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hi bebes!!! i have not abandoned ya’ll i promise!! i’ve been revamping fics and trying to add thoughts etc to give you guys more visuals and clarity nods
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
You had no idea the videos or photos that were inside that old camera, you found it on clean day on the top of your wardrobe, all dusted and scratched. When you plugged it in your laptop, your breath hitched for a second. There were at least one hundred photos and videos from when you were way younger than now. Gosh, from when you were a teen!
That version of you feels very far away, it doesn’t feel like you, even. Your hair is different, your body is different, your voice, the look on your eyes! It’s been a long time since you connected with your past self but you really believe that enough time has passed for you to be able to endure all the nostalgic feelings and reminiscences.
The first entry is a two minute long video where you are behind the camera, pointing it to Satoru and Suguru playfighting in front of the blackboard, Shoko is by the window rolling a cigarette as their laughs fill the room.
The video starts a little shaky, you were still figuring out how to hold the camera steady. You hear your own younger voice first, giggling behind the lens. “Guys, the teacher is gonna walk in any second!”
But Satoru is in the middle of a dramatic spin, his white hair messy as he tries to grab Suguru in a headlock. Suguru just laughs harder, ducking low and sweeping Satoru’s leg with one move. They tumble together onto the floor in front of the blackboard.
“Got ya, you idiot!” Suguru says, pinning Satoru down for a second.
You have to stop the video at that moment. It’s been years since you last heard his voice, even if it was lighter back then than in his last moments, it still stings your chest.
Satoru is cracking up so much his face is red, shoving at Suguru’s chest while trying to reverse the hold. “As if!”
Shoko smirks, her fingers carefully pinching the cigarette paper. “You two are so loud. Someone’s gonna report us again.”
Your younger self keeps the camera moving a bit, zooming in when Satoru finally flips Suguru over and they both end up on their backs, chests heaving from laughing so hard.
The camera shifts as you lower it a little. Suguru is the first to sit up, brushing the hair that fell out of his bun out of his face. He looks straight at the lens, then at you and gets up walking towards you. The picture gets a bit blurry as he fills the frame.
“C’mere,” he says gently. His hand reaches out like he’s guiding the camera, but really he’s reaching for you. The video ends with him leaning in, pressing a loud kiss to your cheek and Satoru gagging in the background.
You check the date of the video, you don’t even remember if you were dating at that time.
After that are a bunch of pictures for a few nights out. You and Shoko getting ready together, the outfits were so different from what you wear right now. Satoru sitting on a couch, completely asleep with his glasses crooked. Some of them with you three together, probably Suguru taking the pictures. And then ten photos of a sequence of you and Suguru hugging very tightly and leaning for a quick peck on the lips. Your makeup was a disaster, he was sweaty and both of you were too drunk, but in the last picture (after the kiss) both of you looked incredibly joyous, just staring at each other in pure bliss.
The next video is shorter, about ninety seconds, but it hits you even harder. The timestamp said it was from a few months later, during spring.
You are behind the camera again, but the setting is softer. Just the two of you in the old dorm common room after everyone else had gone out. There’s no light outside, so it’s probably past midnight. Suguru is sitting on the worn couch wearing the oversized black hoodie that’s now lost in your wardrobe. His hair is down and he looks so relaxed.
“Hey, turn that off,” he says, lifting his arm trying to cover his face. You can hear you laughing behind the camera, a bright and shy sound you barely recognize anymore.
“No way. I want to remember this,” you answer.
The camera shakes a little as you walk closer. Suguru reaches out and grabs your free hand, tugging you gently until you tumble into his lap. The lens tilts wildly for a second before settling on his face. He is looking up at you like you are the only thing in the whole world that matters.
“Remember what, exactly?” Suguru teases, he looks unfairly good at his young age.
“You, duh.” You flick his forehead and he dramatically drops his head on the back of the couch.
He clicks his tongue. “Tsk, that’s stupid, I’m not going anywhere.” His fingers trace slow circles on your back and he pulls you closer until your forehead rests against his. For a moment the camera catches both of you like that, breathing the same air. “Kiss, please?”
You huff a laugh and tilt your head so he can kiss you slow and sweet, he sighs into your mouth and the camera dips as you relax in him. The video ends with Suguru laughing quietly, reaching up to turn the camera off himself. The last frame is his smiling face before the screen goes black.
Those days really had felt endless back then. Just you and Suguru, happy and tangled up in each other like nothing could ever pull you apart. Your fingers hovered over the trackpad, wanting to play it again but scared of how much it would hurt.
You spend the next ten minutes looking at all the pictures and videos. There are some you don’t even remember taking. There’s a short video of Satoru carrying the camera, running way too fast while you run away from him, photos of lazy afternoons in the classroom, blurry shots of all four of you crammed into a booth at that cheap ramen place. Each one pulled you deeper into that soft, aching nostalgia. Your younger smile looked so carefree, your eyes brighter, and Suguru was always looking at you like you hung the stars.
Some videos were quick and chaotic. Satoru trying to balance on Shoko’s shoulders and failing spectacularly. Others were quieter moments. You and Suguru sharing earphones on the rooftop, his head on your shoulder while the city hummed below. Every clip made your heart squeeze tighter. You wiped at your eyes more than once, smiling even as they stung.
Then you reached the last entry.
It was a video from the summer trip to the beach, at the very end of the folder. The thumbnail already made your breath catch: golden sand, blue waves, and Suguru’s face filling half the frame with his lovesick smile he only ever gave you.
You pressed play.
The camera is in Suguru’s hand this time, a little unsteady from the wind as he walks backward across the warm sand. His voice comes through first.
“Baby, look at you,” he says, zooming in gently. You see your younger self a few steps ahead, barefoot in a light sundress, hair blowing around your face as you laugh and try to shield your eyes from the sun. “God, you’re so pretty. How did I get this lucky?”
You watch yourself turn toward the camera, cheeks already flushed. “Sugu, stop filming me! The sun’s in my face,” you complain, but you’re smiling so wide it lights up the whole screen.
He chuckles. “Nope. Now you know how I feel. But look at you, you’re the most beautiful girl on this beach.”
You shake your head, warm in the cheeks from embarrassment all of a sudden.
He turns the camera slightly, showing Shoko and Satoru in the background, yelling and laughing as they spike a volleyball back and forth near the water. Satoru does some dramatic spin before hitting the ball and Shoko calls him an idiot loud enough for the mic to catch it.
But Suguru quickly turns the lens back to you. He walks closer, voice dropping softer. “I’m serious, babe. You’re so warm and bright and perfect.” His free hand reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheek. The camera shakes a little as he leans in.
He presses a slow kiss to your lips, then another to the tip of your nose, then one on your forehead like he always did.
“I love you,” he whispers against your skin, so quietly the waves kinda swallow it. “I’m gonna keep you forever, okay?”
The camera tilts as you kiss him back, both of you laughing into it. In the distance, Satoru’s loud “Get a room!” echoes, followed by Shoko’s snort, but neither of you cares. The video ends with Suguru pulling back just enough to smile at you through the lens, eyes full of promises and sunlight, before the screen fades to black.
You sat there in silence for a long time, the laptop glowing softly in your dark room. That was the last one. The very last moment captured.
