#professor

Why does your new professor sound just like the guy you touch yourself to every night?

ASMRStreamerProf!Gojo x FanStudent!reader cw: fem!reader, SMUT, loooots of dirty talk (its kinda his job), college student reader, professor gojo, older gojo(maybe like late 20s and reader is early 20s), masturbation, teasing, degrading/praising, JOI (hihi), lots of whimpering groaning moaning, cursing, blackmail (gone wrong), noot proofread

"My pretty girl, I've missed you."

Within the lonely Wasteland, a hope emerges for an old tired soul

camboy choso x fem reader ـــــــــﮩ٨ـ

Summary: Choso is your fav camboy who just so happens to be your substitute professor for your anatomy class

Warnings: explicit sexual content

A/N: my other works ✎ masterlist (all art credits at the end)

The glow of your laptop screen was the only thing illuminating your bedroom at 2:00 a.m. You were curled on your side, the duvet kicked to the floor, your skin flushed a deep rose. On the monitor, BloodKing_M was adjusting his camera.

Choso was a vision of dark, messy aesthetics. He had permanent shadows under his eyes and a thick, horizontal mark across the bridge of his nose that gave him a rugged, dangerous edge. Tonight, he was wearing a sheer black compression shirt that clung to his broad shoulders, his large, veined hands resting casually on his thighs.

"Is it recording?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to settle right between your hip bones.

He didn't wait for the chat to explode with "Yes." He simply leaned back, his dark eyes staring directly into the lens as if he could see you through the digital divide. He began to slowly, methodically stroke the line of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he watched his own reflection.

Your hand slipped beneath the waistband of your silk shorts, your fingers finding the slick heat he always inspired. Every time he shifted, every time he let out a sharp, rhythmic exhale, you matched him. You spent a small fortune on "Gold Credits" just to make him look at the camera and whisper, "Good girl," a command that sent you over the edge every single time. To you, Choso was a ghost—a beautiful, erotic phantom you’d never touch in the light of day.

The next morning, the "Advanced Anatomy" lecture hall was freezing. You sat in the third row, nursing a black coffee, your mind still hazy with the memory of Choso’s private show. You were scrolling through your notes on the circulatory system when the heavy oak doors swung open.

"Good morning," a voice rumbled.

The coffee cup nearly slipped from your hand. That voice. It was deep, textured, and hauntingly familiar. You looked up, and your heart stopped. Standing at the podium, wearing a charcoal-grey turtleneck and silver-rimmed glasses, was the man from your screen. The messy, dual-pigtail hair was pulled back more neatly, but the mark across his nose was unmistakable.

"Professor Higgins is on medical leave," he said, setting a leather briefcase on the desk. "I’m Choso Kamo. I’ll be taking over your unit on the cardiovascular system."

The irony was a physical weight. You sat through the entire hour in a trance, watching his hands—the same hands you’d seen doing unspeakable things on a webcam—trace the diagram of a human heart on the whiteboard The lecture hall felt like it was shrinking, the oxygen replaced by the heavy, sandalwood scent of the man at the front of the room. You kept your head down, the brim of your hoodie acting as a shield, but your mind was a chaotic loop of the previous night. Every time Choso—Professor Kamo—spoke, the vibration of his voice triggered a phantom touch against your skin.

For the next three days, you became a ghost. You arrived exactly one minute before the lecture started and bolted the second it ended. You stopped sitting in the third row, retreating to the very back where the shadows were deepest.

But Choso was observant. In his "BloodKing_M" persona, he was used to watching for subtle cues, and in the classroom, he was no different. During a lab session on Friday, you were hunched over a microscope, desperately trying to focus on a slide of cardiac muscle fibers.

"The striations are easier to see if you adjust the fine focus, Y/N."

You jumped, your chair screeching against the linoleum. He was standing right behind you. Up close, the silver-rimmed glasses didn't make him look like a teacher; they made him look like a predator playing dress-up. The horizontal mark across his nose seemed to pulse.

"I... I have it, thank you," you stammered, refusing to look up.

