゛★ nerd streamer ! satoru gojo gets head under the table.
# NERDJO STREAMER AU ⋆ m! oral ⋆ gf!reader ⋆ piv sex ⋆ toru streams games ⋆ smut ⋆ 18+ MDNI NSFW . art by narutoss.ramen
The stream was live, the Valorant lobby loaded, and Satoru was already locked in.
You sat cross-legged on the floor beside his desk chair, half-listening to the familiar chaos of his friends yelling through his headset while the chat scrolled by on the second monitor while you scrolled your instagram feed. No face cam on this time, it was just his gameplay.
“Alright chat, we’re queueing ranked. Don’t flame me if I throw, I’m running on three hours of sleep and Monster.” He leaned forward, fingers already dancing over the keyboard and mouse. “Yuji, if you flash me one more time I swear to god—”
“It was an accident!” Yuji’s voice crackled through the headset.
“Bullshit,” Megumi muttered.
You smiled to yourself. The room was fairly dim save for the glow of his monitors. His long legs were spread under the desk, sweats loose and the outline of his cock was already half-there just from the usual stream adrenaline. You’d been watching him for the last twenty minutes, craving his attention, the way his thighs tensed every time he landed a headshot, the little pleased sounds he made when the kill feed lit up.
The idea hit you like a bad decision you were absolutely going to make.
You shifted closer on your knees, palms sliding up the insides of his thighs while your head rested innocently on the inside of his thigh. Satoru’s fingers stuttered for half a second. His eyes flicked down, wide and you could tell he’s immediately turned on.
“Baby, what are you doing?” he mouthed, biting his lower lip.
You mouthed back, “Can I?”
His throat worked. He gave the tiniest nod, then immediately covered the mic with one hand for a second. “Chat, hold on—mouse sensitivity’s being weird.” The hand dropped again, back to the mouse. Both hands occupied. He knew he was so fucked.
You tugged the waistband of his sweats down just enough. His cock sprang free, already thickening, the tip shiny with precum. You wrapped your fingers around the base and licked a slow stripe up the underside, tasting salt and heat. Satoru’s left knee jerked. A low sound almost escaped before he turned it into a cough.
“Fuck—sorry, chat. Something in my throat.”
The chat spammed in the corner of the screen.
“gojo just coughed like he saw god”
“bro you good??”
“LMAOOO he choked on air”
You sealed your lips around the head and sucked, tongue swirling around the tip. His hips twitched once before he forced them to still. You could feel the tension running through his thighs, the way he was fighting not to push up into your mouth.
“Yuji, push mid,” he said, voice a little tighter than usual. “I’m watching the flank.”
“You sound weird,” Megumi said flatly through the headset.
“I’m fine. Focus.”
You took him deeper, cheeks hollowing, the soft wet sounds mostly swallowed by the desk and the game audio. Every time he shifted or adjusted in the chair you could tell he was trying to give you more room without dedicating too much of his time to you mid-game. Once, when you dragged your tongue hard under the head, his free foot nudged your hip—not a push away, just a warning little press that said too good, please slow down. You ignored it and sucked harder because who are you if not his wonderful tormenting girlfriend?
Satoru’s breathing stayed mostly even, but every few kills his voice would crack on a “nice shot” or a “fuck yeah.” He’d immediately cover it up with some lame excuse like “sorry chat, energy drink went down the wrong pipe.”
“he’s dying over there”
“gojo’s lagging in real life”
“someone check in on him man”
You pulled off just long enough to whisper, low enough the mic wouldn’t catch it, “You’re so hard already, baby. Been thinking about this all game, hmm?”
His eyes stayed locked on the screen, but his lips shaped the word yes so clearly you almost laughed. Then he mouthed keep going and gave the tiniest tilt of his hips toward you. He knew he probably shouldn’t—given that his reputation is on the line here and Twitch could very likely ban him if they caught wind of what he was doing. He didn’t care. Neither did you.
You swallowed him down until your nose brushed the white hairs, throat working around the thickness of him. Satoru’s fingers flexed hard on the mouse and he whiffed a shot. A soft, punched-out sound left him, one that sounded a lot like a grunt, before he turned it into a frustrated “Fuck—how did I miss that?”
“You okay, man?” Nobara’s voice this time. “You’re playing like you’re distracted.”
“I’m not distracted. Just—uh—setup’s acting up.” He muted for two seconds, just long enough to hiss under his breath, “Fuck, baby—slow down, please,” then unmuted again like nothing happened. “Sorry, mic cut out.”
You hummed around him, the vibration making the muscles in his thigh tense up. His foot pressed more firmly against your side, not pushing you off, mostly steadying himself. You could feel how close he was getting by the way his cock twitched on every suck, the way his breathing kept hitching no matter how hard he tried to keep it steady for the stream.
“Rotating B,” he said, voice rough. “Yuji, don’t peak yet—shit—”
He died. The screen flashed. For three precious seconds both hands left the keyboard and mouse. His fingers threaded into your hair just long enough to hold you down while his hips gave one shallow, desperate roll into your mouth. Then he was back on the keys, rebuying, voice strained.
He cleared his throat. “I’m fine. Just tilted. Chat, chill.”
“he’s breathing like he just ran a marathon.”
“gojo’s either having a stroke or he’s getting head under the desk lmao, my bet’s on the second one”
“WAIT”
“no way”
“YOURE RIGHT IT DOES SOUND LIKE HES GETTING HEAD”
You pulled off with a soft wet pop and looked up. Satoru’s face was flushed under the messy white hair, eyes dark when they flicked down to you for half a second. He mouthed you’re killing me and then, softer and reluctantly, don’t stop.
You didn’t stop. Why would you? You licked him from base to tip, then took him deep again, one hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t cover. His free foot kept pressing against your hip every time the pleasure spiked too hard—little frantic taps that said slow down but also please don’t stop because he’s just that indecisive.
The round ended. He muted again, for a lot longer this time.
“Baby—fuck—I’m so close. You’re gonna make me cum on stream.” He moaned, finally letting his voice reach heights he can’t when he’s unmuted. His hands found your hair again, gently threading through it as he shallowly fucked your face. “You’re such a needy girl.”
You pulled off just enough to speak, lips brushing the wet head. “Then end the stream. Or cum down my throat while they listen to you pretend nothing’s happening.”
His eyes went almost black. He unmuted again. He didn’t care about the game anymore.
“Alright chat, we’re taking a quick break after this round. Technical difficulties. Be back in—uh—ten.”
“Technical difficulties my ass,” Megumi muttered.
“Shut up and plant the spike.”
You doubled down. Wet, messy, loud enough that the noise suppression almost didn’t hide it. Satoru’s thighs were trembling by now. Every time a moan threatened he turned it into a cough or a frustrated game noise. His foot kept nudging you—warning, then encouraging, then warning again. When the final round ended and the victory screen popped up, he didn’t even wait for the post-game chat.
“That’s it for tonight. Thanks for watching. Be nice in chat. Byeeee—”
The stream ended so fast the disconnect sound barely finished before he shoved the chair back hard enough that it rolled. Both hands finally free, he hauled you up by the arms and pinned you against the desk, mouth crashing into yours like he’s been needing it for the past hour.
“You little shit,” he whined against your lips, already shoving your shorts down desperately. “Do you have any idea how hard it was not to fuck your throat then and there?”
“Yeah,” you breathed, grinning, hands already yanking his sweats the rest of the way down. “I could feel how hard, alright.”
He laughed once then kissed you again—hungry and messy, all teeth and tongue. One big hand shoved under your shirt to palm your breast, thumb rough over the nipple as it pebbled nicely. The other gripped your ass and pulled you flush against him so his slick cock ground against your stomach.
“Fuck, I need you so bad. Bedroom, now. Please.”
You barely made it three steps before he was on you again, mouthing at your neck, hands everywhere. “Talk to me,” he muttered between kisses. “I want to hear you after all that quiet.”
“You were so fucking loud even when you were trying not to be,” you said, laughing as he walked you backward toward the bed. “Chat almost caught you. Your friends definitely knew something was up.”
“They can eat shit.” He shoved you down onto the mattress and followed, covering you with his long body. “I almost came in your mouth while Yuji was screaming about a flashbang. Do you understand how insane that is? You probably ruined my elo after that…”
You hooked a leg around his hip and rolled your hips up, letting his cock slide against your cunt, already wet from the whole under-desk thing. “Then stop talking and fuck me.”
Satoru let out a soft chuckle. He reached between you, lined himself up, and pushed in with one long, relentless thrust that punched the air out of your lungs. You both groaned. He didn’t give you time to adjust—just started moving deep and slow, the wet sound of it obscenely loud in ths quiet room.
“Fuck—you feel so good,” he gritted out, forehead pressed to yours. One hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh and spreading you wider so he could reach deeper angles. “Been thinking about this the whole queue. I wanted to bend you over the desk and just—”
He snapped his hips harder to finish the thought. You cried out, nails dragging down his back to leave marks. He kissed you through it, messy and open-mouthed, still grinding deep even when he bottomed out.
“Harder,” you demanded, voice already wrecked. “I want to feel it tomorrow.”
“Greedy.” But he gave it to you—faster, deeper, the bed creaking under the force of it. His hand slid between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit, and the dual sensation made your back arch. “That’s it. Cum on my cock. I earned it after sitting there pretending I wasn’t getting my soul sucked out under the table.”
You laughed and then moaned when he angled just right. “You loved it.“
“Maybe I did,” he admitted, voice rough. “Every time it got too good I almost muted and just fucked your throat. You’re lucky I have self-control.”
“Barely.”
He grinned against your mouth, sharp and fond, then fucked you harder for the sass. The room filled with the sound of skin and wetness and the broken noises you both kept making. When you came it was sudden and sharp with no preamble, cunt clenching around him, and Satoru followed a few thrusts later with a low, guttural groan, burying himself deep and spilling hot inside you.
He stayed there for a long moment, breathing hard against your neck, still twitching. Then he rolled to the side, dragging you with him so you were half sprawled across his chest.
“Next time,” he muttered, already sounding half-asleep and completely wrecked, “we do it with the facecam on. So I see how good I am at keeping a poker face.”
You pinched his side. “Absolutely not.”
He laughed and kissed the top of your head. “Fine. But you’re still blowing me under the desk again next stream. Non-negotiable.”
You smiled against his skin. “We’ll see.”
Outside the room the Discord call was still going, his friends yelling about how he’d disconnected mid-sentence. Satoru reached over, alt f4’d without looking, and pulled you tighter against him.
“They’re gonna figure it out eventually,” you said.
“Let them.” His hand slid down your back lazily. “Worth it.”
quick little thing i wrote at midnight when i finally had free time on my vacay
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oneshot .ᐟ uni au ⋆ cheerleader!reader ⋆ smut w plot ⋆ p in v ⋆ nsfw | mdni | 18+ ⋆ art by paanwny
It started a couple months back when you caught Satoru Gojo hacking your online calculus portal after you bombed the first midterm. Instead of ratting him out, you blackmailed the lanky nerd into doing your homework for cash. What began as a simple transaction turned into something weirdly but rewardingly regular. He’d wait by your locker after cheer practice, take your assignments with that shy and adorable little flush on his cheeks, and throw in sarcastic comments that sometimes made you laugh. Satoru was the campus genius who hid behind messy white hair, crooked glasses, and oversized hoodies, but around you he got all soft and flustered. You loved teasing him. He pretended to hate it but kept showing up anyway.
The locker room hallway still smelled like sweat and cheap axe body spray that definitely belonged to the football jocks. You slammed your locker shut, hair still damp from the showers, skirt barely covering your ass like the rules pretended it did. Practice had kicked your ass today—stunts, tumbling, the whole bit. The usual Friday buzz.
There he was, leaning against the lockers a few feet down like a tall, awkward lighthouse in a sea of jocks and sorority girls. Satoru Gojo. White hair messy, glasses slipping down his nose because he refused to get them fixed even though they were always crooked. Oversized hoodie, jeans that somehow looked both too baggy and too perfectly fitted on his stupidly long legs. He was scrolling on his phone, but you knew he was waiting for you.
“Hey, loser,” you called, grinning as you walked over. You shoved the thick stack of papers into his chest—calculus homework due in three days, plus that psych essay outline. “Same as usual. Make it pretty so the TA doesn’t suspect I suddenly got smart.”
Satoru fumbled the papers, cheeks already going a little pink as your fingers brushed his. “Y-Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he muttered, pushing his glasses up. His voice was that soft, teasing drawl he always used with you. “You know, one of these days you’re gonna have to learn this stuff yourself, pretty girl. What if I get hit by a bus?”
You laughed, leaning one shoulder against the locker next to him. “Then I’ll just have to find another pretty nerd. But you’re irreplaceable, Satoru. Best grades on campus and you do it for cheap.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around like someone might overhear. The hallway was emptying out. “Cheap? You call fifty bucks a pop cheap? I’m basically your personal academic slave here.”
“Slave who gets paid and gets to stare at my ass during games,” you shot back, poking his chest. He was so easy to fluster. It was adorable.
Satoru’s ears turned red. He looked down at the papers in his hands, biting his lip like he was working up to something. The usual easy banter died for a second. You raised an eyebrow.
“Actually… I, uh, wanted to talk about something else this time,” he said. His voice dropped, shy in a way that made your stomach do a little flip. He wasn’t the overconfident Satoru everyone else saw—the one who’d mouth off in lectures and dominate most study groups. With you, he was more shy. Easier to fluster. “Not money.”
You crossed your arms, tilting your head. “Oh? You finally quitting on me?”
“No!” He said it too fast, then winced. “I mean… no. I’ll still do all your stuff. All year. Every assignment. Exams too, if you want. I’ll even throw in notes from the lectures you skip for practice.”
You blinked. That was a big offer. “Okay… what’s the catch, pretty boy?”
Satoru took a deep breath, blue eyes flicking up to meet yours through those dumb glasses. His fingers tightened on the edge of the papers. “I want… I want you to take my virginity.”
The words hung there between you.
You stared at him. He stared back, face burning red now, but he didn’t look away. There was that little spark of determination under all the shyness—the same one he got when he argued with professors about extra credit.
“I… I’m serious,” he rushed out, words tumbling over each other in that playful but nervous way he had. “I’m tired of being the only guy on campus who’s never… y’know. And it’s not like I trust anyone else with this. You’re hot. You’re experienced. You already boss me around with homework, so… might as well boss me around with this too. I’ll make it worth it. All your work. Done. Perfect. No questions.”
You let the silence stretch just long enough to watch him squirm, then smirked, stepping closer so your chest brushed his hoodie. “You’re really offering to be my full-time academic bitch just to get laid? A virgin, huh? That’s cute, ‘Toru. How long have you been saving it up for me?”
His face went even redder. The nickname made his heart flutter. “S-Shut up. Are you in or not?”
You grinned, trailing a finger down his chest. “Oh I’m in. But not right now, nerd. It’s the middle of the day. Meet me at my dorm tonight after your last class. Try not to blow your load thinking about it, ‘kay?”
Satoru made a strangled noise, adjusting his hoodie to hide the growing bulge in his jeans. “You’re evil. Tonight. Fine. I’ll… be there.”
The knock on your door came right after sunset. You opened it to find Satoru standing there, hair still messy, backpack slung over one shoulder like he’d come straight from the library. He looked nervous as hell.
You pulled him inside, locked the door, and pushed him toward the bed. “Took you long enough. Strip.”
The demand caught him off caught but he obeyed anyway, clumsy with nerves, shedding layers until he was just in his boxers. You took your time peeling off your clothes, enjoying how his eyes devoured every inch—your tits spilling free, the curve of your waist, the way your cheer skirt slid down your thighs to reveal your laced panties.
You crawled onto the bed and tugged him down with you, straddling his lap. “Relax,” you murmured, sliding his glasses off. “You’ve thought about this a lot, huh?”
“Every time you bend over in front of me,” he admitted, voice hoarse. A shy little grin tugged at his lips. “You’re kinda mean for teasing me like that, y’know.”
You laughed softly and kissed him, tongue slipping into his mouth as you rocked your clothed cunt against the bulge in his boxers. He melted instantly, whimpering and heavily breathing, hands finally settling on your hips, squeezing the soft flesh there like he was trying to compose himself. You could feel his cock twitching and hardening fast beneath you, already leaking precum through the fabric.
When you finally tugged his boxers down, his cock sprang free—long, thick, veiny, and flushed dark pink at the tip, glistening with precum. You wrapped your hand around the hot, throbbing length and stroked him slowly, twisting your wrist at the head.
“Never had anyone touch you here?” you asked, thumb spreading the slickness over his slit.
Satoru shook his head frantically, hips jerking up into your fist with a choked whimper. “N-Never. Fuck—your hand feels so much better than mine.”
You pushed him flat on his back, shed your panties, and guided his trembling hand between your legs. His long fingers explored your dripping folds curiously at first, then more confidently as you taught him. “Circle my clit like this—yeah, good boy. Now two fingers inside. Curl them up—fuck, just like that, ‘Toru.”
Again with the nickname. It made him twitch under you. He was a quick learner, pumping his fingers in and out of your tight, wet heat while his thumb rubbed messy circles on your swollen clit. Your juices coated his hand, the hot wet sounds filling the room as you rode his fingers and moaned.
Finally you tore open a condom, rolled it down his painfully hard cock as he gasped, and positioned yourself over him. You rubbed his thick head up and down your slick pussy lips, teasing your entrance before sinking down slowly, inch by inch.
Satoru’s head fell back against the pillow with a broken, guttural moan. His voice is rough and strained. “Oh my god—fuck, you’re so tight. So warm—squeezing me—holy shit—”
You bottomed out with a gasp, his cock stretching you full, he was big for a nerd—proved the rumors right—the head pressing right against that sensitive spot deep inside. You started riding him, rolling your hips in deep, steady circles, your tits bouncing with every movement. Satoru gripped your thighs hard enough to leave marks, thrusting up clumsily to meet you, eyes hazy and glazed with lust as he watched his cock disappear into your dripping cunt over and over.
But barely a minute in, his whole body tensed, abs clenching. “Wait—fuck, I’m—!”
He came hard with a loud, embarrassed groan, hips stuttering wildly as he pumped rope after rope of cum into the condom. His cock pulsed inside you, face burning red with mortification even as pleasure wrecked him.
You bit your lip to hold back a laugh, still gently rocking on his twitching, softening cock. “Already? Poor little virgin. Couldn’t even last thirty seconds inside me. That’s so fucking adorable, ‘Toru. That good, huh?”
He covered his face with one arm, humiliated but still panting heavily. “S-Shut up… it’s my first time, okay? You’re … too tight. Give me a minute. I can still go again. I swear I can make it up to you—please.” He was so adorable all fucked out and flushed and begging.
You grinned cheekily, leaning down to kiss and bite at his neck, sucking a mark into his pale skin. “Yeah? Prove it then, big boy. Don’t embarrass yourself again.”
True to his word, Satoru didn’t stay soft for long. His cock twitched back to life inside you—aided by the teasing and the way you rocked against him. You stayed on top at first, grinding slow and deep, rolling your hips so his sensitive head rubbed against your walls with every movement. This time he lasted longer, hands bolder as they roamed your body—squeezing and groping your ass, pinching and tugging your nipples until you were moaning loudly. Determined to prove himself to you after that fuck-up. You rode him harder and faster, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing as your juices dripped down his balls.
“Switch,” he gasped eventually, voice wrecked.
You let him flip you onto your back. Satoru hovered over you, clumsy but so fucking enthusiastic, lining up and sliding back into your soaked pussy with one shaky thrust. He buried himself to the hilt, groaning at the tight heat. You wrapped your legs high around his waist, heels digging into his ass as you guided his hips.
“Like that—yes, fuck, right there, Satoru—harder—”
His pace turned frantic, pounding into you with deep, messy strokes, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your tits. The bed creaked beneath you, his balls slapping against your ass with every thrust. “You’re so wet… so— perfect. Gonna—gonna cum again—!”
You rubbed your clit fast and tight, clenching hard around his thick length as your orgasm crashed over you—walls fluttering and pulsing, juices gushing around him. Satoru followed right after with a loud, shameless moan, burying himself as deep as possible and shuddering through another intense orgasm, filling the already messy condom while his cock throbbed inside your spasming cunt.
You collapsed together, tangled and sweaty, his softening cock still nestled inside you. Satoru wrapped his arms around you, pressing a shy kiss to your hair. “That was… I don’t even have words. And I always have words.”
You laughed, tracing patterns on his chest. “Maybe we can do this again. Not bad, nerd. Homework deal still stands.”
He grinned against your temple, that playful and shy spark fully back. “Deal. But next time I get to be on top longer. Gotta… study all the angles, right?”
You poked his side. “Nerd.”
“Yeah,” he muttered softly, sighing into your neck.
The two of you stayed like that for a while—naked, tangled, and stupidly content. Especially him. Satoru had just traded a year of academic slavery for the best kind of education.
And you both knew he was going to be an excellent student.
⟡ ݁˖cw. BasketballCaptain!Satoru :: College AU :: Ig dms :: mentions of phone sex :: fingering / in a bathroom stall :: pussy job s :: un protected :: p in v :: creampied :: kissing :: aftercare :: in love w you :: whipped!gojo :: nerd!jo ::
You were in bed with one leg kicked up, toes pointed in lazy triumph, one hand busy pressing the back camera shutter and the other stuffed wrist-deep in a bag of sour straws. Your phone teetered on the edge of your pillow, angled just right to catch the soft dip of your waist, the glimmer of your chain sliding down the valley of your chest, and—front and center—the fat swell of your ass outlined by a scrap of candy-colored mesh panties that left nothing to the imagination.
The post? Captionless. Just the peach emoji and a black heart.
You didn't need words. You were that bitch. Always had been. So you tossed the photo onto your finsta, your little corner of slutty digital worship and went back to giggling at your DMs. There were always DMs. Thirsty frat bros, broke creatives, girls you kissed once at a house party and left dizzy. Always someone, you'd reply to whoever caught your eye if they were lucky enough.
But nothing could’ve prepared you for the notification that blinked on your screen a few hours later:
@ satorugojo sent you a message.
You blinked.
Satoru Gojo.
6’3, white-haired menace, captain of the university basketball team, rumored to have an IQ of something stupid like 150 and a body sculpted by the horny whispers of God herself. You’d seen him. Everyone had.
You just didn’t think he’d seen you.
Well. Not like this.
“Is this what you get up to when you’re not failing chem lab?”
😇👀
You choked on your candy and stared at the message like it would change if you blinked hard enough. You were in his chem class. Sat behind him twice a week. You’d seen the slope of his back in that hoodie he never wore right, the flash of tattoos peeking when he leaned forward to take notes. And now? He was seeing everything—your tits, your hips, your little pink pussy glossed with coconut oil and bravery.
You didn’t answer right away. Let him sweat.
Twenty minutes later:
“Or should I say… what you get up to when you should be studying 😌 naughty little overachiever huh?”
That second one hit different.
You:
“how’d u find this acc gojo 😒 stalker behavior”
Satoru:
“instagram said ‘you might know her’ and i said. i wish”
“now i do. and damn, babe. u gonna give a man a heart attack”
You chewed your nail and smiled against your wrist.
You:
“you like what u see?”
Satoru:
“do i like? baby. i’ve been staring at ur third slide for five minutes. zoomed in and everything.”
“that’s not even fair. u go to school with me lookin like THAT?”
“and now i know how fuckin sweet that pussy looks when u stretch… 😪”
Your thighs pressed together. You tried to be slick. Tried to look unbothered. But your panties were damp before he even sent the next message.
“got a boyfriend?”
“lemme guess. no. cause he’d never let u post this”
“good. i wouldn’t either. not if u were mine.”
Your fingers slipped between your legs before you could help it.
You:
“why? u jealous?”
Satoru:
“jealous? baby i’m hard as fuck. bout to go take a cold shower in ur honor”
“unless u wanna send me something to keep me company”
“🤞 i’ll be real good for u. promise.”
That night you sent him a mirror pic. nothing too crazy, just your thighs spread, his name on your thigh written in red lip liner. The panties stayed on, but the outline underneath was unmistakable.
He called you his sweet girl in the next text. Said he wanted to take his time.
Sexting started slow. Flirty and silly. He called you a “little tease” and told you, you looked edible. You teased him about his nerdy glasses. He said he’d fuck you in them. The photos escalated. Moan videos. Voice notes. Your first orgasm with his name between your teeth, breathy and dizzy. He came untouched to it. You both swore to keep it just between you two.
Satoru Gojo had seen your pussy before he’d ever heard your voice.
But the first time he heard you laugh at one of his dumb jokes in class, head tipped back and eyes sparkling, he whispered to himself under his breath:
mine.
⸻
You hadn’t planned to run into him. Not in your black mini skirt, fishnet tights peeking at the hem, and a vintage tee with the words Good Girls Get High Grades stretched tight across your tits. You were just there to grab a study guide. Really.
But the moment Satoru Gojo looked up from the study table in the back of the library, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose and a red pen between his lips, your heart dropped into your panties like clockwork.
He smirked. Didn’t even blink.
“Look who finally decided to show up for class. Gonna actually study, or just here to distract me with that ass?”
You stopped mid-step. “Are you—? Gojo, this is the library.”
He leaned back in the chair, arms stretching behind his head, biceps flexing under his grey long-sleeve like he planned the movement. “Exactly. Sacred ground. You gonna be good for me in here, sweetheart? Or you gonna make me walk you to the bathroom?”
You hated the way your thighs clenched.
“Bold of you to assume I’d follow you anywhere.”
He grinned, slow and wolfish, tapping the table in front of him. “C’mere.”
You should’ve left. Should’ve turned around and pretended he didn’t finger you over FaceTime last week while calling you his smart little slut. But you sat down. Because you were weak. And because the way his eyes dropped to your thighs made your stomach flutter.
He passed you his notes. “Color-coded and everything,” he said, smug. “Big dick and a GPA.”
You rolled your eyes. “You forgot delusional.”
“Oh, baby. If you saw what you do to me every time you post—”
“I know what I do to you,” you said, smirking. “You sent me a four-minute audio of you moaning my name, remember?”
He laughed, voice thick and low. “You saved it?”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The way your eyes dropped to his lap said enough. He was hard. Again.
“I’m trying to be good,” he murmured, pushing his glasses up. “Trying to be smart. Help you pass bio. But you’re sittin’ here lookin’ like a wet dream, wearin’ those damn tights like you want me to rip 'em open.”
Your breath caught.
“Say the word,” he whispered. “We’ll go right now. I’ll fuck you on the sink with your leg up on the paper towel dispenser.”
You swallowed.
“I’ve had my mouth on your pussy in every position except real life, and it’s driving me insane, babe.”
“Gojo—”
“I’ll be quick,” he promised, voice so soft it made your pulse stutter. “Just wanna taste you. Been thinking about it all week. That pretty little moan you do when I hit your spot—fuck—I’ll take care of you. Always do.”
Your chair scraped back.
He looked up, pupils blown wide, gaze dark behind his glasses. “That a yes?”
You nodded once, mouth dry. “Bathroom. Now.”
You barely made it into the single-stall library bathroom before his hands were under your skirt, gripping the backs of your thighs like he’d been starving for weeks.
Satoru kicked the door shut, locked it without looking. His mouth found your neck before you could even catch your breath, biting just hard enough to make you gasp.
“God, baby,” he groaned into your skin, “you wore this little skirt on purpose, huh? Wanted me to see this fat ass and lose my fuckin’ mind?”
You whimpered as his fingers gripped you through your tights, rubbing over the heat of your cunt like he already knew how wet you were. (He did. You’d been wet since chem lecture. He smirked at you across the room and your thighs clenched.)
He spun you around, lifted you with too much ease, and set you up on the cold counter like you weighed nothing.
You gasped when the chill kissed your bare ass.
“Be a good girl,” he whispered, sliding your legs apart with his big hands. “Let me taste my favorite little study buddy.”
Your tights? Torn at the crotch with his teeth.
Your panties? Slid to the side and soaking.
His glasses? Still on. (Of course. Fucking menace.)
He dropped to his knees, and your breath caught.
You’d sent him dozens of videos—spread out in bed, back arched, fingers rubbing your clit as you gasped "Toruuu please" in the mic. But nothing, nothing compared to him grabbing your thighs and dragging you to the edge of the sink like you were dessert and he hadn’t eaten all day.
“Oh fuck,” you breathed, head tipping back as he ran his tongue over you once, slow and heavy. “Satoru—”
“Mhm,” he mumbled into your pussy. "Fucking needed this.”
You whined.
He licked long and deep, tongue flattening against your folds, dragging up and over your clit until your hips jerked. Then he chuckled. Laughed. Like he had all the time in the world and you weren’t dripping down his chin already.
“Y'r already so wet,” he said, licking his lips. “Did I do that, baby? Or were you just walking around all day with this cute little pussy soaked, hoping i’d notice?”
You couldn’t answer. Not when he sucked your clit into his mouth like he meant it.
Your thighs closed around his ears, shaking. He groaned into you.
He slid a finger in slowly and deep, curling expertly inside the narrow warmth of your cunt. “Fuck, she’s tight,” he whispered, like you were a secret he was keeping from God. “Gonna fuck you with my fingers, baby. Gotta open you up a little. Can’t have your brain going all fuzzy the first time I get this cock in you.”
Your moan echoed off the bathroom walls.
His second finger made you twitch. The sound of your wetness, the slop of it as he curled into that spongy sweet spot, had you biting your lip so hard you thought it might bleed.
He nuzzled his face between your legs like he lived there, mouth lapping and sucking, eyes flicking up to watch you unravel. He wanted to see it when you fell apart.
“Give it to me,” he murmured. “Let me see that sweet little O-face. Come for me, pretty girl.”
You came with a choked cry, thighs trembling, fingers gripping his hair tight.
He moaned as you soaked his mouth. Didn’t stop licking until your legs shook so hard he had to hold you still.
When he finally pulled back, panting, he looked up at you with his glasses fogged and mouth glistening.
You blinked down at him, dazed. “You… you didn’t even come.”
He grinned. “Nah. This was just for you.”
And when you reached for his belt, he caught your hand and kissed your knuckles.
“Next time, baby,” he said, lips brushing your skin. “Wanna do it right. My bed. Clean sheets. A whole playlist if you want.”
You blinked. “You have a pussy playlist?”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “It’s alphabetical. Starts with Ain’t No Sunshine and ends with Zelda’s Lullaby. I’m romantic.”
You laughed so hard he had to kiss you quiet.
⸻
You didn’t mean to stay the night.
You were just supposed to stop by. Drop off the USB with the psych flashcards you promised him. Maybe let him flirt a little. Maybe flirt back. Maybe let him kiss you again with those soft, smug lips and that stupid pretty face.
But Gojo opened the door shirtless, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, snowy hair a tousled mess, and glasses forgotten—eyes bright, boyish, hungry.
You were done for.
“Hey,” he murmured, reaching for your waist the second you stepped inside. “Missed you.”
You should’ve teased him. Should’ve said something smart about needing the flashcards back because you didn’t trust him not to get cum on them.
But he kissed you before you could breathe. Hands on your face. Mouth hot and slow. Tongue sweet and coaxing your lips apart.
And the way he whispered “my sweet girl” as he walked you backward to his room?
You never had a chance.
⸺
His bedroom was dim. Clean but cozy. Vinyl spinning soft jazz in the corner. Warm light spilling golden over the sheets.
The bed was unmade.
He laid you out in the middle of it like you were delicate.
“You look so pretty in my bed,” he whispered, slipping your skirt up your thighs, fingers grazing the waistband of your panties. “Been dreaming about this. Every night.”
You swallowed. “You’re such a romantic freak.”
He grinned, leaning down to kiss your thigh. “I’m your romantic freak.”
And then he peeled your panties off.
Took his time. Dragged them down slow, knuckles brushing your skin like a caress. Kissed the inside of your knee. Then your hipbone. Then your mound.
When he looked up at you, breath hot against your slick folds, his eyes were glassy. Almost reverent.
“I’m gonna eat you raw again,” he murmured. “But first—” He reached up to cup your tits through your tee. “These’ve been haunting me.”
You were already squirming. But when he sat back and pulled your shirt off with care, like unwrapping a gift, your breath caught.
No bra.
“Oh, fuck,” he breathed. “These were made for me.”
You flushed. “You said that about my ass last week.”
“And I was right about that too,” he said, palming both tits like he couldn’t believe his luck. “These sensitive, baby? Hm?”
You nodded, barely able to speak. “Yes.”
He leaned down and spit on one nipple, watched it drip, then licked it slow.
Your hips bucked.
He moaned into your skin, sucking hard enough to leave it red and glossy before moving to the other, rolling your nipple between his fingers. “Wanna suck on these while I’m inside you,” he whispered. “Wanna feel you clench when I bite.”
“Toruuu—”
He kissed down your stomach. “Yeah, baby. Gimme that. Let me hear it.”
You were dripping by the time he got back between your legs. And he tasted it. Licked you up and down like he was checking how ready you were.
Then he sat back, licked your pussy juices of his lips, and pulled his sweats down.
No boxers. Just Gojo. Big and hard. Blushing pink at the tip of his cock. Veins thick and throbbing.
You whimpered.
“Raw, yeah?” he asked, already reaching for the lube on the nightstand. “I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you baby, I Promise.”
You nodded. Wide-eyed. Breathless and needy.
“Good girl.”
He lubed his cock with lazy strokes, watching you with the filthiest little grin.
“You gonna let me in, sweetheart?” he whispered, pressing the head to your dripping entrance. “Gonna let me fuck you raw for the first time?”
You whimpered again.
“Yeah,” he cooed. “My smart little girl. Letting the team captain with the big dick stuff her full. I’ll be gentle.”
And he was. At first.
The stretch made your eyes roll. He groaned low as he sank in, inch by inch, hand cradling the back of your thigh, holding you open.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he hissed. “Grippin’ me like you never want me to leave.”
Your nails dug into his back. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop—”
He buried himself to the hilt. Stayed there. Panting. Forehead against yours.
“I’m never gonna stop,” he whispered. “Not with you. You’re it. My sweet, smart, sexy girl.”
And then he started to move.
Sow at first, then dragging his girthy length out and pushing back in like he was sculpting your cunt to fit his cock forever.
Your tits bounced. His mouth latched back on. Tongue flicking, lips sucking, teeth grazing your swollen nipples while he fucked you slow and stupid.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” You couldn’t even form a sentence.
“You feel me in your tummy, baby?” he rasped, pressing a hand to your belly. “I’m all the way in there.”
You nodded, crying now. He was too big. Too deep. And it felt too good.
He kissed the tears off your cheeks. “I got you. I got you. You’re doing so good, pretty girl.”
Your thighs shook.
And then he snapped his hips forward.
You screamed.
He picked up the pace, fucking into you raw and wet and perfect, whispering praise between gritted teeth.
“Taking me so good—s'fuckin’ tight m'gonna fill you up, baby, make a mess in this pretty pussy—”
You came around him with a sob.
And he followed, moaning your name, voice cracking as he spilled inside you, hot and thick and endless.
After, he pulled out slow. Watched his cum drip from your puffy pussy onto his sheets.
“Gonna frame this,” he said, dazed.
You groaned. “You’re disgusting.”
He kissed your forehead. “You’re mine.”
And then because he was sweet like that—he got a warm towel and cleaned you up, humming something soft under his breath.
You asked what the song was.
“Track seven on the playlist,” he said. “The I Just Fucked My Soulmate suite.”
You laughed until he had to kiss you again.
⸻
You wake up to the smell of bacon and Satoru Gojo in nothing but an apron. His back is bare, his hair is messy, and there’s flour on his cheek like he’s been fighting dough. Or maybe just playing house.
You watch from the doorway, blanket still wrapped around your naked body, your thighs still sticky with last night’s mess.
Your pussy aches. Your nipples are sore.
Your heart? Stupid.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he calls, flipping a pancake and glancing over his shoulder. “Hope you like your eggs scrambled and your boyfriends whipped.”
You blink. “Boyfriends?”
He smirks. “Don’t play coy. I rawdogged you and kissed your tears. You’re emotionally owned.”
You shuffle in and sit at the counter, lips twitching. “Owned, huh?”
He slides a plate in front of you—eggs, bacon, pancakes stacked and cut already, syrup on the side, a little peeled tangerine at the edge like he’s auditioning for domestic god of the year.
Then he leans across the counter, bare chest close to your face.
“Yeah, baby. Owned. Cuffed. Dicked down. Whatever you want to call it.”
Your face warms. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it,” he says, brushing your hair behind your ear. Then softer, “You hungry?”
You nod, suddenly quiet.
He kisses your cheek and sits beside you, close enough to touch, letting his thigh press against yours.
You eat. He watches. Not in a weird way—just like he can’t help it. Like he’s memorizing the curl of your fingers around the fork. Like he’s obsessed.
“Made you coffee too,” he adds, handing over a mug. “The slutty blend. Extra cream, two sugars, and a kiss for the girl who let me cum inside her.”
You nearly choke.
But he just grins and tilts your chin. “Open.”
You blink.
“For your vitamins,” he deadpans, holding out a gummy shaped like a peach.
You pop it in, chewing slowly. “This the ‘girlfriend experience’ package?”
He shrugs. “More like the ‘you let me see your nudes and your soul and I want to spoil you until you forget anyone else exists’ package.”
You roll your eyes. “So dramatic.”
He leans in. “So whipped.”
And then he kisses you, slow and sleepy, like you’re the only thing on the planet that matters. Like he’s still hard and you’re still his, and neither of you has anywhere else to be.
Later, you shower together. It’s soft. Sweet. Hands washing hair, soapy fingers gliding across skin. He drops to his knees to lick you clean again, slow and sweet before fucking you against the tile with your foot on his shoulder.
He eats you through your orgasm.
Then lathers you in his body wash and kisses your bruises in the steam.
You leave his apartment hours later wearing his hoodie, his cologne, his cum in your panties, and a lazy little smile.
He texts you five minutes after:
toru 💙
forgot to say:
you’re my sweet girl now. officially.
I’m gonna feed you, fuck you, and ruin you forever. xoxo 😘
you’d promised to teach your nerdy friend gojo about sex but now it feels like you’ve been duped. his big cock making you writhe and squirm on top of him, sitting on his dick with the intention of riding him but having that quickly thrown out the window.
his hands dig into your hips as he encourages your grinding, “c’mon sweetheart, weren’t you gonna teach me how to have sex?”
“i– hnn– i still will,” you manage out, ignoring the hit to your pride.
gojo smiles at you, lecherous, “go on then,” his hands leave your hips.
you hum and slowly drag your cunt up the length of his throbbing cock, the unhurried pace has you feeling every ridge and vein of his shaft. shudders running through you as you whimper through it, committing yourself to teaching him something. feeling dizzy as your thighs shake, just the tip of his dick inside and you still feel obscenely stretched.
his hips thrust up a little and push the air from your lungs, a pitiful whine leaving you with it. you glare at him and his arms are behind his head, like he’s waiting patiently for you to teach him something worth learning.
trying to set a pace is hard, tummy flipping as you put insane effort into riding him. his big dick rendering your brain all foggy, continuously thrown off by him thrusting up. every time he does it, it seems like it’s right when you’re getting close.
you’d already suspected before but, “satoru….” you force yourself to ignore the way his dick twitches inside you, “you’re a virgin, right?”
“nope,” he pops the ‘p’ and smiles sweetly at you.
“what?” you pant, trying to ignore how horny you are to get upset, “i thought you were…”
he’s grinning at you, “you assumed that all on your own.”
you’ve got more to say, more ways to better tell him off but he’s grabbing your hips firmly and planting his feet on the bed, “now that the jig is up… let’s start, huh?”
and then he’s fucking up harshly into you, fucking the air right out of your lungs. head spinning as you’re drenched in pleasure. his cock head hitting your cervix repeatedly and making you cream around him. pussy sucking him in obscenely, begging and crying for more.
tears are brimming your waterline and you can’t stifle down any of the sounds he’s pulling from you. completely rendered stupid by how accurately he’s hitting every devastating spot inside your gooey walls.
lower lip wobbling, “why– hnn– why lie?”
