your boyfriend satoru is almost too big to fit 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 ﮳﮳ᐢ) !
you’re on your back, legs spread wide, shaky breaths escaping your lips as satoru kneels between them. his cock is already slick with precum, a thick, heavy weight that rests against your stomach whenever he leans forward. you’ve done this before—enough times to know the ache that comes after, the way your body protests and craves him in equal measure. but tonight, something’s different.
“you okay?” he asks, voice low, teasing, but there’s a genuine edge to it. his thumb traces circles on your hip, grounding you.
“yeah,” you whisper, even though you’re not entirely sure. you reach down, fingers wrapping around his shaft. even half-hard, he’s massive—your hand can’t close around him, can’t even get halfway. your palm slides over velvety skin, feels the pulse kick under your touch. he hisses, hips twitching forward.
“gotta warn you, baby,” your boyfriend says, thumb pressing into your wetness, gathering some of the slick mess. “i’m not gonna be able to hold back tonight.”
you nod. a part of you wants this, wants to feel him split you open, wants that desperate, overwhelming fullness even if it hurts. you bring your other hand between your thighs, spread yourself open, show him how wet you already are, the way your hole flutters in anticipation.
“put it in,” you breathe.
satoru lines himself up, the fat head nudging against your entrance. it’s just the tip, and already you feel the stretch, the burn of being filled past what’s natural. he pushes, slow, inch by inch, and you gasp, back arching off the bed. your walls clench around him, trying to accommodate, but it’s too much. he’s too big.
“fuck,” he grunts, sweat beading on his brow. “you’re so tight. you’re fighting me.”
it hurts. it hurts so good. you can feel your inner muscles pulling against his girth, can feel the resistance, the way your body tries to deny him entry even as you beg for it. he stops when he’s about halfway in, breath ragged.
“i can’t—you’re not gonna take all of it,” he says, voice strained. “it won’t fit.”
“i don’t care,” you whimper, hands gripping his forearms. “just—please. i need it.”
he takes a breath, then pushes harder. you cry out as he forces another inch in, the pain sharp and bright, mixed with a pleasure that makes your toes curl. he’s buried deep now, but still not all the way. you can feel the empty space inside you, the part of him still outside, and it drives you crazy.
satoru starts to move, shallow thrusts at first, pulling out just enough to let your body adjust before pressing back in. each time, the stretch is remade, your cunt screaming in protest and welcome. your moans turn into a steady stream of incoherent pleas—faster, more, harder, please—and he obliges, picking up the pace.
but his cock is too big. no matter how much you want it, no matter how wet you get, you can’t take him fully. your body tells you in little spasms, in the way you clench and release without rhythm, in the tear tracks that streak your cheeks. he sees them, slows down.
“too much?” he asks, and his thumb wipes at your cheek.
“don’t stop,” you choke out. “don’t stop.”
so he doesn’t. he fucks you with everything he’s got, hips snapping against yours, the wet sound of your pussy taking what it can filling the room. you can feel every ridge of his cock, every vein, the way he pulses inside you. your hands rake down his back, leaving red marks, and he growls, fucks you harder.
it’s not long before you come. the orgasm builds like a wave, cresting over you as he grinds against that spot inside you that makes your vision go white. your legs clamp around his waist, pulling him deeper, and you scream into his neck as you come undone, pussy clenching around him in violent pulsing waves.
but he doesn’t stop.
“s-satoru, wait, i’m still—” you gasp, overstimulated, sensitive, raw. the feeling of him still moving inside you after your orgasm is almost too much, a pleasure so intense it borders on pain.
“i know,” he says, and he’s not cruel, but he’s relentless. “one more. just one more for me, baby. you can do it.”
you’re shaking, trembling, your thighs quivering as he thrusts. the overstimulation amplifies everything—the stretch, the friction, the fullness. every brush of his cock against your walls sends jolts of electricity through your nerves. you’re crying now, a mix of ecstasy and exhaustion, but you don’t tell him to stop. you can’t. you need this, need him to use you until you’re nothing but a sobbing, cum-drunk mess.
he watches you fall apart, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. his hand snakes down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, swollen and oversensitive. he rubs circles, light and fast, and you arch off the bed again, a broken moan tearing from your throat.
“that’s it,” he murmurs. “come on. give me another one.”
your second orgasm is less explosive but longer, a drawn-out, messy affair. your entire body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve ending lit up, as you cum around his too-big cock, still buried inside you, still moving. you feel his rhythm stutter, feel his heat spill inside you, deep and hot and endless. he groans your name as he cums, and the feeling of being filled by him, even though he never fit completely, is the final push you needed.
he pulls out gently, careful not to hurt you, and you both collapse on the wet sheets. his cock is still hard, still slick with your combined fluids, and you can see the way your entrance gapes, the redness, the evidence of what you’ve done. he kisses your forehead.
“you okay?” he asks again, softer this time.
you don’t have the breath to answer, so you just nod, curling into his chest. you feel the soreness already settling in, the dull ache that will bloom into something more tomorrow. but right now, you still feel him inside you, even though he’s not. that phantom fullness.
he’s still hard, pressing against your thigh. you can feel his breath quicken, and you know he’s not done yet. “one more,” he whispers, and the words are a command and a plea, all at once. “please. i need—again. i need you to take it again.”
you should say no. you should tell him you need a break, that your body can’t handle another round. but the way he looks at you, desperate and hungry, and the way your pussy still clenches around nothing, aches for him despite the pain—it overrides any sense.
“okay,” you whisper. “okay. but go slow.”
“i will,” he says, and he’s already positioning himself, already pressing the head of his cock against your overworked entrance. you hiss at the immediate stretch, the burn returning with a vengeance. he pushes in, inch by inch, and you can feel every fold of your cunt being forced open, made to accommodate him even though it never will.
your cries turn into sobs as he bottoms out—or rather, as he reaches the point where you can’t take any more. he strokes inside you, slow and deep, and the overstimulation is a living thing now, a fire that consumes you from the inside out. every nerve is screaming. your clit is so sore you can’t bear the thought of touch, yet when he reaches down and pinches it, you scream, a mix of agony and bliss.
your boyfriend fucks you like that, slow but punishing, milking your oversensitive body for all it’s worth. you’re a mess of tears and sweat and cum, legs trembling, hands fisting the sheets. he doesn’t stop until you’re choking on another orgasm, this one weak and painful, barely a shudder before you’re done.
he follows close behind, spilling into you again, his cum mixing with his own before it leaks out around his cock. he stays buried for a long moment, breathing hard, before pulling out. you’re left lying there, empty and shattered, your cunt fluttering, trying to hold onto something that’s too big to stay.
satoru collapses beside you, pulling you close. “that was—fuck.” he laughs, a low, exhausted sound. “you’re amazing.”
you can’t find the words, so you just press a kiss to his chest and let the slick, messy aftermath settle around you both, the ache of being stretched beyond your limit a warm, persistent throb that promises to haunt you for days.
Baby You're a Star Masterlist // Pornstar Satoru headcanons
Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight
Pairings- Pornstar Satoru x shy f!reader
Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream.
Warnings- mentions of sex and sexwork, masturbation, mentions of drug use, weed smoking, Gojo has an OF hehe, lots of longing, pining, Satoru can't get hard if it's not you, whipped ass Satoru, explicit sexual content, angst -
Finished - WC 85k 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻 Playlist -Ao3 link
Headcanons below!
Pornstar Satoru is one of the most famous pornstars there are, hence him constantly wearing jet black shades and hoodies at times, he never knew just who he'd run into that would recognize him. Whether it's his flicks or his OF - he's the top .01 % - he gets a lot of notice, especially in bustling LA. But, he loves what he does, he especially loves watching his abs flex in the camera as he hits one of his lovely costars from the back.
Pornstar Satoru loves making the costars and girls he collabs with actually cum, where they're shaking and squirting all over his latex covered cock. Not that fake shit like he watches them do with other men- no Satoru makes sure to slam that curved tip against their cervix, to roll his thumb right on their clit with the perfect amount of pressure. Perhaps that's the secret to how famous he really is, along with his good looks.
Pornstar Satoru makes so much money from each shoot and is in high demand, so he can have whoever he wants as a co star. They line up to have a chance at him, watching his videos and aching for a chance to feel his cock hitting them deeper than damn near anyone could hit, to say they got to shoot with the Satoru Gojo. This just makes Satoru fuck them harder, smiling right at that camera, as women dream it's really them that have captured his pretty blue eyed gaze.
Pornstar Satoru thinks it's a pretty damn good life, being rich for fucking beautiful women on camera, as he's inhaling a blunt after a threesome shoot with his best friend - and often costar- Pornstar Suguru, as they talk about who got the girl to squirt more, right in the middle of a bouguie party in East LA. Suguru let's out a throaty laugh, while Satoru narrows his blue eyes. 'I had her cumming so hard she was shaking' he says, taking a hit and handing it back to Suguru. 'Nah, that was all for me, did you see...'
Pornstar Satoru stops listening when he sees you enter the room, completely out of place at the coke filled, booze filled party, wearing a pair of black glasses that cover half of your pretty face, and a little nervous look as you stand there, in a cute white pleated skirt and a big oversized sweater. Satoru smacks Suguru on the shoulder then and he coughs up smoke. 'Shit what is it?' Satoru looks back at you, when you're handed a drink, some guy flirting as you look down shyly. 'Who's she?' Suguru blinks a bit curiously. 'I don't know, she's pretty though'
Pornstar Satoru scowls at Suguru who snorts in laughter then. 'Satoru we don't have 'girlfriends' and she... looks like a good girl' your eyes catch his then, across the room, like something shifts as you smile sweetly, before peering at your phone, biting your lip in concentration. 'I'm talking to her' Suguru chuckles as he watches his friend, and Satoru feels his heart race when he comes too close to you, something he can't say he's felt, even pleasing countless beauties, nothing has quite altered him as your sweet turn of lips, as you look down at your converse, so out of place you're fucking adorable. 'Hey sweetheart... Satoru Gojo' he says, introducing himself with ease, expecting you to maybe notice him, get starstruck, fuck women get wet just near him, but you simply grin, and your name whispers through his mind when it spills from your lips.
Pornstar Satoru has you sitting with him later, you fall into easy conversation, you're a little gamer nerd, you love science and the environment, he just bets you were head of your ecology club in college, which you quickly confirm, all while you're in awe of just how beautiful this man is. He's sweet, he's sexy... you feel he shouldn't even be talking to you. You're pretty but... he's experienced so clearly, by every way he moves, he's worldly, so confident, and you've never really left this little part of LA, but the two of you can't stop talking, to the point you forget what brought you here.
Pornstar Satoru laughs with you, as you're sitting side by side, and he lights up a blunt, leaning back on the burgundy couch on the outskirts of the party, inhaling it deep into his lungs. 'Want a hit, sweets?' he murmurs, you take it nervously, putting it to your lips and inhaling a bit, before coughing, covering your mouth. Satoru chuckles, 'you're cute' earning your cheeks heating up. 'Can you tell I don't do this?' you're nervously tapping your leg now. 'Yeah, what does bring you here, doesn't seem your...' 'my scene?' he nods then. 'yeah, that.'
Pornstar Satoru watches avidly as you sip on your drink, wincing at the strong liquor. 'Well, my friend invited me over, but she's running late' Satoru grins now. 'Party time is different, everyone comes late, that's on time. About fifteen minutes late' 'oh no I came early!' you smack your own forehead, giggling along with him. 'Are you like... a model, or an actor?' you ask, eyeing him and his baby blues, the cheekbones so perfect, those lips that wrap the blunt again. 'You could say I'm a bit of both,' he muses, then spits out his drink when you ask 'what are you in!?'
Pornstar Satoru coughs just a bit, he's never been ashamed of what he does, but he's nervous for some reason to tell you. Why, he doesn't know. 'I'm... into some indie flicks' you brighten up then. 'Oh, let me know, I love lowkey films! I bet you're great' Satoru sighs, gulping down the rest of his drink and eyeing your cup. 'Want more?' you frown now, maybe you're asking too much, or offending this actor that you don't recognize him!? You nod, the amount of people around you making you press against this friendly, pretty white haired stranger just a little more.
Pornstar Satoru has another drink, eyeing the sea of bodies undulating in the extravagant mansion, and soon the two of you are dancing together you're cute and so awkward, Satoru's enjoying this far, far too much. He has plenty of costars and fans come up to the two of you, but he's too interested in showing you how to move your hips to pay them any mind, when finally your friend comes. Satoru instantly recognizes her, she's a pretty famous co star he's collabed with on her Onlyfans not long ago. When she sees you giggling and enjoying yourself so much, she damn near drags you away, making Satoru curse.
Pornstar Satoru eyes you when your friend whispers in your ear- 'you really don't recognize him!?' you blink curiously, looking at him more closely. 'Should I?' she sighs then, eyeing Satoru up and down. 'He was in my OF videos, we collabed' you heat up furiously then. 'I never watched your videos! I just subbed to be supportive!' she giggles. 'You're so cute, I thought you at least watched some?' you shake your head nervously. 'I don't really watch, is he... like an OnlyFans guy?' Satoru is back over with Suguru now, while you sip your drink, feeling your body warm up. 'He's the top pornstar there is, the collab was like a dream. He's really sweet but you should know is all, you're kinda...' you glare. 'kinda what?' she giggles again. 'you're just... sweet, emotional, is all'
Pornstar Satoru expects you to be done with him once you find out, after all you just seem innocent, uncorrupted for this city, not the kind of girl to be at this party where lines are being snorted off bodies, and people are naked and jumping in the pools, a heady, wild atmosphere. But you smile at him, as you murmur - 'he's sweet?' to your friend. She nods then. 'He is, but just know... he doesn't date so, it'd only be physical' you frown at that now, that's not something you think you can do, you're about as demisexual as it gets, hence your very limited experience. 'He doesn't date at all?' Your friend gently touches your shoulder. 'No, love, I'd hate to see you hurt'
Pornstar Satoru catches you before you leave later that night, when you are just feeling too out of place, his big hand wrapped around your delicate wrist, earning you looking up at him. He can't stop thinking how pretty your eyes would look rolled back, how good your lips would feel wrapped around his cock, as you relax a bit, turning and looking up. 'Headed out already?' he asks softly, you flush as you remember just what he does for a living, your friend had just described his cock in far too vivid detail. 'It's not really my thing, but I'm glad we met, Gojo' you smile so cute then, leaning up and pecking him on the cheek, his arm wraps your waist as he leans down, inhaling that sweet vanilla scent cloying to your skin.
Pornstar Satoru pulls you in closer, blue eyes staring under snowy lashes. 'Can I... get your number?' Satoru has never asked for a number a day in his life, but he delights in watching you shift nervously, nodding as you tuck your hair behind your ear. 'Yeah, I'd like that' he exchanges numbers, tilting your chin up then, watching the way your eyes dilate, the color spread on your pretty cheeks. 'She told you?' you clear your throat, nodding a bit, still being captured by his fingers. 'I don't judge at all, Gojo, I'd still like to be... friends...' your whisper is met with the most subtle kiss on your lips, shooting desire hot and heavy until Satoru releases you, plump lips smirking- 'sure, sweets, we can be friends'
Pornstar Satoru can't get you off his mind, the feel of your skin on his, the sweet sigh against his lips. He is on a big shoot and - the Satoru Gojo that never gets soft - is having trouble keeping it up, to the amusement of his costar Pornstar Sukuna. Satoru scowls at his comments, just picturing your sweet lips against his for that brief moment. A man who just fucks and fucks, and doesn't feel, is hung up just on some fucking kiss. He has to take a break after pleasing his costar with his fingers, she's cumming so much she doesn't notice, but the directors wonder why he's off. He's in his own dressing room, eyeing the phone, hands shaking as he decides to type a message - 'could you give me a picture, sweets, to save as your caller id?'
Pornstar Satoru finds his cock is right back on hard when you send one quickly, just a cute selfie with a little peace sign, but he sees your glossy fucking lips, the teeth indentations he aches to rub the tip of his cock on, along with just a hint of your breasts. Your nipples press against the thin material of your little tee shirt- Pokemon, he notices, smiling- his cock throbbing. 'Can I get one too?' you're biting that lower lip nervously as you ask, getting a picture of him shirtless then, doing nothing to stifle the curiosity in your mind, your heart racing as you seee his body. 'You at a shoot?' you ask in the messages, he hesitates before answering - 'yes' - and somehow you feel jealous of whoever his costar is. You message a - kill it, Gojo! - despite the feeling in your tummy, little do you know you're drowning his fucking mind when he performs later, feeling the star squirting all over his latex covered cock.
Pornstar Satoru can't stop texting you that week, he can't even get hard if he doesn't look at that picture, and you can't stop your curiosity, when you friend mentions he's doing a live stream. Since Satoru can hardly perform, he's decided to masturbate on live cam, in minutes making more than he'd make in a shoot, all while having your picture propped up. People are chatting, watching, dollars by the hundreds being tipped every moment, fuck he's making way more than he usually would, and he can think of you. He laughs softly, abs flexing as he hits the right angle, reading the comments, making you dripping wet, this isn't what you do!?
Pornstar Satoru is stroking his wet, slick cock that's glistening, up and down with his huge hand, and you feel your pussy clench, breath coming faster, unsure whether to look away or keep staring, meanwhile he's picturing you in all sorts of positions, on your knees, a fucking mating press. He's shutting his eyes for a moment, grinning as the viewers go crazy. 'I know, it's pretty, huh?' he spits right on that long, veiny cock of his, pinching his pink tip and whining, white lashes fluttering open right when he sees a familiar name enter the chat.
Your name.
Pornstar Sukuna hcs here // Pornstar Suguru hcs here // Onlyfans Nanami hcs here
Kofi link (if you feel generous & wanna buy me a ☕️
You love being Satoru Gojo's girlfriend, he dotes on you, takes you on dates, spoils you - just one little problem, you are perpetually ovulating around him! Is wanting your nerdy boyfriend's cock in your mouth really such a bad thing? Satoru wants to wait for the perfect moment for your first time, though! He'll totally wait even when you're wearing that slutty lil dress and grinding on him, right?
pairings - nerd! gojo x girlfriend! reader
warnings - cute and silly, oral over panties/boxers, Satoru edging tf outta us -- reader is horny, Shoko/Hime, Sukuna being a fratboy dick, jealous Toru, rough blow jobs, p in v sex, first time, squirting, teasing, fingering, creampie, consent, breed kink, making your nerdy boyfriend feral and spit in your mouth <3
art creds here!!
this was a comm for my angel @cantarcantar!! ty for understanding that my life was like INSANE - ilysm for being patient <3 wc - 10.1k
It took you almost two years of crushing on Satoru Gojo to actually become his girlfriend, and you’re loving every minute of it. From being too damn shy to admit you like him, to very awkwardly trying to confess and every chance just utterly failing – to then instead becoming the very best of friends.
You two were finally ‘officially together’ as a couple.
Oh, and it was everything, being in his arms, swallowed up by those huge biceps he had hidden underneath his starch white dress shirts. Hearing that little laugh from his lips, all of those sweet little kisses he bestowed upon you – truly, all the feelings blossoming between the two of you in the most beautiful way, especially over the months of truly being his girlfriend.
He’d take you out for all day movie marathons, going to play bumper cars, mini golf, you name it – Satoru was down for it. Every date was a meticulously planned out one too, with little to no down time aside from the drive to and from. Perhaps that’s where you would sneak just the littlest pecks on his neck, hear his sighs as he gripped the gear shift of that fancy sports car.
Satoru adored you – and you adored him.
You were all his. There was no one else in the entire world than the boy who could never quite tie that tie on correctly, always just a little crooked for you to straighten out.
Yet with that came you being unreasonably horny all the fucking time, who wouldn’t be with Satoru though? Those long fingers pressing into your waist, the way that bulge pressed between your thighs, plump lips slipping up your throat. Every time it even got just a little close, maybe you were grinding so good that you were about to cum from that – he paused it.
Wearing a cute, bashful little smile on his face, fogged up, thick rimmed glasses – murmuring sweetheart in a voice that’s designed to make your pussy drip, and you feel like a complete pervert for wanting to beg for more. God, imagining his cock in your throat alone had you desperate and needy, let alone having him filling you, pumping you full, taking you first.
Maybe you are a pervert, truly.
You’ve tried so hard to be patient, you want him to want it as badly as you do, but every time you’re making out with your boyfriend – the top of the dean’s list and ultimate dungeon master for DnD – Satoru Gojo?
Every time his big ass hands grip your waist and he drags you down against his length, before he puts a pause on it?
You can’t even think about it.
You’re pumping your fingers in your needy cunt just thinking about it after every damn date with this boy. Whining out in your bed with your hips bucking up, gasps escaping your lips desperately in your empty room. Pumping faster and faster until you’ve got that sticky release all over your hand.
It’s almost as if you have this sort of ritual now, before you see your boyfriend and right after/.
Your rose toy is probably fucking tired of you.
As if you don’t you ache so damn bad around him it’s painful, hard not to shamelessly hump his thigh till you cum. No, the toy? This takes the edge off just a bit, but even the way you moan his name in your sleep is endlessly hilarious to your poor roommates that have to hear you between the walls of your off campus apartment.
“Still a virgin?” Utahime asked with a laugh when you had woken up this morning, getting ready to see Satoru.
“Not by choice,” you grumble, shaking your head and grabbing a coffee pod from the little rack, popping your favorite inside and pressing the on button. The aroma hits immediately, waking your tired brain.
You’d had the filthiest damn dream of him fucking your tits, cock sliding up and down in messy strokes that had you needing a damn shower right now.
You’re just perpetually ovulating.
Satoru is the perfect boyfriend, truly he is. He’s sweet, he’s a gentleman despite his blue eyes and where they glance too long. Mostly, he cares. You’ve fallen so in love with him so quickly over these past few months, but every time you think that things might progress, Satoru stops it. Gently lifting you up off his lap and sighing, kissing his way up your jaw, his snowy lashes tickling your cheek.
‘Sweetheart, let’s pause this,’ he would murmur those words all sweet and sultry against your skin after almost sucking on those nipples that just stay hard around this man, instead hovering a breath away so it ghosts your tits. Those huge hands brushing just underneath them.
It’s torture, really.
‘Oh, okay Toru,’ you’d whisper back, he’d moan and kiss up your neck, breaths tickling your skin. ‘Mnh…’
‘You’re so beautiful, god look at you.’
It was just wrong to talk to you like that!
“You poor baby. At least you have your toy collection,” Shoko teases, sneaking in and brushing your hair back. “Extensive, too.”
You flip her off, peeking at the phone then and seeing Satoru's name pop up.
Study session?
“Dick session?” She asks, you gasp, as if affronted at such a suggestion.
“I would never assume such a thing!”
You hope so.
*****
It’s not.
No, it’s not a dick session at all.
It really is an actual goddamn study session – both of you were sitting there in Satoru’s living room, his place was far fancier than anywhere, but that came from him being the Dean’s very son. It intimidated you a little at first, but now you’ve grown comfortable, as he made you feel so special.
Today though?
Well, you can’t focus on anything but how badly you’d love to kneel and suck your nerdy boyfriend, his thighs spread wide all slutty.
God his legs are long.
You bet his cock is-
“And this equation?” Satoru teasingly asks you, distracting you from your slutty freaking brain.
You're not even sure what stumbles out of your mouth for an answer, without saying how thick you think the circumference of his cock must be.
That is something you’ve done with your past experiences, and you know you’re good at it. You could easily deep throat a man and you wanted to see his cock so damn bad – could he be a challenge, though?
Your eyes drift down his chest, he peeks at you curiously.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He asks casually, spinning his pen between his fingers and studying you. “Hard question?”
“Um… yeah, a very hard time…”
Stop that! Stop looking at his dick print!
“The question is hard?”
“Uh… the question… yes.” You feel like a damn pervert every time you’re around him, can’t you chill and let things happen when they happen?
He sighs and stands up, stretching his arms up over his head, his abdomen revealed when his dress shirt rides up, showing those little v cuts that make your ovulating brain just a million times worse. It’s like you’re in heat. It's so pathetic right now – maybe you should avoid him till it stops.
“Let’s take a break then.”
“Yeah?”
He chuckles at how eager you are at the thought and comes up to you, leaning down with a hand on each arm of your chair, tilting his head so some of that soft white hair falls over his forehead. You brush a bit of it back and he kisses your palm, lips warm and sweet.
“You’ve been such a good girl, how can I not treat you a bit?” Your heart hammers in your chest, until those next words spill from his lips. “Boba?”
“What? Huh?” You blink as he eases back, pulling up his phone and leaning against the desk. “Boba??”
“Yeah, Boba, I’ll buy you some, I know you love it,” he smiles curiously as you bury your face in your hands. “No Boba? Matcha then?”
