pixieseo - Tumblr blog

pixieseo · 3 hours ago

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sex with a stoner

fratboy!choso x bestfriend!reader

wc: 16k

smut with so, so much plot.

choso kamo is the kind of boy people notice without realizing they’re staring. he’s not loud, never one to demand a room’s attention, but something about him pulls you in, the lazy grace of someone who’s always just a little bit stoned and completely at peace with himself.

he throws the best parties on campus, the kind that aren’t just about getting drunk or high, but about the vibe. incense burning in the corner, led lights set to red or purple, trap playing softly over speakers. and yet, you’re the only one who really knows him.

you, the sweet girl who never misses a single one of his parties. the one always curled up next to him on the couch with a red solo cup of something you can barely taste, your legs draped over his lap, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. it’s always been like this. ever since freshman year, when you met him during that stupid icebreaker event on campus that neither of you wanted to go to.

somehow, you’d ended up next to him. not even talking at first. just being. and then he’d pulled one earbud out and offered it to you without saying anything, and you’d heard frank ocean’s “ivy” playing soft and crackly from his phone. you’d smiled at him, and he’d smiled back. just a little.

after that, it was like something clicked. you didn’t have to try with choso. you just existed in each other’s space like you were meant to.

you’re sweet, outgoing, a little flirty, always the first one to compliment someone’s outfit or remember their birthday. people love you for your light, your laughter, the way you make everyone feel seen.

but when it comes to closeness, to real comfort? that’s reserved for choso.

it’s a mystery to most people. you, the glittering, glowing party girl, and choso, the stoner boy who doesn’t even have social media. but it makes perfect sense to anyone who’s seen the two of you together.

you show up to his parties before anyone else does. you help him string the lights, pick the playlist, bring snacks no one asked for but everyone eats. you’re the one sitting on the counter while he rolls, sipping from a straw and babbling about your week while he nods, smiling faintly, muttering things like “that’s wild, ma,” or “yo, you’re too nice for them.”

and during the parties, you’re never far. you gravitate toward each other like magnets, slipping into place the way you always do. choso’s usually on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest, and you’re tucked under his arm without even thinking. you lean into him when you laugh. he rests his chin on your shoulder. he passes you drinks and you take tiny sips before handing them back to him with a wrinkle of your nose.

and it’s so easy. dangerously easy.

choso’s never been one to push. he’s got feelings, real ones, deeper than he’ll ever admit out loud, but he keeps them buried. not because he doesn’t want you. he wants you in a way that scares him sometimes. in quiet moments, when he’s too high and you’re asleep on his chest, he thinks about what it would feel like to kiss you. to be yours for real. but he’s content, at least for now. content to have you like this.

you give choso a kind of peace he didn’t know he was missing. before you, things were kind of blurry. background noise. but with you, it’s all color. you laugh and the whole room tilts toward you. you touch his hand and it’s like static electricity under his skin. he pretends he doesn’t notice. he jokes, he teases, he lets it pass.

because he thinks he’d rather have you like this, close and real and warm, than risk losing you completely.

and you? you love him. maybe too much.

you’ve never said it out loud, not even to maki or shoko, but you know it. you feel it every time you see him laugh at something you said, every time he lifts your chin to tuck your hair behind your ear, every time he waits for you outside class just because he felt like it. choso is yours, in a way no one else is. and you don’t know what to do with that.

maybe you’re scared to ruin it too.

it’s not just the friendship, it’s the rhythm. the quiet glances, the shared playlists, the way you always, always end up in his bed after parties, clothes still on, hearts too full.

you’ll lay there in the dark, both of you wide awake, and you’ll wonder if he feels it too. if he notices the way your breath hitches when his fingers brush your waist. if he hears the way your voice gets softer when you say his name.

but neither of you ever says anything. not really. not yet.

there’s something unsaid between you, always has been, something glowing and soft and maybe a little fragile. like the chords of “ivy” hanging in the air, too tender to touch. it’s in the way he looks at you when you’re not watching. in the way you linger at his door after a party, lip gloss smudged and heart aching. in the way he lets his hand rest on the small of your back just a little too long.

it’s a love that’s still blooming. hesitant. deep-rooted. and for now, maybe that’s enough.

maybe not forever.

the party’s already full by the time you get there, but you know exactly where to find him.

bass thumps through the floor like a second pulse, red lights spilling down the hallway, laughter echoing from the kitchen where someone’s poured jungle juice into a mixing bowl. bodies press close in the living room, the air thick with smoke, perfume, sweat, but none of it touches you. not really. not when you know where you’re going.

you slip past people who call your name, who compliment your outfit, who try to keep you still, but you’re already moving, already smiling like you’ve got a secret. because you do.

he’s on the couch. he always is.

slouched like he was poured there, long legs spread, a blunt pinched between his fingers. there’s a few people around him, suguru’s sitting on the floor, half-asleep against his knee, gojo’s perched on the armrest talking to some girl, but he doesn’t really look at anyone. just stares at the smoke curling above him, the red light making shadows under his eyes.

until he sees you.

choso’s head tilts slightly. his gaze sharpens, just barely. his mouth softens, corners curling up into something small, lazy, private.

“yo,” he says, voice low and smooth like honeyed smoke. “there you are.”

and just like that, you’re home.

you drop down next to him without a word, tucking your legs up on the couch, leaning into his side like you were made to fit there. his arm lifts automatically to rest behind you, and your bare shoulder brushes against his chest, skin to skin. he smells like weed and citrus and something warm, like sunbaked cotton. familiar. dangerous.

“i brought you chips,” you say, holding up a bag. “because you never remember to feed people when you throw these things.”

he laughs, soft and breathy, and takes the bag, tossing it onto the table without looking.

“you’re the only one who eats at my parties,” he murmurs, dragging the blunt to his lips. “they’re lucky you show up.”

he inhales, slow and deep. lets it sit in his chest for a moment. then he turns his head toward you and exhales, deliberately, slow, a trail of smoke that ghosts over your collarbone. it’s not on purpose, but it is. everything choso does is like that. unbothered. intimate. effortless.

your heart stutters.

“you look good,” he adds, like it just occurred to him. his eyes dip, trace your legs, the cut of your dress, the gloss on your lips. “real good.”

you smile, sweet and slow, like you’re soaking it in.

“you’re stoned.”

he shrugs. “yeah. still true, though.”

you nudge his thigh with your knee, and he smirks that lazy, barely-there grin that never quite reaches his eyes unless it’s you.

the party swells around you. bodies dance in the center of the room, the music gets louder, someone’s yelling in the kitchen about the beer pong table. but in your little corner of the couch, everything is slowed down. hazy. sacred.

he keeps passing the blunt, and you keep refusing with that little scrunch of your nose he always teases you about.

“don’t know how you come to my house every week and still don’t smoke,” he says, flicking ash into a red solo cup.

“don’t know how you survive without eating dinner like an adult,” you shoot back.

he chuckles, tipping his head back. his throat stretches long, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder to reveal the black ink of a tattoo just under his collarbone. you don’t even pretend not to look. choso doesn’t pretend not to notice.

“you missed me?” he asks after a beat, quieter now. the smoke’s made him slow, softer around the edges. more honest.

you glance up at him, lips parted. “i was here last weekend.”

“yeah, and then the whole week happened.” he shrugs, lazily. “i got bored.”

you nudge your way closer. your knee slides between his. “you say that like you don’t have other friends.”

he hums. “don’t hit the same.”

you’re both quiet for a second. it’s a thick, heady silence, not awkward, not tense. just full. full of everything that’s been building since freshman year. everything you don’t say. everything you both feel in moments like this, when you’re a little too close and he’s looking at your mouth and his hand is resting just a little too low on your waist.

you want to kiss him. god, you do. but not yet. not here.

so instead you lean forward, just enough to rest your head on his shoulder. you feel him go still for a second, then relax, melting back into you.

you stay like that. for a long time

later, when the house gets louder and hotter and someone pulls you up to dance, you feel his eyes on you.

you’re not a wild dancer, you move like you’re in your own little world, fluid and soft and smiling. some guy tries to grind up behind you and you immediately peel away, laughing as you shake your head. but when you look over, just once, you see choso watching from the couch.

his eyes are darker now. still lazy, still half-lidded, but focused. pinned on you like he’s memorizing the way your dress moves, the way your hair sticks to the sweat on your collarbone. one hand resting on his knee. the blunt long gone.

you move back to him eventually, of course you do, and he opens the space beside him again like he knew you would.

“have fun out there, superstar?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.

you shrug, settling back into him. “missed my favorite dance partner.”

he raises a brow. “you don’t dance with me.”

you grin. “exactly.”

he snorts, shaking his head. you rest your hand on his thigh, fingers splayed over ripped denim, and he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t move. just lets you stay there. touching him. like you always do.

like you always will.

when the party starts dying down and the lights dim even lower, when suguru’s asleep and gojo’s disappeared and the couch is just the two of you again, you curl into him like you belong there.

he yawns, one arm around your shoulders, hand playing lazily with the strap of your dress.

“you crashing here?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

you nod, cheek pressed to his chest. “if that’s cool.”

he makes a soft sound, something between a hum and a laugh, and dips his chin to brush his mouth against your temple. not a kiss, exactly. just a press. warm, soft. barely there.

“always.”

you smile, closing your eyes for a second. his hand is still resting on your waist, fingers tracing absent little shapes into your skin like he’s not even thinking about it.

you could fall asleep like this. you’ve done it before.

but he shifts a little, murmurs, “come on, ma. let’s get off this fuckin’ couch. my back’s killin’ me.”

you whine quietly as he moves, and he laughs again, a lazy rumble in his chest and slides an arm around your waist to help you up.

“drama queen,” he says, tugging you to your feet with effortless strength.

he doesn’t let go.

you move through the sea of red cups and leftover smoke, past the people half-passed out in the hallway, with his hand still slung around your waist. like it’s normal. like it’s instinct. your arm hooks around his middle, and you lean into his side as you walk, slow and steady, like you’ve done this a hundred times. because you have.

choso’s room is down the hall. it’s the only one with a broken doorknob and a blacklight taped above the bed, buzzing faintly. it smells like weed and clean laundry and him.

you kick off your shoes the second you walk in and collapse face-first into the unmade bed, limbs spread.

he laughs, low and indulgent, then flops down beside you.

“yo, scoot over,” he mumbles, nudgin your hip with his.

“you scoot,” you shoot back, voice muffled by the blanket.

he doesn’t argue. just lets his body melt sideways until your shoulders touch again. you shift your head onto his chest without thinking, cheek to the soft fabric of his hoodie.

and there it is again. home.

“this party was kinda ass,” you say.

“nah,” he says softly. “you were here.”

your stomach flips.

but you don’t say anything. don’t need to. you just lie there, breathing in sync, your hands curled in the hem of his hoodie while his fingers play with your hair, slow, lazy twirls that make your eyelids flutter.

“remember the first one?” you ask, voice hushed now. “the freshman-year party where we met?”

choso smiles at the ceiling. “fuck yeah. you were wearing that little white dress and yellin’ at some guy who spilled beer on your shoes.”

“he ruined them,” you murmur indignantly.

“and i was just sittin’ on the porch, watchin’ the whole thing,” he grins. “high as shit. thought you were hot as hell.”

you lift your head to look at him, one brow raised. “you still say you don’t remember how we ended up talking.”

“i don’t. swear to god.” he shrugs. “one second i’m finishing a blunt, next thing i know you’re sitting next to me like you’d been there forever.”

“i probably just decided you looked safe,” you say, settling back down. “and hot. but, like, quiet hot.”

he chuckles, slow and low. “quiet hot?”

you nod. “like… hot in a way that doesn’t try. like you didn’t even know it.”

“damn,” he mutters. “flirting with me now?”

“always.”

his hand slides down from your hair to your shoulder, warm and broad and steady.

“that’s why i fuck with you,” he says after a moment. “you’re real.”

you blink.

“like, people show up to my parties for the vibes or whatever. you show up to make sure i eat dinner.”

you laugh. “well someone has to.”

“nah, but for real,” he says. “you’ve been showin’ up since day one. always got my back. always know what i need before i even do. shit’s crazy.”

your throat goes tight. but he doesn’t sound emotional. he sounds calm. sure. like it’s just a fact of life, gravity, weed, you.

he doesn’t say it like it’s a confession.

he says it like it’s just the truth.

“you do the same for me,” you murmur, voice small.

his thumb strokes your arm, slow.

“yeah,” he says. “i know.”

the room hums with silence after that. not heavy. not awkward. just real.

he lets you lie there on his chest, the beat of his heart under your ear, the rise and fall of his breathing making you feel safe in a way nothing else does.

you shift after a few minutes, and his hand moves automatically , tugs the blanket up over you both, settles you closer, fingers smoothing over your arm like it’s second nature.

he doesn’t flirt with anyone the way he does with you. doesn’t touch anyone like this. people know you’re close, but they don’t get it.

they don’t know how choso listens to you rant for hours about your classes even when he’s half-asleep. how he always keeps snacks in his room he doesn’t like, just because you do. how he’s seen you cry at 3am and didn’t say a word, just pulled you onto his chest and played with your hair until you calmed down.

how you’ve cleaned up after every party. how you always know when he needs water. how you never smoke but you always light his blunts for him.

they don’t know that you’ve been doing this, just like this, since freshman year.

you’re not together.

but this? this is something else.

“you good?” he mumbles, his voice starting to get gravelly with sleep.

you nod, curled into his side.

“you?”

“mhmm.” he exhales through his nose, deep and slow. “don’t leave before i wake up.”

“i never do.”

he hums, already drifting.

you close your eyes.

"night, cho."

"night, babe."

and in the dark, in his bed, wrapped in the quiet warmth of choso’s heartbeat and the hush of something unspoken between you, you fall asleep.

right where you’re supposed to be.

the sun’s too fucking bright.

choso’s got his hood pulled low, hands stuffed in the front pocket of his faded sweatshirt, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists like armor against the cold. his airpods are in, but he’s not playing anything. just using them to avoid eye contact. to avoid people.

his chem lecture starts in twelve minutes. he’s not rushing.

he’s never rushing.

the quad’s half-full with undergrads moving in packs, laughing too loud for this hour. he weaves through them like a shadow, dark-eyed and slow-moving, sleep still clinging to his bones.

he hasn’t showered. hasn’t brushed his hair. smells faintly like weed and sleep and your lotion, the floral kind you always keep in your bag.

he’s halfway across the quad when he hears it.

“yo.”

he looks up.

toji.

posted up on a low wall near the main staircase, nursing a large iced coffee and wearing the same zip-up he’s worn every morning since choso met him. he looks good, like he always does, jaw sharp, eyes tired, posture loose in that older-guy way that makes people think twice about messing with him.

choso pulls out one airpod. “yo.”

“you look like shit,” toji says, amused.

choso shrugs. “feel fine.”

“late night?”

“always.”

toji grins. “bet.”

choso wanders over, boots crunching gravel, and leans against the wall next to him. toji’s got that lazy menace vibe, like he could break someone’s nose or fall asleep in the sun, it could go either way. choso respects it.

they’re not close, but they’re good.

“you throw last night?” toji asks.

“yeah. packed out.”

“heard. saw some dude getting dragged out by the neck around one.”

choso huffs a little. “sukuna. again.”

“no shit?” toji laughs. “that guy’s a walking lawsuit.”

“got blood on my stairs,” choso mutters. “ruined the rug.”

“tragic.”

they’re quiet for a second. choso watches a squirrel dart across the walkway. toji sips his coffee.

“how much you make off the door?”

“couple hundred. enough for groceries. gas. weed.”

toji nods like that’s the natural order of things. “you ever think about pledging?”

choso snorts. “nah.”

“you’d run that shit,” toji says. “turn those little rich boys inside out.”

“i’m not good with rules.”

“fuck rules.”

choso grins a little. “you sound like yuki.”

“i taught yuki,” toji says, deadpan.

that gets a real laugh out of choso, low and amused, breath curling in the cold air.

“you got chem?” toji asks after a moment.

“yeah. lab.”

“tough.”

“i'm so fucking hungover.”

toji smirks. “so. last night. you go home alone?”

choso shrugs. “nah. crashed with her.”

toji looks at him. not surprised. not shocked. just curious.

“y/n?”

“yeah.”

a beat.

“you guys together now or what?”

choso looks up, brows drawn. “nah.”

toji raises an eyebrow. “huh. figured that would’ve happened by now.”

“why?”

“you’re always with her.”

“yeah.”

“you sleep in the same bed?”

choso shrugs again, easy and lowkey like it doesn’t mean anything. like it’s normal. “all the time.”

toji whistles under his breath, grinning. “you’re a better man than me.”

“not like that,” choso mutters, looking away.

“right,” toji says, smirking. “not like that.”

choso stays quiet. doesn’t explain. doesn’t elaborate. he just lets it sit in the air between them like secondhand smoke, warm, familiar, a little dangerous.

because it isn’t like that.

not yet.

but toji doesn’t push. just nods, takes another slow sip of his coffee, and claps choso on the shoulder with a rough hand.

“you’re cool,” he says. “but if you ever fuck that up, someone else won’t be.”

choso just exhales through his nose. shrugs.

he knows.

choso slouches in his stool at station 4B, safety goggles pushed up into his messy hair, long fingers lazily rotating a test tube over the bunsen flame. he’s supposed to be running a titration, but he’s running on three hours of sleep and an edible that hasn’t stopped hitting since breakfast.

there’s a small chemical fire happening at the next table over. he doesn’t care.

his partner, some girl from his gen chem section who only speaks in whispers and perfume, scribbles answers onto their worksheet like her life depends on it. she’s never once asked him to help. choso’s fine with that.

his phone buzzes in his hoodie pocket. he pulls it out without looking, thumb unlocking the screen by feel. it’s instinct. the way he always knows when it’s you.

[10:37am] you: what class r u in rn

[10:38am] choso: chem

[10:38am] you: ew

[10:38am] choso: yea

[10:39am] you: wanna meet up after?? i’m bored

[10:39am] choso: wya

the response comes fast.

[10:40am] you: bleachers behind the field. bring snacks or i’ll cry.

choso smiles.

it’s the kind of smile he never shows anyone but you. lazy. lowkey. like a secret he doesn’t need to say out loud.

he texts back a thumbs up emoji. tucks his phone away. watches the blue flame flicker under the test tube like it’s trying to tell him something.

the bleachers behind the athletic field are barely standing. rusted metal, cracked paint, half the steps warped from years of cleat-stomped abuse. it’s one of the only spots on campus that still feels untouched, still feels yours. people don’t hang out here. it’s too open, too weird, too quiet.

perfect.

you’re already there when he shows up, sprawled across the middle row like it’s a chaise lounge, sunglasses perched low on your nose and a bag of kettle chips open in your lap.

you perk up when you see him. smile wide and lazy. “you brought me snacks?”

he lifts a 7/11 bag in greeting.

“you’re an angel,” you say, and you sound like you mean it. choso climbs up beside you, drops the bag between you, and sits with a long sigh like the weight of the whole morning finally got the memo that it can fuck off.

he lets himself lean back on his elbows, head tipped toward the sky. hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbow. hands ringed in silver, knuckles faintly bruised from last night. jaw sharp, neck tattoo peeking just above his collar.

you glance over at him, bottom lip tucked between your teeth for a second too long.

he doesn’t notice.

or maybe he does.

but he doesn’t say anything.

“what happened in chem?” you ask, voice slow with sunlight.

“almost set the bench on fire,” he says. “again."

you laugh, and it’s the good kind, low and warm and familiar, like something soft you wrap yourself in. “you’re gonna fail.”

“nah,” he murmurs. “i got you. you’ll cry to shoko for me.”

you shrug. “probably.”

he grins.

you eat chips together for a while in comfortable silence. people jog past on the track below, but it’s like the two of you exist in another timeline, quieter, slower, deeper. every time your shoulders bump, he doesn’t move away. every time your fingers brush in the snack bag, he lets it linger.

you pull out a cherry lollipop from your tote. unwrap it with delicate, distracted fingers. stick it between your lips and suck thoughtfully.

choso looks over. blinks once.

his throat bobs. “you eat candy like you’re in a music video.”

“duh,” you say. “gotta stay on brand.”

“your brand is slutty candy princess?”

you flash him a wink. “you know it.”

he groans into his hands. “you’re gonna kill me.”

“you’d like it.”

“maybe.”

you both laugh.

but underneath it, there’s a tension you don’t touch. not yet. not today. not when the sun is this warm and the wind is this soft and the space between you feels like a bubble no one else can pop.

“so what’d you tell toji?” you ask suddenly, pulling your legs up under you. “he asked about us, right?”

choso blinks. shifts.

“how’d you know that?”

“i just saw him talking to you this morning and you rushed of before i could catch up.”

he sighs. rubs a hand over his face. “just asked about some dumb shit, was surprised we aren't fucking.”

“oh yeah?”

“yeah.”

you hum. “what’d you say?”

he shrugs. “told him we’re just friends.”

you nod.

but your fingers are tight around your lollipop stick. “did he buy it?”

choso looks over at you. eyes half-lidded, lazy. “dunno. didn’t really care.”

you don’t speak for a second.

then—

“you know,” you say lightly, “if we were dating, people wouldn’t question it.”

he raises a brow. “you wanna date me?”

you laugh like it’s a joke. like the idea’s crazy. “obviously not. i’d ruin your whole vibe.”

