#⋆˙⟡♡ htbahb collab

[blueparadis]

❝ BUBBLEGUM HEART ❞ + ISAGI YOICHI !

+.CWs & TAGs —» f!reader ( s!her pronouns ), jealousy,angst and feels, smût, college au + modern au, dating culture, hookups, mention of open relationships and $3xting, maybe overuse of italics.┆ [ this is for how to be a heartbreaker by @510hz thank you for letting me join this collab ares and introducing me to the album and it's growing one me. also, please check the other entries. I'm sure y'all gonna love it. have fun reading! ; ( redirect to blog navigation ) ] word count-2.3k

+. PRECIS —»

❝ 𝗜'𝗹𝗹 𝗰𝗵𝗲𝘄 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘂𝗽 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗜'𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝗽𝗶𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗼𝘂𝘁' 𝗖𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁'𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩

𝗦𝗼 𝗽𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝗲 𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝗺𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗜'𝗺 𝗴𝗼𝗻𝗻𝗮 𝙥𝙤𝙥 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙗𝙪𝙗𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙜𝙪𝙢 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩 ❞

It was the June of last year when Isagi stumbled upon something that he would never have bothered a glance . It is not like whenever he walks, he walks with too much pride to look around, it is just that y/n and he were two worlds apart. Their worlds were not supposed to collide or even cross, and they were not exactly opposites who would attract each other like poles of a magnet.

They were like parallel lines who had their own ambitions to follow and dreams to achieve. If it was not for that one guy, Michael Kaiser they would be two worlds apart till their hearts ceased to ache. In his eyes, y/n was just perfect for him, the sweetest distraction he could ever ask for. Many would gossip about her and Kaiser being a thing but they were not really a thing.

It was always a wonder to Kaiser how she did what she did. She did what most girls could not do. She kept him on track, and if there were to happen any sort of deviation she would always stroke the right amount to push him back to track. In other words, she kept him under a leash.

Now that's what people think about them.

What about Kaiser’s take on this?

Easy. A rebound. Kaiser could never understand why she did not develop a crush or any sort of attachment to him by now, especially after those sneak-outs - make-outs, late-night calls, sexting, and so on. He has done so much in such a short time yet she never asked him once if he is single or dating someone? If he is free tonight or if he wants to come over for a study session? It was mostly the other way around.

But it was not always like this.

There was a time when she liked him a lot actually— one would not lie if they said she was head over heels for him. So, what exactly happened? What happened to the girl who used to wake up early in the morning, dress according to his taste, and put on some makeup even though she hated it. She did it all for his attention so that he would turn around before leaving, always.

Did Isagi happen to her? Nope, Kaiser did, and in a way that neither of them anticipated it.

“He is looking. . .” Kaira exclaimed with a grin while y/n had her eyes on the chart paper that almost covered half of the table.

“Is he? What's he doing?”

“Maybe waiting for someone.”

“No. He is not. He is checking you out.”Kaira chokes on her own breath as yn finishes her words.

“ or you ....” she protested with a contorted voice making her friend roll her eyes heavenwards. She left the college cafeteria rolling her bag over her shoulders and clustering the set of notes, books, chart paper, and geometry box in one hand. Kaiser’s eyes remain on her until she is out of his range. He quickly takes out his phone and opens Instagram. His thumb travels across the keyboard and then suddenly it halts.

“Hey. . .” Kaiser looks up, pupils dilated, lips parted but he is still swift.

“to what do I owe this pleasure?” he quipped, sliding the phone in his jersey with a grin on his face.

“hold this” and Kaiser holds her bag, just support till she puts everything in her bag except the rolled chart paper. “Thank you.” she quipped before turning on her heels but something stopped her, something that made her look back, not to kaiser but to her old self.

“hey, yn did I do something wrong?” She registered Kaiser’s voice but her eyes were still on the girl who was constantly checking her phone and walking to and fro in front of the giant fountain.

“Hey, Kai . . . Who's that? The girl over there . . .”

Kaiser saw a chance and he took it. “Why? You interested?” Yn’s eyes landed on him. “Glad that I finally have your eyes on me. . .” she cocked her head to the side, with one eyebrow raised, and still there was silence till her lips curled up at the corner making Kaiser scratch the back of his head.

“She is a tennis player. You do know how we are supposed to maintain a clean reputation and all.

“umm-hmm!”

“So, the thing is she is set up with Isagi yoichi, our agent does that for everyone. It's mostly for publicity but it seems that she is slipping. . .”

“Ah! I see.”she patted his shoulders and added,“Thanks. Kai.”

It's April. Almost a year yet Kaiser thought he might have done something to hurt her, hurt her feelings which is why she is acting the way she is acting. Is she seeing someone? Is she crushing on someone? Nah! He is thinking too much.

Moreover, she does not owe him answers to any of his questions. She is just a rebound. And, they were not supposed to be “something”, not even ‘friends with benefits’. He should not treat her any more than that. Last year in the summer of June when he met her, he could see how much affection she had in her eyes, especially around himself but now it is empty, and it feels empty.

There are three truths of a story. First is for the general spectators, the second is the one put by the one who thinks they have the upper hand over the spectators and the third is the one for only those who have gone through the same shit, who can recognize their wound even if it's on someone else.

Unfortunately, y/n belonged to the last one.

[ trouble: hey you up for tonight?

y/n: umm...no.

trouble: something wrong?

y/n: it's just.that...it bugs me a little when you mentioned that you sext with a lot of people the other day when we were at the cafeteria. ]

This conversation has replayed in Kaiser’s mind in a vicious loop. It's endless.

Kaiser called that day for the first time just to remind her that she should not let herself worry about such things. It's not like he lied when he said that she was just a rebound. Moreover, isn't it fun to be like this? To not be bound to any sort of relationship and keep it open so you enjoy what you like most while tasting all the flavors.

It took one phone call, just one to render every moment, every message, every photo she shared with him useless. She has let people walk over her before and it was not a good feeling. And even if she could tell that Kaiser was trouble she still let him walk over her. But that's okay, it's not too late. If the advent of something matches, doesn't mean the end has to meet the same fate?

Y/n sat in silence in one of the bathrooms while the tennis player sobbed. It was more than half an hour and if by the next ten minutes, she does not leave, yn has to since she has a class that she cannot miss under any circumstances.

“hey . . . I'm not feeling well today. Could you come and pick me up? ” “okay. Thank you. Bye. See you soon Kai.”

Sometimes stars align too closely.

Yn left the washroom in a hurry at the sound of the bell which is good since she can hide in the crowd, hiding herself from her own past following her like a shadow.

The practice match was a blast. Most of the students stayed to watch and all the reason to do so since next week there is a college fest. If not everyone, some were busy in the preparation of festive decor. There were occasional high-lows of cheers as the game continued. Yn was busy with that. It's not her job to assist or to help but she likes doing it anyways. It keeps her mind fresh. She tucked an origami flower in her ponytail asking Kaira, “Hey, how do I look?”

“Normal” she said.

“I disagree ”

Kaira rolled her eyes and smiled as Kaiser stood against the frame of the door. There were too many students sitting on the floor blocking the path. She let out a sigh before walking up to her.

“You should use real flowers. . . Like this ” He holds a flower in front of her making her chuckle; probably a gift from fan she ponders while she could not figure out the red stain at the corner of his lips. Dried blood? Or maybe her lipstick on his lips . . .

“And you should stop making out with the tennis player ” she interjected handing him that origami flower that was made from a tissue paper.

“Why you jealous?”

Finally. Yn thinks that he is asking because he is jealous but cannot seem to figure out of what could possibly make him jealous? Still, it would be a shame if he walks away through the fire without burning, totally unscathed. That does not seem fair.

“yes,” Kaiser almost felt hollow, as if his inner flesh has been scooped out by that one word. Finally, finally, she admits. “huh! you wish” she said patting his head.

“don’t get in too much trouble.” she walks inside the room with an intent of at least finishing the wall decorations while Kaiser walked away keeping the flower on the window shelf. Isagi and his teammates crossed Kaiser in the corridor while yn shut the door but the small rectangular frame was enough for Isagi to see her face. Her face was imprinted on his mind.

where exactly it went wrong?

The next day, Kaira was absent and since there was no match most students left for home early. Players were supposed to stay whether there was a match or not. Before yn was about to leave the classroom, she found the same flower being kept on her desk. No doubt the paper was crumbled but it gave a nice texture. She took the flower, examined it, and saw blue ink through the folds. When she opened it, it read: “stole back for you” with the signature y.isagi.

The day of the final match was approaching and things went rougher between yn and Kaiser. It is not like she could not continue this “open” relationship because feelings were involved, it is more like she would not because she was not enjoying it. Secretly, she was thankful that Kaiser did not humble himself for her, when her emotions for were at their peak. If he did, she would have been brutally hurt. This one was hurting too but it is far better, at least she can endure it. To put it in his terms, yn was not enjoying his flavor and now that she was offered something different, she could not help but want more of it: isagi yochi.

Boys, girls and some staff of the cafeteria too crowded the whole pub that was nearest to the college. Y/n could recognize almost every face. Who exactly wasn't there? Well, she shouldn't have if it not for that flower. Surfing through the crowd she recognized Kaiser’s bleached mullet hair. He was leaning against a girl. How boring!

After she was done scanning the arena she found the one whom she was exactly looking for, Isagi Yochi. He was surrounded by his teammates, more like guarded with a sour look on his face. Geez! What must make the winner happy if not victory?

Perhaps she stared a little too long that Yoichi looked in her direction. Amidst the crowd, while the music was blasting the place, drinks were finished, and two hearts ceased to ache. It felt cosmic. It felt distant. It felt like a mirage.

There was a smirk upon yoichi’s face and so was on hers. She quickly tried to surf through the crowd but stumbled upon something hitting her head at the edge of the table.

Fuck. Isagi rushed to her. He immediately helped her to sit upright but her senses had already started betraying her. “I came here . . .to give this back ” she murmured slipping the crumpled paper into Isagi's chest pocket. Even though Isagi felt a constant twitch near his heart muscle he still helped her to be on her feet and get out of there.

“Sure. You did. But I'm not telling you why I stole it for you ”, he quipped gaining an embarrassed smile from her. This guy is nuts.

Kaiser watched everything with a long face heart aching for both of them. Isagi had no idea what he was getting into and even if he could, he would have to know it from Kaiser which was not gonna happen since Kaiser already fucked this up by losing her to him.

“It’s fine. You can take a nap. I'll wake you up.” Isagi said helping her to sit on the bed. The couch was full of jerseys. Probably his and his team mates.

Isagi went outside to buy some food for themselves. And by the time he made it back to the dorm, yn was pretty much asleep. Was sge drunk? or did she really have a concussion? He quickly kept the food on the table and laid down beside her, supporting his body on his elbows watching her eyes that were slowly drifting to sleep.

A few blinks and she turned around quarterly, barely awake, voice almost inaudible yet it turned Isagi’s stomach upside down when she murmured, “I promotion I’m not going to fall in love with you when you have to leave.” running her fingers lightly against his jaw with a lazy beam plastering her face. She looked so needy, so pretty and so warm. . . that Isagi wanted to a taste of her, the girl who has been on #1 in Kaiser’s speed dial but he can't. Not now, if he was going to have her he will do it in the right way. Everyone knows about it in the team. He can't fuck it up now.

Fuck. Isagi’s chest caved with the ache of her words. He tucked his face against her neck and took a deep breath in, waiting till she was deep asleep to utter to himself, “I can't promise you the same.”

@tokyometronetwork

[soleilnomoon]

geto suguru x fem reader | issa toxic affair, y'all.