“I’m um…” About to cum if he touches you once even. “No, I guess Boba is fine. Thanks Toru.” you manage to say, thighs pressing together, Satoru frowns, kneeling now and gently taking your hands off your face, seeing your blush.
“Are you sick!? You’re all flushed!”
“I’m not-”
“You’re burning,” he touches your cheek in concern, and you almost fucking feel bad – you’re not sick, you’re ovulating. “Baby girl, let’s get you to a doctor right now!"
“No, no I feel fine, I’m not warm because of that,” you shift in your seat and whine out at just that friction. “Promise.”
He frowns and watches you carefully. “You’re hurting, it could be the start of something!”
“Well yeah I hurt,” you sigh as he spreads your thighs and kneels between them, shoving at him. “You’ll make it even worse down there.”
“I’ll make what worse, exactly? Your…” He trails off then, seeing your panties and blushing himself, pink dancing across his high cheekbones and dusting them in that rose. “Y-your… your panties are so… uh… s-soaked and…”
You should freak out at this proximity, at just how much he can finally see of you, but all you can do is whine again, as his eyes shoot back up to yours. “I’m okay, promise.”
“Am I neglecting my pretty girlfriend?” He asks softly, just a little nervous. Satoru has never touched anyone but you, but he’s extensively studied the female anatomy, and how to make you cum.
He just wanted your first time to be perfect.
That’s why he was waiting – the last thing he needed was for you to not enjoy your first time, though he knows you’re a little more experienced than he is – Satoru’s hardly kissed anyone before you. Not because he couldn’t – he just had no interest in that sort of thing until he met you – and even then, he really couldn’t find the damn courage to ask you out forever.
“No I’m being a damn pervert,” you cover your face and he chuckles at that.
“You’re being a what, now?”
You sink into the seat, mumbling. “You heard me.”
He’d been your best friend for so long, thinking there was no chance in the world – always jerking his cock with any article of clothing you’d leave in his room, like a filthy depraved pervert – and you think you were one perverted here?
Does him wanting the timing to be just right making you think that?
Satoru exhales softly, just a hint of what he wants to say slipping from his plump lips.
“What, do you touch your little pussy thinking of me?”
His voice has you lowering your hands, he spreads those thighs and slides up your skirt, making you moan out, head falling back, your hands gripping the arms of the chair even tighter.
“Wha-?” You can’t even finish your damn word.
“Asked you a question, baby.”
“God,” he’s diabolical without knowing – or maybe he does know. You’re trembling as you lean back, letting his thumb brush on your clit and gasping at the touch, already getting slick from a brush on your skin. “What question?”
“Not paying attention, tsk,” he clicks his tongue and his teeth nip your inner thigh, sinking in and making you whine out. “Do you touch her?”
“Y-yes,” he hums a bit, tugging your panties up until your lips are visible, that dark spot growing as slick starts pouring. “Please…”
“Be patient, baby,” he leans back now, smirking at you. “Show me?”
“Are you sure you…”
“Please? I wanna see so bad,” you blush now, you masturbate sure – but not in front of people! “I’ll show you?”
“Show me you um… jerking off?”
“Yeah, I mean… yeah?” You sigh a bit.
“Toru…”
“Mmm?”
“Why don’t I um… suck you?” He is bright red now, he’s almost busting just thinking of your mouth – that won’t do. His first blow job and he busts in one go!? No, Satoru has to jerk it three times before he gets the privilege of fucking your pretty little mouth, of feeling your pink tongue on him.
“Not yet.”
“Not yet? But you’re so hard,” you giggle and tease him with your foot nudging his thigh, he glares and catches it, shoving it wide. “Not yet, then. So you just wanna see me touch myself?”
“God yes, dreamed of that since…” He trails off then, he doesn’t want to admit just how long he’s jerked off to you, because it was before you even knew who Satoru Gojo was. “Lemme see.”
“Okay…” you lean back, running your fingertips over your panties, slipping underneath and leaning your head back, eyes fluttering shut, hearing Satoru’s soft little whine. “Toru…”
“Fuck,” he thought he could handle this, but he’s utterly failing, he can’t even see your pretty pussy and he’s already throbbing, leaking so much pre it hurts, sticking to his brand new digimon boxers. “You’re s’pretty, sweetheart.”
You blush as you look at him with dazed eyes, running little circles right around your puffy clit, coated in hot slick as it dribbles out of your panties. He swipes some of it on his fingers, studying it carefully, his tongue going to lap at it, moaning as the sweetness coats his tongue.
“Oh you’re t-tasting me,” it makes you needier, until you have to plunge two fingers inside your messy, quivering hole, that loud squelch echoing in your ears. He’s gripping your thigh with one hand bruising until you cry out.
“Fuck, so s-sorry… baby I hurt… y-you…”
“No, no, like it,” he moans and puts his hand back on your thigh, squeezing again so hard it aches. He's jerking his cock faster, whining out when he sees your slick fingers pull out of your panties. You press your cum soaked fingers to his lips and he eagerly wraps them around, sucking them off. “Toru…”
“So sweet, my pretty girlfriend,” his glasses fog up when he leans down, licking your inner thigh that is trembling, sliding higher until his tongue is on you – but it's not on your skin, it's on the soaked cotton of your panties.
“Fuck…” he moans as he gets those juices that are spilling through the fabric, his and squeezing his own cock as your thighs sit over his shoulders.
“More, please,” you're tugging at his hair so hard it hurts, bucking up your hips for more. “I need you, please.”
“Such a needy girlfriend,” he murmurs, thumb circling his drooling tip, looking up at you with desperation in his pretty blue eyes. “You want me to lick it more for you?”
Your answer is a little nod, even having him lick you over your panties is more than you've ever had done, and fuck it feels good. Sinful as he trails a long, slow stripe over the fabric, the tip stopping right over your twitchy clit, his moan is muffled against the damp cotton.
“Toru!” He's lost in your scent, in that taste, the little hints of lace decorating your panties rough against his tongue, the sound is fucking filthy.
Satoru tugs those panties up more firmly, strings of gossamer saliva dripping and dissolving, peering up at you with flushed cheeks. “Like that, baby? Is this what you were thinking about instead of studying?”
Your only answer is to nod quickly, a jerky little motion as he sees those puffy lips just swallowing the damp material. He swipes his tongue over and over, the heat and wetness of his mouth making your entire body tremble. You feel it heating up, hearing the messy sounds of his own cock fucking his fist, wishing it were your throat instead.
"Oh god, Toru," you whimper out it so pathetically, your hands tangling in his soft white hair, fluffy and silky underneath your touch, trying to pull him closer, to shove his face where you need it. “Not enough, mnh!”
He chuckles against your puffy cunt, the vibration and the quick lave of his tongue have you on edge. Pulse racing as he had the audacity to tease you, landing a wet smack on your cunt that had you pathetic.
"Ah - ah," he clicks his tongue, catching your wrists in one of his stupidly large hands and pinning them against your waist, smirking at you in a way that's utterly not dirty at all. "No touching yet, sweetheart. I'm taking my time with you."
“Meanie,” he chuckles again, but you love it – feeling that strength as he grips you so tight. “My panties are ruined, Toru.”
“Mmm. Yes they are,” he tugs them again, looking at how wet the material is, just a pathetic little scrap of fabric with your juices pouring.
Instead of showing you mercy and moving them, he just presses them further against you again, tongue shoving that fabric until it's flush with your needy clit, you swear you can feel his tastebuds as that tongue drags through the fabric, pausing everywhere that has you jerking and honing in.
Like this nerdy boy is studying you.
Oh. He is.
He's methodical, almost clinical with his research of your needy, clothed cunt just separated by this pathetic little piece of fabric, his tongue pressing more firmly against your soppy lil hole. She is pulsing around nothing, torturous strokes, pressing his fingers up and down, you're hot and sticky underneath his touch.
“Toru!” Your wrists are still pinned, his cock forgotten even though it's dripping down onto the soft, plush rug below his knees. Satoru finds your clit again and looks up under snowy lashes, you watch the drips of slick connect with that wickedly long tongue.
“Mmm. I bet I could see myself inside you,” he whispers, you suck in a breath at that, as if he is measuring the distance of your entrance to your belly button, easing your wrists to tug up your top, nipping your puffy lips over the fabric. “Scientifically.”
“Then experiment, scientifically.” He chuckles like the little shit he is, finding your clit once more, a hand pressing where he imagines his cock would bulge out.
“You are so needy f'me, s'pretty like this,” his words slur as he wraps his plump lips around your twitchy clit, barely concealed and swollen underneath the cotton material that is dripping wet. He pulls it in his mouth and sucks it hard through your panties, humming against you.
You're aching, cunt filling his hungry mouth as your hands land back on his hair, his movements making you cry out and buck your hips against his mouth for more.
“So sweet right now, god, look at that…”
Satoru is so close to cumming when he grabs his cock at the base again, squeezing so goddamn hard – he could almost bet that if he felt your cunt without the fabric, he'd spurt his white ropes everywhere.
Make a mess of you.
“Mnh. You close, sweetheart?”
Your answer is a jerky little nod, as he keeps torturing you with this fucking barrier, his teeth grazing that tiny clit ever so lightly through the fabric, making you scream out, your head falling back. Your panties are absolutely ruined now, utterly transparent with your slick and his spit coating them, your sweet little cries rushing through his ears.
Satoru? Well, he laps at the mess he's making happily, his tongue coating the entire area in circles that deliberately avoid that spot until you're twitching, tears falling down your cheeks.
"Such a messy girl," he moans out those words, eyes black when they peek up at you, his voice husky as your slick clings to his lips. "Soaking these pretty little panties f’me.”
“Please, Toru… move ‘em please,” he smirks and decides to have mercy on you, tugging them to the side of one of your lips and exhaling, watching the slick drool and spill down. You gasp as the air hits your cunt, already aching and needy, the dampness making it a cool shock.
“Fuck, you're so pretty,” he murmurs, his cock just about to bust without his touch, he glides his tongue from your ass all the way to your clit, looking right up at you. “Is this what you were thinking of, hmm? My tongue inside you?”
“Your cock, too,” he chuckles against you, but just a couple more flicks has you close, as he spreads your cunt wide, studying your every expression.
“Look at that. My slutty little girlfriend.”
Satoru is trying his best to hold it together, but when his tongue glides into your gummy walls and they grip him, he's too far gone, slurping up every bit of the cum that just pours out. You shatter so damn pretty, squirting all over his face, dripping down his chin until it's glossy, his cock starts pulsing right with your hole, imagining her milking him.
“F-fuckk….”
“Toru, mnh! S'good I… please…” You’re overheated, body sensitive, it’s just not enough, even with his tongue lavishing every bit of your pussy.
Not enough.
“Please what, baby? Mnh,” he grips his veiny cock as he cums with his tongue on your clit, more of your mess drenching his throat, his face, his shirt. His white ropes coat his hand, lashes fluttering shut as he savors your jumping clit in his mouth, whining against you.
“Want your cock in my mouth, Toru please…” he exhales, breath making you jolt, looking up at you with a blush.
“I um…” he leans back on his knees and you see the mess, blushing at it.
“I didn't touch you though…”
“Didn't need to,” he's clearly a little embarrassed, you take his cum soaked hand then – dripping white – and wrap your mouth around one of his thick fingers. “Oh fuck…”
You suck him right off, tasting that salty white substance and moaning as it hits your taste buds. Satoru pulls back and laps it off his own fingers, before kissing you right with it, the mess spilling between your mouths and dripping down.
Satoru Gojo – your nerdy boyfriend with an insane Digimon collection was a fucking freak, greedily drinking his own cum off your mouth.
You’re trembling when the door knocks, and you faintly remember that he has ordered you boba. He’s the epitome of a perfect boyfriend after that, considerate, caring, cleaning the little rivulets of your own release from your inner thighs – you’re stuck back on the opposite side of the bed, cuddling him and watching a movie.
Satoru even has the audacity to snore after, heavy body wrapping as you ache to get filled by him – at least the movie was so damn boring you drift off right next to him.
****
“I’m gonna die a virgin,” you mumble to Shoko and Utahime the next weekend, aside from more heated kisses and grinding on Satoru’s thigh after your well planned out dates – nothing.
You’re aching.
How much use could your rose toy really see!? And now you even have two more toys going along with it, though you doubt any of them are getting close to Satoru and how good he must feel. No ‘clit sucker’ could come close to what that nerdy little mouth could do.
“You look like you’re dying, girl, damn…” Utahime earns your glare. “Is it that bad?”
“He finally got me off and…” You blush now, unable to finish your sentence, remembering his tongue drinking up your juices.
“Does he know what a clit is?”
“Very much so, it was so good.”
They look surprised.
“You all have no clue, he really was,” Shoko laughs at that, leaning back and hitting the vape, handing it over to you. “No, no.”
“You need a smoke, sweets,” you grimace, brushing your hair back, pacing back and forth as the two girls watch you, snuggling with each other. “You’re pacing holes in the carpet.”
“I can’t handle this, I just… god I wanna suck his dick, is it so terrible? He hasn’t even let me touch it. I sound like a horny ass man, I hate it. I wanna respect him, I really do.”
“You wanna respect him with his cock in your throat?” Shoko finishes.
“Yes. I mean!? I will respect him without the cock in my mouth! You two are menaces.”
They’re laughing like the brats they are, blowing smoke in each other’s mouths, you damn near moan in frustration. Satoru’s gotten you off that one time, then since then he has gone right back to worshipping you in the sweet way he always did, as if you’ll what – forget about his tongue?
His stupidly long fingers…
The cum on your tongue that you lapped right off!?
The taste.
“Ugh -” you lean back and sink further into the couch. “I really am gonna die.”
“Can’t die, we’ve got that party tonight,” Utahime teases, kissing Shoko’s lips and giggling just a bit, you pout at the two of them.
In public Satoru would kiss your hand at best.
Where on earth even had that freak come from that spit his cum in your mouth last week!? He’s all gone again – the pocket protector wearing Nerd Gojo in his place, like some twin fucking took over for a minute.
“I can’t go to a party and get drunk, I’ll make a fool of myself around him, one drink and my pussy has a mind of its own…” You finally sit down, plopping back into the seat. “I feel like a pervert.”
“You are! Let’s just call you fucking pervy Sage.”
“Hey!” You glare at Utahime, Shoko is inhaling another puff of smoke, you cough just a bit.
“Hah – Sanji from One-”
“Don’t even!? I’m not that bad,” you huff at her, frowning now. “I swear I'm not trying to be pervy. God, what is in this weed?”
“Hmm,” Shoko tugs Utahime on her lap. “I wonder if he's scared you'll like … bite his dick.”
“You're so fucking mean,” you cough a little more, eyes watering as you scowl at the two of them.
“Look slutty, like really slutty,” Shoko walks up now, tilting your chin up and crooking her lips up at the corner. “Something that screams – fuck me.”
“He licked my panties and didn’t even…”
“Really slutty,” Utahime agrees, tapping her chin. “Ooh! I know, I have the perfect outfit in mind, that little black dress of yours.”
“But it’s too small for me now! It’s from like high school, and thanks to you two cooking all the time, my hips-”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what? Oh…”
You trail off now, realizing what everyone knew – that Satoru loves your hips, he grabbed on to them every chance he got, even when he was just a little bit shy.
“Okay…”
They kiss again in front of you, laughing a bit, making you lovesick for your man – your nerdy man who you wish would kiss you in that way, tongues all dripping. It’s not even fair.
“All lovey dovey, fuck you both.”
They’re so hot and rude laughing at you – you decide to just disappear, you don’t need your hot ass best friends making out in front of you when you’re already in pain from the constant edging from Satoru. You are rushing to your room and trying on outfit after outfit, before finally deciding on the exact fucking one they brought up.
You would look as sexy as you could and hopefully get your boyfriend to not be able to resist you.
But also you’ll respect his decision, dammit! You can wait as long as he wants to, even if you were absolutely gonna put your tits and ass out there for him. Looking in the mirror and touching up your lipstick, swiping a finger across your lower lip to smudge it just a tad.
“Oh damn you look hot, Sanji,” Utahime says when you come out.
“I am not Sanji.”
“You are.”
“Fuck you both!”
*****
Satoru can’t keep his damn eyes off you.
Fuck you’re pretty tonight.
That damn little black dress clinging to your skin is fucking ruining Satoru’s mind, brain short circuiting as the two of you navigate the insanely packed frat house, one of his hands on the small of your back protectively. People are all bumping into everyone, stumbling around, absolutely no chance he lets someone hurt you by accident.
Moreso, Satoru Gojo can’t get his fucking hands off you, no, he can feel your warmth right through the thin layer of cotton material, fingers splaying across it. He reminds himself in his head over and over just what a horrible thing it would be to fucking take your first time at a frat party, even as he has to adjust his cock, turning from you to face the wall for a moment.
“Everything okay, Toru?” You ask softly, hand on his back, he laughs, a fake and terrible attempt at being normal, turning right back around to you.
“Me!? Yes, yes. Do you need a drink, babydoll?” He asks.
The music kicks on as he speaks, and all you can see are his plump lips forming words, ringing from how damn loud they’re blaring the worst dance music known to man. “What!!”
“A drink!!”
“Huh?”
“A DRINK-”
The music pauses for just a minute, switching to something else but leaving multiple people to stare at Nerdy Gojo shouting.
You blink a bit at his shouting, he swears he’ll kill Suguru and Nanami for having the audacity to fucking laugh at him and his pain. Them smoking weed earlier and trying to give him every tip known to man on how to bury said tip right against that surely cute little cervix.
As if Satoru hadn’t studied extensively.
“Yes, please,” you smile all pretty, letting him guide you through, he just about loses it from the sheer amount of eyes locked onto you, gripping you just a little too tight, feeling the curve of those breedable hips underneath his fingertips.
Imagine having them bent over, his hands fit so perfect-
No, he can make it another night, a dumb frat party was not the time or place for something so precious as your first time. Even if you smell that good, and you’re dancing all over him, giggling, your ass brushing right against where his cock has tented his dark jeans.
Your drink in one hand, the other in his as he pulls you against him, for a nerdy boy, Gojo can absolutely move his body. You feel so goddamn good against him, with your waist in his grip now, his lips pressed against your ear – he can inhale that sweet scent you just naturally fucking have.
That’s when he realizes he’s about to cum if your ass rubs up on his cock one more damn time with those heels making you tall enough, he could bend you over and slide it right in. God he bets you’re so wet too.
Satoru has to pull back, making you blink just a bit in confusion, he downs the rest of his drink, smiling apologetically.
“Bathroom, sweetheart.”
“Oh, um… okay, want me to-”
Satoru runs the fuck off.
Maybe you’re doing too much, shit… you were absolutely grinding all up on Satoru because you were craving him so bad. You needed to give him more time! If the roles were reversed, you know he would, even if he may want to as badly as you do. Going to pour yourself a shot, you throw it back and let your eyes shut, sighing just a bit as it burns your throat.
You need to ease up and let Satoru take his time, even if you have to press your thighs together to resist the needy urge of rubbing your cunt on anything right now.
Maybe you are fucking Sanji.
*****
Satoru’s leaned back on the door, unzipping his pants and seeing his reddened cockhead, and just how fucking swollen it is. He’s jerking his cock desperately, whimpering out as the door gets knocked on, banged on in fact by fucking Sukuna of all people.
“Gotta take a piss man, stop jerking it.”
“I’m not!? I’m pissing right now – w-wait,” Satoru is jerking it of course, but how dare Sukuna call him out on it. Dickhead fratboy that he is, he’s chuckling outside of the door, but none of it is getting rid of Satoru’s throbbing erection.
He’s just way too needy, too sensitive, he can see his reflection in the mirror – those flushed pink cheeks. Sukuna thankfully fucks off, but Satoru can't even cum with just his hand, not when he knows your little fist would feel so much better, when your mouth and pussy would grip him.
No, Satoru is left tortured.
*****
You are alone for some time, concerned if he was somehow drunk or sick when the leader of the frat – the slutty ass, pink haired jock named Sukuna comes up to you, sipping his cup and flickering his red eyes up and down your face.
“Hmm, Gojo left you all alone?”
“And?” You scoff, rolling your eyes at him now, he smirks just a bit, leaning close. “He’s busy. Okay?”
“Mmm… yeah,” he peeks over his shoulder now, then looks right back down at you. “So.”
“So, what?”
He grins all big. “Wanna play beer pong?”
“Beer pong?”
“Mhm,” he tugs at a little lock of your hair. “Bet I stomp your ass at it. Look like such a good girl.”
“Hah you think I've never been to a party!?”
“Never seen you before aside from with your nerdy lover boy,” he pours you a drink now and inclines his head.
“I've partied, just… usually me and Toru are busy.”
He snorts at that.
So busy your boyfriend is jerking his cock in the bathroom.
“I see, so busy, huh?”
“Yes but…” you curse now, shaking your head. Satoru has been gone fifteen minutes and won't answer a text, a game of beer pong wouldn't hurt. “Fine then.”
It doesn’t take long until there is an entire gathering of people to watch you absolutely annihilate Ryomen Sukuna in beer pong, to the point he is fucking furious. You're landing the pong ball in every cup, decimating the entire frat at a certain point, giggling as you study them, down to the last shot, against Sukuna again.
“Beginners luck or some shit,” he’s fucking furious – you swear you see his vein ticking underneath his jaw.
Satoru is still not here.
You’re worried but you’re also enjoying the cheers, especially when you land that last one, giggling as the frat brothers who were talking all that shit about the nerdy girlfriend of Satoru moments before are now staring in disbelief. With one final, perfect arc, the ball splashes into the last cup.
It really is beginner's luck.
But.
Also, fuck Sukuna.
"Damn, girl!" someone yells, and you take a little bow, rubbing it right in Sukuna’s face now, who is slamming down the rest of his beer.
Surely he drank enough to get annihilated – but somehow still standing just normal, big ass man has some insane tolerance because those eyes look completely aware.
"Guess I'm not such a good girl after all, huh?" you tease Sukuna, who's standing there looking down at you, setting the cup down and crushing it.
“Hmmm,” his red eyes dilate just a bit as he steps closer to you, suddenly making you feel just a bit nervous.
Satoru hates Sukuna.
It’s well known, since high school the two of them have been overcompetitive and absolutely insane against each other. He’d be fucking furious if he saw you anywhere near him at all. You peek and see him across the crowd then, getting a text from Shoko blinging on your phone.
He’s really mad.
He is.
You get another text now from Utahime, biting down on your lower lip.
Make him jealous and maybe you’ll get dicked down, Sanji.
“I’m not Sanji,” Sukuna raises a brow, lips twitching. “I’m not.”
“Sanji? Who the fuck is that?”
“One piece?”
“Nerd – hey, wait,” you’re turning and he grabs your wrist for just a moment. “Shit, I mean… you’re right, you’re not a good girl, huh?”
“I sure beat your ass,” you say, pausing when he reaches out, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they brush a stray piece of hair back from your face, rough knuckles brushing against your cheek for a second too long.
"You did, you're full of surprises, brat.”
“Brat? Whatever…”
You can feel Satoru’s eyes on you – you’d pull back, but part of you wonders if making him jealous would bring that freak out that spit cum in your mouth – maybe you are a brat. You sip your drink, remaining normal.
“I’m dating Satoru, you’re too close.”
“Would nerdy ass Satoru know what to do, how to handle your ass?” He taunts, your eyes narrow, his laugh echoing despite the music as your boyfriend starts shoving his way through. “Show you that digimon collection?”
“I’m very pleased, thank you.”
“You look like you need to get your attitude fucked right out of you,” your fingers itch to slap him now. “If he fucks up, you know where to find me.”
“No thank you, I- Toru!”
Satoru is between you and Sukuna, shoving him off and glaring right at him – perhaps the two tallest men at the party right face to face, Sukuna’s smirk making Satoru want to punch him.
“Why are you so close to my future wife?”
“Wife?” You blush and he glares at you.
“Yes, and baby momma – but you’re being a brat,” he whispers, Sukuna snorts at that.
“She is a brat.”
“You can’t call her that,” he shoves the big ass man and takes your hand now. “She has better shit to do than talk to you.”
“Aw, but we were having fun,” Satoru is dragging you away, you blink just a bit, almost scowling at Sukuna who blows you a kiss.
What a dick.
BUT.
Satoru is fuming, and he’s hot.
You’re so toxic!
“What’s wrong, Toru? I was just playing some beer pong,” you say all innocently, as he drags you past everyone, you’re struggling to keep up with his long strides. “Um… what’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong!? Hah,” he’s laughing, psychotic and feral like you turned on a switch in his brain, when he finally starts getting some privacy. “Everything.”
“I don’t get it…”
“He was hitting on you,” Satoru yanks you away in the center of the party, you barely bite back your giggle at how excited you are to see him this way, looking ever so serious when he glares down at you.
