✧ayumi✧

🇧🇷 she/her ✧ 18 ✧ economics student ✧ more of a reader than a writer

[sophistication-as]

ᴀʏᴜᴍɪ'ꜱ ᴄᴀᴛᴀʟᴏɢᴜᴇ

oneshots

sunsets a cuddle session with william j moriarty

a late visit your, now, ally, william j moriarty, visited you late at night. but he didn't just come to discuss a plan. +18 smut

sex on fire car sex with bsf!william. +18 smut

headcanons

classmate!william x reader fluff + m!masturbation

next works

drabbles

a last letter suicidal!suguru X reader. slight angst

ᴍᴇ

she / her

kanji: 歩美 (walking, beauty)

18 | brazilian | left-handed

capricorn | entj | 1,57 m (5'2)

blood type: o-

[minayans]

Honey ! That dick was 11 inches !

Teaser: Childhood best friend!Suguru who has always looked like an emo, closed off loser in your eyes ever since you were awkward middle schoolers suddenly grows to be a womaniser you can’t seem to move on from.

Tags: [MDNI/18+] Porn with a whole lotta plot, smut, fluff and angst w comfort, pining, yearning and pathetic geto, blowjob, riding, f recieving, messy sex, hotel sex, doggy style… When will I actually write pure smut without feelings?

Satoru and Suguru are the two most inseparable but different boys you have had the misfortune to meet.

Suguru is the kind of man straight out of your kinkiest most freaky dreams that would have you floored if they were to ever escape the confines of your mind.

He’s all black clothes, ear gauges that suit him criminally well, long and shiny locks that took years of growing to achieve, subtle yet dangerous piercings that make you spiral whenever you catch glimpses of them.

Suguru is hot.

You know it.

Your body knows it.

But your mind refuses to resonate with that perfectly obvious fact.

Because you’ve known Suguru before the tattoos and the cigarettes he carries in his pockets.

You know the boy with less than shoulder-length jet black hair that was dry before he learnt to take care of it junior year of highschool to try and impress some preppy bitch that used to get on your nerves too quickly.

You know the version of him who threw his guts out in your bathroom toilet after his first party, and the one who collapsed with his then-boney figure on your bed and called it a night—only to wake up 16 hours later.

Groggy as shit, voice deeper than a broken speaker, eyes swollen as if he were crying but it was really just from the first time he smoked mary and had a bad reaction to it.

That is the Suguru you know.

The one who isn’t the muscular and seductive man he has turned into. You love him in the present either way, but your mind can’t process that little virgin Geto is now the same man that has thousands of girls wrapped around his pretty pale, long fingers without doing anything about it.

Maybe it’s a secret defence mechanism of sorts that your body set up for you after you noticed how popular he got first year of college.

Or it could be that deep down you hate not being the only girl around him anymore. The only one he could find comfort in after getting rejected by yet another girl because of Satoru.

Which brings us back.

Satoru is a complete 360 from Suguru. He’s bubbly, bright, dramatic, overly friendly and extroverted for his own good.

With no sense of personal space or privacy, Satoru jumps around life surprisingly with no repercussions—flunking all of his classes in high school due to his fucking around with girls but somehow ending up at the same prestigious school you, Suguru and Shoko got into by working hard.

Though none of you dare to say it out loud, you’re all aware it’s because of his connections. The Gojos are quite well off.

Which makes the three of you resent the little albino shit at times.

But you wouldn’t change him for anything.

Within your group of 4 though, Suguru and Satoru have always stuck out like sore thumbs. Being glued by the hip since babies, of course they share a bond deeper than you and Shoko do with them.

The difference is, you entered the picture a bit after Shoko did in middle school to kind of “replace” Satoru during that time as he discovered the world of girls and parties after only living in the comfort of video games and his best friend for the previous 15 years.

So while Gojo ran around flaunting his awkward charm and pick-up lines—living off the thrill of being able to get any girl he wanted because of his looks—you and Suguru naturally got closer as your short-haired friend was always buried in her books.

Weekends at Satoru’s turned into weekends at yours with cookies in the oven and chess pieces fighting eachother.

Somewhere along the lines, you stopped seing Suguru as someone else in the background and more like your own best friend.

He seemed to see it the same way. Soon confiding in you more and more—sharing plans about his future and how he wanted to pursue philosophy while his parents pushed him into a business-oriented career.

Back then, you supported him, convinced him that he didn’t have to listen to his parents nagging because he was his own person, forcefully drilled confidence into that innocent teenager until he finally grasped it.

Everything was going smoothly.

Satoru was in his own world.

Shoko was doing great in school and after-hours clubs, anything for extra credit so she could get better grades for uni.

You and Suguru shared dreams over tea.

Everything was fine until that party.

Suguru’s first.

Satoru had invited him, saying that his frat friends—the ones he had recently met and somehow managed to befriend despite being younger by a few years—promised fun and a good time.

You didn’t expect hard-headed Suguru to cave and go. But he did.

Shoko stayed with you that night while the boys were out until her mom picked her up at 11 P.M. as she had piano practice in the morning.

Fridays were usually the quietest days for you. Your parents took weekend trips to your grandparents house religiously and you usually skipped on visiting to study.

Which was what you were doing when at 1 in the morning, the front door was being unlocked and the sound sent a bone-chilling shiver down your spine.

An old baseball bat in hand and with hesitant steps, you slowly moved down the stairs to catch sight of messy black hair over a tall body slouching against the entry.

Your heart recognised him before your eyes caught up in the dark. And you managed to drop the bat, cross the distance and reach him before he fell over.

Later, you found out as he threw his guts out in the toilet bowl, that he was batshit drunk.

You remember holding his hair back, the dry locks in between your fingers as he retched on and on.

And then.

The hickeys.

The small purple and faint red marked along his side that peaked out from under his loosely fitted black shirt all across his collarbones.

Your breath had hitched without you even noticing it. But your world shattered.

Because you’d grown feelings for the man that you knew would cause you more harm than good. But who were you at the hands of love? Only 16 and already feeling betrayed when there was nothing promised between the both of you.

You never acted like you liked him, never spoke about love, never showed interest. So who were you trying to blame?

Who were you going to blame for being such a pussy when Suguru got on the same train Satoru was and started changing again.

Learned how to do his hair, got piercings, gauges and his first tattoos in no time. Suddenly turning into a woman magnet that had your heart clenching painfully in your chest.

Yet, throughout the years. No girl ever stuck. No woman made it past the texting stage, not a single one of them slept in his bed the way you did at times when you’d crash at his place.

And you never stuck to any man either. A relationship here and there to get Suguru off your mind with some asshole that only messed with your head even further before you’d ditch him and swim in regret over never having confessed to your best friend before the words carved themselves into your bones.

So Suguru, at 24, has been your crush for seven round years by now.

And you’re one sorry excuse of a supportive best friend when he mentions dates and girls. You want so badly to rip your ears out, stuff his mouth with cotton till he chokes on the skinny blondes and Coke addicted bitches he ends up with at random bars.

Your raspy, beer-ghosted voice cuts him off as he tries to scramble together where he met his latest situationship.

“I’m tired, Suguru. We should continue this tomorrow.”

It’s not often you cut him off so brutally but the few times you do, Suguru sees the sirens going off in his head.

Head lolling to the side, left hand holding his drink in between his fingertips, he subtly lifts an eyebrow as his eyes rake over every inch of your beautiful skin.

Covered in a sheet coat of shine, probably from a body oil that he will remember tonight as he pumps his cock in his hands like he does almost everytime he sees you because you always come so pretty for him.

Well, he hopes it’s for him.

But 7 years of acting like he’s fine with being your best friend with his feelings wrapped under bandages and buried under cement, and he’s fearing that soon he won’t be able to hold it in anymore.

You’ve never shown interest in him. He’s never caught a sliver of love swimming in your eyes when his onyx ones prayed to find it in them.

What was he supposed to do? Risk your friendship? No.

Instead, he put himself out there. For every other person to see, hoping that you realise someday he is actually selling himself open for you to snatch off the market.

Yet, time passes and time passed. Nothing.

You stay quiet.

When in the present, your jaw is working and you’re mumbling something along the lines of “I’m really worn out, not really in the mood for talking right now.”

Suguru softly sighs, eyes crinkling at the corners as his they soften under the dim yellow-light lit bar you’re both at after work.

“I’ll take you home.”

He can’t remember the amount of times he’s done it for you. Taken you home tipsy, carried you up your apartments stairs because the hellhole you live in has an elevator that works once a month, tucked you into bed after tugging most of your clothes on because he’s done it ever since you were young from times when you were too tired to change but refused to sleep in dirty clothes, kissed your forehead goodnight and let his chest tighten.

Because he wishes he could say “let’s go home.”.

And he wishes he would stay over, wake up with you in his arms in the morning where he’d kiss the soft corner of your shoulder before the pecks would turn warmer.

But he buries those thoughts deep down and walks out the front door, steps heavy and shoulders weighing a ton.

You wake up feeling like a truck slammed into you sometime in the night—muscles aching, head banging, eyes burning. Though last night you swore you didn’t drink too much, your morning dizziness is really screaming for a rain check on how many beers you actually had.

Were you turning into Shoko?

Catching sight of your phone plugged to charge on the nightstand, you open it to find a mess of texts from your coworkers in the group chat talking about some event they’re trying to set up.

A plethora of messages from Shoko stressed out because of her latest karen patient. A checking in text from Suguru you’ll reply to in a bit. And a thousand texts from Satoru..?

You click on his icon and swipe past the hundred of messages where he’s literally just screaming your name in order for you to reply and get straight to the point.

The favor he’s asking you seems almost ridiculous as it stares back at you.

You, me, Shoko and Suguru. Friday at my company, need u all there for a major event. But I don’t have a date, I need you to act like my girlfriend. 🙏🏻😭

Please help, can’t take Shoko ‘cause she’s already been here and everyone knows her.

I’ll literally buy you anything you want, you know I got the means, boo.

And unfortunately, that last text is what sells it for you.

Friday you waltz hand in hand into one of six eyes’ hotel branches with Satoru who paid for your custom Chanel outfit—elegant silk dress with the tiniest most intricate details around the hemming, a nice cream shade that brings out all the right places—and you wear your new Manolo Blahniks that he got you like the deal promised.

Feeling good, you barely notice how the hall holds you it’s breath when you come in. People’s spines straighten up, how certain women that aren’t really comfortable with being outshined with simplicity and elegance, narrow their eyes.

But the tiny gasps go straight to your blood vessels and straight into your heart. You feel good and nothing can stop you tonight.

Satoru whispers in your ear—hair gelled back, crisp cream suit to match your dress with subtle brown outlining, black slacks.

“Careful, Suguru is about to jump at anyone who stares at you for longer than three seconds.”

Your breath hitches, head swinging back to him. You’re supposed to feign innocence over your little huge crush on your best friend, but all along, Satoru has known.

“How do you know?”

He smirks, that cocky and know-it-all one that makes you want to slap him square sometimes. “You’re not so slick, Y/N. I am also your best friend after all.”

Well shit..?

Before you even have time to debunk his claim—which was already confirmed by your subconscious look of surprise, caught red handed in the worst possible moment—a figure you hadn’t noticed creeping up cleared their throat.

Your heartbeat jumps to the hundreds at the sight of Suguru. Clad in everything dark—black blazer with no lining or details, just the dark void of the color complimenting him dangerously well—silver piercings shining under the bright hall light, helix in place, gauges sitting in their right spots, three small studs on his lobes.

And that tongue piercing you know he has is tucked away behind his teeth.

Shoko monotonously stands by his side, expression dull, looking every bit unhappy to be here. Though you know she’s about to hop onto the bar and flip that look right around.

You exhale for the first time in what feels like the five excruciatingly tense minutes beneath Suguru’s piercing quiet gaze.

“Oh, hey, Suguru.”

Suguru.

You’ve been calling him a lot that recently and he’s not liking the sound of it. Where is the nickname you usually use on him?— Sugu?

It’s his name. He knows. But god does he hate to hear it coming from your pretty lips.

The words “What the fuck are you doing wrapped around Satoru?” and “You look gorgeous.” drop straight into his stomach acid as he swallows them and says instead a brief, oddly cold “Hey.” back.

Truth is, you look divine. But the sight of you clinging onto his best friend kicks him in the wrong way even though he knows you’re both just friends and this is just an act.

He’s been let on the plan.

Yet he can’t stand to watch it unfold.

Satoru sweeps you away to network with you on his arm because it gives him a good look. A nice lady on his side and smooth words could get him deals after deals tonight.

You pretend that you’re enjoying yourself when all you can think about is how you felt and feel Suguru eating you up with his eyes.

It feels illegal. The way his eyes are so hungry for you, shooting bullets through your skin from where he is with Shoko at the bar.

From your side, Satoru mutters something you barely catch from having your mind somewhere else, and your arm drops from his forearm suddenly.

You find yourself alone at a small circular table in the gathering, swirling your drink in your cup and patiently waiting for him to come back till a cold, possessive hand settles on the small of your back.

Chills immediately overtake your body.

The air in your lungs gets kicked out once the figure circles you and reveals Toji Zenin. You know him from the bullshit smeared over his name everywhere.

The business industry’s biggest rival. Every season he’s out for some company’s neck again. The Zenin’s have their claws deep in everyone’s business.

He’s weirdly tall, looming over you with his wispy bangs covering the half-lidded eyes he has. Dark like someone else’s, still different.

But the hair on your skin stands up despite the fire in your eyes. His touch feels like poison to you.

“Toji Zenin.” You recognise. He smirks, sending a small nod your way.

“Y/N L/N.”

Huh? How does he know your name?

“I’ve had my eye on you all night.” He casually points out, putting your questions to rest for the moment.

His touch is long gone from your back but it lingers there in an uncomfortable way that still has the hairs on your arms prickling.

He’s every bit intimidating, from his looks to his gaze. The tattoos on his skin that don’t offer a single ounce of comfort to you like Suguru’s does.

Shit, why can’t you ever get him out of your head no matter how many times you throw yourself in-front of other men?

“Yeah? Am I that intriguing?” You ask, a sly smirk mirroring his on your face. Deciding to play into his game, you rest your drink on the table and relax your previously tense stature.

Briefly, he takes a good look at you again before replying confidently. “Very.”

You fake a giggle to keep the chat going.

“Let me buy you a drink?”

The freshly ordered cosmopolitan you were sipping on suddenly seems good enough to abandon, so you nod.

In the blink of an eye, before the man can even open his mouth, you’re yanked away. A strong grip on your wrist and your body getting dragged through the multitude of people in the room by someone you don’t catch sight of until you reach outside of the hall.

"Suguru." He finally stops dead in his tracks at the sound of your sweet and confused voice ringing in his ear.

Body on fire, soul frusturated, he holds it in to not lash out over seeing Toji even think you're on his level.

“Suguru.” You try again to rip him out of his head.

Only when your hands find his bicep does he physically jerk out of his thoughts.

Deep onyx eyes stare back at yours under the dimly lit sidewalk where the only thing wrapping around the both of you is the faint noise coming from behind the closed wooden hall doors and the night’s coldness.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, worry lacing your tone.

“Nothing.” He spits out, too quick to be thought through.

You push back, knowing him. “There is something wrong. Come on, you’ve always been clear with me.”

One of his hands run down his face to try and lessen the growing turmoil inside of him.

Defeated, resolve chipping little by little by your warm concern, he sighs. “No, I haven’t.”

“What?” A shaky breathe escapes you, maybe from the cold or because of the tension.

Unlike himself, he dodges your question. “I didn’t like seeing you with Satoru.”

“Or with Toji.”

Confusion replaces your initial worry. Eyebrows knitting together, your hands twitch by your side.

“What? Toji?”

Suguru doesn’t dare to look into your eyes, glueing his sight to the empty street behind him.

Nevertheless, you continue. “Why did you pull me away from him? I was getting to know him.” Bothered by how he stepped in when he had no right to.

“You could’ve just asked me to come with you like a normal person does. There was no need to cause a scene.”

You catch the way his fists ball into fists by his side, the way his shoulders square up under your words.

“Suguru. Say something.”

“Stop calling me that.” He cuts you through.

Something splits in your chest. “What? Why? It’s your name.”

Without missing a beat, he continues while dodging your face. “You never call me by my name.”

“I do.”

“You didn’t.”

Silence takes the wheel.

And you realise where you both have gotten.

When did it ever turn so cold between the two of you? Was it when it started to hurt too much to keep your feelings in check while he fucked around?

Maybe.

“I don’t get what’s your problem.” You breathe out, shoulders slumping.

He finally turns to you. “You are my problem.”

Another beat passes.

A knife is jabbed between your heartbeats.

“Then leave.”

His eyes thin out, unaffected by you. “I won’t.”

Voice shaky, you pry again. “Then what do you want from me, Suguru?”

What does he want?

What does he not want is the question.

“I want you to see me for once.”

Your heart turns to stone immediately. Every vein in you freezing.

“I want you to look at me and not those other men. Fuck.” He pivots on his heels, slacks clicking against the cement as he turns around and runs his hand through his pulled back hair again. Frustration bleeding from him.

“I’ve been in love with you for seven fucking years, Y/N. What don’t you understand?”

What?

Your eyes burn with tears you’re not sure are supposed to be brimming.

Seven years?

Since the chess matches? The afternoon study sessions? The nights you’d both spend stargazing?

“In middle school you told me to start taking care of myself if I wanted girls to like me so I did. And you thought I did it for them when it was all for you.”

“In high-school I got my first piercing because I overheard you tell Shoko that men who had them were hotter.”

“Then the tattoos too. I’m a pathetic loser who has done everything to try and get you to look at me. Yet you don’t.”

“I went around to try and find you in someone else but I couldn’t. And i’m at my wits end, Y/N. I don’t know what else to do.”

The air is too thick for you to swallow, but its even harder to process his words as they pierce painful holes in your chest.

He did all of that for you?

Every single detail carved into his body is for you?

“God, you’re such an idiot.” You whisper, feeling a warm tear slip past your waterline and fall down your cheek.

“I’ve always loved you, asshole. You never looked at me.”

He swings back to you, to see the streaks falling down your angelical features. And something fractures inside of him too.

Fuck, you’re both such idiots.

His arms wrap around your trembling figure before you can calculate your next sentence. Warmth and his signature smell of faint vanilla and musk cradling you to calmness.

Your head softly hits his chest, listening to his heartbeat for a second before pulling it upwards and searching for his eyes.

He tilts his head down and loses himself in your doe-eyed look. Feeling his rough corners go smooth.

Neither of you need to communicate anything as your souls search for each other, bringing your lips in a deep kiss.

One that took too long to play out.

The kiss lasts an eternity longer than it actually did, but you’re experiencing such euphoria that you don’t pay mind to the way your lungs pray for air.

Eventually, you do break the kiss.

The fragile moment feels like it’s a fragment of your imagination.

It shatters when the front door of the hall opens, a plethora of people spilling out in a hurry.

You freeze in Suguru’s hold. His head is already running though. Once more, this time gently, he gets a hold of your wrist and takes you with him back inside.

You’re confused as you cross the swarm of people inside still working. From the corner of your eye, you see Satoru, and you see Toji following you from the other side of the room too—hand in hand with Suguru—and him with a drink pressed to his lips.

Subconsciously, you swallow the awkwardness before you enter a different room.

Standing before a corridor full of elevators, you turn with the intention to question Suguru—but before you can, a lift’s door opens and he pulls you inside where you land against the mirror.

He locks you there beneath him, palms pressing into the mirror that sees you both. And he catches your gaze so much you don’t even dare to think about looking anywhere else.

Feeling butterflies explode in your stomach, crawling up your throat and spreading through your chest, you can only look up at him with the galaxy in your eyes.

Suguru is breathing heavily, eyes clouded with possession and love while he looms. Chest lifting and falling in the quietness.

The elevator doors close with a ding! and your lips meet once more. Hungrier this time. You feel his desperation clinging onto every surface of you as his hands drop from the mirror and circle your waist.

A small moan escapes you when he parts from the kiss and pecks a sensitive spot beneath your ear. Something needy has overtaken him and you won’t complain at all.

His long fingers press into your ribs, keeping you in place and not enough to harm, but enough to make your panties wetter by the second.

You didn’t even hear the lift stop or the doors opening, fortunately, he did and slowly he guided you out the elevator. Mouth still on your neck, one hand on the small of your back while his other shuffles around for something in his pocket.

You’re pressed against a foreign door that unlocks when he presses a keycard to the lock while still kissing you madly.

Cold, cold kisses your bare shoulders the second you’re gently pushed inside into the darkness of the empty room.

Before you can catch a glimpse of the place, you’re meeting the closing front door again, Suguru’s hands roaming more freely than before.

The cold tips of his fingers meet the exposed skin of your back as his lips press soft kisses to your collarbones. Ghosting around your neck every now and then.

Every coherent thought is fleeing your mind—Is this how it feels like to be touched by your best friend? What have you been missing out almost for a whole decade?

“Y/N.” Barely hearing his muffled call, you try to hum a yes but accidentally let a small whimper escape when he briefly bites your carotid gently.

He kisses the red spot once his teeth detach and you feel his lips in a smirk as they meet your throat.

“Do you really want to do this?” He asks, nipping on your sensitive skin—searching for where you’re most delicate and where you fall apart the easiest.

Teeth grazing a particularly sensitive spot, you shudder and he fights back the urge to chuckle at his effect on you.

“Yes.” You breathe out after getting a grip on your mind again.

He hums against you, the vibration travelling all the way down to your soaked panties begging to be pulled off.

“Really?” He muses, a slender hand tracing the curve of your waist unhurriedly, landing on your hip before giving it a firm squeeze and continuing it’s way down.

Hand on your ass, he starts to knead the plush skin of it over your silky dress once your lips combine again in a sloppy, half-minded kiss.

Fed up and so needy, your hands fist his silk shirt—black like most of his closet which you’ve learned over the years—and bring his lips close enough till they brush yours again.

“I’ve waited enough.”

And he crashes against you, lips colliding, hips closing in on you and making you feel the hard outline of his boner pressing against your stomach.

Moving on your own while your mind is absent, your sly fingers find the hem of his pants and slip past to palm him over the thin material of his boxers.

You almost groan at the feeling of his cock—at the shape of his prominent vein under your touch, and the tiny bit of liquid spilling from his tip.

Not even noticing it, you’re so beyond dripping that when Suguru hooks a leg between yours and presses up into your cunt, you leave a wet patch on the cotton of his pants.

He continues to explore your mouth as you subconsciously grind your hips on his muscular leg, steadily supported with the help of his hands on your waist to the wall.

Under your hand, you feel his length twitching—every time his cock jerks weakly in your hand, struggling to move much by the restriction of being in his boxers and because of its weight—you wonder why he feels so big.

And if he will even… fit.

The thought consumes you quicker than you have the time to stop it. Suguru feels you stopping your dry humping and your hands settle on his chest before pushing him back.

Curiously bites at him but disintegrates when he sees you drop to your knees, pupils blown wide open and your hair falling perfectly on the sides of your face. Framing those perfect features of yours.

Without ever admitting it, Suguru feels himself being able to already cum at the mere sight of you like this—but he holds it in the best he can as he feels your hands crawl up.

Hook around his belt, slowly pull the leather out of the secure, pull it off and throw it somewhere on the side, bundle the fabric at his upper thigh and pull down till the only thing in your sight is his aching cock pulsing against his underwear.

You bring your hands excruciatingly slow like everything else you’ve done in the last few moments to his dick. Seeing the thick ridges of him throw the light gray and practically salivating at the mouth.

The material smoothly glides off his skin once you pull it by the edges and…

Suguru might look like he always messes up somewhere along the way with girls, never able to get an actual girlfriend and settle down—resulting in him looking like he gets no bitches.

But boy, that dick is eleven inches.

Those girls have no idea what they are missing on.

And you’re the lucky winner.

It slaps loudly against his firm abs once it’s set free, tempting you already with its looks.

Pale, dusty pink tipped, veiny all around, girthy and criminally long. For a second, your eyes flicker to Suguru.

And he’s smirking. Looking down at you like you wished for this upon yourself and now there’s nowhere to run to.

Swallowing, you bring saliva onto the floor of your mouth and prepare to take him in. Wrapping your hand around his shaft, you part the connection between his chest and his dick before licking the tiny pearl of pre-cum that was on the top.

Suguru quietly hisses, and that’s all you need to immediately take him in your mouth.

Starting by the tip, you feel your mind already exploding at the salty and tangy feeling of his juices, smearing the sensitive end on your textured tongue while peering up at him.

Desperate to catch every reaction.

His fists ball into tight fists once you wrap your pretty lipstick-smudged lips around him.

Immediately wrapping him in the warmth your mouth it.

Then your tongue comes into action and Suguru starts counting his blessings, praying he has room for one more so he doesn’t immediately lose it already.

Skillfully swirling your tongue around him, you map every surface of his dick and memorise every dip of his veins—every length of them, the ones that go all the way to the base and the ones who only pop up at the very top.

Only being able to take him halfway before choking, you try to stroke the rest with your hand until you feel him place a hand on your head and start to choke you on his dick.

Your eyes shut closed as his tip hits the back of your throat, saliva spilling from the corners of your mouth as he breaches your oesophagus—hauling himself somewhere tighter.

Flattened tongue resting on the bottom of his heavy cock, you fight the urge to gag as he fucks himself harder.

Only when you feel yourself about to collapse from the lack of oxygen do you tap out and he immediately pulls out.

Your throat burns with that delicious ache you’ve just discovered.

Voice hoarse and raspy, you let out a curse under your bed before he’s moving again.

Back meeting the soft mattress of the hotel bed, you let out a breath before seeing that Suguru is already sitting between your legs, spreading them so far that your dress rides up and displays your wet panties clearly for him.

The low chuckle he gives reaches your ear in a soft melody. Long fingers hook around the flimsy material and you’re already jerking at the feeling of his knuckle brushing your clit.

There’s not an ounce of shame in your body when you let out a throaty moan as his fingers dip inside of your hole, mouth latching onto your twitching clit instantly after.

He takes two licks with a flattened tongue and your touch-deprived self already starts to collect tears on your waterline.

The cold metal of his tongue piercing adding more to the blissful sensation.

Mewls start to subconsciously spill out of you.

“Sugu~ Ah!”

You feel him smirk against you as your sensitive bud makes out with his mouth. Quickly, your vision starts to go blotchy when he curves his long fingers inside, finding that spot that makes you gummy in his hands.

You’re so close to the edge, so ready for the orgasm to crash over you when he pulls away in the blink of an eye.

You whimper at the loss of contact, near damn crying at the escape of your climax.

And he smirks, he fucking smirks.

Pulling his shirt over his head and climbing back, saying.

“That’s for leading on Zenin, and for even accepting being Satoru’s for the night.”

Eyebrows knitting and your eye catching the possessive side of him, you circle back to the first name.

“Leading on Zenin?” There’s curiosity in your scratchy voice.

But he doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t let you ponder any further while his hands hook around your waist and flip you on your stomach.

“You’re mine.”

And his cock breaches the first muscle of resistance, making you scream out both in pain and pleasure as the first few inches mercilessly dip inside of you.

Feeling like you’re being split in half, your hands start fishing the sheets, anything to lessen the pain.

Suguru presses slow, open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder and back, soothing you through the ache that soon turns delicious.

Once the pain subdues, you feel him move again—only being able to fit half of him inside of you, but he takes it nonetheless.

Pulling your hips upwards and arching your back—Suguru finally starts hitting mean thrusts to your poor overwhelmed pussy.

Not caring at all how the whole building can hear you scream out, moan his name like it’s the only thing you know how to do.

The headrest groans in an uneven rhythm as Suguru plunges deep into your velvety walls, creating a frothy ring at the base where your bodies meet.

“Come on, Y/N, relax so I can fit.”

“N-No—You won’t-haah.” You can barely get your words out, panting and shaking while tears run down your face. “Fit.”

But Suguru is a level of stubborn and hard-headed you’ve known since middle school.

“I’ll make it fit, dear.”

And you’re flipped on your back again, wincing at the loss of him nuzzling his tip into your womb, but getting hauled up before being able to catch your breath.

His back meets the leather of the headrest as his hands guide your shaky legs to each side, your knees digging into the soft cotton sheets, and you pussy hovering right over who she wants inside.

“Take me.”

And you do.

You succumb to his order like a body with no mind. Legs collapsing on you from the lack of strength and lowering your cunt to meet his glistening tip again.

He hungrily watches himself disappear up until where you physically cannot take him anymore—halfway through.

Seeing how your hands tremble on his shoulder, how your breathing is shaky and your body unsteady, he hooks an arm around your back and places a warm hand on your hip.

And pushes down.

Down.

And down.

Till he’s buried to the hilt and you’re groaning so much that they are bouncing off the walls and settling in his bones.

You can’t believe Suguru has been hiding this monster for god knows how long. It almost makes you wish you never had sex with anyone else just to experience this as your one and only.

But some things can’t he changed.

Just like you know that he has been with other girls because you didn’t notice he was in love with you the whole time.

Like you have been.

What a mess.

What a mess it is between your bodies too—sweat clinging to Suguru’s forehead and moistening the front pieces of his silky jet-black hair that cling to his forehead.

The straps of your dress have long fallen and revealed your chest once you sat down on him, giving Suguru the perfect angle to nip and suck on your breasts as you focus on riding him.

He takes control once more when he rams up at you, feeling your walls fluttering around him and spasming closer to the edge you were previously stripped of.

You feel your jaw going slack, the air in the room impossibly hot and the coil in your tummy at its end.

And it takes him a few more thrusts, angry and desperate till you come down crashing on him.

Body violently shaking, high-pitched mewls coming out of you and your weight going dead on him.

At the very last second, he pulls you up, almost cumming inside of you—but his dick slips between your bodies—shooting his seed over your dress and chest.

Ruining your attire, shamelessly so.

And the room goes dead silent save for your heavy breathing and his.

Fingers twitching against your sex-slicked skin, Suguru finally relaxes against the bed. Draping your body over his—the aftermath of him finishing sticky between your bodies but neither of you care.

It’s quiet for a second while the memories and the weight of the moment settle between the both of you.

“We are so stupid.” You whisper after another beat, cuddling your head further into his chest, searching for the steady beat of his heart beneath the muscles and bones.

“Yeah. So stupid.”

Stupid in love.

Not proofread yet, maybe my longest work as of now (def in the smut category.) this is my 1k special as a thank you to all of you for being so kind with me and genuinely making writing so fun <3

Main masterlist, JJK masterlist. Taglist.

₊˚⊹ ᰔ @asom2xim @abbycadabras @sailormarsinanotherlife @duckie3801

[kamuifade]

the way u write shikamaru is fucking AMAZING kamui!!! can i request shikamaru getting injured on a mission and being on bedrest and reader’s(can be gf or just fwb) insisting on taking care of him and hes kinda pissed/embarassed but she rides him(and maybe more like face-sitting… ) and he kind of becomes subby during it and its like a new side of him she unlocked pls🥺🙏🙏 ur my fav writer!!

——————————-

The house was too quiet.

Shikamaru hated quiet. Quiet meant his mind had nothing to do except circle the same damn thoughts: the mission that went sideways, the cracked ribs that still flared white-hot every time he breathed too deep, the deep gash across his thigh that forced him onto bedrest for three full weeks, the way you had shown up at his door with a bag and that stubborn set to your mouth that told him arguing was a complete waste of time.

You’d been here eight days so far.

Eight days of you cooking, cleaning, changing his bandages with careful, warm hands that always lingered a second too long. Eight days of you sleeping in his bed while he was stuck on the futon in the main room because the stairs were still too much. Eight days of you wearing his shirts—soft, oversized, the ones that still carried the faint scent of his skin and laundry soap—and walking around bare-legged like it was nothing. Like the sight of your bare thighs and the occasional flash of the soft curve of your ass when you reached for something high didn’t make his cock throb heavy and insistent against the thin fabric of his sleep pants.

He was hard. Again. Had been for most of the afternoon, ever since you’d leaned over him to adjust the ice pack on his ribs and the collar of his shirt had slipped, giving him a clear, torturous view down to the soft swell of your breasts and the shadowed valley between them. You hadn’t even noticed. Or maybe you had. You were cruel like that when you wanted to be.

“Stop scowling,” you said from the kitchen doorway, drying your hands on a towel. The motion made the hem of his black shirt ride higher on your thighs. “You’re going to get permanent lines.”

“Troublesome,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling. His voice was rough from disuse and frustration. “All of it. This. You. Especially you.”

You walked over, bare feet silent on the wood. The shirt brushed the tops of your thighs with every step. No pants. Of course not. You’d been doing that on purpose, he was almost certain. The soft fabric clung just enough that he could see the faint outline of your nipples when you moved.

“I’m not the one who got himself nearly impaled,” you said lightly, sitting on the edge of the futon. Your hand settled on his uninjured thigh, warm and casual, fingers tracing idle patterns that sent sparks straight to his cock. “And I’m not the one who’s been sulking like a child for a week.”

He turned his head toward you, dark eyes narrowed. “I’m not sulking.”

“You’re pouting.”

“I am not—”

You leaned in, close enough that he could smell the faint clean soap on your skin mixed with the warmer, sweeter scent that was purely you. Your breath ghosted over his lips like a taunt. “You’re hard,” you said, voice soft, almost kind. Your fingers brushed higher, grazing the obvious, thick tent in his pants. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth; the movement tugged at his ribs and sent a bright flare of pain through his side, but the pain only sharpened everything else—the ache in his cock, the heat of your hand, the way his pulse hammered in his throat. “And you’re pissed about it. And you’re even more pissed that you can’t do anything about it without wincing. So you’re taking it out on me.”

His jaw flexed. He didn’t deny it. A bead of precome had already darkened the fabric over the head of his cock.

Your fingers traced the outline of him through the thin cotton, slow and deliberate, feeling how heavy and hot he was. “I’ve been patient,” you murmured. “I’ve let you be grumpy. I’ve let you snap. But I’m done watching you suffer when I could fix it.”

He opened his mouth—probably to say something cutting, or to tell you he didn’t need pity—but the words died when you swung a leg over him, careful of his injuries, and settled your weight across his chest. The heat of your cunt pressed against his sternum through the thin barrier of your underwear. He could already feel how damp you were.

Not quite on his face. Not yet.

You braced your hands on the wall above the futon, looking down at him. The shirt rode up higher, bunching around your waist. He could see the dark fabric of your underwear, already soaked through and clinging to the soft folds of your cunt, the outline of your swollen lips and the little peak of your clit visible through the wet cloth. The scent of you hit him like a physical blow—warm, musky-sweet, unmistakable. His mouth watered instantly. His cock jerked hard against his stomach.

“You don’t have to—” he started, voice rough and already cracking.

“I know.” You shifted forward on your knees, bracketing his head, and lowered yourself. “But I want to. And you need it even if you pretend you don’t.”

The first press of your soaked panties against his mouth dragged a broken, punched-out sound out of him. He didn’t even try to hide it. His hands came up, careful of the limited range his ribs allowed, and gripped your thighs hard enough that his fingers dug into the soft flesh, leaving pale marks that would bloom into bruises later. The heat of you was overwhelming. The fabric was soaked through, sticky and warm against his lips.

You peeled the fabric aside with two fingers, the wet sound of it peeling away from your skin obscenely loud in the quiet room.

Hot, slick flesh met his tongue.

Shikamaru’s eyes fluttered shut on a full-body shudder. Fuck. He’d missed this. Missed the taste of you—salty-sweet and thick on his tongue—the way you opened for him, the soft, desperate little sounds you made when he got it right. He licked a slow, thorough stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit and nearly whimpered at the way your cunt clenched around nothing, a fresh gush of slick coating his tongue. You were so wet it dripped onto his chin.

