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・❥ ATTENTION WHORE
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|• 0:10
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ rundown :: gamer!xavier only agreed to let you cuddle him on his lap while he played, clearly not noticing how needy you really were. you hadn't gotten attention from him since two hours ago and you were going insane. so, as punishment, you decided to tease him.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ WARNINGS :: NSFW! 18+ , sub!xavier , dom!reader , orgasm denial , oral sex (m receiving) .
a/n :: yayyyy new character unlocked!!!!! ive been so hungry for xavier he's just too pretty😫😫
it started with kisses.
simple, innocent ones to his neck. ones that barely even classified as a kiss, mainly just your lips ghosting over the smooth skin where his neck met his shoulder. then you got bolder.
leaving behind marks in your adventure downwards, sucking and nipping at his skin; enough to have him gasp and shoot you a dirty look. before you both knew it, you had lifted up his shirt and got on your knees to leave marks on his abdomen.
in return, he hissed and took one hand off the controller to grasp at your wrist; opening his mouth to say something. before he could get something out, his teammates began yelling at him through his headphones that he was about to die. he quickly averted his attention from you back to his screen after shooting a pouty face your way.
you continued your journey south until you reached the waistband to his sweatpants. snaking your arms up his legs to the fabric, you gently tugged on it until you saw his boxers. kissing there, you pulled that down with your teeth.
during all of this, xavier occasionally whimpered and bit his bottom lip; allowing it to happen. he's always been that kind of freak, not caring where or when you take him. always been your toy.
he let himself get hard, let himself feel the way your lips leave open-mouthed kisses to his leaking tip. let himself buck into the opening you've created, breathy moans escaping through his clenched teeth.
but while he was slowly losing his composure, you sat there, completely relaxed. you'd done this a million times, after all, you know exactly what to do to have him not caring whether or not the people on the other end of his headset could hear him begging.
it's disgusting and pathetic and filthy but the thought of being caught at that moment just has him lifting his hips for more. the corners of your mouth tilt up at his desperation, one hand coming up his leg to grope at his length.
you stand up just the slightest, enough for your lips to reach his ear. your other hand slithers up his body until you find one side of his headphones, gently taking that off an ear partially just to whisper in it.
"if you want to cum, you have to stay quiet. don't let anyone else figure out what a slut you're being for me, okay? think you can do that for me, baby?" you murmur directly into his ear, leaning back to look at his face. he's a mess, that's for sure, but he does immediately nod his head vigorously at your words. you grin and lick your lips at his response. "good boy."
he looks at you through his lashes and pinches his eyebrows together, the need for you to make him feel good evident.
you go back on your knees and give his member a tight squeeze, earning a tighter grip on his controller, before leaning forward to lick at his tip. they're small, wet kitten-licks but still give him enough pleasure for a compressed whimper to slip out of his throat. you don't say anything... not yet.
you look up at his eyes to make sure he's paying attention to his game before abruptly taking all of him.
he's big and sensitive and embarrassingly hard. so big, in fact, that when it hits the back of your throat you gag; making your throat constrict against him. he's already on a strike (the filthy little groan he let out when you took him fully), but this? the desperate moan that came out and how his hand teleported to your hair? not on your watch.
you lift off his cock, slapping it and smiling at the movement of his hips and yelp coming out of his lips. getting up, you take his chin in your hand and mute the mic on his headset.
"we agreed on no noises, xavier." you point out, noting the tears already building up in his eyes.
"i-.. i know and i'm sorr-"
"no." you reply instantly, not taking the chance to hear him out. "you haven't paid any mind to me all day and you think you can cum even after not listening to me?"
he opens his mouth to say something, but reaches his hands up to take off his headphones. "i'm sorry baby, i'll pay attention to you right now. please-"
his gaze snaps to yours at the sound of your laugh.
"you'll pay attention to me now?" you say mockingly. "i don't think so. finish your game and meet me on our bed whenever you're done. you're in for a long night."
#love and deepspace#lads#xavier love and deepspace#lads xavier#xavier x reader#xavier x mc#xavier smut#lads smut#lads boys#mc lnds#lnds smut#lnds x reader#lnds xavier#xavier x you
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"spell your name on it."
you're immediately snapped out of your daze at the sound of his voice.
