They Are Like Father And Daughter

NERD GOJO WHO'S YOUR TA!

synopsis. TA nerd gojo who has a crush on you and gets assigned as your tutor.

content. 18+ explicit content. foul language. public sex. dom/sub undertones. inappropriate relationship. unprotected sex. virginity loss. feminine description used.

note. umm first time posting... enjoy!!

nerdjo, who works as the TA in your chemistry class, and due to your lackluster performance so far in the semester, he gets assigned as your tutor. He's a total nerd whose interests fall outside the typical college student's. Despite that, you still find him to be so cute. He's a little shy and on the quieter side, and his confidence mostly comes through when he's teaching."

nerdjo, who always comes to class early and helps set up labs before the students flock in, is dressed in a sharp white lab coat that pairs well with his shaggy white hair. He always wears his framed glasses, which he constantly has to push up because his head is shoved in some book that you wouldn't even know where to begin to understand.

nerdjo, who didn't even realize that you were no longer listening to his explanation on today's lecture and instead was fantasizing about fucking him in the middle of the dimly lit library that you were studying in. Chemistry was long gone from your mind, and all you could think about was how you desperately craved to see how he’d look as he struggled not cum inside of you.

nerdjo, who only realizes your mind is elsewhere when he glances into your eyes and can tell you didn’t retain a single word he said for the past 20 minutes...at least. He instead notices you're looking at him in a way he can't recall any girl has looked at him before, you were practically staring into his soul with your lust-filled eyes.

nerdjo, who knows it's wrong because he’s your TA but can't help but shamelessly take a glance down at your very low-cut top that pushes the soft skin of your chest together and makes it appear as if you're spilling out of it. He nearly wants to drool at how soft they look under the confines of the fabric and how they would probably fill his hands as he takes your nipples into his—

You caught his wandering eyes shamelessly traveling down your body before quickly lowering his gaze to the book in front of him. You could see his blood rush to his cheeks and create a rosy blush that exposed his embarrassment. His shyness only turned you on even more. Just thinking of being able to ruin your nerdy TA’s innocence made the space between your thighs grow even more wet.

nerdjo, who was now feeling the consequences of his perverted actions and could feel himself growing hard under the table. To try and distract himself, he started rambling on about the lecture again, this time stumbling on his words a concerning amount of times over topics you know he would be able to teach in sleep.

nerdjo, who knew the feelings flooding his body were so wrong. He shouldn't be getting so aroused around one of his students, He shouldn't be noticing how pretty she is, and he really shouldn't be wondering if the color of the bra strap peeking out the side of her top matches her panties! But as much as he tried he just couldn't force the thoughts out of his mind. The once-cold library felt so much warmer, and the space between your chairs didn't feel like enough.

“are you feeling okay? You seem kind of hot,” you asked, playing concerned. You took the opportunity to put your hand on his thigh, causing his leg to almost twitch immediately.

“oh-no m-me? I’m fine!" he stumbles on his words, and your hand continues to brush back and forward his pants, each time subtly getting a little too close to where you shouldn't.

nerdjo, who nearly jumps at the feeling of your getting close to his inner thigh and tries his best to play it off as if you’re not almost massaging his soon-to-be raging bulge in the middle of this empty library right now.

He nervously pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he feels your hand get closer and closer to a place no girl had touched before. He was at a loss for words, barely able to bring himself to protest your actions as his brain was slowly turning to mush the more he felt your touch.

“but you don’t look fine,” you say, feigning worry. You take his cheek in your palm and turn his flustered-horny face to make eye contact with your lust-filled ones.

“I think I know just how to help you though,” you say as you finally move your other hand right on his crotch and begin to massage his painfully hard dick through his pants. He audibly gasps in surprise at your forwardness and can't stop the immediate sigh of pleasure that escapes his lips.

"f-fuck this is so wrong- i-i'm your TA we can't-." He tries to remind you while clearly fighting to hold back his moan and making no actual move to stop your hand.

"But it feels good, doesn't it? you like the way I touch you? You ask while dipping your hand below the waistband of his pants, making the only barrier between you his boxers as you apply even more pressure to his aching cock. You could feel the pre-cum surrounding his tip, already wetting your hand through the fabric. Your voice was so sweet to his ears, paired with the feeling of your hand; it was all too much for him, and he could no longer continue his pathetic fight against you. All he could do was shamelessly nod through his moans.

"You've been such a good boy helping me... It's time you let me help you."

━━━━━━━━━━━━

The once quiet library was now filled with the obscene sounds of gojo's plunging his cock in and out of your poor sopping-wet pussy without holding back in the slightest.

You were the least bit prepared for your nerdy TA's to have so much length and thickness hidden beneath his pants. He was giving you the biggest stretch of your life as he fucked you on the library table with no mercy. It's like his hips had a mind of their own as soon as he sunk into the warmness of your core. And it didn't help that your tight walls were sucking him back in with every stroke, accompanied by squelching sounds of your pussy, driving him even more crazy.

""f-fuckk omggg, this feels so good," he whined as he tilted his head back with his eyes practically glued shut. He couldn't bear to look at you as he felt like he would explode any minute if he made eye contact with you while you were in such an unholy position.

"cmon baby, look at me, look at all the mess you made," you beg him as a loud moan escapes your lips. His dick was hitting places you didn't even know could be reached, and even though there was a slight pain that came with his thickness you found it to be pleasurable.

It made you crave to feel every inch of him inside you, so you lifted your leg onto the table, making his hips press closer into you and giving him a new angle that had him nearly about to shed a tear. He slows down his pace, barely being able to handle the feeling of his fat tip kissing your cervix over and over again. (you couldn't really blame him, it was his first time getting his dick wet.)

"I'm so sorry baby omg m'sorry- if I look I won't last!" he whined apologetically. This position had him stars and the only way to stop himself from filling you up was to try to slow down. He gave you slow but deep strokes that had you feeling every vein of his cock throbbing inside you. He was trying his best not to come quick so he could enjoy the feeling of your pussy longer, he was already so attached. He reached in front of you and took a handful of your chest, squeezing the soft skin of your breast before gently toying with your nipples.

As good as it felt you weren't having any of it. "mm-but don't you want to come inside me?" your question forces his eyes wide open. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, a girl as pretty as you were going to let him cum inside??

"ahh- god, I must dreaming right now." he babbled as his brows scrunched together. 'Such a nerd,' you thought to yourself. Gojo was trying his best not to focus too hard on the feeling of you sucking him in so he could avoid embarrassing himself by cumming on the spot. His movements became more sloppy, which let you know he couldn't hold on for much longer.

"Its not a dream baby- please I need you to fill me up!" you moan out feeling his dick contnously brush against your spot. "I need it all inside me please." you begged while looking into his glossy eyes.

That was his last straw. Without even thinking if you could physically handle it, he quickened his pace, and you nearly choked in surprise at how fast he was fucking you. The library was filled with your sultry sounds harmonizing together. His feverish eyes gazed into yours with desperation. you knew he was close and so were you.

"oh my godd m'cummingg" you cried out to him. your cunt pulsated around his cock, liquid streams gushing out, splashing onto his lower abs and thighs. Your body trembles as your orgasm continues, and he continues to fuck you through it and chase his own. The sight of your orgasm only pushes Gojo completely over the edge.

"baby I'm gonna cumm- baby please, please." he didn't even know what he was begging for at this point. His mind was so far gone that all he could think about was coming inside of you. "It's okay baby let go-"

You could feel his strokes get more and more sloppy and his thighs tremble, his pretty blue eyes rolled back as he finally emptied his aching cum-filled balls into your pussy. You couldn't help but moan as you felt the warmth fill you up. There was so much cum spilling out that it overflowed from within you and traveled down between your legs.

Your bodies succumb to the exhaustion and collapse together on the table. "This must be what heaven feels like," he says breathlessly with only feelings of euphoria running through his brain.

'such a nerd' you smile to yourself.

nerdjo has my heart

soukoku angst

nerdjo x reader ⟢ real man

"... did you know that a quasar emits more energy in a second than our sun will in its entire lifetime?"

"uh... sure?"

༄.° pairing . nerd! gojo x popular! reader (f)

⤷ summary . a low grade lands you a tutor session with the nerdiest boy at your university with the help of the best wingman, your professor, who knows that gojo is your only way of improving that 59.6% in your physics class. your annoyance soon turns into admiration and maybe something else as you find yourself enjoying the late night study sessions. but what happens when the physic sessions turn into sex education?

warning ⓘ tags . (18+), porn with plot me thinks, smut, gojo will give you second hand embarrassment bless his soul, protected sex that will lead to unprotected, masturbation, praise kink, oral, p in v, cream pie. sub gojo heh. jealous gojo. perv gojo. obsessive gojo.

⤷ wc . 4k (not proofread)

a/n . this is my first actual attempt to writing good smut. never got the hang of it so hopefully this turns out good. the 59.6% is specific because that is MY current grade and I might just kms if nerdjo doesn't help me out.

a/n . 2 I enjoyed writing the friendship buildup more than the actual smut :p

waking up to an email sent by your physics professor was not the best way to start off the day.

"you've got to be kidding me.." you grumbled, with your morning voice attempting to read the title of the email as your blurry eyes adjusted to the bright screen of your phone. you weren't surprised when the subject was that you are being assigned a tutor. you were aware of your current grade, but you swore you would be able to raise it up. right after partying.

your roommate, and long term friend, peaks over your shoulder as she buttoned up her pants. "yikes, I'm surprised he hasn't admitted you to a tutor earlier, haven't you had the same grade for a while now?"

you sighed knowing she was right. your grade hasn't gone up even a percentage for the past two weeks.

'meet me in class before it begins today, perhaps 10 minutes before, ill be introducing you to your tutor and we'll discuss how things will work.'

and that's how you found yourself standing in front of your teachers desk awkwardly. "he'll be here soon, he's very punctual."

you nodded in acknowledgment. you wanted to play it safe and come a few minutes earlier than the given time written on the email. '10 minutes before class'. the said class begins at 9:40. it is currently 9:28.

he was punctual alright. the moment it struck the half hour, the door swung open to reveal a tall boy- no, a really tall boy. he had white hair and blinding blue eyes behind dorky glasses. despite his nerdy look, the boy had a few facial piercings. one on his eyebrow and his lip.

that's hot.

