REPOPENED

he's lying. well, partially. it is hot, but that's not why his hands are trembling. before this tutoring session, he'd excused himself to the beach bathroom and done something he's not proud of—a quick line of coke to steady his nerves. It's become a habit lately, this secret vice that nobody knows about. nerdy, awkward gojo satoru, physics tutor extraordinaire, with a drug problem and an overwhelming crush on his own student.

"maybe we should take a break?" you suggest, sitting up.

"no! no, we should... we should continue," he insists, "the momentum equation is really important for your exam."

he picks up one of the beach balls he brought as a teaching prop—a bright blue one with white stripes. "so if this ball, mass m₁, traveling at velocity v₁, collides with another ball… then—uh…"

“are you sure you’re you're okay?”

"I-I'm fine," he fumbles with his notes, and in the process, his hand brushes against the small plastic bag hidden in his beach bag. his guilty pleasure, his little secret. "I just need to... bathroom break. one second."

he scrambles up, grabbing his bag, and hurries toward the shitty public restrooms along the precipice of the beach and parking lot. inside a stall, his hands shake as he pulls out the small bag of white powder. he knows it's stupid and dangerous. but the high helps him forget how pathetic he is—a twenty-three-year-old virgin who can barely string two sentences together around his supposed student.

he snorts a quick line, wincing at the burn, then another. the rush hits him almost immediately, confidence flooding his system along with the chemical euphoria. he splashes water on his face, checks his reflection once more, and heads back out to find you.

the truth is, gojo satoru has been in love with you since the first tutoring session three months ago. every week, he shows up with his carefully prepared lesson plans and his physics props, and every week, without fail, he forgets all the shit he was supposed to say and spends more time ogling you than actually teaching. it's shameful, really.  he's supposed to be helping you pass your physics exam, not fantasize about what you’d look like with even less clothes on.

and the cocaine—that started two months ago, when his anxiety about being near you became too much to handle. just a little bit before each session, to calm his nerves, to make him feel more at ease. except it doesn't make him feel at ease. not at all. it just makes him more aware of how badly he wants you.

--

"you know what?" you finally say after a solid half hour of understanding absolutely nothing. he's been yapping your ear off with information so foreign it sounds like a new language entirely. you brusquely stand up and stretch, his eyes following the line of your body helplessly. "I think we both need to cool off. wanna hit the water?"

"I... I don't have swim trunks," he lies. he's wearing them under his cargo shorts, but the thought of being nearly naked around you terrifies him.

"then just wade in with your shorts on," you suggest with a shrug. "come on, satoru. the vitamin D might do some chemistry stuff to my brain and make me actually understand all this momentum shit."

before he can protest, you're walking toward the water, and he's following like a puppy on a leash—he can't help it! he'd follow you anywhere.

the water is cool and refreshing, and for a moment, satoru feels some of his anxiety ease. you're splashing around, laughing, and he allows himself to just enjoy the moment. maybe this is okay, maybe he can just be here with you, enjoying the beach, without his darker thoughts taking over.

but then you move closer to him, water droplets clinging to your skin, and all his momentary good intentions evaporate.

"satoru," you say softly, "can I ask you something?"

"anything," he breathes.

"do you... do you think about me? when we're not in tutoring sessions?"

his heart stops. "I... what?"

"because I think about you," you continue, moving even closer. "I know you're supposed to be my tutor, but I can't help it. you're smart and sweet and kind of adorable when you're nervous..."

satoru's brain is malfunctioning. this can't be real. this has to be a hallucination brought on by the cocaine. there's no way you're actually saying these things to him—right?

"I... you..." he stammers, and then suddenly you're kissing him.

your lips are soft and taste like salt water and kikufuku, satoru forgets how to breathe. his hands come up automatically to your waist, pulling you closer, and he's kissing you back with all the pent-up desire of three months of longing.

it's perfect. it's everything he's dreamed about ever since you walked into his apartment all those months ago.

until its not.

his vision swims. and at first he thinks it's just the intensity of the kiss, the rush of finally having what he's wanted for so long. but then the spinning gets worse, and he feels a strange tingling sensation spreading through his body.

he pulls back from you, gasping. "something's... something's wrong..."

"what happened?" you ask concernedly, reaching for him.

but he's stumbling backward, his vision blurring. the beach seems to tilt and swirl around him. he hears an ancient, feminine voice echoing in his head:

"for your sins of lust and vice, for neglecting your duties in favor of base desires, for poisoning your body and mind while coveting what you should not have—you shall become the very object of your lessons until you learn what truly matters."

"what?!—no no no, wait—!" gojo tries to speak, but his voice is fading.

his body is shrinking, compressing. his limbs are pulling into his torso. his skin is becoming smooth, plastic, inflatable. the world is growing larger around him, or he's growing smaller—he can't tell which.

the last thing he sees before his vision changes completely is your face, shocked and horrified, as you watch your tutor transform into a beach ball.

--

his consciousness returns slowly.

gojo can still think—that's the first thing he realizes. he has thoughts, memories, awareness. but everything else is wrong.

he has no arms. no legs. no mouth to scream speak with. he's round and inflatable. he's a fucking beach ball.

no, no no no no! he thinks frantically. this can't be happening. this is impossible. this quite literally violates every law of physics.. ever!

but it has happened. he's been transformed into a beach ball. a blue yellow and red striped beach ball, floating on the water where he was wading moments ago.

"satoru!" he hears you scream, and then you're picking him up, turning him over in your hands. "oh my god, oh my god, what just happened? how is this possible?"

he tries to respond, but he has no voice. he's just a ball, after all.

you're panicking, he can tell. you're looking around frantically, as if searching for help or answers. but the beach is relatively empty—just a few people far down the shore, too far away to have witnessed his transformation.

"okay, okay, think," you mutter to yourself, still holding him. "this is... this is insane. people don't just fucking turn into beach balls. but it happened. I saw it happen. so what do I do?"

gojo wishes desperately that he could communicate with you. he wants to tell you he's still here, still conscious, still himself—just trapped in this ridiculous spherical prison.

you sit down on your beach towel, placing him carefully in your lap. "if you can hear me, satoru... I don't know what to do. I don't know how to fix this."

I can hear you! he thinks desperately. I'm right here!

but you can't hear his thoughts. you're just sitting there, staring at him with wide, worried eyes.

time passes strangely when you're a beach ball. gojo can't tell if it's been minutes or hours. you eventually pack up the tutoring materials, carefully placing him in your beach bag. the ride back to your apartment is disorienting—he can feel every bump and jostle of your shitty SUV and your shittier driving skills, but he can't see anything from inside the bag.

when you finally take him out, you're in your bedroom. you place him carefully on your bed and sit down next to him.

"I've been thinking," you say quietly. "that.. that voice... it said something about sins and duties. about you coveting what you shouldn't have." you pause, and gojo would blush if he had blood. "It was talking about me, wasn't it? you... you have feelings for me?"

yes, he thinks miserably. yes, and now I'm a beach ball because of it.

"and the 'poisoning your body' part..." you continue slowly. "satoru, have you been... doing drugs?"

if he could die of shame, he would. but he's a beach ball, so he just has to miserably exist with the mortification.

"I thought something was off sometimes," you murmur. "the way your hands would shake, how distracted you'd get... I thought it was just nerves, but..." you sigh. "oh, satoru. what the hell were you thinking?"

you pick him up, holding him close to your chest. "I meant what I said at the beach, you know. before all this happened. I do have feelings for you. I was going to suggest we stop the tutoring sessions so we could... explore this thing between us properly. but now..."

gojo's consciousness is acutely aware of being pressed against your tits, even in his current form. it's torture of a different kind, do ball-boners exist? he now regrets every time he’s sat on a beach ball before, poor little fellas.

"the curse said 'until you learn what truly matters,'" you say thoughtfully. "so there must be a way to break it. we just have to figure out what the lesson is."

--

the next few days are surreal in the best way possible.

you take him everywhere, refusing to leave him alone. you talk to him constantly, telling him about your day, your thoughts, your feelings. you research curses and transformations online, looking for any clue about how to reverse what's happened. people on the street stare at you like you belong in a psych ward, you heard a glimpse of a little girl asking her mom something along the lines of, mama, why is that crazy girl talking to a beachball?

gojo learns things about you he never knew. your favorite foods, your childhood dreams, your fears and insecurities. without the distraction of his physical desire. or rather, with it rendered completely moot by his current form, he actually listens without running off to snort.

It's humbling, being a beach ball. dependent on you for everything. unable to indulge any of his vices or desires.

on the fourth day, you take him back to the beach.

"I thought maybe returning to the scene might help," you explain, setting him down on a towel. "plus, I needed to get out of the apartment. I'm going fucking crazy trying to figure this whole thing out."

the beach is more crowded today. families with children, groups of teenagers, couples walking hand in hand. you lie back on your towel, and gojo rests beside you, a silent spherical companion.

he's gotten used to the beachball existence, somewhat. the way the wind can move him if you're not careful. the strange sensation of being inflatable, of having air pressure instead of blood pressure. the complete lack of physical needs—no hunger, no thirst, no need to use the bathroom.

but he misses being human. he misses having hands to touch things with and a voice to speak with. he misses a body that can feel pleasure and pain.

he's so lost in thought that he doesn't notice the group of college students approaching until one of them calls out: "hey, is anyone using that beach ball?"

"oh, um..." you sit up, looking uncertain. "actually, yes, it's—"

but before you can finish, one of the guys has already grabbed satoru and tossed him to his friend.

hey! gojo thinks indignantly. put me down!

"c'mon, let's get a volleyball game going!" one of them shouts.

"wait! that’s not a volleyb—!" you start to protest, but they're already running toward the volleyball net set up further down the beach.

and then satoru is flying through the air.

it's terrifying and exhilarating at once. he's being spiked back and forth over the net, and his consciousness is spinning with each hit. the students are laughing, having fun, completely unaware that they're using a sentient being as their sports equipment.

this is so undignified, gojo thinks as he's spiked over the net for the dozenth time.

but then something interesting happens. as he's flying through the air, his consciousness, still sharp and analytical despite everything, starts automatically calculating trajectories. velocity. acceleration. the angle of impact. the force applied.

it's instinctive, the way his brain works. even as a beach ball, he's still a physicist at heart.

initial velocity approximately 8 meters per second, angle of 45 degrees, accounting for air resistance and wind speed...

he's so caught up in the calculations that he doesn't realize he's heading straight for you.

you've run over to the volleyball game, trying to get him back, and you're standing right in his trajectory path. satoru’s consciousness has just enough time to calculate his landing before he crashes directly into your cleavage.

he bounces off and falls to the sand, but not before experiencing the most intense moment of his beach ball existence—the soft, warm pressure of your breasts cushioning his impact.

even as a beach ball, he's still a fucking pervert disaster.

"I'm so sorry!" one of the volleyball players are saying, jogging over. "we didn't realize the ball was yours. here—"

"It's fine," you reply curtly, scooping satoru up and holding him protectively. "just ask before taking people's shit next time."

you carry him back to your towel, and gojo swears he can feel your heartbeat through the plastic of his beach ball body. or maybe he's imagining it.

"that was scary," you murmur, settling back down with him in your lap. "I thought I'd lost you."

something shifts in gojo's consciousness at those words. the genuine concern in your voice. the way you've been taking care of him, talking to him, refusing to give up on finding a way to change him back.

he's been so focused on his physical desire for you that he never really appreciated... you. the beautiful person you are. the way you laughed at his terrible jokes to keep him from embarrassing yourself. the way you've shown him more care and compassion in the past few days than he deserves.

I've been such an idiot, he thinks. this whole time, I was so busy wanting you that I never really saw you.

the sun is starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. you're watching the waves, absently running your fingers over the surface of his beach ball body.

"I miss talking to you," you say softly. "I miss your voice. even when you were being awkward and nervous, I liked listening to you explain physics. you make complicated things sound beautiful."

I miss talking to you too, gojo thinks. I miss everything about being human. but most of all, I miss the chance to do this right. to actually get to know you, instead of just fantasizing about you.

I understand now, he thinks. I understand what I did wrong. I understand what matters. please, please let me have another chance.

the last rays of sunlight are fading from the sky when satoru feels the familiar tingling sensation again.

it starts in his core—or what passes for a core when you're a beach ball—and spreads outward. the world starts to spin again, but this time it feels different.

"satoru?" you gasp, and he realizes you can see it happening too.

his body is expanding, reshaping. limbs are forming. features are returning. the plastic texture of his skin is becoming flesh again.

gojo collapses onto the sand, gasping, his newly-reformed lungs burning as they remember how to breathe. he has hands again—actual hands with fingers that he can flex and curl. legs that can bend. a mouth that can speak. skin that can feel the cool evening breeze and the warm sand beneath him.

"oh my god," he chokes out, and even his own voice sounds foreign after days of silence. "holy shit, I'm—I'm... me!"

you're kneeling beside him immediately, your hands on his shoulders, his face, checking him over as if to confirm he's real. "satoru! holy fuck, are you okay? what the hell just happ—"

"I need to tell you something," he says, his voice cracking. "actually, I need to tell you a lot of things. and I need you to just... let me get it all out, okay? because if I don't say this now, I might lose my nerve."

you nod, still on high alert, and settle into the sand beside him, your hand finding his. the simple touch of skin on skin nearly makes him weep.

"first. I'm in love with you” he sighs, feeling the weight lifting off his chest. “and I’m a cocaine addict—or I was, I am? I don't know how this works. but I've been using for two months. every time before our tutoring sessions, I'd go to a shitty bathroom and snort a line or two because I was so fucking anxious about being near you that I couldn't handle it sober."

your hand tightens around his, but you don't interrupt.

"I told myself it was just to calm my nerves. just to help me focus. but that was all bullshit." he laughs bitterly. "I wasn't focusing at all. I was too busy staring at you, fantasizing about you, completely failing at the one job I was supposed to do—actually teach you physics."

the confession pours out of him like poison being drawn from a wound. "I objectified you. constantly. I'd spend entire sessions just... thinking about your body instead of doing my job. and I knew it was wrong. I knew I was being a creep and a terrible tutor, but I couldn't stop myself. the coke—no, me. I cant even blame the coke anymore. I just kept spiralling."

"satoru—"

"please, let me finish," he begs. "because here's the thing, being a beach ball was the most humiliating, degrading, terrifying experience of my life. I had no control. no agency. I was completely dependent on you for everything. I couldn't feed my addiction or act on my lust. I couldn't do anything except exist and think."

"but, you took care of me," he continues, his voice breaking. "even when I was just a stupid beachball. you talked to me and researched ways to help me. you carried me everywhere and you even protected me from those volleyball assholes—which, by the way, I will never forgive them for. do you know how traumatizing it is to be spiked repeatedly while calculating your own trajectory?"

that gets a watery laugh out of you, and it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

"the point is," satoru says, squeezing your hand, "I understand now what the curse was trying to teach me. It's not about the physical stuff. It's about seeing you as a person. valuing you for who you are, not what I want from you. and I do. I see you now. and I love you.”

you kiss him.

when you pull back, you're smiling. "I love you too, you idiot. even when you were a beach ball. especially when you were a beach ball, actually—you were much less neurotic."

"I was literally unable to express my neuroses," he points out.

"exactly. it was very peaceful."

--

your apartment feels completely different now that satoru’s human again. he'd experienced it as a beach ball, but only in fragments—now he can take it all in properly.

the shower is absolutely a religious experience. hot water, soap, the ability to wash himself—he nearly cries again from the sheer relief of it. you've laid out clean clothes for him (his spare shirt that he’d let you borrow weeks ago, and a baggy pair of your sweatpants that are slightly too small but will work nonetheless). when he emerges from the bathroom, toweling his hair dry, he finds you in the living room.

he plops onto the couch facing opposite you, flashing you a quick smile before shifting to cross his legs, taking another notice that he’s wearing your sweatpants.

"I should probably take things slow," he mutters abruptly, even as his mind is screaming at him to say the opposite. "I'm supposed to be proving I've changed, that I'm not just—"

"satoru," you interrupt gently. "you've already proved it. you spent four days as a beach ball with me 24/7. I think we're past the 'taking it slow' stage."

"but I don't want you to think—"

you stand up, walking around the table to him, plopping yourself directly onto his lap. "what do you want right now? not what you think you should want. what do you actually want?"

gojo looks up at you, his heart pounding. "you. I always want you.”

when you kiss him again, it's with clear intent. your tongue slides against his, and gojo groans into your mouth, his hands coming up to grip your waist. he's hard already, has been since you sat down in his lap, and he knows you can feel it.

"bedroom," you murmur against his lips. "now."

he stands up, lifting you with him, and nearly drops you immediately.

"fuck! sorry, sorry," he gasps, steadying you. "I forgot I have noodle arms again. being a beach ball required zero upper body strength."

you're giggling against his neck. "just put me down, idiot."

"no no, I've got this," he insists, adjusting his grip. "I've been fantasizing about carrying you to bed for months. I'm not giving up now."

he makes it approximately five steps before his arms start shaking again.

"satoru."

"almost there—"

"you're going to hurt yourself,"

"I'm fine." he takes two more steps, then finally admits defeat and sets you down gently. "okay, fine, whatever. apparently four days of being inflatable has destroyed what little muscle mass I had."

"you know what beach balls are really good at though?" you ask, taking his hand and leading him toward the bedroom.

"what?"

"bouncing." your lips quirk as you push him onto the bed, and he bounces slightly on the mattress. "see? you've still got it."

"oh my god," he groans, covering his rosy-tinted face. "that’s terrible. are the fucking beach ball jokes ever going to stop?"

"not a chance." you climb onto the bed, straddling him again. "I'm going to make beach ball jokes during sex. I'm going to make them at our wedding. I'm going to tell our grandchildren about the time grandpa was a beach ball."

"we're having grandchildren now?"

"focus, satoru." you pull your shirt over your head, and gojo's brain definitely focuses.

he's seen you in a bra before—but only in the form of your bikini at the beach. nevertheless, he can barely control the electric thrill that passes through his body.

"you're so beautiful," he breathes, reaching up to touch you reverently. his hands shake slightly as they trace up your sides, over your ribs, finally cupping your breasts through your bra. "I can't believe this is real."

"It's real," you assure him, reaching back to unhook your own bra. It falls away, and gojo makes a sound that's almost embarrassing. "touch me properly, you suck at this."

he does, palming your breasts, thumbing over your nipples until they peak like he’s seen in porn. you arch into his touch, and the sight of you above him, head thrown back in pleasure, is almost enough to make him come right there.

"f-fuck…" he starts, but you're already moving, grinding down against his erection through the layers of clothing between you.

you climb off him long enough to shimmy out of your shorts and underwear, and gojo takes the opportunity to strip off his borrowed clothes. you reach down between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his cock, which makes satoru nearly levitate off the bed.

"fuck," he hisses. "I'm not—I'm not going to last long. It's been four days and before that I was a virgin and—"

"I know," you soothe, stroking him slowly. "It's okay. we have all night. we have forever, actually."

"forever," he repeats like a vice.

you guide him to your entrance, and satory has just enough presence of mind to ask, "condom?"

"IUD," you reply. "and I'm clean. you?"

"virgin, remember? definitely clean." he grips your hips as you start to sink down onto him. "oh fuck, oh fuck, oh—"

the sensation of being inside you is overwhelming. hot and tight and perfect. you take him slowly, inch by inch, until you're fully seated in his lap.

"okay?" you ask, and he can hear the strain in your voice.

"so much better than okay," he manages.

you start to move, rising up and sinking back down, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix with every lower, and he thinks he might actually die from pleasure. his hands roam your body—your breasts, your waist, your thighs—trying to memorize every curve and plane like you’re his new equation.

"I love you," he gasps as you ride him. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," you reply, and then you're kissing him again, swallowing his moans as you move faster.

gojo can feel his orgasm building embarrassingly quickly. he tries to hold back, wanting this to last, but you feel too good and he's too worked up and—

"It's okay," you murmur with a smug smile, as if reading his mind. "you can let go, I already know you’re pathetic in bed, so no need to save face."

that's all it takes. his orgasm hits him, and he's gasping your name, his hips jerking up into you as he spills inside you. It goes on and on, more intense than anything he's ever felt, until he's left trembling and oversensitive. a puddle of mixed fluids settling where your hips connect.

you slow your movements, letting him ride out the aftershocks, then carefully lift off him. he immediately pulls you down beside him, wrapping you in his arms.

"sorry," he pants. "that was... embarrassingly fast."

"it totally was, but its fine," you giggle, kissing his shoulder. "like I said, we have all night."

"give me like... ten minutes," he says. "maybe fifteen. I want to make you feel good too."

"you already did," you assure him, but he's shaking his head.

"no, I mean like, really good. I want to—" he slides his hand down your body, between your legs, finding you wet and wanting. "let me?"

you nod, spreading your legs for him, and satoru sets to work.

he might be inexperienced, but he's a quick learner. he pays attention to your reactions, the way you gasp when he circles your clit just right, the way your hips buck when he slides two fingers inside you. he's methodical about it, treating it like an experiment. test, result, adjust.

"f-fuck, satoru," you moan, your hand fisting in his hair. "right there, don't you fucking dare stop—"

he doesn't stop, of course. he keeps the same rhythm, the same pressure, until you're coming apart beneath his hand, your inner walls clenching around his fingers as you cry out his name.

when you finally relax, boneless and satisfied, gojo withdraws his hand and brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you. your eyes go wide at his boldness.

"what?" he asks innocently. "I'm a scientist. I like to be thorough."

"don't dirty talk me with science," you groan in digust, but you're smiling.

he kisses you softly, then pulls you close, tucking you against his chest. "thank you," he murmurs into your hair.

"for the orgasm? you're welcome."

"for everything," he clarifies. "for not giving up on me. for taking care of me when I was a beach ball. for giving me a second chance."

"third chance, technically," you point out. "first chance was when I hired you as a tutor. second was when I kissed you at the beach. this is number three."

"then I better not fuck it up."

"you won't," you say with certainty. "you're going to get clean, then you're going to actually teach me physics. and we're going to figure this out together."

“together,” he hums in agreement, then adds, “and, I'm still well-inflated, so wanna go again?”

a/n: i commend you for making it all the way through

"toruuu," you snuck up behind satoru to wrap your arms around his shoulders, snapping him from his reverie, "whatcha thinking about?"

satoru jerked, surprised, before relaxing. you didn't miss the flush creeping up his neck at your contact.

"no-" he cleared his throat, "nothing."

you smiled, slyly, before leaning to press a small kiss at his ear. satoru's breath hitched.

you pretended not to notice as you moved up before coming to sit beside him, "how was your test?"

satoru took a deep breath to calm his thundering heart. this was something that was just too usual for the two of you.

you'd touch him in a way that seemed to toe the line of what's 'friendly' and he'd have to act like it doesn't make him malfunction and freak out.

"it was good," satoru replies, shoulders slumping despite himself, "i think."

you knocked your shoulder with his, "hey," your voice softened, and it made satoru look in your direction, "i know you, and i know for a fact you aced that test."

satoru's lips pushed up into the tiniest of pouts, "i hope you're right."

you press your finger onto his lip, "don't look so sullen, baby."

satoru almost fucking dies.

his entire face felt like it was on fire as he froze up, afraid to breath in case you retracted your hand. his heart felt like it was going to evacuate his chest and make a home in yours.

you smiled internally, satoru's reactions making butterflies erupt in your stomach. he was so fucking cute.

you wanted to tease him till he cried.

you pretended not to notice your best friend losing his mind and moved your finger to gentle caress his cheek, "do you wanna go out?"

"h-huh?" he blinked, mouth dropping open, trying his best to ignore your soft finger going back and forth his cheek that was making his cock strain against his pants, "w-wha..."

"for dinner?" you gently pushed his chin up, making his mouth close, "i really feel like having malatang tonight."

"o-of course," he nods, head jerking up and down in a rigid manner, of course you were asking to grab dinner. why would he ever think you wanted to go out with him. "what time?"

"seven?" you ask, finally moving your attention to the table, picking at satoru's snacks. satoru felt both grateful and disappointed that your hands weren't on him.

he pulled his backpack onto his lap, in an effort to hide his.. situation. "i'll pick you up at your dorm?"

"deal," you smiled up at him before turning to your notebook and satoru just about busts right there like a hormonal boy.

---

satoru is at your dorm door at 6:54. punctual, as always.

you let him in, pulling at his arm after he starts malfunctioning when he sees you’re still in your underwear.