"Do you?" He leaned over, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder. The warmth radiating from him was the same heat you’d imagined while curled under your duvet. "You’ve been avoiding my eyes all week. Is my teaching style... unsatisfactory?"

"No! It’s fine. I just... I have a headache." You grabbed your bag and fled the lab before he could say another word, leaving him staring at your vacant stool with a look of calculated curiosity.

That night, you couldn't help yourself. You needed the distance of the screen to feel safe again. You logged on, spent the credits, and waited. When the feed flickered to life, Choso wasn't in his usual sheer shirt. He was wearing the same charcoal turtleneck from the lecture, the top buttons undone.

"I had a strange week," he told the camera, his voice dropping into that gravelly register that made your breath hitch. "A student in my 'day job' keeps running away from me. It makes me wonder what she’s hiding."

Your heart thundered. Did he know? No, it was impossible. There were thousands of viewers. But as your hand slid back into that familiar, aching rhythm, Choso leaned forward, his dark eyes piercing the lens.

"I think she knows my secrets," he whispered, his hand moving to the hem of his shirt. "I think she watches me just like you do. Are you watching right now, little student?"

The coincidence was too sharp, the tension too high. You reached your peak with a shattered gasp, your name for him dying on your lips as the screen went black.

On Monday, you tried to skip. You stayed in the library, tucked into a corner, but a shadow fell over your desk.

"Office hours aren't optional when you're failing my labs," Choso said. He wasn't wearing the glasses today. He looked tired, dangerous, and entirely too much like the man from the screen.

He led you to his private office and locked the door behind him. The click of the deadbolt sounded like a gunshot.

"Sit," he commanded. You sank into the leather chair. He didn't sit behind his desk; he leaned against it, looming over you. "Why do you shake when I get close to you, Y/N? And why did you look so... satisfied... during my stream on Friday night?"

The blood drained from your face. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I recognized the username," he rumbled, reaching out to tilt your chin up with a single, gloved finger. "The one who spends a fortune to hear me say 'Good girl.' I tracked the IP. Imagine my surprise when it pointed back to the campus dorms. Specifically, yours."

The silence in the room was electric. You expected judgment, but his gaze was hungry.

"You've been watching me through a glass wall," he whispered, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "Don't you want to know if I'm as real as I look?"

He didn't give you a choice. He turned his laptop around on the desk, the webcam already glowing blue.

"Tonight’s show is going to be different," he said, pulling you up from the chair until you were pressed against the edge of the desk. "They’ve been asking for a guest. I think it’s time I gave them what they paid for."

He clicked 'Start Stream.' The chat began to scroll at light speed, but you couldn't see it. You could only see him. Choso pulled you between his knees, his hands—those large, veined hands—sliding under your skirt.

"Say hello to the class, Y/N," he breathed against your ear.

As he began to touch you, the boundary between your secret world and your reality dissolved. He was methodical, his fingers finding your slick heat with the precision of an anatomist. You clung to his shoulders, your head arching back as he moved with a slow, agonizing rhythm.

"Look at the camera," he commanded, his voice a low vibration that vibrated through your entire body. "Show them how good you're taking it."

When he finally moved to join you, pushing aside his clothes to press his hard length against you, the intensity was overwhelming. This wasn't a digital ghost; this was the weight of him, the scent of him, and the sharp, rhythmic exhales that you had matched for months.

As you both broke under the pressure of the moment, Choso leaned in, whispering a final, gravelly "Good girl" directly into your ear—not for the thousands watching, but only for you.

The desk was cold against your skin, a sharp contrast to the scorching heat of Choso’s body. He didn't stop at the initial rush; he was a man who thrived on endurance, and now that he had his favorite viewer in the flesh, he intended to explore every inch of the "anatomy" he’d been lecturing on.

He hiked your legs up over his broad shoulders, his dark eyes never leaving yours even as he adjusted the laptop to ensure the camera caught the curve of your arched back. The chat was a blurred frantic strobe of white text on the screen, but the only thing that mattered was the weight of Choso’s hands pinning your wrists to the mahogany desk.

