#nerd x reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sixeyesonathiel · 3 months ago

Text

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. he’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.

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valentine-cafe · 6 months ago

Note

Ooough dumbification with 781 rishen… tying him up and fucking him absolutely silly… when he can’t speak coherently anymore, “what baby, can’t think with how good you’re feeling? Hm? Too much for that little brain of yours right now?” Stroking his cock and making him listen to it squelch as he squirts and whines. “Look at ya, drooling and slurring for m’ cock.,,”

˖⁺. ﹙ bottom nerd x top male reader. ﹚ .𖹭 ݁

. . . too big? yeah? thas' it good boy !! 🍒 : hero ˖ moth-spider-mantis hybrid ˖ preppy nerd character﹙ verse 781 rishen. ﹚

Fucking rishen silly has never been more satisfying, cw: dumbification, rough fucking, cum, squirting

“Youh—h-nhg— g-” Slurred speech bounces on and off the walls of the dorm like they have for the past 30 minutes of your poor boyfriend being fucked silly and gone.

He whines and splurts cum out onto the sheets each time you insist setting the pace. His chest heaving frantically when you lean your full weight down on him and squeeze around his cock a bit tighter than last.

God. . . It sends you into the same state of bliss, though you still manage to speak somewhat coherently. Curse this man’s blessed moans and tight ass. “That’s it. Listen to it,” You pant, voice deep and full of lust.

“Listen to how he fucking squirts and squlches for me. Got such a pretty dick in my hand.” The little chuckles and make him choke on his own spit, whimpering at your little sentences and paragraphs of sugar coated degredation slither into his mind and fogging it up even more.

“Taking this cock like you were made f’it.”

#﹙ cupcake rush. ﹚: rishen 781 𖹭 ݁#monster boyfriend #smut #teratophillia #male reader #monster fucker #terato #monster x reader #hero x reader #hybrid x reader #nerd x reader #oc x reader #x reader #x male reader #reader insert #rishen 781 #asterism

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purerae · 1 year ago

Text

╭────༺♡༻────╮

YANDERE!PERV X FEM!READER // PT1

warnings ;; nsfw themes, creepy behaviour, overall yandere themes

╰────༺♡༻────╯

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who didn’t really believe in love at first sight. ‘People were horrible and mean, loves not real at all!’

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who immediately disregards his previous statement the moment he saw you, his ears perking up at the sound of your voice speaking to your fellow classmates.

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who’s enamoured with you the first time you ran into the lecture hall, hair messed up, books all jumbled and bag almost falling off. You looked so perfect and sweet!

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who watches you so intently as you work, he stares at you as if he’s an eagle. Everyone notices him staring at you and thinks he’s a perverted freak, but you don’t pay any mind to it. That must mean you think he’s okay!? that must mean you like him..<3

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who doesn’t even have a conversation with you for months but just practically eye-fucks you. He remembers all your outfits and if you ever rewore them. Your favourite sweater, which he wants to steal so he can do god knows what to it.

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who almost whimpers when you sit next to him, He secretly thanks the person who stole your self assigned seat.

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who’s eyes widen as he realises he’s going to have to speak to you. shit shit shit what should he do?!

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who after 30 long minutes, has the courage to shyly ask for a pen. quickly hiding his stationary; he stutters, pauses, and whispers the 7 words. It’s practically impossible to understand him. “d..do you have…a p..pen that i can borrow..?”

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who almost combusts when you give him a polite grin, saying ‘of course!’ and lending him a pen before focusing back on your work. To you it was a conversation you don’t think twice about, for him? It made his entire month.

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who can’t even focus on his work as he notices the bite marks on top of your pen. your lips and teeth touched the lid…his slender fingers slowly brush the bite marks, hands quivering with delight. Even a streak of blood couldn’t compare to how red he was. He’s keeping this pen no matter what.

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who gasps in relief when you leave forgetting to ask for your pen back, he quickly puts it in his bag and beams happily all the way back to his flat. The happiest he’s been in years!

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who places the stolen pen on his night desk, and kisses the top of it every night like a routine. ‘I’m practically kissing her~!’

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who slowly collects the things you accidentally leave behind. Half drunk water bottle? His. A tissue you used when it was getting a bit cold? In his pocket like it’s his hankerchief. A core of an apple you chucked into the trash can before walking into the class? Treats it like it’s Gods gift

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who built a mini shrine of your belongings at the back of his closet. His harmless little secret, no body, especially you needs to know.

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ YANDERE!PERV who loves you so so so much! he’d do anything for you! ..even if you guys have only ever spoken once or twice.

“Mmm hey! Can you help me with this question…?”

purerae<3

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kunawned · 1 month ago

Text

daydreaming about nerd gojo fucking you so good >_<

you'd always thought gojo to be such a shy and sweet guy — he was a babbling mess when he first spoke to you and it took him a while to even get past the stage of not blushing every time he was around you. so when you two were ready to get more intimate, you were expecting him to be the same.

boy, were you pleasantly wrong.

he's got your knees pressed to your chest, his strokes deep and languid as he goes in and out of your velvety pussy. he's groaning at the way your walls clench around him and he finds it so cute at how you're clawing at the sheets beneath you. there's a small smirk tugging on his lips as he slams his hips against you, revelling in the way your tits bounce every time he does so and how you're whining his name for him.

"such a pretty girl f'me," he mutters, pushing your knees even further towards your chest, spreading you open even more. your back arches up, the feeling of his thick cock stretching you making your mind hazy. all you can even think of is how his fat tip is bullying your cervix and how his thrusts are uncoordinated yet perfect.

"takin' it so well, my sweet girl," he coos, in almost condescending manner as he abuses your poor cunt, fucking you harder and faster. your screams echo throughout the room and that only inflates his confidence. he stops for a brief moment, gripping your legs tighter before drilling his cock deep into your slick, gummy walls.

his glasses are sliding down his nose but he doesn't even care. they're foggy and though he can't see you too well, he just can't stop himself. he's just so desperate and needy for your sweet pussy that nothing else matters. it's just you, you, you!

your cries grow louder, a string of curses leaving your lips and his smirk only grows wider. there's this hungry, primal look in his eyes as his eyes turn near glossy, taking in your pretty fucked out expression. god, he's never felt this good before and he wishes he could just stay buried in your saccharine pussy forever.

"fuck fuck fuck 'm cummin'," you scream, your whole body trembling as the tight coil in your tummy snaps and hot white waves of pleasure wash over you. gojo follows right after you, shooting his warm seed into you, creaming your velvety walls. he's muttering your name underneath his breath, as if like a way to keep him grounded.

his body flops softly on top of yours, breaths in sync and your chests rising and falling together. his touch is gentle as he caresses your cheek — a stark contrast to how he was pounding into you relentlessly a few seconds ago. "so good f'me," he whispers, placing a chaste kiss to your forehead.

9K notes · View notes

nosyp · 3 months ago

Note

I want a muscular nerd fanfic(nsfw) like him crushing the user between his big biceps and being really sweet <the user is a shy girl who the teacher assigned to work with him>

Deep buttery voice. IM GOING TO EAT UP NERD DUDES(-)_(-)

Warnings = smut

Pairings = Nerd x Fem! Reader (i hope u dont mind)

Word count = 2.7k words

A/N = Holy fuck I'm so stupid, I forgot all abt the "nice" part. Just enjoy this.. sorry🤷‍♀️

“Alright everyone, settle down. Now I’ll be—” the teacher’s voice started to ring out in your memory.

That was the last thing you remembered… and now you’re in his house, waiting for him to come back to do the assignment. He went to get some snacks or something… All you heard from him was “blah blah blah proper name… place name… backstory stuff”.

You sat stiffly on the edge of his couch, hands clutching the hem of your skirt as you stared down at your lap.

The room smelled faintly of old books, which you’d expected, and something warm like cedarwood. His house was… nice. Too nice. You didn’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t quite like this.

