in case of academic emergency, kiss me

pairing — nerd satoru x fem reader

tags -> oneshot, fluff and humor, college au, study dates that are actually dates, mutual pining, character study disguised as a crush spiral, satoru is insufferable and hot about it, reader is so mentally ill about one man, study session or seduction who can tell, she thought he was safe (he wasn’t), calculus is the least of her problems, emotional damage but cute, he takes off his sweater and ruins her life, majestic art by @/rinoomii on twt ♡

wc — 10.7k | gen. m.list | read on ao3?

a/n: this was for that one anon who requested a drabble with sleeper build nerdjo, sorry it took so long, take this 10k beast instead mwah 😽

you’ve always believed that muscles are fundamentally disgusting.  

not in a mean way—more like how some people think feet are gross or how the texture of velvet makes them want to crawl out of their skin. it’s visceral, unexplainable, the way your stomach turns at the thought of all that bulging mass and veiny definition. which makes your current predicament absolutely, catastrophically ironic.  

because here you are, sitting three rows behind satoru in advanced calculus, completely and utterly gone for a boy who couldn’t look more like he’s never seen the inside of a gym if he tried.  

i think shouto likes when you put his things in your purse. he likes the small, unconscious intimacy of it. sometimes he will buy a little trinket while you are out just so you will put your hand out and say "hand it over, handsome. i'll hold onto it while you get us food" and he gets to watch you tuck it away in your bag. safe in your care, just like he is.

forever is indeed the sweetest con

070825 ♥︎ TSUKISHIMA KEI where his heart is in your hand.

an attempt at sentimentality would normally come as a surprise for anyone who’s met tsukishima kei. 

luckily enough, you know him in a way most people don’t. 

you know him by what his name brings: a song played on repeat, endless streams of laughter in each trial & error at baking, something too sweet and too messy, secrets shared under the moon’s graces, a fight that left a three month bruise where your heart nearly drops to the sea bed, where if he tried to search it out of shame, breathlessly chasing, your body would never soften again from his touch. 

you know him by how memory paints him tender, an earthly scent wafting from an unexpected rain in the middle of summer. you know him by his wordless funk; hand on your shoulder when nothing needs saying and gladly eats the shitty stuff on your fridge together with you. a really quiet ‘i’m sorry’ pressed between hugs and fingers tracing the years you’ve spent together as you memorise the shape of his broad back. and when you meet his gaze across the sidewalk a week after, you wonder if his smiles always seemed to look like that— so inexplicably bare. forthright. easy. 

you find out, one spring later, that it only ever comes easy because it’s you. 

the courtyard smells a lot like beginnings and endings. 

brushing against shoulders and blazers, you melt into laughter that rise and fall with the tide of goodbyes. you catch his eye, standing all tall and composed, but framed like the softness as if the world had tilted just right for warmth to cradle him. his jacket hangs just slightly open, the fabric looser now. no longer needed to be worn. you huff a chuckle at how formal he still looks, despite everything.

you pretend to shy away from him, hoping to look for someone else. but he’s walking towards you. naturally. inevitably. and like all things, you can’t help but stare in awe.

without a word, he reaches for his jacket uniform. plucking out with careful hands on his second button. he lifts your own hand and gently spread your palm, pressing it gently until he lets you curl your fingers around it. feel the weight of everything he has offered.

“don’t lose it, okay?” 

it’s stupidly small, but heavy and warm from being next to his heart all day. “you know i won’t.” and when you look up, you think he already knows. like this has been a long time coming. 

you finally understand—at what he is, what he’ll always will be— that this is where you know him best: 

an attempt at sentimentality, a surprise to everyone.

but never, ever to you. 

© MARISOLLS 2025 thank you for reading!

every time someone writes my baby jean kirstein as a jerk fuck boy, cheater, toxic, disrespectful to women and extremely popular, an angel loses his wings; because he would literally be the og yearner, he's a big loser who thinks he's a popular guy, bro could never use women, he would be a hopeless romantic, a soft spoken man, nervous around the girl he likes, respectful, overprotective, he would always put the person he loves first, probably the best boyfriend/husband in this world.

