#nerd trope

Shoko's dorm smells like smoke, leftover popcorn, and chaos.

You're curled up on the floor in your comfiest hoodie, controller in hand, legs tucked beneath you as you dominate yet another round of Mario Kart. Satoru's next to you, one socked foot a little too close to your thigh. The closeness doesn't register; you're too focused on the screen, too busy drifting perfectly around a corner to notice the way his eyes are glued more to you than the game.

"Oh, come on!" he groans as you zip past him for the third time in a row. "She's cheating. She's got hacks."

"You're just bad," you say, barely glancing at him as you cross the finish line.

"Cheating," he insists again, voice dramatic. "No one's that good at Mario Kart unless they're possessed or trying to impress someone."

You shrug, a little cocky. "Maybe I am."

His head tilts, a grin curling at the edge of his mouth. "Trying to impress me? That's adorable."

Shoko exhales a cloud of smoke from her perch on the futon, unbothered. "Don't flirt over my carpet, Gojo."

Utahime's already halfway through yelling at him again. "Will you shut up for five seconds? You're not even playing anymore."

"I was playing," Satoru counters, tossing his controller down dramatically. "Until she decided to humiliate me. You see this? This is emotional damage. I should sue."

Geto, laying flat on his back and eating chips straight from the bag, doesn't even look up. "You'll live." Haibara is in the corner, aggressively cheering everyone on like it's the World Cup.

You're laughing when Satoru leans over again, voice low enough to the point where only you can hear. "If I win the next round," he murmurs, "you owe me a kiss." Your stomach flips. "You're not gonna win."

"Then I guess I'll just have to keep playing until I do."

Shoko snorts while sipping some mystery beverage she mixed in an old mug that she's been sipping like it's divine.

You're on your fourth win in a row. Satoru's on the verge of a tantrum. "I swear to god, does no one else see this? She's literally cheating!" he says again, mouth full of some off brand gummy candy he stole from Haibara.

"Maybe you just suck Satoru," you say sweetly, eyes still on the screen.

Utahime snorts from where she's sitting on the bed, one leg bouncing with uncontained secondhand rage. "Holy fuck, watching Gojo flirt is like watching a dog try to catch a fly. All limbs and no strategy." Shoko doesn't even look up from her cigarette. "He's not even the dog. He's the fly." Nanami sips his drink with a sigh so long suffering it might qualify as a curse. "You almost feel sorry for him."

"What?" you blink, genuinely confused, half-laughing. "Feel sorry for who?"

Everyone turns to stare at you. Satoru looks like he's been hit with a flashbang. Geto mutters something under his breath about divine punishment. Shoko covers her mouth to hide a grin. Utahime groans and flops dramatically onto a pillow.

"Nevermind," Nanami says, already mentally clocked out of the conversation. "It's exhausting trying to explain it to someone that dense."

"Hey!" you protest.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," Satoru coos beside you, slinging his arm behind your back on the floor like it's totally casual, not at all rehearsed in his head a thousand times. "Let them be bitter. You and me are in our own little world, aren't we?"

You roll your eyes. "You just want me on your team next round."

He leans closer. "I want a lot of things."

You chuckle, so innocently unaware and ignorant. "Like... snacks?"

"Sure," he says, smiling way too wide. "Let's start there."

Geto coughs into his sleeve and mutters, "He's dying. He's actually dying."

"He's gonna start reciting poetry any second," Shoko says flatly. "She's just so radiant tonight," Utahime says in a mocking falsetto, clutching her chest dramatically. "Her eyes... her hoodie... the way she plays Yoshi-" Satoru launches a pillow at her head without looking. "Shut up."

You laugh, still absolutely oblivious, and Satoru just melts. He leans his head back against the side of Shoko's couch like he's made of mush,  whispered hopes and sighs. "You're ridiculous," you murmur, nudging him with your knee. "Buuuut," he says, eyes twinkling, "you keep sitting next to me."

You don't answer with anything but a scoff. The soft smile that tugs at your lips is enough to make him sit up just a little straighter.

The night stretches on. The snack pile dwindles. The room gets warmer, closer, messier. You're been leaning into each other without realizing it. Your shoulder brushes his every time you laugh. His hand stays right behind you; hovering, almost touching, like he's afraid too much will be too obvious. And despite it all, you don't notice the way he looks at you.

But Geto does. And Shoko does. And Utahime is five seconds away from handcuffing you together just to end the suffering.

The night eventually spirals. Snacks completely disappear. Someone has sake; probably Shoko. Mario Kart turns into dumb party games; Never Have I Ever, Truth or Dare, things that made Nanami want to die, but he participated anyway.

Satoru leans back, eyes glittering with mischief. "Let's play Seven Minutes in Heaven."

Nanami groans so loud it startles Utahime. "Absolutely not."

"I'm in," Geto says, like he's trying to see where this will go.

Utahime narrows her eyes. "Only if I get to kiss Shoko."

Shoko raises her mug. "Only seven minutes? Lame."

There's a moment of chaos as everyone processes that. You're laughing along, completely oblivious to the way Satoru looks at you when you toss your head back. To the soft smile that tugs at his mouth when you nudge him with your foot and call him an idiot. To the way Geto side eyes Shoko across the room like you seeing this? and Shoko just exhales slowly like he's fucked.

He doesn't really press it further. Doesn't push the game too much harder after that. Instead he sinks back beside you and says, "your hands are cold," before casually wrapping one of his around yours. You reply with a "uhh, thanks!" which warrants a collective roar of laughter and scoffs from the rest of your friends.