6.2k words (i know, i know), fem reader, nsfw, 18+ mdni; angst city, angst angst city biiitch (yk the vibes) & smut (obvy); feat. cute stuff like a lil' degradation, toxic ass relationship, a lil infidelity, obsessive love & jealousy, lovers 2 exes 2 enemies 2 lovers, public indecency, hand job, oral (f receiving), knife play, a lil bit of blood kink, alcohol, geto is a certified asshole & but reader gets him back, yandere reader bc i love being toxic, gojo makes an appearance! also idk other stuff probably idr ok; also reader is black bc i said she is. this is for @510hz's how to be a heartbreaker collab event (ty so much for letting me participate, i had fun truly). this was inspired by mariana's "power & control"; there's also a lil inspo from "the glory" in there, you'll see. it took me forever but i survived, i hope y'all survive reading this 🤭 (if u see typos/grammatical errors no u didn't)

“you horrify me. but at the same time, / i horrify myself. we are horrible.” – hélène cixous

there’s a name for the disease you have; it’s called foolishness, or, in layman’s terms: love.

your mother warned you long ago, to guard your heart — to ensure that no man could penetrate the thick walls encasing it — yet there you are, a silly, pathetic thing scurrying behind a man who would readily cast you aside if it suited him. you truly did resist him at first; you rebuffed his advances with polite smiles and curt responses, yet he persisted daily and, in hindsight, obsessively.

it’s in his nature, after all.

a man like geto suguru simply does not concede if his pride is on the line — and your initial rejection did, in fact, bruise his ego; although, he’ll never openly admit that.

when he does manage to wiggle his way into your heart, with his charming smiles, small gestures that you somehow misinterpret as kindness, you steadily fall for him. it’s not your fault, not really. geto is just that damn good at figuring people out; and with you, it wasn’t difficult. he found it remarkably easy to sway you, he almost felt bad.

almost.

the first few months are pure bliss; he picks you up promptly for dates, takes you to nice restaurants in the city, pays for spa days and shopping sprees — buys you things you never really allowed yourself to buy on your own, surprises you with lavish floral arrangements that make you cry needlessly over how tragically romantic he’s being. and, suddenly, your heart, which was so strongly protected, becomes vulnerable and falls under his control. it flutters around helplessly in the gilded cage he’s crafted for it — a too-tight fit, where every time you exhale you feel the thick bars pressing tightly and you suffocate — but still, love makes you think that all of this is worth it in the end.

as long as geto calls you his, that’s all that matters.

when he calls your phone, you pick up on the first ring, eager and desperate —to hear the dulcet tones embedded in his voice, the words saccharine and carefully picked; things you’ve always wanted to be told, he whispers them all to you before you fall asleep.

but the thing about geto is, boredom is never too far away from him.

it wraps itself around his arms one morning, slithers along and drenches his skin, completely warping his sense of morality — making him much more severe and uncaring than he normally is. all your cute, quirky traits become bothersome to him; he tires of your laugh, doesn’t care to see that sparkle in your eyes whenever he shows up at your front door, and listening to you drone on and on about things that you like bores him to tears.

when he fucks you, it’s impassively, as if it’s something he needs to tick off his list of weekly duties, rather than something he chooses to do because he genuinely wants to be intimate. you don’t question it at first, but it becomes painfully obvious — and awkward — when he leaves every time, not bothering to kiss you goodnight or even look your way. your mind is cruel one morning, when you reflect on how sex with geto is mostly about him getting off and not you; it never bothered you before, but as the months go on, it starts one of many tiny cracks in his veneer.

the rejection is unbearable — tangible in the way it makes you sluggish and depressed — but you deal with it; you must, after all, he’s the love of your life. you simply can’t imagine being with anyone else now.

geto becomes the very man your mother warned you about, but you ignore it without question.

love is work, you remind yourself for the umpteenth time as you sit in the back of your favorite restaurant, checking the time repeatedly and seeing that he still hasn’t shown. you’re in a modest dress with a slit down the side and you’ve already downed two glasses of wine without him. it’s been forty minutes, the server keeps checking on you, giving you pitying looks despite your smiles and insistence that your boyfriend is definitely on his way.

but the longer you sit there, the less sure of that you are.

eventually you leave; they don’t charge you for a thing and you thank them for their kindness — pity, really — and head home. you try calling geto and get his voicemail again; so you leave yet another teary message, this one more incoherent than the last two, and toss your phone onto your vanity before crying yourself the sleep. you don’t know what to do with this feeling — the hopelessness is eating you alive; or maybe it’s just the wine making you overly sensitive.

geto knows he’s an asshole and relishes in it.

he has his notifications silenced while he’s downtown with a few close friends, partying in an exclusive lounge, drinking until his head grows heavy. he doesn’t remember how he gets back to his place, and barely remembers who he fucked that night, but he does have the common decency to kick them out come morning. he’s hospitable like that. his head throbs as he scrolls through his phone, promptly ignoring the twelve texts from you and the fifteen missed calls. gojo called him heartless last night, which he thought was ridiculous — he has a heart, it just doesn’t always work properly; geto now assumes gojo was referring to his mistreatment of you.

something about that nags at him a little, so he decides to play nice and call you back. the phone continues to ring as he lounges on the plush couch in his living room, causing him to frown; very strange. you normally pick up for him right away, but you’re not answering. he should be concerned, but he chalks it up to you sleeping and decides to try again in an hour.

after his third time calling, annoyance turns into anger which fuels his petty jealousy.

what could you possibly be doing that would require you to ignore him — him — of all people?

“y/n,” he says as calmly as he can while his hand grips his phone tightly, it’s his fourth voicemail, but he doesn’t really care. “i don’t know what game you’re playing at, but i assure you… you won’t win.” he doesn’t elaborate past that, and instead throws his phone at the nearest wall — not bothering to pick it up once it clatters onto the hardwood floor. his anger surprises him; subduing certain emotions is an art for him, so all of this feels very new and uncomfortable.

he tells himself this weakness is only temporary, and that you’ll come to your senses too. except, you don’t. you don’t call him back; you don’t bother texting, and you don’t listen to his voicemails until three days later. when geto finds you, you’re in the middle of rewatching your favorite show for the tenth time, eating leftover pizza in your pajamas.

with his nose wrinkled, geto shuffles through your apartment, taking note of the pile of dishes in your kitchen and the way you’ve completely let go of yourself. he’s appalled that a woman like you has succumbed to the frivolities that accompanies hurt feelings. he even says as much to you when you fail to greet him or acknowledge his presence.

it's when he turns off the tv, that you blink several times, sluggish and confused before realizing that the beautiful man before you is not a figment of your imagination.

“suguru,” you sound his name out like it’s unfamiliar, your tongue thick from keeping quiet these past few days; your mind’s a mess, you’re still reeling from the betrayal of him clearly abandoning you, discarding you like you’re just a toy that he’s long forgotten on the street. he snaps his fingers impatiently in front of your face to get your attention again.

“wh-what is it?”

he frowns again. “what do you mean ‘wh-what is it’?” his mockery of your voice and his accompanying sneer is unbecoming of him, you think, but you don’t say that out loud; instead you put down the pizza you were nibbling and yawn languidly.

“you don’t have to be an ass,” you remark carefully, finally glancing up at him as though you’re seeing him for the first time. love muddled your vision, but now you can see geto suguru for all that he is. a liar, a conman, a shitty human being; but most importantly, he’s still the love of your life. you take that last bit seriously; maybe a little too seriously.

but love has a way of making you foolish in ways that are incomprehensible to others.

geto narrows his eyes at you before his lips twitch and he laughs at your insolence. “okay, that’s fair. i did stand you up, after all.”

you turn back to the tv and shrug, flicking a few crumbs off your shirt. “doesn’t matter. what’s done is done.”

for some reason, your apathy agitates him greatly. your tone is off — detached, devoid of the usual joviality that you have whenever he’s around; he figures that he deserves that, but he knows you won’t be mad at him for long. you never are.

“don’t get ahead of yourself, y/n,” his words drift through the air, venomous and well-practiced — he’s mastered the art of tearing down others without even trying — his annoyance reaches its peak when you ignore him and he exhales loudly, as if the entire situation has bored him to death. “since you obviously don’t give a damn about my presence,” he starts, not bothering to hide his malice or irritation, “i’ll give you what you want.”

which is space. permanently — at least, that’s what he thinks you want anyway. he slams the copy of your apartment key onto the coffee table — something that would’ve made you flinch days ago, but you’re so numb you barely notice.

it’s unbelievable that after a year, this is how you treat him; maybe it’s for the best that he’s breaking up with you. after all, he’d never be able to tolerate you having the upper hand in the breakup. still, it does concern him a bit that you’re not reacting in the way you usually would; did he honestly break your heart that badly that you’ve taken to retreating to the far recesses of your mind? not that it matters to him; you served your purpose and wore out your welcome eight months ago.

he just needed a reason to end it.

once he leaves, you feel like you can breathe again. and after a few minutes, you realize what just happened. you scramble off the couch, heart beating rapidly, palm slick with perspiration as you yank open the door and call out to him.

but he’s long gone; already driven off, ready to take on the world without you.

you wear your rejection like a bruise that won’t ever heal; each word said, each call and text ignored, is like a punch in the same spot over and over.

will you ever be able to move on properly?

it’s not really his problem if you can or can’t get over him, as he’s already moved on within the hour. the thing about geto is, he always assumes he’s the one in control — that he holds all the cards in his hands; but he isn’t. he forgets that you’re entirely too observant for your own good, curious, resourceful, and lethal when provoked long enough. you foolishly grab your car keys and drive to his place in the middle of the night; you ignore traffic lights, drive faster than necessary, swerve in and out of traffic as a fit of madness course through your veins.

love continues to delude you into thinking that there’s a way to fix it all; there has to be, it’s the only thing you can believe in right now.

you think about ringing his doorbell, think about calling and texting, think about just banging on his window and demanding he let you in. but you don’t. instead, you lean against your car, dark, heavy clouds looming over that part of the city as rain comes down hard and practically oppressively.

but you don’t move.

you stand there, shivering; soaked from head to toe, hands balled into fists — his last words playing over and over in your mind, like a song you can’t seem to forget. and every time you hear his voice, your heart shatters a little more; you imagine he’s having fun inside, laughing with gojo and whatever new flavor he’s decided to whet his appetite with. you want to give him the benefit of the doubt; maybe he’s having a bad week? maybe he didn’t mean to break up with you; but the longer you try to convince yourself, the sharper his betrayal becomes.

the truth is bitter, inedible, and harsh; it clamps around your mind as the remnants of your heart morphs into ash.

you bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood, but you don’t feel it; how can you, after all that’s happened?

eventually, you hop into your car and drive to your best friend’s house — she’s the only one you can go to, now that you’ve realized that geto is serious about leaving you. after pouring your heart out and downing a few more glasses of wine, your best friend takes you by the shoulders and shakes you repeatedly.

“y/n,” she says calmly, eyes soft and warm, “honestly, babe, you need to move on from him. is he worth all of this trouble?” you consider her question, roll your bottom lip in between your teeth before answering properly.

“of course, he is,” you say quietly, and then a little louder, “my love for him is so strong that i actually think i hate him.” you’ve never seen your best friend so speechless in your life, but there she is, unable to formulate an appropriate enough response to talk you out of this.

but the thing is, as soon as those words leave your mouth, it finally clicks; all the pieces to the jigsaw puzzle set perfectly in place. how could you have been so foolish?

you love him so much that you hate him, and your hatred is so strong that it can only be perceived as love. it’s irrational, maddening, incredibly toxic; but you revel in it. you know what you need to do, you just need time to do it.

days blend into weeks, and weeks to months; you sell your soul to get back your dignity, that determination that geto stupidly overlooked continuously fuels your quest for revenge. you disappear from the city, change your phone number, leave your apartment, and become a nonthreatening ghost from geto’s past. he forgets about you every time he sleeps with someone else, forgets about you whenever he goes on vacation, forgets about you as he whispers the same sweet things to another over and over and over again.

his ego is something to be marveled, and he feels a little unstoppable these days.

six months later, geto finds himself at a stuffy gala — one that his company’s holding to legally siphon money from the upper 1% under the guise of philanthropy — and spends most of the night dodging gojo’s questions over another failed relationship.

“you really don’t think you’re the problem?” gojo says in between sips of champagne, eyeing his best friend through his dark shades, and smiling as if he already knows the answer to that particular question.

geto lets out a frustrated groan and rolls his eyes. “i’m not doing this with you.” because the last thing he needs, is gojo killing his buzz. he glances at the people in attendance, dark eyes flicking over each guest, seemingly uninterested in any of them until you walk in.

he’s not sure it’s you at first, as your beauty captivates him in a way that doesn’t make sense to him. you’re in a pair of heels that look equal parts elegant and enticing, a shimmering, gold gown with a plunging neckline and incredibly high slit. the color offsets the warm undertones of your rich, brown skin that seems silky and otherworldly under all the lights in the room. geto blinks several times, almost as if he can’t believe that it’s you. and, if it wasn’t for gojo making comments about how he didn’t realize you had curves like that, geto might’ve believed you were a figment of his imagination.

how the tables turn.

your date escorts you to a table towards the back, one that’s close enough that geto can watch you properly. something about you is different. he’s not sure if it’s the confidence you exude as you smile coyly at some of the other guests, plump lips curving upward whenever another man asks to make your acquaintance. you keep your head held high, graceful, as if you belong with that crowd — even though geto knows you don’t. you’d never be able to come to an event like this on your own, but he isn’t upset about that.

what he’s upset at, is your date’s hand lingering on your thigh, thumb caressing your knee as he leans over to whisper something in your ear; that’s your cue to smile demurely and swat at his hand. the laugh is well timed — you even throw your head back, offering geto a full view of your elongated neck and round breasts that cling to the fabric of your gown. you excuse yourself under the guise of going to the restroom, and walk past geto without glancing at him — it’s difficult, you so badly want to turn and watch his reaction, but you keep strong, hips swaying as you take the first hallway on your left.

he’s not sure if it’s curiosity, jealousy, or insanity that drives him to get out of his seat and stalk after you. geto was done with you, he knew that — you knew that — but there he is, chasing you like some lovesick teen that can’t seem to get their unrequited crush out of their head. thankfully, the hallway is empty, so when he rounds the corner, he finds you standing there, checking out your reflection in your compact mirror. you feign surprise when you realize someone’s there, one that morphs into temporary confusion before you smile sweetly at your ex-boyfriend.