18+ ; oral sex f!receiving, filming, squirting, masturbation

roommate!suna who you hook up with sometimes when you're both bored and horny. who has his own not-so-secret onlyfans page. who tells you time and time again how goddamn perfect your pussy looks, how pretty it would look on camera.

suna, who doesn't think you'll actually say yes.

(you're not expecting to feel so excited when he sets up his phone at the edge of the bed. but he makes sure to tease you about it, a smirk tipping up the corner of his mouth while he runs two fingers through the slick that already drips down the inside of your thighs.)

(it only makes you more wet.)

there's something so arousing about it—knowing that someone else will be watching the way you get down on all fours. the way suna settles down on his back and runs his hands down your thighs before spreading them wide enough apart to fit his head between them. the way your back arches of its own accord, a strangled, needy moan tipping out past your lips as he tilts his chin up and laps a broad stroke through your damp folds.

suna knows it's probably fucked up that he doesn't even end up posting the video. that he hoards it all to himself, even after posting a teaser for the upcoming content, a photo of his mouth covered in your wet slick captioned: "RN LOVES EATING PUSSY 🌹"

062825. IWAIZUMI HAJIME. your favorite waiter of all time.

this is bad—terrible. horrifying

wait. lets rewind. oikawa had been a good friend. no, is a good friend. needless to say that you’re one of his favorite people; ready to pull an all nighter with you, lends you his laptop one time when yours decided to blow up and out of your ass, had basically took up for himself the role of cupid for you sometimes. 

(you’re convinced it’s just out of pity, though hyping you up on social media never fails to work its wonder, gifting your face a smile, says it always looks good on you.)

but this is not the time for playing cupid. in fact, you’re going to strangle him and reduce the remains of his lifespan once you’re out of this diner that iwaizumi hajime, his best friend (part-time) works on. a one good looking (borderline distracting) of a waiter. 

the first time oikawa suggested taking you out on this very specific diner, you’re a little apprehensive, mainly because iwaizumi in his catch-up stories are just about as intimidating as the first time you’ve finally see him in the flesh. 

slate-black apron, rolled up sleeves, his voice—a deep and firm kind of low that pricks your skin the first time you’ve heard it. eyes that couldn’t help itself but indulge in the sight of his forearms as he drops off your water. but that’s not the dead giveaway, no, no— it’s how you poorly managed yourself from stammering as your fingers scramble where to land on the menu, when he leaned in to look at what you’re pointing, you dreaded over the possibility that he could smell your plain aberration. 

because you’re sure as hell oikawa does. 

“uh, this one.”

 he nods, polite. then he casts oikawa a side-glance, his face subtly flat and impassive. “the usual?” 

oikawa hums, almost non-committal. he’s grinning wide and smug and staring at you across the table as if he’s about to drop a bomb on your upcoming plate. a very mischievous, carefully-curated bomb that’s going to throw you off for days. “you know me so well, iwa-chan.”

iwaizumi doesn’t dignify that with a response, only tears off the slip from his notepad and walks off, the pen still tucked behind his ear. you track his retreating figure before you realize what you’re doing and drive your focus away from any evidence, heat rushing up your neck. 

“okay.” you face oikawa, glaring and hissing through your teeth, voice an angry whisper,  “you set me up. you said you were hungry!”

“i am hungry!” he held his arm up in mock surrender, “hungry for a successful love story starring you and my best friend.” 

exasperated, you groan. 

“oh come on, what’s the worst that could happen? he says you’re cute!” 

“i beg your pardon?” 

“swear on my moisturizer. i showed him your IG.”

“i don’t trust you.”