“i just need to put on my jeans,” you say, shutting the door as you start moving around the room.

satoru somehow makes it to the bed, sitting at the edge and curls up into himself.

he prays that you do not notice the very noticeable bulge in his pants.

he keeps his eyes fixed to the window, heart in his throat with how fast it was beating.

you wanted to kill him, he was sure. you wanted to make him tachycardic and die at twenty one.

“….toru..?” you snap your fingers in front of his face, “earth to satoru.”

satoru blinks, realising he’d droned out in order to not crumple to the floor and beg you to touch him.

“oh, uh, um, s-sorry,” he stutters, his eyes dipping down to your chest that was covered with nothing but a lacy number.

“w-what,” he cleared his throat, face an impressive shade of red, again, “what were you saying?”

you smiled inwardly, enjoying how flustered he was. you weren’t scarcely dressed on purpose, you were just running late when satoru knocked on your door.

and why would you make him wait outside when you could watch him trip over his words instead?

“I asked,” you held up two tops, “which one should i wear?”

satoru should’ve said something courageous and flirty, to you know, shoot his shot. something like none, baby, i like you without or — you look ravishing in both, honey.

(yes, he gets his dating advice from 90s teen magazines.)

but instead he stutters out something that makes you smile and leave him alone, just to make sure he gets out of your room alive and without making a ginormous fool of himself.

———

at the restaurant, you both initially sit alone together, but soon enough, all your friends - and there are many - pop by and join you.

"hey, doll," suguru leans down, right next to your face, presenting you his cheek.

you giggle softly, cradling his jaw lightly as you press a faint kiss there, "hey, sugu."

he smiles and pulls out a chair, inviting himself to sit with you two.

satoru's grip on his chopsticks is a little too tight. his stomach is churning with ugly jealousy. he knew, of course, that he didn't deserve to feel jealous.

he was, after all, just your best friend.

but he wanted to get up and punch suguru's smug face.

maybe he was more your type, with his snake bite piercings and a face a supermodel would kill for. unlike him, who was awkward, reserved and didn't have the guts to even hug you first.

the thought worsened satoru’s mood substantially.

suguru smiled at satoru, who anyone with eyes could tell was fuming in his seat.

everyone on the campus knew you had your claim on satoru and he was essentially an extension of your existence.

"where's sho?" you ask, swinging your legs, oblivious to the change in atmosphere.

“here,” shoko’s smooth voice reaches your ear before you see her. she too, presses a quick kiss to your cheek before sliding into the empty chair beside satoru.

“‘sup,” she nods at satoru and he mutters a hello back.

shoko looks at you as if to ask why he looks like he got his candy snatched.

you just smile secretively.

soon, the three of you are talking and satoru replies everytime someone asks him a question, but he’s quieter than usual.

when the food arrives, satoru sullenly plays with his, not really eating.

you roll a piece of meat between your chopsticks and get up off your seat slightly, leaning across the table, “‘toruuu~”

satoru looks up, an adorable frown on his face which dissolves as soon as he sees your efforts in feeding him.

his cheeks tinge with tint as he leans forwards and wraps his lips around the chopsticks, deliberately looking at suguru with a smug look.

suguru bursts out laughing as you sit back down, putting his hand on the back of your chair. “cute,” he remarks with a smirk.

“thank you,” satoru says to you, but his eyes flit back to suguru, “it’s delicious.”

the entire meal, satoru and suguru have a silent back-and-forth, satoru unaware that you’re spectating it with great amusement.

you think it’s so cute how hard he’s pining for you without doing anything substantial to have you.

you're aware of the glares satoru had been throwing suguru all night, squirming in his seat and playing with his food because you weren't sitting next to him.

it was all going according to your plan.

a good hour later, the four of you paid and left the place, walking towards the direction of the dorms.

satoru fell back behind you and suguru, walking in pace with shoko.

he couldn't overtake suguru without having to get off the sidewalk and physically pushing suguru away from your side.

he was almost ready to do it.

you giggled at something suguru said, slapping his bicep with the back of your hand.

satoru willed suguru to spontaneously combust.

"it's getting late," you announced, stopping, "i'll get going now."

suguru opened his mouth, but satoru was done being pushed back.

"I'LL WALK YOU HOME!!!!!"

stunned silence engulfed your little group, couple of onlookers flinching at satoru's volume.

satoru's face slowly started to flame up as he realises that he yelled it.

you broke the silence first, throwing your head back laughing, "oh, satoru," you wiped a tear as the other two chuckled with you, "you're so cute."

satoru wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

you, still laughing, reached for his hand. "i was hoping you'd offer to," you intertwined your fingers with his.

satoru's heart almost stopped beating. huh?

before he could register the intent behind your words, you were already waving bye to suguru and shoko, and started to pull satoru towards the direction of your dorms.

satoru stumbled behind you a little, still embarrassed and reeling from your earlier words. hoping he'd offer? what did that mean?!

by the time you both reached your dorms, satoru had convinced himself it meant nothing.

"um," satoru fidgeted in front of your door, bummed that the day was ending and he'd only spent a couple hours with you (time spent with suguru around did not count), "i'll see you at class..?"

you stilled, disbelief settling in how adamantly dense this man was being.

what more did you need to do to show him you wanted him just as bad as he wanted you?

"no," your words were tight, a frown marring your face, "you won't see me at class."

"oh," his stomach dropped, "o-okay... i guess i should get going.."

"so you hate me, huh?" you asked indignantly, arms crossed across your neck.

his eyes widened, "huh- wha-"

"you just hate me soooo bad," you continued, "you hate me with every fibre of your being."

"w-what-" he looked panicked, unsure where this was coming from, "i don't hate-"

"oh yeah?" you stepped closer to him, making him take a step back, "i don't believe it, you fucking hate me."

he shakes his head, stepping back again as you take another step towards him, "that's not true! i don't-"

"really?" you took another step forward, he steppe backward, "but i think you hate me."

"please, don't say that-" he looked near tears, "i-i could never-"

"really?" you challenged, "then what? if you don't hate me then what do you feel?"

he squeezed his eyes shut as his back hit the wall, "i love you!"

he froze immediately as the words left his lips.

fuck. fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

he was too scared to open his eyes and look at your reaction, but the silence that followed his confession was terrifying.

when he finally found the guts to open his eyes, his heart backflipped ten consecutive times in his ribs when he saw you smiling triumphantly up at him.

"gotcha~" you sang and then you tugged at his collar, pulling him down to your face before smashing your lips onto his.

satoru whimpered, confused, but god he wasn't stupid enough to complain.

not when something he had dreamt of at least a thousand times was finally happening.

you cradled his face, pushing your tongue between satoru's lips. he moaned into your mouth, the sound almost more of a whine.

his hesitant hands settled on your waist once he was more sure that he was, in fact, not dreaming this up again.

you kissed him, your hand creeping to the back of his head, grasping at the silken white strands to tilt satoru's mouth better.

you pulled away, finally, to breathe and satoru followed after you, connecting your lips as if he couldn't stand not tasting you for more than a millisecond.

you moaned into his mouth as he slowly took charge, pushing you back so you were retracing your steps.

your back hit the door of your dorm, and satoru still didn't seem like he was letting up, completely drunk off of your addictive taste.

you pulled away again, gasping in a breath.

satoru tried to descend back onto your lips but you pushed your palm against his lips, stopping him in place.

satoru's heart thundered, maybe you regretted it, maybe you hate him now. god, what if you thought he was an awful kisser?

"toru," your soft, velvety voice brought him back, "do you wanna come in?"

he nodded earnestly against your palm, his grip on your waist tightening slightly.

you smiled at him and his heart flipped, "pop a tit for me, sugar."

huh?

you read the question on his face and giggled, retracting your hand, "go on."

satoru slowly lifted his sweater vest, his face, for the millionth time today because of you, flaming red. he pulled up his shirt as he stood in front of you, displaying his chest.

you giggled as you opened the door and stepped inside, hooking a finger around satoru's belt buckle to drag him in with you.

he stumbled in behind you, and maybe it was the fact that it was dark in your room, or the fact that he just told you he loved you and you hadn't run for the hills, or the fact that you kissed him, satoru engulfed you in his arms, hoisting you up on his waist as he pressed his lips to yours to swallow your squeal of surprise.

you rewarded him with a moan as you wrapped your legs around satoru's waist, following his hungry, almost ravenous pace as he kissed the ever loving breath out of you.

"t-toru," you whimpered as he pressed kisses down your throat and around your neck.

you felt him move and then you landed on the bed with a soft thud.

you could feel satoru hesitating as he looked down at you, and before he could overthink his way out of this, you raised your foot and pressed it against the outline of his cock straining against his pants.

satoru hissed, falling forwards onto the bed, supporting his weight on his arms.

"do you want it, 'toru?" you purred, pressing harder as he ground against your foot.

"y-yes," he whimpered, looking up at you with puppy eyes.

fuck. you pushed him on the side, flipping positions so you were on top of him. you pulled up your top and immediately, satoru's hands reached up, cupping your boobs over your bra.

you moaned at the sensation, holding the back of his hands as he continued his ministrations. you pushed your hips back a little, experimentally grinding against his cock.

"fuck, 'toru," you brought your face to his, pressing a sweet kiss onto his lips, "i love you so much."

that flipped a switch in him.

instantly, he flipped you over, hovering over your body as he kissed you before you registered what happened. he freed his cock and brought it near your clothed cunt, grinding down.

you both moaned into each other's mouths, your hands coming up to rest on satoru's shoulder.

with newfound confidence, satoru pulled your panties to one side before slipping two fingers in.

"satour-" you cried out at the intrusion, head jerking back. satoru followed, the thought of being away from your lips unbearable.

"fuck," he groaned into your mouth, "y-you're so wet. fuck."

he pumped his fingers in, curling them upwards. your hips bucked off the bed, grinding down on his palm.

he pulled back, making quick work of your panties and discarding them. he pumped his cock once, before looking up at you. "can i?"

you nodded jerkily, "yes, please."

satoru almost came at your tone.

one of his hands gripped your hips while the other held his cock, pumping it a couple times before bringing it towards your centre.

satoru pushed inside, his cock slipping inch by tantalising inch, feeling your warm walls stretch around his length.

"f-fuck," he panted, his grip on your hip almost bruising, his eyes tearing up as he willed himself not to cum. "y-you're s-so-"

your eyes flew open as you felt warmth spurting inside you, satoru was silent as he panted, looking down at where you were connected.

immediately, you wanted to tease him, clenching around him you cooed, "aww, 'toru did you cum already? my, my, that happe-"

satoru flipped his eyes up to yours, and there was a feral glint in them that stopped you dead. it was then you noticed that he was still diamond hard inside of you.

satoru pulled out so that only his tip was inside you, leaning over your face, his breath ghosting your lips, before he rammed back inside you

you mouth dropped open in a gasp, chest heaving upwards as you felt the veins on satoru's cocks pulse against your core.

satoru grits his teeth, fighting back another orgasm at the sheer vice of your grip. it felt impossibly tight and so damn good.

satoru could no longer control himself, snapping his hips to the pace of your breathing, making you moan and hike up the bed.

"'toruuuuu-" you whined, his cock pistoning in and out of you in a punishing pace, "k-kiss me."

he leaned down, his forearms on either side of your face as he captured your lips, kissing you sloppily as he fucked you into the mattress.

your hands found his back, scratching and gripping as if to ground yourself from satoru's punishing pace.

you felt your stomach tight, the wave of pleasure building up.

"'m close," you babbled, satoru leaning back down to lick your tongue, "'toru, 'm s'close-"

"fuck. hah- let it go, baby," he panted, his hand coming down to stimulate your clit, making you cry out in pleasure.

and you did, your orgasm crashed into you, making your hips jerk off the bed, clenching around satoru's cock.

satoru came a second later, gripping your hips and pushing his cock as deep into you as possible, whimpering out your name.

he collapsed on top of you, the sounds of your heavy breathing echoing in the otherwise silent room. he was still inside of you.

"say it again," satoru pleaded, looking at you with that pathetic, lovesick look.

"i love you, satoru."

you stiffened as you felt him getting hard inside you again.

“I love you more,” he looked up at you with that same glint in his eyes as earlier, “let’s go again, please?”

first ever nerdjo & first smut in months, what do we think

tags.: @sukunascunt @rip-cherrys-wrld @liliklei @peachygelic @tojisgdgirl @ratskillrats @lisabelhyhn

in the confined space of the elevator, you stand with your arms tightly crossed over your chest, staring at the doors, refusing to look at him. satoru leans against the opposite wall, his one ankle over the other with his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. his jaw is clenched and ticking every now and then. neither of you have spoken until you both left the car.

the argument you both had started off quite small, and stupid – highly unnecessary. you had a terrible day at work today, you don't even want to think about it. to make things even worse for you, satoru had decided to show up ten minutes later to pick you up. he apologised in the parking lot sincerely, but you were already too mad to listen to what he had to say.

you snapped at him. "if you can't be on time, just tell me so i can take the damn train."

his eyes narrowed at you, brows furrowing. "i'm here, aren't i? i always come get you. i don't know why you're acting like i left you stranded."

"oh my God, satoru. it's not just about that. i was out waiting in the cold like an idiot while you-"

"while i what? work my ass off all day too? fuck's sake, y/n, i'm not your chauffeur."

and yeah, that's what caused it. whatever negative feelings you've both been feeling in the week all surfaced. by the time he parked in the garage, your voices were raised and yelling at each other.

now in the elevator, the silence between you feels worse. you can feel him staring at the side of your face, and as much as you hate to admit it – it intimidates you. 

when the doors finally open, you storm out first. satoru follows a step behind you with the house keys jingling in his hand. when you reach the door, you wait with your arms crossed refusing to turn around. he unlocks the door without a word, pushes it open and lets you walk in first. the second he locks the door; you turn around furiously to look at him.

"i actually don't think i'm done talking about this." you say while kicking off your uncomfortable work shoes. "you think just because you showed up eventually makes it okay? i'm exhausted, satoru. i always am, and the one thing i expect from you is that you're there when you say you'll be."

he basically throws the keys onto the counter, the unnecessarily loud sound it makes emphasises his own anger. 

"and as i told you, i got held up at work. it isn't like i was out drinking with my friends. i was working. you know, that thing we both do to pay for the apartment you're currently yelling in for no good reason?"

you laugh bitterly, reaching behind to unzip your skirt, "oh, what the hell are you trying to say, huh? you think i don't work just as hard as you do? well i do, and i would never do something like this to you."

you pull your skirt down your legs until it pools at your feet. you step out of it, so you're left in just your blouse and underwear. satoru's gaze wanders over your figure and his eyes darken. you see the way his tongue licks across his bottom lip, and it pisses you off more because he's clearly not interested in what you said since he's checking you out.

"why the hell are you looking at me like that?" the disapproval is clear in your voice.

he takes a step closer, shrugging off his jacket and carelessly letting it fall on the floor. "like what?"

"like you wanna fuck me instead of talking about this."

he huffs out a low laugh. "can't help it. you're sexy as hell when you're mad."

you roll your eyes and turn towards the bathroom to get away from him, unbuttoning your blouse as you go. he's right behind you, and when he catches up with you, you feel the hardest, most possessive smack on your ass. you gasp and spin around, hand flying to your ass cheek that now stings deliciously,

"satoru!"

he doesn't even look sorry, he just stares down at you with dark, heavy eyes with a smirk on his face. "i can't even lie. i wanna fuck you," he says with genuine honesty in his deep voice. "been thinking about it since you started raising your voice in the car."

your face heats up at that, and your body traitorously feels aroused too, despite how angry you still are.

"no," you say firmly. "not happening until you apologise properly ."

he scoffs and runs a hand through his hair. "you want to apologise for something that isn't my fault, something i already apologised for anyways? fine. i'm really sorry y/n. now come here."

"that's not a proper apology, you're being cynical." you turn again, walking into the bedroom, opening the last buttons of your blouse. once it's fully unbuttoned, you take it off so you're left in your bra and panty. even though it's freezing cool, you purposely take ages so satoru can see you like this and wish.

you hear his footsteps behind you again, and then his hands are on your hips, pulling you back against his chest before you can move away. he's warm and you feel his erection pressing against your ass. he dips his head down, so his lips brush your ear.

"i want to fuck you." he murmurs again needily. one of his hands slides up your stomach to graze the side of  your breast. "wanna bury myself inside you and make you forget why you're mad."

you shiver, hating how good that sounds, hating how much easily he gets you weak for him.

"no," you say, and it comes out embarrassingly weak. you turn in his arms and push at his hard chest. "not until you actually mean that you're sorry,"

his eyes search yours, frustration is evident in his eyes, but of course the hunger is more noticeable. he lets out a slow exhale, looks as if he's contemplating something, then he gives you a little smirk.

"okay," he says calmly. "let's make a deal, hmm?"

you narrow your eyes, growing suspicious. "what kind of deal?"

he steps back and starts unbuckling his belt. your throat goes dry as he opens a button before unzipping it.

"cock-warming. you sit on my dick," he says, eyes locked in yours. "just sit. no moving or anything. we stay like that until one of us can't take it anymore. whoever thrusts, grinds or anything too physical has to apologise. properly."

your breath hitches and you feel some wetness at your core at the thought of his filthy ultimatum and the challenge in his voice.

"you've lost it. why would i do something so demented?"

he pushes his jeans and boxers down his legs enough to free his cock. it's so hard and lengthy, it's got you mentally salivating. he holds it in his hand, giving himself a few strokes, and damn you're jealous that you're not the one doing it for him.

"scared you'll lose, baby?"

you swallow hard, you're stubborn but then again there's an ache between your thighs wishing to be satisfied. this is probably the dumbest deal you're about to agree to, but it does sound interesting in way you're unable to comprehend.

"fine." you say firmly.

"get on me then."

you stand there for a second, re-thinking your decision. where on earth does one even come up with this idea? satoru walks back to sit on the edge of the bed. your eyes voluntarily drift down to his cock, hard against his stomach with the tip glistening. he carries on fisting himself while looking up at you with a little smirk. your pride is screaming at you to leave and not give him what he wants, but of course, the demon inside you is ovulating and very curious.

you huff out a breath and approach him, climbing on his thighs to straddle him. you're stubborn as ever, so you don't touch him more than you have to. your knees sink into the bed on either side of his thighs. once you're properly on him, he reaches out for your panties to help you get them off. his little touch is enough to have you aching for more of it, and that pisses you even more because you don't feel like being a sucker for him tonight.

"don't" you snap, slapping his hands away. "i don't want you looking at me, i don't want you touching me. let's just do this stupid thing."

his eyebrows shoot up, surprise and maybe a little bit shock evident on his face. "yes, ma'am." he murmurs.

he tilts his head back immediately, looking at the ceiling like it's the most fascinating thing to exist – which of course, it isn't. you are. you're undoubtedly the most fascinating thing satoru could lay his eyes on. but now, he has to make believe that the ceiling is interesting since you're forbidden him from looking at you. his drops his hands on the mattress, fingers fisting into the sheets.

you sit up a little to get your panty off, and it sticks to your core, showing you how pathetically soaked you are already. you feel your arousal dripping down the inside of your thigh, landing on satoru, just above his knee. his throat bobs hard and his jaw clenches tightly. he moves a bit so the tip of his cock brushes against your inner thigh leaving a small smear of pre-cum.

you glance down and he's painfully hard, his veins standing out today. your mouth goes dry. you're annoyed that your first instinct is to hold him in your hands and tease him before giving him the sloppiest head. instead, you sit back on his thighs, keeping some space between your core and his cock. his eyes are still glued to the ceiling, lips slightly parted as he breathes slowly, trying to remain neutral.

you slide one hand down your stomach, going down to your clit. satoru quickly glances at what you're doing and his breath hitches when he sees your fingers rubbing yourself slowly. you're drenched enough that when you circle your clit, the sound is very audible to him. you let out a little moan as your fingers move through your folds, you're very sensitive so your touches feel so good. satoru's hips involuntarily jerk and he lets out a low, frustrated groan.

"fuck," he whispers softly, squeezing his eyes shut.

you slip a finger into yourself, pumping inside slowly. the wet and filthy sounds fill the room, tormenting satoru. you add another finger inside, imagining that it's him. though your fingers are absolutely nowhere near as pleasant as satoru feels. he finally brings his head forward to watch you finger-fucking yourself. he makes a noise that makes you clench around your fingers. he drops his head back down on the mattress, letting out a shaky breath.

even though you're enjoying the pleasure you're giving yourself, you pull your wet fingers out and bring them up between you. without a word, you press them to his lips. he doesn't hesitate; he opens his mouth so you can insert your fingers inside for him to lick them with a satisfied groan. he licks them clean while finally staring into your eyes, sucking harder on your two digits.

when he finally lets your fingers go with a soft pop, he hoarsely speaks, "fucking hell, you're so soaked."

you don't answer him, you move forward, rising on your knees until you're hovering over him. he gets the hint and wraps a hand around his cock, holding it steady for you. you lower yourself onto him torturously slow, coating him with your arousal. he hisses, head falling back again. you finally sink down, and the stretch is perfect. your breath catches in your throat, and you moan out shakily as satoru groans loudly.

"f-fuck," he breathes out. "so warm and perfect."

once you're all the way down, neither of you move for a while. he's buried so deep inside you, pulsing while you clench around him. your hands find his shoulders for balance, nails digging into his skin – it stings a little, but satoru loves the feeling. his eyes are locked on your face now, gauging your reaction to this, taking note of the pleasure you're unable to hide, and the way you're clearly displeased with just sitting on him. you're his girl, he knows you through and through. you're always in the mood to fuck him or to get fucked by him, he knows very well that you're eager for some action. but of course, you're way more stubborn so you both end up sitting still, staring at each other.

the atmosphere between both of you is very tense. considering the fact that you're both still quite pissed off at each other. you're both still frozen in place, bodies intimately joined together but refusing to move. his cock throbs deep inside you and every time you clench around him, you both let out frustrated noises, putting much effort into staying still.

satoru leans back on his elbows so he can get a good look at you. the movement causes his hips to move a bit, making his cock shift inside you, nudging a spot that has your toes curling. you whimper softly, nails digging harder into his shoulders. 

"don't move."

he grunts lowly. "trying not to, baby. fuck, this was a stupid fucking idea."

his eyes are dark and glassy, fixed on you in a way that makes you feel very intimidated. you can feel the way he's obviously holding back, see the way his abs flex and the way his thighs tense under you and the way he's trying to remain perfectly still. you lean forward, trying to steady yourself on him and the movement causes him to drag along in your walls.

"shit," he curses. "you're dripping down my balls, y/n. tell me the truth, does fighting with me get you this wet?"

he asks huskily with some teasing in his voice, and maybe even some triumph as if he's just found out something dirty about you. your cheeks burn, but you won't let him win that easily. you lean in close, lips brushing against his.

"oh, please. look at you. you're hard as fuck. literally throbbing inside me like you're about to come from me just sitting on you. so don't act like you're not just as turned on by this."

he narrows his eyes at you, tongue in his cheek as he stares st you for a moment before speaking. "i'm a guy. you're naked, soaked and sitting on my dick. of course i'm hard."

he admits shamelessly, perhaps his excuse is valid, but you're still feeling the need to be bitchy. 'bullshit." you say.

 your hips move the tiniest bit, enough to make both of you feel tingles, but not enough to count as moving. he sucks in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering. 

"you were hard in the elevator. you were hard the second i started yelling at you in the car. admit it - you like it when i'm pissed at you."

he lets out a low laugh, elbows digging into the bed as he sits up a bit more. you both let out moans when the shift causes his hips to roll again.

"fine," he rasps. "yeah, i like it. i like when you get all fired up and talk back to me. turns me the fuck on. happy?"

you swallow hard, trying to ignore the way your body responded to his confession by clenching hard around him. his eyes darken and a groan slips out of him.

"but that doesn't mean i'm gonna apologise first," he adds quickly, matching your stubbornness. "you're the one who started going off about me being a few minutes late."

"those few minutes felt like hours when i was freezing my ass off waiting for you- " you abruptly stop because he purposely flexes inside you, making your thighs tremble. 

"satoru," you warn but it comes out needy and desperate.

he smirks at you. "what? i didn't move, did i?"

"you're so damn infuriating."

"really?" he licks his bottom lip when his eyes drop to where you're both joined, before looking back up at your face. "come on, baby. move. i know you wanna ride me. i can feel how bad you want it."

yes, you absolutely do want it. you want to slam down on him and ride him hard. your pussy is throbbing, swollen and desperate. but you're not about to break first.

