Thanks, I Hate Myself.

“It’s a ‘just-because’ present,” you interrupt, tapping your foot impatiently. “Now open it or I’m going to take it back.”

“No take-backsies!” Adrian declares, snatching the package from your hands eagerly. He wastes no more time ripping into the paper, and you laugh at how impatient he is. There is no savoring the moment with Adrian.

“I made it,” you say quietly when the gift reveals itself—a palm-sized amigurumi Vigilante, holding a tiny chainsaw. “After you finally got your chainsaw kill last week.”

Adrian’s jaw drops, and he lets the wrapping paper fall to the floor.

“Oh my god, it’s me,” he says, awed, his eyes wide behind his glasses. “It’s a tiny me. You made this?”

“I crochet,” you remind him. “In my spare time, at home.”

“I know that,” Adrian says, his brow furrowed. “You made me my winter hat and mittens. The teal ones, they’re my favorite. They’re really soft and they fit me perfect and I’m pretty sure I say thank you every time I wear them which is like, every fucking day.”

“Right,” you say. You clear your throat. You have to admit, your motives were slightly selfish when you made Adrian that beanie. He looks so fucking good in a hat, his curls sticking out at the bottom, and god, his messy hat hair when he pulls it off makes you want to melt into a puddle.

“But I had no idea you could do stuff like this,” Adrian continues. “This is cool as fuck!”

“It’s just a silly hobby, but I thought you would like it—”

“I love it,” Adrian cries, cradling the tiny yarn creation like it’s something precious and not something you whipped up in a few hours while binge-watching television in old, stained pajamas.

“You love what?” Chris interrupts, poking his head over the divider that separates his desk from Adrian’s. A much-needed addition that (kind-of) keeps Adrian from talking his ear off all day. Adebayo pokes her head over, too, to see what the commotion is about.

“Look at this!” Adrian says, holding up the tiny Vigilante so his friends can see it. “This is—the best gift I’ve ever gotten in my whole life!”

“Aw,” Ads says. “That’s adorable. You made that?”

“I did,” you say, a little embarrassed that Adrian is drawing so much attention to it. You should have anticipated this.

“Hey,” Chris says, offended. “The best gift you’ve ever gotten in your whole life? What about that sick ass vintage gun I gave you for your birthday a couple years ago?”

“This is better,” Adrian says. “It’s literally a tiny me. With a chainsaw. To commemorate the best day of my life, when I finally got—”

“—to kill someone with a chainsaw, yeah, we know,” Emilia says as she passes by on her way to the break room for a coffee. 

“Just remember I did it first!” John calls across the office, a little smug.

Adrian pouts. “Yeah, well, you don’t have a tiny yarn Economos, so who is more special?” he grumbles. 

“You are,” you say quietly, so only Adrian can hear. “To me.”

He fiddles with the tiny figure in his hands and looks up at you with a small smile.

“Thank you,” he says, and now it’s his turn to be a little shy. He clutches the mini Vigilante in his fist as he stares at your hand, like he wishes he was holding it instead.

“Do you think you could make it into a keychain for me?” he asks. “So I can take him everywhere I go?” Then he pauses and frowns. “No, I shouldn’t do that. He would get dirty and worn out. I should keep him somewhere special where no one is ever allowed to touch him and he will remain in pristine condition forever—”

“You could get one of those cases,” Ads suggests. “That people keep their Labubus in. I think they make ones you can clip to your bag.”

“Yes!” Adrian says. He immediately opens a new browser window and starts searching.

“What the fuck is a Labubu?” asks Chris. He squints, looking a little closer at the amigurumi Vigilante. “That is pretty cool, that you made that. Hey…do you think you could make me one of Eagly?”

He’s not really a self-conscious person. He doesn’t think lowly of himself, or even that he doesn’t deserve you. It’s just that…well, you’re you. You’re too perfect to be fucking real, and he can’t help the niggling anxiety that something might go wrong and take you away from him. It isn’t insecurity as much as it is an overwhelming, burning possessiveness. He got you. You’re his. The idea of anything separating you from his life makes him want to be sick and kill someone at the same time.

“Dude, I still don’t know how you did it.” Chris is beside him at the bar, drink in hand, and Adrian’s eyes are on you. Where you’re playing darts with Economos in the corner, the thirty or so feet between you and him feeling like a thousand miles. You laugh at something the other man says, and Adrian just wants the bartender to bring over the next round of drinks so he can get back to you and drown in the sound of it.

