enamaly

[enamaly]

۫ ꣑ৎ . satoru being so damn talkative while hes pounding into you.

overstimulation. dirty talk. cocky gojo. power play. rough.

���nghh- oh fuck- looook at youu-” he groans as he thrusts harder, his hips snapping against your ass with a wet slap that echoes in the room.

his huge dick is stretching your tight cunt to its limits, the head brushing your cervix with every brutal push.

“takin’ this big cock so- mmph- so fuckin’ well, baby” he pants one hand gripping your hip, the other tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you moan.

his pace is soo intense fucking you like hes making up for every second hes spent away on missions, and his mouth? its running faster than his hips.

“satoru-” you gasp voice breaking as he hits that sweet spot, your pussy clenching around him, slick dripping down your thighs.

“too- ngh- too much-” you manage, but its drowned out by his laugh all bright and unhinged, like hes having the time of his life.

“too much? ohh- fuck yeah- you love it, dont ya?” he teases, voice slurring with pleasure as he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, lips brushing your ear.

“this greedy little pussy’s- nghh- suckin’ me in so tight, like it cant get enough of my dick.” each word is punctuated by a thrust that makes your vision blur, your moans loud and desperate.

hes not just fucking you—hes performing, every word a spark to your already burning nerves. “sa- toru- slow down-” you try, but hes too far gone, his thrusts picking up speed, the bed creaking like it’s about to snap.

“nmph- no way, baby- oh shit- look at that ass bounce-” he groans his hand smacking your cheek lightly enough to make you yelp.

his voice is pure chaos jumping from praise to taunts to straight-up babbling.

“fuck, you’re so- nghh- so goddamn pretty like this, all fucked out on my cock, arent ya? bet you- fuck- bet you’d let me do this all night.”

“cant- cant take it-” you whimper but your hips push back, betraying you, and he laughs again, all cocky and triumphant, like he’s just won the world’s dirtiest lottery.

“cant take it? bullshit oh fuck- you’re made for this, baby,” he growls his voice dropping low, as he pulls your hair, tilting your head back so he can see your face.

his eyes glint wild and unfiltered, and hes still talking, words tumbling out like a flood.

“nghh- look at those eyes- so fuckin’ needy, wantin’ more of my big dick, huh? say it- mmph- say you love it.”

“love it- fuck, satoru-” you choke out and his grin is blinding, his thrusts growing sloppy as he chases his release, his cock throbbing inside you.

“thats it- oh shit- scream it, baby, let the neighbors know-” he moans and you’re done for, your orgasm hitting like a freight train, a sharp, shuddering wave that has you crying his name, your pussy clamping down so hard he curses, loud and broken.

“fuck- fuck- gonna- nghh- gonna fill this tight cunt up-” he groans and he comes hard, spilling hot and deep inside you, his hips stuttering as he thrusts through it, his voice still going, softer now, all gasps and murmurs.

“So good- mmph- so fuckin’ good for me, baby.” he collapses onto you, sweaty and heavy, but he’s still talking, nuzzling your neck.

“tou talk too much,” you mutter and he smirks, all lazy and satisfied, his hands roaming your body like hes already planning round two.

“only ‘cause you love it,” he murmurs winking, and you roll your eyes, pulling him closer, knowing he will never shut up—and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

© written by kaizer | do not copy plagiarize or translate any.

[enamaly]

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.

[enamaly]

౨ৎ plug!gojo doesn't give a damn about drugs. not even a little. but he does give a damn about the prettiest girl in the world, so there he is, being financially irresponsible and buying up every stash he can get his hands on.

it all starts when he overhears you're looking for a new connection, his expert stalking skills finally paying off for something other than knowing your favorite brand of tampons.

apparently, your old dealer was getting greedy with those prices. for the most part, though, gojo just needs a pathetic excuse to get you in his orbit.

lovesick as fuck and utterly hopeless with money, gojo only deals to you. why would he sell to anyone else when he's blowing his cash for you in the first place?

you roll up to his messy dorm once a week, needing your fix. and every time, he insists you stay longer, for a smoke sesh. "just one blunt," he purrs, that predatory gleam in his baby blues. "it's on me, baby. 's good shit."

gojo's always been a man of his word — it really is always the good shit. besides, who are you to say no to free pot?

so, you sprawl on his tangled sheets, a flimsy blanket barely covering your bodies, pillows shoved haphazardly behind your backs. you watch him expertly roll the joint, and for a guy who supposedly doesn't partake, he sure handles it better than you ever could.

gojo flicks his lighter, the tip glowing orange as he torches the end, letting the first sweet scent of cannabis fill the air. he always lets you take the first hit. it is for you, after all.

your eyes glaze over, a low, satisfied moan escaping your lips. oh, and another thing?

these smoking sessions have a nasty habit of devolving into raw, sweaty fucking. if blowing his entire paycheck to get you high is the price of admission to that sweet, tight pussy, then so be it. gojo is a willing fool.

gojo's never had sex with you sober, but even high, it feels amazing, like he's in heaven. his hips roll languidly against yours, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix, with every thrust.

your eyes, red from the high, squeeze shut, back arching. no matter how many times he has forced his length into your snug cunt, you're still suffocating him, clenching by all means.

he presses a sloppy kiss to your calf, legs thrown over his shoulders. you're bent in a cruel mating press, but it's not as if you have the energy to protest.

he places the blunt between your swollen, from kissing, lips. "inhale," gojo commands, eyes trained on you, as you attempt to take a drag, but your breath hitches, too fucked-out.

he snorts, tapping it twice against your mouth. "try again."

he can't let all this go to waste, right?

[enamaly]

౨ৎ satoru's a goddamn psycho. and, okay, you knew it was a bad idea. but, hey, april fool's, right? a flimsy excuse, at best. you'd thought that would make it better, but you've never been more wrong.

yeah, you knew faking a hushed call, stringing him along with that cheating bullshit, was playing with fire. but, how the were you supposed to know he'd snap like this? he's the king of pranks. that hypocrite.

"s'different," he growls, his hand a fucking vice around your throat. a choked sob escapes, your back arching, every nerve fried. it's some ungodly hour, two or three am, maybe. "some lines — fuck —shouldn't be crossed, you get that?"

he rams into you, deep, every thrust hitting (bruising) your cervix. his other hand digs into your waist, a painful grip. "too much," you whimper, too fucked-out to even twitch. you just pray he'll stop his relentless assault.