“Y’know I didn’t think you’d actually come over,” his voice broke through the silence as he made his way back into the room with a couple of water bottles and a bag of chips. His presence was overwhelming, you had no idea how you just realised that now.

He was surprisingly attractive for someone that never drew attention. His broad shoulders filled the doorway as he made his way past the threshold with his glasses perfectly perched on the bridge of his nose.

You quickly glanced away, cheeks burning. “T-The teacher said we had to…”

He chuckled lightly, setting the snacks down onto the coffee table before plopping himself onto the couch beside you, his weight making the cushions dip in his side. “Yeah, yeah. But I figured you’d make an excuse. You always look like you’re one step away from running.”

You stiffened. Was it that obvious?

Before you could answer, he stretched, arms raising above his head, making his already large frame seem even bigger. Your eyes find themselves staring at the flex of his biceps beneath his snug hoodie before quickly looking away. It was like they were just barely bursting out of his sleeves.

“I—I don’t run from responsibilities… It’s just a lot sometimes.” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

His grin widened, a little amused and maybe… a little something else. “That so?” He leaned back, stretching an arm along the back of the couch which landed so dangerously close to you. His sheer size made you feel even smaller, and it wasn’t helping that he smelled good, like clean laundry and some really good cologne.

You swallowed hard, squeezing your thighs together.

He must’ve noticed.

“You alright there, short stack?” His voice was teasing but gentle.

You nodded quickly, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Hm.” He reached for a book on the coffee table and you couldn’t help but stare at his forearm flexing for a second, which totally short-circuited your brain.

He noticed that too.

“You keep starin’,” he mused, flipping a page.

You swore you felt your heart nearly stopped. “I-I wasn’t!”

His smirk deepened. “Uh-huh,” He flexed, just a little, and the movement had you squeaking, face practically on fire.

“You’re quite mean…” you mumbled softly before turning away.

He chuckled, shifting a little closer, warmth radiating from him like a furnace. “Nah, I’m just observant.” A pause. Then, lower, softer… “And I think it’s cute when you get all shy.”

Your entire body locked up.

How were you supposed to survive this study session?

Your breath hitched, hands starting to clench around the hem of your sweater. Cute? He thought you were cute?

You didn’t know what to do with that information. Your brain was already struggling to function properly with him sitting so close, warm and big beside you. His words just made everything worse— no, better— no, worse.

He didn’t seem fazed at all. If anything, he was enjoying this. He flipped another page in the textbook, acting as if he hadn’t just casually turned you into a nervous wreck.

“Alright, let’s get started.” His voice was steady, completely at ease. “We’ve gotta get through at least three sections today, so no slacking.”

You nodded hurriedly, gripping your pen like it was a lifeline. “O-Okay.”

For a few minutes, things were normal. He explained a few things with his usual calm and steady voice, while you tried desperately to focus on his words instead of the many ways things he could do other than this— you. It was unfair, really. Guys were supposed to be either strong or smart. He was both.

And worse? He knew it.

“Hey,” he called, tapping your notebook lightly with his pen. “You’re zoning out.”

“I—I’m not!”

“You are,” he said smoothly, shifting slightly, facing you slightly. “What’s got you so distracted, huh?”

You clamped your mouth shut, praying the floor would just swallow you whole. There was no way you were telling him the truth.

Unfortunately, your silence only made him more amused. He tilted his head, studying you for a moment before— oh no.

His arm moved.

Slowly, deliberately, he let it drop from the back of the couch—down, down, until it draped across your shoulders.

You squeaked.

He smirked.

“You’re so easy to mess with,” he murmured, voice rich with amusement. His fingers brushed your upper arm, completely engulfing it in warmth. “You’re all tense, y’know? Maybe you should relax a little.”

Relax? RELAX? How could you possibly relax when he was right there, solid and warm and smelling so nice—

“I—I’m fine!” you blurted out, shrinking in on yourself.

“Hm.” He didn’t move his arm. If anything, he settled into it, as if this was completely normal. As if this wasn’t killing you. “If you say so.”

Silence stretched between you.

You could feel everything. The way his fingers rested lightly against your shoulder. The slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing. The occasional brush of fabric when he shifted just the tiniest bit closer.

This was dangerous.

Very, very dangerous.

And then, as if things weren’t bad enough—

He squeezed your shoulder lightly.

Your whole body went stiff.

He chuckled, low and warm. “You’re really not used to this, huh?”

You made a noise— somewhere between a whimper and a squeak.

He let out a slow exhale, leaning in just slightly, and you swore you could feel the heat radiating off of him.

“You know,” he murmured, voice just above a whisper, “for someone so shy, you’re really bad at hiding things.”

You practically choked. “H-Hiding what?”

His smirk deepened.

Oh, you were in so much trouble.

“Y’know… I have another idea to make you focus.” he said.

—

You just didn’t know the so called great idea of his was a way for you to strip. The pair work for you two is to answer 100 questions, all from what you’ve learned in the past semester. His idea was to split 50/50 and when you two checked each other’s works, if you got something wrong, then you would have to take off one piece of clothing and it goes the same for him.

—

Fifty questions later, you had nothing left but your bra and panties. He wasn’t doing much better—just boxers and the tight black tank he wore underneath his hoodie.

Your arms were wrapped tightly around your chest, legs curled up on the couch like you were trying to make yourself as small as physically possible. Your cheeks had been red for the past ten minutes and showed no signs of cooling down.

“I-I can’t believe I agreed to this,” you muttered, voice trembling with mortification.

He sat across from you on the floor, legs stretched out and a smug little smile playing on his lips. “I warned you I was good at test questions.”

“You got forty-seven right!” you hissed. “That’s illegal!”

He chuckled, completely relaxed despite the very obvious fact that you were both basically naked. “Hey, you held your own. I’m not wearing pants, am I?”

“Don’t say that out loud!” you squeaked, burying your face in your hands.

His laugh deepened, low and warm in his throat. “You're cute when you're embarrassed.”

“Stop saying things,” you say, giving him a deathly glare.

He tilted his head, watching you with that same unreadable look he’d had earlier, the one that made your stomach do backflips.

“…You know,” he said after a pause, voice dropping just a little, “I didn’t expect this to actually happen. Thought you’d give up after question twenty.”

You fiddled with your fingers, cautious. “Why… didn’t you go easy on me?”

He blinked. “You wanted me to?”

You didn’t answer, but your silence kind of did.

He leaned back against the couch, arms folded behind his head so his biceps flexed again, casually, infuriatingly. “You’re the one who said you don’t run from responsibilities.”

You glared. “This wasn’t what I meant!!”

He grinned. “But you didn’t back out.”

“…I wanted to win…” you mumbled, voice barely audible.

He laughed, softer now. “Then next time, I’ll let you.”

You stared at him. “N-Next time?!”

“Sure. Maybe we can study for midterms like this, too.” He said it so casually, like it wasn’t utter madness.

You squeaked again, yanking a throw pillow to hug against your chest.

He just smiled to himself and picked up the answer sheet again. “You still owe me three questions. Let’s see if you can finish those before passing out from sheer embarrassment.”

You groaned, muffled into the pillow. “This is the worst study session in history.”

He snorted. “Nah. I think it’s the best one I’ve ever had.”

“Question 48, correct.” he says. “Relief for you huh…”

“Yeah yeah, keep going.” you roll your eyes, and they start moving towards him again. He had a very muscular build… Who could blame you for looking?

“Question 49 correct, wow. You’re doing great.” he compliments you.

“Thanks,”

“Question 50… wrong,” he says, finally looking up at you from the paper.

“W-what? T-there’s no way! Give me that,” you snatch the paper away from him and to your surprise, it was wrong.

“Soo… which one are you taking off?” he asks you teasingly. “Orr… you could just accept defeat.”

“Hell no,” the famous last words you said before being pinned beneath him… on his bed.