“you don’t have to, sweets.” 

now, lo and behold, is the aftermath of your said aberration. from forcibly agreeing that this encounter would only be a one-time thing, to becoming a regular where waiter-staffs could probably draw your face by memory. same order, same seat, same routine. and—same, yet insanely different result, where your shitty resolve has finally cracked its surface. 

no, this is still your dear friend’s fault. you love oikawa tooru, truly you do. 

but you also want to grab him by the collar and slam him into the wall. lovingly, with intent. because this—this unraveling inside you that stirs every time iwaizumi hajime so much as glances your way—is no longer just some stupid crush.

you need the follow-up water asap, humid air’s getting to you. you pretend to work through your backlog on your laptop, ignoring the misspellings and half-hearted sentences you inserted in. you dart between the screen and iwaizumi, who’s rushing from table to table, sweat trickling down his temple, biceps flexing with rolled up sleeves that’s much messier than usual. 

he looks good. 

so good it’s actually criminal. 

graceful, that’s one word you could think of in the way he moves. in that focused, no-nonsense way of his. a towel slung over his shoulder, that same damn pen still behind his ear, his brows knitted as he calls out an order to the kitchen. he glances up, once—just once—and you’re quick to play the act of adjusting your screen brightness, as ungraceful as you could be. 

“you’re so obvious,” oikawa mutters from across the table, lips barely hiding his smirk behind a forkful of omelet rice.”

“i’m typing,” you say, offended. “i’m literally working.”

“deleting and retyping the same sentence for the past eight minutes. yeah, working”

you scowl. “i need to revise.”

“you need to admit that you’re thirsting.” 

you reach over and jab his forearm with the blunt end of your spoon. sighing, you press your knuckles to your burning cheeks. “i hate that i’m still here.”

“well,” oikawa says, chewing slowly, “good thing he likes that you’re here.”

the glare in your eyes is not something to be taken lightly. “don’t do this to me tooru.”

he raises a brow, setting his utensils down like he’s ready to go full monologue. “you think i didn’t notice he always brings your order himself? that he stands here at our table longer than anyone else’s? that he remembers your drink order down to the last cube of ice?”

“that’s just good service!”

oikawa snorts. “yeah, okay. let’s see what kind of service you get today, since i’m done eating and i have to go.”

your eyes widen. “what?”

he’s already slinging his bag over his shoulder. “i’ve got to meet someone in ten. don’t worry, i paid. just… stay here. do your fake work. and drink your water.”

“i haven’t gotten my water—”

“exactly,” he grins.

and just like that, he’s out the door with a wave.

you sit there, mouth slightly agape. you hear your laptop’s infuriating warm humming, the chatters start to buzz, and for a second you consider leaving too. maybe save yourself from further embarrassment. but before you can plop your bag on you lap and pull in your things—

“here.”

you look up. the voice could have startled you into slapping someone, if not for the familiarity. iwaizumi stands there, a tall glass of water in one hand, a fresh lemon wedge on the rim. a slight, imperceptible crease in his brow. 

“sorry it took a while. it’s a bit hectic today.” he sets it down in front of you, or that you think he had to because you’re rendered incapable of lifting your own hand and take it yourself.

…you didn’t even ask for water just yet. 

“no worries.” you try—you really do—to keep your hammering heart in check. lift your cheek in a smile that doesn’t look too forced. when he mirrors one of his own, though polite and stiff, is still as charming as it could be. 

then, without warning, he eyes your laptop. lingers in a way you’ve secretly hoped he would, asks you awkwardly, “are you…working?” 

you blink, “s-sort of.” 

you see the pause in his face, another smile emerges, but one good look had you noticing the faint dimple curving his left cheek. when he says, “i can give you a refill if you want to stay longer.” he sounds relaxed, or less tense now than he is seconds ago. 

you blink once more, pleasantly surprised than anything, “wait, really?” 

he nods. “yeah. i mean. if you’re writing or whatever. i’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”

your stomach makes a flip, you give him thanks before he walks away. and when you watch him go, it’s when you lift your curses saved for tooru and replace it with a million blessings. you make a mental note to thank him later. 

so, yes, you stay for another thirty minutes (took more orders and refills.) forty, tops. not because you’re waiting for anything—absolutely not. you’re being productive. you even manage to fix two paragraphs and stop the spell-checker from crying blood. that’s worth something.

your phone thats buried deep in your bag vibrates from a notif. it’s definitely your dear friend. 

when iwaizumi walks by again, you can’t help but smile, “you’re still here.” 

