[besidesjustmyamour]

benefits to taming the tiger

" fall in love, again and again "

pairing: whitetiger!satoru x houseleader!reader x oldflame!suguru

𓃮 the path between spring and winter strays between a love as old as time and eyes that refuse to recognize what the soul yearns for. but you tip and crash the pliant lines of fate. now, you can see that there are definite benefits to taming the tiger.

wc: 16k

warnings: initially anal, fingering, rimming, heavy voyeurism on reader's end, orgasm control, power dynamics/corruption. later on, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, unprotected piv, suguru eats satoru's cum out of you (yeah.), breeding kink, gentle dom suguru and whiny sub satoru (AS ALWAYS!) + satoru cums practically untouched btw, NO dp sadly (i got lazy), HIGH praise, heated homoerotic dynamic

a/n: sorry when i picked out the colors i saw green and blue and it didn't clock to met that. dreamnotfound. does anyone get it. am i just weird. fuck me in the ass anyways HUUUUUUGE THANK YOU TO @nanamitaaa for writing the most DELICIOUS smut i have read in so long and my wifey juju who betaread for me and helped me fix up grammatical inconsistences (love you my wifey)

ALSO. if you didn't know this is inspired by the bl manwha "taming the tiger" by brothers without a tomorrow. it's SO good and it actually has plot! i read it and immediately thought of satosugu and then realized that reader x satosugu in this dynamic is honestly peak. mita and juju thought so too, so now you have this!

general attendance (taglist): @nanamitaaa @cupidstrace @dazedlavender @yukiloverz @indiewritesxoxo

find the rest of varied venom here!

find the rest of my works here!!

dividers by sisterlucifergraphics on tumblr !!!

Nobody dared to touch that which was yours.

“The child of the woman who slit my throat is crying, yes?”

As if on cue, the newborn boy’s shriek split the air.

For a woman whose sole purpose was to provide an heir to the house, the sound sent a chill down your spine. You didn’t let it show on your face, though, as you let the tip of the sword drag on the dirt.

Comfort was a luxury your father’s concubine could afford no longer. Since his passing, the woman had mysteriously grown with child, most alarmingly the son of your father. Just the sight irked you. More so were the rumors that the child was not even his to begin with.

And if her son was to take the throne from you, he would have to do it with his mother dead.

The woman laid strewn upon heaps of hay, stained with her blood. Her lips were cracked. And for once, you were glad you weren’t able to have children. Glad that your one purpose might have caused you death, and you had narrowly escaped its hands at the behest of the entire nation’s scorn.

“I had thought that Father passing before the child was a blessing from the heavens,” you mused. “Now I see it for what it truly is—a curse, as the woman who cut my neck can never be repaid in kind.”

The ladies in the corner, cowering, lowered their heads in shame, refusing to meet your eyes. The baby wriggled from where he was choked in blankets next to the still body of his mother, shrill cries ripped from his throat.

“My lady?” someone called out, voice small.

The sword clattered to the ground as you knelt, curling your fingers under the small bundle. “Small. Yet this little thing has made true the wish I held for so many years of my life. To think, this newborn was the one to kill that woman instead of me…”

You smiled and pressed your lips softly to his wet, wrinkled skin. The baby made a soft, keening sound before relaxing in your arms.

“You took my revenge for me.”

The sun rose. The moon wept.

And yet with each day that passed, your brother grew more ill and frail. With the possibility of an heir expelled by you, the servants of the house turned to gossip about the fate of your sickly brother.

“You still have not managed to find any blood?”

Your advisor bowed at the waist, quivering. Pathetic. “My apologies, my lady. It is just…”

“I’ve been told the butchers are not procuring goods today, either.” You pressed the tip of the pipe to your teeth. “Why?”

“The butchers live in a small village within the mountains,” he explained timidly, “but I’m told one of them has recently passed. When one dies, the butchers halt their slaughtering, as they believe that bad luck can become attached to the meat—”

“Advisor,” you cut in, leaning forward, “if you die, that would be the end of your family line. Correct?”

There was only a split second of shock written on his face before he fell to his knees, crouched into a bow with a squeak.

“Please forgive me, my lady!” he pleaded. “It will not happen again!”

You glared down at his cowering form before turning back to the entrance of the ancestral home. “My brother requires his medicine urgently. If I leave this to your hand, something like this could happen again. Lead me to the butchers’ village before the day’s end.”

You could sense his reluctance washing off of the pale man in waves, evident even as the horse beneath you trodded the path of the forest. Indeed, the village was shrouded in the mountains.

It would be serene if not for the feeling of eyes watching you.

“My lady,” he began quietly, “must you accompany us?”

You glanced off to the side. “Is there a problem?”

“It’s just…” he hesitated. “I’ve heard the tiger’s son lives in this village.”

“Tiger’s son?”

A butcher girl gave birth to a child—a healthy baby boy, with no father. The son grew to be so strong, they said he could even carry entire cows by himself.

The man stressed his eyes. Like the azure of tigers.

“You may think all butchers look strange,” he continued, “but on top of his foreign features, they say his eyes are the deepest pools of water, so deep you could find yourself lost in them, if they caught you alone at night.”

It was almost dreamy, the lilt of his voice.

“A tiger, hm?” you mused. “Very well. I have yet to go on a spring hunt, so the timing is perfect.”

“Pardon, my lady?” the man replied, snapping out of his trance.

“Let’s hunt a tiger.”

You left your little party of worried bodyguards in the shallow part of the forest, where you promised you would return before the sun had abandoned you. Your advisor was not pleased.

That hadn’t stopped the tip of your head, inclined to a few wary butchers standing at the log post at the head of the village.

“I’m looking for the man they call the tiger’s son?” you asked.

“Oh, you cannot possibly mean—”

“Seems like—”

One of the men dipped his head, beard curling to the nape of his neck. “My lady, why do you seek him? Even if you call, he does not come out at night—”

“You fool, how dare you?” his companion scolded. “How can he refuse when her honorable ladyship calls?”

“Apologies, my lady,” he mumbled. “His eyes have a way of crossing travelers at night, and he’s gotten into trouble for it quite a bit around the town.”

“Show me the way.”

The pitiful stack of wood lumped together could not be an excuse for a house. No, it could not. But the men stopped in front of the shameful shack, careful to keep a distance.

“You have a guest!” one of them shouted into the silent night. “Strongest!”

Strongest. What a peculiar name, and what a peculiar way to live.

“Are you there?” the bearded man called, “come out, please.”

But only silence met their pleas.

The moon began to bathe the rolling hills in a pale glow.

“This is a shame,” you said softly, walking up to the bearded man. There was no fear in his eyes as he held your gaze. Pitying. “I absolutely loathe being lied to.”

Your sword never missed its target. The man fell to his knees, clutching his eye. Groveling suited the peasants. They had spoken to you in such an ill manner, so what more did they deserve?

“So tell me the truth. There isn’t anybody here.”

“N-No,” the other man attempted, swallowing hard as the tip of your blade grazed his bobbing throat, “this is where the tiger’s son lives!”

“Really?” The side of your mouth curved. “Let us try this then.”

You walked straight up to the rotting wood, to the scent of something vaguely threatening, something irritating building in the air. You shook off the wafting scent and leaned in close, lips nearly brushing the splintered door.

“Listen, strongest,” you drawled, dripping in mockery, “every time I call your name, one of these villagers will die. It started with an eye, and it will end with lives. I do not hesitate.”

No response.

You returned to the man, shivering at the edge of the yard, lifting your sword.

“Strongest.”

There was a moment of silence. You could have chopped the man’s head off.

The door creaked open.

“Why are you looking for me, my lady?”

That voice from the shadows with the strangest eyes you’d ever seen sent a heat pooling in your stomach, a strange feeling lapping at your chest.

The man in the doorway wore nothing over his exposed chest, merely rags at his arms and billowing around his thighs. The planes of his muscles tilted into pale moonlight as you blinked, mouth dry, suddenly at a loss for words.

He was not. Those eyes met yours once more, cerulean and shimmering with a depth even the universe could not begin to comprehend.

“I am a nobody to you,” he continued, voice quiet.

“Bow your head, and l-lower your eyes,” the man behind you barked, still trembling at the contact of your sword to his neck.

A laugh escaped your throat before you could stop it.

The man on the ground stilled, sitting up. “My lady?” A bag of coins fell against his chest.

“I will take him.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m looking for a personal slaughterer, one who would live at my estate, of course,” you explained. “It is not very entertaining, but you would be provided for, and if you need, I shall offer payment.”

The man in the doorway blinked, milky tresses teetering on the edge of silver brushing against solid wood.

“You see, I despise the ordinary.” You smiled. “But I’ve taken a liking to you.”

“My lady, you must be hungry. Please eat before the food goes cold.”

Papers shuffled between your fingers, slender ink strokes spelling out a tale as old as time—trivial gossip of the rival houses. The world did nothing, if not talk and talk and talk.

“What of my brother?” you asked instead, flitting to the next page.

“The young master has taken his medicine with a share of the porridge and is resting.”

You gave a small nod. “It seems the butcher is doing his job properly.”

The advisor ducked his head. “Indeed. Thanks to him, we have the blood medicine on a regular basis.” He paused for a moment. “Would you… like to see the young master?”

“No.” Your response was immediate. “I do not want him catching something from me.”

Your poor, sickly brother. Touching, if not for the simple fact that his life was the edge upon which you danced a ballad of your house’s fate. And it rested in the crimson droplets that only animals could provide. With their sacrifice, he lived to breathe another day.

“If that is all—”

“What is he doing?” you interrupted, eyes straying to the field where a lone figure stood near the well, hunched over the edge. The tiger’s son.

Water trickled from his body, rippling over his shining skin as he leaned over to grab another bucketful. White wisps of hair remained plastered to his neck, twisting and writhing like snakes with every elegant movement.

“He was covered in blood,” your advisor explained, “so I told him to wash himself before coming to see you.”

“Is that so? The water is quite cold this time of year, yes?” You trailed his actions with your eyes. “But it seems he does not feel it.”

You had already decided on a name for him. The moment your eyes met his, the sense of enlightenment, of knowing—like he could read your soul just from a single cursory glance.

Satoru. The enlightened one. It felt proper, as if it had always been so.

Would he understand, now, if you called for him?

“Satoru,” you attempted, his name falling from your lips and drifting across the still yard. The world seemed, not to hold its breath, but to release it, carrying your words to him.

The man lifted his head, turned in your direction. He was so bold to even meet your eyes, electric windows to the very sky.

“Yes, my lady?” he asked, across the quiet.

“Come here.”

He did not falter in his movements, graceful as he crossed the breadth of the field in less than a moment to arrive at your feet. Satoru hesitated at the foot of your arbor, choosing instead to kneel at the foot of the wood.

“No.” You waved a hand, dismissing the advisor. He lingered near the edge, eyes flitting between the two of you. “Up here, Satoru.”

The man swallowed tightly at the sound, blinking for just a moment before he crept up to sit right in front of you. Water dripped from his very being, clinging to the corners of his eyelashes and pooling at the slant of his chest.

“Pardon, but my lady—” your advisor began.

“No.” You turned back to Satoru, eyes sharp. “Oh, my. You’re dripping everywhere, do you see?”

The man bit his lip, lowering his gaze, cheeks burning with shame. He managed an apology through his frantic swiping at the ground.

You watched him for a moment. How cute.

“Leave it,” you said instead. “Here, eat.”

There was always a dazzling array of foods—seared meat, steaming rice, fresh fruit and sauces dripping from every ounce of it. Satoru was hungry—that, much like everything else, was apparent in his eyes.

But he stilled, hesitating, turning his head from you to the food.

“You want me… to eat this?” he asked.

“My lady, expensive food like that—”

This time, your advisor was smart enough to cut himself off, hissing at the sharp sting of withering coals upon his foot as you tipped your pipe the other way.

“Haven’t I told you how much I despise noise, especially during my meals?” you seethed, although your anger was quiet and subtle and just as horrifying, judging by the horror that struck his eyes. “Leave.”

The man scurried off in a flash of silk and fear.

You gestured to the quickly cooling food. “Eat.”

Never before had you seen a man eat so quickly. He scarfed the food down like the world would end just a moment later, just to rub at his chest after a few such bites. It was charming, the way his eyes kept flying back to you.

“I see you have a big appetite,” you mused. “I think we shall need more.”

“Will you not eat, my lady?” he asked, hands folding at the crux of his thighs.

“Me?” you echoed, fazed. “Whatever are you worrying about me for?”

“Because…” You caught his throat bobbing. “You look pale.”

The remark had come scarring and searing from your step-mother, and then your father, and everyone else who dared to question you. But coming from him, it sounded more like a tender question. Almost… caring.

Almost like the glint of concerned mauve and inky hair in the sunlight.

It was enough to make you laugh, slipping your fingers against the bridge of your nose. “Of course. It shouldn’t amuse me that the only person in this entire estate to truly care for my well being is the lowly simpleton.”

Satoru simply blinked at you and cocked his head.

You shook your head. “Do not worry about me. You eat, first.”

“Your father would like to take another one of mine as a concubine,” you said flatly to the woman sitting across from you. “How does he still have the energy to get up to such things?”

“He is ridiculously healthy,” she replied with a slight shrug.

Only one woman was permitted to be so casual with you, and that would be your childhood friend, Shoko Ieiri. Well, one of them.

“Say, I heard you’ve taken in a butcher,” she continued, raising an eyebrow. “Very unlike you.”

“Satoru?” you asked, the name slipping out from under your tongue.

“Satoru?” she echoed, a laugh following soon after. “That is his name? How unusual.”

“I named him,” you muttered. “They called him ‘Strongest’ for lack of a name, so I gifted him one.”

Shoko was a meticulous woman. When she set her sights on something, it was most often found dead in her fingers. So you could see the intricate strings of her mind weaving the thought she wouldn’t dare say aloud—what possessed you to name a man?

Instead, she replied, “So you are keeping men, now, as pets?”

“It is none of your—”

“You like him so much, but you know, he is an orphan,” she said softly, more concerned than mocking. “How do you think he survived this long? I’ve heard he’s known for burying his head in the skirts of lonely widows.”

The third time you’ve heard such nonsense, and it was beginning to sound like anything but nonsense. Still, if he was good at it, perhaps you could make use of such skills…

“You are the third person to tell me this, Shoko,” you said.

“They have all told you the same thing, my lady.”

“But do you know what else they say?” You leaned in closer. “They say that I have taken him as a concubine. That we engage in sexual intercourse.”

Shoko’s lips parted. “Assuredly not. Who would dare—”

“Just chatter behind my back,” you replied, “but what do you think?”

“Think… of what?”

“Of my taking a concubine.”

Shoko spared a sultry grin. “Ah, have you taken a liking to me? I’d be honored—”

“Crazy woman,” you cut in, but you were smiling as well. True, no one was able to lift your spirits as high as the girl you spent your childhood with.

Footsteps pattered outside of the room. His silhouette and its twin shadow took up nearly the entire plastered window.

“Come in, Satoru,” you said.

“You called, my lady?” he said politely, dipping his head to the lady in front of you even as her eyes widened, darting to you in a silent, I apologize for everything I said before, as I completely understand your thoughts now.

“I can see why women go mad for him,” she said thoughtfully as soon as her thorough examination of him was done. The poor man, he stood through it all rigid, eyes fixed on you like an anchor through choppy waves.

“Do you like him?” you asked.

The corner of her mouth turned upwards. “Are you letting me borrow him?”

“It seems like I may have another use for him, so why not let you teach him?” You shrugged.

Her laugh was like tinkling glass. “Ah, a butcher concubine. How exotic. How old are you?”

Satoru’s eyes had not left yours for a moment. “Twenty-two.”

Shoko tipped her head in your direction. “Then I shall send for him when the preparations are finished.”

On occasion, you allowed yourself to be interrupted while tending your garden. If the situation presented itself to be important, then you would let your fingertips run across the fine petals and calm yourself.

If not, you would take the insolent brat and toss them in a river.

This time, your robe was already slipping from your shoulders as you prepared to rest, yet your eyes were not nearly tired enough from the day. Perhaps if you stared at vibrant bursts of color, you would find—

“… My lady.” Satoru’s voice, for such a large man, was awfully small.

“Come in,” you said softly, continuing as soon as he was knelt behind you, “and what bothers you now?”

Satoru averted his eyes. “That woman… from today. Ah… am I meant to…”

You turned. “That’s right. Are you against it?”

He lowered his head. “That is…”

“There are rumors, of you,” you replied. “I am simply taking advantage of them. Making full use of what is mine. Why? Does this bother you?”

“I am… unsure,” he admitted suddenly. “I have never… done anything further than…”

“Is there truly a difference?” you asked, knowing well enough that there was a difference to the light in his eyes.

“Back then…” he paused, “I did what I had to because I was hungry and needed to survive.” His hands trembled on the carpet, eyes fixed on his further whitening knuckles.

“But now your stomach is full?” you finished, stepped forward. He lifted his gaze just enough to graze the skin of your ankles. “Oh, what to do. I already promised, hm?”

Kneeling in front of him, you traced the unsteadiness of the column of his throat, his thighs shifting, pants tenting. His eyes were sinful, indeed, wandering over you fitted in loose robes and far too much exposed skin.

“To think you say you are unsure even as your eyes are anything but,” you continued, pulling at the neckline of your robe to let the skin of your collarbone shift against the silk. “I think you are lying to me. You should know something—I don’t like when people lie to me, Satoru.”

The pink of his tongue ran across his lips. “Since you are so pretty, my lady—”

You bit back a laugh, instead choosing to let the mocking smile drip across your lips as you pulled yourself back to your feet. “I was right, after all.”

“Pardon?” he whispered, breathless like you had taken the air from him.

“You get excited looking at women,” you replied simply, “and that is enough for now.” Your fingers curled around his chin, forcing him to look upwards into your eyes. “I found you because I have an excellent eye for people.”

The tip of your thumb tugged at his lip. He opened, obedient, eyes half-lidded as you let your finger roam around the pad of his tongue, the ridges of his teeth.

“How could I not use you?” you mused, although it was more to yourself. “It would be a waste of such a fine creature, no?”

You leaned forward, tugging him closer, voice pitched feather-soft.

“Tomorrow, after spending the night with her, come see me. If you like, you can have me too.”

That haze in his glassy eyes was unmistakable.

“Yes, my lady.”

“The preparations are complete,” Shoko lilted. “Tonight, we shall find out if your little pet is capable of living up to your standards.”

“Since when were you aware of my standards?”

“Since you brought home strange butchers without my permission,” she replied.

“Remind me again why I keep you around?” you teased.

“Who else would look after you as well as I do?” Shoko grinned. “Now, let us be on our way.”

In some strange, twisted game, you would never have to tell her what you were planning. It was as if you could see your own thoughts reflected in endless fields of fertile soil, the seed of your ideas planted in your presence.

So, in keeping, she knew that you were about to head to the market to watch Satoru with your advisor as they bought and fitted appropriate clothes for tonight.

Shoko offered to come along, no doubt to ogle at Satoru as he tried on different fabrics. You couldn’t stop her, as the thrum of her blood was almost as exciting as yours.

More out of sorts, the merchant your advisor had stopped at—by chance, perhaps—was shaking his head and muttering.

“No, no. We do not sell to butchers,” he growled, accent heavy under his words. “Do you want to get arrested? Who would waste precious silk like this on a butcher?”

Your advisor scowled. “Now, see here, don’t you know what—”

“Who, you ask?”

It was almost endearing, the way Satoru perked at the sound of your voice, twisting to see the origin of the sword whose holster’s edge was currently pricked at the merchant’s neck.

“So if a butcher wears silk clothes,” you continued, tilting the blade up, “he’ll be arrested and taken to the government’s office?”

“M-My lady—”

“Him, getting arrested, or you dying by my sword.” The glint of the eerie sunlight and your eyes shone in tandem. “Which do you think is faster?”

The man swallowed.

“Stop worrying over senseless things and get to work,” you purred, “before I come back here and finish the job myself.”

“U-Understood,” the man stammered, shuffling back to his stall.

“My lady, I insisted that—”

You cut your advisor off with a hand. “Nonsense. I do not need others to do what I am perfectly capable of doing myself.”

Satoru’s eyes dipped lower, to the fabric spilling from your hands. “My lady?”

“Do you like it?” You held it up to his skin, admiring the brush of silk against smoother skin, the vibrancy of his eyes. “It suits you, Satoru.”

“Me?”

“Who else?” You pressed a palm to his chest. “Yes. Or tell me if something else is to your liking—”

“No,” he interrupted, proceeding to flush, “it is perfect, my lady.”

“You think so?” You draped the silk over his shoulder. “Not too heavy?”

“It is light,” he replied simply.

The light of his own eyes sparkled back at you. Darker, still, than Shoko’s light gaze fixed on the two of you.

“Say, the way your peasant looks at you is cute,” she brought up on the walk across the bridge. “I do not know why you would name such a beautiful man Satoru, of all things. You should have named him… butterfly, or something.”

“Butterfly?” you mocked. “Watch your mouth. You know how I am.”

“Alright, alright,” she relented, drifting past you. “You will still let me borrow him, yes?”

“I shall think of it.” You smiled at her open mouth.

But the highlight of your day was found upon the glinting of your sword as you sharpened it. Sparks flickered between your skin, but your vessel would never harm you. It was your only source of compassion, of worry, of care.

Lately, you found yourself wondering if you had found yourself another source. A living, breathing source, with a warm body and a soft smile and hair like splintered moonlight.

“My lady, may I enter?” His voice was always so careful, as if he feared raising it would result in shattering the silverware stacked in precarious towers around you.

“You may.” You ran a finger along the flat edge of the blade, satisfied at the sheen, at the sheer beauty.

You were no less satisfied when you finally laid eyes on Satoru’s waiting form, kneeled in front of you. His hair, captured in milky ringlets atop his head. Eyes boring into yours, alight with liquid gold.

“Very nice,” you said, finally. His body relaxed, slightly. “I think Shoko will like you very much. I was unable to have your clothing ready for tonight, but they will be ready the next time.”

“Will I not be undressed when I… commence, my lady?”

You stood. “Yes, well, you cannot keep greeting guests… half-naked, Satoru.”

He did not look embarrassed. Only slightly worried.

You reached out to grasp his chin, running your finger along his bottom lip. He parted his lips, as if on silent command, but you shook your head.

“Satoru, you’ll do well tonight for me, yes?”

“Yes.” There was no worry nor hesitation in his answer.

You smiled. “Then come find me when you are finished.”

A golden ribbon of tea unfurled from the kettle, steaming as it pooled in your cup. Not much longer until the silence of the night would settle in your mind.

A knock rattled the thin frame of the door. “M-My lady? Are you awake?”

“No use asking when that surely would have woken me,” you mused, setting the kettle aside. “Come in.”

You hadn’t regarded his state when he stumbled inside. You were focused on trying to set the temperature of the tea to a warmth that would surely calm his nerves. You had hoped Shoko had satisfied him, to some level.

But there was nothing but longing in his eyes as he knelt, nearly crawling up to where you were seated, fingers brushing against the fabric of your robe.

“My lady…” he whispered, then again, “my lady.”

“Yes?” you asked, fiddling with the cup.

“Please,” he nearly whined, forcing you to finally spare him a glance.

A robe of his own was half-undone, sweat beading at his brow. His frame shook with every shallow, unsteady breath he took, eyes heavy as they ran over yours.

You glanced downwards, to the prominent bulge against his stomach.

“Impatient, are you? Well, a promise is a promise.”

You expected nothing from a man—to rip off your clothes and push himself into you, to use you, simply put. But Satoru was nothing like any other man.

He dipped to his knees, unsteady as his trembling fingers untied the knot of your robe. Once it fell away, a gasp parted his lips as he leaned forward.

“My lady?” His fingers reached out, brushing against the scar on your neck. A crimson reminder that no matter how far you ran, how safe you felt, there would always be a target on your back.

Your lips pursed. “Never mind that.”

“Are you… okay?” he whispered.

You found it in yourself to laugh, short and cruel. “It comes as a shock, even the second time. The only person to ask me of my scar happens to be the one peasant I choose to bed.”

“My lady… I did not mean…” Satoru cut himself off, instead choosing to grasp your fingers and lead them to his hair.

You threaded, then tugged, experimentally. The beginnings of a sweet sound coiled in the back of his throat as he began to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to the damp fabric covering your pussy.

Satoru hooked his fingers into the curves of the fabric and pulled down, blinking with bleary eyes at the sight of your swollen and glistening folds. His eyes flickered to yours, burning, before he buried his face between your thighs, laying waste to your dripping cunt.

When you guided him upwards, he rolled his tongue over your clit, flicking it back and forth, wringing more sweet nectar. Slender fingers dug into the globes of your ass, kneading the flesh as he let you pull him harder against his greedy mouth, grinding against his face.

His tongue chased the building pressure unfurling rapidly in your lower belly, a ribbon of pleasure spooling from your entrance, parting with the flat of his tongue then delving inside, plunging into your tight heat with a guttural moan.

Satoru stroked along your walls, his nose pressed tight against your clit. The obscene sound of his mouth working at your cunt filled the room, mingling with the shallowness of the night.

“I take it,” you managed through heavy breaths, “that Shoko did not satisfy you?”

Satoru shook his head, still between your thighs, refusing to part to reply.

He lapped at your clit, suckling the sensitive nub, pulling the arch of your body before you could even think to stop him. Your thighs trembled around his head as he pressed the broad side of his tongue deeper into your fluttering walls.

It took him a moment, of your overstimulation and prying him away, for him to lean back, running his tongue over his lips. His eyes stayed fixed in a trance on your drooling pussy, almost in a daze as his own fingers moved to unravel the strings of his robe.

And perhaps the lack, thereof, of a male concubine was why your lips parted at the sight. His erect cock was tufted with snowy hair at the base, flush against his stomach. Even while leaking with beads of precum from the mushroom tip, he merely leaned forward, muffling a soft moan in your skin.

“My lady…” he whispered. “I… I cannot.”

“Cannot… what, Satoru?”

“I-Inside… I have never…” As he swallowed, his skin seared where you brushed his cheek, pulled his gaze back to meet yours. “I am afraid.”

“You need not do anything you do not want to,” you crooned, tucking strands of fallen moonlight behind his ear.

“But I would like you to feel good,” he mumbled, lips curling into a pout as if he was angry with himself for just the thought of fearing this.

You could not blame him any more than you could blame yourself.

So instead, you guided his body against yours, lifting your hips so that his hands were pressed against the back of the apex of where your upper and lower thighs met. Without complaint, Satoru settled between your thighs, cock slipping easily between your slick folds, thick head nudging against your swollen lips.

Almost instinctively, he started to rut against you, his hips rolling and rocking as he dragged himself along your slit. His sensitive tip caught on your clit with each gentle thrust, forcing his eyelids to flutter shut, hiding those pretty blues from you.

“No,” you said softly, “open your eyes.”

The corners of his lips quivered as he gazed back down at you, fingers that were previously resting on your hips reaching down to spread your folds and expose your clit so that the curve of his prominent vein fit nicely against it. 

“Oh, my lady—hah—you will be my end,” he whimpered, muscles flexing like there were restrains holding him back. “I think… I am addicted.”

Rolling your hips, you pressed harder against the hot, swollen weight of him grinding between your thighs, chasing the flash of electricity akin to his eyes when the crown of his cock skimmed your clit.

Those buzzing irises were caught on the sight of his cock sliding in and out of the tight press of your thighs, even as his fingers padded at the plush, gently trying to pry you apart.

“My lady, y-you cannot—” Satoru cut himself off, pressing his teeth against his bottom lip before immediately continuing, “don't stop, please don't stop.”

“Do you know what Shoko said, this evening?” you said, a teasing smile dancing over your lips.

“W-What did the lady—ngh—say to you?” he managed in reply, although it was clear his thoughts were entirely elsewhere.

“She said ‘butterfly’ is a more fitting name for you.”

Satoru stilled the pace of his hips, brows pulling together. “But… I have grown attached to the name you have gifted me, my lady.”

“Is that right,” you mused, “Satoru?”

He swallowed, continuing the steady drag of his hips, kissing against yours where pale skin met the apex of your stomach. His body was much closer, the distance too little to bridge the soft whine that fell past his lips.

“Once… once more, please, my lady?”

“Satoru,” you whispered, repeating it like a promise, “Satoru, Satoru.”

It only took that, and a moment in his mind before his cock twitched between your thighs, pearly trails streaking over your body. There’s a pause as he took a breath before flushing madly, bringing his fingers to his mouth, shame piercing his words.

“I apologize, I made a mess,” he managed, ears pink, eyes feverish.

“Then clean it up,” you breathed, cradling his body as he lowered his tongue without a question, lapping at your skin, at his cum forming translucent pools.

“Thank you,” he whispered, “thank you so much, my lady... I needed you so badly it almost hurt.” He pressed a kiss to the swell of your stomach as your fingers wove into his hair.

“You have clients, Satoru,” you tried to say, but he silenced you with a broad stripe of his tongue to your hardened nipples, sealing his lips over the peak for but a moment. “Or would you prefer to just be mine, forever?”

Against the heel of your foot, his cock stirred once more. You grinned.

I need water. It must have slipped out between lush moans and praise, however many rounds later. You had lost track, and your mind was too hazy to even think of attempting to keep count.

“My lady?” he asked, stilling the pace of his hips.

“Who said you could stop?” you slurred, batting at his shoulder.

“My lady, are you thirsty?”

“Haa—‘s fine, continue,” you mumbled, buzzing from a pleasure now dulling between your thighs. You grasped at his arm even as he glanced around the room.

“I shall fetch you water, my lady. I will be right back.”

So you laid your head back, fanning at your face, fingers creeping above your stomach. You didn’t bother touching, for you already knew no matter how much you tried, you were absolutely ruined for his touch, and his touch only.

It seemed the same could be said back.

You had heard the clatter, soft yet noticeable, right outside your door the moment they tried breaking in. You didn’t anticipate any interception from Satoru, at least not this early on.

“My lady,” his voice came through the door, muffled yet strained, startling you. “Please cover yourself.”

You threw the robe over yourself, asking, “What happened?”

A man covered in black found his place, thrown on the ground. Satoru pressed his foot into his back, pinning him down, his robe rippling over his feet.

“Who are you?” he pressed. The man choked on his words, gasping for air, clawing at the ground, at the distance between you and him.

Satoru narrowed his eyes. “Have you come for the lady?”

Poor soul, he nodded, not truly understanding the depth to which Satoru asked his question.

Shoko had always been a horrible judge of character. It resulted in her lying in the bed of a man she did not know, then resorting to her pipes to smoke away her worries.

So when Satoru snapped the man’s neck with a clean twist, then kicked him away, you were inclined to laugh.

For how was this a butterfly?

You had named him fittingly. Satoru truly was enlightened.

For instead of reveling in the rush of his actions, he crossed the room to fall at your feet, on his knees as he looked up at you with the most reverent of eyes.

“My lady, forgive me.”

“For what?”

“I didn’t bring the water.”

“Is that so?” His face was warm, flushing where your fingers brushed against his skin. “Is bringing me my water more important than this?”

“Yes, of course…”

There was a dazed look in his eyes, as if there was no other correct answer.

Smiling, you stroked his cheek, leaning forward enough to let your noses brush. His clothed cock grew rigid against your thigh once more, and he bucked his hips, whining into your neck as you whispered in his ear.

“Good boy, Satoru.”

“My lady?”

A sharp ringing pierced through the serenity of your still, quiet mind.

“My lady, are you there?”

No, not the voice you wanted to hear. Not Satoru’s voice.

“My lady! You must wake!”

You blinked, sitting straight, waking to a bed still balmy with warmth and arousal. Sticky messes trailed from between your thighs up to your chest.

“What time is it?” you called out, horrified to hear the scarred mess that was tumbling from your throat.

“Three in the afternoon, my lady,” your advisor shouted back. “I did not wish to disturb your rest, so I returned later. However, this is quite—”

The rest of his complaints faded into the buzzing in your ears. Three? In the afternoon? I couldn’t have slept that long. I haven’t slept at all in…

Satoru’s silhouette flashed behind your eyes.

What was going on?

When you, the daughter to one of the most prominent houses in all of the empire turned thirteen, an assassin snuck in and slit your throat.

It was rumored to have been the very concubine whose child now called you elder sister. You would never let him carry that burden, that guilt.

And now, you spent your restless nights keeping yourself occupied with thoughts of a lifetime, tending to your garden, or brewing tea.

Sleep would not come to you.

So how had you slept so deeply last night?

“Listen,” Shoko insisted, drawing your attention and thoughts back to her. “That butcher is extraordinary. I can count on a single hand how many nights were as magical as that one.”

“Magical,” you echoed, “is that so?”

“How about handing him over to me?” she suggested. “Name any price, my friend, and I’ll give you double.”

“I might let others borrow that which is mine,” you warned, “but I do not give them away.”

“Of course, of course.” Shoko shook her head like she could ever come close to understanding it. “You would rather destroy something of yours than hand it over.”

After all, there was a reason no one dared to touch that which was yours.

You knelt before the pedestal, the image of your late mother staring back at you. Her eyes had always been cold, words crueler.

When she died, her hand reached for your cheek.

She did not comfort you. Did not wipe your tears.

Your mother rested her hand and told you, “Your father never loved me. And in the end, he will never love you, either. Nobody will.”

That wasn’t what you wanted to hear.

“Mother.” You met her eyes through the portrait. “In this godforsaken place, I have found one who cares. Amusing, as he comes from the lowest of all my collections. When even you could not protect me…”

The thin wood snapped under your fingers.

“My lady. I have brought your infusion.” Your advisor bowed, carrying a tray with a cup of the most horrendous tea you had ever tasted in your life.

“I’m told it is stronger than the last?” you confirmed.

“Yes.”

“Thank you. You may leave, now.”

You brought the bowl to your lips, preparing your throat for the dry, bitter swirl.

“My lady.”

“Is that you, Satoru?” You lifted your eyes. “Come in.”

“My lady, I—”

His eyes widened as he saw your lips brush against the rim of the cup. With what time you had to blink, he crossed the threshold of the door and swiped the bowl out of your hands.

“My lady, please do not drink this.” Satoru brought it to his nose, dragging a long inhale before shaking his head. “It has been tainted.”

“Oh, my sweet. That is precisely why I must drink it.”

The smile on your face did nothing to combat the horror on his.

“My… my lady?”

“I can see you don’t understand.” You grasped the bowl from his trembling fingers, unable to stop you. “If I drink this and live, I’ll tell you myself. If I die, ask my advisor.”

The taste of poison was a little sweeter when Satoru held you in his arms, sweet voice calling out for his lady. You slipped into the darkness like a tear for the sea.

When you woke, it was to a clear mind.

Drinking poison to stay alive. How pathetic. You’d laugh if it weren’t so horrible.

“My lady?” Satoru asked quietly as you blinked up at the still ceiling.

“Ah.” You folded your hands over your chest. “I survived.”

“Why…” he murmured, swallowing. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“There is a bounty on my head,” you said simply. “Assassination attempts are common. Yet I wonder, why are you here?”

“The medicine…” He shook his head. “I needed to stay by your side and watch over you.”

“You… protected me?”

“Yes, my lady. I shall protect you. A person is defenseless when they are asleep.”

Not quite. You reached out for the collar of his robe, pulling him down onto the ground to lie besides you.

“Please rest, my lady,” he insisted, even as you burrowed your face into his chest, into the smell of sunshine, eternity and earth.

Maybe you… will save me.

Shoko tipped the glass back, the curve of her neck cascading with her seventh drink of the night. But she had always handled it well.

Even now, with her flushed cheeks, she managed to make coherent thoughts.

“Where is Satoru, anyways?” Save for her words, strung together and choppy, she maintained excellent posture, eyes rapt and alert.

“I think he is with a client,” you mused, nursing your first glass.

“Aw,” she whined, planting her hands on the ground. “I’m too late.”

“Yes.”

“Ah, by the way,” she said suddenly, perking up, “I ran into Sug—”

“I’m leaving!”

The door slammed shut in the room across from your mother’s quarters, where you and Shoko had taken refuge from your advisor. The woman storming from the room fumed, face flushed, robes askew.

“What happened?” you asked, standing to greet her.

“My lady!” She spoke with respect, yet her tone was pitched octaves far too high for your ringing ears. “That butcher! I came because Lady Ieiri had preached of his talents, but he can’t even get it up!”

“Can’t get it up?” you echoed.

“Huh?” Shoko slurred.

“In any case, I’m leaving,” she blustered, pulling her robes up and stomping out of the estate.

“Shoko, leave,” you said quietly, turning back to the room where Satoru was.

“Huh? Why?” she whined. “I have to be alone, again?”

Your advisor found her quickly with her loud complaints. He even sent her home, without a word. The entire estate avoided you until the moon was at its peak. Perhaps they could sense your displeasure.

“I heard you failed a client, Satoru.”

The man in question bowed, shame painting his ears, face lowered to the ground.

“Why?” You crouched in front of him, robes spilling in front of his curved form. “You had no problem getting aroused for me.”

“That’s because... it is you, my lady,” he said simply.

“So you’ve become attached to me, is that it?”

Satoru didn’t answer at first. Just nodded, swallowing thickly.

“Please…” he said, softly, “please punish me.”

“Punish?”

Your fingers found the mess of his hair, pulling sharply back to expose the slant of his jaw, tilting upwards to you.

“Your tongue. Show me.”

Satoru’s lips parted and you pressed yourself into him, teeth grazing, almost as if to devour him whole. His eyes softened, body relaxing.

That was when you sank your teeth into his tongue.

Not too deep, just sharp enough to leave blood dripping into his mouth. And instead of reacting to the pain, Satoru keened back into your touch, even as you retracted.

“From now on,” you began, running the ruby of his blood over your teeth, “I will watch. So look at me when you need to become aroused. After all, you should prove your worth to me, no?”

Satoru blinked, panting, crimson dripping from his lips.

“Yes, my lady.”

You watched the conversation from the shadows.

Yes, indeed, Satoru admitted affection so easily. Even now, he flushed to himself as his fingers brushed against his tongue, soothing the sting of phantom teeth.

And yet your eyes, glassy in his reflection, were still entangled in the gaze of another. Everyone was forbidden from speaking his name. Shoko was the lone exception to the rule.

Suguru Geto.

A old flame, perhaps. Rekindled by the sparks of hatred as your swords clashed in a field where blood ran thickly into the dirt. Even thicker was the loathing in his eyes as he regarded Satoru calmly.

He was always quiet in all the ways that truly mattered.

Suguru stood there, silent, plum robes rippling over his frame, hair pulled back into an elegant twist pinned at the nape of his neck. Stray strands fought to escape with the wind, escape from the tension pricking at his glowing skin.

“You there.”

Satoru turned, glancing over his shoulder, a hand lying dormant on the flank of the rumbling cow.

“Are you going to slaughter that cow? Have you reported it to the governor’s office?”

“I do not know,” he replied, calm as ever.

“Failure to report the slaughter of an animal is illegal.” Suguru stepped forward, waning the distance far too much for your liking. But you remained still. “The lady certainly has spoiled you.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“It’s quite clear, in the way you speak to me without bowing your head.” Suguru raised an eyebrow. “Leave the cow. I will register—”

“I cannot,” Satoru cut in. “I must finish what my lady asks of me.”

Suguru’s eyes flashed, then, faintly. Perhaps shock, that a mere butcher would speak down to him.

“‘My’ lady?”

“Not yours.” Satoru’s eyes sharpened. “Mine.”

There was a moment of silence, then. You pondered what Suguru’s face was doing.

“Do you know, I was her first?” he remarked suddenly, unprovoked. Simply for the love of the truth that you found yourself loathing less and less with every day you spent apart.

Satoru lifted his head, unbothered. “And I will be her last.”

The tip of Suguru’s sword, but a mere extension of his arm, grazed against Satoru’s neck. You had always seen it as the tips of his fingers, even now as they brushed against the column of the other man’s throat.

Satoru didn’t fight back. He simply let the other man push him onto the ground, dust caking his clothes. Suguru’s foot found the plane of his stomach, pinning him down, a smirk playing at his lips.

“From your attitude, I expected more,” he drawled, pressing the tip of his foot a little deeper into the skin as Satoru hissed at the contact, “but this is pitiful. Perhaps I should put you out of your misery and make it so that you cannot join us on the hunt?”

Yet his fingers restrained. It was unlike him to hesitate.

Perhaps Suguru had noticed you, earlier. Perhaps that was the sole cause for his little show. Because his eyes showed no concern nor shock as your sword swept mere inches from his eyes, parried by his own blade.

You pulled the conflict away from Satoru, pulling himself up from the ground, eyes reverent as they wandered over your dancing forms. Suguru was skilled with a sword—his talents spread through the empire.

But you were always better.

His blade clattered against the ground, dirt and metal making an unlikely pair as you forced him further back.

“With those skills,” you said, “how do you expect to protect Her Majesty, Suguru?”

“How can I win against you?” he replied calmly. “You’ve always been a match for a thousand warriors.”

The flattery was pleasing, at a time. Before it was thick on your skin and suffocating with the promise he held in his eyes.

“And yet you dare to make a disturbance in my home?” The sun glimmered off of the blunt side of the blade.

Suguru brushed it aside, deftly avoiding the blow. “Indeed. That butcher has quite the attitude.”

“That would be because I spoil him.” You smiled, eyes dripping over the way that spot between his eyebrows creased. “I ask for your understanding.”

As if the needle pressed between his chest weren’t enough, you decided to wedge it further.

“Satoru,” you called, “come here.”

“Yes, my lady.” His hand came up, absently, to brush dust off of his clothes as he wandered towards you, confused.

“As his master, punishing Satoru is my responsibility, no?” You asked, not bothering to wait for a response as you tilted your head back, fingers curled around the back of Satoru’s head, tugging at his hair. “Open.”

On command, he parted his lips, exposing his healing tongue. You didn’t have to look to see the lack of surprise when you bit back down into his tongue, pressing your lips back to his.

“I believe this is appropriate punishment,” you crooned, pulling away for a moment to glimpse Suguru’s expression—crestfallen, the sun beyond the horizon.

Satoru’s eyes remained locked onto yours, save for the flit of them to the man spanning the distance of years upon years of regretful love.

When their eyes met, the world took a breath.

It was like seeing light for the first time. You opened your eyes, that day.

“Do you know that man, Satoru?” you asked that night, twirling a strand of your hair through your fingers.

“I am… unsure, my lady.” His jaw ticked, a mere second in the time of his truth. “He feels familiar. Who… who is he, to you?”

“Why?” you mused. “Are you jealous?”

“He expressed affections for you,” he muttered, crawling a little closer from where he was perched in front of you. “I… I did not like that.”

“What did you say to make such a quiet man mad?” You had witnessed the conversation, true—but your main intent was to hear it from his lips.

Satoru flushed. “I… called you mine, my lady.”

“Is that so?” You raised an eyebrow, feigning faint surprise.

“I assumed that since I am yours, you are also mine,” he explained quietly, lips ghosting just a breath from your skin. “I apologize, my lady.”

You stifled a laugh. “You are too cute, Satoru.”

He let out an unsteady breath, finally allowing his lips to press soft, chaste kisses to the skin between your neck and shoulder. “Am I truly?”

“Whimpering like this for me, yes.”

“I would like to be cute for you.”

You pulled his face back up towards yours, pressing your lips to his, tasting blood where his tongue darted against yours.

“Doesn’t your tongue hurt?” you asked, pausing to take a breath.

“You could bite it off, and I would thank you,” he replied, hushed, nipping at your bottom lip.

His forehead was warm, flushed already as you pushed him away, refusing to relent just yet. “I see disciplining you is pointless.”

“If this is my punishment for misbehaving,” he murmured into the shell of your ear, “then I shudder to think of my reward if I was good for you.”

“Wouldn’t you like to find out?”

“The government has decreed that you were absolutely debauched,” Suguru argued, spine straight as the slant of his brows pulled together. “Why, after so long of being compliant?”

“Me? Compliant?” you scoffed. “You truly never knew me, then.”

“With them,” he corrected, slender fingers scrubbing down his face. “I trust you keep out of trouble, only to hear that you are massacring a village the moment I turn my back.”

“I did not ask for you to watch me,” you snapped. “You are the one who arrived at my doorstep threatening to harm my advisor’s family if you were turned away.”

“That man believes truly anything I say.” That smile that fluttered across his thin lips used to fool you into nodding along to whatever he said.

That was before that smile stole your first kiss. Your first time.

“Perhaps that is—”

“Wait,” he cut in, narrowed eyes zeroing in on your skin, “your throat. Did you truly manage to get hurt? Are those battle wounds?”

You pulled at the fabric, displaying the handiwork of Satoru’s desperation to prove that he was good last night blooming rosy and lush across your skin.

“Is that what they look like to you, Suguru?”

His lips pursed, earlier smile slipping from his grave expression. “Do not test me.”

“It shouldn’t bother you,” you continued, tugging the sleeve of your robe up, “especially considering that you were the one to end things.”

“That was because—”

“Yes, we do have responsibilities,” you finished, “so I repeat, Suguru, why are you here?”

You would be lying if you said you didn’t like the distress pressed into the corner of his mouth.

“That man…” he mumbled. “Something feels strange about him.”

“That would be jealousy, Suguru,” you chastised.

“No.” Suguru swallowed, hard. Now this—this was new. “I fear I have seen him somewhere. I… I know him. In my soul.”

You blinked, then shrugged, like the very implication of his words hadn’t sent shivers down your spine. This was going to be interesting.

The day of the hunt. The very day that you had made excuses to weasel out of, until the tension with Suguru mounted to a point where he refused to speak to you since that incident.

Which served as a problem, since your advisor was currently fumbling with the navigation. His brows pulled together, lips twitching as he mumbled something to himself, eyes darting around the trees crashing into one another.

Satoru walked alongside your horse, refusing one of his own. Your advisor would make a fuss if you dismounted, but he was busy with the maps.

You slipped off of the side of the steed, accepting Satoru’s hand as you hiked the fabric past your ankles.

“You must save your energy, my lady,” Satoru began to fret.

“If you will not ride, neither will I,” you replied simply.

After a few more minutes of wandering along the path, you pulled your advisor back by the ear and sent Satoru off into the forest to scout. That was primarily so you could threaten the man’s family in peace as he cowered under you without Satoru getting turned on in the middle of the forest.

And he would never admit it, for he would never complain to you, but he missed the fresh air. You could see it in the way his muscles, wound with tension, uncoiled like freed snakes. Satoru missed his home. He was the tiger’s son, after all.

The grass, moist under your fingers, twisted under your weight as you laid out on it, ignoring your advisor’s protests of ruining the silk. You were due for a new robe—why not enjoy your quiet respite in the forest?

The peace was quickly interrupted by the slick sheen of an arrow passing through a bow—a sound and technique pricking your ears from childhood. You sat up, peering in the direction the sound had come from.

Your sword glissanded from its holster with a sharp hiss, only to your ears as you crept up to the clearing. In the dizzying sunlight, you caught a writhing mass upon the ground.

You caught the distinctive white that came with its opposite black, the absence and presence of color entangled in the grass. Soft pants could be heard, and from this angle, you could not discern what they were doing.

You shifted to the side, curious.

Suguru was pinned to the ground, a feat you had never managed, as he always preferred to dodge your advances. But Satoru’s palms were planted on either sides of his head, threaded through the inky strands of his hair.

And yet the most surprising aspect of it were their eyes.

A galaxy spared between a blanket of sky captured in Satoru’s and the velvet whispers of Suguru’s, searing and dripping from their eyes, cooling quickly enough to create threads of sweet, fragile stars twinkling between their bodies.

Satoru panted, softly, sweat forming a slight sheen on his forehead.

Suguru reached out, up to the heavens to brush cloudy hair from starstruck eyes. His lips formed a silent question, mouthing, “Who are you?”

The sereneness was interrupted by a bird fluttering back to the sky, conveniently perched on the tree you were managing to lean against. Satoru’s head snapped in your direction as Suguru pushed him off, trying to manage a scowl and failing.

It should have been strange. You should have felt anger. Envy. Hatred.

But instead, heat was pooling between your thighs like it was the most natural thing on the earth. As if watching two men holding gazes and feeling something from it was completely normal.

You grinned, unfazed. “Well, don’t cease this on my behalf.”

It seemed the two of them made a conscious effort to absolutely loathe one another the next few times you caught them spending time together.

Even when you watched from the shadows, their earlier affection was nowhere to be found. Only impertinence woven into their words.

Satoru stood a good distance from a wooden target, struggling to string the arrow. Suguru tapped an impatient beat on the ground, raising an eyebrow.

“It seems you are just her pet, after all,” he sighed. “Good for nothing more.”

“At least I am of some use to her,” Satoru shot back. “She only tolerates you on the grounds that you refuse to leave the estate.”

“I thought all butchers were skilled with the bow and arrow?” Suguru jested.

The white-haired man ducked his head, glowering. “I was never given the chance to learn.”

Suguru simpered. “Who is useful, remind me?”

“Do you plan on teaching me or not?” he snapped.

You had never heard your beloved pet speak to anyone in such a manner. It was… enlightening, in a way. It bought you time—time to think of all the ways you could twist this into your hands.

Suguru still had not apologized. Perhaps it was time for him to receive all the agony he caused you over the years.

That evening, Satoru got on his knees. He leaned towards you, but you grasped his chin instead, forcing him to look up at you.

“You understand, Satoru,” you said, “you were supposed to take clients.”

His mood immediately soured. “My lady—”

“I refuse to hear it.” You blinked down at him. “You are taking a client today.”

The sapphire of his eyes dimmed. “Will you watch?”

“Yes. You will only ever take one client from now on. Suguru.”

An unnamed emotion flickered across his face, softening the frown puckering at his brows. His bottom lip quivered. “I…”

“What?”

“I have never…” A rosy glow suffused his cheeks. “I have never done it with a man before. I am afraid, my lady.”

“It did not seem like you were afraid of him this morning,” you drawled, pressing the heels of your feet together.

“You… you witnessed that?” If it were possible, he flushed a deeper shade of crimson.

“It was hard not to. The two of you flock attention like moths to a flame.”

If they were anything like they were in the sparse moments you had caught them alone together, away from the eyes of the world, they would be fine. Satoru did not argue. Then again, when had he ever argued against anything you said?

Suguru arrived a short moment following your heavy silence. The door slid open—what a heathen, refusing to knock or announce his presence.

“You called for me, my lady?” No use with the title after his impudence. You couldn’t help but smile at the thought of him receiving all his dues upon this one fateful night, and he was completely, blissfully unaware.

“Please sit, my fiduciary advisor,” you mocked. “Although, I do wonder why you must house yourself in my estates to take this title.”

“If I did not take residence here, just about any other could claim me as their advisor.”

“Perhaps I would like you to be claimed by another,” you teased.

His eyes met Satoru’s, first, before they sliced back to you.

“Pardon?” he asked, swiping a hand over the back of his neck.

You rested your cheek on your open palm. “This is not a request. It’s a performance. I shall take audience. Unlike our last untimely meeting, make this worth my time, Suguru.”

You had expected a shameful flush, stammering and attempting to rectify the situation.

Instead, Suguru tipped his head. “I see.”

“You seem unsurprised.”

“Perhaps I had wondered when this day would come.”

Now it was your turn to raise a brow. “Truly?”

He chuckled, low in his throat. “Truly. I just did not expect to be handed the script.”

Satoru remained quiet through the exchange, jaw working, something like respite in his eyes as Suguru met them once more, gentler.

You reclined into a room humming with unspoken tension.

They held their gazes for a moment that brimmed with much that you couldn’t catch between the passing of their eyes before Suguru’s hands were reaching for his neck and their lips pressed together furiously.

And it felt… even better than it should have. Better than that day in the forest. Better than the thoughts of watching this, because it was truly happening in front of you.

Satoru’s fingers were already tangled in Suguru’s hair, tugging just enough to make him smirk against his mouth. Their kiss was slow, deliberate—heat and hunger and the best of the two men. Suguru’s hand slid beneath Satoru’s shirt, knuckles grazing skin you knew stretched vast distances, and Satoru shivered, eyes never leaving you.

Breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat, you watched as Satoru broke the kiss first, lips slick, eyes dark. He turned his head just slightly, enough to meet your gaze.

“You are truly watching,” he murmured.

Suguru laughed. “Did she not say that?” he asked, thumb brushing against Satoru’s jaw. “That is the point. You do not wish to disappoint your lady, do you?”

And yet for all his talk, it was Satoru’s hand that dipped lower, teasing the knot of the other man’s pants, hips shifting in response. The same slender fingers that pulled at said knot, unfurling silk against thighs that flexed as Suguru pressed his palms against his chest.