The group starts to break up around midnight, laughter and warmth still hanging in the air like incense. Geto's helping himself to the last of the chips while Utahime is very blatantly grabbing Shoko's wrist and dragging her toward the bedroom. "Don't wait up," Shoko mutters around her cigarette, voice low and lazy. Utahime glares at her like she just said it out loud in front of the Pope.

Geto's already halfway through a cackle. "Subtle as always."

Nanami stands stiffly near the door, jacket in hand, already looking like he regrets ever agreeing to this. Haibara's saying goodbye to everyone like he'll never see them again. You're slipping your hoodie back on when you feel a hand brush your arm.

"I'll walk you back," Satoru says, grasping at straws to come off nonchalant, like it's no big deal. But he hesitates, just a little. His hand lingers. And with a little breathless laugh, he adds, "Actually... wanna go for a drive? Just around. It's nice out."

You blink up at him. "A drive?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "Just figured it might be fun."

Behind you, Geto and Shoko exchange a glance so loud it might as well be a shout. She doesn't even try to hide her smirk. "Oh my god," Geto mutters, dragging his hands down his face. "Here we go." Shoko nods, lips twitching, stopping Utahime in her mission. "He's finally doing it."

Nanami exhales like he's witnessing the inevitable fall of Rome. "May as well let him embarrass himself. It's overdue."

Meanwhile, you're still standing there, completely oblivious. "What are you guys talking about?"

Satoru, somehow, looks both smug and terrified. "So... you in?"

You shrug, a little smile creeping up your face. "Sure. Why not."

—

The car is... a mess. Not physically. It's spotless, actually. But the energy is deranged. Satoru fiddles with the radio three times before deciding on a station that's playing some tragically upbeat early 2000s pop song.

You squint. "Seriously?"

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "It's a classic."

"Hilary Duff's 'Come Clean' is a classic?"

He gasps. "Don't disrespect the Duff."

You give him the flattest look of your life. "Okay, no. Give me that."

You snatch the aux cord and scroll through his embarrassing playlists before giving up and opening your own. The second the bass kicks in, Missy Elliott, Ludacris, something with teeth, you light up like it's instinct.

You adjust the volume with a satisfied little grin and toss your phone back into the cup holder. Satoru glances over warily, and then the beat drops.

You gasp. "OH. No way."

Satoru flinches at the bass thump. "I feel like I should be concerned."

You don't answer. You're too busy getting into it.

"Biggie Biggie Biggie, can't you see!"

He startles in his seat.

"Sometimes your words just hypnotize me-" you throw a look his way, brows bouncing. "C'mon. Tell me you know this one."

Satoru clears his throat. "I mean... vaguely? In, like, a general context?"

You gasp again; this time dramatic, hand over heart. "You absolute heathen."

"I grew up on J pop and garbage pop punk!" he protests. "My radio thinks I'm a divorced 40 year old going through it!"

You cackle. "That explains the Hilary Duff."

"Don't talk about her like that," he says, mockoffended. "She's a cultural treasure."

But your attention is back on the music. The car's climbing a winding hill, city lights twinkling below. The beat hits, and you're back at it again, fully committed.

No hesitation. No shame. Only you in the passenger seat at some late hour, rapping along to Biggie like you were born to do this, hoodie slouched off one shoulder and your hair haloed by the dash lights. You're mouthing every word, hands moving with the rhythm, smirking at your own flow like you're putting on a show for the moon.

Satoru doesn't say anything. Because he's staring.

Not in a creepy way. Not in a calculated way. In the "I think this is the moment I fall in love, and I wasn't fucking prepared for it" kind of way.

"Okay, okay," you say, a little breathless as the chorus hits again. "Your turn. Hit me with a favorite."

He's silent.

You glance over. "Satoru?"

His grip tightens on the steering wheel. His mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again.

You laugh. "What, are you shy now?"

He finally speaks; quiet, almost dazed. "I think I'm having a spiritual experience."

You snort. "You're such a drama queen."

"No, I'm serious," he says, flicking his eyes back to the road before you catch him staring. "You just... know all the words."

"I'm a woman of culture."

"You're gonna be the death of me."

You raise an eyebrow. "Because of my Biggie flow?"

He mutters, "Because you're so... fuck. Nevermind."

You don't press it. You're still too high on melody and the thrill of the moment to notice the way his leg bounces, the way he keeps glancing at your profile when he thinks you're not looking. But he's coming undone quietly in the driver's seat, falling in love like it's the most natural, painful thing in the world.

And you? You're just vibing.

"Ohhh this one's a banger," you say, already starting to rap along under your breath. Then louder. Then louder.

Satoru is trying to keep his eyes on the road, but you're rapping every word with such unhinged confidence it's like your final form has been activated.

You're halfway through a line that's entirely too explicit for the moment when he chokes on air and swerves slightly. "Jesus!" he says, one hand gripping the wheel, the other over his heart. "You're gonna kill me."

He glances sideways at you like you just slapped him and kissed him in the same breath. The lights from the dash glow soft against his face, shadows cutting sharp across his cheekbones. Then Satoru speeds up. Not recklessly. Just enough that the engine hums a little louder, the wind curls through your cracked window a little harder, your heart skips once.

You glance over. "Why're you driving like that?"

His jaw twitches. He doesn't look at you. "I'm taking you somewhere."

You blink. "Okay... ominous. What is this? A kidnapping?"

He exhales a short laugh through his nose. "I'm not kidnapping you."

You raise an eyebrow. "You sure? 'Cause I feel like this is how most true crime stories start."

"We have class tomorrow," you add, watching the highway signs disappear behind you. "And I need at least eight hours of sleep or I turn into a demon."

