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rainy-day-gracie · 1 day ago

Text

wedding night (2)

pairing: General Acacius x virgin!wife!Reader

content warning(s): reader insert, no use of y/n, arranged marriage, implied age gap but nothing specific, oral (f recieving), fingering, loss of virginity, piv sex, innocence kink, self indulgent praise kink, Acacius definitely talks you through it, discussions of consent because consent is sexy mandatory, discussion of future sexual acts, AFTERCARE because aftercare is hot, general acacius is in loooooove but doesn't know it yet haha, romantic and intimate as hell, grievous historical inaccuracy because it's fucking fanfiction, canon divergent because duh

a/n: So guys. I saw Gladiator II and it was awesome and Pedro Pascal is the sexiest man alive (in my heart). However, this character's name is not Marcus. I don't know who lied, but we've all been fooled. So in this sequel, the general's name is just Acacius in order to stay at least a little bit true to the actual canon.

I definitely will be writing for these two again because holy shit I made this romantic and I love them so much.

Read wedding night (1) here!

Read bloodlust here!

---

Acacius saw heaven in your eyes, a piece of salvation he never thought he might be able to grasp with his blood-stained hands.

He glanced down your body, wrapped beautifully in your white wedding gown, gold jewelry shining in warm candlelight. For a moment, he wondered Venus herself were tricking him with her immortal seduction.

But the blush of red in your cheeks, the shine of desire in your eyes, the beat of your heart in your chest....

No immortal possibly could mimic such evidence of true, temporary, and precious life.

Acacius had been with plenty women in his lifetime, had thought he understood what desire was.

I want you, you had said.

Now, he thinks he's only scratched the surface.

---

The general-- Acacius -- peered at you like a starving man at a feast, drinking you in, turning the wheels in his head of what he wanted to do first.

He grasped your hand in both of his, studying the golden band on your ring finger. Evidence of your gods-blessed union.

"I want to see you wearing nothing.... except for this," Acacius breathed, his voice low, and dreamy, like the words were slipping from him with no control.

"I'd like that very much," you said, trying to keep your hand from trembling under his touch.

"May I strip you bare, darling?" He asked, calloused fingertips fiddling with the clasp on your golden bracelet.

"Yes."

Instantly, the bracelet fell, and then the other, and then the other. Acacius' gentle touch drove you wild, methodical and sure. He stopped for a moment, glancing at the purity ring on your pinky, and smirked in a way that nearly made your knees buckle.

Glancing back up to your gaze, he held your stare as he pulled the purity ring off. His lips were a hairsbreadth away from yours, letting you smell the sweet cherry wine on his breath.

"Kiss me," you mumbled.

Acacius' smirk remained. "Patience, darling."

He tucked the purity ring into a pocket of his tunic, and turned you around, so your back pressed against his chest. A sigh caught in your throat, realizing he had turned you both to face the full-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom.

"Answer me honestly," he said, trailing one of his knuckles down the exposed skin of your spine. "Have you ever touched yourself?"

Heat rose to your cheeks, and you shivered at his light touch. "Uh..."

"Don't you lie to me, now. It's a great sin to lie to your husband," he whispered, his teeth nipping lightly at your ear.

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I- I've touched myself. I've touched... my..."

"Your cunt?" Acacius mused.

You nodded, your chest rising heavily.

"Did you… like it? When you touched yourself?"

"N-no. I've been told it is not ladylike, to... pleasure yourself in that way."

Acacius kissed the back of your neck, making you arch into his touch. "Oh, my poor darling... there's nothing more ladylike in the world. Don't worry... I will show you how."

A full whimper escaped you at that, and Acacius undid the knots of your dress with a chuckle.

The dress fell, leaving you in only your loincloth, tied at your waist. But Acacius was looking at something else.

His eyes were transfixed on your perked breasts, his mouth slightly open as he wrapped one of his hands around the soft flesh. A high-pitched sigh left your throat, and he reached around with his other hand to take hold of the other breast.

"Do you like it when I hold you like this?" Acacius murmured, his mouth at your temple. He twitched his fingertips to pinch your nipples softly, making you close your eyes in pleasure. "Look at me."

Snapping your eyes open again, he stared you down in the mirror with a small devilish grin. He pinched your breasts again, pulling an answer from you. "Yes, Acacius."

"Good girl," he praised, your cunt throbbing at the words. He let go of your breasts, untying the cloth at your hips until you were utterly bare before him, save for your wedding ring. "Lie down on the bed, darling."

He brushed a palm over your plush backside, guiding you towards the beautiful linen bed. Plenty big for two.

You obey with a shy smile, sinking into the blankets and pillows like you were always meant to fit there. Watching from your comfortable bed, Acacius loomed over the foot, undoing buttons on his tunic, and ties on his robes.

Your lips parted slightly as he exposed the tan, scarred skin of his chest, flickering candlelight bathing him in a warm glow. He studied your expressions like a hawk, watching for any sign of discomfort or displeasure.

As he unlaced the toga and loincloth, leaving him as bare as you were, you had to keep yourself from gasping.

His cock hung heavily between his legs, not even fully aroused but still bigger than anything you had anticipated. He wrapped a hand around his manhood, smirking at your expression, but mercifully saying nothing about it.

“I am curious, my wife,” Acacius began, his voice a rumble. He pulled himself onto the marriage bed, caging you in the sheets with his arms and legs straddling. His eyes never left yours. “What did they say about me? When you learned of our union, what whispers crossed your ears?”

You licked your lips, speaking suddenly a challenge. “Um, that you w-were brave…”

Acacius leaned down, pulling one of your legs over his broad shoulders.

“…and strong…”

He mirrored the motion with your other leg, leaving your weeping cunt exposed.

“…a-and…”

Acacius paused, waiting for your answer. “And?”

“General, I shouldn’t speak ill…” you moaned, wondering if one could combust with desire.

“Tell me the truth, darling. Or you won’t get what you so eagerly want.”

“Th-they said you were cruel,” you stammered, desperately, any wall of self preservation coming down. “They said you took anything you desired, washed your hands with blood, and violence was the only language you spoke. Your rage eclipses that of Achilles, and your eyes blacken every time you raise a banner. You are of Mars himself, shedding blood like you were born to it.”

Acacius’ smirk from between your legs was wicked, and he broke your gaze for the first time since lying on the bed.

He studied your open cunt with a glazed expression, like he was lost in the pleasure of staring at your slick desire.

“If I am of Mars then you are of Venus, my darling.”

His words filled you with affection, the way his knees bent on the bed almost like he was worshiping an altar between your legs.

“So pure…” he murmured, as if the words had slipped from his lips.

Your back arched like a bow as he licked a stripe up your soaking slit, sighs escaping from your throat.

Acacius hummed with delight, fucking you on his tongue lazily, drinking your desire like nectar of the gods.

You buried your hands in his hair hesitantly, unsure of what would be pleasing to him. In all the times you eavesdropped on the married women of the court, never once had they mentioned anything like… this. Never once had they mentioned any of the overwhelming pleasure racking every limb of your body. Never once had they mentioned the lightning erupting over your skin with every brush of his calloused palm.

Acacius trailed his hands down your arched torso, cupping your breasts as his mouth traced patterns over your cunt. Your breathy moans made him chuckle into your flesh, the vibrations making you lift your hips with pleasure.

Throbbing built in your pussy, clenching around his tongue as your desire jumped at every brush of his lips.

“A-Acacius, gods…” you cried out, throwing your head back as a pinnacle raced towards you.

“Relax, my darling,” Acacius breathed, bringing one of his hands down to rest at your soft inner thigh. “I’m going to put my hands on you now.”

“Oh, please,” you begged, unsure of what it was you were begging for.

“Tell me if it becomes too much,” Acacius said, and his hand on your thigh moved.

The gentle brush of his rough fingertips on your slick folds had you gasping anew, pulling lightly on the locks of his hair.

“Such a pretty cunt,” Acacius mumbled to himself. “I have half a mind to just keep you like this.”

You whined in protest, your hips chasing his touch.

“So needy for a virgin.”

You threw your head back as his finger pushed past your slick folds, reaching spots inside of yourself that you hadn’t known existed.

“Oh, so tight, my love. You truly are pure.” Acacius curved his finger, brushing against something spongy, and sensitive. A guttural moan escaped your throat, and he laughed softly. “When the pleasure peaks, do not fight it. Let it take you away, somewhere only you and I exist.”

You nodded at his command, closing your eyes as your head sunk into the linen pillows.

Unrestrained cries erupted from you as he pulled his finger out, and in, and out again, hitting that sweet spot with every push inside of your aching cunt.

When he pressed his tongue to the bud at the top of your core, he pushed a second finger deep into your slick, making you wonder if the gods truly did become man. The stretch of his fingers pricked a pain deep within, making you clench tighter around his calloused fingertips. A slight brush of his rough facial hair against your core was your ultimate undoing.

You called out his name as the pleasure rushed down your spine, into your belly, and built in your desperate cunt. He knew it, too, and continued to thrust his fingers deep inside with renewed enthusiasm. His tongue licked against your clit with hunger, tipping you over the edge.

Cries escaped your lips as the pleasure overwhelmed you, every muscle in your body going taut as the desire took over. Your cunt clenched tightly, chasing his fingers, and your spire curved with tension as the wave of lust claimed you.

Acacius watched with a lazy smile as your core squeezed with your orgasm, evidence of your desire dripping off his lips.

“Acacius… Acacius…” you breathed as the climax subsided, your body relaxing into the bed once more.

“How do you feel, darling?” Acacius asked, crawling back up to press his nose against yours. His brown eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with adoration.

In place of an answer, you buried your hands in his curly, soft hair, pressing his lips to yours. He responded instantly, capturing your mouth with the passion of love and war.

His tongue pushed against yours, pure want seeping from every brush of his lips against yours. You gasped as his hands cupped your hips gently, like he was making sure you were a solid thing he could hold in his hands. Like he was worried you might slip through his fingers.

“I want more,” you whispered against his mouth, and he nodded with his eyes closed, like he was dreaming.

“It will hurt for a moment, but I will be gentle with you,” Acacius breathed, trailing light kisses against your throat. “Tell me when there is pain, or if you wish to stop.”

You nodded against his temple, and he pulled his lips back instantly.

“Say you want me, darling. Say you will tell me to stop if you wish.”

The intensity in those brown eyes, the desperation, had you squirming with desire once again.

You held his face in your hands, tracing your thumb against his rough stubble, studying him.

Acacius' nose was utterly Roman, looking like it had possibly been broken once or twice. Every mark on him was evidence of a man that had seen the Underworld and walked away, but not without a few scars to show for it. Though he had been nothing but gentle with you, there was no doubt he could live up to his reputation of bloodletting.

Still, you held him close.

"I want you, Acacius. I will tell you to stop if I wish to." There was no hesitation, no tremor in your voice.

He sighed in relief, reaching down to his hard cock and bringing it between your legs. You whined at the sensitive touch, and he grunted at the slickness of your folds.

"So wet for me, darling, so perfect," he moaned in your ear, guiding the soft flesh of your thighs to wrap around his hips.

Tentatively, he rubbed his cock up and down your core, getting you accustomed to the blunt feeling. You whined breathlessly, near begging for him to fuck you already.

"Patience, darling. I need to go slow to not hurt you," he mumbled.

The blunt head of his cock pushed past your sensitive folds, and you dug your nails into the strong muscles of his back.

Acacius let out a guttural groan into the heated skin of your neck. "So wet, and tight."

You called his name like a prayer, your head tossed back in pain and pleasure. Over and over again, you called his name.

"A little more, easy, easy..." Acacius moaned, pushing further into your virgin cunt.

You cried out in pinching desire. "S-so much, Acacius..."

"I know, darling. We're halfway there."

You held tight to him, his rough hands on your soft skin distracting you from the stretch of your cunt around his cock. "H-halfway?"

Acacius chuckled, holding still inside of you to let you adjust. "You feel... divine. So, so perfect, my sweet wife."

A high pitched moan escaped you as he pulled back slightly, kissing your neck as he pushed farther in. You clenched around him, and his lips on your clammy skin sent a fresh wave of lust panging though you.

But Acacius stopped, and you gasped in pain again, as if he had hit a barrier in your core he couldn't push past. You knew he could bottom out if he so wanted, but not without tearing you deeply.

Instead of pushing forward, he stayed where he was inside of you, tracing his nose along the curve of your jaw.

When he spoke again, his voice was low, almost like he didn't mean for you to hear his words.

"Do you want to know what I want, darling?"

You were too breathless to answer.

Acacius continued. "I want to fuck you so well that all of Rome hears you calling my name. I want to mark you with my mouth so you may look in the mirror and think only of me. I want fall to my knees and thank the gods that gave you to me. But for now, my darling... I want you to come on my cock with your most divine cunt."

Your cunt, as if on command, fluttered, and you moaned as he was able to fill you to the hilt without a pinch of discomfort.

"Oh, yes," Acacius whispered, his tongue darting out along your pulse point. You cried out in pleasure as he shifted inside of you, holding tight to his strong back.

"You... are... perfect, darling," he panted, thrusting slowly, in and out, in and out. "So warm, and tight..."

"Acacius, please..."

"Please... what?" Acacius teased, biting your bottom lip slightly as he pushed back into you.

"More... more," you said, digging your nails into the muscles of his shoulders.

Acacius responded in kind, chuckling at your desperation. "As my lady commands."

His thrusts into your aching cunt deepened, becoming harder as you grew needy for his strength. You tossed your head back with a high-pitched cry when he was able to hit that perfectly sensitive spot inside of you, and the reaction made him even more ravenous for you.

"Oh, you take my cock so well," Acacius praised, the words making your cunt clench around him. "So, so good, my darling."

As if he knew what you needed before you did, he pulled his chest away from yours, sitting up on his knees while thrusting into you. He looped his wide arms underneath your spread legs, angling you upwards on his thighs and pulling your hips up off of the bed. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and you arched your back off the sheets with a shriek of delight.

"Acacius, Acacius," you cried out, the new angle sending him deep into your core, hitting spots you hadn't even known existed.

"That's it, say my name," Acacius said with a smirk. "Say my name when I fuck you, tell all of Rome who is making you feel this good."

You couldn't stop, the falling of his name from your lips dripping like sweet honey. All you could feel was the sweat of his skin against yours, the calloused of his hands as they gripped your soft thighs closely, and the depths of your core his cock was able to reach.

"You're going to cum for me," Acacius ordered, his words coming out in pants of breath. "You're going to cum for me, because you're a good girl. You're a good girl, aren't you? Letting me fuck her virgin cunt so nicely, such a good girl..."

At his praise, your cunt tightened around his cock, back arching like a bow. As you came, he pressed a calloused hand into the flesh above your pelvis, the pressure making your high all the more intense. You cried out his name, over and over again, the two of you becoming the only people in the world as the tidal wave of pleasure overwhelmed you.

Acacius' thrusts into your aching core sped, became less focused, and you knew he was losing control himself as you came apart underneath him. Your name fell from his lips as he pressed his hand further into the spot below your belly, where his cock seemed to bulge into his palm as your cunt pulsed around him.

"Such a good girl, such a good wife," he moaned. Only when your core could only twitch in response to his strong thrusts did he slow, leaning back over you and capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

A warmth pooled within you, evidence of his pleasure. You didn't know if you'd ever felt such an intimate connection with anyone as you did with him, his kiss burning a brand into your heart as the heat of passion faded.

Acacius pulled away after a moment, breathing heavily against your throat. "Hold still a moment," he warned. His palms pressed against your hips, his cock sliding from you with a slight sting. You followed his advice, your legs feeling weak and shaky.

You studied him as he crossed the bedchamber to the washroom, his broad back dimpling with the movement. Returning with a clean cloth and a faint smile on his lips, the dimple in his cheek made your heart swell as he saw your sprawled body on his massive bed.

"Feeling comfortable?" Acacius asked, eyebrows raised with amusement.

You nod, watching him as he crossed over to you, pressing a chaste kiss against your lips as he carefully wiped your messy core.

Breaking from your lips for a moment, he pressed his nose against yours, and you cherished the gentle, intimate gesture.

"Shall I call the servants for a hot bath?" Acacius mumbled, tossing the cloth aside.

"A hot bath sounds divine, but only if we may take one together," you reply, slightly giddy.

Acacius furrowed his brows in confusion. "What is making you laugh, my darling?"

You kissed him again, long and slow. Time stood still, and it was as if you could physically feel the bond forging between the two of you, forging in a slow burn of a crackling fire. It was warm, and easy, and comforting.

You broke away, studying him in his eyes. "You are simply... not what I expected."

Acacius smiled, that damn dimple curving in his cheek.

The most feared general on the continent.

Your husband.

Acacius kissed your forehead. "You, my darling, are everything I've been dreaming of."

---

taglist (people that asked to be tagged in part 2): @marianastudiesart @joeldjarin @fallout-girl219 @shantellorraine @lanadelslay69-420 @pedrofan

my request box is open! would love to hear y'all ideas for Joel, Acacius, Javier, or Oberyn :)

#general marcus acacius #marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius x reader #general acacius #general acacius x reader #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 fic #gladiator ii fic #gladiator 2 fanfiction #gladiator ii fanfiction #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius x f!reader #gladiator ii smut #gladiator 2 smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal

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buddhistmusings · 3 days ago

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Why do you care so much?

I've been asked this question a few times in the past year - why I spend so much time thinking, reading, and reflecting on antisemitism, especially because I am not Jewish myself. There are a few reasons, really. One of them is that I think antisemitism is a hatred that spawns other hatreds, but even if it did not, it would still be worth studying, because the fact that it is a hatred at all is enough. The fact that antisemitism impacts Jewish people is enough of a reason to oppose it.

It's also because it's important to oppose because of the way it damages the thinking habits of people who believe it. I saw somebody say, "Jew-Hate makes you dumb," once. And though I think it was probably an off the cuff statement for them, it stuck with me, and I think they're right. In my religion, we say hatred is one of the three poisons - it can seriously harm your mental well-being in a way that deepens your suffering in all aspects of life. Often, hatred can also be spread like a contagion. It's something that destroys social harmony and causes severe social dysfunction. And right now, I think antisemitism is the most contagious of hatreds - I've seen people in my life fall off the cliff, I've been able to talk some back from it, and I've seen how so many people wander towards it without any idea that that's what they're doing.

Part of the problem is that antisemites consider themselves righteous in a way I think most racists don't. Often, you'll see "I'm not racist but" I almost never see that with antisemitism. They don't add that qualifier. They just say it. Most racists I know will make a tacit acknowledgment of the racist implications of what they're about to say - antisemitic people don't. They often even engage in anti-Jewish racism while invoking anti-racism.

I don't really know any Jewish people in real life, perhaps only two. But I don't need to know them to know that hating them is wrong. I think I also have a debt of gratitude to many people in the Jewish community because of the advances in Buddhist Studies made by Jewish people, which sounds strange - but it's true that many leading voices and researchers, both in academia and within Buddhism itself happen to be Jewish. I'm not sure why this is, but it's absolutely true. The most prolific translator of Pali into English that I can think of is Jewish. The most impactful Vipassana instructor in America I can think of is Jewish. The most impactful voice in Deity Yoga, for Tibetan Buddhism, is Jewish. People who are Jewish, for some reason, contributed probably more than ex-Christian Americans or atheists combined to the proliferation of Buddhism in the United States.

Buddhists and Jewish people are known to have a close relationship. There are a lot of different reasons for this that I would suggest, but none that add up to explain the amazing contributions to Buddhism made by American Jews.