Maybe you are evil, loving how mad he is, how jealous he is when he presses you against the hallway wall on the other side of the party, you can feel the music humming through the walls, but not as fast as your heart is racing looking up at your blue eyed boyfriend. Blue eyed angry boyfriend.
This isn't sweet Satoru at all, no – he's completely fucking unhinged, his chest rising and falling with his quickened breaths, cupping your face and jerking your chin to look up at him.
“You think he was?” You ask softly, making him raise a brow. “I thought he was just… being nice?”
You make him laugh without humor now, thumb brushing across your lip. “Are you being bratty, sweetheart? Teasing me, making me jealous?”
“What? No,” you straight up fucking lie to his face, batting your lashes all innocent and cute, but you can tell my that little smirk he doesn’t buy any of it for shit right now.
“No?”
“No, I was just talking, Toru. Isn't that fine?” You trail your hands up his chest, wrapping your fingers around to hook behind his neck, tugging him down to face you. “It’s fine for me to make friends, isn’t it?”
“Not when he's looking at these pretty tits,” he cups one, making you suck in a breath – your needy boyfriend is never this bold. “They're not his to look at.”
“Oh?” You lean forward now, tip toeing as he leans low, thumb brushing over a nipple, making it perk up for his touch. “Are they yours? Yours to look at?”
He’s losing it, his pulse hammering behind his ears, in his wrists, everywhere was hammering, his mouth practically salivating as he cups that tit right where anyone can see, big hand squishing it. You gasp out at the sensation, your lashes fluttering closed, little whines mingling against his lips.
“Yes, mine, every inch of you is mine,” Satoru shakes his head now with a soft laugh. “He thought he could dance with you. Kiss your lips? Lips that are mine.”
“All yours,” you open your eyes and giggle again, earning his scowl. “Sorry you're just so cute like this.”
Satoru blinks.
“Oh, I’m cute?”
You go to press a kiss when he snatches you up in one swoop, you gasp and wrap your arms around his neck now. Thighs trembling as he carries you to some room he finds, stumbling you in and shoving you right against the door.
“You think I'm cute,” he presses his cock against your slick heat, slutty little panties practically ruined for him, grinding his cock until you're gasping out. “Well I think that you're a brat.”
You gasp. “Me?”
Two people calling you that.
Well… maybe you are.
“You are bratty, with those pretty fucking lips,” he's kissing you filthy, tongues dancing, saliva dripping between you both, easing you down so that you slide against his body achingly slow. “Maybe I should shut your bratty mouth up.”
Oh fuck.
“Yes please?” He glares at your big fucking grin.
“On your knees then, sweetheart,” you so eagerly obey, he laughs softly, his heart hammering in his chest, a mix of being utterly furious, nervous about his first time, and dumbstruck by the sight of your heart eyes. “Look at you, bein’ such a good girl – but are you really that desperate to suck me?”
“Please yes,” you have no shame – all you want is Satoru’s cock deep and buried in the back of your throat. “If you want though! C-consent.”
“As if I haven’t wanted this for years,” he shakes his head and tilts your chin up, sighing. “I wanted to do it all perfect, to lick and kiss every inch, worship your body until you were writhing, so fucking needy for it.”
Satoru unclicks his belt, the metallic click hitting your ears. “Mnh… years?”
"Years," he repeats softly, unbuttoning his jeans entirely too slow for you, you go to move your hands and he halts them with a little smack, you bite down on your lip, aching. “Hands on your thighs, you’ll listen to me for once, since you’ve been driving me so fucking crazy.”
“Me, making you crazy, really,” you do as he says though – eagerly – palms on your thighs, he laughs a bit, the sound of his zipper lowering echoing in the room even with the reverberating walls.
“You know every time you drag that messy cunt on me it ruins me, right?” He draws out that word, sighing now. "Every time you wore those little skirts and bent over, every time you'd bite your lip while concentrating…”
Satoru drags a thumb down your lip now, achingly slow against the plumpness that moves underneath it, your teeth nip on his thumb teasingly, and then you let him push your mouth open.
“Open real wide, sweetheart,” you do just that, and he can’t help but whimper as he presses down on your tongue, as if he’s studying the recesses of your open, eager mouth. “Wider, can’t you? For me?”
You listen eagerly, opening wide and fucking obscene, your tongue out for any bit of him he wants to give you, core just aching.
“Fuck, I've imagined this exact moment."
Satoru won’t tell you just how long he has, either, he swallows – just a bit nervous now.
“Suck,” you suck his digits, slurping them and moaning around them, imagining his cock instead, loving how dominant he’s being. “Stop.”
You obey, making him raise a brow.
“You like me tellin’ you what to do? Is that why you got me so fucking mad, so jealous, to have you listen?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, as he shoves his jeans down, and the hard, thick length of his bugle strains against the thin fabric of his boxers. “Pokemon? You traitor!”
“I can’t wait to shut your mouth up tonight,” you giggle at that, Satoru sighs and frowns at them, brushing your hair back a bit. “They were a gift, okay?”
“I’ll buy you digimon ones.”
“God, you’re so perfect,” you’re still giggling, when he gently smacks your face – the lightest little touch that has you almost moaning. “Open up again, yeah? Be a good girl, baby.”
“Mmm, yes,” you nod your head, doing just as he says – the side of freaky Satoru you only saw hints of last week when he’d lavished your panties with his long tongue.
“You got me jealous on purpose, yeah? Wore that slutty outfit to fucking ruin me, wanted cock in your throat that bad? Got me fucking leaking so much… fuck…”
Your answer is to keep that mouth open, leaning forward as you lap your tongue along the damp spot where his pre cum has already soaked through, right over a traitorous yellow pikachu. You’ll make more fun of that later, right now he’s jerking his hips, hissing at the drag of your cute lil tongue on him.
“Fuck…” You’re teasing him just like he did you – licking and sucking his tip over the damp cotton of his boxers. “Act so sweet and you’re evil, shouldn’t feel that good through that… mmm…”
Satoru’s letting you suck around his fat cockhead, slurping every bit of his white cum from it, tongue lolling right along that slit over and over.
“Torturing me back?”
“Yep,” you lick your lips, making him sigh, shaking his head now.
“Go on then, take what’s all yours…" his voice is low, hoarse damn near as he for the very first time pulls his cock out, letting it spring free, slapping against his lower abdomen with a loud, wet smack. “Can you fit all of it?”
You knew he’d be big.
You didn’t know he’d be that big, with his jeans undone all slutty, his pokemon boxers shoved down – his cock is perfect, just the right amount of thick and entirely too fucking long, with a prominent pale blue vein running along the underside. You’re literally drooling as he strokes it right in front of you, the head flushed a deep, pretty pink as it leaks white.
You’re soaked, fucking ruined.
“I can.”
You cannot.
Maybe?
You will try!
“Go on then, sweetheart, lemme see how good you can take all of me,” he chuckles as you lean forward without hesitation, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the tip. “Teasin’ me more?”
You lap your tongue up, keeping your hands right where he asked you too, sliding underneath so you hit that frenum. His sharp inhale is met with his huge hand tugging in your hair so hard it hurts, pulling at the hairs on the nape of your neck.
“Fuck… greedy lil mouth,” he’s damn near slurring his words when you swirl your little tongue around the head, lapping up the salty taste of his cock underneath, brushing along that vein. He whimpers out when you wrap your lips around it and suck. “Oh my… f-fuck…”
Satoru loses it the first time you really suck his cock, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head, pushing you down further as his other hand rests on the doorway, beginning to move so that he’s choking you. You’re whining out, aching to touch your cunt so bad you slide your fingers down.
“So desperate,” he tuts his tongue, fucking your throat now, his cock slamming the back of it as tears spill. “B-baby, is this s’okay?”
You pull back as he does, with a wet, filthy pop, grinning. “I want it, all the way deep in my throat, Toru, I can take it.”
“You can take all of it in that tiny lil’ throat? When she’s this tight?” He whispers, your nod makes him glare now. “Have you done this?”
You blink a bit. “Yes?”
“Then I’ll fuck your throat so hard you’ll forget anything but me,” he takes you over now, slamming deep inside, you’re whimpering as one of his feet spread your thighs, and you’re soaking his black boot. “That’s it, rutting on my boot and taking cock like a little slut, hmm?”
“Mnhgh…” you’re done for, this is exactly what you needed, him railing your throat until you can’t think, until you’re gagging and tears are spilling.
“Look at me,” he orders softly, you do just that as he presses deep, sniffling as you try to take all of him, he hisses as he feels his tip stretching that tight throat, his Adam's apple bobbing. “You know I fucking love you? And respect you?”
You giggle around him and he glares.
“You have to know if I’m gonna say all this,” you pull back again, fingers all coated in your slick, gliding it along his sticky tip.
“I know you love me, Toru. I love you…” He sighs, touching your cheek. “I love you talking to me this way, you could be meaner.”
“Oh? Fuck my frustration on your throat?”
“Please?”
“You’re ruining me,” he mumbles, slamming right back inside, now that he knows you’re okay, he can lose control, see how much you can take, as you grind on that shoe, nails now pressing in the muscles of his thighs, jeans slipping down. “Want our first time to really be right against this door? Shove your slutty skirt up and ruin your cunt for fuckin’ anyone?”
God, Satoru’s sexy like this, fogged glasses and all.
Your answer is to take him all the way, your nose brushing against the white hair, the tufts of it tickling your nose, he’s stuttering now, unable to stop himself from fucking faster, harder, the wet sounds mixing with his whines. He doesn’t hold them back, either, every time he does he feels a fresh gush of wetness even over that leather, he can see it shimmering as he pulls back and slaps his cock on your mouth.
“Slutty girl, this all f’me, huh? Not that fucking loser downstairs?”
“All you.”
“Hold that tongue out,” you do just that, and Satoru slaps his tip on your tongue over and over, as you keep grinding on him. “Can’t believe you’re this much of a pretty little whore, god I thought you were a good girl?”
“Toru… please…”
“Please what?” You just keep rubbing. “Desperate, fuck… stand up.”
You can hardly do that when he helps you by tugging you up, spitting directly in your mouth, you swallow it greedily, earning his pathetic moan as he turns you, shoving you against that door. “Mnh!”
“Stop me before I fill all your fucking holes with cum,” he’s kissing down your neck, his glasses cool against your neck, whines escaping his lips as he shoves that slutty lil dress up the gentle curve of your hip. “All of them, I’ll have your cunt drippin’, your throat full, fuck that ass while I’m at it.”
“Mngh, please, please,” it’s all you can do but to arch.
“That needy?” He’s tugging your panties to the side, dragging his tip up and down over and over, moans escaping his lips when he bends down, turning your face to him. “First time in a frat house against a door? You’re so wet do I even need to finger you right now?”
“Already did,” you answered, he laughs, shaking his head and kissing you, rubbing even more, teasing your slit with the fat head of his cock until you’re weak, your thighs shaking. “Please, please….”
“Please what, fuck your cunt for the first time? That’s what you’ve been wanting, me to lose it, huh?”
“Yeah,” he scoffs, teasing even more, mouth messy and mean as he bumps your clit, until you squirt right down his length, dripping all down the carpet.
Sukuna’s carpet – it’s his room you faintly notice, as you see the little pictures on the walls.
You wonder if Satoru meant that.
“Squirting already, haven’t even fucked you yet,” he pulls back and bends down, slamming his cock so deep you scream out, head falling back as he tugs your hair, making your ass arch out as he fills you. “Oh my g-god… baby…”
“Toru,” he lets you adjust to his thickness, the very first time your cunt has ever been filled – and this wasn’t how he wanted to do it.
He wanted to stretch you out – one finger, two, then three – but you’re so soaked you suck him right in. Such a tight, perfect fit he can hardly take it, bending down to press sweet kisses on your bare shoulders, easing back and shoving in again, taking your hand and placing it on your tummy, pressing so you feel it all.
“Feel me here?” He asks softly, desperately – worried for a moment with how tight you are that he’s hurt you, but your answer is to look back at him with those slutty, parted lips and dilated eyes, nodding. “Who’s inside you?”
“You, Toru.” you answer, cunt spasming as she’s already close, his body overtaking you, wrapping and tugging, shoving even deeper.
“Who’s first?”
“You.”
“Who’s gonna make this cunt stretch out?”
“Y-you and… ah!”
“Mine, mine… fuck you’re all mine,” Satoru gave you that minute to adjust, a last mercy before your nerdy boyfriend fucking loses his mind. “Mine, this pretty body, this perfect pussy… you… mine…”
“Yours,” you whisper it over and over as Satoru fucks your messy cunt, even though it’s hard to take, you’re so full it feels perfect, letting his hand wrap your throat, fingers pressing on either side of your windpipe. “Ah!”
“Hah – such a perfect fit, made f’me,” he’s fucking you so deep you feel him everywhere, cock gliding in and out of your sticky, gummy walls, fucking you so goddamn messy it's dripping down between your thighs. “B-babyyy…”
You arch for more when he pulls out of your cunt with a filthy squelch and you whine from the loss. “Back in, please…”
He lifts and carries you to the bed, thighs shoved wide, feral now as he shoves back inside and sees himself moving inside you. Every slick glide smoothing your puffy cervix, until she is bruised and aching, that dress shoved higher, panties tugged firmly to the side. He uses both to move in you, laughing as you gasp out, as your thighs tremble.
“Aw, is it too much, sweetheart? Too deep?”
Feral Satoru is here, mixed with sweet Toru, but his cock is anything but sweet – the way it stretches you out, fucking ruins you, pummels your cunt so deep you’re about to cum all over his length, already sensitive.
“Mhm!”
“Full of me?”
“Nghhhh…”
You don't know how the fuck else to answer, it all is entirely too much, the way he can see his cock print, his insane laugh, those blue eyes glittering with the frames fallen off. So blue it hurts to look at, eyes almost threatening to close.
“Nuh-uh, eyes on me, that's it,” Satoru keeps pumping into your cunt, leaning up to shove your thighs against your tits, smushing them as he fucks you dumb.
He knows it too.
“Can't think?”
“mmm, nnnhhh,” your answer is pathetic and just a babble really, as your nerdy, once virgin boyfriend pummels your messy, needy cunt until she's stuffed so full it hurts. Your nails pressing into biceps, digging in as he stretches your puffy lips on it.
“Can’t even fucking talk – already?” Your eyes roll back in your skull as his cock ruins your pussy, so deep you do feel him all over.
“Gonna pump you so full, hah will you finish college without me breeding your cunt?” Satoru Gojo is batshit insane, as he leans over you, bending you so that you're folded in half under his heavy weight. “What would you do then, hmm? If I breed your slutty cunt? Make you mine.”
“Want it, mmm,” you’re utterly fucking shameless about it, feeling his bruising grip, his cock getting creamy at the base as his heavy balls slap.
“Jerked it in the bathroom, had me so hard,” you bite down on your lip, gasps escaping your throat, eyes locked. “You love that, huh? Driving me insane, slutty dress, pretty body… god…”
He presses your thighs down enough to tug your tits out, gripping them and exhaling, thumbs brushing your nipples until they’re peaks.
"Look at you," he pants, "taking my cock so well, pretty girl. You’re just such a good little slut for me, aren't you?"
You can only moan in response, your body trembling as he hits that spot inside you that makes your vision go white, your answer is to grip his hips with your thighs, letting him cup your face, pumping you so full that you can feel it all over. Warm and hot when he whines out so pathetically in your ringing ears, slutty little moans falling from your lips.
“Takin’ all of it, god…” He kisses you even as you shatter, your cunt spasming all around his veiny length, milking him for every drop. “So fucking greedy. So needy.”
He leans down and captures your lips, spurts of cum still pouring, you can feel him twitching, nails pressing into the strong muscles of his back. “Toru… l-love… toru y-you…”
“Cock drunk, sweetheart?” He teases, like the menace he really is – but he also lovingly caresses your cheek. “You took me like you were made for me.”
“I did?” You’re so damn drunk off him you’re slurring your words, pussy achingly empty, feeling his cum slipping out.
“You did a very good job. Such a good girl.”
“Yay!”
Satoru snorts at you, shaking his head and peppering kisses, leaned up on an arm, his shirt half open, revealing the hard planes of his chest. “You’re s’cute… I wanted to take it easy your first time.”
“I loved it,” you admit, yawning now, peeking around the room. “Mmm, can we go home though?”
“Of course we will,” he kisses down your body though, breath ghosting your thighs, spreading them to watch the filthy mess of his cum pour out, groaning. “You’re wasting it all, baby.”
“Hmm? Ah!” Satoru scoops some of that mess up against his fingertips, shoving it right back inside your quivering hole. You’re gripping him tight, thighs clamping down on his hand, as he smirks. “Toru you’re… crazy…”
“Mmm, you really have no idea what I have wanted to do,” he clicks his tongue, pushing that cum deep again, watching your every expression. “Gonna keep you so full of cum it’ll drip everywhere.”
Satoru does not just fuck you once, no – he makes sure to bend you over in the backseat of his car, fucking cum back inside. Once you're at his house he is pumping ropes of cum on your tits, laughing at how messy you get coated in white, before spreading it all over your body.
Satoru fingers and fucks all that cum inside until you're a trembling mess in his arms, passing out and snoring.
“So funny you started all this but then couldn't keep up, hmm?” He teases softly, cleaning you up, cock sore from how you gripped him, how much he came. But even the sight of milky drops escaping your hole had him damn near twitching back to life, groaning against your skin.
*****
“Good morning,” your nerdy boyfriend is littered in pretty kiss marks, indentions of your teeth all down his neck, a loopy smile on his face as he stands there shirtless, glasses firmly back on.
“Oh! Good morning…” you thought you'd be the one to ruin Satoru Gojo, ride his cock till he whimpered and cried from overstimulation.
You had no clue he'd fuck you so good you couldn't sit up right without his help, cupping your face and leaning down to kiss your lips, tilting your chin up and smirking. You're a mess.
A pretty mess.
Hair fucked up, covered in fingerprints and hickies, taking the coffee he brings and sipping it, sighing as it hits your tongue. “Mmm… good morning.”
“Don't you look pretty in my bed?” He muses, smirking on his features. “I wonder what Sukuna thought of his bed covered in your squirt.”
A blush heats up your cheeks. “I didn't squirt that much!?!?!”
“You really did,” you shove him playfully, giggling then. “My cum too though.”
“You did it on purpose, his room!”
“Me? Never.”
Satoru absolutely did.
That's what Sukuna gets for hitting on his girlfriend, dried up cum all on his blankets – as if he could handle you ❤️
heheh i hope ya'll liked horny reader for a change!!!
chat this is like my first smut in like three years so apologies if it's bad. also ts is not proof read lol
aged up megumi !!
You had been dating Megumi for a little over a year now, and he was a pretty popular streamer. He had gotten famous when one of his viewers posted one of his clips on tiktok when he was streaming with Yuji, saying something along the lines of ‘funniest streamer duo out there’ and from that, Megumi and Yuji gained over tens of thousands of viewers. That was a few months ago. Now, the two of them had accumulated a fanbase of around one and a half million followers and Megumi had around two million viewers when he would stream.
When you first started dating, you thought that you would get pretty jealous of all the girls who would dm him or the people that would constantly try to hit on him, but his fanbase was actually quite chill. And your favorite part of dating him was all the fan edits people would make of him. His fans knew of you– Megumi’s girlfriend who often sat on his bed out of frame cheering him on as he played. After winning matches he would turn to you and give you a soft smile, which made his chat go crazy.
You had walked into his room like you did everyday with a plate of freshly cut fruit. He looked up at you, his eyes softening and he smiled at you.
“Thanks, baby.” His smile melted into something more alarming and his eyes widened. “My love you’re in frame.”
You turned to face the camera, and you were in fact, right next to Megumi in frame. You gave a sheepish smile and a weak wave to the camera. You were about to walk off but Megumi had other plans. His hand snaked around your waist and he muted his mic.
“Wanna say hi?” He asked. You looked over to the chat and they were going crazy.
‘What is he saying to her??’
‘His girlfriend is so fine omg’
‘They’re so cute omg’
‘The way his eyes soften when he looks at her’
You shrugged, “might as well.”
Megumi stood up, grabbing the spare foldable chair that was leaning against his wall and placed it next to his and you sat down, resting your head on his shoulder.
Megumi spun his chair back to face his computer, un-muting his mic. “This is my girlfriend,” he turned back to look at you, “wanna introduce yourself?”
“Hey everyone,” You introduced yourself and smiled, “keep making those edits guys, they get me off at night.”
Megumi’s eyes widened and a pained noise escaped his throat. His face turned an embarrassingly deep shade of red as he dropped his head in his hands.
“Baby, don’t say things like that.” He whispered to you.
‘Wait does that mean that he’s bad in bed if she has edits getting her off at night?’
‘Dw girl, those edits get me off too,’
‘Come over here girl, I can get you off just fine.”
Megumi’s eyebrows furrowed as he read the chat. “Chat calm the fuck down what? And stop trying to hit on my girlfriend loser,”
You placed a hand on his shoulder, “oh, he’s real good in bed. He does this thi–”
Megumi put his hand over your mouth, “seriously baby?” he muttered.
You barked out a laugh and placed a kiss on his cheek. You stood up, “well, that’s all from me today guys, bye.”
You went to your usual seat on his bed out of frame and Megumi rolled his eyes, his face still quite red. He unpaused his game and proceeded to play five more matches,but something seemed off, he looked somewhat distracted. However he ended up winning four before pausing his game once more.
“Okay chat, I’m gonna take like a thirty minute break, but I won’t end stream yet. You can stay and wait, or you can leave and join back— I don’t really care what you choose to do.”
He clicked a few buttons on his keyboard, muting his mic and turning his camera off. He spun his chair around and stood up, walking towards his bed.
“Are you serious?” He asked, but he didn’t sound mad at all.
“What’s wrong?” You asked, cocking your head to the side and looking up at him through your lashes.
God, he was beautiful. His black wolf cut messy because of his headset and him constantly running his hands through it. His lip and eyebrow piercing shining off his LED lights. He was wearing an old black tee, which stretched along his chest, outlining his muscles and if you looked close enough— you could see his abs. His sweat pants were hanging low, revealing the strip of his boxers. “Edits get you off at night?”
You snorted, “awh come on, Gumi you know that was a joke.”
He sat down next to you, giving you a look. “As if I didn’t make you cum three times last night.”
Your face flushed. “Okay shut up.” His hand snaked around your waist, pulling you onto his lap.
He smirked, “what? Not so funny now? I had to sit and play for an hour pretending that I wasn't thinking of fucking you so hard that you wouldn’t be able to remember your own name.”
So that was what seemed off with him
He pulled you closer, and you became pleasantly aware of his bulge pressing against your inner thigh.
“What about your stream?” You asked, looping your hands around his neck.
He cocked his head to the side, his smirk growing. “We have thirty minutes.”
You leaned in and kissed him, gently at first. He let out a pleased hum and he squeezed on your waist. You pushed him forward and he fell onto his back.
He raised an eyebrow. “Someone’s feeling bold tonight.” His hands were playing with the hem of your panties. Without waiting for a response, he flipped you over so fast your head spun. He was now on top of you, his chain dangling over your face. You grabbed it and pulled him in for another kiss— this one much messier than the first.
Megumi groaned into your mouth, gently biting your bottom lip as his hand slipped to the hem of your shirt. He pulled it off, breaking the kiss for a second and he threw it on the ground. Your lips met again.
“Take your shirt off,” you whispered against his lip, your hands dropping to the hem of his shirt. He leaned back ever so slightly and his eyes followed your hands. You threw his shirt onto the ground along with your shirt.
Your lips trailed lower, from his lips to his neck, gently sucking and biting. Megumi’s eyes fluttered closed.
“Fuck, baby.” He groaned, his grip on your waist bruising. You smiled against his neck and licked to soothe the sting. You peppered kisses along his jaw while your hands played with the hem of his boxers.
Megumi let out a loud moan as you continued your ministrations. His hands dropped to the waistband of your shorts and pulled them down along with your panties.
“You’re so wet,” he said. “We’ve barely done anything and you’re already so wet.” He teased. He teased your inner thigh, his hand slowly trailing up as you could do nothing but watch. The tip of his finger traced the wet folds of your pussy before he slipped it in. You moaned and arched your back off the bed.
“Gumi more, please.” You whimpered, you opened your eyes for a second to see him smiling.
“Patience baby, I promise I’ll make you feel good.”
He slipped in another slender finger, he pumped his fingers, his cock growing harder with every sound you made.
“Holy shit Megumi,” you breathed out. “Don’t- don’t stop.”
His fingers moved faster, curling forward to stroke the part that you liked. You let out a whimper. You rocked your hips forward, trying to find some sort of friction. Megumi used his other hand to keep you still. “If you want me to fuck you, you have to beg my love.”
