#nerd!reader

He held doors open for you even when you were twenty feet away and then just stood there waiting like an idiot. He memorized your schedule 'by accident' and somehow always ended up near your locker. He started hanging around Mr. Clarke’s classroom after school even though science made his brain hurt, just because you were there.

He’d stare during lunch, chin in his hand, smiling like a complete loser while you rambled about scholarships and college applications and how you couldn’t wait to see the world outside Hawkins.

Tommy caught him once and snapped his fingers in his face. “You’re doing the heart-eyes thing again.”

“The what?”

“The pathetic, princess-in-love look. It’s disgusting. I need you to get it together.”

He didn’t get it together.

If anything, he got worse.

The whole school knew. The way he lit up when you waved at him like you waved at everyone else. The way he’d drop whatever he was doing if you so much as looked like you needed help.

Everyone knew.

Except you.

You, apparently, were immune to the obvious because in your head, Steve Harrington was just. . . Steve Harrington. Popular. Nice, lately. Weirdly friendly. Probably like that with everyone.

You never noticed how his entire world tilted toward you.

You had bigger things to think about.

Like getting out of Hawkins.

Mr. Clarke had stopped you after class a week ago, papers tucked under his arm, glasses sliding down his nose. He’d cleared his throat in that hopeful way teachers did when they were about to ask for a favor.

“I’m starting a peer tutoring program,” he’d said. “Colleges love community involvement. It would look very good on scholarship applications.”

You’d said yes before he even finished the sentence.

Anything that helped you leave.

You didn’t hate Hawkins. It just never felt like it belonged to you. It felt small, like a sweater that shrank in the wash. Your dreams didn’t fit here. You wanted big libraries and campus buildings covered in ivy and lecture halls and cities where no one knew your last name.

Your family supported you completely. Your mom already saved college brochures in a neat stack on the kitchen counter. Your dad bragged about you to the neighbors like you’d already made it.

Leaving didn’t feel sad.

It felt necessary.

So you signed up to tutor, figuring maybe a freshman or two would show up for help with algebra or biology. Maybe no one at all. You wouldn’t have blamed them.

Which is why, when you walked into the library after school and followed the little handwritten sign that said PEER TUTORING →, you weren’t prepared to see Steve Harrington sitting at one of the tables.

Waiting.

For you.

For a second, you genuinely thought you’d walked into the wrong place.

Steve didn’t belong here. The late sunlight through the windows caught in his hair, turning it gold, and he looked so out of place it almost made you laugh.

Then he saw you.

And his whole face changed like someone had flipped a switch inside him. He sat up straighter so fast he almost knocked his chair over.

“Hey,” he said, a little breathless, like he’d run here. “Hi. You’re— uh. You’re the tutor, right?”

“. . . Yeah,” you said slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Are you lost?”

His heart actually stuttered.

Lost. God. If only you knew.

“I mean,” you added quickly, “this is the tutoring area. If you’re looking for the magazines or—”

“No,” he said too fast. “No, I’m supposed to be here. I signed up. For tutoring. With you. I mean— not with you specifically. I mean— I guess it is specifically. But like, academically. For school. Obviously.”

You blinked at him.

Steve Harrington. The guy who once asked if The Great Gatsby was a real person.

You stared at the neat pile of books in front of him.

“. . . You need tutoring?” you asked, genuinely confused.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Turns out if you don’t pay attention for, like, three years straight, stuff catches up with you.”

You laughed softly and that sound hit him straight in the chest.

God. He’d do anything to hear that again.

“Oh,” you said, pulling out the chair across from him. “Yeah, that makes sense. Don’t worry, I’m pretty good at explaining things. What do you need help with?”

Everything, he almost said.

But not the homework.

He needed help with how you were sitting across from him, sleeves pushed up, pen tucked behind your ear, already focuse like this was the most important thing in the world. He needed help with how you bit your lip when you concentrated. How you leaned closer to his side of the table without even realizing it.

Instead, he slid the biology book toward you with slightly shaky hands.

“Cells,” he said. “They’re. . . confusing.”

You smiled at him like this was totally normal. Like he was just another student.

And Steve swore he’d never wanted to be anything more and anything less at the same time.

“Okay,” you said. “We’ll start easy.”

Easy. Right.

Except nothing about this was easy for him.

Because every time your fingers brushed his while passing a pencil, his brain short-circuited. Every time you leaned over to point something out, your shoulder bumping his, he forgot what planet he was on. He nodded along to explanations he barely heard because he was too busy staring at your mouth forming the words.

You thought he was struggling with science.

He was struggling with you.

“You’re actually catching on pretty fast,” you said after a while, surprised. “You’re not as bad at this as you think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re trying. That’s, like, ninety percent of it.”

Trying.

If you only knew.

He’d rearranged his entire schedule to be here. Asked Tommy to quiz him the night before so he wouldn’t look completely clueless. He’d even read the first two chapters so you wouldn’t think he was hopeless.

All because you were here.

Because the idea of you leaving Hawkins one day, chasing some big, shiny future, while he stayed behind. . . it twisted something ugly in his chest.

He wanted you to fly.