I think another reason I have for being so interested in antisemitism as a non-Jew is the kind of... political disillusionment I've been experiencing? It's been a disturbing few years, and I haven't seen many people elaborate very well on this feeling of abandonment and horror, witnessing people who you thought shared your values become hateful and deeply violent in their beliefs. The only people I've seen consistently speak about it happen to be Jewish.

I think all of this has helped contribute to a feeling of closeness to Jewish people as a group, despite that I don't really know Jewish people in my real life, and only have one or two Jewish friends online. This year has been a horror show of watching people's minds become twisted - it's so scary in a way I can't quite capture with words right now.

I also sometimes have a back and forth with myself about when and if to mention I'm not Jewish when I talk about antisemitism, because I do think it's totally necessary to explain the perspective from which I speak, but to be honest it feels kind of icky to be like "I'm not Jewish, but antisemitism is bad", because antisemitism is bad whether or not the person saying so isn't Jewish, and I think it might be a negative for people to think "not being Jewish" is something which makes it any less valuable to be against antisemitism, and talk about how against it you are. It's very real that people who talk about antisemitism are perceived to be Jewish, and obviously, it's important not to lead people into thinking you're Jewish when you're not, but adding an "I'm not Jewish" qualifier to statements about antisemitism I worry might contribute to the perception that those against antisemitism are Jewish.

Antisemitism is such an insidious ideology. And it's everywhere. I see it daily in so many different spaces. It has the largest impact on Jewish people, but it also impacts non-Jewish people at times. I distinctly remember being mocked throughout school for "looking Jewish." I think about that Greek restaurant which was attacked because they were thought to be Jewish. Or that man in the Amsterdam violence who tried to help and was then accused of being Jewish himself. It's so deluded, violent, and manages to consume people's thoughts like a parasitic worm in their brain.

Anyways, I planned for this post to be more organized. Oops.

#tw antisemitism #antisemitism #its like we live in a dystopia

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archangeldyke-all · 8 hours ago

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I got sevika blue screening after being called my butch on the mind rn. especially if it was said casually. I think it's one of those things that never fails to make her secretly swoon after the first time

GODDDDDD FSDG

men and minors dni

sevika's never really liked the term 'girlfriend.'

it's not that she doesn't want to be in an established relationship-- especially since she's met you-- it's just... such a strange term for her.

she's not a girl-- she's a woman. there's nothing particularly girly about her. sevika's much more comfortable being more masculine, and she loves being able to be a gentlewoman.

in more mundane ways-- holding the doors open for you, offering up her bus seat when a pregnant person or old man shuffles on, subtly flexing when you hold her arm on your walks home at night-- and in bigger ways too.

sevika's butch. she takes pride in that title. and if that means she needs to fight some assholes who don't know the meaning of the word 'no'-- so be it.

so, this is all to say, the first time you introduce sevika to your friends, she's just a little hesitant to have to hear herself described in such a strange way. she'd prefer 'wife', in all honesty, but she's trying to take things slow with you, and 'partner' sounds like you guys work together.

but then, you spot your friends at a table, smiling and tugging sevika to the back of the resturant with a hand on her bicep.

"hi!" you squeal, greeting your friends with hugs and kisses. sevika watches with a gentle smile as you all greet each other. "okay, everyone, this is my butch, sevika." you introduce her with a happy little gesture in her direction.

sevika freezes, processing your words, a smile slowly growing on her face. all your friends wave and welcome her happily to the table, but she only has eyes for you, her heartbeat thudding in her chest as she studies you.

you notice-- or you must just know her really well-- because it's how you introduce her from that moment on... up until she proposes for you.

then for a while then, she's introduced as your fiance which she loves-- but she misses being called your butch so much.

so the first time she hears you refer to her as your husbutch? she just about tackles you the ground as she tries to smother you in kisses.

you're on the phone with your friend or something, just catching up, and sevika's not even meant to overhear it or anything, she just happens to pass the kitchen as you say it. "...so then i'm gonna take my husbutch to the markets, see if i can convince her to haul home some-ah!" you squeal as you're tackled to the floor. "sevika!"

"i love you so fucking much. let's get married again. i don't care if it's tacky."

"i'm on the phone!" you giggle.

"shit, sorry." she scrambles to get the phone for you, pressing it into your hand gently. "i just love you." she kisses you one last time, her tongue just barely brushing your lips, making you just a little dizzy before she pulls away and winks at you.

it takes your friend three tries to get your attention again.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@lavenderbabu @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette

@ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp

@iamastar @sevikitty @mascdom @nhaaauyen @annesunshiner

@mirconreadzztuff22 @veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @lesbodietcoke

@strawberrykidneystone @sevikasfan @fict1onallyobsessed @greenhazes

#sevika #sevika arcane #sevika imagine #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika

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luxmainohno · 17 hours ago

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GF!jinx headcanons

A/n: i haven't posted forever here but arcane left me with a hole to fill so I wanted to come back and surround myself with ppl who like the things I do hahaha. Anyways if you like this plz like/reblog/share and feel free to send me some request for later! And happy Thanksgiving!

S2 arcane showed us that when Jinx is with someone she feels safe around she's very cool headed and rational. I'd assume she's the same around her partner

She has plenty of inside jokes with you, some you probably don't even know about and she definitely gets pouty when you don't get the joke.

Loves doodling you. They're bad and unflattering but they're drawn out of love and adoration

If she's a jinx you're the opposite.

She thinks you saved her and can fix or make better all her mistakes. She probably even is a little unhealthily attached to you

I love writing jinx bc she is just so mentally ill (me too) I really think jinx in a relationship is a study on its own!

At first i don't think she'd be too keen on physical intimacy and genuinely you'd have to initiate any touch.

In arcane the people she is physical with like hugging and closeness are silico and vi, touch is saved for her family. If she's touching you in anyway she means you're family.

So many random soft moments with her, she's genuinely not this manic awful person when she's left alone in a safe environment. She needs a safe environment to be herself, to be jinx and powder in one.

She loves private time between you two, its the only time she can take her time to be herself without any pressure, she's allowed to not think or worry about destroying something or someone

She's terrified of ever hurting you, so much so it'll be a genuine issue in the relationship. She's so scared of Jinxing this relationship, what if she makes you hate her? What if she accidently harms you or worse ?

You'd have to spend a lot of time reminding her she's not an awful person, and her existence isn't a burden. It will never be to you, you promise and she believes it. She holds on to it and to you.

Can be very paranoid about you. You're safety, loyalty, whatever it is she just has never had any sort of stability or constant, she will question everything, and you will have to be her rock

#arcane #arcane lol #league of legends #arcane headcanons #arcane imagine #arcane x reader #arcane x you #arcane imagines #arcane jinx #jinx x reader #jinx x you #jinx x y/n #jinx dating headcanons #im ill

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brbsoulnomming · 2 days ago

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Heart On Your Sleeve Part 4

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

written for steddiebigbang2024 and belatedly posting here!

-----

“Freak's looking at you.”

There's a nudge to his shoulder that makes Steve jerk up, snapping out of the daze he'd been in.

“Huh?” he asks, looking at Aaron with his brow furrowed.

Aaron nods towards a spot halfway across the cafeteria, and Steve shifts his gaze over to see Munson standing on top of one of the tables, watching him expectantly.

Shit.

“Can you repeat that, if you're expecting a response?” Steve asks. “I drifted off somewhere around comparing the swimming pool to a goldfish bowl.”

He's being honest - it's still harder to concentrate, and he saves it for classes and practice and tends to zone out when he doesn't need to pay attention - but it makes the people who were clearly listening in laugh.

Steve catches Munson's gaze and rolls his eyes, giving him an apologetic little shrug.

He's not really sure how Munson takes it, because he just bemoans the attention span of the average jock and clomps down from the table, but no one's looking at either of them anymore, so he guesses it doesn't matter.

Steve's almost disappointed. Might be kind of nice to see what Munson's like when no one's watching them, he thinks.

—

Things are okay, with him and Nancy and Jonathan.

His gaze doesn't automatically seek Nancy out in a crowd or anything - mostly because he'd always been at her side, before, so it's not like it's even something he's used to - but he still catches her gaze sometimes, still smiles and nods and doesn't say anything.

They share study hall together.

He and Nancy shared it before, of course, and logically he knows that Jonathan had it at the same time they did, but now - now they all have it together.

After the first few times of him or Nancy awkwardly veering sharply away from their previously shared table when they'd seen the other one was already there - one day they just didn't.

They don't say much, but the three of them sit together, exchanging class notes and books. Sometimes Steve sees the pinch in Jonathan's eyes and gives him a bottle of water and some ibuprofen, and sometimes Jonathan sees him squinting too hard at something and copies the passage over in bigger handwriting, and Nancy checks over both of their notes, and it's -

The jagged black cut in his heart scabs, fades, scars. He'll always love her, he thinks, but sometimes he thinks if they can get over the hurt -

Sometimes he sits with the two of them and it's the closest he's ever felt to being understood. Sometimes he thinks it's what he wanted with Tommy and Carol, all those years ago.

It's a start.

—

He runs into Munson after school, sometimes.

They don't say anything either, but after practice gets out and after Munson is done with his theater club or whatever it is, they'll see each other.

Sometimes, if Munson's selling, Steve will linger.

He doesn't really think Billy's stupid enough to point fingers at Munson, and most people are too afraid of him to do anything, but it still makes him feel a little better to keep an eye on him.

It kind of feels like no one watches out for Eddie Munson, not the way he watches out for his fellow freaks.

“What?” Munson demands one day, sidling up to Steve and slamming his goodie box down on the bench. “What're you looking for here?”

Steve frowns at him. “I told you.”

Munson's brows furrow. “You were serious about that shit? You think you're protecting me?”

“Why not?” Steve challenges.

Munson's eyes go flat. “And what's this protection going to cost me?”

Steve thinks about being offended, for a moment, before he wonders if other people have tried to make deals before, keep the other assholes of Hawkins High away from him in exchange for free weed or something.

He softens. “I haven't asked you for anything.”

Munson scowls. “Yet,” he counters. “Whatever you're thinking, if you're trying to get me to owe you, it's not happening. Fuck off, man, I don't need protecting.”

His heart clenches as he hears an echo of Max saying the same thing, and before he knows it he's reached into his chest and pulled out his heart.

The scowl melts into confusion for a brief moment before it's back in full force. “I'm still not showing you mine,” Munson retorts.

“I still haven't asked,” Steve counters. “I don't want anything, man, all right? Just looking out in case Billy tries something.”

Or anyone else, now that Steve thinks of it, but even with his heart pumping in a steady truth, he's not sure Munson'll believe that.

“Just like that,” Munson says flatly, after a moment of watching Steve's heart. “And what do your knights of the round table think of this?”

Steve's nose scrunches. “What?”

“Your knights.” Munson waves his hand dismissively, but - his tone isn't mean, isn't condescending. “It's a King Arthur reference.”

It's nice, that he isn't being shitty about Steve not understanding something.

“Right. So that makes me King Arthur, and you're - what was it again, the court jester?” Steve asks, giving him a little smile to show he's teasing.

“If we're doing King Arthur, I'm going with Merlin,” Eddie says.

“The old guy with the beard and pointy hat?” Steve asks.

Eddie puts his hands on his hips, fluttering his eyelashes. “You think I couldn't pull it off?”

Steve plays along, making a show of looking him up and down. “You know what, sure, you've got the right look for gray haired old man.”

“Asshole,” Eddie tells him, but he doesn't sound pissed anymore. “You know you're cutting into my profits, right? People see you lingering and they're less likely to come buy.”

Steve's brows furrow. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah, really. Only the desperate want to make illicit purchases under the watchful eye of Hawkins High's once and future king.”

Steve's quiet for a moment. “I'll stand farther away, make myself look busy.”

Eddie glowers. “Seriously? You're not giving this up?”

Honestly - Steve probably should. But he's stubborn, and Eddie throwing a fit about it kind of just makes him want to do it more.

“Who looks out for you?” he asks instead of answering.

Eddie looks thrown. “What?”

“That's why you do it, right? Why you started walking on tables and making yourself a target. It takes attention off of the guys younger than you.” Steve's trying to make a point, so he slides right over the fact that they both know everyone's younger than Eddie - this is his second senior year, after all. “So everyone watches you.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, a little bit of an edge back in his voice. “You watch me, Harrington?”

“No,” Steve replies, blunt and honest. “Not really. Not before.”

“Not before Billy Hargrove tried to blame me for bashing your head in with his fists?” Eddie asks.

“He smashed a plate over it, actually,” Steve shoots back. “But yeah, something like that.”

Steve's heart gives an erratic beat. It wasn't a lie, but apparently it wasn't enough of the truth, either. Eddie gives him a pointed look.

“There's these kids I babysit,” Steve says, slow and careful. “They're into the same things you are. They're gonna be in high school next year, and I won't be here. Neither will you, but it just made me think - I'd want someone like you looking out for them.”

Eddie watches his heart for a moment.

“What are their names?” he asks. “Yeah, I won't be here, but Jeff will be. I can tell him to look out for them.”

Relief swoops through Steve, and he doesn't even care when Eddie gives him a funny look after he includes Mike and Will along with Dustin, Lucas, and Max.

He won't admit it, but it helps.

—

The next day, Eddie sits next to him at lunch.

He makes a big deal of it, hamming it up as he hops over the bench and plops down, pulling out a sandwich and some chips and flattening out his lunch bag to make a plate for them.

Steve's sitting with the swim team today, and he watches some of the guys side eye Eddie like they're not sure what the joke is and who the punchline is supposed to be. He watches some of them look at him with disgust, too, and those he carefully files away to keep an eye on later.

“My liege!” Eddie announces cheerfully. “How fair you and your knights of the round table on this fine afternoon?”

“Your king is doing just fine, as long as you keep your boots on the ground and away from the top of the lunch table,” Steve retorts.

“Is this like when Carol used to call her and Tommy Duke and Duchess?” Jacob asks.

“Are we doing that, are we knights now?” Dorian asks, his eyes lighting up a little.

Dorian gets straight A's, Steve remembers that. English is his best class.

“Sure, why not?” Steve says, shrugging carelessly, even as he shoots a smile at Dorian. “You can be Sir Galahad.”

Michael groans. “Don't encourage him, this is stupid.”

Tanner snorts. “From the guy who calls his girlfriend princess.”

Michael flushes. “Shut up! It's just so Ashley will stop whining.”

“Uh-huh.” Jacob elbows him. “We've all heard you at Tina's parties pledging to be her knight in shining armor.”

They have, apparently, completely forgotten Eddie's existence as they fall back to ribbing on each other.

Steve turns to him, finding him watching the table with a narrow, calculating gaze.

“Eat your lunch,” Steve says. “My knights don't give a shit.”

These ones, anyway, and as long as Steve's there, but he's not going to say that.

They both know it.

Still, Eddie keeps it up. It's not every day, or every other day, or in any kind of recognizable pattern, but he'll plop himself down next to Steve's side like he belongs there whenever he feels like it.

Steve largely treats it like he doesn't give a shit, and most of the people he tends to sit with follow suit, if a couple of them can't seem to resist making snide little comments.

It's always the ones who make snide comments to everyone, the kind of assholes that Steve can't wait to get away from, so he mostly ignores it.

The sixth or seventh time it happens, Steve drops his apple on Eddie's folded over lunch bag.

Eddie stares at him.

“What?” Steve asks. “You're going to get scurvy if you keep eating nothing but bologna and Doritos for lunch.”

Eddie snorts. “I look like an eighteenth century pirate captain?”

Steve makes a show of looking him up and down again. “You look like something,” he replies.

Completely unexpectedly, Eddie flushes a little, picking up the apple and taking a comically large bite out of it.

Steve grins.

—

Steve's at swimming practice after school when Nancy and Jonathan show up.

The second he sees them hovering near the back door, he hauls himself up out of the pool, barely pausing to grab a towel on the way.

“What's happened?” he asks immediately, low and quick.

Jonathan's expression is a mess of worry, like he's trying not to panic, as he says, “I can't find Will.”

“We're supposed to pick him and Mike up from the AV club,” Nancy cuts in. “But they're not there, and they're not at any of their usual places at school.”

“Or at home, or anyone else's place, or the arcade,” Jonathan adds.

Steve's chest tightens. It's stupid, kids go off to places they're not supposed to be all the time - especially these kids - but given their track record, that doesn't mean they're not in trouble. “Let me grab my stuff, I'll be right there.”

Practice is almost done, anyway.

He shrugs into his windbreaker and grabs his backpack, darting out the door to follow them. He's already digging around in the backpack to pull out the walkie talkie Dustin gave him by the time he gets to them.

“Little shit better answer,” Steve grumbles, thumbing it on. “Dustin, you there?”

There's a tense pause as they wait.

“Dustin?” Steve tries again.

Nothing.

Jonathan's face goes a little paler, and Nancy's jaw clenches.

“Hey asshole, you're the one who made me carry this around, the least you could do is respond,” Steve bitches.

This time, the walkie flares to life.

“You're supposed to say over when you're done talking, Steve!” Dustin bitches back. “Otherwise I won't know it's my turn! Over.”

“Are you serious right now? It wasn't obvious enough?” Steve asks - then, because he wouldn't put it past Dustin to be a little shit about it, and he knows Jonathan is beyond worried - “Is Will with you? Over.”

“Yeah, he's right here. Why?” Dustin asks. “Over.”

Jonathan sags with relief.

“Was he maybe supposed to meet his brother somewhere?” Steve prompts. “Over.”

Whatever Dustin had been going to say in response to that is drowned out by a chorus of “Oh shit!” and “You said you were keeping track of the time!” and “Don't tell Mom, we'll be right there!”

Nancy rolls her eyes, taking the walkie from him. “Five minutes,” she says into it. “Or we're leaving without you and you can bike home. Over and out.”

Steve's pretty sure he and Jonathan both know that she doesn't mean that, but the kids don't know it, so he's equally sure that'll light a fire under their asses.

“Hey, Dustin, do you and Lucas need a ride home?” he asks once he gets the walkie back.

“And Max?” Dustin asks. “Over.”

“And Max,” Steve agrees, assuming that's a yes. “I'll meet you out front of the high school. Over.”

He shoves the walkie back in his bag, looking up to exchange a relieved look with Nancy and Jonathan.

“See you tomorrow?” Nancy asks, though Steve gets the feeling it's more to fill the silence that's gone a little awkward, now that the potential danger's passed.

“Sure,” Steve says.

“Thanks,” Jonathan tells him, eyes fixed somewhere at his left cheekbone like he's not entirely sure where to look.

“Any time.” It comes out too flippant, though, and Steve makes a face at himself as Jonathan turns to leave.

“Hey.” Steve reaches out, fingers curled loosely around Jonathan's wrist. “I mean it, okay? Any time.”

This time, Jonathan's eyes lock on his. After a moment, Jonathan's cheeks go a little pink, and then he nods before he follows Nancy down the hall.

Steve watches them for a moment or two, then drops his backpack down on a bench a little harder than he probably should, digging around for his sweatpants.

“I don't get it.”

Steve looks up as he's halfway through putting his pants on to see Eddie sidling up next to him in the hall.

“Don't get what?” Steve asks.

Eddie nods towards where Nancy and Jonathan just were. “The three of you.”

Steve shrugs. “We're friends, not a lot to get.”

He goes back to fighting with his sweatpants, wishing he'd dried off a little more before pulling them on over his speedo. They keep sticking to his thighs.

Eddie's gone quiet, though, and when Steve glances back up, he sees Eddie staring at him.

Steve cocks one eyebrow. “What?”

