"Movies" Marito X Outa (NSFW)

And if I spoke.........

when reading smut and y/n says “daddy”

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The jjk men saying reader is short/too short and we say put some inches into me then?

Some Extra Inches

coɴтεɴт - MDNI, PLEASE have age in bio when interacting, jjk men x reader, nṣfw, jjk men making fun of shorter!reader, Nanami being playful for once

cнαrαcтεrѕ - Toji, Geto, Nanami, Gojo, Sukuna

an - I actually imagine the reader being average height but it's a reader insert so wtv pfft. Ty for the req I love this one <3

sex therapy :: 01. dr. fushiguro

chapter tags/warnings: misogynistic! naoya. strong language. infidelity/adultery. sexual frustration. degradation. humiliation. classism. manipulation undertones.

word count: 4.9k

notes: this is my one wattpad book which was removed (at nearly 1M!). they can’t stop me from sharing this book with others, so here we are. <3 this book is laced with my own relationship experiences plus my favorite movie Titanic! enjoy, and likes/reposts/comments are appreciated! xoxo

fic masterlist | 01. 02. 03. 04. 05. 06. 07. 08. 09. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

𝗔𝗖𝗧 𝗢𝗡𝗘 • 【 he loves me, he loves me not 】

Dr. Toji Fushiguro.

That was the name of your sex therapist.

Keep reading

saving

Title: Sacrifical Bride.

Commissioned by the very lovely @yanmaresu.

Pairing: Yandere!Hades x Reader (Record of Ragnarök).

Word Count: 3.0k.

TW: Fem!Reader, Non/Con, Forced Marriage, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Emotional Manipulation, Rough Sex, Unprotected Sex, and Mentions of Kidnapping/Prolonged Captivity. Not Canon Complacent. I Have Never Met Canon But I Hear She's Very Nice.

The wedding was a solemn affair.

Not dull, because nothing that had your heart beating so violently could ever be considered ‘dull’, and not dreary, because despite the many, many things you could say about your kidnapper-turned-husband, he wasn’t one for bland affairs. No, your dress was of the finest and most vibrant silks, your veil lined with pearls and rubies and the gown’s train long enough to swell and ebb behind you as you walked down the seemingly never-ending aisle, unaccompanied by any escort. Wreaths of shining ivory lilies and blooming chrysanthemums encircled marble pillars, low-burning lanterns casting the chapel in long, wavering shadows. The pews were empty. The only guests were his ghastly servants, and they’d never once said a word to you.

There was no officiant. Hades waited for you at the brimstone altar alone, a gentle simper playing over his lips as he watched you drag your feet and fight the urge to bolt, to run, to do the very thing that’d left you trapped in his arm in the first place. It was tempting, albeit pointless. You’d always been swift footed, but there was nowhere to escape to in Helheim. At best, you’d spend a few days hiding and struggling to survive in the empty plains that surrounded his looming fortress of a home. At worst, you’d find yourself without direction and beyond the reach of his control, hopelessly lost and stumbling through fields of fading dead and gnarled beasts and things that would make the man in front of you look hospitable, in comparison. You tried to remind yourself of that as your body begged you to flee.

As you reached the altar, his smile grew into something that could’ve been convincingly genuine, had it been able to reach the pits of lifeless ice that were his eyes. Rather, the gesture only seemed to add to the coil of dread growing tighter in the pit of your stomach as you stepped beside him, clutching your bouquet to your chest in a white-knuckled grip. He’d let you pick that out yourself, at least, and you’d taken a truly irrational amount of joy in picking wildflowers and trimming roses and breaking every rule of decorum your mother had ever taught you. Now, though, the shadows of his hall seemed to dull your vision-searing colors, and it was difficult to take joy in such a simple pleasure knowing the man in front of you sought to ensure you’d never braid daisies or sleep beneath open skies again, when he was staring you down like yet another precious gem he planned to add to his ever-growing collection. It was a cruel comparison, but not quite as hyperbolic as you would’ve liked.

There was a shallow sigh, a hand brought to the edge of your veil. He toyed with the fabric for a long moment before taking the hem in both hands and pulling it away from your face. If he recognized the terror stitched into your expression, he only deemed it worth a slight shake of his head. “Oh, beloved.” His hand fell to your cheek. “You’re as radiant as the day we met.”

The day he plucked you from your mortal life and dragged you into the depths of the earth, the day he’d forced the awful seeds of that terrible fruit down your throat and promised you would never see another living soul again. You swallowed back your nerves. “Please, don’t draw this out.”

You were lucky you’d fallen into the hands of such a mild-tempered captor. He let out an airy chuckle, turning back to the altar. It was decorated sparsely; an overflowing cornucopia posed in one corner, a standing thurible slowly releasing nauseatingly sweet incense into the stagnant air sitting in the other. Between them was only a bottle of dark wine and two twin chalices, crafted of only the finest bronze and polished until they shined in the low lighting. He filled both to the brim before looking towards you, a glint in his remaining eye as he took a chalice in either hand.

You’d been wrong when you assumed they were identical. Where one had a line of aimless, curling thorns following the rim and plunging down the length of the handle, the other was embellished with roses, abstract and nearly shapeless, forming neat columns across the body of the cup. He extended the latter to you, its contents threatening to spill as you took it in your trembling hands. You’d managed to talk him out of the more elaborate ceremonies he’d suggested, but it was difficult to remember that this was a preferable alternative now that could feel the chill of his wine seeping into your palms.

You brought it to your lips, held it there for a moment, then pulled back at the hint of a more familiar scent than that of his dizzying incense. “Pomegranates?”

“I thought it would be a nice touch.” For him, maybe. He’d always struggled to see things from your perspective. “Forgive my sentimentality.”

You wouldn’t, but you were smart enough to keep that to yourself. When he raised his chalice, you did the same, mirroring him when your own will failed you. “To us, darling.”

You nodded. “To us.”

He took a long sip from his chalice, seeming to savor the rich wine, while you drained yours in a single breath. Try as you might to enjoy it, you could only seem to taste ash.

~

A few vows were exchanged, a kiss pressed into the back of your hand when you flinched away from his attempt to communicate his affection more directly. Finally, he took your arm and guided you back to your shared chambers, lingering in the doorway while you collapsed onto his bed – your marital bed, now, you supposed. You buried your face in the silken sheets, letting out a soft groan. There would be a celebration later on, a feast with all of his many gloating brothers and prying sisters in attendance, but the worst of it was over. You were bound to him, for better or for worse. All you could do was weather the consequences.

You’d hoped he would be kind enough to leave you alone while you consoled yourself, while you took all that you knew and all that you didn’t and recontextualized it with yourself as the mortal bride to the God of Death, but a hand on your shoulder dispelled that fleeting fantasy. With no small amount of reluctance, you pushed yourself upward and turned your attention back to Hades. This time, without the pretense of custom, he didn’t settle for your hand. His mouth found its way to the dip of your shoulder, then the crook of your neck, his teeth scraping against your skin as he pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses into his chosen targets.

When he started to move towards the curve of your throat, you moved on instinct – your hands finding their way to his hair as you dragged him away from you before he could do anything you wouldn’t be able to forget as soon as he left the room. “Please,” you said, not for the first time that day. “I… I’d rather be alone, right now. If it’s all the same to you.”

His smile didn’t waver. “You know that, if it were up to me, I would bend to your every whim,” he spaced the words out generously, as if worried your feeble human mind might not be able to understand. “But we aren’t done.”

Your expression fell. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. I wore the dress, and—and I took your vows, and—”

“My love,” he cut you off swiftly, bringing his hand up to cup your cheek. “Our union will have to be consummated, eventually.”

You felt your throat begin to swell shut.

“I know that, but—” You laid your hand over his, trying to call upon whatever pale imitation of sympathy might’ve existed in his heart. “—does it have to be consummated now?”

You watched as his gaze softened, as his head lulled to the side in that endeared-yet-condescending manner he seemed so fond of. Slowly, with a painstaking gentleness, he brought you closer to him, ghosting over the top of your head and lingering there, even as he started to speak. “I think,” he started, his voice muffled by proximity. “that it would be in your best interest not to keep me waiting any longer.”

It wasn’t a threat, but it was posed like one, dredged up from somewhere deep in his chest and accompanied by his hand on your waist, nimble fingers slipping underneath the sash binding your gown together. When you jerked back, reflexively trying to escape his advances, he was quick to chase you, to let his softened smile spread into an amused grin as an arm wrapped around your midriff and dragged you, willingly or otherwise, into his lap. “I don’t want to hurt you.” And yet, your safety didn’t seem to cross his mind as his blunt nails bit into your waist, as he dragged you close enough to feel his chest press into yours, to become uncomfortably aware of the stiff outline against the loose fabric of his pants. “If I rely on my own self-restraint for another day—” Another kiss, this one to the tender patch of skin above your jugular vein. “I’m afraid I might end up doing something we both regret, when the time comes.”

