#reader inserts

[envy-of-the-apple]

Pleaser

Dark!Gojo Satoru x reader -College AU

word count: 6.6k

Synopsis: You’ve always had a hard time standing up for yourself. Your new roommate loves that about you.

(Warnings: yandere, dark content, manipulation, slight exhibitionism, forced voyeurism(?), non-con, gojo being a freak)

It was a clerical error. 

Gojo Satoru wasn’t supposed to have a roommate because he was Gojo Satoru. The apartment was specifically his, as most things were. 

You were a mistake. 

The administration apologized to you both. They’d fix it in no time, they promised. This would only last a month before you’d move to your permanent residence. 

You didn’t mind the error. His apartment was large and expansive, and you’d already unpacked your stuff. The plan was to keep you there until everybody settled in for the semester, and then they could swap you out to an empty room. 

Gojo didn’t seem to mind too much either. You assumed he’d be a bit more irritated with the situation, but his lax nature was a pleasant surprise. You wouldn’t necessarily call the two of you close, but you weren’t on bad terms either. 

Positive, is the better word. Not exactly neutral, but not too friendly either. You existed on the edges of each other's peripherals, and you were pretty happy with that. Gojo wasn’t a bad roommate either. He kept the apartment mostly clean and didn’t leave any food out. You thought you’d have to deal with loud parties; he seemed like the type, but the tiny circle he gravitated towards never overstayed its welcome. 

The only issue was the music. 

It wasn’t bad music. You enjoyed his taste. You would just rather not hear it blasting through the walls at 2 am. 

A roommate disagreement. It’s the first one you’ve ever had. 

You want to do this right. Your biggest worry is offending him. You spend days figuring out the best way to approach him. You look up ways to gently bring up disagreements between your roommate. You fill a bag with treats and sweets–the kinds you’ve seen him munch on before. You even write a letter because you know how flighty you get in these situations, and you can’t thank him enough for all that he’s done for you, but if he could just maybe perhaps slightly–

“-So you just want me to turn the music down?” Gojo interrupts your rambling.

He’s sitting on the sofa, one leg across the other. You remain standing, too strung up to really relax. The paper you were reading out loud crinkles as you fold it back up. 

“Yeah.” You mumble. “If you can.” 

He takes another candy you’d gifted him, popping it in his mouth. 

“Yeah, sure.” He shrugs, as if it were hardly an inconvenience. 

You, on the other hand, nearly deflated in relief. You didn’t expect it to be so simple. You were half-preparing for the possibility that he’d blow up at you and go back to administration, demanding your eviction. Everything was resolved so easily. 

“Thank you.” A genuine smile graces your lips.

Gojo hums. The candy cracks between his teeth. 

“You’re pretty shy, huh?” He tilts his head, studying you.

A laugh escapes your throat. Nervous. 

“I just don’t like confrontation,” you admit. 

Gojo nods, returning your wave when you say your goodbyes. You think nothing of the exchange. Hours later, you’re still riding the high of how effortless it all went. 

⌂

Two things change today. 

First, Gojo is up this morning. 

He’s never up this early. Usually, you only hear him moving around at noon. You’re the early bird, not him. You never minded his routine. If anything, you appreciated that you ran on separate schedules. 

Second, he was naked. 

Gojo typically dresses conservatively: T-shirts, sweatpants, hoodies. He adorns the look of a typical college student most days. His tastes are a bit on the expensive side, considering how casually he wears luxury brands, but he’s mostly covered up.  

Today, Gojo walks around the kitchen in nothing but boxers.

You’re awkwardly standing in the hallway. You want to go back to your room and hide out until he leaves, but you’re already running late for class. Briefly, you think about keeping your head locked on the ground and slinking out the door. Maybe, if you’re lucky, he won’t notice you. 

You aren’t that lucky. 

Gojo looks at your miserable figure. There’s no embarrassment about how little he’s dressed. No apologies. No stutters that will make you feel the tiniest bit human. He bares his white teeth as he smiles. 

“‘Morning, roomie!” He chirps. 

You repeat the pleasantry with far less enthusiasm. You avoid looking at him directly, preferring to look at the counter, the floor, the refrigerator, anywhere that didn’t have Gojo in it. 

This was normal, you kept repeating to yourself. This is his house. You’re practically a squatter. He should be comfortable in his own home. He should wear whatever he wants. 

Besides, now you can make the most of your situation. You first considered skipping breakfast, given his situation. Now that the worst has happened, you could grab an apple or something. 

You slip past him. You think Gojo is making some type of smoothie, but you refuse to look directly at him to confirm. The fruit basket is right at your fingertips. You start to swipe the first one you can grab before making your escape.

Something presses against your back, caging you against the counter. You freeze. You feel hard muscle as Gojo reaches up to mess with the cabinets. 

“Sorry.” Gojo casually excuses, rifling through the shelves. “I’ll just be a second.”

One second. 

Five seconds. He’s still there. Your knuckles are white from how hard you’re gripping the counter. 

“Gojo–” 

“My music didn’t bother you last night, did it?” He asks. 

For a second, you wonder if that’s why he was doing this. Maybe you had offended him earlier with your complaint. But you don’t hear any resentment in his voice. He sounds cheerful. 

Delighted, even. 

“No,” you say, “it was fine.” 

He hums. When he finally pulls away, you get your autonomy back. You scramble away from the counter, not wanting to get caught again. 

“That’s good,” He says, “I’m glad you were upfront about this. We’re roommates! No use in hating eachother, right?” 

Temporary roommates, you correct in your head. 

“Also, we should use our first names from now on, roomie.” Gojo continues. “We should speak more comfortably.” 

Fine, whatever. You just wanted to leave. 

He suddenly leans in so he’s eye-to-eye with you. You hadn’t noticed it before, but his gaze is intense. You try to back away, but there’s nowhere to go. 

“Say it.” He lowers his voice. “Sa-to-ru.” 

It feels like he’s mocking you, but you can’t seem to find the joke. 

“Satoru,” you obey. 

He smiles. 

“Yeah.” He pulls away. “Just like that.” 

⌂

After a couple of washes, you finally notice its absence. 

It wasn’t the most expensive of your collection, but it was still pretty pricey. You liked the silk material and the dark red color. It was your favorite pair of panties. 

You skulk around the apartment, hoping it just fell from the basket. That, or the washer ate it. You tried not to think of the other option. 

 Days pass, and you give up searching. You decide to forget about it. You have other pairs. It’s not the end of the world. 

A part of you thinks about asking Satoru, but you’re quickly squashing it down. No way would you willingly ask him something so embarrassing. You just toss it to the back of your mind, hoping it will just show up again. 

And then, Satoru invites you into his room.

It’s not exactly an invitation. When you’re trudging home from class, he pops out from his room, excitedly telling you about a TV show before you’re being dragged inside. You’re not a big fan of the genre, and you have no interest in the show. It doesn’t matter to Satoru. You’re forced to sit on his bed as the characters on screen follow the script. 

He’s doing that a lot lately. Interrupting. Invading. You keep brushing off the thought that he’s testing you, somehow. 

“Roomie, this guy is so annoying.” Satoru comments. “Don’t worry, he dies in the next episode, so you don’t have to suffer for long.” 

You say nothing as he casually spoils the show for you. Honestly, you couldn’t care less. You were getting a little bored. Your eyes wander around his room. It’s cleaner than you thought it’d be. A few clothes are scattered around. A college hoodie hangs off the door. There are all sorts of papers on his desk, each is covered in meaningless algorithms you can’t decipher, and you suddenly remember he’s a physics major. You ask about maybe getting some math help from him later on, before you’re brushing that thought away. 

There’s a snap of fingers. Your gaze drifts back to Gojo. 

“Roomie, pay attention!” He whines, urging you back to the screen. 

There are only 10 minutes of the show left. Fine, you sit there, counting down the minutes until you can make your escape. 

Satoru’s hand brushes the edge of your bare thigh. 

He’s not exactly touching. You two are sitting pretty close. He was just sitting comfortably, resting his weight on his hands. It’s barely a touch, but it’s there. You can feel his fingers on your skin. 

He doesn’t move his hand back. It’s more likely because he doesn’t notice, you convince yourself. You’re overthinking things again. 

He shifts. His hand slips even closer. 

When you try to open your mouth, he hushes you with a, “This is the best part!” and all the courage leaves your body again. 

It feels like hours until the credits finally roll. Satoru steps off the bed to turn off the TV, and you make your move too, eager to find refuge in your room. 

“Oh yeah.” His voice stops you in your tracks. “What did you want to talk about earlier?” 

You stare. It feels crazy to bring up what happened just now. See? He didn’t even notice. 

But now, you have nothing to say, and saying nothing feels like a lie. 

“Did you see something in your laundry?” You blurt out before you can even think. 

Satoru encapsulates a picture-perfect replication of an innocent doe. He tilts his head in confusion. 

