user-voidx

[user-voidx]

alr so been a little busy with some stuff but will get to writing that part two of the yuji fic

[user-voidx]

mmmmm soo obsessed with dirty fuckers when it comes to sex and i think toji falls hard in this lane because he don’t just fuck you — he devours your fat, wet pussy like a beast starved for every juicy inch.

he starts slow, that thick, swollen cock sliding deep inside you, teasing, tasting, making you feel every thick vein, every inch of that jacob’s ladder piercing scraping and digging into your tight, dripping walls with that nasty, sharp friction that has your pussy clenching like crazy.

then he grabs your hips hard enough to bruise, hauling you down onto him and fucking you like you’re the only fucking thing keeping him sane. savage, rough, relentless — pounding deep, balls slapping your soft ass, hips snapping like thunder, filling you up so completely you can’t even think straight.

his hands don’t just touch, they claim every inch — fingers digging into your thick waist, nails raking your soft thighs, pulling you closer until your breath comes out in shaky, desperate gasps.

his mouth is hot on your neck, teeth sinking in while he growls filthy shit in your ear — telling you how nasty you are for dripping all over his cock, how he’s gonna fuck that thick pussy raw, leave marks nobody else can see.

you’re dripping, soaked and slick, grinding back on him even as he pushes harder, faster, making you beg for more, the sting of his jacob’s ladder piercing driving you wild with a twisted mix of pain and pure fucking pleasure.

he flips you over without warning, spreading that fat ass wide, slapping and squeezing those cheeks like he’s marking you, fucking you raw from behind while dragging his tongue slow and cruel over your spine, biting and licking as he sinks balls deep again and again.

then he drags you up to the edge of the bed, shoving that thick cock inside slow and deep, grinding into your soft, juicy body like he’s burying himself in you forever, hands roaming every curve, kneading your thick thighs and rolling your heavy breasts possessively.

but toji’s just getting started.

he flips you again, legs thrown over his shoulders, balls deep, pounding your dripping pussy like a man possessed. one hand presses hard against your clit, rubbing fast and merciless, while the other slides fingers inside you, stretching your slick walls open, curling just right to send you spiraling into insanity.

you scream his name, trembling and dripping, every nerve on fire from the filthy, brutal worship he’s giving your thick, needy pussy.

he pulls out slick and leaking but keeps those fingers inside, tasting your juices like the filthy addict he is, then slides back in slow, deep, possessive, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he marks you like his own goddamn property.

“mine,” he rasps, voice thick with hunger and obsession.

and you’re gone — fucked raw, dripping wet, mind spinning, utterly wrecked and owned by the nastiest, dirtiest fucker (literally) you’ll ever know.

[user-voidx]

cause I'm really lost here and i have all these ideas don't know which one to write

[user-voidx]

I simply MUST have more best friend Yuji. I am also a gigantic fan of the perv Yuji agenda. Because he’s definitely a huge pervert.

I agree wholeheartedlyyyy , he’s absolutely the biggest closeted pervert out there! And omg, I’ve gotten so many requests for a part two, there’s no way I'm not abt to write it

[user-voidx]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE i’m on my literal HANDS AN KNEES PROOF WILL BE PROVIDED IF NECESSARY

MAKE THAT SUGURU ONE SHOT A SERIES I BEG I WILL LITERALLY PAY

anyways stay hot diva

anon 🍓

STOP 😭 not you on your literal hands and knees over suguru… you’re actually so real for that .the way this message just boosted my ego??

come off your hands and knees, my love. i’m trying not to laugh over here.

the suguru agenda is STRONG, and honestly? a series isn’t the worst idea i’ve heard today. you might’ve just planted a really dangerous seed in my brain....

i love your energy, seriously.

thanks so much for the ask, really appreciate it.

