*ੈ♡⸝⸝🪐༘⋆ You've reached my smutty little corner of the internet!
27 | she/her | most likely crying over fictional men | lover of writing, photography, gaming & dogs | 18+/mature content. Minors do not engage
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･───
My literary universe
Satoru Gojo (smut): Pervy neighbor Satoru ⛧ Satoru proves you wrong ⛧ Being tutored by Nerdjo⛧ Fingered to tears by your bf Satoru ⛧ Riding Satoru Gojo ⛧ Satoru puts you in your place
Satoru Gojo (fluff): Satoru Gojo as your wedding date ⛧ Satoru calls you baby and you hate it ⛧ Accidental love confession from Satoru
Choso Kamo (smut): Yandere neighbor Choso ⛧ Your best friend Choso is a virgin | part 2 ⛧ Accidental sext from your best friend Choso | part 2 ⛧ Down bad ex bf Choso
Toji Fushiguro (smut): Babysitting for Toji Fushiguro ⛧ Staying late at work with Toji ⛧
Toji Fushiguro (fluff): 5 months of Toji Fushiguro
Sukuna Ryomen (smut): Late night text from your fwb Sukuna
Sukuna Ryomen (fluff): The King of Curses & aftercare
drunk!gojo who cannot keep a single thought to himself once he’s tipsy.
you know he’s drunk because he’s unusually quiet. you’re walking home together, his hand lazily intertwined with yours, his sunglasses hanging crooked from the collar of his shirt even though it’s midnight.
“i’m gonna propose to you at the top of that hill by the ocean.” he says it casually, out of nowhere.
you blink. “…what?”
he looks at you completely seriously. “the one in kamakura. the one with the little wooden railing and the view of the water.”
you stare. “satoru.”
“i already planned it.”
“you planned it?”
“yeah.” he nods like this is obvious information. “i’m gonna wear the black suit you like. not the blue one, you said the black one makes me look ‘annoyingly handsome.’”
your face heats up. “you remember that?”
“course i do.” he squeezes your hand. “and you’re gonna be wearing that little dress you wore on our third date. the one you thought i didn’t notice.”
“you noticed?”
“baby, i notice everything about you.”
you’re officially speechless, but he keeps going. “and i’m gonna get down on one knee when the sun’s setting, because you like sunsets.”
“satoru…”
“and i’m gonna say somethin’ that’s probably corny, and really romantic cause you like that stuff. and i’ll say please.”
you smile, patting his head. “how long have you had this planned?”
“long time, baby. also the ring’s in my sock drawer.”
you freeze. both of you stare at each other.
“…you have the ring already?”
gojo’s eyes widen. a beat passes. “i don’t think i was supposed to say that.”
synopsis: satoru gojo's got a biiiiig wand - and he's not scared to use it on his favorite (and only) assistant after a successful show!
pairing: magician!Gojo x assistant!reader
content: mdni! smut, porn with plot, don't ask me how my brain works idk either, magician gojo is PACKING, no rabbits were harmed in the making of this fic, nepo baby gojo has a dream to be a magician what can I say, Sukuna cameo, jealousy, fingering (with the gloves on like a freak), unprotected piv sex, full nelson, so much teasing (he thinks he's SO funny), but he's doing magic tricks on that pussy so-, creampie, he wants us BAD
HOT ASSISTANT WANTED!
MUST BE FLEXIBLE!
You thought he was probably a pervert. Okay, definitely a pervert.
But the hourly rate posted on the advertisement was enough that you showed up to the listed audition time, pepper spray clutched in your fist as you walked down the aisle of the empty auditorium, wondering where the hell everyone else was - or if you were just the only stupid enough to show.
It was sorta creepy, your footsteps echoing as you stopped just shy of the stage, brows knitting together as you tried to figure out what the fuck was happening.
Someone tapped your shoulder.
And yeah, perhaps it was a tad bit of an overreaction, but you reflexively pulled the trigger as you spun around, shooting the spray directly in the eyes of your would-be assailant...or um, potential employer?
Belatedly noticing the ridiculous costume he was wearing, dressed in a tuxedo complete with a tailcoat and crooked top hat, one that fell off and spilled out multicolored ribbons as he let out a low curse and rubbed his eyes, panic piercing through you as you realized what you'd just done when your own eyes started to sting at the spicy compound in the air.
"Oh my god," you flinched, heat flooding your face with humiliation as you accepted you definitely lost the job now, and maybe gained an assault charge. "I'm so sorry, I-"
But then he laughed, one corner of his mouth lifting in a lopsided smile even as he winced in pain.
"Guess I should've started with hi, huh?"
You still couldn't fucking believe he hired you after that.
Or how many of your nights would now belong to him.
All your friends thought you started stripping after you started ditching drinking and going out on dinner dates. You guessed they weren't that far off.
Technically, you were being paraded around on a brightly-lit stage, forcing fake smiles in a skin-tight outfit. But yours was beaded and bedazzled, glitter and rhinestones sparking in the spotlight as you were led around the stage, put on display to be a pretty distraction from the main show.
Satoru Gojo.
The man. The magician.
From the bits and pieces of his backstory you managed to put together, his family was wealthy enough to have the sort of connections to make his shows possible - but it was his own personality that made them profitable.
"Come on," he beamed, picking out a guest at random, gesturing for them to come up on the stage. They blinked, looking around nervously before hesitantly pushing off the arms of their chair and starting for the stairs. "Let's play a little game, okay?"
You'd seen it before.
Every Friday through Sunday for the past six months.
Traveling to different cities, rehearsing in the evenings, practicing stage direction rather than his tricks. He never needed to work on those. Just guiding you on where he wanted you to stand and what he wanted you to do.
Brighter smiles, wider twirls, deeper bows.
It was fun. Almost everything about him and this was.
Getting dolled up on his dime, letting him help you zip up the last couple inches of your bodysuit, listening to the chatter of the audience from backstage. Using the expensive products he provided, a full face of makeup and hair completely done, sprayed into place so it wouldn't so much as budge while you were up there with him. How you could feel the applause in your chest standing up there at the end, how right it felt to have his hand in yours when he clasped it and made sure you took your bows by his side. He made you feel needed.
You knew his routine by heart. Memorized every line, knew every step and sword that he'd pretend to slice through you in a box with, daggers being driven into wood while you were tucked safely in the hidden compartment.
But it wasn't really just the tricks people came to see.
It was him.
Something intangible about him, not just his shining blue eyes or the stray wisps of white hair poking out beneath his hat, but the energy surrounding him, the way his words boomed out through his wired mic and entangled you in his web of carefully-crafted illusions. Sure, you had the tiniest crush on him, but you told yourself it was simply the amount of time you'd been spending together, the chemistry that came with putting on performances night after night where he rambled to an entire audience of people how gorgeous you were.
Anyone who saw him would either want him or want to be him.
Even now, when he was just doing the whole boring pick a card thing, the one practically every magician did, the whole audience was only paying attention to him, trying to spot his sleight of hand.
They never did though.
Always left whispering 'how did he do that?' or trying to ask for his autograph as he walked off stage, sometimes even waiting out back to catch him on his way to his car.
This show was no different.
The same spiel, the same jokes, the same good night speech, twirling his wand in that big hand of his before waving goodbye at the crowd, all while you smiled and held onto the pretty white bunny he used that you affectionately named Gojo Junior.
The third most important part of the act really, after Satoru in second. He liked to tell you that you were the star, as if you both didn't know that he'd do just fine without your support. He could probably pick any other girl off the street at a much lesser risk of getting pepper sprayed - but he scoffed and scolded you the one time you joked about being replaceable.
Tonight came with one change you hadn't expected though, one in the form of friends you hadn't thought even existed popping up when you were both preoccupied with taking photos with a few lingering fans.