“Like what?” He asks. 

Dark red panties, with just the hint of lace. You can’t say it. You just can’t. 

“I think we might’ve swapped some clothes.” You unhelpfully murmur. “If you see anything…just let me know.” 

He nods. “Sure thing, Roomie!” He calls to you as you hurry back into your room and lock the door. 

Soon, Satoru’s actions turn less ambivalent. 

Sometimes, you’d hear him once or twice in the middle of the night. He’s loud. The walls thankfully muffle most of it, but you know what he’s doing. You usually just plug in your headphones and try not to look at him the next day. So far, things have worked out pretty well. 

Today, his door is wide open as he jerks off. 

You’re standing right next to your own door, mouth agape, forced to listen to his moans and babbles for five minutes. You’re already late for class.

But you can’t bring yourself to even open your door. 

To get out of the apartment, you’d have to cross Satoru’s room. The one that is currently open, where you’d see him stroking his dick. 

You know this is going too far. You needed to fucking do something already. There’s no way you can be kept a prisoner in your own home. 

And yet, you stay, forced to listen to him openly masturbate. 

“Fuck yes,” you can hear him say over and over again. “Just a little more, pretty girl. C’mon, just a bit–there we fucking go.” 

He’s talking to someone. No, that’s not right. He’s fantasizing about someone. 

More babblings and you’re squeezing your eyes shut as he comes. He curses again, and you stand there until you no longer want to melt into the floor. 

A few minutes later, you’re stomping around the room, trying to be as noisy as possible. You loudly adjust your bookbag and fiddle with your chair. You try to give him as much time as possible. 

By the time you come out, the apartment is back to normal. His door is still open. You stare straight ahead, ignoring the clear invitation to look as you pass his room. 

“Hey, Roomie.” Satoru casually calls from his place on the bed. 

You nearly trip over your own feet. Satoru gives a hiss. 

“You good?” He asks. 

No. 

“Yes.” You adjust your bag. “Just tripped.” 

“Okay.” You hear him shift. His bed creaks under the weight. “Have fun at class, pretty girl.” 

You slam the door a lot harder than you should. You were ten minutes late for class that day, but it doesn’t matter. As much as you tried to focus on your professor’s drones, your mind kept drifting to the name he called you right before you fled. 

No, no it couldn’t be. You needed to forget about it. 

Also, he was holding something in his hand. You didn’t know for sure, you didn’t want to stare but…

…it was a dark red piece of fabric. 

⌂

You like it when Satoru’s friends come over. They create a buffer between you and him. 

These days, you aren’t in the apartment as much. You’re out early. You come in late. You aren’t avoiding Satoru. You talk to him when he talks to you. You listen to whatever ramblings he has that day. You aren’t avoiding Satoru. 

Today is one of the few times he manages to catch you. Maybe you should count yourself lucky that he did it today, because Suguru was here. 

He lounges on the sofa as Satoru drags you behind him. Suguru barely glances up from his phone. He’s pretty used to Satoru’s antics. You aren’t. 

Satoru plops right next to his friend, picking up his remote. 

“Okay, we’re ready,” he says before frowning and glancing around. “There’s no more space.” 

He’s right. Both men are big, barely overcrowding the minuscule couch. You awkwardly loiter nearby as they both set up. You open your mouth, ready to say that you were fine with not joining, that you didn’t really care about a video game, no matter how awesomely Satoru described it. 

Satoru’s grin is filled with nothing but delight as he turns to you. 

“Here–” he eagerly pats his lap “–I've got plenty of space left, pretty girl.” 

You blanch, and his smile just grows wider. He starts to reach for you before his friend steps in. 

Suguru shoves him off the couch. Satoru dramatically collapses onto the floor. 

“Don’t be a dick.” Geto chides before motioning you to sit. 

You take a seat, with a relieved smile directed at Geto. Satoru grumbles from his spot on the floor, but he doesn’t try to move back as you thought he would. 

“I can’t believe you’re abusing me in my own home,” Satoru complains. “Where I pay rent.” 

“Your parents pay rent, you trust fund baby.” Geto is more than happy to refute. 

“Same thing.” Satoru rolls his eyes. “It’ll all go to me in the end.” 

Out of all of Satoru’s friends, Suguru seemed to have the biggest hold on his collar. They seemed close. Maybe their friendship had spanned years before college. You don’t know if anyone could bear to be around Satoru for that long, but maybe Suguru is that exception. 

You think you spend about an hour watching them play. You aren’t too interested in video games, much less combat games, but they seem to get a kick out of it. Eventually, Gojo demands to play with you. Geto relinquishes his remote to your reluctant hands, more than happy to go back to his phone. 

“Damn.” Satoru laughs as he kills you for the 4th time. “You’re bad at this.” 

You frown at the YOU LOSE on your side of the screen. 

“I haven’t played this before,” you respond. 

“I can tell.” 

He doesn’t seem particularly upset that his new gaming partner sucks. If anything, the more he kills you, the wider his smile gets. 

“We should place bets.” He suddenly pipes up. “However looses a round: strips.” 

You shrink. Geto rolls his eyes. 

“Satoru, stop bullying your roommate and play the game.” He leans back. “Let the poor thing breathe.” 

“Bullying?” Satoru sounds offended. “I’m joking. Y’know I’m joking, right?” 

He whirls around to look at you with wide eyes. You can’t tell whether he’s being genuine. You glance away. 

“Yeah.” You fiddle with the remote. “I know.” 

“See, it’s fine!” Instantly, Satoru forgets the game. He crowds into the couch to circle his arm around you, pulling you into his side. “You’re the only person who understands my humor, pretty girl.” He sighs. 

“This sounds more and more like a hostage situation.” Suguru idly comments. 

But when you look at him, really look at him, you can see the apathy clear in his eyes. 

Maybe that’s why they got along so well. 

“Shut up.” Satoru snaps. 

“You’ll tell me, though, right?” Satoru says as he snuggles even closer. “If I’m going too far?” 

You want him to get off of you. You know he knows, too. 

“I will.” You say instead. 

Satoru grins, continuing to swaddle you with his body. 

“See?” He blows a raspberry in Suguru’s direction. “My Roomie loves me.” 

⌂

Sometimes you prefer to be alone with Satoru. He just gets worse with more people around. 

The club he dragged you into was smoky, with the occasional lights that flicked and changed colors, illuminating the floor. It was crowded. Someone spilled a drink on the floor earlier that night. The sweet sticky scent lingered in the air. 

Satoru had brought a couple of other people too, more than happy to stuff the lot of you into his car before driving off. One of Satoru’s other friends, Shoko, was here somewhere. Suguru was here too, but you lost sight of him sometime back. You, standing against the wall, wonder if you could take a bus back to the apartment. 

The only person in your line of sight was Satoru. 

Earlier, he’d asked if you wanted to dance. You declined. You thought he’d make a bigger fuss out of it, like usually he does when you don’t fully accommodate him. Instead, he shrugged off your rejection, casually tossing over his shoulder to ‘join in at any time’. 

Someone else was with him. She was shorter than him, even with the heels. You watch as she drags manicured nails across his arms as he leans down to kiss her. You doubt they know each other. Satoru’s just like that. Overly friendly. 

It reminds you of all the people he brings over for ‘late-night study sessions’. Apart from the noise, you don’t mind the girls and guys. Most of them are pretty nice. They actually give you a lot of relief whenever you see them. For a second there, you thought that the reason Satoru was doing this to you was that he–

So yes, the people he brings over are a nice thing. 

Someone clears his throat. 

You don’t recognize him. His grin is sheepish. Polite, you smile back. 

The small talk is a bit awkward at first. It’s hard to hear him with the screaming crowd and music. You two exchange names. He comments on the phone case you have, claiming his sister likes that character too. He perks up when he says something that makes you laugh. 

“Did you come here with anyone?” He finally asks. 

“My roommate,” you offer, turning your head to point to Gojo. 

He isn’t there. Neither is the girl he danced with earlier. You wonder if he decided to ditch you and take her home. You don’t think you’d be surprised if he did. 

At the implication you aren’t seeing anyone, he asks: 

“Can I get you a drink?” 

You think you’re about to refuse. You know Satoru and the rest of his group will be drunk by the time the night ends. You’re pretty sure the only reason you were dragged along was to play babysitter and drive them home. 

You open your mouth for a polite rejection. 

Satoru does it for you. 

He was fast. You hadn’t noticed him until he was putting himself right between you and your conversational partner. 

Satoru’s smiling. It doesn’t look friendly. 

“Hey man,” Satoru casually says, “the fuck are you doing?” 

He can read between the lines, something you’re grateful for. Within seconds, the stranger is hurrying off. Lucky, you think to yourself, watching his back disappear into the crowd. Satoru lets him go so easily. 

Unlike you. 

He turns on you almost immediately. You want to sink into the wall. 

