i cba to write revs and sort them out but in general they're good at what they do (fluff, angst, otherwise), imo peak characterization and usually slightly pretty poetic??? writing idk bro these are just straight fire and perfect like pizza the godliest most amazing divine food to bless anyone with taste buds are.
kagehina
no time for rewrites (we couldn't help it) by akaashism (acciomerlin)
Twenty Five Years by versteckt
shoulder surfing emleewrites
The Fish Who Swallowed the Sun by awesomecookies
Lucky again by akaashism (acciomerlin)
saudade, until that day by nightrou
iwaoi
everywhere i go (leads me back to you) by emso
tejano blue by miylei
Muse by KingsHighway
most people never even get a single highschool rival by sulfate
Undecipherable by ioo
to be first, to be best by kittebasu [ listen, I know this is like the second biggest fic but i had to okay ]
misc
campfire in your chest by deanpendragon (tsukkiyama - i also know this is popular but it's too peak)
you'd fit my lonely arms so perfectly by boxofwonder (daisuga)
and flowers bloom in his wake by kythen (kurodai?)
fucking you like a pro while talking business - gojo’s definition of multitasking. (18+)
your cheek is mashed into the sheets, drool wetting the fabric and his cock is splitting you open - hard, deep strokes that make the slick between your thighs obscene.
every thrust drives you up the bed, your pussy gripping so tight he hisses through his teeth, but his voice stays maddeningly even into the phone.
“yeah, nanamin, i’ll be there. don’t worry about it.”
he drags out slowly, lets you feel the stretch, then slams back in, the slap of skin loud enough you’re shocked nanami can’t hear it, your nails scrape the mattress - back arching, but he just presses your hips down harder and keeps his rhythm cruel and steady.
“uh-huh. no, no, i’ve got it - relax,” he chuckles into the receiver, like he’s not pounding your cunt mercilessly while your walls flutter around him.
his angle’s insanely perfect - hitting that spot inside that makes your eyes roll back, keeps fucking you like he’s got all the time in the world, as if breaking you apart is second nature to him. his free hand grips the back of your neck, forcing your face deeper into the pillows.
“you’re dripping all over me, baby. pathetic,” he murmurs just for you, hips rutting harder, cock hammering into you until every breath is a broken moan - while he’s still talking business like you’re not coming undone underneath him.
your body jolts when he adjusts his stance, spreading your legs wider and driving even deeper, his dick punching your cervix with brutal precision.
your pussy gushes around him, messy and loud - that's when he tilts the phone slightly away from his mouth, whispering against your ear, “hear that? that’s the sound of me ruining you while i’m working. can’t even keep quiet for me, can you?”
he grinds in to the hilt, forces you to take every thick inch, then pulls out just to slap his cock against your soaked folds before shoving it back inside with a wet - lewd squelch.
his pace picks up - sharp.
cock bullying your walls while his voice stays calm, conversational. the cruel contrast makes you sob into the sheets, every sound muffled as he fucks you like he owns you and still doesn’t miss a beat of his phone call.
nanami’s hearing everything but choosing to ignore it - the next six months of his life are probably ruined.
synopsis : your custom PC keeps crashing at the worst possible times. after one too many blue screens, you’re forced to call the quiet but ridiculously talented tech nerd from your coding class to come fix it in your dorm. satoru shows up, gets to work, and accidentally stumbles across your very organized, very specific collection of porn. instead of pretending he didn’t see anything, he starts coming back. again and again. every visit the teasing gets heavier, the tension thicker, and it becomes harder to pretend you don’t want him to do something about it.
from mara ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ hiiii sorry i procrastinated so bad on this one 😭😭 but i really hope yall will like it !! art by inkyck on ig.
⋮ ⌗ series masterlist
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the saturday afternoon shift wants you dead, and it isn’t interested in mercy.
it’s a slow-burn execution, the kind that gnaws at your bones from the inside out—a drip-feed of iced caramel lattes and tragic custom matchas, every ticket a new scar carved in patience. you lose little pieces of yourself to each person who slides up to the counter and starts with, “this might sound complicated, but—”
it always sounds complicated. it’s always worse.
the campus café is packed, overstuffed, bodies jammed at every table, a sea of laptops and students slouched and hollow-eyed, faces lit by screens and the cold realization that nothing in the syllabus was ever optional. the air is thick, suffocating, a churn of espresso, scorched milk, the ghost of cinnamon powder still hanging from a spill no one ever cleaned. grinders scream; cups clatter; the printer spits out order after order, little coiled paper threats stacking up, curling at the corners like they’re about to bare teeth.
your apron’s wrecked. no clean spot left.
chocolate syrup streaks your wrist, your hair slipping out of its clip in tired, sticky strands, a few more every hour. your left shoe squeaks when you pivot, sharp and plaintive, like some wounded, exhausted dog toy warning everyone you’re coming through.
there’s nothing in your system but four hours of sleep and half a granola bar.
and somehow, even now, you’re still thinking about satoru.
not on purpose. never on purpose.
you would like that noted for the record.
you’re not standing behind the counter sighing wistfully into the milk pitcher or drawing hearts around his name on discarded receipts. you’re not wondering what he is doing. you’re not replaying the night he appeared at your dorm in the rain, dripping and smug and apparently willing to cross campus at six in the morning for the privilege of annoying you in person.
you are merely experiencing a recurring neurological malfunction.
that is different.
every so often, usually while your hands are busy and your defenses are down, a piece of him surfaces without permission. wet white hair stuck to his forehead. blue eyes in the ugly hallway light. the flash drive held between his fingers. the way he had looked past you into your room and said your pc stayed on all night like the sentence contained some joke you had not been given access to.
sweet dreams. don’t think about me too hard.
the memory hits out of nowhere, right as you’re guiding steamed milk into a paper cup, and your hand jolts, just enough to collapse the foam—a shimmering cloud, ruined in one quick spasm.
“shit,” you hiss under your breath.
the customer lifts his gaze, slow, blinking sleep from his eyes as if the noise yanked him to shore. all hunched over his phone, until now.
“not you,” you blurt, heartbeat spiking, “the milk.”
his eyes drop to the cup. waiting.
yours follow. the foam has gone wild, whorled and furious, like a weather map on the verge of warning.
you push the cup across the counter, steady. “abstract art,” you say, mouth curling around the words. “people pay a lot for this in the right gallery.”
for a second, it’s just your hands, the cup, the dazed flecks of foam. then he laughs, sudden and sharp, and you catch his smile and toss it back, because that’s what you do here. you smile; you make sorrys bloom like flowers in winter. you wish a good day on people who wouldn’t know one if it knocked their teeth loose. exhaustion gets sugared into charm, caffeine pulverized into rent money, and the whole thing runs on the fragile, splintering scaffold of your last unbroken nerve.
the bell over the café door rings again.
you do not look up.
“welcome in,” you call automatically, reaching for the next ticket. “i’ll be with you in just a second.”
“take your time.”
your fingers stop.
not dramatically. not enough for anyone else to notice. just a tiny pause in the motion of reaching for a cup, the kind of interruption that lasts less than a heartbeat but somehow contains an entire systems failure inside it.
you know that voice.
you look up.
satoru stands just inside the doorway with his hands buried in the pocket of a black hoodie, because apparently he owns no other kind of clothing and has committed to making that everyone else’s problem. his hair is dry today, soft and disordered around his forehead like he has been pushing his hands through it. a pair of thin-framed glasses sits low on his nose, catching the pale afternoon light from the windows and briefly hiding his eyes until he tilts his head.
there they are.
bright. blue. already amused.
he looks completely at ease, as though he has always spent his saturday afternoons standing in your workplace watching you struggle with industrial coffee equipment. as though this is a normal place for him to be. as though the universe has not spent the last week rearranging itself around his increasingly inconvenient presence.
your stomach drops.
then lifts.
then, apparently unable to choose a direction, folds in on itself.
you narrow your eyes. “what are you doing here?”
his eyebrows rise.
“wow,” he says. “and here i thought customer service was your passion.”
“it ended ten minutes ago.”
“tragic.” he steps forward as the line shuffles forward, gaze dragging over you with the deliberate patience of someone letting themselves linger, not in any hurry to hide it, though his face stays the same easy tilt. your apron’s askew. sleeves shoved up. hair stuck to your cheek where you can’t see it, and a sticky smear of syrup dark against your wrist. “you look busy.”
“very observant.”
“one of my many gifts.”
you reach for a new cup, grab it harder than you need to, hoping he notices. “what do you want?”
“coffee.”
“there are seven cafés on campus.”
“this one has the best atmosphere.”
behind him, somebody drops a fork, the metal clatter cutting through the constant drone. a blender screams. your coworker is fighting with a customer, voice sharp, arguing about oat milk and nut allergies. it all swirls together, background noise, but you keep staring at him.
he just smiles, shameless, hands tucked in his coat like he owns the place.
“right,” you say, flat. “the atmosphere.”
“and the service.” his gaze stays locked on your face, eyes dark and unblinking, like he’s been waiting all day just to get this close. “i’ve heard good things.”
heat crawls up the back of your neck, sharp and immediate—a flush that prickles under your collar, threatening to burn all the way to your cheeks.
you drop your eyes to the register, fingers stiff on the buttons, refusing to give him more than you have to. “order.”