“Less than a day,” you pleaded as he buried his face in your neck. There was a blur of movement, the ghost of his touch along the curve of your spine, and your bodice fell away in tatters, the ruined fabric collapsing to your waist. When you moved to cover yourself, Hades clicked his tongue and you froze, letting your arms fall back to your sides. Begging him to change his mind was one thing. Going against him so transparently would only make things more difficult. “Half a day. An hour. I just— Hades, I can’t do this right now—”

“My love.” Swift, blunt, merciless. You’d been a fool to ever think he was one of the kinder gods. “I think I’ve waited long enough to claim what belongs to me.”

Any protest you might’ve had died in your throat.

You’d been a fool to ever think he was anything less than the cruelest of his kin.

You wanted to scream. If you couldn’t run, then you would yell, raise your voice and tell him that he already had you, that he’d gotten everything he could’ve possibly wanted, but anything you might’ve said was torn away and ripped to shreds as his head dipped low, his teeth latching onto the vulnerable skin of you collar bone and sinking in. He didn’t draw blood, but he didn’t have to. A bolt of pure, stinging agony shot from your chest to your core, only dulling as he pulled away with a low groan. “Have I ever told you how much I adore the sound of my name on your tongue?” You felt his hand on your hip, then your thigh, the remains of your dress cut through and disposed of with little fanfare. He gave your bridal lingerie (pure white and so obnoxiously lacy, you’d had to wonder if this was all some sadistic joke as you slipped it on) more attention, his thumb running along the delicate trim before his fingers slipped underneath it, tracing the length of your slit before doing away with the barrier altogether.

Dread and panic dulled your reactions, but it would’ve been a lie to say the feeling of his mouth on your skin had left you completely unaffected. He chuckled as he gathered your slick on his fingertips, two of which were soon pressed into your clit with a brutal sort of precision. “And you tried to play coy.” He teased the sensitive bundle of nerves mercilessly, the patterns he traced into your clit too slow and too fleeting all at once. You wished he wouldn’t touch you at all, but if he was going to, it was the least he could’ve done not to draw it out. “That must’ve been why you seemed so rushed during our ceremony. If you’d asked me to make love to you on that altar, I happily would have.”

Hot, humiliated tears welled up in the corners of your eyes. You attempted to deny it, but a cracked moan slipped past your lips instead as two of his fingers were forced into your cunt and spread, splitting you apart. Your hands shot to his shoulders, trying to stabilize yourself, but he only saw your desperation as an invitation – bowing his head and pumping his fingers into you at the kind of languid pace that left you fighting not to rock against him, not to make up for the urgency immortal creatures so often lacked. “You’re a vice,” he muttered, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, his tone low and lecherous. You wondered, briefly, if words that fell from the lips of a god could be considered sinful. “To think my own wife would’ve had me neglect her so severely for so long.”

You shook your head. You were married to him, sure, bound to him. But you couldn’t afford to think of yourself as his wife. You couldn’t afford to think of yourself as something so limited, something so purely an extension of him. “I’m not—”

“Don’t try to spare my feelings. I can see that I underestimated just how much attention my little mortal would need.” His wrist quirked, another digit pushing past your entrance and stuffing your pussy full as his fingers curled and ground inside of you. Against your will, you felt a tight heat begin to twist and writhe in the pit of your stomach, pangs of burning pleasure coursing from your cunt to your core. Now, you cried unabashedly, embarrassment and shame burning in your cheeks and fueling the unsteady stream of tears that Hades was so agonizingly quick to coo over, to kiss away as your hips bucked unsteadily against his hand. “What a sensitive wife I have.” That word – that awful word – was enough to earn a ragged sob, but if he recognized the connection, he didn’t deem it worth his concern. “I promise, you’ll never feel so unloved in my care again.”

You would’ve given anything to be able to pull away from him, to be able to shove at his chest and swear to all the gods you’d once worshiped that there was no part of you that could ever feel loved with him, but in the end, he was the one to let you go, to throw you onto the center of his great bed and leave you whining involuntarily at the sudden loss of stimulation. He’d never been one to deprive you, though; in a moment, he was in between your open legs, one hand wrapped loosely around your thigh while the other pulled feverishly at his own clothes. His coat fell away first, then his shirt. You heard fabric shift and metal clink and, in a daze, saw him wrap his fist around something he could not have possibly planned to fit inside of you. Half out of terror and half out of instinct, your gaze flickered from his cock to his face – to the wide, fanged grin he’d been wearing for as long as you could remember.

He moved to kiss you, and you drove your heel into his stomach.

The blow would’ve been weak by human standards, but it caught him off-guard. Out of reflex, he reeled back, and you took the opportunity to scramble off his bed and towards the door, to any part of this forsaken place where Hades wasn’t. You made it a step, maybe two before something caught your shoulder, before your body buckled under a weight greater than your own. You were dragged onto your knees before you could so much as think to slip away from him, your cheek forced against the cool marble of the floor before you could hope to make your descent more dignified. You felt his broad chest press into your back, his snarling lips against the curve of your throat. You wondered if the insult would be great enough to warrant taking your life, but the thought was dismissed quickly.

Hades had never been the kind of god capable of showing such mercy.

“I would’ve made love to you like a queen,” he spat, his tone all manic venom and overdue obsession. “But, if you’d rather be fucked on the ground like a whore, I’m more than happy to oblige.”

You weren’t allowed the luxury of bracing yourself, this time. In one brutal movement, he thrust into you, splitting you open on his cock with the kind of harsh, unforgiving force better suited to a wild animal.  There was no time to adjust, no time to sob, only Hades groaning against your neck as he bucked against you, never daring to pull out completely. Whatever agony his fingers had sparked was now ten-fold. Your legs shook, your body threatening to collapse entirely, but Hades kept your ass raised and your thighs spread, his focus entirely on bucking into you as deeply and as roughly as he could.

It almost surprised you when one of his hands shot to your head, his fingers tangling themselves in your hair as he forced his mouth against yours. You tried not to cooperate, but two fingers pressed into your clit and your mouth fell open in a guttural cry, providing an opening he seemed content to take advantage of. It was a deep, lingering, messything – all tongue and teeth – but his cock ground against something soft and vulnerable and you failed to suppress the wave of pure heat that flooded through your battered body as you clenched around him, as you came undone around the cock of your kidnapper, your captor, your husband. Hades wasn’t far behind, his composure shattering no more than a second after the walls of your cunt clenched down around him. You could only choke on your misery-tinged pleasure as his hips pressed into your ass and he came inside of you – his awful warmth soon tainting every fiber of your being.

You tried to tell yourself that, at the very least, it was over - that he’d had his fill of you and now, you’d be free to console yourself elsewhere, but your hopes were once again dashed when Hades failed to release you, failed to pull out of you, failed to do anything but press himself into your back and trail his lips idly down to the nape of your neck. “Once is a pitiful amount for a king. Don’t you agree?”

You felt his hips move back, then rock against you just as quickly.

“You can forgive me when we’re done, love.”

karaoke session

saving for later

STRONGEST - G.S.

Synopsis. The strongest. The most feraI. Gojo Satoru’s powers aren’t the only thing that goes out of control after a battle.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, fix-it, Shinjuku showdown, Gojo wins, established relationship, FÉRAL Gojo, Gojo’s powers, ínnapropriate use of jujutsu, oraI (fem. rec), fíngering, limitless, pússydrúnk Gojo, máting presses, overstím, rough s, he’s a little bit ínsane, brief male mast., size kínk, tummy buIges, squírting, cervíx kíssing, p sIapping, making him whíne, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 8.2k

A/N. I’m Gege I say this is canon mhm.

BIoody. Broken. Breathing.

Only that last one came from Gojo Satoru— the sole person in the entirety of Shinjuku’s ravaged battleground that was. 

Twitching, he could sense sorcerers rushing out of their hiding spots to inspect the disintegrating, blob-like form of the former King of Curses before they even moved. Others sprinting medical instruments towards Fushiguro’s sprawled-out - alive, Gojo made sure to keep his boy alive - figure.

Not many dared to step towards the strongest, who towered in the midst of the chaos. 

After all, it was only Itadori who could grit his teeth and force himself to walk through the waves upon waves of magnetic cursed energy radiating off of his teacher. Bulldozing, gasping- “G-Gojo-sensei!”

And all at once, the power ceases. 

For the first time since the showdown started, everyone could finally breathe without the pressure of over a thousand sorcerers emanating from the body of one man.

That is, until Gojo snaps his eyes behind and mankind flinches. “I need my wife.”

Oh.

By destroying one monster, they might just have created another. 

.

.

.

You didn’t want to be here - you couldn’t.

Planted prettily like some prized porcelain doll behind the countless wards of the Gojo Estate, its location so classified that it wasn’t disclosed to even you.

You knew why you were here; your husband may be the strongest, but that didn’t stop Ryomen Sukuna from being the most treacherous. And in the unfortunate fate where he might’ve - heavens forbid - won, it was obvious that one of his next targets would be you.

A war prize for a war-bringer.