"whose pussy is this?" he demands, his voice a low, filthy tone. you can't even form words, just a broken moan. "look at you," he grunts, his hips rutting against yours. "can't even talk right. bet no one else could get you this fucking wrecked, huh?"

satoru's hand slides down, pinching your nipple hard. you whine, whether from pain or pleasure — you couldn't tell. "i asked you something, bitch," he hisses, and, as if he'd punishing you, he pulls almost all the way out, relieving you (if only for a second), before slamming his thick length back into you.

"y— yours!" you scream, the heat coiling in your gut, a familiar, desperate burn. you're just a toy now, his to use, and you know he wouldn't have it any other way.

satoru groans, his words slurring, a sure sign he's close. "ngh, don't fuckin' forget it."

your boyfriend didn't, in fact, let you forget it — spilling inside you, hot and thick, your body convulsing around him as you came again, another wave of raw, mind-numbing pleasure. all for another round.

you're officially retiring from april fool's.

[enamaly]

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ CASE OF THE EX

ೃ࿐ feat. gojo satoru

in which: you run into your ex husband just when he realizes he needs you back.

contains: nsfw, smut, exhusband!gojo, dubcon, infidelity, intoxicated sex (alcohol), breeding, gojo calls reader wifey, exhibitionism if you squint. wc: 1.3k

ೃ࿐ ki’s note: this was supposedly to be a drabble and ended up being way longer than expected. i’m also trying out a diff writing style lmk whatcha think!

it’s freezing, as it normally is in december, but this was a different type of cold.

the standing on your ex husband’s porch, four glasses of wine deep, kind of cold. you’ve been standing outside for borderline five minutes, but you know he’s home.

“satoru..” the door creaks open to a very tipsy gojo standing on the other side. he’s quick to pull you in without another word because, “it’s freezing, why are you here this late?”

locking the door behind you he winces, rubbing his eyes trying to remember what day of the week it is. “is it my weekend to have her?”

her being your daughter, satoru’s beloved angel — the only other girl he’s ever loved besides you.

loved. past tense.

he swears he’s still inlove with you but you never believed it. you hated gojo satoru, but that’s just what you wanted yourself to think. he’s been trying to break down this wall of resentment for months, after all it’s been almost a year since you two split.

“she’s at your mothers house, i dropped her off last night.”

gojo could breathe easy knowing his daughter isn’t here, he didn’t want her to him like this; drunk, that is.

you watched as he disappears into the kitchen, taking your coat and shoes off, leaving them in familiar places.

you don’t why you’re here, back in this house, with him. it’s almost as if you were on autopilot directing yourself to a common place with no intention just…there.

he comes back with a bottle in one hand and two crystal glasses in the other, staring blankly before asking again, “why are you here?”

the silence was loud enough, it was actually the most you two have spoken in the past year.

—

“do you miss me?” smirking with the tilt of his head he rests his head in his palm, eyes flickering between you and the full shot in front of you. the two of you playing a variation of truth or drink.

“satoru…don’t do this to me.” you face palm.

“i know you do, but if your ego is too big to admit it then take it.” slender fingers slide the glass your way, you could see your reflection in the liquid, and god, you look guilty.

speaking of looks, if they could kill you’d be a dead woman. the way he looks back at you across the table reminds you of all of the reasons you crave gojo satoru.

you took the shot, quickly too. it burned going down almost lighting your body on fire in a self-sabotaging way. he found pleasure in watching you not admitting the blatant fact.

“you deny it but it’s true,” standing, he downs the contents of his glass mid-sentence, making you both somewhat even in intoxication.

the ‘clink’ of him setting his glass down next to yours echos as he’s now moved from sitting across to standing in front of you.

“ ‘m sure there a lot you miss about me, hmm?” his hands slide between your hair and skin, four out of five digits resting on the nape of your neck, his thumbs brushing against your cheek.

from gojo’s pov he couldn’t have you in a better place, literally in the palm of his hand. as crazy as it sounds he had to do this, he loves you, and love makes you do some…not nice things.

to be fair, manipulation and persuasion are not the same to him. he never told you to come over, but then again he could’ve called you an uber and sent you back home…that would’ve been the ‘right’ thing to do.

unfortunately for you everything that comes to mind in the head of gojo satoru is right.

you nod shyly, listening to each saccharine word that leaves his lips.

“c’mon wifey, it’s been so long” the nickname filled your chest, heavy. suddenly it was impossible to move from where you sat. “i’m seeing someone..” a hand, on his chest as a half-assed attempt to defy him.

—

“s-satoru!” you sound so cute under him, clawing at his sheets. that little confession did something to him, made him want to punish you in the most primal way.

seeing someone? oh that’s not happening, not as long as he’s breathing will you ever be with another man. you’ll always be his pretty, little, obedient wife, who spreads her legs for him any time he pleases.

after all you’re still legally married. gojo refused to sign the divorce papers you sent him and eventually you stopped trying.

you could feel a vibrating pulse within the sheets, it was your phone ringing at a time like this.

“hello?” he answers the phone mid-fuck. “oh well if it isn’t your little boyfriend? i’m in the middle of fucking your girl silly, clearly you haven’t been doing it right..”

his pace increases to a gruelling speed, each thrust clapping against your ass, and it was fucking loud. “fuck! satoru please—! hang uuuuuup.” your begging only fuelled the fire, you needed to know who you belong to and so did your boy toy on the other line.

gojo can’t help but chuckle pridefully, watching you impaled on his cock, but he needed to hear it. no, the sounds of you practically crying while he fucked you wasn’t enough. he wants to hear you beg for him, praise him even. like a god.

“let him hear it wifey ♡︎” he frees a hand by placing the phone next to your head.

“tell him how much,” thrust. “you need your husband’s cock.” thrust. “i fuck so much better than him don’t i ?” thrust. “awe.. you cryin’?”

“need it—! want it satoru! you’re so— hahh! —good!” he was made to torture you like this, fucking you dumb into his mattress while making you spew naughty things for him.

you could feel his speed getting aggressive. beads of sweat falling down his toned tummy to his v-line, the two of you making a sticky mess from being skin to skin. you couldn’t think, mind hazy and full of him.

“fuuuuuck, how about i stuff you full? maybe i should give you another baby, ‘nother reason to be attached to me.” the hypnosis in his voice casts you further under his spell as he grunts sweet nothings into you ear while he pounded your pussy.