"I promise," he says, voice lower now, serious, "this view is worth it."

That shuts you up. Mostly because you've never heard Satoru sound like that before; soft, but firm. Like he's talking about something much bigger than a skyline.

You let him drive. And sure enough, ten minutes later, he pulls off onto one of those little mountain pull ins; just enough room for a single car, nestled into the cliffside. Trees to the left. A panoramic view of the city to the right, glittering and golden beneath the black sky.

He cuts the engine.

It's quiet for a moment. Not awkward, but close. The kind of silence that's full of something. Charged.

You shift in your seat. "Satoru?"

"I like you," he says. All in a rush. A little panicked.

You freeze.

He keeps going.

"I like like you." he says again.

You blink. Slowly. "What."

He keeps going like he didn't just drop a live grenade into your lap.

"Actually... no, fuck, I'm obsessed with you. I think about you every fucking day. Like, all the time. When you're not there. When you are there. When you beat me at Mario Kart and laugh in my face like a little asshole."

You just sit there. Staring. Mouth gaping a little.

"Wait," you finally manage, voice sharp with confusion. "What?"

He falters.

You shake your head once, frowning. "Since when?"

"I don't know!" he blurts. "A while. Months. Maybe longer. Since always, probably."

"Since always?" you echo, totally bewildered. "You've literally never said anything. Like, ever."

"Are you kidding?" he says, looking scandalized. "I've been flirting with you for so long!"

You give him a flat look. "You told me I was cheating at Mario Kart."

"Exactly!" he says, eyes wide, hands flailing. "That's peak flirting. That's textbook!"

"That's delusional," you say, and his face crumples like you just slapped him.

He groans, burying his face in his hands. "Okay. Okay. I deserve that. But seriously, I've been losing my mind over you. Like, clinically. Every time you smile at me? I black out. I forget my own name."

You blink. Hard. "You're serious."

He lifts his head and nods, breathless. "Dead serious. And if I don't kiss you right now, I'm going to die right here in this driver's seat."

You scan him, still trying to process the literal nuke he just handed you with a pretty bow. Your heart's going a mile a minute but your brain is lagging three steps behind.

"Satoru..." you say slowly. "You're actually being serious?"

"Yes."

"You really, like, really like me?"

"Yes."

You squint at him. "You're not concussed or something, right?"

He throws his hands up. "Oh my god, I knew this was gonna happen. I knew you were gonna be all cute and confused and... fuck, I knew it."

And then quieter, rawer, "I like you so much I can't think straight. I think about you constantly. And it's not just-" He stops. Swallows. "It's not just some passing crush. Okay there. I said it."

And there it is. Honest. Messy. All on the table.

You're quiet for a second. Breathing a little too fast. Brain still buffering.

"...So do it."

He stays still at first, staring at you in stunned silence. His chest barely rises, hands frozen in place, pupils blown wide as if the world tipped sideways and his heart spilled out somewhere between the center console and your lap. No smirk. No words. Only awe, thick in the air between you.

Then he fumbles for the seatbelt, unbuckling with shaky hands and a breath caught tight in his throat. He leans in too fast, nearly colliding with you, mouth parted; a little too eager, a little too desperate, while running on pure instinct and horniness alone.

He kisses you with the urgency of someone starved for touch. Months of tension spill out all at once, messy and hot, all teeth and tongue and too much spit. There’s no rhythm. No finesse. Just raw, pure, aching need.

He surges forward, seat creaking beneath him, correcting the angle mid kiss, mouthing at you harder. Your teeth clash. His nose mashes against your cheek. It’s a disaster in motion. But it’s real. And it’s him. And it’s so good your lungs forget their job entirely.

When he finally pulls away, breathless and wide eyed, he stares at you like you just solved world peace. "Okay," he says, voice hoarse. "Wow. Where the hell did you learn to kiss like that?"

You smirk, despite your heart racing at a medically concerning rate and your vision going blurry. "Don't ask a lady her secrets."

He blinks. "WOW, okay. So I'm not the first."

You blink back. "I read a lot of smut, actually."

He short circuits. "Holy fuck. That's so hot. Wait wait, that's like, sex books, right?"

"It's not just sex," you say, rolling your eyes. "They have plot."

He groans, dragging his hands down his face like he's in physical pain. "Why is that even hotter. Jesus Christ, you're gonna kill me."

You shug a little, feeling bold. "Not my fault you're under experienced."

He leans closer again, whispering to you far too excitedly. "Can I kiss you again?"

You pretend to think about it to torture him a little. Then you smile. "Yeah."

This time it's slower. Warmer. More intentional. His lips part against yours like he's savoring it, learning the shape of you, kissing you like he doesn't want to miss a single thing. His hand finds your jaw, fingers curled gently under your chin. He tilts your face and deepens the kiss with a soft groan that sounds a little like a whimper of relief. And when he pulls back again, eyes glazed, hair a mess, panting, he says, "Okay, I can't take it anymore. Please. Backseat. Right now."

You raise an eyebrow. "You're begging?"

"I'm dying," he groans. "I don't know what I'm doing, but you sure seem to from your sex books, so you might have to coach me-"

You cut him off by grabbing the hem of his jacket, eyes sharp, voice low. "Backseat."

He nearly breaks the emergency parking brake.

You're both laughing a little as you scramble over the center console, limbs tangled, knees bumping into things. The windows are already fogging from the inside out, your breath lodging in your throat when you finally settle into the backseat together.

His hands are everywhere; on your waist, your thighs, tugging your hoodie, unsure of where to touch first. His mouth finds yours again, messier than before, tongue sliding against yours as he murmurs into the kiss.