[user-voidx]

back from my “few days” break 😅 i’m still kinda new here so opening my notifs and seeing all these likes, new followers, and sweet messages?? was not expecting my stuff to get noticed like that at all y’all are actually the sweetest.

it’s crazy cause when i made this blog, i didn’t think anyone would really care about what i post, and now i’m coming back to all this?? feels so nice and i’m honestly so grateful.

gonna start going through the asks + messages now, so if you sent something, you’re on my list. thank you for making this space feel so welcoming and for making coming back this fun <3

[user-voidx]

okay gonna be gone for a few days. got an event to attend and help plan so i’ll be a bit occupied. feel free to drop your jjk requests while i’m away and i’ll go through them when i’m back

[user-voidx]

the genuine confusion i had seeing the last anon not understand that,, was it really not obvious that it was an adult AU-----

came across your work recently but i like how you write! look forward to seeing more of you on my feed

right? it was so clearly college au 😭 some people really just ignore context and go straight to outrage. but seriously, thank you so much for reading and for the kind words, i’m really glad you’re here and I hope you stick around

[user-voidx]

i genuinely don’t understand why people need to say “oh but he’s a minor!” he’s FICTIONAL. age him up to the age that makes you comfortable. either way if we’re talking about jjk, Megumi for example, he’s born in 2002. He isnt a minor.

i understand where people come from when they say this, but these characters are *fictional.* Like why are you getting mad at someone over writing about a minor that they explicitly state is AGED UP or by reading the fic, is obvious that they are. not. minors.

im so sorry u had to deal with someone stating so rudely “why are u writing porn about a 15 year old,” because if they used their heads, it would be obvious they they aren’t minors in our current timeline and that they are aged up.

thank you sm for this, i really appreciate the way you said it too. it’s not about dismissing people’s concerns entirely, but there’s a difference between 'i’m worried about boundaries' and 'jumping to moral outrage without even skimming the context'. megumi being born in 2002 makes him 22 now, and in my one fic of him, he’s portrayed as an adult. i totally get wanting to be mindful about age, but context matters. media literacy matters. nuance matters. so thank you again for being thoughtful while defending that point. it really means a lot

[user-voidx]

why are you writing porn about a 15 year old

just to clear it up, i never actually aged up yuji or megumi or mentioned their ages in any of my fics, so that’s on me. i’m adding that now tho. but if you read the vibes and how things go down, it’s pretty obvious they’re adults. no minors here.

[user-voidx]

Blasphemy

feat. Gojo Satoru

cw: obsessive thoughts, religious themes + kink, innocence fixation, suggestive content, suit-straining arousal, Gojo being unhinged and unsaintly(in thoughts alone). yh..

Satoru had every intention of being on his best behavior today. Suit crisp, hair gelled back, not a single joke about death or heaven on his tongue. His grandmother was sick. Fragile. Resting. He owed her quiet, dignity, and presence.

But then you walked in, and all of that good intention turned to rot.

He didn’t even know your name yet.

All he knew was that you stepped into the hospital room behind his grandmother’s friend, your face soft and calm, the folds of your long black habit moving like water as you walked. That white veil framed your pretty, round face like you were carved out of sugar and devotion. Head bowed. Hands folded. A cross swinging gently over the slope of your tits.

And Satoru got hard in two seconds flat.

His cock pressed up stiff against the zipper of his suit pants. It throbbed — literally throbbed — just from watching you stand there quietly and smile at the old women. Your voice, when you finally spoke, was like honey warming on a stove. Gentle. Unshaken. Pure.

And that only made it worse.

Because it wasn’t just your body that wrecked him, though God, you had the kind of body that didn’t belong in any church — thick thighs hidden under too much fabric, a soft belly that peeked from behind your folded arms when you knelt, tits full and heavy even in modest clothes.

It was the innocence. The way you looked down when his grandma smiled at you. The way you started to pray like you actually meant it. Like your heart was clean. Like your mouth had never been fucked. Like your pussy had never been touched — not by you, not by anyone.

He wanted to be the one to touch it.

Satoru’s cock throbbed again, painfully. He adjusted his hips in the hospital chair as discreetly as he could, eyes devouring you through dark tinted lenses. He didn’t look away when you dropped to your knees beside his grandmother’s bed, whispering quiet prayers for her healing, your soft lips parting gently as your voice hummed through the silence.

And all he could think about was ruining you.

His brain flooded with filth:

Your thighs around his face, trembling.

Your cunt stretched around his cock, dripping.

Your mouth gagging on him in a bathroom stall while your rosary beads clinked against the tile.

You looked like you were ready to be devoured.

He imagined dragging you into the hospital chapel, pushing you down onto the altar with your habit still on, skirts shoved up to your waist. Imagined splitting you open on his cock while you cried, hands gripping the crucifix around your neck like it might save you from what he was doing.

And you’d try to fight it. He could see it. Hear it. That little trembling gasp as he rubbed his fingers over your panties, found you soaked through. You’d whisper please, voice cracking, eyes wide.