“you’re not going to ask about my day?”
“no.”
“what if it’s been really hard?”
“then caffeine won’t fix your personality,” you shoot back, voice flat.
his smile sharpens, teeth catching on the inside of his lip, almost like he’s savoring it.
and there it is, again—the spark; that flash of satisfaction in his eyes, bright and hungry, feeding on every ounce of irritation you throw at him. like your pushback is the whole reason he shows up here, again and again, as if your annoyance is something he wants to wear home.
you hate that you see it. hate more that it’s starting to feel good, giving it to him.
“large vanilla latte,” he says, smirk curling at the edges. “extra shot.”
“hot or iced?”
he leans in, lowering his voice just enough for the words to touch your skin. “which one do you think suits me?”
you look him over, deliberately this time. let your gaze travel from the pale hair to the dark hoodie to the long frame taking up too much space at the front of your line. his expression shifts by less than an inch, but you catch it—the way his shoulders settle, the way his eyes sharpen behind the glasses when he realizes you are actually looking.
good. let him wonder.
you tilt your head, eyes narrowing. “depends.”
he grins, a slow, liquid thing that fills every inch of space between you. “on?”
“some people are iced coffee on the outside, hot on the inside. some people are the reverse.” you say it flat, like you’re reading off a label, but it lands heavy. “others just melt when you watch them long enough.”
his smile splits wider, teeth catching his lower lip. “and which one am i?”
“room temperature tap water,” you decide.
he laughs, low and out of nowhere—it rakes right through you, humiliatingly efficient.
“hot,” he says. “make it sweet.”
“of course.”
he squints, not quite suspicion, but close enough. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“nothing,” you say, deadpan. “okay, so hot it is.”
he laughs, low and delighted, and it slides straight into your bones, fraying your last nerve. “you think it’s a bold choice?”
“not really,” you shoot back. “you’re the least subtle person alive.”
he shrugs, all easy confidence, but there’s an edge to his voice now, a flinty glint that wasn’t there before. “sometimes it works.”
“sometimes it’s pathetic.”
“but memorable,” he says, and it shouldn’t sound like a threat, but it does.
you slide the cup under the espresso spout and punch in the order, trying to keep your fingers from shaking. it’s stupid—he’s just a guy in a hoodie with a too-bright laugh and a face like a hand grenade. you work with caffeine. you know how to handle volatile substances. but every time you check, he’s there, eyes locked on you, smiling like he just figured something out.
you look up, and he’s resting his chin on his hands, staring with all the patience of someone who has nothing better to do than watch you work for the rest of the day.
“don’t you have, like, somewhere to be?” you mutter.
“i’m exactly where i want to be,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, as if he isn’t escalating this on purpose, as if you can’t feel your own pulse where the words hit.
behind him, the line grows, but it’s full of regulars and stragglers, people who take one look at satoru and decide they can wait. maybe they don’t want to get in the middle of whatever this is, or maybe they’re just afraid of the way he takes up space, folds the whole room toward him with nothing but a gaze.
“hm.” you tap the order into the register, not missing a beat. “name?”
he leans in, elbow braced against the counter. like he owns the space. like you’re supposed to know.
“you forgot it already?”
you hold his gaze, smile sharp and customer-service bright.
“sorry,” you say, soft as whipped cream. “have we met?”
for a second, everything stalls. a split-second freeze, like a system choking on bad input. the kind of glitch nobody else would notice, but you do.
then he grins—the kind of slow curve that means trouble.
“satoru,” he says. quieter. “but you can write whatever you want.”
you take the marker.
you spell nuisance in brutal block letters, each stroke an accusation across the smooth white of his cup. his eyes track the marker, hungry, waiting for the reveal.
“cute,” he murmurs, like he means it. like he’s already decided you are.
“four seventy-five.”
he taps his phone to the reader, never blinking. the machine sings its approval—a sound too eager—and you turn to the espresso machine to break the stare, but his voice doesn’t let go.
“we should talk about the project too.”
you glance back, sharp, like you missed a trick. “what project?”
“the systems architecture assignment.” his voice is low, almost intimate, threading right through the hum of the café, slicing through the noise like it’s all just white static. you freeze, your hands dumb against the espresso spout, the entire line fading to grayscale, the only color left the electric, recursive blue of satoru’s eyes behind the glass.
“we’re not partners.” you spit the words out, flat. desperate. you don’t mean to sound that wrecked, but it’s like the syllables catch on his name, on the unavoidable memory of how it sounds at six a.m. in your doorway, his hair dripping, a deranged smile pixelating the whole hallway.
he doesn’t even flinch. just tips his head, smiling, like this is all running perfectly according to some fucked-up operating system only he can see.
“not yet.”
the cup in your hand nearly slips. you grip it harder, the cardboard digging into your palm, a little bit of heat bleeding through. your brain executes a hard pause, freezes the frame. there’s zero chance he did this without scheming. not with that look on his face—the look of a tab open in the background, chewing up all your RAM, refusing to close.
“what did you do?”
he shrugs. “nothing.”
liar. if you had a virus scanner for this conversation, it’d be screaming.
you glare. “satoru.”
he looks so happy it’s nearly obscene. “i merely pointed out to professor yaga that both of our current partners are statistically likely to tank our grades.”
the words linger, sticky as syrup. you can tell he’s rehearsed this, deadpan with a twist, like he’s talking to a camera, not you. you imagine him typing the email, eyes narrowed at his screen, composing and deleting sentences with surgical precision. you kind of want to see his drafts. you kind of want to smash his phone.
“you’re lying.”
he’s not, though. you can see it in the way his lips twitch, almost like he’s trying not to laugh. he wants you to ask. he wants you to care.
you don’t. you absolutely don’t.
(you do.)
“i don’t work well with idiots,” he says, voice pitched for you alone, though the line is moving, and people are watching, and your coworker is already glaring, and you should care, you should, but all you can see is the way he’s leaning just a little closer, crowding the space across the counter as if there’s only two people here and everyone else is just noise on a corrupted zoom call. “and neither do you.”
“i’m fine.” you hiss it, softer than you mean to. “my partner’s not that bad.”
“she hasn’t answered your last three dms,” he says, and the words hit like a privacy breach, slicing right through your firewall. “or your email. or your follow-up, which was honestly a little desperate.”
you want to die. you want to delete this moment and empty the recycle bin.
“were you checking my messages?”
his smile sharpens. “nah, i’d never do something like that.”
he says it like he wasn’t actively harvesting everything you did, like he wasn’t logging your every move, like his own obsession is just passive observation, some screen recording set to auto-run.
“that’s not normal.”
he shrugs, casual, like stalking you is just another app running in the background. “no one on this campus is normal.”
“oh, and you’re so special.” you whisper, rolling your eyes.
“you noticed.” the words slick right off his tongue. “anyway, i fixed it. i’m your problem now.”
your head spins. you want to argue but you can’t even get the words to buffer, not with the way he’s looking at you. it’s not just that he’s pretty. it’s the focus. the intensity. like he’s running a process in the background, a recursive function, eating up cycles and memory until there’s nothing left but him.
you hate it. you crave it.
the cup in your hand is half-finished. you realize you’ve been holding it too long, steam curling up to vanish in the brutal overhead lighting. it’s waiting for you to do something.
you line it up under the nozzle and pull the shot, hands moving automatically, like you’re running a macro on muscle memory. satoru watches, unblinking, as if you’re typing passwords in plain sight, as if he already knows every shortcut you’re about to use.
“you’re staring,” you say, not looking up.
“so are you.”
you don’t respond. you fill the cup, careful, a perfect meniscus of chemical tan and white; you even nail the foam this time, a spiral that doesn’t collapse, a subtle flex you hope he notices. you cap it. slide it across the counter. it nearly brushes his fingers.
he doesn’t move, not yet. just leaves it there, like he wants you to touch first. like he likes the idea of your hands on the same object, your fingerprints overlapping, invisible and sticky.
“room temperature tap water,” he murmurs, reading the label under his breath. “cold.”
“it’s hot,” you snap, a little mean, because he’s annoying, because he’s right.
he grins. “i thought you liked it that way too.”
someone in line coughs. the girl behind him pretends not to hear, but you know she’s listening, you know the whole café is registering this as drama, file saved, ready to get gossiped in the group chat before you even clock out. you ignore them. you only have bandwidth for satoru, anyway.
“i’m pretty sure you don’t even like sweet coffee,” you say, shifting the focus. “you take your drinks black.”
he lifts the cup, brings it to his mouth but pauses, eyes flicking up. “but you’re the one making it.”
the words are a direct connection, a local area network right to your nervous system.
“what’s that supposed to mean?”
he smiles, slow. “means i trust your hands.”
the heat in your chest spikes, a cpu-fan whine that drowns out every other sensation. you wish someone would unplug you and put you to sleep.
“this is harassment,” you say, flat.
“is i?,” he smiles, looking right back at you.
you almost choke. “you’re deranged.”
