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[ayumip]

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user ∘◦☾◦∘｡ﾟ ayumi/yumi - 18 - she/her - sfw/nsfw - estj - scorpio - currently playing: genshin impact, hsr, zzz

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[reignpage]

would you wet your fingers for me?... would you place a bookmark in me?

LIBRARY (n.) a playground for books and readers, but also for occasional debauchery

Synopsis: your plan is to avoid your rival, now that you’ve both been hired as assistant librarians, to minimise the chances of getting into hours long debates and committing murder. the problem is that he's everywhere — helping you carry heavy boxes, scoffing at your choice of literature, eating you out in the back corner between the We Shouldn't Do This and the We'll Never Speak of This Again shelves. in all the bickering and orgasms, you're left with one question:

is the smell of books an aphrodisiac?

Warnings: plot with porn, a romcom vibe series, college au, nerd!nanami x nerd!reader, both classical lit students, f!reader, rivals to lovers, forced proximity, they're mean to each other, specific warnings have been added to the relevant chapters, Nanami art by @/thatsallitchief, will eventually be available on AO3, not proofread Word Count: tbc

Canto I - The Hopeless Gate

℘ you wanted the librarian job. unfortunately so did he. and the world hates you so you both got the job. now you have to learn how to tolerate his existence with much closer proximity than before. it's doable, isn't it?

Canto II - The Second Circle

℘ this job's not as stimulating as you thought it would be. people are predictable, unadventurous, and too serious. he looks bored too. stoking some harmless competition wouldn't be so bad, right?

Canto III - The Dark Descent

℘ stakes have been added to the pot. you should stop letting him part your legs, should stop allowing him to light your fire, but no harm no foul if you guys just continue as you have been, no?

Canto IV - The Emerging Stars

℘ this was a mistake. all of it was. from the very beginning, it was doomed. you're too similar, too ambitious, too cutthroat. at the end of the day, you're only ever meant to be rivals...aren't you?

EPILOGUE

Do not copy, remake, repost, feed my work into AI, or translate any of my works © 2026 ReignPage on Tumblr, all rights reserved

[reignpage]

Taking cuffed to a whole different meaning...

Synopsis: the party was supposed to be wild and crazy, so you could let loose and have fun, but it wasn't supposed to be so wild and crazy that you don't even remember what happened last Friday night. and definitely not so wild and crazy that you wake up a) with a killer headache, b) in someone else's bed, and c) cuffed to twins?!

now the three of you have to go on a wild goose chase for the person who did this, whilst fighting the insane sexual chemistry vibrating between you and the twins.

what could go wrong?

Warnings: porn with a side of plot, nerdjo and fratjo twins au - twincest (I don't view it as such and that's certainly not what this contains in my opinion but just as a warning so the puritans can back off), threesome/sharing reader, exhibitionism, voyeurism, hidden sex, the twins are annoying af and have asshole tendencies, both are pierced in different ways, college au/non curse au, too much dirty talk, unprotected sex because it's fiction and it's hot, spit roasting, thigh humping, zipper humping, thigh job, spitting, brief rimming, deepthroating, cunnilingus, pervy behaviour, a little masochism and sadism, choking?/asphyxiation, fanart by @smokeigheh on Insta, not proofread - please let me know if you spot typos or inconsistencies (this is too long for me to care about proofreading) Word Count: 14k

“Hey, Sato?”

“Hmm?”

“Am I still dreaming or is there a girl’s ass pressed to my woody?”

“Unless we’re sharing the same dream, I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s not one — she’s drooling on my chest.”

“Is she hot?”

“Don’t be a creep…”

A pregnant pause passes, then he adds, “Yeah.”

“Nice.”

Groaning, your bleary eyes open. Your head is swimming. The pain is dull but powerful, as though hidden behind a layer, angry and wanting to be let out. Bright light through a window almost blinds you. You groan again, burying your head in a hard wall. 

Huh?

Your eyes shoot open. You’re laying on someone’s chest. You look up. Dazzling blue eyes stare down at you through a pair of glasses, a brow cocked up. Then you feel it — something hot and heavy slotted between your asscheeks, and a hand gripping your hip. 

With a scream, you jolt up, scrambling to get off the bed, only to fall right back onto the mattress when resistance meets your arms. 

Two faces fill your vision from above. 

Same dazzling blue eyes. 

One smirking.

One not. 

Both near-mirror copies of the other. 

You scream again.

They wince. 

“C-clones! You’re clones! Oh my god, please don’t probe me.”

The one on your left laughs so loudly it becomes your turn to wince. “Dude! She thinks we’re aliens!”

The other sighs and adjusts his glasses. “We’re not aliens. We’re twins. Monozygotic. Monoamniotic-Monoamniotic, to be exact.”

Lightly shoving the other by the shoulder, one of them says, “Jeez, don’t get all sciency around a chick. Just say ‘MoMo’, like I’ve been saying.” He turns to you, smiling. “We’re identical twins — I’m Toru, a Marketing student, and this ugly freak is Sato. Engineering. We’re both third years. And you are?”

Why are they acting so casual?

They’re in bed with a complete stranger, who could be a serial killer, and yet they’re introducing themselves to you like nothing’s remotely odd about the situation. Or maybe you’re in bed with serial killers. Hot serial killers, but that’s how they get you.

Unnerved by their matching stares, you stammer out your name, followed by a, “I’m an Anthropology student. Second year. It’s a pleasure to meet you?”

The sentence comes out less a statement and more a question, and you grimace at your unsocial self.

Toru leans forward, grinning. “You’re so polite. How adorable. Makes me wanna just gobble you up.” He mimics the actions of munching on your face, nom noming. 

His twin sighs again and lifts his hand up. Yours is brought up with it. All of you eye the thing that clanks and jingles with the movement. Sato drawls, “Instead of flirting with her, why don’t we address the elephant in the room — why the hell are we cuffed together and in his bed?”

That’s when you finally realise you’re not in your own dorm. The room’s much bigger, much more lived in and homely. Heck, the bed itself is bigger than the stiff single that the school provides everyone. Comfier, too. And with someone’s abs plastered all over the covers.

Posters of sporting legends litter the walls, as do posters of rock bands and carelessly stuck on polaroids of one of the twins, or both of them, or people you can only assume to be their friends. 

It even smells differently here than in your room; whilst yours smells of academic pressures and manically drunk coffee, this one smells of leftover thrill and aftershave. Clothes litter the floor, bordered by empty beer cans, and a pair of red lacey panties in the corner. 

Toru follows your eyes to it, and then hastily clarifies, “It’s not mine — I don’t crossdress or anything.”

Sato rolls his eyes, and snarks, “She knows that, idiot. She’s thinking what a pigsty your room is.” Glancing at you, he adds, “My dumbass brother’s incapable of cleaning up after himself. Judge him freely, he deserves it.”

Ignoring both of them, you lift your arms up, struggling with the new weight and gawk at the pink fuzzy cuffs adorning your wrists. Slowly, you say, “What…the…actual…fuck?”

You’re handcuffed to two strangers. 

Two hot strangers who keep women’s underwear in their rooms.

Frantically, you glance down at yourself and release a relieved breath when you confirm that you’re fully dressed in what you remember coming to the party in the first place: a short skirt you borrowed from a friend, a nice top, and beat up Converse that you wouldn’t mind getting beer spilled on. Your phone’s in your skirt pocket, along with your keycard. So all the valuables you brought to your friend’s apartment are still with you. Nothing feels out of place, which you thank god profusely for. 

But what happened after the round of pres at your friend? 

“I don’t remember a single thing that happened last night,” you voice aloud, frowning. “I don’t remember why we’re cuffed together, or who you two are to me.”

Not a single thing comes to mind — what you drank, who you spoke to, how much you drank, if you did anything crazy, if you lost some kind of dare and had to face punishment by being bound to two guys, and where your friends are.

Sato knits his brows together. “Neither. I only remember helping set up.”

“I don’t remember anything either,” his brother says, attempting to scratch the back of his head with the hand that’s connected to yours, laughing at himself, then finally using his free hand. He shrugs. “But then again, that’s not unusual for me. The best parties are the ones you don’t remember.”

You want to question how that could be possible, but you keep your mouth shut. 

“Anyone feel a key on them?” one of the twins asks, inspecting the holes of the cuffs that bind you to him. He looks displeased at the fuzziness of the thing. Your hand hangs limply in the air.

All three of you look, lifting covers, checking inside your clothes, on the desk, under pillows, and nothing. 

“Nope!”

“No.”

“I don’t see anything.”

Your heart begins to race, reality sinking in hard and fast and intensifying your headache. “We’re done for. We’re stuck like this forever. We’re going to die like this!”

“Calm down,” Sato deadpans, totally judging you based on how he fights the urge to look you over the rim of his glasses. “We’re not going to die. We just need to figure out who did it to us, where they are, and if they have the key — worse comes to worse, we don’t find them or they don’t have the key, we can just go to the fire station and ask them to cut us out.”

Toru whoops in the hair and ruffles his brother’s hair. The brother in question scowls and shoves the hand away. “Nice one, big bro. Didn’t even think of that; I was on the ‘we’re doomed’ boat.”

That makes sense. 

Yeah, there’s no need to panic. 

Except, there’s a major issue.

“Guys,” you start, lip trembling, “...I really need to pee.”

The two of them look at each other, then at you, then at the door, then back at each other. 

“C-can you hold it?” Toru asks, sounding more frightened about the idea than you.

You shake your head, legs crossed.

And that’s how you find yourself sitting on the toilet in his en-suite bathroom, flanked by two guys, who at least have the decency to look away. One of them whistles awkwardly, and the other taps on his phone. 

This is a nightmare. You don’t want to be pissing with an audience, especially not this close. It’s way too embarrassing. 

Sato clicks his tongue, pink tinting the tips of his ears. “Why aren’t you going?”

“‘cause it’s weird,” you mutter, shuffling on the seat. The toilet’s kept pretty clean. It looks practically unused, which just makes you feel worse about defiling it.

“You having performance anxiety, Second year?” Toru teases, rocking on the balls of his feet.

He doesn’t need to sound so amused by the idea, you dryly think. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you grumble, “Anyone would if they were in my position.”

“I wouldn’t,” Toru chirps, swinging the hands you two are joint at back and forth absentmindedly. “Hell, I’ll pee between your legs right now to prove it. I’ve got pretty good aim.”

“Please don’t.”

God, this is the most shameful thing that’s ever happened to you. What did you do to deserve this?

Left with no choice, you let the stream go and grit your teeth. 

One of them hums approvingly. “Solid stream — bitches with good pussy piss loud as fuck, and it do be sounding like you’re frying chicken.”

Your jaw drops. Aghast, you shake your wrist and smack his own hand against his leg. “Can you not comment on my pee, Toru?”

His twin smacks him upside the head. “Don’t call women bitches.”

He groans. “Does no one get the reference? Ugh, whatever. Just hurry up and wipe. I need to pee too.”

“Oh no.”

Both of your hands are connected to theirs… One of them’s going to have to get between your legs. When you look up at their suddenly stiff backs, you know they realised it too. 

Toru whistles low. “Who’s it gonna be, Second Year?”

“Why do I have to choose?” you ask, though you already know the answer. They’re basically asking you who you’re more comfortable with, and oddly, you don’t want to offend either of them. Is this your Sophie’s Choice?

Sato continues tapping away on his phone one-handedly. “Either one of us is fine to do it. It all depends on who you’d prefer — it’s not like we’re actually wiping for you.”

If you really had to choose, then…

Wriggling a specific hand, you shamefully mutter, “Can you do it with me?”

He sighs, and slacks his arm so you can pull your hand towards yourself. The twin has to bend down at the knee slightly, still looking away. He adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. 

Through the whole thing, you’re cringing, cheeks flushed, and wanting the world to open up and consume you whole. Can this morning get worse? 

“Done,” you mumble, making sure no one’s looking at you. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sato mutters. 

On the other side, Toru grumbles so depressedly you can practically see a raincloud storming over his head, “Why didn’t you choose me? I’d be a good pussy wiper.”

More rises to your cheeks. You hurriedly pull your pants back up and flush. “No one was asking to wipe anyone’s…ahem. And the fact that you’re so eager is kinda the reason why I didn’t choose you.”

Toru raises his hands, and one of yours, in surrender. 

After you, they both take turns peeing. You look away, shutting your eyes tight for good measure. You even hum under your breath to distract from the sounds. Sato, you notice, clears his throat before he goes, whereas Toru mumbles some song lyrics. It sounds like Up by Cardi B. 

You hate that you’re hyper aware of every shuffle, every brush against you, every time their knuckles graze yours, and each breath they take.

The twins are hot.

Have you said that already?

Because they are. 

Maybe if they were uglier, more normal looking, you wouldn’t be so on edge.

And you know it’s wrong to think like that about strangers, but they are hot. Stupidly so. 

They’re the same height, with sharp jawlines and identical signet rings glinting on their pinkies. They’re definitely identical twins, but they look so different from each other, that with or without the glasses, you’d know who was who. Anyone would. 

Toru wears a white T-shirt with an arrow pointing upward and downwards ,and the words “Best Seats in the House” printed beneath it, whilst Sato has on glasses and a blue T-shirt layered over a grey long-sleeve, the front patterned with chemical symbols spelling out MoAN.

Toru is broader, his biceps visibly defined beneath the cotton, muscle pressing against the sleeves. The underside of his hair at the back is buzzed. He has a brow piercing. Sato, by contrast, is leaner, his frame slimmer and his hair longer and more shaggy. He’s still quite muscular in comparison to the Engineering students you’ve seen, which isn’t a fair comparison because most of the STEM guys you’ve met look like the stereotype. No offence to them.

Toru wears ripped light wash jeans that hang low on his hips, revealing a Calvin Klein band, and Sato’s the same except his are darker blue. Both jeans hug their asses perf—

No, bad.

Stop noticing things about them. 

After you get out of the cuffs, you’re never going to see them again, and it’ll be like this never happened. Don’t get attached. Don’t get too involved. Find the keys and skedaddle! 

The three of you wash your hands, taking turns to brush your teeth and wash your face, all awkwardly trying to shuffle with each other. It’s clumsy at first but you do eventually get a rhythm going. 

Eventually, you walk back out into the messy room, fresher and cleaner.

“We need to figure out what happened,” Sato states, brows furrowed. “If we got cuffed together during last night’s party, there’s a chance the key’s hanging around the frat house. We should look for it, jog our memories and retrace our steps.”

Toru scratches his stomach, revealing a flash of a white happy trail. His brother catches you looking. He cocks a brow. You snatch your gaze away. Toru says, “We won’t need to do all that — I think I know who did this to us.”

“Who?” you ask, louder than you intended.

He answers, grimacing, “A friend of ours. Sukuna. Well, friend’s a loose term. We’re frenemies, I guess. He’s funny, but he’s not the nicest guy around.” 

It’s a vaguely familiar name, but you know you’ve never met a Sukuna before. By the sound of Sato cursing, you get the impression that it’s not the name of a man who you’d be happy to find out has cuffed you to a stranger. And that makes you all the more desperate to get out of the way of whatever rivalry they have going on. 

“It’s a prank he likes to pull. He did it to Choso and a lamppost because the guy was giving family weed away for free to some girl, and that’s his literal cousin,” Toru explains. “If we gotta look anywhere, I think we should look at him.”

Smiling, you say, “That’s great! We have a solid plan.”

Sato glances down at you, not looking anywhere near as happy. Adjusting his glasses, he warns, “Sukuna’s an asshole. He’s not gonna be easy to get a hold of. Not to mention, if he did this to us, he must think we’ve done something wrong in his eyes, so he’ll be extra annoying.”

Much more cheerful in comparison, Toru throws an arm around his twin. “Now now, big bro. That’s not the spirit.”

They both look at you; one with a wide grin and the other with a deadpan expression. 

“We’ve got an adventure to go on — let’s have some fun.”

.

.

.

“Wait, you’re members of a frat?” you ask, marvelling at the two of them. 

What they’d said earlier only registered now, as you’re walking through campus, and now that you think about it, it explains why Toru has a room in the frat house in the first place.

Campus isn’t as busy as it usually is on the weekdays, which is good because it minimises the number of gawking you’re getting. Guess seeing three people cuffed together isn’t a very common occurrence, even in university. 

The three of you had decided to track down this Sukuna. Sato looked up something online and informed you that the wanted man’s a hockey player, and the team has practice right now, in preparation for tonight’s game. So you raced out of the thoroughly trashed frat house as soon as you could, wanting to make sure you could catch him, corner him, shake the key out of him all before noon. And before his whereabouts become unknown.

Toru shakes his head, and ruffles your hair. He’s quickly gotten quite familiar with you, not that you mind. “Nah, little lady. Only I am. Frat prez, actually,” he says, nodding proudly. “My brother here just comes along ‘cause he’s a party animal.”

Sato fixes him with a blank look. “I’m not a party animal. I attend these things because someone has to keep you out of trouble.”

Mischievously, Toru leans down to whisper in your ear, “He’s lying; he’s worse than me.” Then, he thinks for a second. “You’re not a frequent party goer, are you? I would have definitely seen you around before if you were.”