He just selfishly wished he could go with you.

“You know,” you said absently, scribbling notes for him, “I didn’t think anyone would actually sign up for this.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you said with a little laugh. “But I’m glad you did. It’s nice helping someone.”

He swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

You kept talking and Steve just. . . stared.

Not in a creepy way. Not on purpose.

He just couldn’t help it.

You had this little crease between your brows when you concentrated. You explained things with your hands, fingers tapping the table, drawing invisible diagrams in the air, and every time you leaned closer to underline something in his book, your shoulder brushed his and his brain turned to static.

He tried, really tried, to look at the page.

Cell membrane. Cytoplasm. Nucleus.

None of it stuck. All he could think about was how close you were.

“Okay,” you said, tapping the paper, “so think of the cell like a tiny city. The nucleus is like the mayor’s office. It controls everything. Does that make sense?”

Steve blinked.

You were looking at him so earnestly, waiting for his answer.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, that actually. . . helps. A lot.”

Your face lit up, proud and pleased. “See? I told you. You’re not bad at this.”

God.

He thought, distantly, that this had to be some kind of cosmic joke. Hawkins High’s former golden boy reduced to putty because you told him he understood a metaphor.

Pathetic.

He’d fought monsters. Literally. And this, this tiny smile from you, was what took him out.

You kept teaching, and he kept pretending to follow along, nodding at the right times, scribbling down notes you handed him. But half the time he was just memorizing you instead. The soft little “okay” you said when he got something right.

By the time the session ended, his chest hurt. Not in a bad way. Just. . . full. Like he’d swallowed too much feeling and didn’t know where to put it.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, packing your bag.

He tried not to sound too eager. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”

Great. Like this wasn’t going to be the highlight of his entire day.

The week after that, something was different. You didn’t notice it at first because you were busy, always busy but Steve Harrington started showing up in your life.

The first time, you were juggling way too many textbooks outside your locker, stack wobbling dangerously, and before you could even adjust your grip, a pair of familiar hands reached out and took half the weight.

“I got it,” Steve said.

“Oh— thanks,” you said, surprised. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. I’m strong. Carrying books is kind of my thing.”

You knew it was not but you laughed, and he swore he’d carry the entire library if it meant hearing that again.

Then you started noticing him at your debate competitions, leaning awkwardly against the back wall of the classroom, pretending he was just “walking by” even though debate club met on the opposite side of the school from literally everything he did. Every time you looked up mid-argument, there he was, watching you like you’d hung the moon, clapping a little too hard when you finished.

In class, he’d somehow snag the seat next to you before anyone else could, sliding into it with an almost shy, “This taken?” even though he knew you’d never say no. He’d save you a chair at lunch, push it out with his foot like it was nothing, cheeks pink when you thanked him like he’d done something special.

And the tutoring sessions. God, the tutoring sessions.

He started getting good. Like, actually good.

He showed up having already read the chapters. He remembered things you’d explained days ago. Once, he even corrected himself mid-problem and you just stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Wait,” you said, leaning closer to check his work, “this is right. Steve, this is completely right.”

“Yeah?” he asked, trying to sound casual, failing miserably.

“Yeah. That’s really good. Good job, Steve.”

Good job, Steve. It was such a normal thing to say.

You said it the same way you’d say it to anyone else. But to him, it felt like you’d reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. He actually stopped breathing for a second.

Heat crawled up his neck, ears burning, stomach flipping stupidly like he was thirteen again.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks,” he muttered, staring very hard at the paper so you wouldn’t see the way his smile went soft and helpless.

You didn’t notice, just kept going, already onto the next question.

He thought, distantly, that if you ever said you were proud of him, he might actually die on the spot.

He thought about asking you out a hundred times.

Every single session.

When you leaned over him to point at a diagram. When your knees bumped under the table. When you smiled and told him he was improving. When you got excited explaining something and grabbed his sleeve without thinking.

The words sat on the tip of his tongue.

Do you maybe want to get coffee sometime?

Do you want to go to the movies?

Do you want to go out with me?

But then he’d look at you talking about scholarships and universities and all the places you were going to go, all the things you were going to be, and something scared inside him would whisper, She’s out of your league.

You were brilliant. The kind of person teachers wrote recommendation letters for without being asked.

He was. . . Steve.

Former jerk. Former king. Current disaster with questionable grades.

Even if no one else believed it, even if the whole school thought you were lucky to have him hovering around, Steve secretly thought the opposite.

He felt lucky you even talked to him.

So instead of asking you out, he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He tried harder.

He memorized your favorite authors after overhearing you talk about them with Nancy, went home and borrowed the books from the library just so he’d have something to say. He stayed up reading half-asleep, underlining sentences he thought you’d like. The next day, he’d casually drop, “Oh, yeah, I started that book you mentioned,” like it was no big deal while internally panicking.

Your face would light up every time. “Wait, really? You’re reading that?”

“Yeah,” he’d shrug. “It’s pretty good.”

You smiled at him, completely oblivious, and launched into a ten-minute rant about the book and he listened like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

And Steve sat there every single day thinking the same hopeless, aching thought. If he was brave enough, maybe one day you’d finally see what everyone else already did.