“U-ugh! Y-you’re being too rough— stop it!” you try to put some distance in between you two.

“C’moonn… just a small… short kiss?” he asks.

Your heart was racing. You were burning up. Every second you spent under him only made it worse.

But your lips trembled with a nervous smile. “A-a short one?”

“Mmhm,” he hummed, his voice deep. “Just a little reward… for studying so hard.”

He was lying. You could see it in his stupid smug expression— he had no intention of keeping it short.

Still…

Your eyes flicked to his mouth.

“…Okay,” you whispered.

He didn’t wait.

His lips met yours in one smooth motion, warm and sure. Not rough—not yet. Just slow. Deliberate. His hand moved to your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he kissed you again, deeper this time.

You gasped softly into his mouth, and that was all the invitation he needed.

His tongue slipped past your lips, stealing every ounce of breath from your lungs, and suddenly the kiss wasn’t gentle anymore—it was needy, hungry. Like he’d been waiting for this all night. Maybe longer.

You whimpered, arching under him without meaning to. His body pressed against yours fully now, only fabric separating skin from skin, and it wasn’t nearly enough.

Your hands found his shoulders, then his back, dragging your fingers across muscle you hadn’t even realized he had under those hoodies. He groaned softly into your mouth, pulling back just an inch to breathe.

“Still want me to stop?” he murmured.

You stared up at him, dazed, lips swollen. “Y-you said short—”

He chuckled, voice low. “I lied.”

And then his mouth was on your throat.

Kissing, nipping. One hand roaming down your side while the other pinned your wrist gently above your head. Every touch sent sparks down your spine, your legs twitching under him as he dragged his fingers along your waist, teasing close… sooo close to your panties.

“You’re shaking again,” he murmured, brushing his nose along your jaw. “You like this?”

You whined softly, nodding, unable to meet his eyes.

“Cute…” he breathed. “Bet I could make you cry just from kissing you.”

“Y-you’re saying weird things again,” you mumbled breathlessly.

His smirk deepened. “And yet you’re still letting me do this.”

His hand dipped lower.

His fingers ghosted over the waistband of your underwear, featherlight. Teasing. He was giving you every opportunity to stop him… but you didn’t.

You didn’t want to.

“Still with me?” he whispered, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes were darker now—hooded, but attentive. Careful, even as his hand slipped under the hem of your last remaining clothing.

You nodded, barely breathing. “Y-yeah…”

That was all he needed.

He kissed you again—messier this time, with a soft growl in his throat—and his fingers finally dipped between your thighs.

You jerked at the sudden contact, clinging to his arm, your gasp caught somewhere between shock and pleasure. “A-ah—!”

His smirk returned. “Sensitive,” he said softly. “You’re already soaked…”

“S-shut up—!” you covered your face with both hands, whining into your palms.

But he just laughed, kissing the backs of your fingers. “Can’t help it. You’re too cute when you get flustered like that.”

His fingers moved again, slowly— deliberately— rubbing through your folds like he had all the time in the world. He wasn’t rushing. He was learning you. Testing what made you twitch. What made you whimper. What made your back arch just right.

“You’re gonna make a mess on my bed if I keep going,” he murmured, half amused, half in awe. “Are you gonna take responsibility for that?”

“I-I’ll clean it, just keep going,” you whispered shakily, tugging at his wrist, desperate for more.

He chuckled darkly. “Damn. You’ve got no shame now, huh?”

“I-I’m blaming the midterms—!” you whimpered again as he curled two fingers inside you suddenly, slow but deep.

“Midterms, huh?” he echoed with a grin, leaning down to kiss your collarbone. “Let’s see if I can help you… relieve some of that stress.”

And he didn’t let up.

His fingers worked steadily, curling and dragging along your walls while his mouth traveled lower. He nipped at your chest, just above where the fabric still clung to you, teeth scraping lightly before soothing it with his tongue.

You were shaking. Moaning his name. Fingers tangled in his hair.

And he looked so damn proud of himself.

“Bet you’re not thinking about those questions anymore,” he murmured as he pressed deeper, angling just right… just enough to make you cry out again.

“N-not even close,” you gasped, hips bucking.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I want your mind on me. Nothing else.”

“U-ugh…! P-please…” you beg.

“Please what?” he asks, a smirk growing on his face.

“Y-you know it—!” you say.

“Mmm… as you wish, pretty girl.” he whispers into your ear, his hot breath fanning your neck. He slides his shaft in you ever so slowly, watching as your facial expressions change from desperation to satisfaction.

“F-fuck…” you moan. “I-I want you… please.”

Then, he swiftly shoves it deep inside you and starts pushing it in and out of you. “Is this enough for you… or do you want… more?”

You didn’t respond… except maybe you did, in the form of soft moans that is.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says before he starts jackhammering into you, your skin slapping onto his. With every snap of his hip, he kisses your cervix.

It’s a pleasuring burn— tantalizing… hot…

Your head was now in shambles, you couldn’t think about anything else other than him… other than reaching your climax. You started grinding on him of your own accord, trying to make the process faster.

“Awww… y-y-you’re really t-that… desperate huh…” he groans in your neck. His pants start to grow more erratic, more crazed. He kisses your neck and slowly nibbles on the skin to leave marks.

“A-aahh… you’re so tight… are you about t-to c-come…” he continues. “Do it. Make a mess,”

Plap! Plap! Plap!

You were so hot… so close… you were a few more thrusts away from relieving yourself.

“I can feel you’re so close baby… c’mon,” he teases you.

You felt yourself tightening up around him… until you came all over his cock.

“F-fuck… you’re making a mess… might as well,” he says, cumming deep inside you.

#oc x reader #original character x reader #nerd x reader #nerd boyfriend #nerds #i love nerds #tw: smut #dividers by @/cafekistune

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dearjoons · 3 months ago

Text

📚 HIGH OFF YOU — PJM

IN WHICH: a certain nerd gets peer-pressured into taking an edible. then perfect little you comes along, vowing to be his caretaker for the night.

pairing: high!nerd!jimin x sober!popular!reader

warnings: mentions of edibles, weed. alcohol. houseparty. peer pressure (lighthearted edition). first time getting high. sober caretaker. fem!reader. you will want to read THIS for more context—highly recommended, not mandatory.

word count: 595

lulu speaks: this was impulsive and dumb but it’s here so i ask that you take very good care of it. he’s such a cutie??? also reader’s lowkey a baddie and i need her but anyways

the house is alive.

no—possessed, really. the music is too loud, the air too sticky, everyone looks like they’re in a troye sivan-induced trance.

and jimin?

jimin is vibrating and overstimulated beyond belief. he’s about a breath away from passing out on the couch.

he didn’t even really mean to take the edible.

it just sort of…happened—passed into his hand by some senior jock while taehyung yelled “DON’T BE LAME!” in the distance, and jungkook made direct eye contact and said, “YOLO.”

(which…was weirdly persuasive.)

so, here he is.

halfway into orbit. melting into the peeled leather couch. alone.

until you appear.

“jimin?”

your voice cuts through the bass like magic. a bright, perfect sound that makes him peek up—and oh god, it’s you. it’s really you.

he pushes his foggy glasses back up after having slid down the entire bridge of his nose.

your tiny black dress glints under the strobe lights. your hair brushes your shoulders. your brows are furrowed in genuine concern.

he sits up straighter. (well, tries.)

“did someone seriously give you an edible?” you question, crouching next to him like some righteous angel. “what the hell is wrong with them? you look like you’re seeing stars.”

“i am seeing stars,” he mumbles, dreamily.

you sigh, loud and dramatic. “who gave it to you?”

he points vaguely in the direction of the jocks.

you stand. hands on hips. eyes full of fury.

and jimin—bless his dumb little stoned heart—just watches you absolutely chew out three upperclassmen, and suddenly he’s not sure if the room is spinning from the edible or from the sight of you calling people out on his behalf.

by the time you come back, cheeks flushed and eyes sharp, he’s smiling like a drunk puppy.