“love it,” you growl into his pillows. “i love you satoru! cumming…i’m cumming, please let me cum—” you could only focus on the high washing over your body as your legs begin trembling, muscles spazzing at your arousal tipping over the edge.

your desperation is music to his ears, his lust turning uncontrollable as he assaults your cunt fucking you hard, and deep. at this rate he’ll get you pregnant.

“cum for me, cum with me— shit!” he drawls, gritted through his teeth, bottoming out in his favourite fucking pussy. this feeling will never get old, fucking you will never not be his favourite pastime.

meanwhile the overstimulation teasing your cunt made you that much wetter, and tighter for him. you couldn’t take it anymore, you need it — need his seed sopping out of you. you didn’t even care about your boyfriend who was still listening to this live porn. gojo’s rewired that wondering brain of yours. back to him, in this house, on his bed, fucking his cock.

you might just even take him back.

his pleasure builds as he pumps into your cunt a few more times, before emptying inside of you. you could feel it, cunt full of him. his body collapses on top of yours, fingers intertwining on your hands while you both catch your breath.

“she’s not coming home.” the line cuts.

© SLUTTSUMU 2023 - please refrain from copying, reposting or translating.

[enamaly]

could you do stepbro!rafe with a breeding kink?

LOCKED IN ♡

cw: stepcest, smut, breeding, pregnancy mention, rafe calls you ‘little sis’ once.

It was totally, utterly unfair.

You were picky, picky when it came to food— separating the dry from the wet on your plate with your fork, picky with your clothes — needing the pinks to be the perfect cool tone. Picky with the way you organised your bed, needing the decorative cushions and copious amounts of stuffed animals to be organised in a specific manner in order to feel satisfied. Most importantly, you were picky with your men. It took a lot for you to feel a spark, most of the men you encountered just not even breaching your impossibly high standards.

So why, oh why — did you have to pick your step-brother?

He wasn’t even perfect, not by a long mile. He was aggressive, rude, stuck up, all things you pride yourself on not being. He had a reputation of causing problems, fighting pogues, engaging in scream-offs with his father. But, Rafe Cameron was gorgeous. An innocent smile despite it all, broad, tall and built, grab-able hair.

You hadn’t even realised you’d had a handful of it between your tense fingers until he groaned against your mouth, cock resting against your sodden cunt, sliding against your folds with each buck of his hips. The two of you had snuck upstairs during the infamous Midsummers party, white sundress bunched up around your waist, thin wiry flowercrown fallen, laying beside a teddy bear wearing a sweater at the head of your bed.

He’d been making eyes at you all night, much to your dismay after you’d told him to pinky promise you that he’d try and refrain from engaging in any stepcestual shenanigans at such a family affair. You recall the way he sighed when you’d asked, stepping up to you as if to impose his height on you, plastering a purposely fake smile on his face, eyes crinkling at the corners and holding up the requested finger.

“Pinky swear.” He rasps in that low, intimate tone. Everything was a seduction technique with him, god — whatever, it was working. You hooked your finger happily enough around his anyway probably sporting a big goofy smile. Any excuse to touch him you’d take.

He grinds his shaft against your heat as he practically has you pinned to your bed, legs helpless around his waist. You shudder and whine when his tip catches your clit. “Do pinky promises mean nothing to you?” You shiver, infinitely hypocritical and careless as you buck your hips for more. He chuckles at this, leaning back so he can line himself up with your entrance.

“Doesn’t look like you’re complaining.” He retorts, giving your hip a comforting squeeze before sliding himself in. You go to let out a moan but he warns you with his fingers softly brushing your lips. “Uh-uh.” He whispers. He’s right, can’t get caught.

Soon enough you have tears pooling at the corners of your eyes from your restraint, eyes all big and desperate as he works his rhythm against you, hips grinding and slamming until you’re seeing stars. He gets so concentrated, like he’s working out whilst he fucks you, his mouth hung a little open, eyes focused on your body and what he’s doing. Forget the short pathetic whimpers leaving you, with each thrust the bed creaks loud and fast in an unmistakable rhythm that one who passed your room could only know exactly what’s going down.

It doesn’t take long before you’re cumming, hard. You’re not sure what it is, aside from him whispering “Good girl, keep taking it.” In your ear with his lips brushing your jawline. You’d decided the shape of his cock must be designed perfectly for your insides, and hits the perfect spot— because it’s not like he did that much to get you to cum that hard.

You get all silly and brain dead whenever you cum, and this time it was awful. It must have been the summer heat getting to your head or the glass of wine you’d downed when you’d seen the way Rafe was openly ogling you at a family event, because you lock your feet around his back, not letting him leave you. You’d been clenching so hard when you came that he’d had to take a breather, his weight falling on top of you a bit more as he groaned something along the lines of “Shit, g’nna make me cum too.” into your temple. Completely fuck drunk, you whine out—

“Want it inside please. Cum inside.” Desperate and pleadingly, arms wrapped around his neck and feet still locked to keep him inside you. He pauses for a moment, so that he doesn’t blow his load there and then before pulling back. He’s stronger than you by a long shot, so he’s got your arms off him in no time, pinning you so hard to the bed, putting his weight on you to the point you think you might fall through it. He looks angry at first, and you think maybe you’ve messed up, staring up at him through hazy, tearful doe eyes. His expression twists to something more amused, a malicious smile twitching at his lips as he stares at you almost pityingly. Then he starts to slowly grind inside.

“Thats real sick, baby. You know that right? Wanting me t’cum inside you?” He huffs out a snicker, shaking his head as he adjusts his grip on your hips. “I mean can you imagine?” He presses inside, deep as he can go, his tip kissing your cervix with force and just staying there, throbbing against it. You whine, too sensitive, too much. “Knocking up my sweet little sis? The look on everyone’s face when they realise that big bad scary Rafe has been ploughing this pretty little pussy behind closed doors?” He starts moving again, pushing your knees up to your chest once he’d broken free from your locked in position. “How would it look if you showed up to the next family function with a swollen tummy, baby?” He babies you, talking to you like you’re stupid and rubbing a big hand over your stomach soothingly. You flutter around him, worsening things. “Better yet, leaving this room and going back to the party with my cum all in your panties.” He squints one eye in fake disgust before shaking his head in fake disapproval, lips pouted as he tuts three times. “Gonna get me in trouble, beautiful.”