Suguru’s cock pressed against his thigh, rigid against Satoru’s hesitating fingers. He swallowed, throat bobbing, but Suguru just caressed his cheek and guided him downwards, to where the apex of his thighs met in a slice you could not see.

Much like how they sunk into your wet heat, Satoru drew his tongue over his trembling fingers and pushed the first two inside him easily, eyes tracing over the sly smirk curving Suguru’s lips.

“You were speaking so highly before,” he whispered, his own voice quiet enough for the pin-straight eeriness of night to seep through, “and yet you cannot manage a single word now, can you?”

Satoru swallowed, dazed, entranced on the steady descent of his fingers. “M-My lord—”

“Ah, so it’s my lord, now,” Suguru continued, trailing a finger down the quivering jawline of the man hovering over him. “Do you see this, my lady? It seems I have tamed the tiger.”

“Not quite,” you replied, shifting Satoru’s attention through half-lidded eyes still glued to the sight.

"You are beautiful for a man,” Suguru mused, drawing splintered cerulean eyes back to him, “when you are like this, especially. You can give me another, can you not?"

Another finger joined the first two, and yet Suguru seemed unbothered. It was Satoru hissing lowly at the contact, teeth bared, heat and urgency and the soft rhythm of his fingers stretching the other man open.

“Do I feel like her?” he asked, breath hitched, spine arching as Satoru’s fingers worked deeper, precise in his torturous cruelty. “Like your lady?”

“… N-No, my lord,” Satoru replied lowly, “you… you are another thing entirely.”

And you found yourself liking it. No — loving it.

The way their eyes kept flicking to you like you were the center of gravity in the room. Their beings, their softness, their warmth. It all belonged to you. Every gasp, every thrust, every broken sound.

You need not touch them. No words fell from your lips. Simply your being there—watching, owning—was enough to satisfy the heat blooming across your chest.

And for a moment, you were content to keep it that way.

Yet something darted across your tongue.

“Come here,” you said, soft.

Satoru paused in unraveling the knot of his own pants, their eyes snapping to you in tandem. Only but a few feet away and yet they crossed the distance before you could blink. The planes of existence tilted and crashed into one true universe buzzing at your fingertips.

You smiled. “Did I tell you to stop?”

They exchanged glances.

“But my lady—”

“The proximity—”

“Hush,” you silenced them. “I believe I was quite clear with my wishes.”

They stilled, just for a moment. The quiet stretched, thick and electric.

Then they moved again, the skill of a lifetime in lovers’ intentional movements, touching like they had been starved for it.

Satoru had never done this before. It would have been wrong for you to strip that away from him. But this—this felt natural, like the glide of lily pads atop a still lake. Their touches were innate and native to their fingers.

The need for this felt stronger than the need for either one of them, separate. One entity, much like the whole, was more than the sum of its parts.

Satoru’s pants hit the floor, fingers blending against Suguru’s hips. His cock jerked at the other man’s back, beading with dripping pearls, prodding at the rim. No fear shone in his eyes, no reflections of the nights he spent with himself between your thighs.

Only pent up frustration relieved into a single, soft sigh as he lined up and pushed in with a low, guttural sound that dissolved into the walls.

A sharp exhale left Suguru’s lips, parted with his head thrown back, fingers clawing at the ground. But even then—even with their bodies meeting at a crux nowhere near you—their eyes met yours.

Satoru whimpered, a sound so raw it barely sounded human. Every roll of his hips sent sounds spilling from his mouth. Not quite words anymore, just broken, breathless whines.

“Please,” he gasped, voice wrecked, “do not stop. Don’t—my lord, please.”

“I have no intentions of stopping,” Suguru said casually, as if Satoru’s fingers weren’t tightening into furious red crescents on his pale skin.

The cloudless sky of his eyes squeezed shut, ending entire worlds with the tick of his jaw. Unsteady breaths forced his chest to rise and fall, shallow against Suguru’s back.

He arched, letting Satoru’s cock plunge deep, unhurried inside him, composed of fluttering eyelashes and low moans, brushing stray locks of snowy hair from his eyes. Locked onto your intent gaze, then one another, swimming in the deepest love with every moment that passed.

“I'm so close...” Satoru whined after a few more intentional draws of his cock inside, “you will break me—I can't take... take it—"

“It seems you are still able to speak properly,” Suguru cooed, “so I understand that you can take it."

“Ohhh, my lord, mmph—I cannot," Satoru gasped as Suguru's legs locked around his hips, lithe muscles twitching, "I… I will… ohhh, I will cum—"

“What a messy mouth on you, Satoru,” he mused.

Satoru absentmindedly brought the broad side of his arm to swipe at his mouth, wiping his glistening lips.

“I-Is this… better—hah—my lord?”

You enjoyed it more than if he was directly touching you. It was something of the way he unraveled under Suguru’s touch, something completely misunderstood. You merely felt the connection, especially when the man reached up to cradle your face.

You tilted your head as he pressed his lips against yours, a low groan splitting the silence even as Satoru steadily increased the pace of his hips. A keening whimper tore from his throat at the sight of your fingers brushing Suguru’s hair behind his ear.

“Do you like this, Satoru?” you mused, glancing up at him. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth, face flushed a shameful hue. “Do you enjoy watching me kiss him?”

“N-No—”

“What did I say about lying?”

“… Yes, my lady.” The moment it left his lips, he seemed infinitely lighter, leaning forward to press his clothed chest against Suguru’s back. “I-I like it—oh—I truly do.”

Suguru inclined his head back, letting Satoru meet his lips urgently, as if he was able to taste you on his lips. Ivory on pearls looked quite nice, you thought.

Your fingers danced down Suguru’s side, lips quirked as they curled around his leaking cock. He blinked up at you, reverent, eyes blown in a silent question—is this truly happening?

There was no need for you to answer aloud. Just the action of pulling him back in, other hand prying at Satoru’s lips, tongue inviting and warm around your fingers, was enough to convince him to flutter his eyes shut.

“M-My lord,” Satoru mumbled around your fingers, tongue lapping at the taste like there was ever one, “may I please? I-Inside?”

“Whatever the—ngh—lady wishes,” he managed between your chaste kisses.

“I—I can’t,” Satoru gasped, burying his face in the curve of Suguru’s neck. “I’m close—my lady, please…”

“Only my good boys get to finish,” you said. “Are you good, Satoru?”

He nodded frantically, eyes glassy, lips bitten raw. “Yes, my lady. I’m yours.”

“And you, Suguru?”

His voice was a rasp, broken and nearly as gone as his eyes. “Always.”

“Then show me,” you whispered, nodding to the white-haired menace gripping at Suguru’s curved back, fingers scrabbling for purchase as he pounded further, deeper.

Satoru’s cry was muffled against Suguru’s skin as he came, trembling, undone. Suguru followed moments later, his body shuddering, coating your fingers in webs of white that matches the strands of hair plastered to Satoru’s neck.

You reached up, brushing a strand of damp hair out of his quivering eyes, fearful as he retracted, cock hanging low and throbbing to the pulse of his heart.

But Satoru didn’t stop there, eyes flitting low, to the pearly mess smearing from between Suguru’s thighs. The other man caught his gaze, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Look, you’ve made a mess,” he crooned. “Clean it up, will you?”

Satoru lowered his head, as if trying to mask the heat of excitement behind false shame as he grasped Suguru’s skin, parting to lick a long stripe over the stream of slick pooling at his entrance.

“God, you’re filthy,” you chuckled, even as his eyes flashed with something vague and completely unwavering, tongue feverishly dipping between strands of white, his own cum coating his lips.

“Apologies, my lady, my lord,” he hummed against Suguru’s inner thigh, tongue darting back to lap at the remaining cream oozing from pale skin. “I didn’t intend to make a mess.”

“I think…” Suguru exhaled. “I think you have done enough. I am tired.”

“Oh? You have tired the great Suguru Geto?” you mused. “Well done, Satoru.”

Satoru whimpered at the praise, eyes fluttering shut. “Thank you, my lady.”

Suguru’s jaw ticked, eyes narrowed, yet not in simple feigned annoyance.

“You’re jealous,” you said, not bothering to look back at him.

“I’m insulted,” he corrected, “for you watched me fall apart and instead offer him comfort.”

You tilted your head. “Would you like comfort, Suguru?”

He did not answer right away. But his eyes—those eyes—burned.

“We did not… lay our hands upon you,” he said finally.

“Only my good boys get to touch me,” you answered softly.

Satoru stirred, lifting his head from your lap. “Am I good, my lady?”

You smiled down at him. “Yes.”

Suguru’s voice followed you out of your trance. “And me?”

You didn’t look up. “You’ll have to earn it.”

It became a regular occurrence after that night.

Every so often, you would look up from the reports and see Suguru’s expression softening into a smile. And every time you turned your head, you would see Satoru gazing at the two of you fussing over fiduciary issues.

Even if he was completely oblivious to the tension, you soon found out he did not tolerate the slightest sliver of hate for either of you. It should have come as an unwelcome surprise, but you were not completely cruel.

So instead, you pressed a finger to his protesting lips to silence him as Satoru mingled near a few of your advisor’s men—they always spoke too loud. Words that would most likely fall on deaf ears, as you could not be bothered to occupy yourself with reprimanding them.

Satoru had no such qualms.

Suguru was only here to hear what they spoke of him, after all.

“Lord Geto has no business lingering here for the time he has,” one of them blurted out. “Does he have nothing to spend his days doing? Of all the estates to pick…”

“He has grown close to the lady and her… butcher,” someone said cautiously. “I am beginning to think her taste in men is… quite strange.”

“Perhaps she has finally snapped,” the first one reasoned. “It would explain—”

The man never finished his sentence. He was on the ground, pleading for mercy under Satoru’s foot before he could even think to complete the thought.

“I can hear you whispering under your breath,” he warned, resting his hand atop the leg pressed against the man’s back. “I have very good hearing, you see? Be careful what you say—a slave mustn’t curse his master, after all.”

He moved his foot. Suguru shifted under the tree, his body brushing against yours as he leaned forward to get a closer look.

“Don’t you see?” the man choked out after a cough, “she’s replacing you as her pet—”

This time, Satoru had no reason to pin him down with his foot. There was a dagger singing through the air to do that for him, forcing the cowering man back onto the ground.

For a moment, you thought he would truly stab him. It would have been an absolute hassle to handle—your advisor would have been furious.

But instead, he stilled, the blade brushing against the man’s neck.

“I once killed a man, for my lady,” Satoru whispered, almost too quiet for the two of you to hear. “I would do it for my lord, as well. They would be angered, but only if they come to hear of it. It causes me to wonder what it would take for a loud man such as you to die quietly.”

Satoru backed away. Evidently, his message was pressed in the worried lines of all the other men bowing their heads before scurrying away.

Suguru’s lips parted as Satoru caught your gaze, immediately perking up and crossing the distance of the field to approach.

“I apologize for having not noticed you, my lady, my lord,” he said, dipping his head in cadence. “I would have conducted myself better if I had known—”

“Forgive that, I quite dislike that man,” you replied, resting your head against his chest. “You should have ended his life.”

“Shall I finish the job?” he asked, craning his neck to scan the field. “I am sure—”

“No, no,” you muttered. “Too late now. And my advisor would have my head.”

“You would have his head before that,” Suguru pointed out.

“Oh, hush,” you snapped. “Who asked you?”

“Suguru, do you not have something to say to the lady?”

“Ah.” You had never seen him so… unsettled in all your life. If anything, Suguru Geto was a composed man of his fraying morals and questionable sanity. “Indeed.”

“Well?” You raised an eyebrow after a moment of earth-shattering silence.

“I… I was wrong.”

Just the admission sent your heart fluttering. You stood straight off of Satoru’s chest, turning to regard him with your full attention.

“Our… my responsibilities should not have been an excuse to stop loving you.” Regret pooled in the heavy shards of amethyst that met yours. “I mourned the loss nearly every day. I am sorry.”

“How long have I waited to hear those words?” you asked aloud, tapping a finger to your chin. “Perhaps I should make you wait nearly as long as I did.”

“Your sword would be more a merciful death,” he drawled.

“You are forgiven,” you mused, “yet the question lingers—why not return? Why say this now, after so many years?”

“It was you,” he replied, but he was no longer speaking to you. Instead, his eyes were fixed to the man standing behind you, always a distance spanning someone else’s body. And yet this time, you found yourself not minding. “You are familiar to me. You make me do things that I would have never dreamt of otherwise.”

“I told you she would not be angered,” Satoru said haughtily, lifting his chin.

“Ah, so you were conspiring behind my back.” You shook your head. “I should have both of your heads for that. My punishment shall be swift and merciless.”

“You will enjoy her punishments, my lord,” he added.

“Is that so?” Suguru took a step forward.

For a moment, the delusive prospect of a promised future sept into your soul. And in a twin breath and shared grins, they melted away all your doubt.

The sun had fallen from its perch in the sky long before you had started. Tipping back another drink, the haze in your eyes did nothing to cover the concern in the two mens’ eyes.

“My lady, perhaps you should stop here,” Suguru suggested.

“I do not understand.” Satoru frowned. “What is happening?”

“She’s drinking…?” Suguru blinked. “Have you never drank a sip of wine in your life?”

“That simply can’t be!” you giggled and handed the bottle of rice wine over to him with shaking hands. He accepted it, of course he did, but with wary eyes.

“What has it done to you?” he whispered.

“The lady cannot handle her alcohol very well,” Suguru replied.

“The lady most definitely can!” you snapped. “The lord happens to be a lightweight.”

“Lightweight?” Suguru pursed his lips and snatched the bottle away from Satoru, pouring himself a drink with much steadier hands. It disappeared with the bobbing of his throat and the admission of your lie—Suguru had always handled it better than you had.

Even now, the light of his irises only shimmered as twin drops of lavender in the reflection of Satoru’s wistful eyes.

“Now you,” you commanded, edging the bottle back along to him.

Satoru swallowed. “Must I?”

“Your lady demands it,” Suguru teased.

You did not expect him to grasp the bottle so tightly, nor wrap his lips around the edge and start downing it in one sitting. Yet neither of you could find it in you to stop, only collapse into one another in laughter.

When there were only crimson speckles at the bottom, Satoru pulled away with a gasp, blinking, bleary-eyed. The bottle thudded against the ground as he regarded the two of you.

“That was vile,” he said suddenly. “How can you stand that?”

“I happen to prefer red wine over all other drinks,” you said sweetly. “Father used to say it was the mark of a true noble.”

“I would prefer to be a butcher if it meant staying away from that…” Satoru shuddered.

“Perhaps we have found the true lightweight of us three,” Suguru mused.

Five drinks later, and clothes had been discarded all along the floors. The house slumbered with the sereneness of tension uncoiled, and yet tension was all that was lingering in the air between the three of you.

“Let me give… give you a child, my lord,” Satoru whispered suddenly, “please.”

“Are… are you speaking to me?” Suguru glanced over his shoulder, where the other man was staring down at him with half-lidded, unrecognizable eyes. “Satoru?”

“Yes,” he answered, far too quick, words slurred. “Please. Will you allow it?”

“I cannot…” Suguru’s voice cracked into a laugh. “This cannot be happening.”

“Are you denying me, my lord?”

“How would that would work?” It seemed Suguru was open to entertaining the idea, even as his lips quirked in your direction.

Satoru’s hands found their home on the crest of the man underneath him, the swell of his hips. “A child. Right here. I never miss my target.”

“That wasn’t what it looked like with archery,” you teased from your perch, nursing yet another bottle of wine.

Satoru’s eyes shot to yours. “Then, will you, my lady?”

“What?”

He had never approached you, during this. Always a respective distance, spanning Suguru’s body, and you were content with it that way. Perhaps you enjoyed it more.

But it would never hurt to find out. Especially when Suguru crept behind you to cage your body in his own, fingers running over your pebbling nipples, and Satoru crowded between your thighs with a gaze of a man that was dangerously ruined.

“Let me give you a child, my lady,” he repeated against the plush skin of your thigh, “please.”

“Or would you like me to do the same?” Suguru’s lips ghosted your neck. “My lady.”

“Is that a challenge?” Satoru lifted his head from where it was inching to the apex of your thighs.

“Why not?” Suguru rested his chin on your shoulder, locking eyes with him.

Perhaps you should have stopped them there. It was never a competition between the two of them—or at least, it was never meant to be. Yet you were too far to be saved.

Satoru’s tongue lapped at your folds, dragging it, measured before pressing against your clit. If not for Suguru’s gentle hands cupping his head, your thighs would have closed in him.

Suguru’s own lips left searing bruises blooming over your skin, over the old ones Satoru gave you before. His hands occasionally drifted past the space to roll the peaks of your nipples between his thumbs, his other fingers tracing the prominence of your collarbone.

He brushed against the scar painting a thin rivulet across your neck.

“You are safe,” he whispered at your immediate tensing, “for we will keep you safe.”

“Is this good, my lady?” Satoru panted from between your thighs, hips rocking against solid ground as you nodded down at him, relaxing. His whimper broke off as he lowered his head, tugging the flat of his pink tongue up your drooling cunt until it kissed your twitching clit.

Your lips parted in a moan as you pulsed around his tongue, arousal laving against his face, nearly drowning out Satoru’s whines. The silence stood loud around his soft pants.

“Well?” Suguru asked, breaking the quiet. “Do you plan on standing there forever?”

Satoru blinked, jerking out of a trance fixated on the slick dripping from your pussy. “No, my lord.”

This time, there was no fear in his eyes as he held your hips with a reverence that could only be exemplified by the push of his tip against your wetness. His eyes darted from where he was disappearing inside you, to your eyes, to Suguru’s lips against your neck, as if he could not pick a single spot to fixate on.

Satoru leaned forward. “My lady? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you managed, nodding, “keep going.”

Suguru parted your thighs with one hand and a slight burn that coiled in your stomach, as his other hand gripped Satoru’s chin and pulled his gaze down.

“Eyes down here,” he mused. “Watch what you are doing to your beloved master.”

Satoru set a steady, almost maddeningly sedate pace, his hips rolling in a deep, grinding rhythm that had your back arching over Suguru’s chest. He kept his eyes locked, electric, on the way your walls fluttered and clenched around him, trying to draw him in deeper.

“My lady—” he cried softly, as you took him in even deeper, by some magical means.

"You are so good to me," you whispered, leaning into to brush your lips against the shell of his red-hot ear. "So patient and gentle. You can cum inside, if you’d like.”

“Give her a child, Satoru. Mhm, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Suguru continued, threading his fingers in damp strands of milky-white.

Satoru’s eyes widened and his hips stuttered from where they were pressing against yours, losing his rhythm as his orgasm suddenly crashed over him, forcing him to bury his face into the crook of your neck.

"Oh, thank you—god—thank you s-so much, my lady," he whimpered, his cock throbbing hard inside you, twitching as it shot thick ropes of hot cum inside you.

Suguru curled his fingers around Satoru’s chin, tilting his face to press their lips together insistently.

“But a shame.” He smiled, pulling away. “I hate losing.”

Before the world could right itself and you could recover from the stars sprinkled across your vision, Satoru was tossed behind you, hands wandering. Suguru was pressed between your quivering thighs like he had always belonged there. Greedy fingers pried at the gaping hole of your pussy, streams of pearly white dripping down your folds.

“You smell so sweet,” he groaned against you, breath heady. “I am not a wasteful man, my lady, do not fret. I shall swallow every last drop of this creamy load before giving you my own.”

His tongue curved, lapping at the mess, swirling yours and Satoru’s cum into his mouth and swallowing without hesitation.

With a final, long lick that had you shuddering, Suguru pulled back, lips glistening with a wicked grin. He paused just long enough to settle between your thighs, the thick head of his cock nudging against your slick entrance.

"Let us make good on the past, hm?” he asked softly before he surged forward, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful thrust. Unlike Satoru, he gave you no time to adjust, immediately setting a brutal, punishing pace, hips slapping against yours.

When you tilted your head back, you expected Satoru’s face to be alight with horror. But instead, the back of his hand was pressed against his mouth as if to mask his expression, heady eyes lidded, skin flushed as his chest rose and fell against your back.

Amidst it, Suguru leaned down to kiss Satoru over your shoulder, brushing ivory hair behind his ear. “What’s wrong, Satoru? Do you like this?”

The other man shook his head frantically, but he didn’t need to offer a lie. His cock was already hardening, proving his pitiful attempt futile, twitching against your back. Suguru turned his velvety gaze back to you, the arch of his back hitting spots inside you that sparked flames behind your eyes.

“Surely mine will take,” he mused, lips hovering mere inches from yours, “as you seem inclined to milk me dry, my lady.”

You let your head rest on Satoru’s shoulder, forcing steady breaths through your lungs. Suguru’s hands slid down to grip your thighs, fingers neatly sinking into the soft flesh as he pulled your legs up and over his shoulders.

The new angle allowed him to drive into you even deeper, the head of his cock now pecking at your womb with every thrust, hot silk wrapped around his aching cock.

“Suguru—” you moaned, wanton against his soft groans.

“Come now, my lady,” Suguru purred, “you need only give the word.”

“Please.” Your fingers reached up, scrambling for purchase on the smooth planes of his skin. “Just—oh, god—do not make me ask twice.”

“I would not dream of it,” he chuckled, resting a flat palm over where the outline of his cock pressed against your stomach, eyes flitting back up to cerulean blown out in awe. “After all, the lady always gets what she wants. Isn’t that right, Satoru?”

“Y-Yes, my lord,” he replied quietly, swallowing thickly.

The rhythm of his hips refused to cease as he drove himself into you, chasing his own release as your walls fluttered around his cock. Your nails scratched down his back, nearly drawing blood as he buried himself into your wetness fully.

With a breathy moan escaping his lips, scalding ropes of thick, potent cum painted the inside your spasming cunt. Suguru’s hips made small, gentle circles, his semi-hard cock still buried deep inside you, peppering your face with soft, sweet kisses.

“I could stay like this forever, inside you,” he whispered, “you feel too good to leave.”

Suguru tilted his head past your ear, pressing his lips to Satoru’s in a deep, lazy kiss, groaning lowly at the contact. His cock slid against your back, slick with precum, a whimper slipping past their entangled tongues.

"Mmm, kiss him like that," you moaned softly, “show him what that filthy mouth can do besides talking.”

Suguru scoffed against his lips, but Satoru was too far gone. Eyes glassy, hips rocking faster against your soft skin, grinding with his palms planted on the ground.

“You f-feel sooo good—oh god, mmph—p-please, I n-need to cum s-so badly,” Satoru begged, whining at the contact as you met his thrusts, his leaking cock twitching against your back.

“Already?” Suguru smirked. “It’s only been… five minutes, Satoru.”

“My lord, I can't... I c-can't—hah—” Satoru choked, his voice breaking on a strangled sob. His chest rapidly rose and fell with the crest of his shallow breaths as his milky strands of his seed painted your skin, coating your lower back and the curve of your ass in a sticky, pearlescent glaze.

As the last weak spurts of his release dribbled down your back, Satoru leaned forward, resting his head on the arc of your shoulders as Suguru murmured soft nothings in his ear.

“So you have won,” he admitted, lowering his eyes. “My lady… she will carry your child now?”

Under the assumption that he had done absolutely nothing to stop it but watch, you pressed his fingers to your lips, quirked in a smile.

“Ah, so you have not yet told him,” Suguru said, eyes alight.

“Told… what, my lord?”

“I cannot conceive an heir, Satoru,” you replied. “Have you never wondered why the people of the estate speak so low of me?”

Satoru blinked. “You… cannot?”

Suguru laughed. “Enlightened, you say?”

You swatted at his arm. “I’d like to see you admit something, then.”

There was a brief pause as you watched the slant of his jaw work, the light behind his eyes flickering in thought.

"We could stay lost in you,” he said suddenly, louder against your challenge, almost like a declaration for the waiting world, “drowning in your touch, your scent, your taste. Admission enough for you, my lady?”

“You speak as if we will die soon,” you mused, shaking your head and resting your palms on his chest.

“One day… I would like to make love to you, my lady, with the lord,” Satoru said tentatively, nearly shamelessly save for the crimson flush of his cheeks, his fingers trailing the bridge of your arms up to Suguru’s broad shoulders. “Properly, with the two of us inside you.”

“What a dirty fantasy,” you replied, leaning back to accept a kiss from his reverent lips. “Perhaps tomorrow. Tonight, we rest.”

“We?” Suguru echoed.

“Where else would you sleep?” You smiled. “Away from me?”

Somehow, Satoru had heard your mumbling of night chills and Suguru’s agreement. He then proceeded to refuse to let you rest without dressing the two of you properly.

So with silk robes sliding against blooming skin, Suguru perched himself behind you, letting your head rest against his chest while Satoru sprawled out with his head in your lap, fingers curling at the plush of your thigh.

That was how your advisor found the three of you the next morning, sun peeking through the shifting door. He blinked, then slid the door closed, telling the maids not to disturb the lady as she slept peacefully for the first time in months.

While you dreamt, it was more so simply thinking.

You saw yourself in the two of them. Time aged you. Or experience. The case stilled to a single reflection upon dappled water, in which you gazed into azure and mauve eyes. Yet one thing remained constant in all the universes flashing before your eyes.

When Suguru found you, you acted a lot like Satoru.

And when Satoru found you, you acted a lot like Suguru.

You recognized that much, and came to think that they saw their past love, in you, and this was merely a resurrection of a presence strong enough to transcend entire lifetimes. Perhaps it was misguided and misplaced, in the image of a past love.

And perhaps you should have stopped, there, with the false realization that they did not love you. But you knew, even somewhere in that soul that rested beneath you, that it was untrue. Somewhere along their journey, they met you separately, and fell in love with you separately.

Only with your intervention had they rediscovered their love for one another.

So, truly, it was all thanks to you. You woke to the notion that this love was reignited, a spark amidst a never ending flame, by your gentle hand. Everything shifted with something worth holding onto—the soft certainty that some flames never truly died.

And you would tend to the fire long before you would let it go out.

They spoke, of course they did. The nation did nothing, if not speak. But they could not lay a finger on your pets. In the end, they belonged to you.

Satoru on your right, always, his pearly hair tangled in your fingers with those electric eyes serene. Suguru on your left, always, ivory hair cascading down his back as he sat with his cheek in his palm and legs spread in a manner that was most definitely uncouth.

You never said a word.

After all, they would be perched at your side until the end of time.

And nobody dared to touch that which was yours.

a/n: woah, you made it all the way to the bottom! here, have a glass of wine🍷<33 hopefully you enjoyed! i loved writing this one <- probably my fav out of my three kinktober fics! likes and comments always appreciated! love ya <3

[reignpage]

Equal Rights, Equal Fights

Summary: in which your boyfriend, Gojo Satoru, lets himself get struck by a gender-bending curse Word Count: 2.3k Warnings: fem!reader, lesbian sex, gender bend, porn with little plot, thigh humping, cunnilingus, fingering, scissoring, dirty talk, choking, slight rimming, all over the place pronouns, not proofread

“It’s pretty crazy, isn’t it?” Satoru remarks with a shit-eating grin. “Although, I always knew I’d make a hot chick.”

Your boyfriend returned from a mission as a woman. Something about a curse with the ability to alter the appearance of its victim for an hour or two, which apparently, intrigued him enough to let down his guard, literally, and allow himself to be struck. 

Now, before you, is a tall, skinny, but curvaceous, young woman with long, white hair. She’s drowning in Satoru’s clothes, zipper dangerously low on her chest, revealing the smooth curves of her cleavage. Wearing his blindfold, she admires herself in the bathroom mirror whilst you look on from behind in what can only be described as horror. 

“How are you so calm about this, Satoru?”

She, or he, or what fucking ever, winks at you through the reflection and cups her ample breasts. Then, with a sultry tone, replies, “I’ve already accepted my fate. So, instead of being all sad and scared, why don’t we make the most of it, sweetie?”

Judging by the words alone, you’re sure it’s him — no one else in the world could manage to be as infuriating. But the voice is so womanly, much higher than his normal pitch, smoother, and it’s throwing you for a loop. 

Satoru spins around, hair whipping with her movement. You can tell she’s serious, or he, and fuck this is confusing. She is serious. You can tell her from the mischievous glinting in her eyes and the way she’s raking down your figure, stopping at your chest to size up your tits in comparison to hers. 

Even in a situation like this, he just has to compete.

“Satoru, you need to go to Shoko,” is all you can push out. 

In a flash, she’s pinning you to the wall, breasts squished against yours and her leg trapped shoved between your thighs. She cages you within her arms, fingers tracing your jaw, travelling down your neck. When you gulp, Satoru huffs in victory, thoroughly amused by your body’s reaction.

Her fingers remain just as long as his normal ones, but his nails are even longer and sharper. They scrape against your skin, pressing just hard enough for you to hold your breath as you both watch him descend down your chest until she reaches the neckline of your shirt. 

“Let’s have some instead, hmm?”

You try to push her away, but your fists only land on her bouncy breasts instead of his hard pecs. Through her uniform, you can feel her pebbled nipples poking. Satoru gasps. Unable to help yourself, you unfurl your fists and bury your fingers within her tits, the weight leaving you both breathless. 

In retaliation, you’re sure, she hikes that leg up between yours, plumper thighs pressing against your clothed pussy. You moan, “Satoru!”

She crashes her lips against yours. 

You can taste your lipgloss; he must have gone through your makeup bag before waking you up. It’s sweet and sticky and neither of you can get enough as you stick your tongue in, meeting his in a sloppy kiss. Her tits press in harder as she arches closer, leg grinding against your moistening pussy. 

“Knew you’d cave,” he taunts.

Satoru, in any and all forms, will always be a little shit. He’ll always push the limits, get on your nerves, and he’ll do it all with an innocent smile. That realisation might be the only thing softening the blow when you realise, you’re actually just as curious and enthusiastic about this little experience. 

Because no matter how infuriating he is, he will always be your Satoru. And you can’t deny him, can’t resist his charm, no matter how hard you try. Even when you desperately don’t want him to win. 

And how can you resist him now?

When he still looks just as otherworldly, just as majestic, and jaw-dropping as a woman. And he looks even better than you. 

But he kisses the same. With so much love, so much reverence, and obsession, you almost forget what’s happened. Almost. Since there’s no way you can ignore that sickly sweet scent of a woman. Gone is all the roughness and instead it’s replaced by that warmth, that nurturing softness you melt into. 

She squeals when you shove your leg between hers too. Whilst you grind on hers, Satoru humps you, pussy juices seeping through your clothes, leaving a steamy trail on your bare skin and on her thin pants. 

“Do I feel better, baby?” He asks. “Is it better when I’m a girl? Do you like me like this, hmm? All -ngh- soft and womanly?”

“Shut up, Satoru.”

You tear off her jacket, throwing it somewhere behind her before you pull down her vest, stretching the material until it tucks itself under her tits. They’re so heavy, so intoxicatingly smooth you squeeze them under your palms. You suck at a throbbing nipple, eyes rolling back at Satoru’s whimper. 

“Oh, fuck, baby! You sucking my tit? You like sucking on mommy’s tits, baby?”

Her fingers tug at your hair, simultaneously trying to pull you off and keep you there, like she wishes she could bury you between her breasts. You have no idea where that mommy thing comes from and you make a mental note to make fun of him for it later, but right now, the term is actually making you wetter. 

Tongue swirling around her nipple, you use the same technique as you would with the tip of his cock, sucking in pulses. You flick it and rolls the bud between your teeth hard enough to make her hips stutter. 

You’re still churning your hips against her thigh, panties soaked through and making a mess of her pants. She, in turn, is grinding on yours. The both of you are chasing your high, feeling yourselves get closer to an orgasm, and you can’t muster the energy to ponder about how weird this entire thing is. You can only think about how delicious she smells and how addictive her softness feels. 

“Yes! Yes, Satoru,” you groan around her nipple, bruising her hips with your needy hands.

She’s bucking wildly, holding you tight as she spasms. Though your orgasm was just as good, it’s clear Satoru is being driven an extra mile of wild — he must be going insane from the unique feel of a woman’s orgasm. She grinds her clit harder. 

“Oh my god!” She moans. “Fuck, baby! It’s so good, it’s so fucking good.”

Kissing up her neck, you hold her as she slumps down. Unable to restrain yourself, you tease right in her ear, “Knew you wouldn’t be able to handle a woman’s body.”

That seems to rejuvenate him because he’s using his height to tower over you once more, tits jiggling right in front of your face.

“Oh, but I handle yours every night well enough, don’t I?”

You shrug. “Eh, you’re alright.”

Satoru spins you around, pushing you to sit on top of the toilet lid. She sinks onto her knees, pulling your panties off right before diving forward. Her tongue glides through your sloppy pussy, licking a stripe from your quivering hole to your clit, circling there once and twice before lowering again. 

“Satoru! Don’t stop,” you beg, hands holding your thighs up so you can get a perfect view of her long lashes fluttering as her own eyes roll back. She’s taking off her own clothes with expert hands, multitasking whilst she ravages your cunt, pushing that devilishly long tongue inside your wet hole. 

You’re writhing and clawing at the walls, knocking the toilet roll off its handle. 

When she inches her fingers inside, your hips jolt. They’re slightly thinner than his normal fingers but they’re still stretching you out as she feels the grooves inside your pulsing walls. 

Laughing, Satoru remarks, “I’m just as tight as you, baby. But you’re warmer inside.”

You look down and the sight makes you squeeze out even more cream onto his fingers. Your boyfriend, in his female form, is shoving his fingers inside his own sloppy pussy in time with the fingers he’s got inside of you. His slender arm is pushing her tits closer, make the fat bulge and bounce with every thrust. 

Bunching up her hair, you pull him in closer, urging his dirty mouth to suck your clit. Drool is dripping down your chin as he continues to pummel his fingers inside your cunt, curling them in to tease at that spongy spot inside. 

“Oh! Ngh!” Satoru whimpers. “Is that what you feel when I do that?”

The squelches filling the room are coming from both of you. It’s a filthy symphony and you’re heaving, hips rising to chase his mouth. Sweat is drenching your body and the feel of him licking up that bead of condensation falling down your thigh just as his thumb circles your clit is what pushes you over the edge. 

You cum with a scream, soaking her face with your release which she eagerly laps up, dipping low to your ass to chase any errant trails of wetness, tracing the puckered hole. Desperately inhaling air, your head falls back onto the water tank, the ceramic cooling you enough to bring back your consciousness. 

“That’s it. Go on, baby. Cum for me,” she urges. “Looks so -ngh- pretty. Prettier than me. Always so beautiful.”

Satoru is still frantically shoving her fingers inside like she can’t get enough of the euphoria stimulating her g-spot is bringing. You reach your hands out, one to clutch at her throat, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp, and the other pinches and pulls at her nipple, slipping in the sweat coating his skin.

“Shit! I’m cumming. Oh no, fuck! It’s too much.”

She cums too, juices splattering all over the tiles. Her back arches, mouth agape and eyes rolled back. Strands of hair are sticking to her clammy skin, and her sticky spare hand is gripping your wrist, smearing your own wetness all over your skin. 

It’s as gorgeous a sight as his normal cumming face. 

“I c-can’t…fuck!” She heaves, bottom lip quivering right before her head falls forward, face planting right into your pussy. Satoru takes a deep inhale before he kisses your clit like he would with your lips or your cheeks. “Love this pussy, love you so so much.”

He’s muttering sweet nothings right in your hole the same way he does after a hard cum. Even as the most badass looking woman, he’s still your pathetic little boyfriend, always so in love and unafraid to show it. 

“Accept defeat, Satoru,” you whisper as you brush his hair back. “Two orgasms from your pussy are too much for a man to handle.”

Your boyfriend, bless his competitive little heart, lifts his head and forces his blurry vision to clear up enough for him to fix you with a firm glare. He grips your ankles, stands up, and scoots you back. There isn’t enough space on the toilet, but he forces you both to balance anyways. 

Tossing a leg over yours, he declares, “I can handle another one. You can too. So, hold tight baby, we’re going until there’s a dick between my legs and inside yours.”

Then, he’s mashing his wet cunt against your pulsing pussy. 

“Oh my god,” you whimper again. 

Satoru has craziness written all over his face, a furious need sparkling in his pretty blue eyes as he pummels his pussy again and again against yours. His hard clit meets yours and jolts of electricity climb up your spine, back arching with a howl. 

Sweat and pussy juice is flying everywhere with the force of her thrusts. Your body is on fire, nerves alight as you lie helplessly beneath her, head thrown back. You can only take what she’s giving you, unable to fight off that fury in her hips as she grinds your clits together, mixing your sticky juices until it’s pooling beneath your asses.

His perfect blue eyes can’t decide where to look at. Whether to watch the way your tits bounce like his, or at your pleasured face, tongue out and drool coating your lips and chin whilst your eyes rolls back, or at your sloppy pussy, shiny with your combined mess. 

Your fingers dig into her tits, groping the flesh there before you sit up and take a nipple into your mouth. Even as a man, his nipples were his weakness, and when you swipe the tip of your tongue against the slit, her thrusts suddenly become shorter and faster until they lose all rhythm. 

Together, you howl. Your moans are broken and ragged, muscles jelly as you meet her sloppy thrusts with equally crazed ones. 

“Yes! Yes!” Satoru screams. “So good, baby. Fuck! Your pussy’s the best. Ha! I love you so much. My best girl, my favourite girl.”

“Oh god, Satoru!”

Hips still stuttering and slapping against each other, you ride out your orgasms, breaths raspy as you drench the seat with your mixing fluids, steam fogging the window. Satoru’s lips descend on yours, sucking up your dying moans and holding you close. 

Eventually, you part, limbs tangled up and eyes threatening to close. 

You fall forward into his neck, but you don’t get any rest because he’s slapping your face awake with gentle pats. You look up at him through bleary eyes. 

Gone is long hair and so is his blindfold, now you realise. His features have hardened again, jaw much sharper and cheeks less plump, but still just as flushed. And when your hand seeks out his chest, you’re a little disappointed to find only solid muscle. But you aren’t as disappointed to feel something long, thick and incredibly hard throbbing against your stomach. 

“Three orgasms from female me. Three orgasms from original me. After, you tell me which is better, okay?”

Always so competitive, always so annoying. 

[milkysea-02]

The Fox With Blue Eyes

Fox Mask!Gojo x Reader (Geto x Reader too)

Synopsis: You refused the arranged marriage the moment you heard about it, so you left. But the fog-covered village won’t let you leave, and a strange man wearing a fox mask keeps appearing to guide you through the nightmare. What you don’t realize is that the man behind the mask is the very person you were meant to marry.

Tags for this story: Spoilers for Silent Hill f, emotional distress, character death, body horror, violence, eventual Smut, more tags to be announced soon

Masterlist

Chapter 1: Forest of Whispers

Chapter 2: Rites of Impurity

Chapter 3: WIP

Chapter 4 (ending 1): WIP

Chapter 5 (ending 2): WIP

Fanart by: momoya 348 on Twitter/X

Dividers by: Diviniyae

[tonycries]

Nothing Is Lost - G.S.

Synopsis. Research on the Herwi clan of Pandora is both sparse and sacred. Current reports claim the existence of an icebound Na’vi residing in the bitter sub-zero mountains of Pandora: snow-white and unforgiving, as elusive as the fleeting snowflakes. Though physical evidence of these people are so far non-existent, and so are the eyewitnesses alive to tell the tale.  As a scientist on Pandora, you have only one goal: to prove the existence of the Herwi clan. As olo’eyktan of the Herwi clan, Gojo Satoru has only one goal: to make you his mate.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!scientist!reader, Na’vi!Gojo, Avatar AU, based on James Cameron’s movies, snow Na’vi, hidden tribes, snowy setting, scientific research, Shoko cameo, plot, culture, Na’vi language (translations at the end), Eywa, YEARNING Gojo, fated mates, size differences (he’s 11 feet), oraI (f + m rec.), standing oraI, pússydrúnk Gojo, fìngering, bíting, spìtting, cervìx kìssin’, trying to fit, he’s BIG big, feraI Gojo, tummy buIges, pressing down on it, MANHANDLlNG, matíng presses, monsterf-ing (Na’vi), rough s, stopping you from running, p sIapping, p talking, dúmbifícation, chokíng, cIit pinching, he’s slightly lNSANE, slight bréeding, mentions of kids, overstím, creampíes, cúmfIation, cúmpIay, bonding, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 15.2k

A/N. This one’s to all the lovely babygirls who’ve been begging for this heheh, I lob you all <33

“Satoru of the snow—once the ice disappears so shall your name.” One amongst the elder members of the Hunt sighs.

Gojo Satoru was a phantom figure before them. He led the way—towering and lithe. Long ivory hair dancing in the flurry. Bioluminescent freckles upon skin such a pale blue that it was practically white. Even amongst the Herwi, Gojo stood out.

Their olo’eyktan. Their leader. 

He cuts a pathway through the wind and snow, carrying the carcasses of several snow beasts that he’d hunted himself. They rested upon his strong shoulders - the group’s largest catch, as always - and Gojo was unyielding to the howl of Pandora’s highest peaks. These mountains were a crown upon the young Na’vi’s head.

The elder clicks his tongue, “Do you not believe it is time for this clan to see our olo’eyktan mated-”

“So let the snow melt.” Had it been anyone but Gojo Satoru, then these words would be lost to the snowstorm. “But I shall forever remain waiting for my mate.”

“But the absence of a tsahìk-”

“Mawey- do slow down.” For not the first time since their trek started, Gojo is turning his head behind him. He might have been a firm leader, but he wasn’t unfair. He watches the Herwi hunters that extend from his feet to far beyond hills of ice and frost - some middle-aged and weathered by the snow already, some fresh-faced and cold with the eagerness to prove themselves. Following them were six-legged canines they called txeylan—powerful hinds pulling sleds piled high with hunt. “The younger ones are having trouble keeping up.”

Gaping, the elder looks between his leader and the younger members near the middle of their group. Flanked by older Na’vi. “But- but olo’eyktan-”

He’s looking up at the irritated sky, “I will see no further talking.”

Though there is an easy smile across his face, the elders know not to cross him. Senior in age—only age. 

They bowed their heads and looked away above all because he is their leader, but below that - deep, deeeeeep below what their prides would allow them to ever admit - because they knew he was stronger. The strongest.

The heir born of a blizzard, Satoru of the snow. 

It was said he opened his eyes during the coldest night of that year. Ice-blue. Bitter blue. Like the pools of crystallized water that the Herwi people would dance their celebrations upon - and that night they held the longest celebrations to date. Arms in arms and singing songs. And giving thanks and giving the young his first taste of snow. 

And though the position of olo’eyktan had an aspect of inheritance to it either way, it was undeniable that the world had just borne their future leader.

He’d grown up taller than other Na’vi his age. Stronger. Stormy flurries wherever he stepped, and a blizzard himself. 

There almost seemed to be a gap between him and everyone else.

Gojo had been sixteen when he was officially granted the mantle of ‘The Strongest’ by the clan. It was only about time, and only because of the elders’ reluctance that it’d taken this long.

And now it was impossible to say whether he was more loved or respected as a leader: the more boisterous of the younger Na’vi certainly loved him, the elders couldn’t stand him, the ones of mating age just couldn’t get enough of him. Though it was all for naught.

In all the twenty-eight years that he’d sifted through these snows - in all the ten years since he’d come of age - Gojo hadn’t so much as looked at another with a degree of infatuation.

Not for a lack of propositions- in fact, if you asked his attendants then they’d tell you that Gojo had a surplus of propositions. At least five Na’vi would stroll up the familiar pathway to his underground hut, calling out sing-song wishes to braid his hair, to walk amongst the ice glaciers together, to mend his fur clothes. 

Hopefuls. 

His attendants were ordered to send them all away with a gift from the olo’eyktan and a firm rejection (though, Gojo finds that that certainly didn’t deter them…)

They just didn’t seem to understand why such a suitable young Na’vi seemed to be waiting…watching…for something even he himself didn’t seem to understand. Always turning his blue eyes to the skies, ever since he was a child, always, always-

Gojo stops in his tracks.

One of his arms raises to halt the procession behind him. 

The Na’vi hunters freeze.

The Na’vi hunters let their tails swish.

The txeylan sniff the air.

Gojo’s long pointed ears twitch in every direction before resting in a single direction up ahead - where the belly of the snow seemed to swell with something. Something that the recent snowstorm had swallowed.

“Olo’eyktan…” One of the younger Herwi behind him whispers. “What is it?”

“Mawey. It might be a dead snow beast.” He hisses, though he knew that wasn’t right. It wasn’t uncommon for even the creatures of these terrains to be bested by nature. But something about the figure in the snow was…different from the hounding things they hunted. Much more delicate, much more scrunched in on itself.

Gojo keeps his hand held high in the air and passes on his hunt to the nearby clansmen. Still holding onto his bow and arrows, he edges closer. “Ì’awn- the clan stays here while I investigate.” Leaving no room for a word edgewise.

The wind whips his long hair and kuru as the Na’vi steps closer. And some maddened part of him almost feels that it was as though Eywa, their goddess, herself was trying to get him to stay away.

But an even madder part of him wanted to get closer—needed to get closer.

He was being drawn in.

Making not even a single noise with his padded feet, he’s crouching down before the unmoving figure and using his long skeletal fingers to wipe away those dredges of snow. 

Away from a face—

He gasps.

The rest of the Herwi startles behind him, “What is it- what is it, olo’eyktan?”

“Is it a snow beast? Must we commence the rituals-”

“Cease! Are those fingers it has-”

“Five?”

But Gojo doesn’t answer their queries, instead he’s silently pressing his ear to the swell of the body’s chest and—ba-dump!

Listening to that faint heartbeat.

He’s not sure how this little human was still alive, and he pulls back to look at them- the first he’s ever seen. Gojo has already heard the whispers from other Na’vi clans, of these aliens named mankind whom had settled upon Pandora a few years ago.

He’s heard about humanity’s wits, their machinery, their greed.

He’s heard of the way they’ve hurt his people.

But he’s never seen one up so…close. Were they all this small? How could something so small be so destructive?

Gojo tilts his head down at you and runs one of his cold indexes down the side of your masked face, did they all look so hurt by the cold? He can’t imagine that it didn’t hurt- after all, the only reason that the Herwi had managed to reside in these mountains for hundreds of years was because of its harsh environment. Not human nor animal nor Na’vi wanted to be here—but Gojo always loved this place, as did his people.

He wondered whether it was such passionate love or hate that drew the little human in his arms to climb such peaks. To come this far. 

He can’t help but lean down and scoop the human up into his arms.

“O-olo’eyktan what is the meaning of this-”

“Fnu- shhhh.” Gojo responds in his native language, “She’s resting.”

The olo’eyktan carries the human all the way back the treacherous path to his clan huts.

And every time he looked down, he could see the way that smaller body fell and rose with each faint breath. He could see the flying of human-made coats that did nothing to fight off the cold of Pandora. He could see the pen and notebook stuffed inside it as if they were the most precious treasure of all.

He can see you.

.

.

.

Day #1 in the Herwi village: 

Woke up in what seems to be the healer’s hut, a wide insulated space that is more or less steeped into the underground with a berth of the entrance AS (above snow). Capped dome on top. Walls are composed of wooden planks on the interior flanked by compact ice from the outside, decorated in the thick furs of what appears to be snow beasts. Long book shelves. Kindling lantern of something bioluminescent and emitting heat. Shockingly warm inside. Vents are present but small to prevent an excess of thin air. Separate storage spaces and areas for examination, implications of advanced surgery and medical procedures taking place far beyond what we humans can understand.

Though Herwi healing techniques seem to be similar to that of other Na’vi clans (particularly the Omaticaya) in terms of relation to Eywa and natural resources, it must be noted that Herwi healing makes prominent use of ice for anti-inflammatory and vessel constricting methods.

Sparse presence of herbs and more emphasis on pressure points (for a copy of the Herwi circulatory system diagram see Page 8…), though the olo’eyktan reassures that there are a multitude of flora endemic to the Pandoran heights. 

The olo’eyktan seems particularly eager to give a tour?

With your eyes blinking open…you think you’ve died and gone onto whatever there was afterwards.

It would’ve been just like you to meet your demise during the pursuit of your research- the higher-ups at your laboratory predicted the same thing. The last thing you remember before blacking out was feeling faint - weeks of hiking up this arduous peak and you’d run out of your provisions a few days ago, surviving on only melted ice to fill your belly. At least, until the sudden threat of a snowslide had resulted in you abandoning your tent and bags behind for escape.

From then on it had only been: you, your pen, your notebook with your research, your translator, and your burning passion to find the Herwi.

It was no surprise that you didn’t last long.

But you suppose you just didn’t expect the ‘afterwards’ to be a blue, blue summer sky. 

Oh—how you missed the cloud-frothed ocean of blue down on Earth. It was never quite the same on Pandora, and you’re just beginning to wonder whether heaven was really home-

“Yawne, txen?”

Before your muddled mind realizes that this really wasn’t your sky after all.

What you were looking up into were the eyes of a Na’vi warrior.

He’s leaning his overlarge body above yours, and you’re pressing yourself flatly against a mattress—one that was made of copious amounts of furs and the softest spun wool to make you feel as though you were floating up on the clouds.

But the farther you’re getting, the more he dwarfs you with his curious peering.

Closer.

And the only thing you can do is look up into his handsome blue face- the lightest of blues you’ve ever seen. 

Now, you have to start this off by saying that every single Na’vi you’ve seen was beautiful—every single one of them. 

But you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone like him before: long white hair, blue eyes almost like a Metkayina, and glowing spots scattered like snowflakes across his cheeks. Heavy eyelids. Taller than your average Omaticaya. Perhaps a bit bulkier, as well.

If you tilted your head just past his looming figure then you could take in the tufted fur clothing he wore, slightly more coverage than of Na’vi from the more tropical areas; with patterns of rosettes peaking out wherever his skin was exposed and dotted like a fainter version of a snow leopard’s. From your own planet.

But you were not on your own planet.

Far from it.

You’re realizing with a jolt that he was one of the Herwi clan-

“Are you…” And though you’d dreamed and wished and hoped for this day for so long—right now you find yourself absolutely speechless. “Are you- fuck.”

To which he only beams- “Nga lu rusey- oh, nga lu rusey.” His pearly white teeth are on full display, one little dimple crinkling at the edge of his smile. He just looks so handsome like this that you almost lose your breath- no. It must be the hypothermia that’s getting to you. It must be. And if you didn’t know any better then you’d have said that he almost sounds utterly relieved—“Oe'm lefpom. Txen? Lu nga txen? Tsal pung?”

“I ah…” Mouth dropping open. Shit—your translator!

Before he can say anything more, you’re digging in your coats- or at least attempting to. It doesn’t take long for you to shuffle behind the thick blankets and realize that you weren’t wearing those humanly thin layers you did when climbing up the mountain. Well-fitted for the Earth’s cold, but not for the harsh ever-winters of Pandora.

Instead you were wearing…a thick woolen coat?

Much too large on you- almost comically so. It had sleeves that reached a few feet past your fingertips, draped down to your toes, and enough space that you could hide at least five of you inside it. 

No translator.

No pen. No notebook-

He sees this smaller figure fluttering about worriedly and tilts his head curiously, “‘Upe lu nga fwew?” Before handing you your notebook and pen from a table behind him.

“Pardon? Ah- thank you so much—!” You beam at him, and he beams back. But looking into his blue eyes once more, you feel a sudden sense of helplessness wash over you. “But I’m sorry, I still can’t understand you.”

At this the Na’vi furrows his pale brows - you’re not quite sure whether he knew what you were saying, but he seemed to have picked up on your emotions. Nudging his large face against yours with a purring sound, “Yawne? Oe'd tìng aynga.”

And a part of you somewhat melts- “I said I really can’t- hahah.” You half-heartedly try to push his incessant face away with a laugh, taking particular delight in noting how happily his tail was swishing. Fluffier with more fur than you’ve observed on other types of Na’vi, also covered in pretty rosettes that swayed to and fro.

It’s right now that you wished you had the patience to stay behind and immerse yourself more in the Na’vi language lessons your laboratory had provided. Most scientists didn’t even go out into the field until they were experts - but you were too antsy, too greedy to know. Something seemed to have called you here whether it cost you your life.

Given you’d picked up on some phrases here and there, but it seems that the Herwi had a different accent from the clips played in those listening tests. Slightly softer, slightly more of a whisper.

Like the breath of winter, his words cooled your mask and heated up something entirely different inside of you. “Oe pey ngim krr.”

Before you know it, the Na’vi clasps both your hands in his—and you’re startled by just how large they are, just how cold. You’re analyzing the way his pale fingers hold your own as if it was all that was tender in the world.

Intertwining.

“Ngim krr.” He looks at you with those azure eyes seriously, opening up the palm of your right hand and touching his to yours. Palm against palm. Breath against breath. “Nìt'iluke.” 

You get the feeling that you were missing something very important- “I’m sorry I really wish…I’m so sorry to ask any more of you- I really am. But have you happened to see my translator anywhere?”