Eddie flushes, looking away. “Didn't figure you'd be so comfortable with the girl who broke your heart and the guy who stole her away, is all. Or hey, maybe she's putting out for both of you, maybe Byers is-”

“Hey,” Steve cuts in, tone sharp and firm in a way he hasn't had to do since he stopped hanging out with Tommy and didn't have to hold him back when he'd gone too far anymore.

But Eddie isn't like Tommy. Maybe he doesn't know Eddie all that well, but Steve gets the feeling he only lashes out when he's feeling cornered.

“Don't be a dick, man,” Steve says, voice softening a little. “They haven't done anything to you.”

Eddie looks back at him, a little surprised, before his expression goes contrite. “You're right,” he admits, easy as anything. “Sorry. It's good that you’re friends with your ex.”

Steve's sort of friends with most of his exes, but that's not the same. None of them were ever Nancy. “I do better as part of a trio,” he says instead of anything else, because it's kind of true.

Then, because he doesn't actually want to field any questions about that -

“Besides,” Steve adds. “If you've heard the rumors, you'd know that's not the kind of threesome I'm into.”

Eddie snorts inelegantly, like he's trying to cover up a laugh. “You telling me I should be putting stock in all the rumors I hear about you, Stevie?”

“Of course not. But the ones about my skills in the bedroom?” he shoots back. “Every word is truth.”

It's not, really. Or, well - not the one about the threesomes. Steve doesn't think sitting between two girls on the couch at a house party and going back and forth between kissing them counts as a threesome.

But it'd never been a hardship to combat that particular rumor, not when it meant he could take his time reassuring the girl he was with that no, he didn't want anyone else there, when he could spend a while making sure she felt important, felt good.

He thinks he'd kind of like spending some time making Eddie feel important.

Steve has no idea what the hell he's supposed to do with thoughts like that.

But he does know the way Eddie's eyes have lingered over his thighs and the line of his stomach and chest peeking out from his open windbreaker, and he-

“You want to find out which rumors are true, you just let me know,” he hears himself say.

Eddie doesn't bite, rolling his eyes and shoving him before he heads off, but Steve isn't deterred.

He hadn't missed the way Eddie's hand had lingered, either.

—

Steve and Eddie have free period together.

Well. Steve has a free period, at least. He's honestly not sure Eddie isn't just ditching, but it doesn't really matter.

They hang out together anyway.

They don't really say much, just - exist in the same space. Sometimes in the smoking area, sometimes at the track, sometimes at the picnic table, sometimes somewhere else in the woods.

They sit too close together when they're in the woods, shoulders or knees always touching.

A few times, Steve takes out his heart, lets himself breathe.

Eddie always glares at it, mutters, “I'm still not showing you mine, Harrington.”

Steve shrugs, tells him he still hasn't asked, and that's it.

Steve'll miss it once he graduates.

—

He graduates, and doesn't go to college, doesn't see Nancy or Jonathan or Eddie much anymore, and it's - it's fine.

He still hangs out with the kids, starts putting in job applications, and it's fine.

He's fine.

This is already written, and my plan is to post one part a day until it's all up here!

-----

Part 5

Taglist (always happy to add more to this if anyone wants): @fairytalesreality @lostonceandneverfound @wheneverfeasible @awkwardgravity1 @theintrovertedintrovert @thewickedkat @ravenfrog @scarlet-malfoy @missmagillicuddy @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @ollyxar @cringe-culture-is-dead-99 @thedragonsaunt

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie fic #nancy wheeler #jonathan byers #background jancy

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jezebelblues · 2 days ago

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live on tour (interlinked) | h.s | 2

pt 1, pt 2 (complete)

summary: we don't talk about it, it's something we don't do—cause once you go without it, nothing else will do.

cw: smut18+ unprotected (piv), degradation if u squint, choking, weed, alcohol, angst, sort of a slowburn idk, fem!reader, hs1rry

word count: approx 8.8k

| okay so here’s pt 2, smuts at the end LMFAO. sorry if u hate ! tumblr (right as i’m about to post) is like sorry too many words 🤪 so i had to SPLIT anyway

masterlist

Outside, rain drizzled. The show ended an hour ago, Harry was busy with greetings and photos. She stood in the doorway of the side exit, the breeze cool and carrying the scent of wet pavement and grass.

A cigarette hung loosely between her fingers, stains of her lipstick kissed against the filter. She thought it’d quell her nausea, the pins and needles in her fingertips—but all it did was make her chest feel lighter. Everything else stayed.

She’s heard the song a thousand times, rehearsals the entire summer, soundchecks, shows. But it was different this time. He pulled her to play with him for a reason, their unspoken games—it was a message.

Her breath hitched as she jumped slightly, a gentle hand against her shoulder. It was Harry, a quiet greeting as he settled beside her, along the wall next to the door. His eyes swept over her face, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her eyes slightly glossed over.

They had just stared at each other for a while, like their eyes held more words than their mouths could. She took her bottom lip between her teeth as she let the cigarette drift onto the gravel outside, watching the embers burn out under the rain. “Harry.” She sighed, her eyes soft, a frown on her lips. “This needs to stop.”

He leaned his head against the cement wall, his gaze unwavering. “What does?”

She swallowed hard, shifting to lean into the opposite side of the door frame facing him, the heavy door still propped open. The wind danced in her hair, goosebumps cascading down her bare arms. “Whatever this is. Us. This is just work, Harry, I don’t get it.”

“Just work?”

She paused, averting her eyes from his to glance back outside. There wasn’t much of a view, gravel, smooth pavement, a large chain-link fence that shook and sang in the wind. “I don’t get it. None of my other jobs have been like this. We tour, we play and it’s easy. Hell, half of the people on the Floyd revival were on coke and it was easier than this.”

He studied her for a moment, his breaths heavy although he tried to lighten them. His eyebrows knit together, a glint of light shimmering along the edge of his pupil that painted him a tragic work of art. “Easy.” He managed, his voice ragged, as if it was a struggle to get the words out. “This isn’t a gig, or a studio session—we’re a band. A team. It isn’t supposed to be easy.”

She clenched her jaw, snapping her eyes back to his. “Don’t. It’s not about the band, it’s about you. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“And what’s that?”

“You get under my skin, Harry! And then you just fucking stay there and pick pick pick until you avoid me again.”

“You do the same!” He was exasperated, his eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That night in Nashville. It was normal, it was easy.” He echoed the word, mocking. “And you just pushed it away. S’constantly a step fucking toward, two steps back.”

Her belly continued to twist, her frown deepening. “Cause I don’t know what the hell you want from me.”

“What I want—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair as his voice cracked slightly. “You think I know what I want? This isn’t exactly easy for me either, YN.”

The admission stunned her into silence, the weight of his words settling heavily between them.

For a moment, the anger in his eyes flickered into something else—something raw and vulnerable—but it disappeared just as quickly, replaced by his usual guarded expression. “You’re not the only one trying to figure this out.”

The silence between them thickened, pressing down like the weight of the rain-soaked clouds above. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. What was there to say?

Harry pushed off the wall, his movements deliberate but tense, his eyes still locked on her. For a moment, it looked like he might step closer, might reach for her, but his hands stayed stuffed into the pockets of his coat.

“You don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse, like it hurt to say the words. “You think I’m trying to mess with you? I’m just—” He stopped, jaw tightening as he looked away, toward the gravel outside. His hand raked through his hair again, his frustration palpable.

She crossed her arms tighter, trying to shield herself from the chill in the air—or maybe from him. “Then what? What are you just, Harry? Because all I see is you dragging me into something I didn’t ask for, and then acting like I’m the one making it difficult.”

His head snapped back toward her, a spark of anger flaring in his eyes. “You think I wanted this? You think I planned for this?” He motioned vaguely between them, his voice rising just enough to make her flinch. “Do you know how easy it’d be for me to just… not? To let this all go?”

“Then why don’t you?” she shot back, her voice sharp as she straightened up, uncrossing her arms.

The question hung in the air like a dare, but Harry didn’t take it. His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but whatever it was, he swallowed it down. Instead, he let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he looked away again. “That’s the thing,” he muttered, his tone softer now, almost to himself. “I don’t know how.”

Her chest tightened, the weight of his words sinking into her ribs. But she refused to let him see the crack in her armor. She turned her face toward the rain, her jaw clenched, her breaths slow and measured.

“Well, maybe you should figure it out,” she said, her voice quieter but no less sharp. “Because I can’t keep doing this with you.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep, uneven breath, his face unreadable as he started to turn. “Fine,” he said, the word clipped, bitter. “Guess I’ll figure it out.”

He didn’t look back as he walked down the narrow hallway, out to wherever he was going.

She stayed frozen in the doorway, her arms hanging limply at her sides, her heart pounding too loud in the quiet. The door swung slightly with the wind, creaking on its hinges as she leaned against the frame.

She bit down hard on her lip, a sharp pang of regret bubbling up inside her, but she shoved it down, stuffing it into the same corner where all the other unspoken things between them lived.

The cigarette embers had long since faded, leaving only the faint smell of ash and rain.

Once you go without it, nothing else will do.

The bassline thumped steadily, drowning out conversation and vibrating through the floor of the packed venue. Laughter spilled over from corners where small groups huddled close, their faces flushed with warmth and the buzz of alcohol. Fairy lights strung haphazardly along the ceiling flickered, giving the room an ethereal glow that blurred edges and softened harsh lines. It was October second, a free evening before they had to start gearing up for Toronto, and they had found themselves at this party—an impromptu gathering of familiar and unfamiliar faces.

They had a few days to rest before they geared up for the Toronto show.

YN moved through the throng like a thread of color in an otherwise monotone fabric. Her dress clung to her in all the right places, its silky material catching the light with every movement. Her makeup was immaculate, her lips a striking shade that dared anyone to look away. Heads turned as she passed, her heels clicking faintly against the hardwood floor beneath the relentless pulse of the music.

Across the room, Harry caught the glance of a mutual friend before his gaze settled on her. She hadn’t noticed him yet—or perhaps she was pretending not to. That had been their dynamic since the DC show—stolen glances, sharp words, and an undercurrent of something unresolved that simmered just below the surface. Tonight wasn’t much different. If she felt his eyes on her, she didn’t show it. Instead, she let herself be led toward the bar by a guy whose name she couldn’t quite recall but whose interest in her was overtly clear.

Leo—or maybe it was Geo— was tall, broad-shouldered, with a smooth voice and easy laugh. He leaned in close, brushing his fingers lightly against her arm as he spoke, and her lips curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It wasn’t that she found him unappealing—he was attractive enough, charming in a way that was disarming—but she was using him. His attention was a distraction, a convenient shield from the simmering tension she refused to address. She wasn’t about to let Harry consume her thoughts tonight.

“Another drink?” Leo–Geo asked, his voice warm against her ear.

She nodded, watching as he flagged down the bartender and ordered for her. When the drink came, he handed it to her, his fingers grazing hers deliberately. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned into him, tilting her head to laugh at something he said. She wasn’t entirely listening, but it didn’t matter. She let him lead her to the edge of the dance floor, where the music was louder and the lights flashed in dizzying patterns.

His hands found her waist as they swayed together, the rhythm of the music guiding their movements. She felt his breath against her skin as he leaned in, his lips grazing the curve of her neck. It was easy, his touch, his attention. It dulled the edges of her thoughts, made the heat of Harry’s gaze on her back easier to ignore.

For a moment, she let herself get lost in it.

But Harry was watching. He stood near the edge of the room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The muscles in his jaw worked as he watched her laugh at something the other man said, her hand brushing lightly against the stranger’s chest. His stomach twisted, anger and something else—something sharper, more possessive—flaring within him. He told himself to leave it alone, to let her do what she wanted. But then he saw them moving toward the door, her hand loosely clasped in the other man’s.

Something in him snapped.

He moved quickly, weaving through the crowd with single-minded determination. She didn’t see him coming, not until his hand closed around her arm in a firm grip.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice was low, controlled, but there was no mistaking the anger in it.

She froze, her wide eyes meeting his for the first time all night. Her companion, caught off guard, let go of her hand and stepped back.

“Excuse me?” Her eyebrows furrowed, her voice laced with irritation.

“I said, what the hell are you doing?” he repeated, his grip on her arm tightening slightly.

“Let go of me, Harry,” she snapped, tugging her arm free. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled her a step closer, his green eyes boring into hers.

“Do you even know his name?” he asked, his voice dripping with disdain.

Her lips parted, but no answer came. She didn’t know his name, and they both knew it.

“That’s what I thought,” Harry muttered, his jaw clenched. “You’re not going anywhere with him.”

“Harry what—no!” Her voice was louder now, drawing a few curious glances from the people around them. “You don’t get to decide what I do.”

He only ignored her.

“Harry—”

“Go,” Harry said sharply, cutting her off as he turned his attention to the other man. “Now.”

The man hesitated, glancing between them before holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, mate. She’s all yours.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving the two of them alone in a small bubble of tension that felt ready to burst.

“Are you happy now?” she asked, her voice shaking with anger, eyes threatening to gloss over.

“You were about t’leave with a stranger,” he said, his voice still low but tinged with frustration.

“So what if I was? What does it matter to you?”

“It—“ He paused, voice barely above a whisper. His hand finally dropped from her arm, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he leaned in closer, his eyes searching hers. “Forget it, YN.”

The music pounded around them, but neither of them moved. The weight of his words hung heavy between them, unspoken things simmering just below the surface. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

And then, abruptly, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the crowded room, her heart racing and her mind spinning.

After a while, she found her way back to the bar. YN perched on the edge of a high stool, her fingers wrapped around the cold glass of a freshly poured Midori Sour. She wasn’t sure why she kept ordering them—maybe because they were sweet enough to soften the edges of her mood. Maybe because the tang of melon lingered on her tongue in a way she liked. Or maybe because she knew it annoyed him.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Harry approaching, his strides long and purposeful, the faint clink of his rings catching her attention before anything else. He stopped beside her, leaning against the bar with an infuriating casualness, his profile sharp under the low-hanging lights.

“Another one of those?” he asked, his voice low but distinctly mocking. He gestured toward her drink with a tilt of his head. “You’ve got the palate of a teenager.”

YN didn’t even glance at him. “And you’ve got the personality of a Jack and Coke. Bitter, basic, and way too predictable.”

The bartender chuckled as he slid Harry’s drink across the counter. Harry’s lips twitched at the corners, not quite a smile but enough to tell her her barb had landed.

“Predictable, am I?” he asked, lifting his glass to his lips. His voice was softer now, dangerous in the way it dripped with quiet confidence. “At least I’m not clinging to a sugar high like I’m at prom.”

YN finally turned her head, meeting his gaze dead-on. Those green eyes of his were sharper than the whiskey he was sipping, and the way they pinned her in place made her chest tighten—not that she’d ever admit it.

“At least I’m not controlling your night to avoid saying what I really want to say,” she shot back, her voice steady but low, just for him.

Harry blinked, his brows raising slightly in surprise before he composed himself. He set his glass down on the counter, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And what exactly is it you think I’m hiding?”

The word love slid off his tongue like a taunt, curling around her like smoke. It wasn’t affectionate—it was a challenge, one that dared her to push back. And god, did she want to push back.

YN leaned in too, her face just close enough to his that she could smell the whiskey on his breath, warm and heady. “I think you’ve got a lot of things you don’t say out loud,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the noise of the bar. “But don’t worry, Harry. I’m not dying to know.”

The tension between them was suffocating now, thick and electric. She saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers flexed against his glass like he was resisting the urge to reach for her instead. Her pulse hammered in her throat, each beat daring her to stay in this dangerous little game they’d started.

“You think you’ve got me all figured out,” Harry said finally, his voice like velvet lined with steel. “But you’re wrong, YN. Dead wrong.”

Her name on his lips was her undoing. She stood abruptly, grabbing her bag and tossing a few bills on the counter. “Why are you here again, Harry?” She muttered, “Your jealousy, which you refuse to admit, is insufferable. You ruined my night and I want to drink.”

Silence.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not doing this.” Her voice was low, laced in anger as she spun on her heel and headed toward the back of the bar where the restrooms were tucked away.

But of course, he followed.

She could hear him behind her, the weight of his footsteps matching the rhythm of her pounding heart. She ignored him, turning a tight corner.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he shouted, his voice low and gravelly. He was close—too close—and she could feel the heat radiating off him, suffusing her skin like a fever.

“Go away, Harry,” she said through clenched teeth, still nearing the bathroom doors that seemed to get farther and farther away with every step she took.

He stepped in front of her, one large step he made quickly and without effort. “Not until you tell me what your problem is,” he snapped. His hands smacking against the walls abruptly, caging her in. His chest was barely an inch from her back, and she could feel the way his breath hitched, like he was struggling to keep his composure.

YN whirled around, forcing him to step back just enough to meet her glare. “My problem?” she repeated, her voice sharp enough to cut. “My problem is you. You’ve been a thorn in my side since June, and I’m sick of it. Sick of the looks, the comments, the—”

“The what?” Harry interrupted, his voice rising. “The fact that I actually give a shit about what you’re doing? The fact that I care if you’re about to make a mistake?”

“A mistake?” she echoed, her eyes blazing. “What the hell do you care if I—”

“What was his name, YN?” He spit, an echo from earlier, nostrils flared and jaw tight. He already knew the answer, she didn’t know.

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to keep her anger to a low simmer. “Fuck you.”

They didn’t just hold each other’s gaze. They gripped it. Like a rope stretched between them, fraying under the strain. Her scoff sliced the moment clean, and she ducked under his arm, her stride sharp, deliberate, toward the bathroom door.

Her fingers curled around the knob, twisting it with the kind of force that spoke louder than words. The door swung open, her heels clicking against the tile, a precise rhythm against the muted bass thumping somewhere beyond the purple-painted walls. She spun, gripping the edge of the door, and shoved it back with all the fury her body could muster. But it didn’t slam. It hit something solid—a thud, then a jolt.

His hand, metal rings against wood.

The door ricocheted toward her before she even registered what had happened. He stepped in, the breadth of him filling the space, his palm swallowing the knob as he pushed it shut behind him. The twist of the lock was a gunshot in the silence, louder than the music bleeding through the cracks.

“Are you fucking serious?” Her voice was a hiss, low and venomous, the kind of sound that cut through everything. Her chest heaved, each breath shallow and sharp, the thin sheen of sweat glinting along her collarbone like glass shards catching the light.

The room was alive, though barely. A flickering bulb above them glowed warm and harsh, its glass casing distorting the light into fractured halos. Yet, there were blues bleeding from LED's in the corner, washing them in warmth and cobalt—fire and ice.

His gaze dragged down her body like he couldn’t stop himself, like she was a work of art, damning and divine all at once. She was something out of a fever dream—wild, furious, her beauty distorted by the tension in the air. “We didn’t get to finish.”

Her laugh came hard and bitter, her nostrils flaring as she raked her fingers through her hair. “Finish what? This?” She threw her hands out, exasperation dripping from every gesture. “This isn’t fucking worth it!”

But he wasn’t looking at her hands. His eyes were on her lips, her eyes, back to her lips—then lower. Her chest, rising and falling. Anger looked good on her, he thought. Anger looked good enough to ruin him. “You didn’t hear me,” he said, quieter this time.

He stepped closer, and the air between them shifted. Compressed. Heavy. Her back hit the wall before she realized she’d even moved, the cool tile shocking against the heat rolling off her skin. She pressed her palms flat against it as though the room was tilting, threatening to spill her out into some uncharted void.

He loomed over her—it was foreboding, yet, it made a heat pool between her thighs.