“are you embarrassed?” he coos at you, “don’t be, your effort was real cute.”
and you are embarrassed because you’ve never experienced pleasure anywhere close to this and you can’t believe you thought you could teach him something. skin hot as you think about how he really was just indulging you, playing with you.
“you’re so cute,” gojo mumbles, “bet you’re even cuter cumming all over my dick.”
eyes rolling to the back of your head, already so close, “you’re annoying and– hah– mean.”
“mhm,” he bites his lower lip, brows creasing together, “now cum all over this mean mans cock.”
practically begging for it, his own moans getting pitchier. having let you sit on him for so long that’s he’s impatient, he gets what he wants though. another thrust inside and his tip kisses your womb. your mouth dropping open as you fall apart.
shaking through your orgasm, cunt gripping him tight and loving on him divinely. attempting to milk the orgasm out of him, it works. his sticky cum coating your insides before leaking back out and pooling onto his skin and the bed below.
you’re off in cloud nine, struggling to stay tethered to your body… but he’s still hard.
“i still have more to learn,” he blinks up at you, stupid grin on his face.
# NSFW TWT ! NERDJO AU ⋆ popular fem!reader ⋆ SMUT ⋆ study date w gojo ⋆ handjob… ⋆ blue balling ⋆ some fluff ⋆ mdni 18+
The week leading up to finals was a special kind of hell, and you were currently living in the epicenter of it. Your calculus final was in three days, and if you failed it, your GPA would take a hit so catastrophic that your scholarship (the one you’re holding onto by a thread) would probably evaporate into thin air. Normally, you would have just bullied Satoru into doing the entire exam for you somehow, but even you knew that wasn’t how things worked. So instead, you found yourself in his dorm room on a Friday night, textbooks spread across his desk, trying to absorb three months of material in one sitting because you’re just that much of a procrastinator.
It was not going well.
“You’re not even looking at the problem,” Satoru said, his voice tinged with amusement. He was sitting next to you at his desk, one arm draped over the back of your chair, his body angled toward you in a way that made it very difficult to concentrate on anything other than the warmth radiating off him and the way his thigh pressed against yours. “You’ve been staring at the same equation for the past five minutes.”
“I’m processing,” you said, even though you weren’t processing anything. You were very pointedly not looking at the equation. You were very pointedly looking at the way his white t-shirt stretched across his broad chest, the way his pants hung low on his hips, the way his messy white hair fell into his eyes.
“Processing,” he repeated, smirking. “That’s what we’re calling it now? Cute.”
“Shut up and help me.”
“I am helping you. You’re the one who’s not paying attention.”
“I am paying attention.”
“Really? Then what’s the derivative of x squared?”
“Two x,” you said automatically.
“Okay, good. What’s the integral of two x?”
“X squared.”
“Great. Now apply that to this problem.” He tapped the equation on the page, and you forced yourself to look at it. Your brain immediately glazed over.
“I can’t do this,” you announced, pushing back from the desk. “I’m done. I’m going to fail. I’m going to have to drop out and become a stripper.”
“That seems like an extreme reaction.”
“I’m an extreme person.”
“You’re a dramatic person.” He laughed, reaching out to tug you back toward the desk, his fingers lingering on your waist. “Come on. One more hour. Then we can take a break.”
“You said that an hour ago.”
“Because an hour ago we were making actual progress. Now you’re just staring at me like you want to eat me alive.”
“I’m not staring at you.”
“You were definitely staring at me. For like, three minutes straight.”
“I was thinking.”
“About what?”
“About how badly I want to push you off that chair.”
“You’re such a liar.” He was grinning now, that infuriating, endearing shit eating grin that made your stomach flip and your pussy throb. “You’re not thinking about pushing me. You’re thinking about something way naughtier.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do. You definitely do.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to that low, teasing register. “You’re thinking about what happened outside your dorm yesterday.”
Heat flooded your cheeks and your core. “I don’t remember that.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying. I blacked out.”
“You definitely didn’t black out. You were very present. Your hands were in my hair. You made those cute little sounds—those breathy moans when my thigh pressed right against your—”
“I didn’t make any sounds,” you cut him off quick.
“You definitely made sounds. It was adorable. And hot.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
“I really do.”
“You keep saying that, but here you are in my room at night instead of studying in your own,” he laughed again, and the sound sent a fresh rush of wetness to your already aching cunt.
“Okay,” he said, pulling back and gesturing at the textbook. “Focus, princess. Two more practice problems, and then we’re done.”
You groaned but turned back to the desk. The problem stared up at you, a jumble of numbers and symbols that made absolutely no sense. Every time you tried to focus, your eyes drifted back to him—to the sharp line of his jaw, to his long fingers tapping the desk, to the obvious bulge in his grey sweats.
“Stop looking at me,” he said, not looking up from the textbook.
“I’m not looking at you.”
“You’re definitely looking at me. I can feel it.”
“You can feel it?”
“Your gaze is very intense. It’s making me feel some not so very PG things.”
Your breath hitched. “What kind of things?”
“Distracted things.” He looked up, eyes dark. “We’re never going to get through this if you keep looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to fuck you.”
You almost choked on air, scoffing. “I don’t want that.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying. I’m trying to study.”
“Then focus.”
“I am focusing.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“You’re literally staring at my mouth right now.”
You jerked your gaze away. “No I’m not.”
“Yes you are. You’re blushing.”
“I’m not blushing. It’s warm in here.”
“Or is it just me?” He was grinning again, and you wanted to wipe that grin off his face with your tongue.
You slammed the textbook shut. “Okay,” you announced. “I can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what?”
“Study. I’m too distracted.”
“By what?”
“By you.” The words came out before you could stop them. “You are very distracting.”
“I’m just sitting here.”
“You’re sitting there looking like that. Messy hair. Pants that do nothing to hide what’s down there. That stupid smug look on your face. You’re doing this on purpose.”
“I’m literally just existing.”
“You’re existing in a very distracting way.”
He laughed, low and warm. “Okay. I’ll stop existing.”
“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than you meant it. “I mean—that’s not—”
“You want me to keep existing?” he said, chuckling.
“Yes.”
“You want me to keep distracting you.”
“I want you to—” You stopped. Swallowed. And then, before you could overthink it, you reached out and grabbed the front of his shirt. “I want you to kiss me again like yesterday.”
“That’s very forward of you,” he murmured, but he was already leaning in.
“Shut up.”
“Are you sure? Because I thought you wanted to study—”
“Satoru.” You pulled him closer and kissed him.
It started slow and deep, his tongue sliding hot against yours. Before long you were moved to his lap, grinding against the thick ridge of his cock through his sweats. He groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your ass as he guided your movements. There was nothing shy about the way he was so hungrily touching your body like it was all he needed in life.
You ended up on his bed somehow, him hovering over you, kissing you breathless. His mouth moved to your neck, then lower, pushing your shirt up so he could suck on your nipples until they were swollen and sensitive. It was happening way too fast. You were so caught up in how good it felt your mind didn’t even register the fact that his—this damn nerd’s— lips were on your nipples. That one of his hands had slipped between your thighs, rubbing slow, firm circles over your soaked panties, pressing the fabric against your clit but never slipping underneath.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he murmured against your skin, letting out a breathy sigh. “Can feel it through your panties.”
You whimpered, hips rolling into his touch, pulling him down for another messy kiss as pleasure built.
But when his hand pressed harder and you felt the head of his cock grind against your thigh, panic hit.
“Wait— Satoru, stop,” you gasped, lightly pushing at his shoulders.
He froze immediately, pulling his lips back and moving his hands out. He looked genuinely concerned and worried for a moment—thought he fucked up. “You okay? Too fast?”
“Yeah… I just— I got nervous. I’m sorry.”
He rolled onto his back with a dramatic sigh and a soft laugh that sounded a lot like a groan, his cock tenting his sweats so obscenely it was impossible not to get turned on just by looking at it. “Blue-balling me again? Seriously? After yesterday’s kiss I thought we were making progress, but nooo, you had to get me this worked up and then hit the brakes.” He was only joking, of course. He’d never force you into anything you weren’t ready for. The man’s not an asshole.
You felt a pang of guilt looking at how painfully hard he still was. “I feel bad…”
“Don’t—It’s okay if you’re not ready,” he said gently, though his voice was still rough. “We can stop. My dick will survive. Probably. Might be a little blue, but it’ll live.”
You shook your head, leaning half on him, already sliding your hand down his chest. “No. I want to help you.” You tugged his sweats down just enough to free his cock. His eyes widened and he half sat up, leaning on his elbows. It was even better in person than in all those Twitter videos—thicker, veins standing out, the flushed head already leaking steadily. You wrapped your hand around him and started stroking slowly.
“Shit—” He groaned, hips twitching. “What are you—“ You pulled him into another kiss, swallowing his moans as you pumped him faster, twisting your wrist at the head like you picked up from watching his videos almost every night.
“I want to make you feel good,” you mumbled between kisses. “Tell me if I’m doing this right?”
“Hell— fuck yeah… it’s good, your hand feels too good,” he panted, kissing you harder, one hand tangling in your hair to keep your lips pressed to his. “It hurts so good… from how hard I am,” he groaned, chuckling breathily, hips bucking into your hand. He couldn’t even process what was happening.
You laughed softly, stroking him with firmer, faster strokes while trading sloppy kisses. “Poor you. First kiss yesterday and now…” you trailed off, breathing into the kiss, “what happened to taking it slow?”
“Apparently we suck at slow,” he muttered, then groaned loudly as you swiped your thumb over his leaking slit. “God, please just like that—”
It didn’t take long. His abs tensed, his cock throbbed hard in your grip, and with a broken moan of your name against your lips he came, thick ropes of cum spilling over your fingers and painting his abs obscenely. More than you’ve ever seen in his videos.
You kept stroking him through it until he was twitching and oversensitive, then finally let go.
“Wow,” you said, smirking as you looked at the mess. “That was fast.”
“You’re mean… i usually last longer this was just… a one time thing…” he groaned, panting hard as his head fell back against the pillow. “Post-nut clarity is hitting me like a truck right now,” he groaned, covering his eyes with his arm. “We made out for the first time yesterday and now I just came all over myself while you... this is insane.”
“Yeah… kind of awkward when you say it out loud,” you admitted, cheeks heating.
He grabbed the tissue box from the bedside table and handed you it. “Sorry about the mess…” he chuckled nervously. He peeked at you, then laughed breathlessly. “Worth it though.” He sat up, wincing slightly as he tucked himself away with all the grace of a dude who just somewhat embarrassed himself in front of the girl he likes. “Give me a second. I need to clean up…”
He headed to the bathroom. You heard the sink running, and a couple minutes later he came back wearing a fresh pair of black sweats, hair slightly damp like he’d splashed water on his face.
“Better?” you asked, trying not to smile.
“Much.” He flopped back onto the bed next to you for a moment, then sighed. “Alright. Back to the desk before I get hard again thinking about your hand and we never open that textbook and you fail that test and become a stripper. Can’t have that on my conscious.”
After the intense (and messy) detour, the two of you somehow dragged yourselves back into study mode. Instead of returning to the desk, you both ended up sprawled across Satoru’s bed, notes and textbooks scattered everywhere like academic shrapnel. He sat with his back against the headboard, legs stretched out, while you lay on your stomach beside him, chin propped on your arms as you squinted at the pages.
“Explain this one again,” you muttered, tapping the paper with your pen. “I swear the numbers are starting to leave the page.”
Satoru leaned over you, his chest pressing warmly against your back as he pointed at the problem. His voice was still a little rough from earlier. “Chain rule, baby. Derivative of the inside function, then multiply by the derivative of the outside. You’ve got this.” His free hand absentmindedly rubbed slow circles on your lower back, stupidly close to slipping under the hem of your shirt.
You glanced sideways at him, rolling your eyes because… why is he so unbothered??? “You’re awfully patient for someone who just got jerked off all over his own abs five minutes ago.”
“Post-nut clarity is a hell of a drug,” he replied with a lazy smirk, flicking your forehead. “Besides, if you fail this final I’ll never get to brag about dating the smartest girl on campus. My reputation would be ruined.”
“Dating?” You raised an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “Bold of you to assume we’re dating after one kiss yesterday and one extremely messy handjob.”
He grinned, completely unrepentant. “We’re basically married at this point. You’ve seen my dick, made it feel good, and now you’re in my bed. That’s practically a proposal in Gojo terms.”
You snorted and shoved his shoulder. “Focus, idiot. I need to pass this class or I’m actually screwed.”
For the next hour and a half, you made real progress. Satoru walked you through problem after problem with surprising patience, occasionally rewarding correct answers with soft scratches to the top of your head. His fingers kept drifting to your hair, playing with the strands while he explained concepts in that low, soothing voice. He was such a sap. You should’ve hated it. Should’ve… but, well, you didn’t.
Every now and then his hand would wander lower, squeezing your ass teasingly before you slapped it away with a glare.
“You’re distracting me again,” you complained during one particularly handsy moment.
“Can you blame me? You’re lying there in my bed looking all cute and focused. It’s criminal.”
Eventually the last practice set was finished. You let out a dramatic groan and collapsed face-first into his pillow.
“Done. I’m dead. My brain officially quit.”
Satoru stretched beside you, joints popping. “Good job, princess. You only threatened to become a stripper four times tonight. New personal record.” He leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss between your shoulder blades. “I’m gonna take a quick shower. All that… exercise earlier left me… sweaty.”
You turned your head just enough to smirk at him. “Mhm. Go wash off the evidence of your quick-draw reputation.”
“Keep talking shit and I’ll drag you in there with me,” he warned playfully as he grabbed clean clothes and headed for the bathroom.
The sound of the shower running was soothing. You rolled onto your back with a sigh, unlocked your phone, and started scrolling through your feed—anything to keep your very heavy eyelids from closing. Satoru’s bed was stupidly comfortable. The sheets smelled like him, so did his pillows, so did the whole room. The low hum of the water, mixed with the quiet of the dorm room and the exhaustion from hours of studying (and everything before that), made your body feel heavier and heavier.
Just close my eyes for a minute, you told yourself. One minute…
Satoru stepped out of the bathroom about fifteen minutes later, towel-drying his damp white hair. He wore nothing but a pair of loose black sweatpants that hung low on his hips, the faint V-line disappearing beneath the waistband still visible. The bathroom light spilled into the dim room for a moment before he flicked it off. If you were awake, your mouth would be watering.
He stopped a few steps from the bed, a slow, fond smile spreading across his face.
You were fast asleep in the middle of his bed.
Curled up on your side, phone still loosely clutched in one hand with the screen dimmed. Your lips were parted slightly, breathing slow and even, one of his pillows hugged tightly to your chest like a teddy bear. The blanket had slipped down to your waist, and one of your legs was kicked out from under it.
He stood there for a long moment, just watching you. Something warm and terrifyingly fond twisted in his chest at the sight of you looking so… domestic. I could get used to this, he thought. Then he shook his head and sighed.
He quietly set your phone on the nightstand and plugged it into his own charger, then climbed into bed beside you with careful movements. Once he was settled, he turned onto his side to face you, gently brushing a few strands of hair away from your face. His fingers lingered, threading through the soft locks, twirling them slowly, savoring the way they felt between his fingertips.
How the hell did I get here? he thought, a soft huff of amusement escaping him.
This was the same girl who had quite literally blackmailed him into doing her homework. The same girl who had cornered him and said she’d expose his little side hustle unless he helped her. And now here she was—sleeping peacefully in his bed, wearing his scent on her skin, after jerking him off and then falling asleep like it was the most normal thing in the world.
He kept playing with your hair, gentle and rhythmic, his thumb occasionally brushing over your cheek. Seeing you like this was an epiphany for him.
He was genuinely head over heels.
Not just attracted. Not just having fun. This was the kind of feeling that made his chest ache in the best way. The kind of feeling that had him canceling plans, staying up late, and actually enjoying teaching someone derivatives just to spend time with you. The kind of feeling that made him want to keep you here, in his bed, in his life, for as long as you’d let him.
“You’re trouble,” he whispered, voice barely audible as he leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to your forehead. “Blackmailing me into being your personal tutor… and somehow you’re the best thing that’s happened to me in years.”
You made a small, unconscious sound in your sleep and shifted closer, pressing your face into his chest. Satoru’s arm wrapped around you automatically, pulling you flush against him. He buried his nose in your hair, inhaling deeply.
“Night, princess,” he murmured.
With the textbooks pushed haphazardly to the edge of the bed and the room comfortingly silent, Satoru closed his eyes. His fingers continued their slow path through your hair even as he drifted off, a small, pleased smile lingering on his lips.
If you’d told him a few weeks ago that one day he’d be like this—with you—he would’ve laughed in your face.
But now? He was completely, undeniably gone for you.
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# NSFW TWT ! NERDJO AU ⋆ popular fem!reader ⋆ so much fluff ⋆ first date… ⋆ no smut in this chapter ⋆ loverboy!nerdjo ⋆ sfw .
You were in the back corner of the library, hidden between the dusty shelves of the philosophy section, trying to find a book you ‘needed’ for class. It was 7:45 PM. The library closed in fifteen minutes. You were alone. Had been for a while now… or so you thought.
"You're really bad at hiding."
You jumped. Spun around. And there he was.
Satoru, leaning against the bookshelf like he was a resident at the library, which in all honesty he definitely was, arms crossed, that smirk firmly in place. He was wearing his glasses, but everything else was different. Loose black swears. A white t-shirt that hugged his chest. His hair was messy, deliberately messy, like he'd run his fingers through it one too many times. Almost like he’s been dressing differently to get your attention.
"What are you doing here?" you demanded, your heart still racing from the scare. “You scared the shit out of me.”
"Sorry,” he chuckled softly. “ I was looking for you."
"The library closes in fifteen minutes. Why?”
"I know." He pushed off the shelf, taking a step closer towards you. "I have a question."
"What question?" Your eyes narrowed. Whatever he wanted to ask couldn’t possibly be any good.
"Will you go out with me?"
You stared at him. Blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it. Scoffed, then processed it and looked up at him like he just told you a terrible dad joke.
"Is this a joke?" you finally managed.
"It's not a joke. I'm asking you on a date."
"Why?"
"Because I want to." He took another step closer, almost trapping you against the bookshelves. "Because we've been doing this for weeks and I'm tired of hiding in corners. And because… I bought tickets to the aquarium tomorrow and you're coming with me.”
"You bought tickets?"
"I did."
"Without asking me?"
"I'm asking you now."
"You're not asking. You're telling."
"I'm telling you to come. But I'm asking you to want to come." He was close enough now that you could smell the faint scent of cologne on his shirt and neck. "So. Will you?"
You should say no. You definitely should say no. This was a terrible idea. People would see you. People would talk. Your reputation would—
"I don't know," you said.
"You don't know if you want to go on a date with me?"
"I don't know if I can."
"Can or want to?"
"Both?”
He took another step closer, and suddenly your back was against the bookshelf. He was right there, caging you in with his arms, his body inches from yours. The old wood pressed against your spine. The heat of him radiated through the space between you. It didn’t help that you were already running hot trying to keep your cool while he stood there asking you out on a date like it was any other day.
"Let me make this easier for you," he murmured, his voice low and sweet. "You're going to say yes. Not because I'm forcing you. But because you want to. Because I bought tickets and because you love me—"
"I don’t love you."
"Yet."
"You don’t know that."
"I do know it.”
"You’re so annoying."
"So I’ve heard." His eyes dropped to your lips. Just for a second. Just long enough to make your heart stop. "You're going to say yes. And then you're going to meet me at the aquarium tomorrow at 11. And we're going to have a good time. And you're going to stop acting like you don't want this."
"I'm not acting."
"Yes you are."
"I'm not."
"You are." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. The warmth of his breath made your spine tingle and your heart do something stupid in your chest. "You're acting like you don't want me. Like you don't think about me. Like you don't imagine what it would be like to—"
"Satoru."
"—have me touch you. To have me kiss you. To have me—"
"We're in a library."
"I know." His breath was warm against your skin. "Didn’t I mention yesterday that I’m a bit of an exhibitionist? That's what makes it fun."
You shivered. You couldn't help it. He was everywhere—his scent, his warmth, his voice wrapping around you like a physical thing.
"I hate you so much," you managed.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it’s so true."
"You’re not pushing me away. Not telling me no." He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. "So. Aquarium. Tomorrow. 11 AM. Yes or no?"
You wanted to say no. You should have said no.
"Fine," you heard yourself say.
His smirk widened. "Good."
"Don't look so smug."
"Can't help it. I got a yes."
"It's just an aquarium,” You grumbled, sighing and rolling your eyes as you held your book tighter against your chest like it could save you from him.
"It's a date,” he argued.
"It's a casual outing,” you argued back.
"It's a date." He leaned in again, his lips brushing against your ear. "And you're going to wear something pretty. For me."
"I'm not wearing anything pretty."
"You will. I know you will."
"How do you know?"
"Because you want to impress me." He pulled back, that infuriating smirk still in place. "And you're going to pretend like you don't. But you do."
"I hate you."
"I know."
He stepped back, finally giving you space to breathe. You let out a small breath you hadn’t even known you were holding. It’s the height advantage. Totally unfair.
"Tomorrow," he said. "11 AM. Don't be late."
"I'm never late.”
"You were late to the library today."
"I wasn't late. I was… forget it."
"I thought so." He walked away, hands in his pockets, not looking back.
You stood there for a long moment, heart pounding, cheeks burning. Did you seriously just agree to go out on a date with Satoru?
— — —
The aquarium was packed. Of course it was packed. Saturday afternoon, families everywhere, kids pressing their faces against the glass while their parents tried to wrangle them into submission.
And there he was.
Waiting for you by the entrance, hands in his pockets, looking like he'd just stepped out of a magazine. Grey sweats that just about nearly made your mouth water. A loose black t-shirt that somehow made him look more built than his usual baggy sweaters and vests and quarter zips. His hair was messy, but in a sexy way, his glasses perched on his nose.
He smiled when he saw you.
"You came," he said.
"I said I would."
"I know. But I wasn't sure if you'd actually show."
"Did you think I'd stand you up?"
"I thought you might get scared and bail."
"I don't bail."
"Sure you don't."
"I don't."
"Okay." He was still smiling. "Ready?"
"Ready for what?"
"The date."
"Not a date."
"Definitely a date." He held up two tickets. "I bought these specifically for you."
"You bought them for me?"
"I bought them so I could bring you here." He handed one to you. "So. Date."
You took the ticket, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest. You rolled your eyes at him and feigned an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. It's a date. But don't make it weird."
"Never that."
He led you inside, and the world changed in colors.
The aquarium was stunning. Massive tanks of water, glowing blue and green, filled with creatures you'd only ever seen in documentaries. Sharks gliding overhead. Schools of fish moving as one. Jellyfish pulsing with ethereal light.
"Okay," you admitted. "…This is cool."
"I know." He was watching you, not the fish. "I thought you'd like it."
"How did you know I'd like it?"
"Because I know you. You pretend to be tough, but you're secretly a nerd."
"I'm not a nerd."
"You're dating a nerd. That makes you nerd-adjacent."
"I'm not dating you."
"You're on a date with me."
"It's not—"
"You agreed that it is. No take-backs." He said it with such certainty that you couldn't argue.
You walked through the tunnels, the blue light casting shadows on his face. He looked different here. Softer. More relaxed. Like he'd left the persona behind and was just... him. It was new. Different, in a way that you didn’t exactly hate.
"Tell me something about yourself," he said.
"Like what?"
"Like something I don't know."
"You know everything about me."
"I know the surface stuff. I know you're popular. I know you're mean. I know you blackmail people." He bumped your shoulder with his. "I don't know the real stuff."
"There's no real stuff."
"Everyone has real stuff."
"I don't."
"Liar."
You glared at him. He just smiled.
"Fine," you said. "I wanted to be a marine biologist when I was a kid."
"Really?"
"Really. I used to watch documentaries about the ocean and pretend I was a researcher."
"What happened?"
"Life happened. I grew up. Realized I wanted other things."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Popularity. Acceptance." You shrugged. "Stupid stuff."
"Not stupid." He shrugged back.
"It's stupid."
"It's not." He stopped walking, turning to face you. "Everyone wants to be accepted. There's nothing wrong with that."
"Did you want to be accepted?"
"I wanted to be seen." His voice was quiet. Genuine. "I pretty much spent my whole life being invisible. The smart guy in the back of the room. The one who blends in. I wanted someone to actually look at me."
"And now?"
"Now you look at me. Even if you pretend you don't."
You didn't know what to say to that. So you just stood there, watching him watch you. Watching him talk. You hadn’t heard him be this vulnerable before—at least not so… honestly.
"You're not invisible," you said finally.
"I know." His smile was soft. "Not to you."
He started walking again, as if desperately trying to change the subject and you followed. You didn’t pry. That was enough vulnerability for one date.
The next hour was... easy. Comfortable. He made jokes. You made fun of him. He pointed out fish and gave you random facts that were probably made up. You rolled your eyes and told him he was being annoying.
But underneath it all, there was something else. Something that felt a lot like possibility.
"Can I ask you something?" you said as you stopped in front of the jellyfish exhibit.
"Anything."
"Was this your idea of a date, or did you genuinely just want to see the fish?"
He laughed. It was warm and unguarded and made your chest do things you refused to acknowledge. "Both," he admitted. "I wanted to take you somewhere different. Somewhere you wouldn't have to worry about people watching."
"That's… surprisingly thoughtful."
"I have my moments."
"Rare ones."
"Mhm very rare."
You watched the jellyfish pulse, their translucent bodies glowing in the dim light. It painted his face in a light glow that somehow made him look paler than he actually was. You caught yourself looking at him too hard for far too long while he was apparently more invested in the jellyfish than teasing you about gawking at him.
"I'm glad you asked me to come," you said quietly.
"I’m glad you came,” he smiled, turned to look at you. You should hate how much you’ve grown to love—like… like this face of his.
"You're not going to make this weird, are you?"
"Define weird." He leaned against the glass, arms folded over his chest as he looked down at you.
"Weird like—" You gestured vaguely. "Like you're going to try to hold my hand."
"Would that be weird?"
"Yes."
"Would you hate it?"
"Also yes."
"Liar."
"I'm not lying."
"You're definitely lying." He looked down at your hand, then back at your face. "You'd hate it so much that you'd think about it for the rest of the night."
"You don't know that."
"I know you."
"Stop saying that."
"Stop making it true."
You sighed and rolled your eyes at him but you bit your lip to stifle a smile because he was right. You'd definitely think about it.
The aquarium closed at 6. You stood outside, the cool evening air hitting your face, the sun just beginning to set.
"That was..." You trailed off, searching for the right word.
"Good?"
"Good," you agreed. "It was good."
"Better than good?"
"Don't push it."
"Okay, good it is."
He stood there, hands in his pockets, looking at you with that soft expression that made your stomach do flips. He had this hopeful look on his face that said he was hoping you’d maybe ask to hang out a little longer. Or maybe ask him to walk you back. Or maybe ask him to kiss you.
God, he wanted to kiss you so bad.
"So," he said. "What now?"
"Now I go back to my dorm."
"Alone?"
"Alone."
"Can I walk you?" He asked, hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck.
"You don't have to."
"I sorta want to."
You hesitated. Then you nodded.
The walk back was quiet. Not awkward, exactly. Just the comfortable sort of quiet. Like you'd been doing this for years instead of just weeks.
When you reached your building, he insisted on walking you in all the way to your dorm room and then you both stopped just outside.
"Okay," you said. "This is me."
"This is you."
"Thanks for today. It was fun."
"Thanks for coming."
"I almost didn't."
"I know." He smiled. "But you did. I’m eternally grateful.”
You stood there for a moment, neither of you moving.
"I should go," you said.
"You should,” he agreed. But he didn’t want you to. There was this tension in the air like you both wanted to do something you were holding back on doing.
"Goodnight.”
"Goodnight, princess."
You rolled your eyes. Turned to leave. And then you stopped.
Something stupid inside you snapped. Something that had been building for weeks, months, years even… maybe. You’re not sure. All those late nights watching his videos. All those texts that made your heart race. All those moments in the library when you wanted nothing more than to close the distance between you. That morning in his room and the way he spoke to you. That call on that same day. It was…
Fuck it.
You spun around, grabbed his wrist, and yanked him back before he could even react.
"Woah—"
You kissed him.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't tentative. It wasn’t gentle. Maybe it wasn’t even romantic. It was desperate and hungry and everything you'd been holding back for way too long. Your hands fisted in his shirt, wrinkling it up and pulling him closer, and for a moment he was frozen, stunned by the suddenness of it all.
Then he made a sound—low, almost a growl—and his hands were on you.
He pushed you back against the wall of the hallway with a thud that your roommate would definitely hear, caging you in with his body, one hand gripping your hip while the other tangled in your hair. His mouth moved against yours with a kind of controlled intensity that made your knees weak. He kissed like he’d been waiting ages to do that.
"Fuck," he breathed against your lips. "I've wanted to do that for so long."
"Then why didn't you?" you managed, your voice shaky and breathless,
"Because I was waiting for you to be ready." He kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against yours. "I told you I'd wait."
"I guess I’m tired of waiting."
"Good."
He pressed you harder against the wall, his body flush against yours, and you could feel everything. The muscles in his chest. The heat of his skin through his shirt. The way his hand slid down from your hip to grip your thigh, hitching it up around his waist.
"God," he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you. Your eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. His glasses were crooked, his hair a mess, his lips kiss-swollen. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Then… show me."
He kissed you again, and this time it was slower. More deliberate. Like he was savoring every second. His hands roamed your body, mapping out every curve, every dip, every place that made you gasp against his mouth.
You were lost in it. Lost in him. Lost in the feeling of his lips on yours, his hands on your skin, the low, desperate sounds he made when you pulled his hair.
You didn't hear the door open. You didn't hear the footsteps. You didn't hear anything until—
"What the actual fuck?”
You froze. Satoru froze.
You both turned, and there she was.
Mia, your roommate. Your friend who can be pretty judgmental. The same one who warned you about… well… the guy you were kissing.
She stood there. Standing in the doorway of your dorm room, wearing her pajamas and holding a bag of chips, staring at you like you'd just grown a second head.
Her eyes went from you to Satoru. Back to you. Back to Satoru.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" she said.
"Mia, I can explain—"
"You're making out with the nerd." She said it flatly. Like she couldn't quite believe the words coming out of her mouth. "The nerd. The guy who wears sweater vests. The guy who—"
"His name is Satoru,” you intercepted, trying to make a case for yourself but she just dismissed you.
"I don't care what his name is." She gestured wildly at him. "He's literally the nerd. The one you've been using for homework for three years. The one you call 'nerd' on your phone. That's who you're currently eating face with?"
Satoru, to his credit, looked totally unbothered. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk back on his face.
"Hi," he said. "I'm Satoru."
"I know who you are." Mia's voice was sharp. "Everyone knows who you are. You're the guy who cried when someone spilled coffee on his notes."
"I didn't cry. I made a sound."
"A sound that was definitely adjacent to crying."
"It was a sound of distress."
"Same thing."
"It's not the same thing."
"It literally is."
You stepped between them, hands up. "Okay. Can we all just—"
"You're defending him," Mia said accusingly.
"I'm not defending anyone. I'm just trying to—"
"You were making out with him. Against the wall. In public."
"It's not public. It's a hallway."
"It's literally a public hallway.”
"Fine. It's a public hallway. Happy?"
"No, I'm not happy. I'm confused. And also a little bit traumatized." She pointed at Satoru and narrowed her eyes. "You. What are your intentions with my roommate?"
"Respectful ones," he said smoothly.
"Bullshit."
"Okay, maybe not entirely respectful ones."
"At least you're honest." She turned back to you. "You. We're talking about this. Inside. Now."
"Mia—" you whined but she cut you off quick.
"Now."
You sighed. Looked at Satoru. He shrugged, that smirk still in place.
"I'll text you later," you muttered like a petulant child being denied candy.
"I'll be waiting."
You rolled your eyes. Walked past Mia into the building. She followed, her footsteps heavy with judgment. The door slammed behind you. "Okay," Mia said, crossing her arms. "Explain. Now."
"Explain what?"
"Explain why you were just making out with the nerd. The one you've been calling 'nerd' for three years. The one you've been using for homework. The one who—"
"His name is Satoru." You intercepted but she didn’t care—she didn’t even let you get a word out before she was jumping in again.
"I don't care what his name is. Everyone knows him as the nerd—so do you. And you were kissing him. Passionately. In public. Against a wall."
You made a vague gesture with your hands like you were trying to summon the words that could explain this as best as possible, but then you dropped them with a sigh. Your shoulders slumped. Because she was right. You had been kissing him. Passionately. Against a wall. In public.
"We're... seeing each other," you said finally.
"Seeing each other?"
"Sort of? It's complicated."
"It's not complicated. You either are or you aren't."
"We are. I think. We haven't really defined it."
"Define it now. For me."
You sat down on your bed, suddenly exhausted. "We've been talking for a few weeks. He's not what I thought he was. He's... different. He's actually interesting. And funny. And—"
"And hot," Mia supplied, eyebrows perked up in mild (maybe not so mild) interest. "I saw the way he was holding you. He's got muscles all over. His arms? Where did he get those? He literally looks like a walking library."
"He works out, I guess. And c’mon he's not a walking library. He's just... mostly quiet."
"Quiet guys don't have muscles like that."
"Well, maybe not quite exactly but… dunno, he’s got secrets, I suppose."
"What secrets?"
You couldn't tell her. You couldn't tell anyone. The page. The videos. The way he whispered your name when he was alone.
"I can't tell you," you said.
"Why not?"
"Because it's not my secret to tell."
"Okay, that's fair." Mia sat down on her bed, facing you. "But I need to know one thing. Are you actually into him? Like, actually into him? Not just using him?"
"I'm into him."
"For real?"
"For real." You nodded. You hadn’t admitted that to anyone—not even yourself.
"Like, you'd actually date him? In public? Where people can see?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I'm still figuring it out."
Mia studied you for a long moment. Then, slowly, she smiled.
"Okay," she said. "I approve."
"You… approve?" Maybe pigs can fly. Never in a million years did you think she would ever ‘approve’ of him.
"I approve. He's weird and nerdy and definitely not your type, but he looked at you like you were the only person in the world. That's pretty rare. And I guess it’s better than some frat boy who’ll probably cheat on you.”
"Don't get all sappy."
"I'm not sappy. I'm realistic."
"Same thing."
Mia laughed. It was warm and genuine and made you feel slightly less like you were about to have a breakdown.
"So," she said. "You gonna bring him around more? So I can interrogate him properly?"
"No."
"Come on. I promise I'll be nice."
"You're never nice."
"I can be nice. I'm nice to people I like."
"You don't like anyone."
"I like you. And if he makes you happy, I'll like him too." She paused, puffing on her watermelon vape. "But if he hurts you, I'll kill him."
"Deal."
"Good." She stood up, stretching. "Now I'm going to bed. I need to process the fact that my roommate is dating the nerd."
"We're not dating. We're... figuring it out."
"Same thing."
You threw a pillow at her. She caught it, laughing and ran a hand through her hair before tossing it back at you and heading towards her room.
"Goodnight," she said on the way out.
"Goodnight."
Your phone buzzed.
glassesoff: so. your roommate hates me
You: she doesn't hate you, she's just protective
glassesoff: she called me the nerd
You: you are the nerd
glassesoff: I thought I was the sexy nerd
You: you're a nerd. full stop.
glassesoff: but a sexy nerd
You: I'm not answering that.
glassesoff: your silence is telling me everything I need to know
You: don't get cocky
glassesoff: too late. I got cocky the second you kissed me
You: I don't know what you're talking about
glassesoff: you know exactly what I'm talking about. you grabbed me. you pulled me back. you kissed me like you meant it
You: Nu uh I didn't mean it.
glassesoff: Yuh uh you meant it
You: I don't know what you're talking about.
glassesoff: you're practically blushing, I can tell
You: you can't see me
glassesoff: I don't need to see you
You stared at the screen, lip in beteeen your teeth. He was right. You were blushing.
You: stop doing that
glassesoff: stop doing what?
You: stop knowing me
glassesoff: can't help it. you're my favorite person to know
You: that's so cheesy
glassesoff: and you love it
You: I tolerate it.
glassesoff: i’ll take that
You smiled. You couldn't help it.
You: I'll see you tomorrow.
glassesoff: I'll be there
You: don't be weird.
glassesoff: I'll be perfectly weird
You: perfect
glassesoff: you think I'm perfect?
You: I think you're annoying.
glassesoff: touché
You set down your phone, still smiling. For the first time in a long time, you weren't scared or nervous about meeting him. You were excited. Actually excited.
━ (tw - spanking/impact play) Your boyfriend takes his time when he puts you over his lap.
He sits on the edge of the bed and gently guides you across his thick thighs, positioning you exactly how he wants. His big hand rubs slow circles over your ass, squeezing the soft flesh appreciatively before finally pulling your panties down to your knees. You shiver as the cool air hits your bare skin. He keeps rubbing, almost soothingly, letting the anticipation build until you’re squirming.
The first smack is firm but not too hard, the sound echoing in the room. He pauses, rubbing the spot gently, then lands another… and another. Each spank is deliberate, alternating cheeks, his palm lingering after every strike so the heat sinks deeper into your skin. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “Already getting so wet for me.”
His fingers tease between your thighs, spreading your slickness before he goes back to spanking you — a little harder now, making you whimper and push your ass up for more. He keeps that perfect rhythm: firm spank, gentle rub, teasing fingers, then another smack.
By the time he’s done, your ass is sensitive, and you’re dripping down his thigh, aching and desperate. He leans down, kisses the back of your neck, and whispers, “Now let’s take care of the rest of you.”
゛★ nerd ! satoru gojo is your best friend’s older brother.
# NERDJO AU ⋆ 14k words ⋆ 3 years younger!reader ⋆ not your typical nerdjo ⋆ toru has nipple piercings ⋆ smut, p in v the whole shtick ⋆ reader is a HORNDOG ⋆ side character: lia, gojo’s sister & reader’s best friend ⋆ uni setting ⋆ skip to day 9 if ur just here for the smut you perv ⋆ 18+ MDNI NSFW . art by zeilorene0
HOW TO BA(N)G A NERD IN 10 DAYS
(or: your completely unhinged, totally foolproof plan to make Satoru Gojo fall in love with you and hopefully rail you into next semester)
DAY ONE
You’re not proud of yourself.
Okay, that’s a filthy lie. You’re extremely proud of yourself. The kind of proud that has you smirking at your own reflection in the spoon like a gremlin who just discovered the cheat code to the hottest man alive.
Because you’ve just cooked up the single greatest idea of your horny little life.
It started with a text from Lia—your roommate, your ride-or-die (who you’ve known for less than a year), and the biological sister of the man who has been living rent-free in your ovaries for three straight months.
Lia: do you want to come over this weekend? my brother’s gonna be home and he’s making his famous carbonara. i swear to god it’ll change your life
Your thumbs betrayed you instantly.
You: i’ll be there with bells on
Lia: please don’t actually wear bells i live in an apartment
You: no promises
You sat there, chopsticks frozen halfway to your mouth, and the realization hit you like a freight train made of pure, throbbing lust.
Satoru Gojo.
Fourth-year genetics god. Certified nerd. Unholy levels of hot.
The man who wears wire-rimmed glasses while buried in textbooks but also has fucking nipple piercings. You know this because you’d accidentally walked in on him shirtless that one time and your brain blue-screened so hard you saw the pearly gates. Silver bars through both pink nipples, perfect lean muscle, that stupidly narrow waist, and a happy trail that made your mouth water like a Pavlovian whore.