“We’re going.” He finally says. 

You pliantly nod, letting him lead you out the seedy club. Only when you get to his car do you realize he meant just you and him. 

“What about–” You cut yourself off when you see his eyes. 

Dark. They no longer resemble the color of cloudless skies. Now, they’re more like thunder and rain. 

You’ve never seen him more furious than the entire time you’ve known him. 

You remain silent as you slip into the passenger seat, tucking yourself into the seatbelt. Satoru starts the car with a distinct rumble. The locks click into place. 

You’ve always known Gojo to be an erratic driver. Tonight feels even worse. His knuckles are white from how hard he’s squeezing the steering wheel. The car keeps speeding up and up, careening past the speed limit. You can hear your heartbeat thudding in your chest. 

And Satoru? 

Satoru looks like he’s about to murder someone. 

“Who was that?” His voice is cold, devoid of all the playfulness he had earlier tonight. 

“I don’t–” 

“Who the fuck was he?” He demands. 

You flinch, and your hands curl into fists to keep them from shaking too much. You can’t do anything but stare into the window, watching the night sky dwindle past with all the other cars on the highway. 

“I didn’t know him.” You weakly tried to defend, even if you didn’t know why. Your instinct was to placate. “He just came up to me, and we started to talk.” 

He laughs. It’s dry, bitter, and sardonic. 

“Okay.” He tells you, turning the wheel so sharply that you press further into the door. “I let you outta’ my sight for two seconds, and you’re letting some fucker feel you up?” 

“I–” 

“What’d you two talk about?” He demands. “Did he ask if he could touch your pussy? If he did, you would’ve let him, right? I mean, you were practically throwing yourself at him like a slut, so maybe the guy thought he had a chance.” 

It hurts to breathe. Something stings in your eyes as your vision blurs. 

No one has ever said such horrible things to you before. 

“Nothing like that happened.” You insist. Why was he doing this? Why was he acting like this? “Please just–” 

“Shut up.” He snaps back. “What, you seriously thought anyone would fall for the shit you pull? You think he actually cared for you? Don’t make me laugh. He only wanted your tits and holes.” 

The words Satoru barks out are mean and vulgar. Your body freely shakes, you press yourself further up against the door, feeling tears stream down your cheeks. Satoru’s voice only softens when your hiccups and sobs fill the car. 

“Baby, no, I–I didn’t mean that shit.” His voice is oddly strained. You feel fingers brush against your neck, but you only shift away. 

You didn’t want to be in that club. You didn’t want to talk to that man. You didn’t want to get into Satoru’s car. You just wanted to go home. 

He can’t even let you have that. 

“No, pretty girl, it’s okay,” Satoru comforts, “Don’t–don’t cry–Fuck fuck.” 

The car slows to a stop right in an abandoned parking lot. Satoru kills the engine, letting the car hum into silence. Whatever happens, you think it will happen now. At this very moment. You prepare yourself for the worst, squeezing your eyes shut.

But it’s even worse. 

There’s a hiss of a zipper. Your eyes open just in time to see Satoru pull out his dripping cock. 

He’s already hard. His cock curves up, almost touching the steering wheel as he wraps his fingers around the base. The tip is painfully swollen as beads of pre-cum leak down his cock. Veins bulge against his skin as he frantically pushes his hand up and down. 

Your fear melts straight into horror as you stare at him. He’s staring right at you, desperately pumping his cock with his hand. The worst part is his eyes–wide, blown out like he’s high. He looks right at you like he wants to eat you alive. 

You’re immediately reaching for the handle. No matter how much you tug, the car won’t open. You’re trapped there, forced to watch as your roommate jerks himself off in front of you because your crying turned him on. 

Your sobs quieten. All you can hear in the car is his moans and the words he mouths, your name over and over again.

You think the worst part is that he still tries to talk to you, to comfort you. 

“You’re okay–you’re okay, baby.” He’s spitting the words out through his teeth as his hand throttles his pulsing dick. “Lemme–lemme–can’t help m’self–just–”, 

You flinch when he comes. His cock spurts white cum all over his hands. 

You’re fully silent. The only thing you can hear is his heavy breathing as he cleans up. 

You think he’s about to reach for you. His fingers never make contact. 

You stare out the window. Everything’s dark. Nobody was around. No one was around to see you. To hear you. 

Even if someone was around…what could you say? 

“Can we go home, please?” 

There’s a sharp inhale.

“Sure.”  The affection in his tone makes you nauseous. 

You close your eyes.

“Anything for you, pretty girl.” 

⌂

Ten minutes later, you’re still twiddling your fingers in the waiting room. 

Getting this appointment had been excruciatingly difficult. Constant last-minute cancellations. Reschedules. It felt like they were trying to deter you from entering the housing office. 

They promised you this was a temporary arrangement. You were only supposed to be at Satoru’s place for a month, maybe even less. But then one month turned to two. Two months turned to three. You don’t think you’d last another day in that apartment. 

He was getting worse each day. It was only a matter of them until he—

A man steps into the lounge. He’s tall and lanky, carrying a smile that screams dismissive. You perk up as he squints at you. When he calls your name, you immediately rise, following him into the back of his office. 

It’s stuffy. There are papers everywhere. You squish into a chair just before he starts talking. 

It’s the usual stuff. You spell out your name, and he pulls up your housing account. He squints at the computer. 

“You said this was a temporary assignment?” He asks. 

You eagerly nod, straightening your posture. 

“Yes,” you say. “My roommate wasn’t supposed to have another one, but there was a mix-up and—“

“No.” He taps on the screen. “You said it was temporary, but here it says it’s permanent.” 

You swallow. 

“What?” 

He messes around with his mouse for a bit. Your hands feel strangely clammy. 

“Ah, here it is.” He cleared his throat. “It says you came in a month ago wanting to make the change. I see your and your roommates' signatures. You must have come here a while ago.” 

You struggle to find the words. 

“I don’t—“ 

“In any case, it’s too late to change anything now. The deadline for reassignment passed weeks ago.” He gives you a sympathetic look that strangely cuts deep into your skin. 

“Are you and your roommate having issues?”

You think about the truth. 

“No,” you hear yourself say. “Everything is fine.” 

You don’t remember much after that. You think you were polite as you stood up. You think you shook his hand. You think you walked out of his stuffy office and out of that stifling building. Everything is a blur until you step into the sunlight, feeling it beat down your face. 

You don’t want to go back to the apartment. You still feel too raw, too fresh. 

You don’t have any classes left for today. You can’t hide out on campus. Satoru will find you. He always finds you. Maybe you should stay at a friend’s place and recuperate. 

Right, you don’t have any friends. Satoru made sure of that. 

Briefly, you think about going to the police. Could you maybe use them as a buffer somehow? At the very least, it might scare him from taking this any further. 

But then you glance over at the campus buildings. The name Gojo flashes brightly in the sun. 

You aren’t stupid. You may not know his family all that well, but you know the influence of his background. There is a reason his campus apartment is thrice the size of everyone else’s. There is a reason he wasn’t supposed to have a roommate in the first place. 

He is everything. He has everything. 

You are nothing. You have nothing. 

When you arrive at the apartment ten minutes later, Satoru is already lounging on the couch. 

He excitedly waves you over. When you get inside striking range, he reaches out, pulling you onto the cushions. You pretend not to notice the way he breathes in your scent as you settle on the sofa. An arm wraps around your body, pushing you into his side. 

“Where were you, roomie?” Satoru whines. “Didn’t class end an hour ago?” It would be a harmless question if his grip weren’t so tight. You won’t be surprised if you find a bruise there in a day or two. 

Something plays on the TV. Neither of you pays attention. 

“Sorry.” It’s all you can muster to say. 

He seems satisfied with your answer–the submission of it. You find yourself counting down the clock. Seven minutes go by before you speak up again. 

“Satoru?” You ask.

There’s a distant hum of an answer. 

“Did you tell Housing I was staying?” 

For the longest while, Satoru does not speak. Then, he relaxes. He groans, easily delving into your space. A hand rests on your thigh. 

“Oh, that.” There’s a yawn. “Yeah, I just went ahead and told them you didn’t need to move out. We were getting along so well, ‘makes no sense why you’d get a different apartment, right? Sounds like a hassle moving halfway through the semester.” 

Then he shifts. You can feel him stare right down at you. 

“Unless you have a problem with that?” 

He doesn’t even bother to hide it. Pure excitement. 

Was there ever a possibility you could’ve come out unscathed had you just stood up to him earlier? Maybe you should’ve been a bit less timid when speaking to him about his music. Maybe you should’ve commented on his lack of clothing around the house. 

Or maybe it was always going to end up this way. 

“No.” You tell him, staring straight at the TV. “I don’t have a problem with that.” 

A couple of days later, another pair of panties goes missing. 

Unlike last time, you don’t bother looking for it. 