“nah,” he says, quiet and cool. “you are my vibe.”

it knocks the air out of you a little.

you don’t reply.

he doesn’t push.

instead, he pulls a lighter from his pocket. a faded red bic with a sticker of a cartoon frog on the side.

“you mind?” he asks.

you shake your head. “go for it.”

he lights the joint behind the bleachers, careful to block the wind, and takes a slow hit like he’s been doing it his whole life. like breathing.

you watch the way his lips part. the way the smoke curls from his mouth. the way he blinks up at the sky, exhaling slow, like there’s nothing in the world that could ruin this moment.

he passes it to you.

you hold it between two fingers. bring it to your lips, but don’t inhale. you just like the closeness. the ritual. the rhythm of it.

“you always smell like weed and coconuts,” you say absently.

“you always smell like sleep and candy.”

“that a compliment?”

“you know it is.”

you smile.

and then, like always, you shift until your head is in his lap, knees bent, lollipop back between your lips.

he threads his fingers into your hair like it’s automatic. like muscle memory.

you don’t say anything.

you don’t have to.

“there’s a party saturday,” choso says, like it’s just a passing thought. his voice is mellow, dragged slow with smoke and sun.

you squint up at him from his lap, one leg kicking idly off the edge of the bleachers. “yours?”

he shakes his head, dragging another pull from the joint before it sizzles low. “nah. kappa’s.”

“toji’s place?”

“mhm. sukuna’s throwin’ it.”

you make a face. “ew.”

he laughs, lazy and low. “yeah, i know.”

“what kinda party is it?”

he shrugs, flicking ash off to the side. “dunno. probly loud. messy. overrun with freshmen.”

“my favorite,” you say sarcastically.

“come anyway.”

you raise a brow. “you want me to go?”

he nods, eyes still soft from the joint. “yeah. all our people are gonna be there. gojo’s bringing that speaker he stole from the rec center. suguru’s bringing weed from the plug that scares everyone but him. shoko said she’s pre-gaming at yours.”

“she didn’t tell me that,” you mutter, amused.

“she said quote, ‘i’m getting blackout on your floor so you better have mixers.’”

“classic.”

“maki’s going too,” he adds. “and yuuji. megumi. nobara. y’all can take over the kitchen or whatever.”

you snort. “we always end up doing that. turning some random frat kitchen into our private lounge.”

“better lighting.”

“less vomit.”

he taps his knuckle to your forehead. “so?”

you blink at him. “so what?”

“you comin’?”

you stretch your arms over your head, lollipop tucked in your cheek like a secret. “mmm, depends. who’s walking me home if i black out?”

he gives you a look. “me."

“who’s holding my hair if i puke?”

“me.”

“who’s dancing with me when they put on early 2000s throwbacks?”

he smirks. “you already know.”

you grin and nuzzle into his thigh dramatically. “ugh, fine. i guess i’ll go.”

“what an honor.”

“you’re welcome.”

he flicks the roach away and leans back again, hood falling down to rest at the nape of his neck. you stare up at him for a second, at the sharp angle of his jaw, the lashes curled against his cheeks, the faint bruises of exhaustion under his eyes.

there’s something warm in your chest.

like always.

“what time’s it at?” you ask.

“late.”

“when are we getting there?”

“later.”

you smile. “as always.”

“as always,” he echoes.

you reach over, fingers brushing the side of his hoodie pocket where his lighter peeks out, red and fading, sticker peeling at the edges.

he doesn’t notice.

but you do.

you always do.

the sun has long since set when you’re back in your dorm.

shoko’s stuff is already half-scattered across your bed, a tote bag overflowing with lip gloss and tequila, her ripped denim skirt folded beside your pillow like it lives here. your bluetooth speaker is charging in the corner. your fairy lights are glowing dim, and the whole room smells like something between vanilla lotion and sharpie markers.

because you’re painting.

your desk is a mess of scattered brushes, scratched acrylics, and an empty matcha can you’ve been using as a water cup. right in the center sits the new bic lighter you picked up after social, jet black, perfectly smooth, untouched.

you’re painting red spider lilies across the front, his favourite.

the petals curl across the plastic like veins, wet with gloss and attention. you’re careful with the details. you’ve looked up references. you’ve done this before.

but this time’s different.

this one’s for him.

you don’t know why, exactly. maybe it’s because his old one’s going dead.

maybe it’s because you love him.

not like that.

not yet.

but in the way you know exactly how he likes his ramen. in the way he texts you “home?” when it’s late and doesn’t sleep until you answer. in the way he rolls his blunts left-handed and always lights yours first. in the way he remembers your mom’s birthday even though he’s never met her.

in the way he makes you feel safe in a room full of noise.

in the way he never tries to make you anything other than yourself.

you lean over the lighter, the brush held steady between your fingers, and add the final line of gold detailing around the petals. your breath fogs the surface. you wait for it to dry.

outside, someone blasts a bad edm remix. the party’s already pulsing down the block.

you aren’t ready yet.

but you will be.

because he asked.

because you always go when he asks.

by the time you and shoko step into the kappa house, it’s already hell in there.

there’s music vibrating the walls, some mashup of jersey club and distorted britney spears, smoke curling from doorways, the reek of beer and weed and something you hope is a vape cloud drifting from the stairs. someone’s already swinging a half-finished bottle of patrón in the foyer, and a guy in a spiked collar is passed out half-naked on the pool table. red LEDs paint the room like a warning.

“jesus,” shoko mutters, pushing through a knot of people. “it’s worse than last time.”

“that’s saying a lot,” you reply, laughing.

you pass a makeshift tattoo station set up in the kitchen, a foldable table, three guys with gloves and prison-grade guns, girls taking shots with their shirts off, someone yelling about cross-contamination. someone else is already screaming into a paper towel, gripping their friend’s thigh as ink bleeds into skin.

“how much you wanna bet that guy’s not even licensed?” shoko asks, pointing with her cup.

a few feet away, a couple is practically devouring each other on the couch, hands in places that definitely shouldn’t be public, their moans barely muffled over the bassline. you and shoko share a glance.

“ten bucks says they’ll be upstairs in five,” she says.

“two,” you shoot back.

you find the rest of your girls near the island, maki’s drinking straight from a bottle of dark rum, nobara’s yelling at some guy for calling her “sweetheart,” and miwa looks like she’s trying to spiritually leave her body.

“there you bitches are,” nobara says, throwing an arm over your shoulders. “i was gonna beat some freshman’s ass for trying to say you weren’t on the guest list.”

“please tell me you’re drinking tonight,” maki says, eyes already glossy.

“i just got here!” you laugh, letting shoko pull you in tighter. “i haven’t even taken my jacket off!"

“well hurry up,” nobara insists, pouring something violently pink into a solo cup and handing it to you. “this night’s cursed already.”

you take a cautious sip, bubblegum and battery acid. “what the hell is this?”

“it’s called the thong dropper,” shoko says helpfully.

“girl.”

you let the chaos swirl around you for a bit, settling into the rhythm of things, catching up on nonsense, swapping wild stories, dodging spilled drinks and clumsy hands. nobara starts talking about some guy she hooked up with last week, rolling her eyes and groaning dramatically.

“his stroke game was so weak,” she says, slamming her cup down. “he kept asking me ‘is that good?’ like—cmon. do you not hear me faking it?”

maki snorts. “you faked it?”

“of course i did. i had to get it over with.”

shoko leans in. “rookie mistake. just tell ‘em straight up.”

“i can’t crush a man’s ego like that,” nobara defends.

“they’ll live,” maki says.

you giggle into your drink, letting the warmth buzz up your spine.

“what about you?” shoko nudges. “you getting any lately?”

you shrug, trying to hide your smirk. “define ‘getting.’”

they all ooh at that, but you wave them off.

“nah,” you add quickly. “just been… chillin’.”

nobara raises a brow. “chillin’ with who?”

you don’t answer.

you don’t have to.

because you just spotted him.

across the room, slouched low on the ratty couch like a king on a broken throne, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blunt glowing between his fingers, is choso.

he’s got his head tipped back, laughing at something gojo just said, eyes heavy-lidded and hazy, lips pink and glossy from smoke. his legs are spread wide, rings catching the LED lights, and there’s a plastic crown crooked on his head like someone dared him to wear it and he just went along with it.

you hand your cup to shoko. “back in a sec.”

you beeline straight to him.

he sees you coming, of course. always does.

“yo,” he says, voice syrup-thick, laced in that lazy drawl you know too well. “there she is.”

you plop onto the couch next to him, thigh pressed to his instantly, as natural as breathing.

“hey, babe.”

he pulls the blunt from his lips and passes it to gojo. “you look hot,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over you. “like… stupid hot.”

you grin. “you’re high.”

“and you’re hot.”

“so high.”

gojo chuckles. “he’s been saying that about everyone for the last twenty minutes. told sukuna his chains looked ‘shiny as fuck’ and that he was proud of him.”

“and i meant it,” choso says, nodding solemnly.

“sukunas a menace,” you laugh.

“a sweet menace,” choso adds.

gojo tosses the blunt into an ashtray and stretches. “aight. i’m gonna go find the aux before someone puts on country again.”

“godspeed,” you tell him.

choso watches him disappear into the crowd before turning back to you. “you good?”

you nod. “girls are wild tonight.”

“when aren’t they?”

you smile. “party’s kinda gross, though.”

he grins. “yeah. it’s ass.”

“i missed your parties.”

he hums, dragging a slow breath through his nose. “next week. tuesday.”

“a tuesday party?”

“hell yeah.”

you laugh softly, eyes dropping to the front pocket of his hoodie. his lighter’s there again, the red one. the same one from earlier, edges worn down like it’s been used a thousand times.

without saying anything, you reach into your jacket pocket.

he watches you curiously as you pull out the lighter you painted, black and glossy, the spider lilies blooming across the surface in blood-red ink and gold veins.

you hand it to him wordlessly.

his fingers brush yours as he takes it, and something in his face shifts, softens, quiets.

he turns it over slowly in his palm, eyes scanning every detail like he’s memorizing it.

“you painted this?”

you nod.

“ma…” he says under his breath, almost like it’s too much. “yo. this is… this is fucking beautiful.”

“your other one’s dying,” you say, a little shy now. “figured you needed a new one.”

he’s quiet for a second, blinking slowly.

then—

“you’re such a fuckin’ angel.”

you laugh. “it’s literally just a lighter.”

he doesn’t let his gaze leave it. “nah. it’s you.”

you blink.

he says it so casually. so high. so him.

like it’s just a fact.

you don’t say anything, and neither does he. the music swells. the lights flicker. people scream and laugh and break things somewhere in the background.

but right now, it’s just the two of you, and a lighter between your palms.

“you’re gonna make me cry,” you joke, even though the way he keeps looking at the lighter makes your chest feel a little too full.

choso doesn’t answer, just keeps running his thumb over the curves of it like it’s some delicate artifact, black with the glossy gleam of fresh paint, those red lilies blooming across the surface like blood in water.

he flicks it once. flame bursts up.

“perfect,” he mumbles.

“it works?”

“better than my soul, babe.”

you laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder, and for a few seconds everything around you falls away, just the throb of the music, the warm press of him, and the soft flicker of that tiny orange flame between his fingers.

you sit like that for a little while, talking about nothing. him complaining about a group project he hasn’t started. you teasing him for skipping chem lab again. him promising you some “next-level weed” for tuesday’s party that “tastes like peaches and existential dread.”

his voice is slow, syrup-thick, a little slurred at the ends. he’s stoned, clearly, but you’re used to this. used to the way he leans into you when he’s like this, heavy and unguarded, every thought coming out a little slower and more unfiltered. it’s a version of him that doesn’t get tired of looking at you.

he tugs at the hem of your jacket playfully. “you gonna stay with me tonight?”

you raise a brow. “didn’t plan on going anywhere else.”

he grins, that sleepy smile that makes your heart tick funny.

then your name cuts through the room, pitched over the music.

“oh shit,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “they’re calling me.”

choso hums, not looking away. “tell ‘em i said hi.”

you hesitate for a second, not wanting to leave the warm bubble you’ve curled into. but shoko’s waving you over, and maki’s already halfway across the room with a bottle in her hand and trouble in her eyes.

“i’ll be back,” you say, giving his knee a squeeze as you get up.

he watches you go, eyes dragging over your silhouette, that sway in your hips, the flash of your smile as nobara yells something at you that makes you laugh and flip her off in the same breath.

then he’s alone.

not really, the house is packed, pulsing with bodies and music and smoke, but alone in the way that matters.

the lighter’s still in his hand.

and it won’t stop looking like you.

'she fuckin’ made this.'

that thought loops through his head in lazy spirals. he stares down at it like he’s still not fully processing that it’s his now, the way it fits so perfect in his palm, like you painted it with him in mind, like you know his hands that well.

(which you do.)

'what an angel', he thinks again, your face still ghosted in his mind.

he’s high. so high. his body feels like a heartbeat, slow and deep and pulsing warm. and the lighter, it keeps dragging him back to that moment on the couch, your thigh against his, your fingers brushing his, your quiet little smile when he lit it up for the first time.

'she always does shit like this. just makes stuff better. without even tryin’.'

it hits him all at once, sudden and full-body.

he needs to mark this. this moment. this feeling.

he’s already pulling out his phone before the thought’s even fully formed, scrolling through the camera roll he swore he didn’t care about but secretly checks too often. blurry candids, selfies with you curled against his chest, that pic from two weeks ago when you were looking up at him from the floor of his room with a red gummy in your mouth and sleep in your eyes.

he pauses there.

your eyes in that picture. big, soft, glassy, sexy.

his thumb hovers over the screen.

“yo,” a familiar voice calls, sauntering through the haze. “you look fried.”

sukuna.

choso glances up. “am fried.”

sukuna grins. “figured. that couch is cursed, by the way. guy got a blowie on it last week during pong night.”

choso shrugs. “adds flavor.”

they lean on the wall together, easy silence for a second.

“you see the tat guys?” sukuna asks, chin-jerking toward the kitchen. “someone just got a fucking worm on their calf. like a literal earthworm. said it was ‘symbolic.’”

choso laughs, low and thick. “symbolic of what?”

“dunno. being dirt, i guess.”

he doesn’t respond. just looks back at his phone.

sukuna raises a brow. “you good, dude?”

��yeah.”

“you look like you just had a vision.”

choso finally meets his eye.

“yo,” he says slowly. “you ever just feel something and know you gotta do somethin’ about it right now or you’ll bitch out?”

sukuna squints. “uh. like what?”

choso doesn’t answer.

instead, he pushes off the wall, hoodie slipping off one shoulder again, lighter still clutched in one hand, phone in the other, and starts walking.

sukuna watches him go, a little amused. “damn. alright.”

the air is thick with smoke and bass as he weaves through the crowd, bumping shoulders, dodging a girl dancing with her heels off and her hair in her face.

he reaches the makeshift tattoo stand.

it smells like rubbing alcohol and regret.

“yo,” he says, voice smooth as silk and twice as slow.

the guy behind the table, ink sleeves up to the neck, black gloves, sunglasses indoors, glances up.

“what’s up, man?”

choso leans down slightly, eyes low-lidded and unreadable, body loose and stoned and sexy in that careless way he always carries.

he holds out his phone.

“can you do this,” he asks, “on my arm?”

the artist blinks, then looks at the screen.

it’s a close-up of a girl’s eyes, wide, seductive, yet still glowing with laughter. looking up at the camera like whoever took the photo was the only thing in the world.

looking up at him.

choso taps the screen once. “those are hers.”

the guy raises a brow. “like… your girl?”

choso shrugs one shoulder. his eyes never leave the photo.

the buzz of the needle starts soft, a low, persistent hum, and choso doesn’t even flinch. he just leans back, one arm draped lazily across the armrest, hoodie shoved halfway up his bicep where the artist wiped him down with alcohol. his eyes are half-lidded, bloodshot from whatever gojo rolled earlier, but locked on the phone he’s holding out in his opposite hand.

the picture’s still up. her eyes, warm and wide, lashes curled, looking up at him like she trusts him with her whole heart.

“pretty,” the tattoo guy mutters, angling a small light to get a better look as he sketches the stencil. “yours?”

choso’s mouth curves slow. doesn’t answer right away. just flicks his lighter open and closed, click, click, click, the red spider lilies catching the light each time.

then finally:

“nah.”

the guy hums. “girlfriend?”

he huffs a little, amused. “not that either.”

he sets the lighter down on the table beside him, keeps his eyes on the screen.

“she’s just,” he pauses, then shrugs, soft and slow, “her. y’know?”

the artist side-eyes him. “deep.”

choso smiles again, eyes unfocused. “nah, i’m just fuckin’ high.” the guy presses the warm stencil into choso’s arm, smooths it into place.

“you sure you wanna do this while you’re, uh,” he glances at choso’s glassy expression, the faint grin still tugging at his mouth, “clearly not sober?”

“i’m not wasted,” choso says lazily. “and i’m not dumb. it’s not a mistake.” the artist nods once, respects it. “alright, man.” he flips on the machine again, lines it up.

“you done this before?” choso grunts a laugh. “y’think i got these in my sleep?” he gestures vaguely at the black ink already crawling across both arms, jagged, abstract lines, constellations and waves, some faded with age. some done in basements like this one. “first time sober was the weirdest one.”

the guy snorts. “fair.”

the needle hits skin.

choso exhales slow. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even blink hard. just stares at the wall across the room, jaw slack, hoodie sliding off his shoulder, the buzz settling into the meat of his arm like a low hum of intention. “you ever tattoo someone like this before?” he murmurs after a beat.

“like what?”

he shrugs again. “someone who’s… y’know.” the guy doesn’t answer right away.

choso elaborates, voice softer this time. “she’s not mine. i don’t want her to be. not right now. it’s not like that. it’s just…” he trails off, brows furrowing a little, tongue tucked against the inside of his cheek.

“she just means somethin’. don’t got a word for it.”

the artist doesn’t look up from his work, but his tone’s gentler when he speaks again. “yeah. i’ve seen that before.” choso sinks deeper into the chair, breathing even. the pain’s dull and constant, but it grounds him. keeps his thoughts from spiraling too far out, keeps his high in this exact moment.

“you think she’d be mad?” he asks, voice airy. “if she saw it?”

“dunno,” the guy says. “you gonna tell her?” he blinks slow, head rolling back against the headrest.

“nah.”

another pause.

“not now. it’s just for me.” the tattooer gives a small nod. “that’s real.”

a silence settles between them, the steady hum of the needle, the sound of someone vomiting into a bush outside the window, a muffled scream from the beer pong table two rooms over.

“looks good,” the artist murmurs, wiping excess ink from the forming lines of the eyes. “she’s got crazy lashes.”

choso huffs out a small laugh. “she’d fuckin’ love that you noticed that.”

“yeah?”

he smiles again, softer now. “talked about lash serum for like a week. gave me a whole presentation.”

the guy chuckles under his breath. “sounds like she talks a lot.”

choso closes his eyes.

“she talks just enough.” the buzz continues. the lines take shape. her eyes, right there, etched into his skin. not to claim. not to confess. just to remember.

just for him.

the buzz dies down gradually, tapering into a low hum before the artist finally flicks the switch and pulls back. the sudden quiet settles like a heavy blanket over the both of them, just the soft thud of bass from the next room and the subtle scrape of latex gloves against skin.

“alright, man,” the artist says, leaning back with a stretch. “done.”

choso blinks slow, still slouched deep in the chair like he’s been there for hours, like the cushion molded around his bones. he lifts his head, eyes hazy but laser-locked on the strip of bandage being pressed to his upper arm.

“yo, hold up, lemme see it before you cover it,” he says, voice low and hoarse from either weed or reverence, maybe both.

the guy lifts a brow, but obliges. carefully wipes the skin one last time, blood and excess ink coming away in soft red-black smears. the room’s fluorescent lights hit the raw lines at an angle, shining off the freshly tattooed skin like it’s something holy.

and fuck.

there it is.

your eyes.

wide and soft and open, curved lashes sweeping upward in a way no stencil should’ve captured but somehow did. that quiet way you look at him, like he hung the stars, like he’s yours even if the two of you never say it out loud. inked permanent on the soft part of his bicep, nestled between a set of waves and the jagged edge of a half-finished constellation.

for a second, he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move.

he just stares.

it hits him slow, like a good edible, starts behind his eyes, low and warm in his chest, then spreads.

yo.

he’s obsessed.

like fully, all the way, brain-meltingly obsessed.

he turns his arm slightly under the light, eyes tracing the lines, the slight curve of your upper lid, the detail around the corners like you're mid-laugh or mid-thought or both. it looks exactly like you, his favorite version of you. the version that looks up at him like nothing else exists in the room.

god.

you look good on him. not in the possessive way. not even close. it’s not that.

it’s something else. something way quieter. something he can’t even name when he’s sober, and definitely not now, baked out of his skull with his arm still tingling and his hoodie falling half off.

but still, he’s wearing you now. and it feels like something that’s always been true, just waiting for the ink to make it real.

“you good?” the artist asks, half amused, already reaching for the plastic wrap again. “yeah,” choso says, slow, mouth crooked into a lazy grin. “looks fuckin’ sick, dude.” the guy chuckles under his breath. “kinda figured you’d say that.”

“you killed it,” choso adds, finally dragging his eyes off the tattoo. “like, actually.”

the artist nods, pleased. “appreciate it. was fun as hell to do, honestly. you sure you don’t want her name or somethin’? under it?” choso snorts. “nah. that’d make it weird.”