“but effective, c’mon don’t deny it.”
he takes a sip, lips brushing the lid, and he doesn’t break eye contact. doesn’t even blink. like he wants you to watch him taste it, like he’s waiting for your reaction.
“it’s good,” he says, and the approval in his voice is a fucking software patch for your brain.
you’re not grateful. you feel nothing. you hate him.
you love that he noticed.
you reach for the next ticket, try to process the line, but all you can see is the curve of his mouth around the lid, the way his hand cradles the cup, fingers long and precise, like he could break it in a second if he wanted. you imagine him doing that, just snapping the cardboard, letting the coffee pour down his wrist.
you hate that you want to see it happen.
you push out two more orders, fast, not even bothering with microfoam or latte art, just raw execution, get it done, get him out of your system. but he doesn’t move. just slides over to the end of the bar, settles in beside the hand-off area, and watches you work.
his eyes track every motion, every time you reach and pivot, every time you bite down on a smile and force something like customer service through your teeth. he watches you like a fucking stream, face illuminated by the blue light of your exhaustion, his own drink untouched, cooling.
the silence between orders is full of static, his gaze a constant ping on your network. you want to block him. you want to trace the route and find out what server he’s logged into.
finally, when the line is down to one, the café a little emptier, he speaks.
“so, the project.”
you scowl. “i’m not working with you.”
“professor yaga says otherwise,” he says, smug. “he replied to my email at, like, 1 a.m. guy is a machine.”
you shouldn’t care. you shouldn’t even be surprised. yaga hates low-effort partnerships, hates groups that drag down the curve. if satoru made it look like you were suffering, like you were getting sabotage’d by your last partner…
you narrow your eyes. “you faked evidence, didn’t you.”
“not faked. just…highlighted.”
“satoru.”
he raises his hands, mock-innocent, but the edge to his smirk is lethal. “i cc’d you on the thread, check your inbox.”
you do, immediately, even though you know you shouldn’t. even though it’s pathetic. you pop the gmail tab open on your phone, thumb hovering. sure enough, right at the top, flagged urgent: satoru gojo, professor yaga, and you.
the subject line is a war crime.
“urgent: partner reassignment - group 7 / systems architecture.”
your last desperate attempt to get your old partner to do literally anything.
satoru highlighted every typo, every ghosted message, every missed deadline.
he included a chart.
you want to die. you want to crawl through the ethernet and throttle him.
but you can’t argue with the data set. it’s brutal. it’s honest. it’s… almost caring.
your insides twist.
he leans in, voice dipping, so it’s just for you. “see? told you i could fix it.”
“you made me look desperate,” you hiss, cheeks burning.
“you are desperate,” he shoots back, not even sorry. “for a good grade. for a competent partner. for someone who actually shows up.”
he doesn’t say for me, but you hear it, threaded in the source code of his tone.
your throat is tight. you look down at your phone, pretend to be angry, but mostly you’re just floored by how thorough he was. how obsessed.
a digital stalker. a data fiend. you shouldn’t be flattered but you are, a little. nobody’s ever cared about your fucking project management skills before.
“you’re a freak,” you mutter.
his grin is blinding. “so you keep telling me.”
you should focus on your job. you should ignore him. but he’s like a push notification you can’t mute, a banner ad that follows you across every site, no matter how many times you click close.
you’re halfway through making a matcha for some girl in a “girlboss” tote when he pipes up again.
“so, when do you want to start?”
“never.”
“tonight?”
you nearly drop the pitcher. “no.”
he shrugs, like he expected that. “monday, then.”
you don’t answer. you’re not going to reward him. you’re not going to give him the satisfaction.
(but you already know you’ll be there. you already know you’ll show up. you already know you’ve lost.)
you finish the matcha, hands shaking, and slide it across to the next customer. you can feel satoru watching, cataloguing every fumble, every spill, every time your lips twist like you’re fighting not to smile.
he eats it up. you can see it on his face. his brain is running a process called “watch her malfunction,” and it’s all green lights, no errors, full speed ahead.
his own drink is half gone. you didn’t even see him take another sip.
you wonder if he even wanted the coffee, or if all he wanted was to see you make it.
the clock above the register ticks. you’re almost done. almost free. just a handful of orders left before you can go home and log off and maybe, maybe, erase the memory of this conversation.
but you know you won’t. you already know you’ll replay it a thousand times, every line, every stutter in the feed, every time he looked at you like you were the only thing worth watching.
and the worst part is—you are. you’re worth watching. it’s hell. it’s dopamine and dread, spiking and crashing, never enough. you feel him even when he’s not there, a notification ping in your nervous system, a background process you can’t kill.
he leaves after you clock out, like he’s synced to your schedule, like he only exists when you do. you catch him in the glass door, a reflection layered over the ruined counter, his hoodie catching on the light, eyes cut sharp and blue even from thirty feet away.
you wonder if it’s a glitch. you wonder if you’re hallucinating, running low on power, rendering him where he shouldn’t be.
but it’s not a bug. it’s just him.
he doesn’t look away. not even when your hands shake, not even when you punch out, not even when you duck behind the espresso bar and try to fix your hair, scrubbing at your face, trying to wipe some of the day off.
he stands there until you step outside, like he’s waiting for an update, like your presence is the last patch that’ll make his day run.
“i’m not walking you home,” he says, voice dry, but he falls into step beside you anyway, hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie, like he’s got something to hide.
“never said you would.”
“i’m kidding.”
— ⋆˚꩜｡ּ —
you want to ignore him, but he’s not ignorable. he takes up bandwidth just by existing beside you. it’s not the way he walks, either. it’s something else, some kind of field, like a magnetic force that fucks with your operating system. your steps sync up. you lag behind; he slows to match. you pick up the pace; he pretends he’s not matching you, but you know he is.
the walk back should be awkward, but it’s not. not really. it’s just a hum of anticipation, the question of what happens next hanging in the air, a cursor blinking, waiting for input.
you don’t say anything. neither does he.
but you feel it.
the whole way up the stairs, the whole way down your hallway, his presence compressing everything, shrinking the world down to just the two of you, the way it always does.
he almost follows you to your door. almost, but not quite. he pauses, just a meter away, like he’s hit a digital fence, like this is the part where he’s supposed to say goodnight.
he does, but it’s not that simple.
“don’t stay up all night,” satoru murmurs, voice low, private, a direct message straight to your core. “you’ll ruin your eyes.”
“maybe i like it that way.”
he grins, sharp and glitchy. “figures.”
there’s a beat where he just stands there, watching you type in your door code, like he’s memorizing the movement, like he could brute-force your password if he wanted. you don’t doubt it. you don’t doubt anything about him, not anymore.
you shut the door in his face.
it doesn’t help.
he’s still there, in your head, in the way your fingers tremble when you boot your pc, in the way your notifications display his name at the top of the thread, blue and relentless. every time you refresh, he’s right there, like he’s watching your screen from the other side.
the night drags on, all static and jittery energy. you eat cold leftovers, scroll through memes, pretend you’re not waiting for him to ping you. you queue up your favorite playlist, shuffle it for chaos, but every song just makes you think of him, the way he crowd-controls every room, the way he says your name like it’s a command prompt.
you try to sleep.
you can’t.
your dreams are a feed, endless, recursive, blue eyes and glitching smiles and the memory of his fingers tracing the smooth cardboard curve of the cup you made for him. your brain replays it, over and over, a highlight reel of every time he looked at you like you were the only thing on the screen.
you wake up sticky with sweat, your heart hammering, your phone lighting up with a new notification.
it’s him.
of course it is.
a link, no context, just a timestamped highlight from a systems architecture thread. you’re not even awake enough to process it, but you click anyway, because you always do. the video loads—a screen recording, a bug report about the project.
you can’t tell if it’s sweet or psychotic.
maybe it’s both.
you leave him on read for five minutes, just to punish him, just to prove you’re not as desperate as he is.
it doesn’t work. the urge to reply chews through your resolve like malware.
you: are you stalking me
satoru: what if i am?
you: stop being weird
satoru: okay
satoru: you looked cute yesterday
there’s a photo attached this time.
not of your face, not even really of you, just your hand on the espresso machine, chocolate syrup streaked across your knuckles, a sharp blur of movement as you jam the lever down. the focus is fucked—it’s obvious he was trying to be subtle, but the implication is brutal.
he’s always watching.
your pulse stutters. you type, then delete, then type again.
you: you’re a freak
satoru: not denying it
satoru: if you want me to stop, tell me
like he’s giving you an opt-out button, like you’re in control, even though you both know you aren’t. the idea that you could tell him to stop is a joke, a punchline with teeth.
you don’t reply.
you last until midnight.
it’s pathetic, really. you tell yourself you’re just tired, overcaffeinated, brain fried from too many back-to-back shifts and too many group chat notifications. but the second you hit the lights and let your laptop flicker to life, you know there’s no one to blame but you.
the screen washes your body in ice-blue, flattening all your edges. the text on your syllabus blurs. you don’t retain a single word. you refresh your inbox, you load up a new tab and open your favorite trashy forum, like you’re just going through the motions, like you’re not hoping to see something that’ll short out your nerves.
it’s not enough. nothing is.
your body’s a mess of static and anticipation, overloaded from a day of him watching, talking, bantering like some fucked-up mating ritual you didn’t know you’d signed up for. it lingers under your skin, nestles in the marrow of your bones, that memory of his gaze spiking your dopamine all shift long.
you can’t stop replaying it. the way he looked at you. the way his voice tuned itself to your frequency, low, private, making the world narrow to just the two of you. the way you wanted him to notice your hands, your hair, the syrup dripping down your wrist, even the way you fumbled his drink.