He presses his body to yours again, thrusts speeding up and the sound of the creaking bed smacking the wall returns, as to your sensitive mewls. “But if that’s really what you want...” He finishes sinisterly, holding you down when you squirm and fucking you until he’s groaning, pumping his load inside.

[enamaly]

disclaimer // 18+ content. this story includes being rafes step sister, unprotected sex, p in v, cheating, and yeah i think that's it.

─────────────────────────

you still knew it was wrong to be hooking up with your fucking stepbrother. no, you shouldn't be doing it. no, it's not okay it's fucking weird. but yes, that was the best fuck you had ever had. of course you needed more.

you weren't really sure why you wouldn't just break up with top. you couldn't really come to terms with the fact you're hooking up with rafe ─ maybe that was why. but you also knew toppers toxic ass wouldn't take you breaking up with him lightly ─ yet he's the one cheating on you. funny right?

it started to become your little ritual every time top went out. you would run to rafe crying ─ not that you gave a shit about topper and his shenanigans, you just wanted rafe again, and again, and again.

yet this time, your cutesy little cheating boyfriend was in your room sleeping in the same bed rafe destroys your pretty little cunt. literally right across the hall from rafe's room.

"do you even care for your boyfriend anymore? i think you're just getting attached to big bros dick. yeah? is that right?" he watches you grip the sheets ─ gasping for air while he fucks your tight hole from behind.

"mmm ─ yes rafey. holy shittt." you whine out while gripping onto his cock for dear life. he grabs a fist full of your hair pulling you up to him to kiss and lick the tears off of your face.

"so, so pretty baby. can't believe you crave and fantasize about your brothers dick." he groans out while chuckling softly ─ picking up the pace. "i hear you moaning my name while you play with this pretty pussy at night. jus' need rafey's dick all the time. huh?"

his grip tightens on your hips while he forces his head into the crook of your neck. you feel his hot breath panting against your skin as he nips and sucks on your sensitive skin ─ the head of his cock torturing that special gummy spot inside of you.

"rafe! fuck fuck fuck! to- fuck! too much!" crying out in overstimulation you try to push him away ─ throwing your hands back against his chest and pushing yourself up the bed.

"sh, shh. no, no, nooo where you goin' baby?" he pouts while pulling you back to him ─ his grip even tighter. he leans down, kissing your face and flattening your hair. "c'mere. you can take it pretty girl. jus' like that."

"fucking me while your boyfriend is just in the other room is so fuckin' nasty. what a fuckin' whore." he says with a wicked grin plastered across his face. "cant even leave me alone when he's right there. what if he walks in?"

but the way you could feel his thick cock in your stomach literally destroying your insides ─ you can't even find a fuck to give about what he just said or even be worried about if he walked in right now.

─────────────────────────

[enamaly]

S1 RAFE FUCKING NEW TOPPER’S GF

the sound of your phone ringing was suppressed by the sound of your moans and whines as rafe tried to push his way through your tight walls, with them squeezing hard already around just his tip. your boyfriend's name had meanwhile appeared on the screen, calling insistently.

“fuckin’ sake” rafe spat out, coming all the way in with a hard movement of his hips, his fingers pressing into your reddening and soft thighs. “turn it off” he ordered, starting with a hard, messy rhythm, making his head fall back with a grunt. but you didn’t even know what he was talking about, arching your back as you only thought about getting your head fucked out by him and his heavenly ways.

your phone kept ringing, and with every little sound it made, his thrusts became harder; his frustration growing just like the bubbling feeling in your belly. with little movement of his arm, he quickly turned off the phone, before landing his hand back on your hip with a slap, making you quickly open your eyes that had been closed from too much stimulation, whimpering pathetically. “i don’t want— i don’t want fuckin’ interruptions, got it?” his voice was heavy, breathless even more as he moved to adjust his angle, which he was still unsatisfied with.

in response, you gave him a small nod, but it clearly wasn’t enough. he grabbed you by the neck, lifting your head slightly as he ran a finger over your quivering bottom lip, tugging it down even more “use your words, pretty. i want to feel you louder than you’ve ever been”

“y-yes” you breathed out, your face twisting in pleasure, and dragging your fingers down his back — leaving sinful marks all over his bare skin. he hissed slightly at the sensation, but god did he love it. as the pace increased, your moans filling the room entirely, replacing the silence, your phone started ringing again.

rafe, without your permission, took the phone without any further words, all while lifting your leg to put it on his shoulder. answering the call, the first thing topper heard was the loud moan you let out as rafe hit that sweet spot that had you completely, and the boy couldn’t help but smirk as he spoke for you. “shit— y’need somethin’, top? callin’ with such urgency, huh?” his quietness and fake innocence, mixed with the sounds of his balls slamming against you harder and harder, were deafening to your boyfriend who was on the other hand.

“rafe?” that was all topper said in a broken whisper, before being also interrupted by rafe groaning again, speaking into the microphone rapidly. “fuck, man, you may need to wait a minute— i’m makin’ your girl cum, yeah? i’ll call you later” and with that, he hung up without any useless words, not losing his speed for a second. in fact, true to his words, with his name over and over again cried out by you, you came hard around him. rafe following close behind, inside you, without a condom.

[enamaly]

stepbro rafey who fucks you in front of the family portrait so he can watch guilt induced tears roll down ur pretty face :(

absolutely in love w this !!! cw ; stepcest, dubcon, dacryphilia, p in v, icky rafe

stepbro!rafe has a fucked up sense of humour. he’s always been .. a little twisted. a little cruel. he corners you in the living room, icy blue eyes gleaming with a dangerous mix of lust and malice. the cameron family portrait hangs to the right of the sofa you’re currently perched on, innocent eyes warily looking up at his angular face. he’d been .. looking at you a little differently these past few weeks.. and it had anxiety settling itself deep down in your tummy. you didn’t like it. he was older than you, bigger, stronger. ward and rose weren’t home, wheezie was with a friend, and sarah was off who knows where with her ragtag group of pogues. just the two of you tonight.

“what’s up, rafe?” you question quietly, trying to discreetly pull up the neckline of your tanktop. his lips curl into a slow, wolfish smirk, something so distinctly predatory you feel like sprinting. rafe doesn’t answer your question immediately, eyes flicking between your face and your cleavage. “‘what’s up?’” he echos, caging you in when he moves to take a seat uncomfortably close to you. his thighs touch yours as he stretches an arm over you to rest on the armrest, broad shoulders blocking your escape. “you tell me, sweetheart. you’ve been a little.. skittish ‘round me recently. makes me wonder what y’so nervous ‘bout.”