"You've spent so many nights touching yourself to my voice," he rasped, his breath hot against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. "Tell me, Y/N... am I better than the screen?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He drove into you with a slow, agonizingly deep thrust that forced a high, shattered cry from your throat. His movements were rhythmic and punishing, echoing the same deliberate pace he used during his solo streams, but the friction was real now—searing and visceral.

Every time his hips collided with yours, the laptop vibrated, making the digital feed shake. He reached out, his long fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back, exposing the line of your throat. He began to trail wet, biting kisses down to your collarbone, marking you with the same intensity he brought to his persona.

"Look at them, Y/N," he whispered, his voice dropping to that dangerous, "BloodKing" growl. He forced you to look at the monitor, where thousands of strangers were watching the silhouette of your bodies entwine. "They’re jealous. They’ve been throwing credits at me for months just to get a glimpse of what I’m doing to you right now."

The Taboo of the setting—the locked professor's office, the glowing blue light of the webcam, the risk of a security guard rattling the door—sent a fresh wave of heat through your veins. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your nails digging into the charcoal fabric of his turtleneck.

Choso let out a low, guttural groan, his composure finally fracturing. He abandoned the "performance" for the camera, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his pace became frantic and raw. He was no longer the calculated cam boy or the composed professor; he was a man possessed by the reality of the person he’d only ever seen through a digital divide.

When the final, white-hot wave crashed over both of you, Choso held you tightly, his chest heaving against yours. He reached over and, with a flick of his wrist, ended the stream without a word of goodbye to his subscribers. The sudden silence of the office was deafening, broken only by the sound of your synchronized breathing.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb tracing the horizontal mark across his nose, then moving down to wipe a stray tear from your cheek. The silver-rimmed glasses lay forgotten on the floor.

"I think," he murmured, his voice returning to the quiet, textured tone of the classroom, "we should move the rest of this unit to my apartment. I have much more... advanced equipment there."

He stood up, adjusting his clothes with a practiced ease before offering you his hand. As you took it, the power dynamic shifted once more. He wasn't just a phantom on a screen anymore, and you weren't just a face in the crowd. You were the only one who knew exactly what lay beneath the Professor's charcoal sweater, and he was the only one allowed to see the girl behind the "Gold Credits."

The walk to his car was a blur of adrenaline and stinging skin. Choso led you through the darkened faculty parking lot, his hand a heavy, possessive weight on the small of your back. He didn't speak until the doors of his black sedan clicked shut, sealing you both in a cocoon of leather and the lingering scent of his sandalwood cologne.

"My apartment is ten minutes away," he said, his voice dropping into that low, vibratory register that bypassed your ears and went straight to your core. "Ten minutes for you to decide if you want to walk away, Y/N. Because once we cross that threshold, I’m not just your professor, and I’m not just a man on a screen. I’m yours. Completely."

You didn't need ten minutes. You reached over, your fingers trembling slightly as you traced the thick, horizontal scar across the bridge of his nose. He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a brief, vulnerable second before he shifted the car into gear.

His apartment was exactly like his stream backdrop, but more intimate—dimly lit by amber Edison bulbs, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a high-end camera setup in the corner that looked like a shrine to his secret life.

The second the door locked, Choso didn't hesitate. He pulled you against the nearest wall, his body a solid, muscular wall of heat. He stripped off his charcoal turtleneck in one fluid motion, tossing it aside to reveal the full extent of his physique—broad, scarred shoulders and the intricate ink that spiraled down his arms, details the webcam’s compression had always blurred.

"I’ve spent months imagining what you looked like beneath those oversized hoodies in the back of my hall," he muttered, his hands sliding under the hem of your shirt. "The way your pulse jumps when I look at you... I could see it from the podium."

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you toward the sprawling bed that sat in the center of the room. He laid you back against the silk sheets—the same ones you had seen him sprawl across at 2:00 a.m.—and stood over you, unbuckling his belt with a slow, agonizing deliberation.

"In class, I taught you about the heart," he whispered, kneeling between your legs. "But tonight, we’re going to focus on the nervous system. Specifically, how much stimulation yours can handle before you break."