“Tìnga’prrnen?” He cocks his head in confusion, trying to mouth the word.

“Erm- yes?” Hoping that he understood you, “My translator—” You emphasize the syllables- “It’s a little device to understand you-”

You’re gesturing between the two of you- and you swear you see the light blue Na’vi pale. “Tìnga’prrnen? Oe?”

“Yes?” You knew that ‘oe’ referred to oneself.

He balks- maybe you were getting through to him? “Nga new ne kanom oe tìnga’prrnen-”

“Skxawng.”

Before he’s suddenly cut off by a hard smack to the back of his head- and you’re looking up just in time to see another Herwi Na’vi enter the hut. The dimorphism between this particular strand of Na’vi wasn’t anything too prominent, you find - both were tall, both were pale, both had long tails and rosettes scattered across their agile bodies.

The only real difference was that the one at your bedside was more rugged, with even more pure-white beads woven into his hair. Though that you could chalk up to their separate duties within the clan.

She walked inside as though she owned the place, throwing her long loose hair behind her shoulder. She doesn’t even flinch as she shuts the other man up—as she brings out a black earpiece from behind her and hands it to you. “I believe this is yours. It was dropped in the rush outside.”

“O-oh!” You’re surprised to find that it was none other than your translating device. Taking it gratefully, “Thank you so so much.”

“Don’t mention it.” 

At your baffled expression - as far as you knew, the Herwi were the last remaining uncontacted clan of Na’vi, with no knowledge of humankind nor their many languages. “I learned your language from my books-” Gesturing around her - you were right to assume that this was her hut, filled to the brim with ointments and books. Mostly of Na’vi origin, but you could spy a few in English and Japanese. “-sent by friends in the Omaticaya. I find your human stories are…quite amusing.”

“I see.” You breathe.

She gestures at herself, “Ieri Shoko of the heart.” Then at the male Na’vi member, “Gojo Satoru of the snow. I apologize for him, he is our olo’eyktan- also the one that found you.”

“So you’re my saviour.” You’re looking towards him- Gojo once more. He catches your eyes and looks away with a pale blue hue dusting his face. “Irayo nga.” Giving your thanks (one of the few phrases you could speak with complete confidence). 

You’re looking towards him- He shudders, “Oe ke ronsem tsonta lu tìnga’prrnen.”

As soon as he’s saying it, Shoko smacks her hand on her forehead- and you wonder what exactly he means. 

So without further ado, you’re fixing the earpiece onto yourself.

“Idiot.” Shoko’s turning back to Gojo, “You know that’s not what she meant?”

Gojo crosses his arms and huffs- “I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind if it’s for her-”

“Not even Eywa could make that happen.”

“Getting preg-”

“Hello?” Testing—and if the way both Na’vi jerk their heads to you in slight surprise is anything to go by, then you’d say that the translator was working rather well. It was less an earpiece that translated and more a device to target that part of your brain that communicated and understood foreign languages.

Allowing you to both understand and speak in the dialect of the Na’vi - an invention by yours truly, of course. You’d (as close as) perfected it just last year for this expedition. “Can you understand me?”

Gojo stares at you with wide blue eyes.

With his pretty lips parted.

With his tail swishing back and forth.

“I see y-”

“We understand you.” Shoko nudges him roughly in the ribs, “I apologize if we’re a bit startled- it’s the first time we’re seeing a human in person.”

“I could’ve guessed that.” You giggle, flickering your eyes over to the starstrack Na’vi. Though you were equally as such. Somehow you speaking in his language just seemed to make him…“But I want to emphasize that I come in peace- I just want to learn as a scientist, not even my laboratory knows exactly where I am. And I intend to keep it that way.”

Shoko crosses her arms and looks gravely at you, “What do you want?”

“To learn. To research you and your people.” You look between them both, “To confirm the existence of the Herwi clan has been a dream of mine for a long time- not for the papers or the accolades, but because I just wanted to know you.”

“And how can we trust you?” Shoko says, getting nudged by Gojo afterwards.

“I won’t reveal anything you don’t want me to.” Determination dripping in your tone, “Not even if they kill me for it.”

They appraise you, and it’s silent for a beat before Shoko looks at Gojo.

And Gojo nods.

Shoko shoots you a barely-there smile, “Well…human, what do you want to know?”

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.

After you woke up, it was after a long talk and almost three or so hours later that you’d gotten up- Shoko and Gojo had both rushed to your side. Waving them off, you’d attempted to shrug off the coat and hand it back to Gojo - long since realizing that it was his - but he’d almost been offended by the gesture.

Refusing. 

He’d kept a hand behind on the small of your back to steady you with every step climbed towards the entrance. And once you were out- you could practically feel the storm freeze around you.

Colder than cold.

The Herwi looked at you with fear.

They stopped in their tracks and didn’t even look to breathe until Gojo had followed right after. And standing beside him like that, you’d been made too aware of the drastic height difference between you two. The average Na’vi was about nine to ten feet tall, though by the look of it the Herwi of the snow were much larger than their oceanic counterparts—slightly thicker, with limbs that were long and covered in sparse fur to protect them from the cold.

The Herwi average was about ten feet, you’re finding.

Though Gojo stood at a proud eleven feet (11’1 as you come to interrogate out of him more precisely later on) and rested his hand gently upon your shoulder. They had faint scars on them that marked him as a warrior, and you could feel the slight callouses send shivers across your coat-swathed body. His tail curled around your thigh.

You don’t think you even came up to his stomach-

“My people…” He announced in booming Na’vi. “-as some of you may know from the hunt today, we have a guest.”

You shift at the stares.

“More importantly, my guest. And we will make her feel welcome like family.”

“Family?” The whispers came.

“But she is one of the sky people…”

“Part of the family is…but if the olo’eyktan says so…”

“I’ve never seen him so casually touchy with someone before-”

“Shhhhhhh!”

“I understand if you are scared, and to those who wish it- you are free to leave and never interact with her while she is here.” Though none of them do move. Fixated. “But to those who aren’t, I urge you to share the beauty of our culture.”

To which you’d gulped before introducing yourself as you had to Shoko and Gojo.

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Day #2 in the Herwi village: 

The governing system of the Herwi is quite reminiscent to that of other clans - made up by a singular olo’eyktan or olo'eykte, accompanied by a tsahìk (though Gojo assures proudly that he is not mated as of writing this), and a council of clan elders that act as an advisory board.

Most decisions are made solely by the wisdom of Gojo himself, though large choices require a vote from the council as well as his people. Such requisites are rare, however, as it seems the olo’eyktan’s impact extends to the non-council people in such a way that they trust him with everything. (For more on the lovely reception and the sheer popularity of Gojo Satoru see Page 11…)

Governing seems to be harmonious if a little quietly tense in regards to certain elders that disagree yet are ultimately obeisant to their olo’eyktan.

This scientist in particular caused a little stir in the Herwi leadership once a research visit was proposed by the olo’eyktan to the rest of the elders. Though initial reactions had been reluctant, after a terse discussion, ultimately six moons had been granted to collect all appropriate research (due to be checked by the elders prior to leaving). No more. No less.

Six moons should be more than enough!

Shoko might have let it slip that it was Gojo who used his privilege as olo’eyktan to convince the council…and he wasn’t too happy that they’d granted you merely six moons (five days if you’re counting the first night there) to stay here. He wanted to gawk at this new human more, you supposed.

But you were so very grateful to each and every one of them either way - even those wizened elders who scowled at you suspiciously wherever you passed. Though even glares seemed sweet when you were living your dream, hm? And it best be believed that you were taking advantage of every single second you had with the clan - every single second.

Because this was exactly what those cigar-smoking higher-ups had laughed at you for. 

They thought you were chasing a myth.

The Herwi people had been so gracious as to offer you an empty hut, despite Gojo’s fervent insisting that you take his and he can simply tough it out in the cold outside-

And the next day you were up early- perhaps a little too early for the olo’eyktan who’d apparently tracked your trail and followed you around for an hour. Before he finally managed to stop you in the middle of your field study - helping out a young Herwi mother take care of her crying toddler, whilst learning about Herwi childcare techniques - and raised his bag full of food.

Breakfast.

You’re smacking your hand against your forehead as you’d completely forgotten - not quite out of the ordinary for when you got too immersed in your work. But it was different when you had someone seeking you out to take care of you…

And so after sharing the abundance of breads and berries and soups (far too much for but the two of you) with the Herwi mother and child, the two of you sit outside her hut and admired the view of the village. The soft half-sun that melted across the capped peaks, a buttery layer of light that was not even half as bright as on Earth.

But somehow gentler.

Gojo’s raising one berry to his lips before- “Ah…” His mouth drops when he takes a glance at you- more accurately, at your masked self. And he’s stopping in his movements, “Excuse me for just a second, beloved.”

“Oh? Of course.”

You watch as he’s standing up and sprinting light-fast towards the edge of a great steaming lake in the horizon. His figure’s crouching down and cupping his hands in the sparkling water, bubbling with fury. Gojo brings it up to his face and whispers a mantra that you couldn’t quite determine. Not from where you were sitting.

Before carefully bringing it right up to you- “Drink, beloved.” 

He gently leans down to let his fingertips meet your mask.

And you’d had no option—you consider it for science, though a part of you knew you didn’t have to linger your lips so much on his cold skin- but you lift your mask up and drink it.

Once the water floods your throat, you knew something was different.

Your lungs quiver.

Once.

Twice.

And you’d found yourself able to breathe—

Breathing on Pandora.

“How did you…” As you gasp, Gojo reaches out and removes the mask off of you completely. He’d let the earpiece stay on, of course, but lightly grazed his cold digits against the shell of your ear and made you shiver. “I don’t even know what to say- thank you. I didn’t even know this was possible—no other Na’vi clan let alone a mere human has discovered a way to let us breathe normally on Pandora.”

“For you. Lake Yapay.” Gojo says, large hand still cupping your face. “It steams great billowing heat in the day, and freezes by night. Here in Herwi, we use its water to expand our lungs during snowstorms.”

And you want to write it down- you know you should, but the pen in your fingers won’t move. Or more accurately, your fingers won’t move.

He continues, “This land is alive and works in mysterious ways. It has worked for you, beloved, as I knew it would.”

“Thank you again, olo’eyktan.”

“Satoru.” He interjects.

“Satoru.”

He smiles as if it meant the world.

And so your feast commences.

“You have to remember to eat.” Gojo says to you as he scoffs down a sweet paste made of ice-blue berries, “How will you brave the winter storms otherwise? Of course, I will protect you—and yet still.”

“Well, I sure hope I survive six more nights for my research then, hm?” You joke.

But you hadn’t expected Gojo’s face to darken, for him to shake his head. “It’s not fair.”

“Pardon?”

“Six more nights…” And you hadn’t exactly expected him to be so…invested in your research - you admit that you would benefit more from a longer period of studying the Herwi, but you were ready to take what was given. He looks down at the glaring snow and whispers—more to himself. “It’s not fair. I will correct it.”

“Correct?”

“Oh?” And you look from him to the village straight ahead, “Well, I’d be happy either way, Satoru.”

Just then that little Na’vi you’d been helping to watch over before comes waddling and giggling out of the hut to hold onto you- and you pick her up readily.

Gojo took one look at the two of you and shivered.

Shivered.

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Day #3 in the Herwi village: 

Hunts are an imperative part of the Herwi lifestyle—not only is it how the people are nourished, but it’s a social activity, it’s a coming-of-age activity. 

As aforementioned, hunts are commenced and led by none other than the olo’eyktan. A large group of Herwi warriors shall trek across the icelands in one unit, and it was quite interesting to note that most of the younger hunters are positioned in the middle where they are less likely to get injured during such a trip.

It is in the middle of their hike that Gojo will alert when the group is to split up: Snow beast hunters and snow marine stilts. Divide and conquer seems to be the only strategy that somehow tames such an unforgiving environment, and Herwi marine-hunters seem to be picked from the most patient of warriors. They carve out a hole in the middle of frozen bodies of water (never Lake Yapay, this divine body is never harmed) and each positions themself atop a tall icicle beside it to escape prowling beasts and currents. Crouched and ledged atop one, the sheer core strength and balance is divine once they cast their lines and wait.

On the other side of things, we have the Herwi beast-hunters. Using a large variety of weapons, the most popular is noted to be the bow and arrow - used by the olo’eyktan himself. They stalk in the cold white billows of snow with not even a single shiver, they lay in wait for hours, they tire their prey out.

And nevertheless this scientist found today’s hunt rather interesting…

The third and fourth days had passed by in much the same fashion - except for the slight tweak in your routine that included opening your hut door and finding the olo’eyktan standing there every single morning.

Always with food, always with a smile, always with some interesting niveous flower for you to press into your notebook. Then afterwards the two of you would set out to help you interview the Herwi people of all ages and backgrounds, to take samples, to explore the natural fauna, to even join Gojo on one of his Hunts on the third day. 

They admitted that they didn’t focus on hunting as much as they normally did on that trek, too enamored with this strange little human that had showed up one day and had their olo’eyktan glued to her side.

You interviewed hunters and elders (well, the ones that didn’t ignore you completely or were on the verge of cursing you out until they caught their leader’s eye) until your mouth hurt. And Gojo had taken you into the best spot with natural Pandoran fauna, making you jot down notes until your fingers cramped.

Once the sun was beginning to set and the Na’vi were getting ready to head back to their village for the night, you’re taking the opportunity to interview some of the young hunters. Gojo was off in the distance making up for the slightly lowered hunt by ice-spearing more snow beasts. And you were more than happy not to distract him while he took care of his olo’eyktan duties- after all, the other hunters were nice. Never having seen a human before, they’d been more than happy to answer your questions.

Ribbing each other, guffawing as they answered, placing their hands down on you and ruffling your head from above.

Almost as if you were a plaything- and you admit it was in the name of science, you didn’t mind it too much until a particularly boisterous hunter about Gojo’s age had kept swatting at you no matter how many times you politely moved away. Until he’d caught you on the scruff of your coat and tried to lift you up—

You hear the sound of bones breaking before you realize what it is.

Whipping your head behind you in an instant to see that Gojo was behind the other hunter and pulling his hand hard enough that you hear other Na’vi cry out. 

He lets go of you, of course, and you watch with widened eyes as Gojo then bandages his fellow Na’vi’s arm himself. Though you note that he doesn’t apologize.

Gojo didn’t leave your side for a single second after that.

That night after the dinner by the lake, Gojo walks you to your hut and sleeps outside in the bitter cold- no matter how much you tried to get him to take up the bed inside. He’d insisted.

After mating, he’d said.

You wonder whether your translating device was malfunctioning…

(See Page 26 on Herwi possessiveness…).

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Day #4 in the Herwi village: 

Beads.

A well-known part of Na’vi culture, one of the most recognizable, perhaps. The scientific community has written long and extensively on the importance of bead-sharing in the Omaticaya clan, however, this scientist shall be the first to detail the beauty of how this tradition extends to the Herwi clan.

According to the artisans of this village, beads aren’t fashioned through molten stone or seeds or clay—given the availability of such in this environment. Rather, they’re made with snow.

Never-melting snow.

Yes, the design of hona beads from snow is a practice unique to the Herwi clan. Broken off from the hardest icicles growing at a peak of Mt. Hoet said to touch the sky, not only is it a treacherous passage to get to those specialized bits of ice, but the process of making the beads finds itself just as arduous. These icicles are then welded into delicate beads and dipped into the waters of Lake Yapay at night, letting them soak and then carried to freeze at the highest peak once more.

This process is repeated until the beads are as hard as diamonds on Earth- perhaps even harder. Never-melting. Never-breaking. Never-forgetting. Though not too hard so that the Herwi will be unable to carve unique patterns and symbols special to themself. Rinse. Repeat.

Though the clear meaning of such is ambiguous, it is most certainly a way of showing appreciation - as one would have to love someone very much to do this, no?

It was on your fourth day amongst the Herwi clan that Gojo didn’t show up with a beautiful flower or trinket from the terrain- instead, he’s bounding up to you with a string of beads and knotting it against the side of your face.

Pushing it back and taking you in with it.

Without a question.

“Satoru, did you…” You’re holding the line of beads up to the sunlight and watching the little patterns glimmer. They were slightly frosted and flurried like the smallest of snowglobes, “Did you make this for me?” 

And you swear they had the most intricate design of clouds on them, swirling and tumbling.

“Of course.” He smiles proudly. “Us Herwi are taught how to design our very own hona beads ever since we were children, and as Na’vi coming of age we walk up the path to make the first one for ourselves…as adults we make one for our family or…” Mates.

“And this- god, I need to…write about this but I can’t even imagine how long this would’ve taken.” 

“Four days.” Gojo cocks his head and looks down at you- and that brilliantly confident grin of his plasters across his face once more. “For most it takes four years, but for you I did it in four days.”

“Oh, they’re just amazing.” You run a hand down the ice-cold globules, “Thank you, Satoru.”

He holds your hand as he leads you out into the village.

Gojo tells you that night to wear those very beads to the clan dinner - once a week (at the very least) after a particularly successful Hunt, the Herwi people will get together for a massive feast. You’d heard excited whispers about it from the public you surveyed, and it seems that the olo’eyktan had chosen tonight.

Night had begun to fall, and you were dragged playfully by some younger girls straight to the edge of this vast frozen lake. Past snow-capped huts that stuck out of an even more snow-capped ground like eager heads, and ice-jeweled trees and frozen rivers and pathways lit with bioluminescent algae trapped in lanterns of ice.

It was a world in frost.

Where Na’vi had gathered with their families, their friends, their food—all in an array of tables that circled the crystallized body of water like a wedding ring.

Under the snowy night sky they communed. 

“You are wearing my- I mean your hona beads.” Gojo had beamed as he eventually caught up with you and guided you himself. He led you by hand again - even though you weren’t exactly quite sure why…at least it kept you from being toppled over by the other tall Herwi rushing to snag their own seats. “You look beautiful with them, beloved.”

And you weren’t quite sure what to say- though the bubbling pit at your stomach certainly wanted you to tell him something. Instead you divert the topic, “You hunted today as well, yes? Is there anything here that you hunted?”

To which he looks at you with a rather cocky smile, “Beloved, I have hunted more than half of the feast tonight. Trust that you will enjoy it.”

And you might have joked about him being presumptuous- but you really did enjoy the feast.

Under a star-studded sky and glimmering lanterns that twinkled like the freckles upon Gojo’s face, he led you to the very head table that no other Na’vi dared touch. It was rather obvious that this one was meant for the olo’eyktan himself, but what was curious was when your seat had been placed right next to his.

Perks of being a special guest, you suppose?

Shoko was beside you and shot you an amused smile, before preening for another Herwi next to her with a scar that ran across her face and half-braided hair. 

“Utahime.” Gojo had whispers in your ear, “Shoko’s mate.” 

“Ah- I see!” Pen quivering in your hand, you’re jotting down your observations in your notebook under the table. “Perfect. I’m quite curious about the mating rituals of the Herwi, you see. Do you suppose I’d be able to ask them some questions later on in the night?”

“Don’t ask them questions- ask me.” Gojo huffs. Brows furrowing. Lower lip jutting into a pout.

He leans over and wraps his arm around the back of your chair. Squirming, “O-oh…but you’re not mated yet, are you, Satoru?”

“Nope!”

“Right…” But then how could you ask him about mating if he wasn’t—nevermind.

Because just then the group in charge of cooking for the clan had rounded the tables and begun placing their most savored delicacies on top of them. Meats upon vegetables upon berries that you’d seen growing naturally across the mountainside they lived on. It was steaming hot and everything that you could dream of.

Whether you didn’t like meat, whether you didn’t like vegetables- there was always something there for you.

Most of the richest dishes were allocated around the olo’eyktan and your single table, stuffing the surface to the brim until you had to squeeze next to Gojo for space. Of course, he didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps too busy piling his place with the sweetest treacly milks and frozen desserts that he could reach.

After dinner came the dances.

It happened every night after the community dinner when everyone - full and satisfied by then - would start humming and chanting their ancient hymns. Echoing into the sleepy snow and the ever-young night, someone would pull out two snow beast-skin drums by then. Thumping away to the songs of the snow. 

Children ran off and made snow-prints and snow-fights in the mountains of powder. Family members would begin drowsily feeding each other and insisting they eat more. Others traced their own hona beads and promised they’d make ones for the one they love.

More would punch small holes through the frozen lake and bring the water up to their mouths, of which a sudden blow would make the water freeze and scatter out into the air in twinkling snowflakes. Emulating the stars themselves.

Snow-breathers. 

They’d sing, they’d sound, they’d show off and then…the first mated couple would walk onto the middle of the frozen ice.

Then the second.

The third.

The fourth and the fifth and the sixth-

What a way to end the night, love warming the cold air and couples twirling around each other with their tails intertwined. Usually, you’d be content to clap and attempt to sing along—

But then Gojo stands up- and you almost believe he was ready to leave the table altogether…until he’s reaching his hand out to you.

You.

And you look around in slight surprise- almost as if expecting someone to materialize right beside you and take Gojo’s hand instead. But the only thing you’re getting is Shoko’s approving nod from next to you, before she lets herself be dragged by Utahime onto the frozen lake.

And so you’d danced.

Rather an interesting sight considering the height difference, you admit—but it was beautiful. Gojo scoops you up into his arms with one steadied underneath you, the other holds one of your hands in his. 

So much larger. So much more powerful.

And yet so gentle.

He twirls you around to the music and you laugh at the wind stinging your face.

“Satoru, you’re going to drop me—”

“I should rather die than drop you.”

“But- but what of the other Herwi that will be mistaken?” You ask then, already sensing the envious looks that were thrown your way. 

“There goes my dream of being tsahìk, I’m almost sure of it now-”

“But I haven’t been able to try my luck with the olo’eyktan yet-”

“Oh shush, girl! You seriously think any of us had a chance?”

You look into his handsome face, eyes trained on you despite all the whispers and disturbance amongst his people. Only you. “You won’t be able to find a mate this way.”

Something unreadable in his blue eyes, flickering with fire from the tables and something else entirely. “Perhaps I don’t want one.”

“Well that would be entirely your decision.” You place your hands on his broad shoulders, flexing as they move you around with ease. “But it seems in Herwi tradition, the olo’eyktan is wont to take a mate.”

He raises a white brow, “And who should you believe must be my mate then?”

You didn’t quite know how to answer that.

Averting his eyes- and those of the Na’vi staring at you two. “W-well, Herwi has many fine women and men. Reykol is the best singer.”

“I do not want Reykol.”

“Tìtaron is a good hunter.”

He pulls you closer, “Yes, she is a good hunter. But I am better, and I do not care for Tìtaron.” Reaching up one hand to brush away the snowflakes that had begun dusting your face, “I believe I have already been fated to. Even before I was born, I have already chosen.”

You swallow, “Who, Satoru?”

He only smiles.

“Who?”

But he does not answer, you’re twirled around once more and the moonlight catches your dangling beads.

“Is that…”

“Surely our leader isn’t saying what we think he is saying-”

“But look at him, he looks so…happy.”

You turn your head to catch the fact that most of the Herwi were looking at you, whispering behind their hands. In hindsight, you think that perhaps it was not a coincidence that they ogled you - and particularly the hona beads that you’d been gifted. Not a coincidence at all.

You wore his signature because you were his.

And they all knew you were his.

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Day #5 in the Herwi village (the last day): 

Leaving tomorrow, a perceptive scientist may notice that there is only one thing missing from this comprehensive research into the Herwi clan.

The source of Eywa.

As a deity to all Na’vi people, her influence seeps into the songs and prayers of even the highest terrains on Pandora. Into the healing. Into the well wishes. Into the belief system of a people so accepting and harmonious that their tree of Eywa does not need to be visibly present for her will to be carried out.

But as for where she resides here…

Your fifth and final day was less research and more saying your goodbyes to all the friends you’d made in the Herwi clan. You’d be leaving first thing tomorrow, before the sun even rose, according to the sternest of the elders. 

Gojo hadn’t met you outside your hut that morning, and you’d idled away the time packing and repacking your bag of samples and books. Thrice, before you started to believe that he might not come after all.

But that was alright, ultimately believing that he’d show up later on in the day, you visited all the healers, the hunters, the dancers, and the chefs. The mother and toddler you’d grown close to on your first day here, and even a stray elder that had sought you out to bow goodbye. 

All the young Na’vi and the old Na’vi.

All the Na’vi that had come to not fear you and the Na’vi that had found you endearing at first sight.

They’d warmed up to you since you first came here. They gave you gifts, each of them, and your heart ached as you thought of leaving. 

Goodbyes were always painful - but perhaps one most of all. Gojo.

He still hadn’t met you by the end of your route, and you’d circled the village about twice by the time you were done. He was nowhere to be seen.

It was almost as if he’d disappeared into thin air.

It was with a heavy pit in your stomach that you started to head back to your hut—your last dinner with the Herwi people would be in a few hours. Afterwards, Gojo had previously arranged for you to be accompanied by some of the clan’s best warriors on your trek down. 

You just thought that’d include him.

Perhaps you could sleep it off until the final dinner- and you were shutting the door just behind you…

Before sounds a hurried, hasty knock—

You open the door to see the olo’eyktan of the Herwi tribe.

Panting. Covered in snow.

“My apologies, I have spent the day clearing the pathway for us.” Gojo huffs out, leaning against your door frame with one hand. The other reaching out to you—“Come with me, beloved?”

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The Herwi source of Eywa was inside an ice cave.

One that would get blocked when the goddess herself did not wish to be seen, one that Gojo had torn through layers of packed ice to burrow a pathway for the both of you. He’d carried you all the way to the gaping mouth of blue ice and ghost snow.

Closing in on you like arms of rime beckoning you to the tree of Eywa. The Tree of Winter.

The cold embrace of a mother.

One you were still not quite sure whether you were allowed to see—but Gojo knew he wanted you to see. He saw you. 

At the end of the cave was an ice column about eighty feet tall and naturally formulated to look like the winding branches of a tree. Dripping to the ground in phantom white snow, each one delicate and graduating from white to blue. There almost seemed to be a glowing aura about it.

Clear mirrors making up the tree’s vines. Honed tips of the icicles rising from Pandora and stabbing down towards it. The top of the tree reached where the cave roof was hollow, beaming a circle of light from the skies that donned Eywa in innocent pink.

You gasped at the white snowsprites that bounced off of the tree and onto your two bodies. 

Where Gojo stand with his back straight, his meaty thighs spread—pearly white teeth biting down to stop himself from fucking moaning at the feeling of your mouth sliding up n’ down his hot cock.

While you were standing.

You didn’t even have to get on your knees.

His eleven foot figure loomed above you, one hand on the back of your head and the other pumpin’ his furious erection. Your maw slips down his puckered tip and he shivers- bucking ever-so-slightly and hitting the back of your throat dead-on—

And yet he wasn’t even fully bottomed out.

He wasn’t even fully bottomed out.

The sudden realization makes you claw at the sides of his blue skin with a whine- direct vibrations that make the puckered tip lodged inside your mouth twitch. He’s sploshing out even more syrupy pre like he couldn’t stop it.

He’s not even trying and it’s already so much, cascading like a waterfall down the front of your chin.

“Now- hah, now.” One of Gojo’s prolonged fingertips reaches out to smear away the slippery sheen across your face- at least, that’s what you think he’s doing.

But instead you’re feeling him curve his rude digits between your lips and push those dewy droplets inside. Shovelling his cock just a little bit deeper, “S’not good to waste it, beloved. Open your mouth and take it all like a good girl, yes?”

“Mmmpf-” A damn miracle that you could get out that much sound in the first place. You’re pulling off to answer, and Gojo jerks his hips a lil’ to chase your damp mouth. “You’re saying you want me to take it all—?”

He shivers, leopard-like tail twitching. “Yes.”

And right before your very eyes, you can see his shaft throb even bigger. 

Harder. 

The prettiest bluish-pink on his tip, one with a divot that leaks out a line of precum. You’re following it with your dazed eyes- before the next thing you’re seeing is a close-up of it.

Gojo has his massive hand plastered to the back of your scalp and is pushin’ your head in, digging his dripping wet tip against the back of your throat. With a groan, the Na’vi pins you to him and hammers out a few sloppy thrusts of his cock.

Again and again.

Slurp after slurp—

“Gonna take it all- hah- my entire cock inside that pretty mouth, yes?” He’s cocking his head to the side and asking down at you sweetly. And he might look all in control, but Gojo’s voice fucking breaks at the very end of his sentence. 

Right in synchronization with the way you were draggin’ your sizzling tastebuds down the veiny sides of his erection. Just the cutest tongue that was eagerly lapping up everything he was giving—“Doesn’t matter if you’re a lil’ human, you’re gonna take the leader’s biiiiig cock, aren’t you?”

Removing yourself from his thickened tip with a wet pwah! “Y-you’re really serious about the-”

“Yes.” 

And he’d apologize for cutting you off later- hell, he’d grovel at your feet if he has to. But right now all Gojo can think of doing is holding onto the back of your head and strollin’ his thumb down the column of your throat. The olo’eyktan can feel that fat cylindrical intrusion where his cock was pumping in and out- and he’s sliding his fingertip dooooooown that bulge. “Aren’t you a scientist, beloved?”

“Y-yes?”

“Then aren’t you curious about just how far a human can take Na’vi cock?”

“Well…” You blubber out, “I guess so-”

“Then consider it for your research.” With each syllable he’s cutting your breath off by thudding his cockhead against the roof of your mouth. “Then just fucking- haaaaah—” And you’re finding that the pre Na’vi cock exuded was actually rather sweet- almost like honeydew flooding up your mouth n’ being slid all round by the intrusion of his shaft. “-take it.”

“Mmmpf—ngh.” Tears were streaming down your face by now, wetting your cheeks and making the Na’vi wipe them away with his thumb.

“Don’t cryyyyy—” He’s airily calling out, almost nothing like the level-headed Na’vi you’d met before. “Big girls don’t cry. Don’t worry- m’gonna give you all of my cock, beloved.”

“S-Satoru-”

But each of your broken yowls were being bullied back in with his bludgeoning wet tip, bruisin’ away its splitted end anywhere and everywhere. 

He swabs into the tiniest nooks and crannies inside your mouth with his sheer size, leaving your knees utterly weak where you were still standing. He’s holding your head up to his cock- “C’mon- feel.”

You peer up at him in confusion.

“Feel for your research.” Fluttering his long pale lashes down at you, a sultry smile spreads across his lips. “How many loooong thick inches you’re being given. How many veins are filling ya up. How many times I hit the back of yer throat like this-”

A shuddering slam right where you were most tender. “Please-”

“M’helping you with your- fuck, research.” He chuckles down lecherously, “By shutting that smart human mouth of yours up.”

“Fuck-”

“Feel it- just feel.”

He thrusts so hard that his heavy ballsack smacks! against your chin, “Feel the way that lil’ mouth of yours can barely even take me. Feel how fat my balls are with cum just for you. Count them? Wanna calculate the girth?” Until it was stinging a permanent girth on your skin, rubbed raw with impact. “Feel the way I- ngh, bruuuise your throat n’ those sensual lips until anyone that talks to you knows I’ve been here.”  He’s babbling on stupidly by now, eyes falling more n’ more half-lidded by the minute. He’s holding on tightly to your restless head and shoves- “Feel the way I fuck my mate—”

Gojo trails off as if shocking himself, and you’re snapping your teary eyes up to him with a muffled- “What?”

But you don’t know whether it’s on cue, you don’t know whether it’s the startle of being caught- but Gojo’s slamming his cocktip way past the back of your throat and cumming.

Oozing out hot dollops of cum that take over your pretty mouth.

Shaft throbbing furiously. Balls twitching like no other. He throws his head back and squelches straight down your throat, and you can feel the thickness of it plug up your voicebox.

So sweet.

So much.

And you’re not sure whether it’s a Na’vi thing or it’s a Gojo thing that he’s cumming so much in one go.

Loooooong miry stripes that trickle down the sides of your mouth- he leans down and pushes them back between your lips with one of his thumbs. Ivory sap constantly leaking down onto your tastebuds, he feels the heady slip n’ slide of his cock against those wads of cum. “Fuh-fuck…”

And then he’s not moving, merely clasping the back of your head and bringing you firmly up against his slender pelvis. 

Your nose rubs against the tufts of white on his abs before you realize that he’d just bottomed-out—just once, like he’d promised. 

And it was enough to send you reeling, feeling the pushback of his swabbin’ tip. Pouring out even more heady liquid every time he was draaaaging down your velvety tongue. 

The tip of your tastebuds flicks his sensitive slit just right and you can feel him pulse deep inside. “Feel me in there?” Gojo’s groaning from above. “Feel how much I ache for you. Feel the volume of my cum- are you counting it?”

“I-I—”

But evidently your half-sob wasn’t enough.

And the Na’vi is reaching down and pinching your nostrils together with his free hand. “Ah ah- focus on your research, beloved.”

And you’re struggling uselessly against his mean action, to which Gojo watches with a predatory gaze at the way you huff n’ sputter. And he has the audacity to snicker-

“I really can throw you around like a ragdoll, huh?”

It’s as if the realization had just struck him and he’s shuddering. 

It almost feels like ages before he’s finally pulling away with a loud plop!

An excess of your cum was leaking out of your maw and threatening to drip onto the floor- “Tch, this is a sacred place, my human.” He’s rasping out—swipin’ up the frothed white cum as if he wasn’t absolutely desecrating you. Pushing those clingy wads between your maw.

He then guides his honed tip to glide across your lips, gluing your lips shut with all his seed.

And Gojo can’t help but admire you- peering up at him with his towering height. All covered in his syrupy slick and speechless, unable to talk even if your voicebox had been left intact.

He smiles, tail swishing happily to and fro. “My human.” Gojo leans all the distance down to kiss you upon your sopping wet lips. “My m- pretty human. My pretty human…”

But you don’t have enough sense at the moment to ponder too long on his little slip-up before he’s bending down close with his hoarse mouth against the shell of your ear.

Making you feel so sensitive.

“-did ya get enough research yet?”

And then he’s good on his other promise: throwing you around like a ragdoll.

Before you know it, Gojo’s thundering down onto his knees upon the frozen floor - taking you right along with him. He grabs his fur coat from a little ways away and makes you rest down on top of it. With ease.

Back flat on the coat. Legs spread high in the air.

Twisted around the back of Gojo’s neck and locked in place-

“Satoru-” You look around the Tree of Winter that only seems to glow even brighter, the snowsprites buzzing. “-are you sure we should be doing this h—oh.”

Gojo doesn’t say anything - he doesn’t have to.

He’s merely unhinging his jaw and letting his loooong pinkish tongue drip out. It was glossy with ravenous saliva, thick at the base, and curved at the tip. The end of it dripped tantalizingly with spittle- almost torturously. 

Achingly needy.

There was an almost feline quality to it that made your thighs clench.

“N-nevermind.”

The only thing you’re managing to get out before Gojo had his tongue stuffed against your wet core and swabbin’ away until you saw white—“M-mmmpf.” His mouth was just so large that he could engulf your pussylips with a single bite, honed canines grazing the outer edge of your cunt while he kisses inwards. “My pretty mate- my tasty mate.”

It’s almost as if he was pussydrunk already.

With just a single slurp of his curvaceous tongue glidin’ up and down your slit, Gojo has his blue eyes rolling to the back of his head and his hips bucking. Wildly. “Why didn’t Eywa tell me that you’d taste so good-”

“Oh my—” Your back arches while his thickened fingertips come between your legs to pinch your puckered pussy into his mouth. Pushing you against him even more - greedy. “Shit, it just feels so-”

Smack!

And without a single warning, Gojo has his roverin’ fingertips slamming down on your pussy. Straight on top of your slit where your clit was hidden, it sends shockwaves of both pain and pleasure up your spine.

You’re gasping and staring down at him-

“Now now, no cursing- be good before Eywa, hm?” That damn hypocrite - and you could see it in that sultry smile of it. Gojo was getting off on the way you’d squirm your cunt restlessly against his face, sighing into the way he starts fucking your pussy once more. “Or else m’not gonna eat this pretty pussy of yours out, ya hear?”

You gape, “That’s not fucking fair-”

Smack!

“What was that, beloved?”

“I said—”

Smack!

Smack!

Smack!

Until Gojo’s leaving your pussy raw and needy, and even then he wasn’t done with you- he has the audacity to purse his plump lips and spit. Spit. Letting the sharp strike of saliva make you shiver—

“What was that?” He asks you in such a breathy tone, such a ruined tone. Gojo spoke like if you told him you needed him right now then he would simply shatter. 

And you can only gulp at the state that he was in - you’ve researched Na’vi during times of high pressure, during battles, during their coming-of-age ceremonies. But never had you met one that simply seemed so…feral. “I-I’ll be good, Satoru.”

He smiles like he’s been wanting to hear those exact words for years.

Fingertips jittering with excitement, he then reaches for your intertwined ankles with his tail. 

Locking them in place, Gojo murmurs. “Good…” Before he’s getting ready to dive straight back into your sweetened cunt once more, “Because you better not run-”

And you don’t get to ask just what might constitute you running from his mouth. His tongue.

You don’t get to ask just what it meant when he looked at you with that dark inkling of something carnal, as if he was about to devour you whole.

You don’t get to ask anything, in fact, and whatever questions were already in your throat burst into a zillion pieces at the feeling of him pushing his tongue inside your hole. Properly.

Not lapping away coquettishly on your outer cunt, not slurpin’ up all your treacly juices.

Gojo had his tastebuds stuffed inside your entrance and was draaaaagging them all across every orifice inside of you. Thrusting his entire length in and out at a rapid pace, you could feel the edge of his chin hitting your base with every movement.

Inside and out.

Inside and out.

But the sheer speed of him wasn’t even the bit makin’ you the most dizzy- see Gojo’s Na’vi tongue was something amazing. Something incredible. 

Just so large and lavish that it was stretching your walls out like never before.

“P-please-” You don’t think you’ve ever felt anything like this- the way that Gojo’s textured tongue would mold against your walls, the way he’d pinpoint even the tiniest orifices with his flexible tip, the way he’d expand and contract his tongue purposefully. Until you saw white. Bucking—“Please it just feels so-”

“Where’d ya think you’re going?”

And the slur in his voice makes you pause- “Wh-what…?”

The last thing you’re managing to get out before Gojo tightens the rude grip of his fingertips on your pussylips. And the other one of his hands holds onto your waist to haul you back down onto his mouth- you hadn’t even realized that you’d been edging away in sensitivity. 

“Didn’t I tell you not to run?” Spankin’ those rugged fingertips of his down on your clit once more. You get the feeling that Gojo’s meanly choosing your clit because he knew that’d make you clench ‘round his tongue even more. “Don’t run. Don’t even move.”

“You’re just so fucking- ngh, big and you expect me not to move?” You wail out in indignity.

“Well, who told you to fuck a Na’vi warrior?” He’s countering, those half-lidded eyes of his twinkling with humor. “Better yet- who told you to fuck the olo’eyktan-”

And you suppose you had no explanation for that.

Especially not even Gojo was pumping his thickened tongue into you so fast that any and all explanations in your throat start to dissolve. Instead being replaced by the most pathetic whines and groans as he keeps fucking your pussy greedily.

As though Gojo was a man parched.

Because your wettened pussy was more refreshing to him than the waters of the lake- and if he could, he’d have his head stuffed between your legs every second of the day. Simply slurpin’ up every dewy droplet that escaped out of you, Gojo catches even those tiniest of wads.

Slipping his looooong tongue inside—you’re driven damn near mad once he slithers his length in and grazes your g-spot.

Hips bucking, eyes snapping open. “H-how did you even manage-”

“Ah ah—” His familiar tut, and soon enough you’re glued back down onto his pretty mouth again. Gojo doesn’t even need to try to ease you pliably back onto his face no matter how much you try to run- but oh, it was just so fun to watch your sultry surprise. The way you only got wetter when he manhandled you. “So this is that cute lil’ g-spot human have, hm? I thought it was just something in Shoko’s anatomy textbooks.”

“You- you read her textbooks…” You ask.

“All day and all night.” Gojo replies with a smirk, his ears twitching as he hears the quickening of your heartbeat. “Only Eywa knows how much I’ve touched myself imagining this.”

“Oh—”

It hits you like a flash of lightning- and so do the sudden swipes of Gojo’s tongue reaching your sweetest spots. Thud-thud-thud-thud he’s ricocheting against your bundle of nerves rapidly, making it echo like your own heartbeat in your ears. Thud-thud-thud-thud—

“Shit-” And suddenly you understand- you thought you understood before? But no, now you understand why Gojo had been telling you not to run away initially.

“Don’t run.” He warns.

Because all you’re feeling are the large stripes he’s licking up your slick walls, and the only thing you can think of doing is bucking. Rutting. Reaching for his lips wildly- though your body moves torturously as if you didn’t know whether you wanted more or to run away—“Shit.” 

“Don’t run.”

But how could you not run from it? How could you not even move when Gojo had your body teased n’ toyed with till absolutely no end?

He was hammerin’ his tongue against your g-spot furiously—and you were sure by now that he has the exact pattern of his tastebuds bruised right on that area. Shapin’ your velvety walls to his tongue, Gojo dives in just so animalistically.

And you can’t help but buck. You can’t help but arch your back. You can’t help but reach your hand out and attempt to grab onto something- anything for dear life. 

Again and again. “Shiiiiit is it even allowed to feel this good-”

But the Na’vi leader merely stops your hands with his own, folding them neatly into his hair. Holding onto his clammy scalp- “As Eywa wills it.” He smiles and your cunt’s just so sensitive by this point that you can feel the exact degree of curvature of his grin. “Which reminds me…”

And for your profanity you’re getting three more direct spanks, “Shit-”

One more.

Before you feel him then twist his fingertips on your throbbing clit and pinch- “Ya reeeeally can’t be a good girl f’me, huh?” Gojo asks you with a smile, though there was a hint of something in his voice that reminded you why exactly he was the olo’eyktan of such a large clan. “Look at you—”

“Sh-shit, that feels so-” But he isn’t listening, and you’re fighting the heels of your feet against his broad back. 

“Look at you.” He’s tightening his tail on your ankles and dragging you back down. He’s spitting down through clenched canines, every single word sending sparks up to your hazy brain. Barely even working by this point, surely. “Swearing. Squirming. Moaning like a slut and trying to escape- as your leader, I should punish you, beloved.”

“No more pussy spanking—” You whine, “Just makes me so sensitive…”

“I’m not talking about pussy spanking, beloved.” To emphasize his point he gives just a light tap on your sensitive nub once more.

It leaves you shaking to wonder just what else he has in store for you- though you don’t have to let your mind grapple in the dark for too long. Because in absolutely no time - just a few more vulgar thrusts of his tongue - you’re feeling the sudden plump intrusion of something slender at your hole.

It certainly couldn’t have been his tongue, because you knew what that ridged texture felt like. 

It certainly couldn’t have been Gojo’s cock, because you’d tasted that and you knew he had a much larger circumference. 

So that left only one option—Gojo had your pussylips spread apart and your entrance gulping up every inch of his fingers. They just looked so stark with their blue color disappearin’ into your hole, and Gojo’s increeeeedible length making you feel so full. 

Two of them were all that were shovelled inside- and yet he was already stretching for your very cervix on his first thrust inside. He scours the spongy end of your pussy then slides back out—in and out, in and out, in and out.

Each time his knobbly joints push against your g-spot and left you crying-

“Feel my fingers inside you?” Gojo rasps ruthlessly, his mouth wrapped around your throbbing clit. Groaning at the way you grow even wetter- Na’vi senses were strong, and he could smell the impending orgasm on you. “Feel the way I reach for your- hah, womb all inside? Feel the way I can fuck a baby in you so easily?”

“Yes-” You answer to them all, “Yes yes yes yes—”

And before you can say anything more, his powerful tail hauls you down. Bashin’ in even deeper with his plush fingertips. “Feel the way I’ve found eeeevery cute spot of yours? Feel the way I know your pussy inside and out?”

“Yes- fuck.” And you don’t even care if you’re ‘punished’ any more for breaking Gojo’s stern rules. Gojo himself was slamming his knuckles red and raw against your cunt, fucking his human’s tight pussy. “Fuck, I’m gonna-”

“Feel the way m’making you mine—?”

“Satoru, m’gonna cum-”

“Note it down in your research.”

And then you’re exploding straight into your high - and you know it’s the best you’ve ever had.

Your eyes fall shut and the only thing you’re seeing behind them is pure black with stars of white, pulsing against your bleary vision in time with the furious throbbing at your cunt. Little zaps of pleasure shoot all the way down to the tips of your toes every time he’s moving his maw across your core. Sharp. Sensitive. He’s wedged between your legs and lappin’ up each pulse.

Sluuuuurp—!

Long, aching drags of his tongue. They’re roverin’ over the most sensitive spot of your clit, meanwhile his fingers were glazed in slick n’ fucking you stupid already.

Gojo thrusts you through your high as if he was angry at you. As if he can’t get enough. As if he’s losing his damn mind and you n’ your pussy are the only reasons why-

It takes you only a minute more for your wave of bliss to taper out, fully riding through it. 

And then only another minute more for you go from fucked straight to overstimulated by a few more of his rovering thrusts. He swabs your g-spot once more and you think you’re bawling- “S-Satoru, I’m already done-”

But he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even seem to hear you.

In fact, you couldn’t sworn that he was grabbing onto your right thigh with his free hand and keeping himself plastered even more into your cunt-

“Satoru—!” You’re calling out helplessly, “Satoru, I’m already- ngh, done-”

“Mhmmmm?” Muttering something wet underneath his breath, and you have to strain your ears to actually hear him. Breathy. Panting. “Research- fuck! More…”

“I can’t even- oh.” It was almost dangerous just how potent he was with his mouth and fingers, and before long your thighs were starting to shake with sensitivity. Causing you to grab onto his scalp even tighter and-

“O-oh.”

And accidentally tug on the long braid of white hair thrown over his shoulder—his kuru.

Did that manage to…

Your breath hitches, and you’re reaching out to graze your fingers down his kuru once more-

“Fuh—fuuuuck.” Gojo throws his head back in a voice that almost sounded like a whimper, his slick lips quivering. His skin covering in goosebumps. His erection throbbing from where you could spy him. His entire large body shakes with the zaps of hypersensitivity going down his spine, “D-don’t think you know what you’re getting into, beloved…” His murky breath clouds out in front of him. 

“You sure?” You challenge - what a privilege it was to see him break.

The olo’eyktan grits his teeth—-“I’m warning you…”

But when were you ever one to listen to warnings?

Without thinking much of it, you tighten your hand ‘round his kuru and tug—

And then he’s on you in a split-second.

He’s not even moving- he’s grabbing onto your hips and bodily puuuulling you right back down till your cunt lips kiss his cock. He’s pushing your legs up until your kneecaps hit your tits. He’s hunching his entire body forwards and-

“Sh-shit.” Your eyes widen, “Satoru, did you just-”

“Yes.”

Just you teasing his kuru is enough to make Gojo spuuuurt out in creamy wads of cum once more, coating the outer part of your pussy in a thick layer. It feels hot and wet on top of you, streaming down to drench the coating. Before he’s swervin’ his swollen tip inside and fucking you-

No hesitation. No preparation.

You’re getting what you deserved, and that was to be fucked like an absolute anima by the Na’vi.

“You don’t know what you’ve done.” He’s spitting- straight into your hotly opened mouth. Those sharp canines of Gojo’s nipping at your bottom lip, “You don’t know what you’ve done- you don’t know what you’ve done-”

“Shit, shiiiit—Satoru.” Moaning out his name like a broken record player. He’s bullying out harsh semi-thrusts against your cunt that leave you scrambling for breath- just shovin’ his puckered tip inside, just tasting the inside of your pussy with his cockhead, just trying to fucking fit.

“Sayin’ my name like that and you don’t even fucking—” Before Gojo feels your soppy walls clench tightly ‘round him, and his lips part a little before racing down and spitting on your cunt. “Fucking fit.”

“You say that like it’s so easy-” You sob out. 

He was pistoning his hips into you ferally.

The only thing he was doing was stretchin’ out your cute hole a few times, just so big that you’re being push-push-pushed up the fur coat you were splayed out on-

A hand at your throat.

“Don’t. Fucking. Run.”

And you don’t have the chance to tell him that you weren’t actually running and in fact it was just his roverin’ hips forcing you upwards- but before you could do that, Gojo’s already rendering you speechless with his cock.

He’s grabbing an even tighter restraint of your neck.

He’s manhandling your entire body down like he’s crazed.

He’s juuuuuust barely managing to squeeze in a sultry inch of two of his massive length- the mere sensation of that in itself enough to send your mind bursting into a heap of stars. It was almost numbing on your lower half, to have this much of him fitted inside you.

Stuffed inside you.

Throbbing inside you.

And it seems that the only one more affected by that fact wasn’t you - it was Gojo Satoru himself. Head falling into the crook of your neck. Tail flinching as it now wraps around your right thigh. Mouth parting with an agonized groan.

“F—fuck.” He’s echoing out hollowly into your ear, “Fuck, you’re so fucking…tight.”

Gojo spits out the word as if it was the very reason the olo’eyktan was shattering right about now. And almost on cue, those sopping wet walls of yours clench ‘round his tip and makes the Na’vi yelp—

“Fuck, don’t do that.” He’s shuddering through his sloppy strokes, his split-ended tip filling you up with dewy precum. “Fuck, don’t do that unless you want to be taught what happens when you pull on the kuru of a Herwi like me, little scientist.”

“What happens?” You ask innocently.

“S’why I’m telling you to fucking—oh.”

Just a few more pulsating clenches of your cunt, and Gojo shivers as though he’s being held hostage by your wet walls.

He bears his canines and snarls at you in the way you’d seen Na’vi do when they want to signal, to intimidate, to mate. 

But you stare up at the olo’eyktan of the Herwi clan with determination.

And he’s giving you one final probe-

“I’m going to get you fucking pregnant.”

He breathes out against the shell of your ear, almost like the last whisper of his sanity before Gojo stares into your wide heart-eyes—and he’s reeling his hips back to plunge.

Uncaring how unready your poor entrance was.

Uncaring how your tiny human body shakes underneath his larger one.

His fat cock swipes between your glittery folds and puuuuushes against the instinctual restraint of your hole, all the way until you start to tremble- and he knows he can’t push any more. He knows he can’t break you.

He’s fighting back every sudden primal urge in him that just wants to fuck you all the way inside- and furiously pumps his solid inches back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Keeping a hand always on the top of your stomach for when he’s feeling his hard globular tip push upwards.

Gojo was just so big that he could feel himself sinking in from the outside-

“And that’s not a promise, beloved.” Gojo’s pale brows furrow as his cockhead starts swabbin’ even deeper after each thrust, “That’s not a promise- that’s not even a challenge-”

“Th-then—?” He’s pushing doooown on your overstuffed core and you find it hard to breathe, both pressures from between your legs and from Gojo pushing on your cylindrical tummy bulge was just…

The olo’eyktan grins when he watches his cute lil’ human struggle to take his entire cock, the bluish hue of it spreading apart your thighs. He reels his slender hips back in quite the long drag—before ultimately hammering- “It’s an oath. Before Eywa.”

A divine oath.

Added to the fact that Gojo was slamming his ruddied tip into you with each syllable- and you could never forget about the sheer size difference. The way that it helped him bend over you and fold you in half as though nothing but a lawnchair—your ass was cleanly dangling off the floor with how much Gojo was bending you.

A mating press. The meanest one you’ve ever seen.

You’re hit with the sudden inclination that you weren’t about to walk out of here any time soon.

And Gojo seems to be doing well on that fact- he hadn’t completely bottomed-out yet, but he was still drilling into you with such fervour. Streaking his cum from before across every inch of you, a layer of white that you feel from the inside.

Feverish cocktip swabbin’ all the way at the back of your cervix, full balls smacking your cunt.

Every time he was hurtling his hips forwards, it almost felt as if the ground beneath you was trembling. 

It almost felt as if he was hitting each of your geysering spots without even needing to try. Just so big that the veiny sides of his cock rubbed n’ dubbed up against those orifices unfairly. 

It almost felt as if you were losing it-

“So I think you’ll have a loooot of fuckin’ research, beloved.” Gojo snickers, his tail flicking you playfully. And at this point you’re not even sure what the conversation was about, just knowing that it was the background music to the lecherous thwacking of his hips on yours. 

So hard that you could feel the wads of his high from before glazing your insides. Dripping all the way near the rim of your cunt before being pumped back inside.

He pushes down on top of that bulge once more and watches you whine, “I almost don’t want to, mmm, ask what it’ll be about…”

“Ohhh, y’know—” Gojo trails off airily, something shaky in the back of his tone that sends shivers up your spine. It makes you almost content to know that you’ve gotten him so pussydrunken- but then again you weren’t too far behind. He tilts his head to the side and looks at you through partially closed eyes, smiling. “-human-Na’vi babies.”

