Jin ~

Rearing back, you swear the corner of his mouth twitches in amusement at your appalled reaction. “I beg your pardon? Doctor, I can't do that. It's inappropriate.”

“Not here, Miss,” he clarifies and your face warms from jumping to conclusions. “Just from how you're reacting, I can deduce that you haven't indulged in self pleasure before. You don't know what you enjoy and have no autonomy over your body. Hence, you need to experiment and try out new things to figure out what pleases you and what does not.” 

Nodding slowly, your hands twist the hem of your skirt as you absorb his words. The idea of masturbation feels shameful. You're not particularly religious but after growing up in a household where it was seen as a sin to be lustful, you still harbor such thoughts in your subconscious. 

Lifting your shy gaze, you're stripped bare by his amethyst eyes scanning over your face, mentally jotting down every microexpression of discomfort that flickers across it. 

Setting his notebook aside, the gentle smile he graces you with has your stomach flipping. It's startling how just that gesture has you relaxing, his presence easy to melt into, loosening your tongue. 

“As your doctor, I want what's best for you,” he utters your name in that rich, mellow voice of his akin to a wife calling her husband and you perk up. “Please tell me if I'm overstepping your boundaries. I do not mean to be anything other than strictly professional.” 

“Oh, no, no. You're fine. I was just taken aback is all,” you assure him with a shake of your head and an earnest smile. 

Relief loosens the tension in his shoulders, his eyes softening. “Good, now shall we begin?” 

“Yes, please,” that polite word has his irises swirling but you chalk it up to a trick of the light. 

“Alright. Are you okay with following my instructions? There's this genre of audio erotica called guided masturbation which I recommend you look into but for professional purposes, I just want to ease you into it so you're not lost when you try it out, okay?” 

Swallowing, you nod, shifting to get comfortable as you're laying on the plush couch. “Okay.” 

“I want you to close your eyes and imagine your boyfriend touching you. You're in control, he's listening to you and eager to know what pleases you. Tell him how to touch you.” 

Brows twitching, you want to tell him that this seems like an exercise for fitting for sex therapy but he'd already told you in your last session that he creates these activities based on the specific needs of his patients according to his observations and what he deems necessary.

“Where would you like him to start?” he asks in a quiet voice that wavers like you're suspended in a body of water, waves lapping at your bobbing body. “Your lips? Your neck? Your chest?” 

Hand rising, you brush your fingers over your lips, eyes fluttering shut as they tingle. “My lips.” 

“How do they feel against his ones?” 

“Soft like petals.” 

“How do you want him to kiss you?” 

Tongue peeking out, you tentatively lick the pad of your finger, tasting salt. “With…tongue. I've never done that before. He's always refused.”

And perhaps that is why your brain cannot conjure the image of him kissing you. You've always had a vivid imagination but now his silhouette is distorted like the still surface of water disturbed by pebbles dropped into it. 

“Does it feel good?” 

“This is hard,” you admit, embarrassed. 

“How so?” 

“I can't picture him doing this.”

The psychiatrist goes silent for a few moments, the faint sound of traffic and the ticking of the clock on the wall all that fills your ears, amplified by your lack of sight.

“No worries, you can picture someone else. A teenage crush, maybe a celebrity you like. Many people fancy imagining their favourite characters too,” he offers simply.

Lips thinning, the daydream you're in darkens, slowly seeping away and your disappointment creeps in. “I can't. Maybe we should try another time—”

“If it’s too difficult to focus on him, imagine me.”

Scandalised by the suggestion, your eyes fly open, head whipping to the side to look at him, your imagination shattering like stained glass hit by a brick. 

“Excuse me? That's hardly appropriate.”

“Am I a worse candidate than your boyfriend?” he questions and your eyes widen at the teasing lilt in his voice.

“Um, no. I just find it odd. Don't you?” 

A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. “I can assure you that I've had patients who've tried much worse than just picturing me in their fantasies, Miss.” 

Heat licks at your cheeks. “Ah, okay.”

“You have my consent. Ready to continue?” he cocks his head and asks, sleek hair cascading down his shoulder like spilled ink.

Assuming your position again, you sigh, eyes sliding shut. “Yes.”

“Imagine my hands. Where do you want them while we're kissing?”

With your eyes closed, you followed his forbidden directive. Your hands slid over your ribs, trembling. 

“Here,” you murmur, squeezing at your plush waist and skating palms up to the curve of your breasts that tighten. “And here.” 

“Okay, let's start slow. We want to build up the tension, drag it out. There's no finish line to race to. Just feel.” 

Obliging, you run your hands up and down your sides from your hips to your waist, groping and caressing. They're not your delicate fingers but his thick, long ones digging into your flesh over your clothes, grabbing greedy handfuls of you. 

“Does that feel good? My hands gripping at you, feeling you up in fistfuls?” 

The question trickles into your ears, your pulse melting into hot syrup that pools in your stomach and dips between your legs. An airy, needy sigh passes your lips. 

“Great,” you breathe a dreamy sound, thighs rubbing together, skirt bunching up and you can feel the phantom of his deft fingers hooking into the hem to hike it up. 

“Very good,” he praises, voice light and sweet like he's proud of you for being an active participant in this exercise. “Now on to your neck. My lips are grazing your skin there, what do you want from me?” 

“Bite it,” you blurt instantly, brows knotting as your neck warms with the ghost of his teeth sinking into it, your pulse racing against the enamel as he sucks a flowering hickey into the blank canvas of your skin, hot, needling desire swirls in the pit of your stomach and sizzles against your clit.

The dream morphs into something lucid, him hovering over you, caging you with those bulky limbs, mouth latched onto your neck as your nails drag down the cotton of his shirt that's taut against his meaty pecs, the muscles flexing beneath your palms. The zwip, zwip, zwip of your clawing against the fabric, laddering it with how desperately you're scratching. 

His gentle scent of lilies and something woodsy, the tan terrain of his skin, the dips and ridges of his sculpted form, sweat beading his skin, a devouring hunger in his eyes that scares you and arouses you at the same time because it's so visceral and yet he's holding himself back, willing to kneel at your feet and worship you. 

You don't see your boyfriend’s indifferent face; you see Geto's broad shoulders and his dark, predatory gaze softened by that clinical smile as he tells you how good you're doing for him, kissing down your neck and unbuttoning your blouse, calling out your name as you moan in response. 

“Miss [Name].”

No, that's actually him talking to you right now. A big, warm hand clasps your wrist and tugs, your eyes blinking open, vision blurred and slowly clearing as you look at him. 

Tie askew, his hair is not as neat as it was before you shut your eyes and his cheeks are slightly red as he peers at you. 

“Sorry for touching you without your permission but you were getting carried away there,” he apologises, glancing down at your chest and away. 

Glancing down, you gasp as he lets go of your wrist as you see the lace of your bra on display. You'd been undoing the buttons of your blouse, skirt ridden up so far that one move would have your panties flashing him too. 

Mortified, you spring up and he hands you the blanket beside him which you gratefully accept and cover yourself with. “I am so sorry. I didn't realise—”

“It's okay, just tell me that your imagination will work perfectly when you're exploring it yourself somewhere private,” he interjects with a reassuring smile, clearing his throat. 

Clapping, he stands. “Well then, this session is over. We made good progress, I think. Get home safe,” he greets you with a nod, exiting to room to give you privacy to gather yourself.

The fantasy was a revelation. It makes the drive back to your apartment bearable; it makes the shower sessions a sanctuary where you’d slip your hand between your thighs and whisper your psychiatrist's name into the steam.

After all, there's no harm in practicing. It's make believe, it's not like you're cheating on your boyfriend. Everything is alright. 

It's liberating, really. The realisation that you're not a broken woman. That you're not undesirable. Touching yourself becomes a self love ritual. 

The shame that usually curdles in your stomach evaporates, replaced by a searing, liquid heat.

Weeks pass. Your boyfriend is the last thing on your mind. When he fucks you, his movements are still clumsy and selfish, but you simply close your eyes and summon Dr. Geto, hand slipping between your thighs to rub your clit and make yourself come.

You're glowing, revitalized, and Geto watches it all from behind his mahogany desk, taking meticulous notes on your psyche—and your scent.

For months, he had been the architect of your recovery. After your boyfriend had spent years treating your body like an inconvenient vessel for his own release, Geto had taught you that your pleasure was a sovereign right.

During your final session, the air in the room changed—charged, heavy with the scent of his expensive cologne and the sudden, sharp intent in his eyes.

“I’ve been observing your progress,” Geto muses, standing up. He moves with the grace of a panther on the prowl, stopping beside the chaise. “You’re smiling more. You’re distancing yourself from the man who doesn't deserve you. But there is a final stage to this therapy—one that addresses the psychosomatic tension you’re still carrying.”

The man reaches down, his large, warm hand cupping your cheek. The touch is electric. “Sit up.”

You obey, heart hammering against your ribs. 

He clears the papers from his heavy mahogany desk with a single, slow sweep of his arm. “Your boyfriend treats sex as a conquest. I treat it as a necessity. Bend over, please.”

Fantasy is about to become reality.

Moments later, you're gripping the edge of the polished mahogany, the grain cool against your palms, as Geto comes up behind you. He takes his time as he lifts your skirt, his fingers tracing the line of your spine with agonizing slowness.

“This is the session I've been waiting for,” he whispers against the shell of your ear, his breath hot.

Skirt rolled up to your waist, he bares your ass to him and peels away your soaked panties, picking them up and inhaling your musky sweet scent deeply. It's dizzying, so addictive. He balls up the flimsy cloth and stuffs it into his pocket.

When he eases in, it isn't the clumsy, impatient shove you are used to. It's a slow, deliberate push. He's massive, a solid weight that filled the void your boyfriend had left behind. You let out a shattered cry, your forehead pressing into the desk.

“That's it, you're doing so well,” he growls, his hands catching your hips, his thumbs digging into your hipbones to hold you steady. One hand slides to your belly, pressing down on the bulge there as you whimper. “Feel me here? Feel how perfectly you fit against me."

The drag of his cock inside you is all-consuming. Every time he drives forward, his heavy weight presses you down into the desk, the glossy wood and the heat of his body creating a sensory overload. Each vein and ridge rubs back and forth inside you, tickling all those sweet spots inside you that have your head swimming, drool dribbling from your parted lips and moans spilling from you that you barely recognize. 

"Your body isn't a burden," he whispers, his voice thickening as the friction built toward a fever pitch. "It is a temple, and I am its most dedicated servant. Tell me... does your boyfriend ever make you feel this seen?"

"No," you breathe sharply, vision dimming with heat. You're jelly, your senses dissolving into the scent of his cologne and soap.

"Then let him go," he grits, his grip tightening until his knuckles were white. "Forget his name."

Who?

He leans down, biting the sensitive skin where your shoulder meet your neck, his long hair falling like a curtain around you both. As he hits your deepest point, over and over, you feel the last remnants of your old life shatter.

"This is the only medicine you need," he hums, his voice breaking. "And I'll be sure to provide it whenever you want it."

You could feel the power in his thighs, the strength of his chest against your back as he presses his lips into the softness of your neck, cock sinking into you deeper and deeper with each smooth roll of his hips, the desperate drag of his body against yours nearly molding you two together as his cock carves a home for itself in your snug cunt. 

“Fuck, do you know how good you feel? Sucking me in so greedily, fitting me like a glove. Your boyfriend barely left a mark,” he seethes, biting down on your shoulder as his lazy, savoring thrusts descend into something feral and harsh, grunts thrumming though your skin as the desk creaks and whines with you. 

“Ah, Geto—” 

“Suguru, baby. I'm your Suguru,” he mumbles in a drunken slur against the side of your face, lips smushed to your wet cheek, licking up the tears of pure bliss and relief that streak down your face. 

“Suguru,” you gasp out and a long, drawn-out groan rumbles out of him, his abdomen bunching against your lower back as his hips smack against your plush ass, the flesh rippling. 

“I’ve spent months learning every fracture in your psyche,” he rasps, his pace quickening, the sound of sweat-slick skin slapping skin echoing in the quiet office. “I know exactly where you’re broken. And I know exactly how to fill those spaces.”

He reaches around, his large fingers finding your aching clit, circling with a clinical precision that sends sparks crackling through your vision. You are far gone, your mind turning to white noise as he buries himself to the hilt, over and over.

Cupping your jaw, he turns your face so he can get a good look at you, half-lidded eyes dark and glistening with elation as he takes in your messy hair, smudged eyeliner, tears dotting your lashes and parted lips. 

Ducking down, he licks a hot, wet stripe up your chin, slurping the drool there, tongue delving into your mouth and kissing you sloppy like you had fantasized about for months, hip thrusts stuttering from how sweet and buttery you taste. 

“You’ve never looked better," he moans into your mouth, his voice thick with a dark, satisfied pride as he feels your pussy clench around him in a violent, weeping orgasm, drinking down your whimpers. “This is the only medicine you need from now on. I'll give it to you every time, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you mewl, incapable of saying anymore as you struggle to kiss him, legs quivering and cunt convulsing, drawing his orgasm forward, thick, creamy cum splattering inside your squelching walls. 

You lay slump against the mahogany, breathless and gold-spun with afterglow. Suguru doesn't pull away immediately, buried deep within you, his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you together.

"Much better," he sighs, pressing a tender kiss to your shoulder, his kind smile returning to his face even as his eyes remained dark with a predatory satisfaction. "I think we’ve made excellent progress today."

Smiling deliriously, you're spent and shimmering, a patient finally cured by the most radical of treatments.

note: i doubt i did that blurb justice huhu but i wanted to write suguru

"By two minutes," you replied evenly, placing the files on his desk. "Traffic was heavier than usual."

"Excuses," he scoffed, running a hand through his spiky blonde hair. "Where's my coffee?"

"On its way. I told Hana to make it extra hot today, just how you like it."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Don't tell me what I like. You've been my secretary for eight months, you should know by now."

"I do know," you countered, refusing to back down. "That's why I said it."

His eyes flashed with something—annoyance, maybe even grudging respect. "The reports from last quarter?"

"Right here." You tapped the stack of files. "All organized, highlighted, and summarized as per your ridiculously specific instructions."

Bakugou moved behind his desk, sinking into his leather chair. "Ridiculously specific? That's how we maintain perfection around here."

"Or how we maintain a 90% employee turnover rate," you muttered under your breath, but not quietly enough.

"What was that?" he growled, leaning forward.

"Nothing," you said smoothly. "Just admiring how efficiently you run things."

For a moment, you thought he might actually smile—almost. Instead, he just nodded curtly. "Good. Now get me the meeting schedule for this afternoon. And remind me why I agreed to that charity gala next week."

"You didn't agree," you replied, already pulling up your tablet. "Your PR director signed you up before consulting you, and now you're contractually obligated."

"Fuck," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Fine. Handle it."

"That's why you pay me the big bucks," you said with a hint of sarcasm.

"If you were paid based on attitude alone, you'd be bankrupt," he shot back.

"And if you were judged solely on people skills, you'd be working at a convenience store."

The tension in the room thickened, the familiar push and pull between you hanging in the air. This was how it always went—sharp remarks, barely veiled hostility, but beneath it all, a grudging acknowledgment of competence.

Just then, his private line rang. He glanced at the caller ID before answering. "Dynamight."

As he spoke, you took the opportunity to really look at him. Bakugou was undeniably attractive, in an intense, almost dangerous way. The hero costume did little to hide his muscular build, but in a suit, he was something else entirely—powerful, commanding, every inch the man who had fought his way to the top.

"…no, that's not acceptable," he was saying into the phone, his voice low and dangerous. "I want the full security detail reevaluated by tomorrow morning. If there's another breach like last week, heads will roll."

You shifted uncomfortably, remembering the incident he was referring to—a villain attack at a public appearance that had nearly turned disastrous. Bakugou had handled it with his usual explosive efficiency, but the aftermath had been hell for everyone at the agency.

"Fine," he said abruptly, ending the call. "Fucking idiots."

"Security issues?" you asked, already making a note to follow up with the security team.

"None of your concern," he snapped. "Just do your job and stay out of mine."

"That's hard to do when your job keeps spilling into mine," you retorted before you could stop yourself.

His eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that when you're in a bad mood, the entire office suffers. And when you're in a bad mood, which is most of the time, I'm the one who has to deal with the fallout."

Bakugou stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "Maybe if you did your job right the first time, there wouldn't be any fallout."

"Maybe if you weren't such an insufferable perfectionist, people would actually want to work for you," you shot back, your voice rising slightly.

The air crackled with tension, his eyes blazing with anger. But then something shifted in his expression—a flicker of something else, something darker and more complicated.

"You've got a lot of nerve," he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "Talking to me like that."

"Someone has to," you replied, your heart pounding. "Everyone else is too scared."

He took a step closer, and you fought the urge to back away. "And you're not?"

"Should I be?" you challenged, meeting his gaze directly.

For a long moment, he just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed—a short, harsh sound that held no real humor.

"Fuck," he said, running a hand through his hair again. "You really don't hold back, do you?"

"I believe in honest communication," you said, trying to regain your professional composure.

"Is that what you call it?" he asked, moving around his desk to stand closer to you. "I'd call it insubordination."

"I'd call it setting boundaries," you countered, though your voice was less steady now that he was so close. You could smell his cologne—something spicy and expensive that suited him entirely.

"Boundaries," he repeated, as if testing the word. "Interesting choice of words from someone who crossed the line the moment she walked through that door."

Before you could respond, his phone rang again. With a frustrated sigh, he turned away to answer it, giving you a moment to collect yourself. Your heart was racing, your palms slightly sweaty. What the hell was that?

As Bakugou dealt with the call, you took the opportunity to escape. "I'll go check on your coffee," you said, already moving toward the door.

"Don't bother," he said without turning around. "I've got a meeting in ten. Just reschedule my afternoon."

Without another word, you slipped out of the office, closing the heavy door behind you and leaning against it for support. What had just happened? The tension between you had always been there, but this felt different—charged, dangerous, almost intimate.

Shaking your head, you straightened up and walked back to your desk. You had a job to do, and getting flustered over your boss's mood swings wasn't part of it.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings, phone calls, and paperwork. Bakugou was in and out of the office, leaving you to handle the chaos he left in his wake. It wasn't until late afternoon that things finally quieted down.

You were reviewing the final draft of a press release when your desk phone rang. It was Bakugou's private line.

"Dynamight's office," you answered professionally.

"Get in here," he said, and then hung up without another word.

With a sigh, you saved your work and headed to his office. When you entered, you found him standing by the window again, looking out at the city below.

"You wanted to see me?" you asked, keeping your voice neutral.

He turned, and you were struck again by how imposing he was—tall, muscular, with an intensity that seemed to fill the room.

"The charity gala next week," he said, walking toward his desk. "I need you to attend with me."

You blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"As my date," he clarified, as if it were the most normal request in the world. "The PR team thinks it'll look good—humanize me or some bullshit."

You stared at him, certain you must have misheard. "You want me to attend a charity gala with you? As your date?"

"Is there an echo in here?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Yes, that's what I said."

"But… why me?" you asked, genuinely confused. "Surely one of the PR representatives would be more appropriate."

"Because I don't want to deal with some simpering idiot who's going to agree with everything I say," he replied, his eyes fixed on yours. "I want someone who'll actually tell me if I'm being an asshole."

You couldn't help it—you laughed. "You want me to be your date so I can tell you when you're being an asshole?"

A small smile touched his lips. "Something like that."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," you said, trying to regain your professional composure. "It could blur the lines of our professional relationship."

"Professional relationship?" he scoffed, stepping closer. "Is that what you call this constant bickering? The way you challenge every damn thing I say?"

"It's called doing my job properly," you retorted, though your heart was starting to pound again. "Which includes giving you honest feedback when you're being unreasonable."

"Is that all it is?" he asked, his voice dropping lower. "Just doing your job?"

"What else would it be?" you challenged, though you had a sinking feeling you knew where this was going.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he closed the remaining distance between you, his hand coming up to cup your jaw. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to his usual brusque manner.

"You drive me insane," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "Always have, from the moment you walked in here for your interview and told me my expectations were 'ridiculously high'."

"You were asking for a secretary with ten years of experience and fluency in three languages for an entry-level salary," you reminded him, your voice barely above a whisper.

"And you were the only one with the balls to call me on it," he countered, his eyes darkening. "Do you have any idea how many secretaries I've gone through in the past two years? None of them lasted more than a few weeks."

"Because you're impossible to work with," you said, though the words lacked their usual conviction.

"Or maybe because they were all scared of me," he suggested, his other hand coming to rest on your hip. "But you're not, are you?"

You should have pulled away. You should have reminded him of workplace policies and professional boundaries. But instead, you found yourself leaning into his touch, your body responding in ways your mind was screaming against.

"I'm not scared of you," you admitted, your eyes locked with his. "I just think you're an arrogant, demanding, insufferable—"

Whatever you were about to say was cut off as his lips crashed down on yours. The kiss was nothing like you would have expected from Bakugou—it wasn't gentle or tentative. It was hungry, demanding, almost punishing, as if he were trying to prove a point.

Your hands, which had been hanging limply at your sides, came up to grip his shoulders. The fabric of his suit was expensive and smooth under your fingers, but you could feel the hard muscle beneath. His hands tightened on your body, one sliding down to cup your ass while the other tangled in your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing heavily. His red eyes were dark with desire, his lips swollen from the kiss.

"This is a terrible idea," you said, even as you leaned in for more.

"The worst," he agreed, before capturing your lips again.

This time, the kiss was slower, more exploratory. His tongue traced the seam of your lips before delving inside, and you met him stroke for stroke. The knot of tension that had been forming in your stomach for months was finally unraveling, replaced by a heat that spread through your entire body.

His hands roamed over your body, mapping your curves through the fabric of your clothes. When his thumb brushed against the side of your breast, you gasped into his mouth, arching into his touch.

"Fuck," he muttered against your lips. "You're so responsive."

"Only when I want to be," you retorted, though your breathless tone undermined the defiance in your words.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your chest. "Is that right?"

To prove his point, his hand moved from your hip to between your legs, cupping you through your pencil skirt. You couldn't suppress the moan that escaped your lips as his thumb pressed against your clit, even through the layers of fabric.

"Still only responding when you want to be?" he asked, his voice smug.

"Shut up," you gasped, grinding against his hand.

"Make me," he challenged, his lips finding that sensitive spot behind your ear.

You responded by fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, your fingers clumsy with desire. When you finally managed to undo them all, you pushed the fabric aside, your hands exploring the hard planes of his chest. He was even more muscular than you'd imagined, his skin hot to the touch.

Your fingers found his nipples, and you rolled them between your thumbs and forefingers, enjoying the way he hissed in response. Two could play at this game.

"Fuck," he muttered, his hips bucking against yours. "You're playing with fire."

"I'm not afraid of getting burned," you replied, though your voice was shaky.

He responded by picking you up as if you weighed nothing, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist. He carried you to his desk, sweeping aside the neatly stacked files with one arm before setting you down on the polished wood.

"You're going to be the death of me," he said, his hands moving to the zipper of your skirt.

"Promise?" you asked, your voice laced with sarcasm and desire.

Instead of answering, he captured your lips again in a bruising kiss as he removed your skirt and panties in one smooth motion. The cool air of the office hit your heated skin, and you shivered despite the warmth spreading through your body.

His fingers found your wet folds, sliding through them with practiced ease. "Already so wet for me," he murmured against your lips.

"It's the air conditioning," you retorted, though your arching hips betrayed you.

He laughed, a genuine, unguarded sound that surprised you. "Always so defiant."

"Always," you agreed, your hands working to unbuckle his belt.

When his pants were undone, you reached inside, your fingers wrapping around his hard cock. He was thick and heavy in your hand, already leaking pre-cum from the tip. You stroked him slowly, enjoying the way his breath hitched.

"Fuck," he muttered, his hips thrusting into your hand. "You're good at that."

"I'm good at everything," you replied, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head.

He captured your hand, stopping your movements. "Not so fast," he said, his eyes dark with desire. "I want to be inside you when I come."

Your breath caught in your throat at his words. "Then what are you waiting for?"

Instead of answering, he positioned himself at your entrance, teasing you with the head of his cock. You tried to push down, to take him inside you, but his hands on your hips held you in place.

"Bakugou," you whined, your patience wearing thin.

"Katsuki," he corrected, his voice rough. "When I'm inside you, you'll call me Katsuki."

With that, he thrust into you in one smooth motion, filling you completely. You cried out at the sudden fullness, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Fuck," you breathed, your head falling back.

"Too much?" he asked, though he didn't move, giving you time to adjust.

"No," you managed to say. "Just… move."

He needed no further encouragement. He began to thrust, setting a punishing pace that had you seeing stars. Each stroke hit that perfect spot inside you, building the tension in your core higher and higher.

"You feel so good," he muttered, his lips finding your neck. "So tight, so wet."

"Harder," you demanded, your legs tightening around his waist.

He complied, his movements becoming more erratic as he approached his release. His hand moved between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in tight circles.

That was all it took to push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you, waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Your inner walls clenched around him, milking his cock as he found his own release, spilling inside you with a guttural groan.

For a moment, you both stayed like that, panting and sweaty, the reality of what you'd just done slowly sinking in. Then, Bakugou—Katsuki—pulled out, adjusting his clothes as if nothing had happened.

You slid off the desk, your legs slightly shaky as you reached for your discarded clothes. The silence in the office was deafening, broken only by the sound of zippers and rustling fabric.

"That was…" you started, but you didn't know how to finish.

"A mistake?" he suggested, though his tone was unreadable.

"Probably," you agreed, though you couldn't bring yourself to regret it.

He watched as you dressed, his expression thoughtful. "The charity gala next week," he said finally. "Are you still coming with me?"

You looked up, meeting his gaze. "Are you still paying me overtime?"

A slow smile spread across his face. "Double time–no, make it triple," he offered.

"Deal," you said, though you knew you were making another mistake. A delicious, dangerous mistake that you had a feeling you'd be making again and again.

As you walked out of his office, you could feel his eyes on you, and you wondered what you had just gotten yourself into. Whatever it was, you had a feeling it was going to be complicated, messy, and utterly irresistible.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

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MHA MASTERLIST

WRITING COMMISSION

All you know now is that Satoru doesn’t want to stop. He’s bringing you to your third orgasm of the night just with his fingers and tongue, pulling away just enough to speak up. “Fuck, I expected you to taste sweet but if I knew it was to this extend, I’d have ate that pussy way before.” His words vibrate against the slick skin of your puffy pussy lips. A deep breath leaves your mouth and you try your hardest to keep holding the text book in your hands. “S-Shut up, Satoru!” He just chuckles at that, going back at it once more.

His hands are strong as he holds your thighs up, the wooden chair cracking under your weight each time you try to roll your hips toward his slick drenched face. Satoru’s fingers are buried in the fat of your thighs, and it looks so effortless for him; his muscles not even twitching, he’s not even sweating or looking uncomfortable at the position. You, on the other hand, are a mess. Sweat is covering your face, a thin thread of drool leaked from the corner of your lip and your eyebrows are furrowed by the pleasure coursing through your body.

You have one hand running through his white hair, tugging at the locks to push Satoru’s head closer to your core, his mouth latching around your sensitive clit. Warmth courses through your lower belly each time he flicks the tip of his tongue against your bundle of nerves, teasing you like he knows how to. Your other hand is holding the geometric optic textbook tightly, your voice shaking as you try your best to keep reading it to the boy between your legs. You take a deep breath before going at it again.

“Reflection according to the r = i law of reflection, with the incident ray, the reflected ray is—Ah, fuck, Satoru!,” You can’t help but moan out, interrupting yourself as he starts to suck on your clit, his nose pressed against the skin of your pelvis and his chin drenched in your juices from the previous orgasms. His hands grip your thighs tighter when you squirm away on the chair, back arching and head thrown to the ceiling. The pleasure makes you feel dizzy for a moment, white sparkles appearing in your vision as you gasp.

