pairing: jjk men x f!reader | Gojo, Nanami, Itadori, Megumi, Toji, Sukuna
synopsis: his reaction when you tell him you're leaving/going back home when he thought you were sleeping over! although the sukuna one is a bit different (this was inspired by that one tiktok trend!)
cw: minor cussing (just once), petnames, fluff, pre-established relationship for all except Sukuna, heian era Sukuna, not historically accurate in any way lol
wc: around 700-900 each
masterlist
જ⁀➴ Satoru Gojo .ᐟ
You and your boyfriend were lying on the ridiculously large and comfortable couch of his living room. You were sat up with your cheek in your hand, elbow propped on the armrest, while Satoru lay down. He was currently using your lap as his pillow— as he so often did. Your hand played with his hair, twirling the tips of it between your fingers.
You had insisted on putting a romcom on, which he wasn’t too eager about, admittedly. But it wasn’t like he was complaining about it. He simply remained silent, too unbothered to hide his disinterest.
And frankly? You hated it. You almost wish he’d whine your ear off about your bad taste in movies rather than just being indifferent. Because it made you feel as if he couldn’t care less whether you were here with him or not.
That’s when an idea popped into your head. The words spilled out of your mouth before you could think them over.
“It’s getting late, I think I should go back now.” you nudge his head lightly in the same way you usually did when you needed to get up to grab some water or use the bathroom, signaling for him to get off your lap.
Refusing to lift off of you, he remains silent for a moment, before slowly turning his head to look up at you. “What?”
“I said it’s getting late.” you repeat, holding back from smiling as you were already starting to find this amusing. You point to the window. “I want to get back home before it’s completely dark out.”
“And why would you want to go back home…? I don’t understand.” he frowns.
You furrow your eyebrows as well, mimicking him for the sake of playing along. “Why would I stay?”
“Because I want you to? I thought you were spending the night like usual.” He sits up, the blanket previously draped over him pooling at his waist, and folds one knee up to rest his arm against it as he looks back at you.
Now that he’s finally off of you, you seize the opportunity and stand on your two feet. You glance around the room, as if looking to gather your things to leave. Man, you were really selling it. “No, not tonight.”
“Why?” He immediately stands up. Walking over to you, he blocks your path, all 6’3 feet of him towering over you. “... is it because I wasn’t paying attention to the movie?” his voice grows quieter.
You scowl at him and fold your arms over your chest, even though you wanted to burst out laughing. You had a part to play after all.
“I’m sorry, okay? It’s not my fault I don’t like corny movies like that.” He shrugs, putting his hands on his hips. His gaze drops to the carpet beneath your feet. “Besides, it’s kinda hard to pay attention when you’re touching my hair like that…” his voice trails off.
“Well that’s a heartfelt apology if I’ve ever heard one.” you roll your eyes back.
He groans and rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I mean it.” the tall blue-eyed man sighs. “Don’t go, please?” he finally lifts his gaze off the ground to look at you. Satoru gives you his signature pleading look, accompanied with a playful wink. “I promise I’ll be super-duper focused this time.” he leans down so both of your faces meet.
You let out a sigh and look away, completely ignoring the fact his lips were just a breath away from yours. You pretend to give it some thought for a couple of seconds.
“Alright, fine.”
His lips meet yours in a quick peck, and his arms encircle you as he lifts you up, throwing you over his shoulder.
“Satoru! Unhand me—”
“Can’t, sorry. Don’t want you running away from me.” he shakes his head, patting the back of your thighs gently.
“I already said I wasn’t going anywhere!” you squirm in his grasp.
“Better safe than sorry though, yeah?” he chuckles, making his way back to the plush sofa in the center of his living room.
“You can be so annoying sometimes, you know that?”
“Mhm, I love you too baby.”
જ⁀➴ Kento Nanami .ᐟ
You played with your necklace as you let your eyes sweep over Kento’s familiar apartment. The kitchen where you had made meals together, the corner where you forced him to dance to jazz music with you, and the front door where you’d shared as many kisses as goodbyes.
Your boyfriend had excused himself for a moment and left you alone at the kitchen counter where you were previously chatting and enjoying a drink after coming back from your nice dinner date.
Knowing the routine the both of you shared by now, he was probably going to come back with a spare set of clothes for you to change into and sleep in.
And you curse yourself for the mischievous idea that squeezed itself into your brain. Perhaps you were feeling playful because of that dizzying kiss you shared earlier. Or maybe it was just the drinks. Either way, you were set on teasing him.
So, you quickly stand up from the stool and grab your bag. Kento comes back before you can make your way to the coat hanger at the entrance, however.
You hear the pause in his footsteps and turn around to face him.
And just like you’d assumed, he had a fresh change of clothes in one hand, and the makeup removing wipes you kept at his place in the other. His gaze stays stoic, although you’re sure it doesn’t reflect what’s going through his mind.
“You’re leaving?” He speaks in his usual steady tone.
You clear your throat and avoid his piercing gaze. “Yeah, it’s getting pretty late.”
He puts the clothes and makeup wipes down on the counter. “... I assumed you’d be staying the night.”
“Oh, no. Not this time.” you readjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder.
“And why is that?” he lifts one of his eyebrows
“I don’t know… I’m tired.” you blurt out. You should’ve thought this through more thoroughly, clearly.
A confused expression makes its way onto his face. “You’re tired, so you want to go out of your way to go back home instead of just spending the night here?”
You shrug and let your eyes trail away from him.
He takes a couple steps forward until he reaches you. “Did I do something wrong? Is that why you want to leave so urgently?” he searches for your gaze.
But you’re determined to keep playing along, and don’t even spare him a glance.
At your silence, he sighs. “… At least let me drive you home. It’s not safe for you to be out this late. Especially alone.” he suggests, but he’s already walking past you.
He grabs his car keys and slips them in his pocket before reaching for his coat.
You quickly turn on your heels and reach him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. “I’m not going anywhere Kento.”
He halts his movements and looks back at you over his shoulder. “... What?”
“I don’t actually want to leave.” you look up at him, your chin resting against his back. “Just wanted to see how you’d react.”
He lets out a heavy sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.
You let go of him so he can take his coat off. He hangs his keys back up and turns around.
“Don’t do that again.” he runs a hand through his blonde hair, the motion making some strands fall against his forehead. “I thought I upset you, or made you uncomfortable in some way.”
“Sorry, you know I like to keep you on your toes.” you chuckle and reach a hand out to grab his. Despite his frustration, his hand finds yours almost instantly, as if it was second nature to him. His large and steady palm encircles your smaller hand, thumb tracing circles against the back of it.
“There’s that, and those few glasses you had earlier which I definitely shouldn’t have indulged you in.” he grumbles and lets himself be pulled forward by you.
You giggle in response, unintentionally proving his point. “Not my fault you can’t say no to me.” your free hand finds his firm shoulder and you start swaying side to side while humming a soft tune the both of you liked.
He lets out a huff and shakes his head before a small smile breaks out on his face. He follows your clumsy lead and moves in sync with you. Kento speaks up again, his voice softer now. “You’re right. It’s not your fault you’re so charming.”
જ⁀➴ Yuji Itadori .ᐟ
You scrolled on your phone mindlessly, letting out the occasional laugh at a funny video. You’d been doing so for the past hour and a half now, while Yuji flipped through his comic book, deeply enamored in the story.
The both of you were lounging on his bed. Him sat up against the headboard, plush pillow supporting his back, while you were more slouched against him, head carefully caged in between his bicep and chest while he held up his book.
That’s when you fell upon the video. The one where you saw a girl in a similar situation as the one you were in right now, pulling a prank on her boyfriend. The prank consisted of her pretending she was leaving, just to see her boyfriend’s reaction. Luckily for you, you were wearing your earphones, and Yuji was far too focused on his reading to sense the imminent mischief coming his way.
Unable to stop yourself, you turn your phone off and lift his elbow to free yourself from his grasp.