“Huh?” He doesn’t stop looking at you. Tries to listen to Chris.

“I mean, she’s a fuckin’ ten, man. No offense, but I’m still pretty sure you must have found a genie or some shit to get her to go for you.”

That…gets to him, a little. He’s never been too bothered by Chris’s bluntness. And he knows that you’re beautiful. That you’re amazing in every way. But…he’s right. Why did you go for Adrian, of all people? Was it really some cosmic miracle? Some kind of mistake in the universe that might be righted at any moment?

He’s about to open his mouth to respond, eyes still locked on you so intensely that it might look creepy to anyone watching, when a stranger saunters up to you and his entire brain short-circuits.

It’s not the first time. It’s actually probably the millionth time, especially now that he’s so much more aware of it. The guy is in a button-down shirt, hair slicked back, and he looks a lot more put-together than Adrian does in his jeans and sneakers. He has a good jawline. Adrian should really work on his face exercises.

You smile politely at him, turn back to Economos, and the guy touches your shoulder and tries to talk to you again.

He’s pretty sure this guy must have committed some kind of crime in the past, right? Killed a guy or hit someone’s car or jaywalked or-

You brush the man off, gesture in Adrian’s direction, and he feels something flutter in his chest when he sees you mouth the word ‘boyfriend’.

The guy turns around. Looks at Adrian, who just looks at you and waves. You smile and wave back at him.

Slicked Back Hair Guy raises his eyebrows, and whatever he says when he turns to you has your smile sharpening like a knife, eyes going hard. You say something else, something that seems biting, and dismissively turn back to Economos.

And shit, this guy is totally in love with you already, isn’t he? How could anyone not be when they see you smile? Especially when it’s that dangerous one you gave him a second ago? The one with the promise of violence glinting in your eyes?

Adrian makes his way back over to you, sets both of your drinks down on a nearby table, and leans in to speak casually in your ear over the music and chatter in the bar.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?”

And that’s how he gets you in the bathroom, on the counter by the sink, panting against your neck between sharp bites to your skin that he hopes leave marks for people like Slicked Back Hair Guy to see.

“Mine.” He doesn’t think he’s ever heard his own voice like this before. So low and hungry and demanding.

People have knocked. They’re complaining outside. He doesn’t care, and he’s busy making it his mission to ensure that you don’t care, either.

“Mine.” He says again, and your fingers are curled against the back of his jacket and your thighs are wrapped so tightly around his waist and this is what Nirvana must be like, isn’t it? You moaning his name in this tiny bar bathroom with his mouth on your skin and his hands on whatever part of your body he can reach and-

You try to cover your mouth with your hand, and his own whips out to catch it and press it against the mirror behind you, tangling his fingers with yours and swallowing the noises you make with his mouth instead. He wants to hear it. He wants everyone to hear you. To know that he’s the one making you feel like this.

When he finally gets you to scream his name, voice muffled as you bury your face in his shoulder and entire body trembling in that way he absolutely fucking loves, he grins against your throat, biting down one last time and whispering that word over and over like a prayer.

“Mine. Mine. Mine.”

-

“Oh, come on guys! You’re gonna get us banned from the bar.” Leota groans, as you try to fix your hair and Adrian smiles behind you like he just won a gold medal, arms around your waist as he shamelessly presses kisses to the side of your now-bruised neck.

“Sorry.” You don’t sound like you mean it, and he wonders if he might get away with taking you back to the bathroom for round two. Probably wouldn’t be appropriate, but when has he ever cared about anything like that? You’re still flushed. Your body is melting back against his. He thinks your legs might be shaking. He’ll make them shake more when he gets you back to your apartment, but he’s fighting the urge to do it now. He’s not exactly a patient man, especially when it comes to you. He doesn’t think he has it in him to wait.

He nuzzles into your neck. He can feel you smile as you press a kiss to the side of his head. That one word echoes through his mind again, nestling into his heart and solidifying itself as the absolute truth.

Mine.

-

It becomes a bit of a routine, after that.

You all go out to the bar again. Some guy in a very tight t-shirt tries to buy you a drink. Five minutes later, Adrian has you pressed up against the brick wall of the alley, your hands in his hair as he digs his nails and teeth into you like he can tattoo his name onto your skin if he just presses hard enough. Like he can get you to forget every other name you’ve ever heard if he can just make you scream his loud enough.