“No,” you admit. “I’m not a party person. I just went last night because my friends insisted I go to at least one party this year, and after this, I don’t think I’ll be going to another one any time soon.”

Cuffs aside, the hangover you have is no joke and it’s enough to put you off partying forever. 

Toru petulantly whines. “No way! Don’t let this one weird experience give you a bad impression — my parties are legendary. You have to come again. I insist; I want to see you all drunk and stupid, and remember it.”

“Don’t peer pressure her,” Sato scolds before addressing you. “You should come over though. Party or no party. We’d definitely like to see you more. We can show you a good time.”

Their joint invite has your cheeks heating up. They just met you and they’ve already decided you were someone they’d want to hang out with again, and yeah, maybe they were just being nice, but it still had you all flustered. Especially because there seemed to be some hidden layer to the words ‘good time’; both of their eyes twinkled. 

Or maybe you imagined it.

On the way, about a thousand people stop to say hi to both Toru and Sato. The twins are clearly popular. 

It isn’t subtle, either. It’s not the polite nod-in-passing kind of recognition. People actually light up when they see them. Hands clap shoulders. Someone daps Toru up mid-stride. A girl across the quad calls Sato’s name flirtatiously. One even flashes both twins. Toru laughs. Even professors in suits, holding briefcases pause to exchange some words and inside jokes.

Toru grins wide and effortless, tossing out nicknames, bumping fists, slinging an arm around whoever gets close enough. Sato is smoother about it — a smaller smile, a tilt of his head, a few clever words that make people laugh just a second longer than necessary. 

No one even does more than glance at you. To their friends, you’re just another girl they’re in some dramatic predicament with. 

Between them, overshadowed by their popularity and fame, you feel out of your element. They’re definitely not the kind of people you could just casually befriend, not the kind of guys you would have ever spoken to, could have joined them casually for lunch, or schedule hang outs and know they’ll be there.

They’re just being polite to you, wanting to ease the discomfort of being cuffed to a complete stranger. 

Eventually, you reach the rink. You follow them inside, down hallways, past the people working there. You peek through the double doors and see a bunch of guys skating in full gear. It’s loud in the rink, the shape and emptiness of the stands reverberating the shouts and scrapes of skates on ice.

“Let’s go to the locker room whilst they’re there; we can go through his locker and his bag,” Sato suggests. 

The locker room?

Where men get changed and swing their dicks around?

Oh hell no.

“Wait— hold on.” You stop short so abruptly they nearly walk into you. Both of them turn, brows lifting in sync. You scramble for composure, heat creeping up your neck. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Toru squints. “Why not?”

Because I value my eyesight. Because I don’t need trauma today. Because I enjoy not being arrested.

You cross your arms, attempting dignity. “I can’t just walk into the men’s locker room.” They stare. You gesture vaguely, mortified. “I’m a girl?”

It comes out half question, half plea, like perhaps they’ve temporarily forgotten this extremely relevant detail.

Sato blinks. Toru looks down at you, then back at Sato.

“Oh,” Toru says slowly.

“Yes, oh,” you mutter.

The twins share a look.

Hands grip your wrists, dragging you inside despite your protests. They snicker together. You’re powerless against their strength, and you can’t even grip the doorway to pull yourself away because they’ve got control of your hands. Eyes shut tightly, you fumble in the dark, unable to resist their heavy, six foot tall bodies. 

Mustiness hits you as soon as the doors open, and you find your nose scrunching in disgust.  

One of them laughs. “No one’s here, Second Year. You’re good to open those pretty eyes.”

You swallow the nervous giggle down. Focus!

Eyes hesitantly open. 

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and unforgiving, illuminating long wooden benches scarred with skate marks and initials carved onto the surface. Open cubbies gape, stuffed to the brim with shoulder pads the size of riot shields, sweat-darkened jerseys, laces tangled in knots, and rolls of white athletic tape unraveling on the floor.

The place’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.

The air is thick — damp cotton, metal, cheap body spray failing miserably to mask the sour, unmistakable musk of hours spent skating in full gear. You’re careful not to touch anything unnecessary, lest you catch something.

“I’ll call his phone,” one of the twins says.

Ringing echoes through the empty locker room, bouncing against the metal benches and cubbies, and dirty towels and clothes haphazardly strewn around. God, men are disgusting. 

“Third row down,” the other twin mutters, following the sound.

Your Converse nearly land on a discarded compression shirt, and you jerk back like it might bite. You pass a rack of hockey sticks propped in the corner, tape chewed to shreds at the blades. A laundry bin overflows with damp towels. Someone’s half-empty protein shaker sits uncapped, abandoned, something beige and unidentifiable clinging to the sides.

“Found it,” the other twin says.

The phone vibrates inside an open locker wedged between a pair of shin guards and a crumpled practice jersey. His name is stitched above the number hanging on the hook — red fabric, white lettering, unmistakable.

You hover stiffly behind them, crossing your arms as though that will somehow shield you from the environment.

“See? No naked men swinging anything around,” Toru teases, swaying his hips at you.

“Shut up,” you groan, cheeks hot despite yourself. “This still feels wrong.”

Sato says, “You overthink too much.”

It’s not overthinking, you want to tell him. It’s the plain truth. The girls’ lockers are clean, tidy, and smell much nicer. Here, it feels humid, like you’ve strolled into Satan’s asshole. It’s fine for twins because they probably don’t know how good they could have it on the other side of things, and it’s not like anyone would bat an eye if the hockey team came back and they found them here.

Toru picks up a pair of boxers, making his brows dance at you, then throws it at his brother’s face.

He releases a disgusted sound, swiping it away. “Hilarious.”

They’re both looking. One in the locker, and the other in the bag he pulled out. As they do that, you ask Sato, “So you’re older?”

The twin with glasses nods. “By two minutes — best two minutes of my life.”

Toru says, “Ha. Ha. We both know the best two minutes of your life are when some poor girl lets you hit.”

“Better than your thirty second record.”

You laugh at their petty sibling rivalry. You admire how easily they could talk to each other, and to you, in spite of your situation, of how absurd this all is. It’s a thing to envy, you think. 

Pulling his head out of the musty locker, Toru looks down at you with a challenging smile. “You laughing at me, gorgeous? You think I can’t last longer than thirty seconds?”

Emboldened by the friendly atmosphere, you reply, “Proof’s in the pudding, isn’t it? If that’s your reputation, I’m sure there’s some truth to it.”

“Oh yeah?” He tugs, yanking you to his chest suddenly with the arm connected to yours. Hands steady your hips. Forcing your head to crane back to peer up at him, Toru grins down at you wolfishly, using his height advantage to intimidate you. “Care to let me prove you wrong?”

“I-I was just kidding,” you stammer out. “We need to focus and find the key.”

“I looked; couldn’t find it. Knowing how dedicated Sukuna is, he’s probably got it on him,” he responds, much more interested in something else now.

You gulp.

Heat covers your back. When fingers pinch your chin, keeping you from looking back, you realise the hands on your hips aren’t Toru’s. They’re Sato’s. 

They’ve got you sandwiched between them, leaving you with nowhere to go. Out of nowhere, the air has turned even more heated, almost suffocating. It renders you dizzy.

Sato whispers in your ear, lips grazing your ear, “Don’t be rude, Anthro. You told him ‘proof’s in the pudding,’ no? You gonna upset my baby brother by turning back on your words?”

The brother in question’s bending down slowly, teasing you by not quite touching your lips. Meanwhile, someone’s nose is running down the length of your neck, sending your hairs standing on edge. 

What the hell is happening?

Why are firm hands gripping you, lips brushing your skin, eyes watching your every move, hard bodies squeezing you till you’re panting? And why are you not stopping them? Why are you tingling between your legs?

Noises come from outside.

You all still.

They curse under their breath, scrambling off into the showers. 

At the furthest stall, you hide, eyes wide and a hand pressing down on your own over your mouth. Thunderous feet march in. A ruckus enters. The hockey team’s finished with their practice, and you could be caught at any second. Imagine the scandal if they found you between two guys.

Voices bounce off tile and metal lockers, loud and unfiltered.

“Bro, you call that a shot? My grandma could block that.”

“Shut up, you whiffed the puck twice.”

“Suck my balls, Rogers.”

“Gladly, Barnes.”

A bag hits the floor with a heavy thud. Lockers clang open in sharp succession. The sharp scent of sweat and ice drifts through the humid air.

“Who forgot to wash their jersey? It smells like death in here.”

“Pretty sure that’s just you.”

Laughter erupts — loud, careless, echoing. Someone yelps when a towel snaps against skin.

You squeeze your eyes shut as sneakers squeak across tile, as jerseys are peeled off and tossed aside, as the easy, post-practice chaos unfolds only a few feet away. They’re too close. Way too close.

Oh god, they’re all probably butt naked just metres away from you. 

How did things manage to go from bad to worse?

“Don’t make a sound,” Toru whispers, panicked. “The hockey guys cannot catch us here; they’re still mad from the time when we filled up their lockers with shaving cream and glitter, which they need to get over. It’s been days.”

“Pretty sure it’s because we’ve taken quite a few of their girlfriends,” Sato says under his breath. 

“It’s not even ‘taking’ when they seek us out. Like anyone would say no to puck bunny pussy.”

“You’re both fucking disgusting,” you hiss. They’re just as sleazy as any guy on campus, it’d seem. The only difference is that they hide behind their handsome faces. 

You’re leaning on Toru  as he presses himself tightly against the tiles, ducking down so they won’t spot his white hair from above the stall, all while Sato’s leaning on you, pushing in so his back won’t protrude. 

Packed like sardines, you’re aware of their hard muscles, of their much bigger sizes, and the ridges of their abs. The frat president can probably feel your tits on him, whilst the Engineering student can feel your ass on his crotch. Something hard pokes your stomach at the same time as something equally hard and hot slot right in between your ass cheeks again.

Lord, take me now, you pray, desperate for relief from the humiliation.

A leg slots between yours. You gasp. It’s Toru’s, but one look at his face and anyone would think you’re just imagining it. Don’t move, you tell yourself. Do not start riding his thigh even if you want to.

Sato pushes his hips forward, and consequently yours. You gasp. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice husky in your ear. “Got an itch you wanna scratch?”

Toru flexes his thigh, bumping hard against your clothed slit. You bite back your moan, wholly aware of the boyish laughter and shouting on the other side. He says, “If you gotta scratch, you gotta scratch, right?” 

They definitely know what they’re doing. Manwhores like them always know.

Laying it on thicker, the frat president whispers, “Don’t hesitate; use me. Go on, Second year. Make my day.”

The twins are urging you to ride his thigh, pushing and pulling. Neither of them care about getting caught, not really. You had initially thought Toru would be the biggest danger, what with his outgoing and flirtatious personality, but Sato’s just as bad as him; he’s guiding your hips with his own, hand sliding up your leg to creep under your skirt.

They’re twins from hell. 

Someone flicks your nipples through your shirt. You slump back onto Sato’s chest, breathing heavily as your hips grind on a muscular thigh. 

How did things come to this?

And why are you getting swept up in all of it?

“She’s so pretty, isn’t she, Sato?” 

“Stunning,” he replies. His hand tugs you down, making sure you’re grinding real good on his brother’s thigh. “How does her pussy feel?”

“Warm, and getting wetter. Fuck, it’d be so much better if she wasn’t wearing panties.” He directs his words to you, muttering, “How about it, angel? Gonna let me feel your pussy?”

“There’s people,” you gasp out, growing closer and closer to your end. This is so degrading — they’re watching you ride his thigh all on your own, watching you thrust your chest out, and squirm between them like some whore.

One of them smirks. “So if there weren’t people, you’d readily give me access? Dirty girl. Isn’t she dirty, Sato?”

“Downright filthy.”

When you shudder, someone slaps a hand over your mouth just in time to muffle your moan. Oh fuck you’re cumming on Toru’s thigh, a man you only met this morning, riding the muscle like it’s your pillow. Tomorrow, when you’re hopefully free and no longer attached to them, you’re totally going to want to never see them again.

Finally, you flop, twitching with the final waves of your orgasm. 

Your head’s patted. “Well done. You were very brave.”

You smack it away, and grouch, “That was underhanded, you guys.”

“You enjoyed it, Anthro,” Sato points out, and steps back, steadying you. He peers over, and nods. “Coast’s clear. But that means Sukuna’s gone.”

Simultaneously, your eyes land on the wet spot you left behind on Toru’s jeans. He presses down on it, then sucks the pads of his fingers, winking at you. You look away immediately, wanting to cringe at yourself. Voice shaky, whether from stress or from your orgasm, you wonder, “So what are we gonna do now?”

“We’ll have to ask around for where he’ll be,” Sato replies. “Lay it on him good and intimidate him into giving up this stupid prank of his.”

Frowning, you follow them out of the locker room, adjusting your skirt. “Can’t we just go straight to the fire station? Do we have to go on this wild goose chase?”

Toru fake pouts, and puts a hand over his heart. “You tired of us, little lady? Hate us already? Oh, we’re just terrible, aren’t we, Sato?”

“The worst.”

“No, no,” you hurriedly deny. “It’s not that. You guys are great.”

He beams, stringing his arm over yours and forcing yours to hang loosely from your shoulder.

“Then it’s decided — we’re chasing after our Sukuna goose!”

And once again, you’re left with no choice but to do as they say.

.

.

.

After texting some mutual friends for where Sukuna might be, the three of you wind up at his apartment building. The twins have been trying to get ahold of the man, to no avail. It seems he’s intent on forcing all of you to ride out his cruel prank. 

You texted your friends, trying to find out what exactly happened last night that might make this Sukuna person hate you enough to do this. You’re just some random girl, why would you be involved in the beef of some pretty well known guys?

They told you that they didn’t see you much at all during the party, that some time after arriving together, you disappeared and was only seen here and there, dancing and having a pretty good time with — and this is the really surprising part — both the twins, at different times. 

Videos and pictures were shared to you: you’d be in the background, always with a drink in your hand, smiling like you’ve never smiled before, and flanked by one of the twins almost all the time. The videos seem to be earlier in the night. No cuffs in sight. There’s definitely videos from later in the night, but the people who took them haven’t woken up yet.

“So we were hanging out a lot last night, huh?”

Sato makes a face that says, guess so, whilst Toru whistles an impressed tune. The latter jokingly says, “We’re meant to be, Second year.”

“Seven of the eleven pictures were of me and her,” his twin points out. 

“So? That’s just a one picture difference!”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Her ass on my dick helped me sleep last night,” Toru fires back, clutching your hand and bringing it up to his face so he can lay a kiss on your knuckles with a wink. 

Sato yanks you towards him, and you stumble his way in the narrow hallway. He licks the palm of your hand, one upping his brother. 

Face burning, you shove both of them back. “Can you guys stop? We need to work out what happened last night — how did we all get so drunk that we don’t remember how we ended up cuffed and in bed together?” Then, you frown. “We…we didn’t sleep together, did we?”

That was actually a question you’ve had since this morning, but you’d shrugged it off as being an impossibility. There’s no way two hot twins would want you, nevermind share a woman. However, after that little stunt in the locker room, you’re starting to wonder.

The frat twin laughs. “That’s cute. Isn’t she cute, Sato?”

“Adorable.”

They’re both laughing at you, and it’s irritating. Aggrieved, you ask, “What’s so funny? I don’t think it’s a ridiculous question to ask considering we woke up in the same bed with no memory of last night.”

Toru lifts his arm, and yours, rustling your hair with your own hand. “Babe, if you slept with me, you’d never forget. Trust.”

“Your mind could forget, sure, but your pussy wouldn’t; she’d still be feeling with me,” Sato says, matter-of-factly. His bright, all-seeing eyes flit down to the apex of your thighs as you walk, and you have to resist the urge to squeeze them together. 

Damn.

“Hey, we’re here — 666.” He snickers to himself, thoroughly amused. Toru nudges you. “Fitting, amirite?”

Before he could knock on, you stop him. “What are we gonna do if he’s in? Are you guys going to fight him?”

Sato drawls, “You watch too many movies, Anthro; we’re just going to ask him to give us the key. Sukuna’s an asshole but he’s not the kind to drag a joke on.”

“Yeah, he probably just forgot in the first place,” his twin added. 

“Oh.”

That makes sense. There’s no need to get violent. The prank’s not that harmful, you suppose.

They knock. You wait. No one answers.

“Is he not in?”

Toru tries the doorknob. The door opens. You all share a look. That feels pretty fucking ominous, like a trap laid out for you. “We’re not going in, are we?” you ask, looking up and down the hallway in case someone catches you three trespassing, or is it breaking and entering?

Whatever it is, it’s going to end you up in prison.

Lips graze the shell of your ear as someone whispers, “Scared of entering the devil’s domain with us? Think we’re going to eat you up? Hmm?”

“If you behave, we will,” someone else rasps at the back of your neck. 

“Stop fucking around,” you reply, flustered by the tingles erupting where they touched you. 

A hand presses in at the small of your back, and as the door’s opened, one of them chirps, “In you go, angel!”

You stumble inside, held up from falling only by the dense weight of two men chuckling at the little yelp you release. 

The door clicks shut behind you.