“Get out.” She murmured, but her voice cracked under the weight of her own trembling breath. There was no steel in the words. Only rust.

“Say it like you mean it.” His voice was smoke, burning slow and low, roughened edges catching on her nerves. He was too close now, close enough that she could smell him—whiskey and spearmint, aftershave, and something deeper, earthier. The heat of him radiated against her skin.

Her eyes darted to his mouth, to the thin line of his jaw, then lower—to the silver chain around his neck. The pendant at the center gleamed faintly, catching the light like a drop of molten metal. It glimmered orange, blue—a ripple in the ocean bathed in harvest moon. “Harry—” she started, his name trembling on her lips.

But before she could say more, his mouth was on hers.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was raw, like barbed wire snapping, cutting deep and fast. She gasped against him, her hands clutching the fabric of his shirt, twisting it into her fists as if to keep herself upright. His body molded into hers, chest to chest, hip to hip, the press of him heavy and solid and absolutely inescapable.

“I hate you,” she muttered, the words breaking into his mouth, dancing onto his tongue. Her fingers were already tugging at the buttons of his shirt, feverish and clumsy, her frustration bleeding into every movement.

He moaned into her, guttural, reverberating from the bottom of his throat. “I know.” He breathed, his lips brushing along her jaw, down her neck.

Her head tipped back, hitting the tile with a soft thud, her hands shoving his shirt open. Her fingers traced his chest, dragging across the heat of his skin. “Fuck—you’re an asshole.” She bit out, her voice shaking with something between anger and desperation.

His lips curved into a crooked smile, amusement tugging at the edges even as his breath hitched. “Keep going,” he urged, his words strained but teasing, his hands finding the curve of her waist. His grip was firm, grounding her as if the tension might otherwise consume them both.

Her mouth crashed against his again, this time harder, rougher. Her fingers curled into his hair, tugging like she wanted to hurt him, to punish him for every maddening, chaotic feeling he’d pulled out of her. Every shiver. Every breath. Every ache.

“I hate how much I want this,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper, trembling with something raw and unfiltered.

“Yeah?” He sighed, his lips brushing hers, his voice cracked and ragged. He tilted his head, his dark eyes locking with hers, his gaze searing. “Hate me all you want, but you’re not stopping. Are you?”

Her only response was another kiss, pulling him closer, harder, until the line between them blurred. Until all the anger, the longing, the fire consuming them burned the world around them into ash.

Her fingers found his belt with a kind of determination that burned. Leather sliding through brass, sharp and deliberate. Her nails scraped his stomach as she pushed the belt free, her movements jerky, impatient. Every tug of her hands felt like a challenge, every drag of her fingers against his skin like she wanted to leave a mark.

"You think this is gonna fix anything?" she spat, her voice low and trembling, caught somewhere between anger and something that tasted sweeter. Bitter edges trying to cut through the heat swelling between them.

"Never said it would," he murmured, his voice rough, a rasp that settled low in her chest. His hands were already under her dress, sliding up the backs of her thighs. His grip was firm, too tight, bruising—like he was trying to make sure she wouldn't slip away.

When he bunched the fabric over her hips, the sound of it pulling free from her skin filled the air between them.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" she bit out, her words sharp and breathless, her desire, her anger tearing through her. Her hands shoved his pants down, knuckles brushing against him in a way that made her stomach twist.

His laugh was dark, rasping out like a rough scrape of metal. "Says the one tearing my clothes off."

"Don't flatter yourself," she snapped, but her voice cracked, betraying her even as she glared up at him. "This doesn't mean anything."

"Sure, it doesn't." His words dripped with mockery—a blade under silk. His mouth brushed against her neck now, teeth grazing her skin. "Keep saying it, YN. You're real convincing."

Her head tipped back as he bit at her skin, the scrape of his teeth followed by the heat of his tongue. "You're so fucking–“ she started, but her words dissolved into a sharp gasp when his hand slid between her thighs, dragging over the thin barrier of lace that still clung to her.

"What was that?" He hummed, his tone laced with dark amusement, his fingers pressing into her just enough to make her hips roll forward, chasing him. "Didn't quite catch it."

"Don't," she managed, though her voice wavered, her breath catching as he moved against her again, more deliberate this time.

"Don't what?" he teased, his lips brushing her ear now, his free hand gripping her thigh and pulling it higher around his waist. His body pressed against hers, the hard line of him undeniable, the heat radiating off him making her skin burn. "Don't stop? Don't touch you?"

Her hands tangled in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth. "Don't act like you have the upper hand," she shot back, though her voice was shaking, her chest rising and falling against his as though the air between them had thinned.

His laugh rumbled against her skin, low and rough. "Petal, l've had the upper hand since the second you let me touch you."

"You're delusional," she snarled, but her body betrayed her again, arching into him as his fingers slipped beneath the lace, her cunt slick with arousal. A broken sound escaped her throat, and her nails dragged across his scalp.

"Yeah?" he breathed, his voice darker now, tinged with something ragged, unsteady. His lips caught the corner of her jaw, moving toward her mouth but stopping just short. "Then why are you shaking?"

"God, you're insufferable."

"And you're not going anywhere.” Harry's hands found her waist with the kind of grip that could bruise, his fingers digging in as he spun her around without warning. The breath caught in her throat as her body collided with the edge of the sink counter, her palms bracing against the cool marble.

She caught his eyes in the mirror, dark and feral, locked on her like she was prey.

"Look at you," he muttered, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraping the edges of his throat. His hands moved to her hips, holding her still as he pressed himself against her. The solid heat of him burned through the fabric separating them, and she bit down hard on her lip to stop the sound threatening to escape. "Desperate for it, huh?”

"No.” she quipped, but her voice wasn't as sharp as she wanted it to be. Her reflection gave her away—her lips parted, her chest heaving, her thighs trembling just enough to notice. "You're so goddamn cocky. It's disgusting."

He ignored her, or maybe he loved it—she couldn't tell. His hands left her hips briefly, his fingers moving to his slacks, shoving them all the way down in a rough, impatient motion. The sound of the fabric brushing against his legs filled the space between them, quick and deliberate.

Harry's hand slid up her front, rough but with ease, fingers curling under her chin. His grip was firm, enough to keep her still, his thumb brushing just once over the edge of her jaw before tilting her head up. The mirror stared back at her, unforgiving and vivid, and his chest pressed hard against her back, pinning her in place. "Eyes up," he muttered, low and commanding, his breath hot against the side of her neck.

His fingers flexed under her chin, urging her gaze to meet their reflection. "You're gonna watch, yeah? Gonna see exactly what I do to you."

She didn't answer—couldn't. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her body shivered under his touch.

His free hand slid lower, over her stomach, down between her thighs, where his fingers paused, resting just above where she needed him most.

He tutted, staring her reflection down. "Dripping mess already." He smiled, slow and wicked, his lips brushing her ear. "You think that guy could do this to you? Hm? Think he could get you this wet?"

"Shut up," she bit out, though her voice lacked conviction, trembling just like the rest of her. Her hands gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white against the cool marble, desperate for something solid to hold on to.

Harry's laugh was dark, rich, vibrating against her back. "That's not a no.” He drawled, dragging his fingers down, brushing over her slick folds in a featherlight touch that made her legs shake. "What is it, then? You just don't wanna admit it?"

"Admit what?" she shook, her tone sharp, though her hips betrayed her by rolling forward, chasing his hand.

"That no one else could make y’feel like this." His fingers pressed in harder now, slow and teasing as they circled her clit. His other hand kept her chin steady, forcing her to watch as his fingers moved, dragging against her in slow, maddening circles. "Look at you, YN. Fucking dripping for me. You see that?"

Her eyes flicked to the mirror, catching the way his hand disappeared between her thighs, the glint of wetness coating his fingers as they moved. Her cheeks flushed hot, but she couldn't tear her gaze away, her body betraying her with every soft sound slipping from her lips.

"Harry—“ she gasped, but her voice broke into a moan as he pressed his fingers harder, rolling them against her with deliberate pressure.

"There she is," he smiled, his tone mocking but warm, like he'd been waiting for her to break. "That's it. Don't hold back. I want you t’hear yourself, yeah? Want to know what y’sound like when it's me making you fall apart."

Her hands shook against the counter, nails digging into the marble as his fingers slowed again, agonizingly teasing. Her body jerked, desperate for more, and he smiled, smug and lazy, like he had all the time in the world.

"H, please–“ she whined, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

"Please, what?" he tutted, his voice dropping lower, rougher. His fingers dragged down, slipping inside her cunt just enough to make her gasp, then pulling out again. "Use your words, YN. Tell me what y’need."

"I hate you," she muttered, but it sounded hollow, the tremble in her voice giving her away entirely.

"Not what I asked," he growled, and his teeth scraped against the curve of her shoulder, a sharp bite that made her head snap back. His fingers pressed into her again, this time deeper, curling just right, and a loud moan broke free from her chest, her body arching against him.

"Look at that," he whispered, his hand still steady on her chin, holding her in place. "Look at you, petal. Such a pretty little slut for me." His thumb brushed over her clit now, slow but deliberate, and her hips rocked into him, chasing every movement. "You like watching, don't you? Like seeing what I do t’you."

Her only answer was another moan, louder this time, her lips parting as her head fell forward—but his hand caught her, tilting her chin back up. "No," he murmured, soft but firm. "Keep watching."

Her reflection burned into her vision—the way her mouth hung open, her cheeks flushed and glowing, her body pressed tight against his. The sight of his fingers moving, disappearing into her before dragging back out, glistening with her arousal.

"Good girl.” He breathed, his voice rough now, almost reverent. His free hand slid to her hip, holding her steady as he shifted behind her, his body pressing closer. "Now, keep your eyes on me. I'm not done with you yet."

Harry's fingers slid out of her slowly, teasing the slick heat between her thighs, a deliberate rhythm that left her trembling. The pressure was enough to keep her on edge, never enough to tip her over.

Every moan she tried to swallow only fueled him, and he made sure she knew it. "Fuck, look at you," he muttered, his voice a low rasp against her ear. "Falling apart on my fingers, and I haven't even fucked you yet.“

"Shut up," she breathed, but the bite in her tone was fading, her resolve crumbling with every slow, maddening drag of his fingers. Her thighs quivered, her knees barely holding her upright, and her hands gripped the edge of the sink like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

"Thought so," he said, smug and soft, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a wicked grin. His thumb circled her clit, slow and firm, drawing a whimper from her lips she couldn't hold back. "No one else knows how to ruin you, do they?"

Her body jerked against him, hips pressing into his hand despite the defiance still burning in her eyes. She wanted to tell him off, to push him away, but her voice broke every time she tried, each sound melting into a moan.

"Thought you were tougher than this," he taunted, his breath hot against her neck, his chest firm against her back. "Guess I was wrong. Just a mess for me, aren't you?"

Her head tipped forward, a choked sound escaping her throat, but his hand was there again, his fingers curling under her chin, tilting her face up to meet the mirror. "Uh-uh," he snapped. "Don’t let me see you do that again.”

Her reflection was a blur of flushed skin and trembling limbs. Her lips were parted, swollen and wet, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

His chest, exposed by the open shirt still hanging from his shoulders, pressed against her back, radiating heat. The sight of his hand moving between her legs, glistening with her arousal, was almost too much to bear.

"Harry—" she gasped, her voice cracking, her fingers gripping the sink harder, her knuckles white against the marble.

"Say my name again," he growled, his tone dark and dangerous, his fingers pressing deeper, drawing a broken moan from her lips. "Go on, petal. Let’s hear it.”

Just as her hips bucked into his hand, chasing the pressure, he pulled his fingers away, leaving her empty and trembling. She let out a frustrated whimper, her nails biting into the counter's edge, but before she could snap at him, his hand slid to her throat, curling around it in one firm, possessive grip.

"Patience,” he murmured, though his tone dripped with mockery, his lips grazing the curve of her jaw as he pulled her tighter against him. "Want it so bad? I'll give it to you, but you better fucking take it."

She felt him behind her, his hard cock pressing insistently against her, the rough fabric of his boxers catching on her skin before she shoved them down. The anticipation coiled tight in her stomach, her breath hitching as he pushed them down just enough to free himself.

His free hand guided himself to her, dragging the head of his cock along her slick folds, slow and deliberate, just to make her squirm. He laughed when her hips rolled back against him, desperate for more.

"So fucking needy. Bet you'd beg for it if I made you."

She gasped, her voice shaking as her body pressed into his.

The words caught in her throat, tangled with the moan that escaped when he finally moved, thrusting into her with one hard, unrelenting motion. A cry tore from her lips, loud and unrestrained, her body arching against him as he filled her completely. He groaned low in her ear, his hand on her throat steadying her, his other hand gripping her hip so tightly it felt like he was branding her.

The stretch was slow, deliberate, the sharpness of it stealing the breath from her lungs as he filled her inch by inch. “So fucking tight—y’feel that? How perfect y’are for me?”

Her nails scratched against the smooth marble as he moved, each thrust deep and deliberate, pulling sounds from her she couldn't control. Her body arched into him, her head tipping back against his shoulder, her resolve finally shattering. "God, you're so fucking good like this," he rasped, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "Taking me so well. Look at yourself, angel. Look how fucking gorgeous y’are right now."

Her eyes fluttered open, catching their reflection again—her body against his, his shirt hanging loose on his frame, his hands commanding her as though she was his entirely. The sight burned into her, sending heat pooling low in her belly, her thighs trembling as he kept pushing her further and further.

And despite everything—her anger, her pride, her sharp tongue—she couldn't hold back the moans spilling from her lips, louder now, desperate and broken, as her body gave in to him completely.

Harry didn't ease up, not for a second. Each thrust was deep, rough, his grip on her hips bruising as he yanked her back into him, forcing her to take every inch. The slap of skin on skin echoed in the small room, mingling with her ragged breaths and broken moans, her body arching under his hands like it was built for this, for him.

"Love this cock, don’t you?" he growled, his voice gravel and heat, his chest pressing harder into her back. "Like how I fucking ruin you?"

"Please," she bit out, her voice sharp, defiant, even as it fell out as a moan. Her fingers clawed at the sink counter, nails scratching the smooth surface as her legs quivered beneath her. But still, she smirked, tilting her head just enough to catch his reflection in the mirror. "I’ve been fucked harder.”

Harry's laugh was low, a sound that rolled through her chest. "You're really gonna start with that?" he grunted, his voice a rasp of rough edges and heat. His hand slid up her back, the weight of it pushing her down until her cheek brushed the counter. The angle shifted, sharper now, and when he thrust again, a cry ripped from her lips before she could choke it back.

"And there it is," he moaned, his tone mocking, pleased. "That shut you up quick, didn't it?"

But she didn't give in. She never did. Her smirk twisted into something sharper, her breath coming in uneven bursts as she rolled her hips back against him just to prove she could. "Yeah," she slurred, her voice thick, daring. "What a waste–“ she paused, a moan emitting from the top of her throat. “–of a cock if–“ another pause, “if–if you fuck like this.”

His thrusts faltered, just for a moment—a slip that was more telling than anything he could've said. She'd gotten to him, and the flash of frustration in his eyes was enough to make her smirk widen.

"You just don't know when to shut that mouth, do you?" he snarled, his voice dripping with tension as he stilled entirely, his chest heaving against her back.

"Guess not," she shot back, her tone cutting despite the quiver in her thighs. "Maybe you're not man enough to–“

Before she could finish, his hand left her back, gripping her throat as he yanked her back up toward his chest again. He found her jaw with a force that made her gasp. His grip was firm, commanding, as his fingers pressed into her cheeks, forcing her mouth open.

"Open," he ordered, his tone low and unrelenting, the kind that left no room for argument. When she hesitated—just for a second—his grip tightened, his gaze locking hers in the mirror. "I said open."

Her lips parted, her glare defiant even as she obeyed.

"See? You do listen," he muttered, his lips curving into a wicked grin. His index and middle finger slid past her lips, pressing down hard on her tongue. Her eyes widened slightly, a muffled protest bubbling in her throat, but he just smirked. "That's better. Quiet suits you, angel."

Her teeth grazed his knuckles, her tongue squirming under the weight of his fingers, but she couldn't pull away—not while he still held her jaw firmly in place. His hips moved again, hard and unforgiving, each thrust making her body jerk forward against the sink.

He moaned, watching their reflection like it was some kind of twisted masterpiece. "Still trying t’fight me, even now. Stubborn little thing, aren't you?"

She glared at him in the mirror, her teeth biting down lightly on his fingers just to prove she still could. "Go on," he sighed, his tone amused as his fingers pressed down harder, making her gag slightly. "Bite me. Won't change a damn thing.”

Her body betrayed her-again. Her moans, muffled by his hand, spilled out in broken fragments, her hips pushing back to meet his thrusts even as her mind screamed at her to resist. The tears stinging her eyes weren't from pain, but from the overwhelming heat building low in her belly, threatening to swallow her whole.

He grunted, his breath hot against her ear as his fingers slid from her mouth, wet and slick—a mess of whimpers and moans escaping with it. "That's what you sound like when I've got y’completely undone. Maybe next time, think twice before y’run your mouth."

Her lips parted, a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, but it never made it past her lips. Not with the way he pulled her against him, harder, faster, his hand returning to her throat, keeping her flush against his chest.

Her hands left the edge of the sink, trembling as they reached up to find him. She gripped his forearm, her nails digging into his skin, desperate to feel the solid strength beneath her fingers. Her body jolted with every thrust, her movements uncoordinated, but her claws pressed hard enough to leave marks she knew he'd see tomorrow.

Harry didn't flinch. If anything, her desperation only made him smirk. His hand on her throat stayed steady, holding her firm, keeping her close. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the coiled strength under her palms, and she knew he wouldn't drop her. No matter how rough he got, no matter how far he pushed, he had her.

He growled, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice as rough as the pace of his hips slamming into her. "You begging for more?"

Her nails dragged down his forearm, leaving a trail of red crescents in their wake. She gasped, head tipping back against his shoulder, her teeth catching her bottom lip as a moan slipped free before she could stop it. "You'll tire out before I do."

His grip on her throat tightened slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to make her feel it, to keep her grounded against him. His other hand slid down her stomach, fingers pressing between her thighs again, circling her clit.

"Feel that?" he muttered, dragging his fingers in slow, deliberate circles, contrasting with the brutal rhythm of his hips. "That's not me getting tired, petal. That's me making sure you'll remember this tomorrow."

Her nails clawed deeper into his forearm, and her hips bucked forward, trying to escape the overwhelming sensation only to slam back into him. Her mind was fogged with heat, her body trembling under the dual assault of his fingers and the relentless thrusts that sent shocks up her spine.

"Fuck, Harry," she whimpered, her voice breaking in a way she hated, in a way he loved.

"That's it," he grunted, almost tenderly, though his actions were anything but. His lips brushed her temple, a cruel contrast to the way he dragged her closer to the edge.

Her grip on his forearm tightened, her nails biting into his skin hard enough to draw a hiss from his lips. But he didn't pull back. He wouldn't. His hold stayed firm, steady, a constant against the chaos he was dragging her through.

"You're so fucking close," he growled, his voice dark and ragged, his lips kissing her temple.

Her head fell further into his shoulder, her lips parted in a choked moan. The mirror showed everything—the way her body arched, her dress bunched high around her hips, his hand between her thighs. The sight of his fingers working her, his other hand wrapped firm around her throat, holding her steady as he pounded into her, was too much. It was filthy, mesmerizing. It was them.

"You're beautiful like this," he muttered, his breath hot against her cheek, his voice shaking with the effort to hold himself back. "Fucking perfect.”