Please, we shouldn’t.

Please, it’s wrong.

Please, I’ve never…

That word would break him. Never.

Never been kissed like that. Never been fingered on holy ground. Never been stretched until your walls shook around the thick weight of him, sobbing into his shoulder, begging for mercy.

He’d give you none.

Satoru’s hand curled into a fist on his thigh, cock thick and leaking behind his zipper, pre soaking through his briefs. He could feel it. Sticky. Hot. His whole body tense.

You kept praying.

And that just made it worse.

You didn’t look at him once. Not once. Like you didn’t feel his eyes crawling over you, dragging across your tits, your thighs, the back of your neck where soft curls peeked beneath your veil. You didn’t seem to notice how fucking dangerous it was to kneel in front of him like that with your soft little mouth moving like a goddamn hymn.

He wanted to spit in that mouth. He wanted to ruin your voice.

God forgive him, he wanted to hear what that sweet voice sounded like choking on his cock.

He closed his eyes briefly, jaw tight. Tried to breathe. Tried to pull his thoughts back to the room.

And then his grandmother stirred in bed.

“Satoru?”

His grandmother’s voice cut through the haze, fragile but sharp. His eyes opened.

Fuck. He forgot she was awake.

He turned slowly and lifted his sunglasses, eyes meeting hers.

“Yeah, grandma?”

Her cloudy gaze drifted past him, settling on you kneeling softly by the bed. Her wrinkled mouth curved into a knowing smile.

“She’s pretty,” she said quietly. “You should go to church more often.”

Gojo nearly choked on his own breath.

You didn’t hear her—you were still murmuring prayers, head bowed, unaware of the storm behind his eyes.

He turned back toward the bed, lips curving into a devilish smirk. His voice dropped low, dark with promise.

“I just might."

She chuckled, falling back into the bed, eyes closed, listening.

And you?

You stayed kneeling, hands clasped.

Praying.

Completely unaware that Satoru Gojo was staring at you with his cock hard as steel in a suit tailored for elegance, biting his tongue so he didn’t groan, imagining what your pussy would feel like if he bent you over that little side table and whispered dirty scripture into your ear while you cried for both of them — God and him.

[user-voidx]

Two Months Too Long

poor gojo just wants his lovely wife to himself… but the house has been way too full.

gojo x female!reader, nsfw, virgin!reader, mdni

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

You loved your family. You loved his friends. You’d smiled through every gathering, every sudden visit, every “we were just in the neighborhood” moment that somehow ended in sleepovers and breakfast for six. You didn’t complain. You didn’t want to be ungrateful. They were happy for your marriage, and you were too.

But two months?

Two whole months.

Not one single night to yourselves. Not one uninterrupted moment where you could curl into your husband's arms and let him touch you the way he wanted to. The way he needed to.

And Gojo—bless him—had been trying.

At first, it was teasing: a soft groan against your ear as he passed behind you in the kitchen. Wandering hands beneath the blanket during movie nights, barely concealed under the weight of guests spread across your couch. Quick kisses that left your lips tingling and your thighs pressed together beneath your sundress.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not for him.

And definitely not for you.

Because it didn’t stop there.

By week three, Gojo’s restraint had worn paper-thin. He was constantly behind you. Pressing against your back in the hallway, brushing his lips over your shoulder while pretending to reach for something overhead. His palm would rest just a little too long on your waist when people were watching—but when they weren’t?

He’d dip low and whisper filth against your skin. Hot, needy things that made your face flush and your thighs ache. Things he meant.

“m'Gonna come in my pants if you keep sitting like that, baby…”

“Can’t even look at you without thinking about how good that pussy’s gonna feel wrapped around me.”

“Bet you’re dripping under that little dress, huh? All soft and untouched and mine.”

You’d wake up in the middle of the night with his arms around your waist and his hard-on pressed firm into your ass. Sometimes he’d rut against you in his sleep, breath hitching, hand sliding beneath your shirt, just resting there. Shaking with need.

By the end of week six, you were both losing it.

He wouldn’t let you bend over in front of him anymore. Wouldn’t let you wear certain dresses in the house. Wouldn’t sit on the same couch during movie night because he knew he’d end up pulling you onto his lap, rocking you against his clothed cock until you soaked through your panties.

You were holding your breath every damn day. Hiding the way your nipples hardened when he walked in the room. The way your core throbbed just from watching him clench his jaw in frustration. The way you got wet when he looked at you like he might say fuck it—consequences be damned—and take you right there on the kitchen counter.