"satoru! come in, come" your professor gestured the boy to be next to you. satoru offered a small, shy wave, which you responded with a warm smile.

"so as we all know, y/n isn't doing so well in this class." you cringed feeling your face heat up. being exposed in front of someone as smart as satoru was the ultimate humiliation.

"here's what's going to happen. there is an upcoming review test before the final. you pass that and im 99.9 percent sure that you will pass the final with enough studying. I'll leave satoru to decide how the tutoring will work, but I expect you both to meet up at least four times a week."

four times a week? four times? a week. great.

session 1.

you dragged your body into the library with your tote bag full of textbooks and practice worksheets. the library was fairly crowded with students studying for upcoming exams. you being one of them.

making your way deeper into the study area, your eyes landed on gojo who was setting up the table with his headphones plugged in. you approached him but he didn't notice you.

"satoru..?"

no answer. he was in a completely different world with the way he was humming a tune which only brought you to your last resort.

you poked his shoulder lightly which caused him to jump a little, looking over his shoulder to meet eyes with you.

"oh! hi uhm im sorry..! I didn't notice you I was just uh setting up the table. is this place okay with you? we can always pick somewhere else if your uncomfortable with being way too-"

"no no its fine with me." you interrupted his babbling which you found endearing.

"right." he chuckled before sitting down which you followed.

"alright so what exactly are you struggling with?" he asked.

what are you struggling with? "everything" you answered honestly looking at the organized textbooks- all related to physics and.. digimon?

"so.. we can start off with the basics of fundamentals of motion. such as speed and distance and maybe add in some kinematic equations. you are familiar with newtons law, right?"

you nodded as you recalled to the only thing you remembered from this god awful class.

"okay so we can skip that.. but ill still explain a little bit of it towards the end, just to make sure."

that's how you spent your first session with the boy. he's amazing at explaining, learning more from him than any past lectures. the way he is so into it you can't help but space out at the way his lips move.

"for the equations, there are a few of them, ill give you three examples then write one of each so you can practice."

your eyes fixated at the way he neatly wrote down the letters.

"so uhm.. do I multiply or-"

"you subtract this from both sides."

"got it."

this was definitely going to take a while if you couldn't even handle the basics. you handed him back the sheet where you attempted the problems.

"seems like you have a bit of difficulty deriving the equations."

you sighed. how long has it been? forty minutes? and hour?

checking your phone you were surprised to see that only 15 minutes have passed?

'just kill me at this point' you thought.

"hey hey, no phones. can't have you getting distracted, hand it over"

"I was just checking the time! don't take it away pleaseee" you begged.

"you'll be tempted to check the time every five seconds, just hand it over." you reluctantly placed it in his hand. his fingers brushed against yours and you were surprised to see how soft his were.

"lets try again. this time ill watch you solve them so I can see where you start to go wrong."

2 hours have gone by and you finally grasped how to solve the equations involving motion and acceleration.

"good job!" the praise boosted up your confidence. "only took ya thirty practice problems but you got there." he teased as he adjusted his glasses. "thanks satoru." you rolled your eyes at him.

the way you said his name went straight into his head. both of them actually.

"we should wrap it up for today"

he reached into his bag pulling out a few sheets before sliding them to you. "try and finish these by wednesday, which will be our next session. oh-" the pale boy reached for his examples. "use these for reference if you forget again."

accepting the papers, you placed them in your folder before tucking it back into your bag. "thank you, I know i'm not the easiest to teach."

"non sense. you're the first person i've tutored to actually have motivation to learn."

"you've tutored others?" you tilted your head.

"course I have. anyways, study what we've gone over today. here's my phone number-"

"youre going to have to give me back my phone in order for that" you chuckled. it felt like satorus world paused for a second as he saw your smile.

"uh right.. sorry"

it felt great to have your beautiful cellular device in the comfort of your hands.

"I usually ignore my messages.. can I give you my instagram instead?" you asked.

satoru was a bit disappointed to not be able to have your phone number, but your insta was just as good. that way he'd be able to see pictures of you.

you both exchanged users, you with your whopping 2.3k followers and him with his 40. 41 including you.

he noticed that out of the 2.3k people that follow you, you only follow around 90. he felt honored that he would be one of the lucky ones to be blessed with your follow.

"great!" satoru couldn't help the dorky grin that crept up on his face. "text me if you have any issues with the work, mkay?"

multiple sessions have passed.

you felt yourself warm up with the boy, learning more about him and his nerdy interests and the upcoming 'name as many digimon characters as you can' contest that he's pumped for explained the character book you'd see every time you met up at the library.

which you both eventually ditched after accidentally catching a couple doing... activities one shouldn't be doing in a quiet environment.

satoru couldn't help but wish that was you and him.

you both settled for a nearby cafe where he always paid for your drinks and sugary treat which he's memorized by now.

"we should go over the vocabulary today" his fingers skimmed through several papers before pulling one out that had the key to all the words you had to remember.

you were progressing and you felt confident for the review and final which were both in three months.

"here write down the words on a separate sheet and try to answer them to see which you know and which you don't."

outside of your tutor sessions, you began saying hi to each other in the hallways, exchanging small smiles in class, and late night texts.

satoru [ 10: 37 PM]

-you complete the worksheets?

you [ 10: 40 PM]

-hi! I just need to finish up the last one then im all done

satoru [ 10: 41 PM]

-thats good, mind sending me what you've done?

you [ 10 : 45 PM]

[image attached]

-im actually at a party right now..

that led to a scolding from him the next day. he couldn't care less actually no matter how many times he said to restrain yourself from partying for now because of your studies. in reality, he just didn't want any boy to see you wearing whatever revealing outfit you decided to put on.

satoru would be lying that he wouldn't feel the way his inexperienced cock would harden whenever he would see the way your skirt would ride up your thighs as you sat so prettily in front of him.

you were completely unaware of how much you affected the poor boy.

"so how'd the contest go?"

"I won obviously. named all 1400 of em." he put his hands up in victory.

you laughed at how cute you found it. him being proud over beating a bunch of kids?

"what was the price?"

"a limited edition card. super rare by the way, you have like one in a thousand chance of getting it. here! I have it on me actually."

he pulled out a card that resembled Pokemon cards which he would get annoyed when you got the two of them mixed up.

"this is the ghost bt1 diamond. you can pick one out of any Digimon of your opponent or you can delete all the Digimon if they share a name with it."

his eyes lit up whenever he talked about his interests. and you loved that about him.

"sounds cool, how much is it worth?"

"hmm I think like 300 at most."

"yeah well I remember my brother has a Pokemon card that's worth 78 grand."

"do your damn work."

as you prepared to leave, he stopped you.

"here."

he handed you the digimon card making your eyes widen.

"you're giving it to me?"

"mhm, just remembered I already have a similar card that does the exact same as this one. no need for me to have it. besides I think it would look great on your phone case."

now, whenever he takes away your phone for your study time, he can't help but smile when he looked at the card neatly placed inside the clear case with a few stickers around it.

he’d find himself late at night in the comfort of his own dorm, with his hand hesitantly palming his growing bulge at the sight of your story. the picture was of you smiling cutely at the cafe you both went at. a picture he took.

you looked gorgeous. you are gorgeous.

he doesn't remember the last time he's jerked off. maybe once in high school when his favorite cosplayer dressed up as a beloved female character of his?

pulling out his needy length, he imagined it was you. a finger grazed upon his tip smearing the pre-cum a bit as he let out a few whimpers. would you hate him if you saw him like this? all horny and pent up because of your post? or would you help him?

no matter how much he stroked himself, he just couldn't finish. he needed you.

his eyes skimmed through various websites to help his situation out.

‘how to have the best orgasm in your life’

‘best stroking methods’

‘how the female anatomy works and how to pleasure it’

‘man finishes threehu-‘

wait what was that? he scrolls back up a bit clicking on the female anatomy one. he was met with several images. diagrams showing where the most pleasurable part was for a woman.

gojo hasn’t done this much studying since his calculus exam back in elementary. who the hell let’s a seven year old solve that shit?!

by the end of the day, his brain is now stuffed with knowledge on how to pleasure you. still zero clue on how he’s ever going to bust.

2 days.

2 days until you review test and you were.. stressed to say the least. thankfully you have gone over everything from the semester and gojo made sure that you were well prepared even offering to make you a cheat sheet, allowed by the professor, to help you out during the test just in case.

"toru."

fuck. when did you begin calling him that nickname? it made gojo feel lightheaded to the point where he had to grip the end of his chair as you approached him.

"hey I was wondering if we could study at my place tonight?" you asked sweetly.

“your place..? like, where you live?”

“I hope so?” you giggled.

“y-yeah i guess but why?”

you took a seat next to him placing your bag next to your feet on the floor.

“walked past the cafe and saw that it was closed due to some renovations”

“god i hope it’s the bathroom sink. that thing sprayed me”

you both laugh at the memory of him coming out the bathroom with his hair sticking to his forehead and clothes dampened. that was the first time you’ve seen him without his glasses.

you preferred him with them on.

but you couldn’t deny that either way he still looked so handsome especially when he rolled up his now wet sleeves of his black sweater revealing veins that adorned his arms.

“I hope so. anyways I’ll text you the address later.. or actually, we can walk together if you’d like?” you offered and who was he to decline?

“sure sweetheart.”

gojo recently picked up the habit of calling you sweet names which never failed in making your stomach leap in happiness. where’s he get the sudden habit?

‘how to fluster a girl.com’

god knows where.

your house wasn’t far from the campus since you’ve been planning on attending this university ever since you were a kid due to living 20 minutes away at a walking distance.

“my parents are away at a trip so we’ll have the house to ourselves”

fuck yeah.

“they doing a business trip or..?”

“it’s their anniversary. they flew out to france and didn’t even bother inviting me” you rolled your eyes playfully making the pierced boy laugh. he recently switched out his lip piercing after his last one fell off while drinking his coffee.

he took in your house as you arrived. looking at the memories plastered on the walls. this is where you grew up..

“want anything eat?”

you.

he shook his head. “I’m alright, I ate something not long ago.” you hummed while walking upstairs, him trailing behind just to get a glimpse up your skirt seeing the pink laced panties that made him let out a low groan. his pants were uncomfortable by the time you reached your room. it was a warm environment, posters on the walls, stuffed animals on the bed. the bed he would love to fuck you in.