“fair.”

he watches the guy gently press a clean dressing over the fresh ink, tape it up. the sensation’s a dull sting under his skin, not quite pain, just awareness. a reminder that it’s real now. that it’s his, for good.

she doesn’t know. you might never know. and that’s kinda the whole point. he’s not gonna flash it at you mid-party or say anything slick when you sit beside him later like you always do, throwing your legs over his lap and stealing his drink.

nah.

this one’s just for him. a secret under his sleeve, tucked into the curve of his body like a memory.

“you gonna keep it under wraps?” the guy asks, like he can read choso’s whole plan off his face.

“yeah,” choso mutters, grabbing his hoodie and tugging the sleeve back down with a practiced flick. “at least for now. don’t need her freakin’ out or nothing.”

“bet,” the guy says with a short laugh. “i get it.”

choso stands slow, body still heavy from sitting too long and smoking too much. he sways a bit but rights himself, shaking out his arms like he’s just come up from underwater. the whole basement smells like blood and rubbing alcohol and resin, but it’s warm, and the energy buzzes low and steady around him.

he digs in his pocket for a few bills, slaps them into the artist’s open palm.

“appreciate you, man.”

“anytime, bro. take care of that, don’t go dunkin’ it in a keg or anything.” choso grins. “no promises.”

he walks out with his hoodie draped low, sleeve tugged all the way to his wrist despite the heat and the crowd and the chaotic press of bodies funneling in from the hallway. music floods back in slow, a pulse of bass syncing up with his own heartbeat.

but he can’t stop thinking about it. every step he takes, every time the sleeve brushes against the fresh ink, it reminds him.

not of what they are.

but of what you mean.

upu didn’t need to give him that lighter. you didn’t have to think about him in that little quiet way you always did, like he’s more than just a weed plug or the guy you party with every weekend. that little moment, just you in your dorm, painting red spider lilies on a bic you knew he’d never throw away? that shit went straight to his chest. and now you're on his skin. maybe you'd freak out if you saw it. maybe you'd cry. maybe you'd laugh.

maybe you'd get real quiet and never say anything again. or maybe you'd look at him the way you did in that photo. maybe you'd look at him like you knew.

but all that’s for later. for now, he’s just stoned as hell, arm warm and throbbing, and so unbelievably content that it’s almost embarrassing.

he spots gojo again across the room, already perched on the arm of someone else’s couch with a red solo cup and a grin like he owns the house. choso veers toward him, slips back into the noise like he never left.

sleeve tugged down.

lighter in his pocket.

eyes on his arm, just for him.

later that night you navigate yourself back to choso after your banter with the girls.

you spot him sunk deep into the cushions, hood half up, curls falling into his face, a bottle of water in one hand and his eyes half-lidded and sleepy with that lazy high he wears better than anyone. he’s surrounded, gojo splayed on one armrest like he owns the place, sukuna lounged sideways with his feet on the table, and suguru perched on the edge, nursing a half-finished blunt.

“yo, look who it is,” gojo grins as you walk up, already clocking the way you move like you’re headed home, not just to a guy. “princess finally found her prince.”

you don’t say anything, just slide right into the little space at choso’s side like it was made for you. his arm shifts automatically, pulling you in like it’s instinct, and you tuck your face into his shoulder, letting out the softest exhale. you can feel the thrum of his voice in your cheek when he speaks.

“hey, ma.”

his hand’s warm against your hip, steady, grounding. he smells like weed and cedar and the faintest trace of paint from the lighter you gave him. it’s in his pocket now, safe like something sacred.

“so anyway,” suguru picks back up like you didn’t just crash-land in choso’s lap, “i’m telling you, the guy had no idea what he was doing. tried to roll with a swisher, no guts, just dumped the weed in and twisted the end like a fuckin’ lollipop.”

“god, not the lollipop roll,” sukuna groans, dragging a hand over his face. “freshman?”

“of course it was a freshman,” gojo says, grinning. “those little guys think watching one youtube tutorial makes them bob marley.”

“yo, remember that one dude at the delta party?” choso says, head tilting back slightly. “rolled a joint with a bible page.”

“amen,” sukuna snorts.

“nah, for real,” choso laughs, hand tightening just slightly where it rests on your side. “he said it made the high holier.” you huff against his hoodie, and his fingers flex like he felt it, like it was the best sound he’d heard all night.

they keep going, weed stories, party war stories, the dumbest shit they’ve ever seen in a frat house at 3am. it’s relentless, loud, chaotic, but you stay quiet, tucked against choso’s side like he’s the only still thing in the room. his thumb runs in slow circles against your waist through the fabric of your top, and you feel the way he laughs before you hear it.

“yo,” gojo says, leaning across suguru to point at choso. “what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done at a party?”

“besides adopt a girlfriend he doesn’t kiss?” sukuna adds. choso blinks slow. doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t even twitch.

“probably that time at theta when i fell asleep in the bathtub and woke up with a raccoon in my lap.” suguru chokes. “you serious?”

“deadass.”

“was it… alive?”

“bro. it was chillin’. just vibin’ with me.”

“you probably hotboxed the tub,” gojo says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “raccoon was just tryna get high.”

choso grins, soft and slow, and you nudge your nose into his hoodie like you’re hiding your own smile. “what about women?” sukuna says suddenly, eyes glinting like he’s fishing. “y’all ever hook up at your own party?”

“you’re disgusting, that's against reg” gojo tells him cheerfully.

“don’t lie,” sukuna drawls. “you know you have.”

“alright, once,” gojo admits. “but i kicked her out after because she tried to name my bongs.” “you’re heartless,” suguru says, deadpan.

“you don’t name the bongs,” gojo insists. “they earn names. it’s sacred.”

“what about you, choso?” sukuna’s gaze cuts sideways. “you got bodies stacked in your stoner dungeon?” choso hums, slow and easy. you feel the low sound in his chest, pressed flush to your cheek.

“nah,” he says. “i don’t hook up with girls who don’t know how to roll.” the boys howl, gojo nearly falling off the couch.

“that’s so on brand,” suguru laughs. “you need standards,” choso mumbles, amused, and leans his cheek briefly against the top of your head.

the lighter’s still in his pocket. his arm’s still over your shoulders. and beneath the sleeve of his hoodie, hidden from the world, your eyes are inked into his skin.

you shift a little, just enough to tuck your legs under yourself, settling more fully into him, and he adjusts without thinking — arm around you tighter now, palm spread warm across your ribs, thumb grazing your side through the fabric. he’s careful. doesn’t let the hoodie ride up. doesn’t let anyone see. the tattoo’s still fresh, still tender, and it’s just for him.

“yo, you good?” suguru asks, nodding at him. choso blinks slow. “yeah man’.”

“that weed hit hard,” gojo says. “i feel like i’m seein’ sounds.”

“you ever tried dabs?” sukuna asks. “that’s when shit gets spiritual.”

“you tryna kill someone?” suguru laughs. “every time i hit one, i feel like my soul’s leaving my body.”

“shit’s a rite of passage,” sukuna shrugs.

“nah, a rite of passage is hosting a rager with a cop at your door and acting like you live there,” gojo grins. “have you?” choso asks, amused.

“bro, i’ve answered the door in a bathrobe before,” gojo says proudly. they all crack up again. you don’t say anything, but your smile’s pressed right into choso’s chest, and he dips his head for a second to nuzzle his nose into your hair.

“she’s real quiet tonight,” suguru says, noticing. “nah, she’s just comfy,” choso says easily. “she don’t need to talk when she’s like this.”

you don’t. not when you’ve got his warmth, his arm around you, his voice rumbling low in your ear with every lazy joke. it’s always like this, like no one else in the room really matters, like you could fall asleep right here and he’d keep the world spinning while you did.

“that’s love,” gojo says mock-serious.

“shut up,” choso mutters. but he doesn’t stop smiling. and the lighter’s still warm in his pocket.

and your eyes are still inked into his arm, safe and secret beneath layers of cotton and smoke.

the house is still going when you two finally get up. it’s past 2am, maybe closer to 3, but the music hasn’t let up and there’s still people on the floor, drinks in hand, voices loud and slurred over each other. someone’s passed out with a sharpie mustache, another guy’s making out with a pillow. classic kappa chaos.

choso’s the one who moves first. you feel it in the way his arm shifts, in the soft brush of his thumb against your side like a nudge. he leans in close, voice barely above a murmur.

“you good to dip?”

you nod into his hoodie, eyes half-lidded, heart heavy with warmth and weed.

he helps you up slow, palm steady at your back. when you stand, the cold air from the open back door hits your legs and you shiver a little, instinctively leaning back into his side. he shrugs his hoodie higher and throws an arm around your shoulders like he already knew it’d happen.

“yo,” choso calls out over the couch, voice scratchy and low. “we out.”

gojo perks up from where he’s still posted with a half-spilled drink, eyes bright. “tell your girlfriend goodnight for us.”

you don’t say anything, just press your face into choso’s shoulder again, and he laughs under his breath.

“night, man,” suguru says with a nod, already halfway into rolling another blunt.

sukuna lifts a hand lazily. “text if you end up in a ditch.”

“if i do, i’m takin’ you with me,” choso mutters.

they all laugh again, and it follows you both out the front door, the porch light buzzing weak and yellow above you. the night’s cooler now, quiet in a way that makes everything feel soft around the edges. your heels click against the pavement as you walk, but only for a second, choso notices and without a word, crouches down in front of you, glancing back over his shoulder.

“get on.”

you blink, amused. “seriously?”

“c’mon, ma,” he mumbles, tugging at your wrist. “your feet hurt.”

you climb onto his back with a little laugh, arms wrapped loose around his shoulders, and he stands like it’s nothing, steady under your weight. his steps are slow and sure down the sidewalk, the frat house lights shrinking behind you, the sounds of the party fading with every step.

“you always take care of me,” you mumble against his neck.

he hums low. “’course i do. you're my.. best friend.”

you walk like that for a while, his hoodie soft against your cheek, his hair brushing your face every time the wind shifts. he doesn’t say much, just hums sometimes or comments on dumb shit you pass, a traffic cone in a bush, a raccoon on the curb that freezes when it sees you, like it knows choso somehow.

he sets you down once you’re close, only when his own building’s steps are in sight. his hand stays in yours as he leads you inside, up the stairs, past the other bedrooms where people are either passed out or definitely not sleeping. his door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud, and everything goes quiet.

his room’s the same as always, warm, dim, the faint smell of weed and whatever incense he burned earlier in the week still lingering in the corners. one sock on the floor, a hoodie thrown over the back of his chair. you’ve been here a hundred times, maybe more.

but tonight feels different. softer. warmer.

he pulls his hoodie off slow, careful of the sleeve, and tosses it toward the desk chair. the bandage underneath catches the light for a second, but he turns before you see too much.

you toe your shoes off and crawl onto the bed without thinking. he follows, slower, body still heavy with high and heat and something else he can’t name.

you’re both under the blanket when he finally speaks.

“hey.”

you look over, curled on your side facing him.

his eyes are half-lidded, soft. one arm tucked behind his head, the other stretched toward you, palm open on the comforter like he’s offering it.

“i really fuckin’ love that lighter.”

your heart stutters a little. “yeah?”

he nods, slow. “like… a lot. been using it all night. even switched pockets for it, kept checking to make sure it didn’t fall out or get swiped.”

you smile, something small and full blooming in your chest. “good. it’s supposed to be yours.”

“feels like it.”

he looks at you for a long second. the space between you shrinks until his arm slides around your waist and pulls you in close.

you go easy, always do, settling into him like he’s your own bed, your own pillow, the place you always end up no matter how far you drift.

he breathes in slow, his nose brushing your hair.

“the flowers… why’d you paint those?”

you press your face into his chest.

“they reminded me of you,” you say quietly. “red spider lilies. they’re kind of… complicated. people think they’re about death or goodbye, but they also mean memory. rebirth. starting over. they grow in all the places nothing else does.”

choso’s quiet for a second.

then, soft, “you think i’m like that?”

you shrug against him, voice even softer. “i think you’re the kind of person who sticks. who stays even when shit gets hard. and you don’t always say how you feel but… you’re steady. like those flowers. like fire.”

he exhales slow.

“fuck, ma.”

“what?”

“you’re gonna make me cry or some shit.”

you laugh, a quiet huff against his chest. he wraps both arms around you now, tucking you into the space beneath his chin, his hand sliding up into your hair.

his fingers stroke slow, gentle. again and again.

“you can cry,” you mumble. “i won’t tell.”

he chuckles low, the sound vibrating through you.

“nah, i’m good. just… i dunno. not used to someone thinkin’ about me like that.”

you don’t say anything. just curl closer, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt.

the room settles into silence. soft and slow. your breaths even out together.

his hand keeps stroking through your hair, steady and grounding. like he could do it forever. like maybe he will.

his voice comes again, quieter this time.

“gonna keep that lighter forever.”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut. “good.”

“not even gonna let gojo touch it."

“definitely good.”

his lips brush your hair, a ghost of a kiss.

you feel it all, the warmth, the safety, the way his body curls slightly to fit around yours like a shield, like a home.

his heartbeat’s slow against your cheek.

“night, ma,” he whispers, already half-asleep.

you murmur it back, voice slurred with sleep, breath syncing with his.

his fingers keep moving, slow circles through your hair.

and in the soft dark, beneath the blanket, beneath the silence, his arm curls around you just enough to press the fresh ink on his bicep to your side, a quiet secret. a permanent truth.

just for him.

just for tonight.

just for you.

it’s been a chill afternoon, sun’s out, classes dragging, brain fried. choso’s walking out of the lab building with his earbuds in, hoodie half-zipped, replaying your last message in his head. a pic of your shoes kicked off under a library table, captioned come save me, three broken hearts. made him smile. still does.

he’s almost past the quad when a shadow cuts across the sidewalk.

“yo, choso.”

doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

that voice, too smooth. familiar in the kind of way that feels like smoke curling up your back.

he pulls one earbud out and slows.

toji’s leaned against the trunk of an oak tree like he’s been waiting. sunglasses on, black tee snug across his chest, arms crossed like he’s got all day. his smirk’s already half-there.

“what’s up?” choso mutters.

“you got a sec?”

choso gives him a long look. he knows toji. knows the kind of calm that means something’s coming.

“…yeah,” he says anyway.

they walk.

they’ve done this before, that time a few weeks ago before his lab, once or twice after parties, when everyone else was loud and drunk and messy. toji’s always been different. sharper. like he watches the room just to see where it bleeds.

“how’s life at delta mu?” toji asks after a few steps. casual. fake.

“same shit.”

“yeah?” he smirks. “you still throwing those weed parties with your little mascot?”

choso’s jaw ticks. “you mean y/n?”

toji chuckles. “yeah. her.”

he tosses a glance sideways. too casual.

“she’s got some energy, huh? always bouncing around, arms all over you. she like that with everybody or just you?”

choso doesn’t answer. toji doesn’t need one.

“nah, i’ve seen it,” he continues. “always tucked up next to you. on your lap. wrapped around your arm. clinging to your hoodie like it’s the last blunt in the world.”

he laughs under his breath. “kinda cute.”

choso’s fists go deep in his pockets.

“she’s just like that,” he says flatly.

toji hums. “you sure?”

choso looks over.

“what’s your point?”

“just wondering,” toji shrugs, still smiling like it’s harmless. “you’ve told me before, you two aren’t dating.”

“we’re not.”

“but you hang out every day.”

“yeah.”

“sleep in the same bed sometimes, right?”

choso’s mouth tightens.

toji grins like he caught something.

“so she’s single?”

choso stares straight ahead.

“…yeah.”

“good to know.”

silence.

the wind brushes through the quad. students chatter behind them. someone’s playing music from a bluetooth speaker in the grass, something smooth, almost romantic. it doesn’t help.

“she’s just real… open, you know?” toji says. “like, warm. sweet as hell. makes you feel like you’ve known her forever.” choso stays quiet.

“i ran into her the other day,” toji adds like it’s nothing. “outside the gym. we talked for a sec.” his tone is lighter now. teasing. like he’s digging.

“she remembered my name. smiled real nice, too. said she was headed to meet you.”

no surprise there. you always say where you're going. always talking about choso like he’s the center of your world. and maybe that’s why this stings. and toji knows it.

“you ever wonder if she does that for you?” he asks. “tells other guys she’s headed to see you. uses your name like a shield.”

he doesn’t wait for a reply.

“or maybe it’s just habit. maybe she’s comfortable. you ever think about that?”

“don’t do this.”

choso’s voice is low now. warning. toji just smirks.

“look, man. i’m not trying to piss you off. just… trying to understand. ‘cause you act like you’re her boyfriend, but then you say you’re not.”

he tilts his head.

“so which is it?”

choso breathes slow through his nose.

“we’re close. we’ve always been close. that’s it.” toji nods. like he buys it.

but he doesn’t.

“damn,” he says. “you got more patience than me.”

“what’s that mean?”

“means if a girl like that was pressed up on me every night, i wouldn’t be wasting time calling her my friend.” he says it with a grin, but there’s something sharp underneath.

“you really never tried?” toji asks. “never kissed her? not once?” choso doesn’t respond. he can’t. he kisses you all the time, on the head, bebe ron the lips.

because the truth’s stuck in his throat, the way you fall asleep in his arms, the way you hold his lighter like it means something, the way you always come back to him like he’s home. and he’s the dumbass who never claimed you.

“so she’s single, then?” toji repeats.

“yeah,” choso says, barely above a whisper.

toji gives him one last nod.

“cool,” he says. “just wanted to be sure.” and then he walks away. choso doesn’t move. not for a long time.

just stands there, fists clenched, teeth gritted, watching toji’s silhouette disappear down the path like it’s a threat, because it is. he knew.

he knew before he asked.

and now he’s coming.

because choso left the door wide open.

and you?

you’re free to walk through it.

choso’s room, late afternoon

your legs are curled under you on choso’s bed, hoodie three sizes too big hanging off your shoulder, his, of course. the windows are cracked open, letting in the soft hum of birds and the echo of some guys yelling down at the basketball court. his room smells like incense, sage and something deeper, something him, warm, sleepy. you’ve been here a hundred times like this. maybe more.

his hoodie sleeves keep sliding past your wrists as you text, thumbs quick, quiet smile pulling at your lips. he’s across the room, digging through a drawer for his rolling tray. you can feel his presence without even looking. always do.

“yo, did you move my grinder?” he calls, glancing over his shoulder.

“nope,” you answer, distracted, fingers still flying over your screen. your phone lights again.

toji [3:04pm]: you looked cute at that mixer last night.

you bite your lip. thumbs hover.

then you type:

you [3:07pm]: oh you're stalking me noww?

you don’t see choso pause. you don’t see how long his eyes linger on your phone. you don’t realize he saw the name, until he speaks.

“who you texting?”

you blink up, tone of his voice unfamiliar.

“hm? oh—” you shift your phone in your hand, instinctive. “just… someone.”

he tilts his head.

“someone, huh.”

you laugh a little. “why do you sound like that?”

he doesn’t answer. he crosses the room instead, slow steps. plants himself at the edge of the bed, arms folded. you look up at him and that warm energy’s gone. replaced with something colder. sharp.

“that toji?”

your breath stalls.

“…yeah.”

choso stares at you. unreadable.

“why?”

“what do you mean why?” you ask, eyebrows tugging. “he messaged me. we were just talking.”

he hums. low. not buying it.

“just talking,” he echoes. “what about?” you sit up straighter. “what’s going on?”

“what’d he say?”

“choso—”

“lemme see.”

he gestures at your phone. you clutch it instinctively. like muscle memory. like guilt? “are you serious right now?” he doesn’t answer. jaw’s tight. eyes dark.

“what’d he say?” he asks again. your fingers squeeze your phone. you feel a flush crawl up your neck. not from embarrassment, but shock.

“you’re not serious,” you say again, this time quieter. he just looks at you. so you speak.

“he said i was cute when i was bored. and i said maybe. that’s it.”

his jaw ticks.

“you flirting with him?”

“what?”

“you heard me.”

you scoff. “no. i wasn’t. it wasn’t even- i didn’t mean it like that.” choso steps back, runs a hand through his hair. pacing now.

“you texting him while you’re in my bed?”

“what does that matter?”

“it matters.”

his voice is sharper now. rough around the edges. not loud, but tight, like it’s fighting to stay inside his chest. “you know how i feel about that guy.”

“choso, he’s been nothing but nice lately—”

“he’s not nice. he’s not interested in being friends. he’s waiting. he’s circling. you don’t see it?” you blink.

“so what, you’re mad ‘cause i texted him back?” he looks at you like you just spit on the floor. “i’m mad ‘cause you’re in my fucking hoodie, in my bed, telling some other guy he’s got a shot.”

you freeze.

the silence that falls is loud.

so loud.

your eyes widen. you stare at him, lips parted. unsure if you heard that right. unsure if he meant to say it.

“a shot?” you echo. he looks away. exhales hard.

“never mind.”

“no,” you say, voice firm now. “say it again.”

he doesn’t. but you both feel the truth echoing off the walls.

you look down. suddenly too warm. like the hoodie’s burning your skin. “…i didn’t know you’d care,” you say, almost to yourself.

choso swallows. “i do.” you glance back up.

“why?”

he doesn’t answer. but you already know. and now the air is thick with it. the unspoken thing. and for the first time, it’s not sweet. not warm. it hurts.

because it means everything he’s never said, everything he’s been, came with conditions you never agreed to. came with borders he never drew, but expected you not to cross.

you breathe slow. he watches you. you speak first.

