hihi! you can call me angel ⥠I'm 20 years old with she/her pronouns and am super super obsessed with jjk right now :3
rules: I mostly write smut and yandere content (so do be warned that there may be dub/non con as well as other dark content involved in some posts) and I do not condone everything that I write. so minors are not welcome here! speaking of minors, I won't be writing anything for the characters who are canonically minors. please don't be super mean to me also!!
⥠jjk masterlist ⥠what I particularly enjoy writing âĄ
recent works:
⥠Gachikoi Gojo! (vtuber!satoru x vtuber!reader)
⥠Girlfriend of Divorce (yan!satosugu x reader)
⥠A Mother's Touch (owner!suguru x kitty hybrid!reader)
warnings: afab!reader, reader wears a skirt, hybrid au, semi-public sex, I wrote this with one hand and played uma musume with the other, smut, mdni, this is honestly quite tame for me lol
word count: 1.1k
You have truly had it up to here.Â
Satoru Gojo â or the racehorse hybrid Six Eyes â is breathtaking on the track. Heâs cocky, inhumanly fast when he wants to be, but he pushes you to the edge of your seat whether you bet on him or not.
He refuses to take any race seriously, always cackling from the end of the pack as he refuses to put his obscenely long legs to good use. Hell, half the time heâs not even done stretching by the time the gates open!
Six Eyes is too relaxed, always insisting on taking a leisurely stroll while every other racer is fighting for their dignity.Â
âCâmon, God forbid a guy stop to smell the flowers,â heâd drawled once, not even pretending to shrink under the irritated glares from the audience (Itâs not like he cares much about any opinion but yours, nowadays).
He only starts to speed up when everyone else has already passed the halfway point â and yet he wins first place every time, giggling like blowing through twelve opponents in a matter of seconds was nothing.Â
Youâre starting to think that habit has only gotten worse since his last trainer left him. Your (now former) colleague Geto was always much harder on Satoru than you had the heart to be â how he was able to continue barking out directions despite the hybridâs incessant whining is truly beyond you, but maybe youâll get better at it with time â itâs not like Six Eyes is gonna be retiring any time soon.
(You think that even when heâs less of a pristine white horse and more of a silver fox, heâll still be bullying the younger racers on the track.)
Because thatâs what he really is, after all â a bully. Even the racecourse staff (and you, unfortunately) arenât immune to Satoruâs taunts and ridicule. If anything, youâre beginning to consider that he likes to tease you the most, if the way he looks at you means anything.
Six Eyes looks at his opponents like they bore him. He glares at the course staff like he knows heâs far above them.
But Satoru gazes at you like youâre the most fascinating thing in the world â sticking his tongue out at you from the starting gates, practically tackling you the second heâs away from all of those losers, demanding praise like a little kid who won his first track.
Itâs only after all of the other trainers and racers have gone home that Satoru truly looks at ease, nuzzling his dewy face into the crook of your neck as he presses you against the floor. His hot breath stinks of peppermint (thanks to the racecourse staff who fell for his trickery), the pristine, minty aroma mixed with the heat of skin-on-skin contact leaving your mind fuzzy and soft, relaxed.Â
The slightly wavy hair of Satoruâs tail brushes incessantly against your leg, the pristine tresses tickling the back of your thigh as he moves to straddle you. Before you know it, heâs panting wantonly, the heat of his breath brushing against the shell of your ear. You whine, trying halfheartedly to squirm away, but you donât get far â not with this oversized pony pawing at your blouse until the buttons are undone and the heap of fabric has been thrown off to the side.
âSatoru â whatâs gotten into you?â you ask, trying to sound stern despite the tremble of your voice.
He only laughs at that, pressing sloppy kisses to your jaw like nothing else matters â
Until he shifts, his kisses trailing downward until the waistband of your muted circle skirt gets in his way, but he doesnât let that hold him back for long. Your trainee flips your position, lazily lifting your skirt so that the fabric fans over your torso.
And then he gets to work.
His mouth is centimeters away from your quickly dampening panties, his hot breath fanning against the flimsy fabric before he gets impatient and tugs them down your legs â heâs not slick when he shoves them into his pocket.
But then, once your cunt is bare and throbbing with reluctant excitement, Satoru makes quick work of getting you off. He slurps and sucks incessantly, putting more effort into getting you off than he ever does his races. Wanton pants tickle your bare flesh, leaving you wanting and aching for more.
(Such an overachiever, Satoru is â unlike the highly esteemed Six Eyes. But you like him either way, much to your faux chagrin.)
Your clit absently pulses as if itâs been neglected for years, but you know Satoru is rapidly picking up the pace.
(You didnât train him to lose all his races, after all.)
Before you know it, biting the sleeve of your blouse can no longer suppress your whines. Your hips buck into his face, greedy and desperate for more, but Satoruâs race against your orgasm has only reached the first stretch.