You go mini golfing. The employee offers to show you how to hit the ball with a flirtatious smile, and Adrian manages to get you beneath the windmill. This time, he does cover your mouth. Public sex is a crime, after all, even if his moral code when it comes to that particular law has become a little more loosey goosey over these past few months. Besides, if no one but him hears you, it’s not illegal. He’s pretty sure he read that somewhere. 

He stops for gas, the guy behind the counter smiles at you for a few seconds too long, and Adrian pulls over in an abandoned parking lot and nearly drags you over the center console, lips crashing against yours hard and desperate enough for your teeth to knock together.

He’s never really been into sex, so to speak. He never sought out hookups, never really felt the overwhelming need for that kind of release. Sure, he’s been in threesomes with Chris, and he’s slept with a handful of people, but he’s never really been into it.

But with you, it’s different. He wants you all the fucking time. Even when he isn’t feeling insecure or nervous about other people trying to take you away from him. There have been days where he’ll barely let you leave the bed. Nights when you come home and he can’t even make it to the bedroom before he’s pressing you against the wall and ripping your clothes off with reckless abandon. To him, sex is a connection, and he craves that connection with you like it’s the only way to keep himself breathing.

So his libido, with you, is high. Yours is too. There’s no problem there.

But you do catch on to this new pattern pretty quickly.

You call him out on a Saturday night, when the team is out at a bar again and one too many other guys ignored Adrian’s existence to shoot their shot with you. You dismissed them all, sure, but each attempt made that possessive fire in his stomach burn a little hotter until he couldn’t fucking take it anymore. He pulled you into the hall leading to the kitchen, and he wasted no time lifting you off of your feet and kissing you hard enough to pull a noise of surprise from your throat, blunt nails digging into the backs of your thighs as he tried to press as close to you as humanly possible.

“Okay, okay.” You say, breaking the kiss, but your voice is breathless and he made it that way and maybe if he just bites at that part of your neck that makes you-

“Adrian. Stop.”

He pulls back immediately, glasses askew on his face, and you reach up to fix them like it’s instinct.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Is he holding you too hard? Should he put you down? Did he accidentally stab you with the knife in his pocket? Or his boner? Is that possible? He doesn’t-

“I’m okay. Breathe.” You kiss his cheek, and he leans helplessly back towards you, planning to kiss you again and finish what he started, but you raise your hand and cover his mouth with your palm.

“Dude, keep it in your pants.”

“Mmph.” He grunts against your hand, licking your palm until you remove it with a startled laugh.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, wiping your hand on his jacket sleeve with an affectionate, if not somewhat concerned, smile.

He frowns, genuinely confused by the question. “I wanna have sex, and you stopped me?”

You laugh again, shaking your head and wiggling a little until he sets you down. “Adrian, you’re trying to fuck me in a hallway. I can see people walking by like twenty feet away.”

“Do you wanna fuck in the bathroom?” He ducks his head back to your neck, kissing the spot below your ear that always makes you shiver. He would fuck you on the bar if you’d let him, but he’s pretty sure that would get you kicked out. Plus, it’s definitely illegal. He can’t exactly maneuver that law into a gray area.

“Adrian.”

“Mhm?”

“Is this because that guy hit on me a minute ago?”

That stops him. He finally pulls back, frowning. “No.”

“You suck at lying.”

“I’m not lying. I didn’t even notice that guy. If I had noticed him, I would say his shirt was stupid. But I didn’t notice him.”

“Adrian.”

“I mean, it’s not like you’d ever wanna be with anyone like that, right? Not someone with a shirt that dumb. Even though he had a better jawline than me and he definitely didn’t skip arm day. I think that’s why his shirt was so stupid. Cause the sleeves were too short. He doesn’t need to show off his muscles like that.”

“Babe.”

“I mean, I have muscles too. I just can’t show them off because if I did people might realize my secret identity. But-“

“Adrian.”

“Yeah?” He blinks at you, distracted.

“I don’t want that guy. Or any of the other guys. I want you.”

“Yeah, because we had sex right after they hit on you. I rewired your brain with my dick.”

You laugh. God, he loves that sound. But if he’s gonna keep you, he’s gotta get you to make the other sounds he loves. He leans down to kiss you again, and you lean back. “Have you been taking advice from Chris again?”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Do you think those guys would still want me if they knew I killed a guy with a broom handle last week?”