"no. you move, you apologise."

he groans again, closing his eyes shut as if he's praying for strength. when he looks at you again, his eyes are dark.

"you're pure fucking evil." he mutters.

his hands twitch at his sides and he has to fist them to prevent himself from grabbing your hips and fucking into you.

minutes pass by, both of you are breathing hard while staring at each other, trembling with the effort of not giving in. your hands ended up on his hard chest, feeling his heartbeat. satoru's hands hovered uncertainly for a long time, but eventually they settled on your hips, caressing with his thumbs. you're trying not to clench around him, but every time you do, his eyes flutter and his fingers tighten on you.

you bite down hard on your bottom lip, trying hard to stifle the little whimpers trying to escape you. the still feeling of him is so overwhelming, it's making you insane, every time his cock pulses inside you has the demon inside you wanting to move.

satoru's jaw clenches so tight you can see the veins standing out on his neck, and the sweat dripping down his forehead despite the cool weather. satoru looks completely ruined, and the sight of him like this would have you feeling so victorious if you weren't feeling just as tortured as him.

finally your pride cracks and you plead with him. "move," you whisper. you didn't mean to say it out loud, it just slipped out.

for a moment you think he might put you out your misery and fuck you, but he doesn't.

"no," he says roughly. "you move and apologise first."

you laugh, but it's frustrated and annoyed. "you know you want this, satoru. even more than i do."

"says the girl who's shaking on my dick." he shoots back. "you want this more than me, angel."

to prove that he's right, your body betrays you by tightly clenching around him again as if you're trying to pull him deeper inside you.

"y/n, stop fucking doing that-"

when you look at him, you notice that his eyes are almost wet, like he's on the verge of losing it. seeing him like this – satoru, who's always so controlled and usually dominant – almost knocks the air out of you. you're so wet, it's embarrassing, arousal coating his cock, dripping down onto his skin. 

you lean forward so your forehead touches his and lips brush against his as you speak . "this is killing you, isn't it?"

he swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing. "you have no idea."

"i do," you admit. "because it's killing me too."

his hands slide up your sides, caressing your skin and stopping under your breasts. you bite your lip harder, feeling the urge to roll your hips and please both of you.

after a long while, both of you still refuse to give into each other. you just stay there frustrated in place.

"i don't get it, y/n." he mutters, eyes searching yours. "why are you so fucking stubborn? i didn't do anything wrong. i was late one time. traffic was shit, i apologised in the parking lot. why can't you just say sorry and let this go?"

he raises his voice, startling you since he never ever does that. you get the urge to cry. your shoulders drop, and the fight suddenly drains out of you. your eyes start to sting and blink a few times, trying to keep it together. but your tears fall anyways. satoru's expression breaks, his anger and frustration are replaced by deep concern and regret.

"baby-?"

you shake your head, voice wobbly when you speak. "today was awful." you whisper. "everything went wrong. my boss made me look stupid in front of the whole team, he always does that to me... i don't even want to talk about it. and then i waited out in the cold forever, and i just... i didn't mean to take it all out on you. i've been so stressed, satoru. i'm tired. i'm sorry."

+you've never mentioned your boss and the hardships you face at work to satoru. knowing that he'd lose his shit. but today had been a lot, too much for you. thinking about what happened causes your tears to fall faster.

satoru sits up fully, his cock shifts in deeper and both of you want to moan at that, but now isn't the time. his hands go around you to pull you against his chest.

"hey, hey, no-don't cry. shit, i'm sorry." his voice is soft and guilty. "i didn't know it was that bad. i should've asked and listened instead of getting defensive."

he cups your face, wiping away your tears with his thumbs, but more keeps coming. he leans in and kisses them away, kissing all the way down to your jaw.

"i'm sorry, baby," he murmurs against your skin. "sorry for being later. for raising my voice just now. for not seeing that you weren't okay. i'm really fucking sorry."

he kisses you properly after his most sincere apology. his lips are soft and gentle against yours, tasting the salt from your tears. you sigh into his mouth, your hands sliding around his neck to pull him closer to deepen the kiss since you've been desperate for it. you start moving, rolling your hips and grinding down on him making you moan into each other's mouth.

"i'm sorry too," you whisper against his lips, as you lift up and sink back on him, taking him deeper. "i love you. i love you so much."

he groans, hands tightening on your waist to help guide you now as you start riding him faster now.

"fuck, i love you," he says, eyes locked into yours. they're dark and wild, making your breath hitch. "i love you, my stubborn, infuriating, perfect girl."

you laugh softly and he kisses you again, swallowing the sound. your hands are everywhere, holding his shoulders, caressing his abs and chest. his hands roam just as greedily as yours. one cups your breast, thumb playing with your nipple, the other grips your ass, fingers digging in as he helps you bounce on him.

you ride him for a long time. both of you let out loud, pleasant sounds, whispering filthy praises and apologies between kissing.

suddenly, he lifts you up and flips you over. you're on your back now, he holds your thighs firmly and makes you wrap your legs around his waist as he settles between them. he thrusts back inside you deeply, making your back arch off the bed.

"satoru-oh-God-"

he groans at your sweet sounds, his forehead dropping against yours. 

"need to fuck you properly." he murmurs.

he starts moving faster and harder, the feeling of him has you seeing stars. he grips your thighs, bringing your leg higher around his waist and grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing it hard as he pulls you against him to match his thrusts.

you touch him everywhere – hands in his hair, nails raking down his back. his mouth is everywhere on you, sucking marks onto your skin, kissing your lips hungrily. he doesn't stop fucking you perfectly. every time he pulls out and slams back in has you moaning his name out loud.

after a while, you release first, practically screaming against his shoulder. he follows a few seconds later, thrusting into you sloppily now before burying himself deep inside you and staying there while filling you up.

he half collapses on you, though he's careful not to crush you. his forehead rests on yours as you both of you pant into each other's mouths. for a while neither of you move from that position. eventually he pulls out, you both groan at the feeling of how sensitive you both are. he rolls onto his back beside you, hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you against him. you turn in his arms to place your head on his chest and throw your leg over his thigh. he holds you tightly, leaving kisses on your temple and the top of your head.

soon, you fall asleep in what you think of as your favourite and safest space – wrapped in satoru's embrace.

                                                     ୨ৎ

the next morning, you stir awake slowly, eyes fluttering open. once you're fully conscious, you notice satoru's gaze on you. he's propped up on one elbow, his head resting on his hand, watching you with the softest expression you've ever seen on him. his hair's a mess, and the sheet has slipped down to his waist, revealing the red marks you left on his chest and abs. he looks so peaceful, possessive and utterly in love. it's like he's been staring at you for a long while, watching you sleep. 

you smile sleepily. he leans in slowly clearly wanting to kiss you, you mumble something about not brushing your teeth yet, but he clearly does not care. he kisses you deep and hungrily, tongue sliding inside your mouth. you a soft, embarrassed sound but he just hums, pleased and kisses you harder. his hand caresses your cheek before going under the covers to hold your waist and pull you right against him. you melt into the kiss despite your earlier grumbles about not brushing your teeth and your worries from last night about his absence.

when he finally pulls back, your lips are swollen and you're both breathing hard.

"morning," he says in that rough morning voice you love, his nose brushing yours.

"morning," you whisper back, cheeks heating up.

right after that, his mouth trails down your jaw and neck, licking and nipping at your skin. he goes down lower, kissing your collarbone, between your breasts and your nipples. you gasp at the sensation, arching into him.

"satoru-"

"shh. let me make you feel good." he murmurs.

he disappears under the sheets, moving down your body. once he's settled between your thighs, he pushes them apart gently, then kisses along your inner thigh, teasing.

after his gentle kisses, he licks you all the way from your entrance to your clit. you moan out loudly, hands gripping the sheets when you hear his hum in approval. he goes straight to work, licking you hard and circling your clit. you're soaked, arousal mixed with his saliva. you grip his hair, needing something to hold. he slides two fingers inside you, finger-fucking you slow and deep while simultaneously sucking on you.

soon enough, you're releasing while moaning his name. he doesn't stop, only when you're weakly tugging at his hair from oversensitivity does he crawl up your body, kissing wherever he can as he comes back up. once he's back up, hovering over you, he kisses you slowly. you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to kiss him even deeper.

"let's take a shower, hmm?"

he doesn't wait for you to answer him, he just picks you up and carries you the bathroom for a shower. in the shower, he helps you by washing you up, soaping your body, washing your hair and massaging his scalp. you return the favour, soaping his back, his chest and down his abs, teasing him by going lower until he catches your wrist, pins you to the slippery wall and kisses you dizzy.

soon the both of you finally come out the shower, wrapped in towels while trading lazy, loving kisses that he tries to turn dirty. you playfully swat him away so you can get ready for work.

every single morning, satoru is always much faster than you are – already dressed in suitable work clothes while you run around like a headless chicken. he makes you coffee while you dry your hair. and every time he comes to check on you, you notice how he looks at you in the mirror. it's not like the playful and flirtatious way he usually does, instead it's more observant and watchful. 

when you walk into the bedroom to get dressed, he's already sitting on the edge of the bed with his phone in his hand. he dims his screen as you step in and his eyes lift to you immediately. he watches you as you change into your work clothes, eyeing your body with an intensity that makes you heat up.

"you're staring at me, you creep." you play it lightly.

he huffs out a small laugh, since keeping his eyes glued onto you. "can't help it. you're beautiful." 

you smile shyly and reach for your blouse. as you button it, satoru leans forward with his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together.

"hey," he says softly. "can i ask you something?"

you nod, glancing at him in the mirror. "yeah?"

"your boss." he says carefully. "the one you say has been giving you a hard time. what exactly does he do to you?"

you stomach drops at the question and mention of him. some stupid part of you hoped that satoru wouldn't have asked. but of course, he would. he's so protective over you, way too protective. you finish sliding your arms into the sleeve, focusing on the buttons so you don't have to meet his eyes.

"it's nothing," you say, trying to brush it off with a little shrug. "just typical superior bullshit, deadlines and nitpicking. the usual."

"Y/N."

the tone he uses makes you glance up at him again. his expression is calm, but there's something deeper underlying.

you force a smile. "really, toru. it's fine. and i don't really wanna talk about this. can we not do this right now?"

you focus on changing into your skirt and neatening up your hair. in the reflection you see him still watching you, his tongue is his cheek - the thing he does when he's usually pissed off and holding himself back. he relaxes himself and nods slowly.

"okay." he says without looking away.

you finish getting ready, and when you lean over the dresser to put your earrings on, he stands up and walks behind you. his hands settle on your hips, chin resting on your shoulder as he meets your eyes in the mirror again.

"you look perfect," he says, nibbling on your earlobe now.

you lean back into him. "thank you." he leaves a deep kiss on your neck before letting you go.

inside the car, he drives with one hand on the steering wheel and the other tracing circles on your thigh just as he usually does, except this time his hold on you is firmer and feels more protective. 

 ────୨ৎ────

it's been a few nights since yours and satoru's silly argument and the insane deal that followed. at home, with him, things have been great. he's been on time for you every evening after work – sometimes waiting outside your workplace minutes before you even clock out. you know that being early for you might be challenging for him, because realistically his workload is a bit more demanding than yours is. but he loves you more than enough to go to that length to please you. of course, in return you reward him with sloppiest head or whatever else he finds pleasant. and whatever he finds pleasant – you do too. so basically, you two have spent the last few days fucking like rabbits.

you wake up slowly and a bit disorientated. your body is aching in best way possible. of course, the first thing you do is reach out for satoru craving his warmth, but you're met the feeling of the empty sheets instead. you lift your head, seeing that the time on the clock is 2:18AM. his side of the bed is empty and cold, as if he's been gone for a long time, it makes you feel uneasy.

you sit up, rubbing your eyes, trying to listen for any noise to indicate that he's around. but there's nothing, just silence. you get off the bed to stand up and head toward the door with the intention of going downstairs to hopefully find him there. but just as you open the door, satoru's already opening it from outside. you scan him immediately, sensing something off. even in the dark, you notice that his attire – he's in outside clothes, like he's just been out somewhere.

when he notices you, he jumps, startled. your stomach drops, not liking his reaction.

"hey," you say softly. "where were you?"

he's stunned for a few seconds, then forces a small smile. "just stepped out for a smoke. couldn't sleep, didn't want to wake you."

you instantly catch in that he's lying. he doesn't smell like smoke. he could've gone to smoke on the balcony. and who in their right minds would dress up just to go out to smoke?

you step toward him anyways, reaching out for a hug since you're still desperate for his warmth you couldn't have due to his strange absence. but he doesn't meet you halfway to bring you into his embrace, instead he leans in to press a quick kiss to your forehead, then your lips before you can fully process it.

"go back to bed, baby." he murmurs. "i'll be with you in a minute."

you search his face in the darkness with your heart beating a little too fast. "toru..."

"i'm just gonna shower quick," he says, already walking past you toward the en-suite bathroom. "just wanna wash up. go lie down, okay? i'll be right there."

he closes the door behind him before you can say anything. you stand there, staring at the closed door, listening to the shower starting up...

soon, you climb into bed and pull the covers up to your chin, lost in thought. where has he really been? and why is he lying to you?

      ୨ৎ

later on, you wake up feeling satoru's lips on your shoulder, he leaves a kiss there, then another on the nape of your neck. his arm is over your waist, fingers drawing patterns on your stomach.

"morning, beautiful." he murmurs in his rough voice.

he leans in to kiss the tip of your nose, your forehead then your lips. you hum into the kiss, enjoying it, but your mind wanders to how he lied to you in the early hours of the morning – how he was supposed to be in bed cuddling you but was absent in bed, and walking in from somewhere else instead.

but right now, you don't want to think of that, he's kissing you so affectionately and loving, it has your mind going blank. 

he breaks the kiss to speak, "sleep okay?" he tucks strands of hair behind your ear.

"yeah," you lie a little, but smile anyway. "you?"

"slept so good after having you back in my arms." he kisses you deeper again, rolling you onto your back so he can hover over you, one of his thighs slide between yours. "you feel so good in the mornings. i could stay here all day."

you laugh softly, fingers threading into his hair. "we have work, unfortunately."

he groans loudly at that, burying his face in your neck. "unfortunately, we do."

he kisses you one more time, then rolls out of bed, stretching - you eye his delicious figure as the shirt rides up, revealing his body underneath it. you watch him walk out the room and down the hall. your suspicions from the morning aren't so worrying now. maybe you just overthought it, maybe he really just needed air.

you get up eventually, already dreading this day. you love your job, just hate your boss. over the past few years, you've been working at your job, he's tormented you and made most of your days a living hell. all because you refused to sleep with him. you could've reported him to hr, but it's unfortunate that the old hag is too powerfu. any of the poor other women who had gone through what you do and were brave enough to report it ended up jobless.

you've worked so hard to get to where you are, yes, you're qualified and deserving of a higher position, but the bastard has rejected you many times. your current position is forced to suffice, and it's something you can't afford to lose, so you have to endure all that he puts you through. the idea to tell satoru has always called out to you, but he's way too crazy over you. if he knew what goes on, you're sure he might end up a killer. so, you've stupidly decided to keep to yourself.

you shower, do your hair and change, and by the time you're done, satoru is as well. he's leaning against the counter sipping coffee, eyes lighting up when he sees you.

"fuck," he says quietly, setting his mug down. "you look way too good for that place."

"flattery won't get me to call in sick."

he steps close, hands going to your hips to pull you into him.

"worth a shot."

satoru fixes your collar while you button his sleeves, you neaten his hair while he zips your skirt up properly, his fingers lingering on your thighs as you two have a small make out session.

by the time you make it to the car, you're both a little untidy and laughing at nothing. he drives with one hand on the steering wheel and the other intertwined with you to leave kisses on your knuckles every now and then. 

once he parks outside your workplace, he turns to you. "come here," he instructs.

you lean over the console, expecting a quick kiss but it's definitely not quick. his hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you deep. his tongue slides into your mouth, tasting you. you gasp into the kiss, fingers fisting into his shirt, making him groan before kissing you harder. he squeezes your thigh, pulling you closer.

your lipstick is definitely smudged and your hair's probably a mess. you giggle breathlessly when he pulls back to let you catch a break.

"satoru," you laugh, wiping his bottom lip with your thumb.

"you're gonna make me look unpresentable."

"that's okay," he says before stealing one deeper kiss from you. "then everyone will know you're mine."

you roll your eye with a racing heart, but of course you have to leave with one last peck. afterwards you get out the car, neatening yourself up before making your way inside. he watches you the whole way with a soft, possessive smile on his face.

the office feels different when you walk in. it's quiet in a weird way. your desk is still the same, everything exactly in place. but it's devoid of its usual tense, suffocating atmosphere. people glance at you as you pass, some offer small smiles. but no one is gossiping as they usually do. your boss's office door is closed with the lights off.

"hey," your only friend here at work says as she appears at your cubicle holding two coffees. "you okay?"

"yeah?" you say, confused. "why wouldn't i be?"

she leans in, lowering her voice when she speaks. "did you hear about mr ren?"

your stomach tightens at the mention of his name. "no...what happened?"

"i heard he called in this morning. said he had a 'family emergency' and won't be in all week. but-" she glances around before whispering softer. "someone said he was at urgent care last night. bruised and bloody... looked like he got attacked or something."

your heart stops, lia keeps going, oblivious. "weird, right? he's never missed a day...and hr sent an email - assignment of duties. everyone's freaking out a little."

you stare at your computer screen, fingers frozen on the keyboard. for some unknown reason satoru's face flashes in your mind... or perhaps, deep down the reason isn't entirely unknown, but you're choosing not to consider it.

                 ୨ৎ

during the day, you've buried yourself in emails and reports. at about 3pm, you receive a new email, subject : reassignments. the email comes from director sato – director sato who's levels above your boss. to say you're nervous to meet with him is an understatement, but anyways you smooth your skirt, and make your way to the executive floor.

director sato's assistant smiles when you arrive and waves you right in. inside, director sato stands to greet you before gesturing to the chair across from his desk. the kindness and bright smile on his face eases your nerves immediately.

"y/n, thank you for coming. i'll get straight to it." he slides a folder across the table.

"effective immediately, you're being moved the senior strategics projects role. heard it's something you've applied for before."

your soul leaves your body – from hearing the greatest news. that role. the one you've always dreamed of getting. the one your prick of a boss rejected you for, even though you were perfectly qualified for it and suited for the roll.

"i... i don't understand," you manage to say in disbelief. "i thought the decision was already–"

he holds up his hand. "things changed. after an incident that i'm unable to get into detail about, i've done reviews on the workers here and find that your work is exceptional. you've really earned this, miss y/n."

tears prick at your eyes, you blink hard, trying to keep it together.

"this is... this is everything i've wanted. thank you. thank you so much."

he smiles, sliding a tissue over to you.

"congratulations. hr will send the formal letter this afternoon."

          ୨ৎ

by the time work is over, you're practically on cloud nine. you rush out the doors, eager to see him and bear the news. satoru is leaning against his car in the pickup zone with his hands in his pocket with a smile already on his face as if he knows a little secret.

you start running toward to him, he pushes off the car just in time, catching you as you launch yourself at him. your legs wrap around him and he holds you steadily under your thighs as you bury your face in his neck.

"i got it, satoru, i got it," happy tears fall onto his neck. "the promotion. the one i've always wanted."

he pulls back to look at you, grinning happily. "baby–" he laughs, spinning you around before setting you down but keeping you close. "holy shit, i'm so fucking proud of you."

you're crying happy tears again, laughing through it. "i can't believe it, toru."

he kisses you hard and you kiss him back, not thinking for a second that he may be one of the reasons you've so suddenly gotten this promotion.

                             ୨ৎ

at home, satoru cooks your favourite dinner and gets out the most expensive wine you have to celebrate properly.  you both eat together then sip the wine until you're both tipsy and giggly. after some time, you both sloppily kiss each other. satoru can't stop touching you, pulling you onto his lap with his tongue down your throat. when he pulls back, he's looking at you as if you're his everything and more.

"you're glowing," he says, staring at you with glassy eyes. "i've never seen you this happy."

you straddle him fully then, arms around his neck with your forehead against his. "because of you too. with you, everything is possible." you slur a bit.

his hands tighten on your hips; he looks so utterly satisfied hearing those words. again, he kisses you deep and passionately.

later on, when the wine bottle is empty, he carries you to bed. both of your clothes are taken off in record speed since he's eager to fuck the living daylights out of you.

he fucks you slow at first, eyes locked on yours as he said the sweetest things to you, about how beautiful you are, how much he loves you, how proud he is of you and how no one else could ever compare to you. after that, he goes faster and rougher. his hips thrust into you so passionately, you screamed out.

he'd take you in so many positions, had you in so many different angles, you discovered just how flexible you are. you and satoru are always adventurous in bed, and with him you've discovered just how feral you truly are in bed. but tonight you've shocked yourself by how long you're going on for, you've released so many times. yet you can still go on.

he's got you on your back again, thrusting into you. his forearms are braced on either side of your head, caging you in. he's sweaty, the red marks you left on his chest are standing out completely - you don't think you've seen something so ethereal in your entire life. again, his eyes don't leave yours, he's staring down at you with that proud and possessive lovesick look he's had all night.

you're already so close, thighs trembling around his waist. gasping every time he bottoms out. your hands grip onto his shoulders, sliding up to tangle in his damp hair to pull him down for a messy kiss. he groans into your mouth, pounding into you harder.

"my perfect girl," he rasps against your lips roughly. "you're finally getting everything you deserve."

you whimper, arching into him, too lost in the overwhelming sensations to catch the weight behind his words. he slows down a bit, just to get in nice and deep and stay buried for a while. his hips circle in a way that feels so good, it has your eyes fluttering shut.

he speaks close to your ear, licking your earlobe, "no one's ever gonna stand in your way again, baby," he murmurs. "no one will ever hurt you and get away with it, i'll make sure of it. just like i did with him."

your eyes snap open, he doesn't stop moving. he cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek tenderly.

"i told you i'd take care of you," he whispers. "and i always keep my promises. i'm just sorry i didn't take care of it sooner."

now? the only way to describe your… involvement, would be friends who fucked. friends with benefits. sneaky links. whatever you could call that grey area.

your palm comes up to cover his mouth and muffle his moans. peeking up and over his shoulder to your closed bedroom door, you grit your teeth and huff, digging your ankles into the small of his back. “quiet,” you hiss. “my mom is quite literally downstairs,” you rustle beneath your breath.

sheepishly, he teasingly grins, all pussy-drunk and cute, making your heart cinch. pale cheeks flushed and pupils blown wide. “sorry, baby. i get carried away when you’re squeezing me l-like thattt,” he contests all-whiny, leaning down to connect your lips to his.

they slot over perfectly, like they were made for each other. he tastes like the slice of pumpkin pie your mom had given him that he’d finished in no less than three bites.

your legs tighten around his tapered waist, the base of his cock swelling inside of you when he buries himself to the hilt. he groans into your mouth, which rattles around the cavity of his chest, his bulbous tip sweeping pre-cum against your puckered cervix and dragging against your g-spot. god, you’re so plush and warm he might cum inside you. again.

you’d slapped him when he did it last time.

“m-might have to put a muzzle on you,” you giggle softly, stroking his tongue with your own.

“can do…” he pulls away and huffs against your cheek, a shallow thrust leaving him breathless. “can do whateverrrrr you want to me, pretty.”

pretty. you could argue that he’s the pretty one here.

his hands find the velvety underside of your thighs, before he’s pinning them to your bare chest. starstruck blue eyes appraise you in this new position—puffy folds slick with your mixed arousal glistening in the gentle bedroom light, your core fluttering around his length just an inch deep, desperate to be fucked. a lewd display for your childhood bedroom littered in soft pastels and plushies, but neither of you seem to mind.

suddenly, the air is knocked from your lungs when he slams a practically rough stroke into you, punching a groan from your gut.

“t-toru! i said soft, or else i-i,” you stutter, eyes nearly rolling into your skull. “can’t keep it in…” you trail off under your breath, nearly succumbing to overwhelming pleasure.

flushed cheeks, he chuckles all low and indulgent. “jus’ can’t help it when you’re all adorable and fuckable like this,” he admits, swiping a strand of hair from your sweaty forehead. “makes me wanna rearrange your guts.”

you whimper, watching as a glob of spit falls from his lips and hits your clit. warm, wet—you’re dizzy and twitching beneath him.

but then, he’s pistoning his cock inside of you, stretching you wide and full of him. you jostle and moan unabashedly. he tosses a pillow on top of your head, pressing it down over your face. “sorry, baby. you’ll j-just have to keep quiet for me,” he sighs dreamily, watching his cock disappear between your silky folds, dick spasming when you tighten up. you just swallow up every inch he gives you. so needy. so pretty.

all his to ruin. and he’ll make sure of it.