“Continue, pretty girl. I need to have a good grade for this one, mh?” He mumbles against your pussy, light blue eyes looking up at your face. You try your best to nod, licking your lips before you keep going. “—And… And the normal being coplanar, is called specular reflection.” You whine out loud after finishing your sentence, feeling Satoru’s tongue lapping at your puffy folds, licking the wetness and juices from your skin. He lowers his mouth to your entrance, circling his tongue against the muscle of your sloppy hole. 

The action makes the tip of his nose rub against your clit and your fingers tighten their grip on his white locks, making him hiss. “That’s it, good girl, bet you love having y’pussy eaten, uh? Keep reading, baby.” He teases you, looking up at your face before wrapping his lips around your clit once more, like sucking on a candy. Your hips jerk toward his face as he presses his warm and wet tongue against your bundle of nerves. A gasp leaves your mouth at that, before you nod at him.

“Most surfaces are intermediate between specular reflectors and perfectly diffusing surfaces—” You keep reading as Satoru goes back to sucking on your clit, hands still holding your thighs but lowering toward the fat of your ass where wetness and juices are smeared, making your skin glisten. “When a ray of light enters a denser medium it is refracted towards the normal in such a manner than the ratio of the sine of the angle of incidence to the sine of the angle of refraction is constant, this constant being called the refractive index.” You keep reading, even though your thighs are now shaking around Satoru’s head.

His tongue runs along your folds, in between your pussy lips to gather the wetness there, lapping at it. The tip of his tongue presses against the firm muscle of your entrance once more before he wraps his lips there to tease you. The white-haired boy starts to press kisses along your pussy until he’s back up at your clit that he sucks on, again. The sensation of his tongue being everywhere on your pussy creates goosebumps on the skin of your arms, your toes curling as you try to not moan too loud just in case. 

But Satoru’s light blue eyes look up at your face again when you bite your lips to stay quiet. “Don’t do that baby, s’not like anyone can hear you, anyway. They are all getting drunk at the party. Don’t be shy.” He smirks, and you know he’s teasing you but he’s not wrong. So when he goes back to eating you out, your lips part to let whines and moans escape louder. Your grip on his hair tightens again, and Satoru keeps his eyes on you when he presses the tip of his tongue against your wet pussy. 

“Satoru, ah!” You cry out, body squirming on the chair as he wraps his lips around your bundle of nerves and starts to suck on it harshly, his nose pressed against your pubic area, chin drenched in your juices. His mouth creates suction noises against your cunt, his tongue pressed flat and circling against your clit and he doesn’t seem like he’s about to pull away at all. Warmth is coursing through your body soon enough, thighs shaking around his head as your grip on the textbook loosen up, letting the book fall on the wooden floor in a loud thud. 

You now press both of your hands on the back of his head, keeping him exactly where he is, which makes him grip your thighs harder before throwing them on top of his shoulders. The pleasure makes you dizzy just like before, your lips parting wide with blown out pupils looking down at the white-haired boy. Satoru just wants to bring you to your fourth orgasm, his lips sucking harder on your clit, letting your wetness coat his chin and mouth. 

He doesn’t let go, even when your orgasm hits you; you cry out his name. “Satoru, fuck! Please, oh my God!,” your hips jerk up toward his face, fingers pulling on his hair as if you want him to get away but he doesn’t. His tongue starts to flick against your clit and your thighs shakes on his strong shoulders then, you swear you can hear your heart pulsating then. The pleasure is mind-blowing, making you almost sway off of the chair before you stabilize yourself by holding onto Satoru’s forearms. He hums against your clit when you do that, adding stimulation to your orgasm.

The muscles of your thighs are shaking now, sweat covering your forehead, a thread of drool slowly dripping from the corner of your lips as Satoru finally pulls away from your cunt. The half-bottom of his face is coated with your juices, lips puffy and pink from sucking on your clit so much. His expression is full of teasing, a smirk on his lips when he sees you in that post-orgasm state. “Damn, I didn’t know my tongue could do that to you. I think your pussy really liked it too.” 

You’re half-tempted to slap him behind the head, but he’s not wrong about that. “Shut up, you idiot. Did you even listen to the lesson?” You end up asking as he leans over again, just to press soft and wet kisses to the skin of your inner-thighs, where wetness has smeared from all your orgasms. It brings goosebumps to your skin and a sigh leaves your mouth before he shakes his head.

“Nope, didn’t hear shit. Was too busy eating that pretty cunt of yours. Maybe we should go back to it?”

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ would try his luck. you and him were in a thursday and friday class, and he'd use his every waking opportunity to grab your attention. flirts, charms, everything infuriating in between. he caught you in town once, rushing to get to campus and of course, offered you a ride.

“c'mon babydoll. is being late to class really better than takin' a ride with me?” he'd grin.

you'd flip him off. hiss another rejection. you knew about guys like him. you saw him in the hallways. loud, boisterous, flirting with any pair of pretty eyes that looked his way.

it confused you though. why'd he only flirt with you on thursdays and fridays? also where were his glasses?

˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ would go on to be your enemy of the semester. ever since your altercation in class, he's made it his personal life goal to hate you with his entire being. unfortunately for him, you were also smart. but a bit too confident for your own good, it seemed. did you really think you could compete with him? and so began the most fiery academic rivalry in history.

you'd be neck in neck. fighting for first place as professor's pet and battling it out on the grade scoreboards.

he'd get an assignment back with a stellar 99%, only to look over at your measly 94%. he'd grin, like an asshole. “must be hard being such a loser, huh?”

only to crumple his next assignment into tight fists when you managed to get just one percentage higher than him.

he'd exchange banter with you. debate you in class. call you a brat when you tried to prove him wrong and challenge him.

you were brilliant and unfortunately, beautiful. satoru didn't know what was happening to him. it slowly became something that wasn't just academics. and that terrified him.

as for you? you were in the same boat. the last thing you wanted was to fall in love with this asshole. but you had to admit, he looked cuter when he decided to wear his glasses and tone down the fuckboy act every monday and tuesday.

why'd he switch so drastically through the week? what a weirdo.

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ listened to his brother rant about the irritating girl that was his astrophysics desk partner. about how she was so unnecessarily rude and even more audacious. satoshi couldn't help but grin. was satoru, his loser of a brother, actually finding love? and when he found out that the girl in question was you? he couldn't blame him. he's been trying for months to get your number, let alone get up your skirt. he dubbed it as competitiveness. he's never had a girl reject him and thus— it's made him a little obsessed. he couldn't stop thinking about you. in bed, in the shower, hell, seeing you walk around campus and not even look at him was torture.

˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ hated himself for the way he turned out. he's not sure how it happened. just one day after a heated debate with you, he'd stormed off back to his dorm. collapsed in his desk. shoved his glasses into his hair. and soon, angry scribbling in his notes became desperate jerks of his hand as he fucked his fist. to the thought of you. that grating voice, that beautifully sharp mind. everything. he hated himself. hated that he was thinking about this. he wasn't satoshi. he didn't want girls like this— he sure as hell didn't fuck his fist this needy to one either. and yet when he spurted all over his hand, panting hard and whispering your name, it felt oddly right. it scared him.

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ dragged satoru out at the end of semester to a party. told himself he was being a good brother. might as well try to get along, right? but satoru was so boring. he didn't drink, didn't chat, just sat in some corner with his headset on and scrolled through his phone. and satoshi? he was all over the place. bouncing and bubbling, bumping and grinding. a red solo cup in his hand. keeping as far as fucking away from his twin as possible. fuck. why'd he even bring him here?

his irritation washed away the second he saw you, however. dolled up, dangerous, looking like both sin and sugar. he left behind his friends, ignored whatever girl tried to come his way.

he found you at the drinks table. propped his forearm on it and grinned at your little glare.

“this isn't really your scene, babydoll. tagged along with someone?”

“a few friends.”

“wow. so she can be polite.”

you rolled your eyes and noticed he wasn't wearing his glasses. seemed that the fuckboy persona was on for the night. you bit back your questions and swirled your drink in your cup.

“you never give up, do you?” you mulled.

his head took a charming curve as he sipped his drink.

“not when I want something, no.” those blue eyes raked down your frame. tracing every curve. familiarising every inch.

he dared to lean closer. white lashes batting as his grin sets into a stunning smile.

“especially when that something is as a pretty as you.”

your heart fluttered. you shouldn't have talked to him. shouldn't have kept talking to him.

you're not sure how it happened. maybe finally accepting his flirts. maybe after months of touching yourself to the academic rivalry. this heated push and pull between the both of you.

you should have known better, but— you did it. you let satoshi take you to his dorm.

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ has been around the block. his touch dripped with experience. he unclasped your bra with ease. barely missed a beat in kisses. large hands roaming your sweet body he's been dreaming about since the start of semester. not an inch of hesitance in his fingertips as he slipped under your dress and dragged your damp panties down. “such a pretty girl,” he crooned to your ear. how many girls had he said that to? how many did he mean it?

he's been after you for months. chasing, wanting— yearning. satoshi never yearned. he got everything he ever wanted in life.

maybe that's why he loved having to work for you. for your smooth body on his bed, opened up and so soaked for him. maybe that's why he actually took his time. mouthing on your skin. burying his face in your cunt.

he only ever ate women out as a way to get them ready. courtesy, if anything. but now? fuck, he's never actually feasted on a girl. with his hands, calloused from endless hours on his bike, dragging your thighs over. trapping you. mouth messily moving on your slit. slurping, sucking, shaking his head and nudging his nose into your clit.

he fucked you on his tongue. made you cum on it more than any girl ever has. and as you gripped his hair and whined for him? not some prissy comment or attitude? he almost came in his pants.

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ couldn't even care less if you didn't suck him off. he didn't even want you to. he needed to be inside of you. needed to hold you down and fuck you into his sheets. make the girl who was so unattainable finally his.

the second he was buried to the hilt inside your welcoming pussy— he couldn't breathe. you were hot, tight, suffocating him with your dripping slick and clenching cunt. he's had many girls in this position before. but no one looked up at him with those eyes. no one sounded this sweet. made him lose his fucking mind.

satoshi wasn't gentle. he couldn't be. the second his tip smooched your cervix, his hands clamped on your waist as his hips started snapping. hard, controlled. an experienced rhythm that stuffed all his inches deep into your gooey heat and meshed your clit with his pelvis.

“fuuckk, babydoll,” he groaned from the back of his throat. hunching over you. one hand gripped your hip while the other slipped around to cup the back of your head.

he was losing himself. losing his fucking mind. the bed creaked. headboard tapped. but your pretty moans were all he was focused on. your sweet whimpers and little whines as he alternated rhythms. rolled his hips. went from grinding to humping to thrusting, until your toes curled and your back lurched off of the bed.

pretty nails down his back. teary doll eyes on him as your slick dripped down his balls and splattered all over his thighs with each firm thrust.

your lips parted. eyes glossed. he saw it. cradled your head close and slipped a thumb to your clit. he knew what it meant. saw his name on your tongue.

a groan built on his. thrusts surging into wet, rushed slaps pounding against your ass.

“say it for me baby. c'mon, say my name.”

“s-sat— sato—. . .” your eyes fluttered. head thrown back. loud and needy, your moan broke into the air.

“satoru!”

and broke satoshi's mind.

you didn't know any better. they're both reffered to as “gojo” in class and you've only heard one other person refer to one of them as “satoru”. you thought that was his name. thought they were one person.

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ frozen. stiffened mid thrust as the last syllables stung his ear. satoru. satoru. his twin brother? did you really just fucking call for his twin while he's balls deep inside of you. making your cunt cream and cry for him. making you— wait.

didn't satoru say you were rude to him for no reason at all?

satoshi's mind worked fast. piecing the puzzle and timeline together. you confused satoru for him back then. he didn't know whether to be amused or angry.

amused because, how in the hell did you think they were the same person?

angry because, he's the one who's been working his ass off for you attention— and it's his brother's name that you call instead?

either way, he grinned. halfway a threat and a taunt. “oh?” he crooned, bucking his hips hard into yours so that his fully seathed cock dragged on all of your sweet spots.

he leaned over you. white hair dusting over icy blues. your jaw trapped in his strong hand.

“you want toru baby? want me to go get him for you?”

your confused look almost had him cackling. before he slammed! into you again. hands bundling your thighs. grin turned sharp. he yanked you down to choke your cunt on his cock and jerked forward. pounding you into the mattress and snapping the headboard into the wall as your moans pitched into cries.

“sato—!”

he gripped your jaw tight. shoved two fingers on your tongue before you said his name again and made satoshi fuck you until you were a limp cumdump.

“satoshi.” he corrected with a pointed sneer. his rabid pace not once letting up. frustration pulsed into every vein of his ramming cock.

“satoshi. satoshi.” he grit, punctuating each repeat of his name with a rough thrust.

“satoshi's the one fucking you. not satoru. satoru's my fuckin' twin. I'm the one fucking this pretty cunt stupid. I'm the one you should be calling for.”

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ didn't give you time to process the fact that you'd thought he and his brother were one person. egged on from the frustration of wanting someone more than he's ever wanted anyone— only to have them moan out his twin's name— spurred his mind feral.

he pounded you into his sheets. pummeling your poor pussy until you squirted all over him. again, and again, and again— until you were saying his name. whining his name. sobbing his name.

he's not sure how many rounds he fucked you through. three? four? he pushed and pulled you into whatever position he could think of. threw your legs over his shoulders and fucked you until your eyes crossed. shoved you onto your stomach and pounded against your ass until your drool stained his pillow.

he couldn't care about finally having you anymore. if you wanted to act dumb— he'd fuck you stupid. fuck his silly girl who couldn't tell the obvious difference between him and his brother who actively despises him.

he made sure it was his name you knew. made sure you knew it was him inside of you. his cock making you cum. his hands holding you through it. and for extra measure? he sucked his name in hickeys on your collarbone.

TOSHI in blushing bruises.

he made sure to cum inside. creampie you nice and full until it was dripping. then snatched your panties and wiped the mess clean with them. he stashed them away for later.

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ stirred the next morning to you shuffling out of his arms. he tried to pull you in, kiss your head, but you were up and frantic. he cracked an eye open, watching as you shuffled out of bed and searched for your clothes. you looked almost panicked. he couldn't help but grin at the sight of your nude body prancing around his room, littered in all the marks he'd given you.

he propped his head onto one of his hands, brow arched and grin audacious. “something wrong, babydoll?”

oh, there's that glare he loved. only now you looked utterly embarrassed. flushed face and glossy eyes as you clumsily pulled on your clothes.

“shut up.” you mumbled, but made the mistake of looking in the mirror. you saw it. hickies spelling out his name. the night crashed back into you.

right. you thought the twins were one fucking person.

satoshi could only grin. tilting his head and pouting. as if he felt sorry for you.

“awww baby, embarrassed? 's okay. it was cute.” he sat up, raking his eyes that grew progressively darker down your wrecked frame.

“just a reminder. that it wasn't toru fucking that sweet cunt. toshi bruised those pretty thighs up, kay?”

he snickered as you tossed a pillow at him. still called you babydoll as you called him creep.

˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ texted his brother the same day.

“the fuck did you dip to? could have told me.”

he nearly broke his phone at the reply.

“sorry. your little rival was all over me. had to take care of her.”

satoru stared at his phone. telling himself it was fine. that he shouldn't be mad. he didn't feel a fucking thing for you— why should he care?

maybe because satoshi always got the girls.

maybe because he hated him.

he shoved his phone into his pocket. got up and went to class. you weren't looking at him. guilt riddled in your stare that remained forward.

fucking. great. of course you were just like every other girl on this campus.

he was in a mood all day. avoided his brother like he always did and kept to himself. all he wanted was to get to his dorm, kick off his shoes, study, maybe read some manga, play on his switch.

so imagine his surprise when he found a crumpled pair of cum-filled panties strewn over his bed and heard the familiar engine rev from outside his window?

it didn't take a genius to know whose those were.

his hands trembled. glasses fogged and slipped down his nose. red swarmed his vision.

satoru didn't quite know how to throw a punch, but he's never wanted to break his brother's jaw more.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/cursed-carmine. art cred: @/_teaforgods (ig).

ᝰ.☆ enjoyed this piece? consider supporting or commissioning me <3 part two coming soon!

you first saw choso on twitch a few months ago because he was at the top of the valorant category with twenty thousand people watching him. 

you clicked on the stream because, honestly, the thumbnail was a bait. why? because it was him wearing a black sando and his biceps were huge. huge as in it’s taking up half the frame every time he adjusted his mouse or headset. 

you first thought he’d be one of those streamers who faked a high-energy personality for donations. 

well, he wasn’t.

someone could donate fifty bucks and ask for a shoutout, but choso wouldn’t even look at the camera. 

that type of move would make the chat go feral. 

they loved how much he didn’t care. and honestly? you do too.  

and as you kept watching, you realized he wasn’t just an eye candy. that was just a bonus, because he was a very efficient player, the type who didn’t tilt or shout on every death or on every clutch. he played with a calm strategy that made the game look easy for a pvp.

he was the exact opposite of you and naturally, that made you want to mess with him.

you started showing up in the chat every single night, right when the viewer count hit its peak. the chat was usually a mix of people asking for his settings or complaining about the rank reset. choso would answer them, but his voice would always be flat.

“crosshair is 1-4-2-2. no, i don’t use a mousepad,” he’d say, eyes glued to the screen.

then there was you. you weren’t there for the gameplay. you playfully made it weird. while everyone else was talking about his headshot percentage, you were in the comments saying things like: 

“choso, do you think your biceps could fit around my neck, or should i measure them first?”

he didn't really pay attention at first, but at some point, you know he read your comments out of the corner of his eye. even when he is trying to get a headshot or when he is doing nothing at all.

a week later: “choso, look at the camera and tell me i’m a good girl.”

most streamers would’ve banned you, but choso just let the comments slide past.

for weeks, he ignored you. if you’re being a menace in the comments, he’d just look at the screen in a completely detached stare. 

on a friday night, he was in the middle of a match on haven, clutching a 1v3. the chat was moving fast, excited and pressured at the same time about what’s gonna happen next. then, you dropped a comment: “choso, your hair looks so soft. i bet it feels even better gripped between my fingers.”

he finished the round with an ace then he leaned back and didn’t look at the game. instead, he looked at the chat monitor and stayed silent for a long time, just watching your username scroll by.

“you’re very loud tonight,” he pointed out knowingly.

the chat started moving a mile a minute, half of them were calling you out and the other half were cheering you on. choso ignored all of them and was only focused on what you’d say next.

that was how it officially started. 

you kept pushing it every time he went live. you became a regular fixture in his peripheral vision and every time you dropped a suggestive comment, he’d give this slight tilt of his head. 

he’d visibly scroll back through the chat, looking for your comment until he found your username. he’d stay there for a good five seconds just staring at the screen, even while his teammates were dying in the background.

“you again,“ he’d say. “you have a very vivid imagination."

after that, you didn’t back down. every night, you were there. 

choso could be in the middle of a crucial 1v4, while the chat would be flying and screaming about the scoreboard or asking for his crosshair settings.

someone would donate and comment: “choso, what’s the play here?“ he wouldn’t even answer them.

but when you comment: “i wonder if you’re this focused when you’re pinned between my legs, or if i could finally make you lose your aim.“

he’d get the last kill, and while the “round won" banner flashes across the screen, he’d immediately lean toward his second monitor where his chat it to find our what type of menace are you today.

he wouldn’t even reload his gun in-game.

“between your legs," he’d repeat. he’s not even doing anything yet, yet that sends a shiver down your spine. he didn’t even look shocked anymore, by that short span of time, he got used to your constant flirting. “you have a lot of confidence for someone who’s just a name on a scroll."

it became a thing. he’d be playing, and you’d be relentless.

one night, he was adjusting his headset, making his biceps flex so hard the veins were popping under the skin of his arms. 

the chat was asking about his workout routine. and you typed: “those arms look like they were made for holding someone down. do you use that much force on everything you touch, choso?“

he paused. he actually let his character stand in the middle of a doorway, totally exposed to the enemy and looked at the camera, narrowing his eyes. 

“only when it’s necessary," he answered. 

the chat would go absolutely insane, but choso didn’t care. he was only looking for your purple-colored username. even during the most intense clutches, when most streamers are screaming at their teammates, he was calm. 

someone asked, “choso, how do you deal with toxic teammates?“ he didn’t even read it because he was reading your latest comment: “i’ve been a very bad girl in the chat tonight. what are you going to do about it?“

he leaned back , reached up and slowly untied one of his ponytails, shaking out his dark, stringy hair before tying it back up even tighter. he didn’t take his eyes off the monitor.

“i think you know what i’d do," he said.

it wasn’t a joke.

because he looked genuinely intrigued by how far you’d push him. “but i’m not going to say it here. there's too many witnesses."

so, being the thirsty girl that you are, you decided to stay until the very end of his stream.

it was almost 3am and the viewer count had finally dropped from twenty thousand to a couple hundred die hards. choso’s hair is lopsided now, a bit messy, and he was leaning back in his chair with his arms behind his head. 

his biceps were still straining against that black sando, looking way too huge for someone who’d been sitting at a desk for six hours. as if playing the game was the workout itself for him. 

“i’m out,” he muttered into the mic and briefly looked at the camera. “goodnight.”

he killed the stream and the screen went black.

you tossed your phone onto the bed, feeling that weird emptiness. you figured he’d just go to sleep and forget you existed until the next time you decided to be a problem in his chat.

then your phone buzzed.

you picked it up, expecting a notification from literally anyone else, but your heart actually skipped when you saw his verified handle at the top of your dms. 

another truth is that you’d been sending him unhinged, thirsty messages for a month straigh. mostly jokes about his hands or what you’d do if he ever got you alone, but never even opened them. until now.

choso: you have a lot to say when there’s a crowd watching.

you stared at the screen for a second, then a grin slowly started spreading across your face. you typed back immediately.

you: oh, so you can read? i thought you were just pretty to look at.

choso: hard to ignore you. i looked at your profile tho. you play too? your clips aren’t bad. 

you felt something electric creep up your neck. choso had no idea how much that affected you. it practically turned you out, like really? he visited/stalked your profile and even complimented your clips? 

he had actually spent his post-stream cooldown stalking your page.

you: careful. keep talking like that and i’ll think you’re obsessed with me. and yeah, i play. i could probably carry you too.

choso: doubt it. play with me tomorrow. i want to see if you’re as loud in voice chat as you are in my dms.

this was the moment. you knew exactly how to push him.

you: but i don’t play for free. i’ve been staring at your arms for a month. i think i deserve a reward if i’m gonna carry you through a rank match.

choso: what do you want?

you: anything, maybe an abs pic? a real one. do that, and maybe i’ll consider joining your lobby.

the typing… bubbles appeared. then disappeared. then appeared again. your stomach was doing literally doing backflips.

it looked like you weren’t the only one rattled by that request. 

choso: get on discord. if you win the first map, i’ll give you exactly what you’re looking for.

so you hopped on discord with 0 hesitation.

the second the call connected, you heard a long, heavy exhale. it wasn’t the sound of someone annoyed, rather it was the sound of a man trying to keep his cool. choso didn’t say anything for a few seconds. 

“so,” he finally said. his voice was even deeper without the stream filters, it was grainy and calm… and private, like this tone is especially meant for your ears only. “you actually showed up.”

you laughed, clicking your mouse a few times to get settled. “you act like you didn’t want me here. where’s the lobby invite, big guy?”

“sending it now. we’re doing a 1v1 on ascent. first to ten,” he muttered. “if you win, you get the picture.”

you joined the game and it was just the two of you in the empty map. choso was playing chamber this time. 

the moment the round started, the first few minutes were surprisingly quiet. you were both focused, but the tension in the call was insane.

every time you’d move, he was there. you also noticed he was playing slower than usual, almost like he was toying with you, watching how you moved.

“you’re idling,” he pointed out, though you didn’t know how he could tell cause you can’t spot him anywhere. 

turns out, he had caught you in a crossfire as his crosshair is perfectly leveled at your head. but he didn’t shoot.

“i’m not shaking, i’m excited,” you shot back, trying to flick away. “don’t get cocky just because you have bigger arms than me.”

“thanks for the compliment,” he finally clicked. 

headshot.

the score climbed to 9-9. it was supposed to be a chill game for you cause you literally asked for an abs pic half-joking. 

and you didn’t expect him to take it seriously either.

you found yourself sweating and you thought all this better be worth it cause you’re working real hard for that abs picture of him. 

you managed to plant the spike and hid behind a pillar while  your heart was hammering against your ribs. 

you heard his footsteps somewhere.

not because you’re observant enough, but because he wasn’t even hiding them.

“i know where you are,” he whispered into the mic. “give up. just ask nicely and maybe i’ll send it anyway.”

“never,” you countered.

you swung out, aiming for his head, but he was faster cause his aim was already on you this whole time. 

another on point headshot. 

then the screen turned gray. match over.

you sat back, letting out a frustrated groan. “good game, i guess?”

you heard a low, raspy sound from him this time. a real laugh. 

it was only short, but it was there. and it made you feel things. 

“you’re good,” choso said. you heard his chair creak, then the sound of fabric rustling. a second later, your phone buzzed on the desk.

you picked it up. 

one, it was a photo. 

two, it was a mirror selfie, taken in the dim light of his room. 

three, his black sando was pulled up, gripped between his teeth, showing off sharp, cut abs and even giving you extra view of his deep v-line. 

his other hand was holding the phone, showing the veins popping in his forearm.

choso: you lost. but i’m a man of my word.

“i thought i lost,” you whispered into the mic, staring at the screen.

“you did,” he answered. “the picture is a gift for giving me a good game.”

after that, it became a regular thing. he didn’t even have to ask anymore. whenever he finished his stream, he’d just drop a simple ‘get on’ in your dms, and you’d be there.

it was weird how quickly it became comfortable. you even get to learn his habits, like he wasn’t really cold and detached like what everyone saw on screen. 

with you, he may be stoic, but he’s actually a gentleman, he’s caring, and he looks out for you most of the time. 

“watch your left,” he’d mutter. “i’ve got you covered.”

it went on like that for weeks. a lot of late night calls, a lot of casual banter, and a lot of you teasing him until his ears turned red on stream. 

like tonight, you guys had just finished a rough match and you were both tired, just sitting in the lobby in silence while listening to each other breathe. 

“you’re quiet tonight,” he pointed out. “no smart comments?”

“i’m just thinking,” you said, leaning closer to your mic. “thinking about that picture you sent. and wondering if the rest of you is as solid as you look.”

the silence on his end was deafening. usually, he’d give a dry comeback, but this time, he let out a slow, shaky breath.

“you’re pushing it,” he whispered.

so after that night, things just kept escalating. it became your new normal: playing until our eyes burned, talking about everything and nothing. 

his chat was still convinced that you were merely “gaming buddies” but the way he’d ignored a five hundred dollar donation just to hear you laugh told a different story.

then, a few days ago, you decided to test the waters outside of discord. 

you posted a story on your private instagram. one of those mirror selfies where the lighting is just right, wearing something that left very little to the imagination.

choso didn’t comment, didn’t message you, he just liked it within two minutes and went radio silent. 

you figured he was just being his usual stoic self, unphased and detached.

but when you were both in the middle of a slow match afterwards, choso cleared his throat out of nowhere and said…

“that thing you posted earlier,” he said. he sounded completely calm and his character wasn’t not even flinching as he held his crosshair steady. “the red looks good on you.”

you nearly choked on your drink. you didn’t think he’d actually bring it up, especially not while he was focused on a game.

“oh, so you were looking?” you teased with a smirk immediately growing on your face. “i thought you were too busy being a pro gamer to check my stories.”

“i have notifications on for you,” he casually said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“you screenshotted it, didn’t you? you wanted to keep it for later.” you leaned into the mic and whispered playfully. 

there was a brief pause. 

you expected him to deny it or get flustered like usual. 

but you always underestimate choso, you almost forgot he can be as unhinged as you if he chose to be.