“you’re scary,” he tells you with wide eyes.

“you’re lucky i found you,” you shoot back. “come on.”

“huh?”

“come with me, genius. i’m not letting you out of my sight.”

you don’t give him time to argue. just thread your fingers around his wrist and tug him up gently, guiding him through the chaos. he stumbles a bit, leans into your shoulder once or twice, and you…let him.

and from that point on, you stick to him like glue.

you sit next to him on the floor during some game of king’s cup. get him water. shoo away the girl who tried to give him a drink. wrap a blanket around his shoulders when he says he’s cold. take a video of him explaining the plot of finding nemo with red eyes and reconciles animated hand gestures. you smile every time he smiles.

and jimin—still floating, still warm—just watches you with big, dazed eyes, a stupid smile on his face, and one constant thought looping in his brain:

she’s so pretty.

she’s so nice to me.

i would give her the moon if she asked.

is that painting talking to me?

later, as the party winds down and you’re helping him sit on the pool coping, he blurts, “you smell like smirnoff.”

you pause. look at him. laugh—really laugh.

“and you smell like doritos.”

he doesn’t even care. he just giggles.

and when you give him that look—that sweet, curious, affectionate little look like you’ve never seen anyone quite like him before—he swears his brain melts into mush right then and there.

the sound of the pool water trickling into the skimmer is suddenly a few decibels louder, the muffled booming of something ke$ha seemingly more distant.

a smile creeps its way onto your face. his eyes literally form hearts.

he’s never taking an edible again.

lulu speaks pt2: me if there were awards for most rushed endings: 🥇🏆🏅🎖️BEWARE!! the cai bot tagged below does NOT follow this prompt/scenario.

cai bot. headcannons. masterlist. navigation.

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midnightsimpsstuff · 1 year ago

Text

A LOVERBOY'S CATASTROPHE

Warnings: none its just fluff lol

Summary: Spencer has had a crush on you for a while, with the help of Morgan and Garcia he summed up the courage to ask you out what happens if you already had plans either a potential significant other?

a/n: this is my first time writing on tumblr and maybe my love for spencer just brought me to write this I actually don't know but please enjoy regardless. If you like the book please like and reblogg if possible

Word count: 2.6k

It was going to be a busy day for you, so you had woken up a bit earlier than usual and went to work by far earlier than you would have on a normal day.

Paperwork littered your table, mainly because you shot the unsub from your last case partly because you procrastinated to the other ones that were all due this evening.

So when you rushed into the bullpen taking a seat at your desk, with your signature Scooby-Doo coffee mug filled with coffee with a little to much sugar. You were by far to busy to notice Spencer at his table looking absolutely petrified to see you here by this time.

Spencer is your bestfriend, but to him you are his crush, so far the biggest one he has ever had. What attracted him to you wasn't just your looks, it was mainly about personality, he wouldn't have loved you if he wasn't your best friend and that made it by far worse because he doesn't know what to say in the speech he planned on telling you when he finally wants to confess

And the early mornings when it's just him, Hotch and Rossi were the perfect times to plan what he would say, they were the perfect times to deceive himself that today would be the day he would tell you, he never did.

But today he was so sure of it and due to the peptalking from Garcia and Morgan the day prior he was sure he could do this, he was sure he would do this.

It wasn't easy when he saw you pass by the front door, he began rethinking all his previous choices and he knew this was the universe giving him a chance, he could just talk to you now and if you reject him, nobody would be around to see and hopefully you two could just go back to normal.

He thought it through and began muttering under his breath what he planned on saying to you but when he was just about to get to your table, your phone rang and he felt his heart deflate when he thought he saw "Boo 💕" as the contact name.

He didn't know you had a boo, and it made him feel bad that he didn't know and he is your best friend. It made him feel worse when he realised what he was about to do, but he couldn't help himself but listen into your conversation, his brain tried telling him it could just be a misunderstanding.

'Hey bae' you had said and he was sure he had never felt his heart break in that manner before in his life.

'Yeah, I am totally free this night, why?'

...

'Of course! You don't even have to ask you know you are the love of my life' you had said completely oblivious to the fact Spencer was right there while he was getting his eyes getting teary when you said 'love of my life'

...

'Don't worry, you don't have to tell me, you know I'd wear something cute' he couldn't help himself but think about the fact he wouldn't care if you look good or not. That he is obviously the better choice.

....

'Yes, for your eyes only.' he watched you have a jittery smile before you said something about having to get back to work then ending the call with a smile on your face.

And that's when you finally realised the figure hovering above your table, and you greeted him with a smile that once brightened his day but now shun to mock him.

"Hey Spence, need something? The way you're looking at me is a little creepy" you said, but your smile had now dropped a little as you noticed his eyes looked like he was about to cry.

"No, I don't just came over to say hi" his voice had betrayed him a bit he sounded a little to icy, it wasn't your fault you got yourself a date with your secret significant other the day he was meant to ask you out.

Your face looked confused and a little hurt as he walked away which made him feel a little guilty but he couldn't do anything about it but hope that you'd understand when he apologises and makes a lie about why he acted like that towards you.

But it won't be today, he just can't face you or the embarrassment today, he'd try on Monday, because today was Friday and it hurt him even more thinking about it because he knew it was Friday and he had a lot planned, because Friday is the best day to ask someone on a date because there are a lot to do.

As he finished up his paperwork and more people began entering the bullpen, he couldn't help but feel a little irritated, he knew you didn't like showing your body off, he knew if you ever went on a date you would prefer it at one of you both's houses not at a cafe, or fancy restaurant, and he knew you didn't like when people that aren't your boss tell you what to do, you can allow it if needed but being told to wear something cute to a date was not needed.

He felt really bad of thinking of another man's girlfriend in such a manner, he knows he wouldn't like it if someone thought of his girlfriend, if he had one, in this manner but he didn't care, it just wasn't fair.

Morgan had looked over to his desk and couldn't help but feel a little bit sad on his behalf the little frown on his face was enough to show he didn't get that date he wanted and Morgan began feeling a little guilty because in a way it was his fault, if he hadn't encouraged him he would have never gotten his heart broken. He made a silent note in his mind to make it up to him before walking over to Hotch's office like he originally planned to.

The rest of the day went by quickly but Spencer had ignored you the whole day, your snarky remarks during meetings he didn't laugh at one like he usually would, during lunch you offered to go to you both's favourite cafe with him and he declined, you even tried offering him a ride home but he declined that too and you wondered why because he was just asking Emily if she could give him a ride and she said she couldn't and both of you guys apartment's are on the way of each other's that's when you felt you had done something wrong and you decided to find out later but that would be after your little meet up with one of your female bestfriends from college.

( ´_ゝ`)

Spencer had spent a couple of hours binge watching Doctor Who and Star Wars while eating chocolate ice cream. He read somewhere that watching his favourite shows and eating good ice cream could make someone feel better during heartbreak.

At one point he just accepted his fate, you two were not meant to be, that's why the universe made you his best friend and not his lover. He could just hope you're alright and the guy wasn't a douche but part of him realise you two could be fucking or making out and he decided to stop thinking about it all together.

He had gone to the fridge to get more ice cream when he heard the doorbell ring. His eyebrows furrowed, he wasn't expecting anyone and it was around 2am, who's coming to his house at 2am? He checked the fish hole to see who it was incase it was a new unsub and he would be the first victim.

But when he was met with your face in a black satin dress that looked beautiful on you but most of it was covered by a jacket, he completely forgot himself as he admired you, when he noticed you were shivering as you rung the doorbell again he flung open the door.

You looked absolutely tired, and Spencer had to rush you in and sit you on his couch before going to get some ice cream for you because you were showing signs the date didn't go so well.

When he put the ice cream in your hand, you were yawning and accepted it with a smile, muttering something about not wanting to disturb him.