Hello, did you write a dilf geto fic? Like he's reader best friend's divorced father and they kiss in the kitchen? Thanks 💚 I'm dying looking for this fic.
currently working on revamping the whole fic! i wasn’t satisfied with how i wrote it :x
if you’re comfortable! you can dm with your blog and i’ll tag you when I repost:3
𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ :: geto suguru has built a reputation out of silence, inked a thousand skins, and never once in his life chased anything. somehow, he's been letting himself into his ex-girlfriend's apartment at midnight just to move her coffee mug three inches to the left.
oh! forgive me lord! oh i'm a good girl ♡ run rabbit! run rabid ♡
content warning :: MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, dubcon (initiation while reader is asleep/semi-conscious, but she is into it when she wakes up), somno, stalking, breaking and entering, obsessive & possessive behavior, yandere themes (both parties), unhealthy relationship dynamics, theft of personal items, not beta read. art by @/thatsallitchief
4.8k words
The breakup was his idea. That's the part that kills you most.
Not that you didn't see it coming—you did, in the way you see storms gathering on a horizon you've been watching for too long. You had felt it in the spaces between his words, in the weight of his silences, in how his hands had stopped reaching for you in his sleep.
Suguru had sat you down on a Sunday, which you had thought was cruel timing. Sunday mornings used to be yours, slow and warm, coffee and his records and the particular blue light that came through the windows of his apartment on the Shimokitazawa side of the city. He had used that gentleness of his—the kind that had hooked you in the first place, the kind that made you feel like he was doing you a favor when he broke something in you.
"I feel like I'm suffocating you," he had said, which you both knew was not quite what he meant. You're suffocating me. He was too kind to say it plainly.
You had held it together long enough to get out the door.
That had been seven months ago.
You have, in those seven months, become a person you do not entirely recognize. You are aware of this. You are a fashion student, after all—you are trained to observe, to analyze, to understand aesthetics and composition and the way things are put together and taken apart. You apply this skill now to Geto Suguru's life in your absence from it.
It started small. The way these things always do.
You had kept his Instagram followed, of course. His main—@suguru.ink—which he kept public for his work. Clean grids of tattoo photos, the occasional candid shot from a coffee shop or a bar. Easy enough. You didn't even have to try.
But then he'd switched his personal account to private.
@its.suguru. One hundred and twelve followers. A lock icon.
You had made the alt before the thought had fully formed. It took you maybe twenty minutes: a new email, a new account, four weeks of posting photos stolen from Pinterest—aesthetic city shots, some food, a carefully curated collection of jazz album covers—and then a follow request sent to his personal from @mn.archives, a faceless account that looked like any other twenty-something whose personality lived entirely in film photography and good coffee. Two hundred and sixteen followers, because a number too low looks suspicious.
He accepted within a day.
You tell yourself this is just so you know he's okay. That it's concern, residual and tender, the way you might still check the weather in a city you used to live in. You scroll through his grid at eleven PM with your knees pulled to your chest and you look at the photo he posted last Thursday—some bar you recognize, neon light catching the silver of his earrings, Haibara's arm slung around his shoulder—and you feel something so complicated you can't name it. Not grief exactly. Not quite anger.
Want, maybe. Plain and embarrassing.
The tattoo was not your best idea. You will admit that freely, in the privacy of your own thoughts.
You had passed by his work plcea approximately forty-seven times in seven months, which you know because you have routes home that all bend toward this specific block on purpose. You had a habit of slowing down outside the window—frosted glass, the clean black font of the shop name, sometimes the amber glow of light inside—and telling yourself you were just walking. Just passing through. Just appreciating good signage, actually, as a design student.
The appointment you booked under a fake name—Watanabe Mika, which you chose because it felt forgettable—was a small floral piece. Lower back. Simple. Classic. Something you could attribute to a late-night Pinterest spiral rather than the slow, spectacular unraveling of your dignity.
There is one flaw in this plan, one thing you had somehow managed not to factor in.
You are terrified of needles.
You sat in the chair and stared at the ceiling and told yourself it was fine, it was fine, it was—
"Breathe."
His voice, right behind you. Low and unbothered, the way it always was.
You had not accounted, in all your meticulous planning, for the fact that you would have to talk to him. That the fake name would crumble the second he walked into the room and said it like he'd never heard it before in his life.
"Watanabe-san?"
You had turned, and his expression had done something complicated for exactly one second before settling back into professional neutrality. His hair was up—messy bun, a few strands loose around his face—and he had new ink on his forearm, something geometric you didn't recognize. Which meant he'd had it done after you. The thought sat in your chest like a splinter.
"Hi," you said. Brilliant.
"Hi." A pause. "Small piece?"
"Lower back. Florals. I have a reference."
He had nodded and reached for his gloves and you had spent the next forty minutes lying face-down on the table with your back exposed and his hands steady on your skin and tried very hard not to make a sound that wasn't about the needle.
You managed. Barely.
The tattoo healed beautifully. Sometimes you twist in front of your mirror just to look at it.
His favorite coffee shop is a place called Kōhī to Yoru—coffee and night—that operates out of a narrow building near the university. He started going there maybe three months into your relationship, the two of you sharing a corner table and his headphones, and you have continued going there with the particular audacity of someone who has decided they were there first, actually, in some cosmic sense, even if that is not strictly true.
You go on Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons, which are the days his alt account has, on multiple occasions, shown him holding an iced coffee that matches the shop's specific shade of pale green cup.
You bring your sketchbook. You work on your thesis collection. You sit with your back to the door and wait for the sound of it opening—the particular way the bell above it chimes—and when he comes in, which he does, not every time but often enough, you feel your whole body go still and warm and stupid. You look down at your paper and draw the same seam line you have been drawing for six minutes without noticing.
He always orders the same thing. You know his order the way you know the smell of his apartment, the exact pressure of his hands, the specific timbre of his voice when he's half asleep.
You don't look up.
You're very good at not looking up.
The club situation, in retrospect, requires more explanation.
There is a bar-club hybrid in the entertainment district called Sable that Suguru frequents. You know this because Satoru has a fully public account and zero impulse control regarding location tags, which means you have a near-perfect record of their Saturday nights without ever having to try very hard. You don't follow Satoru. You don't need to. His posts are public and his captions are aggressive and he documents everything.
You do not go to Sable every Saturday. You're not insane.
You go maybe twice a month. On weekends you've verified—through Satoru's stories, through a brief and agonizing scan of his tagged photos—that Suguru will be there. You get ready carefully, the way you used to when you were going to see him, and you tell your friends, who know nothing, that you just feel like going out. That you love this place. That the DJ is good.
The thing is, you're not lying about the DJ. The DJ genuinely is good.
And you are, by any objective measure, devastating when you make the effort.
You keep your distance. That's the important part, the part that keeps this justifiable. You don't go near him—too obvious, too much—and you have what's left of your pride to protect. You position yourself well, and you dance, and you drink, and you exist in the same airspace, and you watch, peripherally, the way you've gotten very good at watching things peripherally.
What you also do—and this is the part where you stop being able to fully justify yourself—is notice the women.
There are always women. Suguru is—you don't need to describe him to yourself. You know exactly what he looks like in a room, what he does to it without meaning to, that particular quality of his presence that functions like gravity. You know because it pulled you in and kept you there for sixteen months and you have not yet figured out how to get far enough away that it stops working on you.
So. The women.
You don't interfere directly. That would be messy, obvious, humiliating. What you do is more surgical than that. A girl drifts toward him at the bar—you're there first, materializing at his elbow under the pretense of ordering, smiling at the bartender, turning just enough that your body language reads as occupied space. A group approaches the table where he and Satoru are sitting—you're walking past right then, somehow, and you catch Gojo's eye (Gojo who knows you, Gojo who looks at you with an expression you have learned not to examine) and you smile like you ran into him by coincidence, and the moment breaks before it can start.
You are very good at this.
You have gotten very good at this.
You think you're slick.
This is perhaps the most important thing to understand about the last seven months: you have constructed, in meticulous and loving detail, the story of yourself as someone who is merely adjacent to Geto Suguru's life. Someone who passes through the same spaces by coincidence, drawn there by taste and habit and not by anything more embarrassing than that. Someone who has moved on cleanly and simply no longer intersects with him—except in these small moments that don't count, that you are careful to keep deniable.