"Fuck, you taste so… so good. And minty. Mmm, mint."

Your fingers slip under the hem of his jacket, bunching the soft fabric in your fists as you pull him closer, climbing into his lap with a calculated roll of your hips. The very second your fingers graze his stomach, he reacts on instinct. He pulls and tugs and shrugs it off in a frantic motion, like it’s suddenly offensive to have anything between you. It drops to the seat in a forgotten heap.

“Tell me what you like,” he breathes, voice pitched somewhere between a plea and a question. “Please. I wanna get it right. I wanna make you feel good.”

You kiss him again instead of answering.

The backseat is hot and stuffy and tiny, but it doesn't matter. Not when he's beneath you, mouth swollen, eyes blown wide and so stupidly gone it's actually adorable.

Satoru's fingers are nearly shaking where they rest on your thighs, and he looks up at you like he's trying to solve a math equation and forgets what numbers are. His voice is hoarse and soft. "Is this right? I mean, I don't know, am I... am I doing this right?"

You giggle at him. "You're literally just sitting there."

He throws his head back with a groan. "Okay, rude. This is very emotionally vulnerable for me!"

You try not to laugh as you lean forward, tugging at his jacket. "You're fine, Satoru."

"I just, fuck... I wanna make you feel good. I wanna get it right."

"You will. Just... stop thinking so hard."

"Easy for you to say," he mutters, hands skating under your hoodie. "You're the one who reads sex novels."

You frown, stilling a bit. "They're not just sex-"

"Oh my god," he groans dramatically. "You admit they're sex books!"

"They have plot!" you argue, poking his chest. "It's not all weird kinky stuff!"

He raises an eyebrow. "...So some of it is?"

You squint. "Okay yeah but it's fictional! The girl's always, like, tied up and calling the guy 'sir' or something."

Satoru chokes on air. "Wait. You like that?"

You snort. "Not in real life. It's just... hot to read."

"Oh," he says. "So we're both completely fucking clueless."

You nod. "Yup."

There's a briend moment of silence. Then he says, so gently, so breathlessly, "Tell me what you like. Or what you think you like."

You inhale sharply. His hands are resting on your hips, trying not to move too fast, yet failing miserably. You can feel the restraint seething in his fingers, the way he so desperately wants to get it right, to make it perfect, even as his breath catches with every small movement you make.

So you take pity on him.

You grab his hand and guide it between your thighs, pressing it into the heat of you through your pants. “Start here,” you whisper.

His breath catches like a record skipping. His thumb twitches, almost like he’s not really sure what to do first. He murmurs a little “fuck, oh my god,” under his breath, but you shut him up once again with an eager, messy kiss. He holds your waist with his free hand like you’re the last stable thing on Earth.

In a fit of boldness, you bite his lip. A little playful, experimental nip. And judging by the reaction you recieve, that being a pathetic whimper so loud and needy, you deduce he likes it. Really likes it, actually.

He immediately pulls away and slaps a hand over his face. “That was… oh my god, that was so loud. I didn’t mean to- fuck. Sorry.”

You grin a playful, almost cocky little smile. “Don’t be sorry.”

You roll your hips against his hand; a slow, taunting grind, and the heel of his palm presses perfectly against you. His hand seizes up from the sound you make.

His whole body jolts. “Holy shit,” he breathes, head falling back against the backseat. His eyes flutter shut like he’s about to ascend. “Holy shit holy shit holy sh-”

You laugh, warmth curling in your chest. “Are you good?”

 “I’m… I’m so good,” he babbles, voice an octave higher than before. “I’m so fucking good. This is the best moment of my life. I could die right now. You’re so pretty. You’re insane. How do you feel this good already?”

You hum, rolling your hips again, slow and deliberate. “You’re really talkative for someone who said he’s clueless.”

Fortunately, you weren’t the only one feeling bold. Seemingly of fucking nowhere, his voice drops to something quiet and heavy, with that unpolished rasp that sounds like it’s scraped straight out of a wet dream. “I want to make you cum on my lap.”

You freeze. His fingers dig into your waist.

"I wanna make you cum right here. Wanna hear what you sound like."

Your heart slams against your ribs.

The look in his eyes changes; still soft, still wide, but there's something hungry beneath it. Something serious.

"I wanna see you."

You pull back a little, visibly stunned. "You're already seeing me."

He shakes his head like he's trying to clear it. “No, I mean like, really- fuck, I wanna see all of you. Can I?” The look in his eyes is ridiculous, like you just offered him salvation.

You chuckle a little, but nod in the end.

The very second he sees your head bob, he practically rips his pants trying to get them down, knocking his knee on the cup holder in the process. “Shit- fuck, I'm okay,” he mutters, squirming, “I'm fine. I'm good. I'm so good.”

You try not to laugh, but it's hard when he's hissing at his own zipper like it personally betrayed him. Then he reaches for you, fingertips ghosting under your hoodie, his breath catching when you let him pull it up over your head.

He freezes like a deer in headlights. “Holy shit.”

You shift, suddenly aware of the tight space, the way his hands graze near your waist and cunt like he's afraid to break you. His gaze drags over your bare skin, mouth parted, pupils blown.

“You're... you're so fucking pretty,” he says in a voice close to a confession, maybe only meant for his head and not to be spoken. “You're actually not real. I'm dreaming. I'm gonna wake up in a cold sweat and cry.”

You laugh softly. He’s so pathetically infatuated it’s almost endearing. “Please don't cry.”

“No promises.”

He reaches for the waistband of your sweats, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Still okay?”