“if you wanted to be the only one texting me like that, you should’ve said something.” choso’s face shifts. his mouth opens like he’s going to say something, defend himself, maybe, argue the way he always stays quiet because he doesn’t want to lose you,but nothing comes out.

instead, his brows knit together, lips pressed in a tight line. his fingers curl at his sides.

“you really think i don’t wanna be that?” he says, voice rough. “you think this shit’s been casual for me?” you blink at him. your breath catches.

“you’ve never said it was anything else, choso. what was i supposed to think?”

“fuck,” he growls, pacing again. “you were supposed to know. i thought you knew.”

his voice rises, not yelling, but loud with frustration. he’s unraveling in real time, and it’s shaking something loose in you, too. “how was i supposed to know?” you shoot back. “you flirt but you never say anything. you touch me like i’m yours but act like i’m just your best friend—”

“you are mine.” your voice dies in your throat.

he stares at you. and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, but no less intense.

“you’re mine,” he says again, like a confession. like a curse. “always been mine.” your stomach flips.

“then why—” your voice cracks — “why didn’t you ever tell me?”

choso runs a hand through his hair again, like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. like it hurts.

“’cause i was scared,” he snaps. “scared that if i said it out loud, it’d fuck everything up. that you’d look at me different. that you’d leave.” you stare.

“so you’d rather let someone else have me?”

he stiffens. you rise onto your knees on the bed, fire lighting behind your ribs now. “you’d rather let toji of all people try it?”

his jaw clenches. “he’s not gonna have you.” your heartbeat skids.

he moves in fast, faster than he ever has, and grabs your wrist, firm but not rough, like he can’t bear to let the distance exist any longer.

“i’m not letting him have you,” he mutters.

you’re still frozen, looking up at him. something between fear and thrill curling in your gut.

“choso,” you whisper. he doesn’t stop. he pushes you back gently onto the bed, one hand catching your waist, the other bracing against the mattress. he hovers over you, breath heavy, eyes searching your face like he’s begging you to see it, really see it this time.

“i’m fucking in love with you.”

your heart punches into your throat. his forehead dips, pressing against yours, voice hoarse.

“i’ve been in love with you since you showed up to my first party and we listened to that dumb song together.”

you let out a shaky laugh, but your eyes are wet his thumb brushes your cheek.

“i never said it ‘cause i thought this was enough. thought just having you close was better than risking it all. but i can’t—” he pulls in a breath, voice shaking now too — “i can’t sit quiet while other people try to take you from me.”

you’re blinking fast now. breath catching. every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire beneath his touch.

“you’re my girl,” he says again, softer this time. “you’ve always been mine.”

you don’t answer right away. your chest rises and falls beneath his, shallow and unsteady. your palm is still on his cheek, but your eyes have shifted, staring past him now. unfocused. wet.

“you’re only saying that,” you murmur, “because someone else finally had the balls to go after me.”

his breath catches. your voice is quieter, but sharp now, like you’re trying to convince yourself. like you want to believe it, but the cracks are there, and they’re splitting open.

“you didn’t say anything until he got involved. until he started asking about me. texting me. seeing me.” your hand falls away from his face. “and now suddenly, i’m yours?”

his eyes widen. “no—”

“you had so long to tell me, choso. so many chances.”

“y/n, it’s not like that—”

“then what is it like?” you breathe. “’cause i don’t get to be the girl you only want when someone else does.”

choso stares at you, heart hammering. like you just ripped something raw and bloody straight out of his chest.

he swallows.

and then, slowly, he pushes back, just far enough to sit up on his knees beside you. the mattress dips with the weight shift. his hands fumble for the hem of his hoodie.

he pulls it up and over his head in one quick move. your breath stutters.

there, inked into the inside of his upper arm, where he’d hidden it every time you curled up against him, is a tattoo.

of your eyes.

staring straight back at you.

your real breath, the one stuck in your throat, finally punches out of you.

choso watches your expression shift, eyes flicking from the ink to his face and back. he swallows once, hard, and says:

“got it the night of the party. when you gave me the lighter.” you blink.

“you were curled up on me. whole time i was talking with the boys, i couldn’t stop thinking about you. how close you were. how you looked at me like that was your home.” he swipes a thumb under his nose, like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands. “so i got up, high as fuck, to the guy tatting people in the corner. told him to ink your eyes on me.”

your lips part, but nothing comes out. his voice softens.

“i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought it was enough. just having you near. but it’s not. not anymore.”

your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your ears.

he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. like he needs you to believe it. really believe it.

“this isn’t about toji. it’s never been about him. i wanted you long before he ever said your name.”

you’re still staring at the tattoo.

he moves closer again. his hand brushes your knee, gentle.

“you think i’d get your fucking eyes on me just ‘cause i’m jealous?” you blink fast.

his hand finds your face again. tender. grounding “you’re it for me.”

his voice is low, raspy. not just from the emotion, but from how hard he’s holding it in, like if he lets go, everything he’s ever felt for you will come spilling out and drown him.

but he lets it go anyway.

“you’re all i think about,” choso says, brushing his thumb over your cheek again. “when i’m high, when i’m sober, when you’re across the room and laughing at someone’s stupid joke, when you’re asleep in my bed, wearing my shirt, you’re in my head all the time, ma.”your breath catches.

“every song reminds me of you. every little thing you do drives me crazy. you don’t even know how much of me you’ve got.”

he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours.

“you gave me that lighter and i wanted to kiss you right there in the middle of the street. when you paint your nails i stare at your hands for hours. when you fall asleep on me at parties, i sit still like a statue so you don’t move. i’m always lookin’ at you like i already lost you. and it kills me.”

his hand finds your jaw, warm and steady, fingers curling behind your ear. your breath hitches, and he’s close enough to feel it.

“you’ve had my heart since freshman year. and i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought maybe you didn’t want it. or maybe you already had it and didn’t need to hear it out loud.”

you swallow, shaky. lips parted. cheeks flushed.

and choso looks down at them, your lips, like he’s been holding himself back from kissing you for a lifetime.

and then he doesn’t anymore.

he crashes into you like he’s starving.

the kind of kiss that drags a sound out of your throat before you even realize it, all heat and pressure and ache, all the months and years and everything he’s shoved down, poured out into the way his lips mold against yours. he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, and like he knows you won’t.

your hands claw at his shoulders, winding into the mess of his hair, tugging him in even closer. and choso groans, deep in his throat, pressing you down into the bed, slotting his hips against yours.

his mouth moves fast, desperate, lips, tongue, teeth, like he can’t get enough. like the taste of you is something he needs in his lungs.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, dragging his lips down your jaw, “you don’t get it, do you?”

your back arches, lips parting when he sucks lightly under your ear.

“how bad i’ve wanted this. you.”

his hands roam, over your waist, under your shirt, up your sides like he’s trying to memorize all of you at once. and every place he touches leaves a trail of fire.

you moan his name, soft and shaky, and he loses it a little more, bites your bottom lip as he grinds his hips down into yours, heavy and hot and so there.

“say it again,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded, forehead pressed to yours. “say my name.”

“choso.”

he shudders.

“again.”

“cho!.”

he kisses you so deep it knocks the breath out of your lungs. kisses you like he owns you, like you’ve always belonged to him, and like he’s finally letting himself claim what’s already his.

and fuck, you let him.

you’ve wanted this just as long. needed him just as bad.

and now, with your limbs tangled, your body burning under his, your heart thudding like a war drum in your chest, there’s no more pretending.

you’re his. he’s yours. and it’s written all over his face.

choso looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, like he’s starved for you, but still savoring the moment. his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, but soft. reverent. he cups your cheek with a hand that’s just slightly trembling, brushing his thumb along your skin like he can’t believe you’re real.

he kisses your forehead, slow and grounding, like a promise. then your nose. then your lips, and that one lingers. warm, aching, deep enough that it steals the air from your lungs. it’s not just desire. it’s everything he’s never said until now.

“please let me see you, ma." he whispers, voice hoarse, like he’s been holding back forever.

you nod, lips parted, eyes locked with his. your breath stutters as his fingers ghost over the hem of your shirt, lifting it inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something precious. he tosses it aside, only to pull you in again. his palms spread wide across your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath your chest.

“fuck,” he breathes, low and to himself. “so fucking beautiful.”

he leans in, mouth dragging hot and open along your neck, kissing and breathing you in, his lips trembling against your pulse like he’s drunk off you. he murmurs something there, a soft, almost desperate, “mine,” before he undoes your bra with one practiced flick.

and when it falls away, he doesn’t touch you right away. he just stares, like the sight of you has knocked the wind out of him.

his hands come up slow, palms warm as they cup you like he’s afraid to break something delicate. “been dreaming about this,” he says. “about you. here. like this. in my bed. lookin’ up at me like you already know i’d give you everything.”

you shiver under the weight of it all, his voice, his gaze, his touch. and then his mouth is on your chest, lips sealing around your nipple, tongue flicking before he sucks — slow, deep, just enough to make you arch into him with a needy whimper.

“choso…”

he groans, hand sliding lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. he pulls them down with your panties in one motion, dragging his palms down your thighs on the way. and when he sits back, just to take you in, bare, breathless, flushed, his eyes go wide, like he’s trying to commit you to memory. “look at you,” he murmurs, chest rising with each ragged breath. “you don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”

you reach for him, tugging his shirt up and over his head, palms skating down the strong lines of his chest, stopping only when your fingers find his arm. your breath catches.

your eyes. inked in black and red over his skin, etched like a confession. you won't ever get sick of seeing it.

he watches you take it in, sees the exact moment you understand, and he doesn’t say anything. not at first. he just leans in, takes your hand in his, and presses it over his heart.

“see?” he whispers. “been yours. always.”

your eyes brim, chest tight with something that has no name. and then he kisses you again, slow and deep, tongue stroking yours, hand sliding between your thighs. he groans into your mouth when he feels you, warm, wet, already trembling.

“so wet for me,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. “all this for me, huh?”

his fingers dip into you, one at first, then two, slow and deep, curling just right. your back arches, mouth falling open with a gasp as he starts to move them, watching every twitch and shiver you give him like he’s memorizing the way you come apart. “fuck, baby,” he breathes. “you feel so good, been wantin’ this for so long. just wanted to take care of you. make you feel good.”

his lips trail back down, mouth closing around your nipple again as his fingers keep working you open, the room echoing with your broken gasps and soft moans. he kisses your sternum, your ribs, every inch of you he can reach like he’s trying to make up for every second he didn’t have you.

and when your legs start to tremble, when your thighs squeeze around his hand and you whimper his name into the crook of his neck, he groans, low and sexy, and pulls back just enough to strip the last of his clothes.

his cock is flushed, hard, already leaking, and still, he pauses.

he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “you sure you wanna do this hun?”

“i want you,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i want all of you.”

and when he slides in, slow, deliberate, it’s overwhelming. your nails dig into his shoulders, mouth open in a silent gasp, and he just groans, long and low, burying his face in your neck.

“fuck, baby… you feel so fuckin’ good, made for me, huh?”

his hips rock into you, slow and deep, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you until you’re trembling again, mouth parted in helpless moans. he kisses you through it, messy and uncoordinated, full of teeth and tongue and need.

he doesn’t hold back anymore. not his body, not his voice. he’s everywhere, his hands, his mouth, his words, and every thrust is rougher, deeper, hotter than the last.

“been yours since the day i met you,” he breathes against your skin. “you’re mine, baby. mine. no one else gets to have you like this. no one else even fuckin’ compares.”

you believe him. how could you not, when he’s saying it like he’s been waiting years to let it out?

you fall apart first, clenching around him with a strangled moan, whole body trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, and choso follows, grinding into you with a low growl, holding you close as he spills into you.

he doesn’t let go. not even after. he stays buried deep, forehead to yours, one hand cradling your jaw like it’s fragile.

“not lettin’ you go,” he whispers. “not now. not ever.”

the party’s already in full swing when you two walk in. the bass thrums under your feet, bodies packed tight in the kappa house. familiar faces flash by in strobes of color and sound, solo cups raised, someone laughing too loud, gojo shouting across the room with a bottle in each hand.

and then you and choso step into the chaos like it’s nothing. except tonight, it’s not nothing. it’s everything. your hand is in his. his thumb strokes over your knuckles like it’s second nature, and you’re tucked into his side like you’ve always belonged there. he’s wearing that hoodie you love, and you’ve got it slung off your shoulder like it’s yours now. he hasn’t let go of you since you walked through the door, and he doesn’t plan to. people notice.

gojo sees first. his mouth falls open around the mouth of a beer can, and he drops it on the counter with a dramatic gasp. “oh my god.” choso raises an eyebrow, smirking. “no fuckin way,” sukuna mutters, eyes narrowing. “this for real?” you don’t say anything. just smile, nuzzling into choso’s chest. and choso, god, he melts. his arm tightens around you like instinct, like he’s not even thinking about it. “you’re kidding,” maki blurts from across the room. she’s half-drunk and squinting, pointing her beer bottle at you two like she’s trying to make sense of a mirage. “you finally fucked?”

“maki,” shoko hisses, slapping her arm, but she’s already grinning. “i knew it. i knew it.” suguru lifts his drink with a slow, knowing smile. “took you long enough.” gojo, meanwhile, is spinning in a circle like he just witnessed a miracle. “wait wait wait,” he says, pointing between the two of you. “you’re telling me this entire time, we’ve been watching you two eye-fuck each other across every frat house on campus, and now you’re just casually showing up like this?”

“what can i say,” choso murmurs, pulling you even closer, “i figured it was time.” “look at his hand placement,” shoko says, leaning into maki. “that’s not friends. that’s boyfriend hand placement.”

“yeah and look at her,” maki laughs. “she looks like she just got dicked down and praised like a goddess.” you duck your head a little, embarrassed, but choso leans in and kisses your cheek, then your temple. it’s so soft, so easy, and when he pulls back, he looks straight at toji who’s staring wide eyed, steady, calm, but with a flicker of challenge in his eyes.

“don’t look at her like that,” he says, voice low. “not tonight. not ever.” toji scoffs, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his grin is sharp. “damn. someone’s possessive now.”

“been possessive,” choso mutters, like it’s not even up for debate. he turns his attention back to you instantly, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“you okay?” you nod. “i’m perfect.” and then he kisses you. not a peck. not for show. it’s slow, unhurried, with his hand cupping your jaw and his lips moving with the kind of tenderness that makes your knees weak. the room could be burning down and he wouldn’t stop. you don’t even hear gojo’s dramatic screech until you break apart.

“yo this is crazy,” he says, spinning around and yelling to no one in particular. “choso is off the market. choso kamo, resident stoner-lover of no one but his weed and his hoodie collection, is now cuffed.”

“what’s it feel like,” suguru asks with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at choso, “to be someone’s boyfriend?”

“feels like i shoulda done it years ago,” choso says. you blink up at him, heart catching in your throat. “yo,” yuuji calls from the other side of the room. “does this mean we’re finally allowed to say you two have been in love since freshman year?” “i always said it,” nobara yells, shoving through the crowd with a drink. “don’t act like y’all didn’t see them cuddled up at every party like an old married couple.”

“wait does this mean she’s moving into his room?” gojo asks, visibly spiraling. “what’s gonna happen to the guest bed? who’s gonna roll for me when choso’s too busy being in love?”

“die mad,” choso says flatly, and everyone laughs. but even through all the noise and teasing and attention, his focus never strays from you. his hand stays on your waist. his eyes keep dropping to your mouth like he’s remembering exactly what it feels like.

“you good?” he murmurs again, like he just wants to hear you say it.

you press your nose to his chest and nod, smiling. “more than good.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, like it’s just for you. like no one else is in the room. like he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be.

and the thing is — he is.

he’s yours. fully, finally, publicly.

more choso for you >~< 'sticky situation'

awe wasn't that sweet 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 masterlist !!

guys look at this beautiful art @ryololart did inspired by this fic i love her go like it rn omg this is the perfect visual.

#reading later

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pixieseo · 8 hours ago

Text

FAST N' FURIOUS!

Synopsis. When he’s furious, he’s fast. And rough.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, angry s, manhandIing, they’re FÉRAL, full neIsons, headIocks, creampíes, cúmplay, GOJO’S POWERS, fíngering, chokíng, spítting, p talking, true form Sukuna, dp, p sIapping, breaking the bed, ratio technique, exhíbitionísm (Geto), rough s, they’re big, dumbíficatíon, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. Heheh hope you have a lovely week <3

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - BACK-BREAKER.

CRACK!

It takes a second for Toji to even register the splintering noise let alone realize that he’d just shattered your bed into almost a thousand pieces. Darkened eyes narrowing- a bad gig today and now this?

“Mmm, Toji–” You’re turning your dazed head back to whimper oh-so-cutely. Lips wobbling as you take in the state of your poor bedsprings, “You broke the- oh!”

And Toji Fushiguro didn’t care.

He didn’t care if your bed was in one piece let alone sagging on one side. And before you can even flutter your teary lashes, you’re finding yourself flatly sprawled on your bedroom floor. Spine arched into a curve, legs smeared open by his strong knee.

“Be good for me, girl.” One of his rough, scarred hands creeps up on your neck to manhandle you still. He spanks his puffy n’ red tip down your core with a dampened pap! Voice fuming, “Your husband’s had a baaad day.”

Wait…husband?

Your poor mouth dangles open to ask what he meant by that- but the only thing sneaking out is a shrill whimper. “Fuh-fuck! Oh my god, why are you so big-”

Because Toji’s sheathing in a few of his hard, solid inches in a single thrust. Barely giving you time to adjust, barely letting you even breathe prior to holding onto your rapidly pulsating throat n’ dragging your body up and down in harsh jerks to meet his.

“Fuck. Shut up.” He’s channeling out a seething hiss, every one of your sweet sounds made his large, weeping tip twitch. Achingly. “Shut up and take- it-”

It’d been nearly hours now since he’d come back from some mission gone awry n’ taken it out on your poor, sensitive cunt. Now tenderly weeping out every time he furiously pours out another batch of wadded pre.

Toji’s barely even moving in his usually looong, teasing strikes that have you squirming endlessly. Right now he’s fucking you through the frigidly polished hardwood with rough, pummeling half-thrusts that have his own pelvis burning bright red at the slamming impact.

And you’re so sensitive from it.

Sobbing, “B-but it’s so much.”

“Shit- if this pretty pussy can’t take it then no one can, doll.” Toji has the audacity to tilt his head sexily and whistle. The wet underside of his shaft rawly inching deeper to stretch your hole wiiidely. “What is it- want me to beg? S’that it? You want me to beg, mama?”

Whining, his rude restraint on your windpipe grows stronger - and so does his cadence.

With a grunt he swats his plush balls against your cunt and watches as the contact makes your eyes stupidly whirl. “N-ngh- Toji–!”

“Heh- alright then…please.” Grinning, he’s so mean in the way he’s leaning his muscular body down so that you’re dealing with the brunt of his weight. “Please. Hold those legs up f’me and ngh- let your husband blow off a lil’ steam.” Mockingly, annoyed - but not at you, never at you. “Please.”

Leisurely, you’re only half-way registering what you’re doing once your hands instinctively dive down to perk the inner part of your thighs up. “Like this?”

“More.”

Struggling. “This?”

He snickers, “Difficult? Need me to fuck ya into the hah– floor instead?” He already was. Letting him throw your jittery legs onto his shoulders and bending–“Not enough, my wife.”

“Wh-what?!”

“I said…” It’s such a primal mating press right then n’ there on the ground. Your thighs on his deltoids, your ass against his washboard abs.

Toji pliably uses his inhuman strength to roughen you up all he wanted, the fleshy curves of his muscles flexing as he did. It was so mouth-watering to ogle him - all veins of his neck popping out, pecs tense, temple glittered with a thin line of sweat. Easing inside. Groaning, “-not enough.”

“O-oh mmm–” You’re steadily melting as his rugged length angles a straight whack! against the cute target of cute g-spot. Still so delicately bruised from all those rounds prior. “There! Right- ngh- there, baby–”

So deep and big inside of you now that his cocktip was stretchin’ the areas of your walls until you’re damn near seeing stars.

Swabbing every slick orifice with his reddened, blushing crown, he’s so far gone that the way you twist your hands into his beefy forearms and claaaw your way down only makes him let off a dopey smile. “Tch- like kitten scratches, mmmm- yeah yeah, try harder, doll.”

Harder. Faster. And it was all because of that damn gig- what that damn Shiu had said…

It feels so raw having him inside you, spank after spank you’re reeling from- easily making a complete mess of you.

Hiking his naturally sculptured thighs further upwards to press a deep snog against your cervix, you’re feeling the spheroid of his mushroomy tip surface the spongy layer of your womb and you sob.

“Harder. C’mon now- harder.” Toji bites out at you, the honed points of his canines gleaming with a layer of slobber. He was drooling at the repeatedly squelching music of your hot, dripping pussy now. “Oh, the lil’ kitty’s purring for me now…h-heh. Is she gonna cum—?”

He knew the state of your sweet, syrupy cunt more than you did.

Because just then you’re feeling the white-hot sparks swimming near your navel, thighs shaking ‘round Toji’s gyration hips. You can only nod and nod and nod, “C-close! Not gonna last…”

“There there, mama.” He flicks the pinkish edge of his tongue over his scarred lips, just the sight of you all wet and leaking over him maddening. Flopping his tastebuds out to taste your salty tear-tracks, “Cum for me.” Before you can utter a word, his free hand spanks down on your weepy cunt and dips a thumb past your slit. Treating your quivering clit like a button- one strike on your pretty nub, one strike to your g-spot. “Cum. Harder now.”