“well, isn’t this a fun surprise,” you say airily, a sly smile tumbling onto your lips as you make your way over to him. he’s somehow forgotten how to breathe while simultaneously forgetting that you always looked like this — overwhelmingly beautiful and alluring — he just insisted you dress plain on purpose. you like that he’s speechless; you like that his eyes haven’t left you since you walked into the gala. when you get close enough that he can see just how long and thick your lashes are, he finally snaps out of his stupor — somewhat.

“y/n,” he says belatedly, a bit of awe and amusement coloring his voice, “i’m surprised to see you.” what he really wanted to say, was that he’s trying to remember why he broke up with you in the first place — because nothing comes to mind. not when you reach your hand to delicately tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, not when you intentionally place your hand on his chest, and call out his name softly, almost like a whisper before you take a step back.

“i changed my number,” you say in order to drive the point home and pluck your new phone out of your clutch. “and i moved, but i’d love to catch up with you.” he doesn’t say anything when you type your contact information in his phone and when your lips brush against his cheek, he’s reminded of just how much he adored you initially. he wants to ask why you’ve suddenly come back, but the words stick to the roof of his mouth — thick and impossible to remove, slowly rotting through his common sense. it must be some absurd act of possession that has him pull you close enough to brush his lips against yours; you relish in the nostalgia of the moment, with memories of him kissing you spontaneously during your dates — after all, you’ve been in this position so many times before.

the difference? your claws are sharper, dipped in one of the most potent poisons in the world — hatred.

but you have a role to play now: the naïve ex-girlfriend, who knew nothing of the world before meeting him. geto’s ego knows no bounds when you part your lips for him effortlessly, back arching as he runs his hand down it; his fingers are cool against your exposed skin and you shiver from the contact. he smirks at that, liking that he can still get that sort of reaction out of you. time is essential now, so you kiss him suddenly — your lips soft, supple, and sweet as ever.

geto uses that opportunity to slip is tongue inside of your mouth and familiarizes himself with your taste. you whimper softly and he smirks, thinking that he’s somehow won you over all over again, especially when you drag your nails down the back of his neck, scratching his skin without a care. they’re much sharper than he’s known them to be, and while the sting is tolerable, it’s also annoying. yet he can’t seem to pry himself away; your body feels perfect against his, and you surprise him once again when you rub your hand against his cock. geto’s never known you to be that bold before — and in public too? your kiss transforms into something much demanding, and before he realizes it, you’ve unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants.

a heat passes through both of you — and you almost forget yourself as you fall into a familiar dance, kissing him fervently as you wrap your hand around his cock. it stiffens almost immediately, a painful reminder that he’s still impossibly attracted to you, despite what he told himself months ago. you get drunk off of the power you hold over him — the man who mercilessly crushed your heart and left you alone to deal with the aftermath — and have to remind yourself that you’re only supposed to tease him a bit.

his breathing grows uneven, and it’s comical how he’s forgotten that anyone can easily walk in on you two — he just doesn’t care. he’d fuck you in front of everyone just to prove a damn point. your hand strokes faster, twisting as it moves up and down his thick length, his skin hot and smooth, keeping you in a daze. it’s always been like that with you — getting so hopelessly caught up in him that you forget anything else exists.

a voice in the back of your mind tells you to slow down, but you ignore it — the thrill of feeling each jerk of his hips has you moaning into his mouth, breathlessly kissing him like you have all the time in the world.

except you don’t.

the reality of that hits you faster than you’d like, so you bite his lip hard enough to draw blood. you pull away after, almost innocently and lick the blood off of him. the move practically pushes him over the edge, and he has to tell himself that he shouldn’t try fucking you in that hallway. you do your best to catch your breath and blink slowly as you both look at each other. to give yourself a bit of an edge, you swipe your thumb against the tip of his cock and admire the precum on your hand. you bring it up your lips, tongue gliding against your skin to savor the taste of him. it’s a polarizing and captivating experience; something about that makes him want to kiss you all over again, but he refrains from doing so, instead focusing on tucking himself in and fixing his clothes properly.

if you were cruel, you’d take a picture of this moment — of geto with a slightly heaving chest, flushed cheeks, confusion etched on his face as if he doesn’t understand why he let himself get carried away like that. your lipstick is smeared prettily against his lips — red, intoxicating, and ominous.

you smile at that; happy that you’ve successfully integrated yourself into his life again.

“let’s… pick this up again sometime,” your voice has a strange lilt to it — coy and musical, dangerously sultry. his heart skips a beat, and he thinks he’s gone mad; geto doesn’t swoon or obsess the way others do for him. but you’re different now, much more interesting, and mysterious. he knows there’s something wrong with this picture, but he can’t seem to connect the dots just yet.

he doesn’t get another chance to talk to you, as your date keeps you busy most of the night; you don’t bother looking at geto until the end of the event, where you wiggle your fingers at him before leaving.

as soon as you get into your date’s car, you get a text message from a number you’ve memorized by heart and smile as you mentally list all the things you need to do before your revenge can be complete.

little does he know, you haven’t moved at all; you still own your old apartment, but you don’t stay there. you temporarily moved into your childhood friend’s place — a ritzy, luxurious high-rise apartment by the beach — while they travel for work out of the country. it’s all for show, of course; you need geto (and gojo, by extension) to think you’ve somehow elevated yourself financially, that you’re successfully integrated into similar social circles, that you can casually score invites to lavish events that cater to the wealthy elite. after changing out of your gown and into something comfortable, you decide to pay a visit to your old place; it’s mostly empty, save for your old bedroom.

you poured your savings into surveillance equipment, have monitors set up around the room, have hundreds of candid pictures of geto and the people he frequently associates with over the past six months plastered all along the walls. you’ve scribbled out his face in most of the pics, and have drawn lines and arrows, written incoherent notes to yourself — making connections and scenarios so that your contingency plans are unshakeable.

geto texts you again and you smile to yourself, loving the way you’ve already slithered into his mind after one brief conversation with him. he doesn’t realize you’ve been watching him all this time, doesn’t realize that you placed cameras in his home, doesn’t realize that you have unfiltered access to his computer and phone — it pays to have friends who dabble in those things.

you make some tea before sitting on the cushy computer chair as you watch geto stress over you not texting him back; you chuckle and spin around in your chair, elation building up in your chest, rattling that gilded cage around your heart. he’s so stupid, it’s almost too easy; you open the text thread with him, start typing out a bogus response for a few minutes, then delete it and leave him on read.

it takes him half an hour to really lose his mind over you not texting him back, and all you can do is laugh until tears fall out of your eyes.

you want him to fall so hopelessly in love with you, that you become his very reason for living and breathing. then you want to carve out his heart and leave him behind. a perfect plan, really; there are some kinks you still need to iron out, but you know, in time, that everything will go as planned.

uneasiness settles into geto’s stomach over the next few weeks; you barely text him back, and when he calls, you’re always busy. it’s foolish the way he’s pining after you; he knows it’s just because he hasn’t seen you in a long time, but something about you is just so… different. the way you abruptly cut conversations short with him, how you keep rescheduling lunch and dinner with him; how you intentionally let yourself be seen on social media with various men and women. and even when he wants to delete your number and block you, he can’t seem to do it.

because there’s no logical reason why he should be upset. you two aren’t dating anymore, this is just his lust-ridden brain taking hold of his common sense. or, that’s what he keeps telling himself.

when you do manage to see him for dinner one night, you tease him mercilessly and without remorse. at first, geto thinks he has control over the flow of the conversation. you keep blushing whenever he strokes your palm, giggle appropriately when he bumps his knee against yours, and act demure when he gives you permission to order anything off the menu. and you do; the guilt you used to feel is nowhere to be found, instead you thrive in the high that accompanies spending his money frivolously.

in return, you slide your foot up along his leg — slow and tenuous, the first course in your act to capture his heart completely — flirt heavily without restriction and encourage him to keep ordering drinks. geto grows tired of dragging things out and insists you continue the evening back at his place.

“oh,” you say softly and, after a long drawn out moment, your lips curve into a knowing smile.

after you’re both full and pleasantly tipsy, he takes you to his place; in his mind it won’t be long before he has you begging him to fuck you — and then he can finally be rid of this ridiculous obsession. you barely make it through the door because his hands are all over you, tugging roughly on your dress to take it off of you. if you weren’t so determined to see this through, you’d laugh — at his eagerness, at his annoyance with the matter, at your uncanny ability to fool him into thinking that you really want him back.

you lay on his bed, legs spread wide, arousal dripping from your folds as he kisses along the inside of your thighs. normally, geto is an incredibly selfish lover — but tonight, he busies himself with devouring you entirely. almost like he’s trying to make up for lost time. your skin is littered with bite marks and hickeys, but you don’t mind; a few battle scars are necessary in the long run. an unprecedented hunger takes hold of his mind — drives him to eat your pussy with vigor and passion. you roll your hips forward, nipples hard as you moan his name loudly.

he likes how you’re falling apart for him — and only him; you tug on his hair roughly, nails raking against his scalp when he flicks his tongue against your throbbing clit. you forgot that when geto puts his mind to something, he really puts in work; his cock is stiff, but he chooses to ignore it for the sake of watching you writhe on his bed, hand pulling on his bed sheet as soon as he slips his lithe fingers inside of you. he pumps them in and out, fast and hard; you bite down on your bottom lip to keep from screaming, but you lose your composure quickly.

the orgasm leaves you panting and whimpering, softly moaning when geto continues to lap at your pussy, despite how sensitive you feel. you get on all fours without prompting and rub your ass against his cock. the sight is erotic and has him gliding the tip of his cock along your wet pussy, an act that wholly surprises him, even more so when he barely gives you warning before driving his cock inside of your tight hole.

again, he wonders what is different; he’s fucked you more times than he can count, and yet this feels completely new — as if you’re not you, but someone else. and he’s so close to the truth, yet so far away that you try your best not to laugh, even as he powers into you over and over, his cock thick and imposing as his pace picks up.

he knocks his hips against you, strokes lethal but pleasurable. you hiss when he grabs a fistful of your hair, but you let him do it anyway — you want to bide your time before the big finale, of course. geto’s mind melts the longer his cock is inside of you, your plush, warm walls tight around him, squeezing in a way that has him moaning your name out loud.

it surprises him, actually, but he doesn’t stop himself; if anything, he’s more invigorated as he continues to fuck you like you’re the only one he ever thinks about. and, while it probably is true, you also know geto more than he knows you. he pulls out of you suddenly, half in a daze and entirely hooked on your body, and slaps your ass before telling you to ride him instead.

it's almost too easy at this point because this is exactly what you want.

you take your time climbing on top and rub your pussy along his length, grinding and rolling your hips teasingly. his frustration gets the best of him when he grabs your hips to hold you steady.

“y/n,” he warns, voice low and husky. you like him like this — too consumed with lust to realize just how much danger he’s in.

“i’m sorry, baby,” you say almost a little too convincingly, lifting up before sinking down slowly, his cock filling you up in the best sort of way. he’s in heaven, clearly; the way your cunt keeps sucking him back in, your arousal dripping onto his skin — your pussy is the gift that keeps on giving, he tells you offhandedly. you laugh and laugh and laugh, determined to snatch his soul out of his body every time you impale yourself on his cock.

his nails sink into your skin when he holds onto your hips, lifting his upwards to thrust inside of you deeply.

“you know, suguru,” your voice is breathy and hypnotizing, his eyes are glazed over and unfocused; you place your hands on his headboard, under the guise of holding on so he can fuck you properly, but really you’re reaching behind to grab the knife you’ve taped to the back of it. “you’re a shitty person.” there’s confusion etched onto his pretty face, and you chuckle darkly  as you buck your hips against his and brandish the knife in front of him.

he'd noticed that it went missing from his set days ago, but figured he’d misplaced it.