He’d just looked at you with those glowing blue eyes, raised one eyebrow, and said, “Wrong room, kid.”
Kid.
He called you kid while you were having a religious experience over his pierced tits. Rude. And devastatingly… attractive.
You’d immediately fled, texted Lia YOUR BROTHER IS JACKED AND HAS HIS NIPPLES PIERCED WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?!?!?!? and she’d replied lol yeah he works out. it’s the autism.
To which you’d replied ??? and she’d elaborated with: he’s not actually autistic he’s just psychotic about his routines. anyway don’t be weird about it
Too late. You were very weird about it. You’d spent the rest of the night with your hand between your thighs imagining what those pierced nipples would feel like against your tongue.
So here you are at 2 AM, eating sad instant ramen, and you’ve finally accepted the truth: Satoru Gojo is not a normal man. He’s a nerd. And normal flirting bounces right off his beautiful, dense skull.
You need a plan. A filthy, calculated, 10-day siege on that man’s self-control.
You snatch your phone and start hammering into your notes app like a woman possessed (a very horny possession.)
HOW TO BA(n)G A NERD IN 10 DAYS
Step 1: Research
• Find out every single one of his nerdy interests
• Learn what makes his brain (and hopefully his dick) tick
• Memorize his schedule so i can “accidentally” keep appearing in his line of sight
Step 2: Infiltrate
• Become a permanent fixture at Lia’s apartment
• Force him to notice me in increasingly slutty outfits
• Make it impossible for him to ignore the horny roommate-shaped problem in his house
Step 3: Engage
• Talk to him about genetics like i give a fuck (i don’t, i just want to watch his mouth move)
• Drop strategic nerdy compliments that slowly transition into “I want you to bend me over your genetics textbook”
• Deploy feminine wiles at maximum power (respectfully. kinda?)
Step 4: Execute
• Confess (horribly so. who the fuck’s good at confessions??)
• Kiss him
• Let him destroy you in every position known to man (and maybe a few new ones he can genetically engineer)
• ???
• Profit (multiple orgasms)
You lean back, cackling quietly to yourself in the dark kitchen like a madwoman. This was an inexplicably terrible plan.
Ten days. That’s all you need. Ten days to turn Satoru Gojo from “Lia’s hot jacked nerd brother with nipple piercings” to “the man who folds you in half and calls you a good girl while those pierced nipples drag across your skin.”
You swipe out of notes and into messages, fingers already typing out a message to Lia.
You: what time should i come over on saturday
Lia: are you okay ?? since when do you need a timeframe
You: i've never been better. i need one today. now. what time
Lia: idk like 6?? he usually starts cooking around then
You: i'll be there at 5
Lia: why?
You: no reason
Lia: you're going to be weird around my brother again aren't you
You: i'm never weird around your brother
Lia: you literally stood in our kitchen staring at him for 10 minutes last week while he was making a sandwich
You: i was admiring his sandwich making technique
Lia: i don’t think you blinked once
You: that's just how i show respect
Lia: you're going to marry my brother aren't you
You: i'm going to do a lot more than marry him
Lia: ew shut up, i'm telling mom.
You: don't you dare
Lia: i’m afraid she’d love you actually
You: i know. it’s perfect for when she’s watching us walk down the aisle
Lia: you’re insane. like actually crazy
You throw your phone on the bed and grin at the ceiling.
Saturday can't come soon enough.
DAY TWO
You’re not stalking him.
You’re conducting reconnaissance. Big difference. Stalking is creepy. Reconnaissance is strategic, horny, and completely justified when the target has arms like that.
So when you “casually” plant yourself at the library on Thursday afternoon—perfectly positioned with a direct line of sight to the returns desk—it’s not because you memorized his genetics lab schedule (2-4 PM) and know he always swings by here afterward. No, you’re simply a dedicated scholar who loves knowledge.
And penguins. Apparently.
You’ve been pretending to read an article on penguin mating habits for thirty minutes when he finally shows up. Gray henley stretched across that stupidly broad chest, white hair looking like it was styled by sex itself, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose while he carries a textbook that probably weighs more than you do.
Your cunt clenches so hard you nearly drop your phone.
Get it together, you thirsty gremlin.
He returns his books, flashes that devastating smile at the elderly librarian (who actually blushes—same, grandma), and starts to leave. Then he pauses like he’s trying to look for somewhere to sit.
His eyes find you. Mission successful.
And he walks straight over.
“You’re Lia’s friend, right?” His voice is low and smooth, like warm sin sliding down your spine. You want it whispering filthy things against your neck while he’s—jesus, stop.
“Yep… that’s me,” you manage.
“Lia talks about you constantly.” He nods at the empty chair across from you. “Mind if I sit? Got a break before my next class. Need to review some stuff.”
Your brain short-circuits. Your ovaries throw a full-on rave. The logical part of you that still exists is screaming say yes, you idiot.
“Sure,” you squeak. That was not cool. That was the opposite of cool. “Go ahead.”
He doesn’t seem to notice (thank fuck) as he drops into the seat and you catch a hit of his cologne—clean, masculine, expensive. It makes you want to crawl across the table and bury your face in his neck.
“You’re reading about penguins?” he asks, glancing at your book. The one you forgot you even had opened. Penguins pale terribly in comparison to the specimen who just sat across you.
“Uh, yeah. Just… curious.” You’re not even pretending to be normal anymore.
He nods seriously, completely unaware he’s two seconds away from being mentally undressed. Two seconds passed. “Emperor penguins are fascinating. The males can hold their breath for up to twenty minutes underwater. Females lay one egg, then the males incubate it for two months while the females hunt. They huddle together for warmth, rotating positions so no one freezes. It’s actually pretty efficient.”
You’re nodding like you give a damn about penguins when all you can think about is how those long fingers would feel stretching you open, how that deep voice would sound groaning your name while he fucks you slow and deep.
“That’s really sweet,” you say.
He shrugs. “It’s evolutionary. Not about being sweet—it’s mostly just survival.”
“Can’t it be both?”
He looks at you then, like he’s studying you, and something flickers behind those ridiculous blue eyes. You wonder if he can tell you’re soaking through your panties just from listening to him talk about bird foreplay. Ugh, you’re pathetically horny.
The conversation shifts easily after that. You tell him your major is undeclared (true) but you’re leaning toward psychology (also true, specifically the psychology of why you want this man to ruin you). He talks about genetics like it’s the hottest thing on earth, and honestly? The passion in his voice is doing more for you than most guys’ entire bodies.
By the time he checks the clock and sighs, you’ve collected vital intelligence:
Favorite color is a very specific sky blue (you’re already planning outfits).
Morning person (disgusting, but you’d wake up at 5 AM if it meant getting him to screw you eventually).
Thinks The Expanse is the best show ever (you’re downloading it tonight).
Has a rigid morning routine and gets genuinely cranky if it’s disrupted (noted—do not fuck with his routine until he’s addicted to waking up next to you).
Looks even better up close. Unfairly so. The kind of hot that makes you want to climb him in public.
“I should head out,” he says, gathering his stuff. “But it was nice talking to you. You’re not nearly as annoying as Lia described.”
He’s grinning. Teasing. That smile should be illegal.
“I’m telling her you said that,” you shoot back.
“Please don’t. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Too late. Phone’s already out.”
“Damn.” He laughs, low and warm, and your brain immediately files it under sounds to masturbate to later.
He stands up and you let yourself stare as he walks away—those long legs, that perfect ass, the way his shoulders fill out the henley. You want to sink your teeth into his back while he fucks you from behind. You want to watch those pierced nipples tighten when you ride him. You want him to lose that calm, nerdy composure and absolutely wreck you.
You’re in deep.
So fucking deep it’s embarrassing.
DAY THREE
You’re lying on Lia’s floor in her childhood bedroom, staring at the ceiling and trying (and failing) not to think about the fact that Satoru Gojo is sleeping just down the hall.
It’s Friday night. You’d texted Lia I’m bored, come over and she’d hit you with I’m at my parents’ house? so you’d immediately replied cool I’ll come there like a completely normal, non-desperate person. Now here you are, in the Gojo family home, wearing tiny sleep shorts and a thin tank top that’s doing absolutely nothing to hide how your nipples are already perked up just from knowing he’s nearby.
Lia is sprawled on her bed, scrolling on her phone. “So,” she says without looking up, “you gonna tell me what the hell is going on with you?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been extra unhinged all week.”
“I’m always unhinged.”
“Weirder than usual. You got all slutted up to go to the library yesterday. You hate the library.”
“I was expanding my horizons.”
“You were stalking my brother.”
You sit up so fast you almost concuss yourself on her bed frame. “I was not stalking him.”
“Uh-huh.” She gives you a flat look. “So you just happened to be at the exact table with the perfect view of the returns desk where he always goes?”
“It’s a public library. Lots of people study there.”
“And you just happened to be wearing lip gloss and a low-cut top?”
You deflate. “Fine. Maybe I was strategically positioning myself. It’s not stalking, it’s… tactical thirst.”
“Tactical thirst,” Lia repeats, deadpan. “Jesus Christ.”
You shrug. “I want him to notice me, okay?”
Lia puts her phone down. “Why? Because you want to bang him?”
“I don’t just want to bang him,” you protest.
“Oh? So you want to date him? Marry him? Have his kids?”
Your brain immediately supplies a vivid image of Satoru behind you, big hands gripping your hips, those long fingers digging in while he fucks you deep and growls about breeding you. You squeeze your thighs together.
“…Maybe eventually,” you mutter.
Lia starts laughing so hard she nearly rolls off the bed. “Oh my god. You’re actually down bad. You want to date my brother.”
“Is that so weird?”
“Yes! He’s the biggest nerd on planet Earth. He has a beaker collection. He watches hour-long documentaries for fun. He once spent an entire dinner arguing with Dad about the ethics of gene editing.”
“That sounds hot, actually.”
“You have issues.”
“I have a crush. Big difference.”
Lia sits up, suddenly serious. “Look, I love him, but he’s… a lot. He hyperfixates. He forgets to eat when he’s in research mode. He’s obsessive about his routines. He’s not exactly easy boyfriend material.”
“Maybe not for most people.” You grin. “But I like the weird. I like how passionate he gets when he talks. I like that he’s smart as hell. And I really like that he’s jacked.”
“Okay, that part is fair,” Lia admits. “He’s got an insane body. I hate saying it because he’s my brother, but yeah… he works out like a maniac.”
“I know. I’ve seen it.”
Lia’s eyes widen. “Have you seen him shirtless?”
Your face burns. “Lia—”
“That’s a yes. When?!”
“It was an accident! I opened the wrong door in the dorms when i was trying to get to yours and he was changing. Shirt off. Just… standing there.”
“And?”
You bite your lip. “I saw them… the piercings.”
Lia loses it again, cackling like a hyena. “You saw his nip piercings and now you’re feral. That explains everything. No wonder you’re trying to move in.”
“I’m not obsessed—” you start, but she cuts you off.
“Name three reasons you want him that aren’t the piercings.”
You pause. “He’s smart. He’s really tall. And he has huge hands. Like… long fingers. You know what those could do—”
“OKAY STOP!” Lia slaps her hands over her ears. “I get it. You want to bang my brother. Congratulations, you’re the first girl who’s ever shown genuine interest after realizing how weird he is.”
“Wait, seriously?”
“Seriously. A couple girls have tried, but they bail when they realize he’d rather talk DNA than make out.”
“Their loss,” you say, already imagining pushing him against a wall and shutting him up with your mouth on his.
Lia sighs. “If you’re really doing this, you’re gonna need my help. He’s dense as hell when it comes to flirting. You’re going to have to be obvious. Like, ‘I like you please marry me ’ obvious.”
“I can do obvious.”
“You’re going to be so weird about this, aren’t you?”
“Probably.”
She groans but smiles. “Fine. I’m in. Let’s make a plan before you embarrass both of us.”
You launch yourself onto her bed and tackle her in a hug. “You’re the best.”
“I know. Now stop fantasizing about my brother while you’re in my room, you whore.”
Too late. You already are.
Hours pass and you can’t sleep.
Lia passed out an hour ago, snoring softly with her phone still glowing on her chest. But you’re wide awake, mind racing with dirty strategies and the knowledge that Satoru is sleeping just down the hall. Shirtless, probably. Maybe in nothing but those ridiculous novelty boxers he seems to own.
Your throat is dry. Your brain is horny. So you slip out of Lia’s room in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts that could double as underwear because of how little they hide anything, tiptoeing toward the kitchen like a woman on a mission for water… and maybe a glimpse of the nerd who’s been ruining your sleep.
The house is dark except for the soft glow of the fridge light when you round the corner.
And there he is.
Satoru Gojo, standing in front of the open refrigerator in low-slung gray sweatpants and no shirt, the silver bars through his nipples catching the light like a fucking invitation to grope him. His hair is messy from sleep, glasses nowhere in sight, and the way those sweatpants hang on his hips shouldn’t even be allowed.
He’s reaching for something on the top shelf, back muscles flexing, that narrow waist tapering into the most biteable ass you’ve ever seen.
Your brain short-circuits so violently you make a small, embarrassing noise that was supposed to be you clearing your throat.
He turns, blue eyes landing on you instantly.
“Oh. Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep. It goes straight between your legs. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
You try to play it cool. You really do. But your eyes keep dropping to his pierced nipples, then lower, following the faint happy trail disappearing into those sweatpants. You can see the outline of his dick through the fabric and your mouth actually waters.
“Water,” you croak. “Just… needed water.”
He steps aside, gesturing lazily at the fridge. “Help yourself.”
You move past him, hyper-aware of how close he is. His body heat. That clean, masculine scent. The way his arm brushes yours when you reach for a bottle.
You turn around too fast and suddenly you’re chest-to-chest with him. Well, chest-to-stomach. He’s so fucking tall.
“Sorry—” you start, but the word dies when you look up and realize he’s staring down at you.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says quietly.
You glance down. The oversized tee has some faded genetics pun on it. You stole it from Lia’s laundry pile earlier without realizing.
“Shit. I didn’t— I can change—”
“Looks better on you,” he murmurs, and the low timbre of his voice makes your nipples tighten against the fabric.
Your brain supplies a very vivid image of him bending you over the kitchen island, yanking your shorts down, and fucking you until you can’t remember your own name. Those big hands gripping your hips. Those pierced nipples dragging against your back while he rails you from behind.
You swallow hard.
“Thanks,” you whisper.
He leans in just a fraction, eyes dark. For one electric second you think he might kiss you.
Then he straightens up, smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
“Night, Lia’s friend.”
No no no no don’t go… you were having such a good time just staring at him.
“I have a name, you know,” you blurt out and you’re not sure where that came from.
He pauses, turns to face you with that subtle smile on his face—the one that does terrible things to you.
“I know.”
He walks out, sweatpants riding low enough that you get a perfect view of the dimples at the base of his spine.
You stand there clutching your water bottle like a lifeline, thighs pressed together, heart hammering.
Yeah.
This sleepover is definitely a sleepover. And you are so screwed.
DAY FOUR
You wake up stupidly early—barely past 6 AM—because your bladder has no respect for your sleepover plans. The house is dead quiet. Lia is still snoring softly on the bed. You slip out from under the blanket in your shorts and his shirt, hair messy, eyes half-closed, and shuffle down the hall toward the bathroom.
You push the door open without knocking (big mistake) and freeze.
Satoru is already in there.
Fresh out of the shower.
A towel slung dangerously low around his hips, water still dripping down his bare chest. Those silver nipple piercings catch the light like fucking bait. His white hair is wet and pushed back, glasses off, and the steam in the air makes everything feel way too intimate.
Your brain short-circuits so hard you can hear the dial-up tone.
He turns his head, blue eyes meeting yours in the mirror. For a second he looks surprised, then that lazy, amused smirk slides onto his face.
“Morning,” he says, voice still rough with sleep. “Didn’t know I had company this early.”
You’re standing there like an idiot, thighs pressed together, suddenly very aware that your nipples are visible through your thin shirt and your shorts are barely covering anything. Your gaze keeps betraying you—dropping to the defined lines of his abs, the sharp V disappearing under the towel, the way the fabric clings to his hips.
You want to drop to your knees right here on the bathroom tile and see what’s under that towel. You want to tug on those pierced nipples with your teeth while he fucks your throat. You want him to bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror while he ruins you.
Instead you squeak out, “Sorry— I didn’t— I’ll just—”
You start backing up but he chuckles, low and warm, and reaches for his toothbrush like this is completely normal.
“You’re fine. I’m almost done.” He glances at you again, eyes flicking down your body for half a second before returning to the mirror. “Sleep well?”
Your face is burning. Your down there is throbbing. “Yeah. Great. Perfect. You?”
“Same.” He starts brushing his teeth, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s mostly naked and you’re two feet away looking like you want to devour him. “You sticking around today?”
“Uh-huh.” You can’t stop staring at the water droplet sliding down his chest, right toward one of those fucking piercings. “Dinner. Carbonara.”
He rinses his mouth, turns around fully, and now you’re getting the full frontal view—broad shoulders, lean muscle, happy trail, and that towel that looks like it’s one deep breath away from falling.
“Good,” he says simply. “See you then.”
He steps past you in the doorway, close enough that his bare arm brushes yours and you catch the clean scent of his body wash. Your knees nearly give out.
He disappears down the hall toward his room, leaving you standing there like a horny statue.
You close the bathroom door behind you, lock it, and immediately lean against it, pressing your thighs together.
Holy fuck.
You’re never going to survive ten days if every morning starts like this.
Later that morning, after you’ve (barely) recovered and Lia has woken up, the two of you are sprawled across her bed with snacks, turning this into full war council mode.
You and Lia spend most of Saturday morning working on what you’re calling “Operation Bag and Bang the Nerd.”
“Well, first we need to figure out what he likes,” Lia says, scrolling through her phone. “He’s got a lot of interests.”
“I already know some of them. Genetics, The Expanse, the gym…”
“Okay, but you need specifics. What kind of genetics? Favorite episode? Gym routine?”
You shrug helplessly.
“Exactly. Research time.” She pulls up a document titled Satoru Intel like the unhinged best friend she is. “I’ve been collecting this for years. It’s a little creepy but extremely useful. I do it for my parents too.”
“You’re a good sister.”
“I’m the best. Okay—population genetics, especially the genetics of blue eyes for his thesis. Favorite He’s a big fan of those self help books, has a bunch. Gym at 6 AM sharp every day.”
“6 AM? Gross.”
“Right? But it means he crashes early. Evenings are prime territory for you.”
“Can I just… come over whenever?”
“Obviously. But you need to make him want you around. He’s not exactly Mr. Social.”
“So I make him want to spend time with me.”
“Bingo.”
“How?”
“Pretend to be interested in his research.”
“I am interested. I want him to explain it while I sit on his lap.”
Lia snorts. “Then ask him about his thesis. Let him nerd out. That’s the fastest way to his heart.”
You grin. “And his dick?”
She smacks your shoulder and you giggle shamelessly, “gross, woman!”
“Also, get physically close. He’s oblivious as hell. Touch his arm. Sit right next to him. Brush against him. Wear something slutty.”
“Revealing clothing?”
“Obviously. He’s dense but he’s not blind. Weaponize the tits.”
“Already planning on it.”
“And be patient,” she warns. “He’s not going to fold overnight.”
“Ten days,” you say, dead serious. “I’m getting him in ten days.”
Lia raises an eyebrow. “Ambitious.”
“I’m an ambitious slut.”
She laughs and holds out her hand. “Ten days. Starting now.”
You shake it. “Oh, I’m on day four already.”
“What?!—“ she blurts out, confused as hell. “You think you can do this in six days?”
“Just trust me, okay. I have my ways.”
Lia shrugs and lets out a chuckle, “alright then. If it doesn’t work you owe me coffee every day for a whole month.”
“That’s not fair!”
“You were so confident a second ago?”
“Fine... you’ll see.”
“One day you’re gonna get that ego checked.”
“Not today.”
You’re already mentally picking out your outfit for dinner—something tight, low-cut, and guaranteed to make those blue eyes linger.
After this morning’s bathroom encounter, you have a feeling he’s at the very least noticed your sexual appeal. You just need to keep pushing.
DAY FIVE
You spend an embarrassing amount of time getting ready.
Four outfit changes, two complete hair redos, and so much makeup reapplication that you’re starting to look like a different person which you start to hate and then remove entirely and settle on mascara and lipgloss. You settle on pants that make your ass look great and a tight black top with a plunging neckline (per Lia’s very helpful suggestion).
Your phone buzzes as you’re leaving the dorm.
Lia: are you coming or what
You: omw
Lia: good bc satoru is already cooking and if you miss his carbonara i will personally end you
You: you’d fight me for missing pasta??
Lia: it’s that good
You: fair
The second you step into the Gojo house the smell of carbonara hits you like heaven. Creamy, garlicky, sinful. Lia lets you in with a wicked little grin.
“He’s in a good mood,” she whispers. “Thesis breakthrough. He’s feeling generous.”
“Perfect timing.”
“Just… don’t be too obvious. He gets weird about it.”
“I’ll be subtle.”
“You’ve never been subtle in your life.”
“I’ll be my version of subtle.”
“That’s what terrifies me.”
You walk into the kitchen and there he is—Satoru Gojo in a “Kiss the Cook” apron, looking unfairly domestic and hot as hell. The apron strings are tied around that stupidly narrow waist, and you immediately picture untying them with your teeth.
“Hey, Lia’s friend,” he says.
“Hey, Lia’s brother,” you fire back.
He glances up with a smirk. “Satoru. You can call me Satoru.”
“You know my name and you still call me Lia’s friend.”
“Good point.” He stirs the pasta, muscles flexing under the apron. “Staying for dinner?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good. I made enough for a small army. Lia always invites strays.”
“I do not,” Lia protests.
“You literally just did.”
The carbonara is obscene—rich, silky, perfectly cheesy. You moan around your first bite and don’t even care how it sounds. Satoru’s eyes flick to your mouth for a second.
“Holy shit,” you say. “This is better than sex.”
He raises an eyebrow, amused. “High praise.”
You spend the rest of dinner complimenting him shamelessly and then steering the conversation to his thesis. The second you ask about the genetics of blue eyes, his whole face lights up. He launches into a passionate ramble about OCA2, HERC2, melanin production, and ancient mutations while his hands gesture wildly.
You don’t understand half of it, but you’re riveted anyway—mostly because watching him get excited makes you want to climb him like a tree and ride him while he keeps talking nerd shit in your ear.
“Most people zone out when I talk about this,” he admits at the end, looking almost shy.
“Nope. I could listen to you talk about genetics all night.”
He blinks, then gives you a real, soft smile. “You’re weird.”
“Good weird, I hope.”
“Very good weird.”
Lia watches the whole exchange like a proud mother.
After dinner she claps her hands. “Movie time. The Expanse. Season one, episode one. No skipping.”
Satoru perks up immediately. “You haven’t seen it?” he asks you.
“Nope.”
“We’re fixing that right now.”
The carbonara plates are cleared and dropped into the sink, compliments thoroughly given, and the three of you migrate to the living room. Satoru takes his usual spot on the big sectional couch while Lia claims the armchair so you two can sit together. You deliberately sit right next to him instead of leaving a polite gap—close enough that your thigh almost brushes his.
He doesn’t comment on it. Just queues up The Expanse and starts explaining the premise, talking with his hands the way he always does when he’s excited. You watch him more than the screen.
Lia lasts about twenty minutes before she fakes the world’s most obvious yawn.
“God, I’m wiped. All that science talk drained me. You two keep going—I’m tapping out early.” She shoots you a quick little smirk behind Satoru’s back and vanishes down the hallway before either of you can protest.
Now it’s just the two of you.
The episode plays on, but you’re barely paying attention to the plot. You’re too busy watching Satoru’s face light up every time something interesting happens on screen. He keeps pausing to explain details—Belter culture, the physics of space travel, the political tensions—and you find yourself actually leaning in, not just because you want his hands on you, but because the way he gets lost in it is weirdly endearing. Cute, even. This giant, jacked nerd with nip piercings rambling about fictional solar system politics like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
It’s hot. And sort of adorable.
You shift closer under the pretense of getting comfortable, letting your shoulder press against his. He doesn’t move away. If anything, he relaxes a little, arm stretching along the back of the couch behind you.
“So the Belters,” you say, genuinely curious, “they’re basically space miners who got screwed by Earth and Mars, right? That whole ‘we were born in space, you were born with gravity’ thing?”
His eyes flick to you, surprised you actually seem into this. “Yeah. Exactly. It’s this whole class and resource struggle layered on top of incredible sci-fi worldbuilding. Most shows would make it black and white, but this one actually shows how everyone’s kind of right and kind of wrong at the same time.”
You nod, letting your knee rest against his thigh now—body slightly tilted towards his on the couch. “That’s cool. I like when stories don’t treat the audience like idiots.”
He turns his head to look at you properly. Those ridiculous blue eyes are softer in the dim TV light. “Most people just nod and wait for me to shut up when I start explaining stuff like this.”
“I’d like to think I’m not most people.” You tilt your head, letting your shoulder settle more firmly against his chest—he stiffens for a second before relaxing, letting out a soft breath he thought you wouldn’t notice. “Keep going. What happens after that scene?”
He launches back into it, voice dropping into that low, enthusiastic register that does terrible things to your insides. You listen, asking real questions, but your mind keeps wandering to filthier places—imagining that mouth against your neck while he explains genetics, those long fingers sliding under your top, pinning you down while he rambles about melanin between thrusts.
At one point he laughs at something on screen and the sound vibrates through his chest into your shoulder. You have to press your thighs together.
“You’re actually paying attention,” he says after a while, sounding almost impressed. There’s a flirty little edge to his voice now, playful. It’s so hot and so distracting. “Most girls pretend to be interested for about five minutes before they start checking their phones.”
“I am interested,” you say honestly. “It’s well-written. And I like how passionate you get about it. It’s… cute.”
The second the word leaves your mouth his eyebrows shoot up. “Cute?”
“Shut up. You heard me.” You nudge his side with your elbow, but you don’t pull away. If anything you sink in closer, letting your head tilt toward his shoulder. “Don’t let it go to your head, nerd.”
He chuckles, low and warm. “I’ll think about it.” His arm shifts slightly behind you—not quite around you, but close enough that his fingers could brush your arm if he wanted. “You’re weird, you know that?”
You look up at him through your lashes. “You’ve mentioned, but weird how?”
“You listen. Ask surprisingly good questions. Wear tops like that.” His gaze drops to your cleavage for half a second before flicking back to your face, a little guilty, a little heated. SCORE!! He noticed your tits this is going beautifully. “And you smell really good. It’s distracting.”
Your pulse spikes. Heat pools low in your stomach. You want to straddle him right here on the couch and see how fast that nerdy composure cracks. Instead you smirk.
“Good. I like distracting you.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind those eyes. Then he turns back to the TV, but his arm settles more deliberately along the back of the couch, fingers lightly grazing your shoulder.
The episode keeps playing. You keep leaning into him. And for the first time, it feels like he’s actually seeing you—not just as Lia’s friend, but as something a lot more interesting.
You’re still going to fuck his brains out the second you get the chance.
But damn if the nerdy rambling isn’t growing on you too.
DAY SIX
You wake up at 5:30 in the morning like a masochist.
Your phone alarm is blaring. Your body is begging for mercy. But you drag yourself out of bed anyway because the mission demands it.
Satoru Gojo works out at 6 AM sharp every single day. And today, you’re going to “coincidentally” be there too.
You spend way too long picking an outfit: black leggings that hug your ass, a matching padded sports bra that gives excellent lift and cleavage, and a loose tank top that keeps slipping off one shoulder. Your ponytail is artfully messy. You look like the kind of girl who lives at the gym.
In reality, the last time you ran was to catch the bus in high-school.
You walk into the gym at 5:55 AM and immediately spot him.
Shirtless.
On the bench press.
Holy fuck. You might be here every day from now on if it means getting front row seats to him in all of his glory.
Sweat is already glistening across his broad chest and down those ridiculous abs. His arms flex with every rep, veins popping out, and those silver nipple piercings catch the harsh lights like they’re kindly asking you to stare. You nearly walk straight into a weight rack.
He racks the bar and sits up, towel around his neck, catching sight of you.
“You?” He blinks, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
You try to sound casual. “Working out. New fitness journey and all that.”
“Since when?” He wipes sweat from his forehead, muscles shifting in a way that should be illegal before breakfast.
“Uh… since recently. I’m turning over a new leaf. Becoming a morning person.”
He raises an eyebrow, amused by your new goal. “You told me two days ago you hate mornings.”
“I’m evolving,” you deadpan. “It’s a process but hey, I managed to get out of bed and come here. Good progress.”
He nods, studying you for a second, eyes drifting down your body—leggings, sports bra, the way your tank top clings to your skin—before flicking back to your face. “Alright. Treadmills are over there if you’re running. Good view of the TVs.”
“Thanks.”
You climb onto a treadmill and start at a light jog, trying not to look like a complete and utter fraud. Your heart is already racing and it has nothing to do with the speed—okay it has some to do with the speed.
A couple minutes later he appears beside your machine, still beautifully shirtless, towel slung over one shoulder.
“Your form’s off,” he says without preamble.
“My what?”
“You’re heel-striking. It’s gonna wreck your knees long-term.” He steps onto the side rail of the treadmill. “Can I fix it?”
“Please.” You slow the treadmill to a stop and stand there with your heart beating against your chest as he reaches down and taps your ankle, guiding your foot placement. His fingers are warm and firm against your skin through the thin legging material. You clench involuntarily.
“Land on the ball of your foot,” he instructs, voice low. “Like this.”
Then his hands move to your hips, adjusting your posture with gentle pressure. He’s so close you can smell his sweat mixed with that clean cologne, feel the heat radiating off his bare chest. Your brain floods with vivid images: those big hands gripping your hips harder while he fucks you from behind, sweat-slick skin sliding against yours. Maybe those biceps putting you in a chokehold. You have to snap yourself out of it before you forget where you are.
“Lean forward just a little,” he murmurs, right next to your ear. “Not too much. There… yeah. That’s it.”
Fuck, you’re pretty sure you’re soaking through your leggings.
“Better?” he asks, stepping back but not far.
“Much better,” you manage, voice a little breathless. “Thanks, Satoru.”
“No problem.” He gives you that crooked, flirty smirk. “Always happy to help pretty girls with their form.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “Pretty girls?”
He shrugs, casual, but there’s a spark in those blue eyes. “What? You look good. The outfit works. Just… don’t push too hard if you’re new to this. I don’t want you sore tomorrow.”
Too late, pretty boy. I’m already sore in all the right places.
“I can handle it,” you say, turning up the speed a notch. “But if I die, you’re carrying me home.”
He laughs—low, warm, genuine—and the sound shoots straight down in between your legs. “Deal. I’ll spot you on the weights after if you want.”
You spend the rest of your (very short) workout stealing glances at him. Watching him load plates onto the bar, muscles bulging, sweat dripping down that perfect V-line into his shorts. You want to lick the sweat off his chest. You want to see how sensitive those nips are. You want him to pin you against the mirror and fuck the “morning person” energy right out of you. Or into you. Whatever, potato potahto.
But underneath all the raging lust, you’re also weirdly into how focused and disciplined he is. The way he tracks his reps, the quiet intensity on his face—it’s hot. And impressive.
When you finally step off the treadmill on shaky legs, he wanders over again, handing you a spare towel.
“Not bad for a new morning person,” he teases.
“You watching? High praise from the 6 AM regular.”
He lingers for a second, eyes flicking over you again. “Making sure you don’t fall over and hurt yourself. You coming back tomorrow?”
“Maybe. If my legs don’t fall off.”
“I’ll be here.” He gives you one last slow smile. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“Hard to when I’m basically a resident at Lia’s.”
You watch him chuckle and walk back to the weights, that glorious back and shoulders on full display, and feel a rush of triumph mixed with pure, aching want.
Day six is a huge success. You’re sweaty, exhausted, and hornier than ever. But he noticed you. He touched you. God you’ll be thinking about that all day.
DAY SEVEN
You’re at the Gojo family home again. At this point you basically live here. Lia has started making jokes about charging you rent, and you’re starting to worry she’s only half-kidding.
You’re sprawled on the couch with her, pretending to watch some trashy reality show while mostly scrolling on your phone, when Satoru walks in from the hallway looking annoyingly good in just a plain black t-shirt and gray sweats.
“I’m making coffee,” he announces casually. “Anyone want some?”
“I’ll take one,” Lia says lazily.
“I’m good, thanks,” you reply.
He nods and disappears into the kitchen. A few minutes later he returns with two mugs. He hands one to Lia, then turns to you and holds out the second.
“I made you one anyway.”
You blink. “I said I was good.”
“I know.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “But it’s got hazelnut creamer. You mentioned you like it that one time.”
You freeze mid-reach.
He remembered. Not just that you drink coffee, but the specific creamer you like. From a passing comment days ago.
You take the mug, fingers brushing his, and feel a stupid little flutter in your chest. “Thanks. That’s… pretty thoughtful.”
“It’s just coffee,” he says, but there’s a small, pleased smirk playing on his lips.
“It’s not just coffee. It’s thoughtful coffee.”
He leans against the doorway, studying you with those oh so pretty blue eyes. “I pay attention to things. Especially people. I like figuring out what makes them tick.”
Your pulse kicks up. You take a sip to hide how much that affects you. The hazelnut is perfect.
“And what makes me tick?” you ask, trying to sound casual.
He holds your gaze for a long moment. “Still working on that one. But I’m getting there.”
Then he pushes off the doorframe and heads back toward his room, leaving you staring after him like an idiot.
The second he’s out of earshot, Lia whips around on the couch, eyes wide.
“Oh my god.”
“Shut up.”
“He’s so into you.”
“He’s not. He was just… being nice.”
Lia snorts so hard she nearly chokes on her coffee. “Nice? My brother doesn’t do ‘nice’ like that. He forgot my birthday three years in a row. He barely remembers to make himself coffee most days. But he made you one with your favorite creamer? Unprompted?”
You look down at the mug in your hands, the steam still curling up sweetly. “Maybe he’s just trying to be a good host.”
“Please. He doesn’t give a shit about being a good host. Half the time he ignores people who come over. But he remembered your creamer preference and brought it to you anyway?” She pokes your arm. “That’s practically a confession for him.”
You laugh, but your face feels hot. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m right. And the way he looked at you when he said he’s ‘figuring you out’? That was flirty as hell.”
You shift on the couch, thighs pressing together as your mind immediately goes to images of him figuring you out in much more hands-on ways—those long fingers between your legs while he murmurs nerdy observations about what makes you tick.
“He does have a habit of paying attention to details,” you admit.
“Exactly. And right now all his attention is on you.” Lia grins excitedly. “Operation Bag and Bang is working. My brother wants you.”
You take another sip of the perfect hazelnut coffee, warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with the drink.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe he really is starting to like you back.
And maybe, just maybe, you’re not only in this for the filthy fantasies anymore. The way he listens when you talk, the way he remembers little things, the look he gets in his eyes when he looks at you… it’s doing something stupid to you. Makes your heart flutter, makes you blush like a lovesick girl.
Doesn’t mean you aren’t going to still absolutely fuck him senseless the second you get the chance, though.
DAY EIGHT
You’re in Satoru’s room.
His room.
You’re sitting cross-legged on his bed, physics notes, textbooks, and crumpled practice problems scattered everywhere. He’s leaning against the headboard looking unfairly hot in a loose black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, glasses perched on his nose as he flips through your messy notes.
You’d asked him yesterday to help you study because you’re genuinely shit at physics and the test is in two days and you’re sure you’re going to flunk. He’d agreed immediately, telling you to bring everything over. You told Lia and she encouraged you and said she’ll leave the house so you two can be alone (best wingwoman and best friend ever btw) Now here you are—surrounded by his nerd clutter of books, beakers, and posters—trying (and horribly failing) to focus while the sexual tension threatens to burn the room down.
“Alright, pay attention,” he says, voice casual but firm as he taps your paper. “This free body diagram is still fucked. You keep forgetting the normal force direction. If you do this on the test you’re gonna lose a ton of points.”
You nod, but your eyes keep drifting to the way his t-shirt stretches across his chest, the faint outline of those nipple piercings visible through the fabric. You want to push him back on this bed and ride him until he forgets every equation he’s ever learned. Maybe you’ll make him solve some while he’s buried inside you just to see him struggle. God you’re getting horny just thinking about it. That’s until he rudely interrupts your fantasies.
“Hey.” He snaps his fingers lightly in front of your face, smirking. “Focus. This test actually matters. I’m not letting you bomb it because you’re too busy staring at me.”
“Sorry,” you say, not sorry at all. “You’re distracting.”
“Yeah, well, get used to it. We’re staying here until you can do these problems without thinking.” He scoots closer, large muscular thigh pressing firmly against yours as he leans in to redraw the diagram. His arm brushes your chest and you have to bite your lip. “See? The force arrow goes this way. Not that way. Mess this up on the real test and you’re pretty much screwed.”
You try again. He checks your work, nodding when it’s better but immediately pointing out the next mistake.
“Better, but still not perfect. Come on, you’re smarter than this. I know you are.” His tone is light, but there’s real concern underneath it. And fuck if that doesn’t turn you on because what the hell’s hotter than a dude actually caring? “I don’t want you stressing out the night before because you half-assed it. Let’s do the next one.”
The tension is unbearable. Every time he leans in to correct something, his knee stays glued to yours. Every explanation comes with casual touches—his fingers brushing your hand when he passes the pen, his shoulder pressed against yours, his breath warm against your ear as he talks through equilibrium problems. You swear he’s doing it on purpose just to torture you.
You keep getting distracted by your uncontrollable filthy thoughts—his hands gripping your hips, that deep voice in your ear explaining exactly how he wants you to move while he fucks you.
“Focus,” he says again, gently flicking your forehead. “I’m serious. This shit builds on itself. If you don’t get the fundamentals now you’re gonna be fucked for the rest of the semester.”
“You’re really invested in my grade, huh?” you tease, shifting so your thigh slides more firmly against his.
“Yeah, I am.” He looks at you directly. “I like when people actually learn stuff. Especially you. So stop looking at my tits and solve the damn problem.”
You laugh but actually try this time. When you get it right he gives you a pleased little smirk and ruffles your hair.
“There we go. See? You’ve got this. Just need to stop getting distracted by how hot your tutor is.”
“Impossible,” you mutter.
He chuckles, low and warm, but immediately dives back into the next concept. “Torque next. This one trips a lot of people up. Pay attention— I’m not explaining it three times.”
You spend the next couple hours like that: bodies pressed close on his bed, heavy tension crackling between every word, while he stays surprisingly focused on making sure you actually understand the material. He’s casual and flirty, throwing in teasing comments and lingering touches, but he never lets you derail the session for too long.
“Last set,” he says eventually, handing you more practice problems. “Nail these and I’ll be impressed. And maybe… reward you somehow.” His eyes drag slowly down your body before flicking back up, heated. Holy shit. Is he implying what you think he’s implying? “But only if you actually get a decent grade. Deal?”
You swallow, already thinking about everything. “Deal.”
He leans back against the headboard, arm stretched behind you, fingers idly playing with the hem of your shirt while you work. The concern for your success is weirdly attractive—mixed with all that casual confidence and the constant undercurrent of want.
You’re definitely passing this test.
And you’re definitely going to fuck your tutor senseless the second it’s over.
DAY NINE
(except it’s actually day eleven because the last two days were just non-stop tutoring and you finally crushed that physics test)
You don’t mean to confess.
It just slips out.
It’s late. The house is quiet. Lia passed out on the couch an hour ago, and Satoru suggested the two of you keep watching The Expanse in the living room. Now you’re alone with him on the big sectional, sitting so close your thighs are pressed together and your shoulders keep brushing.
