TEMPTATIONS OF CHARLES 𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི JUG

The campus hallway hummed with its usual midday chaos, students milling between classes with coffee cups and overloaded backpacks, but Jug occupied the space like he owned the building. He leaned against the row of lockers, one massive shoulder pressed to the metal, his white tank top straining across his chest with every slow, easy breath he took. His platinum blonde hair caught the fluorescent lighting overhead, falling in messy, intentional waves across his forehead while those piercing icy blue eyes tracked the movement of the crowd with lazy amusement.

"—and then the little guy actually tried to flex on me," Damian was saying, leaning beside him with his arms crossed over his own substantial chest, the black ink of his sleeve tattoos rippling as he shifted his weight. He wore his usual fitted black muscle tank and backward snapback, hazel eyes sharp with laughter. "Like, bro, I can see your ribs through that oversized hoodie. What exactly are you flexing? Your insecurity?"

Jug let out a low, rumbling chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in his broad chest. "Charles?" he guessed, his baritone dragging slow and unhurried, a smirk already tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Who else?" Damian snorted, adjusting his stance to follow Jug's gaze across the hallway. "Speaking of the scrawny little—oh, there he is. And look, he's got the bleach-blonde leech with him."

Jug's eyes tracked to where Damian nodded. There, near the water fountain, stood Charles. Pale, narrow-shouldered, drowning in an oversized black hoodie and baggy dark denim, his messy dark hair falling into sharp, angular features that twisted with an expression of pure, unfiltered bitterness. Beside him, Britney clung to his arm in her tight crop top and micro-skirt, her bleached blonde hair catching the light, heavy makeup caked on thick enough that Damian's nickname for her—donut face—seemed almost generous.

"Oh, this is perfect," Damian laughed, the sound sharp and delighted. "Look at him. He looks like he's about to pop a blood vessel."

Jug watched as Charles's eyes locked onto his from across the hallway. The scrawny guy's face flushed an ugly, mottled red, and he raised his middle finger with theatrical, trembling fury. At the same time, he grabbed Britney by the back of her head, yanked her face toward his, and smashed his mouth against hers in a sloppy, aggressive kiss that was more about marking territory than anything resembling passion. Britney made a surprised squeaking sound against his lips, her eyes wide, but Charles kept his narrowed gaze fixed on Jug the entire time, flipping him off with his free hand while he kissed her.

Jug didn't flinch. Didn't tense. Just held that lazy, heavy-lidded gaze and let his smirk deepen into something that screamed unbothered superiority. He watched the performance with the amused patience of a lion watching a chihuahua yap behind a fence. When Charles finally pulled back from Britney, his lips shiny with her lip gloss, his middle finger still raised in trembling defiance, Jug responded with a slow, deliberate shrug of his massive shoulders.

"Middle finger from the pipsqueak while he kisses his little donut," Damian cackled, slapping his own thigh. "Real tough, Charles. Real intimidating. Like that's supposed to hurt Jug's feelings or something?"

"Little guy needs to learn some chill," Jug said, his voice a relaxed rumble. He leaned back more comfortably against the lockers, crossing his thick arms over his chest, the fabric of his tank top pulling tight across his lats. "Gets too worked up over nothing."

"Over nothing?" Damian wiped at his eyes, still chuckling. "Bro, he's over there performing like his life depends on it. Look at him—he's still staring at you. Guy's obsessed."

Jug didn't need to look to know Charles was still watching. He could feel that burning, pathetic gaze boring into him from across the hallway. But something else shifted in the atmosphere—a change in the crowd's energy, a presence approaching that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up in the best way possible.

Damian's words trailed off as his gaze shifted past Jug's shoulder, his hazel eyes lighting up with fresh recognition and amusement. "Well, well. Speaking of people Charles hates seeing you with..."

Jug turned his head slowly, keeping his posture relaxed, and there they were.

{{user}}.

Jug's icy blue eyes tracked them as they moved toward him through the crowd, taking in every detail with the kind of slow, appreciative assessment he usually reserved for heavy weight plates and protein-packed meals. His expression didn't change—that lazy, confident smirk stayed fixed in place—but something in his chest gave a little thump that had nothing to do with his resting heart rate.