"Nonesense, you could never disturb me, did the date not go well?" He said while looking at you with care, he would have touched you but you low-key smell of alcohol like you weren't drinking it but everyone around you had been and he wasn't going to contact any germ just because of friendship.

He watched your smile go down as you said, "Date? What date?" you looked so confused that it made him feel like such an idiot and that's saying something because he is in fact not one in the slightest.

He decided to say the little secret he was keeping from you from this morning, "I heard you accepting to go on a date with your boo, or love of your life as you called them" he watched you laugh and he felt even more embarrassed when you had said.

"That's not my actual boo, that's my friend Betty from college, we all call her boo, she asked me to go with her to the club because she wanted to try one night stands again and she knows I don't drink so she invited me so she could be safe."

You watched as his mouth formed into an "oh" and you let out a short laugh before speaking again "Besides if I had a boo do you think I won't tell you?" you watched him shake his head as if to say no.

"Is that why you were acting weird all day, because you thought I had a lover and didn't tell you?" you had taken a spoon of ice cream and now the faint scent of alcohol from you was now smelling like ice cream, Spencer's favourite ice cream and he didn't care anymore, he was going to tell you.

"No, it's because I wanted us to do something together—" he started "but you could have gone to our cafe with me?" you had interrupted and he would not think it's fair if you reject him after calling a cafe 'our' cafe. "—please don't interrupt me (you muttered a sorry) — I didn't want to go because you were offering to go as my bestfriend" he watched you eyebrows furrowed in confusion before they relaxed again like you understood and that's when he knew there was no going back.

"What do you mean Spence? Did you want to be my-" and you had never felt better, he feels the same "Did you want to ask me on a date, is that why you were standing in front of my table this morning?" Spencer knew the smile on your face was a good sign so he nodded.

Before he could understand anything, your lips were on his, and he actually forgot how to function before he could kiss you back, he tasted the chocolate ice cream and a bit of alcohol from your tongue it got him even more interested he pulled you unto his lap and the kiss had gotten he steamier and although Spencer felt like he could not breathe he kept it to himself because he never wanted this moment to end.

You pulled away from the kiss and Spencer chased your lips and pulled you into another one before you pulled away again, your face felt unbelievably hot. "Spence, I have always wanted to go on a date with you and I never thought you'd feel the same way, I have always wanted to call you mine." you smiled at him.

"Can I be yours?" Spencer said as he looked into your eyes and you finally understood what that glint in his eye was, it was longing.

"Of course" you had said before you both continued kissing, well making out before Spencer helped you change into some clothes of yours he has at his house and you both slept off while cuddling into the later moments in the day.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spence reid x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #friends to lovers #spencer reid fluff #x female reader #nerd x reader #cuties #first time writing #criminal minds x reader

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droaxa · 7 months ago

Note

ooouuuuu please give us more nerd boy, he's just too cute for his own good 🤲🤲🤲

tags: nerd x reader pt. 2

warnings: insecurity (on nerd's part), fluff!

a/n: hey guys! i’m back after a long due break and im finally ready to write something cute 😋 hope you guys enjoy!!

After a few stressful exams, your finals season was almost coming to an end. Well, it would have been if not for that pesky biology exam, the very last one left for you to knock down before you could kick back and truly relax for winter break.

That is how you ended up frazzled, sitting at your cluttered desk. Mountains of worksheets and notes are spread across the desk for easy accessibility and your computer is sitting on top of it all, a video explaining a difficult subject and how to approach problems that may confuse you. However, even with all these resources you were still frustrated, you'd been sitting here for how long? Almost 2 hours and the concept was still just out of reach for you.

You huffed and pushed yourself off your well-loved swivel chair, opting to plop down onto your welcoming bed for a deserved break. Ending up on your phone, you called Nerd, asking him to come over. 'It's a double whammy' you thought, 'I can finally see him again and get this ridiculous topic over. Ugh, he's so smart. You groaned in both envy and admiration, how could someone be so intelligent and adorable?

Less than 15 minutes later you heard a soft knock on your door, there was only one person who knocked like they would hurt the door if they did it any harder. Jumping up on your feet you borderline ran to the door, quickly fixing your hair before you swung it open with the same bright smile you always greet him with. And wow. Did he look good.

His usual glasses were perched on his handsome features, but other than that everything else was different. His usually messy hair was somewhat pushed back, more in a hurry than anything intentional it seemed. Dark grey sweats and a black shirt that hugged his figure so well were his outfit this time around, you could see his expensive-looking watch peeking out of his sweatpant pocket where his hand was situated. He ditched his hoodie this time around and you got a good view of his lean muscle, a body built from discipline as it seemed.

If it wasn't for the sheepish smile on his face you would've thought this was a totally different person, not your Nerd. You invite him in, complementing his appearance with a playful punch as you walk him to your room, he hides his warm face by pretending to cough but you can see his smile peak out under his arm. Cute. You lead him in and pull up another chair next to yours, however, you notice his arms: goosebumps litter the entirety of it.

"You want a hoodie? You look cold" you ask, a little concern discernable in your voice.

He looks up, clearly embarrassed, "I'd really appreciate that yeah"

You shoot him a quick smile and dig through your closet to find a hoodie that would fit him. Aw, he was so cute, did he want to show off to you? After your search, the only item of clothing you could find for him was your ex's hoodie. Huh, that was weird, you could've sworn you had gotten rid of this. You shrug off the feeling and bring out the hoodie for him, only to find him concentrated on your notes.

Eyebrows furrowed, head resting on his hand, his other arm resting on the table. You sneak up behind him and whisper a quiet 'boo' in his ear, making him yelp and turn around only for him to find you giggling.

"Got the hoodie" you announced, holding the article out in front of you as if proof.

"Oh thanks, that's- wait. Is that your dad's?" He instantly recognized the hoodie, it was a men's and totally out of your style range. So, who did it belong to?

You shake your head no and he inquires further.

"Brother or maybe like... cousin?"

Again you shake your head no, "Nope, it's an ex's. Thought I got rid of it, guess not"

Almost immediately after you said 'ex', Nerd's face soured. "Oh- um ok." You could almost hear the insecurity in his voice as he processed that you still kept items that your past lovers had given you.

You immediately recognized his tone and chucked the hoodie out of sight, opting to sit on the desk in front of him instead. He looked up at you, puppy dog eyes turned up to the max and a delicious pout on his downturned lips. You could devour him right here. You reached out for his face and held his cheek in your right hand, he immediately leaned into the gentle touch desperate for comfort. You gave him a soft smile and stroked his face with your thumb while still holding his cheek.

"I swear I meant to throw it out forever ago, honest" You offered.

He just sighed and looked down at his hands, "It's not you, I just- You've experienced all these firsts, all these special moments with someone else. I guess I'm just afraid that I won't be able to impress you and I'll end up being just another guy in your past."

As he lets out his inner feelings, you stare at his downturned face, a cluster of different emotions inside you. "Look at me," You say in a gentle tone and he finally looks up, eyes irritated from holding back tears. Your gaze softens further and you take his whole face into your hands, "It doesn't matter how many experiences I have, the best ones I've ever had were with you. Not my ex, not anyone else, you. You're the best I've ever had, even if you don't think you are, you are to me."

He finally fully meets your eyes, "You.. mean that?" You just nod, a soft smile on your visage. He looked like his breath was stolen from his lungs and he could only muster a small smile. After a moment of hesitation, he leaned upwards toward your face, his intentions clear. You met him halfway, soft lips rushing to yours as your hands wandered into his hair. After a drawn-out yet sweet kiss, you slid down, off the desk, and onto his lap to get closer to him.

After a few more heated kisses you pulled away from each other and the smile returned to his face, no it was more of a grin. "Whatever did I do in a past life to deserve you" he wondered out loud, seemingly captivated by you. "I could say the same" you shot back playfully, hands still on the back of his head. He pulled you closer, keeping you nestled on his lap and against his chest. You felt his heartbeat, fast.