You don’t even realize you do until Toji’s gasping.

Until he’s grinning, until his painfully rock-hard cock bulges just a few centimeters even bigger at the sight of your mouth gaping in awe.

Toes curled, mouth flapping, overstimulated to tears. “T-Toji–! Cum…ing…”

Your slick-sprayed thighs plaster to the side of his obliques, front glued to his ladder-like abs as he sliiides down between vicious thrusts. Leaving no room for you to collect your breath. Leaving no room for you to even start thinking again—

“We haven’t broken the floor yet, doll.” Toji rustles his heady breath over your features, feral. “And Shiu’s gonna see what happens when he tries ta flirt with my wife.”

Oh.

♡ NANAMI KENTO - A reeeal man

You had your mouth gagged with Nanami’s silky yellow tie, your eyes curling to the back of your head. Jittery hands struggling to find purchase anywhere for dear life—“Mmpf, Ken—!”

And you were just so cute with your wet, puffy folds squeezin’ down on him that Nanami has to force himself to tear his hazy irises away from your cunt. “S’alright, my love.” Cooing, one of his fat thumbs darts up to swipe away the line of sparkly drool seeping from your lips. “Don’t wanna be mean. And I- ngh- don’t wanna be too rough, but…”

But he couldn’t help it.

Oh, ever since the moment he woke up in this very hospital bed after fighting that damned curse Mahito- Nanami Kento couldn’t help himself.

Parched for his dear wife’s pretty pussy when he thought he’d never see you again, he’s just slightly roughened up after Shoko had mended him, as good as new. Able to fuck you as good as new in this sloppy full nelson.

Chiseled pecs heaving, groans claggy.

“Fuck, darling, you’d be lucky if I don’t eat you alive.”

Whining, your back arches as his rugged hands come sliding underneath your knees to tug them all the way up to your tits. Tight. Rude.

His scorching hot breath hits the side of ear in gusts, “I’m- I’m gonna break you, my wife.” Uttering this just as Nanami’s feet plant firmly flat on the creaky bedsprings to shovel his cock deeper. The utter fuckin’ stress of everything that’d happened during battle only making his reddened, ravaged cock oh-so-merciless. “I’m gonna fuck you so had that m’gonna hafta apologize.”

You swear the round, curving edge of his cocktip only grows harder every time he’s remembering - getting angrier. Furiously pumping between your pussylips, it just feels so good to have your calm, sensible husband take it out on your pussy until the toned area of his pelvis is stinging red.

“Ngh– mmm- there.”

And Nanami didn’t know whether he should be proud or shocked at the way that geysering hole of yours only grows wetter. A sticky lather of syrup trickling down his veiny shaft- “You…you like that?”

All you can do is nod- your head falling slightly backwards to hit his strong collarbone, where he takes the opportunity to sweetly kiss the side of your cheek.

Murmuring - more to himself this time than you. “You want it- rough.”

It all happens at once- in one blink of your dewy eyes.

Nanami has your whiny throat caught in one of his big, beefy biceps in a headlock. His ankles looped over yours to smear them even further apart, n’ his large, bulbous cock swinging inside so deep.

And you suddenly have your teary cunt stinging with impact, your tastebuds sizzling at the stretch. “I’m r-really gonna break you, my love.” And yet, he just couldn’t stop himself. He’s rovering his hungry shaft with hard, slamming thrusts. “Really, really…”

Slap after slap.

Even though Nanami’s voice was so very gentle with you, his hips were anything but.

As if he’s slowly regaining his cursed strength and ramming every shred of it into swabbing your sloppy orifice. Letting his hip bones dig deeply into the cheeks of your ass, you’re whining. “M-more!”

“More…?”

“More.” Cheeks still stuffed with the length of his tie, you’re hastily trying to spit it out- just to have him push one of his ringed hands over and squeeze your cheeks. Pushing. Holding you still. And Nanami’s sheer cadence is so hard n’ fast that your legs fall further open like they’re completely boneless. “Want you in like mmm- this.”

Like this?

The metallic clinic bedframe creaks as he only picks up his pace, grunting. “Being all- hah-disrespected like this?” Drilling into you like he was crazed- he’s never been so sloppy, so disoriented, so messy with a pool of precum laying over your folds. He spanks his wedding band on your swollen clit and watches as you squirm. “How does it feel like this, huh?” Tugging rudely on that sensitive nub, “Lettin’ me treat that pussy like a little slut?”

It’s like he’s tightening his restraint on your windpipe and asking you into making your shrilling wails. Goading you to.

“P-please-”

“How does it feel? Goood?”

Your maw splashes a polish of drool down his veiny forearm, your head pathetically airy with bloodrush. All you can whimper are tiny ‘yesses’ and ‘please!’

Voice higher-pitched, breaking. “Don’t say things like that.” Cutting off your rapid breaths as he raises his toned spine to rut n’ rut- “Gonna hafta draw you a long-” His thick veins were throbbing at this point, patterning across every inch inside of you. The towering curves of his body frame twitch as he’s feeling the stress seep away from him. “-loooong bath after this- and the deepest- massage.”

You’re so wet that you’re squirting off a few dribbles of syrupy sap and his precum, shiny in the overhead lights. And he breathes, “And another ring- fuck!”

Oh, with his blond brows furrowed and his glassy gaze blurred at the feeling of your sweet, sweet cunt- Nanami doesn’t waste a single second before striking your sensitive g-spot with a slick thwack!

Repeatedly. Accurately, oh-so-hard with his strength that your teeth are on edge. “F-fuck! There-” Your poor hips are starting to run away from the raw impact, but Nanami can’t bear that-

“Come- come back.” Headlock still in place, you’re being hauled back down until the line of his tawny happy trail nuzzles your back. One more thrash of his weepy divot into your g-spot. Two more. Three more. Four-

And it’s only later that your mind registers the pricking sensation of the charged air around you two. Almost as if your pussydrunk husband was leaking…electricity? No, that couldn’t be. It was more like…

Oh, fuck…your eyes widen. His ratio technique.

He was out of control- and it seems like Nanami is hit with the very same realization. Gasping sharply, “Oh, darling, you are not going to be walking out of this.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Jury Duty

“Now…I don’t get mad, gorgeous.” Oh, but Geto Suguru was fuming - not because you’d messed up your sneaky lil’ mission to collect data from the sorcerers- no.

The very memory makes him slide his glistening fingertips down your raw, leaking slit. Letting off the loudest ringing sluuuurp–! once he’s digging between your puffy folds to squeeze your clit. Humming, “But was it quite so necessary to be that…close?”

He was mad because of just how sweetly you were talking to that nameless assistant that’d tried his best to get your number. Oh, if only Geto could’ve taken care of him right then and there.

“B-but-”

“Was it?” Raising his head, his darkened eyes face your little audience of the rest of his cult members, surrounding the two of you on the tatami mats. “Did you think you could pull a fast one on me?”

Heads bowed, reverent of their leader. Each n’ every one there shivers at his attention- and you don’t even get to hear their answer before he’s kissing his plush lips down the line of your back- holding you firmly still with a hand at your throat once the curve of his cock slips just between your legs.

You’re whining, “No it wasn’t- please!”

“Stay.” Voice deep, tone guttural. He’s clinging on with a clawed hand onto the side of your hips, no matter how much you wrestle and thrash and ache for more- you couldn’t move because of his carnal, strong hold. Not a single inch.

“He was just hck! being nice.”

“And now you can’t stop talking about him, gorgeous?” And Geto knows he’s being unfair. He knows he’s being mean. But the way you just turned so slippery n’ wet once he’s spanking the entrance to your cunt with his reddened, blushing tip makes him only grin. “Guess you’ll just get to talk out of her.”

Geto was silently seething, watching the way your spit-stuck mouth hangs faaaar ajar with every solid inch he slips inside. Sensually, slow enough that your thighs twitch and you can’t do anything but whine once he’s holding you still to rub the fat of his veins against your sweetest spots. Over and over.

“H-heh-” Something in his voice cracks. “Don’t think she even deserves this. Now, do we think she deserves my entire fucking cock, hm—?”

Oh, the low purr in his voice makes both you and the cult shiver- and your popped ears catch a few stray agreements. Geto’s answering tone low in your ear, “You’re lucky they’re being nice~”

But he wasn’t - and before you know it, your boyfriend has one thigh hiked to help take you from behind. The spheroid of his mushroomed tip flared and red-hot lodging straight into your cervix as he sinks in, pushing and pushing and pushing.

He gasps at the slight resistance of your tight hole, “Take it.” Honed fangs snarling, partially-closed eyes locked onto the way slick was gluing your pussylips all sweet n’ together. Your mouth drops as you stare over your shoulder and wonder whether he was even talking to you.

Because his low, breathy tone made it sound like Geto was babbling like never before.

Spitting straight down the glittery slope of your slit so that you whimper. “Can’t hear you, pretty baby. Speak up.”

“Suguru–” Your mouth huffs out, lower lip pushing into a pout. Your eyes criss-cross stupidly once he flinches at the sound of his name on your tastebuds and strikes the spongy layer of your g-spot dead-on- as if it’d just electrocuted him. Slapping down two hands on the side of your hips to haul you deeper down his bludgeoning, split-ended crown. He probes a circular bruise into you, “O-ohhh mmm- s’in so deep-”

“And who said you could speak, gorgeous?”

You’re letting off a whiny shrill, questions building up on your tastebuds. Only for Geto to beat you to it and thwack! his meaty cockhead repeatedly against the splotch of your g-spot until you can’t speak.

Tilting his head towards your spectators with a grin, “Right~? I didn’t say hah- she couldn’t speak, right?” Seemingly nodding, you could feel him lean his weight further down into the base of your spine, pinning you down. “So shut up and take- it-” Punctuating his words with stiff jackhammers that blow your mind. “Let this filthy hole be the one ngh- talking t’me- she’s muuuuch sweeter than you.”

As if he’d just planned it, his flared slit snags on the quivering entrance to your pussy and makes such a saccharine squelch!

“Heh…when she’s not swallowing my fat fucking cock, that is.”

So vulgar.

You’ve never seen him like this- you’ve never had him like this.

Fucking you so deeply into the futon that you’re half-sure the pattern of the tatami below would still be on your front by tomorrow. He wasn’t just pounding away, though- it was hard, precise mazings of his slimy shaft that drove you the most mad. Geto spanks his hips down until it gives a good pummel against your g-spot and wonders whether it might’ve bruised.

“B-but-” Just barely managing to get out of your drivelling mouth before two of his arms loop underneath your own and hoist you halfway upwards. Held up only by his big, beefy biceps, splayed out like such a slut.

He sags his pretty face into the crook of your neck, still driving his hips until the fuzz of his happy trail was scratching you raw. “Still talking, gorgeous?”

“But- wanna-”

“Wanna? Hmmmm…” For a second, Geto looks as if he might just as the rest of his association whether or not you deserved to. And for a second, you expect him to.

But it happens all at once- his wrist reaching out to tilt back your woozy head, his rosy lips puckering, spitting a wadded stream of saliva straight into your half-open mouth.

He’s wrenching shut your jaw and making you swallow—“Clean that mouth out. Talking to hah- bastards.” Absolutely no shame, absolutely no disgust in the way he plants a lecherous slide of his tongue down in a French kiss. Fuck. “Mmm- now you’re mine. Say ‘thank you’, my girl.”

The sheer girth of his length already has you blubbering, mouth moving before your mind. He’s stirring up your insides n’ every ridge until you mewl, “Th-thank you.”

“Good—” The very same hand that was latched onto your jaw now moves to your cheeks, squishin’ them into an embarrassing pout as Geto makes you stare straight at the sprawling audience you two have. Heady. “Now…ask them if you deserve to cum.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - “Fuck.”

It’s just about the only thing that your poor, twitching boyfriend can say right now.

And as he bruises a roughened hold upon each side of your bouncing hips, echoing in a pant. “F-fuck!” Baritone cracking into something high, he throws his head back into the cushy pillows and ruts just as far as his spine could curvaceously arch.

Mahogany eyes fluttering shut, teary lashes touching his cheek.

It takes the soft, fleeting caress of your fingers gliding across his bangs for Choso to even register that he should open his eyes. And you coo out in a gentle voice, “Is everything alright, baby–?”

“Yes-” Breath hitching, he’s almost immediately back-tracking his answer when your dewy wet folds try to clench ‘round his girth. And the very feeling makes him once more sloppily thrust- “No.” You smile as Choso’s plush lower lips fall into a pout, “N-no teasing, baby.”

Oh, there was something so primal about the way that Choso’s saying it.

Like he’s burning up with red, hot power sizzling underneath his skin. You’re pulling on his hair when he whacks your cervix once and the only thing he can keen is a low–“Harder.” Harder. “No- harder.”

It just isn’t enough, some carnal part of him thinks it might never be enough.

And the only thing that the half-curse can do is channel out a few harder hits, feeling his heart race at how that constant ramming of skin on your skin makes his v-line sting.

“Fuck- nghh-” Your eyes scrunch shut with a few pearly tears at the sultry sensation. Never ever has your boyfriend pounded into you like this, never has he held your drooling cunt hostage while he shoveled his length from the very tip-top of his strawberry divot, bottoming out until he physically can’t anymore. “So good mmm, feels so good, Cho.”

“Yeah? Yeah?” Watching as your puffy core starts squirtin’ out a few sleek ribbons of slick, Choso crinkles his nose and all but begs. “Can- can I go harder then, baby? Please?”

Oh?

He’s never the first to ask to go harder- usually, you are.

And that itself is enough to get you nodding stupidly, your glassy peripherals swirling in unison with his veiny shaft. Stirring in a slight curving gyration inside of your gummy walls before he pulls out and slams all the way back in. Methodical and mean.

“Fuck-” His flared mushroom tip hits the side of your g-spot and Choso drools. “M’not gonna hck! make it out of this alive. What…what is this feeling-”

Before you can even think of answering, he plants his feet firmly flat on the floor and uses the sinful leverage to slide you upwards on his hips. The feeling of your perky clit gliding down his happy trail making the man hiss—Reaching upwards, eyes dilated. “Feels like m’gonna eat you alive.”

Oh…you had an idea what it was.

Something about putting his cursed energy into overdrive during a mission today. And you’re sure that your dear, inexperienced boyfriend was simply stressed from the day.

Unsure how to take it out. Unsure how to do anything but flinch once you’re opening your sweet maw to shrill a few teasing words. “Awww– seemed like you’re under some ngh- stress, baby. Want me to take care of that for you?”

“I said no fucking- teasing-”

Choso looks as shocked as you at those words - apologies ripe on his tongue, cherry-pink lips wobbling adorably as he tries to reel it back in- Only for the weepy hole on top of his swollen crown to pour out a generous load of wadded pre, striking right into the very back of your pussy.

Going harder. Sloppier. And he’s so big that every second has your chin glitter with bubbles of spit.

“O-oh.” And he’s sucking in a shallow breath as if he’d just had an epiphany. Dark brows knitting together, the crevice of his damp mouth opens up to let his pinkish tongue peek through. Carefully grazing his thumb down that lil’ tummy bulge he was fucking into you, “You’re gonna take me like- like a good girl.”

Fuck- you’re so wet by now that the bottom half of his abs were polished with a glittery sheen. Making it sooo much easier for him to slip n’ slide you with his manhandling arms. “A good- ngh-”

“Yeeeeah, exactly that.” And he looks so drunk on that little sentence, a dopey smile playing along his mouth once he presses down on that bumpy, cylindrical outline. Giggling, “H-heh, my good girl. You’re gonna take me, aren’t you, my baby?”

Hands clawing onto the plush curves of his deltoids, you can only throw your head back and let yourself be moved. “Yeah- go on. Have your fun, Cho—”

“My fun. My fun.” Almost as if he couldn’t believe it. The buzz of his powers going into overdrive makes his long, sensitive shaft even more sensitive, rovering down your ridged walls so fast that his delicate veins start throbbing. “That means…I can bend you like this-”

His right hand, so loving n’ soft on your hips- starts arching you back, back, back back- until every ramming kiss of his glazed tip stirs your insides fully.

Until he’s staring at that tummy bulge and watching with such heart eyes, “And- and I can fuck you like this-” Not only were his hips rutting up animalistically, his strong, beefy arms were flexing upon your sides and making you bounce. Milking him. Slouching his toned upper body over to bite on the crook of your neck, “And I can bite-”

With his honed canines nibbling down on your heated skin, Choso’s mouth departs with cracked whimpers every time his tender slit was rubbin’ up on the side of your cervix.

“Please- ngh- please please please-” You’re throwing your head back as his ruby-red tip starts to twitch. Ferally. Every time he slides his velvety length through your walls, he’s striking hard enough that both of you see stars.

And Choso grins–“Can be all r-rough- and this pussy’s still mine.”

So it only made sense that he was going to cream himself inside like it. Like you owned him, he’s circling your hips in a wide semi-circle that makes his veins snag all over the insides of your cunt. Lecherous. Loud.

Choso just can’t stop whining with every splat! of salty white cum that sprays out into your pussy, “Gonna do this again.” Not even slowing. Not even faltering. His pulsating cock is just so big that you can’t even spill all over, just sheathing him in a layer of syrupy white. “Gotta- have to.”

Mewling, “Yes— please- make me cum, baby.”

“Hmm—” And fuck- you’d nearly forgotten just how strong he was. Because in a matter of mere sultry moments, you’re being bent forwards with a powerful hand at your throat. “Only if you spit in my mouth.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - TRUE true form!

Ryomen Sukuna was big - so big that every smash of his dual, blushing tips made you throw your head back and see stars.

And his arms weren’t letting you off easy, either. All four of his bulbous, beefy biceps flexed once he kept his hold on either side of your body- damn near holding you off of the bed in midair as he fucked you like he hated you.

“P-please, how are you so hck! big, Kuna?” You’re whining, your chin splashing with a syrupy bout of saliva. And every tiny twitch of your boneless hips left his bludgeoning shafts travelling straight to the bottom of your pussy.

“P-P-please-” He’s mocking, gruff voice clinging onto the back of your neck like adhesive. You’re just on all fours and shaking like a leaf- “S’that any way to talk to your hah- king, little human?”

“Nooo- but…”

“Shut up and take it then- heh.” Legs boneless, every ricket! of the mattress leaves you wincing at the recoil of his hips. Ramming into yours so hard that you’re sure you have bruises now- his thighs on your own, his abs on your spine, his twin cockheads on the entrance to your womb.

And you have nothing more to say, every other end of your sentence smashed up every time he’d wetly plastering your cervix with a layer of pre. It was so hot n’ hard having him filling up your every tender orifice. “It’s so rough.”

And what else did you even expect?

Cutely asking him not to destroy a few souls- tch, of course he was pent up. Of course, he was seething and taking out every shred of it by clawing down the base of your spine and pushing n’ pushing.

Bottomed out but still half-rutting like it would kill him if you didn’t take any more.

Each lil’ clench of your bubblegum pussy making his black, clawing nails only surge, his muscles ripple even bigger, fangs growing-

“Haaa? What? You want me ta be gentle?” Sukuna purrs, low. And you’re whimpering once you feel the slimy tip of what felt like his second tongue sliiiide down your stuffed slit. “Your king will show you ‘gentle’, brat.”

Mewling, each spank of the velvety underside of his cursed tongue leaves you jolting. Purposefully dragging over his textured tastebuds just so that he could taste every syrupy ounce of you.

And not even clinging onto the aged headboard of the bed and squirming could get him to let up.

Could get him to move even a single inch when he’s alternating between rude bangs of his matching plump crowns into your cervix, and then a glutinous flick of his tongue. Again and again, he was letting it alllll out on you until you’re all bruised and battered on the gooey ends of your pussy.

Sukuna’s only holding you to his broad pecs with two of his hands, the other two drifting down to smear your sheeny thighs open. So, so wide but his toned hips were so bulky that stretchin’ round him made your hamstrings ache.

“You won’t let me fuuuck- consume humans and now you won’t let me consume this?” Both mouths drooling, he greedily gazes at the way each single whack! of his breeder balls leaves your cunt hole trembling n’ geysering. He spits, molten hot irritation. “Spoiled brat…I’m starved.”

“Can’t- hck! can’t help it- it’s so much-”

Spank after spank, he slots his second mouth in a steamy French kiss just where your cunt was quivering with delight. Every geysering slosh of sap streaming down to his greedy throat- “Yeah? Sayin’ that when yer making such a ngh- mess?”

And you were just slobbering everywhere, painting a translucent little puddle underneath you that he’s eagerly lapping up. Probin’ oh-so-stupidly deep that you can only babble, “Y-yes?”

“Tch.”

Oh. Oh.

That sinful little answer of yours makes the King’s tattooed body erupt in goosebumps. And you swear you’re feeling the weight of him press you into the bedsprings even deeper. So feverish, so hot that you blearily snap your head around and drink in the sight of Ryomen Sukuna with horns.

Red, jagged and long.

His true form.

And it was so unfairly sexy, glinting canines snapping at the tendons of your throat. “And ya think you deserve to be messy, hm?” Grinning in such a gone way, he tilts his head as he presses down on the edge of your spine with one knee. Drilling into you like he’s crazed. Out of control. “Think you deserve more?”

“Mmm- can feel you both inside- ngh, both-”

Something in his glowing, crimson eyes was dark- primal. And it was boring at you dead-on once Sukuna splays an open palm of his in front of your face and croons—“Prove it t’me. Spit.”