He started with his mouth, a devastatingly thorough exploration of your skin. He moved from your collarbone to the sensitive dip of your waist, his stubble grazing your thighs until you were a localized storm of friction and desire. When he finally replaced his lips with his fingers, he was clinical yet cruel, finding the exact pressure points that made your toes curl into the mattress.

"Please," you gasped, your fingers tangling in his dark, messy hair. "Choso, now. Please."

"Patience, Y/N," he rumbled, looking up at you with eyes that were dark with a mix of affection and hunger. "A good student doesn't rush the results."

When he finally merged his body with yours, it was a slow, tectonic shift. He entered you with a steady, relentless force, filling the void that months of digital longing had created. He wasn't performing for the thousands of 'Gold Credit' holders now; he was focused entirely on the hitch in your breath and the way your hips rose to meet his.

He pinned your hands above your head, his large, veined fingers interlocking with yours. The pace increased, a rhythmic, driving intensity that echoed the frantic drumming of your heart. Every thrust was deep and purposeful, a physical manifestation of the obsession that had been building on both sides of the screen.

"You're not watching a phantom anymore," he groaned, his forehead resting against yours, damp with sweat. "Tell me my name. Not the one on the screen."

"Choso," you sobbed, the pleasure peaking into something sharp and blinding. "Choso... please, don't stop."

The sound of your voice saying his real name—not the digital alias, but the name he carried through the halls of the university—seemed to snap the last thread of his professional restraint. Choso’s grip on your wrists tightened, pinning them into the silk pillows as he began to move with a raw, unbridled ferocity. He was no longer the calculated cam boy performing for an audience; he was a man reclaiming the woman who had haunted his thoughts since he first saw her in that freezing lecture hall.

The amber light from the Edison bulbs cast long, dancing shadows across his scarred back as he drove into you. Each thrust was deep and possessive, a silent demand for your total attention. He watched your face with a predatory focus, tracking the way your eyes rolled back and the way your lips parted in a silent, breathless plea.

"I can feel your heart racing, Y/N," he rasped, leaning down so his lips brushed your ear. his voice was a low, textured vibration that sent a fresh wave of heat through your nervous system. "Is it the 'Advanced Anatomy' lesson you wanted? Or is it just me?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He shifted his weight, pulling your legs even higher until your knees were pressed toward your chest, exposing you completely to his gaze. He began to trail wet, biting kisses along your inner thighs, marking the pale skin with dark roses that would serve as a reminder of this night long after the sun rose.

As the tension coiled tighter and tighter within you, Choso slowed his pace, deliberately teasing you with shallow, agonizingly slow movements. He watched as you writhed beneath him, your fingers clawing at the silk sheets in a desperate search for friction.

"Look at me," he commanded, his thumb coming up to trace the horizontal mark across his nose.

When you forced your eyes open, you saw the dark, swirling hunger in his gaze. He looked like a man possessed. "Tell me you're mine," he rumbled. "Not just a viewer. Not just a student. Tell me you belong here, in this bed, with me."

"I'm yours," you gasped, the words caught in the back of your throat as he suddenly surged forward, filling you completely. "Choso, I’m yours."

The confession was the catalyst. He began to move with a frantic, rhythmic intensity, his breath hitching in time with yours. The room seemed to disappear, leaving nothing but the scent of sandalwood, the friction of skin on skin, and the overwhelming proximity of the man you had worshipped from a distance.

When the peak finally hit, it was a blinding, white-hot explosion that shattered your senses. You clung to his broad shoulders, your nails digging into his back as you called out his name one last time. Choso followed you almost immediately, his body tensing into a rigid cord of muscle before he collapsed against you, his forehead resting in the crook of your neck.

The silence that followed was heavy and saturated with the aftermath of their collision. Choso didn't pull away; he stayed joined to you, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. After a long moment, he shifted, pulling the heavy duvet over both of you and tucking your head under his chin.

"You're staying," he murmured, his voice thick with a possessive warmth that made your heart skip a beat. "I have a lot more to teach you before our next lecture, and I don't think ten minutes is going to be nearly enough."