For a second, you all just stand there.

Sukuna’s apartment is…exactly what you’d expect, and simultaneously worse — just aggressively, unapologetically male.

A pair of hockey skates sits abandoned by the entrance, laces trailing like shed snakeskin. A duffel bag, half unzipped, spills tape rolls, spare socks, and a mouthguard case onto the hardwood floor. The faint smell of detergent battles unsuccessfully with sweat and something woodsy, his cologne, probably, clinging to the air.

The living room is small but decent — a worn leather couch with a throw blanket tossed carelessly over one arm, a low coffee table cluttered with protein bars, a TV remote, a half-empty Gatorade bottle, and a stack of lecture notes weighed down by a puck. His backpack is slumped against the couch, as though it gave up halfway through being put away.

On one wall: framed team photos. A hockey stick mounted horizontally. A couple of medals draped over the corner of the frame, like it hardly matters to him.

The kitchen is visible from where you stand. Open plan. Dishes in the sink. Not stacked to the ceiling, but definitely past ‘I’ll wash them later’ territory. A frying pan left out on the stove. A carton of eggs on the counter. A magnetic whiteboard on the fridge with scribbled practice times and what looks like a grocery list that just says: milk, rice, jerk off 3:37pm.

Weirdly specific, but okay.

You all step further in, handcuffs clinking obnoxiously between you. The fuzz tinkles your wrist every time one of them moves too abruptly, and it’s soothed by the brushing of knuckles and the rubbing of shapes by thumbs.

“Maybe he left the key here,” one twin says, scanning. “Let’s have a look around.”

As a unit, the three of you shuffle around. Drawers are opened. Closed. A quick glance under couch cushions. You check the kitchen counter with your free hand, careful not to knock over the precarious tower of mail.

The apartment is messy but lived-in. No mysterious stains. No broken furniture. Just a college athlete who does not evidently prioritise tidiness. 

Then—

Voices. From the hallway. Muffled at first: “…you said you were done with her—”

The three of you freeze.

“And I am,” comes the unmistakable low, irritated drawl.

“Oh really? Explain to me why I found her panties in your car!”

“They’re yours.”

“Shut the fuck up. I don’t wear blue thongs. I only wear white.”

“Ain’t nothing white and pure about you.”

“Fuck you!”

Your stomach drops.

It sounds like a lovers’ quarrel. You don’t know this Sukuna very well, or at all, but you’re one hundred percent sure he would not be fine seeing you guys in his place when he’s fighting with his girlfriend. 

Keys jangle outside.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

“Closet,” Sato hisses.

You don’t argue.

They yank you down the short hallway toward what you assume is the bedroom. The space is larger than you expect — unmade bed, sheets twisted, a jersey tossed over the desk chair. His cologne bottle sits uncapped near the nightstand. A lamp. A stack of textbooks. A charging cable trailing off the mattress like something that gave up halfway. But there’s no time to be psychoanalysing this man’s bedroom.

The front door opens.

“You said that last time!” the woman snaps, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.

You’re shoved toward the sliding closet door. It opens with a soft scrape. Inside: hanging shirts, mostly dark. Hoodies. A winter coat. Shoe boxes stacked on one side. A laundry basket half-full.

“All of us?” you hiss.

“Got a better idea?”

The door slides shut just as footsteps enter the bedroom.

You’re crushed instantly. Back against the wall. Toru in front of you. Sato practically plastered behind. The handcuffs force you closer than is remotely comfortable. Someone’s arm is wedged between your ribs and a stack of shoeboxes. A coat hanger digs into your shoulder. How are you back in this position again? 

Outside, the argument spills into the room.

“I’m not doing this,” Sukuna says flatly.

“You never do anything! You just— god, you’re impossible!”

A thud. Maybe something dropped on the bed. You hold your breath. Another thud. The mattress creaks. No, please don’t, you beg. 

“You knew what this was,” he says, voice colder now.

“And what is it?” she demands.

Silence stretches. You can feel Toru’s heartbeat through his chest where you’re practically pressed against him. Or maybe it’s yours. The handcuffs shift as someone adjusts their balance. The metal clinks. Loud.

All four of you freeze again.

“…what was that?” the woman asks.

You don’t breathe. Not a single one of you moves.

Sukuna’s footsteps approach. The closet door handle rattles lightly as if tested. Your heart actually stops. Like medically dead stops. Then—

A scoff.

“Probably the pipes,” he mutters dismissively. Footsteps retreat. The argument resumes, lower now. Tense. 

Inside the closet, you’re still crammed together like contraband. One twin’s breath ghosts across your temple. “If you make another sound,” he whispers so quietly it barely exists, “I’m framing you as the girl with the blue thong.”

You would elbow him if you had the space. It wasn’t even you!

Instead, you stay very, very still.

Their masculine scents engulf you. One of them smells like tacky aftershave done right, somehow, and the other is clean laundry. Both are intoxicating, as is the heat they exude which has you flushing in the cramped space. 

It’s tight and cramped here. You barely have room to breathe, barely have room for your lungs to expand. And you’re pretty sure you’re standing on someone’s foot, though no one complains. As slowly and carefully as you can, you adjust yourself, grimacing at the tightness and darkness in the closet.

“Stop squirming,” Toru pleads. When you glance at him, he’s staring up, Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“What?” 

Sato whispers in your ear, “You’re making him pop a boner. Me too. Nobody tell you it’s rude to get a guy hard and not do something about it?”

“They’re right outside,” you whisper back. “Even if I wanted to, we couldn’t do anything.”

A thumb flicks your nipple. Your moan is stifled by a hand to your mouth. Toru says, and in the darkness of the closet you can hear his grin, “Oh, but you want to, don’t you. You want to so bad. I bet feeling us up like this, knowing you can get caught, is making your little kitty purr.”

“Little kitty? Seriously?”

“Shut up, Sato. Maybe if you said it more, you’d get laid as often as I do.”

“I get laid plenty, asshole.”

“Shut up both of you,” you fire back at the two of them, ear craning to hear what’s happening outside.  There’s no more arguing, which is a good sign, but there’s definitely signs of life, which isn’t a good sign; they’re still here. You can hear talking, hushed and intimate, as well as rhythmic creaking. 

Oh no. 

“Damn,” Toru says under his breath. “Ryomen’s fucking his girl. Guess I’ll finally be able to settle my bed with Fushiguro — does the psycho last longer than thirty seconds? Any takers?”

No one replies to him.

Through your breathing, you can’t help but listen to the sounds of moaning and groaning. There’s even some slapping involved, and a couple, ‘you like that?’, ‘you’re making a mess all over my cock, you little slut,’ and ‘picking a fight just to cum, you ain’t slick.’

That Sukuna guy is an aggressive one. 

“Is it weird to say, given our situation, that I think it’s nice that they’re so in love and can easily resolve their problems?” you say, as quietly as you can.

Both twins snort.

“They ain’t in love, Second year. They’re just horny and toxic, which makes for a great combo. And if I recognise the voice right, then that’s Cassie. She’s a mess, no offence to her. She likes stealing her friend’s man. Great tits though.”

“She’s just another girl in his roster; Sukuna doesn’t date. Not unless pigs are airborn.”

“Oh.”

The three of you are breathing heavily, constantly brushing up against each other. Toru’s shirt is scraping your hardened nipples through your shirt. Your ass is grinding behind you. Hands are gripping your hips under your skirt as another set sneaks under your top, clutching your waist and climbing higher and higher till it’s just about grazing the underside of your tits.

Is it the uninhibited moaning outside?

Or the masculine scent you’re enveloped in?

What’s got you so hot and bothered, squirming between them, whining to be touched?

A hand grips your hip, pulling you back. A hot thing hangs heavy behind you. Your breath hitches. Meanwhile, lips press to your temple, then to your cheek, and finally your lips. 

Toru doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. He first whispers, “Been wanting to do this since this morning.” Then he kisses you. It’s sweet, soft, and gentle. It gives you butterflies. A metallic thing scrapes your bottom lip, and when you gasp, he’s quick to explain, “Just my tongue piercing, babe. You’ll get used to it. Soon’ll be getting to feel it against your clit, trust.”

Something long and hard slides itself between your thighs. You stiffen. 

“What? Did you think I was gonna let my brother have all the fun?” Sato’s hands are gripping your bare hips, pulling you back and forth on his cock, which he ruts right up against your panties, cockhead prodding your clothed clit.

Panicking a little, you voice out, “What if they hear us?”

“You don’t want to be caught, Anthro? You better keep quiet then.”

One of them grope your tits, tweaking the hardened buds through your shirt, carrying your hand with his. You twitch with every flick, every scratch of a nail, and every pinch. Toru swallows your moans, greedily gulping them down. You really are getting used to the tongue piercing; it’s an addictive sensation against your own tongue. 

The heat between your legs is almost scalding, and the way it separates your pussy lips, greeting your throbbing clit on its way forward, has your hips working back in tandem. 

“Good girl,” one of them mutters.

The veins on the cock are felt by your sensitive skin. God, he’s big. Like really big. Would Toru be big too? Could you take any of their cocks? Both of them? Is that too filthy to think about?

Outside, a feminine voice calls out, “Ngh! Sukuna, right there! Harder, baby, please!”

“Don’t call me baby, you whore. Just take my cock and be quiet.”

You won’t admit it to anyone, but the sounds of skin slapping, headboard banging, and wanton screaming are getting to you. They’re setting the mood, and you’re growing less and less ashamed of the fact that you’re being thighfucked by one of the Gojo twins as the other shoves his tongue down your throat and squeezes your tits. 

This is even filthier than in the locker room. More lewd. Obscene. 

You’re rubbing yourself all over twins in a closet, hiding, and trespassing whilst the owner of the place is fucking his girl, and they don’t have a clue. If this is how parties end, then you might be inclined to attend another one of theirs.

“S-sato,” you whimper to his brother’s lips, “I’m gonna cum.”

“Fuck, me too.”

“What am I, chopped liver?”

Full body shudders wrack you. You clutch Toru’s stupid t-shirt, hips stuttering, and juices soaking your panties. Thighs tightening in pulses with the strain of your muscles, you wring groans from Sato right into your ear. 

“Shit, don’t cum all over me,” Toru hastily says, before picking up a random shirt off the hanger and shoving it between your legs just in time as Sato’s cock pulses in waves. “Ugh, that’s disgusting.”

“Thanks,” his twin mumbles, lifting your hand to his face. You fix his glasses for him, pushing it back up his nose bridge. 

“Where are you going now?” the girl asks, voice slightly muted by the barriers between you and her.

Bed creaking before feet pad on the floor, Sukuna answers, “Gotta stop by the ADP.” Silence. “Alpha Delta Phi? Gojo’s frat? Jesus, do you know anything other than how to bounce on cock? Forget it. I just need to go pick something up. Let yourself out whenever, but don’t be back here tonight. I’m having the boys over.”

“Oh, please, we both know that’s just code for having your other girl over.”

“Well if you know, then why bother playing coy about it. Yeah, I’m fucking other women, just like you’re fucking other guys. I don’t care and neither should you. Take a shower, nap, or whatever the fuck you want. Just don’t be here when I get back.”

“Fuck you.”

“You just did, sweetheart.”

Feet pad away and full silence returns to the room. In the distance, a door shuts. You all breathe out a sigh of relief, shoulders dropping. 

“What an asshole,” you say, pushing the closet door open for fresh air. 

“Told you,” the twins say in unison. 

The bed’s been left a mess, with a huge wet patch at the centre that you don’t want to focus too much on. Sato’s tucked himself back in his jeans expertly, and you’d think he’d never taken anything out in the first place. 

“Oi, Sato, lift her up for me.”

Sighing, the guy grumbles before lifting you by the back of your thighs. You fall back on his chest, head resting on his shoulder. Legs wide open, Toru kneels between them, grinning up at you. He winks, poking the wet spot you’ve made in your panties. 

“What’re you doing?” you ask, startled.

Toru shrugs, pulling your panties aside. He takes a deep inhale, nose skimming and coming back all glossy. “Just wondering what you taste like that. You both got to cum, so it’s only fair I get a little something too, no?”

“It’s logical. Practically a faultless argument,” Sato concurs, leaving a kiss on your heated cheeks to reassure you. “Don’t worry; he won’t bite.” A little hushed and more mischievous, he adds, “Not like me.”

Naturally, that does nothing to wash away the embarrassment of his twin being face to face with your puffy pussy. 

His smooth hands soothe the tremor in your thighs. “Just a taste, gorgeous. To tide me over till we make it back to the frat house to catch Sukuna. Besides, I want you to get comfortable with my tongue piercing.” 

He pecks your clit, then takes a longer lick of your pussy. You gasp, hands kept down by your sides by their own and unable to push him away. Toru is as unashamed as ever, shoving his whole face in your cunt and forcing squelches out when he tongues your entrance. 

“W-we’re going back to the -ngh!- frat house?”

Sato hums, seemingly unbothered by any of what’s going on. It might as well be any other Saturday. “We have to catch him there; I don’t want to spend the rest of my day chasing after him, when I could be buried inside your pussy.”

SLURRRRRP!

You cry out, toes curling. 

“So sweet,” the twin down there moans. “You gotta taste her, Sato.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, idiot,” he scolds. “And hurry up.”

“Quit telling me what to do — I like taking my time with good pussy, sorry.”

“Toru!”

Cooing, he mutters an apology to your cunt. “Aw, sorry, babe. Don’t mean to neglect you. Don’t worry, Toru’s here. Toru’s gonna make you feel so good, better than my brother’s tiny ass dick, I promise.”

Said brother scoffs. 

But you don’t care about their unnecessary competition. You can only focus on the jolts of electricity zooming from your pussy and exploding in your belly. You’ve never been eaten out so good, and not with a piercing you’re painfully aware rubbing just right through your puffy folds. It rolls against your clit. You moan.

“Feel good?” Toru asks, all smug. “Got the idea from our piercer friend. It’s a real hit with the ladies.”

You frown. “It’s impolite to talk about -hah fuck that’s good- o-other women when you’re between someone’s legs.”

Sato kisses your cheek again, and approvingly inserts, “Put him in his place, baby. Been trying to teach him manners since we were born and he never listens to me. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

“Quit talking about me like I’m some kind of dog,” Toru grumbles.

“Then quit acting like it,” you bravely snap, possessed by the desperate need to chase another high. “Make me cum already, before I ask your brother to do it instead.”

Another kiss, this time punctuated by a chuckle. “

“Kitty’s got claws. That’s fucking hot.”

Lips wrap around your clit, which is still sensitive from the incessant rubbing of Sato’s cock. That’s why when he finally sucks hard on the little thing, you cum again way too quickly. “Fuck, Toru!”

“Mm, that’s right, baby, ride my face and my tongue.”

Through your writhing and squirming, Sato holds you up, bearing your weight with ease, all while Toru laps up the juices oozing out of your pussy, like a puppy, like a man in a dessert. 

That’s three orgasms all in less than an hour. It’s a new record for you, which means your body isn’t used to it. On shaky legs, you’re set down. They hold you up, preventing you from collapsing on the floor. 

One of them ruffles your hair. “You did such a great job, Second year. We’re almost at the finish line, think you can manage a slight jog back to the frat house?”

How are they so chill? How can they act like nothing happened? There’s not even a single wrinkle on their shirts, whereas you look and feel like a mess. 

“Y-yeah,” you mumble, dazed and still experiencing waves of an orgasm that wasn’t supposed to happen so suddenly. 

Sato nods, pulling your panties back into place and patting your pussy. “We know a shortcut — it’ll give us at least fifteen minutes ahead of Sukuna. More if he gets distracted and walks slowly.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

.

.

.

“Oh my god…” you breathe out, staring at your phone. “I was dancing on a table?”

More videos and pictures are surfacing online now that the partygoers are waking up and getting over their splitting headache. And damn it, you wish they hadn’t.

Leaning over, Toru whistles. “That’s fucking hot. It reminds me of when my frat brothers hired strippers for my birthday, except your dancing is so much better.”

You elbow the little kiss up. “We both know that’s a lie. I’m dancing like a drugged up chimpanzee.”

“Like an unstable gas, just shaking about the place,” Sato adds. When Toru and you give him a look, a blush graces his cheeks. He adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. “So he can talk about strippers but I can’t mention anything related to the periodic table?”

That was a slip of his cocky façade, and it brings a smile to your lips.

He rolls his eyes at your look of adoration. Glancing at the screen, he says, “We didn’t have the cuffs then, and that was probably about midnight. Our parties typically end at 3 am, with some people lingering even later. So between then and 3am, Sukuna had slipped cuffs on us.”

“Do you think he drugged us too?” you wonder, speedwalking along the back of a building you’ve never visited on campus. “I mean, I’m just not the type to get black out drunk.”

It’s awful to suggest Sukuna, a man you’ve never met before, would be the type to spike peoples’ drinks, but it would certainly explain things. 

Toru shakes his head, running a hand through his messy hair. “I wouldn’t put it past him to slip us something that makes us more susceptible to doing stupid shit. Though, honestly, looking at how I’m twerking on my pledge, Itadori, I don’t think I needed anything more to get black out.”