Your glossy, puckered lips curve into a pout, starin’ at that opened palm of his straight ahead underneath you. Saliva already dribbling down each side of your twitching lips, like he was spearheading you from the other side and pushing it out. You spit-

Only for Sukuna’s second mouth to manifest right at that very split-second on his palm, so that you’re spitting in there instead. “Filthy thing.” And as that great glittery glob disappears between his cursed lips, you don’t know whether he’s talking to you or his mouth. “Want more then, huh?”

And, truthfully, he doesn’t even know if you can handle it.

Doesn’t know if your stretched-out cunt can take any more with his mushy tongue trying to pry apart your core even further. But he wasn’t feeling any ounce of mercy.

Trying to fill you up so much that you’ll be able to feel it even weeks from now, Sukuna’s lengthy nails leave marks all over your waist as he hoists you up even more. Hissing at the way your fingers reach up to graze just the base of his draconic horns.

And the King blushes, he gasps.

“You- you vicious fuckin’ woman.”

You’d just made Ryomen Sukuna stutter.

The roughened thrust that comes next so hard that your eyes are swirling cartoonishly, arms aching where you yearn to touch that part of his true true form.

Holding on while he pounds you like he’s pressing you in to the royal silk sheets, the flatness of his tongue smacks down on the crevice of your pussy. Slipping inside- a third intrusion—“Now you’re really in for it, lil’ human.”

♡ INO TAKUMA - Got milk(ed)?

“This is what you make me, pretty.” And Ino’s tugging whatever’s left of his damn ski mask, he’s bending your legs firmly into a mating press with natural toned strength you didn’t even know he had. “And this is how you’re going to get hah! fucked.”

And just one swipe of his cute, pre-glazed tip would be enough for your boyfriend to be salivating at the mouth. Lips twitching with eagerness as he sinks his heavy shaft inside.

But right now?

Oh, right now he wasn’t even sensually slowing down to listen to your pretty trilling moans. He’s not going easy on you, he’s doing nothing but sheathing his prolonged length whole in a way that makes your woozy eyes tear up.

Lips speckling with drivelling spit as you whine, “Shit-” The doughy heels of your feet find purchase on his slender shoulders, unsure whether you wanted to push or have him stretch you out more more more- “Shit- you’re so big.”

“Gonna cry about it?” He smirks- meanly. And where the hell was your sweet, innocent boyfriend?

The Ino right now was just spanking down a few of his thoroughly ringed digits on your soppy slit, leaving you n’ your quivering cunt seeing stars at the sensation. Stirrin’ around the rotund, bawling edge of his pink crown until he manages to bully all the way into the back of your pussy.

Just barely managing to open your mouth, “O-oh my god- Taku, it feels so- oh!”

“Whaaat–?” And shit- the way his straight nosebridge was crinkling was sexy, looking at you through hazily half-lidded eyes that told you he wanted to devour you whole. “Look at her- just look.”

Ino lets his knobbly fingertips glissade down your folds and latches onto the button of your clit just enough to pull-pull-puuull. Low, gentle voice tinged with something so raspy as he groans, “M’being so meeean to her, making her cry n’ she’ll still mmm- sucking me in, sweetness.”

Truly, you were just so wet that your oversaturated walls were gulping down his every solid inch like you were starved. Filling up every orifice and cranny with his hot, heavy length- “B-because it’s just so good.”

“Is it—?” Ino sighs out, airy and flushed. For merely a split-second before he’s snapping out of it and promptly kneeing apart the insides of your thighs.

Bed creaking in protest when he reels his lean hips back to bring them down with a ringing smack! It’s so loud that it makes Ino’s pelvis sting, his chestnut lashes wring with tears, and he has to gnaw down on his lush lower lip to bite back a few broken whimpers. “Fuck- fuck, don’t you dare make me all pathetic, pretty.”

Mewling, one of his slender hands comes to push your cheeks together in a pathetic lil’ pout. The edges of his frigid rings lacquering with your spit- and the other keeps slithering right between your legs.

Not only was he toying with your clit now - he was circlin’ your cute, rubbery hole. Long middle finger scratching your outer entrance with his bands of metal before shoving its way inside-

“S-still taking me.” And for a lecherous moment there it almost sounds as if he’s just lost himself, it almost sounds like he’s breaking. Before shaking the tawny bangs out of his eyes and snarling down a feral grin. “Pretty hole’s takin’ all of me- wonder if you can take ngh- more, sweetness.”

“Sh-shiiiit–!” Your hands claw red, red lines all down Ino’s sculptured back when you feel the probing push of yet another one of his fingers.

Already stuffed to the brim with his sleek, pummeling cock - and now here he was thrusting in a sloppy cadence of whack-whacking your cervix with his bulbously swabbing tip and tormenting your g-spot with the glides of his digits.

They’re agonizing when they’re stimulating you at the same time, and the only thing you can do is throw your head back and listen to the noisy squelches and slurps. Moaning, you claw at his dextrous wrist as he spanks a third fingerpad on your slope. “Another- oh, fuck!”

Pushing and pushing

Ino groans huskily at the snug resistance when all three of his fingers can’t poke around- brows scrunching, tongue sticking out.

He looked drunk and gone by the time he’s hissing out a sharp breath and flipping the two of you over. And oh- oh, this position was ideal.

Because not only did it give him the heavenly view of your thighs spread all open n’ straddling his hips to ride him- but it also let him dip his creamy fingers down and rub them all over your geysering cunt. Bullying them the entire way inside up to his mountainous knuckles because enough is never enough.

“Fuck- oh.” Ino tumbles his head back once he’s hearing the sappy plop! of your dripping pussy gobbling up his second finger. Entire body twitching at the feeling of his chilly ring digging in- “Pretty, pretty- I can’t do this anymore I hck! need it—”

Your lips quirk up into a smug smile, hips hitting down with a slam of clammy skin sticking onto skin. And he can only half-rut, savage and angrily pumping his cock. “Aww, already, Taku?”

“Yes. Yes.” He’s begging by now. Pleading. This little roleplay you’d begun, now starting to completely switch when he had you on top like this ready to milk his swollen, reddened cock dry.

Such a pretty coral pink at his tip, and it matches the innocent blush on Ino’s hollow cheeks once he’s guiding one of your hands up to choke him. Gurgling out, “I want you to be angry at me now, sweetness.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - Mercy.

“Th-this is where you’re weak, right?”

And the strongest’s voice cracks.

Gojo utters out a rough breath as he catches his thumb on that designer blindfold of his dangling ‘round your neck and plasters you against his tensely glissading abs. The tip of his cock driving between your wet, aching folds, he’s jerking you up just enough to push his reddish crown into your g-spot with a splat!

“O-oh please mmmm–” Your mouth parts with a ribbon of sleek spit, tumbling out in a heap into the pillow lodged underneath your face. “There- right there, Satoru!”

“There- there.” You’re hearing him raspily utter from behind, each pant higher and more broken than the last. With your back arched oh-so-deliciously, he’s hiking up one of his meaty thighs to pin to the side of your hips and pump even deeper- “There?”

Oh, he knew it was there.

He’s rubbin’ his swollen, veiny shaft all over your sweetest areas like a massage. He was mean. And you’re crying out the cutest lil’ whines that only make him bite back a sleazy grin. “Such a good, tight pussy takin’ me- h-heh, so good taking me, sweetheart. So good…”

“S-so rough.” Your hazy peripherals whirl in circles ‘round the whites of your eyes, brows scrunching with every thwack! of his honed, chiseled v-line striking the cheeks of your ass. “It’s so much- ngh.”

And the only response that Gojo’s overheated body can think of is to twist his large fingers into the jostling fabric at your neck to pull you further backwards. Your breath stutters damply, chest heaving.

He didn’t care. He was going hard. Hissing swiftly in your ear, “If you think this is too much maybe I should knock you up then, my wife.” Something in the cloyingly sticky air crackles - power, raw need - as he snickers to himself. “Should I—? Should I knock you up like they say?”

They: those damn elders.

He wasn’t just irritated after that ambushed meeting on damn Gojo heirs - he was furious.

The very reason that Gojo hadn’t made two steps past the door to your shared penthouse before he’s practically dragging you to the bedroom. Shoving his heavy, aching cock inside until you were full, full, full-

“M-maybe you should.” You’re blubbering out through the primal mewls ripping through your throat, just another one of his jackhammers rendering you stupid. Almost instant the way he slimily grazes his bulbous tip down to whack the entrance of your cunt.

And Gojo seethes— cheeks angrily ruddied, spit flying in glittery flecks. “I should?”

“Yes mmm- please.”

“I…should?”

It’s not a question - it’s a realization.

The clammy pads of his fingers shake unstably, his touch zaps you with cursed energy, movements sensually languid- almost like Gojo doesn’t even register what his hefty body is doing right now. Almost like he doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s toeing his left foot upwards to plant it down on the crown of your scalp until he’s looking down at his pretty, pathetically drooling wife and gasping.

“Oh. Oh.” The red n’ full cock speared inside of you twitches, so big that he swabs all your each sultry, shrouded nook and cranny . “You don’t know how haaah- badly it pissed me off, my girl. Wanted to purple hollow all those fuckers.”

Your hands fist the silk of the pillowcase now sticking to you like adhesive, hips squirming restlessly- he was so fast that the back of your ass was raw with the texture of his pale happy trail. “Wh-what did?”

“Hearin’ them talk about an heir. Hearin’ them talk about you ngh- pregnant.” He snarls, heel pressing down with slight force that makes all the blood rush from your melty mind straight down to your dripping pussy. He’s fucking you like he hates you. “When really I’m your husband-”

As he speaks, the slick curve of his cockhead snags on your bundle of nerves. Your husband’s Six Eyes working overtime when he’s watching - mouth ajar, gaze half-lidded - as his lengthy shaft impales your gummy walls and drives riiiight into your womb. Precisely.

Gojo blushes at the x-ray vision, “-and I get to make my wife pregnant when she wants.”

They wanted a Gojo heir, they’re going to get one.

With your thighs shaking, breaths heaving- before you know it, he’s timing a direct three hits from your cute lil’ g-spot n’ barreling straight into your womb. And it makes you cum.

Long, vein-covered length barely even pulling out - Gojo feels your walls clench around his thick girth and he’s only half-rutting.

“That’s it- that’s it that’s it that’s it-” You can hear the pure crazed smile in his husked tone, the edges of his rosy lips twisting with every adorably pulsing ba-thump! of your cunt. Faster. Harder. He was wincing with each recoil of his sloppy strokes, unable to even bear being separated from the syrupy depths of your pussy. “Take it- take it like good girl-”

“I-it’s shoooo—” Left so helpless by the merciless way he was pounding you through your high, your mouth was slurring out bubbles of spittle after each second strike. “-so much- hck! So much.”

“More. Yeah, you’re gonna take more, my girl.” He can’t help but memorize the shocked lines of your face and giggle. Octaves higher. Movements filthier. Running a hand down to toy with your clit, “You’re gonna be filled up to the briiim.”

And usually Gojo would’ve rubbed the soft, velvety tips of his fingers on your sensitive nub in hearts. Maybe even his name, teasingly. Usually.

But he didn’t have the patience for that right now.

Right now, he was twisting his touch onto where you were most swollen and pinching your clit. Hard. Power sparking like some lewd bullet vibrator.

All that it takes for him to throw his head back and finish off in such a raw, primal way all up inside of your cunt. And you’re not even sure if Gojo registers it - whether he even feels himself cum, because he’s still drilling away like he’s addicted.

Bed dipping at the force of his blows, sheets staining pure white with the slippery sheen of seed that glues down your thighs. Toes curling, it’s only when you’re sniffling back a tear of overstimulation that Gojo snaps his head down to catch the pearly ribbon of cum escaping your geysering folds—“Need to get you pregnant. Need to- more.”

“What?”

You’re so wet that it feels like a damn waterfall down there, and your husband only glides his knobbly thumb down to plug every sappy, ivory ounce back into your hole. “More, my girl.”

The air bristles with charged atoms as he swerves his slender hips just right to push the knotted cobwebs of cum accurately against your womb. Every part of him charged, every part of him still powerful and fuming.

Whining, your knees buckle as if you were unsure whether you wanted to run or hit your hips back. Again and again.

And Gojo’s voice still shakes as he clings a hand onto the side of your birthing hips to manhandle you further down to him. Unable to escape. “You didn’t think you’re h-heh- getting off easy…mama?”

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Mrs. CEO

“I have never seen a CEO this clumsy-” Higuruma’s deep, drawling voice speaks over the haze of your nth high of the night. Thin lips twitching as he takes in the sight of you sprawled on top of your own office desk, shuffling over so many important documents. “-ma’am.”

But oh, he couldn’t go easy on you just yet. Not when you had so much work to do.

And it’s why he’s shuffling his polished shoes further in a step backwards, tongue flicking out to lick his lips as he smeeears the layer of his cum sticking to your cunt like glue.

Grumbling, “Forgetting the most important hah- meeting of the day. I should report you.” Formal office pants still on, the dangling metal piece of his belt kisses the right cheek of your ass and makes you hiss. Rubbing your gummy walls raw on the slick, winding patterns of his veins.

And it’s just so wet with all your sappy syrupy and his, travelling down to where you’re rubbing your thighs together. “Are you complaining, hm?”

Spank! Spank! Spank!

Three exact swats of his rude hands slamming down on the teary crevice of your slit, Higuruma makes sure to angle his strikes just right so that he can feel the way your clit just quivers. “Watch that pretty mouth, angel.”

And he’s moving so agonizingly, just torturing you with the curve of his mushroomy tip bulldozing straight near your g-spot.

Never quite hitting it, never quite missing.

Right up until you throw your head back with a wail and keen–“Please.” Swervin’ your hips back in lecherous figure eights that damn near gets the man above you hypnotized. “M’sorry, Hiromi.”

Spank!

A hand on your throat- “No, you’re not.” One more to pinch n’ tug on your oversensitive clit until you feel all raw, you’re seeing stars every time he rolls his hips to play with your dripping pussy just right.

“You n’ this filthy hole need me to ngh- finally fuck some sense into you, riiight–? Finally stop that pretty lil’ head from being filled with just cock?”

You don’t know if you’re nodding, you don’t know if you’re sobbing- but before you can register it, Higuruma’s hiking his capped knee up onto the desk so hard that it rattles. Nearly stepping on the base of your spine just to arch you perfectly.

Whining, “O-ohhh mm- jus’ that deep.” The new angle makes him stretch you open so wide that every splash of buttery white cum slips out of your entrance like a waterfall. Your pussy struggling to suck in his sheer size into your hot insides, “Fuck me- oh, yes, fuck me.”

“S’what I’m doing, silly angel.” The vice-like restraint on your throat is mean, and Higuruma’s tone is even meaner. Cooing- but he’s dragging you by the neck upwards to look directly into his eyes as he sliiiides his lengthy, scorching cock inside and out. “Or are you already that ngh- stupid on my cock, hm?”

So deep, so fat that he can’t even help if the vein-covered sides of his shaft brush up against your sweetest spots by mistake.

Hips papping back into his, “More.” Cloying layers of seed saturate your innards so much, and you’re so sensitive that every honed thrust makes your knees weaken. “S’more, Hiro, c’mon.”

And the worst part was that your personal assistant’s pinning you with his weight and holding you there to watch you struggling and squirm. Slimy, erect cockhead driving right into the target of your lil’ nerves like he’s addicted to that very spot, “You’ll take what you’re given.” He tilts his head with a smile, “Why don’tcha get some work done, sugar?”

Oh.

You could barely even pick up the pen let alone sign off on important contracts like you were supposed to be doing right now.

And yet, every time your poor, boneless wrist showed signs of faltering, Higuruma would grit his teeth and painfully slow down his cadence. Each time he lazily rubs just the large, rotund curve of his cocktip on your g-spot, watching as you jerk your hips back for more-

Spank! Spank!

Massaging two direct swats on the flooded slope of your pussy, “Fuck! This tight little hole really can’t stay that hck! long without me?” Loosening his tie still on him, “She’s even worse than you, angel.”

And he’s milking himself on you- punishing your cunt with the most lecherous drags of his sloppy shaft. Each time you feel him enter past the door to your womb, you can only throw your head back and bite down on the velvety fabric of his damn office tie.

“H-hck! Please- gonna—” Muffled, your handwriting’s gone astray on whatever document it is by now. “So close-”

Tapping his chin as he pretends to think, “Hm, I’ll let you cum-” And before a gorgeous smile could even start to light up your face, before you can even breathe, Higuruma’s crowning your sweaty scalp with one hand and pushing you to further lay on the mahogany desk. Drooling in such a heaping puddle right then n’ there, “If you can use those fuck! awful manners n’ say ‘please’...”

“Please.”

“Louder.”

“Please-”

Purring, “Can’t hear you, ma’am—”

And you were so far gone that your irises are turning clockwise in circles inside of your eyes, mouth overspilling with a glittered polish of drool and whimpers.

You thrash your hips up higher on the table, “Please-” Batting your lashes just how you knew he was weak for. “Pretty please, baby.”

Oh- that did it.

That did it.

Because with a final one-two-three more vulgar strokes pumped into your puffy, sopping wet pussy, it isn’t just you hitting your high - it’s Higuruma, too.

Your stern, sensible personal assistant who slams the chiseled upper half of his body the minute he feels your melty walls clenching and heaves. Meaty quads shaking with every wiry ribbon of cum he departs, letting the goopy mess fill up your cunt to the maximum.

Gasping- “Fuck, look what you did. L-look.”

And for a second you’re so disoriented by your own white-hot flashes of bliss that you barely even hear what he’s saying. In your own little reverie until you’re hit with a spraying splat! of something near your shoulder.

Blinking, you’re turning behind you and noticing that Higuruma Hiromi was crying tears of overstimulation.

Crying.

“S’all your fault, angel.” Your thighs quake with each bout of your high, and just that tiny squeezing motion was enough for him to bead out another thin trail of tears. Milking himself. Your pussy’s holding him hostage until he’s nearly dry, only wrenchin’ out a few pearly knots of seed. Emptied out.

So lazy and feverishly drunk that he reaches over to softly kiss the matching wedding ring on your hand, “Next time you’re not missing another meeting with me, my wife.”

A/N. OO I NEEDA WRITE HIGURUMA’S ONE LONGER

Plagiarism not authorized.

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pixieseo · 19 days ago

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౨ৎ satoru was the most unserious man you’d ever slept with, hands down.

he practically scrambled into bed, tugging you with him. his kisses were hot and wet, a little frantic with teeth clashing. you were both too impatient for anything slow.

he fumbled with a condom, then pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before settling between your legs. just when he was about to sink in, he stopped and reached over to flip off the light switch.

“satoru, what are you doing?” you whispered, your eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden darkness. “the last time we did this with no lights, you ended up with that awful bruise, remember?”

“shh, baby.” he silenced you with a finger on your lips, then pointed down to where his tip was pressing against you. “look.”

raising an eyebrow, you shifted a little, following his gaze. “oh, my god,” you said, a touch of disgust in your voice. “why is the condom glowing?”

“because it’s glow-in-the-dark! it was on sale!”

“satoru gojo, is this what you were doing when i sent you to the store? you were supposed to get actual necessities, like… eggs and milk!”

“but these are way cooler,” he whined, a finger lightly brushing against your slick cunt.

your breath hitched. “yeah, if you’re twelve, maybe. i don’t want that inside me. who knows what kind of chemicals are in that thing!”

“but- but it glows!”

“don’t we have any other condoms?”

“nope,” he said sheepishly. suddenly, his eyes sparked. “if you really don’t like these, we could always just go without!” the excitement in his voice was almost unsettling.

you just stared at him. he gave you his best puppy-dog eyes.

sighing, your head falls back onto the pillow. “just… just do it.”

you never stood a chance. and even with your eyes squeezed shut, you could still see the faint, greenish glow.

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pixieseo · 25 days ago

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masseur!geto who had to replace your usual masseuse on their vacation week. You were quite surprised to walk in and find a handsome man in the room, greeting you in the most softest voice you’ve ever heard. You were getting your usual full body massage which of course included getting completely naked. You felt quite nervous when his hands started working their way into your skin, digging deep into the tense muscle, but it’s what you needed after a long work week. You noted how warm and big his hands were, groping at your skin so easily and rubbing the oil in. You also noted how close his hands would get when massaging your thighs, letting his fingers ghost near your bare cunt. He couldn’t see it, right? Wrong. The towel you had covered up with was just slightly too up high, giving him just a peek.

“You have such soft skin already,” he says, nearly whispering in your ear as his runs his hand along your back. “Do you moisturize often?” He asks.

“Y-yeah, every other day—ah!” A small moan erupted from your chest as his hands worked into your back. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, it’s fine. It happens more often than you think,” he chuckled. “Is it this spot here that felt good?” He pressed into your back again, another small moan of relief escaping. He smirked to himself, continuously massaging the spot. “You’re so tense,” he sighed. “Can I try something new for you? I swear it’ll help.” His hands moved back down to your legs, fingers pressing into the fat of your thighs.

“Go ahead.” You gulped, keeping as still as possible. His oiled hands met the crease where your ass and thighs met, moving slightly inward. You hoped he didn’t notice it, how turned on you were. Was it even noticeable? Either way it was embarrassing, but it’s probably happened a lot, right? No, he’s going to think you’re an absolute pervert. You took a deep breath in, your eyes fluttering shut.