How completely, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you he was.

The opportunity came wrapped in cheap tinsel and paper snowflakes taped crookedly to the hallway ceiling.

You were hunched over the library table with Steve again, pencil tapping against your lip while you explained balancing equations for what felt like the fifteenth time, when the intercom crackled to life with some overly cheerful announcement about the Snowball Dance.

You barely registered it beyond a vague mental note that the gym would be unusable for the next week because student council would inevitably turn it into a dance zone.

Steve, on the other hand, heard the words Snowball Dance and nearly swallowed his tongue.

He tried to act normal, nodding along while you talked, but his brain had completely abandoned chemistry and latched onto one thought like a dog with a bone.

Dance.

Dance meant dates.

Dates meant asking someone.

Which meant maybe, possibly, if the universe was feeling merciful, he could finally ask you. His palms started sweating so bad he had to wipe them on his jeans.

You didn’t notice. You were busy drawing little diagrams and saying, “See? You just move the coefficient here.”

When the session ended, you both started packing up, you sliding your color-coded notes into neat folders, him shoving books into his bag with way too much nervous energy, when a familiar voice drifted over.

“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite nerds.”

Nancy.

You looked up immediately, smiling. “Hey.”

Nancy leaned against the table, eyes flicking between the two of you in a way that felt suspiciously knowing. “I was actually looking for you,” she said to you. “What are you wearing to the dance?”

You blinked. “The dance?”

“The Snowball,” she said patiently. “This weekend. You are going, right?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. I think so. My mom found this amazing blue dress in the back of her closet. It’s kind of old, but it’s nice.” You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

“And who are you going with?” Nancy pressed, way too casually.

You laughed. “No one? I mean, I’m not entirely sure anyone’s even going to ask me, so I’ll probably just show up and hover near the snack table or something. It’s fine. I mostly just want the extra credit for attendance.”

Steve felt like someone had just set off fireworks inside his ribcage.

Nancy’s gaze slid to him slowly and then she gave him the look.

It was long and pointed and screamed, If you don’t ask her out right now, I will personally strangle you, Harrington.

Steve panicked.

Nancy patted your arm. “Well, you’ll look pretty no matter what,” she said. “Jonathan’s dragging me, so at least we’ll all suffer together.”

You smiled. “Have fun.”

She shot Steve one last sharp stare before walking away.

The silence that followed felt deafening.

Steve’s heart was beating so hard he was convinced you could hear it. You were still organizing your bag, completely unaware that this was possibly the most stressful moment of his entire life.

Just ask her.

It’s not that hard.

It’s literally just words.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He closed it.

Tried again.

“So,” he started, voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. He cleared his throat. “So. Uh. The dance.”

“Yeah?” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“You said you didn’t have a date.”

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s fine though. I’m not super big on dances anyway.”

Right. Cool. This was fine. He was dying.

“Well,” he rushed out, words tripping over each other, “maybe you. . . I mean— if you wanted we could, uh, like go together? If you want. Totally cool if you don’t. I just thought, you know, since we’re already tutoring and yeah.”

He wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

You just stared at him for a second. Then you smiled. Like he’d just offered you something nice and simple and not the entire fragile state of his heart.

“I’d like that,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll go with you, Steve.”

He stopped breathing.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you laughed. “I mean, you’re basically the only person I talk to after school anyway. Might as well.”

Might as well.

It shouldn’t have made him that happy.

But it did. It really, really did.

The days leading up to the dance were unbearable for everyone around him.

Because Steve would not shut up.

He talked about it constantly. At his locker. In the hallway. During lunch. To Tommy H. and Carol. To random freshmen. To literally anyone who made eye contact for longer than two seconds.

“Do you think blue is, like, a flower color? Should I get her a flower? Is that too much? Do girls still like flowers? What if she hates flowers? Oh my god, what if she hates dancing—”

“You’ve been on actual dates before,” Carol groaned. “Why are you acting like this is your first crush ever?”

“Because it kind of is,” Tommy muttered, annoyed. “He’s gone full loser. It’s painful to watch.”

Steve didn’t even argue. He just grinned like an idiot and kept talking about you.

They were sick of it but he couldn’t help it. He felt like his life was about to start.

When the night finally came, everything felt. . . good.

And then you walked in and you looked like the only thing in the room that mattered.

Steve forgot every single word he’d ever learned.

You smiled when you saw him, waving a little.

“Hey.”

The night blurred after that. He held your hand during slow songs. You talked in the corner about everything and nothing, about college applications and your favorite books and stupid childhood stories. He told you things he didn’t tell anyone, about feeling lost sometimes, about not knowing what came after high school, about being scared of messing up.

You listened and for the first time, Steve felt seen.

You laughed together, danced badly together, shared terrible punch and even worse cookies. At one point your head tipped back when you laughed and he thought, distantly, If this is all I ever get, it’s enough.

Walking you home felt like the end of a movie. His heart was so full it almost hurt.

At your doorstep, you turned to him, smiling, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Then you leaned up and kissed his cheek.

His brain shut off completely. He thought he might actually pass out.