Oh man, why would you say that? Now he’s twice as turned on and three times as nervous about losing you. “Yes.”

“Okay, they wouldn’t.” You’re smiling. Why are you smiling? He can’t possibly be being ridiculous, here. In his mind, his fear is completely fucking rational. “And even if they did, I want you.”

He knows that. Of course he knows that. You’re with him. You chose him. You don’t lie to him. You never have. Still, he feels that knot of possessive need curl in his gut again, making his grip tighten a little on your waist like he can hold you there forever. “Promise?”

“I promise.” You lean up, kiss his nose. “And by the way, you’re way hotter than those guys. By a mile.”

“Even the-“

“Yeah. Even him.”

“You didn’t even let me say which one.”

“Don’t need to.”

He smiles, and this time you don’t stop him when he kisses you. This time, you melt into it until his hands are wandering again and his tongue is sweeping into your mouth.

“You wanna go home?” He asks after a moment, unable to take his gaze off the way your lips are swollen from his kiss and your eyes are clouded over with want.

You nod, and he grins from ear to ear as he reaches down to hoist you up over his shoulder, delighting in the noise of surprise that melts into laughter as you wiggle against his back.

He doesn’t even say goodbye to the rest of the group, but he thinks he might feel you offer an embarrassed wave in their direction as he makes his way through the bar and out the door. They’re all staring. Lots of people are staring. He couldn’t give less of a shit. In fact, he wants them to stare more. To know without a doubt that you’re leaving with him.

“You’re fucking crazy.” You laugh as he steps out onto the street, voice no longer drowned out by the noise of the bar.

“Crazy for you.”

“Nope, pretty sure you’re just crazy.”

His smile widens, and he jostles you a little as he adjusts his grip, squeezing the backs of your thighs and making you laugh again.

And when he takes you home, he repeats that word into your skin over and over and over again.

He’s not really a self-conscious person. He doesn’t think lowly of himself, or even that he doesn’t deserve you. It’s just that…well, you’re you. You’re too perfect to be fucking real, and he can’t help the niggling anxiety that something might go wrong and take you away from him. It isn’t insecurity as much as it is an overwhelming, burning possessiveness. He got you. You’re his. The idea of anything separating you from his life makes him want to be sick and kill someone at the same time.

“Dude, I still don’t know how you did it.” Chris is beside him at the bar, drink in hand, and Adrian’s eyes are on you. Where you’re playing darts with Economos in the corner, the thirty or so feet between you and him feeling like a thousand miles. You laugh at something the other man says, and Adrian just wants the bartender to bring over the next round of drinks so he can get back to you and drown in the sound of it.

“Huh?” He doesn’t stop looking at you. Tries to listen to Chris.

“I mean, she’s a fuckin’ ten, man. No offense, but I’m still pretty sure you must have found a genie or some shit to get her to go for you.”

That…gets to him, a little. He’s never been too bothered by Chris’s bluntness. And he knows that you’re beautiful. That you’re amazing in every way. But…he’s right. Why did you go for Adrian, of all people? Was it really some cosmic miracle? Some kind of mistake in the universe that might be righted at any moment?

He’s about to open his mouth to respond, eyes still locked on you so intensely that it might look creepy to anyone watching, when a stranger saunters up to you and his entire brain short-circuits.

It’s not the first time. It’s actually probably the millionth time, especially now that he’s so much more aware of it. The guy is in a button-down shirt, hair slicked back, and he looks a lot more put-together than Adrian does in his jeans and sneakers. He has a good jawline. Adrian should really work on his face exercises.

You smile politely at him, turn back to Economos, and the guy touches your shoulder and tries to talk to you again.

He’s pretty sure this guy must have committed some kind of crime in the past, right? Killed a guy or hit someone’s car or jaywalked or-

You brush the man off, gesture in Adrian’s direction, and he feels something flutter in his chest when he sees you mouth the word ‘boyfriend’.

The guy turns around. Looks at Adrian, who just looks at you and waves. You smile and wave back at him.

Slicked Back Hair Guy raises his eyebrows, and whatever he says when he turns to you has your smile sharpening like a knife, eyes going hard. You say something else, something that seems biting, and dismissively turn back to Economos.