"w-..what?" you pant, unsure if you've heard him right or if you're too fucked out to hear correctly.
"you heard me, pips. spell your name on my cock."
he's still so nonchalant about it regardless of the tone of his voice and the words coming out of his mouth. you're riding him and he's simply laying there with his hands folded behind his head, allowing you to do all the work. it's a beautiful sight, really... if only you weren't so cock drunk to get a proper view.
"i-... um.." you stutter under your breath, unsure of what to do next. your hands are still on his chest for support while your head is tilted down to stare him in the eyes. your rhythm on his dick has faltered as you've suddenly gotten incredibly shy, something that rarely happens in the bedroom. "i'm confused."
at that, he raises a brow and lets out a small snicker.
"confused? here, let me help you-"
is the last warning you get before he's bringing his hands to your waist and manhandling you to spell the letters of your name.
it's an amazing feeling, having his cock drag against your g-spot over and over again as you sit there helpless. you've slithered your hands to grip onto his forearms, scratching at them. all you get in return is a hiss, making you look up at him and notice that his tongue is stuck out. he really is focused, i guess.
once he's finished, he leans back and grins the happiest grin there ever was.
"there. now my cock is ruined for anyone else. continue, please."
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i love loser men
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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how do you change the name of your links?
hihi anon!!
all you need to do is type a word and highlight it. it should show an icon that looks like two ovals interlinked, press that and paste your link! :)
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me all the time
i hate men on a whole new level today ngl
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jesus fuck this fanart & fic is so fuckable
You didn’t mean to hit him. You really didn’t.
You were just trying to push him back playfully, hands on his chest as he teased you relentlessly, grinning like a devil. But he leaned forward at the exact wrong moment, and your palm connected—not with his shoulder, but squarely with his face.
There was a sickening little “thump.”
Then silence.
“Oh my god—Xavier!” you gasped, rushing to him as he stumbled back, hand instinctively flying to his nose. “I didn’t mean—Are you okay? I’m so sorry—Xavier, shit, you’re bleeding—”
Panic flared in your chest as you reached for him, trying to tip his head back, your hands fluttering uselessly. “I didn’t think—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I swear I wasn’t trying to—”
But then he looked up at you.
And smiled.
That lopsided, heat-slicked grin that melted your words right off your tongue. His nose was bleeding, face flushed, but his eyes—half-lidded, dazed, hungry—locked on yours like you were the most intoxicating thing he’d ever seen.
“Oh...wow..” he murmured, almost in awe. “that was…”
He licked a drop of blood from his upper lip, and his smile deepened, that dazed, turned-on look spreading across his face. “That was really hot...”
Your jaw dropped, he can not be for real right now...right??Maybe you accidently gave him concussion too, he is probably deluded from pain an—
He tilted his head slightly, his hair sticking to his damp forehead, and that pleased, breathless grin widened. “You get so worked up when you’re worried,” he murmured, leaning forward, and you couldn’t tell if the tremble in your hands was from guilt or the way he was suddenly looking at you like that.
“…You gonna kiss it better?”
Saw this piece of a masterpiece by juyo (in tumblr @stardustdusting) and had to get out of bed at 5 am to write about this. (JUST LOOK AT HIM GAWWD)
@uzmacchiato dividers!

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hes such a liar it turns me on
Just the tip, please?
Boyfriend!Gojo who can't handle phone sex

CW: Explicit sexual content, begging kink, consent play, dry humping, praise, light manipulation, creampie, overstimulation, and possessive language. 18+ only.

“Do you know how hard I was?"
His breath hit your cheek. "I was leaking through my fucking pants just staring at my screen.”
You swallowed thickly, cheeks burning.
“Just give me a little time,” Gojo whispered. “Ten minutes. Five. Just to taste you, to touch you—fuck, even if I can’t fuck you, I’ll be good, I swear. I’ll eat you until you cry my name. Just let me make it up to you, yeah?”
His hand slid between your thighs but stopped at the waistband of your shorts, waiting.