You believe this story.
You are, perhaps, the only one who does.
Geto Suguru notices everything.
This is not vanity—it's fact, the baseline condition of someone who has spent years being precisely observed and has therefore learned to observe in return. He notices patterns. He notices the particular quality of attention a room gives a person. He notices when something stops being coincidence and starts being something else entirely.
The first time he saw you at Kōhī to Yoru, he thought: oh.
Not with surprise. With something more like recognition. Like finding a word he'd been looking for in a language he already spoke.
You had your sketchbook open and your head down and the line of your shoulders had that specific tension you always got when you were pretending to concentrate on something other than what was in front of you. He had ordered his coffee and taken the table by the window—not your corner, deliberately not your corner—and watched you not look at him for eleven minutes straight. And he had felt something settle in his chest like the click of a lock finding its latch.
There she is.
He had not broken up with you because he stopped wanting you. He needs to be clear about this, at least to himself, in the space where honesty costs nothing. He had broken up with you because wanting you and watching you want him back had started to feel like too much weight in a place he didn't know how to hold. He is—he will say this plainly—not good at being needed. Something in him retreats when it feels cornered by someone else's love, some reflex toward distance that he's never fully understood and never fully fought. He had watched you learn his rhythms and bend yourself around them and he had known, somewhere underneath the warmth of it, that he was shaping you into something that orbited him, and you deserved better than a center like him.
He had thought, in the careful logical part of his mind, that breaking up would free you. That you'd pull yourself out and go build something that didn't require making yourself small.
He had not, apparently, accounted for yoy.
@/mn.archives had followed him about two months after the breakup. He noticed because he got the notification at 2 AM on a Tuesday, which was exactly when you used to lose sleep to your phone.
He had looked at the profile for a long time.
The photos were too curated. Jazz records and film photography and that particular aesthetic that looked like a constructed personality rather than an actual one—assembled from the outside in, like a mood board rather than a life. No face. No name. mn.archives. He had scrolled back through their last few conversations once—just once, he told himself—and found a message you'd sent months before the end, mentioning a vintage archive account you'd been thinking about making.
He had accepted the follow request.
He still posts to that account knowing you're watching. Sometimes he tags places he's about to go, just to see if youll show up. You always do.
The tattoo appointment had required real effort not to laugh.
Watanabe Mika. He'd seen the name in the book when he was reviewing the day's schedule and he had known before he walked into the room. He doesn't know exactly how he knew—maybe the handwriting, you always pressed too hard with pens, like you were trying to leave a mark on whatever you touched—but he had known, and when he said the name and watched you face do that thing where you're trying to hold it perfectly still, he had felt something he'd classify, if he were being honest, as pure delight.
Forty minutes. His hands on your back. The way you'd gone absolutely rigid when the needle started and then forced yourself still through what he knew, because he knows you, was genuine fear. You hadn't made a sound. He'd been almost proud of you.
He wanted to say: you don't have to do this.
He wanted to say: I already know.
He said neither. Because there is something he enjoys—something he is not proud of but does not particularly want to stop—about watching you work this hard. About being watched this carefully. About being the thing someone builds an entire architecture of ordinary life around.
The club thing is his favorite.
He sees yoy every time. He spotted you the third Saturday you came to Sable—across the room, dancing with that particular careless ease you put on when you're trying to look like you're not paying attention to anything—and he had taken a slow drink and thought about how long you'd been doing this without knowing he saw. He had done a rough calculation. Yiu'd been at it for months.
The girls you redirects: he lets you. It would be simple enough to close the gap, to make himself reachable, to let someone else in just to see what you'd do. He doesn't.
Satoru, who is not an idiot and has never pretended to be, had said once, watching you materialize near the bar at precisely the right moment: "You know she's here."
"I know," Suguru had said.
Satoru had looked at him for a long moment. "And you're just going to let her keep doing this."
It hadn't been a question. Suguru hadn't answered it anyway. Satoru had made the face he made when he thought Suguru was being spectacular and specific kind of idiot, which was fair. Satoru was usually right about these things.
He still has your key.
This is the part he doesn't examine too closely, doesn't turn over in his hands and look at straight on. He still has the key you gave him fourteen months into their relationship—the little silver one with the small scratch near the head from when you'd dropped your keychain down a flight of stairs and laughed so hard you couldn't breathe, had grabbed his arm for balance and left half-moon marks in his jacket. He had kept it after the breakup, which he had told himself was oversight. He'd meant to return it. The moment had never arrived, and the key had stayed on his ring, and here they are.
He goes, sometimes, when he knows your out.
He knows your schedule the way he's always known things about you—not through tracking, not through architecture and alt accounts, but through the simple accumulating weight of attention. He knows you have studio hours Monday and Wednesday evenings. He knows you go to your mother's on Sunday afternoons and usually doesn't come back until after seven.
He lets himself in quietly. He moves through the apartment and he moves things—small things, careful things. A mug shifted slightly on the counter. Your desk chair at a different angle. The throw blanket refolded. Nothing you could be certain about, nothing that couldn't be chalked up to your own distracted hands in a busy week. He just wants you to feel it, in some wordless way you can't name. He wants to leave a shape in your space.
He also takes things. He is aware this is not something he can justify cleanly. Small things—a note torn from your sketchbook, a hair tie from the bathroom counter, once a grocery list written in your handwriting that he'd found tucked under a bottle of wine. Things you might not notice. Things you'd never be sure about.
The first time he went to the drawer beside the bed—just to look, he'd told himself—he had found his hoodie. The charcoal one you used to steal, folded near the bottom like you'd put it somewhere you didn't have to see every day but couldn't bring yourself to throw away. And underneath a novel you was reading: a photo strip from a machine in Harajuku. The two of you, making faces, the particular light of that afternoon still somehow caught in the paper.
You hadn't thrown any of it away.
He had stood there for a moment and felt something so complicated that he hadn't tried to name it. He had taken the photo strip. Replaced it with a different photo—same machine, earlier in the same day, just you, mid-laugh, caught without knowing—so the space wouldn't feel empty if you looked.
He keeps the photo strip in his wallet.
He does not call this obsession. He doesn't call it anything.
It's a Thursday night when he finally goes back, and this time he doesn't have a reason.
Not to rearrange anything. Not to take something. No careful justification assembled in advance. He doesn't know what that means and he has, tonight, decided to stop caring.
The city is quiet the way it gets past midnight, that particular held-breath stillness. His key makes no sound against her lock—he knows the angle by now, the specific lift-and-turn that keeps the mechanism from clicking too loud. The door swings open onto darkness and the particular smell of her apartment, warm and layered, something floral and underneath it something that is just you, unchanged across seven months, the thing that had always made the back of his mind go quiet.
He moves through the space without turning on a light. He knows it better than you might expect. He knows the creak of the second floorboard from the hallway and steps around it. He knows to angle left around the ottoman you perpetually fail to put back in the right place. He knows the bedroom door sticks slightly at the top corner and needs gentle pressure to open without a sound.
It gives way.
You're asleep. He can tell from the doorway—the slow, even rise and fall of you breathing, your hair against the pillow, one hand curled loosely near your face. The window lets in just enough city light to see you by. Gold and still.
He leans against the doorframe.
He watches you breathe.
There is something terrible about this moment. Something tender underneath the terrible. He knows that. He is not without self-awareness—he has spent years being precisely, painfully self-aware, and it has never once made him behave better. You have been watching him for seven months from what you believed is a safe distance. He has been watching you from what he knows is not one. And maybe that says something about both of you, about the particular shape of whatever this is, two people who were never going to fall cleanly out of each other's gravity no matter how carefully he tried to cut the line.