“‘Kay I’m gonna go now.” you scoot yourself off his bed and stretch your arms once you’re back on your feet.
He closes his book and lets it fall on his stomach. “Huh?”
You chuckle at his cluelessness. “I said I’m leaving, Yuji. I wanna go to sleep.”
He sits up. “So sleep here.” the pink haired boy states simply, as if it was the obvious answer.
“... I wanna sleep in my room though.” you put a hand on your hip.
“What’s wrong with my room?” he stands up and steps closer to you, completely invading your personal space. He had a tendency to do that.
“Nothing’s wrong with it, I just— why are you so offended?” you snort.
“I’m not offended… I just don’t understand why you don’t wanna sleep over. You always do.” he tilts his head, the gesture reminding you of a puppy.
Thank god for your resolve, because if you didn’t have any, you already would’ve caved in and kissed him stupid.
“Not always.” you roll your eyes.
“You slept over last night and the night before though…” he scratches at his head, confused.
“That’s besides the point!” you huff. “Okay you know what? I’m just gonna go.”
He doesn’t even let you take more than two footsteps before his arms trap you in a tight embrace from behind. “You can’t just go without giving me a good reason to!”
“Yuji let go of me—” you move around, trying to slip free from his hold. Curse him and his superhuman strength. And although you try to sound angry, you can’t help the giggles erupting from deep within your stomach.
He ignores your demands. “Come on just tell me— did I do something wrong? Or do you just not like my room?” he laughs along with you, the sound booming in your ear.
“It’s not that!” you continue giggling, as he was now relentlessly attacking your neck and cheek with sloppy kisses. “God, you’re so gross! Stop it—” You push a hand against his face.
He pouts and gives your hand a small lick. “Me? Gross?”
You yelp and wipe your hand against his thigh. “Yes, you!”
“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? I’m just trying to show my girlfriend I love her.”
Feeling him settle down, you do the same and try to catch your breath from all that laughing.
His voice is quieter. “Seriously, why do you wanna go so bad?” he juts his bottom lip out.
“I don’t… I just wanted to see if you’d care whether I left or not.”
“... You for real?” Once he sees you nod, he lets out a sigh, feeling reassured.
At the sight of the overwhelming relief washing over him, you chuckle. “You’re acting like you avoided a catastrophe.”
“I really did.”
“Me not sleeping in the same room as you is a catastrophe?” you deadpan.
“Of course it is.” He gives you a small glare, as if it were a stupid question. “Wait— you don’t feel the same?”
You hold back from smiling too hard. He just kept giving you opportunities to tease him on a silver platter. “I mean… I’d live.” you shrug.
“Sometimes I think you might secretly hate me…” he sighs woefully.
You grab his hand abruptly and drag him back to bed. “Would you quit being dramatic? I never said I hated you.” letting yourself fall against the mattress, you tug him along so he falls on top of you. He catches himself at the last second to hover above you, supporting himself with his forearms.
“But you act like it—”
You cut his sentence short by pressing a kiss to his adam’s apple. It bobs against you as he swallows hard, his face and neck flushing red.
He lets out a shaky breath. “... You’re going to kill me one of these days.”
જ⁀➴ Megumi Fushiguro .ᐟ
The sound of rain hitting the window could be heard through Megumi’s room. It was late in the evening, and the two of you were resting in his bed.
His front was pressed against your back, and his chin rested against the top of your head. He had an arm draped over you. You weren’t doing anything in particular, simply lying down entangled with one another. Enjoying the other’s warmth. But you could tell he hadn’t dozed off yet.
Although he was probably about to. Today’s mission had been more rough than usual. And you could tell he was going to wake up sore all over tomorrow.
So, you concluded he needed some good rest.
“Megumi?” you speak up softly, not wanting to startle him.
His hand tightens around your waist. “Hm?”
“I’m gonna go back to my room now, okay?”
He lets his head dip down to be closer to you. “Why?” he murmurs against your ear.
You purse your lips together. Of course he was going to be difficult about this. “You need to be well-rested tomorrow.”
“... Still waiting for you to explain why you’re leaving,”
You sigh. His ability to remain a sarcastic jackass even while tired was truly impressive.
“You’re going to end up even more sore if you sleep with me like this. You know I move around a lot in my sleep.”
He goes quiet for a moment, as if thinking your words over. A heavy sigh escapes him. “I’ll be fine.”
Your hand moves to rest on top of his. You let it sit there for a moment before you try to detach his hand from your side. “No, you won’t. And I don’t want to be the reason you feel even worse tomorrow.”
His grip on you only tightens once he notices you’re trying to get rid of him. “Would you stop overthinking this? I told you I’ll be fine.”
“You say that now, but you’re going to complain and blame me later when you’re hurting all over.” you click your tongue and huff.
Megumi ignores your disdain, and pulls you back to him, pressing his chest against your spine even tighter than before. He nuzzles his face even closer, and you can feel his bangs against your ear, and his lips against your neck. His soft breath fans across your collarbone as he speaks.
“... I won’t, I promise.” he mumbles, his voice almost getting lost with the sound of the harsh rain tapping against the glass of the window.
“And how do I know you mean it?”
“I always keep my word, don’t I? Stop worrying over this.”
Your hand that was previously trying to get him to let go of you gives up, and instead runs down your face as you groan lightly. “Megumi, this is for your own good. I want you to feel better tomorrow.”
“And you don’t want me to feel better now?”
Your hand falls from your face to land on the pillow under you. “What are you talking about?”
“What about right now? Don’t you want me to feel good now?”
You stare down at his hand that was around your waist, stunned. “Well… yeah. Of course I do.”
“Then let me have this.” he huffs, burying his face against the collar of your shirt. He speaks up again, his voice softer this time. “Stay with me.”
“... You’re way too stubborn. I hope you know that.”
He hums, paying you no mind.
“Fine, I’ll stay. But if you say one word about it being my fault that you—”
“I get it. Stop nagging me.” he groans. But the second he feels your tense form relax against him once more, he whispers. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“... you really gonna make me say it out loud?”
You chuckle softly. “Yes.”
He clears his throat, and lowers his face. His eyes flutter shut, and you feel his eyelashes brush up against your shoulder. A soft kiss is pressed against your skin. “Thanks for being here,”
“I always will.” you respond.
જ⁀➴ Toji Fushiguro .ᐟ
You twirl the ends of your hair mindlessly as you watch him. Toji was hunched over in the midst of his small kitchen, rummaging through his fridge. The buzzing light of it highlighting his sharpest features, currently pulled into a small frown as he groaned about forgetting to buy a pack of beer.
He’d been in a pretty foul mood for the last hour or so. You’re not exactly sure why. He’d gotten off the phone with Shiu all bitter and angry.
You were hoping the two of you could share a nice evening— or night, but it seemed that plan had gone to ruin now. And you weren’t sure exactly what to do.
So there you were, sitting on the bed of his small one bedroom studio, keeping quiet out of fear of angering or stressing him out further.
After contemplating, you sigh and stand up. “Hey, Toji?”
“Mmh?” he grumbles in response.
“I’m leaving, okay?”
He closes the fridge and watches you as you make your way to the front door, grabbing your stuff along the way. His eyes widen in disbelief. He reaches you in two steps.
“Where you going?”
“... Home.” you look up at him, fingers tightly gripping your bag. You had hoped no argument would come out of this. He wasn’t one to fight or anything, but still.
“Why?”
“I don’t know I just…” you trail off. He stays silent, giving you the chance to think. You take a deep breath and speak up again. “Just thought I’d give you some space. Now’s not a good time for you, clearly.”
“Who said that?” his eyebrows knit in confusion, his frown only worsening.
“No one— it’s obvious.” you fold your arms over your chest. “I mean… you’ve been groaning and grumbling to yourself since earlier.”
He lets out a heavy sigh. “So?” he throws his head to the side, gaze landing on his window.