And then you smiled at him. “Thank you for being such a great friend, Steve.”

Friend.

It hit harder than anything else. Harder than a punch. Harder than rejection.

Friend.

His heart didn’t just drop. It shattered.

He stood there, frozen, mouth open, watching you disappear inside.

The door clicked shut.

He didn’t move. Just stood on your porch for ten whole minutes, staring at the wood grain, replaying everything in his head and feeling stupider with every second. Of course. Of course you only saw him as a friend. Why wouldn’t you? You were you. He was just some guy who needed tutoring and followed you around like a lost puppy. What made him think you’d ever look at him the way he looked at you?

He laughed once, bitter and quiet.

Idiot.

Absolute idiot.

But then something in his chest twisted, stubborn. If he walked away now, he’d regret it forever. So before he could talk himself out of it, he turned back and rang the doorbell again.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please—

The door opened.

It was you.

Hair slightly messy, earrings gone, rings off which told him you were already winding down for the night.

“Steve?” you said. “Did you forget something?”

You stood there in the doorway looking at him like this was the most normal thing in the world, like boys didn’t usually show up on your porch ten minutes after dropping you off at midnight looking like they were about to either confess their love or throw up.

Your hair was half falling out of whatever you’d done to it for the dance, little pieces soft around your face, earrings gone, makeup smudged just enough to make you look real and tired and warm instead of polished and perfect. You had on an old sweater, sleeves too long, swallowing your hands, and Steve thought, distantly, that this version of you might actually kill him faster than the dress did.

“Steve?” you asked again, gentler this time. “Are you okay?”

He opened his mouth.

Nothing.

Closed it.

His brain was screaming at him to abort mission, go home, save whatever dignity he had left, but his heart was louder, pounding so hard he swore you could probably see it through his shirt.

“I— yeah. I mean. No. I don’t know,” he said, running a hand through his hair, messing it up for once. “Can we— can we talk for a second?”

Your brows pulled together immediately, worried. You stepped out onto the porch and closed the door softly behind you so you wouldn’t wake your parents.

“Of course. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Yeah, he thought. I fell in love with you and you called me your friend and now I feel like I got hit by a truck.

Instead, he just looked at you.

God.

You were looking at him like you cared.

Like you were already bracing to help him.

It made everything worse and better at the same time.

“I just—” He exhaled hard, hands on his hips, pacing once like he was about to give a presentation. “When you said that thing earlier. The friend thing.”

You tilted your head. “What thing?”

“When you said thanks for being such a great friend,” he said.

“Oh.” You smiled a little. “Yeah. Because you are. You’ve been really sweet lately, Steve. Like, really sweet. You didn’t have to come to my debate stuff or help me carry books or—”

“That’s the thing,” he blurted.

You stopped.

He looked at you like he was about to jump off a cliff.

“I don’t do this for my friends, okay?” he said. “I don’t match ties and memorize your stupid study schedule and wait outside tutoring for forty minutes just to walk you there for my friends.”

You blinked.

“. . . You wait outside tutoring?”

“Yeah,” he said helplessly. “All the time. Because you always show up early and I didn’t want you sitting alone.”

Your brain stalled.

“I don’t read Jane Austen and whatever that other one is— Brontë?— for my friends. I don’t buy strawberry milk when it’s disgusting just because you like it. I don’t sign up for tutoring I don’t even need just to sit across from someone for an hour for my friends.”

Your mouth fell open a little.

“. . . You hate strawberry milk?”

“It’s terrible,” he said immediately. “I don't get how you drink it.”

You stared at him. “Huh,” you said faintly. “So you didn’t match your Snowball tie to my dress on accident?”

Steve froze.

“. . . You noticed that?”

“It was literally the exact same shade of blue,” you said. “I thought it was a coincidence.”

He let out this small, broken laugh and covered his face with his hand. “Oh my god. I spent two hours at the store trying to match it. Nancy almost killed me.”

“Oh,” you breathed.

Oh.

All those times he showed up. All those little things. The books. The seat saving. The tutoring. The way he looked at you like you were saying something important even when you were just rambling about mitochondria.

Your stomach flipped.

Steve dropped his hand and looked at you again, eyes wide and terrified and so soft it made your chest ache.

“I like you,” he said, finally, simply, like it cost him everything. “Not like a friend. Not even a little. I’ve liked you for months. I just— I didn’t think you’d ever look at me like that. You’re. . . you’re you. And I’m just me.”

You frowned immediately. “Steve.”

“No, let me finish before I pass out,” he rushed. “I just needed you to know. Even if you don’t feel the same. I just— I couldn’t go home with you thinking I was doing all this because I’m nice. I’m not that nice. I’m selfish. I do it because I want to be around you all the time. Because you’re my favorite person. Because when you talk about leaving Hawkins, it freaks me out because I can’t picture this place without you in it.”

Your heart was beating so loud you could hear it in your ears.

He swallowed.

“So yeah. That’s it. I like you. A lot. Like, embarrassingly a lot.”

For a second, neither of you said anything.

And then you stepped closer.

Steve immediately tensed like you were about to reject him and he was bracing for impact.