“s’cute” he complimented placing his bag down before he stretched out his lanky body on your bed.

his sweater slipped up a bit revealing his v line as well as his white happy trail. your breath hitched as your eyes trailed down the patch of hair before landing on the raging boner that he had. no way.

was he hard?

despite having past experience yourself, no one has ever made you finish.

gojo propped himself on both his arms. “let’s just review what I taught you at the beginning first to freshen up your memory.” you barely took in anything he said as you approached the bed as well sitting down next to him before you felt bold. you shifted sitting down on his lap instead.

satoru let out a gasp before moaning. his hands found your hips immediately. “fuck.. what are you-“ he was cut off by your subtle grinding.

“we shouldn’t..” your heart sank a bit. “you don’t want this..? I’m just trying to help you toru.”

“I know baby but I haven’t.. well I’m.. I’ve never done t-this before, god..” he mumbled embarrassed. oh so that’s what this is. he’s a virgin. “I don’t mind.. let me help you”

“please-“

“shh..” you tugged at his jeans bringing down to his knees. “You’ve never done this before?” you asked letting your acrylics tease him through his digimon boxers.

“no.. no please fuck..”

his cute whimpers went straight to your heat as you finally tugged down his boxers only to be met with the biggest cock you’ve seen. it slapped his stomach the second it was released. he was thick. the pretty pink tip was slowly turning an angry red color as he panted.

you wrapped your hand around him stroking up and down his base watching him twitch. while keeping eye contact, you let some spit fall down his cock making him moan as you used your drool as lube. his hips bucked up as he felt the warmth of your mouth around him.

“t-that’s it..”

for the first time, your lips met in a sweet and needy kiss, your hand still working wonders on him. he placed a shaking hand on your ass cupping it making sure not to break the heated kiss.

“can.. can you ride me?” the way he asked shyly made you want to ruin him even more. you nodded watching him pull off his sweater. now by all means you had zero clue that this man was built as if god made him with his own hands. you did the same, quickly undressing before he stopped you.

“please.. please keep the panties on”

“you like em?”

“fucking love them.”

after carefully placing a condom you found in your drawer on him, you guided his tip to grind just right against you. “lift up your hips a bit toru.. just move them.. back.. and forth.. good job love”

the praise didn’t help Gojos situation at all. “keep praising me..” at this point his glasses were all fogged up. your finger hooked into your panties slipping them to the side so you could slip his cock in.

“so big..” you cood

“oh god, you’re right.. fuckkk baby wait.. wait wait” he moaned filling up the room with lewd noises. the plap, plap, plap echoed. large hands found your waist helping you ride him at a quick pace.

“shit.. you’re better than I imagined.” he groaned out biting your neck sweetly. “you’ve imagined.. this? ngh!” you were surprised to see him pick up the pace. “all the time.”

gojo thought back to the website he visited frequently. his finger found your clit circling it before rubbing it repeatedly. you head fell on his shoulder as you began to shake from overstimulation. “Toru..!”

“this is where you’re weak, right? most girls have an orgasm immediately after teasing the clit”

“ngh.. nerd..!”

“so sensitive”

the raspiness in his voice was enough to make you finish. for the first time ever. gojos hips stuttered as he pulled out watching your juices spill out. he brought his fingers to his mouth tasting you. “you taste good babe”

panting, you removed the condom from his still hard length before slipping him back in.

he wasn’t even half way in before ropes of cum went inside you making gojo close his eyes letting tears of being overstimulated fall down his pretty flushed cheeks.

“be my girl..”

four things happened that day.

you came for the first time

you took away gojos virginity

you were both now dating

you didn’t study at all

but the cheat sheet did help you out a bit. after finishing up the last question, gojo walked over to the teachers desk placing it on top of it. he was the first one out of everyone to finish, like always. he looked up to where you were seated.

there you were, more focused than ever biting your nail as you answered the equations as if it was muscle memory. he was proud, smiling to himself before leaving the classroom.

toru ! [ 7: 45 AM ]

-results are in today 👀

you [ 7:46 AM]

-im nervous… i think i failed it bro im so scared toru

toru ! [ 7: 48 AM]

-I doubt that sweetheart

and he was right because the second you received back your paper with a beautiful 92% written on top of it you felt like you were in heaven. you ran towards gojo wrapping your arms around him excitedly.

“I did it! look!” you showed him your paper.

“told you. good job am proud of ya” he grinned as he once again felt his cock throb at the way you were squeezing him. “what’d you get?”

“100%”

“show off.”

he barked out a laugh before placing his hands on your hips. “we should celebrate.” he suggested. “with cake?” he hummed tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear before letting his thumb rub on your cheek affectionately. “sure pretty.”

⋆.˚ FAT, JUICY, & WET⭑.ᐟ⸻ Nerdjo.

THAT GOOD KITTY-KITTY, GOOD KITTY-KITTY. MAKE IT MY PET. ᯓ★ When you got involved with Gojo Satoru, you thought—'oh great.' Who knew how great things were about to get for him.

pairings ᯓ★ Nerd Gojo Satoru x reader

cw ᯓ★ NSFW, MDNI, spies, work place romance, fem oriented reader, use of she/her pronouns and the word 'girl', mentions of drugs, human trafficking and illegal activities, lowkey enemies to lovers?, reader is a badass, mention jerking off, hand jobs, biting, fingering, high key exhibitionism, grinding, sneak peek into how big of a whore I am for spanks, some action thriller stuff, pervy Gojo, virgin Gojo, sub Gojo mostly, but on field dom Gojo, switch Gojo, he is such a loser creep, down bad course 101 by Nerdtoru, I do not condone his behavior, lock him up I say u_u, tit play kinda, plot heavy, but also plot is for the smut.

a/n: find 3-aem's art used in the header here, and have funnnn, lol. this is nerd (me) on nerd (Nerdjo) crime.

It was fucked up as it is you have to suddenly work with some new partner now; first train him, and build a rapport with him. The fact that it has to be a complete lost cause loser, who can't hold his liquor, was just the shit on top of your already fungus ridden cake.

“I don't even know the first thing about women!!! How am I supposed to charm them and get information out of them!!??” A very drunk and very sad Gojo cried with the left side of his face squished on the table.

Sitting across from him, getting the front row seat of the nonchalant Gojo Satoru, the intelligence and strategy team wiz, having a meltdown, was great. If only it did not come at the cost of your own job and sanity. Life was good working as a solo spy, where your coworkers in the same division were paired off, you never had to pretend with a colleague. Most of your work involved; breaking in, charming men, sometimes beating up people, if the situation required—get them into bed. 

It never really went too far, but you have definitely done some stuff to complete the task. And you wish your job was not as hands on as it was, if only you were Gojo Satoru. Who was having fun being a behind the scenes guy. But there are only so many people working under such a secretive department under the government. Especially spies, they are very limited.

Which leads us to the matter at hand, the whole department drinking and having fun, with the excuse that Gojo got a promotion. Gojo himself would contradict to say this felt more like a demotion. Sure, he got a raise. But who cares about money when your life rides on your sex appeal and you are a pathetic virgin, who'd rather find every single detail about some president by breaking into all his digital devices and every record of his existence. Instead of wooing his secretary for that information.

He does not like the long way around things. He would rather take what he needs the easiest way possible. And preferably behind a screen.

“I AM LITERALLY A VIRGIN! WHAT WAS THE BOSS THINKING!??” 

“Give me that glass. You had enough. And stop shouting that you're a virgin.”

“But I am.” Seeing Gojo Satoru pouting and whining to you was not on your annual bingo. Yet here you are.

“What do you want me to do? Make you, not a virgin?” He did not say yes, or nod. But it was clear behind those thick shell frame spectacles, it did not matter to him that you were being sarcastic. He just wanted you to take his goddamn virginity. And he was ready to silently plead like a wet cat to make it happen.

And who knew, you would be giving the biggest loser in the department, a handjob in an alleyway behind the restaurant you regular with your colleagues. Sure it was dark there, but the length on the bastard was not something some dim alley can hide.

“God you’re huge.” you moved your thumb to press on his tip, and felt the vein on the underside of his cock twitch. “B-baby.”

“A few strokes and I am suddenly your baby?”

“Ple-please.”

“Look at you, stuttering for once. No smart explanations or anything?”

You pick up the pace at which you were pumping his cock, while continuing to leave kisses along his, now bare chest, button ups are sure easy to get rid of. Your other hand focused on holding onto his neck, keeping his head low and leaning on your head. His hands were gripping your waist with such desperation, they were bound to leave marks, and you did not mind the thought of it to your surprise.

Just as Satoru started vigorously shaking, seemingly close to his release, his hands roamed lower down your ass. “I think i will-”

“Did you see those two? I swear I saw them going to the restroom.” 

Shit. That was your boss.

Both of you looked at each other with complete horror written all over your faces. With speed, you two managed to sneak behind the dumpster in the alley. And waited out for your boss to leave, with Satoru basically half naked, with a now flaccid cock hanging out and about.

“Guess I am not losing my virginity today.” And all you do is roll your eyes in the dark, which despite not being able to see your face—Satoru definitely felt it.

After that nothing really happened. Just that Satoru moved to your section of the department, and made himself cozy in the desk across from you. Until you two got assigned to your first mission together.

“You want me to sneak into an orgy with this guy?” “Hey! I have the appeal!” You really did not have it in you to retort him with any insult. 

“Well. Mr. Hashimoto is a regular at this club and at their underground ‘parties’, the people there do not just let anyone in there.”

“So we go there and I keep a close eye on her?” Satoru seemed eased with the simplicity of the task, he just needed to be your bodyguard in the shadows. He can do that! Despite his defensiveness, he definitely was not getting into an orgy, and not that he wanted to be there anyway.

“I wish it was that simple.” Your boss got off his chair to stand in front of you two, to explain further details of the case. “Well, they only let couples in there. Only members and executives are allowed to go in there alone. A lot of stuff goes on there, human trafficking, drugs, money laundering, you name it.” 

“So I act like her sleazy boyfriend!?”