(âSo what if I want to play with my food before I eat it?â Satoru had asked once, his voice carrying a bratty lilt like he knew how badly he was getting under your skin.)
Much like his opponents during the homestretch of a long race, Satoru doesnât just eat pussy like a man starved â he devours it, nibbling and sucking on all of your soft spots until his fingers and tongue have pushed you tumbling off the edge.
Youâve damn near lost track of time by this point, your sobs and moans echoing in the empty halls. Youâre not sure you can even feel anything specific anymore, just that incessant tingling that hints at a release sure to catch you off guard.
With a playful bite to your puffy clit, your vision goes white â your body moving on its own to practically hump Satoruâs face like itâs the last time youâll ever have him.
Satoru doesnât halt his motions, if anything he redoubles all of his efforts until you are left genuinely crying in overstimulation â only then does he pull his fluid-soaked chin away from your quivering heat.
Much like the bully Six Eyes is on the track, all Satoru can do is laugh at your pitiful trembling.
âYâknow, I dunno why people say that slow and steady wins the race,â he cackles, as if he just came up with the most clever joke known to man, âIâd rather just burst past the finish line and leave you desperate for more.â
(When your vision refocuses and your gaze shifts down Satoruâs toned body, you realize something. Had he come untouched in his race outfit?)
(Youâll have to send it off to the dry cleaners again, much to your dismay.)
warnings: fem!reader, hybrid au, petplay, satoru lets kitty watch his weird porn, suguru is a little in denial tbh, fingering (kinda), vaginal sex, smut, finger sucking, riding suguru's meat, masturbation (satoru), dark content (I guess), dead dove: do not eat
word count: 2.2k
Satoru Gojo canât hide it any longer â he has a hybrid fetish.
Perhaps it started when he was a kid, just getting into anime with a newfound freedom on the internet. Perhaps itâs always been dormant in the back of his mind, from way back when he was in the womb â heâs not sure.
But the true fact of it is: cat hybrids are sexy.
Thereâs no denying it â even back when he saw his first hint of fanservice in some random anime a forum member recommended him, he was captivated by the mere idea of being fawned over by girls with fluffy ears and swishing tails.
When he first stumbled upon an actual adult video website, things changed. It took him a while of scrolling to the very depths of the tags heâd heard other users describe as taboo, but he found it â there were people in sexual relationships with their humanoid pets. And the mere thought of it enthralled him.
Who cared if his friends thought he was a pervert, when he was just living his truth?
Suguru didnât seem to judge him too heavily, often just regarding his weird fascination in that same âboys will be boysâ manner that mothers use to excuse bad behavior. Shoko, on the other hand? She was repulsed â not enough to make her want to avoid Satoru, but just enough to make her flee the room whenever he went on his feline-obsessed tangents.
⥠⥠âĄ
Satoru didnât bother covering up his weird fantasies as he grew older â no, he practically flaunted them, making sure everyone knew what to expect out of him (Thatâs probably the reason girls wonât date you, Suguru had insisted).
Strange jokes and weird comments became par for the course â his friends just had to get used to it. And it was fine, for a while! It was normal for him to get flustered at the strangest things, to have to excuse himself to the bathroom in the middle of completely wholesome movies â at least until he and Suguru had graduated, immediately moving into an apartment together.
Things were going really well, actually â until Suguru came home late one evening and Satoru wasnât alone. No, it couldnât have been a normal evening, not with Satoru around.
Because there Suguruâs boyfriend was, sitting on the floor criss-cross-apple-sauce with a pretty little thing nestled in his lap. Suguru had to admit, you were pretty cute â with your little ears twitching at the sound of the front door shutting. As Suguru glanced down at the scene before him, he saw Satoru fondling and tickling the edge of your feline tail as it instinctively tried to escape his cupped hand.
Before Suguru could even begin to question his partner, Satoru was quick to explain â or at least, yap aimlessly.
âIsnât she so cute, Sugu?! Found little kitty here on my way home from a treat run â hungry little thing chased me down for a nibble, isnât that right?â Satoru teased, pinching your chin and shaking your head playfully.Â
Okay, so that didnât completely explain things but Satoru might be right â you are pretty cute, especially the way your tail swishes as your white haired tormentor squeezes and jostles you in his lap.
Even as you bare your tiny little fangs and try to swat the much larger man away, Satoru goes on, âBet you wanted to come home with me as soon as you smelled the treats, huh, pretty girl? Yeah? Didnât even have to pspspspsp or anything â Suguboo, I think Iâm like . . . really good with pets-! Why havenât we thought about bringing a little housepet home sooner?â
Suguru had to physically restrain the urge to argue, to point out the fact that Satoru likes to play, but wouldnât be responsible enough to take care of another living thing.
Your pout is just so precious as Satoru bounces you in his lap, completely in awe at the twitch of your nose as he leans in closer â hot breath fanning against the side of your neck. It would be a cute moment to witness, if the bulge in Satoruâs pants wasnât so visible.