You shift in your sleep. A small sound, something that almost forms a word and dissolves before it arrives.
He is still there.
There she is.
He stays until his shoulder starts to ache from the doorframe, and then he stays a little longer.
The city light filters through the half-open blinds in thin silver bars across your bed. Suguru stands in the doorway a moment longer, letting the quiet settle into his bones. Your breathing is deep, slow, the kind that only comes after exhaustion has finally won. He crosses the room without sound, shedding his jacket onto the chair by your desk. The hoodie you still keep is visible when he glances at the open drawer—charcoal, folded like a secret.
He sits on the edge of the mattress. The shift of weight makes you stir, but you don’t wake. Good. He wants this part slow.
His hand finds your ankle first, thumb brushing up the bare skin of your calf. You’re wearing an oversized t-shirt—his, he realizes with a low pulse of satisfaction—and nothing else. The hem has ridden up to the curve of your ass. He traces higher, palm warm against the back of your thigh, then slips under the fabric to rest at the small of your back, right over the fresh ink he put there himself. The skin is still slightly raised, healed but sensitive. He presses lightly.
You make a soft, wordless sound, shifting onto your stomach more fully. Your face stays buried in the pillow.
“Suguru…?” The name is barely shaped, thick with sleep, more breath than voice.
He doesn’t answer. Instead he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Shh. Go back to sleep if you want.”
His hand slides lower, between your legs, finding you already slick. A low hum leaves his throat. Even asleep, your body knows him. He circles your clit with two fingers, unhurried, coaxing. Your hips twitch once, instinctive, pushing back against his hand.
You whimper into the pillow, still half-gone, thighs parting just enough to let him in. He takes the invitation, pressing one finger inside you, then two, curling gently. The wet sound is obscene in the quiet room. Your breathing changes—shallower, quicker—but your eyes stay closed, lashes fluttering against your cheeks.
He works you open like that for long minutes, slow thrusts of his fingers, thumb stroking your clit in lazy circles. Every time you clench around him he feels it in his own cock, already straining against his jeans. When you start rocking back against his hand in tiny, unconscious movements, he withdraws, ignoring the protesting noise you make.
Clothes off. He doesn’t rush. The belt buckle clicks softly; the zipper sounds louder than it should. He strokes himself once, twice, spreading the bead of pre-cum over the head before lining up behind you.
You’re on your stomach, legs spread, t-shirt bunched at your waist. Perfect.
He pushes in slow, one long glide until he’s buried to the hilt. The stretch makes you gasp, eyes flying open for a heartbeat before they flutter shut again. Your walls flutter around him, hot and tight and so fucking wet.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your nape, staying still for a moment, letting you adjust. Or not. He doesn’t ask.
He starts moving—deep, measured rolls of his hips that press you harder into the mattress. Each thrust drags against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. You moan, low and broken, still sounding half-asleep, face turned to the side now so he can see the flush on your cheek.
One of his hands slides under you, finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles while he fucks you. The other braces beside your head, caging you in. He drops his weight more fully onto your back, lips at your shoulder, teeth grazing skin.
You push back against him, needy even in your drowsiness. “Suguru…” His name again, softer this time, wrecked with pleasure. Your hand reaches back blindly, fingers brushing his hip, urging him deeper.
He gives it to you. Harder now, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. He angles his hips until every thrust makes you cry out—short, breathy sounds that go straight to his cock. Your pussy clenches rhythmically around him, fluttering, pulling him in.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Let me feel you.”
He fucks you like he’s memorizing you all over again—slow drags followed by sharp snaps of his hips, grinding deep when he bottoms out. Your breathing turns into soft, desperate pants. You’re dripping down his cock, onto the sheets. He reaches down and spreads your ass with both hands so he can watch himself disappear inside you, the obscene shine of your arousal coating him.
You come without warning, sudden and shuddering, a broken moan muffled by the pillow as your walls clamp down hard. He doesn’t stop, fucking you through it, drawing it out until your thighs shake.
Only then does he pull out, flipping you onto your back with easy strength. Your eyes are open now, heavy-lidded and dark, but still hazy with sleep and orgasm. You look at him like you’re not entirely sure he’s real.
He doesn’t give you time to wake up fully. He hooks your legs over his elbows and slides back in, folding you nearly in half. The new angle makes you keen, nails digging into his shoulders. He sets a punishing rhythm—deep, relentless, the headboard knocking softly against the wall.
Your t-shirt is pushed up to your collarbones. He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, tongue flicking. You arch into him, gasping. The other hand finds your clit again, rubbing fast and firm.
“Come on,” he growls against your skin. “Again. Want to feel it.”
You do. The second orgasm hits you harder, back bowing, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you pulse around his cock. He fucks you through every wave, hips stuttering only when your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks.
He pulls out at the last second, stroking himself roughly over your stomach. Thick ropes of cum paint your skin, your tits, the underside of your chin. You watch with dazed, half-lidded eyes, lips parted.
For a long moment the only sound is both of you breathing.
He leans down and kisses you—slow, deep, tasting sleep and sex and the faint salt of your sweat. You kiss him back like muscle memory, one hand sliding into his hair, holding him there. When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.
You don’t speak. Neither does he.
He reaches for the t-shirt you’re wearing—his t-shirt—and uses the hem to wipe his spend from your skin with surprising gentleness. Then he tosses it aside, pulls the blanket over both of you, and tucks you against his chest like no time has passed at all.
Your breathing evens out again within minutes, slipping back toward sleep. He stays awake longer, fingers tracing idle patterns over the floral ink on your lower back, feeling the steady beat of your heart against his ribs.
Outside, the city keeps breathing. Inside, the two of you fit back together in the dark like pieces that were never meant to stay apart.
Summary: A high achieving student at TokyoTech whose grades start slipping in her physics class: PHYS 341 - Quantum Mechanics & Field Theory. After receiving a C on her latest exam, she reaches out to Satoru Gojo on a peer tutoring website to have him as her tutor.
A/N: Hi guys! This is kinda written for self indulgence because I'm a STEM student who almost just died from taking a bunch of physics classes. But if you like nerdjo the way I do, you'll probably enjoy this too. Just a note--this isn't proofread, revised, etc... I just spat this out for 2 nights at midnight on a Google Doc and called it good. Word count for this is roughly 4.4k. Also, I don't plan to make this a super long series but I am having so much fun being back on Tumblr and back to writing. I love you all so much and thank you for all the support when I was gone!
Love,
Still. (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
“Holy fuck, I seriously think I failed that last exam.” One of your friends, Jane, complained to you while you two walked campus together, leaving the physics lecture hall with a collective, unspoken sense of anticipation for a big, fat F. You could feel a heavy weight pounding in your eyes after spending the last two hours staring blankly at that blaring white screen doused with evil little formulas you’d grown only vaguely familiar with. At one point, you stared for so long that they morphed into some ancient language you couldn't decipher—and even you, the perfectionist, had eventually just given up.
Being the overachiever you were, the moment you graduated high school you applied to TokyoTech—one of the most prestigious universities not only in Japan, but globally—and set yourself on the trajectory of one of the hardest majors known to man. Astrophysics. You thought it would be fun. Japan, new people, some semblance of independence. But instead of spending your nights underneath attractive men with powerful abs and sweet alcoholic beverages, you spent them underneath a blank ceiling with dangerously caffeinated cans of literal death, staring at absolute nonsense on your laptop screen—which might as well have been your boyfriend at this point, given how many tears it had witnessed.