Instead, you reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket.

He short-circuited.

“Steve Harrington,” you said slowly, “you absolute idiot.”

His heart dropped. “Oh.”

“I thought you were just being nice,” you continued. “I thought you felt bad for me or something. I didn’t think. . . I mean, why would I think you liked me?”

He stared at you. “Why wouldn’t you?”

You gestured vaguely at yourself. “I’m me. I carry six books at all times and talk about scholarships for fun.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Exactly.”

Your throat tightened.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Oh.

The way he looked at you suddenly made sense.

Everything did.

You laughed a little, shaky and fond. “Steve, you’re such a dork.”

He smiled nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been told.”

“But,” you said, stepping even closer, “for the record. . . I don’t go to dances with just friends either.”

His brain stopped working.

“. . . What?”

“I said,” you murmured, cheeks warm, “I wouldn’t have gone with you if I didn’t like you too.”

The hope that lit up his face was so bright it almost hurt to look at.

“Wait. Really?”

“Really.”

“Like. . . like like me?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Yes, Steve. Like like you. You’re cute. And you carry my books. And you listen to me talk about boring stuff without falling asleep. That’s basically marriage material.”

He laughed, breathless, disbelieving.

“You’re serious?”

“Steve,” you said softly, “I’ve liked you for a while. I just thought you were out of my league.”

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was purple.

“Out of— are you insane?”

You both laughed, nervous and giddy and a little overwhelmed.

And then you were just. . . standing there.

Close.

Really close.

His hands hovered awkwardly at your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you.

You noticed. So you took pity on him and slid your hands up into his jacket, gripping the fabric.

His breath hitched.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, like it was the most fragile question in the world.

You smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You can.”

He leaned in slow, like he was scared you’d disappear if he moved too fast, one hand cupping your cheek so gently it made your chest ache. His lips brushed yours soft.

When you pulled back, you were both smiling like idiots, foreheads touching, noses bumping.

Steve let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “So. . . not just friends?”

You smiled, kissing him again. “Definitely not just friends.”

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One hand casually but firmly winds your hair around his palm, pulling your head back and forcing your spine into an arch. The other squeezes your ass hard enough to hurt, spreading your hips wider so he can pound into you with rough, deep thrusts.

Flustered and flushed, you clamp your hand over your mouth, trying to muffle the moans that keep breaking out of your chest with every movement of his.

Satoru breathes heavily, his white T-shirt rucked up to reveal the edge of his toned stomach, his pants shoved down to his knees. His skin is sticky with sweat.

The scent of your bodies is sharp, mixed with arousal, dizzying.

“So fucking tight,” he breathes right into your ear, his voice a low, vibrating rumble. “Baby, you’re squeezing me so damn much…”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to turn your face away from his that keeps brushing against your cheek. But Satoru doesn’t let you. He grabs your chin and cheeks, forcing your face back toward him without slowing his relentless pace.

You can’t hold it in anymore.

Quiet moans slip out and you bite your own fist, trying to stifle them.

Satoru’s lips stretch into a smirk. Cunning. Wide. Insanely satisfied. He watches your flushed face, the way your stupid glasses fog up and slide back down your nose, your bitten lips.

“Look at me,” he orders. “I wanna see how good you feel.”

He leans lower, his lips almost touching yours. With every thrust, his balls slap wetly against your swollen clit, your hips knocking together with a dull thud, the slick rhythmic sound deafening in the silence of the library.

You’re practically praying to every god you know that no one decides to check what’s going on in the back corner.

“Satoru, slower!” you whisper fearfully, glancing over your shoulder.

But he moves like he’s lost his mind. Sticky. Dirty.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs, biting your earlobe.

His white hair clings damply to his forehead. A drop of sweat slides from his temple down the curve of your shoulder, and without stopping his thrusts, he leans in and licks it away, leaving a hot, wet trail.

His hand leaves your chin and slides down between your bodies, to where he’s pushing into you. His fingers find your clit, slick with your arousal and his own, now dripping down your thighs in sticky trails.

Satoru presses against it, rubbing quick circles in time with his thrusts, and you arch, feeling the tight spring of orgasm winding inside you.

You hate how easily it snaps.

“C’mon, baby,” he whispers hoarsely. “Come for me. I wanna feel you squeeze my cock. I want your brain to shut off from all that studying crap for a minute and just think about how good I make you feel...”

Satoru presses his chest to your back, wrapping his arms around you so you can feel his heartbeat between your shoulder blades. His fingers move faster, he bites your shoulder, leaving a red mark, and drives into you hard, deep, nearly knocking the breath from your lungs.

Satoru mutters something, presses his lips to your ear and mocks softly:

“Your pussy sounds so damn sweet… think that guy behind the shelf can hear us?”

Your eyes fly open in panic, and at that exact moment your walls clench convulsively around his pulsing cock. A low growl slips from Satoru’s lips.

He sees you panicking, and it turns him on.

“Shit…” he mutters under his breath, realizing he’s about to come.

Satoru doesn’t stop, continuing to move inside you through your orgasm, stretching it out, making you tremble and whimper from the intensity. His fingers still rub your clit, oversensitive now, and you try to pull away, but he holds you tight.