“am i overstaying? i can go—“ 

“no,” he says quickly. then, more level, “you’re fine, just noticed. ‘is all” 

but you’re not really good at small talk, and maybe you are overstaying, maybe tooru’s gotten sick of waiting and your phone exploding shows that. you look back at your cursor and feel like it’s accusing you. you clear your throat, “i’ll um, pay now.” 

“oh,” or maybe you’re too far gone, because something kind of flickers on his face. something like hesitation, “i’ll get your receipt.”

when he returns, he places the small folder down. “here you go.”

you offer him a polite smile and open it—

—and promptly short-circuit.

because tucked neatly beside the receipt is a small folded napkin. written in scrawled, slightly slanted penmanship:

when you lift your head up, he’s gone. 

he’s definitely not at the counter. not wiping tables. not walking anywhere within your line of sight—he fled.

you finally fished out your phone and immediately started typing.

it takes four seconds before your phone combusts.

you’re too busy grinning like an idiot, staring at the number on the napkin and wondering how in the world you’ll survive a proper date with iwaizumi hajime.

spoiler: you won’t. but you’ll love every second of it.

hot take alert: tsukishima kei prefers to praise over degrade BUT he is so sarcastic that it feels like degradation

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

// tw ;; vaginal, impact play, praise/degradation, breeding mentions & rough sex

"that's right." he hums, while drilling into your aching pussy from behind, with his hand settled upon the apex of your back to keep you in place, "such a good fucking girl f' me." he slurs, adjusting his glasses which were rattling on his face with every harsh thrust, before returning his fingers to their rightful position — circling your clit at an agonising pace.

"k— kei!" you squeal. the side of your face was smushed against the pillow, and tears were clouding your vision from the way he was brutally pounding into you. still, out of the corner of your eye, you're able to catch a glimpse of the shit-eating grin plastered on his face. you were unsure what amused so greatly: maybe it was the fact his praise was thinly-veiled mockery, or maybe he just relished in knowing how well he was fucking your brains out — as you weren't especially good at hiding it.

you were laid out before him, feebly clutching at the sheets for an inkling of solace as his cock slammed into you at a dizzying rate. strings of profanities and pornographic moans fell from your lips, while your walls were already fluttering around his cock like you were gunna climax. not to mention your trembling legs.

"aw, is my princess close already? i barely started. you must love this too much." he huffed out a chuckle, hips unrelenting even as he spoke scornfully. "it's okay. some girls can't handle big dick." he caresses your back, his tender touch in stark contrast to his contemptuous tone. " its nothing to be embarrassed about. you're good for other things, sweetie." his voice dripped with honey and caramel; it was almost convincing.

"ngh— no." you lied through your gritted teeth, denying that you're ready to orgasm.

for that you received a fierce smack on the ass, followed by tsukishima squeezing the flesh in his hand, "then why's your pussy gripping me like a fucking vice?" he rasps through a clenched jaw, irritation clear in his tone as he struggles to maintain speed when your walls are clamping down on him.

"that's jus— ah!" you whimper as he lands another harsh smack on your ass, but this one is enough to send you hurtling over the edge. your toes curled and your entire body shuddered as you submit to the intense climax that overcomes you.

"aw, look at that. so pretty, even when you finish." tsukishima teases, massaging your waist and continuing to fuck you through your high, despite how your twitching cunt made it impossible for him to suppress his own orgasm. "must be enjoying yourself, huh?" he comments, directed to how your hips rock back aimlessly against his cock.

"mmph.." is all you're able to groan, fully relaxing onto the bed, entirely worn out from your ride.

"awh, sweetie, you're saying that you're going to lay there and let me use you until i cum?" he jokingly interprets your muffled grumble as something you certainly did not say, but it doesn't feel like a joke when his hips start speeding up and resuming his ferocious thrusting.