⌂

You always locked your door at night, but looking back, it was stupid to assume Satoru didn’t have a spare key. 

This is his apartment, after all. 

The lock gives with barely a click. You’re already wide awake, body rigid, tucked underneath the covers as hallway light bleeds into the room. You’re facing the textured wall, watching as his shadow drifts into your bedroom. The door shuts in a way that sounds final. It’s dark again. 

He’s quiet. You can barely hear the sounds of his breath. There’s a footstep. Then, another. Eventually, he’s right behind you. 

You don’t know what he was doing. You’re too scared to turn and check. Naively, you think if you pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave. 

One minute. 

Two minutes. He’s so still, for a moment, you wonder if you imagined the whole thing. 

The edge of your blankets lifts. Your bed creaks under his weight. His chest presses against your back. Warm hands grasp your shoulders. 

He’ll leave eventually. If you pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave. 

You squeeze your eyes shut when his head nuzzles into the crook of your neck. He inhales. 

Fingers play with the ends of your shirt. 

He’ll leave soon. He’ll leave soon. He’ll leave–

“You’re not gonna stop me, are you?” His voice makes your shoulders tense. You can practically hear his smile. 

His fingers manage to slip under your shirt. You can barely hold in your gasp when he grabs a handful of your tits. He doesn’t even bother to be gentle, squeezing and pulling until you’re practically whining. 

“C’mon.” Satoru coos into your ear. There’s a kiss on your neck. “Say it. Tell me no.” 

He nibbles the skin right on your jawline. His hair tickles your cheek. 

Your hands reach out to grab his own. You squeeze, digging your nails into his skin. 

“Please stop.” 

He laughs–the kind of laugh you’d give to a toddler if they misbehave. It feels so mean. 

“You’re so cute.” Another kiss right at your ear.

“Stop.” You repeat. His hands don’t budge, not even when you start to draw blood. “Let go. Don’t–don’t touch me–” 

He flips you right on your back. From the streetlights peaking through the blinds, you can see his face. The widest smile is stretched over his pretty lips. It looks almost manic. 

Your eyes sting. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asks. It’s almost cruel how soft his voice is. 

You shake your head. His teeth gleam. 

“Please?” He leans closer. “Just one kiss?” 

It’s heartbreaking how sweet the kiss is. Soft, barely touching as he melds his lips with yours. He keeps a hand on your chin, holding you in place before the greed takes over and he ravages you. 

By the time he pulls away, your lips are bitten and bruised.

He sinks lower, face dipping into the skin of your neck as he makes himself home there. It’s laughingly pathetic how weak you were compared to him–how little you fare when he pulls off your shirt, then your shorts. Soon, his clothes join yours, leaving a small puddle of cloth at the foot of your bed. 

He pulls away from your body, looking over the whole of you. 

“Oh, baby.” His eyes are blown out like he’s high. “I…I just wanna do everything to you.” 

You can’t hold back the tears anymore. They drip down your face, sculpting your cheeks. He coos, sinking lower to pepper your face in kisses. 

“I’m sorry, baby.” The excitement in his voice betrays him. “Don’t cry. I won’t do anything bad, I promise.” 

Liar, you want to call him, but you don’t. You can’t. Your throat traps your voice as his fingers delve underneath your panties. 

There’s no tact as he presses into you, immediately filling you up with his finger. Your pussy can barely fit one of him, almost choking when he slips in another. There’s no rhythm, no grace for how fragile you are as he thrusts his fingers deeper and deeper. 

You can barely muffle your cries as he hits a spot deep inside you. 

“See?” he asks, toying with your clit. “Not bad things, right?” 

You don’t answer, barely able to keep the noises in check as he abruptly pulls out of you. His fingers are shiny from your pussy juices. He crudely wipes his fingers on your tits. 

You’ve seen his cock before, but it looks even bigger from this angle. It slaps against your inner thighs as he finishes yanking off your drenched panties. The mushroom-tipped head brushes against your slit. He tosses one of your legs over his shoulder, opening your hole just enough to get his cock in the perfect position. 

The fight comes in too late. You think you’re reaching up to claw at his face, those pretty blue eyes. 

It dies as he bottoms out inside your pussy in one thrust. 

He doesn’t wait for you to settle down; he’s not kind enough for that. As soon as his cock sits as deep as it can into your pussy, he’s immediately moving. Your abused cunt immediately tightens around his cock, almost like you’re trying to suck him back in. 

You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel Satoru collapse on top of you. His head drops into the crook of your neck. You can hear his ragged breaths as he fucks himself deeper and deeper into you. 

“‘need you to relax for me, baby.” He hisses like it’s your fault he can’t control himself. “Can–can barely fit into this cunt.” 

To emphasize his words, he reaches down. There’s a soft slap right on your clit. You yelp. He soothes you with gentle circles with his thumb. 

“Satoru,” you can barely get out from the pressure, “please just stop–” Another smack on your pussy. Harder. 

“Can’t stop.” His breaths are ragged, and his hips shift so he can plow into you at a different angle. “Can’t ever stop. Not when I know how good you feel.” 

There’s a rasp of a laugh as your own noises get louder and louder. Your back arches. Something hot writhes in your belly the more the fucks you. He’s gripping your waist so harshly that you know they’ll leave bruises. 

It’ll pair well with the clawmarks you leave on his back as you arch further into his raw cock. 

There’s a sharp hiss before he’s kissing you again. There’s a harsh thrust that makes you moan directly into his mouth. He reluctantly pulls away, licking the taste of you out of his mouth. 

“I’m so glad I found you.” He tells you, continuing to ram into your pussy. 

“Can’t even imagine how–how someone else would react to you just givin’ yourself to ‘em. Fuck, even thinkin’ about it makes me wanna kill someone.” 

Distantly, you think about all the times you could’ve stopped him. You think about what you could’ve done differently to never cross paths with a man like Gojo Satoru. 

“You’re all for me.” He sighs, leaning close so he’s whispering right in your ear. 

He wants you to hear this right before he makes you cum all over his cock. 

“It’s all you’ll ever be.” 

You're writhing against his cock as he forces you through an earth-shattering orgasm. Your pussy clenches hard around him, milking him for all he’s worth as your climax is reluctantly dragged out of your exhausted body. 

There’s a grunt, then a sigh as something fills you to the brim. His cock pumps his cum steadily into you. There’s so much your poor pussy can’t keep it all inside. It leaks crudely from your hole. 

He stays like that for a minute, breathing you in as you start to come down from your high. Then, Satoru flops to your side, gathering up in your arms. You’re forced to lie against his chest, listening to his quickening heartbeat. 

The anger comes too late to do anything about. 

“I hate you.” You hiss as he continues to cuddle you. “I hate you, I hate you–you sick, twisted–”

“Aw, you don’t gotta’ pretend to be mean with me, pretty girl.” Satoru coos, snuggling into your exhausted figure. You can feel the hard shape of his cock press right against your thigh. 

There’s a chaste kiss on the top of your head. 

“I love you just the way you are.” 

[castielscaplan]

Braids and Soft Things

Summary: Billy watches as you braid his sister's hair.

Warnings: all the fluff, billy's not a douchebag in this

WC: 1.5K

Read on ao3!

A/N: dedicated to my fellow Billy lover @fandom-princess-forevermore

Billy’s legs were stretched out on your bed, one arm slung lazily behind his head, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers, though you’d already given him The Look for lighting it inside.

“Seriously, ash on my comforter and I’m throwing you out the window,” you’d muttered.

He just grinned, half-lidded and smug, watching you reorganize your bookshelf for the third time that week. It wasn’t even really about books anymore. You just liked when he was there, watching you like you were something worth staring at.

“Y’know,” Billy drawled, “You could come lie down and entertain me instead of alphabetizing Stephen King.”

You rolled your eyes but were already about to respond when the door creaked open and a small voice cut through.

“Y/N?” Max poked her head in, her expression a little sheepish.

Billy groaned instinctively. “Jesus, what now—”

“Billy,” you warned quietly, and then turned to Max, your voice warm and open. “What’s up, Max?”

Max stepped in holding a brush and a few scrunchies in mismatched colors. “Can you braid my hair?” she asked, cheeks a little pink like maybe she thought she was interrupting something.

Your face lit up. “Of course I can, come here.”

Billy scoffed, but not as harshly this time. He sat up a little straighter, leaning back on his elbows as Max climbed onto the bed beside you. You gently pulled her hair over her shoulder and started brushing through the red strands, careful, slow.

Max closed her eyes and relaxed into the motions, the room going quiet except for the soft tug of the brush and the occasional chirp of a bird outside.

Billy watched.

He meant to look away—meant to keep up the whole too-cool-for-this act—but something about the way you handled Max made his chest feel too full.

You were so damn patient. Fingertips gentle. Voice soft. You talked to Max the whole time, asking about her day, what book she was reading, if she wanted one braid or two. She laughed once, and it was the kind of sound Billy rarely got to hear from her.