The show is on, but neither of you is really watching anymore.
Your heart is hammering. His hand rests on the cushion between you, fingers twitching like they want to close the last inch of space between yours and his. The tension has been building for days—those long study sessions where he’d scold you to focus while his eyes lingered on your mouth and legs.
“So,” you say, breaking the charged silence. “I got my physics grade back today.”
He turns his head, blue eyes sparkling with interest. “And?”
You smirk. “A solid B+. Would’ve been an A if someone hadn’t kept distracting me with his hands and voice the whole time.”
Satoru lets out a low laugh, but there’s heat in it. “Told you to focus. I take my tutoring duties seriously.”
“You also promised me a reward if I did well.” You shift closer, letting your hand rest on his thigh. “I did well, Satoru.”
His breath catches. The tension snaps tighter. He looks down at your hand, then back up at your face, eyes darker now.
“I did say that, didn’t I?” His voice is rougher. “What kind of reward were you thinking?”
You lean in until your lips are inches from his. “I think you know exactly what kind I want. I think you’ve known for a while now. Unless you’re just… super dense. Which Lia told me you are, but I think you’re smarter than that.”
He swallows hard. The air between you feels electric. “You’re really not subtle anymore, huh?”
“Nope. I’ve been trying to be subtle for a while now.” Your fingers trace slow circles on his thigh, teasingly high. “So… about that reward.”
He exhales sharply, hand finally moving to cover yours, squeezing. “You’re killing me here.”
“Good.” You tilt your head, lips brushing his jaw. “Because I’ve been dying for days. Sitting in your room, letting you play teacher while all I could think about was climbing onto your lap and shutting you up with my mouth.”
His grip on your hand tightens. “Fuck.”
“Yeah. That’s the idea.”
He turns fully toward you, free hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. The show is completely forgotten. “You really want this?”
“I’ve wanted this since I walked in on you shirtless that first time.” Your voice drops and you bite your lip. “Since I saw those piercings. You’re gonna need to tell me the story behind those someday. Preferably after I’ve had them in my mouth.”
His eyes flare and he chuckles nervously—breathlessly. The tension is so thick it’s suffocating in the best way. He’s breathing harder now, thumb stroking your neck.
“I’ve been trying to be good,” he mutters. “Trying to make sure you actually passed that test instead of just thinking about bending you over my desk every time you leaned over your notes.”
You grin against his mouth. “And now?”
“Now?” He leans in, lips hovering just above yours. “Now I’m thinking about collecting on that reward too.”
You close the distance first.
The kiss starts hungry—three months of built-up tension exploding all at once. His mouth is hot and demanding, tongue sliding against yours as he pulls you closer. You moan into it, and he swallows the sound greedily, hand sliding into your hair.
When you finally break apart, both of you are breathing hard.
“Well,” he says, voice hoarse, “that was a long time coming.”
“Too long.” You nip at his bottom lip. “And we’re nowhere near done. I still want my full reward, tutor.”
He laughs, low and filthy, forehead resting against yours. “Greedy.”
“You have no idea.”
He kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense, hands roaming your sides like he’s been dying to touch you. The living room feels too small, too public, but neither of you cares enough to stop.
Satoru pulls back from the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing ragged. “We can’t do this here,” he mutters, voice low and rough. “Parents are upstairs. Lia’s literally passed out on the couch. If anyone hears—”
“Then take me to your room,” you whisper against his mouth, nipping his bottom lip. “Now, please.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He stands up, grabs your hand, and practically drags you down the hallway, both of you moving as quietly as possible. The second his bedroom door clicks shut behind you, he pushes you up against it, kissing you hard again. This time there’s no hesitation—his hands roam down your sides, gripping your ass as he grinds against you.
“Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long,” he groans quietly against your neck. “You have no idea how many times I had to stop myself from bending you over my desk during those study sessions.”
You laugh breathlessly, hands already sliding under his shirt like you’ve imagined a thousand times over the course of the past ten days. “Then stop stalling and show me, nerd.”
He tugs your shirt off first, then his own, and there they are—those perfect, lean pecs with the silver bars through both pink nipples, already hard from the cool air and the tension. You stare like a woman starved.
“God, I’ve been so fucking obsessed with these,” you admit, running your palms over his chest, thumbs brushing right over the piercings.
Satoru hisses sharply, hips jerking against you while his abs clench abruptly. “Sensitive— fuck— they’ve been extra sensitive since I got them done.”
“That’s to my advantage.” You push him back toward the bed, watching him sit on the edge as you climb onto his lap. “I’ve honestly wanted to play with them for months.”
You lean down and drag your tongue over one pierced nipple, flicking the bar lightly. Satoru’s head falls back with a choked groan, one hand flying up to cover his mouth, teeth digging into his fingers.
“Shit— easy,” he hisses, voice strained. “Parents are right upstairs. You’re gonna get us caught.”
You smirk and suck the other nipple into your mouth, tugging gently on the piercing with your teeth. His cock twitches hard against your thigh through his sweatpants.
“Fuck, you’re so evil,” he pants, trying to sound cocky but sounding wrecked instead. “I’m trying to be all cool and collected here and you’re— ah— sucking on my tits like you’re trying to milk me.”
“I wish i could,” you murmur, switching sides and rolling the other bar between your fingers while you lick and suck. His chest is flushed, nipples puffy and oversensitive from the attention. Every tug and flick makes him shudder underneath you. “They’re so pretty. Look at how they get all hard for me.”
“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he groans, chest heaving, biting his fist to stay quiet. His face is so red he’s hard to recognize. You’ve never seen him lose his composure this hard but damn if you’re not getting off on it. “I’m supposed to be the one ruining you, not the other way around.”
You grind down on the very obvious bulge in his sweatpants, still lavishing attention on his chest. “Who says we can’t do both?”
He finally snaps, flipping you onto your back on the bed with surprising strength. He hovers over you, sweat dripping down his chest, hair messy. “My turn. Shorts off, baby… please.”
You obey, shimmying out of your shorts and panties while he kicks off his sweatpants. His cock springs free—long, thick, and already leaking. You gasp—audibly so—at the sheer size of him. You knew he was big because you’d seen him in those sinful grey sweats but you never could picture it in your head. But now it’s right here… fuck, you’re soaking. You reach for it but he catches your wrist.
“Not yet,” he says, voice cocky but with that nervous edge underneath. “I’ve spent too many nights jerking off thinking about this. I’m not rushing it.”
He kisses down your body, mouth hot and eager, but you pull him back up by his hair. “You’ve jerked off to me?” You ask breathlessly, a little cocky smile on your lips. “I’m flattered.”
He chuckles and rolls his eyes right at you, licking his lips. “Don’t act like you haven’t done the same, pervert.”
“Never acted like anything.”
“Good.” He’s about to go down on you, his lips finding your neck and then gradually moving lower but you can’t help but want to toy with his nips again. Your fingers gently coax him up to your face again by his hair and he groans. “C’mon…gimme’ a chance to make you feel good.”
“No. I want these again.” You cup his chest, thumbs circling his swollen nipples. “They’re so fucking sensitive. Look at you—shaking just from me playing with them.”
Satoru buries his face in your neck to muffle a moan as you pinch and tug on the bars. “You’re— fuck— such a brat. I’m trying to be a good tutor-turned-lover here and you’re using my piercings against me.”
You laugh softly and lick over one again, sucking harder while your hand strokes his cock slowly. “They’re pretty much mine now. I’ve earned them after all that studying.”
He shudders, hips bucking into your fist. “Yeah? Then keep earning them. Just— quiet, baby. I swear if my mom hears us I’m so dead.”
You keep teasing his chest relentlessly—licking, sucking, tugging on the piercings while your hand works his cock in long, slow strokes. He’s panting into your shoulder, trying so hard to stay quiet, occasionally letting out these choked little whimpers whenever you twist the bars just right or squeeze him a little tighter on the upstroke.
“God, you’re so hard,” you whisper. “All this from me playing with your tits?”
“Shut up,” he groans, embarrassed but clearly loving it. “They’ve always been sensitive but you’re making it so much worse. Or better. Fuck, I don’t know anymore.”
You push him onto his back again and straddle him, rubbing your soaked pussy along his length while you continue lavishing attention on his chest. He grips your hips hard, biting his lip bloody trying to stay silent.
“You gonna fuck me now, sir?” you tease, grinding down. “Or do I need to keep playing with these until you beg?”
He lets out a shaky laugh. “Don’t—don’t call me that, it does things to me,” he groans, cock twitching against you. “Come here— I need to be inside you before I lose my mind.”
He reaches over to his nightstand, grabs a condom with trembling hands (still nerdy enough to be prepared), and rolls it on. Then he pulls you down onto him in one slow, deep thrust.
Both of you moan—his muffled against your shoulder, yours against his neck.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “So tight. Been thinking about this for days.”
“Try three months,” you groaned into his neck, breathing heavily. You start riding him slowly, still playing with his oversensitive nipples, tugging and rolling the bars while you bounce on his cock. Every time you pinch them he thrusts up harder, trying desperately to stay quiet.
“Quiet, Satoru,” you tease breathlessly, echoing his earlier words. “Wouldn’t want your parents knowing their genius son is getting his pierced nips played with while he fucks his sister’s best friend.”
He groans, hips snapping up. “You’re evil. Absolutely evil. I’m never— shit— gonna recover from this.”
You don’t let him recover. You keep the pace torturously slow and deep, spoiling his chest with attention while the pleasure builds and builds for both of you. His cock fills you perfectly, stretching you with every downward grind. The room is thick with the sound of skin on skin and muffled breathing and held back moans.
Satoru’s hands slide up your waist and cup your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples with deliberate pressure. He’s not gentle about it—pinching and rolling them between his fingers while he thrusts up to meet you.
“Fuck, these are perfect,” he mutters, voice low and rough. His eyes are dark, needy, but there’s that cocky edge as he watches your face. “Been wanting to get my hands on them since you kept leaning over my notes in that tank top.”
You moan softly and he immediately covers your mouth with one hand, the other still tugging on your nipple.
“Shh,” he whispers, a little smirk playing on his lips even as his hips snap up harder. “Parents are literally right upstairs. You want to get caught, hmm?”
You shake your head, but the way he’s playing with your tits makes it hard to stay quiet. You lean down and take one of his pierced nipples into your mouth again, sucking hard while you roll your hips.
He groans into your hair, the sound needy and broken. “God— you’re like an addict.”
You pull off with a wet pop, still riding him slow and deep. “Why’d you get them pierced?” you ask breathlessly, fingers tracing the silver bars. “They’re so sensitive. Was it for pleasure purposes?”
Satoru’s hands tighten on your hips, guiding you faster for a few strokes before he forces himself to slow down again. Dominant and needy all at once. “Got them after I lost a bet in second year. Didn’t realize how fucking sensitive they’d make me.” He thrusts up sharply, making you gasp. “Now every time you touch them it’s like they’re wired to my dick. It’s torture. I fucking love it.”
You clench around him at that, riding him a little harder. “What about your cock?” you tease, voice low. “Ever think about getting that pierced too?”
He laughs, the sound shaky and turned on. One hand leaves your hip to slap your ass lightly—playful, teasing—before gripping it again and pulling you down with a soft whine. “Thought about it. A lot, actually. Prince Albert maybe. But I chickened out. Figured I’d rather have someone else decide if they want to decorate it.” His eyes lock on yours, needy but cocky. “You offering to help pick one out?”
You moan at the image, grinding down harder. “Maybe.”
His hands are back on your tits, squeezing and playing while he fucks up into you with controlled, deep thrusts. He’s the perfect switch—letting you ride and tease him one second, then taking over the pace the next, pulling you down onto his cock like he owns your pussy.
“What about you?” he asks, voice husky as he pinches both your nipples at once causing you to moan. “You ever think about getting these pierced?”
You arch into his touch, riding him faster now. “Thought about it. Especially after I saw yours. Thought it’d be hot to have you play with them the way I play with yours.”
Satoru groans, the sound muffled against your shoulder as he buries his face there. “Fuck, don’t say shit like that while I’m inside you. I’m trying not to lose it.” He flips you suddenly—smooth, easy—putting you on your back without pulling out. He hooks your legs over his arms and starts fucking you deep and steady, eyes locked on yours.
“I’d love it,” he admits, voice rough and needy again as he leans down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth. “Love watching you get all sensitive and shaky for me. Love marking you up.” He bites gently, then soothes it with his tongue. “We could match.”
You’re close—both of you are—but he keeps the pace deliberate, drawing it out. His mouth moves between your tits while he fucks you, occasionally lifting his head to kiss you hard, swallowing your moans.
“You feel so good,” he pants against your lips. “This is insane… I’m so into you.”
You tug on his nipple piercings again and he shudders, stomach clenching and hips stuttering. “Keep doing that and I’m gonna come,” he warns, but he doesn’t stop you. He just fucks you harder, switching between needy groans and cocky little comments.
“Yeah? Gonna come from me playing with your tits while I ride your cock?” you whisper.
“Shut up, you brat,” he laughs breathlessly as he pins your wrists above your head with one hand and keeps pounding into you. “You’re gonna come first. That’s an order from your tutor.”
He keeps you right on the edge—slowing down when you get too close, speeding up when you beg, all while his mouth and hands stay on your tits and his cock stays buried deep inside you. Every thrust drags his cock against that perfect spot inside you, but he’s not letting you race to the finish. He’s controlling the pace—slow and grinding one moment, sharp and punishing the next.
His mouth is on your tits again, sucking one nipple while his fingers pinch and tug the other. You’re arching up into him, one hand fisted in his white hair, the other still toying with his nipples.
“Fuck— pull harder,” he groans against your chest, voice muffled but needy. “Yeah, like that. God, you’re gonna make me lose it.”
You yank on his hair and he moans, hips stuttering. At the same time you scratch your nails down his back—hard enough to leave marks. He shudders violently, a full-body reaction that makes his cock twitch inside you.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, doing it again. “You like that? You little masochist.”
He lifts his head, eyes glassy but still cocky. “Yeah. I like it when you mark me up. Pull my hair, scratch me, bite me— fuck, I’m into all of it.”
You laugh softly and bite his shoulder, then suck a mark right next to it. “So the nerd’s a little pain slut, huh?”
“Shut up,” he laughs breathlessly, thrusting harder to shut you up. “You’re the one obsessed with my chest. I’ve been edging you for ten minutes and you’re still playing with my nips.”
He suddenly pulls out completely. You whine at the loss and he smirks, kneeling between your spread thighs. He takes his cock in one hand and slaps it against your soaked pussy—wet, obscene sounds filling the room as the head smacks your clit, your folds, dragging through your slick.
“Look at this mess,” he murmurs, voice low and dominant again. “Dripping all over my cock. You were so cocky earlier about your reward. Where’s that energy now?”
You reach down and spread yourself open for him. “Still cocky. Just desperate. Put it back in.”
He slaps his cock against your clit again, harder this time, then rubs the head up and down your slit without pushing inside. “Ask nicely.”
“Satoru—”
He pushes just the tip in, then pulls out again, teasing. “Nuh-uh. Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want.”
You glare up at him, pouting. “I want you to stop being a tease and fuck me properly. Or I’m gonna flip us and ride you with my hands on your tits until you’re the one begging.”
He chuckles, low and filthy, and finally sinks back into you in one smooth thrust. “There she is, atta-girl.”
He fucks you harder now, one hand braced by your head, the other sliding between your bodies to rub your clit in tight circles.
“Been thinking about this every night after tutoring,” he admits between thrusts, voice rough. “You leaning over my desk in those shorts, asking me about torque while I was imagining bending you over it. You have no idea how many times I had to adjust myself because you kept playing with your hair and biting your lip.”
You moan and pull his hair again, making him curse. “I knew. Why do you think I kept doing it?”
“So mean,” he pants, but he’s grinning. He pulls out again, flips you onto your stomach, and yanks your hips up. Doggy this time—deeper, rougher, nastier and so fucking hot. One hand grips your hip while the other reaches around to play with your pussy, two fingers rubbing your clit while his cock slides back in. He lifts one arm and pulls you upward so his chest’s pressing right up against your back. He puts you in a chokehold, bicep against your jaw as he leans in to nibble on your ears.
“Touch your tits for me,” he orders, voice strained. “Play with them while I fuck you. I wanna hear you.”
You do as he says, pinching your own nipples while he pounds into you from behind. Every time you clench around him he groans and fucks harder. When you start getting too close—thighs shaking, moans getting louder—he slows down dramatically, almost stopping, just grinding deep and circling your clit lazily.
“Not yet,” he whispers against your ear, chest pressed to your back. “I’m not done with you. I edged myself for hours thinking about you. Turnabout’s fair play.”
You whimper into his arm, hands coming up to grab onto it for support while he fucks you so torturously slow from behind. “Satoru, please—”
He bites the back of your shoulder, then soothes it with his tongue. “Please what? Use your words, pretty.”
“Please let me come. I’ll be good. I’ll stop teasing your nipples— for five minutes.”
He laughs, the sound warm and wrecked, and starts fucking you properly again. “Five whole minutes? That’s generous of you.”
He keeps you right on the edge for what feels like forever—changing angles, pulling out to slap his cock against your cunt again, fingering you open while you’re empty, then slamming back in. Every time you get close he eases off, kissing your spine, murmuring filthy praise.
“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he says, voice husky. “All desperate and dripping. My smart girl who aced her test and now can’t even form sentences because my cock’s inside her.”
You reach back and scratch down his thigh, then up to his ass. “And you’re the one who gets hard from having your hair pulled and your back scratched.”
“That makes us a perfect match,” he agrees, flipping you onto your back again so he can see your face. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and folds you in half, fucking you deep and slow while his thumb circles your clit.
“Come for me,” he finally says, voice cracking with need. “I’ve got you, baby. Come for this nerd.”
You do—hard. so hard it’s life changing—clenching around him with a muffled cry into his shoulder, arms wrapped around his neck and fingers tightening in his hair. He follows right after, burying his face in your neck, hips stuttering as he comes with a low, broken groan followed by a few shorter ones. Your insides grow warm with the weight of his load-filled condom.
For a long moment neither of you moves, just breathing hard, sweat-slick and tangled.
Satoru lifts his head, hair messy, lips swollen, looking thoroughly fucked out but still smug.
“So,” he chuckles breathlessly, voice hoarse. “Same time tomorrow for round two? I still have more physics notes to go over.”
You laugh weakly and tug his hair one more time. “Only if you let me play with your tits again.”
“Deal,” he murmurs, kissing you slow and sweet. “Brat.”
“Pain whore.”
He grins against your mouth. “Sure, but I’m your pain whore.”
DAY TEN
You wake up tangled around Satoru like you’re trying to fuse with him.
Legs hooked around his waist. One arm slung across his chest. Face buried in the warm curve of his neck, breathing him in—skin, faint sweat, that clean scent that still makes your brain lag. Your other hand rests on his narrow waist, thumb brushing the sharp cut of his hip bone, resisting the urge to slip underneath his pants and squeeze that gorgeous ass.
Holy fuck. You actually fucked Satoru.
And it was filthy. Perfect. The kind of night that ruins you for anyone else. The way he’d switched between pinning you down and letting you play with his oversensitive nips until he was shaking. The way he’d edged you for what felt like hours, cocky and needy at the same time. You’re sore in all the right places and already thinking about round… whatever number you’re on now.
You squeeze your thighs around him tighter, pressing your body closer. God, you’re obsessed with how he feels. All that lean muscle, the way his skin is stupidly soft over hard lines, the little shivers he gives when you accidentally brush his piercings.
Satoru stirs, letting out a low, sleepy groan. His arm tightens around your back, hand sliding down to palm your ass possessively.
“Morning, clingy,” he mumbles, voice rough from sleep. “You gonna let me breathe anytime soon?”
“No,” you answer without hesitation, lips brushing his neck. “I earned this. Ten days of plotting and I finally got the nerd in bed. I’m collecting my trophy.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. One hand comes up to scratch lazily at your scalp. “Trophy, huh? That what I am now?”
“Yep. Property of me.” You drag your nails lightly down his back, right over the very obvious scratches you left last night. “These marks are cute, by the way. Very ‘I got banged’ esque.”
Satoru hisses softly but presses into your touch. “You’re such a shit. I told you my back was sensitive and you still went crazy on it.”
“Ehh.. you liked it.” You nip at his neck, then soothe it with your tongue. “You liked it so much you almost came just from me tugging your hair and playing with your piercings.”
“Shut up,” he says, but there’s a grin in his voice. He shifts his hips, letting you feel that he’s already half-hard against your thigh. “You’re the one who couldn’t stop sucking on them. Thought you were gonna give me a hickey on my fucking nipple.”
You laugh quietly and flick one of the bars with your thumb, making him twitch. “They’re too pretty not to. I’ve been obsessed with these things since the first time I saw them. Still can’t believe you let some random person stab metal through them.”
“Regret nothing,” he says casually. His hand slides between your bodies, cupping one of your tits and lazily playing with your nipple. “Especially not after last night. You were real into it.”
You hum happily and press closer, face still tucked into his neck. “Best decision of my life. The sex was insane. You’re surprisingly flexible for a nerd.”
“Surprisingly?” He squeezes your ass. “Rude. I’ll have you know I’m very coordinated.”
“Yeah, yeah. Big talk from the guy who almost dropped me when we switched positions.”
He snorts. “That was your fault. You started playing with the piercings again and my brain shorted out.”
You smile against his skin, inhaling him again. The realization hits you somewhere deep in your chest when his fingers card through your hair—this isn’t just about how hot he is or how good the sex was. You actually like him. Him. The rambling, the routines, the way he remembers stupid little things, the way he looks at you like you’re entertaining as hell even when you’re being annoying.
You’re catching real feelings. You’re definitely going to marry this guy.
“Ten days,” you murmur. “Took me ten days to get you here.”
Satoru’s hand strokes down your spine. “Took me about three to realize I was screwed. You kept showing up everywhere looking like that and asking me questions about my thesis. You sure knew the way to my heart.”
You lift your head just enough to look at him. His hair is a mess, eyes half-lidded, that lazy smirk on his face. He looks stupidly good in the morning light.
“You’re not mad I basically stalked you into liking me?” you ask, half-teasing.
“Nah.” He leans in and kisses you, slow and easy. “Worked out pretty well for me.”
You settle back against his neck, legs still locked around him, arms holding him close. “Good. Because I’m not moving for at least another hour.”
“Fine by me,” he says, voice already drifting back toward sleep. His hand keeps stroking your back in lazy circles. “Just don’t fall asleep with your hand on my nipple again. Last night you almost twisted it off when you came.”
You giggle softly. “No promises.”
He squeezes your ass in warning, but he’s smiling.
You stay wrapped around him for a while longer, trading lazy kisses and occasional teasing touches, until your stomach starts growling loud enough for both of you to hear it.
Satoru huffs a laugh against your hair. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” you admit, finally untangling your legs from around his waist. “We did burn a lot of calories last night.”
He smirks, sitting up and stretching. The morning light hits the scratches you left down his back and the faint hickeys on his neck and chest. You didn’t exactly do a great job hiding them. Neither did he—there’s a very obvious bite mark on your shoulder and bruises on your hips that ache in a weirdly pleasuring way.
You both throw on clothes quickly—him in fresh sweatpants and a t-shirt, you in one of his hoodies that swallows you and a pair of his huge sweats you had to tie really tightly because they kept falling.
As you’re about to head out the door, you pause.
“So…” you say casually, leaning against his doorframe. “What are we doing here? Like, are we actually a thing now? Or do we just keep doing… whatever this is and see where it goes?”
Satoru turns, one eyebrow raised. He looks a little rumpled and stupidly hot. “I mean, I’m down to make it official. If you want. I’m not really into the casual thing if it’s with you.”
You nod, keeping it light. “Yeah. Same. Boyfriend, then?”
He grins, walking over to pull you in for a quick kiss. “Boyfriend. Sounds good.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
The conversation ends as easily as it started. Wow. It really is that easy huh.
You head downstairs together.
The second you step into the kitchen, it’s immediate. His mom is at the counter cutting fruit. His dad is scrolling on his phone at the table. Lia is already stuffing her face with toast.
All three of them look up at the exact same time.
The silence is deafening. Terribly so. You want to sink into the ground.
You’re pretty sure the bite mark on your neck is visible even with the hoodie. Satoru has fresh scratches peeking out from under his collar and his hair is doing that freshly-fucked thing. You both tried to look normal. You failed miserably.
Lia’s eyes flick between the two of you, then she smirks around her toast like she just won the lottery. She doesn’t say anything—just goes back to chewing with this shit-eating grin.
His mom raises an eyebrow. His dad just stares for a second before clearing his throat.
Satoru, cool as ever, walks straight to the coffee machine like nothing’s weird.
“Morning,” he says casually, grabbing two mugs. “Oh yeah, we’re dating now, by the way.”
He says it like he’s announcing the weather. Like he’s making small talk. Like he didn’t just announce a relationship.
You freeze mid-step, eyes wide. Wait—right now? Just like that? You were still processing the conversation upstairs and now he’s dropping it on his entire family like it’s no big deal. Your face heats up but… you don’t really mind though. It’s very… him.
Lia snorts so hard she has to set her toast down. His mom pauses mid-slice, then just nods slowly like she’s processing. His dad blinks twice.
“…Since when?” his mom finally asks, fighting a smile.
“Since last night,” Satoru answers, pouring coffee like this is the most normal conversation in the world. “Pass the hazelnut creamer?”
You stand there awkwardly for a second, still a little stunned he just launched it like that, before grabbing a piece of toast and sitting down quickly. You take a big bite to give yourself something to do.
His dad clears his throat again. “Congrats. Try to keep it down next time. The walls aren’t that thick.”
You nearly choke on your toast. You start coughing hard, face flushing bright red as you reach for water. The memories of last night—moaning into Satoru’s shoulder, him telling you to stay quiet, the headboard—flash through your head at full volume.
Satoru just smirks like that didn’t even fucking faze him at all, sliding the creamer your way like nothing happened. “Noted.”
Lia is openly grinning at you now, kicking your foot under the table. His mom is pretending to be very focused on the fruit again, but her shoulders are shaking with silent laughter.
You’re mortified. His dad heard you?! THE WHOLE—
“Relax,” Satoru chuckles like it’s no biggie as he slides in next to you, arm resting on the back of your chair as he hands you your coffee.
“I told you be quiet,” he teases, whispering against your ear like he was sharing some sort of secret. Which technically he is—but now they all know so is it really a fucking secret????He lets out a low groan followed by a laugh when you jab at his side with your elbow, your mouth stuffed with said toast because you’ve been trying not to choke it down.
But despite it all, sitting here in his oversized hoodie, with your crush who’s now your boyfriend and having dinner with his family like he didn’t just fuck your brains out for hours last night, you can’t help but grin through the embarrassment.
This family is never going to let either of you live this down.
But… that’s not too bad, is it?
Because the plan worked and in the span of ten days (technically eleven but that’s not the point), you’ve managed to bang and bag the nerd you’ve been pining after for three months.
well that was fun and took ridiculously long to write this is my longest fic yet but yk what hell yeah. consider this a 1k special because i can’t get anything else out on time LMFAO. i will be continuing this as a mini series that isn’t really a series it’s just oneshots of this gojo x reader and some drabbles and shit idk anyway yeah i hope u guys enjoyed this !!! took me pretty much two days to write and i was writing like nonstop LOL <3 !! side note i had to do so much stupid ass research abt blue eyes and fucking genetics for this shit i am SICK
# NSFW TWT ! NERDJO AU ⋆ popular fem!reader ⋆ satoru has a secret identity ⋆ light smut ⋆ satoru makes porn on twitter ⋆ this ch is fluffy kinda ⋆ reader blackmails satoru ⋆ texting-heavy ⋆ 18+ MDNI .
You knew you probably should’ve ditched the off-campus coffee shop meet-up.
You knew this the second you walked in and saw him already there, typically (he was always at least 20 minutes early to everything), hunched over a laptop in the corner booth like he didn’t want to be seen or bothered. His glasses were on, his hair was a mess, and he was wearing another one of those oversized sweaters that made him look like he'd just rolled out of bed and decided to throw on whatever and leave.
He looked up when the door’s bell chimed, like he’d been waiting, and for a moment, just a moment, you caught the flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. Like he hadn't actually expected you to show up and was practically overjoyed you did.
Then you blinked, and it was gone. Replaced by that vexing smirk.
"You're early," he said when you were in earshot.
"You’re earlier." You slid into the booth across from him, setting his coffee down with more force than necessary. "Here’s your coffee. Consider it payment for the over-performance on the assignment. "
"High praise." He wrapped his hands around the cup, and you watched his fingers—long, elegant, the same fingers you'd watched wrap around his…nevermind—curl around the cardboard. "You really did it. I'm impressed.”
"Don't be. I'm just here to make sure you didn't mess up my assignment."
"When have I ever? Check my work." He slid the neatly folded papers across the table. "I triple-checked everything. Even added footnotes explaining the methodology."
"Thorough."
"Well, I don’t do things halfway. And you keep showing up so, need to give you more reasons to, right?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but ended up left with a sigh. He wasn't wrong. You kept showing up. You kept texting him. You kept watching his videos at night like some kind of pathetic, obsessed—
"I've been thinking," he said, cutting off your spiral. First good thing he’d done.
"About?"
"You. Me. This arrangement."
"Don't say it like that. It makes it sound like a business deal."
"It is a business deal, no? You blackmailed me. I do your homework. That's the transaction."
"Then why does it feel like you're getting more out of it than I am?"
He tilted his head, that smirk widening. "Am I?"
"Yes." You gestured vaguely at him. "You're getting free coffee. You're getting attention. You're getting—" You stopped, realizing you were about to admit something you weren't ready to say.
"Getting what?"
"Nothing."
"Not nothing. You were about to say something."
"I was about to say you're getting off on this. The whole situation. The power dynamic. Me being your 'princess' or whatever."
His smirk faltered. Just a tiny bit, just for a second, but you caught it.
"Is that what you think?" His voice was quieter now. The teasing lilt from before weaker now. Almost made you feel bad. Almost.
"I don't know what I think—I don’t know what you think." You looked away, suddenly uncomfortable with the change in vibe. "I don't know anything about you. I thought I did. I thought you were just this... this nerdy loser who couldn't talk to girls. But you're not. You're this whole other guy. I’m not sure which one is real."
"First of all, ouch—you think Im a loser?” he said it with feigned hurt, hand over his heart. “Second of all, I told you before. Both of them are real. Sort of.”
"No—that’s not what i meant—whatever.” He shouldn’t be getting to you like that. “If both are real then why don't you act like that—like the alter ego—all the time? You’d probably be popular y’know. Fit right in.”
He didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable, his fingers tapping idly against his coffee cup. Tracing the rim and making you think nasty things. Like what it would feel like if those fingers were rimming— the thought was cut real short, real quick. jesus, fucking hell what am i thinking.
Yeah. What were you thinking.
"Because it's exhausting. And because fitting in is the least of my worries," he said finally. Spoken like a true nerd, alright. "I don’t want to be that guy. The one who's always on. Always performing. Sometimes I just want to exist without having to be anyone."
You didn't know what to say to that. It was the most honest thing he'd said to you since this whole thing started, and it made you feel like you'd just been handed something fragile. Something you could easily break. But did you though? Did you want to break it?
"So the nerd thing," you said carefully. "That's not an act?"
"It's not an act. It's just... me. On a low battery and social anxiety. The page is me on high charge and it’s easier because no one knows me on there. I’m anonymous. Besides my… y’know.” He gestured at his body and you almost laughed, but instead he’d gotten himself one of your classic eye rolls.
"That's stupid."
"Probably." He shrugged.
"But also kind of—" You stopped yourself.
"Kind of what?"
"Kind of honest… and hot? I dunno. You get here, geek around. Get home, get it off for strangers to see.”
He smiled but it followed with a chuckle. It wasn't the smirk this time. It was softer. Kinda cute. Like you'd said something that actually mattered to him.
"Thank you, I think?" he chuckled.
"For what?"
"For not treating me like I'm just the guy who does your homework."
"Don't get sappy. It's weird."
"You're weird."
"Takes one to know one."
He laughed, all shy and cute and somewhat nervous like even though he was acting like he knew exactly what he was doing he was still unraveling underneath it all.
"I have a question," he announced, setting the cup of coffee down.
"Of course you do."
"Have you ever actually looked at me? Like, before all this?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, we've been in class together for three years. We've interacted. But have you ever actually looked at me?"
You considered the question. Like, actually considered it without half-assing the thought process.
"No," you admitted. "I mean, I saw you, obviously. But I didn't look. You were just... the smart kid who had the answers. I didn’t think much of it.”
"And now?"
"And now I’m not sure."
"That's surprisingly honest from you."
"I told you. I can be honest sometimes."
"I know." He leaned back, studying you with that same unreadable expression. "I think that's what's throwing me off. You're not really what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone who would use me and move on, you know, like in those old and cliché high-school movies with the mean girls.”
"I am using you," you said quickly. Too quickly. “I don’t care… about you.” You’d fucked up the delivery on that one. He knew you were lying the moment you blurted it right out.
"Oh? So we’re back to lying again now."
"I'm not—" You stopped. Sighed. "Okay, maybe I care a little. But only because you're interesting. And smart. And annoying."
"Interesting, smart, and annoying." He ticked them off on his fingers. "I'll take it."
"You're annoying me."
"That’s one of the traits you listed, so yeah."
"Smartass,” you grumbled, looking away. You bit your lip to try and suppress the smile that was fighting tooth and tooth to show itself.
His eyes landed on your lips and he felt his face get hot. You’re so pretty… you don’t even know it, do you? Or maybe you do but not like he does. He laughed again to cover up for the redness that colored his cheeks, and you hated how much you liked the sound of it. Hated how your stomach flipped when he looked at you like that. Hated how you were starting to look forward to these conversations, starting to anticipate the way he'd tease you, starting to—
"Okay," you said abruptly, standing up. "I have to go."
"Class?"
"Work."
"You don't have work today."
"How do you know?"
"Uh… I checked your calendar."
"You checked my calendar?"
"You left it open on the library computer once when you went to the bathroom. I took a little peak. I was curious."
"That's really creepy, you stalker.”
"I know." He didn't even look apologetic. "But it's also how I know you're lying. You don't have work today."
"I have a life outside of you."
"I know you do." He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "But you're still here. Talking to me. Even though you don't have to."
You didn't really have a response to that did you. Because, much to your contempt, he was right. He was so observant it was annoying. You could've left. You should've left. But you were still standing there, rooted to the spot, watching him watch you with that infuriating smirk.
"One coffee," you said finally. "That's all you get. Don't expect anything else."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"You're going to dream of it. I can see it in your eyes."
"Maybe." He shrugged. "Can you blame me? You're pretty. And you blackmailed me. That's a rare combination."
"You're disgusting. You got a weird thing for pretty girls who use you or what?”
"Maybe I do,” he laughed, and you felt the sound in your chest, warm and unwelcome and so fucking impossible to ignore.
"So… I'll see you at the library tomorrow?" he said.
"I don't have homework tomorrow."
"Then you can bring me another coffee."
"You're not getting another coffee, those things are ridiculously over-priced around here."
"That’s Japan for you. You're probably going to bring me one anyway."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm really not."
"You're going to show up, and you're going to bring me a coffee, and you're going to pretend like you didn't just spend the last half hour talking to me because you wanted to."
You wanted to argue. To deny his stupid claims and tell him his face his is just as stupid and that this whole thing was stupid, but you just stood there, looking at him.
"Fine," you said. "Maybe I'll bring you a coffee. If you beg nice enough."
"Oh, you want me to beg for coffee now, huh?”
"Among… other things.” That came out… way bolder than you anticipated. It was supposed to be a joke, but the way you delivered it was too much of an innuendo. Stupid. This guy’s making you fumble your joke delivery now. As if it couldn’t get any worse.
His eyebrows lifted in mock surprise. Arms folded over his chest. "Oh?"
"That was a joke."
"hmm, didn’t sound like one."
"It was. Don’t get a big head.”
He looked down at his pants and then up at you. “Kinda already d—”
“Don’t—don’t finish that joke. It’s a terrible joke.”
“Is it a joke if it’s true?”
“Yup. That’s it, I’m leaving now.”
He shook his head, but he was smiling—chuckling, even.
"Okay," you said. "I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe. I guess. Whatever."
"You'll see me tomorrow, maybe I guess whatever.”
You rolled your eyes at him and walked away before you could say anything else. But when you turned your back to him you were already smiling like an idiot who had a crush. Except you didn’t. You didn’t have a crush because that would be silly. You walked out and the bell chimed behind you. You walked out before you could admit to yourself that you were already planning what to say to him tomorrow. Before you could acknowledge that you were… somewhat looking forward to it.
When you got home, you collapsed on your bed and stared at the ceiling.
This was a problem. He was a problem. You'd blackmailed him, and somehow he'd turned it around on you. Somehow he was the one in control now, and you were the one who couldn't stop thinking about him.
You reached for your phone.
You: you're annoying.
The response came immediately. Like he was staring at his phone and waiting for your text or maybe deciding between whether he should text you or if it would seem too desperate.
@glassesoff: sounds like i live in your head rent free if you’re texting me at this hour.
You: no, it’s because I'm bored.
@glassesoff: you could be doing anything. watching netflix. studying. sleeping. but you're texting me.
You: maybe i’m a masochist who likes torturing herself.
@glassesoff: maybe. or maybe you just like talking to me. wouldn’t kill you to admit it, y’know?
You: maybe you should stop assuming things.
@glassesoff: maybe you should stop proving me right.
You stared at the screen. He was doing it again. Saying the exact right thing to throw you off balance.
You: I'm going to sleep.
@glassesoff: don’t think so
You: yes I am.
@glassesoff: you're going to scroll through my page first. you always do.
Your face burned. How did he know that? He couldn't possibly know that. You'd been careful. You’d used a burner account with the user @01625126728 (number spam because that’s easy.) You'd turned off your activity status.
But somehow, he knew.
You: you don't know that.
@glassesoff: I do. because I've been watching you watch me.
You: that's really creepy. the more i talk to you the more i get stalker vibes.
@glassesoff: hey don’t blame me i’m just honest.
You: what's that supposed to mean?
@glassesoff: it means I check my analytics. i’m making an educated guess.
An educated guess. This… this arrogant… arrogant bastard.
You: that's close to an invasion of privacy.
@glassesoff: you're watching me jerk off. I think we're past the point of privacy.
You didn't have a response to that. Because he was right. You'd been watching him. Obsessively like some… virgin pervert. And he knew.
You: fine. maybe I do watch. but only because it’s interesting.
@glassesoff: interesting. that's one word for it.
You: what other word would you use?
@glassesoff: hot. addictive. probably made you finish.
You tossed your phone onto the bed as far as you possibly could. Your face burned because there’s no way he’d just said that to you.
He knew. He knew exactly what he was doing to you. He'd made that video specifically for you, and he'd known you'd watch it. Known you'd touch yourself to it. Known you'd be back for more.
You sighed and grabbed your phone again like an addict seeking their fix.
You: you're really full of yourself.
@glassesoff: and you're really bad at pretending you're not into this.
You: I'm not into anything.
@glassesoff: highly debatable. you’re watching my stuff, probably touching yourself to it.
You: that doesn't mean anything.
@glassesoff: so you’re admitting to it?
You: i’m not
@glassesoff: sorta are
You: i’ll block you.
@glassesoff: you’d miss my dick too much
He sent a photo. Not a video, just a photo. It was dark, taken from a low angle, showing his torso in the dim light of his room. His hand was resting on his stomach, fingers splayed, and you could see the faint outline of his cock through his sweatpants.
@glassesoff: you’d block this?
Your mouth went dry. Your face hot. Your thighs pressed together as your thoughts spiraled into what ifs and dirty territory.