And shit, this guy is totally in love with you already, isn’t he? How could anyone not be when they see you smile? Especially when it’s that dangerous one you gave him a second ago? The one with the promise of violence glinting in your eyes?

Adrian makes his way back over to you, sets both of your drinks down on a nearby table, and leans in to speak casually in your ear over the music and chatter in the bar.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?”

And that’s how he gets you in the bathroom, on the counter by the sink, panting against your neck between sharp bites to your skin that he hopes leave marks for people like Slicked Back Hair Guy to see.

“Mine.” He doesn’t think he’s ever heard his own voice like this before. So low and hungry and demanding.

People have knocked. They’re complaining outside. He doesn’t care, and he’s busy making it his mission to ensure that you don’t care, either.

“Mine.” He says again, and your fingers are curled against the back of his jacket and your thighs are wrapped so tightly around his waist and this is what Nirvana must be like, isn’t it? You moaning his name in this tiny bar bathroom with his mouth on your skin and his hands on whatever part of your body he can reach and-

You try to cover your mouth with your hand, and his own whips out to catch it and press it against the mirror behind you, tangling his fingers with yours and swallowing the noises you make with his mouth instead. He wants to hear it. He wants everyone to hear you. To know that he’s the one making you feel like this.

When he finally gets you to scream his name, voice muffled as you bury your face in his shoulder and entire body trembling in that way he absolutely fucking loves, he grins against your throat, biting down one last time and whispering that word over and over like a prayer.

“Mine. Mine. Mine.”

-

“Oh, come on guys! You’re gonna get us banned from the bar.” Leota groans, as you try to fix your hair and Adrian smiles behind you like he just won a gold medal, arms around your waist as he shamelessly presses kisses to the side of your now-bruised neck.

“Sorry.” You don’t sound like you mean it, and he wonders if he might get away with taking you back to the bathroom for round two. Probably wouldn’t be appropriate, but when has he ever cared about anything like that? You’re still flushed. Your body is melting back against his. He thinks your legs might be shaking. He’ll make them shake more when he gets you back to your apartment, but he’s fighting the urge to do it now. He’s not exactly a patient man, especially when it comes to you. He doesn’t think he has it in him to wait.

He nuzzles into your neck. He can feel you smile as you press a kiss to the side of his head. That one word echoes through his mind again, nestling into his heart and solidifying itself as the absolute truth.

Mine.

-

It becomes a bit of a routine, after that.

You all go out to the bar again. Some guy in a very tight t-shirt tries to buy you a drink. Five minutes later, Adrian has you pressed up against the brick wall of the alley, your hands in his hair as he digs his nails and teeth into you like he can tattoo his name onto your skin if he just presses hard enough. Like he can get you to forget every other name you’ve ever heard if he can just make you scream his loud enough.

You go mini golfing. The employee offers to show you how to hit the ball with a flirtatious smile, and Adrian manages to get you beneath the windmill. This time, he does cover your mouth. Public sex is a crime, after all, even if his moral code when it comes to that particular law has become a little more loosey goosey over these past few months. Besides, if no one but him hears you, it’s not illegal. He’s pretty sure he read that somewhere. 

He stops for gas, the guy behind the counter smiles at you for a few seconds too long, and Adrian pulls over in an abandoned parking lot and nearly drags you over the center console, lips crashing against yours hard and desperate enough for your teeth to knock together.

He’s never really been into sex, so to speak. He never sought out hookups, never really felt the overwhelming need for that kind of release. Sure, he’s been in threesomes with Chris, and he’s slept with a handful of people, but he’s never really been into it.

But with you, it’s different. He wants you all the fucking time. Even when he isn’t feeling insecure or nervous about other people trying to take you away from him. There have been days where he’ll barely let you leave the bed. Nights when you come home and he can’t even make it to the bedroom before he’s pressing you against the wall and ripping your clothes off with reckless abandon. To him, sex is a connection, and he craves that connection with you like it’s the only way to keep himself breathing.

So his libido, with you, is high. Yours is too. There’s no problem there.

But you do catch on to this new pattern pretty quickly.

You call him out on a Saturday night, when the team is out at a bar again and one too many other guys ignored Adrian’s existence to shoot their shot with you. You dismissed them all, sure, but each attempt made that possessive fire in his stomach burn a little hotter until he couldn’t fucking take it anymore. He pulled you into the hall leading to the kitchen, and he wasted no time lifting you off of your feet and kissing you hard enough to pull a noise of surprise from your throat, blunt nails digging into the backs of your thighs as he tried to press as close to you as humanly possible.