“maybe i did,” he answered. “it’s a good reference for when i’m not at my desk. what’s it to you?”

the sheer honesty of it caught you off guard. he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

“you’re so shameless,” you laughed, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “if you liked that one so much, you should’ve just asked. i can send you way more like that. stuff i’d never post for the public to see.”

you heard his mouse click stop. 

his character just stood there in the middle of the map, completely still. the game was still going on around him, but he didn’t seem to care anymore.

“is that a promise?” he asked. but if you listen closer, he almost sounded desperate. 

choso had logged off the stream and the game was over, but you both moved over to a private call. the clicking of his mouse stopped, and you heard the heavy rustle of him throwing himself onto his bed. 

he was still on his phone, talking with his muffled voice against the pillow. 

“you’re still talking,” he rasped huskily. 

“it’s nice to keep talking when it gets a reaction out of you,” you whispered. 

you were laying in your own bed, and the fabric of your underwear was rubbing against you. then, an idea popped up in your head. “besides, i’m actually wearing that set from my story right now. the red lace. i bet you’re staring at that screenshot again, aren’t you?”

you heard him change positions and the sheets rustled loudly in your ear. “maybe i am.”

you giggled from that. the thought of him giving you the reaction you want and need is actually making you wet right now. 

“are you gonna jerk off to it later?” you teased. “just thinking about me while you’re all alone in that big bed? it’s okay if you do. honestly, the thought of you doing that... it makes me want to touch myself too.”

the silence on the other end was immediate, like he did not expect you to actually be blunt about touching yourself and stuff, and the only thing you can hear right now is his shaky breathing. 

“you think this is a joke,” he muttered, sounding uncertain. he was trying to find the right words to say. you were overpowering him and can’t seem to get over it. 

“then do something about it,” you provoked, your hand slipped down past the waistband of your panties. “are you doing it right now? are you touching yourself while you listen to me? because i’m doing it. i’m touching my pussy right now, choso. it’s wet, and all i can think about is your hands.”

then you heard a low groan from his end. “fuck,” he hissed. “you’re actually going to be the death of me.”

“tell me what you’re doing,” you whispered, as your fingers started moving faster. “i want to hear it. are you hard for me, choso?”

choso stopped answering for a full minute. so you just stopped talking and listened too.

then you heard it. 

a wet, squelching sound coming right through the mic. he wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. he was breathing hard, in ragged exhales hitting and the sound of him stroking himself was so clear it made my head spin. 

he was actually doing it. 

choso, the guy who looked like he didn’t have a pulse on the stream, was losing his mind over you in the dark.

“that’s not fair,” you whispered shakily. “you’re sitting there listening to me and looking at my tits in that picture, and all i get is audio? i want to see too, choso.”

the squelching slowed down for a heartbeat. “what?” he rasped, his voice sounding completely wrecked.

“open your camera,” you said. even then, your fingers were still moving between your legs. “show me how you’re touching yourself for me. if you do, i’ll open mine and show you exactly what my pussy looks like while i’m thinking about you.”

you heard the rustle of sheets as he sat up. a second later, the discord video icon lit up.

there he was. 

he was sitting back against his headboard, hair completely down, falling over his face in. he was shirtless, and his chest was glistening with a thin layer of sweat. the camera was angled down, showing one of his hands currently gripping his cock tightly, moving it up and down fast. 

“ah.. fuck.” he moaned. 

you didn’t say a word and just clicked your own camera on.

you were propped up on your pillows while your legs were spread wide. you had one hand pulled back to show off your breasts, purposely squeezing it for him making the red lace of the bra bend from your own touch, and the other hand was buried deep between your legs. you made sure he could see everything, especially the way your pussy was glistening and the way you were finger fucking yourself.

choso’s eyes went wide. he stopped breathing for a full three seconds.

“fuck,” he choked out. you noticed his grip tightening until his knuckles turned white. “you’re so much better than the pictures. you’re fucking perfect.”

he started moving again, faster now and more violent. he wasn’t looking at the ceiling anymore; he was staring right into the view you were giving him, watching you touch yourself as he stroked his own cock

you kept your eyes locked on him through the screen, your body was all itchy and sensitive as you spread your legs even wider. you used your free hand to pull your folds open, showing him how wet and swollen you were for him. choso’s eyes went dark as he watched you work yourself.

“ah... oh, choso, look,” you moaned, tossing your head against the pillow. you pushed three fingers deep inside, and the squelching sound from your end echoed in his. “it’s so hot. fuck, i wish these were your fingers. your thick fingers would feel so much nicer... ah!”

“fuck,” choso groaned, thumping his head back against the headboard. 

his hand was moving so fast that it looked blurry on his cock, his muscles looked like they wanted to jump out of his chest and shoulders with every stroke. “ah, fuck, you’re so tight, i can see it. i want to be there. i want to stretch you out so bad.”

you let out a loud moan as you pumped your fingers in and out, rubbing your clit with your thumb too at the same damn time. “ah, ah, um, fuck! yes... do it, choso. stroke it for me. ah!”

the sound of his hand against himself got louder, wetter, and more desperate. he looked like a man possessed. 

“i’m gonna... ah, fuck, i’m so close,” he rasped, he can barely say anything. he was so drowned in the pleasure that he felt like he’s about to lose his mind. he was just intently staring at your pussy on the screen like it was the only thing keeping him alive. “don’t stop. keep going. ah, ah... fuck!”

and you were losing it too, your toes curling and your body is tensing up as you hit your climax. you arched your back, trying to bury your fingers buried deeper as your pussy started throbbing your juices. “choso, ah—fuck, i’m gonna—ah!”

your body buckled and your hips were jerking uncontrollably as you started to squirt too much that the fluid hit your hand and the sheets. 

you were shaking and involuntarily letting out messy gasps, but you kept your eyes on the screen because you didn’t want to miss him.

choso was right there with you, eyes rolled back slightly, and his face contorted in a way you’d never seen on stream. he was still stroking himself violently, almost desperate to cum. 

“ah, fuck—” he groaned, a sound that came from the back of his throat. his body tensed up, and he arched his back off the bed as he finally came. 

you watched as he pulsed. his cum hit his own abs and chest in thick, white arcs. you swore it was a religious experience. he was so fucking hot that you wanted to rub your clit from that sight alone even if you knew you were still sensitive.

“ah... ah... damn it.” he moaned through his orgasm. 

he collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving as he stared at the camera with hooded, blown-out eyes. he looked completely wrecked, his hair stuck to his forehead and his skin flushed. he stayed quiet for a long time, just watching you recover on the other side of the screen.

the second the call ended, you couldn’t handle the distance anymore. you were so needy for him, so you messaged him frantically, telling him your address and begging him to come over right now. you didn’t even care that it was the middle of the night.

an hour later, there was a knock at your door.

you opened it and there he was. 

choso looked even bigger in person. that even when he’s not standing straight, he is still towering over you.

he looked tired, but before he could even say hello, you grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him inside.

you didn’t waste a single second. the door hadn’t even clicked shut before you were all over him, your mouth crashing against his. 

he tasted like that mint-flavored mouthwash and he was so soft inside. you groaned into the kiss, moving your hands to immediately roam over his chest, finally feeling the muscles through the fabric. it was exactly how you’d imagined it, hard and hot.

choso let out a low growl against your lips, as much as you’re frantically gobbling him up, he was doing the same thing. he wanted you so bad sa much as you do, and that’s why the kiss feels so fucking messy and addicting at the same time. 

his large hand came up to grip your waist, lifting you nearly off your feet. you broke the kiss just long enough to start tugging at his clothes. your fingers were fumbling, desperate to get rid of anything between your hands and his muscles.

you pulled his hoodie over his head, tossing it somewhere behind you. 

when your palms finally hit his bare chest and those massive biceps you’d stared at on your screen for weeks, you’ve wetted yourself. he was perfectly built, his skin is actually so smooth and his muscles were dense and unyielding.

“fuck,” you can’t help it, your hands slid down to the waistband of his pants. “you’re even better than the camera showed.”

honestly, the camera did him dirty. he looked ten times better in person.

choso didn’t say a word. he just let you have his way with him while his eyes were fixed on you as he let you strip him down. he was completely yours now. no chat, no stream, no screen, just the two of you. finally… and you were going to make sure he didn’t get a wink of sleep tonight.

you backed him up against the wall first, as you frantically finished stripping him, and then you started leading him toward the bedroom. you were busy gobbling him up and your mouth was all over his neck and jaw, tasting his skin and leaving marks everywhere, while his massive arms were wrapped around you for support.

he felt incredible. his body was solid and way heavier, warmer than you ever could have guessed from a twitch stream. every time your bare skin brushed against his, it felt like you were being electrocuted from the tension. 

choso wasn’t just standing there, either. because while you were busy worshiping his chest and shoulders, his large hands were fumbling with your clothes, tugging at your top and sliding your underwear down your legs impatiently.

by the time you hit the edge of the mattress, you were both completely bare. you tumbled back onto the sheets, and he followed immediately. it was overwhelming in the best way.

choso didn’t hesitate. 

he didn’t go for a round of soft talk or gentle kisses. he was too fucking hungry for you so instead, he crawled right between your legs, prying your thighs wide apart with both his hands. 

you were still soaking wet and your pussy is still throbbing and sensitive from when you’d been fingering yourself on the call, and the cool air conditioning hitting your folds made you shiver.

“you’re still leaking for me,” he looked down at you with his long, dark hair falling forward to frame his face while his eyes are completely focused on what was between your legs.

“ah, choso... please,” you moaned, thumping your head back against the pillow. 

he finally leaned down, hitting your wet skin with his hot breath before he buried his face in you. he started eating you out with a hunger that made your back arch off the bed instantly. “ah! um, fuck, choso! yes, right there!”

his tongue was thick and rough, swirling around your clit while his hands gripped your thighs so hard he was definitely going to leave marks. you looked down and saw his broad, muscular back tensing with every movement, and you couldn’t help yourself. 

you reached down and gripped his hair, pulling him closer.

“fuck, you taste so much better than i imagined,” he muttered against your skin, your pussy muffling his voice. he looked up at you and his face is already glistening, eyes sleepy, then poking his tongue out to lick your juices scattered around his lips. 

then he buried his face in you again, he swirled his tongue around your clit, teasing it by doing it in circular motion and by licking from the bottom of your opening to the top, caressing your clit all by his tongue. 

you were crying out within seconds, rolling your eyes, salivating, and pulling your own hair because you didn’t know how to deal with the overwhelming pleasure. 

meanwhile, choso was watching your reaction while he started sucking on your clit and pulling it into his mouth.

“ah! fuck, choso, please—ah!” you gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders.

at the same time, his massive hands reached up, grabbing your breasts and squeezing them hard. he was kneading the soft flesh, his thumbs flicking over your nipples while he continued to devour you down below. he was so drowned in the scent of you, and he didn’t care one bit. he looked like a man who had finally found exactly where he belonged.

“keep making those sounds for me.” he rumbled against your skin. 

he didn’t give you a second to recover. while he kept sucking and pulling at your clit, he pulled down one hand from the ones squeezing your breasts and slid three of his thick fingers inside you. 

the stretch was intense and given how big his fingers are, he filled you up completely, and you let out a strangled moan as you felt them curl upward, hitting that spot that made your toes curl.

“three fingers and you’re still so tight. ah, fuck.” he muttered, impressed by how well you’re taking him as he loosen you up.  

he started moving them in a violent, hooking motion. he completely abandoned your breasts now, and is playing with your pussy now with his two hands. 

he plied you open while he used his other hand to massage your clit. the sound was incredible and lewd. a wet, squelching that filled the quiet room.

“choso! ah, ah, i’m gonna—fuck!”

the squelching got louder as his fingers worked you ruthlessly. he didn’t slow down, instead he pushed harder. now with his tongue flicking fast against you until you finally snapped. 

you let out a loud scream, arching your body as you squirted right against his face and chest.

“ah, ah, fuck... um, choso!” you sobbed, your body shaking with the force of it.

choso didn’t stay down there for long. he crawled up your body, pulling the weight of him to press you deep into the mattress. he was big, manly,  solid, and smelled so fucking good with your cum mixed with his cologne or whatever he was wearing before coming over. 

when he hovered over you, you finally saw it. his dick was thick, veiny, long, and intimidatingly big. it was glistening beautifully in the dim light of your room and it was even more impressive than the grainy discord video had led you to believe.

“fuck, you’re so big,” you whispered with trembling voice.

you should be terrified because that thing is a monster. it will definitely rip your pussy, but you didn’t care. 

you reached down, wrapping your fingers around the base and you were the one who guided the head of his cock to your entrance. you were so ready, so swollen and dripping from what he’d just done to you, that you practically pulled him in.

"Ah, please, choso. fuck me now,” you begged.

he let out a low growl and slammed his full length into your pussy. 

“ah!” you felt your walls squeeze him by the blinding pressure it gave.

the first thrust stretched you to your absolute limit, filling every inch of you. he didn’t give you time to adjust. he grabbed your hips with his large fingers digging into your skin to keep you in place, and started thrusting you consistently deep.

the sound in the room was filthy. just the constant, wet slapping of his skin against yours and the messy squelch of his thick cock sliding in and out of your pussy. he was fucking you desperately, biting his lips that he might be tasting blood off it now.

“ah, ah, choso! fuck, you’re so deep... um, yes!” you moaned curling your toes every time he buried his dick on your deepest part.

he leaned down and buried his face in the crook of your neck. “you wanted this,” he rasped. “you’ve been asking for this for a month. take all of it. ah, fuck, you're so tight…”

he increased the pace, his thrusts became more violent, targeting that one spot until your vision started to blur. he was hitting you so hard that your whole body was shaking, your breasts bouncing with the impact. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper, wanting to feel every vein, every inch of him.

choso wasn’t done with you. not even close.

just as you were about to climax, he growled and folded you completely. he grabbed your legs, pushing your knees all the way back toward your shoulders in a brutal mating press that left you completely open for him.

“beautiful.” he rasped, staring intently at your pussy. “you’re shaking.”

he didn’t give you a choice. he lunged forward, sliding his big, thick dick back inside you in one heavy, punishing shove. because of the way you were folded, he was hitting you deeper than before, bottoming out against your cervix with every thrust. you let out a strangled moan as you felt every vein of him stretching you wide.

“ah! choso—fuck, it’s too deep... um, ah!”

he didn’t slow down, his chest completely turned red together with his nape and ear. he was drowning in pleasure. and your pussy gripping his dick tight in every thrust was the reason.  

then, he used one hand to keep your legs pinned back, folding you, while his other hand reached down between your bodies. he immediately found your clit, and started grinding his thumb grinding into it roughly while he continued to hammer into you.

the friction was insane. the feeling of him filling you up so completely while his thumb toyed with you had you seeing stars. the room was filled with the sound of his heavy breathing and the messy, vulgar squelching of his cock sliding through your pussy.

“ah, ah, ah, fuck... yes, right there!” you sobbed, tossing your head back.

he leaned down and bit softly at your shoulder. “your pussy is squeezing me so fucking hard. ah... fuck, you’re so wet.”

he started moving even faster, his thrusts turned into violent jolts that had you screaming into the quiet of the room. he was rubbing your clit relentlessly, syncing the movement with every deep slam of his hips. you were a mess of sweat and moans, while your walls were clenching around him in desperate waves.

“i’m gonna—ah, choso! fuck, i’m coming again! ah, ah, ah!”

you felt your body go completely rigid, your vision blurring as that massive climax finally ripped through you. you were screaming, feeling your pussy walls clamp down on him, milking him with every desperate pulse.

choso lunged forward, crashing his mouth onto yours to swallow your moans. the kiss was messy. you were fighting for dominance by the means of it, all tongues and teeth and shared breath, while his body buckled over yours.

he didn’t just stop. as he started to come, he kept his weight heavy on you, his hand still crushing your legs back against your chest in that tight mating press. 

his cock was pulsing violently inside you, and with every heavy pump of his load, he gave a shallow, shaky thrust, forcing himself even deeper to make sure you took every single drop.

“ah... ah... fuck,” he groaned into your mouth, swirling his tongue against yours while his hips jolted.

every time he pumped more into you, your whole body shook, your muscles twitching with the sheer heat of it. you could feel your pussy overflowing, the excess of him were even leaking out and coating the bed, but he wouldn’t let up. 

he remained buried to the hilt, as his thick length twitched deep inside your womb as he emptied himself completely.

the kiss eventually slowed down, leaving both of you just gasping for air with your swollen lips. choso pulled back just an inch, as he rested his forehead against yours. he was still buried deep and still pulsing.

“mine,” he whispered. “you’re finally mine.”

“They were right there,” he says again, rough hands running up your legs. His thumb brushes the crease where thigh meets ass. “Swingin’ in my face while you’re playin’ hairdresser. What’d you expect?”

You’re still standing between his spread thighs, his knees bracketing your legs, that stupid too-small tank top shoved up under your tits now from all the movement. You can see the thick outline of his cock straining against his sweats. “I was trying to make you look presentable for your shady little meeting,” you manage, trying for annoyed but landing somewhere closer to breathless. “Not… this.”

He smirks, green eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Yeah?” He leans forward again, just enough to drag the flat of his tongue over the wet peak he just abandoned. You twitch, thighs squeezing together on instinct. “You’re doin’ a shit job of actin’ mad about it, princess.”

His free hand comes up, cups the underside of the breast he hasn’t touched yet, thumb brushing over the neglected nipple until it pebbles tight. Then he’s guiding it slowly toward his mouth too, giving you every second to pull away. But you don’t.

Instead your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan. The sound vibrates through you again and you feel yourself get wetter, slick gathering at the tops of your thighs. “Toji,” you whisper, half plea now. “You’ve got that meeting in—”

“Fuck the meeting,” he mutters, voice muffled as he latches onto the second nipple, sucking harder this time. His hand on your ass finally slides higher, fingers dipping under the hem of your shorts, finding damp cotton and pressing against your clit.

You choke on a moan, knees buckling. He steadies you, “Been watchin’ these tits spill out every damn time you lean over for months,” he growls against your skin, switching back to the first nipple like he can’t decide which one he likes better. “You think I don’t notice? Think I’m not hard as fuck every time you ‘accidentally’ flash me?”

He nips and your hips jerk forward against his hand.“Say stop,” he rasps, finally pulling back far enough to look up at you. Lips shiny, pupils blown. “Say it and I’ll stop. We’ll fix my hair, I’ll go make my sketchy money, and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

His fingers flex against your soaked panties—“Or…” He drags his tongue over his bottom lip, tasting you there. “You can keep standin’ there lettin’ me suck on you till you’re drippin’ down my wrist. Your call, baby.”

His free hand grips your ass, kneading, spreading you open a little as his fingers dip lower—two sliding through your folds, coating themselves before pushing inside slow. You clench around him instantly moaning, “Toji—oh god—”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growls. You can’t even form words—just a needy whine as he switches breasts again, sucking the other one deep while his thumb rubs messy circles over your clit.

When you finally slump forward, forehead dropping to the top of his head, he eases his fingers out slow, bringing them to his mouth to lick them clean with a satisfied hum. “Good girl,” he rasps, pulling them free with a soft pop. “Now turn around.”

Before you can even process it, his big hands are on your hips, spinning you so your back is to him. He yanks your shorts and panties the rest of the way down in one rough tug, letting them tangle around your ankles. Then he’s hauling you back, sitting you down hard on his lap so your bare ass lands right on the fat, throbbing length of him still trapped in his sweats.

You grind back on instinct, slick pussy lips sliding along the thick ridge of his cock through the thin barrier. He shifts under you—hips lifting just a fraction—and you feel the slow drag of fabric as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband and his cock flaps free. The fat head pops past your tight hole and into your wet cunt. “You’re such a perv,” you gasp, “All those times I ‘accidentally’ flashed you in the kitchen? Under the car hood when I was helpin’ with your junker? You were just sittin’ there gettin’ boners, huh?”

“Damn right.” He nibbles at you ear as he bounces you. “That time at the beach? Bikini top slippin’ while you bent over for the cooler? Nearly nutted in my trunks right there in front of everybody.” He punctuates it with a sharp slap to your inner thigh, “And don’t get me started on laundry day. Your shitty dryer always eatin’ your bras—tits bouncin’ free every time you reach for the high shelf. Been jerkin’ off to that for weeks, princess.”

“Fuck—you never said shit.” You’re panting now, grinding faster, the wet schlick of your pussy against his cock. “Why would I? You kept doin’ it.” He nips your shoulder, free hand coming up to maul your breast again—pinching the nipple he’d sucked raw earlier until you yelp.

You glance down between your bodies just in time to see it—his cock glistening, veins bulging, coated in your cream every time you lift up. The sight makes you clench hard; he curses under his breath, hips snapping up harder in retaliation. “Shit—do that again.”

You do—squeezing down on every upstroke, fluttering around the head when he’s almost out, you’re arching back against his chest, head thrown on his shoulder. “Gonna cum already?” he taunts, “Barely started and you’re shakin’ hard as hell.”

“Shut—shut up—” you gasp, but you’re too close, too full, too overwhelmed by his cock. “Just—don’t stop—fuck, Toji—” your whole body locks up, pussy spasming violently around him as you scream his name. His punishing thrusts, drawing it out until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and trembling.

“Fuck—good girl—cummin’ so hard on me—” His rhythm stutters as hot pulses fill your pussy, you can feel it leaking down your thighs, warm and sticky, mixing with your own mess.

Eventually he huffs a laugh, voice hoarse. “Hair’s completely fucked now.” You snort weakly, “Your meeting…”

“Fuck the meeting.” He nuzzles into your neck, one hand sliding up to cup your breast again, thumb circling the swollen nipple. “Got better things to do. Like gettin’ you to the bedroom so I can eat this pussy properly. Wanna taste what we just made.”

So of course when you needed a friend, Satoru was there. And when your back was aching from sleeping in a weird position last night, rubbing your neck just a bit and gasping in pain? He was more than ready to offer you a massage.

"Toru, are you sure," you're blushing a bit when you slip off your top, laying down on his bed, feeling pretty blue eyes study you behind thick glasses. Your tits are just in a little bra, the material so thin he can likely see everything. "You don't have to rub my back."

"Studied massage sweetheart," he slips his fingers down your spine. "I know all the pressure points."

Being oiled down and massaged by Satoru Gojo felt a little too good, you may be arching into it more than a friend should. Your hands grip his soft blankets, you feel his cock pressed against your ass when he straddles you, running his fingers down your spine, unknotting those tight muscles.

"Feels s'good, mnh," you're whining out so fucking sexy Satoru leaks pre in his Digimon boxers. He bites back a moan, moving his hands lower, until be eases down your shorts just a bit.

"This okay? You have a lot of tension in your lower back."

"Mm, yes it's fine, oh... nghh..." Satoru pauses, his fingers are brushing over the dimples right over the curve of your ass.

You're moaning, fuck. His cock is twitching now, that pretty pink tip spurting so much it's leaking onto his pants. His hands brush lower again, pressing into the curve of your ass, each cheek gripped by his hands.

"Hmm," the wine hits now, you're soaking wet and that warmth is spreading from your body. "Y'know what's funny, Toru?"

"What sweetheart," he murmurs, easing your shorts down more. "This okay?"

"S'perfect," you sigh, reaching down to slip your shorts even further, Satoru’s pulse jumps just like his cock when you're only in a thong, pretty ass on display. "Sukuna always said he was gonna fuck me there."

"Fuck you... oh..." Satoru runs his fingers down your slit, pressing against the fabric. "In your pretty pussy?"

"No," you giggle and look back at him, seeing his cheeks dusted with a pretty pink. "The other hole."

"Your ass huh," he laughs softly, furious he ever touched you. "He didn't?"

"No, guess he's fucking his new girls ass but... I'd be down to try? Is that super-"

Satoru darts off of you.

"Toru?" You lean up and blink. But Satoru's back with five different bottles of lube, holding them out and grinning at you.

"I have warming, cooling, this one is flavored, this is silicon based -" he pauses, seeing your flustered state, before sitting down, tilting your chin up and kissing you. "I should kiss you first, before I talk about lube huh?"

You bury your face in his chest, eyes shutting as he rubs your back gently. "Are you sure you wanna try this with me?"

Oh he's dreamed of fucking all your holes forever.

So that's how Satoru Gojo - your best friend - ends up with you arched in front of him, lapping at least two stripes from your clit to your ass first - he's a gentleman after all - and then pulling your cheeks apart. He bares your cute holes to him, watching them clench so adorably, before he spits right in you, watching the bubble clear mess trickle out and down to your pretty cunt.

"Oh y-you... ah!" He spreads his spit around, up on his knees now, when you feel a cold squirt right on it.

"I'll take such good care of you pretty," his fingers slip right inside your hole. Stretching it with their thickness, you whine out at the sensation, Satoru rests over you, a hand gripping your hair at the base of your neck. "Can you arch that pretty ass a little more for me?"

Fuck.

Satoru Gojo - your nerdy best friend - is curling those fingers with a mean precision, the pressure is so intense you almost pull back from it.

"Ah ah, don't tighten up, you're already doing such a good job," he leans over you, swiping your hair off one shoulder to place soothing little kisses. "You're taking them so well."

"Toru..." He grins when you relax, when it starts to feel so good, ass gripping his fingers so tight he can't imagine how good it'll be when it's strangling his cock. "Feels good... so... ah..."

"That's it," he chuckles then, pulling back and squirting more lube on your hole, you hear the sounds of his zipper and look back, blushing when you see just how huge his cock is, leaking streams of white that drip down the bed. "Good girl."

The first press of Satoru's pretty pink tip burns your unused hole, he's squirting even more and pulling your ass cheeks apart with the other hand, exhaling. And that's when it starts to feel so good. you may or may not have completely forgotten Sukuna when he's shoving his thick length in you deeper, easing so you feel every fucking inch.

Satoru has studied extensively for this very moment - and wastes no time in burying his cock to the hilt, his heavy balls ready to breed you smacking your empty cunt. He leans over you, reaching around to rub your clit, feeling you clamp down on him, the spurts of lube dripping down his inner thighs.

"Ah! S-so deep I... s'much, Toru..." Your head falls back against his hard chest, hands clinging to the blankets as he sits there buried, pelvis flush against your ass, letting you adjust.

"Takin' all of me, god I can't wait to breed all your holes," your eyes roll back when he begins to move, fucking you so deep - the burn so intense you're close with a few strokes and rolls of his fingertips.

"Breed me?"

"Mhm," he grins against your neck, fucking your ass harder, pulling back off your clit to take your fingers and put them right there so you feel it twitching. "There you go, touch yourself for me."

Sukuna who?

It's hard to remember that man when Satoru Gojo's cock was pummeling your ass, with messy smacks, all while your phone keeps going off. You're screaming into the blanket when your cunt drools and spasms around nothing, orgasm smacking you so hard, the squelches and slaps of skin echoing in Satoru's room.

"Hmm, wanna get that sweetheart?" he leans over, shoving his cock deep and bottoming out, you scream out then, as he grabs your phone, chuckling again.

Was he a nerd really or a psycho?

Maybe both.

"Ah, seems his coke dealer isn't good at head, tsk," he hands you the phone, as if your fucked out self can function or see, leaning over you with his blue eyes focused on the messages. How Satoru unlocked your phone you'll have to figure out later. "Should tell him who's fucking your ass, huh? Should we answer the facetime?"

"You're ins-sane..." But you look back, smiling and nodding.

Sukuna is furious when he sees Satoru fucking you from the back, but nothing makes him madder than when you moan out -

"Oh f-fuck, Toru! Be easy, you know I've n-never been fucked there!"

"The fuck!?" Sukuna is furious, but also you look sexy, he's still high off coke so he can't help but feel his cock twitch.

"You really fucked up, God she's taking me so well," he shoves in deep and Sukuna has to watch your eyes roll back. "Don't worry, I'll take real good care of her."

Feeling Satoru's cum flooding your hole has you gasping, his fingers pumping in your cunt and curling, having your ass just milk him for all he's worth. His balls contracting as he floods you with all that cum he's waited so long to, watching it pour out in milky streams down your needy cunt was just too perfect.