“where did you get that?” he grunts when you clench your pussy around him, still riding him as if this is a common occurrence for both of you.

you continue talking as if he didn’t ask a valid question and gently tap his cheek with the flat part of the blade. “you broke my heart, turned my love into ash,” you ride him harder, your ass bouncing on his hips, and he’s much more aroused than he should be. which is alarming because he isn’t stopping you at all. “and you went about your life like i never mattered.” that part still hurt, and you don’t think as you hold the knife to his throat, the blade sharp enough that it knicks his skin when you lean forward.

he knows he should tell you to stop, but for some reason, it’s as if he’s paralyzed by your confession. he deserves it, he knows that, but you refuse to have any sort of sympathy for him. a bit of blood drips down his neck and you stab the blade onto his pillow, nearly missing his face. he actually fucking flinches and it makes you laugh again.

“you’re so fucking stupid,” you almost pity him. almost.

geto’s life literally flashes before his eyes. he’s never seen you this ruthless; the soft, demure woman he knew before is gone — in her place, is someone cold and demanding, someone who won’t hesitate to maim him if he toes the line.

his skin blanches and he swallows hard, words lodged deep in his throat. he doesn’t know what to say to you. “i—”

you run your tongue along his jaw, and grin triumphantly when he shivers uneasily. “you don’t get it, do you? you’re mine forever.” he wants to ask what you mean by that, but you don’t give him the chance. “i hate you so much, that i want to watch the life drain from your eyes.”

it’s morbid and unreal, but it feels right. “that’s also a form of love, right?” you’re not making any sense, and you don’t care; you’ve deviated from your plan — you intended to drag things out, but once he started fucking you and acting like he was running the show all over again, you snapped. “you’re mine forever, understand?”

he had every opportunity to grab the knife, to shake you off of him, but you keep moving your hips, keep moaning for him, and keep kissing him like you want to breathe in his essence. he’s trapped and probably will never find his way out; he realizes now, that your return wasn’t a coincidence. it was planned. it’s fear that keeps him on that bad, that lets you keep fucking him until you’re satisfied, and when he finally cums, you smile wickedly and pick the knife up again.

“there’s no one who will love you the way i do, baby.”

[honeybleed]

state of dreaming ⋆ jean kirstein

content & warnings: fem!reader, modern au, unhealthy relationship dynamics, jean and reader are both seniors in high school, alcohol & drug usage, unhealthy relationship dynamics, no smut but suggestive

authors note: for @510hz's how to be a heartbreaker collab!! firstly, a massive thanks to ares @510hz for creating this collab and opportunity!! i love your works and you are awesome 💓

word count: 5.3k

There was one man who sticks out to you amongst your countless lovers. Jean Kirstein.

Your first impression of Jean? You honestly thought he was a loser. The way he was fawning over you was nothing short of pathetic.

He was a blushing, stuttering mess. He couldn't even form a coherent sentence when he took in your appearance.

And you absolutely revelled in that.

It was quite frankly amusing how little it could take to rile him up.

The straw that broke the camel's back soon came around. and jean flipped. You figure it was impending anyways.

He caused such a stint at a nightclub, tackling some man you were grinding on on the dance floor in the VIP section which he shoved dozens of burly security guards for that you both were trending for weeks.

You were a nepotism child, Jean was a little lower on the hierarchy. Still above others but his father worked for yours.

The incident had caused a major rift in Jean and his father's relationship. So much so, his mother had to sit with him and ask about the two of you's relationship.

Jean's parents were generally laidback.

As their son was in his adolescent years, they did their best not to suffocate him.

As long as he didn't get in trouble with the law, knock anybody up, and maintained good grades they didn't see any reason to be in his business.

When his mother first learned of his infatuation with you, she knew it was going to end in a train wreck.

You were a gorgeous girl. Absolutely no denying that.

Her mind went back to the summer evening in June when you and Jean first met and the two of you had somehow managed to slip out of the back when night fell.

Jean crashed blind drunk into the trashcans at dawn, causing such a ruckus, his parents had to plead with their elderly neighbourhood watch member not to call the cops.

At first, he was flat out refusing to attend the dinner party with his parents. To be sat with his father's boss, his wife and his parents sounded like the most boring thing on the planet.

But when he called up his best friend, Marco to hang out, Marco had pointed out that you were the Y/N.

"What? Am I supposed to know her or something?" He responded, harshly.

"Who doesn't know her?" Marco stated. "I’ll send you her account, then you'll rethink bailing on that dinner party."

Jean scoffed.

"Suuuure." He drawled out.

Jean's mouth fell open when he opened the Instagram profile Marco had shared with him.

"Jean, you still there?" Marco questioned as he was met with silence from the other end of the phone line.

Jean suddenly let out a yelp.

As his eyes fixated on the screen, your followers was damn near a hundred thousand. You were verified, but what had blown Jean away was how stunning you were.

In the pinned selfie, your manicured hand cradled your face and your eyes seemed to pierce through him despite it being through the screen. He felt a little ridiculous at the fact his pulse was racing at a mere selfie of all things.

"Jean man, if you go to her place please don't scare the girl. Be normal." Marco said, exasperatedly with a sigh.

"What?! I'm normal!" He exclaimed, Marco winced at the sudden rise in Jean's vocal pitch.

"Whatever. So? You going?-" The phone immediately went dead, cutting Marco off. His lips pursed together in annoyance.

He rubbed his temples.

As much as Marco admired and adored his best friend, he was worried you'd hurt the guy.

Jean had an inflated ego and viewed the world a little differently compared to a person who was in touch with reality.

He tended to take everything at face value, he was prone to outbursts and scathing words when he was humiliated, he talked down to people a lot if he deemed them unworthy compared to him.

With the things Marco had heard about you, your cattiness and his cockiness sounded like a disaster waiting to happen. Like water and oil.

Jean's mother stared at him in disbelief after he rushed to the living room to ask her if he could tag along.

"What?" She questioned, as she narrowed her eyes. "Why would you ask hours before? Honestly, Jean." She tutted, disapprovingly.

"Look, I'm sorry for being so last minute but I want to come along, seriously! I want to take the same career path as Dad so meeting his boss would help a lot." Jean stated, with a grin.

"Firstly, he is not your father's boss. Your father and he are colleagues." His mom corrected.

"Well, who has the bigger house?" Jean muttered under his breath.

"Sounds like somebody doesn't want to come along." She said, haughtily.

"I was just kidding!"

"You can come along under one condition. You will wear the outfit I bought you." She said.

The blood drained out of Jean’s face and his mouth went dry. He was going to be face to face with you in that middle school debate club get up?

Normally a dress shirt and pants seemed suave, but the one his mother had bought for him just made him look like a dork.

"Fine." He responded, clenching his jaw.

"That’s my Jeanbo." She gushed. "You're a real sweetheart.”

Later that evening, the three walked down the bricked pathway as they made their way to the grand estate.

The hedges and shrubs were immaculately kept, the lush green grass seemed to span as far as the eye could see up to the creamy white perimeter walls.

A member of staff, presumably the butler, guided them towards the lavish dining room where the two were sat. Jean visibly wilted when he noticed your absence. He had grovelled for nothing.

The staff guided Jean and his parents towards their seats after the adults all exchanged greetings and pleasantries.

The starter dish was brought to the table and discussions began, Jean eyed the doorway. He could not stand to listen to middle age drivel.

But at that very moment, you strolled in late. In a ridiculously short mini skirt that barely covered your behind and a cropped tank top that left little to the imagination causing him to perk up and stand up straight.

Your father chastised you, and made a comment underneath his breath about how you lived to humiliate him.

You simply rolled your eyes and strode to the table to plop yourself opposite Jean, giving him a vampy smile which Jean responded with a fierce blush upon his cheeks and a timid smile.

"Y/N, that is in no way, shape or form appropriate wear for guests. go get changed now." Your father said through gritted teeth.

You pulled a face and pretended you didn't hear what he said, which only aggravated him even more.

"Oh give her a break, honey." Your mother said, already tipsy from wine even though it was merely the beginning of the dinner. "She has the bod, why can't she flaunt it. You’re just like mommy, aren't you dear?" She cackled, sloshing the drink about. Causing your father to swallow thickly and purse his lips.

"Exactly, just like Mom said." You countered. You turned your attention on Jean once again. The dinner dragged on. The tension in the room was beyond thick, and Jean’s parents wanted nothing more for it to end so they could head home.

Jean hadn't even noticed how uncomfortable his parents were because he was trying everything in his power not to pop a boner at you stroking your foot up and down his calf with the same alluring gaze that reduced him to putty in your hands.

After the aptly named dinner from hell by your father ended, you dragged Jean away from both your parents presence.

As they all began to talk amongst themselves, Jean’s mother could see you coaxing Jean to follow after you in the corner of her eye.

It suddenly clicked, he had been pleading to tag along for you. She let it slide though, as abhorrent as she found your behaviour, she could see Jean was head over heels.

He’d have to learn the hard way.

You brought him to the patio deck of the estate, hand in hand then let him go as you sat on the staircase of the expansive patio. He stood right in front of you, struggling to make eye contact and gnawing on his bottom lip.

"You seem flustered." You said, smiling as you tilted your head.

"Yeah.." He laughed, awkwardly.

"Do you know me or something?" You questioned, cocking a brow.

"Just came across your page earlier.." He muttered as he rubbed his arm.

"You should've followed me!" You exclaimed.

"Oh please, you have thousands of followers! I know you would not have followed me back." He snarked, his nervousness fading away at the absurdity of your comment.

"Oh? You have a bit of a bite. That’s nice, I thought you were a total pushover for a second." You replied with a laugh.

Jean took your appearance in for a moment. He was now up close and personal with the same girl he was acting like a fool over. Your appearance fooled him, he had thought you were gentle but boy was he wrong.

You liked to toy with people, that's for sure.

"You wanna go out?" You asked, stretching your arms and arching your back after you sat up from the brick staircase.

"Huh? Like you wanna be my girlfriend?" He stuttered, eyes blown with alarm.

"No, silly! I wanna go to the club. You wanna come?"

"Oh." Jean faltered. "But I think my parents-"

"Jean, how old are you again?" You cut him off.

"...Eighteen." He responded.

"So why are you acting like you're twelve? If its such an issue I’m sure you can text them. So...are you in?"

"I...don't go clubbing...often." He said, trying to formulate the least embarrassing sentence. He had a feeling that any honesty he shared with you would result in mockery.

"Often? Oh, you're cute when you lie." You sauntered up to him, cupping the side of his face with your soft hand and twirled your forefinger around his small tufts of hair.

"If you don't club its okay, we can go clubbing all the time. Would you like that, Jean?" You asked, softly.

He had no idea why your statement sounded like he was selling his soul to the devil. But he nodded.

He hated how he seemed to lose his composure around you. but who could blame him? You had the sort of beauty that made passersby stop and stare.

"Good boy." you said as you ruffled his hair, then slipped your hand with his, interlacing fingers with his as you dragged him away.

As he followed after you, he came to a conclusion about you.

No didn't exist in your world.

The two of you sat in a cab, after you told the driver the address of a random block. Realisation sunk to Jean that you were probably planning on going clubbing regardless because of your outfit.

You had had no plans on staying in the house, whatsoever.

As the two of you got out of the cab, which was parked slightly away from the destination you had told him you had in mind, his eyebrows pinched together in confusion.

"Are you going to pay..?" He whispered.

"Pfft, no." You responded.

He gave you an incredulous stare.

"What? Why the hell not?!" He hissed.

You shrugged.

"I thought you were."

He attempted to repress his irritation as he fumbled for his wallet in his pockets. He handed the driver a twenty dollar note but the driver squinted at Jean.

"What…?"

"You must be out of your mind if you think i'm going to accept twenty dollars for all these miles." He spat. "Cough up some more."

In the corner of Jean’s eye, he could see you already pushing the car door open.

"Hey!" The driver called out as you yanked Jean by his arm out of the vehicle and rushed away.

"What are you doing?!" He exclaimed at the top of his lungs.

You ignored his yelling and tried to lose the driver amongst the stream of people in the streets.

People groaned and swore at you two for pushing and weaving past them but for you it made it all the more thrilling, whilst Jean was beyond mortified.

You finally arrived to the nightclub, and the queue seemed to wind down blocks. Jean observed all the club-goers who seemed to be in either the most revealing or avant-garde clothing he'd ever seen.

This definitely wasn't his crowd.

Despite the never ending line of people, you with your hand clamped around Jean’s wrist made your way all the way to the front were the bouncer stood.

Jean felt himself shrinking in his dress shoes as angry line standers began to hurl verbal abuse and get pushy.