And it’s with that that Gojo finally - finally - drills his cock all the way to the hilt.

Bottoming out.

His breath catches at the realization.

Blue eyes widening. Mouth watering.

It feels so different to have your hot innards surrounding him entirely- and fuck, Gojo wasn’t even sure whether a human like you would be able to take all of him. But it seems that you really were made for him, yes? Every curve and edge of you. Every bit of your cunt that he gives an experimental buck into, before pumping inside like a madman-

Pounding you into the smooth ground of the celestial temple.

It feels like you’re being thrust into heaven itself because of the way he was so big, big, big—all the way from the purple-ish tip that was zig-zagging your walls, to the oversized tummy bulge he was fucking into you, to the way he had you folded. Manhandled.

Gojo’s only lasting a few strokes before he’s crushing you to him so hard that it almost hurts- “Right here—right here.” The hand atop your stomach pushes down where his ruby-red tip was kissin’ and kissing at your womb. “You’re gonna have a lot ta research about fucking- ngh, getting bred by the fucking olo’eyktan. A lot to research about carrying my next heir, yeah?”

“Yes…” Arching your back into him.

“And then here—” That very hand now drifts down to the in-betweens of your pussylips and rubs his thumb over your clit. He’s drawing little circles and hearts on top of your sensitive nub that makes you wrack with pleasure, “Yer gonna have to research giving birth to such a biiiig baby, beloved.”

You shiver at the thought, mostly excitement.

And he purrs as he rubs his cheek against the sweaty crown of your head, “But s’okaaaaay- I’ll help you through every step of it, beloved. My mate.” The Na’vi’s staring down at you lovingly, fucking you filthily. “M’gonna breed you all full, okay? You might just have to research more about Na’vi phenotypes- heh.”

You can only nod. “Please…”

And before you can dwell too long on that last particular word—mate—he’s continuing. “And then you don’t have to worry ‘bout a thing- I can take care of eeeeverything. I’ll wash our kid. I’ll dress our kid. I’ll feed our kid. I’ll do everything and anything just please-”

“Y-yes?” Your voice cracks.

And he winks down at you almost mischievously, “Let’s do some research together on when I’ll be able to breed you all full of my cum next, hm?”

And with only a few more vicious thrusts, you’re feeling your second wave of pleasure tonight take over. You knew it’d been bubbling inside your veins for some time now- and right now it almost felt as if that euphoria was overflowing.

Overspilling.

Just like the gushing wads of slick that drivel over the front slit of your cunt and leave you so wet that you feel like a waterpark. Just rhythmic bursts of your high that leave your body loose and limp, shaking a bit every time that Gojo’s cockhead plummets inwards.

Head muddled.

Eyes rolling to the very back of your head.

This might just be the best orgasm of your entire life, and your wave of pleasure is looooong and drawn-out with how many times Gojo thrusts his cock in to fuck you through it. “Shit, Toru—” 

Again and again and again.

Each time hitting the target of your g-spot dead-on and watching as you gush around him even more. 

You were at Gojo’s complete mercy…almost.

Shaking. Your hands find themselves in his hair once more- or more precisely grazing the long length of his kuru. “Satoru.” You’re breathing out as he shivers carnally, “Satoru, I want it- ngh, inside.”

His eyes widen, “Demanding something of the olo’eyktan, are you?”

“Inside, Toru.” Desperate now.

To emphasize, you’re lightly tugging on his kuru and watching as it makes the Na’vi above you shudder. His cock pouring out heaps of precum that only act as a warning for something…more. “F-fuck, better keep this all in until tomorrow-”

At the very least.

You’re honestly not sure if you can keep it all in even now—because then Gojo’s throwing his head back and cumming long and hard. Harder than he ever thinks he has before- his seed dribbles out of him like a gooey waterfall, taking place inside every nook and cranny you have.

Heavy balls clenching almost aggressively as they empty out inside you.

He’s swervin’ each ounce of it inside by dragging his globular tip, that reddened cockhead making you swear you taste Gojo all the way at your throat. 

Flooding.

Your toes curl, it almost feels as though he’s fucking you into a third and fourth high altogether-

“Until tomorrow-” Gojo barks out through his smoky tone, “Until always-” After reaching his high so many times in one night, his sparks of euphoria just rip through him. And you can feel the sheer intensity of it by the way his slippery slick thwacks! against the back of your pussy, hot and heavy. It seems to inflate you from the inside, “Until we have our…fuck.”

And it’s not like Gojo to let up a sentence. Especially one that wavered with emotion.

“Until I have…” He starts again, blue eyes twinkling. “…you.”

Right now he was cupping the side of your face with his left hand- accidentally…or perhaps not…dslodging the translating device from your ear.

And then the Na’vi olo’eyktan leans with his forehead pressing down on top of yours.

Dragging his hand down the side of your head, where his beads for you twinkled in the glow of Eywa’s tree. Breathing out the words—“Oel ngati kameie, muntxa si.”

He looks at you with a slightly sad smile as if he was almost bitterly glad you didn’t understand. Though little did he know…“Oel ngati kameie, Satoru.”

And the look on his face was worth all the time you’d spent poring over Na’vi language books with Shoko these past few days. At least you understood this.

You grin, “I did a bit of research myself.”

He holds you tight, he holds you as if he wanted you two to become one.

More so.

Eventually—after about four or so more rounds, and once you were thoroughly shattered and kept on begging for it, Gojo had swiped his long kuru into his hand and raised it up to you. You yourself didn’t have one, but if there was anything you learned from being with the Herwi people—it’s that love comes in all forms and differences.

You press your lips to his flower-like nerves at the very end of his braid. Immediately, a rush of something between you two and you understand what he meant about being mates.

You feel what Gojo sees.

You feel what Gojo smells.

You feel what Gojo hears.

You feel what Gojo tastes.

You feel what Gojo feels.

You feel complete.

.

.

.

Day #6 in the Herwi village (day after the mating):

The ancient of the Herwi clan were one of the only believers in fated mates, of one who had been destined to walk beside you upon this good planet through Eywa’s will. It was said that life does not flower until one meets one’s fate, not even the skies shall migrate, not even the ice shall melt. 

Two souls bound to meet.

And until then one can only look up, up, up…

This scientist was found in quite the curious position as mate to the olo’eyktan on the morning after.

Re-entering the village, hand-in-hand, it was inevitable that the Herwi people would stare. Not only was it quite past the deadline of six moons given, but each bore resemblance of a mating session that could’ve been spotted a smile away.

Bite marks. Bruises. Slight falter in walking.

Not to mention that it seems word had spread about the…inoccupancy of the Tree of Winter just the night prior. (Additionally for more on Herwi stamina read Page 69…)

Circling back, the stares were rather unabashed. Some gasping. Some ribbing. Some tuts by elders of the clan who then again turned around with a smile.

It was obvious that they had been praying for the olo’eyktan’s happiness for a long, long time.

It must be noted that congratulations were doled out heavily at the communal dinner that night. Food. Dances. Parades.

It must be noted even further that preparations for coronation at the Herwi tsahìk shall be taking place in a week’s time. Who would have thought, a human being a tsahìk? Who would have thought that humans had fated mates as well?

For this scientist’s final note, preparations are already being planned meticulously for the arrival of a new heir to the Gojo name.

And that leaves the scientific community with one last thing, now that fluency in the Na’vi language is on the path to be attained: the glossary.

Tsahìk - Head shaman, high priest, interpreter..

Olo’eyktan - Male clan leader.

Mawey - Calm.

Txeylan - Best friend.

Ì’awn - Stay.

Fnu - Be quiet.

Txen - Awake.

Nga lu rusey- oh, nga lu rusey. - You’re alive- oh, you’re alive.

Oe'm lefpom. Txen? Lu nga txen? Tsal pung? - I’m happy. Awake? You’re awake? Are you injured?

‘Upe lu nga fwew? - What are you looking for?

Yawne? Oe'd tìng aynga. - Beloved? I’d give you anything.

Oe pey ngim krr. - I’ve been waiting a long time.

Tìnga’prrnen - Pregnant.

Tìnga’prrnen? Oe? - Pregnant? Me?

Nga new ne kanom oe tìnga’prrnen. - You want to get me pregnant?

Fì'u - This.

Irayo nga - Thank you.

Oe ke ronsem tsonta lu tìnga’prrnen. - I wouldn’t mind being pregnant.

Lake Yapay - Lake Steam.

Hona beads - Endearing.beads.

Mt. Hoet - Vast.

Kuru - Neural queue.

Oel ngati kameie, muntxa si. - I see you, my mate.

Oel ngati kameie, Satoru. - I see you, Satoru.

A/N. It must be acknowledged that Herwi culture was influenced by some aspects of Inuit culture, as well as some aspects of my own Sinhalese culture! Both such beautiful cultures that I was honored to research more in-depth on. Also this Na'vi vocabulary bank was used, and for longer Na’vi sentences this translator was used and might not be fully accurate ahhh-

Plagiarism not authorized.

[liahcharms]

slutty (slasher) summer.ᐟ ✮⋆˙

✮⋆˙ What is a summerween? Summerween began with a Gravity Falls episode on June 22 (thus the publication date), and it's basically a second Halloween, but celebrated in the summer!

✮⋆˙ What can you expect? Summer camps 🏕, funfairs 🎪, trips to the cabin in the woods 🪵, and lots and lots of sex... and blood 🪓. Summerween is here, and as a horror and fall-obsessed girl, I cannot miss the opportunity to make a little freaky collection! Stories will be inspired mainly by 80s slashers, but also, as you can see, some video games!

✮⋆˙ Common slasher tropes: ꒰ sex equals death :: virgins always survive :: killers are hard to kill :: my car hates me :: wild teen party :: say goodbye first to your gay friend :: jocks + bimbos :: don't go to the woods/summercamp :: killer usually wants a revenge :: psycho stalkers :: demons and possessions :: useless adults ꒱

✮⋆˙ Pairings: Gojo Satoru x Reader, Suguru Geto x Reader, Toji Fushiguro x Reader, Ryomen Sukuna x Reader, Choso Kamo x Reader, WLW, MLM

✮⋆˙ Content & Warnings: ꒰ HEAVY ON MDNI 18+ :: HEAVY smut :: set in the late 80s :: it sometimes may be a bit tacky! :: mean and slutty readers :: virgin readers and virgin jjk men :: killers :: murderers :: stalkers :: yandere :: slashers :: bloody stories :: demons :: nightmares :: summer vibe :: camping :: lots and lots of sex :: obsessions :: possessiveness :: gay sex :: lose of virginity :: tba... ꒱

comment to be added to the taglist .ᐟ

my summerween series (not focused on slashers) is available here! ✮⋆˙

─ CURRENTLY SCREENING.ᐟ ✮⋆˙

✮⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄

𝐒𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐲!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫/𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫!𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮 :: An outcast you rejected a while ago cannot bear the sight of you with other men! And what's a better place to corner you and beg to love him? By the lake, at night, when you're naked and alone. After he made sure to get rid of your newest lover, of course!

lovestrucked (additional drabble)

✮⋆˙ (𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐘) 𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏

𝐒𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐲!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐱 𝐑𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 :: Who would have guessed that a trip to a cabin with friends, your current situationship, and an ex would be a good idea? Certainly not you, especially not with two killers lurking in the woods. But why are the only victims... all your multiple ex-flings?

✮⋆˙ 𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒…

𝐄𝐱!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐏𝐲𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐝 H𝐞𝐚𝐝!𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐅𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐨 :: One wrong turn can truly cost your life. The map gets lost, roads loop around, and every sign leads to the same town. Empty and eerie, with a dull sound bouncing off the walls every night. A voice of your long-gone lover, whom you left years ago.

✮⋆˙ 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐍

𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫!𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮 :: A weekend away at the luxurious hotel by the lake. A whole two days of playing murder mystery with your friends, trying to guess who's the killer! Roles get assigned, the game starts and then... a murder happens. No, the real murder happens. And as it turns out – your "whore role" may be the only thing that will save your ass from getting chopped! Or will it?

✮⋆˙ 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐒

𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐁𝐚𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 :: Summer in New Orleans comes with music, voodoo and... a bayou. People who disrespect the swamp disappear. People who pray sometimes receive miracles. One night, while wandering too far from the festival, you fall into the water. But, thankfully, something catches you before you drown. Something that doesn't want to leave you alone.

✮⋆˙ 𝐆𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓!

𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐣𝐨 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮 :: Staying in a single room with Satoru and Suguru during the summer camp is... interesting. Testing your self-restraint every single day. But one day, when news spreads that a killer is murdering other campers, you decide to make a final decision. Lose your virginity! Because in slashers, gays always die first!

✮⋆˙ 𝐀 𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃

𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧!𝐑𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 :: Who knew the Ouija board was not as useless as it seemed? And who knew a demon you managed to summon would not only be among the most dangerous, but also eager to grant your weird wish? Fuck-a-demon-on-a-camera kind of wish! The one and only ticket that would surely guarantee a boom in your career. That is, if the footage is found, of course.

✮⋆˙ (𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌) 𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐲!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞!𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐨 𝐊𝐚𝐦𝐨 :: A perverted demon haunts your dreams – always playing with your body, pushing you over the edge, but never, ever, letting you cum. So you finally decide to grab him and bring him back to your reality, to have a little play yourself!

✮⋆˙ 𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇

𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫/𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫!𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮 𝐱 𝐉𝐨𝐜𝐤!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 :: Geto Suguru had a crush on a bisexual jock since the first year of university. In a slightly unhealthy, maybe a bit overly obsessive way. So when the whole major goes on a summer trip to the cabin in the woods – Geto Suguru couldn't be happier. It's just that... well... he really, really hates all those men and women hanging on Satoru's shoulder every single night...

the stories may be published in a random order! ✮⋆˙

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

The summerween collection will finish at the end of August and then... we're going into Kinktober <3 When signing up for taglist PLEASE REMEMBER TO INCLUDE AGE/ADULT INFO IN YOUR BIO

blood divider by @strangergraphics

[liahcharms]

under your spell 🗝

The Victorian-style house looked a bit creepy, but rather cute. Very pinkish. Perfectly serene for your remote job and longing for silence. And everything would be wonderful if not for this little weird doll that looks like you and a small door in the living room, leading to... nowhere? And what about those two guys who lived here sixty years ago?

˖𖦹 ݁˖ pairing: Satosugu x F!Reader

˖𖦹 ݁˖ content/warnigs: ꒰ Coraline AU :: yandere :: stalking :: Satoru and Suguru have buttons for eyes :: they desperately want you to stay :: horror :: hope it will be a bit creepy :: obsessive behaviours :: possessive behaviour :: dark romance :: heavy smut :: manipulation :: death :: demons :: use of some Coraline conspiracy theories ꒱

˖𖦹 ݁˖ notes: The first chapter will be posted on June 22! And on that day I will also post my main summerween, slasher collection <3

taglist open, only a few slots

Check my other summerween collection! ˖𖦹 ݁˖

──── do you wish to open the door? 🗝

˖𖦹 ݁˖ chapter one ˖𖦹 ݁˖ chapter four

˖𖦹 ݁˖ chapter two ˖𖦹 ݁˖ chapter five

˖𖦹 ݁˖ chapter three

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

My dearest townsfolk! You have no idea how excited I am for this series! It is a part of my Summerween collection, but since my main collection focuses on slashers, I decided to post the Coraline separately!

art by by K05062688 - twitter button divider by @saradika-graphics

[summer-oil-inactive]

contents: suguru geto x gn!reader. literally just fluff. sickly-sweet kitchen fluff. mostly prose! i like hubby sugu i miss him a lot :( +one (1) kms joke wc: 1.2k

Eyes of firefly-gold graze the back of your neck.

Suguru sits on the kitchen table and watches your arms move where you stand in front of the stove, the conductor of an orchestra only you are privy to. If he closed his eyes he thinks he’d hear music: the ever-present crescendoing of a santoku-knife hitting wood, cutting through ginger, paprika and green onion, water streaming from the tap and sloshing in a sink already sullied with dishes. 

This, he thinks, is peace. The kind that roots itself into the bone-marrow and spinal cord. This is what he’s been seeking his entire life.

This is what you give him, continuously: mundanity worth dying for. 

”Fuck.” 

Suguru blinks. Two birds take flight from the plum-tree just outside your window, their wings snapping sharply in tune with your exclamation. 

”Fuuuuck. No. No,” your voice tightens with dread, dull and thick on your tongue. Dark smoke wafts from the pan you’re holding. ”I’m gonna kill myself.” 

”Baby,” Suguru scolds. He rises from the table with the ease of a cat just awoken from its nap, stretching its slender body in a narrow crease of sunshine— his biceps straining pleasurably, the table-cloth smooth beneath the pads of his fingers. ”What’s wrong?”

”I burnt it,” you groan. A frown clads his lips as he steps beside you, palm carefully laying itself in the dip of your back. Surveying the damage, though still glancing at you from the corner of his eye. Gosh, you’re cute. Brows all furrowed in frustration. 

(Satoru’s right, he muses. For once.

Love does make him mean.) 

”I knew I should have done the prep work first,” you murmur, squeezing your eyes shut. There’s a strain in your jaw he’d like to smooth away. ”Ahhh. I’m so upset. The beef was so expensive, too.”

Quietly, the branches of his lips bloom upwards, flecked with fond fatigue.

”… It’s alright,” he soothes. Taking the spatula off your hands to turn the slabs of meat around, from charcoal-black to primrose-pink. ”We’ll scrape it off. It’ll taste just as wonderful.”

Despite the comforting words, your expression doesn’t change. This is just another string of motions to the evening scene of your married life— he knows them by hand, by memory, could recite them with his eyes closed and lips sealed. Such a small loss has taken your smile hostage, but he knows just how to bring it back.

”Trust me.” He raises his free hand, trailing his fingertips across your jaw, teasing the seam of your lips, so tightly pursed. Half tempted to tug at your gums and teeth, he settles for pinching at the fat of your cheek; careful, but seamless, knowing just how little force to use to make you look him in the eye. And you do. You look at him the way shooting stars burn across the cosmos, the way bare feet hit summer-warm grass. Your gaze is stubbornly irritated, like a cat dipped in water, but he sees the quiet guilt there. ”It’s hard to pay attention to so many things at once, right?”

…

A silent nod. Barely there, but he’ll take what he can get. Your gaze shies away, mindlessly scanning the chopped veggies on the kitchen counter, and he doesn’t force it back in place.

”Mhm. And blaming yourself for a simple mistake accomplishes…?”

…

You’re embarrassed. He sees it in the way you almost squirm in place, lower lip twitching, hesitant to part. That’s no good, he tuts inwardly.

”Baby.”

”… Nothing,” you sigh.

”Exactly.” Suguru beams. ”You’re doing well. Do you want me to cook the beef? Or should I sit back down?”

As expected, he’s met with a deadpan stare. ”Don’t you dare.”

Laughter pools under his tongue, breezy and light, right at home where it slips into the boundary between your bodies. His palm curls around your hip, tugging you closer. Smoothing your cheeks together in a brief nuzzle. ”Alright, alright,” he croons. He did promise you could make dinner tonight. ”If you say so.”

The air is warm with the scent of a hearty meal: ginger and onion, beef stir-fried in sesame oil, steam from udon noodles coming to a boil. Suguru behaves, though part of him aches to join you, sitting on the kitchen table with his slender jaw hooked on the dip of his palm. Watching you in quiet worship. Praying to the orchestra of your fingertips and chest, lifting up and down, the happy hum you purr on after taste-tasting the food. Peace floods his lungs with every inhale, flowing out with every exhale, thickening the air with bliss. 

”Come taste, Suguru.”

By the time the words have left your mouth, he’s long since risen to his feet. Socks gliding against the floorboards, nudging your hip with his own, a loyal dog at the heel of your voice. You hold the spoon out to his lips, and Suguru grows hungry. Famished for more evenings, more charred meat and plum trees. Ravenous for you. His lips part around the cutlery.

”Mm,” he appraises, eyes curling into crescents. Heat floods his chest, spreading through his body; limbs; fingertips. ”Delicious. You outdid yourself, honey.” 

”Really?”

A warm smile. ”Really.”

The praise makes something in your eyes soften, tantamount to crumbling; like a lamb rolling over to expose its underbelly, hoping for pets where it needs them the most. Hopelessly endearing. You’re quick to get down on yourself, but you need so little to glow with pride. He could get high on the way you seek out his approval. 

”If you keep this up, I’m afraid you won’t need me to cook for you anymore.”

”Always gonna need your cooking,” you huff. Smiling broadly, steam dancing around your throat, your gaze like a cleaver to his jugular. ”I just want to be able to do this for you sometimes.”

”Yeah?” he chuckles. ”Well, isn’t my baby sweet.”

”I always am,” you nod. Suguru’s heart feels bigger than usual. He presses a kiss against the side of your temple, murmuring hotly:

”That’s right.” His voice dips into a low, sticky timbre. ”Maybe we should cook you into a meal, hm?”

”Nooo.”

”I did notice we were running out of sugar,” he clicks his tongue, trying to hide a cloying grin. ”We’ll have to use a substitute for dessert…”

You shake your head again, firmer this time, looking up at him with big, pleading eyes— just for show, he tells himself— because you want to make him weak in the knees. It’s too effective, is the issue. You’re too good at what you do to him. His Adam’s apple bobs pathetically. ”Don’t bake me into pie.”

”No?” His arms circle your waist, trapping you against him.

”No.” 

”No,” Suguru repeats, mostly to himself. Under his breath, like a prayer. ”You’re right.”

”… Ah— I’m gonna burn it again!” your head snaps towards the stove, hastily stirring the udon, veggies and beef together, scraping at the bottom of the pan. ”Suguru, set the table or something. You’re too distracting!”

Your husband sighs contentedly. Watching your brows furrow, hands moving with practiced intensity. His, his heart sings. All his. ”… Yes, honey.”

[shimisstuff]

Suguru is not a human🩸

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[satolune]

──── 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋!

୧ ‧₊˚ 𝓖.𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 and you, his 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐄𝐗 ♡

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ :: geto suguru has built a reputation out of silence, inked a thousand skins, and never once in his life chased anything. somehow, he's been letting himself into his ex-girlfriend's apartment at midnight just to move her coffee mug three inches to the left.

oh! forgive me lord! oh i'm a good girl ♡ run rabbit! run rabid ♡

content warning :: MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, dubcon (initiation while reader is asleep/semi-conscious, but she is into it when she wakes up), somno, stalking, breaking and entering, obsessive & possessive behavior, yandere themes (both parties), unhealthy relationship dynamics, theft of personal items, not beta read. art by @/thatsallitchief

4.8k words

The breakup was his idea. That's the part that kills you most.

Not that you didn't see it coming—you did, in the way you see storms gathering on a horizon you've been watching for too long. You had felt it in the spaces between his words, in the weight of his silences, in how his hands had stopped reaching for you in his sleep.

Suguru had sat you down on a Sunday, which you had thought was cruel timing. Sunday mornings used to be yours, slow and warm, coffee and his records and the particular blue light that came through the windows of his apartment on the Shimokitazawa side of the city. He had used that gentleness of his—the kind that had hooked you in the first place, the kind that made you feel like he was doing you a favor when he broke something in you.

"I feel like I'm suffocating you," he had said, which you both knew was not quite what he meant. You're suffocating me. He was too kind to say it plainly.

You had held it together long enough to get out the door.

That had been seven months ago.

You have, in those seven months, become a person you do not entirely recognize. You are aware of this. You are a fashion student, after all—you are trained to observe, to analyze, to understand aesthetics and composition and the way things are put together and taken apart. You apply this skill now to Geto Suguru's life in your absence from it.

It started small. The way these things always do.

You had kept his Instagram followed, of course. His main—@suguru.ink—which he kept public for his work. Clean grids of tattoo photos, the occasional candid shot from a coffee shop or a bar. Easy enough. You didn't even have to try.

But then he'd switched his personal account to private.

@its.suguru. One hundred and twelve followers. A lock icon.

You had made the alt before the thought had fully formed. It took you maybe twenty minutes: a new email, a new account, four weeks of posting photos stolen from Pinterest—aesthetic city shots, some food, a carefully curated collection of jazz album covers—and then a follow request sent to his personal from @mn.archives, a faceless account that looked like any other twenty-something whose personality lived entirely in film photography and good coffee. Two hundred and sixteen followers, because a number too low looks suspicious.

He accepted within a day.

You tell yourself this is just so you know he's okay. That it's concern, residual and tender, the way you might still check the weather in a city you used to live in. You scroll through his grid at eleven PM with your knees pulled to your chest and you look at the photo he posted last Thursday—some bar you recognize, neon light catching the silver of his earrings, Haibara's arm slung around his shoulder—and you feel something so complicated you can't name it. Not grief exactly. Not quite anger.

Want, maybe. Plain and embarrassing.

The tattoo was not your best idea. You will admit that freely, in the privacy of your own thoughts.

You had passed by his work plcea approximately forty-seven times in seven months, which you know because you have routes home that all bend toward this specific block on purpose. You had a habit of slowing down outside the window—frosted glass, the clean black font of the shop name, sometimes the amber glow of light inside—and telling yourself you were just walking. Just passing through. Just appreciating good signage, actually, as a design student.

The appointment you booked under a fake name—Watanabe Mika, which you chose because it felt forgettable—was a small floral piece. Lower back. Simple. Classic. Something you could attribute to a late-night Pinterest spiral rather than the slow, spectacular unraveling of your dignity.

There is one flaw in this plan, one thing you had somehow managed not to factor in.

You are terrified of needles.

You sat in the chair and stared at the ceiling and told yourself it was fine, it was fine, it was—

"Breathe."

His voice, right behind you. Low and unbothered, the way it always was.

You had not accounted, in all your meticulous planning, for the fact that you would have to talk to him. That the fake name would crumble the second he walked into the room and said it like he'd never heard it before in his life.

"Watanabe-san?"

You had turned, and his expression had done something complicated for exactly one second before settling back into professional neutrality. His hair was up—messy bun, a few strands loose around his face—and he had new ink on his forearm, something geometric you didn't recognize. Which meant he'd had it done after you. The thought sat in your chest like a splinter.

"Hi," you said. Brilliant.

"Hi." A pause. "Small piece?"

"Lower back. Florals. I have a reference."

He had nodded and reached for his gloves and you had spent the next forty minutes lying face-down on the table with your back exposed and his hands steady on your skin and tried very hard not to make a sound that wasn't about the needle.

You managed. Barely.

The tattoo healed beautifully. Sometimes you twist in front of your mirror just to look at it.

His favorite coffee shop is a place called Kōhī to Yoru—coffee and night—that operates out of a narrow building near the university. He started going there maybe three months into your relationship, the two of you sharing a corner table and his headphones, and you have continued going there with the particular audacity of someone who has decided they were there first, actually, in some cosmic sense, even if that is not strictly true.

You go on Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons, which are the days his alt account has, on multiple occasions, shown him holding an iced coffee that matches the shop's specific shade of pale green cup.

You bring your sketchbook. You work on your thesis collection. You sit with your back to the door and wait for the sound of it opening—the particular way the bell above it chimes—and when he comes in, which he does, not every time but often enough, you feel your whole body go still and warm and stupid. You look down at your paper and draw the same seam line you have been drawing for six minutes without noticing.

He always orders the same thing. You know his order the way you know the smell of his apartment, the exact pressure of his hands, the specific timbre of his voice when he's half asleep.

You don't look up.

You're very good at not looking up.

The club situation, in retrospect, requires more explanation.

There is a bar-club hybrid in the entertainment district called Sable that Suguru frequents. You know this because Satoru has a fully public account and zero impulse control regarding location tags, which means you have a near-perfect record of their Saturday nights without ever having to try very hard. You don't follow Satoru. You don't need to. His posts are public and his captions are aggressive and he documents everything.

You do not go to Sable every Saturday. You're not insane.

You go maybe twice a month. On weekends you've verified—through Satoru's stories, through a brief and agonizing scan of his tagged photos—that Suguru will be there. You get ready carefully, the way you used to when you were going to see him, and you tell your friends, who know nothing, that you just feel like going out. That you love this place. That the DJ is good.

The thing is, you're not lying about the DJ. The DJ genuinely is good.

And you are, by any objective measure, devastating when you make the effort.

You keep your distance. That's the important part, the part that keeps this justifiable. You don't go near him—too obvious, too much—and you have what's left of your pride to protect. You position yourself well, and you dance, and you drink, and you exist in the same airspace, and you watch, peripherally, the way you've gotten very good at watching things peripherally.

What you also do—and this is the part where you stop being able to fully justify yourself—is notice the women.

There are always women. Suguru is—you don't need to describe him to yourself. You know exactly what he looks like in a room, what he does to it without meaning to, that particular quality of his presence that functions like gravity. You know because it pulled you in and kept you there for sixteen months and you have not yet figured out how to get far enough away that it stops working on you.

So. The women.

You don't interfere directly. That would be messy, obvious, humiliating. What you do is more surgical than that. A girl drifts toward him at the bar—you're there first, materializing at his elbow under the pretense of ordering, smiling at the bartender, turning just enough that your body language reads as occupied space. A group approaches the table where he and Satoru are sitting—you're walking past right then, somehow, and you catch Gojo's eye (Gojo who knows you, Gojo who looks at you with an expression you have learned not to examine) and you smile like you ran into him by coincidence, and the moment breaks before it can start.

You are very good at this.

You have gotten very good at this.

You think you're slick.

This is perhaps the most important thing to understand about the last seven months: you have constructed, in meticulous and loving detail, the story of yourself as someone who is merely adjacent to Geto Suguru's life. Someone who passes through the same spaces by coincidence, drawn there by taste and habit and not by anything more embarrassing than that. Someone who has moved on cleanly and simply no longer intersects with him—except in these small moments that don't count, that you are careful to keep deniable.

You believe this story.

You are, perhaps, the only one who does.

Geto Suguru notices everything.

This is not vanity—it's fact, the baseline condition of someone who has spent years being precisely observed and has therefore learned to observe in return. He notices patterns. He notices the particular quality of attention a room gives a person. He notices when something stops being coincidence and starts being something else entirely.

The first time he saw you at Kōhī to Yoru, he thought: oh.

Not with surprise. With something more like recognition. Like finding a word he'd been looking for in a language he already spoke.

You had your sketchbook open and your head down and the line of your shoulders had that specific tension you always got when you were pretending to concentrate on something other than what was in front of you. He had ordered his coffee and taken the table by the window—not your corner, deliberately not your corner—and watched you not look at him for eleven minutes straight. And he had felt something settle in his chest like the click of a lock finding its latch.

There she is.

He had not broken up with you because he stopped wanting you. He needs to be clear about this, at least to himself, in the space where honesty costs nothing. He had broken up with you because wanting you and watching you want him back had started to feel like too much weight in a place he didn't know how to hold. He is—he will say this plainly—not good at being needed. Something in him retreats when it feels cornered by someone else's love, some reflex toward distance that he's never fully understood and never fully fought. He had watched you learn his rhythms and bend yourself around them and he had known, somewhere underneath the warmth of it, that he was shaping you into something that orbited him, and you deserved better than a center like him.

He had thought, in the careful logical part of his mind, that breaking up would free you. That you'd pull yourself out and go build something that didn't require making yourself small.

He had not, apparently, accounted for yoy.

@/mn.archives had followed him about two months after the breakup. He noticed because he got the notification at 2 AM on a Tuesday, which was exactly when you used to lose sleep to your phone.

He had looked at the profile for a long time.

The photos were too curated. Jazz records and film photography and that particular aesthetic that looked like a constructed personality rather than an actual one—assembled from the outside in, like a mood board rather than a life. No face. No name. mn.archives. He had scrolled back through their last few conversations once—just once, he told himself—and found a message you'd sent months before the end, mentioning a vintage archive account you'd been thinking about making.

He had accepted the follow request.

He still posts to that account knowing you're watching. Sometimes he tags places he's about to go, just to see if youll show up. You always do.

The tattoo appointment had required real effort not to laugh.

Watanabe Mika. He'd seen the name in the book when he was reviewing the day's schedule and he had known before he walked into the room. He doesn't know exactly how he knew—maybe the handwriting, you always pressed too hard with pens, like you were trying to leave a mark on whatever you touched—but he had known, and when he said the name and watched you face do that thing where you're trying to hold it perfectly still, he had felt something he'd classify, if he were being honest, as pure delight.

Forty minutes. His hands on your back. The way you'd gone absolutely rigid when the needle started and then forced yourself still through what he knew, because he knows you, was genuine fear. You hadn't made a sound. He'd been almost proud of you.

He wanted to say: you don't have to do this.

He wanted to say: I already know.

He said neither. Because there is something he enjoys—something he is not proud of but does not particularly want to stop—about watching you work this hard. About being watched this carefully. About being the thing someone builds an entire architecture of ordinary life around.

The club thing is his favorite.

He sees yoy every time. He spotted you the third Saturday you came to Sable—across the room, dancing with that particular careless ease you put on when you're trying to look like you're not paying attention to anything—and he had taken a slow drink and thought about how long you'd been doing this without knowing he saw. He had done a rough calculation. Yiu'd been at it for months.

The girls you redirects: he lets you. It would be simple enough to close the gap, to make himself reachable, to let someone else in just to see what you'd do. He doesn't.

Satoru, who is not an idiot and has never pretended to be, had said once, watching you materialize near the bar at precisely the right moment: "You know she's here."

"I know," Suguru had said.

Satoru had looked at him for a long moment. "And you're just going to let her keep doing this."

It hadn't been a question. Suguru hadn't answered it anyway. Satoru had made the face he made when he thought Suguru was being spectacular and specific kind of idiot, which was fair. Satoru was usually right about these things.

He still has your key.

This is the part he doesn't examine too closely, doesn't turn over in his hands and look at straight on. He still has the key you gave him fourteen months into their relationship—the little silver one with the small scratch near the head from when you'd dropped your keychain down a flight of stairs and laughed so hard you couldn't breathe, had grabbed his arm for balance and left half-moon marks in his jacket. He had kept it after the breakup, which he had told himself was oversight. He'd meant to return it. The moment had never arrived, and the key had stayed on his ring, and here they are.

He goes, sometimes, when he knows your out.

He knows your schedule the way he's always known things about you—not through tracking, not through architecture and alt accounts, but through the simple accumulating weight of attention. He knows you have studio hours Monday and Wednesday evenings. He knows you go to your mother's on Sunday afternoons and usually doesn't come back until after seven.

He lets himself in quietly. He moves through the apartment and he moves things—small things, careful things. A mug shifted slightly on the counter. Your desk chair at a different angle. The throw blanket refolded. Nothing you could be certain about, nothing that couldn't be chalked up to your own distracted hands in a busy week. He just wants you to feel it, in some wordless way you can't name. He wants to leave a shape in your space.

He also takes things. He is aware this is not something he can justify cleanly. Small things—a note torn from your sketchbook, a hair tie from the bathroom counter, once a grocery list written in your handwriting that he'd found tucked under a bottle of wine. Things you might not notice. Things you'd never be sure about.

The first time he went to the drawer beside the bed—just to look, he'd told himself—he had found his hoodie. The charcoal one you used to steal, folded near the bottom like you'd put it somewhere you didn't have to see every day but couldn't bring yourself to throw away. And underneath a novel you was reading: a photo strip from a machine in Harajuku. The two of you, making faces, the particular light of that afternoon still somehow caught in the paper.

You hadn't thrown any of it away.

He had stood there for a moment and felt something so complicated that he hadn't tried to name it. He had taken the photo strip. Replaced it with a different photo—same machine, earlier in the same day, just you, mid-laugh, caught without knowing—so the space wouldn't feel empty if you looked.

He keeps the photo strip in his wallet.

He does not call this obsession. He doesn't call it anything.

It's a Thursday night when he finally goes back, and this time he doesn't have a reason.

Not to rearrange anything. Not to take something. No careful justification assembled in advance. He doesn't know what that means and he has, tonight, decided to stop caring.

The city is quiet the way it gets past midnight, that particular held-breath stillness. His key makes no sound against her lock—he knows the angle by now, the specific lift-and-turn that keeps the mechanism from clicking too loud. The door swings open onto darkness and the particular smell of her apartment, warm and layered, something floral and underneath it something that is just you, unchanged across seven months, the thing that had always made the back of his mind go quiet.

He moves through the space without turning on a light. He knows it better than you might expect. He knows the creak of the second floorboard from the hallway and steps around it. He knows to angle left around the ottoman you perpetually fail to put back in the right place. He knows the bedroom door sticks slightly at the top corner and needs gentle pressure to open without a sound.

It gives way.

You're asleep. He can tell from the doorway—the slow, even rise and fall of you breathing, your hair against the pillow, one hand curled loosely near your face. The window lets in just enough city light to see you by. Gold and still.

He leans against the doorframe.

He watches you breathe.

There is something terrible about this moment. Something tender underneath the terrible. He knows that. He is not without self-awareness—he has spent years being precisely, painfully self-aware, and it has never once made him behave better. You have been watching him for seven months from what you believed is a safe distance. He has been watching you from what he knows is not one. And maybe that says something about both of you, about the particular shape of whatever this is, two people who were never going to fall cleanly out of each other's gravity no matter how carefully he tried to cut the line.

You shift in your sleep. A small sound, something that almost forms a word and dissolves before it arrives.

He is still there.

There she is.

He stays until his shoulder starts to ache from the doorframe, and then he stays a little longer.

The city light filters through the half-open blinds in thin silver bars across your bed. Suguru stands in the doorway a moment longer, letting the quiet settle into his bones. Your breathing is deep, slow, the kind that only comes after exhaustion has finally won. He crosses the room without sound, shedding his jacket onto the chair by your desk. The hoodie you still keep is visible when he glances at the open drawer—charcoal, folded like a secret.

He sits on the edge of the mattress. The shift of weight makes you stir, but you don’t wake. Good. He wants this part slow.

His hand finds your ankle first, thumb brushing up the bare skin of your calf. You’re wearing an oversized t-shirt—his, he realizes with a low pulse of satisfaction—and nothing else. The hem has ridden up to the curve of your ass. He traces higher, palm warm against the back of your thigh, then slips under the fabric to rest at the small of your back, right over the fresh ink he put there himself. The skin is still slightly raised, healed but sensitive. He presses lightly.

You make a soft, wordless sound, shifting onto your stomach more fully. Your face stays buried in the pillow.

“Suguru…?” The name is barely shaped, thick with sleep, more breath than voice.

He doesn’t answer. Instead he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Shh. Go back to sleep if you want.”

His hand slides lower, between your legs, finding you already slick. A low hum leaves his throat. Even asleep, your body knows him. He circles your clit with two fingers, unhurried, coaxing. Your hips twitch once, instinctive, pushing back against his hand.

You whimper into the pillow, still half-gone, thighs parting just enough to let him in. He takes the invitation, pressing one finger inside you, then two, curling gently. The wet sound is obscene in the quiet room. Your breathing changes—shallower, quicker—but your eyes stay closed, lashes fluttering against your cheeks.

He works you open like that for long minutes, slow thrusts of his fingers, thumb stroking your clit in lazy circles. Every time you clench around him he feels it in his own cock, already straining against his jeans. When you start rocking back against his hand in tiny, unconscious movements, he withdraws, ignoring the protesting noise you make.

Clothes off. He doesn’t rush. The belt buckle clicks softly; the zipper sounds louder than it should. He strokes himself once, twice, spreading the bead of pre-cum over the head before lining up behind you.

You’re on your stomach, legs spread, t-shirt bunched at your waist. Perfect.

He pushes in slow, one long glide until he’s buried to the hilt. The stretch makes you gasp, eyes flying open for a heartbeat before they flutter shut again. Your walls flutter around him, hot and tight and so fucking wet.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your nape, staying still for a moment, letting you adjust. Or not. He doesn’t ask.

He starts moving—deep, measured rolls of his hips that press you harder into the mattress. Each thrust drags against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. You moan, low and broken, still sounding half-asleep, face turned to the side now so he can see the flush on your cheek.

One of his hands slides under you, finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles while he fucks you. The other braces beside your head, caging you in. He drops his weight more fully onto your back, lips at your shoulder, teeth grazing skin.

You push back against him, needy even in your drowsiness. “Suguru…” His name again, softer this time, wrecked with pleasure. Your hand reaches back blindly, fingers brushing his hip, urging him deeper.

He gives it to you. Harder now, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. He angles his hips until every thrust makes you cry out—short, breathy sounds that go straight to his cock. Your pussy clenches rhythmically around him, fluttering, pulling him in.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Let me feel you.”

He fucks you like he’s memorizing you all over again—slow drags followed by sharp snaps of his hips, grinding deep when he bottoms out. Your breathing turns into soft, desperate pants. You’re dripping down his cock, onto the sheets. He reaches down and spreads your ass with both hands so he can watch himself disappear inside you, the obscene shine of your arousal coating him.

You come without warning, sudden and shuddering, a broken moan muffled by the pillow as your walls clamp down hard. He doesn’t stop, fucking you through it, drawing it out until your thighs shake.

Only then does he pull out, flipping you onto your back with easy strength. Your eyes are open now, heavy-lidded and dark, but still hazy with sleep and orgasm. You look at him like you’re not entirely sure he’s real.

He doesn’t give you time to wake up fully. He hooks your legs over his elbows and slides back in, folding you nearly in half. The new angle makes you keen, nails digging into his shoulders. He sets a punishing rhythm—deep, relentless, the headboard knocking softly against the wall.

Your t-shirt is pushed up to your collarbones. He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, tongue flicking. You arch into him, gasping. The other hand finds your clit again, rubbing fast and firm.

“Come on,” he growls against your skin. “Again. Want to feel it.”

You do. The second orgasm hits you harder, back bowing, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you pulse around his cock. He fucks you through every wave, hips stuttering only when your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks.

He pulls out at the last second, stroking himself roughly over your stomach. Thick ropes of cum paint your skin, your tits, the underside of your chin. You watch with dazed, half-lidded eyes, lips parted.

For a long moment the only sound is both of you breathing.

He leans down and kisses you—slow, deep, tasting sleep and sex and the faint salt of your sweat. You kiss him back like muscle memory, one hand sliding into his hair, holding him there. When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

He reaches for the t-shirt you’re wearing—his t-shirt—and uses the hem to wipe his spend from your skin with surprising gentleness. Then he tosses it aside, pulls the blanket over both of you, and tucks you against his chest like no time has passed at all.

Your breathing evens out again within minutes, slipping back toward sleep. He stays awake longer, fingers tracing idle patterns over the floral ink on your lower back, feeling the steady beat of your heart against his ribs.

Outside, the city keeps breathing. Inside, the two of you fit back together in the dark like pieces that were never meant to stay apart.

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[sweetieelilii]

18+ ⸝⸝⸝ 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 finding nerd!readers porn stash <3

part 1 | next

geto doesn’t think his sweet girlfriend is hiding anything from him. of course he doesn’t.

sure, you always keep your phone close—tucked into your hoodie pocket, never more than an arm’s length away whenever he was around—but he never thought much of it.

after all, he knew your phones password, and you knew his. if you were hiding anything, why would you have given it to him in the first place?

that’s why one quiet afternoon, he goes through your phone for the first time and doesn’t see it as a big deal at all (and well, you’ve looked though his phone before so it was only about time).

his long legs are stretched out on your bed, bored, while you sit all cozy, curled up near the headboard, nose buried in a book. your phone sits a few feet away on your desk.

he briefly thinks it’s almost strange seeing it there instead of nestled out of sight in your pocket.

eventually, out of idle curiosity, he reaches for it. there’s no real intention, he just wants something to do with his hands. his thumb moves lazily across the screen, opening one app, then another. he isn’t looking for anything in particular.

it’s the small things that catch his eye; your organization habits that are still apparent, even on your phone and the pieces of you that live in photo folders and music playlists.

after a while, he feels your eyes on him.

when he glances up, you’re staring, book lowered just enough for him to see the way your eyes widen behind your glasses, before you blink it away. you don’t say anything. and because you don’t, a slow grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.

cute.

he thinks your reaction is from the act of eye contact—which was partly true. keeping eye contact with him still left you flustered. but this time, it was more than that.

you were afraid because there were things you were keeping from him. the urge to snatch your phone out of his hands swells in your chest. it’s stupid because doing that would make it blatant you were hiding something.

the truth was, you were terrified he’d see it all and start looking at you differently.

the things you didn’t want him to see? the copious amounts of twitter porn in your bookmarks and the filthy smut you read on tumblr.

and yet…a part of you almost wanted him to find it all. a part of you wanted him to realize just how much of a fucking freak your nerdy and quiet self truly was.

you get just that—the latter.

when he opens twitter, suguru notices a striking difference immediately. the feed is unlike you, as if you barely use the app. he dismisses it and thinks that’s probably the case, getting ready to swipe off the app. but then…he accidentally bookmarks a post.

you know where that leads him?

straight to your bookmarks.

sensitive content. show? sensitive content. sensitive content. sensitive content. sensitive content….

he scrolls through your bookmarks and that’s all he sees. he doesn’t need to click show to know what’s hiding behind it.

porn.

wow.

he never imagined you were the type to indulge in something as lewd as quick nut twitter porn. after all, just his kisses left you too flustered to function. so porn? he’d never really thought about it…but god, now his head is going down the gutter, imagining you watching these clips.

meanwhile…across from him? you have no way of knowing he’s found it all—but your heart is pounding all the same. you’ve been stuck on the same page in your book forever, waiting for the worse to happen.

little do you know it already is.

as geto views video after video, his eyes are the ones that are widening now. if he hadn’t expecting finding porn on your phone, he hasn’t expected seeing this kind of porn.

you have all the filthiest things saved, every position, every kink—from mean headlocks to dry humping to nasty blowjobs and then, to fucking hentai and downright nasty fanart.

well, well, well. it was always the quiet ones.

he feels his face warm scrolling through clip after clip, not even noticing the way you sink further into the pillows, afraid. he’s been on your phone for too long—what should you do?

what really catches his eye is a video that’s a whole seven minutes. since when the fuck could twitter porn be this long? it’s the only video you’ve liked out of all of your bookmarks. he assumes it’s by accident…or maybe it’s your favorite.

the video is so hot, and so you.

the tip of a man’s cock is pressing into a sweet girls clothed pussy. she’s got downright adorable panties that reminds him of you. god—suguru is twitching in his sweats already.

he teases and teases her, nudging against her clit, back and forth for what feels like an eternity. the man in the video speeds up, the woman matches his pace, canting her hips against his cock.

then he slows completely. suguru hardens in his pants.

poor girl.

he wants to turn the volume up. he wants to recreate this with you immediately—tease you in ways that are worse than in this porn. but alas, he can’t seem to rip his gaze away from the screen.

the angle changes. a generous amount of lube is poured. and god, he keeps on going and going, grinding his cock against adorable soiled panties. he speeds up again, then slows like a fucking menace. his cock nudges at her entrance, so close yet so far. then again, as deep as he can through the fabric.

finally—he reaches to slide her panties to the side. but it’s not for the reason suguru is hoping for. the man continues grinding against her clit only without the fabric between them. he only keeps going and going, relentless. suguru can’t fucking wait any longer…but he does. he’s glued to the screen as if it’s you and him.

he’s thrusting, rubbing, rubbing, going for ages, until oops! slipping right into her pussy.

that’s when the volume of your phone blasts up and you hear slick sounds. you recognize it immediately, gaze snapping up to your boyfriend for the first time in a while.

what the fuck? since when was his hold on your phone tight enough for him to accidentally turn the volume up?!

he’s red in the face. you’ve never seen him anywhere near it. you know you’d be gushing over how cute the flush looked on him if you weren’t absolutely mortified.

his eyes flash when his eyes meet yours and he pounces—leaning across the bed with his wide frame to crash his lips onto yours.

then you feel it against your thigh, thick and hot.

suguru pulls away, breathless, cheeks still tinged red, porn still playing in the background because he didn’t care enough to turn off your phone.

“so…wanna recreate your favorite porno?”

you gulp.

>> pt 2 | series masterlist

inspired by this fic by @bluukive !! and the twitter clip i was describing is this heheh

[sweetieelilii]

18+ ⸝⸝⸝ 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 recreating nerd!readers favorite porn aka dry humping with geto!

part 1 | part 2 (but can be read as a stand alone)

he wasn’t supposed to find it.

one bored scroll through your phone and suddenly geto was staring at your endless stack of bookmarked twitter porn—eyes wide, heat creeping up his neck.

when he asks to recreate it outright?

you nearly explode.

geto pulls you in so fast you forget you didn’t mark the page of the book in front of you, his lips already on yours. he’s so smooth with it—one hand gripping your waist, the other gently setting the novel on the nightstand without breaking the kiss.

your head spins so fast you almost miss the way his hands settle on your waist, warm and steady. his mouth moves against yours with a quiet kind of urgency, like he’s been waiting for you to crack open just like this.

you clutch at his shirt, trying to pull back even as your body leans into him. the heat in your face is unbearable and you’re pretty sure you’re actually shaking.

he feels it. of course he does. and he only holds you tighter.

geto knows your body language too well. you want something as much as him yet you’re too shy to ask.

the thought goes straight to his stomach.

you break the kiss with a tiny, broken sound you didn’t mean to make. it slips out before you can stop it, and you freeze immediately.

his lips brush your cheek as he breathes out a laugh—a rare one that sounds…fond.

“so cute.”

the words make you want to bury yourself under your blankets.

“d–don’t…”

he kisses the corner of your mouth once, slow, like he’s trying to coax the rest of your sentence out. “don’t what?”

“…say it like that,” you whine softly. “it’s embarrassing.”

his nose nudges yours, breath warm and steady while yours is uneven and shaky. “you’re the one whose secretly a freak,” he grins, “not me.”

mortification drowns you.

your phone is still playing porn in the background, muffled but unmistakable. the sound hits you too late—another layer of humiliation stacking on your chest until you can barely breathe.

you squeeze your eyes shut. “suguru—please— you- it’s too—”

“too what?”

he’s not even pretending he doesn’t know what you mean. his voice is steady, smooth, like he’s discussing something casual and not the absolute meltdown happening in your chest.

you shake your head, face burning. “this is so embarrassing—”

his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, slow and deliberate. “mm. you keep saying that.” his tone is maddeningly gentle and that calm, low warmth that makes everything worse.

you flinch when his lips skim your jaw again, barely a brush—like he’s testing how sensitive you are. how easy you unravel.

then, in that soft voice that makes your stomach flip,

“...so that’s what you like, huh?”

he says it like he’s asking about a movie.

your face burns. “i—i don’t— it’s just— sometimes—”

his hand slides up your waist, fingers squeezing just a little, like he can’t help himself. like your embarrassment is doing something to him he’s trying very, very hard not to show.

“sometimes what?” his lips ghost your ear. “sometimes you get worked up? you touch yourself watching porn?”

a tiny humiliating sound slips out.

his breath stutters. almost nothing. but you’re close enough to feel it. now you know he’s trying to stay calm and only pretending he’s unaffected.

your phone keeps playing—soft moans—only making everything hotter and more unbearable.

his voice drops, rough at the edges.

“did you think about me when you watched it?”

your whole body seizes. “s-suguru—!”

“tell me.”

when you hesitate, he cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek like he’s soothing you through your own embarrassment.

“did you?” he asks again. quieter. needier.

a beat passes before the answer falls from your lips. “i- i mean…yeah…”

the second it leaves your mouth, you wish you could shove it back in. hide. melt. die.

but suguru goes still.

then he exhales—shaky. no call left.

“good.”

before you can react, your back hits the pillows. he follows, caging you in. his hair falls around your face, his breath trembling against your cheek.

“god—” he mutters, like he didn’t mean for it to slip out.

your eyes go wide. “suguru?”

he doesn’t answer.

he just looks at you—really looks—like he’s trying to make sense of the fact that you’re here beneath him, realizing you just admitted thinking about him while touching yourself.

his exhale is low, a shaky sound that lands straight in your stomach.

“you said it,” he murmurs. “you actually said it.”

his hand drags up your thigh, slow and deliberate. you try to hide your face, but he catches your wrists, pinning them gently beside your head.

“no hiding,” he breathes. “not after that.”

his mouth drags along your jaw, slow, almost tender. it’s so at odds with the way his breathing is rough against your skin. his hands slip from your wrists, but only so they can trail down, gliding over your sides, your waist, then lower…

his fingers hook into the hem of your pants.

“don’t look away while i take these off.”

“w–wait—”

“no.” calm voice, frayed edges. “you’ve been hiding from me. hiding how bad you get. hiding what you watch.”

he tugs—not rough, not yet, just impatient.

“you don’t get to hide now.”

your thighs clamp together on instinct, and his eyes drop immediately, darkening.