“Okay, okay.” You say, breaking the kiss, but your voice is breathless and he made it that way and maybe if he just bites at that part of your neck that makes you-

“Adrian. Stop.”

He pulls back immediately, glasses askew on his face, and you reach up to fix them like it’s instinct.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Is he holding you too hard? Should he put you down? Did he accidentally stab you with the knife in his pocket? Or his boner? Is that possible? He doesn’t-

“I’m okay. Breathe.” You kiss his cheek, and he leans helplessly back towards you, planning to kiss you again and finish what he started, but you raise your hand and cover his mouth with your palm.

“Dude, keep it in your pants.”

“Mmph.” He grunts against your hand, licking your palm until you remove it with a startled laugh.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, wiping your hand on his jacket sleeve with an affectionate, if not somewhat concerned, smile.

He frowns, genuinely confused by the question. “I wanna have sex, and you stopped me?”

You laugh again, shaking your head and wiggling a little until he sets you down. “Adrian, you’re trying to fuck me in a hallway. I can see people walking by like twenty feet away.”

“Do you wanna fuck in the bathroom?” He ducks his head back to your neck, kissing the spot below your ear that always makes you shiver. He would fuck you on the bar if you’d let him, but he’s pretty sure that would get you kicked out. Plus, it’s definitely illegal. He can’t exactly maneuver that law into a gray area.

“Adrian.”

“Mhm?”

“Is this because that guy hit on me a minute ago?”

That stops him. He finally pulls back, frowning. “No.”

“You suck at lying.”

“I’m not lying. I didn’t even notice that guy. If I had noticed him, I would say his shirt was stupid. But I didn’t notice him.”

“Adrian.”

“I mean, it’s not like you’d ever wanna be with anyone like that, right? Not someone with a shirt that dumb. Even though he had a better jawline than me and he definitely didn’t skip arm day. I think that’s why his shirt was so stupid. Cause the sleeves were too short. He doesn’t need to show off his muscles like that.”

“Babe.”

“I mean, I have muscles too. I just can’t show them off because if I did people might realize my secret identity. But-“

“Adrian.”

“Yeah?” He blinks at you, distracted.

“I don’t want that guy. Or any of the other guys. I want you.”

“Yeah, because we had sex right after they hit on you. I rewired your brain with my dick.”

You laugh. God, he loves that sound. But if he’s gonna keep you, he’s gotta get you to make the other sounds he loves. He leans down to kiss you again, and you lean back. “Have you been taking advice from Chris again?”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Do you think those guys would still want me if they knew I killed a guy with a broom handle last week?”

Oh man, why would you say that? Now he’s twice as turned on and three times as nervous about losing you. “Yes.”

“Okay, they wouldn’t.” You’re smiling. Why are you smiling? He can’t possibly be being ridiculous, here. In his mind, his fear is completely fucking rational. “And even if they did, I want you.”

He knows that. Of course he knows that. You’re with him. You chose him. You don’t lie to him. You never have. Still, he feels that knot of possessive need curl in his gut again, making his grip tighten a little on your waist like he can hold you there forever. “Promise?”

“I promise.” You lean up, kiss his nose. “And by the way, you’re way hotter than those guys. By a mile.”

“Even the-“

“Yeah. Even him.”

“You didn’t even let me say which one.”

“Don’t need to.”

He smiles, and this time you don’t stop him when he kisses you. This time, you melt into it until his hands are wandering again and his tongue is sweeping into your mouth.

“You wanna go home?” He asks after a moment, unable to take his gaze off the way your lips are swollen from his kiss and your eyes are clouded over with want.

You nod, and he grins from ear to ear as he reaches down to hoist you up over his shoulder, delighting in the noise of surprise that melts into laughter as you wiggle against his back.

He doesn’t even say goodbye to the rest of the group, but he thinks he might feel you offer an embarrassed wave in their direction as he makes his way through the bar and out the door. They’re all staring. Lots of people are staring. He couldn’t give less of a shit. In fact, he wants them to stare more. To know without a doubt that you’re leaving with him.

“You’re fucking crazy.” You laugh as he steps out onto the street, voice no longer drowned out by the noise of the bar.

“Crazy for you.”

“Nope, pretty sure you’re just crazy.”