Eventually, you both agreed on the “pillow rule.”

Something. Anything to keep the peace. To keep your hands to yourselves. At night, you'd sleep with a firm pillow between your bodies like a pathetic little chastity belt. You both laughed the first night—Gojo called it “the cockblock cushion”—but now?

Now?

Now the pillow was discarded on the floor.

You sat on his lap, legs sprawled over his, your cotton sleep shirt hitched up around your waist, the only barrier long gone. His deep, shaky breaths fanned the back of your neck, nose pressed into your skin like he couldn’t get close enough.

“I can’t—ngghhh,” you whimpered, hips twitching at the slow, maddening drag of his fingers inside you.

“Shh, baby. Shh,” he whispered again, kissing the shell of your ear, voice thick and desperate. “Quiet. They’re still here.”

And they were.

His best friend was passed out on the downstairs couch. Your cousin and her boyfriend had taken the guest room. Someone else had claimed the pull-out. The house was full—every room but this one.

But you couldn’t care.

Not when his fingers were moving like that—slow and deep and so damn intentional. Curling just right. Knuckles pressing against the lips of your pussy, dragging slick sounds from your core that you both prayed the fan would drown out.

His abs clenched hard beneath your back every time you fluttered around his fingers. “I know it’s a lot, baby,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your jaw, “I know it feels so good, but we need this…”

And god, you did.

His hands didn’t stop. One arm wrapped tight around your middle, palm flat and firm over the plush of your stomach like he loved the way you filled his hands. The other worked between your thighs with slow, desperate care—slick, messy strokes hidden only by the hush of your shallow breathing and the fan humming overhead.

Your body arched helplessly, thighs trembling around him, every curve aching with the heat he’d stirred up for weeks. Your fingers dug into his forearm where it circled your belly. You felt stretched and full and so warm, everything pulsing with years of restraint unraveling in seconds. The press of his palm against your mound sent sparks up your spine, and you bit your lip so hard you tasted copper.

“I-I thought we were waiting,” you breathed out, voice soft and broken, barely there.

“We were,” Gojo said, dragging his lips down your neck, tongue flicking out to soothe the spot he’d just kissed. “But I waited through the wedding. Waited through the honeymoon we never got. Waited through eight goddamn weeks of company—of you walking around in little nightgowns with no idea how close I was to losing it.”

He curled his fingers inside you then, slow and deep.

And then—you felt it.

His other hand trailing upward, warm and steady as it cupped your breast, fingers slipping beneath your shirt to find your nipple.

Gojo groaned—deep and strained, like even he couldn’t take it anymore.

His thumb brushed over your nipple in slow, circling strokes, teasing it to a stiff peak before giving it a gentle tug. You shuddered, keening softly.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “So soft. So fuckin’ perfect everywhere. I could spend hours on these tits alone.”

He twisted gently, just enough to make your hips jolt and your walls flutter around his fingers. It was too much—his hand on your nipple, his fingers inside you, his mouth dragging kisses over your cheek like you were the only thing he believed in.

“Good girl,” he rasped, kissing your cheek again, then down to your jaw. “My good girl. Look how fuckin’ pretty you are like this.”

You were soaked.

Messy.

So full of him you thought you might cry.

“I-it’s too much,” you gasped, eyes fluttering, voice high and breathless. “Feels so good—too good, I never—oh my god—I never felt like this…”

You rambled helplessly, your thoughts unraveling like thread, hips rolling without control.

And when you clenched hard, back arching, mouth dropping open in a sharp, helpless moan—Gojo felt it.

His breath caught—then he moaned, low and guttural, thrusting up against your plush ass with barely concealed need. And just as your cry spilled out, his hand slipped from your breast to your mouth, covering it quickly, palm broad and warm against your lips.

He panted against your ear, voice trembling with restraint. “Oh fuck—there she is. That sweet little virgin cunt just milking my fingers,” he whispered, filthy and low. “So tight for me. So perfect.”

You whined into his palm, whole body shaking. The pressure was unbearable now—sharp and tight and growing—your thighs trembling, stomach tightening with every curl of his fingers and every flick of his thumb.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he murmured again, his hand never slowing. “Wanna feel you soak my fingers. Right here in our bed, while everyone else sleeps. Want you to make a mess for me. Wanna see you squirt all over my fuckin’ hand.”