Gojo's fingers stayed where they were — right at the edge of your soaked folds, not quite touching, but close enough to make your breath hitch. His eyes locked on yours, gleaming with a maddening mix of mischief and desperation.
“Just let me eat you,” he whispered, voice rough with need.
“Please. I’ll be good. Won’t even touch you with my cock. Just wanna taste—just wanna feel how wet you are for me.”
You swallowed, your knees wobbling from how close he was, how intoxicating his presence always managed to be. His fingers finally slid up, brushing your slit, and your breath caught.
“God, you're dripping,” he groaned, dipping his head to your neck, voice muffled against your skin.
“Thought about this all night. Couldn't sleep. Just laid there, rock hard, imagining what your face would look like if I was buried inside you.”
His hand stroked you slowly, gently.
"I just... I just wanna be close. Let me clean you up with my mouth. Let me make you cum once, just once, baby. I’ll stay down on my knees the whole time, won’t ask for anything else.”
But even as he said it, he was inching closer, lips at your collarbone, hips pressing into yours. His cock strained hard against his sweats.
It wasn’t just want—it was hunger. Starvation.
And then—“Or—or maybe... maybe you could just let me rub a little?” His voice turned breathy, boyish.
“Just—just hump against you, yeah? No going in. Promise. Just wanna feel you under me. Wanna feel that messy little heat.”
He pushed you gently against the cool wall, breath hot against your cheek. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me move like this,” he murmured, already rocking his hips forward, letting you feel the thickness of him through fabric.
He slid the waistband of his sweats down just enough, groaning as he took himself in hand and rubbed through your folds.
“Feels so good like this,” he breathed, eyes fluttering closed.
“Fuck, I’ve missed this. Missed how your thighs feel wrapped around me—how your little noises get all choked up when you're close.”
You gasped when his tip bumped too hard against your entrance.
He froze.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “Slipped. Not going in—swear.”
But then his voice dropped a few octaves, softer, sweeter. More dangerous.
“Can I—just the tip?” He kissed you then, open-mouthed and needy.
“Just the tip, baby. I won't even move. Just wanna feel that first squeeze around me. You can clench down and kick me off right after, if it’s too much. Just give me a second inside.”
You should’ve known better. But the heat of him, the pleading look in those usually smug blue eyes, and the way your body craved any friction—any touch—had you nodding.
That was all it took.
“God, thank you,” he whispered.
And then he was pushing in—just the head, just a little—and he moaned low, forehead resting against yours like he might fall apart just from that.
“So warm, so sloppy,” he whispered.
“So soft. You’re killing me.”
He didn’t move.
At first.
Then his hips flexed, just a twitch.
Then another.
And before you could stop him—
“Sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking into something dark and shaky.
“I lied. I have to move. You feel too good, baby. Fuck—just let me, just a little more.”
He was full-on grinding now, deep slow strokes that dragged deliciously, the kind that left you trembling in his arms.
“M' losing my mind over you. Every single time.” He murmured.
And he kissed you again like he meant it. Like he was trying to pour all his longing into your mouth.
Gojo rocked into you with slow, torturous rhythm — too controlled, too deep. His breath was ragged in your ear, and his hands trembled as they held your thighs open around his hips.
“You hear that?” he whispered, voice cracking. “That slick sound every time I sink in? That’s how badly your body wants me. You’re squeezing me so tight, fuck—like your pussy doesn’t wanna let me go.”
Your head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, moans slipping out between gasps. Every drag of his cock inside you was perfect—slow, almost reverent, but filthy in its intent.
Gojo wasn’t just fucking you—he was worshiping you with every thrust.
“You were made for this,” he murmured.
“For me. You always take me so well, like you’re trying to suck me in deeper. I could stay like this forever. Just slow. Just warm. Just you around me.”
You whimpered, nails digging into his back, and that only made him go softer, slower—so drawn-out it was maddening.
“I missed these little sounds,” he said, kissing your jaw sloppily. “God, you're so pretty when you moan. Gonna make you cum so slow you forget your name.”
Your legs shook. His cock hit that sweet spot over and over, each motion measured and aching.