Your chest tightens at the notion, and you’re struggling to manually lug in smoggy pants- no, that couldn’t happen. Fingers seconds away from shattering the dainty ceramic bowl of tea that you’d made out of pure nerves, it couldn’t.

“Damn higher-ups.” You’re hissing into the now-frigid drink, and yet it still blisters down your tastebuds. Almost as much as the memory of those orders to stay put lest you wanted something to happen to Gojo’s precious students. A warning. A threat. “Leaving me here to rot- fuck, when I get out I’m going to kill those ol’ toads- oh!”

Your sip of tea was a tightened ball of lead that simply refused to go past your larynx– and your brows furrow as the pale glass slips like water flowing between your fingers.

Tumbling. Shattering a puddling splash on the tatami-covered floor below.

And yet, you don’t even remember weakening your grasp - almost as if the cup was magnetized towards the edge of your decadent bedroom. 

“I must be going mad.” You’re muttering to yourself, feeling even more so as you do. Shaking your head to some semblance of clearance, you crouch down with a sigh to pick up the chipped shards-

Only to find that the ground was trembling. 

What…the fuck? Urgently smoothing the mountains of your palm flat on the firm mats below, it felt like something was thundering. Rampaging. 

Something was happening. 

You should run, you should surrender. 

But you stay rooted to where you are, feeling the tips of your ears tingle with a whirrrr of energy clashing against energy, a monstrous sort of crackling power in the air. Tummy tensing as the ancient protective jujutsu of the estate bends and bends and bends - generations of power that snaps!

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.

Right in time with three sharp, repeated raps from behind the paper-thin sliding doors to your chamber. 

Impatient. 

It certainly couldn’t be one of the elders, they’d no sooner left you here to brace the impact of Sukuna’s looming victory and die rather than keep you company. Perhaps one of Gojo’s students? Shoko?

The King of Curses himself? 

Squinting at the yolky outline of shadows drawn by the setting sun, your heart soars at the shape of those familiar broad shoulders and unruly hair.

Ones you could never mistake.

“Sa…Satoru.” You’re breathing, voice strangled as if not even your own words believed you. 

Your calves sting with the impact of your running before you even register it- Satoru. Satoru was behind this door. Satoru won. 

Almost out of breath once you reach the entrance, it’s all you can do to startle out a happy chuckle as your finger knot on the lattice handle and draaaag it open– “Sato- oh.”

Except…the man behind the door wasn’t your husband at all.

At least, not a version of your husband that you knew.

Because the Gojo rampant at the door was slouching, heaving.

Loooong, rasping breaths that made the mahogany doorframe clutched underneath his tense white knuckles crack into the tiniest of splinters. Every second wheeze fills the air up with so many charged atoms of cursed energy until you could barely even move. 

Skin-tight black compression shirt torn in a jagged scratch right down the middle, billowing white pants tattered and sagging until you could almost see a few curls of creamy white. Could see allll of his washboard abs. 

It looked like he’d clawed through hell himself just to take you there with him.

As your mouth opens and gapes wordlessly, your husband takes - well, more like stumbles - a singular step towards you that makes the expensive mats underneath break into a crater. 

You’re catching the way his meaty thighs tremble through the cracks of his trousers, a singular dewdropped bead of sweat trickling down the side of Gojo’s flushed temples - almost as if he’d…run the entire way here instead of his usual teleportation.

Breath bated, your eyes cross over the lines of his sculptured deltoids to look at the destroyed mess of the hallway leading up to your room. Only your door was left untouched. 

So he did run.

“Oh- Satoru.” Your voice drops into a sweetened tone unknowingly, and that makes Gojo stiffen with a hoarse breath. 

With every pretty sound falling from your mouth, the sweltering hot atmosphere sizzled so many temperate degrees higher, until your skin was humid with power and want and power. 

Instantly fighting against the rigid air to close the distance, all you wanted to do was hold him. “Are you- are you okay- what happened-”

And then Gojo lurches- as if he’d just been struck with your presence and it had electrocuted him, until he’s raising his eyes up to meet yours and-

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Never in your life had Gojo Satoru looked at you like that.

Heavy lids only half-open, the semi-crescents of his pupils so dilated that they shone Stygian black, tendrils of miniscule blue lightning shoot from the corners of his gaze as Gojo fights to keep his long lashes from fluttering shut. 

He looked ravaged.

The very instant you’re thinking of inching yourself closer to wrap his bruised body in a long-overdue embrace, he’s flinching. 

Like he’d read your very mind. 

And maybe he did, because in mere nanoseconds, Gojo’s kissing you and kissing you until you’re tasting everything iron and him- 

Fuck, you couldn’t even stickily part your lips from his plush, puckered ones to breathe without him letting off a pained grunt. He’s so engulfing. “My wife.”

You’re gasping at the pressurized layer of power that sticks to him like a second skin - and it fights, yearns until you’re being pressed flesh-to-bloodied flesh. Drinking in the scent of candy and something metallically sharp, “Satoru.”

A few calloused fingers tighten ‘round your tender throat so that Gojo could drink all those cute wailing whimpers of yours. 

Crushing you to his toned front, you weren’t sure if your fingerpads were digging into his chiseled shoulders out of his magnetism or pure greed. Still reminding yourself to be careful of his injuries-

“You-” Words warbling like never before, the crowned edges of your digits skim his undercut. Struggling through loudly snogging crashes of his lips, “Wh-what happened? Can you stand? Does it hurt somewhere? Do you need me to-”

“My wife.”

Oh… 

“My wife.” His parched throat slackens to suck on your pinkish tongue like his favorite candy, “My wife-” Ivory lashes trickle your cheeks, and suddenly his honed canines nip your wobbly lower lip. Tugging sensually, “My wife.”

He couldn’t get enough.

“T-Toooru–” Your maw slicks with a thick gloss of spittle, and Gojo immediately catches the dangling strands on the flat of his lecherous tongue to laaaap it up like he was a man who’d been dying of thirst for eons. 

“Need you.” 

And it was the way he said it - so low, strained. A guttural groan that sounded almost like a growl, spat right through Gojo’s clenched pearly whites. 

Devotion and power overflowing so much that he simply had to have you. He had to.

Silky locks of ivory brush your sweat-simmered forehead, “My wife- you- need you.” He’s snarling against your tightly smeared lips, almost as if stringing together coherent sentences had wrenched out whatever was left of his control, too. 

In only two flaps of your shocked lashes, Gojo’s trailing his hotly opened maw down your neck. Fangs dipping right near your throat to feel the way your pulse pounds. Power thrumming underneath his touch, air stifling– “Need you always.”

Your lips buzz at the sheer cursed energy flowing through him, vocal cords too smoky to produce a proper noise, “Need- Toru–” 

But the strongest didn’t need you to struggle out your words right now.

He’s widening his blazing sapphire peripherals once your weakened legs squeeze almost unnoticeably together. Nostrils flaring slightly and-

Ah. There.

Gojo Satoru knows the exact moment that particularly gummy droplet of slick escapes from the crevice of your throbbing pussy - because he can smell it. 

Oh, that heady, hypnotic aroma that has your husband collapsing onto his knees in front of you with a resounding CRASH! 

So hard, so rough that you’re wincing at the way his very own limitless flickers and falters to make Gojo’s capped knees bruise against the floorboards. Ground now shattered underneath his inhumanly strength- “Fuck- Toru- you just came back from-” 

But any and all shrilling words evaporate on your tastebuds, replaced with the tangy excitement of having him loll his head drunkenly between your jittery legs to sniiiiff–!

“Neeeed you-” He’s croaking out, oh-so-raw. Your spine works as a runway for your goosebumps as he’s letting his cherry-pink lips twitch up into a sleazy grin. “-my wife.”

Perhaps it’s your melty brain trying to make sense of things, perhaps it’s Gojo’s teleportation working in overdrive - because one split-second you’re slouching your weight on his sturdy figure to hold yourself standing, and the next you’re being splayed out on the cool tatami floors like such a slut.

Gasping, head swimming. 

The moment your legs fall open with a slurping pop! already talking from your oversaturated pussylips, you huff. “Did- did you just teleport us onto the floor, Satoru?”

“Teleport?” He’s barely removing his glassy pupils from the adorably damp spot peeking from between your legs. Gojo’s eyes flicker with faint recognition as he airily looks around like he wasn’t even sure how he got here.

All pinning you to the mat with one massive palm clung onto your hips, shuffled downwards so that the scorched breezes of his breaths hover over your clothed cunt in muggy lil’ gusts. 

It takes your squirming buck for Gojo to finally, finally realize his position and startles out a shocked chuckle, like he himself didn’t even realize whether he teleported. 

“Are- are you okay, Toru–?” You’re breathing out, concern rippling the rational part of your brain.

Jostling back your satiny skirt to bare your slick-sheened inner thighs to the chill air, Gojo only halts his laughter to answer - airy, about five octaves higher than you were used to. 

“Do I look okay, sweetheart?”

Fuck. 

You didn’t doubt that he wasn’t.