“That’s it,” you breathed, settling more of your weight onto his mouth until his nose was pressed into the soft thatch of hair above your clit and every breath he took was full of you. “Take what you need.”

He did.

He ate you like a man starving. Slow at first—long, deliberate strokes of his broad tongue, flattening it to drag from your dripping hole all the way up to circle your swollen, throbbing clit. He dipped into your entrance just enough to taste how wet you already were for him, then sealed his lips around your clit and sucked gently, rhythmically, the way he knew made your thighs shake. Every time you rocked against his face he groaned, the sound muffled and filthy, vibrating straight into your cunt. His cock jerked and leaked steadily into his pants, untouched, the fabric now soaked through with precome.

You carded your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make his scalp tingle and force his head back so he had to look up at you. “Look at me.”

He opened his eyes.

You were watching him, cheeks flushed dark, lips parted, eyes half-lidded with pleasure. The sight of him—messy hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, glassy dark eyes, mouth buried in your cunt, chin and cheeks shiny with your slick—made something dark and deeply pleased curl in your expression.

“Good boy,” you said softly.

The praise hit him like a kunai to the gut.

His hips stuttered upward on pure instinct, a helpless little thrust that made his injured thigh and ribs scream in protest. A high, broken whimper escaped before he could swallow it. He’d never been the one who folded like this. He was usually the one who pinned you down, who talked you through it in that low, lazy drawl until you came apart on his cock or his fingers or his tongue. But weeks of nothing, the constant aching need for you, the way you were looking at him like he was something precious and filthy at the same time—

He folded.

Completely.

You felt it happen. The way his grip on your thighs tightened until it bordered on bruising, the way his tongue grew more desperate even as he tried to keep the pace slow, savoring every drop of you. He licked into you deeper, tongue fucking your hole in wet, filthy strokes before dragging back up to suck hard on your clit. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes—not from the pain in his ribs, but from how overwhelming it all was. How good. How right it felt to have his face buried in your cunt after so long, to hear those soft praises fall from your lips while he drowned in the taste and scent and heat of you.

“That’s it,” you cooed, rocking gently against his mouth, grinding your clit against his tongue in slow, filthy circles. Slick dripped down his chin and onto his throat. “Just like that. You’re doing so well for me. Such a good boy, Shika. Look at you—mouth all messy, eyes all wet. Perfect.”

Another whimper. Louder this time, high and needy, vibrating against your cunt. His tongue flicked faster over your clit, then slowed again, deliberate and filthy, sucking the sensitive bud between his lips like he could live off the taste of you. Your thighs trembled around his head. He could feel how close you were already, the way your cunt fluttered and clenched every time he groaned against it, the way fresh wetness flooded his tongue.

“Fuck—keep going,” you gasped, fingers tightening in his hair until it hurt in the best way. “Don’t you dare stop. You’re going to make me come on your tongue like a good boy, aren’t you?”

He nodded frantically against your cunt, the motion smearing more of your slick across his face. He wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t. He licked into you deeper, nose pressed hard against your clit so every breath was full of your scent, tongue working in steady, filthy strokes that made wet, obscene sounds fill the quiet room—slurping, sucking, the soft filthy noise of his mouth working between your legs. Every time you called him good, every soft praise that fell from your lips, his cock twitched harder, leaking another thick bead of precome that soaked further into his pants. He was so close it hurt, balls drawn up tight, the head of his cock flushed dark and aching, and you hadn’t even touched him.

You rode his face with slow, grinding rolls of your hips, using his mouth exactly how you wanted—pressing down harder when you wanted more pressure on your clit, lifting just enough to let him fuck his tongue into your hole when you needed to be filled. When your orgasm hit it was deep and rolling—your cunt clamping down hard around nothing, slick flooding his tongue in thick pulses as you cried out his name, thighs shaking, fingers yanking at his hair. He moaned like he was the one coming, eyes wet and wide and glassy, drinking every pulse of it, tongue still working you through the aftershocks even as tears slipped from the corners of his eyes and down his temples.

You didn’t lift off right away.

You stayed there, panting, letting him keep lapping at you through the aftershocks—softer now, almost reverent, cleaning every drop of slick from your folds with long, careful strokes of his tongue. Only when the sensitivity edged toward too much did you shift back, settling your weight carefully across his chest again so you could look down at him properly.

His face was a mess.

Lips shiny and swollen with you, chin and cheeks glistening, hair completely wrecked and sticking to his forehead, dark eyes glassy and a little wild. A single tear had tracked down his temple, mixing with the slick on his skin. His chest rose and fell in shallow, careful breaths, ribs still aching, but the pain was secondary to the raw, desperate need written all over him. His cock was a thick, angry line through his pants, twitching with every heartbeat.

“Please,” he rasped, voice completely wrecked, cracking on the word. “I need—fuck, I need to come. Please. It hurts.”

You smiled, slow and fond and just a little mean. Your hand slipped down between your bodies, freed his cock from his pants with a soft wet sound as the fabric peeled away from the sticky head, and wrapped around the hot, leaking length of him. He was so hard it looked painful, the shaft thick and heavy in your palm, veins standing out under the flushed skin. Precome had made a mess of him already, slick and warm under your fingers.

“You can come,” you told him, stroking once, twice, tight and perfect, twisting on the upstroke the way he liked, thumbing over the sensitive underside just below the head. “But only when I say. And you’re going to look at me the whole time.”

He nodded frantically, hips twitching up into your fist in helpless little thrusts that made his ribs protest. His eyes stayed locked on yours, wide and wet and desperate.

You worked him slow at first, tight and filthy, the wet sound of your fist on his cock obscene in the quiet room. Every time his eyes threatened to close or roll back you squeezed harder at the base and said, voice soft and sweet, “Eyes on me, sweet boy. Just like that. You’re doing so well for me baby.”

The second time the praise left your mouth—soft, almost loving—he came with a broken, high sound that was almost a sob. Thick ropes of come striped his stomach and your fist in heavy pulses, his whole body shaking with the force of it, thighs trembling, a second tear slipping free as the pleasure crashed over him hard enough to make his vision white out at the edges. You stroked him through it until he was oversensitive and twitching, murmuring soft praise the entire time—“That’s it. So good for me Shika. Such a perfect boy when you finally let go. Look at the mess you made.”

When it was over he went completely limp against the futon, breathing hard and shallow, eyes half-lidded and dazed, the aftershocks still making his cock twitch weakly in your loose grip. You cleaned him up with gentle hands—wiping the come from his stomach and your fingers with a soft cloth, careful of the bandages—then carefully rearranged yourselves so you were curled against his uninjured side, his arm heavy and warm around your waist.

For a long time neither of you spoke. The only sounds were his still-ragged breathing and the quiet shift of fabric as you settled closer.

Then, quietly, almost reluctantly, voice still rough:

“…Stay.”

You pressed a soft kiss to the hinge of his jaw, tasting the faint salt of sweat and the residual slick still on his skin. “Wasn’t planning on leaving.”

His fingers flexed against your hip, possessive even in exhaustion. “Good. Because I think I’m going to need that again. Soon. Your cunt on my mouth. Those words. All of it.”

You smiled against his skin, already feeling the low, warm pulse of renewed interest between your own legs.

“Troublesome,” you whispered.

But you were already planning how to ride his face again before the afternoon was over—how to keep him there for hours this time, how to make him whimper and cry and come untouched just from the taste of you and the soft, relentless praise of being your good boy.

[niilue]

⊹ WHAT KIND OF SUB IS ⊹ OROCHIMARU ⎯ NARUTO

cw: sub!orochimaru, dom reader, psychological domination, degradation, possession, erotic manipulation, dark tone. a/n: thanks to @vampcubus for the idea <33 try my best! and it was fun to write about them.

orochimaru is the kind of sub who never gives himself all at once; he slides into surrender like a serpent through your fingers slow, intentional, tasting every second of your dominance as if he were studying it. his body shows hunger before his voice ever will: that pale, sensitive skin tightens under your touch, his breath pauses for a heartbeat, and every inch of him feels like it’s waiting for someone brave enough to handle him without fear. his submission is fluid, reptilian, but when he senses real authority over him, his breath stutters, his pupils widen, and his dangerous smile softens just enough to expose something darker, deeper, and undeniably submissive.

he looks at you like a confession he never meant to let slip. those golden, slit-pupiled eyes strip you open while pretending to stay calm. yet the moment you touch him where he doesn’t expect along the jaw, down the neck, over the cold silk of his torso his breath catches. his body leans subtly into your hand, the smallest, quietest betrayal of desire blooming beneath the surface.

orochimaru yields in a silently devoted way. he doesn’t beg; he shows you. he tilts his head, bares the length of his throat, spreads his stance without being told. you see his surrender in the tremble of his shoulders, the slow exhale he tries to hide, the way his lips part like he’s trying not to gasp. his body speaks for him soft, sinful, hungry.

beneath his constant control is a craving to be overpowered, not violently but deliberately. when you push him back against a wall, step into his space, or make him retreat with your body alone, something in him bends instantly. he stops evaluating you. he stops playing. he gives in. not completely just enough to make you addicted to the feeling of breaking him.

if you grab his chin firmly and make him look at you, the mask fractures. he wets his lips, his breathing grows uneven, and his pride drips away drop by drop. orochimaru loves being guided by the fingertips, arranged like something precious and dangerous that belongs under your hands.

his reactions are serpentine. touch his torso slowly and he arches into it; grip his hips and he releases a low, poisonous sound, half-moan, half-laugh, filled with wanting. drag your nails across his back and his entire spine shivers as if venom is spreading under his skin.

orochimaru gets off on being claimed with confidence. if you step into him without hesitation, pin his wrists, silence him with a finger against his lips, or press your body to his until he must yield, he melts. he wants someone who doesn’t flinch from his intensity, someone who dominates because they can, not because they’re trying to prove something.

his kink for degradation runs deep. he doesn’t want insults he wants wounds to his pride said with velvet poison: “weren’t you supposed to be so powerful? look at yourself now.” “you like being controlled a lot more than you pretend.” “you’re not as cold as you think.” these lines make his breath hitch, his lips part, his tongue slip out just a bit, like pleasure is leaking through his teeth. he adores being stripped of his persona piece by piece.

he responds intensely to focused physical dominance. squeeze his hips hard, mark his thighs with your nails, bite into his neck, force his jaw still, spread his legs with your hands he will moan in that low, sinful tone that sounds like he’s enjoying something forbidden. orochimaru doesn’t scream; he moans like he’s savoring corruption.

his kinks are decadent and specific: humiliation, possession, breath play, tongue use, psychological submission, restraint, and being positioned exactly where you want him. he has a fascination with having his wrists pinned above his head and feeling your body weight keep him still. the less control he has, the harder he gets.

he despises pointless cruelty. he doesn’t want pain for pain’s sake; he wants intention. he wants every touch to mean something, every order to cut through him, every bite to be a brand. what he truly hates is being ignored, dismissed, or treated as uninteresting. ignore him for one minute and he’ll crawl back to you with a wicked smile, as if daring you to punish him.

his body reacts almost animalistically when turned on. his movements become fluid, sinuous; his back arches beautifully under your hands; his hips search for friction; his thighs tremble when you touch near the crease of his pelvis. his breathing goes from slow to ragged to almost trembling when he’s close to breaking.

emotionally, orochimaru sinks into a quiet, obsessive surrender. he doesn’t fall for tenderness, he falls for power. if he dominates you, he wants your submission; if you dominate him, he wants your control. he watches you like you’re an exquisite experiment, but when you finally make him moan, the experiment collapses: what remains is a starving man aching for someone who sees through him and still chooses to break him. his vulnerability shows in his eyes, arkening, softening, tracking your every movement like prey that wants to be caught.

but what ruins him entirely is possessive tenderness. a hand cupping his face after you’ve dominated him. a slow kiss after an order he obeyed. a quiet “good.” whispered against his ear. that’s when orochimaru’s entire body loosens, his shoulders drop, his head leans subtly toward you. for a brief moment, the serpent dissolves, and the man beneath becomes fully, devastatingly yours.

[mikaiswolfsbane]

★Get my good side!

synopsis: using pictures of the jjk men as reaction images.

including: gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna.

©mikaiswolfsbane 2026

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Dance For Your Prince(s)

Pairing: Prince/Firelord!Geto x Belly Dancer!Reader x Prince Zuko

Synopsis: You are hired as the live entertainment for the Fire Nation's annual celebration as a belly dancer, groomed to dance for the elite and wealthy. You entertain with your body for a living and you're happy to do so, finding purpose and enjoyment in your dancing. Unbeknowst to you, two certain Firelord brothers have found enjoyment in your dancing as well and they are prepared to show you one hot night within the privacy of a bedroom.

Warnings: 18+; No Curse/Avatar AU; Brother!Geto x Brother!Zuko; Incest (but not really cuz they not f*cking each other lol); Threesome; Seduction; Body Worship; Curvy!Reader; Belly Dancing; Stripping; Dom!Geto x sub!Reader x Switch!Zuko; Dual Pussy Eating; Sharing Is Caring; Dual Blowjob; Deepthroating; Facefucking; Spit Play; Doggystyle; Mating Press; Breeding; Raw Creampies; Mild Power Play; Reader Cums 3x; Aftercare

Word Count: 9.1k

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you! 

Writer's Note: This is my first installment for @madamechrissy's crossover collab!! Y'all please go give her ALL the love, grace & praise because she deserves it!! This woman is just as amazing just as a person as she is a writer & I'm honored that she puts up with my horny ideas lmaoo enjoy!!! <3 -Jazz

Credits: Zuko x Geto fanart found on Pinterest! If you know the artist, PLEASE tag me so I can properly credit them! Divider by @cursed-carmine!

You stand at the threshold of the master bedroom belonging to the Firelord, Prince Zuko, the polished mahogany doors staring back at you. 

Dozens of Fire Nation guards, tasked with protecting the royals, stand outside against the wall, two on either side of you. They were the ones who guided you here, telling you that the Firelords requested to see you tonight. 

You have every assumption as to why. It isn't a rarity or unaccustomed to you for royal members to request for you after hiring you for a party. You are a dancer, after all...with some other "skills" on the side that you use to your advantage.

While you know how to play the game among the royal court and have no problem refusing to spend the night with any royals after performing for them at one of their grand parties, you would be lying if you said you didn't want to be alone with the Firelords for the night.

You have been around them for some time now. As the royal belly dancer, groomed to dance for the elite and the wealthy, you were bound to make the acquaintance of the Fire Nation Family at some point...including the Firelord brothers. Both calm, poised, mysterious, and devilishly handsome.

They have been on your radar for a long time, filling your endless nights with hot fantasies of the two of them. Sometimes one at a time, sometimes together. Entangled limbs, your fingertips caressing their muscles, their tongues licking stripes across your skin.

You long to tear down that wall of mystery and restraint that the brothers have meticulously built around themselves. Especially that Zuko. He is quiet and stoic, only speaking when required, preferring to talk with his actions instead. Geto Suguru is more open, striking either fear or intrigue into anyone with his charming smile and cunningness. 

And now here you are, standing right outside of the brother's doors prepared to greet them. The twirling in your stomach is not of fear but of anticipation, wondering where the night will bring you. You bring up your fist and lightly knock, polite but firm. "Enter," a deep, silky voice commands. Geto's voice. 

The voice that has commanded attacks on enemies and brought you to orgasm so many times. Swallowing hard, you twist the doorknob and enter the master bedroom. It is a large, wide space with stone walls and windows overlooking the courtyard and Fire Nation, the summer breeze and afternoon sun pouring into the room. 

On one side sits a large king-sized bed topped with pillows of all sizes and arrays of gold and red. The same as the carpets and curtains softly swaying in the summer evening. Geto Suguru, the oldest brother, sits in the middle of the room on the carpeted floor surrounded by a slew of expensive pillows and blankets. 

He sits at a knee-level table surrounded with delicacies of all kinds, granite teacups with a brewing teapot, and a bottle of fireflower juice spiked with cinnamon, one of the most expensive bottles of alcohol in all the land. Geto is draped in a fine red robe adorned in intricate gold stitching at the flaps and black pants, his feet bare and black locks cascading down his muscular back. 

He turns to look when you enter, his violet eyes piercing a hole into you. The butterflies in your tummy swarm, making your heart pound furiously in your chest.

“You required my services, Your Highness?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level and steady. Alas, it shakes a bit, coming out breathless at the sight of the handsome man. He gives you a small smile that is like a smack in the face. “Yes, little dancer. Come; have a seat. You may not be so formal with me. Call me Suguru." 

You blink, unsure of how to reply. It is rare that a royal wants someone who is not within the court to be formal. His smile deepens, humored. “You look at me as if I’m tricking you. I can assure you that my father is nowhere within these four walls.” He then turns to the left side of the room where the light doesn't reach. “Isn’t that right, brother?” 

You turn your head and that is when you see Zuko sitting there on a lounging sofa, wearing a black robe to blend in with the darkness. You can just see that his hair is also out, cascading in black waves down his back, and he is sipping some tea. You jump, placing a hand on your beating heart. “Oh! Prince Zuko, forgive me. I did not know you were here.” 

Zuko doesn't reply; he only stares, somehow staring right through you. Both of his eyes render you speechless—the wounded one included. Many do not regard Zuko the same way they do Geto due to his burn scar, but you have always thought the disfigurement was quite sexy. 

Geto chuckles, pouring himself some fireflower juice. “Don’t mind him. Zuko can be an enigma when he wants to be…which is all the time.” He smirks when his brother gives him a sharp glare from across the room. “Quiet, Geto. Don’t make me request your removal from this room.” 

Geto smirks at you, unbothered by his brother's heated threat. “That’s code for “don’t make me murder you”,” he chuckles. “Nice, isn’t he?” He gives you a wink, jutting his chin at you. "To what may we call you? Though we know your name, we want you to feel comfortable." 

Comfortable. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Many men always say this when you're within the confines of their bedroom, only wanting you relaxed so they may take advantage. "Y/N," you reply, giving the brothers a respectful bow as you shut the door behind you. It shuts with a click, making your stomach flip. 

Zuko nods over at the table where his brother sits. “You may sit. Plenty of room.” Geto hums in agreement, a flame flickering from his fingertip as he lights himself a pipe filled with tobacco leaves. The smoke wafts through the air as you slowly walk across the room, feeling their eyes on you. 

Though you are covered by a shawl draped over your shoulders, it is mesh, which means your midrif top showing off your stomach and long skirt that doesn't do much to hide your curves. Both red and decorated in gold stitching, dripping in gold beads that clink whenever you twist, turn, or move your hips and stomach when you dance. 

You don't feel uncomfortable the way you used to whenever men ogled at your moves. If anything, you feel powerful. But now, under the brothers' hot gazes as you sit at the table, you feel exposed. Your layers peeled back like a fruit. 

Geto motions down at the array of finger food before you: cheeses, dates, crusted breads, fruits covered in chocolate. “Would you care for a bite? Perhaps a drink? I have tea, water, wine…perhaps something stronger?” He eyes the bottle of fireflower juice sitting next to him. 

You choose wine to loosen yourself up, grateful for the crisp taste as it slides down your throat once Geto pours you a goblet. “Thank you for your invitation, My Lords.

Geto shrugs like it's nothing, smoke billowing attractively from between his pink lips. The bottom lip is piercing with a small ring, unfortunately drawing your attention to his mouth. “Of course. You needed it after that performance you put on, I’m sure.” You act shy and modest, staring down at your wine. “Oh, it’s nothing. For me, that was a simple dance. I have done plenty more complex and strenuous.” 

You were hired tonight to perform for the Fire Nation's Royal Family and their close party, dancing among the sounds of the drums and guitars as fire eaters surrounded you, swallowing swords emblazoned with flames. The flames were hot, but you were hotter. You danced like the heat didn't bother you, sweat sliding over your damp skin and curves as you winded and swirled your hips. 

As you danced, surrounded by all of the royals, your eyes caught the brothers' gazes through the flicker of the flames, orange and red flickering across their handsome faces. Their unyielding gazes spurred you on, making your hips move faster and your body slither like a snake. You are famous among the royals for your dance moves and you were guaranteed to make them remember you. 

Starting with the Firelord brothers. “Oh, well, we wouldn’t want that," Geto chuckles. "It’s important to care for your body. Especially if you are dancing for royalty.” He winks across the room at Zuko. “And since my brother adores your dancing so.” 

“Shut up, Geto,” he growls. “I do not!” You turn towards the younger brother, a pit in your stomach at his words. “You don’t?” you ask, cocking your head at him. Zuko realizes his mistake and quick tries to backtrack, his cheeks hot with a flush. “N-No, I meant…I didn’t mean—“ 

Geto tosses his head back and laughs, the sound oh-so attractive and pulling a smile out of you. “A catch, isn’t he? He can lead the Fire Nation Army into attack on the frontlines, but he can’t even form a sentence in front of a pretty woman.” 

Zuko snarls, teeth bared, gleaming in the twilight. “You’re testing me, brother. I’m about this close to throwing a fire ball at your head.” Geto mockingly gasps, putting a dramatic hand to his broad chest. “And scare the lady? How else will you find yourself a mate?” 

You quickly try to stamp out the fire quickly growing between the brothers. “I am used to violence, I assure you both. And this is quite tame for me.” You turn to Zuko with an inviting smile, knowing that he is the shyer, quieter one. “Will you join us, Your Highness?” 

Zuko looks surprised at the offer, his brows raising slightly. He shoots a look at Geto who nods, smirking quietly at his younger brother. “Just as long as my brother knows to keep his words wise and his brain intact," he grumbles. Geto chuckles as Zuko rises, barefoot and quiet as he strides over to join you at the table.

He sits with Geto on his knees across from you, pouring himself some more tea. Geto passes Zuko the pipe to which the young prince gags at, putting it aside on the table. “Come; let us toast." Geto raises his glass of fireflower juice high, his eyes shining. "To a night of wonders and surprises.” 

“Cheers," you giggle, clinking your goblet with the brothers before taking a sip of your crisp wine. The sliver of afternoon sun has vanished now and the moon has taken the sun's place, leaving the room shining in a white glow. “Did you enjoy tonight’s festivities, Y/N?” Geto asks, his voice soft as silk. It makes you shudder in pleasure. “As much as I could. It’s hard to do much when you’re being ordered to be on your feet for most of the night.” 

The older brother chuckles, taking another puff of his pipe as Zuko silently sips his tea. “Well, here you will not have that. I’m sure your feet must be sore.” You think you see both brothers' eyes flicker down to your soft feet and French-tipped toes, manicured and pretty, but you pass it off as a trick of the moonlight. 

“No, you misunderstand. I do not hark on sore feet. It comes with my work and I would not give up being a dancer for anything.” You mean the words to the bottom of your heart, but Geto chuckles, thinking it is a joke. “For the money, I’m sure.” You smile, humoring him. “The pay is just the tip of the iceberg for me. I only wish to entertain others with my body. To dance is my—“ 

“Passion,” Zuko finishes, surprising you and Geto with his voice. “That’s rare.” Geto agrees, his gaze softening. “Mm. Quite rare. Very admirable. And quite sweet of you.” 

You shiver at the brothers' praise, feeling a flood of endorphins that you've never felt from any compliment before. For a few minutes, you sip your wine in silence, letting the alcohol take over. “How did I make you feel?” you boldly ask. “When I danced?” The brothers look surprised at the random question at first, but Geto answers nonetheless. “Enchanted. Like you were putting me under a spell that I didn’t want to escape." 

His violet eyes capture you between the wisps of smoke billowing from his lush lips. You force yourself to focus on his face instead. "You flatter me, sir," you giggle. Then you turn to Zuko who is silent, unmoving. "What about you, Your Highness? Did I please you as much as your brother with my moves?"

You didn't mean for it to sound so suggestive, and Zuko catches on, his cheeks growing red. "Does it matter that much to you?" he asks, not unkindly but just confused. 

You nod, keeping your kind, welcoming smile. "Of course! If I'm hired to dance for the Fire Nation's princes and their court, it's my duty to entertain and please." Again: very suggestive. Perhaps you're throwing down the hammer a little too hard, but the brothers' quiet seduction and mingling scents of floral (Zuko) and cloves (Geto) is driving you to the brink of insanity.

"Oh, he was entertained," Geto smirkingly replies, sliding a suggestive look at Zuko. "And very pleased. Weren't you, brother?" Zuko elbows his brother in the side, earning a choked chuckle in response. But realizing you're waiting for an answer, he gulps and regains composure. "You were...very nice," he mildly replies into his tea cup. "I have seen belly dancing before, but not the way you do it. Where did you learn?"

You smile and explain to him about your home and culture. You tell them that you learned from your grandmother who taught your mother and older sister. You tell them that belly dancing is considered an important dance within your culture, using your body to make art. The two listen intently, making you feel shy despite dancing for a living. 

"You flatter me too, Your Highness," you chuckle, staring through your lashes at Zuko. "Your kindness is a gift and to dance for you is an honor." Zuko blushes hot red at your sweetness, averting his gaze. "The pleasure is all ours," Geto replies with a twinkle in his eye. "Though we are leaving one thing out as to why you're here." 

You sip more wine, letting the buzzing, warm feeling grow. "Oh? What is that?" Geto gives Zuko a knowing look, but the younger brother ignores him, instead pouring more tea. Your heart pounds and the heat you felt growing intensifies, making the room feel tense. 

"Forgive us for coming off as nothing more than dogs, but I'm afraid we loved your dancing so much that we preferred to have it in private." Geto pauses, puffing on his pipe, sizing you up with his eyes. 

You ignore the way your body sizzles at his confession. You were hoping you were here for that reason...among others. "You want me to dance for you?" you ask. "Right here?"

Geto sits back against the pillows, exposing a sliver of his abs to you. "If you wish. Though we commanded your presence, we want you to be comfortable here with us. That body is too perfect to be forced to do anything it doesn't wish to."

His words are made of saccharine and silk, making you buzz like you just drank a whole bottle of wine. Though Zuko doesn't say anything, his look, so intimate and personal, tells you everything. They truly mean what they say. If they wanted more from you, they would've taken it by now, you realize. 

So you smile, letting your walls fall completely down. "Of course. I am at your service, Your Highnesses," you purr. "You have made me very comfortable without needing to, so who am I to refuse your command? However, I do not have any music." 

"Geto can play guitar," Zuko replies. He snaps at his older brother, impatient. "Play something. Now." Geto only smiles, humored by his brother's flip switch in attitude. "Oooo, someone's desperate to see some more moves. Did you think the Firelord would be so demanding?" 

"Yes, I did," you giggle as Geto rises to his feet, going to fetch his guitar. "But I am sure you both are to a degree. I would think the Firelords would be if you get your way all the time." 

Geto returns with a small guitar and sits cross-legged at the table, placing it in his lap. "Oh, little dancer, we get our way all the time. And you will get yours if you continue to move the way you do." His seductive words cause a trail of heat to snake down to between your thighs, but you ignore it. Not yet.

"How will you have me, My Lords?" you purr, unable to keep the sex out of your voice. Geto elbows Zuko, letting him talk. The young prince's eyes bore into yours, intense and fiery. "Stand right there," he softly commands, nodding at the window. "In the moonlight." 

You rise to your feet and slink over to the window, standing in the sliver of moonlight serving as your spotlight. Then the music begins, Geto's fingers stroking and strumming the guitar strings the way you picture him doing to your body. The music is soft with a bit of Indian scales added to it. "Dance for us, love," he encourages. "However you wish." 

And so you dance. Under the silvery moon and the hot gazes of the princes, you wind your hips, flip your hair, and move your stomach so impressively like it's made of water. You twist, grind, and sway, letting the music control you. When the guitar strums get bolder and faster, you move with them, your movements more intense but still controlled.

The watchful eyes of your princes encourage you, pushing your aching muscles and winding hips to move faster until completion. You reach the same peak you would with an orgasm, feeling a tightness in your core that bursts until you're coating in explosive pleasure that makes you gasp. You hit a pose, raising your arms high as you face the princes, coating from head to toe in sweat. 

Geto stops playing and applauds you while Zuko sits still as a statue, gobsmacked. "Beautiful," he murmurs. You smile at the praise, bowing. "Did that please you, My Lords?" you ask, out of breath and pumped full of arousal. You can feel your slick travel down between your thighs and you clamp them shut in an effort to hide the scent of your slick. 

The aura in the room has shifted, leaving a tense feeling in the air that the brothers feel too. You can tell from how rigid they both sit as if trying to seem normal but miserably failing. Geto is the only one who comes clean, moving the guitar from his lap to reveal his bulge under his robe. "Yes, lovely...a little too much. I am sure you can see it." 

His eyes slide over to Zuko and sure enough, the younger prince is sporting a hard cock under his slacks as well. "Oh," you sigh, your eyes glued to their bulges. "Your Highnesses..." You stare, unashamed and so unproper. And not caring one bite. 

"F-Forgive me," Zuko stammers, covering his hard-on with a pillow as he madly blushes. "You can leave if you don't like this. I'm not usually like this." He looks ashamed and shy, averting his eyes from yours. 

But you shake your head, mouth practically watering. "It's alright. You're just making me blush." And quite wet. You can't remember the last time your pussy has felt this tingly and open, waiting for some attention. Geto raises a brow at you, catching onto your game. "Oh? And why is that?" he asks, his voice much deeper than usual. 

Zuko turns to you, his attention once again pulled back to you. You stare at both, unable to hide your want anymore. "Perhaps you're not the only one who's been enchanted," you whisper. "Maybe I'm feeling this fire too." 

Silently, the two brothers share a look and finally, they rise to their feet. Zuko drops the pillow, revealing his bulge again, and is the first to make his way over to you. You feel wobbly and unsteady as he strides towards you, all muscle and discipline under his silk robe, standing a whole head taller than you. 

But when he finally nears you, you are neither intimidated or frightened. If anything, you are oh-so aroused and attracted to his height and strength. He places his fists at his sides, his muscles tense, jaw working. "I want to touch you," he hoarsely confesses. "I want to...kiss you. Will you let me?" 

He dares to finally touch you, placing his hand in yours. You swallow hard as his long fingers lace through yours, just as Geto comes up behind you. It is sudden and silent, making for a great sneak attack. All you feel is his dick pressing into your backside, hard and hot, making your brain muddy. You turn to Zuko with an answer on your tongue, your pussy throbbing impatiently. "I—Oh!" you gasp before your face is being forced to turn to the side and Geto's lips are on yours, his fingers on your cheek. 

Prince Geto kisses like a dream. A wet dream, that is. His lips are soft and spiked from the fireflower juice, but they are also wet and supple, his tongue sliding across yours. You kiss him back, your lips moving together in a heated dance, soft moans traveling between you. Zuko watches, enraged. "Hey, asshole! You said we were sharing her, remember?" 

Geto chuckles against your lips, pulling away with a hooded look your way. "Sorry, brother, but you were too slow. I couldn't wait to have these lips any longer." His thumb gently massages your bottom lip, nearly sending you through the ceiling."That kiss was meant for your brother, Your Highness," you giggle. "Although that was quite a kiss." 

Geto smiles pridefully, his hands finding your hips. "What can I say? I aim to please, little one." He leans in to steal another, but Zuko beats him to it, turning your chin to face him. "I kiss way better," he mutters before he sweeps your lips up in a kiss. He is no longer the shy, stoic man you met earlier; now, the man in his place is bold and unabashed as he kisses you down, making you melt beneath his lips. 

Geto watches his brother kiss you as he sandwiches you between himself and Zuko, hard muscle pressed against soft curves. "Mmm, you feel so fucking good," he groans, his hands caressing your curves. "For so long, we've watched you. Craved you. Just wanted to keep you to myself." 

Zuko eyes him from over your head as he pulls away from kissing you, your taste on his lips. "Don't get ahead of yourself, brother. You're in MY room." You smile at their little rivalry, placing a hand on both of their broad chests. "You may keep me," you giggle. "We have tonight, don't we?" Geto looks surprised at your agreement, thoughtfully stroking your sides. "Is that because you want us to? Or because you want to please us? Be honest, little dancer."

His big hand cups your chin as he kisses you once more, the scent of tobacco wafting off of him in intoxicating waves. Zuko peppers your neck in kisses, overstimulating you in the best way possible to the point where you're gasping and panting for air when his older brother pulls away. "I want it too," you confess. 

How can you not? Every kiss, touch, and word from the brothers are like the strongest hits of a drug. You crave more of them, selfishly. You want to be the one who says that you danced and had a night of endless sex with the Firelord brothers, pleasing them with your body in every way possible. 

Zuko smiles against your neck and Geto gives you a devastatingly pretty grin, overjoyed at your confession. He takes your hands and presses his lips to your knuckles, making your stomach flip. "Then lay down and let us explore you. Pleasing you will please us." 

And you believe him. Plus, the idea of the Firelord brothers being two givers and pleasers is something you definitely want to explore more of. Two handsome princes who would like to please YOU, a homely dancer girl, because it gets them off? You'd be an idiot to refuse this!

Zuko anchors your attention back to him with his soft lips and nimble fingers caressing your body, running up and down your stomach. "Will you let us touch you?" he murmurs, a plea in his tone. You grasp one of his hands, clamping it tightly against your body, not wanting him to let go. "Yes," you whisper. "Please touch me." 

You twist around to kiss the younger prince, his surprised moans swallowed by your wine-spiked tongue. Geto chuckles, taking a handful of your ass in his big, calloused hands. "Such sweet begging. And such a sweet body too." Together, the brothers share your body, their hands indulging in your curves the way you have only dreamed of. You usually swallow back cringes whenever a man touches you, but them? It's nothing but shivers and sensations that make you want to melt. "Oh," you sigh, unable to utter anything but mere words. 

As Zuko busies himself kissing your neck and breasts (without taking off your top, of course, because he's a gentleman), Geto manages to slip some of your skirt down to expose your hip dips and the curve of your spine. "A-Ah," you moan, your hips bucking into Zuko as Geto kisses down your stomach, his fingers playing with your hips and gliding down your sides to your thighs. 

He stares up at you and the way your back curves as your head tilts back, your hair cascading down like a sweet-smelling river. "You like that, pretty?" he teases. "You want me to go lower?" His hand slides under your skirt and you gasp when you feel his thick fingers caress you between your thighs, right over your damp panties. Arousal explodes like a firework inside of you and you can no longer bear the foreplay anymore. 

"Yes, please," you whisper. Your voice is soft and breathless; needy. Just what the royal brothers want. Together, they kneel and pull up your skirt, exposing your thong and bare thighs underneath. They groan at the sight of your asscheeks looking so plump wedged between the tight thong. "Oh, fuck," Zuko softly moans, just above a shudder. 

"Goddamn!" Geto gasps, staring mesmerized at the slick dripping down your thighs. "Look at how wet she is, brother. All for me." His tongue juts out to lick your inner thigh, giving you a taste of the cool metal of his tongue piercing. Zuko's eyes cut over to his brother, sharp and irritated. "You mean all for us. Don't play with me right now, Suguru."

Geto smirks, gently suckling on your thigh just to hear you moan. "My bad, brother. It's just so much fun teasing you. We will share this sweet pussy of hers and make her cum her brains out." He stares up at you, eyes twinkling. "That sound good to you, little one?"

So inviting. So considerate. So in tune with your body and your pleasure. Nothing has ever sounded better. So you lay down among the soft, luxurious pillows and allow the brothers to split your thighs open beneath your skirt, groaning at the sight of your lace thong so soaked through the fabric to the point where you are dripping wet. 