You whimpered, nodded—helpless.

And with one final stroke—his fingers curling deep, his thumb flicking faster, his teeth nipping your earlobe—you shattered.

Trembling, gasping beneath his hand, you came hard—sensitive, overwhelmed, wetness gushing down your thighs as you squirted for the first time in your life. Your whole body jerked, your chubby frame spasming in his lap while your pussy clenched around his fingers like a vice.

Gojo groaned against your ear, holding you down with one arm like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“Fuck, fuck—that’s it,” he moaned, kissing your cheek as you writhed. “That’s my girl. You’re mine, baby. You’re all mine.”

He held you through it, his free arm still tight around your waist, his lips never leaving your face—your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—whispering praises while you came apart in his lap.

Only when your body finally sagged against him, limp and breathless, did he move his hand from your mouth and kiss you, slow and deep and full of all the things he hadn’t said.

“I love you,” he breathed against your lips.

[user-voidx]

yuji itadori doesn’t mean to break you.

he’s all sunshine and sweetness — wide shoulders, pink hair, the kind of boy who helps old ladies with their bags and says “bless you” when people sneeze.

and he has no idea that every time he hugs you (tight, arms low, cheek pressed to your temple), he’s giving you another reason to lose your mind when you’re alone.

because he’s big. he’s warm. and he doesn’t pull away when your thick thighs brush his or when your soft belly presses against his abs.

you try to be normal. polite. sweet.

but then there’s him, stretching beside you in a tank top, moaning about how sore his muscles are. tossing his hoodie off like it doesn’t drive you crazy. and laughing — always laughing — in that boyish, god-help-me way that makes you think about things you shouldn’t.

like riding his thigh. or sitting on his face until you cry. or letting him hold your wrists while he pushes his big, meaty cock into your weeping cunt.

“you okay?” he asks one day, blinking those honey eyes at you.

no. you’re not. you’re soaked and sinful and ruined just from looking at him.

but you smile. you nod. because you’re a good girl.

and good girls don’t beg to be split in two by their best friend.

[user-voidx]

choso has those sleepy eyes.

hooded, heavy-lidded, always looking like he just woke up from the kind of nap that ends with a blunt. but when they’re fixed on you?

your thick body stretched across his sheets, thighs soft and spread, belly rising with every shaky breath— those sleepy eyes turn hungry.

he doesn’t talk much. never really did. but now? now he’s got his face buried between your thighs, nose pressed to your clit, tongue deep and slow and fucking obsessed—and the only sounds in the room are your gasps and the wet, disgusting suck of his mouth as he devours you like it’s instinct.

he doesn’t move fast. choso eats you like a man starved, not greedy.

focused.

like your pussy is the answer to a question he’s been asking for years.

and the way he groans when you clench? filthy. his eyes flutter shut, lashes brushing your belly as he grinds his face deeper into you, like he wants to drown in your sweetness.

"you’re gonna crush me, baby," he mumbles, voice muffled by your thighs. but he doesn’t sound scared. he sounds hopeful.

you whimper, hips jerking, thighs trembling around his head.

he drags his tongue slow—too slow—right up your slit and then just… stays there. mouth hovering. breath hot. staring up at you with those half-lidded eyes like he’s waiting for permission he’s already taken.

"don’t run," he says softly. "you asked for this."

you did. you asked. begged. cried on his lap about how no one ever took their time with you—how guys always skipped the good part.

so now?

he’s proving a point.

he slides two thick fingers in—easy, like your pussy was made to be opened by him—and drops a long string of spit on your clit, licks again. deeper. messier. slower.

you moan loud, hand flying to his hair.

"yeah," he groans, voice gravel-thick. "don’t fight it. lemme make you come on my tongue."

and when you do—loud, broken, legs shaking so hard you accidentally do try to close them— he grips your thighs and pulls you open wider.

“nah,” he rasps, sleepy eyes glowing. “i’m not done yet.”

[user-voidx]

He watched her from two rows back.

Same seat. Same oversized floral shirt. Same thighs spread beneath that tight little desk—soft and wide and just barely contained by a plaid skirt that had no damn business being that short.

She didn’t even notice him staring.

She never did.

Too busy scribbling in her notebook, chewing on her pen cap, tugging at the hem of her shirt like it could hide the way she poured out of that chair.

Amusing.

Geto adjusted himself under the desk.