You were fucked. 

Because the very second Gojo tugs down your skirt, “Fuck- fuck.”

“Toru, do you need h-” And riiiips it straight off of your hips to take a good - good - long look at the sodden, see-through underwear flimsily bunched at your quivering pussy, his half-opened eyes quiver shut. 

You can’t even complain about your skirt being limited edition because Gojo just looked so ruined. And you were addicted. 

Icy brows furrowed, jaw ticking, you’re watching speechlessly once he’s taking another deeeeep inhale. Pecs constricting, the curvaceous edges of his smirk dapples with a slight geyser of drool at the sweet, sweet smell of your cunt.

“Fuuuck, my sweetheart- my wife.” The flesh of your inner thighs clam with a thin layer of perspiration at Gojo’s reverent whisper. Taking in yet another deep breath- “All mine.”

And there’s something so primal in the way the edges of his sharpened teeth come snagging down on the thin layer hiding your pussy. The very slimy tip of his tongue grazes that slight moistness of your panties and the man finds himself snickering. 

Gnawing down on the fabric– you don’t know if he realizes, you don’t know if he even cares that he’s teasingly nibbling on one of your plump labia. 

“Missed you- missed this- fuck.” He’s only making his mouth grow more waterlogged, his teeth toyin’ and grinding near your aching hot pussy– Gojo slurps up another taste of you and his hips come humping down on the firm ground. “Missed her.”

Before you know it, Gojo’s superhuman reflexes have hooked a slender finger underneath your panties and he’s tearing them. Biting them. Clean off.

“T-Toru!” You’re squealing, your dripping hole slopping out yet another splosh! of sap at the act. Your heat races as your husband lazily trawls that translucent skimp of fabric up, up, up over to give it another drunken gnaw–

Groaning, “Oh, my wife-” His darkly predatory gaze snatches back open at the cloying dredges of syrup that tack onto his tastebuds, wide. Wild. “My wife- my wife.”

There it is again, and you’re just about opening your mouth to ask about his sultry little mantra- before Gojo’s bullying out every syllable in the back of your throat with a sudden, firm push of his tongue - flopped out right where your folds were leaking the utmost.

“O-oh my ngh- god!” Your dewy lashes moisten because his probin’ muscle was just so big. And he was never this urgent before, this hurried. 

Never this filthy.

Gojo only nuzzles your flinching thighs further to give you such a sinful view, gawking at the way his bubblegum-pink buds spread wiiide open to act like a lil’ road for all your ribbony wires of slick. Every puddling bead slipping from where his tongue was plunged inside you n’ down to the target of his throat, “O-oh.”

Oh?

And Gojo was stuttering, just one taste of your soaking wet pussy and he’s letting his high cheekbones burn a bright blossoming red. Hips bludgeoning forwards to press his aching, heavy bulge into the floor. 

He was a man gone.

“So sweet. Wet- s-so wet.” He’s sucking in a few breaths before veering up a single hand to plant a rude spank right on your soaked lips. 

And imagine the strongest’s raw, carnal delight when that only makes your saccharine cunt even wetter. So drenched that your globs of slick were gathering on the point of his chin and formulating a slick puddle. 

Voice wavering, stuttering. Almost like he couldn’t even believe it even though the evidence was clinging and dripping from his very maw, “So…wet. Like a waterpark- dessert- oh…So wet- f-fuuuck s’she drooling f’me? F’me?”

“For you- o-only for you.” You’re whimpering as his hand comes slamming down again. 

Slap after slap after slap, until you swear his fingertips were starting to buzz with power. Speckles of pearly sheen flying from the knobs of his fingers and straight into his parched mouth.

“Ohhh don’t say that- don’t you say that.” He’s warning, “S’gonna make me- make me…” Prolonging the crown of his tongue to take more of you and stretch and stretch inside your elastic cunt. “Oh- fuck, m’fucking you-” Prominent Adam’s apple bobbing with a gasp– he’s tasting you. He’s really, really tasting you now. “-I’m h-haaaa…fucking you.”

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck, Satoru you’re being so…”

Insatiable? Depraved? 

“Can’t stop-” Comes out his ragged gulps, wanting to coo at your cutely twisting expressions and yet unable to even bear the thought of breaking his lewd French kiss with your cunt. “Can’t stop, sweetheart- fuck!”

He really couldn’t. Swabbing ridges of his tastebuds just keeping on swirlin’ into the tenderest spots of your gummy walls, and Gojo’s tongue is so long that every thrusting push past your snug hole leaves you feeling so dizzy.

You’re sucking in a sharp inhale, “T-Toru-”

Faring worse off, he couldn’t even speak. 

Instead of an actual answer, the only sign that shows he even heard is one of his visceral flinches, as if just the way you said his name was enough to drive him crazy.

The scratchy tip of his tongue scours in a welcoming heart right where your hole was and playfully back - no hesitation, no shyness.

“Puh-please, Satoru–” He was fucking into you now. A great big helping of saliva slobbers down the side of your mouth, your foggy pupils starting to circle at just the exact tempo of his dipping tongue. 

The only thing you’re able to let off is the wetly glistening gush of another clingy wave of sap. Swashing Gojo’s swollen lips until they’re soaking wet, your fingers scrape their way through his sweat-matted strands. Babbling, “M-more.”

And there you said. There. 

You knew the instant that those strained syllables ripped from your throat that it would not bode well for your poor pussy. 

Because Gojo’s Herculean shoulder muscles tense, lengthy lashes flapping, and you wonder if he’d stopped fucking breathing. 

Not even the slightest gust of air leaves him as he’s wafting his eyes to your teary ones in shock– “M-more?”

You can’t even tease your dear husband for the way his husky bass was cracking at the very ends, because simply repeating the words makes his cerulean irises spark with bolted lightning. Staring dead-on as he keeps muttering away to himself—

“More?”

You’re mewling as soon as his fat wad of spittle strikes your heated core, slimily slithering straight down your puffed-up lips. 

Just the sight of your glistening entrance so vulgar that, without even a second thought, Gojo’s once more surging his lips against your other pair until his pointed chin. So hard that he’s slapping the base of your treacly pussy until his skin’s all delicate n’ raw.

The curved ends of his jaw slipping n’ glissading up and down while his tongue sliiiides in.

“More-” He’s half-giggling to himself, the straight line of his nosebridge crushing your perked clit and sending your spine sparking. “More more more more- my wife- hah!” You swear you feel the cute crater of his dimples press against the skin of your thighs. Drooling, he’s crooning– “My wife wants more.”

And it’s the last thing said before your eyes blotch pure white with a sheer rummaging stretch. Wider n’ wider - not only was Gojo snaggling your leaking hole open with his tongue, he was adding in his long fingers, too.

The nearly six-inch length of his middle finger tucking between your slick-stained folds with a thundering squeeeelch–! 

“Want more- gonna get it-” You can make him uttering in a gravelly tone against your swollen lips, grunting. Repeatedly swervin’ his padded digits back n’ forth, “-gonna- gonna get it.”

“Toru- Toru oh my god- fuck, s’too good-” Your knees tremor weakly as they bend in the air, head tumbling backwards as your eyes roll to the dark depths of your skull.

“Raise.” 

It’s all you hear before a scouring tendril of cursed energy curls around your neck and your head is being forced to tilt upwards and stare deeply into Gojo’s dimly-lit eyes. Ravenous. 

You didn’t even think that he had the ability to do that, but with the way he was ruining your cunt from the very inside out you wouldn’t be surprised. 

And you think this might be the dopiest you’ve seen Gojo’s pretty smile. Something that would be so completely endearing if it wasn’t for the way that his azure eyes were flickering with cursed energy. “N’  let me ruin you, my wife.”

It wasn’t a promise - he was already doing it.

Barreling the tippy-tops of his two slippery digits so far deeply into your g-spot that you’re drooling. A wave of spitballing drool flapping from your gluey lips, “Are you- Toru are you- using Six Eyes?”

Fuck, that’s what it was.

That had to be it - he’s treating the treasure trove of your sweet spots so meanly. Like a lil’ dartboard that he’s carving out the exact spheroid circumferences of his fingertips, again. And again. And again.

Until his manicured fingernails were leaving that lil’ bundle so overstimulated that even the merest, slightest graze had you weeping out in slicked drool.

You’re crying out by the time that Gojo’s tucking the edges of his tongue inside your gaping entrance with three girthy fingertips - sweat-sleek brows knitting as he pushes and pushes against the resistance. 

Doubly filling you up, and it was such a stretch that it left your hip restless.

“M’n-not gonna hck! last, Satoru.” Your lips pucker into such a cute sob, the melody of it going straight to the plump, aching tip filling up his pants.

He’s rasping, mouth barely giving the time of day for anything other than making out with your creamy pussy. “Cum.” Urgent, rapid strokes of his fingers like he was dragging that stormy high from you. The faster his sloppy movements were becoming, the more crazed his eyes were becoming. “Cum.”