“Exactly. Just do enough to have the people scouting there, to let you guys into the private room. Take some pictures of Hashimoto in the act for now. We will assess the situation from there. ”

You knew this was going to be one pain in the ass of a mission.

The plan was simple. Look hot, get in, grind on this loser on the dance floor, get in the private room, look like you want Satoru to fuck your brains out then and there, take incriminating pictures of Hashimoto, and fuck off. If they let you easily get away with it, that is. So far the plan was going smoothly, landing on the dance floor with your back to Satoru’s chest, grinding your ass on him, and making it convincing enough that you were one shameless couple. 

“You sure are putting your all into this, baby.” Satoru had his left hand on your hips, helping you grind into his thighs, while his right hand stayed pressed under your breasts. Occasionally the right hand moved up and down your bare thighs, the mini skirt was definitely getting to him on top of your ass. It is not that often he sees you in such attire in the office, on duty and off duty, you were two very different people.

“Talk about yourself. Not looking half bad.” He swapped his usual glasses for shades, got a few fake piercings on his ears, accessories, and a very low neckline black shirt. Paired with his ripped snug fitted denim and boots—he was looking his part, with the tousled hairdo instead of his usual neatly brushed and well kept hair. 

“You can just say I look fuckable, baby.” You could not deny that. He was looking really, ‘fuckable’, as he put it. His salty ocean smelling cologne was like a reverie in the mob of sweaty people. Especially now that you know his big words match what is in his pants, it was hard to deny that you found this man hot. 

It is not some sort of revolutionary information. Gojo Satoru has always been cute. He was nice to look at from a far, up close whenever he opened his mouth it was just intolerable. Especially when you are coming back straight to the office after some overnight mission.

“Did you pop a boner!?” “Who do you think I am? A monk? You are literally grinding on me.” You might have gotten preoccupied with the not so little problem poking your ass, but Satoru was still keeping a lookout for the people you guys needed. And he found a guy staring at you guys long enough to be assured that he was the guy who could get you two in.

“Follow my lead.” “No way. I am the one in charge here.” Satoru did not waste time fighting you. He dragged you to the nearest booth, closest to the guy, sat you both down and practically jumped you, to lay you down on the seat. His lips ended up on yours, While he pushed you further into the cushion of the seat, going all in, with his tongue. Making sure to explore every crevice of your mouth, with some teeth and all.

He was amateur and inexperienced. And it showed, but that did not shadow the fact that he was pretty good for someone who is basically a digimon frantic loser, chasing down Geto in the halls, almost daily, to show him his new shiny cards.

“Hey guys.” The guy who was looking at you guys for a while came up to you, but his first greeting went unheard to both of your ears. At least to Satoru’s ears it did, but you made sure to not answer him on the first greeting. After his third hey, you pinched Satoru on his nape to snap him out of the make out session he has found himself engrossed in. Luckily the guy, desperate at this point, shouts a greeting loud enough for the booths on either side to hear.

“HELLO!” “Damn dude. Chill, you need something important enough to distract me from my girl?” The way Satoru replied to him so nonchalantly, while picking you up from your spot and sitting you down on his knees, as he sat up himself, made you dizzy in the head. Or maybe it was because you sat up too quickly. Sure, let's say that is the reason.

“You guys wanna get somewhere private? I work for this place and we are particularly accommodating to couples.”

You did not say anything in reply, you left it to Satoru, out of trust? Who knows. But this was again, very unusual of you.

Upon agreement the guy led you two to the private room. He took you to the second floor of the club, then a very well hidden tucked away hallway. After walking down that hallway, it led to a singular door at the very end, which required a password from the guy who led you there, to open it. The guy whispered the password to some guy on the otherwise who unlocked the door from the inside.That was the last you saw that guy before walking into the room, holding Satoru's hand.

Honestly the environment was way off. You've done missions involving large scale parties, galas, and went there by foraging identities. But this was no charity ball. It was littered with groups of people and couples mostly of your age, all over these couches, chairs, and even tables in the middle of this huge room, making out or doing more. Which were surrounded by booths similar to the ones you saw in the actual club. And there were only men, who looked rich enough to buy out this entire place, in those booths. Surrounded by women and lines of substances in front of them, with the smell of alcohol lingering everywhere.

This place was full of trouble. One slip and you can not only lose your life, but maybe worse.

“Are you ok?” Satoru leaned down a bit to whisper in your ear, completely ignoring the guy ahead of you two, who opened and closed the door. Unable to muster any sound out of your throat, you just nodded a yes at him, and went on to look for Hashimoto. This was not the time to get nervous, especially not when you have a rookie with you.

Hashimoto was in a booth at the very corner tucked away from everyone's sight. The only way to get a peek at him, meant getting a seat at the couch adjacent to his booth. Which was fortunately empty for Satoru to drag you there.

“Do you know what you are doing?” He plopped down on the couch, manspreading enough to take up at least three people’s space. 

“Trust me, ok angel?” He reassured you as he pulled you down on his lap, making you straddle him, which made you effectively face him—with a pretty clear view of Hashimoto’s table.

“Now I am an angel?” Your eyes flickered back to him, making sure to look as nonchalant as you could have, while adjusting your hands around his neck. Making sure the bracelet on your wrist had the perfect view of the table you wanted to take pictures of. 

Meanwhile Satoru got to work with his mouth, making it more productive than running his mouth. With one pull on your waist, you were practically sticking to him, while his mouth roamed from the base of your neck, shoulders to the column of your throat. “Why? Deem yourself devil incarnate?” The smirk on his face, that you felt stretching on your skin, was followed by a nibble and bite.

It was no easy job to take those pictures when Satoru made it his own personal mission to make you squirm and helped you grind on him. His mouth was capable of greatness, that is the conclusion you came to as his tongue and lips gilded all over your exposed skin. From your face, to chin, jaw and lower. Making sure to avoid your lips at any cost, even with you trying to subtly get a kiss out of him. His right hand remained fixed on your waist, pressing down on it from time to time. The other hand was busy and full with your tits. Slightly pulling down on your top to make them spill out just enough for him to slobber all over them. The cold metal rim of his shades was such a contrast to his warm tongue. You had no idea how it was still on him. But it is not like he had any other option. It needed to record everything.

Well maybe not the part that was going on in between you two. Oh well, he is going to edit the footage later anyway. Not that you were thrilled about that. 

Such thoughts were of concern for later. Because how is this loser who was crying about being a virgin just a few days ago, absolutely smashed from one drink. And was practically melting under your touch in a random alleyway—transformed into this suave and slick guy.

“Are you making sure to take good enough pictures? Hmm, angel?”

No. No, you were not. You were basically shaking already and all this guy did was feel you up a bit and did not even kiss you yet.

As if right on que, he kissed you. And this time it was less teeth, there were still teeth. Just that this time he was using his teeth for better use, by using them to pull on your lips just enough to make you open your mouth to only shove his tongue up against your tongue. And his left hand slipped under your top, his fingers were sweaty and clammy. And somehow that felt good on your skin, as it felt as if it was burning. It also reminded you that this js still the Gojo Satoru you knew, the little nervous and awkward guy he has always been.

And when his right hand came down to move from grabbing your waist, to groping your ass, to then land a slap loud enough to echo in the room—a moan slipped out of you. It was not the kind to disintegrate into his lips, because even Satoru stopped feverishly kissing you, to stare at you for a second. 

He was caught completely off guard, but that did not mean he had the time to register that, he could not make it seem this was the first time he heard you moan. Scratch the fact he is a virgin, he has spent practically every night listening to women scream and moan on at least one of his devices. But this was you. He has recorded you chugging down a water bottle after training, to then later get off to that very innocent clip. So the blush creeping up all over his face was nothing compared to how red he usually becomes while jerking off to thoughts and videos and pictures of you, which he took with his professional grade cameras. He was way too excited to go through the footage from the camera recorder on his shades, not because he is an exemplary officer of the law, who wanted to put these criminals in front of the judiciary with incriminating proof. But because he was going to get the most golden piece of jerk off material to add onto his stash. Thank goodness he was wearing these shades, because you would have definitely deciphered what a guilty little creep he was. 

“Guess we are putting on a show huh?” A smirk rolled around the corners of his lips, while you rested your forehead on his shoulder to ground yourself and take pictures of Hashimoto, who was now looking directly at you.

“Shut up. I got the shots.” “Aw, good girl.” You did not have a reply to really retort his statement. 

“Keep ‘em safe for me ok?” Satoru slid his shades off his eyes and put them on your eyes, revealing eyes which could devour you whole. The whole room was practically staring at you at this point, but no looks were even half as consuming as those blue ones. “Gotta get everything right?”

One second you are readjusting yourself to get the best angle of Hashimoto, and then you are thrashing forward in Satoru’s arms, as he slides his index finger inside you, all in one go. You had no idea when he pushed your underwear to the side or when did his hand even go under your skirt. Maybe you were too occupied with the mission, or just that his other hand which was tugging on your nipples, was just too much in itself. 

“Oh my god, you are sooo wet.” If he was not so enamored by you and your cunt, he would have done something about all the men ogling you, trying to catch a glimpse of your pretty pussy as he slowly moved it around to feel you all up from inside. To see the source of those gushing, squelching noises, and those deafening and lethal moans. He wanted all these people in this room, dead.

“N-no. wait.” You felt a second finger trying to enter you, and you were basically gone. Thank goodness these shades did not need to be manually operated. 

“Ah well, made them look and made you stutter. Must be doing something right. Right, baby?”

You had nothing in you to answer him. You were too busy putting on a show. Trying your best to keep your head steady on his shoulder to get the best angel of the guy across you. And while you were fighting for your life, Satoru was having the time of his life. Sliding in a third finger, his eyes stayed trained in the barely existent gap between you two, to get a glimpse or two of his own fingers going in and out of you at a pace too animalistic, even if his arm was getting in the way—he was satisfied with the here and there peaks at your folds swallowing his fingers in. It was all puffy and slick with your own cum, and it felt like the most precious juicy fruit was in his grasp. 

“So perfect. It’s like you want to break my fingers, angel.”

“I am-”

“Me too baby. Come for me, won’t you do me that favor hmm? Take all my firsts. Please.” A single miserable plea was enough to have you throw your head back, digging your nails in his neck to the point of breaking his skin, you came all over his fingers and pants—never in your life have you had a man make you cum this hard with his fingers alone. And it was an amateur loser on top of that. 