You: you're really doing this right now?
@glassesoff: you're the one who opened the pic.
You: you're full of yourself.
@glassesoff: and you're still looking.
You were. You absolutely were. You couldn't stop looking. The photo was burned into your brain, the curve of his hips, the way his hand was positioned like he was about to touch himself.
You: I hate you.
@glassesoff: no you don't.
You: I really really do.
@glassesoff: keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep at night.
You closed the app. Threw your phone on the bed. Stared at the ceiling.
This was fine. Everything was fine. You were in control. You were the one who'd blackmailed him. You were the one with the power.
You reahed for your phone. Again.
You: goodnight, gojo.
@glassesoff: goodnight, princess. sweet dreams. hope they’re of me.
You didn't respond. You couldn't. Because if you did, one thing would lead to another and you didn’t feel like staying up and sexting the dude from calc you’d blackmailed and bribed into doing your homework.
# NSFW TWT ! NERDJO AU ⋆ popular fem!reader ⋆ satoru has a secret identity ⋆ no smut in this chapter but still suggestive ⋆ texting.
You should’ve known better than to go seek him out in his territory.
You realized this the second you walked through the doors and saw him sitting at your usual table, back corner, tucked away from the prying eyes of the campus population. He looked up when you approached, and for a split second, you saw it—that nervous flicker in his eyes, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to adjust his glasses even though he wasn't wearing them.
Then he blinked, and it was gone. Replaced by something else. Something that made your stomach do a very stupid and inconvenient flip.
He was wearing a sweater. Of course he was, he might do porn online but he’s still himself regardless. It was oversized and brown and made him look soft and unassuming. His white hair was messy, falling across his forehead in that way that used to seem dorky, before you knew everything, because now it just looked infuriatingly attractive. His glasses were perched on his nose, and you knew—you knew—they were part of the persona. The glasses-off version of him was the one who posted videos of himself jerking off with stupid provoking captions like “thinking about someone.” The bastard.
This version, the glasses-on version, was the one who was supposed to be scared of you.
But he didn't look scared. Not now at least.
He looked... almost amused.
"You're late," he said, pushing a stack of papers across the table. "I was starting to think you'd stood me up."
"I'm five minutes late." You dropped into the seat across from him, grabbing the assignment without looking at it. "And I don't stand people up. I make them wait. It's a power move. You wouldn’t know.”
"Sure it is." His lips twitched. "Also, you have a little bit of—" He gestured vaguely at his own face. "You know. Sleep."
You reached up and wiped at your cheek, mortified. There was nothing there. He was messing with you. This absolute dick. This very… big… no, no.
"Ha ha," you deadpanned. "Very funny. You're real bold for someone who's contractually obligated to do my homework for the next year."
"Contractually." He tilted his head, that stupid smirk still playing at his lips. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"That's what I'm calling it." You flipped open the assignment, scanning his handwriting. It was neat. Almost annoyingly neat. Every step was laid out with meticulous care, arrows pointing to relevant formulas, little notes in the margins explaining his thought process. He'd color-coded it. With actual colored pens. "This is... thorough."
"I aim to please."
"Don't." You looked up at him, narrowing your eyes. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"That thing where you pretend to be normal and then say something that makes me want to throw this book at you."
He laughed. Actually laughed. It was a low, warm sound that caught you off guard, and you hated how much you liked it. God, you were easy weren’t you? It’s only been a few days and you’re so so gone—a 7.4 incher has you acting like that. "You're so hostile. I just did your homework. Most people would say thank you."
You shoved the feeling down. Very deep down that it went too low you had to pull it back up.
"Most people didn't blackmail you into doing it."
"Most people don't have the guts to blackmail me." He leaned back in his chair, and you caught the way his sweater pulled across his shoulders. The fabric stretched, just slightly, and you could see the shape of muscle underneath. You'd watched him flex those muscles last night. You'd heard the sounds he made when he—
"Staring," he said, one eyebrow lifting.
You snapped back to reality. Stupid. Stupid hormones. "I wasn't staring."
"You were. At my shoulders. You do that a lot, actually." He tilted his head, studying you with an expression that was way too knowing. "Ever since you found my page, you've been looking at me differently. Like you're trying to figure out where the muscles are hiding."
"You wear baggy clothes. It's not my fault you look like a Victorian orphan until you take your shirt off."
"Victorian orphan." He pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offended. "That's a new one. I've gotten 'librarian,' 'that guy who definitely has a D&D campaign,' and 'human embodiment of a sweater vest,' but never Victorian orphan."
"First time for everything." You flipped to the next page of the assignment, trying to ignore the way his eyes were still on you. "This is actually good. Like, really good. You didn't just do the bare minimum."
"Was that a compliment?"
"Don't get used to it."
"Too late. I'm writing it down." He pulled out his phone, pretending to type something. "Date: the day you admitted I'm talented. Witnesses: none because you'll probably deny it later to make me look insane.”
"Okay, I'm leaving." You stood up, shoving the papers into your bag. "Thanks for the homework. Try not to post any more videos thinking about me. It's weird."
He didn't say anything. Just watched you with that same infuriating smirk, one eyebrow raised like he knew something you didn't.
You made it three steps before your curiosity got the better of you.
"Wait." You turned back. You didn’t even want to but you did. It’s like your body had a mind of its own lately. "Why did you do that? Make the video, I mean. You didn't have to."
He shrugged, the picture of casual nonchalance. "I told you. I was thinking about you."
"That's not a proper answer."
"Well it’s the one you’re getting."
You stared at him. He stared back. Neither of you blinked.
"Why do you do it?" you asked finally. "The page. The videos. You're not... you're not the type. At least, I dunno, I thought you weren't. You're the guy who gets flustered when people talk to him. I saw you apologize to the door once. How does that guy turn into... that?"
His smile faltered. Just a fraction, just for a second, but you caught it.
"Maybe that guy," he said slowly, "isn't the real me.”
"And the page is?"
"Maybe. Or maybe it’s the opposite and the page isn’t the real me. It’s nice, keeps you guessing." He looked down at his hands, and for a moment, he seemed smaller. Less confident. More like the Satoru you'd known for three years. "It’s easier to be something behind a screen."
You didn't know what to say to that. You didn't know how to reconcile the shy nerd in front of you with the confident, cocky creator who'd made you feel things you weren't ready to admit.
"So you made a sex Twitter," you said flatly. "Very healthy coping mechanism."
He laughed again, and it was lighter this time. "It's not just a sex Twitter. It's a very carefully curated sex Twitter. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Absolutely. I have branding. Aesthetic. You don't just stumble into 50k followers.”
Fifty thousand. You'd noticed the number, but hearing him say it out loud made it real. Fifty thousand people watched him naked. Saw him jerk off. Fifty thousand people saw the side of him that he kept hidden from everyone else.
And now… well, you were one of them.
"Okay," you said, sitting back down. "I have questions."
"There she is. I figured you would.”
"First question." You leaned forward, lowering your voice so the guy three tables over couldn't hear. "What's the deal with the username? Glasses off. You wear glasses. Obviously. But you keep them on in your videos. That's like... basically false advertising."
He blinked. "I... honestly hadn't thought about that."
"Clearly. You need a rebrand. Something more accurate. Like 'JackedNerd' or 'NerdWithABig—'"
"Okay, that's… enough." He held up a hand, and you could've sworn he was blushing. "The username stays."
"Fine. Second question." You tapped your fingers on the table. "How do you do it? The confidence, I mean. You talk to me like you've been doing this forever, but the second I showed up, you looked like you were about to pass out."
"I was caught off guard." He adjusted his glasses, a gesture that was becoming increasingly endearing. It was so cute. Fuck, why did you think it was cute? "You don't just show up and tell someone you know their secret identity. Obviously I’d be nervous."
"So you panicked."
"I panicked a little."
"A lot. You were shaking."
"I was not shaking. It was adrenaline.”
"You were definitely shaking. I saw it."
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Sighed. "Fine. I panicked. But I recovered."
"Did you? Because right now you're blushing."
"I'm not—" He touched his cheek, and the betrayal was immediate. "Okay, I'm a little warm."
"A little?"
"You're being difficult."
"Coming from the guy who made a video about me."
His eyes widened. Just a fraction, just for a second, but you caught it. "I didn't say it was about you."
"You literally said my name at the end."
"'Princess' is not your name."
"It sorta is now. You gave it to me. It’s our secret, isn’t it?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. For a moment, he looked genuinely flustered, like he'd been outmaneuvered in a game he didn't realize he was playing.
Then he laughed. A genuine laugh, not the controlled one from before. It was loud enough to make the guy at the next table look up and see the popular girl sitting with the nerd. You tried not to think about what this might’ve looked like.
"You're outlandish," he said.
"I'm outlandish? You're the one with a secret sex Twitter."
"Touché."
There was a moment of silence that wasn’t awkward, exactly. More like the air between you had shifted, something that was a little too hot for comfort.
"What's your third question?" he asked.
"I don't have a third question."
"You said you had questions. Plural."
"I did. I asked two… and I forgot the rest."
"You’re not a very good liar."
You folded under no pressure. "Fine. Third question." You hesitated, then pushed forward before you could overthink it. "Did you actually think about me? Or was that just for the video?"
He didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable, his gaze steady.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"I think you're deflecting."
"And I think you're avoiding the question."
"I asked first."
He smiled. It was a small smile, almost soft, and it did something to your chest that you refused to acknowledge because acknowledging it meant acknowledging the fact that this idiot was making your heart do things.
"Okay," he said. "Yeah. I thought about you."
You didn't know what to say. You didn't know what to do with the warmth spreading through your chest, the flutter in your stomach that felt a lot like butterflies. You wanted to torch them.
"Third question answered," he continued. "You happy?"
"That you jerk off to me?" You scoffed, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. But when you looked back at him it was like he was nowhere near affected as you. “Verdict’s still out on that one.”
“Let me know when it comes, yeah?” he chuckled.
"Okay, new topic. About the 50k followers. Do you actually make money from this?"
He blinked at the change of subject, but let it happen anyway. "Some. Not a lot. Enough to cover my rent and other expenses.”
"Wait, seriously?"
"Yeah." He shrugged, like it was no big deal. "I do customs. Promotions. The occasional paid video. It's not a full-time job, but it beats working as a cashier in some shitty convenience store."
"You do customs." You stared at him. "People pay you to make videos of yourself."
"People pay me to make videos of myself doing specific things, yes."
"What kind of things?"
His smirk returned, slow and taunting like he had you cornered. "You want to know?"
"I'm asking, aren't I?"
"You're blushing."
"I'm not blushing." You were definitely blushing. "Just answer the question."
"Fine. Some people like specific… scenarios. Teacher-student. Neighbor. Boss-employee. Sometimes they just have a fetish and want someone to fulfill it."
"And you just... do it?"
"If it's within my boundaries, yes—pay’s good."
You considered this. It wasn't exactly what you'd expected. You'd assumed he was just someone who liked showing off, who got off on the attention. But there was more to it than that. There was a calculation, a professionalism to the way he approached it. Which makes sense for a guy like him.
"You're really not who I thought you were," you said.
"Is that a good thing?"
"Not sure."
He laughed again. It was genuine. Open. Like he was actually enjoying this. That was happening a lot. Couldn’t have possibly been a good sign because the sound was growing on you.
"Keep me posted," he said. "I'm invested now."
"So am I, apparently." You stood up, gathering your things. "I need to go. I have a class."
"You have class at 1:15. It's 12:45."
"How do you know my schedule?"
"I do your homework. I've seen your class list."
"Creep."
"I prefer the term ‘businessman’."
"You don't get paid for doing this."
"Not in money." His smile was sharp, teasing. "But the benefits are pretty good."
You didn't ask what he meant by that. You didn't want to know. Or maybe you wanted to know too much, and that was the problem. A shitty problem, at that.
"I'm leaving," you announced. "For real this time."
"I'll be here. Same time tomorrow?"
"I don't have homework tomorrow."
"Then you can bring me a coffee. As a thank you for the assignment."
"I'm not buying you a coffee."
"I did all your calculus. The least you can do is buy me a latte."
"I'm still not buying you a coffee."
"I like oat milk. And an extra shot of espresso."
"Gojo."
"See you tomorrow." He waved, that stupid smirk still on his face. "Don't be late. I like my coffee hot."
You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him that you weren't going to show up, that you weren't going to play his game, that you were the one in control here.
But you didn't.
Because as you walked away, you were already planning what to say to him tomorrow. Already thinking about the way he'd looked at you when he said he thought about you. Already thinking about going home and stalking his page.
Already wondering what would happen next. Whether he’d text you or whether he’d send you something. It was gross—you were gross. Perverted. Pathetic. A long list of words that didn’t hold much meaning anymore.
The notification came that night at 10:15 PM.
You told yourself you weren't going to look. You were better than that. You told yourself you had better things to do—studying, sleeping, doomscrolling—literally anything besides watching him on your phone like some kind of obsessed fan.
You opened the app anyway because logic be damned, right?
@glassesoff: posted something new.
You clicked the notification.
It was a photo. Just a photo, no video this time. He was lying on his stomach on what looked like his bed, the sheets rumpled around him. The camera was angled to show his back, the broad expanse of his shoulders, the way his muscles shifted as he stretched his arm above his head. His hair was messy, falling across the pillow, and you could just barely see the curve of his jaw as his face laid sideways on the pillow. He never showed his full face. Just little shots that couldn’t give anyone enough to make out who he was in person.
The caption read: oat milk and an extra shot of espresso is how i like my coffee.
You stared at the screen. Your face was burning. Your heart was beating too fast.
You typed out a message before you could stop yourself.
You: you're stupid.
@glassesoff: i posted that a few seconds ago. you stalking me?
You: i'm making sure you're not posting anything that could get you arrested.
@glassesoff: that's very responsible of you.
You: i'm a responsible person.
@glassesoff: is that why you blackmailed me?
You: i'm responsible about my blackmailing. it's very ethical.
@glassesoff: ethical blackmail. that's a new one.
You: i'm a woman of many talents.
@glassesoff: i know. i've seen them. you're very good at getting what you want.
You stared at the message. It felt like he was talking about something else. Something more maybe. You didn’t want to read into it but impulse overwhelmed logic as you typed out the next text.
You: what's that supposed to mean?
@glassesoff: it means i know you're going to show up tomorrow.
You: you don't know that.
@glassesoff: i know you.
You: you don't know me.
@glassesoff: i know you better than you think.
The words hung there, heavy and loaded. You didn't respond. You couldn't.
@glassesoff: see you tomorrow, princess.
You closed the app. Put your phone down. Stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow. You were going to see him tomorrow despite your best efforts to stand him up on a meet up he planned on his own. And you weren't going to buy him coffee. You weren't. You were going to show up, take your homework, and leave. That was it.
You were absolutely, definitely, 100% going to buy him coffee.
Oat milk. Extra shot of espresso.
You hated how much you were looking forward to it. To seeing him.
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# NSFW TWT ! NERDJO AU ⋆ popular fem!reader ⋆ satoru has a secret identity ⋆ light smut ⋆ satoru makes porn on twitter ⋆ video of him masturbating ⋆ reader blackmails satoru ⋆ texting ⋆ 18+ MDNI .
The notification came at exactly 11:47 PM. Like he was playing some sick joke on you since when you’d followed him, it was at exactly 11:47 PM.
You knew because you'd been staring at your phone for the last forty-seven minutes, pretending to study for your psych test while your thumb hovered over Twitter like you were some junkie waiting on a fix. Pathetic. You were being pathetic. This was Satoru. The guy who once accidentally called you "ma'am" when you asked him for a pencil. The guy who wore sweater vests unironically. The guy you'd been practically bullying into doing your homework for three years without a single flicker of resistance.
But that was before.
Before you saw the way his bicep flexed when he gripped the edge of his desk in that one video. Before you heard the low, breathy sound he made when he—okay, stop. You needed to stop.
Your phone buzzed.
@glassesoff: posted a video.
Your heart did something stupid. You told it to shut up and stop being stupid. It didn't listen. The damn stubborn thing.
You opened the app with the kind of urgency usually reserved for checking exam results or seeing if your crush liked your Instagram story. The video loaded, and for a moment, you just stared at the thumbnail.
A low angle shot of his torso, the shadows carving out every ridge of muscle like a Renaissance sculpture. He was shirtless—obviously—and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his chest that caught the warm, amber light of what looked like his bedroom lamp. Like he’d maybe worked out right before this. Because that’s what nerds do. Work-out. Right.
And then your eyes drifted to the caption.
“Thinking about someone.”
Three words. That was it.
You felt your throat go dry. Someone. He was thinking about someone. And he'd told you to watch this. He'd specifically said it was for you. Which meant—no. You weren't going to let yourself spiral. This was a tactic. A power play. He was trying to get in your head, to flip the script, to make you forget that you were the one in control here.
It was fucking working.
With your heart lodged in your throat and your fingers shaky—just a little bit. You pressed play.
The video opened with a slow pan up his body. His thighs—god, his thighs… more muscular than they ever looked in those loose trousers he wore to class—were spread slightly, the camera positioned between them like you were kneeling in front of him. His hand rested on his stomach, fingers splayed, tracing idle patterns across his skin. He wasn't rushing. That was the thing about his stuff. It was never frantic or desperate like most other dudes jerking the hell out of their cocks and busting their load in less than two minutes. It was measured. So fucking deliberate.
Like he knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how long it would take to make you lose your mind.
His hand drifted lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of his gray sweatpants. He pulled them down just enough to let his cock spring free, and you sucked in a breath despite yourself. You'd seen it before. You'd… well, you’d watched the videos. But seeing it in this context—knowing he'd made this specifically with you in mind—hit different. Different in a way that made heat pool low in your stomach embarrassingly fast and ridiculously hot.
He wrapped his hand around himself, slow and almost lazy, and you watched his stomach tighten with the movement. His head was tilted back, out of frame, and you could see the sharp line of his jaw, the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. The unmistakable damp white strands of hair clinging to his neck. He was teasing himself. Teasing you. His strokes were agonizingly slow, his hips twitching up into his hand like he was fighting the urge to go faster.
And then he did something he'd rarely done in the videos you’ve seen. Not… not that you’ve seen all of them. Just a few. Like… five. Okay, maybe more than that—but that’s not the point. That doesn’t matter.
What matters is he spoke.
His voice was low, rough, barely above a whisper. "You have no idea what you do to me."
Your entire body went still. The heat from before? Juice leaking down your thighs at this point. You were so soaked you weren’t sure if maybe somewhere along the way you came without noticing.
He wasn't loud. This wasn't theatrical. No, it was way worse. It was honest. Intimate. Like he was confessing something he didn't quite mean to say out loud.
His hand moved faster, and you could hear the wet sound of his palm sliding over his length. A sound that was doing mean things to you. His breathing was getting heavier, his abs clenching with every stroke. The camera angle shifted slightly like he was struggling to hold it up, catching the way his hips bucked up into his grip, the way his thighs tensed.
"Fuck," he breathed. "I can't stop thinking about you."
You were frozen. Your phone was in your hand, your earbuds were in, and you were fairly certain you'd stopped breathing. This wasn't just just some sad sack jerking off in his room and posting it for thousands to see. This was a message. A direct, unambiguous message meant for you and you alone.
He was talking to you.
His strokes were faster now, more erratic. The sounds he was making—low, broken, desperate, whimper-y and so fucking hot—were doing something to you. Something that made your thighs press together involuntarily and your fingers slip under your pajama shorts without your realization. Something that made your skin prickle with heat.
"Bet you'd look so good," he panted, "on your knees for me."
A sharp gasp escaped your lips. You slapped your hand over your mouth, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs. This was insane. This was absolutely, completely fucking insane.
His hand was moving frantically now, his hips rocking up to meet each stroke. The camera caught the way his cock glistened with pre-cum, the way his knuckles were white from gripping himself so hard.
"Wanna see you come," he groaned, voice shaky and breathless. "Wanna watch you fall apart because of me."
The sound that left his throat was almost broken. A desperate, wrecked noise that sent a bolt of heat straight to your core that confirmed your suspicions that your panties are beyond bleached now. His body arched off the bed, every muscle in his abdomen rippling as he tipped over the edge. You watched him come undone—watched his hand work him through it, watched the mess spill over his fingers and onto his stomach.
And then, after a long, shuddering exhale, followed by a broken laugh that shook you to your core, he said one more thing.
"Goodnight, princess."
The video ended.
You sat there in the darkness of your room, phone clutched in your hands, breathing like you'd just run a marathon. Your body was on fire. Every nerve ending was screaming at you. You were supposed to be the one in control. You were the one with the leverage. You were the one who'd cornered him and forced him into submission.
But right now, all you could think about was the way his voice sounded when he finished. The way he'd called you princess like it was some shared secret between you two. The way he'd made an entire video—a video that thousands of people would see—just to tell you he was thinking about you.
You needed to text him.
No. No, no and fuck no. That was exactly what he wanted. He wanted you to react, to crack, to admit that he'd gotten under your skin. You weren't going to give him that satisfaction.
You were going to sit here, calm and composed, and pretend that video didn't absolutely obliterate any remaining self-control you had.
You lasted approximately thirty seconds.
You: you're actually insane. you know that?
The three-dot bubble appeared immediately. Like he'd been waiting for you.
@glassesoff: did you like it?
You: i'm not answering that.
@glassesoff: your silence is telling me everything i need to know.
You: shut up.
@glassesoff: make me.
You stared at the screen. Make me. That was a challenge. A flirtatious and bold, fucking challenge. And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that you wanted to take it. You wanted to march over to his apartment and show him exactly who was in charge here.
But that would mean admitting he'd won.
You: you said you were thinking about someone. who?
You regretted it the second you hit send. It was too obvious. Too …desperate. You were basically handing him a knife and asking him to stab you with it.
@glassesoff: you know who.
You: no i don't. tell me.
@glassesoff: playing dumb doesn’t suit you, princess.
@glassesoff: but fine, if you insist on playing the role of a clueless bunny i’ll humor you.
@glassesoff: you. i was thinking about you.
The word hung there on your screen, simple and devastating. One word. That was all it took to undo you completely.
You: why?
@glassesoff: because i've been thinking about you since the library. since you cornered me. since you looked at me like you actually saw me for the first time.
You: i blackmailed you, gojo. that's not exactly a meet-cute.
@glassesoff: maybe not. but it's the most interesting thing that's happened to me in years. you're the only person who's ever bothered to look past the glasses.
Ironic, given his username.
You: i looked past them because i found your twitter, not because i was trying to get to know you.
@glassesoff: and yet here you are. talking to me. at midnight. after watching a video i made for you.
He had a point. A really annoying, really accurate point.
You: fine. maybe the video was... good.
@glassesoff: just good?
You: don't push it.
@glassesoff: you came, didn't you? or at the very least soaked your panties.
Your face burned. How did he know that? He couldn't possibly know that. You hadn't even touched yourself. You'd been too shocked by the whole thing to even think about—
Okay, that was a …lie. You'd thought about it. You were still thinking about it. About the way his voice sounded, the way his body moved, the way he'd said all those dirty and cortisol-spiking words.
You: that's none of your business.
@glassesoff: it's adorable when you pretend to be mad.
You: i'm not pretending. i'm genuinely annoyed.
@glassesoff: your annoyance is noted. now go to sleep. you have class tomorrow.
You: i'm not a child.
@glassesoff: no, you're not. you're a very grown woman who blackmailed a poor nerd into doing her homework. very mature behavior.
You: shut up.
@glassesoff: not until you make me.
There it was again. The challenge. The invitation. The hidden confession that he wanted you in more ways than one.
You: you're impossible.
@glassesoff: and yet you keep texting me.
You wanted to throw your phone across the room. You wanted to scream. You wanted to—god, you wanted to do a lot of things that you weren't ready to admit out loud.
You: fine. you win. goodnight, gojo.
@glassesoff: goodnight, princess. sweet dreams.
You: don't call me that.
@glassesoff: too late. it's already stuck.
You didn't respond. You couldn't. Because if you kept talking to him, you'd probably say something you couldn't take back. Something that would give him even more power over you.
Instead, you closed the app, set your phone face-down on your nightstand, and stared at the ceiling for a long, long time.
You didn't sleep well that night.
When you woke up the next morning, there was a text waiting for you. Not on Twitter this time. On your regular messaging app. From a contact you'd saved as "nerd" for the past three years.
Satoru: calculus assignment is done. i'll bring it to the library at noon. try not to stare at my hands too much. i know it's distracting.
You wanted to be annoyed. You wanted to be furious.
Instead, you found yourself smiling. Smiling at his text like some lovestruck schoolgirl—honestly it was embarrassing. Humiliating.
No one can find out about this.
The roles were somehow reversed in this absolute clusterfuck of a situation and you lost track of who was blackmailing who at this point.
゛★ nsfwtwt ! satoru gojo has a secret porn account.
CHAPTER 1 ⇢ NEXT CHAPTER .
#nsfwtwt nerdjo ⋆ satoru is secretly a freak ⋆ blackmailing him ⋆ goes to uni with reader ⋆ no smut ⋆ nsfw/heavily suggestive
Calculus.
The word itself was a curse. It wasn't just a subject; it was designed by some ancient, sadistic mathematician to make pretty girls like you suffer. What was his name? Archimedes… something like that. Yeah, screw that guy.
You were a popular girl. It wasn't a title you'd given yourself, that would be lame, it was simply a fact. You knew the right people, said the right things, and always looked effortlessly put-together. Someone like you didn’t have the time for complexities of differential equations. But that was okay, because that’s where your live-in (ish), human calculator came in.
You glanced across the table at him.
Satoru Gojo. The campus's quintessential nerd. Tall, lanky, perpetually hunched over a textbook, hiding behind a pair of black glasses that made his bright blue eyes look a lot bigger than they actually were. He wore oversized sweaters and button-ups that were always a size too big, the sleeves hanging over his hands. He was the guy you'd copy answers from in lectures, the one you'd text at 2 in the morning with one, demanding message: "hw answers.”
He was a tool. Useful, quiet, and unassuming. He wasn’t even saved by his name—just “nerd from calc” because what other use would he be of to you?
"So, did you get the derivative for problem seven? The one with the... ugh, whatever it was," you groaned, leaning forward and tapping your manicured nail on his open notebook.
He didn't even look startled. "It's an implicit differentiation problem. I put the work for it on the second page," he said, his voice low and monotone. He didn't look at you.
He never did. It was part of his schtick, you guessed. Too shy to make eye contact with you or some nerdy shit like that.
You grabbed his notebook, snapping a quick picture of the page. “Thanks, nerd. You’re a lifesaver.” You said it with the kind of smile that would make any heterosexual man trip over their own feet. He just nodded, eyes flushed to his laptop screen. What a loser.
You rolled your eyes and were about to turn away, phone in hand, when your gaze snagged on something. His hair. It was white. Not blonde, not gray, but a stark, almost shockingly pure white. It was messy, sticking up in all directions like he'd just rolled out of bed. You blinked. A sudden, strange feeling washed over you.
Where had you seen that hair before?
The memory hit you like a freight train.
Last night. 1 AM. You'd been bored, scrolling through Twitter, looking for something... interesting. You weren't ashamed of it. You were a teenage college student with needs. You'd been searching through the depths of the more porn-y side of Twitter, looking for some good stuff, when you stumbled upon a page.
The username was "@glassesoff."
The pictures were... god. Well, they were mouth-watering. Not the usual, low-effort thirst traps. These were high-quality. S-tier jerk off material. Tasteful, even, if you could call a close-up of a massive, perfect and pretty cock "tasteful." The shots were low-angle, emphasizing the sheer fucking size of the guy. Pictures of a shredded, lean torso, biceps that looked like they could choke you out in seconds, and a set of abs that had a six-pack so defined it was practically a twelve-pack. And the dick. You involuntarily licked your lips just thinking about it. A solid seven inches, maybe more, thick and beautifully shaped you got hot just thinking about it. There was no face. Just a body, and a hint of a messy head of hair.
White hair.
Who the fuck had white hair?
You’d followed the page almost immediately after binge watching his stuff with your fingers stuffed inside your pussy. You had a great time. Fantastic, even. Fell asleep right after, exhausted and thoroughly satisfied.
Now, looking at the quiet, nerdy boy in front of you, you felt a shiver run down your spine.
No way. No. Fucking. Way.
The username was "glasses off." Satoru wore glasses. He had white hair. And underneath those baggy clothes...
You stared at him. Hard. Freakishly hard it would be impossible for him not to notice. You were trying to see through the fabric, trying to imagine the body you'd seen on your phone screen hidden under all that shapeless cotton and wool.
He must have felt your gaze—there’s no way he wouldn’t. He finally looked up, his blue eyes meeting yours. "You're staring," he said, a faint frown on his face.
You snapped out of it, a flush creeping up your neck. "What? No, I wasn't. I was just... thinking. Don’t flatter yourself, four-eyes,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes as your arms folded over your chest and your foot tapped a continuous pattern on the floor.
He raised an eyebrow, a skeptical look on his face. "Uh-huh. Sure. Look, if you're done, I have to get to my next class." He started gathering his things, shoving his laptop into his bag.
You watched him go, your mind a hurricane of possibilities. It was impossible. Wasn't it? There was no way the skinny, shy nerd who you had relegated to "tool" status was packing that kind of heat. No way he had a body that could make a porn star jealous.
And yet, the thought gnawed at you all day.
You couldn't focus in your lectures. You couldn't even concentrate on your Instagram feed which was not normal. All you could see was that low-angle shot of a perfect, beautiful cock that you wanted so badly. And then you'd imagine Satoru's shy, blushing face behind it. You shook your head—literally. Trying to shove the shameless thoughts away. AP lit class isn’t the time for horny thoughts. Especially not ones possibly related to your calc classmate.
That night, you were back in your dorm room. It was quiet, your roommate already asleep— totally and blissfully unaware of what you were doing. You opened Twitter, your finger hovering over the button on the search bar of "@glassesoff"’s page. You clicked on the profile, scrolling through the pictures again. It was admittedly your favorite page. You'd already jerked off to it twice. You’d probably do it again. But… the fact that it could be your nerdy classmate made it a bit weird.
You paused on a particular video. The camera angle was from the guy's perspective, looking down at his own body. He was wearing a pair of sweatpants, pushed down just enough to reveal the base of his… fuck, it’s so pretty. He gave a slow, deliberate stroke, and you heard a soft, breathy gasp.
Then a whisper.
"Yeah, you like that? Fuck, feels so good touching myself to you."
Your blood ran cold. You replayed the video. Then again. And again. The whisper was barely audible, but you recognized it. Satoru’s voice was a very distinct one. You could’ve chalked it up to similarity but it was just too obvious to ignore. It was muffled, almost lost in the background noise of his hand on his dick, but it was clear as day to you.
"I can't do this again,” you muttered to yourself. “Fuck no. Fuck. No.”
It was him. It was definitely Satoru.
You sat there, your jaw on the floor. Your nerdy little homework dispenser was a secret fucking sex god. Your "nerd" was a certified freak. And you orgasmed your brains out to his videos. Multiple times.
You wanted to block him, forget about this forever and never talk or think about it ever again. But a better thought crept up on you like a devil on your shoulder. You bit your lip and smiled like you had the greatest plan of all time. This was too good. This was better than any A you could get on a calculus test.
The next day, you didn't text him. You didn't ask for homework answers. You cornered him.
You found him in the student lounge, a quiet corner away from everyone else. He was alone, hunched over a textbook, a cup of coffee untouched beside him. You walked up, your heels clicking confidently on the linoleum floor, and sat down directly across from him.
He looked up, startled. "Oh. Hey. What's up?" He began to reach for his bag, assuming you were just there for the next assignment.
"No," you said, your voice low and sharp. "You're not going anywhere."
He froze, his hand hovering in mid-air.
"Okay...?" He looked confused, and a little wary.
"I know," you said simply, leaning back and crossing your arms.
He blinked. "Know what?"
"Don't play dumb with me," you said, a triumphant smirk playing on your lips. "I know about your little side hustle. at glassesoff?”
You watched the color drain from his face, his Adam’s Apple visibly bobbed as he swallowed.
It was instantaneous. His eyes widened behind his glasses, going from startled to panicked in a fraction of a second.
"I-I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered, his voice cracking.
"Oh, really?" You pulled out your phone, holding it up so he could see the screen. It was his profile page. His shirtless body.
"So this isn't you? The guy with the white hair and the... well, you know."
He stared at the screen for a moment, then looked around and shoved your phone down quickly. Looks like he didn’t want anyone seeing his little secret. Perfect.
"Where did you get that?" he whispered frantically, hand on your phone as he made sure it stayed shoved face down on the table.
"The internet, genius. It’s a public account,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Honestly, for a guy who’s so smart, you’re not very good at covering your tracks.”
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing again. "Look... please. You can't tell anyone. Please."
"Tell anyone?" you scoffed. "Now why would I ever do that? That would be boring." You leaned forward, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "No, I have a much, much better idea."
He looked at you, his blue eyes full of fear and confusion. He knew whatever you had planned could not be good for him. "What idea?"
You smiled. "From now on, you do all my homework. All my assignments. All my projects. For the rest of the year. You do them, and you do them well. You get me an A in every class. And in exchange, I don't tell anyone that the nerdy math whiz is actually a secret internet porn star."
He stared at you, his mouth slightly agape.
"You're blackmailing me?"
"Bingo! Give this geek a prize," you said, clapping your hands together. "So, what do you say? Do we have a deal?"
He didn't have a choice. You both knew it.
He just slumped in his chair, defeated. "Fine," he sighed, “I’ll do it.”
"Perfect. Knew you’d make the smart choice," You smiled, shoving your phone into your purse. "I’m going to pass with flying colors this year thanks to your little secret."
You booped his nose before standing up, ready to leave, but you paused. You looked at him one last time.
His head was bowed, his shoulders slumped. He looked defeated. Good.
But as you walked away, you couldn't get the image of his videos out of your head.
The thick, veiny cock, the ripped abs, the way he touched himself. You came to that. You were likely going to continue to coming to that.
The new arrangement was in effect. You got back to your dorm, feeling so pleased with yourself as you slipped into your pjs and hopped into bed. Your roommate was gone for the day—thankfully, so. You had his personal number, but the rules of the blackmail were more fun if you used the account to text him. You pulled out your phone, your thumb hovering over the Twitter app. You navigated to the page you’d bookmarked: @glassesoff.
You shot him a DM. No preamble.
You: yo nerd.
For a moment, nothing. Then, the three-dot bubble appeared, then vanished, then appeared again.
@glassesoff: hey
It was simple, just like him.
You: ok so the calc assignment. the one with the integral that looks like a demonic pentagram. i need answers. whole thing and not just the final answer. the steps too so it looks like i learned something. due thursday. thx.
You watched the screen, waiting for his typically flustered, long-winded reply you’d get on his regular texting app. Something like, "Oh, sure! No problem! I'll write it out as clearly as possible. Did you try using integration by parts? It's really a beautiful problem once you see the pattern!" or some other annoying thing.
It didn’t come.
@glassesoff: cool. u got it. the trick is just a simple u-substitution at the start, the rest is just mechanical. i’ll have it for u after my 4pm lecture.
You blinked at the screen. "Cool. u got it." No emojis. No frantic reassurance. Just… cool. It felt wrong, like hearing a cat bark. It was too confident, too streamlined.
You: …not gonna ask if i want u to colour code it so its "easier to follow?" lol
@glassesoff: that what you think? i’ll just send you the latex so it’s clean. less messy.
You snorted. Less messy. The guy who once gave you a handwritten guide to the periodic table with color-coded elements by atomic weight. You decided to test the waters, to poke at the persona.
You: latex lmao. sounds kinky. u into that kind of shit, nerd?
You expected him to immediately backpedal, to sputter out a denial. To revert to the Satoru who couldn't hold eye contact for more than two seconds.
@glassesoff: you’re the one who’s been scrolling through my page for a while. you tell me.
Your jaw actually dropped. You read it twice. Now where the hell did this come from? This was not the same person. You felt a familiar flush of heat, the same one from last night, creep up your neck. This was the guy from his videos, the one who knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how it made people feel. It was like a switch had been flipped. The meek, socially anxious guy from the lecture hall was completely, utterly gone.
You: wow. bold from the guy who almost cried when i said i knew his secret
@glassesoff: bold from the girl who's used me for homework for 3 years and only now knows my name. let’s just say its easier to be myself behind a screen.
This was… surprising. You were a predator, toying with your prey, but the prey suddenly had teeth. And horns. And maybe a tail you kind of wanted to pull.
You: oh yeah? and who would “yourself” be? the one who posts his abs to thousands of strangers?
@glassesoff: among other things. you know. you saw them.
You bit your lip, hard. He was right. You’d seen them. You’d watched a video of him specifically, one where he was kneeling, a professional, almost cruel angle making his body look like a carved Greek statue. The video was titled "need an assistant for this lab," a low groan accompanying the mess he made.
You: yeah i did. i gotta say, your nerd routine is good. i almost believed it. 7 inches of "i can do your homework" was a hell of a plot twist.
@glassesoff: 7.4, actually. and i can do more than just homework, clearly.
You caught yourself in a giggle. You couldn't help it. The sheer audacity of the guy who hid in the back of the classroom, the one who seemed afraid of his own shadow, was throwing your innuendos back in your face like he was born for it.
You: calm down with the ego, nerd. u still owe me an assignment.
@glassesoff: and i’ll deliver. but since we’re being so honest now, how was your night?
Your heart did a little skip. He knew. He had to know. You’d followed his page, you’d watched his videos. The sly fucker was asking you to admit it.
You: it was fine. slept like a baby.
@glassesoff: liar. you followed my page at 11:47 pm. you didn’t sleep for at least another hour. i can see the likes on my post, princess. you liked and bookmarked the "lab assistant" one.
A sound escaped your throat. It was a mix of a laugh and a gasp. Princess? He’s calling you princess? This was a complete role reversal. You were supposed to be the one in control, the one holding all the cards. But he was dissecting your online activity with the same precision he probably used to solve his quantum physics equations.
You: stalker vibes. not cute.
@glassesoff: don’t have to be cute to make you cum.
The bluntness of it slammed into you. You had to put your phone down for a second, your face flushed now. This was a side of him that was completely not what you expected. Not… necessarily bad, but the kind that made your stomach flip and your thighs press together. This was stupid. This was the guy from the videos, the one who didn't stammer, the one who knew his worth. This was Satoru, not just the nerd, but the guy who could probably ruin you in the best way possible. You hated that it turned you on. You had blackmailed him, but it felt suspiciously like you’d just fucked yourself over.
You: i’m gonna pretend i didn’t read that. just get me my assignment, gojo.
@glassesoff: i’ll have it for you. but don't pretend. it’s boring. you're not boring.
You: and how would you know, nerd?
@glassesoff: because you're the only person who’s ever tried to blackmail me into a study date. a whole year of study dates. you're creative, i’ll give you that. be seeing you.
You stared at the last message. Study dates. He called them study dates. The absolute gall of this man. This was not how this was supposed to go. You were supposed to have him wrapped around your finger, not the other way around. But this version of Satoru, the one who typed with a lazy confidence and knew exactly how his videos affected you, was a completely different person.
You checked the time. You should probably go to bed. Early classes tomorrow… the same routine.
Your phone buzzed again. You almost didn’t want to look.
@glassesoff: also, for the record. you're right. i am a bit of a freak.
@glassesoff: good for you, though. you get to see it all for free now. my content isn't cheap.
A scoff escaped you, but it was laced something else. Anticipation, maybe. Arousal? That’s stupid. Really stupid.
You: is this your way of trying to get me to subscribe to your OF, gojo? pathetic.
@glassesoff: no. it’s my way of saying you don’t have to keep being a bad bitch for me to find you interesting.
@glassesoff: you're already interesting.