And just like that, the annoyance ebbed.

He stubbed out the cigarette, not wanting the smell to ruin the moment.

Max caught his eye and blinked in surprise. “What?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Nothin’. Just... didn’t know you liked being babied.”

Max opened her mouth to snap back, but you pinched Billy’s leg without even looking.

“Don’t be mean. She’s allowed to want a braid and some peace.”

Billy glanced down at you, your fingers now moving through Max’s hair in practiced rhythm, and something warm curled under his ribs.

“…Looks good,” he muttered finally.

You smiled.

“She’s a good canvas.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You’re good at that.”

“At braids?” you teased.

He shook his head, eyes soft now, unguarded in the way only you ever got to see. “Nah. At takin’ care of people.”

-

Max had gone home not long after, walking away with her braid swinging over her shoulder and a handful of your leftover gummy worms in her hoodie pocket. She’d muttered a half-hearted “Thanks” to Billy on her way out, which—for her—was practically a warm hug.

Now, the room was quiet again. The kind of calm that settled thick in the summer air after a small storm of laughter and kid sister energy.

You were back on your bed, curled near Billy, a book propped open but forgotten in your lap. He’d been silent for a while. Not in a moody way—more like he was turning something over in his head, and you knew better than to poke at it too soon.

“Hey,” he said eventually, voice low.

You looked over. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting toward the now-empty space where Max had been. “So, uh… could you show me how to do that?”

You blinked. “Do what?”

“The braid thing.” He shifted, suddenly way too interested in a rip on your blanket. “Not sayin’ I wanna do it all the time or anything. Just… maybe she’d let me do it for her. One day. If she wanted.”

The corners of your mouth tugged up, but you didn’t smile just yet—not because you weren’t delighted, but because you knew if you gushed, he’d retreat into a defensive shrug and a grumble about how it was “no big deal.”

So you nodded slowly, gently. “Yeah. I can show you.”

Billy looked relieved. “Cool. Like… now?”

“Sure.” You shifted to sit in front of him, grabbing the brush and a long strand of ribbon you’d left nearby. “You’re practicing on me, though. I’m not giving you a mannequin.”

He gave you a look that was half-scoff, half-smile. “Guess I can deal with that.”

You sat between his legs, your back to his chest, and handed him the brush.

“Start by brushing through a section. No yanking, or I’ll kick you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, but his touch was gentler than you expected.

As he worked, you felt the shift happen—the tension slowly bleeding out of his frame, replaced by quiet focus. You guided him step by step: dividing the hair into three parts, showing him how to cross them, how to keep the tension even. His fingers were clumsy at first, rough from years of fights and fixing up his car, but he was trying. Really trying.

“Like that?” he asked, brow furrowed.

“Almost. Hold this piece tighter—yeah, just like that. You’re a natural.”

He snorted. “Don’t get carried away.”

You laughed and leaned back into his chest just a little, letting yourself relax fully into the moment. “You’re sweet, Billy.”

He paused, hands still tangled gently in your hair.

“No I’m not.”

“You are.”

Silence settled again. Then, in a rare, unguarded whisper:

“I just… want her to know I care. Even if I suck at saying it.”

You closed your eyes, fingers curling around his where they rested near your shoulder.

“She’ll know. Especially if you do her hair. It’s not about getting it perfect—it’s about showing up. That’s what you’re doing.”

Billy pressed a quiet kiss to the crown of your head, just once.

“…Thanks,” he said.

And you smiled, eyes still closed, braid a little uneven but perfect in every way that counted.

-

You were in the kitchen when it happened—rooting around in the fridge for something snack-worthy and debating whether string cheese counted as a real meal—when you heard it.

A very familiar voice from the living room.

“Okay, hold still. Jesus, your head’s like… slippery.”

You peeked around the corner.

Max was sitting cross-legged on the couch, a comic book resting in her lap, expression unreadable. Billy stood behind her, tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth as he focused on twisting sections of her red hair into something vaguely resembling a braid.

It was lumpy. Uneven. Too loose at the top and way too tight by the bottom. But it was unmistakably a braid.

You leaned quietly against the doorframe, arms crossed, heart about ready to melt right through your ribs.

Max finally spoke, dry as ever. “You’re bad at this.”

Billy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, don’t act like you didn’t ask me.”

“I did not,” she shot back.

“You walked in here and dropped a hair tie in my lap.”

“That was not asking.”

“Felt like it.”

Max was silent for a beat. Then: “…It’s not the worst braid ever.”

Billy blinked. “Thanks, I guess.”

You stifled a laugh, watching as he tied off the end of her braid with the bright blue scrunchie Max had tossed at him earlier. He stepped back, surveying his handiwork like a mechanic judging his own engine fix.

Max craned her neck to get a look in the mirror across the room. “It’s a little jacked.”

Billy threw a cushion at her. She dodged it easily, grinning.

But she didn’t undo the braid.

She didn’t even touch it.

You stepped in then, casual. “Looks cute,” you said, brushing a bit of hair off Max’s shoulder as you passed.

Billy gave you a look—half sheepish, half smug, like see, told you I could do it. You raised an eyebrow. “Not bad for a first time.”

“I had a good teacher,” he muttered, bumping your hip as you passed.

Max looked between you two, clearly suspicious of whatever thing was happening but too cool to comment on it.

Instead, she said, “Next time, you’re learning fishtail braids.”

Billy groaned dramatically. “I didn’t sign up for a salon.”

You just laughed, grabbing a bag of chips and flopping down next to Max. She leaned her head on your shoulder, still wearing that uneven braid like it was a crown.

And Billy?

He sat down beside you both, close but casual, arm thrown across the back of the couch—watching his sister with something new in his eyes.

Something soft. Something real.

And for once, everything felt easy.

[susanoos-wife]

Daily affirmation: Your favorite fictional guy would totally like you if he was real and if you're desperately and passionately in love with him, he'd be desperately and passionately in love with you too.

[lis-likes-fics]

Never Too Much, Just a Lot

Pairing(s): Clark Kent x Reader Word Count: 4.6k words Warnings: NSFW, smut, established relationship, Clark has a monster cock (obviously), implied multiple orgasms, they both cry bc they're pathetic, belly bulge, reaching the cervix... A/N: I don't even know, I got so carried away. I literally blacked out and wrote this. It was supposed to be drabble. Someone please help me i'm in a chokehold. I have two (2) other wips for him that aren't even done wtf

The first time Clark fucks you, he doesn't actually fuck you. Or rather, he can't. Because Clark is a freak.

Okay, he's not a freak. Sure, he's thought it over and over and over again, but if you heard him say that, you'd probably smother him with a pillow until he takes it back.

He's not a freak. He's just freakishly big.

He's above you, body slotted between your legs as your chest rises and falls with breaths faster than usual. He's pink all over—his cheeks, his ears, his chest, his pretty cock bobbing heavily against your thigh.

God, you think you're going to pass out just looking at him. You try to imagine how big he's going to feel inside of you, and the anticipated pleasure is driving you to madness.

Meanwhile, Clark's looking down at you like he's about to drop down to his knees and apologize. The man is as pathetic as he is huge.

He's got one hand at the side of your head and the other at your hip. He looks so apologetic that you wonder if maybe he will actually split you apart like a fucking watermelon. You're definitely wet enough now—he made sure of that with a mixture of arousal, spit, and lube. If he can't fit, you honestly don't know if he ever will.

“I need you to tell me if it's too much,” he murmurs, though his words are so insistent. He leaves no room for uncertainty as he looks down at you with pleading eyes. “You have to tell me if I'm hurting you. Please. Or, so help me God, we won't do this again.”

His threat has you nodding quickly. When he gives you a sideways look, you amend. “Okay, Clark.” You raise a hand to his cheek, and he melts into your touch like the pathetically-in-love man he is. “I trust you.”

His breath stutters like he's already inside of you. He dips down, captures your lips as a precursor and an apology in advance. “Thank you,” he says.

He peels his hand from your hip and takes his cock in his hand, pumps the length of himself a couple of times when a hesitant groan. He lines himself up with you, but before he does anything else, his eyes find you one more time. It's like he's trying to ask “Are you sure?” You just nod, arms flopped around his neck. “I trust you,” you say again.

He lets out a long breath, pressing the head of his cock against you and already biting back a moan at how wet you are at first contact. He has to drag himself along the seam of you a bit, just some extra slick in case the copious amounts already sticking to you wasn't enough.

With all the control he can muster, he steels his nerves as he focuses on slowly pushing inside of you. Your eyes are already shutting, head tilted up and lips parted at the feeling of the tip of him slowly spreading you open for him. It's such a tight squeeze already he hasn't even managed to get the head of his cock fully inside of you, past that point where you'll suck him in like a greedy thing.