Regardless you seemed to let it bounce off you and the bouncer immediately granted the both of you entrance.

"How'd you get in?" Jean asked, in astonishment.

"Let’s just say I’m reaaaal familiar with the owner." You snickered.

There was a smoke machine billowing grey clouds as well as lights flashing in all sorts of colours. Music, heavy with bass pulsated throughout as the dancers followed the beat.

You dragged Jean towards the dance floor. You weren't a stranger when it came to clubs, that was clear as day.

Jean was in the midst of a complete sensory overload. His eyes flitted towards you, with your hands in the air just completely lost in the music, Lungs feeling thick, he was suffocating.

He could handle parties, rowdy house parties but for some reason this nightclub was fast becoming his own interpretation of hell.

His stomach was churning, his heartbeat was racing so much so he could've sworn it was about to explode out of his chest.

Everybody seemed to be preoccupied with the music, the drinks, and groping each other on the dance floor, he felt as if he was out of his mind for reacting like this.

He immediately fled the club, pushing past dozens of people for what seemed like the umpteenth time tonight.

Jean used the last of his strength to push open the fire door exit as he stumbled out of the club.

It wouldn't be a task for him at all but the strong spirits he downed caused him to lose his balance and coordination.

He was drenched in sweat, the fabric was clinging to his skin uncomfortably. The dress shoes and shirt his mother had chosen for the dinner party was probably the last thing anybody would wear for a nightclub.

The cool night air was beyond a relief. The crispness seemed to expel his heightened senses.

He had opened the collar button but he was beyond feverish and sticky, he’d opened so much buttons up to his navel.

He knew he looked ridiculous. His head whipped around to the sound of the door opening and there you were, with that hell raiser grin upon your lips.

You looked pretty dishevelled too, but it made you look even more sexier to him.

Unbeknownst to him, you found him attractive in his unkempt state, but you decided with Jean, you were going to be unreadable and coy.

"What the hell was that?!" He stammered, pupils blown wide.

"Fun! It’s fun! What? Was it a little too much for Jeanbo?" You asked as you took two strides towards him, and pinched his cheek, hard.

"What the hell was fun about that?! It was so cramped and gross and-"

He paused from his rant when your scent began to travel up his nostrils. Powdery, floral and creamy, it was intoxicating, to say the least.

But when he took a more thorough glance at you, he could tell you were not there fully.

Pupils dilated, eyes glassed over and beyond twitchy.

His thoughts were cut off when you immediately yanked his collar down to meet your lips, giving him a frenzied kiss. It was sloppy. Teeth clashing and tongues sliding against each other.

He pulled away for air, but stared at you in disbelief. He was so confused at everything but the sensation of having you against him was addicting. His lips tingled and his head spun.

He leaned in again to kiss you but he was caught off guard abruptly when you kicked his shin, with such force he yelped out in pain.

He bent over and clutched his shin as he hissed.

"What the fuck was that for?!"

"I think you're forgetting, Jean. I make the rules. I do what I want, I make the move. You never do unless I say so." You said, an edge to your voice causing him to stare at you in horror.

Without warning, your hand reached out to grab a fistful of his hair and dragged him towards your neck.

"You ever given a hickey before?" You asked, voice hoarse from the rush of the pills you had taken.

He nodded against you as his face was buried into the skin of the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

"If you can make me moan pretty loud, I’ll give you the next move. Deal?"

"...Okay." He mumbled, as he began to gently suckle the warm flesh. His knee wedged between your inner thighs, his chest flush against your own.

Your body began to heat up, you were enjoying him, your eyes half lidded and your nails digging into his skin.

He pulled away, electrified at the sensations, swollen lips wet and parted.

"Well? What’s your next move?" You questioned, demandingly.

"Not in a dingy alley, that's for sure." He responded, voice low as his palm rested on the brick wall.

"You're no fun." You pouted.

"The smell of trash cans is a boner killer." He snorted.

He cleared his throat and buttoned up his shirt.

"Y/N...did you take something?" He asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

"Well duh. I always do, it enhances the club experience." You giggled. "Why? You want some?"

"No...I already feel sick from the shots." Jean muttered.

"You're adorable." You snorted.

"Dude...you look like shit. What, you barely got sleep?" Marco's voice dragged Jean out from his trance as he nearly dozed off in the diner.

He shot up from his slouching position.

"Huh?"

"What time did you sleep?" Marco questioned, eyebrows pinched together.

"Like seven in the morning."

"What the fuck? You coulda cancelled y'know!"

It was pretty much tradition for Jean and Marco to hang out at the diner every Saturday morning.

"My parents were on my ass after I came home at like 6, drunk as hell. I didn't wanna be in the house after the grilling."

"Well damn, why'd you come home so late? I thought you had dinner with them and Y/N L/N! Is she even hotter in person?" Marco asked, curious.

"That girl...seeing her will make your head spin, she's got a screw loose that's for sure. But it's kinda hot." He chuckled, besides himself.

The bell at the entrance of the diner rang, which made Jean wince slightly.

Jean’s eyes suddenly widened when he saw you make your way to the booth where he and Marco were sat.

You gave a small wave and slid right next to Marco.

"How did you know where I was?" Jean asked, aghast.

"Just phoned home. Hope you didn't tell tall tales about me, Jeanbo. Your mom wasn’t happy in the slightest when she found out who was at the end of the line." You cackled.

Marco stared at you, mouth hanging open.

"How rude of me, I’m-"

"I know who you are." Marco blurted out. "Not in like a creepy way but I know of you-"

Jean shook his head.

"Y/N, Marco. Marco, Y/N. There." He said, with an irritated tone as he made a hand gesture.

"Would you say you're a fan of me, Marco?" You asked with a grin.

Jean’s nose crinkled in disgust. Was this not the same teasing you did to him yesterday? Did you do this with any guy you met?

"Um...to be a fan of you, you'd have to do something so.." Marco trailed off, choosing his words carefully.

"I do things! You wouldn't get it." You huffed. "Maybe I should invite you to come with me and Jean."

"Who says I was coming to anything with you? Last night was my limit." Jean muttered underneath his breath.

"Is he always this cranky?" You asked Marco, causing Jean to pull a face, offended.

"He doesn't shy away from sarcasm I guess." Marco snorted. “But he’s just moody cos he hasn’t slept that’s all.”

"I’m having a birthday party soon, so it'd be cool if you came. I’d put you on the VIP list and everything." You stated.

"Is it gonna be at a nightclub again?" Jean sighed.

"Don't make that face, Jean! Just cos you had one crappy night doesn't mean you need to write off clubbing forever. I’m basically the host and the birthday girl at this one so you can stop your bitching." You said.

Jean side eyed you.

"Fine."

"Yay! I’ll text you the details." You said as you slid out of the leather seating.

"Where are you going?" Jean asked, confused.

"I wanted to see you real quick, you're welcome. It’s very hectic what with the preparations and all." You stated as you flipped your hair and put on your sunglasses. “I’m a busy girl!”

"Y/N wait!" Jean called out as he followed after you out of the diner.

"Jean, I’m flattered but can you wait another time? To say my schedule is jam packed would be an understatement." You replied.

Jean swallowed thickly as he took a step forward to meet your gaze, despite it not working as much as he'd hoped since it was blocked by the tinted lenses.

"Y/N...what are we?" Jean asked, eyes stormy. "I’ve had girlfriends in the past but...this is so confusing."

You patted his head.

"We’re two young people having fun, Jeanbo! No labels, no problems. I thought you boys hate a clingy girl." You remarked.

"But...I don't want that. I want you to be mine."

"Join the queue, Jean." You sighed as you waved a hand in his face and headed towards your taxi, leaving his jaw slack.

Weeks passed.

To the naked eye, you and Jean seemed inseparable. His father dismissed it as young love but his mother noticed things weren't exactly green on the other side for her son.

He just wasn't the same. His time was occupied with you. She viewed you as an energy vampire.

Jean laid on your bed, staring at the ceiling. Under regular circumstances, a guy would be over the moon to be in his "girlfriend's" bedroom.

However, that wasn't the case. Firstly, you and Jean despite regularly engaging in intimate acts weren't a couple at all. And it deeply bothered him.

Maybe it was because it was you calling the shots.

"You’ve barely said a word since you've got here." You snorted as you observed his pensive look. You took a seat on the side of your queen bed and placed your elbow on one of the hot pink cushions. "What's up?"

"What, you expect me to entertain you or something?" He spat, voice laced with venom.

"Jean, if you're going to through a bitch fit over something why would you even come over?" You groaned, moving away.

God, you frustrated him.

"For your information, I’m throwing a bitch fit because now I go to school and everybody thinks i'm some sort of cuck!" He yelled out.

"…What?" You snorted, in disbelief.

He averted his gaze as his bottom lip began to tremble.

"What kind of a man am I if you're just sleeping around with any guy, huh?" He protested.

"What the hell...okay, since when did I place a lock on you? You can sleep with or date anybody else you want to, you know."

"I’ve told you Y/N, time and time again, all I want is you. Why can't you give us a chance?!"

Damn it, you almost felt bad. The way his light brown eyes were glossed over with tears, how defeated his voice was. But you refused to falter.

There was a part of you that enjoyed seeing how desperate he was. You crawled onto the bed and settled beside him.

"Why would they call you cuck unless you were going around claiming me?" You barked. "And why are you getting offended when the only touch most boys in your school receive is from themselves."

He hated how funny you were at times. At this moment.

"What can I do to make you mine? Is there some ritual?" He asked, with a half smile.

"I just...don't wanna commit to anybody! I like things my way." You responded.

He let out a groan.

"There's no getting through to you, is there?" He sighed.

This conversation wasn't going anywhere, so he did the one thing you did respond to. He placed his hand on your bare thigh, and began to trail upwards towards your panties.

He pressed soft kisses across your bare shoulder.

"Oh?" You remarked, with a snicker. "What changed?"

"No use." He muttered.

You wanted to get offended and argue back but it seemed as if Jean accepted what you had tried to drill in his head.

Still massaging your inner thigh, he tilted your head for better access to meet your lips in a slow, chaste kiss.

He pulled away to take a look at you and catch his breath.

"God, you're unreal." He said in a low voice.

It wasn't a groundbreaking, poetic line but it reduced your insides to mush all the same.

You ran your hands to settle on his back, causing him to groan against your mouth and press his hips against your own.

His weight on you and friction against your core made your mind with hazy with lust as your back arched into him and you let out a soft moan of your own.

"Do you know how crazy you drive me?" He whispered.

His hand reached down to hike your leg around his waist and grind into you.

"Why I want you to be mine? I just can't get enough of you."

"...Jean." You said softly.

"Even the way you say my name drives me up the wall."

The two of you are still fully clothed, rutting against each other as your mouths are attached. your tongue sliding against Jean's.

It was a blissful experience.

It should be something so lewd however there was always this gentle lovingness Jean graced you with.

His words, how he would interlace his fingers with your own. how every now and then, he'd pull away to cradle the side of your face and admire your features. your heart would almost burst out.

In your mind, you didn't deserve it at all.

Tonight should be your night.

Surrounded by dozens of people who claim to be your friends, dressed in the most glamorous diamond corset dress that makes you look like a 1950s hollywood starlet, hair past your shoulders.

Yet at this moment in time, you were at your lowest.

People around you were downing all the alcoholic beverages in sight and tucking into the cake that had been crafted by the most sought out baker on the globe and it hadn't moved you.

Mainly because Jean isn't here. and Jean isn't here because ever since that conversation happened about commitment, he'd been distant and cold.

There was no way in hell you were going to beg for a man to come to your party, especially considering that it was the talk of the town.

He could go to hell for all you cared.

But not really.

"I’ve never seen a more depressed birthday girl!" Your friend from school Anita (very liberal use of the term since in reality you despised her and you were sure the feeling was mutual) cried out.

Your eyes slitted at her statement.

"You're a right pill head, y'know. You couldn't wait until a few hours later?" She questioned.

"Do you have my shit or not?" You said, curtly. not in the mood to humor her.

She slipped the small zipper bag into your hand.

"Enjoy, try not to OD and all. I pride myself on customer service." She stated, as she slinked off onto the dance floor.

You headed to the bathroom.

It was depressing that you couldn't exactly enjoy things any longer because of your particular vice.

But if it got rid of the crippling birthday blues, why the hell not?

Once you were finished, you spotted a familiar face looking slightly bewildered.

"Marco, you came!" You cried out happily as you threw your arms around him. He let out a huff at the way you launched yourself onto him but gave you a pat on the back all the same.

"Yeah, I was here earlier but the line was crazy and they seemed to be searching folks." He stated as he rubbed the back of his head and brandished a gift bag.