Nerd!Gojo who shares your same major, your shadow in every class. He spends the lectures counting down the minutes until he can "casually" glance your way again–only to get caught, every single time, his ears burning as he pretends to be deeply interested in a differential equation he solved three chapters ago.

Nerd!Gojo, whose grades have been slipping but not because he’s any less smarter– it’s just that your professor’s voice is background noise and all his exercise books look deeply uninteresting compared to you. 

Nerd!Gojo, who forgets how to say his own name when he holds his first conversation with you. You ask him for the notes from last class, to which he stutters out that he'll text them to you. And when you smile to thank him, his ears go so red his mind wanders somewhere else entirely. 

Nerd!Gojo who has been staring at his phone for hours wondering how to start a conversation, and right when he’s about to send a message, you beat him to it. 

Heyyy, sorry to bother you this late! I’m the girl who asked for your notes in class. 

Nerd!Gojo who knows it’s nothing special, but still gets hard at the thought of you in bed, loose pajamas hanging over your tits, thighs pressed against each other and skin dampened by the water, freshly out of the shower. 

Hey, no worries. I’m up late too aren’t I?  [Attached document]  Here you are.

Nerd!Gojo, who thinks the conversation is over, debating whether he should address the erection that was bullying him, thoughts of you wandering in his head to his embarrassment- and tossing his phone aside he begins palming himself through his sweats, rubbing the tip with his thumb, smearing precum all over it and imagining it’s you doing it. His eyes flutter closed, moaning your name in earnest like it’s a prayer, head filled with thoughts of you, you, you.

Nerd!Gojo who cums in thick, white ropes all over his sweats and sheets, swearing under his breath until he hears a notification and practically lunges for his phone.

Actually, I don’t really understand any of this… Would you mind meeting up and explaining it to me? 

Nerd!Gojo who feels himself get hard again.  Nerd!Gojo, who feels your legs brush against his under the table, flushing hard as he babbles through his explanations to your teasing smile. Personal space doesn't seem to exist to you—you press your chest against his arm (which is as big as your head) and lean so close to his face he can feel your hot breath on his skin, your perfume overwhelming all his senses. 

Nerd!Gojo, who feels your hand sneak under the band of his pants with a choke, long fingers outlining his length and stroking slowly, deliberately, watching his face turn crimson under the low lights of the library, eyes rolling from pleasure and jaw going slack as pleasure overtakes him. He slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle the desperate moans spilling out,

Nerd!Gojo whose mind grows hazy and warm when he finally cums, hips jerking into your fist as he spills over your fingers, whimpering your name like it's the only word he remembers. His head falls back, chest heaving, vision blurry at the edges–and then he feels you pull away. He watches through half-lidded eyes as you bring your hand to your mouth, tongue darting out to clean your fingers one by one, savoring. You catch him staring and smile, slow and sweet and say:

We should do this again sometimes! 

Nerd!Gojo, whose schedule now consists of Math, Physics, Chemistry, and fucking. Between breaks, after class, in the mornings—he lets himself be ruined by you. A single text is enough to send him bolting to his dorm, where you're already waiting, his dick hardening without even being touched.

But while Nerd!Gojo deeply appreciates everything you do for him, he starts to feel a nagging guilt settling in his chest. You’re always the one that leaves him a trembling mess, pulling sounds from his throat– and he wants to express his gratitude to you, but he’s not sure how. 

Nerd!Gojo who swallows every ounce of pride he has and goes to Frat!Gojo, the embodiment of confidence, asks, voice barely above a whisper, How do you eat pussy? 

Nerd!Gojo, who, the next time you meet up, doesn't let you take the lead. Insisting you lay on the bed he pulls down your pants, leaving him face to face with your pooling, wet panties. 

Nerd!Gojo who swallows down, long, thick fingers trembling as he hooks them into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down slowly, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh before pressing his mouth to you, clumsy but eager to learn. 

Nerd!Gojo who begins lapping at your juices, tongue rolling in and out with inhumane speed, driven by a hunger that was building up violently. His glasses fogged up, pushed askew but he didn’t care, not when you were making those little sounds above him– not when your hips started bucking into his face. 

Nerd!Gojo who gets a jolt of confidence when he’s finally realizing that you’re gripping his hair in pleasure, breath catching in loud moans of his name. So he flattens his tongue, circling your clit the way he’d circle a pencil when he’s thinking about logarithmic equations except now his thinking is entirely consumed by how divine you taste.

Nerd!Gojo who slides a finger inside you because Frat!Gojo said don't forget the fingers, moron, and nearly cums in his pants when you arch off the bed, pulling his hair so hard his eyes water. You feel your climax so close from the dual stimulation, his fingers reaching spots you didn’t even know existed, and when you begin mumbling out words– broken syllables, Nerd!Gojo wants nothing more than to chase that high for you.

Nerd!Gojo, who curls his fingers just the way the youtube tutorials showed, mouth still working sloppy and eager against you, drunk on the sounds he's pulling from your throat. Every gasp, every tug of his hair, every time your thighs tighten around his head–it sends a bolt of pure I did that straight through him, his own neglected cock straining against his sweats.

Nerd!Gojo, who adds a second finger when he feels you clamping down around the first, stretching you carefully, trembling under his touch and watching your face twist with pleasure. His name falls from your lips like a plea as he fucks you though your orgasm, pussydrunk and unable to stop. 

Nerd!Gojo who started slowing down only hours later, your red, swollen clit begging for a break– your legs boneless and trembling, his jaw aching in the best way. He presses one last, gentle kiss to the inside of your thigh before crawling up to lay beside you, his face a mess, his heart pounding.

Nerd!Gojo, who looks at you with those shy, wondering eyes and whispers, Was that okay? Genuinely curious. You smile and nod weakly, placing your hand over his, only now realizing the giant, aching erection bullying him under his trousers. 

he'd clutch his chest like he was having a heart attack, eyes wide, voice cracking into that dramatic whine he saves for when he feels personally attacked.

"why bunnyyyy? don't I satisfy you anymore? you don't love me? am I not good enough? Is my dick not big enough? you don't like it when I eat your pussy? what did I do wrong?!"

It would be a whole mess. but the curiosity had been eating at you for months. you'd never owned one. back when you still lived with your parents it wasn't even an option, too risky, too embarrassing, nowhere to hide it. but now that you’re moved out and got your own room, you’ve been curious. like really curious. that's exactly why you spent the last hour scrolling through online, to find a perfect one.

problem was, you had zero money of your own. so step one: make Satoru not only agree, but actually buy the damn thing.

you stripped out of your comfy pajamas in front of the mirror, heart racing with mischief. the shortest pair of booty shorts Gojo had bought you, the ones that barely covered your ass cheeks, went on first. buttery yellow tank top followed, also from him, thin enough that your nipples were already poking through. you skipped the bra completely. why bother when the goal was to make him drop to his knees?

you stepped out of your room, ass bouncing with every deliberate step, and there he was, lounging on the couch in the living room, long legs spread wide, sipping a strawberry milkshake while some dumb action movie played on the TV.

perfect. showtime.

you sauntered over, stopping right in front of him, voice all sweet and innocent. “toruuu… can you do me a favor?”

his head snapped up instantly. bright blue eyes lit up like fireworks the second they landed on you. he sat up straight, arms opening wide. “yes, bunny? come here, come here~”

Instead of sitting in his lap like usual, you walked to the far end of the couch, sat down turning to face him, and slowly lifted both legs up, spreading them into a wide V. the seam of those tiny shorts dug right into your bare pussy, the thin fabric starting to pull tight against your folds, holding onto for dear life. you could feel yourself getting wet just from the weight of his gaze.

Satoru’s milkshake slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a wet splat. his mouth fell open. “bunny… what are you—”

“toru…” you asked all sweet and clueless, tilting your head, “can you tell if these shorts are see-through?”

he gulped so hard you swear you heard it. “n-not sure… lemme get a closer look.”

he crawled across the couch like a man possessed, face stopping inches from your cunt. his hot breath makes you clench around nothing.

“how about now?” you whispered, spreading your thighs a little wider. “can you tell?”

his breathing was ragged. “… not sure… just— fuck, lemme check properly.” long fingers brushed over the seam, right where it pressed against your clit. he started rubbing slow, deliberate circles that made the cloth slide against your slick pussy lips.

“mmmh, toru… only asked you to look,” you teased, even as your hips twitched.

“I know, I know… but bunny, you’re leaking so much.” he kept rubbing, pressing the soaked seam harder against your clit until a dark, wet patch bloomed right in front of his face. “look at that… definitely see-through. can see your pretty cunt lips, baby.”

“mmm— toru… thanks for your help,” you let a moan like that slip out, then had the fuckin' audacity to snap your legs shut like shutting the door to heaven and stood up, turning away with a little sway of your ass.

you must have been the dumbest little thing if you thought he was gonna have it.

he grabbed your wrist and yanked you straight onto his lap, your back to his chest, cock rock-hard and pressing up against your ass. “where the hell do you think you’re going?” he growled in your ear, voice whiny and desperate all at once.

yeah, the mission is running successfully. you giggled. “my room? I just wanted to make sure if the shorts were see-through… that's it...”

“cut the bullshit, babe.” he says as his hands slid up your thighs, gripping your ass cheeks and spreading them so his bulge nestled right between them. “you don’t... you don't get to tease me like that and walk away. I'm so fucking hard it hurts. look what you did.”

you bit the tip of your finger, looking over your shoulder with big innocent eyes. “you really want more?”

“yes, bunny, please. you can’t just flash me and leave me like this. I’ll die. I’ll actually die.”

you rocked your hips back against him once, slow and filthy. “mmm… sure… but toru, actually there's something I wa—”

he cut you off, already grinding up into you. “take my money, my card, my fucking soul, anything. just let me have it, please—”

“It’s not what you th—”

“whatever it is, yes. done. tell me later. can’t wait—” his hands shoved up under your shorts, grabbing two big handfuls of your plump ass, fingers spreading you open so the cool air hit your soaked pussy.

you smiled, sweet and victorious. “mhmm toruuu… actually I wanted a dildo.”

his whole body froze, eyes narrowed. His grip on your ass turned bruising. “…w—what?”

you tried again, softer. “I—I just wanted to try one out—”

Ahhhh, here it comes.

“am I... not enough for you?” his voice cracked, pure drama. “Is my dick ain't big enough? don’t you like it when I eat your pussy? baby, I fuck you every single day and more!”

“toruuu, it’s not that—”

“then why, bunny?” he was full-on pouting now, still kneading your ass like it would change your mind.

you turned in his lap so you were straddling him, cupping his face. “I just wanna try it once… please, toru? buy it for me?”

“nooooo. not happening. notas long as my cock breathes.”

you tilt your head, lips twitching. “well technically it’s not your cock that breathes…”

“come on—you get what I mean,” he snaps back, pout deepening.

you arch a brow, voice sweet but pointed. “Is that final?”

he lets out a dramatic sigh, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second like the weight of the world just landed on him. “yeah, bunny… it hurts me to say no to you—but no. no dildo. not when there’s something way better right here in my damn pants.” he rolls his hips up once for emphasis, thick length pressing insistently against you. “this is all you need. promise.”

you stared at him for a long second, then sighed. “okay.”

you started to climb off. he panicked instantly, scrambling after you on his knees, arms wrapping around your legs like a clingy golden retriever.

“where are you going?! bunny, nooo— don't do that! I’m so hard it hurts, please don’t leave me—”

now you actually feel a little bad for him, as always when you fall right into his dramatics. but you just really wanted it this time. so you dropped down to your knees in front of him, eye-level, and grabbed his hand. without breaking eye contact you slid it under the hem of your shorts and pressed his long fingers right against your bare, oozing cunt.

Gojo’s brain visibly short-circuited. you bit your lip, letting a soft moan slip out as you rocked against his fingers. “do you like it, toru?”

“fuuuuck... yes, I do. please let me eat it. let me put it in. will do anything—”

“then pleaseeeee, buy it for me?”

“aaghhh— fine! fuck it, I’ll buy! I’ll buy ten! just please—”

you giggled in victory, pulled his hand out, maddeningly slow and stood up, ass swaying as an invitation before walking off to your bedroom.

he followed like a lost puppy, crawling behind you on all fours before standing up and scooping you up in one smooth motion.

that night he fucked you extra hard. pounding you into the mattress like he was trying to prove a point, hips snapping so deep you saw stars, groaning in your ear the whole time about how his cock was better than any toy.

but Satoru is still Satoru. he can't just go back on his word and miss the golden chance to see those sparkles in your eyes when you get something you like.

exactly one week later a sleek black package arrived with your name on it. Inside was a high-end dildo, thick, veiny, perfectly curved, and suspiciously the exact same size, shape, and color of something you were all too familiar with. a little handwritten note was tucked on top in messy handwriting:

“enjoy, bunny ♡ we both know nothing beats the original”

you stared at the custom-molded replica of his ridiculously huge, pretty dick, cheeks burning, cunt beating faster than your heart.

that ridiculous boy. you loved him so fucking much.

you freeze. your hands halting on with a grip on the book. your heart does something stupid, a quick thud against your ribs.

a thought of ‘you should put it back’ ‘shove it under the pile, pretend you never saw it’ swirls in your brain but your fingers are already brushing the cover, flipping the leather cover of the journal open before your brain catches up.

your eyes lock with those familiar scratch of inks, a sharp breath filling your lung, the first page is dated months ago. just your name again, nothing special or whateveryouexpected underlined twice, then a single line: “i can’t stop thinking about her mouth.”

your brows knit as you keep reading. you know you shouldn’t since this is privacy invasion (for sureeee), but you do. page after page of his handwriting—neat at first, then sloppier as the entries get longer, more desperate… as if he couldn’t control himself anymore.

he writes about the way you laugh when you’re tired, how your hair looks when you pull it up into a loose bun while you’re cooking.

then it shifts.

satoru describes how he imagines your face when you’re laying on your back, spread out with your fingers deep in between your thighs. then how you look when you come—eyes squeezed shut, lips parted, breath hitching like you’re trying not to make too much noise.

how he pictures you riding him, “toru, please— i need more”thighs flexing, hands braced on his chest, hips rolling slow at first then faster until you’re trembling. diabolical. he writes about the sounds you’d make, the little gasps, the way you’d bite your lip to keep quiet. how he’d hold your hips so tight there’d be marks by tomorrow, bruises made with love all over your skin.

it’s insane how your eyes move fast, reading lines after lines, your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. the undeniable pulse also beats down there, your cunt having its own rhythm.

you flip onto fhe next page and there’s a whole entry about overstimulation. he imagines pinning your wrists above your head, trapping you and fucking himself into you deep and relentless until you’re shaking, begging him to stop, pushing at his shoulders with weak hands while tears prick your eyes. he writes that he’d keep going anyway, whispering how good you are, how pretty you look when you’re falling apart, until you come again, harder, soaking the sheets.

and then the one that makes your thighs clench involuntarily: he wants you to gag him. wants you to slip your soaked panties off after you’ve come on his tongue, stuff them into his mouth, make him taste you while he jerks himself off.

he says he’d beg for it—actually beg—kneeling, voice wrecked, eyes glassy, promising anything if you’d let him have that piece of you. “fuuuck” with his eyes rolled and big hand fisted on his flushed veiny cock.

you sit back on your heels, notebook still open in your lap. your pulse is loud in your ears.

shock is the first to come, surfacing you whole—how could he write this? about you? his best friend, his roommate, the person he sees every day in ratty pajamas and no makeup? you two are friends, friends are not supposed to thin— WRITE about their friends. but the shock doesn’t last.

what you also cant ignore is the heat that pools low in your belly, insistent and embarrassing. you shift and feel it. the damp patch between your legs, the way your panties cling to your slit. your body is betraying you, responding to every filthy detail he put on paper.

you flip back through the pages again, slower this time.

this one focuse on how he wrote about your legs in those tiny sleep shorts you wear around the flat, how he has to look away so he doesn’t get tented up right there on the couch and embarrass himself. how he jerks off in the shower thinking about bending you over the kitchen counter while the coffee brews. how he wants to hear you say his name when you come, drawn out and needy for him, your cunt clumping on his dick which makes it hard to move.

oh your pussy, he writes how he knows it would be tight and warm to get buried to the hilt in you, have you squirming and crying to him, how he would cover your mouth and stare into your eyes with his ragged thrust. he would fuck you so desperat—

the sound of front door clicking open makes you jolt from your knelt position, slamming the notebook shut, shoving it under the stack like it burned you. (totally did.)

heavy familiar footsteps in the hallway echoes, then his voice, cheerful as ever.

“hey, i’m back! you won’t believe the line at the store—”

he stops in the doorway, seeing you on the floor surrounded by his books, shin of sweat decorating your skin, cheeks flushed, breathing a little too fast. his eyes flick to the pile, then back to your face.

you can’t quite catch what he’s thinking, his glasses sitting on his nose bridge before he pushes it to adjust it right. something shifts in his expression—recognition, maybe, or the tiniest hint of panic.

“you… cleaning my room?” he asks, voice careful, suddenly hoarse like he just woke up. he eyes you, waiting for your reply as if he’s testing the water.

you nod, throat dry. “y-yeah.” you’re quick to get on your feet. dusting off on your ratty print shorts, the slick on your panties feels so sticky now. ashamed. “thought i’d help.”

he steps closer, slow. “oh?” satoru scratched fhe back of his head, “you didn’t have to, i was gonna clean it anywa…” he’s suddenly quite.

“find anything interesting?” you meet his eyes. they’re brighter than usual, pupils blown behind his slutty glasses. your heart hammers, brain lagging. the notebook feels like it’s screaming in your hand

you swallow. “maybe.” holyfuckwhatthefuckareyousayinggg

he doesn’t move for a second. then he steps in front of you, close enough that you can smell the faint citrus of his shampoo. his voice drops, soft but steady.

“tell me what you read.”

you don’t answer right away. instead you bring the notebook in between you two, pull it out, hold it you like an offering. “when did this start?” you question, not answering whatever the heck he’s asking.

his gaze drops to the cover—your name—then back up to you, satoru doesn’t look ashamed. in fact, he had the eyes of hunger, as if a dog was chained for long and about to get released.

“you gonna pretend you didn’t like it?” he murmurs. complete ignoring you and you sigh, “satoru—”

“a while.” he states flat, “it’s been a while.”

“why didn’t you say anything?”

“what? you expect me to tell my best friend of almost life time i’ve been wanting to fuck her since forever?” satoru states, a lace of desperation and annoyance hinting in his voice.

just from the tone, his tone, your panties are soaked through. you can feel it. and he knows. he can probably see it in the way you’re pressing your thighs together.

you shake your head, just once. although you wanted to scold him or push past him and leave silently, deep inside you’re relieved you’re not alone.

you’re not alone in this, thank fuckin’ lord cause the constant guilt of masturbating to the idea of satoru before every sleep.

i mean, your clits about to bleed at this point from the solo finger fucking. you just want him to fuck you so bad.

your eyes drop right on his lips, the plumpness begging to be kissed, bruised even. your ages to do everything he wrote with him.

stuff you g’damn panties in this filthy mouth.

well, your best friend is not stupid as well so his hand goes to hold the journal from yours. “did you read everything?” it’s so hypothesizing how he speaks. the low, gentle voice he uses only around you. you only nod, your skin feels like you’re tanning in a high fahrenheit 

gojo satoru yearns for you so bad. 

“good,” he says, voice rough now. he takes the notebook from your hand, sets it aside. his fingers brush your wrist, lingering. “because i meant every word.”

you close your eyes. the apartment is quiet again, just the two of you and the weight of everything he wrote. you open your mouth to respond, and the words come out soft, honest, a little shaky.

“satoru, i need you to fuck me.”

cocky!nerd!gojo who starts arriving early to physics even though he usually strolls in late everywhere else. he sits in the exact chair beside yours and pretends it's just a coincidence when you show up. when you look doubtful before sitting there he casually slides his bag off the seat and smiles.

“oh. you can sit here if you want.”

cocky!nerd!gojo had decided you were now the single most interesting person in the world despite not really talking to you yet. and still, no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't bring himself to act right in front of you. he completely misses everything the lecturer says the next time he has physics. not because the content was hard, (nothing in that class was hard for him.) but because halfway through you'd accidentally bumped his shoulder with your hand, and he couldn't stop replaying the horribly embarrassing way he'd replied when you apologised.

"oh, frick. m' sorry..." you'd mumbled softy. "it's worries."

what the fuck?! he was supposed to say 'it's okay' or, 'no worries.' but it came out as that. never in his life had he wanted to jump off the roof of a building as badly as he did now. he covered his mouth with his hand and sat there staring wide eyed at the floor for the rest of the class.

cocky!nerd!gojo who conveniently starts answering every question in class the moment he hears your pen stop writing. the professor asks an especially difficult question that no one can guess, and as soon as satoru sees your head lift from your paper, he proudly barks out the answer. after being congratulated for being correct, he always glances sideways at you waiting to see if you'll look impressed.

cocky!nerd!gojo who loudly argues with the professor about some complicated concept one day just so you will look at him longer than two seconds. the rest of the class thinks he is showing off again, and he is. but when you glance over with wide eyes and whisper,

“wait… you understood that?” he completely forgets the big flashy point he was making and just awkwardly nods.

cocky!nerd!gojo who finally gathers enough courage to talk to you and immediately fumbles the bag.

“so uh... the derivative there is wrong.” he points at your page then panics because he just criticised you. “not wrong wrong. just… y'know... mathematically improvable?”

you blink up at him with those sweet, confused eyes and he curses under his breath for even trying to be normal about you.

"could you show me how to do it?" you'd asked softly, and cocky!nerd!gojo melts.

cocky!nerd!gojo, with literally anyone else (socially important or not) couldn't give a shit about being nice. he'd make off handed comments about the content being dead easy, laugh at people who got stuck up on questions he flew through, but now that you'd ask him for some help, he was stuttering out a "sure," and leaning over your desk to teach you.

cocky!nerd!gojo who tries to flirt by helping you with homework, but it turns it into a full on physics spiel because he was getting the nervous rambles. you ask one small question and he dives into a ten minute explanation of something you kind of already knew using the back of your notebook as a whiteboard. halfway through he realises you are just watching him talk, smiling a little, and he suddenly loses his train of thought.

cocky!nerd!gojo who notices you struggling with one concept and literally spends all night rewriting the explanation in the simplest way possible. the next day he's tired, but sliding the revision paper he'd made up toward you all the same.

“i was bored.” he says all nonchalant, although his heart starts racing when he see's the shy look of appreciation span across your face.

cocky!nerd!gojo who gets weirdly territorial the first time another guy in your physics tutorial leans over your desk to “help.” the dude’s explanation is wrong anyway, so satoru slides into the seat beside you and corrects the equation without even looking at the paper properly. he explains it twice as fast as necessary just to prove he can. then he glances at the other guy and rolls his eyes.

“next time just ask me, sweetheart. saves you the misinformation.”

cocky!nerd!gojo's never really felt this way about a girl before. he's slept with women here and there, but they couldn't occupy even his daytime thoughts. you, however? occupied his every thought.

no matter how guilty he feels, cocky!nerd!gojo can't stop the late-night fantasies that creep into his head when he's all alone in his apartment. it's always the shy girls, at least that's what they said. his brain would cook up the nastiest of thoughts... what it would be like to push you into the supply closet in the hallway and take you right there, if you'd keep that same shy expression even as he's pumping you full of his thick cock. he'd pathetically fucked his fist countless times to the thought of your pretty whines, what your body would look liked pinned beneath him as he splits you open, what those eyes would look like rolled back into your skull...

cocky!nerd!gojo decides he's had enough, that he can't keep acting like such a virgin loser around you. so, as you're leaving class one day, he catches you as you're about to head to the library, the one he never visits because he knows everything the textbooks want to tell him anyways. regardless, he hits you with the,

"oh, you're headed to the library? me too, can i walk with you?"

cocky!nerd!gojo who now walks with you everyday under the excuse of, 'we take the same course, might as well study together.' he's gotten a little more comfortable around you, he's not so much of a dork after the few library visits where he'd sit there and either stare at you fondly or tutor you free of charge.