Despite your little complaints and hisses, Satoru begs, âSugu, can we keep her? Promise âll take care of her â you wonât have to do anything ââ
When the much more reasonable of the two argues that, âWe both know thatâs not true,â both pairs of eyes glimmer at the tiny giggle that escapes your throat â their own smiles merely growing wider at your quickly-reddening cheeks when you realize theyâre staring you down.
Itâs not like you can even scurry off to hide in a closet, not with how Satoruâs grip around your hips tightens as he continues jostling you around. Even as you whine and swat at his stupidly blue eyes, he doesnât stop making little kissy noises at you.
⥠⥠âĄ
Itâs been a week of your stay in their apartment, and Suguru is at his witsâ end. Sure, he expected Satoru to be clingy, but not to this extent. You can barely even eat in peace without the white haired giant scooping you up and plopping you down on his thighs. Heâs insatiable â constantly hugging and squeezing you, pressing impatient kisses to the crown of your head when he thinks heâs gone too long without attention.
And you eat it up every time, always nuzzling into the crook of Satoruâs neck and kneading the blankets while he pets your hair.
Of course, none of this would be a problem, if it werenât Satoru.
This would just be par for the course for any excited new pet owner, but Satoru makes it weird â passing you on to Suguru to take care of each time Satoru gets the urge to hole himself up in his room to jerk off.
At least he has the decency to lock the door when he does his business, Suguru supposes.
But that locked door doesnât stop anything for long â itâs only natural that a cat hybrid like you would get curious, scurrying off of Suguruâs lap and sneaking into Satoruâs room when heâs not looking.
Thatâs when the lack of boundaries between you and Suguruâs boyfriend become a problem â when Satoru is out running errands and Suguru has to search the whole apartment for their little kitty girl, only to find you on the computer watching through Satoruâs copious selection of porn. Hybrid fetish porn â short video after video of debauched feline hybrids getting railed left, right, and center by their owners â the one person thatâs supposed to want only the best for them.
At first, Suguru thinks the way youâre curled up under a blanket is just an attempt at getting comfy, as if you donât know whatâs happening in those videos â but no, Suguru canât avert his gaze from the way your hand pumps up and down, or rather in and out, of your pussy to the beat of the videoâs sound effects.
Suguru blinks, and suddenly he has you scooped up in his arms, torn away from the computer desk. Heâs having an out-of-body experience, he thinks â unable to even process what comes out of his mouth as he scolds you for being a bad girl.
But itâs not your fault, now is it? No, Suguru muses, itâs Satoruâs fault for being a sick pervert, for not hiding his less than savory desires from their pet.
âSweet girl, you shouldnât be watching that kind of stuff,â he murmurs, making an effort to speak more quietly and calmly, to be the caretaker you actually deserve.
Your cheeks are flushed, lips curled in a confused pout â you really, really didnât know any better, he has to remind himself.
By the time heâs managed to find the words to explain why you canât be on the internet watching that kind of content, your little noses scrunches as your eyes brim with tears. He does his best to soothe you, to hush your cries and brush away your tears as he rocks you gently in his arms â but in the back of his mind, heâs pissed.
Not at you, no â heâs mad at his boyfriend.
Once youâve settled down and are no longer crying from being scolded, Suguru tugs his phone out of his pocket. With one hand still petting the space between your furry ears, Suguru shoots his degenerate boyfriend a text.
Sugupookie sent a message: âWe need to talk when you get home.â
Satoru sent a message: âAww are you finally gonna propose?â
Sugupookie sent a message: âSatoru, be serious please.â
Satoru sent a message: âI am being serious!!!!!!â
Satoru sent a message: âIâll be home in 15â
⥠⥠âĄ
By the time Satoru returns home, youâre fast asleep, panties tugged back up to properly cover you by Suguru. The monitor of Satoruâs computer has dimmed, but a quick jostle of the mouse would reveal the same webpage their little kitty left off on â a playlist of intense, morally dubious porn involving feline hybrids.
Satoru struts into his room, seemingly undisturbed by the ominous tone of Suguruâs message.
âSooo, whatâs going on?â Satoru asked, far too much of a pep in his step.
Suguru, on the other hand, was less jovial. He cast a judgemental glance at the computer screen, âYou canât just leave that shit open.â He paused, feeling more irritated at Satoruâs confused grunt.
âI caught her watching your porn, Satoru â I walked in on our pet stroking her little pussy to your degenerate fetishes.â
âSo what?â Satoru blurted out, not a care in the world.
âSo â Itâs inappropriate, and you letting her even stumble upon that shit makes you irresponsible and a bad owner,â Suguru scolded his boyfriend, unable to even look Satoru in the eyes.
Satoru, much to Suguruâs disapproval, isnât taking this seriously at all â heâs giggling under his breath, reaching out to ruffle your messy hair until Suguru slaps his hand away. You whine, having woken up from the sound of the slap. âCâmonnn, Sugu . . . Your panties are only in a twist because you like it too â you donât gotta be embarrassed-!â Satoru teased, not missing the pink dusting his loverâs cheeks.