Sukuna may call you over and over, he may jerk off and snort so much coke he passes out - but Satoru is wide awake. After washing you up carefully in the shower, he makes sure to let you feel his cock in your cunt, fucking you on the shower wall, pouring even more cum, he's just kept so much for his best friend.

So much he doesn't stop when you're in bed with him, and when you're just too sore, you decide to give Gojo his first blow job. <3

****

but tonight, it’s not working.

the girls are all too loud. the lighting’s bad. every clip starts in the middle of someone moaning fake as fuck, high-pitched and breathy and trying too hard. he scrolls past three, four, five of them without even twitching. rubs a thumb along the head of his cock, breath shallow, irritation blooming.

and then he sees it.

not a face. not even a body, really—just the curve of thighs in soft lighting, spread over pink sheets, fingers gliding through slick and dipping in slow. there’s no caption. no hashtags. no dramatic “daddy please ruin me” audio. just motion and the quiet sound of a girl trying not to moan too loud. like someone could hear. like she’s not supposed to be doing this.

his hand stills. his chest tightens.

it’s the room that does it. the wall. that fucking pink wall.

he knows that pink. knows the soft lighting. the way it hits in the evening. he’s seen it a hundred times, leaning in your doorway while your brother yells something down the hall. knows the bedspread. the plushie half in frame. the corner of the mirror tucked behind your nightstand.

his cock twitches violently in his hand.

you moan, soft and high, broken like you're trying not to let it out—and he knows that sound. not because he’s heard it like this, but because he's heard you laugh. whine. talk with your mouth full. yell at your brother from your room. your voice is burned into his memory, and now it's soaked through the speaker and dripping down his chest.

you’re fingering yourself slow. like it matters how it feels. like you’re not filming it for anyone else. two fingers curling inside you, legs already trembling. he watches your other hand reach offscreen for something. it returns with a vibrator. he hears the buzz before he sees it touch your clit—and then you twitch. moan again. messier.

you start to cum. hard. thighs clenched, hips jerking, slick gushing over your hand as your back arches and you fuck yourself through it.

katsuki’s already leaking.

he doesn’t remember clicking on your profile. but now he’s on it, scrolling slow. doesn’t recognize the username. but every single video is the same bed. the same sheets. the same necklace bouncing between your tits as you ride a thick confetti dildo on your knees, moaning like your voice is cracking in half.

he fists his cock and strokes fast and dirty and quiet, cumming messily all over his stomach as he watches you squirt on the toy in the next video. it slips in slowly, and you gasp when it pops past the tightest part. the sound you make is almost panicked.

he groans. jaw clenched. head back.

the guilt doesn’t hit until after. after he wipes his hand. after he stares at the ceiling. after he catches his breath. he closes the app. but it’s too late. it’s burned in. your moans. your necklace. your bed. you.

he doesn't sleep.

the thing is, it starts normal.

your brother’s on the couch in the other room yelling at the tv. the three of you were supposed to watch something together—some dumb movie he insisted on—but then he got distracted, left you and katsuki in the kitchen half-waiting, half-bullshitting. the morning sun’s starting to fade into afternoon, spilling warm and soft through the windows, and you’re sitting at the counter across from him with your chin propped on your hand, sipping from the same glass of water you’ve been nursing for the last twenty minutes. he looks relaxed. hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, thighs spread, scrolling through something on his phone.

but then you laugh at something he says, and it makes you think of a tiktok you saved last week—some dumb video that would hit his exact sense of humor—and you light up without thinking.

"shit, wait. my phone's upstairs. lemme show you on yours," you say, already holding your hand out across the counter.

he doesn’t even look up. just unlocks it, lazily swipes to the side like he’s going to hand it to you—screen still open—and then—

he pauses.

only for a second. so fast you wouldn’t even catch it if you weren’t already reaching. a little hesitation in his thumb. like his brain caught up a moment too late and said wait—but his hand’s already moving.

so you take it.

you’re not looking for anything. your mouth is already halfway open to ask if he even has tiktok downloaded when your eyes flick down.

the screen is in app-switcher mode.

you blink.

his open apps are stacked one behind the other, like cards. youtube. spotify. safari. and—twitter.

it’s not the bird icon that gets you. it’s the thumbnail.

the frozen still image of a paused video.

thighs spread wide. toy glinting between them. slick all over your fingers and a bit of it smeared on the inside of your thigh. the reflection of your fairy lights in the corner of the mirror. the necklace you never take off catching the light just enough to give you away.

it’s your video. the one you posted two nights ago.

and he was watching it.

you don’t even breathe.

you swipe up before your face can betray you, fast and fluid like muscle memory, pretending you didn’t just see yourself fingering your pussy on the screen of your brother’s best friend’s phone.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t move. doesn’t even flinch.

you open tiktok like nothing happened, type in the name of the video you meant to show him. your hands don’t shake. you force your body to stay still even as your pulse kicks high up in your chest, throat tight and hot, skin prickling with disbelief.

you press play and turn the screen toward him.

“this one,” you say, like your heart isn’t about to crawl up your tongue.

he nods. his face is unreadable. like he’s trying not to show anything at all.

but you can feel it between you. see it, even if he won’t look at you directly. the stiffness in his shoulders. the way he shifts his weight just slightly, like his skin is too hot. the way his fingers tap the counter once, then stop.

when the video ends, you slide it back across the counter like it doesn’t burn to touch it.

“thanks,” you say.

and he just nods again. silent.

you don’t bring it up. not then.

your phone lights up close to midnight.

you’re already in bed, lights off, one leg bent, staring at the ceiling like it might tell you what to do with the image burned into your brain—your own body, paused on his screen. the way his thumb hesitated. the way neither of you said anything.

the name on the screen makes your stomach flip.

katsuki: you still up?

you stare at it for a long time before answering.

you: yeah

there’s a long pause. you almost think he won’t respond. then—

katsuki: can i ask you something katsuki: you don’t have to say yes katsuki: but i need to ask

your heart thumps.

you: ask

katsuki: will you do it again katsuki: like the video katsuki: but this time katsuki: can i watch

you don’t answer right away. you read it twice. three times. the words blur a little from how hard your pulse is pounding behind your eyes.

you type something. delete it. type again.

you: you already watched

katsuki: i know but it wasn’t enough i want to hear it in real time katsuki: want to hear you moan like that right in front of me katsuki: want to see you open up for me, slow

you: katsuki

katsuki: you gonna say no?

your screen stays lit for a while.

you: come through the back door

choso is the milkman. he’s the quiet type. a sweetheart, truly. you don’t know much about him—just that he’s not from here, that he took over the route from his brother who moved away.

he shows up at 7:12 every morning with the same metal carrier, the same off-white uniform, sleeves rolled up like he just has to know what he’s doing to you. dark brown hair tied back low on his neck, one loose strand always curling across his temple, like he’s just been kissed by something. not the sun. and not by you. at least, not yet. but hopefully soon.

he always says “good morning, ma’am” in that slow, syrupy voice of his with a tip of his cap and you smile like butter wouldn’t melt.

the first time you invite him inside, you tell yourself it’s for a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade. he works hard, he deserves it.

and because you feel lonely. that’s all. just…lonely.

the second time, it’s because you want him to see you. really see you. not as some soldier’s wife or pretty housewife in pearls. just a woman. bored and warm and hungry for something that doesn’t feel fake.

he sees you, alright. he sees you and he wants you. but also he sees that pretty little rock on your finger.

so, he’s patient. for now.

he stays almost every time he comes by. leaning against your doorframe and fiddling with the strap of his carrier, eyes flicking over your pretty little house dress, your legs, your lips. nothing improper—not yet. it’s 1944.

but you’re not exactly living by the book anymore, are you?

you were supposed to be the sweet housewife but that all goes out the window every time you remember that your husband is naoya zenin. he makes it hard to be sweet at all. he’s the kind of man who asks you to make dinner and expects applause for showing up hours later when it’s cold. the kind of man who thinks “i love you” is a reward, not a habit. and the neighbor?

oh, she’s still around. still mowing her lawn in kitten heels and curlers like it’s not a war zone out there. you wave to her sometimes but she doesn’t wave back. i guess she’s missing your husband in her own way.

at least you’ve got choso now. right now, he just brings the milk and a smile. so you’ve got time. you’ve got plenty of war time. you’ve got 7:12am and the scent of him lingering on your porch and the way he looks at you like you’re something he’s afraid to touch.

and then one day, the milk’s not the only thing he brings.

choso knocks the same way he always does. two soft taps on the screen door, just loud enough to pull you out of whatever pretend domestic task you’ve been busying yourself with—watering plants that don’t need it, folding laundry that isn’t dirty, wiping already-clean counter tops like a robot.

it’s early, the soft sun is pouring in through the sheer kitchen curtains. you’re in the kitchen when it happens. wearing a little lavender dress that hugs the waist and buttons too tight across the chest, because if you’re going to be a desperate housewife, you might as well be pretty about it.

the radio’s humming low in the corner, some voice crooning about lost love and waiting faithfully.

how fitting.

you wipe your hands on your apron and go to the door, and there he is, in his starched white uniform and spotless cap, holding two glass bottles of milks so innocently like he doesn’t know he’s the only man who’s ever made you feel seen.

he sees you and his soft eyes instantly light up.

“mornin’ ma’am.” he says.

“goodmorning choso,” you smile, opening the screen door. “would you like to come in?”

choso wouldn’t dare turn down a gorgeous woman like you. he steps inside, following behind you slowly. he sets the milk on the counter, pretends for a moment that he’s just doing his job.

his eyes dropping to your collarbone like it’s a crime scene. today, though, it’s different. there’s something in the air. something heady and stupid like the humid heat in the springtime. like lust with manners.

“brought you some extra,” he says, lifting one of the bottles. “cream. had some left over from the route.”

you tilt your head. “how generous, cho.”

“figured you could use it.”

“i could use a lot of things.” you say with a smile.

the silence? thick and sweet. you watch the way his throat moves when he swallows. how his tongue peeks out just barely to wet his bottom lip.

and that’s when you decide your next move. he’s helped you carry your groceries, fixed your leaky sink, reached the good china from the top shelf like a gentleman. this man has earned more than a thank-you note and a dry mouth.

you step closer but he doesn’t move, he just looks at you, soft and wide-eyed like a boy who’s been dared to do something illegal.

“choso, darling,” you say, and he blinks slow. “have you ever been kissed by a married woman?”

“no, ma’am.”

“wanna be?”

he’s sweet, at first. always so sweet. he kisses you like he’s scared he’ll break you. he touches you like you’re made of glass. but there’s a desperation to him that never quite stays buried—something deep and starved that makes him groan the moment you tug his belt loose and whisper, “you want me to take care of you, baby?”

he nods too fast. his breath trembling as you sink to your knees right there in the warm little kitchen, pulling down his trousers.

the soft sound of the radio mixing with the wet sounds of your mouth around his cock.

he says your name so softly. moans like he shouldn’t be allowed to. like no one’s ever done this for him before. maybe no one’s ever milked him like this, slow and messy, with spit running down your chin and your hand wrapped tight around the base. maybe no one’s ever looked up at him from between their lashes and smiled around his cock.

god, you look so pretty like this, he can’t help himself. his hands tremble where they tangle in your hair, his hips twitch when you suck a little harder, encouraging him to cum in your mouth.

“b-baby, fuck—i’m cumming—“

he finally spills down your throat, he groans like a man ruined. broken open. and so, so grateful.

but you don’t stop there. you stand up, untying your lavender halter, shimmying it down your body, leaving you naked. again, you were desperate.

you guide him back to the little table where you usually sit and stare at untouched coffee. you lean back against cool wood and spread your legs just a little—barefoot, pussy so wet and pretty, already dripping for him.

he groans at the sight, stepping between your legs and dips his head down, sucking pretty little marks onto your neck. he’s good with his hands—of course he is. he delivers glass bottles all day, has to handle them gentle, precise. and he treats you the same way at first, like something breakable.

thumb smoothing circles into the inside of your thigh while his mouth coasts along your body. slow and reverent, he says your name like it tastes good. he tells you you’re pretty, even though your curls are messed up and lipstick’s smudged and you’re gasping like a common whore.

you’re not used to being touched like this. not worshiped. not unraveled by someone who actually listens. who kisses the inside of your knee and says, “been thinking about this for weeks,” like a confession. who sucks a mark into your collarbone and then soothes it with a kiss. who sinks two fingers inside you and groans like he’s the one being touched.

“sweetheart,” he breathes, and your stomach flips. his voice is low, like velvet dipped in molasses. his hair’s come loose around his face and he looks feral, flushed, focused.

every time he curls his fingers just right, you jolt—back arching, legs twitching—and he just watches, lips parted, eyes glazed, like this is the highlight of his whole year.

you’re so wet his palm’s slick with it, so needy you’re clutching at his uniform, whining and squirming.

“you’re makin’ a mess on my hand, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the swell of your breast as you writhe against the table. “is that all for me?”

you nod, frantic. “y-yeah. yes. all you.”

he smiles against your skin. then he sinks to his knees. and lord have mercy—when the milkman eats pussy, he delivers. he holds your thighs apart like he’s bracing a storm. tongue soft at first, then greedy. pink soft lips sealing around your clit and sucking like he’s getting paid by the hour.

you grab his hair, crying out his name and he groans, drags his tongue through your slick folds like he’s memorizing the taste.

you buck your hips, his arms tighten around your thighs and pull you closer. you swear you black out a little when you come. you hear yourself moan his name—feel your whole body pulse but he doesn’t even let up.

he just licks you through it like he’s thirsty. lets you shake and twitch and melt against the kitchen table while he groans into you, obscene and grateful. like he’s thanking you for the privilege of eating you out.

he stands back up, lips glossy and cheeks flushed, you kiss him so hard you see stars.

you taste yourself on his tongue, grinding against his thigh like a dog in heat until he pulls back, helping you stand as he takes a seat on one of the dining chairs.

he tries to be a gentleman as if he didn’t make you see god seconds ago and say—“ma’am, are you sure?”—but you’re eagerly straddling his thighs, already sinking down on his still hard cock, gasping at how full he makes you feel.

you ride him slow, the worn kitchen chair creaking beneath you with every bounce. your palms press firm to his chest, feeling the way it rises and falls under your touch. his mouth falls open. his eyes flutter shut.

he’s so good like this—soft sounds, soft hands, soft eyes—and you move like you want to milk every last drop from him. you want to feel him leaking out of you all day, dripping down your thighs while you tidy up the house.

he kisses you different when you’re on top. like he’d lay down and die for you if you told him to.

“oh—god, sweetheart, you feel so good,” he moans, big hands gripping your waist as he helps you grind down on his cock, meeting your rhythm.

“so—so full, choso,” you whine, arms wrapped around his neck. each thrust hits deep inside your cervix, making your whole body shiver.

he nuzzles into your neck, voice wrecked. “please, ma’am—baby—can i cum inside you?”

his breath is hot against your skin. his voice is almost a sob.

you nod, already gone. completely cockdrunk, all thoughts melted down to one single need.

“mhm! yes—fuck, please! need it, choso—fill me up, please!”

and oh, does he ever. he picks up the pace at your words, hips snapping upward with a hunger that makes your thighs tremble. he pulls back just enough to look at you and those soft, sleepy eyes meet yours, wide and glazed with need, like he’s falling apart under you.

you moan louder, the kitchen echoing with the slick, rhythmic plap of his cock driving up into your soaked cunt.

“oh—oh my—‘m cumming! don’t stop—just like that,” you gasp, voice ragged, your whole body tightening around him.

he grunts, low and desperate, fucking up into you over and over until it crashes over both of you—a wave of heat, of pleasure, of something that feels dangerously like love.

you cry out, gushing around him, and he groans as he spills inside, cock twitching deep as he coats your walls in thick, milky white.

oops, you hadn’t meant to let him finish inside but with the way he looked at you—eyes all soft and sweet and yours—how the hell were you supposed to tell him no?

six months later, you’ve got a belly like a watermelon and a glow that definitely isn’t from the sun.

your neighbors are absolutely scandalized. your belly’s too round, too visible, and your husband’s been gone far too long. mrs. kusakabe from two houses down stops bringing you pies. someone leaves a bible on your doorstep. you put it under the wobbly leg of your kitchen table and keep right on sinning.

choso’s much more handsy now. very protective. he rubs your belly absentmindedly while you drink your coffee. always tells you things like “you need rest” and “don’t bend over like that, baby, i’ll get it.”

he still calls you ma’am sometimes, just to make you flustered. it works. it always works.

you don’t talk about the future much. it’s the war years, after all. everything’s temporary. everyone’s waiting for something. but sometimes you catch him staring at you—hands on your stomach, eyes soft— like he’s dreaming about something he won’t say out loud.

you’d ask him, but you’re too busy bouncing on his cock in the back of the delivery truck. priorities. currently, you’ve got your knees on the kitchen tile and your mouth full of cock when the front door opens.

choso doesn’t hear it at first—well, he doesn’t, but he’s too far gone to care.

his head’s tipped back, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, the other buried in your hair like he’s afraid you might vanish. he tastes like sweat and sin, salty on your tongue, cock heavy on your lips.

you hum around him and he moans. soft and strangled, like he’s trying not to say your name out loud—and his hips stutter like he’s already close.

you’ve gotten very good at this, in the past few months.

“jesus,” he whispers, low and reverent. “fuck, sweetheart, you’re—”

“—what in the goddamn hell is this?!”

ah. there he is. you blink up—cock still in your mouth—and there stands your husband. boots still dusty, duffel bag on the floor, mouth hanging open like he’s walked into a church on fire.

he looks older. thinner. confused. which is fair, considering the image in front of him: you, barefoot and six months pregnant, hunched over the milkman’s dick like it’s breakfast.

you pull off with a lewd pop and wipe your mouth on the back of your hand.

“oh,” you say brightly, “you’re back.”

naoya just gapes. his eyes flick from your swollen belly to the sight of choso’s cock, slick with your spit, glistening, still very much at attention to the little drool stain on your chin.

his face turns a shade of red you’ve only ever seen on overcooked meat.

“what the fuck,” he sputters. “what the fuck is going on here?!”

you raise your eyebrows. “thought that was obvious, honey.”

“you—he—jesus christ, i’ve been gone eighteen months—”

“and not a single letter,” you chirp, standing slowly, smoothing your skirt down over your belly. “not even a postcard. how’s saori, by the way?”

that hits. his eyes go wide. “you—you knew about saori?”

“knew?” you laugh. “are you dumb? naoya, she used to borrow my curling iron. she left her girdle in our guest bathroom.”

“you’re—you’re blowing the milkman?!”

“technically i was milking the milkman,” you say with a wink, “but yes, naoya. i was.”

choso, to his credit, looks faintly apologetic—but mostly just embarrassed to have his dick still out. he tucks himself back into his trousers and clears his throat, adjusting his uniform like he’s about to apologize for tracking dirt in, not for getting sucked off in someone else’s kitchen.

“sir,” he says awkwardly, nodding once. “i—uh—didn’t know you’d be home.”

naoya just sputters. you walk over and grab the milk from the counter like it’s just another thursday.

“we’ll need another bottle next week, choso,” you say sweetly, patting your belly. “baby’s been craving milk. and something tells me i’ll be thirsty again real soon.”

“yes, ma’am,” choso says, smiling now. the fucker actually blushes.

you glance back at naoya, who’s still frozen in the doorway, fists clenched and eyes bulging.

“well,” you sigh, “guess we should talk about living arrangements.”

“what?!”

“you’re not staying here,” you say, matter-of-fact. “baby’s due in october. choso’s already started to build the crib.”

“you cheated on me, you- you bitch!”

you blink, then laugh.

“oh, sweetheart. you don’t get to play the victim. you were balls-deep in the neighbor before the draft notice even showed up.”

he opens his mouth to argue. then closes it.

“now,” you say, stepping forward, tone clipped and cheery, “you can collect your things and sleep at the boarding house, or you can keep screaming and let the whole street know your wife traded up while you were off diddling the neighbor and forgetting how a return address works.”

choso stands taller behind you, quiet but solid. he doesn’t say a word—doesn’t need to because he’s already won.

naoya says nothing, just picks up his bag and stomps out the way he came, muttering curses and dragging months worth of humiliation behind him.

you and choso look at each other for a moment then burst out laughing.

later, after dinner, which he cooks, of course—your favorite—you curl up next to him on the couch, belly round and content. he strokes your hair, kisses your temple, presses his palm to the soft swell of your stomach.

“you ever think about…makin’ it official?” he asks, voice low. “after the baby comes and all.”

you smile. “what, make an honest man out of you, hmm?”

he chuckles. “figure i already am, seein’ as you’ve been usin’ my last name at the doctor’s.”

you grin. “only ‘cause it’s prettier than his.”

choso leans in and kisses you slow and sweet like nothing’s ever rushed, even when it is.

“i’ll get you a ring,” he whispers against your mouth. “soon as i finish the rebuilding the porch.”

you hum, tugging him closer by the collar. “fine,” you murmur, nose brushing his, “but i’m keeping the milkman fantasy. you still owe me for last week, cho.”

he smirks, all lazy confidence and flushed cheeks and runs a hand down your thigh. “ma’am, i think i got another bottle in the truck.”

you laugh and then straddle him right there on the couch, belly and all and you ride him like the whole town isn’t already talking about you two.

the porch doesn’t get finished that week but the crib is perfect, everything you could've wanted and more.

your neighbor, mrs. kusakabe eventually drops off a pie again in the spring.

you wave bye from the porch, watching her walk back to her place as choso stands beside you, shirtless, rocking your baby girl in one arm and drinking from the milk bottle with the other.

a scandal, yes but a well-fed one.

KAMOSWRLD 2025 ©

masterlist!

You want to tell them to stop breathing so loudly — it feels disrespectful. Their existence is unnecessary noise. Their bodies clog the space that should be reserved for him and you alone.

None of them know him like you do.

You know the rhythm of his foot tapping against the tile when he’s impatient. You know the little crease between his brows when he concentrates. You know the exact cadence of his voice when he says, “open wider for me.”

So what if this was the third cleaning you booked within the same month?

You told the receptionist your gums were “a little tender”. Your gums are perfectly fine. It’s your sanity that isn’t.

You keep his business card in your pocket, warm with your body heat. The ink is wearing off where your thumb rubs over his name again and again.

He gave it to everyone, sure. But no one keeps it like you do. They don’t whisper to it, don’t fall asleep holding it, don’t kiss it goodnight.

The receptionist calls your name. “Dr. Gojo will see you now.”

Finally.

God, his face — it’s the kind of beautiful that leaves you shaking. There’s no flaw, no wrong angle. Every part of him is exactly where it should be. You hate the idea that anyone else gets to see this. Gets to see him.

He smiles, says your name in that buttery register. He adjusts your chair and guides you back with soft and tender hands. He leans over you and being beneath him like this felt like destiny.

He has no idea what he does to you. No idea how devastating it is to have him this close. It takes everything in you to not reach up and touch his jaw and pull him closer and press your forehead to his and tell him that he belongs to you and no one else and—

“You’ve been taking good care of yourself,” he says.

The snap of latex against his gloved hands is foreplay, and his praise is seduction. Your thighs tense. It’s embarrassing how fast your thoughts collapse.

You love it when he asks you to open up, when he touches you, angles your head exactly how he wants and explore every inch of your obedience. You’ve memorized the exact spot his thumb rests, the amount of pressure on his fingers.

You’re so close to him that you can hear his breathing. You want to ask him what he’s thinking about. You want the answer to be you.

He finishes too soon. You’re not ready. You’re never ready.

He pulls away and gives you a satisfied nod he gives to good patients.

“See you next time,” he says. Next time. Next time. Next time.

And you will. Soon. You’ll make sure of it.

Three months ago

You weren’t supposed to meet him that day.

It was a throwaway appointment — a last-minute cancellation the receptionist squeezed you into because you happened to be nearby. You barely had time to sit before the assistant pushed open the door and called your name.

You didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary from all your previous routine checkups. But when he turned toward you, it was nothing short of extraordinary.

His bright hair caught the light like it was intentionally showing off.

His eyes were so vivid it felt illegal to look into them for more than a second.

Your organ systems forgot they had a job — your lungs, your brain, your heart.

You’d never been disarmed by a person before. You didn’t even think people had the power to do that.

“Let’s get you seated,” he said.

That voice. God.

He adjusted the chair and lowered you gently, explaining the procedure with an intimacy that caught you off guard. The way he leaned close to show you where to rest your head, how his hand ghosted near your jaw without touching yet.

Frankly, it felt inappropriate.

Your body reacted like he’d whispered something filthy. And when you felt him place two fingers under your chin, tipping it up to the perfect angle, your pulse shot upward so fast your vision went blurry.

And while he was rambling on about brushing technique or gum health or something, you couldn't process any of it. Your brain was stuck on one thing, and one thing only: he touched you.

You didn’t leave that room the same person who entered it.

You stood up, nodded politely and thanked him like a functioning adult. You walked out trying to act normal while on the inside, a dangerous thought began to form, one that would only continue to spiral:

He was perfect.

Not just “attractive”, not just “easy on the eyes”.

Perfect.

Perfect in a way that felt targeted. Perfect in a way that felt designed. Perfect in a way that made your body mourn the seconds you weren’t with him.

You replayed his voice all the way home. You replayed his touch. You replayed the way he smiled.

You needed more. You needed him.

Sleep didn’t reach you that night.

The memory of his fingertips brushing your lips resurfaced with humiliating clarity everytime your eyes fluttered shut.

You employed every method possible to forget — you’d roll over, shove your face into your pillow, and try to force yourself to forget the feeling, but your skin remembered.

You had to see him again. Soon. Now. Immediately.

But you couldn’t just show up. You weren’t unhinged — not outwardly. You needed a plan, a reason; a way back into that chair.

You sat down on your desk with renewed purpose, opened your laptop, and before you could question what you were doing, the clinic’s name was already being typed into your browser.

Your motive wasn’t to make an appointment. You were looking for their scheduling structure, their staff rotation, their hours. Any scrap of information you could twist into something useful. But their website was useless. Too clean and too vague.

So you did what any sane, functioning person would do. You called the clinic.

“Hi! Just checking if Dr. Gojo is in today?”

You wrote down the answer. You hung up. Waited a respectable amount of time—you weren’t an animal—then called again. You used a different tone. Different phrasing. Different fake reason.

Another time slot. Written down. Compared. Cross-referenced. It wasn’t enough. You needed data. A pattern. A system.

The spreadsheet grew fast into a color-coded grid;

Green: confirmed work days Orange: probable presence Violet: ambiguous Red: unacceptable absence

Blocks of time were highlighted, circled and analyzed:

He arrived earlier on Mondays. Left later on Thursdays. Took a longer break on Fridays.

Why rely on chance when you could rely on predictions?

Today, your alarm goes off an hour earlier than usual. The spreadsheet predicted an early arrival.

Thursday — Projected Arrival: 7:42 AM.

Last week it was 7:50. The week before, 7:46.

And if your deduction about his caffeine habits (large mocha, double shot espresso, two pumps of sugar, extra foam, less ice) is correct, then today should fall neatly in the middle.

You stand across the street from the clinic with a coffee cup you don’t even plan to drink, pretending to scroll your phone.

The time is 7:45 AM. Any second now.

7:46 People pass. Irrelevant. Noise. Filler. Not him.

7:47:50 You lift the coffee cup to your lips to fake a sip. Your eyes are locked onto the reflection in the glass window across the street — your perfect surveillance method.

7:48:12 There. He’s punctual. Of course he is. He cares about you so much. He’d never leave you hanging.

Dr. Satoru Gojo strolls up to the clinic with his hands in his coat pockets. His hair is obnoxiously bright in the morning light. It taunts every other shade of white in existence.

He’s wearing his spare blue scrub set, the one with the bleach stain on the hem from three weeks and two days ago when he knocked over a bottle on accident. He really should be more careful. Your clumsy boy.

He unlocks the door and disappears down the hall.

7:48:36 — Confirmed.

You mark down the time your notes app. A near-perfect match with your prediction. You understand him better every day.