“That’s just how you are naturally,” his twin snarks. 

To that, the frat guy laughs in disbelief. “You’re one to talk considering we have five videos of you writing equations on the entirety of the basketball team’s backs and yapping their ears off about Digimon, which you only do after the eleventh shot. Shots, mind you, you hate but never pass down.”

“Only ‘cause I need alcohol to survive your stupid parties,” Sato fires back. 

“Parties you enjoy!”

“Alright, alright, that’s enough, boys. Let’s just agree we all got messy on our own,” you establish, feeling like the two are way too close to tearing each other apart.

When you reach the frat house, Sato opens the door for you. Does no one lock their doors on campus?

You didn’t notice it in your rush to get out of the house earlier, how big and beautiful the house is. It’s old, ornately decorated with impeccable wooden floors and portraits hanging on walls. Of course, there are thongs, bras, streamers, limp balloons, used condoms strung all over the place, and there’s empty cans of beer and bottles of alcohol just lying about. But beneath all of the grime of a party done well lies a gorgeous home. 

Cleaners flit about the place, collecting trash and mopping floors. 

“Perk of living in a frat,” Toru proudly declares, “we never have to clean up after ourselves.”

“That is pretty cool,” you agree. 

Sato huffs. “It’s insanely privileged. And intrusive. I much prefer not having strangers constantly leaving their traces in my home.”

The three of you gracefully ascend the stairs, avoiding mysterious wet puddles and stains you didn’t want to think too much about. Sukuna doesn’t seem to be here, so they were right about the shortcut.

“So you live on your own?” you ask him, nodding a thank you to Toru who carries you over a stack of bottles. 

“Yeah, but we’re over at each other’s places so often we might as well not be.”

You giggle. “That’s so cute. You two just need to be together all the time, huh?”

Toru punches his brother’s arm over your head. “She’s laughing at us, Sato. She thinks we’re pathetic and psychotically close.”

“I promise, it’s only circumstance that keeps bringing us together,” Sato dryly says. “If I had it my way, I’d have said good riddance to him a long time ago.”

“My sentiment exactly — pretty sure I tried to eat you in the womb and that’s why you’re so ugly.”

A laugh escapes you.

Eventually, you reach their bedroom. 

Right back where you started.

Smiling, you say, “It’s funny that we did all that work just to end up back here because Sukuna was always coming by, isn’t it? Quite ironic actually.”

The door shuts behind you. 

“Look, Toru,” a dark voice coos, “she doesn’t know she’s about to be fucked an inch of her life.”

“I know,” an equally dark voice agrees. “I can’t get over how stinkin’ cute she is. Makes me wanna just eat her out till she faints. Think she’ll let me?”

“I think she’s been soaked the whole day and at this point she’ll let us do anything we want…isn’t that right, Anthro?”

The hairs on your arms stand on edge. Two foreboding presences flank you, reminding you that there’s no where you can go that they won’t follow, that you’re stuck with them for good, and that you couldn’t hope to fight them off even if you wanted to. Your panties might as well not be there by how your wetness is trickling down your thighs.

They drag you down onto the bed with them. 

Hands make quick work of your clothes: they pull down your skirt, taking your panties with them, they yank your shoes and socks off, and one of them even grabs scissors to cut right through the shirt before you can say anything. The metal grazes your skin, slicing right between your tits. 

“Wait, wait,” you yell, overwhelmed by the suddenness of their actions. “Sukuna! Sukuna’s coming.”

Sato says, “Not for twenty minutes — one of my friends said they saw him stop by the Student Council office.”

“Probably going to bother the Prez,” Toru snickers, pressing your panties to his nose and moaning. “Fuck, I love the way your pussy smells. The dirtier the better.”

Heat rises to your cheeks immediately, and you fall back onto Sato’s lap. He licks a stripe up your neck. “My brother’s got weird tastes. Forgive him, angel. He’s just born weird. I like to say I took all the brains in the womb.”

Toru snorts, throwing aside all your shredded clothes. “Sure, let’s pretend I haven’t had chicks crying to me about how you’re so mean to them, asking for me to be the nice twin.” 

The three of you kneel on the bed together, cuffs clinking when they clash, the pink fluff tickling skin. They’re both still dressed. You feel Sato’s jeans scratching your skin, the metal zip rubbing right up against your pussy, and Toru’s silly ‘Best Seats’ shirt grazing your nose as he towers over you. 

He brings up the hem, biting it, revealing washboard abs. You blink at it.

He says, “Lick it, Second year. Go on.” Hesitating, you run your tongue over his torso, starting from the white treasure trail, over his outie belly button, then his abs, and his chest. Of course he knows he has an impressive body. It’s important he knows you know that too; it’s an ego boost for him. “Such a good girl,” he coos. “I’ll be sure to fuck you real good as a reward.”

“Not until I’m done,” Sato argues. “I’m older so I get first dibs.”

His long fingers are parting your pussy lips, grinding his zipper up and bumping it against your clit. The texture’s weird, and wild, and it has you heaving, no doubt leaving behind your slick all over the metal teeth. 

Gripping your face with his free hand, Sato kisses you for the first time. He’s got your neck twisted back, the wetness of your pussy smearing on your skin. There’s no piercing, only a minty taste that you’re obsessed with. It’s messier, filthier, all tongue and spit, so different from how his brother kisses. 

You’re dragged back, and lips quickly replace Sato’s. That familiar piercing returns. You’re stolen back again. Then again. And again. They’re fighting over who gets to kiss you. You’re dizzy, breathless, creaming for more.

“Quit taking her,” Toru growls. 

“Fuck off,” Sato snarls. “Just sit there and look away. Three’s a crowd.”

“It’s not fair. You’re already getting to fuck her pussy first.”

“Oh? You’re so easy to give up?” He whispers in your ear, all smug, “My brother’s a pushover. Bet it turns you way off, doesn’t it? It’s alright, angel, you can tell him to back off. It’ll just be you and me, won’t that be nice?”

Fingers coat themselves in your pussy juice, rubbing your clit nice and good before pushing inside your pulsing hole. “No, babe, tell the nerd he can fuck off and go research where the clit even is. I’ll fuck you so good you won’t be able to walk away from my bed even when the cuffs are off.”

Neither of them will actually give up, no matter what you say, you know that. So you say, “Both of you. I want to be fucked by both of you. Please!”

“She’s so polite. Isn’t she polite, Sato?”

“Perfectly so.”

If someone had told you you’d be shared by twins in a frat house, you’d have called the police for harassment. Now, as you’ve said those words and they sigh and begrudgingly agree to allow the other to be here, you think this was inevitable.

Toru creeps back, working on his zip and freeing his hard cock. A hand shoves your face forward. If it isn’t for Sato holding you up, you’d be face planting into the sheets. 

“A-are you sure Sukuna won’t catch us?”

Fingers push in, scissoring your cunt and prepping your walls. They cruelly curl up against your g-spot. “You think she’s trying to piss us off by mentioning another man’s name, Toru?”

“I think it doesn’t matter — she’s gonna forget there’s anyone else outside these walls when I’m through with her.”

Right in front of you, Toru strokes his dick. It’s pale, flushed red at the tip and already leaking. He’s trimmed neatly. There’s even a tattoo on his hip that says ‘Lucky You ;)’

Your mouth waters. 

The salty pre is smeared on your lips. He taps it, once, then twice. “Say ahh, babe.”

Behind you, something pokes your pussy. It slides between your thighs again, spreading your juices on your skin. It enters you, inch by inch, slowly, making you feel every bit of him.

At the same time, Toru’s cock pushes through, filling your mouth. Both ends have to stretch wide to accommodate them. Already, you’re overwhelmed, overstimulated, over the fucking moon at being used so lewdly. Your friends are never going to believe how you spent your Saturday, and your future kids will never know just how wild their mother got back in college.

Soon, they bottom out, and it’s a miracle you’ve been able to take both of them at the same time. 

“Damn, what a talented fucking mouth,” Toru breathes out, head thrown back. “A star for you, Second year.”

“You should feel her pussy,” Sato grits out, fingers digging into the plush of your ass with the strain of resisting the urge to thrust over and over again in your cunt. “It’s the tightest thing ever.”

His brother groans. “Shut the fuck up, dude. I can’t stand hearing your voice. Respectfully. You’re ruining this for me.”

“Grow up.”

In tandem, they rut back and forth, starting off in small bursts first to let you get used to it, then steadily growing faster and faster. You’re basically being used as as fleshlight, fucked in the way they want, with little regard for how uncomfortably stretched out and twisted you are. And it feels amazing.

But…

Why does Sato’s cock feel so different?

Your cunt clenches down on it. He grunts, then chuckles. “You’re wondering what’s on my dick, aren’t you? It’s a piercing baby. Thought only Toru has one? Didn’t expect it from me, did you? You feel it scraping your walls? Feel me deep inside your perfect pussy?” 

And you can. You can feel exactly where he is, how deep he’s in, how satisfied your gummy walls are to feel something so big stretching you out, like a feeding a sacrifice to a hungry god.

You moan around Toru’s dick. He grunts. “Fuck, babe! You’re gonna make me cum early.”

“Pathetic,” Sato mutters.  A cold wetness lands with a thwack right on your puckering hole. You jerk. “Relax. Just trust me.” A thumb circles the hole, pushing in only knuckle deep yet it’s more than enough to have you feeling insanely full. “If we had more time, then I’d prep this tight hole to take me. This’ll have to do.”

Sato’s an ass guy?

Are you?

It’s never occurred to you to play in that other hole, though as he hooks his thumb in, you start to think you’ve been missing out this entire time. Toru, on the other hand, is obsessed with your tits. He keeps groping them, flicking the buds so you’ll moan even more around his cock.

Balls are swinging, bumping against your chin and on your clit. The bed squeaks and creaks with the force of their ploughing, headboard slamming against the wall. You wonder if the other frat guys can hear, if they know you’re a slut squirting around a cock as you get rammed by their frat president and his twin brother. It must be a normal occurrence with how whorish they both are.

Your tongue swirls around the unpierced cockhead in your mouth, licking the salty slit. The guy in front of you curses, still biting the hem of his shirt. You can see his abs constricting, the muscles under his tattoo twitching. . 

Sato breathily chuckles. “My little brother’s gonna tap out soon, and I’ll have you all to myself.”

Toru pushes back in immediately, not wasting even a single second. You have to breathe through your nose, the walls of your throat squeezing around the hefty intrusion. Whereas Sato’s long, Toru’s thicker — the difference is minute, yet you can tell. 

Feeling challenged, Toru scoffs. He taps your cheek. “Tell him he can spank you. Go on.” He pulls out.

You cough, throat hoarse already. “Spank me, Sato. It’s okay, I can take it.”

SMACK!

You scream around Toru’s dick. His hips jerk forward with a groan. The fucker didn’t waste a single second!

“So fucking tight!” He slaps your cheek again, hitting exactly where he had the first time. You moan, pussy pulsing. “You like that? Well, aren’t you a dirty thing.”

It’s a turn-on for Sato, you understand now. It flipped a switch in him, seeing the mark of his hand blooming on your ass; his hips are thrusting harder, hitting that gummy spot inside you that has you seeing stars and flooding down his cock, which practically rams you mercilessly.

The strength of his thrusting forces your throat to take Toru even deeper, a fact that the frat guy rejoices in as he holds you up by a hand on your tit, groping like he had before. The cockhead’s bumping the back of your throat, no doubt bruising you.

You cum, shuddering, but neither of them seem to care. They only notice the throbbing and rhythmic squeezing of your cunt and throat, groaning and grunting above you. 

“Poor nerd,” Toru snickers. “He’s gonna cum so quickly. It’s sad, isn’t it? It’s nice that you’re so charitable, babe.”

“Big talk for a masochist.” The older twin rubs your clit, occasionally pinching the thing just to feel you tighten around him. Darkly, he orders, “Dig your nails into his thigh. All the girls know he’s weak for pain. He even calls the older ones mommy. Sad, isn’t it? Disturbed, even.”

Panicked, he tries to grab your hand before it can grip his thigh through his jeans. But it’s too late. You’re faster. You dig your nails in as hard as you can so he’ll feel it through the material. He whimpers, hips stuttering. “Jesus FUCK!”

Hot cum spurts in your throat. You gag on the salty taste. Tears spring to your eyes.

Sato laughs, yanking you up by the air. Toru’s cock slides out with a pop!

Back flat on his chest, he holds you up with a hand around your throat. It presses in slightly, slowly stopping airflow to your head in intervals, holding enough to make you delirious. 

Aggrieved and peeved off for being forced to cum early by a cheap trick, Toru poutily kisses your lips, running that tongue piercing over the seam. He pushes a hand against your belly. You whine, feeling even more of Sato this way. “Let’s see how long either of you lasts like this, cheaters.”

“Fuck off—Christ! Shit!”

It only takes a mere second. It’s more embarrassing than Toru’s premature ejaculation.

At the sudden and impossible tightness, the older twin curses under his breath. White paints your walls. The heat is searing and it pushes you over the edge too. 

Quickly, you’re pulled off his dick, which is still spurting. Some cum gets on your face when you’re brought to your back on the bed. They’re manhanding you, positioning you like you’re a ragdoll, like you’re a mere toy for their pleasure. It’s hard to tell where up and down are, left and right, if it’s even the same day.

A cock pushes in, bullying its fat length with no hesitation. The aftershocks wrings out a deeply satisfied moan from Toru, who sinks in balls deep easily. He mutters petulantly, “If her pussy didn’t feel so good, I’d be too disgusted by your spunk all over her to get hard again.”

“Be grateful I’m letting you fuck her at all,” Sato retorts. He removes his glasses, squinting and finding the fogging of the lenses a pain in the ass. As he clears it out with the bottom of his shirt, he adjusts himself over you, obscuring your view of Toru. His heavy cock hasn’t lessened in density. It rests between your tits, soaked and sticky. “Stick your tongue out.”

You do. He makes a noise of approval. 

His hands push your tits together, sandwiching his dick. Sato’s shaven. He likes things nice and clean, it’d seem. The metal bars under his cockhead are hot against your skin. You can see them. They look painful. 

In between moans, you ask him, “Did the -hngh- piercings hurt?”

He shakes his head, lazily thrusting on your skin. His cock bumps onto your tongue, leaving drops of salty cum. You can taste yourself and him, and it oddly doesn’t disgust you.

Behind his brother, Toru pushes your thighs up, hooking them over his arms. Amused, he says, “He’s lying. He cried after, telling me he regrets it and he wants the piercings taken off. What a little bitch boy.”

“He exaggerates.” But the pink tinting Sato’s cheeks tells a different story. 

“Whatever you say, big bro,” Toru muses.

He yanks you back and forth on his cock, not exactly thrusting anymore. You’re back to being used a fleshlight, as a pocket pussy, dragged up and down the veiny length of him. He’s reaching deep, stretching you out even more than his brother did, though he doesn’t reach your cervix as nicely as Sato had. It hardly matters to you. The pleasure’s all the same. 

Thumbs brush over your nipples, flicking and rubbing, all while Sato squeezes your breasts tightly around his cock. His veins are prominent too, and they tickle your skin with every thrust. You swirl your tongue around his cockhead, teasing the underside where his piercings are every time he reaches your mouth. He throws his hair back, Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“Fuck, that mouth. Real fucking sinful,” he mutters. 

Rocked back and forth, bruised and bullied from top to bottom, fingers digging into sensitive flesh, marking and claiming, with sticky juices drying on your skin and tears dripping down your cheeks from the overstimulation — it’s one orgasm after the other.

“Aw, are you crying?” Sato asks, smirking and not looking the least bit apologetic.

Toru chuckles. “For something so tight and greedy, her pussy’s real weak, don’t you think?”

“The weakest.”

Skin smacks against skin. Juices splash. Puddles grow beneath you. You can taste their cum, feel them and hear and see them everywhere. Even when you close your eyes, the shapes of their cocks are imprinted, practically burnt on your retina. They won’t stop talking, won’t stop commenting on how you tremble and tense around them. 

One of them moans pornographically. They both laugh.

“Hear how she moans? You’d think she’s on OnlyFans and she’s trying to rack in the subs. Dirty, dirty girl.”

“She does moan pretty loudly. Squeals like a pig too.”

Toru adds, “Oh and her pussy won’t stop talking back to me. Maybe she wants to debate the collegiate system with me, or give me a glowing review on my dick game.”

“Only you’d lose to a debate with a literal cunt,” Sato says, snorting.

“Oh because you’d win one? That’s what you wanna brag about?”

“I won one when I made her cum like three times on my dick today.”

“Pssh, you’re deluded.”

None of what they say gets to you. You’re too deep in the pleasure, in the euphoric bliss, to properly register what they’re saying. You just want them to keep fucking you, to keep stimulating your entire body. You want this to never stop.

Ankles locked around Toru’s hips, you yank him back, wanting more and more of him. It’s never enough. The hairs at his base tickle your clit before he grinds his pelvis against it. Your eyes roll back. 

Sato spits a fat dollop on your tit, barely assisting the glide of his cock, which easily slides between your tits — he just wanted to do that. The sight of you all messy, lips glossy, eyes dazed, causes the corners of his mouth to twitch. 