He was right. You didn't know it. You didn't know anything anymore. The sweet little nerd you'd been using for years was a literal online sex god. And now, thanks to your brilliant blackmail scheme, he was contractually obligated to spend an entire year helping you. Which meant you had a front-row seat to his secret life. The irony was almost too much.
You typed a final response, feeling the shift in the air between you. You weren't quite sure who was blackmailing who anymore.
You: fine, freak. i’ll see you at the library tomorrow. don't forget my homework.
@glassesoff: i won't. and don't forget to bring your headphones.
You: …why?
@glassesoff: so you can watch the new video i post tonight. it’s a special one. just for you.
You stared, wide-eyed. A video. Just for you. You were supposed to be the one calling the shots. But as your thumb hovered over the keyboard, you realized you didn't want to be the one in control.
You wanted to see what he had for you, despite your better judgement.
You: i’m that special?
@glassesoff: guess you are. see you soon.
And just like that, he was gone. The three-dot bubble disappeared and didn't come back.
You were left in the quiet of your room with no idea what you’ve just gotten yourself into and whether or not it would come back to bite you in the ass.
Sleeping with the biggest loser was supposed to be a joke.
pairing : nerd! gojo x reader
status : ongoing
synopsis : you lost a stupid bet and your bestie told you to fuck the biggest loser in class. you thought it’d be a one-time thing. but it turns out the loser’s packing and once you get a taste you can’t stop thinking about that loser's dick.
synopsis. satoru is a bonafide genius. he’s got the perfect transcript and ten-year plan to prove it. he knows how to keep his head down and avoid the chaos his twin thrives in. so when the unofficial frat princess sets her sights on him, he knows there’s a catch. he just doesn’t figure out what it is until he’s already fallen for her
pairing. nerd! satoru gojo x popular! fem! reader. ✶ contents. sfw! fluff. eventual angst. college + gojo twins au ⇢ fratjo’s called souta. takes place during junior year. brief mentions of ex bf! toji. loosely inspired by ‘how to lose a guy in ten days’ and very romcom-esque with a lot of drama. reader is very flawed and lowkey insufferable + the bet is hella dumb ˖ ࣪ . ࿐
day zero ✶ day one ✶ day two ✶ day three ✶ day four ✶ day five
day six ✶ day seven ✶ day eight ✶ day nine ✶ day ten ✶ weekend
+ more days to come
The first mistake you made was using Reddit to find a roommate. The second was moving in with him anyway. Satoru Gojo is a gorgeous man and a terminally online incel who will explain exactly why a nice guy like him can't get a girlfriend.
When you decide to weaponize your hotness against his incel worldview, you expect to break him and his “alpha male" ideologies. You do not expect to spend a random evening getting your roommate's dick out of a stuck cock ring.
pairing: Gojo Satoru x reader
warnings: 18+ (mdni!!), explicit sexual content, afab!reader, modern AU, roommate AU, nerdjo, incel!gojo, virgin!gojo, oral (m and f receiving), piv, creampie, light degradation, praise kink, cum in hair, cum eating, cum-drunk, pussy-drunk, cock rings, fleshlights, improper use of hair tie, improper use of yogurt (accidentally ??), oil and fluids everywhere, it’s a bit disgusting, light choking, groping, big time copium from reader, secondhand embarrassment you’d die, reddit, incel stuff, crack treated seriously, fluff, smut, slow burn but the burn is just pure cringe
word count: 17k
The first mistake you made was using Reddit to find a roommate. Should’ve been a red flag, really. The second was agreeing to meet the guy in person.
You walked into the coffee shop, scanning the midday crowd for someone who matched the description — twenty-something, remote-employed, appreciates a quiet living environment. You were expecting a tired grad student, maybe. Or some tech guy in a Patagonia fleece. Something like that.
Instead, you found a gorgeous, gorgeous looking man. And you were confident it was him, since there were exactly two men present — him, and some grandpa having his afternoon caffeine fix.
And the guy was, objectively and objectifyingly speaking, probably the prettiest guy you had ever laid your eyes on. Way too tall, way too broad, the messy hair and the cute glasses adding the je ne sais quoi of the hot nerd aesthetic you were simply too weak for. Even hunched over his phone like that, he looked aggressively cute. But, let’s be honest, you weren't exactly against a cheeky roommates-to-lovers situation, if you catch my drift.
You stopped dead in your tracks.
Oh no. Oh YES.
Your heart went thump thump thump! like crazy as you stood there, frozen between the door and the counter. Living with a man who looked like that was a direct threat to your peace. And his too, probably. You couldn't believe you had practically won a jackpot over freaking Reddit. And apparently Reddit was only full of weird people, as if. So you took a breath, adjusted your posture, and walked over.
But then the panic hit. Because someone who looked like that was probably bringing home a different girl every night. And you’d have to listen to the stupid Thump. Thump. Thump. of his bed through the thin drywall. Every single time.
Suck it and see, you never know, girl.
From his side of the table, Satoru had already run the numbers. His eyes tracked your movement the second you started walking over, assessing. You were cute, yes. Approachable hot, not intimidating hot. You didn’t look like the type who’d expect him to pay for everything or make fun of his personality. And most importantly — you had messaged him first on the housing thread.
That meant the dynamic was already set. You were practically already his. Why else would a girl willingly want to live with a man? The power balance was secured. Handled. Handed to him on a silver platter, just like all the podcasts had promised.
You slid into the booth across from him. "Satoru?"
"You're exactly two minutes and forty seconds late," Satoru announced, and you feared that wasn't a joke. He checked his phone screen. "Statistically speaking, women in their twenties are usually ten to fifteen minutes late to initial meetups to assert social dominance. Two minutes is almost negligible. I like the effort."
You stared at him. What the fuck. You hadn't even taken your jacket off yet.
"I got caught at a red light," you said slowly, furrowing your eyebrows and eyeing his hands. Why were they so big?
“Right. Variables.” Satoru nodded, looking way too serious about the whole thing. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So — I brought the lease agreement. As I mentioned, I have a 780 credit score and I want dishes done within twenty-four hours. To prevent breeding grounds for fruit flies.” He slid the keys across the table along with the papers, completely unprompted. “I assume you don’t have a problem with basic hygiene? You shouldn’t have—” his eyes dragged over you, slow and sleazy, “—judging by your appearance.”
You looked at the keys. Then at his stupidly pretty, already supremely annoying face.
Your brain was trying to throw up big red warning signs, but you really needed the space. It was cheap. Close to work. And you’d have to survive maybe a year or two before you could afford a one-bedroom on your own.
You go, girl.
“I’m clean,” you said, picking up the keys. You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to figure out exactly what brand of lunatic you were about to chain yourself to. “Listen. You’re not going to be weird, are you?”
Satoru tilted his head, genuinely confused. “Define weird.”
You bit your lip.
There went those “quick” two years of your life.
You already knew the answer. You already fucking knew. Time for some hard coping. Maybe this was just a phase. Maybe he’d snap out of it soon. Maybe he’d gone through a breakup and was just being salty. That was probably it.
And to be fair, the first few weeks weren’t actually that weird. You were getting to know each other, learning how to exist in the same space. It was quiet, even. You would’ve paid good money to keep it like that forever.
He mostly worked from his room, only came out for meals, did the dishes, and left you alone. He barely even talked to you, which should’ve been suspicious, but you chose to ignore it. You started to think maybe you’d read him wrong at the café. Maybe the breakup theory was right. Maybe he was just having a weird day.
But spoiler alert — you couldn’t have been more wrong.
Satoru had not gone through a bad breakup. You suspected he had never gone through any breakup at all ever. Once he got comfortable enough to drop the act, or perhaps as some calculated 4D chess move to trap you past the point of getting your deposit back, his true colors started showing.
Satoru didn’t bring girls home. He didn’t do any of the hot-man things you’d expected either. Instead, he spent most of his free time on Reddit, arguing with strangers about the state of modern dating, and why “nice guys” were being chronically overlooked by society.
After about a month, it clicked.
This man was chronically, terminally online. And an incel on top of it all.
The rule of never judging a book by its cover confirmed itself in the most jarring way possible. Would say, you played yourself there girl, but who am I to judge.
It started with the staring. You’d be sitting at the kitchen island in your sleep shirt, eating a bowl of Cheerios, and you’d look up to find him just… watching you. He never looked away when you caught him either. He’d just blink those big, stupidly pretty blue eyes at you, gaze heavy and analytical, like he was trying to calculate your exact molecular structure. Which, in a way, he was. Carefully assessing the harmony of your facial features, exactly like the looksmaxxing subreddit had probably told him to.
You were always the one who had to look away first, your face feeling weirdly hot.
Then came the rants. You’d come home from a brutal shift and collapse onto the couch, and Satoru would emerge from his room like clockwork. He’d drop down next to you, eyes glued to his phone, and start talking like someone had asked.
“It’s basic hypergamy,” he announced one night, to absolutely no one. “Men are biologically disadvantaged in the modern dating sphere because of the top-twenty-percent rule.”
You didn’t even look at him. You just kept staring at the TV and wondered how long you could keep nodding along before it would become suspicious.
And he would just keep going.
Spewing the most vile, stupid shit while you sat there, eyes flicking from the TV to him and back, nodding along because you genuinely did NOT care. Top twenty what percent? Wasn’t he objectively in the top ten at least? What the hell was he even talking about? Every time you didn’t answer, he probably took it as agreement. You just deadass had nothing to say to him.
Not because you lacked the energy to argue — though you kind of did, because talking to this manchild was like talking to a wall, and even that would’ve been more productive — but mostly because you weren’t even listening anymore. You’d learned how to tune him out pretty quickly.
You were tolerating him. That’s what you told yourself. You were tolerating him, and it had nothing to do with the fact that ever since you first laid eyes on him, your brain had decided to revert to its most embarrassing caveman settings.
Like that one evening when you were walking down the hallway toward the kitchen and the bathroom door opened.
Satoru stepped out, dripping wet. White hair plastered to his forehead, water still running down his chest, wearing nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips. You shamelessly followed his happy trail. The way the towel barely clung on his hips.
Your brain stalled at the sight of his pretty body and your mouth went dry. You reminded yourself why you were tolerating him. Then berated yourself for doing exactly what he did — objectifying.
But hey. What's better than an incel asshole? A hot incel asshole. That's what's better. Congratulations to you specifically, really found a rock between a sea of gems.
You thought you had it handled. White-knuckle your way through the lease. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
And then you walked past his partially open bedroom door and heard him on Discord.
"Yeah, I mean, the living situation is okay," Satoru was saying, sounding so perfectly reasonable. You thought he was going to say something nice. What a good roommate she is, how glad he was to have you there.
"She's clean. And yeah, she's hot, but she's not like super hot hot where it's scary, you know? She's cute hot. Next door hot, pretty hot. Just my type, you know my type, dude. I can definitely work with that."
You froze in the hallway.
Your face did something that could only be described as a visual representation of what the fuck.
Cute hot. I can definitely work with that.
What does that even mean? You knew exactly what it meant, unfortunately. He wasn't just a weird roommate. He was a weird roommate actively running some kind of deranged, incel-fueled long game on you. Casually. Over Discord.
You quietly backed away, went to your room, locked the door, and screamed into your pillow.
It was not like your roommate was describing you like a property investment to someone over Discord while you were standing mere feet away.
You hated this. You hated him. And you hated yourself for having been even remotely apologetic about it, for feeling your heart skip a beat when he said just my type. Curse you and your completely stupid and irrational attraction to someone you should probably be filing a restraining order against! But god, he was so so cute. If he could just shut the fuck up, or get lobotomized, or something. You could take him to Claire's over the weekend?
But to his credit, and you could not fucking believe you were giving him even some credit at all right now, he was sometimes tolerable, heavy on the sometimes. The man never missed a rent payment. He scrubbed the bathtub weekly. He always bought the expensive brand of paper towels, the ones with the little flower pattern you liked.
Good roommate, structurally speaking. Nightmare, every other way.
And the attraction was just a proximity issue. Obviously. Everyone would have this problem. It would go away. His personality was ass. Soon enough you'd look at him and convince yourself his looks were ass too. Start acknowledging his hotness the way you acknowledged anything asexual.
It was totally fine. You were fine. He was just a guy. A guy who happened to look like a Final Fantasy character rendered in 4K, but still just a guy. A nice guy.
And work with that, he definitely did. Because he was fine too! Just not in any way he would ever admit to his Discord buddies.
Because doing it the normal way guys in their sexual prime do was completely fine. He was in his twenties, so naturally, his mind wandered a bit when his head hit the pillow with passing thoughts about the way your sleep shirt rode up your bare thigh. There was absolutely nothing wrong with getting off while thinking about someone! It was just the normal biological need the podcasts yapped about! It was healthy to be sexually active, even if his only active partner was his fist.
And if that happened to escalate into jerking off to a completely innocent Instagram picture and coming all over his phone screen while staring at your pixelated smile? Also completely normal! Everyone dealt with new living arrangements differently; someone screamed into their pillow, someone else was jerking off every time you got said person inexplicably hard! He couldn't be expected to live like a celibate monk when he was just a poor, horny guy trapped in an apartment with a gorgeous roommate who also happened to be exactly his type. He wasn't being a creep! He was just adapting to his environment.
Goddamn.
It wasn't fine. He wasn't fine, you weren't fine either.
But as the weeks dragged on, he started getting worse.
The passive-aggressive creepiness turned into passive-aggressive entitlement. He had decided, completely on his own, that the two of you were basically already together. You could feel it in the way he hovered. In the way he looked at you like he was waiting for something. Like a bill was coming due and he was just giving you time to find your wallet.
It started with the food.
Without any discussion, he started either making food for both of you or straight-up eating what you’d made for yourself. Like that was just the new normal now.
“Satoru, did you eat my food?” you’d ask, staring at the empty space in the fridge where your meal had been. The one you’d been looking forward to all day. And he’d just nod from the couch like it was the most normal, domestic thing in the world — not a direct violation of the rules you’d set when you moved in.
Or there was the night you came home completely drained, fully prepared to eat a sleeve of saltines and a bucket of ice cream for dinner, only to walk into the apartment smelling like garlic and roasted vegetables.
Satoru was actually at the stove, cooking. A rare sight — the man usually survived on takeout and DoorDash. And he’d used your expensive dried tomatoes. The ones you’d been saving for a special occasion. The ones you’d deliberately shoved to the back of the fridge so he wouldn’t find them.
“Men in the kitchen are a rare sight, I know,” he said, not looking at you as he stirred, trying to look like the eighth world wonder. “But I thought — what if I made pasta? It’s the one my mom used to make. Figured I’d make it for myself. Made a lot though, so… you can have some too, I guess.”
He was already plating a portion for you as he spoke, trying and failing to look casual while clearly nervous you wouldn’t like it.
You watched him for a moment and felt something shift in your chest. You immediately labeled it as hunger and moved on.
He didn’t ask if you liked it. He just assumed you would. And he was right, yeah you ate it, but that wasn’t the point. The pasta wasn’t even that good. Way too salty. But it sat warm in your belly, and you didn’t have it in you to tell him the truth.
You thanked him for the meal but didn’t acknowledge the grand gesture you hadn’t agreed to in the first place. You didn’t make conversation and went straight to do the dishes.
When you glanced back, he was watching you with that look again.
You looked away first.
And of course an incel like that would have opinions about your love life too.
You’d been seeing someone — nothing serious, just a guy from Hinge. Two dates in, and you were still on the fence. He didn’t make your heart do that stupid thump thump thump, and his hairline wasn’t all that great either.
You made the mistake of mentioning a possible third date while making coffee, trying to have a normal, boring conversation about your respective lives.
“I think I’m going to see him again on Saturday,” you said, mostly to your mug.
Satoru looked up from his phone. He was always on his phone doing gods know what.
"The architect guy?"
"Nah, I ghosted that one. Different guy."
A pause. He furrowed his eyebrows the way he did when he was assessing something. “How many are there?”
You gave him a warning look.
"I'm just asking."
"And I'm not answering," you said, rolling your eyes.
He put his phone down, which was never a good sign. You turned back to the coffee machine.
“I just think,” he started.
“Don’t,” you muttered, already regretting bringing it up.
"—that you're not being strategic about this."
You turned back around, mentally preparing for what was about to come.
“About dating. Statistically speaking, cycling through too many low-value options in a short period of time actually decreases your own value. If you want to attract a high-value man—”
He didn’t just mean men. He meant himself. Which, bless him, but also fuck him for putting it like that.
You stared at him for a moment, seriously considering yelling and throwing your mug at his stupidly symmetrical face.
“Satoru,” you said. “Did you just tell me I’m getting ran-through?”
He opened his mouth, then immediately closed it. His ears went pink — he had probably clocked his own stupidity, apparently, which was a first.
"No! It's not — that's not what I—" he started, hands coming up like he was surrendering.
"Where did you even hear that phrase?"
"It's a concept from—"
"No." You held up a hand. "No, I don't want to know, actually. You just made me really upset."
You picked up your coffee and looked at him — standing there in his stupid nerdy sleep shirt, with his stupidly cute messy hair, genuinely confused about why this had gone wrong. Like he really thought you’d realize he was right and apologize on your knees for even mentioning other men.
You felt furious. Tired. And something else you weren’t going to name.
You couldn’t believe you’d ever imagined getting railed into oblivion by this man. Instead, you had to talk to him like he was a toddler. You had a feeling you were going to become a cautionary tale. A PSA about what happens when you move in with an incel.
You went on the date that Saturday anyway. It was fine. The guy was fine-ish — less fine after the weird-ass conversation you’d had with Satoru prior. You came home to find him on the couch, waiting. Expecting something. But neither of you said a word. You just went to your room, got into bed, and stared at the ceiling.
You were so fucking tired.
Tired of dates that were just fine. Tired of coming home to this. Tired of the whole thing.
So you cancelled the next one. And the one after that.
Men were mediocre anyway, you told yourself. You needed peace. You needed to stop cycling through low-value options — god, you couldn’t believe that phrase was living rent-free in your head now. You were going to find whatever podcast invented it and send the hosts very ugly, very threatening email.
And maybe the apartment really was full of questionable worldviews, because somewhere between the sexual marketplace value speeches and his creepy behavior, you developed one of your own.
You became morbidly into the idea of breaking his incel resolve. Like you’d accidentally discovered a new kink.
Not even in a romantic way. More like you’d started writing a very questionable mental screenplay about dismantling him piece by piece. Watching the podcast rot leak out of him in real time. Making the incel guy want you so badly he forgot every subreddit he was joined in, until he was pathetic enough to cry at your feet — and you weren’t even the dominant type!
Wasn’t there a term for that? There had to be. You’d read the fanfictions. You’d read the think pieces. And every time you’d wondered why women did this to themselves.
Now you knew exactly why.
It was like disaster tourism. Some people went to Chernobyl for the thrill. Some people chased storms. You were simply built different.
Because when a man looked you in the eye and said shit like, “It’s actually been studied. Women who wear revealing clothing in domestic settings are subconsciously signaling availability to increase their mate value. It’s an evolutionary response to competition,” and meant it — like he hadn’t just dropped full Andrew Tate shit on a random Wednesday night — you weren’t going to let it slide.
You were already stretched thin. And he was on very thin ice.
So you made a plan.
You were going to show him exactly what skimpy clothing did to a man like him. And you weren’t going to think too hard about why this was probably the stupidest idea you’d had in a while.
Because who would voluntarily wear less clothes when they could just put on three more layers to prove a point?
You, apparently.
You dug out the shorts you hadn’t worn since sophomore year. The ones that left half your ass out and the tank top that made your boobs look obscene. All to "prove a point."
Satoru was at the kitchen island when you walked in, like every morning.
You leaned against the counter, grabbed your yogurt from the fridge, and started eating your probiotic-balanced breakfast, like every morning.
He was still on his phone.
You were starting to think the plan had lowkey a flaw — mainly the part where he wasn’t even looking at you — when he stood up and walked over to the sink to put his mug away.
He reached past you.
The mug hit the bottom of the sink with a loud clang as he stood frozen and way too close. Staring at you with his mouth slightly open, ears going pink in real time as the color crept up from his jaw. He was looking at you exactly how you’d hoped he would… and now that it was actually happening, your stomach did a stupid little flip.
You went to put the spoon back in your mouth.
But your hand missed and the spoonful of Activia went down your chin, down your neck, and disappeared between your tits.
Satoru’s eyes followed it the whole way. You felt your nipples tighten under the thin fabric as he stared. Then his gaze dragged back up, slow, before dropping to what you were wearing.
When he finally looked at your face again, his ears weren’t just pink anymore. They were red.
“Uh. Y-you have yogurt. On your—” He gestured vaguely at your chest. “—on your b-boobs.”
You stared at him. He stared back — at your face, at your chest, at your legs, everywhere.
“Yeah,” you said. “I noticed, ‘Toru.”
You grabbed a paper towel and dragged it slowly down your neck, then slipped your other arm under your boobs to lift them higher, making the cleanup easier for you and significantly harder for him. You could tell by the way he was squirming.
He swallowed. A loud, audible gulp in the quiet kitchen. His Adam’s apple bobbed like it was trying to escape.
“Right. G-good — you cleaned it up. I-it was very messy,” he managed to get out, voice a full octave lower and cracking at the end. His eyes were half-lidded, ears still burning red.
Then he fled. He turned so fast he clipped his hip on the doorframe and didn’t even react to the pain before disappearing down the hallway.
You felt victorious. You’d fried his alpha-male-rotted brain. You’d proven your point. You were the apex predator of this apartment!
But then you took a breath and noticed your hands were shaking.
Your nipples were still painfully hard against the thin fabric of your tank top. And there was a warm, insistent ache low in your belly, sending little shockwaves down to your toes.
Wait.
What the fuck.
You looked down at your chest, then at the empty doorway like he might still be there.
Why the hell were you horny?
You were supposed to be the disaster tourist here. You were supposed to be watching the meltdown from a safe distance. Disaster tourists didn’t usually get turned on by the radiation. They didn’t usually want the hazard to come back out of his room, pin them against the counter, and put his stupid big hands on their hips.
You threw the paper towel into the trash harder than necessary. It hit the side and did a pathetic little plop! pathetically to the floor.
You slammed your bedroom door and threw yourself onto the bed, burying your burning face in the pillows.
The plan had worked perfectly.
Even if you had to dig out your vibrator later just to make the weird tingling go away.
It was just a power trip. Just the adrenaline of winning. That’s all it was. Power trips made people horny. It was biology. It was science.
Take that, Satoru!
And oh, he took it.
Across the hallway, Satoru was melting into his mattress. A bruise was already forming where he’d slammed into the doorframe. The image of that yogurt dragging down between your tits was burned into his brain. He was throbbing, and it was fucking pathetic.
He tried jerking off like usual — fist tight, imagining you on your knees — but it wasn’t enough anymore. Hadn’t been for weeks, actually. His hand wasn’t cutting it.
So he reached into the back of his bottom drawer and pulled out the silicone toy he’d bought recently. He was embarrassed, but too worked up to care. At least now he could pretend it was your tight pussy he was fucking into.
It was a new low. He knew it was a new low. But he did it anyway, eyes squeezed shut as he used the fleshlight, imagining you on top of him, under him, beside him — it didn’t matter. Anything was better than coming on his own just from the memory of yogurt dripping down your skin.
But of course, once the post-nut clarity hit, he took the whole thing the completely wrong way.
Because really, what did you think was going to happen?
You thought parading around half-naked in front of a terminally online incel would make him fall to his knees and magically develop self-awareness?
No. Of course not.
He thought you did it on purpose. For him specifically.
And yeah, you did do it on purpose — just not for the reason he thought. You were trying to break his brain. Make a joke out of his worldview! Instead, all you did was make him hard for three days straight and give him a terrifying amount of hope.
It validated every single pseudo-scientific dating theory he’d ever read. In his mind, you weren’t mocking him. You were submitting to his superior frame. You were “signaling availability.”
You hadn’t broken his incel resolve. You’d accidentally reinforced it. Applause.
And now Satoru believed, with full Reddit-backed certainty, that he had won. He’d played the long game. He’d kept his alpha composure. And now the cute roommate in the tiny gym shorts was finally ready to yield.
And worst of all? He started being creepy on purpose.
Before, the hovering and staring had been unconscious. Now he was doing it with intention. It was time to “establish physical dominance” and “break the touch barrier,” according to whatever the fuck forum thread he’d absorbed that week.
He started finding excuses to be near you — reaching past you for things he didn’t need just to brush his chest against your shoulder, leaving you wrapped in his scent. He’d sit too close on the couch, close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him.
And it was working. You hated that it was working.
Every time his hand brushed yours or his fingers grazed your waist, your skin broke out in goosebumps. You could feel yourself reacting to his nervous little attempts to mark his territory, and it was driving you insane.
You were sitting on the couch eating your well deserved Pad Thai straight out of the takeout box while a true-crime documentary played in the background.
Satoru emerged from his room, did his usual hover-routine like some awkward mating dance, and then sat down. Right next to you.
Without taking his eyes off the TV, he reached over and placed his hand on your bare thigh.
It was this weird twitchy movement between caress and a customs agent stamping a passport.
His fingers kept flexing like he was fighting the urge to either pull away or drag them higher. You sat frozen, staring down at his hand, silently daring it to move. Then mentally cursing yourself for even letting it happen in the first place.
A rush of heat flooded your chest and cheeks. It burned under his palm and shot straight down between your legs.
Ovulation. It’s just ovulation.
"Satoru," you said slowly.
He was staring straight ahead at the TV, posture stiff as a board and he was even redder than you.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He flinched, yanking his hand back into his lap and hunching over. “N-nothing.”
He cleared his throat but didn’t move away. His knee stayed pressed against yours. He took a breath, puffing his chest out as he tried to reclaim his “alpha” frame, then glanced at you as you took a shaky bite of noodles.
“So,” he started again, voice slipping into that pseudo-intellectual podcast cadence that always made your eye twitch. “I was reading a thread today. About proximity and domestic investment.”
You didn't look at him, listened to the Ted Bundy facts coming from the documentary narrator. Chewed and brushed him off. "Fascinating."
“It actually is,” he continued, completely unbothered. He leaned back, stretching his arm along the back of the couch and caging you in. “Because it highlights the flaw in modern female psychology. Women always say they want a nice guy. Someone who provides stability. Someone who pays his bills on time, remembers to buy toilet paper, and keeps a clean, optimal living environment.”
He paused, letting the weight of his own perceived perfection hang in the air.
“But,” Satoru said, turning his head to look at you, eyes locking onto yours with that same entitled certainty, “when that exact man is sitting right in front of them, offering unwavering loyalty and a high-value domestic partnership, they stay willfully blind. They friendzone him. Tease him. Cycle through low-tier guys from dating apps instead. It’s biologically counterproductive.”
The only sound in the room was the dramatic music coming from the TV now. You dropped your chopsticks into the takeout box, which suddenly felt too heavy in your lap.
He was so confident in his entitlement it actually made you sick. It was ruining your fucking appetite.
He thought doing the bare minimum — acting like a decent human being with basic hygiene — earned him loyalty points he could cash in for sex. Like some kind of fucked-up grocery store rewards program.
You turned your body toward him fully, voice eerily quiet.
“Let me get this straight,” you said. “You’re sitting here, in our living room, getting mad at me because your nice-guy vending machine is broken?”
Satoru blinked, his brow furrowing like he genuinely didn’t understand what the problem was.
“I’m stating a statistical—”
“Shut up.”
The words came out sharp enough to cut. You weren’t playing anymore. One more podcast quote and you were going to rip the hair out of his stupidly pretty head.
His mouth snapped shut. He looked genuinely startled. You’d never told him to shut up before — not like that. You’d always just nodded, or rolled your eyes, or tuned him out.
“You think this is a transaction,” you said, eyes narrowing. “You think because you scrub the bathtub and pay your half of the rent on time, you’re earning points? You’re keeping score. You did the bare minimum and now you’re waiting for me to drop to my knees in gratitude like you were providing for me?”
“I am a provider,” he argued, chest puffing out even as his voice lost some of its usual arrogance. “I bring high value—”
“You bring decency at best!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “Doing your own dishes doesn’t make you a high-value alpha male, Satoru. It makes you an adult. But you don’t actually care about being a good roommate. You’re just dressing your entitlement up as niceness and acting like I owe you something because you haven’t been actively terrible to me.”
“That’s not—” He reached up to adjust his glasses, a nervous habit you’d never seen from him before. “I’m just saying that logically, the optimal choice for you—”
“There is no logic!” you snapped, standing up before you did something stupid like strangle him. “You don’t even like me! You just think you’re owed me because I’m convenient and I live here!”
Satoru flinched. All the color drained from his face.
You stood over him, breathing hard, looking down at this gorgeous, six-foot-three idiot who was staring up at you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics. He looked lost. Stupid. Like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
“But you acted like—” he started, then caught himself, shoulders squaring like he was trying to hold onto his frame. “You know what, forget it. You’re just proving my point. A guy does everything right, stays consistent, stays present, and the girl just—” he gestured at you with a disbelieving laugh, “—moves the goalposts. We’ve been living together for months. Friends for just as long. I thought if I followed the steps exactly, I’d finally get to— we would— I don’t understand how this is supposed to work, okay?! How is a guy ever supposed to figure it out if the steps are a lie and I haven’t even—”
“Satoru.”
He stopped. Mouth snapped shut. The tips of his ears suddenly burned bright red.
The realization hit you like a bucket of cold water.
Oh my fucking god.
You’d suspected it once or twice, but the thought had always flickered and died. Now it all clicked into place.
He’d never gotten his dick wet.
Your roommate was a six-foot-three virgin who thought turning to men who felt entitled to sex was a reasonable solution to his problems. What an absolute fucking mess. You almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
“You’re an incredibly good-looking guy, Satoru,” you said quietly. Sincerely. “Objectively hot. Get your shit together, touch some grass, and you’ll be fine. You’ll be more than fine. But until you stop treating women like a math test you’re trying to cheat on, nobody is going to want you.”
You shattered his ego completely.
Or maybe, for the first time since puberty, Satoru actually formed a conscious, self-aware thought. Because he kept turning your words over in his head.
Objectively hot.
No one is going to want you.
What?
He tried to find the logical flaws. Tried to insert a counterargument, disprove your “emotional outburst” with cold data. He couldn’t find one. Not for days.
You were avoiding him completely now. Icing him out. Not talking to him. Not even looking at him. It was driving him insane. You used to search for his eyes, even if it was just to roll them. He’d only just realized how genuine your flustered blinking had been, and now he missed it. Embarrassingly so.
One night he walked into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, carrying a petty mix of rejection, confusion, and constant, unbearable horniness.
Your pink hair tie was sitting on the edge of the sink.
He told himself he was just going to pick it up and put it in your organizer tray.
So he picked it up. It smelled like your stupid, intoxicating strawberry shampoo. He hated it. Hated how the whole bathroom smelled like you after you showered. Hated how your scent followed you everywhere in the apartment, forcing him to breathe you in. The guys on Reddit had warned him about this. Pheromones. Dangerous.
He brought it closer to his face. Just to check. Just in case it wasn’t actually yours.
And what happened next stayed strictly between Satoru, the bathroom mirror, and god.
He clutched the sink, bracing himself against it, breathing ragged and humiliatingly loud. He stared down at the pretty pink elastic wrapped tight around the base of his cock as he fucked his fist like he was trying to punish himself, desperately trying to imagine your hands instead of his own.
It worked too well. It scared him.
He came hard, so so hard the hair tie ended up coated in thick, frothy cum.
He carefully nudged the sticky pink tie back onto the edge of the sink, exactly where he’d found it. Then he washed his hands under scalding water like he was trying to burn the shame off his skin and walked out of the bathroom like a man fleeing a crime scene.
Rejuvenated? No.
Good? Not even close.
He just felt like absolute shit.
Get your shit together.
But how?
He picked up his phone. Put it down. Picked it up again. The fight was still eating him alive. The podcasts told him to take his frustration out on other girls or channel it into dominance and detachment. That’s what the current episode would’ve said.
But he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to sleep with anyone else. He didn’t want to be aggressive. He just… wanted.
And that was the problem.
For the first time in a long time, the alpha-male bullshit was starting to feel a bit too beta now. He was left with his own feelings like a normal person, and it was awful.
If he was truly a high-value male, he shouldn’t care. He should pivot. Download an app. Find some new, compliant girl to validate his stats. But the thought of calculating the facial harmony of a stranger made his stomach turn. He didn’t want a hypothetical female.
He wanted you.
He wanted you rolling your eyes at him. Laughing at him. Getting annoyed at him. Eating his pasta. Walking around in those mind-melting shorts. He wanted you to drop yogurt on yourself again just so he could lick it off your skin, linger on your neck, and kiss you stupid — the way he’d been fantasizing about since it actually happened.
He needed validation. He needed to be right.
His thumbs moved across the screen before he could stop himself. He ignored his usual echo-chamber subreddits and opened r/AmItheAsshole instead.
r/AmItheAsshole
AITA for expecting my roommate (F) to reciprocate my (M) romantic advances after I provided optimal domestic value?
Throwaway. This is gonna sound bad but I need actual advice.
I (M) have been living with my roommate (F) for almost a year now. I’m not gonna lie, I’m objectively good-looking and I’ve been carrying a lot in this apartment. I pay my half on time, I keep shit clean, I do the dishes, I even cook sometimes. I thought I was doing everything right.
A few weeks ago she started walking around in these tiny shorts and tank tops. Like, really small. I took it as her signaling that she was open to something. That’s what all the advice says — if a girl starts dressing like that around you, it’s usually because she’s comfortable and maybe interested. So I decided to initiate kino escalation. Nothing crazy at first, just trying to break the touch barrier a bit.
While we were watching something on the couch I put my hand on her thigh. She freaked out. Got really upset and started yelling at me about how I was treating her like a transaction and that I only did nice things because I felt entitled to her. She even said I was basically calling her ran-through for going on dates.
I tried to explain it calmly. Like, statistically, if a high-value guy is right there doing everything right, why would she keep going on dates with random dudes from apps? It just doesn’t make sense. She told me to touch grass and hasn’t really spoken to me since.
I don’t get it. I’ve been consistent, I’ve been present, I’ve been providing a good living situation. I thought that was supposed to count for something. Instead she acted like I was the asshole for expecting anything in return.
AITA?
He hit post.
He sat in the dark on his bed, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest. He just had to wait. The logical thinkers would show up. They’d validate him with proper, objective analysis. They had to.
Ten minutes later, the notifications started rolling in.
He opened them expecting vindication.
Instead, he walked straight into a digital firing squad.
u/GrassToucherGeto · 308 upvotes
YTA. Holy shit. You did a handful of nice things and you think that means she owes you sex? You sound like an actual sociopath. I’m surprised she didn’t run out screaming. She literally told you to get your shit together. What part of that are you not getting?
u/KentoTheNormalGuy · 291 upvotes
You're not alpha, man. Kino escalation? Are you trying to con her, or actually want her to want you? YTA.
u/NobaraJustice24 · 282 upvotes
YTA. She can wear whatever the fuck she wants in her own home, you creepy ass weirdo. I hope she breaks the lease and gets a restraining order.
u/RealityCheckChoso · 156 upvotes
This is the most pathetic thing I’ve read on this site in eleven years. This is straight-up incel fanfiction. Poor girl having to live with someone like you. YTA. Go outside.
u/yuji_8847362 · 124 upvotes
Genuine question, not trying to be an asshole: do you actually like her, or do you just think she owes you because you did some nice things? Those are two very different things, and your post doesn’t seem to understand the difference. YTA, but I hope you figure it out.
u/KingNaoya69 · 231 downvotes
NTA. She’s clearly testing you. The clothes were an invitation. Hold your ground, don’t apologize, and she’ll come around. Women don’t respect men who grovel. If she actually didn’t want you she would’ve moved out already. She’s still there, isn’t she?
Satoru stared at the screen in disbelief.
He’d expected validation. Maybe a few reasonable voices cutting through the noise, acknowledging the statistical validity of his position, maybe even offering some tactical advice.
Instead, he got hit with minus three thousand downvotes, a mod-locked thread, and three DMs telling him to go to therapy.
He thought it would give him clarity. Clear steps. A way to fix this mess.
It didn’t.
It just made him feel… nothing. Except for the creeping realization that he’d said something eerily similar to what u/KingNaoya69 had posted. Recently. Maybe even last week.
He threw his glasses off and stared into the middle distance.
What the fuck was he supposed to do?
He had no idea.
The days that followed were miserable. You were giving him the coldest shoulder imaginable — and honestly, he deserved it. You were weaponizing the silence. Slamming doors. Giving short, pointed answers. Moving through the apartment like he was just another piece of furniture. Looking through him instead of at him.
He kept going back to the comments on his post, rereading them like he could find a loophole somewhere.
Yes, of course he liked you. But how was he supposed to want nothing from you if he liked you? He wanted your affection. He wanted you to want him back. But wasn’t that also expecting something in return? What the hell was he supposed to do?
Still… the Naoya guy had been weirdly right about one thing. You stayed. You hadn’t moved out. You didn’t even seem like you wanted to. If you hated him that much, why were you still here?
On the nth day, he was sitting on the couch when you came out of your room for water. You glanced at him — just for a second. You couldn’t help it. The silent treatment was getting to you too, even if you’d never admit it.
Your eyes were hard to read, but there was something in them. Something expectant. Like you were waiting for him to do something. To fix it. To stop being an idiot so the two of you could move on.
Oh, he thought.
Truly the lightbulb moment of the century.
Oh.
That night he unjoined six subreddits. Unfollowed every podcast except Joe Rogan — because hey, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Or was it unteach a new dog old tricks? Didn’t matter. What mattered was that for the first time since he’d discovered the internet, he was pretty sure he’d been an idiot.
And he was going to stop.
He made a plan. Simple. Walk out of his room, find you, and say sorry. Three steps. He’d been a person for over twenty years. He could do three steps. He had this!
You were in the kitchen. You were standing on the flimsy little step stool you needed to reach the top cabinet shelves, stretching up on your tiptoes for the glass Tupperware that Satoru kept putting up there, even though you had told him multiple times not to put it up there because you literally could not reach it.
"Hey," he said from the doorway, trying not to startle you. "Can we—"
You startled anyway, because what other outcome was ever going to happen here.
The stool wobbled under your socks. You gasped, swore something, grabbed for a shelf edge that wasn't there, and fully expected to eat the kitchen floor tiles before officially murdering your roommate from the afterlife.
But Satoru had surprisingly fast reflexes and caught you.
Well… almost.
He lost his balance as your weight shifted, and the two of you went down in a tangle of limbs and terrible timing. The impact knocked the wind right out of your lungs. You landed sprawled over him, pressed against his chest, his arms secured instinctively around you—
Around your boobs.
You froze. He froze. The entire world seemed to fucking froze.
And as you laid there, from the adrenaline shock of it all probably, his fingers did a little squish!
Huh.
You didn't say anything. You couldn't breathe, let alone speak. You slowly turned your head. His face was right there and so, so close to yours. You panicked and looked into his equally panicked eyes, his poor glasses askew.
He was searching for something in your eyes, his pupils blown so wide they almost swallowed the blue. And then, as his chest was still heaving so heavily, his gaze dropped down to your lips.
You were suddenly very aware— Aware of his warm palms right through the thin fabric of your shirt. Aware of the way your tits swelled into his touch. Aware of how his thighs bracketed your hips, and how perfectly you fit against him.
His breath hitched. And then his fingers flexed. He made a soft, barely-there sound in the back of his throat and squeezed again — slower this time. Kneading right over your hardened nipples.
You parted your lips for a soundless gasp, and he huffed into your collarbone as the trance finally broke.
His arms slowly retreated, lazily dragged down your ribs, fingers grazing the soft of your tummy before finally falling away to rest on the floor, which somehow made it all worse.
"I—" His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.
You scrambled off him like you had been electrocuted.