“Take a deep breath for me, yeah?” His voice was so gentle but so deep at the same time. You tried to shake those lustful thoughts out of your head, imagining him whispering in your ear and praising you every step of the way. God, have you really been this pent up that now you’re imagining sexual interactions with complete strangers? Eventually, you took in a breath, preparing for something life changing.

Your body slightly jolted, eyes wide open when you felt his fingers brush against your bare cunt, his fingers grazing over the skin ever so slightly, enough to make your heart race. But, you didn’t stop him, no, no. Instead, you let him continue, your breath hitching when he took his thumbs and spread your pussy open like he owned it. “Mmm,” he hummed, “I see where your issue is.” You felt him press him body weight against you, his breath fanning over your skin. Goosebumps quickly littered your skin, shivers sending down your spine.

“A-ah, oooh!” His fingers slowly stretched you open, a blissful sigh leaving your lips. His free hands caressed your thigh, moving higher up to remove the towel that was barely covering you. He slowly pumped his fingers, making sure every inch of them were coated with your slick. It felt like your whole body was burning up, both from embarrassment and excitement. You bit down on your bottom in attempts to muffle your moans, afraid that other clients would hear you. It was hard, especially when such an attractive man had his fingers stuffed deep inside you.

“Turn over for me.” He smirked, slowing his movements while he helped you turn over on your back, getting a full view of your body from the front. Your skin glistening from the oil, your nipples perky, begging to be sucked on. Oh, and that face of yours, those eyes that held all your desires and pleasures. He could see just how badly you wanted his fingers. “Remember to relax.” His eyes raked over your body, his hands moving down between your legs again. Without him even having to ask, you parted your legs for him, his thumb pressing down on your throbbing clit. He slowly began rubbing in circles, your breathy whimpers filling his ears. “What a good girl.” He hummed, running his hand up your chest, taking your nipple between his fingers and pinching it slightly.

“D-do you do this with all your clients?” You jokingly ask, sucking in a breath. You prop yourself up on your elbows, wanting to watching the way his pretty hands work you so well. He is an expert after all. He puts more pressure on your clit, your hips bucking forward.

You hear him let out a soft laugh. “Does it matter? As long as I do my job, right? Making sure you’re as relaxed as possible? Just enjoy it.” His fingers move from your clit back down to your sopping entrance, two of his fingers pushing their way past your folds. You let out a gasp, your body shuddering underneath his touch. “Shhh, shhh, it’s okay. I got you. Just allow yourself to feel all of it.” He curls his finger up, pressing against your g-spot each time his fingers drag along your gummy walls.

Your heart beat grows louder, pounding in your ears like a drum. You don’t know how he’s doing this, making your entire body feel hot, your pussy so wet, you’re so unbelievably turned on you can’t even feel embarrassed about it anymore. “Faster, please,” you beg, brows burrowing in pleasure as you continue to watch his movements. He doesn’t say a word but listens to your request, your pussy squelching around his fingers as he picks up the pace. “Oh, fuck.” Your toes curl at the sensation.

His other hand comes down to press on your lower stomach, taking enjoyment in watching the way your eyes roll back and your pussy tightening around his fingers the closer you get. “Does that feel good, baby? Am I hitting all the right spots?” He looks down at you with lustful eyes, bringing his hand up to meet your throat, a firm grip on it but not exactly choking you. You look at him with teary eyes, nodding at him, unable to control your porn star like moans. “Yeah? Yeah?” He coos, staring directly at you while he obliterates your pussy with just his fingers. “I can feel you’re about to cum, aren’t you? You’re right on that edge, baby.”

“Please, please,” is all you manage to say, staring at him with the most desperate look of your life. You can feel that pressure building up quickly, just hint of what’s about to be the strongest orgasm you’ve had in a while. “I’m so close,” you say barely above a whisper. You pussy grows wetter and wetter with each passing second, and it takes everything in you not to completely let go right this second.

His eyes never leave yours, his arms flexing as he goes faster and harder, obsessed with how fucked out you look. “Can’t be too loud, baby, okay? You can cum for me, but keep that pretty mouth quiet.” You quickly nod in agreement, biting so hard on your bottom lip you’re afraid you might draw blood. “Go ahead, let it out for me. Let it—oh fuck, good girl. Keep fucking going.” Clear liquid gushes from your pussy and all over fingers, your squirt coating your thighs and the table below you. Your moans grow too loud, your entire body quivering in pleasure. “Shh, shh” His lips quickly land on yours, kissing you. “It’s a lot baby, but you can take it,” he says in between kisses. He’s greedy, wanting to drain you of every lost drop and drag out your orgasm as long as possible.

“Oh my god,” you pant, finally overcoming your orgasm, your body feeling like jelly. “Holy shit.” You gulp, sitting there trying to gather your thoughts. He presses one last kiss to your lips, slowly removing his fingers.

“Feel better?” He asks with a sly look on his face, grabbing a clean towel to wipe you off with.

“Y-yeah,” your voice is still shaky, “thank you.”

“Of course.” He wipes off your thighs. “Here, let me help you up.” He grabs your hand, guiding you off the table that soaked in your juices. You cover your face in embarrassment, uttering an apology. “Nothing to be sorry for. Let’s me know that you actually enjoyed it.” He knows he’ll quickly have to clean and disinfect it before the other person comes in. He smiles, grabbing another extra towel for you to wrap in. “I’ll let you get dressed and you can pay at the front. I had a nice time with you.”

“Me too, a really nice time.” He laughs at your words before walking to the door to give you privacy. You turned away as well to grab your clothes but then turned back, quickly stopping him. “Wait! Do you accept tips?”

taglist:

@sleepykittyenergy @ravenbc @yharnam-prophet @screechingbasementprincess @avaredava @mxrxlxy @lordchula-thagrandrula @akiyhara @palestrawberrycollection @bijuu-naginata @jeansblit @jabulile @aemyuo @springismss @fmlalexis @gradmacoco @phob1cc @kousweet @saoirses-things @ineedtofeedmycat @voidofryomen @bbyrugou @suguru-nugget @monkeyjjk @zxnxy @loserrrluvvverrr

just a little something while I revise classmate!gojo part 4😼

#giving him a big ass tip then asking if i can have his tip

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pixieseo · 1 month ago

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౨ৎ plug!gojo lived for car sex. didn't know why, didn't care. there was just something about the cramped space, the stolen moments, the feeling of losing control together that got him off like nothing else. it was pure intimacy, to him.

it started simple enough. back of some forgotten gas station, just wanted to see you, maybe share a smoke. then your eyes locked onto his, all hazy and bloodshot. the sweet stink of weed hung in the air, but underneath it, your perfume was even sweeter.

your hair spilled over your shoulders as you sat hunched in the passenger seat, knees tucked up. next thing he knew, you were straddling his lap, your mouth slamming onto his, all teeth and wetness, no holding back.

your hips ground into his, and you didn't waste a second fumbling with his zipper. his thick cock slid into your hot, slick cunt, all the way down. you moaned, leaning back too far, hitting the horn with a clumsy thud.

the loud honking startled you, but it wasn't long before a fit of giggles bubbled up from the both of you, and he hauled you back against his chest, burying his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling the sugary scent of your shampoo.

he filled you up good, and even now, you still weren't used to how big he was.

"oh, fuck, sugar," gojo groaned, pressing wet kisses all over your face as you rode him, so damn pretty. you were pressed tight against him, but it wasn't enough. he wanted to be closer, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, pulling you in tighter.

he mumbled something, mostly to himself, you thought, "you feel s'fucking good." his wide, blue eyes roamed over you, lingering on the sway of your breasts, the flick of your lashes, the fullness of your lips. his hands squeezed and kneaded your ass.

it wasn't some rough, fast thing. it was needy, desperate in its own way. messy, sweet, punctuated by little bursts of laughter.

you'd snicker when you hit a spot that made him twitch, his thoughts scattering mid-sentence into pure sound. he'd chuckle when he pinched your nipple through your bra, and your breath would hitch at the sharp pleasure.

he came twice before you even got close, but he couldn't help it. your pussy just seemed made for him, and with you riding him like some kind of angel, he was doomed from the start. he tried, he really did.

you didn't seem to mind though, just kept fucking him, maybe even pulling another load from him as you chased your own release. and then, his favorite part, when you were both limp and spent, you'd even collapse onto him, and he'd hold you until your breathing evened out.

knowing well what the following "hang out" would look like, he brushed a strand of hair from your face, a grin spreading across his lips. "this time next week, sugar?"

sure, maybe you were just after the free weed, but he'd give it to you anyway. hell, he'd give it to you just for looking at him.

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pixieseo · 1 month ago

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꩜ CURSED ENERGY? NAH... CURSED DICK!

MY ANACONDA DON'T... — forget vanilla. with them, sex isn't just good, it's transcendent. it's not like there's room for improvement, but go big... or go home, right?

꩜ satoru gojo, suguru geto, kento nanami, choso kamo, toji fushiguro, ryomen sukuna.

warnings — áfab!reader. óverstimulatión, dégrading, dúmbification, sqúirting, breedíng. dóm!characters. bóndage (geto's). unprótected séx. blood (sukuna's). inappropriate use of cursed technique + jujutsu. lemme know if i missed anything! 3.2k+ words.

(呪術廻戦) : note — i think i've forgotten how to write fluff now </33 divider credits to @/cafekitsune !

꩜ SATORU GOJO

the way satoru finds that spot… it’s like he’s got a sixth sense for it, beyond even those eyes. the insistent grind of his hips, the precise angle his thick cock takes as it buries itself deeper. it’s a language your body understands entirely.

“satoru! fuck,” you gasp, head arching back against the worn headboard. it’s so good it borders on agony, a delicious overload that makes your vision swim.

“ah, shit, pretty,” he grunts, his voice roughened with lust. “you’re taking all of me. look at that, huh? so fucking tight.” each powerful thrust has the head of his cock slamming against that sensitive nub deep inside, a relentless pressure that steals the air from your lungs.

all that exists is him – the slick heat, the straining length, every vein and ridge a searing imprint against your slick, yielding flesh.

it’s unnerving, almost invasive, how intimately he seems to know your body, mapping its secrets with a casual expertise. and with those all-seeing eyes, it’s foolish to think he doesn’t.

a wave of dizziness washes over you, coherent thought dissolving into a haze of pure sensation. the faint throb of his teeth marks on your neck is a distant hum against the overwhelming now – the relentless pounding, the feeling of being stretched and filled beyond capacity with each savage push.

the bed-frame creaks in protest with every thrust, the small room thick with the wet, smacking sounds and the friction of skin against skin. the remnants of their last bout, his slick warmth, are still trapped inside, each subsequent invasion driving it further, staking a deeper claim.

he’s not just moaning; it’s the most pornographic thing you've yet to hear, the most obscenely beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. he's whining like a bitch in heat, really.

“no, d- don’t stop,” you plead, your inner muscles clenching instinctively, milking him with desperate urgency.

“mm, not gonna stop,” he bites out, leaning down to press a hard, possessive kiss to your swollen lips. “but you gotta try not to squeeze so damn hard, sweetheart. i might just lose it.”

a mumbled apology escapes your lips, barely intelligible. you’re right on the edge, that familiar release beckoning with dizzying speed. you never stood a chance against him.

never with the way he fucks you, zeroing in on that core of pleasure with an almost cruel precision.

a strangled cry tears from your throat, breath hitching in ragged gasps. “i’m—"

"—i know,” gojo grinds out, cutting you off, his own breath coming in short, sharp bursts. “fuck, me too.”

when he comes, it’s a violent shudder that consumes his entire body, thick ropes of his seed erupting deep inside you. he collapses against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, riding out the tremors of your own shattering climax.

then, he pulls back slightly, those piercing blue eyes locking onto yours, raw and unguarded. “you know,” he says, his voice still thick with the aftermath, a tenderness in his gaze, “i think we should get married.”

꩜ SUGURU GETO

veiny, thick tendrils of cursed energy snake around you, binding your wrists to the cold metal of the bedposts. they pulse with a subtle, unsettling warmth, a living restraint.

you don't even bother to struggle; experience has taught you the futility. instead, you brace yourself, a strange mix of resignation and fierce anticipation settling in your gut for whatever suguru is willing to give.

the cursed energy is as unyielding as any rope, maybe even tighter. you can already feel the pressure points, the faint burn that promises bruises blooming beneath your skin in the morning.

a small price, you think, a ridiculously small price to pay for the brain-scrambling, mind-numbing oblivion he can deliver.

a very, very small price indeed.

"what a good girl," he purrs, his breath ghosting across your face as he peppers light, almost clinical kisses across your forehead and cheeks. "thought for sure that little whimper earlier meant you were about to tap out."

you huff, the sound catching in your throat and breaking into a shaky whimper despite yourself. "i— i can handle it," you insist, squeezing your eyes shut against the onslaught of sensation already building. maybe focusing on your breathing will help. just a little.

geto clicks his tongue, a sound that vibrates with amusement. "i have no doubt." you can't decipher if it's genuine or laced with his usual condescension. he has a habit of that, a detached superiority that somehow only amplifies the raw intimacy of his fucking.

if your mind isn't already a hazy mess, you might ask him if he even realizes he's doing it. actually, no, you wouldn't. you like it.

"think you can even take some more?" he's baiting you, you know it. everything with suguru is a subtle power play, a quiet competition. it's the same for you, a bad coincidence, you'd said. him? he voiced it as "being made for each other."

"y— yes, fuck!" the word is a desperate gasp as his thick cock slams into you, a raw, visceral connection that steals your breath. his hand slides down, fingers grazing against your slick folds, teasing the swollen nub of your clit. always the deliberate tormentor.

you want to tangle your fingers in the silky length of his hair, to pull him closer, but the pulsing restraints hold you captive. a frustrating, exquisite helplessness.

"cute lil' pussy," he chuckles, his voice a low rumble that vibrates against your ear. does he even realize how devastatingly beautiful he looks in moments like these?

his long, dark hair cascading around his face like a fallen angel, a sex-driven, lust-fueled angel bathed in the dim light.

he bucks his hips, a deep, guttural sound escaping his throat as he drives into you. your slick, aching hole does its desperate best to accommodate his size, that initial stretch always taking a painful, exquisite moment. by the time you adjust, he is already impatient, fucking you with a controlled ferocity that borders on brutal.

but you can never stay truly upset with him when it comes to this. he just… thrusts the discomfort away, slamming into your wet heat with a possessive intensity that drowns out everything else.

"sugu— 'm really close," you inhale, sharply, the words broken by a sharp intake of breath.

"yeah, princess?" he murmurs, his voice softening slightly, a flicker of something akin to tenderness in his dark eyes. "can feel you."

he finishes soon after, a series of deep, shuddering thrusts that wrack his body. but not before he ensures you follow, his fingers relentless on your clit until you cry out, your own release a messy, shuddering wave.

within a blink, the pulsing tendrils of cursed energy dissolve, leaving behind only the faint red marks on your wrists. he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the irritated skin, a smug wink flashing in his eyes.

꩜ KENTO NANAMI

nanami's great at sex. always has been. you didn't even think the guy could get better at it. and yet, here he is, showing you just how much more mind-numbingly good he can be.

with those long, surprisingly gentle fingers, he's got your jaw cupped, his thumb stroking your cheek as he murmurs, "can you feel me, darling?"

it's a stupid question, obviously you can feel him. every ridge and vein of his thick cock is pressed against your tight cunt, and you've never felt this stretched, you swear.

nanami just adores how your mouth falls open, your brows all scrunched up in that adorable little frown as his fat tip hits your sweet spot. his other hand slides down to your belly, pressing just lightly, like he's staking his claim. he's prideful, is what he is.

his thrusts are so controlled, so damn rhythmic it's almost hypnotic. every movement has a purpose, a precise intention. there's nothing sloppy or senseless about the way he's fucking you. it's like he's engineered your orgasm.

"oh, fuck," you gasp, your fingers digging into the solid muscle of his back, trying to hold on as the pleasure threatens to swallow you whole.

"feels good, no?" he asks, his intense gaze locked on your face. honestly, you wouldn't have pegged him as the type to need his ego stroked, but the look in his eyes says otherwise.

you want to answer him, but your eyes roll back in your head, and you're practically useless, just a whimpering mess under his ministrations.

nanami lets out this low chuckle, pressing a wet, sloppy kiss to your forehead. the bastard knows exactly what he's doing to you.

you can feel that 7:3 ratio thing he probably has going on in his head, even if he's not consciously counting. seven deliberate slides in, each one stretching you further, followed by three slightly shallower, teasing movements that keep you right on the edge.

your breath hitches in your throat, and you drag your nails down his solid back, leaving little trails of sensation. "i- i can't…" nanami just ignores your incoherent mumbles, because he knows you don't even know what you're trying to say. you're just strung out on the feel of him.

the slams of his hips against yours get a little less controlled, a little more urgent, but still with that underlying precision that's so distinctly him. you can feel the tension coiling in him, like a tightly wound spring about to snap.

"oh, love, i can feel – fuck – you clenching around me," he grunts, rutting his cock deeper into you. you're desperate for the release that's building, every muscle in your body contracting as you moan and whimper.

nanami lets out a low groan, his usual composed mask finally cracking as he follows you over the edge. his movements keep up, a little less methodical now, until he's shuddering against you, filling you with his hot, precise load.

he finally stills, resting his forehead against yours, his breathing a little ragged. "god, i love you," he murmurs, a rare hint of pure satisfaction in his voice.

seven minutes (and three seconds) in heaven.

꩜ CHOSO KAMO

choso's stamina isn't just a flex; it's a goddamn superpower. the kind that leaves you wondering if he has some extra hearts tucked away somewhere. "monster-like" feels polite; "relentless" is closer to the truth. you're pretty sure your boyfriend can fuck through the apocalypse and still ask for another round.

his face is buried deep between your tits, the wet heat of his mouth a brand against your skin. his moans are thick and muffled, vibrating against your chest as he rides you, each thrust a deep, insistent press.

hours blur into a sweaty, tangled mess of limbs and desperate gasps. the digital clock on your nightstand glows a mocking 2:47 a.m. you feel like you've been wrung out and hung to dry, utterly, deliciously drained. meanwhile, choso looks like he's just finished his warm-up.

"ngh, baby," he groans, his voice thick with need. "i'm… fuck, i'm gonna cum." you've lost count of his "gonna comes" hours ago, each one a lie that somehow still manages to feel good in the moment. your own orgasms have been a dizzying parade, each one pulling another ragged whimper from your throat.

"oh, choso…" you whimper, your back arching instinctively as he hits that sweet spot. your fingers tangle in his loose, messy hair – those ridiculous space-buns have long since surrendered to the friction. you're probably pulling too hard, but the only sound he makes is a deeper groan of pleasure.

a shaky sob escapes you. "i… god, i can't." your muscles are screaming, every nerve ending raw and overstimulated.

"s— sure you can," he breathes, his lips trailing wet kisses up your neck. "last… last one, i promise." his voice is husky, laced with a desperate edge that almost sounds believable.

except, choso is a liar when he's this deep inside you. the second his hot load pulses into you, you can feel him twitch, his cock hardening again with infuriating speed.

and yeah, you love his blood manipulation, you really do. knowing it keeps him safe out there, facing whatever cursed shit he has to deal with — that's everything.

but this? using it to recycle his blood, straight from his balls to his dick, so he doesn't "waste time" getting hard again? you want to argue that the downtime is the only thing keeping you from dissolving into a puddle of pure sensation. the break is essential.

you need it like you need air.

"choso, please," you hiccup, a pathetic little sound.

"please what, baby?" he mumbles, finally lifting his head to press soft, wet kisses to your tear-streaked face. "please, more?" his eyes are dark and hungry, pupils blown wide.

"no! no… not more," you murmur, squeezing your eyes shut against the fresh wave of sensation building in your core. you can feel another orgasm clawing its way closer, and the traitorous part of you, the part that is addicted to his touch, actually wants it.

he barely waits a breath after his last shuddering release before plunging back into you, his movements insistent and demanding. "oh, but you're doing so good," he insists, his words broken by ragged gasps.

"this is it, okay? j— just this last one, baby." he sounds like he's begging now, his voice thick with desperation, and in your hazy, pleasure-addled state, you almost believe him.

but then you are coming again, that familiar, overwhelming rush consuming you, and he is coming too, his body bucking against yours, and… he is a goddamn beautiful, stamina-blessed liar.

꩜ TOJI FUSHIGURO

yeah, toji doesn't have some fancy cursed technique to whip out in bed. so what? you think that ever stops him from getting exactly what he wants?

hell, no. the dude might be a deadbeat dad and a general pain in the ass, but when he commits to something – and he's definitely committed to you – he goes all the way. a real thorough bastard, that one.

right now, he has you locked in this brutal-as-hell mating press. your knees are practically glued to his sides, and his arms are like iron, squeezing you so tight you can feel his damn heartbeat against your own.

his fingers aren't just holding on; they're digging in, promising a nice little collection of bruises for you to discover later. a reminder, you figure.

his thick cock is stretching you open, filling you up in a way that makes your vision blur and your head spin. "you're a goddamn slut, you know that?" he grunts out between these rough, possessive kisses that leave your lips swollen.

"tell me," toji breathes, his hot breath ghosting over your ear, sending shivers down your spine despite the heat building between your legs. "you know what you are."

your head flops back, heavy and useless. all that matters is the feel of him buried so deep, the relentless back-and-forth stealing your breath and any semblance of thought.

you can taste blood where you're biting your lip, but the pain is just a background hum to the overwhelming pleasure.