“So… I’m leaving you be.” you say, your tone leaving no room for discussion as you turn your back to him, reaching for the doorknob and twisting it.
His hand immediately lands on the door and he pushes against it, slamming it shut. You look to your left, his large and rough palm laying flat against the wood right next to your head. “Don’t want you to.” he states, his other hand moving against the door on your right side this time, caging you in.
You sigh. “Why not?”
He stays still for a moment, before leaning forward, his forehead landing on your shoulder with a soft thud. “Need you here with me.” he mumbles.
You’re slightly taken-aback by his words, but out of fear he might deflect or retreat back in his shell, you say nothing. You simply reach a hand up, your fingers carding through his thin black hair.
“You sure? I don’t want to make you more upset than you already are.”
He clicks his tongue in response. “You don’t upset me doll,”
Unsure of what to do, you remain motionless and quiet, for the sole exception of your hand massaging his scalp.
“Don’t go. Stay here.” he mutters against your shoulder. His arms detach from the door to wrap themselves around your waist. That was probably the closest you would ever get to hearing him plead.
“... Alright, I’m staying.” your free hand moves to caress and trace along the veins of his arms.
A soft groan slips past his lips at the sensation of your hand in his hair, and he tightens his arms around you.
“Whatever Shiu said must’ve really upset you, huh…”
His hand slips under your shirt and traces the soft lines of your stomach. “Say his name one more fucking time,”
You hold back a laugh and scoff instead. “Okay, okay, calm down.”
His hand loosens around your waist, and he pulls away from you. You finally turn back around to meet his gaze. Your eyes soften at the sight of him. Hair just a tad greasy and disheveled, eyebags more prominent than before, shoulders not as upright and confident as usual.
“Don’t look at me like that.” he grunts and looks away.
“Like what?” you inch closer, hands finding his waist.
“Like you pity me.”
You shake your head with a smile. “I worry about you. It’s not the same thing.”
“Yeah well I don’t need you worrying over me like I’m some kid that needs help.”
“Sure, sure.” You nod. “How about you hop in the shower and I wash your hair?”
His eyes trail back to you instantly, and he looks down at you with a conflicted expression. He considers it for a moment. “Fine, but you’re getting in with me.” he grins.
You run a hand down your face but reluctantly agree. “I’m just going to wash your hair, Toji. That’s it.”
“You always say that and then end up—”
“In the shower you go!” you raise your voice to drown out the sound of his, and start pushing him towards the bathroom.
જ⁀➴ Ryomen Sukuna .ᐟ
Warm water flowing from your fingertips and trickling down his back, gentle candlelight bouncing off of the hard planes of his body, and the quiet breeze of the night air slipping past the lavish curtains and into the room.
It was currently late into the night, and Sukuna had summoned you to his chambers to bathe him. Just like he did every other night. He’d complained to you about his needlessly tiring and grueling day.
Dealing with—what he deemed to be—incompetent servants, his food being too cold for his taste, and the arrogant members of his court ordering him around (they were merely giving him suggestions on political matters).
You’d just finished giving him his bath, and were currently standing with his short-sleeved robe held out for him to slip into. You watched carefully as he finished drying himself off and turned his back to you, black tattoos and hardened muscles on display. They flex and contort as he slips his four arms through the large loop holes and shrugs the light robe on.
He turned around to let you tie the garment and your hands moved fast, tying a small knot around his waist, your eyes trained on the fabric in-between your fingers. Once finished, you took two steps back and bowed your head, hands clasped together at your front.
“If you do not need me for anything else, I will be taking my leave, my lord.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” He huffed, running a hand through his wet hair.
You let out an involuntary twitch. “... Is there something else you’d like me to do for you?”
“No.” he responds simply.
You raise your gaze for the first time, and look at him. “May I ask why you’re keeping me then?”
“You may not.” The tall man retorts and turns around, making his way to his bed. And you know, without him having to tell you, that he expects you to follow after him. So you do.
You stand with your hands still joined together, posture upright, your eyes glued to the floor, with your back against the wall.
He throws a glance at you and a sneer graces his lips. “Must you stand in the corner like a potted plant?”
You clench your hands, holding back from shooting a snarky response his way, and manage to stay quiet.
“Join me,”
Now that breaks your resolve.
You look at him across the room. “Sorry?”
He makes himself comfortable against his pillows, and folds one knee up, elbow propped up against it and his chin resting in his palm. “Have you gone deaf? Do not make me repeat myself.” he glares.
You swallow, hard, and make your way to him slowly.
“Before the sun rises again, would you?” he orders, and you pick up your pace.
You stand at the foot of his bed, quiet.
Once you’re finally close enough for him to scrutinize your every expression and feature, a smirk forms on his face, and he pats the space next to him.
Heat flares up in your stomach and you feel fear, anger and confusion (and maybe a bit of arousal), all at once.
“My lord… I am afraid I can not provide you with what you desire. Allow me to remind you I am but a humble servant.” You speak firmly. Well… as firm as you could manage considering you were probably going to lose your head in the next five minutes. But you’d rather be beheaded than get in bed with him against your will. “I could ask for a concubine to be called if that is what you wish.” you bow again, hoping to appease him.
His hand drops from his face and his smile fades. He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Would you calm down, you vixen? I can practically smell the fear oozing out of your pores.”
A frown makes its way onto your face without you wanting to.
A beat of silence passes and he looks away before speaking up again in a softer tone. “You misunderstood my intentions. I simply wish for you to lie down with me.”
Your scowl melts into a confused expression, now more perplexed than anything.
But the most perplexing part of all this is the fact that you don’t find yourself completely opposed to the idea. On the contrary, you were almost tempted by it.
“Do not make me wait,” he speaks. Although this time, it sounds like a request disguised as an order. “Don’t you think you’ve already made me wait far too long for you?” He adds, voice quiet.
You finally comply, albeit hesitantly, and sit down next to him. You move carefully, as though one wrong move could mean the end for you. And considering you were dealing with Sukuna, you weren’t exercising unnecessary caution.
“Loosen up. I won’t eat you.” He scoffs and instantly pulls you by the waist.
All four of his arms pull you against him and make you lay on your side. One of them moves to pull the soft covers over you. He clutches you tighter against his form. Almost as if he were a child tucking himself to sleep, holding onto his favourite plushie.
You barely hold back a small chuckle at the mental image.
“Is this amusing to you?”
You freeze, cursing yourself for failing to conceal your emotions. “... perhaps.” you blurt honestly.
He lets out a short grunt, and nuzzles his head against your neck. “Just go to sleep.”
masterlist
a/n: reblogs, likes and comments are appreciated. also pls dont be shy abt commenting i love it when ppl do that <3
synopsis . Comforting Nanami about his biggest insecurity. content . semi-crackfic, fluff, size kink, slight begging, an insecure nanami, light praise, jerking him off in the mirror, oral sex (m!receiving), etc. (not proofread)
Nanami has always hated how big his cock was.
It sounds stupid to most people off rip but it’s a real hinderance for him. In his opinion, he has extra inches he doesn’t believe are necessary—especially when he knows how to please a woman with much less. Yet somehow, your hand was always running over that same bulge he hates so much and he’s simply incapable of understanding your obsession with it.
All the things that make his face twist up with displeasure whenever he’s staring into the mirror, you seem to drool over. He’s got no clue how he ended up with such a sweet girl but there you were.
In mornings where he pulled up his slacks to head to work, that thickness in between his legs would cause such difficulty for him. He’d zip his pants up just for his cock to practically mold against the damn fabric, sticking out like a sore thumb and making him look like some kind of attention starved whore.
God, he hated that.
And yet there you were, rolling over on the bed after a peaceful night’s rest and then letting your eyes fall down his reflection in the mirror as if you adored every annoyingly extra inch of his. “Kento,” You’d hummed, “You’re doing it again, aren’t you?”