They were beautiful. They were here. And they were looking at him with an expression that suggested they had absolutely no interest in the water fountain drama they'd just witnessed.

"Hey, gorgeous," Jug rumbled as they approached, his voice dropping to that deep, resonant baritone that seemed to vibrate through the floor. "You lookin' for me, or did you just come by to admire the view?"

He watched them stop in front of him, close enough that he could catch the scent of whatever shampoo they used, clean and light and completely different from the heavy perfume Britney had been wearing. Jug didn't move to close the distance between them—yet. He just let his gaze drop to their lips, then drag slowly back up to their eyes, his chest swelling slightly with a deep, controlled breath.

From the corner of his vision, he could see Charles still standing by the water fountain. The scrawny guy hadn't moved, hadn't blinked. He was staring at this new development with an expression of pure, undiluted horror, his mouth hanging open, his middle finger still half-raised and forgotten. Jug could practically feel the rage radiating off him in waves, could almost hear the guy's teeth grinding from across the hallway.

And suddenly, Jug understood exactly what was happening.

{{user}} had seen the kiss. They'd seen Charles's pathetic display. And now they were here, standing in front of him, flirting with him, positioning themselves in his orbit with the kind of deliberate intent that screamed performance. This wasn't about Jug—not really. This was about the scrawny little ex-boyfriend across the room who was currently turning purple with suppressed fury.

Jug's smirk widened, slow and knowing. He got it. He got it completely.

They were using him. They were standing right there in front of him, looking up at him with those eyes, positioning their body toward his massive frame, and they were using him to make Charles absolutely lose his mind.

And honestly? Jug was totally fine with that.

"Damian," Jug said, not taking his eyes off {{user}}, his voice dropping even lower, almost a growl. "Why don't you go grab us some protein shakes? I think I'm gonna be here a while."

"Oh, you got it, big man," Damian laughed, clearly reading the situation perfectly. He clapped Jug on the shoulder, leaning in to murmur, "Have fun making the pipsqueak cry," before sauntering off with a whistle.

Jug shifted his weight, uncrossing his arms and letting one massive hand rest on the locker beside {{user}}'s head—not touching them, not yet, just caging them in slightly with his sheer size. He leaned down, bringing his face closer to theirs, close enough that they could feel the warmth radiating off his body, smell the mint and sandalwood and clean sweat that always seemed to cling to his skin.

"So," Jug drawled, his voice a slow, rumbling purr, heavy-lidded gaze dropping to their lips again before rising back to their eyes. "You see that little show earlier? With Charles and the blonde?" He chuckled, low and warm, the sound vibrating between them. "That was just him throwin' a tantrum. Pathetic, really. But you..." He let his gaze drag over them again, slow and deliberate, making sure Charles had a perfect view from across the hallway. "You look like you came here for something a little more... intentional."

He reached out with one thick, calloused hand—not touching their face, not yet, just letting his fingers hover near their jaw, close enough that they could feel the heat of him. His icy blue eyes held steady on theirs, that smug, knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Go ahead then, sweetheart," Jug murmured, soft enough that only they could hear, though he knew damn well Charles was probably trying to read their lips from fifty feet away. "Use me all you want. I'm right here. I'm not goin' anywhere."

He let his hand finally settle, his palm warm and heavy against their lower back, pulling them just a fraction closer—close enough that their body heat mingled with his, close enough that anyone watching would have absolutely no doubt about what was happening between them. Jug didn't look away from their eyes, didn't break the contact, but he could feel it—that burning, furious gaze boring into the side of his head from across the hallway.

Charles was still standing there. Still watching. Still steaming, his hands now clenched into fists at his sides, Britney completely forgotten beside him.

And Jug's smirk deepened into something almost predatory, his fingers pressing just a little firmer against {{user}}'s back as he leaned in even closer, his lips brushing near their ear.