And even though you were too dumbstruck to notice it now, Gojo was so feral for your leaking pussy that loose pieces of furniture in the room had begun to clatter. 

Torrents of cursed energy zipping down to his fingers and concentrating there, “All f’me.” Breaths hoarse with belated pants, he’s groaning when the bzzzz–! of power on your battered g-spot makes your back arch prettily. 

Like a perfect bullet vibrator that was precisely and never-endingly whacking your favorite area, faster. Sloppier. 

So, so filthy.

Gojo was already widening his eyes and letting his spit-adhesive lips crack into a wild smile by the time you’re trilling about your orgasm - because he knew. Oh, he knew.

His Six Eyes could see it coming from a mile away; the way your heart was racing in a pitter-patter that matches the flicks of his narrowed tongue. Every sopping slap! making you clench your scalding insides ‘round him instinctively until it was almost difficult for him to press back against the mushy recoil of your g-spot.

But the strongest always got what he wanted.

And what he wanted was you cumming right now, your nails clawing adorable crimson rainbows all down his shoulders, his neck. “T-Toru- cu-cumming- ngh! M’c-cumming, fuck fuck fuck–”

Gojo would throw his head back and moan if it didn’t mean moving his rovering lips away from your pretty pussy.

“No- c’mon c’mon c’mon- wanna taste. Need to taste-” He’s letting you ride your peaks of euphoria out on slobbering drags of your hips. Face crinkling, his free hand darting up to cushion your tempo with reverse cursed energy so you won’t get too tired n’ stop.

He wouldn’t have been able to handle it if you did.

Wouldn’t have been able to bare- “Again. Again-” Slapping down a hand on the slick-shined inners you’re crying out once the energy-capped crowns of his fingers inch dangerously towards your clit. “Taste- on my face. All over my face, alright?”

He didn’t just want you to cum - he wanted you to squirt. 

“O-oh my god, Tooooru!” Your mouth clogs up with both spit and sultry whines, heels starting to dig into the dimples on Gojo’s sexily flexing back. “M’so sensitive, dunno if I can-”

“No.” He’s cutting you off, and you almost startle. A dull thud! emanating from where his v-line angrily hits the floor in a grindin’ push, another sparking spank punishes your sobbing slope. “No no no no- have to. Wanna taste- think m’gonna die without it.” 

Practically begging on his knees right now. And if you thought that the vibrating sensation of his fingerpads were bad, then you surely weren’t ready for the way that Gojo’s lacquering his sizzling tastebuds over with a flimsy layer of energy.

“C’mon- c’mon c’mon c’mon–” His reverse cursed energy bolts mindlessly from the left hand attached possessively to your waist, and you’re tearing up all over again with a fresh batch of salty tears when that thrumming tongue of his flops over your driveling hole. 

The textured vibrations just felt so good that it was making your mouth flap sappily open, you’re sure that the only reason you could even think right now was because of his reverse cursed energy.

Circlin’ your fleshy folds, where your plugged-up hole was being thrashed with all his pummeling fingers, then up, up, up to your twitchy clit. 

Gojo’s nimble muscle was drawing circles- no, hearts. No, a cursive T-O-R-U ♡ 

He wasn’t even trying - didn’t even have to - to let buzzing bursts of power flicker at your cunt. So teasing on purposeful, those shockwaves were making your thighs twitch with bliss each n’ every time. Every part of him.

“What does that saaay?”

“Toru- Toru” Right before you throw your head back and get steamrolled by your high like never before, such a crashing, blissful wave. “I-I’m…” 

You don’t even have to finish your soft gasping moan because your squelching pussy does so for you. In the loudest, rawest sluuuurp that Gojo laps up gratefully- a drink made especially for his dry throat. 

Ears popping, skin all tingly - you can only slouch your legs further open and take it.

Stringy, wadded splashes of syrupy sap that escape out of you even if you tried to stop. “Gonna fuck-” He’s grunting, throatily. Ruminating growls locked away in his chest, he spits into your fluttery cunt. “-gonna fuck you- fuck you so good.”

You’re so wet that Gojo’s finding himself soaked-through all the way from the tips of those creamy white curls by the shell of his ear down to his chin. A round goblet of slick glues to the sharp line of his jaw and makes a slithering trailway doooown his bobbing throat.

“S’here-” Letting go of your hips, he’s pointing to the mouthfuls of you that fill up his sloppy maw. “Down, down–” The very tip of Gojo’s lecherous finger points a pathway doooown his pale, handsome neck, “-down. All inside. Finally got ta t-taste ya, sweetheart.”

You’re still blinking back the full vignette of your vision by the time that your husband’s pulling his dexterous digits out with a noisy squelch! 

Letting the proud layer of juicy slick smear all over your pussylips once he’s giving your cute, quivering clit a lil’ piiiinch. “And m’s-still thirsty.” He’s grumbling, grinning. Watching as your mouth falls into an awe-struck ‘o’ when you feel his buzzing cursed energy flowing through him again. 

“Toru- fuck fuck fuck–!” It takes every ounce of strength in your body to lift yourself up onto your elbows. “Want…” You wanted him - namely that aching hot bulge you could peek at if you angled your head just right.

And even pushing your trembling thighs together doesn’t do anything to falter Gojo, because he’s simply pushing himself deeper between your gooey legs and gasping. Not for air, not for a breath, but for another taste of you.

Poking down the mushed tip of his tongue until he was pressing on your buttony clit. Hard. He’s seriously happy to die a death suffocated between your pretty thighs, “But why–?” 

Walls clenching needily, you shoot your hand to clutch the strongest’s angelic hair and pull–

“Fuh-fuck–!” Gojo’s dizzy head falls back, breaking off from your syrupy pussy with such a sinfully wet pop! Through your tears you see his right hand shake, quiver down between his trousers. 

And it makes your mouth water greedily to watch the schwf! of tattered fabric motioning back n’ forth as he’s grabbing his rock-hard bulge and thrusting. Angrily. Furiously. “Look what- look what you did- what you- ngh!”

Before you know it, Gojo’s clawing his free hand somewhere in the air hovering above you - all that it takes for him to snap his jujutsu powers and help draaaaag you down like some glorified doll. 

Charred breaths labored, his meaty knees clatter on either side of your body. So urgent that you wonder whether it doesn’t hurt him to scramble up your figure this way, alllll up until you’re finding your face straddled by a heaving Gojo Satoru.

“S’your fault.” He’s grouching out in a gruff tone, and you’re taking the moment to just fully admire him in all his sinful glory.

Skin-tight clothes still hanging off of him in tatters, back oh-so-arched, and his expression– oh, his expression almost made you regret pulling him away from your cunt. 

With a rosy blush flooded all the way from the tips of his ears to the back of his perspiration-glossed neck, heady gaze practically shuttered, lips dripping wet with all your essence still. A few glittery spatters of it slobber down from his cheeks to hit your own face once Gojo lets his lips fall into a soft oh!

Wheezing, “S’your…” You can only gape as he’s tugging down the ivory hem of his pants just enough to let his swollen, heavy cock free. “-fault.”

He was throbbing and big, flinching from the very tip of his lollipop-red cockhead just as soon as he’s feeling the cold breeze of your bedroom. Gojo’s biceps flex sexily as he nudges the moist skin of his tender shaft against your left cheek and pumps.

Sloppy.

“Didn’t have to be s’fuckin’ sweet-” Gojo hisses through gleaming clenched teeth, your blinking expression too gorgeous. “Didn’t have to be- so- ohhhh– m’gonna marry you. M’gonna marry you m’gonna marry you.” 

“Toruuu–” You’re cooing out, gazing as he’s biting back into a snarl. Drooling strawberry orifice sprinkling a wispy jetstream of white, vulgar. “-we’re already married, baby.”

Fuck- and then he’s cumming.

He’s cumming and cumming so much that Gojo’s overworked brain half-wonders when he might stop. The rounded curve of his ballsack squeezing with every elongated ribbon of seed that he’s letting out- more once he catches sight of the way it glissades in a sheeny polish down your features. 

Steaming hot and aching, just as much as he was. 

“Th-there’s so much, Toru-” You’re whining when the salted caramel flavor edges near your tongue, every fat goblet of sap positioned exactly to drool down your face. “-Toru?”

Gojo was on cloud nine, and you didn’t even know he was even listening to you.

Only letting out a dreamy sigh, the knobbly curve of his thumb comes brushing down that pooling slick mess he was making on you. 

Giggling - giggling, “Whoops.” He’s prodding over those webs of seed past your poutily puckered maw, purposefully gliding his fingerpad alllll the way down your wobbly bottom lip. “-missed a spot.”

You’re ogling with an ajar mouth once he glistens it over like some sultry lipgloss, you just looked so beautiful like this that Gojo feels his heart race. He feels his breath hitch, his wide length throbbing-

“Oh.” He hiccups, still sensitive with the shivering wracks of his high. And Gojo’s gaze hastily flickers behind him - to his second favorite pair of lips, after your mouth, of course. “Missed a spot there, too.”