"and you're saying you want me to cum inside that pretty hole and fill you up?" he taunts, still stroking your waist in his big hands as he plows into your glistening cunt, "well, aren't you just my perfect angel."

dabi relationship headcanons

fingers in his mouth can be smth so personal btw

gojo satoru was spoiled, sure. but he wasn’t used to being cared for.

he had people who answered to him. people who revered him, feared him, respected him. his clan, his school, his students. everything he wanted, he could have. everything he needed, someone got for him.

but then there was you.

you, who didn’t flinch when he joked too loudly or smiled too wide. you, who didn’t tiptoe around his legacy like it was made of glass. you, who leaned into him instead of away, who called him “satoru” like he was just a man, not the strongest.

and when you touched him, it wasn’t reverent or worshipful or like you owed him anything. it was simple. kind. natural.

like reaching to fix his collar on a windy morning.

like putting his favorite tea on the stove before he even asked.

like dragging him to bed when he passed out on the couch, glasses skewed, mouth slightly open.

“come on,” you’d mutter, soft but firm, “sleep properly, sato.”

and he’d blink up at you, half-lidded and drowsy, and feel something sweet settle in his chest.

you didn’t do these things because he asked. you didn’t do them because he was gojo satoru. you just… cared.

it rattled something in him.

once, you made him lunch and packed it for him in a neat little box. he opened it during a break at jujutsu tech, laughing at a text from you about something dumb his students did.

inside, there was his favorite food. a little sticky note with a doodle. a stupid pun you’d written.

don’t fight anyone on an empty stomach!!

he sat there, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, and just stared.

he thought about how no one had ever done that before. not like this. not with that silly, mindless affection. not because they wanted to make his day better.

and that night, when he came home, he found you on the couch in your pajamas, phone in hand, hair messy from the way you curled up against the cushions.

he walked over without saying a word, dropped to his knees in front of you, and laid his head in your lap.

you blinked down at him. “…long day?”

he nodded, face pressed against your stomach, arms winding around your waist.

“thank you,” he mumbled.

you snorted. “for what?”

he didn’t answer. just closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of your laundry detergent, your skin, your home.

he’d always had everything he could ask for. but until you, he didn’t know what it meant to be loved for nothing. for free.

and god, did it make him want to give you the world.

wasting the summer days away with iwaizumi; the room is silent except for the quiet whirl of the fan and his soft hums when you trace his tanlines on his back with your fingertips and press tender, sticky kisses to his nape. all windows of the apartment are wide open, the curtains swaying gently from the breeze. the air smells like nostalgia; stolen grief from the future and borrowed love from the past, something you will miss dearly in a few years from now.

you have nowhere to be and nothing to do and it's bliss; just you, your lover and the plate of cut watermelon next to you on the floor. iwaizumi rolls on his back, letting you slot yourself between his spread thighs, sinking down on top of him, your face nestling in the crook of his neck. it's sticky and sweaty but you made a home in there; all your secrets live behind the curve of his jaw, whispered against his skin like a confession. his adam's apple bops slightly with every bite of fruit he takes and you think he has no business being this irresistible.

iwaizumi's kisses linger longer than usual during these hollow days, as if to make sure you'll always remember what his love tasted like. it's not that he's leaving, just clinging to this life with you in case he doesn't find you right away in the next one. summer is harsh and unforgiving but iwaizumi is anything but that; tenderly spelling out his adoration for you until it's engraved into your being, with fingertips still stained from blueberry picking and his heart carved out for you.

ⓘ 01. JUST FOR SCIENCE !

⤷ SMUT ﹫ nerd!tsukishima kei x fem!reader ﹫ mdni ﹫ university au!

⚠︎ mdni, (kinda rough?) fingering, dirty talk kinda, p with plot, established relationship .ᐟ.ᐟ

Tsukishima had been deep in a study session at the university library when you sent the message. He almost didn’t check it—his phone buzzed against the table, and he rolled his eyes before flipping it over lazily. The preview alone made his entire body lock up:

“Babe I saw this vid and thought of u. Try it on me later?”

Attached was a screenshot from a TikTok that screamed chaos. It featured some guy, dead serious, explaining how to make a girl squirt—his voice flat, instructional: _“Press down right here on her lower stomach, tense your fingers hard, and shake—_like actually shake—if you do it right, she’ll flood.”

Tsukishima had paused, blinked once. Then again.

And again.

Of course you would send something like that.