Nanami would roll his eyes too quick for you to see before sighing. “How is it that tailored slacks still manage to fit me this way?”
“You look fine,” You protested, making your way out the bed and over to him.
He shook his head and began to unzip himself before you could even make it over, “It continues to stick out. People stare,” He huffs, glancing back at you for a second as he adds, “Women stare.”
You didn’t seem the least bit surprised to hear that, snaking your arms around his waist and then kissing his shoulder, “Of course they do. I stared when I first met you.”
“You still do.” Nanami argued, turning his head back to his reflection, “And I’ll never understand why. It makes me look… less put together, unprofessional.”
“You look perfect,” Your hands are sneaking their way down his torso now, reaching just past his waistline. “I’ll never understand why you despise this part of you.”
He falls quiet as you push his slacks further down and then slip your fingers beneath his boxers. Warning you with a low murmur of, “Honey.. please.”
“Let me show you how perfect you are, Ken.”
“You spoil me-,” His words cut off as his breath hitches, your fingertips reaching the base of his cock and quickly causing it to stiffen. “But, we don’t have time for this. I have work..” Nanami reminds you.
“I’ll be quick.” You told him, even though you knew you’d be everything but.
Your hand wrapped around his shaft, thumbs sliding against his veins for a moment before you tugged him free from that dark fabric. Nanami’s head rolls back for a moment as he looks away from his reflection the moment you pull his cock out. He really didn’t want to look at himself anymore than he had to.
Yet again, there you were to coax him into doing so. “Look, Ken. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“It’s too big,” He argued, sounding more like you the first time you both slept together.
Which makes you chuckle, “It fits in my hands perfectly.”
“You’re unable to use one. That’s-, hah… so much work for you.”
“I love all the work I have to do, though.” You say softly, pressing your lips into his back as both yours hands stroke his cock slowly, letting it harden fully against your palms.
You then lean past his bulky frame, your eyes catching the way his fat cock fits so perfectly in your two hands. His tip was a blushing shade of pink, drooling profusely with precum that dripped all down ‘n in between your fingers.
Nanami’s eyes eventually found your expression in the reflection, his hips instinctively rolling forward a little as he saw how appreciatively you stared at his cock. “Sweetheart,” His voice came out deeper now, breathing already uneven. “Is it not-, mgh.. too much?”
Your laugh rung around him again, “Not at all. You worry yourself too much, I love how big your dick is.” He scowled upon hearing that, shaking his head. To which you smile, “Look at it, look how perfect it looks in my hands.”
It takes him a minute but he eventually looks at the mirror in front of you two. “My size is ridiculous,” He comments, face all twisted up as a pout pulls at his lower lip, “And bothersome.”
“No it’s not,” You say, then you’re moving your hands and stepping around him.
He can’t even get another argument out before you’re on your knees in front of him, forcing him to look down at you and not the reflection ahead. “Fuck, don’t.” He rasps, hand already flying to the top of your head.
“I’ll be quick, Ken,” Your hand was grabbing at his length again, fingers wrapped tight around his pulsing base.
His eyes roll. It wasn’t that he didn’t want you to suck him off but… seeing his cock stretching your lips apart so obscenely always made him feel bad. Your throat would always end up pained and one time even bruised.
Nanami gives you a little nod and you waste no more time opening your mouth and letting his bulbous tip slick right down the center of your tongue.
His brows tweeze and he groans, “S’filthy..”
You’re just smiling up at him as if you could do this all day long, your lips soon pressing around all sides of his cock, warm mouth enveloping him like he’s supposed to be there.
Whereas he hated all this, you soaked stupidly upon taking his cock into your mouth. You loved the way his ridgety veins felt twitching and pulsing against your tongue.
Nanami didn’t even have to do much for you to get him off, despite how thiiick his cock was inside that mouth of yours.
You sucked eagerly, taking more ‘n more of his inches in as if he wasn’t already at the back of your throat. Then you’d moan and let your eyes roll back, drool spilling past your lips and falling to the floor.
“If anything’s perfect it’s you, sweetheart,” Nanami grunted, his hips slowly pressing himself deeper into your mouth. “N-Never had a woman take my cock so prettily before you.” His voice came out as if he was amazed by it.
Your eyes seemed to light up just before you hollowed your cheeks out and then sucked on all his many inches harder, pulling a wonton moan right out of his lungs.
It wasn’t long before he came down your throat, hearing you gag loudly.
Right then his insecurities shot back up and he whined, trying to pull your mouth off of him. You shook your head and your hands on his thighs squeezed at him. Then you deepthroated his cock, your lips flush to his pelvis as your throat struggled and seemed to tighten around him.
He’s no idea how you hadn’t choked but seeing his cock perfectly snug inside your mouth for the first time did something dirty to him. “Oh fuuck,” Nanami’s hips thrusted once, properly fucking your face for a moment.
Even as tears slid down your face and your gags became like music to his ears, he couldn’t believe he was enjoying this.
The hand on your head gripped tighter and the only Nanami felt bad for now was how far open your jaw had to fall for this to work properly. He ignored it for the most part, though. Your mouth was far too pretty all slobbering around his cock.
The second time he came, he was unable to stop himself from thrusting his cum deeper—insuring that you swallowed up every last drop.
Then, when you wetly popped your lips off of him and let out a cough, he understood that maybe his size wasn’t so bad.
Especially when you looked up at him and tilted your head, cooing at him, “Do that again after work.” Oh, your voice was strained already but his breath only hitched again at the sound. “Harder though, you fuck like you’re scared sometimes,” You added shortly after.
Nanami nodded and told himself right then and there that perhaps when it came onto you, he didn’t have to shy away from how stupidly big his cock was.
No, perhaps it was finally time to use that to his advantage.
You used to joke with your friends that there was no way dick could actually make a girl go drunk on it— that kind of stuff only ever existed in porn. All dramatics and camera angles. No way it was real.
Safe to say that mindset quickly changed the second you started dating Toji Fushiguro.
After that first night you had sex — where he bent you over and pounded your cunt so deep you squirted twice on his dick, legs shaking, voice gone? Yeah. You stopped laughing real quick.
Because now, you were damn near a replica of those pornstars drooling over dick. Eyes glassy, thighs twitching and dripping with cum, and brain fogged up like he’d knocked something loose.
He had fucked you stupid. Literally.
And the worst part? You loved it. Loved the way he manhandled you, how he mocked you and talked down to you, made you feel like nothing but a hole to fill. The way he’d grab your face mid-thrust, make you look at him while he ruined you. “This all it took to get you slutted out for me? Dirty girl.”
It was almost laughable to think you used to have standards before.
Control. Maybe even restraint.
But Toji shattered that the moment he first split you open on his cock. Now you were cockdrunk and shameless, begging for him to fuck you dumb with tears in your eyes and slick dripping down your shaky thighs.
“Please,” you’d sob, voice wrecked, hips chasing every thrust like you were starving. “Need it, want your cock—want more.”
And he’d laugh. Low and cruel. “More?” he’d sneer, dragging his cock out slow just to slam it back in harder. Drinking in the way your mouth would drop open in an 'o' and your eyes would roll back as a breathless moan would fill the room. “You’re fuckin’ insatiable, doll. Nothin’ but a cockhungry slut now f'me, aren’t ya?”
And you were.
You never thought you could reach this level of horny in your life, never thought you’d crave sex like this ever. Not even in your wildest dreams—and yet here you were. Hooked on his dick.
So much so it wasn’t just when you two were fucking. It was constant. Lingering. Even when he was being sweet — brushing your hair out of your face, kissing your temple, calling you his girl in that low, possessive voice that made you wanna jump his bones— it made your stomach flip and your thighs clench.
Despite his intimidating, almost scary appearance, that beast of a man was soft with you. Gentle in ways that made your chest ache.
And god, that just further worsened your lust.