"Is Jean coming?"

Marco's brows pinched together.

"Coming? He’s been here the entire time? Did he cut n run or what?"

Your eyes widened.

Did Jean see you shamelessly dancing on every and any guy? Was he stood somewhere brooding and giving you evils?

Suddenly, there was a commotion towards the left side of the club with gasps and yelling. People clamouring around to get a good view of what was taking place.

"What the fuck is your problem, man?" Random dude number #5 or #6 who you remember your ass was against bellowed out.

"Why'd you have your hands on her, huh?!" Jean called out. "Thirsty much?"

"Give me a break, if she was your quote on quote girlfriend why is she dancing on anybody like a total slut?!" He barked.

Everybody gasped at the statement.

"What the hell did you just call me?!" You shrieked out. All of a sudden, you could see Jean grabbing a heavy bottle from the ice bucket and swinging it towards the man's head.

"JEAN!" You screeched at the top of your lungs.

It missed, shattering into pieces everywhere and amping up the situation a million times more as everybody began to panic and scream.

Despite the shards of glass, you rushed towards the two.

The security guards shoved people aside to reach and pull the two men away from each other, but the guy had tackled Jean and was punching him relentlessly. blood spurted out of Jean’s nostrils.

The guy had an NFL player's build and it didn't help that Jean was already woozy from drinking. The two were eventually separated, Jean’s head was ringing again.

You crouched down beside Jean to help him up, but he was seeing red. Hs instantly recoiled from your touch and pushed you away causing you to stumble slightly.

"Don't touch me, Y/N. I’m dead serious!" He fumed.

"What?! What the hell did i do?!" You screeched as you stomped your foot.

He stomped off somewhere, leaving your head spinning.

"Jean!" Marco called out, pulling an apologetic look at you and chased after his best friend.

Soon enough the commotion was beginning to die down as the crowds dispersed.

Jean was sat on the kerb side, nursing his swollen left black eye with a makeshift icepack the bartender had created, a putrid smelling rag and ice cubes from the champagne bucket.

His heart was still pumping and his head was dizzy from the altercation. His brows pinched in frustration. he told Marco to go home, which he obliged since he knew his friend needed alone time.

Speak of the devil, you strode towards him pushing through the people and plopped yourself beside him on the kerbside.

Your palms rested on the gravel as if you were lounging in the sun.

He turned to look at you, with his one unaffected eye. you seemed to be smiling gleefully, almost enjoying what had unfolded back there.

A lump formed in his throat, and ached.

You looked so beautiful to him right now, the reds and blues of the sirens illuminating your features, the dazzling smile he'd become accustomed to that would make his heart soar.

But it lacked warmth and compassion.

You didn't care about him. You didn't care about him the way he cared about you.

"We're trending on Twitter." You snickered, breaking his train of thought. "Guess you weren't a match for him."

He knew you meant it as a joke. But it broke him all the same. The lone sentence summed up your relationship. He was never a match to anybody in your eyes.

He said your name, voice beyond defeated.

"Yeah?" You responded.

"I don't want to see you anymore."

"Huh? What's that supposed to mean?" You asked, taken aback.

"This was.." He struggled to find the right words. it was just so hard when he was so broken. "This was a mistake."

He stood up from the kerb as he looked at you.

"And this was never going to work." He stated, walking away.

author’s note again: if you read this far, thank you for reading!! ❤️ also i know marilyn monroe (which the song state of dreaming is about) was said to have been a sweet and kind person but the reader is not. i wrote a LOT so i had to split it into two parts. the first part doesn't seem to match the synopsis however i wanted to lay a foundation for the reader and jean's relationship so i guarantee part two will corroborate with it!! the second part will also have a time skip so jean and the reader will be in their mid twenties once again, thank you for reading! likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3

[strawhatsoraya]

LAW X FEM READER / NSFW (minors dni, don't make me say it twice) word count: 5.7k (this quickly got out of hand) content warning: toxic relationship, situationship, law is kind of an ass in this but what's new, lot's of suggestive talk, vaginal penetration, oral (female receiving and male receiving), reader is obsessed with law and I do mean obsessed so read at your own risk, choking, several mentions of ejaculation (and what comes after so you know what I mean), biting, jealousy, knife play, drug use. this is my piece for @510hz collab event! it's taken inspiration from "starring role" by marina and the diamonds. I have been working on this forever, and it is finally done! thank you for letting me participate in your collab/event. it's been a wild ride! i love marina and this album was on repeat for a long time when it first came out.

all you give me is a heart beat

Law feels your eyes on him not for the first time that day, and makes a pointed effort not to look at you. Surrounded by the rest of his crew, the last thing he wants to do is to cause misunderstandings. He knew later he’d find you in some corner of the submarine, marking check boxes on some form he had deemed necessary; anything to keep you busy enough from demanding answers from him.

It is true that perhaps he had made a mistake when he first kissed you in his office. You had melted under his attention, become pliable under his expert hands as he brought you to ecstasy right there on his work desk. Law hadn’t predicted your eyes to be shiny with expectation the following morning at the mess hall. It should have made him reconsider, instead, he asks you into his office again. And again. He continues to do this until there’s not a corner you’re unfamiliar with, until every book and wall knows the way you sound at orgasm, the faces you make when he buries his cock inside you.

Where he is difficult to hold, you are easy. You make no demands. You’re earnest as you wrap your warmth around him, when you breathe his name in a raspy tone against his ear. Goosebumps skitter down his back and away from him. It’s cowardice, he knows, that he continues to allow this but he is selfish, and your pussy is just way too good for him to give up.

There’s also a strange ‘something’ about you. 

He catches glimpses of it at a certain slant of light. He sees it in the thin line your plush mouth draws when Ikkaku settles close to him; the way you purse your lips and force a smile, a dimple hanging perilously from one cheek. It entices him, spurs him on to place a large hand on Ikkaku’s shoulder. Law leans forward. He smells Ikkaku’s shampoo as he whispers into her ear. His golden eyes are honed in  on your face, on your hand that picks up the silver steak knife. The glint of the blade as you bring it down on the table sparks a fire inside him.

That night he laughs at your fury as you ride him on his desk, your frigid fingers wrapped around his throat. His own inked fingers curl around your wrists and he squeezes until you flinch and let go. There’s laughter in his voice as he murmurs your name. You huff, hips moving, desperate for release while his thick cocks twitches inside your gummy walls. 

“That’s no way to treat your captain,” he says as he pries your hands away from his neck. His thumbs rub circles on the inside of your wrists. Your blood pulses underneath his touch, heartbeat tethered to the pads of his thumbs. He tries to control the smirk that stretches his bruised lips but it’s futile; a wasted effort. He kisses your fingertips, the center of your palms. He relishes in how this is all it takes to make your shoulders relax, how it was enough to bring your guard down.

He flips you over, your hot back hitting the wooden desk, and finds you immediately submissive. You spread your legs for him, inviting him to your dripping pussy. It is an offer he could never refuse; and how could he when you were practically begging him? It would be a disservice to your kindness. The least he could do was get on his knees. His hands are warm as he pushes your legs apart, shouldering his way towards your heated core. His breath is hot against your swollen nub as he leans closer. He takes in your scent as he opens his mouth to drag his large tongue over your slit. His licks are careful, measured; an inappropriate form of an apology.  The way your fingers grasp his hair is reminiscent of the way he sees you grasp at straws, at the invisible seams that hold whatever this is together. As he hears you moan even through the loud slurping noises he forgets all apprehensions. 

Later, in his bed when one round simply would not suffice, he feels you shift on the mattress. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, thinking perhaps you needed him to hold you. You were so needy for him, after all. He’s not sure who falls asleep first, but the last thing he remembers is the smell of your shampoo dragging him into dreams.

you’re hard to hug, tough to talk to

There was a sickness inside you, of this you were sure.

It was the only thing that could explain your senseless attachment to the one man who refused to be kept. At worst he was cold, a chill in the night, the kind that would make your limbs go numb and keep you up, sleepless and deranged. At best he held onto you with detached interest, a contradiction you tried to ignore by seeking his tongue past his treacherous lips.

There was a sickness inside of you, sure, but if that was true then perhaps there was one within him too.

When it was just the two of you alone, the world melted away. He’d let you find refuge in his lap as he sat at his desk, reading up on recent medical literature. You’d curl into him, bury your face in his neck seeking the slippery scent of intimacy. No matter how quick, or how deep your breath was, the taste never lingered on your tongue.

You tried to find it woven in the threads of Law's bed sheets. You’d plaster your nose against his pillow, mouth open in desperation. You'd spread your fingers against the fabric of the pillowcase, feeling for any of his secrets you could keep.

He falls asleep with his arms around you, and you break free gently to watch the stillness of his face. You take in his brown skin, and run your fingertips over his exposed arms. Electricity seeps into your fingers, lighting up your being. 

Law seemed so vulnerable there, laying on his side, inky hair partially covering his tired face. He was completely unguarded, defenseless, absolutely at your mercy.

You could kill him if you wanted to. If you really wanted to.

You swoop in towards his bicep, run the tip of your nose from one forearm to his shoulder. The breath you take in is ragged, rattling in your chest as your mouth floods with saliva. Sea salt and ink takes over your senses. You feel him stir inside you, his essence burying itself within your cells. 

A need possesses you. You gently push against his shoulder to force him on his back. Stealthily you slither over his body to press your hands over his abdomen. You feel his hardened muscles under your palms as you slide them up and over his chest. His heart thumps underneath your hands. It beckons you closer. You press your ear to his chest, eyes fluttering close. 

At the sound of his heart beating you picture the blood that gives it life. You can see its journey red hued and electric in perfect detail in your mind. Goosebumps erupt on your skin and your toes curl, picturing the blood in Law's veins, how it makes his body warm.

You feel it now, that warmth of his body that lulled you into a false sense of security. How could someone so beautiful be the source of both your anguish and content delirium? How could he sleep next to you, as innocent as a child, and tear your heart in two the next morning when he'd refuse to meet your gaze in front of others?

Heartless. He was heartless; he could be. 

You see yourself sinking your hands into the cavity of his flesh, parting sinew and bone with ease. You hear the crackling of ribs prickle your ears. You can almost taste iron in the air as you pluck it out, bring it up to Law's horror. His mouth drops open and he screams and screams, unable to move, unable to do anything. 

His heart beats in your bloodied hands, his hot blood oozes down your forearms, souvenirs of the fight you claimed from him; of the things he stole from you a long time ago.

You blink to bring yourself to the present, to still see him slumbering beside you, unaware of the storm birthing inside of you.

It takes a moment to quiet your breathing, to match it to his. You drape his arms over you once more, cocoon yourself into the shape of him with one hand over his chest.

You drift to sleep with the feel of his heartbeat underneath your fingertips, and the taste of iron between your teeth.

when we get undressed

He slots his lips against yours, hating his own timidness. It wasn’t inexperience that made his fingers tremble; the ones he buries in your hair in hopes of keeping this one secret from you. It was his own vulnerability that he fought against–the sudden and desperate need to kiss you past your breath. There’s a warmth that blooms treacherously in his chest; an invasive species of the trailing vine kind. He tears at it with his fingers, dirt burying itself under his nails in the form of your whimpering.

He silences you with kisses, forceful and clumsy. You gasp against his sudden hunger, and he consumes even that from you, leaving nothing to waste.

His tongue is slippery as he strokes your own, his hips rutting against your heated core at a slow pace. It’s torturous, the way he feels your wetness against his erection. Law has half a mind casting gentleness aside to slip inside you in one stroke but he perseveres, and captures your tongue for a slow and noisy suck. He waits for you to bury your fingers in his hair, to scrape his scalp with your long acrylics. He even waits for your plush thighs to wrap around his bony hips, to hear you mewl and beg for him before he succumbs.

It’s so easy to bury himself inside you. You’re soaking, slippery and hot, more than eager to receive him. The tightness of your pussy still surprises him no matter how many times he thrusts inside it. It’s a heaven on earth he feels almost undeserving of. Almost.

There’s a small smile that tugs on a corner of his lips, one that is languid and full of secrets. He slithers one hand up between your jiggling breasts, still slapping his hips against yours. His balls are loud against the wetness of your skin, the sound making you blush all over. Law continues to move his hand upwards at a slow pace, until his fingers stroke up your neck. He lifts it slightly, brushes the back of his knuckles against it before he sighs.

In a swift move, he squeezes your delicate neck between his fingers. You gasp and moan as he applies pressures to the sides of your neck. Your cunt twitches around his cock as he continues to thrust in and out of you. Your brown eyes, blown wide and unfocused, roll to the back of your head when he picks up the pace. Law can’t help but laugh, even as he represses a moan of his own.