Whatever shred of practicality left in him promises he’ll make it up to you later, he’ll take it slow and make mind-numbing love to you later. Much, much later, but for now: you’re being pushed against the bouncy mattress of your bed. 

You gasp, “A-again? Toru you-” Faltering weakly for just the slightest second when Gojo corners you on the bedcoils and rids of his shirt. All pale, chiseled muscles and power for daaaays. Fuck, he was so hot. “-do you even hck! realize you teleported us?”

The only answer he gives you is a savage grin, voice dipping into just deepest territory as he muses. “No.”

He didn’t. He really, really didn’t even register it when his powers were thrusting you into the bed and making the bedroom lights flicker once he all but tears off those damn overlarge pants. 

And then he gets closer.

Cornering you, a soft pant of shock lets off from you at the faint scars and cuts decorating those familiar muscles of his toned front. “W-wait, Satoru, are you feeling-”

“What? This?” With the click of his fingers, most of those bloodied injuries fade into obscurity. Leaving only a few scars and the remnants of reverse cursed tingling in the air. “Now ruin me, my wife.”

“Fuck…”

“Can’t think.” Gojo’s rasping voice wafts over your lips, making sure to draw out a wet sluuuurp when he suckles on your white-topped maw. Tasting you, tasting himself. His eyes flare madly wide, “-don’t want a-anything but you…”

You’re squirming sluttily at the faint bolts of lightning that decorate his creamy skin, flickering down from his eyes- down to where his ravaging cock was hanging low between his thighs. Slapping a wad of drooling precum on your inner thighs. 

Gojo was so big and hard that you could count every ba-dump–! his ruby crown was thumping against your poor bloated folds. Squelch after squelch, you got the feeling that he was repeatedly rubbing his chubby tip just to drive you mad.

“Don’t have- condoms.” And Gojo could merely lift himself off to grab those familiar foil packets in that bedside drawer - hell, he could even teleport himself there. 

But doing so meant that he had to be away from you and this cutely drooling cunt of yours. And though you didn’t mind if he went in purely raw, Gojo had another idea in mind. 

Whimpering, “Then give it-” Gojo’s breath catches when you buck your hips impatiently, “Need you, Sato- fuck!”

He was never one to disappoint, of course.

Your eyelashes flap tearily at the sudden snagging streeeeeetch being pressured between your glued pussylips. Gasping, struggling to take a look and-

“S’gonna work.” 

“I-it’s not.”

“It will.”

“Won’t- mmpf–!”

Pushing and pushing to try and fit the limitless-capped ends of his length into your tight hole. “Gonna-” He’s poking the reddish tip of his tongue between his teeth in a way that sends shivers down your spine, “-gonna work. Trust me- hck! Trust me, sweetheart.”

If you thought you’d ever gotten used to the maddening girth of your husband before, then you sure weren’t ready for right now. 

For when he’s coating his near-ten inches, thick inches with a layer of crackling limitless. Forcin’ your poor entrance even more full, the pointed corner of his head slips once more between your sandwiching lips and Gojo growls. 

“Fuck- fuck!” In both your carnally muddled minds, you’re barely registering the way something in the bedroom shatters. Sounding halfway through tears, “Not even the tip- Gotta fit- s’gotta. I have to.”

You’re whining with every rutting push, “Wh-why the hell are you so big, Satoru–?”

“Shhh m’gonna make it fit- gonna hah- make it.” He’s urgently soothing you with a big hand on your forehead - not just to caress your forehead, no. Gojo’s clawing your sweaty crown and pushing you down onto where his bulky length was pulsating. Desperate. 

And the smooch of his boiling hot length was so wiiide that your vision is shattering into something bleary. 

Pupils rolling until your eyes were only pure white, you almost don’t catch the rippling forearm being planted right in the middle of your line of sight. “Bite.” Gojo grits out, tension ticking. “Bite.”

So you do - hard enough to draw blood, and that’s exactly the way he wanted it. 

“Yeah- yeahhh jus’ like that.” He’s groaning underneath his breath once you’re gnawing, letting off the prettiest noises when Gojo keeps pulling his hips back and forth. Like some animal, he’s dolloping out a slimy topping of pre on top of your cunt and rutting– “Take it.” Somehow easing in his ridiculous length, “All of it, like my g-good wife now. All-”

And he meant it. 

Slamming his toned hips so hard into yours that sparks - literal, powerful sparks - are sent flying from his body. Pants raspy, maw slackening, “Where is it?” Roaming his eyes rapidly down your body, your skin prickles with atoms stood on edge. “Where- fuck! Where am I…ah. H-here.”

“Here?”

“Here.” A trembling, vibrating finger of Gojo’s comes drifting absent-mindedly up from the start to your folds. And the deeper this fat, vein-covered cock was bludgeoning in - the further his digit was drawing. “Here- m’riiiight here, sweetheart.”

It’s only then that your saccharine brain thinks to understand that he was using his Six Eyes, targeting the sight where his swollen cock was probin’ around your sweet insides.

“Watch me- watch me get deeper.”

You’re watching with an unfastened jaw as Gojo precisely draws where his bulbous tip was smearing out your walls to their maximum. Subconscious, short jabs back and forth back and forth baaack and forth.

Just to fit inside.

“S-shoooo deeeep–” 

“Not deep enough.” 

Stupidly prattling with every knock of his size. Gojo was so damn big that you didn’t even need his outlining digit, your goopy innards were already bulging with his size. A bumpy cylindrical outline that only went deeper, deeper-

“-deeper.” Gojo rests his woozy forehead on top of yours, just as ruined as you. So close now that his chiseled abs gliiiide down your front, “F-feels good, huh? My cock so ngh- deep- my limitless. So, so…deep.”

And it’s at that very second that once your husband bottoms out, that he breaks. 

SLAM!

His sanity, his palm collapsing down to splinter the headboard, and limitless. All at the same time.

Hours and hours later, you’ll both be told that there was a suspicious spike of cursed energy in this area during this exact time. One so strong that it alerted almost every sorcerer in the territory.

But right now you’re too focused on the way that Gojo’s mushy, furiously leaking tip was crashing head-first into your sponged cervix. And suddenly it’s not just the airy feeling of his limitless, it’s the feeling of you. 

Warm and wet. So so wet.

It’s then that Gojo gnaws down on his rosy, trembling lower lip and stalls. It’s then that he’s scrunching his eyes to stop the outpour of power. It’s then that he gasps–

“Didn’t work.”

Letting out a high, wild bout of laughter that makes you wonder just how high the kill count would be.

Confused, “Wh-what?”

Gojo only removes his hand from the bedframe to reveal a scalding handprint exactly in the shape of his, a few shards of wood falling onto the floor. 

“Didn’t…work.” His voice was hard, rough. And there was a jagged tone to them that you hadn’t ever heard before- “It didn’t- work- fuck fuck fuck- didn’t work. Didn’t work didn’t work.” All that he could even think to bellow out in moans every time that Gojo rocked his hips thoroughly. “And I…you…”

Running out of the fucking syllables, he’s letting go of your scalp to fully throw both of your legs over his shoulder and buck. So soft.

“S-soft-?” You’re making out through your pressured eardrums, clinging onto Gojo’s broad shoulders for dear life. You almost - almost - miss the way that his mouth drops, shit- he said that out loud?

Well, now that he started - Gojo couldn’t stop.

Spitting out nonsense between every jackhammer- “Y’feel s-so…soft.” He’s continuing on in an airy tone, gripping a good handful of either side of your hips. So strong that it barely take even a fraction of his strength to jostle you hip n’ down to meet every thrust, “So…sweet- fuck! Even sw-sweeter without a ngh- condom.”

So fucking looooong that every jackhammer from the tip of his geysering divot to his hefty hilt felt like it took ages. Your toes curled helplessly every time he was stirrin’ your insides right up to your cervix, crazed. 

“M’really hitting her-” His breath fans your face in steamy gusts that humidify your skin, “-really, really can feel her.” Peking you once, twice, thrice. “Kissing you- kissing her-” A slam to your cervix, “-there, too.”

You’re letting off mumbled whines of something that sounds like “yes!” and “Toru!” as Gojo slows his craving pace down just a tad to splash out a stringy drawing of a heart right at the bottom of your pussy. 

Long, thorough digging drills that bruise his exact circumference size, “N’ m’seeing her- seeing her take me so welllll, oh…deserves a lil’ treat.”

Too nervous to think about what he would consider a ‘treat’, you’re shoving your face into the clammy crook of Gojo’s neck and biting. Leaving him just as rawly red and stinging as his cock was, the action was enough to make him nibble his bottom lip.

Babbling, “Yeah- yeah, a t-treat. A treat for my good girl- my wife.” You’re feeling it before you register it, that stickily sweet buzzzz–! of cursed energy coating Gojo’s fingertips. 

He unabashedly drags it all the way across your hardened nipples - giving just a lil’ pinch - down your tummy, that bulging outline he was fucking into you, down.