Unable to bear being called out, Suguru looks away, his gaze softening as he meets your sleepy, adorably confused eyes. The words wonât come out, Suguru canât lie his way out of it â not when Satoru knows him so well.
Uncaring about Suguruâs obvious embarrassment, Satoru reaches out toward you once again, cupping your chin in his hand as his thumb strokes your cheek. âKitty, why donât you be a good girl and make Sugu feel better?â
As soon as the words leave Satoruâs mouth, youâre crawling into your other ownerâs lap, thighs straddling his hips. Youâre fast at work, peppering kisses and kittenish licks to Suguruâs lips as you grind your panty-covered core against his pelvis. Even though Suguru refuses to return the kisses, you keep humping into him â your fluffy tail standing tall and proud as your position reveals the damp spot on your panties to Satoru.
Satoru laughs, throwing his head back as he rushes to slip your soaked panties down your legs, his middle finger making quick work of rubbing circles around your slit until youâre panting and whining so cutely into Suguruâs mouth.Â
Feeling the warmth of your breath tickling his lips, Suguru canât control himself anymore â he shudders, one hand curling around the slope of your back to pull you impossibly closer to him. His other hand trails downward, untying the drawstrings of his sweatpants to tug them, along with his briefs, down his muscular legs.
Now that his cock is free, Suguru wastes no time slapping Satoruâs hand away from your now sopping pussy, guiding his own cock to rut against your hole. You take the bait, eager to get his dick inside you, practically pouncing to force it as deep as possible. From the look on your face, Suguru can tell that the stretch hurts, but youâre so insistent that he just doesnât remind you to slow down.
He needs this as much as you do, if not more, Suguru admits to himself. He glances up, catching Satoruâs gaze as he watches his belovedâs hand stroke and tug his own cock in sync with your bouncing.
You start getting needier, no doubt teetering closer and closer to the edge of pleasure â your moans and whimpers grow louder, more frequent, and all Suguru can think about is how cute you look, how maybe Satoru had the right idea all along.Â
His hand travels to hover in front of your mouth, and you immediately capture his thumb between your lips. You nibble and suck greedily, slobber trickling down to Suguruâs wrist.
With one final, particularly hard bite, you sob â pussy quivering and trying to suck Suguru in even further as you meet your peak. You come, arousal flooding from your pussy down to soak Suguruâs lap.
Once your shaking subsides, Suguru catches you as you slump on top of him, mouthing needily at the warm skin of his neck. He stays there with you, stroking your ears and combing his fingers through your hair until youâre completely limp against him.
As Suguru catches his own breath, pleasure still etched on every inch of his face, he purrs a quiet, âThank you,â to Satoru before letting his eyes drift shut just like yours.
warnings: fem!reader, yandere, dollification, objectification, suguru is controlling to a bizarre degree, reader is basically a living doll, reader has a lot of conflicting feelings, smut, dark content, dead dove: do not eat
word count: 1.1k
Suguru loves dressing you up.
Perhaps itâs just for the aesthetics â he was an art major in college, after all. He just wants his beloved to look her best, is that so wrong?
But itâs more than the superficial, really. Itâs the principle of it. Suguru Geto likes to show you off â or rather, he likes to show off his ownership of you. He loves to tug your thigh highs up your smooth legs ever so slowly, a tender smile curling his lips as he smooths out the lace detail around the squish of your flesh.
He likes to be the one to put on your shoes, always reasoning that he just wants to make sure the buckles on your mary janes arenât too tight, that they donât hurt your feet when you strut towards him in that innocent-but-still-sexy white dress.
Suguru doesnât let you pick out your own clothes anymore, not after the one day you felt like trying a different style â heâs meticulous, craving consistency above all else. If he gives you the choice, would you run away from him in ill-fitting shoes?
But he knows you wonât get far, that youâd sooner trip and sprain your ankle than ever escape the luxury penthouse. And youâll whine and cry, tears smudging the makeup heâd spent an hour applying for you that morning.
Dolls arenât made to play with â roughhousing should be entirely off limits. Dolls are meant to be cherished, displayed in perfect condition.
So thatâs how he keeps you.
He bathes, feeds, and dresses you every morning, only to leave you at your vanity to stare at yourself whenever he has to take care of his other duties.
But when he has the free time? Heâs all over you â and so is his other half.
Satoruâs more like a puppy, really â a well-trained one at that (at least most of the time). He waits in his gilded cage of a bedroom until Suguru decides he should be let out. Suguru doesnât put in even half as much effort into making Satoru pretty.
Satoru just is gorgeous, inherently so. Glassy, pale skin and soft tufts of white hair, tall stature and flawless beauty.
(Sometimes, you envy him. On rare occasions, you wish that Suguru would treat you the same way, that he would rest easy knowing that you donât need help to be pretty.)