Gojo was lost in you—slowly grinding, whispering praises like a man possessed.
“I’m gonna cum,” he breathed, kissing your shoulder feverishly.
“Gonna fill you up just a little, yeah? Just enough to keep me in your head all day.”
You could barely speak, barely breathe. Your body trembled around him as he gave one last deep, dragging thrust and then stilled—spilling inside you with a choked moan right against your throat.
He stayed buried inside you for a long while, unmoving except for the soft rise and fall of his chest against you. You could feel his cock still twitching occasionally, deep inside your aching pussy, while your body remained limp, slumped forward onto him.
Gojo didn’t speak at first, just slowly pressed kisses down your neck, his breath cooling the trail of sweat between your shoulders.
"Think you can take one more, baby?"
"Just the tip... i promise."

taglist: @sukunasbigtiddiewifey @savagecatsuga @sparkling-obsidian @ssstingrayyyyyyyy
Thank you for reading this ! Hope y'all like it. If you wanna get tagged while i post JJK content, comment below!
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"spell your name on it."
you're immediately snapped out of your daze at the sound of his voice.
"w-..what?" you pant, unsure if you've heard him right or if you're too fucked out to hear correctly.
"you heard me, pips. spell your name on my cock."
he's still so nonchalant about it regardless of the tone of his voice and the words coming out of his mouth. you're riding him and he's simply laying there with his hands folded behind his head, allowing you to do all the work. it's a beautiful sight, really... if only you weren't so cock drunk to get a proper view.
"i-... um.." you stutter under your breath, unsure of what to do next. your hands are still on his chest for support while your head is tilted down to stare him in the eyes. your rhythm on his dick has faltered as you've suddenly gotten incredibly shy, something that rarely happens in the bedroom. "i'm confused."
at that, he raises a brow and lets out a small snicker.
"confused? here, let me help you-"
is the last warning you get before he's bringing his hands to your waist and manhandling you to spell the letters of your name.
it's an amazing feeling, having his cock drag against your g-spot over and over again as you sit there helpless. you've slithered your hands to grip onto his forearms, scratching at them. all you get in return is a hiss, making you look up at him and notice that his tongue is stuck out. he really is focused, i guess.
once he's finished, he leans back and grins the happiest grin there ever was.
"there. now my cock is ruined for anyone else. continue, please."
#love and deepspace#love and deepspace caleb#lads caleb#lads#lnds caleb#lads boys#caleb x reader#lads caleb x reader#caleb lads smut
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PAIRINGS. . . zayne x fem!reader
CW. . . smut, sub!zayne, soft dom!reader, orgasm denial / edging, light bondage ( cuffs ), oral sex m! receiving, overstimulation, reader being a little mean and fucking zayne silly ( ◡̀_◡́)ᕤ

zayne was trembling under you, muscles locked tight, arms flexing where they were cuffed up to the headboard, a dark flush spreading from his chest up his throat.
you had him spread wide and helpless, every inch of his body a live wire under your hands, under your mouth—slow, cruel, deliberate. you kissed down his stomach, lazy and unhurried, barely brushing him with your lips, feeling the way he tensed and twitched with every ghost of your touch.
he was trying—really trying—to keep his composure.
breathing through his nose, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt, trying to calculate, strategize, survive.
but he was failing, spectacularly.
your hand wrapped around his cock again, slow and so light it was barely contact at all, just a teasing brush from root to tip. he hissed through his teeth, hips bucking up instinctively—but you simply tightened your grip at the base, squeezing hard enough as a warning.