Her hands clawed at his forearm, her nails raking over his skin as her body tensed, her thighs quivering against his. A sharp cry tore from her lips, unrestrained, as the tension inside her snapped all at once, her release washing over her in waves.

He slowed his movements just enough to drag it out, his fingers never stopping. His thrusts turned deep, deliberate, milking every last tremor from her body. "Good girl—just like that."

Her breath came in short, broken gasps, her body slackening in his arms as her hands slipped from his forearm to brace herself against the sink again. But Harry wasn't done—not yet.

His hand slid from her neck, resting briefly on her back to steady her as he pulled out. His release was a low growl, heavy with restraint, as he bent her forward over the sink again, her cheek pressing against the cool marble.

His hands tugged the bunched fabric of her dress, pushing it higher until it gathered at the small of her back.

She heard the wet sound of his hand stroking himself, the heat of him close enough to feel but just out of reach. He cursed under his breath, his voice rough and raw, his pace quickening as his own release built.

"Fuck, look at you," he muttered, his eyes glued to her reflection. His free hand slid down her back, his touch possessive, reverent.

The first hot spurt of his release hit the small of her back, a low groan tearing from his throat as he finished, his hand working himself through the aftershocks. He stayed there for a moment, his breath ragged, his chest heaving, the sight of her still bent over the sink keeping him rooted.

Harry let out a long exhale, his hand sliding up her spine in a firm, grounding touch as he leaned over her, brushing his lips against her shoulder.

The air felt thick now, heavy with the remnants of what just happened. The muffled bass of the music outside thumped distantly, but the bathroom was silent aside from their labored breaths. Neither of them spoke.

Harry stepped back, his hands dragging over her hips as if reluctant to let her go, before he turned his attention to himself. He pulled his slacks back up, the sound of the zipper loud in the quiet, followed by the faint clink of his belt as he buckled it.

She stayed bent over the sink for a moment longer, her forehead pressed against the cool surface, her chest heaving as she tried to steady herself. She could feel his eyes on her, burning into her back, but she didn't dare look up. Not yet.

Harry moved to the paper towel dispenser, yanking a mess of them free without a word. He returned to her, his footsteps deliberate, and she startled slightly at the first cool touch of the towel against her skin. He didn't say anything as he wiped her clean, his movements uncharacteristically gentle now, precise, careful, like he was undoing what had been rough and unforgiving moments ago.

When he finished, he tossed the crumpled towels into the trash. His hands returned to her thighs, sliding the lace of her panties back up, his fingers brushing against her skin as he smoothed them into place. He let his fingers linger there for a moment, his thumbs grazing the red marks he'd left behind on her hips.

Her thighs bore the shape of his hands, faint but unmistakable, and when she finally straightened and caught herself in the mirror, she saw the full extent of it. Her skin was marked—her throat faintly bruised from his grip, hickeys scattered along her neck and collarbone like splashes of color against her flushed skin. The swell of her hips ached where his fingers had dug in, and she knew the prints he'd left would bloom darker by morning.

The silence in the room wasn’t peaceful. It was thick, suffocating, a tension neither of them knew how to cut. Harry leaned against the wall like it was holding him up, his head tilted back, his shirt hanging open, and his chest still heaving like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. The air felt different now—charged and heavy, yet hollow at the same time.

She stared at him for a moment, at the way his jaw was clenched tight, his gaze fixed somewhere else. His usual arrogance was gone, replaced by something quieter, something guarded. He didn’t move to fix his shirt, didn’t even glance at the mirror to see what a wreck he looked like.

She didn’t think before stepping forward, her hands finding the loose edges of his shirt. His eyes flicked down to her, dark and unreadable, but he didn’t stop her. She tugged the fabric into place, smoothing it over his shoulders before starting on the buttons, working her way down.

Her fingers brushed against his skin, still warm from her touch, but she didn’t let herself think about it—couldn’t. The weight of what they’d just done hung between them, heavy and unspoken, something that felt too big, too raw to touch.

He stayed still, watching her, his arms limp at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to move. Like touching her again might unravel everything.

She didn’t dare look at him, her gaze focused on her hands as she reached the last button. Her fingers trembled as she smoothed the fabric flat, brushing out the wrinkles before finally stepping back.

They didn’t speak.

They wouldn’t speak.

It was something they didn’t do—not about this.

Her throat felt tight, her chest heavy, her pulse still racing from the way he’d made her feel. She smoothed her hands over her dress again, though it was already straight. The mirror behind her caught their reflection—two people standing too close but pretending the distance was enough.

Her lips parted, maybe to say something, maybe to breathe, but nothing came out. She glanced up, catching his gaze for the briefest second before dropping it again.

His chest rose and fell in uneven beats, and when he finally pushed off the wall, his fingers brushing through his hair, he let out a long, shaky exhale.

We don’t talk about it.

The words sunk into the hollow space between them like a quiet truth neither of them would ever admit out loud.

It’s something we don’t do.

Because if they did—if they said it, defined it, made it real—there’d be no going back.

And that terrified her almost as much as the thought of losing this, losing him.

Harry moved past her, his shoulder brushing hers as he reached for the door. He hesitated for a moment, his hand on the handle, his head tipping forward as though he might say something. But he didn’t.

She watched him go, her stomach twisting in ways she couldn’t untangle.

Once you go without it, nothing else will do.

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry edward styles #harry styles concept #harry styles au #harry styles smut #harry styles angst

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antizenin · 18 hours ago

Text

𑁤 SORRY WON'T HEAL EVERYTHING ⋮ FUSHIGURO MEGUMI

you've been lying to megumi, saying that you need his help in organic chemistry, when in actuality, you just want to be in close proximity.

( fic demographics. ) jujutsu kaisen, megumi fushiguro, sexually mature | minors, ageless & blank blogs: do not interact & 6.4k words !

➛ aged up!megumi fushiguro, tutor!megumi fushiguro & rich college student!reader, crush to enemies to lovers, breaking & entering (not really but megumi & reader gets into a little tussle-ish), bickering, reader is described to have a bush, dom!reader, sub!megumi, dry humping, edging, nipple play, whining & begging, edging, multiple (2) orgasms, overstimulation, unprotected sex, creampie, cowgirl position, etc.

The world is cruel to pretty rich girls like you. Creating a stigma that you all are just ditzy and dumb, leeching off the money that your daddy worked damn hard for and will tarnish their legacy. And it's unfortunate that people think that you'll end up the same way. Majoring in Biochemistry, people don't know how you've made it so far. Convinced that you've been sleeping your way around with the university professors to stay on top of things, or coercing the board with bribe money to continue funding the legacy admissions that continue to come. Or, you’ve been paying off your tutors to do the work for you. Either way, people have painted a fairly dark picture of you that couldn't be more wrong.

You wouldn't say you're a genius or some sort of prodigy, but you understand the material. When you don't, you're studying your ass off and going the extra mile to make sure you do. You have access to the best learning tools there is, enrolling in subscriptions to websites to receive the guides and tips you need. You put in the work, and people reduce you to nothing just because they have their stigmas and biases on rich people. It's a shame really, but if they want to make a presumed opinion about you before knowing you, then you'll play right into their hands.

You play the cute little bimbo that takes notes fancily, titling your notes with calligraphy pens and markers. Color-coordinates everything you do because it's pretty, and not because it'll help you retain the information better when you look over and study. You'll put down sticky notes all over your textbooks, highlighting important keywords that pop up just because the professor said so, and not because it coincides with something else and you were paying attention to it. And after the lecture, when everyone's packing up their belongings, you'll linger behind because you have so much stuff to put away. Not because you want to talk to Megumi Fushiguro, one of the top students in the class.

When people see you sauntering over the messy-haired boy who always looks bored of everyone, they think of the typical. You're going to ask him for help when in actuality, you'll pay him just enough to get him to do your work for you. You're lucky enough that the professors know that your work is legitimate as you've spoken to them outside of class for them to collect that much from you. So, they don't bat an eye when you're calling for the boy's name as he's ready to leave. “Fushiguro, can you wait a minute?”

You catch him off guard the moment he turns around and realizes that it's you. His eyes widen before he controls his composure, returning to his slouched pose and waiting for you to catch up. “Yeah?”

You're polite, holding your hand out as you introduce yourself. “Hey, I'm (Y/N).”

He takes it, feeling the smoothness of the palm of your hand. You smile widely, eyes beaming brightly as the corner of your lips only expand. “Hi. I would introduce myself, but it seems like you already knew my name, so…”

“Oh, well, yeah,” you shrug sheepishly. “I've heard the professor call it out a few times or so. Anyway—” It feels harder than you thought it would, approaching him to ask for help. Truth be told, you're lying under the jurisdiction that you need assistance in the class. You need far from it, but you've seen him from time to time, developing a small crush on him and apprehensive on how you should approach him. You thought this would be the best and most believable way. “—I wanted help on the next assignment. You seem to know the material really well, too. I'll pay you! Just tell me your rate! It won't be a problem.”

It won't be a problem. Tch. Megumi can't help but wonder if he's your next victim. That he'll be the next fool struggling to finish his own assignments on top of yours. While the extra money does sound good, he has more dignity than that and so should you. “I'm sorry, but I'm busy.”

He doesn't give you the opportunity to say anything else before he's heading through the double doors of the lecture room.

The next time you run into Megumi, it's at the courtyard and you have more confidence than you did the last time. Maybe you shouldn't though because he's hanging out with his friends. One a boy with pink hair that has adorable brown eyes that resemble a puppy and the next a girl with auburn brown hair that stops at her shoulders. The two seem to be arguing over something while Megumi's face is on his phone.

“Fushiguro, hey!” He recognizes your voice now, and he lets out a dreadful sigh before he turns around. Yuuji and Nobara have thankfully stopped their pointless bickering because of you, so he should be an ounce but grateful. When he spins around in his seat, you're wearing a cute little get up. A denim jeans skirt that falls mid thigh and a silk baby pink top with bows on the shoulder. You adorn goddess braids that are pulled up in a half-up, half-down do— a bow holding the ponytail together as well. You look cute.

“Hey,” his dryness should let you know perfectly clearly that he doesn't bother, but you're a stubborn girl. You had talked yourself over the entire ordeal for the past two days since and didn't let it deter you. You just instilled the hopefulness that he truly was busy and needed to get to his next class. Now, he was available and you could properly talk to him.

“We didn't really get to talk properly last time,” you beam. “I know you said you're busy, so I want to say that I don't have a problem doing it whenever you're available. I can give you my number and we—”

“Can we talk in private, please?” Megumi asks, seeing that you were serious in regards to a tutoring session. You nod, humming out an ‘mhm’ as Megumi gets up and leads you to somewhere secluded and where his friends can't hear nor watch. When he's a safe distance away, he turns to you as you still look so expectant and hopeful. Part of him is starting to think you genuinely need help, but his bias starts speaking against him.

“Look,” Megumi starts. “I don't have enough time in my day to do the workload for both me and you. I'm being nice when I say find someone else to do your work for you and leave me alone.”

Your face falls, to what Megumi believes to be your hopes of getting the easy way out of the next Organic Chemistry assignment being crushed. However, it's more-so annoyance than anything else as you become heated in it. Megumi's about to leave when your voice rings in his ears. “Did you really think I took time out of my day twice to ask you to help me cheat?”

“What?” He asks, taken aback.

“You heard me,” you snap. “Do you really think that if I wanted someone to do my homework, that I wouldn't just find the next guy smart enough to do it for me? For a smart guy, you're really clueless.”

“T-then, what?” Megumi clears his voice. “Did you really need help? I'm sorry if you did—”

“Honestly, I already had the work done,” you prop a hand on your hip, frowning. “And no, I didn't need to pay someone to do it for me. And I didn't use the internet.

“You know what I really hate about people,” you continue to drone on. “I hate that they would just jump to conclusions rather than get to know someone to know that, hey! They're actually smart. But no, you guys would rather go with the presumption that all rich people cheat their way out through life. Yeah, I have a card in my father's name to buy what I need and want, but he's too prideful to pass his name down to a girl that can't tell the difference between rDNA and DNA, so yeah, it's not as easy for me as it looks!

“To think I had an inkling of a crush on you that I was desperate enough to ask you to tutor me under the hoax of needing help, when you're just a stuck up asshole like the rest of them. Ugh, this was such a waste of my time!”

This time, you're the one to leave Megumi speechless, stomping off to your next class.

Megumi didn't realize how many classes you had together, but you did. Whenever you made eye contact with him, you turned immediately back around. Whenever he was close to approaching you ready to apologize, you were out the door in a flash. He must've really worked you up to the point that you quit your facade, raising your hand more in class to answer questions. You even started correcting him during the lectures, having students stunned when the professor had confirmed that you were, in fact, correct. It had his ears red when Inumaki nudged him and snickered at how you one-upped him.

However, in Organic Chemistry, you're staggering. Try to stuff all of your things inside your bag because honestly, you do like making your notes pretty— for the pretty colors and for better retaining the information. You're close to sipping your bag shut when something falls out, your pencil pouch again. Someone beats you to it, picking it up for you right as you're trying to maneuver things around.

“Thank you,” you begin to ramble. “I packed so much stuff today, and I honestly really didn't need to because the professor didn't even end up asking for them. Like—”

When you look to see who it is, you're quick to shut your mouth and give him the cold shoulder once again. Your time is dry, just as he was with you once upon a time. “Thank you.”

“Wait,” Megumi sighs, grabbing your wrist when you're ready to head on out. “Please, just listen to me.”

“Oh?” You cross your arms. “Like how you were so willing to listen to me.”

“I'm sorry—”

“Apology forgiven. Bye,” you cut him short, trying to leave his tight grasp around your wrist, but he won't budge.

“You were right,” he admits. “I was being an asshole, and jumped right at the gun, thinking what everyone else was thinking. They just said you were some spoiled rich kid and I believed them right away. My apology is crappy and you don't have to forgive me, but if you really want that tutoring session, it'll be free of charge. I'm available on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursday afternoons.”

He reaches for a crumbled paper in his pocket, which you hesitate to take. When it's in your grasp, he finally lets go. “Call me or text me when you're available.”

You pout, not liking how your heart is skipping a beat when you look up at him. Your wall is quickly breaking as you stumble on your hips. You can only get yourself to mumble, “I’m busy,” before you're grabbing your bag. Completely forgetting about your pencil pouch.

—

You don't realize you've been missing your pencil pouch for four days straight. In your defense, Organic Chemistry is your last class of the week, so you have a huge chunk of time in between it. You had emailed your professor about it, but she had said that didn't it see it when you left. You checked the campus’s lost and found and even reached out to the custodial staff to see if they had found it when they were cleaning, but to no avail. It was just a pouch that you could easily replace at the snap of a finger, but you hated not trying to look for something before spending money. Trying to retrace your steps, you're wondering if you were with anyone the last time you had it— fuck.

You curse to yourself incessantly as you realize that maybe he picked it up when you had forgotten it. If so, why hasn't he returned it to you? Is this some sick tactic of his for you to reach out to him? He did give you his number, after all. Groaning, you feel like you'd rather buy a new pencil case at this point in time.

You find yourself an easily forgiving person. Knowing that if you messaged him, you'd forget what he did to make you upset in the first place and easily break your resolve. For once in your life, you wanted to stay angry for a decent amount of time before reaching out again. You are proud of yourself, though, because he apologized to you first. However, you didn't want to falter so easily and forgive him just yet. No, he could wait a little longer until you're ready to message him.

Two hours pass until you have the phone in your hands, fishing for the slip of paper that you had to fish from your dirty laundry hamper after shoving it in your pocket that day. You luckily found it, not thinking twice when you dialed his number in your phone and saved it under Fushiguro.

to fushiguro: hey. it's y/n. do you have my pencil pouch by any chance?

You didn't want to further elaborate on it, hoping that he knew what you were talking about the moment you hit send. When Megumi received the message of an unknown number, seeing a sliver of it that revealed your name, he sat up on his dorm bed as he clicked open. Reading the message in its entirety, he was close to saying yes and that he would return it to you next class, but he remembered what he told himself. He wanted you to talk to him, to schedule a tutoring session. And he'll make you do it the best way he knows how.

to you: sorry, but we're able to compute that. please message with your preferred tutoring date, time and preferred meeting spot.

It was stupid, but he was hoping it would work. He figured that he could annoy you to the point where you would give in and set up one, or you'd block him and he'd finally take the hint that you don't want to talk to him ever again. But, he really wanted to address the fact that you went through all of this because you liked him. It warmed his heart.

You frowned at the message, rolling your eyes as you quickly grew agitated. Was he really going to do this right now?

to fushiguro: are you kidding me rn?

to fushiguro: fushiguro, if you don't answer me seriously, i'm going to block you!

from fushiguro: im calling your bluff. schedule an appointment if you want your pencil pouch back.

to fushiguro: no. give it back to me at org chem.

from fushiguro: no.

to fushiguro: fuck you.

to fushiguro: im being so serious. fuck you.

Megumi curses to himself, never registering that he could piss you off this bad. However, he was adamant on meeting you in private. You didn't realize that in your pouch, you had labeled your dorm room number in case it got lost. When he messaged you again, you blocked him.

—

There's a knock on your room door as you're underneath the covers of your bed, the lights off as you're doom scrolling. You pause, sure that your roommate had brought her key along with her. Unless she had lost it— that would be the third time this year. Grumbling, you jump from out of the bed, “Maki, if you lost your key again, I swear to God! I'm not going to open the door for you anymore—”

“Please!” Megumi begs. “Don't shut the door on me!”

“I'm going to file a harassment report on you,” you sneer, trying to shut the door but he's wedged his foot between the frame to block you from doing so.

“(Y/N), I'm sorry,” Megumi whines out. “Please, just listen.”

“I did and I said you were forgiven,” you groan, trying to kick his foot from between, but he's being such an ass— a strong one at that.

“But you don't mean it,” Megumi huffs. “And, I have your pencil pouch, right here. I can give it to you if you just let me in.”

“Not in a fat chance,” you pant as Megumi's come to wedge his body inside. “You're starting to become really weird, y’know. It's not that deep. It's just a pencil case.”

“Says the girl—” Megumi exhales, finally halfway inside. “—that texted me for it.”

He nearly knocks you down with the brute force he has to use to get inside. You stumble back as you nearly lose your footing. You catch yourself against the dresser, pushing yourself back on your feet as Megumi stands inside. You're breathing heavily as you both collect yourself. You've given up, seeing the stakes that he was willing to take for you to talk to him. You surrender, your hands falling to the side as he stands before you in silence. “You're inside my room now. Say what you have to say.”

Now that he was here, Megumi didn't know what to say. He takes a look around, noticing your choice of decoration. Your side of the room is simple, a pink tapestry hung with floral designs with a cork board hanging over your bed— important dates, photos and sticky notes attached to it. On your desk, you have your notebooks and textbooks aligned where tabs are neatly placed inside it. He shuffles toward them and you don't say a word, watching as he flips through them. You've taken elaborate notes, have study guides and print outs annotated. They're better than his own.

“Wow,” he chuckles to himself. “I really underestimated you.”

“Is this what you came to do?” You ask him, sitting on your bed as you observe the boy. “Look through my things and violate my privacy?”

“You can report me after this,” Megumi says. “I deserve it.”

“You sure as hell do,” you mumble. “Can't believe I had a crush on a creep.”

There's that word again. Crush. Megumi looks over at you, his face heating up at the thought. “Do you really— have a crush on me?”

“I did,” you correct him, though you're lying to yourself. “Before I found out you’re an asshole and a creep.”