Until Gojo had his sparking fingerpads locked around your throbbing fat clit and refused to let go- “You like that? Yeahh fuh-fucking like that-” Hiccuping, every new roll of his hips plapping against yours made him twist your perked nub just the way you liked. “-like seeing me like this? Th-the strongest fucking you like this?”

“Yes-” You’re sobbing out, your hip gyrating lewdly upwards in tandem with his. And it makes both you and the ancient bedsprings sing in unison when Gojo reaches so deep, “-like it, like it- ngh! Love it.”

Oh.

Oh. 

If you thought that Gojo had nothing left to lose at this point then you were wrong, because with a rummaging spank of skin-on-skin, he’s probin’ a kiss so deep into your g-spot that you can almost taste Gojo’s candied caramel flavor. 

Swiveling his hips just right to maze his lustrously crowned head into that filthy, filthy target. Thumping veins bloated enough to circle your elastic walls and make you remember each lightning bolt pattern. 

Pulse leaping through your mouth, your head bangs backwards into the plush pillows, “There- there, Toruu–!”

“I already know.” Fuck, did he know - and he almost wished you could see the way he could with his Six Eyes. Just how lecherously you glutinous walls were bending to gulp him up straight into your plush g-spot. Every whack thrashing dead-on into that bullseye, “There- there. M’right there- fucking you right there.”

He was pounding into you like he was crazed at this point, and with every white-hot star of pleasure bursting behind your eyes, you could feel yourself sinking further into the cushy bed.

“-the bed, huh?” If you were in any better state of mind, you’d have been wondering about the fact that your husband seemingly had the ability to read minds.

But even Gojo doesn’t seem to realize.

A simpering smile falling over his features as he hoists your boneless legs further up his shoulders - locking them with a simple curl of his cursed energy. Before bending down, down, down until you’re all folded in half like a lawnchair and helpless. 

Completely at the mercy of his sloppy, spanking cadence, “S’what I k-kept thinking about- ngh- a-allll today.” At just the mere mention, Gojo’s throwing his head back with another wave of excess power.

“R-really?” You’re questioning cutely, and he’s forced to concentrate on a lil’ patch of limitless on top of his weepy crownhead to stop himself from fucking cumming right then, right there. 

“Thought about you- ngh- your lips. Your smile.” That explained why he was so ravenous, biting back grunting whimpers at the throbbing clench of your melty walls - molding ‘round his barreling girth. “And your…pussy.”

“S-so filthy, Satoru.”

Your features crinkle with a tiny, blissful twitch - so faint that you almost don’t even register it. 

But Gojo does.

Fuck- of course, he does. He’s slouching forwards until the drenched tufts of his stark white happy trail scratch your already-buzzing clit. Until his superhuman senses can distinctly make out every slurring mwah-! being pulled out from your soppy folds, nodding along as if in conversation. 

“Yeah- mhmmm–” He’s tittering at your starstruck expression, kissing away the clumps of dumbfounded drool splattering from your lips. Gojo squeezes the bullet vibrators of his fingers harder ‘round your clit and lets his eyes glow once you squeal, “-knew it. You’re close, my sweetheart.”

“I-I am?”

“Mhmm—”

And his Six Eyes was never incorrect.

Within only a few more vulgar, touching strokes you could feel that familiar tightness at the bottom of your tummy. Gojo’s giving your cunt another good spank to keep your legs twitching, “C-close.”

“Yeah? Yeah?” Taking on that maddened tinge, “Gonna cum- gonna cum f’me.” He’s giggling into your open mouth, letting a few oodles of spit let slip. “Can tell- so close so lose that- ooooone—”

Your hips jiggle hysterically up into his feverish pace, chasing your high with every uncontrolled thrust. Every spark of power– “Two- two.”

“Twoooo–” He’s calling out after a confirming glance downwards with his Six Eyes, manhandling your restless body pliably. Spattered specks of sweat hit your chest when he’s aligning his tip for once last crash into your tenderest spots. One. last- “Thr- fuck–!”

Right on time. And it wasn’t just you crashing into your high, it was Gojo, too.

Every bedroom light shattering, loose furniture hovering copious inches. 

Gojo was like a monster, his skin decorating with sparks of blue lightning after every long, aching bout of overstimulated euphoria that make the strongest’s famed eyes blur with big, fat goblets of tears. 

Whimpering - whimpering - in muffled noises as he fucks you full with a roped, creamy sap. It knocks around your deepest insides and pushes up in fat wads against your cervix, that little puddle swashing around to and fro with every pump. “Milk me- yeah yeah milk me.”

He’s fucking and fucking you until his rock-hard cock rubs red n’ raw.

Your own high simply zapping tingles by now from the arched curls of your toes up to your sweltering head, Gojo slides his puffy veins just past your g-spot and your legs go weak.

“P-pleeeease–” You’re mumbling through streaky cries of your own, the feeling so filthy that you didn’t know whether you wanted more or to crawl away.

Before a splat! of something wet and viscid on your shoulder jolts you out of you reverie - and only then do you realize that Gojo fucking Satoru was drooling. 

“Don’t you fucking run.” Before you know it, both Gojo’s handless cursed energy and his own right hand curl around your throat to draaaag you back into his ruthless hips. 

His shivering thighs against yours, the stony ridge of his v-line grinding into your stinging ass cheeks just so. Gojo’s pounding you so full of his seed that you feel oh-so-sluggish, “But- but Tooooruuuu–” You could already feel every ounce of blood in his body rush to make his cock twitch, dangerously. Oh. “-a-again? More?”

It’s like the very word is enough to make him jolt. “More?”

“Will it even ngh- fit?” Your lower lip juts out into a pout, feeling the gluey mess of syrup sticking your thighs together. A few gumdrops of pearly cum already pouring out of your sheened hole and dripping right down onto his base. 

“Well…” Gojo’s peripherals were so very hazy now, and they take their languid time falling to the cumflated bulge he’d jackhammered into you. Chuckling - pitched high, he’s plugging those escaping ribbons back into your milky pussy and licking off the excess. “-how many?”

“Wh-what?” You’re gasping as he leverages the hold at your throat to spit the mess right back onto your tongue. 

“How many kids d’you want, hmmm-?” Gojo purrs right back, nuzzling the sweat-stuck side of your face. He’s whispering into your ear, “Because my Six Eyes tells me it h-hasn’t taken-” One thrust, and just about millions of angels and stars flashing behind your lids. “-yet.”

Reversed curse technique was just seeping out of Gojo, and for a second you wonder what time it was. What day- sore arms wrapping around his neck, you’re muttering your answer.

And he only chuckles– “B-because- limitless void, my wife.” And there’s a soft breeze of cracking energy washing over you - soft, loving, and so Gojo. Twinkling eyes drifting meaningfully to your humming cunt, “-m’gonna make you my ngh- cum…dump.”

He…did he just- your eyes widen, he did. Abusing that limitless void on your bawling pussy…oh, how it made you clench with need. 

Power having him crazed.

The bedroom air prickles with a gush of energy so thick it makes your skin burn slightly, and makes Gojo throw his head back with a whine. A whine. 

Eyes ablaze until only its faint bolts and the dusky sun were your sources of light right now - yet, little did you know that none of Tokyo had power, either. None of its wards. None of Japan.

The surge of power so ridiculously high that your comfy bed was sagging on one end, furniture unruly, the flowers of the estate’s gardens blooming. 

He’s letting go of your skin with a faintly steaming handprint, breath catching at the mark- Gojo similarly guides his own zapping fingers to brand your own steaming initials on his v-line. Electric. Twitching. 

“N’ who knows…” Giving you a probin’ dig of his swollen, ravaged cock, your husband grins. “-maybe I'll summon my haaaa- clones for this next round.”

A/N. Also I know most of y’all probably don’t celebrate but happy Sinhala and Tamil new year! Smooching all you lovelies <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

saving

Imagine Being Bonten's Receptionist (Bonten x F Reader) - Tokyo Revengers

PART 1: FIRST DAY/INTRODUCTIONS

TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT

Bonten is Tokyo's most notorious crime syndicate but has an office like any respectable business. even if it was a front. Each member had an office, there were a couple of meeting rooms, and they even had other staff who like you were sworn to secrecy or face deadly consequences. The pay was better than any other place you'd interviewed at, and the hours were reasonable, but you were expected to be flexible if needed to come in early or stay later.

The reception area had a few sofas and tables, and your counter was the first thing you saw when you got off the lift. You couldn't actually enter the offices behind you unless you had a key card or you buzzed them in. It would be quite lonely out here on your own or so you thought.

Hajime Kokonoi had hired you, he said it was because you looked trustworthy, and of course, you made a joke that he'd probably had your background checked. He told you to your face he had and you were the most worthy applicant. When you pushed for more he sealed his lips. On your first day, he put a very nice vase of flowers on the reception counter stating it gave the place more life, but it was a bouquet of your favourite flowers. So you thanked him and he said it was nothing, even though a couple of flowers had to be imported. You heard he was stingy with money.