Because now it wasn’t just about the sex — it was about him. The way he looked at you like you were his favorite sin. The way he touched you like he knew every nerve ending by heart. The way he could ruin you with a single word, a single thrust, a single glance.
You used to joke. Used to roll your eyes at girls who claimed they were addicted to it.
Well—now you were one of them.
No shame. No denial. Just hunger.
Because being his mess? His fucked-out, overstimulated, whimpering mess?
That was your favorite version of yourself most times.
And so what if craving your boyfriend's cock like it was oxygen made you a littlee unhinged?
God forbid a girl have a hobby.
♡ princessxmin please do not alter, copy or translate my work !
a collection of my favorite geto suguru fics i’ve read over the years that i want to spotlight, consisting of pieces that include fluff, angst, smut, and more. fics are divided by series/oneshots/drabbles. please heed all warnings & give all included authors their very much deserved flowers! shamelessly plugging my own geto fics as well :p i’ve marked superscript next to authors to indicate if they’ve been included multiple times in this post! will be updated regularly-ish with new recs
series:
best friend!geto (ongoing?) by @fricks ; i’ve reread all of the entries in this series so many times that i could beam this shit onto the back of my eyelids and reread them all over again just like that. i adoreeee geto’s characterization here (fricks is a geto expert truly) he’s such a charming little shit and the witty convos between him and reader are just tew good. i can’t decide on a favorite part cos they’re all amazing IM SERIOUS. THIS IS MY LIBRARY OF ALEXANDRIA PLEASE DONT BURN IT DOWN!!!!
dishonorable (complete) on ao3 ; regency/bridgerton aus are always divine and this fic is no exception. duke geto and reader’s chemistry is too good 🚬 love how they want to strangle each other yet they flirt with each other in the same breath. duke geto take it out its hurtingggguuuhhhh
six degrees of separation (complete) by @starmapz ² ; i read this yeaaaars ago so imagine my surprise when i dug this fic up again and realized trish wrote it 😭 the angst in this has stuck with me for YEARS . geto loves so hard and that facet really shines in this fic. the entire thing is incredibly true to his character as a whole and serves as an amazing analysis of his character. how am i even allowed to read this masterpiece without a price? like wdym this is FREE?
strangers (ongoing) by @yenayaps ; this fic will hit you hard cos jfc this is a truck of ANGST. i’ve never wanted eternal happiness and peace for two people so badly in my life. geto and reader have grown distant after a miscarriage and are in the process of learning & choosing to love each other again, and it makes me wanna bawllll. their arguments and thoughts are so grounded and feel incredibly real, making this fic all the more immersive and making the angst pack a few extra punches. i think about the diabolical restaurant scene once a month at least 😭
no. one party anthem (ongoing) by @indiewritesxoxo ⁵ ; this rockstar suguru right here is one i would suck right off the bone like hes a box of chicken wings. girl dad? charmer of the year n hes slick wit it too? THE PINING THE CHASING THE GROVELING THE TRYING TO BE BETTER FOR READER??? top tier truly. indie always shows out with her various geto series and this has gottaaaaa be one of the best. the angst and smut here are unparalleled. that hotel sex scene STAYS living in my head (gif of the duck smoking and shaking its head with a satisfied smirk). im forever rooting for geto in this fic IDGAF!!!!
meow or never (complete) on ao3 ; geto’s little shit of a cat (aptly named gojo) gets reader’s cat pregnant and chaos ensues. geto wants reader’s cookie so bad lmfaoooo just like gojo with reader’s cat… this whole fic is genuinely SO hilarious. super domestic, fluffy, and very slice-of-life too!
fwb!suguru (ongoing?) by @eraserbread ² ; elly’s prose is to die for and her word choice is so unique too so her works are always a treat to the soul. the way she writes geto.. mm… truly a five course meal. need geto and reader to communicate and stop trying to win the nonchalant-off (they’re both failing to be nonchalant). i’m shaking them. god i wanna smash these two together like barbie dolls 😢 (😏). let me get my wallet because it must be illegal to read this piece of art for FREEEEE?
lazy sunday morning and whispers in the library (complete) on ao3 ; going from domestic intimacy and first times in the first fic to some freaky exhibition shit in the second fic… yeaaaah this is my bread and butter. geto is SO romantic and sweet in these installments, especially the first part 😪 this geto needs to be in my bed by yesterday or i’m hanging myself by the ears on the nearest tower
smoking with stoner!getou suguru (complete) on ao3 ; been a while since i’ve read this but geto is slick and sexy ass motherfucker in this fic. his dialogue had me cheesinggggg I WANT HIM BAD BRAH! the exposition here is so lively and perfectly immersive, idk how to explain it but its SUCH a vibe. gojo and toji are total clowns in this fic lmfao the shit they were pulling in the background had me ctfuuuu. this fic is a certified fave
the roommate part 1 & part 2 (ongoing?) by @kenzieluvsnanami ; call this puth british with the way roommate geto is innittttt 🇬🇧 the way geto is written in these makes me nut untouched and on the spot… this man is a sexy ass fiend and ykw i like them crazy just like this. ESPECIALLY when it’s geto. love his cheekiness and tomfoolery here lmfaooo he’s entertaining asf
sometimes i peep on the handsome dad next door (complete) on ao3 ; the dilf suguru to beat all sugurus 🙂↔️ every time there was so much of a mention of either 1. his gray streaks or 2. how he interacts with nanako and mimiko, i started shaking like a little rabid dog on steroids. reader is such a freak in this LMFAOOJTKWHR just like me fr… i too would wake up at 5am just to watch geto get dressed 🤤 he’s so hot and assured and confident in this fic and it makes me wanna jump his bonessss. his and reader’s relationship and build-up is something you don’t wanna miss out on!
darling (complete) on ao3 ; the second i saw black reader x musician geto i knew this would be amazing. AND IT IS! op did such a lovely job of portraying the hard of hearing reader here. i adore how geto and reader use each other as inspiration for music and for writing, and seeing their arrangement develop into a relationship is so worth the read c:
breathe me in on ao3 ; fwb!suguru in this fic… i gotta light a blunt every time i think of him. i was sold the second he asked reader to come over not for sex but to cuddle and to have someone simply there with him. geto is soooo sensual to his core here like every thing he does and says feels like honey… and he’s SO smooth jfc. so fine. my sweetheart AND my little shit :,) the smut here is toe-curling
the ethics of relationships (complete) by @gojonanami ; i typically don’t read prof/students but this fic is just one of those onessss and if you haven’t read it then you’re missing out 🙂↔️ that’s how yummy this whole five course meal is. i’ve harassed so many friends with the link to this fic LMFAO i just want everyone to read this BAD… i’m due for a reread because it’s been a WHILE but so many scenes in this fic stand out in my memory. super good overall!!
brat (ongoing) by @kunareads ; producer geto and pop star reader you are so very famous to me! reader is such a vibe in this fic and it makes her relationship with geto all the more fun & enticing. their dynamic feels like snorting a line of coke in the best way possible but also i need these fools to communicate asap 😣 the formatting of this fic is SO fun and feels super interactive/immersive!!
vault boy (ongoing) by @/indiewritesxoxo ; fallout/apocalypse au!! if u havent gotten into fallout, indie makes the universe easy to understand. geto is such a sweetie pie in this fic and his humanity is devastating… MY POOR BABY :( i wanna hide him away in a bunker. speaking of bunkers, give me one to shack up with him in and we’d repopulate the entire world in just a few years TRRRRUST 🤣✌🏽
oneshots:
#INTRO2MUNCH101 by @satorena ; another situation where i read a fic years ago and became mutuals with the author later on (haiii serena). this fic is comedy fawking golddddd no joke but its also hot as hell. serena is too good at building up the chemistry between geto and reader (#welovemeanreadersbtw) and i love how desperate geto is here, he wants that cookie BAD. his fake nonchalant shit had no one fooled and every time reader called him out i was ctfu. the smut had me writhing brah WRITHING (and giggling profusely for many reasons)
rock you up on ao3 ; TA geto and professor reader is an unmatched dynamic brah YALL DONT EVEN GETTTT HOW MUCH I FUCK WITH THEM ANDDD THIS FIC… submissive geto was a very exciting surprise HEHEHEHEEEE i love seeing my man getting his shit rocked <3 the banter here is too mfing good and is something this writer very much excels at!!