"newtonian mechanics? i can help with that. m' real good with the maths, y'know." he'd brag smugly, watching your face to see if you'll praise him. "thanks a bunch, satoru. you're so smart, i could really use the help." you'd reply with a small smile, and any air of arrogance disappears from his face as he almost chokes on his spit. "y-yeah... no worries." at least he didn't say 'it's worries' this time, that was an improvement.

cocky!nerd!gojo who gets far cockier the more comfortable you become around him. he starts leaning over your chair when you study so his arm rests across the back of it, caging you in without making it too obvious. when you glance up at him he tilts his head with that full-of-it grin.

“focus on the problem, angel.”

meanwhile he is absolutely not focused on the problem.

cocky!nerd!gojo and you begin planning out study sessions, (satoru would prefer to call them dates, but there was no way he had the balls to refer to them as such.) he'd meet you every few days in the library, tucked away in a corner booth where the light was a little dim. this time, you'd shown up in a cute vintage sweater that hugged your body just right, and two cups of coffee. he leaned back into the booth cushions as you sat opposite him, pretending to be indifferent when really, he was mentally jumping up and down at the fact you'd even thought to buy him something. his exact order, too. although he'd make sure you'd never use your money on him ever again, that was his job now.

cocky!nerd!gojo returned the favour by bringing you pastries the next time you'd planned to meet up. he arrives a few minutes late with two hot chocolates and a paper bag, sliding the contents towards you gently.

"for the other day." he yawns, "i know you like those ones." he says pointing to the bag. he says it flippantly, but his heart is racing as your eyes light up when you pull the treat free.

he wasn't expecting it, but before he could sit down, you've stood up, and you've hugged him.

he fully drops his hot chocolate.

"ah! are you okay?" you fussed, giving him that adorably concerned look.

cocky!nerd!gojo becomes more infatuated with you after that then he'd thought ever imaginable. sure, he had to quickly clean up the mess then excuse himself to deal with his raging hard on in the bathroom, but overall? the feeling of your arms around him has to be the most bliss he'd ever felt.

cocky!nerd!gojo who absolutely refuses to let anyone else tutor you once he realises half the class is suddenly very eager to “study together.” he laughs it off in front of everyone, leaning back in his chair.

“sorry, slots are full.” someone asks what that means and he nods toward you without shame. “exclusive contract. she’s my study partner.”

cocky!nerd!gojo who nearly dies the first time you fall asleep on his shoulder in the library during one of your study sessions. you had told him you were fine even though your eyes kept slipping shut. ten minutes later your head tips and falls on him. he sits there completely still for almost half an hour in fear of waking you.

cocky!nerd!gojo starts actually flirting with you. he starts sitting on your side of the booth in the library and initiating small touches. sometimes he'll brush a stray strand of hair from your face and others he'll play footsies with you under the table. very high school level stuff, but if your flustered face was anything to go by he'd say it was working. he'd even managed to secure your number after telling you he needed it incase he ever needed to cancel, (a very unlikely variable, he would never.) a privilege he'd started abusing.

gojo [10:35pm]: heyy, are you up?

gojo [10:35pm]: wanna see a picture of my cat tuna 🙏🏻?

you [10:37pm]: hiii yes i'm here! and sure 🙂‍↕️

gojo [10:37pm]:

you [10:38pm]: AWWWWW WHAT A BABY HE'S SO CUTE 🥹

gojo [10:38pm]: almost as cute as you

you [10:38pm]: youre flirting with me?

gojo [10:39pm]: only if you like it sweetheart

you [10:39pm]: i do

gojo [10:40pm]: oh?

cocky!nerd!gojo takes that as his sign to up the ante. now, he stares shamelessly at you in class, winking when you catch him. he steals your books and draws dumb doodles of you two in the corners, he carries your bags anywhere you go, and he takes every chance he possibly can to talk to you.

"you look real pretty today, love. i—" "—satoru, quiet!" the lecturer interrupts, ruining his totally suave moment.

but cocky!nerd!gojo doesn't stop at that, oh no. he starts slipping his hand into yours whenever you're walking to the library, he begins hugging you softly and kissing your forehead before you leave, and even then you're lucky to have the walk back to your dorm to yourself. he's always tagging along with a hand low on your back.

"y'know, i could use a flat mate." he'd casually throw out there, "saves you walking home in the dark all the time." and when you'd bite and tell him you can barley afford dorm life, he hits you with the, "you could always pay me in other ways."

the way you stopped walking slightly and bowed your head in embarrassment really did something to him.

cocky!nerd!gojo sits in utter astonishment one day after class after you'd asked him a question. a simple one, but still capable of taking away his ability to think straight.

"hey, satoru?" "hm?" "we're close, right?" "the closest." "can i call you toru? like... a nickname?"

oh my god, yes you fucking can.

cocky!nerd!gojo cracks one night when you offer him to come inside after he'd walked you home. he nods softly, clearing his throat, trying to calm himself down. he'd been to plenty of girls' places, why was this one making him all giddy and nervous? he takes in your dorm, and wow, you've really made it your own. it smells like you, it looks like you, every little detail and trinket radiates you. he wants to cry, never in his life has he been so overwhelmed with the need to touch absolutely everything.

it gets worse when cocky!nerd!gojo sits down on your bed, and you plop right down next to him, barley a centimetre apart. he has to breathe, calm down, try hard not to get hard and potentially ruin this absolutely ethereal moment. he's doing in for four out for three when you interrupt his little breathing exercise.

"toru?" he clears his throat and chokes out a, "yes, love?" "can i ask a question?" "anything." "i hope this isn't weird but. uhm... what exactly are we?"

that was something he definitely wasn't expecting.

"what do you wanna be, hm?" he tries to fake an air of carelessness but fails when you look up at him through those pretty lashes. "i mean.. we hang out all the time, you walk me everywhere, kiss my head, help me study... m' not sure that's just a friend thing..."

cocky!nerd!gojo smiles in appreciation of your honesty, then plucks up the courage to hold you face and tilt your head towards him.

"i want us to be more than just friends. so, so much more." "yeah?" "yeah." he searches your eyes before bringing your face closer. "would you wanna go out with me? like, properly. i've sorta had a thing for you for ages now." he admits through a bashful smile. "what, like be your girlfriend?" you ask, satoru can feel your cheeks heating beneath his fingers. "yes, y/n. i want to be yours."

cocky!nerd!gojo is ecstatic when you whisper a small, okay, toru, and pulls your lips in for a slow, well awaited kiss.

cocky!nerd!gojo, after a good three months of plotting, had finally, finally made the shy girl in his physics class his, and he'd never take the role of being your boyfriend for granted.

"so, about moving in..." "we've been dating for a week?"

what was he if not over presumptuous, even to you sometimes.

Class had just let out, and the hallway was a swarm of students trying to escape the Communications building as soon as possible. You were shoving your laptop into your bag when your classmate Suguru fell into step beside you.

“Hey,” he said, adjusting the strap of his bag. He looked effortlessly put-together, as always. “I’m heading to the library to finish up the notes for that campaign project. My roommates are holding a table on the third floor. Wanna come? We could probably knock out the outline in like an hour.”

You’d only met Suguru this semester. He was a Psychology major who had wandered into your Persuasion and Social Influence class as an upper-level elective—something about “analyzing the mechanics of mass manipulation” or whatever smart-ass reason he gave. You liked Suguru. He was normal. He was easy-going, sensible, and generally the kind of guy who had his life together. So, you figured "roommates" meant, you know, normal college students.

“Sure,” you shrugged, falling into pace with him. “I’ve got some time to kill. Let’s go.”

The walk over was pleasant. You complained about the professor’s obsession with the word "synergy"; he agreed politely with that calm, saint-like patience of his. It was a nice, normal interaction you two shared on a weekly basis.

Then, you got to the library.

The third floor is supposed to be the "Silent Zone." It’s the designated crying spot for med students, the place where you go to take a quick nap between classes, and generally, a sanctuary for the stressed.

THWACK-CLACK-THWACK.

It was aggressive. It was rhythmic. It sounded like someone was firing a machine gun made of plastic.

Suguru stiffened beside you. The cool and calm mask slipped, replaced by a look of deep, long-suffering exhaustion.

“Oh my god,” Suguru whispered, closing his eyes for a second.

“Huh?” you asked, blinking at him. You heard the annoying noise, sure, but you didn't connect the dots. Was there construction happening? Was someone breaking the vending machine again?

Suguru didn't explain. He just sighed and gestured for you to follow him. “Just... keep walking,” he muttered.

You followed him through the stacks, the clacking getting louder and more violent with every step. You saw how the heads of other students were turning; people were glaring over the tops of their laptops. At the far end of the room, nestled in the corner that got the least amount of sunlight, you found the source.

To the right sat a woman with choppy brown hair. She was the perfect picture of intense, medical-grade focus. She was staring down at an open anatomy textbook, aggressively highlighting a diagram of the human spleen with a glittery pink marker. She was wearing a pair of overhead headphones, clearly cranked up loud enough to drown out the apocalypse happening three feet away.

And then, you looked past her and saw him.

Oh.

Someone had constructed a barricade of heavy, spine-broken physics textbooks, and buried behind that wall of paper was a man who looked like he hadn't seen the sun since he hit puberty. He was hunched over a laptop that looked like it was fighting for its own life, the fans clearly not working fast enough. Plugged into it was a massive, glowing, RGB-lit mechanical keyboard that took up half the desk.

So that was the noise. The kind designed specifically to make everyone within a fifty-foot radius want to commit a felony. His fingers flew across the keys with a violence that suggested whatever he was doing owed him money.

He looked... lived in. And that’s putting it very PR-friendly.

His white hair was sticking up on the left side, matted down like he’d been aggressively running his hands through it for three hours straight. He was sporting a gray hoodie that had clearly seen better days and a massive reddish-orange marinara stain that was squarely on the center of his chest. Flanking his laptop were exactly two white Monster energy cans, standing like sentries guarding his chaos.

Suguru stopped three feet away from the table. “Satoru,” Suguru hissed, his voice low. “I told you to stop bringing the damn keyboard to school.”

At the sound of Suguru's voice, the girl finally looked up. She slid one side of her headphones off her ear, looked at you, then at Suguru, and gave a lazy wave.

“Oh, hey,” she said, her voice raspy, like she’d been silent for hours. “You brought reinforcements. I’m Shoko, by the way. Ignore him, he hasn't had a vegetable since 2018."

Satoru, however, didn't look up. He didn't even pause. He just reached out blindly with one large, pale hand, shoved a stack of Quantum Field Theory textbooks slightly to the left to clear his view, and kept typing.

“I’ve been tracing this logic loop for forty-five minutes and I’m finally at the center of it,” Satoru said, his voice a flat, distracted drone. “If I look away now, I’m going to lose the thread and have to start all over again from line one. Leave me alone.”

Suguru looked mortified. Shoko rolled her eyes and put her headphones back on.

But you? You were staring at the glowing keyboard, the fortress of books, and the defiant pizza stain, and your brain provided a very unhelpful, and very immediate thought: He’s rude, socially stunted. He’s a complete fucking disaster. And I need him.

It was a sickness, really. You weren't exactly known to make the best decisions. You basically YOLOed your life through college and your taste in men had always been questionable too. Yes, you liked them a little bit pathetic, a little bit weird. One would say you had a soft spot for smart nerdy guys. But this? This was a new low even for you. He looked like a raccoon that raided a Best Buy, and for some reason, your ovaries were doing a very enthusiastic standing ovation.

You stepped forward, bypassing Suguru’s "don't engage him" aura, and leaned a hip against the edge of his side of the table.

“Two Monsters before noon?” you asked, grinning as you looked down at the top of his messy head. “Isn’t that like an excessive amount of caffeine?”

Satoru finally paused. He pushed his smudged glasses up his nose and looked at you. There was zero shame in his eyes—just the annoyed, arrogant glare of a genius who had been interrupted by a mere mortal.

“Caffeine has a half-life of roughly five hours,” he stated, as if you were the stupid one for asking. “I timed the consumption to overlap for peak synaptic firing rates. It’s not an addiction; it's a well-thought fuel strategy.”

You blinked at him. He actually talked like those grotesquely self-absorbed, arrogant nerds. It was terrible. You loved it.

“And the keyboard?” You gestured to the loud, glowing monstrosity. “You really take a whole external keyboard? To the library? It sounds like you’re firing a machine gun.”

Satoru looked genuinely offended. “This is a custom board with Cherry MX Blue switches,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension. “Do you know what the travel distance on a standard laptop key is? It’s garbage. It’s mush. There’s no actuation point.”

“It’s a library,” you countered, amused. “People are trying to study or sleep. Look at your friend.”

He glanced at Shoko, who was aggressively highlighting again. She chose that exact moment to spare Satoru a look that was somewhere between a death glare and a promise of future violence.

“Shoko is fine,” he said, shrugging off the glare. “That’s why she brought the headphones. She adapts. And I am trying to code. If I use the laptop keyboard, my WPM drops by 12%. That is an unacceptable loss of efficiency.”

“WPM?” you asked, the acronym sounding ridiculous coming out of his mouth.

“Words Per Minute,” Suguru answered for him, his voice flat and weary. He didn't even look up from his notebook. “He tracks it. He has a spreadsheet. Please don't ask to see it; he’ll talk for twenty minutes about finger-travel distance and we’ll never get our work done.”

You just stared at Satoru for a long beat, letting the silence sit there until it got awkward.

“Right,” you finally said, your voice deadpan. Arguing with his borderline autistic logic would be pointless.

Satoru’s fingers twitched over the keys, his brow furrowing slightly as he waited for a more impressed reaction. When none came, he looked back at you, eyes narrowing as he pushed up his glasses.

“What?” he snapped.

“Nothing,” you said, leaning further into his space, your hip practically brushing against his pile of textbooks. “It’s just a lot of big words for a guy who has a visible crumb-crust on his spacebar.”

Satoru’s hands reflexively jerked back, hovering mid-air as if he could hide the evidence of his morning snack through sheer willpower. Suguru made a small, choked-off sound that might have been a laugh or a sob.

You didn't stop there. You slowly lowered your gaze to the center of his chest, staring at the sauce stain with a silent disdain. You lingered there for a beat too long, then looked back up at him with a look of pure, unadulterated pity.

Being this close, you caught a whiff of him. It was the scent of a man who subsisted on sweet soda and sleep deprivation, probably regarding showers as merely "optional" suggestions in his daily optimization strategy. It should have been a sensory red flag, really—a mix of metallic energy drink and warm, lived-in musk. But god help you, it was masculine enough to make your pulse skip. It had absolutely no business being that effective.

“The—the stain is sustenance residue. Pizza rolls,” he blurted out. The defensive remark came out faster and higher-pitched than his usual monotone drone. He waved a hand dismissively, but it was a jerky, uncoordinated movement that knocked over one of the empty cans on the desk.

The hollow clatter-clatter-thud of the aluminum echoed through the library like another gunshot. Satoru froze, his hand still suspended in the air, looking at the fallen can as if it had personally betrayed him.

“And—and before you ask—no, I’m not changing,” he added, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush to cover the noise. “This hoodie is at peak comfort levels, okay? It’s broken in. The fabric tension is exactly where it needs to be for maximum range of motion. Washing it would disrupt the structural integrity of the cotton fibers and honestly, it’s an inefficient use of water resources and detergent chemicals, so I’m basically saving the planet by not—”

He stopped abruptly, his chest heaving slightly, when he realized he was babbling. His face was heating up at a high-speed level, a visible pink flush spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears as he realized you were still just staring down at him with a stupid smirk plastered over your pretty face.

At that point he also started to panic, because his very simple monkey brain finally caught up and realized one crucial thing: that you, an objectively hot girl, were standing VERY close to him.

Your thighs were barely a foot away from his arm, and the faint, soft scent of your perfume was currently colonizing his lungs, effectively drowning out the comforting smell of the stale Monster cans.

Most women? They didn't talk to Satoru. Except for his mom and Shoko, and he didn't even acknowledge Shoko as a "woman" in that sense. He had witnessed her aggressive My Chemical Romance phase, her brief but terrifying taxidermy hobby, and every other awkward, unwashed era of her life, just like Suguru's, so she didn't really count.

But you? You were a system error. His game was non-existent; hell, it was deep in the negatives. He was a guy who communicated in comic book references and spent most of his time studying or playing World of Warcraft.

The closest he’d ever come to dating was when he thought he was flirting with a cute girl on Discord, only for her to turn out to be a middle-aged man. Yet here you were, someone half the campus was probably tripping over themselves to look at, wasting your premium time bullying him about things no one in his life really cared about anymore.

“...Stop looking at me like that,” he finished, his voice dropping to a defensive mutter.

Satoru moved to turn back to his screen, but his gaze faltered. His eyes slid down, tracking the line of your bare legs that were covered by a veryshort skirt where you were pressed nearly against his workspace. His gaze snagged on the way the top board of the desk dug into the soft flesh of your thighs.

His brain decided to completely give out.

His jaw tightened, and his face and ears bloomed even redder than before. After a few very awkward seconds of him having a staring contest with your legs—his jaw almost hanging open—he finally realized how long he'd been looking. He swore it was only a second at best. But it totally wasn't. It was a solid ten seconds of silence where you could practically hear the Windows XP shutdown noise playing on a loop behind his eyes.

He finally scrambled to recover his dignity, snapping his eyes back to the monitor with a neck-breaking jerk.

“Now, unless you have a degree in computational physics,” he grumbled, his voice strained as he stared intensely at a wall of code he definitely wasn't reading anymore, “you are currently obstructing my view of the compile bar. Move.”

Shoko finally clicked her glittery pink marker shut. She leaned back in her plastic chair, crossing her arms as she watched Satoru’s frantic, erratic typing—the sound of the mechanical keys now echoing with the rhythm of a man whose pulse was hitting 120. She looked at Satoru’s beet-red ears, then at your smug smile, and a slow, lazy grin spread across her face.

“Nice meeting you,” Shoko said, her voice dropping into that raspy, knowing tone. She kept her eyes on you, acknowledging a fellow predator when she saw one. “I think you’re going to fit in here just fine.”

You just sat down next to him and opened your laptop, the "compile bar" of Satoru's self-control seemingly stuck at a permanent 99% just three feet away from you.

You decided right then and there: you were going to absolutely ruin this man.

It only took a few weeks for the library to be officially declared a thing of the past. Through a series of "accidental" study sessions and Suguru’s desperate need for a buffer, you had successfully pivoted from "intruder" to "invasive species."

The shift happened naturally—mostly because the library staff had eventually grown tired of Satoru’s mechanical keyboard, and Shoko had reached a point in her semester where she needed to spread human organ diagrams across three tables at once. Before long, your shoes were permanently by their front door, and you had a preferred spot on their rug.

To the untrained eye, and specifically to Satoru’s over-trained, panicked eye, you were there for Shoko. And sure, you and Shoko were a match made in hell; you were inseparable, trading clothes, sharing snacks, and spending hours ignoring the boys to gossip about people they didn't know. 

But the truth was, you weren't just there for Shoko, or for Suguru's tea. You were there because, against all logic and survival instincts, you actually liked the tall, high-maintenance weirdo who kept talking to you about Star Wars characters you didn't even know existed. 

You liked his laugh. You liked his stupid glasses. You were trying, in your own way, to get close to him.

To Satoru, however, this was a catastrophe.

He was completely blind to your interest. In his "logical" brain, he had crunched the numbers and reached a devastating conclusion: he had been friendzoned. He was convinced you only tolerated him because he was Shoko’s roommate and a convenient, if neurotic, Statistics tutor. He assumed your kindness was just a "social obligation" tax you paid to hang out in his apartment.

The first crack in his sanity happened on a Tuesday night, two weeks before midterms.

The apartment smelled like takeout and rain, and you were lying on your stomach on the floor, surrounded by a fortress of notes, kicking your legs idly in the air as you frowned at a probability distribution chart. Satoru was sitting cross-legged on the floor a few feet away, supposedly helping you, but mostly just aggressively clicking a pen and staring at the side of your neck.

“So,” you said, chewing on the end of your pencil. “I watched that sci-fi movie you mentioned. The one with the time dilation? It was actually pretty cool.”

You looked up at him, offering a genuine smile, trying to bond. Satoru stiffened immediately. She is engaging in small talk, his brain supplied unhelpfully. This is a social obligation. She is being polite because she is Shoko’s best friend. Do not misinterpret the data.

“Yes,” Satoru said, his voice stiff. “The cinematography is... adequate. The physics were derivative.”

He shut down, turning back to his notebook to hide his panic. You sighed, feeling the wall go up again, and shifted your weight, arching your back slightly to stretch. The movement caused your highlighter to roll off your notebook and skitter across the floor, coming to a stop directly under the edge of the sofa.

“Ugh,” you groaned.

Retrieving it wasn't going to be simple. Shoko was currently occupying that entire section of the couch, legs stretched out with wet red polish and a massive medical textbook balanced on her knees.

“Don't touch the paint,” she warned without looking up. “You smudge, you die.”

“I know, I know.”

You couldn't reach blindly. To navigate around her wet nails without bumping the book, you had to get up on your knees. You knew Satoru was sitting directly behind you. So, when you twisted your torso and arched your back to swoop your hand underneath the frame, you might have angled yourself just so. Or maybe it was just physics. Who could say?

It was a functional movement. But from Satoru’s angle, it was a biological weapon.

The movement caused your shirt to ride up, exposing the delicate, devastating dip of your lower back, while your yoga pants did exactly what yoga pants are designed to do right in front of him. 

The image of your ass didn't just process; it seared itself into his retinas, high-definition and permanent. Satoru’s brain blue-screened.

He dropped his pen. He made a noise that sounded like a strangled moan. His eyes widened behind his smudged glasses, pupils dilating as the image burned into his memory bank forever, before his survival instincts kicked in. He scrambled to his feet, almost knocking over a stack of textbooks in the process.

“I—I just remembered!” he announced loudly, his voice cracking an octave higher. “The patch! I forgot to download the expansion patch!”

He started to back away, looking like a deer in headlights, gesturing wildly toward the hallway. “There is a raid! Tonight! If I don't update the client right now, I’ll miss the login window!”

“What?” You sat back on your heels, blinking at him, highlighter in hand. “But ‘Toru, you were supposed to help me with the test? We were literally in the middle of the chapter!”

The nickname hit him like a physical blow. Toru. It was friendly. It was casual. And it was devastating coming from your lips.

“Statistics... can wait!” he yelped, backing away until his heel hit the baseboard. “My guild needs me! Our other tank is incompetent! If I won’t be there, they’ll wipe!”

He didn't walk to his bedroom; he power-walked. Arms swinging stiffly at his sides straight down the hall. The door slammed shut, and the lock clicked instantly. Then, the heavy, muffled melody of white girl music started, clearly designed to drown out his own thoughts.

“Is he okay?” you asked, looking at the closed door. “He keeps running off like that. Does he hate me?”

Suguru finally closed his book. He took off his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“He doesn't hate you,” Suguru sighed, looking at the door with the exhaustion of a single father of two. “He’s just... over-calculating. He’s convinced himself he’s just the 'convenient roommate' you tolerate to hang out with us. Honestly? You should just tell him you like him. His genius brain won't figure it out for the life of him. He needs the answer key.”

You looked at the door, listening to the muffled bass of a Katy Perry remix, and frowned. The answer key, huh?

Things went from "awkward" to "chaotic" a few days later on an unassuming Friday night.

It was 2:00 AM. You and Shoko were in the kitchen, both of you completely delirious—maybe from sleep deprivation, maybe from the brownies Shoko had baked earlier. You were giggling at the pattern on the backsplash tiles.

“I need some snacks,” you announced, swaying slightly. “If I don't eat something yummy immediately, my organs will shut down.”

“We’re out,” Shoko slurred, leaning against the fridge. Then, her eyes lit up with a mischievous glint. “Wait. Satoru has snacks. He hides them in his room because he’s a stingy goblin.”

You wobbled down the hall together. Shoko didn't bother knocking. The door swung wide, and you barged beyond the “Forbidden Zone” sign on his door.

It was exactly what you expected: a shut-in sanctuary. Blackout curtains, a five-thousand-dollar setup glowing neon blue, and LED strips lining the ceiling. Satoru was sitting in his ergonomic chair, headphones on, smashing keys. He spun around, eyes wide, looking terrified.

You scanned the space, noting that for a man who seemed to exist primarily in stained oversized t-shirts and social anxiety, his room was actually quite orderly. Well, in a gamer-dungeon kind of way. 

Except for the shelf right next to his bed. That was a localized disaster zone—a graveyard of his most frequent habits. It was a chaotic heap of heavy physics and mathematical textbooks, dog-eared manga, a suspicious surplus of crumpled tissues, and a stray Goku figurine that looked like it was fighting for its life against the clutter.