You sprinted down the hallway and threw yourself into your room, slamming the door behind you. You backed up until you hit something, you didn’t even care what, and slid down to the floor, knees pulled to your chest.
Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Your skin was buzzing. The ghost of his touch was still burning across your chest.
I fucking hate him, you told yourself. He’s a podcast-rotted incel. I hate him.
…Do you?
Because why the fuck had you wanted his hands to stay there? Why had that second squeeze made you want to straddle him right there on the kitchen tiles and fuck him stupid?
You were just touch-starved. That’s all this was. You were projecting onto your terrible roommate because he was being a sleazy little shit.
You grabbed your phone off the nightstand with shaking hands and unlocked it.
Hinge.
Your ol’ friend.
You needed a date. You needed a normal, boring, completely average guy with a decent hairline and zero opinions on hypergamy to save you from whatever the hell had just happened in that kitchen.
You were in your room getting ready for your date, dressed to kill. Short dress, favorite lace panties — because after everything that happened in the kitchen, you were still weirdly, persistently horny. Might as well try to do something about it with someone normal.
Satoru was lingering in the hallway like always, doing his very obvious not-hovering hover.
"Going out?" he asked, clearing his throat, trying to act so aloof and unbothered.
You didn't even look at him properly. "Yeah. I have a date," you said smugly as you pulled your hair up into a ponytail. Hair down meant cute, but hair up meant business. And by business, I mean finally attempting to jump on some normal, average dick.
The second the words left your mouth, a wave of jealousy hit him so hard it nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. But he wasn’t looking at your face. He was staring at the pink hair tie holding your hair up.
He visibly gulped. His dick went from zero to painfully hard so fast he had to cross his legs just to hide it.
You furrowed your eyebrow at the uncharacteristic lack of response, but wasn’t entirely mad about it either.
"See ya," you chirped, completely oblivious to his internal meltdown, and walked out the front door.
The second the door shut, Satoru basically teleported to his room. He threw himself onto his bed, already fumbling with his pants, desperate to take care of the problem so he could think straight again.
But he spent exactly thirty minutes achieving absolutely nothing. What the fuck.
This had never happened before. Satoru was just staring at his ceiling, sweating, furiously gripping his aching dick, and completely unable to finish. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined you laughing at some beta joke a 100% mediocre guy had made, while his past-tense cum was proudly sitting in your hair. He was literally too jealous to finish.
But jealous or not, he was still agonizingly hard, his dick standing painfully stiff against his stomach, stubbornly refusing to just calm the fuck down. He let out a frustrated groan. Okay. Fine. No hand? No problem! He reached for the silicone fleshlight, but he hadn't washed it in quite a while, and when he picked it up, a funky smell drifted off it.
Okay, NEVER MIND.
Which left him with only one option.
Today’s the day.
He reached into the back of his bottom drawer again and pulled out a silicone cock ring.
He had bought it right after he absolutely demolished your cute little hair tie. Because what does a normal guy do in that situation? Grovel first? Solve the underlying interpersonal issue? Nah. He goes on r/sex to research why a piece of elastic felt so hella good around his dick!
He hadn’t touched it since. Post-nut clarity had done its job last time. But right now, staring down at his aching, neglected cock and feeling rejected, humiliated, and completely alone… it was time.
Fuck it.
He ripped open the packaging and wrestled the thick silicone down his shaft until it sat snug at the base.
Almost immediately, something felt off.
It was tight. Too tight. Not in a good way — just uncomfortable. Constricting. He tried to power through anyway, closing his eyes and stroking like he could force an orgasm out of sheer spite.
Ten minutes passed.
Nothing.
His brain was too far gone, and the pressure was quickly shifting from weird to genuinely concerning.
Fuck this.
He stopped. Tried to take it off. But it didn’t budge.
Satoru blinked. He adjusted his grip and pulled harder. The skin stretched painfully, but the ring stayed exactly where it was.
Oh fuck.
A cold sweat broke out across his forehead.
Oh fuck, oh fuck.
He scrambled off the bed, grabbed his lube, and squeezed way too much directly onto the ring. He tugged and twisted like his life depended on it.
Nothing. Fucking nothing. It just made his hands uselessly slippery.
Okay, oh fuck. Wasn't lube supposed to work?! Okay, new plan. Something else, something more slippery, something more oily—
Panic seizing him, he stumbled to the bathroom, dug under the sink, found your baby oil, and slathered it on.
Still stuck.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Different oil! Not enough slipperiness! Trust the process!
So he waddled out of the bathroom, practically sprinting into the kitchen buck naked. He tore open the pantry, grabbing the vegetable oil.
This has to work.
It did not work.
Ten minutes later, Satoru was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, coated in a slick, highly flammable mixture of lube, Johnson & Johnson baby oil, and Wesson canola oil, panting heavily.
Dick throbbing, but not the fun kind of throbbing anymore. It was turning a terrifying shade of angry red-purple, the silicone death trap literally suffocating his junior.
It was no longer just uncomfortable, nor just alarmingly stuck. At this point, it was a fucking medical emergency.
He was so fucked he might be patient zero of mpreg.
But what the hell was he supposed to do?
Call an ambulance?
Absolutely not.
The thought of a paramedic cutting a sex toy off him with trauma shears while asking for his emergency contact would genuinely kill him on the spot. He would rather die of necrosis.
Call his friends?
Fuck no.
If any of them found out about this, the screenshots would never die. They’d revoke his alpha card permanently and hold it over his head for the rest of his life.
He stared at his contacts.
There was only one person who could help without turning it into blackmail material or posting it online. The one person who lived in this apartment. The one person who was currently out on a date with some random guy. The person he had a massive, pathetic crush on and who would probably rather rip his dick off than help him.
He hit Call.
You stirred your gin and tonic while your date went on about his fantasy football draft like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. It was a perfectly fine date! The kind of fine that made you wonder why you even bothered.
You were nodding along, even though you had stopped listening roughly four minutes ago. Then, your phone vibrated on the table.
Satoru.
You ignored it. No, actually—you declined it. You smiled sweetly at your date, asked a vague question about tight ends so you would seem like you were actually paying attention, and took a sip of your drink.
Your phone buzzed again. And again. And again.
Annoyed, you held up a finger to the poor guy who was currently rating wide receivers, excused yourself, and off to the bathroom, fully prepared to yell.
“What?” you hissed the second you picked up. “I’m on a date, Satoru. If you locked yourself out—”
"Please come home," he gasped. He didn't even say hello. He didn't sound aloof, and he certainly didn't sound alpha. He actually sounded like he was drawing his final breaths on this earth. "You have to come home. Right now."
"What happened? Did something catch fire? Did someone break in? Are you—"
“I can’t tell you,” he whined, voice high and shaky in a way you’d never heard from him before. “I physically can’t say it out loud. Just— please. Please come home.”
You were ninety percent sure this was some pathetic attempt to ruin your night. Some last-ditch manipulation tactic he’d picked up from a podcast or Reddit thread.
But the remaining ten percent made you ditch your date without a second thought and jump into an Uber.
You practically kicked the front door open, your heart hammering. The apartment was completely quiet, and it smelled all wrong.
Like babies and an industrial air fryer?
"Satoru?" you called out, dropping your bag. "Where are you? The apartment better be fucking flooding, or else I swear to God—"
A pained, muffled whimper came from down the hall. His bedroom door was cracked open so you pushed it wide, fully prepared to absolutely tear him a new one for ruining your night.
Satoru was sitting on the edge of his bed, completely naked, perched on a bath towel soaked through with some kind of glistening sludge. He was trembling, sweating, aggressively gripping the mattress. And his dick — very visibly, very aggressively hard — was pointing straight at you.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!"
You exploded the second you saw him, because an impromptu dick is still an impromptu dick! “Some pathetic plan to finally fuck me? You couldn’t even be decent about it — you just called me home so you could sit here with your cock out?!”
You expected some sleazy line. Some smug little smirk. Instead, Satoru looked up at you with wide, tear-filled eyes behind his smudged glasses and let out a broken, wet sob.
"I'm not—" his voice cracked terribly. "I'm stuck."
Huh?
Furrowing your eyebrows, you stopped yelling and your eyes actually dropped down.
And then your stomach dropped with them.
Wait. Oh. He was so, so large.
But that wasn’t the problem. His dick was an angry, swollen red-purple, veins bulging like it had its own heartbeat. And at the base was a thick silicone ring, cutting into him so tightly it looked like it might actually burst.
And all the anger drained out of you in an instant. Suddenly, you felt the harsh reality of the literal medical horror you were now a part of.
"Oh my god. Satoru... what is going on?!"
“Fuck, it hurts— please help me,” he whined, voice cracking as he bounced his leg against the floor like that would somehow fix anything.
You stepped closer, the sheer absurdity of the situation making you drop to your knees between his spread thighs just to get a proper look. It was incredibly stupid and deeply awkward, being this close to his swollen, shiny dick.
“Is that… a cock ring?” you asked, horrified.
Satoru nodded frantically, a tear slipping down his cheek and dripping off his jaw.
"Satoru, you know there is a fucking size chart to these things?! You can’t just buy anything with the size of your dick! Are you fucking stupid?!"
"HOW SHOULD I KNOW?!" he wailed, hands flying up to cover his face in absolute humiliation. "Wait—" He suddenly froze, lowering his hands just enough to look at you. "Did you just say I have a big dick? Wait. Fuck. OUCH. It just fucking hurts! Please, please help me, I've tried everything but it just won't budge! It hurts so much!"
You squinted at the shiny, slick mess coating his thighs and soaking into the bath towel. "Did you try lube?"
"Yes!"
"Baby oil?"
"Yes!"
"Did you... did you use the cooking oil from the kitchen?!"
"YES! FUCK!" he sobbed into his hands again.
"Why did you even put it on?!" you yelled back, genuinely baffled by his astronomical stupidity.
“I was horny, what else?!” he cried and shook his hands. “You left with the cum tie in your hair—”
“THE WHAT?!”
Your hands froze in the air. Your brain forcefully restarted about three times trying to process the sequence of syllables he had just screamed at you.
The cum tie.
You suddenly felt the gentle pull of the pink elastic holding up your ponytail. The one that was your favorite. The one you had idly wondered before why it was suddenly so... crusty.
"You..." you whispered, a cold wave of fresh nausea washing over you. "You did what to my hair tie?"
“I didn’t mean to!” he sobbed, face red and streaked with tears. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I used it, and then you put it in your hair to go out with the guy and it made me crazy so I put the ring on!”
Your hand twitched toward your ponytail. You were going to rip it out. Burn it. Shave your head. And then murder him. A jury would probably let you off in seconds.
But then you looked down. His dick might actually pop! like a grease-filled water balloon. There was no time.
You took a deep, slightly deranged breath and shoved every horrifying thought into a box for later. You could have a full meltdown about having his reproductive fluids in your hair as an accessory after you made sure his dick didn’t fall off.
You aggressively ignored his stare, locking your eyes entirely on the crisis. "Okay. Okay, I've got this. This is a medical emergency."
Your brain started racing. You couldn't cut it off without risking severing something vital, you certainly weren’t a doctor, and the swelling was so so severe to just pull the ring back over the ridge. You knelt there, suddenly arriving at a horrifying conclusion that you were going to need a serious moment to accept.
Because there was only one way to get it off. And the only way to get it off was to get rid of the erection.
You had to make him cum.
“Okay,” you muttered. Then again. And again. Like repeating it would make it feel less insane. “W-we just need to… get it down.”
You bit your lip, giving yourself the quickest, most productive, and most threatening internal TED Talk in human history. Your hands twitched, but you finally reached out and wrapped them around his oil-slicked shaft.
“AGH— FUCK— NO!” Satoru immediately jerked back like you’d electrocuted him, slamming against the mattress.
"What the hell?! I barely touched it!"
“The skin’s too tight!” he cried out, practically hyperventilating. “It feels like a razor blade— you can’t use your hands, it hurts too much!”
You tried again anyway, slower this time, gripping him carefully. The skin was burning hot, painfully stretched over the trapped blood. You gave one experimental stroke.
“No— no no no, please stop—” His voice broke into a real whimper as fresh tears spilled down his face. He pushed at your shoulders, legs shaking. “Please, I can’t— it hurts so fucking bad—”
You yanked your hands back, heart pounding as your own panic officially set in. "THEN WHAT ELSE?!"
“I DON’T KNOW! I thought you might know!”
"HOW SHOULD I KNOW?!"
A beat of deafening silence fell over the grease-scented bedroom. You looked at him. Then down at the problem between his legs.
Wait—
Your brain scrambled for literally any other fucking solution. Ice? Cutting it completely off? Calling 911 and collectively dying of embarrassment on the spot?
Nothing.
There was nothing else.
God fucking help you. You might as well die from the cringe right here on the floor.
You stared down at his lengthy cock again. It was a pathetic mix of pre-cum against his oil-slicked stomach. Satoru was breathing in short, panicked gasps, tears still tracking down his flushed cheeks, glasses fogged and crooked, looking totally helpless.
“No,” you whispered to the empty space between his thighs, stomach twisting with reluctant acceptance. Coming to terms with your own fate. Girl, it’s your fault. Your fate had been sealed the second you decided to find a roommate on Reddit. “No, no, no.”
“What?” Satoru whimpered through his teeth, barely audible. “What ‘no’?”
If your hands were completely off the table…
A wave of heat flooded your face and dropped straight into your belly. Surely from disgust. Trust.
You shifted forward on your knees, your dress dragging through the oily mess on the floor. The fabric was already ruined and sticking to your skin. You braced one hand on his trembling thigh, leaned in, and took the swollen head of his cock into your mouth.
The taste was vile as hell.
Canola oil, baby oil, lube, and the bitter salt of his pre-cum all hit your tongue at once. You made a muffled, disgusted sound around him as your lips stretched and you sank down. The mixture mixed with your saliva and slid down your throat as he pushed deeper than you expected.
Satoru’s entire body jolted as the mushroomy head hit the back of your mouth.
“Whoa— oh my fucking god—” His voice cracked into a broken, high moan. His stomach flexed like he was trying not to fold in half. Both of his hands flew to your hair, oily fingers catching in your ponytail, clutching without quite pushing or pulling. I mean, you already had cum in your hair anyway. What was a little more oil and lube?
His hips twitched. His thighs trembled under your hand. He clearly had no idea what to do with himself.
You started moving, and it was messy from the first second.
Everything was slippery. Your lips kept sliding, saliva mixing with the grease until it dripped down his shaft in shiny, frothy strings. You had to suck harder just to keep any kind of rhythm, cheeks hollowing, tongue working in messy circles under the head every time you pulled up. The wet sounds filled the room — slick sucking, soft gagging when you took him too deep, his broken little whimpers.
You hated the taste.
You hated how your knees already ached against the hard floor.
You hated that your dress was ruined, soaked through and sticking to your skin.
And you hated the way he was looking down at you — in pain, in complete disbelief that you were actually sucking him off.
ANd what you really hated the most was that you were looking up at him while you mouth was licking him up and your body was already starting to betray you.
Tingly heat was spreading low in your belly. Every throb along his length, every broken moan that slipped out of him, made you wetter. You weren’t supposed to be horny! You should’ve been so so disgusted. But the scent of him, the taste of his pre-cum coating your tongue, made your pussy clench around nothing. Your nipples were hard, rubbing against the inside of your dress. Your cunt felt hot and slick — whether from your own arousal or the oily sludge on the floor, you genuinely couldn’t tell anymore.
You bobbed deeper, taking him until your nose brushed the base and the ring dug into your skin, then pulled back with a wet gasp. A thick and slimy string of saliva and oil connected your lips to his cock before it broke.
Satoru was staring down at you like you’d personally broken his brain.
His chest was heaving. Tears were still leaking from the corners of his eyes — pain, pleasure, or the sheer absurdity of the situation, it didn’t matter. His mouth hung open, glasses sliding down his nose.
Then his eyes dropped to your chest.
His gaze followed the way your dress had slipped lower during all the movement. Your tits were threatening to spill out completely. He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.
His hands left your hair and reached down. Big, warm palms cupped your breasts through the thin fabric first — almost careful. But then he yanked the neckline down hard, dragging the fabric under your arms, practically rrrrripping it open, until your tits spilled free.
A fresh tear tracked down his cheek as he stared at them like they were something holy.
“Holy fuck— your tits—” he breathed, cupping them fully. His thumbs brushed over your hard nipples before he started kneading with desperate, greedy hands. Squeezing, lifting, rolling the soft flesh between his fingers exactly like he had in the kitchen — except this time there was nothing holding him back, because you certainly wouldn’t make him stop.
The moan you let out around his cock was involuntary and absolutely nobody’s business, alright? Your teeth grazed his sensitive skin and the vibration, combined with the impromptu bite, made his hips jerk violently. He let out a breathless gasp, hands tightening on your boobs almost painfully before he loosened his grip again, thumbs flicking over your nipples in a way that sent sparks straight between your legs.
The lace of your panties was useless now, clinging to your soaked pussy lips.
But the dress had become a real problem, at least that’s what you were telling yourself. It was restricting your movement, getting in the way every time you tried to take him deeper. It was uncomfortable as hell, which was actually true.
You pulled off his cock with a wet pop!, lips shiny and swollen.
Fuck this dress. And probably him too.
You sat back on your heels and yanked it over your head, kicking it away. Now you were kneeling in nothing but your ruined lace panties — the ones you’d specifically worn because you were hoping to get laid tonight.
Well. You weren’t entirely wrong, now were you?
Satoru made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut. His wildest dream had just come true in the most deranged way possible.
You leaned back in and took him into your mouth again, sucking with more purpose now. One hand stayed wrapped around the base near the ring while your other hand stroked his thigh and lower stomach — anywhere to try and soothe him.
His clammy hands were right back on your bare tits, rolling them between his fingers like he was trying to memorize their exact shape. You moaned around him because it felt so fucking good. Unfairly good.
The taste was still awful. The room still reeked of canola oil. Satoru was still quietly crying above you — overwhelmed, terrified, and so turned on he could barely think straight. But the way he was touching you, the way he was falling apart in your mouth…
You were dripping straight through the lace right onto his fucking floor.
One of your hands snaked down your body. You pushed your panties aside and started rubbing desperate circles over your poor clit while you kept sucking him.
What a development.
Righteous ideologies and all. Now you were naked on the floor of your incel roommate’s bedroom, sucking his cock while fingering yourself. Truly the most progressive way to handle this type of man.
Your pussy felt hot and aching. Your fingers slid through your own slick, making your hips twitch and another moan vibrate around his dick.
Satoru’s breathing sounded like a kettle about to boil over. His hands kept slipping on your oily skin, smearing the mess across your chest and shoulders. He was trapped in the most surreal, humiliating, perfect moment of his life — your mouth on him, you naked and touching yourself while the whole room smelled like a deep fryer.
He was half-sobbing, half-moaning.
“You’re— nghh— you’re actually getting off while—” His voice cracked as he looked down at you. You glanced up through your lashes, a little scowl on your flushed face, fingers still working between your legs.
You couldn’t even be embarrassed anymore. The absurdity had burned straight through your shame. You were horny. Stupidly, painfully horny. It was all too much and not enough at the same time.
Filthy sounds filled the room. He was crying. You were crying. Sweat was mixing with the oily mess coating your skin. You could taste your own tears mixed with the mess on his cock as they slid down your face. One of his hands was tangled in your ponytail, greasing it up nice and disgusting.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he choked out, voice hoarse. “I can’t— ngh— I can’t believe this is real—”
You pulled off just enough to breathe. “Shut up and let me finish this,” you muttered, then sank back down, taking him as deep as the ring would allow.
His other hand relocated to your shoulder.
Then his dick throbbed hard against your tongue. Swelling, twitching and you knew he was about to blow.
You started to pull back, but his hands moved faster. One fisted tighter in your hair, the other gripped your shoulder hard. He held you in place. Rough. Desperate. But he didn’t mean to!
You made a surprised, muffled sound around him as his hips jerked.
“W-wait—fuck—I’m—!” he gasped, betrayed by his own body.
You felt the first big pulse against your tongue.
You manage to wrench your head back at the last second because there was no way in hell you were swallowing a mixture of cum and baby oil — popping off just in time. But it was too late to get completely clear.
Satoru came hard.
The first thick rope hit you across the cheek and lips. The next few painted messy white stripes across your chin, your chest, and down your neck. It kept cooooming in hot, twitchy pulses until he’d almost emptied his aching balls.
And suddenly you were back in the kitchen. Only this time it wasn’t a freaking Activia dripping down your tits.
It was him.
You stumbled backward onto your ass, cum cooling on your skin as he finally let go of you. You wiped the back of your hand across your cheek, smearing it further. He just stared down at you like he’d died and gone to heaven — you, sprawled on his floor, covered in his cum, panties twisted half-off your hips, your blushing cunt smiling up right at him and your panicked eyes unblinking.
Holy fucking nirvana, right there.
You felt disgusting. You felt filthy.
And somehow, you were still throbbing between your legs.
“Fuck— shit, fuck, fuck!” Satoru cursed, trying to stand up too fast. He slipped on the oily towel and nearly ate shit before catching himself on the edge of the bed. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hold you there, I just— it was too much, I panicked—”
He stumbled toward you on shaky legs, one hand reaching out like he was going to help you up, the other still hovering near his softening cock.
“Satoru,” you said, voice low. “Pull it off.”
He froze for half a second, then looked down.
And it was finally, finally softening. The angry red-purple was fading. The skin wasn’t stretched as tight anymore and there was a very small, very dangerous window before he’d be hard again and back in square one.
His eyes lit up with desperate hope. He grabbed the cock ring with both hands and yanked.
The sound that tore out of him was somewhere between a sob and a scream. It was violent, painful, and made you cringe so so badly. The ring caught on the ridge for one horrible second before it finally slipped off with a wet smack and skidded across the floor.
For a moment, Satoru just knelt there, breathing hard through the fading pain. Fresh tears tracked down his flushed face as the relief finally hit him.
Then he looked at you. Really looked. At the mess he’d made across your pretty face and chest. At the absolute state of the room. At everything.
“I’m the worst,” he whispered. “I know I’m the worst. You should kick me out. You should call the cops. I didn’t mean to make it worse. You probably hate me—”
He looked like he was about to start ugly crying for real. His shoulders were shaking as he braced himself for you to slap him.
And look — you wanted to. You wanted to go back in time so you would’ve never answered that fucking Reddit post, never answered his call, never come home tonight. Or maybe… go back just a little bit. To when your tongue was sliding over his frenulum and you’d never been so turned on in your life.
Either way, you weren’t sure anymore. Your brain was more scrambled than the eggs you’d had for breakfast.
So instead of slapping him, you surged forward, grabbed his face with both of your hands, smearing his cum and your own arousal all over his jawline and kissed him hard enough to shut him up.
For half a second he stayed completely frozen — stunned that you were kissing him instead of murdering him on the spot. You nudged your tongue against his lips, urging him to kiss you back, because the last thing you needed right now was sucking your incel roommate off and then having him refuse to kiss you afterward. That would’ve been a new low. Truly historic.
But then he let out a shaky breath and kissed you back.
He kissed you desperately, messily, like he was trying to crawl inside your mouth. Saliva, cum, tears, and oil all mixed together as your tongues slid against each other. Teeth clicked. His hands came up to grab your waist, pulling you closer until your chest pressed against his own. He whimpered needily into your mouth and tangled his tongue with yours like he was starving for it.
His glasses got knocked even more crooked.
When you finally pulled back to breathe, you reached down and started yanking your ruined lace panties off. They were twisted around your thighs and sticking to your skin from all the mess.
Satoru, still breathing hard and clearly trying to regain some sense of control, decided this was THE moment, HIS moment to be useful.
“Here— let me help,” he muttered, reaching down with both hands.
The two of you fumbled together in some weird horny trance, his fingers sliding against your thigh as he tried to tug the lace down your leg.
But his hand slid right off your slick skin and he lost his balance completely. With a startled gasp! he pitched forward and crashed down right on top of you, pinning you to the floor.
His full weight pressed you into the cold hardwood. Chest to chest, hips slotted between your thighs. The kisses making him hard again, dick now twitching insistently against your tummy.
Then Satoru lifted his head from the crook of your neck and looked down at you. His hair was a mess, but there was something almost determined in his expression now.
“I’ve got it,” he said. Yeah. He definitely got this. He’d seen the porn. He’d read the r/sex threads. He was a man, the man! He knew exactly what he was supposed to do. Fluent in the dickology! Show you what a high-value male can do. You'll respect it. You’ll want it!
You stared up at him and raised one eyebrow.“…Are you sure?”
He looked faintly offended, but reached between your bodies anyway, grabbed his cock, and lined himself up against your slick folds. The blunt head nudged against your entrance before he pushed in with one unsteady thrust and you were honestly surprised he found your hole on a first try.
The stretch was intense. His cock bullied its way into your tight cunt, the sudden fullness making your back arch slightly off the floor. And it made you think that maybe… just maybe he’s a virgin incel but he somehow actually knows how to fuck?
Satoru made a choked sound above you. He braced his hands on either side of your head and started moving, a little too fast, a little too rough, like he was following some mental checklist of “how alpha males fuck” or something.
His hips snapped forward, rolling against yours. On a few of his clumsy thrusts, the sharp angle of his hipbone dragged right across your swollen clit.
A spark of pleasure shot right through you, made your breath hitch and his dick catch inside of you. Your fingers scratched on his shoulders and for a second you were hopeful, hopeful that perhaps incels were just involuntarily celibate men with a dick game like this.
It died almost instantly. His rhythm fell apart just as the plushy walls of your pussy enveloped him fully in the slick warmth. His movement turned erratic as his hips started stuttering.
“I—fuck—I can’t—ngh—!”
So… He lasted exactly forty-five seconds.
With a humiliated groan he slammed into your cervix one last time and came haard, painting your walls in thick, sticky white. His wobbly arms gave out again and he collapsed on top of you not very gracefully, face buried right back into your neck as he rode out the pathetic orgasm. He was breathing hard, the sound mixing with the wet squelching of oil, cum, and sweat between your bodies every time either of you shifted.
You stared sideways at the messy white strands of his hair currently tickling your pulse point, feeling his cum slowly leaking out around his softening cock. The frustration burning hot alongside with the ghost ache right in between legs.
If he had just let you ride him instead. Ugh.
“…Really?” you said flatly.
Satoru, mortified, made a small devastated noise into your neck and laced his fingers with yours like that would somehow make it better.
You hadn’t come from the fingering earlier. You definitely hadn’t come from his forty-five-second marathon.
You shoved at his shoulder.
“Satoru.”
He made a small, satisfied noise.
“Satoru. Did you just cum inside me?”
His eyes flew open. The bliss drained from his face instantly. He slowly nodded, guilty, not knowing if he should be terrified or glad.
You pushed him off you. He rolled onto his back with a wet squelch.
You sat up, cum and oil smeared across your skin, and stared down at him.
“You ruined my date,” you said, voice low. “You were stupid enough to trap your own dick in a death trap and made me come home to deal with it. You came all over me without letting me cum, and then you creampied me in under a minute.”
He opened his mouth, “I was just claiming what’s mine—”ready to say something even more stupid.
You cut him off, because you were not listening to that right now and ever fucking again. “Don’t. I swear to god, if you say one more word of that pseudo-alpha, podcast-bro bullshit right now, I can promise you this will be the first and last time you ever have your dick in any pussy. Ever.”
He froze.
You leaned in, eyes narrowed, pussy suddenly drying up at high speed.
“I’m serious, Satoru. All that ‘high-value male,’ ‘she’ll respect dominance,’ ‘women secretly want to be put in their place’ garbage? It’s not cute. It’s not hot. It’s not working. It makes you sound like a loser. You’re only lucky that I’m stupid enough to actually fucking like you.”
And Satoru deadass had nothing to say, because it didn’t make sense, yet it made all the sense. And in the middle of the gears grinding he blinked up at you because… did you just tell him you like him?
Before he could grab your chin and kiss you stupid again, you pointed between your legs.
“Since you made this mess, you’re going to clean it up. Now.”
The color drained from his face as he stared at you. “Y-you want me to eat out my cum?”
“Did I stutter?”
He was too stunned and properly terrified to argue. He knew that if he didn’t get his shit together right now, this really might be the first and last time he ever saw pussy in real life. So he scrambled down between your thighs without another word.
He’s going to do it for the love of the game. Can’t be that bad, right?
He gulped as he nestled between your soft thighs, eyeing your tight little hole as a little trail of his cum mixed with your frothy slick leaked onto the floor below you. And it was the prettiest sight he had ever seen.
The reluctant pout on his face made it clear he was weighing eating his own cum against the very real possibility of never getting to fuck you again, so you made it easier for him. You grabbed a fistful of his white hair and yanked his face straight against your pussy. His nose immediately buried right between your wet folds, tickling the sensitive flesh.
And maybe he was currently terrified of you, or it was the fact that he finally smelled your sex up close — either way, he was now desperate to please you.
The first drag of his tongue through your folds was experimental, almost cautious.
He did it again, licking with too much pressure and in all the wrong places, clearly thinking he was doing something impressive, missing your clit. Again. And again. And again.
And or fuck’s sake, you lasted maybe fifteen seconds. You reached down, grabbed his silky hair again, and yanked his head up to adjust him.
He furrowed his brows at you, confused and a little offended, like he was about to argue — until his tongue accidentally flicked right over your clit.
His eyes widened slightly.
He did it again, slower this time. A testing little flick. Eyes wide, as if asking what the hell just happened, feeling the little knob jumping.
You let out a shaky moan, fingers tightening in his hair.
“That’s my clit, Satoru.”
His eyes darkened and he dove back in with completely different energy. Okay, he knew where your cute little clit was. Now onto figuring out how to make you come on his tongue.
He started with the licking, up and down, until he pushed into your leaking hole. He almost immediately tasted his own cum, still warm, thick, and disgustingly bitter against your sweet pussy juices, and he made a guttural sound right against you.
He should have been disgusted, appalled, mortified through his militant incel brain. But why did it taste so wrong, it tasted so so right?
Eating himself right out of you — it was so pathetic, so raw, so hot. And you couldn’t fucking believe you actually made him do it.
Your pussy fluttered and he dove in like a man possessed.
A desperate whine vibrated against your clit as he started licking in earnest. Messy, unrestrained, starving. He was slurping loudly, tongue pushing deep to get more of the mixture, swallowing it down like he couldn’t get enough. Every time he tasted more of himself leaking out of you, another broken moan escaped him.
His hands gripped your thighs hard, holding you open as he buried his face deeper. He was whining and whimpering into your cunt like tasting his own cum inside you had flipped some primal, pathetic switch in his brain neither of you even knew existed.
“Fuck— you taste so good— I taste so good on you—” Every few seconds he would pull back just enough to breathe, drooling, and mutter broken little things against your skin. And you were once again left wondering where all the skill came from.
Then he’d dive right back in, tongue flicking over your clit before dragging down to lap at your hole again, like he was trying to clean you out and make you messy all over again at the same time.
It was deranged.
It was filthy.
And it was fucking working.
Your hand fisted in his hair, gripping tight. He moaned loudly at the rough treatment, the sound muffled against your pussy as his tongue circled your clit, biting then sucking on it, then flattening to drag it through your folds like he was trying to devour you whole.
You were gushing at this point, and not a drop ever spilled on the floor as he slurped you like his favourite boba flavour. His touch spread across your entire body as the orgasm built after getting edged the entire evening to fucking oblivion.
“‘Toru—” you cried, thighs starting to tremble around his head. And he bit down gently on your inner thigh when you tried to close your legs on instinct.
Look, it’s not like you did it on purpose — who the fuck would want to close up shop when business was this good?
He kitten-licked your poor clit, sending sparks right to your lower belly. Your back arched off the floor as his hand snaked up at the right damn time to flick your nipple.
Oh.
“Holy— ngh— fuck, ‘Toru—!” you screamed and came all over his poor face, thighs clamping around his head as you tried to suffocate him with your spasming pussy. You shook like you’d been electrocuted and he kept licking and licking, to the point you weren’t sure if you came again or if it was just one big orgasm. He wanted to taste every damn second of you falling apart because of him, for him.
His face was a mess. Half of it was shiny and wet with your slick, lips prettily swollen. He’d thrown his glasses somewhere on the floor in the middle of it. His pupils were practically heart-shaped, and he looked so wrecked it was beautiful.
He was so cum-drunk he only stared up at you with his mouth open, resting his cheek against your inner thigh, waiting.
And your eyes might’ve been heart-shaped too, because the sight of him made you throb all over again.
“Fuck,” you almost moaned, reaching down to grab his shoulders. “Come here.”
Satoru didn’t need to be told twice. He crawled up your body like he was starving for it, for you. He crashed his lips against yours and the kiss was fucking messy. You could taste yourself on him as he smeared your slick across your chin, tongues sliding sloppily against each other like you were trying to devour one another.
His hands found your waist. He shifted his weight and rolled the two of you until his back was against the bed and you were straddling him in his lap.
You broke the kiss just long enough to look at him. His chest was heaving. And he was looking up at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
Everything was still disgustingly sticky, but the way he looked at you made your heart go thump thump thump in a way it never had before. So you reached down, wrapped your hand around his cock, and sank down onto him in one slow, slick motion.
Satoru’s head tipped back against the bed with a broken groan that made the muscles in his neck jump. His hands immediately gripped your hips hard, fingers digging into your ass like he needed to anchor himself.
“Fuuck—” he slurred, voice so dazed. “Oh my god— you’re so warm— so fucking tight—tighter—”
You started moving, rolling your hips in frantic circles. Every time you sank down, you could feel the tip kissing your cervix, nudging right up against the entrance of your womb as he completely bottomed out.
It didn’t take long before his hands tightened on your ass and he started helping you. He pulled you down onto him faster, guiding your hips with desperate hands while lifting his own to meet you halfway.
“Shit— just like that,” he whimpered, kissing all over your jaw as his tip kissed your poor cervix again and again and again. “Ngh— you’re milking me so good—”
He was completely gone. Eyes glassy, mouth open, babbling whatever came to his mind as you rode him. And every time you clenched around him, another broken sound slipped out of him.
His mouth searched for yours again, licking into the corners of your lips before kissing you deep. You slipped two fingers into his mouth and he immediately sucked on them, tongue rolling around your fingers with a needy moan that made your pussy flutter and squeeze around him even harder. Your swollen clit dragged over his lap and lower stomach with every roll, his happy trail tickling your sensitive folds and sending sparks up your spine.
Satoru whined around your fingers, hips twitching up helplessly.
One of his hands stayed on your hip while the other slid up and wrapped around your neck. His thumb brushed along the side of your throat as he started moving you faster, pulling you down onto his cock with more urgency. The sound of your skin loud.
“I’m so close,” he warned desperately against your lips. “Fuck— I’m gonna cum— you feel too good—”
His hand squeezed, holding you in place as he helped you bounce on him. Every time you sank down, he lifted his hips to meet you, fucking up into you until your jaw rattled. He was panting hard, forehead pressed against yours, completely pussy-drunk.
Satoru came with a broken, drawn-out moan, hips jerking up into you as he spilled deep inside. He held you down against him, grinding up as he pumped his cum into you like he was unconsciously trying to fuck it into your womb. His hand on your neck tightened just enough to pin you down against him while he trembled through it.
Both of you were breathing hard. He held you close and kissed the side of your head as he hugged you.
“D-did you cum?” he mumbled against your skin, still dazed and half out of it.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, deadpan.
“WHAT?”
He blinked up at you, still glassy-eyed and fucked-out. “You squeezed me so hard I thought you did! Okay then— cum then!”
You stared at him for a second, somewhere between offended, frustrated, and fond, before letting out a short laugh.
“You’re actually so fucking stupid.”
You were still softly rolling your hips, using his softening cock like a dildo while you were still determined to cum again. Satoru just watched you, half-intently, half blissed-out, still breathing hard, feeling his cum escaping your pussy and pooling in his lap. After a moment, one of his hands slid down between your bodies. His fingers found your clit easily this time and started rubbing you.
“Fuck— you’re still so wet,” he mumbled, eyes locked on where you were grinding against him. “Keep going… I’ve got you.”
So you kept moving on his semi-hard cock while he fingered you, the combination making your thighs shake. Your breath started hitching and Satoru was watching your face closely now, still drunk but trying to focus.
When your mouth fell open so prettily and your eyes fluttered as he just hit that spot inside you with the angle of his cock, his other hand moved to your hip almost automatically. He gripped you and started moving you himself, guiding you in short, deliberate rolls so his cock and his fingers kept pressing right against that same sensitive spot from both sides.
“There?” he asked, voice low and rough. “Right there?”
You could only nod, a broken whimper slipping out of you as you started tipping forward, head on his sweaty shoulder until your thighs were trembling hard and you felt like a jelly.
You came with a sharp, shaky moan, clenching around his soft cock as the overstimulating orgasm tingled through you. Satoru held you through it, still moving you gently and praising you until you completely slumped forward against his chest.
He hugged you tight, face buried in your neck.
And you stayed slumped against Satoru’s chest for a long minute, both of you just breathing each other in. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, and reality slowly started to creep back in.
The room was in fucking ruin. You were both coated in a sticky mess, the mattress behind you was most likely ruined, and the floor was dangerously slippery. It smelled like greasy sex.
“Well,” you said.
“Yeah,” he answered quietly.
You slowly peeled yourself off his chest, shivering as the cool air hit your slick, overheated skin.
You looked down at him and he still looked completely fucked-out, and you decided you could get used to that look. As you stretched, you felt his cum trailing down your inner thighs. Satoru’s eyes followed it from the front row, his spent dick giving a weak twitch at the sight.
“I’m going to take a shower,” you said softly, breaking the quiet. You paused, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “…Wanna join?”
Satoru’s heart practically stopped. His eyes widened and for a second he looked like he was going to follow you like a lost, oily puppy. But then he glanced around at the absolute state of his bedroom and reality hit him again.
“I’ll, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I’ll clean this up a bit first. You go ahead.”
You pouted but gave him a soft, understanding nod. “Don’t take too long, ‘Toru.”
You grabbed one of his random t-shirts from the floor and padded down the hallway toward the bathroom.
Left alone on the floor, Satoru stared at the opposite wall for a long time. He was deadass completely re-evaluating his entire existence.
He had just experienced the most surreal, life-changing two hours of his life, and the only thing he knew for certain was that he was completely whipped for you. For once, he didn’t care what his old incel education had to say about it.
He reached over to his nightstand, picked up his phone, and wiped a smear of baby oil off the screen before opening Reddit.
r/relationship_advice
I (M) think I’m in love with my roommate (F) and I might have just completely fucked everything up in the most humiliating way possible
Throwaway because if she ever sees this she will murder me.
I’ve been living with this girl for almost a year. She’s my roommate. For the longest time I thought I had everything figured out. I believed that if I just kept doing enough, she’d eventually see me as a potential mate. She didn’t, obviously.
Tonight I did something so fucking stupid I still can’t believe I’m typing this. I got a cock ring stuck on my dick. I panicked and called her while she was on a date and basically begged her to come home. She helped me. She got it off. And then… something else happened. Something I didn’t expect at all. And now she’s in the shower and I feel like I fucked up our friendship beyond repair. My entire worldview feels kinda off.
I think I’m in love with her. I’ve been a terrible roommate. I’ve been a terrible person tbh. I don’t know what we are now. I don’t even know if I have the right to ask. But I think I love her. And I have no idea what the fuck I’m supposed to do.
Please help. And be nice this time.
u/GrassToucherGeto · 183 upvotes
Is this the same guy who posted that viral “AITA for expecting my roommate to fuck me because I did the dishes” thread a few weeks ago?
u/KingNaoya69 · 56 upvotes
You fucked her? Good shit bro. Don’t fuck it up this time.