Geto dares to pull the tiny article of fabric down your legs, exposing your pussy, puffy with arousal and glistening with your nectar. Some of it coats your inner thighs and the slit of your asshole, making you bite your lip as the summer breeze hits your sensitive pussy lips. "Ooo, look at her, brother," Geto murmurs, mesmerized by your slick. "So much here for us to share. We must indulge and—"

"I go first," Zuko cuts in before diving face first into your pussy. You gasp, your hand instantly grasping his long black locks as his soft lips mash with yours between your soft thighs, toned from years of dancing. "Oh!" you gasp, eyes bugging at the pleasure. "M-My Lord, that's s-so good! Oh, fuck yes!"

Zuko is quite a wonder at eating pussy. He does it as if he loves it, moaning as his tongue sends lightning strikes across your clit. Geto watches on, knelt beside his brother with a disapproving frown. "So much for sharing," he mutters. "Don't I get a little taste?" 

Zuko looks irked by the mere thought of sharing you, but still, he scoots over an inch to allow some space for Geto. "Fine, but just stay out of my way." Then he goes right back to slipping his tongue between your sticky, wet pussy lips, drawing moans from deep in your chest out of you. 

Geto smirks, peppering your right inner thigh in wet kisses, his fingers pressing into the muscle as he spreads it away from your pussy. "You're just worried that I'll make her cum before you do. Don't you know pierced tongues do it better?"

Moments later, you are writhing, bucking, and twisting like you're experiencing an exorcism on the princes' pillows and in their hands clamped tight on your thighs and under your ass as their tongues slash and skate hungrily along your pussy. Their tongues slash along your slit, alternating between your dripping hole and your clit buzzing with pleasure and all kinds of sensations. 

When Zuko slides his tongue inside of you, Geto sucks your clit, moaning as he does so. They totally devour you whole, the lewd sounds of their fat, wet tongues swirling between your thighs. Their faces are pressed flush against each other, cheek to cheek, as they give you two tongues to lose your mind over...and you do. "Oh, fuck!" you cry out, gripping the pillows beneath you. "God, My Lords, yes! More please! Don't stop!" 

Geto pulls away from your clit to smile, his violet eyes drinking in the way you massage your tits and tweak your nipples over your top. "You hear that, brother? She loves my mouth on that pretty clit." 

Zuko growls as he pulls his tongue out of your pussy, the muscle sticking with your juices. "You sure that isn't because my tongue is deep inside of her?" So the brothers turn to you, expecting the truth."Tell me, little one: do you like my tongue or my brother's?" Geto asks in his silky voice as he rips your top down, exposing both of your precious, full tits to them. 

"Both," you moan, surprised you can even speak. "Both of you are making me feel so good!" The brothers smile, satisfied with your answer. "Mmm, nice answer, baby," Geto hums. "Perhaps you'd like this tongue a bit lower?" 

And then his fat, pierced, royal tongue is sliding down between your asscheeks, licking and sucking greedily at the tiny hole. Zuko begins to suck and lick on your clit now, humming as he takes the tiny rosebud into his mouth and does wonders to it, his mouth made of magic. 

"Oh, my God!" you groan, your fingers lacing through their long, silky locks. Your back arches off of the floor, your body totally at their mercy. The vibrations of Geto's chuckle in your ass make you shudder, every sensation like a tidal wave of pleasure. "Mmm, naughty girl. Getting wetter from my tongue in your pretty little hole," he murmurs. 

So he can feel it. You noticed a brief few minutes ago after Geto started eating your ass that your pussy has gotten significantly wetter, and not just because of Zuko's eager tongue. You are gushing like a waterfall, sending your honey dripping into the mouths of the younger prince. "Fuck, I think she's close!" Zuko groans, feeling your pussy tightening around his tongue now. 

If he didn't feel that, you're sure he would've suspected by how loud you've gotten. Your moans and whimpers can't be contained anymore, bouncing off of his bedroom walls. "You're gonna cum for me now, sweetness?" Geto huskily asks, using his two fingers to gently rub at your asshole, making you damn near cream on yourself. 

Zuko snarls into your pussy, anger radiating through his muscles flexing underneath his robe. "No, she's gonna cum for me," he growls. "Stop distracting her." 

"I'm gonna cum for you both!" you desperately moan, grasping at their silky locks of hair, pushing them deeper into your holes, as far as they can possibly go. "Please, please make me cum, my Lords! Don't stop!" Zuko mumbles nonsense into your pussy while Geto laughs, speaking through wicked flicks of his tongue against your ass. "Never, little one. Just cum for us. Let go. We've got you now." 

And like a puppet on a string, pulled by the princes' wicked and convincing tongue strokes, you let out a loud whine as you cum all over their faces. You soak their smoothly-shaven cheeks and chins as you cream, flooding their mouths with your nectar straight from the source of your sweet-like-sugar pussy. They share groans of satisfaction and need as they slurp up your essence, making you cry out and whine as your pussy throbs and tingles with every agonizing stroke of their tongues.

When you finally come down from your high, a smile stretches across your face, matching the one sliding along the princes' lips. "Mmm-hmm," Zuko hums as he pecks your tummy, making you twitch. His fingers glide along your sweat-soaked skin, slightly warmed by his fire abilities. "Mmm, good girl," Geto praises you, giving your ass a squeeze. "How was that?"

You are more than happy to let him know: "Like heaven. Thank you, My Lords." You sit up from your fort of pillows, want racing through your veins as you gaze at the handsome men before you. "Now I must please you both as well." 

The princes must feel the fire radiating from your molten gaze because they don't hesitate giving you what you want. They each stand, racing each other to see who can do it the fastest. "Let's get her on the bed," Zuko requests. "I don't want her on the floor doing this." 

You grin when he offers you a hand to help you stand. "How sweet of you, My Lord," you hum, taking his hand in yours, but even as you stand, your legs feel like jelly. Luckily, you have a certain young prince to help you. Surprising both himself, Geto, and you, he scoops you up into his arms and carries you over to his bed. "Oh!" you giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

Geto watches sourly, following behind. "Show-off," he scoffs. Zuko gives him a wink, pleased with himself. "Don't look so upset, brother. I'm just playing your own game is all...and winning." 

Your giggles continue as Zuko swiftly walks over to the bed and gently places you down on the satin sheets, soft to the touch. The two princes stand at the foot of the bed, looking over your curves like you're a dessert plate. "So what are you waiting for, brother?" Geto asks, slyly smirking at Zuko. "Get udnressed and drop your pants...unless you're too afraid to get shown up by me." 

As you laze about on the sheets, biting your lip in anticipation, you watch the Firelords disrobe for you. Your eyes are drawn to their fingers as they untie their robes while their eyes are locked soley on your beautiful face and body. Your arousal practically explodes and spills over when they expose their toned bodies to you, every part of them carved with muscle, their lower stomaches adorned in patches of fine black hair. 

When their pants are finally off, you come face to face with what you've dreaming about for ages. Their dicks are just as beautiful as you pictured them being—different in size and shape, one thicker than the other, the other curving upward, but both throbbing, rock hard, and ready for you. 

Geto raises a teasing brow down at you and your dreamy expression. "Well? You wanted to suck some royal dicks, right? Here you are now, little dancer." He wraps a hand around himself, gently pumping from base to tip. "Take them, little one, but you must do your very best for us, okay?" 

Zuko flushes as you sit up in front of them, flashing him your naked tits, much to his dick's enjoyment. "Of course, Your Highness," you purr. "I would give you nothing less." You begin slow, using some body oil on the bedside table next to you to pour onto their hard dicks and into your palms, making both slick and shiny. 

Then it's strictly about pleasing the two princes. Stroking, pumping, and sucking. Your pussy gushes at each deep moan, gasp, and swear that escapes the princes' lips as you alternate between sucking and stroking them. Geto throws his long hair back and moans in ecstasy as you pump him with your mouth, your lush, wet lips sliding up and down his shaft. 

"Ah, fuck," he sighs, his handsome face contorted in pleasure. "God, that's fucking good." His big hand tangles in your hair, holding you firm, while Zuko watches in awe as your dainty hand strokes his dick in tandem. "Her hand feels good t-too," he stammers. You pull away from Geto's cock, strands of spit connecting his cockhead to your bottom lip. 

"It feels good, my Prince?" you purr, staring at Zuko through your lashes. "Would you like my mouth as well?" Zuko can't even speak; he can only jerkingly nod as his cock twitches in your palm. You smile and wrap your mouth around him next, sliding him deep into your throat and against your tongue. Zuko's eyes widen at the new sensations, his mouth agape as your tight, wet throat closes around him and slides up and down his shaft. 

"Oh, fuck!" he moans, clenching his fists at his sides as you bob up and down his dick, moaning in enjoyment. Geto watches on through hooded eyes, fucking your hand slick with oil. 

You continue to work Zuko's dick in your throat, hollowing your cheeks and staring into his eyes. When you need to breathe, you slide him out of your throat only to suck and lick on his tip, earning a desperate hiss through his teeth. "Y-You...oh, fuck, how do you do that with your tongue?" 

"This?" you ask before you push the brothers' cocks together and lick both of their tips at the same time, earning wanton groans in response. You continue to alternate between them, giving them as much tender, love, and care as possible, causing your own spit to pool down your chin and soak your tits. 

But Geto soon takes initiative, your mouth too much for him, and grips your hair as he pushes himself deep down your throat. You gag in surprise, but you don't dare push him away, letting him use your throat for his pleasure. "Deeper," he grunts. "Come on now, love, don't give up. Take that fucking dick." 

His moans are aphrodiasics to you as he fucks your mouth, his balls gently slapping against your chin. Black strands of hair hang in his handsome face, his composure lost as he thrusts deeper and deeper, filling your throat up with his cock. Zuko practically melts at the lewd sight, his cock growing bigger and thicker as he watches your mouth stretch around his brother's dick. 

Geto notices and smiles, pulling out with a groan to tap his dick against your tongue. "You wanna try, brother?" he pants. "Just fuck her throat nice and deep. Make her take it." After some coaching, Zuko swallows hard and slides himself inside of your mouth. 

Obediently, you take his slow, deep thrusts as he gets used to your throat closing around him, causing more spit to drip down your chin, making you look like a professional cock slut. The moans that Zuko lets out are choked and wanton, traveling straight to your soaked pussy. You can't help but play with yourself as Zuko fucks your throat, using it as he would a fleshlight. 

Geto notices your fingers working between your thighs and smiles, raising his brows. "Oooo, someone's being quite naughty," he chuckles. "I suspect you need to be treated kindly down here again, sweetness?" Slowly, he switches places and climbs onto the bed behind you, placing his big hands on your hips. You feel his cock nudge your pussy lips apart, allowing your wetness to drench his tip. 

"You want this dick now, darling? Can you take me and my brother at the same time?" Zuko groans as he slips out of your throat, allowing you to speak, which you eventually do once your moaning over Geto's cock rubbing against your pussy stops. "Yes!" you gasp. "Please fuck me, Suguru! I need y—" 

You can't finish because he's already sliding in, filling you to the brim with dick. Your mouth falls agape as you're stretched open on his thick dick, expanding on every sensation you've ever felt. "S-Sorry, love, but your begging was just too damn cute," the older prince stammers, biting his lush bottom lip as you squeeze him tight. "Y-you—oh, fuck—feel so fucking good." 

Zuko watches you bounce against his brother's dick buried deep inside of you, your tits swaying enticingly back and forth. "Don't tire her out. I still need to fuck her too." Geto chuckles, moving his fingers down to rub your clit in time with his breathtaking thrusts. "Sure...if she doesn't cum too hard. I'm known for doing that to women."

An irritated growl escapes Zuko as he slides his cock in your mouth again, keeping his thrusts a bit slower and lighter to not overwhelm you. How sweet of him. "Just fuck her and shut up," he growls. "I'll show you that I can do just as good of a job." Geto raises an interested brow, his smirk wicked and sly. "Oh, can you now? I'll hold you to that, little brother." 

And then together, the two fuck you off of their cocks, pushing and pulling you back and forth. It is like some erotic seesaw, the rhythm building the more they fuck your dripping holes. Zuko's resolve drops with every thrust of his dick down your tight throat and ripple of your ass bouncing back against Geto's cock. "That's it," he grunts. "You suck me so well, baby. So fucking good!" 

The way you squeal and moan around Zuko's cock makes Geto fuck you a little faster, placing a foot on the bed. It drives him deeper inside of you, to the point where you damn near feel him in your tummy. "Yeah? You like sucking my brother's fat dick while I fuck you with mine?" he pants. "That pussy certainly seems to."

Your pussy concurs, dripping over his fingers as he rubs your clit in time with his thrusts. You feel his eyes roll over your curves, drinking in the way sweat rolls off of your blessed body. "Fuck yes," he hisses. "How is this body so amazing, hm?" He begins to harshly palm your ass, indulging in the way your soft asscheeks ripple and bounce in time with his thrusts. Your body tingles at his touch, needing more. "Spank me!" you whimper. 

"Seriously?" Zuko asks, surprised by such a request. But Geto is grinning like a kid on Christmas. "Oh, I'm gonna have some fun with you, little one." He then raises his palm and swats your ass repeatedly, the harsh sounds of his hand coming down on your ass exploding against the bedroom walls.

SPANK! SPANK! SPANK!

The assault on your ass combined with Geto's mind-melting thrusts is too much and soon, you feel your second orgasm cresting like a full moon. "M'gonna cum!" you moan around Zuko's cock. "Please harder, My Lord! Fuck me faster!" Geto's groan is fit for a porno, filled with need and desperation. "Of course, cutie. Anything you want." 

So he thrusts harder, faster, his balls slapping against your clit. Sparks of pleasure explode through your body as you bounce back against his dick, practically fucking yourself as he pounds into you, taking and giving at the same time. "Such cute begging. Such a sweetheart," he grunts. He leans forward, capturing your tits in both of his big palms. "Gonna make me fucking cum. Make me breed you." 

The idea of being bred by one of the princes–or both–turns you on more than you care to admit. You can only moan around Zuko's throbbing dick as Geto fucks your pussy like he owns it, chasing his orgasm. "M'gonna cum!" he groans. "You ready, little one? Ready to take this load?" 

"Mmm-hmm!" you moan around Zuko's dick twitching in your throat. You don't get a chance to prepare before a hot rush of cum is flooding your insides, followed by a loud groan from Geto as he empties himself inside of you. You quickly cum as well, shuddering and shaking as your orgasm takes you on a journey through the stars and beyond. 

Zuko watches as your eyes roll back with his cock still stuffed in your mouth, your orgasm taking complete control in addition to the hot gush of spunk that Geto gives you. It seems to last forever until Geto's grip on your tits eases and his thrusts grow sloppy until they finally slow. 

He sighs as he slooooowly slides out of you, groaning at the gush of cum that manages to escape your pussy. You slide your mouth off of Zuko's cock and collapse between them, totally spent and breathless. Geto smirks at Zuko, cocky and proud of his work. "Told you she'd tap out," he chuckles. Gently, he strokes your ass, leaning down to check on you. "Tuckered out, little dancer? Or can you take more?" 

More. Yes. Your body reacts immediately, igniting with need like a wildfire. You slowly sit up on your knees, staring into the worried gaze of Prince Zuko. "Do you wish to continue? We can stop if you—oh, fuck!" 

He doesn't get a chance to finish because of your vicious sucking again, swallowing him whole and giving him a few pumps of your throat that make his toes curl. You pull away, lips coated in spit and pre-cum, bating your lashes at him. "Please fuck me, my Lord," you whimper. "I need to make you feel good too." 

Zuko stares, blushing and intensely aroused, while Geto smirks at the sight. "You heard the girl. So you gonna show me up or what?" As if a switch flips, Zuko's shy demeanor vanishes, replaced with someone so determined to please you. "I want her on her back," he requests above a growl. "I want her to look at me when I make her cum." 

His lewd words sound like a promise to your ears, fierce and impassioned, making your stomach flip with anticipation for what will come next...and hopefully cum next too. 

Moments later, you're taken to euphoria again when Zuko is fucking you in missionary, hips slamming against yours as you lay back against Geto's broad chest. He holds your legs open for his brother, watching as Zuko fucks your pussy into his bed. The lewd noises of his dick sloshing and squelching in your wet pussy drifts through the air, mixing with your loud moans and his groans of pleasure. 

There is a symphony of sex swimming in the air, uninterrupted or silenced, only growing more intense the deeper and faster Zuko fucks you. "Oh, my God, yes!" you wail against the bedsprings creaking. "That's so good, Zuko, fuck!" 

The younger prince smiles, black strands of his hair cascading over his broad shoulders and face glistening in beads of sweat glistening in the moonlight. "Yeah? Better than my brother, right?" Geto glares from behind you, teasing your hard nipples as his brother continues to pound you into the mattress. "Watch it. I could snatch that pussy away from you easily." 

Zuko breathlessly chuckles, his cock somehow twitching in your pussy at the prospect of such a challenge. "Doesn't seem like she'd like that," he grunts. "She—oooo, fuck, she's squeezing around me so tight!" He pauses to spit on your pussy, a drop of saliva dripping from his mouth to drench your puffy, sticky pussy lips. 

You can only gasp as he slides in again, deeper, making you take every thick inch of him. Your eyes roll back and your mouth falls slack on desperate, loud moans and gasps as he draws himself inside of you, trapping you between himself and his brother. "I want to devour you, little dancer," he groans. "Wanna keep you here and make you mine over and over again." 

He leans down to press himself against you, using his arms to hold himself up, encasing you in a prison of muscle that you don't want to escape. He presses his forehead against yours, staring deep into the very loins of your soul as he fucks you deep. "Would you like that?" he whispers. 

You only whine in response, unable to formulate proper words. Geto laces a hand around your throat, squeezing. "Answer my brother, pretty girl. You wanna stay here and let my brother fuck you until you cum over and over again?" Zuko goes harder. Faster. Pistoning that dick inside of you and forcing you to answer. "Yes!" you wail. "Both of you! I want both of you, please!" 

Geto's chest rumbles as he softly laughs, wrapping those big arms around you to hold you close as Zuko pins your thighs apart to fuck you in semi-mating press. "Then cum for me," Zuko grunts. "Give me all of that honey, baby, please. I need it. Please, please, please."

His begging is a straight drug lacing through your veins, getting closer and closer to yet another intense orgasm. Geto kisses down your neck as he squeezes you tight, anchoring you down before you float off as your orgasm crests. "Give it to him now, darling," he whispers. "Cum for him. Cum for us again."

It doesn't take long—not with the way Zuko is desperately moaning above you as he chases his orgasm head on, his cock sliding against your slick, wet pussy walls until he can't take much more. "Fuck, I'm cumming!" he gasps. "I-I can't...stop! Gonna fill you up!" 

Plap, plap, plap goes his hips against your thighs as his thrusts grow faster and faster until finally— 

"Fuck!" you both gasp in unison as Zuko floods your insides with his cum and you drench him in your cream, finally released from your bottle of self control. Your body would definitely be levitating if it isn't for Geto's beefy arms snaking around you, holding you close and holding you down, forcing you to take his brother's load deep inside of you. 

Your eyes roll back and your body twitches as you cum, cum, and cum, drenching Zuko's cock and balls in your honey. He groans as he fills you, his dick twitching inside of you as the last of his spurts of spunk escape him and enter you, breeding you the same as his brother did moments before.

Finally spent, Zuko slowly pulls out of you, collapsing onto his back, his muscular body slick with sweat illuminated by the moonlight. For a while, there is only comfortable silence spiked with the afterglow of sex. "That was amazing," you finally sigh, delirious. 

"Mmm-hmm," Geto hums in agreement. "Except..." He grips your chin and squeezes it tight, forcing you to look back at him. His violet eyes are firm yet fiery, making your stomach flip with excitement. "What do you say?" he asks, his tone dripping with authority. 

You aren't sure what he means at first, your brain still mushy from your three orgasms. But then you realize it when Zuko snuggles up to your side and kisses your cheek. "Thank you, my princes," you whisper. Geto smiles and pecks your lips, satisfied. "You're very welcome, little one. Now let's get you cleaned up." 

You thought tonight couldn't get any better, but that's before Geto carries you off to Zuko's large bathchambers and runs some hot water in a stone pool for you. Zuko adds some kind of liquid that has an herbal scent to the water, turning it a slight teal color and creating bubbles. The brothers get into the steaming water first before offering you their hands. "Careful now," Geto murmurs. "Gently. The water isn't going anywhere." 

You take their hands and slowly step into the pool, hissing at the heat at first. But soon, the water soothes your tired muscles and you melt into the bubbles. Zuko pulls you towards him, letting you lean back against his broad chest while you face Geto, your feet on his beating heart. "Good?" Zuko asks. 

"Yes," you sigh, content. "I am the envy of all women right now." Geto smiles, gently kissing both of your feet as you relax further into the water. "And we are the envy of all men. You made us feel so good tonight, love." 

The praise fuels you the way the herbal-scented water does, making you feel brand new. In this little world with the three of you, surrounded by nothing but the bubbles and water, you feel like nothing and no one matters. Just tonight. Just this moment of bliss. 

So you lean against Zuko's chest and hum with contentment, smiling when he tangles his fingers in your wet hair, allowing yourself to fall completely and totally in the little sanctuary your princes have built...even if it's just for tonight.

"The only question is whose dick made you cum more?" Geto asks. "Mine or my brother's?"

SPLASH!

Geto suddenly gets a mouthful of soapy water flung at him by his brother while you giggle profusely. "Get the fuck out, Geto," Zuko growls. "Or I'll drown you."

THE END.

[ochacoca]

never seen a more accurate thing on tiktok

[solilorenson]

can you blame him?

[sugurusbadhabit]

mdni 18+ :: gn!reader

suguru has a habit of correcting your posture. a light palm between your shoulder blades to remind you to sit up straight when he sees you slouching. a finger under your chin, raising it slightly just to make you make eye contact with him when you've been staring at your phone for too long.

"good," he whispers when you do as directed.

it shouldn't be as hot as it is, until you remember that he does the same thing when he's slamming into you from behind. one hand on your hip, the other between your shoulders to angle your body just the way you both like it.

the same sweet praises fall like honey from his lips, "there it is," and "just like that." you can picture him with his head tipped back and his inky hair falling down his back as those deep, elongated groans that let you know just how good you're doing for him.

or, when you're in missionary and he tilts your head back with just one finger to leave hot, open-mouthed kisses over your throat. god forbid his teeth scrape the sensitive spots on the sides of your neck - he knows you're weak there and doesn't let up once he starts. he's made you cum like that more than once and is more than happy to do it over and over until you're begging him to stop.

so, if you start occasionally slouching on purpose, who could really blame you? if they knew the images of your husband that it conjured for you, their posture would suffer the same fate as yours just for a small taste of what you experience.

[hellowoolf]

it will come back

synopsis: there is no doubt that mr. geto is an exceptional dancer, and a kind instructor. you have no doubt, either, that the perverse, voracious need you have for him is unrequited. of course, he calls you little dove and watches you dance low-lidded and teases you with innuendo, but surely he doesn't mean it...right?

pairing: ballet instructor!geto x ballerina!reader

tags: fluff, crazy yearning, reader can be cheeky, smut, unprotected piv, creampie (oops), semi-public sex...sort of?, dry humping, fingering, guided masturbation, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, suguru gets possessive, jealous suguru >:), floor sex...ok? quite literally doing splits on the d...ok? toji cameo...ok?

wc: 7k

a/n: it's been so long since i've posted a full length fic! i'm sorry and i love you all and please open your holes to me so i may place this fic there

18+! mdni <3

masterlist

~~~~~~~

mr. geto is nothing like the instructors you despised as a teen. 

you can remember walking to your car after your first lesson with him and pressing your forefinger to the tender crest of your ear, marvelling at the lack of ringing there. you were used to shrill yelling, to the echo of it against the mirror and back again, to higher and stretch and reach bellowed into your bones.

but mr. geto, it seems, is exceptionally thoughtful about how his sound carries, speaking only as loud as necessary to be heard by the furthest dancer from him. the register of his voice makes the floor thrum and your knees twitch and he seems to notice these things, take stock of them, adjust. 

he does not use his hands, either.

all other ballet instructors at your company use their fingers to adjust the body, to create the proper lines. you are completely familiar with fingertips in the crease of your knee, along the slope of your navicular, down your spine: it is not uncomfortable, not anymore, and it is in service of this art you have devoted your life to. you don’t mind. and in the dead of night when your duvet feels heavy over your waist and thighs you think that you wouldn’t mind, in particular, if he used his fingers to adjust your body. 

but he simply…doesn’t. he uses the shapes of himself, his own arms and torso, the extension of his own legs, to compose his requests of his dancers. higher, stretch, reach, he murmurs to the group of you, extending himself into position and showing you.

and a part of you likes that a great deal; there is no sense of injustice with him, no upset that he is asking something of you that he cannot himself achieve. you and the rest of the dancers watch as his twists and bows, displaying himself to guide through the moves, and it’s such a striking thing to behold that you can’t bring yourself to mind.

still, his beauty is the hardest part of being his student. the cording of his muscles, the sleek ink of his hair, the lithe curvature of his movements, it’s torturous. all at once you want to dance as he does, want to make your audience feel as he makes you feel, want him to shed himself of all professionalism and touch you somewhere irrevocable. you feel terrible and silly wanting it, wanting him, but there’s no helping it, you think.

and anyway, you insist that this wanting you indulge in in the dark isn’t dangerous. there is no oxygen for it in the studio, nothing to nurture your fantasies, and so you have to believe that they will wither and die with time. 

of course, while you tie the ribbons of your pointe shoes around your ankles in the empty studio, you pray this fantasy death will happen sooner rather than later. it’s completely exhausting to be so constantly wondering what his cock feels like, and mr. geto likes to remind you that exhausted is no state to dance in.

you love arriving to the studio early like this. before the room is overtaken with the smell of sweat and resin, you can breathe in the marley flooring and stretch your legs wide, grateful. you seek out lonely moments to appreciate how rare it is that you’ve succeeded in ballet enough to make a living from it; you close your eyes and get overdramatically philosophical, and it’s a privilege. you love it.

and yes, fine, it secures mr. geto’s first five minutes in the studio for yourself. this cannot be helping your attempt to suffocate your wanting, you know, but then he’s walking through the door draped in fine linen and hair pulled messy to the crown of his head, and you go boneless.

“good morning, dove,” he calls over his shoulder, turned away from you as he sets his things down.

you don’t remember when he started calling you that, and you don’t know if he uses it with other dancers, but god how can you blame yourself for getting sticky for him when he addresses you that way?

“good morning, mr. geto,” you call back, trying to sound lazy with the dawn as you continue stretching. you watch your fingers splayed on the floor, the borders of each vinyl panel, anything other than his strides towards his seat at the front of the room.

he plops rather unceremoniously down, legs spread slightly and head tipped back as he groans something truly criminal. you can feel something hot and biting between your legs but you try to ignore it, looking up at him.

“exhausted is no state to dance in,” you say with a smile.

he does not lift his head—you wonder if he wants to cause you pain by forcing you to watch the curved tilt of his throat and jaw—but you can see from the movement of his cheeks that he is smiling a little.

“i’m not dancing, dove, you are.”

you roll onto your back and starfish out, sufficiently limber. “what sort of terror will rain down on us today?”

he does look down at you then, lip still curved enough to look like a smirk, and when his head tilts just slightly you die a little death. “terror? i’m never terrible, i know i’m not.” his fingers make a soft sound against his thigh as he taps on it mindlessly. “you’ll like the combos today.”

you can’t help but bark a little laugh. “you don’t mean that. that’s something you only say when they’re hard.”

a chuckle pushes out through his nose. “yes, i know.” and then, matter-of-factly, he adds, “you like it hard.”

and god you try not to draw attention to the innuendo in that comment. just as he says it the doors are pushed open with a low thunk and the rest of the dancers come filtering in, and so you have every possible opportunity to be normal and professional and not silly and terrible, but you are a silly and terrible woman, so your chest stutters on your next breath. and he watches. 

you choose to believe, for your health and happiness, that he still couldn’t quite discern what your reaction was, or why it would have happened. but you cannot deny the fleeting scent of smugness on him, or the way his jaw twitches when his eyes flit to you between greeting your colleagues. 

he must be, you decide as you come to take your place at the barre, a cruel and unusual man who has recognized your unrequited lust and wants to punish you for it. 

yes, that must be it, you assure yourself. 

the rest of class is excruciating. all the typical torment of watching the man whose bones you are so desperate to jump contort himself into beautiful shapes is mounted further by the way he watched you this morning, the way his head dropped to the side just so to see you fluster for a moment. 

you try to channel it into the combos. as you travel across the room, you work to carve the feeling from your chest and toss it outwards, anywhere else. your legs burn with your leaping and turning but you push harder, hoping you’ll reach some critical point at which the physical soreness of your muscles eclipses the fluttering behind your navel, but you can’t quite catch it. and every time you hope you might be close, you feel your fingertips just grazing a moment of forgetting, you catch his eye again, and something hungry pulses in your stomach.

you probably need to get fucked. you definitely need to get fucked, actually, because you’ll ruin all your leotards if this continues. 

sweat shines down your body by the time class is finally, mercifully over, and the plan has already solidified then. you’ll go out tonight, you’ll get well and sufficiently railed, and at long last you will be able to address your fucking ballet instructor properly. 

even collecting your bag from the floor makes your muscles scream. your steps drag as you shuffle about, removing your pointe shoes and slinging your purse over your shoulder in the waning light of the day. 

“was that your attempt at proving me wrong?”

you straighten, inhaling sharply. when you look over your shoulder, it’s only you and mr. geto in the studio again. he’s standing in the threshold now, body leaned against the door as he watches you finish packing. 

fuck.

normally you might relish this sort of attention from him, but at this point you feel overfilled with the smoke of your desperation and you need to breathe. you need to go to the club and release some of this pent up sexual energy. you need to get out before you spread your legs for him in front of the fucking mirror. 

you try to laugh lightly, but it sounds tired and reedy. “yeah, i guess not.” shrugging a little, you add, “couldn’t help it.” and you tried to use that tone of voice one uses when a conversation is over, for the first time since meeting him hoping he simply turns and leaves, but he stays static there, watching you.

you flounder, looking for anything else to say. you want to lighten the tension that’s pulling your hips towards him, so you put on a wry smile. “i’ll try less tomorrow.”

that makes him chuckle as he brings a hand up to massage one shoulder. inevitably you think of how it might feel under your fingers, how it might tense if you were riding him and he was using that arm to lift and drop you on his—

“i do have one note for you, actually,” he murmurs, and you try to mask the horror on your face as he begins walking towards you. “show me your grand adage from the last combo.”

you hesitate a moment, clutching your purse tightly with one arm and opening your diaphragm so he doesn’t see your lungs constrict. this is normal, you remind yourself, he is being a normal instructor.

and it’s true, this is normal, but he has abnormal sex appeal and you are abnormally tightly wound and and he has never adjusted you with his hands before. this is a terrible, horrible, grotesque idea, but what are you supposed to say? no?

you drop your things slowly at your feet, tracking the sweeping of his eyes along your movements. with your hands empty again you stand still a moment, surely looking as bewildered as you feel, but he nods slightly: go ahead. 

you steady the soft tremble of your fingers as you extend your arms outwards, aligning your spine as your leg extends behind you. your core engages to keep your hips from tilting upwards, chin high to create a sloping line from your neck and down your torso. even though you do not—cannot—look mr. geto in the eyes you can feel him watching, your muscles twitch when he assesses them, fluttering like little birds under your skin.

“yes, that’s it,” he says, low, behind his teeth. he begins to walk around you, and if you didn’t know any better you’d think he was trying to make you feel predated. 

two things happen at once. you realize—and the weight of it nearly buckles your knees and takes you through the floor of the studio—that he is not going to show you want he wants by doing it at precisely the moment one long finger brushes the under side of your thigh. there isn’t even anything promiscuous about where he grazes the fingerpad, but nevertheless you feel like an open wound, a nerve, only barely restraining a full body shudder at the feeling. what the fuck is he doing?

“you can lift this higher.”

you’re almost thankful that you scoff on instinct; it makes you sound less affected by this than you are. “i’m—i’m trying, but–”

and then you really do shudder, hot and tacky from the nexus of your legs as his hand grips your thigh in full, pulling it a centimeter higher and watching your body absorb the movement to balance. your breaths puff sharp and you can’t even attempt to stop them now.

his voice is no louder than a whisper but there’s no breath in it, all timbre and sound. “there, dove. hold that.” his hand pulls away torturously slow, and at such an angle that you feel the point of each fingertip as his palm falls away. you hope he’s spontaneously blinded so he can’t see the goosebumps erupting down your arms, but instead he leans an inch closer to you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, watching you strain to keep the position from just behind your shoulder.

“it makes it harder if you hold your breath.” you can hear the twitch of his lips in that and it makes it no easier for you to take in air, but you pull a trembling gulp of air in anyways. to please him, you suppose, because apparently that’s all you’re capable of doing.

he hums in approval, “that’s good enough, dove, thank you.” 

and no sooner do the words leave his lips are you dropping your leg and fleeing out the door, only barely remembering your bag.

~~~~~~~

you’re learning that your desperation for your ballet instructor is an exceptionally powerful tool.

earlier today, you pushed your body beyond its limit in the name of exorcising yourself of the curse of him. you were an outward force then, expanding and swelling and trying to expel the dark sweetness between your thighs.

now, haunting the neon shadows of this club in your highest, most painful heels, you think your desperation has a scent. you can’t remember ever being looked at in this way; from across the dance floor and behind the bar and in a far away corner, you catch men’s glances, all of them wolfish and interested. they can tell you need to be fucked, immediately.

you select the largest specimen you can find; a hulking mountain of a creature with a scar down one side of his mouth. he’s not quite handsome in the way suguru is handsome, it’s a louder, more insistent sort of attractiveness, but nonetheless you eye fuck him until he approaches you, knowing his weight will feel nice enough from behind.

he grabs at your side when he arrives in front of you, sliding a paw down your lower back. “come dance with me,” he rasps into your ear, and while normally you’d ask for the decency of exchanging names, tonight you’re sold.

you laugh as he tugs you into the fray, a throng of bodies pressed close and tacky with sweat. there’s a strange relief as he settles behind you, strobes flaring in your vision and his thick fingers around your waist. you can already feel how this ends, something sloppy and vaguely grotesque but you don’t even mind, you’re so coiled and greedy for this man you cannot have.

the music pulls you together and he grinds with you in time with it, pulling your ass against his jeans and twisting your hips back and forth. 

he runs his nose down the slope of your neck, feeling how pliant your limbs move for him. “you’re flexible, huh?”

with your head tilted back against his shoulder he brings one hand slowly up the front of your body, grasping loosely at your neck. you grin and nod into it, letting your eyes go hazy as you look up at the rigged lights and the rising fog.

you’re fucking soaked. you really would just like it if he’d bully his cock into you here in the middle of the dance floor so you can finally think straight, and you’re considering pulling him into the bathroom to do something truly indefensible against the dirty basin of a sink, but you feel his tendons tense around your throat and it makes you tilt your chin back down on instinct.

into your ear he asks, almost amused by what he’s seeing, “d’you know him?”

your heart sinks. 

whatever buoy you had wrestled between your arms was dissolving back into salt water, you’re slipping, you’re frantic, you’re looking across the dance floor and fucking suguru geto is there.

his hair is down and silky over his shoulders, which pull a white t shirt taut across the planes of his chest. you can see, even from here, the shadows of lean muscle, his body’s capacity for dance. the sleeves of his shirt are short enough that you can see, for the first time, the head of a snake tattoo peeking just below the hem. 

fuck.

and no wonder your enormous dance partner figured you knew each other; the way he’s looking at you is lethal, a sharp slice of a stare from across the room, a pointed watching. his lips twitch when he sees you notice him, something conspiratorial and entirely his own there. it looks as though he’s holding a live animal in his mouth, sly and coy and biting down on a moving thing behind his tongue. a single, sinewy hand lifts from his side and he waves.

fuck fuck fuck.

in a fleeting out-of-body event, you can appreciate the hilarity of this moment. it pulls a sound from your throat, almost a laugh, almost a scoff, too, and you stumble slightly out of the hold of the man behind you. “i—well, yeah, actually.” you have no idea what look you’re wearing, but when you turn to face your dance partner, it makes him chuckle under his breath. 