"What the fuck is quantum field theory, why did the professor never once mention it, and why did I decide to take this stupid class," you groaned, dragging a hand down your face like it might restore some sense of being back into your body. It didn't. Your soul was already halfway out the door. You always did this to yourself, tortured yourself with the heaviest concepts in the world and then complained about it, knowing full well it had been entirely your choice.
“I don’t know, something about particles?”
“Everything in physics is about particles…”
"Oh. Yeah." Your friend laughed softly as you reached her bus stop. "I'll just study from the textbook for four hours. Again." She paused, then lit up. "After I find myself a hot tutor!"
You scoffed. She would do absolutely jack shit with an attractive tutor and you both knew it. She was the type to spend an entire lecture doodling in the margins and calling it multitasking, saying something about how doodling actually increases focus.
"We don't have hot tutors here," you said flatly, already pulling out your phone to find a tutoring service like a functioning adult who needed desperate help. "We have nerdy, scrawny losers who think they're better than everyone else."
“Nerdy, scrawny, hot losers who think they’re better than everyone else. Once I cop one, I’m never gonna live it down!” she exclaimed before getting onto the bus. You responded with a half-hearted, tired sigh, waving goodbye to her as the doors closed shut.
Tonight was going to be a long, long night.
Back in your dorm room, you cracked open those thick textbooks that contained nothing short of the devil's own scripture, lined up a small army of energy cans on your desk, and got to work. You read. You studied. You watched YouTube videos sped up. You worked through practice problems that were unreasonably, deliberately, almost personally lengthy and complicated and when you finally checked your answers against the key, your stomach dropped.
You tallied what you got right against what you got wrong twice, just to be sure. Then you circled the number at the bottom of the page and leaned back in your chair.
68%.
That’s a C.
Barely passing.
You stared at that circled number for a long, long time.
It stared back at you, unapologetic, almost smug. Like it knew exactly what it was doing to your GPA, to your ego, to the carefully constructed image of yourself that you'd been maintaining since the third grade. You had never—never—gotten anything below a B+ in your entire academic career and even that had felt like a personal failing. This? This was a war crime.
Your throat tightened in that specific, humiliating way that meant your body had decided it was going to be dramatic about this whether you cooperated or not. You pressed your lips together. Blinked once. Twice. You tried to hold it back, you really did. But you were sleep deprived, running on cheap energy instead of actual sleep and actual hearty meals. You felt your lips press hard enough it almost hurt. No, it did hurt.
Nope.
Your eyes welled up anyway, hot and completely unwelcome, and you hated yourself a little for it because it was physics, it was one practice test, it was not—objectively speaking—worth the single tear that escaped down your cheek before you could stop it. And then another. And then, against every instinct you had, you were fully, genuinely crying at your desk at whatever ungodly hour this was, textbook still open in front of you, a half-empty energy can sweating onto your notes.
You weren't even sad, exactly. You were tired. Tired and frustrated and a little bit scared, because you had worked so hard to get here. To this school, this major, this version of yourself, and the idea that it might just be too much, that you might have finally reached the ceiling of what sheer stubbornness could carry you through, was not something you were remotely prepared to sit with. So you cried about it for approximately four minutes, decided that was enough, wiped your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, and got back to studying.
You were fine. Completely fine. But before you got back to the actual work, your phone buzzed on the desk.
jane: how'd the practice problems go!!!
You looked at the text. You looked at the circled 68%. You looked back at the text.
you: fine, i think i'm getting it.
A lie. A bold, blatant, completely unhinged lie that you almost believed yourself.
Almost.
Because here was the thing about studying for six hours straight. At a certain point, your brain stopped absorbing information and started simply performing the idea of learning. You'd watched four YouTube videos, reread the same chapter three times, filled half a notebook with formulas you couldn't quite explain but could write very confidently, and somewhere around hour five you had tipped over into a kind of delirious, caffeinated peace. A false summit. You thought you understood quantum field theory. You thought you were fine.
You were not fine. You were actually the furthest thing from fine. Not only did you not fully understand the content, you were actively losing sleep and energy for tomorrow’s lecture.
jane: ok but just in case. i found this tutoring site and there's literally a guy on here who looks like he was sculpted by god himself. like. y/n. Y/N.
jane: [link]
you: dude i do not need a fucking male pornstar as my physics tutor jane
jane: more for me!
you: goodnight.
You let the notification sit there unread, closed your textbook with the quiet, dignified composure of someone who had everything completely under control, and went to bed.
The next day, your professor handed back the graded exams with the kind of casual indifference that only someone who had never emotionally suffered could manage. You watched the paper slide onto your desk face-down and felt your stomach do something unpleasant. You were absolutely petrified. If you had gotten a 68% doing a practice test with that much effort last night, what could your score possibly be if you had given up halfway through the exam when you were actually testing?
You flipped the paper over anyway.
A 71%.
A C.
A literal, whopping, C.
You sat with that for a moment. Counted to five. Stared at the red ink like it might rearrange itself into something more acceptable if you gave it enough time. It didn't. You looked through every single page, every single sentence, every single mark, staring, reading, looking back at the professor every now and then like you were trying to shoot bullets through their head. You could already feel your guts twisting at the mere idea of your GPA shooting down after this term if you didn’t pick up the score. You grabbed your phone, decisively but impulsively opened your messages with Jane, and finally tapped the link she had sent you the night before.
Fine.
Fine.
A tutor it was.
You walked out of that lecture hall with the energy of someone who had just received genuinely life-altering news, which, to be fair, you had. You were a smart girl. A smart, high achieving girl! It was absolutely ridiculous and unfathomable that you had ever gotten a C on any sort of exam, whether it was stupid marketing or PhD level physics! A C?! A C. You had gotten a C on an exam at one of the most prestigious universities in the world and you had to just walk around with that information in your body like a normal person. Like it wasn't actively rotting you from the inside out.
You found a bench outside, dropped onto it unceremoniously, and opened the link Jane had sent.
TokyoTech Peer Tutoring — Find Your Match.
The site was clean enough. Filter by subject, by availability, by rating. You tapped Physics without letting yourself think too hard about it, because if you thought too hard about it you were going to talk yourself out of it again and end up back at your desk at 2am crying into an energy can, and you simply could not do that twice. It was embarrassing enough crying alone in your room every night over physics, it was worse that there was a possibility that would happen tonight again.
A handful of profiles loaded.
You scrolled past the first one. Then the second. They were fine—perfectly capable looking, good ratings, available on weekdays. Normal. Exactly what you had described to Jane: nerdy, harmless, nonthreatening to your ego in every way.
You stared at the profile picture for a second longer than was strictly necessary. Jane had not been exaggerating, which was annoying, because Jane always exaggerated and you had built your entire rejection of this plan on the assumption that she had been exaggerating. He was– okay. Fine. Objectively, empirically, he was unfairly good looking. White hair, sharp jaw, the kind of easy, unbothered smile that belonged on someone who had never once stressed about an exam in his life. Round glasses that should have looked awkward and somehow didn't.
You scrolled down to his reviews.
"Explained three weeks of content in one session, actually insane."
"I went from failing to a 91 on my final. I don't know how he does it but he does it."
"Weirdly funny for a physics tutor. Came for the grade, stayed for the bit."
You chewed the inside of your cheek.
This was fine. This was a completely normal, practical, academically motivated decision. You were not choosing him because Jane had sent you his profile with five separate Y/N's in caps lock. You were choosing him because he had a perfect rating and forty-seven reviews and you desperately, humiliatingly needed help. Not because his smile was deathly charming.
You clicked Request a Session before you could change your mind.
You typed the message out three times before you sent it.
you: Hello, my name is Y/N. I found your profile on the TokyoTech tutoring site. I'm currently enrolled in PHYS 341 (Quantum Mechanics & Field Theory) and I'm looking for consistent tutoring sessions. Are you available, and if so, what does your schedule look like?