You nod. “Satoru, yes.”

“Okay. Okay. I'm just checking. I'm new at this.”

“You don't say.”

He pulls your sweats down slowly, fingers brushing your thighs, almost hesitant and careful; he's moving like he's handling something with a fragile warning label. You help him, wriggling out of them, and the second you're bare in his lap, he whimpers. Literally whimpers.

“Fuck. Fuck. I'm gonna die.”

“You're so extra,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. He groans into it. “What do you expect?? Hello? hottest girl at our school, maybe even the entire world, just casually naked on top of me in the backseat of my car. This is genuinely how I die.”

You look down at him, heat blooming across your cheeks, heartbeat thudding in your ears. For just a second, everything stills; the air between you growing more charged and electric. Your chest brushes his, bare skin to bare skin. His hands freeze at your waist, fingers flexing once before going still. Neither of you breathes. You just stay there, caught in the quiet, in the weight of what’s about to happen.

“...So how do we...?”

“I don't know,” you say honestly. “We kinda just... find a rhythm?”

“Oh. Cool. Yeah. Rhythm. Easy.”

It's not easy.

You both fumble, laugh, bump foreheads. At one point he accidentally knocks the dome light on and screeches before turning it off again. But at one point, your hips shift just right and his mouth drops open as you sink down on him.

“OH.” His head thunks against the seat. “Oh my god. OH MY GOD.”

You bite back a grin. “That it?”

“YES. That's it. That's the entire fucking thing. Don't move. No. Do move. Just like that. Holy shit.”

You grind your hips on him again, exactly the same slowness and tease you did before. And Satoru? He looks like his brain is actively being rewired. His hands fly to your your thighs like a lifeline, fingers bruising into your skin, holding you like he needs it.

“You feel so good,” he gasps. “You feel fucking insane. Are you- do you like it? Is this okay? Please tell me it's good- fuck, tell me it's good, please.”

“Shh,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his. “Just kiss me.”

Without a second thought, Satoru kisses you like he's on fire and you’re the only thing that can put it out. His lips move earnestly; wet, messy, a little slobbery, but so him. He moans into your mouth with every slow grind of your hips. “Please,” he whines. “Please don't stop. I'm gonna cum. I can't- fuck, I can't hold it.”

“Then don't,” you breathe. “Just feel it.”

He does. And it’s instant. Maybe three strokes in and he’s fullbody seizing, head thrown back with a choked, guttural moan that sounds like his entire soul just left his body through his dick.

“HOLYSHITHOLYSHITfuckfuckfuck-”

His hips twitch helplessly. His hands are clawing at you like he’s trying to apologize through physical contact. His face is buried in your shoulder, whimpering, babbling, fully out of commission.

“I- oh my god, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to! Fuck, I didn’t even last. I was gonna pace myself, I swear, I wanted to make it romantic and slow and-”

You’re laughing. Genuinely laughing. Still lazily grinding against him just enough for him to feel how soaked you are. “You lasted like… maybe three pumps.”

He groans into your skin. “DON’T SAY IT OUT LOUD!”

“You screamed.”

“I know!” he wails. “I felt myself scream. I was THERE.”

You glance down at him, completely enamored. His face is red. He looks like he just got absolutely steamrolled by divine intervention. “…Okay,” he breathes. “I need to fix this.”

Your brows knit together. “Fix what?”

“This! That! The… premature event. That wasn’t even sex. That was like, a preview.”

You smirk, dragging your palms up his chest. “It was kinda hot.”

He sits up like a man reborn. “No. No. I am not going out like that.”

You arch a brow. “Going out?”

“I’m gonna die of shame if I don’t redeem myself right now. Please. I need to prove I’m not just a one and done disaster! I promise I can do better. Let me try again. I’ll do all the work. You don’t have to move a single muscle. Please?”

You sit and watch in awe as Satoru Gojo spirals with his cock still inside you in real time, babbling on about how ‘humiliating’ this is and how he ‘swears he’s not a one pump chump.’

You laugh softly, grinding just enough to tease, to let him feel how wet you made him. “Jesus,” you murmur. “You're a mess.”

He makes a sound so feral you think he might actually black out. “I'm YOUR mess,” he says immediately, eyes dazed and glossy. “You did this. You did this to me.”

And honestly? You're proud of it.

The silence lingers for maybe ten whole seconds while he processes the fact that you two actually just fucked, before Satoru suddenly sits up like he just remembered he left the stove on. “No. Nope. I can’t live like this. I’m humiliated,” he blurts. “I lasted two seconds and screamed like a goddamn cartoon character. We’re going to the dorms. Right now. I need to redeem myself.”

You blink at him from your cozy, cum filled sprawl across the his lap. “Satoru. I’m literally full of your cum right now. I’m gonna make a mess if I move.”

He groans and throws his head back like the world is ending. “WOW. Amazing. Didn’t even ask. I’m zero for two. Oh my god. You’re never gonna wanna touch me again, huh? You’re gonna tell Shoko. She’s gonna roast me. I can feel it. I’m gonna have to switch schools. Maybe countries. Is there a jujutsu high in, like, Greenland?!”

You blink at him, then snort. “Relax, Romeo. I’m on birth control.”

Satoru groans like you just personally ended his bloodline. He covers his face with both hands, voice muffled. “Nope. Nope. I’m still getting you Plan B. Tomorrow. First thing. I’ll wear a disguise and everything! I’ll sneak into the pharmacy like it’s a heist.”

You burst out laughing. “Satoru!”

“And I’ll bring you soup,” he barrels on, undeterred. “And one of those squishy plushies you like. Maybe a heating pad. I’ll nurse you back to health like a devoted husband whose wife just caught consumption.”