Spitting’s his thing. Panty sniffing is Toru’s.

The more you learn about them, the more your invite to Hell solidifies. They really are twins from the Underworld, just so filthy, so lewd, so damned.

“Fucking tight, squeezing me so good,” one of them groans, barely understandable.

“Pretty fucking tits, prettier fucking mouth,” the other says, eyes flitting between your face and your breasts, undecided where it wants to stay.

All three of you moan at the same time, bodies spasming, and clit and cocks throbbing. Everyone gasps for breath, the air humid and tangy. 

Finally…

“Ngh! Sato! Toru!”

Cum spurts on your face, and you have to shut your eyes to avoid getting some in there. They land on your cheeks and nose and tongue. More cum fills up your cunt. All of your juices mix together in a warm concoction. 

You’ve never been more full and deeply satisfied. You feel it in your bones, in your souls. 

The fluff of the cuffs are soaked with your sweat and cum, the metal clammy. There are marks on your wrists from where they’ve pulled too much or too harshly, and the sting only adds to the pleasure. 

Best.

Sex.

Of.

Your.

Life.

Probably best threesome too. Not that you’re planning on having any more.

“Fuck that was good,” Toru says, hands rubbing your thigh and your stomach. He pulls out, and you wince. The emptiness is upsetting, although it doesn’t last very long; his long, slender fingers push the cum leaking out back in, keeping you plugged for a little longer. 

“Mm,” Sato agrees, wiping cum from your face only to shove it in your mouth for you to suck off. 

“What kind of freaky circus act am I looking at right now?”

Heads flip to the door. You almost get whiplash from how fast you turned. 

In the doorway, a pink-haired, heavily tattooed man stands. He doesn’t look disturbed, just amused. His eyes drink in your form, from your face to your tits to your pussy, or as much of your body he can see from where he’s standing anyway.

“Oh hey, Ryomen,” Toru says, not making a move to cover himself or you up. He just stands there between your legs, absentmindedly rubbing your clit. “How you doing?”

“Toru!” you scold, still dazed but thinking more clearly than the other two, that’s for sure. “Ask him about the cuffs.”

Does no one care about your dignity?

Nudity between men might be normal, but it’s certainly not between men and women. Despite that, they’re acting like he just caught you hanging out. No one covers you up. The newcomer doesn't look away. They’re all acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Who you presume is Sukuna finally spots the pink cuffs. He groans. “You got it all dirty. God, I fucking hate you dumbass twins. Came back to pick it up, and this is how you repay the favour? You better get me new ones, Gojos.”

You blink.

Static rings in your ears.

“They…borrowed it from you?”

Sukuna quirks a brow, like he’s surprised you’re daring to speak to him. “Yeah, twin fucker. In exchange for the keys to their garage and whatever car I wanted to drive around for the weekend.” Then he seems to piece something together and laughs mockingly. “Jesus, did they sell you some story about how I cuffed you three together in punishment or something? How dumb can you be?”

Sato huffs. “Watch it, Ryomen.”

“Yeah, another insult from your lips and I’m decking you right across the cheek.”

“Whatever you freaks.” A ping goes off on his phone. Sukuna reads the notification. “Alright, I gotta get going. Get me new cuffs and keep me out of your shit. Don’t even know why you didn’t just get your own.”

Toru chuckles, tension disappearing as though it was never there to begin with, and his fingers still fucking inside you. “Lies sell better when mixed with a little truth.”

Disgusted, Sukuna scowls. “You sound like your nerdy brother. Don’t try to sound smart, Idiot Gojo. It don’t fucking suit you.” His eyes fall back to you. He smirks. “If you get tired of their pasty asses, I’m more than happy to fuck you right. You know where I live.”

He knew you were there?

Seeing the bewildered look on your face, he scoffs. “You all breathe so fucking heavily. You think I wouldn’t sense your stupidity radiating from my closet? I mean, I always knew the two of you were in the closet, but I never knew you’d be in there with a girl. Guess sexuality really is a spectrum.”

“Fuck off, Sukuna,” Sato growls, cock soft now and being tucked right back into his pants.

He waves a hand lazily. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going. Unlike her, I’m not interested in doing it with twins. I’ll see you weirdos around.”

“Wait!” you call out before he can leave. “The key! We need the key!”

Sukuna rolls his eyes at you. 

“You’re slower than you look,” he mutters, exasperated beyond measure. Louder, he says, enunciating hard so you’ll get it, “I. Don’t. Have. It. The twins. Are. Sexual deviants. Who lie. To get pussy. They have the key. They always had it. You think only with your clit or something?”

A pillow gets thrown at him, followed by, “Fuck off, Ryomen.”

With a middle finger aimed at all three of you, he goes back the way he came, leaving you with guilty looking twins who each fish out a small key from their pockets. 

“Oh look,” Toru weakly cheers, “we found it. Yay!”

One winces. “Guess we won’t need to go to the fire station.”

“What the actual fuck.”

[sixeyesonathiel]

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

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

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

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

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

the compressor’s peaking again.

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

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

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

ping.

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

you.

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

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

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

“no,” he types, then erases it.

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

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

i guess. send what you have.

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

flashback.exe

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

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

but you were different.

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

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

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

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

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

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

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

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

typical.

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

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

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

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

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

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

he watches again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he’s close. too close.

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

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

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

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

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

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

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

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

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

np.

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

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

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

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

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

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

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

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

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

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

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

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

to replay your giggle.

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

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

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

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

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

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

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

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

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

ping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he freezes.

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

you giggle.

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

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

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

satoru’s fingers twitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he tries to normalize it.

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

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

he tells himself he’s just learning.

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

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

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

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

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

the next class is worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a new text lights up his screen:

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

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

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

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

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

he hates himself.

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

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

it starts with static in his skull.

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

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

it doesn’t help.

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

satoru’s trying.

really.

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

2:03 a.m.

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

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

march haul (raw).mp4

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

click.

of course he does.

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

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

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

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

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

he knows it.

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

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

he does.

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

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t blink.

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

he can’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

but it’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it’s been three weeks.

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

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

the worst part?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

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

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

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

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

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

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

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

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

baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

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

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

it starts with a ping.

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

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

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

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

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

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

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

satoru doesn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your silence makes him spiral.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

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

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

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

“i know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“mine.”

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

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

friday’s going to be filthy.

[kthologue]

operation: get over your childhood crush! — gojo satoru

synopsis. in an attempt to move on from your childhood best friend—who definitely doesn’t see you the way you want—you hatch a series of plans to help you get over him. it doesn't go as planned.

contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, nerd!gojo, college au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, unreliable narrator, miscommunication, insecurity, dorky references bc u make him go dumb and digimon inaccuracies probably

notes. i did not proofread this monster!! enjoy :P

The hum of the air conditioning fills the room as night settles in, the light from Satoru’s bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his mess of a room. You’re both sprawled out across his bed, limbs entangled like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Because, for the two of you, it is.

Satoru’s Nintendo Switch is balanced on his stomach, hands lazily tapping away as his little Digimon charges into battle on screen. You’re curled into his side, one leg hooked around his and a blanket thrown haphazardly across you both. The half-abandoned textbooks sit at the edge of the mattress, tragically ignored. Another study session: failed. Not that Satoru needed it. He passed everything with flying colors. It was more of an excuse for you to come over.

“Your room still smells like that cheap vanilla air freshener,” you mumble, nose scrunching.

“That’s because you bought it,” he replies without looking up, thumb expertly guiding his character through an attack.

“Because your room would end up stinking with sweat and whatever freaky stuff you do in here.”

“Hey!” He whines. “I shower everyday and you know it. The stink is all you. Have you ever sniffed yourself, princess?”

You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”

“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”

You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”

He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”

“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”

He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”

You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.

His glasses are tilted again. Of course.

You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”

“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”

You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”

“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look. 

“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”

You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”

It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.

He doesn’t say anything.

You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.

But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.

Another type. That’s not you.

“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”

“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”

He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that… a thing?”

“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”

He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”

You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.

You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.

But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.

So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”

He goes still.

His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.

“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”

His jaw tightens.

You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering. Curiosity. Science.”

He finally turns to look at you.

His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.

You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.

Then he shrugs.

“…Nah.”

It slices through the air with quiet finality.

Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.

You laugh. It sounds forced.

“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”

He’s silent.

You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”

“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.

“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.

And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue. 

You knew it was time. Ten years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.

It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.

You’d been doomed since day one.

And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.

But you were young. And hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”

You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”

“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”

You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”

“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”

Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.

Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”

You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”

Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”

She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”

You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”

Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”

You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”

Utahime grinned.

“Whatcha doing?” 

Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.

You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”

The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.

He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”

You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.

“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.

You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”

His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring DJ and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”

“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”

“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”

Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.

“Satoru!”

“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just… optimizing.”

Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”

“Nothing~”

You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.

“Give it back!”

“Patience.”

“Gojo Satoru—”

“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.

You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.

“…What did you do?”

“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious.

“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just… considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”

“Good.”

The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.

You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”

He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”

You snort. “You are a guy.”

“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”

You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”

“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.

You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.

“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”

Silence.

It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.

Gojo freezes.

You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”

But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”

You blink.

And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”

You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.

You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.

Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.

You want to scream.

Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?

Yeah. Not going great.

Not at all.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.

Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes—determined, dangerous, hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she wouldn’t let you walk out of her apartment looking like a clown. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.

“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”

You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.

But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked… beautiful.

When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing the edge of your coat. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Then he looked up.

His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.

“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.

He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”

You blinked.

Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.

And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.

You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”

“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”

Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.

But the moment passed.

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”

Different.

Not better. Not prettier.

Just different.

You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.

“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.

In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines. 

What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.

He didn’t even notice.

“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.

He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”

Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”

Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”

It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.

Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”

Exactly. That was the point.

You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—

Satoru.

In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.

You blink. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”

“At this café? On this side of campus?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”

Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”

“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”

“…Kazuya.”

“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”

But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”

Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”

“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”

Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”

“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”

Gojo beams. “Told you.”

Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.

“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”

“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”

You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”

Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”

“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”

Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.

“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”

“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.

“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.

By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.

Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,

“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”

The question hangs awkwardly.

You and Satoru answer at the same time.

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yes,” he says with a smile.

You both turn to stare at each other.

“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”

Kazuya blinks. “Right.”

You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.

“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.

Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.

Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.

Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”

“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”

“By who?”

“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.

You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.

“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”

You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.

“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.

“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.

You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”

He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”

You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel… bearable.

Almost good, even.

Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did… maybe it all meant something.

You let yourself believe it, just a little.

And that was your first mistake.

It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.

You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says—far too casually:

“So, guess who asked me out?”

You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”

“Ayane.”

The name hits you like a slap.

You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”

You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.

She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.

But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.

“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too—I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”

You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”

“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins. 

Your stomach sinks.

This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.

But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.

“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.

Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.

It’s that he chose her.

Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him—when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.

You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.

He doesn’t follow.

You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.

For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.

You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”

You go silent.

And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.

You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.

It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.

And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.

You weren’t just losing your best friend.

You were losing the love of your life.

And he didn’t even notice.

It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.

Well—no. That’s a lie.

He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”

But he tells himself you’re busy.

Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.

So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.

But then Friday comes.

And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—

You’d be making fun of me right now.

You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be… you.

Ayane is lovely.

But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.

She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.

He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.

Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.

And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.

He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.

No new messages.

Just the last one you sent days ago:

“Laundry. Rain check?”

And nothing since.

He waits. Another day. Then two.

You don’t show up to class again.

You don’t like his latest meme.

You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.

You are silent.

And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead—realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.

That he didn’t just lose a study partner.

He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.

The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.

And for the first time since he was a kid—

He’s afraid.

It’s been a little over a week.

A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.

And Satoru is suffering.

He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.

But you were always one step ahead.

You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a “you really fumbled the bag” look in her eyes.

Gojo Satoru is… just tired.

Miserable.

So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.

You don’t look surprised to see him. Just... tired too.

“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.

He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”

You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Gojo looks down at his feet.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.

Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”

You glance up.

“I can’t either.”

Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment—God, I thought I was going to—”

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

The words stop him cold.

“What?” he breathes.

You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”

His heart stutters. You don’t stop.

“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”

He looks like he’s been hit.

“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”

You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.

And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.

Not yet.

Not until he stops you from walking away.

“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.

“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”

Your breath catches.

He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.

“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”

You gape.

“Wait—”

“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”

You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.

“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”

You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”

“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”

He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.

“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”

A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.

“You idiot,” you murmur.

“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”

Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.

“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him—this man, this brilliant, ridiculous, loyal boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.

“It’s not too late,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.

Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.

And then, finally, he kisses you.

It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home. Like every unanswered question finally getting its answer.

When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”

You laugh, heart full, forehead pressed to his.

“Mission failed,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good.”

And then he kisses you again.

art by leimiruu on x!

[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° you outshine the morning sun

( sae itoshi x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — just a short drabble bc domestic sae has invaded my brain

♡ word count — 705

♡ content — sae itoshi x reader, sae x fem! reader, made sae abt 25 in this, marriage mentioned, pregnancy mentioned. AN: i'd give this man as many babies as he wants.

♡ synopsis — sae itoshi didn't need to be a soccer god, not as long as he had you

The roar of the crowd still buzzed in Sae Itoshi’s ears as he exited the stadium, the post-game adrenaline barely settled in his veins. The night air was thick with the voices of fans calling his name, their desperation and admiration mixing into a cacophony he had long since learned to ignore.

"Sae! Just one autograph!"

"Marry me, Sae! Please! Just one chance!"

"I’d give you as many babies as you want!"

The shrill voices of young girls, the deep admiration from older men, the wistful sighs of women both young and old—none of it meant anything to him. He kept his gaze forward, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides as he pushed through the chaos. The only thing on his mind was getting home.

A sleek black car idled by the curb, the driver standing by the door, already well aware of the arrangement. No talking. No questions. Just drive and get him home as quickly as possible, and the tip would be hefty. An even bigger one if the trip was fast.

Sae slid into the back seat without a word, the door shutting out the noise of the world outside. He exhaled sharply, leaning back against the seat as the car pulled away from the stadium and into the quiet of the night. The streetlights blurred past, but he barely noticed them. Instead, his hands moved instinctively to his duffel bag, fingers searching through the smallest inside pocket until they curled around something cool and familiar.

A simple silver ring, discreet and unassuming, warmed quickly in his palm. His thumb brushed over the carved initials—his and yours—etched into the metal. He slipped it onto his ring finger, feeling a sense of calm wash over him.

Yeah. He just needed to get home.

The drive was mercifully quick, and before long, he was stepping out of the car and up the pathway to the house—the one place in the world where he wasn’t Sae Itoshi, soccer legend. He barely had time to set his duffel bag down when something small and fast crashed into his leg.

"Daddy!"

A grin tugged at Sae’s lips as he looked down, teal eyes meeting an identical pair staring up at him with pure joy. His daughter, barely three years old, clung to his leg with all her might. Her soft pink hair was pulled up into two messy pigtails, bouncing as she giggled.

"Hey, sweetheart," he murmured, crouching down to scoop her into his arms. She fit so perfectly against him, her tiny hands grabbing onto his jersey as if she never wanted to let go. And he? He didn’t mind one bit.

"Oh! I didn’t know you’d be home so soon," your voice rang out from the kitchen, warm and full of love. Sae glanced up just as you turned the corner, a wooden spoon in your hand, eyes crinkling at the sight of him. "The game just ended."

"Took a shortcut," he said simply, stepping closer to you.

His gaze flickered down to the soft curve of your stomach, where a second life—one he helped create—was steadily growing. Without hesitation, he reached out, resting a gentle hand there, feeling the warmth of your body beneath his fingertips.

A soft smile played on your lips as he leaned in, pressing a quick but meaningful kiss against them. Before you could deepen it, a tiny voice piped up between you.

"Yuck!" your daughter squealed, squirming in his arms.

You laughed, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of pink hair behind her ear. "You say that now, but one day, you’ll think it’s sweet."

"Nuh-uh!" she insisted, her little nose scrunching up in defiance.

Sae chuckled, finally feeling the weight of the world ease off his shoulders. Here, there were no screaming fans, no demanding coaches, no suffocating expectations. Just you, your daughter, and the quiet hum of home.

Sae Itoshi didn’t need fangirls, fanboys, or old women begging for his attention. He didn’t need adoration from the world, validation from the media, or the empty promises of strangers who only saw him as a soccer god.

Sae Itoshi just needed this.

Sae Itoshi just needed to be home.

Sae Itoshi just needed you.

posting this as an apology for going MIA for a bit :)

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated!

[reinreingoawayy]

sae was super against the idea of having a pet cat. one, he thought they were mean, and two, he couldn’t stand the smell of their shit. so when he sees you holding a small black stray cat, both—you and the cat—drenched from the rain, he couldn’t help himself from shaking his head while he grabs towels for you and for the cat. he suggested bringing it to the animal shelter, which you disagreed right away as you tucked the poor cat into your arms as if he was going to snatch it from you and throw it to the nearest animal shelter.

he exhaled as he watch you give your full attention to the cat.

“so what are you gonna do about it now?” he asked.