“Why?” The question catches you off guard, your eyebrows furrowing as you look up at him in your sitting position.

“Why, what?” You ask for elaboration. “Why did I have a crush on you?”

Megumi nods, cheeks tinted in a deep shade of red that it's nearly concerning. “What made you attracted to me?”

“I don't know,” you shrug, placing your hands in your lap as you begin to fiddle with them. “You're cute. I mean, you have messy jet black hair that I’d love to play in, and these serious blue eyes that I'd want to make lighter. But, when you frown, I also find it cute.”

Megumi grows even more flustered, finding himself looking away. “You're also cute when you blush.”

Megumi finds the courage to sit on the edge of the bed, close to you. “You can… You can play with my hair now— if you want.”

And you hate it. You hate it how cute he looks right now, eyes pleading with yours and asking you to touch him. And how your body wants to give in and lean in. And they do. They have a mind of their own as Megumi's body leans against yours, giving you better access to his head. It's comforting, running your hands into his locks.

He can feel your heartbeat against him, how it's grown calmer by the second as you absentmindedly run your fingers through his hair. “You're also very smart,” you continued. “I liked that about you, but then…”

“I'm sorry,” Megumi whispers. There's a big pause.

“Yeah,” you hum. “You keep saying that.”

Megumi pulls away from you, getting on all fours as he crawls. You scooch further, wondering what he's doing until your back hits the headboard having you pinned down. His eyes seem sincere this time when he says it. “I mean it, (Y/N). I really am sorry.”

“I know,” you breathe, his face inching closer to yours that you can feel the heat of him. Your heart's starting to pound again as all rationality flies out the window, telling you to push him off and grow a backbone. However, you know that this has gone long enough and that you truly did forgive him the moment he apologized the first time. You were just being petty.

“Please forgive me.”

“I do, Fushiguro.”

“Call me Megumi.” There was a small measure of uncertainty. If he should really do this, what he's about to do. His fingers linger on your face, your beautiful skin as he looks down on your plump lips. You lick the bottom lip, and in his mind it's so tantalizingly slow that you must be purposely teasing him. His thumb reaches for it, gliding against the skin before his eyes are meeting yours again. It's faint, your nod, but he notices it. It gives him the courage to make your lips touch, his pink ones against yours.

It's chaste and dry at first, both of you testing and tasting the waters before you're both pulling away. There's a cloud full of need inside the two of you, a thin layer of arousal sprouting out of you as his chest presses against yours. Enveloped in each other's heat as Megumi comes to push a few strands of hair out of your face. Your hand comes next to caress him, mustering the confidence for both of you to really dive in the waters.

He tasted of spearmint and strawberries. You, the sweet artificial flavor of cherries. It's addictive as Megumi finds himself moaning into your lips first. You find yourself giggling against him when he pulls away, wanting to apologize yet again. However, you seize the opportunity to flip him over, catching him off guard as his eyes widen and you pin down his arms. This change of position, he has no problem with it. Eyes glossing, his hands instinctively find your hips, pulling them into him as you feel his growing erection.

With a breathy sigh, underneath your flimsy shorts, you can feel him. Feel his cock hardening underneath you as you press your hips down on him, putting all your weight on the poor boy's groin. You rock your hips gently just to tease him, feeling your own cunt clenches at how quickly Megumi grew aroused. But who are you kidding? So did you.

He’s hard inside his pants, loose fitted sweats where the material is thin. You’re wearing shorts that barely cover your ass, feeling how he continues to harden underneath you. Your languid movements, how your hips sensually as you rock back and forth. The hem of your tank top is riding up, revealing an inch of skin as a cute happy trail becomes visible. Megumi finds his hands roaming to your hips, pulling you to ground yourself against him before you swat away his arms and lean down to his level. Pretty plump lips that are close to his as he’s got no other choice but to look at you so close up. They curve into a smile, a small giggle leaving you before you’re licking at them and making them shine. “No touching.”

Megumi lets out a whimper in protest, daring to return his fingers to grip at your waist, but you grab ahold of them before they make contact. Your gaze is sharper, glaring at the boy as he can only mewl out, “Why not?”

“Why not?” Your manicured nails are sharp, digging into his pale skin that it’ll surely bruise. However, he can only feel himself twitch into the pain as you move against him, tutting out a sound of disapproval and looking down at him as though he’s stupid. “After you’ve been so mean to me, you think you deserve to touch me?”

“S-sorry,” he apologizes, but this time it doesn’t meet his eyes. Only leaving his lips in a desperation for your touch. Sorry, sorry, sorry. You come to roll your eyes as it becomes more meaningless everytime he says it. With both of his hands in your tight hold, you bring them to pin them over his head and pull Megumi in for a kiss. He moans into your lips, his pelvis jutting upwards in a need for more. To feel the friction and heat of your pussy against him. You let out a breath, a high-pitched squeak that leaves you as your tongue dives into his mouth.

His body has fallen so eager to you, begging for any close proximity that you can give him. The warmth of your body being too much that already he feels himself near, how he can imagine his length flushed in a red so needy that he’s ready to combust. “I—please…”

His face heats up in a bright shade of crimson that it’s nearly concerning. He finds himself embarrassed about how worked up he got over just you kissing him and the buck of your hips. You find it cute. You can feel his cock twitch underneath you fortunately, and you stop before he can spill himself inside his pants. The moment your weight isn’t pressed down into him, he whines in protest as his blue eyes look for yours in pleading. You shake your head, bottom lips poking out in a pout. “Nuh uh,” you say. “Can't have you wasting yourself in your pants.” Even if it’ll be the hottest thing you’ll ever see.

Still, there’s a wet patch in his pants, darkening the material as you slot yourself in between his legs. His shirt has ridden up considerably, revealing most of his stomach and the short pebbles of hair leading down to his length. Your touch is cold. Megumi shivers underneath it as you tuck your fingers underneath his pants and underwear, tugging it down slowly in exaggeration to reveal his cock to you. Shaft and balls a dusty pink with the head of him bright with need. Where he’s not too gifted in girth, he’s been blessed with a slightly over average cock that’ll surely be enough to reach your g-spot. Pre leaks from his tip, jolting ever so slightly at the cold air engulfing the room.

You hum in delight, finding him so pretty like this. His shirt rose and his pants pooling at the ankles before you can remove them completely. He pants heavily, a visceral desire reverberating off of his chest as you leave him wanting for more. To have you over him like this, his pupils dilate as he watches you crawl over him and reach to pull off his shirt. When he’s completely bare underneath you, he lays down pliantly as he waits for your next move. You can do anything to him, he wouldn’t care, he just needed you.

With his length hitting his lower stomach, you’ve positioned yourself to how you previously were and returned to your teasing movements, rocking against his length. It’s overwhelming, but in a way that doesn’t have him begging to leave. He keeps his arms over his head, his short stubby nails doing nothing as his fingers dig in his flesh. Again, your chest is pressed against his as you kiss him, tasting you and loving what he receives.

How did these events transpire? If someone were to ask you, your mind would go blank, only happy with the outcome of it all. You hold Megumi’s face in your hands, caressing his cheeks as your tongue dances against his. Filled with so much fervor as your movements sound the gentle creaks of the bed, you have to restrain yourself from what you truly want. How you truly want him to fill you up and give you what you’ve been craving this entire time. But, he looks so handsome like this— watching how his face heats up with either lust or embarrassment, or how he moans and whines against you. To feel how you’ve had him on the brink of an orgasm just from kissing alone, it’s enough to build up your ego, never having a man like this. It’s usually the opposite.

When you detact your lips from his, a string of saliva is attached, becoming thinner and thinner until it snaps. Megumi’s blue eyes have darkened significantly, pink lips opened up slightly as he takes you in. Taking in your absolute beauty as you’re still clothed. Under your tank top is nothing, forgoing a bra and your nipples are poking through. They rub against the fabric in heavy need, and he can only imagine how they’d feel in his mouth.

“Can you take off your top?” His voice is low, coming out breathy as his mouth waters. He’s afraid that you’ll say no, so he makes eye contact with you, eyes widened in a begging motion as he adds, “Please.”

You’d be lying if you said that didn’t make your heart flutter and before you can thoroughly think it through, your arms cross as you pull up your shirt. Your breasts spill out of the tight fitted top, dropping out like a breath of relief. Dark areolas that are puckered as your nipples stand out prominently. Megumi’s body has a mind of its own, sitting up on the bed before you can completely register as he takes you ahold of him and drags you down to lay on top of him. His mouth opens to suck you, and you can feel the warmth of his lips as he lets out a wanton moan.

It’s dragged out as he can taste your skin, feel how your back arches into him as you can only succumb to the pleasure. Your hips buck against him, pressing against his cock as he continues to leak precum. The translucent mess sticking to your bottoms as he holds your waist tightly against him as he ruts himself into you. The salt of your skin is quickly washed away as he sucks and nips at the pebbles, seemingly wanting for something to come out of you.

His eyes are shut as his grip on you is tight and forcing your hips to ground against him as you call out his name. “M-Megumi…”

Such a quick turn of events as your mouth hangs open as he moves you how he wants, tightly ground him as he rocks his hips into you. He alternates between your breasts, giving them equal opportunities of love as you can feel your slick sticking to your underwear. Your juices pool at the amount of friction against you. You can feel Megumi’s erection against your covered cunt, and the wetness of each other against it. It feels so dirty and so nasty, but simultaneously all too good to pull away from each other.

“You feel so good,” Megumi breathes against you, feeling that familiar knot within his stomach as his cock twitches. And he’s greedy, not wanting to stop in fear that you’ll edge him again. “P–please… Make me feel even better.”

“I will…” you draw out, voice getting higher. “I will. Just— Don’t stop right now!”

Megumi shakes his head in promise, his hold on you getting impossibly tighter. “I won’t. Trust me.”

There’s a huge wet patch on your shorts now, the cotton in your panties being too weak to hold all of your juices in as Megumi beckons that much from you. You continue to grow aroused the more he moans against you, sucking on your breasts and kneading them with heavy devotion. However, those same moans become more choked and staggered as you feel his length against you, a wetness foreign to yours leaking from him. Cumming all over your shorts as his lips finally leave your breasts to get ahold of himself. Eyes shut as his eyebrows knit together before he’s returning back to you. “Fuck,” he breathes, eyes open again yet hazy. That same pink tint returns to his cheeks and you can anticipate what’s about to leave it next.

“Don’t say it,” you giggle, putting a finger on his lips. His eyes widen before he’s chuckling, about to say it again before he can catch himself. Instead, he replaces it with, “Okay.”

Soon enough do you replace the word from his vocabulary, stripping yourself out of your shorts and down to your soaked panties. Your juices stick to your inner thighs as you push the crotch of your underwear to the side and leave Megumi a short period of time to ogle your bare cunt. It’s such a beautiful sight to behold, the dark curls of your happy trail leading to the little bush that you adorn. How he’d like to run his fingers along the tufts of hair, but you’ve got his hands up again, commanding him not to touch. Your folds glisten magnificently in the lighting as Megumi’s dark pupils are trained on your pussy, watching how your essence sticks to them.

With the cum that sticks to his stomach, you use a finger to collect the strays and paint it over your clit. He watches in awe, the white painting to the contrast of your dark nub and into the hairs. It’s messy and downright disgusting how you’re playing in his release, but it has his cock needy in delight and anticipation. Your pussy envelopes his shafts, painting him in your sweet nectar that has him wondering if it’s the forbidden fruit. And if so, would you be willing to let him have a taste? Would God allow him to?

His tip kisses your entrance, nearly bringing him to his second release when you sink down onto him. It’s so dramatically slow, or maybe that’s mind conjuring that, beckoning himself to disobey you and pull you down against him to sheath himself completely inside you. Your hole swallows him up like corset strings continuing to pull and pull. You’re an enchanting temptress hovering over his body as your walls suck him in whole. It’s a miracle how he hasn’t succumbed to his wants by now.

You feel full, feeling how his cock has embedded itself inside you. Your pussy clenches around him, a sigh leaving your lips of true satisfaction. You still yourself for a moment, body going unmoving as he watches Megumi from below. He looks so in awe as though he’s in complete adoration of you and your body. His hands twitch overhead as you know he wants more than nothing that touch you again, wanting to feel the warmth of your skin as you fuck yourself on his cock. You’re amazed by him, how he keeps such a calm and collected composure inside of the classroom. Making him appear as he has everything together, but here he is— underneath you and you have his entire composure falling apart in a matter of seconds. How he was eager to have you play in his hair and shortly disintegrated into a thousand tiny pieces the moment you kissed him.

How he went under great lengths to try and prove that he’s truly sorry. You wonder how he feels, believing that the pretty rich girl that he thought was stupid now has him to the point where he can’t even think a coherent thought outside of your pussy. He’s come to believe that your cunt is magical and how it’s managed to make him come undone in such a short period of time. And when you start bouncing on his cock, you have him completely enamored.

Your breasts move up and down at the pace you’ve set, already having him a moaning mess. The stench of sex reeks throughout the dorm room, your juices and Megumi’s release being so potent that your roommate will scorn you and have you spray air freshener until it’s gone and can’t smell a trace of it. Skin slapping against skin and your wanton moans filling the air as neither of you are quiet and you show no ounce of remorse for those next door hearing it. The bed creaks with your movement, and you’re watching how your juices stick to him every time you meet his pelvis.

You’re focused on your pleasure, using his cock to get you off as you bounce and grind against his length. Pressing into him, his tip kisses at your g-spot, having you mewl against him as you fall into his chest. Breasts pressed into his chest, based on muscle memory, your lips find his in a matter of seconds as you continue to fuck his cock. Your pussy wraps him in a tight grip, having Megumi moan out against you. They’re swallowed away, but he doesn’t care.

You find yourself gnawing at Megumi’s bottom lip when you feel your release approaching you, that familiar coil in your stomach greets you. Your mouth goes dry as your eyes squeeze shut as your teeth let go of Megumi’s lips. You don’t have to utter a word for him to know that you’re close. Your impending orgasm only eggs his on as he moves inside you. When your movements become more sporadic as your thighs begin to shake, it’s as though your body is control of his, commanding him to cum alongside you. Your juices seep down, adorning his cock in your creamy essence as continuously milks his cock. A white ring forms at the base as your cunt grows messy itself, the mixture of cum twirling itself inside of your pretty little bush as you ride out your orgasm. You whine at the overstimulation, your clit rubbing against Megumi as it becomes sensitive.

Together, the two of you pant until that lust-blown fog is cleared from your minds and you’re staring into his eyes. Those blue eyes that stared back at you with so much lust and adoration. When you’re both breathing steadily, you lay your head in the crevice of his neck and feel the rhythmic beat of his heart.

It’s his turn to play in your hair, messing with the braids and the curled locks of hair that reside outside of it. He comes to chuckle, the vibration jolting you up as you shift. His cock still inside you, your movement has him groaning when you look up at him in curiosity. “What?”

You’ll probably slap him for this. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

#megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi fushiguro x you #megumi fushiguro smut #megumi x reader #megumi x you #megumi smut #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #𑁤 fushiguro megumi.#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #x reader #x black reader #tw: (n)sfw

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the-oblivious-writer · 2 days ago

Text

Let the Light In |8|

Tara Carpenter x Fem!Reader

Chapter Eight: Old Temptations

Summary: After hiding yourself away for weeks, Anika and Henry get you to return to the living. While you're at the party they bring you to, you run into Tara before a third-party runs into your fists.

Warning(s): Swearing, fighting - whoop whoop!! that's the sound, social interactions, and drinking (underage)

Notes: I made at least ten drafts, combined them, adjusted, and here is the final product. This is more of an R focused chapter, so you'll start to see more of the internal struggles she goes through along with a special guest start. As always, I hope you enjoy

Masterlist|Previous Part|Next Part

The incandescent lights of Henry's apartment building buzz overhead as you follow him and Anika up the concrete stairs. Your boots echo against each step, creating a hollow rhythm that matches your reluctant heartbeat. You've been dreading this party all week, but your friends had worn you down with their relentless enthusiasm and pointed comments about your "hermit tendencies."

"I still can't believe you actually agreed to come," Henry says over his shoulder, his keys jingling as he searches for the right one. "Usually getting you out after exams is like trying to coax a cat into taking a bath."

"Maybe I'm turning over a new leaf," you mutter, knowing full well it's a lie. The only reason you'd agreed was because they'd caught you in a moment of weakness—specifically, when you were coming down from a three-day study binge and your defenses were too low to properly deflect their persistent pestering.

Anika snorts, adjusting her glittering top that catches the harsh hallway light. "Right. And I'm going to start watching silent films with you."

"Charlie Chaplin’s a classic," you defend, following them into Henry's apartment. The familiar scent of his signature sandalwood candles hits you immediately.

"Whatever you say, grandma," Henry teases, disappearing into his bedroom. You can hear him rummaging around, probably looking for whatever he plans to wear tonight.

You collapse onto his worn leather couch, the same one he'd rescued from a curb three years ago. Despite its questionable origins, it's the most comfortable piece of furniture you've ever encountered. Maybe if you sink deep enough into it, they'll forget you're here and leave without you.

Anika perches on the arm of the couch, already touching up her makeup in a compact mirror. "You know," she starts, and you recognize that tone—it's the one she uses when she's about to say something she thinks you won't like. "Tara might be there tonight."

Your stomach does an uncomfortable flip. "And why would I care about that?"

"Oh, I don't know," Anika draws out the words, applying another coat of mascara with practiced precision. "Maybe because you've been moping around ever since your little disappearing act?"

"I haven't been moping," you protest, but even you can hear how weak it sounds. "I've been studying. There's a difference."

"Right," she says, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

You open your mouth to argue, then close it again. The past few weeks have been a blur of textbooks, coffee, and a blend of mathematical formulas and historical documentations. You'd thrown yourself into exam preparation with perhaps more vigor than strictly necessary, but that was just your way of dealing with stress.

It definitely had nothing to do with how you'd ignored her texts afterward.

Dork (3:47 pm - 2 WEEKS AGO) I can't make it tonight

Tara (3:48 pm - 2 WEEKS AGO) oh. lemme knw when u can reschedule

Dork (3:48 pm - 2 WEEKS AGO) Tara, don't do that

Tara (3:49 pm - 2 WEEKS AGO) dont wat????

Dork (3:49 pm - 2 WEEKS AGO) I know what 'oh' means

Tara (3:50 pm - 2 WEEKS AGO) well then eblighten me cuz idk what ur ymmaring abt

Dork (3:51 pm - 2 WEEKS AGO) *Enlighten/*yammering, and never mind

Tara (3:51 pm - 2 WEEKS AGO) 🤓 is u fr

Dork (3:52 pm - 2 WEEKS AGO) Excuse me?

Tara (3: 52 pm - 2 WEEKS AGO) i have to explain??? but i thougt u were all knowing!

Dork (3:53 pm - 2 WEEKS AGO) *Thought. I know you know how to spell, you're just reckless with a keyboard

Tara (3:53 pm - 2 WEEKS AGO) my question is when did i ask

Dork (3:54 pm - 2 WEEKS AGO) That's an improvement

Tara (3:54 pm - 2 WEEKS AGO) stfup.

Henry emerges from his bedroom, now wearing a fitted crop-top that every guy wore in the 80’s. "Are we talking about the Tara situation?"

"There is no 'Tara situation,'" you insist, making air quotes with your fingers. "Can we please just go to this party so I can suffer through it and get back to my peaceful, drama-free existence?"