“‘m not nervous,” you stammer, shrinking further into the cushions. your heart thunders at his proximity. “well, um — if you’re done, ‘m jus’ gonna—”

before you can finish, rafe’s hand shoots out, gripping your wrist firmly. not painfully, not yet, but enough for you to freeze. “nah,” he interrupts, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair behind your ear. the act is deceptively gentle, but you know his intentions are anything but pure. “wanna talk to you. y’know how much i love you,” he says with a grin, eyes darkening as he glances down to your wet lips. you have a feeling his idea of love isn’t the same as yours.

rafe leans back on the couch, pointing across to the portrait. it was new, recently commissioned to include you. the newest cameron. ward and rose were at the front, his self-satisfied smirk and her pristine smile looking painfully fake. wheezie was between them, her face shining the brightest. at the back, were sarah, rafe and you, his body directly behind you. in the picture, you’d plastered on a polite smile, though if someone looked closer, they’d be able to see the terrified glint to your eyes. rafe had gotten incredibly close, arm wrapped around your waist, hand resting low on your hips. he looked perfect in the portrait, hair perfectly styled, clothes crisp; the epitome of the man ward had raised him to be. ”wha’cha think, huh?”

you shrink into the couch, lips forming a line as you force your words out. “yeah — looks nice.” rafe sucks on his teeth, nodding his head to himself. you move to get up again but this time he’s prepared, grabbing you by the midriff. you think you hear him say “you look so pretty when you’re scared,” but the next thing you know his lips are on yours in a searing, sloppy, wet kiss. it’s all teeth and tongue and it’s so, messy.

you try resist, try hitting him in the shoulder but all he does is take that as confirmation to slip his tongue deeper down your throat. his fingers curl into your top, pads of his fingers dragging against your nipples, pulling you closer. your mind is reeling with the implications of this but your treacherous body betrays you, heat pooling heavy and low in your tummy despite the shame clawing its’ way out of your chest.

rafe groans when you finally manage to land a punch to his sternum, breaking away from you. a string of saliva connects the two of you before snapping, and silence fills the room, nothing except the sounds of your combined panting. “been wantin’ to do that f’a while.” he sounds so cocky, so assured, like he’d planned this the entire time.

“what the fuck,” you whisper, a shaky finger tracing your kiss-bitten lips. “what the fuck, rafe!” you feel the tears spring to your eyes immediately, and rafe’s face lights up like a kid on christmas.

he’s moving, grabbing you by the arms and flipping you over, throwing you like a ragdoll until your upper body is positioned over the armrest. “rafe — rafe wait — wait what.. rafe! we can’t. we, can’t.”

“no one’s here to stop us, baby. c’mon gimme what i want. ‘know you wan’ it too. don’t think i don’t see the ‘lil looks y’throw at me.” you hear him shuffling around, the clink of a belt, and suddenly something long and hard is poking you. “rafe! please!” you sob, even if deep, deep down you knew he was right. you felt so dirty. “‘s’okay, y’family now, right? family helps each other.”

his fingers crawl up your lower half, pulling down your pants and undies just enough for him to expose the globes of your ass and your leaking cunt. “mmmh yeah, see? knew it. its, uh, it’ll be okay. ‘m gonna make it good f’you.” he swipes his cock against your folds a few times, coating his thickness in your dewy wetness, using another hand to hold down your body as you struggle. and then he’s surging in, hips flush against yours within a second. your pussy grips him tight, clenching down on him like a vice, so hard rafe almost doubles over. “shiiit.”

it feels like too much and not enough. you’re full, so incredibly full you swear if you looked at your tummy you’d see his dick poking through. he gives you a second before pulling out slowly and slamming back into you, the couch screeching against the marble with the movement. rafe’s hand curls itself into your hair, twisting it until he can pull your head up. you can barely see the maniacal look in his eyes through your blurry vision, cheeks wet with hot tears.

“look at that,” he breaths out against your ear. your brain is so mushy you don’t even know what he’s talking about until he’s making you look right at the portrait. “perfect little family, yeah? haaah, bet they’d lose their minds if they saw their sweet, innocent girl letting her stepbrother ruin her like this.” he’s destroying you, right under their noses and it fuels him like no high ever could. oh, how he wished they could see you now, all your guilt and shame and the underlying lust. he loves it.

he punctuates it with a harsh thrust, one that has you moaning and subconsciously arching into him. he leans over you, watching the tears fall down your delirious face before licking your cheek with a broad tongue stroke. “keep y’eyes on them,” he nearly growls, voice dripping with raw hunger. his fingers dig painfully into your hips as he sets a brutal pace. “wanna make ‘em watch you cry.”

[enamaly]

omg but being a friend of kentos wife and being invited over for dinner just for poor kento to sit between the woman he’s married to and the sweet thing he’s been fucking in their shared bed :((

eating and chatting with his wife about the small and mundane whilst palming kento through his slacks… the look of warning he gives you as you make him all hard and uncomfy in his tight pants. he can’t possibly stand and let his wife see the patch of precum that is already drooling through the fabric!

and of course you insist on washing up, you are the guest after all! so while kentos sweet wife goes to grab a bottle of wine and set up the living room to sit in, you’re busy washing dishes in the kitchen. and kento is just such the gentleman that he insists on helping you by fucking you against the sink while you clean :)

he whispers awful things in your ear about how dangerous you are, nearly making him cum in his pants with his wife a few inches away. but she’s a little drunk now and the wine makes her oblivious enough that when you yell out as he hits your g spot over and over again she just assumes you’ve spilt some water!

kento fills you up nice and good, kisses your earlobes and neck and tells you he won’t be so kind next time. but that’s okay—you like it when he’s mean :)

he pulls out of you and with one last kiss to your pretty lips, leaves the kitchen. he goes and presses a kiss to his wife’s forehead and tells her he has a headache and is going to go and lay down, which she doesn’t think much of except that he can’t look her in the eye when he says it :p

it’s alright, because now you have some alone time with his wife to drink and gossip—and you can sit on her sofa whilst her husbands cum leaks into your panties and listen to her hushed giggles as she says kento just doesn’t fuck her like he used to!