(But then you remember that if that were the case, youâd be living just like Satoru â tucked away in a bedroom on the far side of the penthouse, only let out when itâs his turn to be used.)
You like that Suguru puts in effort with you â you like that he wants to build you into the perfect doll, one thatâs too good to be played with. Heâs made you his own, resculpted your porcelain into his image, his idea of perfection.
But in the back of your mind, you secretly wish youâd be played with more often.
If not because you hope your muscles never atrophy, then because you aim to impress â thereâs something charming about the way Suguru directs any contact between you and Satoru. Itâs always according to his terms, Suguru sets the scene and just sits back and enjoys the show.
Thatâs when youâre reminded most of his days as an art student â when heâs fussing over the lighting, when heâs adjusting your limbs to paint a pretty picture.
(A pretty picture all for him. Satoru shouldnât even record it in his memory, if you were to ask Suguru.)
You like to make eye contact with Suguru when heâs sitting in his glorified directorâs chair. You wink at him, pouting adorably as if to say, âCome play with me too,â â but he never falters. Never takes the bait.
He just rests his chin on the palm of his hand, spouting soft-spoken orders to Satoru.
(âKiss her pretty little clit. Go on, you know better than to make me wait,â he murmurs into his hand as he stares expectantly at Satoru.)
(When Satoru obeys â because it always happens eventually, Suguru instructs, âGo on, tongue-fuck her pussy now. Nice and slow, make her sing all prettily for us.â)
But then he just shoots you that fond smile, a smile that promises you could never disappoint him, could never do anything wrong.
(You could never disappoint him, because you donât act on your own impulses. Heâs trained you better than that.)
But when you start to whine, batting your mascara-coated lashes as your body trembles and shakes with release, thatâs when Suguru hooks his fingers towards him, beckoning Satoru away from you. Satoruâs mouth and chin are slick with your arousal, his eyes glossed over like heâs having an out of body experience, but he obeys.
He crawls over to Suguru, on his hands and knees, Cum-covered tongue out as he pants.
(Youâre not faring much better, the inside of your thighs wet and sticky with a mixture of your own fluids and Satoruâs saliva â unable to catch your breath, mascara smudged as tears spill from your eyes.
(Perhaps thatâs when Suguru finds you the most beautiful â when you babble incoherently and he gets the uncontrollable urge to press his lips against yours. You always kiss him back, soft and sweet just like he taught you. You donât even need to be prompted, your lips fall open to slot his tongue inside like you were made for it.)
(âYou were made for this,â Suguru coos as he replaces his tongue with his thumb, giving you permission to suckle â hell, heâd let you bite, if you really wanted to.)
Satoruâs still sitting on the carpeted floor, a once-loved toy now forgotten â but heâs happy.
If he werenât human, if he truly had a fluffy tail, it would be wagging rapidly. He loves this.
Satoruâs expression is dazed and lost, rock hard cock surely smearing cum all over the inside of his underwear.
(He canât control himself, thatâs why Suguru says youâre his favorite. His perfect doll.)
But Satoru doesnât do anything about it â a good dog knows to wait for permission, after all. He just watches Suguru pull your stockings back up the length of your legs before grabbing a luxuriously soft washcloth to clean you up.
He tugs your panties back up then, offering a kiss for every inch upwards the cotton travels along the length of your legs.
Suguru reaches over to the bedside table, pulling out a makeup wipe to clean up your pretty little face â pouring a bit of micellar water onto a cotton round to remove any remnants of pigment.
(And then, just like that, playtime is over.)
Suguru tucks you into bed, your bare skin shielded by the sheer pink canopy.
And he bids you goodnight â stroking the top of your hair like a cat before leading Satoru back to his own bedroom to rot until morning.
warnings: fem!reader, reader has small tits, modern/college au, suguru loves hentai and gooning!!!!! reader is lowkey obsessive but suguru out-freaks her, hidden cameras, nonconsensual photography, I think this counts as sexual harassment, dark content (although this one is admittedly kinda tame), dead dove: do not eat (just in case)
word count: 3.1k
Your roommate has a secret. Behind the relaxed, easygoing facade and cool aesthetics, Suguru Geto is a bit of a nerd. Not a nerd in the physics-obsessed overachiever (cough, Gojo) way â more so the type thatâs normal at first glance, but then when you see his bedroom there isnât a single square foot not cluttered with anime girl memorabilia.Â
But itâs okay! Really â theyâre cute, you think, even the ones that look almost uncannily similar to the face you see in the mirror every morning. You donât mind Suguru as a roommate. Heâs responsible, buys groceries that both of you will eat, and makes sure his . . . interests . . . donât invade the hallway or living room. The perfect arrangement, really!
Suguru Geto is the type of roommate to mind his business at all costs, usually spending days off from university nestled at his computer setup.
(Not that youâve been in his room or anything, definitely not!)