You were typing away when Takeomi Akashi walked out of the offices with an unlit cigarette between his lips not noticing your presence, because he was busy cussing the lighter that wasn't working. 'Excuse me, let me help you,' you call out, grab the lighter from your bag and walk over to him. 'Who are you?' he asks confused, and you explain as you light the cigarette. 'Thank you, you smoke?' he enquires and you shake your head, and explain your friends do and on nights out you'd rather them come to you than a stranger. 'Smart girl, never smoke.' Takeomi now knew who to come to when his lighter wouldn't work.

Kakucho walks out of the lift on his phone, 'good morning,' you say politely. The poor man jumps out of his skin and nearly drops his phone on the marble floor. You apologise profusely for scaring him and his face gets a little redder the more you talk to him. It's not lost on you that he's not so subtly checking you out, in fact, you find it kind of cute when he should be intimidating. 'Nice to meet you, err I have to go,' he stutters and makes a quick escape into the offices. At the end of the day, he introduces himself properly, telling you if you need anything you can call him. It had been a while since a guy had given you his number.

Word spread by lunchtime about the new hire and that's when you met the Haitani brothers Ran and Rindou. Hajime had warned you to be on your guard, you were innocent and the brothers would try to taint you. 'hello beautiful, I have a reason to come into the office more now,' Ran croons, leaning over the counter staring at you with lustful eyes. You sit up straight, 'it's nice to meet you, but nothing's going to happen.' Ran looks hurt while his brother laughs, 'Maybe you're not as much of a charmer as you think brother. Call me Rindou.' and you're shocked when he takes your hand and kisses it. You would almost believe he was a gentleman if he didn't have the same lustful eyes as his brother. You smile and remove your hand from his, 'I don't know what game you two are playing but it won't be easy. I've been warned.' the brothers exchange a look and huff, 'Koko,' they say in unison. You nod and go back to your computer. Little did you know that your rejection ignited a challenge between the brothers to see who could win you over first.

After the Haitani brothers, you thought you'd be left alone but there were a couple of cocky male employees who thought they could flash expensive suits and watches while being drenched in overpowering cologne. Unlike the brothers these two immediately violated your personal space making you feel uncomfortable, 'can you leave me alone please?' you ask, 'get away from me,' you insist. One of the men goes to grab your arm 'Know your place bitch--' when he's grabbed himself and thrown backwards. Kanji Mochizuki stands guard in front of you, 'the lady said no, just wait until the boss here's about this.' Then men scurry off scared by the threat. He turns to face you with a warm smile, 'Sorry about that, they won't cause you any more problems. Give me a shout if anyone else makes you feel uncomfortable.' you weren't quite sure what to make of him, but you just got your second number of the day.

Hajime or Koko as he told you to call him asked you to stay late to accept a parcel for another member. This is where you met Bonten's no.2 Haruchiyo Sanzu and the leader Manjiro Sano. You were taken aback seeing Sanzu covered in blood while Mikey didn't seem to have a single scratch on him, both looked equally intimidating and you didn't want to get on either of their bad sides. You gulp and look down at the parcel you'd not long signed for seeing it was addressed to Sanzu, 'good evening I have a parcel for Haruchiyo Sanzu.' both men stare at you, Sanzu looks manic while Mikey looks bored. 'Thank you, lovely lady, pink looks good on you,' Sanzu chuckles and takes the parcel before skipping into the office. You brush imaginary creases off your light pink blouse, 'well I guess I'll be going then, have a good night sir,' you pick up your bag, turn off the monitor and stand up noticing Mikey hadn't moved his eyes from you, 'are you okay sir?' you ask. He blinks a couple of times, 'Yes, get home safe,' you nod and press the lift button, feeling a little uneasy having Mikey continue to stare at you.

When you returned to your apartment, you threw yourself on the bed, thinking about your interesting first day of work and all the Bonten members you'd interacted with. This was going to be an interesting job.

saving

told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

synopsis : you crushed on him for months, watched him dodge every advance like you were malware. so you dressed up a little, played a little dumber—and now he’s got you spread out in pixels and moaning in surround sound. worst part? you kinda want him to do it again.

tags/cw — masturbation, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, marking, overstimulation, explicit language, filming, voyeurism, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, obsession, lingerie, virgin weeb satoru, questionable but effective way of seducing ur crush. 13k wc, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : plz don't nitpick about how a fashion vlog shouldn't be like that bc that's the point. toru doesn't know the difference because all he watches is 2d girls

the compressor’s peaking again.

satoru squints at the waveform, drags the threshold down two decibels, then listens back to the same three-second clip of voiceover for the tenth time. it’s a podcast intro, some wannabe influencer droning about mindfulness. he doesn’t care. he’s just here to make it sound less like it was recorded in a bathroom.

“sounds like shit,” he mutters, even though it’s clean. crisp. perfectly balanced.

it doesn’t feel right. nothing ever does. he tweaks the bitrate, checks the export codec, wonders if he should build a custom ffmpeg preset. maybe write a quick script to batch clean all future files—something to shave off a few milliseconds of his life. his fingers hover over the keyboard, itching for efficiency, for control.

ping.

discord overlay glows in the corner of his ultrawide monitor, a neon-green intrusion on his meticulously organized desktop. he freezes. the notification pulses like a heartbeat.

you.

he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…

his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.

“no,” he types, then erases it.

“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.

after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:

i guess. send what you have.

he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.

flashback.exe

he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.

they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.

but you were different.

not better. just... a different kind of stupid.

you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.

“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.

you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”

typical.

he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.

you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.

he watches again.

his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.

he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.

he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.

he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.

he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.

the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.

the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.

his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.

his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.

he’s close. too close.

his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.

he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—

he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”

he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.

he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:

np.

what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?

he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.

your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.

he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.

you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.

his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.

to replay your giggle.

he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.

the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.

it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.

that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done. 

he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.

and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.

ping.

another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.

hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!

he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.

he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.

the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.

“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do. 

“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”

then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.

he freezes.

his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?

you giggle.

“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”

he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.

you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?

satoru’s fingers twitch.

one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.

he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.

he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.

his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.

he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.

you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.

he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.

he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.

he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.

he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—

he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.

he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.

exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”

he tries to normalize it.

“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.

he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.

he tells himself he’s just learning.

every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.

now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.

“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”

right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.

he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.

the next class is worse.

you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.

you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.

he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.

your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.

he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.

his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.

he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.

a new text lights up his screen:

 hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T

you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.

you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.

he hates himself.

but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.

the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.

it starts with static in his skull.

not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.

he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.

it doesn’t help.

not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

satoru’s trying.

really.

he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.

2:03 a.m.

his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.

hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!

march haul (raw).mp4

he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.

click.

of course he does.

the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.

you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.

your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.

“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.

he knows it.

his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”

he does.

the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—

he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.

you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.

he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.

he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.

he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.

he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.

it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.

he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.

his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.

at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.

the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.

he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.

but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.

he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.

you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.

you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.

he doesn’t blink.

he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.

he can’t breathe.

his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.

someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.

“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.

satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.

but it’s you.

always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.

he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.

he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.

no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.

he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.

he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.

it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.

the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.

it’s been three weeks.

folders on folders: “hauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.” “audio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.” “color tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.”

some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.

the worst part?

you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.

but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.

he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.

satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.

the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.

your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.

in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”

he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.

he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.

the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.

you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.

you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”

baby.

it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.

everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.

when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.

satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.

he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.

his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.

he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.

he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.

he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.

the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.

it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.

he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”

he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.

you, on the other hand, don’t break character.

in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.

you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.

one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.

the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.

“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.

satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”

you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.

he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”

you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”

you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”

00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.

“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.

his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this. 

he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.

he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.

he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.

his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.

he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.

he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.

he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.

you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe

he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.

it starts with a ping.

innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.

his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space.h e’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.

he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.

you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”

he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.

he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.

he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.

“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.

he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.

you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.

he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.

“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”

“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.

you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”

he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.

“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”

you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.

his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.

the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.

he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.

“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.

you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.

“fuck.”

he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.

you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.

you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.

his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”

he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.

you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”

you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.

“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.

he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”

his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”

he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”

he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”

he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”

you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.

the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.

he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.

he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”

you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”

you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.

satoru doesn’t stop.

in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.

the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.

he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.

“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.

“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.

you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.

“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.

he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”

satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.

he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”

each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.

he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.

“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”

he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.

but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.

he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.

“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.

you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”

he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.

“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.

satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.

“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”

his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.

you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.

“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”

he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.

he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.

he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”

he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”

he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”

you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”

he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.

he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”

he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.

“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”

but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”

he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”

he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”

you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.

“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.

“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.

but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.

satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.

he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.

you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.

your silence makes him spiral.

“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.

you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”

he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”

you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”

“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”

you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”

he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.

you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.

“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”

he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.

“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”

he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.

“i know.”

a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.

“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.

“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”

you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”

he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.

and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.

“mine.”

you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.

especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.

friday’s going to be filthy.