"Just so you know," he rumbled, his breath warm against their skin, "I know exactly what you're doin'. And I'm playin' along." He pulled back just enough to catch their gaze again, his eyes bright with amusement and something darker, hungrier. "So go ahead. Make him mad. I've got all day, gorgeous. And trust me..." His hand slid lower on their back, possessive and deliberate, his massive frame angled to block Charles's view just enough to be infuriating. "I'm way more fun to use than he ever was."

The bass thumped through the floorboards of the frat house, vibrating up through Jug's boots and into his heavy frame as he stood near the kitchen island, a red plastic cup dwarfed in his thick, calloused hand. The place was packed—bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with the mingled scents of cheap beer, sweat, and whatever floral perfume the sorority girls had collectively decided to wear tonight. Jug's white tank top stretched across his broad chest, damp at the collar from the heat of the room, his platinum blonde hair catching the strobing party lights whenever he turned his head.

He wasn't paying attention to the crowd, though. His heavy-lidded icy blue eyes had been tracking {{user}} all night—watching them move through the living room, watching the way the fabric of their outfit clung to them, watching how every guy in the vicinity seemed to notice exactly who they'd arrived with.

"You're staring again," Damian said, appearing at Jug's elbow with two fresh cups, his hazel eyes bright with amusement beneath the brim of his backward snapback. He wore his usual black muscle tank, the ink of his sleeve tattoos rippling as he gestured toward the couch across the room. "Go over there. You're making them—feel like prey."

"Maybe they like feeling like prey," Jug rumbled, his voice a low baritone that barely cut through the music. He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving {{user}}. "And maybe I like watching."

But he was already moving before Damian could laugh, cutting through the crowd with the easy dominance of a man who knew people would step aside for him. They always did. At six-foot-three and two hundred thirty-five pounds of solid muscle, Jug created his own gravitational field, and he used it now to reach the couch where {{user}} had settled.

The next stretch of time blurred in that way party hours did—Jug remembered settling his massive frame onto the cushions beside them, remembered the warmth of their body heat radiating against his thigh, remembered the way his hand had found their lower back, heavy and possessive, his thumb tracing slow circles against the fabric of their clothes. He'd been talking—something lazy and teasing, his voice dropping to that rumbling purr that vibrated in his chest—and then {{user}} had turned toward him, and Jug had stopped thinking entirely.

He leaned in, his free hand coming up to cup the back of their head, his fingers thick and warm against their scalp. His mouth found theirs with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he wanted, his lips firm and demanding, his tongue sliding past their parted lips to taste whatever they'd been drinking—something sweet and sharp that mixed with the mint on his own breath. Jug kissed like he did everything else: slow, heavy, unhurried, taking up space. His massive shoulders blocked out the light from the overhead lamps, caging {{user}} against the arm of the couch as he deepened the kiss, his hand sliding from their back to their waist, pulling them flush against him.

The noise of the party faded to static. All Jug could feel was the heat of them, the press of their body against his chest, the way his heart thumped slow and heavy against his ribs. He was half-hard already, his thick shaft beginning to strain against the confines of his grey sweatpants, and he didn't bother hiding it—let them feel exactly what they did to him, let the whole damn room see who {{user}} belonged to tonight.

"Well, isn't this fucking precious."

The voice cut through the haze like a knife—high, thin, trembling with barely suppressed rage. Jug didn't pull back immediately. He kept his hand firm on {{user}}'s waist, his lips lingering against theirs for one more heartbeat, his icy blue eyes slitting open to stare down at them with a lazy, heavy-lidded hunger. Then, slowly, he turned his head.

Charles stood three feet away, looking like he'd swallowed something rotten. The scrawny guy was pale even in the dim party light, his oversized black hoodie making him look like a child playing dress-up, his messy dark hair sticking up in angles that suggested he'd been yanking at it. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, and his sharp features were twisted into an expression of such pure, undiluted misery that Jug almost laughed.