And when you do, he loses his mind. You're so tight, and he's so big, and you don't realize you're already tearing up until you feel the wetness of them rolling down your cheeks.

When he sees them, he stops immediately—not pulling out, just pausing. “Are you okay? Am I hurting you? Do you need a break?” He already sounds devastated, like you're sobbing beneath him in an unintelligible mess. Sure, you are an unintelligible mess but you're not sobbing (yet).

“I'm okay.” You're quick to reassure him, your voice a few pitches higher and your fingers tightening around the hair at the back of his neck. You peel your eyes open to look at him, glassy but so full of love that he thinks he'll explode right there. “I'm okay, I s-swear. Keep going.” The last bit comes out in a breathless sigh.

He raises a hand to your cheek, strokes you like you're so fragile—and to him you are. Compared to Clark, you're a doll made of glass, held together by hopes and dreams and needing the gentlest touch, lest you shatter in his hands.

“Okay,” he breathes, stroking the apple of your cheek with his thumb. Slowly, slowly, he starts to push again. It's a slow splitting that has your fingers grasping and your sounds catching in your throat. You swear you can feel every ridge of the veins decorating him pulsing inside of you. You think you can feel him every time he breathes.

It's a big stretch. It's a little warm, the way it feels to be opened up by him. You focus on looking at him—which might be a mistake because he already looks absolutely wrecked—and match your breathing to his.

“Clark,” you whine as you start to come up on the swell of him. It doesn't hurt necessarily, but it has your thighs shaking as you struggle to accommodate him.

“I know, honey, I know,” he says, his voice as shaky as yours. He dips his head and puffs out a breath of air against your neck, lifting up once more to kiss you quickly. “You're doing so, so good for me, sweetheart. We're almost halfway.”

“Almost?” you whine, looking and sounding every bit as bewildered as you feel.

He pauses again, looking at you with wide, almost scared eyes. “Do you want to stop?” He breathes into the space between you, pushing past the ache and the squeeze and the way he's fucking straining to control himself just to keep from bursting inside you already—or worse, pushing too deep before you're ready.

But you know he would never do that. Clark would fly directly into the sun before he ever hurt you.

You shake your head quickly. Although the corners of your eyes are wet with tears and your breath is so heavy that you think you'll pass out, you slide your hand to his cheek and kiss the corner of his lips. “No, no. Please, keep going.” You take a moment to catch your breath, he lets you. When you look at him again, it's with a smile that makes him dizzy. “I can take it, handsome. I promise, I can take it.”

And he thinks that maybe he's in the wrong here because there is no earthly way that he could ever deserve someone like you. He thinks, briefly, that he has stolen you from someone who deserves you more, swept you away to hoard for his own like a dragon to its treasure (he's definitely the size of one).

“Okay, okay.” He's breathless, glancing down between your bodies where you're joined. Fuck, he can see himself beginning to show through your tummy, and he has to tear his eyes away or he won't last. That would be embarrassing.

You don't think so.

“Doin’ so good,” he whispers against your skin, dipping down to press kisses all over your face as he continues to ease inside of you.

Yeah, he has to be splitting you open. You wouldn't be surprised to look down and see a tear running right through the middle of you. You're so lucky he's yours and you're his forever because, after this, you wouldn't be able to take anyone else (not that you'd ever dream of doing so).

“Takin’ it so well,” he huffs. “Squeezin’ me so tight. Gosh, you're s-so perfect, pretty.”

You're whining beneath him, trying so hard not to wrap your legs around his waist. He needs you open, as open as you can get. You're squirming, though you try hard not to. “So good, honey,” you gasp. “‘S so good, ‘m gonna…”

You don't know what you're going to do. Cum? Cry? Spontaneously combust? Perchance, even, keel over and die?

“Yeah?” he breathes, dropping a hand to your thigh to spread you a little wider. He goes an inch deeper, faster than before just from the shift alone. Your head tilts back, your jaw slack. “Sorry. I'm sorry. Didn't mean to do that, sorry.”

You're shaking your head, bringing it forward again to press against his temple in an effort to ease his worries. “S’okay. Feels good, so good.”

His breath shudders in a small moan. “Promise?”

Your head is full of air, you think. You can't get a single thought in there, other than Clark and his big cock and his big hands and his big heart. “Fuck—promise. I promise, baby. I promise.”

His response is a strangled sound in his throat. He drops his head down briefly into the crook of his neck before quickly raising it again to see your face. He wants to be able to watch you as he fills you, needs to know if it hurts, if it's good, if you're still with him.

He's saying “okay” again, repeating it under his breath as he continues on. “Almost there, honey. So close, doin’ so freaking perfect for me.”

The fact that there's more is making you crazy dizzy. How is there more? You may have to take back what you said early about him not being a freak because this is freakish activity.

He has to ease the last couple inches of himself into you with tiny thrusts. It takes everything he has not to give into the pull of you and just shove the rest of him in—especially when you're squeezing around him like you and damn near sucking him into you like a vacuum.

You don't even realize he's in until his whole body sighs, until you feel his hips perfectly flush against yours as he relaxes just the slightest amount. His body presses lightly into yours, still hovering but needing to be close. Clark groans when he feels the rise of him in your belly against his.

“Fits,” he huffs. “Holy crap, it fits. I'm in, sweetie.” He's losing his mind over it, too. He presses his hand against your tummy, he whines when he feels your abdominal pulse against the pulse of his cock. He can't think straight, vision bleary and hands grabby and head fallen into the curve of your neck.

You're barely able to keep your eyes open, so you're happy when he dips into your neck so you can close your eyes and bask in him.

He's stretching you so wide. It's achy and tight but so, so good inside of you. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, and he lets you, breathing in the scent of you as he tries not to cry into your shoulder at how good he feels.

“Takin’ all o’ me, honey,” he mewls, sounding as pathetic as he feels. “Dunno how you're doin’ it. You're perfect.”

You're whining like you've been hurt, but he knows you haven't—he knows the difference. You're panting into the air, into his chest, into the crook of his neck. He's just so thick and warm and deep. You pull your legs around him to try and get more of him inside of you, even as he's fully bottoming out where there is no end or beginning of either of you.

“Clark,” you whimper, savoring the stretch and leaning your hips up for more of it.

“I know, I know,” he says. “I know, honey. Just—gimme a sec, okay?”

Because if he doesn't take a moment to breathe, he's going to cum inside of you right here and now.

It's a long time before he moves. You're squirming and whining and begging him to move, to fuck you senseless (despite the fact that you're already senseless).

He takes a breath before slowly beginning to pull out of you. The drag of your gummy walls around him is hot, and—if you're being completely honest—it hurts a little.

You tighten your fingers in the curls at the base of his neck, and he takes it as a sign with how tight you've pulled as he pauses. “You okay? You still with me, honey?”

You nod, the movement choppy. “Yeah, jus’...” A deep line is etched between your furrowed brows, concentration and something vulnerable centered there. “Jus’ a little slower? I—hah—it’s a lot.”

He's stroking your cheek, wiping at sweat and tears and the tiniest bit of wetness left behind by many of his kisses. “Too much?”

“N-no,” you insist. “Not too much, just a lot.”

The fact that he's able to be this put together as you're squeezing his cock like you're trying to flatten it to a straw is beyond him. He lowers his body to press flat against yours, his elbows supporting himself as he cradles your head in his large hands. His thumbs stroke your cheeks lovingly. “Tell me when.”

You take a moment to really think about that. You do need a second to get your head together. Between the pleasure and slight pain of the stretch, you have to catch your breath. You nod gently. “When.”

Clark doesn't continue pulling out. Instead he thrusts himself so slowly back into you until he's just as deep as before.

You whimper, feeling the head of his cock pressing into a spot in you that has warmth coiling in every inch of your body, dominating your belly and your thighs and the heart in your chest (should you see a doctor?—it doesn't matter).

“Deeper.” You don't even realize you've said it until he's following your command, the blunt mushroom tip of his cock, already pressing against that spot deep within you, pushing just a bit harder. He isn't rough, he isn't fast, his hands on you aren't even just a miniscule too tight.

When he presses into you, you think your vision goes white, but you're not sure because the only thing in your fuzzy brain right now is the fact that he feels so good in that spot.

“Clark, right there,” you gasp shallowly. “Please, I—fuck!”

Clark rolls his hips into you. He doesn't pull out more than an inch, breathing loudly in your ear as he focuses his deep, shallow thrusts against a part of you that has your jaw dropped and your eyes shut and your tongue feeling too big in your mouth.

Open-mouthed breaths leave your chest, and you wrap your legs tighter around him just to keep him that much closer.

He's a goner, he thinks. And how is he supposed to not be when you're whimpering and moaning and crying for him like he's holding your heart in his hand, stroking it gently and telling it that it's the prettiest thing he's ever seen in his entire life?