“That doesn’t even- what? That doesn’t make sense.”

He sits up straighter, grabbing your shoulders. “You’re my precious cargo now.”

You’re giggling too hard to speak.

“No sudden movements,” he says solemnly. “You need rest. Fluids. A full Satoru certified recovery protocol.”

“Do I also get a massage?”

“Oh, you’re getting more than a massage,” he says, suddenly smirking. “You’re getting the redemption arc of the century. Next round, I’m doing all the work. No distractions. No accidents. I’m gonna blow your mind so hard you forget how disappointed you were in me.”

You raise a brow. “I wasn’t disappointed.”

“Liar. I lasted like, five seconds.”

“You cried,” you tease, and he scowls.

“I felt things,” he huffs. “Anyway, next time I’m gonna last longer than a ringtone loop and give you the full Satoru Gojo experience. Postgame recovery and everything.”

“Oh yeah?”

He nods with gravitas. “Gourmet snacks. Temperature controlled blankets. A playlist. Maybe even bake you cookies.”

“…You’re gonna fuck me and then bake me cookies?”

“The best damn cookies you’ve ever had.” he says proudly.

You stare. Then you start laughing so hard your stomach hurts. You roll your eyes through it. "You're actually insane."

"Right?? But now I'm insane for you." He grins, crooked and unhinged. "Speaking of. How do I sneak into your dorm? Like, logistically. I can’t exactly give the performance of a century in the backseat of this beater."

You blink. "You could just... sneak in?"

He gasps. "YES. I knew I was crushing on a genius."

You watch in complete horror as he suddenly scrambles out from under you, pulling his pants halfway up, and lunges over the center console like he's being chased by god himself.

"Satoru!"

"Back to your dorm!" he yells triumphantly, throwing the car into drive. "We're nesting!"

"I'm still half naked!"

"We'll get you a hoodie at the next red light!"

"YOU'RE GOING 70."

He grins like a lunatic, one hand on the wheel, the other fumbling for your hoodie behind him. "Baby I gotta look at you while I recover. It's important. For science." And somehow, in some absolutely unhinged way, you love it.

—

You barely get the door open before he's on you again; messy kisses, wandering hands, breathless little noises like he physically can't stop touching you.

"Okay," Satoru pants, voice way too loud, "so I did read somewhere that missionary is like, the gold standard starter position."

You blink. "Where the hell did you read that?"

"Some forum," he says as he kicks the door shut behind you, "called like, reddit or something. Very clinical."

"Oh great. You're basing this off Reddit?"

"No no no. Science."

And before you can argue, his arms wrap around your thighs and he picks you up like a lunatic. You yelp, grabbing at his shoulders. "Satoru!"

"Shhh," he hushes, breathless with laughter, stumbling toward your bed with his fly wide open, one sock dangling pathetically off his foot, hoodie twisted around his neck like a scarf.

Luckily, your dorm's on the end of the hall. No teachers nearby. No supervising staff. Just Haibara, who's definitely passed out with a granola bar in his hand and the TV blaring.

Satoru drops you onto the bed like you're made of spun silk and sugar. Then stands back with both hands on his hips, chest heaving. "Okay, princess," he says, voice cracking, "don't worry. I totally know what I'm doing."

You give him a look. He clears his throat and starts undressing whatever he has on like it's a mission objective. Tosses his jacket somewhere in the vicinity of your desk. His shirt ends up on your floor lamp. His pants get halfway down before he has to sit on the edge of the bed to kick them off.

"I am so cool right now," he mutters, struggling with a pant leg. "Slick. Smooth. Definitely not having a full body meltdown."

You laugh as you pull your hoodie over your head. "You're wearing one sock."

"Don't disrespect the sock," he says solemnly. "It's my confidence sock."

When you're both undressed completely, he hovers over you. Hands planted on either side of your head. Face inches from yours. "Yup," he says. "Totally cool. About to redeem my two pumps and make sweet love to the finest girl in Japan. Give a special grade performance. Totally not peeing my pants a little."

You raise a brow. "Is that... a figure of speech or-"

"No further questions at this time."

His mouth is on you before you can answer; wet and needy and so full of affection it nearly knocks the air out of you. His hips settle between yours. His hands frame your face. You can feel the way he's moving; not from fear, but from how much he wants you. How much he wants to get it right.

And just before he lines himself up, voice shaking, he whispers against your mouth, "Tell me what feels good. Please. I'll do anything."

His arms are shaking as he slides in. Tentatively, and also painfully slow. "Fuuuck," he groans, forehead resting against yours. "Oh my god, oh my fucking god. This is- it's so warm, it's so warm, is it supposed to feel like this? Are you sure this is legal?"

You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, heels hooking behind him to pull him deeper. He screeches. Genuinely lets out a half choked, helpless squeak.

"OKAY SEX GODDESS," he gasps, voice shaking. "DID YOU READ THAT ONE TOO??"

You laugh, breathless and full of him. "Maybe."

He's blinking at you with wide, wet eyes, chest heaving, jaw slack. "You're trying to kill me."

"You like it," you whisper.

He thrusts again, deeper this time, sharp and sudden, and you whine a little in response. "Yes I fucking do." he groans.

His mouth is on yours, then your jaw, then your neck; sloppy, open mouthed kisses as he fucks into you like he's been waiting his whole life to do this.

"I can't- I can't believe I'm inside you right now," he babbles. "You feel insane. You feel like heaven. You feel like fucking destiny. If this is a dream I swear to god I'm gonna piss myself in my sleep-"

"Satoru-"

"Say my name again," he begs, hips stuttering briefly. "Please. Say it. Say it in that voice. I'll buy you a house. I'll buy you seven houses."