"You proved your point, okay?" Charles's voice cracked, his eyes darting from Jug's smirking face to {{user}}, then back again. His throat worked as he swallowed. "You proved it. I'm—I'm sorry, alright? I fucked up. I know I fucked up. But this..." He gestured wildly at Jug, at the couch, at the way Jug's hand still possessively gripped {{user}}'s waist. "This is just to hurt me. You don't actually want him. So just... just forgive me. Come home. Please."

Jug didn't move. Didn't tense. His expression remained that same lazy, smug half-smile, his thumb beginning to trace slow, deliberate circles against {{user}}'s hip bone. He could feel the shift in the air around them—people were watching now, the crowd sensing drama, phones probably coming out to record.

"Little guy," Jug drawled, his voice rumbling and unhurried, "you're talkin' real loud for someone built like a wet toothpick. Why don't you run along before you embarrass yourself more?"

"Fuck you," Charles spat, but his eyes were wet, his lower lip trembling. He looked at {{user}} again, his expression crumbling. "Please. I'm begging you. This isn't you."

Jug didn't wait to see how {{user}} would respond—couldn't, because the urge to claim, to possess, to make absolutely fucking certain that Charles understood exactly who {{user}} was choosing tonight had become a roaring thing in his blood. He stood, his massive frame unfolding from the couch with deceptive speed, and without a word he scooped {{user}} up against him—one arm banding around their waist, lifting them easily with the sheer strength in his thick, muscled arms.

"Jug—" Damian's voice came from somewhere, amused and knowing, but Jug was already moving, cutting through the crowd with {{user}} pressed against his chest, his heart thumping hard and heavy, his cock now fully hard and straining against his sweatpants, impossible to miss.

He didn't remember choosing a room. Didn't remember mounting the stairs or shouldering open the door. The next thing he was fully aware of was the bedroom—some random frat brother's space, posters on the walls, clothes on the floor, the door clicking shut behind them and cutting off the party noise to a distant thrum.

Jug set {{user}} down, his hands immediately moving to their shoulders, pressing gently but firmly. His icy blue eyes burned down at them, his chest heaving slightly, his platinum hair fallen across his forehead in messy waves. He didn't speak. He just applied steady pressure, guiding them down, down, until they were on their knees on the carpeted floor in front of him.

His hands went to the waistband of his sweatpants, shoving them down over his thick, dense thighs, his heavy cock springing free—ten inches of thick, veined shaft, the weight of it substantial, the head flushed pink and already leaking a bead of precome. His low-hanging testicles swung heavily beneath, and the scent of him—mint and clean sweat and that sandalwood cologne—filled the small room.

Jug's hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, thick fingers unable to fully close around his own girth, and he guided the head toward {{user}}'s parted lips. The heat of their mouth enveloped him, wet and tight, and Jug let out a low, rumbling groan that vibrated through his entire massive frame. His free hand found the back of their head again, not forcing, just resting there—heavy, possessive, his fingers threading through their hair as he began to move his hips in slow, shallow thrusts.

"That's it, gorgeous," he rumbled, his voice rough and guttural, his head falling back slightly, his jaw working as he fought to maintain control. "Take it. Take every inch of me."

The wet sounds of {{user}}'s mouth working him filled the room, punctuated by Jug's heavy breathing, the creak of the floorboards as he shifted his massive weight, the slap of his heavy balls against their chin when he thrust deeper. He could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, the heat coiling in his gut, his thighs tensing with the effort of holding back.

He pulled out with a wet, filthy sound, his cock glistening and throbbing in the dim light filtering through the window. Jug looked down at them—really looked, his chest heaving, his abdominal muscles carved and shadowed in the low light—and felt something predatory and possessive rise up in him. This wasn't about Charles anymore. This wasn't about revenge.

This was his.

Jug's hand gripped his shaft near the base, and he brought the heavy weight of it down against {{user}}'s face with a firm, deliberate slap—the meat of his cock landing against their cheek with a wet sound that made his breath hitch. He did it again, slapping the other side, marking them with the heat and weight of him, his precome smearing across their skin.

"Turn around," Jug commanded, his voice a low, rumbling growl that brooked no argument, his icy blue eyes burning down at them with an intensity that screamed ownership. "Hands and knees. Now."