"Yo, Satoru," someone called out, and you looked up to see a man, maybe about his height clasping a hand on his shoulder. With another guy, and a pretty girl who was distracted on her phone, brown eyes glazed over with boredom. "Nice show."
"Thanks," Satoru smiled, relaxed, easy. Not the showman. Performance dropped, almost seeming like a normal guy who just happened to be in a full tuxedo, tilting his hat off as he glanced between his friends. "Didn't think you guys would come."
"After how much you talk about it?" The girl dryly said, not looking up as she exhaled.
"And her?" The other man chimed in, his deep grunt catching you off-guard as your head snapped over to him at the realization he was talking about you.
Or, well, belatedly processing that he meant Satoru was talking about you to his friends.
Satoru was unfazed though, buzzing through brief introductions and offering up their names while you nodded along, your outfit started to rub a little around your thighs as you shuffled on the soles of your heels.
Standing a little bit behind him, like you always did, watching him banter back-and-forth, used to fulfilling the role of the accessory on his arm until someone crossed the thin line separating what was staged and what was real.
"Are you free after this?" His pink-haired friend casually asked you, cocking his head to the side as he sized you up, dark eyes dragging over your exposed body and the shimmery fabric clinging to it. Sukuna, wasn't it?
You paused, considering what to say. Sometimes after shows you let Satoru convince you to come back to his place or whatever hotel room he booked, staying up late ordering pizza or whatever junk food he was craving while you watched old movies together. But he always passed out on the couch, hand in a bowl of popcorn and drool dribbling from his lips, and you usually left before he woke up.
"I'm actually-"
"She's still mine for the next, ah, two hours?" Satoru smirked, looking down at his wrist to check his watch for the time.
Except, it wasn't his watch.
Sukuna glared at him, attempting to snatch his watch back only for Satoru to take another bow, bending down too low just in time for his hand only to close around air.
"Too slow," Satoru cooed with fake sympathy, stepping back and unclasping the watch from his wrist just to dangle it in front of his face. "Gotta be quicker next time."
"Clean up isn't going to take two hours," you huffed at Satoru, snatching the watch first before holding it back out for his friend to take.
"I know," your boss pouted at you, pretty pink lips pushed together in a dramatic (and fake) display of disappointment. "I have some, um, notes I need to go over with you."
"Oh," you blinked, glancing towards backstage. "I guess I'll go get changed then."
Your performance had been pretty damn perfect.
No missteps or mistakes you could remember making, at least, frowning at your reflection as you slipped out of your heels back in your dressing room. You had already returned Gojo Junior to his cage in the corner, the bunny happily napping as you scanned the bag next to his set up for your extra clothes.
While you picked them up and started to throw them across the makeup chair, a little voice in your head slyly suggested the slim chance that Satoru was jealous. That just maybe your feelings could be mutual instead of just one-sided pining blinded by the persona you were used to him putting on.
Two sharp knocks had you snapping out of it, glancing back in time for the door to creak open before you could answer it.
"Is my lovely assistant dressed in there?" Satoru's warm voice called through the thin wood, and you instinctively checked the mirror, making sure your makeup wasn't messed up before you actually replied.
"Yeah," you called back out, stifling a sigh as you resisted the urge to put on a little more lip gloss.
"Damn," he shamelessly flirted, swinging open the door the rest of the way.
"Is that your way of asking to help?" You sarcastically muttered, shaking your head just slightly as you sighed.
"Can I?" He asked, almost managing to sound earnest.
You rolled your eyes at him, ignoring the faint fluttering in your stomach at the sight of him standing there and staring at you.
It wasn't that you thought his flirting was serious. You just sorta wished it was. It couldn't hurt to tease him back just a little too, right?
His blue eyes burned down your body, his jaw tensing as you turned away from him. You reached over your shoulder, making your own little show out of getting ready to strip down, glancing back to see how his face went slack. Watching him hold his breath, his grip tight on the wand still in his hand, knuckles bone-white.
"You'd make a terrible assistant," you wryly murmured, mouth twitching and fighting back a smile at how he was just standing there.
"My sincerest apologies," he purred, feigning remorse, a familiar grin twisting up on his lips as he reached up to tilt his hat, leaning against the doorframe as your fingers stopped just above the hidden zipper along the back. "Can I assist you in getting out of that then?"
You didn't say yes out loud.
Nodded just enough to answer for you, biting down on your bottom lip at the thump of the door shutting behind him.
"I'll start with the zipper first," he muttered, delivering the line like you were some audience member he had to impress. But his breath was warm on the nape of your neck, little goosebumps running up and down your arms as you barely stopped yourself from shivering at the sound of him so close.
"How sweet of you," you hummed as casually as you could, a little more pleased than you ought to be at how it felt for his long fingers to skim over your spine to reach the zipper. His other palm settled on your waist, your nose scrunching up as you realized he must have managed to slip his wand away without you noticing just to have both hands on you.
"Only to you," he quipped back, and before you could make a quick retort, he was tugging the zipper down all the way, sucking in a sharp breath at the freshly exposed skin.
Did he want to touch you as badly as you wanted him to? Ached for a connection that would catch sparks instead of fizzling in the shadows? Where you'd both stop acting like your chemistry ended once you stepped foot off-stage?
Feet planted on the ground, glued in place as he stayed there, both of you refusing to budge, daring the other one to break.
"Well?" You swallowed hard, keeping your head forward so you wouldn't have to see his face. "Are you going to help me with the rest or not?"
"As you wish," he quoted, murmuring all sweet and low in your ear as he started pulling your bodysuit off, taking his time to wiggle it past your hips and down your thighs, using it as an excuse to run his palms over every inch of you possible.
You tried to find a sliver of rationality. You'd even take regret. But there was just excitement brimming beneath the surface, desperation and craving melting together into you were just putty waiting for him to mold.
"Should I keep going?" He asked in that pretty whisper of his, making your heart stutter and race, mind reeling at his proximity, at the increasingly real possibility that you were really about to find out what more meant with him.
"Please."
He stripped you down to just your thin seamless panties fast enough it really did feel like magic, just to take off his top hat and put it on your head instead. You reached up to touch the brim, but then you were being picked up, his big hands sinking into the soft flesh of your thighs as he hoisted you in the air, carrying you with your back still pressed to his chest over to the old couch in the corner, turning around and plopping down so you were on his lap.
You gasped, surprised at how sure he was even now, in this totally new territory of your friendship? Relationship? Acting like he'd planned it all out, knew how to execute every lingering touch, practiced the way his lips would graze against the shell of your ear.
"For my next trick," he grinned, his hand skimming down your stomach and stopping just between your thighs. "I'm gonna make your panties disappear."
Your lips parted, about to giggle at how sleazy he sounded, but then you blinked - and they were gone.
"Holy shit," you breathed, too surprised to care about how much you sounded like one of his fans. "How did you-"
"That's a secret, baby," he wryly chuckled, showing you an empty hand before he used it to cup your dripping cunt. A funny pulse shooting straight down to the pit of your stomach as he pressed a feather-light kiss to your shoulder. "Spread your legs a little more for me, princess."
You always complied when it came to him.
And he always made everything worth it.
Watching two of his thick fingers disappear into your soaked cunt, with his gloves still fucking on, mouth hanging open at the way he kept plunging in and making a fucking mess of you on the couch. Could anyone else hear the filthy squelch of his digits pumping in and out through the paper-thin walls? Your moans of his name getting sloppier and sloppier, somehow turning Satoru into weak whimpers of Toru as he wrapped one strong forearm around your waist to keep you from squirming while he worked to stretch you out for his, ah, wand?
God, you couldn't even think about it like that without being filled with the lewd mental image of him trying to stick his real wand inside of you.