"Drama-free?" Henry laughs, grabbing his keys. "Is that what we're calling your one-person production of 'Hamlet' these last eighteen years?"

You bite your thumb at him, but there's no real heat behind it. These are your best friends, after all, and you know their teasing comes from a place of love. Even if they're being particularly annoying about it tonight.

The drive to the party is a blur of street lights and the sound of Abbey Road. You're behind the wheel of your beloved '70 Ford Maverick, a car that Henry constantly ridicules. Anika claims the passenger seat, still fussing with her makeup, while Henry sprawls in the back, giving you directions that are more confusing than helpful.

"No, no, turn left at the next—wait, I meant right. My other left."

"Your other left?" you deadpan, making the turn anyway. "How many lefts do you have?"

"Don't sass the navigator," he replies primly. "Oh, there it is! The house with all the cars out front."

You pull up to the curb about half a block away, already feeling your anxiety spike at the sight of the crowded frat house. Music pulses from within, so loud you can feel it in your chest even from here. People mill about on the front lawn, red cups in hand, their laughter carrying through the night air.

"Remind me again why I agreed to this?" you ask, killing the engine but making no move to get out of the car.

Anika turns to you, her expression softening slightly. "Because Henry threatened to sing the entire soundtrack of 'Cats' outside your bedroom door if you didn't come."

"That was a low blow," you mutter, finally unbuckling your seatbelt. "You know how much I hate that musical."

"Desperate times," Henry says cheerfully, already out of the car and bouncing on his heels with excitement. "Come on, let's go find out what kinds of terrible decisions we can make tonight!"

You follow your friends up the walkway, trying to ignore the way your palms are already sweating. The last party you'd attended had been... well, it had been a week before your self-imposed exile. The night Tara had looked at you with those impossibly dark eyes and asked if you wanted to get some air, and you'd panicked and made up an excuse about needing to check on your nonexistent fish.

The front door is already open, music and voices spilling out into the night. As soon as you cross the threshold, you're hit with a wall of sensory input that makes your head spin. The air is thick with artificial fog from a machine hidden somewhere in the corner, mixed with the distinctive scent of cheap beer and various perfumes and colognes. Multi-colored lights pulse in time with the music, turning everything into a strobing dreamscape and your nightmare.

Henry guides you through the crowd with a gentle hand on your back, navigating the sea of bodies with practiced ease. You catch glimpses of familiar faces as you pass. They all blur together in the dim light, becoming a kaleidoscope of features that makes your head swim.

You end up at yet another worn leather couch that's seen better days, probably around the same era as your car. Henry gestures for you to sit, and you do, grateful for something solid beneath you. The cushions seem to want to swallow you whole, and for once, you don't fight it.

"I'll get us drinks!" Henry shouts over the music, already backing away into the crowd. "Don't move!"

Anika lingers for a moment, looking torn between staying with you and pursuing whatever—or whoever—has caught her attention across the room. You wave her off with a weak smile. "Go. I'll be fine right here, becoming one with the furniture."

She hesitates another second before grinning. "Try to have some fun, okay? And text me if you need an escape plan." Then she's gone, disappearing into the crowd with the grace of Mindy, someone who actually enjoys these sorts of gatherings.

Left alone, you let yourself sink deeper into the couch, watching the party unfold around you. A group of girls near the makeshift dance floor are attempting some sort of choreographed routine, though the alcohol in their systems is making it more comedic than coordinated. Two guys are engaged in what appears to be an intense debate about pizza toppings, their gestures becoming more animated with each passing second.

The bass line of whatever song is playing thrums through your body, making your bones vibrate in a way that's not entirely unpleasant. You find yourself timing your breathing to it, using it as an anchor in the chaos. This isn't so bad, you think. You can handle this. It's just a few hours, and then you can go home and binge-watch your comfort shows until the sun comes up.

"Y/L/N special!" Henry's voice breaks through your thoughts as he returns, thrusting a red solo cup into your hands. The liquid inside is an alarming shade of orange that definitely doesn't occur in nature.

You eye it suspiciously. "What exactly makes it a ‘Y/L/N special'?"

"The fact that it's specifically designed for the same people who despise candy unless it's 99% cacao," he explains, dropping onto the couch beside you with his own drink—something amber-colored that you assume is actually beer.

"That's... oddly thoughtful," you admit, taking a tentative sip. It tastes like water that’s had lemons and limes soak in it for months, the kick makes your tongue tingle. "And dangerous."

"Just pace yourself," he advises, watching as more people filter into the already crowded space. "Oh hey, isn't that Charlotte?"

You follow his gaze to see Charlotte, the person you ended things with through a text message. You try to hide behind the red plastic in your hand as you sip, but you nearly spill your bitter bread water all over yourself when she notices you. You can tell it caught her off guard; her eyes slightly widened and she took an uncomfortably long pause mid-sentence. This pause caused her friends to look over which only made things even more awkward—at least for you. After shooting daggers at you and one of them flipping you off, they linked elbows with Charlotte and took her to a different room.

You know you deserved it.

Henry sucked his teeth. “Ouch. Casanova strikes again,” he chuckled with amusement.

“Ugh,” you express in response to the name for you before downing the last of the liquid in your cup. “I’m out. I’m gonna get one more.”

One drink turns into two, two turns into three, and somewhere during your debate with Henry over which Ninja Turtle’s the best one, you’re interrupted by a pair of familiar dark brown eyes meeting yours. Your attention always seemed to gravitate towards Tara Carpenter.

You momentarily pause your expression of admiration for Leonardo, peeking over Henry’s shoulder to give Tara a downwards smile paired with a finger wave. She rolls her eyes and returns your finger wave in a mocking gesture. After Henry realizes what’s grabbed your attention, he makes an excuse to walk away.

You're nursing your fifth orange drink when she materializes beside you, seemingly out of thin air. "Seriously?" The word drips with exasperation. "You're actually hiding behind Henry?"

"I'm not hiding," you protest, pulling yourself up to what you hope is a dignified height. "I'm strategically positioning myself for optimal social avoidance."

Tara snorts—an inelegant sound that somehow makes her more endearing. "Is that what we're calling it?"

The space between you crackles with a tension that's part irritation, part something else entirely.

"I could ask you the same thing," you counter with a crack in your voice. Tara notices this and slightly raises an eyebrow while giving you a once-over. "Pretty sure you've been standing in the exact same spot for the last twenty minutes."

Her eyes narrow. "I'm observing."

"Stalking," you correct automatically.

"Strategically positioning myself," she throws your earlier words back at you, and there's a glint in her eye that makes your breath catch.

For a moment, you felt uncharacteristically at ease in such a setting—when you catch a fragment of a conversation that makes your blood run cold.

“—Carpenter's got a mouth on her that could—"

The words slice through your alcohol-induced haze like a knife. Your head whips around so fast you almost give yourself whiplash, searching for the source of the comment. Two guys are leaning against the wall near the stairs, one of them making crude gestures as he continues to make vile comments about Tara.

The pleasant warmth in your system transforms instantly into liquid fire. You recognize one of them—Marcus Wheeler from your Calculus class, the one who always makes inappropriate comments during lectures and thinks he's God's gift to mathematics. The other is unfamiliar, but the way he's laughing and encouraging Marcus makes your skin crawl.

Your muscles tense. Tara notices immediately. "Don't," she warns, a single word packed with more meaning than should be possible.

But you're already moving, your body acting before your brain can fully process the decision.

Your fist connects with his jaw before you even realize you've thrown the punch. There's a satisfying crack that you feel more than hear, followed by a burst of pain across your knuckles that you're too angry to properly register. The pain sends a rush through you, pushes you, tempts you for more.

Marcus staggers back, both surprised and hurt, but recovers quickly. He lunges for you, but your muscle memory kicks in. You sidestep, using his momentum against him, and somehow you end up on top of him, getting in another solid hit before strong hands pull you away.

The world comes rushing back all at once. The music has stopped, replaced by the murmur of shocked voices and the ringing in your ears. Everyone is staring at you, their faces a blur of surprise and judgment. Marcus is on the ground, blood trickling from his split lip, and presumably broken nose, looking at you with a mixture of rage, disbelief, and fear.

Your chest feels too tight, like someone's wrapped steel bands around your ribcage and is slowly tightening them. The weight of what you've just done crashes over you like a wave, threatening to pull you under. You need to get out—now.

You shoulder your way through the crowd, ignoring Henry calling your name, ignoring the whispers that follow in your wake. Someone tries to grab your arm, but you shake them off, focused solely on reaching the door. The cool night air hits your face like a slap when you finally burst outside, but you keep walking, your hands shaking as the adrenaline starts to wear off.

The crisp winter air hits you like a slap when you stumble outside, your breath forming small clouds in the freezing night.

“Wait!”

When did she get here?

"Let me see," Tara's voice cuts through your alcohol-induced haze, her hand reaching for yours with a familiarity that makes your head spin—or maybe you've had one too many of those orange drinks.

You thrust your hand toward her dramatically, wincing as the movement sends a spike of pain through your bruised knuckles.

"I totally got that incel good," you slur, a giggle bubbling up from somewhere deep and slightly unhinged. The ice beneath your feet seems to shimmer with your triumph.

Tara's fingers hover just above your hand, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from her skin. "You're going to need ice for that," she says, her tone caught between exasperation and something else—something softer.

"Ice, huh?" You look down at the ground, the irony not lost on you.

With exaggerated precision, you bend down and scoop up a handful of snow, pressing it against your knuckles. The cold bites, but it's a welcome contrast to the burning anger and alcohol still coursing through your system.

"This works, right?" You look up at her, your eyes wide and slightly unfocused. The world tilts slightly, but Tara remains steady—an anchor in your spinning vision.

Something flickers in her eyes—amusement, maybe. "You're something else," she mutters, but there's no real bite to the words.

Emboldened by alcohol and adrenaline, you lean in closer. The words tumble out before you can stop them. "So… I never did get an answer to that proposal."

Tara goes very still. A smile begins to form, tentative and fragile as first light.

She chuckles at your remark before shaking her head and scoffing to herself. "Sometimes I just don't get you," she says with a smile still etched on her face, but there's more complexity in those words than simple dismissal as she stares back into your eyes.

Confusion must show on your face because she looks away, the streetlight catching the curve of her cheek, the set of her jaw. You didn’t know what else to say so you just said the first thing that came to mind.

“Merry birthday, Tar,” you said.

She’s taken aback by this. She didn’t know what to say, yet still opened her mouth to respond. Maybe something would come to her, but before anything did—

"There you are!" Anika's voice cuts through the moment like a knife. Your car pulls up to the curb, engine running warm against the freezing air. "We need to get out of here before that guy calls the cops."

The moment dissolves. Tara takes a step back, creating distance that feels more emotional than physical. You're left standing there, snow melting between your fingers, the taste of unresolved everything burning at the back of your throat.

As you climb into the passenger seat, you catch one last glimpse of her in the side mirror—a silhouette, perfectly still and impossibly distant.

—

The drive home is mostly silent, broken only by the occasional sigh from Anika and the gentle humming of your car's engine. Your knuckles throb in time with your heartbeat, a steady reminder of your momentary loss of control. The adrenaline is wearing off now, replaced by a mixture of embarrassment and alcohol-induced wooziness that makes you slouch lower in your seat.

"You know," Anika finally says as she pulls into your shared apartment complex, "when I said you needed to be more social, starting another fight wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

You grunt in response, too busy focusing on the way the world is tilting slightly to form actual words. The drinks are hitting harder now that the excitement is over, making everything feel soft around the edges.

"Use your words," she chides, killing the engine.

"Words are for people who don't punch assholes at parties," you mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt. The simple mechanism seems impossibly complex right now.

Anika reaches over to help you, her movements gentle despite her exasperated tone. "Come on, Rocky Balboa. Let's get you inside."

Getting up the stairs to your second-floor apartment proves to be an adventure. You insist you can do it yourself, but after the third time you miss a step, Anika wraps an arm around your waist and practically drags you up.

"I can walk," you protest, even as you lean heavily against her.

"Sure you can. Just like you can make rational decisions at parties, right?"

You attempt to glare at her, but the effect is somewhat ruined when you stumble over your own feet. "He deserved it."

"Oh, I'm not arguing that point," Anika says, fishing her keys out of her purse while still supporting most of your weight. "Marcus Wheeler is definitely in the running for Biggest Douchebag of the Year. But maybe next time we could handle it without violence? You know, like adults?"

"Adulting is overrated," you declare as she manages to get the door open. "If I was a kid, I could just pull Tara's pigtails or something."

Anika steers you toward the kitchen, depositing you none too gently into one of the mismatched chairs around your small table. "Okay, first of all, that's not the approach to crushing on someone that you think it is. Second, stay put while I get the first aid kit."

You slump forward, resting your forehead against the cool surface of the table. "Not crushing," you mumble into the wood. "Just... emotionally compromised."

"Right," Anika calls from the bathroom, where you can hear her rummaging through cabinets. "And I'm just 'casually interested' in my hot girlfriend."

"That's different," you argue, lifting your head slightly. "You two are together. You’re attached to the hip—you don’t hide from each other."

"Ha! So you admit you were hiding!"

You let your head thunk back down onto the table. "I admit nothing. I was studying. Very intensely. In locations where certain people were statistically unlikely to appear."

Anika returns with the first aid kit and a bag of frozen peas, setting both on the table. "Sit up, you disaster. Let me see your hand."

You comply with a dramatic sigh, straightening in your chair and holding out your injured hand. Your knuckles are already starting to bruise, spots of purple blooming across the skin. There are a few small cuts, probably from where you caught Marcus's teeth.

"This might sting," Anika warns before dabbing at the cuts with an alcohol wipe. You hiss through your teeth but don't pull away. "So," she continues, her tone deceptively casual, "want to talk about what really happened back there?"

"Not particularly," you mutter, watching as she carefully cleans each cut. "Can we just chalk it up to temporary insanity and move on?"

"You punched a guy for talking shit about Tara." She applies antibiotic ointment with practiced efficiency. "That's not temporary insanity. That's feelings."

You try to pull your hand away, but she holds firm. "It's not— I just— He was being gross!"

"Mhmm." She wraps your knuckles in gauze with precise movements. "And the fact that it was about Tara specifically had nothing to do with your reaction?"

"I would have done the same for anyone," you insist, even though you both know it's a lie. "It's about basic human decency."

"Right. Basic human decency. That's why you've been moping around our apartment for two weeks, taking different routes, and muttering under your breath when you think I can't hear you."

Before you can form a suitably indignant response, your phone buzzes. Henry's face appears on the screen, caught mid-laugh at some long-ago hangout.

You put the call on speaker, feeling too exhausted to hold the phone. Henry's excited voice crackles through, bursting with energy.

"Holy shit! Are you okay? That was the most badass thing I've ever seen in my life!"

"I'm fine," you mutter, wincing as Anika presses a bag of frozen peas against your bruised knuckles. "Ow! Except for my so-called best friend trying to give me frostbite."

Anika's tone is no-nonsense. "Keep the ice on, or your hand will swell up like a balloon."

Henry can barely contain his excitement. "You should have seen Marcus's face after you left. He was completely shaken. I don't think anyone's ever stood up to him like that before."

You groan, tilting your head back. "Great. Now I'll be known as the crazy chick who starts fights at parties. That'll look amazing on my resume."

"Are you kidding? You're going to be a legend!" Henry starts, then suddenly there's a scuffle in the background.

"Am I on speaker?" you ask, suspicion rising in your voice.

"No!" Henry says simultaneously with another voice declaring, "Yes!"

You recognize the second voice immediately. "Henry James Martinez," you say, using his full name—knowing how much he hates it—"Are you and Tony back together?"

"No!" Henry protests. "His place flooded, and he needed a place to stay!"

"Sure thing, Hef," you chuckle, catching Anika's amused smile.

Tony's cheerful voice joins the conversation. "Hey, heard you knocked some douche on his ass for talking shit about your girlfriend. Nicely done."

"She's not my girlfriend," you respond quickly.

Henry can't resist. "Define girlfriend."

You're ready with a comeback. "Define sharing a living space with—"

"Uh oh, bad connection," Henry interrupts, and suddenly the line goes dead. Anika bursts into laughter.

“I’m gonna get you some aspirin,” Anika offered, patting your shoulder as she passed. “But just so you know that whole ‘emotionally compromised’ thing? Yeah, that’s basically the definition of crushing.”

You make an incoherent noise of protest into the table.

"Oh, and by the way," Anika calls from the kitchen, "you're totally teaching me that right hook tomorrow. After your hangover wears off, of course."

You lift your head just enough to deadpan at her.

"Love you too, champ. Now take your aspirin and go to bed before you fall asleep on the table. Again."

Not long after she went to her room, you stumble into the bathroom, hand throbbing and head spinning—the former a reminder of the night’s events. The light is harsh against your alcohol-fogged brain. The tile floor is cold beneath your bare feet as you stumble to the sink, turning on the water and splashing your face.

When you look up, he's there.

Your Uncle's bloody corpse stands behind you in the reflection, that familiar crooked smile that's always been more predatory than comforting. His appearance is exactly as you remember from old photographs—that slightly manic glint in his eye, the way he holds himself like violence is always just beneath the surface.

"Killer punch," he says, leaning against the bathroom wall. No greeting, no preamble. Just direct observation.

You don't jump but roll your eyes. "Go away," you mutter, gripping the sink's edge.

He chuckles—a sound that's more bark than laugh. "I saw myself in you tonight. That rage? That precise moment of calculated violence? Pure genetics that chose you."

"I'm nothing like you," you snap, turning to face him directly. The bathroom suddenly feels smaller.

He takes a step closer. "Oh, but you are. That moment when you heard those guys talking about your girl? That split second before the punch? That wasn't just anger. That was hunting instinct."

You close your eyes, trying to block him out. "I'm not a killer. I'm not you."

"Not yet," he says, and there's something almost proud in his voice. "But you've got the potential. I saw how you moved. How you calculated. How you knew exactly where to hit to cause maximum impact."

"My dad’s a professional pig," you counter. "It’s not like I attended murder school."

His laugh is sharp, brittle. "Call it what you want. But we both know there's something inside you. Something sharp. Something waiting."

The argument feels familiar—like every nightmare, every family gathering where his memory haunted the edges of conversation, their fear of the parallels you both held. You're tired of it. Tired of him.

"I'm going to bed," you declare, pushing past his spectral form.

He doesn't disappear immediately. Instead, his voice follows you. "We're not so different, you and me."

You pause at the doorway, not turning around, as your hand tightly grips the edges of the doorframe. "We're nothing alike."

The silence that follows is answer enough.

As you crawl back into bed, the room feels normal again—just another night, just another internal argument with a ghost who refuses to stay buried.

But somewhere in the darkness, you can still feel him watching. Waiting.

-----------

A/N:

gobble, gobble

#tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter x female reader #tara carpenter x you #tara carpenter x y/n #tara carpenter #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega #let the light in au

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vezpr · 2 days ago

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SUKUNAxF!READER ☽☾ COLLEGE AU ☽☾ ONESHOT ☽☾ AO3

☽☾ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Gojo shows you a video of your boyfriend, Sukuna, making out with another girl at a party, so you decide to get revenge. Poor Nanami.

☽☾ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: 18+MINORS DNI, smut, porn with feelings (not necessarily good feelings), sukuna x reader, nanami x reader, ft gojo for as long as I can stand him :b, human Sukuna, college au/ no powers, toxic/ mutually abusive relationship dynamics, cheating, spanking, hate fucking, face slapping, throat fucking, hair pulling, light choking, no aftercare, degradation, name calling, drug and alcohol use mentioned, size difference, oral sex, piv sex, I suck at tags

☽☾ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.3k

"Satoru, can you at least pretend not to enjoy this, please," you say, holding your phone away from your face as it rings.