“I’m close,” he tells you breathlessly, mouth hanging open. There’s a flush on his cheeks he ignores. He blames the horrible ventilation system on the submarine. Law makes a note to have someone fix that immediately. “I’m so close, doll,” he says, not letting go of your neck. “Tell me,” he commands. You hum, and he frowns down at you, unsure if you heard him. He squeezes your neck tighter for good measure. When you gasp and choke, gagging on a moan when he viciously slaps his hips against yours, he grits his teeth. “Where do you want me to cum on you?”

You don’t answer him. Law thinks perhaps you’re just not able to. His chuckles are dark, and gritty, sandpaper against your sensitive skin. He continues his vicious thrusts, touching the deepest part of you with the tip of his cock. He feels you tightening around him, and he knows before you cry out that you’re at the precipice. Your orgasm pulls out his own from within him, and he quickly slips out of you.

His hand grasps his slippery cock, to pump furiously. White cum spurts out of his tip, and lands on the heated skin of your belly.

Law sees your chest rise and fall, sees your swollen lips parted as you try to catch your breath. Your neck and breasts are littered with blooming bruises in the shape of his teeth. He tuts, almost ashamed. There’s a strange pull in his chest that he wishes to bury. He moves away from you slowly.

“Stay there,” he tells you, voice clipped. You blink up at the ceiling, arms spread wide on his bed as you lay on his back. The sight of your tits is too tempting, and while he is spent, he still leans forward to drop a few more kisses over the slope of each one. “Don’t move,” he mumbles against your skin, and nips at the skin before retreating into the bathroom.

When he returns, there’s a wet wash rag in his hand. His golden eyes take in the mess he made himself on your soft belly. There is precision in his work, he manages to clean you up quickly and efficiently, before he discards the wash rag in the waste bin. He’d take care of it later, for now, he wants to forget everything and hold you. He slides behind you as you curl on your side, and kisses your shoulders.

“Law,” you start, trying to look at him over your shoulder. Law tightens his arms around your waist. “I want to ask you–”

He shushes you quickly, and kisses the spot behind one ear. “Let’s talk in the morning. You should sleep now.” He ignores the way your body tenses at his tone. He ignores the way he feels your fingers tap nervously over his hands, fingers locked over your belly. He ignores the way your nails dig into his forearm when he doesn’t give you more attention.

He ignores this conversation you have tried to start several times before. Law continues to ignore you, and everything else, until he falls asleep.

That morning, Ikkaku is in the mess hall, chastising Penguin over the massive plate of stacked pancakes he was carrying. Law smiles at her expression, unable to ignore the scene. He walks over, long legs making breaching the distance a very easy task. 

“What’s the problem?” Law asks, reaching over Ikkaku’s shoulder for a plate. He watches with barely restrained humor, as she shrinks under his body. Her cheeks color. Law’s eyes light up at their brightness. “There should be enough pancakes for everyone.”

“Those are all the pancakes I made!” she argues back, as she tries to take a step backwards. Law immediately steps forward, reaching around her for prepackaged units of grape jam. “I’m not making more. It’s not like Penguin was on kitchen duty. He should show some consideration.”

“No more fighting,” he says offhandedly. While Law’s tone is flat, his eyes sparkle with hidden mirth. He glances sidelong at Ikkaku who hovers to the left of his elbow. Law grabs a piece of toast for his plate, and steals two pancakes from Penguin’s. He places them on Ikkaku’s plate and leans forward to whisper: “I stole these for you. Now smile. Smiling uses less muscles. Don’t you know?”

He reaches up as he pulls away, to flick Ikkaku’s forehead with nimble fingers. As Ikkaku rubs her forehead, cheeks turning a bright shade of pink, Law feels a pair of eyes on him. He knows, without even turning around, that it's your presence he feels; suffocating, and interrogative.

He raises a brow in your direction, and smiles politely. You don’t return his gesture, instead you drop your breakfast, plate and cutlery and all into the wastebasket. Law watches you quietly as you leave without a word, a cold thrill shooting up his spine. He knows he should do better. He knows that he is far too old for games but he can’t help it. You bring the worst out of him. It was a poor excuse, but he clung to it as he seeks you out at random throughout the day. 

You don’t play along this time. Your look is impassive at best. Your responses are clipped, and you’re very good at making excuses–anything to keep yourself away from him. 

His ego tells him it’s jealousy. His ego, and his arrogance tell him that you’re doing it to yourself. It tells him he has done nothing wrong, that there is no need for him to seek you out as if he was apologizing, as if he was one to beg for scraps of your attention. Whatever power you think you are clutching in your little hands, he ignores. He tries to snatch it back by pretending there is nothing bothering him; that he doesn’t care when you refuse to touch him back when he slides his hand over the small of your back.

Law thinks he has you beat in the lab, when he leans down to brush his lips against yours, but you turn away from him. You tell him he’s interrupting your work, and that it is very dangerous to distract a woman who was working with volatile chemicals.

He leaves the lab irate, the hairs on the back of his neck on end. 

you don’t love me, big fucking deal

There’s only so much a girl can take. After all, even girls are still made of flesh and blood.

You’re not ignorant to his attempts at dark seduction. His words are honeyed and practiced. You’re slow to respond but you muddle through it, dragging your legs through the heaviness of it, clinging desperately to your convictions. 

There was no turning back now.

There was no point in regretting it.

You tell yourself this as you work quietly in the operating room, placing pairs of mosquito forceps, and tweezers into sterilization bags. You’re in the midst of labeling, when you hear feet dragging in your direction. It sickens you the way you identify the owner almost immediately. The bags are sealed, and you run your fingers over the edges of them repeatedly, anything to keep you busy. Your frown deepens when you feel Law move right behind you. His hands find the curves of your hips too easily. They rest there, as if they belonged nowhere else. There’s a tug at the pit of your stomach, one that shames you and makes you hot all at once.

You’re sick of the way you are weak against him. It’s almost painful the way you crave him–need him, desperately. It has only been a day but you feel yourself falling apart without him, his touch, his kisses, the feel of his cock moving inside you. When his breath tickles your ear, you shut your eyes briefly, seizing an unsanitized scalpel in one hand.

Your body leans back, finding his hardened body comforting. You’d do anything to make him yours. Anything at all. You’d do anything to keep him there, tethered to your skin, almost as if one single body.

“What are you doing?” he asks against your ear. Law’s large hands travel the length of your arms, down your forearms. He grasps your wrists, but you don’t let go of the scalpel. Your hand shakes, as your knuckles whiten. “That can wait, can’t it?”

You blink, trying to sort your thoughts. Before you can help yourself, you wiggle your hips, rubbing your round ass against his crotch. Law doesn’t move away from you. In fact, he folds over you even closer, trapping you within his tall and lanky frame.

“Now, now,” he whispers before nipping at the top of one ear. You shudder against him, eyes fluttering close. He lets go of one wrist to bring it up to your neck. He squeezes gently, before slipping his hand further up to grasp your chin. Law tilts your face up to look at him. At the sudden press of his hips against your backside, your eyes fly open. You watch the image of him, upside down–his moistened lips, the dark lidded gaze to his eyes. “You shouldn’t be moving like that with a knife in your hand. It’s dangerous. This is an operating room. You’re supposed to be a professional.”

You laugh, thrilled at the prospect of charming him. It was always like this–a push and pull of dark tides, a barely moonlit ocean where the perils of the depth were too obscure and distant to predict. Still, you rise up among the waves, challenge him by spinning in his arms. His head jerks immediately at the glint of the light on the blade. Law’s breathing is erratic. There is a pink tint to his cheeks, as you bring the scalpel closer to his neck.

“I am always a professional, Captain” you tell him with pursed lips. Law’s adam’s apple bobbles as he swallows. His gaze is trained on your face. His dark lashes fan over his cheekbones, full of promises if only you could get him to commit. “Now, why don’t you be a good patient and get on that table for me, hmm?” 

Law hesitates. His eyes are cast down over his long nose, as if he was weighing his options. You press your lips together, and the scalpel against his skin. A tiny bead of red blooms over the skin of his neck. You almost miss the wrinkle of his nose–the tiny tell-tale sign of his discomfort, but as you press your body against his, you feel his erection against your belly. The hardness of it pressed against the soft rolls of your belly is enough incentive to throw away all doubts.

“Are you going to get on the table, or do I have to strap you down to it? What’s it gonna take?”

Your full lips pull into a crooked grin. Law swallows saliva. His mouth waters at the sight of you, your brown skin glowing under the fluorescent lights, the way the halo of the light bulbs lingers on your dark irises. They’re sirens pulling him towards the sea. He feels his body react to you. Desires touch their fiery fingers to every nerve, singing away his common sense. Finally, he obeys, as he walks backwards away from you and towards the table.

You follow him, his eyes never leaving you, as he slowly undoes the remaining buttons of his shirt. You chuckle softly, and tilt your head, scalpel still in one hand as you continue to approach him. Law stops when his ass collides with the edge of the operating table. You advance towards him without giving him room to think or breathe. Your free hand slides over his exposed belly, long acrylics scratching his skin lightly as you drag your nails up to his chest. Law hisses, goosebumps scattering across his skin.

Law knows it's a dangerous gamble–to push you the way he wants to while you hold a blade, but he finds his hand reaching out for you. He buries his fingers in your curls, and pulls you forward towards his mouth. His lips collide with yours roughly, a bit too much teeth and spit, but you swallow it up, drink it all as if starving. His facial hair is ticklish against your jaw as he kisses up to your ear. His teeth tug at your earlobe, and you almost drop the scalpel. His free hand–the one not keeping you close to him by your hair–roughly grabs a breast.

A part of you threatens to fall apart. You want to slice at your own clothes, to perforate your own skin, and make room for him to slip inside–to stay there forever, as a part of you. You moan against his mouth, his tongue stroking the roof of your mouth before it swirls around your tongue. As you break away from the kiss, you gasp, your free hand pushing his chest so he can lay down on the table. You straddle him quickly, blade still in one hand. Carefully, you drag the blade over his skin, lightly so as not to cut him.

Law breathes harshly, and shudders as the cold metal runs its course down the middle of his chest. You stop the point at the edge of his jeans, carefully stroking the dark hairs of his happy trail with the point of the scalpel.

“What are you planning on?” he asks you, as you lose interest in the thick dark hairs. You hum contemplatively, and drag the scalpel further down. You follow the path of the zipper of his jeans, and trace the shape of the imprint of his hardened cock as you straddle his thighs. Law swallows, enjoying the weight of you over his legs, trapping him underneath you. He is ashamed at how the danger of the blade over his denim covered erection makes him feel as his cock is twitching for more.

“I’m not planning anything,” you say quietly, giving in to the way your mouth waters. You undo the button expertly with one hand, and pull down the zipper, slowly pulling out his cock through the hole of his boxer briefs. “As long as you behave.”

Law laughs, even as you grip the tip of his cock with one hand. You stroke the glistening drop of precum on his tip, and smear it down with one thumb. Law swallows a moan, as his back arches slightly off the table. 

“You make it sound like you’re in charge. Aren’t you getting the wrong idea?” he asks you, reaching for one of your breasts. There is a look that you toss his way that he isn’t sure if he imagined; equal parts impassive and murderous. Law ignores it, as he tends to do, and slips a hand under your shirt, seeking the softness of your skin. His calloused thumb against your erect nipple, makes the coil under your belly tighten. You move your hips slowly, feeling your panties moisten with your arousal.

“I think I have the right idea,” you tell him, before biting your lip. When he pinches your nipple between index finger and thumb,  you try to swallow the moan that follows. “I have the perfect idea, really.”

In an effort to gain control, you lean down, and swirl your fleshy tongue around the mushroom head of his cock. Law groans, and throws his head back on the operating table with a thud. You hollow your cheeks, and take him into your mouth, allowing the thickness of him to take up space inside. You bob your head up and down, eyes closing at the salty taste of his skin, at the slight musky scent of his pubic hair. 

You slurp around his length noisily, your own drool sliding slowly down your chin. Law’s fingers find your curls again, and he tugs at them roughly. It doesn’t take long before he’s snapping his hips, fucking up into your mouth. Your eyes water when the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat. You fight your own gag reflex by digging your nails into one of his bony hips. When he ignores your warning, and grips your hair harder, you nip at his other hip with the tip of the blade.

You hear him cuss under his breath as you pull away from his cock, gasping for air. The image of him sprawled under you is blurry as tears spill out of your eyes. You wipe at them haphazardly, trying to clear your vision. There’s a small drop of blood that loses its way down the sharp angles of his hip. 