“i don’t know—keep it?” you said, gently patting the towel on the cat’s body.

“but—”

“but i want to make sure you’re okay with it first,” you said.

“you know the answer,” he said with finality in his voice.

“can’t i change your mind? at all?”

sae looked away because he knows—he knows himself that he’d eventually give in to those pleading eyes. sae had always been this tough guy, but for some reason, the tough, hard to please, unchanging mind, becomes all too soft for you. it was almost like you had him in a spell that he couldn’t get through, not that he’d want to get through.

for him, what comes first is you. regardless of what he wants, it was always you first, and he was okay with it. seeing how your eyes would light up, the way you curl the corners of your lips when you’re happy was enough reason for him to put you first before anything else.

but having a pet cat was a different topic. he was very open about not wanting it. so, it was a challenge for you to persuade him. it only took a lot of pleases and promises and few bribes here and there before he finally exhaled with defeat. that was your cue that he was finally giving in.

“fine,” he said softly.

you beamed and almost jumped onto him for a hug.

“thank you!” you said again and again.

“but we must have conditions,” he said as you sat back to your seat, ready to listen to his conditions. there was a handful but you were more than willing to cooperate if that meant you could finally have a cat.

after bringing the cat to the veterinary clinic to make sure she was all good, you both went to a pet store to buy some stuff for the small cat. you were all giddy and excited as you survey each aisle, thinking and grabbing all the stuff you thought she might need while sae push the cart behind you.

“do you think this is excessive?” you asked sae.

he quickly shrugged his shoulders. “if you think it’s good for her, then go for it,” he replied, making your heart melt for a moment. you felt a warm fuzzy feeling in your chest that it almost made you tear up in front of the whole store.

after buying all the stuff, you went back home, played with the kitten while sae goes out for his usual football practice. if you don’t have work, you’d stay at home doing random stuff to fill up the boredom. he usually comes back before dinner time, if there’s intensive training, he comes back before midnight, and today is that day. when he comes back, it’s either you were already asleep or binge watching a series with your skincare on.

tonight, you decided to wait for him while you play with the kitten, but exhaustion came faster than sae and before you even know, you were knocked out on the couch with the ball of yarn on your hand. before you pass out, you could’ve sworn you heard the door unlocked but you drifted anyway.

sae sighed, watching you sound asleep on the couch. the blue ball of yarn was still on your hand and the small cat was laying beside you, perfectly loafed.

“hi there,” sae said, kneeling in front of you and the kitten. he felt stupid for greeting the animal, but when the kitten let out a small meow, he was taken aback.

“sorry if i acted that way earlier. truth is, i don’t really know how to take care of someone like you and i’m a little afraid that i might end up neglecting you, but don’t worry. your mom, right here…” he said, pointing at you, still sleeping.

“she’s gonna take good care of you and i will do my best to do my part as well. i’m sorry if i ever had you feel you were not welcome here. i just really don’t know what to react. it’s a me problem. you are definitely most welcome.”

he bit his lower lip as he tried to scratch the kitten’s back hesitantly, but when the kitten leaned on to his touch, he felt a slight relief.

“so how was your day with your mom? did you do anything fun?” he smiled.

“my practice was fine. it was tiring and almost felt redundant, but i love football so it’s fine. i hope you find what you love soon. i’d like to see it.”

“one last thing i have to tell, love your mom as much as i love her, okay? i hope you see how much of a wonderful person she is. she’s the best you could ever have,” he said before finally nudging your shoulders to wake you up.

“wake up, love,” he said in a very soft voice.

you hummed, pretending not to hear all of what he said just now.

“i love you, sae,” you whispered.

“you heard that, didn’t you?” he said.

“maybe?”

“i love you, too. now lemme get you to a proper bed.”

[bluelockmaniac]

📽 "𝐂𝐔𝐓! ... 𝐈 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐂𝐔𝐓!?"

ft. actor!itoshi rin x costar!reader

synopsis. it was finally time to 'act out' the long awaited kiss scene with your celebrity crush, itoshi rin! but when the director yells 'cut!' . . . you both don't stop?

notes. gn!reader, 1.1k wc. popping back in for a bit hehe :)

three months and at least twenty-five near heart attacks later, you were finally about to film the long-awaited kiss scene with none other than the man of your dreams– itoshi rin. and, as fate would have it, it would be your first kiss too! killing two birds with one stone had never felt so terrifyingly thrilling.

having been chosen to co-star with the famous actor in a conventional romance movie had already been surreal enough, but now, after what felt like an eternity of rehearsals and stealing glances at your celebrity crush, it was finally time to place your pretty lips right where they belonged– on his.

the set was filled with blurred murmurs as the crew made their final adjustments, the cameras maneuvered to align their lenses perfectly, the lights flickered as the technicians adjusted them to a soft glow. surprisingly, you were not feeling nervous (rather, excited) though the same could not be said about rin who was seated on the plush prop couch in the middle of the carefully arranged living room set, his fingers drumming impatiently against the cushion.

you took your place behind the apartment door, knuckles barely grazing the wooden surface as you waited for your cue.

the movie director then cleared his throat into his fist and raised the clapperboard. “quiet on set,” he bellowed, and the room instantly fell silent. 

“ready,” thump 

“set,” thump 

“action!”

and the scene commenced.

you knocked on the door and a heartbeat later, rin’s voice floated from the inside– low & collected. 

“the door’s open.” 

short. simple. but most importantly, steady. it seems like he had finally settled into character.

twisting the doorknob, you stepped inside, shutting the door gently behind you. the air between you shifted the moment your eyes met rin’s cerulean gaze. you looked away almost immediately, heat creeping up your neck. pretending to be in love with him wasn’t very difficult when, in truth, there was no acting at all.

“i didn’t think you’d actually come.” rin’s voice was calm. he placed his mug down on the table, then threw his arm over the back of the couch as you approached and sat next to him.

“you called, didn’t you?” you turned toward him, tilting your body slightly as you took the time to scrutinize his face. his expression was unreadable, but you knew the script. furrowing your brows, you breathed out a soft huff. “liar,” you murmured. “you knew i was going to come.”

a ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. then, without hesitation, his arm dropped from the couch, sliding effortlessly around your waist as he pulled you in, closer, until you felt the warmth radiating from him. 

“yeah,” he admitted, “i did. you’ve always been easy to read, after all.”

your heart skipped a beat, but you kept your composure. barely. “cocky as always, i see.”

you scooted closer to him, the space between you turning into nothing as you buried your face into the warmth of his neck. your hands moved to rest on his chest, and you inhaled the familiar, rich scent of his cologne before sighing softly. 

“i missed you, kai,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his skin.

secretly you wished there would come a day when you could whisper rin instead, not his character’s name.

there was a long silence and you contained your excitement for what’s to come like the competent performer you are. after the silence had stretched long enough, your trembling fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and you pushed yourself up. your eyes glistened with professional tears and your voice cracked at just the right moment. 

“i said i missed y–!”

the rest of your line was stolen.

without a word, rin’s hands found your face, fingers firm as he pulled you in, and then– his lips crashed onto yours. it wasn’t gentle. not hesitant either. it was rough and a bit reckless, too. it portrayed his scripted (or was it?) longing for you after 'years of absence' perfectly. his lips moved languidly against your own, and when a quiet whimper escaped you– definitely part of the script (cut yourself some slack, it was your first kiss for god’s sake)– you felt him shudder slightly.

your arms snaked around his neck as you began reciprocating the kiss more eagerly, with one tear cinematically slipping down your cheek. rin’s hand skis down to hold your waist while his nose brushes against yours fleetingly every now and then. it may be wishful thinking but with the way he’s passionately kissing you, you start to think that perhaps rin hadn't been acting this whole time. just like you.

“beautiful… perfect…” the movie director whispered under his breath, wiping a tear of pride as he casts glances at the camera crew filming the two successful stars. with a deep inhale, he readied himself, gripping the clapperboard. 

and–

“CUT!” his crisp voice rings through the set, signaling the end of the scene.

but you don’t pull away.

and neither does rin.

rin took pride in his career as an actor. he’d always been a professional, detached, the kind of actor that did what ought to be done and moved on. no strings, no unnecessary connections. but that was all prior to this because gosh hell would have to freeze over before he lets go of you now.

your lips were magnetic, and from the way you crawl onto his lap, fingers tangling in his hair, kissing deeper, he knows you could feel it too. a soft gasp escapes him as he lands back against the plush pillows of the couch, your weight on top of him, but neither of you seem to care.

the director blinks.

huh. odd. maybe you two didn’t hear the signal, though he was certain his voice was loud enough. “CUT!” he tried again, his voice slightly louder.

but you two were in your own world, too lost in each other to register the world around you.

“i-i said CUT!”

still, neither of you budge. the cameras kept rolling, the crew remained silent. someone sniffles in the background. perhaps, the director thinks, this is even better- like real lovers. you two depicted the raw emotions suspiciously well.

and so, when the film was released, that extended moment (the one where neither you or rin heard the call to stop) was actually kept! the movie was a massive hit, and you two may have started dating after this (the only justifiable course of action after the stuttering and embarrassment that came from you two after the realization).

of course, the director’s frantic shouting had to be muted post-production with advanced editing platforms. oh, and–

the part where rin had accidentally moaned your real name instead of your character’s? yeah. that was cropped out completely.

-

© 2024 bluelockmaniac — do not repost, copy, translate, modify, etc my work on any platform

[aozui-deactivated20250723]

I think that RIN is soooooooooooooo needy.

probably a hot take but imo he is the clingy type — just refuses to show it. definitely not one to ask for his hand to be held nor beg for kisses, but if you’re sitting next to him he’ll nudge you with his pinky or loop it around yours. looks away when you make eye contact and sulks when you look anywhere else but at him

[ayumip]

guys i started playing love and deepspace and oh my days.

[reocidal-deactivated20250312]

stardust — r. itoshi

PAIRING: rin itoshi x fem!reader

CONTENT: actor au, fake dating, hurt/comfort, swearing, depressive spiral, might be ooc!!

WORD COUNT: 2.8k

NOTE: @choccorin i love u, enjoy!

it starts off pretty harmless, this agreement. you've known rin for a while now, the longest out of anyone he's in contact with in the industry these days, so it's obvious that he'll come to you when he needs help. in this case, the problem here is his fans.

rin itoshi shoots up to stardom out of the blue, all golden champagne and party streamers and hordes of screaming fangirls scattered (generously) around the globe. he's not a bad actor, not at all, but no one really expected him to be as popular as he is now.

not that he goes viral for his acting — not at first, at least. it's actually a low quality video posted onto twitter by a fan that does the trick; she doesn't expect her innocent six-second recording to break containment like this. but rin, with his pretty face and long lashes and perfectly fitted dark clothing, bathed in some gala's brilliant lighting, somehow manages to capture the hearts of a few million people that night. and when they find out that not only is he gorgeous, but he's also good at what he does? jackpot. the fame he's suddenly achieved is nothing if not terrifyingly overwhelming.

however, despite the massive growth of followers that he experiences overnight, you know that you'll always love him more. and that is precisely why you say yes to what he asks of you.

you remember that day embarrassingly well, down to the fine details, like how your phone's battery was at 37%, and how rin'd had a queer expression on his face, not really his usual deadpan look, but not really anything else either.

"date me," rin itoshi tells you.

"excuse me?" this isn't happening, right? you've been horrendously in love with him for a few years now; surely this isn't how things are going to go! but even then, you're not sure if fate is on your side or not, because he shakes his head and continues, and dashes all your hopes in an instant.

"i'm not in love with you or anything," he clarifies. "i just need a fake girlfriend so some of these crazy people leave me alone."

"ah," you manage to say. you should refuse, tell him to find someone else. you've read enough romance novels to know exactly how this plays out, and just how painful it'll be for you. not to mention the fact that he's literally just told you that he doesn't have any feelings for you, to your face. everything tells you to not do it, but when have you ever been able to say no to him? "sure."

his lips curve into the briefest of smiles as he hears your answer. "thank you. we'll discuss this later, okay?"

"sure," you repeat, ignoring the way your stomach does an unceremonious flip at his smile. he nods and gets up, and you watch him leave, leave you behind, just as he always has.

and so it begins.

the routine the two of you follow is easy to slip into; acting like you're in love with him isn't difficult either, especially when you are in love with him.

to his credit, rin treats you perfectly on his part. despite keeping you at arm's length off-camera, he treats you like a princess otherwise, apologising a few hundred times for the media outrage caused by the reveal of your "relationship". and while it does hurt to be so close, yet so far from the one thing you crave, the way you're getting to see a softer — although probably fake — side of rin, and how he's treating you almost makes up for it.

and inside, everything stays (almost) the same, perfectly platonic and unchanged.

and the fangirls (somewhat) die down out of respect for his new relationship, so that's good, too. keep winning, rin itoshi.

you're scrolling social media one day when you stumble upon a video that's slowly but surely gaining more and more traction. it's about you and rin — specifically, your relationship. the person speaking breaks down every (visible) aspect of it, and comes to the conclusion that the two of you must be gaking things. the thought of this assumption (although true) becoming more widespread terrifies you; the last thing you want happening is rin's career being damaged like this. he's barely in his twenties and there's still so much left for him to do. you can't let him lose just yet. so, with shaking fingers, you send the video to him. rin leaves you on seen, but the next time you're seen in public together he kisses you, and your relationship is viral again, and you question your friendship for the very first time.

another day, another rich-people party. it's the usual, really, for you and rin — even though neither of you are particularly fond of this setting — as the two of you linger in a somewhat secluded corner of the room. rin's hand rests lightly on your waist just in case anyone turns their attention to you, but his mind seems to be elsewhere as he stares into the crowd. a sudden flash of light catches your eye, and you whisper-yell at him urgently. "rin."

he doesn't react, eyes still blank and unfocused.

"rin!"

he blinks, realising that you're talking to him.

"yeah?" he leans down to hear you better, face dangerously close to yours.

"cameras," you hiss.

his brows raise ever so slightly in understanding. "okay. can i kiss you?"

"what?"

"for the cameras, obviously," he deadpans. "i saw the video; surely you sent it to me for a reason and not just for me to watch, right?"

"right."

rin's hand leaves your waist so he can cradle your face with both hands and angle your face up. there's a guarded look in his eyes, something you can tell he's hiding. you don't know what, though, and it's not like you get any time to even think when he finally, finally leans down to kiss you. every thought in your brain evaporates into stardust as he presses his lips to yours. in front of you, a camera shutter snaps, but you can't really find it in yourself to care when all you can think of, all you can feel is the press of his lips on yours.

it takes exactly twelve sleepless nights after this (you've kept count) and one (1) conversation with your best friend to realise that this whole fake dating thing is taking a — negative, obviously — toll on your mental health, even more so as the lines between platonic and romantic begin to blur.

you'd thought the relationship was just for show. so why does rin bring you flowers on a bad day, even when there's no media around to see? he treats you like his girlfriend at home too, now, and it confuses you. rin itoshi is not your boyfriend, so why are you always in his clothes? and what's with all the physical contact? not that you mind, of course.

he's just gotten too absorbed into this relationship, you tell yourself. he doesn't know what he's doing to you. but you don't speak up about it, either. you let it continue.

but regardless of whose fault this is, the uurt that grows within you stays raw and heavy. he just has to be the one thing you cannot have, and it really is impossible to not fall for his (unintentional) boyish charm and the quiet concern he displays — for you and you only.

it's a particularly rough day, even worse than usual — which is concerning, considering that almost every day in the past two weeks has been the exact same level of bad, when everything comes crashing down. it's been terrible from the morning and you haven't even gotten out of bed yet, even though it's almost three in the afternoon. you're drifting in and out of unconsciousness; everything around you and your thoughts and feelings are all coated in an uncomfortable haze.

a tentative knock on your door rouses you awake and you blink. why's there someone in your apartment? is this a break-in? who could it possibly— oh. rin.

your mind flashes back to a certain moment a few months ago, so fast it gives you whiplash. you're half-collapsed onto a bar stool by your kitchen counter, rin kneeling in front of you as he examines your bruised ankle.

"you should really be more careful," he murmurs, and your heart aches at the tenderness in his tone as he gently presses the icepack against the bruise.

cold seeps through your ankle as he holds it there, and eventually you wince; he must've gotten distracted and forgotten to pull away.

"i'm sorry, i'm sorry," he whispers, uncharacteristically nervous and breathless. the apology forces itself out of his mouth, words tumbling over each other in their haste. "did i hurt you?"

you shake your head, and although he sighs disbelievingly, he does not argue.

"how do i return your key?" he asks you as he's about to leave. you're a bundle of blankets on your sofa, unable to move, so he's locking your door for you. your best friend's coming to take care of you soon — she also has a key to the apartment, so you'll be fine. besides, it's an extra one, anyways.

so you take a deep breath and hope you won't regret it when you wave him away with a laugh and tell him to keep it. he nods, although expressionless, and says a simple, flat bye before he leaves. you wonder if you're delusional or if the tips of his ears really did turn red when you told him to take the key with him.

your best friend is halfway across the world right now; it's obvious that it's rin who's standing outside your bedroom door.

another knock. rin clears his throat, like he's about to speak; you narrowly beat him to it. "don't come in, i-i'm okay!"