“Done?” He asked while pulling you down on his shoulders once again. He took the shades off you, and patted the back of your head as you twitched in his arms, still high and limp. “D-done.”

“Let’s get out of here then.”

Which is easier said than done. Especially when these men have had the show of their lives, they wanted a taste as well. Just as Satoru moved you in his arms to get you out of there, the guy with the keys to the door came up to you guys.

“Excuse me, but we need you to leave.”

“We are doing exactly that.” Satoru said, with a grin wide and sarcastic enough to piss the guy off. “I meant just you. Leave the girl. One of our patrons has asked for her.” You were sure this was Hashimoto’s request. No one in this room is powerful enough to wield such exclusive amenities. 

“Well. Now that I can't do, you know? She’s my girl afterall. ” You were hiding your face in his chest, getting ready to pull out the knife hidden in your boots, but the way Satoru said ‘my girl’ for the second time tonight—maybe you feel a few butterflies in your stomach. Or maybe it was the orgasm. 

“Leave her here, and fuck off with some cash in your pocket or we can get rid of you easily.” It took Satoru no more than a second to lift you up in his arms, as he kicked the guy hard enough to fall face first on the floor. Before any of the other staff could get to you two, you jumped out of his arms, to get the keys off that guy’s keyholder dangling on his waist. You grabbed onto Satoru’s hands to run for the door, just as you opened the door, Satoru took out the little smoke bomb hidden away in his belt. 

“Disperse. I will go that way, you go the opposite. Jump down the window I showed you. Regroup in the car. Ok?” You explained your best to Satoru as you ran down to the crowded dance floor to catch a bit more time.

“Ok!” You both nodded at each other before heading your respective ways. But before you could leave, He grabbed onto your wrist and pulled you close to him to lean down enough to whisper in your ears, loud enough for you to hear in the sea of people and deafening music. 

“Be safe.” You could not see his face, but you could still discern the concern in his voice. And maybe something more.

“You better see me in one piece.” You warned him in return before you two ran in opposite directions.

“Ah. If it is not the dream team!” Your boss exclaimed with joy as you two walked in his office.

It has been two days since the mission. Thankfully you two made it to the getaway car just fine that day. But neither of you said anything the entire car ride as you two got driven down to the base. The next two days you did not see Satoru. You assumed he was too busy editing all the evidence and compiling them. He had more on his plate now, than he was already tasked with before. You did reach out to him to offer help. But he just turned you down with maximum of one worded replies. 

“Everything came out fine, right?” Satoru asked as he walked two steps away from you. “Oh yes! Do not worry about it. Our team already seized the place yesterday.”

When you came out of the boss’s chamber, Satoru seemed in a hurry. Rushing as fast as he could, away from you. I mean, it was all for the mission, right? Now that it is over, who even is he to you but some loser who is eerily obsessed with you. Not that you know that. Or maybe you do. Maybe you already know how big of a loser he actually is. 

“Trying to run now?” “I don’t know what you mean.” You had to pull Satoru in the closest storage room to corner him. Because why was he being all weird now? 

“Sure you do, you-” When you turned the light on, his entire neck and both his ears were beet red. His eyes were looking glossy and not because of his high prescription usual spectacles. And when you got closer to him, you could feel him—warm and stiff in his pants.

“Are you seriously hard right now?” He looked away from you, like he did not dirty talk in your ears and made you cum in front of a room full of dangerous people, just the other day. 

“Can you blame me?” When he finally looked into your eyes, you could not help but break into a smile. Somehow you got wrapped around this loser’s fingers, literally.

“Remember how you asked me to take all your firsts?” He started getting more red as he nodded a weak yes.

“Meet me at my place after work.” You got on your tippy toes to kiss him, and pulled on his lips with your teeth, similarly as he did. You grabbed onto the collar of his button up shirt, to drag him down to your face. And when his shaky hands moved up to hold onto your waist, after he barely came down from the initial surprise, you shoved him off you. And he went stumbling into the boxes piled up behind him.

And with that you left the poor guy to tend to the giant mess he made in his pants, and a card in his palm, that had your personal number and address on it. The card also said something else in your handwriting, that almost gave him a nosebleed. 

‘Your girl, loser.’

TO FIND MORE OF MY WORKS CLICK HERE.

a/n: divider by @/enchanthings-a and @/omi-resources, pics in header by @/3-aem on (Tumblr and twt) and from Pinterest.

hope after a few here and there drabbles i did justice to Nerdjo. he has been rotting my brain for months. definitely wanted to write something for him and inspiration just came idkkkk how I came up with the whole goverment employed spy stuff. i think i like thinking up this sort of spy and work dynamics and i wanted to write Nerdjo out of academic setting, there are far more superior works about that, I have done enough in academics. just something obscure enough to not only be work place romance but also a bit of a shitty action thriller? so ig you can say this is also spy Gojo. but not really, he is just a weirdo who is definitely not lowkey obsessed with you that is all. put him on field by himself and he is shitting himself.

hope you had fun reading! and enjoyed your stay on my humble humble two cents about nerdjo in the sea of amazing nerdjos. please do lmk your thoughts in the comments and feel free to reach out to me in my ask box.

clan leader Gojo i am so sorry i am getting right back to completing you!

tag list: @cheralith @madamechrissy @gojosperms @naomigojo @naomi-main @cuntphoric @nanamiskentos @cuntyji @cuntphoric @aishi-toru @fushitoru @rriwyu @exquisink @lover-lyn @buckysm @wwwritererm @indiewritesxoxo @moonchhu @shouiow @user25384959574 @dxmnsaera @kazupop @slayzzz @undercvrfan444 @miizuzu @getoistic @infinitatis-ink @theorphicangel @ricecake-mochi

⋆.˚ FAT, JUICY, & WET⭑.ᐟ⸻ Nerdjo.

THAT GOOD KITTY-KITTY, GOOD KITTY-KITTY. MAKE IT MY PET. ᯓ★ When you got involved with Gojo Satoru, you thought—'oh great.' Who knew how great things were about to get for him.

pairing ᯓ★ Nerdy spy Gojo Satoru x reader

cw ᯓ★ NSFW, MDNI, spies, work place romance, fem oriented reader, use of she/her pronouns and the word 'girl', mentions of drugs, human trafficking and illegal activities, lowkey enemies to lovers?, reader is a badass, mention jerking off, hand jobs, biting, fingering, high key exhibitionism, grinding, sneak peek into how big of a whore I am for spanks, some action thriller stuff, pervy Gojo, virgin Gojo, sub Gojo mostly, but on field dom Gojo, switch Gojo, he is such a loser creep, down bad course 101 by Nerdtoru, I do not condone his behavior, lock him up I say u_u, tit play kinda, plot heavy, but also plot is for the smut.

a/n: find 3-aem's art used in the header here, and have funnnn, lol. this is nerd (me) on nerd (Nerdjo) crime.

It was fucked up as it is you have to suddenly work with some new partner now; first train him, and build a rapport with him. The fact that it has to be a complete lost cause loser, who can't hold his liquor, was just the shit on top of your already fungus ridden cake.

“I don't even know the first thing about women!!! How am I supposed to charm them and get information out of them!!??” A very drunk and very sad Gojo cried with the left side of his face squished on the table.

Sitting across from him, getting the front row seat of the nonchalant Gojo Satoru, the intelligence and strategy team wiz, having a meltdown, was great. If only it did not come at the cost of your own job and sanity. Life was good working as a solo spy, where your coworkers in the same division were paired off, you never had to pretend with a colleague. Most of your work involved; breaking in, charming men, sometimes beating up people, if the situation required—get them into bed. 

It never really went too far, but you have definitely done some stuff to complete the task. And you wish your job was not as hands on as it was, if only you were Gojo Satoru. Who was having fun being a behind the scenes guy. But there are only so many people working under such a secretive department under the government. Especially spies, they are very limited.

Which leads us to the matter at hand, the whole department drinking and having fun, with the excuse that Gojo got a promotion. Gojo himself would contradict to say this felt more like a demotion. Sure, he got a raise. But who cares about money when your life rides on your sex appeal and you are a pathetic virgin, who'd rather find every single detail about some president by breaking into all his digital devices and every record of his existence. Instead of wooing his secretary for that information.

He does not like the long way around things. He would rather take what he needs the easiest way possible. And preferably behind a screen.

“I AM LITERALLY A VIRGIN! WHAT WAS THE BOSS THINKING!??” 

“Give me that glass. You had enough. And stop shouting that you're a virgin.”

“But I am.” Seeing Gojo Satoru pouting and whining to you was not on your annual bingo. Yet here you are.

“What do you want me to do? Make you, not a virgin?” He did not say yes, or nod. But it was clear behind those thick shell frame spectacles, it did not matter to him that you were being sarcastic. He just wanted you to take his goddamn virginity. And he was ready to silently plead like a wet cat to make it happen.

And who knew, you would be giving the biggest loser in the department, a handjob in an alleyway behind the restaurant you regular with your colleagues. Sure it was dark there, but the length on the bastard was not something some dim alley can hide.

“God you’re huge.” you moved your thumb to press on his tip, and felt the vein on the underside of his cock twitch. “B-baby.”

“A few strokes and I am suddenly your baby?”

“Ple-please.”

“Look at you, stuttering for once. No smart explanations or anything?”

You pick up the pace at which you were pumping his cock, while continuing to leave kisses along his, now bare chest, button ups are sure easy to get rid of. Your other hand focused on holding onto his neck, keeping his head low and leaning on your head. His hands were gripping your waist with such desperation, they were bound to leave marks, and you did not mind the thought of it to your surprise.

Just as Satoru started vigorously shaking, seemingly close to his release, his hands roamed lower down your ass. “I think i will-”

“Did you see those two? I swear I saw them going to the restroom.” 

Shit. That was your boss.

Both of you looked at each other with complete horror written all over your faces. With speed, you two managed to sneak behind the dumpster in the alley. And waited out for your boss to leave, with Satoru basically half naked, with a now flaccid cock hanging out and about.

“Guess I am not losing my virginity today.” And all you do is roll your eyes in the dark, which despite not being able to see your face—Satoru definitely felt it.