You should go home and relax now, but then you see her walking straight into his clinic — female, short bob, beige coat, smug little bag.

That’s not right.

He doesn’t have any scheduled appointments now. You know there’s nothing booked in this slot. You checked.

Who is she? What does she want? Why is she here?

This doesn’t make sense. Unscheduled walk-ins are rare. Unscheduled female walk-ins are suspicious.

Does she know him? Is she new? Is she early? Did she call yesterday? Did she call after you checked? Did she lie? Did she flirt?

The receptionist nods and leads the woman toward the hallway. Toward him.

This is fine. It’s totally fine. He’s a dentist, after all. He sees patients. He helps people. It’s his job.

You stare at the clinic door long enough to memorize the exact angle it swings shut after she disappears inside.

You don’t leave.

You tell yourself you’re just passing by, just stretching your legs. You walk as if you’re checking window displays — never mind that the only window worth checking is the one that gives you a perfect side-angle view of his room.

And then you see them.

The woman with the bob is on the chair, chatting with Satoru. You expect her to be annoying, maybe loud—Satoru hated the loud ones—but she’s pleasant.

She’s laughing softly, one hand tucked behind her ear. She looks foolish. Like she’s audtioning for a toothpaste commercial. You think she must’ve had veneers done. No one was born with teeth like that. No one, save for Satoru.

A friend? No — too cheerful. A former coworker? No — not in those shoes. A vendor? No — she didn’t bring any products. A stalk— No. That’s your role.

You watch the bob girl shift her posture, trying to look cuter. Your teeth grind. Then the woman leans in, says something to him, something you can’t make out.

And he laughs.

Your Satoru — your perfectly punctual, perfectly bright, perfectly oblivious reason for existing, is laughing.

It’s not a polite chuckle. Not the forced, professional smile. It was a real, shoulders loosening, eyes crinkling smile. The kind that should only ever be directed at you.

Your mind goes very, very still.

You can’t hear what she said, but you know it wasn’t funny. She shouldn’t be making him laugh. Shouldn’t be making him anything. That expression is yours and yours alone. Your reward. Your discovery.

You’re not jealous. You’re vigilant. You’re careful. She’s one disruption. An anomaly. You’ll handle it.

This is your time slot. This is your schedule.

Your doctor.

Fine. Good. You needed this. People like her will always flutter around him. Let her — temporary little distraction. She won’t matter long. Not when you’re the one coming back soon. Very soon.

You can’t get the image out of your head. Her laugh. His laugh. No. Absolutely not. Everything about that scene was wrong.

You pace down the sidewalk, the morning sun too blinding, the traffic too loud, the world too irritating.

All the while, your brain keeps looping one thought: you need to get inside that clinic. Right now. Before she steals more seconds that aren’t hers.

But you can’t just walk in, or say you forgot something. What would you even pretend to forget? Your dignity? It’s long gone anyway.

And even if you did fabricate some imaginary object, the receptionist would retrieve it in seconds and that bob-headed parasite would go right back to stealing his minutes.

You needed something better. A believable reason. A legitimate one. Something that’d make the receptionist pale and scramble, and say the magic words: “We’ll get Dr. Gojo right away.”

Emergency. That’s it. You need an emergency. This is logical. It’s reasonable. This is exactly what any rational person would do if they saw a strange woman hovering around their dentist.

Okay. Think. How does one create a dental emergency?

You could claim a crown fell out; You don’t have one, but they don’t know that.

You could say you felt a crack; Nobody can disprove a sensation over the phone.

You could say you woke up with swelling; “I swear it’s huge,” is such a flexible phrase.

You could even lose a tooth.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

You’ll lose a tooth.

It was perfectly convincing. Perfectly harmless — at least, if you plan it right. You read once that if you put it immediately in a glass of milk, the chances of replanting the tooth is high. And whose hands would you trust more than Satoru’s?

Safe hands. Careful hands. Big, warm, gorgeous hands that would cradle your face and say, “Don’t worry, I’m here.”

Your voice will tremble; you can do that on command. Your eyes will water; you’re already halfway there.

They won’t make you wait, they won’t question it. He would never turn away a patient in pain.

And that bob-haired waste of space? She’ll watch him run to you first.

You’ll be exactly where you’re supposed to be. Back in his chair. Back under his hands. Back inside his attention.

You buzz with anticipation and sprint to the nearest grocery store. You check out a bottle of milk and head straight to the restroom, adrenaline singing in your veins, determination settling into your bones. You lock yourself in the door and grip the edge of the sink.

You ball a wad of paper towels and bite down on them. You’ll need something to stifle the scream. You’re not dumb — you’re not about to sabotage your own plan by having someone rush in and interrupt you.

Okay. Okay, okay. You breathe once, twice, three times.

This is it. This is devotion. This is fate. You whisper, “For Satoru.”

Then you slam into the sink.

Crack.

A sunburst of pain sucks all the oxygen out of you. Your knees knock the side of the stall. You choke on your own muffled cry — a broken, animalistic whimper. Your vision blurs so hard you think you’ve passed out, but you’re still there. The taste of rust crosses your tongue. Then you spit into your palm.

It worked. It fucking worked.

Jagged, red at the root, shining with triumph — your tooth.

You stagger back, dabbing at your mouth. The tissues are still clenched between your teeth now.

It hurts. Oh, it hurts so bad. But it’s sacred.

People only deserve his attention if they’re willing to bleed for it.

You give yourself one minute to practice your act — sixty seconds of dizzy euphoria, staring into the mirror with a mouthful of tissues and blood smeared across your chin.

You look pathetic. It was perfect.

You stumble into the clinic, towards the counter, hands cupping your jaw to really sell it. Your eyes are glossy with unshed pain, voice shaking so sweetly when you whisper:

“I—I think something broke. Please… I need to see a dentist right now.”

And just like you dream, she scrambles to pick up the phone, and says the magic words:

“I’ll get Dr. Gojo right away.”

You’re being ushered down the hallway, trembling, clutching your jaw like it’s the most fragile thing in the world. You don’t have to fake the adrenaline; your body is already shaking so hard your teeth (your remaining ones) chatter.

You see the bob-haired bitch scurry out of his room. Good riddance.

The door clicks open. And he’s there.

Your reason, your ruin, your everything: Dr. Satoru Gojo.

His eyes widen with concern the second he sees you curled in on yourself, breath hitching.

“Hey… hey, easy,” he says, unbearably soft, stepping closer, gentler than you’ve ever seen him. “You must be scared. Let me take a look, okay?”

You lift your gaze slowly, letting your lashes tremble, letting your breath wobble. You look small on purpose; crafted yourself into the perfect picture of vulnerability.

You whisper, “It… it hurts.”

His brows knit together instantly. “Aw, sweetheart—”

(Your heart combusts.)

“—I’ve got you. We’ll fix it. I’ll numb the area first, get rid of that pain.”

He dons his surgical gloves with slow, careful movements, retrieving the syringe like he’s trying not to startle a frightened animal.

It does unspeakable things to you.

And when he steps closer and reaches for your chin, you flinch back — deliberately, strategically.

He goes soft all over. “Hey. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

You let your voice shake even more. It isn’t hard. You’re already breathless.

“B-but this is my first time doing something like this,” you say, tiny, terrified. “Please… promise me you’ll be gentle?”

His eyes snap to yours — startled, confused, embarrassed?

He swallows, the tiniest bob of his throat, before he speaks.

“I promise.”

Oh, Satoru. Your darling Satoru. Your beautiful, clueless, perfect idiot.

He leans closer, fingertips tilting your chin, ever so tender and loving.

“Just open wide and relax for me,” he says.

You nearly dissolve into a puddle on the chair. This is your best idea yet. You’ve never seen him care so much about you before, and you want to push the boundaries even more.

He begins to angle the numbing syringe, but you tense up again — intentionally, the picture of sweet, irresistible innocence.

“Hey… look at me.” His voice drops, low and coaxing, “I’ll take good care of you. Trust me.”

You know what he means. You know exactly what he means.

The clinical intention. The rational intention.

But your brain, faithful and deranged, hears something else entirely.

The needle slips into your gum, and the anesthetic floods in, numbing all sensation until the only thing you can truly feel is him, towering above you, looking only at you.

Let her make him laugh. That’s all she’ll ever be — a clown. Let her think that’s enough.

He only speaks like this to you. He said he’ll take care of you. He promised he’d be gentle with you. He’ll make you all better. Only you.

You go home with blood-soaked gauze between your teeth and victory under your skin.

Your tooth hurts, your gums throb, your jaw is stiff; none of that matters.

The compassion he showed and the way he looked at you isn’t something you can un-feel.

You lock the door behind you and head straight to your bedroom. You don’t even bother turning on the lights — the glowing screen of your laptop is all you need.

You sit on the floor, cross-legged, pulse fast as you open your browser.

Dr. Satoru Gojo, you type.

The first results are boring.

Clinic listings, dental certifications, a generic staff bio.

No flavor. No soul.

You already know all this surface-level nonsense. These pages aren’t for people like you — they’re for strangers.

You’re not a stranger.

His personal social media accounts are locked. All of them. Of course they are.

He's private. Someone that beautiful had to be. But privacy doesn’t erase information.

You have to find a way in.

So you discover the cracks:

coworkers with public profiles

relatives who overshare

a cousin who tags him in old photos

family friends who post albums from reunions

a retired teacher who still uploads grainy class pictures from ten years ago

You sit back for a moment, staring at his aunt’s page. Her feed is full of blurry lunches and knitted scarves.

Perfect. You’d be a distant aunt.

You open a new tab. A new account. A new identity. You give yourself a delicate old-lady name, a grandmotherly profile picture, a blurry banner, captions filled with emojis and misspellings, posts about your silly grandkids.

You follow his entire family tree. Then, finally, you follow him.

Your eye twitches with anticipation.

If he declines, you’ll simply try again from a different angle. If he blocks you, you’ll build a new family member.

But if he accepts… if he accepts…

The notification comes instantly.

Satoru Gojo accepted your follow request.

You’re in his world now.

Now that your fake-old-lady-profile has infiltrated his circle, doorways start opening: tagged photos from when he was a teen, comments under his university posts, friends teasing him, coworkers tagging him at events, relatives posting birthday pictures, people mentioning his preferences, old likes he forgot about.

You absorb it all.

You pause at a photo he liked. A woman’s face — the actress, Waka Inoue.

So that’s what he likes. That’s what draws his eye. That’s the shape of his fantasy.

You turn your gaze toward your own reflection in the dark screen. Your clothing is wrong. Your hair is wrong. Your makeup is wrong.

Wrong things can be changed.

You create a single folder — a dossier.

He’ll recognize you the next time you meet him. You’ll become his dream. One perfect piece at a time.

It’s 9:42 on a Sunday morning.

You’re sitting by the window, waiting.

You chose this seat intentionally.

It had the perfect lighting, perfect angle, perfect radius of visibility from the doorway.

A book is open in front of you, pages untouched. You don’t need to read; you only need to look like someone he would want to read beside.

Your reflection in the glass pane matches the blueprint you carved from ten years of digital breadcrumbs: soft waves grazing your shoulders, a delicate blouse draping just right, a muted skirt stopping shyly above your ankles and small earrings that dangled gracefully.

You look like someone meant to be photographed holding his arm.

Two drinks sit on your table — the props in your carefully constructed tableau. An iced mocha (your decoy) and a sparkling water (your actual drink).

And after weeks of monitoring his off-day patterns, you know that on Sundays, around mid-morning, he gets coffee. Always the same shop, always the same route. He doesn’t think twice about routine, so you place yourself in it like a missing puzzle piece.

He walks in wearing casual clothes, glasses slipping down his nose. He looks so disarmingly human like this. Less “doctor” and more “man you’d want to wake up beside.” He’s too adorable, all too unaware of how attractive he is.

He sees you instantly. You knew he would. There’s nothing accidental about this.

“Oh—hey!” he called out. “This is unexpected.”

You lift your head with your sweetest, softest, perfectly engineered surprise.

“Oh! Dr. Gojo! I… didn’t think I’d see you here!”

He walks over, adjusting his glasses, a little flustered.

“Just Satoru is fine,” he says. “You can drop the formalities. We’re not in the clinic.”

A shy blush escapes you, just as you practiced in the mirror. “Okay… Satoru.”

The name sits beautifully on your tongue. He hears it. His shoulders slacken.

“So, uh… what brings you here?” he asks, gesturing around awkwardly. “It’s just that, I’m a regular, but I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“I just came by for a little weekend treat. This here—” you lift your drink and laugh gently, “—is my guilty pleasure. An iced mocha, double shot espresso, two pumps of sugar, extra foam, less ice.”

His jaw drops. He’s bewildered. Absolutely stunned.

“No way. That’s my exact order.”

Hook.

It’s almost too easy. You nearly grin. Nearly. Instead, you pause, blink, tilt your head.

“Really? A dentist with a sweet tooth?”

“Guilty as charged.” He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s so funny, we’re already matching coffee orders.”

Matching.

You could almost hear church bells ringing.

You lower your eyes, feigning hesitation. A pause that suggests you’re a litty shy and a little nervous.

“Actually… I’ve been meaning to thank you. For helping me last time. I’m really grateful, so, if you’re free… would you maybe like to join me?”

Line.

He shouldn’t say yes. You know that, he knows that.

But his eyes do a once-over at you: your pure persona, your demure posture, all sculpted just for him. He sits across from you without another thought.

“Sure. I’ve got time.”

Sink.

Satoru settles into the chair across from you, fingers curling around his iced mocha.

He looks relaxed, surprisingly. As if sitting with you is the most natural thing in the world, even though this is the only time he’s spoken to you off a dental chair.

“So,” he begins, leaning forward a little, “how’s your tooth? Any pain since then?”

You shake your head, and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, offering him a shy smile.

“It’s fine, thanks to you.”

A barely-there pink rises on his cheeks. You note the way he tries to hide it by taking a too-quick sip of his drink, only to wince when the cold hits his teeth.

Cute.

“So, uh… what are you reading?” he asks, hoping to recover, nodding toward the book you haven’t touched once.

You allow your eyes to widen like you didn’t expect him to ask.

“Oh, just some light reading.” You run your finger along the spine. “The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu — Heian period court intricacies, relationships… It’s dense. I won’t bore you.” (it doesn’t matter that you couldn’t name a single character if he asked.)

He perks up, intrigued. “No, no — that’s really cool. I’ll admit, I’m a simple man.” He laughs. “I read whatever I can squeeze between work. Only seem to have time for manga these days though.”

“That makes sense,” you say. “I imagine it gets overwhelming. Everyone in the city seems desperate to get in with you.”

He groans dramatically. “Don’t remind me. Yesterday someone even tried flirting with the receptionist to steal a canceled slot.”

What a weak attempt.

“Did it work?”

He snorts. “Not a chance. The waiting list is already a month long.”

You laugh politely at your own downplay, hiding a smile behind your cup. You lowered your gaze the way all his favorite actresses do in candids. “Well, you’re really good at what you do — I would know.”

He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, you’re a good patient.”

“How so?”

He shrugs. “You’re easy to talk to, I guess. Most people are either afraid of me or asking me out.”

Don’t let the rage get to you. Just keep smiling.

“Oh? Do they really ask you out?”

He admits with a grimace. “More often than I’d like.”

“I can see why,” you tease.

How daring of you.

He looks down at his drink, embarrassed. He looks stunned, shy even, but he shouldn’t be — not with a face like that.

“I mean,” you add softly, swirling your straw, “you’re kind, smart, good at what you do.” You offer a tiny, modest shrug. “It’s not hard to imagine people falling for that.”

“That’s—wow, uh—thanks.” He laughs nervously and darts his eyes away for a second. “You’re… not too bad yourself,” he adds. “Though I’m sure you’re used to compliments by now.”

Oh... Pull yourself together. Your fingers toy with the edge of your sleeve.

“You think so?”

He nods without hesitation. “Yeah. I’m glad I ran into you today.”

You can practically feel the universe tightening the noose around his destiny. Poor Satoru is a puppet who hasn’t realized he’s on strings. He’s open, comfortable—and dare you say—starting to like you.

Which means it’s time.

You need to leave. Now. Before he gets too comfortable. Before he stops thinking about you.

Because the secret isn’t making a man like you. It’s making him want more.

You wait— Time it, feel it. Sense the exact moment he leans in, a question perched on his tongue—

Then you stand.

The scrape of your chair might as well be a gunshot the way he flinches.

He stammers, blinking up at you, “Ah—do you, uh, need to go already?”

Your heart flutters at the crack in his voice. That small, wounded surprise. You are that good.

“I should, I don’t want to take up your whole morning.”

He sights up straighter, like the chair suddenly isn’t comfortable without you in front of him. His next words come out in pieces, scrambled, “Oh—no, it’s not—I mean, you’re not, um, I honestly don’t have anything to do, so if you wanted to stay, I wouldn’t—”

He’s unraveling. You did that.

It takes everything in you not to let out a victory cry. Instead, you force out a small and meek, “It was really nice talking to you, Satoru.”

You said his name again.

You can see what it does to him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It was.”

You gather your things slowly, giving enough time for him to watch you and to process the loss of your presence. You shoulder your bag, one last polite nod before turning to leave.

One step. Two. Three—

“Wait.”

You could kiss yourself.

You turn, looking over your shoulder, eyes wide with perfect surprise. He’s standing now, hand in his pocket, awkward, nervous.

“Um…” His fingers fumble with a folded bit of reciept paper, edges crushed from how tightly he’s been holding it. He steps closer and clears his throat. “This is probably a bad idea.”

You give him your most virtuous look. “What is that?”

He glances aside in embarrassment, “I’m not supposed to do this with my patients.” He hands you the slip of his paper. “My personal number,” he says.

Oh. my. fucking. god.

You wanted to scream, laugh, grab his shirt, kiss him, shake him, sink your nails into the flesh of his heart and carve your initials in it.

“I-I… don’t want to get you in trouble,” you whisper.

He shakes his head immediately. “No, it’s fine. I trust you. Text me if anything happens. Or even if anything doesn’t.”

You close your fingers around the paper, cradling it. You have him wrapped around your finger. “Okay,” you say. “I will.”

Everything worked.

Every detail and carefully chosen word.

Executed to perfection, a masterpiece in manipulation.

Everything is falling into place exactly as you planned.

You can’t text him immediately — that’s what clingy, overeager, sloppy little creatures do.

You aren’t an amateur.

So you set the paper on your nightstand, smooth it flat, and let it sit.

You wake up. You make tea. You replay his laugh while brushing your teeth.

It was nothing short of torture, but you had to be patient. For you are his favorite patient.

Three days is the magic number — an acceptable timeframe.

Three days is when he starts to think of you unprompted.

Three days is enough time for him to be haunted by thoughts of “why hasn’t she texted?”

So you start drafting.

Thank you again for today.

Too plain. Too empty. Delete.

I really enjoyed seeing you today. Hope you got home safe!

You gag. Actually gag. Delete.

Thanks again for helping me last time. You really made me feel better.

Ugh. Terrible. You sound like a Yelp review. Delete.

Hope I wasn’t too much of a bother again.

What the fuck? You want pity? Absolutely not. Delete.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, the light from your phone glowing against your palm like a holy artifact. His number waits in your contacts, untouched: Toru <3

Come on.

You didn’t reengineer your entire personality and reconstruct your wardrobe just to send some lukewarm, baseline-human nonsense.

You want to sound warm yet bold. Funny and a little flirty. You want him to blink at his screen, smile without meaning to, then reread it ten times over.

Is it normal to want to see your dentist again this soon?

Yes. Yes, yes. This is the one.

Harmless on the surface. Playful underneath. Disarming in its simplicity. Suggestive if he wants it to be. Teasing if he reads it twice. A confession if he looks closely.

You cross-reference your spreadsheet and confirm his schedule today: No appointments. Lunch break window. Phone likely in pocket. Brain likely idle.

It's the ideal time for emotional interference — you position yourself like a sniper, and hit send. The message floats away, a little digital bullet aimed straight for his heart.

Then you wait, the way a lion sinks into tall grass. And sure enough—

Your phone buzzes, not a minute later. Not even forty seconds. Thirty-one. He read it immediately.

A laughable little thrill curls through you as you stare at the notification lighting up your lock screen:

Only if your dentist has good bedside manners 😉

Your entire bloodstream vaporizes and reconstitutes itself in the span of a heartbeat. Your stomach swoops so violently you nearly drop the phone. You read it thirty-one times and then another four, just to make sure you weren’t hallucinating or misinterpreting the innuendo.

The wink. The fucking wink.

He could have just said “lol” or “haha”. But he didn’t.

Satoru Gojo winked at you.

Digitally, yes. But it counts.

And not a friendly wink either. Not a “grandma made a pie” wink.

A bedside. Manners. Wink.

You’re dizzy with implications. There are so many. What does “good” mean to him? Gentle? Dominant? Hands-on? Does he think you’re picturing him hovering over a bed with gloves off and voice low? Because you are, now. You are so vividly doing that.

You could still dial this down — send a safe, soft-pedaled emoji or a polite “haha, you’re so silly”. All it takes is your next reply to tip the scales toward cordial or carnality.

But your brain isn’t interested in balance aymore. No, your brain has already slithered off the rails and is now joyriding straight into his lap. It’s licking the thought of his voice bending low, whispering for you to “open wide” with something other than dental instruments in hand. It’s already imagining his so-called bedside manners without latex gloves — no latex at all, for that matter.

You have all the power now. The invitaton is sitting wide open, legs parted, saying: come inside.

Is that so, doctor? Next time, I’ll be better prepared to assess your technique

And when he responds, he bites back, hard:

Bring a notepad. I’ll give you plenty to write about

You nearly let out a sound.

You clamp your thighs together without thinking just to contain the full-body voltage that line delivers straight to your pelvis.

You lie back against the pillows, grinning like a lunatic, fingers hovering over the keyboard, thumbs twitching with indecision.

He wants this. He started this.

But still — you want to measure the next stroke just right.

Fair warning: I have strict standards

You can picture him mentally debating, wondering how inappropriate this is while simultaneously wanting to dive in anyway.

Delivered. Read. Typing…

Fair warning: I never disappoint

God. You sit up. Sit forward. He’s still typing. Another text pings in right after:

You free Friday night?

You swear you stop breathing. You let your head fall back, body sizzling, mouth dry. Then you answer, calm and confident like you’ve practiced before.

It’s a date.

You lock your phone and stare at the ceiling with a slow, consuming smile. The room feels too small to hold the satisfaction inside of you.

He has no idea what he’s just set in motion, but you know exactly what comes next.

Satoru Gojo pulls up in his car and steps out like a wet dream.

White dress shirt, perfectly fitted, rolled just once at the sleeves like he doesn’t even know how pornographic his forearms are. A slim black tie, undone (you’d undo it further).

He leans against his car, wearing a devil-may-care elegance, holding the sexiest bouquet you’ve ever seen.

Red roses were far too generic. He held an assortment of deep wine-colored calla lilies, indigo hyacinth, black dahlia, a single spray of bleeding heart, tied in dark silk. You want to crawl into his lap and purr for it.

You’ve been getting ready since 11:00 for a 7:30 dinner.

It started with a three-step exfoliation.

Then a cooling mask. Then a hydrating mask. Then another to seal the glow.

You tweezed precisely — eyebrows, bikini line, the back of your neck. You moisturzied every inch of your body. Twice. Then oiled it.

You sprayed perfume in strategic places: back of the knees, between the breasts, behind each ear and under your hairline so it would bloom when you played with your hair.

You matched the color of your lipstick to the color of his favorite whiskey. You lined your underwear drawer in the off chance he opened it. You painted your nails a color he once liked on a girl’s post from six months ago.

You wore the dress that made your waist look strangled. You wore the shoes that gave you the posture of a prayer.

And by the time you were done curling your hair, steam emerged from the bathroom like smoke after arson.

But it’s all worth it. He’s worth it.

You had rehearsed the steps you’d take down the stairs earlier so that you’d look like a starlet.

You know how you look. You’ve seen it in the mirror a hundred times already, practiced every expression — wide eyes, coy smile, neck bared just a little more than necessary.

You walk toward him slowly, pretending not to notice how his eyes track every inch of you, from the straps over your shoulders, to the dip of your waist, to the swell of your legs straining beautifully against heels he’ll definitely make you regret later.

“Hey,” he says, offering you the bouquet.

The words taste too good in his mouth. And the way his fingers curve around the stems? You almost moan on instinct.

You take them with trembling control. “They’re stunning.”

“So are you,” he says, eyes dragging down your body and back up. “Do I get to keep looking at you all night?”

It should be illegal the way he says it. So lethal you want to die.

“You better,” you say, curling your grasp tighter around the bouquet. “I got all dolled up just for you.”

You don’t tell him about the playlist you listened to while shaving. Or the way you rewaxed your legs even though they were fine.

You don’t tell him you read six articles on body language to keep your posture effortlessly receptive and just barely challenging.

You don’t tell him you spent twenty minutes making sure your purse contents were both practical and inviting.

You don’t tell him about the notes you made on his favorite wines, his casual turns of phrase, the photo from his stories where you could just barely see the title of the book on his nightstand.

He smiles and opens the door for you. “Shall we?”

His fingers brush your lower back as he guides you into your seat. You’re already soaking, and the night’s only just begun.

The interior of the car smells like him, and the radio hums with ambient jazz, the kind of music people undress to in good movies.

He one hand grips the steering wheel, forearm flexing with each turn. You can’t stop picturing it above your head, fingers gripping the headboard, pinning you down as he sinks inside. You imagine leaving crescent-moon marks in that same arm, clutching him through every thrust.

He glances over. “How was your week?”

“Better now.”

He laughs under his breath, the sound curling around your neck. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

The drive feels like the prelude just before climax — surreal, floaty, skin too sensitive, body tuned too high.

Every passing streetlight reflects against his cheekbones, his lashes, carving his features in gold and shadow. And when his thumb grazes the gearshift, all you can think about is whether he fucks like he talks.

When he parks, you barely register it.

The restaurant is tucked between two blank storefronts: wooden façade, softly glowing paper lanterns flanking the entrance, barely visible signage in elegant brushstroke kanji.

He kills the engine and turns to you.

“Ready for the best meal of your life?”

You let your smile drag out slowly, lip catching on your teeth. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

The maître d’ greets him by name and leads the way to the sushi bar. You glide onto the dark leather stool by his side, close and together, no barriers. You sit, crossed legged, spine perfectly postured, dressing kissing your thighs with every shift.

The chef bows low and welcomes you in soft Japanese. He works in silence before you, each slice of fish a performance. The entire meal is a private show, course by course, a slow unveiling.

“This one’s from Niigita,” Satoru says, pouring sake into your cup. “It’s supposed to open up as it breathes.”

“We have that in common.”

He smiles, and that little twist in his lips has your toes curling in your heels.

The first dish arrives. The tuna gleams beet red, accompanied by fresh wasabi and smoked soy.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you lift the first piece to your lips, fatty tuna so soft it collapses like butter. You moan (not by accident).

“Holy shit,” you say, hand over your mouth. “I think I just saw god.”

Satoru raises an eyebrow, pleased. “And here I was hoping you’d say that after dinner.”

You chew slowly. Swallow. “You know what they say — save the best for last.”

He watches your lips, then lifts his cup. “Amen to that.”

And so it goes. Bite after bite, poured drinks and conversation. You match him beat for beat — his tastes, humor, quirks.

When he references his favorite manga, you recall the exact line that comes after that. When he talks about enjoying late-night walks, you describe the exact route that just happens to mirror the one in his tagged photos.

He rests one elbow on the bar. “If I asked you what you really thought about me after our first appointment…”

“Which version do you want to hear? The censored or unfiltered version?”

He grins. “Both.”

“Mmm. I think I’d rather show you than tell you.” You pause, lowering your lashes. “But I will say this — I hated the girl who came in after me.”

It was a bold move, but you want him to know. And every time you speak, he looks at you longer.

Another dish arrives. Amberjack, kissed with yuzu zest. He lets you steal his when you eye it too long.