“you uh,” he scratches at his scar with his thumb, “you wanna go over there?” 

he’s teasing you—this much is obvious to you—and so much of you is desperate to tell him no, i’d like to stay right here, and grip to the veins of his forearms and let him take you home. but then you think of mr. geto’s hands along your thigh as he adjusted it and it’s almost like he has you between his fingers again, towing you towards him. 

“i–i’m sorry, i just think i should go and–” you gesticulate behind you, vaguely, reaching for something dignified to say, “and say hi.” a failure of the highest order.

the man in front of you laughs again, deep and from his stomach this time. he’s already tilting his body away from you, already letting you go, already sensing that the smell of your pussy was meant for the long-haired figure a few feet away. “you go right ahead, ma,” you think if he wasn’t so huge a person, his laughing would sound like giggling, “i’ll be fine.”

the sight of him slipping away from you makes you nauseous. you’re watching your own failure, all six feet and four inches of him, dissipating again into the sea of people, already under the manicured fingers of other women who aren’t waiting to arch for someone who essentially equates to their boss.

but there’s something secret and sweet to watching him go, too. standing resigned on the dance floor, accepting whatever honeyed trap fate has set for you, you can unburden yourself from this taxing process of trying so hard not to embarrass yourself. yes, you think, i will simply embarrass myself, and maybe whatever follows won’t feel so excruciatingly painful. 

geto watches you carefully as you slink to his table. he keeps the muscles in his face slack, neutral enough to obscure the meaning from his expression, but the faint pull of his jaw reminds you of this morning, of after class. despite yourself, you align your body properly as you take the six odd steps to stand at his feet, extending your legs the way you know he’d want in the light of day. 

he smells like musk and something botanical when you get close enough. you hope you don’t smell like your own slick. 

“it was sort of deja vu, watching that,” he begins. even under the beating of the music he refuses to shout, voice unfurling from behind his lips and just barely reaching your ears.

you wrinkle your nose a little. “how do you mean?”

the ice in his drink chimes with a flick of his wrist. “watching you dance.”

you tilt your head back and forth, feigning some sort of consideration. “no, i think this might be different.”

he’s smiling enough now that you can almost see his teeth. the part of you that is desperate to be cautious screeches that he’s playing with you, he doesn’t want you, but with each tip of your skull you can feel that voice liquifying. you hope it slips out your ear.

“how so?” he asks.

you do your best to keep a straight face. “well, for one, i don’t want your notes.”

he looks almost joyful to spit this back at you: “oh i have a few, actually.”

your laugh is too breathy and real to truly hear it against the ambient noise of the room, but he tracks it anyway, swishes his ice again. “you’re unqualified, unfortunately. this type of dancing isn’t your expertise, mr. geto—”

“suguru,” he interjects. “suguru here.”

your thighs twitch, almost stinging with need now, but you steady yourself with a breath, humming, “okay, suguru, this type of dancing isn’t your expertise. i only accept edits from experts.”

“i might surprise you, dove.”

you run your tongue along the front of your teeth. he’s asking you to play, you think, and so you raise your eyebrows and tilt your chin the way he does when he wants you to begin.

“well,” he takes a fraction of a step towards you and you match it backwards, pushed by the heat of him and the smell of his cologne, “i think you moved a little too quickly.”

you’re moving entirely in tandem now, him forward and you back, all the way until your head bumps a wall. cornered like this, he eclipses almost your entire line of sight, a vignette of dark hair.

“the part when you tilt your head back here,” and he gestures to his shoulder, “that’s the best part. you fell straight into it.”

something shudders up your legs and you squeeze them together, desperate for a moment of anything against the swelling button between them.

“they need to wait longer for it. makes it better.”

his smirk is slowly fading, something more intimate making space for itself across his mouth. if he recognizes the irony of this, he doesn’t show it, demanding simply: “show me.”

you have half a mind to gape at him, at what he’s offering, but instead you turn—stupid, whorish thing—as he asked, pressing yourself slowly to him. when your ass bumps against his pelvis he groans low. he’s rock hard against you, and a gasp moves up your windpipe but he has his free hand on your chin first, forcing your head back to his shoulder.

contorted like this, his nose grazes your cheek, his breath filtered into your ear. you whine, feline and soft, and he hums in return.

“yeah, it’s good, huh?” and he ruts his hips slightly into yours to emphasize his point, nosing your cheekbone. “so you have to start somewhere else.”

the hand on your chin falls away, moving to the small of your back where it bends back for him. he pushes his thumb to your spine, and then the rest of his palm, bending you forward at the waist. your hands come up to brace on the wall and you let your forehead fall there, too, letting the cool concrete tether you to whatever sanity you have left.

he exhales like veneered restraint watching you tilt, feeling the extra push of your thighs against his cock twitching in his pants. “yes, dove, like that.” he grinds against you in earnest then, dragging the clothed shaft of him over the globes of your ass. “he should work for it a little.”

he pushes again and you moan fully. it leaps from the wall to his ears and it earns you another drag, his fingers bruising against your waist.

“and then,” his composure is dwindling, you can hear it, and he ruts again, “once he’s worked up,” he drags the hand at your hip up your side, around your front, between your breasts to arch you back to him again. your back bows taut and impossible to meet him, head falling immediately to his shoulder this time, eyes squeezed shut. you wonder if your slick is running down your legs now, or if it’s still pooled in your panties. he finishes into your ear,  “then you come up here.”

you wiggle your hips against him, needy, and he grunts. “what did he say to you?” he grits out.

your capacity to think is low, practically panting like he’s already inside you. “huh?”

“when he had you here, he said something that made you laugh, i wanna know what it was.” with his hand fanned across your stomach he can pull you tight against his thrusts.

“h-he, he said i—fuck suguru, i-”

“come on, little dove,” he coos.

your eyes flutter open to find him watching you, purple eyes skidding across your skin. “he said i was flexible,” you huff.

he smiles like he’s going to eat you. “oh yeah? and did you tell him it’s because your mr. geto stretches you?”

your fists bunch and pull against the wall. you’re certain he can feel you clenching through your dress. your mr. geto, jesus. “n-no,” you breathe.

“oh, that cuts deep, dove,” he tuts, but he fucks against your ass again anyway, “i work so hard to stretch you open and you’re not giving me credit?”

you find yourself with the fleeting and miraculous wherewithal to laugh, light and towards the ceiling. “i’ll tell him next time, then.”

that makes suguru laugh, too, the both of you almost manic with the truly absurd suggestion that you would ever be touched by anyone else.

you feel very suddenly like a stray dog at his doorstep, scrap-fed by his hand, bony and waiting for something warm to be tossed out again. the fear that he doesn’t mean this the way you’re taking it, that he wants you only briefly, chokes you still.

“are you drunk?” you ask him.

he lets you feel the frenetic pattern of his breathing against your neck. “no.”

and then even smaller, you can’t help it: “are you messing with me?”

slowly, he brings the hand with his drink up, extending his forefinger out around your front. it’s cold from the glass as it taps on your chin once, twice, and then drags down the line of your throat. “no.”

and you aren’t quite sure how you would describe what you feel move through him then, a trembling sort of shake, maybe, but as it buzzes through his hips he thrusts the momentum up into you. later, you would come to realize this was the sensation of him, at last, deciding something he could not take back.

“i think you left something with me at the studio today,” he murmurs. the electricity of knowing you did not leave something at the studio takes hold of your ribs and tugs. “you left in such a rush.”

“i think you know that’s you’re fault, suguru.”

he smiles small into the side of your face. “yes, i know.” a finger brushes under the swell of your breast. “i can drive you there to come get it.”

you’re beginning to squirm in his hold now, the beastly thing between your thighs drooling in full, usurping control of your limbs. “haven’t you been drinking?”

and suguru is all too pleased to bring his glass to your lips, tipping it slowly onto your tongue.

he’s drinking fucking sparkling water.

he isn’t even tipsy.

you’re nodding before you can even gulp enough air to say yes.

~~~~~~~

you barely make it out of his car before he’s on you. pressed against the passenger door, he kisses you like he wants to reach inside and pull out a rib. it’s teeth and tongue and your mewls in his mouth, and it makes him pull one leg up around his hip to grind slow against your clothed pussy.

he strokes his tongue along yours as he guides you to the front door, bucking into you when you bite down soft on his bottom lip.

“fuck,” he pants. “get inside.”

seeing the studio at night is strange. the moonlight glints off the mirror, bathing the room in silver streaks. stranger still is hearing geto come in behind you, locking the door with a low snick.

he passes behind you like a memory, stepping just to graze your back and shoulder before pulling away and towards his usual seat at the mirror. “stand center floor for me, dove,” he instructs.

your body moves without much thought. it’s so easy to do as he says here, to pervert the habit of following his directions as you stand at the center of the vinyl.

suguru runs a hand across his jaw, over his lips, watching you stand static as asked. you know how lust blown your eyes are already because you can see the black depth of them in the mirror behind his head. “stretch for me,” he sighs. 

a strange confidence feeds and swells in your belly, something alight and excited as you bend at the waist. your movements are no more salacious than they normally are, simple contortions to warm your hips and thighs, but you slow them enough to match the moment. your dress, too, heightens it; the hem teases the curve of your ass, your swollen mound, tight against you in ways your dance clothes aren’t. geto has sharpened the air to a fine point, and you teeter on it.

your head flips over, legs softly bent and then straight again, swishing open and closed. between each movement you glance up at him, swallowing thick at the shadow behind the tent in his jeans, the clench of his fist as it approaches his length. when you open your legs past second position and bend to stretch between them, he moans, unashamed, and you can tell from the lilt of pain in it that he’s stroking himself over his pants now. your pussy nearly opens in this position, faced away from him, and you feel the fever say his name. 

“your middle split now, dove,” he grips himself like he means to strangle, tipping his head back against the mirror to watch you over the bridge of his nose, adding, “please.”

with your hands splayed on the floor, you drop simply into it. when your clit bumps the cool flooring you whine in your throat, settling your weight. suguru is stroking himself in earnest over the denim when you peer up at him. “uh huh,” he pants, “and bend the knees now, just a little.”

your knees cant up and you tuck your tailbone, forcing your dress to ruck up around your hips and display, fully, the wet mess of your panties. the suffocated whine suguru sounds punches the air from your lungs, and you lean back onto your elbows behind you, looking to breathe, looking to survive for another moment.

you wish you could have a picture of the two of you this way; you entirely on display for him—and for yourself, too, as you cannot avoid your own reflection beside him—and your unflappably composed instructor, squeezing down the veins of his cock through the rough pull of his jeans, watching. and because you spend hours every day being directed by him, you know what he will ask you next before he even voices it, but you wait to hear it anyway.

“touch yourself for me.”

your fingers fly to your clit, drawing slow circles around, crossing over to feel yourself jolt. your hole pulses and spits, and suguru growls like he can see it from halfway across the room. the utter relief of friction, fucking finally, makes you tip your head back, moaning wild into the still air.

but then you hear his lips part to say something and you’re pulling your head back straight, still circling over your clit and then your entrance, meaningless patterns over your thong that make your toes curl in your heels.

“you know i never once—ngh, fuck—had the urge to adjust a student with my hands? i always hated that when i was in class,” he grits. with trembling hands, he begins to unbutton himself, pulling his cock out and tugging on it immediately.

god, he’s pretty. long and soft and leaning the way the rest of him leans, gliding between his fingers with the pearls of pre beading at his tip. 

“but i thought that if i,” he pauses to groan with you, “if i touched you once i could fucking forget about it.”

you speed your fingers with each word he says, each stroke of his hand over all eight inches of his cock. a far away voice registers that you’re whining, too, but your mind filters it away, tuned completely to suguru’s confession in the dark.

your smile is wry, and reveals as much as anything. “did it work?”

he laughs then, almost at you. “no, you know what dove, it didn’t really—hah—didn’t really work for me.”

your hips buck into your fingers, a buzzing coil now. “suguru,” you begin, but he doesn’t need to hear any more.

“i know,” he moans.

you have transcended his direction, you think, merged into him enough to comply without listening. he’s tearing his shirt and pants off as frantically as you tug your dress up and over your shoulders, and you’ve only barely shimmied your panties down your legs when he arrives in front of you, completely bare. you think suguru geto, tacky with sweat and need and cock nearly swollen purple, has achieved his own pinnacle, descending to his knees to meet you.

and there’s an ephemeral, fleeting moment, when you both simply watch each other in all the places you’ve kept obscured for so long. his eyes circle over your tits, the pert peaks of your nipples, the gleaming of your slit. you track the snake tattoo from the bulge of his shoulder and around his back, pupils flitting between him and his reflection.

suguru takes hold of both your ankles on each side of his narrows hips, squeezing once, and then gliding them up, up, around your knee, along the inside of your thighs. it dawns on you that he knows exactly where to press, where each muscle begins and ends, because of how much he watches you flex and extend. your breathing comes labored and round, small yips and whines when goosebumps push into his fingers.

he can’t help but tug your hips towards his bobbing cock when his hands arrive there. you squirm and twist to try and sink him inside but he holds you to the floor, jaw tight. 

“not yet, dove, i need to stretch you,” he grunts.

and you’re giggling before you can stop it. “you use a lot of double entendre, is that on purpose?”

he’s smiling now, too, but more than anything you think its a wicked joy with how your mouth drops open as he circles two fingers around your entrance. your arousal is so hot and so everywhere that you think you can hear it dripping onto the marley.

“keep your legs open.” he uses the tone of voice he employs during class and it only makes you gush more, but you do as he asks, tightening your outer thighs to hold yourself spread as he pushes two fingers inside.

“oh fuck,” you pant.

it seems to affect him in equal measure, cock twitching with each pull of his digits, lips parted ever so slightly. he scissors his fingers apart and back again, feeling along the inside of your walls, looking. 

“ah—yeah, yes, there,” you mewl, and he moans something sincere in turn. the pads of his fingers brush and swish along that spot and something behind your ribs is turning over, growing teeth. you whine out a small fuck and that’s it: suguru is gone.

in a single motion, he pulls his fingers from you, breathes in your protest of a whine, and lowers his hips to run the ruddy tip of his cock over your clit, down, down. you run your nose along his forearm as he braces them on each side of your head, feeling the brush of his hair along your shoulder.

his mouth parts directly over your ear like this, and you feel his hand squeeze your left thigh. “lift this for me.”

and as you extend it up to hook over his shoulder, legs spread in almost a full split below his hold, he notches his head inside, a lewd pop that echos up your spine and between your ears.

suguru’s head drops to your shoulder as he bares his teeth. “fuuuuuuck jesus christ.”

you’re no better, winding your right leg around his left and bucking your hips to slide him home. he indulges you this time—perhaps for the first time since meeting him—and cants his hips again. you’re so fucking wet and ready and open for him that he slides to the hilt that way, and both of you are reduced to animals then. the sounds between you are completely inhuman, and you can’t tell where yours end and his begin.

and suguru fucks you like he teaches: not slow, but intentional, precise, every movement with an insurmountable sense of purpose. 

and fucking bossy.

“ngh yeah, squeeze me like that again, dove.”

“oh f-fuck, baby, align your hips.”

“c-can you—haah—arch into me a little more? yeah, that’s right.”

with each driving thrust of his hips you rub your clit along his pelvis, warmth spreading behind your belly button and down each leg. suguru never quite recovered from that first thrust, forehead damp and still at your shoulder as he groans directions into the soft skin there. and your hands grab anywhere they can reach: into the roots of his hair, down the planes of his back, along the slope of his ass to feel the muscles grind.

the friction his happy trail makes with your clit is driving you wild, you’re fucking close, and he can feel it in the way you pulse around him.

with the sudden capacity to mock you he coos gently, “oh, little dove, are you close?”

and you can only nod and pant and whine like a bitch in heat, the crest of your pleasure tapping leisurely on the wing of your shoulder, ready to round the corner.

“hah—yeah, i can fucking feel it.” he adjusts his weight to one arm so he can band the other around your back, pulling your tits flush to his chest. the leverage only grinds him harder into you and you’re nearly screeching with the pressure. he wants to kiss you and you want to return it, but your lips meet open, exchanging air to be puffed back and forth.

“make a mess for me,” he encourages, each thrust more erratic than the last—he’s close, too—and every moan pitched higher. “c’mon, i—shit, unh—i wanna feel your pussy choke me.”

you come so hard you feel like you’re spinning, like you’re on stage, like there’s some great applause awaiting you. it detaches from deep in your groin and pulses outwards, gushing arousal and cream over suguru’s cock and entirely fragmenting you, boneless as he fucks you through it.

“fuckfuckfuck,” he bites the juncture of your shoulder with your neck, “i made this body, dove. you’re mine, huh?”

and hearing it, even from his own lips, takes him over, too, hips stuttering to a stop as he growls wild, seed spurting inside you, warm. your name, your real name, unspools from his mouth, and it sounds like thank you.

part of you expects, sweaty and still and plugged with suguru’s softening cock, that a great shame will dawn upon you now. you think maybe you should feel ashamed for letting him fuck you here, raw, his student.

but as you’re whining into each other’s mouths when he pulls out, as he smooths his hands over your stomach and thighs, as he kisses you again without the sort of demands he had before, the guilt doesn’t arrive.

suguru watches you closely—he’s good at that, you’ve determined—as he sits back on his haunches. you realize he’s waiting for that guilt to come, too.

“okay?” he asks softly.

you could laugh at him for that question, but you grin instead. “mhm.”

his chest unburdens a weight seeing that look on your face. you can see something gathering on his palate, too, something he likes the taste of. 

and then he spits it: “there’s a shower in my office bathroom.”

you really do laugh this time, full-bodied and sore and wet again.

~~~~~~~

you don’t think you’ve ever seen mr. geto with eye bags before. you don’t think anyone has. though, you suppose he seems the type to prioritize his beauty sleep.

or, most of the time, anyway. you couldn’t help that he wanted you again in the shower, and then at his desk chair, and then from behind with your knee propped against the barre, and then—

nobara bows into a pigeon stretch next to you, snickering as she assesses him in his seat. she heckles him: “exhausted is no state to dance in.”

your body seizes with embarrassment and delight all at once, and even though your chin drops to your chest as you stretch your hips, you can feel him watching you all the same.