You reread it once. Professional. Concise. Completely normal and not at all the message of someone who had cried at their desk four days ago over a practice test score. But for some reason your cheeks were burning and your throat was tightening. You have never, and I mean, never asked for help before. This was weird. This was unreal. You hated your brain for not having the intelligence of Einstein right about now.
You hit send.
His response came maybe four minutes later. Not that you were counting. (You were).
gojo: Oh yeah, PHYS 341. Good class. I can do that
gojo: My availability is pretty open—Tuesdays and Thursdays after 4, Saturdays before noon if you need extra time. Library study rooms are easiest for me, third floor
gojo: How often are you thinking
You stared at the texts for a second. No punctuation. Completely unbothered. The academic equivalent of someone showing up to a job interview in a t-shirt and still getting hired on the spot. But you liked it. It was easy, simple, and made you feel a little bit less nervous.
you: Twice a week would be ideal. Tuesdays and Thursdays work for me. How’s 4:30?
gojo: Sure. See you Tuesday, Y/N
And that was it. No "looking forward to it," no formalities, no nothing. Just sure and your name typed out like he'd already filed you somewhere in his brain under handled.
You locked your phone and stared at the wall for a second.
This was going to be interesting. No, this was going to be fucking horrendous.
Tuesday arrived faster than you would have liked.
You had exactly one hour before you had to be on the third floor of the library and you were spending it doing what any reasonable, well-adjusted person would do—standing in the middle of your dorm room holding a highlighter you hadn't put down in ten minutes, staring at nothing.
You were overthinking. You knew you were overthinking. Knowing did not stop you from overthinking.
What if he's an asshole?
Some people were like that. Brilliant and completely insufferable about it, the type to sigh at your questions like the mere act of not knowing something was a personal offense. You'd met the type before. You had survived the type before. But this was different. Technically, you were vulnerable. You were in the mercy of their hands. If someone had treated you like some sort of idiot liability, you’d simply crumble and remove yourself from existence.
What if he thinks I'm stupid?
You set the highlighter down. Picked it back up.
I mean. You weren't stupid. That was a fact. You had graduated top of your class, you had gotten into TokyoTech, you had maintained a GPA that most people would have wept over and called it a victory. You were not stupid. You were simply—temporarily—struggling with one very specific, very evil subset of theoretical physics that had been designed, you were now convinced, specifically to humble people like you.
But if you were so smart, you wouldn't have barely passed that exam.
You put the highlighter down again.
Okay but that's different. That's one exam. That doesn't define—
A 71, Y/N.
A literal C.
You picked the highlighter back up.
Okay. Fine. So maybe you needed a little help. That didn't mean anything. Plenty of smart people asked for help. Asking for help was actually the intelligent thing to do, which meant that by getting a tutor you were, in fact, proving how smart you were. Just not to your professor and to a tall, white haired nerd that you knew nothing about. That was just logic.
You nodded to yourself in the mirror. Okay. You were smart. You were capable. And if Gojo Satoru showed up and had even a single ounce of condescension in his body, you would collect your things, your dignity, and your highlighters and leave without a second thought because you did not need–
You thought about the 2am crying. The energy can sweating onto your notes. The red ink on that exam paper that had just sat there, unbothered, while your GPA quietly threatened to deteriorate.
You exhaled slowly through your nose.
Okay. Fine. You'd give him a chance.
You stuffed your textbook into your bag, grabbed three different colored highlighters because you simply were not capable of going anywhere with just one, and headed for the door.
You were smart. You were prepared. You were absolutely not nervous.
You were a little nervous.
The third floor of the library was quiet in that specific, sacred way that academic spaces got on weekday afternoons. The sun was starting to dip outside the tall windows, bleeding warm amber and gold across the floors in long, lazy streaks beneath the green of the trees. The lamps on each table were already on, casting everything in that soft, honey-toned light that made even textbooks look romantic. It smelled like old paper and something faintly woody, the kind of smell that had no business being as comforting as it was. A few students were scattered across the room, heads down, unbothered. The occasional turn of a page. The distant tap of a keyboard.
You found him immediately, sitting alone at a desk as he adjusted a textbook.
Which was—okay. That was not what you had prepared for.
He was already set up at one of the larger tables near the window, textbook open, a neat stack of papers beside it, pen in hand like he'd been there long enough to already be doing something productive. His white hair caught the light in a way that felt almost deliberate, slightly messy in that aggravating way that took either zero effort or enormous effort and you genuinely could not tell which. The glasses were there—just like the profile picture — except somehow worse in person, sitting low on his nose while he looked down at whatever he was writing.
And the shirt.
The shirt was a Digimon shirt. A Digimon shirt. Worn soft at the edges, short sleeved, and fitting him in a way that should have been completely at odds with the textbook and the problem sets and the studious little setup he had going. The fabric pulled just enough across his biceps that it felt almost inconsiderate. His arms were delicately pale, the kind of pale that looked almost luminous under warm lamplight, and he had the sort of forearms that had absolutely no business being visible in a library setting, the thick, lean muscle rippling as he held a thick textbook with ease. Veins ran along his biceps beneath his skin in faint, lazy lines that disappeared beneath his rolled up sleeve, and he had one hand wrapped loosely around his pen and the whole thing was just—it was a lot. For a Tuesday. For a physics tutoring session. For a Digimon shirt.
You had maybe two seconds to process all of this before he looked up.
Direct eye contact. Immediate, unhesitating, like he'd felt you walk in before he'd seen you.
For a moment he just looked at you. Nothing strange about it, nothing overdone, just a fraction of a second where something shifted behind those glasses and he sat up a little straighter without seeming to realize he'd done it.
You crossed the room anyway because you were a functioning adult and you had a GPA to save.
"Hi," you said, stopping at the edge of the table. "I'm Y/N."
Something moved across his face; a quick, almost imperceptible recalibration, like two things he hadn't expected to be related had just suddenly connected. His eyes flicked to your bag, your textbook poking out of the top, and then back up to you.
"Oh," he said. And then, like he was catching up with himself in real time, "You're Y/N."
"...Yes."
"Right." He straightened up properly now, blinking once, and then this smile broke across his face. Easy and a little crooked and entirely too natural for someone who had just been visibly caught off guard. He extended a hand across the table. "Gojo. Satoru Gojo. Sorry, I just–you didn't have a picture. On the profile."
"Oh, yeah. I'm aware."
"Right. Yeah. Obviously." He laughed quietly at himself, just once, and gestured to the seat across from him. "Sit down, sit down. I've got the problem sets ready."
You sat. You placed your textbook on the table with the careful, composed energy of someone who was absolutely not internally screaming.
He was already uncapping his pen, pulling a sheet toward you, back to business like that little moment hadn't just happened. Like he hadn't just been cute about it, accidentally, without even trying.
What the fuck, you thought very privately.
Fifteen minutes in, you had decided that Gojo Satoru was, at the very least, not an asshole.
He'd started simple. Handed you a short diagnostic test, told you to just do what you could, no pressure, which you had taken as a personal challenge and attacked with the full force of someone who had something to prove. You finished in eleven minutes. You even let yourself revise over your work entirely, your eyes rapidly skimming over every single detail and answer. You handed it back. He looked it over with the kind of quiet, unhurried focus that made you feel like you were being read rather than graded, pen tracing absently down the page. Despite the lack of tension and judgment he was offering, you couldn’t be more horrified of what he was about to possibly say or mention.
Then he set it down and looked at you over the rim of his glasses.
"Okay," he said. "79."
"That's–okay, that’s…not horrible," you shrugged.