Your eyes widened. “I’m not fucking begging.” You said, and before you could process it, Megumi slipped fingers out. You let out a pathetic whine at the absence of his fingers, “why’d you stop? I was so close!” You lifted your hips, seeking some sort of friction.
“I told you already, if you want to cum, then you have to beg for it.”
You wanted to smack that fucking smirk off his stupidly pretty face, but you wanted to cum more. “Please baby, I need to cum, I want your cock so fucking badly. Please.”
Megumi let out an amused hum. “Yeah? Okay, baby, yeah I’ll make you feel so good, but I wanna make you feel good with my fingers first okay?” Without warning, Megumi slid two fingers back in, pumping in and out, you arched your back as if you were trying to get his fingers deeper.
“Fuck gumi,” you whimpered. “I’m about to cum,”
“Let go baby, cum on my hand.”
That was all you needed before your release came crashing down, your cum covering Megumi’s hand.
He placed an open mouthed kiss on your lips and pulled his fingers out. “Good girl.”
He used the hand covered in your release and coating his cock before lining up with your leaking pussy. His tip was teasing your entrance, dragging up and down so slowly you were certain you were going to go insane. “Don’t tease me baby.” You whimpered, your nails dragging along his back. Megumi let out a hiss before ramming into you with full force, letting out a loud slutty moan while he did so. You let out a loud moan, struggling to take all of him in.
“You can do it baby, take it.” He moved slowly at first, letting you adjust to his length. His eyes were watching your face, “are you okay?” He asked.
You nodded, “I’m good now.”
That was all he needed to hear. He pulled out to the tip and snapped his hips, filling you up.
“Holy shit, Megumi!” You moaned, arching your back to take him deeper. He continued that pace, hard and fast. Your moans and the squelching sounds of his dick filling you up echoed off the walls.
His thrusts became sloppy, a sign that he was getting close, his breathing became faster and more uneven, “fuck, I’m close.” He whispered.
Before you could reply, his phone rang, Megumi’s brows furrowed in annoyance. “Ignore it.” He put his phone on silent and it was instantly forgotten.
“Fuck, Gumi. I’m gonna- I’m gonna cum.”
“That’s it my love, cum for me.”
He didn’t stop even as you came all over his dick, however he slowed his pace slightly. He fucked you through your release until his rhythm stuttered.
He didn’t pull out— not that you wanted him to. He groaned as he came inside you, hot ropes filling you up. His head dropped onto your shoulder, placing a gentle kiss.
He pulled out and flopped beside you. “You did so good baby,” he said, pulling you close. “Still think an edit can get you off like that?”
You swatted his bare chest. “Why are you jealous of an edit of yourself?”
“Your fingers could never make you feel as good as I can baby, and that’s a fact.”
You opened your mouth to argue but the sound of Megumi’s phone vibrating cut through.
Megumi cursed under his breath before answering, he put the call on speaker and dropped the phone onto his bed. “What do you want, Yuji? Someone better fucking be dying.”
“Yo man what the fuck?” Yuji’s voice came through panicked. “I called you like twenty times dude what the hell?”
“I was on dnd, what happened?”
“Bro like twenty thousand people heard you having sex with your girlfriend!”
Holy shit.
Megumi looked mortified. He hung up the call “That son of a bitch better not be pranking me. I muted my mic.” He quickly pulled on his boxers and went to his computer. “Oh you gotta be fucking kidding me.” He groaned, running his hand through his hair. He clicked a button and ended his stream.
“Well at least your camera wasn’t on.” You joked. Megumi turned around, his expression softening.
“Yeah well at least.”
You patted the spot next to you, “come back.”
He ran his tongue over his piercing and laid back down next to you.
“Imagine the edits.” You said.
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah what are you gonna do? Get off on them when I’m not around?”
when megumi told his friends he was dating you, the first reaction was pretty much the same for everyone — a mix of 'no way' and 'i don't believe you'. the worst part? he couldn't even blame them.
megumi would describe himself as introverted and probably pretty anti social. so when you walked up to him one day and started talking to him like you knew him for years? yeah he knew he was a goner. but honestly he never understood it — you were so beautiful, pink and glittery. him, on the other side, looked like he didn't know any other colors other than black and blue.
and somehow, he still fell inlove with you. he realised it soon when he missed the splash of vivid colors in his dorm or the sweet strawberry vanilla scent you left anywhere you went.
imagine his shock when you, yes you, confessed to him first — your eyes glassy like you were actually scared he might not feel the same way. and yet, the only thing he noticed in that moment was how cute your lips looked with the pinkish gloss.
when you started dating, no one really noticed the change — you always used to kiss his cheek even as friends, and he didn't go around to brag — not because he was ashamed, but because he always was one to admire you quietly. he never hid the relationship, he just didn't announce it shouting like yuji would.
so, when one day, when you joined megumi at training, which doesn't happen often, chaos unfolded. you strut down to watch him train in the sun, your pink customized uniform (curtesy of gojo) shining in the sun. megumi didn't see you immediatly, too focused on fighting off maki.
after the sparring match (which he lost) he finally saw you — sitting on the bench with some kind of iced drink. taking a break, he walked over to you, a small smile on his face at your obnoxious waving. "what are you doing here? i thought you went shopping." he takes the drink you're silently offering him, taking a sip from the sugary liquid. definetly your taste.
"hey babe! i was, but after i bought three bags my arms started to hurt so i came back. i found these really cute purple heels that match that skirt i bought last week, do you remember which one? oh and i also found these new gloss that tastes like strawberry..." he's listening to you rambling off about whatever you bought today, following your every word with quiet acknowledgment.
"do you have the new gloss on right now?" his question throws you off, making you halt your story telling. "yes how did you know? wanna try it? i have it in my bag!" while your searching your bag — which was filled with sweets, lipgloss and perfume, megumi's eyes don't leave you. he doesn't even realise maki is yelling at him to come train until yuji shouts like a gorilla making him jump.
"can i try the gloss?" the question would be weird for anyone else but you always make him put on some to 'taste test' it. "i'm not finding it right now ugh and you have to go—" he cuts you off with a direct kiss on your lips. right there in front of everyone — you swear you hear nobara gasp.
either way, you kiss him back, the gloss transfering onto your boyfriends mouth. it's a rather quick kiss, not wanting to put on a show infront of everyone. when he pulls back his forehead against yours, his breath stutters. "it tastes nice."
you don't have time to answer — he walks back to the training ground, ignoring the way everyone is looking at him. guess they finally know you're really dating.
𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬: you don’t remember ever critiquing satoru gojo’s presentation — but he does. he’s the painfully shy but brilliant physics major who hides behind nervous smiles and gentle words. when he offers to tutor you, awkward study sessions turn into soft laughter, late-night coffee, and the slow, certain pull of falling in love — quiet, steady, and utterly undeniable.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: physicsmajor satoru x philosophymajor female reader.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: he's down bad (he can't seem to get you out of his head), yearning?, slowburnish, tutoring trope, fluff, happy ending, slightly rushed if you can notice, hes stalkerish, literally runs away from you, you're also quite weird too, hes a nervous wreck around you, suggestive?, mutual pining, povs switch mid-way, and then turns back into third person (just a heads up), a looooot of kissing, nerdy gojo !!
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 26k
𝜗𝜚₊˚- 𝐧𝐢𝐚'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: after two weeks, its finally set free, this was so cute i was smiling while writing this, but whew i am tired..i may write short drabbles of these two. hes so clark kent coded omg, also i am so pissed off bc the ending wasn't supposed to be like that but i hope you guys enjoy this !!
satoru was never good at being put on the spotlight.
in childhood, he was a curious infant, always rubbing his small, nimble fingers at things children should never touch. in adolescence, he developed a craze for chemicals or how and why lights flicker at a rapid pace.
in high school, this seemed to flourish more. in the hushed sanctuary of his make-shift lab, with sodium seeping from the broken conical flask resting haphazardly in the corner, shards catching the natural sunlight through the windows, a maniacal grin splits his face. hands moving with the practiced precision of a thousand repetitions, measuring which volume is critical, which compound will birth the reaction he's been chasing for weeks.
and then it happens—element 119, stable for exactly 4.7 seconds before decay, long enough to be measured, to be real. the scientific community erupts. at seventeen, satoru stands on a stage in stockholm, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his ill-fitting suit jacket, squinting under lights that burn hotter than any bunsen burner. the applause crashes over him like a physical weight. he mumbles his acceptance speech, eyes fixed on his scuffed shoes rather than the sea of faces. the medal feels foreign against his chest, heavy with expectation. all he can think about is the failed experiment waiting back home, the one that should have worked, the mystery that matters more than any prize ever could. what complications a physicist has.
now he's twenty, a university student like any other—except for the medal gathering dust in his childhood bedroom, except for the papers published with his name, except for the way professors look at him with expectation heavy enough to crush.
he's giving a thesis presentation. routine. nothing like stockholm's lights and global audience. just a university auditorium, some faculty, some students fulfilling requirements.
....so why was his mouth suddenly sealed shut?
it was because of you - you sat right in the middle of the auditorium with wide, curious eyes that were begging him to open his brilliant mouth, a genuine hunger for his ideas. knuckles turning white from the amount of pressure you applied to the edges of the heavy fabricated chair.
(you were only there for an assignment. philosophy 301: observing scientific rhetoric. you needed to write three pages analyzing how scientists communicate to non-specialist audiences. he was convenient, scheduled during your free period. you didn't even know his name.)
"..as this research shows how we can never predict the radioactive decay from any nucleu-" his voice wavered in shock - somebody actually admired him? not just listens or understands but admires..?. he tried really, to force his words that were scrunched deep into his throat but as he persisted "i.." nothing seemed to leave his now dried up mouth - like someone dehydrated him and left him seeking for refuge, desperately needing one single droplet of water in the heat of a desert.
that look of admiration shifted into confusion then annoyance. how could you have such contradicting emotions into one expression?
you raise an eyebrow in interest, eyes rolling—barely, but he caught it—and the message was clear: who let this awkward man on stage? that made him wince internally.
he interpreted your intensity, your white-knuckled grip, your laser focus as admiration— you were infact analyzing him like a specimen, cataloging his failures with the clinical detachment you'd been taught in your philosophy classes. observation without investment. criticism without cruelty, but also without care.
that destroyed him completely.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 101
the weeks after the presentation, satoru learns what it means to be haunted.
not by ghosts. by memory. by a single moment that plays on loop every time he closes his eyes—your face, your expression shifting from what he thought was fascination to unmistakable disappointment. the eyebrow raise. the eye roll so slight anyone else would have missed it.
he didn't miss it. he sees you three days later.
he's crossing the quad, backpack heavy with textbooks he's been trying and failing to read, when he spots you on a bench under one of the old oak trees. the afternoon sun filters through the leaves, dappling your face in light and shadow. you're laughing at something on your phone, earbuds in, completely unaware of the world around you. the breeze catches your hair, moves it across your face. you brush it back absently. you look comfortable. happy. alive in a way that makes his chest hurt.
his heart stops.
then starts again, too fast, painful against his ribs like something trying to escape. his palms go instantly sweaty, the textbook slipping slightly in his grip. his mouth goes dry—that same desert feeling from the presentation, like all the moisture has been sucked out of his body and replaced with sand and panic.
he changes direction so sharply he nearly walks into someone. mumbles an apology without looking up. takes the long way around the science building even though it adds ten minutes to his walk and makes him late for his advisor meeting.
you never look up. you never see him.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 102
tuesday morning, 9am. he needs coffee or he's going to die and leave a wallowing corpse on the university floor.
the campus coffee shop is packed with the usual morning crowd—students who actually sleep at night and wake up at reasonable hours, professors with their worn leather satchels and perpetual air of being slightly annoyed by existence. the space is small, cramped, claustrophobic. the espresso machine screams and hisses like it's being tortured. it smells like burnt coffee and sugar and that underlying scent of too many bodies in too small a space—deodorant and perfume and the faint tang of stress sweat already at 9am.
the line moves slowly. someone ahead is asking detailed questions about milk alternatives. the barista looks like she wants to die. satoru's been standing here for five minutes, staring at his phone, trying to ignore the way his stomach is eating itself.
then he hears your voice.
"black coffee, one sugar. and one of those croissants if they're fresh."
his entire body locks up.
you're ahead of him in line. three people ahead, but close enough that if he took five steps forward he could touch you. close enough to smell your perfume—something floral and light, completely at odds with the heavy coffee shop air. jasmine maybe, or something sweeter. it cuts through the burnt coffee smell like a knife.
the barista calls your name. your full name, clear and bright in the crowded space.
you grab your coffee, check your phone, turn—
he's already moving. slips out of line, out the door, into the cold november air that shocks his lungs and makes his eyes water. or maybe that's not the cold. his heart is pounding like he's just run a marathon. his hands are shaking so badly he has to shove them in his pockets. there's a slight ringing in his ears.
he doesn't get coffee.
goes to his 10am lecture running on zero caffeine and three hours of sleep and the taste of panic coating his tongue like metal.
sits in the back row and can't focus on anything except the way your voice sounded ordering coffee. one sugar. not two, not zero. one. exactly one. he writes it down in his notebook like it's important data. like he's conducting an experiment.
later, alone in his apartment, he looks you up properly. finds your instagram—private, but the profile picture is enough to make his chest hurt. you're laughing, mid-motion, caught in a moment of genuine joy. finds your philosophy department profile. reads that you won an award last year for an essay on phenomenology and consciousness.
he downloads the essay. reads it three times. it's brilliant. of course it's brilliant. you're brilliant and he's an idiot who fell apart in front of you and you've forgotten he exists.
he closes his laptop and doesn't open it for two days.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 103
the library becomes dangerous territory.
he sees you there on a thursday afternoon, second floor, east wing where the philosophy and literature sections live. the afternoon sun streams through the tall windows, illuminating the dust motes floating in the air like tiny galaxies. you're at a table surrounded by books with intimidating titles—being and time, critique of pure reason, the phenomenology of spirit. you're taking notes in a notebook covered in stickers—coffee cups and planets and tiny mushrooms. your pen moves quickly across the page, then stops. you tap it against your bottom lip—three times, pause, three times again—while you think.
he's on the third floor, supposedly working on his dissertation. he's been standing at the railing for forty-five minutes, partially hidden behind a bookshelf, just... watching.
the way you chew on your bottom lip when you're concentrating. the way you push your hair behind your left ear when you're frustrated—always the left, never the right. the way you stretch your neck, rolling your shoulders like you've been sitting too long. the way you take a sip of coffee, make a face because it's gone cold, but drink it anyway.
you never look up. never see him standing there like a creep, cataloging your existence. he watches you for two hours. writes nothing.
his phone buzzes.
his advisor: where are you? we had a meeting scheduled. fuck.
when you finally pack up and leave, he feels the absence like a physical thing. the space you occupied goes empty and the library feels cavernous, too big, too quiet. the dust motes keep floating but they're not beautiful anymore, just particles suspended in empty air.
he stays until they kick him out at 2am.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
his roommate suguru finds him staring at his laptop at 3am on a cold saturday.
the apartment is dark except for the blue glow of the screen. the heating's broken again—has been for a week—so satoru's wearing two hoodies and still shivering. the cold seeps up through the floorboards, makes the whole place feel like a tomb. there's the smell of old coffee and the takeout containers neither of them has bothered to throw away—something with a hint of garlic from three days ago, slowly rotting. the refrigerator hums its broken-compressor hum, a grinding sound that never quite stops. outside, someone's car alarm is going off, shrill and insistent, has been for an hour.
"you're doing it again."
satoru doesn't look up. his eyes hurt from the screen glare—actually hurt, that gritty, burning feeling that means he's been staring too long. his neck hurts from sitting in the same position for hours. his hands are cold. everything hurts. "doing what?"
"that thing where you pretend you're working but you're actually having an existential crisis." suguru's voice is rough with sleep. "I can tell the difference now. it's been three weeks of this."
"I'm fine, suguru."
"you've typed three words in the last hour. I can see your screen from my bed—the glow is keeping me awake. that's not fine, that's catatonic."
suguru sits up. his bed creaks loudly in the quiet apartment—old springs that sound like they're dying. he turns on the lamp beside his bed. the light is warm and yellow and makes everything look softer than it is, makes the mess of their apartment look almost cozy instead of depressing.
"also you've been wearing the same hoodie for four days and you smell like depression and old coffee. so. talk."
satoru closes his laptop. the sudden darkness is disorienting. his eyes struggle to adjust. "nothing to talk about."
"bullshit." suguru's wearing his glasses, the ones he only wears at night when his contacts come out. they're crooked. he pushes them up. "is this about your presentation? because dude, everyone bombs presentations sometimes. it's not—"
"it's not about the presentation."
"then what?"
how does he explain it? that there was someone in the audience whose opinion somehow mattered more than the entire scientific community's? that you've looked at him with what he thought was admiration and it turned out to be analytical disdain? that he can't stop seeing you everywhere, that his entire world has reorganized itself around avoiding and seeking you in equal measure? that he's in love with someone who doesn't know his name?
wait. no. not love. he's not—
"nothing. forget it."
suguru is quiet for a long moment. the car alarm finally stops outside. the silence is somehow worse. "you know what your problem is? you're brilliant with particles and completely useless with people. whatever this is—whoever this is—you need to either deal with it or let it go. you can't keep—" he gestures at satoru's entire situation with a flick of his wrist, the laptop and the dark circles and the way he's curled in on himself. "—whatever this is. it's not sustainable."
"I know."
"do you? because from where I'm sitting, you're driving yourself insane over something that probably isn't even as bad as you think it is."
it's worse. it's so much worse. because it wasn't a moment of humiliation he can recover from. it was a moment of connection he imagined completely. he invented a story where you cared, where you were fascinated, where he mattered.
and reality showed him otherwise.
reality showed him that he's just another awkward academic to you. forgettable. already forgotten.
"I'll figure it out," satoru says.
"when?"
"eventually." he huffs
suguru sighs, long and disappointed. "you're impossible." he turns off the lamp. darkness again. the apartment settles back into cold and silence. "get some sleep, satoru. you look like death."
satoru doesn't sleep.
he opens his laptop again in the dark and stares at the cursor blinking in his dissertation document. types: element 119. deletes it. types: radioactive decay. deletes it.
types your name. stares at it for ten minutes. deletes it.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 104
he starts taking different routes to class.
the long way around the quad that adds fifteen minutes—past the science buildings on the east side, around the maintenance shed that always smells like gasoline and cut grass, through the parking lot where the asphalt is cracked and weeds push through. it avoids the bench where he saw you that first time, the oak tree with its sprawling branches, the patch of grass where students sit when the weather's beautiful.
he learns your schedule without meaning to. or maybe he means to and won't admit it. just by avoiding you, he maps your movements like he's charting the orbit of a celestial body. tuesdays and thursdays you have class in the philosophy building at 2pm—he knows because he saw you walking there once, twice, three times until the pattern was undeniable. so he makes sure he's nowhere near there during those times. takes his lunch at 1pm or 3pm, never 2pm. uses the bathrooms on the opposite side of campus.
mondays, wednesdays, and fridays you're usually in the library in the afternoon. second floor, east wing, by the windows. he knows this because he's checked. accidentally-on-purpose walked past. saw you there once and now avoids that entire section like it's radioactive.
but the campus is only so big. avoidance only works until it doesn't.
he sees you anyway.
he needs a textbook for his advanced quantum field theory seminar. the bookstore is warm—too warm after the biting cold outside. it smells like new books and tea from the cafe in the corner, that specific scent of paper and binding glue and the cinnamon from someone's latte. the fluorescent lights are too bright. there's pop music playing over the speakers, tinny and grating but addictive.
he's in the science section, running his finger along the spines. quantum field theory, advanced particle physics, statistical mechanics. the books are expensive. he's trying to decide if he can get away with using the library copy or if he needs his own.
then he sees you.
three shelves over, in the historic section. you're reaching for something on the top shelf, and you're not quite tall enough. you're on your toes, stretching, your whole body extended upward. your jacket—that green one, the one he's seen before—rides up with the movement.
he can see a sliver of skin at your waist. just an inch, maybe two. the curve of your lower back. the waistband of your jeans.
his brain short-circuits.
you're still reaching, fingers just barely brushing the spine of whatever book you're trying to get. you make a small frustrated sound—he can hear it from here, this soft "come on" that's half-muttered to yourself. you stretch higher. more skin. he can see the shift of your muscles, the flex of your body trying to extend just a little further.
someone should help you. someone should offer to get the book down. that's what a normal person would do.
he stands there frozen, staring, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his teeth. his palms are instantly sweaty. the textbook in his hands might as well weigh a thousand pounds.
you give up, lower down onto flat feet. your jacket falls back into place. you're looking around now, maybe for an employee, maybe for someone tall enough to help.
your eyes are sweeping the store. they're going to land on him.
panic floods his system like molten ice. he's already moving—backwards first, then turning, abandoning his textbook on a completely wrong shelf. introduction to organic chemistry sitting where quantum field theory should be. he doesn't care. he's walking fast toward the exit, weaving between displays, nearly knocking over a rack of university-branded t-shirts.
the cold air outside hits him like a slap. his breath comes out in clouds. his heart is still racing.
he walks three blocks before he stops, leans against a building, tries to remember how to breathe normally.
that night he goes back to the bookstore twenty minutes before closing. buys the textbook from a bored employee who doesn't look at him twice. walks home in the dark, thinking about that strip of skin, that frustrated sound, the way you moved.
he's so fucked.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 105
he's been in the lab all day. it's past 7pm and he hasn't eaten since... he can't remember. his advisor kept him late going over data, pointing out inconsistencies, asking questions satoru couldn't answer. he feels hollowed out. exhausted. his hands smell like latex gloves and whatever chemical he was working with.
the dining hall is bright and loud and overwhelming after the quiet of the lab. it smells like institutional food—something with tomato sauce, garlic bread, that underlying scent of industrial cleaning products and steam tables. the noise is incredible. hundreds of students talking, laughing, the clatter of trays and silverware, the hiss of the soda machines.
he gets food without really looking at it. some kind of pasta. garlic bread. water. his tray feels heavy. everything feels heavy.
he's scanning for an empty table, somewhere quiet, preferably in a corner where he can eat quickly and leave—
and then he sees you.
you're at a table in the middle of the dining hall. surrounded by friends—three other people, all talking over each other in that comfortable way that suggests they've known each other for years. there are textbooks pushed to one end of the table, dinner spread out, someone's laptop playing music he can't hear from here but can see the glow of.
you're animated. laughing. your hands move when you talk—quick gestures that punctuate whatever story you're telling. you're wearing a sweater he hasn't seen before—dark red, oversized. your hair is different today. pulled back somehow. he can see the line of your neck.
one of your friends—a girl with dark curly hair—says something. he can't hear it over the dining hall noise. but he sees your reaction.
you throw your head back, laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth with your hand. the movement is unconscious, natural, beautiful. your shoulders shake. your eyes squeeze shut. the laugh is loud enough to carry across the dining hall even through all the other noise. it's bright and genuine and unselfconscious.
it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.
it makes him feel like he's swallowed glass. like something sharp and broken is lodged in his chest, cutting him from the inside. his hands tighten on his tray. the plastic creaks.
you're so... alive. so present. so comfortable in your body, in your space, in your friendships. you belong here. you fit.
he doesn't fit anywhere.
he's still standing in the middle of the dining hall, holding his tray, staring at you like a creep. someone bumps into him—"excuse you"—annoyed. he needs to move. needs to find a table. needs to stop looking at you.
your head is turning. you're looking around the dining hall. maybe looking for someone. maybe just people-watching.
your eyes are going to land on him.
he moves. fast. back toward the exit. out the door he just came through. the cold air hits him again—it's snowing now, light flurries that melt on contact. his breath comes out in clouds. he's still holding his tray.
there's an outdoor seating area—empty because it's december and snowing and no one eats outside in december. metal tables and chairs covered in a thin layer of snow. he brushes off a chair. sits. the metal is cold even through his jeans.
he eats his pasta. it's gone lukewarm. the garlic bread is soggy. he can't taste any of it. he's just putting food in his mouth, chewing, swallowing, because his body needs fuel and this is fuel.
the snow falls. his hands go numb. he can see his breath.
through the dining hall windows, he can still see you. still laughing. still warm. still living a life that doesn't include him and never will.
and when he gets back to his apartment, suguru takes one look at him and says "you look like someone died."
"no one died."