After that nothing really happened. Just that Satoru moved to your section of the department, and made himself cozy in the desk across from you. Until you two got assigned to your first mission together.

“You want me to sneak into an orgy with this guy?” “Hey! I have the appeal!” You really did not have it in you to retort him with any insult. 

“Well. Mr. Hashimoto is a regular at this club and at their underground ‘parties’, the people there do not just let anyone in there.”

“So we go there and I keep a close eye on her?” Satoru seemed eased with the simplicity of the task, he just needed to be your bodyguard in the shadows. He can do that! Despite his defensiveness, he definitely was not getting into an orgy, and not that he wanted to be there anyway.

“I wish it was that simple.” Your boss got off his chair to stand in front of you two, to explain further details of the case. “Well, they only let couples in there. Only members and executives are allowed to go in there alone. A lot of stuff goes on there, human trafficking, drugs, money laundering, you name it.” 

“So I act like her sleazy boyfriend!?”

“Exactly. Just do enough to have the people scouting there, to let you guys into the private room. Take some pictures of Hashimoto in the act for now. We will assess the situation from there. ”

You knew this was going to be one pain in the ass of a mission.

The plan was simple. Look hot, get in, grind on this loser on the dance floor, get in the private room, look like you want Satoru to fuck your brains out then and there, take incriminating pictures of Hashimoto, and fuck off. If they let you easily get away with it, that is. So far the plan was going smoothly, landing on the dance floor with your back to Satoru’s chest, grinding your ass on him, and making it convincing enough that you were one shameless couple. 

“You sure are putting your all into this, baby.” Satoru had his left hand on your hips, helping you grind into his thighs, while his right hand stayed pressed under your breasts. Occasionally the right hand moved up and down your bare thighs, the mini skirt was definitely getting to him on top of your ass. It is not that often he sees you in such attire in the office, on duty and off duty, you were two very different people.

“Talk about yourself. Not looking half bad.” He swapped his usual glasses for shades, got a few fake piercings on his ears, accessories, and a very low neckline black shirt. Paired with his ripped snug fitted denim and boots—he was looking his part, with the tousled hairdo instead of his usual neatly brushed and well kept hair. 

“You can just say I look fuckable, baby.” You could not deny that. He was looking really, ‘fuckable’, as he put it. His salty ocean smelling cologne was like a reverie in the mob of sweaty people. Especially now that you know his big words match what is in his pants, it was hard to deny that you found this man hot. 

It is not some sort of revolutionary information. Gojo Satoru has always been cute. He was nice to look at from a far, up close whenever he opened his mouth it was just intolerable. Especially when you are coming back straight to the office after some overnight mission.

“Did you pop a boner!?” “Who do you think I am? A monk? You are literally grinding on me.” You might have gotten preoccupied with the not so little problem poking your ass, but Satoru was still keeping a lookout for the people you guys needed. And he found a guy staring at you guys long enough to be assured that he was the guy who could get you two in.

“Follow my lead.” “No way. I am the one in charge here.” Satoru did not waste time fighting you. He dragged you to the nearest booth, closest to the guy, sat you both down and practically jumped you, to lay you down on the seat. His lips ended up on yours, While he pushed you further into the cushion of the seat, going all in, with his tongue. Making sure to explore every crevice of your mouth, with some teeth and all.

He was amateur and inexperienced. And it showed, but that did not shadow the fact that he was pretty good for someone who is basically a digimon frantic loser, chasing down Geto in the halls, almost daily, to show him his new shiny cards.

“Hey guys.” The guy who was looking at you guys for a while came up to you, but his first greeting went unheard to both of your ears. At least to Satoru’s ears it did, but you made sure to not answer him on the first greeting. After his third hey, you pinched Satoru on his nape to snap him out of the make out session he has found himself engrossed in. Luckily the guy, desperate at this point, shouts a greeting loud enough for the booths on either side to hear.

“HELLO!” “Damn dude. Chill, you need something important enough to distract me from my girl?” The way Satoru replied to him so nonchalantly, while picking you up from your spot and sitting you down on his knees, as he sat up himself, made you dizzy in the head. Or maybe it was because you sat up too quickly. Sure, let's say that is the reason.

“You guys wanna get somewhere private? I work for this place and we are particularly accommodating to couples.”

You did not say anything in reply, you left it to Satoru, out of trust? Who knows. But this was again, very unusual of you.

Upon agreement the guy led you two to the private room. He took you to the second floor of the club, then a very well hidden tucked away hallway. After walking down that hallway, it led to a singular door at the very end, which required a password from the guy who led you there, to open it. The guy whispered the password to some guy on the otherwise who unlocked the door from the inside.That was the last you saw that guy before walking into the room, holding Satoru's hand.

Honestly the environment was way off. You've done missions involving large scale parties, galas, and went there by foraging identities. But this was no charity ball. It was littered with groups of people and couples mostly of your age, all over these couches, chairs, and even tables in the middle of this huge room, making out or doing more. Which were surrounded by booths similar to the ones you saw in the actual club. And there were only men, who looked rich enough to buy out this entire place, in those booths. Surrounded by women and lines of substances in front of them, with the smell of alcohol lingering everywhere.

This place was full of trouble. One slip and you can not only lose your life, but maybe worse.

“Are you ok?” Satoru leaned down a bit to whisper in your ear, completely ignoring the guy ahead of you two, who opened and closed the door. Unable to muster any sound out of your throat, you just nodded a yes at him, and went on to look for Hashimoto. This was not the time to get nervous, especially not when you have a rookie with you.

Hashimoto was in a booth at the very corner tucked away from everyone's sight. The only way to get a peek at him, meant getting a seat at the couch adjacent to his booth. Which was fortunately empty for Satoru to drag you there.

“Do you know what you are doing?” He plopped down on the couch, manspreading enough to take up at least three people’s space. 

“Trust me, ok angel?” He reassured you as he pulled you down on his lap, making you straddle him, which made you effectively face him—with a pretty clear view of Hashimoto’s table.

“Now I am an angel?” Your eyes flickered back to him, making sure to look as nonchalant as you could have, while adjusting your hands around his neck. Making sure the bracelet on your wrist had the perfect view of the table you wanted to take pictures of. 

Meanwhile Satoru got to work with his mouth, making it more productive than running his mouth. With one pull on your waist, you were practically sticking to him, while his mouth roamed from the base of your neck, shoulders to the column of your throat. “Why? Deem yourself devil incarnate?” The smirk on his face, that you felt stretching on your skin, was followed by a nibble and bite.

It was no easy job to take those pictures when Satoru made it his own personal mission to make you squirm and helped you grind on him. His mouth was capable of greatness, that is the conclusion you came to as his tongue and lips gilded all over your exposed skin. From your face, to chin, jaw and lower. Making sure to avoid your lips at any cost, even with you trying to subtly get a kiss out of him. His right hand remained fixed on your waist, pressing down on it from time to time. The other hand was busy and full with your tits. Slightly pulling down on your top to make them spill out just enough for him to slobber all over them. The cold metal rim of his shades was such a contrast to his warm tongue. You had no idea how it was still on him. But it is not like he had any other option. It needed to record everything.

Well maybe not the part that was going on in between you two. Oh well, he is going to edit the footage later anyway. Not that you were thrilled about that. 

Such thoughts were of concern for later. Because how is this loser who was crying about being a virgin just a few days ago, absolutely smashed from one drink. And was practically melting under your touch in a random alleyway—transformed into this suave and slick guy.

“Are you making sure to take good enough pictures? Hmm, angel?”

No. No, you were not. You were basically shaking already and all this guy did was feel you up a bit and did not even kiss you yet.

As if right on que, he kissed you. And this time it was less teeth, there were still teeth. Just that this time he was using his teeth for better use, by using them to pull on your lips just enough to make you open your mouth to only shove his tongue up against your tongue. And his left hand slipped under your top, his fingers were sweaty and clammy. And somehow that felt good on your skin, as it felt as if it was burning. It also reminded you that this js still the Gojo Satoru you knew, the little nervous and awkward guy he has always been.

And when his right hand came down to move from grabbing your waist, to groping your ass, to then land a slap loud enough to echo in the room—a moan slipped out of you. It was not the kind to disintegrate into his lips, because even Satoru stopped feverishly kissing you, to stare at you for a second. 

He was caught completely off guard, but that did not mean he had the time to register that, he could not make it seem this was the first time he heard you moan. Scratch the fact he is a virgin, he has spent practically every night listening to women scream and moan on at least one of his devices. But this was you. He has recorded you chugging down a water bottle after training, to then later get off to that very innocent clip. So the blush creeping up all over his face was nothing compared to how red he usually becomes while jerking off to thoughts and videos and pictures of you, which he took with his professional grade cameras. He was way too excited to go through the footage from the camera recorder on his shades, not because he is an exemplary officer of the law, who wanted to put these criminals in front of the judiciary with incriminating proof. But because he was going to get the most golden piece of jerk off material to add onto his stash. Thank goodness he was wearing these shades, because you would have definitely deciphered what a guilty little creep he was. 

“Guess we are putting on a show huh?” A smirk rolled around the corners of his lips, while you rested your forehead on his shoulder to ground yourself and take pictures of Hashimoto, who was now looking directly at you.

“Shut up. I got the shots.” “Aw, good girl.” You did not have a reply to really retort his statement. 

“Keep ‘em safe for me ok?” Satoru slid his shades off his eyes and put them on your eyes, revealing eyes which could devour you whole. The whole room was practically staring at you at this point, but no looks were even half as consuming as those blue ones. “Gotta get everything right?”

One second you are readjusting yourself to get the best angle of Hashimoto, and then you are thrashing forward in Satoru’s arms, as he slides his index finger inside you, all in one go. You had no idea when he pushed your underwear to the side or when did his hand even go under your skirt. Maybe you were too occupied with the mission, or just that his other hand which was tugging on your nipples, was just too much in itself. 

“Oh my god, you are sooo wet.” If he was not so enamored by you and your cunt, he would have done something about all the men ogling you, trying to catch a glimpse of your pretty pussy as he slowly moved it around to feel you all up from inside. To see the source of those gushing, squelching noises, and those deafening and lethal moans. He wanted all these people in this room, dead.

“N-no. wait.” You felt a second finger trying to enter you, and you were basically gone. Thank goodness these shades did not need to be manually operated. 