“be a good girl and let me see,” he murmurs.

when you shake your head embarrassed, he adds urgently, “let me see you. please.”

your thighs part—barely. but it’s enough.

his breath stutters, forehead dipping to yours. “good girl…” it breaks in his throat. “now lift your hips.”

your body reacts before your mind does. that’s all he needs.

he pulls your bottoms down in one smooth, desperate motion.

“fuck—” the word rips out of him.

you scramble to tug your shirt lower, to cover yourself, but he catches your wrist mid movement, grip tight enough that you feel the tremble in his fingers.

“i told you not to hide,” he mutters.

the urgency in his voice hits straight through you—hot and dizzying.

your thighs snap together again, but his warm hands slip between them, pressing the inside of your knees until they fall open.

and then he sees.

your cotton panties, clinging and nearly translucent with how wet you are, the damp patch spread wide, and the outline of everything beneath it.

suguru goes perfectly still. wrecked if he wasn’t already.

“oh…” he breathes, voice dropping, thinning, like the sight knocks the air out of him.

you try to snap your legs shut again, panic spiking, but he catches your thighs—fingers digging in just enough to stop you—and he shakes his head once, slow, almost disbelieving.

“no,” he whispers, eyes locked on the soaked fabric like he can’t look anywhere else.

your face burns and you whine. “suguru stop staring—”

he exhales sharply, the sound strained, like he’s fighting the urge to just tear the last layer off.

“sweetheart…” his voice cracks on the endearment. “you’re soaked.”

your hips jolt at the word, and he notices instantly. his breath stutters, eyes darkening further.

“is this from just kissing?”

his fingers trace the edge of the wet patch, not touching where you’re desperate, but close—so close it feels cruel.

“or from me finding your porn?”

“sh-shut up…” you answer uselessly.

“no,” he murmurs, leaning in closer, the heat of him covering you. “i’m asking.”

his thumb presses against the soaked cotton—barely any pressure, but enough to make your back arch off the bed.

your breath leaves you in a broken gasp, spine arching before you can stop it, the tiny press of his thumb sending a shock all the way through your stomach.

he feels it.

god, he feels it—your whole body jolting under him—and something raw flickers across his face.

“you’re really this sensitive, hm?”

you squeeze your eyes shut, humiliated, overwhelmed. “s-stop—don’t talk like—”

he presses again. right where your clit is. it’s enough to make your breath catch on a sob.

“like what?” he asks quietly, but it’s not calm anymore. it’s tight. desperate. “like i’m realizing how bad you want this?”

“suguru—”

“like i know you didn’t get this wet just from kissing?”

your hips—traitorous things—jerk, under his palm.

you want to deny it. you really do. but your body isn’t cooperating. at all. his eyes flick down, zeroing in on the soaked cotton stretched over your cunt.

“yeah,” he breathes, shaky, “that’s what i thought.”

then he sits back on his heels a little, enough to look at all of you properly.

“that video…” he starts, and his voice cracks on the edge, barely audible over the porn still playing. “tell me what you liked so much about it.”

“w-what?! no—”

“you can,” he insists, leaning in until your noses almost touch. “because i’m going to do it. all of it. but before i do i wanna know which part got you like this.”

his thumb presses into your clit and you gasp so hard he shuts his eyes and huffs for a second, like the sound punched him in the gut.

“fuck— was it when he…” his eyes drop again, breath hitching, “…grinded over her cute lil panties?”

you flinch visibly.

he swallows.

“hmm…” his other hand slides under your knee, pushing it out slightly, opening you more. “or was it when he kept teasing her until she was begging?”

your entire face lights on fire. “suguru—”

he grins slowly. “huh. i guess both.”

one hand goes to your hip. the other to your thigh. and then he slots his body between your legs, hot and heavy, lowering himself until the thick, rigid outline in his sweats presses against your soaked panties.

you choke out a sound you’ve never made before.

his jaw clenches.

suddenly, he pushes himself off you and onto the floor, standing only long enough to shove both his sweats and briefs down in one rough motion—impatient, too wound up to pretend not to be.

he’s painfully hard.

the sight of his flush cock finally freed makes your stomach twist, heat rushing between your legs so fast it’s embarrassing. you’ll never get used to how pretty he is.

you barely have time to gasp before his warm hands are on you—one at your waist, one under your knee—dragging you down the mattress until your hips meet the edge of the bed.

exactly like in the video.

“suguru—” you let out helplessly, legs falling open.

that’s when the porn still playing behind you lets out a sharp, slick sound.

his jaw tics again.

he reaches back, grabs your phone without looking, and shuts it off with a single click.

the silence that follows is too loud.

he throws your phone somewhere behind you on the bed and settles between your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist, the heat of him crowding into your space—until his cock brushes your soaked panties.

“only wanna hear you.”

you whimper.

he drags his tip along your mound—slow, thick pressure.

the head of him drags over your clit through the drenched cotton, and it’s exactly like the video…only worse. because this is him, this is real.

your panties are so drenched the fabric gives under the pressure, molding to his shape. every ridge, every vein, every careful shift of his hips is there—unmistakable even through the cotton.

your fingers clutch at his shoulders, knuckles white.

he feels that.

he likes that you can’t even pretend to stay composed.

his breath stirs over your cheek as he drags himself down the length of your cunt again—a long, deliberate stroke that pushes wet heat up the center of your panties, leaving a thin string of slick stretching when he rocks back.

you choke on a whimper.

he rolls his hips forward again, a little harder this time—enough that the fat tip of him, leaking with precum, nudges the exact spot that had the girl in the video shaking.

your back arches so sharply the pillows rustle behind you.

“mmh…there you go. lemme hear you.”

suguru pulls back only a few centimeters and drags forward again, a slow, grinding pressure right over your swollen clit, the soaked cotton squishing faintly between you.

your thighs quiver around his hips.

the worst part? he keeps the rhythm maddeningly even, like he’s timing each stroke to unravel you.

your panties cling to you, twisted crooked from how soaked they are. each grind pushes the fabric tighter between your folds, forcing slick to spill out around the edges and onto wheres he’s gripping your thighs open.

when the thick head of his cock catches on your entrance through the cotton, you make a strangled, broken sound.

you feel the drag, the pressure—how close he could be to slipping inside if it weren’t for the fabric in between.

he hears it.

he feels your legs jolt.

“look at you, baby…” he coos, “didn’t even need to use lube to get you this wet, huh? like in the video?”

that breaks you.

your mouth falls open in a moan you can’t manage to hold back.

“fuck— su-suguru!”

he grinds again, slower this time—circling his hips just enough to rub the heavy underside of his cock right over your clit again through the ruined fabric.

your whole body jolts.

then suguru’s stretching the fabric of your panties for a second before snapping them wetly against your cunt. he lowers more of his weight, breath unsteady against your mouth.

his hips roll again, a little sharper and a little less patient.

the head of him drags right over your entrance through the cotton, the pressure obscene, intimate, impossible to bear.

you suck in a breath, trembling violently, nails digging into his back.

he swallows hard and you watch the movement in his throat.

“mmh. yes. that’s it,” he murmurs, voice dropping, breath warm against your lips. “show me how bad you need it.”

he pulls back just enough for you to feel the loss…

then pushes forward again with a slow, grinding thrust, using his thumb on his cock to press himself against you so deeply that it drags the drenched cotton higher between your folds, baring more and more of you to him.

your panties barely cover anything now.

you’re practically riding the head of his cock through a soaked, twisted string of fabric without realizing it, completely gone.

and he knows it.

he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

his hips start moving faster—controlled, deliberate—but you feel the strain in the way his forehead drops to yours, his breath shaking across your lips. he wanted to stay composed. he wanted to tease you.

but now look at him.

“sweetheart…” his voice cracks, low and ragged. “you’re— fuck— soaking me through. i bet i could just fuck you now, huh? slip inside easy? you’re so damn wet.”

you whimper, barely managing, coherent thought gone replaced with him him him.

“please—”

the sound hits him so hard he goes still for a second, jaw flexing like he has to restrain himself.

“oh? you’re begging?”

before you can answer, he pulls your panties aside—finally slipping under them—his cockhead nudging directly against your bare, swollen entrance.

your breath stutters violently.

“oh— oh my god—”

his smirk is slow, hungry, unbearably confident. “i’m flattered, baby.”

your head falls back, face hot, “sh-shut up—!”

he drags forward again, the bare heat of him sliding right against you now under your panties—no barrier—just the thick, smooth pressure of him gliding along your cunt, parting you without even entering, smearing your folds with his precum.

you choke on a moan.

he closes his hand around your thigh, pulling you wider, guiding you exactly where he wants you.

“keep making those noises for me,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek. “go on, sweetheart. let me hear you.”

the thin cotton of your panties stretches over the both of you, pulled tight and messy, clinging over his cock as he grinds under them with steady precision—it’s exactly like the porn video you know by heart.

and god.

it’s so much hotter than you imagined.

“shit…” he breathes, barely audible, his composure folding at the edges. “you’re dripping for me.”

your nails claw at his shoulders. “suguru— i c-can’t—”

“yeah, you can.”

his hand slides under your knee, lifting your leg higher so he can grind deeper, slower—letting the thick underside of his cock drag along your clit, then down, then up again in a sickeningly perfect stroke that has your stomach dropping.

your moan stutters out of you, high and unrestrained.

he exhales sharply—almost a curse, almost a groan—before catching your jaw gently, forcing your eyes to his.

“look at me,” he murmurs, teasingly soft. “don’t get shy now.”

you try. you fail. your eyelids flutter shut when his tip slips just a little too low, nudging your entrance again, catching…

he catches your chin.

“c’mon. eyes on me, sweetheart.”

you wrench them open.

the second you do, he rewards you with a slow, devastating roll of his hips that drags the head of him through your slick again.

he drags himself up through your slick again—slow enough to burn—pulling your panties with him so the soaked cotton presses tight around the thick base of his cock under the fabric.

the pressure, the heat, the bare glide of him under that flimsy, twisted strip of cotton? it makes you tremble everywhere.

“s-suguru— please—”

his jaw flexes again, breath shivering out like he’s barely holding back.

his cock drags up, catching your clit perfectly.

then suddenly he’s gone, pulling back from beneath your panties, the loss so abrupt it punches a whine out of you.

your hips lift helplessly, searching for him.

he catches them easily with both hands.

“easy,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. “i’m not going anywhere.”

you’re still trying to chase the friction when his fingers hook into your soaked panties. not pulling them off. just pulling the drenched cotton aside with a finger.

your breath stops.

the cool air hits your swollen folds for just a second before the bare heat of him is there, sliding in, his cockhead nudging through the new opening he’s made.

your voice cracks instantly.

“o-oh— god—”

he exhales through his nose, sharp and uneven, watching himself settle right against your dripping entrance.

“mm,” he hums, almost a groan. “there you are.”

he drags up once, slow, the glide so slick and obscene it leaves you trembling.

but he doesn’t push in.

he doesn’t even try.

he just grinds barely—the thick head of him catching on your entrance, circling it, nudging, teasing, retreating—repeating the exact unbearable rhythm you watched in that video.

your back arches, thighs shaking.

“ugh— please—i’m—”

“i know,” he cuts in, gentle yet cruel.

his thumb presses to the inside of your thigh, keeping you open, steadying you while he drags himself down again, slow enough that your slick clings in a thin, shining thread.

it snaps when he pulls back.

you whimper.

he inhales sharply—like the sound hits him too hard—before leaning over you, lips brushing your cheek as he whispers, “this is how they did it, right?”

another slow grind up, bare heat tracing your clit, slipping lower.

“just like this?”

he stops at your entrance, pressing there…but not entering.

just enough pressure to make you think he will.

you writhe.

a soft chuckle ghosts your ear.

“mm. that’s exactly why i’m not fucking you yet.”

your fingers clutch his shoulders, desperate. he draws the head of his cock back an inch then pushes forward again, directly against your dripping entrance, sliding over it, circling the tiniest bit, letting the blunt head tease the spot that had the girl in the video sighing.

you choke on a moan so high it embarrasses you.

his voice drops to a whisper so low it almost shakes.

“keep begging.”

another slow drag.

another near slip.

another denial.

“i’m gonna tease you worse than he teased her.”

“no!” you whine, so raw and genuine that he grins.

his cockhead circles your entrance again—slow, deliberate—the same exact pattern the man in the video used. your breath stutters, hips jerking up helplessly, and he catches it.

of course he does.

he lets out a low, breathless laugh against your cheek.

“yeah…that’s it.”

another lazy grind, catching your clit perfectly before dragging down over your entrance again.

“that’s why you saved that video, huh?”

you tense, fingers gripping his shoulders, “sugu—”

he shushes you softly, teasingly, nose brushing your temple.

“you like being teased,” he murmurs, voice dipping warm and deep. “you like being made to wait.”

your whole body goes hot.

“n-no! th-that’s not—!” your words come out embarrassingly high pitched and you shut your self up. or maybe he does it for you as his cock nudges your entrance again.

so close yet so far, making you clench around nothing.

he hums mockingly, “you bookmarked seven minutes of a girl getting edged through her panties. and that was your favorite. the only video you liked. don’t tell me it was an accident.”

you whine, the sound high and desperate.

he smiles—slow, hungry, knowing.

“you wanted me to find it,” he adds, breath fanning your lips.“you wanted me to tease you just like this.”

another grind, deeper this time—your entrance opening around the pressure.

“you love it.”

the admission falls from your mouth before you can stop it.

“fuck— y-yes—”

your thighs clamp around him automatically.

his smile sharpens the second your thighs clamp around him, like he’s been waiting for that exact reaction.

“yeah,” he breathes, voice dipping low, pleased. “i know.”

he grins.

his cock nudges you again, slow and intentional, the fat head sliding just barely between your folds—close enough to feel him, not close enough to satisfy, the way he knows drives you insane.

you jerk, hips trying to chase it, but he holds you down with a palm splayed over your stomach.

“easy,” he murmurs, tone dipping into something darker. “look at you. trying to ride it already.”

your mouth falls open at his words, heat pooling deeper in your core, another gush of arousal escaping you.

he pries your legs open again, not giving you any room to hide.

the way he pulls your panties to the side bares the swollen, slick edges of your entrance while he traps his cockhead right against you.

he looks down for one second and curses under his breath.

“…fuck.”

it’s almost silent, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

then he’s grinding again, slow, dragging pressure that pushes right over your clit before sliding down and catching your entrance again, your slick coating the underside of him in sticky, shining strings.

“you want it slow,” he whispers, sounding almost wrecked.

“you want it drawn out—”

his cock catches on your entrance again, not pushing in, just stroking over it…

“right here—”

another drag.

“over and over—”

your nails dig into his back, helpless. back arching,

toes curling, all you can do is beg. “p-please— suguru—“

he laughs softly. but it’s strained, shaky, like teasing you is unraveling him too.

“there it is,” he whispers. “but maybe i can’t do that.”

his cock twitches—an involuntary, hungry pulse—and your whole body jumps.

that finally breaks him.

his hips roll forward, slow but deliberate, and your entrance parts around him, the thick head pushing in just a breath—just enough to stretch you, just enough to make your vision blur.

your mouth falls open in a soundless cry.

his breath hits your neck, hot and uneven. “there you go… letting me in…”

another push—not deep, not even fully breaching you, just easing in and out of the tight, slick ring of your entrance, pushing a little farther each time, coating himself in more of your wetness.

“shit,” he groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “you’re… ugh—clenching so hard.”

your hands slide to his shoulders, shaking. “fuck!”

he lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark, blown wide, the kind of desperate composure that’s somehow worse than raw need.

“you want more?” he breathes.

his cock rocks forward, sinking another inch into you—slow, stretching, obscene.

you choke out a moan, legs tightening around his waist.

he smiles, small and sharp and absolutely undone.

“open up for me,” he murmurs, voice low, deep, wrecked as he pushes in another inch, “take it.”

he pushes in slow further, unhurried, no stopping. only his thick cock spreading you open inch by inch while your breath stutters helplessly against his mouth.

your nails claw at his shoulders, not to push him away—just because your body can’t handle the feeling without holding onto something.

“oh—oh my god—” the words fall out before you can think, your voice shaking.

he groans at the sound—quiet, strained, almost like you’re knocking the air out of him.

“yeah…that’s it, baby.” he murmurs, eyes fixed on where your bodies meet. “take it. just take it.”

you’re already trembling, your walls fluttering around him, squeezing, trying to adjust but failing because he keeps pressing deeper.

your mind blanks in flashes—each one hitting harder as he sinks another inch inside you.

your legs twitch around his hips, thighs trembling uncontrollably.

“tight—” he bites off a curse, jaw clenched. “you’re so fucking tight around me.”

another push.

your back arches off the bed—sharp, instinctive—your mouth falling open in a sound that doesn’t even resemble a word.

he braces one hand under your thigh, pushing your knee higher, opening you more, letting himself slide in deeper still.

you feel every ridge, every vein, every impossible inch.

your thoughts scatter—thin, useless things that melt away the moment the next wave of pressure hits.

“suguru—” it comes out broken, breathless, like the syllables barely hold together.

he leans in, lips at your cheek, breathing ragged.

“going dumb already?” he whispers, voice low and full of heat. “and i’m not even all the way in.”

you shiver hard, walls clenching around him so tightly he groans into your skin.

and he keeps going.

inch by inch.

relentless.

your head falls back into the pillows, eyes unfocused, lips parted around soft, helpless gasps. you feel too full, stretched to the point of delirium, pleasure burning through your nerves until thought itself slips away.

he watches you lose yourself on him, pupils blown wide, mouth slightly curved.

“mm… there she is…” he whispers, voice deep and satisfied. “my pretty girl—can’t even think straight, can you?”

your only answer is another shaking moan as he finally sinks the last inch inside you, filling you completely.

your mind goes white.

the moment he bottoms out, your whole body seizes around him—tight, fluttering, overwhelmed.

his breath punches out of him in a low, broken growl against your neck.

“fuck—”

he wasn’t ready for how hard you’d clamp down.

you weren’t ready for how full you’d feel.

your legs twitch around his hips, trembling, flexing without control. he feels every little squeeze.

and god—he reacts.

his hand slides up your thigh, slow, firmer than before, thumb brushing the edge of where you’re stretched around him. he doesn’t move his hips yet—just stays buried inside you, letting the intensity burn both of you alive.

“you feel that?” he whispers against your jaw, voice rougher now—wrecked and trying so hard to hide it. his hands slide up to your tummy where it bulges. “feel how deep i am?”

you can barely breathe, let alone answer. all that comes out is a soft, broken “mmh—”

his lips curve into a slow, heated smile against your cheek.

“look at you. can’t even talk.”

your walls flutter hard at that, squeezing him again. his breath stutters—really stutters—and his hips twitch, the smallest involuntary jerk deep inside you.

it makes you gasp, loud and high.

“shit—” he mutters, grip tightening on your thigh. “you drive me insane.”

your eyes flutter, unfocused, lashes wet with how overwhelmed you are. he watches every tiny reaction—drinks it in like he’s starving.

then he pulls back.

not all the way—just a few inches.

just enough for you to feel the stretch shift, for the thickness of him to slide drag against your walls, and your mouth falls open in a sound that’s half whine, half moan.

his jaw clenches hard.

“yeah… i want that,” he breathes. “give me more of those sounds.”

he pushes forward again, slow and heavy, and your back arches without you telling it to—your body meeting him like you’re begging even if your voice can’t form the words.

he sets a rhythm—not fast, not rough.

deep.

deliberate.

each slow thrust makes your breath snag, makes your thighs shake around him, makes your fingers dig into his back like you’re trying not to fall apart.

you can’t think.

you can’t speak.

you can’t do anything except take it.

“that’s it…” he murmurs, forehead pressing to yours, breath warm and shaky. “go dumb for me.”

your lips tremble around another moan.

he moves again—another slow, dragging thrust that makes your vision blur.

“mmh—s-sugu—” you manage, barely.

he laughs softly, breathless, kissing the corner of your open mouth.

“yeah, sweetheart,” he whispers against your lips, voice low and ruined. “let me fuck the thoughts right out of my smart girl.”

“y-you’re—” your voice breaks as he thrusts in again, slow enough to make you feel every inch, “you’re s-saying— ngh—”

you can’t even finish the sentence.

he smiles against your cheek—a slow, wicked thing—but his breath is unsteady, warm, desperate.

“what?” he teases, rolling his hips deeper, forcing another shaky gasp out of you. “too much for that pretty brain? where did she go?”

you shake your head, but it’s useless—you’re trembling, panting, already melting around him.

he kisses the corner of your open mouth again, lips lingering as he thrusts—slow and deep—building pressure that coils tight and unbearable low in your belly.

“don’t hide,” he whispers. “don’t even think.”

another thrust, perfectly angled, rubbing every sensitive spot inside you as your breath catches.

“just feel me,” he murmurs, voice cracking with restraint. “feel how good you’re taking me—” your back arches helplessly.

your moan is so high, so helpless, so wrecked you slap a hand over your mouth.

he immediately takes it away—fingers curling around your wrist, pinning your hand above your head on the pillow.

“no,” he breathes, eyes dark, pupils blown. “don’t you dare hide those sounds from me.”

he pulls back just enough to thrust harder, faster, hips rolling with a deliberate, punishing rhythm.

your walls clamp and release around him, slick coating him more and more with every stroke.

“fuck—” he groans, voice low and rough, nipping at your jaw. “she’s so fucking wet for me.”

his hand drifts lower, thumb brushing over your clit in lazy, deliberate circles while he drives into you, the sensation making your breath hitch violently.

your hips lift on instinct, desperate, trying to chase both sensations at once, and he matches every movement, teasing, grinding, driving you higher and higher.

“pretty girl. ugh— shit.”

you clench around him and his thrusts become sharper. you choke out a sound, lost in the heat and pressure, body quivering, mind completely dumb.

“ahh—fuck! oh god—” your voice shatters into helpless gasps.

he groans against your skin, losing a little of that composed edge, utterly wrecked by how perfectly you’re taking him.

“that’s it…” he whispers, voice low, desperate, teasing, “let go for me, baby. let me ruin you.”

he hitches one hand to your hip, the other still pressing over your clit, rolling his thumb in tight, maddening circles while his hips slam into you, hard and relentless.

your body jolts with every thrust, walls clamping around him, pulling him deeper, lost in heat and friction.

“ah—!” your voice shatters, high and desperate, drowning in the haze of pleasure.

he groans, forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing your temple. “so wet… so perfect…”

he drives into you faster, hips snapping, thumb pressing harder against your clit.

“mmgh—oh fuck—i’m close!” you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders, trying to hold yourself together.

he buries himself deeper, following the rhythm of your body, letting every shudder, every gasp guide him.

“let go,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your shoulder, voice low and strained.

your walls clamp around him, slick coating him, heat consuming you, and your cry tears out before you can stop it.

his hips stutter, jaw flexing, breathing ragged, as he rides you through your climax, feeling every tight, trembling motion.

you shiver violently, legs quaking, mind going completely blank.

he presses a final deep thrust, letting you ride it out, hands holding you steady as the last waves of pleasure wash through you.

after a moment, your bodies collapse together, slick and trembling, foreheads pressed, breaths mingling, utterly spent.

and then a smile against your throat.

“mm…sorry sweetheart, i think i went a little off script. shall we try again?”

series masterlist | taglist open

if you didn’t read pt 1, this is based on this twitter porn link! (heh don’t open in public…)

those who asked to be tagged and those who commented for part 2! @m1kah4h @chellerambles @outlirs @katsukiskavpav

[yenayaps]

may you never forget me master list | nerdjo x f!reader

summary: he has everything he’s ever wanted and worked hard for, except for that one girl who he's shared the most classes with in college. he never actually tried to get to know you, but he did help you in ways you'd never know… one of them was getting professor gakuganji fired for embarrassing you in front of the entire class. graduation day was supposed to be the day he finally confessed, only for you to not show up at all. what will he do when he sees you again 5 years later?

genre: unrequited love, smut, fluff, one-sided love, gojo’s lw crazy, very observant of reader in all there classes together, nerdjo has an existential crisis in between graduation and seeing reader again, set in the present but will have flashbacks, more to be added

one: lingering, like a ghost

two: the butterfly effect

three: from, satoru

four: friends?

Ko-fi link if you're feeling generous and wanted to show extra support ❤️

lightly based off this drabble <3

All rights reserved © 2024 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

[fireladylisa]

— the arrangement ∬ ֗ ₊

chapter one

ა ˙˖ summary → there’s no one you hate more than satoru gojo. he’s arrogant and entirely too full of himself. when you agree to be strictly enemies with benefits, gojo takes this as the perfect opportunity to finally make you his. ა ˙˖ content: 12.3k wc, accurate portrayal of fraternities so the boys are jerks srry, hazing, rough sex, spit play, overstimulation, spanking, choking, desperate gojo, you really hate him so not much fluff this chapter! probably more I can't name rn. it's a lot.

frat!jo 𝓍 fem!reader

When you first got your acceptance letter to your dream school three years ago, you never thought it would end up with you in this position. The side of your face pressed into the cold wooden desk by the hand of your enemy, your shorts and panties dropped to your ankles, his cock slamming into you so hard that your research papers and pens go flying to the library floor. 

The sound of the legs creaking fill the study room room, his pace ruthless, long fingers digging into your cheek to keep you down as you bit your lip to stop yourself from crying out his name and begging him to go harder.

One might wonder how you, the notorious frat hater, ended up letting a playboy like Gojo Satoru get into your pants not once, not twice, but eight times in the last two weeks after swearing he was your number one enemy.

It all started the first day of uni when you let your roommate Shoko convince you into going to a sorority party after a long day of classes and reading syllabuses. 

You had been minding your own business, laying on your too small bed with your headphones blaring music as you scrolled through Instagram and pretended like your mom hadn’t been trying to call you for the past twenty minutes.   

She was probably calling to check in since she thought you were just getting out of practice, given that you lied about making the gymnastics team to get her off your back. You never even signed up, never had interest in it but had been forced into it as a child. Your mother always told you that one day you’d make it to the olympics and while you were good at it, you had no plans on doing such a thing.

So when her name pops up again, you hit the red button and put your phone on dnd. It was nine, you would just tell her you were asleep.

When you went to play your music again, your roommate walks in and immediately locks eyes with you, a grin spreading on her face that has you squinting suspiciously. 

You really liked Shoko. You officially met two weeks ago when you were finally allowed to start moving your stuff in and you had both bonded surprisingly quick over the short period of time, spending almost every day together exploring the campus and surrounding city. Which means you were starting to differentiate between her smiles and the one she wore now told you she wanted to ask you something.

“Thank god you’re still up!” She practically skips into the room, slamming the door shut behind her. 

You sigh and sit up, removing an earbud. You pull your rising shorts down and cross your arms with a raised brow. She moved to stand in front of your bed, biting her bottom lip and failing to contain her excitement. 

“Spit it out already.”

“There’s a sorority party in an hour and I got invited which means by extension you’re invited and puhleasee, don’t make me go by myself!”

You tried everything to get out of going, from feigning illness to lying that you had to be up early tomorrow for class even though you both basically had the same schedule and your morning was lecture free. 

You weren’t a boring person, you partied a lot in high school but this was college and even though you had no clue what you wanted to major in yet, this was where you truly needed to lock in and focus on getting good grades. 

Unfortunately for you, Shoko wasn’t having any of it. For every excuse you came up with, she had an argument against it. You don’t wanna be hungover? Fine, just don’t drink! You’re tired? You’re only nineteen, you can rest when you’re dead! 

“When your kids ask what you were like in college, are you gonna tell them that you were a loser who sat in her dorm all day or that you were young, hot, and knew how to have fun?”

She had a point. It was just one party, what harm was there in enjoying yourself for a night? If you didn’t like it, you would simply leave. Plus it was at a sorority. You could manage that, though you couldn’t say the same for frats. 

You’d die before being caught in one of those.

Fraternities were the embodiment of hell, nothing good ever happened at any of them based on the horror stories your older sister told you while helping you pack for uni. Sweaty, packed rooms, obnoxious men that only wanted to get in your pants, stale beer and hazing were far from your kind of parties. 

Fate, as it would turn out, had different plans in store for you. 

You had begrudgingly squeezed into a tight dress, letting Shoko fix your hair and makeup before she was dragging you out the door and into her car. 

When you guys pulled up outside of the sorority house, the scene before you was far from what a typical party looked like. The lights were mostly off except for a few rooms that were still lit and it was eerily quiet outside, no loud music or drunk college students dancing around the lawn.  

Shoko had assured you that it wouldn’t be as hectic as a frat party would but you hadn't expected it to be deader than your social life. You turn and glare at your friend in the driver's seat who looks just as confused as you do. 

What the fuck was this? You could have been in bed, doom scrolling through TikTok and here you were, dressed up for a party that apparently wasn’t even happening.   

“I’ll go check, give me a minute.” Shoko mummers, hitting her vape before jogging up to the front door.

Your leg anxiously bounces up and down while you wait, watching as she knocks and someone with purple hair opens the door a few seconds later. You can’t hear anything but the conversation seems heated and brief before your roommate is stomping back to the car, annoyance evident on her face. 

“The party is canceled. Someone got the flu and the entire sorority is sick.” 

You fight to hide your smile, not wanting to rub it in Shoko's face since she was already upset. As much as it sucks that someone was sick, you couldn’t deny that you were happy. You didn’t want to go out in the first place and now you could-

“Buut.” Shoko sings, eyes twinkling as she looks at you with that same smile from earlier. 

“There is another party happening like ten minutes away.”

“Great.” 

It was far from fucking great when you pulled up in front of what was obviously a fraternity. The white house was big enough that it was basically a mansion, it had a flag with greek letters flying and the amount of people out front alone made you sick, the music loud enough that you heard it from the opposite side of the street. 

You hadn’t signed up for this, you wanted no parts in it. 

“Absouletly not. Take me back.”

“Stop.” Shoko’s eyes were pleading, her bottom lip poking out. “We’re already here and you promised you’d be my wingman. Wingwoman. Whatever.”

“I didn't promise shit. You said we’d be going to a sorority party, not a frat!” Your cheeks heated in irrational anger, even though you knew it wasn’t her fault. 

She had no idea how much you despised fraternities but it didn’t mean you’d be going to one just because she was putting on her best puppy face, big brown eyes shining and silently begging for you to say yes. 

“One hour. If you still hate it, we leave. But you’re already here, might as well give it a chance.”

You look back toward the house, your stomach twisting and heart racing a little faster. You weighed the pros and cons. If you did agree to go, you'd probably end up drinking more than you should and wake up with a nasty hangover. You’d also be breaking your promise to yourself and your sister to never step foot in a fraternity. 

Maybe it was unfair that you let a handful of horror stories shape your perception of them but it wasn’t as if they came from nowhere. You had watched the news, seen the headlines. Hazing. Alcohol poisoning. Freshmen being pressured into doing things they probably never wanted to do. 

Your older sister had made sure you knew exactly what kind of places to avoid when you left for college, and frat houses had been at the very top of her list.

But then again, you had waited for this moment since you got your acceptance letter. To meet new people, make new memories outside of your shitty hometown and to truly experience college life.

You were nineteen. What was the harm in going to one party? You’d appease Shoko, confirm your thoughts that frats were terrible and never step foot in one again. 

One night couldn’t ruin your entire college experience. Right?

You sighed and let Shoko pull your hand until you were walking through the front door and the smell of stale booze, and musky body heat hit you, the music rattling the speakers. The living room had been stripped of anything breakable and replaced with white folding tables sticky with spilled drinks and red solo cups. 

A group of guys were playing beer pong, shouting as the ball flew too far and rolled under a couch. Further into the house, a girl was setting up a karaoke machine and slurring the lyrics to the Pitbull song that was playing, almost tumbling off the table. 

The scene made you itch, your feet already hurting from the heels you’d been forced to wear. You let Shoko guide you through the crowd anyways, scowling at the way a few shirtless guys eyed you like you were nothing more than a piece of candy. She led you toward the kitchen, hand wrapped tight around yours, where a group had gathered around the island counter. 

A tall guy with long black hair tied back noticed you first, grinning at Shoko and holy fuck he was hot.

“Shoko, I didn’t expect to see you here!” He raises his red solo cup in the air. “And you bought a friend.” 

“This is my roommate, (name).” Shoko tugs you forward until you’re standing by her side. “Be nice to her, will you? She’s already planning my funeral for bringing her here.”

He nods at you, tossing back the rest of his drink and your knees go weak because he had to be one of the hottest guys you’d ever seen in your life. 

“Geto Suguru but you can call me Suguru. Any friend of Shoko’s is a friend of mine.” He sticks his hand out and you wipe yours on your dress before reaching over the island and taking his into yours. 

“Nice to meet you.” You force a shaky smile, pulling your hand back. 

When you ask how they know each other, Suguru explains that they went to high school together but Shoko had decided to take a gap year and travel the country.

Shoko introduces you to the rest of her friend group. There was Choso, a guy with two ponytails and a scar across his nose. His girlfriend, Yuki, was nice enough even though you were sure she was flirting with you. Nanami, who seemed entirely too sweet to be there and next to him was the human incarnation of a golden retriever, Haibara. 

After introductions were over, they pulled you into a game of flip cup and you were surprisingly good at it. The satisfaction of slamming your cup down before Choso was enough to make you forget where you were, cheap booze loosening you up and allowing you to truly enjoy yourself. Even if some asshole kept bumping into your ass and forgetting to apologize. 

You even let Shoko and Yuki drag you to do karaoke, stupidly singing Promiscuous and moving your hips in circles, hair loose and falling into your flushed face. You hadn’t noticed the way Suguru watched you with a smirk, arms crossed while someone whispered something in his ear. 

It only took an hour for you to be reminded that frats were in fact the root of all evil, your short lived fantasy that maybe you were wrong crashing down when he decided to show up.

You felt him before you saw him, your skin tingling as you sat on the couch and nursed a headache while actively fighting the urge to throw up, half listening to the group's conversation. You had just been about to tap Shoko and invoke your one-hour rule when the energy in the room shifted. The sea of people were parting to make way for someone, a few petrified freshmen scrambling to get out of the way. 

When enough people cleared, two of the most unique looking men you’d ever seen came into view. 

Now let’s get one thing straight: you were far from a pick me, never had been and you never would be. However, even you weren’t immune to the rare moment of being so mesmerized by the beauty of a man that you just stare with your mouth slightly agape. 

One of them had pink hair and tattoos covering his face and massive arms. He was kind of scary looking but in the hottest way possible. It was a shame he already had someone on his arm. Then there was the guy next to him, with a backwards hat that white hair slipped out of and eyes so blue they looked fake.

Your brain short-circuited for exactly half a second. Fuck. He was in fact the hottest man you’d ever seen, forget what you said earlier. Objectively. Scientifically, whatever. It wasn’t even a matter of opinion, just facts.

He was lean and tall with the face of a god, a pointy nose and full lips and you had to squeeze your thighs together when he looked in your direction, though his eyes weren’t on you. 

Shoko notices you staring and smirks. “Oh right. I forgot you haven’t met Gojo yet!”

“What?” You finally blink, glaring at your friend. “I wasn’t-”

“Satoru!” Shoko waved him over. “Come here, I want you to meet someone.”

Gojo locked eyes with her and smiled, leaning to whisper something to the man he had walked in with and handing him the case of beer he was carrying before moving toward the couch you were currently gripping. 

He was even more handsome up close, the smell of his cinnamon cologne cutting through the stench of sweaty bodies and alcohol. It was too bad he had to open his mouth and ruin everything. 

“Shoko.” His voice vibrates through you more than the music does, and it makes you feel pathetic. Since when have you ever let a man affect you like this? “Making new friends already?”

“This is my roommate,” Shoko says, gesturing toward you and tells him your name. “Play nice.”

When he turned those big blue eyes on you, your breath got caught in your throat, his smile widening as he held out his hand. “Well hello there. I’m Satoru, sophomore and president of this fine establishment.” 

Sophomore and president of an entire frat? You didn’t want to think of what kind of douchebag he had to have been to pull that off. You reluctantly shake his hand and pull it away faster than you did Suguru’s, your mouth growing sour. 

“You’re a quiet one.” He plops down on the couch between you and Shoko and you feel your irritation growing, your headache picking back up, mood completely ruined just from a few words. “It’s the hair, right? Or the eyes? Most people say the eyes. I get it, I’m a lot to process.”

He throws an arm on the couch behind you, leaning back and spreading his legs just wide enough to piss you the fuck off. Fuck this guy! 

“Wow,” You say flatly, moving from under his arm and turning to face him. “Do you practice being insufferable, or does it just come naturally?”

Shoko snorts into her cup while Suguru who had been sitting next to her lets out a “oh shit” under his breath. This was his and Satoru’s second year here and he had never heard anyone snap at his friend. 

Gojo’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew as he leaned into your space. “Naturally. It’s a gift, but I’m sensing some hostility, sweetheart. Are you not enjoying yourself? I’m sure I can show you a better time upstairs.”

You wanted to throttle him. So this is what your sister was trying to warn you about? What a fucking idiot you were to doubt her for even a second.

“I’d rather eat glass then let you touch me.”

He simply laughs at that, moving a little closer and forcing you to awkwardly lean back, heat creeping up your neck and to your ears. He was close enough to kiss you and you were about to smack him until he smiled and moved to stand up. 

“Nice to meet you, freshman. Maybe I’ll see you around, yeah?”

He disappears into the crowd and you want the floor to swallow you whole. You try to stay for the sake of your friend but each passing minute proves why you’d never show your face at these parties again. 

People were passing out from how drunk they were, someone had almost thrown up on your shoes and to top it all off, loud cheers were sounding from the backyard. You were about to tell Shoko it was time to go when she started running toward the back door to see what was going on and you reluctantly followed. 

The sight made your blood boil. Standing side by side was Gojo and the pink haired guy from earlier who you’d learn was Sukuna. There was a third guy with them, tall with broad shoulders, dark messy hair and a scar on his lip. 

A line of freshmen boys stood at the edge of the pool, each looking paler than the last. Sukuna was barking out orders and you watched in horror as they began to take off their shirts and then their shoes and pants. 

People were laughing, clapping and yelling for them to take off their underwear. You glared at the guy who said that, but he just shrugged and turned back to the show. Several phones appeared in the air despite Gojo’s threats that anyone caught recording would have them smashed.

This was so fucking sick. 

The poor guys looked like they wanted the ground to swallow them whole and just when you moved to put an end to this, an arm reached out to stop you. You snapped your head up, ready to lay into the person until a familiar set of dark eyes stared down at you. 

Suguru. 

“Get off of me.” You say through gritted teeth, pure anger making your heart beat faster and your blood pump harder.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” He warns you and you suddenly hate him as much as his prick of a friend, snatching away from him and turning back to the scene unfolding. 

Without an ounce of sympathy, Gojo clapped his hands together and nodded to the freshmen, his shorts hanging loose on his hips. 

"No need to be nervous. We've all got the same equipment!”

"If you're too embarrassed to strip," The scarred lip dude shouts over the cheering crowd. "you're probably too soft to wear our letters anyway."

A little motivating glare from Sukuna who looked even less interested in preserving anyone's dignity and they were stripping off the remainder of their clothes. You stared in absolute disbelief as the first pledge squeezed his eyes shut, signaled something that looked like a prayer and canonballed into the pool completely naked. 

One by one the others followed and you started to push through the crowd of students, ignoring Shoko yelling your name and evading Suguru’s attempt to grab you again.

Any microscopic chance you'd had of warming up to fraternities evaporated on the spot. These people were insane, fucking psychopaths and deserved a taste of their own medicine. 

By the time you reached the pool, the pledges were climbing out of the water, shivering and red-faced as older fraternity members tossed towels in their direction. They looked humiliated, their smiles not fooling you for a second.

“Hey asshole!” You shout toward the white haired douchebag, storming up to him and gaining the attention of the crowd who started to quiet down to listen to the spectacle you were creating. 

Good. Let them watch!

Gojo, who had been in the middle of laughing at something Sukuna said, looked at you and the grin spreading across his face only further annoyed you. He was so fucking hot but his personality sucked!

“Couch girl!” 

You ignore him, walking until you were close enough to stick your arm out and push his chest. He hardly moved but it was enough to knock that stupid smug smirk off his face for a split second before the corner of his mouth was lifting again. 

"What kind of pathetic excuse for leadership is this?" You gestured toward the soaking pledges who did their best to cover themselves with their small towels as they exchanged nervous glances. "Making them strip in front of half the campus because you think it's funny?"

“It was voluntary.” Sukuna spat, folding his arms and scowling at you, but you kept your eyes on Gojo who steps a little close to you.

“Oh please. Do you really expect me to believe a bunch of freshmen are gonna tell the people deciding if they get into this fraternity or not, ‘no’?” 

When someone in the crowd yelled that you had a point, Sukuna shot them a glare from the deepest pits of hell that had them shutting up and cowering back into the crowd. 

Meanwhile Gojo looked thoroughly entertained, that bastard. Not a hint of embarrassment on his face as he reaches forward and twirls a piece of your hair around his finger. His carefree attitude catches you off guard and you’re dumb founded, losing yourself in his big blue eyes before snapping out of it and pushing him away again. 

“You’ve known me for what..” He pulls his hand away and looks at the imaginary watch on his wrist. “Two hours and you’re already lecturing me? We're basically an old married couple already.” 

Your eye twitches. You hadn’t really thought of how he would react but amusement was the furthest thing you’d expect from someone getting scolded like an insolent child. 

You take a step back, not missing the way he eyes your body and your skin crawls.

“Fuck you dude! I wouldn’t let someone like you touch me with a ten foot pole, let alone let you marry me.”

He tilts his head as the crowd snickers and you grow impossibly hotter. You can feel Shoko pulling your arm but your feet are glued to the ground. It would take an act of god to get you to move before you were done saying what you had to say.

“Aww don’t be shy now. You’re making me feel self conscious too.” 

The words get under your skin more than you should have let them and the look on his face, the slight glint in his eyes tells you that he knows it. Before you can rip into him, the scarred lip dude butts in, pushing between the two of you. 

“Cute." He rolls his eyes. "Now either kiss or kill each other somewhere else. We've got pledges to traumatize."

You glare over his shoulder at Gojo one more time, seething at the way he winks at you, clearly finding this entire thing entertaining, before letting Shoko pull you away this time. If you saw him fifty years down the line it would still be too soon! 

You had to get an uber since you and Shoko were both too tipsy to drive and you outright declined Suguru’s offer to drop you off, having had your fix of frat boys for the next century. 

You rested your temple against the cool glass of the car window, nursing the dull ache forming behind your eyes while your stomach churned from the cheap vodka and lingering irritation.

Gojo Satoru.

Just thinking of his name made your jaw tighten.

He wasn't the first arrogant person you’d met. You’d known plenty in high school, cocky guys who were captains of some team or were blessed with a nice jawline and thought the world revolved around them. 

Gojo surpassed all of them. 

He wasn’t just cocky, but the kind of person that took everything as a joke, constantly performing and acting as if everyone around him was just a part of one big act. And the worst part about it, the part you refused to let yourself think of for more than a second because fuck that, was that he had no business looking the way he did.

It was almost offensive that someone as infuriating as him had a face that made you want to forget every sin he committed. 

You would just have to try your best to stay far away from him, steer clear of frat houses, frat parties, and anywhere someone like him might possibly show up.

Later that night you and Shoko are both wide awake, laying in the dark listening to the faint sounds of the occasional car or ambulance flying by. You’re still fuming, your earlier encounter making it hard for you to find sleep. 

“Hey Sho?”

“Yes?” 

“If you ever invite me to anything that asshole is at again, I’ll kill you both.”

“Noted.”

That was the day you grew to hate Satoru Gojo and the day he fell in love with you.

Now here you were. Your junior year came faster than you thought it would. 

In the time since you started at Jujutsu University, you joined the cheer team, made the dean’s list multiple times and built a tight knit friend group that consisted of you, Shoko, Utahime, Yuki and occasionally Suguru. 

Best of all, you had mostly stuck to your promise and kept away from Gojo, with the exception of a few incidents during your sophomore year when he had decided that you would be his new target of interest. It didn’t matter that you made your disdain for him clear, he never really gave up on his desperate attempts to win you over. 

One of the most memorable times was when you picked up Shoko from an invite only party and he answered the door. He was grinning, telling you that he knew you couldn’t resist him and lifting his black shades to his head, blue eyes flashing. 

"This is my favorite plot twist so far."

You bit your tongue and rolled your eyes, telling him you were here for Shoko only but nothing you said would get through that massive inflated head of his. 

“You were invited by the way. Why didn't you come?”  He actually frowns and you fight the urge to pinch yourself because he genuinely looks like a kicked puppy and you hate the way it tugs on your heart for a split second before you remember who you’re talking to.

“Because your last party fucking sucked.”

His ticking jaw and flared nostrils were your only signs that you had finally gotten to him before he was covering it up, licking his lips and looking down at your glossed ones with a grin. 

“Oh so you’re one of those girls.” He clicks his tongue, giving a dramatic shake of his head.

“Excuse me?” You cross your arms, chest already growing tight with irritation. This was supposed to be a quick pick up and somehow you ended up stuck talking to the one person you wanted to avoid.

“You know.. a judgmental stuck up bitch.” 

You had smiled, pride swelling in your chest because yes.. that’s exactly what you were and you hoped that now he’d take a fucking hint and leave you alone. If you were a little meaner maybe you’d scare him away for good. 

“That’s one way to put it.”

“You’re so evil.” He leans against the door frame, lowering his shades back to his face. “It’s hot, you’re just my type of girl, sweets.” 

The first week of your junior year had gone great, you hadn’t seen Gojo once which was a blessing in disguise since as you would later find out, you were both majoring in psychology. Your first day of cheer practice was coming up, you and Shoko were still sharing a dorm in your third year, your professors were all amazing and you managed to score an interview for a research internship next summer. 

Everything had been going in your favor.

It felt like you were on top of the world until the white haired devil himself walked into the lecture hall, dressed in a snapback, faded jeans and a football jersey. He looked out of place. Suguru was by his side as they looked for a seat and your heart was pounding as you snapped your head forward so fast it was painful, not wanting him to feel you staring. 

You sunk into your seat and dipped your head.

No, no, no! What the fuck was he doing here? Did he get lost? There was no way someone like Satoru Gojo would actually be taking a psychology class without being forced into it. Suguru, maybe. Satoru? He belonged in someone's business class, maybe engineering.

There was simply no universe in which he voluntarily enrolled in social psychology. 

But it didn’t matter what you thought, because he was here and you could hear him getting closer to you, his voice sending sparks down your spine. Just when you thought you were going to get lucky, the sound of a chair scraping beside you made your stomach flip. 

Painfully, you turned your head just as Gojo plopped down onto the seat to your right, his cologne invading your senses. Suguru apologized as he squeezed into the thin space to slip past you, taking the seat to your left. 

What a genius you were, picking a spot with two free seats on either side of you. 

Fantastic. Now you were trapped and Gojo only nodded at you when you glared at him, clearly fighting a smile as he leaned back in his seat as if he’d won a battle in this silent war you’d been in for two years. 

This was fine. You’d just ignore him like you always did. He thrived off of attention, so you would simply deprive him of it. 

Easy enough right? That’s what you thought until he opened his mouth and you remembered just how easily he got under your skin. How good he was at provoking a reaction out of you and it didn’t help that he looked hot as fuck with his skin slightly tanned from summer break, arms and chest a little bigger. 

“Would you look at that? Looks like we’re classmates now, princess.”

You tried to ignore him, really you did but whenever he was around you simply lost all sense of rationality, ten brain cells dying with every word that came out of his mouth.

“Don’t call me that.” You keep your eyes forward, trying to listen to the professor who was going over what you’d be covering this week. 

“Noted, princess.”

Surprisingly, you make it through most of class without Gojo bothering you. He only looks your way once but quickly turns his head when you catch him eyeing your exposed legs and pull your skirt down, his cheek dusted a light pink. 

You ignore the way you feel your ears burning from the attention, a desperate ache growing between your legs.

"Before anyone gets too comfortable, I should let you know this course revolves around a semester-long research project." 

A collective groan ripples through the lecture hall but your professor smiles anyways. 

"You'll be working in pairs. By the end of the semester, you'll present a research-backed analysis of interpersonal attraction and the psychological mechanisms that influence it. This isn't a project you can throw together the night before. You'll be meeting with your partner regularly throughout the term."

Partners? Fuck! 

You were a smart girl, always had been but working in groups had never been your strong suit. You were hyper independent and hated relying on others to carry their weight, especially when they hardly ever did. You either ended up doing all the work yourself or none of it, there was no in between. 

"To avoid everyone choosing their friends, I've paired you using a wheel spinner."

A projector illuminated the screen behind her and names began appearing in two neat columns. You leaned forward, quickly scanning for your name and when you found it, you read it again. 

And again, and again until you were shaking your head no and clenching your fists. 

Gojo, Satoru — [Full Name]

"...You've got to be kidding me." The words come out louder than you meant for them to, your professor looking at you with a raised brow. 

“I’m afraid there will be no changes. If anyone is unsatisfied with their partner you’re welcome to make your case after class but I'm afraid my decision is final unless you are at risk of being harmed.”

Did your emotional well being count? This was disastrous, a catastrophic fuck up and you would in fact take her up on her offer and be having a word with your professor once everyone left. You’d get on your knees and beg if you had to. 

Gojo’s lightly laughed beside you and you snap your head toward him with the meanest glare you can muster, eyes burning with fury. 

“What could possibly be funny?” 

He shrugs, biting his bottom lip and staring at your strawberry gloss covered one, not giving a fuck that you could see him checking you out. You squeeze your thighs, annoyed at the way your body was reacting to his attention, betraying you in a way that was unforgivable. 

“Guess fate ships us.”

Cheer practice hadn’t gone any better. As it turned out, Gojo had joined the football team and watching him run around all sweaty with his hair sticking to his head, kicking a ball in his blue uniform, was bad for someone trying to nail down their newest routine. 

The cheer gym was delayed on its remodeling and the auxiliary gym had been in use so the only free space was the football field, hence your current situation. 

It was hot, and you kept fucking up your stunts, eyes lazer focused on the field, instantly finding a set of white hair whenever you got tossed in the air. He hadn’t been looking at you, instead focusing on winning the mock game between teammates.

Yet he was still a nuisance even when he wasn’t trying to be and it didn’t help that you were still fired up from your conversation with your professor from earlier. When you begged to swap places with someone else, she had told you that ‘i don’t get along with fratboys’ wasn’t a legitimate reason to switch partners and that the project was worth fifty percent of your grade so you’d better find common ground fast.

Another thing nagging at you? You had only gotten laid a handful of times in the last year. Discovering you had an abnormally high libido after losing your virginity at the end of freshman year had been rough. Every guy you tried to build something with either couldn’t last more than two rounds before tapping out or wanted something more. 

You weren’t looking for a relationship, just someone to help you get off once or twice a day. Your vibrators could only do so much. You craved the real thing, but struggled to find someone who could meet your needs. 

"Focus!" Your captain's voice snapped you back to reality.

You blinked, realizing you had been staring at Gojo as he power kicked the ball into the net from halfway across the field, kicking dirt up. It was hot as fuck and irritated you at the same time. 

“Sorry.”

You shake your head, stepping into position and letting your bases lock their grips around your ankles before they launch you upward. The familiar rush of adrenaline hits as soon as your body lifts into the air, muscle memory taking over as you balance yourself.

You should have been focused on your counts, on the people responsible for catching you if something went wrong. What did you do instead? You let your eyes wander until they found him again, heart lurching when you saw that he was already staring at you. 

He waved and even from a distance you could tell he was smirking at you, ball in his hand as he pointed at the net and lowered it back to the ground. He moved his head from side to side, looking at you one last time before kicking the ball so hard that it almost took the goalie out, slamming into the back of the net.

Your cheeks burned, the ache from earlier returning. 

You were completely unaware that you were one second away from falling because your brain apparently thought watching him was more important than not breaking your neck. Stupid girl. 

“Eyes up!” Your captain's voice rang through the air and you forced your gaze down, correcting your posture before your bases caught you as you landed safely. 

When your feet hit the ground you exhale sharply, slightly stumbling. Gojo had gone back to playing, as if he hadn’t almost killed you by distracting you.

“Are you alright? You’ve been out of it this entire time-”

“I’m fine! Let’s go again.” 

You weren’t fine. You had just discovered that your brain was your biggest enemy, betraying you with a sudden attraction to your nemesis. That psychology degree was going to be very useful, now that you needed to diagnose why Satoru had become your biggest distraction.

Remember when I said, one might wonder how you of all people ended up with Gojo between your legs? Well here’s the straw that broke your back.

With the way your day had been going, you weren’t really surprised when your shift had gone to shit within the first thirty minutes. You hadn’t even changed out of your cheer uniform and were grateful your manager was nice about it and only made you put on an apron.