"then why do you look like you're grieving?"
satoru doesn't have an answer.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 106
he's walking to his quantum mechanics class. it's 1:47pm. the class starts at 2pm. he's cutting it close but he needed to stop by his apartment to get the problem set he forgot this morning, and then there was a line at the coffee shop, and now he's practically jogging across campus with his too-hot coffee sloshing in its cup.
the air is brutally cold. the kind of cold that stings your lungs when you breathe. the sky is that pale gray that promises more snow. the wind cuts through his jacket—he didn't dress warm enough this morning. his ears hurt. his hands are numb even wrapped around the hot coffee cup.
there are other students moving between classes. everyone hunched against the cold, moving fast, breath coming out in clouds.
and then he sees you.
you're walking toward him. not directly toward him—you don't see him. but you're on the same path, coming from the opposite direction. earbuds in. you're nodding your head slightly, moving to music he can't hear.
your breath makes clouds in the cold air—little puffs of white that dissipate immediately. you're wearing that green jacket again—the one from the bookstore. it's not warm enough for this weather. you're hunched against the cold, hands shoved deep in your pockets. your nose is pink. your cheeks are flushed.
you look cold and miserable and somehow still beautiful.
you're going to see him. you're going to look up and recognize him—except you won't recognize him because you've never known him. you'll just see some random guy staring at you. you'll think he's a creep.
or worse. worse. you might recognize him. might suddenly connect him to the presentation. might remember where you've seen his name before. might realize—
his heart is pounding. he can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, behind his eyes. his palms are sweating even though his fingers are numb. his mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.
ten feet. you're humming now. he can almost hear it under the wind.
fight or flight. every time it's the same choice. every time he chooses flight.
there's a path to the right. barely a path—more like a gap between buildings. he's never noticed it before. he takes it.
the gap is narrow. he has to turn sideways in one spot where someone's left recycling bins. it smells like old beer and something rotting. the ground is icy. his coffee sloshes, burns his hand through the cup. he comes out on the other side of the building, completely disoriented.
he's on the wrong side of campus. the opposite side from where his class is. he checks his phone. 1:53pm.
he's going to be late. he's never late.
he runs. actually runs, coffee abandoned in a trash can, backpack bouncing against his spine, his breath coming in white clouds. his lungs hurt from the cold air. his legs hurt. everything hurts.
he makes it to class at 2:04pm. professor yaga gives him a look but doesn't comment. satoru slides into his seat in the back row, heart still pounding, hands shaking.
he can't focus on anything. can't hear the lecture. can't take notes. he's just sitting there, breathing hard, thinking about the way you looked in the cold. the way you hummed. the way you were just... existing. walking to class. living your life.
and he ran away from it. again. like a coward. like someone who's afraid of a girl who doesn't even know his name.
--
every time, his body has the same response.
heart rate spikes—he can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, behind his eyes. physical and undeniable. his pulse in his ears like a drum. palms sweat even in the cold. even when his fingers are numb. even when it makes no sense. mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. he can't swallow. can't speak. can't think.
fight or flight. the oldest response. the most basic survival instinct.
he always, always chooses flight.
he's twenty years old. he's discovered a new element. he's been to stockholm. he's published in nature. he's given lectures to rooms full of nobel laureates.
and he's running away from a philosophy student who doesn't even know his name.
running away from the girl who destroyed him six months ago with a single look.
running away from the only person he's ever wanted to run towards.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
twenty-four weeks. six months.
he's gotten good at avoiding you. expert level. knows your patterns better than his own. your routine is mapped in his brain like a formula—tuesday/thursday, philosophy building, 2pm. monday/wednesday/friday, library, afternoon. coffee shop, mornings when you have early classes. that bench under the oak tree when the weather's nice.
he's an expert at existing in your orbit without ever colliding.
and then one night, 11pm on a wednesday, he's in the library because where else would he be?
the main entrance is all glass and steel, modern renovation grafted onto a building from the 1960s. automatic doors that whoosh open, letting in blasts of february cold that the heating system can't quite compensate for. there's a security desk just inside where a obnoxious guard scrolls through his phone, barely glancing at student IDs.
past security, the entry hall opens up—high ceilings, fluorescent lights buzzing their persistent electrical hum, the smell of old books and new anxiety mixing with stale coffee and dry heating and that particular scent of stress that no amount of air freshener can cover. the carpet is industrial—blue-gray, stained in places, worn down to threads in high-traffic areas. it smells faintly of mildew when it rains.
the main floor is organized chaos. rows of study tables, mostly full even at this hour. computer stations along the walls, all occupied. the circulation desk is closed but the returns bin is overflowing. there are vending machines in the corner—humming their refrigerator hum, offering caffeine and sugar for $3 a hit. someone's phone is ringing unanswered. someone else is typing like they're trying to kill their keyboard.
it smells like desperation in physical form. coffee—always coffee, in travel mugs and disposable cups and the expensive reusable ones. energy drinks, the chemical-sweet smell mixing badly with the coffee. someone's eating something with too much garlic. the heater is blasting hot, dry air that tastes like dust and old building, making everyone's throat scratch, making the whole place feel like a desert.
the sound is what gets you. it's not quiet. it's the absence of the right kind of noise. no conversations—those are banned. just the persistent hum of HVAC pushing air through old ducts. fluorescent lights buzzing, especially the dying ones. keyboards clicking. pages turning with aggressive, frustrated whisper-shouts. pencils scratching against paper. the occasional cough.
the bathrooms are in the back, and they smell like industrial cleaner trying and failing to cover decades of academic stress. the water pressure is bad. the hand dryers are loud enough to damage hearing.
satoru is on the third floor—the quiet floor, the serious floor. up here the carpet is even more worn. the study carrels are individual fortresses, little wood-paneled cells where PhD students go to slowly lose their minds. the stacks are dense—floor-to-ceiling shelves of books that haven't been touched in decades. it smells more like old paper up here, less like coffee. mustier. the air doesn't circulate as well.
he's got a table near the window. can see the campus below—streetlights making pools of yellow, the occasional student hurrying between buildings. his laptop is open. he's been staring at the same paragraph of his dissertation for an hour.
and then you walk in.
he sees you before you see him. you're three floors down but he can see you through the central atrium—the library's design means all the floors are open in the middle, creating this vertical space where you can see all the way down to the ground floor.
you're walking like someone who's exhausted. backpack weighing you down. you're wearing that green jacket again. you look frustrated. defeated.
you head for a table on the ground floor, third row back. drop your bag with a heavy thud he can't hear but can see. pull out a textbook.
physics for non-majors.
even from three floors up, even at this distance, he can see the defeat in your body language. the way you slump in your chair. the way you press your palms against your eyes.
you're struggling.
he should stay up here. should maintain the careful distance he's cultivated for six months. should protect himself from another opportunity to be seen and found wanting.
but you're struggling with physics.
and he knows physics.
and you look like you're about to cry.
and before he can think better of it, before he can stop himself, before his brain can catch up with his body—
he's gathering his stuff. closing his laptop. walking toward the stairs.
his heart is pounding. his hands are shaking. every step down feels like walking toward something inevitable. something that's going to hurt.
but you need help.
and he can help.
and maybe—maybe—this time will be different.
and just like that, everything changes.
just like that, he gets his second chance.
just like that, he's more fucked than ever.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
you're in the library at 11pm again, physics textbook open, on the verge of tears because nothing makes sense and your exam is in two days.
the library at this hour is a special kind of purgatory. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead with that persistent electrical hum that burrows into your skull after enough hours. they cast everything in a sickly blue-white glow that makes everyone look half-dead, which is fitting because everyone here feels half-dead. the heating system clanks and groans through old pipes, either blasting you with dry air that tastes like dust and desperation or leaving you shivering in your hoodie.
it smells like old books and new anxiety. the musty paper smell mixing with stale coffee, energy drinks, and that particular scent of stress sweat that no amount of air freshener can cover. someone three tables over is eating something that smells aggressively like ginger. your stomach growls in response even though you're too stressed to be actually hungry.
the silence isn't really silence. it's the sound of dozens of students slowly losing their minds in unison. keyboards clicking. pages turning with aggressive whisper-shouts of frustration. pencils scratching. someone's pen clicking obsessively—click click click click—until someone else hisses "stop" and there's a brief, tense pause before it starts again, quieter.
you've been sitting in this uncomfortable chair for three hours. the plastic digs into your spine in a way that guarantees tomorrow will hurt. your coffee went cold an hour ago but you keep sipping it anyway because the bitter, chalky taste is something to focus on besides the swimming symbols in your textbook.
the words on the page have stopped being words. they're just symbols now, meaningless hieroglyphics mocking your inability to understand basic motion. you've read the same paragraph on newton's second law six times and it's somehow making less sense with each repetition.
you press your palms against your eyes until you see stars. the pressure helps somehow. when you open them again, the equations haven't magically become clearer.
"you're using the wrong equation."
you look up, disoriented, eyes adjusting. white-haired guy at the next table over. you hadn't really noticed him before—the library at 11pm is full of ghosts, everyone hunched over their own personal disasters. but now that you're looking, he's hard to miss.
white hair that catches the terrible blinding light and somehow makes it look intentional. pale skin that suggests he might be as nocturnal as the rest of you. dark clothes—black shirt, black jacket slung over his chair. the kind of deliberately neutral outfit that says he doesn't want to be perceived but is too striking to pull it off.
he's not looking at you—eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder like making direct eye contact might physically hurt him. but he's clearly talking to you, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his laptop, knee bouncing under the table in a nervous rhythm that makes the table vibrate slightly.
"what?"
"problem twelve." he gestures vaguely at your textbook, and you notice his hands are shaking slightly. "you're using the equation for uniform acceleration but the problem states non-uniform. you need calculus for that one."
his voice is quiet, careful, like he's afraid of taking up too much space in the air between you. there's something fragile about it. something that makes you think of glass about to crack.
you stare at your textbook, then back at him. he's still not meeting your eyes. a muscle jumps in his jaw. his fingers tap against his laptop—tap tap tap tap, anxious rhythm.
"we haven't learned calculus. this is physics for non-majors."
"oh." he finally meets your eyes for a brief, electric second before looking away again. his adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "then... the problem is probably mislabeled. or it's extra credit. can I—" he hesitates, fingers drumming faster against his laptop. "can I see?"
you should probably say no. it's weird, right? random guy commenting on your homework from across the library? but you're desperate and he seems harmless—awkward in that specific way physics majors tend to be awkward, like he's more comfortable with particles than people. like every word costs him something to say out loud.
and there's something else. he looks as exhausted as you feel. dark circles under his eyes that suggest he's as much a creature of this fluorescent nightmare as you are. his coffee cup is empty but he keeps reaching for it anyway, hand closing around nothing, like the muscle memory of caffeine is all he has left.
"sure." you angle your textbook toward him, and you don't miss the way he tenses. like you've asked him to do something monumental instead of just look at a physics problem.
he doesn't move closer at first. just leans slightly in his chair, and you can hear it creak under the shift of weight. he's squinting at the page, and you realize he's trying to read it from where he is, too nervous to actually close the distance.
"you can come closer," you say slowly. "I don't bite."
the look he gives you is startled, almost frightened, before he schools it into something neutral. "right. yeah. okay."
he closes his laptop with a soft click that sounds too loud in the library quiet. stands up, and he's tall—you hadn't registered that before—all long limbs and careful movements like he's constantly aware of how much space he takes up and apologizing for it.
he sits in the chair beside you, and you can feel the heat coming off him in the over-air-conditioned library. he smells like coffee and something clean—laundry detergent maybe, or shampoo. something normal and almost comforting in this place that smells like academic suffering.
but he's still not quite close enough to see the problem clearly. he's left almost a foot of space between you, perched on the edge of his chair like he might need to flee at any moment.
"I'm not going to murder you," you say. "you can actually sit like a normal person."
"sorry." he shifts incrementally closer. his knee is still bouncing. "I'm just—sorry."
he says sorry like punctuation. like it's the baseline state of existing in proximity to another person.
his finger traces the problem text, and his hands are interesting—long fingers, neat nails, the slight calluses that suggest lab work. they're still trembling slightly. nervous. everything about him radiates nervous energy, that vibrating tension of someone who wants to be anywhere but here but can't quite make himself leave.
"okay, so..." his voice is steadier when he's talking about physics. like the math gives him something to hide behind. "they're asking about acceleration but they've given you a velocity function that changes with time. see? it's not constant."
you lean in despite yourself, and you catch him holding his breath when your shoulder nearly brushes his. he smells like he's been in this library for days. that specific scent of someone who's been breathing recycled air and stress for too long.
"I... think so?"
"here." he pulls a blank sheet from his own notebook, and you see his papers are covered in equations that make your textbook look like elementary school math. his handwriting is surprisingly neat—precise, careful, like everything else about him. "the question is badly worded for an intro class, but what they probably want is..."
he starts writing, and something shifts. the nervousness doesn't disappear but it redirects. flows into the movement of his hand, the scratch of pencil on paper—that specific sound that's become the soundtrack of this library, of these late nights, of slow academic death.
his explanation is... different. not like your professor who lectures at the board like he's addressing a conference he'd rather not be at. not like the textbook that assumes you already understand and is just going through the motions.
he's breaking it down into pieces, checking your face for confusion. and he's good at reading faces—when your brow furrows, he stops. adjusts. tries again from a different angle.
"wait." you stop him, and he flinches slightly at the interruption. "go back. why did that equal that?"
no impatience. no condescension. just: "right, okay, so..." and he explains it again, differently, his knee still bouncing under the table, fingers still drumming against the paper between sentences.
until something clicks.
"oh my god." you sit back, and the chair creaks loudly in the quiet. someone shushes you from across the room. you lower your voice. "oh my god, I actually understand it."
the smile that crosses his face is brief but genuine—surprised, almost shocked, like he wasn't sure it would work. like he's as relieved as you are. "yeah?"
"this textbook is absolute garbage at explaining things. you did in two minutes what I've been trying to understand for an hour." you look at him properly now. really look at him.
he's objectively attractive in that specific way that cartoon characters are attractive—features almost too perfect, too symmetrical. the white hair should look ridiculous but somehow doesn't. and his eyes, now that you're really seeing them, are striking. pale blue, almost gray in this terrible lighting.. and are those just frames? the lenses are nearly clear. "are you a physics major?"
"yeah." he's already retreating slightly, physically pulling back like he's worried he's overstayed his welcome. "sorry, I shouldn't have interrupted your studying, I just—"
"no, please." you touch his arm without thinking, then immediately pull back. "I have seventeen more problems and my exam is thursday and I'm completely lost. can you—would you—" you pause. "do you tutor? I can pay you."
something complicated crosses his face. "you don't have to pay me."
"I can't just take up your time for free."
"I'm already here." he gestures at his laptop, his scattered papers. "I'm just working on... research. it's fine. I can help."
there's something in the way he says it—like he's trying to convince himself as much as you.
you don't leave right away. you work through more problems. he keeps helping, getting more comfortable, more animated when he's explaining physics. you notice things: the way his whole face changes when he's talking about something he loves, how he automatically adjusts his explanations based on your reactions, that he's patient in a way that feels genuine, not performative.
it's almost midnight when you finally pack up.
"I'm here most nights," he says, closing his laptop. "if you need help again. for the exam."
"most nights? do you sleep?"
a half-smile. "not really."
you laugh, but you're also mentally cataloging this information. library. late night. physics help available.
"I'm here tomorrow night. same table?"
he pauses, something flickering across his expression. then, "same table."
he doesn't ask your name. he already knows it—saw it on the attendance sheet that day six months ago, looked you up in the student directory afterwards like some kind of masochist, tortured himself with your social media presence, your philosophy department profile, the awards you've won for your essays.
you don't ask his name either. you'll realize this later, embarrassed, and have to awkwardly ask tomorrow.
but there's something and he's so completely, utterly, hopelessly fucked.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session one
you show up the next night with two coffees.
"i didn't know what you liked," you say, setting one down near his laptop. the cup leaves a faint ring of condensation on the wooden table. you can feel the heat radiating from it, see the steam curling up in lazy spirals. "so I got you what I get. If you hate it I can—"
"it's perfect." he wraps his hands around the cup like it's precious, like you've handed him something infinitely more valuable than a $4 coffee. his fingers curve around the paper sleeve, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. his eyes meet yours—soft and startled and grateful in a way that seems disproportionate to the gesture. "thank you."
it's too sweet. the sugar hits his tongue wrong, cloying and heavy, coating his teeth. he hates sweet coffee—always has, takes his black when no one's watching. but he drinks it anyway, every drop, feeling the too-hot liquid burn down his throat. and he orders the same thing for the next three months until you finally catch him making a face, his nose wrinkling involuntarily, his mouth twisting into something between a grimace and a smile when he thinks you're not looking.
you settle into the chair beside him—the same configuration as yesterday, close enough to share the textbook but not quite touching. your elbow is maybe three inches from his. you can feel the heat of him in that small gap, smell that clean eucalyptus scent mixing with coffee and old books. "i realized I never got your name. I'm—"
"i know." He says it too quickly, and you watch color bloom across his cheekbones—a faint pink that spreads to the tips of his ears. he catches himself, blinking rapidly, and you can see him scrambling for recovery. "i mean—you're in the student directory. i looked up who else was taking physics this semester. for... study group purposes."
a lie. a terrible lie. his voice pitches slightly higher at the end, and he won't quite meet your eyes. but you accept it with a small laugh, the sound bright in the quiet library.
"creepy, but efficient. i'm impressed." you pull out your notebook—the pages are getting dog-eared now, filled with his handwriting mixed with yours. the spiral binding catches on your sleeve with a small metallic whisper. "so, mysterious physics major who stalks the student directory—what's your name?"
"satoru. gojo satoru."
something flickers across your face—brief, confused, like you've heard the name before but can't place it. your eyebrows draw together fractionally. your lips part like you're about to say something, then close. the moment passes. "satoru. okay." you test the name in your mouth, the syllables unfamiliar on your tongue. "ready to save me from newton again?"
you had written his name in your assignment. subject: Gojo Satoru, Physics PhD candidate. but you'd written twenty pages that semester, cited dozens of names. they all blurred together—just another brilliant mind reduced to a footnote, a reference, a line in your bibliography that you'd never expected to materialize into a person sitting beside you smelling like eucalyptus and drinking coffee he hates.
he nods, pulls your textbook closer, and you both pretend this is just about physics.
the pages make a soft rustling sound as he flips through them. His finger traces down the chapter index—you notice he has long fingers, pale and precise, the nails neatly trimmed. there's a callus on his right middle finger from holding pens.
It takes you forty-five minutes to realize you're not actually struggling with the homework anymore. youu're asking questions just to keep him talking, watching the way his hands move when he explains angular momentum—sweeping arcs through the air, fingers tracing invisible orbits—the way his eyes light up when you actually understand something. they go brighter, more vivid, and his whole face transforms. he leans closer without seeming to realize it, and you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, pale at the roots and darker at the tips.
"you're good at this," you say. "teaching, i mean. You should be a TA or something."
his laugh is short, almost bitter. the sound catches in his throat, comes out rough. "i'm not good at teaching." his hands drop to the table, fingers curling against the wood.
"you're literally teaching me right now. and I actually get it for the first time all semester."
"that's different. this is..." he gestures vaguely between you, and you feel the air move with the motion, watch the play of muscle and tendon in his forearm where his sleeve is rolled up. "one on one. small. when there's a crowd, when people are watching, I—" he cuts himself off. his jaw tightens. you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin.
"stage fright?"
"something like that." His voice is quiet. he's looking down at the textbook now, at the equations that probably make perfect sense to him, that he could solve in his sleep. his fingers tap against the page—once, twice, a nervous rhythm.
you want to push, but something in his expression stops you—a guardedness, a door closing. instead you say: "well, lucky for me you're good at the small scale stuff." you bump your shoulder against his gently, and feel him tense for a fraction of a second before relaxing. the contact is brief but you feel it echo through your whole arm, warm and electric.
lucky for him too, he thinks. or maybe the worst luck in the world. He hasn't decided yet. your shoulder is still warm where it touched his, and the library suddenly feels too small and too large all at once, and he can still taste that too-sweet coffee on his tongue and he doesn't hate it as much as he should.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session four
it's been two weeks. your exam came and went—you got a B, which felt like a miracle.
when you'd told him, breathless and disbelieving as you'd stared at the grade on your phone, his whole face had transformed. the careful composure he usually wore had shattered like glass, replaced by something incandescent. his eyes had gone wide and bright, crinkling at the corners, and he'd smiled—not his usual half-smirk but a full, unguarded grin that made him look years younger. "i knew you could do it," he'd said, voice rough with something that sounded almost like pride, and then softer, almost to himself, "i knew it."
his hand had twitched at his side like he'd wanted to reach for you, to pull you into a hug or grab your shoulder or something, but he'd caught himself, fingers curling into his palm instead. the wanting had been written all over his face though—transparent as glass, obvious as gravity. you'd felt the phantom warmth of it anyway, the almost-touch lingering on your skin like static electricity.
you should probably stop coming to the library at 11pm now that you don't need help anymore.
you come anyway.
the library smells like old paper and lemon cleaning solution and the particular mustiness of a building that's never quite warm enough. your sneakers squeak against the linoleum as you approach your usual table—the one by the window that overlooks the quad, where the fluorescent lights flicker every forty-seven seconds (you've counted).
"i don't have physics homework tonight," you announce, setting down your bag with a soft thud that echoes in the near-empty third floor. your coffee (black, one sugar) and his (too sweet, but he won't admit it) are already on the table, still steaming faintly. the bitter-sharp scent of your coffee mingles with the almost cloying sweetness of his—you can smell the caramel syrup from here.
satoru looks up from his laptop, and something cautious crosses his face—a subtle downward twitch at the corners of his mouth, a fractional widening of his eyes before his expression smooths into something carefully neutral. his fingers pause on the keyboard, hovering over the keys. the brightness from three days ago when you'd shown him your grade is gone, replaced by something guarded, braced for impact. "oh. okay." his voice is even, but there's a tight quality to it, like he's holding his breath.
"buuut I have a philosophy paper due friday, and I work better when someone else is around. so." you pull out your laptop, feeling the cool metal against your palms, hearing the familiar click as it opens. "is it okay if I just... work here?"
the relief that floods his expression is almost comical. his shoulders drop at least two inches. the tension around his eyes—you hadn't even noticed it was there—melts away, and his mouth curves into something that's trying very hard not to be a grin and failing. that incandescent brightness returns, softer this time but no less real, warming his features from within. "yeah. of course. i'm just running simulations anyway." he says it too eagerly, words tumbling over each other. his hands resettle on the keyboard but don't actually type anything—just rest there, fingertips barely touching the keys, trembling almost imperceptibly.
you settle into what's become your chair—the one with the slightly wobbly left leg that you've learned to compensate for. the vinyl is cracked and cold through your jeans until your body heat warms it. for twenty minutes, the only sound is typing—his rapid and rhythmic, yours more hesitant—and the occasional sip of coffee. yours has cooled to the perfect drinking temperature. you can feel the caffeine hitting your system, sharpening your focus.
after a moment of silence, he speaks, "what's your paper about?" his voice cuts through the silence, softer than usual.
you glance over. he's not looking at his screen anymore. his laptop displays rows of numbers and graphs, but his eyes are on you—a pale, crystalline blue that's almost unsettling in its intensity. the overhead lights catch on his white hair, making it glow like a halo. or a warning. "Heidegger's concept of 'being-toward-death.' super cheerful stuff."
"the idea that awareness of mortality gives life meaning?" he's leaning forward slightly now, elbow on the table, chin propped on his fist. you can see the individual creases in his shirt sleeve, the faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes.
you blink. "you know Heidegger?"
"i know some philosophy. mostly philosophy of science, but." he shrugs, and you hear the rustle of fabric, catch the faint scent of whatever detergent he uses—something clean and sharp, like mint or eucalyptus. "I read."
"physics majors don't usually read continental philosophy for fun."
"i'm not most physics majors."
it's not said arrogantly. just... factually. like he's stating something obvious about himself that you should already know. his gaze is steady, unwavering, and there's something almost vulnerable in it—like he's offering you this piece of himself and waiting to see what you'll do with it.
"okay, übermensch, what do you think about being-toward-death?"
he considers this, fingers drumming against his coffee cup—a soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap that you can feel more than hear. his eyes shift away, focusing on something in the middle distance. the fluorescent lights flicker. forty-seven seconds. "i think it's incomplete. Heidegger focuses on the subjective experience of mortality, but he ignores the physical reality. entropy. decay." his voice takes on a different quality when he talks about physics—more animated, his hands starting to move, sketching invisible equations in the air.
"the universe itself is being-toward-death on a cosmic scale. every system tends toward disorder. every particle is running down. we're not special for dying—we're just... participating in the fundamental nature of reality."
you stare blankly at him. his face is earnest, completely serious, eyebrows slightly drawn together in concentration.there's a small furrow between them that you want to smooth away with your thumb. the thought startles you. "that's the most depressing thing i've ever heard."
"but accurate." he meets your eyes again, and there's a hint of a smile now—barely there, just a slight upward curve at one corner of his mouth.
"i can't put that in my paper. my professor would have an existential crisis."