You whimper it. Moan it. Gasp it into his ear, and he loses his mind.

"That's it. That's fucking it."

He's going so slowly, trying to make it last, but it's not really working. Every little moan you let out, every gasp, every twitch of your legs around him has him clinging to reality by a thread.

"Do you like this?" he pants, breath hot against your skin. "Am I doing it right? Am I good? You're making those sounds and I- fuck, I'd do anything for those sounds-"

"You're perfect," you breathe. "You feel so good, Satoru."

He whines. Actually whines. Thrusts a little harder. "You're so tight, so good, holy fuck- I could die like this. I want to die like this. Just bury me right here. Let my soul haunt your pussy."

You wheeze. "That's not how ghosts work-"

"I don't care! I'll invent a new kind of haunting!"

You rake your fingers into his hair, tugging lightly at the base of his neck. He gasps, loud and broken. His hips falter.

"Okay," he pants, eyes fluttering. "Okay that- why does that feel good? Oh my god. Do it again."

You tug again, just a little, and he moans like you just opened the gates of heaven. "Fuck," he whimpers. "That's- oh my god, that's bad. I'm gonna do something stupid."

"Like what?" you tease, breathless, clenching around him.

"Like propose."

You laugh, dragging your nails across his scalp. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

He lets out a breathy little laugh, dazed and shaky, and his hands everywhere; your waist, your thighs, your chest, cheeks, like he can’t decide what part of you to worship first. His touch is devoted and frantic all at once. “You’re unreal,” he babbles. “You’re so pretty. You’re- you’re fuckin’ making me feel things I don’t even have words for.”

“Try anyway,” you murmur, rolling your hips up to meet his with a soft whine.

He gasps. Actually gasps, and then sobs. Presses his forehead to yours, completely overwhelmed, drowning in pussy and pleasure. “I wanna stay inside you forever,” he confesses. “I wanna build a house in here. Like a tiny little cottage. With a garden. And a porch swing.”

You burst out laughing. “That’s the most deranged thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

He grins like a man possessed. “Really? I’m winning!”

You cup his jaw, pull him back in for a kiss that turns messy, teeth clacking slightly before it melts into something softer. Filthier. “Poor baby,” you tease against his mouth. “Thought you were in charge, huh?”

“I never stood a chance,” he whimpers. “You’re unreal. I’d do anything for you at this point.”

You roll your hips again, and his breath catches. He moans; loud and absolutely shameless while thrusting harder, the rhythm less imagined in his head and more driven. A man on a mission. “I’m gonna make you cum this time,” he pants, desperate and focused, fucking you with the confidence of someone who definitely Googled every position a hundred times and imagined doing them with you. “I have to. I’m not stopping until you do. I can’t cum again without it. I’ll die. I’ll actually die.”

You giggle and drag your nails down his back just enough to make him shiver. “You gonna give it to me properly this time, Satoru?”

He whines, pace stuttering for a second. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, baby. I got this. Gonna make my girl a wet little mess for me.”

You moan, and he moans right back, like your pleasure fuels him.

“You feel so good,” he breathes. “So good, so good, I didn’t know it could feel this good.”

“Then shut up and make me cum,” you taunt, dragging him closer.

His hips falter for half a second like a fuse just blew in his brain; but he recovers fast, fucking into you harder, deeper, whispering, “Yeah? Yeah. Okay. Deeper. You like it deep, I can tell. Your voice gets all high when I hit that spot- right there, yeah? You’re so fucking tight around me I think I’m gonna- n-no. No, not yet. Not until you do. Gotta make it good for you. Better than before. Best ever. God, you’re too good-”

You crash your mouth into his, swallowing his words and replacing them with whimpers. “You’re doing so good, Satoru,” you breathe into the kiss. “God, you feel so good. Look at you, fucking me like you’ve done this a hundred times. Fucking me like you mean it.”

“I do mean it,” he chokes out. “I’ve been dreaming about this. Every night. Thought about how I’d fuck you if I ever got the chance. Studied for it. Like an exam. Did you know there are diagrams online?”

You laugh breathlessly. “You studied how to fuck me?”

“I studied everything,” he groans, pounding into you with newfound purpose. “And it still didn’t prepare me for how good you’d feel. Holy shit, I’m gonna cum- wait, fuck, no. Gotta hold it. I can hold it. I will hold it.”

“Then don’t stop,” you whisper, clinging to him. “Just don’t stop.”

He kisses you again, all tongue and teeth and heat, and fucks you like he’s trying to apologize to your soul. Like if he does this right, maybe you’ll never leave. Judging by how good he feels, by the fire curling low in your belly, he just might be right.

He kisses you again, all tongue and teeth and heat, and fucks you like he’s trying to apologize to your soul. Like if he does this right, maybe you’ll never leave. Judging by how good he feels, by the fire curling low in your belly, he just might be right.

Just when you think he’s finished being ridiculous, he thrusts a little deeper, eyes locked on yours. And says, soft and a little pathetic, “You were made for me.”

His eyes flutter open, dazed and hazy. “…Did I say that out loud?”

You nod.

He pants. “Was it hot?”

You nod again.

“…Okay cool,” he breathes. “I’m gonna nut soon.”

But before he can fall apart, you gasp and writhe, sharp and sudden, because something about the way he’s hitting that exact spot, the way his voice cracks when he begs for your body like it’s a vice, sends you straight into orgasm territory. It’s the way he’s trying so hard to please you, the way nobody else has ever shown so much dedication and devotion to making you cum first, and the way his cock hits just right over and over that does it for you.