"oh."

you cough a little as you speak, wincing at the dryness of your throat and how rough your voice sounds.

"you don't sound okay," he adds a moment later, painfully stiff. "you weren't answering your calls or anything so i got— i mean, i came to check up on you."

"i see," you respond quickly. why is it so awkward today?

rin clears his throat again. "are you sure you're okay?"

your throat tightens; you do not respond — you cannot respond. rin reads your silence perfectly, almost too well. he does not speak again, but you hear a single step (forward?) outside your door. and the doorknob twists, and the door creaks open.

you are buried in an unkempt mess of bedsheets and blankets. when rin finally sees you, his eyes widen.

you burst into tears.

rin has never been good at comforting people. today, he doesn't even know what's wrong. unsure of what to do, he just stares at you owlishly for a moment before taking a hesitant step in your direction. when you don't stop him, he moves closer. and when you nestle into his side as he wraps his arm around you, he deduces that he must be doing something right.

the warmth of his presence is unfairly comforting; you cannot help but lean into him, breathing slowly becoming calmer as his thumb rubs circles into your shoulder.

eventually you stop crying, though not without the embarrassment of having a whole entire mental breakdown in front of your beloved rin itoshi, about said beloved rin itoshi.

rin lets the silence stew for a second or two; you feel him swallow from where your head is now tucked in the crook of his neck.

"what was that all about?" he pulls back slightly, loosening his hold on you as you stiffen at his question.

oh. well, now or never, right?

"rin," you begin. "i don't think i can do this fake dating thing anymore."

"oh. why not?"

he's quiet, but there's no particular inflection or change in his tone.

you shrug. "it's not working for me anymore, i guess. too busy these days."

he opens his mouth to speak, then exhales slowly instead. "okay."

"cool."

"okay," he repeats. "then we'll end the agreement tonight."

"why tonight?" confusion colours your tone as you finally look up at him. when his teal eyes meet yours again, his lips twitch into a small smile.

rin works careful and methodical, starting the cleanup from one end of your room. technically he's still your (fake) partner, and you've done so much in the public eye — the amount of pictures of you and rin scattered across the internet borders on obscene — so surely you can let him do one little thing in private, right?

"let me do this for you, yeah? you've done so much for me these past few months, let me pay you back."

it's mortifying, but you let him fix up your room anyways. and when he leads you to your bathroom, you follow along obediently, watching as he fixes the water temperature and leaves you to clean yourself up while he prepares something for you to eat.

the hot water washes away a surprisingly large amount of the discomfort you've been feeling as of late, and it's like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders by the time you see rin again.

long-limbed 6'1" rin itoshi, dressed fully in shades of black and blue, rin looks incredibly awkward and out of place in your kitchen. it's a quaint little place, decked out in pink and brown hues, but a total contrast to him. it makes you let out a little huff of laughter, and you swear rin smiles when he hears it.

there's a plate of your favourite food placed in front of you; rin sits downon the chair opposite you.

"eat. there's something i want to talk to you about."

anxiety pools in your stomach — there's no way he knows, right? you should've never done this; you're no better than all those fangirls he'd been trying to get away from in the first place. and if he knows this, he— wait, is this his way of saying goodbye? it makes sense now — anyone would feel the same after a betrayal of trust like this.

he lets you finish eating before—

"i lied. to you. i'm sorry."

what?

he refuses to meet your eyes, gaze fixed on the table of front of him. the tips of his ears are very, very red.

"about what?" you manage to ask. this is not how you'd expected this to go.

"i, um." he's half-hiding his face with a hand; what you can see nonetheless is flushed, like he's running a fever. except he's not ill, just shy. really, what's happening? "i didn't need— fuck, i shouldn't have listened to shidou, i knew it was stupid!"

"rin?"

"ugh. i just— iaskedshidouforadviceandhesaidthebestwaytoknowifyoulikemebackisthisandi'msorryididn'tmeanforyoutogethurt—"

"wait, like you back? as in you like me?"

"oh." well, now that he's said that out loud now, what's next? he can't exactly take it back, can he? but to his surprise, you look pleased. like you wanted this. "um. yes."

"oh! rin, don't apologise!" you exclaim, much to his chagrin. (are you patronising him right now?) "i also have some explaining to do."

he cocks his head in confusion; you can see the question marks hovering above his head.

"you didn't exactly hurt me by fake dating me or whatever; i was sad 'cause you were sending me a bunch of mixed signals, y'know."

"huh? i was?"

"yeah? you said you weren't into me, but then you did all sorts of stuff that implied that you did like me."

"that's cause i do like you though."

you choke.

he seems to have regained composure again as he raises a brow at you. "you don't like me, though?"

"i do!" you squeak. "i've liked you this whole time— wait, you said it was shidou who told you to do this?"

"mhm, why?"

"he knows i like you, though!"

rin grits his teeth, pushing his chair back as he gets up. "no way, that fucking bastard… i'm going to go kill him right now."

"wait, rin."

he pauses. "what?"

"can you kiss me again, but for real this time?"

his eyes widen, just a little. "oh. okay. yeah."

when rin gets to your side of the table, he just stands there, staring down at you with unbridled adoration in his eyes, all the feelings that he no longer needs to hide. you recognise it now — it's that same look from the night he'd first kissed you. all of this almost overwhelms you, and in the end the only thing you can really muster up is a simple "hi."

rin smiles, fingers gently tilting your chin up. "hey."

and when he bends down to kiss you, it's even better than the last time. because this time it's real.

800 follower event.

© reocidal 2025.

[theorderisgone]

ꕀ ﹒Warmth beneath the walls　౨ৎ

PAIRING // ITOSHI RIN X GN!READER

SUMMARY // Rin, who despises physical contact, finds himself unexpectedly yearning for your touch, realising you're the only exception to his guarded walls.

CONTENT // drabble, sfw, fluff, gn!reader

Itoshi Rin has never been one for physical affection. It doesn't matter if its a hug from a teammate after scoring a goal, or a high five after a match. Their actions are unreciprocated and often met with the cold shoulder, but that's how he's always been. His teammates learned quickly—keep your distance. Even Sae, in their rare moments of brotherly connection, kept his gestures limited to a curt nod or a fleeting brush of a hand.

And yet, with you, something shifted.

The first time it happened, it was unintentional. You had been laughing, carefree and radiant, and instinctively placed a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself. Rin practically froze under your touch, but instead of the usual discomfort, there was warmth. A strange, unfamiliar heat that spread from where your hand rested, coursing through his veins like a quiet hum.

He didn’t flinch or pull away. Instead, he found himself leaning ever so slightly into your touch, almost imperceptibly, as though his body was betraying him in the gentlest way.

The next time, it was deliberate. You were seated beside him, scrolling through your phone, when your fingers brushed against his. It was a fleeting moment, one you probably didn’t even notice, but Rin did. He noticed everything. The way your hand felt smaller than his, the way your warmth lingered even after you’d pulled away. That night, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out why he didn’t hate it.

Now, it’s different. He’s different.

When you reach for him, he doesn’t flinch. When you link your arm through his, he doesn’t pull away. When your fingers trail across his skin, he doesn’t tense. Instead, he craves it—seeks it out in quiet, unspoken ways. A hand on the small of your back when you walk together. His fingers brushing yours as he hands you something. A subtle lean closer when you sit beside him.

Rin still hates physical contact—except when it’s with you. With you, it doesn’t feel like an invasion. It feels like home.

author's notes // hihi this is my first time writing and posting on tumblr!! please drop some suggestions or ideas on what i should write next. thanks for reading <3

[mattsundaes]

oh well... I mean... how about oliver x snowed in? do we manage not to punch him in the face by the end of it?

over easy 🎀 oliver aiku x f!reader

In which domesticity creeps into the all the cracks in you and Oliver's casual arrangement as you find yourself snowed in at his apartment.

1.4k — fluff, soft oliver, fwb, mentions of sex

It’s no good for your stupid, reckless heart—this predicament.

“Over easy? And two sugars in your coffee, right?” Oliver’s voice calls out from the kitchen.

It’s so fucking domestic, the way he says it. 

Like you’re not just some girl he fucks into his king size mattress in the middle of the night twice a week.

Like you’re not just going on your third morning of being stranded at his apartment because your car’s buried under several feet of snow that just keeps on coming down.

Like it’s okay that your heart fumbles meekly behind the confines of your ribcage whenever he tugs you back into his bed to stay the night. 

(That beats so hard it aches when he spins you around to kiss you in the doorway on your way out.)

You’re not dating.

You can’t date him.

Oliver doesn’t date.

But he’s handsome and charming and polite and funny and the sex is so good that you’ve never come so hard in your life and—

There’s no fucking Oliver out of your system unless it’s with Oliver himself.

And if you have some inconvenient feelings dangling on the sidelines, that’s your cross to bear on your own time when he’s not fucking you stupid in the backseat of his car or eating you out on his kitchen counter.

You don’t ask Oliver what he does on nights that he’s not with you. And you tell yourself it’s because it’s none of your goddamn business, not because you know his answer would probably hurt you too much to hear.

You assume, anyway.

But now it’s Christmas Eve, and you’ve lost any and all hope of digging your car out by tomorrow for your family dinner—not that you really wanted to go to that, anyway. 

And Oliver’s humming a Christmas song under his breath while he makes you breakfast, while you stand in his living room wearing nothing but one of his practice jerseys while perusing his bookshelf. 

It feels dangerously, terribly, awfully domestic.

And part of you thinks you’d be better off trudging across town home on foot than bearing the full weight of this walk of shame when the snow melts.

You’ve spent hours on his couch over the past few days, and he can’t seem to stop touching you. He scoots closer if you sit down too far away, places a hand on your ankle if it’s in reach, tucks your feet under his thigh. He puts his head in your lap or tugs yours down into his when you start yawning. He plays with your hair and your fingers—

And the two of you have been making your way through your favorite show, one that he’s never seen, one that you didn’t even think he would like. But it was his idea.

You even went down to his apartment building’s gym last night—something which didn’t feel strange in and of itself until Oliver kept appearing out of nowhere any time a guy tried to strike up a conversation with you, going so far as outright making out with you while you were on one of the stationary bikes. 

(The two of you barely made it through the door back up in his apartment before he was fucking you right there on the floor in the entryway.)

And you’ve yet to examine the feeling that stirred in your gut when you found oat milk in his fridge, knowing full well he doesn’t drink it. 

“Oh yeah, almost forgot to tell you. That’s for you, I picked it up the other day. I know you hate using regular milk in your coffee.”

—and the bag of mini dark chocolate bars you spotted in his cabinet last night.

“Yeah, yeah, you were right. Dark chocolate’s better.”

—and the brand-new, full-size bottle of your body wash that was staring you in the face when the two of you climbed into his shower the first morning, a mirror to the tiny travel bottle that you’ve taken to keeping in your purse for accidental sleepovers.

“It doesn’t make sense for you to have to carry soap around in your purse—”

You hadn’t even realized he knew you did that.

And yet now, as your eyes stray to the Christmas tree that sits in the corner of his living room between two large windows that overlook the city below, it’s the sight beneath it that promises to be your undoing.

Nestled between several gifts addressed to his parents and sisters is a box wrapped in gold paper with a blue bow on it. Your name is written carefully in his handwriting on the white tag stuck to the top of it. 

Your heart catches in your throat.

—and oh god you’re going to kick his ass if it’s some stupidly expensive piece of jewelry that he probably didn’t even pick out himself in there, one that’ll make you feel like you’re his even if you’re really not.

And you didn’t even get him anything because this is fucking casual—

“Wanna open it now?” You jump as Oliver’s voice comes up beside you, his chest against your back while he rests his chin on your shoulder.

“It’s not Christmas yet,” you stall, your noses brushing when you turn to look at him, but he spins you back toward the tree. 

“Yeah, I’m too impatient though,” he sighs, his breath hot against the shell of your ear as he reaches past you, arms hugging your sides while he places the package in your hands.

It’s oblong and light.

You’re glad, if nothing else, that he’s not directly facing you to see your uneasy facial expression. Slowly, with the tip of your finger, you begin to peel back the wrapping paper.

White bristles and bright green plastic greet you beneath it.

A toothbrush.

“Be my girlfriend,” Oliver whispers, nose brushing against your cheek. 

You choke out a laugh as your heart swoops. “You got me a toothbrush?”

Girlfriend.

“You would have thought jewelry was a tacky way to ask,” he hums, kissing the corner of your mouth.

You tilt your face into the kiss, murmuring against his mouth, “I didn’t get you anything.”

You almost did.

Several times, actually.

But nothing screams casual hookup gone rogue like a fucking Christmas present—and that was the last thing you wanted him to think.

And yet—

Oliver shrugs, spinning you around and cupping your face, the toothbrush still clutched in your hands. “You’re my gift.”

There’s no hiding the ridiculous smile that creeps across your face as he kisses you, tugging you with him as he walks backward into the couch, pulling you into his lap.

His lips are warm and soft as his mouth engulfs yours, kissing you in a way that you know now is far too familiar to be casual. Far too easy and gentle and intimate as he cups the back of your head and feathers a thumb against your hip bone and nips your bottom lip and laughs and—

He stops kissing you and looks at you seriously. “Oh, I also got you that dough mixer you kept looking at videos of when we were laying in bed that one night, but it’s going to be late because of the storm. I don’t want you to think I actually only got you a toothbrush.”

You blink at him.

“Oliver!”

He grins. “What?”

“I’m leaving right now to get you a gift,” you grouse, trying to hop out of his lap.

The room spins as he lifts you up, and you find yourself caged in beneath him on the couch.

“We’re snowed in,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“I’ll walk,” you frown.

“Nope,” he counters, hands sliding to pin your wrists above your head. “I’ve got the perfect gift already. Have you met my girlfriend yet?”

He reaches down into his pocket to pull out his phone, and you’re met with a photo of you laughing that you hadn’t even realized he took.

And it’s his wallpaper, for fuck’s sake.

Girlfriend.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmurs as he puts down his phone and cups your face, lips brushing against yours. “And smart.” Kiss. “And funny.” Kiss. “And—”

“I didn’t say yes.” 

Oliver stills, blinking several times as he looks down at you with a serious expression.

You roll your eyes as you thread your fingers in his hair and tug his mouth back down against yours.

“Yes.”

A pleased sound of satisfaction rumbles in his throat as his mouth skirts away from your lips, leaving a chaotic, hot, messy trail of kisses across your face, down your neck, across your collarbone—

The smoke alarm goes off somewhere in the kitchen.

[ayumip]

𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

boyfriend!nanami x afab!reader; modern au

word count: 1.5k

mdni, 18+ smut; teasing, oral, overstim, he's pussy drunk (rightfully so), not proofread and probs so many grammatical errors... lmk if im missing anything <3

nanami’s a gentleman, there’s no way around it: he pulls out your chair, letting you sit first during date nights; allows his shoulder to get soaked during rainy days just so you can stay dry; and listens to your rambles despite being tired and on the verge of falling asleep. however, when it comes to his work, he really needs to stop drowning himself in it.

it was late at night, you pried open the door to his office. he was sitting at his desk, unmoving for the past 3 hours, filling out mountains and mountains of documents. 

“ken?” you walked over to him, bringing him a cup of tea.

“yes darling? what is it?” he turned and looked at you with a tired expression, taking a sip of the brewed tea. he looked quite exhausted, his work taking a toll on him. 

“can it wait? i really need to get this done, darling” he said with a sigh, going back to his paperwork, clearly not wanting any distractions as he scanned over the document in his hand.

“can i sit on your lap? please…” you muttered, feeling guilty for distracting him. however, your desire for him, and his touch, outweighed your sense of guilt.

giving you a soft smile, nanami rolled his chair back slightly, patting his lap as a signal for you to come and stay on his lap. making yourself comfortable, you wrapped your arms around his neck as he wrapped one of his around your waist, pulling you closer. he then returned his attention to the papers scattered on his desk. the sounds of pen scratching filled the room as his pen moved across the pages again once more.

as the clock ticks closer to midnight, nanami’s breath hitched as you nuzzled your face against his neck, the warmth of your breath against his skin sent shivers down his spine. he attempted to ignore it, but fuck was it hard. 

“darling— you’re…making it real hard to concentrate…” he muttered, voice slightly strained as he tried his best to suppress whatever desire he had, focusing once again on the work in front of him.

“...ken, baby…take a break…” his heart quickened at the sound of your sweet, enticing whine. it made him feel weak. god, you were irresistible, and you knew that. you, not so subtly, started grinding your hips against him, rolling and pressing your core against his.

“fuck- darling… behave yourself.” he clenched his jaw and let out a low growl, the arm wrapped around your waist tightening his grip on you in an attempt to ground your movements.

you let out a whine as protest. you wanted him, no, you needed him. he’s been so preoccupied with work lately—what about you! he couldn’t help but chuckle softly at your whiny tone. 

“so needy, trying to tempt me? you little minx” he whispered in a teasing voice, his breath hot against your skin whilst tracing small circles on your hip.

“...no…” you retorted, trying to act all innocent; but he knew better.