— ⋆˚꩜｡ּ —
satoru stares at the cursor. it blinks once, twice, a steady pulse inside the empty search bar—the only sign of life in a wasteland of blue light and cluttered tabs, windows layered over each other like lost intentions. nothing moves, nothing breathes, except that tiny vertical line, flickering, demanding input.
you curl in front of the screen, one knee tight to your chest, that loose shirt drooping off your shoulder, like you can’t be bothered to pull it back up. tired, restless, body language spelling out a silent agitation you don’t seem to notice. but he does. every twitch, every little fidget, satoru takes it in, turning them over in his head like evidence for a case only he understands.
the hidden window is open on his monitor. again. he’s staring at it, the guilt sharp as teeth, but his finger hovers over the red X anyway, pretending this time he’ll actually stop. pretending it’s that easy. just one click and he’s the kind of guy who messed up, not the kind still fucking up in real time.
he almost does it. cursor right there, mouse tensed, like a breath held in his lungs. he should close it. simple. neat. forgettable.
then you shift in your chair.
your thighs press together.
his whole body freezes, hand going slack on the mouse.
“fuck,” he breathes, so quiet it barely stirs the air.
the word barely exists. just breath shaped into something ugly.
his room is dark except for the pale light bleeding off his screens, carving sharp shadows beneath his cheekbones and turning his hair silver-blue at the edges. three monitors glow across his desk. lines of code on one. the architecture assignment on another.
you on the third.
you rub at your eyes, frustrated, then let your head fall back against the chair. your throat stretches. your lips part around a quiet sigh he cannot hear because he disabled the microphone access after the first night.
as though that makes any of this better.
as though taking away the sound transforms surveillance into restraint.
satoru leans closer.
his glasses have started slipping down his nose. he pushes them back with one finger, gaze never leaving the feed.
you open another tab.
his hand drops from the mouse to his thigh, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweatpants. the pressure is immediate, grounding for less than a second before it becomes the opposite. every nerve catches. every thought narrows.
you.
your hands around the coffee cup.
your glare across the counter.
the chocolate syrup streaked over your knuckles.
the picture saved in his phone.
the folders he found the first night.
the things you watched.
the things you wanted.
information reorganizes itself inside his head, no longer harmless data but a blueprint, every search and pause and restless shift filling in another line.
his palm moves once over the fabric.
on-screen, you have no idea anything has changed. you are still staring at the blank search bar, chewing absently at the inside of your cheek, one hand disappearing beneath the desk only to tug your shirt lower over your thighs.
satoru’s breath catches.
his fingers tighten.
one version of him still believes there is a difference between watching and touching. between wanting and taking. between a private thought and a violation.
the other version knows he erased that difference the moment he installed the access point.
you do not know how close he is to becoming exactly the kind of person you already accuse him of being.
a freak.
a stalker.
your problem.
the last one should not make heat crawl down his spine.
it does.
satoru closes his eyes. this time, he’s told himself he’s not gonna run away.
for a beat, the imprint lingers: your face washed in monitor-glow, mouth slack with exhaustion, thighs pressed tight beneath the desk—a snapshot pinned behind his eyelids, clear and illicit as raw data.
his body moves before his mind can catch up.
his eyes snap open.
his hand leaves. not gently; the motion sharp, almost punishing, a severed circuit. he clamps onto the desk instead, knuckles gone pale, breath leaking out between his teeth in a hiss. restraint doesn’t feel clean or noble; it’s more like wrenching a live wire from a socket, the muscles in his forearm jumping with the effort.
you don’t know you’re being watched.
that fact alone should make him feel better, safer, more in control of the situation—but it doesn’t. not really. not with the way his body hums, static stuck beneath his skin, every nerve ending spitting sparks from the leftover adrenaline of the day.
your brain is a hive of glitchy code and leftover milk foam, hands still sticky from sugar syrup and the echo of satoru’s voice in your ear.
the room is silent except for your pc fans, whirring louder than they need to, a kind of white noise you let wash over you. you’ve lost time again, hours leaking out of the night like steam from a kettle. the only light comes from your monitor, bleaching all the color from your body, making your skin look ghost-pale and fake. you drag a palm over your face, chasing away the shine of exhaustion, but it lingers, fingerprints smudged across your cheek.
you’re not thinking about him. you’re not. you’re thinking about the project, about the unread emails, about the way your old partner never replied and how satoru just… stepped in. like it was nothing. like he was always meant to do it.
there’s a pulse in your thighs. an ache low in your stomach. you pretend it’s just nerves, just brain chemicals gone haywire from too much caffeine and not enough sleep, but when your hand drifts to the hem of your shirt, you don’t stop it.
you pull your legs up, curling yourself tighter into the chair. fabric rides up, exposing bare skin to the chill. you shiver, but don’t bother fixing it. your focus is shot, a tangle of overlapping windows and file directories, nothing loading properly. you try to work, really, but you keep refreshing your inbox, flicking to the discord thread where his name glows at the top.
he hasn’t messaged in an hour.
that should feel like relief. it doesn’t. it just leaves you raw and hungry, waiting for the next notification, the next ping of attention. it’s pathetic. you can feel the word in your mouth, bitter and mean.
maybe you are. maybe you like it this way.
fingers tap restless on the keyboard, then fall away. your hand drops to your thigh, nails digging into the skin just above your knee. you squeeze, hard enough to leave a mark, just to see how it feels.
it’s not enough.
it never is.
you tell yourself you’re just bored. just tired. that if you touch yourself, it’s for stress relief, nothing else—not because you’re thinking about the way he looked at you over the counter, the way his eyes tracked every move, the way his voice got low and private, like he was whispering straight into your skull.
you angle the chair, just a little, so you’re facing the desk instead of the door. your other hand drops from the mouse to your lap, thumb brushing over the line of your panties, the thin cotton suddenly too hot, too constricting.
you slip your fingers beneath the band. drag them slow, letting the fabric snap against your skin. it stings, sharp and sweet, and the shock sends a little shiver up your spine.
on the other side of the glass, satoru loses his mind quietly, efficiently, like a program running in silent mode.
he sees everything.
he’s seen everything, the access point tucked into your machine like a secret, a worm burrowed deep in the kernel. he tells himself it’s just for safety, just for fun, just to prove a point—but the truth is uglier than any excuse. the truth is a live feed, 1080p, you illuminated by the blue-white of your screen, thighs spread and slick, fingers working frantically under the desk.
he’s not supposed to see this.
he’s not supposed to want this.
but he watches anyway.
he’s breathless, every muscle in his body locked tight, hand squeezing his own cock so hard it hurts, like the pain might keep him from coming too fast. it doesn’t. not even close. the sight of you is enough to fry every circuit in his brain, to turn him into something glitchy and animal, obsessed and unashamed.
he jerks himself off to the rhythm of your movements, palm sliding rough and desperate, hips stuttering every time your fingers disappear between your legs. he wants to hear you. wants to know what sounds you’re making. wants to be there, kneeling on the floor, mouth open, waiting for you to let him taste.
he doesn’t even make it to the end of your orgasm before he’s coming, sharp and sudden, biting down on his knuckles to kill the sound. it doesn’t help. the noise that escapes is pathetic, raw, a choked whimper he’d never let anyone else hear.
cum spatters his hand, his shirt, dripping down in thin, sticky lines. he watches you ride it out, milking yourself through every twitch and tremor, and the sight almost makes him hard again, a second spike building under his skin.
he wipes himself off, not caring about the mess, attention glued to the feed as you slump in the chair, ruined and spent. your chest heaves. your cheeks are flushed. you look soft, vulnerable, the kind of soft he wants to break open and keep for himself.
he wonders if you’d hate him for this. if you’d block him, press charges, change your passwords and never speak to him again.
he wonders if you’d want him to watch.
he wants to message you. wants to tease, to ask what you’re doing, to see how you’ll lie. but he waits, discipline burning under his skin, refusing to be the first to break.