"I-I thought you had notes for me," you groaned, grabbing onto the dark material of his pants as you rested your head back on his broad shoulder, struggling to hold onto your slipping thoughts with every brutal drag of his fingers inside you. The fabric made it somehow even hotter, your brain going all fuzzy as he dove in all the way.
"I lied," he bluntly confessed, burying himself down to his knuckles just to see you shudder, keeping you supported as he fucked you harder with just his nimble fingers, his practiced motions making you forget how you were supposed to feel about your suspicion that he was jealous being proven correct.
He didn't want to see you with someone else.
And when you were here, when he had you like this, you couldn't really picture yourself out on a date when he occupied all your thoughts anyways.
"Are you on birth control?" He paused long enough to ask, although you were hardly coherent enough to answer.
"Mm, mhm," you half-yelped as his fingers swirled up to poke and prod in a particularly sensitive spot.
"Thank God," he groaned, yanking his digits back out, and it was only at his absence that you realized the ridiculously hard thing you hadn't noticed poking your ass was his cock.
How the hell was it so-
"S'toru," you attempted to say his name, your throat growing dry at the thought of his size before he readjusted you off of him just enough to pull his pants down and let it spring out, a thick vein bulging along the side of it, his tip a pretty shade of pink and pre-cum already leaking along the slit.
"Change your mind?" He asked, as if your toes weren't already curling at the anticipation, thighs trembling as your body aches to have him back inside you.
"N-no," you mumbled, heat pooling deep enough in your stomach you could probably drown in it. "You're just, um, bigger than I thought."
"So you've been thinking about me too, princess?" He teased, not missing a single fucking thing, apparently.
Your first impression of him hadn't been that far off.
Satoru was a pervert.
And none of your rehearsing, none of your practice could have prepared you for how it felt to be lifted up by the back of your thighs, for that fat head of his cock to snugly press against your entrance and sink in before you had time to blink.
Eyes closing just to feel the burning pressure of his thick length bullying it's way in, pushing past the first ring of resistance to claim the rest of your body as his.
"Can I tell you something?" He whispered in your ear, all hoarse and rough, right as he folded you further, his cock rubbing against your walls and making space for himself.
You tried to respond.
But the only thing that came out was a fuzzy moan, messy syllables slurred together as you felt your insides getting pushed around, shoved up, up, up until you thought there surely wasn't any room anymore. Yet, he just kept pushing in deeper, inch after inch until you started to wonder if he was about to reach your lungs at this rate.
"Been fucking my fist after every show thinkin' about you," he rambled, oblivious to your whines, or maybe just spurred on by them. "Thinking about how this would feel."
He groaned, all deep and gravelly, bottoming out and hitting your womb while he was at it, reflexively jolting just for him to chuckle, pulling you right back down to meet him. Keeping you pinned, his hands on your thighs and your back to his chest, completely connected.
"Y-you could've said something," you cried out, tears collecting in your lashes as the pleasure started to condense into a hard ball at your core, pinging around and demanding attention as he started rutting his hips up, pulling out and pushing in at a pace you couldn't believe he was keeping up.
The couch creaked louder, the frame of it smacking into the wall as his thrusts picked up, your brain freezing as his tongue abruptly dragged up your throat before he started to leave a trail of kisses in time with his thrusts.
"I didn't want to lose you," he admitted, and you wondered if he could feel the way you clamped down, squeezing hard at how raw he sounded.
"You're not going to."
Satoru snapped.
Acting more like a bunny in heat, although this Satoru Junior was much meaner than the sweet ball of fur in the corner.
Fucking into you fast and hard, one of his hands moving to sweep over the swollen bundle of nerves between your thighs, making quick work of stroking and soothing your need as if he could sense it himself. The friction of the fabric only heightened it, his gloved fingers catching over your clit with adoration and perfected pressure. Treating you like his new favorite trick, delicately tracing over it, practicing different patterns until he found the one that made you throw your head back, a strangled gasp stringing through the air as he repeated it again and again.
"Oh, that's it," he purred, putting on his professional bravado to disguise the way his voice quivered at that last word. "Give me a good finale."
You finished for him with a moan you hoped made him proud, squirming in his hold as he continued to finger and fuck you through it, mouth permanently parted as he kept your thighs apart enough you had to feel the force of him thrusting up to fill you with cum.
Warmth that lingered and leaked down your legs, his cock only stalling when the last drops dripped out, both of you frozen in that intimate position as you tried to blink and bring back at least an ounce of sensibility.
"Can we go again?" He muttered while you were still out-of-breath, another strained whimper leaving your lips as his teeth nipped at your neck.
"W-what?"
"I forgot to kiss you," he whined, and you could hear his pout, feel the way his lips pressed together on your shoulder. "You can make it one more round for me, right?"
His cock throbbed inside you, not going soft as he gave you a small kiss just above your collarbone.
"Please?"
"Depends," you murmured, tilting your head to the side so he had easier access to paint your neck with more affection pecks. "Are you my boss or my boyfriend?"
"I'll be anything you want me to be."
reblogs + comments are always greatly appreciated <3
Thinking about getting an 'I miss you' text, and when you ask him to show you how much he just replies with a video of him rutting his hips into a pair of panties you thought you lost a month ago, sounding all breathless and desperate while he says your name and rambles on about how much he misses you and needs to see you and touch you and fuck you until he's shaking and whimpering and
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Getting way closer with your roommate Satoru thanks to your new vibrator! | 18+ (smut) minors do not interact
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
Personal boundaries are virtually nonexistent when it comes to your roommate Satoru, so coming home to find that he opened your package, especially given what it was you ordered, wasn't a complete shock.
"Satoru—seriously? Give it back."
Your roommate wears his signature grin, a charming flash of his teeth that's equal parts infuriating and intoxicating, while holding your shiny new vibrator just out of your reach. Damn him and his freakish height.
"It's right here," he drawls, pulling the toy slightly higher each time you move to close the gap. "All you have to do is take it."
Despite knowing your fate you push onto your tip toes, jumping and reaching up a time or two before accepting defeat with a scathing scowl aimed at Satoru, who couldn't be more pleased with himself.
"Let's test out the settings, shall we?" He cheerfully presses the 'on' button, filling your shared living room with the toy's low hum.
The first setting is "weak," (his words, of course), and it isn't long before he cranks it up to the second, then the third, all while you glare at him with crossed arms and clenched teeth.
"Are you done?"
"Not nearly. We haven't even reached the highest setting yet!" And with a few more exaggerated presses of the same button, Satoru clicks the toy into its sixth and highest gear—and it's intense. The vibration kicks up a notch with a dramatic buzz that quickly takes over the room, and your mind, altering the atmosphere completely.
You'd be lying if you said it didn't affect you, the mere thought of how that absurdly high level of vibration would feel between your legs, as you listen to the loud, steady buzz that silences even Satoru's taunting. The sound's hypnotic, playing at your desperation and emphasizing the consuming, aching want you've been suppressing. It's been months since you've been with anyone after all—hence the fancy new toy to help you get through it.
And it might sound crazy, but you could swear Satoru's having similar thoughts about you; his teasing quiets while he watches the toy writhe in his hand, eyes transfixed and lips parted in concentrated thought. When his eyes meet yours again the teasing glint's gone, replaced with something more curious. Something hungrier.
"Damn." He laughs awkwardly, turning it off with a swallow that has his Adam's apple bobbing. "Y'know, that settings kinda intense. You might need a chaperone when you use it."
"A chaperone," you echo in disbelief, face heating as you became embarrassingly aware of how hard your heart's beating in your chest, how quickly you're breathing. "What do you think's gonna happen to me? Death by orgasm?"