That fat fucking ass. That soft belly. The little roll that peeked out when she leaned forward too far.

Every damn day she came to their early lecture looking like a snack. Something warm. Something untouched.

And he resented her for it.

He hated how sweet she looked when she answered questions—like the world hadn’t already chewed people like her up. Hated the way her voice got all soft and unsure when people complimented her. Like she didn’t even know she had men like him fighting the urge to bend her over that desk and make her scream.

His leg bounced once.

She had no idea.

Geto had spent most of last semester testing her. Whispering venom when the professor turned away. Saying cruel things in that honeyed voice just to watch her crumble.

“Too fat for that desk, don’t you think?”

“You know they make bigger clothes, right?”

"Let me guess—no one’s ever touched that pussy, huh? pathetic."

She never argued. Just ducked her head and took it.

But he knew better.

Geto leaned back in his seat, palms slick against his thighs as she stretched—lazy, innocent, too trusting.

She pushed her sleeves up. Her arms were thick. Soft. He wanted to bruise them with his grip. To press her down into the sheets and make her beg him to stop being cruel and just fuck her like he meant it.

His cock pulsed against his zipper.

He imagined her laid out beneath him—shaking, soaking, sobbing his name into his shoulder. Clothes still on. Panties pushed aside. Fat tits bouncing while she begged him to slow down.

He wouldn’t.

He’d make her take it. All of it. The same way she took his words, day after day—head low, lips trembling, breath caught in her throat.

“That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” “All those shy little looks. All that softness. And now look at you—spread out and soaked for the same mouth that used to call you a waste.” “Too pretty to be this dumb. Too soft to stop me.”

He pictured it too vividly: her thighs trembling, her voice cracking, her eyes wide with shock the moment he pushed inside.

Her first real cock. Thick. Mean. Hungry.

His.

He’d make her cry with it.

And then he’d tell her she was lucky it was him.

Geto shifted again, jaw clenched, dick hard and throbbing behind denim.

Still watching her.

Still thinking about what that pussy would feel like wrapped around him—tight, messy, ruined.

And she didn’t even know.

Didn’t know she was his favorite fantasy. His obsession.

Didn’t know the same man who made her feel like nothing was planning on fucking her so hard she’d forget every name he ever called her.

Maybe after class. Maybe in the TA office. Maybe with a hand wrapped around her mouth so she couldn’t scream his name too loud.

Or maybe he'd make her say it clearly.

Again.

And again.

Until it didn’t sound afraid anymore.

Until it sounded like a prayer.

[user-voidx]

✧･ﾟ: * 𝒞𝓇𝓊𝓈𝒽 (Part II) * :･ﾟ✧ Megumi's POV

18+ MDNI

You’re out there again. The girl from across the hall.

It’s stupid how often he notices. How often his eyes drag to your door when he hears the faint creak of the knob or the shuffle of slippers on concrete. He tells himself it’s not a big deal. People come and go.

But then he hears your voice, talking to another tenant — soft, unsure, with that breathy little laugh that sounds like you’re trying not to take up too much space — and something in his chest goes still.

Like it’s listening. Like it wants more.

And he hates that.

Because you're… kind. The kind of kind that makes him itch. You smiled at him the day he moved in. Brought him muffins once — lemon, still warm. Watched him with those big, warm eyes like he was worth something. And he’s been trying not to stare ever since.

But he still does.

He notices everything. The way your thighs spill over your shorts when you bend to take the trash out. Hoodie half-zipped, nipples sharp under cotton. Soft belly peeking when you reach up. He sees. He shouldn't, but god, he does.

The way you tug at your sleeves. How your eyes dip when you talk to him. The way your voice turns gentle like you're afraid you'll scare him off.

Like you don’t know it’s the other way around.

Today you smiled again. In the hallway. Wide-eyed, messy bun, lip gloss sticky on your mouth. You dropped your phone and bent to pick it up, and he nearly groaned. Those little shorts clinging to your ass, the outline of your thick pussy lips right there—taunting. Unfair.

He grunted out a quick, “Hey,” and turned away too fast. Hoodie jerking off his shoulder.

And now he’s in his room.

Door locked. Hoodie tossed aside. Sweat sticking to his pale skin.

He sits on the edge of his bed, thighs parted, the hard lines of his abs flexing with each breath. His fingers twitch against the waistband of his sweats. He’s already half-hard—fuck, who is he kidding, he’s throbbing. His cock straining against the fabric like it’s been waiting for this.