His smile widens, and he jostles you a little as he adjusts his grip, squeezing the backs of your thighs and making you laugh again.

And when he takes you home, he repeats that word into your skin over and over and over again.

Phainon's muscular frame pressed against the rough wooden wall, his white hair tousled from your earlier rough handling. Those striking blue eyes of his were wide, pupils blown with a mix of fear and arousal as you pinned him there.

Your hand slid down, palming him firmly through the thin fabric of his pants. He was already hard, the outline of his cock straining against your touch.

"[Name]... not hereeee—ah!... anyone can see—!" Phainon whined, his voice pitching high as your fingers squeezed just right. His hips bucked involuntarily, grinding into your palm, but he glanced nervously toward the open field beyond the barn's edge. The bucket you'd grabbed earlier sat at his feet, a crude, empty thing you'd placed there with a wicked grin.

You chuckled low, leaning in to nip at his earlobe. "That's the point, isn't it? Let them hear how good you take it for me." Your free hand gripped his hip, holding him steady as you rubbed him harder, feeling the heat radiate through his pants.

He whimpered at your words, his shoulders trembling under your touch, that muscular chest heaving with each breath.

It didn't take long to free him. You yanked his pants down just enough, his thick cock springing out, already leaking pre-cum. Phainon's face flushed crimson, but he didn't fight it—never did when you got like this. You stroked him roughly, thumb circling the sensitive head, and he gasped, blue eyes squeezing shut.

"Please... [Name], we shouldn't—" His words cut off into a moan as you spun him around, pressing his chest to the barn wall. The position left him exposed, ass out toward you, the bucket right under him. You dropped your own pants, your hard cock slapping against his thigh as you lined up.

No prep, no mercy—you spat into your hand, slicked yourself, and pushed in.

Phainon's hole clenched tight around you, hot and welcoming despite the resistance. He cried out, the sound echoing a bit too loudly, and you clamped a hand over his mouth.

"Shh, baby. You don't want them to hear you, do you?" You thrust deep, bottoming out in one go, your hips flush against his firm ass.

Fuck he was so tight.

Muscles rippling as he adjusted, but you didn't give him time. You started pounding, each snap of your hips driving your cock straight to his prostate.

Phainon sobbed into your hand, tears already pricking at the corners of his eyes. His white hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his body shook with every brutal thrust. You wrapped your other arm around his waist, holding him up as his legs threatened to buckle. Your hand found his cock again, stroking in time with your thrust—milking him relentlessly.

"That's it, Phainon. You're doing so good for me," you praised, voice rough with lust. "Gonna fill this bucket with your cum. Every drop. And I'm not stopping until I milk you dry. You hear me?"

He nodded frantically, muffled whimpers escaping your fingers. His hole fluttered around your cock, squeezing as you hit that spot over and over.

The first orgasm ripped through him fast—his body tensed, cock pulsing in your grip as ropes of cum shot out, splattering into the bucket below. He came hard, crying out against your palm, tears streaming down his cheeks.

But you didn't stop. You kept thrusting, kept stroking, even as he went limp in your arms. "Good boy. That's one. Keep going."

Phainon thrashed weakly, his blue eyes glassy with overstimulation. "O-oh! [Name] p-please!! It's too much—!" he cried as you forced another climax from him, his voice breaking on a sob.

Cum dribbled weakly now, adding to the shallow pool in the bucket, but he was spent, oversensitive nerves firing painfully with every touch.

"Not yet, still not enough..." You groaned, feeling his tight hole squeeze you like a vice as you buried yourself deep again. Your arm tightened around his waist, the only thing keeping his legs from giving out entirely.

He was a mess—snot and tears mixing on his face, white hair slightly matted, body slick with sweat. Each thrust made his cock twitch in your hand, leaking more despite his pleas.

"[Name]! Stop—ah! No, don't stop, fuck, I can't—" His begging devolved into nonsense, brain fried from the relentless assault on his prostate. Your cock dragged against it with every pull back, slamming home to grind it mercilessly. Your fist pumped his shaft, slick with his own release, twisting at the head to draw out every shudder.

The thrill of being caught made it all better—the creak of the barn, the wind rustling the fields, the possibility of footsteps approaching.

You fucked him harder, chasing your own release while praising him through gritted teeth. "Look at you, crying for my cock. So perfect, Phai. Gonna make you cum until you can't walk straight. Fill that bucket like the good boy you are."