“no? then how come you’re squirming against me…hmm..?” nanami whispered, trailing kissing along the side of your neck, gently nipping at the sensitive skin.

“thats-!” *you gasped at his ministrations, biting your lip to conceal your sounds as he sucked on your neck, leaving traces behind.

“what’s more important…your work- or me…” you teased back, though instead of sounding bold like you intended, you sounded breathless, needy for more.

how unfair, he thought. it was impossible to resist you if you begged for him like that. 

“you, of course. you always come first — you know that. but, darling, i really need to finish these papers. please, just let me finish these last couple, and then i’m all yours. alright?" he pleaded softly, looking up at you with lust-filled eyes.

“…hmph” you got off his lap and stripped off your dress shirt, well, his to be exact. underneath, you were wearing his favourite set. teasingly, you tossed the dress shirt onto his lap, full of your scent, his favourite perfume, and walked to the door of his home office.

nanami watched intently as you got off his lap. he picked up the shirt on his lap, filling the surrounding air with you, you and you. he let out a frustrated sigh, running his hand through his hair as he leaned back on his chair, his adam’s apple bobbing as he gulped.

“fuck— that’s just not fair…” he muttered to himself as he let his thoughts be consumed by you, and how fucking badly he wants you. he could feel the blood rushing downwards, losing his composure and whatever focus he had left on his work. “you’re playing a dangerous game, darling.”

“your work…or me…~” you looked absolutely sinful, breaking the last bit of resistance and self control nanami had left. all he could think about was you, how badly he wanted to touch you, how badly he wanted to have you. his work could wait, he couldn’t care less. to hell with it.

“you, always you.”

he rose from his chair, papers flying off his desk. in long strides, he made his way to you, pulling you into his arms. his hands roamed over your body hungrily as he kissed you deeply. his tongue explored your mouth passionately, leaving no room for you to breathe. you were kissed breathless.

“ken- bedroom…!” you whined out between kisses, moaning at his taste.

he didn’t need to be told twice. he swooped you up easily, one arm under your thighs as he picked you up bridal style, swiftly carrying you towards the bedroom. he was already so fucking turned on, and seeing you in arms, just made him impossibly harder. he was utterly whipped for you.

once inside, he hastily shut the door, gently laying you down onto the bed. his eyes hungrily roaming over your body. he climbed on top of you, kissing you deeply yet again. he was addicted to your taste, trailing kisses down your neck, claiming every inch of your skin.

“do..you like this new set? just bought it…f’ you…” you bashfully looked away as he chuckled. of course he likes it, he loved it even, it was driving him crazy. the lace of the lingerie hugged your curves perfectly, making you even more alluring to him.

“fuck, darling, i love it…”

“…you’ve worked hard, ken ... have a treat” you murmured, guiding his head down.

nanami let out a low, guttural sound at your words, smirking slightly as his body shuddered with desire at the thought of tasting you. he let you guide his head down, his breath hot against your skin as he pressed soft kisses against your inner thighs.

he sees the wet patch of arousal on your underwear, pressing his finger against it as you moaned from the sensation. he gave an experimental lick before prying the fabric aside, burying his face deeper between your thighs. he lapped up your essence, moaning at the sweet taste against his tongue, his hands gripping your hips tightly to keep you in place.

“oh…f-fuck…” you whimpered out, feeling his tongue swirl and suck at your clit. his fingers grazing up and down your folds before sinking one finger into your core, hitting deeply at your convulsing g-spot perfectly. he knows your body, maybe even better than you do.

“there we go darling…don’t hide yourself…i wanna hear you…” he cooed as you arched your back off the mattress, mewling out desperately as you dug your hands into his hair, pulling him closer. god, you were so responsive to him, and he couldn’t help but to grind his hips into the side of the bed, groaning and moaning into your cunt which sent vibrations, heightening the sensation you were feeling. 

“baby- ‘m close…’m gonna-!” you cried out, grinding your hips upwards. you were gone, and the only thing in your mind was the mind-blowing pleasure your boyfriends was giving you. nanami continued to eat you out like a starving man, snaking his other arm up and towards your tits, caressing your soft mounds and rolling the sensitive nubs between his fingers. 

your hips involuntarily buck upwards into his mouth, searching for more contact, more pleasure. 

“that’s it, darling…let it out-” he groaned as he continued his actions, his tongue gently lapping at your sensitive flesh, eyes fixed upon you as you writhed and trembled under him.

“s-shit- kennn-!...’m cumming…’m cumming~!” you cried out as your vision flashes white, seeing the stars as your climax washes over you in waves. nanami lets out a moan as he feels you shudder and convulse around his fingers, immediately prodding his tongue to drink up all your essence.

it was so messy, his chin covered in your juices as he whispered against your core, voice thick and raspy with pleasure.

“fuck, that was beautiful darling…can you give me one more..?” 

before you could even register, still coming down from your high, he started again, and didn’t stop.

oh, it’ll be a long night.

authors note: i was listening to chase atlantic when i wrote this and i honestly don't even remember what i’m writing. nanami is so ooc here bro hates working overtime but….yeah whatever-

[aurumalatus]

kinich doesn’t even realize how he drives you crazy.

you’re studying together as always, sitting at that one corner table in the library that overlooks the quad—you like the natural light here, while kinich enjoys the solace.

“man, i’m so dead for this exam,” you whine, forehead hitting the table in defeat.

math equations swim in the darkness behind your closed eyelids, a headache pounding somewhere deep in your brain. kinich glances over at you, clicking his tongue.

“come on now,” he says sternly, forcing you to lift your head up. he’s strict with you when it comes to studying, but you know it’s just because he doesn’t want you to fail. “you can do this, just look at number four and tell me what you think.”

begrudingly, you stare down at your textbook with narrowed eyes, dark ink against white pages making your head spin.

“is it…chain rule?” you ask hesitantly, hopefully, glancing to kinich for validation. he smiles slightly, nodding.

“good girl. see, you know what you’re doing,” he replies, patting you on the head teasingly.

it’s like an electric shock. usually, you’d shove him away, but his words stick in your mind.

“w-what?” you splutter, helpless. kinich raises a brow.

“what? i said you’re doing well.”

good girl. even as he returns to his textbook, you’re not sure you’ll ever forget chain rule again. hell, this sole occasion might just have you passing your exam with flying colors.

you sigh, trying to calm your racing heartbeat.

if only he knew.

[ayumip]

𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

boyfriend!nanami x afab!reader; modern au

word count: 1.5k

mdni, 18+ smut; teasing, oral, overstim, he's pussy drunk (rightfully so), not proofread and probs so many grammatical errors... lmk if im missing anything <3

nanami’s a gentleman, there’s no way around it: he pulls out your chair, letting you sit first during date nights; allows his shoulder to get soaked during rainy days just so you can stay dry; and listens to your rambles despite being tired and on the verge of falling asleep. however, when it comes to his work, he really needs to stop drowning himself in it.

it was late at night, you pried open the door to his office. he was sitting at his desk, unmoving for the past 3 hours, filling out mountains and mountains of documents. 

“ken?” you walked over to him, bringing him a cup of tea.

“yes darling? what is it?” he turned and looked at you with a tired expression, taking a sip of the brewed tea. he looked quite exhausted, his work taking a toll on him. 

“can it wait? i really need to get this done, darling” he said with a sigh, going back to his paperwork, clearly not wanting any distractions as he scanned over the document in his hand.

“can i sit on your lap? please…” you muttered, feeling guilty for distracting him. however, your desire for him, and his touch, outweighed your sense of guilt.

giving you a soft smile, nanami rolled his chair back slightly, patting his lap as a signal for you to come and stay on his lap. making yourself comfortable, you wrapped your arms around his neck as he wrapped one of his around your waist, pulling you closer. he then returned his attention to the papers scattered on his desk. the sounds of pen scratching filled the room as his pen moved across the pages again once more.

as the clock ticks closer to midnight, nanami’s breath hitched as you nuzzled your face against his neck, the warmth of your breath against his skin sent shivers down his spine. he attempted to ignore it, but fuck was it hard. 

“darling— you’re…making it real hard to concentrate…” he muttered, voice slightly strained as he tried his best to suppress whatever desire he had, focusing once again on the work in front of him.

“...ken, baby…take a break…” his heart quickened at the sound of your sweet, enticing whine. it made him feel weak. god, you were irresistible, and you knew that. you, not so subtly, started grinding your hips against him, rolling and pressing your core against his.

“fuck- darling… behave yourself.” he clenched his jaw and let out a low growl, the arm wrapped around your waist tightening his grip on you in an attempt to ground your movements.

you let out a whine as protest. you wanted him, no, you needed him. he’s been so preoccupied with work lately—what about you! he couldn’t help but chuckle softly at your whiny tone. 

“so needy, trying to tempt me? you little minx” he whispered in a teasing voice, his breath hot against your skin whilst tracing small circles on your hip.

“...no…” you retorted, trying to act all innocent; but he knew better.

“no? then how come you’re squirming against me…hmm..?” nanami whispered, trailing kissing along the side of your neck, gently nipping at the sensitive skin.

“thats-!” you gasped at his ministrations, biting your lip to conceal your sounds as he sucked on your neck, leaving traces behind.

“what’s more important…your work- or me…” you teased back, though instead of sounding bold like you intended, you sounded breathless, needy for more.

how unfair, he thought. it was impossible to resist you if you begged for him like that. 

“you, of course. you always come first — you know that. but, darling, i really need to finish these papers. please, just let me finish these last couple, and then i’m all yours. alright?" he pleaded softly, looking up at you with lust-filled eyes.

“…hmph” you got off his lap and stripped off your dress shirt, well, his to be exact. underneath, you were wearing his favourite set. teasingly, you tossed the dress shirt onto his lap, full of your scent, his favourite perfume, and walked to the door of his home office.

nanami watched intently as you got off his lap. he picked up the shirt on his lap, filling the surrounding air with you, you and you. he let out a frustrated sigh, running his hand through his hair as he leaned back on his chair, his adam’s apple bobbing as he gulped.

“fuck— that’s just not fair…” he muttered to himself as he let his thoughts be consumed by you, and how fucking badly he wants you. he could feel the blood rushing downwards, losing his composure and whatever focus he had left on his work. “you’re playing a dangerous game, darling.”

“your work…or me…~” you looked absolutely sinful, breaking the last bit of resistance and self control nanami had left. all he could think about was you, how badly he wanted to touch you, how badly he wanted to have you. his work could wait, he couldn’t care less. to hell with it.

“you, always you.”

he rose from his chair, papers flying off his desk. in long strides, he made his way to you, pulling you into his arms. his hands roamed over your body hungrily as he kissed you deeply. his tongue explored your mouth passionately, leaving no room for you to breathe. you were kissed breathless.

“ken- bedroom…!” you whined out between kisses, moaning at his taste.

he didn’t need to be told twice. he swooped you up easily, one arm under your thighs as he picked you up bridal style, swiftly carrying you towards the bedroom. he was already so fucking turned on, and seeing you in arms, just made him impossibly harder. he was utterly whipped for you.

once inside, he hastily shut the door, gently laying you down onto the bed. his eyes hungrily roaming over your body. he climbed on top of you, kissing you deeply yet again. he was addicted to your taste, trailing kisses down your neck, claiming every inch of your skin.

“do..you like this new set? just bought it…f’ you…” you bashfully looked away as he chuckled. of course he likes it, he loved it even, it was driving him crazy. the lace of the lingerie hugged your curves perfectly, making you even more alluring to him.

“fuck, darling, i love it…”

“…you’ve worked hard, ken ... have a treat” you murmured, guiding his head down.

nanami let out a low, guttural sound at your words, smirking slightly as his body shuddered with desire at the thought of tasting you. he let you guide his head down, his breath hot against your skin as he pressed soft kisses against your inner thighs.

he sees the wet patch of arousal on your underwear, pressing his finger against it as you moaned from the sensation. he gave an experimental lick before prying the fabric aside, burying his face deeper between your thighs. he lapped up your essence, moaning at the sweet taste against his tongue, his hands gripping your hips tightly to keep you in place.

“oh…f-fuck…” you whimpered out, feeling his tongue swirl and suck at your clit. his fingers grazing up and down your folds before sinking one finger into your core, hitting deeply at your convulsing g-spot perfectly. he knows your body, maybe even better than you do.

“there we go darling…don’t hide yourself…i wanna hear you…” he cooed as you arched your back off the mattress, mewling out desperately as you dug your hands into his hair, pulling him closer. god, you were so responsive to him, and he couldn’t help but to grind his hips into the side of the bed, groaning and moaning into your cunt which sent vibrations, heightening the sensation you were feeling. 

“baby- ‘m close…’m gonna-!” you cried out, grinding your hips upwards. you were gone, and the only thing in your mind was the mind-blowing pleasure your boyfriends was giving you. nanami continued to eat you out like a starving man, snaking his other arm up and towards your tits, caressing your soft mounds and rolling the sensitive nubs between his fingers. 

your hips involuntarily buck upwards into his mouth, searching for more contact, more pleasure. 

“that’s it, darling…let it out-” he groaned as he continued his actions, his tongue gently lapping at your sensitive flesh, eyes fixed upon you as you writhed and trembled under him.

“s-shit- kennn-!...’m cumming…’m cumming~!” you cried out as your vision flashes white, seeing the stars as your climax washes over you in waves. nanami lets out a moan as he feels you shudder and convulse around his fingers, immediately prodding his tongue to drink up all your essence.

it was so messy, his chin covered in your juices as he whispered against your core, voice thick and raspy with pleasure.

“fuck, that was beautiful darling…can you give me one more..?” 

before you could even register, still coming down from your high, he started again, and didn’t stop.

oh, it’ll be a long night.

authors note: i was listening to chase atlantic when i wrote this and i honestly don't even remember what i’m writing. nanami is so ooc here bro hates working overtime but….yeah whatever-

[aurumalatus]

two.

a short series in which you share a multitude of kisses with childhood friends to lovers!kinich over your lifetime.

your bedroom feels overwhelmingly hot.

the a/c is on, you know because your curtains are billowing from the cool air pooling from the vent underneath them. summers are always this warm, when the humidity grows high and sweat sticks to your skin in layers.

kinich is laying on your bed, fanning himself with a stray magazine he had plucked from your nightstand. on days like these, it's too hot for you to even make the walk to the park down the street, or to the skatepark. you'd be drowning in sweat before you made it there, you're sure.

"so you've never kissed anyone?"

you don't even really remember how the conversation started. all you know is that the two of you had been talking about things you'd never done before, and you'd arrived at this. the girls in the locker room had been discussing it—their first kiss—including who it was with and what it was like.

the mere thought makes you gnaw at your lip, tension filling the room.

"...have you?" you reply, glancing over to your best friend. he doesn't seem nearly as bothered by the subject matter as you are.

"nope. i don't really care though," he sighs, which is so typical of him, you think. unlike you, kinich cares very little what the other kids in your grade think of him.

but you care, and you're starting to worry that you're falling behind in that...developmental area. you've managed to deflect any questions about the topic from the other girls in your class, but you fear that you won't be able to keep it up for long.

kinich sits up, shuffling forward on your bed to stare at where you sit on the ground. his gaze is inquisitive, and you suddenly feel very vulnerable.

"but let me guess," he starts, tossing his makeshift fan aside, "you care."

as always, he has you all figured out. after a moment of hesitation, you nod.

"i do. i know it's lame, but i feel like the other girls will think i'm..."

"a prude?"

you sigh. "something like that."

another moment passes before kinich is crawling off the bed, sitting cross-legged before you. his proximity makes the heat worse, but you don't hate it.

"alright," he shrugs, scooting closer. "then i'll kiss you, and you can tell everyone it was me."

you flinch in alarm, head knocking against the drawer of your wooden dresser. kinich's eyes widen, hands already outstretched toward you, but you interrupt him with your own spluttering.

"wh-what?! what are you talking about? you can't just do that!"

he tilts his head. "why not? is it because you're embarrassed for it to be me?"

"no!" you defend instantly. you'd never be embarrassed to be around kinich. "but...don't you want it to be with a girl you actually like?"

"i do like you."

you shake your head. you know what he means, but you were implying a different kind of like. still, the thought of sharing your first kiss with kinich isn't...awful. it's a bit comforting to share it with someone you trust, even moreso when you know that he hasn't done it before either.

finally, after thinking on it a bit more, you nod firmly.

"okay."

kinich raises a brow. "okay?"

and then he's leaning in, and you don't know whether to close your eyes or leave them open. you're trying to remember every teen romance movie you've ever watched after your mother went to bed, but your memory fails you. but he's already so close, and you rush forward a little too fast and—

your lips bump together clumsily, and you wince at the feeling. it's weird, certainly, and you're honestly not sure if you're doing it right at all. you can feel kinich's lashes brushing against your skin, and the feeling makes you shiver.

it's chaste, so brief that it's over before it even really registers in your mind that it happened. your mind is racing by the time kinich pulls away, and you find yourself meeting his eyes far too quickly.

his gaze is warm. "that okay?"

you nod, wondering what the blooming feeling in your chest could mean.

"yeah," you reply, swallowing thickly. "it was okay."

[ayumip]

THIS IS SO CUTE RAHHHHH