“You could have just used your words,” he reprimands you breathlessly. You laugh sardonically, grabbing his still erect penis with your free hand. You grip the base and slowly squeeze your way up, taking in the way his jaw tenses, how his mouth drops open a second after you squeeze the tip.

“Kinda hard to do when you’re trying to shove your dick down my throat,”  you respond. He laughs and watches you adjust yourself above him, how you lean on your knees on the table, to move your lab coat aside. Your hand snakes into your skirt, and you push your panties aside. Law grits his teeth as you grip his cock to guide him to your entrance. “You should try putting it in here instead,” you murmur, as you lower yourself on his cock. It takes  a brief moment to adjust to his girth. You move your hips slowly at first, testing the waters, absorbing every expression on Law’s face.

You slide one hand over his belly and stop in the middle of his chest. You use it to keep balance, and to steady yourself as you increase your pace. The pressure builds inside you with every snap of your hips, you follow it towards the edge as your mouth drops open, small moans echoing in the stillness of the operating room. Your slick coats his lower pelvis, making it a slippery effort to stay on rhythm. You drop the scalpel. Law flinches as he hears it clatter on the ground. Your hands go to his chest for support, as you bring yourself up to your haunches and bounce on his dick.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think you should be ashamed at the sounds you are making. Your cries sound impossibly loud to your own ears. You had spent days ignoring him, trying to act like you didn’t need him, and here you were, willing to ride him until your knees gave out. Law moans softly as he palms your ass. He grabs fistfuls as he plants his feet on the operating table. Law grunts as he lifts his hips, toppling your forward over him. You cry out, feeling him push deeper in your throbbing pussy. 

“What?” he laughs against your cheek. He brushes his lips against the burning flush on them. “Not there? You told me to put it in,” as he finishes his words, he thrusts his hips upwards, repeatedly fucking up into you. His balls slap against your dimpled ass, slightly coated by your own arousal. The wet smacking sounds somehow makes your arousal all the more intense. He fucks you without an ounce of affection, as if he didn’t care if you broke. You cry out as your orgasm nears, and wrap both your hands around his neck.

His hand is in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your neck, as pleasure ripples throughout your body. The fluorescent lights blind you, filling your vision with white as you cum. Law loses his hold to wrap his long arms around your waist. He pulls you close as he mumbles confessions against the column of your neck. You’re squeezing around his cock so tight he thinks he might die. He tries to tell you this–how close he is to his own undoing when he feels a pinch on his neck.

Panic seizes him, he tries to push you off of him as his vision blurs. He clamps a hand over his neck, cursing under his breath.

“What–have you…done?” he slurs, as he watches you sit above him, a blurred image of some kind of syringe in your hand. His vision doubles–triples, and he grows nauseous at the sight of multiple of you. 

“Calm down,” he hears you say in an impatient tone. “It’s not like I hurt you or anything.”

Anger threatens to choke him. He feels it bubble up, feels its origins start at the base of his stomach. Law tries to cry out, to curse your name once, ten times, thousands of times, but the weight of his body is too big for him to fight against. 

Darkness comes, as it does for everyone.

And in the darkness, he wakes up again. Law feels his eyes open, he senses his hearing returning. He can smell the seawater, and hear it dripping gently on metal. He blinks in hopes of shaking off the film over his eyes–but he still can’t see anything. He tries to move and hears the clanking of chains, he doesn’t get far as it drags him back to the wall it is attached to. He fumbles in the dark, seizing whatever is wrapped around his neck, the cold metal around his fingers tells him there’s nowhere to go; made of sea stone he is held prisoner. There are cuffs around his ankles and wrists; one around his neck.

A chill touches his exposed skin, as his eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, Law realizes he is in nothing but his underwear. Shame and anger makes his mouth water. He screams out, but it sounds garbled to his ears. As he tries again, his body sore and sluggish, he hears your footsteps.

“Y/N!” he groans, trying to lunge for you. The chains pull him back to the wall, and the metal cuff around his neck gags him. 

You squat in front of him, a knife in your hand. His vision blurs, even as he fights the drugs.

“Stop this,” he whines, unable to feel embarrassment at the weakness in his voice. “Just let me go.”

“Let you go?” you ask him, eyes wide. Your brows arch high over your forehead. Your lips, the ones that had always tempted him to kiss you, are like knives he’s cut himself open on by mistake. They stretch into a smile so sinister Law swears his insides have been torn apart. “Never!” you hiss quietly, as you swoop towards his face. Law flinches as you grasp his face with one hand. You bring up the knife, and trace the sharp line of his jaw with the tip of it. “I’ll never set you free. You’re mine now, always, until forever, and then after.”

[heartdaichi]

PRIMADONNA GIRL ft. yuuji itadori

synopsis : after having everything basically handed to you on a silver platter for the majority of your life, it’s a great shock when something doesn’t go your way. instead of handling your problems like a mature young woman, you decide to do the complete opposite — you take the rebound.

content warnings : nsfw, angst, sub!itadori, mentions of cheating, blowjobs, swearing, slight dubcon, sexting, manipulation, semi-gaslighting, making out, lingerie

a/n : this is for @510hz’s how to be a heartbreaker collab !! i personally absolutely adore marina and i love the electra heart album even more, so i’m really grateful that i had the chance to participate :) also ty @haithamuse for helping me out on my “to continue or not to continue” dilemma </3 minors, please do not interact.

“i just don’t love you anymore. you’re too much to handle.”

you sit on the couch in silence as your boyfriend — now, ex — shouts at you whilst packing clothes messily into a suitcase. “i didn’t do anything wrong.”

his poisonous laugh pierces your heart. “no, because you never do! this is why i’m leaving you, because it’s always someone else’s fault but yours.” hot red waves of anger pulsate from him, and you can only watch as he struggles to shut his case. “i’m leaving. take your drama someplace else.”

you don’t even blink when he slams the door harshly, the brash sound echoing throughout the apartment. a single tear rolls down your cheek, and you struggle to convince yourself that it was his fault and that he was being difficult, not you. you didn’t do anything to hurt him, he’s just too soft and can’t understand anything. yes, that’s it. it’s all him.

except, in reality, it isn’t.

you know full well why he left you; you see everything through rose coloured glasses. you think the world revolves around you, and anything that goes wrong is a way of the universe telling you that you need to cut people off. in your eyes, everyone wants to be your friend, everyone wants to be invited to your parties and any boy would kill to call himself your boyfriend.

that’s why this is such a shock to you. nobody drops you. nobody.

so why do you feel so alone?

the truth is, you’re self destructive. you don’t realise it, but everything you do slowly chips away at people’s perceptions of you, carefully building a glass wall between yourself and everyone else. you hold yourself above everyone else and deem yourself just too good, consequences be damned.

well, not really. now you’re sitting alone in your dark student apartment, with no boyfriend, and no friends to turn to. so, you make a dumb decision.

itadori stares at his phone incredulously. are you seriously still talking to him after your absolute shit show of a relationship? he really shouldn’t pay attention to your message at all, but if you’re sending him a photo, something has to be wrong, right?

so, out of pure concern for your wellbeing, itadori opens the photo. and really, he doesn’t expect anything less from a person like you.

it’s a mirror selfie, but different. your back is to the mirror and he sees that you’re wearing a skimpy red thong beneath your hoodie, which is pulled up just past your chests to give him a sneak peek of your lower cleavage. your phone is cast over your shoulder and he can’t see your face, but he can almost tell you’re making some kind of lewd face behind the lens.

when you were dating, itadori was very used to receiving pictures like this, accompanied with a caption of a similar nature. he has two choices: give in to your seduction and go over to your apartment to see what you want from him, or completely ignore you and go on with his evening.

he seriously wants to take the latter option, but the tent in between his legs says otherwise. “fuck,” he whispers, running a hand through his already messy hair. this is going to be one hell of an evening.

you stare at your phone. it says itadori read the message 20 minutes ago, but he still hasn’t replied yet. you roll onto your stomach on your bed and bury your head into the pillow, withdrawing when you’re met with the familiar scent of your ex. “i need to wash these sheets,” you grumble, picking up the pillow and throwing it across the room where it hits a picture of you and him in front of a nightclub. just as the frame clatters to the floor, the bell rings.

“coming!” on your way to the door, you silently pray that it’s itadori. the lord must’ve heard you because there he is, one hand in his pocket and another in his hair.

“don’t get me twisted, okay? you haven’t talked to me in months and i’m just here to-” itadori is cut off by you pulling him into an impromptu kiss. “what the fuck?”

your smile is saccharine sweet. “i’m single again, which means we can get back together.”

itadori frowns. “what makes you think i want to date you again?” he lets you pull him inside, closing the door behind him.

“because you loved me.” the way you say it is so confident, it sways him. he did love you, but you cheated and tried to tell him that he wasn’t ‘giving you what you need’ and that you had no choice but to ‘expand your horizons’. all of his morals seem to disappear when you pull him down onto the couch and sit right on his crotch.

“and you still want me, yuuji, so don’t try to hide it.” the way you say his name makes him weak in the knees. itadori has always known that you’ll be his undoing, but he didn’t expect it to happen like this. you’re obviously acting impulsively, and getting back with an ex is not the way to solve your problems.

“we can’t do this,” he whispers, but his body disagrees, his hands sliding under your thighs subconsciously. “you need time to relieve your pent up emotions.”

“i am relieving my pent up emotions,” you protest, placing your hands on his chest and seating yourself directly above his growing erection. “see?”

you’re irresistible and you know it, and itadori is falling for your seduction. hard. keeping eye contact with him, you dip your head into the crook of his neck and drag your lips along the skin. he groans deeply, his grip on your hips tightening and pulling you back and forth on his crotch.

“you’re so pretty, yuuji,” you say into his neck before sinking your teeth into the flesh. “i know you missed me, baby. let it all out just for me, okay?” itadori nods as if in a daze; that’s just the effect you have on him.

when your lips reach the neck of his shirt, he slides it off, allowing you full access to his uncovered chest. you remove your hoodie in turn, happily displaying to him the lace bra clasped around your chest. despite seeing you naked multiple times, he can never quite believe how beautiful you are; it’s almost like you were sculpted by aphrodite herself.

itadori notices he’s staring when he hears you laugh breathily. “you remember this set, don’t you?” you leisurely trace the patterns splayed across your chest. “you bought it for me on valentines day.”

itadori does remember. he remembers how happy he was when he saw the delight on your face as you lifted the lid of the box, your grin stretching from ear to ear. he remembers the way you wasted no time in undressing right in front of him to try it on, the lacy red material a strong contrast against your flawless skin. he remembers the night that followed, whispered threads of ‘i love you’ weaved in between the sounds of passionate love-making.

he can remember it all, but he can also remember the accompanying bitterness. all of that seems to wash away when you slide off of his lap and sink to your knees in front of him and slide your hands up his thighs. itadori lets you pull his zipper down, and then his boxers, and it’s almost like it was back when you first met: a pretty but stupid student sucking off her classmate in return for him doing her homework.

he’s pulled out of his thoughts by your honeyed voice and your warm hand slowly stroking the base of his cock. “are you ready?”

itadori nods. it’s been so long since the two of you had been intimate like this and, if anything, he was more than eager for you to start. you smile up at him before gliding your tongue along his slit, collecting the slither of precum before taking his tip into your mouth.

once he slips under that thin veil of pleasure, he knows there’s no going back. you have itadori memorised to a t, so you know exactly what makes him shudder. you drag the tip of your tongue along the underside of his cock and take his silky balls into your palm, massaging them just enough to make him sigh contentedly.

“d-do that again.” you do, this time circling your thumb slowly along his smooth skin. he makes a noise akin to a whine and you smile around his length, snaking your other hand along the fat of his thigh before squeezing hard.

he tries his hardest to hold out but the pleasure pumping through his veins says otherwise, and itadori spills into your mouth, his face turning a bright shade of red. you, on the other hand, swallow faithfully, looking right up at him as you lick any residue off of his swollen cock.

just as itadori opens his mouth to apologise, you press a finger to your lips and shake your head. “don’t say sorry,” you muse, rising to your feet and pulling down your shorts. “you liked it, didn’t you? don’t apologise for that.”

he’s speechless; partly because you’re suddenly being so sweet to him, and partly because you’re now standing in front of him, the full set of lingerie complete with the tiny red lace thong concealing your cunt. there’s a tiny wet patch on the seat of the underwear, and he realises that you enjoyed seeing him crumble just as much as he did.

and when you smile cunningly at his reaction, itadori also realises that underneath that sweet, good girl persona, you’re still the self proclaimed primadonna you’ve always been.

© hiraizens 2023 — all rights reserved. do not copy, repost or translate my works without permission.