"I don't know... but since I'm so familiar with the settings as of two minutes ago I should probably help—"
"Boundaries, Satoru," you scold, finally managing to take the vibrator from your now distracted roommate before making your way down the hall quickly and to the privacy of your room, closing the door behind you with more force than intended.
In the privacy of your space you don't use your new toy, not right away. Sure, you spend a lot of time staring at it, thinking about using it—or rather, thinking about a certain white-haired someone who had planted a lewd and inappropriate yet irresistible image in your head using it on you, before tossing it across the room with a frustrated groan.
Is your roommate Satoru attractive? No. Attractive is an insult in the face of a man whose striking beauty rivals that of mythical gods. Most women would be over the moon at the idea of being with him.
But he's your roommate. Your pain in the ass, just friends roommate. It's the mantra you repeat in your head every time the your eyes catch sight of the purple silicone and your mind begins to spiral.
Before you know it, it's those spiraling thoughts that play in your head when you give in and reach for the vibrator, turning it onto the lowest setting, just to test it out (or so you tell yourself). It's as weak as Satoru claimed; an utterly teasing vibration, especially over the fabric of your shorts, but it's enough to have them coated in slick in no time. Especially when paired with the sinful thought of your roommates large hand holding the vibrator instead, pressing it mercilessly to your clit while his other hand pins your hips to the bed, keeping you entirely at his mercy.
Across the apartment Satoru can't sit still. This is definitely not the first time he's thought of you this way; he's spent plenty of time reminding himself that you're just friends.
Hours catalogued studying the curve of your ass when your shorts ride up as you prance around the apartment, listening to your soft moans through the wall when you think you're being quieter than you are.
Countless times he's fisted his hard cock behind the privacy of his bedroom door, your name on his lips and your face on his mind.
Even now he's impossibly hard in his sweats, resisting the urge to stroke himself to the idea of you writhing on your bed, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you ride out the intense pulsing from the silicone toy grinding against your needy clit.
What would you say if you could see the lewd image that currently plagued Satoru's thoughts? Likely something about those boundaries he never could seem to appreciate; he's sure he crossed a few today, and while he can't say he particularly regrets pushing your buttons, he does find himself wanting to apologize. If only to create an excuse to be in your orbit for a moment longer.
Before he can talk himself out of it, Satoru's striding across the apartment to your bedroom door, knocking but opening without waiting for a response—still progress on the whole 'boundaries' thing considering that he actually bothered to knock.
The door swings open and he's met with the sight of you, wide eyed and slightly disheveled on your bed, your bottom half hidden underneath your fluffy comforter.
"Hey roomie," he says sheepishly, entering before you can protest. Your eyes snap down to something—your lap, maybe—then back up at Satoru. "You're not really mad at me are you?"
You shake your head 'no', but your body language tells a different story; bottom lip caught between your teeth, body tense and standoffish, avoiding meeting Satoru's gaze like those piercing blue eyes might very well kill you.
He steps further into your room, into your space, and levels you a look that shows he's not dropping this.
"I'm—I'm not mad at you," you grit out.
"Promise?"
You nod wordlessly, but he knows you well enough that he's not buying it. After a year of living together you may as well be an open book to him.
When he moves to sit on your bed you flinch, and Satoru opens his mouth to say something—then stops. The room falls silent, but a low, muffled buzz fills the space words once occupied.
Then he feels it, a gentle rumbling coming from just next to his hand and just next to your lap. You both look at the same time.
When his eyes meet yours with that same, primal look from the living room, you're already staring at him, eyes practically bulging.
"I'm–" you start, but the words die, only to be replaced by a groan that's equal parts embarrassment, frustration and undeniable need. "You really need to start knocking, Satoru."
"I did knock," he counters, uncovering your trembling legs and your vibrator with a simple tug of your blanket.
It's just as he's pictured countless times, his forbidden fantasy materializing before his eyes. He doesn't hesitate; his eyes pin you in place as he takes in the scene before him, and his hand wraps around the toy before bringing it closer to you slowly, giving you ample time to stop him if he crosses a line.
"Tell me to stop."
The silicone travels up and down your inner thighs with his gentle guidance, approaching but never quite settling where you need it most. Satoru watches reverently as your hips buck the longer his teasing stretches on, at the way the dampness spreads until your shorts are a few shades darker and soaked with the evidence of your arousal.
You don't tell him to stop. Instead a low whimper slips past your lips before you can swallow it down, and the sound alone has his cock twitching in his pants.
"Were you thinking about me?" He asks, eyes on your face now as your lips part to make way for shallow breaths. When you nod, he grins wolfishly.
White hair spills over your roommate's forehead as he leans down until his face is just a breath from your needy cunt, vibrator still sending goosebumps traveling through your body.
He leans in, slowly like he has all the time in the world, to place a lewd, open-mouthed kiss onto your pussy, tongue dragging up and down over the thin material. He relishes the way you squirm when he groans against you.
"Good girl," he affirms, replacing his mouth with the vibrator and turning it up higher, finally giving you what you need, grinding it in circles over your clit.
Even with your shorts still on you're close, he can tell. Satoru hooks a finger into the fabric and shoves it aside, plunging his tongue into you just in time for you to soak him.
But it's not enough to sate his hunger, not when it comes to his roommate who he's silently craved for months now. In one swift motion he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and tugs them down your legs before haphazardly tossing them across your room.
Instinctively your legs move to close, as if forced together by the weight of your diffidence and the intensity of his gaze, but Satoru's large, veiny hands grab hold of your thighs to keep them parted.
"Can't fill you with my cock if your legs are closed pretty girl," he remarks, guiding your legs open further. Then he leans down so close his white hair's tickling your forehead. "Assuming you want me to."
When you pull his head down to meet your lips he huffs a laugh, half amusement and half surprise at your boldness, before parting his lips to kiss you back deeply. You gasp into his mouth when he bites your lip gently, hands flying into his hair to ground yourself, to bring him closer than you realized you needed him.
When the kiss breaks Satoru wastes no time before leaning over to your bedside table, rummaging for only a beat before retrieving a condom.
"How did you even know where I kept those?" you interrogate, brows furrowing.
"I uhhh...I spend a lot of time in here"
He frees himself from his sweats and you mumble something about boundaries, but your words are broken and replaced with mewls as your roommate fills you up with his cock as promised. "F-fuck, Toru–"
In one motion he's buried to the hilt, fingers indenting your thigh as he tries not to fall apart immediately at the way you it feels to finally be inside of you.
"Lecturing me about boundaries while you're squirming on my dick. God, you're so cute, roomie."
Satoru sets a fast, eager pace, pounding you into the mattress like he's been waiting to do just that for longer than you could possibly know. One hand pushes your thigh against your chest, stretching you out enough for him to watch in awe as his cock disappears into your cunt with each thrust.
The other hand clasps onto the spazzing vibrator, pressing it against your clit with pressure and speed that has you completely dumb underneath him.
"T-toru, fuck I think I'm gonna–"
You cum fast, a second orgasm ripping though you with a choked cry of your roommate's name.
The way you call out for him, the way your walls spasm around his length as you cum all over him, has his pace quickening and his stomach twisting with a desire deeper than anything he's felt before.
"Fuck, baby look at you. All that for me?"
Satoru turns the toy up to its highest setting on your clit, still thrusting in and out of your soaked entrance, only now his pace is erratic as you clamp down on him while your next release builds. He pulls you in for a sloppy kiss—all tongues and teeth and desperation while you come undone for each other, Satoru babbling about how badly he needs you and how many times he's thought of you like this between kisses.
It only takes a few more sinfully deep thrusts before you're both reaching your climax at nearly the same time, before his muscular frame collapses onto the bed beside you, breathless and spent but utterly blissful.
