❝ HATE MOOTS ❞ 呪術廻戦. 18+
CHAPTER 3 ⇢ PREV - NEXT
# NSFW TWT ! NERDJO AU ⋆ 18+ MDNI | SMUT AHEAD ⋆ mean/popular fem!reader ⋆ secretly mutuals ⋆ satoru & reader make softporn on twt ⋆ university au ⋆ no use of y/n but reader’s alias is ‘love’ ⋆ fake dating ⋆ academic rivalry & animosity ⋆ satoru and reader hate each other ⋆ reader briefly cheats on her bf… sorry… ⋆ art by @to00fu & dividers by #omi.resources
The group project meeting was supposed to be neutral ground. Ethics class, paired randomly by the TA who clearly hated their job, and somehow you ended up stuck with Gojo and two other people who were too smart to bail but too awkward to say anything when the tension in the room got thick enough to choke on.
You’re in one of the smaller study rooms on the third floor of the humanities building—the one with the shitty lights and the broken down air conditioners and a poster on the wall that’s been there since before you started uni. Some motivational bullshit about “collaboration” with a cartoon brain and a lightbulb. You’ve seen it a hundred times. Never thought twice about it until tonight.
Satoru’s already there when you walk in, laptop open, glasses on, looking like he dwells in this kind of place. The other two group members are huddled at the end of the table scrolling their phones, probably praying this ends quick. You drop your bag on the chair across from him and don’t bother with pleasantries.
“Late,” he says without looking up, fingers flying over his keyboard. “Typical.”
“Traffic,” you shoot back, even though there was no traffic. “Some of us have lives outside of jerking off to our own GPA.”
He snorts. Like the damn pig he is. The sound is so fucking smug you want to throw your notebook at his head. “Cute. Still coping with the test results? It’s been two days. Move on.”
The other two students exchange a look. One of them mumbles something about “maybe we should start with the outline” but neither of you acknowledges it. This is how it’s been for three years—every shared class, every accidental run-in, every forced interaction turns into this verbal knife fight where neither of you ever lands the killing blow but both of you walk away bleeding a little.
You lean forward, elbows on the table. “Outline? Sure. How about you do the whole thing like you always do and we all pretend you’re not just trying to make the rest of us look bad. Again.”
Satoru finally looks up. Those stupid blue eyes behind the glasses, sharp and unreadable. “Or you could contribute for once instead of riding my coattails. But we both know you’re better at riding other things.”
The jab lands. Your face heats. One of the other students coughs like they’re choking on air. You flip him off under the table where only he can see it.
“Fuck you, Gojo.”
“Already did that in my head during the last lecture. Five stars. Would recommend.”
The meeting drags. Banter sharpens into actual arguments over who does what section. You accuse him of being a control freak who can’t let anyone else touch his precious work. He accuses you of being all talk and no follow-through, the popular girl who coasts on charm until the real work starts. It’s the same script you’ve been running since first year, except now it’s layered with three years of academic one-upping and whatever the hell that online thing has been doing to your head.
Because even while you’re glaring at him across the table, part of your brain is thinking about toru. About the way he called you “love”. About the video he sent last night that you came to twice. It’s disgusting how easily your mind splits like this—hating the guy in front of you while secretly craving the anonymous version of him who doesn’t know your real name.
Or at least… you thought he didn’t.
The other two students bail first. One claims a “family emergency” that’s clearly just code for “I’m not getting paid enough for this sexual tension.” The other just mutters “text me the Google Doc” and flees. The door clicks shut and suddenly it’s just you and Satoru in the warm and fluorescent hell of the study room.
You start packing your bag, eager to escape before the air gets any thicker. “Great. Another productive session of you being insufferable. Text me when you’re done hoarding all the credit.”
You stand. He doesn’t.
Instead he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching you with this new expression. Not the usual smirk. Something sharper. Like he’s been waiting for this exact moment ever since he stepped into the room.
“You’re not leaving yet.”
You pause, one hand on your bag strap. “Excuse me?”
“Sit down.”