— ⋆˚꩜｡ּ —
the thought of satoru makes your cunt clench, a weak after-tremor, slick pooling under your ass as you squirm in the chair. you pull your hand out from under your panties and wipe it on your thigh, not caring that it leaves a streak, not caring about anything except the low, gnawing ache that hasn’t gone away, not really.
he fans in your pc ramp up, loud enough to vibrate the surface of your desk. there’s nothing running. just chrome. just discord. just your email and a handful of tabs you don’t even care about. you open task manager on autopilot, because you know your own build, you know when it’s running hot, and this is wrong, this is background activity chewing cpu for no reason.
the process isn’t even subtle. it’s just sitting there, “winhost32.exe,” using up a fat chunk of memory and a casual stream of bandwidth. you google it. top result is reddit, someone asking if it’s a virus. the answer is just “system service. safe to leave alone.”
you leave it alone.
you close task manager and pretend it’s not weird. you pretend you’re not weird, sitting half-naked in your desk chair at 1 am., your hand sticky and your head full of a guy who treats obsession like a full-time job. you pretend there’s a version of you that doesn’t want to be watched, doesn’t want to be noticed, doesn’t want to be the fucking main character of someone’s private highlight reel.
there’s not.
you log off, but you don’t actually go to bed. you just flick off the overhead light and crawl under your blanket, phone clutched in your hand, the glow of the screen bathing your chest in pale blue. you scroll, mindless, hungry, thumb twitching on the refresh even though nothing new has come in.
you still send one message, though.
you : wtf is winhost32?
thank you for reading! taglist is open, comment if you want to be added!
Exam stress leads to a late night horny decision. Everything is going great, until the guy in the video starts sounding a little too familiar
part 1 here! . part 2 here! . part 3 here! . part 4 here! part 5 here!
cr: 3vangel1ne_ on X
Before you read, I’m going to be completely honest: this was barely proofread. Sorry in advance! I’ll go back and edit it later if I find any typos
If you like listening to music while reading, I recommend this!
-
“Were you filming yourself while thinking about me, Satoru?”
The words hit him like a punch to the chest, knocking the air out of his lungs.
His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he was certain you could hear it. His mouth went dry instantly. Between the two of you, the phone screen glowed like a live grenade on the coffee table; his own wrecked, pathetic voice still spilling from the speakers, mocking him with every confession.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He wanted to disappear. He wanted the floor to open and swallow him whole. He wanted to grab the phone and throw it out the window. Or throw himself out the window. But the worst part — the most humiliating, soul-crushing part — was that he was already getting hard again. A slow, shameful throb in his sweatpants, triggered simply by the way you were looking at him.
“I…” His voice cracked immediately. He swallowed but his throat was tight with rising panic. He forced himself to look at you.
Big mistake.
You were sitting on his couch like you belonged there, legs crossed, watching him systematically fall apart with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher.
You reached forward and tapped the screen, silencing the video. The sudden quiet was deafening. The absence of his own moans left only the sound of his ragged breathing and the frantic beating of his heart.
“You what, Satoru?” you asked, your voice deceptively soft.
The heat crawled up his neck, burning his ears a deep, painful crimson. He could feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck. His mind was a storm of static and shame.
She knows.
She knows I came in my pants like a pathetic loser in that hallway.
She heard me begging.
She knows I’ve been jerking off to her for months while pretending to be normal in class.
She knows exactly how disgusting I am.
“I—Yes” he whispered finally. The word tasted like surrender. He dragged a hand through his messy white hair, pulling at the roots as if he could yank the thoughts right out of his brain.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of you, but the image of you was burned into his retinas. When he opened them, you were still there. Still watching. Still judging.
“I tried to stop,” he continued, his voice dropping to a low, fractured mutter. “After the first time, I—no. Fuck. That sounds like an excuse. I’m just making it worse.”
His cock twitched traitorously against the cloth, a sharp, stinging reminder of how badly he wanted to be at your feet. He shifted in the chair, a futile attempt to hide it, though he knew with agonizing certainty that you had noticed. He looked up, his blue eyes glassy, shimmering with a desperate vulnerability.
“I’m sorry” he muttered “I know how fucked up this is. You must think I’m disgusting. Some creep who’s been jerking off to you for months while borrowing your notes like nothing was wrong.”
The silence that followed was torture. Every second stretched painfully. His pulse thundered in his ears. He felt stripped bare, raw, and completely at your mercy. And, in a way that made him hate himself even more, he found that he absolutely craved the feeling.
He swallowed hard, his throat clicking, his gaze dropping to his lap where the bulge in his pants was becoming impossible to ignore. He felt so exposed it was killing him.
“I’ll delete the channel,” he said, the words tumbling out of him, desperate and jagged. He looked up again, his eyes wide and pleading, searching yours for any sign of mercy. “I’ll delete everything. All of it. Just… please, don’t hate me.”
He waited for the rejection. He braced himself for you to stand up, to leave, to call him a freak—anything would have been easier than this terrifying, steady gaze of yours.
“No” you tilted your head “That would be such a waste, don’t you think?”
His brain short-circuited.
For a second he just stared at you, lips parted, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. The words didn’t compute at first. His heart was hammering so violently he felt dizzy.
She said… waste?
A violent shiver ran down his spine. His cock, already half-hard and traitorously interested, gave a full twitch inside his sweatpants. He hated how his body reacted before his brain could even process it.
“You…” His voice came out hoarse, almost broken. “W-What?”
Inside his head, the thoughts were screaming.
She knows everything. She saw me crying in the shower like a pathetic whore begging for her. She heard me say I wanted her to sit on my face in the hallway. And she’s saying it would be a waste to delete it?
Heat flooded his face so intensely he was sure he looked feverish. Shame burned through him, thick and nauseating, but underneath it — god, underneath it — there was a sick, desperate spark of hope. Of want.
You stood up slowly.
His breath caught in his throat as he watched you rise from the couch. You rounded the coffee table, and instinctively, he turned in his chair to keep you in sight. By the time you stopped in front of him, towering over his seated form, he had to tilt his head back to meet your eyes.
You leaned down, one hand resting lightly on the back of his neck. Your breath ghosted on the other side of his head, just against his ear
“You’ve spent so much time performing for me, Satoru,” you whispered, voice velvety. “Begging for me in front of a camera…”
He leaned forward slightly, almost unconsciously, like his body was begging to get closer to you.
You continued, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“Don’t you think it’s time you do it in my face?”
Then you slowly pulled back. His heart dropped as you walked around the coffee table and sat down on the couch again, facing him directly. The distance felt both relieving and agonizing.
Your gaze dropped for a second to his lap, then back up to his face. You bit your lip.
“Show me” you said quietly.
Satoru’s brain malfunctioned.
“W-what…?”
“Touch yourself,” you said. “Right now. In front of me. And tell me everything you’ve been thinking about when you do it.”
The room spun.
Satoru stared at you, mouth dry, heart thundering so hard he felt dizzy. He looked at you with wide, glassy eyes — desperate, ashamed, and so painfully turned on it hurt.
“I’ve been watching your videos for the last two weeks, Satoru,” you said, voice steady and clear. “Touching myself while listening to you moan. Cumming harder than I ever have in my life. I’ve been driving myself crazy thinking you were talking about some other girl. And I suffered because of it.” You leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on his. “So now you’re going to touch yourself in front of me. Right now.”
Satoru’s brain imploded.
She… subscribed?
The realization hit him like a freight train. All this time… you had been there. His mouth fell open. His eyes widened in pure, devastating shock.
It was you.
The question about the molecule on his hoodie. The way you suggested vancomycin for the project without hesitation.
You had known for weeks. And instead of exposing him or hating him… you had been getting off to it.
He didn’t even have time to process it when you spoke again
“Touch. Yourself” you commanded, your voice cutting through his stupor like a whip.
He didn't need to be told a third time. His obedience was instantaneous, a desperate reflex born from the knowledge that you had seen every pathetic, broken moment of his obsession. With fingers that felt thick and clumsy with adrenaline, he untied the drawstring of his sweatpants.
The moment he freed himself, his flushed, aching cock sprang out, heavy and leaking at the tip. He looked up at you, pupils blown wide with shame and lust, silently begging for any sign of mercy.
But what he found was far worse.
You were biting your lip, eyes dark and fixed on his cock, as if the sight genuinely delighted you.
That was enough. A broken whimper tore from his throat before he could stop it. His hand finally wrapped around his throbbing length, and the first stroke pulled another pathetic sound out of him, his head dropping forward, white hair falling over his eyes and the thin frame of his glasses as he tried to hide from your gaze.
“Look at me” your voice was calm but firm. “If you had no problem saying those filthy things on camera while thinking about me, then you can say them to my face, Satoru.”
Satoru let out a shaky, humiliated sob. Slowly, he lifted his head, forcing himself to meet your eyes.
His hand started moving, slow and trembling.
“I… every time you walked into class…” he whispered, voice cracking, “I couldn’t stop staring at your legs… fuck— I kept imagining them wrapped around my head…”
“Faster.”
Satoru whimpered and obeyed instantly, his hand speeding up.
“Your face… You’re so pretty— ahh— I’d cum thinking about you looking down at me while I eat you out…”
“Slow down.”
He let out a desperate noise but obeyed, slowing his strokes to a torturous pace, hips twitching helplessly.
“I thought about your tits constantly… how soft they’d feel… how much I wanted to bury my face between them and suck on them until my tongue gets sore…”
“Squeeze the head” you murmured.
Satoru gasped sharply, thumb pressing over the sensitive head on every upstroke, precum dripping over his fingers.
“I kept wondering if you— fuck— if it would’ve fit…”
“Faster again. Keep going.”
His hand immediately picked up speed, strokes becoming frantic.
“Your voice… how smart you are… the way you explain things in class like it’s nothing, it— it turned me on so much”
His thighs were shaking now. He was dangerously close.