why suguru’s wife is the best cook in the world! by @yunamoona ; a super good take on geto and his relationship with food AND the cutest meet cute to ever meet cute… yeah this is a banger. repeating what i said in the comments but when geto ate reader’s cookies i was smiling at my phone like a freak, because sometimes all it takes is just the act of kindness/love to be able to guide you down a path of healing :,) i love this fic sm. it’s one of a kind
what if you’re just someone i want around (i’m falling again) on ao3 ; post-jjk0 fix it fic where reader is assigned to watch over geto 😣💔 < the sound of my heart shattering. you can feel geto’s jadedness and bitterness radiating through the screen due to how vivid and deeply thoughtful each scene is written out. but despite it all, geto is such a sweetheart and lover to his core 😢
i’m afraid that’s just the way the world works (but i think that it could work for you and me) on ao3 ; an au where geto never defected and years later, reader and geto take in nanako and mimiko. such a heartwarming fic all around. i love my miminana forever and ever and they deserve the world
bed chem by @nanamiskentos ; this is sexy AND fucking hilarious, what MORE could you ask for. suguru had me curling my toessss in this fic jhtjwhrjsi his dialogue has me hot and ready like lil caesars. the descriptions here make me wanna lick my screen and digest every single word. best believe i’m cleaning my plate every time i reread this
the haunting by @/starmapz ; if you like horror fics this is absolutely the fic for you :3 if geto were my ex… shittttt i would crack him again and take him back too. this fic is a perfect blend of hot smut, angst, and unsettling horror. i can’t say much else cos of spoilers but the ending had me GAGGED
it will come back by @hellowoolf ; ballerina au with instructor geto and ballerina reader!! their push and pull in this fic had me reading with my hands (and puth 😣) clenched… the chemistry is SO buzzy and so loud. the smut is mfing fantasticcccc and the build-up to it is EXCELLENT. dialogue is on point toooooo everything geto says makes me giggle
top of the class on ao3 ; if my TA was as pretty (and pathetic) as geto in this fic, i’d crack tf out of them too 🤭 love the switch-up in the power dynamic here and how reader sooo effortlessly has geto wrapped around her finger
ghostface pussy killer by @saintkaylaa ; one thing about me is i loveeee a good fic where one chases the other and then they fuck nasty 😣 the aphrodisiacs being involved makes the stakes sm more intense (and hotter 😏). i’m obligated to reread this everyyyy october because this fic is peak
the best kind of remedy by @reignpage ; santa can i please get herbalist geto under my tree for christmas 🙏🏽 preferably naked and already oiled up 🙏🏽 stoner geto is absolutely and 100% my kryptonite everyyyy time and he’s extra sexy asl in this fic. DREAMY SIGH. the smut is so buzzyyyyy
one night only? by @uzugeto ² ; this is a certified hood classic iykwim. every time this fic pops up on my dash or in my memory, i just HAVE to reread it. jade is really and truly the god of managing to make fics perfectly fluffy, hilarious, and smutty like whewwwww… geto and reader here are so special to me I LOVE THEM DEARLY 😣😋
how to baby trap marry your best friend! by @/indiewritesxoxo ; FUCK MY BABY DAD ALRIGHT!!! i love idiot best friends in love bro like just put the crush in the bag and pop the questionnnnn, the yearning in this kills me in the best way possible! the first time they have sex and take pictures of each other is forever branded in my head cos its tooooo hot 🚬
lessons in love on ao3 ; oh to fall in love with dilf geto and to retire with him… whimsical sigh. such a comforting slice of life fic. if my future partner isn’t this sweet and devoted and understanding, i don’t want em! geto here is really the perfect husband 😋
cry for me by @bunnieeteeth ; coach geto and figure skater reader! really cannot say much about this fic for the sake of spoilers, but also because i genuinely have no words for how this fic makes me feel. just wow. trust me when i say that this fic will have you sitting up in your seat and staring at your phone in shock. i want geto and reader to get together so bad but at what cost 💔
the torture of small talk with someone you used to know by @betterinvienna ; rockstar geto (and your ex) and photographer reader how you’ve both moved me and changed me irreversibly. geto is a first class yearner with a ticket straight to piningville because ohhhh my goddddd he wants reader back so mfing bad . he’s losing the nonchalant war #chalantking and i’m happy about it! such a good angst & hurt/comfort fic. i love exes fics. EVERY SINGLE SONG IS ABOUT YOU… WAH…. 😢😢😢🥺🥺🥺🥺
the practice of kissing by @lovelivision ; we all cheer for kissing practice fics!!! geto is such a mouthwatering tease in this fic ughhtksjrns i have got to fuck him . he’s such a cocky little shit but also sososo sweet with reader and so accommodating… his duality is unmatched!
ghost of you by @suguruss1ut ³ ; this fic is my 13th reason ☹️ post-defection geto and reader who still love each other despite geto’s actions/ideals is lethal. so lethal. this fic had me rolling around in bed thinking about it for dayssss after finishing it… it’s so heartbreaking UGHHHH 💔
#THE PARTY AND THE AFTER PARTY by @screampied ; lock me in a room with stripper!geto for about an hour (please trap us together longer though.) and he’s walking out pregnant god willing. whole fic had me twirling my hair and checking my wallet for extra cash to toss geto’s way
you & me by @getosurya ; perfect perfect perfect hurt/comfort after an argument between geto and reader. despite everything, they love each other sm and it bleeds through each and every action of theirs… this fic is so tender and reassuring that it makes me melt :,)
maw on ao3 ; there are no words to describe this fic or how it makes me feel without my description/thoughts majorly falling flat. i simply cannot do this fic justice… PLEASE READ IT.
ask me to bleed (for you i will) on ao3 ; post-defection geto and non-sorcerer reader who works at a bakery… another fic that is my 13th reason lowkey. this is another fic that i cannot do justice nor summarize my feelings for properly but i am once again urging you all to read this
geto’s bride by @/uzugeto ; the effect that this fic has had on me actually needs to be studied because why am i so charmed by chucky doll geto to the point that i’ve sent this fic to multiple friends individually 😭😭 this shit had me CRYINGGGGG cos of how fucking funny it is alllll the way through lmfaooohtkwhrj and imagining certain scenes had me cracking up. i am such a sucker for sub geto in this fic… MAKE HIM WHIMPER!!!! (will update with new link when i can!)
simply ear-resistible! by @/indiewritesxoxo ; bunny geto is the cutest fucking thing to ever existtttt 🥺😭 even if he has a massive attitude LMFAO. him retaining a few bunny traits/habits after returning to his original form actually makes me want to chew on his cheek. reader and geto are TOOOO cute here and i want the best for them :]
purrrfect surprise by @/suguruss1ut ; do you like men who crawl on all fours while wearing cat ears?? look no further cos this is the fic for YOU!!! THIS IS MY SHIT!!! I love me some sub geto and this fic is pure peak. need him desperate justttt like this
STILL CANT HEAR ME? by @forgiven4u ; ive never liked a fic so mfing fast in my goddamned life . Wdym this is funny, sexy, well-written, prose is on point and the author’s voice in the exposition is hilarious… wdym i could read this fic for free brah!!! if geto ragebaited me this hard i too would start bouncing on it like crazy and making him empty his balls just to hear him whimper loud as hell (added on 4/23!)
the failing grade by @macbethinchains ; phy’s prose and exposition and word choices hit differentttt every time. she’s fr the type of writer that makes you wanna sit in silence and hold your head and just marvel in silence over how she creates her scenes in such a beautifully descriptive way… and ohhhh how that talent shines in this fic. again i’m not usually one to read prof/students so you know i’m #moved by this fic. the writing is just SO beautiful bro i wanna marinate in phy’s fics 😭😭😭 UGHHH AND THEIR DYNAMIC MAKES ME FEEL COO COO FOR COCOA PUFFSSSSS reader’s chasing… suguru’s restraint (until it snapped crackled and popped 😋)… reader being a freak (#real)… the i love you… OUUUUHHHHH. 20/10 as always (added on 4/25!)