He’d cleared his throat and tilted his screen away from Yamaguchi, who was mid-rant about some biochem professor being a demon in human form. Kei pretended to nod along, face schooled into neutrality, but his ears burned red hot. He tried to shove the image out of his mind—your voice asking him to try it on you, the mental picture of your thighs trembling under his hand, your face twisted in overwhelmed pleasure.

God, he was not going to survive the rest of this class.

⸻

By the time he got back to the apartment, his brain was a mess of formulas, suppressed hard-ons, and way too many tabs open on his laptop—half were lecture notes, the rest were very, very specific Reddit threads.

The place was dim and warm when he walked in, the lights low, the curtains drawn. You were already there, stretched out on his bed in nothing but one of his hoodies, scrolling your phone like you hadn’t just ruined him in the middle of a public academic setting.

He dropped his bag and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

You didn’t look up. “Learn anything in class today?”

Kei kicked off his shoes and stalked over. “Mm. Something like that.”

You smirked but barely had time to react before he was over you—knees pressing into the mattress, one hand bracing beside your head, the other pushing your thighs apart with no preamble. He didn’t even kiss you first. He just looked at you with a sharp, unreadable gaze and murmured, “Still want me to try it?”

You blinked. “Try wha—oh.”

Then it hit. You swallowed.

He leaned down and kissed the side of your neck, slowly. “Don’t get shy now. You asked for this, didn’t you?” His voice was low and lazy, but his fingers already curled into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down. “Sent me fucking tutorials in public.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “You liked it.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m letting it slide.” He ghosted his knuckles along your inner thigh. “You made me sit through a 90-minute lecture with a hard-on. You’re paying for that.”

Your stomach flipped. You spread your legs a little wider, feeling heat pulse through your core. He sat back and took in the sight like he was memorizing it—your body under him, already flushed and open.

Tsukishima rolled his sleeves up. “Let’s be clear—this is science.”

You snorted. “Science, huh?”

“I’m testing a hypothesis,” he said, dry. “Let’s see if your little video was telling the truth.”

⸻

He was careful at first—methodical. It was annoyingly hot how analytical he got about it.

Two fingers in, slow. A curl. A press.

He watched your face like he was taking notes in his head.

“That it?” he asked. “Right there?”

You gasped, hips twitching. “Yes—yes, that’s it—”

His glasses slid a little down his nose as he adjusted, leaning forward for better leverage. His fingers pressed deeper, and this time he added pressure with the heel of his hand to your pelvis. You cried out, thighs tensing.

“Okay,” he muttered more to himself. “Now… tense up the forearm…”

You could feel it—his entire arm stiffening. Then his fingers shook, a small, fast motion inside you that felt like a jolt of electricity.

You arched, moaning, nails digging into his wrist. “Kei—!”

“There it is,” he said softly, like he’d just discovered a new species.

He kept going, movements precise but brutal, and you were unraveling fast. He pressed down harder, rubbed exactly where you needed it from inside, and when your stomach jumped under his palm, he glanced up with a smirk.

“Feel that?” he murmured. “That tension right here—that’s your bladder shifting. But don’t worry. You’re not going to piss yourself.”

“Wh—what—?”

He was still talking. “Squirting is basically a form of female ejaculation—it’s expelled from the urethra, but chemically, it’s not urine. The Skene’s glands—sometimes called the female prostate—produce a fluid when stimulated—”

“Kei—!” you gasped.

“—and when the anterior wall of the vagina is stimulated enough, like this—” he curled his fingers harder, grinding them into that spot again, “—it builds pressure until the pelvic floor releases.”

You were close. Too close.

“I—I think I’m gonna—wait—I don’t know if—”

He didn’t stop. “It’s fine. Let it go. It’s just your body responding to stimuli—completely natural, really. Biomechanics at its best—”

You slammed a hand over your face, panting. “K-kei, just shut up—!”

He laughed, dark and low. “Oh? You want me to stop being educational while you soak my bed?”

“I’m serious—!” your voice cracked, and then your body tensed, thighs shaking, muscles locking up so hard you thought you might explode.

Then—

It hit. Hard.

A sudden rush, a high-pitched cry ripped from your throat as your body convulsed, hips jerking up against his hand. You felt warmth, wetness, everything crashing down in an overwhelming wave. Your legs refused to stop twitching.