His best friend, Gojo, on the other hand is the opposite. He doesnât pay even a single yen of your rent, but he frollicks in and manspreads on your secondhand couch like heâs the sole tenant. Gojoâs loud and obnoxious, always raiding the pantry and leaving half-eaten bags of chips on the counters like party favors â and Suguru just lets him do as he pleases.
It baffles you how someone so incredibly mature and normal can be besties with the biggest freak in the physics department.
But alas, you canât really go tattling to Suguru about his friendâs behavior â itâs Suguruâs apartment too, and you really donât want to make yourself out to be an enemy.
(Perfectly normal roommate relationship â basically just neighbors, truly!)
Gojoâs not only louder than a construction sight, but heâs a total eyesore too â always stumbling through the door in shoes that are far too white and merch t-shirts of anime series that only Suguru could pull off enjoying.Â
Long story short, Satoru Gojo is your worst enemy because heâs such a bother (totally not because you want to be the one watching movies with Suguru).
(Yeah, definitely not.)
⥠⥠âĄ
Monday nights are always laundry nights â Suguru usually wakes up early enough to get his laundry done in the morning, and you leave yours in the machine in the afternoon when you run errands (keyword: usually). For perhaps the first time ever, Suguru doesnât have work early in the morning, throwing off your entire routine. By the time youâre slipping out of bed at a sensible twelve oâclock, Suguruâs laundry still hasnât gone in the washing machine. It just sits in his plum-colored basket in the corner. Naturally, you donât want to deviate from the routine too much, but time efficiency for time efficiencyâs sake canât be too bad â so you combine the loads. Heâs out shopping with Gojo (that should be you), so by the time he returns home in the evening surely both the lights and darks will be taken care of.Â
And sure enough, his key turns in the front door just as youâre carrying your basket of clean, toasty articles down the hallway into your room. Thereâs little to no conversation between the two of you, so you opt to immediately start sorting the clothes.
Thatâs when you see it â Simple, dark grey boxer briefs crushed underneath your mountain of skirts and camisole tops. It sticks out like a sore thumb, and you just canât seem to look away.
(Not in a weird way, though â youâre just surprised the laundry got mixed up, surely.)
(Right?)
Forcefully averting your gaze, you pick up your baby pink laundry basket (with Suguruâs underwear settled in the otherwise empty space) and silently drop it off outside his bedroom door.Â
You sent a message: âYour underwear got mixed in with my laundry, so I left it outside your room. Sorry !!â
He left you on read â but at least he got the message. Simple enough.
The next time it happens is a few weeks later, when one of his gigantic band tees ends up sneaking into your basket â this time, though, youâre not as level-headed. You tell yourself youâre just exhausted from a weekend of running errands and sewing projects, that youâll sort the clothes into your closet tomorrow.
Tomorrow never comes, and the next time you stare at your reflection as you brush your teeth, youâre drowning in that same band tee. Youâd been hesitant at first, not wanting to overstep by so much as touching his shirt â let alone wearing it â but your resolve crumbled after only a few hours. The Supima cotton might as well be the softest thing youâve ever worn, the fabric slightly cool to the touch in a way that makes your body relax and melt into your bed.
That may have been the fastest youâve ever fallen asleep.
You only wear his shirt when youâre in the comfort and safety of your bedroom â after all, you canât let him find out you have it, that youâve been all but living in it for days now. Itâs almost painful, having to toss it off your body and into the corner behind your pillow every time you so much as have to go to the restroom (curse Suguru for claiming dibs on the master bedroom).
But as soon as the door clicks shut and youâre in the privacy of your own space, you find yourself bare except for your new prized possession and your panties.
Trouble starts brewing the following week, when your decompressing time is interrupted by the chime of a text notification.
Suguru (roommate) sent a message: âI think one of my shirts got mixed up in your laundry. Have you seen it?â
The delusion comes crashing down, and youâre forced to stop pretending that you have any right to be wearing such a perfect, downright holy shirt. You shrug the band tee off of your body and scramble to find one of your own tops to wear, all so you can stand at his bedroom door, tail between your legs, waiting for him to let you in so you can give him his damn shirt back â
He must not have heard your weak knock against the wood, your sad attempt at knocking drowned out by the far-too-loud clacking of a mechanical keyboard. Oh well, youâll just throw his shirt onto one of your pink flocked hanger.
You feel like youâre saying goodbye as you leave it hanging on the doorknob.
⥠⥠âĄ
It happened again, and youâre pretty sure your roommate is doing this on purpose.
You know itâs not an accident â how could it be when yet another of his ginormous shirts winds up at the bottom of your pile of clean laundry? Itâs like a gift, something to surprise and reward you for working so hard for the nth week in a row.
The only issue? It raises more questions than it answers.
Does he know?
Why is he playing along with this?
Is he making fun of you?
And most perplexingly, how did someone as gentle and easygoing as Suguru Geto manage to tear a hole in the sleeve of his shirt?