Between courses, you joke about food crimes, admit your secret obsession with absurdly niche documentaries and “coincidentally” drop the title he tweeted about last year as if you didn’t spend nights combing through his feed.

Then his hand brushes your knee, barely a graze, but to you, it’s a spark in a dry field. Your entire body stills under the table, tightly coiled. You want him all over.

“You’re kind of perfect, you know that?”

You feel heat. The final thread of restraint snaps. You place your chopsticks down carefully. You turn toward him, half-shifted on your stool, your leg brushing his.

“I don’t want dessert,” you say.

He raises a brow, smirks. “No?”

“No.”

He blinks once, registering, then leans in. “My place?”

It was so tempting — the feel the silk of his bed, his scent on the sheets and the way his furniture looks when he’s distracted and naked.

But not there, not yet.

You want him in the room where it started, where you first imagined what his hands would feel like if it weren’t covered with latex. You want to feel it raw.

You shake your head. “The clinic.”

Then a laugh, sharp and hot. “Seriously?”

Your eyes are unblinking, unapologetic.

And that’s it. No hesitation. He’s already reaching for his wallet, throwing down enough cash to cover every dish twice over. The chef bows and the staff whispers in polite reverence.

He doesn’t question it again, just takes your hand, leads you to the car, and starts the engine. Your mind is already in the chair, already naked under fluorescent lights.

You glance at him as he pulls out of the lot, hand on the wheel, other hand casually resting between you like it isn’t dying to move. You want to grab it. Put it where it belongs. On you. In you.

His shirt is tight enough across the shoulders that you imagine splitting it open. You want to ruin it, ruin him. You want to press your tongue to his wrist and claim his pulse.

You want his tie around your neck. His name in your mouth. The taste of his skin. You want to be so deep in his thoughts that even his dreams wake up blushing. You want to unzip his spine and live inside him.

You imagine what he’ll look like when he loses control. What his voice will sound like when it breaks. You’ll memorize it, bottle it up, stitch it into your brain, ingrain it in you forever.

He turns the corner, the sign for the clinic glows blue and white in the distance.

Tonight, you go back to where it all began.

Satoru unlocks the front door without a word.

You follow him in after him, traced in his shadow — a devout thing.

He flicks on the examination light and the dental lamp explodes in surgical clarity. It blooms overhead in a cold, perfect cone. A goddamn interrogation spotlight on you, the suspect.

You expect him to smile like before, warm, casual, amused. But he doesn’t.

He shuts the door with his foot. A sharp thunk. The lock clicks behind you like a cell door.

His eyes roam the room, then you. His jaw is set. The muscle in it ticks once.

He’s… different.

You noticed it in the car too — the way his fingers drummed the steering wheel like he was holding back. Now, you’re not sure he is.

He tosses his tie onto the counter, sending metal instruments clattering as the silk brushes them. The tray rattles, a staccato little foreshadowing.

“You want the chair,” he says.

Not a question. Not an offer.

You nod.

He gestures. “Go on.”

The vinyl is cool against the back of your thighs as you sink into the seat. Your dress hikes up slightly — a detail he absolutely notices. He reaches for the control panel, but doesn’t immediately press anything. His hand hovers, then he turns to you.

“You’re not who you say you are, are you?”

Your mouth goes dry. Your heart lurches.

How…

He presses a button.

Beep.

The chair reclines a few inches.

“You called the receptionist asking for my schedule, didn’t you?”

… does he know?

Beep.

Lower.

“You pretended to be someone else everytime.”

You should speak. You should deny it.

Laugh. Cry. Run.

Beep.

Back further, your hair spilling over the headrest, your body opening under the cone of clinical light. The angle is suggestive without even trying. Vulnerable in a way that makes heat curl deep inside you.

He pulls on a pair of gloves—one, then the other—snap, snap in punctuation marks.

“When you showed up at the coffee shop on my day off, I knew I didn’t just run into you.” He tugs the gloves down snug. “You don’t even drink coffee.”

He looks directly at you.

“You even knocked your own tooth out.”

The accusations echo all around you.

He knows — all of it.

The obsessive anlaysis of his calendar. The half-dozen “wrong number” calls. The morning stakeouts and the lies you spun, stacking one on top of the other until the only truth left was you wanted him.

In any way, at any cost.

Your hand finds the metal tray beside you by accident. Instruments tremble with a jarring, metallic trrrring. Satoru watches you react, watches every tremor.

He brushes along your jaw, trailing it. “Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”

You nod. There’s nothing left to say.

“You should be arrested for the shit you pulled.”

His gaze drops to your hands, trembling on the edge of the armrests. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches to the tray beside you and plucks up a pair of sterile elastic tourniquets, the kind used to stabilize an arm for blood draws.

“I used to imagine you on your knees,” he says, “in my waiting room after hours, tongue out.”

He loops the first thick band around your right wrist and the armrest, cinching it tight with a practiced flick. You can’t breathe. You don’t try.

“Wondered if you thought about me, if you touched yourself after appointments.”

Your left wrist is next — another pull, another sharp snag, binding you helpless. The bands stretch enough to give the illusion of freedom, but no more; every movement meets resistance.

“Sorry darling, can’t have you flailing.”

Your chest heaves, your pulse thunders. He watches the panic spread beautifully across your features.

He adjusts the headrest—click—cradling your skull in his palms. His thumbs rest behind your ears. His face is close now, framed by the halo of the dental lamp, eyes bright and impossibly blue.

His glove grazes your lower lip; not a kiss but not even remotely professional. It was enough to set your entire body on fire, every nerve alight under the cold, white brilliance of the exam lamp.

“Tell me,” he says, “is this how you pictured it?”

“Not even close,” you manage.

He leans in, and your back arches under the light. You’re open. Caught. Laid bare on sterile vinyl beneath the weight of guilt. His mouth is so close now you feel his breath.

“You’re insane,” he murmurs, brushing his gloved thumb over your trembling bottom lip. “But so am I.”

You don’t dare to close your eyes. You want to see everything. Because he saw everything. Because he wanted it too.

“Open wide,” he commands.

You do. But not your mouth. Because he’s not your doctor tonight.

Your legs part and his gloves squeak as he drags a hand over your inner thigh. “You didn’t think I would find out? That you wouldn’t be caught?”

He doesn’t give you room to respond, reaching behind you—another click—the chair groans and tilts further back, until your legs slide open wider under gravity, posture collapsed and defenseless beneath him.

“Look at you,” he breathes, taking in the sight. “My lovely stalker in the flesh.”

The metal tray at your side clinks again as he pulls it closer. He reaches for the suction wand.

“Are you sure you can handle me?”

You’d crack your jaw for him. You’d dislocate your ribs to make more room for him. He’s your addiction and this chair is your confession booth.

You whimper—yes, yes, yes—but he’s already dragging the tube down your throat, past your lips. He doesn’t push far, just enough to press down your tongue. Satoru watches you as you gag around the suction, your throat fluttering under the pressure, eyes glossy.

“So eager,” he teases, and the sound of it, the sound of him, is too much. He slides it back out, obscenely slow, and it glistens with spit. “Messy little thing.”

He grabs the tray again, rips gauze from the sterile stack, and stuffs one square into your mouth, watching your lips stretch around it. He pushes two more in, then another wad, just to see how far you’ll let him go.

“Let’s keep the noise down, yeah?”

Your muffled whimper vibrates through the gauze, helpless and needy.

He traces his gloved knuckle, trailing higher and higher up your thigh with maddening slowness, hovering near where you need him most.

His other hand wraps around your jaw, tilting your head up until your eyes lock with his, blue and burning.

“Don’t you dare look away.”

You couldn’t if you tried.

The dental lamp floods straight into your pupils, washing everything else to shadow. You blink against the brightness, tears gathering from the intensity, from the humiliation of being exposed in the most unholy posture. And he loves it.

He spreads you open with two fingers, exposing your wet, swollen folds to the light. The lamp overhead catches every glisten, every twitch. You try to lift yourself up into his hand, but the elastics bite into your wrists, forcing you to take every torturous second at his pace.

The first touch is barely a touch — the rubber pad of his index finger nudging directly over your clit. A soft push, a slow circle.

The gauze stuffed into your mouth squelches with spit as you sob around it, teeth sinking into the cotton until your jaw aches. He drags a gloved thumb over the corner of your lip, smearing the saliva that leaks out.

“Mmm, such pretty sounds,” he hums, slipping deeper. “You’re dripping all over my chair. I could ruin you. Right here, right now.”

He waits there, buried to the knuckle, doing absolutely nothing. Your body clenches helplessly around the intrusion, trying to pull him deeper. You whimper into the gag, wrists twisting uselessly against the rubber restraints.

He laughs and lowers his face again until his lips brush your ear.

“You want more?”

A pause.

“Beg.”

You choke on your own breath, air, tears, spit, need, trying to form any sound that resembles a plea. His finger crooks suddenly, finding the spot instantly. Your ragged, gagged cry spills out of you in a confession.

“There’s your little problem area,” he murmurs, delighted.

He strokes it again. Harder, controlled, devastating. Your vision whites out at the edges and your hips thurst upward in broken, jerky movements, driven entirely by instinct.

The his thumb joins in.

The rubber presses directly on your clit, pushing the wet folds apart around his hand. You damn near convulse — your legs spread wide for him and he thursts in deeper, spreading his fingers apart.

He fucks his fingers in harder, faster, pushing you right to the edge, and then — he withdraws; abruptly, completely, leaving you gasping and choking against the gag, body trembling, thighs slick and open in the cold air.

He steps back and pulls off his gloves with two sharp snaps, tossing them to the tray.

“You look pathetic,” he says.

You wanted to show him just how much.

Your wrists strain against the armrests; you want to touch him, claw him, hold him, anything. Your teeth clamp down around the gag, a muffled snarl erupts low in your throat. Your legs kick out, shaky and half-controlled, but enough to make him grab the armrest and pin you down. His expression flashes from amusement to delight.

“Well, well, look who’s come out to play,” he sings, climbing onto the chair, caging you beneath him.

You buck beneath him again in defiance, and the vinyl screeches under the violent movement. He grabs your throat, holding it with steady pressure, asserting that he can collapse your air at any second.

“You want to challenge me?” He rests his forehead against yours, so close to you that your tears spot his cheek. He pins your wrist with one hand while the other slams your hips down against the chair. “Then fucking challenge me.”

You can’t talk. So instead — you spit the gaze at his face. It hits his cheek, wet and dripping.

“Well now,” he murmurs, brushing your spit down the curve of his own jaw with two fingers. “If you’re going to act like a little monster… I suppose I’ll have to handle you like one.”

He fists his hand in your hair and drags your head back, baring your throat, forcing your mouth open. The restraints creak as your body curls up instinctively toward him, needy and feral.

He kneels on the chair, looming above your pinned body, and drags his cock out — flushed in deep red, heavy and thick enough that your lips part instinctively in disbelief.

“Oh,” he laughs, breath hitching. “You want a taste?”

He taps the head against your lower lip, smearing pre-cum all over, and presses forward to stretch your mouth around a shape substantially bigger than you were ready for.

You try to take him. You really, really try.

But your jaw strains. Your throat tightens. Your lips can’t stretch enough to get past the head before your throat spasms in a futile attempt to open wider.

“What’s wrong?” he taunts, grip tightening in your hair until your scalp burns. “You were so bold a moment ago.”

He nudges forward another inch, forcing your mouth wider, guiding it to the very edge of what it can handle until drool spills down your chin.

Tears spill from the effort, your neck is strained against the headrest. He watches you struggle, eyes darkening as he watches your jaw quiver around the stretch. Your tongue presses helplessly against the underside of his cock, trying to coax him deeper.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, “if you can’t even take me in your mouth—”

His free hand curls around the base of his length, pressing harder against your lips, pushing a broken whimper from your chest.

“—how the hell,” he pants, “are you going to take me in that tight little cunt?”

You suck harder, jaw screaming, threatening to tear itself apart. You want to swallow him whole, bury him deep, prove that you’re built to take him everywhere.

Satoru smirks down at you, lust-drunk and wicked. “Want to try again?”

You nod frantically, mouth open in a trembling “O”. You think, clear and loud enough for your own mind to hear it:

Yes. Yes, please. Break me on your cock. I want everything you’re about to do.

His eyes gleam like he hears it.

Then he yanks your hair back and shoves himself against your tongue again, harder this time, enough to make your throat seize. You try again, desperate, shaking, gagging on air as you fight to fit around him. He watches you choke on the attempt and loses his goddamn mind.

“Fuck — you’re killing me.”

He leans back, cups your cheeks with both hands, and spits straight into your mouth. A vulgar, wet rope of saliva landing on your tongue and coating your throat.

“There,” he growls, grabbing his cock and smearing his spit across your lips, down your tongue. “Open wider.”

Your throat tries to open. But when he pushes in that inch too far, your gag reflex punches back and you choke hard enough to jolt your entire body, a broken, wet sound that shakes your chest.

“Agh—enough. Enough.”

His voice is ragged, crackling with need. He drags himself out of your mouth and grabs your waist, lifting your restrained body off the backrest with a snap of strength that steals your breath.

He shifts position so fast the chair squeals under him. One moment his cock is pressing at your tongue, the next it’s slapping wetly against your dress, dragged down the centerline of your body.

He drags the thick length between your breasts, down the soft slope of your stomach, leaving a slick trail of spit on the fabric.

“It’s going in somehow,” he hisses, “if not your mouth, then—”

But he doesn’t finish. Your body reacts before he does. You want to take over, to redeem yourself.

Your hips snap foward, dragging yourself along his cock as he slides it down. Your nails claw for leverage even with your wrists bound.

You tilt yourself, angling your soaked cunt toward him with intent so clear, your entire body trembles as the head nudges your swollen entrance. You strain for contact, cunt pulsing around nothing as you try to drag him into you without permission.

The sight of you trying to mount him while bound, gagged, ruined with tears and spit and slick — he falters, and he jerks forward like he can’t help it. He drops his weight onto you, cock pressed flush to your dripping entrance.

Your chest heaves against him, wrists twisting violently until the elastic bites deep into raw, flaming flesh. It hurts. It thrills. The pain is proof.

“You want it that bad?”

You nod, frantic and wild.

His hand flies to the tray, sending metal rattling. He picks up a scalpel and holds the blade between two fingers, angled toward the rubber binding you.

It slides under the tight band, then—snap—your raw wrist springs free, shaking violently with relief. Thin red marks carve around the skin, swollen and tender, baring evidence of how hard you fought for him.

Good.

Let them stay. Let them bruise and scar.

You earned them.

He drops the scalpel with a clatter, pressing his cock hard against your slit again, smearing slickness over both of you.

Your freed hands fly upward to grab him, nails sinking into his shoulder, dragging him down with a desperation so sharp it borders on violent. Your fingers make their way to thread into his hair and yank him down to your lips.

“Take it properly this time,” he rasps, voice shredded.

“Doctor’s orders,” you oblige, wrapping your legs around his waist to push him in, the head of his cock catching and sinking a fraction of an inch inside your dripping heat.

He slams forward and your body shatters open around him — a shock of pain, a flood of head, a gasp that turns into a moan that turns animalistic. You dig further into his back, dragging warpaths of red down his skin as he sinks further into you.

Finally. This is what you fought for. What you bled your wrists for.

Satoru groans, both of you shivering under the sheer violence. You meet his thrust with a force that makes the chair recline a full inch backward.

His eyes widen. “You’re—” Another thrust. “—trying to take control.”

You bare your teeth in a delicious grin. Then you flip him.

It’s messy, graceless—a snarl, a shove, a twist of your hips and wrists and weight—and suddenly he’s on his back in the chair, stunned, breath gone, cock still buried inside you as you straddle him, thighs clamped around his hips.

You slam yourself down. Hard. He chokes on his own moan.

“Oh—fuck—” His fingers stab into your waist, leaving craters.

You grind down, lifting and dropping your hips in brutal, punishing strokes, using his body like you’re built for it, like he was made to beneath you, inside you, ruined by you.

Your hands push his shoulders down, pinning him with a strength you didn’t know you had. You were taking your revenge.

The chair rattles violently. The light overhead swings in its arm. You collapse your weight onto him, breasts sliding against his chest as you slam down again, again, again, chasing the pleasure.

Satoru’s face contorts, eyes rolling back and mouth falling oepn, hands clutching you so hard you know you’ll bruise. “You’re going to—fuck—you’re going to break us both—”

You whisper against his ear, voice ruined: “Shut up.”

Then you bite him.

His body jerks so violently his cock slams deeper, hitting a place that makes your vision split into stars. He grabs your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat.

“Insane,” he moans. “You’re fucking insane—”

His hand between your shoulder blades pulls you tighter. Your nails rake his chest. Your hips pound down and his breath comes out in shuddering, broken gasps.

You slam down. He cries out. You do it again.

He arches up into you, bucking like he’s trying to escape and bury himself deeper at the same time. You grab his throat and angle him to look at you as you take everything he has.

Your mind is a cathedral of obsession. He’s yours now. You’ll ride him into the grave. You’ll drag both of you into ruin. You slam down so hard the tiles begin cracking under the chair.

“That’s it,” he chokes. “That’s—god—fuck—”

Then he snaps.

He sits up in a single violent moment, arms crushing you to him, mouth on your shoulder, your throat, biting, sucking, marking you with his brand.

You moan, throat raw, as he thrusts up into you from below. Your cries start to shake. Your legs go numb. Your mind falls apart. You claw at his hair, panting into his ear, “Don’t stop.”

He shakes, gripping you like a man drowning. He slams up into you at the same moment you slam down onto him, and the collision rips into a full-body convulsion that arches your spine off his chest and sends your nails carving across his back.

Your throat goes silent for a moment, too much pleasure to even make a sound, before the cry finally tears free, a raw, keening note of release. Your cunt clamps around him so hard he nearly folds with you.

He drags you down on his cock, burying himself so deep the air punches out of him. He stutters, then grind in ragged and broken thrusts as he groans a low, wrecked sound into your throat, biting into it as he pours into you. You feel blood rising under his teeth — and you almost come again from that alone.

Your legs give out. Your arms tremble intensely. Your body collapses against him, twitching, spasming, clenching with aftershocks so intense it would break the Richter scale.

“Fuck… fuck… stay right there… don’t move… don’t—”

You don’t listen — you shift instead. And you feel it: the soft, hypersensitive throb of him still inside you, your slick leaking down over him. You feel him groan into your neck.

“No—no, sweetheart, don’t—”

Again. You want it again. You want to make sure he can’t walk anymore. To make him delirious.

So you roll your hips again and you kiss him. His lips part on instinct, and you swallow his breath, tongue pushing into his mouth, messy and wet, teeth clashing.

You grind down again and his moan breaks in half. “Fuck—don’t—god, I’m still—”

“I don’t care.”

You kiss him slow, sealing him. His hand slides up your back with a gentleness so at odds with the brutality of what came before that it steals your soul. His mouth lingers under yours, open, wanting more, wanting you.

Every risk you took to get you here worked.

Your obsession made him yours.

His chest rises against yours in one long, shuddering breath. And when you pull back, his voice cracks open against your lips in a low, hoarse murmur:

“… come here, I’m not done yet.”

you’re so into it, head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut, that you don’t hear the jingle of keys or the front door creaking open. satoru steps inside, backpack slung over one shoulder, glasses slightly fogged from the chilly night air, his white hair sticking out in every direction. he freezes mid-step, sneakers squeaking on the hardwood, when he sees you—legs spread wide, fingers buried in your dripping pussy, skirt hiked up to your waist. his mouth drops open, eyes bugging out behind his glasses like he just stumbled into a fucking porn set.

“h-holy—shit,” he chokes out, voice cracking like he’s sixteen again.

that’s what snaps your eyes open.

you freeze, fingers still knuckle-deep, heart slamming against your ribs as you meet his wide-eyed stare. he’s flushed red from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, looking like he’s about to bolt—or maybe pass out.

“satoru!” you squeak, yanking your hand out so fast it makes a wet pop!, your thighs snapping shut as you grab a pillow to cover yourself. “what the fuck—you’re not supposed to be here!?”

he’s still standing there, backpack sliding off his shoulder to hit the floor with a dull thud, his eyes darting between your face and the glistening mess on your thighs.

“i—uh—group ended early,” he stammers, pushing his glasses up with a shaky hand, his voice all high and nervous. “suguru had to—fuck, doesn’t matter. i didn’t—didn’t know you were…you know.”

he’s blushing so hard it’s almost comical, but there’s something else in his eyes, something hungry, like he’s trying not to stare at the slick trail you left on the couch but can’t help himself. you’re mortified, cheeks burning, but your pussy’s still throbbing, pissed off at being interrupted when you were so close.

“god, just—get the fuck out, satoru!” you snap, but your voice wobbles, you hate how needy you still sound, how your thighs are trembling despite yourself. he doesn’t move, though—just takes a step closer, then another, until he’s standing right by the couch, towering over you with this look that’s got your breath catching.

“you, uh…you didn’t look like you were getting there,” he says, voice quieter now, almost teasing. it makes you want to punch the shit out of him for how smug he sounds.

“the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” you hiss, glaring up at him, but he just grins, all awkward and boyish, like he’s not sporting a massive fucking boner in his jeans right now.

“just—you know, you looked frustrated,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, but his eyes keep flicking down to the wet spot between your legs. “your fingers are kinda small…bet they don’t reach deep enough, right?”

your jaw drops, because—holy fuck, is this really satoru? nerdy, rambles-about-anime and physics satoru, talking about your pussy like it’s some goddamn equation he’s figured out?

“you’re out of your fucking mind,” you sputter, but it’s weak. he catches it, that little shake in your voice. he’s kneeling now, right between your legs, glasses sliding down his nose as he looks up at you with this eager, almost desperate expression.

“i could help,” he says, voice cracking just a bit, but there’s a heat there that makes your cunt clench around nothing. “got longer fingers than you. could—you know, reach where you need.”

and honestly, you should tell him to fuck off, shove him away, but your body’s got other ideas, thighs spreading just a fraction like they’re begging for it.

“satoru, you— you’re insane,” you say, but it’s half-hearted, and he’s already leaning closer, hands hovering over your thighs like he’s waiting for you to say yes.

“c’monnn,” he murmurs, soft and coaxing, “i mean, you’re so fucking wet—i heard you from the goddamn hallway. let me help, please.”

his voice is so needy it makes your head spin, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re nodding, muttering a shaky,

“fine, just—do something.” you spit out. “fucking nerd.” you mutter under your breath, shifting to be more comfortable on the couch.

his grin is all teeth, too damn cocky for his own good. then he’s on you in a heartbeat, long fingers brushing against your slick folds, tentative at first, like he’s scared he’s gonna fuck it up.

“shit, you’re drenched,” he breathes, eyes wide as he slides one finger through your slit, collecting your sweet sweet juices. you whimper at the contact, hips bucking up.

“satoru—don’t fucking tease,” you whine. he just chuckles, clearly nervous but beyond excited, like he can’t believe he—the biggest nerd on campus—got his hands on you.

“sorry, sorry,” he says, but he’s not sorry, not when he slides one long finger inside you, slow and deep, curling it just right to hit that spot you couldn’t reach. you gasp, back arching off the couch, hands flying to his hair, tugging hard.

“o-oh! fuck—satoru, right there,” you moan, and he’s quick to add another finger, stretching you out, the wet squelch of your pussy so loud it’s embarrassing. he’s watching you, eyes dark behind his glasses, like he’s memorizing every twitch, every shudder, every little sound you make.

“god, you’re so fucking pretty like this,” he says, voice low and rough, nothing like the dorky guy you’re used to. it’s so hot it makes you clench around his fingers and he groans, free hand gripping your thigh to keep you spread open.

he’s good—too fucking good for a nerd like him—and it’s driving you wild, the way his fingers pump in and out, fast and relentless, hitting that sweet spot over and over until you’re seeing stars.

“shit, listen to that,” he mutters, almost to himself, as he watches his fingers disappear into your dripping cunt, the slick sounds filling the room. “your pussy’s so fucking loud—fuck, she's so pretty, gonna make you cum so hard, baby.”

you’re a mess now, legs shaking, head thrown back, moaning his name like it’s the only thing you know. he’s got this rhythm going, fingers fucking you deep while his thumb starts rubbing tight, fast circles on your clit, you’re so close it’s painful, your whole body wound tight.

“satoru—f-fu-fuck, i’m gonna—” you start, but he cuts you off, pulling his fingers out suddenly. you whimper at the loss, ready to curse him out, but then he’s putting his fingers flat against your pussy, rubbing it fast, hand slick with your arousal, grinding against your clit with this messy, desperate pressure that’s got you bucking up into him.

“c’mon, let me see it,” he says, voice all shaky and excited, like he’s begging for it. “wanna feel you soak me—fuck, you’re so wet, baby.”

his hand’s relentless, rubbing your pussy so fast it’s obscene, the wet, squelching sounds mixing with your broken moans. you’re thrashing now, hands tangled in his hair, pulling him in hard as your hips grind against his palm, chasing that high you’ve been desperate for all night.

“satoru—sh-shiiiit, don’t stop,” you gasp.

he’s grinning, glasses fogging up as he leans closer, his face inches from your cunt like he’s studying it.

“not stopping,” he murmurs, voice all rough and needy. “gonna make you fucking cum.”

his hand’s moving so fast it’s a blur, slick with your arousal, you can feel it building, that tight, hot coil in your core about to snap. you’re screaming his name now, no shame left, and when it hits, it hits hard—your pussy clenching around nothing, gushing, squirting all over his hand, his face, his glasses, the couch, everything. he just drinks it up, tongue out and everything, catching what he can so he doesn't waste a drop.

“fuck—satoru!” you cry, body shaking as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you, your juices drenching him, dripping down his chin, soaking the cushions beneath you.

he’s frozen for a second, eyes wide, glasses splattered with your cum, like he can’t believe what just happened.

“holy—fucking—shit,” he breathes, voice full of awe and shaky as he stares at the mess you made, his hand still pressed against your twitching pussy. you’re panting, vision blurry, but you catch the way he licks his lips, tasting you and it sends another shudder through you.

“you—you fucking squirted,” he says, like he’s just discovered the holy grail and before you can even respond, he slaps your pussy lightly, the wet smack making you yelp, hips jerking up.

he’s already rubbing his hand over you again, slower this time, like he’s savoring the way you twitch under him.

“fuck, that was so hot, she did so good f'me,” he mutters, talking to your pussy again, as he wipes his glasses with the hem of his shirt, smearing your cum across the lenses.

“can you—can you do that again?” he asks, eyes glinting with pure lust and you know you’re in deep shit, because satoru’s got you fucked up in ways you didn’t think possible, but you’re already nodding, ready for more.

but you’re still trembling, thighs slick and shaking from the orgasm that just tore through you, your pussy dripping wet, the couch beneath you a soaked mess. satoru’s kneeling between your legs, glasses fogged and splattered with your cum, his white hair a mess from where you’ve been tugging at it. his hand’s still pressed against your twitching cunt, slick with your juices, and he’s staring at you like you’re some kind of goddess, eyes wide and hungry behind those nerdy-ass frames.

your chest’s heaving, breath ragged, but you’re not done—not even close. the sight of him, all flushed and eager, his long fingers glistening with your release, has you wanting more, something dirtier, something that’ll wipe that smug little grin off his face. you prop yourself up on your elbows, legs still spread, skirt bunched around your waist and lock eyes with him.

“not yet. up here, satoru,” you say, voice low and breathy, dripping with want. “want to taste you. want your cock in my mouth.”

he freezes, hand stalling against your pussy, his mouth dropping open like you just told him the answer to the universe.

“w-what?” he stammers, pushing his glasses up with a shaky finger, his face going from pink to a deep, flustered red. “you—fuck, you mean me?” pointing a dexterous finger towards himself.

he’s so fucking cute like this, so fuckin' nerdy and unsure, but you can see his jeans straining, his cock hard as hell and it makes your cunt throb, knowing you’ve got him this worked up.