[enamaly]

toxic situationship!sukuna who is so bad for you but fucks you so good.

He rarely ever responds to your messages or calls, gives half-assed nonchalant responses when he does, and could care less about you or your wellbeing outside of when he’s fucking you.

Every time you think of dropping him, think of blocking him once and for all and ending this whole bad acid trip of a relationship, you get a singular message with the address of an always random and always luxury hotel.

It goes the same way every time, you stare at the message, questioning whether you should just ignore it and this whole fucked-up endeavor…before deciding that it’d be better to end it all in person, to stand your ground and tell him to his face that you’re 100% done with him.

….

“Louder, I can’t hear you.” His voice is an effortless demand, and you don’t have any room to deny it when he’s fucking his too-big cock into you without a shred of remorse. You can see your face in the bathroom mirror, tears escaping your eyes, your lipstick smudged and ruined from when he used your mouth prior.

Each thrust presses you harder into the cool marble sink, and instead of uncomfortable it feels exhilarating paired with his hand curled possessively around your throat.

“’m sorry for saying I w-want to leave.” You slur between moans, “I’m yours.” You can’t even remember what you’d said when you first got here, what had it been fifteen minutes? An hour? The concept of time seemed to blur as your mind did, absolutely gone from the feeling of his cock filling you up in a way that you didn’t think anyone else ever could.

“That’s right,” You could see his smirk in the mirror as his hand tightened around your neck. “Who else can fill this greedy pussy like I do?”

You don’t respond, your eyes lulling close as you succumb to the pleasure, moaning and whimpering like the pathetic cocksleeve he wanted you to be. Sukuna’s hand moves from your neck to the top of your head, tugging at your hair with a force that has you groaning and clenching around him. “Be good and answer me when I’m talking to you.”

You stammer out an apology struggling to ignore the onslaught of feelings that make you tremble: the slight sting of the slap of his hips against your ass, your throbbing clit that is begging for attention you know he won’t give it, the new shocks that his tight grip on your hair sends throughout your body as he tugs on it between each thrust. You swallow your moans, “Mmno o-one.”

“And you take me so fucking well.” He grunts, each word punctuated by a sharp, wet thrust. “I’m starting to think you act like a brat on purpose so I fuck you stupid, huh?”

…

You eventually do end up blocking him, because you can’t think with your pussy forever. You even snag a date with a nice guy.

But Sukuna somehow finds a way to be there in his place, giving you a quick warning before dragging you to his posh car and fucking you into the backseat with your face pressed against the tinted window.

“Why don’t you call him?” He remarks, you can hear the devilish grin on his lips as he fucks you, “Tell him to come see you all spread out. That’ll teach you a lesson.”

You think frantically that he’s bluffing as you stifle your moans, but then he has you sitting on his lap, fucking his cock up into you with your phone in hand and your date on speaker. He levels you with a glare that renders you completely undone, as you moan into the phone, crooning to your date that you can’t make it tonight because ‘you’re too busy being used’.

When you come with a swipe of his thumb along your clit, damn near passing out from the force of your orgasm as you squirt all over his cock, he utters sweet praises, gripping your chin firmly with his free hand, “Don’t let this happen again, understand?”

You give a delirious, fucked-out nod.

[enamaly]

cw suguru has a breeding kink </3

“oh, god you’re doing so fucking good,” it’s merely a whine as his grasp around your waist tightens, dragging you impossibly closer, fucking himself impossibly deeper. “such a good, perfect girl taking my cock sooo deep in that wet little cunt, huuuh?”

a stupid gasp leaves you as you crane your head, peering behind yourself to leer at the feral animal that looms over your ravaged body. he’s gone, slick bottom lip caught between a row of pearly teeth while his brows knit. something nasty leaves his throat, a noise between a brutish growl and a pretty whimper of pleasure.

thick, inky locks of hair cascade down his neck and shoulders; you want so badly to pull at his raven roots, yank him right against your lips and kiss him sloppy. a sweet lil’ whine falls from your mouth when a big, warm hand is pushing you back down, forcing you into the prettiest, most nastiest arch and it makes his cock twitch.

“i should just breed you, yeah?” suguru leans forward, the warm plane of his chest kissing your backside. sticky beads of sweat tether you as one. “get you fucking pregnant… god, you’d love that wouldn’t you?” the deep, nasty timbre of his whisper is merely lost in the crook of your neck, creeping all the way down your spine in a violent shudder. “would you take it all?”

“yes, fuck… fuck,” you nod dumbly, blathering an incoherent slew of pleas and yeses between gasping gulps of air.

“yeah? you’d let me fuck a baby into you?”

a loud, assenting whine leaves you when the scorching warmth of his lips meet the cusp of your right shoulder blade. suguru can hardly help his tongue as it’s slithering over the sweetness of your damp skin. profanities spill from his mouth, kiss after sloppy kiss trailing down, down, down the expanse of your back as he savors the flavor of you on his tastebuds.

“you’d let me make a mess inside of this pretty pussy?” it’s murmured against your skin between drags of his warm tongue and gasps of fleeting air. “you want that, sweet girl?”

you’re nodding, begging. the cant of your sloppy hips as you desperately throw yourself back onto his weeping cock is pulling the filthiest groan from the depths of his chest. big, greedy hands are sliding up your pretty frame, pulling you upright. instinctively, his fingers are latching around your throat, holding your place in the air as he insists on making a mess of your cunt.

“fuck, you’re gonna take it all then.”

[enamaly]

IT’S A MATCH!

full nelson. how had you ended up here? squashed together as your tinder date—who was old enough to be your father—fucked his stiff cock into you. you were just looking for a little bit of fun after a few months in quarantine, and instead you found yourself stuffed to the brim whilst being pounded relentlessly. the sound of skin slapping together rang in your ears, the blonde’s groans and pants growing the closer he came. his balls pressed against your skin, blonde tuffs of pubic hair tickling you. his thick length rubbed your insides raw. you had never been fucked like this.

when you’d first seen kento nanami he looked like a gentleman, with his clean-cut hair and well-tailored suit. he looked like a person of status and importance, not the type to be splitting a girl that could be his daughter with his dick. but here he is, balls deep inside your pussy on his expensive sofa.