Like he knows you won’t really fight.

“Just a little more,” his voice low, soothing, though his movements stay just as rough. “Hang on. I’m almost…”

Satoru speeds up, his breathing finally breaking apart, his thrusts turning chaotic, deep. He pushes into you once, then again, before stilling, pressing in all the way, his forehead knocking against the back of your head.

“Yeah… fuck…”

The first burst of cum hits deep inside you, hot and thick, flooding your walls. He twitches inside you, spilling a second load, then a third, stuffing you full. His balls tremble against your cunt as his cock jerks in a final spasm, releasing the last of it.

A second orgasm crashes over you. Sharp. Sudden.

Your whole body shaking.

Satoru gives a few more sloppy thrusts without rhythm, still buried inside you, just grinding into your pussy.

His cum sits warm and sticky deep inside you, filling you to the brim until you feel it starting to leak down your thighs.

Satoru stills, breathing heavily, his forehead resting between your shoulder blades. You tremble in his arms, still clenching around him. The sound of his breathing fills your ears as he kisses your shoulder, pressing his lips to your salty skin.

“That’s it…” Satoru exhales hoarsely, stepping back.

His cock slips out of you with a wet, obscene sound, and his cum starts to spill down the inside of your thigh.

The room swims before your eyes.

Satoru fixes his pants, runs a hand through his damp hair, and looks down at you, pupils still dark. Satisfied.

You tug your skirt down, grabbing the shelf with shaking hands so you don’t collapse. Your knees tremble, everything between your legs throbs, and you can feel his cum still slowly leaking into your panties.

Satoru steps closer, nudges your glasses back up your nose with his finger, the ones barely clinging to the tip, and brushes a strand of hair off your sweaty forehead.

“Good girl,” he murmurs with a smirk, watching you flush deeper. “See you after class? I’ll swing by.”

Without waiting for an answer, Satoru turns and walks off, whistling some dumb tune, leaving you standing in the cluttered corner of the library on shaking legs.

Asshole.

And you already know you’ll wait for him after class.

“Yep.”

“Come on back.”

The intake room smelled like antiseptic and something specifically hospital.

You perched on the edge of the exam table while a nurse typed something into the computer.

“So, my name is Mateo, and I’ll need to ask some questions before we get started,” the nurse said without looking up. “What brings you in tonight?”

“My shoulder is dislocated.”

The nurse looked up, eyebrows furrowing.

“And how did that happen?”

You paused for half a second before replying

“My friends and I were playing a game…Dungeons and Dragons.”

There was another pause.

“…okay.”

“We got excited,” You continued quickly. “Someone rolled really well, people started yelling, my chair tipped weird, and I caught myself with my arm. Which was… a mistake.”

“That’s… new.”

“Yeah,”  “I didn’t actually want to bother coming in, usually I can pop it back in myself.”

The nurse stopped typing.

“You can what?”

“Pop it back in,” she repeated. “Shoulders are kind of a repeat offender situation for me.”

He palpated the area and finished up taking note of your vitals before stepping away.

“Alright, I’ll just need you to hang tight for a second while I get someone to take a look at that.”

A few minutes later, the door opened, and a doctor who vaguely resembled a kicked puppy stepped inside. He had this slightly overwhelmed look of someone who hadn’t slept through a full night for a few years.

“Hi,” he said, offering a quick smile. “I’m Dennis Whitaker, one of the med students.”

“Hi.”

He glanced at her arm position and winced sympathetically.

“Yeah, that definitely looks uncomfortable.”

“Just a bit.”

He washed his hands and stepped closer. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Go for it.”

He moved carefully, gently testing the range of motion- or lack thereof- before pausing.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Yeah. That’s dislocated.”

“Shocking,” You deadpanned.

Whitaker huffed a quiet laugh.

“Normally we can reduce these pretty easily, but I might want another set of hands just to be safe.”

“Sure.” You say, shrugging with your good shoulder.

Whitaker stepped out into the hallway, and a minute later the door opened again.

An older man walked in with the type of authority of someone who had done this a thousand times.

“Evening, I’m Dr. Robinavitch, but Dr. Robby is just fine.”  He said with a friendly smile, and his hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Hi.”

Whitaker came to stand by your damaged arm and presented to his attending

“Anterior shoulder dislocation, non-traumatic fall, no signs of fracture from what I can tell.”

“Alright. Let’s see what we’re working with.” Robby stepped forward.

And the moment his hand touched your arm and shared sensation ran through you both…burning.

A sudden, sharp heat flared across your chest like someone had pressed a brand over her heart.

Robby jerked back at the same time, eyes going wide.

Because on his chest, beneath the midnight colored hospital scrubs, the name that had sat there his entire life had just ignited.

For half a second the room was silent.

Whitaker looked between them.

“…um?”

Robby opened his mouth to say something-

Suddenly, the door was pulled open.

A second doctor burst inside. He was slightly taller and had a head of beautiful silver curls.

“Robby-”

He stopped dead when he saw them, before being allowed to ask anything Dr. Robinavotch grabbed his wrist and put it on your good shoulder. Allowing you to feel that overwhelming scald all over again.