“And your perfume… I could smell it every time you walked past me… it made me so fucking hard I wanted to drop to my knees and bury my face between your legs right there— Fuck— I can’t—”
“Stop, Satoru.”
The command hit him like a bucket of ice water.
He let out a broken, pained whimper. His hand froze around his throbbing cock, right on the edge. Every muscle in his body tensed as he fought the overwhelming urge to keep going. His hips twitched desperately, trying to chase the friction, but he forced himself to stay still. Tears slipped down his flushed cheeks. The effort was inhuman. His cock pulsed angrily in his hand, leaking steadily, begging for release.
You stood up slowly. Satoru stayed exactly where he was, hand still wrapped around himself, trembling violently as he fought not to cum. He watched you kick the small coffee table aside with a harsh scrape. Then you stepped between his spread knees, towering over him.
Gently, you slid his glasses off his face and perched them atop his messy white hair before leaning down until your faces were only inches apart.
“Cum” you whispered against his lips.
Then you kissed him.
The contact was the final spark on a fuse. He let out a wrecked, muffled moan directly into your mouth. Thick, heavy ropes of cum spilled over his hand and onto his hoodie in powerful, uncontrollable spurts. His whole body shook violently as he kissed you back with desperate need, whimpering and whining against your lips with every pulse.
When the last spasm finally faded, you pulled back slightly. You lowered his glasses back onto his nose with careful fingers. He could barely focus — his vision was blurry, his mind completely blank.
“You don’t know how much I want to fuck you Satoru…” you murmured, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “All I want is to sink down on your cock right here… but you’ve been a really bad boy.”
Satoru let out a broken, needy moan at your words. The confession hit him like a punch to the gut. You wanted him. You actually wanted to fuck him. The thought made his spent cock twitch weakly in his hand.
“So we’re going to do this slowly,” you whispered, your thumb stroking his bottom lip. “And you’ll be rewarded like the good boy I know you can be. Yeah?”
He could only nod weakly, completely fucked out. His mind was blank, his body still trembling, eyes glassy with exhaustion and overwhelming emotion.
You straightened up, gave him one final look, and turned around, leaving him there — hand still weakly wrapped around his spent cock, covered in his own mess, completely ruined.
—
Leaving Satoru’s dorm took far more self-control than you expected. The second the door clicked shut behind you, your legs felt weak. You leaned against the wall in the hallway for a moment, heart still racing, thighs pressed together as you tried to calm the throbbing between them.
Sitting in front of him, you realized that the camera had done him zero justice. In person he was so much thicker, longer and prettier, with veins that mapped all his length in beautiful lines. The memory of how that thick, pulsing length felt in your mind, and the impossible size of him made your stomach drop. You could almost feel the phantom of his cock opening you up, the exquisite, sharp pain of being filled by someone who wanted you that badly.
And you had made him cum just from your voice and a kiss.
The memory made your mouth water like a bitch in heat.
By the time you reached your dorm, you were so soaked it was uncomfortable. You locked the door, stripped down to nothing, and touched yourself furiously on your bed, replaying the sounds he made when he came — those broken, desperate whimpers right against your lips. You came twice that night thinking about him, no video needed.
The next day in class, when you saw him walk in wearing that stupid vancomycin hoodie, you were fighting for your life.
You wanted to drag him into the nearest empty classroom and ride him so hard neither of you could walk for days. You wanted to push him against the wall and take that thick, heavy cock in your mouth, feeling his hands tangle in your hair while you worked him until his knees buckled. You wanted to hear him lose his mind, to make him beg, to hear the exact moment your name turned into a plea.
But you held back.
You wanted him desperate. You wanted him to be just as hollowed out and starving as you had been, shivering in your bed while you watched his videos, consumed by the agonizing, burning jealousy of wondering who else he was touching himself for.
So you stayed cruel.
You ignored the way he looked at you in the hallways with those big, pleading blue eyes. You ignored how he seemed to hover near your usual seat, body language practically screaming for a sign, for a touch, for a reason to snap. Every time you walked past him, feeling his gaze tracking you, you tightened your thighs, reminded of how easily you could break him.
The days dragged on like that. Torture for both of you.
Until Friday night, when you finally picked up your phone and typed the message.
Tomorrow 6pm? For the project. My dorm.
You hit send. Then you watched the little typing… bubble appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Disappear again.
Nearly a minute passed before your phone buzzed.
I’ll be there
—
By the time Satoru knocked on your door at 6pm on Saturday, you had already decided how the night was going to go.
You opened the door wearing nothing but a thin white tank top with no bra and tiny black pajama shorts. The moment he saw you, his eyes widened, dropping straight to your chest, then to your bare thighs. He swallowed hard.
“Come in” you said calmly, stepping aside.
He walked into your dorm like he was entering sacred ground. His eyes darted around — the desk covered in notes, the photos on the wall.
He looked nervous. And it was endearing.
For the first hour, you actually made him work. You explained papers, pointed at diagrams, asked him questions. He tried his best to focus, but you could see the way his eyes kept drifting to your chest, the way he shifted uncomfortably every few minutes.
You loved how hard he was trying.
You leaned in closer, pressing your soft tits against his arm as you pointed at something on the laptop.
“You’re doing so good, Toru…” you murmured near his ear. “Keeping focused even though you’re already so hard for me.”
He let out a shaky breath, the little nickname breaking something inside him.
You kept teasing him like that — small touches, pressing your body against him, whispering praise while talking about the project. By the time you finally closed the laptop, he was breathing heavily, cheeks flushed, cock visibly straining against his sweatpants.
“Come with me?” you said softly.
You led him into your bedroom, the air suddenly thick and stifling. The only light came from your bedside lamp, casting shadows across the sheets—the very same sheets you’d ruined yourself on multiple times watching him.
Satoru stood in the center of the room, looking like a man standing on the edge of a cliff desperate to jump.
“Close the door, Satoru” you said
He obeyed instantly, the click of the lock sounding like a gavel. He turned back to you, his blue eyes blown wide, searching your face behind his glasses.
“You haven’t said a word since you got here, aside from chem stuff” you remarked, stepping closer. “Are you enjoying the torture? Is that what this is for you?”
“It—It’s not torture,” he rasped, his voice rough “I just— I can’t breathe. I’ve been thinking about you all day, all week”
You stopped right in front of him, looking up at his tall frame.
“Tell me, Satoru…” you said softly, reaching up to brush your fingers along his jaw. “What do you want to do to me? Say it.”
He swallowed hard, struggling to get the words out.
“I… I want to drop to my knees and bury my face between your legs,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I want to taste you until you’re pulling my hair and telling me I’m doing good”
He was breathing faster now, clearly humiliated by his own honesty, but he kept going.
“I want to feel how tight you are around me. I want to hear you moan my name while I fill you up…”
His voice cracked at the end, eyes dropping to the floor in embarrassment.
You smiled softly, heart racing with satisfaction. Without saying anything, you turned around and walked slowly toward your nightstand, giving him a perfect view of your ass in those tiny shorts.
“And what do you want to do to my pussy, mmh?” you asked over your shoulder
You opened the drawer and retrieved your new toy—thick, realistic, and a little oversized. You’d bought it with one purpose in mind: to stretch yourself out until you could finally handle him
You turned around, holding the toy in your hand, and climbed onto the bed. You sat against the headboard, legs slightly parted, and looked at him.
Satoru’s eyes were glued to the dildo. His mouth was open, cheeks burning red. He looked completely overwhelmed.
With your eyes fixed on him, you hooked your thumb into the waistband of your shorts and panties, sliding them down your legs in one smooth motion. You tossed them aside and spread your legs slowly, exposing your glistening pussy to him.
You extended the dildo toward him.
“Come show me,” you said softly, voice dripping with need. “Show me exactly what you want to do to me, Satoru.”
Satoru froze. For several long seconds he just stared, completely stunned. His mouth fell open slightly, blue eyes wide behind his glasses as they raked over your body — your nipples hardening through the thin tank top, your spread thighs, your wet, shiny pussy right in front of him.
He had spent months fantasizing about this exact moment. Months touching himself while imagining you like this. And now it was real.
He crawled between your legs like he was in a trance, breathing ragged and uneven.
“Fuck…” he whispered, almost to himself. His glasses slipped slightly down his nose as he leaned in closer, eyes glued to your dripping entrance. “You’re too beautiful, I’m going to die”
His hand trembled violently as he took the dildo from you.
“Stop waiting for permission Satoru” you groaned, impatient “Show me how badly you want to be inside me“
He obeyed, pressing the thick head of the toy against your folds, rubbing it up and down slowly, coating it with your slick. His breath hitched every time he felt how wet you were.
You moaned softly.
“Put it in” you encouraged.
He slowly pushed the tip inside you. The sight of your pussy stretching around the toy made him let out a broken, needy moan.
“Oh my god…” he breathed, voice wrecked. “You’re so wet…”
He started thrusting the dildo slowly, almost reverently, his eyes never leaving the point where it disappeared inside you. He reached out with his free hand, resting his palm gently against your thigh.
“You’re doing so good,” you murmured, rolling your hips to meet his movements. “Fuck— this is not even as big as you… You’re going to fucking rip me up, won’t you?”