Satoru turns to you and just watches; the way your chest rises and falls, the way beads of sweat travel down your temple and onto the sheets, the way your lips still quiver as you come down from your high.
"You're staring," you note without hiding your smile.
"'Course I'm staring," he starts, threading a hand through your hair intimately. "Look at you."
When you roll over to face him he can't help but pull you closer, slotting your body against his and caging you in with strong arms that show no intention of letting go anytime soon.
"You didn't lock your door," he murmurs against the top of your head.
"What?"
"Your door. You always lock it when you don't want me to come in, but it was unlocked."
"Hmm," you hum playfully, voice slightly muffled as your head rests against his chest. "I guess I must've forgotten."
"Well, sorry about your 'boundaries' but I'm never leaving you alone again," he says before pulling you in for a slow, lazy kiss, and you're sure he means every word—not that you mind one bit.
I just want that fictional man to fuck me absolutely stupid. His smart, sharp-tongued girl reduced to a babbling, whimpering mess as I gasp out broken pleas for his cock, for him to go deeper, faster, give me more. My gaze going all pretty and glassy, my mouth falling open with shameless moans, and I can barely string a sentence together, mostly just the occasional whine of his name or “please” or various swears. The more he makes me feel good, the more my mind floods with pleasure, the less I can even manage an intelligible answer when he asks how it feels, if I’m close, if he should keep going. It’s okay. He knows what those frantic nods and whimpers mean: don’t fucking stop. I crave it. I need it. I love you.
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Choso Kamo can't stop dreaming about the new girl at the office! | Choso Kamo x fem reader 18+ contains smut, minors do not interact/engage
Choso's dreams about you started off innocently enough. Sometimes you'd appear as part of the materialization of the office in his dreams—you had quickly become the highlight of Choso's workday after all, so that wasn't entirely odd.
Little snippets and recollections of the fleeting conversations you'd had throughout the day, flashes of your smile as you walked to your cars after a productively monotonous day at the office. Your was face a bit of a blur in his slumber but that sweet laugh of yours always sounded true to reality.
At some point though, something shifted.
Maybe it was the way you'd leaned in close enough for him to smell the notes of your perfume and weigh the consequences of burying his head in your neck then and there. Or maybe it was the way you started saying his name more, and the way it sounded like the sweetest siren song on your lips, luring him in and unintentionally driving him mad.
At any rate, Choso's dreams began to more accurately recall your every detail the more time he spent in your vicinity, even in his lucidity he found time to appreciate every facet of your beauty; the flecks of color in your eyes that go unnoticed until you step into just the right light, or the dust of pink blush on your cheekbones that fades to a muted mauve as the workday drawls on and takes with it some of your color.
It could never dull your color completely, nothing could: Choso's convinced as he stares across the fluorescent-lit office where you sit a few cubicles down, twirling a pen absentmindedly between your fingers. You're perfect, he thinks, and for a moment he wonders if he had that thought aloud.
Your eyes snap up and catch sight of his, and the smile you return him has so much warmth blooming in his chest that Choso has to restrain himself from clutching at his heart. Then you're on your feet and moving towards him, and he thinks his heart really might give out.
The very essence of you, the amber scent of your perfume and the warmth you bring to every room you're in, fills his cubicle and all of his senses as you step into space. He doesn't mind one bit of course,
But then you drop your pen. It bounces once, then rolls rather unceremoniously underneath Choso's desk. Without a second thought you drop to your knees on the soft carpet, back arched and arm outstretched to reachhhh underneath his desk.
Choso tries, really he does, to keep his eyes anywhere but on your figure, on the delicious arch of your back and the way your tights stretch over your thighs and the faint peek of red from your underwear as your pencil skirt rides up just into sinful territory—fuck.
What would you look like bent over like this for him, in his shirt with those same red panties peeking out underneath the hem? The image takes shape before he can prepare himself, and Choso doesn't even notice when his already pale knuckles turn ghostly white around the desk he's so desperately gripping onto like a lifeline.
You straighten back up with a pout, hair slightly tousled in a way that will definitely be making an appearance in his dreams tonight. "Looks like I can't reach it after all."
He blinks once, twice, snapping out of his lascivious trance eventually with a telling blush and a stutter to match.
"Oh-ummm h-here—" he manages, relaxing his iron grip and handing you a pen from his stash. "This one's my favorite."
"You'd give me your favorite pen, Cho?"
That nickname, shit. You must be trying to kill him.
"Anything for you," he says, lips quirking into a 'smirk' that's more shy than sly, and part of him wishes you knew how much he means it.
Your presence fits into the rest of his day in small ways; he hears your laugh drifting across the office and his ears perk up. He smells your perfume lingering in the copy room and his heart twists at the fact that he must have just missed you, then something in him aches at the idea of the two of you alone in said copy room, long after anyone else in the office bothers to continue to lend their presence to the building.
The thought follows him home, lingering in the corners of his thoughts as he moves through his nighttime routine—workout, shower, dinner, bedtime. So it's really no surprise that the first image his brain conjures up in REM sleep is of you, your hair tousled (exactly as it was earlier) and your back to Choso in the empty copy room.
"Thought you'd have gone home by now," you muse, turning on your heel to face Choso as he steps into the room.
"I'm not in a rush."
"What, no girlfriend to get home to, Choso?"
"N-no," he stutters, caught off guard by you even in a dream of his own mind's creation. "No nothing like that."
"Hmm." You smile, seemingly satisfied with that answer, or with the nervous huff that slips from Choso's mouth as he processes exactly what it is you're asking, and you move to close the gap between you.
The copy room's small, an exact replica of the real thing in his dream. You're close enough that he could reach out to grab you by the waist and close the remaining distance separating his lips from yours if he dared.
"Well, I'm not in a rush either."
And because it's a dream and this version of him is equipped with the courage that evades him each time he's in the same room as you, he says, "Good, then I'll take my time."
Choso's imagined kissing you more times and in more ways than he could care to keep track of, and his dream gifts him with the most perfect version of that fantasy: Your arms thread around his neck, nails trailing gently along his scalp before your fingers thread into his brown hair and you pull his lips onto yours, silently asking for more, more, more.
At the same time Choso's large hands latch onto the small of your waist, slotting your body against his before trailing down your hips, your ass, memorizing each curve like he'll be asked to draw a map of your body.
The kiss is slow and deep in a way that feels far more natural than any kiss he's every experienced, and when he spins you around with firm hands gently guiding you and bends you over the counter, he continues to do what's natural, what's been on his waking mind all day.
Choso dreams he's bunching your tight skirt up to your waist, exposing those red panties. He only caught a peek earlier, but his brain is kind enough to fill in the rest of the image for him, and god what an image it is.
Red lace stands out against your smooth skin, darker where the evidence of how deeply you've been craving him dampens the fabric.
Of course he wouldn't be able to keep his hands to himself, not with you like this. He dreams of ripping your tights off, veins bulging in his hands as the sheer material splits apart with a telltale riiiip!
He dreams of hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties next, tugging them down and exposing you to the cool office air, only to restore the warmth by slowly pushing one thick finger inside of you. Another follows, and before long he's dreaming of the way your sweet voice would sound while he fucks you with his fingers.
Would you call out his name? He thinks so. His dream offers him the sound of his nickname, Cho, in a mewl that has his cock twitching in his sleep, in sync with the way it pulses with need in his dream as you cum on his hand.
He fantasizes about bringing his two fingers up to his mouth and tasting you with an utterly shameless whimper, before giving in to the all consuming want, need, to taste from the source. His tongue laps at your entrance, fingers still circling your clit. He drives in and out of your pussy, savoring the way you can't help but to grind on his face.
His favorite part of the dream is the way your legs shake, closing just slightly around his head and keeping him pinned right where he wants to be while the pleasure builds and your orgasm approaches—until you're cumming on his face with your eyes rolled back and his name spilling from your lips.