But buried right in the middle of all that crap, your eyes landed on the prize: a red Pringles can.

Now, maybe it was the weed haze from the edibles, or maybe you were just being an idiot as per usual, but you didn't even stop to wonder why a lone can of chips was sitting right next to a pile of tissues and a bed. You just wanted the carbohydrates.

“BINGO,” you shouted.

Satoru saw where you were looking and his soul left his body. He launched himself from his chair, scrambling over the mattress, but you were faster. You snatched the can off the shelf triumphantly, holding it over your head.

“Gotcha! Hand over the chips, ‘Toru, I’m eating the whole can right now!”

“DO NOT OPEN THAT!”

Satoru didn’t just reach for it; he initiated a full-body tackle. Before you could even pop the plastic lid, his large, frantic hands clamped over yours, pinning the can shut. The momentum of his virgin panic sent both of you tumbling backward onto his unmade bed.

Suddenly, you were flat on your back on his duvet. Satoru was hovering directly over you, straddling your hips to pin you down. His face was inches from yours, wild and panicked. Both of his hands were gripping yours so tight his knuckles were white, physically holding the lid of the Pringles can shut.

“Drop it!” he wheezed, his voice cracking. “You can’t open it!”

You blinked up at him, stunned. His chest was heaving. His hair was tickling your forehead. He was... very heavy.

“I don’t care!” you laughed, the brownie fog making the whole thing feel like a fever dream. You wiggled under him, trying to get your hands free. “Gimme the salt!”

Salt. The word hit him like a flashbang. His brain instantly took that one word and sprinted straight into the gutter. He was suddenly, horribly aware of the specific white, gooey reality of what usually happened inside this can. He thought about how it actually tasted. Salty.

She wants the salt. Oh my god, I’m actually going to hell, he thought, his pulse thundering so hard against his ribs he was sure you could feel it through your own chest. I’m the grossest man on earth. I’m thinking about her eating—

“HELL NO!” he screamed.

“‘Toru,” you said, breathless, “are you seriously wrestling me over potato chips?”

He froze.

He finally looked down at you. He realized his knees were bracketing your waist. He realized he was pinning your wrists to his chest with the can between you. He realized that if you struggled even a little bit, the lid might pop off and reveal the unholy sponge-and-glove contraption hidden inside.

“They are... stale and u-unhealthy!” he stammered, sweat beading on his forehead. He didn't let go. If anything, he held the can tighter. “The sodium levels are... lethal! I am saving your life!”

Shoko, leaning against the doorframe, looked at the shelf—where there were no other snacks. She looked at Satoru, practically vibrating with terror on top of you.

She started cackling, a deep, wheezing laugh that made Satoru flinch. Taking advantage of his distraction, you wiggled. Satoru yelped, ripped the can from your grasp, and scrambled backward off the bed like a scorched cat. He clutched the red tube to his chest, curled into a ball in the corner of the room.

“Get out!” he squeaked, his face bright red. “You high hooligans!"

You sat up on the messy bed, hair tousled, confused and slightly flushed from the sudden wrestling match. You looked at Shoko, then at the can, then at Satoru. Then you realized you had never seen him eat a potato chip in your life.

Oh.

“Oh.”

Satoru didn't say another word. He just hid the can behind his back, staring at the floor, praying for a meteor to strike the apartment building immediately.

By the time Results Day arrived a week later, the tension had somewhat dissipated—mostly because Satoru had spent the intervening days incinerating the Pringles can in the dumpster and pretending he didn't exist.

You were sitting on a concrete bench in the middle of the campus courtyard. Satoru was sitting next to you, and he looked like absolute, unmitigated garbage. He was wearing a wrinkled shirt that said 'I Paused My Game to Be Here', sweatpants that were definitely inside out, and mismatched socks. He was clutching a massive, lukewarm Monster energy drink like it was a life-support system. He clearly hadn’t slept; he looked more stressed about your grades than you were, like a Middle Ages peasant who had discovered caffeine and was currently fighting a losing battle against the sun.

Your phone buzzed. Mid-term Grades. Satoru stiffened, the aluminum can in his hand letting out a sharp crinkle of protest. Your heart hammered as you opened the notification. You scanned the list and stopped at Statistics.

C+. It wasn’t a great grade. It wasn’t even a good grade. But considering the mid-term test made up a staggering 50% of your whole grade(which, seriously, the fuck?), it was a goddamn miracle.

“I passed!” you shouted, jumping up from the bench. “Oh my god, I actually passed! I’m not going to fail this goddamn class!”

Satoru, who had been hunching over his knees biting his thumbnail, immediately snapped upright. The relief washed over him for a split second before his ego kicked in. This was his moment. He pushed his smudged glasses up his nose, tried to cross his legs coolly, and recovered with a puffed-out chest.

“Naturally,” he said, his voice trying for a smooth baritone but coming out as a raspy, sleep-deprived croak. “My teaching methods are flawless. Even with a... suboptimal student who thinks 'standard deviation' is a punk band, success was statistically guaranteed. You’re welcome.”

He looked so smug. So proud of himself. So incredibly roastable.

You grinned. You took a step closer, standing right between his spread knees while he sat there looking up at you. You decided right then that a verbal "thank you" was far too boring for the mental damage you were about to inflict.

“Aww, look at you being all proud!” you cooed, your voice dropping into that tone people use for golden retrievers. You reached out and aggressively ruffled his hair, messing up the white locks and scratching lightly at his scalp right behind the ear. “Who's a good tutor? Satoru is a good tutor! Who's my smart boy?”

Satoru froze. He should have been offended. But his touch-starved, "friendzoned" brain betrayed him. For one humiliating second, his eyes fluttered shut and he actually leaned into your hand, tilting his head against your palm like a cat chasing the warmth.

I am a grown man, his brain feebly whimpered. I am a functioning member of society with a high-level understanding of quantum mechanics, and I am currently purring because she’s scratching my ears. I am a disgrace to my bloodline.Then, his CPU rebooted. He jerked his head back, his face exploding into a violent shade of red that clashed horribly with his white hair.

“I am not a canine!” he sputtered, batting your hand away. “Cease this patronizing behavior! People are looking! I am a human man with a doctorate in—well, doctorate candidate, one day!”

“You did so good!” you laughed, ignoring his protest. “You helped a girl in need.”

Satoru’s chest puffed out instinctively. The "genius" in him couldn't help but take the bait, his ego swelling faster than a physics department’s budget.

“Actually,” he started, his voice reclaiming that obnoxious, condescending lilt he used when he was feeling himself, “I didn’t ‘help’ you. I performed a miracle. I dragged your GPA out of the dumpster and performed academic CPR on a brain that was essentially flatlining. I’m not a tutor; I’m a secular saint.”

He took a smug, aggressive swig of his Monster, looking like he was about to launch into a ten-minute lecture on his own brilliance. Then, his brain caught up with the phrasing.

A girl in need.

The words did a slow, sticky lap around his mind. In need of what? His brain supplied several high-definition, very graphic answers that had absolutely nothing to do with Statistics. 

He thought about the way you were currently standing between his knees. He thought about his bed. He thought about the specific, "needy" noises he’d imagined you making when you were alone. His throat suddenly felt like it was full of dry cotton. He nearly choked on a gulp of energy drink, his Adam's apple bobbing violently as he tried to swallow.

“I—I mean,” he stammered. “The... the terminology 'in need' is... highly subjective and—and mathematically vague! You should be more precise with your—your descriptors!”

“You’re so cute when you’re being a nerd,” you giggled, and before he could get another smart-ass word out, you went for the kill just for the hell of it. You threw your arms around his head and hugged him.

Because he was sitting and you were standing, the physics of the hug were... aggressive. You pulled his head forward, and suddenly, Satoru went rigid. His world instantly went dark, soft, and terrifyingly warm. His nose was smashed right in between your tits, his glasses were getting crushed, and he was suddenly inhaling a lungful of you.

He sat there, stiff as a board, his hands hovering in the air like he’d forgotten how to be a human being. But then, the touch starvation of a twenty-one-year-old virgin kicked in. He’d been praying for this for months. Trembling slightly, Satoru slowly lowered his hands, tentatively wrapping them around your waist to hug you back.

That was his mistake.

The moment his hands touched your waist, you hummed happily and leaned your weight into him. You arched your back slightly, pressing your chest harder against his face and your stomach against his lap.

It was immediate biological and social treason. He was hard. Instantly. Painfully. And because he was wearing those thin, heather-gray sweatpants, the kind that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, there was nowhere to hide the sudden, rock-hard problem now throbbing against his waistband.

He froze. His soul left his body. He realized that if you moved even an inch closer, you would feel it. 

“Satoru,” you whispered, your voice vibrating right against his ear. “You stopped breathing again.”

He panicked. He didn't just let go; he initiated an emergency eject sequence. He slammed his hands against his own knees and launched his upper body backward with enough force to defy gravity. Since he was sitting on a backless concrete bench, there was nothing to catch him.

He tipped backward, legs flailing. As his legs kicked up in the air, for one split second before gravity took him, the fabric of his sweatpants pulled tight across his lap.

And you saw it. You saw everything. The distinct, undeniable outline of a very impressive, very angry erection tenting the gray fabric.

Thud.

But you didn't look away. Instead, a slow, wide grin spread across your face, accompanied by a faint, pathetic blush of your own. For months, you had wondered if he just saw you as a "bro." You’d been convinced you were the one stuck in the friendzone, waiting for a sign that never came. He was always so consistently awkward, so seemingly indifferent, that you’d started to think you were the insane one for imagining the chemistry.

Now? Now you knew. He wasn't indifferent. He was suffering. He was absolutely, hopelessly obsessed with you.

The relief washed over you like a warm wave. You didn't feel bad for him—not really. You felt powerful. You felt wanted.

“Shut up! I—I just got a cramp!” he yelled, his voice cracking and thin. He refused to look at you, his forehead pressed hard against his knees. “A really bad one! My leg just—it locked up! I haven't slept properly and I’m just... I’m shaky! Stop looking at me! It’s not funny! Just go away! I’m just gonna lie here for a second! The—the grass is cold! I need the cold! Just... begone!”

“Right,” you said, your voice dripping with a newfound, dangerous sweetness. “A cramp. Of course.”

You walked around the bench and knelt down in the grass right next to him. Satoru flinched, curling even tighter, looking like a pill bug trying to defend itself from a predator. You could see the back of his neck; it was a deep, bruising shade of crimson.

“‘Toru,” you hummed, leaning in until your breath hitched against the white tufts of his hair. “You look thirsty. All that... muscle tension... must be dehydrating.”

You were holding your half-finished boba. The ice clinked softly against the plastic.

“I... I’m fine,” he wheezed into his knees. He sounded like he was hyperventilating. “I have my Monster. Just go back to the library. Or home. Or literally anywhere that isn't here.”

“But your hands are busy,” you pointed out, glancing at his white-knuckled grip on his shins, desperately guarding his lap. “Here. Have a sip of mine.”

You didn't wait for permission. You brought the cup to his face. You nudged the straw, the same straw your lips had been on mere seconds ago, against his mouth. Satoru’s eyes snapped open. He stared at the straw, then he stared at you.

His brain was a total wreck. He could see the faint blush on your cheeks. He could see the way you were looking at him—not with pity, but with intent. Slowly, shakily, Satoru parted his lips. He wrapped his mouth around your straw, his eyes locked on yours, wide and terrified and blown wide with need. He took a long, desperate sip.

You smiled, satisfied. You pulled the straw back and popped it right back into your own mouth, taking a sip while maintaining aggressive eye contact.

“Good boy,” you whispered as you stood up.

Satoru made a noise that sounded like a dying whimper and buried his face back into his knees. Because you were standing directly over him, your shadow completely engulfed his trembling form. He couldn’t help it, his eyes flickered upward.

He was at ground level and you were wearing that damn short skirt again.

From his pathetic vantage point, the laws of physics had abandoned him. As you adjusted your stance, the hem flared just enough to offer a view that made his entire brain go white-noise silent. He wasn't just seeing your gorgeous legs; he was seeing the curve of your thighs and a glimpse of your panties that he dared to see only in his wildest dreams.

You leaned down one last time, the hem of your skirt riding up even higher. The mere proximity made him flinch like he’d hit a high-voltage wire. You gave his messy white hair one last, patronizing pat.

“See you later, ‘Toru. Don’t stay out in the sun too long.”

You turned on your heel and headed for the library, heart thrumming with adrenaline. You didn't look back; you could feel his burning stare at the back of your head. 

Behind you, Satoru let his head thud back against the lawn. He stared at the sky, glasses lopsided, face a mask of pure ruin. He decided he was never getting up. He was going to live in this patch of grass forever.

Satoru remained on the grass for approximately forty-five minutes after you walked away. He simply lay there, staring at a particularly judgmental cloud that looked like a thumbs-down, while his soul slowly tried to re-enter his body.

The data was conclusive. There was no margin for error. You—the girl he had been trying to impress with "logic" and "cool detachment"—had not only seen his erection, but you had voluntarily exchanged saliva while looking at it.

“Good boy,” he whispered to the sky, testing the words on his tongue.

His body reacted immediately. A fresh, violent shiver racked his spine, and he had to cover his face with his hands to stop himself from screaming. He was a doctoral candidate. He was a Level 80 Paladin. And he was currently being dismantled by two words and a boba straw.

Hell, he was a disgrace. Why the fuck did he even like being called a "good boy"?

He should be appalled. He understood quantum superposition and non-Euclidean geometry. He was supposed to be the apex of human evolution. Yet apparently, millions of years of biological development had been instantly overridden by a praise kink he hadn't known he had. And he was into all sorts of weird shit; he had seen the dark corners of the internet. Darwin was rolling in his grave. Satoru wasn't a man anymore; he was just a dopamine receptor in a hoodie waiting for a treat.

The next three days were a blur of repressed horniness and existential dread. Satoru Gojo ceased to function as a human being. He became a ghost in his own apartment, haunting the hallway in his grey sweatpants, vibrating with an energy that was equal parts shame and desire.

He tried to function. He really did. He tried to focus on his thesis. He tried to grind for loot in World of Warcraft. But every time he closed his eyes, the sensory data from the campus overrode his CPU. He could still feel it: the phantom warmth of your body pressed against him; the terrifying, heavenly softness of your chest smashing against his face when you hugged him. The way you smelled. He felt like he was in literal heaven.

Stop it, he hissed to himself, staring at a blank Word document. Stop thinking about her boobs. ...But she was so soft.

He vaguely recalled Shoko trying to warn him. It was a fuzzy memory from Wednesday. He had been sitting on the couch, staring at a turned-off TV, dissociating hard about the specific way your hair had brushed his cheek. Shoko had been standing over him, holding a bag of ice and a cigarette. Shoko’s mouth had been moving. Satoru knew that—he had seen her lips forming words—but his audio input had been garbled because his brain was currently allocating 95% of its processing power to the memory of your thighs.

“...mid-terms... celebration...” Shoko had said. Or something like that. “...Friday... people coming...”

Satoru had nodded. He had said "Affirmative" or "Whatever" just to make the noise stop so he could go back to his mental simulation of you sitting in his lap. He hadn't realized the trap. He hadn't realized that "celebration" meant "party," and "people" meant you.

It wasn't until Friday evening—when the giggles came from their living room and the smell of cheap vodka began to seep under his bedroom door—that the realization finally hit him. He wasn't safe. He had agreed to a social gathering where the object of his humiliating obsession was the guest of honor.

“I might have made a tactical error,” Satoru whispered to his glowing monitor.

He slumped in his chair, gripping his hair. He cursed his past self. He could have been safe; he could have been halfway to a LAN party in a basement across town right now. Ijichi had invited him to a 48-hour raid weekend, but Satoru had declined because he thought it sounded "socially pathetic."

What a fool he was. "Pathetic" meant smelling like Doritos and stale air, surrounded by men who also feared eye contact. It was paradise compared to the horny purgatory he was currently trapped in.

The apartment didn’t just smell like a party; it already smelled like a raging headache. On the kitchen island, you and Shoko were currently conducting a chemistry experiment that would likely be banned by the Geneva Convention. Shoko was holding a plastic tub the size of a toddler, while you were gleefully dumping in a handle of vodka that cost less than your lunch.

“Does this need more Hawaiian Punch?” you asked, coughing as the ethanol fumes hit your face.

“No,” Shoko said, ash from her cigarette dropping dangerously close to the mixture. She stirred the bright red sludge with a soup ladle. “The goal isn't flavor, it’s blackout. If they can taste the fruit, we failed.”

Across the room, Suguru was lounging on the beanbag chair like a Roman emperor, looking effortlessly cool and entirely unbothered by the toxic fumes. He was holding a half-finished joint in one hand and his phone in the other, meticulously curating the playlist with the focus of a bomb disposal expert.

“I’m putting on Tame Impala,” Suguru announced, exhaling a cloud of herbal smoke that drifted lazily toward the smoke detector—which had been taped shut by a sock ever since they moved in. “We need to establish a baseline vibe before the frat boys Shoko invited ruin the feng shui.”

“Hey! I desperately need to come into contact with some hot guys when I'm surrounded by gremlins 24/7!” she retorted.

And then, there was Satoru.

He stood in the hallway, hovering on the threshold like a Victorian ghost who had accidentally wandered into a trap house. He looked absolutely, hilariously out of place. He stared at the joint in Suguru’s hand. He stared at the vat of red death in yours. He looked like he wanted to call the CDC.

“I rescinded my objection to the 'gathering',” Satoru announced. He kept one hand on the doorframe, refusing to step fully into the room. His eyes darted wildly around the room before locking onto the coffee table. There, sitting brazenly next to a bag of chips, was a massive glass bong that looked like a piece of laboratory equipment gone wrong. He pointed a trembling finger at it.

“But this? This is a blatant violation of the lease. I did not RSVP to a localized drug ring.”

“Relax, Satoru,” Suguru said, lazily waving the joint. “It’s organic. It helps with the... expansion of the mind.”

“I don’t need my mind expanded!” Satoru snapped, his eyes darting around the room, landing on the floor, the ceiling, the ladle in Shoko’s hand—everywhere except your face. He couldn't look at you. If he looked at you, he’d remember his humiliating erection. He’d remember the way you fit so nicely against him.

“I need my ping low!” he continued, grasping for a logical exit strategy. “I am inhaling second-hand felonies! My reaction time is going to lag. I have a Tier-1 Guild Raid at 10 PM. My presence is mandatory. I am the tank. If I’m not there, the entire party wipes, and I refuse to be responsible for the digital deaths of forty people just so I can stand here and watch you poison the student body.”

You paused, the empty vodka bottle still upside down in your hand. You looked at him. You should have roasted him. You should have told him to stop being a narc, dragged him by his hood, and forced a red solo cup of the mixture into his hand. That’s what you would usually do.

But you didn't.

Instead, you just watched him basically vibrating in the doorway. You looked at the white-knuckled grip he had on the wood, the way his messy hair was sticking up in three different directions, and the way he was aggressively avoiding eye contact with you. 

Your stomach did a traitorous, giddy little flip. It wasn't annoyance. It was thick, stupid, bubbly heat that felt entirely unlike you. You thought about the way he’d looked up at you from the grass, so wrecked and flushed and so clearly lost just from one single hug.

You wanted to walk over there. Your fingers itched to smooth down that ridiculous tuft of hair sticking up on the left side, to cup his jaw and tell him he looked cute when he was panicking. But you didn't want to make it weird, so you decided to let him have his little bunker.

“It’s okay, ‘Toru,” you said softly, setting the bottle down on the counter.

Satoru froze mid-rant to Suguru about "packet loss." His head snapped toward you, eyes wide behind his lopsided glasses. He looked like a glitched NPC trying to process a dialogue option he hadn't prepared for, bracing for a fight that wasn't coming.

You smiled—a soft, genuine thing that felt too nice for a room that smelled like weed and cheap alcohol. “Go save Azeroth. We’ll save you a cup of death-juice if you succeed.”

Satoru stared at you for a long, agonizing second. His brain skipped a beat. You knew it was called Azeroth? Since when did you know lore?

He stood there, stunned, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to reconcile the image of you, hot, smelling sweet, and smiling at him, with the concept of his nerdy hobby. He looked relieved that you hadn't roasted him, but there was a distinct flash of confusion in his blue eyes. Maybe even disappointment that you weren't fighting him to stay, mixed with a sudden, confusing surge of attraction because you knew the name of the damn continent.

“Right,” he breathed out, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Affirmative. I will... I will retreat.”

He gestured vaguely behind him to his bedroom door. Taped to the wood was that stupid sign: "Forbidden Zone." It was peeling at the corners. It was even more pathetic than it was when you first saw it. It was his only defense against the fact that he desperately wanted you to touch him again.

“T-try not to be loud. I gotta focus, and also don’t want to be complicit if anyone calls the cops.”

He turned on his heel and retreated into the darkness of his room.

Click.

The door shut. You were left staring at the sharpie-scrawled sign, the black letters mocking you from across the room. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. The giddy warmth settled into a dull, heavy ache in your chest.

“He’s gonna fold,” Shoko said, wiping her hands on her jeans and breaking the silence. She looked entirely too pleased with herself. “Give him two hours. He’ll get thirsty. Or jealous. Mostly jealous.”

Suguru chuckled from the beanbag, finally looking up from his phone. “You really orchestrated this whole social nightmare just to smoke him out of his hole, didn’t you?”

“I’m a woman of science, Suguru,” Shoko replied, stirring the poison punch with a terrifyingly smug grin. “I’m just introducing a catalytic agent to a volatile compound. He’s going to explode. I just sped up the timeline.”

You grabbed a red solo cup and dipped it into the tub of red sludge. “I hope so,” you muttered, taking a long, burning sip that tasted like cough syrup and poor choices. “Because if he plays World of Warcraft all night, I’m gonna kick that door down myself.”

Shoko clinked her ladle against your plastic cup. “That,” she smirked, “is Plan B.”

And it indeed took him two hours. Satoru had lasted exactly one hundred and twenty minutes in his musky bunker before his own biology turned against him.

On his monitor, his character—a Level 80 Paladin named InfiniteVoid_69 (a username Suguru had bullied him for since high school)—was currently running face-first into a pixelated wall because Satoru had forgotten to touch his keyboard for the last fifteen minutes. The "Tier-1 Raid" was a lie. There was no raid. There was just Satoru, sitting in the dark, bathed in the violent glow of his PC tower, vibrating with anxiety and trying desperately not to listen to the muffled sound of the fuckass Tame Impala song Suguru was blasting through their JBL speaker thumping through his wall.

He was miserable. He was lonely. And worst of all, he was horny.

He hadn't been hiding because of the "drug ring" in the living room; he was hiding because his brain had been stuck on a loop that was ruining his life. He closed his eyes, and the data retrieved itself automatically. It wasn't just the hug anymore; his brain had moved on to torture him with new, specific variables. He thought about the straw. He remembered the way your lips had wrapped around the plastic. He remembered the direct, heavy eye contact you’d held while you drank. And then, the audio file played again, unbidden and crystal clear in his mind: “Good boy.”

Stop it, he hissed internally, gripping the armrests of his ergonomic gaming chair until the plastic creaked. Cease data retrieval! Delete cache! But his body wasn't listening. Just the memory of that whisper was enough to send a fresh, hot jolt of blood straight to his dick. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Under the fabric of his sweats, things were starting to wake up again.

Oh god. Stop it, Satoru, he pleaded with himself, staring at the ceiling. You are not a hormonal teenager who needs to be bonked. But in fact, he desperately needed to be bonked. It was hysterical, actually. He was a danger to society. If the Horny Police were real, he would be serving a life sentence without parole.

He needed a reset. He needed caffeine. He needed to flush his system with enough taurine to kill a small horse and reboot his logic center. He reached down to his mini-fridge. He pulled the handle. Empty.

Satoru stared into the dark, hollow void where his White Monster usually lived. “Fucking hell,” he whispered to the empty shelf. He had to actually go out there.

He stood up, adjusting the waistband of his sweatpants to ensure everything was... contained. He pulled his hood up over his messy white hair. He took a deep breath.

Mission: Acquire Monster. Avoid Eye Contact. Return to Base. Do not perceive the Girl.

He opened the door. The hallway assaulted him instantly. The bass from the living room was shaking the floorboards. The air smelled like burnt weed, Shoko’s cigarettes, and whatever "erasure" juice you two had concocted. He kept his head down, sticking to the shadows like a cryptid, and made a beeline for the kitchen. He was a ninja. He was a shadow. No one would even know he was—

SLAM.