nobara is watching you now, too, but you notice it too late. she stifles a giggle next to you. “is that a fucking hickey?”

~~~~~~~

thank you for reading !!! comments and reblogs always appreciated >:)

taglist: @themoonshiners @qkrwidn @presssedsunflowers @selenethinksalot @realalpacorn @cathedral-spires @imyourightnow @arizona13

[nakaira]

𑣲 COOKING LIKE A CHEF . . FIVE STAR MICHELIN?

✴ dazai osamu x fem!reader.

✴ synopsis. you have heard about dazai's inability to cook many times but it's your first time witnessing it. it distracts you from the melancholy which comes after narrating the incident that broke you and hyun, though. : 9.4k.

✴ general tags and warnings. uni!au, fem!reader, uni!dazai, fake dating au, indirect rejection, angst, yearning, flirting, attachment issues, unreliable narrator, suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, suicide is idealized, suppressed rage, emotional instability, trust issues, blackmailing, harassment, bullying, dazai is still unhinged js less then canon ig, references to dazai's past in the pm, dazai is mentioned to have ed, corrupted policiticians, class differences, daddy issues, reader idolizes her father alot, extreme self hatred, one sided love.

✴ note. okay so, please be aware of spoilers below. ohmymy!!! finally we are able to see reader's friend group more closely. i rlly like their dynamics and ughh they miss reader sm :((. i think the highlight of this chap is the last part lmao. also, i have seen discourses that dazai is actually good at cooking, it's just that he usually tried to cook not so edible dishes ;-; so i will use this hc/fact in my next dazai fic lol. tbh for me, it depends. in some fics i create situations where i need dazai to be a good cook and in some, it's better to have him be bad at this. my reasoning for him being a bad cook here is, he does it on purpose cause if he never learns how to cook, he can subtly harm himself by making bad dishes if he ever is in a situation where he has to cook for himself. likes and reblogs are appreciated!

previous. masterlist. next.

"it's really all on me, dazai. i am the root of my sufferings. no one else is to blame." not dazai, or yuto but you. only you.

dazai stays quiet to give you ample emptiness to fill with your words, thoughts and confessions. to let you say something then shake your head and correct it with another statement ; he wants to give you the space to sort out your emotions with him being a witness, not a judge. his hand on your hip rubs in circular motion but he isn't sure if this is to comfort you or himself.

your eyes droop because of fatigue which had been holding onto the nerves of your brain for months now. it's letting go to travel down your spinal cord and spread over your body in protest because it's not happy that you have decided to poke at the cyst in your brain which is the wound hyun left on you by confirming your fears. by speaking about all this, you will be letting dazai, a fresh perspective, assess this situation while you try to do the same but with biased eyes.

"i have known hyun since i was a kid. we were good friends despite being neighbours only. never went to the same school or anything," you suck in a loud and shaky breath, tilting your head down to stare at his hand enclosed around both of yours.

you do this to make sure you have another topic to focus your vision on while your heart empties itself in his presence because looking at him will make you chicken out, apologise and bottle these confessions up until the next time he shows you a tiny bit of affection which will overwhelm you who had long ago claimed yourself to be unlovable.

"until uni. i remember how excited hyun was to show me his acceptance letter. he . . . had a boyish smile on his face. i have never seen him look so proud of himself before —" something passes by your eyes which causes them to widen in disbelief, "where did that guy go, dazai? do the people you once knew die when you discover a different side to them?"

"you think you know someone and feel proud of it ; of knowing someone as intimately like the back of your hand. so, when they end up doing something which doesn't sit right with the image conjured in your head, you feel betrayed and feel as if they are a stranger despite them being your closest confidant just a day ago. this one-sided pride is very dangerous because it makes you shortsighted to reality, possibilities and the concept of change." dazai whispers.

"oh, i see." you nod, eyes softening now in acceptance. the more you repeat his words, the more sense they make and especially in your case while also validating your tendency to blame yourself.

"but it isn't unusual. that's human tendency. you love and trust so greatly that even the tiniest thing can break you. that's the beauty of human expectations. they break and shatter your world until they discover the next thing that will fix their shattered life." he adds to make sure you understand he isn't criticizing but showing his admiration for humans in his own bitter way. if he can't be like them, he will pretend to be a scientist studying them.

there's a certain chill that's travelling up your body but not reaching your head which feels lightweight despite your body slumping more against dazai's.

"it's just so tiring. i try not to raise my hopes up and expect something from anyone anymore yet i end up doing it anyway if they are nice to me. then the expectation breaks as reality settles in and i feel alone again." you sigh, shaking your head as you remind yourself of the original topic, "nevermind that, onto hyun again. he had actually helped to introduce me to our current friend group. this was just one of the many things he did for me. i really cherished him, you know? i felt like the luckiest person to have a best friend like him (although i never called him my best friend. that was my secret and now you are in on it too, okay?)."

you take a pause again to compose yourself, looking down at his hand on your hip. somehow, you survived the worst of your breakdown and the after effects are just a numbing sensation that's beginning to travel up your fingers and mixing in with the heavy chill. it makes you feel surreal or as if this moment isn't happening in reality and is just a very believable dream.

"when yuto began to blackmail and bully me, hyun was the one who stepped in to help. i felt like a burden at that time — my first thought wasn't to appreciate my friend stepping in to help me but, 'why am i burdening him with my issues too?' and then it was, 'but what can he even do against someone like yuto?'. still, hyun was stubborn. i began to share it all with him. the calls, texts, letters (those arrived too once or twice. not from yuto but his lackeys) and the meetings. i always ended with apologising for shoving my burdens into his hands and he always shook his head and told me not to think like that. talking to someone else about it helped me grasp my sanity. i really began to think i wasn't a burden on him on most days."

you lay your head on his shoulder again, eyes gently closing as you remember that cursed night. you don't feel your chest tightening or brain ringing in dread at the thought of it anymore. there's a detached curiosity inside with which you look at your memories now and wonder how much of what you are speaking is real or if they are all exaggerated.

"in a long while, there came a weekend where yuto had to go to another country with his father, i guess? i am not so sure about that. but that was the only weekend i wasn't bothered — the whispers and rumours still circulated but without yuto being there to see the seeds he planted grow into trees, i didn't feel as targeted as usual. they were just words. i was in a good mood and was near the arcade at the end of the city, you know? i called hyun because it felt right to do so. he was there for me during my worst times so it felt appropriate to call him during the time i felt free. he didn't pick up the call but i recognised his back. he was at the entrance of the arcade with a few other friends, back partially turned towards me. the expression he wore will always haunt me, dazai. the way he looked exhausted yet annoyed as he saw me calling and didn't pick up confirmed my worst fears. i was a burden to him but i knew it. it would have hurt me less if he had let me know before that he is getting exhausted too. so yeahhh, that's the dumb story of me fucking up my friendship. i overreacted, huh?" you force yourself to chuckle to shake off the seriousness of this situation along with the hurt that still lingers inside the dried wounds on your skin.

despite how much you say it doesn't matter, the way bitterness laces your words shows anything but.

dazai knows it too. that your friendships which you broke haunt you and cause you hurt yet you are so deep into your sadism that you think you deserve it. he fears you'll keep on doing this to yourself again and again to cause hurt because you grew addicted to it after it being the only emotion you felt consistently for the past months.

still, he tries, "i am no one to tell you that. if you felt hurt and as if someone stabbed you at the moment then it isn't overreacting at all. those are the emotions you strongly felt at that time. don't try to water them down by calling them overreactions. it's okay. it wasn't a dumb story if sharing it came after so many tears. if it's real to you, it's real to me. even if you claim it isn't, i will see past your lies. you aren't a good liar. not infront of me atleast."

certain emotions which will not be named as they have been surrounding you the moment you sat on this couch, takes over your body once again. the heaviness vanishes in an instant as if it was never here to begin with and in its place something akin to pain and anxiety blooms all over your body, just below your muscles.

your chin trembles as your eyes get watery again. a tremor passes through the muscles attached to your cheekbones which makes you feel as if your entire face is quivering. it might be.

"thank y-you," you pause as your voice audibly cracks before trying to speak again, "really. i was being hesitant at first but i am so happy i decided to talk to you. thank you for everything."

pursing your lips quickly just as another sob tries to escape your mouth, tears flow down from the corner of your eyes as your chest heaves again and again while trying to turn these muffled sobs into hiccups.

dazai sits motionless yet his mind flashes red in front of his eyes. your breakdown isn't over, the worst of it hasn't passed, it's happening now and he has no clue if anything can get past you at this point.

so it's better to let your wound bleed out.

still, there's a childlike hope in making your sobs turn less frantic which makes him lean towards you and press a soft, quick peck against your temple.

the reaction it evokes is immediate. you grab his hand which has been holding both of your's to stop you from trying to hurt yourself in this state, and raise it towards your forehead, holding it there.

"i am sorry. i am so sorry for burdening you too. i am really sorry. please forgive — i am sorry." you don't wail but you might as well have done so. it would've been less painful and heartbreaking for dazai to witness than your current state.

he sees the sobs shake your shoulders and entire body in a way which shows just how deep your body has to go to pull the bottled emotions out. you had muffled your lips so only one or two sharp exhales of breath left them with the occasional hiccups which you were unsuccessful in silencing.

then, he sees your body calming down slowly while the hiccups remain persistent. with this, you let go of his hand and your eyes which were filled with tears appeared dazed, almost drugged and blank as you stared at the table in front of you two.

when the hiccups finally stopped being consistent and began to decrease in number, fifteen minutes had already passed.

just fifteen minutes yet to dazai who has been observing you all the while, it's a wonder how time could pass so quickly despite a human soul burning and nearly shattering.

then you sit up and wipe the tears away violently with the back of your hands, faltering twice before you are able to smile as you nod and take deep breaths, trying to act as if none of this has happened.

"talking about another guy in front of your boyfriend is cruel. i was almost convinced you were trying to make me jealous." he doesn't mean these words. they are like sand dripping down but this is what you need right now. a hook to attach yourself to.

"you are capable of getting jealous, dazai?" neither of you pay mind to your weak, hoarse and quivering voice. it's as if your vocal cord is trying to survive hurricane inducing winds.

"don't i seem like a jealous man to you?" he raises his eyebrows.

there's a cheap admiration inside you despite the numbness and exhaustion which makes you appreciate how quickly he can conceal his emotions and appear normal.

you want to be like that too, you think as a tickling sort of feeling settles in your stomach.

why were you crying over something so small? it's funny, you nearly lost your voice with how much you were crying.

the numbness sharply disappears as warm yet heavy hands of embarrassment settles on your shoulders.

"i mean i think every man is a jealous man."

"don't generalize me with them. talk about me." he whines. you giggle like you are drunk

his smile is less happy and more sympathetic. it makes you love him so much more. he's so cute.

can't he see you are fine? why's he worrying so much?

you want to hug him and explain how this world is too big and vast to be worrying about such small things.

"i am not sure — i don't think i ever saw you jealous." you mumble.

"must be 'cause i am so good at hiding it?"

giddiness spreads inside your blood like how paint leaves its patterns behind in fresh water. you want to go outside on a stroll and admire the earth around you while also kneeling on the ground and kissing it. you love everything around you so much.

"maybe you just aren't a jealous guy?" you shrug, feeling too playful.

"how do you know?" him side eyeing you isn't usual yet it isn't even unusual so you wonder why your smile increases at the sight of it.

you giggle, it's quivering and rushed as you shake your head, "my angel says so."

"well, my demon says you are schizophrenic."

you don't want this night to ever end but the reason you are here in the first place flashes through your mind which makes you part your lips but he beats you to it.

"now, you want me to give you my opinion on whether you should talk to hyun or not, right?" he asks, a small smile taking over when he sees you nod.

"yeah, how did you know?" your voice comes out along with an airy chuckle as you pin him in place with your eyes.

blinking, dazai's body begins to lean towards your's without any prior warning as his hand leaves your hip and the other comes up to your face.

bandaged and warm palms cup both sides of your face as dazai stares at you for a long time. perhaps five minutes have passed. perhaps not even a single minute did.

your shoulders tense up in anticipation, eyes immediately falling on his lips as you remember the memory at the laundry room. there was this same silence then too. makes you hardly resist the urge to lick your lips as you suddenly grow hyperaware of them.

following your lead, dazai's eyes trail down to your lips, thumbs stretching to caress the curve of your jaw and trail down whatever length of your neck they can reach.

his head bends forwards in a miniscule movement before he snaps himself back into reality, like someone falling asleep on a bus and waking up as soon as their head begins to tilt too much towards the side.

he clears his throat, hands still on you because pulling them back would mean letting you see how nervous he feels right now. that would mean to show you his uncertainty and that he is lost too, like you.

its showing weakness when you are already weak and need him as a pillar. he can't shatter the dynamic you unintentionally created the moment you laid your head on his shoulder because even if you smile, it doesn't mean you are completely stable.

dazai knows you'll regret this alot more tomorrow then you do tonight. so, from the rare kindness which arises inside him, he wants to lessen the flaws you'll point out for yourself later.

"it's simple. i knew you had cut ties with him a long time ago, before this. i had seen the way you used to avoid looking at him which was weird because you two used to be so close," one of his hands trails up to try and wipe away the remnants of your tears, if there are any left.

pretty. even when crying.

he softens his voice up to hide the thoughts circulating in his head, "however, the thought of you wanting to reconcile with him appeared in my mind a few times before but i wasn't sure. i became certain only after hearing you talk about him with such longing. you wanted to ask me if you should talk to him or not because you want to but there's a small part of you still hurt, right?"

"right." you agree, covering his hand which is on your cheek as you seem to plead with your eyes, "what do i do, dazai?"

"if only you could see yourself through my eyes and see how adorable you look at this moment —" he mostly mumbles to himself, eyebrows furrowing before he forces his voice to sound composed and clear, "my pretty crybaby, if you are torn between two sides then it's best not to think about this now. i will lay down what will happen if you hastily make a decision and decide to talk to him ; you will always hold some sort of hostility which will slowly claw its way out of you and affect your fragile friendship with hyun. that would just make my pretty girl more disconsolate which would make me so as well. you would feel like you are the only one holding onto grudges when hyun seems to have forgotten his against you long ago and it will make you consider if you are the problem at the root. you will grow despite friendships and every sort of relationships because you are unable to attain them. or, if you do, then you are unable to maintain them."

it's terrifying how his words sound like a prediction rather than assumptions. but you can't dismiss it as sheer confidence dazai has in his own abilities because he has always been able to look far into the future quicker than anyone else. he realises and recognises the recurring patterns and combinations before anyone else could realise that a puzzle is in front of them.

his eyebrows relax along with his shoulders which you weren't aware had tensed up the moment he made his mind to kiss only to stop himself before committing to it, "jungian themes gives rise to a quote : 'the world is full of people suffering from the effects of their own unlived life. they become bitter, critical, or rigid, not because the world is cruel to them, but because they have betrayed their own inner possibilities. the artist who never makes art becomes cynical about those who do. the lover who never risks loving mocks romance. the thinker who never commits to a philosophy sneers at belief itself. and yet, all of them suffer, because deep down they know: the life they mock is the life they were meant to live'. of course, i am not saying life hasn't been cruel to you — it has but you will grow to resent every form of compassion if you extend a hand to hyun now when you know very well that your heart harbours ill feelings for him. you will not be truly at peace or happy because you know you could have been kinder to him, sweeter, more compassionate. if only, you had given yourself time to heal first."

"what if . . he doesn't need me as a friend anymore by the time i heal? what if he realises life is just the same with or without me in it?" you shrink in yourself after hearing these words leave your mouth, looking at dazai with uncertainty as if he is the one who created this earth and the complicated bonds and relationships between humans.

something strikes his heart.

dazai leans his forehead on top of your's, staring intensely into your eyes with his calm ones, "good friends are grieved over when they leave. great friends take a part of your heart with them when they leave so that it always stays with them. if they ever return, they place the piece back together to complete your heart."

helplessly, your lips curve up, "there's no other way to know?"

mirroring your smile, dazai's appears to be less irresolute compared to your own as if he isn't weighing down the 'what-ifs' like you are and just accepting that life is unpredictable after a certain degree and that there's a chance for the unexpected to happen despite calculating the risks hundreds of times beforehand.

"no other way to know, i am afraid but what is there to be afraid of after all? life has never played out in a straight line for either of us, has it? we should be used to uncertainties." he is extending his hand and it's a risky move because it will shake and disrupt the foundation he has built himself on all these years but quoting his own words, what is there to be afraid of after all?

he feels he owes you this at least after you laid yourself open in front of him to let him inspect every organ inside you.

"can i hug you?" you ask because you want him to let you know if this, everything that happened tonight means you two are going to grow closer or distant. also because you want to burn this propinquity into your skin so when he finally departs from your orbit, you can look back at this moment and smile because for a moment you and dazai shared something very real.

"you have kissed me yet hugging is where you decide to ask for consent?" he teases but leans his body on top of yours anyway, letting your arms scramble to wrap around his shoulders and your hands to tightly grip at the fabric of his shirt.

"to set the record straight, you kissed me." you mumble against his shoulder, dipping your head low to rest your cheek against it.

"then kiss me so we can be even, hm?" he means to flirt, to watch you grow flustered but you, in your untainted devotion for him, confesses words that settle between his joints and will squeeze out to remind him of this moment later.

"i don't care anymore. be as quiet as you want to be. my – i will fill your silence up." you catch your tongue before it could've slipped and let 'my love' fall out. this moment is too precious to ruin by disorganized confessions.

dazai's breath hitches, it really does. he nods twice, pushing his face against your hair to hide it. his hands immediately leave your face to wrap around your neck.

he knows blood has travelled up his neck and decided to rest on his cheeks, making them a light shade of pink and he doesn't want you to see it or even acknowledge it himself. if he doesn't pay mind to it then it won't exist but how can he explain this fluttering in his chest then? these aren't the usual maggots and bugs crawling, it feels more like butterflies swarming around blooming flowers.

so much for making you flustered, huh?

three minutes passes by with you two being entangled in each other's arms. this is also the time dazai takes to compose himself and smoothe out his face of any other expression other than his usual suave one.

"do you want to eat something?" still, his voice is quiet as he asks, careful not to disturb the serene atmosphere around you two too much.

"i do, actually. yes. i feel really hungry." you hum, pulling your arms back but he doesn't do the same.

he stays holding you for another minute before separating and offers you a smile which should've been your first sign of how wrong things were going to get.

"i am going to customise the ramen pack and present you my personal recipe. i am sure you'll like it." the mischievous smile should've been your second warning but you are still smitten and affected by everything he did for you tonight that you decide to ignore it.

dazai might have giggled on his way to the kitchen with the plastic bags he picked from the coffee table but you don't get to question his suddenly cheerful demeanor as your phone vibrates to notify you.

looking down, you pick it up as it had laid next to your thigh on the couch all this while.

no visible emotion passes by your face when you unlock your phone and see yuto has sent you a photo and a text after it.

you wouldn't have clicked on it but the text that appears on top of your screen makes you oddly curious.

unknown number : how sad :(. they didn't invite you or are they isolating you?

you click on the message which takes you straight to his contact and you have learnt better than to question how he seems to get new numbers every other day to contact you with. your most logical guess is he hires people's numbers to text you. it won't be surprising for someone like him to do so.

the picture above is taken from a distance, like from across the road or something similar, of your friends who are all standing in front of a restaurant.

how dare he?

your fingers around your phone tightens as you narrow your eyes to stop seeing the red of wrath that's expanding all over your vision. there's a shrill ringing besides your ears which is almost enough to make you wince had you not been used to it at this point.

you breathe in and out a few times to force your head to clear the rage that is cluttering in all corners before your fingers move to type in a message.

me : have you no friends of your own anymore that you have resorted to stalking mine?

unknown number is typing . .

but your finger is quick to tap on the block option before he could send whatever half assed excuse he has.

carelessly you toss your phone on one of the cushions, leaning back against the couch as you focus on breathing in and out again, trying to imagine your anger leaving with every breath you exhale.

he is getting to your friends now, that's what you were afraid of. that's what made you hide your new address from them in the first place.

you shouldn't have answered and let him know how much he is getting to you but it's so hard to stay silent and let him stamp all over your personal space and basic rights. who gave him the right to do all this? how dare he try to blackmail you using your friends?

you need to do something about him as soon as you can.

sitting up straight, you ignore how unsuccessful you are in to calm yourself down and make your mind up to ask dazai for ango's number as soon as he returns with the cooked ramen. you refuse to let yuto get away with anything any longer.

"ah, come to think of it, what's taking him so long?" you ask yourself as you stand up to walk over to the kitchen counter behind the couch, only to stop in your tracks as you see dazai carelessly toss in an unwashed and unpeeled onion into the pot he is boiling water for the ramen in.

pressing your fingers against your eyelids to visualise a dark screen sort of surface with red paint lingering here and there which you focus on visually eliminating from your mind to try to calm yourself down, you are more relaxed when you open your eyes and clap your hands once to gain his attention.

"okayyy, you go sit and i will make it and bring it, okay? i don't want to risk either of us getting food poisoning from your cooking."

"this is my kitchen." immaturely, he raises his chin, a frown on his lips as he challenges you to make him step out of here.

you can't.

this results in the boiling water simmering over the pot and onto the stove because dazai had filled it to the brim. he burned his fingers when he tried to pick the pot and dropped it on the floor which caused him to burn the tips of his toes too because of the splashing water which landed on them despite him jumping back at an impressing speed.

the raw ramen on the plates next to the stove were covered in a pile of chilli powder and sliced green chillies as if the sauce it came with isn't spicy enough on its own.

“you . . .” you trial off as you point at dazai, wondering what to start with before sighing in defeat as you point at the couch, “just go and treat your burns. i will clean and do the rest.”

tonight you witness firsthand just how terrible dazai is in the kitchen. no wonder oda and ango doesn't let him step in. you thought they were just spoiling and pampering him at first.

"hm, cold?" hyun quietly asks so only yui, the one his question is aimed at, could hear him.

looking at him with a smile that's always present on her face no matter who she talks to (despite the smile brightening or dimming according to the person), yui shakes her head, "thanks for asking."

he doesn't really buy it though. he has seen her hands gripping and rubbing her forearms for most of the evening or how she seems to shift her weight from one foot to another.

he learnt from his mistakes, learnt to see between the fleeting gazes of his friends, of hands speaking what words couldn't when they trail off and when is distant necessary and when it becomes a punishment one inflicts on themselves.

he shrugs off the jacket he is wearing and wordlessly offers it to yui and along with it, a quiet, one-sided assurance : you are not alone. the blame is mine to bear too. more then any of you.

he might have perhaps been the last person to leave the already destroying house and didn't even close the door gently on his way out, he left it wide open when walking away. now, often times he wonders how he could've been so ignorant to the weakening foundation of the house he has seen being built brick by brick.

"thank you — shut up already, shuji." yui looks away quickly to glare at the other boy but her eyes hold no anger.

hyun doesn't think it ever does but he has seen pain hiding in them along with the sting her hand never abandons after the house she tried entering closed its door on her face. her extended hand had hit the slammed door and till now, if he tries to look deeply, he can see the red imprint.

shoving his hand in his pocket, hyun looks at the night sky to try to restrict the urge rising in his throat. he swallows his words before they could leave and shatter the thin veil of normality everyone is trying to hold over their circle with clumsy movements.

something claws at his chest in retaliation not understanding how severe the damage will be if he asks what he wants to.

hyun pushes his tongue against his inner cheek — a habit he took from you and fuck, can he really keep his lips shut when his thoughts go back to you again and again like someone visiting their childhood hometown after a long time of living abroad and whose feet ends up leading him to the store he always visited as a kid?

pressure forms between his shoulder blades and pierces out of his chest. hand twitching, hyun releases a breath before looking at his friends and he asks, "by the way, did anyone invite her?"

he doesn't use your name anymore, it makes the pain feel more incurable.

something salty and dry settles on his tongue and almost burns it as he takes in the reactions of everyone around him. some avert their gazes to each other as if the other would know how to answer this while some stretch their lips in painfully fake smiles which don't fool him.

it's jun, who has been leaning against the wall this entire time, who speaks up, "i did. she said she was gonna go to dazai's. sleepover or something."

he used to be the one to know everything about you before and now he's the only one who doesn't know anything about you anymore, hyun's acerbic observations makes his lips quirk up humourlessly and this doesn't go unnoticed by the rest whose peripheral vision is always on hyun to make sure he doesn't end up making the same choice as you.

they want to be here for him to make up for not being there for you.

"w-wait, that's so cute!" yui's voice is pitched higher than usual and it's so blatantly obvious to all of them she's trying to lighten the mood.

like she's the only one extending her hand as she stands at the end of a broken bridge, the other one holding onto the railings so she doesn't fall down into the abyss herself.

yuna tries twice but misses yui's hand both times, nearly falling down.

her shoulders tense up as she wonders if she should speak up or if someone else will join in yui's act.

taking a deep breath, it's jun who takes a leap between the two ends and successfully ends on yui's side after he remembers you have entrusted the keys to your house to him.

"lucky for her. she went from crushing on him hard to being grossly sweet with him — hey, who do you guys think is more down-bad between them?"

"her."

"dazai."

yuna and shuji extend their hand to try to cross the bridge at the same time.

they look at each other in slight surprise.

"come on, haven't we had enough of her making heart eyes whenever someone even mentioned dazai in the convo?" yuna puts her argument on the table which shuji immediately counterattacks with, "haven't you seen them around campus these days? dazai can't keep his hands to himself."

"i don't really care about who is more obsessed. i just hope they stay together for a long time, possibly forever, you know?" yui's voice softens. doesn't matter if you don't look at her for more than a few seconds, doesn't matter if the few seconds you do grant her makes her feel like a sinner getting judged.

it doesn't even matter if you don't think of her as a friend. she does. always will.

"there is a way to ensure that." jun nods, eyes narrowing in concentration as if he is weighing between yes or no.

"like what?" shuji looks at him, curiosity pinned by nails to his face.

"we can pay a witch to make sure they stay together."

"huh?"

"you heard me."

"yeah, glad i didn't get my hopes up and think you actually had a plan or something." yuna snickers which makes jun straighten up.

"come on, i am serious — you just don't want to contribute money for it."

"excuse me?"

"you heard what i said, stingy yuna." jun sticks his tongue out.

"i am fine with contributing money. what about you, hyun?" yui uses this moment as a decoy to look over at hyun and offer him her hand silently as if wishing he would jump over the bridge with them.

there's cracks beneath the wooden blanks hyun stands on as he peers at the other side where his friends are, safe and sound. then, he looks over his shoulder to see the cliff where you are.

"yeah, me too." he smiles and shakes his head at the silent questions glimmering in her eyes. he turns to look at the rest of his friends, "why don't we make shuji pay the entire fee?"

"hyun?! that's betrayal bro."

shuji's whines don't really reach yui who blinks slowly, realising hyun has rejected her offer of help.

he will stay on the broken blanks as long as it takes till you finally take a small step towards them. if not, then it's fine too. he will wait for the wood to crack in two and lead him to fall down the abyss. but he won't take steps away from you who is already out of his reach.

he just hopes you will try to walk towards him one day, no matter how far it may be.

"do we have a picture of them together or something to give to the witch?" jun asks, then decides to elaborate more as he sees the way yuna and shuji exchange glances, clearly thinking he has gone crazy, "uh, you generally give the witch a photo of the person or persons you want to cast spells on. how else do you think they know who to target?"

"through magic?" shuji shrugs.

"it's not that i expect you to be smart but you really blow my mind away every time you speak."

"pfft — i mean, we can use their matching profile pictures?"

"ohh, that's super cute!! but you can't really see dazai in either, yuna." yui points out.

hyun is fine with watching the rest of his friends from the perspective and position of an outsider. this is how you must've felt around them all for months before finally succumbing to the pressure. compared to that, hyun thinks he is getting off with a slap on the back of the wrist.

he promises to not move away from the edge of the bridge no matter how much his heart desires to or how much his legs tremble in fear, begging him to step back from the edge. he will do this so that, if you ever want to cross it to reach the others, you won't have to do it alone.

its just that, he's not sure if you would walk with him anymore.

sitting on the couch with a full stomach would've been fulfilling in any other scenario except the current one where, not when the fullness of your appetite can fight against the gaping hole in your heart which you are widening with your own hands the longer you continue to stare at the picture yuto had sent of your friends.

dazai had offered (begrudgingly) to wash the dishes since you did bring the ramen and other snacks and also prepared them. his absence gave you the opportunity to let your face relax by not putting on any fake smiles.

your fingers tighten around your phone in a nervous manner as he takes a seat next to you, whining about the water being too cold and his feet aching. his voice doesn't really reach you so you force your eyes away from the phone screen, a half assed smile already on its way to your lips — a gasp nearly leaves them instead as you see how intensely dazai has been staring at you without you sensing or realizing it.

his voice sounded normal which disarmed you. it didn't even cross your mind once that the man whose thighs are touching your own had once been the same man you couldn't figure out. still can't but it doesn't bother you as much. must be because of him comforting you just an hour ago, it made you view him once again with rose tinted lenses in your eyes.

"watcha looking at?" his smile feels intimidating, threatening almost.

"just a photo." your voice comes out way more meeker then his confident one.

he reaches his hand out to try to grab your phone and you know it isn't because of ill intentions but you move your hand anyway to move the phone away from him. when you process your action and try to come up with some excuse, he beats you to it.

"is my girl hiding something from me which she wishes me not to see? that seems the most likely case. ohh, now i am growing more curious. show me, show me!" he chants like a kid, eyes glittering in amusement which makes your breath hitch. you aren't sure if it's because of a good or bad reason and aren't too eager to find it out too.

"it's not what you are expecting —" you try to explain but your voice dies in front of his constant chants and giggles as you have to move the phone out of his reach away every time he's reaching out for it, your own lips slowly beginning to turn up into a smile, "seriously, dazai-kun."

"calling me sweetly won't deter me from my mission —" he loudly gasps, making your eyes crinkle, "what if the reason you are hesitant is because you are trying to hide your super secret affair from me? is that what it is?"

"super secret what?" you can't stop yourself from letting out a little giggle, holding the phone above your head now, "i wonder if poor dazai-kun is correct or not. hmm, what could i be hiding after all? multiple hook-ups —"

your voice comes to an instant stop the moment dazai leans forwards to try to reach for your phone but loses his balance and ends up falling on top of you.

the moment your back hits the couch, you realise he has extended his hand to hover over the back of your head so you won't end up hurting yourself even if the surface below is the soft couch. this gesture and consideration which must've come from instinct, for, you aren't sure if he was able to make this decision in a split second, warms your chest. the warmth spreads over your stomach and the aching hole starts to heal itself swiftly.

his other hand is beside your head to hold himself up and not completely let his body fall on yours.

his silence tells you this sudden change has surprised or affected him too, in the least.

"there's no other guy." you breathe out, wanting to clear this assumption just in case a part of him takes it seriously.

the way his lips quirk up in amusement and something else which you can't name makes it clear he knows this fact better than you.

"it's just a picture of my friends which yuto had sent me." you continue, showing him your phone screen yet he makes no movements to move away from you, inspecting the picture lazily.

"you replied to him?" he notes as he pulls his hand back from behind your head and taps on your screen to see the few messages you two exchanged.

if you try hard enough to twist his words, unreadable expressions and the overall situation, you can pretend this question comes from a place of jealousy and not concern or curiosity.

"couldn't help it. he crossed the line this time."

"he did." he quietly agrees, taking your phone out of your hand and placing it by the top of your head before he looks down at you again.

you swear you see his gaze fleeting to your lips. you aren't imagining this.

"we really gotta do something about him, hm?" he asks with quiet amusement and confidence dripping from his tone.

unable to reply as he tilts his head forwards to close the distance between your faces some more, you nod. the tip of your nose brushes against his as you do so which makes electricity to travel from your brain nerves to straight towards your toes.

dazai's eyes trail down to your lips again and silence takes over you two which makes you wonder if he's weighing his options just like you are, if he also wants to connect his lips with your's but isn't sure if he should or not.

automatically, your gaze lands on his lips. just a bit out of reach.

you gulp. should you initiate the kiss? he won't mind it, right? will he reciprocate?

or will he break your heart again with a subtle rejection? the kind which isn't really one but isn't really accepted either.

"y-you know, i just realised if i was more involved with my friends then we would've had more chances to act as a fake couple — go on dates and all?" your words come out panicked and you nearly grimace at your sad attempt at trying to escape this situation but dazai's eyes looking deep inside your own ones stop you.

"i see." he whispers, a strange, almost pained smile taking over his lips. it's the sort people usually have when they submit in to their fate and doesn't have anymore fight left in them.

"we must be lucky that people believed us as soon as we revealed we are 'dating', hm? are we talented actors . ." he doesn't dare to complete his sentence but you knew what the other half would've been : or is it easy for people to imagine us dating?

". . damn."

"dammit."

you two say at the same time yet why is your voice filled with amazement and disbelief yet his seems to drip frustration down heavily?

dazai immediately realises he shouldn't have spoken at all as he sees something akin to hurt cross over your face. his eyes widen, there's not enough time to wear his mask.

"i didn't mean it that way —"

"no, it's fine. i get it." you try to be understanding and it irritates him more but his guilt comes crashing against said irritation strongly, devouring it whole.

don't be this lenient with him if he has clearly hurt you, dammit.

"i really didn't mean it that way." then what way did he mean it in? he asks himself with acid mixing in with the blood in his head.

"it's fine."

"i am sorry —"

"it's fine, didn't i say so? i really don't mind it."

"but —"

"dazai-kun, listen to me —" you cut him off, cupping his cheek with both of your hands. you can't hide the pain showing in your eyes despite trying hard to by blinking hard, "if you are feeling sorry for hurting my feelings, then please don't. my feelings aren't something you need to consider, okay? you are already doing a lot for me. your efforts overshadow everything else."

"but it still hurts you, doesn't it?" his question makes your breath hitch.

you don't know what to say. do you force a laugh and brush his concerns away or just start bawling your eyes out again because he reads you so well?

"but it's not like it's your fault." you meekly let out after much consideration.

"i don't want to hurt you." he quietly confesses.

"you don't —"

"in any way."

"then don't treat my love as some sort of disease which you need to be considerate about. i will get over it —"

"i don't want you to —" he cuts himself off, realising he has spoken this out loud when he didn't mean to.

his expression crumbles and perhaps this is the first time the mask has slipped. without any artificial emotions to cover his face, he looks so much younger.

the twist of his eyebrows makes your chest throb.

you close your eyes for a few seconds before genuinely chuckling, "we are both so hopeless, aren't we?"

you are giving him an opening because if you two continue this conversation then it'll ruin you both.

"quite a match we are, aren't we?" he forces his lips to relax and form a smirk but now that you've seen the face behind the mask, it feels like a weak attempt.

"made in heaven?" you pretend your voice isn't strained and as if his isn't trembling.

"the devil created me to make sure the angels don't steal you from this earth."

"yeah? how do you know?"

"because he knew no one could take you from me no matter how hard they try." this time, he doesn't stop himself from speaking so he must want you to hear his words.

is this an attempt to soothe out the previous wounds?

"you and i are destined to always be around each other no matter how much we try to pull back. one month or three months of no contact doesn't matter because if our eyes meet for even a fleeting second, then the red thread that connects us will work its magic."

"red thread . . . do you mean the red string of fate theory?"

he nods.

"and you think we are connected by it?"

"yes, you don't?" he continues when you don't reply, "you don't feel as if our very souls are intertwined together?"

"i mean . . . sometimes, but you really aren't making it better, you know?" a strained chuckle leaves you as you tighten your grip on his cheeks, "how can i ever think of forgetting my feelings or moving on from them if this is how you act with me? do you act like this with every girl?"

"i am curious to know what you think. do you think i do?" his eyes trail down to your lips again, "hm? tell me?"

you contemplate about it before offering a breathless, "no. i think it's only me."

"because it is only you —" he tilts his head down to shield his eyes from you, body shaking as he laughs loudly. disbelief, wonder and defeat mixed together to create this laugh, "i am really not a good guy. i wouldn't have done all this if it was anyone else."

"why? because you don't want me to die?"

"because a part of my soul resides in you and your's do in mine. if you die, you'll take a big part of myself away with you." he looks up so you could see his eyes.

vulnerable, honest and defenseless, they are. as if he's granting you permission to look past them and peer down at his very soul which is wrecked and wretched and which harbors most of the evilness a human being could. it's black and he's daring you to risk corrupting yourself with it.

but does he know your wrath had begun to corrupt you long ago?

you aren't immune to corruption and he was never pure to begin with so, you will happily burn together with him if it comes down to it.

you break the intense eye contact first, feeling shy and too affected.

your gaze automatically lands on his lips again before you look up into his eyes again and his hand beside your head twitches.

dazai begins to lean his head down, slowly erasing the distance between his lips and yours.

"i wouldn't want it to be anyone except you. hell, heaven, or being stuck on earth for eternity doesn't matter if you are by my side." you confess just as his lips touches your's, closing your eyes and —

"we really should've rang the doorbell or announced our arrival, right ango?"

dazai practically jumps away from you while your eyes snap open, quickly sitting up to see ango and oda standing at the doorway.

while the shorter man seems flustered at having walked in on this intimate moment, oda looks like he can't be bothered. he's staring at you two with a relaxed expression, blinking.

"oda, shh," ango grits his teeth before clearing his throat and pulling at his collar, thinking of what to tell you two.

"why are you acting as if you got walked in on?" oda doesn't keep silent as he eyes ango who looks up at the ceiling in annoyance, wanting the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

"odasaku! ango-kun!" dazai's voice is painfully high pitched as his cheeks are dusted in a light pink. he covers them with his hands and breathes out, "i can't believe you two walked in and saw me like this. fufu, so embarrassing! what do i do now?"

you blink, eyebrows furrowing. this guy can't be serious, right?

"it's not like we didn't expect it. you two are young adults after all." oda waves his hand to dismiss this situation but his words hit ango at a sore spot.

"will you stop talking as if we aren't just a few years older then them? you make me conscious of my age." he scolds oda, his flustered demeanor is just making him more prone to irritation.