The sound of you, the sight of you, the taste of you especially; the thought of it all is enough to have Choso spilling his seed into his boxers, his dream a true reflection of reality on that front as he wakes immediately after the scene concludes with a hand on his still-hard cock and a damp spot on his sweats.
"Fuck," Choso groans, dragging a hand down his face. His chest is heaving, brown hair clinging to his temples and damp with sweat.
He doesn't get up right away. Instead he spends a few moments gazing up at the ceiling, replaying his dream scene by scene while the memory's still pulsing through him. Fuck. What he wouldn't give to dream about fucking you every night. Or, better yet, to make it a reality.
ᨦ ෆ ᨩ giving LOSER!CHOSO a blowjob for fifty bucks!
"you're so fuckin', hngh-"
choso didn't get to finish his sentence when he was desperately trying not to finish ten seconds into a sloppy blowjob, his veiny hands tangled in your hair and tugging hard as he threw his head back and groaned.
you almost giggled, manicured nails cupping his already tight balls as he made some other strangled sound as you messily sucked on his cock. it was bigger than you expected, all thick and girthy, pressing up against the roof of your mouth, throbbing on your tongue.
half an hour ago, you'd never spoken to the cute emo loser huddling in a hoodie on the corner of the couch and sipping a bitter beer by himself. the sort of guy who rarely spoke to anyone, just stuck to himself and only showed up because his brother dragged him along. he'd been staring though, dark eyes following you across the room, drifting down to the way your dress clung to your hips, and all it took was your friends snickering and suggesting he'd cum before you even touched him for you to take their bet.
they'd been wrong though.
choso wasn't exactly the innocent virgin half the campus thought he was.
"filthy girl," choso hissed, and when you glanced up, you could see the thick lump bobbing hard in his throat, a necklace between his teeth as he pulled on your hair to guide you up-and-down his cock. his large glasses slipping lower and lower on the bridge of his nose, sliding past the thick tattooed strip as his dark eyes squinted down at you. "takin' my cock so goddamn good."
your thighs squeezed together, your throat constricting around around his swollen tip, arousal pooling hot and heavy in your stomach as you tried to remind yourself that he had probably just seen someone say that in porn, not-
"fuck."
he bucked his hips hard, forcing his cock in deeper, a weak whimper escaping your throat and erasing everything you thought you knew about him as the sudden realization struck you that he was the one fucking your mouth here right as his free hand wrapped around your throat, fingers slowly pressing down to feel you trying to swallow all the spit pooling around his dick.
"mmph, cho-" your whine was muffled by his next thrust up, your eyes scrunching shut as you found yourself stroking what you couldn't fit, squirming his other hand squeezed just enough to steal your breath.
"m'almost there," he grunted, all low and gravelly, the rough sound of his voice and the pressure of his fingers digging into your tendons leaving you craving him in a different hole.
but then he was cumming hard, his cock pulsing as it spilled down your throat, twitching as he let out the lewdest fucking moan you'd ever heard before - and immediately wanted to hear again.
you felt like a fucking idiot, on your knees and looking up at him with wide eyes and an open mouth when he slid his cock back out, watching him tuck it back into his dark jeans as he untethered himself from you only to shrug his shoulders and stand up.
unbothered as his bored stare dragged over your form, only bending down to wipe where a drop of his cum had been left on your lips.
The hotel door clicked shut, sealing out the muted hum of the city outside. Nanami let out a long, slow sigh as he set his briefcase down by the desk. He reached to loosen the knot of his tie with a sharp tug before pulling it over his head and tossing it onto the arm of the single chair.
Before he could even take off his suit jacket, his phone vibrated in his palm. The caller ID brought a sudden, subtle shift to the tight line of Nanami's jaw. He slid the screen open, pressing the phone to his ear as he leaned back against the desk. "Hey, love," he murmured. His voice was lower than usual, roughened by hours of corporate small talk, but laced with a quiet, easy warmth reserved only for you.
"Hey," your voice came through the speaker, instantly cutting through the lingering tension in Nanami's shoulders. "How was your day today?"
"It wasn't too bad," Nanami replied, his eyes drifting down to his leather shoes as he kicked them off. "Still exhausting, though. I just made it back to the hotel. Have you eaten dinner yet?"
"Mhm, had some takeaway," you said. There was a brief pause on the line, the kind of quiet that carried the weight of the distance between you. "I miss you."
The words hit him right in the chest, a sharp pang of longing making Nanami close his eyes. "I miss you, too," he said softly, meaning every syllable. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, pushing the strands back. "Alright... I'm going to have a shower."
"Okay," you hummed, a yawn clipping the edge of your words. "Call me back when you're done. I love you."
"I love you. Speak soon."
Nanami waited for the line to go dead before lowering the phone, the sudden silence of the room feeling twice as heavy now. He stepped over to the bed, reaching out to click on the bedside lamp. The small knob turned, instantly bathing the crisp white sheets in a warm, low glow.
Standing in the newly lit space, Nanami finally shed his suit jacket, draping it over the back of the chair. Reaching into the inside breast pocket of the jacket—the secure spot where he always kept his most important items—his calloused fingers brushed against the familiar, stiff edge of a photo.
He pulled it out, intending to just set it on the nightstand before his shower. But as he unbuttoned his shirt and stripped down to his dark blue boxers, leaving his tailored clothes in a rare, disorganized pile, Nanami’s gaze locked onto the small square of film.
In the dim, sterile glare of the lamp he had just switched on, the polaroid felt like a visual hallucination. The lighting in the photo was golden and overexposed, radiating a warmth that this room desperately lacked. There you were, caught mid-laugh on that beach in Malaysia from your last trip together. The ocean breeze was catching the hem of your white sundress, a single strap slipping carelessly off your shoulder. You looked bright, carefree, and entirely alive in the heat of the coast.
The shower was forgotten.
Nanami moved away from the chair, the weight of his exhaustion swallowed by a throbbing, pulsing ache. He sank onto the edge of the mattress and shifted his large frame back against the pillows. As he settled, his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose—blurring the rest of the room and leaving nothing but you in sharp focus.
Squinting through the shadows, his eyes traced the deep, low dip of the white sundress in the polaroid—the way it beautifully revealed your cleavage made his throat go completely dry.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away. His breathing hitched, a sudden, punishing ache tightening in his groin as his gaze lingered on your cleavage. Your skin still gleamed in the photograph from where he had slowly rubbed sunscreen over your body, his palms smoothing the lotion down the slope of your breasts until you were glistening in the sun—deliberately slipping his thumbs under the fabric of your dress to tease your nipples until they were hard under his touch.
The dark blue fabric of his boxers was already beginning to strain, his length thickening painfully against the cotton from the sheer force of the visual. Hearing your voice just moments ago had been no comfort, but seeing you like this now, with his skin still burning from the memory and the distance between you feeling like an ocean, it was an agonizing temptation.
His mind instantly raced back to that night in Malaysia. He remembered taking you back into the villa, his fingers catching on the fabric of your sundress to slide the straps down your arms. Burying his face in the crook of your neck—his tongue licking a wet trail up your throat, sucking greedily at your skin until you whimpered beneath him. His broad, calloused palms clamped around your breasts, kneading the soft flesh.
Nanami could still feel the exact sensation of sliding his thick, leaking cock between them, using the tight, sweltering cleavage of your chest to ruthlessly pump his length—watching your tits hug his slick shaft while he rasped how badly he wanted to stretch you wide open. The memory was so loud, so violently clear, that his restraint completely dissolved.
Low and frustrated, he groaned under his breath, finally reaching down to cup the heavy bulge straining against his boxers. His hand moved downward past that golden line of hair—the faint blonde happy trail disappearing beneath the dark blue cotton—his gaze locked entirely on the curve of your waist in the photo.
A ragged, breathless sound escaped his throat as he grazed his thumb over his throbbing tip through the fabric—making his stomach muscles flex tightly as the first slick beads of pre began to dampen the material. Unable to handle the restriction for another second, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and finally released his aching cock.
As the veiny, heavy weight sprang free, Nanami's calloused hand wrapped around it desperately—fisting the pre-cum up and down his hard length, his thumb deliberately smearing the wetness over the sensitive head to begin a slow, torturous stroke. Nanami was a man who prided himself on absolute control, but right now, every ounce of usual discipline was utterly gone, burned away by the raw ache of missing you.
He dragged his palm down to the very base of his shaft, knuckles brushing against his thighs before wrapping tightly to pull all the way back up to that leaking head. The slick pre coated his skin, creating a wet, sliding friction that had him closing his eyes just to focus on the sensation.
His brow furrowed deeply, sweat beginning to bead along his hairline and dampen his blonde strands. He kept his eyes wide—refusing to blink, his gaze entirely captivated by your carefree smile, the thin fabric of the sundress hugging your tits, and your warm, shiny skin glowing in the polaroid.
In the sudden heat of illusion, the sterile white noise of the hotel AC unit transformed into the distant crash of ocean waves. He wasn’t in this lonely room anymore. He was back in that villa, pinning you down into the mattress, pressing his lips to the sensitive column of your throat and breathing in the intoxicating scent of salt air and perfume, burying himself balls deep inside you.
Nanami’s hips twitched against the sheets as a large hand clamped around his length, pumping his fist up and down his shaft. Eyes shuttered tight, the memory consumed him entirely—imagining the slick drag of his cock against your wet, parted lips, the crushing friction of being squeezed tight between your tits, and the maddening sensation of driving deep inside your cunt. The urge to hammer into you over and over until you were stretched wide, stuffed completely full of hot seed, almost made him cum right there.
"Ah... fuck," he breathed out. The wire rimmed glasses slid further down his nose, utterly forgotten as his grip tightened. A faster, desperate pace took over, driven by the pleasure coiling tight and demanding inside his lower belly. Here was a man completely stripped of his carefully constructed rules—entirely at the mercy of a single polaroid of you.
His chest heaved, the stark white hotel sheets bunching beneath his massive frame as the rhythm fractured. Keeping a slow pace was no longer an option. Nanami’s knuckles went white, his rough hand fisting his veiny, engorged shaft with a punishing, frantic speed.
The sound of wet squelches filled the quiet room, his jaw locking as his thumb smeared slick over the rigid edge of his head. He brought the polaroid closer to his face, vision blurring with sweat as his eyes traced the line of your collarbone, the curve of your waist, and the soft smile he missed so dearly.
“So beautiful... ah,” he choked out, his voice dropping roughly into a low, rumbling groan. “You're so fucking beautiful, sweetheart...'"
The praise was a desperate murmur, breathed directly into the empty air of the hotel room—as if you were right there beneath him to hear it. His hips jerked upward, mimicking the exact rhythm of driving into your cunt. His thumb swept over his leaking pink tip sending a jolt straight to his groin. The coiled tension in his lower belly tightened into a hard, inescapable knot—his balls tightening. He was right on the edge, completely consumed by the ghost of your touch.
Nanami choked out your name—a ragged, breathless prayer against the quiet room as he finally came. He ruined his hand as the first hot bursts of cum shot straight past his fingers, splashing against his lower stomach before the rest of the thick, heavy load spilled over his knuckles and flooded the blonde patch of hair at his groin.
“F-fuck, I miss you so much,” he groaned, his voice completely undone. Desperate fingers refused to stop, milking his length dry, forcing the oversensitive shaft through those last few strokes while thick, hot cream continued to drip down his twitching cock and palm.
He stayed frozen like that for a few seconds, his chest heaving, his fingers trembling where they still gripped his settling length. The lingering echo of the Malaysian surf dissolved back into the sterile, humming silence of the hotel room.
Slowly, the drugged fog of pleasure began to recede, leaving behind an aching exhaustion. Nanami let out a long, unsteady breath that trembled past his lips. He let his head sink back into the pillows, his glasses sitting crookedly on his nose. With slow movement, he used his clean hand to lift the polaroid back up to his face.
In the dim, warm light of the bedside lamp, you were still there—smiling, carefree, and beautifully out of reach. He stroked a thumb over the glossy surface of the photo—as if he were truly touching you—before setting it gently on the nightstand.
He forced his heavy limbs to move, sitting up on the edge of the bed to clean himself up. The cold reality of the business trip settled back over his shoulders like a lead weight, but as he looked back at the small square of film under the lamp, the lingering warmth in his chest reminded him exactly what he was working so hard to return to.
Nanami reached to grab a few tissues from the nightstand, his fingers still trembling slightly from the aftershocks of the release. But just as his hand brushed the box, his phone buzzed loudly right beside it. He paused, a drop of sweat rolled down his jaw as he looked down at the bright screen.
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Choso Kamo can't stop dreaming about the new girl at the office! | Choso Kamo x fem reader 18+ contains smut, minors do not interact/engage
Choso's dreams about you started off innocently enough. Sometimes you'd appear as part of the materialization of the office in his dreams—you had quickly become the highlight of Choso's workday after all, so that wasn't entirely odd.
Little snippets and recollections of the fleeting conversations you'd had throughout the day, flashes of your smile as you walked to your cars after a productively monotonous day at the office. Your was face a bit of a blur in his slumber but that sweet laugh of yours always sounded true to reality.
At some point though, something shifted.
Maybe it was the way you'd leaned in close enough for him to smell the notes of your perfume and weigh the consequences of burying his head in your neck then and there. Or maybe it was the way you started saying his name more, and the way it sounded like the sweetest siren song on your lips, luring him in and unintentionally driving him mad.
At any rate, Choso's dreams began to more accurately recall your every detail the more time he spent in your vicinity, even in his lucidity he found time to appreciate every facet of your beauty; the flecks of color in your eyes that go unnoticed until you step into just the right light, or the dust of pink blush on your cheekbones that fades to a muted mauve as the workday drawls on and takes with it some of your color.
It could never dull your color completely, nothing could: Choso's convinced as he stares across the fluorescent-lit office where you sit a few cubicles down, twirling a pen absentmindedly between your fingers. You're perfect, he thinks, and for a moment he wonders if he had that thought aloud.
Your eyes snap up and catch sight of his, and the smile you return him has so much warmth blooming in his chest that Choso has to restrain himself from clutching at his heart. Then you're on your feet and moving towards him, and he thinks his heart really might give out.
The very essence of you, the amber scent of your perfume and the warmth you bring to every room you're in, fills his cubicle and all of his senses as you step into space. He doesn't mind one bit of course,
But then you drop your pen. It bounces once, then rolls rather unceremoniously underneath Choso's desk. Without a second thought you drop to your knees on the soft carpet, back arched and arm outstretched to reachhhh underneath his desk.
Choso tries, really he does, to keep his eyes anywhere but on your figure, on the delicious arch of your back and the way your tights stretch over your thighs and the faint peek of red from your underwear as your pencil skirt rides up just into sinful territory—fuck.
What would you look like bent over like this for him, in his shirt with those same red panties peeking out underneath the hem? The image takes shape before he can prepare himself, and Choso doesn't even notice when his already pale knuckles turn ghostly white around the desk he's so desperately gripping onto like a lifeline.
You straighten back up with a pout, hair slightly tousled in a way that will definitely be making an appearance in his dreams tonight. "Looks like I can't reach it after all."
He blinks once, twice, snapping out of his lascivious trance eventually with a telling blush and a stutter to match.