A hand hit the stainless steel door of the main fridge right next to his ear. Satoru jumped, nearly crushing the aluminum can he had just grabbed. He looked down, and his heart stopped.

It was you. And you looked... dangerous.

You were three cups deep. Your cheeks were flushed, your eyes were heavy-lidded and dark, and you were looking at him with a hunger that made his knees feel like jelly. You didn't look "bubbly." You looked fed up. You had been waiting for his door to open for the whole evening, nursing your toxic red drink and trying to act interested in whatever conversations the frat boys Shoko was practically eye-fucking tried to have with you. You didn't care about their gym routines or their crypto; you had spent two hours staring at that freaking sign, willing it to burn, just waiting for the moment the white-haired coward finally cracked.

“Satoru,” you hummed, your voice low and thick with the scent of cheap vodka and sugar.

“I—I was just... acquiring electrolytes!” he squeaked, his back hitting the cold metal of the fridge. He looked down at you, his pupils dilating until the blue was just a thin, frantic ring. “The party seems... to go statistically well! You should be out there! Socializing!”

“Sukuna was giving me plenty of attention out there,” you whispered, leaning in until your chest brushed the front of his black hoodie. Satoru stopped breathing. The contact was electric. “He asked for my number, Satoru. He’s actually... pretty direct. He knows exactly what he wants to do to me. Unlike someone I know who just hides in their room for three days because they’re scared of a girl.”

Satoru’s jaw tightened. The name Sukuna hit him like a physical slap. He hated him. He hated his tattoos, he hated his confidence, and he hated the fact that Sukuna probably didn't have to give himself pep talks in the mirror just to talk to you.

“I am not... scared!” Satoru hissed, his voice cracking on the last syllable. He drew himself up to his full height, trying to look imposing despite the fact that he was clutching a White Monster like a safety blanket. “I am—I am practicing social distancing! For—for health reasons! It is a very responsible choice!”

“Liars don't get prizes, ‘Toru,” you interrupted. You were done talking; the alcohol had burned away your filter, leaving only the frustration of the last seventy-two hours.

You slid your hand down his stomach. Satoru flinched, his breath hitching, but he didn't move away. He couldn't. He was trapped between the fridge and the girl who had been haunting his jerk-off sessions for months. Your palm landed firm and flat against the top of his thigh. You didn't just touch him; you gripped. Under the fabric, you felt the muscle jump—a sharp, violent twitch.

And then, you felt the snitch. You felt him go rigid instantly. He wasn't just hard; he was throbbing under your hand, his body giving up every secret he’d tried to hide. It was immediate, rock-hard, and straining against the waistband.

“You’re so tense,” you cooed, your thumb tracing a slow, agonizing circle, dangerously close to the seam. “Is the ‘cramp’ coming back? Or is it just that you’ve been thinking about me as much as I’ve been thinking about... you?”

The word hung in the air, heavy and intoxicating. Satoru’s brain stopped. He looked down at you, his face burning. The realization that you—the girl he was convinced was out of his league—had been thinking about him while he was rotting in his room was too much data to process.

He let out a strangled, high-pitched noise—a sound of pure, unadulterated ruin. His glasses fogged up instantly. He looked like he was about to physically dissolve into the linoleum.

“I—I’ve gotta g-go back,” he stammered, his hands hovering in the air, trembling. He wanted to grab you. He wanted to pull you closer and confess everything right there next to the refrigerator magnets. But the sensation of your hand on his dick was overloading his system. 

“H-have to hop back on Discord!” he yelled, his voice squeaking an entire octave.

He didn't just walk away; he practically scrambled over his own feet. He shoved past you, nearly knocking over a stack of red solo cups as he fled back toward the hallway, his pace frantic and his posture hunched to hide the "structural emergency" you had just triggered.

You stood in the kitchen, taking a slow, predatory sip of your drink. You watched him retreat, eyeing that sign one last time. You weren't letting him lock that door tonight. You didn't give him a second.

You dropped the red solo cup on the counter and took off. You hit the hallway just as his bedroom door slammed shut, but you didn't slow down. You didn't knock. You threw your shoulder against the wood and shoved before he could even think about turning the lock.

The door flew open, bouncing off the wall with a violent thud. Satoru spun around, caught dead in the center of the dark room. He hadn't made it to his chair; he was just standing there, panting, illuminated only by the aggressive glow of his PC tower.

“I am busy!” Satoru screamed, backing away, hands up. He wasn't even looking at his computer. “I am—I am currently in a raid! I am digitally occupied!”

“You’re standing in the middle of the room, Satoru.”

You kicked the door shut behind you. 

Satoru flinched. He glanced at his monitor displaying a static nebula wallpaper and his anime waifus, and realized the "raid" excuse was a physical impossibility. “I use... voice commands!” he lied, his voice squeaking. “It’s hands-free gaming! High-level strats! You wouldn't get the meta!”

You didn't speak. You just took a step forward.

Satoru retreated, his heels dragging through the plush carpet. You didn't stop until his knees hit the edge of his unmade bed. He let out a strangled noise, losing his balance and falling backward onto the mattress. He tried to scramble away, but he was trapped between the pillows and the relentless weight of your gaze.

You were done with the theory; you wanted the lab work. You climbed onto the bed, straddling his lap and pinning him down. Satoru stopped breathing. He was stuck against the headboard, staring up with the dilated pupils of a man who had forgotten how to process oxygen. The gray sweatpants were tented aggressively between your thighs, twitching every time his heart thudded against his ribs.

“You have a boner, Satoru,” you said flatly.

“I—I do not!” he shouted, face turning a radioactive red. “It is... it is an optical illusion! It’s the pleats of the pants! It is a distinct folding error!”

You grabbed the front of his black hoodie, yanked him toward you, and smashed your lips against his.

The collision was a disaster of mechanics. It was a messy, uncoordinated wreck of teeth clashing and noses bumping, vibrating through Satoru’s entire skull. He didn't know where to lick or where to put his tongue. He tasted like white Monster, minty toothpaste, and sheer terror. He didn't know where to put his nose; he was pretty sure he was suffocating you, his brain throwing up a 404 ERROR as his hands hovered uselessly in the air.

But it was simultaneously the single greatest moment of his life.

You loved the way he hummed into your mouth—a desperate, high-pitched sound of pure ruin. It was satisfying to know that for all his "Top of the Class" arrogance, he was currently being dismantled by a single kiss. Satoru’s heart was trying to exit his ribcage at Mach 2. The sensation was electric, overriding every logical circuit he possessed. His hands finally crashed onto your waist, gripping you with a bruising force—not to push you away, but to keep himself from floating away. You didn't give him room to breathe, swallowing his panicked noises as you tasted the exact moment his dignity finally evaporated.

You leaned back just an inch, your lips brushing his ear, and whispered the password to his nervous system.

“Look at me... good boy.”

Satoru let out a broken, high-pitched whimper. His eyes snapped open, blowing wide, swirling with a desperate, pathetic blue hunger. Then, you moved. You ground your hips down, slow and deliberate, against the tented crotch of the sweatpants.

That was the kill shot.

Satoru gasped into your mouth—a sharp, strangled inhale that sounded like he was drowning. The friction was too much. He had been edging on the brink of insanity for seventy-two hours, and you just shoved him off the cliff without a parachute. It felt like a supernova exploding in his lower abdomen; it was agonizing, heavenly, and the absolute end of his reputation.

His entire body convulsed. A violent, full-body shudder racked him from his shoulders down to his knees. He broke the kiss with a wet, sloppy sound, his head hitting the headboard with a dull thump.

“Oh, FUCK!” he shrieked, his voice cracking three times in two syllables.

He went limp beneath you.

You felt it instantly. The twitch against your inner thigh. The sudden, damp heat spreading rapidly through the heather-gray fabric sticking to your thigh. Satoru stared at the ceiling, catatonic, his soul leaving his body to ascend to a higher plane of embarrassment. The room was silent, save for the whirring of his PC fans.

“I...” he whispered, voice hollow. “Uhh... I’m sorry...”

He looked down at his crotch. A dark, humiliating wet spot was expanding aggressively on the light gray fabric, right in the center of the tent. Satoru remained motionless, hands covering his face as he waited for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. He was already drafting his resignation from the honors program in his head, scouting for European universities without internet access where he could disappear and live as a goat herder.

Then, he heard it. A soft, bubbly sound. A giggle.

Satoru’s fingers parted just enough for one panicked blue eye to peer out. He expected mockery, a predatory grin from the girl who had just ended his dignity. Instead, you were looking down at him, shoulders shaking, a genuine, lopsided smile on your face that made your eyes crinkle.

“It’s not... it’s not statistically significant!” Satoru croaked, his voice cracking again. “It’s a margin of error! This shouldn’t have happened!”

But as you looked at him—messy, flushed, and so clearly devastated by his own lack of chill—the teasing impulse in your brain just died. You didn’t just want to win; you wanted to keep him. 

The pining of the last few months had finally hit its boiling point, replaced by a strange, fierce wave of protectiveness. You leaned down, framing his face with your hands. Your thumbs brushed over his cheekbones, moving with a tenderness that finally made his frantic breathing stutter into a stop.

“Satoru,” you whispered, your voice honey-sweet. “You’re such a dork.”

You kissed him again. It wasn't like the first one. There was no clashing of teeth, no desperate battle for dominance. It was soft, lingering, and deep. The kind of kiss that promised he wasn't going anywhere. For Satoru, the sensation was like a system reboot. The shame didn't disappear, but it was suddenly eclipsed by the realization that you were staying.

You pulled back just an inch, your forehead resting against his. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin. “Don’t look like you’re about to cry,” you hummed, your hand sliding down to the damp waistband of his sweatpants. “It just means I’m that good. But we definitely have to take these pants off now.”

Satoru’s breath snagged in his throat. A tiny, hopeful spark returned to his eyes. “You... you’re not disgusted?”

“Satoru, shut up,” you laughed softly, your fingers hooking into the gray fabric.

BANG.

The bedroom door hit the wall with enough force to crack the drywall.

“Emergency! Red alert! We need the Spin Doctor!” Shoko shouted, stumbling into the room with a half-empty bottle of vodka.

She froze mid-step. Her eyes traveled from you, straddling Satoru, down to your hand on his waistband, and finally landed on the very obvious, very dark wet spot expanding on the light gray fabric. 

“Oh,” Shoko said, taking a slow, deliberate sip from her bottle. “So the nerd is finally getting some? Took you long enough, Satoru. I honestly thought we’d be burying you in that damn gaming chair with your virginity still intact.”

“GET OUT!” Satoru shrieked, frantically grabbing a pillow and smashing it over his lap. “LEAVE! DE-PERCEIVE ME! I AM INVISIBLE!”

“I’d love to, but Nanami’s cousin just tried to backflip off the balcony, missed, and fell into the neighbor’s inflatable pool,” Shoko said, ignoring him and grabbing your arm. “The neighbor is currently screaming about property damage and calling the cops. Suguru is out there trying to de-escalate the situation but the guy isn't buying it.”

“I was in the middle of something!” you protested, looking back at Satoru.

“The neighbor is a faculty member!” Shoko yelled, dragging you toward the door. “If you don't use your major to convince him this was a performance art piece about suburban decay, we are all getting expelled! Suguru is losing the fight!”

Shoko didn’t wait for another word. She practically hauled you into the hallway. “You can finish de-pantsing the lightning-trigger later! Right now, you need to convince a very angry man that we aren't a public nuisance!”

As you were pulled away, you caught one last glimpse of Satoru. He was still sitting on the bed, clutching the pillow to his chest, staring at the door with a look of profound, existential confusion.

It took another two hours. Two hours of you using every buzzword in your arsenal—“community outreach,” “suburban performance art,” and “youthful kinetic expression”—to convince the neighbor not to call the precinct.

By the time you, Shoko, and Suguru stumbled back into the house, the party was a graveyard of red cups and snoring bodies on the rug.

“I’m going back,” you whispered, nodding toward Satoru’s hallway.

“No, you’re not,” Shoko grumbled, catching you by the back of your shirt. “You’ve only had three cups of my wonderful drink, and you just spent two hours lying to a faculty member. You’re going to fall asleep mid-task, and Satoru’s heart will literally stop if you try to touch him again tonight. Let the nerd chill.”

Suguru leaned against the wall, looking exhausted. “Gosh, I still can’t believe that actually happened, poor guy. But she’s right. He’s probably already convinced himself he’s been excommunicated from society. Give him the night to overthink it. It’ll make him more compliant tomorrow.”

You managed to sneak away for just a second. You crept to his door and pushed it open an inch. His PC was still on, bathing the room in a soft blue glow. Satoru was passed out cold, face-down across his bed, still wearing his black hoodie. He had clearly changed into clean sweatpants (the gray ones were nowhere to be seen, likely hidden in the back of the closet in shame). He looked peaceful, his long white lashes casting shadows on his flushed cheeks, finally silent.

You closed the door softly. You’d let him have his peace. For now.

The morning sun hit the kitchen linoleum with a brightness that felt personally offensive to everyone in the room. Satoru sat at the kitchen island, a statue of misery carved out of cotton and shame. He was staring at a bowl of Froot Loops that had long since turned into a pink-and-orange sludge. He held his spoon mid-air, his hand frozen, while a single pink loop clung stubbornly to his lower lip.

Across from him, Suguru sipped his tea, scrolling on his phone, clearly trying to dull his headache. Then, the handle of Shoko’s room turned.

Satoru flinched. His spoon clattered against the ceramic bowl, splashing milk onto his sleeve. You walked out first, looking fresh, showered, and terrifyingly composed. Thankfully, you had only stayed at three drinks, tactically draining anything Shoko handed you afterward into the sink.

Satoru’s breath hitched as Shoko followed you out, looking like shit on the contrary. To him, the weight of reality was dropping on his head like an anvil. The Witness and The Victim had emerged in unison. In his mind, the jury had deliberated, and the verdict was clearly Exile.

You walked straight up to the island, stopping right in front of him. You crossed your arms, your expression unreadable—the perfect Comms poker face.

“Satoru,” you said. Your voice was level, professional, and stripped of any warmth.

Satoru couldn't even swallow. The pink loop finally fell off his lip and landed in the milk with a sad, pathetic plop.

“I’ve been talking with Shoko,” you continued, glancing briefly at the brunette who was now leaning against the counter, lighting a cigarette with a shaking hand. “And given the... situation... I think we need to have a private conversation.”

Satoru felt the blood drain from his face so fast he was surprised he didn't pass out right into his cereal. The realization hit him like a brick to the forehead: They talked. It wasn't just a casual debrief; it was a forensic autopsy.

He stared at the two of you standing there—the Tribunal of Shame—and his brain helpfully provided high-definition audio of what must have happened in that room. He could practically hear it. You, explaining the "incident" with a pained expression. Shoko, laughing, exhaling smoke as she dissected his failure like a frog in biology class.

“And then he just...?” 

“Yup. Immediately. In the sweatpants.” 

“Fucking pathetic.”

He gripped the cereal bowl so hard it was a miracle it didn’t crack. He felt small. He felt like a biological error that needed to be patched out of existence.

“I...” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying to find a sound that didn't resemble a dying seal. “I-I’m... Okay...”

Suguru set his teacup down with a soft, mournful clink. He looked at Satoru with eyes full of deep, brotherly pity. Satoru felt a cold sweat break out—why is he looking at me like that? Does he know too?

“Be brave, Satoru,” Suguru said softly, nodding slowly. “Just listen to what she has to say. Try to take it like a man.”

Satoru paled so hard he almost matched his hair. Like a man. That’s code for ‘don’t cry until she leaves.’

Shoko exhaled a stream of smoke, her sunglasses sliding down her nose just enough to reveal bloodshot, deadpan eyes. “Don't worry, Satoru. I told her you're a fast learner. You’ll understand immediately.”

Satoru felt his soul wither. Of course she has performance notes. He just wanted to die at this very moment.

“Right,” Satoru whispered. He stood up. His legs felt like they were made of lead. He kept his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his clean black sweats, curling his fingers into fists to hide the shaking.

He led the way down the hall. It felt like the Green Mile. He felt like he was led to his own execution. 

The room was exactly as he’d left it: cold, smelling of clean shower and nervous sweat. The unmade bed sat in the corner, a tangled mess of sheets that mocked him.

Satoru walked straight to his desk, putting as much distance between himself and the bed as possible. He turned around and kept his head down, staring at his socks.

You stepped inside. Click. You locked the door.

The sound echoed like a gunshot in the small room. Satoru flinched violently.

“Look,” he whispered, unable to handle the silence. He just sounded defeated. “You don't have to... be nice about it. I get it. I’m a mess. I know I ruined the vibe and the only chance I had.”

He sniffed, pushing his glasses up his nose, refusing to look at you because his eyes were burning. He felt so pathetic it was almost laughable, and he was pretty sure Shoko was dying from laughter in the kitchen, which you would join within a few moments.

“I can just be a study partner,” he mumbled to the floor, his voice thick. “I’ll do your Stats homework. I won't... bother you with any other stuff again. Just please don't say we can't hang out. I really...” His voice broke. “I really like hanging out with you.”

You didn't let him finish.

You walked right through his personal space bubble. You stepped between his spread legs, grabbed the drawstrings of his hoodie, and yanked him down.

“Satoru,” you said, your voice dropping the professional act entirely. “For the love of God, stop it.”

He froze, his mouth snapping shut with an audible click. He was bent awkwardly at the waist, his face inches from yours, his breath coming in short, terrified puffs.

“I don’t know what you thought I brought you here for, but,” you whispered, your eyes searching his. “I didn't talk to Shoko, or anyone in fact, about you being a mess. She was apologizing for cockblocking us.”

Satoru blinked, a tear actually escaping the corner of his eye. His brain buffered. “...What?”

“I came back,” you said softly, your thumbs brushing away the moisture on his cheek. “Last night. Wanted to finish what we started, but you were already asleep.”

Satoru stared at you. The information hit him like a physical blow. You came back? You didn't pretend to care first and then run away in disgust? You walked back into the Forbidden Zone voluntarily? Gosh, did he just call his own room that? That sign needs to go.

“You... you actually wanted more?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “It was... embarrassing.”

“It was cute,” you corrected him, a small, dangerous smirk playing on your lips. “Messy, but super hot. Made me so horny.” You tightened your grip on his hoodie strings, pulling him flush against you. You could feel the heat radiating off him through the clean sweatpants.

“Horny?”

The word came out of his mouth like a question in a foreign language he was failing to learn.

Satoru blinked rapidly behind his glasses. His brain was trying to run two conflicting programs at once: Protocol A: Self-Loathing & Exile and Protocol B: The Hottest Girl I Know Wants To Jump My Bones. The resulting friction was practically causing smoke to pour out of his ears.

“You...” He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “You’re not making fun of me? This isn't a... a sociological experiment Suguru put you up to? I’m not being punk’d?”

“Satoru, if you ask me if I’m punking you one more time, I’m going to bite you,” you promised, and the glint in your eyes suggested it wasn't a threat. It was an itinerary.

You didn't wait for his permission. You pushed him backward until his thighs hit the edge of his desk again. He stumbled, his coordination completely shot, and braced his hands behind him on the cool laminate surface, trapping himself between his dual-monitor setup and you.

“Now,” you hummed, your hands sliding down the front of his hoodie to rest possessively on the waistband of his clean sweatpants. “I see you went for the tactical change. Black? Trying to hide something?”

Satoru’s face flamed. She knows. Of course she knew. He had selected these pants specifically for their opacity and structural integrity.

“It—it’s a slimming color!” he squeaked, his voice cracking. “And—and the fabric density is comfortable for the... the ambient temperature of the room!”

“Uh-huh.” You hooked your fingers into the waistband. The elastic snapped back against his hip. “Well, they’re in my way. And I have a very specific goal for the next few hours that involves you not wearing them.”

Satoru’s heart hammered against his ribs like a bird trying to break a window. He looked down at you, at your hands on him, and then back up at your face. You looked determined. You looked hungry.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile softened. You reached up, sliding your hand into his messy white hair, and gave it a sharp, commanding tug that pulled his head down.

"If you glitch, we’ll just reload the save, or whatever you nerds would say,” you whispered against his lips. “Now stop overthinking and let me get these off you.”

Satoru didn't fight you. In fact, he was so eager to comply that he tried to step out of them too fast, tripped over his own ankles, and nearly took both of you down in a heap. He caught himself on the desk with a frantic flailing of limbs, his face burning hotter than the sun.

“Graceful,” you deadpanned, watching him kick the black sweats away like they were on fire.

“I am... experiencing... motor control issues!” he wheezed, standing before you in just his hoodie and boxers.

“Bed now.”

The command bypassed Satoru’s higher brain functions entirely and went straight to his motor cortex.

Satoru scrambled onto the unmade mattress with the urgency of a soldier diving into a foxhole to avoid a grenade. His knees hit the duvet with a heavy thump, and he scurried backward until his spine hit the wall, pulling his knees to his chest in a defensive crouch.

You stood by the desk, watching him.

He looked like a long-limbed spider that had just been swatted with a newspaper—all knobby knees, messy hair, and wide, panicked blue eyes tracking your every movement. He was huddled in the corner, wearing nothing but that navy hoodie and a pair of boxers that were covered in... were those pixelated slimes from Dragon Quest?

Jesus Christ, you thought, fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose. This is it. This is the man I’m risking my reputation for. The man who holds his own shins like they’re emotional support animals.

It was tragic. It was pathetic. It was the hottest thing you’d ever seen.

You followed him, moving much slower, prowling across the small stretch of carpet like a predator that had just cornered a particularly twitchy mouse.

You stopped at the edge of the bed. Satoru swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing violently. He tracked your approach like you were a raid boss entering his aggro range.

“Hoodie,” you ordered, extending a hand.

Satoru clutched the fabric to his chest, looking scandalized. “Hell no! The hoodie stays! It is... it is a safety blanket! It provides crucial emotional armor!”

“Satoru,” you sighed, resting a knee on the edge of the mattress. “We are not doing this with you dressed like a burglar. Take it off.”

“I can’t!” he yelped, squeezing his eyes shut. “My upper body definition is... suboptimal! I haven't been to a gym since the mandatory phys-ed requirement of 2019!”

You stared at him. He was really going to argue about body dysmorphia while you were actively trying to sleep with him.

Okay, you decided. If logic doesn't work, we use shock and awe.

“Fine,” you hummed, taking a step into his personal space until your knees bumped the mattress frame. “If you’re shy, I’ll go first to make it fair.”

You didn't reach for him. Instead, your hands went to the hem of your own shirt.

Satoru’s eyes snapped open. He realized what was happening about two seconds too late to stop it, and three seconds too late to prepare his nervous system for the impact.

“Wait,” he squeaked, his hands fluttering uselessly in the air. “Hold on! I haven't—my graphics card isn't ready for—!”

You didn't wait. In one fluid, confident motion, you pulled your top up and over your head, tossing it carelessly onto the floor next to his pile of shame.

Satoru didn't just freeze; he fossilized. You could practically see a fatal system error message flash behind his eyes, followed by a full kernel panic.

He sat there, mouth slightly open, staring at you. You were bare. You were standing in his room, bathed in the aggressive glow of his PC tower, completely topless and so fucking beautiful, looking at him with the casual confidence of someone ordering a coffee.

Oh my god, Satoru’s internal monologue screamed, the voice distorting like a blown speaker. The geometry. The physics engine. The sheer... texture quality.

For a solid ten seconds, Satoru forgot that he was a carbon-based life form who required oxygen to survive. His eyes were wide, blown circles of panic and desire, frantically trying to process the sudden influx of high-definition skin. He looked at your boobs, then panicked and looked at the ceiling, then realized looking at the ceiling was a waste of valuable time and looked back at your chest.

He turned a violent shade of red. He actually slapped his hands over his own eyes, fingers splayed wide so he could obviously still peek through the gaps.

“This is too much!” he wheezed, swaying where he sat. “You can’t just take off your shirt like that! Your boobs are way too nice for that!”

You laughed, reaching up to grab his wrists and pulling his hands away from his face. He resisted for a split second, terrified of the direct line of sight, before letting you pull his arms down. He stared at you, his pupils vibrating.

“Good,” you said, your voice low and satisfied. You poked him right in the center of his chest, where his heart was beating so hard it felt like a kick drum against his sternum. “Now. Hoodie. Off.”