"you're such a naughty girl, fucking an old man like me," he said, voice thick with lust. "how did i get so lucky, mm? look at you, taking me so well." his cock curved in just the right way to hit that special spot inside you. and each time he pulled out, his fat tip would barely catch your g-spot, sending you into a frenzy, and when he pushed back in, he bottomed out. his large hands gripping your hips so tight you knew you would bruise.

salty tears fell from your glossy eyes. he had you full on fucking crying from the overstimulation, the pain only heightened by your inability to see. your hands were clutching at the fabric of the sofa, trying to keep yourself steady, but it was no use.

your cunt ached. the wet, sloppy sounds his angry cock made each time it slipped inside your abused hole had you feeling filthy, and it was clear that he wasn't going to slow down any time soon. your head was lolling back against his shoulder, your body had long given up on resisting. kento’s grip was the only thing keeping you upright, and if he hadn't had you in his hold, you would have collapsed a long time ago.

a familiar knot was forming in the pit of your stomach, and you were desperate to come. “ha—so wet, f-fuck you feel so good. feel me deep?” his voice was so gravelly and breathless that you almost didn't recognise it, and all you could do was moan. he laughed a little, his chest vibrating as he leaned down to nip at the skin of your shoulder.

this position, his thrusts were deeper. he was able to pull you flush against his cock. you were so full, it almost hurt.

his thrusts had turned erratic, and the room was filled with the sounds of your combined moans and heavy breaths. you felt his pace slow, and he began to thrust with more purpose. the tip of his cock grinding into your g-spot.

the waves of pleasure rolled over you, and your vision went white. you sobbed, toes curling. kento grunted as he fucked you through your orgasm, his thrusts even more sloppy as he bottomed out inside of you, coming with a growl. you felt his cum filling you, his hips stuttering pushing the heavy mess further in your cunt.

when you both came down from your high, he pulled out, his cum spilling out and running down your thighs. he released his hold on you, and you collapsed against the cushions with a humph, dazed. too dazed to see the man grabbing your phone from the coffee table, hands idly swiping through your apps. bingo. tinder. too dazed to see him swiftly delete the app.

he doesn't want to share. not you.

[enamaly]

18+!, yandere!satoru, dark themes, somnophilia

i love the duality in yandere!satoru

to you, he’s nothing but smiles and playful snark, attempting to charm you with a flash of those baby blues and a hushed flirt from his pretty pink lips. but you’d shrugged off all of his attempts, perceiving them as just jokes.

but to anyone he’d seen even remotely interested in you, he became more of the overpowered monster that the higher ups couldn't contain. There was still a chilling smile on his lips when he hunted them down, his face shrouded by darkness, blue eyes aglow as he slaughtered each and every person who dared to touch and covet what was his.

you were none the wiser, lamenting to him with a sigh that none of your dates seemed to stick. Satoru gave that pretty little smirk, telling you that maybe you should just give up. Despite the fact that he couldn't stop picturing their tortured faces and screams of agony. The way their flesh seemed to easily cave away beneath his hands as their blood splattered across his pristine skin.

sometimes you felt like you could feel the chill of an icy gaze whenever you changed within your bedroom, shuffling quickly to the open window and shutting it with a shiver, knowing there were tons of creeps and pervs around town that were probably waiting hungrily for you to take your clothes off.

little did you know that one of those creeps was your closest friend, who waited for you to fall asleep and watched you, brushing fingers across your bare skin, relishing goosebumps rising on the supple flesh. blue eyes glaring at you ravenously as he stripped back your covers to reveal your half naked body, your breasts barely confined by the flimsiness of your t-shirt, and never any underwear.

he liked to fantasize that maybe you knew he watched you nightly and wanted to put on a show. He imagined sinking into your wet heat, he could do it now, your pussy bare and just begging to be filled. He wanted to so badly but more than that he wanted you to be awake for when it did happen, needed you to watch as he buried his cock inside of you.

for now, he'd fist his cock over your plush lips, splattering his cum across your sleeping face with a whimper, then using his blushing red cock head to smear his cum across your mouth, and nearly coming again to the sight of his seed splattered across the soft skin of your face. He’d made such a mess out of you. 

he always tried cleaning you up the best he could, but you still wake up in the morning with the taste of him on your lips. You're too delirious with exhaustion to question it or your missing underwear. There were so many more important things you had to worry about.

other nights he stood over you until you stirred and woke up, startled by his blue eyed silhouette looming over you. you screamed and scrambled for your lamp light—but your room was empty. satoru watched the panic overtake your face as you struggled to fall asleep, rutting into your underwear to a quick finish at the sight of your quaking eyes and the way you buried yourself under your covers, wracked with paranoia.

on those nights you dream of lingering blue eyes and a shadow coming at you with bloody hands. you anxiously recount the night to him, his eyebrows furrowing with sympathy as he places a hand on yours.

a part of you suspects him, those startling blue eyes somewhat reminded you of him. But then he smiles at you, places a hand over yours, and tells you everything will be alright. And all of a sudden your doubts of him dissipate. They're replaced with a slight guilt at suspecting one of your closest friends of something so heinous. He would never do that to you.

right?

[enamaly]

toxic situationship!sukuna who is so bad for you but fucks you so good.

He rarely ever responds to your messages or calls, gives half-assed nonchalant responses when he does, and could care less about you or your wellbeing outside of when he’s fucking you.

Every time you think of dropping him, think of blocking him once and for all and ending this whole bad acid trip of a relationship, you get a singular message with the address of an always random and always luxury hotel.

It goes the same way every time, you stare at the message, questioning whether you should just ignore it and this whole fucked-up endeavor…before deciding that it’d be better to end it all in person, to stand your ground and tell him to his face that you’re 100% done with him.

….

“Louder, I can’t hear you.” His voice is an effortless demand, and you don’t have any room to deny it when he’s fucking his too-big cock into you without a shred of remorse. You can see your face in the bathroom mirror, tears escaping your eyes, your lipstick smudged and ruined from when he used your mouth prior.

Each thrust presses you harder into the cool marble sink, and instead of uncomfortable it feels exhilarating paired with his hand curled possessively around your throat.

“’m sorry for saying I w-want to leave.” You slur between moans, “I’m yours.” You can’t even remember what you’d said when you first got here, what had it been fifteen minutes? An hour? The concept of time seemed to blur as your mind did, absolutely gone from the feeling of his cock filling you up in a way that you didn’t think anyone else ever could.

“That’s right,” You could see his smirk in the mirror as his hand tightened around your neck. “Who else can fill this greedy pussy like I do?”