PAINT THE TOWN RED! by @mamashima ; SAVE A HORSE RIDE A MFING COWBOYYYYYY!!!! … even though suguru is not one and doesn’t like to be called one LMFAO. suguru is the sheriff of a town that you, a vampire who hates men, moseys right on into. the wit imbedded in this entire fic, from the dialogue to the exposition to the inner thoughts, had me ROLLING brah, op is tewww smooth n funny with it 🙂↕️ and you know i love me some humor AND some mouth-watering push and pulls like the dynamic between suguru and reader. this fic is a new favorite so y’all are naturally obligated to read this. also switchy bottom!suguru >>>> everything else ever (added on 6/13!)
talk dirty by @kamiflix ; this fic has me running around in circles like a rabid doggggghtkwhejdkw cos suguru is slick asl and so cocky and perfect like ugh . Need that bad… suguru gets turned on by the mere sound of reader’s voice, and what was once a normal phone call turns into suguru putting on a show over video call 👅 AND WHAT A SHOWWWWW IT IS… after that i’d be at his place in 10 seconds flat so i can slob on him 😇 (added on 6/13!)
BABY ARE U HOME? by @shawtuzi ; this is pure excellence pure artistry and pure talent packed into an incrediblyyyyy satisfying 28k words. OH MAN… geto meets reader through her night shifts at waffle house, and they connect through reader’s interest in the art of sfw shibari classes. every little moment between geto and reader is so electric, op EXCELS at building the chemistry between these two in every single way possible. i will always love artistic eroticism and the psychological exploration of kink sm, so this fic is an absolute treat to me. its one of a kind and a new favorite of mine!! AND OHHH DONT GET ME STARTED ON HOW HOT GETO IS HERE… 🚬🍷 (added on 7/26!)
drabbles:
(i’ve written so many summaries/thoughts already that i won’t be doing so for these fics. titles are all pretty self-explanatory for the most part, and these are all super good short reads!! 🫶🏽)
emo!suguru and his pretty pink princess by @epicderpface
suguru + independent gf by @satoruined
mornings with suguru by @hayajiku
sub!suguru wax play by @bluukive
arcturus beaming by @oporotheca
love, as if it were carved in stone by @go6jo
tutor!geto getting overwhelmed by @/eraserbread
suguru volunteers to model for your art class and you didn’t expect him to have such a perfect dick by @gojosconsort
afterglow by @feyrinnn
kissing suguru by @sugurusbadhabit
binded bunny by @meowguru
domain expansion: unlimited creampies by @/suguruss1ut
lost in the sauce (you) by @fushiguho
childhood friend!suguru by @digitalro
guy next door by @seraphicsuguru (added on 4/17!)
stress toy!suguru by @fushi6oro (added on 4/23!)
tongue split by @sugurusbadhabit (added on 5/14!)
suguru is obsessed with aftercare… and you apparently by @princeable (added on 5/21!)
boyfriend!suguru by @jumpjo (added on 5/25!)
hungover breakfast with bf!suguru by @diaafterdark (added on 6/3!)
tracing suguru’s scar by @rengoatku (added on 6/13!)
playing with bsf!suguru’s hair before class by @reveries0fmine (added on 6/13!)
magic mishaps by @/indiewritesxoxo (added on 6/13!)
suguru’s retribution by @ohfreshlinen (added on 6/16!)
cult leader!suguru geto knows exactly how to seduce you by @moviecritc (added on 7/17!)
so unfaithful to the life i thought i wanted by @/pwawr (added on 7/26!)
masterlist: you were done with sukuna constantly arguing with you when you were always right amd he need to be taught a lesson. maybe making him sleep on the couch was not your best idea.
you were laying on your bed, random thoughts swarming in your head when your mind drifted to your husband. your eyes narrowed, shaking your head as you remembered the heinous things he had said to you earlier that day.
sukuna was such a menace and he was happy to be one. especially towards you. constantly picking on you whenever he had a chance, but you knew he had no ill intentions. though someone had to teach him a lesson.
"i can't believe you even watch this crap. the main character is so stupid". you rolled your eyes for the nth time that afternoon. tou were trying to enjoy your day off, binging a the episodes you missed of your favourite show when he decided to walts in just as you were about to turn it on. he had made so many negative comments you completely lost count. how does he even enjoy anything?
"you can leave if you don't like it actually"
"don't tell me what to do!"
"we're three seasons in! you haven't missed a single episode and i don't remember inviting you to come watch with me". he grimaced and went quiet. finally. but your peace was soon disturbed when he had another comment followed by his magical laugh. "you can just say you enjoy it. no one's going to shame you"
"i can't believe you think i have the same horrendous tastes as you. insult me more, why don't ya?"
something had to done. you had to punish him for the way he was acting and that's when a brilliant idea came to mind. sukuna walked into your shared bedroom in nothing but a pair of black boxers. he stretched, letting out a loud yawn but before he could climb on and snuggle next to you, you stopped him.
"you should sleep on the couch tonight". sukuna stared at you before sucking his teeth.
"what did you say? fuck you mean should"
"i said what i said, sukuna. you're sleeping on the couch". his eyes narrowed, arms crossing over his chest.
"give me one good reason why i should sleep on the couch, alone, all by myself, when i have a nice warm bed and my beautiful wife right here, hmmm". you couldn't let your guard down. his compliments should mean nothing to you at that very moment. you had a mission and you needed to put him in his place.
"you were arguing with me today and you still won't admit that i'm right. you like my show. just admit it"
"wife, i'm doubling down. hell i'm trippling down. your show is ass", he got onto the bed and pulled you closer to him but your arms were stretched out preventing him from getting closer. "are you serious?"
"go sleep on the couch, sukuna"
he let out a sarcastic chuckle and let go of you, aggressively grabbing his pillow and the blanket before heading downstairs. you had won, or you thought you did.not even five minutes later, sukuna came back, bursting through the door, his frown deeper than usual.
"you forgot something?
"yeah. my wife". before you could react, he grabbed your ankles and pulled you towards him before carrying you on his shoulder and heading for the living room.
"let go of me!", you tired pulling yourself off him, kicking your feet and punching his back which earned you a harsh slap on the ass.
"relax, woman. you're gonna wake the neighbours"
"since when did you care about them?"
"i don't want them thinking a kidnapping is taking place"
sukuna threw you on the couch once he got to the living room, quickly getting on top of you, sliding his hand beneath your sleep shirt to cup your breast as he nuzzles his face into you neck, one heavy leg draped over yours so you would not let go.
a few moments passed before you whined. " 'kuna~ i can't breathe. you're too heavy~"
"that's what you get for making me sleep on the couch"
he likes the quiet ones || satoru gojo x f!reader, jjk drabbles, pure fluff, 401 words (◡̀_◡́)ᕤ
so we all know how clingy satoru is... but imagine him having a crush on the quiet student—who he swears is the girl of his dreams.
you're the complete opposite of him; calm, composed, and rarely speaking unless necessary. you intrigued him. he just didn't know when that curiosity turned into something more intimate.