You canât just sit back and do nothing â if somehow, he didnât plant the evidence in your basket, maybe heâd blame you for the hole getting there. Or worse, maybe heâd talk shit about you to his best friend, turning this whole thing into a slight on your very character?
Youâre nestled in your chair before you know it, staring at the printed face of this almost cute anime girl on his t-shirt. The sheer thought of a man as put together as your roommate wearing something so cringe (for lack of a better, nicer word) makes heat rise to your cheeks as if it was your fault. As if you would ever be seen out on the town wearing this monstrosity.Â
Needle plunging in one side and out the other, the monotonous task of sewing the hole shut soothes your heartâs furious beating.
Youâre just doing a favor for your roommate, you insist, as if Suguru wouldâve ever asked for your help in the first place.
But maybe you deserve a treat for your hard work â whatâs the harm, right? Youâve done a good deed, so now you should be rewarded. And with that, you spend the rest of the afternoon rotting in bed wearing only his shirt and your panties.
But things could never be so simple â and thatâs when you hear it.
Through the shitty, thin apartment walls, you hear Suguru laughing more than youâve ever heard before â he must be in a voice call with someone (probably Gojo, as much as you hate to say) and heâs snickering like heâs got it all figured out.
âYou wonât believe it, Satoru,â you hear Suguru murmur on the phone, as if heâs suddenly trying to be subtle. âBut Iâm pretty sure my roommateâs happy as can be, ever since I started leaving my stuff in her laundry basket â Iâve never seen it in person, but sheâs been staying locked in her room a lot ever since last week.
âWhat should I leave for her next week?â
Surely, Suguru knows you can hear him through the wall. Surely heâs just joking around, right? He couldnât possibly be serious.
But what if he is? As much as you try to remain level-headed and normal, you feel excitement flutter in your chest.
He knows what heâs doing. Heâs doing it on purpose â heâs doing it for you.
So whatâs the harm in making the most of his gifts?
And with that, you stop caring about being secretive. You no longer try to hide the fact that youâre wearing his clothes â stumbling out of your bedroom drowning in anime-printed fabric no longer feels shameful. Whatâs the point in hiding it, when heâs the one letting it happen?
And he notices â he has to notice.
You can see that mischievous mirth in his gaze each time he sees you lounging like itâs your shirt. But he doesnât look surprised, no â he looks like heâs been expecting it. And that somehow makes you more flustered.
The next time Gojo frolics into your home, he nearly doubles over laughing.
âWhereâd you get that shirt?â he asks, tears brimming in his eyes from cackling so hard.
Just stay silent, you tell yourself. You donât owe this freak anything.
And yet he continues yapping, âYou look like a child playing dress-up in her mommyâs clothes â What, they didnât have your size?â
He doesnât seem to miss the way your cheeks dust a furious red. No, he revels in it.
âSuguru-!â The white-haired bastard calls out, âSince when did you get your roomie into your gooner shows?â
Youâre going to throw up, youâre sure of it. Your cheeks are hot to the touch, burning even, as Gojo ridicules you. Suguru saunters down the hallway toward the kitchen, looking away from the commotion as though heâs above it all. But heâs not â you can see the smug grin curling his lips, the sheer satisfaction on his stupid, pretty face.
Your roommate meanders into the kitchen, digging through the fridge for some overly-marketed energy drink with a debauched anime girl plastered on the can.
(That cannot possibly taste good.)
As he cracks the can open, he seems to be taunting you â he holds the aluminum can almost unnaturally, making sure that the 2D whore is making direct eye contact with you. Thatâs when you realize, as youâre trying and failing to avoid looking at it, that she looks vaguely like you â the same hair length and style, the same eye color, but with her tits out in a way that would only work in fiction.Â
He chugs the battery-acid flavored drink like itâs holy water, not to mention the satiated moan that slips out when heâs finished. And the whole time, heâs staring right at you, smug â like a predator stalking its prey.
Gojo takes the opportunity to continue your humiliation ritual, âHey, Suguru, what was that one manga you were recommending last night? Small Tits are Cuter Anyway! Right? Yâknow, I donât get why thatâs the stuff that gets your rocks off â if theyâre tiny, thereâs nothing for your big, warm hands to grab onto!â
You have to leave, you think, straining against the urge to glance down at your boobs (or lack thereof). What are they getting at here?
âSatoru,â your roommate coos, âYou just donât get it because youâre greedy â always gotta grab onto something. Havenât you ever heard the phrase, âLess is moreâ?â
Gojo giggles at that, grin as wide as a shark as he gives you a look-over. When he turns back toward his best friend, youâre pretty sure he mumbles something akin to, âOh, so thatâs why.â
Throughout the whole exchange, Suguru doesnât seem even a little embarrassed that youâre hearing every word of it. He just keeps laughing along, like heâs testing you â waiting to see if you react.