The man is glowing, his lanky frame sprawled across of one of the mismatched sofas in his apartment, one boot propped on a coffee table littered with the controlled chaos of his studies. He looks as if his head might actually explode with the force of unexpelled I-told-you-so's. "He's an asshole. I told you that before you ever hooked up, right? Forget him!"

"Damnit," you hiss, pausing in your frantic pacing long enough to redial your asshole boyfriend's number after being sent to his full mailbox half a dozen times.

"Why don't you try cool down a little before you talk to him," Nanami says from the opposite side of the room where he sits hunched forward, elbows on his knees, watching you pace. Always the reasonable one. "Nothing productive can possibly come of talking to him while you're like this."

You shoot the blonde man a withering glare, but hit the end button on the call, shoulders sagging, chin to chest as you cross to his side of the room. "I know you're right, Nanami," you reply as you slump, defeated, onto the sagging cushion next to him. He clears his throat when you splay your legs and your knee brushes his. You lean your head against the back of the couch and turn your face towards him, lips pursed in a pout as you feel the stinging threat of tears in your eyes. "It's just that... right now, I don't feel like I can cool dow-"

You sit bolt upright as your phone buzzes in your hand. The screen lights up with his face, framed in soft salmon waves that contrast with the hard black lines of tattoos tracing the angle of his jaw. You've been together for a year, practically moved in together right away, and still, even the digital representation of his garnet eyes makes your heart stutter just like it did the first time you saw him.

"Hey, I really don't think you should-" Nanami begins.

"Sukuna," you answer, rising from the couch and crossing the arm that isn't holding the phone to your ear over your ribcage, as if that will prevent your heart from beating out of your chest.

"Who are you with," he asks, apparently hearing Nanami, who continues to lecture you in the background. But, fuck, if the rasp of his voice doesn't make your insides squirm in a way they definitely shouldn't right now. Why do you have to be so hopelessly obsessed with him?

You shoot your friend a pleading look and wave your hand at him. He sinks back into the couch, shaking his head, but he shuts up.

"Who's throat did you have your tongue down last night," you demand, voice rising already. When your question is met with silence, you add, "Go- someone showed me a video."

"Nothing happened," he replies, his voice steady and calm, as if he were ordering a coffee, which really makes you start to lose your shit.

"Do. not. fucking gaslight me right now. It was you, I fucking saw-"

"I mean nothing happened after that. You didn't see a video of me fucking anybody. Didn't even hear about the possibility of me fucking anybody. Because I didn't fuck anybody. I mean, shit, I got home before you." He pauses and your heart starts to slow just a little. Maybe it really didn't go any farther than that. Maybe this doesn't have to be a big deal... but then he opens his stupid mouth again. "Couldn't stay hard because of the molly."

"Fuck you, Sukuna," you scream-sob, holding the phone under your chin. "Fuck you! If you were here I'd slap your motherfucking face so goddamn hard I swear to god!"

He laughs, of course. "Calm down, baby. I'm kidding. I knew that white-haired prick was watching my every fucking move. I just did it to piss you off after you left with that blonde guy that's always limping after you like a lost puppy."

You glance up at Nanami, wondering if he heard, but he is studiously examining his cuticles. Even Gojo looks uncomfortable as he busies himself with straightening the papers on his desk, his luminous eyes peeking at you through the platinum locks that have fallen over his forehead in the process.

"I left because you were so fucking high. Laughing at everything, grinding your teeth like a crackhead, going on and fucking on about how you feel like a god among men or somevweird shit like that. It's embarrassing as hell! I ask you to go to one little party-"

"Exactly, you bitched and moaned until I agreed to hang out with your loser friends - who just so happen to all be men that want to fuck you-"

He is getting loud now, apparently loud enough for your companions to hear because Gojo, with a flourish of his wrist, cheerfully interjects, "I don't want to fuck you."

"Shut up Satoru," Nanami hisses.

"-It's like you get off parading yourself around them in front of me... but I digress. My point is that I don't know what the hell would make you think I would be willing to endure that shit sober."

"Oh, so now it's my fault you fucking cheated on me?"

He's quiet for a minute and you hear him sigh into the receiver. "I got a question for you. You didn't get home til late, where were you?"

"Well, I was hungry so we stopped to get something to eat..."

"For like... had to have been at least four hours?"

"I guess we lost track of time talking..."

"Talking. Okay. Well that sounds fucking fantastic, babe but-"

"Well at least I didn't tongue wrestle him in front of half the fucking campus!"

"You know what... I can't do this now, I'm at work. That whimsical motherfucker had all day to start this shit and of course he waited until I'm at work. When I get home tonight, we're gonna have a nice long chat. Maybe not four hours but..."

"I'm not going to be home when you get home tonight."

Another tense silence. "Don't fuck with me, babe. You really don't wanna do that."

"Don't fuck with me, babe!" You echo in a shrill, mocking tone. "You know what kind of people say that? 'Don't fuck with me?' Weak, scared little bitches. And you should be scared, because you're never gonna find somebody who will want your worthless, piece of shit ass like I did. Ever."

"Baby."

"Please fuck with me, babe, find out what fucking happens," you spit out before hanging up on him.

When your phone vibrates, you're still rooted to the spot. You lift your shaking hands to read the message.

you better be there when I get home

You scoff.

"Nanami, can I stay with you tonight?"

He had been watching you, but now his eyes slide away behind the glare reflecting off his glasses. "You really think that's a good idea?"

"Please? I don't want to be home and I don't want to be alone," you must look quite pathetic, because he nods begrudgingly.

"Great," says Satoru. "This man has been needing to get laid for decades."

"Shut up, Gojo," you and Nanami both say at once.

Although he is the same age as the rest of your friend group, the man has his shit significantly more together than anyone else. He had skipped most of the partying, failing, switching majors, and the rest of the general fuckery and graduated first. Got himself a good job, something to do with stocks. He's got a mortgage, while the rest of you are struggling to pay rent. He's too good for the rest of you, truth be told.

You look at your phone, as you had approximately every ten seconds since you left Satoru's apartment, but nothing from Sukuna. He wouldn't be off from his job until almost midnight, anyway. Maybe he really doesn't care what you do. You pull down the menu from the top of the screen and hover your finger over the location toggle. Nah, let him suffer, you think to yourself as you decide to leave it on. Or come get me if he actually gives a fuck. Sliding the device into your back pocket, you walk up the driveway to Nanami's door and knock.

Too good for you. But he doesn't seem to know it.

"Hey," you say with a tight smile when he lets you in. "I come bearing gifts," you hold up a bag of takeout and a bottle of wine. There's actually another one in the trunk, just in case.

You're pretty sure neither of you are watching whatever movie is playing. You don't even remember what it's called. Gradually you notice that he relaxes, softens into the couch, turns his head to look at you, smiles a little. You smile back. It's easy to just be with Nanami like this, quiet.

You do end up retreiving it after the first one is empty. The man is wound tight like a spring. And you swear he clears his throat everytime you accidentally brush against him grabbing food from the coffee table, or refilling you glasses. What does that mean? You wonder silently.

"You sleep with those on," you tease, poking his calf with a socked toe.

He looks down, "What my shoes? No." He smiles, warm. Tipsy maybe, both of you.

You laugh softly. "Take em off. You live here, you know."

He shrugs and toes them off. "Happy?"

"No," you deadpan.

His smile falters and you laugh.

He lets his head fall against the back of the couch and rolls his eyes. Looks at you and smiles again. "I don't drink much," he says.

"I know," you scoot closer, knees pressing into his thigh. "You drunk?"

He looks down at the point of coat, then back into your eyes. "No. Are you?"

"Nope." You reach out and lift his glasses off of his face. He lets you. Doesn't even clear his throat or look away. When you lean back to set them on the coffee table, you begin to lose your balance, but he catches you around the waist and pulls you back.

"You sure?" He asks, resting his hand on the small of your back.

"I'm sure," you smile, reaching for his tie. "Don't you ever get comfortable?" You ask, loosening it.

"Not really," he says, pulling you towards him.

"Hm," you hum, straddling his lap as you pull the tie free from his collar. You smile at how nonchalant the two of you are, as if this isn't happening. Like he didn't pull you into his lap. Like you aren't brushing a blonde fall of hair off of his forehead as he looks up at you, honey eyes half-lidded. Like his hands haven't slid under the hem of your tank top, warming the skin of your back.

You're just friends. Yeah. Just talking.

His mouth is warm and soft, wine-tart. He smells like cedar and ocean salt. When you hear your phone ping softly, he's got a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back to press his mouth into your neck, tongue gentle against the tender flesh. No teeth. Without looking you know the unique little tone means your device has been gps located. You moan when he pulls the strap of your tank top down and takes your nipple in his mouth. You hadn't worn anything under that.

Oops.

You had been working on the buttons of his shirt, palms sliding across his pecs. He pulls away to let you slip it off. "I could take care of you," he says, breathless, as he loosens his watch and works his hands out of the sleeves. "You wouldn't have to ever have another day like you had today."

"I know," you say as you wrap around each other, mouths fastened together, moving like you have years rather than just the next handful of moments. Him the living sea, rolling over you, the shore, a dead thing made of dirt. I can take care of you, his hands whisper. Your atrophied heart clenches, and, for a moment, you wish it could be true.

A car door slams outside.

He pulls away and looks at you, ugly realization dawning in his eyes. "Oh," he nods grimly. "I get it."

He sighs raggedly and shakes his head as pushes you off of his lap gently. His hands a soft suggestion, unlike Sukuna's demanding touch. You feet hit the floor just as the first splinters fly from the doorframe.

How many kicks, you think bizarrely of a little cartoon owl with a sucker. How many kicks does it take to break down Nanami Kento's door? Three. Three kicks.

You are frantically feeling in between the couch cushions for your discarded top when Sukuna shoulders through the broken door.

"It was unlocked, jackass," you hear Nanami say, "That's gonna be expens-" then a couple of thumps, the soft crush of bone and cartilage, and the loud thud of a body crumpling to the floor.

Trying to pull Sukuna off of him is like trying to move a mountain. You pull at him and scream in your panic sharpened voice, "Please, Kuna, stop! Please stop! Don't hurt him!" Although, you can see that it's too late for that.

You reel backward when he rounds on you, but you need not worry about falling. He catches you by the hair and pulls you up. He looms over you, his vastness swallowing you like his pupils swallow the blood of his irises in the blue flickering light from the television. He is every inch the monster you know he can be. "Don't fucking call me that, woman," he growls into your ear.

You crumple to the floor when he lets you go. "Been too soft on you, brat," he toes at Nanami's limp form before stalking to the coffee table. "Gonna have to re-educate you. Lucky i don't just fucking destroy you both." He picks up an empty wine bottle and hurls it at the TV. The crash has you flinching as the screen spiderwebs and the speakers sputter. His belt buckle clinks as he unfastens it and your cunt drools like pavlov's dogs at the sound. You wonder if he knows how completely he has you.

You watch wordlessly as he pulls himself out of the fly of his jeans and pisses all over the flickering set. He turns his gaze on you and tucks himself away. The leather of his belt hisses against denim as he pulls it free of the loops.

"Now what am I going to do with you," he says, stalking towards you, one hand in his pocket, the other lazily trailing the belt behind him. The grin on his face is cold and sharp as a knife edge. He must be feeling better already.

He brushes past you and seats himself on the arm of the couch. Elbow on the back of it, he leans his cheek against his fist as he looks down at you. "Come here," he says.

You look over at Nanami's limp form. You can just see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

"Don't look at him. He can't help you. Never could. Now, I won't say it again. Come. Here."

You begin to get to your feet.

"No," he says, eerily calm, and you freeze midway to your feet. "Crawl."

"Come on Kuna," you coo, voice sticky sweet. "I'm really sorr-"

"Shut the fuck up. Nobody wants to hear your sorry's. Now get over here."

So you drop back to your knees and start to crawl. You sway your hips and smile up at him, ever defiant. He snorts and shakes his head. "You are such a little slut."

"Stand up," he says, when you arrive at his ankles. Even seated as he is on the arm of the couch, he towers over you when you obey.

"Strip," he says, then, "faster," when you are to slow to peel your clothes away. He leans forward and slides his fingers through your folds.

"Wet," he says.

"For Nanami," you retort, only half a lie. You are still mad at him, after all.

His hand flies so quick you barely see him move before the back of his hand connects with your cheek. Seeing stars, you're reeling backwards, but he catches you, draws you across his lap. The belt burns across the fat of your ass as he brings it down on you over and over in fast, hard bursts. Tears sting your eyes as you squirm and bite at your bottom lip, but he's strong and has little trouble holding you in place with his one free hand clasping your wrists together behind your back.

"Told you not to fuck with me," he's growling, and your pussy clenches around nothing. You wish he would just fuck you already.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you sob, "Please, please, please!"

Finally, he relents, the belt slithers to the floor. "Are you really sorry?" He asks, his voice softer now, some of the aggression soothed out of it by the burst of violence. "Actions speak louder than words, you know." You fail at biting back a moan as he suddenly shoves his fingers inside you, growling as he feels you clenching around him. "You want my cock?" He asks. Craning your neck you look up at him over your shoulder, nodding frantically.

"On your knees then," he says, releasing you.

"You're a sick fuck, you know," he says as you crumple to your knees between his feet. "Might even be worse than me." He lets his jeans pool around his ankles before stepping out of them. Grasping the base of his cock, already rigid and leaking, he smacks it lightly against your cheek, smearing your feverish skin with precum. "That's why he-" he nods behind him at Nanami's unconscious body, "-could never do it for you."

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, which you drag along his tip murmuring, "can you take this off too-" you tug at the sleeve of his hoodie, "-I wanna see you."

He grunts and pulls it over his head, groaning as you pull his cockhead into your mouth, tongue tracing his slit, the ridge if his glans. You know that he is at least partly right, you are sick. But you wonder if he brings it out of you. Could you be different with Nanami? You think of his mouth on your neck, your hands on his chest.

"If you want to see me, open your eyes," Sukuna says, something jagged in his tone, like suspicion. So you look up at him, run your fingers up the fronts of his thighs to the dips of his abdominals as you take his cock deeper. Your eyes follow the lines of tattoos outlining his chest until you find his face, jaw slack, eyes heavy as he looks down at you.

You release his dick with a wet pop, sucking in air. "You're perfect."

"I didn't say stop," he grasps, fisting a hand in your hair, using his other to pry your mouth open unnaturally wide until you are drooling down his tattooed wrist, eyes shiny with tears as you look up at him. He slides his cock between your lips, controlling the angle of your head with his hands, sinking in until your nose is pressed against his stomach. "Told you to fucking be home when I got home," he growls, smashing ypur face against his groin so that you can't breathe.

You sputter and gag around his cock as he stays fully seated inside you. "Ssh, ssh it's okay," he soothes as his fingers wrap around the soft column of your throat, feeling the bulge of his length there. "Oh, fuck, baby, you are really lucky you feel so fucking good, 'cause you really fucking pissed me off," he moans as uses your hair to bob your head up and down on his cock until your jaw burns and tears spill out of your eyes. "You really are sorry, huh?"

You do your best to signal in the affirmative as he continues to fuck your throat, but you find you have little control at the moment, so you just hope he gets the message. When he finally pulls out, and stuffs the strings of drool that stretch between your lips and his cock back into your mouth with his thumb, you nod, gasping. "I am. I am sorry," you manage to sob out in broken syllables around his prodding fingers. Although your brain is a little too wine blurry and cock drunk to accurately recall exactly what you're sorry for. And weren't you mad at him for something?

Your muddled thoughts are interrupted as he yanks you up and bends you over the arm of the couch as if you weigh nothing. "Tell me who you belong to, baby," he growls as you feel the fat head of his cock bully it's way between your folds from behind. "Because it seems like you forgot."

"You, I belong to you," you answer dutifully, drawing out the final vowel into a long moan as he sheaths himself inside of you with one hard snap of his hips.

"Fuck," he growls, twitching inside of you, "say it again."

"I'm yours, Sukuna," you whine, peering over your shoulder to look at him.

"Yeah," he moans, rolling his hips into you, his cock dragging along every tender aching inch inside you. "You're mine," he pounds into you faster, harder, pulling you back into him by your hair. "I'm gonna stuff you so full of cum, baby." He always talks so much when he's fucking you. Now he's babbling something about making you pregnant. You're too stupid with lust to even begin to reflect on what an almost comically bad idea that is, although you suppose you understand it. Another way for him to stake his claim. Then his teeth are bruising your shoulder, marking you, and you're arching into him, your walls beginning to flutter around the sweet, familiar shape of him.

He pulls out as soon as he feels you starting to squeeze down on him. "Want you to look at me when you cum," he rasps. You guess you know why. You make it a point not to look over his shoulder as he threads his arms under your hips, lifting you to wrap your legs around his waist before he impales you again.

"Oh fuck, Sukuna," you whine as he stretches you, a perfect pain.

"Say it again," he murmurs, pistoning up into you with more speed now, but less control as he nears his end.

"Yours," you manage to choke out before he slips a hand around your throat, stealing your breath, making your vision darken as you seize up around him, milking him as he spills inside of you. He is clawing and biting at you everywhere he can reach as he devours your lips, pouring a muffled string of curses into your mouth. You wonder vaguely, if any small part of him cares about you, or if he only cares to own you.

You are intertwined, leaning against the wall, twitching and gasping. You're too busy murmuring nonsense into each other's ears to notice when Nanami sits up and slides the remaining wine bottle off of the coffee table. The one the two of you didn't quite finish off.

You've got your chin hooked over Sukuna's shoulder, your fingertips tracing the circles tattooed there and he's panting, "I want to tell you something," when you see Nanami walk around the couch, holding the bottle by the neck.

"I don't know why I could never say it before," Sukuna whispers as Nanami raises the bottle. You lock eyes with him, but you don't say anything.

"I-" There's a soft thud as the bottle connects with the back of Sukuna's head. His eyes roll back as he falls away from you and hits the floor hard.

Nanami barely looks at you as he shoulders Sukuna's limp body and carries him outside. You are pulling on your sweats when he comes back, gathers the man's clothes and tosses them outside. You cross your arms over your bare chest as he walks past you into the kitchen. "Get dressed and get out, please. I'll get you an uber," he says, pressing a bag of frozen peas to his face. He sinks into the couch, wine bottle between his knees and uncorks it with his thumb. His back is to you.

"Nanami?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't find my top. Maybe you're sitting on it?"

He sighs and leans forward to set the bottle and the makeshift icepack on the coffee table. Then he's wrapping his shirt around your shoulders, it smells like the cedar and the ocean. You look up at him through damp lashes, bruises already starting to bloom in the hollows of his eye.

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks," he says before he returns to the couch.

Sukuna is standing, although weaving, in his boxers, looking dazedly at his pants when you shoulder through the broken door.

"Hey," he mumbles, stumbling forward. "Where the hells my belt?"

Nanami sinks back into the couch, frozen peas pressed to his face. Takes a long pull off the bottle before deciding that's probably not going to help much. He stares at the broken TV screen, the flickering bars of light reflecting in his eyes.

Maybe after he works this job a few more years, he could just start over somewhere else.

Like Malaysia.

Yeah.

That'd be nice.

#sukuna x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk smut #jjk x reader #fanfiction #jjk sukuna #nanami x reader #jjk nanami #nanami x you #sukuna x you #sukuna smut #nanami smut #jjk oneshot

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