This guy had to be your soulmate.

#x reader #nerd x reader #female reader #y/n #x y/n #fluff #cuties being cuties #male x reader #shy nerd #shy x reader

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wake-me-up-inside-imagines · 5 months ago

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Another request that I didn't think of until now but maybe some Leo x touch starved/clingy reader headcanons? Anything about him and someone who's very physically affectionate and kinda needy if that makes sense

Don't worry, that makes perfect sense! He’s a pretty needy dude sometimes too, so it balances out well. I hope you enjoy!

Sweet! Boyfriend With An S/O Who's Clingy/Touch Starved

Gn! Reader

Warnings: None

Divider credit goes to @strangergraphics

Sweet! boyfriend Leo who isn't used to physical affection. He's never been a big fan of it, not unless the touch is coming from someone he's close with, and even then, it's never prolonged. He'd never been in a relationship until you came along, so needless to say, romantic affection is not something he's used to.

Sweet! boyfriend Leo who is thoroughly jarred the first time you initiate contact, to say the least. It's...not unpleasant, at least he doesn't think it is, but it just came out of nowhere, and you grabbed his hand so casually, he doesn't even know how to begin reacting. How does he hold a hand? Should his grip be loose? Should it be tight? Should he inch closer to you? Why aren't his fingers slotting themselves between yours properly? Oh no, his palm's getting sweaty, surely you're getting grossed out by his touch-

Yeah, he doesn't know what he's doing.

Sweet! boyfriend Leo who is pleasantly surprised when you don't pull away from him. In fact, you actively seek out his touch on a regular basis, Coming back for more of...well, whatever it is you see in him. He's not sure why you're so eager to touch him, especially when he responds so awkwardly it almost seems like hesitation, but he's secretly grateful for your persistence nonetheless.

Sweet! Boyfriend Leo who is very hesitant to reciprocate your touch in any way, at least at first. He's not sure how he feels about the affection yet, he's just not used to it, and he's afraid he'll push some sort of boundary if he tries to seek your touch out first. It may come off as disinterest on his part, so you'll probably end up asking him about his nervousness and subsequently reminding him he's free to cuddle up to you whenever he wants, if he's comfortable with it. You tell him you're sorry if you've pushed him too far, but he adamantly reassures you, letting you know that he's just so new to the whole thing.

Sweet! boyfriend Leo who slowly gets used to your touch as your relationship progresses, letting you latch on to him as you please while he gradually learns to reciprocate. He starts off by initiating handholding, then sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, the hugging, then cuddling. It may take a couple weeks for him to get fully comfortable, and you can tell he's super nervous about the whole process, but you can see him gaining confidence little by little as he adjusts to the new constant of your touch.

Sweet! boyfriend Leo who's slowly but surely getting used to being touched, and you can tell that he's enjoying every second of it. Despite his nervousness, he seems to thrive off of your affections, snuggling up closer to you as soon as he gets comfortable with whatever position you two happen to be in. He especially seems to like cuddling, which you find a little funny considering his previous hesitations. You'd think the full body touch would freak him out the most, but he seems to love it, falling into a state of bliss whenever you two curl up next to each other almost immediately.

Sweet! boyfriend Leo who holds you firmly yet gently, afraid to hurt you in any way. He loves the comfort being so close to you gives him, he never realized how nice it was to be pressed up against another person until you came along. Your warmth, your voice, your hold, it's all just so amazing to him, he can't believe he had ever been scared of it! If he had his way, he'd never have to let you go, always trapped within the confines of your embrace.

Sweet! boyfriend Leo who's perfectly comfortable letting you latch onto him whenever you want, no matter what you're doing. Hug him when he least expects it, pull him onto the couch to cuddle, grab his hand while you're walking down the sidewalk, whatever you want, he'll go along with. He may tense up a little bit upon first contact, but that's more out of surprise than anything. Rest assured, he'll relax once his body realizes it's just you.

Sweet! boyfriend Leo who gets way better about initiating contact, learning and ingraining your preferences into his brain so he doesn't have to worry about upsetting you. he's long since figured out that you don't mind him coming up and showing you affection, so now he has no problem grabbing onto you when he wants. You still instigate most of the time, but it's a dynamic that works well for the two of you. Above all else, Leo makes sure you know he loves your affection, even if he doesn't always seek it out first.

Sweet! boyfriend Leo who loves nothing more than cuddling up to you before sleeping, or going cuddling up to you while resting on a couch. Something about physical affection makes Leo tired (probably the comfort aspect of it), so expect him to fall asleep reitively often. You just make him feel so safe, take it as a compliment!

Sweet! boyfriend Leo who's overall very happy with an affectionate s/o. It makes him feel loved, and he's quickly learning that physical affection is the perfect comfort tool for when he's tired or sad or bored or...really anything! You've officially sold the man on physical touch, and he wouldn't have it any other way, as long as it's you.

I hope you enjoyed!

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batcl4ws · 5 months ago

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Nerd x male/ftm reader drabble,, this is so dumb

⚠️CONTENT WARNING!! Pre-Marital hand-holding, World of warcraft is mentioned and reader is a little dense⚠️

🤓---------------------------------------------🤓

You decided to invite your crush over, sitting across from the nerd on your bed, he was rambling to you about some new video game he started playing, talking to you about all of the little details.

"Mmhm.." You nodded softly, barely retaining any thing he's said in the past hour, just nodding to his words. "Are you even listening to me, dude?" The nerd spoke out as he glanced at you.

"Oh, yeah. Totally, something about Mario.." You answered quickly until he chuckled softly, that sweet noise ringing in your ears. "I was talking about world of warcraft, doofus.."

"Ah, that's practically the same thing!.."

"It is not practically the same thing"

"It so is! They're both video games!"

"Then they only have one thing in common!"

The two of you began to bicker, as you two often do. "Y'know, I wasn't really expecting to talk to you about world of warcraft when you invited me over.."

"What were you expecting?.." You questioned as he leaned against your bedroom wall. "You really are dense, dude."

"I dunno we're two guys.. Alone.." He pointed out as you sat down beside him, crossing your arms slightly.

"That's pretty gay.."

"You're literally gay."

"My point stands."

"Oh my god you're an idiot."

The nerd grumbled as he leaned in to kiss you gently, taking your hand in his until he pulled away from the kiss.

"Oh. Wow.."

🤓---------------------------------------------🤓

#gay #ftm reader #male reader #drabble #nerd x reader #nerd x ftm reader #nerd x male reader #writing #nerd

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valentine-cafe · 6 months ago

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m!reader who is MUCH larger than 781 rishen… he soon realizes he has a kink for size difference and he decides to fuck him in front of their mirror, taunting him, “look at that, baby… my cock reaches all the way up here…” pressing his hand on rishen’s abdomen as he fucks him with slow and teasing thrusts.

making rishen get needy, until he starts playing with his silk slits and nipples to make him cum from that instead of his cock. 😩

˖⁺. ﹙ bottom nerd x top male reader. ﹚ .𖹭 ݁

. . . too big? yeah? thas' it good boy !! 🍒 : hero ˖ moth-spider-mantis hybrid ˖ preppy nerd character﹙ verse 781 rishen. ﹚

you found new pleasure in yours and your boyfriend's size difference, making him whine when you large dick is fucking him too slow, cw: size difference, web slit play, nipple play, edging, tummy bulge

You’d have him spilling all over, pre cum flowing out of his flushed red tip. Agitated and in need for more friction, more stimulation. The noises of the bed creaking below as he gets pounded slowly and teasingly from behind just isn’t enough to get him to where he needs to be.

Oh all of those wonderful little whines he spews when you dig your palm down on his abdomen to intensify the feelings of the large tummy bulge you’re giving him.

“F-fuck— t-too big- Too big”

“P-a-papi- oh my god! ngh”

“Jus-Just fuck me already!”