“yeah, you. who else, dork,” you say, smirking a little, reaching out to grab his wrist and tug him closer. “c’mon, get up here. want your cock in my mouth.”

his breath hitches and for a second, you think he’s gonna pass out, but he scrambles to his feet, all lanky limbs and nervous dog energy, wiping his wet hand on his jeans like he’s not sure what to do with it.

“shit, okay—uh, fuck,” he mutters, fumbling with his belt, fingers shaking so bad he can barely get it undone.

you lean back on the couch, licking your lips, watching him struggle and it’s so fucking hot, seeing satoru lose his shit over you. he finally gets his belt off, jeans sliding down his hips. you can see the outline of his cock through his boxers, long and thick, a wet spot already forming where he’s leaking pre.

“fuckfuckfuck, i'm so cooked,” he mumbles, shoving his boxers down and his cock springs free, it's just so pretty. clearly heavy and flushed, the pink tip glistening with precum, a neatly trimmed snowy bush surrounding it that trails upwards.

you grin, crawling forward, you're on all fours. legs slightly spread, pussy still dripping onto the couch.

“c’mere,” you murmur, reaching for him. he scoots closer, nervous and eager, his cock bobbing as he moves. you make yourself comfy, palms face down against the soaked couch. now, he’s right in front of you, his dick inches from your face.

“poor baby, you’re so fucking hard,” you say, voice teasing, as you wrap your fingers around him, giving him a slow, firm stroke while your thumb rubs the tip, and that makes him groan, head tipping back.

“shit—fuck, don’t do that,” he gasps, but his hips jerk upward, chasing your hand.

you laugh, “don’t do what?” you ask, stroking him again, watching the way his thighs tense, the way his glasses slide down his nose.

“g-gonna make me cum too fast,” he mutters, voice shaky.

you smirk, because fuck, you love having him like this, so desperate and unraveling.

you lean in, dragging your tongue along the underside of his cock, tasting the salty tang of his precum. he lets out this choked, pathetic sound, hands flying to your hair, gripping tight but not pushing, just needing something to ground himself.

“fuck, y/n—oh my god,” he breathes, watching you through half-lidded eyes as you swirl your tongue around the tip, teasing the slit before taking him into your mouth. he’s big, stretching your lips as you suck him down, hollowing your cheeks, and the way he moans—loud and unashamed—makes your pussy clench, fresh slick dripping onto the already-soaked couch. you bob your head, slow at first, letting him feel every inch of your mouth, your tongue pressing against the thick vein running along his shaft.

“shit, you’re—so fucking good at this,” he groans, hips twitching like he’s trying not to thrust too deep. you pull back, letting his cock pop free with a wet sound, a string of spit connecting your lips to the tip.

“yeah? you like my mouth, toru?” you ask, voice teasing, stroking him fast with one hand while you look up at him, all innocent and teasing.

“fuck yeah,” he says, voice rough, hands tightening in your hair. “you’re—god, you’re perfect, feels so fuckin' good.” his voice a bit whiny.

you grin, diving back in, taking him deeper this time, gagging a little as he hits the back of your throat, but you don’t care, not when he’s making those noises, all broken and needy. you want to choke on it. you suck harder, faster, drool dripping down your chin, pooling on the couch, and he’s losing it, hips starting to move, fucking your mouth just a little.

“shit, sorry—fuck, i can’t help it,” he mutters.

you moan around him, the vibration making him shudder, his cock twitching in your mouth. you pull back again, gasping for air, your hand still stroking him, slick with spit and precum.

“don’t be sorry,” you say, looking up at him with a smirk. “fuck my mouth, satoru. i want it.”

his eyes go wide, like he can’t believe you just said that, but then he’s nodding, all eager and desperate, guiding his cock back to your lips.

you open wide, letting him slide in deep, and he starts thrusting, shallow at first, then deeper, his hands gripping your hair so tight it stings.

“fuck—your mouth’s so warm, where'd you learn how to do this? god— nevermind, don't answer, d-don't stop, fuuuuck me— it's so good,” he groans, glasses fogging up again as he watches you take him, your lips stretched around his cock, spit and precum dripping everywhere. you’re a mess, gagging and moaning, your pussy throbbing so bad you can’t help but rub your thighs together, trying to get some friction. he notices, his eyes flicking to where your legs are pressed tight.

“shit, you’re getting off on this, aren’t you, baby?” he says, voice smug now. you moan louder, letting him know he’s right. he fucks your mouth harder, hips snapping and you’re so close to cumming again just from the way he’s using you, from the taste of him, the feel of his cock sliding in and out.

you pull back, gasping, your hand taking over, stroking him fast and slick. “satoru—fuck, wanna cum again,” you pant and he grins, one that's wild and unhinged, “yeah? wanna squirt for me again?” he says, voice rough and teasing, and before you can answer, he’s reaching over behind you to shove two fingers inside you.

“c’mon, give it to me,” he murmurs, his fingers reaching deep, curling against your sweet spot. and you’re done for, screaming his name as your pussy clenches, gushing all over his hand, the couch. it’s a flood, your juices soaking him, his hand still rubbing you through it, drawing out every shudder and twitch.

“holy fuck—look at that,” he breathes, eyes wide, and you’re panting, vision blurry, body shaking as you collapse back against the couch.

he’s still hard, cock twitching in front of you. you grin, weak and fucked-out, reaching for him again.

“c’mere,” you murmur, voice hoarse. “not done with you yet, not a fucking chance.”

he laughs, but it's shaky like he's scared you're going to ruin him. not that he minds. he quickly wipes his fingers with his shirt before pushing you back on the couch and climbing over you, ready to keep going. satoru’s kneeling between your legs, his white hair a mess, glasses crooked and splattered, his face slick with your earlier release. he’s licking his lips, tasting your sweetness, eyes dark behind those nerdy frames, like he’s barely holding himself together. your mouth’s still tingling from sucking him off, the taste of his precum lingering. his cock’s still very hard, twitching in front of you, flushed a pretty pink and leaking, dribbling down the sides from how turned on he is. you’re a mess, both of you are, but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the fucking world—has your cunt throbbing again, desperate for more. you lean forward, grabbing his shirt, tugging him closer until his face is inches from yours, his breath hot and uneven.

“please, fuck me, satoru,” you whisper, sounding so needy, practically begging. you don’t care how desperate you sound because you need him inside you, need to feel that thick cock stretching you out.

his eyes widen, a choked sound escaping his throat, like he can’t believe you just said that.

“fuck—shit, you serious?” he stammers, pushing his glasses up with a trembling hand, his cheeks flushed red. he’s still got that nerdy, awkward energy, but there’s something raw and hungry in his voice. you can feel how bad he wants this, his cock twitching against your thigh as he shifts closer.

“yeah, i’m fucking serious,” you say, voice sharp, grabbing his face, fingers digging into his jaw as you pull him into a messy kiss. it’s nothing but teeth and tongue, sloppy and desperate, your spit mixing with the taste of your own cum on his lips. he groans into your mouth, hands gripping your hips, pulling you closer, his cock brushing against your slick folds. then he's got one hand sliding down to line himself up with your entrance, the tip of his cock nudging your dripping hole.

“satoru—hurry the fuck up,” you pant, hips bucking toward him. he laughs, nervous and excited, but there’s a growl in it now, clearly he’s done holding back.

“shit, okay, okay—fuck, you’re so wet, god…need to feel that pussy around me, holy fu—,” he says, voice breaking as he pushes in, slow at first, the thick head of his cock stretching you open, making you gasp. it’s a lot—bigger than you expected from your lanky, dorky roommate—you whimper, nails digging into his shoulders as he slides in deeper, inch by inch, until he’s buried to the hilt, filling you so full it’s almost too much.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, forehead pressed against yours, glasses fogging up again as he tries to catch his breath. “feels so fucking good—holy shit.”

you can’t even talk, just moan, your pussy clenching around him, so wet you can hear it, the slick, obscene sounds filling the room as he starts moving, slow and careful at first like he’s scared he’s gonna hurt you.

“faster—fuck!,” you hiss, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper and he loses it, hips snapping forward, fucking you hard and deep, the couch creaking under you.

“satoru—ohmygod, yes, like that,” you moan, head thrown back, hands tangled in his hair as he pounds into you, his cock hitting that sweet spot with every thrust.

he’s groaning, muttering your name, all “you’re so fucking perfect” and “god, your pussy’s so amazing,” his voice shaky and desperate. and you're no better, you’re a fucking mess, letting out oscar worthy pornographic moans, legs shaking, pussy gushing around him, the wet squelch of his cock fucking you so loud it’s embarrassing, but you’re too far gone to care.

“shit, baby— you’re gonna make me cum already,” he gasps, hands gripping your ass, pulling you down onto him harder, and you can feel it building again, that tight, hot coil in your core, ready to snap.

“don’t stop—fuck, satoru, please, d-don't stop, cum inside, please,” you pant.

he leans down to suck a bruise into your neck as he fucks you harder, the couch shaking, your juices splashing everywhere.

“gonna cum for me again?” he says, voice smug and teasing once more, but he’s barely holding it together himself, his thrusts getting sloppy, cock twitching inside you. you nod, frantic, biting down on your lip and he slides a hand between you, his fingers pressing flat against your pussy, rubbing it fast, slick and messy, grinding over your clit.

“c’mon, give it to me, sweetheart—fucking squirt for mem make a mess around my cock,” he growls, not letting up for even a second and you’re gone, screaming his name, pussy clenching so tight around his cock it makes him groan then you’re gushing, squirting all over him, your cum soaking his shirt, his thighs, the couch, dripping down his balls as he keeps fucking you through it.

“fuck—holy fuck, yeeeah, that’s it,” he moans. you can feel him cumming too, his cock pulsing, spilling hot and thick inside you as he thrusts one last time, deep and hard.

you’re both panting, a sweaty, sticky mess, his glasses crooked and fogged, your skirt still hiked up, cum and slick everywhere. he collapses against you, cock still buried inside, breathing hard against your neck.

“shit, that was—fuckin' hell,” he mutters. his voice hoarse and wrecked but satisfied. you laugh, weak and shaky, running a hand through your hair.

“yeah, nerd. you’re not too bad,” you tease.

“not too bad? but i made you squirt thrice,” he says, pushing his glasses up, pouting like a baby.

© j3llyc4kes

:3 please check out my other works! here’s the master list! <3

He's self aware of his position. He knows who he is. He likes who he is, for the most part. He doesn’t wish to be popular like Sukuna or a ladies’ man like Geto. He understands his role in this academic society, in this world — it’s been the role that has followed him since he entered primary school, since before he truly understood who he was.

Gojo Satoru, the loser, the virgin. The nerd who keeps his nose in books, glasses falling along the bridge of his nose. The guy who is tall, lanky, his limbs falling before him ungracefully, causing him to trip at times. The guy who speaks out of turn, sometimes getting ignored altogether — other times he’s on the receiving end of slow blinks.

The guy that girls, especially girls like you, don't pay attention to. Their eyes are always drifting past him with faux niceness. Their glossed lips pursed at his graphic tees and his bursts of physics equations rambling out his mouth.

He isn’t for everyone, and he knows that. He respects it to a fault. He doesn’t have to squeeze into a box for others to swallow him — they have already made one for him. Placing him there with a set of rules that he follows to a tee.

He watches Ted talks, and listens to NPR when he goes on nightly walks. He reads Charles Bukowski, annotating enough lines that he can make a shrine along his dorm room’s wall with a manuscript of whatever Bukowski thinks.

So, he feels that the world is slowly changing on its rotation. Rotating backwards on its axis to fuck with the status quo. To dangle what he knows isn’t meant for him in front of his face. Something that he knows is going to shred the image of who he is — or possibly grab whatever he has hidden under video essays and random literary quotes, out.

“You’re Gojo, right?”

His head is in a physics textbook, the bustle of students looking for free chairs is blurred by the equations he has already memorized. 

He heard the question. He knows the voice. It’s in a couple of his classes, and it has never been directed towards him — so he knows that this must be a mistake now. 

His eyes don’t leave the book.

“Who is asking?” 

The words slip out before he can stop them, dry and bored — the tone he hears his roommate use on girls who ask to stay the night. He wants to cringe, his fingers gripping on to the book a little tighter — preparing to use it as a shield towards your recoil, laugh, or dismissal. 

Neither of those things come. Just the sounds of students mumbling and the pages of their textbooks flapping to the section that will help them pass the midterm season coming up. 

“I’m asking.” 

He forces himself to look up, his glasses slightly crooked. With a tilted head, and eyes scanning over every crevice of the area around him — you stare down at him. No faux niceness coloring your irises, but a look of curiosity. 

He feels the tips of his ears get hot, praying to whatever higher power that there isn’t a red hue brushing against his cheeks. 

He swallows, hoping the grin he’s trying to etch against his lips seems like a bold touch. A desirable counterpart — like the one he sees Geto throw on. It just seems easier for him. 

“That’s me,” he shrugs, his eyes falling from your face to your chest — the tank top you’re wearing putting your cleavage on full show. He knows for sure his cheeks are now stained red. “Smartest guy on campus here!” The pitch in his voice goes up just a notch higher, and he knows you notice from the way you flinch a bit. He ignores the dumb ass fucking thumb he threw up to point towards himself. 

In another world this would come off as charming, and you will laugh and he’ll relish in the fact that not only did you seek him out — but you enjoyed your time with him. 

But, that isn’t the case. 

You blink at him. Your glossed lips twitching at the ends, as if you’re not sure to laugh at him or be annoyed. He feels his stomach drop, his eyes retreating to the textbook — the safety of it calling him home and away from you. 

“…Right,” you say slowly, that slow blink that he sees from everyone else graces your face. “That’s good. I need your help, mister smartest guy on campus.” 

Help. 

The word sounds weird, especially coming from you. Help? No one ever needs him. 

The word rolls around in chest, vibrating around his ribs as his brain tries to catch up. 

He looks up again, not shielding away from your stare. He doesn’t try to be smooth, or charming. His only objective right now is to keep his voice steady. 

“Help with what?” 

He sits awkwardly at your desk, your knee banging into his. Pictures of you and friends scattered on your desk, laughing at him from the corner of his eye. 

He does not belong here. He wonders if you know that. 

“So, I really do not want to do that module for our class,” you sigh. You run your hand through your hair and he really tries to keep his eyes glued on the questions that he answered three weeks ago. The answers on the tip of his fingers, ready to be inputted in. “I know last year Nanami paid you to do his coursework, I thought it was worth the shot to ask for help.” 

He swallows down all the words that want to fly out of his mouth — he is trying to keep the failed charming persona going. Despite the sweaty palms he’s trying to wipe down his jeans, and the glasses that keep slipping down his nose whenever he stares too long at your lips. 

He can fit in. He can be around you and not embarrass himself. No he won’t ask if you watched Bill Gates Ted talk, or for your thoughts on NASA wanting to put a nuclear reactor on the moon. 

No. 

He is here to help. Well, get paid to help.

“How much are you willing to pay?” His voice comes out steady and he wants to give himself a high five. “I can do this module tonight. Are you looking for an exact grade to receive?” 

You shift a little closer, your knees pressing into his thigh. Your elbow on the desk, your chin on your palm as you look back at him. Your lashes falling against your cheeks with every small blink you make — he almost wants to time the blinks to know the amount of seconds your eyes were on him. 

You have this level of casualness that almost seems mocking. Every movement you make battles the awkwardness of his own. Your leg mushes against his, he becomes stiff — your movements flow a little easier. He stutters and you grin, your words coming out paced and smooth. He wipes sweaty palms down his jean clad thighs and you scoot a little closer. 

“I can get you any grade you’ll like,” his voice comes out rushed and he is aware that a rambling session is about to roll out. “Actually I’m lying. I will not give you a F if that is what you wanted. Which I know you don’t want, because you asked me, the smartest -“

“The smartest guy on campus,” you finish for him. You send him a small smile and feels the rest of words that we’re going to rush past his lips, quiet down. His eyes rush back to your computer, the screen on sleep mode. His own reflection watching just how out of place he is. “Yeah, I asked you. A B is fine.” 

There’s a beat of silence between you two. Everything freezing, allowing him to think for a minute. He hears the flip flops of students walking down the hall to the communal bathrooms. He smells marijuana slithering through your vents from the smoking corners in the basement. He thinks he could make out a bed creaking against the wall next to yours. 

He knows something is about to change. He feels it in his shoeless feet and by the way his snowy white hair seems to be standing at the ends. 

“Yeah, totally,” he breathes out. The clock on your desk ticks a little louder. Your leg searing into his. 

“I just have a little dilemma,” you free hand waves in the air, like you’re dusting away the final remnants of normalcy for him. “I was wondering if I can pay you with something other than money.”

Another beat of silence, music blasting from the quad below flows into the room. 

“Like cookies or something?” He looks down at your lips. “I really like sweets.”

Your eyebrows furrow and you stare at him. And for the first time ever, he finds this look to be pretty instead of judging. “…No,” you huff out. “But good to know… I guess?” 

“Oh.”

“Are you a virgin, Gojo?” 

He doesn’t answer, just blinks. The first time in a long time where he does not know how to answer a question. 

A shit eating grin grows on your lips and Satoru feels his stomach drop. “Of course you are,” you say it more to yourself than to him. 

“What does that mean?” The steadiness in his voice is gone. 

“That I can repay you by being the first girl that makes you cum.” 

You lean closer, your knee pressing harder against his. He freezes, the only moving and living thing is his heart — the organ beating against his chest so roughly, he’s sure you can make out each beat.

“You won’t be the first girl to make me cum,” his voice comes out in a croaked whisper, his eyes squeezing shut — all the porn videos of big tit women fucking even bigger dick men flashing before his eyes, like a film reel.

You bite down on your bottom lip, stifling a laugh. “Porn doesn’t count,” you shake your head. He feels your eyes trailing along the slope of his body, he is sure you're picking up on every nervous jitter that's shaking his bones and coursing through his bloodstream.

Cock tenting in his boxers, his thighs start to shiver from how much he's trying to hold back. “I take it back,” he forces out a breathless laugh, his eyes finally opening back up. Before looking at you, he looks back at the pictures on your desk — your friends are laughing, he's sure he hears it.

“Think of it as an exchange of goods,” you murmur, smirking. Your hand grips his thigh, the simple touch making his dick twitch. He almost doubles over, as if you punched him in the gut — but he knows he's just about to cum and make a mess in his jeans. "Not all of us attend school for free,” you let out a chuckle, a finger of yours trailing along the imprint of his hard on. He lets out a sigh that sounds more like a whimper. "So, this little business interaction is great practice for what happens in the real world."

His sweaty palms lay flat on your desk now, his fingers tapping lightly — like he’s counting something. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t trust his voice. The words are stuck in his throat, like it’s lined with the thickest honey the world could create. 

He stares straight head, the sleeping screen of your computer playing the scene with impeccable timing back to him. Your eyes trained in between his legs, your tongue tucked in your cheek, the shitty dorm room lamp coating you in this glean of light that seems almost … angelic.

Sweat beads at his hairline, pupils blown out as his glasses start to dip along the slope of his nose. The screen can make out every rattled breath he's taking, as if the pumping of his chest is almost unnatural … like the action that's happening right in front of his eyes.

In a blink of an eye — really, Satoru is sure that time is moving faster than he can ever scientifically explain — his cock springs free from the restraints from his jeans. And, it's your hand that's wrapped around him, not his, with a shitty porn video from twitter playing on loop in front of his textbook.

He sits straight up, fingers curled into fists on your desk now. The ends of frosty hair pricking up as he finds some strength to hold on to the sounds that want to escape his mouth.

Your fingers curled around the base of his cock, it's warm and much smaller than his own hand. You watch him through your lashes as you lean your face closer towards his thighs. You're so close, he thinks he can feel your breath fan over his dribbling tip.

"I need you to relax ,” you mumble, your hand slowly stroking upwards. Your grip tightening when you get to his mushroom tip, your thumb hovering over his slit. Satoru shuts his eyes, the taste of blood on his tongue from how hard he's biting down on his bottom lip. "You should watch.”

Then your fist is moving along the length of his shaft, your hand pumping his twitching cock harder. Your thumb pressing into his swollen tip every time your hand finds it way back. His breath stutters out in broken bursts, fogging his glasses — which are so far from where they should be, he could barely see.

He can't look at your sly smile, of the pictures on your desk, or your of your pretty hand working his cock for every thing he has. He can't keep looking at the computer screen showing him just how lovely you look and how out of place he looks, even with his cock twitching in your hand.

The most vulnerable part of him, quite literally in the palm of your hand.

After years of trying out different sock materials, scents of lotions, and going through an unhealthy amount of flashing videos of people fucking — Gojo Satoru could never imagine another human touching him.

He couldn't picture a girl, especially someone like… you, to ever willing be on the opposing side of offering him sexual gratification. He was sure he would've dealt with his own fist and when the time came, artificial intelligence to do that job.

"Fuck," the word falls from his lips like he's never said it before, clumsy and rushed. Your hand speeds up and it hits him — one, he's about to cum, hard. And two, nothing would ever compare to the warmth of your hand wrapped around him.

"Wh-what are your thoughts on nuc- shit, nuclear reactors?”

You hum, low and your grip tightens just enough to make his hips buck off the chair. "Do you think of nuclear," his knee knocks into yours, his lanky limbs completely out of his control. "… reactors to cum?"

It's something about hearing those words leave your lips that causes his toes to curl. Embarrassing, wet, little whines that he can't swallow down in time mixing with the soft tilt of a chuckle you're holding back. His chest hitches with every stroke, his hair falling flat on his forehead from how much sweat he's producing.

His brain jumps to the answers to a test he took in eleventh grade, a scene of a Bill Nye video follows behind, and then the measurements of how far this very spot is to the moon. Everything that his brain could offer to help him hold on a little longer, rushes in. Wanting to keep your hand around him for a moment longer, feeling the way your fingers grip so tenderly — the action not matching the way your eyes roll whenever he huffs out a breath little heavier than the last one.

And then he feels your breath fan the shell of his ear, your hand still working on his cock. Your movements are lazy, certain — like you already know how everything between you two, and maybe even the world, is going to unfold.

"You're close, aren't you?"

He feels everything in him unravel, his head nodding frantically.

You twist your wrist on the next stroke, your thumb finally coming down to swirl around his sensitive tip. His whole body seizes, thighs trembling and cock twitching in your hand as he spills hot and messy across our fingers, his jeans, and even the hem of your desk. Low moans break out, choked and desperate.

He slumps forward immediately, his hands curling up into his hair, pulling slightly at the roots to give him some sense of normalcy. Like a wake up call from a dream he does not want to wake up from. His chest heaving as if he just ran a marathon.

You let go, wiping your hand down his thigh without much of a care. He twitches under the contact, shocked that your body is still touching his regardless of it just using him to discard his own mess.

"A B would be nice," you murmur, tone light.

Satoru turns his head to finally get a good look at you — his eyes wide, lips parted and still rushing out breaths. He can feel just how red his face is, the tips of his ears searing.

You… you're already leaning back, pulling your chair towards the desk like you're clocking into your office job. No attention paid to the man who's life was just changed.

He wants to hate himself for how easy it was for you to see him unravel. How cool you are, while his brain is editing the reel that was all porn videos to just clips of your hand wringing his cock.

With an ache in his chest, he knows that he'd never recover from this.

And, he doesn't want too.

It's been a couple weeks since your hand was wrapped around his cock, imprinting yourself on to every part of his very pathetic life.

He can hear the sounds of your chair scooting closer whenever he closes his eyes to sleep, or the rolling of your eyes when he's in the shower — cock in his hand as he tries to pump himself to a finish, despite his dick only wanting to fuck into your hand. The white, flash that punches him in the gut never coming.

You've offered more 'jobs' for him — online quizzes, your part of a project that was forty percent of your grade, random homework worksheets that you just didn't care about. Satoru running to your desk like a loyal dog, every time you texted or called for him.

The payments offering him new ways for your body to be meshed against his. Last week, you let him touch your tits (through your bra). His hands gripping and kneading, the lace of your bra tickling his palm. His eyes focused on the goosebumps trickling down your chest and your nipples hardening from the contact. His cock springing at the warmth of his hands on your body. As if his hands were meant to be there. Almost like you wanted them there.

You watched him with this air of experimental determination, like he was the one who was half naked at your desk. Holding back a laugh when his finger ran between your cleavage, a whimper slipping past his own lips. Instantly cumming, making a mess in his jeans as that quiz of yours blinked on your laptop.

Two weeks before that, you gave him his first kiss.

He can't really place what exactly was happening before your lips brushed his, your cherry flavored gloss becoming a permanent taste evading his taste buds.

It was a short kiss and Satoru can honestly say, he paid almost no attention to your tongue colliding with his, your teeth nibbling on his bottom lip. He couldn't, not when everything felt catastrophic. Not when your scent was flooding his air stream, that even after he walked dazedly out of your dorm, he still smelt it. As if a personal cloud of your scent followed him everywhere his feet shuffled.

He couldn't think of anything but how you… you, might just like him in all his pathetic glory.

That's why you're always calling him, asking for his help for the simplest of questions. The answers screaming in highlighted paragraphs in the textbook to your left, your hand stretched across his thigh as you laugh at him stumbling over his words.

You let him stay a little longer each time, tacking on an extra problem for him to figure out for you — sometimes for entirely different classes than the one you're 'paying' him for.

He tells himself it's because you want him to stay. You want him in your space just as much as he wants to live in it — leaning into the world that he always watched with a slacked jaw and practiced confidence in his bright, blue eyes. The world that laughs at him when he reaches his hand to answer another question in class. The world that trips him when he's walking past a group of people who have nothing better to do.

The world that doesn't offer space for opportunities where someone like you can like someone like him.

He gets a glimpse of this world from your Instagram. He found it during one of those searches he swore he'd never do — typing your name in the search bar as if it was second nature, just to see what will come up. Looking for something to hold on to that wasn't physical, but could still feel like it belonged to him.

And there you are. Very public account, reaching numbers in followers that he knows he'd never see.

There are pictures of you in parties, red solo cups in your hand as you pose with friends for a photo. The sound of your laughter frozen in time, his ears searching the pixels to get even a whisper of the sound. In another photo, someone's hand is splayed across your hip, the hand looking like its meant to fit there. Mocking, as if your own hand wasn't stretched around the girth of his cock the day before.

He stares at the photo until his screen goes black, his reflection staring back at him, wide eye and pathetic. His chest tightens, his fingers slippery with sweat as he forces himself to see that it's nothing. It's just the way things flow in your life.

Random hands touch your body, feel the warmth of your legs, smell the shampoo you wash your hair with. But, you call him. You let him touch you. You kissed him.

Those are the thoughts that rush in his head when the lights are turned down low, his head resting on the thin college pillow. Sounds of his roommate's bed bumping along the shared wall, moans of another girl he snuck in flowing with his thoughts and making him think of how you'd sound under him.

His hand slips under the waistband of his sweats, his other hand clutching his phone a little too tightly. The glow of the screen straining his eyes as his thumb hovers over your pictures, like you're too fragile to touch.

His other hand sliding down his cock slowly, trying to replicate how your hand fluttered around him sometime ago. His wrist twisting as he starts to jerk upward, his breathing hitching with every beat of his hand.

Every picture he swipes from feels like a reminder, that you exist in a world that moves without him — one where you drink, forget about your chemistry homework, and lean into other people's touches. A world where he'd always be a finger inch away, waiting for you to touch him again.

His hips start to jerk, wanting more friction. His fist tightening around himself as he slides up his length, squeezing his swollen tip to collect precum to wet his cock.

His breaths coming out in fast tufts, following hard bangs hitting against his wall from the other side. The sounds clashing with his imagination that's dragging reels of you whispering his name, of your chuckle, of you being soft. Feeling good with him, the way he feels good with you.

His hand pumps around his throbbing cock quick, harder. His toes curling under his quilt, as he forces his eyes to stay open and watch your pictures watch him spill strings of hot cum along his fingers.

The room becoming quiet enough that it feels like it's mocking him. Allowing invisible pockets of you to mesh into his world and slither along the mess on his hands.