"your professor should have an existential crisis. it's good for philosophers." the smile widens. you can see his teeth now—straight except for one canine that's slightly crooked, overlapping the tooth next to it.
you laugh—really laugh—and the sound bounces off the high ceilings, fills the empty library with something warm. something in his face softens, his whole expression opening up like a flower turning toward sunlight. the harsh fluorescent light suddenly seems warmer. his eyes are doing that thing again—going bright and unguarded, looking at you like you've just handed him something precious. "you're weird, satoru."
"yeah." he says it like he's heard it before, like it's a fact he's made peace with. But there's something in his eyes—a flicker of old hurt, quickly buried. "i know."
you don't say: i like that you're weird. but you think it, the words forming in your mind with crystalline clarity. he sees you thinking it—you can tell by the way his breath catches, barely audible but you're close enough to hear it, by the way his fingers still on the coffee cup, by the way his pupils dilate just slightly. the air between you feels charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks.
you end up staying until 2am, your philosophy paper forgotten, talking about entropy and meaning and whether the heat death of the universe negates all human achievement. your second coffee has long gone cold in its cup, bitter dregs at the bottom. you can feel the exhaustion in your bones, but your mind is racing, alive with ideas. it's the kind of conversation you usually have with your philosophy classmates, except satoru brings equations into it, grounds it in thermodynamics and quantum mechanics, makes the abstract terrifyingly concrete. his voice is hoarse from talking by the time you finally pack up.
when you finally leave, he walks you to your dorm. says it's on his way.
(it's not on his way. it's twenty minutes in the opposite direction. you don't know this. you probably never will.)
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session eight
you're halfway through a problem set when your pencil rolls off the table.
you both reach for it.
his hand gets there first, fingers brushing against yours for maybe half a second—barely contact, just the ghost of touch, skin on skin—but you both freeze. the pencil clatters to the floor, forgotten, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet library. rolling, rolling, until it hits the table leg with a hollow tap. you can feel the warmth of his hand even after he's pulled back, a phantom sensation that lingers on your knuckles. your nerve endings are firing like they've been shocked, hyperaware of that tiny point of contact. his fingers had been surprisingly warm, slightly rough at the tips like he bites his nails or writes too much.
"sorry," he says, voice slightly rough, catching on the word. he clears his throat. "i'll—" He leans down to grab the pencil from where it's rolled under your chair, and suddenly he's in your space, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. you catch a whiff of that eucalyptus scent stronger now, mixed with something else. clean laundry. mint toothpaste, maybe. the coffee on his breath—still too sweet. he surfaces with the pencil, holds it out to you between two fingers, and his ears are pink again. bright pink, the color spreading down his neck, disappearing under his collar.
you take it, careful not to let your fingers touch this time, though part of you wants to. the wood is warm from his hand, smooth under your thumb. "thanks."
the silence that follows is different from your usual comfortable quiet. charged. electric. the air feels thick with it, pressing against your skin. you can hear everything—the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, sixty cycles per second, that slight buzzing that usually fades into background noise. the distant sound of someone shelving books on the first floor, the soft thud of spines against wood. the heating system clicking on with a low mechanical groan, air starting to whisper through the vents. your own heartbeat, loud in your ears, faster than it should be. his breathing, slightly uneven.
"so," you say, too loud. your voice seems to bounce off every surface. "angular momentum."
"right. Yeah." he blinks, refocuses on the textbook, but it takes him a moment. you watch his eyes track across the page, not quite reading. His finger finds the relevant equation but he has to read it twice before speaking, lips moving silently the first time. "so the key thing about angular momentum is that it's conserved in a closed system. like—you know when figure skaters pull their arms in and spin faster?"
you nod. watch his mouth form the words. he has a small scar at the corner of his lip, barely visible, a thin white line maybe half a centimeter long. you've never noticed it before. wonder distantly how he got it. his lips are slightly chapped—it's getting cold out, everyone's skin is drying out. you can see where he's been worrying the bottom one with his teeth.
"that's conservation of angular momentum. same principle applies here, just..." he trails off, and you realize you're staring. He's staring back. his eyes are doing that thing again—that impossibly blue, catching the harsh fluorescent light and somehow making it soft. his pupils are dilated in the dim library, making his eyes look darker. you can see yourself reflected in them, tiny and inverted. "just more mathematical."
"right," you echo. you have no idea what he just said. the words entered your ears but didn't process, got lost somewhere between his mouth and your comprehension. all you can think about is that his knee is three inches from yours under the table and your hand is still tingling.
he runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you're starting to recognize. it leaves the white strands standing up slightly, messy, catching the light like fiber optic cables. you want to smooth them down. want to know if they're as soft as they look. "should I explain it again?"
"no, I—" you look down at your notebook, at the equation he's written there in his precise handwriting. the numbers blur slightly. you blink hard, force your brain back online. focus on the physics. the math. something concrete. "i think i get it. so if the radius decreases, the velocity has to increase to keep L constant?"
"exactly." his face lights up—that transformation again, the one that makes your chest feel tight, like someone's wrapped a hand around your lungs and squeezed. his whole expression opens, eyes crinkling at the corners, mouth curving into a genuine smile that shows that slightly crooked canine. "exactly, you've got it."
the praise sends an unexpected flush of warmth through you. you duck your head, pretending to write in your notebook. "good teacher," you murmur.
"good student," he replies, just as quiet. his voice has dropped lower, intimate in the empty library.
your phone buzzes against the table—a harsh vibration that makes you both jump. you glance at it—12:47am, the numbers glowing blue-white in the dimness. you have class at nine. you should leave. get at least six hours of sleep. you make no move to pack up. your textbook stays open. your notebook stays on the table. his laptop is still running simulations, the screen casting a pale glow on his face.
"can I ask you something?" the words are out before you can stop them, before you can think about whether you actually want to know the answer.
he goes very still. you see every muscle tense—shoulders, jaw, hands. even his breathing seems to pause. "sure." the word is careful, guarded.
"why do you always have coffee waiting? you're always here before me. do you just... camp out at the library every night?"
something crosses his face—caught, almost guilty. his eyes dart away, focus on a point somewhere past your shoulder. "i like the quiet. good place to work." the words come out rehearsed, like he's prepared this answer.
"at 11pm."
"i'm a night owl." he's fidgeting now, fingers tapping against the edge of his laptop. tap-tap-tap, an irregular rhythm.
"every night?"
"most nights." he's not looking at you anymore, studying the textbook with sudden intense focus, like the diagram of rotational motion is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "it's not—i mean, i'd be here anyway. the coffee's just... it's on the way. there's a 24-hour place near my dorm."
(another lie. the 24-hour coffee shop is twenty minutes in the opposite direction from his dorm, tucked into a corner near the engineering building. he leaves at 10:15pm every night to make sure he gets there, gets the coffee—yours black with one sugar, his disgustingly sweet because you bought it that way once—and makes it to the library before you arrive at 11.
he's timed it down to the minute. knows that if he leaves at 10:17 he'll be two minutes late. knows which route has the fewest streetlights out. knows that the barista working nights on thursdays always gives him an extra shot of espresso for free.)
you let it go. file it away with all the other small things you're starting to notice. the way he remembers how you take your coffee. the way he always walks you home, even though he claims it's on his way. the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention—like you're a theorem he's trying to prove, a puzzle he can't quite solve, something precious and fragile and just out of reach. the way his breath catches when you laugh. the way he leans in when you talk, like he doesn't want to miss a single word.
"i'm glad you're here," you say instead, the words softer than you intend. "the nights, i mean. it's nice. having company."
his eyes snap to yours, wide and startled, unguarded for just a moment. for a heartbeat he looks almost scared, like you've just said something dangerous, something that could detonate in his hands. his lips part slightly, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. then his expression softens into something that makes your stomach flip, that sends heat pooling low in your abdomen. something warm and open and achingly vulnerable.
"yeah," he says quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "it is."
you work in silence for another hour. the numbers start to blur together on the page. your hand is cramping from writing. at some point your knee bumps against his under the table and neither of you moves away. the contact is barely there—just a point of warmth through two layers of denim—but you're aware of it with every breath. can feel the solid presence of him, the small movements when he shifts his weight. t
he table is small enough that you're constantly almost-touching—elbows nearly brushing, hands coming close when you both reach for the textbook. the air between you feels charged, like static electricity before a storm.
when you finally pack up at 2am, your brain fuzzy with exhaustion and caffeine and something else—something unnamed that sits warm and heavy in your chest—he does that thing where he pretends walking you home is on his way. closes his laptop with a decisive click. stretches, and you try not to watch the way his shirt rides up, exposing a thin strip of pale skin above his jeans.
the october air is cold enough now that you can see your breath, small clouds that dissipate in the darkness. the campus is dead quiet except for your footsteps on the pavement—his heavier, yours lighter, falling into an easy rhythm. your shoulders brush occasionally when the sidewalk narrows. the streetlights cast long shadows, turn everything orange and surreal. somewhere in the distance a siren wails. a dog barks. the normal sounds of a city at night, but they feel muted, distant, like you're walking through a bubble that contains just the two of you.
"hey satoru?" you call out.
"mm?" he turns his head to look at you, and the streetlight catches in his eyes.
"next time you don't have to get the coffee. we could just... I don't know. meet here and then go get it together or something."
you feel more than see him go still. his footsteps stutter for just a moment before resuming. "together?" the word comes out strange, like he's testing it. tasting it.
"yeah. I mean, if you want. seems fair since you always—" you gesture vaguely, breath clouding in the cold. "you know."
"i want to," he says, too quickly. then, more carefully, like he's trying to dial it back, "that would be good. yeah."
there's something in his voice—relief and longing and something almost like fear. you glance at him but he's looking straight ahead, jaw tight, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
when you reach your dorm he does that small wave thing, hands in his pockets, breath clouding in the cold air. the motion makes him look younger somehow, uncertain. "see you tuesday?"
"tuesday," you confirm. wave back, your fingers already numb from the cold.
inside, the lobby is overheated and smells like stale popcorn and floor cleaner. you climb the three flights to your floor, legs heavy with exhaustion. your roommate is asleep, the room dark except for the glow of her phone charging. you drop your bag, go to the window.
he's still there. standing under the streetlight, looking up. the light turns his hair silver-bright, makes him look like something otherworldly. a ghost. an angel. something not quite human. he stands there for a long moment—thirty seconds, a minute—just looking. you can't see his expression from here but something about his posture seems lonely. small, despite his height.
then he turns and starts walking, not toward the direction he said his dorm was, but the opposite way. east instead of west. you watch his figure get smaller, watch him pass under streetlight after streetlight, until he finally disappears around the corner by the physics building.
huh, you think.
you stand at the window for a moment longer, breath fogging the glass. your fingers are pressed against the cold pane. below, the street is empty. just pools of orange light and darkness.
you don't mention it on tuesday.
but when you get to the library at 10:45—fifteen minutes early, your heart beating faster than it should—he's already there, two coffees on the table, looking up with that soft, startled expression like you've just appeared out of nowhere.
like he's been waiting for you.
(he has.)
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session ten
it's thursday and you're not doing physics.
"I have a philosophy presentation tomorrow," you say, dropping into your chair with a heavy sigh that seems to echo in the empty third floor. your bag hits the floor with a thud—heavier than usual, stuffed with books you've been hauling around all day. "i need to practice it out loud but my roommate's asleep and I—" you pause, suddenly uncertain. "would it be weird if I just... presented it to you?"
satoru looks up from his laptop, and something flickers across his face. Interest, maybe. or concern—you can't quite read it. "what's it on?"
"Sartre. existence precedes essence. the whole 'we're condemned to be free' thing." you pull out your notes, pages covered in highlighter and frantic marginalia from when you'd been trying to make sense of Being and Nothingness at 3am. the pages are crinkled, coffee-stained. "it's only ten minutes but I keep losing my place and—"
"yeah," he interrupts, too quickly. then, softer, "i mean, yes. I'd like to hear it."
there's something in his voice. eagerness, carefully restrained. like you've just offered him something he didn't know he wanted.
you stand up, smooth down your shirt even though there's no one here but him. clear your throat. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. "okay. so. um." your hands are already shaking slightly, papers rustling. "Jean-Paul Sartre argued that—"
"wait." he closes his laptop with a quiet click, pushes it aside. turns his chair to fully face you, giving you his complete attention. his eyes are steady on yours, patient. "okay. go ahead."
something about the way he's looking at you—focused, interested, no judgment in his expression—makes your shoulders relax slightly.
"Jean-Paul Sartre argued that existence precedes essence," you begin again, and this time your voice is steadier. "unlike objects, which are created with a purpose—a chair is made to be sat on, a knife is made to cut—humans exist first, and only afterward do we define ourselves through our choices and actions."
you glance at your notes, lose your place, find it again. your finger traces down the page, smudging the highlighter. "this means that we have no predetermined nature. no essence handed to us by God or biology or society. we are, in Sartre's words, 'condemned to be free.'" you look up, checking if he's still with you.
he's leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his laced fingers. completely still. listening with an intensity that makes you feel pinned, examined. but not in a bad way. like every word you're saying matters.
"the condemnation comes from the weight of that freedom. We are entirely responsible for who we become. we can't blame God, or fate, or our upbringing. every choice we make is a choice we're making not just for ourselves, but—" you flip a page, the paper catching on your thumb, "—for all of humanity. because in choosing, we're saying 'this is what a human should do in this situation.'"
"but that's not quite right," satoru says, and you stop.
"what?"
"sorry." he sits back slightly, looking almost apologetic. his hand comes up, rubbing the back of his neck. "i don't mean to—you're explaining it well. i just meant Sartre's argument. the idea that every choice is a choice for all of humanity—it's too broad. too... abstract." his eyes are distant now, thinking. "when I choose to have coffee at 11pm, i'm not making a universal statement about humanity's relationship with caffeine."
you can't help it—you laugh, the sound bursting out before you can stop it. "that's exactly what my professor said. well, not about the coffee. but that Sartre's ethics are too demanding. that they lead to paralysis because every tiny choice becomes this huge moral weight."
"so what do you think?" he tilts his head, genuinely curious. "do you buy it? the whole condemned to be free thing?"
you set your notes down on the table, presentation temporarily forgotten. "i think... i think there's something true in it. the part about how we define ourselves through our choices. but the weight of it—" you gesture vaguely, trying to find the words. "i don't know if i believe every choice is that significant. sometimes you're just tired and you want coffee. sometimes you're just trying to pass physics."
his mouth quirks into a small smile. "sometimes you're just trying to help someone pass physics."
"right. like—" you pause, something clicking into place in your mind. "those choices still mean something. they still define who you are. but maybe not in this grand universal way. maybe just in a... smaller way. a personal way."
"the small scale stuff," he says quietly, and you remember—lucky for me you're good at the small scale stuff.
"yeah. the small scale stuff." you repeat.
the silence that follows is comfortable. thoughtful. you can hear the heating system, the distant hum of computers in the lab downstairs. your coffee has gone cold in its cup.
"you should keep going," he says after a moment. "with the presentation. you were doing well."
"was I?" you pick up your notes again, suddenly self-conscious. "i feel like I keep going off on tangents."
"you do," he agrees, and there's amusement in his voice. "but they're good tangents. you're not just reciting facts. you're actually thinking about them. engaging with them." he leans back in his chair, and you hear it creak slightly. "your professor will like that. even if they disagree with your conclusions."
you study him for a moment. he's relaxed now, more than you've seen him. usually there's a tension in his shoulders, a guardedness in his expression. but right now he looks... comfortable. content. like this—sitting here at 11:47pm in an empty library talking about existentialism—is exactly where he wants to be.
"okay," you say. "from the top?"
"from the top."
you present the whole thing twice more. he doesn't interrupt again, just listens, nods at certain points, makes small encouraging gestures when you stumble over words. by the third run-through, you're not even looking at your notes. the arguments flow naturally, and you can see the through-line of your own thinking clearly for the first time.
"that was perfect," he says when you finish. "seriously. you're going to do great."
the praise makes something warm bloom in your chest. "thanks for listening. i know this isn't exactly—" you gesture at his laptop, at the equations you can see on the screen. "your area."
"i liked it." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "i like hearing you talk about things you care about."
the words hang in the air between you. you can feel your face heating, are grateful for the dim lighting that hopefully hides it. "i like hearing you talk about physics," you offer, then immediately feel stupid. "even when I don't understand half of it."
"you understand more than you think." he opens his laptop again, but slowly, like he's reluctant to break whatever spell has settled over your corner of the library. "want to do some actual homework now, or are you too philosophized out?"
"i should probably—" you glance at your phone. 12:15am. "i should probably look at my physics reading. we have that quiz on Monday."
"chapter seven?"
"yeah. rotational dynamics. which i definitely, totally understand and am not at all terrified of."
he grins—quick and bright and almost playful. "liar."
"okay, yes, i'm terrified. Are you happy?"
"very." he's already pulling up the textbook pdf on his laptop, turning the screen so you can both see. "come here, i'll walk you through it."
you move your chair closer—close enough that your shoulders are almost touching, that you can feel the warmth of him along your left side. the screen glows blue-white in the darkness. his fingers move over the trackpad, pulling up diagrams and equations, and you try to focus on the physics and not on the way his voice drops lower when he's explaining something complex, the way he smells like eucalyptus and coffee and something uniquely him.
"so the moment of inertia depends on the distribution of mass," he's saying, and you can feel his breath on your shoulder when he leans in to point at something on the screen. "the farther the mass is from the axis of rotation, the larger the moment of inertia. that's why figure skaters—"
"spin faster when they pull their arms in," you finish. "conservation of angular momentum. you already taught me that."
"just making sure it stuck." he glances at you, and he's close enough that you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes. not just one color but layers—pale blue near the pupil, darker at the edges, with flecks of something almost silver. "did it stick?"
"yeah," you say, quieter than you intend. "it stuck."
you're staring at each other. the laptop screen has gone dark from inactivity, plunging you into deeper dimness. the only light now is the fluorescent glow from the main library area, filtering through the gaps in the bookshelves. you can see the exact moment his eyes drop to your mouth—quick, involuntary, like he couldn't help it—before snapping back up.
he pulls back slightly, breaking the moment. clears his throat. "we should—the quiz. let me pull up some practice problems."
"right. yeah. practice problems."
but neither of you moves to turn the laptop back on. not for several long seconds. not until someone laughs on a lower floor and the sound echoes up the stairwell, breaking whatever was building between you.
the rest of the night is quieter. you work through practice problems while he runs his simulations, and the silence is punctuated only by the scratch of pencil on paper, the click of keys, the occasional question and answer. but something has shifted. you're hyperaware of every almost-touch, every shared glance, every moment when his hand gets close to yours on the table.
when he walks you home at 2am, the cold october air biting at your exposed skin, you walk closer together than usual. your arms brush with every third step. neither of you mentions it.
at your dorm, he does his usual wave. waits until your light comes on. you watch from the window as he walks away—the correct direction this time, you note. or maybe he's just gotten better at the lie. maybe he walks the correct way for three blocks and then doubles back. maybe he's been doing that all along.
you don't know.
(you're starting to want to.)
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session twelve
it's tuesday and satoru is wearing a different shirt.
this shouldn't matter. it doesn't matter. except you've seen him in the same rotation of clothing for weeks now—three button-downs in various states of wrinkled, two sweaters with holes in the sleeves, that one hoodie with the faded logo—and tonight he's wearing something new. dark blue, fitted, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a way that seems deliberate. intentional. like he thought about it.
"hey," he says when you arrive, and his voice is slightly higher than usual. nervous.
"hey." you set down your bag, and your hand trembles slightly when you reach for the coffee he's already gotten you. your fingers brush the cup and it's still warm—which means he got here even earlier than normal. "new shirt?"
you watch color flood his cheeks, spreading down his neck. "oh. yeah. the... the other ones were all dirty."
(a lie. you're getting better at spotting them. his shirts were fine. he did laundry on sunday like he always does, you've seen him in the same blue button-down twice since then. this is new. this is for you.)
"it's nice," you say, and your voice comes out softer than intended. "the color. it's... it's good."
"thanks." he's not looking at you, fingers drumming against his own coffee cup in that nervous rhythm you've memorized. tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. "how was your presentation? friday?"
"oh." you'd almost forgotten. "it went well, actually. got an A. professor said I had 'interesting insights on Sartre's ethical implications.'" you smile at the memory. "pretty sure that's academic speak for 'you went off script but I liked it.'"
his face does that thing—that full, unguarded smile that transforms him completely. "I knew you'd do well. you were—" he pauses, seems to catch himself. "it was a good presentation. when you practiced."
there's something in the way he says it. something weighted. like he's saying more than just the words.
you sit down, and somehow end up closer than usual. your chair scrapes against the floor and you end up near enough that your knees are almost touching under the table. you notice it. freeze for a half-second. shift slightly away but not all the way. neither of you acknowledges it but you can feel the space between you like a physical thing. charged. electric.
"so what are we working on tonight?" he asks, pulling his laptop closer. his fingers are shaking slightly on the trackpad. you've never seen his hands shake before.
"chapter eight. torque and equilibrium." you pull out your textbook but you're hyperaware of where he is in space. the exact distance between his elbow and yours on the table. "but I should probably warn you, I'm completely lost."
"you're not lost. you just think you are." he pulls up the chapter on his screen, angling it so you can both see, and you catch a whiff of his detergent—he changed it, or maybe you're just noticing it more. something clean and fresh with a hint of cedar. "torque is just... it's rotational force. you already understand force. this is the same thing, just spinning."
"just spinning," you echo. "why do you make everything sound so simple?"
"because it is simple. once you see the pattern." he points at a diagram on the screen and you both lean in at the same time. his shoulder brushes yours—just for a second—and you both jerk back like you've been burned. there's a pause. a weird charged silence. "see?" his voice is slightly strained. "force times distance. that's all torque is."
you're trying to focus on the diagram but your skin is still tingling where he touched you. "so if I want to open a door, I push far from the hinges to maximize torque."
"exactly." he turns his head to look at you and you realize suddenly how close you're sitting. close enough to see the faint freckles across his nose. close enough that if you leaned forward just a few inches—
you don't lean forward. neither does he. but you both seem to realize the proximity at the same time and there's a moment where neither of you moves. frozen. his eyes are very blue.
then he clears his throat and looks back at the screen. "you do understand. you just don't trust yourself."
"maybe I just like having you explain things," you say without thinking, and immediately want to take it back. too honest. too revealing.
his fingers still on the trackpad. "oh," he says quietly.
the silence that follows is thick. awkward. you can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears.
"so," you say too brightly. "practice problems?"
"right. yeah. practice problems." he's typing too fast, making mistakes, having to backspace. you pretend not to notice.
you try to focus on the physics. you really do. but you keep getting distracted by stupid things. the way his fingers move over the keyboard. the way he worries his bottom lip when he's thinking. the way his hair falls into his eyes and he pushes it back with an impatient gesture.
and you keep almost-touching. reaching for the same pencil. both moving to point at the same equation. every time there's contact—just a brush of fingers, a bump of elbows—you both pull back like you've been shocked. apologize. avoid eye contact.
it's searing.
"are you okay?" he asks after the fifth time you've lost your train of thought mid-sentence.
"fine. just—" you scramble for an excuse. "tired. long day."
"we can stop if you want." there's something in his voice. disappointment, maybe, buried under concern.
"no. I want to stay." too emphatic. you try to dial it back. "I mean, I need to understand this for the quiz monday."
"right. the quiz." he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. you want to smooth it down. you don't. "let me show you another example."
he pulls the textbook closer to him, which means closer to you. you're sharing the book now, both leaning over it, and you're acutely aware of every place your bodies almost touch. his arm next to yours. his knee a centimeter from your knee. the warmth radiating off him.
"so the system is in equilibrium when the sum of all torques equals zero," he's explaining, and his voice is slightly unsteady. his finger traces the diagram and you're watching his hand instead of the physics. "which means—are you listening?"
"yes," you lie.
"what did I just say?"
"...something about equilibrium?"
he laughs—quiet and a little breathless. "you're not paying attention at all."
"I am. I'm just—" you meet his eyes and forget what you were going to say. he's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read. something soft and uncertain and almost scared. "distracted."
"by what?" it comes out barely above a whisper.
you should say something about the quiz. about being stressed. instead you say, "I don't know," which is somehow more honest.
he swallows hard. you watch his throat work. "me too," he admits quietly. "I've been—for weeks now, I can't—" he stops. takes a breath. "never mind."
"no, what?" you're leaning closer without meaning to.
"nothing. it's—" he shakes his head. "it's stupid."
"tell me anyway."
he looks at you for a long moment. you can see him weighing something. deciding. "I think about you," he says finally, so quiet you almost miss it. "when you're not here. more than I should. more than makes sense for—" he gestures vaguely at the textbook. "for physics homework."
your heart stops. starts again, harder. "oh."