The man in the doorway stared like the ground had just disappeared beneath him.

“…Ah,” he said softly.

Robby ran a hand over his face.

“Well.” Whitaker looked like he was considering melting into a puddle. “Um,” he said, backing toward the door. “I’m gonna… give you guys a minute.” And then he escaped.

You blinked at the two doctors. “…so,” she said slowly. “This is happening.”

The one who had burst in-, Dr. Jack Abbot, apparently-  crossed his arms over his chest.

“I felt the mark flare and figured….but I didn’t actually expect…” He gestured vaguely at her.

“Yeah,” You said. “Same.”

Robby cleared his throat, trying to recover some semblance of professionalism.

“Well.” He pointed gently at her shoulder. “Before we get too existential about this, we should probably fix that.”

“Good call.”

Robby moved to position her arm while Jack stepped in on the other side.

“Okay,” Robby said. “On three.”

“One–”

The joint slid back into place.

You exhaled slowly. “There we go.”

Jack blinked. “…did you just relax into that?”

“A little.”

Robby frowned slightly.

“How are you feeling?”

Reader rolled her shoulder experimentally. “Honestly? Mostly annoyed.”

“Annoyed?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Usually I can get it back in myself.” Both doctors stared at her. “…usually?” Jack asked.

“Joint issues.”

Robby raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t the first time.”

“Not even close.” You responded flexing your fingers once, satisfied that everything was relatively normal.

“But,” she added, glancing between them, “I guess it worked out…If I fixed it, I wouldn’t have met you two.” They were both quiet for a moment.

Then Robby huffed a soft laugh. “Well,” he said. “Aren’t you lucky to be paired with two doctors?”

~

The observation period should have been quick. Normally, for something like a simple shoulder reduction, it was. Tonight it wasn’t.

You lost count of how many times someone poked their head through the curtain. The young nurse from before came by twice to check her vitals.

Whitaker dropped by again and hovered awkwardly once before clearly deciding whatever soulmate chaos had just happened was above his pay grade. Another resident asked if she was dizzy. And Robby checked in at least three times.

Not that you minded.

The last time the curtain slid open again, he stepped inside with a clipboard tucked under his arm. “Well,” he said, glancing at the chart. “Everything looks good.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re cleared to go.” He handed her the discharge papers. “No heavy lifting, take it easy for a couple days, sling if it starts bothering you again.”

She skimmed the page quickly.

Then Robby cleared his throat. “So… I also wanted to ask something.”

That made you look back up.

He shifted his weight slightly, suddenly looking a little less like the confident attending physician and more like a man trying to navigate a very strange life event.

“If you wanted,” he said carefully, “you could come with me for a bit and we could talk. Or we could exchange numbers and find some time that works for the three of us to sit down and figure this out.”

Not really prepared for this after spending hours in the ER you say

“I could come with you for a little while,But I have work in the morning.”

“That’s fair.”

You hopped down carefully from the bed.

“Funny enough,” she added while slipping her arm into the sling, “I actually work at a different hospital.”

“Oh?”

“Presbyterian.”

Robby blinked. Then he laughed softly, rolling his eyes. “Really? Presby?”

You shrugged.

“Well, I don’t know much about the medicine,” she admitted. “But I know they treat their lab techs well enough and that was all I was looking for at the time.” You paused. “But it’s not like my heart is committed to the place.”

Robby nodded slowly. “Good to know.” He gestured toward the hallway. “How about I drive you home?”

Outside, the night air felt cooler than the hospital.

You followed Robby toward the parking area before pausing when he headed toward a truck.

“I normally ride my bike in since Jack and I have different schedules,” He glanced at her sling.

“But I don’t think now’s the best time to have you holding on with that shoulder.”

You laughed softly. “Fair.”

He held out a hand helping you climb into the passenger seat.

The truck rumbled to life once he settled and they pulled out onto the street after entering your address into the GPS. For a few minutes they just drove.

Finally Robby glanced over at her.

“So,” he said. “How old are you?”

You looked towards him, examining the laughlines that made his face whole, the grey in his beard.

“Does it really matter?”

He considered that for a second.

“No,” he admitted. “Not really.” Then he sighed.

“I’m just sorry you got saddled with two old guys.”

You scoffed and reached over to pinch the arm he had resting on the center console. “Well,” she said lightly, “it’s a good thing old guys are my type.”

Robby blinked. Instead of responding, he simply rested his hand gently on her knee. It didn’t feel strange. If anything, it felt oddly natural- like the kind of casual contact that would have been uncomfortable with anyone else but somehow wasn’t with him.

After a moment, he spoke again. “So what actually happened tonight?”

“My shoulder?”

“Yeah.”

You leaned back in the seat. “My friends and I were playing Dungeons & Dragons.”

Robby frowned slightly. “…I don’t think I know what that is.”

“It’s a tabletop game,” she explained. “Storytelling, dice, fantasy stuff.”

He nodded slowly. “And the shoulder?”

“We get a little intense about it,” she admitted. “Someone rolled really well, people started yelling, my chair tipped, I tried to catch myself…” She lifted her sling slightly. “And here we are.”