"It's not bad," he agreed, in a tone that meant and also it's not good, which you appreciated and resented equally. He tapped the pen against a specific cluster of questions near the bottom of the page. "Your math is fine. Your foundational stuff is mostly there. It's the conceptual framework where things are falling apart." He slid the paper back toward you and pointed. "Can you tell me what a quantum state actually is? Not the formula. Just—what is it."
You opened your mouth.
You closed it.
Quantum state? It’s fundamental. Well, of course it is. Everything in physics is “fundamental”, Y/N. Think harder. Your mind drifted to the YouTube videos, the textbook definitions, the notes.
You don’t remember ever actually writing or watching anything about quantum state. What the fuck was a quantum state?
"It's..." you started. "It's the... the state. Of a quantum. System."
Gojo looked at you.
You looked back at him, your cheeks flushing all rosy, your lips pressing like you knew you just fucked up. Because you did.
"That's circular," he said, not unkindly.
"I know," you said, with great suffering.
He moved to the next one. "Okay. Wave function collapse—what's physically happening? In your own words."
Your own words. Your own words were, at this particular moment, completely failing you. You knew this. You had read about wave function collapse. You had watched a twenty minute YouTube video about wave function collapse at 1am and felt briefly enlightened about wave function collapse. And yet, sitting here under the warm lamplight with Gojo Satoru looking at you with that patient, unhurried expression, with those painfully gorgeous blue eyes–which by the way, how was that color of blue even possible–anyway, every single thing you thought you knew about wave function collapse evacuated your brain entirely.
The silence stretched approximately three seconds too long.
And then something in you just—cracked. Because you’ve never felt more humiliated in your life that you couldn’t do something, let alone in front of another student at this school.
"Okay," you said, and your voice came out slightly higher than intended. "Okay, I—I don't know. I genuinely don't know, okay? And I know that's bad, I know that's bad, I just—" you pressed your fingers to your temple— "I got a 68% on the practice test I took two nights ago and a 71% on the actual exam and I have maintained a perfect GPA since I was literally like, eight years old and I cannot believe that this is the class that's going to be my villain origin story because I always thought this would come easy to me the way everything else did,"
"Hey—"
"—and I watched four YouTube videos, I reread the chapter, I did the practice problems, and I still barely passed, which means either I am not as smart as I thought I was or quantum mechanics is genuinely broken as a field and either way I'm the one suffering, and so are you because I am so stupid—"
"Y/N—""—and I'm so, so, so, so sorry, I know you probably think I'm an idiot, you probably took one look at that diagnostic and thought oh great, another student who doesn't know anything, and honestly? Fair. Completely fair. I don't blame you. I actually don’t blame you at all if you hate me already. I don't know anything. I got a 71% on an exam at TokyoTech and I have to just live with that and apparently also tell a stranger about it—"
"Hey." His voice was calm. Not sharp, not loud, just steady enough to actually cut through. You stopped.
Looked at him.
He was leaning forward slightly, elbow on the table, and he had this expression on his face that you couldn't quite categorize. Not pity. Not judgment. Something softer than both, which also terrified you, but it held just the faintest trace of amusement at the corners of his mouth that he was very clearly trying to keep in check.
"I don't think you're an idiot," he said.
"I don't say things I don't mean." He tapped the diagnostic with one finger. "You got a 79% on that cold, no prep, first session. Your problem isn't that you're not smart. Your problem is that you've been memorizing without understanding." He tilted his head slightly. "There's a difference."
You stared at him.
He stared back, perfectly unbothered, waiting.
"...okay," you said quietly, your voice shrinking into a lenient, open-minded sort of way that told him you were shy about actually having him help you. But it was fine. He thought it was cute. He thought it was charming.
"Okay." He uncapped his pen. "So let's fix it."
And somewhere in the back of his mind, in a place he absolutely was not going to examine right now, Gojo Satoru made a small, private note that you were–when flustered—incredibly adorable.
He did not write that down on the problem set.
He refocused. Professionally.
"Wave function collapse," he said. "From the top."
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⟡ ݁˖ cw. Mechanic!Toji :: pussy job + fingering :: p in v :: c-pied :: call's you 'slut' once (m' sorry) ::
The garage smelled like motor oil, burnt rubber, and the faint metallic tang of tools that had seen too many long days. Toji Fushiguro wiped the grease from his hands with an old rag, shoulders aching from another twelve-hour shift under hoods and chassis. His black tank top clung to his sweat-slicked chest, muscles flexing as he tossed the rag aside and looked up at the familiar sleek black car that had just rolled into his bay.
You.
Of course it was you again.
The little prissy princess who showed up every other week with some new complaint about her luxury ride. Today the issue was supposedly a weird rattle in the engine, but Toji knew better. You barely drove the damn thing hard enough to cause any real problems. The third time you were back here for this month, and every single visit ended the same way: you batting those lashes, complaining about the bill, and offering to “trade” for the work instead of paying in cash like a normal customer.
He was tired of it. Tired of the games. Tired of pretending he didn’t notice how you dressed just to tease him, short designer skirts that rode up when you leaned over the hood, tight tops that hugged your pretty tits, expensive perfume that cut through the garage stink like it didn’t belong.
You stepped out of the car in those ridiculous heels, hips swaying as you approached him with that signature pout already on your glossy lips.
“Toji, it’s doing that annoying sound again,” you complained, voice sweet and spoiled. “You have to fix it today. I have places to be.”
He stared at you for a long moment, green eyes narrowed, scarred lip twitching. The sun was setting outside, casting long shadows through the open bay doors, and the garage was empty except for the two of you. Just perfect.
“Yeah? And how you plannin’ on payin’ this time, princess?” he asked, voice low and rough from the long day. “Cash? Or you gonna try tradin’ somethin’ else again like last time?”
You tilted your head, giving him that innocent little smile that never reached your eyes. “I thought we had an arrangement…”
Toji tossed the rag onto his workbench and stepped closer, towering over you. The height difference was ridiculous, his broad, grease-stained frame making you look even smaller and more delicate in your expensive little outfit.
“I’m done with the arrangements, doll,” he said flatly. “You been comin’ in here week after week, flashin’ those pretty legs and expectin’ me to eat the cost every time. I ain’t runnin’ a charity.”
Your pout deepened, but there was a spark of something else in your eyes. Challenge, and growing heat, then you crossed your arms under your chest, deliberately pushing your tits up. “Then what do you want, Toji? Name your price.”
He looked you up and down slowly, taking in the short skirt, the way it barely covered the curve of your ass, the expensive stockings hugging your thighs. His cock twitched in his work pants, he had no more shame left today.
“I want you to sit that spoiled little ass of yours, down on the hood of your car,” he said, voice dropping into a dangerous growl. “And I want to eat that prissy pussy until you’re cryin’ and beggin’ me to stop. That’s my price. Take it or pay the full bill in cash right now.”
Your eyes widened, lips parting in genuine surprise. For once you were speechless. Toji smirked, stepping even closer until you had to tilt your head back to look up at him.
“What’s wrong, princess? Cat got your tongue?” he taunted softly. “You been teasin’ me for months. Time to put your money where your mouth is… or rather, put that pretty cunt where my mouth is.”
He didn’t wait for you to answer. His big, calloused hands grabbed your waist and lifted you effortlessly onto the hood of your expensive car. The metal was still warm from the engine. You gasped as he pushed your thighs apart, short skirt riding up to reveal lacy panties that were already damp.
Toji dropped to his knees right there on the dirty garage floor, not giving a single fuck about the grease or the hard concrete. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and dragged them down your legs, tossing them aside like they were nothing.