His phone fades to black. Thigh twitching slightly as his hand stills. The warmth of his own skin somehow not enough anymore.

He's watching you. As he usually does. His eyes scouting you out easily, as if you're an answer for a physics question that has riddled everyone in the class, but him.

You don't notice, or you don't want to. Your eyes narrowed forward, following the people that live in your Instagram photos, who touch you in public, and who laugh at the jokes that Satoru can never get the punch line of.

The group of people you somehow found a home in, sits proudly at a cafeteria table. Limbs sprawled carelessly as some people sit on top of the table, others sitting on chairs. Loud booming voices inching up his spine, their old retorts swishing in his ear as he starts to walk towards you.

His roommate's shirt sits foreignly on his body. The smell of a party from last week etched into the threading and mixing with his nerves. The shame of digging into his roommate's hamper for this isn't as apparent as his want to catch your eye.

He remembers looking over you shoulder one of those days in your dorm, your laptop burning against his thigh as he rushed to get your homework done. Your shirtless back turned to him as you scrolled down your phone, your fingers pausing every couple seconds. Photos of people, men, dressed in a style that doesn't match the clothes of his that's scattered around his room floor.

Maybe you'd finally let him in, right here in the pinnacle of your world if he masked himself as a creature you'd look at. Someone who’s Instagram post will blink on your screen for a millisecond longer than the last post. Someone who can look at you without the restraints of your dorm room closing in on him as you make him cum.

“What’s good?”

He's at the head of the table where everyone stops to crook their necks to stare at him. Confusion sketched on faces, eyes narrowing at the sudden invasion from an unknown/unwanted entity. A few menacingly snickers smacking across his chest as he stands too tall and straight — throwing on faux carelessness. His cerulean eyes only looking at you. 

You cock your head to the side, your eyes stopping at the awkward fitted shirt dressing over his body. "To eat?” Your voice is not as soft as it is when you're asking him answers in the safety of your dorm, but it's not cold either.

His shaky hands hide themselves behind his back.“No,” he shakes his head, making sure to keep the heat creeping up from his chest at bay. “With you?”

There's this eerie quiet around the table. Eyes still on him, lips snarled into scowls, and the smell of your shampoo drifting towards him like a siren call — pulling him to the depths of a sea that's going to spit him out over and over again.

You lean forward, your chin meeting your palm as you roll your eyes. It's not mean, more like a tired act. Like you're not sure what to do with a jittery boy in front of you who wants nothing more than your attention.

“If you’re asking how I am… I am fine, Gojo.”

Then, one the voices that rings loudly with disdain brings Satoru back. Reminding him that he's a bystander and even with your attention making his chest flutter, he's still not welcomed by everyone. “Since when do you talk to loserjo?”

Your eyes flick from him to Sukuna. You blink up at his crimson eyes, shaking your head. “Since I’ve been paying him to do my homework,” you shrug your shoulders, sighing. “Also don’t call him that, the kid is right here.” You point your thumb towards Satoru, your eyes flicking back to him just as quickly as they left him.

You don't laugh with the others when the nickname penetrates the air, or when Sukuna scoffs and narrows his eyes at him — a silent threat telling him that he should walk away.

No, you defend him.

He feels his cheeks heat up, rushing to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose so that the movement can shield the blush burning his face. He wants to smile, let out a chuckle… place his hand on your hip.

"It's cool," he rushes out, his voice cracking at the end. He wishes you can hear the cool tone he's trying throw on, like the one he forced when you first asked for help.

You narrow your eyes, the snickers and chuckles being thrown at him doesn't affect you. "You want to be called loserjo?”  

“Do you want to call me that?”

You blink at him. No smile, no look of concern. Actually, no emotion on your features. The perfect blank sheet, just letting Satoru tack whatever he wants to think on to you. “…No,” your eyebrows furrow, as if you're trying to quickly come up with an explanation as to why he's even here. As if your hands haven't lead him to places of pure ecstasy. “Are you okay? Did your npr podcast cancel or something?”

"'No," he feels the rambling episode speeding out his chest. "I just wanted to say hi," he points to the table, Sukuna's eyes raking over his shaky finger. "Well, you… I want to say hi to you." He nods and he feel his heart beating against his chest so harshly, he thinks he'd have to lay down for a couple hours after this. "But, no they don't get cancelled. There are fifteen minute audios posted daily," someone near you groans and he watches how you send them a smile, like you're thanking them for listening to him. " I listened to one today about the regi-, actually I listened to a couple I can send you a link on the one I think you'd enj-,"

"Hey," you cut him off, eyes wandering down and staring at frayed threads of his shirt. "Gojo, it's okay," you smile, lips softly tilt up at the ends. It does not reach your eyes. Your chin juts into your palm as if you're tired of holding your head up. "I need you to come over tonight. I need you to do a really big project for me."

Satoru swallows, nodding his head and watching as you look over at something else — ignoring that he was ever really there.

He's sitting on your bed, glasses pushed up as he pretends to be fully focused on instructions for this 'really big' project of yours. The words and the numbers jumbling together as he quickly looks over at you every time you make a move.

Your legs are bare, an oversized school tshirt draped over you body — he ignores the want to ask you who's shirt is it — he stares a little to long at the shirt brushing against your thigh. His eyes wander up, desperate to see what's under, if there is anything.

There is this headiness to the air tonight, like something is just within his reach and all he has to do it grasp it. He feels it in the way his skin prickles every time you hum a little too loudly, or the way his throat tightens when you lift your leg — bare skin flashing as he scurries to look away.

The feeling is so heavy, it feels like he could finally close his hands around you. Finally close the divide between public embarrassment and private sessions of his body reacting to yours.

You're quieter today, not scrolling on your phone or rushing to get dressed and leave him to visit people who'll get you drunk. No, you sit across from him — your eyes not leaving his body, like you're a predator tracing every step of her prey.

The lighting in your room sits on your skin a little differently — slower, a little softer. It clashes with the grin on your lips — like it's telling him that you know something that he doesn't. The one he typically sees from others when he's the punchline to a joke he doesn't get.

He tells himself that this means something, something big enough that a simple thought process still won't give him an answer.

That feeling he felt when you first approached him in the library creeps into your sheets, poking at his thighs from underneath. The feeling that right here, possibly right now, his life is going to change.

The axis that keeps himself and everything around him upright, is going to shift once more.

"You know," you finally break the silence, your voice low enough that he believes he's the only person in the world who can hear it. "This project is really big." You shrug your shoulders. Just outside your door, he can hear people shuffling about in the hallways. Low whispers and loud bangs of doors echoing into the room. He blocks it out, just to make sure he can hear every dip of your voice. To make sure the only world that's available to him at the moment is this one, where your eyes are on his and he doesn't have to wear a dirty tshirt to impress you.

"You mentioned that," he says, his fingers hovering over the keyboard of your laptop. "Are you afraid about what grade you're going to get?" He wonders why you'd think that, as he is the one doing it.

You laugh at this. It's soft, and slightly a little high pitched — something he doesn't think he's ever heard from your usual cool tone sounds. And he stares back at you in utter awe. All of the blood that was rushing heat up to his face, instead rushes to his cock.

He shifts, hoping that you won't realize how a simple sound of yours made him hard.

You shake your head, your hair flowing with the movement with so much ease. Like the universe bends around you, trusting your every move — almost like a mirror of how he bends for you.

"No, I'm not afraid of my grade," your pointer finger pokes at your chin. He follows the movement, his eyes switching from the tapping, to the way your lips move to form words. "I'm just thinking of how I should pay you for this," you shrug as if you're talking about a measly twenty dollars.

"Oh," his dick twitches at the thought of your hand milking him. Brain flashing to how your lashes will bat against your cheek as he leans his body on your bed, all of his gratitude flowing into the sheets. He hopes you sleep knowing just how good you made him feel. "I-I don't mind how you pay me," his voice comes out watery, slightly breathless as he feels his thighs tense. Your eyes narrow at your laptop, that is quite literally over his hard on. A pretty smile stretching across your lips as your finger continues to tap your chin. "I also don't mind," his eyebrows furrow as he tries to have the words flow out naturally. "Us just hanging out could be a payment."

You stand up from your spot, walking over to him. Lips still selling that smile, the oversized shirt flowing with the movement as if you paid it to flow exactly like that. Your steps are slow and sure, leading you to exactly where you planned to be and where he thinks he deserves.

His breath hitches when he notices that you're walking towards him. His cock is so fucking hard it aches, he can't help but start to grind against the laptop. Trying to hide beneath the fabric of his pants.

Your phone rings on the desk behind you. The sound ignored as you keep heading towards him, a laugh evident in the way you tuck you tongue between your cheek when you stare at how your laptop is being used.

"What a poor little virgin," you tease, your thigh brushing the edge of your bed where his feet are hanging off. "I know just how I'm going to repay you," Satoru starts to feel the walls of this small ass dorm room close in, the laptop rubbing against his hard on even harder than a few seconds ago.

The bed dips, along with his furiously beating heart, as you climb up. Your knees pushing into the plushness of your feathery bed and fluffy quilt.

Leaning forward on your palms, ass pushed up in the air as you sway your hips along with every stuttery breath he huffs out — your lashes kissing your cheek as you stare up at him.

"I'm going to fuck you," you whisper so lowly, he almost couldn't hear it over the breaths he trying to keep in and the motor of your laptop vibrating over his cock. "… loserjo," the name flows off your tongue so smoothly, it curls through him like a promise he's unsure he'd never break.

Clothes are deliberately taken off. His digimon tshirt thrown safely over your headboard, the tshirt you had on is thrown behind you without much care. His eyes immediately checking to see what was under the tshirt and being greeted with nothing, his mouth watering as your bare body flashes in front of him.

You shimmied his jeans down his legs, his cock springing up and begging to be touched. Your hands ghost over it as you send him a smile, it's almost reassuring. As if he's been in this exact position with you multiple times. His cock hard against the heat of your sloshing cunt, the one he thinks is clenching specifically for him.

The sounds of the world moving outside of this room is loud, showers ringing from down the hall. Your cellphone buzzing with new notifications, your laptop whizzing as it dies down from the feeling of his cock twitching against it.

He can't do much… he doesn't want to do much. His head rests against your pillow — the smell of your shampoo so heavy, he groans to keep himself from cumming from that alone. His blue eyes watch from below, as you offer yourself to him. Your plush thighs caging yourself around his hips as he splays his hands over your hips — the touch warm and intoxicating. They stand still, solid — like they're afraid to move, as if they'd never be invited back to the fullness of your hips.

You lean forward, your tits brushing against his chest and he shivers from the contact. Your hands landing on either side of his head. Your lips near inches from his, and your eyes batting down as the heat of your pussy gushes around his aching cock — every power in the world stilling his hips and keeping him from pushing his tip through your slicked folds. Just to finally get a taste of heaven. To finally feel your body the way you've felt his.

"Just relax," you whisper, your lips against his. The blow of your breath causing a shiver to run down his spine and his hips to hilt softly, the tip of his boxed clad dick pressing into your heat. "Also," your hips grind down just a bit, a broken whimper slipping past his lips as he feels just how warm your pussy is. "Don't cum in me."

The thought of protection is thrown out the window when your lips meet his, his glasses bumping into the bridge of your nose. Your tongue running along his bottom lip, asking for permission. Your hands reaching into his hair, demanding that he gives it to you. And he gives it, trying his hardest to follow the mold of your lips and not cumming from the way your tongue rolls against his.

His jaw works along the movements, air coming up short as he only cares about the way your teeth nibble into the swell of his bottom lip and your hips begin to grind along the shaft of his cock. Your hands tugging at the roots of his snowy hair, earning a groan to roll directly into your mouth.

He thinks he can die right here. Lose all will to breath, just to have your lips on his and your naked body pressing him into the sheets of your bed.

Tears prickle his lash line as he tries to keep up with where your hands are, one still tugging his hair and the other drifting in between the sweat glean of your bodies. Your lips still attached to his as your kiss becomes a little more aggressive, a little more demanding — Satoru believing it's just because you want every available part of his body. As if he wouldn't give it to you for free.

You pull back, your spit slicked lips matching his. His eyes dropping to the way your tongue runs along your own lip, as if you're lapping up the taste of his. You cock your head to the side, staring at him with this easiness that he fears he'd never be able to replicate. His dick twitches at the thought of just how easy it feels to be owned by you.

"I-," he shudders, as you lift your hips — the movement flowing under his palms. The hand that was crawling between your bodies is now wrapped around his cock, prodding it out of his boxers. "I like when you touch me," he says, voice weak and desperate.

You hum, squeezing the base of his cock as you stare down at him. Faux innocence in the tilt of your head. His eyes watch as you smile, letting out a big enough breath that he feels the rush of it brush against his lashes. Your tits raising, his eyes drifting to the goosebumps littering your chest.

His hands squeezes your hips, trying to anchor himself to you. You ignore his body movements, his touches, lining your slicked coated cunt above his cock that's aching in your palm, just as it did weeks ago. "And I like when you get me passing grades," he stiffens underneath you, his eyes wide as he stares at you. Stares at the admission that just crawled out of your naked body and fell into his bare chest.

Before he can fully register the displacement of your words, compare the tone to other times that you've just simply said his name, or even gather enough experimental information on the way your eyes gleamed just a little brighter when you said that — your wet cunt stretches over his tip as you line yourself over his pulsating cock.

His thighs tense, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to think of what you just said — to keep him from cumming from just his tip feeling the stretch of your cunt.

Sweat beads his forehead, his frosty hair sticking to his hairline. With gritted teeth and short tufts of breath spilling from his lips, his hips jut up to meet the sweet heat of your pussy. "Relax, you loser," you mumble and he can hear the eye roll you've most likely sent his way. But then, you push down, clamping down on his cock.

"F-Fuck," the curse shoots straight from his chest, his hands rushing from your hips to run through his hair. Trying to ground himself right here, right on your bed. You don't give him much time to gather his senses before you're rolling your hips. Your slick running down the length of his dick and sliding between your thighs and his.

Someone slams their door outside, the sound rattling your doorframe. The movements not being given any thoughts as your folds swallow him into your cunt. "You're s-so fuckin' war-warm," he whispers, his voice hoarse and begging. You roll your hips again, quickening the pace as you watch the tears start to run down the side of his temples.

His balls are heavy and feel like they can explode right now, right at this minute. The previous warning about not cumming in you is hazy, along with everything else.

You shift, a wrecked moan leaving his lips and you stifle your own moan. Your feet laying flat on the bed, your hands pushing onto his flushed chest as you start to bounce along the length of his cock. "Anatomy classes don't teach you what a pussy feels like, huh?" Your pussy is squelching with every bounce, the sounds not loud enough to mesh out his whimpers and heavy groans. Your skin meeting his, balls smacking against the fat of your ass every time you clenched down and bottomed out. Your tits following the movements — so much going on, Satoru feels like this is an assault of his senses.

Your hands reach for his lanky arms, grabbing them out of his hair and placing his shaky hands on your bouncing tits. Your pebbled nipples rolling in between his fingers — his mind rushing to when he came from just touching you through your bra.

His own hips start to jut, finding a rhythm that you've established. His dick rutting into you as if he knows what to do. His cock burrowing deep, feeling your slick coat him as if you want to fuck him because you like him.

He feels it, he knows he's close. Nothing he can think of can hold off the way he needs to cum — no equations, no quotes from bullies, not even what you said to him earlier. The repeated drag of your warm, gummy walls sloppily clenching over his flushed cock, he can't stay in this position any longer.

He feels drunk, how he imagines you feel when you drink whatever is in those red solo cups when you attend parties. How you must feel when you use him to help you pass classes, using the sweet mold of your body to get whatever you want from him.

His hands still rolling against your chest. Your own moans lingering with the wrecked cries shamelessly rushing from his lips. You lift your hips high enough that just his tip feels the heat of your pussy, your eyes locking with his. "You're really pretty when you're crying over my pussy," and then you slam back down, grinding your hips once the your cunt is fluttering around the base of his cock.

And then, he sees that flash of white. Feeling it grow from the pit of his clenched abs, up past your hands pressed against his sweaty chest, and up his throat. His throat clenching, not allowing any warning or sound to escape his lips. The only thing spilling through is the strings of his warm, thick cum.

"Fuck, Gojo," you basically hiss. Your hands pushing off his chest, causing him to heave a little. Your pussy no longer clamping around his hard, hot cock — as it stands, slicked cum dribbling from the tip as he tries to catch his breath.

He wants to apologize. He wants to ask what you meant when you said you liked that he got you good grades. He wants to ask if he can burrow his cock into your cunt for the rest of his sad life.

But he can't talk. He can't even really blink. Rough breath racking his chest. Tears running down his face as he doesn't know if he wants to stay here forever, or run away and never look at you again.

He feels you shift on your bed, the warmth of your body feels close enough that he can make out how you're looking at him — head cocked with interest, as if you never met a virgin before.

"I'd need that project done before," you pause, the buzzing of your phone catching your attention. And then he's forced back to the fact that this was just for a passing grade. "Next Thursday," you huff out.

He nods, finally shutting his eyes and swallowing down the words on the tip of his tongue. Words he knows would not fit in your world, possibly even in your vocabulary.

So he keeps them. He'd say them when his hand is stretched across his cock and he's thinking about how your pussy welcomed him with ease. Or the nickname he hated, rolled off your lips with such a tilt — he'd go to the registrar and change it right now if he could.

"Sure," he whispers, feeling everything he thought he knew about himself seep into your bed.

thank you @crude-saint for chatting about this idea with me months ago! sigh, took some time. and thank you @spearofheaven, for proofreading and lending me your brain! truly a star. love you both!

biker!suguru who lights up at that, a genuine smile breaking through. “hell yeah. but safety first—need to grab you a helmet from my place. it’s close, ten minutes tops. wait here?”

“i’m not going anywhere,” you reply, settling back into your car with a teasing edge. “just don’t bail on me.”

“wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.” he swings back onto the bike, helmet on, and waves before revving out of the garage, the echo fading quick.

biker!suguru who’s back in eight minutes flat, an extra helmet and gloves tucked under his arm. he steps close—real close—helping you slip on the gear. his fingers brush your chin as he tightens the strap, tugging it gently to pull you toward him. your faces are inches apart. you both chuckle, the air buzzing with electricity. he connects the cardo in your helmet to his, voice crackling through.

“can you hear me good, pretty?”

you nod, visor down, and he helps you onto the back of his bike.

“hold tight,” he says. you obey, arms wrapping around his waist, feeling the hard planes of his body under your hands. he’s warm, solid. you’re already forgetting he was a stranger thirty minutes ago. he revs the engine, checks if you’re ready, and you’re off, the city blurring past.

biker!suguru who rides like he promised—slow, careful, prioritizing your safety over thrills. his voice hums through the cardo every few minutes, checking in.

“you okay, sweetheart?”

"yeah—more than okay. this is amazing, suguru." you tighten your hold, pressing closer, the thrill mixing with the intimacy of it all.

“good. tell me if you need a stop.” at the first red light, his hand drops back, rubbing your arm in a casual stroke that feels anything but.

“enjoying the view?”

“which one? the city or…” you trail off, teasing. he laughs—a rich, warm sound through the cardo.

“both, i hope.” light turns green and he accelerates gently, but you feel the power humming under you.

the wind is whipping past, the rumble of the bike vibrating through you. at a red light, you get bold, letting your hand slide lower, brushing his crotch.

“wandering hands already? naughty girl,” he teases, voice low and rough.

“oops—slipped.” you feign innocence, but pull back only halfway, palm still resting on his thigh.

“keep that up and we might not make it to the viewpoint.” his tone dips, playful warning laced with heat. green light—he guns it a bit more this time, the surge making you grip tighter.

biker!suguru who checks in again as the road climbs, giving way to winding paths. “you okay? almost there.”

you hum softly, letting him know you're all good. your hands explore now, tracing up his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under your fingertips. at the last light, he reciprocates—gloved hand sliding over your thigh, squeezing the flesh there, thumb brushing inner seam. electricity sparks, your breath hitching audibly through the comms.

“fair’s fair,” he murmurs and you both linger in that touch until horns blare behind.

biker!suguru who pulls up to a viewpoint overlooking the city, the sunset painting the skyline in pinks and oranges. it’s empty, private, perfect. you hop off, snapping a few pictures, but when you turn, he’s not looking at the view. he’s watching you, eyes soft, like you’re the real sight.

you walk back, throwing your arms around him, thanking him for the ride. your helmets bump as you lean up, forgetting they’re there. you both laugh. he tugs his off, then yours, setting them on a nearby bench.

you sit side by side, hands brushing, then intertwining as if this is something you two do often asconversation flows.

“so, med internship—what’s the worst part today?” he asks, thumb stroking your knuckles.

“everything. but specifically? a kid came in with a broken arm, screaming bloody murder and the attending blamed me for not prepping fast enough. like, i’m new—cut me slack.” you vent, words pouring out, his nods encouraging.

“sounds brutal. i deal with screamers too—except it's first-timers getting tatted. but at least they choose it.” he shares about how college wasn't his thing, his shop, how his roommate satoru volunteered as a canvas early on, ending up with wonky lines covered up now with much better work.

“guy’s got zero pain tolerance, but he’s my bestfriend—stuck with him.”

biker!suguru who stands as twilight deepens, pulling you up with him—but instead of heading back, he backs you against the bike, his body caging yours in a way that steals your breath. tall frame looms, but it’s inviting, not intimidating. your arms loop around his neck automatically, fingers threading into that long hair. your heart's pounding, waiting for him to move first.

and he thankfully does, crashing his lips into yours, hungry and unapologetic. his tongue sweeps into your mouth, hot and demanding, tasting faintly of mint and smoke. you moan into the kiss, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. his hands roam, one sliding under your shirt, rough fingers grazing the soft skin of your waist, the other gripping your ass, kneading it hard. you gasp and he smirks against your lips, breaking away to trail wet, open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

“fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your pulse. you’re soaked already, thighs pressing together as his hand dips lower, slipping beneath your waistband. his fingers find your clit, circling slow, teasing, then plunging into your wet heat. you whimper, hips bucking into his hand as he pumps two thick fingers inside you, curling them just right.

“so fucking tight, goddamn,” he groans, lips brushing your ear, his other hand squeezing your breast, thumb flicking your nipple through your bra. “so wet for me—been thinking about this during the ride?”

you nod helplessly. you’re a mess, panting, grinding into his touch as he circles your clit with rough precision, then plunges two fingers deep, curling them against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. thick digits stretch you, pumping slow at first, then faster, slick sounds obscene in the quiet night. his free hand yanks your shirt up, exposing your bra, he tugs the cup down, mouth latching onto your nipple—tongue flicking the hardened peak, teeth nipping just enough to sting sweetly.

biker!suguru who works you relentlessly, fingers thrusting in a rhythm that has you clenching, thighs trembling. “cum for me, pretty—let me feel it.” his voice vibrates against your skin. you shatter, orgasm crashing through you in waves, walls pulsing around his fingers, soaking his hand. he kisses you through it, swallowing your cries, drawing it out until you’re boneless against the bike.

biker!suguru who watches with dark eyes as you sink to your knees on the gravel, the bite of stones ignored in the haze of want. your fingers fumble with his belt, zipper, pulling him free—pretty cock springing out, thick and veined, head flushed angry red, precum beading at the slit.

“shit,” you breathe, wrapping your hand around the base, stroking once to feel the weight, the heat. he hisses, hand tangling in your hair—not pulling, just guiding.

“open up, baby,” he murmurs. you obey, lips parting to take him in. tongue flattens under the head, swirling to taste the salt, the musk of him, before sucking deeper. hollowed cheeks draw him in, inch by inch, until he hits the back of your throat, making you gag softly. tears prick your eyes, but you push on, bobbing with wet, sloppy sounds, hand twisting what your mouth can’t cover. his balls tighten under your other palm, massaging gently as you hum around him, vibration pulling a groan from his chest.

biker!suguru who fucks your mouth with shallow thrusts, hips rocking as his control frays. “fuck—your mouth’s perfect, sweetheart.”

spit drips down your chin, messy and unapologetic, as you suck harder, tongue pressing against the throbbing vein. he’s close—breath ragged, grip tightening.

“gonna cum—swallow it all, yeah?”

you nod around him and he spills with a low curse, hot ropes flooding your throat, thick and bitter-salty. you gulp it down, every pulse, licking him clean as he softens, then pulling off with a pop, lips swollen and glistening.

biker!suguru who hauls you up, spinning you to bend over the bike seat, ass up. rough hands shove your pants down to your ankles, exposing you to the cool air—goosebumps rising as he spreads your cheeks, thumb circling your dripping entrance.

“look at this pretty pussy—fucking soaked.” he groans, cock already hardening again, sliding through your folds to coat himself in your arousal. the head notches at your hole, then pushes in—slow, stretching you wide around his girth until your full, every inch burning deliciously. “take it all, sweetheart—fuck, you’re gripping me so tight.”

biker!suguru who bottoms out with a grunt, hips flush to your ass, giving you a second to adjust before he moves—deep, pounding thrusts that rock the bike on its stand, metal creaking under the force. skin slaps wet and loud, his balls smacking your clit with each drive, sending jolts through you. hands bruise your hips, pulling you back to meet him, cock dragging against your walls, hitting that deep spot over and over.

“harder—please,” you beg. he happily obliges, pace brutal, one hand snaking around to rub your clit in frantic circles.

sweat slicks your skin, the air thick with moans and the obscene squelch of your bodies connecting. his hands grip your hips, bruising, pulling you back to meet every snap of his hips.

“you feel so fucking good—shit,” he moans, pace picking up.

"p-please, suguru, i'm so close—" you gasp, ass bouncing back to meet his thrusts.

“don't worry, pretty. gonna fill this cunt—make you mine,” he rasps, fingers pinching your swollen nub until you clench hard, orgasm ripping through you again, milking him as you cry out. he follows seconds later, burying deep with a groan of your name, cum pumping hot and thick inside, overflowing to drip down your thighs in sticky trails.

biker!suguru who pulls out slow, watching his release leak from you, then tucks himself away. he helps you straighten, pants tugged up, and draws you into a softer kiss—lips gentle now, tasting of salt and satisfaction.

“probably should’ve asked for your number first,” he chuckles against your mouth.

“yeah, we skipped a few steps.” you grin, pulling out your phone. he enters his digits, thumbing save with a wink.

“call me tomorrow? dinner, maybe?”

“definitely.” you kiss him once more before helmets go back on, the ride back to the garage quiet but charged, your arms wrapped tight around him.

biker!suguru who texts you that night—simple, “made it home safe. sweet dreams, pretty.”—sparking a chain of messages that turns into dates: coffee runs, late-night rides, ink sessions in his room where he sketches designs on your skin with marker, laughing at satoru’s jealous interruptions, whining that you stole his bestfriend.

months blur into years—your internship ends, residency begins, but he grounds you through it all. teaches you to ride your own bike, a kawasaki ninja 250 he got you, wrapping it in your favorite colorle. you cruise together, his presence a constant.

biker!suguru who, three years in, leads you back to that viewpoint on a crisp evening. bikes parked side by side, helmets off, he fidgets unusually, hand in his pocket.

“y/n, do remember our first ride?” he asks, voice soft.

“of course, sugu. how could i forget?” you smile, leaning into him.

he drops to one knee then, pulling out a box—a ring inside, elegant band with a stone that catches the fading light perfectly.

“will you marry me? make this permanent.”

you’re stunned. heart racing, mouth agape.

“say yes, sweetheart,” he says, voice soft but sure, those pretty purple eyes locked on yours.

tears sting your eyes. there's only one obvious answer.

“yes—fuck yeah! are you crazy?!”

he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. he chuckles as he slides it on, standing to crush you in a hug, lips finding yours in a kiss that echoes the first, full of promise.

biker!suguru who whispers sweet nothings against your skin. the city lights flicker on below, but you’re lost in him—the man who turned a red light into forever.

© j3llyc4kes

:3 please check out my other works! here’s the master list! <3