As you drifted off to sleep, the last thing you felt was the press of his lips against your forehead and the steady, grounding rhythm of his heart—the same heart you had spent hours studying on a whiteboard, now beating only for you.

xo iris

A/N: help me out on the art creds cus they were all found on pinterest | I didn't proof-read so if there are any mistakes, pretend they aren't there.. Also hey guys! im back.. Ish? I recently got my own place and it's been rough, but this is an old fic I wrote before I was kicked out so just enjoy and ill write some more!

Another late night, another late night activity

contents: make out, spit, la casa de papel but ellie is the professor 😛😛, face sitting implied, loser ellie, loser ellie getting confident

wc: 733

Your back hits the wall as the Professor pushes you against it. She's all over you, hand roaming under your shirt and under your bra to get access to your tit, thigh between yours and free hand pulling at your hair.

If anyone saw it, wouldn't guess she was a virgin just a week ago.

“Professor,” you moan into her mouth before she pulls at your hair enough to move your head to the side and give her access to your neck.

She doesn't mind her glasses getting in the way, she bites you, fully bites at your soft skin. You almost scream in pain, but she's fast to soothe the pain with wet kisses.

She's slowly learning your reactions and studying every movement, every brush of fingers that makes you wet. The professor is being a nerd about you, about sex.

“Biting at your neck makes you feel pain but also pleasure, since I could feel your thighs clenching around mine. Noted.” she murmurs completely to herself, forgetting or not minding that you can hear her.

A sweet laugh leaves your swollen lips.

“You're such a loser”

She presses you harder against the wall, taking off your shirt and making a mess of your hair. She doesn’t take the hair out of the way when she kisses you again, it's disgusting, really.

But you let her, because she tastes like corruption; it's your big prize for corrupting a thing that was always so tidy and in place all the fucking time. Now, she's always messy and needy, just because of you.

“I'm not a loser, I'm just introverted” she says with a pout before she lets go of your lips and takes a step back, fixing her glasses to stare at you entirely.

Bra with one cup under your tit, hot face, hair everywhere, lips swollen, eyes glassy. And all of it, all of it, because of a loser, like you said.

You bite your lip at her, not minding to fix yourself, you know she likes what she sees.

You push yourself out of the wall and take small steps towards her, tangling her tie around your hand and guiding her to the bed.

Of course she follows you, she obeys like a dog on a leash.

Her body falls harshly against the mattress and you waste no time to completely remove your bra – leaving you in just your sleeping boxers, as always – and sit on her lap.

The Professor stands on her elbows and stares at you with spit dripping from her mouth – she let it open for too long.

You pull at her tie to get her face closer to you so you can clean her spit with the back of your hand, and smile at her. You almost can see her head spinning.

She's mesmerized.

“You're so fucking hot” she says slowly, taking time to pronounce every word as if her brain is picking up the letters to form each one of them.

“Yeah? You think so, Professor?”

She nods, of course she does.

You can see in the way she fixes her glasses one last time, that she's about to beg, and you love this time of the night.

“Please.” just as you said.

“Please what, baby?”

“Oh my god you're so fucking hot. Please, please let me taste you.” that caught you off guard.

You almost forgot how to breathe. Your nerdy little loser is beginning to have a mind of her own? Oh god this is so cute!

“If you want to…”

Before you start to move so you can get out of her, to trade positions so she can eat you – obviously – she holds your thighs in place.

“No.”

You look at her confused.

“Baby, I need to lay down so you can have your meal”

She shakes her head no.

“I want my meal to sit on my mouth”

You're shocked, mouth opening and all. You take a couple of seconds to assimilate it all, but you accept it. So you move your hands to remove her glasses for her.

She shoves your hand away. What is going on with her tonight?

“My glasses stays on”

“But professor–”

“Just fucking sit!”

u r probably going to break her glasses with your body weight or not idk about glasses or anything im actually a virgin

ઇ taglist ! @cherrybomb61 , @ssssduction , @kaykaifxck , @wqodwzrd , @lilicemito , @sani-sunny , @uniquewombatexpert , @seasonsofchaos , @ylxiru