"yeah." he laughs awkwardly, won't meet your eyes. "so. that's—I'm probably making this weird. sorry. we can just—"
"I do too," you interrupt. the words tumble out before you can stop them. "think about you. I mean. when I'm not here." you can feel your face burning. "I see something and wonder what you'd say about it. or I check the time and start getting ready to come here even when I don't have homework and—" you stop. this is too much. too honest.
he's staring at you now. "really?"
"really."
"oh," he breathes. and then: "I wore this shirt because—" he stops. starts again. "you said you liked this color once. weeks ago. on someone else's shirt. I don't even know if you remember."
"I remember." your voice is shaking. "I wore this sweater because you said green was your favorite color on me."
the silence that follows is deafening. you're both just looking at each other, and the air feels thick, hard to breathe. his eyes drop to your mouth—just for a second—and your stomach flips.
then someone laughs on a lower floor and you both startle, jerking apart. the spell breaks.
"we should—" he starts.
"yeah. physics. right." you're not looking at each other now. both staring determinedly at the textbook.
but your hand is on the table between you and so is his, and they're very close. almost touching. you can feel the warmth of his skin. see his fingers twitch like he wants to reach over. you want him to reach over. your pinky moves closer. so does his.
you're both pretending to read the textbook but you're not reading anything. you're focused entirely on the shrinking distance between your hands.
his pinky brushes yours. the contact is feather-light. barely there. but neither of you pulls away.
you shift your hand slightly. now your fingers are overlapping. not quite holding hands but not not holding hands either. your heart is racing so fast you feel dizzy.
"so torque," he says, voice strained, not looking up from the book. "is equal to force times distance."
"right," you manage. your hand is tingling where you're touching him. "force times distance."
"and when the system is in equilibrium—" his index finger curls around yours. still casual. still deniable. "—the net torque is zero."
"zero," you echo. you have no idea what you're saying. all your focus is on the point of contact. his finger hooked around yours.
you sit like that for several minutes. pretending to study. hands linked between the coffee cups and physics textbook. not acknowledging it. both terrified that if you acknowledge it, it will stop.
eventually you have to turn the page and the spell breaks. you both pull back. there's an awkward pause.
"I should—" you start. "it's late. I should probably—"
"oh. yeah. of course." he sounds disappointed. "I'll walk you back."
"you don't have to—"
"I want to."
the walk back is torture. you're walking close enough that your arms brush occasionally. every point of contact feels massive. significant. you're both talking too much, too fast, filling the silence with nervous chatter about nothing. philosophy and physics and the weather and anything except what just happened.
at your dorm, you both stop. stand there awkwardly.
"so," he says.
"so," you echo.
"same time thursday?"
"yeah. thursday." you pause. "thanks for—for the help. with physics."
"anytime." he's looking at you with that soft expression again. "I mean it. anytime."
you should go inside. you're both just standing here. "okay. good. I'll—thursday."
"thursday," he confirms.
neither of you moves.
"I should—" you gesture at the door.
"right. yeah." he takes a step back. "goodnight."
"goodnight, satoru."
you're halfway through the door when he calls your name. you turn back.
"I—" he stops. seems to lose his nerve. "sleep well."
"you too."
you watch from your window as he walks away. he makes it to the corner, pauses, looks back at your building. stands there for a long moment before finally continuing on.
you touch your fingers where his had been. they're still tingling.
this is bad, you think. this is going to be a problem.
you can't wait until thursday.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session fourteen
it's thursday and satoru isn't here.
you arrive at 11pm exactly—maybe a minute early, maybe you were eager, maybe you'd spent an extra ten minutes picking out your shirt (green, because he likes green on you, because you're just as bad as he is)—and the table is empty. no laptop with its familiar array of stickers (a periodic table, a cat with glasses, something in japanese you can't read). no coffee cups sweating condensation onto the wood, leaving those overlapping rings you've both stopped bothering to wipe away. no satoru with his messy white hair and nervous hands and that way he looks up when you arrive like you've just made his entire night worthwhile.
you wait.
you sit down in your chair—the wobbly one you've gotten used to—and pull out your textbook. chapter nine, angular momentum. you read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word.
11:15. nothing.
the library is almost empty. there's someone on the first floor, you can hear the distant sound of pages turning. the fluorescent lights hum their endless sixty-cycle song. the heating system clicks and groans. outside the window, campus is dark except for the scattered orange glow of streetlights.
11:30. you text him. you coming?
you watch the message deliver. wait for the read receipt. nothing.
your leg bounces under the table. you bite your thumbnail, a nervous habit you thought you'd broken in high school.
11:45. you try calling. it rings once, twice, three times. your heart sinks with each ring. four, five, six.
"you've reached gojo satoru, leave a message."
his voice on the recording is awkward, formal. you can hear him cringing at himself even through the recording. there's a pause before the beep like he forgot what he was supposed to say next.
beep.
"hey, it's me. just—wondering if you're okay? you're usually here by now. call me back." you try to keep your voice light, casual, not like anxiety is already coiling in your stomach like a snake.
you hang up. stare at your phone. the screen shows your wallpaper—a photo you took last week of the autumn leaves on the quad, gold and red against grey sky. you'd almost changed it to the selfie you'd convinced satoru to take with you three days ago (he'd looked terrified of the camera, you'd both been laughing, it was perfect) but that felt like too much too soon.
by 12:15 you're packing up your untouched textbook, anxiety fully transformed into something sharper. fear, maybe. what if something happened? what if he's sick? what if he got hit by a car or mugged or had some kind of lab accident with radioactive materials—
or what if he finally got tired of spending every night tutoring you? what if tuesday was too much, too weird, too intense? what if he went home and thought about your fingers tangled with his and realized he didn't actually want this, didn't want you, what if he's avoiding you—
no. no, he wouldn't do that. not without saying something. not after the way he looked at you, not after that soft confession about thinking about you when you're not there.
but what if he would?
you pull up the student directory on your phone. your hands are shaking slightly as you type his name. gojo satoru, physics phd candidate. there's a dorm listed. warren hall, room 447.
you shouldn't go. it's creepy. invasive. stalkerish. he probably just fell asleep or his phone died or he's busy with research and forgot and you're being completely irrational—
you're already walking.
the cold october air hits you like a slap when you exit the library. it's gotten colder in the past few hours—probably in the low forties now, cold enough that you can see your breath, cold enough that you wish you'd brought a heavier jacket. you shove your hands in your pockets and walk fast, partly for warmth and partly because if you slow down you'll lose your nerve.
warren hall is on the far side of campus—a solid twenty-five minute walk from the library. past the humanities building (dark, locked, silent), past the student center (a few lit windows on the upper floors, the distant thump of music from someone's room), past the science quad with its modern glass buildings that glow blue-white from the emergency lighting inside.
warren hall is newer than your building—maybe ten years old instead of fifty. all key card access and security cameras and a front desk that's unmanned at this hour. you catch the door when someone leaves—a tired-looking grad student with a messenger bag and dead eyes—slip inside before it closes. the lobby is too warm, overheated in that way institutional buildings always are. it smells like carpet cleaner and instant ramen and the particular musk of too many people living in close quarters.
the elevator has an "out of order" sign taped to it. of course it does.
you take the stairs, your footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell. someone has taped inspirational posters to the walls at each landing. "you got this!" "don't give up!" "almost there!" they get progressively more deranged as you climb. by the fourth floor it just says "why?" with a picture of a cat looking existentially exhausted.
fourth floor. the hallway is long and narrow, painted that specific shade of beige that exists only in institutional buildings. the carpet is dark blue, industrial, stained in places you don't want to examine too closely. the hallway smells like microwave popcorn and old socks and someone's weed brownie experiment gone wrong.
you find 447 at the end, past doors decorated with whiteboards and name tags and one very elaborate fantasy map. satoru's door is plain. just the number. no whiteboard, no decoration. somehow that feels very him.
you hesitate with your hand raised to knock.
what are you doing? what if he's here with someone? what if he's asleep? what if he doesn't want to see you? what if you're completely overreacting and he's going to think you're unhinged for tracking him down like this—
you knock before you can talk yourself out of it.
nothing.
the silence is absolute. you can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears. can hear someone's tv through the wall to your left, canned laughter from a sitcom.
you try again, louder. your knuckles sting from the impact. "satoru? it's me. are you okay?"
more silence.
you try the handle—just to see, just to confirm it's locked so you can leave and tell yourself you tried—and it turns.
unlocked...
your heart jumps into your throat, pulse suddenly racing. unlocked. his door is unlocked. what if something's wrong? what if someone broke in? what if he's hurt inside?
"satoru?" you push the door open slowly, every horror movie you've ever seen playing in your head. "I'm coming in, okay? I just want to make sure you're not dead or—"
the room is empty.
you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
it's small—barely bigger than your own dorm. maybe ten by twelve feet, most of it taken up by furniture. a single bed in the corner, neatly made with plain navy sheets and a pillow that looks flat and sad. a desk absolutely buried in papers and textbooks and coffee cups in various states of empty. a small bookshelf overflowing with physics texts and actual literature—you spot dostoevsky and camus and, inexplicably, a collection of poetry by mary oliver. a tiny kitchenette area with a microwave and electric kettle. a closet with the door half-open, showing a depressingly small collection of clothes (lots of white and blue, everything rumpled).
barely any decoration except a periodic table poster on the wall above his desk—the kind where each element is color-coded by category—and a small succulent on the windowsill that looks half-dead, its leaves brown and shriveled. there's a single photo taped to the wall by his bed: satoru and an older couple, possibly his parents, all three of them squinting into the sun. he looks younger. happier. less tired.
his laptop is open on the desk, screen still glowing with that pale blue light.
you shouldn't look. you absolutely should not look. this is a massive invasion of privacy. this is wrong. this is—
but what if something in there tells you where he is? what if there's a note, a calendar entry, something to explain why he didn't show up? what if he's in trouble?
you move closer, shoes sinking into the thin carpet. the desk is chaos—printed papers covered in equations you can't begin to understand, lab notebooks with coffee stains and scribbled margin notes, a mug with cold coffee and a film on top, three different pens (blue, black, red), a calculator that looks like it costs more than your textbooks, a stack of grant applications paper-clipped together.
the laptop screen shows a document—academic formatting, double-spaced, dense with citations and technical language that might as well be a foreign language.
your eyes catch on the title at the top.
Synthesis and Characterization of Ununennium (Element 119): A Novel Approach to Superheavy Element Creation Through Modified Hot Fusion Reactions
Gojo, S., Department of Physics, Graduate Program in Nuclear Science
Nakamura, T., Department of Physics
Submitted to: Physical Review Letters
your brain stutters. stops. tries to process. fails.
element 119. synthesis of a new element. ununennium.
that lecture. the one from your assignment at the beginning of the semester. that brilliant, awkward physicist who'd discovered element 119 and could barely string two words together in front of a crowd. who'd rushed through his slides like he was being chased, whose hands had shaken so badly the laser pointer kept jumping around the screen. who'd gotten flustered at questions and stammered through answers and looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
who'd made you write in your paper: there's something deeply humanizing about seeing a scientist—especially one who made such a groundbreaking discovery—be so genuinely uncomfortable with public speaking. it reminds us that brilliance doesn't come with confidence pre-installed. that the person who just expanded our understanding of atomic physics is still just a person, still nervous, still human.
you scroll down, hands shaking. the abstract is full of technical terms you don't know. isotopes and decay chains and cross-sections and beam energy. but you catch fragments:
...successful synthesis of element 119 through the fusion of titanium-50 and berkelium-249...
...detection confirmed through alpha decay chain analysis...
...represents a significant advance in superheavy element research...
there are dates. the experiment was concluded in july. the lecture was in september, right before the semester started. right before you'd been assigned to write about a recent scientific advancement. right before you'd sat in the library at 11pm struggling with physics homework and a white-haired, blue-eyed stranger had asked if you needed help.
"oh my god," you breathe.
you scroll further. more documents in his recent files. drafts of papers. data analysis. emails from his advisor about publication timelines and conference presentations. an email from someone at berkeley asking him to give a talk. an email from CERN with the subject line "research opportunity."
and then—
a folder labeled "papers to read."
you click it without thinking, without considering that this is wrong, that you're violating his privacy, that you should stop—
your philosophy paper on heidegger. saved as a PDF. dated from three weeks ago.
you open it. the margins are full of comments in his handwriting—small, precise, the letters cramped.
this is a really interesting point about authenticity
hadn't thought about it this way before
I wonder if this connects to what you said about entropy that night? both about finding meaning in the face of inevitable ending?
you close it with shaking hands. scroll further.
an article about sartre's concept of bad faith from a philosophy journal. bookmarked. highlighted in yellow—something about self-deception and avoiding freedom.
an article about the ethics of artificial intelligence that you'd mentioned wanting to read during one of your late-night conversations. saved.
a PDF of mary oliver's wild geese with one line highlighted: you do not have to be good.
and then—
a document titled simply "notes."
you shouldn't open it. you absolutely should not open it.
you open it.
it's not dated. just... observations. fragments. a running list.
—takes coffee black with one sugar, always waits for it to cool to exactly 140 degrees before drinking (I timed it, approximately 7 minutes after purchase)
—gets frustrated when she doesn't understand something immediately but won't ask for help until she's tried at least three times on her own
—chews on her pen cap when she's thinking, has probably consumed a concerning amount of plastic
—birthday in -your birthday month- (mentioned it when talking about spring break plans, specifically, same as the ides of march and she made a joke about betrayal)
—wants to go to grad school but isn't sure where yet, keeps changing her mind between continental philosophy and ethics
—thinks I'm weird but in a good way??? (she said this. I have replayed this seventeen times in my head. "good way" means positive. probably.)
—laughs with her whole body, throws her head back, it's the best sound I've ever heard
—she wore the green sweater again today, I think she knows I like it, or maybe I'm reading into things, I'm definitely reading into things
your heart is hammering against your ribs so hard it hurts. you scroll further and there are more notes, going back weeks. the first entry is from early september.
—asked me for help with physics, looked at me like I might actually be able to help, like I wasn't just the weird guy who can't talk to people. maybe this semester won't be completely terrible.
then more, scattered observations:
—she came back. didn't have to. chose to.
—remembers things I say, brought up something I mentioned about quantum tunneling three days later
—bit her lip today when she was concentrating and I forgot how to explain angular momentum
—I think I'm in trouble
the most recent entry is from tuesday. two days ago.
—she wore the green sweater. she remembered. she REMEMBERED.
—held her hand for 4 minutes and 23 seconds before she had to turn the page. wanted to do it again immediately. wanted to never stop. wanted to—
—I think about her constantly. when I'm running simulations I imagine explaining them to her. when I read something interesting I mentally compose how I'd tell her about it. when I'm falling asleep I replay conversations, thinking about what I should have said, what I wish I'd been brave enough to say.
—she makes me want to be less afraid. she makes me want to be brave. she makes me want to be normal even though I've never been normal a day in my life and I don't know how to start.
—I'm in love with her. I think. I don't have a reference point. but if love is wanting someone else's happiness more than your own, wanting to know everything about them, wanting to be better for them—then yes. definitely. unequivocally.
—I'm terrified she'll realize I'm too much. too intense. too weird. that she'll—
it cuts off there. like he couldn't finish the thought.
you're staring at the screen when you hear footsteps in the hallway. voices.
"—just need to grab my laptop and then we can go over the data from tonight's run. the decay chain is slightly different from what we predicted—"
the door opens. satoru freezes in the doorway.
he's wearing his lab coat—white, rumpled, stained with something that might be coffee or might be chemicals you don't want to think about. his hair is more disheveled than usual, standing up like he's been running his hands through it for hours. he has safety goggles pushed up on his forehead. there's a smudge of something dark on his cheek. he looks exhausted—eyes shadowed, shoulders tight with tension.
there's an older man behind him—late fifties, greying hair, wearing an identical lab coat and carrying a stack of folders thick enough to be a weapon. professor nakamura, you recognize him vaguely from around campus. he's apparently somewhat famous in physics circles, though you couldn't say why.
satoru's eyes—those impossibly blue eyes that you've memorized in every shade and mood—go wide. then wider. his face drains of color, going from pale to absolutely bloodless in the span of a heartbeat. his mouth opens. closes. opens again. no sound comes out.
his eyes dart to his laptop. to you standing in front of it. back to you. the recognition and horror that crosses his face is almost comical. almost, except you can see real fear there too.
"I—" he starts. his voice cracks. "I can explain."
professor nakamura looks between you with barely concealed amusement, one eyebrow raised, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "I'll just—" he clears his throat. "I'll wait in my office. room 342 in the physics building. bring the data when you're ready, gojo. take your time."
the emphasis on "take your time" is meaningful. he's definitely laughing at satoru.
he leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds deafening in the sudden silence.
you and satoru stare at each other for what it seems like hours.
he still hasn't moved from the doorway. his hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white. you can see him trembling—just slightly, but definitely trembling. his eyes are doing that thing where they jump around, looking at you then away then back, like he can't decide whether to maintain eye contact or flee.
"you didn't show up," you say. your voice sounds strange to your own ears. distant. like you're underwater. "I was worried."
"I was in the lab." the words come out in a rush, defensive. "we were running the particle accelerator and it took longer than expected and I lost track of time and my phone died and I—" he stops. swallows hard. you watch his throat work, watch him try to gather himself. "you read it."
it's not a question. it's a statement of fact, heavy with resignation.
"element 119," you say. "you made element 119."
"yes." barely a whisper.
"you synthesized a new element. you discovered—no, created—something that has never existed before in the universe." your brain is still trying to process this. "you were the one. the lecture. the one I wrote my assignment about."
"yes." he won't look at you now. he's staring at the floor, at his shoes (scuffed sneakers, the laces on one are coming untied), anywhere but your face.
"why didn't you tell me?" you're not angry—you should maybe be angry about the invasion of privacy, about the secret-keeping, but you're not. you're just baffled. genuinely confused. "when I mentioned that assignment, when I talked about that lecture—why didn't you say it was you?"
"because—" he runs a hand through his hair, agitated, messing it up even more. the safety goggles fall off his forehead and clatter to the floor. he doesn't pick them up. "because I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to—" he makes a frustrated gesture, hands cutting through the air. "everyone knows. everyone in the physics department, everyone who follows particle physics, everyone at conferences. I can't go anywhere without people wanting to talk about it or asking me questions or treating me like I'm—"
his voice rises slightly, gets tighter. he's breathing faster now, working himself up.
"—like I'm some kind of genius or prodigy or—or like I'm not a person. like I'm just this thing that made a discovery. this achievement. not satoru who likes bad coffee and can't give presentations without wanting to die and who's read the same mary oliver poem seventeen times because it makes him feel less—"
he cuts himself off. bites his lip hard.
"and when I met you, you didn't know." his voice drops back down, goes quiet. "you just thought I was some weird physics student who hung out in the library too late. you looked at me like I was normal. like I was just... a person. a regular person who happened to know physics."
he finally looks at you. his eyes are bright, maybe with unshed tears, definitely with emotion you can't quite name.
"I liked it. I liked that you didn't know. that you weren't impressed or intimidated or weird about it. you were just—you were just talking to me. not the person who synthesized 119. not gojo satoru, the youngest person to create a superheavy element. just... me. just satoru."
the silence that follows is heavy. you can hear everything. the buzz of his laptop. someone's music three doors down. your own heartbeat. his breathing, still uneven.
"I read your notes," you say quietly. "about me."
if possible, he goes even paler. "that's—those were private. I wasn't—" he's spiraling now, you can see it happening, panic taking over. "I know it's weird. I know I'm weird. I just—I wanted to remember things about you and I have a terrible memory for anything that's not physics so I write things down and I didn't mean for it to be creepy I just—"
he's talking faster now, words tumbling over each other.
"—you're always on my mind. you're always—god, all the time. when I'm in the lab I think 'she would find this interesting' or 'I should explain this to her' or 'I wonder what she's doing right now.' when I read something I think about how you'd analyze it, what connections you'd make. when I'm trying to fall asleep I replay our conversations, every single one, and think about all the things I should have said differently or better or—"
he's pacing now, three steps one way, three steps back, gesturing wildly.
"—and tuesday when you held my hand I thought I was going to combust. literally. spontaneous human combustion. I couldn't breathe properly for the rest of the night. I've been thinking about it nonstop for two days. four minutes and twenty-three seconds. I timed it because of course I did because I time everything because I'm obsessive and weird and I—"
he stops. puts his hands over his face.
"I know I'm too much. I know I get too intense about things. my advisor says I need to learn to be normal about stuff, to have boundaries, to not throw myself completely into everything but I don't know how to be normal about anything, I never have been. especially not—"
his voice drops, muffled behind his hands.
"—especially not you. you're—you're the first person in years who's wanted to spend time with me for me and not because of what I can do or what I've discovered or because they want something from me. you just—you just wanted to pass physics. and then you kept coming back. you kept choosing to be there. and I—"
he lowers his hands. his eyes are definitely wet now.
"I'm in love with you. I think. I don't know. I've never—I don't have a reference point for this but I think about you constantly and when you're not around everything feels wrong and when you smile at me I forget how to think and I—"
his voice cracks.
"—I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know that's too much too fast but I don't know how to be anything other than too much and I don't know how to pretend I'm not—that I don't—"
you cross the room in three strides and kiss him.
he makes a shocked sound against your mouth—high and surprised, almost a squeak—and freezes. his hands hover in the air beside your shoulders, not touching you, like he doesn't know what to do with them. like he's afraid to touch you. like he thinks you might disappear if he does.
his lips are slightly chapped. he tastes like coffee—the cheap lab coffee, bitter and burnt—and something mint, maybe gum. he's completely still, not kissing back, apparently short-circuiting.
you pull back just enough to speak, your lips still brushing his. "you should've told me sooner."
"what?" his eyes are unfocused, dazed. his pupils are blown wide, making his eyes look almost black. "I—what?"
"about the element. about the lecture." you're smiling now, you can't help it. your hands are on his chest and you can feel his heart racing, hammering against his ribs like it's trying to escape. "I always thought you were brilliant. finding out you literally synthesized a new element doesn't change that. if anything it just—"
you laugh softly.
"—it makes sense. of course you did. of course you're the person who did that. you explain physics like.... it's poetry. you see patterns in everything. you think about the heat death of the universe the way other people think about what to have for dinner."
you reach up and push his hair back from his forehead. he leans into the touch like a cat, eyes fluttering closed for a second.
"of course you created something new. something that never existed before. that's just—that's you."
"you're not—" his voice is barely functional. "you're not mad?"
"why would I be mad?"
"because I didn't tell you. because I let you write an assignment about me without saying anything. because I—" he gestures helplessly at the laptop, still open, still showing his notes about you. "because I keep notes about you like a creep."
"satoru." you put your hand on his cheek. he leans into it, turning his face to press his lips against your palm—just for a second, quick and unconscious. "I wore a specific sweater because you once mentioned liking the color green. I look up your schedule so I know where you might be between classes. I change my coffee shop route on tuesdays and thursdays because there's a chance I might run into you."
you meet his eyes.
"I started coming to the library at 11pm even on nights when I don't have physics homework because I know you'll be there. I think about you when I'm supposed to be paying attention in class. I read philosophy papers and imagine what you'd say about them. we're both a little creepy."
he laughs—shaky and breathless and slightly hysterical. "yeah?"
"yeah." you lean up and kiss him again, soft and quick. his hands finally move, coming up to grip your waist like you're the only solid thing in his universe. "and for the record? I always thought you were adorable."
"adorable," he repeats weakly, like the word doesn't compute.
"adorable. even when—especially when—you got all flustered during that lecture. I wrote in my paper that it was humanizing. that it made this incredible discovery feel real because the person behind it was so—"
you search for the word.
"—so genuine. so awkward and brilliant and human. you couldn't get through your presentation without stumbling over your words but you'd just done something incredible. something that expanded human knowledge. and you were just—you were just a person. nervous and brilliant and real."
his hands are trembling where they grip your waist. "I've wanted to kiss you for six weeks."
"then why did you not act on it?"
he kisses you again, and this time he kisses back. his hands slide from your waist to your back, pulling you closer. one hand moves up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. he kisses you like he does everything else—intensely, thoroughly, like he's trying to memorize every detail. like he's been thinking about this for weeks and now that it's happening he wants to get it exactly right.
you make a soft sound and feel him shiver. his grip tightens. when you finally break apart you're both breathing hard. his forehead rests against yours. his eyes are closed. he looks almost pained.
"tell me about it," you say.
"about what?" his voice is rough.
"the element. 119. how did you make it?" you press your lips to the corner of his mouth. "I want to know."
"now?" he sounds strangled. "you want to know about particle physics now?"
"I always want to know about particle physics when you're the one explaining it." you explore his jaw. feel the muscle jump under your lips. "tell me."
"I—" he tries to gather his thoughts. difficult, apparently, when you're kissing along his jawline. "we used hot fusion. titanium-50 beam and berkelium-249 target."