Satoru looked at you, then at his hoodie. The argument about his "soft tissue" died in his throat. He realized that if he didn't take it off, you might put your shirt back on, and that was a timeline he refused to live in.

“Okay,” he breathed, trembling. “Okay. Initiating... un-equip sequence.”

He raised his arms. You didn't wait for him to struggle; you grabbed the hem and yanked it up. It got stuck momentarily on his big head, muffling a yelp of protest, before popping off with a rush of static electricity that made his white hair stick up in every direction like a mad scientist.

You tossed the hoodie onto the floor. He immediately tried to cover his chest with his hands, curling in on himself.

“Stop looking at me!” he whined. “I feel like a specimen! You’re calculating my BMI, I can see it in your eyes!”

“I’m calculating how long it’s going to take to finally shut you up,” you said, reaching out to shove his shoulders down.

Satoru went down without a fight, flopping onto his back against the pillows.

“Boxers,” you commanded.

Satoru scrambled to comply. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the fabric and shoved them down his long legs. In his haste, he kicked them off with such panicked force that they flew off his foot, arced through the air, and landed with a soft plap right on top of his mechanical keyboard.

He froze, horrified. “My... my custom keycaps...”

You didn't give a damn about his keyboard. The air left your lungs in a sharp, sudden rush.

Holy shit.

For a guy who claimed to be composed entirely of "soft tissue and caffeine," the sight of him fully exposed was enough to make your knees weak. He was beautiful. Not just cute, or handsome in a boyish way—he was devastatingly masculine. The long, elegant lines of his legs, the sharp cut of his hips, the pale, smooth expanse of skin that looked like marble under the harsh LED lights.

And then there was the rest of him.

Your eyes dropped to his lap, and your mouth went dry. He was... perfect. He was heavy, thick, and terrifyingly long, resting achingly hard against his stomach. It was a cock that had absolutely no business belonging to a guy who owned limited edition anime figures.

You felt a sudden, hot gush of wetness between your legs. You were dripping. Actually dripping. Just looking at him made you feel like you were going to melt right onto the carpet.

Satoru seemed to realize you weren't looking at his keyboard. He followed your gaze down to his own lap, then back up to your wide eyes. He immediately tried to scramble backward, crossing his hands over his crotch like a shy maiden.

“Eyes on me, Satoru,” you said, grabbing his chin and turning his face back to you.

You stood up from the mattress, towering over his prone, shivering form. With slow, deliberate movements, you took off the sleeping shorts you had borrowed from Shoko. They fell to the floor in a puddle of fabric. Then came the panties.

Satoru stopped breathing. He didn't just stop; his lungs went on strike.

He bolted upright. He scrambled backward against the headboard, shock overriding his paralysis, until he was sitting up, knees drawn slightly apart.

He sat there, completely naked, staring up at you—completely naked. His eyes were wide, blue saucers of absolute, unadulterated panic. His hands hovered in the air above his chest, fingers curled like he was scrubbing in for surgery.

His wildest fantasies hadn't even come close. They didn't depict you half as well as you looked in real life. You looked so soft, so pretty—like every dream he’d ever had was finally coming true right in front of him. The reality of you was infinitely higher resolution than anything his brain had conjured during those lonely nights.

“You’re...” he wheezed, his voice sounding like a deflating tire. “You’re... like fully naked for me. I'm definitely dreaming. I’ll wake up in a cold sweat in like two minutes.”

“I’m very real, Satoru,” you noted, dropping back down to your knees and crawling over him. You settled your weight on his thighs.

He leaned into you immediately, burying his face in the curve of your neck, his nose bumping against your skin.

“You’re so warm,” he mumbled against your collarbone, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. “I can feel your pulse. It’s fast. Is that... is that because of me?”

You reached out and grabbed his hovering, trembling hands. You forced them onto your bare skin—guiding his palms to your waist, then sliding them up to the curve of your breasts. You pressed his hands firmly against you, forcing his fingers to curl into the softness.

Satoru made a noise like a boiling kettle against your neck. His lips brushed your skin as he spoke, the vibration traveling straight through you.

“Holy shit,” he whimpered, his hands twitching against your chest. “You’re... so soft. Like, stupid soft. I can't believe you're actually letting me hold them.”

“Good. Because I want you to feel this too.”

You moved his hand again. You grabbed his wrist and yanked his hand down between your legs. At the same time, you wrapped your other hand around his length and started to pump him. Slow, firm, and agonizingly deliberate.

Satoru’s head fell back against the headboard with a dull thud, exposing his throat, his eyes rolling back as he felt the slick, hot moisture of you coating his fingers. It was the physical proof of your desire that finally broke his brain.

“Toru...” you whispered, leaning forward to bite his earlobe. “Do you feel how wet I am? This is all for you.”

“I... I caused the leakage?” he croaked.

“Don’t you dare say the word ‘leakage’ during sex ever again,” you warned, but the threat turned into a high-pitched yelp as his untrained fingers slipped, accidentally mashing right against your clit.

You didn't answer him. You just lifted your hips, guiding him to the entrance.

It was a struggle. He was unreasonably large. Like, "did you 3D print this in a lab?" large. You let out a sharp, staggered breath as you tried to sink down onto his lap. You had to stop halfway, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder, teeth gritted as you tried to accommodate the sheer, illogical size of him.

“Oh god, Satoru,” you gasped, the words punched out of you. “You’re so big. Give me a second...”

You slowly lowered yourself, forcing your body to accept the upgrade. It was a tight squeeze—like trying to fit a luxury sedan into a compact parking spot—but then, you yielded. Your pussy wrapped around his rigid length, incredibly soft, warm, and mushy against his adamantium-grade hardness. You expanded to make space for him, molding to his shape like high-end memory foam.

Satoru’s reaction was immediate and catastrophic.

His hands gripped your waist convulsively, his fingers digging in like he was trying to hang onto a cliff edge. He whimpered—a high, broken sound that vibrated against your chest. His spine popped audibly as he arched away from the headboard, his neck straining, his eyes rolling back in his head so far you could only see the whites.

He looked like he was being abducted by aliens and they were beaming him up by his dick.

“I see the light,” he whispered, his voice trembling and raw right against your ear, sounding like a Victorian child on their deathbed. “I see the math. I see the Fibonacci sequence. I... I’ve wanted this so much it’s been ruining my life. I think I’m in love with you. Tell my mother I died bravely.”

You froze, your fingers digging into his scalp. “Wait... what did you just say?”

But Satoru didn't answer. He couldn't. He was offline. His mouth hung open in a silent, ecstatic gasp, his soul visibly leaving his body as you finally sank the rest of the way down, flush against his lap.

“Don’t move!” he suddenly shrieked, his voice cracking three octaves like a pre-pubescent choir boy.

His hands squeezed your waist so hard his knuckles turned white.

“If you move, I’m going to lose it! The friction coefficient is too high! I can’t handle the input! You’re squeezing me so hard!”

“Too bad,” you hummed, merciless. You started to grind down on him.

It was a slow, rhythmic motion, swirling your hips against his. Satoru let out a high, broken whimper with every rotation. He was a disaster—glasses sliding down his nose so far they were basically in his mouth, face flushed a violent, radioactive crimson.

“Satoru,” you panted, pulling back to look at his wreck of a face. “You’re not watching porn, you’re the ride! Touch me again!”

“I don't know how!” he wailed, his hands flapping uselessly like a flightless bird. “It looked easier in the videos! The professionals make it look like a seamless cutscene! I am working with raw unedited footage here! I didn't study for the practical exam! I only read the textbook!”

You needed more. Frustrated and needy, you reached down between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit right where you were grinding against him.

Satoru’s eyes snapped to your hand. The wailing stopped instantly. The panicked flailing ceased.

He went dead silent.

His processing power diverted 100% from panic to observation. Behind his fogged-up glasses, his blue eyes tracked the movement of your fingers with the laser-focus of a pro-gamer spotting an enemy pixel from across the map.

He saw your face change. He saw the way your head tipped back, your lips parting in a silent plea. He heard the sharp, jagged intake of breath—a noise that you caused, not him. He watched you pleasuring yourself while riding him, and the gears in his head started to grind against each other.

He felt a sudden, sharp spike of indignation.

Wait.

His brain crunched the numbers. He looked at your hand doing the work. He looked at his own hands, which were currently squeezing your boobs with the baffled reverence of a man holding two very expensive, very soft stress balls.

“Hey,” he said.

His voice dropped. It wasn't the cool, sexy anime drop; it was the grumpy, petulant drop of a guy who just got blue-shelled at the finish line in Mario Kart. It was the sound of a man who had finally realized he was being "carried" and was absolutely not okay with it.

He clumsily brushed your hand away, nearly poking your thigh in his haste. “Move. Let me... let me actually try.”

You bit your inner cheek, fighting the urge to smirk. Everything was going exactly according to plan. You were a mastermind. The last thing you wanted was to have to rub one off over a guy who, two minutes ago, didn't know where to put his own hands without looking like he was trying to defuse a bomb. You needed him to get in the game.

He replaced your hand with his own thumb.

He was a disaster at first. He was pressing way too hard—like he was trying to mash a 'skip cutscene' button that wasn't working. His coordination was lagging, his thumb was sliding, and he looked like he was trying to solve a complex equation in his head while staring intensely at your lap.

But then, he hit it. Just right.

The moment a genuine, ragged moan ripped from your throat, Satoru didn’t just feel encouraged—he felt god-tier.

His ego, which had been in a state of total system failure, suddenly surged back to 100%. A wild, competitive glint flared in his eyes behind those fogged-up lenses.

But it wasn't just mental. He felt it in the hardware.

He felt the sudden, frantic fluttering of your walls wrapping around his length, pulsing in a way that no manual or high-res video could ever have prepared him for. It was the ultimate haptic feedback. It sent a shockwave straight from his crotch to his brain stem, and in that split second, Satoru had a religious experience.

He decided, right then and there, that he wanted to feel this specific sensation until the heat death of the universe. He wanted to live in this flutter. He wanted to be buried in this mushy, warm, terrifyingly perfect reality until the day he died.

“Hypothesis confirmed,” he panted, a manic, shit-eating grin splitting his sweaty face. “I’ve mapped the inputs. I have higher dexterity stats than I thought. Step aside, amateur.”

He gripped your waist tighter, his long fingers finally finding purchase on your skin. With a sudden display of “I’ve been carrying a 40lb gaming rig up three flights of stairs” strength, he shifted his weight, twisting his hips to flip you over.

“Amateur? Excuse me?!” You barely got the indignity out before the world did a literal barrel roll.

You hit the mattress with a soft oomph, your hair sprawling across the pillowcase like a crime scene. You stared up at him, your mouth hanging open like a laggy video feed. You were completely, utterly floored.

You had plans for this man. Long-term, devious plans. You had fully expected to spend the next months slowly dismantling his innocence, piece by piece, until you finally unearthed the depraved, perverted monster you just knew was hiding beneath the layers of "I have a waifu" and "I forgot to shower today." You were going to be the mentor. The master.

But Satoru apparently decided to skip the entire campaign and go straight to the DLC.

You were blown away. You had been trying. You were putting in 110% effort, grinding against him with every intention of keeping him pinned and overwhelmed, yet after about three strokes and a lucky thumb placement, he had somehow speedrun the entire power dynamic.

He looked absolutely feral. His glasses were so fogged up he was basically legally blind, his hair was a static-charged dandelion puff of chaos, and he was looming over you with the intense, unblinking focus of a man who was about to go for a World Record.

“The latency has been resolved,” he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through a gravel pit. He didn't look like a nervous nerd anymore; he looked like a man who had just discovered he could exploit a glitch in the universe.

Satoru first licked a wet, scorching stripe from your collarbone up to your ear, his tongue hot and surprisingly firm. Before you could even process the sensation, he sank his teeth into the sensitive junction where your shoulder met your neck. It wasn't a gentle, romantic nibble; it was a hungry, "I'm-marking-what’s-mine" bite that made your toes curl and a muffled shriek die in your throat.

“‘Toru!” you gasped, your fingers knotting into his sweat-damp hair.

“Mine,” he mumbled against your skin, the vibration of his voice buzzing through your entire nervous system. He bit down again, just hard enough to leave a mark, before dragging his open mouth across your pulse point.

But then, he stopped.

The momentum didn't just slow down; it hit a brick wall. Satoru’s body went rigid, his head popping up as if he’d just heard a fire alarm. The feral, confident glint in his eyes vanished, replaced instantly by the flickering, panicked light of a guy who realized he might have just accidentally broken a social contract.

"C-can I call you mine even?” he asked, his voice splintering under the weight of the question. “Is that… is that allowed? I haven't read the updated EULA for this relationship! I don't want to overstep the licensing agreement! Was that too aggressive? Did I just sound like a possessive creep on a Discord server? Oh god, I’m being a 'Nice Guy,' aren't I?”

He looked horrified, his hands suddenly hovering over you as if he was afraid to touch you without a notarized consent form.

“Satoru,” you groaned, reaching up to grab the front of his hair and pulling his face back down toward yours. “It’s fine. I'm yours. It was hot. Keep going.”

Satoru didn't just reboot; he overclocked. His eyes blew out until they were just two shimmering, blue voids of pure, unadulterated worship. A strangled, high-pitched noise—somewhere between a sob and a victory screech—left his throat.

“Administrative privileges... granted,” he wheezed, his voice trembling. “Ownership confirmed. I... I have the master key. I’m the only user with root access!”

He didn't need any more encouragement. He dove back into your neck, his mouth wide and hungry, laving over the mark he’d made as if he wanted to taste the fact that you belonged to him.

But he wasn't just staying in one spot anymore. Now that he had "root access," Satoru was data-mining.

He was experimenting, his mouth wandering with a frantic, uncoordinated curiosity. He planted messy, hot kisses along your jawline, your collarbone, and the slope of your shoulder. He was like a man trying to find a hidden Easter egg in a map, his breath coming in ragged, wet hitches against your skin.

Then, he found a new "variable."

He leaned in and licked right into the curve of your ear—a slow, wet, incredibly bold swipe of his tongue that sent a literal electric shock straight to your core.

The sound that left your throat wasn't a moan; it was a loud, wrecked wail of pure pleasure. Your body reacted before your brain could even process the input. Your internal walls clamped down around his length with a sudden, rhythmic ferocity, squeezing him so hard you felt his pulse thrumming against your own.

What the fuck? you thought, your head slamming back into the pillow.

You felt yourself squeezing him, milking him, your body acting on some deep, primal instinct you didn't even know you possessed. You weren't just the "mastermind" anymore—you were currently a puddle of needy, overstimulated nerves.

Are we both discovering something about ourselves today? you wondered through the haze. Is he a hidden monster, and am I a total degenerate? Have we been holding back the true level of our combined weirdness this whole time?

Satoru’s response to the "squeeze" was a strangled, vibrating groan that felt like a subwoofer going off against your chest.

“Do that again,” he panted, his voice cracking and raw. “Squeeze me like that again. I want to see how high the pressure gauge can go before I actually explode into actual pixels.”

He didn't pull away. If anything, the sensation made him even more feral. He bit your earlobe, his breath hot and smelling like the Monster he downed earlier this morning he’d had earlier, and began to thrust with a renewed, desperate intensity.

He was no longer just "trying the variable." He was obsessed with the result.

He was a mess, you were a mess, and the room was a catastrophe of discarded clothes and fogged-up electronics. But as he drove back into you, his long fingers digging into your hips to keep you pinned under his frantic, awkward rhythm, you realized the "tutorial" was officially over.

“God, Satoru, seriously just shut the fuck up and fuck me!”

Your command didn't just register; it was a Priority 1 Directive.

Satoru’s brain, already overclocked to its limit, finally stopped trying to narrate. He let out a low, vibrating growl against your neck—a sound that was 5% feral beast and 95% a guy who had just reached his final form. He abandoned the "theoretical" approach and leaned into the raw, frantic rhythm of the moment.

He started thrusting with actual, terrifying velocity. It wasn't smooth; it was desperate and heavy, his long, pale limbs tangling with yours in a sweaty, beautiful disaster. Every time he drove back in, his glasses rattled so hard against the bridge of his nose they finally just gave up and flew off, clattering onto the headboard before vanishing into the crack behind the mattress.

“Going dark!” he wheezed, his vision now a blur of colors and your face, but it didn't matter. He didn't need to see to feel the way you were wrapped around him, or the way he was bottoming out—kissing your cervix with every heavy, messy thrust.

It was a total collision-detection error in the best way possible. Every time he drove deep, hitting the very limit of the map, a fresh wave of static electricity seemed to pop behind your eyelids. For Satoru, it was like he was trying to clip through the world geometry just to get closer to you.

“Critical hit,” he rasped, his voice breaking as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. “I’m... I’m hitting the level cap! I’m seeing the credits roll!”

The "mushy" warmth of you was the only thing in his universe. Every time you clamped down around him, he made a noise like high-speed server fans failing—a high-pitched, vibrating hum of pure sensory overload. He was finally synced, his rhythm frantic and desperate as he chased the final achievement.

“Satoru, I’m—I’m close! Right now!”

“Not without me!” he shrieked, his voice cracking three octaves as he reached his own point of no return. “I’m not... I’m not letting you finish solo!”

He abandoned all remaining logic, burying himself in you with a final, desperate, heavy intensity. He was shaking, his muscles straining as he gave it everything he had, his face buried in your neck, teeth grazing your skin one last time as he triggered the endgame.

You unraveled. You screamed his name, your body arching off the mattress as you clamped down around him with a rhythmic, crushing force that finally blew his remaining fuses.

Satoru’s eyes rolled back. His entire 6'3" frame went as rigid as a frozen PC.

“OH GOD! ERROR! SYSTEM DOWN!”

He shook. He didn’t just shake; he vibrated like a phone on a tile floor. He poured himself into you with a final, shuddering gasp that sounded like his soul was being ripped out of his body by a high-speed vacuum.

Then, the power cut.

He didn’t lower himself gently. He didn’t settle down. He simply ceased to function. He fell forward like a massive, sweaty redwood tree. Timber.

Dead weight. 

You let out a muffled whump of air as Satoru’s entire exhausted body crushed you into the mattress. He was heavy, he was damp, and he was currently breathing like a marathon runner who had just seen the face of God.

Silence descended, save for the aggressive whirring of his PC fans trying to cool down the room and the distant muffled bass of music, someone must have put on in the other room.

He didn't move for a full minute. You lay there, pinned, staring at the ceiling and feeling the aftershocks in your legs, wondering if your ribs were still in the correct anatomical positions.

Finally, Satoru twitched. He lifted his head just enough to rest his chin on your chest. His hair was a disaster area of static and sweat. Without his glasses, his blue eyes were wide, glassy, and filled with a terrifying amount of adoration.

You looked at the back of his messy white head, feeling a sudden surge of affection for this absolute disaster of a man. He was currently a lanky, radiating heap of spent adrenaline, and he looked so vulnerable it made your heart ache.

You didn't wait for him to say another word. You reached up, your fingers threading through his static-charged locks, and tugged him closer to you to desperately kiss him.

It wasn't a pretty kiss. It was salty, sweaty, and tasted like the frantic energy of the last twenty minutes. You kissed him with a raw intensity that seemed to startle the remaining air out of his lungs. Satoru made a small, muffled sound—a tiny whimper of pure, unadulterated shock—before he melted into it, his hands clutching your waist as if he were trying to merge your atoms together.

When you finally pulled back just an inch, your foreheads still touching, you whispered it.

“I think I love you too.”

The effect was instantaneous. Satoru’s body gave a sudden, violent jolt, and you felt him—vividly and undeniably—throb and growl back to life inside you. The confession was like a massive, illegal server boost to his ego.

“Oh,” he wheezed, his voice dropping back into that gravelly, confident register as he felt himself getting hard again. “Oh, that’s... that’s a dangerous thing to say to a man who just discovered he has a high-performance engine.”

He lifted his head, squinting at you through the dark, his blue eyes blown out with a mix of worship and a newfound, terrifying level of "Main Character" energy.

“But for real,” he rasped, his hands sliding back down to grip your hips with possessive, steady strength. “We actually need to find my glasses right now.”

“Why?” you panted, feeling the heat of him expanding inside you once more.

“Because,” he grinned, a feral, lopsided thing that was way too confident for a man with bird's-nest hair. “I’m a visual learner. I wanna see exactly how I fuck my pretty girlfriend through another round. I want 4K resolution on this achievement.”

You didn't even have time to process the sheer, unbridled nerd-hubris of that statement because a sudden, violent THUD-THUD-THUD rattled the bedroom door.

“CONGRATULATIONS, ROMEO!” Shoko’s voice drifted through the wood, sounding incredibly bored and deeply unimpressed. “We’re all very proud that you’ve officially retired from the virginity league, but can you both be, like... 50% less fucking noisy?”

Satoru froze, his face turning a shade of red that practically glowed in the dark.

“Some of us are trying to survive the fucking hangover without hearing the ‘Fibonacci sequence’ moaned out!” Shoko yelled, her footsteps receding down the hall. “Keep it down or I’m changing the Wi-Fi password!”

The silence that followed was heavy. Satoru looked at the door, then back at you, his pupils vibrating.

“She’s just jealous,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly as he started to move again, his confidence only slightly dampened by the threat of losing internet access. “She’s a hater. I’m a pro now. I have the hottest girlfriend.”

“Just find your glasses, Satoru,” you laughed, reaching up to pull him down for another kiss.

He paused for a microsecond, his hands tightening on your waist as he felt you pulse around him. The need for high-definition visuals lost the battle against the sheer sensory overload of being inside you.

Nerd!jo who has no idea that you're actually thinking about strangling him because he got 0.5 marks more than you did, and dethroned you from your perpetually held position of first place.

Nerd!jo who totally does not act all smart and knowledgeable just to get your attention.

Nerd!jo who is under the impression that he's doing you a favour if he answers every question the professor asks before you can even try, because then you won't have to! It's chivalry, you see?

Nerd!jo who, not so subtly, has been shifting seats to sit closer and closer to you all semester, until one day, he plops down next to you unceremoniously- without a word in your direction. You bristle and glare at him through your peripherals, but say nothing.

Nerd!jo who's first words to you, after days of sitting next to each other silently, are-

"That's actually not the correct spelling of Alfvén." You pause your writing, not really processing what he said and scowl. "Sorry?"

Nerd!jo who leans into your space, absurd blue eyes stuck on your notes, with his elbow on your desk and hand on his cheek.

Nerd!jo who only repeats himself with a bright smile, his gaze now falling onto your face, as if he's genuinely helping you. "Alfvén. You spelt it with a regular E. You missed the acute accent thingy."

Nerd!jo from whom you drag your eyes away from and clear your throat, ignoring the warm flush rushing to your cheeks from both embarrassment and... something else. Clenching your jaw, you add the little mark above your E, maybe with a little more force than necessary.

Nerd!jo, who is very pleased with himself for finally getting the courage to talk to you, and even be of assistance to you!

Nerd!jo who from then on won't stop making attempts to talk to you, and always starts on a very strange topic of conversation. One day, he whispers way too loudly to you during the middle of a lecture, "Your shoes are laced two different ways." You scooch away from him and spare him a sidelong guidance, the proximity rendering you uncomfortable. "... Hello to you too, gojo."

Nerd!jo who insists you call him Toru. You refuse. A compromise is reached, and you both decide on Satoru. Both of you are not very happy about it, but for the opposite reasons.

Nerd!jo, who often asks you stupid questions that he knows the answers to, just to piss you off because he finds it incredibly hot when you call him an idiot and glare at him with that venomous glint in your eyes.

Nerd!jo who plans to ask you out by making a videogame for you, with the user interface in your favourite colour and everything.

Nerd!jo who fumbles when handing you a pendrive with the file loaded on it, fingers trembling so much that he almost drops it.

Nerd!jo, who immediately freezes when bully!naoya snatches it from his grasp just before he's about to hand it to you

Disclaimers:

♤ COMPLETED

♤ Available on AO3 but is currently three chapters behind.

♤ This is a mix of fluff, smut and angst, so minors/ageless blogs do not interact.

♤ Any comments hating on the reader in this story will be deleted and the user will be blocked. The story plays on the mean girl trope so you will see mean girl behaviour. Just know this is all intentional. If you are sensitive to a flawed female character, do not read. I know what some of you are like. I have played these games before.

♤ This is a college au separate from my EdenU au. Different Gojo and university setting altogether. Any semblance is coincidental.

♤ Every part of this is of my own work. No AI or external inspiration was used. Please do not repost this on Tumblr or on any other platform without credits. I do not give permission for this to be translated. And please do not feed my work into AI.