Robby huffed a quiet laugh. “That might be the first time I’ve heard of a board game injury.”

“Oh, it’s definitely not the first.”

Eventually, the truck slowed in front of her apartment building.

You climbed out, and Robby followed.

You could see it immediately on his face. The building wasn’t great. Peeling paint off old brick. Flickering hallway lights. The kind of place people moved into when rent was cheap and options were limited.

To his credit, he didn’t say anything. “Do you want me to walk you up?” he asked instead.

You smiled a little.

“Sure.”

Her apartment, in contrast, was warm and comforting despite its small size. Books are stacked in piles by overflowing shelves. A worn couch with crochet blankets thrown over the back. Dice, markers, journals, and pencils were scattered across a coffee table next to a half-finished puzzle.

Robby glanced around briefly.

“Do you want something to drink?”

“Water’s fine.” You grabbed a glass from the kitchen and handed it to him.

He leaned against the counter, thinking for a moment.

“Actually,” he said, “Jack and I already had a day off scheduled together in two days.”

“Oh?”

“We were planning to get some work done on the house.” He took a sip of water. “If you’d like, you could come by. Spend the day with us. Get to know each other a little better.”

He reaches for the same dog-eared copy of The Name of the Wind you’re reshelving. Your fingers brush. He flashes that easy, crooked grin and says, “If you tell me it’s better than the hype, I’ll buy two—one for me, one for the guy who keeps stealing my copies at the station.”

You give him an honest, slightly nerdy ten-minute breakdown of why the prose is worth it, complete with zero spoilers. He listens like you’re the most interesting person in Gotham. By the time the store closes, he’s bought the book, your staff pick of the month, and asked for your number “so I can argue about the ending once I finish.”

First text from him the next night: a single voice note of him dramatically reading the opening line while perched on a gargoyle. You’re hooked before you even realize the cute acrobat from the bookstore is also Nightwing.

Their Relationship

Dick is the human equivalent of a golden retriever who has decided your love language is “quiet nights in with books.” He keeps a permanent stack of your recommendations on his nightstand (dog-eared, highlighted, sometimes with little sticky-note arguments in the margins).

After brutal patrols he’ll show up at your apartment still in the Nightwing suit under a coat, kick off his boots, and flop face-first onto your couch demanding, “Read to me. Your voice makes the bruises stop hurting.” You read aloud while he rests his head in your lap and traces idle patterns on your thigh.

He drags you into his world gently: rooftop picnics with takeout and a single book light, surprise weekend trips to used bookstores in other cities, and once a stakeout date where you both sat in a van reading by red flashlight while he monitored a warehouse.

You balance him. When the weight of being “the best Robin” or “the one who holds the family together” gets too heavy, you hand him a worn paperback and say, “For the next hour the only hero you have to be is the guy who makes me laugh at chapter twelve.” He melts every single time.

Public affection is his default—he’ll kiss your temple in the mystery aisle, spin you around when you find a first edition, and proudly introduce you as “my favorite plot twist.” Private moments are softer: he learns your favorite tropes by heart and will recreate them in real life (think candlelit balcony, city lights, and him quoting your favorite romance line verbatim).

The only fights are playful: he keeps “borrowing” your annotated books and writing tiny love notes in the margins. You pretend to be mad until he reads the notes out loud in the ridiculous voices he uses just for you.

The Reactions of the Batfamily

Bruce: Initially suspicious (he runs a background check before Dick even tells him your name). Once he sees how grounded and genuinely happy Dick is around you, he softens. He starts leaving first-edition classics on your doorstep with cryptic notes like “For the civilian who keeps my son human.” High praise.

Jason: Teases Dick mercilessly (“Golden Boy traded the circus for book club, huh?”) but secretly loves that you quote Pride and Prejudice at him during family dinners. He starts leaving annotated revenge tragedies on your fire escape with Post-its that say “Red Hood approves of your taste in morally gray men.”

Tim: Does the full detective deep-dive, then shows up at your bookstore with a color-coded spreadsheet of books “statistically proven to help with vigilante burnout.” You two bond instantly over obscure literary theory and now have a group chat titled “Dick’s Emotional Support Readers.”

Damian: Acts like he couldn’t care less until he catches you reading The Once and Future King and launches into a thirty-minute rant about historical inaccuracies in Arthurian legend. You counter with three better sources. He calls you “Tolerable” and lets you pet his cat. Highest honor.

Barbara: Immediately your biggest supporter. She creates a private comms channel just for the three of you so you can send each other memes about “dating a former flying Grayson.” She also slips you the Batfamily group chat password so you can watch them lose their minds in real time when Dick posts a photo of the two of you reading together.

Stephanie: Screams, hugs you, and declares you “the best thing to happen to this disaster family since waffles.” She raids your TBR list and starts a book-swap tradition that somehow always ends with everyone arguing about character deaths at the dinner table.

Cass: Doesn’t say much, but she learns your favorite book’s cover by heart and will silently hand you a new copy when she senses you’ve had a rough day. The quietest but most sincere stamp of approval.