"a… slut," you manage to choke out, the word sounding needy and desperate, already begging for the next brutal slide.

toji lets out this low groan that vibrates right through you, a sound that screams you're mine. his grip tightens even more, his thumbs now pressing hard into the slick, tender flesh of your inner thighs, spreading you wider, making him feel impossibly deep. it's almost violent, the way he handles you, but every rough touch sends these crazy sparks of sensation shooting through you.

he pulls back just enough to lock his dark, intense gaze on yours, and you can practically see the possessiveness burning in his eyes. "mine," he bites out, like it's the only truth in the universe. then, he slams back into you, and your nails dig into the hard muscle of his shoulders, clinging on for dear life.

the air's thick with your ragged gasps, the wet, slapping sound of your bodies grinding together, and you just know he's getting off on how tight you are, how you clench and tremble with each savage thrust.

one calloused hand leaves your side to roughly cup your breast, his thumb teasing your nipple until it's hard and aching. the other hand stays glued to the wet heat of your thigh.

"beg for it," he mutters, his voice low and rough, a total taunt.

a shaky cry escapes you, right on the edge of a sob. "please, toji, p— please…"

he lets out this low chuckle, a rumble against your ear. "yeah, yeah." and even though he acts like he doesn't give a shit half the time, he's always a sucker for you. the heat low in your belly coils tighter and tighter. your back arches, and you writhe against him, desperate for that release.

and when you finally come, it hits him just a few brutal seconds later. his hot load pumps into you, coating your insides, and toji groans, a deep, animalistic sound as you squeeze every last drop out of him.

"damn, ma," he breathes, his forehead pressed against yours, shoulders relaxing.

relaxing; only for a moment, because then you know the cycle will repeat.

꩜ RYOMEN SUKUNA

it's no surprise sukuna is rough. he's sukuna. taunting, malevolent, deliciously so. a razor's edge of threat underlies everything he utters, a constant hum of danger that can be playful or genuinely menacing. except in this space, beneath him, it is always, undeniably, intentional.

you are splayed out, limbs heavy and unresponsive, reduced to a whimpering, slick mess under his gaze. his crimson eyes, sharp and predatory, burn into yours, pinning you down more effectively than any physical restraint.

he trails a long finger down the inside of your thigh, the touch surprisingly light, yet you still flinch, a tremor running through you. a faint, red line blooms in its wake, almost imperceptible.

"feel that, flower?" he rumbles, his voice a low purr that vibrates through your bones. "better listen close, wouldn't want you ending up in little pieces."

you know, somewhere in the haze of arousal and fear, that it's a hollow threat. he wouldn't destroy what he so possessively claims. yet, the fear still coils in your gut, sharp and thrilling.

terrifying, yes, but you wouldn't have it any other way.

his thick cock stretches you open, every inch a deliberate invasion. you can feel the head press against something deep inside, a hard knot pushing so far in it creates a visible bulge in your lower belly. the slick heat of him fills you completely.

then comes the unsettling, wet sensation of a tongue, not from his mouth, but from lower down, sliding between your slick folds.

"'kuna— can't..." you whine, which he whole-heartedly disregards. it traces a path of hot, insistent licks, right up to your swollen clit, leaving a shimmering trail of his spit.

"what a messy girl, huh?" he rasps, his voice thick with the effort, as if you aren't completely consumed by the feeling of him inside you. your only response is a helpless groan that vibrates against his skin.

your eyes squeeze tighter, the pressure building again, that familiar knot of another orgasm clawing its way up. your inner muscles clench around his shaft, slicking him even further as you squirt onto his thick length, milking him with each involuntary spasm.

it isn't long before his own ragged breaths fill the air, his hips bucking against yours as he empties himself inside, filling you to the brim with hot, pulsing pleasure.

"maybe," he says against your ear, a low murmur, "if you're lucky, next time i'll let you take both."

❛ all works belong to deathofacupid, do not steal/plagiarize/repost. ❜

tagging jazz (@jeonwiixard) + mia (@mia-can-yap-too) cus they wifey <33

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pixieseo · 1 month ago

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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.

#save me nerd gojo with glasses save me #gojo eating out reader with his glasses on #i need it badly

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pixieseo · 1 month ago

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went looking for geto x reader x choso and found exactly two fics between here and ao3

#i would have literally fallen to my knees if i wasnt sitting #this is so sick and twisted

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pixieseo · 1 month ago

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-—— ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ——-

Thinking about how when you start dating satoru, you NEVER shower alone again.

Like, he’s making dinner and he hears the water start running? He’s barely remembering to turn the stove off before tearing through the house towards the bathroom, peeling his clothes off as he runs and almost eating shit in his haste.

It’s not even entirely for sex reasons, (though that is a strong motivator for him most of the time) sometimes he’s pulling back the shower curtain and slipping in beside you just to wash your hair, just to scrub that one part of your back you can’t quite reach. He loves rubbing the soap suds into your skin and watching you melt under his ministrations, loves the way you look so vulnerable with your hair dripping wet, completely naked and comfortable with him, and only him.

Even if he’s already had a shower that day, just a few hours earlier (the whole time he was waiting for you to slip in next to him- going as far as washing his hair three times, just to stall- but you weren’t quite at his level of freak, yet) the second he hears you grabbing a towel from the cabinet, he’s jumping up from his spot on the couch and running over to the bathroom, only to despairingly find the door locked.

“Honey, why is the door locked?” His words come out accusing, like you’ve committed some heinous crime instead of simply protecting your peace. He’s jiggling the door handle like a child who’s made it to the car before his mom has unlocked the door, impatient and irritated.

You huff, naked on the other side of the door, afraid the hinges might give out from his insistent jostling.

“Because!“ reasoning with him is useless, and yet you still try. “I need an everything shower and you’re just going to distract me!”

A pause on the other side of the door, the squeeking of metal protesting under his strength stopping, before it starts up again, harder. “I am your everything shower!”

-—— ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ——-

#this was so cute

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pixieseo · 1 month ago

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ceo!nanami x reader • nsfw

thinking of ceo!nanami taking you on a business trip with him and absolutely pounding you into the mattress of the hotel.

he’s letting off steam after an annoyingly strenuous day of meetings, and you’re so completely submerged into your pleasure you can’t tell how loud you’re being.

your next door neighbor slams their fist on the wall to tell you to lower your volume and have some decorum but you’re too far gone to hear it over your own moans and the sound of your ass slamming into your husband’s hips.

but he can hear it loud and clear and it pisses him off. it makes him glance up at the wall for a split second before defiance takes over. he slaps your ass, knowing it makes you even louder, smirking when your voice echoes through the walls.

he starts going harder and faster, mouth open as he focuses on you, gripping your waist tighter and growling as he fucks you.

“that’s it honey- fuck. oh you take it so well, god. let me hear you.”

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pixieseo · 1 month ago

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❀ In which Nanami's wife loves his dad bod

“Whatcha up to, hottie?”

You’re bored, you both know it and Kento, who’s putting the groceries away, stifles a playful sigh when he feels your hands grope his ass through his slacks. “Well, I was waiting for my wife to make good on her promise to help me tidy the kitchen up, but it seems she’s rather preoccupied with misbehaving.”

“It’s not my fault you’ve got such a distracting body, Kento.”

Not a single lie leaves your mouth — you really were distracted by that ass.

Over the years, you’ve noticed your husband’s body change. It’s not a bad change, far from it. In fact, it’s actually an amazing change: he’s grown bigger. By God, has he?

Those arms are now thicker, with his biceps being as big as your head and opportunistically weaponised against you during delectable, mind numbing sex. Wrapping around your neck, pulling you into a sweet arch, and forcing him deeper inside. His thighs make for amazing seats, so strong and sturdy. You love to kneel between them, nuzzling those dense muscles, feeling them flex under your grip as you choke on his cock.

Kento still has abs, but now they’re slightly hidden behind a cute layer of fat — he spends more time with you than in the gym these days and neither of you are complaining. It makes being pinned down by his body all the more enjoyable, especially when he’s just so soft and cuddly. He used to be a little insecure about the weight he’s put on, after all he only ever wants to be at his absolute best for you, but soon that insecurity washed away when he saw the way you worshipped his body, drooled over his size, and went cross-eyed by the pudgy feel of his muscles when he’s at his most comfortable.

“Sweetheart?” He pats your head. “Please don’t bite so hard. You know how I feel about that.”

You hadn’t even realised you were chomping on one of his pecs, leaving a wet mark over his shirt. Giggling at yourself, you look up at him and muss up his hair. “Sorry, Ken. Just got distracted by your tits.”

Groaning in embarrassment, he sways you side to side as if he’s trying to shake you off but his arm keeps you tucked to him. “Don’t call them tits, love. They’re pecs.”

“Whatever they are, I love them.”

A laugh is startled out of him when you blow raspberries on his chest, face buried in between the plump fats. Your greedy hands are squeezing and groping and he doesn’t dare stop you, rather, he simply lets you entertain yourself whilst he continues to put away the last of the shopping.

“Alright, alright, darling. Let’s go wash up.”

You ask, mouth full of your husband’s pec, “Can we have shower sex?”

“We made love three times this morning already, love. Any more and we’ll be too tired for dinner.”

He yelps, jolting against you. His ass was slapped and squeezed tight, pressing him closer to you. A scolding look without much heat behind it is given to you. “You say that, honey but your boner’s poking me. You really ought to be more honest, Kenny baby.”

And what can the man say when he’s been backed into a corner other than, his wife is always right.

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pixieseo · 1 month ago

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lmao i have no recollection of posting this but i was so real for this

looked at my lock screen and realized i really want hoshi

#still want him #still need him

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pixieseo · 1 month ago

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busy woman

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: kwon soonyoung x afb.reader

Yeah, I’m a busy woman. I wouldn’t let you come into my calendar any night. But if you want my kisses. I’ll be your perfect Mrs. ‘til the day that one of us dies

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): romance, smut

𝐚𝐮(𝐬): non idol

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.4K

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: needy soonyoung, mc can be quite bitchy

𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: unprotected sex, creampie, so much kissing, oral (fem rec), mentions of rough sex, car sex, mentions of being sore from overstimulation, passionate sex, cockwarming, quickie (it’s not really quick) mentions of anal/anal play. Nicknames: Baby girl, baby, darling, honey, sweet cheeks, ice queen (hers) baby, baby boy, tiger boy, soonie (his)

𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: mature, 18+

𝐚𝐧: I can’t stop writing for hoshi right now. This inspired by the song of the same name by Sabrina carpenter. Thank you @naniwatig3r for beta reading and helping me with this story.

🎧: busy woman - sabrina carpenters | I’m in love with you - the 1975 | sunshine baby - the japanese house

𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬.

You didn’t make it easy on Soonyoung from the moment you met. His attempts to bring you home after a night out at the club were put to a screeching halt. Your teasing words informing him you don’t do one night stands. Your sweet teasing words that told him “I’m a busy woman. I don’t have time for games. I need you to prove to me this isn’t just about sex to you.”

”Give me your number and I’ll prove to you that I just don’t want to have sex with you. Let me get to know you.”

That night you gave the boy with sparkling eyes and an energetic personality, your number.

Boy did Soonyoung work to prove to you that he was serious about you. You’ve never had a man make you feel so incredibly wanted. From the moment you met him, he worshiped the ground you walked on. In the beginning, you held your walls up high. Trying to portray the role of a strong woman, some people would call a bitch. But damn was he good at chipping away at your walls.

When he first started texting you, it took four days before you agreed to go on a date with him. One perfect date turned into two and then the next thing you knew you’ve been seeing him for a month.

The original plan was you were going to hold out on having sex with him until the one month mark. The problem was he was too charming and adorable for his own good. By the third date, you found yourself riding him in the backseat of his car. His hands touched anywhere they could reach as he moaned your name like a prayer.

At the three week mark you met his friends, and suddenly things started to feel more serious. That night when he intended to drop you off he like he always did. This time he just decided to let a little confession slip past his lips.

“Baby, I like you so much.”

“Baby?” You cock your head to the side. You’ve never been one for pet names. But the way he says it gives you butterflies.

“You’re my baby. Unless you hate that name – If so, I can call you something else. Honey, darling, sweet cheeks.” He’s now rambling on like an idiot. You might have broken him with little effort.

“I like baby.”

A huge smile forms on his lips causing his eyes to squint. “Baby.”

“Sweet cheeks?” There is no way you can’t bring up that absolutely terrible nickname.

Reaching up he pinches your cheek lightly. “You have the sweetest cheeks.”

Before Soonyoung you don’t think there is a single man on this planet that could get away with pinching your cheek and saying that. Narrowing your eyes at him. He pulls away quickly knowing he’s absolutely playing with fire.

“You’re lucky I like you too, Soonyoung.”

“You like me back? He says it like you haven’t been having a sleepover for the last week.

“Kwon Soonyoung, I like you a lot. Just remember if you ever make me feel unwanted or hurt me once. It’s absolutely over.” You knew deep down inside he would never do that. You just needed to make sure it was extremely clear to him.

Seven days later Soonyoung decides to be bold and say those three big words. Laying on his bed completely naked scrolling through your phone. Soonyoung is in the bathroom brushing his teeth. You’re not sure if your legs even work anymore. He managed to make you come five times in the span of an hour. Your legs feel like jelly, and to be quite frank your pussy is literally sore.

He walks back into the room and stands by the bed next to you. Glancing up at his glorious naked body, the twisted part of you wonders if your body could take another orgasm.

“Fuck you look good,” you practically moan.

“Baby I thought you said I broke your pussy, that you need a break?” He pushes your hair away from your face.

“Could you go nice and slow?” Sex with Soonyoung was normally quite passionate. Sometimes it was rough and lust filled, other times you’re pretty sure it’s what people referred to as “making love”.

“Aren’t you sore?” He crawls onto the bed.

“Maybe a little.” You’re suddenly acting shy and you aren’t quite sure why.

“Spread your legs for me baby.”

He crawls on top of you while resting on his knees. With the amount of cum left in you, he slides into you with ease. You expect him to start moving at a slow pace. But he doesn’t move at all. He just stays completely still hovering over you, while filling you to the brim.

“Are you going to move?” You reach up resting your hand on his cheek.

“Do you just want me to cockwarm you?”

“Isn’t this an inconvenient position to be doing that?”

“I mean we can switch positions.”

“So you’re not going to fuck me again?”

He doesn’t respond, he just leans down and presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. You want to act like a bitch and tease him, but you can’t. The way he’s looking at you, makes you feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside.

“Soonyoung.”

“Baby?”

“Can you move?” You tangle your fingers in his hair holding him close to you.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You’re sore and you need to rest.” He presses another kiss to the tip of your nose.

“Fine. Can we at least switch positions if you’re just going to keep your dick in me?”

A smile tugs at his lips before he kisses you. His kiss feels different. It’s filled with passion and it feels almost as if it’s filled with love.

“I want to say something to you. I just need you to promise me you won’t turn into an ice queen on me.” You can’t help but roll your eyes at your college nickname you made the mistake of telling him about.

“I can’t make any promises.”

“I need you to make a promise about this. Please.”

“Fine. I promise I won’t be an ice queen to you.”

“I love you.” Who knew those three words would feel like a ton of bricks hitting your chest. Holy shit he did fall hard for you. Your eyes are probably the size of saucers. You’re just in shock. “Judging by the look on your face you definitely don’t feel the same way. But that’s like cool. Just pretend I never said anything.” He’s stumbling over his words, definitely freaking out and you don’t blame him.

He starts to pull away from you sitting back on his knees. “Wait a damn minute Soonyoung.”

He pulls out of you leaving you once again feeling empty. You reach out for his hand. “Give me a minute to process what you said. I love you too.”

It’s his turn for his eyes to be the size of saucers. “Oh fuck we’re in love.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes at his statement. “Baby boy we’re definitely in love.”

One of your first major milestones after your fated “I love you” was your one year anniversary. You’ve dated around quite a bit since college, but you never tried having a serious long term relationship.

“Are you free Saturday?” Soonyoung asked, walking into your apartment.

“I'm a busy woman. I have dinner plans that night.” These plans would be extremely easy to get out of. Or it would be easy to just bring Soonyoung along with you.

“It’s our anniversary. I was hoping we could have dinner.” He shoves his hands in his pocket as he looks down, almost defeated.

“I’ll cancel the dinner. I may be busy, but I can be flexible. Just for you.” You give him a flirty smile at the word flexible.

“How flexible are we talking?” He instantly cheers up.

“I don’t know. Maybe we could test out a new position.” Leaning back on the couch you can’t help but let out a laugh.

“Fuck.”

“Wasn’t that how the anniversary night is supposed to end?”

“Please tell me how I managed to make you fall in love with me?” He drops to his knees and practically crawls to you. He doesn’t realize it’s the other way around, You aren’t quite sure you managed to make him fall in love with you.

“I’m not quite sure. Something about you, tiger boy, is just so irresistible.”

He gets up off the floor and sits on the couch next to you. “I got you something.”

“I didn’t get you anything. My present to you was I was finally going to let you play with my ass.” This man is obsessed with your ass and you’ve built up enough trust with him in the bedroom that you decided he can start testing the waters with you, when it came to trying anal.

“Wait, are you serious?” He sounds like you just told him he’s getting his dream Christmas present.

“Yes. Now what is my present?”

“One minute.” He hops off the couch and jogs over to the front door where he dropped his work bag. He pulls out a long box and walks back over to you.

“If it was up to me I would be getting down on one knee and proposing to you, but I know you might slap me if I did that today. So I got you a necklace.”

He hands you the box. Opening it up you instantly smile at the beautiful gold necklace he got you. There is a delicate heart with two stones. One being your birthday stone, and the other being his. By no means are you ready to get married, but you hope one day he will actually propose to you.

“Soonie.” You rarely cry, but his thoughtful gift has you feeling extra emotional.

“You like it?” You don’t say anything, you just grab his hand, pulling him down to you. Crashing your lips into his. You kiss him like you need him to breathe.

“Just so you know, I’m not opposed to marrying you.”

He pulls away smiling. “That’s good to know. I’ll start ring shopping now.”

Two years into your relationship Soonyoung now lives with you, and he casually gave you an engagement ring three months ago. He didn’t make his proposal flashy. He just got down on one knee while you were cooking dinner together. It was absolutely perfect.

Things with Soonyoung just feel right. You can’t get enough of him, and he surely can’t get enough of you.

Rough lips moved down your neck as you gripped his shoulder holding on to him for dear life. You only have an hour together before he needs to go to work. It's clear he wants to take advantage of every moment you have together.

His teeth graze your skin as he gently nips at your skin, earning a gasp from you. He lays between your legs as he continues to kiss your skin. He’s never been one for a quickie. That’s probably due to the fact this man is obsessed with foreplay. This man never misses an opportunity to have his head between your thighs eating out until you're overstimulated and crying.

You’re a whiny mess desperately wishing he would move. Your hands roam lower resting on his butt pulling his hips forward slightly.

“Someone is needy,” he murmurs against his skin.

“I just want you,” you moan and he suddenly thrusts his hips.

“Can you ask nicely?” He pulls away from you looking at you with lust filled eyes.

“Please Soonyoung. I need you to fuck me,” you normally hate begging, but he has desperately needing him to move.

“Does my future wife want me to fuck her?”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. Ever since he proposed this man never misses an opportunity to call you his future wife. “Does my future husband want to?”

“God I love it when you talk dirty to me.” He practically groans.

“That wasn’t dirty talk.”

“You called me your husband while I’m literally inside you. That is literally the dirtiest thing you could say to me. I’m shocked I didn’t come immediately.” Sometimes you question why you put up with how dramatic he is.

“Future husband. Not present husband.”

“We can go down to the courthouse and change that right now.”

“It’s a shame you have to go to work.”

“I can call out.”

“Maybe if you fuck me so good I forget my last name I’ll take yours today.”

He lets out a groan closing his eyes. His ultimate dream is to marry you immediately. The day he proposed it you would have asked him to get married right then and there he would have in a heartbeat.

“Okay my love,” he leans forward pressing his lips to yours as he slowly starts rolling his hip into you.

With each thrust, your hands grip his shoulder holding on to him as his lips continue to assault yours. Your leg hooks over his back resting right above his butt.

He’s leaving for work in less than an hour and this is the one way he knows to show you exactly how much he’ll miss you and how much he truly loves you.

He continues his ministration, with each movement he’s hitting just the right spot with each thrust. You're lost in the moment and time doesn’t seem to matter. You aren’t sure if it’s been ten minutes or an hour.

You both finish moaning the other person's name. Laying in your bed next to each other, you aren’t ready for him to go to work.

He looks over at you and whispers, “Would you actually marry me today?”

He’ll never understand how much you love him, and how much you broke all your own rules for him.

“We’re both off from work tomorrow. Let’s go down to the courthouse and get married.”

The smile he gives you is a firm reminder that he’s hopelessly in love with you, and you can’t quite put into words how much you love him.

If you have asked to be tagged I request that you please reblog. If you could leave comments and or tags that would be greatly appreciated.

#reading later

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pixieseo · 1 month ago

Text

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

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

but you were different.

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

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

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

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

typical.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

he watches again.

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.

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.

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.

he’s close. too close.

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—

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

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.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

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.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

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

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 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.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

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.

ping.

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.

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

he freezes.

you giggle.

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.

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

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’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 tries to normalize it.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

it doesn’t help.

satoru’s trying.

really.

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

click.

of course he does.

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.

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

he knows it.

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

he does.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

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

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

he doesn’t blink.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

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!!”

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.

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.”

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

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.

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.

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

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

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 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.

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

it starts with a ping.

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

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

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

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