Satoru whimpered loudly, pushing the toy deeper.
“I want to…” he confessed, voice trembling but growing bolder with every thrust. “I want to stretch you open so bad… I want to feel how tight you’d be around my cock… I’ve jerked off so many times imagining how you’d squeeze me…”
His strokes became more confident. The shame was still there, burning on his cheeks, but the hunger was winning. He was getting lost in the sight of you.
You moaned louder, one hand reaching down to rub your clit.
“Faster” you breathed “Show me how you’d ruin me.”
He complied instantly , fucking you with the dildo harder, eyes glassy behind his glasses as he watched every inch slide in and out of you.
“You’re so wet…” he whispered, almost in awe. “I can hear how soaked you are… I want to bury my cock inside you so bad… I want to feel you clench around me while I fill you up.”
After a few minutes, you looked at him with dark, hungry eyes.
“You can touch yourself,” you said. “Stroke that big cock while you fuck me with the toy.”
Satoru didn’t hesitate. He pushed his pants down with his free hand and wrapped his fingers around his throbbing cock, stroking himself in time with the thrusts of the dildo.
“Fuck— you’re so tight…” he groaned, eyes flicking between your pussy and your face. “I don’t know how I’m going to fit —ahh—but I want to try so bad. I want to stretch you open until you’re —fuck—crying my name”
Satoru’s breath hitched, his strokes growing erratic and desperate.
You reached up, threading your fingers into his snowy hair and yanking him down into a fierce, messy kiss, swallowing his broken moans as your tongue claimed his mouth. He melted instantly, letting you lead, his strokes turning sloppy and frantic as he fucked you with the toy exactly how you wanted.
The coil inside you snapped first. You cried out against his lips, thighs trembling as your orgasm ripped through you, clenching hard around the dildo while pleasure flooded your body.
The moment you started cumming, Satoru broke.
“Mmph—!” His muffled whine vibrated against your mouth as his whole body jerked. Thick, warm spurts of cum spilled over his fingers and onto your stomach while he kept desperately kissing you back, needy and sloppy, like he couldn’t bear to pull away even while he was falling apart. His hips stuttered, hand still weakly pumping his cock through the orgasm, completely lost in you.
When you finally let him breathe, he was panting heavily, cheeks flushed deep red, lips swollen and shiny. His forehead dropped against your neck, hot and shaky breaths fanning over your skin.
You were still coming down from your high, gently stroking his hair, when you felt it — something warm and wet against your collarbone.
You blinked, tilting your head slightly.
He tried to hide it by pressing his face harder into your neck, but his shoulders were trembling and little sniffles kept escaping him.
He was crying. The realization made you start to panic.
“Satoru, no—I’m s—”
“God—” he choked out “That was the best thing I’ve ever experienced in my life.”
You buried your face in your hand, his breath still lingering against your neck.
Now, you were the one who was truly fucked.
You finally got a taste... you can’t say I’m edging you anymore LOL 😭
Reblogs are sooo appreciated
part 7 coming soon !
masterlist
Exam stress leads to a late night horny decision. Everything is going great, until the guy in the video starts sounding a little too familiar
part 1 here! . part 2 here! . part 3 here! . part 4 here!
cr: 3vangel1ne_ on X
If you like listening to music while reading, I recommend this!
-
You woke up the next morning with a dull pounding in your skull and your mouth painfully dry. For one merciful second, your mind was blissfully blank. Then the memories crashed over you all at once.
The dimly lit hallway.
Satoru’s tall frame pressed back against the wall.
The broken whimper that escaped his lips when your mouth found his neck.
Your own lips still felt faintly swollen, as if you could still taste the warmth of his skin—sweet, soft, and addictive. Between your thighs, a traitorous heat lingered at the mere recollection of his hardness pressing against you.
The memory refused to leave you. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw his flushed face—lips swollen, eyes wide with shock and something dangerously close to desperate want.
But it was the scent that haunted you the most. He smelled so good—deliciously masculine, soft, and unmistakably him. And now, as you lay in bed, the faint trace of his cologne still clung to your skin, inextricably entwined with your favorite vanilla fragrance.
By the time you dragged yourself to the small breakfast counter in your dorm, guilt twisted sharply in your stomach making it impossible to eat. The jealousy that had fueled your drunken courage the night before now felt pathetic and ugly in the daylight.
The chat with Satoru had been open for nearly thirty minutes. The cursor blinked mockingly at the end of another half-written message you’d already deleted twice.
Hey, about last night…
Delete.
I’m really sorry. I’ll finish the project, you won’t have to see me anymore.
Delete.
Satoru, I need to tell you something important. I know about your channel. I’m not going to tell anyone, I swear. I just—
You stopped.
How the hell were you supposed to explain this without sounding like a complete stalker? Hey! I’ve been getting off to your videos while pretending I didn’t know it was you and then I basically attacked your neck cause the real thing was too much to resist?
You groaned, burying your face in your arms on the counter. He hadn’t texted you either. But what were you expecting him to do anyway? After what you’d done, he was probably avoiding you cause he thought you were insane.
“Fuck” you muttered.
By the afternoon, the guilt had become unbearable. You still hadn’t texted him, instead, you forced yourself to open the shared document for the chemistry project. You tried to work for a while, adding a few clumsy notes and sources, but every sentence felt forced and meaningless.
Shoko texted asking how you were feeling. You replied with a vague “hungover af, but alive” and quickly ignored her follow-up asking if you’d talked to “pretty eyes” yet.
Eventually you gave up on the document, flopping onto your bed, grabbing your phone to try and write an apology one last time.
Hey. About last night… I’m really sorry. I was way too drunk and I shouldn’t have done that. Can we still work on the project? I promise I’ll keep things professional.
You didn’t send that one either. Professional. As if you hadn’t left hickeys on his neck and felt him hard against your stomach while he whimpered into your mouth.
You realized then that you were terrified of the silence between you. If you sent that message, you would be forcing him to acknowledge what happened, and you weren’t sure you could handle his rejection—or worse, his pity. You just couldn’t do it.
You were just about to lock your phone when a notification banner slid down from the top of the screen.
⤷ blues.g uploaded a new video! 2 min ago
You knew you were a hypocrite. A massive one. You’d spent the entire day feeling guilty, writing fifty different apologies, and yet, here you were—thumb pressing on the notification before your brain could talk you out of it
There was no title. Just a short description: from last night.
The video started abruptly.
The camera was propped up on the sink, slightly crooked, as if he had thrown it there in a rush. Steam already filled the bathroom. Satoru stepped straight into the shower, fully naked, and the water crashed down on him immediately. His face was out of frame, but the water ran down his abs and over his impossibly hard cock.
He didn’t tease. There was none of his usual slow, shy build-up.
This was pure desperation.
His large hand wrapped around his throbbing cock and he started stroking immediately — fast, rough, almost punishing. The wet, obscene sounds of his fist flying over slick skin were loud even over the running water.
“Fuck…” he groaned, voice already wrecked. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
His hand moved frantically, squeezing tight, thumb pressing hard against the sensitive head every time he stroked upward. Precum mixed with the water, making everything look deliciously slippery.
“I accepted that—fuck—invitation cause I knew you were going to be there…” he panted as hips jerking forward into his fist. “I hate these things but I just wanted to see you.”
His strokes became even faster, almost angry.
“I was trying to make up my mind to send you a text….something I would never do anyway —ahh—fuck—but then you show up in front of me looking like the prettiest fucking angel I’ve ever seen in my life and I completely forgot how to function”
His voice cracked beautifully as he twisted his wrist on the upstroke. A broken whimper escaped him, high and needy.
“I know you were drunk… I know it didn’t mean anything to you. You weren’t thinking straight, but I… fuck—”
He was breathing hard now, almost sobbing between words. He fucked his fist harder, hips snapping forward desperately. Water ran down his toned abs and over his throbbing length as he squeezed tighter.
“I can’t stop thinking about it. That vanilla is like a fucking drug. I can still smell it on my skin. You smelled so fucking good.” he whispered the last word as he leaned his forearm against the tiled wall for support “Your lips were so soft and wet… you tasted like alcohol and sweetness and I— ahh— I got so fucking hard it hurt. I came in my pants like a desperate loser. I couldn’t even move. Just sat there on the floor with your lipstick on my neck and my pants ruined like a pathetic puppy.”
A particularly filthy moan tore out of him. The camera caught everything: the way his heavy cock throbbed in his hand, the way his abs clenched, the way his knees almost buckled.
“I’m so fucking pathetic for you…” he whimpered, voice hoarse and trembling. “And I know it was nothing to you, but to me— fuck, to me it was everything. I wanted to beg you to keep going. I wanted you to push me down, sit on my face, use my cock however you wanted. I would’ve let you ride me right there in that hallway”
He let out a ragged, shuddering breath, his head dropping.
“I wanted to cry after you left. I sat on the floor with cum in my pants and still got hard again ten minutes later just thinking about your tits pressed against me” He let out another filthy, desperate moan “—fuck—I wanted to grab them so fucking bad, wanted to bury my face between them and suck on them—ahh— please… even if you regret it, even if I’m just a mistake, use me. I don’t care how pathetic I sound. I’ll whimper and beg and cum all over myself every time you want. Just— fuck— just let me have something.”