You don’t respond, your eyes lulling close as you succumb to the pleasure, moaning and whimpering like the pathetic cocksleeve he wanted you to be. Sukuna’s hand moves from your neck to the top of your head, tugging at your hair with a force that has you groaning and clenching around him. “Be good and answer me when I’m talking to you.”

You stammer out an apology struggling to ignore the onslaught of feelings that make you tremble: the slight sting of the slap of his hips against your ass, your throbbing clit that is begging for attention you know he won’t give it, the new shocks that his tight grip on your hair sends throughout your body as he tugs on it between each thrust. You swallow your moans, “Mmno o-one.”

“And you take me so fucking well.” He grunts, each word punctuated by a sharp, wet thrust. “I’m starting to think you act like a brat on purpose so I fuck you stupid, huh?”

…

You eventually do end up blocking him, because you can’t think with your pussy forever. You even snag a date with a nice guy.

But Sukuna somehow finds a way to be there in his place, giving you a quick warning before dragging you to his posh car and fucking you into the backseat with your face pressed against the tinted window.

“Why don’t you call him?” He remarks, you can hear the devilish grin on his lips as he fucks you, “Tell him to come see you all spread out. That’ll teach you a lesson.”

You think frantically that he’s bluffing as you stifle your moans, but then he has you sitting on his lap, fucking his cock up into you with your phone in hand and your date on speaker. He levels you with a glare that renders you completely undone, as you moan into the phone, crooning to your date that you can’t make it tonight because ‘you’re too busy being used’.

When you come with a swipe of his thumb along your clit, damn near passing out from the force of your orgasm as you squirt all over his cock, he utters sweet praises, gripping your chin firmly with his free hand, “Don’t let this happen again, understand?”

You give a delirious, fucked-out nod.

[enamaly]

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ the bright glow of megumi’s phone screen cast soft light across the room, illuminating the sharp angles of his jaw, the intense focus in his dark, lidded eyes. his grip on the phone was steady, practiced, the red record button glowing at the bottom of the screen.

and the lens?

it was locked entirely on you.

on the way your body trembled beneath him. on the way his cock stretched you open, dragging in and out, glistening with the evidence of how wrecked he had you. on the way your thighs twitched, trying and failing to close around him, only to be forced back open by his firm grip.

“mmm, no running,” he murmured, his voice smooth but dark with amusement, one hand pressing against your thigh to keep you spread for the camera. “we gotta get a good shot, don’t we?”

you whimpered, heat crawling up your spine, your face burning at the realization—he was really filming this.

filming you.

the wet, obscene sounds of him fucking into you filled the air, mixing with your soft, gasping moans. the steady slap of skin-on-skin. the soft click of his phone adjusting focus.

and megumi?

he was enjoying himself.

a smirk curled at the corner of his lips as he tilted the camera slightly, shifting angles, making sure he caught everything—how your back arched when he hit just right, how your nails scraped desperately at the sheets, how your mouth parted in helpless little cries.

“look at you,” he murmured, his free hand trailing up your stomach, teasing over your chest, before curling gently around your throat. his grip wasn’t tight—just there, just enough to make you feel the weight of his control. “so fucking pretty like this.”

the phone screen flickered as he angled it upward, tilting it toward your face.

“c’mon,” he coaxed, his fingers tightening slightly, his hips rolling deeper. “give me a good one, baby.”

you whimpered, pleasure coiling low in your stomach, your thighs shaking as you felt the tension build, climbing fast. the added pressure of his hand, the heat of his gaze behind the lens—it was too much.

the camera caught everything.

the way your lips trembled, the way your breath caught, the way your whole body tensed as pleasure crashed over you, your orgasm hitting with raw, shaking force.

megumi groaned, his grip tightening on your thigh as he fucked you through it, eyes flicking between the phone screen and the way your walls clenched around him.

“fuck,” he muttered, voice strained, his breath hitching. “that’s gonna look so good.”

the phone dipped slightly, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the screen—of yourself, flushed and wrecked, spread open around him, his cock glistening with how soaked you were.

your stomach flipped.

megumi smirked, leaning down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your throat as his thrusts turned rough, chasing his own release.

“gonna fill you up,” he breathed, his voice thick, ruined. “and you’re gonna watch it later.”

the camera kept rolling.

[enamaly]

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ megumi had long since stopped listening to your whimpering pleas, the soft little no more and ’gumi, please, i can’t that barely even formed between your broken, gasping moans.

he didn’t care.

didn’t care how much you were shaking, didn’t care how your legs were trembling, how your weak hands pushed against his broad shoulders as if you had the strength to stop him.

no, megumi was far past caring.

his arms were locked around your thighs, forearms pressing down hard to keep you open, his grip possessive, unrelenting, hungry. his fingers dug into your soft skin, keeping you in place as his mouth worked you over, tongue flicking, lips sucking, his pace never once slowing, even after your last orgasm had left you gushing all over his chin.

you were a mess.

your slick had soaked the sheets beneath you, dripping down onto the bed from how many times he had pushed you over the edge, your thighs slick with the wet, obscene evidence of his obsession.

but megumi just groaned into your pussy, his voice thick, needy, completely fucking gone as his tongue circled your clit again, lips wrapping around it to suckle just right, just like he knew made your body jerk, made your hips try and run.

but you couldn’t run.

he wouldn’t let you.

"fuck, you taste so good," he murmured against you, his voice muffled between your folds, wet, filthy, breathless. "how could i stop when you keep cumming for me like this?"

you sobbed, the pleasure too much, your body twitching under his hold, overstimulated beyond belief. your fingers grasped at his shoulders, weak, trembling, but he didn’t budge.

he just licked deeper, tongue pushing inside you, curling, his nose bumping against your swollen clit, his arms flexing as he tightened his grip when you tried—tried—to squirm away.

"no," megumi muttered, his voice dangerous, raw, his tongue flicking out again to lap up the mess he had made of you, sending another sharp wave of painful pleasure through your body.

you screamed, thighs trying to clamp together, to stop the overwhelming sensation, but megumi just laughed, low and breathless, his mouth still sealed against your cunt, his fingers gripping your thighs tighter.

"you’re not going anywhere, baby." he moaned, sucking on your clit hard just to hear the wrecked, high-pitched sob it tore from your throat. "you’re gonna keep cumming for me. again and again—until you can’t even fucking think."