"odasaku and ango are like a married couple —"

"and you! atleast have the decency to make out in your room." ango glares at dazai who giggles behind his palm, teasingly asking, "is ango-kun a virgin?"

for some reason, this time you do not feel like an intruder between them.

a small smile makes its way on your lips just as you turn your head and make eye contact with oda who is already smiling. you barely stop your smile from faltering completely, realising his attention is on you and not on his friends anymore and you don't know how to behave.

he gestures towards ango and dazai and then points his finger at his temple and twirls it to signal those two are somewhat insane.

he's talking to you, you realise in nervous excitement, wondering through different reactions to decide which one will be appropriate.

despite your face heating up as you remember he just walked in to see dazai on top of you, a quiet and relieved chuckle leaves your lips as you nod, glancing at dazai who sticks his tongue out at ango before yelping and jumping off the couch as ango takes off his tie and throws it at where he is sitting.

looking back at oda who still has the same smile he had the first time you came here, you feel more comfortable now. you can feel your guard somewhat lowering around him but this happens with every older authoritative figure in your life before they end up disappointing and abandoning you.

when he walks past the couch to go to his room after a few minutes just as dazai and ango are calming down, he pats your head and says, “don't get embarrassed, okay? that was normal and really, it was our fault for not announcing we would be coming in. sleep well, hm? and if that guy troubles you, kick him in the butt or call me or ango to do so.”

you nod wordlessly because you can't speak, cheeks heating up again while your heart begins to get warm at this gesture. maybe oda sakunosuke will be different then the others but again, you two are still strangers to each other. should you really look past all your sufferings caused by this exact reason and let hopes taint your heart?

he smiles and walks away while you look over your shoulder to stare at his retreating figure, heart thumping in your chest like it would when a favourite teacher compliments you on something in passing and walks over to the next student, unaware how their one comment had restored your confidence.

you lean back on the couch, a trembling smile on your lips as oda, unknowingly, gives you the warmth you were hoping father would give you all these years.

you look back again to see if you can catch another glimpse of him but he had entered his room already to your disappointment.

ango says something which you don't really hear before he too retreats to his room while dazai sits down next to you, mirroring you by leaning back on the couch.

“that was something.” you joke.

smiling, he brushes his hair away from his eyes, teasingly raises his eyebrows, “wanna continue or are you too shy now?”

“you should feel embarrassed too, you know?” you huff out, pushing his face away as he tries to lean in with his lips obnoxiously puckered for a kiss.

“i have no shame and you have too much for it — this is just another sign of us being made for each other, don't you think so?”

“uh, not really?”

“ah, so cruelly you broke my heart! what a cold woman —” his voice dies down as you lean in to press a peck against his cheek, patting his thigh as you whisper, “you are sleeping on the couch today too, oda-kun said so."

blinking, dazai watches you walk away before his senses come back to him and he frowns, “no, he didn't.”

[peppertoastuniverse]

pep reads: gojo satoru – long fics (pt.1)

Part 2

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ

☆ the way you love me by @peachsayshi [AO3/tumblr] [status: ongoing ◦ 29/? chapters] [smut!] [fwb!gojo] #pep's first fic she was OBSESSED with #real good good smut WITH FEELINGS

“We can stop anytime. If either one of us feels like... this ...might be too much. We stop, no questions .” “We can stop anytime,” Gojo repeated “... and nothing changes between us .” You swallowed hard at his last statement. You may not be able to read his eyes but you could hear it in his voice that he needed reassurance. “No matter what happens, we’ll still be friends...” you replied softly, “now kiss me before I change my mind.”

☆ you and me by tomodachi [AO3: ] [status: completed ◦ 5/5 chapters] [tear jerker] [eventual smut!] #pep cried #gojo just kinda loves you real hard

“Prisoners say the most comical things when their judgment comes,” you tilt your head, lifting a finger before him, “Who are you?"

--- History is written by the winners, Satoru knew this well. It was only when he lost and got sealed inside the Prison Realm he learned how to be weak and find out a long buried truth.

☆ ito by @peekamatcha [AO3] [status: ongoing ◦ 48/? chapters] [super slow burn] [shinto elements] #pep DIES with every update #the TWIST in that one chapter omg

You, a former sorcerer now working as a university lecturer, were hoping to maintain your distance with the sorcerer world for an eternity to come. However, with the reappearance of an upperclassmen from a decade ago, you are forced to go on a journey which you would rather sit out of. But somebody must save humanity from the impending apocalypse and apparently the job falls on the shoulders of you two.

It would have been alright had he not been everything you didn’t want to be reminded of. And the sacrifices to be made may be more than what had been bargained for. ☆moonlight by @septembersummer [AO3/tumblr:] [status: completed ◦ 10/10 chapters] [smut!] #pep loves this AU #pep SCREAMED

Gojo Satoru is dying. And no, it's not his fault this time.

The curse which is withering Satoru into an early grave is actually the product of his great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather, who had a couple of sons that refused to procreate. And what does a proud, powerful man do when his sons refuse to fuck, and there won't be another heir to the clan?

He curses his own bloodline, of course.

It's only natural that he forces them through some twisted form of sorcery to become uncontrollably, violently attracted to the person they're most genetically compatible with.

It's even better that the curse creates a permanent, unbreakable bond between the two unwilling lovers. That's right, it usually takes more than one fuck to make a baby-- so, why not force them to have twelve?

Satoru wished his ancestor would be resurrected from the grave, just so that he could kill him again. That is, before Satoru inevitably dies.

He's had a good run, he thinks. Now, all he has to do is make sure you don't find out that you can fuck him back to life and try to very stupidly save him from himself.

(here's a spoiler: you do).

☆ a typical family by @literalia [AO3/tumblr] [status: completed? ◦ 32/32 chapters] [non liner narrative] [dad!gojo] #pep absolutely MELTED #slice of life #pep's gojo comfort fic

"satoru. where did you get these kids?"

or

after a six month absence, satoru shows up at your door two little kids following behind. chaos ensues.

☆ and if i cant see by hollowdonut [AO3: ] [status: unknown ◦ 26/? chapters] [slowburn] [eventual smut!] [tw: ptsd] #pep loves the reader's dynamics with gojo!

They say eyes are the window to the soul, but Gojo’s eyes are almost always hidden behind a blindfold. Even when they aren’t, you can never tell what he’s thinking.

You wonder if you should’ve taken that teaching job in Kyoto instead.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ

bonus!

☆ all hail the empress! by @chuluoyi [tumblr/AO3: ] [status: unknown ◦ 1/? chapters] [smut!] #pep loves this AU #but THE END THO? OMGGG you are an empress perfect in every way... until your husband suddenly casts you aside for his expecting mistress. but you won't be dethroned just like that, because the newly coronated western emperor, gojo satoru, sets his sights on you, and thus your revenge against your ex-husband begins...

[hotties4gojo]

ᨳଓ ·˚ shampoo dreams

⋆.˚ pairing: bf!geto x reader x bf!gojo

after a long day, it’s no surprise that you’re left with no energy to take care of yourself, let alone clean up and drag yourself off to bed. luckily for you, your two boyfriends— satoru and suguru, the infamous strongest duo who are as weak as kittens for you— take it upon themselves to bathe you and wash your hair. princess treatment has never felt this good.

⋆.˚ content: SFW but MDNI 18+, fem!reader, canon jujutsu universe (alt au where geto doesn’t defect), fluff fluff fluff, humor, established polyamorous satosugu x reader, gojo and geto are WHIPPED for you and for each other, domestic intimacy, a fair amount of suggestive jokes (but the entire fic stays non-sexual), mentions of battle wounds & scars

a/n: this is a requested drabble for the non-sexual acts of intimacy prompts “taking a bath together” and “having their hair washed by the other” for a fewww different anons 🙂‍↕️🫶🏽 hope you all enjoy cos this was sm fun to write 💓 masterlist.

fanart © zenlune, divider © kodaswrld. wc: 4.7k.

Bathwater laps softly at the porcelain edges of the tub, warm enough to turn your skin dewy beneath the draping of steam that hangs hazily over the air like a wedding veil. The bathroom's steeped in the mellow glow of an amber and blossom-pink sunset filtering through the windows that overlook Tokyo. More jasmine-sweetened steam drifts in languid, translucent ribbons from the oversized tub fashioned to fit three (thanks, Gojo clan money).

Lounging with your lovers, everything is pleasantly heavy— your limbs, your eyelids which have long fallen together, your subdued thoughts— and softened by the calming ease of being in Suguru's and Satoru's presence.

You sit between them, back resting against Satoru's steadily beating chest, his ridiculously long legs fallen open for you to sit between them with all the careless assurance of a man who has never once worried about taking up space. Suguru rests against the opposite edge of the tub with one arm curled along the rim and his legs similarly extended. Satoru's and Suguru's calves and thighs skim against each other where they border yours beneath the water, neither inclined to break the comfort of simple touch.

"You've gone quiet." Suguru's observation echoes off the tile.

"Mhm." Your answer is only half there.

"You awake?"

"Ehhh… Kinda sorta, sorta kinda," you mumble, seesawing a hand.

Satoru leans forward until his forehead lightly bumps your nape. "No sleeping yet, pretty girl. Ragdolling while we try to get you clean is a surefire way to go down Ben Drowned-style,” he teases.

You whine a little in protest even though the reference makes your lips tick. "But you guys made me so comfortable already..."

And they truly have.

The bath had been waiting for you before you'd even thought to ask for one. Actually, the idea was planted in Satoru and Suguru's heads the moment you texted that you were dead-tired and grimy to the group chat from the back of Ijichi's car. You had been the only one to head out on a mission today, Satoru spending the day teaching and training the first years and Suguru mirroring him with the third years— Satoru had weaseled his way into a full hands-on day with his students, claiming he needed somewhat of a break, and Suguru spent most of his time teaching rather than hunting curses anymore, anyways.

(You and Satoru have been on the offensive with the higher-ups for years to nail down this arrangement for Suguru. Sure, Suguru still took on the occasional mission when everyone else was stretched thin by their own duties, but for his mental health’s sake, it was best that he stuck to guiding and nurturing the current generation.

You never want to see him as hollowly depressed as he was after everything that went down when he was a student.)

When you'd finally wandered into your shared house with knotted shoulders and your thumbs aggravatedly digging out the soreness from your temples, both your boyfriends snatched you up at the genkan and herded you like wildly insistent border collies to the master bedroom's ensuite, which had been transformed into a luxury spa during your twenty minute commute.

Towels were folded up in their warmer, candles swaying happily, the massive tub brimming with fragrant bathing oils and mineral salts— literally the whole nines. All the tiny things you'd long forgotten mentioning you preferred for a long soak were present, that information lovingly archived inside two impossibly attentive minds.

Before you could burst into happy tears at the lengths they went to for you, Suguru helped peel away your clothes before passing you off to Satoru, who offered both hands the moment you stepped toward the siren call of the water on sore legs, smoothly bowing as though escorting you into a ballroom instead of a bathtub.

Between them, lowering yourself into the steaming water (which was the fucking perfect temperature, holy hell) was less like climbing into a bath— another chore to hustle through before bed when you were already so worn-thin— and more like mindlessly handing yourself over for what they both dubbed your 'princess treatment.'

Suguru's smile is a ray of gentle light coloring his words, "Are we supposed to apologize for being good boyfriends?"

"Yeah. And you have to live with the consequences," you sigh, slumping further back into Satoru. The water rocks with you.

"You hear that?" Satoru says to Suguru over your head. You feel his chin nestle into your crown, arms loosely coiling at your waist. "She's blaming and threatening us."

"This is what happens when we go out of our way and draw us all a nice bath, huh," Suguru kisses his teeth, theatrically disappointed in you and what his and Satoru's efforts have come to. "Shame. I guess we won't be doing this ever again."

That finally gets your eyes to crack, blinking past the steam shrouding your slivered vision. Suguru watches the both of you with a sleepy beam curling the corners of his mouth, midnight lashes dampened and beading at their tips from the humidity. In spite of his long hair being wound up in a picture-perfect bun straight from Pinterest— his thorough wash-day took place yesterday and he's in no hurry to rewash his hair all over again— the baby hairs coiling at his nape and hairline are helplessly frizzy, fallen victim to the moisture in the air.

Suguru's gorgeous, a fallen angel meant to tempt you into the salacious temptations of the forbidden— much like the equally stunning blue-eyed beauty cuddled up to your behind, fluffed up white hair as refreshing as winter's first snowfall and his innate charming smile ten times more devastating than the cursed techniques sown into his very DNA.

"Hey," you protest, somewhat impressed by how he's twisted this situation to his benefit. "I didn't say all of that…"

A big warm palm finds a home on your shoulder, the callouses at the base of Satoru's fingers dragging a satisfyingly scratchy path over your skin. "I didn't agree to that either. Who's gonna appreciate all our hard work and dedication to pampering her if not, well, our princess?" Satoru wonders aloud, each richly pronounced syllable traveling in a velvety rolling rumble through his chest to your back.

Suguru cocks a brow, though he soaks up the reminder with a smoothly executed drag of the wooden bath tray closer to the corner of the tub's edge. Fancy crystalized bottles rattle, winking rainbow prisms across the walls; the oceanic waves of Satoru's irises, the deep earthiness of Suguru's.

You see them in everything, the two men coloring the world you traverse in a gallery forever curated in their likeness, to the point that you couldn't name a single thing on this planet without your lovers tinting your glasses.

Sometimes, you wonder whether the sky was always that boundless, cotton-candy blue, whether the nature crawling dense coils up Tokyo Jujutsu High's mountain campus had always carried such comforting shades of chocolate-brown, or if loving them has simply trained your eyes to always pay homage to Satoru and Suguru. Whatever the case, you're ridiculously smitten.

"Appreciation isn't the point, Satoru," lightly sniffs Suguru.

You wish you could see the stupid grin smeared across Satoru's countenance as he counters, jokingly, "It absolutely is."

"It really isn't," Suguru deadpans, looking to you as if to say get a load of this guy. You giggle.

"I don't know about you, babe, but I wanna be praised for my generous deeds," Satoru announces. "It hits like a line of coke after a long day."

Suguru slowly nods his assent. "That is true… though in your case, I'd say that cake is more your style than coke of all things."

"Snoooore," you loudly mime, deadpanning.

Satoru's laughter sears through your skin, beating a hearty rhythm between your shoulder blades. Suguru fans his fingers over his mouth as he joins in on Satoru's chuckling, amusement blossoming in the air. "Alright, alright. The deluxe princess treatment package is on its way now, promise," Suguru sing-songs with a little flap of his hand, finally easing up now that he's found a way back on track. "Satoru, you'll wash her hair and I'll do her body?"

"For sure," he chirps.

Ah, how nice it feels to lounge around like prized, celebrated royalty without a care in the world while your boys work a plan to pamper you.

All it takes is a simple curl of Suguru's black-painted finger for Satoru to obediently thrust his hand past your head, palm paralleling the ceiling as Suguru pops the glass stopper of a bottle and drizzles a generous heaping of shampoo into his hand's cup.

Satoru loops his arms around your front and works the shampoo between deft palms before your eyes, vanilla and camellia blossoms wafting up to your face, which you dip towards the comforting smell with a hum. It's Suguru's favorite shampoo— you're always surprised when he shares some of it and his conditioner with you, given how he treats it like the holy grail that he alone was blessed and entrusted with.

(Even funnier how he flat out refuses to let Satoru get his hands on it. Not that the white-haired sorcerer cares all that much anyhow; he uses a 3-in-1 shampoo and calls splashing tap water on his face a 'proper face wash.' You'd think a man so prideful about his vanity would splurge on products to properly care for himself and his Adonis body— the same way he buys from luxury clothing brands on the daily— instead of winging it like a head-in-the-clouds college fratboy, but alas…

You've gotta give it to him though: his genetics are killer. Curse Satoru and the goddamned perfectly pretty Gojo bloodline. It's not fair for the rest of you 'simpletons' who actually have to put in the work to groom and maintain yourself in order to look even half as unfairly attractive as he does on a random Thursday morning. The universe shamelessly plays favorites, and Satoru is its dazzling golden child.)

"Tilt your head back for me," he murmurs, long fingers immediately finding your hair— already sufficiently wet— the second you obey.

Humming an absent tune that lulls you into closing your eyes once more, Satoru gathers up all your hair, his usual boundless energy replaced by surprising patience. You can envision the way he's likely got his tongue peeking slightly between his teeth as he smooths the shampoo down your head, working up a rich, pearly lather from your crown to your ends with painstaking care exactly as Suguru once taught him.

Nobody from Jujutsu Tech— not Shoko, not Ijichi, not even any of the students— would expect such gentleness from the strongest sorcerer alive. The same man that tears into curses with calculated, almost joyous violence and blows them apart with a well-placed Red and a dry “oopsies,” is unbelievably tender in his task of shampooing the outer layer of your hair before diving to your roots, firm yet gentle. Reverent, really.

His nails glide along your scalp in purposefully light scrapes that send shivers down your spine. A contented sigh escapes you before you can stop it. "Satoruuuu…" You subconsciously roll the r in the same purring cadence that Suguru speaks his name in.

"Yooo, chill," Satoru splutters behind you, sounding alarmed by who knows what.

Suguru fills in the blank with a suggestive smile and thinning of his eyes: "Moan my name next, baby. I'm feeling left out."

Ah. Curious, you shuffle your hips back further into the cradle of Satoru's pelvis, glad to feel a distinct lack of engorged arousal insistently pestering your back; he's as flaccid as the day he was born. Your foot goes splashing water Suguru's way next. He catches your ankle beneath the surface and chuckles sunnily beneath the playful heat of your half-hearted glare.

"You're such a hater," he chastises.

"Excuse me for trying to enjoy my bath and the princess treatment you both promised me while you two horndogs try to make something out of nothing," you say dryly, though the pretense of sarcasm is rendered null by the next (accidentally) suggestive noise that floats its way past your lips when Satoru tugs a strand of shampooed hair just shy of too roughly.

"I didn't mean to do that, sorry!" Satoru jumps to apologize, presuming you'll give him shit for it and kick him out. But the joint snickers that both men promptly share over your head informs you that they're not exactly remorseful; and they're not even trying to play it sly.

"There's gonna be floggers and pillories in my online shopping cart by the end of the night if you two keep it up," you warn even though you're chuckling yourself. "That, or a sounding rod for you to share."

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am," Satoru and Suguru innocently chorus.

Devils, the two of them.

But you're not any better, for you praise them in the sweetest purr possible, "Thank you. Good boys," and you all too joyfully reap the color budding across their already bath-flushed cheeks, tipping your head back against Satoru's shoulder to see his properly.

Suguru and Satoru: 1.

You: also 1.

You'll break that tie soon.

Fingers still wrapped in a delicate snag around your ankle, thumb sweeping over the protruding bone, Suguru one-handedly pumps a decent dollop of body wash into his palm, making a fist and dragging his fingers through it to warm it up a tad. "Lift your leg a little higher for me, sweetheart," he instructs, voice no louder than twinkling rain shimmering in silvery ribbons from the sky.

Conscious yet uncaring of the fact that you're already flashing him your most private parts (both your boyfriends have literally seen it all in every sexual and non-sexual scenario possible), you do just that, trusting that Satoru's solidity will keep you from sliding forward on your ass and submerging your face. Your hip flexor and quadricep tighten in a show of undemandingly easy dexterity— the movement of the latter has Suguru's eyes flicking down to watch as though you're his favorite film made human.

He scrunches his legs up in order to fit into the 'v' your own make. Shifting his grip to the back of your calf, he paints your skin in fragrant body wash from your foot, kneecap, to the crease connecting hip to thigh, coating you thoroughly and treating you to an impromptu massage along the way, thumbs kneading tenderly into muscle.

You're practically purring once he's done with your left leg. Suguru eases it back into the steaming bathwater and rinses you off with sweeping strokes of his broad hand until the jasmine-scented suds melt into the surface. Then, without breaking the tranquil rhythm you'd both settled into, he gathers your right leg in his grasp and starts anew from your foot upward, every motion as meticulous as the last.

You don't startle an inch when Satoru picks his task up again whilst Suguru works his soothing magic up your shin. Circles that bloom sweetness through your body are drawn into your scalp with the pads of Satoru's fingertips, thumbs gliding behind your ears before sweeping upward along your crown, coaxing the rich lather deeper through your roots.

His fingertips dance across your hair in broad, enthusiastic circles, working the shampoo in with enough vigor to make your head tip slightly. It's embarrassingly effective in making you lose track of where one minute ends and another begins. The little remaining tension loosens from your body like water through a sieve.

"Oh my godddd," you moan, blissful, completely swept up in their pampering that comes without a price. You melt between Satoru and Suguru without thinking, trusting the secure cradle of their bodies as completely as breathing itself. "This is exactly what I needed. This is heaven."

"You deserve only good things, especially tonight," Suguru murmurs affectionately, gently dunking your right leg and rinsing that one off, too.

"All the time, really," Satoru agrees. He leaves your hair once he's sure each strand is thoroughly lathered up. "Seeing you turn into a cute little puddle is the best bonus I could ask for. Just let us take care of you, yeah?"

He returns to you with a wooden rinse pitcher that Suguru hands to him. He cups warm bathwater into it, stray droplets sprinkling across the bath's surface when he pulls the pitcher free with an audible gulp of water. Anticipating what follows, you tip your head back and stay still as Satoru pours the first cascade of water over your head to cleanse you of the fragrant foam, his free hand shielding your forehead to keep it from spilling over your face.

"You wanna know a neat trick I thought of?" Satoru asks, voice overflowing with prideful excitement. You and Suguru rumble low noises from your throats at the same time, encouraging. "If Blue allows me to pull buildings apart at minimum output by drawing everything towards the impossibility, then it makes sense that if I put the tiiiiniest possible output into Blue—" you feel a tempered spike of cursed energy that makes the dampened hair at your nape prick to attention, "—the field of attraction is weak enough that I can siphon water from hair."

Before the dirtied water can rejoin the pooling bathwater lapping over you all, it peels from your hair like a clean, satisfying strip of tape as though the laws of nature, too, submit to the wonder that is Gojo Satoru.

You feel each saturated lock of hair lighten by degrees more than you see it. Suspended at your sides where you can spy it from the corner of yout eye, the extracted water gathers into a lazily revolving sphere no larger than a melon, pale with diluted shampoo that swirls in pearlescent ribbons beneath the bathroom's amber light. You can tell that Satoru's flicked his fingers behind you when it all goes gliding into a bucket by the tub— he probably thought to put it there in advance, you realize— with a muffled sploosh. Suguru whistles, impressed.

"There!" Satoru chirps, grin crystal-clear in his voice as though he'd unveiled the world's greatest scientific breakthrough instead of an absurdly overengineered bath hack using one of the greatest cursed techniques in history. "No gross rinse water in the tub."

"That was cool, Toru," you gush.

Suguru's laugh slips free in a quiet puff. "Good idea, baby."

The dual praise has Satoru radiating like an overjoyed sun behind you. "Right? Right?" He boasts with no modesty whatsover, chest jutting proudly against your back.

"You'll have to do that for my hair sometime, too," Suguru sighs longingly, tilting his head with a charmed look on his face. He's so cute. "I could use one of my curses, but Blue'll save me so much time. My hair's getting even longer than it already is, if you can imagine."

"Please never cut it," you and Satoru pipe up in genuine agony.

Suguru titters, enchanting brown eyes creasing in a blinding smile, brighter somehow for it. "Relax, you two. I won't. Aside from trimming split ends— knock on wood." He raps the wooden bath tray with his knuckles.

The exchange coaxes an involuntary smile of your own, the stretch of your lips so overly fond that your cheeks ache. It is so wonderfully, unmistakably the three of you— Suguru's easy indulgement forever balanced alongside Satoru's irrepressible enthusiasm and your habit of matching them both exactly where they stand.

Suguru re-lathers his hands to work on your abdomen, muscles fluttering in delicate butterly wings behind the bountiful garden of your skin at the ticklish feeling of his slickened touch; Satoru ladles another pitcherful over your head and repeats the process of gathering and discarding every soapy drop with Blue. Suguru glides soap up the valley between your perked breasts and beneath them as well, even massaging your tits without a lick of sexual intent; Satoru gives you one last rinse before passing curious fingers through your hair until the strands slide cleanly through his hands, gently teasing apart the few stubborn knots left over. The bathwater gently rocks against your ribs whenever they both shift, focused on their individual tasks but nonetheless in tune with one another.

By the time Suguru finishes off your front by washing your collarbones and shoulders and Satoru's just teased apart the few stubborn knots left over in your hair, your hair hangs sleek and impossibly clean, you're feeling squeaky clean from head to toe, and the bathwater around your bodies remains as clear as when you'd first slipped into it, aside from the body wash that's sluiced off of you.

You feel as though they’d somehow washed away not only the day's sweat and oils, but every bothersome thought that had settled there alongside them. You could seriously fall asleep any second without realizing you'd slipped into unconsciousness.

"Look at us working together in sync," Satoru lilts, signaling for the conditioner over your shoulder. Suguru hands it off from the bath tray without missing a beat. "The G.G. Salon is taking off."

"G.G.?" You ask, faint laughter already bubbling through your nose before he even elaborates. You're anticipating something so stupid that it's somehow funny.

"Get gucked," Satoru supplies, only to shriek a soprano's pitch and jackknife his leg through the water when Suguru aggressively pinches Satoru's big toe. "Yeesh, can't a guy joke around here? I meant the Gojo-Geto salon."

Suguru smiles serenely.

They make quick— but not rushed— work of the rest of your treatment. Suguru reaches between yours and Satoru's bodies to bathe your back while Satoru conditions the ends of your hair with the creamy fixture.

Clearing your hair of conditioner after it soaks in is easy as it was for Satoru with the shampoo. He splashes water along your back to finish off Suguru's work, and Suguru leans in to nuzzle a brief kiss against your forehead, lips lingering for only a second before he settles back against the tub's rim again, the picture of handsome relaxation. A moment later, Satoru cranes his head to smooch the side of your neck as if unwilling to be left out, then ducks past you to peck Suguru's mouth.

No words are needed in the wakeful peace that draws a curtain over you; you, Satoru, and Suguru seemingly come to a silent agreement to soak in the jasmine-fermented bath a while longer, all of yours eyes closed in bone-deep gratification. Heat loosens muscles and peels the firm grip of old aches and pains stemming from battles old and new, determined to ease your bodies that've been carved out from years and years of sorcerery. You only clamber out when the bathwater is cool enough to be drained, yours and Satoru's and Suguru's fingers and toes pruny from the extended soak.

The tired little shiver that quakes you when the air hits your damp skin is noticed immediately by Suguru, who quietly directs Satoru to empty the bucket of dirtied water down the tub before turning to you with towels straight from the tower warmer. He wraps one loosely around your hair and gently squeezes away the excess water.

His sweetened cooing of how cute you are when you're all sleepy and doted-on makes you duck your head into his touch if only to hide your face from the loving searchlights of his eyes. You allow Suguru to similarly wrap your body up in a second towel and you gleefully burrow into the fluffy comfort of it.

Satoru zips to your side in literal seconds with two more towels bunched under his arm, blue eyes alight and completely comfortable in his nudity. "My turn," he announces.

"Didn't you have plenty of turns in the bath?" Suguru amusedly points out in a lowered tone. "She's already dried off, anyways."

Satoru pokes his pretty pink lips out in a pout, sulky as a cat denied its dinner. "I want another."

"You always want another," you hum, eyes half-closed and about ready to conk out on the tile of all places. A plane could crash outside and you wouldn't even be fazed, your mind too up in the clouds and doped up on the princess treatment your boyfriends gave you to care.

“Well, I like taking care of you both,” Satoru admits with some sheepishness, scratching his shorn-short nape that you're sure is soon to be warmed pink as you and Suguru look at him with hearts for eyes. "Can't blame a guy for being in love, yeah?"

You really can't; not when you're just as stupidly infatuated with them both. Especially when, adorably, he surprises you both by turning to Suguru and toweling him off with great attention, making your dark-haired partner flush an even ruddier red than the hot water gave his body. For all of Satoru's impossible strength and impossible speed, his hands fuss with deliberate care as they work the plush fabric around Suguru's waist, folding one edge neatly over the other before tucking it securely against his hip. Then Satoru guides a stray bang that fell loose from his bun behind his ear, fingers lingering sweetly.

Suguru blinks once, twice, as though momentarily caught off guard by the simple gesture. "... Thank you, Satoruuu,” he purrs warmly.

The words are accompanied by a smile so soft it melts years off of Suguru's face, leaving behind only the boy who'd once looked at you and Satoru with that same impossible tenderness after late-night konbini store runs and shared umbrellas beneath summer rain as you all ran back to campus after shared misions— long, long before that accursed village sent him into a year-long spiral. Affection settles visibly into every elegant line of him, warming his browned eyes until they resemble polished amber.

Color rushes into Satoru's ears as he's blasted with the full superlunary rays of Suguru's love, almost shying away from his exuberant beam. "Don't mention it," he mutters, already smiling despite himself as he finally slings his own towel around his hips.

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, sleepy and airy, and both pairs of eyes snap toward you with such immediate fondness. Your heart gives such a smitten start that it damn near ping-pongs off your ribs.

And then you open your unfiltered mouth, "You're both so cute. You two act like you guys haven't explored each other's holes for literal years."

Their expressions slacken into ones of pained amusement immediately. "Sweets, I love you so so sooo bad, but do you ever think before you reduce years of heartfelt intimacy to digging out each other's asses?" Satoru snorts.

"Please don't say it like that," Suguru bemoans, propping one hand on his towel-wrapped hip while the other drives a thumb into his creased forehead. Even so, he's openly snickering, even moreso when he slaps Satoru's chest. "Are you under the impression that you're any better?"

Satoru touches his heart with theatrical offense. "I've never said anything outrageous as her."

"You literally just did?" Suguru points out, exasperatedly tickled.

You attempt to muster a joke to chip in with, but a yawn stretches your jaw instead, eyes watering as exhaustion overtakes any dignity you might have had left.

"Awww," Satoru breathes out an impossibly stricken coo. "She's gonna fall asleep standing up like a horse."

"I was thinking the same thing," Suguru murmurs, tilting his head at you.

"I am awake and alert and alive," you mumble automatically.

Clearly, neither of them believes you for even half a second. Suguru chuckles beneath his breath before stepping forward, large hand finding the small of your back through the towel. "Looks like the delirium's getting to you, huh, angel? You've had a long day."

Satoru immediately appears at your other side. "For sure. Let's go get dressed and go to bed." Without ceremony, he bends his knees and scoops you into his arms bridal-style as though you weigh nothing at all. You let out the weakest little noise of surprise imaginable before instinctively curling against his warm chest, your cheek finding the familiar place beneath his collarbone.

"I c-can…" Your own yawn slashes the sentence in half, making Satoru throw his head back laughing as he turns towards the bathroom's entrance, "… walk."

"Oh, sweetheart," Suguru rumbles out a laugh.

"I can,” you grumble.

"You just lost consciousness mid-sentence."

"Mmmf," you say intelligently.

Suguru reaches over to straighten the towel atop your head one final time, brushing his knuckles fondly across your temple. "So spoiled," he whispers.

You hum contentedly, already halfway to sleep. "Your fault."

"Our fault," Satoru corrects, carrying you toward the door with Suguru walking beside him, shoulder brushing his every few steps. Then, as an aside to Suguru, "To be fair, we kinda made her expect this."

"I think I deserve princess treatment everyday," you exhaustedly pipe up, words dragging as you gradually drift off.

Satoru and Suguru exchange looks over your lolling head. So cute.

perma tags: @libr4sonsa @spirit-kat @kaitospo @m1nrrva @enchantinghonymoon @shokogasm @dairyfaerie @pvmpkingod @skz8stay @floriophrastus @originalsaucy @loyalguma @amane1271 @oporotheca @teachmehowtodokiaye @dogwhiskey @sunnydayqq @yoshinorecommends @spoooooork @satoruxmo @yomama2089 @nymeriassecretgarden @nina-from-317 @uzumakioden @loudshortbookworm @elijahgetsbeachess @jadelen @dookieslayer @naammiii @luxylucylou @user3779135 @xxdiaqiaoxx @angellvk @sahlestial @cowboyvsshop @madether @iheartanzai @cryptedlullaby

[aransmind]

emo megumi

[nigelgraz]

Looking at my Alucard drawings and realizing oh i really am in love with this guy

[fukiouh]

[SOLVED] | nerdjo x reader

The first mistake you made was using Reddit to find a roommate. The second was moving in with him anyway. Satoru Gojo is a gorgeous man and a terminally online incel who will explain exactly why a nice guy like him can't get a girlfriend. When you decide to weaponize your hotness against his incel worldview, you expect to break him and his “alpha male" ideologies. You do not expect to spend a random evening getting your roommate's dick out of a stuck cock ring.

pairing: Gojo Satoru x reader

warnings: 18+ (mdni!!), explicit sexual content, afab!reader, modern AU, roommate AU, nerdjo, incel!gojo, virgin!gojo, oral (m and f receiving), piv, creampie, light degradation, praise kink, cum in hair, cum eating, cum-drunk, pussy-drunk, cock rings, fleshlights, improper use of hair tie, improper use of yogurt (accidentally ??), oil and fluids everywhere, it’s a bit disgusting, light choking, groping, big time copium from reader, secondhand embarrassment you’d die, reddit, incel stuff, crack treated seriously, fluff, smut, slow burn but the burn is just pure cringe

word count: 17k

The first mistake you made was using Reddit to find a roommate. Should’ve been a red flag, really. The second was agreeing to meet the guy in person.

You walked into the coffee shop, scanning the midday crowd for someone who matched the description — twenty-something, remote-employed, appreciates a quiet living environment. You were expecting a tired grad student, maybe. Or some tech guy in a Patagonia fleece. Something like that.

Instead, you found a gorgeous, gorgeous looking man. And you were confident it was him, since there were exactly two men present — him, and some grandpa having his afternoon caffeine fix.

And the guy was, objectively and objectifyingly speaking, probably the prettiest guy you had ever laid your eyes on. Way too tall, way too broad, the messy hair and the cute glasses adding the je ne sais quoi of the hot nerd aesthetic you were simply too weak for. Even hunched over his phone like that, he looked aggressively cute. But, let’s be honest, you weren't exactly against a cheeky roommates-to-lovers situation, if you catch my drift.

You stopped dead in your tracks. 

Oh no. Oh YES.

Your heart went thump thump thump! like crazy as you stood there, frozen between the door and the counter. Living with a man who looked like that was a direct threat to your peace. And his too, probably. You couldn't believe you had practically won a jackpot over freaking Reddit. And apparently Reddit was only full of weird people, as if. So you took a breath, adjusted your posture, and walked over.

But then the panic hit. Because someone who looked like that was probably bringing home a different girl every night. And you’d have to listen to the stupid Thump. Thump. Thump. of his bed through the thin drywall. Every single time.

Suck it and see, you never know, girl.

From his side of the table, Satoru had already run the numbers. His eyes tracked your movement the second you started walking over, assessing. You were cute, yes. Approachable hot, not intimidating hot. You didn’t look like the type who’d expect him to pay for everything or make fun of his personality. And most importantly — you had messaged him first on the housing thread.

That meant the dynamic was already set. You were practically already his. Why else would a girl willingly want to live with a man? The power balance was secured. Handled. Handed to him on a silver platter, just like all the podcasts had promised.

You slid into the booth across from him. "Satoru?"

"You're exactly two minutes and forty seconds late," Satoru announced, and you feared that wasn't a joke. He checked his phone screen. "Statistically speaking, women in their twenties are usually ten to fifteen minutes late to initial meetups to assert social dominance. Two minutes is almost negligible. I like the effort."

You stared at him. What the fuck. You hadn't even taken your jacket off yet.

"I got caught at a red light," you said slowly, furrowing your eyebrows and eyeing his hands. Why were they so big?

“Right. Variables.” Satoru nodded, looking way too serious about the whole thing. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So — I brought the lease agreement. As I mentioned, I have a 780 credit score and I want dishes done within twenty-four hours. To prevent breeding grounds for fruit flies.” He slid the keys across the table along with the papers, completely unprompted. “I assume you don’t have a problem with basic hygiene? You shouldn’t have—” his eyes dragged over you, slow and sleazy, “—judging by your appearance.”

You looked at the keys. Then at his stupidly pretty, already supremely annoying face.

Your brain was trying to throw up big red warning signs, but you really needed the space. It was cheap. Close to work. And you’d have to survive maybe a year or two before you could afford a one-bedroom on your own.

You go, girl.

“I’m clean,” you said, picking up the keys. You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to figure out exactly what brand of lunatic you were about to chain yourself to. “Listen. You’re not going to be weird, are you?”

Satoru tilted his head, genuinely confused. “Define weird.”

You bit your lip.

There went those “quick” two years of your life.

You already knew the answer. You already fucking knew. Time for some hard coping. Maybe this was just a phase. Maybe he’d snap out of it soon. Maybe he’d gone through a breakup and was just being salty. That was probably it.

And to be fair, the first few weeks weren’t actually that weird. You were getting to know each other, learning how to exist in the same space. It was quiet, even. You would’ve paid good money to keep it like that forever.

He mostly worked from his room, only came out for meals, did the dishes, and left you alone. He barely even talked to you, which should’ve been suspicious, but you chose to ignore it. You started to think maybe you’d read him wrong at the café. Maybe the breakup theory was right. Maybe he was just having a weird day.

But spoiler alert — you couldn’t have been more wrong.

Satoru had not gone through a bad breakup. You suspected he had never gone through any breakup at all ever. Once he got comfortable enough to drop the act, or perhaps as some calculated 4D chess move to trap you past the point of getting your deposit back, his true colors started showing.

Satoru didn’t bring girls home. He didn’t do any of the hot-man things you’d expected either. Instead, he spent most of his free time on Reddit, arguing with strangers about the state of modern dating, and why “nice guys” were being chronically overlooked by society.

After about a month, it clicked.

This man was chronically, terminally online. And an incel on top of it all.

The rule of never judging a book by its cover confirmed itself in the most jarring way possible. Would say, you played yourself there girl, but who am I to judge.

It started with the staring. You’d be sitting at the kitchen island in your sleep shirt, eating a bowl of Cheerios, and you’d look up to find him just… watching you. He never looked away when you caught him either. He’d just blink those big, stupidly pretty blue eyes at you, gaze heavy and analytical, like he was trying to calculate your exact molecular structure. Which, in a way, he was. Carefully assessing the harmony of your facial features, exactly like the looksmaxxing subreddit had probably told him to.

You were always the one who had to look away first, your face feeling weirdly hot.

Then came the rants. You’d come home from a brutal shift and collapse onto the couch, and Satoru would emerge from his room like clockwork. He’d drop down next to you, eyes glued to his phone, and start talking like someone had asked.

“It’s basic hypergamy,” he announced one night, to absolutely no one. “Men are biologically disadvantaged in the modern dating sphere because of the top-twenty-percent rule.”

You didn’t even look at him. You just kept staring at the TV and wondered how long you could keep nodding along before it would become suspicious.

And he would just keep going.

Spewing the most vile, stupid shit while you sat there, eyes flicking from the TV to him and back, nodding along because you genuinely did NOT care. Top twenty what percent? Wasn’t he objectively in the top ten at least? What the hell was he even talking about? Every time you didn’t answer, he probably took it as agreement. You just deadass had nothing to say to him.

Not because you lacked the energy to argue — though you kind of did, because talking to this manchild was like talking to a wall, and even that would’ve been more productive — but mostly because you weren’t even listening anymore. You’d learned how to tune him out pretty quickly.

You were tolerating him. That’s what you told yourself. You were tolerating him, and it had nothing to do with the fact that ever since you first laid eyes on him, your brain had decided to revert to its most embarrassing caveman settings.

Like that one evening when you were walking down the hallway toward the kitchen and the bathroom door opened.

Satoru stepped out, dripping wet. White hair plastered to his forehead, water still running down his chest, wearing nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips. You shamelessly followed his happy trail. The way the towel barely clung on his hips.

Your brain stalled at the sight of his pretty body and your mouth went dry. You reminded yourself why you were tolerating him. Then berated yourself for doing exactly what he did — objectifying.

But hey. What's better than an incel asshole? A hot incel asshole. That's what's better. Congratulations to you specifically, really found a rock between a sea of gems.

You thought you had it handled. White-knuckle your way through the lease. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

And then you walked past his partially open bedroom door and heard him on Discord.

"Yeah, I mean, the living situation is okay," Satoru was saying, sounding so perfectly reasonable. You thought he was going to say something nice. What a good roommate she is, how glad he was to have you there.

"She's clean. And yeah, she's hot, but she's not like super hot hot where it's scary, you know? She's cute hot. Next door hot, pretty hot. Just my type, you know my type, dude. I can definitely work with that."

You froze in the hallway.

Your face did something that could only be described as a visual representation of what the fuck.

Cute hot. I can definitely work with that.

What does that even mean? You knew exactly what it meant, unfortunately. He wasn't just a weird roommate. He was a weird roommate actively running some kind of deranged, incel-fueled long game on you. Casually. Over Discord. 