This feeling blossoms all over your body. It starts from deep inside you, spreads through your thighs and your chest, goes out to your legs and arms and tingles in your fingers, your toes, the very tips of your tongue and ears. If you could live in this feeling forever, you would be perfectly content to never do anything else in your life.

“More. Please, baby, I need more. More, more, please.” You're rambling, and Clark thinks maybe you might actually kill him.

“I got you,” he puffs. “You're doin’ so perfect for me. Y’feel so nice and—and tight.” He drops one hand down between your bodies and lays it flat against your belly. You can both feel the bulge of him showing through, and it makes you both audibly gasp. “Feel that? That's me.” He whines, presses his fingers gently into the curve at the very top of him. “Right there, that's how deep I am.”

You move your hand to join his, and he grabs it gently to guide it right where he wants it. You curse at the feeling, a prominent rise in your tummy that makes your head spin. “That's me. That's me, honey. So deep, so good.”

He's the one who's rambling now. He doesn't bother with pulling out of you in any way. When he thrusts into you, it's just to press himself deeper into that spot until your whines sounds less pleasurable and erring on the side of uncomfortable. He makes a note of it in his head, kissing an apology into your shoulder before he's finding a steady rhythm that has you gasping and moaning and wriggling beneath him.

He's not even fucking you—not really. It's nowhere close to being able to be described as fucking. He's rocking his hips, he's rolling them deep within, he's coaxing the pleasure out of you like he would with his fingers against the spongey part that makes your eyes cross.

He's cooing at you: “so good for me” and “my perfect girl” and “doing so well” and more praise than your heart can physically handle. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, bring him down close. You don't let him move even an inch away, and he doesn't try. He tucks his arms under your back, hugs you to him as he continues to thrust inside of you.

It feels so good, you can't even begin to wrap your head around the pleasure. He's deep, he's big, he's stretching you out like one of his condoms that don't fit—the only difference being that those actually broke and you didn't (at least, not physically) (your brain is teetering on the edge of broken).

You feel your need tugging inside of you, building earnestly as he continues to moan and gasp into your neck like you're the one fucking him. “Cl-ark. I needa cum so bad—please, I wanna cum for you.”

He sounds like he's in pain when he groans. Wordlessly, he snakes one hand between your bodies once more and rubs at your clit, still a little achy from before just damnit, does it feel good. You're starting to sound like you are sobbing in his ear now, and he pulls back to check that it's still out of pleasure and not pain under the guise of simply wanting to kiss the tip of your nose.

Your foreheads are pressed together, damp with sweat. Your noses brush against one another as you breathe into each other, weak and pathetic and so fucking perfect for each other.

You're not making any sense—or, at least, your words aren't. You're pretty sure you're speaking gibberish, and you don't care to stop as you continue to babble about how good he's making you feel. He understands every word and responds in kind.

“Y’feel so good, sweetheart. I'm not gonna last,” he whines. A particularly deep roll has you seeing stars almost brighter than the ones in his eyes.  He's still speaking to you, but it's white noise as the ebb of your upcoming release fills every ounce of bone and muscle and tendon you have.

Your moans sound more like yelps in his ears, these high-pitched noises that go straight to his dick and have him throbbing inside of you. He's still pressed firmly against your body, and he's not sure if he's imagining it when he feels the way the bulge of him moves in your belly and against his.

“I'm—ohh, I'm gonna cum,” you moan, legs and arms tightening.

He's rutting into you now, and the slight, dull pain of it feels so good right now. You think you're going to pass out. The way he's making you feel doesn't seem like something a human should even be able to take.

You're chanting his name like a prayer, and he's so in love that all he can do in response is praise your name right back to you. “Come on, honey. Let go, let me feel you.”

The sound you make is inhuman. It's this high-pitched mewl in the back of your throat that you weren't sure you could even make. It rings in the air, it vibrates in his ears and makes it so, so hard for him to keep his head on straight.

When you cum, your pussy flutters around him like butterfly wings—warm, wet, tight wings that suck him in like they never want to let him go. Your hips roll against his like he's just not deep enough, even as he's already pressing against your cervix. You grasp at him and shudder and whine and cry and beg for him as he's making you feel good.

And Clark. Oh, Clark. He really hasn't meant to do it.

It takes him completely by surprise when you clamp down on him so tightly that it knocks him off the edge like he's been hit by a freight car (a freight car strong enough to knock him off balance). Instead of pulling out as he intended, he'd pressed in deeper.

He thrusts deep like he's trying to be inside of you. He lifts your hips just a bit and tries to crawl his way into you with knees that slip slightly against the sheets beneath you. He chokes on a moan and then whines in your ear like he's going to cry, too.

And when you feel this strange pop! deep inside of you as the head of him presses past something you didn't realize could even be breached, you stop mewling all together as you suck in a deep gasp and stare wide-eyed at the ceiling like you've been enlightened.

The warmth of him spills inside of you, the two of you grasping onto each other for dear life at the overwhelming pleasure. You think you can actually feel the way he fills you to the brim, your tight pussy milking him for all he's worth. Even when his hips stutter and threaten to pull back, you swallow the sob that tries to escape and fix your heels into his back so he's forced to stay inside. He's not complaining.

The haze that clouds your minds is thick and heavy (like his cock) and takes a while to sift through. You catch your breaths, you hold onto each other like you'll fall over a never-ending cliff if you loosen your grasps for even a single second. He mouths at your neck, you scratch his scalp, and you both let the last sparks of pleasure lick at your bones like a settling fire before you even think about allowing your minds to return to some semblance of normal.

Clark is the first to come to, but only because he realizes that he's still inside of you. And he already came. Inside of you.

“Shoot!”

You whine like you're going to start sobbing (this time out of pure sorrow) as you feel him peeling his sweaty body from yours. He shushes you gently, using one hand to stroke through your hair as he looks down to where you're still connected. There's a white ring around the base of his cock where your arousal had chosen to gather. Looking past skin and blood, he can see himself so fucking deep. He's so deep, the tip of him has actually pushed past your womb where the majority of his cum has filled you up.

He shudders—then feels a little guilty for it because he still hasn't pulled out—before placing a hand to your belly and ignoring the way it has his dick throbbing from how he can still feel that fucking bulge.

“N-no…” you protest meekly as you feel him beginning to pull out of you. You feel that pop! again as he retreats and want to cry. “Clark, please.”

He just keeps shushing you, watching with way too much pleasure as his cock slowly drags out of you. It takes a while (though nowhere even nearly as long as it had to get it in) to pull out. He nearly curses at the sight, the ones on the inside and the outside.

You wrap your legs tighter, digging your heels even harder. But he's entirely unfazed—it's like he doesn't even register you trying to keep him in.

(He feels it. Oh, he feels it. The greedy way you keep trying to suck him back in, even as he's drawing out, is making it so hard to keep his resolve. He gnashes his teeth so hard, he's surprised they don't crack under the pressure.)

“Clark, please, please.”

“I know, honey,” he says, sounding completely and thoroughly wrecked. “I know, but I gotta.”

When he's fully out of you, he's absolutely gutted when he sees the way your pussy refuses to fully close. There's still a gap where he once was, wanting him back, begging for him to come back. His teeth grind harder.

He shuffles down to his elbows, kissing you all the way down until he can properly take a look at you. “Oh, baby.” His thumb so lightly traces the lip of your pussy, and that tiny movement is enough to make you jolt. “She's still open for me.” His voice is strangled. “Took me so well, and she still wants me inside her.”

He's talking about your pussy like it's a person, and it's making your dizziness a thousand times worse. “Needs you,” you correct (pathetically).

Clark makes this face like he's been punched in the gut. “She needs me inside her,” he reaffirms. He leans in and presses the softest kisses along your inner thighs, against your fluttering lips, against your clit (though only once because you're visibly shaking, and your entire body jumps when he does it).

You feel so perfect (you'd feel even better if he'd get back inside you, but alas). Clark moves up to rejoin you. He scoops you up in his arms and rolls over onto his back, your body placed right on top of his furnace-like chest.

“Didn't mean to…” he licks his lips, drawing lazy circles between your shoulder blades so you're shuddering on top of him like a leaf in the wind, “...to do it inside. Was an accident.”

It takes a long time to find your voice, mostly because you're half asleep and drifting deeper. “S’okay,” you whisper, your voice a bit raspy with overuse. “Feels so good.” (It comes out more as “fissoguh”, but he knows what you meant.)

He chuckles so softly, and the sound hums against your body and makes it harder to stay awake, especially with the way he holds you. Like you're everything.

“I know, but I shouldn't have.” His fingers card through your hair.

You would have responded, said something along the lines of, “If you didn't, I would’ve cried so you felt bad about it after,” but your tongue currently isn't working. And even if it was, you would have failed to speak anyway. Instead, you just hum your disagreement.

“Yeah, yeah,” he lightly teases, pinching your side to make you squirm. He continues to soothe you, trying to quiet the nerves in his head telling him that maybe he overdid it and maybe he hurt you. The idea makes him cold with fear.