"no," you whispered, voice like velvet and smoke, just to hear the way he groaned in frustration.
you stroked him—firmer now, sliding your fist up to the swollen head, smearing the mess leaking from his tip down the length of him, slow enough to make him twitch under you. his thighs were rigid, his stomach clenching every time you pumped, but you didn’t let him have it.
every time he got close—every time you felt that desperate, helpless tightening—you would stop. grip him at the base, deny him everything he needed, watch him shudder with it.
he was dripping now, needy and ruined, panting into the cool air. his eyes fluttered shut, jaw slack, the calculated genius side of him long gone—broken down to something raw and desperate just by the soft, steady cruelty of your touch.
you shifted lower, mouth hovering just above the flushed head of his cock. you breathed over it, watching him strain toward you involuntarily, chasing the heat without realizing he was doing it.
you licked a slow, wet stripe up the underside, and he choked on a gasp, whole body jerking up.
your tongue circled the tip, slow and obscene, catching the bead of precum and tasting the bitter-sweet salt of him.
you wrapped your lips around him, sucking light and slow and shallow.
he sobbed, broken and hoarse, hips trying to fuck up into your mouth—trying—but you pulled back with a cruel pop of your lips, squeezing him again at the base until the orgasm receded, leaving him gutted and shaking.
zayne's hands fisted in the sheets now, sheets that were soaked beneath him from the mess leaking down his length, from your spit, from his own helplessness.
you let him edge there—hovering on the razor's edge of pleasure, dizzy and white-hot—again and again and again, until he was gasping your name like a prayer, forehead damp with sweat, muscles twitching under your hands.
only then did you sink your mouth down fully, swallowing him whole, slow and warm and devastating.
he came with a ragged cry, body convulsing under you, hands scrabbling for purchase, hips bucking helplessly into your mouth while you milked every last drop from him, savoring the taste, savoring the way he broke for you completely.
you stayed there for a moment, letting him twitch and shudder against your tongue, swallowing down everything he gave you. his body sagged back against the bed, chest heaving, head thrown back against the pillows.
you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand before reaching up and undoing the cuffs around his wrists.
zayne’s arms dropped limply to his sides, too exhausted to even lift them. his fingers twitched weakly when you kissed up his stomach, a helpless little aftershock running through him.
"you did so good," you murmured against his skin, voice dripping with sweet cruelty.
you straddled his hips, feeling how spent he was, soft and sensitive, his cock twitching weakly under you as you ground your soaked panties against him. zayne whined low in his throat, barely able to lift his hands to your waist, pliant and boneless and wrecked.
"poor thing," you pouted mockingly, rolling your hips slow and cruel over him. "too tired to help me out now?"
he opened his mouth—maybe to say something, maybe to plead—but all that came out was a broken little gasp when you dragged your soaked core over him again, rubbing yourself off against the slick mess he was already drenched in.
you smiled, slow and wicked, rocking your hips lazily, using his ruined body for your own pleasure without a shred of mercy. his hands fisted weakly at your thighs, trying to ground himself, trying not to lose it again.
"you don't have to do anything," you whispered, voice sickly sweet as you rutted against him, chasing your own high against his overstimulated body. "just lay there and be pretty for me."
zayne moaned—high and helpless—and it made you clench around nothing, made you grind down even harder, chasing the friction, chasing the filthy satisfaction of getting off on him when he couldn’t do a thing to stop you.
you came with a soft, shuddering moan, grinding down against him until your thighs trembled, until your slick made a new mess between you both.
zayne's hands slid up weakly, petting your waist, your ribs—still trying to give even when he was completely fucked out.
you leaned down, kissed his sweat-damp hair, and fused your body with his until the only sound in the room was your soft breaths and his light snores.
masterlist ⋆˚꩜ send me a kofi !
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MY LEGS ARE SPREAD FOR YOU GOJO
satoru is your ex for a reason.
one that you can't seem to remember as he rolls his hips against yours harder and harder, like hes purposefully trying to lapse your memory, fuck you so stupid you wonder why you broke up with him in the first place.
he was only supposed to come over to grab some of his things he had left at yours. his toothbrush and a few pairs of clothes were tossed into a box and then discarded in favour of winning you back.
is it working? maybe. the eyes he gave you were so wide and wistful and needy that you couldn’t help but let him carry you to the bedroom and eat you out for an hour before letting him fuck you
“you’ll take me back, won’t you baby?” he asks, fucking you deep into the plush mattress that finally doesn’t dip where he used to sleep at night. “your pretty pussy misses me so much, she’s squeezing me so tight…”
“gojo—”
he thrusts hard, kinda mean. “toru, baby. you call me toru, remember? say it right.”