“Ah well, made them look and made you stutter. Must be doing something right. Right, baby?”

You had nothing in you to answer him. You were too busy putting on a show. Trying your best to keep your head steady on his shoulder to get the best angel of the guy across you. And while you were fighting for your life, Satoru was having the time of his life. Sliding in a third finger, his eyes stayed trained in the barely existent gap between you two, to get a glimpse or two of his own fingers going in and out of you at a pace too animalistic, even if his arm was getting in the way—he was satisfied with the here and there peaks at your folds swallowing his fingers in. It was all puffy and slick with your own cum, and it felt like the most precious juicy fruit was in his grasp. 

“So perfect. It’s like you want to break my fingers, angel.”

“I am-”

“Me too baby. Come for me, won’t you do me that favor hmm? Take all my firsts. Please.” A single miserable plea was enough to have you throw your head back, digging your nails in his neck to the point of breaking his skin, you came all over his fingers and pants—never in your life have you had a man make you cum this hard with his fingers alone. And it was an amateur loser on top of that. 

“Done?” He asked while pulling you down on his shoulders once again. He took the shades off you, and patted the back of your head as you twitched in his arms, still high and limp. “D-done.”

“Let’s get out of here then.”

Which is easier said than done. Especially when these men have had the show of their lives, they wanted a taste as well. Just as Satoru moved you in his arms to get you out of there, the guy with the keys to the door came up to you guys.

“Excuse me, but we need you to leave.”

“We are doing exactly that.” Satoru said, with a grin wide and sarcastic enough to piss the guy off. “I meant just you. Leave the girl. One of our patrons has asked for her.” You were sure this was Hashimoto’s request. No one in this room is powerful enough to wield such exclusive amenities. 

“Well. Now that I can't do, you know? She’s my girl afterall. ” You were hiding your face in his chest, getting ready to pull out the knife hidden in your boots, but the way Satoru said ‘my girl’ for the second time tonight—maybe you feel a few butterflies in your stomach. Or maybe it was the orgasm. 

“Leave her here, and fuck off with some cash in your pocket or we can get rid of you easily.” It took Satoru no more than a second to lift you up in his arms, as he kicked the guy hard enough to fall face first on the floor. Before any of the other staff could get to you two, you jumped out of his arms, to get the keys off that guy’s keyholder dangling on his waist. You grabbed onto Satoru’s hands to run for the door, just as you opened the door, Satoru took out the little smoke bomb hidden away in his belt. 

“Disperse. I will go that way, you go the opposite. Jump down the window I showed you. Regroup in the car. Ok?” You explained your best to Satoru as you ran down to the crowded dance floor to catch a bit more time.

“Ok!” You both nodded at each other before heading your respective ways. But before you could leave, He grabbed onto your wrist and pulled you close to him to lean down enough to whisper in your ears, loud enough for you to hear in the sea of people and deafening music. 

“Be safe.” You could not see his face, but you could still discern the concern in his voice. And maybe something more.

“You better see me in one piece.” You warned him in return before you two ran in opposite directions.

“Ah. If it is not the dream team!” Your boss exclaimed with joy as you two walked in his office.

It has been two days since the mission. Thankfully you two made it to the getaway car just fine that day. But neither of you said anything the entire car ride as you two got driven down to the base. The next two days you did not see Satoru. You assumed he was too busy editing all the evidence and compiling them. He had more on his plate now, than he was already tasked with before. You did reach out to him to offer help. But he just turned you down with maximum of one worded replies. 

“Everything came out fine, right?” Satoru asked as he walked two steps away from you. “Oh yes! Do not worry about it. Our team already seized the place yesterday.”

When you came out of the boss’s chamber, Satoru seemed in a hurry. Rushing as fast as he could, away from you. I mean, it was all for the mission, right? Now that it is over, who even is he to you but some loser who is eerily obsessed with you. Not that you know that. Or maybe you do. Maybe you already know how big of a loser he actually is. 

“Trying to run now?” “I don’t know what you mean.” You had to pull Satoru in the closest storage room to corner him. Because why was he being all weird now? 

“Sure you do, you-” When you turned the light on, his entire neck and both his ears were beet red. His eyes were looking glossy and not because of his high prescription usual spectacles. And when you got closer to him, you could feel him—warm and stiff in his pants.

“Are you seriously hard right now?” He looked away from you, like he did not dirty talk in your ears and made you cum in front of a room full of dangerous people, just the other day. 

“Can you blame me?” When he finally looked into your eyes, you could not help but break into a smile. Somehow you got wrapped around this loser’s fingers, literally.

“Remember how you asked me to take all your firsts?” He started getting more red as he nodded a weak yes.

“Meet me at my place after work.” You got on your tippy toes to kiss him, and pulled on his lips with your teeth, similarly as he did. You grabbed onto the collar of his button up shirt, to drag him down to your face. And when his shaky hands moved up to hold onto your waist, after he barely came down from the initial surprise, you shoved him off you. And he went stumbling into the boxes piled up behind him.

And with that you left the poor guy to tend to the giant mess he made in his pants, and a card in his palm, that had your personal number and address on it. The card also said something else in your handwriting, that almost gave him a nosebleed. 

‘Your girl, loser.’

TO FIND MORE OF MY WORKS CLICK HERE.

a/n: divider by @/enchanthings-a and @/omi-resources, pics in header by @/3-aem on (Tumblr and twt) and from Pinterest.

tag list: @cheralith @madamechrissy @gojosperms @naomigojo @naomi-main @cuntphoric @nanamiskentos @cuntyji @cuntphoric @aishi-toru @fushitoru @rriwyu @exquisink @lover-lyn @buckysm @wwwritererm @indiewritesxoxo @moonchhu @shouiow @user25384959574 @dxmnsaera @kazupop @slayzzz @undercvrfan444 @miizuzu @getoistic @infinitatis-ink @theorphicangel @ricecake-mochi

Domestic Satosugu<3

you and katsuki weren’t dating or anything, but it didn’t seem like the two of you were just friends either. maybe a secret third thing?

now that you think about it, you and katsuki were unusually close. but you’ve always just thought it was casual, right? just friendly things that friends do?

like, he’ll always find a way to touch you. if the two of you are walking through a crowded hallway at school, you’ll feel his hand resting on your back, just to keep you close as the crowd pushes through.

or sometimes, when the class goes on a field trip, he makes sure he gets to sit next to you.

you’ll immediately feel the warmth of his thigh pressing against yours as he plops down in the seat next to you, your shoulder brushing against each others.

“here,” katsuki says, shoving a protein bar into your hands. “i know ya’ didn’t eat anything yet, idiot.”

“thanks katsuki, how’d you know?” you ask him, opening it up.

he shrugs. “‘cause i pay attention. no big deal.”

you hummed in response as you gazed at the two of your legs still touching. katsuki didn’t seem to mind it at all. there was just something so domestic about it all. even when sometimes you’d lay your head on his shoulder, on purpose just to mess with him, it wouldn’t work because he always let you.

you and katsuki were laying on the couch in the common area together, and you suddenly decided to lean back on him, your back to his chest.

you expected for him to at least give you some attitude, since he never lets anyone touch him. you know he hates it. weirdly enough, he didn’t say anything. in fact, you felt him shift closer to you, getting comfortable.

“aw, you’re really not gonna push me away? thought you hated people touching you?”

he snaps, “whatever,” before draping his arm around your shoulder, pulling you even closer.

everyone knows bakugou doesn’t have many people he would consider his friend. maybe except one person.

kirishima had been noticing how different his best friend had been acting, and he just had to bring it up.

“leave me alone, shitty hair”

“dude, you spend almost all of your time with her!”

“your point?”

“you like her.”

katsuki scoffs, “shut the hell up.”

“just saying, man.” kirishima nudges him, “its funny”

katsuki glared at him. “what’s fucking funny?”

kirishima gave him a look. “the way you act like it isn’t a thing.”

“you’re fucking annoying.”

“maybe. but im right, huh?” he teases.

he doesn’t answer right away, instead, he hesitates and scoffs.

“that wasnt a no.” kirishima smiles at him.

“i said, leave me alone.” katsuki says before storming off.

the next day, it was rainy after school, and of course katsuki was waiting for you by the doors with an umbrella so the two of you could walk back to the dorms.

his face softens when he sees you, and he grabs your bag, tossing it over his shoulder like he always does, before opening the umbrella waiting for you to step under it.

“took ya’ long enough,” he says as you two begin walking in the rain. “thought i was gonna be here waitin’ all day”

“you waited for me?”

“duh. knew you wouldn’t have an umbrella.” he shifts closer to you naturally, “and i always walk you back to your dorm don’t i?”

“yeah, but, dunno, it’s just kinda sweet.” you say softly.

he scoffs, “like i was gonna leave your dumbass.”

you nod and feel your heart jump at his words. was this casual? the thought of this possibly being something more had been eating at you all week, and you just had to speak up.

“y’know, people think we’re dating.”

he looks down at you, then grumbles, “so what?”

“what, you dont care? you’re not gonna.. i dunno, deny it?” you ask, gazing at him.

he just kind of pauses and shrugs, and you swear you notice a slight blush on his cheeks. “let ‘em think whatever they want.”

you blinked in surprise. really? was that it? no argument? before you could make any sense of it, or say anything back, he just grabbed your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, the touch unexpected, but so so familiar.

you didn’t end up saying anything else, and neither did he. the two of you just continued walking, hand in hand.

ᡣ𐭩

- completely inspired by this post!

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

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

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

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

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

the compressor’s peaking again.

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

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

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

ping.

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

you.

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

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

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

“no,” he types, then erases it.

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

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

i guess. send what you have.

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

flashback.exe

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

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

but you were different.

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

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

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

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

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

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

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

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

typical.

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

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

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

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

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

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

he watches again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he’s close. too close.

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

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

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

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

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

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

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

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

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

np.

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

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

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

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

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

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

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

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

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

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

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

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

to replay your giggle.

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

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

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

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

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

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

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

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

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

ping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he freezes.

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

you giggle.

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

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

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

satoru’s fingers twitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he tries to normalize it.

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

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

he tells himself he’s just learning.

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

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

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

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

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

the next class is worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a new text lights up his screen:

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

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

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

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

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

he hates himself.