"ah—there you are!" he grins, shamelessly wrapping his arms around you from behind, chin resting against your shoulder—clinging to you like some sort of leech, "did you just return from a mission? you should've taken me along! i wanted to see my cutie in action~"
you quietly hum, unfazed by his touchy nature, "hi gojo-san..."
he immediately pouts, "i thought i told ya' to drop the 'san' part—it's too frickin' formal! matter of fact, just call me satoru!"
you slowly nod. he smiles, hesitantly letting go, but only to walk in front of you, continuing to chat your ear off, all while walking backwards, "you should've saw me today—i'm this close to perfecting my technique! maybe now we can finally do a mission together! oh and why don't we stop for some boba tea after?! don't worry your pretty little head, my treat!"
the boy leans closer, icy blue orbs boring into your own. he smirks, now acting more coy, "are you swooning for me yet—" he halts, the words getting caught in his throat as he notices the sympathetic look in your eyes.
his breath hitches as you slowly reach out, in a rare turn of events, gently patting his head, fingers combing through his white locks of hair to offer him some comfort.
a feeling he never knew he craved... up til now that is.
you smile softly, shockingly enough to him, "you must be tired then—just don't overdo it... satoru."
his eyes briefly widened, heart rate spiking up at his name exiting your mouth. god damn it. he was the one who suggested it—so why does he always get so tongue tied when it comes to you? how lame...
he's blushing, ivory skin tinted with pink as he slowly leans into your touch, embarrassingly avoiding your gaze; only yearning for more, more and more of your affection, "yeah... i know."
he peeks at you from behind his glasses, taking your kind gesture as a green light to continue, "so about that date..."
you slowly blink, tilting your head with confusion—what’s this about a date?
told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!
pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader
synopsis : you crushed on him for months, watched him dodge every advance like you were malware. so you dressed up a little, played a little dumber—and now he’s got you spread out in pixels and moaning in surround sound. worst part? you kinda want him to do it again.
tags/cw — masturbation, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, marking, overstimulation, explicit language, filming, voyeurism, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, obsession, lingerie, virgin weeb satoru, questionable but effective way of seducing ur crush. 13k wc, 18+ only, minors DNI.
a/n : plz don't nitpick about how a fashion vlog shouldn't be like that bc that's the point. toru doesn't know the difference because all he watches is 2d girls
the compressor’s peaking again.
satoru squints at the waveform, drags the threshold down two decibels, then listens back to the same three-second clip of voiceover for the tenth time. it’s a podcast intro, some wannabe influencer droning about mindfulness. he doesn’t care. he’s just here to make it sound less like it was recorded in a bathroom.
“sounds like shit,” he mutters, even though it’s clean. crisp. perfectly balanced.
it doesn’t feel right. nothing ever does. he tweaks the bitrate, checks the export codec, wonders if he should build a custom ffmpeg preset. maybe write a quick script to batch clean all future files—something to shave off a few milliseconds of his life. his fingers hover over the keyboard, itching for efficiency, for control.
ping.
discord overlay glows in the corner of his ultrawide monitor, a neon-green intrusion on his meticulously organized desktop. he freezes. the notification pulses like a heartbeat.
you.
he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.
hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…
his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.
“no,” he types, then erases it.
“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.
after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:
i guess. send what you have.
he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.
flashback.exe
he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.
they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.
but you were different.
not better. just... a different kind of stupid.
you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.
but.
you let him do whatever he wanted.
you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.
“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.
you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.
he didn’t care.
he told himself he didn’t.
but he remembered. every fucking detail.
the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”
typical.
he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.
but then—
you appear on screen.
not just appear. you perform.
you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.
you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.
he blinks.
backs the video up three seconds.
watches again.
your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.
he watches again.
his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.
he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.
he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.
he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.
he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.
the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.
the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.
his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.
his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.
he’s close. too close.
his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.
he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—
he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.
it’s filthy. it’s desperate.
ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”
he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.
when you text back:
thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3
he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.
he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:
np.
what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.
he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.
he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?
he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.
someone like him.
next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.
pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.
he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”
but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.
your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.
he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.
you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.
his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.
to replay your giggle.
he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.
he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.
the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.
but he does.
the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.
no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.
it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.
that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done.
he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.
and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.
ping.
another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.
hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!
he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.
the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.
he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.
the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.
“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do.
“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”
then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.
he freezes.
his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?
you giggle.
“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”
he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.
you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?
satoru’s fingers twitch.
one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.
he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.
he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.
his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.
he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.
you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.
he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.
he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.
he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.
he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—
he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.
he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.
exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”
he tries to normalize it.
“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.
he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.
he tells himself he’s just learning.
every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.
now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.
“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”
right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.
he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.
the next class is worse.
you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.
you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.
he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.
your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.
he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.
his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.
he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.
a new text lights up his screen:
hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T
you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.
you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.
he types:
looks clean. don’t worry about it.
satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.
he hates himself.
but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.
the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.
it starts with static in his skull.
not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.
he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.
it doesn’t help.
not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.
satoru’s trying.
really.
he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.
2:03 a.m.
his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.
hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!
march haul (raw).mp4
he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.
click.
of course he does.
the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.
you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.
your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.
“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.
“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.
he knows it.
his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.
“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”
he does.
the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.
ping.
march haul (real).mp4
oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!
his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—
he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.
you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.
he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.
he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.
he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.
his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.
he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.
it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.
he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.
his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.
at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.
the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.
he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.
but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.
he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.
you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.
you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.
he doesn’t blink.
he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.
he can’t breathe.
his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.
someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.
“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.
satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.
but it’s you.
always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.
he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.
he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.
no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.
he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.
he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.
it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.
the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.
some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.
the worst part?
you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.
but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.
he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.
satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.
the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.
your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.
in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.
ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.
three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.
then:
ping.
april haul (suits).mov
hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”
he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.
he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.
the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.
you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.
you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”
baby.
it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.
everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.
when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.
satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.
he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.
his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.
he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.
his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.
he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.
he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.
the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.
it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.
he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”
he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.
you, on the other hand, don’t break character.
in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.
you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.
he starts responding to the clips aloud.
“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.
one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.
the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.
“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.
satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”
you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.
he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”
you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”
you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”
00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.
“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.
his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this.
he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.
he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.
he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.
his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.
he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.
he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.
he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.
you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.
the next day, another file:
april haul (closeups).mp4
sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe
he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.
it starts with a ping.
innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—
but no. it’s you.
hey… do u do filming too?
his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.
yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?
he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.
his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.
then:
just a casual thing. home setup. come over?
he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space. he’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.
he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.
you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”
he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.
he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.
he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.
“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.
he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.
you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.
he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.
“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”
“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.
you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”
he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.
“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.
your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”
you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.
his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.
the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.
he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.
“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.
“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.
you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.
“fuck.”
he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.
you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.
you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.
his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”
he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.
you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”
you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.
“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.
he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.
“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”
his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”
he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”
he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”
he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.
“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”
he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”
you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.
the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.
he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.
he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”
you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”
“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.
“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”
you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.
satoru doesn’t stop.
in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.
the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.
he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.
“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.
“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.
you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.
“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.
he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.
“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”
satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.
he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.
“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”
each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.
he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.
“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”
he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.
but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.
he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.
“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.
you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.
“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”
he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.
“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.
“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.
satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.
“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”
his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.
you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”
you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.
“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”
he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.
he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.
he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”
he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”
he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”
you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”
“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.
he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”
he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.
he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”
he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.
“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”
but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”
he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”
he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”
you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.
“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.
“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”
you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.
but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.
satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.
he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.
“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.
you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.
your silence makes him spiral.
“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.
you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.
“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”
he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”
you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”
“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”
you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”
he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.
you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.
“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”
he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”
you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.
he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.
“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”
he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.
“i know.”
a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.
“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.
“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.
“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”
you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”
he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.
and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.
“mine.”
you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.
especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.
pairing/characters: jjk men x f!reader | gojo, nanami, yuji, megumi, toji, sukuna
synopsis: how the jjk men react to you asking them for a bicep pic!
cw: cussing, suggestive jokes, fluff, petnames, fratkuna not canon sukuna
masterlist
