second time, and she pushed harder, faster, chasing it.
"Not yet." She slowed, let the wave recede, let him hover on the edge. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving with the effort of holding still. "You wait for me."
She reached down between her legs, her fingers finding her clit, and she circled herself as she kept moving, slow and deep. She watched his face—the way his jaw tightened, the way his lips parted, the way his eyes lost focus. She was close, so close, and she clenched around him, a low moan building in her throat.
"Now," she breathed. "Now, Jackson."
She came with a cry that she buried in the curve of his neck, her teeth sinking into his shoulder as her body pulsed around him. The sensation pushed him over, and he followed with a broken sob, his hips bucking, his hands clutching her as he emptied into her, hot and trembling. She held him through it, her mouth still pressed to his skin.
When the last shudder passed, she collapsed onto his chest, her weight pressing him into the mattress. His arms came up around her, weak and shaking, his fingers threading through her hair.
Neither of them spoke for a long moment. The fan hummed. Music still played from somewhere down the hall.
He kissed the top of her head, soft and clumsy. "I think I actually can't move now."
She laughed, a quiet huff of breath against his collarbone then she lifted herself off him slowly, wincing as she felt the slickness between her thighs—his cum and hers mixed, leaking down her leg. She grabbed a discarded shirt from the floor—his, yellow, his yellow, button up shirt he'd been wearing—and wiped herself clean, then reached down and cleaned him too, gentle strokes that made him flinch and then relax.
He watched her with glassy eyes, his guard completely down. She tossed the shirt aside and lay down beside him, fitting herself into the curve of his body, her head on his shoulder, her hand splayed over his heart.
"I didn't know it could be like that," he said, his voice hoarse and low.
She felt his heartbeat under her palm, still fast. "Like what?"
"Like... I didn't know I could feel that much." He turned his head, pressing his lips to her hair. "Thank you."
She smiled against his skin. "You don't have to thank me."
"I know. But I want to." His arm tightened around her, pulling her closer. "You're the most beautiful thing that's ever happened to me."
She didn't have an answer for that. She pressed a kiss to his chest, right over the hollow of his collarbone, and felt him shiver.
The marks she'd left on him were already darkening, constellations of teeth and nails across his pale skin. Tomorrow he'd have to cover them for class, or else answer questions he didn't know how to answer. But that was tomorrow.
For now, the room was warm, the fan hummed, and his hand traced lazy patterns on her hip beneath the sheets.