You were a baker at a small shop, and while you usually only iced pastries and baked bread, the cashier had called out so you were forced to cover both positions. 

After ringing up the nastiest group of teenagers, you accidentally burned an entire rack of focaccia bread and your finger in the process. Your manager was understanding and thankfully had been able to find someone to cover your shift. You weren’t happy about missing out on money but at least you could lay in your bed and relax after the shit day you had. Right?

Wrong!

Usually when Shoko has company, she texts you beforehand to let you know, so imagine your surprise when you walk into your dorm and you’re scarred for life with the sight of a random’s man ass as he fucks your friend into the mattress. 

The worst part is that they don’t even notice you! No one jumps up in shock and rushes to cover themselves. They continue to fuck like animals, as if you weren’t standing in the hall in shock. 

After a few seconds you realize you should probably leave, jealousy coursing through you as you slam the door and storm from the building. Even Shoko, who never showed romantic or sexual interest in anyone, was getting laid while you were barely getting by with your toys. 

Fine. If you weren't going to get some rest, you could at least be productive. 

The library was the perfect place to study, especially at this time of night. Most people were partying, working or if they were Shoko, getting fucked in their dorms. Libraries didn't contain drunk assholes, frat presidents trying to flirt with you or rude customers screaming at you over something you couldn’t control. It was calm. Quiet. 

And closed..

You stared at the locked doors, legs aching from the walk you just took to get here, thumb still hurting from earlier. You slowly walk to the locked doors, shrugging your cheer bag over your shoulder and checking the sign posted on the front door.

CLOSED DUE TO SHORT STAFFING

The universe was working against you, repaying you for some sin you committed in a past life and deciding you weren’t even allowed one small win today. And to make matters worse, you were still in your cheer uniform and it was getting chilly out.

You blamed Gojo. All of your issues started the moment he walked into that fucking lecture hall and decided to sit next to you. You were completely distracted after that which led to a shit cheer practice, a thirty minute shift and a burnt finger, and walking in on your best friend getting fucked. 

You could kill him right now and not feel an ounce of remorse, even if you logically knew it wasn’t really his fault. You had to blame someone. 

You read the sign again, as if it would magically change and the library would open. It was closed and you were fucked. Simple.

Based on the rare times Shoko did bring someone to your room, it lasted a few hours but you were always at work so it had never been a problem until today. 

"Unbelievable." You dropped your head back with a groan, tightening your grip on your bag and staring into the dark sky. Of course the one night you needed somewhere quiet to hide, the universe decided to laugh in your face. 

You kick lightly at the pavement, annoyed at yourself more than anyone else. If you hadn’t cut off the last guy you had been sleeping with just because he tried to invite you to a frat party, maybe you’d also be getting fucked right now. 

It was your own fault really. You were too stubborn for your own good, your mother would tell you. “No one will want to put up with your high demands.” as if you hadn’t gotten that trait from her. That was fine. You didn’t need anything more from a man than sex, but no one had been able to match your high drive. 

“I just need…” You look at the door again, tugging the handle just in case someone had forgotten to take down the sign.

Locked. 

“God dammit!” 

A laugh sounded from behind you and you froze, knowing exactly who it was without even turning around. Apparently the universe hadn't finished ruining your night yet. Yay, you. 

“Rough night?” 

You ball your fists and take a deep breath, counting to three and fighting back tears of frustration. When you turned around, you took in a sharp breath at the sight in front of you.

Gojo was holding a textbook under his arm and wearing a brown cardigan with a blue shirt underneath, light beige pants and were those..

He was wearing glasses. Not shades but bulky glasses that made him look kinda nerdy and the sight had the hair on your arms standings and your pupils expanding. He looked like a completely different person but you could tell it was him from the signature smirk he wore.

He stares at you with a titled head and you swallow the spit forming in your mouth. You weren’t seriously thirsty over Gojo right now, right? I mean, you knew you were sex deprived but he was everything you stood against so why were you staring at him like he was the best thing to walk the earth since Jesus himself? 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Came to study. Crazy concept, right?”

Your hand tightens around the handle of your bag, eyes drifting back to the textbook he was holding, though that was far from what you were staring at. Since when did Gojo have such huge hands and why were you attracted to his veins protruding as he grips the book?

“For you, yeah.” 

“Ouch.” He laughs, soft and gentle and the sound has your pussy clenching against nothing. No fucking way was your body betraying you right now. You had never in your life clenched at a laugh, nor grown wet at the sight of someone and yet it was happening no matter how hard you tried to ignore it. 

Gojo hadn’t even touched you, nor made any kind of sexual joke like he typically would and yet you were acting like a cat in heat. 

“You really think so little of me? I’m kind of heartbroken.” 

Yes. But you don’t say it, just look back at the dark building in defeat. Gojo notices and looks over your shoulder, his own sagging as he mumbles something you can’t understand.

“That’s unfortunate. You need somewhere to study, sweets? We can go to my place.” 

You’re turning to him so fast your head spins, shoulders stiff as you prepare to lay into him but he beats you before you can even open your mouth, hands come up defensively. 

“Not at the frat, I only live there part time. I have an apartment off campus, and a desk we can use.” 

He waits for you to say something before giving up and sighing in exhaustion. You could tell he was annoyed but you didn’t care. If he was going to try to get you back to his place, he’d have to try a little harder than whatever this was.

“We should probably study together anyways right? You know, since we’re partners now..”

You should have said no, told him to fuck off but he did have a point. The library was closed, your roommate was otherwise occupied, and the faster you and Gojo finished your project, the sooner you’d never have to see each other again. 

"One hour."

His grin appeared immediately as he held his free hand out to you. "Knew you couldn't resist me."

You scuff and move past him, getting into the passenger seat and making sure you glared out the window the entire ride there.

Gojo didn’t live far, no more than twenty minutes away from campus and you were grateful. Being in an enclosed space with him was hard enough, especially since the entire thing smelled of that cinnamon cologne that drove you crazy.

He tried to talk to you. About football practice, the assignment, the terrible song on the radio, anything to hear your voice but you were dead set on ignoring him, answering in low grunts and one word responses. 

“The uniform is hot by the way. Had no idea you were a cheerleader, but I can’t say I mind watching you while I practice. The next time you want my attention though, just ask. No need to risk cracking your head open just to look at me.” 

You’re insulted, face burning but you won’t feed into this petty spat he clearly wants to have. In the two years you’ve known him and the times you had to suffer his presence, you came to learn that everything he said was to get a reaction out of you.

Not this time. 

“Gojo?”

“Yes, princess?” 

“Shut up.”

Gojo’s apartment smelled like expensive air freshener and a faint trace of weed he swore he didn’t smoke anymore and it was from Sukuna and Suguru who had been over earlier. You ignored him, dropping your bag on the living room floor and looking around. 

It was nice. Not spotless but cleaner than you thought it would be. Most of the furniture, you noticed, was black. His couch, the tables and chairs, even the curtains. 

A stack of textbooks sat on his coffee table alongside a half-empty sports drink and what looked like a few polaroids. You move to get a better look but before you can really see anything, Gojo brushes past you and snatches them.  

“Tsk, nosey girl.” He clicks his tongue and moves toward the kitchen. “Do you want anything?” 

An hour later, you’re full off the takeout food Gojo got delivered and knee deep in your studies. You try to ignore the fact that the desk you’re sitting at is in his fucking bedroom but if he wasn’t overreacting to it then you weren’t going to either. 

The last thing you needed right now was for Gojo to get distracted. He had actually been focusing on the project, refraining from making any crude comments or staring at your breast though you’d caught him looking at your bare legs once.  

"Interpersonal attraction refers to the positive feeling one person forms toward another,'" You were sitting together at his desk as he read aloud from the textbook while you took notes. "'Researchers generally agree attraction develops through a combination of biological, cognitive, behavioral, and environmental factors.'"

You typed the definition into your outline while he skimmed farther down.

"'Repeated exposure to an individual tends to increase positive feelings toward them, even in the absence of meaningful interaction.'"

You don’t miss the way he lets his shoulder bump into yours, body moving an inch closer to yours. You have to squeeze your legs and bite back the moan creeping up your throat. He was still wearing the glasses, claiming his contacts were drying his eyes and that you would have known he wore them if you spent more than five minutes around him without ripping his head off. 

You clear your throat and lean your body the opposite way. "The mere exposure effect."

"Mhmm. Which basically means people annoy each other until they fall in love."

Your fingers paused over the keyboard, slightly shaking as you look over at him. He was already staring, having moved closer to you again. The desk was big enough to hold both your laptops but small enough that you still invaded each other's space, his trick of turning his chair to face you doing nothing now that his knees brushed against the side of your thigh. 

He was reaching a hand out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and you didn’t stop him, didn’t yell at him to fuck off. You just sat there, breathless, mind trying to process what was happening as he frowned at your lip tucked between your teeth.

"That’s not what it says." You whisper and he leans in closer, the corner of his mouth tugging in a small smile, eyes soft behind his glasses.

Gojo had been a thorn in your side since freshman year. He was everything you hated: arrogant, a fratboy, rich nepo baby, and a massive fuckboy that played with girls' hearts like they were toys meant for his entertainment.

But he was also infuriatingly smart when he bothered to try, and right now, he was watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle and your pussy grow wet. 

“Sure, whatever my princess says.” His voice is sultry and low as he reaches a hand out again to rubs his thumb on your lower lip, pulling it out before letting go. 

You swallow hard, butterflies fluttering in your belly. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re tense.” He lets his hand travel to your shoulder, slow enough so that you could pull away, and when you don’t, he continues tracing your exposed collarbone, toying with the v-neck of your top. 

“You’ve hated me for three years. That takes a lot of passion, ever wonder why you care so much?”

You opened your mouth to yell at him, to defend yourself against what he was implying because you had plenty of reasons to hate him but couldn’t think of any at this moment. Your brain was short circuiting and it was humiliating. 

“I don’t care.” You manage to spit out.

Gojo’s eyes darkened, his grin fading. “Liar.” 

His other hand slid up your thigh, creeping under your skirt and still, you didn't move away. Instead you decided to embarrass yourself even further and spread your legs to give him easier access. 

“The chapter says physical attraction can override rational judgment. Maybe that’s what’s happening here. You claim I'm an asshole but you’re still sitting in my room, letting me touch you.”

“I’m-, oh!” You cry when he hovers over your clothed cunt, barely touching it and you’re bucking against him for more. So pathetic, so stupid. “I’m merely analyzing the s-subject matter.”

“Yeah, princess? Let’s put that theory to the test. I’ll keep touching you..” He turns your chair toward him, ignoring the way you gasp and glare at him for the loss of contact. He pulls it closer, the legs scrapping against the floorboard.

“And we’ll see if your rational judgment kicks in.” 

He taps your thigh and you lift your hips as he pulls your panties down and tosses them over his shoulder. He’s spreading your legs again, further this time and he doesn’t waste a moment. His fingers are rubbing against your slit and you toss your head onto the back of the chair, hips shaking as you whine into his hand.

Gojo moved to kneel in front of you, his middle finger slipping between your folds and nudging at your entrance. When you looked down at him, entire body on fire, he was staring up at you as if looking for your approval. 

Obviously grinding against him like a desperate whore wasn’t enough. No, Gojo wanted to hear you, to humiliate you and mock you for all the shit you had given him just to let him finger you when you should have been working on your project. 

“Use your words or I'll stop.” He goes to pull his fingers away and your heart lurches. 

The last thing you wanted was to beg him of all people but you were too far gone to not get something out of this. So you swallow your pride and nod. 

“Keep going, you fucking jerk.”

He chuckles and grabs your thighs, placing them both over his shoulders. “I’m about to eat your pussy and you still can’t be nice to me.” 

You don’t respond and he’s pushing his middle and index fingers through your neglected hole, not giving you any time to adjust before leaning down and taking your clit in his mouth. 

“Satoru!” You cry out his name and the sound of coming from your lips has him groaning against you and closing his eyes to savor it. 

You reach a hang out to grab his hair, looking down and clenching around his fingers because the way he has his head under your skirt is so fucking hot you think you might cum on the spot. He was so hungry for you that he didn’t even properly undress you, greedy man that he was. 

His fingers curl inside of you, pumping a little faster as he licks up and down your slit, stopping to suck on your clit each time he passes it. When you try to close your legs, he grabs your thigh with his free hand and pulls it further open. 

“Mmff, shtay righ' there.” He mumbles against your pussy, wrapping his lips back around your clit and sucking hard, using his teeth to lightly nibble and you’re leaking so much you can feel it dripping down your thighs. 

This wasn’t the kind of research you had been expecting to do but you would accept it just this once, for the sake of your grade of course. This is also the longest he’s ever been quiet in your presence and if you had known that he was such a good pussy eater you would have put his mouth to use long ago. 

‘Haaah, go deeper, I- oh god, nggghh I need more!” You grind against his face harder, gripping his hair and pulling him closer. 

He just moans encouragingly, burying his fingers knuckles deep and fucking you dumb with them. Your squishy walls contracted around his fingers and with the next curl of them, you were wrapping your legs around his head and cumming so hard that your vision turned white, orgasm stealing your sight while you buck wildly against his face. 

You were making a huge mess but Gojo didn’t seem to mind, licking you through it and only slowing his fingers when your legs dropped. He placed a kiss on your pussy before pulling from under your skirt and sucking on his fingers, looking right up at you. 

His glasses were crooked, face glistening with your release and his cheeks were flushed red. Your chest heaved up and down dramatically as you fought to breathe properly again. 

You couldn't remember the last time you came that hard and irritated you, made you crave more but you could never let him touch you again. This was a mistake, a serious lapse of judgement and yet you still needed more, your pussy already coming back to life. 

You quickly stand and pull your skirt down, legs weak as you move around Gojo to find your panties, mortified at your own feelings right now. You just let a frat president go down on you and now you were thinking of how he would fuck you? 

Clearly you weren’t in the right state of mind. 

“You’re not tired of running away from me yet?” Gojo snaps, all sense of playfulness gone. 

He was annoyed, you could hear it in his voice. Not that you cared but he was your ride here so you might as well appease him a little, right? 

“I’m not running!” You yell, fingers digging into your palms. You were so beyond angry with yourself, disappointed that you got this far without falling into his den and now here you were. “I got what I wanted, the theory was correct but I think this study session has lasted longer than it should have.” 

He looks at you in disbelief, taking his glasses off with a sigh and setting them on the desk before walking over to you, running his hand through his messy hair. 

You were frozen. Every rational part of your brain screamed at you to shove him away and walk out. But your body was humming, and the way he looked at you made you want more. 

He hovered over you, grabbing your chin and titling your head back so he can look you in the eyes, his other hand on your hip and playing with the waistband of your skirt. 

“I can tell you haven’t been touched properly in a long time. Why do you insist on pretending like you don’t feel this pull between us, even if we hate each other?”

“You hate me?” Your lip twitches. While you can confidently say you despised him, he never gave the impression that he felt the same unless he had some sick way of showing it. 

Gojo frowns and you hate how beautiful he looks. “No, never. I do want to fuck you though, so maybe we can help each other out.”

He pulls your skirt down just a little, fingers rubbing at the skin on your hip and sending a shiver through your body. 

“Kind of like.. an arrangement. You can keep on hating me in public but in this room, I get to fuck you for as long as I want. Call it research for our project. Deal?” 

You take a minute to think about it. 

You were still seething at yourself for letting him touch. This meant nothing, you still hated him but even you had needs that needed to be met and if Gojo made you cum that hard from his fingers and tongue, you had to know what his cock could do.

“Fine, but I should warn you that I have a really high libido that most men can’t keep up with. If it’s too much I’ll just find-”

He cuts you off with a laugh, grabbing your hips and pulling you close enough that you feel his rock hard cock twitching against your stomach. He grabs the back on your neck and squeezes until you’re looking up at him again. 

“You just haven’t been with a real man yet, princess. But don’t worry, I'll take real good care of you. Now take off your fucking clothes.” 

You bite your tongue, resisting the urge to ask who he was talking to and at the same time, kicking yourself because you kind of liked it.  

“Safe word?” He asked, unbuttoning his pants and stepping out them, his bulge huge against his white boxers, a small wet spot sitting on the front of them. 

You roll your eyes and lift your shirt off, then your skirt. “We’re not children. Our safe words are stop and no.” 

He nods and pulls his cardigan off and then the shirt underneath. Holy fucking sleeper build. Gojo was ripped but you’d never be able to tell under the clothes he wears. You’re taken aback by just how attractive he was, remembering the day you first saw him and how he was ten times hotter now. 

Still a fratboy, still a prick but even you couldn't deny that he was one of the most stunning humans out there. Kind of otherworldly if you thought about it long enough.

“How about kissing? You cool with that, orrr?” He asks while pulling his boxers down and stepping out of them, his cock hitting his stomach and it was definitely the biggest one you’d ever seen. Thick and pulsing, pre leaking from the mushroom tip.

“Off limits. We’re strictly enemies with benefits, nothing more.”

 There was no need to make this more difficult than it already was. You were beating yourself up for even being attracted to him, then to add kissing on top of that? You needed to save a shred of your dignity so you would be keeping your kisses. 

“Fine, and we always use condoms. Not trying to be a dad in college like Toji. And no whining.”

You nod in agreement even though you were on birth control, snapping your bra off and tossing it, letting Gojo admire you and relishing in the way he looks like a lovestruck fool, hearts basically bursting in his eyes. 

You don’t give him long, moving to climb on his bed and lay on your back. Your body was tight with need and you hadn’t even realized what you were doing, spreading your legs and playing with your pussy. 

Gojo stands by the side of the bed and watches you as he reaches into the nightstand for a condom, using his teeth to rip it open and stroking it on. 

You feel the bed dip first, his body climbing between yours, using his legs to nudge yours further open and then the heat of his cock pressing against your thigh. 

“Fuck, you look so perfect.” 

You open your eyes and if you didn’t hate him you’d say the same thing. His white hair messy on his head, the longer pieces falling into his bright blue eyes. His body was perfect, his shoulders not too broad but muscular, his waist thinner. 

“Whatever, just fuck me.” You huff and in a blink he’s smacking his cock on your pussy then lining himself up with your entrance. 

His heat engulfs you when he lays over your body, tapping your thigh so you wrap your leg around his waist.

He places his forehead on yours and smiles as sweetly as possible, one hand digging into the bed above your head to hold him up, the other placed on your hip.

“Ready?” He nudges your nose, gripping the sheets to stop himself from kissing you. 

You bit your lip and nod, before stopping and pushing at his chest when he starts to nudge the tip in. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll ruin your life.” 

He rolls his eyes, swallowing the words ‘you already have’. “Sure, now can I fuck you?”

When he pushes the first few inches in, you gasp from the sting and before you can stop him he’s leaning down and pressing his soft lips against yours to quiet you.

He squeezes your hip and with one more brutal thrust, he was inside you, filling you to the hilt in one go. You cried into his mouth and he swallowed it, your back arching off the bed as he bottomed out, his balls pressing against your ass. He was almost too big, stretching you in ways that should’ve been painful but wasn’t. 

He was the perfect fit, just what you had been looking for, the tip of his cock pressing deliciously against your cervix.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” he groaned, pulling back to look at you before slamming into you again. And again, his hips pistoned against yours, each snap of his pelvis driving him deeper and grinding onto your clit, your toes curling from the intense pleasure. 

“Satoru! Huuuh, yes, fuck me just like that!” You tighten your legs around his waist, moving your hips up to meet his. 

You clawed at his back, your nails leaving red marks as he fucked you like he hated you. Like he wanted to ruin you and punish you for making him wait years to do this. And god, did you love it.

“Harder,” you gasped.

He laughed darkly, gripping your throat just enough to make your vision swim. “You want it rough, baby? S-shit! You want me to fuck you like the enemy that you are?”

“Yes Satoru! P-please.”

In a flash he was flipping you over, placing you on your hands and knees and slamming back into you before you could catch your breath. Your ass was in the air and he pushed your head down until it was flat on the mattress, his hands tight on your waist as he pounded into you, his hips snapping against yours with a bruising force. 

Thank god he had his own place because each thrust had the bed rocking and sent a jolt of hot pleasure through you, your pussy clench around him and making obscene wet squelching noises that only fueled his hunger for you.

Gojo picked up his pace, veiny cock rubbing against your walls and he wished he could feel your raw pussy, wanted to stuff you full of his cum but he knew better so he ignored his instinct and focused on fucking you. 

The cries you let slip out are music to his ears, a song he wanted to hear every fucking day but he would settle for tonight, for now. He leans forward and fucks into you harder, hand squeezing your boob and twisting your nipples, pinching and pulling until you’re whimpering, tears pooling down your face. 

“Didn’t I say no whining?  Be a good girl, princess.”

You don’t hear what he’s saying, too drunk on his cock as he fucks you stupid, drool spilling from your mouth and onto the sheet. The sight has Gojo groaning, his balls tightening as he splits you open on his cock and fucks you stupid.

“Shit, look at you. All fucked out. Fucking take it baby. Take my cock like a good cum slut.”

His words have you shaking violently with your second orgasm, eyes rolled back as he fucked you through it, squirting heavy on his cock and making a beautiful mess. 

“Never letting anyone fuck you again.” He pushes you further onto the bed, your stomach flat against the mattress as he grinds deep into you, completely dominating you, his hands gripping the sheets above you. “This is mine, say it’s my pussy, baby. Tell me you belong to me-fuck-haaah.”

You don’t answer but the way you’re crying for more is enough to satisfy Gojo and he’s filling the condom with white hot cum, gasping as wave after wave of pleasure rocks him, his hips twitching as he empties himself into the latex.

He gives sloppy, lazy thrusts as he rides it out, pushing deep into you one last time before pulling out and falling onto his back next to you. While you come back down to earth, he’s ripping the condom off, tying it and tossing it into the trash before reaching for another one. 

Before you know it, he’s rolling it and pulling you onto his lap, lining himself up and pulling you down onto his cock while pushing up into you, fingers digging into your hips. 

“Ready for round two?” He smirks when you start to move despite still trying to remember how to breathe properly.

He doesn’t stop after that, keeps fucking you until you’re on the verge of passing out, body weak and shaking but still wanting more.

“What number are we at now, four? Come on, princess. Gimme another one, I know you can do it. Gotta get to five, it’s my favorite number.”

Holy shit.. Gojo was everything you had been looking for in a sexual partner. You had been fucking for two hours now and yet he still has the energy of a man running on spite and arrogance.

It was almost comical. You were a fucking goddess, you could get anyone you wanted, any man would be lucky to have you. Yet the only one who seemed to know how to satisfy you was the one guy you couldn’t stand. 

Not that any of that mattered when he had you riding his cock, again, your pussy swollen from how hard he’d been fucking you without tiring. Your clit was overstimulated but he kept rubbing it anyway, your back arching as you felt the pressure building in your belly again.

“C-can’t Toru’” You slurred, drooling dripping down your chin, your face completely wet with tears, makeup long ruined.

“I believe in you, baby.” He smacks your ass hard and then does it again just to watch the way you jump. “Look at you, taking me so well. S’proud of you babe.” 

You ignore the pet name, ass on fire and too close to cumming for the fifth time to argue with him over it.His hands grip your hips, pulling you up and down on his cock. You twirled your hips, spelling your name out as you fucked him back, body aching from the intense fuck session. 

It wasn’t long before you were grinding harder against Gojo’s pelvis and squirting on him again, fingers pressing into his shoulders as he fell over the edge with you. Pushing himself up and throwing his head back with a roar, legs stretching out as he pumped a thick load of cum into condom. 

You move up and down as much as you can, helping him finish his orgasm before collapsing against his chest. Gojo wraps his long arms around you, cock still seated inside you as you both fight to breathe, sweaty bodies sticking together, eyes droopy with exhaustion. 

What a fucking night. 

You would one hundred percent be fucking him again, even if it was just until you found someone you could tolerate outside of the bedroom. As for now, Gojo was the only one that could tame the fire inside of you and fuck did you hate to admit that. 

You can feel his heart beating against your own, his hand rubbing up and down spine, lips kissing the side of your head. As reality comes back to you, you freeze before pushing yourself off him and laying next to him on the bed. 

You ignore the hurt look on his face. 

“Wanna shower with me?” Gojo asks, sitting up and pushing his hair from his forehead, looking at you over his shoulder with cloudy eyes. 

“Seperate.”  You don’t even look at him. Way to flip the script on him, he was usually the one ignoring girls after getting what he wanted.

He nods and goes through his drawer before finding a pair of sweatpants to put on, the obvious bulge of his still hard cock making your pulse jump.

He goes into the bathroom connected to his room and you hear the shower turn on before he comes back out and tosses you a towel. You can tell he’s upset but you ignore it. He wasn’t your man, it wasn't your problem. 

After you wash your body and your hair, you find that he’s left you a pair of shorts and a shirt on the bed. When he comes back in the room and sees you dressed in his clothes, the size of it swallowing you, his heart damn near stops and you see the way he swallows the lump in his throat. 

He clears his throat and smiles at you, slowly walking toward you and your body goes cold when he places his hand on your cheek and leans down to kiss your forehead. 

That was the second time he broke your rule and the second time you didn’t correct him.

“Stay. I’ll bring you home in the morning, I can take the couch.” 

You nod your head ok, lost for words and he simply nods and moves past you to take his shower.

Later that night you toss and turn before giving up and laying on your back, staring at the ceiling in the nearly dark room, drumming your fingers on your stomach. You sometimes had nights where you just couldn’t sleep no matter what you did and it seems tonight was one of those nights. 

You’re still sore between your legs, a reminder that you went back on your word and let Gojo fuck you. You didn’t regret, even had plans on doing it again but that didn’t mean you weren’t angry with yourself. More so because you smelled just like him after using his soap.

He just knew all the right places to touch you, all the best ways to make you cum harder than you did the time before, his cock fitting so perfectly inside of you. It was a shame he had the personality of a walnut. 

When you finally turn on your side to go to sleep, eyes burning from exhaustion, you feel the bed dip behind you and strong arms wrap around you. 

You try to squirm out of Gojo’s grip but he tightens his arms around you, pulling you until your ass is flush against his hard cock, his chin tucked atop your head. 

“Gojo.. we need to sleep, we have class tomorrow.” 

“So I’m only Satoru when I fuck you? Wicked girl.” He leans down to kiss your neck and you let him, again, feeling your clit grow erect and that ache return. 

“That’s your name isn’t it?” You huff out, moving your hips back against him.

He ignores you, hand going to your hip you pull you close as he grinds into you, slipping yours and his pants down. He quickly puts on a condom before pushing into you, bottoming out in one thrust, hand covering your mouth to keep you quiet. 

“Gonna fuck you until you only know Satoru.. You know, my favorite number is actually six.”

You may have bitten off more than you could chew.

❦ lisa's note: sorry about the pledge scene 🥲 I wanted to show how frats are and needed you to truly hate them. promise I'll make up for it!

© art creds: gojouify

⤳ series tags 1: @timgiohlover1767 @liahcharms @kissprl @lunevarin @keiito066 @pinkpantherrrrss @lounastar @luvs-angel @luvbambiboo @scramblenigojo @nationalmegumidihhopper @5secondsofdorkss-blog @sadteam666 @alittlekurumi @lovebythuuu @rinnyho @user09815 @setia1256 @weirdothatwrites @kingjuliancypher @espresshoe012 @miwarumi @pinkpantherrrrss @ioveariaa @ibelieveintrafalgarlawsupremacy @asiitwas @iilovechoso123 @slovair @izumkay @megottheswaskikacooooke @introvertedfreakk @skeletaldynamolegion @nctwayv127dream @0soleilmist @bambi-lia @thecoolest4eva @yujiswifey @angelziez @valkyrieanqel @fzvcfjky @roroclarinett @billiondollarworth @coolprincessgirls-blog @mariaaliyha @secretsofchance @yeagerluvr @suguruuslut @wiserion @nemisimp @yochicoz

[tonycries]

Internet Girl - C.K.

Synopsis. On campus? Choso Kamo’s the sweet, shy nerd you share film class with - the one who can barely meet your eyes without blushing. Online? Choso Kamo is really @cursed(your)wombz—the #1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends with 820k followers to see his…nine inches. And he might just be looking for a partner.

Pairing. Choso Kamo x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, streamer!Choso, (sort of) B́J Alex AU, cámboy!Choso, college AU, he’s a nerd, film nerd!Choso, secret identities, masks, píercings (ears, tóngue, D), tattoos, chat, streaming, you’re a fan, identity reveal, exhíbitíonism, oraI (fem rec.), again PlERCINGS, tongue f, spítting, p sIapping, p talking, letting the viewers choose, fíngering with rings, overstím, dúmbifícation, Jacob’s Ladder, rough s, fiIthy s, he’s sIightly mean, tummy buIges, making it fit, pressing down, talking you through it, cIit pinching, pússydrúnk Choso, matíng presses, chokíng, manhandIing, mocking, sIight níppIe stim, creampíes, chat Iove you, cúmpIay, getting together, Phantom of the Opera references, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 14.9k

A/N. Hehehehehe-

Sunday was the night you’d found him; sprawled out on your bed and thumbing through the Internet. Some glitzy pop song you couldn’t name blasted from your speakers, and the room was saturated in the tingly excitement of having speedy Wi-Fi, no assignments, and the night to yourself. LED lights pink.

You’re checking some of your messages - doling out a few hearts, a few reposts - when that bell-shaped button bursts in blue. A new notification.

@cursed(your)wombz liked your repost.

It was on a photograph of the Sun—big and yellow, seemingly melting over a grey horizon.

Which was perfectly ordinary- this was the Internet, after all. And though your list of followers was modest, of course you’d interact with a stranger here and there.

The problem was in the way the notification disappeared as soon as it came.

An…accident maybe? This person had liked and unliked your repost. And without a second thought, you’re typing their username into the search bar.

And clicking on their profile.

@cursed(your)wombz huh?

He had a pitch-black profile picture and a layout with nothing of note, a banner as equally colorless and unnotable, and a simple bio stating: 

I know what you want…

- C.

And beneath that was a link.

It stood out stark against the black background. You don’t click on it, of course- for fear of being something malicious, you’re avoiding it like you’d avoid a minefield. 

You’ve already heard one too many horror stories on here about such things. One click and you’d find your address posted somewhere. Instead, your eyes drop to the number of followers he had…and your eyebrows are immediately shooting up.

0 Following.

581k Followers.

Now that makes you blink.

Okay- alright, maybe it wasn’t the most astounding number you’ve ever seen throughout your expansive time on the Internet - but it was still niche celebrity-status. Especially on this app. Especially to be stalking an account like yours…where all you did was repost the stray picture of a pretty landscape or yell into the aether about your missing assignments for your friends to comment on. 

Now that was a little strange.

And so you’re scrolling down.

And you never quite know what you’re in for whenever you enter the realm of a person’s account—fanfiction with tags you never knew existed, one part of an argument on social media that really shouldn’t exist, mpreg. 

Which was all fine and dandy to be quite honest- you just never expect to be met with the most beautiful man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

The first picture you’re seeing- pinned.

Posted just an hour ago. It’s a mirror selfie taken at a low angle; of a man with his body angled towards the lens and his phone covering his face. In nothing but a towel. With nothing but his chiselled body. His beefy arms flexed as he takes the picture, biceps rippled with a few veins—though still lean and almost smooth to the touch. Pierced nipples. Defined abs. Your eyes linger on the sparse dusting of dark hair leading below, below, below his fluffy white towel…

The picture cuts off just a few inches past his navel. You know because you’re enlarging it.

The photo is almost vampiric in nature.

Somehow. 

Dimly-lit. Beautiful—he clearly knew his angles and lighting. It’s slightly blurry and you can’t make out much of the man’s features - nothing more than the slender length of his fingers, silver rings, and the outline of his dark (perhaps brown?) hair. Touching his shoulders. From just above the hem of his towel, the amorphous blur of a tattoo snakes down his left v-line - and no matter how much you’re zooming in, you can’t quite figure out what it is. 

Something twists at the pit of your stomach as you’re latching your eyes onto the very obvious bulge he was sporting through the towel - very.

The flash created a shadow of his lengthy cock—oh. Hanging between thick thighs, heavy and needy. And it also illuminated the slight dampness clinging onto his body; perhaps he’d just gotten out of the shower, or was about to take on after a workout. 

Whichever scenario it was, both made your thighs clench- fuck.

Fingers slightly shaky, you’re exiting out of the picture and scrolling down for more. 

The next post is a video seemingly taken from the very same instance: it was from the point of view of the beautiful man. Facing downwards, as he zoomed the camera in on his bulge and ran one vein-covered, ringed hand down his abs- down his pelvis- down to that throbbing erection and squeezed himself through his towel. 

And then through your speakers echoes out the most pornographic moan. 

Thank goodness your dorm had thick walls. 

And that’s when you decide that you’ve seen enough.

Not enough as in enough enough to block this strange man and move on with your life- of course, not. As quickly as your fingers would possibly let you, you’re exiting out of the video and scrolling up to a bio that seemed to have more to hide than the first time you read through it. 

The link stands mockingly stark - almost winking at you - against the dark background. You think you know what it is.

And you click on it.

Suddenly, your laptop screen’s flooding with a gaudy pink color. A loading circle swivels in the middle of it for a few seconds, before you’re met with a logo in swooping, slanted black script: C4mBoyfriends. Better than that boy in your dms.

Rapidly, you’re opening up a new tab and typing in the name.

“C4mBoyfriends is an adult streaming platform that hosts webcam performers that choose to label themselves as male. Here they can stream live video, post photographs, and interact on forums with a wide array of paying viewers—for a range of content catering to specific niches or sexual roleplays. C4mBoyfriends, since its recent launch, has shot up in the industry as one of the most-visited adult sites and the safest for its performers. All cuts go to the performers themselves and the site runs on separate donations from its audience.”

Ah- you’d guessed right.

Excitement burbles at the pit of your stomach for a few seconds. You’re clicking back onto the tab with the pink logo, and finding that it’d stopped loading.

It was in the layout of a streaming device, with static images of ongoing streams on one side of the platform, and different pages listed out on top. But what took up the majority of your screen was the vision of the very same man from before- from the mirror selfie, from the video.

This time, it was a stream.

@cursed(your)wombz is streaming—#1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends [101 week streak]. [Only solo]. Your internet boyfriend <3

0 Subscribed.

820k Subscribers.

455k Currently watching.

This time, he had his towel lifted up and his hands fisted around his fat cock.

Perfectly angled. 

Your jaw drops. He was about eight- maybe more inches, though you weren’t in the state to count. Way too entranced by the way his veiny, ring-decorated hands were wrapped around his cock. Large. He was just so loooong and standing tall between wide-spread legs, shiverin’ every time he’s gliding his hand up and down. Up and down. 

Again and again.

Getting faster by the second before he arches-

The edge of his thumb’s reaching for his ruby-red crown—then smearing the glistening liquid that just kept on foaming from the top. He lathers it upon his palm and drags it down his hot erection, making every inch gleam underneath the off-camera lighting.

You’re clicking on a button to increase your volume.

And just in time, too, because then he snakes his left hand down and squeezes his heavy balls- letting out a botched groan that leaves your shorts oh-so-wet. 

Deep and guttural; there’s a slight quiver in them as he whispers. “F-fuck.” Just so full and sensitive—the man’s head tips backwards and his hips buck off the cushioned chair. Sluttily. As though he was fucking something invisible. It’s creaking ever-so-slightly as he settles back down, composing himself just a little bit before he starts cumming.

Pearly white droplets of cum. 

Beading from the very top of his shaft - where he was the most pink n’ angry - shaking as he empties out. Globs of it start to glide down his length, and a few more collect where his silver Prince Albert’s piercing was positioned right beneath his mushroomy tip.

You’re just letting your eyes linger upon that little heap of satiny sap, when the man thumbs upwards and smears that, too. Such a mess.

And you think that might be all- but then he’s reaching his non-dominant hand upwards and pressing down on his frothing cockhead. Stopping himself from cumming - and as he leans to the side, you swear you’re glimpsing the twinkle of even more piercings on the upper side of his shaft. Was that…a Jacob’s ladder?

You’re rendered so damn speechless that you almost don’t register him speaking- “Awwww, did my pretty sluts wanna watch me cum?” 

A shiver runs down your spine at the hitched tone of his voice- drunk on lust. He’s slightly slurring. So alluring, you almost catch yourself nodding.

“Well, too bad.” The man meanly snickers, before he’s suddenly reaching out with his non-dominant hand and angling it higher. The screen shifts to display that very same mouth-watering body from the picture—though, this time with the addition of a black-and-white mask that covered his features from forehead to his sharp jawline. 

The only opening in it was a concave cutout for his mouth - almost reminiscent of a Phantom of the Opera mask. In the background was a clearly expensive bedroom of a clearly expensive home - far different from your single dorm - an artwork that you couldn’t name on the wall behind him. Something like a photograph or a portrait. Something about it was so precise- so cinematic. Like watching a movie scene. He continues, “Because you know why? You don’t deserve it.”

There’s a flurry of comments on one side of the screen, so fast that you wonder how he reads it.

“Didn’t I tell you to spam me with your nastiest stories in the chat?” He asks, and from beneath his mask you catch the outline of dark eyes shifting down those hurried words. Those needy comments. “None of you are nasty enough, so none of you get to see me cum…”

You’re tearing your eyes off of him to peruse what they were saying.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: nuuuuuu please, curse! i’ll get on my knees!!

@vampzo333: me too ME TOO

@likezmenpregnant: My story about the body pillow wasn’t nasty enough? TT

@CCpervnextdoor: AWWWW I’m begging~

@Curse’swifey: I’LL PAY YOU EXTRA PLEASEEEEEEE

@Curse’swifey donated 500 cherries.

“Tch- what a desperate bunch. Just fucking look at yourselves…” And though his words weren’t in the least bit nice, you couldn’t deny just how badly he made your cunt twinge. 

Curse…that’s what his name was, huh?

You’re squeezing your thighs together- your sleep shorts were definitely soaked. 

Curse rolls out the kinks in his neck just a little, and stares down at the camera with a crooked grin. “But that’s not gonna be enough. I said to be nasty- so be nasty.” The active chat becomes nothing but a blur once more: pleas, donations, stories half-typed in their urgency. “And in return I’ll moan whatever name you want me to moan when I cum.”

Before you know it, you’re opening up the sign-up page in a new tab.

Keeping Curse’s livestream playing in the background as you zip through your details. You’re picking out a username for yourself: Ietsmakeamovie and hastily going back to the ongoing stream with your newfound handle. Was it too obvious to make it the same username as your other account? The one that he had stalked?

Fuck- you’re too wound up to think of something else at this point. You decide that you’ll change it later…

Luckily, Curse’s stream didn’t have a paying threshold before you could comment. And you’re jittery with excitement as you pull the laptop closer to yourself and start typing out something—hitting send before you could overthink it.

@Ietsmakeamovie: Seeing you is the first time I’ve gotten this wet.

Curse’s eyes drift down the chat, and he seems to latch onto something. Eyes widening just a fraction.

“The first time?”

Fuck.

You’re feeling a jolt at the way he addresses you - never expecting him to pick out that comment amongst tens of thousands of others that were uttering even filthier things. Curse leans in and speaks with his deep tone, “Those other boys didn’t know how to treat a perfect pussy like yours, huh? This is why they call me the Internet boyfriend, baby.”

@Ietsmakeamovie: Yeah.

@Ietsmakeamovie: Fuck, you’re so hot.

@Ietsmakeamovie: I don’t even wanna look away to touch myself.

You feel embarrassed typing it all out - but you console yourself with the notion that no one here knows who you are. And you don’t know anyone here, either.

Curse leans back and starts pumping his cock even harder—taking his left hand off the drivelling top. His milky-white precum is frenzied n’ sticks to his hand like glue, and the chat grows more and more excited as Curse’s actions do the same.

“That’s alright, baby, you don’t have to finger yourself.” He chuckles, eyes locked on the comments. “I’d be doing that for you if I was there.”

@Ietsmakeamovie: Wish you were. You’d reach so much deeper.

@Ietsmakeamovie donated 1000 cherries.

“Fuh-fuck—” He hisses, head throwing back in his chair. You take the time to admire the lines of his prominent Adam’s apple - the way it bobs every time he’s taking a shaky swallow. “No need to donate or anything, baby, just keep- ngh, talking t’me like this and that’s enough…”

@0003h0lesforCurse: holy shit. i’ve never seen him like this.

@CCpervnextdoor: Needy Curse I like it~

@bewbsRlife: KEEP GOING OP KEEP GOING!!

You giggle to yourself.

@Ietsmakeamovie: Enough to make you cum, Curse?

“Greedy, greedy girl…” Through the slightest gaps in his mask you’re catching the way his nose crinkles in amusement. A wolfish smile. “S’that what you all want?”

The chat explodes in agreement.

He cocks his head, “Movie?”

Was that your new nickname now? Hastily, you reply-

@Ietsmakeamovie: Mhm.

“Well then…” He grins, toned body arching off the chair. “Get ready for a show—” Darkened gaze narrowing at the comments, “And you better not take your eyes off of me for a single second- hump your damn pillows if you have to. I don’t care.”

Quickly grabbing your own puffy pillow, you’re stuffing it between your legs.

Right as Curse lets his head loll backwards- and his cum drizzles out of his cock. He’s been edging the poor viewers and overstimulatin’ himself for so fucking long now—all it takes is a few pumps to let the cascade of white coat his hands and his rings. Just the slightest bit of silver peaking through.

Hard and fast.

The man’s cockhead flushes even redder as he drags his high out deliciously. Every burst of dopamine. Every heaving pant. Every pretty moan escaping him. 

It seems to be ramming into him in waves- gooey ribbons of seed coat his digits. Getting smeared like a gloss across eeeeevery single inch, ridge, and vein—and since Curse’s pace was something furious, a few globs of cum splatter across the towel and onto his thighs. A mess that he’s seeming to love.

Because in the next few seconds, he’s wrung out just the final bits of pleasure in him- and is raising his cum-coated fingers up to his mouth and sucking. Staring straight into the camera lens as he does so.

You’re watching slack-jawed as those long, lacquered digits disappear between his lips. Finishin’ them off squeaky clean and letting his head tip to the side.

He mouths, “Movie—”

Part of your username.

Though you hadn’t asked for him to moan your name, as he’d promised to do to one of the viewers had they been nasty enough. And this special treatment…

Maybe he did it to every new viewer. Maybe he just liked how much you complimented him- though everyone else did, too. Either way, it’s perhaps what sets off the bursts of electricity between your legs—and soon enough you’re hurtling into a high you hadn’t even realized had been building up and up and up.

Your lashes flutter shut as the orgasm overtakes you. 

Hips ruttin’ away into the plushness of your pillow- you wonder just how much better riding him would be…

And that’s setting off a whole new layer of dopamine at your core, your cunt quiverin’ as white-hot pleasure makes your heartbeat throb in your ears. Chest pounding. Breaths heavy.

By the time you’ve finished pushing through your high, you’re coming to find that Curse had somewhat cleaned himself up with the towel and was bantering back n’ forth with the chat. He rests his head on one hand and sweeps his eyes down the usernames, “What happened to dear Movie, huh?” Curse pretends to pout. “The first stream wasn’t too much for her, right?”

@girrrrrrrrrrth: kekekeke you’re too freaky, curse!!

@CCpervnextdoor: So dirty~

@daddytoeknee: Must thank Movie for the show though…

Urgently, you’re gathering yourself and tapping a few buttons on-screen.

@Ietsmakeamovie subscribed to @cursed(your)wombz. 

@Ietsmakeamovie donated 2500 cherries.

@Ietsmakeamovie: It’d never be too much.

“Ahhh, there you are.” Such a beautiful smile smears across his face, and Curse’s leaning in to take a closer look at the comments. “And thank you for subscribing, same time tomorrow?”

You’re unsure whether that was directed at you or everyone viewing- but you’re chiming in agreement alongside the rest of the comments. And Curse reads through them, lingering for just a little while longer before he grins.

“Heh- bye, sluts.”

And he covers the camera, the stream cuts off. 

Yet your heart still thunders.

Ignoring the time at the bottom of your laptop screen, you’re then clicking on his profile and scrolling through what other videos he had…

.

.

.

It was your fault that you kept dozing off.

Honestly. 

You should have known better- and you know that you should’ve known better…but you couldn’t help yourself. After Curse’s initial stream, you spent some time browsing through the numerous photographs and short clips that he’d posted; there were even some saved streams that were each dirtier than the last—each with his attractive mask and his even more attractive voice, his sensual cock getting pumped over and over for the audiences.

And so you’d left a few comments, a few hearts.

Throughout all of them, you made the peculiar discovery that they were all more high-quality than the last. The standard of being the #1 on the site, you guess. But the lighting and angles were all just so perfect…

You’d watched them for just a little while- at least, what you’d thought was a little while. Because by the time you’re realizing that your laptop battery was dying, and your eyes were tired, you’re turning your head in the direction of the dorm windows and- fuck.

Why was the Sun coming up?

And so you’d rushed to get at least half an hour of sleep before you had to get up for your 8AM lecture. 

Professor Yaga taught Film 101 as though he was trying to scare everyone off it. Rigorous coursework and never-altered deadlines. Though you yourself wouldn’t consider him an unreasonable man, it was impertinent to be punctual and alert in his classes - and right now, you were feeling neither of those. 

By the grace of the universe, you’re somehow managing to stumble into class just two minutes after it starts. It’s not enough to rouse Yaga’s anger - and either way, you had made a name for yourself as one of his most avid students - though it does get you a sternly raised brow as you apologize and take the nearest open seat.

Just-so-happening to be in the very last row. 

At the very forgotten corner.

Right beside who you knew to be Yaga’s actually most avid student—Choso Kamo.

Had it been a race between the two of you - perhaps between the entire department - Choso would have finished five times before anyone’s even stepping past the finish line. You would’ve gotten second. And that wasn’t to diminish your abilities in any way - you’d long since proven yourself to be one of the best students this course had even seen - it’s just…Choso was a film nerd through and through. 

If there was anyone that could live up to such a title, then it was him.

Choso lived, slept, and breathed film and television. He could name any television show around the world with just a single frame, and most he could recite line-for-line. Oh, that? He learned Korean just to immerse himself in that scene in Parasite. That scene? It was from the 1957 Sri Lankan film Amba Yahaluwo, by the way did you know that Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom was filmed there, too?

Knitted vest. Hair in two messy space buns. 

Clunky glasses rested atop his nosebridge, and dark bangs covering most of his vision, you’d often see him tottering around campus with a column of books that was damn-near taller than him. And despite his towering demeanour - from your mental counting, Choso was around 6’2 or more - around most of the student body, he was the type that couldn’t meet your eyes no matter how many classes you shared with him.

Even now, as you seated right next to him and smiled- Choso softly yelps and turns away from.

You don’t take it personally, of course, as he was simply the shy type. And by the flush that rises to his high cheekbones, you know he - at the very least - doesn’t dislike you.

Situating yourself, you’re opening your bag and pulling out your laptop. Opening it- fuck.

The briefest flash of one of Curses’s previous streams—where he had his cock in his hands and his face contorted mid-ecstasy flashes across your screen. And you can’t slam your laptop shut fast enough- cracking it just the slightest bit to exit out of the numerous tabs, fingers nothing but a blur. Thank fuck your volume hadn’t been set on high.

Head ducked, you’re looking out from the corner of your eye to check whether Choso had seen anything. 

But if he did, he shows no indication.

Only keeping his back ramrod straight- his gaze ahead- his flush fiery as he listens to whatever Yaga was saying. 

And so you think you’re in the clear…for now…

Opening your laptop up once more, you’re logging onto your lecture platforms and attempting to forget about last night. Which was difficult when that smile upon Curse’s face, just beneath his mask - was the only thing running through your mind.

And before you know it, you’d been staring blankly at your screen for a few seconds—before Choso inches in just a centimeter closer. Unwilling to let himself take up even more space. He keeps his eyes trained ahead and his voice - fuck, you’d never heard his voice before but it was just so deep and measured, something you wouldn’t have expected out of him - low. 

Whispering to you, “H-he’s on Chapter 18 of Stone Butch Blues, we’re about to write a screenplay for the zoo scene.” 

“Ah…” You don’t know whether you’re more surprised at the timbre of his voice or the way he managed a proper sentence out to you. All your previous attempts at conversation throughout the semester had been futile—and you’d long resigned yourself to the idea that he was too nervous to ever talk to you. “Th-thank you.”

He doesn’t answer but nods in shy acknowledgement.

And as you’re opening up your file, you bask in the realization that Choso Kamo was actually hot underneath those glasses. If only you could see his features further…

Maybe you’re being a little delirious. Your eyes feel heavy. 

Heavy.

Heavier. 

Tap-tap-tap.

A shake.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

A warm hand on your shoulder, by the time you’re opening your eyes- you’re looking up into even warmer, molten chocolate-colored ones. They were framed by fawny eyelashes and thick glasses that made his shy gaze seem ever-so-slightly amplified. 

You think you’re stunned for a few seconds before Choso speaks, “U-um…class is over.”

“Oh.” That makes you dart your head up and look around, noticing that most of the students had filtered in or were in the process of already doing so. “Oh, shit-”

You’d seriously slept through all that?

And Yaga had left you alive?!

No, you weren’t going to question this act of mercy—thank goodness for the last row, because he likely hadn’t been able to see you. Shooting upright, you’re grabbing all your things and hoping you hadn’t snored next to the sweet boy - “Thank you so much for waking me.” You’re turning towards him and saying, earnestness seeping into your tone. “Knowing me, I would’ve slept right through till next class. Might actually have been more convenient.”

He startles into a laugh then raises a hand up to his mouth and quietens himself down, “It’s alright.” You’re staring closely at the little bells of laughter, and he turns his eyes downwards. Bashfully admitting, “Happens to me too, whenever I stay up um- studying. Long night?”

You sigh, “You could say that…” Not a long night studying, but…

And as the conversation quietens down and Choso worries down on his bottom lip, you’re hiking your backpack up on your shoulders and saying. “Well, I guess I should be going then. Catch up on the recordings of the lecture and everything-” Turning, “See you ‘round—and thanks again.”

You make all of five steps before Choso finally gathers up the courage to call out-

“Wait—!”

Confused, you’re facing him once more. “Yes?”

And his hand was out, his fingers were slightly trembling. He was mouthing out the words as though still debating whether to speak them into existence - whether he was capable of. “I…we-” Eventually mustering up the courage once you give a reassuring nod, “When will we meet up?”

That makes you pause.

Was he…

“F-for the assignment.” Choso clarifies, a flush rising to his cheeks as he likely realizes he should’ve led with that. “Professor Yaga’s mid-semester project he always does…”

Ah—you’re clapping a palm on your forehead. How could you have forgotten? Yaga had announced at the start of the semester that about halfway through, the class would be paired up or put into groups to work on a collaborative project that contributed to about 50% of your grade. This semester, it was to write a full-length movie screenplay for a book or musical of your choice. And you’d been excited for it, in fact, but after the…activities of last night it’d completely slipped your mind that he’d be delving more into it this lecture.

And the poor boy stumbles through his explanation, “H-he let everyone choose their partners, and I wanted to wake you up but…you just looked so peaceful.” He fidgets with his fingers and flushes, “I th-thought one of your friends would come up here and choose you but-”

Probing him gently, “But?”

“B-but I’m afraid you ended up paired with me.” Choso just looks so genuinely apologetic- “I’m sorry- no one picked me either. I should’ve woken you up, but we can go talk with Professor Yaga about changing partners if you’d like-”

“Hey—wait.” You’re cutting off his spiel, something in your chest aching at the utterly devastated furrow between his brows. You take a step closer to him, “I would love to do the project with you, Choso. No need to talk to Yaga about anything.”

He looks up at you with wide, disbelieving eyes. “B-but your friends…”

“I don’t really have close friends in this class, anyway.” You smile, “I’d much rather do it with you.”

“Really—?” Breathed. As if he couldn’t believe it.

And it’s after some time - and a deep inhale - that he speaks again. Finally sinking in that someone would choose him of all people—that you would, that he speaks again. “And um- would you like to work on the script at my place?” Before you can answer, his breath hitches and his head shoots up. “N-not that I’m pressuring you into…it’s nothing weird, I promise! We can meet anywhere else you like- the library, your place- wait, no that’s weird, too…”

“Choso- Choso.” You giggle. And if this was anyone else then you would’ve assumed that they were putting the moves on you. “I’m okay with your place.”

.

.

.

The apartment was a fair distance away from the campus dorms. 

Which made sense, you suppose, given the fact that less than half the people there would be able to afford the rent on such a place—especially after tuition. The highrise dove into the clouds, its vermicular body scaled in glistening windows and gold-accented furnishings within. You got the distinct feeling of being swallowed whole as you entered through the widely-gaped entrance, with several doormen and security that eyed you up and down, bowed at Choso.