“Satoru-” you cry out, nails digging into his back. “Don’t stop. Right there, please, keep going like that- fuck, I’m cumming, i’m cumming, oh my god-”

You clench around him so tight it knocks the air from his lungs. His hips stutter, but he doesn’t dare stop. You’re pulsing on his cock, soaking him, thighs trembling like you’re short-circuiting from the inside out. You swear, you see white.

His orgasm comes immediately after. Hard. Loud. A fucking mess. Shaking so badly he nearly collapses on top of you. He moans your name like a prayer, like it’s the only word he knows, like he’s trying to write it into the universe with every breath. He buries his face in your neck, clinging to you like a lifeline, every thrust growing sloppier, needier, wrecked beyond reason.

He freezes for half a second, like his brain just bluescreened. Glances down at you, then to the spot where he’s buried to the hilt inside you, then back to your face. The moment he feels how wet you’ve gotten, how tight and hot and fucking unreal you are, the loudest, whiniest, most desperate groan rips from his throat.

His orgasm hits like a truck. Hard. Loud. A full body meltdown. His entire frame locks up, then shakes, like he’s about to be exorcised. He moans your name like it’s the only word he knows, over and fucking over. The kind of moan that feels like a confession, a breakdown, and a worship chant all at once. He doesn’t just cum, he fucking falls apart, collapsing on top of you, babbling something that sounds like “thank you” and “holy shit” and “you’re so good” all at once.

You feel it all; him twitching inside you, the hot, thick spill of cum flooding you like he’s trying to fill you up so much it leaks out around him. It’s obscene. Sticky. So fucking hot you moan again just from the feeling. His hips are still moving slightly, trying to fuck it deeper, bury it as far as it’ll go.

He pants against your skin, face buried in your neck like he’s trying to crawl inside you. “You feel so good. So fucking good. Fuck, fuck, I didn’t know it could feel like this. I didn’t know.”

Your thighs are shaking. Your body’s practically goo. You can still feel him throbbing, whimpering through the aftershocks, every inch of him drenched in sweat and desperation.

The sounds he makes are guttural; half sobs, half praises, all of it needy. A little pathetic, a lot unhinged, and still somehow the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. He clutches you tighter, grinding shallowly even as he starts to soften, like he physically can’t stop.

“…I’m obsessed with you,” he whispers, voice cracked and breathless. “Like. Actually. Clinically. You’ve permanently altered my brain chemistry. I’m not gonna recover from this. I’m gonna dream about you every night for the rest of my life.”

When he finally stills, he pulls back just enough to look at you, hair stuck to his forehead, glasses askew, lips kiss swollen and pink. He blinks once.

“…I think I blacked out. Are you real?”

You cup his face, kiss his temple, and giggle.

“I better be.”

He collapses on top of you with a full body sigh, all jello like and trembling and muttering thank yous like he just survived a natural disaster.

“Thank you. Thank you. You're amazing. I love you. Thank you.”

“You love me?” you snort, threading your fingers through his hair.

“I meant spiritually,” he mumbles into your neck. “Like in a god blessed, wow I saw the light kind of way. Sooo, yeah, no, I love you.”

“You're welcome, I guess?”

He kisses your collarbone. Then your shoulder. Then your jaw. Then your cheek. Then your nose. “My god,” he murmurs, still breathless, still sprawled across you, “I should've confessed sooner.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut. "You think?"

Then he goes quiet for a moment.

“...Wait.”

Your brows furrow.

“...Did you just wanna fuck me? Or do you like me too?”

You pull back just far enough to look him in the face. Then flick him in the forehead.

He yelps. “Ow!”

“Are you for real right now?”

He rubs the spot with a dramatic pout. “It's a valid question!”

“I literally let you raw me in a Honda Civic and moan cry on top of me then stuff me like a twinkie,” you deadpan. “What do you think, Satoru?”

“...Okay, sooo...” he starts, grinning. “Are you my girlfriend then?”

You hesitate, a little smile tugging at your lips. “...Is that what's supposed to happen next?”

He beams like he’s the sun himself. “YES.” Then he lurches upright suddenly, pulling out of you so fast you gasp and instantly feel the mess dripping down your thighs onto your poor, innocent mattress.

You glance down. “Oh my god, Satoru.”

He's already halfway to his pants, naked from the waist down, one sock still on, digging through piles of clothes like a man possessed.

“What are you doing?”

“I have to tell the group chat.”

“What??”

He grabs his phone, dives back onto the bed beside you, shoves his face next to yours, and holds up the camera. “Smile!”

You blink, dazed and still spread out, covered in sweat and his cum, while he grins like he just won the lottery.

Click.

The photo's so awful it could be a hostage situation, but he looks so proud. Then he opens the group chat and types:

ME AND MY GIRL ARE SAFE AT HOME BTW!!! YOU HEARD THAT RIGHT!! MY GIRL!!!

You slap a pillow over your face. “I hate you.”

A second later, your phone buzzes.

Shoko: fucking FINALLY

Geto: I'm shocked you didn't pass out mid thrust tbh

Nanami: Unsubscribe.

Utahime: You raw dogged before a second date??

Haibara: wait WHAT HAPPENED I WAS ASLEEP HELLO

You groan into the pillow.

Satoru collapses beside you again, laughing so hard he's wheezing, and pulls you into his chest. “Best night of my life,” he whispers, kissing your forehead. “And you're my girlfriend now, sooo... yeah. No. I won. I'm metaphorically chaining us together forever now.”