You hear it in his silence. Even in the fog of your fatigue, you can hear the worries eating away at him. He's prone to worrying himself silly, especially about you, and you'd promised him you would be there to kiss it away.

So you turn your head through the haze, tucking yourself into the space of his neck. You press a kiss to his throat, gentle and hardly there but long and loving.

Clark smiles, tries to swallow the lump in his throat. He kisses your hairline, lingering for a long time, his thanks to you for caring so much.

“Love you,” you murmur, and it's the truest sound on Earth.

He breathes through his nose, still stroking. “I love you, too, pretty.” And you believe him because why on Earth would you not?

Clark Kent taglist: @the-nerdy-goddess @disillusioniary Tag yourself here...

[melwritez]

Yandere scientist who wants to experiment on you.

He'd treat you like his little lab rat. All collared and chained in his hidden basement to do all sorts of experiments on you.

He would inject you with DNA to grow cat like appendages. A cute fluffy tail and the softest ears that'd flick and startle in alertness anytime you heard the steps of his shoes approaching.

At first you would fight him, using your new sharp claws and biting at him. He would get scratched up and making him bleed would be the one pleasure you could afford in this hellhole but eventually you're forced to seek him out.

He would leave for hours on end. The isolation would be draining. You craved companionship and when he finally thin you've learned your lesson he would welcome you back with open arms. He would pet your head and coo in your ears about how good you were. You would purr and preen at his praises, the feline part of your body grasping for any ounce of affection.

Slowly you would grow dependent on him. He would notice your walls breaking. You would purr anytime he touched you. Would wait by the door to welcome him in with a big smile, just waiting to hear his praises of how good you've been. Eventually he would deem you ready to leave the basement. But of course he needs precautions in case you get any ideas.

He would click a cute bell collar on your neck and attach a leash on you, and just like a real cat he would insert a chip into you. You would never be able to escape him. But at this point that would be the last thing on your mind. Finally after months of training he had you all pliant and soft just for him.

----

Hope you guys enjoy this! I just wrote everything that came to mind on the spot. I got inspired to write this because I saw artwork of dotorre doing experiments on aether 🤤

Let me know if you want more or I'd you have ideas to build off on! Who knows. Maybe I'll write an actual fic or work on this more to refine the idea.

[running-with-kn1ves]

Something something, perverted stalkers who watch you through your window.

She thinks she's being slick, that you haven't noticed her peeking from the corner under a poor disguise hardly covering her face. Maybe a part of her wants you to catch her, to see her touching herself in time with the way you do. Her footprints leave tracks outside your window, her breath fogging up the glass as only a bedside lamp lights up your curled figure.

Its the fifth time in a row this week she's caught you masturbating, and each night it gets harder for her to stop from digging a gloved hand down her pants. Your window is even left slightly open this time, curtains drawn as a cool breeze wafts in. She can hear you clear as day, biting into the pillow to muffle your moans. Your thighs cling around it, humping the pillow like its your lifeline. You're nearly fully naked, loose pajama shirt pushed up to show your breasts pressed against the sheets, a thin pair of panties adding an extra layer of friction to the damp pillow.

Fuck, its like you're putting a show on for her, arching your back as your clit grinds perfectly against the pillow, your hair messy as you cling to the sheets. Every moan, every "please" and "I need you, ngh, don't stop--" sending jolts to her groin. Her jaw clenches, desperate to know who you're talking about, what you're imagining. She can't stop herself from pushing her hand beneath her underwear against her clit, rubbing it each time you roll your hips forward. But she's caught off guard by the turn of your head, your glassy eyes searching.

You look out your window to stare right at her, pushing your hips harder against the pillow, crying out as you slide a hand between your legs. And her name rolls off your tongue, desperate as you dare to hold her gaze.

[yanderejustforyou]

You Were I wasn't

I was never there - the weekend Sick and Twisted playlist Satoru Gojo x reader college - Jock Gojo

People always notice Gojo Satoru first.

It’s unavoidable.

He’s loud, cocky, untouchable, the kind of guy who walks across campus like everything already belongs to him. Captain of the team. Surrounded by people. Always laughing.

Always wanted.

You weren’t supposed to be part of that.

You knew it.

Everyone did.

It started small.

It always does.

Late nights in the library when he’d show up out of nowhere, dropping into the seat across from you like it was reserved.

“Help me,” he’d say, sliding his notes over.

You’d frown. “You never pay attention in class.”

He’d grin. “That’s why I have you.”

It wasn’t flirting.

Not really.

At least—that’s what you told yourself.

Then it turned into texts.

Then rides.

Then him showing up at your place at 2AM, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy, acting like it was normal.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he’d say.

And you’d let him in.

Every time.

--------------------------------

The silence in your apartment is a physical weight, the kind that rings in your ears until you can hear the frantic, uneven thumping of your own heart.

You stare at the screen of your phone, the blue light casting a sickly, pale glow over your knuckles.

Gojo: you home?

It’s such a simple request. A tether he throws out whenever he feels himself drifting too far into the shallow end of his own life. Usually, you’re the anchor. Usually, you catch the rope and pull him back to shore.

But tonight, the rope feels like a noose.

You remembered -

He never stayed the night.

That should’ve been your first clue.

“You like him.”

Your friend says it like it’s obvious.

You shake your head immediately. “No, I don’t.”

A lie.

A bad one.

Because you do.

You like the way he looks at you when it’s just the two of you.

Not like the jock.

Not like the campus king.

Something softer.

Something real.

But only when no one else is around.

“Then what are you?” your friend presses.

You hesitate.

“…I don’t know.”

The first time you realize something’s wrong—

Is when you see him at a party.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s across the room, surrounded like always—laughing, loud, untouchable.

There’s a girl next to him.

Too close.

You remember the way he looked at that girl at the party, the effortless way he let her hand rest on his forearm, the way he didn't pull away, didn't even flinch. It wasn't that he loved her; it was that he didn't care enough to stop her.

His head tilted toward her like he’s actually listening.

Your stomach drops.

Because that look—

That soft, quiet one he gives you?

It’s gone.

And that’s when the hollow truth finally cracked open in your chest: Gojo Satoru doesn’t belong to anyone because he doesn't let himself exist in the spaces between people. He’s a ghost that haunts your 2 AMs and vanishes by dawn. You weren't his secret you were his hiding spot.

You turn to leave.

You set the phone face down on the nightstand. The vibration of the next text makes the wood hum.

Gojo: Answer me. I know you’re awake.

Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. The air in the room feels thin, cold, like the oxygen is being sucked out through the cracks in the window frame. Suddenly, there’s a sound at your front door, the heavy, rhythmic thud of a fist against wood. Not a frantic pounding, but something steady, demanding, and impossibly arrogant.

You don’t move from your bed. You can’t. But the door doesn't hold. There’s the click of a lock being bypassed, he always did have a way of getting into places he wasn't invited, and then the heavy tread of boots in your hallway.

He doesn't call your name. He just walks into your bedroom and stops at the foot of your bed. He’s still wearing the jacket from the party, the scent of expensive cologne and someone else’s cigarette smoke clinging to the fabric. In the dark, his eyes aren't bright; they’re two bottomless pits of shadow.

"You didn't text back," he says. His voice is stripped of the playful lilt, leaving something raw and jagged underneath. "I don't like being ignored."

You sit up, pulling the blanket around your shoulders like a shield. "You should go back to the party, Satoru. I'm sure she's wondering where you went."

The silence that follows is suffocating. He steps closer, the bed creaking under his weight as he sits on the edge, invading your space with the practiced ease of a man who has never been told no. He reaches out, his fingers cold as they hook under your chin, forcing you to look at him. His touch usually feels like electric silk; tonight, it feels like a warning.

"Is that what this is about?" he asks, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. He leans in until his forehead is almost touching yours, his breath ghosting over your lips. "You’re upset because I was talking to someone else? You know what they mean to me. You know they're nothing."

"That's the problem," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Everyone is 'nothing' to you. And I'm starting to realize I'm just at the top of that list."

His grip on your jaw tightens not enough to bruise, but enough to pin you in place. The mask finally slips.

For the first time, you don't see the Captain, the King, or the Flirt. You see the vacuum. The hollow man who takes and takes because he doesn't know how to fill the space inside himself.

"You aren't 'nothing,'" he snarls, and for a split second, he looks almost human in his frustration.

He lunges forward, pinning you back against the pillows, his body a crushing weight that reminds you exactly how much stronger he is. He grabs your wrists, slamming them into the mattress on either side of your head. "You’re the only thing that feels real. You don't get to decide I'm not here. I'm right here."

He leans down, his teeth grazing your earlobe in a sharp, desperate nip. "You're going to stay awake," he breathes, his voice a dark, hollow promise. "And you're going to remind me that I exist. Even if I have to break you to do it."