“Fuck… look at this spoiled little cunt,” he murmured, spreading your thighs wider with his rough palms. “All pretty and pink and already drippin’ for me. Been actin’ like such a prissy bitch but your pussy knows exactly what it wants.”
He leaned in and dragged his tongue slowly up your slit, groaning at the taste of you. Sweet and slick and so fucking wet. You whimpered, hands flying to his dark hair as he licked you again, slower this time, savoring every inch of your glossy folds.
Toji ate pussy like a man who had been starving for it. No shame, no hesitation. His scarred lips wrapped around your clit and sucked gently while his thick tongue flicked over the sensitive bud. Then he pushed his tongue inside your tight hole, fucking it in and out with wet, tangible sounds that echoed in the empty garage.
You moaned loudly, back arching on the hood as he devoured you. His big hands kept your thighs spread wide, thumbs digging into the soft flesh while he licked and sucked and kissed your cunt like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.
“Shit… you taste even better than I imagined, princess,” he growled against your pussy, voice muffled. “All sweet and spoiled. Been thinkin’ about buryin’ my face between these thighs every time you came in here whinin’ about your car.”
He sucked your clit harder, tongue swirling in fast circles around it until your legs started to shake. One thick finger pushed inside your tight heat, curling up to rub that spongy spot that made you see stars. Then another finger joined, stretching you open while he continued to lap at your clit, in broad licks.
Your hips bucked against his face, moans growing louder and more desperate. Toji didn’t let up, instead he fucked you with his fingers and tongue in perfect rhythm, sucking and licking until your pussy was creaming all over his mouth and chin.
You came hard on his tongue, crying out his name as your walls clenched around his fingers and fresh slick gushed onto his face. Toji groaned in satisfaction, drinking every drop like a man dying of thirst, lapping you clean while you trembled through the aftershocks.
But he wasn’t done.
He stood up, towering over you again, his cock straining painfully against his work pants. Grease still streaked his arms and chest, but he didn’t care. He yanked his belt open and shoved his pants down just enough to free his thick, heavy cock, it slapped up against his stomach, fat and veiny and already leaking precum.
“Turn over, princess,” he ordered, voice rough. “Hands up on the hood. I’m not finished collectin’ payment yet.”
You obeyed on shaky legs, turning around and bracing your hands on the warm hood as he pushed your skirt up around your waist. Toji gripped your hips hard and rubbed the blunt head of his cock through your soaked folds, coating himself in your cream.
“Gonna fuck your spoiled little cunt now,” he growled, pushing the fat tip inside your still fluttering hole. “Gonna stretch you wide open and fill you up until you understand who’s really in charge here.”
He sank into you in one slow, deep thrust, burying every inch until his hips were flush against your ass. You moaned loudly at the stretch, pussy clenching greedily around his thick length. Toji groaned, head falling back for a moment as he savored how tight and wet you felt wrapped around him.
Then he started fucking you properly.
Hard.. and deep, possessive strokes that made your tits bounce and your heels scrape against the concrete floor. The car rocked slightly under the force of his thrusts, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with your desperate moans and his low grunts.
“Fuck… y'er pussy's so tight, doll” he rasped, one hand sliding up your back to tangled in your hair and then his grip tightened on your curly locks. “Been teasin’ me for months and now you’re takin’ my cock like you were made for it, hah- such er' good little slut when you finally shut up and take it.”
Toji fucked you harder now, hips snapping forward, cock bullying its way against your cervix with every thrust. His free hand reached around to rub your clit in quick circles, pushing you toward another orgasm while he chased his own.
You came again with a broken mewl, pussy spasming violently around his cock as fresh cream coated his shaft. Toji growled and slammed into you a few more times before he buried himself deep and came hard, flooding your cunt with thick, hot ropes of cum.
He stayed inside you for a long moment, breathing heavy, cock twitching as he pumped the last drops into your pretty and utterly loved pussy.
When he finally pulled out, a thick glob of his cum leaked from your stretched hole and dripped down your thighs and onto the hood of your car, Toji smirked, slapping your ass lightly, as much as he wanted to leave his cum on there as a little decoration to your plain af paint job- his better judgement took hold and he wiped it off with his grease rag a moment later.
“Car’s fixed, princess,” he said, voice lazy brimming with satisfaction. “Next time you come in here with another fake problem, I’m bendin’ you over the workbench instead. And you’re gonna pay up front… with y'er pretty pretty cunt.”
You turned around on shaky legs, face flushed and eyes glassy, looking thoroughly fucked and far less prissy than when you'd first walked in.
Toji pulled his pants back up and tossed you your panties with a smug grin.
“Now get outta here before I decide I want seconds. Unless you wanna trade for an oil change too…”
He watched you drive away on still-trembling legs, already knowing you definitely would be back sooner than later.
And the next time? He wouldn’t be so patient about collecting payment.
"I know I can suck him off better than you," you scowl right at Satoru now, the two of you on your knees right in front of your boyfriend Suguru Geto - he raises a dark brow at the both of you.
"You're pretty good sweetheart," Satoru slips his fingers down your spine ever so slowly, goosebumps rising in a little trail. "You're not close to me though."
"Sugu, tell him," you pout all pretty - and he brushes your hair back, smiling down at you as your hand tries to wrap his thick, veiny cock. "I am so much better than Satoru at it, hmm?"
"Your throat is so much tighter..." Suguru moans, making Satoru glare his pretty blue eyes at both of you.
"Fuck you!?" Satoru scoffs, his jaw clicking he's so damn irritated, but also seeing your tongue lapping up the underside of Suguru's cock has his own twitching, the way you gather all that dripping white. "Calling me loose!?"
"Maybe."
"Hah!" You shove Satoru and he yanks at your hair. "Ow!"
"Why do I endure this?" He acts as if you're not arched all pretty in front of his boyfriend's cock, like he doesn't love to watch you choke on it - fuck it's almost as good as when you choke on his.
"Is my tongue better, too?" You murmur, feeling Satoru’s hand slide down your ass and smack the fuck out of it, it stings his hand is so damn big. "Ouch!?!?"
"Stop being bratty, Toru," Suguru just has him smirking, raising a brow - Satoru Gojo is a fucking brat. "Spit on it, princess."
You do the daintiest spit ever.
Satoru snorts, so you smack him again.
"Spit on it for her, since she's too cute to really do it." Satoru leans forward as Suguru orders, a thick glob of spit falling down to that reddened, pierced tip, you moan softly as Sugu tightens his hold on your hair, and you use Satoru's spit to glide his cock deep.
Satoru can't help but be mesmerized by it, his fingers pumping in and out of your slick cunt, making you whine out. The vibrations have Suguru's head falling back, moans escaping his throat, watching as you two make out so messy right over his tip.
When Satoru can't help but bend you over after, and stuffs your cunt full of his cock, Suguru’s thick length is slamming right in your throat, the two of them coating your walls and your mouth in white. Well... you and Satoru sort of forget the competition, especially when Suguru is eating Satoru's cum so eagerly from your pretty, abused cunt.
Satoru makes sure to lap every bit of Suguru's cum from your mouth, swallowing it down and moaning - before they've switched - and both men are swapping all those filthy fluids between their mouths with mean kisses. They use you - fucking you until you're a drooling mess in all three of your holes.
You're fucked out, your ears ringing, you're dizzy -
But you swear you hear a murmur in your ear that Gojo thinks he's won.
Then you hear another murmur after Gojo is snoring on the bed, and Suguru is pounding your cunt again though, with his hand wrapping right around a throat so sore from swallowing him? Satoru is long out, damn near drooling, and Suguru is making sure you feel every inch of him, lips on your ear.
"Guess what, princess?" He asks softly, squeezing at your pressure points. You gasp out, looking up at him, lashes fluttering.
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