Your hips slam into his firmly at the last sentence. Fingers feasting away at the flesh below them as they dig in.

“Don’t be a fucking brat.” You groan quietly into his ear and continue the same. Agonizingly slow pace he previously moaned and whined so much about.

It isn’t hard to tell a huff left him, the feel of his back jutting against your chest forced a smirk to appear on your features. Fine, since he wants to play this way, why don’t you do it your way too?

Slowly, the fingers of your right hand begin tracing around one of the particularily swollen silk slits around his inner thigh, rubbing away at it fast, to contrast the pace of your slow thrusts. While your left hand slithered up your boyfriend’s body to tug hard on his nipple piercing.

Yelping, Rishen begins bucking his thighs with the intense feel of your fingers rubbing at a few of his slits. You pull whine after whine out of him when you twist and tug at his nipple, and then. . .

Your right hand moves to grip around his shaft, rubbing just below his tip, where there is a hidden silk slit throbbing and sensitive. Awaiting you.

His vision goes white, while ropes of cum shoot out of him. He hadn’t anticipated how hard he came himself, eyes hapazardly open as he fucked his hips into your hand blissfully as you begin pounding him from behind. Pressing your hands against the tummy bulge to see some more of his reactions.

#﹙ cupcake rush. ﹚: rishen 781 𖹭 ݁#monster boyfriend #teratophillia #male reader #monster fucker #terato #monster x reader #hero x reader #hybrid x reader #nerd x reader #oc x reader #x reader #x male reader #reader insert #rishen 781 #asterism

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starchaser4l · 17 hours ago

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thinking abt nerd!clark kent getting paired up with popular!reader for a school project, only for it to end up as anatomy class *sighs dreamily*

#superman #superman x reader #popular reader #cheerleader reader #cheerleader #nerd clark kent #nerd x reader #thoughts #he’s too fine #for my girl #💘

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satorena · 6 months ago

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taking nerdjo’s glasses while you’re riding 🥸

cw. 18+. semi public sex. sub undertones. breeding kink.

“—ohhhh fuckkkkk,”

he doesn’t understand it— any of it. he doesn’t understand how he, of all people, managed to get you. the it girl on campus— with pretty hairstyles and cutesy nails, flocks of both girls and boys crawling after you for the slightest bit of your attention, is somehow interested in the least known guy around— the lanky, socially awkward physics teacher assistant with fading digimon stickers glued to the back of his worn down computer.

gojo assumes he’s experiencing one hell of a good dream. that’s the only way to explain the insatiable feeling of wet heat enveloping his aching dick. it’s the only way to explain the pornographic sounds of skin slapping echoing in this empty library. it’s the only way to explain why his balls are begging for release with each grind of needy hips rocking against his own.

he doesn’t want to wake up. he feels the cheap fabric of carpet beneath his fingernails from digging them into the floor. his knuckles are turning white from how hard he’s clenching. there’s an abnormal tightening of a knot in his guts begging to be snapped. he can feel beads of sweat forming at his hairline and his foggy glasses are slipping past his nose bridge uncomfortably—

but he doesn’t want to wake up.

planted on the heels of whatever latest trendy shoes you own, you’re riding his cock as if he were your lifeline. god you feel divine— your folds swallowing him into your cunt with such ease and precision, walls clenching down the moment he’s balls deep. he can feel your acrylics scratching at his undercut with one hand while the other holds your body steady down his thigh.

gojo doesn’t think he’s breathing, and frankly, isn’t sure if he wants to. you’re reckless— moaning freely in the emptiness of the establishment and right into the shell of his ear as if your birthright, careless of the thuds of heavy textbooks hitting the floor. there’s a crease in your brows and your jaw hangs slack, glossy lips parted as they release the hymns of your cries,

“—so deep, can feel you in my stomach!”

your tits bounce in clockwise motions. you’d freed yourself from your top sometime between the flirting behind bookshelves and his pikachu drawls dropping down to the floor. the sound of your pussy squelching with every bounce is a memory he wouldn’t forget even on his death bed— cunt so wet he can hardly feel his own dick in you.

the pad of your thumb grazes his bottom lip, and you lean forward to catch it between yours. he’s frozen stiff— the slip of your tongue in his mouth, your overwhelming sweetness invading his senses. he’s moaning pathetically, growing some security in the muffled sounds, so overstimulated by this insatiable pleasure that his arms start to feel weak.

your tongue swipes at his lips before nibbling on the flesh, “—taste so good,” he feels your lips mouthing against his own, and wishes he was able to focus for a split second on what you told him, but the ache in balls are a telltale that this euphoric dream is drawing to an end.

he squints his eyes shut. he tries to focus on the latest chapter of his latest obsession manga and theories he’s conspired. he recalls the sneak of his wrinkly old professor’s ass crack from his early lecture. he thinks back on this auction he’s seen online for retro limited edition video games. did he ever end up submitting that biochem lab assignment due—

“gojo.”

he snaps his eyes open. he didn’t realize he’d clenched his entire facial muscles until the moment he was able to see you again— only releasing those muscles feeling tightness in his cheeks (amongst other places)(read: his cock).

you’ve slowed down your pace. you’ve switched your movements from bounces to grinding. he can feel his tip prodding at your gummy walls. your breath fans his cupid’s bow and he’s only now noticing how close in proximity you both are. he can feel your heartbeat against his chest, and he’s positive you can feel his stomach clenching against your own.

he begins to feel more of your body weight on his, a feeling he definitely wants to get accustomed to, as you shift from your feet to your knees. your hand on his thigh trails upwards past his trail of hair, sliding up past the ridges of his abs, over the planes of his chest and meet at his nape with its other duo. there’s an aroma of vanilla and cherries exuding off you—

heisenburg’s uncertainty principle. star wars mandalorian culture. the roswell ufo incident. fucking neon genesis evangelion’s a cruel angel’s thesis—

“you don’t like me?” you ask him, all doey eyed like. it doesn’t sound like a legitimate question, but his ‘huh’ does draw more into a whine when you intentionally clamp down on his dick. he doesn’t miss the mischievous glint in your eyes.

gojo bites down on his lower lip, fiddling with a loose thread on the carpet. his body releases a shudder at the chills creeping up his spine when you trace a finger down the slope of his neck, “w-what?” he asks weakly, huffing as his toes curl in his socks.

this time, you cock your head just barely to the side, and he watches your gaze trail from his lips to his eyes and back to his lips. despite the agonizingly slow pace, you never stop riding him. his cock is still graced by your warmth, still snatching his soul through his slit. your lashes bat twice before glancing back up at his eyes.

“you don’t like me.” you’re not asking this time, your tone dripping in seduction and like a fool, finds himself swayed. you’re teasing him— he can see it in the way the corner of your lips quirk into your infamous smile. you’ve got him wrapped all around your pretty finger— he knows it and you definitely know it.

as if he was anybody to not like you. your ass cheeks clench when you drive your body forward, gripping on his cock so tight he can feel the wind knocked out his lungs, “no! are you, ngh, crazy— of course i do—”

“because i like you.” it falls short of a whisper, but the vibrations of your words against his lips shoot right to his heart and balls, and he knows his blotchy cheeks are now flushed red for an entirely different reason.

he answers faster than his mind can process, his stomach jumping with butterflies and an oncoming orgasm. your eyes won’t leave his— like a deceiving siren baring deep into his soul and rendering him vulnerable before consuming his entire being. not too far from his reality, hips bucking upwards as desperately as possible to emphasize his immediate answer, “i like you too—”

“you won’t look at me,” gojo hadn’t realized he shied away from your gaze, pouring his entire focus on not spilling both his heart and cum right into you, “talk to me.”