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

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

it starts with static in his skull.

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

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

it doesn’t help.

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

satoru’s trying.

really.

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

2:03 a.m.

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

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

march haul (raw).mp4

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

click.

of course he does.

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

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

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

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

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

he knows it.

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

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

he does.

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

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t blink.

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

he can’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

but it’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it’s been three weeks.

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

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

the worst part?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

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

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

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

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

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

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

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

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

baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

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

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

it starts with a ping.

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

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

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

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

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

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

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

satoru doesn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your silence makes him spiral.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

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

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

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

“i know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“mine.”

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

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

friday’s going to be filthy.

𖦹 ׂ 𓈒 ♡ ／ BARBIE DOLL

summary. how your boyfriend feels about you, his barbie doll girlfriend

though he doesn’t outwardly say it, you boyfriend adores how much of a doll you are.

your perfect pedicures with your expensive acrylic nails that he always pays for, your picture perfect makeup that he can’t help but always stare at and all your girly habits that always bring a small smile to his face when he sees just how much you enjoy it.

he’s always calling you a barbie doll because of your appearance, it’s sorta become a nickname for you now.

he loves picking out the pink girly designs of your nails, always hinting at you to get his initial on them as he hands you however much money you need to pay for them. he especially loves the way they look wrapped around his—

what he really loves is when you give him little hauls and fashion shows of the new clothes you bought (with his card). the different tones of pink and white, the cute and sexy lace trimmings. you just look so good in everything, and he seems to have a hard time keeping his hands off you.

and don’t even get him started on the pretty lingerie you buy. the way it hugs your body, showing off you pretty skin that he can’t keep his eyes off. he definitely gets told off a few times for his wandering eyes but he can’t help himself! you’re just so pretty! and he’ll show you that by having you in for a very long, tiresome night.

he even remembers the first time he came into your room. the pink bedding and huge display of plushies on your bed that threw him off a little. like, would they be watching the two of you have sex?

he was super mesmerised by all your little trinkets dotted around your room, having to keep his hands to himself. though, he did feel super out of place as he sat on your pink bed, moving over a hello kitty plushie so he had some room.

but after a while he got used to it, even feeding into your habit by buying you even more stuffed animals and paying for your ridiculously overpriced makeup and clothing. he kinda likes the fact he can dress you up like his own little doll.

what he did notice though was the bratty attitude you started to get. the eye rolls and heavy sighs that escaped your glossy lips, the snarky comments you made in front of his friends. it was starting to get a little too much.

but don’t worry! he knows just the thing that’ll get you to drop that attitude of yours and have you resort back into your sweet, girly self that he knows and loves!!

. . . ♡ ⸝⸝

blue lock ! yoichi isagi , meguru bachira , seishiro nagi , oliver aiku, sae itoshi

jujutsu kaisen ! satoru gojo , toji fushiguro , ryomen sukuna

my hero academia ! katsuki bakugo , hawks | keigo takami , dabi | touya todoroki

demon slayer ! tengen uzui , sanemi shinazugawa , kyojuro rengoku

© dollbrbie | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

ANYONE BUT YOU

synopsis: there are certain things that katsuki wouldn't allow for anyone but you.

warning(s): underage (highschool) drinking, switched between first and second pov in the third segment sorry, not well-proofread

a/n: wrote this for unofficialbf!katsuki again like duh!

"FUCKING DUNCE FACE! HOW ARE YOU THIS FUCKING STUPID?!" bakugo screamed, smoke literally flowing from his head as he hit kaminari's head repeatedly with a ruler.

"hey, man, if you keep doing that, it'll make him even stupider!" kirishima protested on kaminari's behalf, who already looked like he was seeing the light from above.

"like i care! he needs to learn a lesson! or anything, for that matter! we were taught this shit back in middle school!" bakugo hissed, crossing his arms and collapsing back on his seat.

"wait, but bakugo, i also kind of need some help with that.." mina said, trailing off when bakugo sent her a withering death glare. "actually, maybe i'll go ask yaomomo."

he huffed. "how are people this fucking stupid? like seriously, it's not that fucking hard."

"..katsuki? i need help with this question." you said, showing him your paper.

"tch. we learned this in middle school, you know." he said gruffly, giving your forehead a very gentle flick.

"i know, but i forgot. will you help? please?" you pleaded.

he sighed. "fine, c'mere. so for this step.."

as he taught you the material in a (GASP) normal tone of voice, kirishima and kaminari whispered off to the side.

"seriously?! that's the same question i didn't get." kaminari whined.

"i know! he's always so nice to her! it's crazy!"

"if he was half as nice to us as he is to her, i'd have at least a C!"

"i know, right? man, i want that special treatment, too!"

-

"..you fucking idiots."

tsu had called bakugo and deku to mina's room where they were having a girl's night. mina had managed to sneak some vodka in, so they were all having fun getting drunk and talking. however, by the end of the night, you, mina, and ochaco were wasted. luckily, mina would be ok, seeing as she was already in her room, but tsu had decided to ship off you and ochaco to katsuki and deku, as she was drunk herself and didn't feel like she could take proper care of the both of you.

"all of you are already fucking idiots. alcohol kills off your brain cells! you tryna get even dumber or something, huh?!" katsuki grumbled.

"kacchan! it's fine, really. come on, uraraka, let's go." deku scolded before helping ochaco out the door and back to her room.

"don't.. hic! be a buzzkill, bakugo. girls just wanna have fun!" mina slurred. katsuki could feel his eyebrows furrowing more and more as his irritation grew. he swore he was one more drunken idiot statement away from walking away right then and there.

sure enough, though, another drunken idiot statement quickly followed.

"katsuki! you're here! ..when did you get here?" you asked, clearly not in your right mind.

katsuki ran a hand through his hair. "i've been here, idiot. for the past 5 fuckin' minutes."

you scrambled off of mina's bed where you were sitting and made your way to him, albeit with many more steps needed to get there from all of the stumbling you were doing. you jumped onto him as best you could, and he easily caught you. despite his grumbles, there was an undeniable softness in his eyes.

"missed you, kats.." you mumbled, nuzzling in to his neck. he tensed a bit under your touch, but still adjusted you so you could cling onto him more comfortably.

"yeah, yeah. let's go." he muttered, quickly turning and leaving, trying to keep from snapping as you giggled and waved goodbye, wriggling in his grasp.

as he walked down the hall with you securely in his arms, katsuki listened to all your drunk rambling with never-before-seen patience.

"'nd then ochaco finally admitted to liking midoriya! i mean, we all knew, but it was so crazy that she finally admitted it!"

"did you know that kirishima's natural hair is black? mina told us! 'pparently there was some incident with a villain that totally changed him, so he dyed his hair red! isn't that crazy?! what if one day he can't dye it anymore because his hair is so damaged? his name is red riot!"

"if two people who have mind-reading quirks read each other's minds at the same time, whose mind would they be reading?"

amazingly, katsuki didn't snap at you at all amidst your rambles. he listened to your drunk babbling with incredible silence, simply dutifully carrying you down to your dorm.

at some point, the rambles stopped, and katsuki heard you.. sniffling? were you crying? he immediately stopped and lowered you in his arms to see your face, and sure enough, there were fat tears rolling down your puffed-up cheeks.

"y/n, what? you cryin'? why?" he asked gently, though panic evident in his voice. ever since childhood, one of his least favorite things was when you cried.

"kats," you sniffled, "'m i annoying? d'you not liking being with me?"

katsuki's eyes widened. he knew you were just extra emotional from the alcohol, but he still never wanted you to think that.

"hey, look at me." he said softly. "i'd never spend time with ya if i didn't wanna, so never think that."

your face brightened comedically fast, and you were quick to squeeze him tight, giggling. "awee, you're so cute! 'nd sweet!"

katsuki rolled his eyes, but his eyes softened at the sound of your giggles. he'd never admit it, but it was his favorite sound in the world.

"come on, loser. let's get you to bed."

-

"TOUCH ME AND FUCKING DIE!" were words that had been roared by katsuki to just about everyone that had ever come within a four-meter radius of the boy. whether it was an arm slung over his shoulder in celebration, a high five, a pat on the back, or even someone trying to help him up or tend to his wounds, katsuki was very clear that the only reason someone should ever, ever, ever come into contact with him was to get blasted by his explosions and die at his hands.

so, the reactions of the red and yellow-haired (ba ba ba BA ba i'm lovin' it) boys at the sight in front of them was pretty justified.

"no way," kirishima whispered, a hand over both his and denki's mouths. "this cannot be real."

before them, they saw a peacefully asleep y/n on top of bakugo. on top. of bakugo. the bakugo. the "i don't care that my life is in danger and i need treatment! don't fuckin' touch me!" bakugo.

and that bakugo was.. playing with her hair? and rubbing a hand up and down her back? underneath her shirt? and upon closer inspection, wait.. is she wearing his shirt?!

the two watched silently as you began to stir awake, eyes fluttering open. you were greeted by katsuki's looking down at you, a certain fondness in his eyes. you mumbled a hi with a sleepy smile, to which he grinned (like a real, genuine smile not a demonic feral chihuahua smirk) at and ruffled your hair gently.

"mornin', dumbass. you sleep well?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

"mhm!" you beamed before returning your head to its rightful place on katsuki's chest. you nuzzled into him happily, mumbling a sleepy "so warm.."

his cheeks tinted pink and he scoffed, but he still wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close. he gave your head a quick, gentle peck and pulled out his phone to scroll for a bit, his grip never once loosening as he massaged your scalp and nape.

you melted at his touch, an blissful expression on your face. "such a sweetie pie!" you giggled sleepily.

he rolled his eyes and gave your neck a quick scribble, his eyes dilating at the sound of your increased laughter. "i gotta stop spoilin' ya.." he grumbled, though there wasn't even a hint of maliciousness in his voice, his lips quirked up slightly.

you giggled again. "love you, kats!"

"..love you too, loser."

(kirishima and kaminari, who were still watching on the side could do nothing but sit there in stunned silence. they contemplated if maybe you'd done something amazing to curry his favor that they, too, could do, but they both arrived at the same conclusion: no matter what favors they could do or feats they could accomplish, there are simply certain things that the explosive boy would die before allowing for anyone but you.)

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