You thanked them and made your way - slightly speechless - through the hallways.

This was everything you could ever dream of, and you’re sure you spot the odd actor or two down in the lobby. As you’re getting into an elevator the size of your entire dorm room, Choso punches in one of the highest floor numbers and turns to you-

Throughout the bus ride here, you’d been the one chattering away. And so it surprises you once he finally speaks, “I-I’m sorry…my place is a bit of a mess.”

“Can’t be as bad as mine. I won’t judge.” Who cares about a mess when he lives in a place like this? You couldn’t wait to go inside…

He pushes his chunky glasses upwards and gives you a shy smile, “Thank you.” Looking down at his polished shoes, “You’re so sweet.”

“Thank you.” 

And you rise upwards in silence.

Soon enough, you’re finding yourself being led up to his massive apartment. He’s punching in the numbers of the code and setting his backpack down—telling you to make yourself comfortable. And you shuffle inside awkwardly; past the lavish furnishings and the alien-shaped lamps that all rich places seemed to boast. 

He leads you in the direction of the master bedroom - where Choso said that his film collection was vast and likely to reveal techniques that the two of you would be able to incorporate into your own script.

“I even have a copy of Momijigari- it’s one of my most prized possessions.” He shoots you such a charming smile, eyes twinkling behind his glasses, over his shoulder. Heading inside. 

And you can’t help but follow.

A single step inside his not-so-humble abode and you’re feeling a sudden sense of déjà vu wash over you, rendering you unsteady on your feet. Not quite sure why, you’re sweeping your eyes around the space: the high-quality camera equipment in one corner (not unusual to see for a film student), the chic furnishings, and then over to the empty wall space above the king-sized bed, something in you remained dissatisfied as they find nothing there but white plaster.

Choso notices that you’ve stalled behind and looks over at you curiously—he was taking a seat on the carpet, laptop opened up on top of the coffee table. “Something wrong? I’m sorry, I know it’s really messy but-”

“No, you’re good.” You shake your head, “It’s actually not messy enough.”

He smiles.

That night, you went home and wondered why Choso’s smile looked so familiar.

.

.

.

The musical that you’d chosen for your ‘adaptation’ was The Phantom of the Opera, suggested by you, of course.

And if there had been any connection to the masked man you’d been watching the night prior, then you were just glad that Choso had no idea.

It was far easier, given the fact that it’d already been adapted from the initial novel—though that only meant that Yaga would be critiquing yours even harder. 

So you had to strive to be more cinematic, than the others in your class, stronger in ways than the ones before you - and though you doubt you’d ever match up to Schumacher’s visuals, there was little doubt as to whether you’d be the best amongst the students. This was a screenplay made to impress, and in the week since you’d pored over it—and Choso Kamo’s mahogany coffee table typing away at it, you only grew more determined in the fact. And throughout the week, you’ve been flitting in and out of that very apartment of his.

Choso had been a lovely partner for the project - the best you could’ve ever asked for - and you’re coming to find that he was actually far more funny than anyone ever gave him credit for. Far more open. Far more active when it came to something he was passionate about.

And of course, you knew that he’d be sweet.

Despite his initial insistence that he could do the project himself, you’d taken up half the work. And you’d joined him in browsing through his massive catalogue of movies, in searching up screenplays to read, and in annotating them for techniques when starting to write yours.

You’ve come to make friends with one of the doormen by now. 

Just today you’d watched the 2004 Phantom of the Opera adaptation. And after a few hours of occupying his space and getting to know the nerdy boy a little better, you’d go straight back home to…Curse.

Whenever Choso made you feel tingly with his sweetness, Curse would amplify that heat to right between your legs. 

It’s been a week of getting to know Choso Kamo, and a week of having Curse splashed across your laptop screen—cock furiously hard n’ his moans echoing. He’d smile and utter your username whilst wearing his iconic mask and it’d be a high strong enough to follow into the day after. And often Choso would ask you what you’re so happy about.

Today, in particular, Curse had just finished one of his streams - cumming aaaaaall over the desk this time - when he’d settled himself back down and started chatting with the comments. Responding to one or two of yours.

You’re just about to joke about why he was sticking so long after his orgasm when he speaks once more- 

Voice somewhat serious, “Alright, now…settle down, settle down.” Curse waves his hand airily at the camera, throwing a middle finger up when the chat only gets more frenzied. “Tch- what brats you all are, would you wanna roleplay that someday?”

@vampzo333: YES PLEASE.

@likezmenpregnant: How about you be the brat…?

@Ietsmakeamovie: I would like that. 

@sixeyesorsixh0les: ^^

@0003h0lesforCurse: ^

“Fine fine…” Underneath the mask, he rolls his eyes fondly. “But I really do have something to announce-”

@likezmenpregnant: You’re pregnant.

@Ietsmakeamovie: I’m the father-

@Curse’swifey: NO MEEEEEEEEEEE!!

“I’m thinking of getting a partner for these streams.” He finally admits, rubbing his chin as though still in thought. And your heart stops-

@bipplruletheworld: so down.

@Cursenoticeme44: Omg yeeeeeeeeees!!

@daddytoeknee: YESYESYES.

The chat practically explodes, and you’re unsure what to feel about it—after all, you don’t know Curse and it’d be strange to feel a little possessive over his solo streams, however, you did have your preferences. But then again, you can’t help but imagine just how much hotter it would be to have two people- perhaps to see him make expressions he never has before…

Ultimately, you’re quiet as Curse leans in and scans the chat. His brows furrow just a little as he sweeps through the blurring usernames, “I dunno…I’m still thinking about it- I haven’t even asked this person, to be honest. I just wanted to know what you guys thought.” Nodding his head along or huffing out laughter at some of the comments, “Movie?”

You jolt—at being called out.

He wanted your opinion specifically? You suppose you did contribute to about half his comment section most streams.

But you stall as your fingers reach for the keyboard. 

Biting down on your lip and contemplating for a little while. Though he waits as patiently as ever-

@Ietsmakeamovie: I don’t mind!!

Something seems to wash over him as he reads your comment, nodding. “I see.” 

He moves onto something else and his expression was indiscernible. 

You’re flickering your eyes to the artwork behind him, the small corner of it peaking into the frame, and it suddenly hits you that it’s the theatrical poster of The Phantom of the Opera (2004).

.

.

.

It can’t be.

It can’t be.

It can’t be.

There’s something your brain was telling you that you’re absolutely refusing to believe—after all, how many people in the world loved The Phantom of the Opera? Hell, how many people in the world have watched The Phantom of the Opera?

That didn’t mean that everyone you came across had a secret identity as one of the hottest streamers on C4mBoyfriends.

You were being paranoid, you told yourself. You were being utterly silly- and the next time you’re going over to Choso’s apartment was the very next day. Which wasn’t entirely ideal, given how much you’d tossed and turned after Curse’s last stream conjuring up all the possibilities…but Yaga wouldn’t accept a request for an extension even if you were set on fire in front of him. And so you went.

The pit of your stomach twists as Choso swings the lavish wooden door open and gives you a beaming smile. So innocent. So sweet.

He shakily pushes his glasses up as he welcomes you in. “Come in—s-sorry if I took a while to get to the door, I’ve been doing some decorating recently.”

His nervous smile is what makes you find your voice. And you’re dubiously looking around the luxurious apartment, “You need to do some decorating?”

“Believe it or not, yes.” Choso huffs. “Would you like something to drink? Or maybe to eat? I checked out that bakery you recommended last time and you’re right- they have the best Danish pastries.”

“Actually, Choso…” You’re shaking your head, shooting him a grateful smile. “I’m good. I’d think I’d prefer to start right away, if that’s alright? I really wanna get to Act 2 today.”

“O-oh, of course—!”

And he’s sweetly guiding you inside, whilst you attempt not to look like you’re taking two steps at a time. Back to that familiar room. Back to that familiar desk. Back to that (somewhat) familiar bed which most certainly did not have an artwork from The Phantom of the Opera on it—

You open the door and the first thing you’re seeing is the familiar plane of that white mask. The Phantom. 

Choso follows behind you and catches you staring at the poster. Gravelly tone echoing from behind, “I told you I did some decorating.”

And you jump-

Swivelling around to find him bearing you a sheepish smile, “Sorry if I startled you.” He pushes those chunky glasses up, “Tea?”

“S-sure…” You breathe, if anything for a thing to occupy your mouth with. Wait- not like that—!

And as Choso disappears down the hall, you’re taking a seat on the bed you’ve sat on countless, countless times before without a single care in the world. Now you’re sinking into the very - the very - edge as though it’d swallow you whole.

Body just resting on the plush comforter before-

“Hey, so I also have coffee if you would prefer?” Comes Choso’s sudden voice.

And you’re startling once more- “Just tea is fine, thanks.” Barely managing to get that through your lips, you’re watching as he disappears…as the sound of his footsteps echo…

Before darting off the bed and now heading towards the camera equipment you’d noticed in the corner the first time you’d been here. What you’d assumed to be part of another one of his classes or personal projects. Now, you’re leaning in and wondering with just which camera he showed his pretty cock off to millions, at just what height of his tripod he made your cunt so heated. 

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck this was real.

Now, you’re noticing things in the room that you’d never noticed before. Like the ring light kept underneath his bed, and the dresser in the corner with numerous rings- those weren’t costume props or anything. They were pure silver.

Heavy.

Heavy, like the pit in your stomach—excited and swirling. Just trembling at the tips of your fingers - ever-so-slightly - you’re reaching out as though to touch it, as though to feel the alternate version of Choso that you knew longer than you knew Choso-

“Ah, so you’ve realized.”

And then his voice permeates the room.

The room that suddenly seems smaller, the room that suddenly seems to rise ten degrees in temperature - though goosebumps skitter across your skin. And almost as though in a horror movie, you’re turning in slow motion to face the bespectacled man who was now holding up a tray of steaming hot tea. 

He walks over soundlessly and sets it on the coffee table with a slight click! And besides that, Choso walks over to the dressing table and puts his silver rings on.

One by one.

His eyes hold court with yours through the mirror, “How long?” Voice a deep timbre. 

You’re taking a step closer without even realizing, “Um…just last night. Just now- actually.”

He chuckles and you realize he’s asking how long you’ve known about Curse.

“I-I found you by chance. About a week ago, actually…” And then you say what’s been on your mind ever since you had, “Ever since you liked and unliked my repost.”

“Ah, a rookie mistake.” Choso comments. “I should have known better than to stalk using my public account.” And with all rings now put on and glinting in the lighting of his bedroom, Choso shuffles through his jewellery tray to pluck his earrings in and one eyebrow piercing. And then…one lip piercing—a lip ring that twinkles mischievously as he smiles.

He rises and you think you’ve never quite appreciated his built frame. 

His deep eyes as they’re locking in on you. Echoing out, “Though…you really can’t say much- can you, Movie?”

And though you knew that he knew- you can’t stop the zaps of electricity running through your body. 

Sputtering out, “Yeah-” Your fists clench and you’re looking up at the object of both your fantasies and your secret interest these past few days - melded into one. “Yeah, I really can’t. Choso you’re so…”

“Different?” He fixes his glasses, “Though I really am shy, I can’t deny that- especially around you. But it helps to be a little more antisocial when I’m around idiots.”

He leans in closer- so close that his scorchin’ hot breath wafts across your features. You have no idea how you’d diminished such a distance so soon…

“And if my memory serves me right-” Choso taps on the edge of his chin, in mocking thought. “-I seem to remember that Movie agreed to have a partner on my stream.” You shiver. And he looks at you adoringly, “So how about it? Wanna make a movie, baby?”

You step a little closer. 

“Only if I get to match wardrobes.”

He chuckles and picks you up to spin you around-

And then it’s getting to work. And then it’s shuffling through his closet to find a mask that matches his own. 

He stretches on the rubber a bit and brings it to you—“I bought this one when I first started, but it ended up being too tight- I think it’d be just the one for you.”

It was. It fit perfectly.

And then he paces around the room and starts to set up- before Choso’s gaze catches you hovering around the bed, and then he’s clicking his tongue and forgoing the tripods altogether. With just the professional lights and the high-quality camera, Choso places the camera on top of the coffee table. Facing the foot of the bed - everything and anything could be seen.

Just with a few clicks he’s started the stream.

And with just a little nudge he’s urging you to sit next to him. 

“Hello, my little sluts—” Choso- or should you say Curse croons towards the camera. On one of his monitors you can see him being projected there - waving, in his knitted vest that clashed with his mask. You stand off awkwardly out of sight from the camera. He smiles. “As you can see, things are a little different today…”

@girrrrrrrrrrth: uuuuuu change of angle!! change of angle!!

@bewbsRlife: ARE WE GETTING A SURPRISEEEEEEE??

@likezmenpregnant: Pls be pregnant, Curse <3

“No- no, I’m not pregnant.” He laughs, “But I have been thinking about what we talked about last night.”

@bipplruletheworld: omg this can’t be…

“And guess what? I did what you guys told me about- and I talked to her.”

@bipplruletheworld: yessssssss

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE^^

@bewbsRlife: WOOOOOO-

@daddytoeknee: Omg where’s Movie, Ik she’d love this- heh. Imagine this WAS Movie though…

“So, my little sluts…” Choso announces, “I’d like to introduce you all to my new partner—” And he’s reaching out and clasping your wrist, looking up to check for reassurance before continuing. Miming whispering to the camera, “And this is her first time on stream, so be nice…”

You’re sheepishly walking into their view. 

Slightly bowing your intrusion into the stream, “Th-thanks for having me?”

“Isn’t she cuuuuute?” He asks the commenters, and there’s a flurry of agreements. You’re even spotting a few questions about your name n’ interests, even kinks, amongst those - all of which Choso waves off with a laugh. “Now now—we can have the Q&A later. For now, let’s get to the fun part…”

@Curse’swifey: FUCK THAT’S MY FAV PART-

@2coolforcond0ms(i’mavirgin): Movie you’re missing out on a historic moment uwu

And the fun part consisted of clamoring onto the bed as fast as lightning. Letting the mattress dip n’ creak its protests out as Choso sits on it with his back turned to the camera, then lovingly pats his manspread thighs as a signal for you to climb on. Meaty muscles. Thick enough for you to want to sink your teeth into- how could you never have noticed?

Perhaps because this was the polar opposite of how he acted when he was on campus - always keeping to himself, never taking up too much space. Now he was practically vacuuming it all up so you had nowhere else to sit.

And you were more than happy to climb onto Choso Kamo’s lap.

Sitting your ass down on his readily-awaiting seat. From under your skirt you feel something hot—and throbbing between his legs. Cylindrically shaped and curved to the left.

Just the slightest movement makes his rock-hard erection twitch underneath- and you’re whimpering at the lewd sensation. At the way he drips out a hefty dollop of precum that seeps through his trousers and sticks to the front of your panties, making you gasp—“Ch-Cho-”

“Shhhh.” Choso wraps a hand ‘round your throat and cuts you off. 

And before you know it, he’s bouncing his knees to get you to slide your drippin’ pussy up and down his bulge. Up and down. Turning towards the camera, “Ya hear that?” Up and down. “My girl’s so needy- she’s already begging for it. But I dunno if she deserves it, huh?”

@bewbsRlife: I MEANNNN

@theh0rniestsoldier: i’m feeling mean today…

@daddytoeknee: Give her your mouth!!

“Mouth? I love that idea.” Choso titters.

And then he’s giving a teasing slap on the side of your ass cheeks—smack! 

“Please-”

“Sit on my face now, baby.” He purrs, eyes flickerin’ with pure need underneath his mask. Then leaning in to whisper in a loooow tone for only you to hear. “You know Choso, but let’s see if you can handle Curse.”

Then he leans back on the bed - his head pointing in the direction of the camera. 

And you’re shuffling up Choso’s toned, brick-hard body—straddling your knees upon either side of his head, veerin’ your hips right atop that pretty face. You’re sitting - right in front of the camera. Though nothing was revealed…yet. 

And Choso’s digging his tongue up to you instantly- he isn’t even making it past the fabric of your panties. But that doesn’t stop him from lettin’ his tastebuds take a looooong, luxurious lick of your swollen pussy.

Right down your sopping wet slit. 

Suddenly, the room echoes with one of his pornographic moans- the very same ones you’d listened to night after night through your laptop speakers. Now they’re even louder, and somehow even sexier, sending electricity shooting straight up, up, up from your core.

And even more treacherous was the way you’re feeling something cold…and metallic at the very middle of Choso’s tongue. Rock-hard. It takes whatever’s left of your rationality to realize that it’s a silvery tongue piercing smack-dab where his tastebuds kissed your pussy. Scraping alongside where you were most sensitive. 

Instantly; your head tips back and saliva starts bubbling at the sides of your lips. “Fuh-fuck…” And before you know it—you’re starting to drag your throbbing pussy up n’ down his features.

Short, barely-there jerks of your shy, shy hips.

And Choso chuckles huskily to himself at the cute way you were yearnin’ for his mouth. But what you didn’t expect was for him to reach one ringed hand up and squeeze the left side of your hips.

Your only warning.

Before he’s suddenly tightening his hold on you and reaching one more hand up- snaking it beneath your skirt like some pervert. Choso edges towards your throbbing cunt and places one good slap—

It’s the resounding smack! of skin-on-skin that makes you halt more than anything.

Jaw-dropped. Thighs quivering. The white-hot pleasure runs through your spine and leaves you barely hearing his roughened words, a tone lower than you knew his voice to be- as though drunk on the delicious taste of your pussy already. “Greedy, greedy girl…” Choso tuts, “Don’t tell me you’re trying to enjoy yourself without letting our dear audience in on the fun?”

Oh, shit.

You’re letting your head snap to where the camera was positioned and blinking its one gluttonous eye. Comments flooding the screen of the monitor so fast that you couldn’t read them-

You’d completely forgotten about the stream for a second. 

“I—oh, I um.” 

Yet another harsh smack! “Forgot, huh?” Amusement seeps into Choso’s words, as though he’d already guessed the situation.

You admit, “M-maybe…”

“I’m afraid I can’t blame you, baby.” Smack! “Curse’s mouth is too good, huh?” He yammers on and on, his tongue nudging deeper, his rippling tastebuds skidding into every ridge- as if trying to fuck you through your damn panties. “This pussy’s too good–she’s purring f’me already. Hear her?”

And you’re not sure why- but you’re nodding to whatever he says. “Y-yes—fuck.” 

“Mhm. So why don’t we let our lovely audience hear, too, huh?” You’re barely given the time to register his suggestion, before Choso husks out a command. “Lift your skirt up, baby.”

Your thighs squeeze around his head at the notion-

And your fingertips touch the short hemline of your skirt.

@Cursenoticeme44: Holy shit.

@theh0rniestsoldier: i’ve been waiting for thisssssssssss-

@daddytoeknee: WOW.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: bby’s so needy!!

@R€4leater: munch Curse #canon

The chat explodes as you let them bear witness to Choso’s face stuffed between your pretty legs- he’s redly-flushed and ravenous. They could see the slightest glimpse of his nose n’ the way he’s driving it between your sodden pussylips, diving and diving, they could see the glossy layers coating your cunt—and the way Choso’s pink lips come up to suck on it. 

Those handsome cheeks of his hollow out, as he’s makin’ out with your pussy through your panties.

Like a man starved.

Long canines slightly nippin’ at your folds- almost wolfish in mannerisms.

“Oh p-please…” You’re quivering atop him. You don’t even know what you’re begging for—just that it feels so good to have him veering his tongue hungrily against your cunt like this. And you wanted more.

More, more, and more.

Choso’s holding onto your restless hips with a clammy hand- he’s stuck to you almost like adhesive. And he guides your hips - he fucking slows them down - whilst you continue moanin’ and shaking atop his raw mouth. Glistening wet tongue extending even more than its usual length to slide-slide-sliiiiide your panties to the side-

And you’re gasping at the sudden whiff of cold bedroom air against your naked pussy. “Ch-” A spank. “I mean- fuck, Curse?”

“Mhm, m’here, baby.” He drawls out. Slightly slurring with all the extra globs of your pussy juices - pooling straight into your mouth, n’ Choso reaches up and smooches your soft swollen folds to smear it all around. Like some gloss. “M’here aaaaaand- so are 820k sluts that wanna watch you break.”

“B-break?” You’re gaping, “I thought you were just gonna- ngh, eat me out…?”

“Baby, Curse never ‘just’ does anything.” And you’re shocked to find him sliding his tongue out, tipping his head back to refer to the camera on the coffee table. “Isn’t that right, fuckin’ pervs?”

@daddytoeknee: Hell yeah.

@0003h0lesforCurse: duhhhhhhhhh

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: YOU’RE THE BEST CURSE

@Fishygurodad: Fuck, her pussy’s divine.

“Heh…” Choso smiles into your cunt, “And so whaddaya say? How many slaps before I stick my tongue in her?”

@vampzo333: 3

@bbynohuuuuzz: 14

@Ilikepr1menumbers: 29

“Since m’feeling nice- read your favorite one out, baby.” He murmurs.

To which you’re unable to do anything but- you tilt your upper half just the slightest bit closer to the monitor and pick out the first one you can read through the blur of words and numbers:

@Fishygurodad: Until she cries.

Oh.

Your blood runs cold.

Your cunt grows heated.

And before you can either rectify your recitation or beg for mercy—Choso doesn’t hesitate before fixing the rings on his fingers to be slightly higher than before. Making sure they’re in line of him planting one- two- three good, loud spanks on your sobbin’ cunt. “O-oh my god- fuck, mmm, oh my god.”

Until the skin of his fingertips seems to redden, and your pussylips feel raw - “How about that?” He asks- not from you, but from the viewers.

@daddytoeknee: I don’t see her crying yet…also idkkkkk I’m getting Movie vibes.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: movie would’ve loved this-

And then it’s one after the other. Again and again, Choso’s emblazoning the rude outlines of his rings against yours - until you’ve fucking memorized the ridges n’ patterns of the one ring on his middle finger with the carving of an octopus. 

Tentacles flared out.

“Shit, not that damn ring again.”

And as he’s doing so he can’t help himself- fuck, he can’t heeeeelp himself. His canines dig into the sticky fabric of your underwear like a damn dog - and throughout the duration of what his hands were doing, you’re hearing the sharp riiiiip of fabric tearing—!

Soon enough, your panties are tattered and ruined in Choso’s maw- just from his mouth. He spits it out and continues swerving his thickened tips inwards to give a loving pinch on your clit—and you can’t help but burst into peals of shrill, needy cries. Both pain and pleasure mixing as he doles out a final swat-

Before Choso swipes your pussylips apart and spits- the glutinous glob of his saliva landing directly on your hole. He doesn’t give it the time to seep back out—instead, he’s surging up and shoving his face between your legs.

This time, without the barrier of your panties in the way. 

@CCpervnextdoor: HE FUCKING RIPPED IT OFF WITH HIS MOUTH??

@bewbsRlife: HOLY SHIT CURSE-

@Fishygurodad: Shiiiiit, I’d do the same ngl.

And then Choso’s shoving his tongue inside and slurpin’ all around your wet hole like a damn animal…

In and out.

In and out.

Probin’ into slippery sweet spots.

Chin hitting the back of your slit. Plastic mask rubbing against your clit. 

Choso’s pierced tongue was going absolutely fucking wild inside of you. He wastes no time before gripping either side of your cute hips and slammin’ your pussy down onto his mouth- hard and fast. The perverted nerd is slashing his tongue inwards, smearin’ apart your glue-covered folds. As deep as he could go. He doesn’t care if it hurts, he just needs to make sure that loooong slick muscle of his tastebuds were scrapin’ every inch of your walls.

With the curved tip of it, he flexes it against a sweet bundle of nerves. Making you buck with a pitchy moan of his name—“Ch-Cuuuurse—!” And the sensation was made even more delicious with the way his orb tongue piercing presses in contrast against your hot cunt. “It feels so good, Curse.”

“I already know.” Choso pipes up- cocky in all the ways you never knew he could be. “I already know- but what about those fuckers watching, huh?”

“W-well…” Spit drivels down your chin, and you’re struggling to keep your eyes focused to read the urgent chat. 

@bipplruletheworld: they’re so HOT!!

@NERDSAREMYBABYGIRLZ: OHHHH WHAT A MUNCH

@daddytoeknee: Me next <3

And it was clear that they were seeing the effect he had on you- how could they not?

Your eyes were dazed and teary, your thighs were shaking like leaves in the wind, Choso was making your body twitch—just from the way he’s reeling his entire tongue out. And breathing out steadily and slowly against your twitchin’ pussylips, freezing cold air that leaves you even wetter on top of him.

He’s unfastening his mouth - leaving it wiiiiide open for all the satiny ribbons of your slick to enter his gullet. And once you’re done- that isn’t enough riling you up.

Choso leaves a good slap on your folds and asks, “So…what about it?” Muffled through his mouthfuls.

“They agree- they agree—” You’re keening out. Star-struck, seeing pleasure burst behind your shuttered eyelids at the sudden stinging. “Fuck- you’re the hck! best I’ve ever had, Curse.”

“I agree.” He hums. And as if this entire ordeal wasn’t sinful enough, Choso’s swashing around the silky-smooth sap he’d collected from your leaking pussy. Letting the flavor seep into his tastebuds, before he’s then spitting again on your pussy. A semi-opaque layer of lewdness that coats your inner thighs in a sheen that catches the lighting. 

Perfect on camera.

You’re squeezing your wettened thighs together and creating an audible squelch!

“Awwww, look- this pussy agrees, too.”

The gooey addition startles you- and you rut.

Only straight down onto his awaiting fingers.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: oh, shit is he…

@legsopenforcurses: With the rings on, too!!

@likezmenpregnant: My show is onnnnn

It’s such a fucking mess for him to navigate- even with his own fingers. Soon enough, you’re arching your back as you feel him intrude a single ringed digit between those utterly swollen pussylips of yours—almost difficult to find your snug hole between them. You’re damn lucky that Choso’s fingers were slender as well as incredibly lengthy.

Because he’s circlin’ your tight orifice a few times - only a few times - before inserting the sections of his finger. Quirking just right and hitting the exact bundle of your nerves.

That infamous g-spot that made you yelp once he starts and keeps on hitting.

And his rings- oh, fuck, his rings.

Just so chunky and textured. They were the perfect designs to press up against your walls and massage them stupid- every drag meant that you’re feeling them dig into ridges n’ crevices you hadn’t even known existed. 

Hitting and hitting. Curling his dexterous finger and scraping- “Fuuuuck, oh my god.” The doughy tip of his finger soon becomes damn-near molded to the area where it was, and your eyes flicker to the back of your head as you continue anglin’ your hips so he could hit it perfectly. “Right there, Curse- r-right there.”

“I know.” Choso rolls his eyes - at least what seems like it underneath his mask. “That’s why I’m hitting it. Honestly…is my girl dickmatized?” He utters as he sucks on your clit—ultimately erupting a sobbing slurp! that makes him nod. “Mhm, I think my girl’s dickmatized.”

Tipping his head back before you can refute his claims. He then addresses the audience-

“Whaddaya think, my little pervs? Dickmatized already…maybe I should go easy on her, huh?”

@olderandR4w: nooooooooooo

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: NEVER.

@Fishygurodad: Go even harder.

“Tough crowd.” And with that said, Choso’s stuffin’ in just a few more fingers. Each with their own numerous rings and sopping wet sounds accompanying them—slurp!

One. 

Two.

You’re counting about three of his prolonged digits pushin’ your tight walls to their limits, rubbing your sweet spots raw with his constant bashing rhythm, before lustful fogginess coils around your brain. And it’s around here that Choso catches onto the glazed look in your eyes and chuckles—

“Ohhhh, you really are dickmatized.” He hums to himself, though you’re sure the professional mic picks it up either way. “And so soon, too. Probably hasn’t had a good finger-”

A fourth being added so that he can scissor apart your velvety channel whilst still multi-tasking with his other fingers to ram into your g-spot.

“-or even a good mouth on ‘er…” To emphasize his point, he presses a dramatically loud kiss upon your clit. One that’s making you bounce n’ bounce your hips atop his clammy face, and grind your throbbing nub down on his pointed nose. The addition of his mask just makes that cool touch even more lecherous. “My poor girl.” Choso still mutters out despite the way he’s gluing your cunt to his mouth. He pulls away from your clit with a loud pop! “What do you think, my slutty audience?”

At the slurring question you’re letting your head down to watch him. “Ch…Curse, what’ve you got on your mind-”

“M’just asking what else you deserve, baby.” He coos. And questions them once more, “How about a little quiz? Which parts of Curse are going to make my poor, poor girl feel the best? A). My fingers. B). My mouth. Or…”

And he pretends to listen to your noisy wet pussy once more.

“Or C…”  You could practically feel the grin plastering against your needy pussy. The way his eyes narrow in sinful amusement beneath his mask- you didn’t have to see his full face to know that Choso was enjoying this perhaps way more than he should. “—all of the above.”

And it was futile to think that they would answer anything else.

C floods your vision.

You’re letting your mouth droop, and your gaze meet Choso’s own between your legs- but you’re finding that you don’t have to say a thing for him to already know the answer.

And as expected, he gives a final roll of his tongue atop your clit - before munchin’ on your aching cunt once more. This time, he’s tunneling his fingers deep into your cavern whilst still licking inside with his prolonged tongue—when stretched out, Choso’s tongue could reach almost as deep as his fingers could.

Your cunt was being stretched-out to lengths you never thought about before.

Not only were Choso’s fingers thicker than yours, but his tongue was something ravenous- no matter how much you’re flinching in sensitivity, he isn’t slowing down. “Mmm-” He groans, barely breathing through even his flared nostrils. You’re hit with the distinct feeling that he thinks he doesn’t even have to breathe as long as he had you on him like this - “Mmm, hold still.”

Taking advantage of the fact to lavish your sensitive inches with kiss upon kiss. To grind his nose down purposefully on your clit. To glide his metallic piercing across those hidden spots. To bash your poor g-spot in again and agaaaain with his fingers before his tongue’s coming to the rescue to soothe the slightly raw sting-

So it’s not long before you’re throwing your head back and cumming.

Perhaps the strongest you’ve ever felt when you’re in the throes of your high.

You barter your hips forwards and keep up a steady pace - one that’s making Choso hit the exact spots you wanted him to during the peaks of your high. The utmost peaks. “Shit—shit, just like that.” Breathless. “K-keep going, baby, it feels so good.”

And he doesn’t even answer - too caught up in fucking you through your orgasm.

In the way you shudder above him. In the way you’re only getting even sweeter by the second-

Bodyheat raising a few degrees in temperature; your heart sings and the bed creaks with how much you’re jostling from above. This was even better than touching yourself to videos of him, there were so many thrills of bliss that he’s wringing out of you- like he’d wring out of himself during his solo videos. 

With both his fingers and his tongue, slurpin’ and sliding. Those doe-like eyes of his are edging straight to the back of his skull as he feels your drenched walls cleeeeench around his pierced tongue, as though it’s the best thing he’s ever fucking felt. And you’re acting on impulse - you really are - because the coffee table was positioned right beside the foot of the bed.

And all you had to do was reach your arm out to grab the simple camera there. Turning it into your point of view as Choso’s sweaty brown bangs stick to his forehead, as sweat trickles down his temple, as he lets out soft yet unyielding moans whenever you’re squeezing your thighs around his head.

@cockycockowner: no homo but that’s the most beautiful man i’ve ever seen.

@theh0rniestsoldier: woah he’s PUSSYDRUNK

@Fishygurodad: Show me his POV.

@daddytoeknee: Don’t you know that she’s his girl now smh?^^

@daddytoeknee: Movie-core- wya ml??

Choso cocks his head and keeps making out with your pussy in all the ways that make your toes curl—pleasure elongating from your orgasm and spreading into every part of you. Your vessels, your cells, your atoms.

They’re all buzzing with pleasure and still aching for more once Choso finally pulls away with a loud pop! of his lips releasing. 

When they do, you’re sneaking a look down at him and noticing just how red n’ swollen they were. Even the skin around his jaw was flushed with the constant ramming contact. And the viewers are just gobbling it up - subscribing bells keep dinging here and there, and everywhere. 

Just a single look at his stats on-screen reveal that Choso’s climbed up to 870k just since you’d started this stream.

And it’s after a little while - after he’s had his fill - that the dark-haired man finally taps at the side of your thigh to gesture for you to get up. Though, even then, he’s tightening his grip on your body—going against his own fucking instruction to press a final few open-mouthed kisses before he’s done.

He chases after your pussy with his maw for a little- before he’s finally sitting up.

And it’s only then that he seems to notice the camera in your hand, blinking his glazed eyes a few times to make sure he isn’t dreaming things up. Once it finally registers, the most attractive grin spreads across his face. “You changed POVs?”

“Had to.” You admit, “I wanted them to see how pretty you are…”

“Guess you finally learned about sharing, hm? Greedy girl.” He chuckles darkly to himself. And then he starts looming closer, “But you realize that the show’s not done yet, right?”

You gulp.

@Fishygurodad: Fuck her already, damn!! I’m only here for her.

@2coolforcond0ms(i’mavirgin): Hate to admit it, but he’s lowk right. I think I’ve discovered I’m bi…

@vampzo333: ^^

@girrrrrrrrrrth: ^^

“So impatient.” He looks at the monitor, reading the chat and tuts. “Honestly- so ungrateful. I should end the stream right here and fuck her on my own terms.”

There’s a frenzied flurry of comments- all of which you were sure were begging for Choso not to stop and bashing that one commenter for attempting to start a revolution. To which you’re only giggling and handing over the camera to him.

Choso - as the expert - then positions it somewhere by the edge of the fluffy pillows: where they’d be able to see the expanse of both your bodies and where you’d soon be connected…

And then you’re shedding your clothes in a hurry- making it to your smart blouse before he’s reaching a hand up and tearing through it. The buttons hit the floor, and at your noise of displeasure Choso merely lets out a half-delirious giggle. 

He leans in and whispers, “I-I have a Phantom of the Opera t-shirt I’d love for you to wear.”

The change in demeanour gives you utter whiplash, and you can’t help but stare at him open-mouthed.

“What?” Choso asks, next moving on to shrugging off his own fabrics. They’re landing on a heap beside the bed, and your lips slightly part at the display of his red-hot erection—it’s just as large and sensual as all those streams had proven him to be. Polished strawberry top. Slender veins along the middle. 

A happy trail of dark brown - nearly black - glistened with the splattered remnant of his precum. Just like the gleaming mess across his chin, mouth, and cheekbones that Choso wore like a medal.

He was slightly longer than even on camera- and even prettier up-close. Way up close- he shuffles his body up yours n’ fucks your tits a few times to dollop out glistening translucent precum across yours tits.

“Lighting’s not the best here.” Choso explains- or at least attempts to pin an explanation onto that. Onto something he’s clearly been wanting to do for so long. “Had to highlight ‘em, baby.”

You scoff, “It’s just…” Throwing a cautious glance at the camera, you lower your voice. “You’re so different from how you are in real life.”

“Oh? And how did you expect me to be, huh?” He positions himself between your legs - wrapping both of them around his waist. Before then thinking better of it and throwing them even more lewdly around his neck instead—his plush priggish tip kisses your entrance. “Did you expect me to be like…”

He trails off.

He doesn’t need to complete the rest of his sentence- and you don’t think you’d have heard him even if he tried.

Because in that very moment, Choso’s jerking his pale hips back a mere few inches—then plopping his globular tip between your pussylips and push-push-puuuuuushing. Fucking past the initial restraint of your first ring of muscle, he’s funneling in some thick inches that make your heels bang against the muscles of his back.

And he doesn’t even seem to notice.

He doesn’t even seem to breathe as he’s letting his cock swerve inside. Get suctioned inside. Get his Prince Albert’s piercing crept down your sensitive innards. Get gobbled up between your greedy legs-

You clench ‘round him and Choso throws his head back with a low, broken moan.

“Oh p-please—” He’s babbling out through unsteady pink lips, a lazy line of dribble starting up from one corner of his mouth. Those long lashes of his flutter as he’s reaching one bulky hand up to grip the headboard, and placing his right one on your hips- keeping you steady.

Fingers trembling. Muscles rippling.

@likezmenpregnant: Woah…make him do that again…

@sixeyesorsixh0les: SUBBY CURSE HELLO??

@whimperwhiteboywhimper: oh I am SO here for this

@Fishygurodad: Whatever…

Your eyes bulge once his throat cracks with what sounds like a whimper—“Please it feels so good.” And though you couldn’t quite make it out, even the chat seemed stunned as Choso punctures out a broken stutter of his hips. Delving a few inches into your goopy insides- though not enough to bottom out completely, as you’re still too wound-up for him to fit completely. And you’re able to pinpoint exactly where he’s using the orbed metal of his first piering. With more to come…“Ngh- oh.” Broken noises emanating into your eardrums and the mic. “It f-feels shooooo good, baby.”

Choso’s head drops into the crook of your neck, and there - and there - you’re feeling his cheeky grin.

And suddenly you’re understanding.

Oh—he was toying with you.

And he was doing it in a way that’d completely fooled you- and perhaps all of his viewers, too.

But before you’re able to open your mouth to bite back something at him, Choso staggers his hips back and gives you a vicious jackhammer with his cock, “O-ohhhhh, my god—” Your toes curl atop his shoulders, slippery with sweat. He hadn’t even rammed all the way inside yet, and yet the slightly left-leaning angle of his shaft was driving you wild.

Big and thick.

Running the slick globe of his tip down your walls, Choso probes a direct hit to that spot you loved so much. And he knew you loved it so much—he’d mapped out your entire pussy earlier, of course.

And yet, he’s still gasping as though the pearls gates of heaven had descended right here and there. He’s letting his sweet caramel eyes widen convincingly as he peers down at you, “I-is that…the spot, baby?”

@Curse’swifey: HE sounds SO NGH.

@daddytoeknee: Daddy likey…

@daddytoeknee: Also Movie would’ve really LOVED this, huh?

You hiss, “Curse, you should already know-”

“But how could I know—?” He exclaims. “This is my first time, after all…” Then Choso’s plastering his clammy tattooed hips - with a snake on the side - to yours, as though the two were connected by the force of the world’s strongest magnets: pulling and pushing, pulling and pushing. Every single battering ram of his mazing cocktip ends up lodged against your sweetly bruised g-spot, marking his circumference out with the sheer pace at which he was hitting it. 

“Shit—” Your nails clench on the sheets, and feeling jealous- Choso guides them to fist his hair instead. “Shit, right there. It f-feels so good-”

“There?” The once-nerdy man breathes out in awe. Disbelief every single time - or at least the mocking imitation of one. Swipin’ a line of precum down your nervy spot once more, “Th-there, baby—?”

Something breathy- octaves higher in his tone. “Yes- yes there-”

“There-” Choked up and ruined. Husky grunts hatching in the back of his throat. There was something there in his words that you couldn’t quite pinpoint—a sort of undertone of primal need, primal amusement as he ruined your pussy with his speedily pap-papping hips, but acted as though he had no idea what he was doing. Every single syllable uttered was met with a thorough whack of his curved cockhead against your particular spot- “There there there there- there-”

“Fuh-fuuuck-”

“So this g-spot’s really m-mine now, baby?” Choso asks. 

You whine, back arching off the mattress. “Yes-”

“Does she really have my mark on it now?”

“Yes…?” Eyes shooting open as you’re half-registering his question in your hazed brain. He bores his dark eyes down at you intensely. And as though to emphasize his point, you’re feeling his perfectly round tip squeezing into your throat by the next few thrusts. Deeper and deeper.

His Jacob’s Ladder starting to ease its frigid way past your entrance and glide across the roof of your cunt. It was a sensation like nothing you’ve ever felt before. 

Choso probes even more, “I-is she really shaped to the shape of my cock now?” 

“Cho—ngh.” Quickly shutting your cockdrunken self up. Quickly reaching a ringed hand up to squeeze your throat- before he’s languidly snaking his way up to squeezing your pretty cheeks together.

Smushing your face in a way that was almost disrespectful- though, not that you were in any state of mind to call him out on it. And there’s a mean inkling in Choso’s tone as he coos, “Awww, b-baby, why aren’t you answering me?” Another rude slap! of his hips make your own sear in flames- that damn strength of his. Those damn piercings of his. “Is your poor, poor Curse not good enough?” 

Before you can answer, he’s looking at the blinking camera. 

“My babies, my girl doesn’t love my cock anymore…”

“I do—I do-” 

Squeezing his doughy-soft restraints - those contrastingly mean fingers of his - around your cheeks. He’s managing to smush your mouth shut and make you echo out the most pathetically pleading whines—as he fucks you. Determined and targeted.

The glossy rotund edge of his tip presses against your g-spot a few more times before you’re managing to make yourself take a peek at the comments on the monitor. 

Almost too far away- almost too blurry with the tears in your eyes. 

@Curse’snewestharem: Awwwww poor bby </33

@CCpervnextdoor: I would LOVE your cock, Curse!!

@girrrrrrrrrrth: is it just me or is he teasing us?

@Fishygurodad: ^^Yeah, he’s totally a fraud.

@Curseswombmommy: ^^girl shut up

“Th-they really think you’re oh-so-innocent…” You’re whispering up at him. Overstimulated tears in your eyes.

Breath hitching every time he’s surging his tattooed hips forwards and hitting that one spot particularly hard. Though there was never such a thing as too hard…

And Choso’s shooting you a secret smile - one just between the two of you - before morphing his expression into that of picture-perfect innocence. Roleplaying the demeanor of his nerdy self on campus, mixed with the utterly sultry—sexual way he was draaaaagging his lengthy cock in and out of your cunt.

Eventually, Choso’s emptying his inches out n’ bruising the bottom of your pussy. All of his nine - you seriously felt nine throbbing inches - inches shaping out the in-betweens of your legs. All of the beaded barbells of his Jacob’s Ladder massaging inside- the slitherin’ feeling of them making themselves at home. Zig-zagging and slithering. 

He feels the sponginess of your cervix and presses a hand down on your abdomen just to make sure, before changing that excitement into one of almost-genuine bafflement- “I-I really bottomed out?” Choso’s pinkish bottom lip juts out and quivers dramatically.

“Of course, you did.” You’re ready to scoff-

But whatever sarcastic sound was in the back of your throat gets quickly dissolved at the sight of Choso with genuine tears in his eyes. Glistening. “But I never- ngh, never thought I’d be able to.” He puts some more merciless pressure on your stomach that makes you buck—

And the only thing you can do is let your head tip back into the pillows.

The only thing you can do is let out a few mottled moans as he rubs over the small tummy bulge he was fucking into you. Pushing his palm down so that he could feel it. 

Whispering out, “I-I never thought this pussy would claim my cock as- ngh, hers, hm?” And for the moment there, you’re completely sure that he isn’t talking to you. Rather, your pussy that was sobbing out squelches after every one of his jackhemmerin’ thrusts. “And it’s not too big, right?”

“N-never—”

“Because m’just a nerd with a- hngh, biiiiiig fuckin’ cock.” How pitiful, right? He’s letting his long, dark lashes flutter as Choso avoids meeting your eyes—as though in shyness. He drills his hips even deeper - one unforgettable strike after the other following every word he spoke. “Just a big- fat- fucking- cock-”

“Please—!” Eventually, your arms reach upwards and you’re grabbing ahold of whatever part of him it is you could reach first. Which just-so-happened to be his bulky deltoids.

Choso’s brows genuinely seem to furrow at the lewdness of you digging your nails into his muscles, leaving your marks for everyone and anyone to see even after this stream has ended. And so he continues in his faux-innocent tone, “Oh? Did that feel good, baby?”

Purposefully slidin’ his cock across your g-spot so that you’d have to cry out. “Y-yeeees—”

“I didn’t even know, baby.” His mouth hangs open, and the most lustrous squelches! echo between your two connected bodies. Your cunt n’ his precum were making such messes…“I had no idea…”

His Jacob’s Ladder leaves your channel feeling raw n’ overstimulated- you feel raw and overstimulated. 

And you’re laid-out on the bed dazed and feeling so fucking good as Choso’s picking his pace up even more, you notice for a split-second that his hands have moved. No longer was he holding onto your cheeks n’ watching you squirm—now, the nerdy man hooks both hands around your sweaty thighs and pins them close to his body.

Holding them in place as he leans down, down, dooooooown until the caps of your knees hit your tits. 

You’re keening at the stretch, and a searing burn spreads from between your pussy and along your hamstrings. How did he even hide such strength underneath those soft knitted vest? Such a body?

Before you know it, you’re being pressed into your first-ever mating press.

And Choso gapes as though he was just as bewildered as you, “O-oh…did I do that?” He’s fucking asking you—however, when your stunned expression bears no answer, he turns and asks the same question from the camera. The bursts of replies obviously agree n’ tease him. And he’s shaking his head ever-so-slightly, “Did I really bend you in- heh-” A slight chuckle escapes him. “—half, baby?”

And what else can you do but nod and nod and nod—? 

“I think this is called a…breeding press?” He cocks his head ever-so-slightly, before shaking his head. “No wait- a mating press.”

“A m-mating press.” You’re repeating lamely.

“I c-can’t believe I’ve folded you into a mating press, baby.” Choso nearly snarls at himself, his hips accelerating until that rouge-tipped cock of his was almost nothing but a blur. “Can’t believe—s’like my body is moving before my mind, ngh. My fat cock’s not hittin’ you too deep, right, my girl?”

“Not in the l-least…”

And he really was long enough to make each and every probe feel as though it was slam-slam-slamming into your throat- the capped crown of his shaft was entering crevices n’ crannies you hadn’t even known you possessed. All marked out precisely by the silvery orb of his Prince Albert’s. 

Just then, after your answer, Choso reaches his left hand up to wrap ‘round your throat - and then hauls you back down to meet his slapping hips.

A thrust even harder than the ones before it.

Your breath gets snatched out of your lungs, dissipating into the heady air filled with the contact-riddled sounds of sex. Hard and fast. Only getting harder the longer you have your ankles looped ‘round his neck—“Not too hard, is it, baby?” Chosos asks you once more.

And you don’t have anything to spit out besides, “Oh f-fuck off.”

He gasps dramatically-

Well, not exactly dramatically. But in a way you knew was fake, and in a way that sends the chat exploding into comments.

The nerd pouts cutely, “Well, that’s not very nice…”

You’re rolling your eyes—right before Choso’s genuinely sending them rolling with his two fingers clamped around your clit. Using the silvery edges of his rings, he runs a few massages that end up with you sobbing and blabbering out your pleasure. 

@Curse’swifey: FUCKKKKKKKKKK they’re both so hot. THEY’RE BOTH SO RUINED.

@peepeesarebetterfictional: they both look like they’re gonna cum soon hehe

@bewbsRlife: CUM CUM CUM CUM CUM

Biting back. “I would argue th-that that’s not very nice, either.”

“But m’just trying to make my gorgeous girl cum…” And from where he’d been looming his pretty face above yours, Choso then lets his head droop down between your tits. During his ravenous pace, he’s roverin’ his mouth all over to kiss and suck at your tits, your nipples.

His cold lip ring drags across your left areola- and he catches onto the way you’re shivering. Before Choso then grabs your nipple between his lips n’ hollows his cheeks out sucking—“Promise m’just trying to make you feel- hah, good.” He mutters, slightly muffled. “Promise I just wanna fuck my cock raw if it means making my lifelong crush feel good…”

“Cho- Curse, are you…?” Your eyes widen.

And his own flap droopily a few times, “Hmmm?”

And that proved it.

That proved it.

Because Choso Kamo could be pretending to be a stuttering, panting, blushing mess on your heavenly cunt all he wanted- he could pretend to be pussydrunk out of his mind. But at the end of the day, it was impossible to hide when pretend turned into something…more. 

When the cocksure streamer that’d been driving you wild all this time morphs into the contentedly pussy-whipped nerd you expected him to be deep down inside.

His eyes genuinely glazed and blinking longingly.

His hair drenched in sweat.

His skin flushed with need- and only flushing even more fiercely the longer he kept his eyes on you. 

Without much ado, you’re throwing your hands around his neck and tuggin’ him as far as he could crane his neck when his entire body feels like collapsing onto you and into your maddening pussy. 

Choso pistons his hips slightly upwards to hear the slurp of his Jacob’s Ladder sliding across your walls, and he grooooans—

“Curse, baby…” You hum.

“Mhmmmm?” He replies with half-lidded eyes. Barely focused.

This was the big, bad #1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends? As though sensing your thoughts, Choso’s fingers grow a little more frenzied on your clit. “I need you to cum inside, okay?”

He jolts at the idea- that sinful, sinful idea. Before chuckling, “Never had any other plan, baby.” And then he turns to the camera, “What do you think, fuckers? Think my girl deserves to cum?”

@Fishygurodad: Yes.

@Curse’swifey: YES.

@likezmenpregnant: Yesssss~

@girrrrrrrrrrth: yesyesyes.

@daddytoeknee: Hell yeah-

He’s holding out a little longer to make sure there wasn’t a single ‘no’ in there - and had there been one, you’re sure that Choso would have stopped and edged your incoming orgasm until it was a wave of complete agreement.

Luckily for you, they liked you.

And all he does now is press down harder on your g-spot from inside, lingering, and massage a pretty heart on your clit once more, lingering—before a final, thorough stroke is all it takes for you to hurtle into your second high of the night.

For you to arch your body into his chest, and shutter your eyes. “Ch-Cho…” 

Barely a whisper. He’s crashing his mouth into yours to make sure that secret between you two isn’t revealed. And you’re moaning deeply into Choso’s mouth as you cum—“Feels so- oh. It feels so…”

“Mhmmmm.”

Unable to even find the words.

The only thing you can do is riiiiiide out the massive wave of your high. It’s torrential; pure bliss floods your system from head-to-toe, and no matter how much you’re squirming your overstimulated hips, Choso only succeeds in batterin’ away his pierced cock into eeeevery single hidden sweet spot inside of you. The ones that prolonged your bliss and left spikes of euphoria leading up to your brain.

Your cunt clenched so tightly around his cock- almost as though you didn’t want him to even pull out. And Choso’s sweaty head drops once more into the crook of your neck as he cums with a shudder.

The knot between his brows deepening, the bedsheet around his knees bunching up as he surges his body upwards. Almost animalistically.

Choso bottoms out his furious, twitching cock and keeps it there- “Oh, fuck…” It didn’t sound like he was acting once his bawling red divot starts splatterin’ out more milky white wads. Deeep in the back of your pussy, right where your womb was, Choso puddles out his ecstasy in long ribbons. “Oh fuck fuck fuck—fuck. Always knew it’d feel this good.”

Wave upon wave.

Toes curling. Eyes scrunching shut.

If you thought his moans were sensual before, then you weren’t prepared for the ones your pussy was able to drag out of him - ragged and hollow utterances of your name. Over and over like a broken record, like a mantra.

He’s fucking into you to milk them out of his hefty balls- then fucking you again just to pump those webbed wads right back in. From the top of his rotund tip and dooooooown to the tufts of hairs at his base. All nine inches of him being used to stuff you till the brim—

You’re sure your insides look like an utter fuckin’ mess by the time he’s slowing his tattooed hips down ever-so-slightly—still shaking from the aftermath of his orgasm. This was far stronger than anything he’s ever experienced before. 

Drunkenly, you’re blinking your eyes up at him. “Always?”

He smiles, “Ever since our first lesson of Film 101.” Admitting, he lovingly wipes off a bit of his cum you were foaming between your pussylips. “You referenced Pride and Prejudice when talking about the best lines of dialogue of all time, and I-I’d been a goner since then.”

“Corny…” You snort. Though you can’t help the flutter of your heart.

“So um- coffee after this?”

“It better be dinner.”

He laughs in agreement. “Also I bought a vibrating piercing the other day and have been dying to try it…”

Your eyes widen.

And once you’re helping him pull out- Choso reaches for the camera and gets a good shot of the cum leaking between your legs. Before you’re both waving at it, “Thank you for joining us, today—this was the most fun I’ve had on stream yet- heh.”

You’re shooting the camera a pretty smile, too.

And Choso kisses the corner of your cheeks, “Until next time. This has been Curse and Movie.”

@girrrrrrrrrrth: holy fuck??

@Curse’swifey: WAIT WHAAAAAAAAAAAAT NO WAY-

@bewbsRlife: HOLD ON-

@CCpervnextdoor: SAY SIKE RN?

@bipplruletheworld: oh my god that’s amazing.

@likezmenpregnant: Oh, a love story for the ages~

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: YOU TWO LOOKING FOR A THIRD??

@Fishygurodad: Damn.

@Fishygurodad: Hmu when he messes up.

@daddytoeknee: Stfu he won’t.

@daddytoeknee: Also I totally called it <3

A/N. I did NOT plan to have me inserted and beefing with Toji Fushiguro but here we are-

Plagiarism not authorized.