He was stroking so fast now the motion was almost blurry. His balls were drawn up tight, cock swollen and dark.
“I’m gonna— I’m gonna cum— fuck—!”
A loud, broken cry ripped out of him as thick, powerful ropes of cum shot against the shower wall. He kept stroking through it, moaning shamelessly, body jerking with every spurt. There was so much that even with the water running, it dripped down the tiles in messy streaks.
He stayed there for a long moment afterward, breathing hard, forehead pressed against the tile, water cascading over his trembling figure.
Then, almost like he suddenly remembered the camera existed, he reached out with a wet, shaky hand and stopped the recording.
You sat there in silence for a second, heart hammering against your ribs.
The screen went black, leaving you staring at your own reflection. Your breath was shallow, your heart still racing, and the air around you felt thick with the heavy, lingering presence of Satoru’s confession.
He’s talking about me.
The realization slammed into you with dizzying force.
You’d spent the whole day torturing yourself, convinced you’d crossed an unforgivable line by watching his content and then kissing him. Meanwhile, Satoru had an entire secret porn channel dedicated to jerking off and whimpering for you.
And last night, after what happened at the party, he had run straight home and broken down in the shower once again because of you.
The irony hit so hard you almost laughed, except the sound came out as a shaky exhale. For a long moment you just sat there, chest heaving, panties soaked and thighs pressed together.
Suddenly, all the guilt transformed into something hot and sharp in your chest.
Power.
This shy, sweet boy who blushed when you looked at him had been secretly obsessed with you. Filming himself falling apart for you. Begging the camera for you.
And now you knew.
A part of you wanted to close the app, to preserve the sanctity of what you’d just witnessed, but the need to see how the world reacted to your boy was too strong to ignore. You tapped it.
You read through them, a wave of possessiveness washing over you, layering itself onto that newfound sense of power.
You didn’t need to watch any more. You had seen enough. The adrenaline thrumming beneath your skin had shifted into something else entirely, no longer fueled by the video itself, but by the idea already taking shape in your mind.
Without another thought, you opened your messages and typed:
Cho. I need a favor.
—
The hallway outside room 127 smelled faintly of instant ramen and laundry detergent. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you stood outside Satoru's door, your fist hovering in the air for a split second before you finally knocked.
The lock clicked.
Satoru looked exhausted. His white hair was a mess, as though he'd been dragging his hands through it for hours. Dark shadows sat beneath his eyes, and an oversized black hoodie swallowed his frame. His blue eyes widened when they landed on you.
“Can I come in?” you asked.
He swallowed, then stepped aside without a word.
The apartment was quiet. The small living room was neat enough to look recently cleaned, yet something about it still felt lived in—a mug abandoned on the table, the white hoodie tossed over the arm of the couch, the faint scent of coffee still hanging in the air.
Satoru hovered awkwardly by the kitchen counter.
“You can... sit.”
You lowered yourself onto one end of the couch.
He remained standing for another second before sitting on the chair opposite you, hands resting on his knees, unable to meet your eyes for more than a moment.
“Do you want anything? Water? Tea...?”
You shook your head.
“No.”
Silence settled between you, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was suffocating.
Satoru’s knee bounced almost imperceptibly. His fingers twisted together before he forced them apart again.
Every few seconds, he'd glance at you, only to look away the instant your eyes met.
You reached into your pocket without saying a word.
Unlocked your phone.
Opened the video.
Then, leaning forward, you placed it face-up on the coffee table between you and gently slid it across until it stopped in front of him.
He frowned, then looked down. The moment he recognized what was on the screen, every trace of color vanished from his face.
The video replayed from where you’d left it paused.
The shower. His voice. His hand.
Slowly—almost fearfully—his gaze lifted to yours. His expression was pure panic.
You held his eyes for a long moment before finally speaking.
“Were you filming yourself while thinking about me, Satoru?”
the song that started playing in my head after the ending
1- I'm sorry
2- bro is so famous he got 248 likes in like 10 minutes
3- that ""smau"" took SO long to make. I hated every second of it. it doesn't make ANY SENSE but I needed to do it.
4- actually I'm not sorry
Reblogs are sooo appreciated
part 6 here !
masterlist
Exam stress leads to a late night horny decision. Everything is going great, until the guy in the video starts sounding a little too familiar
part 2 here!
CW: NSFW. Masturbation. Watching porn.
cr: 3vangel1ne_ on X
You were sprawled on your bed, laptop glowing in the dark dorm room, fingers lazily scrolling through video after video.
It was one of those nights—stress from exams, and a long day of pretending not to stare at that tall, white-haired nerd from your chemistry class who always claimed the front row. The one with the quiet voice who answered questions with effortless precision while wearing the same white oversized hoodie every class.
The hoodie that somehow made his broad shoulders look even wider, the fabric hanging loose on his lean frame. You had spent far too many lectures tracing the strange structural formula printed across its back with your eyes, wondering what molecule it represented and why it suited him so perfectly.
The memory of him leaning over to borrow your notes earlier that day, offering that soft, shy smile, had lingered. Combined with the crushing stress of exams, it naturally led you to a late-night horniness that had you deep in the tags until one thumbnail catched your eye. A lean, pale torso filled the frame, a large hand wrapped around an absolutely obscene cock. The title was simple: “Needy boy whimpering.”
Below it, the description read: If you want more content, please consider subscribing. I’m a broke uni student 🙏🏻 Thank you!
You smiled faintly. It sounded so polite, almost shy, despite the filthy image attached to it. Without thinking twice, you clicked.
The video opened in a dimly lit room. The guy was already flushed, sitting on the edge of a messy bed with his long legs spread wide. His face remained carefully out of frame, but the camera angle gave a perfect, shameless view of his toned body. His abs were faintly defined, his skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat. One large hand was slowly stroking his thick, veiny length, the head flushed dark and already leaking precum that caught the low light with every lazy pass of his fingers.
A soft, breathy whimper floated through your headphones as his thumb circled the tip.
“F-fuck… ahh—”
Your breath hitched. That voice. Sweet, boyish, and trembling with need. It sounded painfully familiar, the same voice you had heard muttering answers under his breath during lectures.
No. You were imagining it. You had to be. You were just that desperately horny.
Pushing the thought aside, your hand slipped beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers gliding over your already soaked folds. On screen, his long fingers tightened around his cock, stroking a little faster. Another broken whimper escaped him, higher this time, sending a sharp throb straight to your clit. You circled the sensitive bud in time with his rhythm, thighs trembling as heat pooled low in your belly.
You pushed two fingers inside yourself, curling them just right, eyes never leaving the screen. His breathing grew ragged. The wet, obscene sounds of his hand moving along his slick cock filled your ears, filthy and addictive.
The camera shifted slightly as he adjusted his position. Your gaze drifted for a moment over the background, taking in the cluttered desk, the scattered notebooks. And then—
Your fingers stilled.
Draped casually over the back of his chair, right in the corner of the frame, was a white oversized hoodie. And there, clearly visible even in the low lighting, was the distinctive structural formula printed across the back — the strange, intricate molecule you had stared at countless times during morning lectures.
It was him.
Satoru Gojo.
The quiet, annoyingly hot chemistry nerd who always borrowed your notes with that shy boyish smile, and thanked you in that soft voice that now whimpered so prettily for the camera.
The realization crashed over you like lightning. A loud, broken moan tore from your throat as your fingers resumed their frantic pace, pumping harder, your thumb pressing desperately against your swollen clit. On screen, a high-pitched, needy whimper spilled from his lips as his hips bucked into his fist.
“Mmnh—gonna cum… fuck, I’m so close—”
His voice cracked on the last word, just like it always did when he laughed nervously in class. You imagined him sitting there, stroking himself stupid, his pretty glasses perhaps fogged up from the heat of his own pleasure. The thought made your head spin.
Your thumb pressed hard on your clit, the coil in your belly tightening unbearably.
On screen, Satoru’s abs flexed, his thighs shaking. Thick ropes of cum shoot across his stomach and chest as he kept pumping through his orgasm, whimpering softly with each spurt.
You came hard at the same time, back arching off the bed, a broken cry leaving your lips as your pussy clenched around your fingers. The orgasm dragged on, wave after wave of intense pleasure washing over you while you watched him pant, breathless and flushed, lazily smearing the mess over his skin.
When the video finally ended, you lay there in the dark, chest heaving, heart hammering against your ribs. The image of that white, oversized hoodie with the weird structural formula lingered behind your closed eyelids.
Tomorrow in class, when Satoru slid into his usual seat you weren’t sure you’d be able to look at him without getting wet all over again.
Or without wondering how much prettier those whimpers would sound in real life.
yuji gets a new phone and accidentally puts his friends number in wrong!
pls do not feed any of my work into ai! i dont support the use of ai, if any of the pictures i use are ai pls lmk so i can edit it because at the end of the day i get the photos from pinterest and sometimes cant tell😓 ALL FANART BELONGS TO ORIGINAL ARTISTS university au