You lay there gasping, limp, soaked, and stunned.

Kei pulled his fingers out slow, slick and glistening. His face was flushed, his glasses slightly fogged. He looked at his hand like a scientist who just cracked open a star.

“Huh,” he said calmly. “It worked.”

You swatted him weakly. “I can’t believe you talked through the whole thing.”

He smirked. “It helped, didn’t it?”

You groaned. “You’re the worst.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your jaw. “And yet you still squirted all over my sheets.”

You rolled onto your side, completely boneless. “Shut up and take your pants off.”

He stripped in record time.

BOYFRIEND TEXTS | k. tsukishima

content: tsuki being a fake ass emo (i know what you are), dry boyfriend sigh, talkative partner, reader is a little weird (projecting)

a/n: new theme again... can't stay away from the neaopolitan theme for too long </3

©OCHACOCA 2025 | please do not copy, translate, or repost my work onto other platforms!

there was something about your brother being a plug that was fun; and it wasn’t just stealing from his stash of edibles.

but more so his clients. specifically a college guy named torū oikawa.

he was from japan, 6’0 or so, and majorly sexy—but “off-limits” according to your brother. not only was torū his client, but also his friend.

but your brother didn’t have to know.

so when your brother had to leave for a bit to meet with his friends, you were awaiting torū to come get his order at your house. he wanted to blow off steam from a volleyball match loss and what better way to do so than to take a little edible.

one thing led to another and all of a sudden, you were eating the shit he bought from your brother: some nice homemade brownies.

“this hits the spot,” he murmured. you felt your gaze cement on his figure sprawled out across the couch while he felt the effects of the edible take in place.

“mhm…” you giggled and leaned towards him. his chocolate brown eyes kept staring at the ceiling fan turn and turn.

the sunset was peering through the thin spaces of the window blinds and his pretty little features entranced you. the way his hooded eyes stared, his veiny hands placed upon the couch, his evidently toned legs concealed by his jeans that fit him so snug. even the way his adam’s apple popped out drove you so insane.

your memory got a bit foggy but what you do remember was pulling him in to make out—oh how his lips were from the brownie: all sweet and a hint of vanilla from his lip balm.

“fuck, pretty girl. you’re so fucking sweet,” he murmured as his lips attacked your neck sensually, his fingers going down to rub at your wet folds.

all you could do was squirm at his euphoric touches—even at the way he stared at you like you were water and he was parched. the way he touched you was like you werte a piece of clay and he was the sculptor: ever so meticulous yet rough and gentle at the same time.

your edible intake didn’t help either; every touch he gave you made you feel like your body was on cloud 9.

“so wet, pretty girl. so so good.” he whispered, his words slightly muffled from his lips being on your neck. your breath hitched in your throat as you felt his erection against the plush of your thigh: all hard and stiff from the confines of his jeans.

you felt torū’s long fingers slowly adjust in slipping down your cute jean skirt to your knees, helping him access your wet cunt better. “so cute, baby…”

your eyes stayed on him as he unbuckled his belt and took off his pants; then they widened when you saw how delectably long he was. so so long.

a giggle slipped from your lips and you felt giddy and wet. “you can take it. right, baby?” you just nodded just to get a feel—a taste.

that small giggle turned into a near wanton moan as you felt him slowly enter your tight wet cunt; not even your slick could help with the immense stretch.

“god, torū…” you whined. you felt damn near breathless at the sensation of how good he felt.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he whimpered, “i’m gonna cum. fuck—“

“m-me too,” you shut your eyes closed at his slow pace. you felt him in the most literal sense; the veins and the way he simply moved.

the sound of your slick with his thrusts filled the room with your labored breathing and his constant low whimpers. you felt a wave of euphoria come over you as you finally came on his dick.

“you’re so good, pretty. did so good f’me.”

his pace became even more excruciatingly slow and you felt him buck his hips and cock twitch, his moans becoming more wanton and loud.

and just when you felt him finish and fill you, you heard your phone buzz from your brother, letting you know what he was coming back earlier than expected.