You quietly backed away, went to your room, locked the door, and screamed into your pillow.

It was not like your roommate was describing you like a property investment to someone over Discord while you were standing mere feet away. 

You hated this. You hated him. And you hated yourself for having been even remotely apologetic about it, for feeling your heart skip a beat when he said just my type. Curse you and your completely stupid and irrational attraction to someone you should probably be filing a restraining order against! But god, he was so so cute. If he could just shut the fuck up, or get lobotomized, or something. You could take him to Claire's over the weekend?

But to his credit, and you could not fucking believe you were giving him even some credit at all right now, he was sometimes tolerable, heavy on the sometimes. The man never missed a rent payment. He scrubbed the bathtub weekly. He always bought the expensive brand of paper towels, the ones with the little flower pattern you liked.

Good roommate, structurally speaking. Nightmare, every other way.

And the attraction was just a proximity issue. Obviously. Everyone would have this problem. It would go away. His personality was ass. Soon enough you'd look at him and convince yourself his looks were ass too. Start acknowledging his hotness the way you acknowledged anything asexual.

It was totally fine. You were fine. He was just a guy. A guy who happened to look like a Final Fantasy character rendered in 4K, but still just a guy. A nice guy.

And work with that, he definitely did. Because he was fine too! Just not in any way he would ever admit to his Discord buddies.

Because doing it the normal way guys in their sexual prime do was completely fine. He was in his twenties, so naturally, his mind wandered a bit when his head hit the pillow with passing thoughts about the way your sleep shirt rode up your bare thigh. There was absolutely nothing wrong with getting off while thinking about someone! It was just the normal biological need the podcasts yapped about! It was healthy to be sexually active, even if his only active partner was his fist.

And if that happened to escalate into jerking off to a completely innocent Instagram picture and coming all over his phone screen while staring at your pixelated smile? Also completely normal! Everyone dealt with new living arrangements differently; someone screamed into their pillow, someone else was jerking off every time you got said person inexplicably hard! He couldn't be expected to live like a celibate monk when he was just a poor, horny guy trapped in an apartment with a gorgeous roommate who also happened to be exactly his type. He wasn't being a creep! He was just adapting to his environment.

Goddamn.

It wasn't fine. He wasn't fine, you weren't fine either.

But as the weeks dragged on, he started getting worse.

The passive-aggressive creepiness turned into passive-aggressive entitlement. He had decided, completely on his own, that the two of you were basically already together. You could feel it in the way he hovered. In the way he looked at you like he was waiting for something. Like a bill was coming due and he was just giving you time to find your wallet.

It started with the food.

Without any discussion, he started either making food for both of you or straight-up eating what you’d made for yourself. Like that was just the new normal now.

“Satoru, did you eat my food?” you’d ask, staring at the empty space in the fridge where your meal had been. The one you’d been looking forward to all day. And he’d just nod from the couch like it was the most normal, domestic thing in the world — not a direct violation of the rules you’d set when you moved in.

Or there was the night you came home completely drained, fully prepared to eat a sleeve of saltines and a bucket of ice cream for dinner, only to walk into the apartment smelling like garlic and roasted vegetables.

Satoru was actually at the stove, cooking. A rare sight — the man usually survived on takeout and DoorDash. And he’d used your expensive dried tomatoes. The ones you’d been saving for a special occasion. The ones you’d deliberately shoved to the back of the fridge so he wouldn’t find them.

“Men in the kitchen are a rare sight, I know,” he said, not looking at you as he stirred, trying to look like the eighth world wonder. “But I thought — what if I made pasta? It’s the one my mom used to make. Figured I’d make it for myself. Made a lot though, so… you can have some too, I guess.”

He was already plating a portion for you as he spoke, trying and failing to look casual while clearly nervous you wouldn’t like it.

You watched him for a moment and felt something shift in your chest. You immediately labeled it as hunger and moved on.

He didn’t ask if you liked it. He just assumed you would. And he was right, yeah you ate it, but that wasn’t the point. The pasta wasn’t even that good. Way too salty. But it sat warm in your belly, and you didn’t have it in you to tell him the truth.

You thanked him for the meal but didn’t acknowledge the grand gesture you hadn’t agreed to in the first place. You didn’t make conversation and went straight to do the dishes.

When you glanced back, he was watching you with that look again.

You looked away first.

And of course an incel like that would have opinions about your love life too.

You’d been seeing someone — nothing serious, just a guy from Hinge. Two dates in, and you were still on the fence. He didn’t make your heart do that stupid thump thump thump, and his hairline wasn’t all that great either.

You made the mistake of mentioning a possible third date while making coffee, trying to have a normal, boring conversation about your respective lives.

“I think I’m going to see him again on Saturday,” you said, mostly to your mug.

Satoru looked up from his phone. He was always on his phone doing gods know what.

"The architect guy?"

"Nah, I ghosted that one. Different guy."

A pause. He furrowed his eyebrows the way he did when he was assessing something. “How many are there?”

You gave him a warning look.

"I'm just asking."

"And I'm not answering," you said, rolling your eyes.

He put his phone down, which was never a good sign. You turned back to the coffee machine.

“I just think,” he started.

“Don’t,” you muttered, already regretting bringing it up.

"—that you're not being strategic about this."

You turned back around, mentally preparing for what was about to come.

“About dating. Statistically speaking, cycling through too many low-value options in a short period of time actually decreases your own value. If you want to attract a high-value man—”

He didn’t just mean men. He meant himself. Which, bless him, but also fuck him for putting it like that.

You stared at him for a moment, seriously considering yelling and throwing your mug at his stupidly symmetrical face.

“Satoru,” you said. “Did you just tell me I’m getting ran-through?”

He opened his mouth, then immediately closed it. His ears went pink — he had probably clocked his own stupidity, apparently, which was a first.

"No! It's not — that's not what I—" he started, hands coming up like he was surrendering.

"Where did you even hear that phrase?"

"It's a concept from—"

"No." You held up a hand. "No, I don't want to know, actually. You just made me really upset."

You picked up your coffee and looked at him — standing there in his stupid nerdy sleep shirt, with his stupidly cute messy hair, genuinely confused about why this had gone wrong. Like he really thought you’d realize he was right and apologize on your knees for even mentioning other men.

You felt furious. Tired. And something else you weren’t going to name.

You couldn’t believe you’d ever imagined getting railed into oblivion by this man. Instead, you had to talk to him like he was a toddler. You had a feeling you were going to become a cautionary tale. A PSA about what happens when you move in with an incel.

You went on the date that Saturday anyway. It was fine. The guy was fine-ish — less fine after the weird-ass conversation you’d had with Satoru prior. You came home to find him on the couch, waiting. Expecting something. But neither of you said a word. You just went to your room, got into bed, and stared at the ceiling.

You were so fucking tired.

Tired of dates that were just fine. Tired of coming home to this. Tired of the whole thing.

So you cancelled the next one. And the one after that.

Men were mediocre anyway, you told yourself. You needed peace. You needed to stop cycling through low-value options — god, you couldn’t believe that phrase was living rent-free in your head now. You were going to find whatever podcast invented it and send the hosts very ugly, very threatening email.

And maybe the apartment really was full of questionable worldviews, because somewhere between the sexual marketplace value speeches and his creepy behavior, you developed one of your own.

You became morbidly into the idea of breaking his incel resolve. Like you’d accidentally discovered a new kink.

Not even in a romantic way. More like you’d started writing a very questionable mental screenplay about dismantling him piece by piece. Watching the podcast rot leak out of him in real time. Making the incel guy want you so badly he forgot every subreddit he was joined in, until he was pathetic enough to cry at your feet — and you weren’t even the dominant type!

Wasn’t there a term for that? There had to be. You’d read the fanfictions. You’d read the think pieces. And every time you’d wondered why women did this to themselves.

Now you knew exactly why.

It was like disaster tourism. Some people went to Chernobyl for the thrill. Some people chased storms. You were simply built different.

Because when a man looked you in the eye and said shit like, “It’s actually been studied. Women who wear revealing clothing in domestic settings are subconsciously signaling availability to increase their mate value. It’s an evolutionary response to competition,” and meant it — like he hadn’t just dropped full Andrew Tate shit on a random Wednesday night — you weren’t going to let it slide.

You were already stretched thin. And he was on very thin ice.

So you made a plan.

You were going to show him exactly what skimpy clothing did to a man like him. And you weren’t going to think too hard about why this was probably the stupidest idea you’d had in a while.

Because who would voluntarily wear less clothes when they could just put on three more layers to prove a point?

You, apparently.

You dug out the shorts you hadn’t worn since sophomore year. The ones that left half your ass out and the tank top that made your boobs look obscene. All to "prove a point."

Satoru was at the kitchen island when you walked in, like every morning.

You leaned against the counter, grabbed your yogurt from the fridge, and started eating your probiotic-balanced breakfast, like every morning.

He was still on his phone.

You were starting to think the plan had lowkey a flaw — mainly the part where he wasn’t even looking at you — when he stood up and walked over to the sink to put his mug away.

He reached past you.

The mug hit the bottom of the sink with a loud clang as he stood frozen and way too close. Staring at you with his mouth slightly open, ears going pink in real time as the color crept up from his jaw. He was looking at you exactly how you’d hoped he would… and now that it was actually happening, your stomach did a stupid little flip.

You went to put the spoon back in your mouth.

But your hand missed and the spoonful of Activia went down your chin, down your neck, and disappeared between your tits.

Satoru’s eyes followed it the whole way. You felt your nipples tighten under the thin fabric as he stared. Then his gaze dragged back up, slow,  before dropping to what you were wearing.

When he finally looked at your face again, his ears weren’t just pink anymore. They were red.

“Uh. Y-you have yogurt. On your—” He gestured vaguely at your chest. “—on your b-boobs.”

You stared at him. He stared back — at your face, at your chest, at your legs, everywhere.

“Yeah,” you said. “I noticed, ‘Toru.”

You grabbed a paper towel and dragged it slowly down your neck, then slipped your other arm under your boobs to lift them higher, making the cleanup easier for you and significantly harder for him. You could tell by the way he was squirming.

He swallowed. A loud, audible gulp in the quiet kitchen. His Adam’s apple bobbed like it was trying to escape.

“Right. G-good — you cleaned it up. I-it was very messy,” he managed to get out, voice a full octave lower and cracking at the end. His eyes were half-lidded, ears still burning red.

Then he fled. He turned so fast he clipped his hip on the doorframe and didn’t even react to the pain before disappearing down the hallway.

You felt victorious. You’d fried his alpha-male-rotted brain. You’d proven your point. You were the apex predator of this apartment!

But then you took a breath and noticed your hands were shaking.

Your nipples were still painfully hard against the thin fabric of your tank top. And there was a warm, insistent ache low in your belly, sending little shockwaves down to your toes.

Wait.

What the fuck.

You looked down at your chest, then at the empty doorway like he might still be there.

Why the hell were you horny?

You were supposed to be the disaster tourist here. You were supposed to be watching the meltdown from a safe distance. Disaster tourists didn’t usually get turned on by the radiation. They didn’t usually want the hazard to come back out of his room, pin them against the counter, and put his stupid big hands on their hips.

You threw the paper towel into the trash harder than necessary. It hit the side and did a pathetic little plop! pathetically to the floor.

You slammed your bedroom door and threw yourself onto the bed, burying your burning face in the pillows.

The plan had worked perfectly.

Even if you had to dig out your vibrator later just to make the weird tingling go away.

It was just a power trip. Just the adrenaline of winning. That’s all it was. Power trips made people horny. It was biology. It was science.

Take that, Satoru!

And oh, he took it.

Across the hallway, Satoru was melting into his mattress. A bruise was already forming where he’d slammed into the doorframe. The image of that yogurt dragging down between your tits was burned into his brain. He was throbbing, and it was fucking pathetic.

He tried jerking off like usual — fist tight, imagining you on your knees — but it wasn’t enough anymore. Hadn’t been for weeks, actually. His hand wasn’t cutting it.

So he reached into the back of his bottom drawer and pulled out the silicone toy he’d bought recently. He was embarrassed, but too worked up to care. At least now he could pretend it was your tight pussy he was fucking into.

It was a new low. He knew it was a new low. But he did it anyway, eyes squeezed shut as he used the fleshlight, imagining you on top of him, under him, beside him — it didn’t matter. Anything was better than coming on his own just from the memory of yogurt dripping down your skin.

But of course, once the post-nut clarity hit, he took the whole thing the completely wrong way.

Because really, what did you think was going to happen?

You thought parading around half-naked in front of a terminally online incel would make him fall to his knees and magically develop self-awareness?

No. Of course not.

He thought you did it on purpose. For him specifically.

And yeah, you did do it on purpose — just not for the reason he thought. You were trying to break his brain. Make a joke out of his worldview! Instead, all you did was make him hard for three days straight and give him a terrifying amount of hope.

It validated every single pseudo-scientific dating theory he’d ever read. In his mind, you weren’t mocking him. You were submitting to his superior frame. You were “signaling availability.”

You hadn’t broken his incel resolve. You’d accidentally reinforced it. Applause.

And now Satoru believed, with full Reddit-backed certainty, that he had won. He’d played the long game. He’d kept his alpha composure. And now the cute roommate in the tiny gym shorts was finally ready to yield.

And worst of all? He started being creepy on purpose.

Before, the hovering and staring had been unconscious. Now he was doing it with intention. It was time to “establish physical dominance” and “break the touch barrier,” according to whatever the fuck forum thread he’d absorbed that week. 

He started finding excuses to be near you — reaching past you for things he didn’t need just to brush his chest against your shoulder, leaving you wrapped in his scent. He’d sit too close on the couch, close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him.

And it was working. You hated that it was working.

Every time his hand brushed yours or his fingers grazed your waist, your skin broke out in goosebumps. You could feel yourself reacting to his nervous little attempts to mark his territory, and it was driving you insane.

You were sitting on the couch eating your well deserved Pad Thai straight out of the takeout box while a true-crime documentary played in the background.

Satoru emerged from his room, did his usual hover-routine like some awkward mating dance, and then sat down. Right next to you.

Without taking his eyes off the TV, he reached over and placed his hand on your bare thigh.

It was this weird twitchy movement between caress and a customs agent stamping a passport.

His fingers kept flexing like he was fighting the urge to either pull away or drag them higher. You sat frozen, staring down at his hand, silently daring it to move. Then mentally cursing yourself for even letting it happen in the first place.

A rush of heat flooded your chest and cheeks. It burned under his palm and shot straight down between your legs.

Ovulation. It’s just ovulation.

"Satoru," you said slowly. 

He was staring straight ahead at the TV, posture stiff as a board and he was even redder than you.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He flinched, yanking his hand back into his lap and hunching over. “N-nothing.”

He cleared his throat but didn’t move away. His knee stayed pressed against yours. He took a breath, puffing his chest out as he tried to reclaim his “alpha” frame, then glanced at you as you took a shaky bite of noodles.

“So,” he started again, voice slipping into that pseudo-intellectual podcast cadence that always made your eye twitch. “I was reading a thread today. About proximity and domestic investment.”

You didn't look at him, listened to the Ted Bundy facts coming from the documentary narrator. Chewed and brushed him off. "Fascinating."

“It actually is,” he continued, completely unbothered. He leaned back, stretching his arm along the back of the couch and caging you in. “Because it highlights the flaw in modern female psychology. Women always say they want a nice guy. Someone who provides stability. Someone who pays his bills on time, remembers to buy toilet paper, and keeps a clean, optimal living environment.”

He paused, letting the weight of his own perceived perfection hang in the air.

“But,” Satoru said, turning his head to look at you, eyes locking onto yours with that same entitled certainty, “when that exact man is sitting right in front of them, offering unwavering loyalty and a high-value domestic partnership, they stay willfully blind. They friendzone him. Tease him. Cycle through low-tier guys from dating apps instead. It’s biologically counterproductive.”

The only sound in the room was the dramatic music coming from the TV now. You dropped your chopsticks into the takeout box, which suddenly felt too heavy in your lap.

He was so confident in his entitlement it actually made you sick. It was ruining your fucking appetite.

He thought doing the bare minimum — acting like a decent human being with basic hygiene — earned him loyalty points he could cash in for sex. Like some kind of fucked-up grocery store rewards program.

You turned your body toward him fully, voice eerily quiet.

“Let me get this straight,” you said. “You’re sitting here, in our living room, getting mad at me because your nice-guy vending machine is broken?”

Satoru blinked, his brow furrowing like he genuinely didn’t understand what the problem was.

“I’m stating a statistical—”

“Shut up.”

The words came out sharp enough to cut. You weren’t playing anymore. One more podcast quote and you were going to rip the hair out of his stupidly pretty head.

His mouth snapped shut. He looked genuinely startled. You’d never told him to shut up before — not like that. You’d always just nodded, or rolled your eyes, or tuned him out.

“You think this is a transaction,” you said, eyes narrowing. “You think because you scrub the bathtub and pay your half of the rent on time, you’re earning points? You’re keeping score. You did the bare minimum and now you’re waiting for me to drop to my knees in gratitude like you were providing for me?”

“I am a provider,” he argued, chest puffing out even as his voice lost some of its usual arrogance. “I bring high value—”

“You bring decency at best!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “Doing your own dishes doesn’t make you a high-value alpha male, Satoru. It makes you an adult. But you don’t actually care about being a good roommate. You’re just dressing your entitlement up as niceness and acting like I owe you something because you haven’t been actively terrible to me.”

“That’s not—” He reached up to adjust his glasses, a nervous habit you’d never seen from him before. “I’m just saying that logically, the optimal choice for you—”

“There is no logic!” you snapped, standing up before you did something stupid like strangle him. “You don’t even like me! You just think you’re owed me because I’m convenient and I live here!”

Satoru flinched. All the color drained from his face.

You stood over him, breathing hard, looking down at this gorgeous, six-foot-three idiot who was staring up at you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics. He looked lost. Stupid. Like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“But you acted like—” he started, then caught himself, shoulders squaring like he was trying to hold onto his frame. “You know what, forget it. You’re just proving my point. A guy does everything right, stays consistent, stays present, and the girl just—” he gestured at you with a disbelieving laugh, “—moves the goalposts. We’ve been living together for months. Friends for just as long. I thought if I followed the steps exactly, I’d finally get to— we would— I don’t understand how this is supposed to work, okay?! How is a guy ever supposed to figure it out if the steps are a lie and I haven’t even—”

“Satoru.”

He stopped. Mouth snapped shut. The tips of his ears suddenly burned bright red.

The realization hit you like a bucket of cold water.

Oh my fucking god.

You’d suspected it once or twice, but the thought had always flickered and died. Now it all clicked into place.

He’d never gotten his dick wet.

Your roommate was a six-foot-three virgin who thought turning to men who felt entitled to sex was a reasonable solution to his problems. What an absolute fucking mess. You almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

“You’re an incredibly good-looking guy, Satoru,” you said quietly. Sincerely. “Objectively hot. Get your shit together, touch some grass, and you’ll be fine. You’ll be more than fine. But until you stop treating women like a math test you’re trying to cheat on, nobody is going to want you.”

You shattered his ego completely.

Or maybe, for the first time since puberty, Satoru actually formed a conscious, self-aware thought. Because he kept turning your words over in his head.

Objectively hot.

No one is going to want you.

What?

He tried to find the logical flaws. Tried to insert a counterargument, disprove your “emotional outburst” with cold data. He couldn’t find one. Not for days.

You were avoiding him completely now. Icing him out. Not talking to him. Not even looking at him. It was driving him insane. You used to search for his eyes, even if it was just to roll them. He’d only just realized how genuine your flustered blinking had been, and now he missed it. Embarrassingly so.

One night he walked into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, carrying a petty mix of rejection, confusion, and constant, unbearable horniness.

Your pink hair tie was sitting on the edge of the sink.

He told himself he was just going to pick it up and put it in your organizer tray.

So he picked it up. It smelled like your stupid, intoxicating strawberry shampoo. He hated it. Hated how the whole bathroom smelled like you after you showered. Hated how your scent followed you everywhere in the apartment, forcing him to breathe you in. The guys on Reddit had warned him about this. Pheromones. Dangerous.

He brought it closer to his face. Just to check. Just in case it wasn’t actually yours.

And what happened next stayed strictly between Satoru, the bathroom mirror, and god.

He clutched the sink, bracing himself against it, breathing ragged and humiliatingly loud. He stared down at the pretty pink elastic wrapped tight around the base of his cock as he fucked his fist like he was trying to punish himself, desperately trying to imagine your hands instead of his own.

It worked too well. It scared him.

He came hard, so so hard the hair tie ended up coated in thick, frothy cum.

He carefully nudged the sticky pink tie back onto the edge of the sink, exactly where he’d found it. Then he washed his hands under scalding water like he was trying to burn the shame off his skin and walked out of the bathroom like a man fleeing a crime scene.

Rejuvenated? No.

Good? Not even close.

He just felt like absolute shit.

Get your shit together.

But how?

He picked up his phone. Put it down. Picked it up again. The fight was still eating him alive. The podcasts told him to take his frustration out on other girls or channel it into dominance and detachment. That’s what the current episode would’ve said.

But he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to sleep with anyone else. He didn’t want to be aggressive. He just… wanted.

And that was the problem.

For the first time in a long time, the alpha-male bullshit was starting to feel a bit too beta now. He was left with his own feelings like a normal person, and it was awful.

If he was truly a high-value male, he shouldn’t care. He should pivot. Download an app. Find some new, compliant girl to validate his stats. But the thought of calculating the facial harmony of a stranger made his stomach turn. He didn’t want a hypothetical female.

He wanted you.

He wanted you rolling your eyes at him. Laughing at him. Getting annoyed at him. Eating his pasta. Walking around in those mind-melting shorts. He wanted you to drop yogurt on yourself again just so he could lick it off your skin, linger on your neck, and kiss you stupid — the way he’d been fantasizing about since it actually happened.

He needed validation. He needed to be right.

His thumbs moved across the screen before he could stop himself. He ignored his usual echo-chamber subreddits and opened r/AmItheAsshole instead.

r/AmItheAsshole 

AITA for expecting my roommate (F) to reciprocate my (M) romantic advances after I provided optimal domestic value?

Throwaway. This is gonna sound bad but I need actual advice.

I (M) have been living with my roommate (F) for almost a year now. I’m not gonna lie, I’m objectively good-looking and I’ve been carrying a lot in this apartment. I pay my half on time, I keep shit clean, I do the dishes, I even cook sometimes. I thought I was doing everything right.

A few weeks ago she started walking around in these tiny shorts and tank tops. Like, really small. I took it as her signaling that she was open to something. That’s what all the advice says — if a girl starts dressing like that around you, it’s usually because she’s comfortable and maybe interested. So I decided to initiate kino escalation. Nothing crazy at first, just trying to break the touch barrier a bit.

While we were watching something on the couch I put my hand on her thigh. She freaked out. Got really upset and started yelling at me about how I was treating her like a transaction and that I only did nice things because I felt entitled to her. She even said I was basically calling her ran-through for going on dates.

I tried to explain it calmly. Like, statistically, if a high-value guy is right there doing everything right, why would she keep going on dates with random dudes from apps? It just doesn’t make sense. She told me to touch grass and hasn’t really spoken to me since.

I don’t get it. I’ve been consistent, I’ve been present, I’ve been providing a good living situation. I thought that was supposed to count for something. Instead she acted like I was the asshole for expecting anything in return.

AITA?

He hit post.

He sat in the dark on his bed, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest. He just had to wait. The logical thinkers would show up. They’d validate him with proper, objective analysis. They had to.

Ten minutes later, the notifications started rolling in.

He opened them expecting vindication.

Instead, he walked straight into a digital firing squad.

u/GrassToucherGeto · 308 upvotes

YTA. Holy shit. You did a handful of nice things and you think that means she owes you sex? You sound like an actual sociopath. I’m surprised she didn’t run out screaming. She literally told you to get your shit together. What part of that are you not getting?

u/KentoTheNormalGuy · 291 upvotes

You're not alpha, man. Kino escalation? Are you trying to con her, or actually want her to want you? YTA.

u/NobaraJustice24 · 282 upvotes

YTA.  She can wear whatever the fuck she wants in her own home, you creepy ass weirdo. I hope she breaks the lease and gets a restraining order. 

u/RealityCheckChoso · 156 upvotes

This is the most pathetic thing I’ve read on this site in eleven years. This is straight-up incel fanfiction. Poor girl having to live with someone like you. YTA. Go outside.

u/yuji_8847362 · 124  upvotes

Genuine question, not trying to be an asshole: do you actually like her, or do you just think she owes you because you did some nice things? Those are two very different things, and your post doesn’t seem to understand the difference. YTA, but I hope you figure it out.

u/KingNaoya69 · 231  downvotes

NTA. She’s clearly testing you. The clothes were an invitation. Hold your ground, don’t apologize, and she’ll come around. Women don’t respect men who grovel. If she actually didn’t want you she would’ve moved out already. She’s still there, isn’t she?

Satoru stared at the screen in disbelief.

He’d expected validation. Maybe a few reasonable voices cutting through the noise, acknowledging the statistical validity of his position, maybe even offering some tactical advice.

Instead, he got hit with minus three thousand downvotes, a mod-locked thread, and three DMs telling him to go to therapy.

He thought it would give him clarity. Clear steps. A way to fix this mess.

It didn’t.

It just made him feel… nothing. Except for the creeping realization that he’d said something eerily similar to what u/KingNaoya69 had posted. Recently. Maybe even last week.

He threw his glasses off and stared into the middle distance.

What the fuck was he supposed to do?

He had no idea.

The days that followed were miserable. You were giving him the coldest shoulder imaginable — and honestly, he deserved it. You were weaponizing the silence. Slamming doors. Giving short, pointed answers. Moving through the apartment like he was just another piece of furniture. Looking through him instead of at him.

He kept going back to the comments on his post, rereading them like he could find a loophole somewhere.

Yes, of course he liked you. But how was he supposed to want nothing from you if he liked you? He wanted your affection. He wanted you to want him back. But wasn’t that also expecting something in return? What the hell was he supposed to do?

Still… the Naoya guy had been weirdly right about one thing. You stayed. You hadn’t moved out. You didn’t even seem like you wanted to. If you hated him that much, why were you still here?

On the nth day, he was sitting on the couch when you came out of your room for water. You glanced at him — just for a second. You couldn’t help it. The silent treatment was getting to you too, even if you’d never admit it.

Your eyes were hard to read, but there was something in them. Something expectant. Like you were waiting for him to do something. To fix it. To stop being an idiot so the two of you could move on.

Oh, he thought.

Truly the lightbulb moment of the century.

Oh.

That night he unjoined six subreddits. Unfollowed every podcast except Joe Rogan — because hey, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Or was it unteach a new dog old tricks? Didn’t matter. What mattered was that for the first time since he’d discovered the internet, he was pretty sure he’d been an idiot.

And he was going to stop.

He made a plan. Simple. Walk out of his room, find you, and say sorry. Three steps. He’d been a person for over twenty years. He could do three steps. He had this!

You were in the kitchen. You were standing on the flimsy little step stool you needed to reach the top cabinet shelves, stretching up on your tiptoes for the glass Tupperware that Satoru kept putting up there, even though you had told him multiple times not to put it up there because you literally could not reach it.

"Hey," he said from the doorway, trying not to startle you. "Can we—"

You startled anyway, because what other outcome was ever going to happen here.

The stool wobbled under your socks. You gasped, swore something, grabbed for a shelf edge that wasn't there, and fully expected to eat the kitchen floor tiles before officially murdering your roommate from the afterlife.

But Satoru had surprisingly fast reflexes and caught you.

Well… almost.

He lost his balance as your weight shifted, and the two of you went down in a tangle of limbs and terrible timing.  The impact knocked the wind right out of your lungs. You landed sprawled over him, pressed against his chest, his arms secured instinctively around you—

Around your boobs.

You froze. He froze. The entire world seemed to fucking froze.

And as you laid there, from the adrenaline shock of it all probably, his fingers did a little squish!

Huh.

You didn't say anything. You couldn't breathe, let alone speak. You slowly turned your head. His face was right there and so, so close to yours. You panicked and looked into his equally panicked eyes, his poor glasses askew.

He was searching for something in your eyes, his pupils blown so wide they almost swallowed the blue. And then, as his chest was still heaving so heavily, his gaze dropped down to your lips.

You were suddenly very aware— Aware of his warm palms right through the thin fabric of your shirt. Aware of the way your tits swelled into his touch. Aware of how his thighs bracketed your hips, and how perfectly you fit against him.

His breath hitched. And then his fingers flexed. He made a soft, barely-there sound in the back of his throat and squeezed again — slower this time. Kneading right over your hardened nipples.

You parted your lips for a soundless gasp, and he huffed into your collarbone as the trance finally broke.

His arms slowly retreated, lazily dragged down your ribs, fingers grazing the soft of your tummy before finally falling away to rest on the floor, which somehow made it all worse.

"I—" His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.

You scrambled off him like you had been electrocuted.

You sprinted down the hallway and threw yourself into your room, slamming the door behind you. You backed up until you hit something, you didn’t even care what, and slid down to the floor, knees pulled to your chest.

Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Your skin was buzzing. The ghost of his touch was still burning across your chest.

I fucking hate him, you told yourself. He’s a podcast-rotted incel. I hate him.

…Do you?

Because why the fuck had you wanted his hands to stay there? Why had that second squeeze made you want to straddle him right there on the kitchen tiles and fuck him stupid?

You were just touch-starved. That’s all this was. You were projecting onto your terrible roommate because he was being a sleazy little shit.

You grabbed your phone off the nightstand with shaking hands and unlocked it.

Hinge.

Your ol’ friend.

You needed a date. You needed a normal, boring, completely average guy with a decent hairline and zero opinions on hypergamy to save you from whatever the hell had just happened in that kitchen.

You were in your room getting ready for your date, dressed to kill. Short dress, favorite lace panties — because after everything that happened in the kitchen, you were still weirdly, persistently horny. Might as well try to do something about it with someone normal.

Satoru was lingering in the hallway like always, doing his very obvious not-hovering hover.

"Going out?" he asked, clearing his throat, trying to act so aloof and unbothered.

You didn't even look at him properly. "Yeah. I have a date," you said smugly as you pulled your hair up into a ponytail. Hair down meant cute, but hair up meant business. And by business, I mean finally attempting to jump on some normal, average dick.

The second the words left your mouth, a wave of jealousy hit him so hard it nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. But he wasn’t looking at your face. He was staring at the pink hair tie holding your hair up.

He visibly gulped. His dick went from zero to painfully hard so fast he had to cross his legs just to hide it.

You furrowed your eyebrow at the uncharacteristic lack of response, but wasn’t entirely mad about it either.

"See ya," you chirped, completely oblivious to his internal meltdown, and walked out the front door.

The second the door shut, Satoru basically teleported to his room. He threw himself onto his bed, already fumbling with his pants, desperate to take care of the problem so he could think straight again.

But he spent exactly thirty minutes achieving absolutely nothing. What the fuck.

This had never happened before. Satoru was just staring at his ceiling, sweating, furiously gripping his aching dick, and completely unable to finish. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined you laughing at some beta joke a 100% mediocre guy had made, while his past-tense cum was proudly sitting in your hair. He was literally too jealous to finish.

But jealous or not, he was still agonizingly hard, his dick standing painfully stiff against his stomach, stubbornly refusing to just calm the fuck down. He let out a frustrated groan. Okay. Fine. No hand? No problem! He reached for the silicone fleshlight, but he hadn't washed it in quite a while, and when he picked it up, a funky smell drifted off it.

Okay, NEVER MIND.

Which left him with only one option.

Today’s the day.

He reached into the back of his bottom drawer again and pulled out a silicone cock ring.

He had bought it right after he absolutely demolished your cute little hair tie. Because what does a normal guy do in that situation? Grovel first? Solve the underlying interpersonal issue? Nah. He goes on r/sex to research why a piece of elastic felt so hella good around his dick!

He hadn’t touched it since. Post-nut clarity had done its job last time. But right now, staring down at his aching, neglected cock and feeling rejected, humiliated, and completely alone… it was time.

Fuck it.

He ripped open the packaging and wrestled the thick silicone down his shaft until it sat snug at the base.

Almost immediately, something felt off.

It was tight. Too tight. Not in a good way — just uncomfortable. Constricting. He tried to power through anyway, closing his eyes and stroking like he could force an orgasm out of sheer spite.

Ten minutes passed.

Nothing.

His brain was too far gone, and the pressure was quickly shifting from weird to genuinely concerning.

Fuck this.

He stopped. Tried to take it off. But it didn’t budge.

Satoru blinked. He adjusted his grip and pulled harder. The skin stretched painfully, but the ring stayed exactly where it was.

Oh fuck.

A cold sweat broke out across his forehead. 

Oh fuck, oh fuck.

He scrambled off the bed, grabbed his lube, and squeezed way too much directly onto the ring. He tugged and twisted like his life depended on it.

Nothing. Fucking nothing. It just made his hands uselessly slippery.

Okay, oh fuck. Wasn't lube supposed to work?! Okay, new plan. Something else, something more slippery, something more oily—

Panic seizing him, he stumbled to the bathroom, dug under the sink, found your baby oil, and slathered it on.

Still stuck.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Different oil! Not enough slipperiness! Trust the process!

So he waddled out of the bathroom, practically sprinting into the kitchen buck naked. He tore open the pantry, grabbing the vegetable oil. 

This has to work.

It did not work.

Ten minutes later, Satoru was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, coated in a slick, highly flammable mixture of lube, Johnson & Johnson baby oil, and Wesson canola oil, panting heavily. 

Dick throbbing, but not the fun kind of throbbing anymore. It was turning a terrifying shade of angry red-purple, the silicone death trap literally suffocating his junior.

It was no longer just uncomfortable, nor just alarmingly stuck. At this point, it was a fucking medical emergency. 

He was so fucked he might be patient zero of mpreg.

But what the hell was he supposed to do?

Call an ambulance?

Absolutely not. 

The thought of a paramedic cutting a sex toy off him with trauma shears while asking for his emergency contact would genuinely kill him on the spot. He would rather die of necrosis.

Call his friends? 

Fuck no.

If any of them found out about this, the screenshots would never die. They’d revoke his alpha card permanently and hold it over his head for the rest of his life.

He stared at his contacts.

There was only one person who could help without turning it into blackmail material or posting it online. The one person who lived in this apartment. The one person who was currently out on a date with some random guy. The person he had a massive, pathetic crush on and who would probably rather rip his dick off than help him.

He hit Call.

You stirred your gin and tonic while your date went on about his fantasy football draft like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. It was a perfectly fine date! The kind of fine that made you wonder why you even bothered.

You were nodding along, even though you had stopped listening roughly four minutes ago. Then, your phone vibrated on the table.

Satoru.

You ignored it. No, actually—you declined it. You smiled sweetly at your date, asked a vague question about tight ends so you would seem like you were actually paying attention, and took a sip of your drink.

Your phone buzzed again. And again. And again.

Annoyed, you held up a finger to the poor guy who was currently rating wide receivers, excused yourself, and off to the bathroom, fully prepared to yell.

“What?” you hissed the second you picked up. “I’m on a date, Satoru. If you locked yourself out—”

"Please come home," he gasped. He didn't even say hello. He didn't sound aloof, and he certainly didn't sound alpha. He actually sounded like he was drawing his final breaths on this earth. "You have to come home. Right now."

"What happened? Did something catch fire? Did someone break in? Are you—"

“I can’t tell you,” he whined, voice high and shaky in a way you’d never heard from him before. “I physically can’t say it out loud. Just— please. Please come home.”

You were ninety percent sure this was some pathetic attempt to ruin your night. Some last-ditch manipulation tactic he’d picked up from a podcast or Reddit thread.

But the remaining ten percent made you ditch your date without a second thought and jump into an Uber.

You practically kicked the front door open, your heart hammering. The apartment was completely quiet, and it smelled all wrong.

Like babies and an industrial air fryer?

"Satoru?" you called out, dropping your bag. "Where are you? The apartment better be fucking flooding, or else I swear to God—"

A pained, muffled whimper came from down the hall. His bedroom door was cracked open so you pushed it wide, fully prepared to absolutely tear him a new one for ruining your night.

Satoru was sitting on the edge of his bed, completely naked, perched on a bath towel soaked through with some kind of glistening sludge. He was trembling, sweating, aggressively gripping the mattress. And his dick — very visibly, very aggressively hard — was pointing straight at you.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!"

You exploded the second you saw him, because an impromptu dick is still an impromptu dick! “Some pathetic plan to finally fuck me? You couldn’t even be decent about it — you just called me home so you could sit here with your cock out?!”

You expected some sleazy line. Some smug little smirk. Instead, Satoru looked up at you with wide, tear-filled eyes behind his smudged glasses and let out a broken, wet sob.

"I'm not—" his voice cracked terribly. "I'm stuck."

Huh?

Furrowing your eyebrows, you stopped yelling and your eyes actually dropped down.

And then your stomach dropped with them.

Wait. Oh. He was so, so large.

But that wasn’t the problem. His dick was an angry, swollen red-purple, veins bulging like it had its own heartbeat. And at the base was a thick silicone ring, cutting into him so tightly it looked like it might actually burst.

And all the anger drained out of you in an instant. Suddenly, you felt the harsh reality of the literal medical horror you were now a part of. 

"Oh my god. Satoru... what is going on?!"

“Fuck, it hurts— please help me,” he whined, voice cracking as he bounced his leg against the floor like that would somehow fix anything.

You stepped closer, the sheer absurdity of the situation making you drop to your knees between his spread thighs just to get a proper look. It was incredibly stupid and deeply awkward, being this close to his swollen, shiny dick.

“Is that… a cock ring?” you asked, horrified.

Satoru nodded frantically, a tear slipping down his cheek and dripping off his jaw.

"Satoru, you know there is a fucking size chart to these things?! You can’t just buy anything with the size of your dick! Are you fucking stupid?!"

"HOW SHOULD I KNOW?!" he wailed, hands flying up to cover his face in absolute humiliation. "Wait—" He suddenly froze, lowering his hands just enough to look at you. "Did you just say I have a big dick? Wait. Fuck. OUCH. It just fucking hurts! Please, please help me, I've tried everything but it just won't budge! It hurts so much!"

You squinted at the shiny, slick mess coating his thighs and soaking into the bath towel. "Did you try lube?"

 "Yes!" 

"Baby oil?" 

"Yes!" 

"Did you... did you use the cooking oil from the kitchen?!"

 "YES! FUCK!" he sobbed into his hands again.

"Why did you even put it on?!" you yelled back, genuinely baffled by his astronomical stupidity.

“I was horny, what else?!” he cried and shook his hands. “You left with the cum tie in your hair—”

“THE WHAT?!”

Your hands froze in the air. Your brain forcefully restarted about three times trying to process the sequence of syllables he had just screamed at you.

The cum tie.

You suddenly felt the gentle pull of the pink elastic holding up your ponytail. The one that was your favorite. The one you had idly wondered before why it was suddenly so... crusty.

"You..." you whispered, a cold wave of fresh nausea washing over you. "You did what to my hair tie?"

“I didn’t mean to!” he sobbed, face red and streaked with tears. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I used it, and then you put it in your hair to go out with the guy and it made me crazy so I put the ring on!”

Your hand twitched toward your ponytail. You were going to rip it out. Burn it. Shave your head. And then murder him. A jury would probably let you off in seconds.

But then you looked down. His dick might actually pop! like a grease-filled water balloon. There was no time.

You took a deep, slightly deranged breath and shoved every horrifying thought into a box for later. You could have a full meltdown about having his reproductive fluids in your hair as an accessory after you made sure his dick didn’t fall off.

You aggressively ignored his stare, locking your eyes entirely on the crisis. "Okay. Okay, I've got this. This is a medical emergency."

Your brain started racing. You couldn't cut it off without risking severing something vital, you certainly weren’t a doctor, and the swelling was so so severe to just pull the ring back over the ridge. You knelt there, suddenly arriving at a horrifying conclusion that you were going to need a serious moment to accept.