“i-it’s just, um,” he tries to flick his eyes back onto yours, but you’re still staring so intensely behind siren eyes and still rocking your hips. your fluids drip past your cunt and down his sack, before staining the carpet, “i’m a—mmph, nobody and you’re— well, you’re you,” he feels a hot tongue glide over the accumulated sweat on his neck and humps up again, “y’re just so pretty and every time i look at you i get the urge to c-cum but,” your teeth sink into his jugular before nibbling and he whines, throwing his head back, “i want— need you to cum first. . .”

there’s a beat of silence for a while. you’ve even halted your grinding altogether. he prays to god he didn’t mess up the one good thing that’s happened to him in all his twenty one years of living. you’ve even popped his now bruised skin from your lips— hovering right over the mark you left on him. pleasure licks at his limbs feverishly, back arching in hopes to dig even deeper (if possible) in your pussy.

you pull away from his neck and the tip of your nose is back to grazing his own. your usually styled hair is now a mess, your skin dampening from moisture and your lip gloss now swapped for your and his saliva— your overall classic, picture perfect image completely abandoned,

and he doesn’t think you’ve looked any prettier.

“so,” you draw out, freeing a hand from his locks to graze over the throbbing love bite at his neck. gojo sniffs, pushing his foggy glasses back up on his bridge with the back of his hand, and you caress the throbbing flesh, “the problem is when you look huh. . .?”

his neck is suddenly released from blissful torture and he feels his frames coming off his face from no effort of his own. his vision slowly fades and his pupils dilate to accommodate to his now poor quality of sight, “what are you—”

and his breath hitches. he can only make out your shape through your sinful curves but there’s no mistake from your silhouette— your hands, now holding his glasses hostage, press at his chest, “trust me,” you apply firm pressure from your palms to his upper body, and he feels himself sinking into the floor, back meeting the dirty carpet.

trust you? he’d lay his life on the line for a woman like you.

his fingers spread as his palms face the sky, and his breath staggered. the bookshelves, windows and study rooms are all blurry as fuck— which is both off putting and extremely risky since library hours were still valid at this time, but despite it all, it felt as if he could see you clear as day. gojo would usually never put his academics on the line, but he couldn’t deny the thrill of possibly getting caught having sex with the finest girl in school in a public library had his cock twitching incessantly.

god, he is just so happy to be here.

your fingers slide his glasses atop your nose bridge, and your cheeks split into a cheeky smile, hips beginning to roll back into their previous tempo. he feels your hands grabbing his own, before resting them at your hips. he’s a greedy man, and since the opportunity may only come once in his lifetime, he slides his hands further to your ass., and with a gulp, grabs the flesh greedily. damn— it hardly fits in his palms.

there’s a symphony of moans coming from you both when you lift your hips up, and it’s downright disgusting how turned on he gets at your essence trickling down his shaft and past his balls. your pussy lips drool and latch onto his tip tightly, before entirely releasing him and slipping your hand between your thighs. you kneed his nuts, fondling the testicles between your digits expertly and his back arches off the floor, “shouldn’t be an issue anymore, yeah?” you hum.

“y-yeah— oh god, yes,” gojo nods dumbly, toes curling in his socks as you proceed to stroke his cock. his tip is weeping in pre cum blended with your own wetness, and the faster you flick your wrist, the tighter his stomach contracts. he’s lasted quite some time now, considering this being his first time and all, but there’s only so much a man can hold back. his fingernails dig crescent moon shapes into the mounds of your ass as his hips chase after your touch with every stroke. “w-wait, fuck, i’m gonna cum—”

“yeah?” you encourage him, hunching just over his weeping dick, still holding him at his base. you drag his tip in between your lips, back and forth, while your other hand feels him up at his abs. “where do you wanna finish? on my face?” he whines, mindlessly humping and your smirk deepens as you slowly sink down, “on my tits?” gojo shakes his head, and feels drool coming from the corner of his lips. his limbs are on fire and his groin feels like it’s on the verge of explosion, “on my ass?” you’re about halfway down, “or. . . inside?”

“please,” he doesn’t care if he’s begging. snowy lashes bat open as his teary unfocused eyes adjust to the dimmed lights. even your silhouette is sexy, “please lemme cum inside, i-i’ll do anything.”

“hmm, anything?” you purr, knees finally hitting the floor as you straddle him once more. he lets out a guttural groan at the familiar feel of your silky walls entrapping his cock. his mind is fucking hazy and despite never having consuming alcohol, he feels drunk.

“yes,” he pleads, rolling his hips impossibly deeper into you, euphoric pleasure shooting in his bloodstream, “a-anything you want, i swear,” at the sudden intrusion, you let out a loud gasp when his tip bumps into your cervix and drop your body forward, arms giving out.

chest to chest, skin to skin, your lips hover over his as your back dips into an arch, forcing a penetration deeper in your guts. your palms are pressed flat onto the floor at the side of his head, and he can make out his glasses sitting lazily on the ball of your nose. he slides his hands up your sides, kneading at every inch of your flesh, before sliding back down to your ass.

“even my homework? assignments?” you tease breathily, a strangled moan ripping out your throat when his knees push up and fucks into you. your body jerks forward as his feet plant to the floor, hands still gripping on your ass.

when he snaps his hips up, you roll yours down, and the matching intensity sends his brain haywire. he’s desperate for release, forcing your hips down as he nudges his cock languidly into your cunt. his jaw falls slack and he nods again, dumbly, “ngh, for the rest of the s-school year,”

“that easy with you?” you giggle, but is easily interrupted when he leans forward to catch your lips in a messy kiss. there’s a shit ton of saliva involved, some even escapes past your mouths and down your jaws, but he couldn’t care any less—you tasted heavenly. he wishes he had the time to eat your pussy, he’s positive you taste holier down there.

“it’s your world.” gojo moans, snaking his hands from your ass to wrap around your upper body. now caught in his embrace, you let your head fall limply into the crook of his neck as he works his dick in and out of you. he means what he said— it is your world, and he’s nothing more than a happy servant. “i’ll do it all— bring your books to class, rub your feet— i’ll bark if you need me to— just, please, please, please let me cum inside.”

your moans vibrating from his neck run straight to his ears and fuels him further. he’s thrusting relentlessly— there’s no set pace at all, and he’s so close to finishing he’s completely forgotten about wanting you to cum first. he finally understands why everybody obsesses over sex— he never wants to let you go.

your head pushes up from his neck, nosing at his jaw. he feels your hands cradling his hair, and your lips pressing kisses at the corner of his mouth. his heart skips a beat— he revels in the attention you’re giving him, even if it’s just for the moment. he knows he won’t ever be this lucky again, so he might as well enjoy the ride while he’s here.

“you wanna breed my pussy?” you bite your lip, each stroke in your cunt jerking the glasses down the slope of your nose. despite the dense flog clouding the lens, he can feel your eyes on him. he nods desperately, tightening his hold on you, and the new angle has your clit dragging against his pelvis, “mmph— okay, yeah — put a baby in me, freak.”

and so he does. he thrusts as spurts of cum shoots inside your womb. his balls tighten as his hips rut, arms clutching onto your body with every fibre in him. you smell good, feel good, look good— and your cunt milks him dry for whatever he’s worth.

his orgasm feels short of an eternity yet simultaneously a second, his soul having transcended into an outwardly dimension. and it’s only when you scoot your ass upwards, sliding a hand between both warm bodies, that you collect his cum on the pad of your fingers. he blinks hazily, zeroing his focus when he sees you pop your fingers into your mouth.

“mhm,” you hum at the taste. he’s panting heavily, body riding a euphoric high he’s yet to come down from. you don’t seem to mind, leaning forward to catch his lips once again. and he lets you, moaning at the taste of himself on your tongue. when you pull away, there’s a thin string of cum induced saliva pulling at your lips. “‘s my world, right? want my pussy in your mouth.”

and he instantly hardens.

#rena☆star.#gojo thirst #gojo satoru smut #gojo smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru thirst #gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #nerd gojo #nerdjo

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