You just stand there, suddenly feeling embarrassed to be wearing this stupid fucking shirt. Cheeks tinting a shameful pink, you turn to walk away, but Suguru calls out to you.
(And who are you to ignore the call of a siren?)
âWhat, donât you want to keep hanging out with us?â he asks, teasingly, âYouâve gotten so comfortable wearing my clothes, but you canât even keep up a conversation?â
You have to physically resist the urge to crash out, but before you can even react, your least favorite physics major grabs you by the upper arm like itâs nothing. You let out a shocked shriek, jolting away from the offensive touch. You want to vomit, utterly repulsed by the feeling of Gojoâs sweaty fucking hands, but thereâs not much you can do when a man much stronger than you is dragging you over to the hallway where the bedrooms are.
And what does your sensible, normal roommate do? He follows the two of you in some bastardization of a leisurely stroll.
Gojo casually talks about wanting to see Suguruâs new anime figures â something about how, âThat hefty preorder better be worth it!â
(You donât want to see it.)
(You donât want to see what gets your roommateâs rocks off.)
(You donât want to intrude.)
But Satoru Gojo doesnât care â he just keeps dragging you along, kicking open Suguruâs bedroom door and shoving you onto the bed. Suguru follows closely, locking the door behind him. There are way too many packages here, littering the desk, bed, and floor, and you canât help but be surprised he managed to accumulate so much stuff without you noticing.
(But you had been hiding away in your room whenever you were home, so he must have had ample opportunity to sneak his illicit goods inside the apartment.)
You turn away from the mess of cardboard boxes, wanting to look at anything else, but the only things covering the walls are portraits of anime-style women with their bits out. You canât avoid looking at the stylized nudes â theyâre literally everywhere.
No matter where you cast your gaze, youâre utterly disappointed â but then your eyes catch on something.
Tucked haphazardly underneath Suguruâs pillow, lay multiple 4 by 6 inch photographs.
(Is that your room? Thatâs you, isnât it?)
You know you shouldnât peek â what gives you the right to invade your roommateâs privacy? But the more you think about it, he invaded yours first, didnât he?
So you pull the pictures out from under the pillows, holding a few in your hands to take a closer look, only to find that each image was taken from a high-up angle at the corner of your bedroom â situated perfectly in the corner as if the camera was put there deliberately.
Countless photographs of you just lounging around, going about your daily life while wearing Suguruâs clothing.
When you turn the sheets of photo paper around, there are dates written in the top left corner â methodical, like heâs been keeping track of when each one was taken. Like heâs keeping track of when and how much you wear each article.
At the bottom of the messy stack, you find a particularly zoomed in photo of the day it all started.
You, in all of your post-running-errands glory, shrugging off your camisole top and digging through the basket of clean laundry to find something more comfortable to wear â there you are, picking up Suguruâs boxer briefs as if youâre studying them.
(Okay, so heâs known the whole time.)
Itâs not until you really focus your eyes on where your figure is shown in the image, that you notice itâs slightly sticky. His dried cum â slightly cold to the touch, obviously having been there for weeks now. Youâre going to be sick.
You drop the photographs as if theyâd scorched your hands, desperately trying to rid your mind of the disgraceful sight, only for Suguru to clutch your chin between his thumb and index finger, forcing your gaze back towards the stack of now-half-opened figure boxes.
He wants you to see them â the cast-off figures of women that all share some sort of physical feature with you â some of which bore multiple resemblances.
Itâs absurd, you think, too shocked to recognize the chill of the ceiling fan brushing your bare stomach.
(When did they do that?)
(You want to be disgusted, you really do â but . . .)
âLetâs see if they hold up to the real thing,â Suguru declares, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
He catches the figure box that Gojo tosses him, using his slightly jagged fingernail to cut open the tape â revealing what is perhaps the most debauched piece of plastic youâve ever seen.
(She looks just like you.)
(You should be happy, right? This means he likes you â or at least finds you attractive enough to ogle.)
(So why do you feel sick to your stomach?)
The next thing you know, your bra is being torn off by Gojo, and you can feel the chill of plastic tits pressed against your chest â Suguru looks like heâs studying your form, taking in every detail like it belongs to him.
âMm . . .â he hums, deep in thought, pulling the anime figure away. He sets the plastic whore down next to him on the bed, his now vacant hand rapidly approaching your breast. Thumbing at your nipple, he lets out a carefree laugh, âSee, Satoru? Small tits are the best.â
Gojo lets out a cross between a chuckle and a moan, throwing his head back as if itâs the funniest thing heâs ever heard.
âIf you like my clothes so much,â Suguru starts, a teasing lilt to his honey-soaked voice, âYou wouldnât mind if I picked out some more things for you to wear, would you?â
Youâre breathing heavily, unable to formulate a response, but he doesnât care.
âCome on, I promise Iâve got good taste,â the roommate you idolized merely days ago assures you.
(Suguruâs words donât exactly instill confidence.)