Because there was only one way to get it off. And the only way to get it off was to get rid of the erection.

You had to make him cum.

“Okay,” you muttered. Then again. And again. Like repeating it would make it feel less insane. “W-we just need to… get it down.”

You bit your lip, giving yourself the quickest, most productive, and most threatening internal TED Talk in human history. Your hands twitched, but you finally reached out and wrapped them around his oil-slicked shaft.

“AGH— FUCK— NO!” Satoru immediately jerked back like you’d electrocuted him, slamming against the mattress.

"What the hell?! I barely touched it!"

“The skin’s too tight!” he cried out, practically hyperventilating. “It feels like a razor blade— you can’t use your hands, it hurts too much!”

You tried again anyway, slower this time, gripping him carefully. The skin was burning hot, painfully stretched over the trapped blood. You gave one experimental stroke.

“No— no no no, please stop—” His voice broke into a real whimper as fresh tears spilled down his face. He pushed at your shoulders, legs shaking. “Please, I can’t— it hurts so fucking bad—”

You yanked your hands back, heart pounding as your own panic officially set in. "THEN WHAT ELSE?!"

“I DON’T KNOW! I thought you might know!”

"HOW SHOULD I KNOW?!"

A beat of deafening silence fell over the grease-scented bedroom. You looked at him. Then down at the problem between his legs.

Wait—

Your brain scrambled for literally any other fucking solution. Ice? Cutting it completely off? Calling 911 and collectively dying of embarrassment on the spot?

Nothing. 

There was nothing else.

God fucking help you. You might as well die from the cringe right here on the floor.

You stared down at his lengthy cock again. It was a pathetic mix of pre-cum against his oil-slicked stomach. Satoru was breathing in short, panicked gasps, tears still tracking down his flushed cheeks, glasses fogged and crooked, looking totally helpless.

“No,” you whispered to the empty space between his thighs, stomach twisting with reluctant acceptance. Coming to terms with your own fate. Girl, it’s your fault. Your fate had been sealed the second you decided to find a roommate on Reddit. “No, no, no.”

“What?” Satoru whimpered through his teeth, barely audible. “What ‘no’?”

If your hands were completely off the table…

A wave of heat flooded your face and dropped straight into your belly. Surely from disgust. Trust.

You shifted forward on your knees, your dress dragging through the oily mess on the floor. The fabric was already ruined and sticking to your skin. You braced one hand on his trembling thigh, leaned in, and took the swollen head of his cock into your mouth.

The taste was vile as hell.

Canola oil, baby oil, lube, and the bitter salt of his pre-cum all hit your tongue at once. You made a muffled, disgusted sound around him as your lips stretched and you sank down. The mixture mixed with your saliva and slid down your throat as he pushed deeper than you expected.

Satoru’s entire body jolted as the mushroomy head hit the back of your mouth.

“Whoa— oh my fucking god—” His voice cracked into a broken, high moan. His stomach flexed like he was trying not to fold in half. Both of his hands flew to your hair, oily fingers catching in your ponytail, clutching without quite pushing or pulling. I mean, you already had cum in your hair anyway. What was a little more oil and lube?

His hips twitched. His thighs trembled under your hand. He clearly had no idea what to do with himself.

You started moving, and it was messy from the first second.

Everything was slippery. Your lips kept sliding, saliva mixing with the grease until it dripped down his shaft in shiny, frothy strings. You had to suck harder just to keep any kind of rhythm, cheeks hollowing, tongue working in messy circles under the head every time you pulled up. The wet sounds filled the room — slick sucking, soft gagging when you took him too deep, his broken little whimpers.

You hated the taste.

You hated how your knees already ached against the hard floor.

You hated that your dress was ruined, soaked through and sticking to your skin.

And you hated the way he was looking down at you — in pain, in complete disbelief that you were actually sucking him off.

ANd what you really hated the most was that you were looking up at him while you mouth was licking him up and your body was already starting to betray you.

Tingly heat was spreading low in your belly. Every throb along his length, every broken moan that slipped out of him, made you wetter. You weren’t supposed to be horny! You should’ve been so so disgusted. But the scent of him, the taste of his pre-cum coating your tongue, made your pussy clench around nothing. Your nipples were hard, rubbing against the inside of your dress. Your cunt felt hot and slick — whether from your own arousal or the oily sludge on the floor, you genuinely couldn’t tell anymore.

You bobbed deeper, taking him until your nose brushed the base and the ring dug into your skin, then pulled back with a wet gasp. A thick and slimy string of saliva and oil connected your lips to his cock before it broke.

Satoru was staring down at you like you’d personally broken his brain.

His chest was heaving. Tears were still leaking from the corners of his eyes — pain, pleasure, or the sheer absurdity of the situation, it didn’t matter. His mouth hung open, glasses sliding down his nose.

Then his eyes dropped to your chest.

His gaze followed the way your dress had slipped lower during all the movement. Your tits were threatening to spill out completely. He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

His hands left your hair and reached down. Big, warm palms cupped your breasts through the thin fabric first — almost careful. But then he yanked the neckline down hard, dragging the fabric under your arms, practically rrrrripping it open, until your tits spilled free.

A fresh tear tracked down his cheek as he stared at them like they were something holy.

“Holy fuck— your tits—” he breathed, cupping them fully. His thumbs brushed over your hard nipples before he started kneading with desperate, greedy hands. Squeezing, lifting, rolling the soft flesh between his fingers exactly like he had in the kitchen — except this time there was nothing holding him back, because you certainly wouldn’t make him stop. 

The moan you let out around his cock was involuntary and absolutely nobody’s business, alright? Your teeth grazed his sensitive skin and the vibration, combined with the impromptu bite, made his hips jerk violently. He let out a breathless gasp, hands tightening on your boobs almost painfully before he loosened his grip again, thumbs flicking over your nipples in a way that sent sparks straight between your legs.

The lace of your panties was useless now, clinging to your soaked pussy lips.

But the dress had become a real problem, at least that’s what you were telling yourself. It was restricting your movement, getting in the way every time you tried to take him deeper. It was uncomfortable as hell, which was actually true.

You pulled off his cock with a wet pop!, lips shiny and swollen.

Fuck this dress. And probably him too.

You sat back on your heels and yanked it over your head, kicking it away. Now you were kneeling in nothing but your ruined lace panties — the ones you’d specifically worn because you were hoping to get laid tonight.

Well. You weren’t entirely wrong, now were you?

Satoru made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut. His wildest dream had just come true in the most deranged way possible.

You leaned back in and took him into your mouth again, sucking with more purpose now. One hand stayed wrapped around the base near the ring while your other hand stroked his thigh and lower stomach — anywhere to try and soothe him.

His clammy hands were right back on your bare tits, rolling them between his fingers like he was trying to memorize their exact shape. You moaned around him because it felt so fucking good. Unfairly good.

The taste was still awful. The room still reeked of canola oil. Satoru was still quietly crying above you — overwhelmed, terrified, and so turned on he could barely think straight. But the way he was touching you, the way he was falling apart in your mouth…

You were dripping straight through the lace right onto his fucking floor.

One of your hands snaked down your body. You pushed your panties aside and started rubbing desperate circles over your poor clit while you kept sucking him.

What a development. 

Righteous ideologies and all. Now you were naked on the floor of your incel roommate’s bedroom, sucking his cock while fingering yourself. Truly the most progressive way to handle this type of man.

Your pussy felt hot and aching. Your fingers slid through your own slick, making your hips twitch and another moan vibrate around his dick.

Satoru’s breathing sounded like a kettle about to boil over. His hands kept slipping on your oily skin, smearing the mess across your chest and shoulders. He was trapped in the most surreal, humiliating, perfect moment of his life — your mouth on him, you naked and touching yourself while the whole room smelled like a deep fryer.

He was half-sobbing, half-moaning.

“You’re— nghh— you’re actually getting off while—” His voice cracked as he looked down at you. You glanced up through your lashes, a little scowl on your flushed face, fingers still working between your legs.

You couldn’t even be embarrassed anymore. The absurdity had burned straight through your shame. You were horny. Stupidly, painfully horny. It was all too much and not enough at the same time.

Filthy sounds filled the room. He was crying. You were crying. Sweat was mixing with the oily mess coating your skin. You could taste your own tears mixed with the mess on his cock as they slid down your face. One of his hands was tangled in your ponytail, greasing it up nice and disgusting.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he choked out, voice hoarse. “I can’t— ngh— I can’t believe this is real—”

You pulled off just enough to breathe. “Shut up and let me finish this,” you muttered, then sank back down, taking him as deep as the ring would allow.

His other hand relocated to your shoulder.

Then his dick throbbed hard against your tongue. Swelling, twitching and you knew he was about to blow.

You started to pull back, but his hands moved faster. One fisted tighter in your hair, the other gripped your shoulder hard. He held you in place. Rough. Desperate. But he didn’t mean to!

You made a surprised, muffled sound around him as his hips jerked.

“W-wait—fuck—I’m—!” he gasped, betrayed by his own body.

You felt the first big pulse against your tongue.

You manage to wrench your head back at the last second because there was no way in hell you were swallowing a mixture of cum and baby oil — popping off just in time. But it was too late to get completely clear.

Satoru came hard.

The first thick rope hit you across the cheek and lips. The next few painted messy white stripes across your chin, your chest, and down your neck. It kept cooooming in hot, twitchy pulses until he’d almost emptied his aching balls.

And suddenly you were back in the kitchen. Only this time it wasn’t a freaking Activia dripping down your tits.

It was him.

You stumbled backward onto your ass, cum cooling on your skin as he finally let go of you. You wiped the back of your hand across your cheek, smearing it further. He just stared down at you like he’d died and gone to heaven — you, sprawled on his floor, covered in his cum, panties twisted half-off your hips, your blushing cunt smiling up right at him and your panicked eyes unblinking.

Holy fucking nirvana, right there.

You felt disgusting. You felt filthy.

And somehow, you were still throbbing between your legs.

“Fuck— shit, fuck, fuck!” Satoru cursed, trying to stand up too fast. He slipped on the oily towel and nearly ate shit before catching himself on the edge of the bed. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hold you there, I just— it was too much, I panicked—”

He stumbled toward you on shaky legs, one hand reaching out like he was going to help you up, the other still hovering near his softening cock.

“Satoru,” you said, voice low. “Pull it off.”

He froze for half a second, then looked down.

And it was finally, finally softening. The angry red-purple was fading. The skin wasn’t stretched as tight anymore and there was a very small, very dangerous window before he’d be hard again and back in square one.

His eyes lit up with desperate hope. He grabbed the cock ring with both hands and yanked.

The sound that tore out of him was somewhere between a sob and a scream. It was violent, painful, and made you cringe so so badly. The ring caught on the ridge for one horrible second before it finally slipped off with a wet smack and skidded across the floor.

For a moment, Satoru just knelt there, breathing hard through the fading pain. Fresh tears tracked down his flushed face as the relief finally hit him.

Then he looked at you. Really looked. At the mess he’d made across your pretty face and chest. At the absolute state of the room. At everything.

“I’m the worst,” he whispered. “I know I’m the worst. You should kick me out. You should call the cops. I didn’t mean to make it worse. You probably hate me—”

He looked like he was about to start ugly crying for real. His shoulders were shaking as he braced himself for you to slap him.

And look — you wanted to. You wanted to go back in time so you would’ve never answered that fucking Reddit post, never answered his call, never come home tonight. Or maybe… go back just a little bit. To when your tongue was sliding over his frenulum and you’d never been so turned on in your life.

Either way, you weren’t sure anymore. Your brain was more scrambled than the eggs you’d had for breakfast.

So instead of slapping him, you surged forward, grabbed his face with both of your hands, smearing his cum and your own arousal all over his jawline and kissed him hard enough to shut him up.

For half a second he stayed completely frozen — stunned that you were kissing him instead of murdering him on the spot. You nudged your tongue against his lips, urging him to kiss you back, because the last thing you needed right now was sucking your incel roommate off and then having him refuse to kiss you afterward. That would’ve been a new low. Truly historic.

But then he let out a shaky breath and kissed you back.

He kissed you desperately, messily, like he was trying to crawl inside your mouth. Saliva, cum, tears, and oil all mixed together as your tongues slid against each other. Teeth clicked. His hands came up to grab your waist, pulling you closer until your chest pressed against his own. He whimpered needily into your mouth and tangled his tongue with yours like he was starving for it.

His glasses got knocked even more crooked.

When you finally pulled back to breathe, you reached down and started yanking your ruined lace panties off. They were twisted around your thighs and sticking to your skin from all the mess.

Satoru, still breathing hard and clearly trying to regain some sense of control, decided this was THE moment, HIS moment to be useful.

“Here— let me help,” he muttered, reaching down with both hands.

The two of you fumbled together in some weird horny trance, his fingers sliding against your thigh as he tried to tug the lace down your leg.

But his hand slid right off your slick skin and he lost his balance completely. With a startled gasp! he pitched forward and crashed down right on top of you, pinning you to the floor.

His full weight pressed you into the cold hardwood. Chest to chest, hips slotted between your thighs. The kisses making him hard again, dick now twitching insistently against your tummy.

Then Satoru lifted his head from the crook of your neck and looked down at you. His hair was a mess, but there was something almost determined in his expression now.

“I’ve got it,” he said. Yeah. He definitely  got this. He’d seen the porn. He’d read the r/sex threads. He was a man, the man! He knew exactly what he was supposed to do. Fluent in the dickology! Show you what a high-value male can do. You'll respect it. You’ll want it!

You stared up at him and raised one eyebrow.“…Are you sure?”

He looked faintly offended, but reached between your bodies anyway, grabbed his cock, and lined himself up against your slick folds. The blunt head nudged against your entrance before he pushed in with one unsteady thrust and you were honestly surprised he found your hole on a first try.

The stretch was intense. His cock bullied its way into your tight cunt, the sudden fullness making your back arch slightly off the floor. And it made you think that maybe… just maybe he’s a virgin incel but he somehow actually knows how to fuck?

Satoru made a choked sound above you. He braced his hands on either side of your head and started moving, a little too fast, a little too rough, like he was following some mental checklist of “how alpha males fuck” or something. 

His hips snapped forward, rolling against yours. On a few of his clumsy thrusts, the sharp angle of his hipbone dragged right across your swollen clit.

A spark of pleasure shot right through you, made your breath hitch and his dick catch inside of you. Your fingers scratched on his shoulders and for a second you were hopeful, hopeful that perhaps incels were just involuntarily celibate men with a dick game like this.

It died almost instantly. His rhythm fell apart just as the plushy walls of your pussy enveloped him fully in the slick warmth. His movement turned erratic as his hips started stuttering.

“I—fuck—I can’t—ngh—!”

So… He lasted exactly forty-five seconds.

With a humiliated groan he slammed into your cervix one last time and came haard, painting your walls in thick, sticky white. His wobbly arms gave out again and he collapsed on top of you not very gracefully, face buried right back into your neck as he rode out the pathetic orgasm. He was breathing hard, the sound mixing with the wet squelching of oil, cum, and sweat between your bodies every time either of you shifted.

You stared sideways at the messy white strands of his hair currently tickling your pulse point, feeling his cum slowly leaking out around his softening cock. The frustration burning hot alongside with the ghost ache right in between legs.

If he had just let you ride him instead. Ugh.

“…Really?” you said flatly.

Satoru, mortified, made a small devastated noise into your neck and laced his fingers with yours like that would somehow make it better.

You hadn’t come from the fingering earlier. You definitely hadn’t come from his forty-five-second marathon. 

You shoved at his shoulder.

“Satoru.”

He made a small, satisfied noise.

“Satoru. Did you just cum inside me?”

His eyes flew open. The bliss drained from his face instantly. He slowly nodded, guilty, not knowing if he should be terrified or glad.

You pushed him off you. He rolled onto his back with a wet squelch.

You sat up, cum and oil smeared across your skin, and stared down at him.

“You ruined my date,” you said, voice low. “You were stupid enough to trap your own dick in a death trap and made me come home to deal with it. You came all over me without letting me cum, and then you creampied me in under a minute.”

He opened his mouth, “I was just claiming what’s mine—”ready to say something even more stupid.

You cut him off, because you were not listening to that right now and ever fucking again. “Don’t. I swear to god, if you say one more word of that pseudo-alpha, podcast-bro bullshit right now, I can promise you this will be the first and last time you ever have your dick in any pussy. Ever.”

He froze.

You leaned in, eyes narrowed, pussy suddenly drying up at high speed.

“I’m serious, Satoru. All that ‘high-value male,’ ‘she’ll respect dominance,’ ‘women secretly want to be put in their place’ garbage? It’s not cute. It’s not hot. It’s not working. It makes you sound like a loser. You’re only lucky that I’m stupid enough to actually fucking like you.”

And Satoru deadass had nothing to say, because it didn’t make sense, yet it made all the sense. And in the middle of the gears grinding he blinked up at you because… did you just tell him you like him?

Before he could grab your chin and kiss you stupid again, you pointed between your legs.

“Since you made this mess, you’re going to clean it up. Now.”

The color drained from his face as he stared at you. “Y-you want me to eat out my cum?”

“Did I stutter?”

He was too stunned and properly terrified to argue. He knew that if he didn’t get his shit together right now, this really might be the first and last time he ever saw pussy in real life. So he scrambled down between your thighs without another word.

He’s going to do it for the love of the game. Can’t be that bad, right?

He gulped as he nestled between your soft thighs, eyeing your tight little hole as a little trail of his cum mixed with your frothy slick leaked onto the floor below you. And it was the prettiest sight he had ever seen.

The reluctant pout on his face made it clear he was weighing eating his own cum against the very real possibility of never getting to fuck you again, so you made it easier for him. You grabbed a fistful of his white hair and yanked his face straight against your pussy. His nose immediately buried right between your wet folds, tickling the sensitive flesh.

And maybe he was currently terrified of you, or it was the fact that he finally smelled your sex up close — either way, he was now desperate to please you.

The first drag of his tongue through your folds was experimental, almost cautious.

He did it again, licking with too much pressure and in all the wrong places, clearly thinking he was doing something impressive, missing your clit. Again. And again. And again.

And or fuck’s sake, you lasted maybe fifteen seconds. You reached down, grabbed his silky hair again, and yanked his head up to adjust him.

He furrowed his brows at you, confused and a little offended, like he was about to argue — until his tongue accidentally flicked right over your clit.

His eyes widened slightly.

He did it again, slower this time. A testing little flick. Eyes wide, as if asking what the hell just happened, feeling the little knob jumping.

You let out a shaky moan, fingers tightening in his hair.

“That’s my clit, Satoru.”

His eyes darkened and he dove back in with completely different energy. Okay, he knew where your cute little clit was. Now onto figuring out how to make you come on his tongue. 

He started with the licking, up and down, until he pushed into your leaking hole. He almost immediately tasted his own cum, still warm, thick, and disgustingly bitter against your sweet pussy juices, and he made a guttural sound right against you.

He should have been disgusted, appalled, mortified through his militant incel brain. But why did it taste so wrong, it tasted so so right?

Eating himself right out of you — it was so pathetic, so raw, so hot. And you couldn’t fucking believe you actually made him do it.

Your pussy fluttered and he dove in like a man possessed.

A desperate whine vibrated against your clit as he started licking in earnest. Messy, unrestrained, starving. He was slurping loudly, tongue pushing deep to get more of the mixture, swallowing it down like he couldn’t get enough. Every time he tasted more of himself leaking out of you, another broken moan escaped him.

His hands gripped your thighs hard, holding you open as he buried his face deeper. He was whining and whimpering into your cunt like tasting his own cum inside you had flipped some primal, pathetic switch in his brain neither of you even knew existed.

“Fuck— you taste so good— I taste so good on you—” Every few seconds he would pull back just enough to breathe, drooling, and mutter broken little things against your skin. And you were once again left wondering where all the skill came from.

Then he’d dive right back in, tongue flicking over your clit before dragging down to lap at your hole again, like he was trying to clean you out and make you messy all over again at the same time.

It was deranged.

It was filthy.

And it was fucking working.

Your hand fisted in his hair, gripping tight. He moaned loudly at the rough treatment, the sound muffled against your pussy as his tongue circled your clit, biting then sucking on it, then flattening to drag it through your folds like he was trying to devour you whole.

You were gushing at this point, and not a drop ever spilled on the floor as he slurped you like his favourite boba flavour. His touch spread across your entire body as the orgasm built after getting edged the entire evening to fucking oblivion.

“‘Toru—” you cried, thighs starting to tremble around his head. And he bit down gently on your inner thigh when you tried to close your legs on instinct.

Look, it’s not like you did it on purpose — who the fuck would want to close up shop when business was this good?

He kitten-licked your poor clit, sending sparks right to your lower belly. Your back arched off the floor as his hand snaked up at the right damn time to flick your nipple.

Oh.

“Holy— ngh— fuck, ‘Toru—!” you screamed and came all over his poor face, thighs clamping around his head as you tried to suffocate him with your spasming pussy. You shook like you’d been electrocuted and he kept licking and licking, to the point you weren’t sure if you came again or if it was just one big orgasm. He wanted to taste every damn second of you falling apart because of him, for him.

His face was a mess. Half of it was shiny and wet with your slick, lips prettily swollen. He’d thrown his glasses somewhere on the floor in the middle of it. His pupils were practically heart-shaped, and he looked so wrecked it was beautiful.

He was so cum-drunk he only stared up at you with his mouth open, resting his cheek against your inner thigh, waiting.

And your eyes might’ve been heart-shaped too, because the sight of him made you throb all over again.

“Fuck,” you almost moaned, reaching down to grab his shoulders. “Come here.”

Satoru didn’t need to be told twice. He crawled up your body like he was starving for it, for you. He crashed his lips against yours and the kiss was fucking messy. You could taste yourself on him as he smeared your slick across your chin, tongues sliding sloppily against each other like you were trying to devour one another.

His hands found your waist. He shifted his weight and rolled the two of you until his back was against the bed and you were straddling him in his lap.

You broke the kiss just long enough to look at him. His chest was heaving. And he was looking up at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Everything was still disgustingly sticky, but the way he looked at you made your heart go thump thump thump in a way it never had before. So you reached down, wrapped your hand around his cock, and sank down onto him in one slow, slick motion.

Satoru’s head tipped back against the bed with a broken groan that made the muscles in his neck jump. His hands immediately gripped your hips hard, fingers digging into your ass like he needed to anchor himself.

“Fuuck—” he slurred, voice so dazed. “Oh my god— you’re so warm— so fucking tight—tighter—”

You started moving, rolling your hips in frantic circles. Every time you sank down, you could feel the tip kissing your cervix, nudging right up against the entrance of your womb as he completely bottomed out.

It didn’t take long before his hands tightened on your ass and he started helping you. He pulled you down onto him faster, guiding your hips with desperate hands while lifting his own to meet you halfway.

“Shit— just like that,” he whimpered, kissing all over your jaw as his tip kissed your poor cervix again and again and again. “Ngh— you’re milking me so good—”

He was completely gone. Eyes glassy, mouth open, babbling whatever came to his mind as you rode him. And every time you clenched around him, another broken sound slipped out of him.

His mouth searched for yours again, licking into the corners of your lips before kissing you deep. You slipped two fingers into his mouth and he immediately sucked on them, tongue rolling around your fingers with a needy moan that made your pussy flutter and squeeze around him even harder. Your swollen clit dragged over his lap and lower stomach with every roll, his happy trail tickling your sensitive folds and sending sparks up your spine.

Satoru whined around your fingers, hips twitching up helplessly.

One of his hands stayed on your hip while the other slid up and wrapped around your neck. His thumb brushed along the side of your throat as he started moving you faster, pulling you down onto his cock with more urgency. The sound of your skin loud.

“I’m so close,” he warned desperately against your lips. “Fuck— I’m gonna cum— you feel too good—”

His hand squeezed, holding you in place as he helped you bounce on him. Every time you sank down, he lifted his hips to meet you, fucking up into you until your jaw rattled. He was panting hard, forehead pressed against yours, completely pussy-drunk.

Satoru came with a broken, drawn-out moan, hips jerking up into you as he spilled deep inside. He held you down against him, grinding up as he pumped his cum into you like he was unconsciously trying to fuck it into your womb. His hand on your neck tightened just enough to pin you down against him while he trembled through it.

Both of you were breathing hard. He held you close and kissed the side of your head as he hugged you.

“D-did you cum?” he mumbled against your skin, still dazed and half out of it.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, deadpan.

“WHAT?”

He blinked up at you, still glassy-eyed and fucked-out. “You squeezed me so hard I thought you did! Okay then— cum then!”

You stared at him for a second, somewhere between offended, frustrated, and fond, before letting out a short laugh.

“You’re actually so fucking stupid.”

You were still softly rolling your hips, using his softening cock like a dildo while you were still determined to cum again. Satoru just watched you, half-intently, half blissed-out, still breathing hard, feeling his cum escaping your pussy and pooling in his lap. After a moment, one of his hands slid down between your bodies. His fingers found your clit easily this time and started rubbing you.

“Fuck— you’re still so wet,” he mumbled, eyes locked on where you were grinding against him. “Keep going… I’ve got you.”

So you kept moving on his semi-hard cock while he fingered you, the combination making your thighs shake. Your breath started hitching and Satoru was watching your face closely now, still drunk but trying to focus.

When your mouth fell open so prettily and your eyes fluttered as he just hit that spot inside you with the angle of his cock, his other hand moved to your hip almost automatically. He gripped you and started moving you himself, guiding you in short, deliberate rolls so his cock and his fingers kept pressing right against that same sensitive spot from both sides.

“There?” he asked, voice low and rough. “Right there?”

You could only nod, a broken whimper slipping out of you as you started tipping forward, head on his sweaty shoulder until your thighs were trembling hard and you felt like a jelly.

You came with a sharp, shaky moan, clenching around his soft cock as the overstimulating orgasm tingled through you. Satoru held you through it, still moving you gently and praising you until you completely slumped forward against his chest.

He hugged you tight, face buried in your neck.

And you stayed slumped against Satoru’s chest for a long minute, both of you just breathing each other in. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, and reality slowly started to creep back in.

The room was in fucking ruin. You were both coated in a sticky mess, the mattress behind you was most likely ruined, and the floor was dangerously slippery. It smelled like greasy sex.

“Well,” you said.

“Yeah,” he answered quietly.

You slowly peeled yourself off his chest, shivering as the cool air hit your slick, overheated skin. 

You looked down at him and he still looked completely fucked-out, and you decided you could get used to that look. As you stretched, you felt his cum trailing down your inner thighs. Satoru’s eyes followed it from the front row, his spent dick giving a weak twitch at the sight.

“I’m going to take a shower,” you said softly, breaking the quiet. You paused, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “…Wanna join?”

Satoru’s heart practically stopped. His eyes widened and for a second he looked like he was going to follow you like a lost, oily puppy. But then he glanced around at the absolute state of his bedroom and reality hit him again.

“I’ll, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I’ll clean this up a bit first. You go ahead.”

You pouted but gave him a soft, understanding nod. “Don’t take too long, ‘Toru.”

You grabbed one of his random t-shirts from the floor and padded down the hallway toward the bathroom.

Left alone on the floor, Satoru stared at the opposite wall for a long time. He was deadass completely re-evaluating his entire existence.

He had just experienced the most surreal, life-changing two hours of his life, and the only thing he knew for certain was that he was completely whipped for you. For once, he didn’t care what his old incel education had to say about it.

He reached over to his nightstand, picked up his phone, and wiped a smear of baby oil off the screen before opening Reddit.

r/relationship_advice

I (M) think I’m in love with my roommate (F) and I might have just completely fucked everything up in the most humiliating way possible

Throwaway because if she ever sees this she will murder me.

I’ve been living with this girl for almost a year. She’s my roommate. For the longest time I thought I had everything figured out. I believed that if I just kept doing enough, she’d eventually see me as a potential mate. She didn’t, obviously.

Tonight I did something so fucking stupid I still can’t believe I’m typing this. I got a cock ring stuck on my dick. I panicked and called her while she was on a date and basically begged her to come home. She helped me. She got it off. And then… something else happened. Something I didn’t expect at all. And now she’s in the shower and I feel like I fucked up our friendship beyond repair. My entire worldview feels kinda off.

I think I’m in love with her. I’ve been a terrible roommate. I’ve been a terrible person tbh. I don’t know what we are now. I don’t even know if I have the right to ask. But I think I love her. And I have no idea what the fuck I’m supposed to do.

Please help. And be nice this time.

u/GrassToucherGeto · 183 upvotes

Is this the same guy who posted that viral “AITA for expecting my roommate to fuck me because I did the dishes” thread a few weeks ago?

u/KingNaoya69 · 56 upvotes

You fucked her? Good shit bro. Don’t fuck it up this time.

Satoru looked up when you walked out of the hallway wearing his t-shirt, your hair still damp and smelling like strawberries. Something in his chest went soft at the sight.

He was still sitting on the floor, holding a bottle of kitchen cleaner in one hand and a roll of paper towels in the other. He looked like he had no idea what he was doing.

You sighed and gave him a soft, tired look.

“‘Toru,” you said gently. “You’re not going to be able to clean this mess up right now. Just go wash up.” You paused, biting your lip. “Let’s just sleep in my room tonight, alright?”

He blinked up at you, panicked and hopeful all at once. You tilted your head, giving him the softest smile you’d given him yet. That was all it took. He dropped the cleaner without a second thought and basically sprinted down the hall.

He took the fastest, most aggressive shower of his entire life, scrubbing the residual oil and shame off his skin like he was trying to erase the last few hours.

When he finally crept into your bedroom, the lights were already off and you were in bed. He climbed in beside you and the sheets smelled like you. It was warm. It was safe. It made something in his chest loosen.

You shifted over without opening your eyes, throwing an arm across his chest and tucking your face into the crook of his neck with a soft, contented sigh. You fell asleep almost instantly.

Satoru lay there staring up at the dark ceiling, gently nuzzling the top of your head with his cheek. A quiet, overwhelming sense of peace settled over him.

Carefully, so as not to wake you, he reached for his phone on the nightstand one last time.

He opened Reddit and went back to his post. The comments had already blown up again — some people calling the story fake, others demanding more details about the cock ring, a few calling him a simp.

Satoru smiled to himself.

He typed out one final edit.

Update: nvm, she’s tucked into my side. Take this as a PSA to all the other incels out there. Admins, please flag this as SOLVED.

── Dividers from petalpx and fairytopea and melocor!

[heartkaji]

nerdjo’s high maintenance gf is his prettiest distraction !

I. DISTRACTION #1: NO KISSING IN THE LECTURE HALLS !

time: 8:46 am location: Curtis Lecture Hall I (CLH-I)

gojo satoru is typing one handed because his other hand is pressed between your thighs.

not that he minds. 8AM thursday means excel sheets & a cup of hot coffee to keep his bleary eyes open. gojo satoru is trying—trying to focus, but his pretty girl is talking a mile a minute and he’ll be damned if he didn’t reply to your every word.

“it was so hard getting out of bed today, toru,” you pout up at him, chin on his shoulder & gloss sticky on his sleeve. “i told kento to stop by and wake me up on his way to class. can you believe he didn’t?”

“i’m very proud of you for getting out of bed regardless.”

“thank you. it was very hard.”

you sigh against his shoulder. “he’s probably still mad i cussed him out,” you huff, reaching up to twirl the hairs on his nape. “all because i put him on cherry crush and he tried to act like he discovered it first.”

satoru’s eyes are still on his screen, so you squeeze his palm between your thighs to bring him back to you. “he’s so petty, toru.”

“very petty, baby.”

you frown. it’s been exactly thirteen minutes and forty-two seconds since satoru looked at you last. he’s been on this stupid spreadsheet since class started, and it’s really starting to piss you off.

so you block his view.

“look at my fingers, toru,” you breathe, lifting your hand in front of his face. “i was in such a rush i forgot my rings. my hand looks so ugly.”

he lifts his head—just slightly, just enough that he can focus on the screen & not your hand in front of him—& replies without a beat. “looks pretty, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your hand. “so gorgeous.”

oh, that’s enough.

“toru.”

“hm, baby?”

“kiss me.”

gojo satoru chokes on his tongue. he freezes, blue eyes leaving the screen only to dart around the crowded lecture hall in alarm. he lets his eyes drop to you, and perhaps he shouldn’t have, because you’re looking up at him with glossy lips & too-big eyes & lashes that flutter in that way that means trouble. gojo gulps.

“we can’t do that right now, sweetheart,” his voice catches. you’re pouting up at him but satoru only cups your cheek and tries to reason with you. “we’re in public. can you wait for me, angel?”

your brows furrow, lips wobbling into that pout that only spells out gojo’s demise.

“are you ashamed to kiss me in public?” you croak, fake sniffling. “am i that ugly?”

you’re not ugly. you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, you know it, satoru knows it, & he also knows you’re doing this on purpose. but your eyes are so glossy. your breathing’s all hitched. your shoulders shake like you’re about to sob—

gojo satoru folds under zero pressure.

he cups your face, thumb brushing faux tears off your lashes as he presses his lips to yours. you taste like strawberry candy & something too sweet to have a name. gojo sighs into your mouth. cocks his head. pulls back just to lean in again when your lashes flutter up at him all pretty. he lets his thumb tug your lip and tongue lick your teeth and—

“ahem.”

you both freeze.

in the row in front of you the nanami kento is there, frown on his face & completely unamused. there are pens littered on his desk & his laptop is wide open—is he reading semantic error?

he eyes you both, lips curled in disgust.

“this is not a love nest.”

you & satoru are blinking in disbelief when nanami turns back to his laptop. he slams it shut in embarrassment when he’s met with an inappropriate panel onscreen.

II. DISTRACTION #2: NETWORKING ❌ NOT WORKING ✅

time: 7:14 pm. location: Bergeron Center for Engineering Excellence

⎚-⎚

gojo satoru has five minutes until the most important meeting of his life.

an opportunity to pitch one of his latest projects to some high-class engineering recruiters—lucky him! he’s in a private office with his speech in his hands, and his beautiful girlfriend kicking her feet on the office table.

you’re supposed to be his supportive plus-one. and gojo does feel supported—how could he not when the love of his life is here for him, dressed up like a midsummer dream? but gojo thinks he’d feel even more supported if you weren’t bracketing his thighs & tugging on his tie every time he tries to speak.

“thank you all for coming. i’m honored to have this opportunity—“

“satoruu,” you coo. “i miss you.”

gojo satoru knows better than to sigh. he does it anyway, collapsing into your neck in resignation as he squeezes your hips. you’re pressing a glossy kiss to his jaw. “i’m right here, sweetheart,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “will you let me focus?”

you nod sweetly, patting his cheek dismissively when he presses a kiss to your neck in thanks.

“thank you all for coming. i’m honored to have this opportunity to present—“

“satoruu,”

thirteen words this time. fairs.

“yes, sweetheart.”

“my feet hurt,” you state, kicking your feet up to show him. for once, you’re not being totally dramatic. even with your heels on satoru can see the sides of your feet reddening, flushed & slightly swollen against the material. his brows furrow. “how’d this happen, angel…?”

he kneels down to slip your heels off. you pout: “i got new heels so i’d look pretty for your presentation. now my feet hurt and i’ve ruined everything.”

satoru frowns, but you’re still spiraling. dramatic as always, talking like it’s the end of the world with your eyes glossy & nose wrinkled in lament. but gojo’s heart only goes sticky in his chest. how could you possibly ruin everything when you are everything?

he reaches up to wipe a tear off your cheek. “look at me, baby,” he murmurs, other hand rubbing circles on your ankles. he looks devastating like this—hair messy, tie loose from all your tugging & knees on the floor for you even though he’s in his finest dress pants. “you didn’t ruin anything, okay baby? look.”

he slips off your heels, then his own leather shoes, & laces them onto your bare feet. “wear these.”

you blink as he lifts you off the table, kneeling back down to adjust the shoes better. you wiggle your toes. your feet don’t even reach the middle, and you almost fall trying to walk two steps, but the gesture alone has you beaming. you turn to him with your lips bent in a clumsy smile.

“they’re huge, toru,” you tease, twirling around for him to watch. satoru only smiles. his heart goes sticky in his throat. he pulls you into a soft kiss because trying to speak might make his chest hurt.

knock knock.

one of satoru’s classmates—nerd #1—peeks his head in, expression slightly terrified. “uh, gojo? they’re ready for you in the boardroom,” he gulps. “you’re up.”

satoru nods, gathers his speech papers. you’re practicing walking around in his shoes now, arms stretched out to help you balance as you strut around with a grin on your face. gojo satoru looks down at his feet. they’re in nothing but a pair of socks.

right.

he sucks in a breath, then turns to kiss your forehead. “stay here where it’s warm, okay?”

you’re still admiring yourself in his shoes, but you chirp out an okay! regardless. satoru bites his lip. it’s showtime.

——

the faculty is looking at satoru like he’s grown two heads.

have they never seen a shoeless man before? how rude. he’s standing on the boardroom’s stage now, clipboard in hand, projector lighting up the board behind him. some of the recruiters are nodding. the others are trying not to look at his feet so they can’t be accused of classism. gojo satoru is not even poor. a glance at his suit should tell you that.

but gojo doesn’t care. he presents without issue—even though the entire time, his mind is on you.

the boardroom door has a center made of glass. through the pane, satoru can see you back in the office—you’ve somehow found music controls for the office’s boombox, and you’re dancing—oh god, you’re dancing—twirling around with a clumsy smile & laughing when you stumble in his much larger shoes.

satoru’s heart swells. his lip twitches.

gojo turns his focus back to his presentation. he’ll work hard to keep you smiling for the rest of your life.

III. DISTRACTION #3 : WHY IS MY GIRLFRIEND IMMUNE TO TUTORING…

time: 6:14 PM location: The Quad, Satoru’s Apartment.

⎚-⎚

“who discovered the americas ?”

“Martin Luther King.”

You are going to fail this exam.

“that’s enough general history today,” gojo mutters, voice croaking in alarm when you give your answer. you’re tucked in his lap, fingers curled in his collar, nose in his neck & completely unbothered. your perfume is sticky in his lungs. “let’s try math. you like math, baby?”

“mhm,” you kiss his jaw. “love it.”

no you don’t. gojo flips open a book with one hand, the other rubbing circles on your thigh. “let’s practice some integration…” he scans the page for questions while you twirl the hairs on his nape. “okay, this one. can you try this for me, princess?”

your lips tug into a bored frown. “okay,” you lean up to glance at the page, “done.”

he blinks, “done?”

“yes,” you flop back against him, soft & pretty & tired & his. “i solved it in my head.”

satoru bites his lip, brows knit in concern. “baby, you can’t solve integrals in your head.”

“i have a very strong brain.”

satoru prays for some strength of his own. okay—okay. he purses his lip. “so strong, baby. do you want to walk me through your process?”

you frown in his neck.

“first of all,” you tug his collar, lashes fluttering, “i looked at the numbers.”

“good job.”

“then,” you tug his earlobe, “i got bored.”

“oh.”

satoru sighs—of course you did. he purses his lip, blue eyes flitting across the page as his spoiled pretty angel hugs his neck; dreary and tired and ‘bored’ in his lap. finals are coming up and things are not looking good for you. he prays for strength (again).

you seem to have found some strength of your own. gojo’s not sure when you pick up your phone (which he had confiscated from you earlier), but while he stares into the distance and laments your guaranteed failure, you scroll through your phone with a grin on your lips.

“toru, look at this bag,” you coo, pushing the bright screen to his face. “it’s so pink and pretty, just like me.”

“just like you,” he repeats, still staring into the distance.

“wow, nine-hundred-and-fifty dollars,” you kick your feet in his lap. “baby, can i buy it?” you coo, voice sweet.

satoru blinks out of his daze. he glances at the phone screen—then at you, suddenly sweet & bright & brimming with energy. his thumb brushes your inner thigh. “baby, you’re supposed to be studying.”

“i am studying,” you frown, and gojo wants to kiss it off again. “i’m studying consumer behavior. can i have your card?”

there are three reasons gojo satoru should not give you his card.

you are going to fail your exams.

you haven’t double-checked if the price is in CAD or USD.

you are going to fail your exams.

gojo lets you have his card.

you squeal, hopping off his lap to retrieve his wallet in the other room. satoru leans back against his desk chair. in front of him, his desk is a mess of opened books & littered pencils, a ‘get good grades!’ subliminal playing on your mini speaker because you insisted the whispered affirmations would guarantee your success. gojo sighs.

“thank you, toru!” you sing as you pad back into the room, a skip in your step. you lean down to kiss his cheek & flop onto his bed to open his laptop. you have his wallet in your hands, and gojo satoru already knows you will not double check the currency.

gojo closes your textbook with a sigh. better luck next time.

ac: (see alt text!) @ to00fu

DISTRACTIONS, end.

HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload.