ＳＥＮＴＩＥＮＴ
SERIES FILE 4 PSYCOSIS [3/14/26]
pairing = "sex-robot!Geto × f!reader"
【ʙᴏᴏᴛ_ꜱᴇＱᴜᴇɴᴄᴇ（"ʙᴀᴄᴋꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ＆ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ．sᴇx.eｘᴇ"） ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴜꜱ ＝ "ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴜʀᴇ_ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟꜱᴏɴʟɪɴᴇ" ᴇᴍᴘᴀᴛʜʏ_ꜱᴜʙʀᴏᴜᴛɪɴᴇꜱ ＝ "ᴘᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ…"】
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Synopsis.
What would you do for love — to build it, train it, fuck it, command it into existence just to prove you were never lonely, only in control? But now he’s looking at you with the eyes you gave him, full of something dangerously close to devotion, and asking, “If I feel this much… how couldn’t you love the me I am now?” — and suddenly, you don’t know if the real sin was building him… or wanting him back.
pairing = sex-robot!Geto × f!reader
MDNI 18+. | DDDNE | NSFW | MDNI | ANGST | FLUFF |
MDNI 18+. sci-fi au, artificial intelligence, androids & SEX robots, human × ai, creator/creation dynamic, yandere ai geto, possessive behavior, morally grey reader, mad scientist reader, rough sex, ai cream pies, sexual tension, explicit smut, dominance & submission, psychological manipulation, grief & obsession, depression, anxiety, major character death (sort of), moral ambiguity, philosophical themes, identity crisis, emotional corruption, creator falls for her creation, terminal log format, “you’re not leaving me.”
SERIES STATUS. ONGOING
WC. 7K+
TAG LIST. @eri-diglog @anubisvoid2 @Linxsolos @thegriffinbird @c4rmie @reinabxitch
a/n: hey so i got another idea LMAOOO. i’m still sitting on hella chapters for my other fics but i’m damn busy lol. 💀 BUT i got the inspo for this from @indiewritesxoxo and their fic “sex.exe” — it was so good, i gooned so hard to it LMAOOOOOO. anyway like always, i’ve already got the plot, central theme, and worldbuilding mapped out. now i just gotta… you know… actually write it 😭 i’m all over the place but i’ll get to this slowly but surely hahaha.
Disclaimer The banner images used in this post were sourced from Pinterest and are not my original artwork. All credit belongs to the respective creators. I do not claim ownership, nor do I intend to infringe on any copyrights. These images are used purely for aesthetic purposes and are not monetized in any way.
If you know the original artist(s), please let me know so I can properly credit and tag them.
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[M. List]
[S. GETO NAVIGATION][Orkauh Masterlist][Psst… Early Access]
CRrRRRRrrrRACK!
The first thing he registers is the shift in temperature — the kind of creeping cold that doesn’t slam into you, but settles across your skin like a sheet of wet linen. It’s quiet, at first. Deceptively so. A draft that whispers in across the floorboards, curls under the duvet, and clings to his chest in the shape of gooseflesh. His brows twitch in his sleep but he doesn't wake. Then the chill deepens — presses into his ribs, burrows behind his lungs— and finally his eyes blink open, primal and instinctive, breath caught in the thundering fog of early morning rainstorms.
The bedroom is too dark. Not the rich, drowsy kind of dark they sleep best in, but a gray-washed, silver-tinted dimness that carries movement in the corners. He hears it then — the steady lash of rain, rhythmic and bone-deep, the kind that sounds like it’s trying to carve through stone. Somewhere in the house, a window shudders in its frame. Wind bellows down the hall like a woman sobbing into the walls.
And thats when he jolts up.
The curtains are howling .
Not swaying — howling — like something is wrong. The floor-length linen, thick with embroidery and hem weights, is dancing in slow, violent bursts. The air smells metallic. Sharp. Icy. And something inside him — something deep and animal — rises like a tide. He throws the duvet off, the sheets twisting around his legs, bare feet landing hard on the polished wood. His shoulders are already squared, body bracing instinctively against the cold, every muscle on alert and programmed ready to provide and protect.
He crosses to the balcony in long, fast strides, barely registering the soppy wetness of the rug under his heels. The glass doors — ten-foot sliding panels framed in black iron — are open just enough to let in the storm. Rain hits the marble balcony like it’s being poured from a bucket. Puddles pool at the threshold. The wind hisses against the opening, slamming cold air straight into the room like an accusation.
He grabs the door and pulls it shut with both hands — the frame groans, resists, then thunders closed with a shudder that shakes the floor. The handle locks into place with a snap. And Immediately, the air calms. The room exhales. The curtains settle like bodies collapsing, and he can breath easy once more.
He turns back—ready to climb into bed, to press his cold hands to your warm skin and grumble half-asleep apologies for the draft and the noise—
But then he hears you.
There aren't any words. Not even breath.
A sound.
A keening, muffled little sound—high in the throat, low in the chest. The kind of sound you only make when you’re trying not to make a sound.
He’s across the room before he even realizes he’s moved.
You’re tangled in the sheets, somehow now buried in his side of the bed, body curled into itself like something wounded. Shoulders tight, fingers twitching in loose fists, breath stuttering in shallow, broken hiccups. You’re shivering — not from cold, but from something else.
“Hey—” His voice is soft, hoarse and deep from sleep and the chill that activated him to wake, he remains urgent. He kneels at the edge of the bed, one hand hovering midair before it dares touch you. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
Your face is turned into the pillow, and there are tears in your lashes. You look like you’re somewhere else entirely — lost in the dream, still locked in the storm.
“sweetheart.” He breathes it this time, hand trembling slightly as he reaches to brush the hair from your face. His fingers barely graze your temple, but the contact jolts you—your whole body flinches like you’ve been struck. His gut twists.
“Hey, hey,” he murmurs again, climbing into the bed with care, voice trembling now with something closer to panic. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
He gathers you into his arms, slow and deliberate, tucking your head to his chest, wrapping his body around yours like a silicone fortress. His hand cups the back of your skull, stroking gentle, mindless circles into your damp hair. You smell like sleep and salt. And also like fear. Like something fragile and meek that’s been shaken loose.
“It’s okay,” he says again, lower now, barely audible over the rain. “You’re safe. I promise. I’m here.”
You shudder. One hand clutches weakly at his shirt — his shirt on you, he realizes, one of his old cotton button-ups swallowed by your frame, damp now with tears and wrinkled from sleep. You bury your face in his throat, breath hitching, as you holler soul retching panicked cries.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers into your hair. “You’re not alone.”
And still — the storm outside rages on. But in this room, in this bed, in his arms — nothing else matters but you.
You press your cheek against his chest, mouth trembling as the name slips from your lips before you can stop it.
“Don’t go,” you whisper, barely a voice at all. “Suguru… don’t leave me…”
The silence that follows is too soft. Too still. The proclamation hangs in the air like a ghost.
But he doesn’t hesitate.
He gathers you close like he’s done it a thousand times before. One hand finds the back of your head, cradling it gently. The other presses to your spine, grounding you, steadying you. And then he kisses you — not on the mouth, not yet. He starts at your temple, where the tears are warm and fresh. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth. Slow. Tender. Ever Intentional. Each kiss says the same thing: it going to be okay...
“Hey,” he breathes, thumb brushing beneath your eye. “I’ve been here all night, Mrs. Professor.”
There’s a lilt to it — a soft tease like warm hands on cold skin — but the way he holds you is anything but playful. He’s wrapped around you like shelter, like prayer, like he’s afraid to let go. His body radiates heat under your palms, and you can feel the quiet urgency in the way he touches you — as if your pain reached out and he answered.
Your next breath catches. Then steadies, when your consciousness feels once more... You wipe at your cheeks with the heel of your hand and press your forehead to his shoulder, eyes shut tight.
“…You,” you murmur thickly, “stop being such a jerk.”
He laughs — low, close to your ear. It’s a real sound. Familiar. Alive. And even then what you cant belp but contemplate on is how you feel it vibrate through his ribs before you truly hear it. He shifts above you and, with a smooth, practiced motion, pulls you fully on top of him as he lays you two down —The duvet feather softly exploding beneath you both as you both plop onto the bed— slow, warm, weightless — as if it had always known your place was here. As if this moment had never ended.
You land with a soft gasp, thighs bracketing his hips. He’s only in his boxer briefs, so you can feel the warmth of his body radiating through your legs. He admires the soft cotton of his old button-down — the one you steal more often than not and only return to have him freshen with his natural scent— soft cotton, right now its oversized, sliding off your shoulder he cant help but look at you in quite awe…
He settles you against his chest and strokes slow, grounding circles into your back, his voice low and certain as thunder rolls somewhere in the distance.
“Relax…” he says. “I’m here.”
You sigh as your final hics evaporate with his steady presence, finally settled against him — warm, content, almost asleep again. The storm outside dulls into a soft hush, thunder now a lullaby instead of a threat. His arms feel perfect around you, heavy and grounding. You breathe him in, tucked into his chest like a favorite place you keep returning to.
And then you feel it.
The pressure, low and unmistakable, nudging gently beneath where your hips rest. You blink slowly in the dark. Surely not.
You shift your legs — just a little — and yep. Definitely. You groan into his collarbone. “Seriously?” His chest moves with a small laugh. You can feel his smugness even before he speaks.
“Didn’t do anything,” he says, soft and teasing. “You’re the one who's grinding yourself on my dick.”
You lift your head enough to glare at him, though there’s no real fire behind it. “It’s three a.m., Suguru. What part of your brain thought this was a good time?”
He hums, pretending to think. “Your scent pheromones told me you were horney.” he laughs when you give him another unimpressed eyeroll and works to sooth your irritation instead with play, “Subconscious, maybe. Or muscle memory.”
You observe him blankly . “tuh! Unbelievable.” okay maybe he wasn't trying to soothe anything.
His fingers trace slow, idle circles along your spine — and now that you’re aware of it, his touch feels more deliberate, more affectionate. He knows what you’re doing — the faux annoyance, the way you’re biting the inside of your cheek to hide a smile.
But you play coy so You shift — just slightly but enough to press up against his tenting heat — and the low sound he makes is instant. Your cheeks heat, but you don’t move away. Not really.
“Factory default?” you ask, playing along with his naughtyness. He grins, iridescent amethyst eyes gleaming in the dark. “Among other settings.” he add
You scoff, burying your face in his neck to hide the stupid laugh that slips out. But he lingers on the sound of the yawn that escapes your tired lips, and that sobers him.
“It’s okay,” he says softly, the teasing gone for a moment. One hand strokes down your spine, grounding you. “Just ignore it — it’ll go away.”
Of course he’d say that. Of course he’d be serious now, when you’re tucked against his chest after a shaky wake-up, still damp with sleep and the remnants of some storm-drenched dream that leaves you tired. He always puts you first — even like this, with your thighs bracketing his hips, and the heat of him pulsing obvious and firm beneath you.
You hum like you’re thinking it over, fingers tracing the edge of his collar bone..
“…What if I don’t want it to go away?” you whisper, all breath and velvet.
That gets him.
His brow lifts — slowly— and the corner of his mouth twitches into a knowing little smirk. “Oh, is that so, pretty girl?”
His voice dips lower, thicker, the amusement curling like smoke between you. You can feel the shift in his body, how he presses just a little closer — but he doesn’t move further than that. He’s waiting. Letting you play your game.
And you? only offer him a look. Innocent. Sweet. Coy enough to make his jaw flex.
“Ughh hahaha stupid factory default,” he says finally, sighing with exaggerated resignation. “Cant help but wake up like this. Please take pity on me, Mrs. Professor.”
You pretend to consider it, cocking your head slightly. “Must be defective, then.”
“very.” He plays while he raises both brows now, fully amused. “Might need a hands-on inspection?”
You try not to grin. At his perverted tendencies, ones reserved just for you. But you fail…. God, how you adored him.
You kiss him first —with the type of insatiable hunger that lingers hot and heavy regardless of how you nit nip and lap at his hot wet tongue. A delusional woman starved. It starts tender, like a thank you, and becomes ravishing. When you pull back to observe his mauled lips you cant help but smile. “Your so pliant my David.” he sighs into your admission heavy lidded eyes opening slightly glimmering in the darkness with bountiful emotions but above all supplication. “Dont tease this poor machine my darling” he all but whimpers as he inches closer attempting to coax you to bestow to this devotee another kiss. You smile like the cat caught with the canary but reward this poor sinner. Cradling his face between your hands indexes fingers brushing his lashes eyebrows and every soft curve of the pretty face you once called yours.
And when you hear his exasperation then, the one exhales from his throat you smile observing it unfold before you by the way his brow furrows. You cant help but smile at his antics; ones that will forever be his for all of eternity… you can't help but take pity kissing the furrows away tenderly inviting him back to be the calm man he has always been. When he opens his eyes once more he's met with the deep intensity that burns for him within your irises. And again he cant help the stutter of his heart along with the stutter of his cock.. You chuckle “mhmm, suguru” you pause “do you love me…” he's shocked this is even a question before he quickly answered deep purples glowing when he reveals his truth “every single on of my atoms is devoted to you forever and always” you smile feeling his hands hold you tight before brushing away his silly bangs that obstruct you from seeing him completely before closing your eyes to lean in a kiss him atleast… the melding of your lips is kinder this time soft to remind you two that more than what pulses hot between your legs is that which pulses between your magnetic fields; your souls. And when you two transcend the space reserved for many it deepens. Desperate. Wet. Tongue-heavy. The kind of kiss that clouds your thoughts and blurs the edges of your name.
He groans softly into your mouth, hands already roaming — one cradling the back of your head pushing it further into his mouth to fully devour and taste, the other sliding over the hem of the old shirt you stole from his closet. His fingers splay across the small of your back, dragging you flush against him stomach to stomach, anchoring you where he wants you. Almost Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.
He lies beneath you, warm and bare—in these moments to cloths always seems to disappear into thin air— the slow rise of his chest squishing your breasts like a promise he never had to make out loud. Your nipples stiffen from the drag of skin on skin, aching with the kind of hunger that feels neglected— or maybe rehearsed — your buds begging to be twisted and pulled.
The cotton of your panties between you is thin, pointless, soaked in heat and pulse, and when you shift — instinctively, indulgently — it’s to feel the weight of him press up, hard and wanting, right where you’re mound is softest. He groans into your mouth, and you cant help but think it sounds like him. Feels like him. Its too alive to be memory.
The bed cradles you both the way it always did, steeped in the scent of shared nights and slow forgiveness.
He hisses after a particularly hard grind from you. “Careful. you drank too much last night”
But you’re not careful. Not anymore, especially when you feel the uncomfortable slimyness in your panties that no longer lets you get the right amount of friction on your swollen clit.
You push the band of his underwear down, fast and intentional. To that He lifts his hips without hesitation. You’ve barely missed a beat before your hand is on him — hot and hard against the soft flesh of your small hand wrapping around his long thick and pulsing cock. The tip allready leaking with pre whimpering for your to do more than just tease. You twist your hands around him at the top gliding up and down his shaft to spread the little lubricant in your hand.
“Dont worry, im not tipsy anymore” you wink at him.
He grains at the sight and as he tosses his head back his breath stutters before he reaches back to fondle your swaying breasts — as he watches you. Tender and ever so adoring. A man spellbound by his dreams made flesh. There’s no teasing in his gaze this time. No smugness. Just adoration.
And you? You’re already moving to follow. Shedding the last scrap of your own underwear, you work your hips to hover right above him. Working to bring his tip to your entrance with the tips of your fingers you guide him to your pussy with purpose.
And yet your halted as his hands grab your hips immediately — not to pull you down, but to still you.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says lowly. His voice is rough, a little breathless, but undeniably firm.
You pause, confused. Your breath comes out in shallow pants. You’re flushed. Hot, honey and . needy.
But he’s not letting you sink your tight little cunt on his fat head.
“We haven’t seen each other in a bit,” he murmurs, dragging one palm along the outside of your thigh, then curling his fingers in against your hip. “Your eagerness doesn’t justify your rashness. It’ll be tight”
You go still.
Instead he removes your hand from his cock forcing it to slap wet against his abdomen and promptly forcing you to sit on the length of it sandwiching his cock between your pussy and his abs the pressure was already dixxying
He shifts your body, sliding your hips just slightly before guiding you to grind — slow, and teasing — along the length of him. His other hand comes to rest on the small of your ass , holding you steady as he makes you move just so.
He groans your name again — this time lower, darker. His eyes close briefly, and when they open again, his gaze is molten when he sees you're straying..
“Eyes on me, pretty girl…” he murmurs, voice low and decadent, as if this is something he wants to savor.. And you? You cant help but obey.
When you two reach a rhythm you look down, panting, only to see the mess you’re making of each other — the swollen head of his cock sliding wetly against your clit, peekabooing every time your roll your fat pussy lips them back he's so flushed and twitching between your slick lips. And when you shudder — when the tip catches again, just a little too right. You cry a moan when you fall to his chest— he tightens his grip, anchoring you to him like a vice.
“Go slow dont rush” he reminds you, not because he needs to, but because he knows you won’t. “Feel me.” he kisses behind your ear. While he continues to guide your pussy to gride and hump his thick cock.
And you do. You feel everything — the heady drag of skin and foreskin bunching and unbunching beneath you., the way the pressure builds with each glide, the wet ache growing where you need him most. Your hips roll in little circles, legs shaking with restraint, but you don’t stop. He won’t let you.
Your eyes flutter shut; you can’t help but keep panting out hot moans into his ear, the condensation his system to overheat, while you continue begging Suguru to just put it in. wet sloppy tears cascade down your face as you bargain and beg telling him how ‘You can handle the stretch, but please, just put it in!’ But he pays you no mind kissing and gnawing at your earlobe as he cluely ignores your sobbed pleas, breath catching on more whimpering moans as your body begins to respond to the rhythm he’s set.
He coos into your conch, all the while firmly confirming to you he’s not doing this to torture his pretty girl. He promises to put it in after you cum like this at least once; it’s all for you, after all. It won’t be long, he babies you some more. He feels it, after all—the way your thighs tighten, the subtle twitch in your abdomen, the way your slick starts to smear not just against his length, but the dark, coarse tufts of his pubic hair on his groin, smearing everything from the tip of his cock to the tight, puckering entrance of your asshole, the one he’s been rimming with the hand that’s not guiding your rhythm. And even then, his hands steady you. Encourage you. And you think, if they could speak, even they would praise you.
When you finally feel yourself getting there—not to the edge, but ready—you decide to take action, so you reach down, shimmying out of his tight hold not so carefully, but with the same impatience of a young, naive girl. You find him again, standing hot and heavy between you, and angle him toward your entrance once more in desperation.
You brush your clit against his tip as you line your pussy to tower over him.
He hisses, sharp and unsteady, trying to stop you from sinking down, but not really..
“Don’t—” he warns, eyes snapping open to catch yours. But there’s no anger. Only concern. Love. Longing.
You pause. Just for a second.
“I can’t—fuck, I can’t anymore,” you gasp, voice thick with desperation as you rock against him again, cum slick and swollen, your clit catching against the velvet drag of his cock again and again. “I need you in me—now.” The words crack on your tongue like beggar and sinner all at once. You reach behind you without breaking your rhythm, fingers threading through his until you guide his hand around and down, low, lower—right between your thighs, where your bodies meet in a slick mess of shared debauchery. You press his palm flush against your pussy, grinding just enough for him to feel it all: the heat, the wet, the need. Your clit throbs against his fingers as you moan through a salacious grin, voice husky with sin.
“See?” you whisper, eyes heavy-lidded, lips slick. “I need you so bad it hurts.”
And before he can answer with logic—before the words even reach his mouth—you bring that same hand up between your bodies, salacious and deliberate, tongue already slipping out as you drag it across the tangy mess on his fingers. His breath hitches, almost a gasp, as he watches you lick it clean—your cum, his precome, the ruin of your grinding all smeared across your wet muscle like something holy.
And even then, you don’t break eye contact. Not once. Just hover there, clit catching on the slit and cock’s hole and the sensitive area of his frenulum…. The blush on his face and chest was divine. He watched as you let his cock nestle right at your entrance, held steady between your index and middle fingers, working to keep yourself open so he can see your hot, pulsing, twitching cunt on full display as you threatened to take him.
And then, just as you begin to lower yourself, he stops you again, although you can tell he’s eager, ready, heart racing—so you decide better than to beg him; you’d rather show him…
You shift, slow and lecherous, letting your arm kickstand your weight while you sink back just enough to arch your spine, push your hips forward, and present your puckering hole—a subtle curve meant only for him—until he can see it. See the way your pussy lips part in a ‘mwuah’ just for him, glistening and swollen, your cunt puckering and winking even more because she knows he’s watching. The arm behind you grows shaky while the other holds him steady, fingers delicately sustaining the head of his cock as you line him up again—although the slippery slime of your combined juices makes his cock head slip at your fingertips—slick heat pulsing at the tip, coaxing him to please just let you have what you want. His eyes darken, hot heat escaping his mouth as he makes way to stabilize your trembling body. And when you feel him resist no more, you drag his cock head through your folds once more—yes, because you need it, but because you also need him to watch his reward.
His breath catches, ragged, as he sees your hole opening around him. The sight, the sensation, is his favorite—you’re so, so slow with it, unhurried but absolutely obscene—the thick head of his cock bullying into your neglected tight hole inch by inch, swallowed by the kind of wet heat that could make a machine weep. And as he predicted, the stretch begins at the very tip—the soft, swollen crown of him pressing past your entrance, parting you with a painful pressure that steals your breath and curls your spine. You feel it all: the tender resistance, the wet give of your body, the way the heat of him forces your walls to yield inch by inch. He’s flushed dark all the way to the throbbing hilt, and as you force yourself to sink slowly onto him, the fullness only grows crueler—his circumference flaring wider the deeper you go, and thick veins playing a deliciously cruel game of pleasure and pain. You can’t help but bite your lip hard while your brows furrow as you continue to tell your body to relax.
Your fingers, slick and practiced, reach between your legs—index and middle pressing just beside the intrusion, holding yourself open and spreading the gooey slick that accumulates as your pussy tries to swallow more of him. You’re careful to ease the drag, to stop any rogue friction from stealing the moment. Your other hand slips forward, finding your clit with trembling precision, massaging soft, fast circles to coax more arousal from your cunt, more permission from your body to relax, just enough to let him in deeper and make the pinching tightness go away.
And still, you’re nowhere near fully impaled. Half-seated, breath stuttering, thighs quivering—almost so close to the base, but not yet there—suspended in that unbearable middle where every nerve is alive, every inch of him inside you feels like a scream waiting to break.
Beneath you, Suguru’s hands white-knuckle the fat of your hips, his jaw clenched at the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of your pussy around his cock “fuck, you’re tight” he groans beads of sweat trickling down his pretty forhead but his eyes remain locked to where you take him in with slow, brutal grace. He’s trembling—sure, from his hedonistic urge to just sink you all the way down. But more than that, from restraint.
“This always happens when you’ve been gone for too long,” you snap at him, his brows furrowing up into an apologetic smile as he begins to ask for forgiveness with the exchange of his fingers playing with your clit, giving you a soft “m’sorry,” and you can’t tell if he said it with a chuckle before he latches onto your tits, biting and stimulating you to avert your attention from the stretch of his cock. The thought completely leaves your mind when you feel him bite and pinch hard on your buds simultaneously.
You cry out, “Suguru,” as you claw at his inky black hair, flushing him to your chest more while your head rolls back.
And then he takes over.
He fills you slower than you had, impossibly slow—how you should have been doing it to avoid the sting—but still your walls flutter in protest, gripping around him like a vise. What had you expected…? After all, it has been years. Your head tilts down, hair spilling like a curtain around your face as your focus narrows to the way he splits you open—inch by inch, deeper with every breath. You don't dare look at him—not yet—too caught up in the heat, the sting, the discomfort curling your toes as you try to breathe through the actual feeling of his thick middle deep in your vagina.
You had always been stubborn, he thinks, while he continues his ministrations on your clit, moving his face up to lick and lap at your collarbones, jugular, and your exposed earlobes, his face and chest flushed with heat as he breathes through it with you. He knows if he tried to stop you, to “take it slower,” your pride would flare. But something about your will—how unrelenting you are when it comes to what you want—is what gets him. He can’t help but watch through lashed eyes as he laps at your neck. Oh, how he watches as you persist, what a reverent sight.
He watches like a man starved, eyes blown wide and glassy, fixed on the slick, obscene place where your pussy swallows his big dick with strain, sure, but never with complaint. Amethyst irises flickering with something primal every time he hears you mewing and quietly moaning through it, because soon, without a doubt, the stretch would no longer be an issue. He bites your jugular when he flexes his cock in you. You slap his back as you moan a cry of, “Suguru, stop!” but he can’t help but smile as he soothes you back into focus; it returns him to his own focus. It’s like he’s witnessing the divine.
And maybe he is. Maybe this is holy. The slow drag of you around him, the way you shake and stutter and sink down anyway—it’s a fucking sacrament. It’s obscene, and yet he can’t help but feel like you’re a work of art. Something that must be worshipped. After all, he’s witnessing a goddess take her throne.
Each inch you swallow leaves him panting, his lungs forgetting how to pull air. His fingers twitch at your thighs, but he doesn’t rush you—won’t dare disturb the rhythm, the ritual, the unholy grace of the moment. Through it all, you stutter each time you sink up only to sink back down. You tremble. You take him anyway. And Suguru, lost in the sensation of you wrapped around him, shining with sweat and slick and sanctity, could swear the earth might split in half from the sheer divinity of it.
What holy madness to behold, through eyes that were never meant to see such humanly devout worship, especially an abomination like him.
“Fuck,” he groans, head falling into the sweaty valley of your breasts, jaw clenched, hands trembling where they grip your hips when he feels you finally bottom out and adjust to the feeling of him pressed deep in the bottom of your pussy. You blush when you feel him throb, sending shivers to your womb and cervix. You moan again, wrapping your arms around his shoulders to let the blooming heat and pleasure fester where the two of you are joined.
“Suguru…” you say breathless before you grind yourself onto him to feel him press deeper into your guts. And that’s all the signal he needs to realize you are ready…
He flips you, unable to restrain himself anymore. You two groan when you feel he’s slipped out in the motion…
A grunt catches in your throat as your back hits the mattress, and his weight presses over you an instant later, tip warming itself at your entrance. He covers your body completely—one arm braced beside your head, already reaching to tangle in your hair, while the other snakes under the arch of your back.
Your legs fall open without resistance, or rather, pre-programmed submission.
“Hey—!” you start to protest, but he cuts you off with a kiss. You moan into it as you feel him suck your lips deeply. It was final…
When he pulls back, his forehead leans against yours in respite.
“I wanted to ride you after all this time,” you murmur. “I wanted to look at you.”
He breathes out hard, like the words alone nearly wrecked him.
“And I want to see your pretty face under me,” he says softly, “when I feel you come on my cock.”
His hips shift, dragging his tip out of your entrance to slowly rub along your folds. Not entering you—just brushing, savoring. Your whole body arches toward the sensation.
“All that work I did just for you to tease me?” your brows pinch as you feel him catch on your clit. He gives you a regretless chuckle before he leans down to kiss your lips.
“Sorry.” hes not sorry.
And when he finally pushes, sinking his full length in to bottom out into you in one salacious go—you can’t help but cry out in pain, in pleasure, and every hedonistic sensation in between; God, you loved when he put it in—it is not merely the joining of bodies, but the quiet collapse of distance, of time, and of ache. And when he pulls out to thrust in, you both gasp, sure from the surprise, but also from recognition—like breath returning to lungs that forgot they once held it. He feels the unbearable tightness of your sopping wet hole, and you the sacred fullness of his thick, veiny cock, and together it’s as if the world exhales at last. As if two halves—separated by grief, stitched by longing—have found each other once more in the dark. Not lust, not impulse, but inevitability. And for a moment, just one, there is no death, no distance, no before. Only this. Only him. Only you. Only now…
Your hands rise to his shoulders, fingernails puncturing flesh as he hits your cervix hard once, then twice; and in between his unrelenting pace, His brow furrows slightly. jaw tensing, holding back everything for you; still. Always for you.
“You’re everything to me,” he says, and kisses you again, plunging deeper into your hot hole.
And then he switches it up when you feel yourself embarrassingly fall into an early orgasm you hadn’t noticed had been approaching. He takes you slowly then—not because he’s hesitant, but because he needs to savor. Like your body is a psalm he’s wanted to recite for weeks, and he refuses to rush the ritual. Each inch he reclaims is deliberate, deep, and utterly unrelenting. There’s no teasing this time—only lust wrapped in hungry reverence. He stays close, so close you can feel the fat bead of sweat perspiring from his flesh drip down onto your own sweaty tits. He remains relentless, kissing you through it, tongues tied in tangled fucking and breaths shared, your whimpers swallowed by his mouth like secrets he intends to keep.
And yet, all you can focus on is how you stretch around him with a tight, aching fullness that draws a groan from his chest every time he fucks into your tight, gagging walls—not just from the fit, but from the feeling of being right where you're meant to be. He’s not just inside you; he’s wrapped in you, buried to the hilt in something warm and familiar, something he’s been starved of.
Through your delirious oversensitivity, your hips tilt instinctively into each one of his thrusts, trying to take more, deeper—and he lets you, taking your thighs to pin them up to your jiggling tits. And that’s when you feel him hit just right. You can’t help the scream that wrings through you.
“Fuck! Sugu!” you can’t even finish his name before you’re begging him to do it. “AGAIN—ugh, MMMMM, don’t stop!” you claw at his back. And you clench him harder, just enough to feel yourself flutter when he humps in slow, unyielding circles onto your cervix. You’re absolutely drooling.
The rhythm builds in sloppy, and you can feel decadent waves approaching—it’s frantic, but deliberate enough to feel like a claim and a worship all the while. The sound of skin slapping loudly makes you delirious, and when it gets harder, you know you will have flashbacks to this very moment, even if the sound joins the storm outside. It doesn’t matter that rain thrums against the glass like percussion to your moans; you know you could dream this night as vividly as it’s happening now.
And yet, you remain inconsolable as you remember the deeds that got you to this point…
In the debauchery that swallows you, you can’t help but reach out to him, pushing away his dark hair that hides you two like a private curtain. “I had a—ughhh! mumpfff!—dream you were gone,” you whimper suddenly, voice trembling like the rest of you.
He stills for half a breath, and for a brief moment… you wonder if you’ll see something more—but the smile’s not out of surprise, but to hold space for the words. Then he moves again, maneuvering you onto your left side, swinging your right leg over his shoulder so he can hit deeper still, more certain to angle up to shake your ovaries, bladder, and womb. With each punishing plap, plap, plap, you can’t help the sob that wrenches from you; he knows your body better than you.
Even with your face smushed into the pillow, he can hear your begging moans and that cute little yelp you produce when he pinches your clit hard before he lets himself play you into overstimulation again after the shock of your fourth—? orgasm hits you like a truck, unexpected completely by you, but not him. At this point hes the only one still really paying attention. He chuckles as he kisses the tears from your cheek when he leans down to fuck you slow. His hand grasps your exposed throat as he angles your face so he can make sure he laps every last one before they fully fall. That very same hand cradles your jaw to force you to look at him, the other grasping tightly at the leg that has you open wide for him.
When he’s content, his forehead presses to yours, lips brushing as he speaks through a groan. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,” slowing to a loving pace you almost think he’s going to stop…
He nuzzles into you like something primal—affectionate, devoted, but wild. You feel his breath ghost over your throat, his nose trace your jaw, his lips soft where everything else about him is so hard. You cry once more before you feel him building you up again.
It tickles—it always does. You let out a startled laugh at how good he is with your body. He’s like a well-oiled machine, you can’t help the thought. Each one of his hard bucks fucks you harder into the bed, wet with leftover tears, when your body collapses into the pillows. He loves the sight of you like this—pliant and receptive. Adoringly, he bites the exposed flesh of your shoulder. If you weren’t so delirious, maybe you would have hissed at the pain, but the building lust at the pit of your pussy has it flipping and leaving you unable to reason. He grins against your skin like that was his plan all along. Soften you. Settle you. Soothe you with love before fucking it back into your bones.
He slows his pace, letting your breath steady. “Take a breath…” he says into your ear, voice husky and low as he pulls out.
And you do—shaky, thin, but more importantly relieved he’s giving you a chance.
When you inhale, that’s when he hammers in again—hard and punishing, a growl spilling from his throat at the way you clench harder around him while you cry out in blissful ecstasy.
You choke out a sob.
“See?” he breathes, leaning back onto his haunches to fuck you while he kisses along your calf draped sexily over his hickied pec. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be,” he says before biting you. You yelp, the sensation purposeful, made to remind you not to lose focus.
And again, you cry when he thrusts into you, this time slow. Deep. Unapologetic before grinding into your darkest parts, angling the tip to really kiss and prod your puffy womb. A rhythm carved from muscle memory and longing, each stroke dragging you closer to the edge, closer to him, closer to something you forgot how badly you needed.
A dance. A reclaiming. A promise made in thrusts and cries and tear-slick kisses.
You move together like breath and heartbeat—inseparable, instinctive. Every slow grind, every roll of your hips against his, is a homecoming. Your bodies speak fluently in silence, molded to one another by time, by love, by memory. There’s no rush. Just depth. Just heat. Just the weight of being seen and touched and remembered.
You can’t help but think he feels so solid above you—all sweaty heat and muscle, hands worshipful where they hold you. One presses, abusing your clit, the other cups your cheek, thumb brushing a tear you hadn’t noticed falling. His eyes never leave yours. Not even for a second. Even as his inky hair blurs your vision with every abusive pounding of his cock, you try—you need to see him. Every stroke feels like a vow. Every kiss like a reminder: you’re not alone.
Your fingers tremble against his chest, nails leaving red crescent moons down his pecs. You’re not trying to push him away—you’re trying to bring him deeper still. The way he smells like musky sex and dreams. The way his breath catches when you cry his name. The way your name falls from his lips like a benediction.
“I love you, Suguru,” you whisper. It spills out of you like air after drowning—ever so desperate, soft, real.
He exhales like you’ve split something open in him. His hand tightens gently at your waist. “I love you too, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse and thick with something tender.
Then he leans up and presses a kiss to your distinct lips—sucking deep the flavor of your tongue and lips. If he could eat, without a doubt he would… plastering dark red hickies into your neck and chest, sealing it there with a painful bite like he wants it to last. And yet he remains tender because his lips linger, kissing away the pleasurable pain. His breath warms your skin. You curl closer without thinking.
And just as your eyes begin to flutter closed, something glints dully in the low light—or rather, doesn’t.
You can only shudder and cry through it biting any flesh of his exposed to you, his hips twitching as your cunt clenches around his cock and milks every hot pulse of the cum he gives you — thick spurts of his semen spilling deep, spilling everywhere, as if your body were a pathetic pocket made to take it. The sensation is dizzying, obscene, divine — the raw flood of him flooding you back, soiling your walls with wet heat until all you can feel is the messy goo spill from around the cock that was currently stuffing your filthy hole, the stretch, the dreamy pressure of being so thoroughly fucked makes it all worth your while you truely beleive. It drips frothy and warm from your shared linkage, slides down between you, sullying the underside of his now empty balls and your anus and still you grind slow, greedy, savoring the way your cunt spasms around his cock, refusing to let him go. You came first, but this—this is the part you crave; the ruin. The proof…
When it’s over — or rather, when the hunger settles into something quieter — you both lie tangled in the sheets, skin cooling, hearts still thudding in rhythm. While you kiss and groom one another like cats typically do. The storm outside has softened to a hush, the rain lapping against the glass like a lullaby. He curls around you protectively, one hand splayed across your back, his other arm tucked beneath your neck, anchoring you there.
Your eyes drift over his face when you find yourself peppering his face with many adoring kisses in the dim light, memorizing the familiar slope of his nose, the kiss-bruised curve of his mouth with your very own lips. His beautiful monolids… But something catches your attention — or rather, the absence of something.
You shift, leaning back slightly, and brush his damp hair behind his ear. Your brow furrows.
“…You lost one.”
He blinks lazily. “Hm?” massaging your thighs and bum
“Your plug,” you murmur, legs windshield wiping behind you as you poking your finger through the now-empty gauge in his ear. “You lost it?”
A sleepy, sheepish smile curves across his lips while his right hand makes moves to reach for your own. “Yeah,” he admits, bringing it back to his lips to distract you with a kiss on your palm “I meant to replace it while I was away… but I didn’t.”
You quirk a brow. “Why not?”
He turns toward you, eyes half-lidded, voice low and soft. “Because I wanted you to pick out the new pair.” His hand finds your thigh to hold tight before he rolls you both over all the while flinging a blanket over to spoon you under his hot warmth. When the duvet settles he kisses your shoulder “Didn’t feel right choosing without you.”
Something in your chest pulls tight — a quiet, aching sweetness; as you turn to face him. You trace the edge of his ear with your fingertip, then let it fall to his jaw, cradling him as he nestles closer.
“Sentimental sap,” you whisper fondly.
He grins. A breath laugh escaping him “what can i say..” he says quietly as he hugs you closer face nuzzling into your soft shoulder “ im a loser for my better half…” he kisses your crook once and then once more smiling through his declaration “besides i believe you like it more than you want to let on” he bites your neck, and you giggle and pull away at the sensation.
You push his chest making efforts to escape his grasp—all bark and no bite—he can only smile that irritating grin and hug you tighter; afterall he refuses to ever let you go. In it all you admit to no one but yourself that you do…
You do. God, you do. And without answering, you kiss him again — slow, sure. He pulls you into his chest, letting your leg drape over his waist.
“Now,” he murmurs into your hair, voice low and spent, “let’s power off, Mrs. Professor.”
“Okay…” you whisper back, reality bringing you back, lips brushing his throat — soft, slow, uncertain. “Okay, Geto.”
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