"Oh-ummm h-here—" he manages, relaxing his iron grip and handing you a pen from his stash. "This one's my favorite."
"You'd give me your favorite pen, Cho?"
That nickname, shit. You must be trying to kill him.
"Anything for you," he says, lips quirking into a 'smirk' that's more shy than sly, and part of him wishes you knew how much he means it.
Your presence fits into the rest of his day in small ways; he hears your laugh drifting across the office and his ears perk up. He smells your perfume lingering in the copy room and his heart twists at the fact that he must have just missed you, then something in him aches at the idea of the two of you alone in said copy room, long after anyone else in the office bothers to continue to lend their presence to the building.
The thought follows him home, lingering in the corners of his thoughts as he moves through his nighttime routine—workout, shower, dinner, bedtime. So it's really no surprise that the first image his brain conjures up in REM sleep is of you, your hair tousled (exactly as it was earlier) and your back to Choso in the empty copy room.
"Thought you'd have gone home by now," you muse, turning on your heel to face Choso as he steps into the room.
"I'm not in a rush."
"What, no girlfriend to get home to, Choso?"
"N-no," he stutters, caught off guard by you even in a dream of his own mind's creation. "No nothing like that."
"Hmm." You smile, seemingly satisfied with that answer, or with the nervous huff that slips from Choso's mouth as he processes exactly what it is you're asking, and you move to close the gap between you.
The copy room's small, an exact replica of the real thing in his dream. You're close enough that he could reach out to grab you by the waist and close the remaining distance separating his lips from yours if he dared.
"Well, I'm not in a rush either."
And because it's a dream and this version of him is equipped with the courage that evades him each time he's in the same room as you, he says, "Good, then I'll take my time."
Choso's imagined kissing you more times and in more ways than he could care to keep track of, and his dream gifts him with the most perfect version of that fantasy: Your arms thread around his neck, nails trailing gently along his scalp before your fingers thread into his brown hair and you pull his lips onto yours, silently asking for more, more, more.
At the same time Choso's large hands latch onto the small of your waist, slotting your body against his before trailing down your hips, your ass, memorizing each curve like he'll be asked to draw a map of your body.
The kiss is slow and deep in a way that feels far more natural than any kiss he's every experienced, and when he spins you around with firm hands gently guiding you and bends you over the counter, he continues to do what's natural, what's been on his waking mind all day.
Choso dreams he's bunching your tight skirt up to your waist, exposing those red panties. He only caught a peek earlier, but his brain is kind enough to fill in the rest of the image for him, and god what an image it is.
Red lace stands out against your smooth skin, darker where the evidence of how deeply you've been craving him dampens the fabric.
Of course he wouldn't be able to keep his hands to himself, not with you like this. He dreams of ripping your tights off, veins bulging in his hands as the sheer material splits apart with a telltale riiiip!
He dreams of hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties next, tugging them down and exposing you to the cool office air, only to restore the warmth by slowly pushing one thick finger inside of you. Another follows, and before long he's dreaming of the way your sweet voice would sound while he fucks you with his fingers.
Would you call out his name? He thinks so. His dream offers him the sound of his nickname, Cho, in a mewl that has his cock twitching in his sleep, in sync with the way it pulses with need in his dream as you cum on his hand.
He fantasizes about bringing his two fingers up to his mouth and tasting you with an utterly shameless whimper, before giving in to the all consuming want, need, to taste from the source. His tongue laps at your entrance, fingers still circling your clit. He drives in and out of your pussy, savoring the way you can't help but to grind on his face.
His favorite part of the dream is the way your legs shake, closing just slightly around his head and keeping him pinned right where he wants to be while the pleasure builds and your orgasm approaches—until you're cumming on his face with your eyes rolled back and his name spilling from your lips.
The sound of you, the sight of you, the taste of you especially; the thought of it all is enough to have Choso spilling his seed into his boxers, his dream a true reflection of reality on that front as he wakes immediately after the scene concludes with a hand on his still-hard cock and a damp spot on his sweats.
"Fuck," Choso groans, dragging a hand down his face. His chest is heaving, brown hair clinging to his temples and damp with sweat.
He doesn't get up right away. Instead he spends a few moments gazing up at the ceiling, replaying his dream scene by scene while the memory's still pulsing through him. Fuck. What he wouldn't give to dream about fucking you every night. Or, better yet, to make it a reality.
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Accidental love confession from your boyfriend Satoru | Satoru Gojo x reader fluff
"Satoru!" You call out from the kitchen, dusting your powdered hands onto your apron—it reads "Kiss the Chef," courtesy of your boyfriend Satoru, who adores everything you cook. There have been times where you've wondered if he's only dating you for the culinary perks.
"They're ready!"
Satoru appears in an instant, your sweet voice and the even sweeter scent of the confections you spent the past few hours making effectively summoning him to your kitchen. His gaze flits between you and the delectable tray of beignets.
"Can't decide what looks more delicious, baby," he flirts with his effortless charm, his strong arms slipping around your waist. He rests his head on your shoulder, and soft white tufts of hair tickle your cheek as he eyes the pastries from behind you.
Satoru opens his mouth expectantly, tongue out with a childish "ahhhh," and although you roll your eyes, you can't suppress your smile. "Satoru, you're 29 years old. I'm sure you can manage to feed yourself."
"But everything tastes so much better when you feed it to me."
You roll your eyes again but you happily oblige anyway, powdered sugar billowing into the air and onto your fingers as you bring the pastry up to his awaiting lips. Despite its size, Satoru manages to eat almost the entire thing in one bite; a feat that once would've shocked you, but months into your relationship you've long since learned that your boyfriend's appetite for sweets knows no limits.
The second his lips close around the beignet he groans in pleasure, mumbling incoherently about how good it tastes with a mouth full of sugar. Enticed by his reaction, you bring the remaining piece to your own lips to try... and he's right, they are so good.
"Baby, they're amazing," Satoru compliments once his massive bite's been chewed and swallowed, making room in his mouth for words. "Seriously amazing. The best you've ever made."
Like a junkie he grabs your sugary hand, sucking the remaining powdered sugar off of your fingers.
"Satoru, what are you—" you squirm in an attempt to escape his playful grasp. But at 6'3" and all muscle, your boyfriend's grip is as effective as a cage as he holds your giggling body hostage.
"You freak," you laugh. "Just eat another one like a normal person!"
"What would possibly make you think I'm a normal person?" He questions, still kitten licking your fingers.
He (finally) releases you from his iron grasp and you move across the kitchen to grab a ceramic plate before placing another puffy, powdered pastry onto it.
"Can I take two? Maybe three?"
"II made them for you, babe. You can take them all if that's what you want, although I still don't know where you put it all," you comment, eyes dropping to his perfect figure that's somehow unaffected by his indulgent diet.
Satoru thanks you, mouth practically watering, before taking another bite.
"God, baby I love them so much. I love you so—"
The words hang in the air between you two for the first time. I love you. The confession immobilizes you both; Satoru's hand hovers midair, powdered sugar falling like fresh snow from the suspended beignet, and your eyes are wide but warm, inviting him to finish his thought.
He abandons his plate momentarily, taking a step closer to you; his powdery, sugary hands brush against your apron as he pulls you in by the small of your waist.
"I mean it, I really do. I love you," he repeats it so you know it's real, intense blue eyes softening, relaxing when you flash him the most sincere smile in response.
"And not just because you're the best goddamn baker probably in the entire world."
"I love you too, Satoru," you say back, forehead resting on his. The kiss that follows is sweet, sugary and sappy and passionate in a way that feels different from any other kisses you've shared before. And with the pastries momentarily forgotten, your boyfriend Satoru is more than happy to taste your lips instead.