He came again, body convulsing, a broken wail tearing from his throat as another weak spurt hit the bucket. His hole spasmed around you, milking your cock until you couldn't hold back. You growled, slamming in one last time and flooding him with your cum, hot and thick, painting his insides.

Phainon slumped against the wall, sobbing softly, but the bucket was only half-full. You pulled out slowly, watching your seed leak from his abused hole, and stroked him once more.

"Not done yet, baby. We're just getting started." His blue eyes met yours, pleading and desperate, but the fire in them said he wouldn't truly want you to stop.

he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…

his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.

“no,” he types, then erases it.

“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.

after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:

i guess. send what you have.

he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.

flashback.exe

he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.

they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.

but you were different.

not better. just... a different kind of stupid.

you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.

“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.

you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”

typical.

he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.

you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.

he watches again.

his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.

he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.

he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.

he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.

he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.

the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.

the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.

his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.

his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.

he’s close. too close.

his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.

he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—

he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”

he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.

he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:

np.

what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?

he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.

your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.

he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.

you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.

his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.

to replay your giggle.

he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.

the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.

it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.

that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done. 

he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.

and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.

ping.

another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.

hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!

he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.

he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.

the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.

“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do. 

“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”

then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.

he freezes.

his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?

you giggle.

“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”

he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.

you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?

satoru’s fingers twitch.

one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.

he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.

he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.

his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.

he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.

you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.

he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.

he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.

he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.

he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—

he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.

he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.

exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”

he tries to normalize it.

“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.

he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.

he tells himself he’s just learning.

every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.

now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.

“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”

right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.

he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.

the next class is worse.

you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.

you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.

he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.

your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.

he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.

his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.

he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.

a new text lights up his screen:

 hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T

you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.

you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.

he hates himself.

but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.

the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.

it starts with static in his skull.

not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.

he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.

it doesn’t help.

not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

satoru’s trying.

really.

he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.

2:03 a.m.

his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.

hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!

march haul (raw).mp4

he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.

click.

of course he does.

the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.

you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.

your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.

“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.

he knows it.

his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”

he does.

the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—

he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.

you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.

he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.

he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.

he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.

he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.

it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.

he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.

his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.

at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.

the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.

he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.

but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.

he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.

you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.

you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.

he doesn’t blink.

he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.

he can’t breathe.

his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.

someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.

“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.

satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.

but it’s you.

always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.

he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.

he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.

no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.

he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.

he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.

it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.

the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.

it’s been three weeks.

folders on folders: “hauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.” “audio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.” “color tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.”

some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.

the worst part?

you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.

but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.

he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.

satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.

the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.

your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.

in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”

he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.

he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.

the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.

you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.

you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”

baby.

it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.

everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.

when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.

satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.

he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.

his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.

he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.

he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.

he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.

the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.

it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.

he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”

he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.

you, on the other hand, don’t break character.

in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.

you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.

one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.

the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.

“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.

satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”

you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.

he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”

you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”

you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”

00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.

“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.

his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this. 

he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.

he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.

he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.

his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.

he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.

he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.

he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.

you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe

he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.

it starts with a ping.

innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.

his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space. he’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.

he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.

you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”

he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.

he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.

he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.

“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.

he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.

you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.

he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.

“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”

“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.

you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”

he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.

“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”

you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.

his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.

the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.

he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.

“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.

you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.

“fuck.”

he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.

you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.

you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.

his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”

he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.

you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”

you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.

“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.

he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”

his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”

he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”

he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”

he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”

you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.

the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.

he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.

he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”

you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”

you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.

satoru doesn’t stop.

in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.

the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.

he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.

“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.

“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.

you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.

“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.

he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”

satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.

he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”

each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.

he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.

“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”

he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.

but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.

he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.

“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.

you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”

he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.

“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.

satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.

“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”

his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.

you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.

“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”

he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.

he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.

he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”

he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”

he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”

you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”

he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.

he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”

he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.

“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”

but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”

he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”

he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”

you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.

“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.

“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.

but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.

satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.

he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.

you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.

your silence makes him spiral.

“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.

you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”

he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”

you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”

“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”

you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”

he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.

you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.

“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”

he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.

“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”

he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.

“i know.”

a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.

“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.

“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”

you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”

he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.

and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.

“mine.”

you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.

especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.

friday’s going to be filthy.