“toru, you’re so fucking—“
“in love with you. i miss you so much; please take me back, baby! gonna make you cum so hard you forget we ever stopped dating to begin with, hm? actually— we should just skip the whole make-up thing and get married.”
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it's fucking everywhere
──── 𝑮𝑼𝑵𝑷𝑶𝑰𝑵𝑻
╰ 𝒁𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆, 𝑺𝒚𝒍𝒖𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒃 LOVE AND DEEPSPACE
note: inspired by @starmocha
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Announcement!!
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・❥ SYLUS P LINKS!
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|• 0:10
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ rundown :: some twt links for my mafia daddy sylus!!!
a/n: in order for these to work , you have to have twitter downloaded and an account that you're logged in on. enjoy<3



- he's just so cruel :(
- fingering in the tub is his idea of aftercare
- he spent money on that vibrator.. he expects you to use it
- what happens after he begs you to sit on his face
- you didnt tell him you wouldnt stop?!?
- eepy morning sex :P
- subby!sylus who?!
- princess kinkkkkkk
- you're begging him to pay attention to you
- drunk on ur taste
- having you on his lap is his favorite thing ever
- 👅
- spankings with meanie!sylus
- you just like the feeling of him in your mouth
- he let you be on top
- he'll let u do whatever u want to him when he's needy
- his toys are way too small
#love and deepspace#love and deepspace sylus#sylus x reader#lads sylus#sylus x mc#lnds sylus#p links#lads boys#lads smut#lnds smut#mc lnds#lads x reader#sylus smut#sylus x you
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Hellooo I'm new here 🥹 I love your works, i've already read half of it 😫 also saw that you have emoji anons! Would like to be 🪷 anon with she/her pronouns if that's alright! <3 thank you! 💞
of course you can lovebug! adding you to the list💕💕
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HIII SWEETHEART <33 just checking in, hows your day going?? hows writing goinggg
-love 🍓 anon
HAII BABY! im so sorry it took me so long to get to this:(
i've been pretty good! writing is going better and back on track thankfully... been working on a few requests here and there. been sososo busy that i havent really gotten the chance to write all that much, but my schedule has cleared up & i have more free time ! more works coming soon c:
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this caleb.. 😜
https://x.com/sirsprettypup/status/1503768837849821190?t=aUqJnk4d62uLSMxscAwgwA&s=19
yeah so im spontaneously combusting! thank you for this!
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Hey girl, it's ⭐️anon, I'm sorry for such a late response but life has been busy to say the least😭 but my pronouns are she/her, and while I'm here, I was wondering if maybe I could ask for a sylus x stressed reader and maybe just how he would help reader through it
no worries at all angel! i totally understand and of course i can!! i hope life treats you better soon:((
sylus definitely babies you. immediately once he notices you're spending way too much time working and not relaxing, he's on his way over to you with a cute little basket full of your favorite foods and fluffy stuffed animals.
he'd march over to you, no matter how far, suggesting that you come with him to go into bed to cuddle and spend some money shopping. with open arms, he waves you over to his lap where his laptop lay open on your favorite online shopping website and allows you to get comfortable.
once you both are situated, legs tucked snug in between his with your back to his chest, you guys spend hours like that. spending hundreds of (sylus') dollars, watching movies, finishing shows, eating snacks, enjoying each others company. he has no problem stroking your hair gently and whispering sweet nothings into your ear every now and then, letting you ramble on about everything and anything you think about, occasionally letting out a 'mmhm' to tell you that he's still listening.
once you've decided that you don't want to sit down anymore, he urges you to allow him to take care of you in the bath. not in a sexual way, no, not unless you asked him explicitly. but instead, he's pleading for you to grant him the opportunity to wash your hair with that shampoo he loves so dearly. to give you a massage, scrub all the worries away.
after he successfully wins you over with his idea and takes the sweetest care of you in the bath, he brings you to the bed again where he and you fall asleep in each others arms for the rest of the night.
#.⊹˖ᯓ ⭐️ anon#⊹ ₊˚ ౨ৎ mel yaps#love and deepspace sylus#lads sylus#love and deepspace#sylus x reader
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