This is the part he hates most. The way he always caves.

He drags the sweats down his hips, cock slapping up heavy against his stomach, flushed deep pink and leaking at the tip. He spits into his palm — wet, messy — and wraps his hand around the shaft, breath stuttering.

His other hand braces against his thigh, veins visible against his pale forearm, muscles tense.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hooded eyes fluttering shut.

He strokes himself slow at first, hips lifting in short, controlled jerks. Every motion is deliberate — like he's punishing himself for how much he wants this. For how often he imagines it’s your hand instead of his. For how badly he aches to feel the weight of your tits against his chest, your thighs cradling his waist, your pussy slick and stretched around him.

He picks up the pace, gritting his teeth, abs flexing as his breath comes faster.

He imagines you under him — moaning his name, squirming from the stretch, voice all gaspy and unsure. He’d go slow at first, trembling with restraint, but once he felt how warm and wet you were, how tight — he’d lose it.

He always does in his mind.

His head tips back, dark hair sticking to his temple, lips parted in a shaky breath as his hips stutter into his fist. The wet sounds of it fill the room now — desperate, slick, obscene.

His eyes squeeze shut. He sees you.

Riding him in his lap, hoodie still on, tits bouncing in his face. That shy, slutty smile you’d give him when he hits that spot just right. Your nails scratching at his pale back while he fucks into you like he’s starving, like he needs it — needs you.

He jerks harder, abs rippling, that low, strangled sound catching in his throat as he crashes over the edge — thick spurts painting his hand, his stomach, his sheets.

He slumps forward, chest heaving, jaw clenched, eyes still shut like he can’t stand to see what he’s done.

Tomorrow, he’ll nod at you like always. Blank-faced. Quiet. Like he doesn’t think about you like this.

Part 1 (One) - Here

[user-voidx]

✧･ﾟ: * 𝒞𝓇𝓊𝓈𝒽 *:･ﾟ✧

aged-up megumi, 22

Megumi probably thinks you’re just neighborly. Polite. Friendly. A little awkward, maybe.

You wave when you see him. You always smile. Once, you baked him lemon muffins because you saw him carrying groceries alone, and he took them with that blank, sleepy look he always wears—like he didn’t know what to do with something sweet being handed to him.

He said, “Thanks,” and shut the door before you could say “You’re welcome.”

You’re 90% sure he forgot your name. But you haven’t stopped thinking about his hands since.

Because Megumi Fushiguro isn’t just handsome. He’s a walking problem.

Tall. Broad. Hoodie always unzipped halfway, revealing slivers of his pale chest and that soft black tank top underneath. His hair is always messy, his eyes always low-lidded and bored, like nothing in this world excites him—not even you, the girl who would happily cry into his mouth if he asked.

You shouldn’t think that. You really shouldn’t.

But last night he scratched the back of his neck in the hallway, and you caught sight of his vein. And your brain went white.

You had to go back inside and sit down.

The worst part? He’s so casual. So oblivious.

Like today—he knocks on your door, asking if you have a spare charger because his “roommate stole his again.” You’re in a ratty oversized tee, no bra, shorts clinging to your thick thighs for dear life, and you still open the door because you’re weak. Stupid. Delusional.

And there he is.

Eyes heavy-lidded. Hoodie slung over one shoulder. Hair damp. Like he just stepped out the shower and decided to ruin your life in passing.

“Oh. You’re home,” he says.

You nod mutely, swallowing past the lump of horny lodged in your throat. “I… I have a charger,” you manage.

He hums, barely reacting. “Cool. I’ll give it back later.”

As if later doesn’t already belong to him. As if you won’t spend the rest of your night grinding into a pillow, thinking about how he might’ve looked five minutes ago, towel low on his hips, sleepy eyes squinting at the mirror.

You shut the door and collapse against it.

Why does he have to be like this?

You’re not bold. Not brave. But sometimes… sometimes, when the ache gets too loud and your thighs won’t stop pressing together, you whisper things into your own skin.

“Bet you taste good,” you murmur, imagining his mouth. “Spit in my mouth,” you pant, twisting your hips under the sheets. “Wanna be so good for you…”

You’ve never even had a conversation that lasted more than 5 minutes.

But you’d let Megumi ruin you without question. And he probably wouldn’t even blink after.

Part 2 (Two) - Here