The tone is different. Still arrogant, but lower. Commanding in a way that makes your stomach flip for all the wrong reasons. You should tell him to eat shit and walk out. But something in his face stops you. You sit. Slowly.
Satoru doesn’t say anything at first. Just reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out his phone. Unlocks it. Scrolls. Then turns the screen toward you.
Your blood runs cold.
It’s your latest post. The one from last night. The video. Your hand between your thighs, the familiar angle, the caption you typed in a post-orgasm haze. And right there in the corner of the frame—partially visible behind your bed—is that stupid schedule.
He zooms in slowly, like he’s savoring it.
“Funny thing about backgrounds,” he says, voice casual like he’s talking about the weather. “They’re hard to fake. Especially when you post from the same place at the same time every week. Same lighting. Same angle. Same shitty campus Wi-Fi lag in the video metadata if you know where to look.”
Your mouth goes dry. Heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it.
He keeps going, scrolling through your page while you stand there with your heart in you throat and your knees seconds from buckling.
“You’ve been begging for more of me for weeks now,” he continues, and the words hit like a slap. “texting me at 2 a.m. Calling me ‘toru’ like it’s cute. Getting off to my hand like it’s the best thing you’ve seen all semester. And the whole time it’s been you. The girl who humiliated me in front of half the freshman class three years ago. The one who’s been trying to one-up me in every class since. Lovesick. Love.”
He locks the phone and sets it down between you like evidence in a trial.
You can’t breathe. The disgust hits first—visceral, gut wrenching , like you swallowed something rotten and your body was insisting on throwing it up. Him. Of all people. The guy you’ve hated for three years. The one who you made feel small on day one and then spent every semester after making you feel smaller with his perfect scores and quiet superiority. You’ve been touching yourself to Satoru Gojo. Letting him see you like that. Calling him toru while he called you love and neither of you knew.
Your face burns. Your hands shake. “You—how the fuck did you—”
“Doesn’t matter how,” he cuts in, leaning forward now. “What matters is I have it. All of it. Screenshots. The texts where you told me exactly what you wanted to see. The videos. The pictures. Enough to make your little secret very, very public.”
The blackmail drops like a bomb.
“You’re going to break up with your boyfriend,” he says, voice steady, almost bored. “Publicly. And you’re going to pretend to date me. For real—parties, introductions, the whole thing. I get to walk around campus with the popular girl on my arm and maybe people will finally stop looking at me like the guy who you humiliated on day one. My reputation gets a glow-up. You get to keep your slutty little hobby private.”
You stare at him. The disgust curdles into rage so fast it makes your head spin. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”
“Am I?” He shrugs, that same infuriating little movement. “Option B is I send everything to the group chats. The frat ones. The sorority ones. The ones that actually matter on this campus. By tomorrow morning everyone will know exactly what ‘love’ looks like when she’s desperate. Your boyfriend will know you’ve been shamelessly cheating on him. Your friends will know. The whole school will know you’ve been posting nudes and getting off to some faceless guy while playing perfect popular girl in real life.”
The horror slams into you like a truck. Campus slut-shaming. There’s no fate worse than that. The whispers. The screenshots being passed around. Your reputation—the one you’ve spent three years building—gone in a single afternoon. You’d be the joke. The cautionary tale. The girl who thought she could have secrets.
You swallow hard. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.” No hesitation. “And before you threaten to expose me back—go ahead. Post my shit everywhere. Ruin my reputation too. I don’t care. I’ll still have gotten what I wanted—your reputation ruined.”
The words land heavy. You hate him. God, you hate him in this moment more than you ever have. The arousal underneath it makes everything worse—like your body is betraying you on top of everything else now that it knows who he really is. Some sick part of you remembers the way his hand looked in those videos and feels a traitorous pulse between your legs even while your brain screams disgusting, disgusting, disgusting.
“You’re a piece of shit,” you sneer.
“Never said I wasn’t.” He stands up slowly, towering over you again. “So what’s it gonna be? You gonna be my girlfriend for the next few months, or do I start sending attachments?”