Satoru looked up when you walked out of the hallway wearing his t-shirt, your hair still damp and smelling like strawberries. Something in his chest went soft at the sight.
He was still sitting on the floor, holding a bottle of kitchen cleaner in one hand and a roll of paper towels in the other. He looked like he had no idea what he was doing.
You sighed and gave him a soft, tired look.
“‘Toru,” you said gently. “You’re not going to be able to clean this mess up right now. Just go wash up.” You paused, biting your lip. “Let’s just sleep in my room tonight, alright?”
He blinked up at you, panicked and hopeful all at once. You tilted your head, giving him the softest smile you’d given him yet. That was all it took. He dropped the cleaner without a second thought and basically sprinted down the hall.
He took the fastest, most aggressive shower of his entire life, scrubbing the residual oil and shame off his skin like he was trying to erase the last few hours.
When he finally crept into your bedroom, the lights were already off and you were in bed. He climbed in beside you and the sheets smelled like you. It was warm. It was safe. It made something in his chest loosen.
You shifted over without opening your eyes, throwing an arm across his chest and tucking your face into the crook of his neck with a soft, contented sigh. You fell asleep almost instantly.
Satoru lay there staring up at the dark ceiling, gently nuzzling the top of your head with his cheek. A quiet, overwhelming sense of peace settled over him.
Carefully, so as not to wake you, he reached for his phone on the nightstand one last time.
He opened Reddit and went back to his post. The comments had already blown up again — some people calling the story fake, others demanding more details about the cock ring, a few calling him a simp.
Satoru smiled to himself.
He typed out one final edit.
Update: nvm, she’s tucked into my side. Take this as a PSA to all the other incels out there. Admins, please flag this as SOLVED.
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゛★ nsfwtwt ! satoru gojo has a secret porn account.
oneshot .ᐟ ⋆ #nsfwtwt nerdjo ⋆ blackmailing him ⋆ satoru is secretly a freak ⋆ possibility of a p2 ⋆ goes to uni with reader ⋆ no smut ⋆ nsfw/heavily suggestive
Calculus.
The word itself was a curse. It wasn't just a subject; it was designed by some ancient, sadistic mathematician to make pretty girls like you suffer. What was his name? Archimedes… something like that. Yeah, screw that guy.
You were a popular girl. It wasn't a title you'd given yourself, that would be lame, it was simply a fact. You knew the right people, said the right things, and always looked effortlessly put-together. Someone like you didn’t have the time for complexities of differential equations. But that was okay, because that’s where your live-in (ish), human calculator came in.
You glanced across the table at him.
Satoru Gojo. The campus's quintessential nerd. Tall, lanky, perpetually hunched over a textbook, hiding behind a pair of black glasses that made his bright blue eyes look a lot bigger than they actually were. He wore oversized sweaters and button-ups that were always a size too big, the sleeves hanging over his hands. He was the guy you'd copy answers from in lectures, the one you'd text at 2 in the morning with one, demanding message: "hw answers.”
He was a tool. Useful, quiet, and unassuming. He wasn’t even saved by his name—just “nerd from calc” because what other use would he be of to you?
"So, did you get the derivative for problem seven? The one with the... ugh, whatever it was," you groaned, leaning forward and tapping your manicured nail on his open notebook.
He didn't even look startled. "It's an implicit differentiation problem. I put the work for it on the second page," he said, his voice low and monotone. He didn't look at you.
He never did. It was part of his schtick, you guessed. Too shy to make eye contact with you or some nerdy shit like that.
You grabbed his notebook, snapping a quick picture of the page. “Thanks, nerd. You’re a lifesaver.” You said it with the kind of smile that would make any heterosexual man trip over their own feet. He just nodded, eyes flushed to his laptop screen. What a loser.
You rolled your eyes and were about to turn away, phone in hand, when your gaze snagged on something. His hair. It was white. Not blonde, not gray, but a stark, almost shockingly pure white. It was messy, sticking up in all directions like he'd just rolled out of bed. You blinked. A sudden, strange feeling washed over you.
Where had you seen that hair before?
The memory hit you like a freight train.
Last night. 1 AM. You'd been bored, scrolling through Twitter, looking for something... interesting. You weren't ashamed of it. You were a teenage college student with needs. You'd been searching through the depths of the more porn-y side of Twitter, looking for some good stuff, when you stumbled upon a page.
The username was "@glassesoff."
The pictures were... god. Well, they were mouth-watering. Not the usual, low-effort thirst traps. These were high-quality. S-tier jerk off material. Tasteful, even, if you could call a close-up of a massive, perfect and pretty cock "tasteful." The shots were low-angle, emphasizing the sheer fucking size of the guy. Pictures of a shredded, lean torso, biceps that looked like they could choke you out in seconds, and a set of abs that had a six-pack so defined it was practically a twelve-pack. And the dick. You involuntarily licked your lips just thinking about it. A solid seven inches, maybe more, thick and beautifully shaped you got hot just thinking about it. There was no face. Just a body, and a hint of a messy head of hair.
White hair.
Who the fuck had white hair?
You’d followed the page almost immediately after binge watching his stuff with your fingers stuffed inside your pussy. You had a great time. Fantastic, even. Fell asleep right after, exhausted and thoroughly satisfied.
Now, looking at the quiet, nerdy boy in front of you, you felt a shiver run down your spine.
No way. No. Fucking. Way.
The username was "glasses off." Satoru wore glasses. He had white hair. And underneath those baggy clothes...
You stared at him. Hard. Freakishly hard it would be impossible for him not to notice. You were trying to see through the fabric, trying to imagine the body you'd seen on your phone screen hidden under all that shapeless cotton and wool.
He must have felt your gaze—there’s no way he wouldn’t. He finally looked up, his blue eyes meeting yours. "You're staring," he said, a faint frown on his face.
You snapped out of it, a flush creeping up your neck. "What? No, I wasn't. I was just... thinking. Don’t flatter yourself, four-eyes,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes as your arms folded over your chest and your foot tapped a continuous pattern on the floor.
He raised an eyebrow, a skeptical look on his face. "Uh-huh. Sure. Look, if you're done, I have to get to my next class." He started gathering his things, shoving his laptop into his bag.
You watched him go, your mind a hurricane of possibilities. It was impossible. Wasn't it? There was no way the skinny, shy nerd who you had relegated to "tool" status was packing that kind of heat. No way he had a body that could make a porn star jealous.
And yet, the thought gnawed at you all day.
You couldn't focus in your lectures. You couldn't even concentrate on your Instagram feed which was not normal. All you could see was that low-angle shot of a perfect, beautiful cock that you wanted so badly. And then you'd imagine Satoru's shy, blushing face behind it. You shook your head—literally. Trying to shove the shameless thoughts away. AP lit class isn’t the time for horny thoughts. Especially not ones possibly related to your calc classmate.
That night, you were back in your dorm room. It was quiet, your roommate already asleep— totally and blissfully unaware of what you were doing. You opened Twitter, your finger hovering over the button on the search bar of "@glassesoff"’s page. You clicked on the profile, scrolling through the pictures again. It was admittedly your favorite page. You'd already jerked off to it twice. You’d probably do it again. But… the fact that it could be your nerdy classmate made it a bit weird.
You paused on a particular video. The camera angle was from the guy's perspective, looking down at his own body. He was wearing a pair of sweatpants, pushed down just enough to reveal the base of his… fuck, it’s so pretty. He gave a slow, deliberate stroke, and you heard a soft, breathy gasp.
Then a whisper.
"Yeah, you like that? Fuck, feels so good touching myself to you."
Your blood ran cold. You replayed the video. Then again. And again. The whisper was barely audible, but you recognized it. Satoru’s voice was a very distinct one. You could’ve chalked it up to similarity but it was just too obvious to ignore. It was muffled, almost lost in the background noise of his hand on his dick, but it was clear as day to you.
"I can't do this again,” you muttered to yourself. “Fuck no. Fuck. No.”
It was him. It was definitely Satoru.
You sat there, your jaw on the floor. Your nerdy little homework dispenser was a secret fucking sex god. Your "nerd" was a certified freak. And you orgasmed your brains out to his videos. Multiple times.
You wanted to block him, forget about this forever and never talk or think about it ever again. But a better thought crept up on you like a devil on your shoulder. You bit your lip and smiled like you had the greatest plan of all time. This was too good. This was better than any A you could get on a calculus test.
The next day, you didn't text him. You didn't ask for homework answers. You cornered him.
You found him in the student lounge, a quiet corner away from everyone else. He was alone, hunched over a textbook, a cup of coffee untouched beside him. You walked up, your heels clicking confidently on the linoleum floor, and sat down directly across from him.
He looked up, startled. "Oh. Hey. What's up?" He began to reach for his bag, assuming you were just there for the next assignment.
"No," you said, your voice low and sharp. "You're not going anywhere."
He froze, his hand hovering in mid-air.
"Okay...?" He looked confused, and a little wary.
"I know," you said simply, leaning back and crossing your arms.
He blinked. "Know what?"
"Don't play dumb with me," you said, a triumphant smirk playing on your lips. "I know about your little side hustle. at glassesoff?”
You watched the color drain from his face, his Adam’s Apple visibly bobbed as he swallowed.
It was instantaneous. His eyes widened behind his glasses, going from startled to panicked in a fraction of a second.
"I-I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered, his voice cracking.
"Oh, really?" You pulled out your phone, holding it up so he could see the screen. It was his profile page. His shirtless body.
"So this isn't you? The guy with the white hair and the... well, you know."
He stared at the screen for a moment, then looked around and shoved your phone down quickly. Looks like he didn’t want anyone seeing his little secret. Perfect.
"Where did you get that?" he whispered frantically, hand on your phone as he made sure it stayed shoved face down on the table.
"The internet, genius. It’s a public account,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Honestly, for a guy who’s so smart, you’re not very good at covering your tracks.”
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing again. "Look... please. You can't tell anyone. Please."
"Tell anyone?" you scoffed. "Now why would I ever do that? That would be boring." You leaned forward, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "No, I have a much, much better idea."
He looked at you, his blue eyes full of fear and confusion. He knew whatever you had planned could not be good for him. "What idea?"
You smiled. "From now on, you do all my homework. All my assignments. All my projects. For the rest of the year. You do them, and you do them well. You get me an A in every class. And in exchange, I don't tell anyone that the nerdy math whiz is actually a secret internet porn star."
He stared at you, his mouth slightly agape.
"You're blackmailing me?"
"Bingo! Give this geek a prize," you said, clapping your hands together. "So, what do you say? Do we have a deal?"
He didn't have a choice. You both knew it.
He just slumped in his chair, defeated. "Fine," he sighed, “I’ll do it.”
"Perfect. Knew you’d make the smart choice," You smiled, shoving your phone into your purse. "I’m going to pass with flying colors this year thanks to your little secret."
You booped his nose before standing up, ready to leave, but you paused. You looked at him one last time.
His head was bowed, his shoulders slumped. He looked defeated. Good.
But as you walked away, you couldn't get the image of his videos out of your head.
The thick, veiny cock, the ripped abs, the way he touched himself. You came to that. You were likely going to continue to coming to that.
The new arrangement was in effect. You got back to your dorm, feeling so pleased with yourself as you slipped into your pjs and hopped into bed. Your roommate was gone for the day—thankfully, so. You had his personal number, but the rules of the blackmail were more fun if you used the account to text him. You pulled out your phone, your thumb hovering over the Twitter app. You navigated to the page you’d bookmarked: @glassesoff.
You shot him a DM. No preamble.
You: yo nerd.
For a moment, nothing. Then, the three-dot bubble appeared, then vanished, then appeared again.
@glassesoff: hey
It was simple, just like him.
You: ok so the calc assignment. the one with the integral that looks like a demonic pentagram. i need answers. whole thing and not just the final answer. the steps too so it looks like i learned something. due thursday. thx.
You watched the screen, waiting for his typically flustered, long-winded reply you’d get on his regular texting app. Something like, "Oh, sure! No problem! I'll write it out as clearly as possible. Did you try using integration by parts? It's really a beautiful problem once you see the pattern!" or some other annoying thing.
It didn’t come.
@glassesoff: cool. u got it. the trick is just a simple u-substitution at the start, the rest is just mechanical. i’ll have it for u after my 4pm lecture.
You blinked at the screen. "Cool. u got it." No emojis. No frantic reassurance. Just… cool. It felt wrong, like hearing a cat bark. It was too confident, too streamlined.
You: …not gonna ask if i want u to colour code it so its "easier to follow?" lol
@glassesoff: that what you think? i’ll just send you the latex so it’s clean. less messy.
You snorted. Less messy. The guy who once gave you a handwritten guide to the periodic table with color-coded elements by atomic weight. You decided to test the waters, to poke at the persona.
You: latex lmao. sounds kinky. u into that kind of shit, nerd?
You expected him to immediately backpedal, to sputter out a denial. To revert to the Satoru who couldn't hold eye contact for more than two seconds.
@glassesoff: you’re the one who’s been scrolling through my page for a while. you tell me.
Your jaw actually dropped. You read it twice. Now where the hell did this come from? This was not the same person. You felt a familiar flush of heat, the same one from last night, creep up your neck. This was the guy from his videos, the one who knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how it made people feel. It was like a switch had been flipped. The meek, socially anxious guy from the lecture hall was completely, utterly gone.
You: wow. bold from the guy who almost cried when i said i knew his secret
@glassesoff: bold from the girl who's used me for homework for 3 years and only now knows my name. let’s just say its easier to be myself behind a screen.
This was… surprising. You were a predator, toying with your prey, but the prey suddenly had teeth. And horns. And maybe a tail you kind of wanted to pull.
You: oh yeah? and who would “yourself” be? the one who posts his abs to thousands of strangers?
@glassesoff: among other things. you know. you saw them.
You bit your lip, hard. He was right. You’d seen them. You’d watched a video of him specifically, one where he was kneeling, a professional, almost cruel angle making his body look like a carved Greek statue. The video was titled "need an assistant for this lab," a low groan accompanying the mess he made.
You: yeah i did. i gotta say, your nerd routine is good. i almost believed it. 7 inches of "i can do your homework" was a hell of a plot twist.
@glassesoff: 7.4, actually. and i can do more than just homework, clearly.
You caught yourself in a giggle. You couldn't help it. The sheer audacity of the guy who hid in the back of the classroom, the one who seemed afraid of his own shadow, was throwing your innuendos back in your face like he was born for it.
You: calm down with the ego, nerd. u still owe me an assignment.
@glassesoff: and i’ll deliver. but since we’re being so honest now, how was your night?
Your heart did a little skip. He knew. He had to know. You’d followed his page, you’d watched his videos. The sly fucker was asking you to admit it.
You: it was fine. slept like a baby.
@glassesoff: liar. you followed my page at 11:47 pm. you didn’t sleep for at least another hour. i can see the likes on my post, princess. you liked and bookmarked the "lab assistant" one.
A sound escaped your throat. It was a mix of a laugh and a gasp. Princess? He’s calling you princess? This was a complete role reversal. You were supposed to be the one in control, the one holding all the cards. But he was dissecting your online activity with the same precision he probably used to solve his quantum physics equations.
You: stalker vibes. not cute.
@glassesoff: don’t have to be cute to make you cum.
The bluntness of it slammed into you. You had to put your phone down for a second, your face flushed now. This was a side of him that was completely not what you expected. Not… necessarily bad, but the kind that made your stomach flip and your thighs press together. This was stupid. This was the guy from the videos, the one who didn't stammer, the one who knew his worth. This was Satoru, not just the nerd, but the guy who could probably ruin you in the best way possible. You hated that it turned you on. You had blackmailed him, but it felt suspiciously like you’d just fucked yourself over.
You: i’m gonna pretend i didn’t read that. just get me my assignment, gojo.
@glassesoff: i’ll have it for you. but don't pretend. it’s boring. you're not boring.
You: and how would you know, nerd?
@glassesoff: because you're the only person who’s ever tried to blackmail me into a study date. a whole year of study dates. you're creative, i’ll give you that. be seeing you.
You stared at the last message. Study dates. He called them study dates. The absolute gall of this man. This was not how this was supposed to go. You were supposed to have him wrapped around your finger, not the other way around. But this version of Satoru, the one who typed with a lazy confidence and knew exactly how his videos affected you, was a completely different person.
You checked the time. You should probably go to bed. Early classes tomorrow… the same routine.
Your phone buzzed again. You almost didn’t want to look.
@glassesoff: also, for the record. you're right. i am a bit of a freak.
@glassesoff: good for you, though. you get to see it all for free now. my content isn't cheap.
A scoff escaped you, but it was laced something else. Anticipation, maybe. Arousal? That’s stupid. Really stupid.
You: is this your way of trying to get me to subscribe to your OF, gojo? pathetic.
@glassesoff: no. it’s my way of saying you don’t have to keep being a bad bitch for me to find you interesting.
@glassesoff: you're already interesting.
He was right. You didn't know it. You didn't know anything anymore. The sweet little nerd you'd been using for years was a literal online sex god. And now, thanks to your brilliant blackmail scheme, he was contractually obligated to spend an entire year helping you. Which meant you had a front-row seat to his secret life. The irony was almost too much.
You typed a final response, feeling the shift in the air between you. You weren't quite sure who was blackmailing who anymore.
You: fine, freak. i’ll see you at the library tomorrow. don't forget my homework.
@glassesoff: i won't. and don't forget to bring your headphones.
You: …why?
@glassesoff: so you can watch the new video i post tonight. it’s a special one. just for you.
You stared, wide-eyed. A video. Just for you. You were supposed to be the one calling the shots. But as your thumb hovered over the keyboard, you realized you didn't want to be the one in control.
You wanted to see what he had for you, despite your better judgement.
You: i’m that special?
@glassesoff: guess you are. see you soon.
And just like that, he was gone. The three-dot bubble disappeared and didn't come back.
You were left in the quiet of your room with no idea what you’ve just gotten yourself into and whether or not it would come back to bite you in the ass.
Satoru Gojo is fucking gorgeous, which is so deeply unfair that you’re still kind of processing it as he pays for your movie ticket with trembling fingers. His white hair is slightly tousled, soft against his ears, and his glasses are tilted just a bit on the bridge of his nose. He keeps pushing them up like he’s stalling, trying not to meet your eyes too long because every time he does, he gets flustered. His face goes pink and he laughs too loud. You bite your lip every time he does that.
You’re no better. Your hands are clammy inside the sleeves of your hoodie, because you thought this was going to be a safe little date. Nerdy. Harmless. You met at a fucking Doraemon expo for god’s sake, where he gave you a Doraemon-shaped candy and then looked like he wanted to die from shyness.
And now you’re sitting in a too-dark movie theatre with his knee brushing yours.
You think you’re gonna die too. Because there’s heat pooling between your legs, and you're pretty sure you’ve soaked through your panties, and this was supposed to be your first normal date. Not a panty-ruining, thigh-clenching disaster where you keep imagining his stupid hot fingers pulling your hoodie up and touching you like you're not both trembling virgins about to combust from one misplaced touch.
Satoru’s voice cracks in the dark.
“You, uh— are you okay?”
You look at him, wide-eyed. “What? Yeah. I’m fine.”
He fidgets. “You’re breathing kinda fast.”
You are. Shit.
“I’m just…” you squirm, thighs pressed tight together. “The seats are uncomfortable.”
He makes a strangled little laugh, eyes darting to the screen and then back to your mouth. You don’t know who moves first, but a second later, your hands are brushing in the popcorn bag and boom— your bodies are pressed together like magnets.
The movie is completely forgotten. You’re both leaning toward each other, breathing the same hot air, and it’s dizzying how close he is. His scent is soft and clean, like soap and sugar and some light cologne that makes your thighs ache. Your lips almost brush before he pulls back, cheeks pink.
“I-I gotta pee,” he blurts. Then winces. “Fuck. Not like— fuck, I didn’t mean it like—”
You stare at him, lips parted.
“…Me too,” you whisper. “Bathroom. I mean.”
So of course, of course, ten minutes later, you’re both in the tiny single-stall bathroom behind the snack bar, the door locked, and you’re pressed against the wall with Satoru’s hands hovering an inch from your waist like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you.
You’re panting.
So is he.
And there’s the faintest bulge pressing against his pants.
“You’re hard,” you whisper, stunned.
Satoru turns bright red. “I didn’t mean to be! I swear I wasn’t thinking anything— well I was thinking but not like— well yes like that but I didn’t expect you to—”
“I’m wet.”
That shuts him up.
He blinks. “Wha— You, wait really?”
You nod furiously. “Soaked. I thought I was dying. You’re, l-like— you’re so hot and tall and your hands are big and I thought—”
He sways toward you like he’s being pulled by gravity.
“You think I’m hot?” he breathes, shocked.
Your voice is barely a whisper. “You’re like—the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.”
“…But I’m a virgin.”
You blink. “You’re a virgin?”
He freezes. “You didn’t know?”
You shake your head. “You’re too confident. And tall. And your voice, like— you talk like you’ve seen shit.”
“I haven’t! I’ve literally never seen anything. I still sleep with a body pillow.”
“Oh my god.”
You both start laughing, but it’s too breathy, too nervous. You’re looking at his lips again.
“I thought you weren’t a virgin,” he admits, voice low now, almost in awe. “You look like— like—”
He waves helplessly at your body. “You’re so pretty. So hot. You look like you’d ruin me.”
“I’ve never even kissed anyone,” you whisper.
“Me either,” he says.
There’s a beat of silent realization.
Then— tentatively— his hands touch your waist. He’s shaking.
“Can I…”
You nod. “Yeah. Please.”
The kiss is terrible. Teeth clashing, noses bumping, your mouths slipping messily before you both pull away with startled laughter. But his face is flushed, and his eyes are glassy, and your thighs are pressed tight together because the way he’s looking at you is not innocent anymore.
“We’re so bad at this,” you whisper.
“I’m gonna die,” he mumbles, forehead pressed to yours.
“I’m so wet I think my panties are ruined,” you say, like a confession.
He groans. “That’s so hot, please don’t say things like that unless you want me to cum in my pants.”
You both snort, but neither of you moves away.
“Can I… touch you?” he whispers, barely audible.
Your eyes widen, breath catching.
“…Yes. But I don’t— I don’t really know how.”
“Me either,” he whispers. “Let’s be awkward together.”
You reach for his belt, and he lifts your hoodie just enough to see the swell of your tits in your bra. And then you both freeze, panting, staring— because holy fuck this is actually happening.
Two very horny, very confused virgins. In a bathroom. At the movies.
Grinding desperately like you’re learning each other’s bodies in braille.
His hands find your hips, pulling you closer. Your fingers tremble at his zipper. And you swear— you swear— when your pussy brushes against his bulge through your panties and tights, he nearly whimpers.
You're both gonna combust.
You’re still half-laughing, half-gasping into his neck, your panties damp and sticking to you like sin, and Satoru’s hard dick is pressed against your inner thigh through his jeans like it hurts. He keeps doing these little shaky inhales, fingers digging into your hoodie at the waist like he needs something to hold onto or he’ll float off the planet.
His glasses are fogged. His cheeks are pink. And when you drag your nose along his jaw just to feel him shiver, he makes the softest noise you’ve ever heard. A tiny, broken sigh— like the kind of sound you might make when someone pets your hair just right.
You feel like you’re on fire.
“You’re really… hard,” you whisper, a little dreamy, dragging your hand down the front of his jeans like you’re curious more than anything else. Because you are. You can feel the length of him, thick and hot under the denim, twitching at just the barest touch of your fingers. “Like… all the way.”
“I know,” he whines, quietly. “It’s been like that since the popcorn scene.”
You giggle. “We didn’t have a popcorn scene.”
“You were licking butter off your fingers.”
“…Oh. Yeah okay, fair.”
You’re still staring at the bulge in his jeans. It’s insane. It’s… kind of intimidating, honestly. But you’re so curious, and he looks like he might actually die from the idea of you wanting to see him like this.
“Can I see it?” you whisper.
His breath catches. His whole body freezes.
“You— my… dick?”
You nod shyly, face burning. “Just once. I just— I wanna know what it looks like.”
He stares at you like you’re a mythical creature. “You really want to see it?”
“…Yeah.”
His fingers are shaking as he fumbles with his zipper.
You don’t look away— not even when he shoves his boxers down and his cock bounces free, flushed and heavy and dripping. You make a noise, something halfway between shock and awe, because holy shit he’s big. Not just big— long, curved a little toward his stomach, thick enough that your mouth goes dry. The tip is glossy and wet, a pretty pink color— a clear bead clinging to the slit like he’s leaking from just grinding on you.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, stunned.
Satoru makes a noise that’s not human. “D-don’t look at it like that.”
“I can’t help it,” you breathe. “It’s pretty.”
His brain shuts down.
“Pretty?” he croaks.
You nod dumbly, staring. “It’s like… glossy. And pink. And it’s twitching.”
He groans. “Don’t say twitching—”
“But it is! It’s like it’s waving at me or something. It looks so needy.”
He grabs the wall behind your head like he might collapse.
“You’re so cute,” you whisper. “You’re really hard just from kissing me.”
“You’re soaking,” he counters, voice hoarse. “You’ve been wet for an hour.”
You whimper a little. “I didn’t even know I could get this wet.”
Satoru groans again and cups himself like it’ll stop him from cumming just from talking to you.
You reach out— slowly— and wrap your fingers around the base.
He jolts, hips stuttering forward into your hand like it’s instinct. His eyes flutter shut and his whole body shudders, like he’s never felt anything like this.
“…You’re so warm,” you whisper. “And thick.”
“I’m gonna cum,” he blurts.
You pause. “Wait, already?”
“I told you,” he gasps, pressing his face into your neck. “It’s your voice— fuck, the way you’re touching me—”
You slide your hand up and watch his cock twitch, leaking over your fingers.
He sobs a little. “Angel, please—”
That makes you freeze.
“…Angel?”
He peeks up at you, embarrassed. “It slipped out.”
You bite your lip, then smile, stroking him again. “I like it.”
“You’re so soft,” he moans. “And your hand’s so small, it doesn’t even fit—”
You squeeze a little tighter. He gasps.
“Tell me when,” you whisper, eyes wide. “I don’t wanna waste it. You’ve been hard for so long.”
“‘When’?” he pants.
“Yeah,” you say, breath catching. “I want to see what your cum looks like too.”
He shatters.
Just like that— hot, thick ropes spill out across your fingers, your hoodie, his shirt. You watch with wide, fascinated eyes as his whole body curls toward yours, hips stuttering, voice cracked and pleading into your shoulder. His cock throbs in your hand like it’s losing its mind. He sounds so helpless, so high and soft when he whimpers your name.
You stare at the mess.
“…Whoa.”
He’s panting against your cheek, totally limp. “That was so embarrassing.”
“It was awesome,” you breathe. “I made you cum.”
“I exploded in ten seconds.”
You stroke his hair. “I think you’re perfect.”
He melts a little into your chest.
“…You wanna see me next?” you whisper.
His head jerks up like a prairie dog.
Satoru’s still shaking.
You can feel it— his breath hot and unsteady on your neck, his heartbeat punching against your ribs where your bodies press together. Satoru Gojo just came all over your hand like some desperate teenager, having a wet dream, and you’re still standing in a movie theater bathroom, soaked to the skin and so turned on it’s getting hard to breathe.
His cum is sticky on your fingers. Warm, it smells faintly like salt and sugar, and he’s still leaning against you like he’s not sure how to stand on his own.
And then—
Your voice, soft and daring, nearly a whisper:
“…You wanna see me next?”
Satoru blinks. Eyes blown wide. Mouth parted, in disbelief.
“…Are you serious?”
You nod.
He looks stunned. “Like… your pussy?”
Your whole face burns.
“Y-yeah,” you stammer, suddenly nervous. “If you want. I mean— I know it’s— kind of a lot, and maybe messy, but I just… I’ve never… shown anyone." You're looking down at the floor before you finish the rest of that sentence... then your eyes are darting back up to his face, blue eyes stargazed in disbelief. “And I want you to see.”
He’s speechless, Satoru is utterly speechless.
You fidget, heart thudding, tugging your hoodie down like it can hide the way your thighs are trembling, how wet you still are under your panties.
“I just thought… since I saw yours…”
His hand flies up, quick. Cupping your face, both of you look into each other's eyes.
“I want to,” he blurts. “I want to so bad I think I’m gonna die.”
You smile, shy and giddy. “Okay. Then… can you take my panties off?”
He gasps.
Like, actually gasps. Clutches his chest. Staggers backward like you hit him with a spell.
“Say that again,” he whispers.
You reach under your hoodie, slowly rolling your leggings down to your thighs, revealing just a sliver of your pale pink cotton panties, soaked straight through. There’s a wet patch over your pussy— obvious, shiny, and dark.
“Take them off,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Please?”
He looks like he might cry.
“Oh my god,” he chokes. “You’re so wet you soaked through. That’s from me? From just— grinding on me?”
You nod, cheeks flushed. “You made me so wet I couldn’t focus on the movie.”
His hands are on your thighs now, huge and hot, trembling a little as he sinks to his knees in front of you like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. His glasses slide down his nose. He pushes them up, eyes fixed on your panties like they’re the most sacred thing he’s ever seen.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispers, “but I wanna learn so bad.”
You’re breathing so fast your legs are shaking.
His fingers slide under the sides of your panties. He hesitates.
“Ready?” he asks, voice so soft.
You nod, in eager anticipation, like when you know you're about to rip a band-aid off. But... in this case, it's your soaked sticky ruined panties.
And he pulls them down.
Slow, slow, slow
The cotton clings to your cunt, like they're almost glued to you, but he gets them off with a firmer tug.
Your cunt glosses in the light.
Dripping. Swollen. Slick as fuck and twitching under his gaze. You clench a little just from the air, the tension, the way he’s looking at you like he just saw an angel squirt holy water.
He moans. Moans.
“You’re so pretty,” he breathes. “Holy shit, you’re soaked. I didn’t know it could do that.”
You giggle nervously. “It doesn’t usually. I think it’s a you thing.”
He gulps, audibly.
His eyes don’t leave your pussy, even as he leans forward, nose almost brushing your thigh.
“Can I… touch you?”
You feel your knees threaten to buckle.
“Yes.” You say with too much enthusiasm than you meant.
His fingers twitch. “I don’t know how.”
You grab his wrist and guide it...
His middle finger barely grazes your folds and you gasp, clenching, hips jumping forward.
“Oh fuck,” he moans. “That was barely anything. You’re shaking.”
“You touched my clit,” you pant. “It’s sensitive.”
His eyes sparkle.
“Oh my god. I love that you know what it’s called.”
You’re breathless, laughing a little. “I’ve read fanfiction. Have you not?”
“I have, but in those they just say ‘your little pearl’ and shit.”
You groan. “That’s not even close.”
He’s looking again, hand hovering like he’s terrified to mess it up.
“Okay, so… this is your clit,” he murmurs, grazing it again, watching how your whole body twitches. “It’s so tiny. But you sound like I electrocuted you when I touched it.”
You whimper, cause he's teasing... He's curious as well and doesn't fucking know how much him petting your clit actually affects you.
“You like that?” he whispers, a bit entranced. Crystalline blue eyes focusing on the sticky strands of your slick connected to his fingertips as they stretch when he rubs and pulls them off your glued pussylips.
“Y-yeah.”
He touches again, a little firmer... slower, really working your clit, the soft squelches audible, he really wants to taste it, the creamy thing webbing his fingers, the thought pounding in his head.. Would you be grossed out if he just shoved his fingers in his mouth right now and got a taste of that sappy cream?
You whimper louder, snapping his attention back from his lewd thoughts.
His voice is shaking. “Can you c-cum like this? Just from me touching you?”
You nod furiously. “If you keep going, Fuck. Please keep going.”
His thumb brushes you now, a bit more confidently.
“You’re dripping,” he mumbles. “It’s getting on my wrist, angel”
Your thighs snap shut, embarrassed.
But you’re so close and he’s still rubbing in slow, shaky circles and whispering your name and watching you like he’s studying for a test he’s gonna fail with honors. Your clit feels like it’s throbbing. You can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop whining.
And then—
“Cum for me,” he whispers, awed. “Please, please pretty girl, I wanna see.”
That makes your cunt clench, his voice the thing that makes you break instantly.
You clam up around nothing, crying out as your pussy gushes over his hand, wet and twitchy, making a fucking mess on his hoodie sleeve. Your knees give out. He catches you instantly, still on his knees, arms full of shaking, panting girl.
You’re sobbing in relief, thighs sticky, pussy still fluttering, and his hands are holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“You’re so amazing,” he breathes. “I can’t believe I made you cum.”
You whimper. “You’re so good. I didn’t think it would feel like that.”
He kisses your thigh.
Then your stomach, and makes his way up and then your lips, just to feel you.
Soft and careful, with utmost devotion and care.
And you melt against him, fucked out and flushed, pressed to his chest.
“…We should do this again,” he mumbles.
“Next time,” you pant, smiling, “I wanna see if you can make me squirt.”
He chokes, on what little air he's breathing.
But you’re still trembling.
Your panties are hanging off one ankle, his cum is drying on your sleeve, and your pussy is throbbing— still fluttering every now and then like your body can’t believe you actually came. You’re slumped against Satoru’s chest, half-limp, while he rubs soft little circles on your lower back like he’s trying to soothe an overstimulated kitten.
Time is passing and neither of you has said anything in the last full minute.
Except him whispering “holy fuck” under his breath every ten seconds like a mantra.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” he finally says, voice all hushed reverence. “You came.”
You nod, agreeing lazily. Dazed, and still reeling in the high. “Like… a lot.”
“You squirted.”
“I did not.”
“There was liquid. Splash zone level.”
You slap his chest, giggling, but your thighs twitch. You’re so sensitive you could cry, your clit aches in that perfect, pulsing way that means it wants no more and yet… you’re still soaking wet.
And you feel it. That ache deeper inside you now. Heavy and throbbing. Unused.
Unsatisfied.
You shift against him, face buried in the soft cotton of his shirt, and whisper:
“…Satoru?”
“Yeah?”
“I want you to put your fingers in me.”
You feel him freeze. Every muscle goes stiff. His hands still on your back. You feel his dick— hard again— press against your thigh like it heard you first.
“Wha— what.”
You look up at him, breath shaky. “You made me cum from the outside. But I’ve never been touched inside.”
His ears go red.
“I— I don’t wanna hurt you—”
“You won’t.” You take his wrist, place his hand gently against your mound. “I trust you.”
He swallows hard. You begin to guide his fingers between your thighs again, letting him feel how wet you still are. You gasp a little just from the contact— still sensitive, still twitchy.
His voice comes out hoarse. “You’re soaked.”
“Just go slow,” you whisper. “I wanna know what it feels like.”
He moves down again and actually takes his jacket off and spreads it over the tiles beneath you. He's kneeling like it’s instinct now, reverent and worshipful. Like he belongs on the floor for you. He kisses your inner thigh once, sweet and shaky, then stares between your legs like he’s seeing magic.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says.
You nod, open for him by parting your thighs, trembling ever so slightly.
His fingers sliding along your sappy folds, middle finger inching closer to your hole's opening, more slick gathers and pools as it tries to worm its way in.
You gasp at the feeling.. a bit in fear and uncertainty, but he's so gentle, holding you tighter against him.
His finger begins to push in, your tiny hole fighting him, the intrusion. It's nothing like you've ever felt.
Satoru’s breathing stops entirely.
“You’re tight,” he whispers, stunned. “You’re— fuck, you’re so warm, I can feel your pulse.”
You whimper. “Go slow. Just the tip.”
He pushes a little, and you clench involuntarily, sucking him in just a bit.
He moans. Actually moans. Like you’re the one touching him.
“Angel, you’re gripping me.”
You bury your face in your sleeve, whining. “It’s not fair. Your fingers are big.”
He curls his finger just slightly— experimenting— and your entire body jolts.
“Oh— oh fuck!” you cry out.
His eyes go wide. “Was that— was that good?”
“D-do it again,” you pant.
He does. Gentler, carefully pressing just right, and your walls flutter around him so tightly it’s like your body doesn’t know how to handle it.
“You’re so wet,” he mumbles. “You’re sucking me in.”
You grab his wrist. “Try two.”
He stares. “Are you sure?”
“Please, Satoru.”
You’re breathless, begging.
He shivers like it physically affects him.
He slides another finger in— and your pussy stretches around him, tighter than he expected. Your mouth drops open. Your thighs twitch.
“Oh my god,” you gasp.
“Fuck, you’re squeezing me— I can’t move,” he moans.
You rock your hips, helping him, whining through your teeth.
It’s deep. It’s thick. He curls again— and you sob, eyes fluttering back.
“There— oh my god there, right there—”
His fingers are hooked now, rubbing that spongey spot deep inside that makes your eyes cross. His thumb finds your clit on instinct, and suddenly you’re wailing, your whole body shaking, your pussy clenching so hard around his fingers he can barely move.
You cum again, messier and needy. Your velvet walls constricting his fingers in waves.
And he watches, awed, wrecked. His other hand supporting you as your thighs tremble uncontrollably.
He doesn’t even pull out.
He just whispers, “You’re so beautiful when you cum.”
And you start crying.
Happy tears. Dumb overwhelmed tears. Because no one’s ever touched you like this, seen you like this, loved your body with nothing but his hands and awe.
He kisses your forehead.
You sniffle. “I want you inside me someday.”
He nods. “Me too.”
“…But I might have to train for it.”
He laughs, breathless. “Me too. My heart can’t take this.”
You null away on his chest for a minute. Exhausted by everything your body's endured tonight, your panties still on the floor, his arms still secured tight around you and he press soft kisses to the top of your head.
Eventually when he slowly eases his fingers out of you, you're relaxed, no longer holding them hostage, it slides out with a flurry of slick gushing out, all what's been welling up and stuffed inside your cunt for the entire time.
He rubs it up and down your pussylips then into your clit one last time before he's bringing his fingers to his lips, and moaning as your flavour hits his tongue. Finally, getting a taste of you and he couldn't be more pleased at the tangy-sweetness of it.
Satoru licks his fingers clean, savouring it and after he's the one reaching for your panties, tugging them back up along with your leggings as he tells you softly to, "Raise your hips for me please, angel. Good girl, just like that." You do, and he secures them back in place, cunt still pulsing. Fresh slick soaking your panties again.
Satoru stands first, all long limbs and easy grace and he reaches down for you next. His hands are warm as he pulls you up from the bathroom floor. His jacket lies there still, a dark wet patch blooming where your cunt had soaked through.
Heat floods your cheeks, you're quick to mumble an apology, eyes glassy with leftover pleasure and sudden shyness.
He just chuckles softly. Bends to snatch the jacket up like it’s nothing. He balls it in one hand and tucks it under his arm.
“Shh, angel. It’s fine.”
He cups your face, thumbs brushing your flushed skin. Then he kisses you slow and deep, tasting like sin and sweetness. “One wash and it’ll be brand new. Don’t worry about it.”
He doesn’t tell you he plans to keep it exactly like this. A filthy little souvenir, from tonight.
His fingers lace with yours as he leads you out of the stall. The movie is long forgotten. He keeps you tucked close against his side the whole way through the emptying theater. The night air hits cool when you step outside.
In the car he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. Possessive and gentle.
Later that night you lie in bed, sheets tangled around your legs. Your phone glows in the dark. Heart hammering, you type the silly questions anyway.
you 🩷
so… are we...
dating?
omg omg
am i your girlfriend now?!
His reply comes instantly.
toru 🩵
i knew we were soulmates when you asked to see my dick
aaaand called it "pretty"
ilysm angel omg
You giggle into your pillow, face burning. Your chest feels too full. Tonight was crazy. Wild and messy and perfect.
But now one, no two orgasms later and Satoru Gojo is yours. Officially. The nerd from the Doraemon expo.
You fall asleep smiling stupidly into your pillow, already wondering when you’ll feel his hands on you again.