[hotties4gojo]

ᨳଓ ·˚ shampoo dreams

⋆.˚ pairing: bf!geto x reader x bf!gojo

after a long day, it’s no surprise that you’re left with no energy to take care of yourself, let alone clean up and drag yourself off to bed. luckily for you, your two boyfriends— satoru and suguru, the infamous strongest duo who are as weak as kittens for you— take it upon themselves to bathe you and wash your hair. princess treatment has never felt this good.

⋆.˚ content: SFW but MDNI 18+, fem!reader, canon jujutsu universe (alt au where geto doesn’t defect), fluff fluff fluff, humor, established polyamorous satosugu x reader, gojo and geto are WHIPPED for you and for each other, domestic intimacy, a fair amount of suggestive jokes (but the entire fic stays non-sexual), mentions of battle wounds & scars

a/n: this is a requested drabble for the non-sexual acts of intimacy prompts “taking a bath together” and “having their hair washed by the other” for a fewww different anons 🙂‍↕️🫶🏽 hope you all enjoy cos this was sm fun to write 💓 masterlist.

fanart © zenlune, divider © kodaswrld. wc: 4.7k.

Bathwater laps softly at the porcelain edges of the tub, warm enough to turn your skin dewy beneath the draping of steam that hangs hazily over the air like a wedding veil. The bathroom's steeped in the mellow glow of an amber and blossom-pink sunset filtering through the windows that overlook Tokyo. More jasmine-sweetened steam drifts in languid, translucent ribbons from the oversized tub fashioned to fit three (thanks, Gojo clan money).

Lounging with your lovers, everything is pleasantly heavy— your limbs, your eyelids which have long fallen together, your subdued thoughts— and softened by the calming ease of being in Suguru's and Satoru's presence.

You sit between them, back resting against Satoru's steadily beating chest, his ridiculously long legs fallen open for you to sit between them with all the careless assurance of a man who has never once worried about taking up space. Suguru rests against the opposite edge of the tub with one arm curled along the rim and his legs similarly extended. Satoru's and Suguru's calves and thighs skim against each other where they border yours beneath the water, neither inclined to break the comfort of simple touch.

"You've gone quiet." Suguru's observation echoes off the tile.

"Mhm." Your answer is only half there.

"You awake?"

"Ehhh… Kinda sorta, sorta kinda," you mumble, seesawing a hand.

Satoru leans forward until his forehead lightly bumps your nape. "No sleeping yet, pretty girl. Ragdolling while we try to get you clean is a surefire way to go down Ben Drowned-style,” he teases.

You whine a little in protest even though the reference makes your lips tick. "But you guys made me so comfortable already..."

And they truly have.

The bath had been waiting for you before you'd even thought to ask for one. Actually, the idea was planted in Satoru and Suguru's heads the moment you texted that you were dead-tired and grimy to the group chat from the back of Ijichi's car. You had been the only one to head out on a mission today, Satoru spending the day teaching and training the first years and Suguru mirroring him with the third years— Satoru had weaseled his way into a full hands-on day with his students, claiming he needed somewhat of a break, and Suguru spent most of his time teaching rather than hunting curses anymore, anyways.

(You and Satoru have been on the offensive with the higher-ups for years to nail down this arrangement for Suguru. Sure, Suguru still took on the occasional mission when everyone else was stretched thin by their own duties, but for his mental health’s sake, it was best that he stuck to guiding and nurturing the current generation.

You never want to see him as hollowly depressed as he was after everything that went down when he was a student.)

When you'd finally wandered into your shared house with knotted shoulders and your thumbs aggravatedly digging out the soreness from your temples, both your boyfriends snatched you up at the genkan and herded you like wildly insistent border collies to the master bedroom's ensuite, which had been transformed into a luxury spa during your twenty minute commute.

Towels were folded up in their warmer, candles swaying happily, the massive tub brimming with fragrant bathing oils and mineral salts— literally the whole nines. All the tiny things you'd long forgotten mentioning you preferred for a long soak were present, that information lovingly archived inside two impossibly attentive minds.

Before you could burst into happy tears at the lengths they went to for you, Suguru helped peel away your clothes before passing you off to Satoru, who offered both hands the moment you stepped toward the siren call of the water on sore legs, smoothly bowing as though escorting you into a ballroom instead of a bathtub.

Between them, lowering yourself into the steaming water (which was the fucking perfect temperature, holy hell) was less like climbing into a bath— another chore to hustle through before bed when you were already so worn-thin— and more like mindlessly handing yourself over for what they both dubbed your 'princess treatment.'

Suguru's smile is a ray of gentle light coloring his words, "Are we supposed to apologize for being good boyfriends?"

"Yeah. And you have to live with the consequences," you sigh, slumping further back into Satoru. The water rocks with you.

"You hear that?" Satoru says to Suguru over your head. You feel his chin nestle into your crown, arms loosely coiling at your waist. "She's blaming and threatening us."

"This is what happens when we go out of our way and draw us all a nice bath, huh," Suguru kisses his teeth, theatrically disappointed in you and what his and Satoru's efforts have come to. "Shame. I guess we won't be doing this ever again."

That finally gets your eyes to crack, blinking past the steam shrouding your slivered vision. Suguru watches the both of you with a sleepy beam curling the corners of his mouth, midnight lashes dampened and beading at their tips from the humidity. In spite of his long hair being wound up in a picture-perfect bun straight from Pinterest— his thorough wash-day took place yesterday and he's in no hurry to rewash his hair all over again— the baby hairs coiling at his nape and hairline are helplessly frizzy, fallen victim to the moisture in the air.

Suguru's gorgeous, a fallen angel meant to tempt you into the salacious temptations of the forbidden— much like the equally stunning white-haired beauty cuddled up to your behind, fluffed up white hair as refreshing as winter's first snowfall and his innate charming smile ten times more devastating than the cursed techniques sown into his very DNA.

"Hey," you protest, somewhat impressed by how he's twisted this situation to his benefit. "I didn't say all of that…"

A big warm palm finds a home on your shoulder, the callouses at the base of Satoru's fingers dragging a satisfyingly scratchy path over your skin. "I didn't agree to that either. Who's gonna appreciate all our hard work and dedication to pampering her if not, well, our princess?" Satoru wonders aloud, each richly pronounced syllable traveling in a velvety rolling rumble through his chest to your back.

Suguru cocks a brow, though he soaks up the reminder with a smoothly executed drag of the wooden bath tray closer to the corner of the tub's edge. Fancy crystalized bottles rattle, winking rainbow prisms across the walls; the oceanic waves of Satoru's irises, the deep earthiness of Suguru's.

You see them in everything, the two men coloring the world you traverse in a gallery forever curated in their likeness, to the point that you couldn't name a single thing on this planet without your lovers tinting your glasses.

Sometimes, you wonder whether the sky was always that boundless, cotton-candy blue, whether the nature crawling dense coils up Tokyo Jujutsu High's mountain campus had always carried such comforting shades of chocolate-brown, or if loving them has simply trained your eyes to always pay homage to Satoru and Suguru. Whatever the case, you're ridiculously smitten.

"Appreciation isn't the point, Satoru," lightly sniffs Suguru.

You wish you could see the stupid grin smeared across Satoru's countenance as he counters, jokingly, "It absolutely is."

"It really isn't," Suguru deadpans, looking to you as if to say get a load of this guy. You giggle.

"I don't know about you, babe, but I wanna be praised for my generous deeds," Satoru announces. "It hits like a line of coke after a long day."

Suguru slowly nods his assent. "That is true… though in your case, I'd say that cake is more your style than coke of all things."

"Snoooore," you loudly mime, deadpanning.

Satoru's laughter sears through your skin, beating a hearty rhythm between your shoulder blades. Suguru fans his fingers over his mouth as he joins in on Satoru's chuckling, amusement blossoming in the air. "Alright, alright. The deluxe princess treatment package is on its way now, promise," Suguru sing-songs with a little flap of his hand, finally easing up now that he's found a way back on track. "Satoru, you'll wash her hair and I'll do her body?"

"For sure," he chirps.

Ah, how nice it feels to lounge around like prized, celebrated royalty without a care in the world while your boys work a plan to pamper you.

All it takes is a simple curl of Suguru's black-painted finger for Satoru to obediently thrust his hand past your head, palm paralleling the ceiling as Suguru pops the glass stopper of a bottle and drizzles a generous heaping of shampoo into his hand's cup.

Satoru loops his arms around your front and works the shampoo between deft palms before your eyes, vanilla and camellia blossoms wafting up to your face, which you dip towards the comforting smell with a hum. It's Suguru's favorite shampoo— you're always surprised when he shares some of it and his conditioner with you, given how he treats it like the holy grail that he alone was blessed and entrusted with.

(Even funnier how he flat out refuses to let Satoru get his hands on it. Not that the white-haired sorcerer cares all that much anyhow; he uses a 3-in-1 shampoo and calls splashing tap water on his face a 'proper face wash.' You'd think a man so prideful about his vanity would splurge on products to properly care for himself and his Adonis body— the same way he buys from luxury clothing brands on the daily— instead of winging it like a head-in-the-clouds college fratboy, but alas…

You've gotta give it to him though: his genetics are killer. Curse Satoru and the goddamned perfectly pretty Gojo bloodline. It's not fair for the rest of you 'simpletons' who actually have to put in the work to groom and maintain yourself in order to look even half as unfairly attractive as he does on a random Thursday morning. The universe shamelessly plays favorites, and Satoru is its dazzling golden child.)

"Tilt your head back for me," he murmurs, long fingers immediately finding your hair— already sufficiently wet— the second you obey.

Humming an absent tune that lulls you into closing your eyes once more, Satoru gathers up all your hair, his usual boundless energy replaced by surprising patience. You can envision the way he's likely got his tongue peeking slightly between his teeth as he smooths the shampoo down your head, working up a rich, pearly lather from your crown to your ends with painstaking care exactly as Suguru once taught him.

Nobody from Jujutsu Tech— not Shoko, not Ijichi, not even any of the students— would expect such gentleness from the strongest sorcerer alive. The same man that tears into curses with calculated, almost joyous violence and blows them apart with a well-placed Red and a dry “oopsies,” is unbelievably tender in his task of shampooing the outer layer of your hair before diving to your roots, firm yet gentle. Reverent, really.

His nails glide along your scalp in purposefully light scrapes that send shivers down your spine. A contented sigh escapes you before you can stop it. "Satoruuuu…" You subconsciously roll the r in the same purring cadence that Suguru speaks his name in.

"Yooo, chill," Satoru splutters behind you, sounding alarmed by who knows what.

Suguru fills in the blank with a suggestive smile and thinning of his eyes: "Moan my name next, baby. I'm feeling left out."

Ah. Curious, you shuffle your hips back further into the cradle of Satoru's pelvis, glad to feel a distinct lack of engorged arousal insistently pestering your back; he's as flaccid as the day he was born. Your foot goes splashing water Suguru's way next. He catches your ankle beneath the surface and chuckles sunnily beneath the playful heat of your half-hearted glare.

"You're such a hater," he chastises.

"Excuse me for trying to enjoy my bath and the princess treatment you both promised me while you two horndogs try to make something out of nothing," you say dryly, though the pretense of sarcasm is rendered null by the next (accidentally) suggestive noise that floats its way past your lips when Satoru tugs a strand of shampooed hair just shy of too roughly.

"I didn't mean to do that, sorry!" Satoru jumps to apologize, presuming you'll give him shit for it and kick him out. But the joint snickers that both men promptly share over your head informs you that they're not exactly remorseful; and they're not even trying to play it sly.

"There's gonna be floggers and pillories in my online shopping cart by the end of the night if you two keep it up," you warn even though you're chuckling yourself. "That, or a sounding rod for you to share."

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am," Satoru and Suguru innocently chorus.

Devils, the two of them.

But you're not any better, for you praise them in the sweetest purr possible, "Thank you. Good boys," and you all too joyfully reap the color budding across their already bath-flushed cheeks, tipping your head back against Satoru's shoulder to see his properly.

Suguru and Satoru: 1.

You: also 1.

You'll break that tie soon.

Fingers still wrapped in a delicate snag around your ankle, thumb sweeping over the protruding bone, Suguru one-handedly pumps a decent dollop of body wash into his palm, making a fist and dragging his fingers through it to warm it up a tad. "Lift your leg a little higher for me, sweetheart," he instructs, voice no louder than twinkling rain shimmering in silvery ribbons from the sky.

Conscious yet uncaring of the fact that you're already flashing him your most private parts (both your boyfriends have literally seen it all in every sexual and non-sexual scenario possible), you do just that, trusting that Satoru's solidity will keep you from sliding forward on your ass and submerging your face. Your hip flexor and quadricep tighten in a show of undemandingly easy dexterity— the movement of the latter has Suguru's eyes flicking down to watch as though you're his favorite film made human.

He scrunches his legs up in order to fit into the 'v' your own make. Shifting his grip to the back of your calf, he paints your skin in fragrant body wash from your foot, kneecap, to the crease connecting hip to thigh, coating you thoroughly and treating you to an impromptu massage along the way, thumbs kneading tenderly into muscle.

You're practically purring once he's done with your left leg. Suguru eases it back into the steaming bathwater and rinses you off with sweeping strokes of his broad hand until the jasmine-scented suds melt into the surface. Then, without breaking the tranquil rhythm you'd both settled into, he gathers your right leg in his grasp and starts anew from your foot upward, every motion as meticulous as the last.

You don't startle an inch when Satoru picks his task up again whilst Suguru works his soothing magic up your shin. Circles that bloom sweetness through your body are drawn into your scalp with the pads of Satoru's fingertips, thumbs gliding behind your ears before sweeping upward along your crown, coaxing the rich lather deeper through your roots.

His fingertips dance across your hair in broad, enthusiastic circles, working the shampoo in with enough vigor to make your head tip slightly. It's embarrassingly effective in making you lose track of where one minute ends and another begins. The little remaining tension loosens from your body like water through a sieve.

"Oh my godddd," you moan, blissful, completely swept up in their pampering that comes without a price. You melt between Satoru and Suguru without thinking, trusting the secure cradle of their bodies as completely as breathing itself. "This is exactly what I needed. This is heaven."

"You deserve only good things, especially tonight," Suguru murmurs affectionately, gently dunking your right leg and rinsing that one off, too.

"All the time, really," Satoru agrees. He leaves your hair once he's sure each strand is thoroughly lathered up. "Seeing you turn into a cute little puddle is the best bonus I could ask for. Just let us take care of you, yeah?"

He returns to you with a wooden rinse pitcher that Suguru hands to him. He cups warm bathwater into it, stray droplets sprinkling across the bath's surface when he pulls the pitcher free with an audible gulp of water. Anticipating what follows, you tip your head back and stay still as Satoru pours the first cascade of water over your head to cleanse you of the fragrant foam, his free hand shielding your forehead to keep it from spilling over your face.

"You wanna know a neat trick I thought of?" Satoru asks, voice overflowing with prideful excitement. You and Suguru rumble low noises from your throats at the same time, encouraging. "If Blue allows me to pull buildings apart at minimum output by drawing everything towards the impossibility, then it makes sense that if I put the tiiiiniest possible output into Blue—" you feel a tempered spike of cursed energy that makes the dampened hair at your nape prick to attention, "—the field of attraction is weak enough that I can siphon water from hair."

Before the dirtied water can rejoin the pooling bathwater lapping over you all, it peels from your hair like a clean, satisfying strip of tape as though the laws of nature, too, submit to the wonder that is Gojo Satoru.

You feel each saturated lock of hair lighten by degrees more than you see it. Suspended at your sides where you can spy it from the corner of yout eye, the extracted water gathers into a lazily revolving sphere no larger than a melon, pale with diluted shampoo that swirls in pearlescent ribbons beneath the bathroom's amber light. You can tell that Satoru's flicked his fingers behind you when it all goes gliding into a bucket by the tub— he probably thought to put it there in advance, you realize— with a muffled sploosh. Suguru whistles, impressed.

"There!" Satoru chirps, grin crystal-clear in his voice as though he'd unveiled the world's greatest scientific breakthrough instead of an absurdly overengineered bath hack using one of the greatest cursed techniques in history. "No gross rinse water in the tub."

"That was cool, Toru," you gush.

Suguru's laugh slips free in a quiet puff. "Good idea, baby."

The dual praise has Satoru radiating like an overjoyed sun behind you. "Right? Right?" He boasts with no modesty whatsover, chest jutting proudly against your back.

"You'll have to do that for my hair sometime, too," Suguru sighs longingly, tilting his head with a charmed look on his face. He's so cute. "I could use one of my curses, but Blue'll save me so much time. My hair's getting even longer than it already is, if you can imagine."

"Please never cut it," you and Satoru pipe up in genuine agony.

Suguru titters, enchanting brown eyes creasing in a blinding smile, brighter somehow for it. "Relax, you two. I won't. Aside from trimming split ends— knock on wood." He raps the wooden bath tray with his knuckles.

The exchange coaxes an involuntary smile of your own, the stretch of your lips so overly fond that your cheeks ache. It is so wonderfully, unmistakably the three of you— Suguru's easy indulgement forever balanced alongside Satoru's irrepressible enthusiasm and your habit of matching them both exactly where they stand.

Suguru re-lathers his hands to work on your abdomen, muscles fluttering in delicate butterly wings behind the bountiful garden of your skin at the ticklish feeling of his slickened touch; Satoru ladles another pitcherful over your head and repeats the process of gathering and discarding every soapy drop with Blue. Suguru glides soap up the valley between your perked breasts and beneath them as well, even massaging your tits without a lick of sexual intent; Satoru gives you one last rinse before passing curious fingers through your hair until the strands slide cleanly through his hands, gently teasing apart the few stubborn knots left over. The bathwater gently rocks against your ribs whenever they both shift, focused on their individual tasks but nonetheless in tune with one another.

By the time Suguru finishes off your front by washing your collarbones and shoulders and Satoru's just teased apart the few stubborn knots left over in your hair, your hair hangs sleek and impossibly clean, you're feeling squeaky clean from head to toe, and the bathwater around your bodies remains as clear as when you'd first slipped into it, aside from the body wash that's sluiced off of you.

You feel as though they’d somehow washed away not only the day's sweat and oils, but every bothersome thought that had settled there alongside them. You could seriously fall asleep any second without realizing you'd slipped into unconsciousness.

"Look at us working together in sync," Satoru lilts, signaling for the conditioner over your shoulder. Suguru hands it off from the bath tray without missing a beat. "The G.G. Salon is taking off."

"G.G.?" You ask, faint laughter already bubbling through your nose before he even elaborates. You're anticipating something so stupid that it's somehow funny.

"Get gucked," Satoru supplies, only to shriek a soprano's pitch and jackknife his leg through the water when Suguru aggressively pinches Satoru's big toe. "Yeesh, can't a guy joke around here? I meant the Gojo-Geto salon."

Suguru smiles serenely.

They make quick— but not rushed— work of the rest of your treatment. Suguru reaches between yours and Satoru's bodies to bathe your back while Satoru conditions the ends of your hair with the creamy fixture.

Clearing your hair of conditioner after it soaks in is easy as it was for Satoru with the shampoo. He splashes water along your back to finish off Suguru's work, and Suguru leans in to nuzzle a brief kiss against your forehead, lips lingering for only a second before he settles back against the tub's rim again, the picture of handsome relaxation. A moment later, Satoru cranes his head to smooch the side of your neck as if unwilling to be left out, then ducks past you to peck Suguru's mouth.

No words are needed in the wakeful peace that draws a curtain over you; you, Satoru, and Suguru seemingly come to a silent agreement to soak in the jasmine-fermented bath a while longer, all of yours eyes closed in bone-deep gratification. Heat loosens muscles and peels the firm grip of old aches and pains stemming from battles old and new, determined to ease your bodies that've been carved out from years and years of sorcerery. You only clamber out when the bathwater is cool enough to be drained, yours and Satoru's and Suguru's fingers and toes pruny from the extended soak.

The tired little shiver that quakes you when the air hits your damp skin is noticed immediately by Suguru, who quietly directs Satoru to empty the bucket of dirtied water down the tub before turning to you with towels straight from the tower warmer. He wraps one loosely around your hair and gently squeezes away the excess water.

His sweetened cooing of how cute you are when you're all sleepy and doted-on makes you duck your head into his touch if only to hide your face from the loving searchlights of his eyes. You allow Suguru to similarly wrap your body up in a second towel and you gleefully burrow into the fluffy comfort of it.

Satoru zips to your side in literal seconds with two more towels bunched under his arm, blue eyes alight and completely comfortable in his nudity. "My turn," he announces.

"Didn't you have plenty of turns in the bath?" Suguru amusedly points out in a lowered tone. "She's already dried off, anyways."

Satoru pokes his pretty pink lips out in a pout, sulky as a cat denied its dinner. "I want another."

"You always want another," you hum, eyes half-closed and about ready to conk out on the tile of all places. A plane could crash outside and you wouldn't even be fazed, your mind too up in the clouds and doped up on the princess treatment your boyfriends gave you to care.

“Well, I like taking care of you both,” Satoru admits with some sheepishness, scratching his shorn-short nape that you're sure is soon to be warmed pink as you and Suguru look at him with hearts for eyes. "Can't blame a guy for being in love, yeah?"

You really can't; not when you're just as stupidly infatuated with them both. Especially when, adorably, he surprises you both by turning to Suguru and toweling him off with great attention, making your dark-haired partner flush an even ruddier red than the hot water gave his body. For all of Satoru's impossible strength and impossible speed, his hands fuss with deliberate care as they work the plush fabric around Suguru's waist, folding one edge neatly over the other before tucking it securely against his hip. Then Satoru guides a stray bang that fell loose from his bun behind his ear, fingers lingering sweetly.

Suguru blinks once, twice, as though momentarily caught off guard by the simple gesture. "... Thank you, Satoruuu,” he purrs warmly.

The words are accompanied by a smile so soft it melts years off of Suguru's face, leaving behind only the boy who'd once looked at you and Satoru with that same impossible tenderness after late-night konbini store runs and shared umbrellas beneath summer rain as you all ran back to campus after shared misions— long, long before that accursed village sent him into a year-long spiral. Affection settles visibly into every elegant line of him, warming his browned eyes until they resemble polished amber.

Color rushes into Satoru's ears as he's blasted with the full superlunary rays of Suguru's love, almost shying away from his exuberant beam. "Don't mention it," he mutters, already smiling despite himself as he finally slings his own towel around his hips.

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, sleepy and airy, and both pairs of eyes snap toward you with such immediate fondness. Your heart gives such a smitten start that it damn near ping-pongs off your ribs.

And then you open your unfiltered mouth, "You're both so cute. You two act like you guys haven't explored each other's holes for literal years."

Their expressions slacken into ones of pained amusement immediately. "Sweets, I love you so so sooo bad, but do you ever think before you reduce years of heartfelt intimacy to digging out each other's asses?" Satoru snorts.

"Please don't say it like that," Suguru bemoans, propping one hand on his towel-wrapped hip while the other drives a thumb into his creased forehead. Even so, he's openly snickering, even moreso when he slaps Satoru's chest. "Are you under the impression that you're any better?"

Satoru touches his heart with theatrical offense. "I've never said anything outrageous as her."

"You literally just did?" Suguru points out, exasperatedly tickled.

You attempt to muster a joke to chip in with, but a yawn stretches your jaw instead, eyes watering as exhaustion overtakes any dignity you might have had left.

"Awww," Satoru breathes out an impossibly stricken coo. "She's gonna fall asleep standing up like a horse."

"I was thinking the same thing," Suguru murmurs, tilting his head at you.

"I am awake and alert and alive," you mumble automatically.

Clearly, neither of them believes you for even half a second. Suguru chuckles beneath his breath before stepping forward, large hand finding the small of your back through the towel. "Looks like the delirium's getting to you, huh, angel? You've had a long day."

Satoru immediately appears at your other side. "For sure. Let's go get dressed and go to bed." Without ceremony, he bends his knees and scoops you into his arms bridal-style as though you weigh nothing at all. You let out the weakest little noise of surprise imaginable before instinctively curling against his warm chest, your cheek finding the familiar place beneath his collarbone.

"I c-can…" Your own yawn slashes the sentence in half, making Satoru throw his head back laughing as he turns towards the bathroom's entrance, "… walk."

"Oh, sweetheart," Suguru rumbles out a laugh.

"I can,” you grumble.

"You just lost consciousness mid-sentence."

"Mmmf," you say intelligently.

Suguru reaches over to straighten the towel atop your head one final time, brushing his knuckles fondly across your temple. "So spoiled," he whispers.

You hum contentedly, already halfway to sleep. "Your fault."

"Our fault," Satoru corrects, carrying you toward the door with Suguru walking beside him, shoulder brushing his every few steps. Then, as an aside to Suguru, "To be fair, we kinda made her expect this."

"I think I deserve princess treatment everyday," you exhaustedly pipe up, words dragging as you gradually drift off.

Satoru and Suguru exchange looks over your lolling head. So cute.

perma tags: @libr4sonsa @spirit-kat @kaitospo @m1nrrva @enchantinghonymoon @shokogasm @dairyfaerie @pvmpkingod @skz8stay @floriophrastus @originalsaucy @loyalguma @amane1271 @oporotheca @teachmehowtodokiaye @dogwhiskey @sunnydayqq @yoshinorecommends @spoooooork @satoruxmo @yomama2089 @nymeriassecretgarden @nina-from-317 @uzumakioden @loudshortbookworm @elijahgetsbeachess @jadelen @dookieslayer @naammiii @luxylucylou @user3779135 @xxdiaqiaoxx @angellvk @sahlestial @cowboyvsshop @madether @iheartanzai @cryptedlullaby

[gojosconsort]

︵ ೀ mdni. satoru finds your secret sketchbook full of him and in a haste to explain yourself, he offers to be the nude model for your assignment ( artist!reader x sports!satoru / college au / wc 5.8 k ) ︵ ೀ series. part one / part two

you've been doing really well, actually. two whole days of successfully avoiding him—not that you're avoiding him, obviously, that would be childish, you've just been taking very specific routes across campus that happen to not cross paths with anywhere he usually is. completely different thing.

so of course, the one time you let your guard down, the one morning you actually allow yourself to sit in the cafeteria like a normal person with your coffee and your sketchbook open to a completely innocent, satoru-free page, you feel the chair across from you scrape back.

you look up.

he drops his tray down and folds himself into the seat like he owns it, which, to be fair, he kind of acts like he owns every seat he sits in. he's in his practice clothes, hair pushed back, looking annoyingly good and unbothered for someone who absolutely should be at least a little embarrassed about that night.

"hey," he says, like it's nothing. like it's any other monday morning and you definitely didn't spend the entire weekend hunched over your desk shading every line of his naked body onto paper, painstakingly getting the light right across his shoulders, his stomach, his cock—

"cool if i sit here?"

"you're already sitting," you say.

"true." he picks up his fork, glancing down at your sketchbook. "how'd the drawing turn out."

"it turned out good," you say, wrapping both hands around your coffee cup. "handed it in this morning actually."

"yeah? what did he say?"

"she," you correct automatically. "professor lee. and she—" you pause, because this is the part you've been equal parts dreading and wanting to tell someone since it happened an hour ago, "she really liked it. said the proportions were the best in the class. said it looked like i actually knew my subject."

satoru grins at that. "obviously."

"don't let it go to your head."

"too late." he steals a piece of fruit off the edge of your tray without asking, which is so aggressively normal and familiar that some of the tension in your shoulders loosens without you meaning it to. "so she liked it. that's good. you were stressed about it."

"and then," you say, because apparently you are going to tell him the whole thing whether you planned to or not, "she asked me who the model was."

satoru raises an eyebrow.

"and i said a friend. and she looked at it for a second and then she was like—" you cover your face briefly, "—'is this gojo satoru? from the athletics team? i've seen him play.'"

satoru puts his fork down. "your professor knows who i am."

"apparently she goes to the home games."

he leans back in his chair with the most insufferably delighted expression you have ever seen on another human being. "so your professor has seen me play and my dick."

"she hasn't seen your—it's a drawing."

"of my dick."

"of your—it's art. it's an anatomy study."

"still my dick though."

"satoru, oh my god, keep your voice down." you glance around the cafeteria, mortified. "it's fine art. there's a difference."

"what's her name."

"no."

"i just want to introduce myself properly. we've already been through something together, it feels rude not to—"

"you are not tracking down my professor."

"i could come to class."

"absolutely not."

"i'm serious, i could be a guest model." he's fully grinning now, leaning forward on his elbows like this is the best idea he's ever had. "your whole class would benefit. very educational."

"you are not coming to my anatomy class."

"why not? i'm clearly qualified. i have references." he nods toward your bag, where your sketchbook is poking out. "got a whole portfolio of evidence right there."

"those are my sketches, not your references."

"same thing." he steals another piece of fruit off your tray, completely unbothered. "so she gave you a good grade at least? after everything i sacrificed for your education?"

"i don't know yet. she has to grade them all first."

"god," he mutters, "why do they always take so long with that."

it's not really a question, so you don't answer it. you just watch him pop another grape into his mouth, and then he's quiet, and then you're both quiet, and that's worse, actually, because silence means your brain immediately fills it with everything you've been successfully not thinking about since friday—

his dorm room, the towel, the chair, then the way he had touched himself, his hand wrapping around his cock, stroking slow at first then faster, the wet sounds. the way he had looked at you and said that he likes you to watch, like he wanted you to see every stroke, every twitch, every drop of precum—

"you're turning red," he says.

you look up. he's watching you over the rim of his water bottle, completely calm, one eyebrow slightly raised.

"i'm not."

"you are." he sets the bottle down. "what are you thinking about."

"nothing."

"uh huh." the corner of his mouth pulls up, just slightly. "nothing that happened friday, or."

"i actually have to go," you say, already reaching for your bag, sketchbook shoved in first, coffee cup grabbed second.

"we should probably talk about friday," he says, easy as anything, like he's suggesting you discuss the weather.

your bag nearly slides off the table. "i'm good, actually."

"you're good."

"yeah." you stand up, pulling your coat off the back of the chair. "totally fine. nothing to talk about."

"i feel like there's a little something to talk about."

"nope." you're already backing away from the table. "i have class."

"you have forty minutes until—"

"lots of things to do before class. very busy. full schedule." you point vaguely in a direction, any direction. "i'll see you around." you turn around before he can see how red your face has gone, already speed-walking toward the exit your coat not even properly on yet.

"we're gonna have to talk about it eventually," he calls after you, loud enough that two people at the next table look up.

you pretend very hard that you didn't hear that.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

it's thursday afternoon when professor lee hands back the assignments, moving through the rows with a small stack of papers tucked under her arm. you're barely breathing by the time she stops at yours. she sets it down in front of you, face up.

A, circled in red pen. and underneath it, in her small, neat handwriting:

best in class. exceptional sensitivity to form and proportion. the familiarity with the subject is evident. it elevates the entire piece.

you stare at it for a second too long.

"i mean it," professor lee says, pausing at your station instead of moving on, which she doesn't usually do. "this is genuinely impressive work. the best figure study i've seen from this class in a few semesters."

"thank you," you manage, still a little stunned.

she tilts her head, glancing at the drawing one more time. "your model—a friend, you said?"

"yeah. just a friend."

"he's clearly very comfortable in his own skin." she says it so matter-of-factly, so professionally, that you almost don't register it. "do you think he'd ever be willing to come in? to pose for the whole class? we're always looking for new models and frankly, he has exactly the kind of build we look for."

you blink at her. "i'm sorry?"

"as a paid model, of course. it's a standard arrangement." she's already moving on to the next student, completely unbreezy about the bombshell she's just dropped. "just think about it. ask him if he's interested."

you sit there for a full minute after she moves away, staring at your a, thinking about how on earth you're supposed to look gojo satoru in the eye and ask him if he wants to get naked in front of your entire class.

you'd survived the sketchbook discovery. you'd survived the dorm room. you'd survived the hallway, and the door, and the sounds, and the cafeteria where you'd basically sprinted away from him like your shoes were on fire.

you had, very carefully and deliberately, been in the process of letting things go back to normal between you. or as close to normal as they could reasonably get given everything.

and now this.

asking him once had been mortifying enough. asking him to do it again, in front of twenty other people, with proper studio lighting and your entire class staring at him—all of him—for three hours straight... you'd rather fail the semester.

you decide, firmly and with great conviction, that you are not going to ask him.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

professor lee catches you on the way out of class the following tuesday.

"did you speak to your model?"

"i—not yet," you say, which is technically true. "i've been meaning to."

"no rush," she says, in a tone that suggests there is a little bit of rush. "i'm planning the spring model schedule and i'd love to lock it in. he'd be compensated well."

"right. yeah. i'll ask him."

you do not ask him.

by friday she stops you again on your way in, before class has even started, a scheduling sheet in her hand and a hopeful look on her face that makes your stomach sink straight to the floor.

"i don't want to keep pestering you," she says, in the way that people say things when they are absolutely going to keep pestering you. "but i showed his study to a colleague of mine and she was equally impressed. if he's open to it, we'd love to have him for at least two sessions."

"two sessions," you repeat faintly.

"the pay is quite good for a few hours of work." she smiles, warm and completely oblivious to the internal crisis happening right in front of her. "and i have to say—your work this semester has been good, but that piece was on a completely different level. there's something that happens when you draw someone you actually know. the confidence in your work, the attention to detail." she tilts her head, like she's genuinely thinking it through. "i think having him as a recurring subject could do a lot for your portfolio. potentially best of semester material, if you keep working at that level."

you stare at her. "best of semester."

"it's early to say," she adds, already heading toward the front of the room. "but i'd be lying if i said i wasn't thinking about it. just something to consider when you talk to him."

she says it so casually, like she hasn't just dangled your entire artistic future in front of you like a carrot on a stick and walked away.

"yeah," you hear yourself say, like someone else has taken over your mouth entirely. "yeah, i'll ask him." you walk to your seat, drop your bag, and sit down.

fine. you're going to have to ask him. however embarrassing, however awkward, however many new levels of humiliation this opens up between you—you are going to have to look gojo satoru in the eye and ask him to come and be naked in front of your entire class.

you pull out your sketchbook and stare blankly at a fresh page.

the things you do for a good grade.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

you find him coming out of the locker room just as training wraps up, which in hindsight you should have timed better. you'd figured you'd catch him on his way out, fully dressed, easy and normal, a quick conversation and then you'd be gone before either of you had time to be weird about it.

instead he pushes through the door with a towel around his waist and another one hanging around his neck that he's using to roughly dry his hair, still dripping, chest still damp, looking entirely too good.

my god, why—why is this a thing now? you went years without ever seeing this man like this. years. it wasn't even hard, it just didn't happen, and you were fine, you were completely fine. and then something changed like three weeks ago and now it's just—towels. constantly.

like the universe looked at your life and went, you know what this needs? more of him, wet, with very few layers on. thank you. very helpful. really appreciate that.

he spots you immediately, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "hey. what are you doing here?"

"i needed to talk to you about something." your eyes have already gone somewhere safe, like the floor, the wall, the water fountain twenty feet down the hall. "sorry, i didn't realize you'd still be—i can wait outside."

"why?" he pulls the towel off his neck, draping it over his shoulder, looking genuinely confused by your reaction. "you've already seen me naked."

"that was different."

"how."

"it just—it was for class, it was a whole—it was a different context, satoru."

"you literally drew my body for weeks without me knowing and now you can't look at me in a hallway." he tilts his head, amused. "make it make sense."

"it makes complete sense and you know it," you mutter, still not fully looking at him. "can you just—put a shirt on or something."

"i just got out of the shower."

"i'm aware."

"my shirt's in my bag."

"then get it out of your bag, satoru."

he laughs, but makes no move toward his bag whatsoever. just stands there, like he's genuinely enjoying watching you try to hold this conversation with the water fountain. "okay. what did you want to talk about."

you take a deep breath, eyes still fixed somewhere over his shoulder. "i need to ask you something and i need you to not make it weird."

"when do i ever make things weird."

"satoru."

"fine. ask."

"my professor asked me—" you stop, start again. "she really liked the drawing. like, a lot. best in class, apparently."

"obviously." he leans against the wall, arms crossing over his bare chest, completely unbothered. "and?"

"and she wants to know if you'd be willing to come in." you say it fast, the way you rip off a bandaid. "to pose. for the whole class. like, as a proper model. she'd pay you."

he stares at you for a second. "the whole class," he repeats.

"yeah."

"like, all of them. sitting there drawing me."

"that's—yes. that's what a class model is."

"naked."

"that's what a figure model is, yes."

he's quiet for a beat, which is somehow more nerve-wracking than if he'd immediately said something. then he tilts his head, studying you with that unreadable look he gets sometimes. "and you'd be there."

"i mean—it's my class, so yes, i'd—"

"so you'd be drawing me again."

"along with twenty other people, yes."

"hm." he looks almost entertained now, pushing off the wall. "and you ask this because—"

"professor lee said it could be best of semester for me," you mutter, hating how small it sounds out loud. "my portfolio. if i keep drawing you, apparently my work is on a different level and—"

"so you need me."

you close your eyes briefly. "yes. fine. i need you."

he's quiet for a second. "okay," he says finally.

you blink. "okay?"

"yeah." he shrugs, like it's nothing at all. "i'll do it."

"just like that?"

"just like that." he reaches back for the towel around his shoulder, giving his hair one last rough pass with it. "but i want something in return."

"what kind of something."

"a drawing."

"a drawing," you repeat slowly, waiting for the rest of it.

"yeah." he says it completely simply, like that's the whole sentence, like that explains anything at all.

"what kind of drawing."

"i'll let you know when the time comes." he's already turning back toward the locker room, clearly very pleased with the level of vagueness he's just gave you.

"satoru." you take a step after him. "what does that mean, you'll let me know when the time comes. you have to give me more than that."

"it's a drawing. you're an artist. not exactly a hardship." he glances back over his shoulder, smirking. "unless you're worried about what i'm going to ask for."

"i'm not worried."

"you look a little worried."

"i look normal. tell me what the drawing is."

"later." he pushes the locker room door open with one hand, completely unbothered, like he hasn't just left you standing in a hallway with the world's most open-ended agreement hanging over your head. "talk to your professor. set up the dates."

"satoru—"

the door swings shut behind him. you stand there for a second, staring at it.

what did you just agree to.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

the following days are, frankly, not great for your mental health.

it starts small—a passing thought while you're brushing your teeth sunday morning, a quick what did he mean by that before you shake it off and move on. fine. totally manageable.

by monday it's less manageable. you're sitting in your color theory lecture staring at a slide about complementary palettes but your brain is persistently thinking about it in the background like an app you forgot to close. a drawing. what kind of drawing. why wouldn't he just say what kind of drawing.

tuesday you're in the studio working on a still life and your roommate asks you three times why you keep stopping to stare at nothing and you say you're just thinking about composition which is technically not a lie.

wednesday is when it gets genuinely bad. you're lying on your bed at midnight, sketchbook resting on your stomach, pencil tapping against the page, going through the options in your head.

a portrait, maybe. something normal. that would be fine, that would be completely fine, you could do a portrait no problem. except satoru doesn't do anything without a reason and he definitely wouldn't have been that mysterious about a portrait. which brings you back to the other option sitting at the back of your mind that you keep trying to evict.

a nude.

another one. something he could actually keep this time, something personal, not a class assignment. a drawing he could—your brain unhelpfully supplies the image of him showing it to some girl, grinning, look what my friend drew me, isn't that insane—

you groan and pull your pillow over your face.

that's what it is, isn't it. he wants a proper one. something finished and framed and entirely too detailed that he can use as the world's most unhinged conversation starter with whoever he's currently interested in.

he'd basically said it himself, that night in his dorm. the most insane nude i could ever send to a girl, he'd said, grinning like the thought genuinely delighted him.

you'd laughed at the time. you're not laughing now.

or maybe this time he wants you to actually draw him pleasuring himself or something, his hand wrapped around that thick length, stroking himself the way he had that night while he looked at you and told you to stay and watch.

you wonder how that would go, would he stare at you the whole time, eyes dark and locked on yours while his hand moves on his cock? would he moan loudly, the low rough sounds filling the room the way they had that night? would he have to go a few rounds if you are not fast enough to finish the drawing the first time, his cock getting hard again and again while you try to capture every detail? does he take long to finish, or would he come quick and hard with you watching every twitch and every drop?

you would not survive this.

at least professor lee was happy when you told her. she'd practically lit up, already pulling out her scheduling sheet before you'd even finished the sentence, penciling satoru in for two sessions with the kind of excitement she usually reserved for particularly good student work. she'd called him a find, which was such a professor way to describe gojo satoru that you'd almost laughed.

it was the only good part of the whole week.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

the morning of the first session you get to the studio early, which you tell yourself is because you want a good spot near the window for the light and absolutely not because you need five minutes alone in the room before everyone else arrives to mentally prepare yourself.

your classmates filter in one by one, morning chatter filling the studio and the usual scrape of easels being adjusted and pencils being uncapped. normal. fine. you set up your station, clipped a fresh sheet to your board, told yourself this was just another class.

and then maya, who sits two easels down from you, glances at the model release sheet professor lee has left on the front table and does a very audible double take.

"wait." she picks it up, turning to the room. "is our model today gojo satoru?"

the energy in the room shifts immediately.

"the gojo satoru?" someone says from the back. "from the athletics team?"

"oh my god, i've seen him at the games." this from jess, who is already setting up her pencils. "he's like, genuinely unreal looking. i saw him at the spring championship and i thought i was going to pass out."

"same, he's so tall—"

"and his shoulders—"

"i heard he's like, built like actually insanely well—"

you are staring very hard at your blank page, pencil gripped too tight in your hand, willing yourself not to react to a single word of this.

"wonder what he looks like underneath all that," maya says, in that way that makes three people laugh and makes you want to fold yourself directly into your easel and never come out.

"i mean, we're about to find out," jess says.

"lucky us."

"lucky us is right."

you make a very small, very quiet noise into your sketchbook that no one hears, which is good, because you don't fully have a way to explain it.

professor lee chooses this moment to walk in, satoru a half step behind her, and the room goes just slightly electric in the way it does when someone walks in and everyone clocks them at once. he's in his regular clothes still—sweatpants and a loose shirt—looking completely unbothered by the sudden weight of twenty pairs of eyes, because of course he does, he's satoru, he was probably born unbothered.

his eyes find you immediately across the room. he grins. you look back at your paper.

"good morning everyone," professor lee says, setting her bag down. "as you can see, we have a new model joining us for the next two sessions. this is satoru. please make him feel welcome and remember our studio etiquette—professional environment, focused work."

"hi satoru," the class choruses, with significantly more warmth than you've ever heard directed at a model before, and a few of them are already giggling before they even finish saying it.

"hey," he says easily, lifting a hand, and you can hear the smile in it without even looking.

"oh he's even better up close," someone whispers, not quietly enough.

you close your eyes briefly.

i drew him, you think. i spent a friday night in his dorm room watching him stand there like that and i drew every single line of him and then worked on it for two days and i got an A and none of you will ever know that and i am going to take it to my grave.

so, there's nothing to worry about. you've already seen him naked, you remind yourself, very firmly, like a person who is totally fine. this is nothing new. this is just—a repeat viewing, basically. a familiar subject in a professional context. you have already seen everything there is to see, you have already drawn it, you are already ahead of everyone else in this room by approximately one very eventful friday night.

there is absolutely nothing to be worried about.

you are not going to survive this class.

professor lee gestures toward the changing area. "satoru, whenever you're ready."

"sure." he glances across the room one more time, finds you again, and there's something in his expression that's almost like he's checking in, just briefly, before he disappears behind the curtain.

you pick up your pencil.

you are so not going to survive this class.

and then the curtain moves, and satoru steps out. the room goes completely quiet.

not the polite, professional quiet of a figure drawing class but the stunned, collective, nobody-planned-to-stop-breathing quiet of twenty people registering something all at once and not quite having a response ready for it.

you keep your eyes on your sketchbook for exactly four seconds before you look up, because you're only human.

he's standing at the edge of the platform professor lee uses for her models, completely at ease, even though he's standing in front of a room full of art students in absolutely nothing at all. one hand resting loosely at his side, weight shifted onto one leg, like he's just waiting for someone to tell him where to stand.

"okay," maya breathes, from two easels down, in a tone that isn't really meant for anyone in particular.

someone's pencil rolls off their easel and hits the floor. nobody moves to pick it up.

professor lee, bless her, clears her throat. "alright. let's start with a few short gesture poses, two minutes each, before we move into the longer study. satoru, if you could—"

"yeah, wherever you need me." he steps up onto the platform, and the light from the studio windows catches him in a way that makes the whole thing feel almost unreasonably unfair, like the universe is just showing off now.

"oh my god," jess whispers, so quietly it barely counts as a sound.

you look back down at your paper.

you've seen this before, you remind yourself. you've seen all of this. you are calm. you are professional. you are an artist in a figure drawing class doing exactly what artists in figure drawing classes do. and he is not standing there enjoying every second of the effect he's having on this room, and you are not nervous about it.

you chance one more glance up at him.

he's already looking directly at you, the smallest smirk sitting at the corner of his mouth, like he knows exactly what every single person in this room is currently experiencing and finds it very funny.

you look back down so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

the two minute gestures blur into longer poses, and the room settles into the kind of quiet that only really happens when everyone is actually invested in what they're drawing. except the investment in this particular class feels distinctly less academic than usual.

maya keeps exhaling these small, controlled breaths like she's actively regulating herself. someone in the back row has been erasing and redrawing the same line for the last ten minutes, which has nothing to do with the line being wrong and everything to do with needing an excuse to keep looking. jess fanned herself with her reference sheet at one point, caught professor lee's eye, and stopped.

and then there's the girl to your left. hana, who is usually one of the most technically precise people in the class, ruler-straight lines and perfect proportions. you glance over at her sketchbook once, casually, the way you sometimes do to check where everyone else is in the drawing.

she is on her fourth detailed study of satoru's... manhood.

fourth.

you look back at your own paper immediately, pressing your lips together very hard. professional environment, professor lee had said. focused work. you add a careful shadow along satoru's shoulder and say nothing.

the class continues, pose after pose, and the light shifts slightly as the morning progresses. you almost forget that satoru gojo, your longest friend, is standing right in front of you, naked. it's easier than friday night, somehow, with twenty other people in the room and professor lee moving quietly between easels. more structured. safer. except—

you look up to check the angle of his jaw for the third time and find him already looking at you yet again. you glance back down. look up again a minute later to check the line of his shoulder. still looking at you.

not at the room, not at the middle distance the way models usually do when they're holding a pose. at you, specifically. you drop your gaze back to your sketchbook. look up again two minutes later. still you.

you try, very subtly, to gesture with your eyes. a small, deliberate flick to the left, toward the window, toward literally anywhere else in the room that isn't directly at you. he blinks. stays exactly where he is, gaze not moving an inch.

you try again. a tiny tilt of your head. look somewhere else, you are sending him every possible telepathic signal you have, you are burning through your entire reserve of nonverbal communication, look at the wall, look at the window, look at maya, look at literally anything—

he almost smiles. doesn't move his eyes.

you widen yours slightly, a last desperate attempt.

he raises one eyebrow, barely perceptible, like he's asking what exactly you think you're doing.

"satoru." professor lee's voice cuts through the room, not looking up from the student drawing she's currently reviewing. "eyes forward please."

the class doesn't look up. you look down.

and from across the room, so quietly that you're almost sure you imagined it, you hear him exhale something that sounds very much like a laugh.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

you take longer than necessary packing up your things. unclipping your sheet from the easel slowly, sliding your pencils back into their case one by one, straightening the edge of your sketchbook even though it doesn't need straightening. around you the rest of the class files out, and they are not quiet about it.

"his shoulders," someone says, not even bothering to lower their voice, and a round of giggles breaks out near the door.

"did you see his—" jess starts.

"yes," two people say at once.

"does anyone have his number?" someone asks, completely serious, and the giggles tip over into full laughter that echoes down the hallway and slowly fades.

you stare very hard at your pencil case.

from behind the curtain comes the soft sounds of satoru getting dressed, and professor lee is tidying the platform, humming quietly to herself. then she pauses, glancing toward the curtain.

"satoru, i just want to say—you were wonderful today. very natural in front of the class. some models take weeks to settle into it."

"thanks." his voice comes through easy and relaxed. "wasn't so bad."

"the students responded really well. you have a real presence. it translates onto the page beautifully."

"good to know i'm useful for something other than sports."

professor lee laughs, soft and genuine, in a way you've genuinely never heard from her in a full semester. you hear her gather her things shortly after, the click of her bag, the soft tap of her shoes crossing the studio floor.

"see you both next week," she says warmly on her way out, and then she's gone, door swinging shut behind her, and the studio is suddenly very quiet.

you're still standing at your easel pretending to organize your pencils when the curtain shifts and satoru steps out, fully dressed, hair slightly disheveled from pulling his shirt on. he's looking down at his phone with an expression you can't quite read from here.

"hey," you say.

"hey." he holds his phone up, turning it slightly so you can see the screen without fully crossing the room. there's a new contact open. a name you recognize. "i think your professor just gave me her number."

"she did not."

"slipped it under the curtain on a little piece of paper." he sounds genuinely amazed, somewhere between flattered and delighted. "like an old school note. actual handwriting and everything."

"satoru, she's our professor—"

"she's your professor." he tucks his phone away, grinning now, fully pleased with himself. "i'm just the model."

"you cannot date our professor."

"why not? she's smart, she has good taste—" he gestures loosely at himself, "—clearly. i think we have a real connection."

"oh my god." you finally give up on pretending to organize your pencils, turning to face him fully. "i am not having this conversation."

"you're the one who brought me here. this is on you."

"i did not bring you here so you could get my professor's number—"

"technically you did though." he leans back against the nearest easel, arms crossing, way too comfortable with all of this. "you asked me to come. i came. connections were made. can't control chemistry."

"satoru—"

"relax." the grin shifts into something softer. he tilts his head, watching you with that quiet look again. "i'm messing with you."

"i know you're messing with me."

"do you? because you went pretty red pretty fast for someone who knew."

you open your mouth. close it.

he uncrosses his arms, pushing off the easel, and there's something different in the way he moves now, slower, more deliberate, like he's not in a hurry anymore. he closes the distance between you by one step, then another, until he's close enough that you have to tilt your head up slightly to look at him properly.

"don't worry. i'm not gonna call her." his hand comes up and he tucks a loose strand of hair back from your face, fingers barely grazing your cheek, the touch so brief and light you almost convince yourself it didn't happen. "there's already someone i like."

the studio goes very quiet.

you should say something. you are a person with a working mouth and a functional brain and you should say something.

"you don't want to ask who?" he says, and there's the ghost of a smile there, but it's softer than usual. less like he's winning something and more like he's nervous and trying not to show it.

you look up at him. "...who?"

he looks at you for a long second. his hand hasn't moved far, still hovering near your cheek, close enough that you can feel the warmth of it. and then he leans in, slow enough that you could step back if you wanted to, close enough that you can feel him before you can hear him, his lips just barely brushing the shell of your ear when he speaks.

"you," he says, quiet, just for you. "obviously."

he stays there for a moment, close, warm, not moving away yet. you're pretty sure you've forgotten how breathing works.

and then satoru backs up, easy and unhurried, like he didn't just say that, like the last thirty seconds didn't happen at all. he picks up his bag from the floor, slings it over his shoulder, and glances back at you on his way to the door. "see you next session," he says, and the smile is back.

the door clicks shut behind him.

you stand there in the empty studio for a very long moment.

"next session," you repeat, to no one.

note: please do not ask for updates or comment "next part?" or something like that. if there is an update, i will post it. ppl who continue to demand updates will be blocked.

i appreciate your comments and love hearing your thoughts on the story, but demands for updates make me anxious. have a good day everyone ♡

[kamiflix]

➶-͙˚ ༘✶ F*CK THE LIST

✧.* "MY, MY, WHAT A FUCKING PERVERT YOU ARE . . ."

[ { SYPNOSIS } ] ➤ A continued tale after Gojo Satoru's blackmailing seemed to have much more to it than meets the eye.

[ { NEED TO KNOW } ] ➤ This is a prequel to my fic; The F*ck List. Though, this is meant to be read after TFL to avoid spoilers.

[ { WARNINGS } ] ➤ afab!reader, explicit nsfw scenes, alcohol, college non-curse au, toxic altercations & interactions, heavy blackmail, obsession, possessiveness, hints of; stalking. Violence, mentions of whore activities, gen z references, & above all; 18+ themes.

[ { PAIRINGS } ] ➤ jjk men x f!reader. gojo x f!reader. choso x f!reader. sukuna x f!reader.

❥ Chapters !

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2.

3.

4.

|| @kamiflix || ff status; complete ||