You want to scream. You want to hit him. You want to crawl into a hole and die. Instead you sit there, breathing hard, staring at the phone on the table like it’s threatening your entire existence (it is).
The thought of everyone knowing—of your boyfriend seeing those videos, of your friends screenshotting and laughing—makes your chest tighten so hard until it hurts. You’ve built this image. The untouchable one. The one who humiliated him on day one—even if you werent necessarily proud of it. If it all comes crashing down because of some anonymous Twitter account you used to blow off steam…
You hate that he’s right. Hate that he has you cornered.
“…Fine,” you say finally, voice hoarse. “I’ll do it. But if you fuck me over, I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly what toru looks like when he’s jerking off to the girl who humiliated him.”
Satoru smiles. It’s not nice. “Wouldn’t expect anything less. Break up with him tonight. Public enough that people talk. I’ll pick you up for the Kappa party this weekend. Wear something pretty for me, okay?”
He grabs his bag, slings it over one shoulder, and heads for the door. Pauses with his hand on the handle.
“Oh, and one more thing.” He glances back, eyes gleaming behind the glasses. “No more secret DMs as toru and love. If you want to talk to me now, you do it in person. Or text my real number. No use pretending we don’t know each other.”
The door shuts behind him.
You sit there for a long time after, staring at the motivational poster on the wall. The brain and the lightbulb. The same one that gave you away.
Your phone buzzes. A text from your boyfriend.
BF: you home? wanna grab food?
You stare at it. Then you stand up on shaky legs, grab your bag, and head out.
The breakup happens in the parking lot outside his apartment building because you’re a coward and you don’t want to do it in his space where he can slam doors or throw shit.
He’s confused at first. Then hurt. Then angry in that quiet way that makes you feel even smaller.
“I don’t get it,” he says, leaning against his car. “We were fine. What changed?”
Everything. Nothing. You can’t tell him the truth. So you lie through your teeth like the expert you’ve become.
“I just… need space. We’re not working. I’m sorry.”
He laughs, bitter. “Space. Right. You’ve been checked out for weeks. On your phone all the time. Secretive as fuck. I’m not an idiot.”
You flinch. The guilt hits but it’s buried under the bigger, louder terror of what Satoru could do if you don’t follow through. You keep your voice steady. “It’s not about you. It’s me.”
“Bullshit.” He pushes off the car. “Whatever. Go be with whoever the fuck you’ve actually been talking to. I hope he’s worth it.”
He gets in his car and drives off without looking back. You stand there in the cold night air until your legs stop shaking, then you pull out your phone and open Twitter one last time on the secret account.
You don’t post anything. You just scroll to limitless’s profile. Stare at the last video he sent you. The one you came to last night. The one that was him the whole time.
The disgust rises again, thick and choking. You’ve been getting off to Satoru Gojo. The guy who had the balls to ask you out first week. The guy who’s been beating you academically for three years. The guy who just blackmailed you into fake dating him.
And the worst part?
Some sick, traitorous part of you is already wondering what it would feel like when he touches you for real. Because yes, you hate him. Yes, he’s the worst. But you’ve been crushing on his online persona ever since you’ve met him. So what the hell does that mean?
You lock your phone, shove it in your pocket, and start walking home.
In his quiet dorm on campus, Satoru lies on his bed, holding his phone with a troubled look on his face. He’s not sure whether choosing the blackmail route was the right decision or if he should’ve just… played the long game, knowing it was you and all. Guilt weighs on him, but he shoves it deep down. He has to remind himself that you’re the same girl who single-handedly ruined his college experience. You owe him this.
He doesn’t open the app. Doesn’t need to. He already has what he wants.
The girl who laughed at him three years ago is his now. Publicly. On his terms.
And the thought of her breaking up with her boyfriend tonight makes something ugly and satisfied and guilty twist in his chest. A cocktail of emotions of which he didn’t know which to prioritize.
He closes his eyes and lets the memory of your face when he showed you the screenshots play on repeat. Maybe he can at least salvage his senior year.
scheming little nerd
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