"what's hot fusion?" you kiss just below his ear and he makes a soft sound, a sound close to a whimper.
"it's—fusion of—" he has to stop. breathe. "fusion of a lighter beam nucleus with a heavier target. as opposed to cold fusion which uses similar masses. hot fusion produces more neutron-rich isotopes which—which are more stable—"
you pull back to look at him. "keep going."
his eyes are half-lidded. he's looking at your mouth. "the titanium beam is accelerated to about 5 MeV per nucleon and—and fired at the berkelium target—"
you kiss him again, slow and deep. he makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat.
"and then?" you prompt against his lips.
"and then—if the energy is right—the nuclei fuse. create element 119 for—for approximately 0.9 milliseconds before it undergoes alpha decay—"
his hands are moving restlessly on your back, like he can't quite figure out where to put them, settling for pulling you impossibly closer.
"—we detect it through the decay chain. element 119 decays to 115 which decays to 111 which—which—"
you're kissing his neck now. he's completely lost his train of thought.
"which what?" you murmur against his skin.
"I—I don't—what was I saying?"
you laugh softly and he shivers. "decay chain."
"right. right. decay chain. each—each alpha decay releases a specific amount of energy. we measure that. it's like a fingerprint. tells us what element we created."
his voice is getting progressively less steady.
"the tricky part is the half-life. less than a second. so we need incredibly sensitive detectors and—and—"
you bite gently at his pulse point and he gasps.
"—and fast data acquisition. which is why—why we use—"
he gives up. cups your face in both hands and kisses you desperately like he's got something to prove.
"you're evil," he says when you finally break apart. "you're trying to kill me."
"I'm trying to learn about superheavy elements."
"you're trying to make me lose my mind."
"can't I do both?"
he laughs—breathless and genuine—and kisses you again. softer this time. sweeter.
"four minutes and twenty-three seconds," you say when you pull back.
he groans. "you're never going to let me live that down."
"you timed how long we held hands."
"I have a very accurate internal clock."
"you're such a nerd."
"you like it." he's smiling now—that full, unguarded smile that transforms his whole face.
"I do," you admit. your hands are fisted in his lab coat. "I really, really do."
"I need to—" he glances at his laptop, then at you, clearly torn. "I need to bring data to my advisor. he's waiting. we need to analyze the results from tonight's run."
"alright." you respond in a whiny tone — like a child slowly brewing up a tantrum.
"but after—" he pauses. his hands are still on your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "do you want to come back? we could—we don't have to do physics. we could just—"
"talk?" you offer. "like normal people?"
"I don't know how to be normal."
"good." you kiss him once more, quick and sweet. he chases your mouth when you pull away. "I don't want normal anyway."
he makes a soft sound—want and frustration and something that might be relief.
"go," you say. "do your science thing. I'll wait."
"you'll wait?" like he can't quite believe it.
"I'll wait."
his smile could power the entire campus. could probably power the particle accelerator. could possibly be visible from space.
"okay. okay. I'll be fast. twenty minutes. maybe thirty. definitely less than an hour—" he's already moving to his laptop, saving documents with shaking hands, ejecting a USB drive from the port.
"satoru."
"right. going. I'm going." he shoves the USB in his lab coat pocket, grabs a notebook from the desk. pauses at the door. turns back. "you're really—you're not mad about the notes?"
"I'm keeping a mental catalog of every time you do that thing where you push your hair back when you're thinking," you tell him. "I think we're even."
he laughs—bright and genuine and surprised, like the sound was pulled out of him. it fills something in your chest you didn't know was empty.
he kisses you one more time—quick and clumsy and perfect—and then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
you sink onto his desk chair, surrounded by his papers and research and the evidence of his brilliant, chaotic mind. the room still smells like him—eucalyptus and coffee and something clean. his bed is right there, neatly made. his books are within arm's reach. his laptop is open in front of you showing his notes, his observations, his confession.
'I'm in love with her.'
element 119, you think. he synthesized element 119 and was too nervous to tell you. he created something that never existed before in the universe—expanded the periodic table, pushed the boundaries of human knowledge—and what scared him was admitting he liked you.
you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
you touch your lips where you can still feel the ghost of his mouth. remember the way he kissed you like you were precious. like you were the real discovery.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
date session one
it's thursday and everything is different.
you arrive at 11pm—exactly on time, not early, because you spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom of the science building giving yourself a pep talk in the mirror like a lunatic. your reflection had stared back at you, slightly wild-eyed, while you'd whispered "it's fine. it's the same as always. except you're dating now. except you've kissed him. except he told you he's in love with you and you kissed him again and—"
okay. it's not the same as always.
your hands are sweating. you wipe them on your jeans as you climb the stairs to the third floor. the stairwell smells like old books and floor wax and someone's leftover chinese food. your footsteps echo. your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat.
you're being ridiculous. this is satoru. this is the person you've been spending almost every night with for three months. nothing has changed.
everything has changed.
the library is quiet, nearly empty. third floor is completely deserted except—there. your usual table by the window, the one where the fluorescent light flickers every forty-seven seconds. and there he is.
satoru looks up when you approach and his whole face does that thing—that transformation you've memorized in excruciating detail, the way his expression shifts from focused (eyebrows slightly drawn, mouth in a concentrated line) to soft (eyes widening, mouth parting slightly) to incandescent (full smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and shows that slightly crooked canine) in the space of a heartbeat.
but now there's something else there too. nervousness. uncertainty. his hands are fidgeting on the table, fingers drumming that familiar rhythm. tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. like he's also been giving himself a pep talk. like he's also terrified.
"hey," he says. his voice cracks slightly on the single syllable. the word breaks in the middle, goes higher than intended. you watch his face flush, color spreading across his cheekbones and down his neck.
"hey." you set your bag down with a soft thud that echoes in the quiet space. there are two coffee cups on the table already, still steaming. you can see the heat waves rising from them, smell the bitter-sharp scent of your coffee and the tooth-achingly sweet caramel of his. yours and his. the familiar ritual. "you're here early."
"I'm always here early." he's fidgeting with his pen, clicking it open and closed. click-click-click. the sound is too loud in the silence. his thumb is pressing the button compulsively, a nervous tic you've never seen before. "I just—I wanted to make sure—"
he stops. you're both just standing there, on opposite sides of the table, like there's a force field between you. like you've forgotten how to be normal around each other. his laptop is open, screen glowing blue-white with some physics paper covered in equations. there's a stack of books next to it—three library books about quantum mechanics and one collection of poetry by mary oliver that definitely isn't for his research. his coffee cup has a ring of condensation around it. his hair is slightly damp, like he showered recently. you can smell his shampoo from here, that clean eucalyptus scent mixing with the coffee and old books.
this is excruciating.
"so," you say. your voice sounds strange. too high.
"so," he echoes. he sets the pen down. picks it up again. sets it down. his knee is bouncing under the table, making his whole body vibrate slightly.
"are we going to be weird about this?"
"I don't know. maybe?" he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in messy white spikes. "I don't know how to—I've never—"
"me neither."
"oh. good. okay." he takes a breath. you watch his chest expand, watch him hold it for three seconds, release slowly. a calming technique. "so we're both being weird."
"extremely weird."
"great. perfect. that makes me feel better." he's smiling now, small and tentative, just the corner of his mouth quirking up. "do you want to sit down? or we could keep standing here awkwardly. both options are valid. equally valid. I'm fine with either. whatever you want."
he's rambling. you've never heard him ramble quite like this before.
you laugh—relieved and genuine, the sound bursting out of you—and the tension breaks slightly. like a string that was pulled too tight suddenly loosening. you move to your chair, the wobbly one with the cracked vinyl, and sit. the seat is cold through your jeans. he sits too. you're in your usual positions—him on one side of the table, you on the other—except now you're hyperaware of the distance between you. eighteen inches. maybe twenty. you could measure it in the length of the physics textbook lying closed on the table. too far.
you both reach for your coffee at the same time. your hands move in sync, close around the cups (yours still warm, heat seeping through the cardboard sleeve, his probably already cooling). both lift to your mouths. both take a sip. the coffee is perfect—exactly the right temperature, bitter and strong. both set the cups down in the exact same moment. the slight thud of cardboard on wood, perfectly synchronized.
you catch each other's eyes and laugh—nervous, slightly hysterical.
"I have physics homework," you say, desperate for something normal. something that feels like before.
"of course you do." there's affection in his voice now. warmth. the kind of warmth that settles in your chest like sunlight. "what chapter?"
"ten. rotation and angular momentum. again. I don't think I actually understood it the first time."
"you understood it fine. you just don't trust yourself." he's pulling his laptop closer, but slowly. his movements are careful, deliberate. his eyes keep darting to you and then away, like he can't decide whether to look or not look. "same problem as always."
"maybe I just like having you explain things."
the words hang between you. that's—that's flirting. you're flirting. you've flirted before, danced around the edges of it for weeks, but now it means something different. now you're allowed to mean it. now it's not subtext, it's just text.
his ears go pink. bright pink, the color spreading down to where they disappear into his hair. "yeah?"
"yeah."
the smile that breaks across his face is devastating. it's unguarded in a way you've rarely seen—no careful control, no attempt to play it cool. just pure, undiluted happiness. his eyes crinkle at the corners. his whole face lights up. "okay. good. I—okay." he opens his laptop fully, the screen casting pale light on his face. pulls up the textbook pdf with slightly shaking hands—you can see the tremor in his fingers as they move across the trackpad. "come here then."
the words send a jolt through you. come here. not stay there. come here.
you stand up. the chair scrapes against the floor, too loud. walk around the table, your footsteps muffled by the old carpet. he pushes his chair back slightly—the wheels squeak—and you hesitate for just a second before sitting down. not in your own chair, but on the edge of the desk right next to him. close enough that your leg is pressed against his arm. you can feel the warmth of him through two layers of fabric, feel the solid presence of his shoulder against your thigh.
he goes still. like he's afraid to move, afraid to breathe. you can feel the tension in him, every muscle locked. the way his breathing changes—shallower, faster. his hand on the trackpad freezes mid-movement.
"is this okay?" you ask quietly.
"yes." his voice is rough, scraped raw. "very okay. extremely okay." he swallows hard and you watch his throat work, watch the bob of his adam's apple. "you can—you're welcome to sit closer. anytime. always."
you lean over to look at his screen and your hair falls forward, brushing his shoulder. the strands whisper across his shirt—he's wearing that blue one again, the new one—and you hear his breath catch. actually hear it, a sharp inhale that he tries to cover with a cough.
"so," he says, slightly strangled. his voice has gone up half an octave. "angular momentum. L equals I times omega." he points at the equation on the screen but his hand is trembling slightly.
"I remember." you're not really looking at the screen. you're watching him, cataloging every reaction. the way his throat works when he swallows. the way his fingers are gripping his pen too tight, knuckles white. the way a muscle jumps in his jaw. the faint flush spreading down from his ears to his neck. "moment of inertia times angular velocity."
"right. and—and if there's no external torque, angular momentum is conserved, which—"
he loses his train of thought completely when you lean closer. your shoulder pressed against his now, your arm brushing his. you can feel his heartbeat, impossibly—or maybe that's your own heartbeat, you can't tell anymore. the heat of him seeps through your clothes. you can smell his shampoo stronger now, eucalyptus and something else. mint maybe. clean and sharp and distinctly him.
"which means what?" you prompt. your voice comes out softer than intended, almost a whisper.
"which means—I don't remember. what was the question?" he turns his head to look at you and suddenly your faces are very close. three inches. maybe less. you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes, pale near the pupil darkening to something almost cobalt at the edges. can see the faint freckles across his nose that you never noticed before. can count his eyelashes if you wanted to. "what were we talking about?"
you laugh softly and he makes a pained sound, something between a groan and a whimper.
"you're doing this on purpose," he accuses, but there's no heat in it. his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
"doing what?"
"being distracting. sitting this close. smelling good. existing." he turns his head to look at you properly and suddenly your faces are very close. close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips, warm and coffee-scented. "it's cruel. you're being cruel to me."
"I can move—" you start to pull back.
"don't you dare." his hand comes up, fingers catching your wrist gently. his touch is warm, careful, like you're something fragile. his thumb finds your pulse point, presses there lightly. you wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is racing. "I'm just—I'm trying to figure out if I'm allowed to—if we're—"
"satoru."
"yeah?" he's staring at your mouth now, not even trying to hide it.
"you can kiss me if you want to."
"we're in the library," he says weakly, but his eyes have already dropped back to your mouth. his tongue darts out to wet his lips—nervous habit.
"we're on the third floor at 11pm on a thursday. there's literally no one here." you can hear how empty it is, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of the heating system and both of your slightly-too-fast breathing.
"what about the physics homework—"
you cup his face and kiss him.
he makes that sound again—soft and surprised and pleased, high in his throat—and then he's kissing you back. his hand comes up to tangle in your hair, careful, gentle, fingers threading through the strands like he's trying to memorize the texture. like you're something precious. the kiss is soft. sweet. chaste, almost. nothing like the desperate kissing in his dorm room two days ago. this is—tender. exploratory. like you have all the time in the world. his lips are soft, slightly chapped. he tastes like that terrible sweet coffee and mint gum. his hand in your hair is trembling.
when you pull back his eyes are still closed. his lips are slightly parted, kiss-swollen. his cheeks are flushed pink. he looks dazed, slightly drunk in love and moonstruck. his hand is still in your hair, fingers tangled in the strands like he forgot to let go.
"hi," you whisper.
his eyes flutter open slowly. they're darker than usual, pupils blown wide. "hi."
"better?"
"so much better. can we—can we do that again?"
you kiss him again. and again. soft, brief touches that make your stomach flip every time. his hand is warm on your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone in that way that makes you shiver. he kisses like he's savoring it, like he wants to memorize every detail. each kiss is slightly different—this one a bit longer, this one with his bottom lip caught gently between yours, this one with your noses bumping and both of you smiling.
"okay," he says when you finally pull back for real. his voice is wrecked, rough like he's been using it for hours. "okay, we need to—physics. we should do physics."
"should we?"
"yes. definitely. you have a homework assignment due monday and I promised to help and I'm not going to be the reason you fail physics because I can't stop kissing you." but even as he says it, he's leaning in again, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. then your cheek. then your jaw.
"pretty sure the kissing was mutual."
"extremely mutual. dangerously mutual." but he's grinning now, looking younger and happier than you've ever seen him. "but seriously. homework. I'm going to be responsible about this. I'm going to be the most responsible—"
you give him a chaste kiss and he makes a defeated sound.
"you're not making this easy," he complains against your mouth.
"you're such a nerd."
"you like it."
"I really do."
you slide off the desk—reluctantly, muscles protesting, you realize you were tensed up without meaning to be—but instead of going back to your own chair, you pull it around to his side of the table. the wheels squeak and catch on the carpet. squeeze it in next to his so you're sitting shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressed together, both facing his laptop screen.
"this works too," he says quietly. his hand finds yours under the table, fingers lacing together. his palm is slightly sweaty but you don't care. "this is—yeah. this works."
it works better than works.
you spend the next hour actually working through the physics homework. he explains the problems with his usual careful patience—that way he has of breaking down complex concepts into manageable pieces, of finding the perfect metaphor or analogy to make things click—but now there are differences. his thumb traces circles on your palm while he talks, absent and constant. when you get an answer right, he kisses your temple—just a quick press of lips to skin but it makes you lose your train of thought every time. when you're stuck on a concept, he tilts your chin up to look at him while he explains it in a different way, and you get lost in his eyes instead of the physics.
"you're not listening," he says fondly.
"I am listening."
"you're staring at my mouth."
"I can do both."
"that's—" he laughs, breathless. "that's not how attention works."
"says who?"
"says neuroscience. you can't fully focus on two things at once. the brain doesn't multitask, it task-switches rapidly which—"
you kiss him and he forgets whatever he was saying.
the physics gets mixed up with soft touches and softer kisses. his hand on your knee, steady and warm. your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, making him shiver. at one point you end up in his lap somehow—you're not even sure how it happened, whose idea it was—his arms around your waist, both of you looking at the textbook propped on the table.
you can feel his heartbeat against your back. steady and strong. his chin is hooked over your shoulder, cheek pressed to yours. every breath he takes moves both of you.
"this is not efficient study methodology," he murmurs against your shoulder. his lips brush your skin through your shirt and you feel it everywhere.
"are you complaining?"
"absolutely not. just making an observation." his arms tighten around you, hands splaying across your stomach. "you're going to ace this homework though. you understand this better than you think."
"good teacher."
"biased student."
you turn in his lap to face him—careful, slow, giving him time to object. his eyes go wide, hands automatically moving to your waist to steady you. you're straddling him now in the library chair, face to face, and his breath hitches.
"hey," you say.
"hi.." his voice is barely there. his hands are trembling where they grip your waist.
"I have a question," you say.
"about physics?"
"about you."
"oh." his hands settle more firmly on your waist, uncertain. his thumbs stroke small circles there, probably unconscious. "okay."
"when did you know? that you—" you pause, suddenly shy. heat flooding your cheeks. "that you liked me?"
he's quiet for a moment. his eyes search your face like he's trying to memorize it, like he's cataloging every feature. you can see him thinking, see the exact moment he decides to be honest.
"the first night," he says finally. "when you asked me for help and you looked so frustrated and determined and you said 'I'm going to fail this class' like it was a personal offense to you. like physics had insulted you personally and you were going to fight it."
his voice goes softer, drops to almost a whisper.
"and then when I started explaining vectors you actually listened. really listened. you didn't just wait for me to give you the answer. you asked good questions. made connections I hadn't thought of. saw patterns. and I remember thinking—"
he pauses, swallows hard.
"—I remember thinking 'oh no. oh this is bad. I want to explain things to her forever.'"
his thumb strokes your waist, a nervous gesture.
"and then you came back. the next night and the night after that. you kept choosing to be here. with me. not because you had to, not because I was your only option, but because you—because you wanted to. and every night I'd show up early and get the coffee and tell myself this was probably the last time, you'd probably realize I was too weird or too much or just—too—"
his voice cracks.
"—but you kept coming back. and I think—I think I knew then. or started to know. that this was going to be a problem."
"a problem?"
"a good problem." he leans forward and rests his forehead against yours. his eyes flutter closed. "the best problem. you're—you're the first person in a long time who wanted to know me. not the person who discovered element 119. not gojo satoru the prodigy. not the guy who made physics weekly at twenty-three. just—satoru. the weird guy who likes physics too much and can't give presentations and drinks terrible coffee."
"your coffee is genuinely terrible."
"I know. I hate sweet coffee."
he says it casually but you pull back to stare at him.
"what?"
"I hate sweet coffee. always have. I take it black normally. black with two sugars if I'm being fancy but usually just black." he won't meet your eyes now, embarrassed, pink spreading across his cheeks and down his neck.
"but you've been ordering it sweet for—" you stop. do the math. "three months. you've been drinking coffee you hate for three months?"
"yeah."
"satoru, that's—" you don't have words. "why?"
"because you got it for me that way. the first time. you didn't know what I liked so you got me what you get, and you looked so—" he swallows hard. "you looked so nervous when you handed it to me. like you were worried I'd hate it. and I took a sip and it was too sweet, way too sweet, coating my teeth. but you were watching me with these big hopeful eyes and I just—"
he shrugs helplessly.
"—I said it was perfect. and then it became our thing. our ritual. you'd bring me sweet coffee and I'd drink it and I couldn't change it without explaining why and I didn't want to—" his voice drops. "I didn't want to ruin it. I liked that we had a thing. I would have drunk battery acid if it meant—if it meant—"
he stops. you can see him struggling with the words.
"—if it meant you kept coming back."
you kiss him. hard. desperate. pouring three months of feeling into it. he makes a surprised sound—high and breathless—and then melts into it, hands coming up to cup your face. his fingers are trembling. you can feel wetness on his cheeks and you're not sure if it's from him or you.
"you're ridiculous," you say against his mouth when you finally need air.
"I'm aware."
"three months of terrible coffee."
"worth it." he kisses you again, softer. "so worth it. I'd do three years. three decades. I'd—"
"satoru."
"yeah?"
"next time, just tell me." you scold him with a sigh.
"noted." but he's smiling, wide and genuine. "filed away for future reference. communication is important. I'm learning."
you kiss him again because you can. because you're allowed to now. his hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. one hand moves up to tangle in your hair, fingers gentle. he kisses you like he's been starving for it, like every kiss before this was just practice.
you're thoroughly distracted—lost in the taste of him, the feeling of his hands on you, the small sounds he makes when you bite his bottom lip gently—when someone clears their throat. loud. pointed. deliberately awkward.
you both jerk apart like you've been electrocuted. satoru's hands fly off you. you nearly fall off his lap and he catches you, steadies you, both of you breathing hard.
there's a security guard standing at the end of the aisle—older guy, maybe sixty, with grey hair and a tired expression. he looks like he's seen this exact scenario about a thousand times and is deeply, profoundly unimpressed with both of you.
"library closes at 2am," he says flatly. his voice is gravelly, bored. "it's 1:47. start packing up."
"yes sir," satoru says. his voice is slightly strangled, higher than normal. "sorry. we were just—studying."
"uh huh." the guard's expression says he's heard that line before. probably tonight. probably from three other couples. "sure you were. thirteen minutes. don't make me come back."
he walks away, his footsteps heavy on the carpet, his radio crackling with static.
you and satoru look at each other. you're still in his lap. his hair is messed up from your fingers. his lips are red and swollen. you probably look the same.
"oh my god," you say.
"that was—"
"mortifying."
"so mortifying." but he's grinning. his eyes are bright with laughter. "worth it though."
"absolutely worth it."
"do you think he knew we weren't actually studying?"
"satoru, I was literally in your lap."
"right. yes. that's—that's pretty damning evidence." he's still grinning. "in my defense, you got there."
"you didn't object."
"I would never object. you can sit in my lap anytime. all the time. it's encouraged. I'm making it a standing offer—" you kiss him to shut him up. he makes a pleased sound.
you climb off his lap—reluctantly, legs slightly numb from sitting weird—and start packing up your stuff. he does the same, but slowly, like he's trying to stretch out the time. every movement deliberate. he closes his laptop with careful precision. winds the charger cord methodically. stacks his books just so. you watch him watching you, stealing glances every few seconds.
when you're both ready, bags packed, coffee cups thrown away (yours empty, his still half-full of coffee he hates), you just stand there. neither wanting to be the first to leave. the security guard walks by again, pointed, and you both start moving.
the library is emptying out. you can hear other people packing up, heading for the exits. voices and footsteps and the beep of the security gates.
"so," satoru says when you reach the stairwell.
"so."
"I'll walk you back."
"it's not on your way."
"it's never been on my way. I think we both know that at this point." he holds out his hand, palm up, offering. "worth it though."
you take his hand. his fingers lace through yours perfectly, like they were designed to fit together. like you've been holding hands for years instead of days.
the walk back is different from every other time. you're holding hands the whole way, fingers intertwined, swinging slightly between you. he walks closer than before, your shoulders bumping with every few steps. you can feel the warmth of him all down your left side. every few steps he looks over at you like he's checking that you're still there, still real. like he's afraid he'll blink and you'll disappear.
it's colder tonight. properly cold. you can see your breath in white clouds, can feel the bite of wind against your exposed skin. the campus is mostly empty—just a few people hurrying between buildings, hunched against the cold. the streetlights cast everything in orange and shadow.
"can I ask you something?" he finally speaks when you're halfway to your dorm, past the science building, past the student center.
"always."
"do you—" he pauses. starts again. "are you okay with this? with us? I know I can be—a lot. intense. and if it's too much or too fast you can tell me. I won't—I don't want to mess this up by pushing too hard."
you stop walking. turn to face him fully. he looks nervous in the orange streetlight, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.
"satoru," you say carefully. "I kept coming back. every night for three months. I could have studied anywhere. could have gotten a different tutor. could have given up on physics entirely."
you squeeze his hand.
"I came back because I wanted to be there. with you. and that hasn't changed just because we're—" you gesture between you. "whatever we are now."
"boyfr—" he starts, then stops. clears his throat. "are we—is that—can I—"
"yes," you say, saving him from the question. "if you want to be."
the smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. "I want to be. very much. extremely. I've never—I've never been anyone's boyfriend before but I want to be yours."
your heart does something complicated in your chest. "then you are," you say simply.
he kisses you right there on the sidewalk, in the middle of campus with the cold wind biting at your faces and the orange streetlights casting long shadows. his hands come up to cup your face, fingers cold against your skin but gentle, so gentle. the kiss is soft and sweet and full of promise—unhurried, like you have all the time in the world. like he's savoring it. his lips are slightly chapped from the cold, moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
when he pulls back—just far enough to see you, foreheads still touching—his eyes are bright. definitely bright, catching the streetlight, reflecting it back like they're glowing from within. maybe with tears—you can see the shine of moisture gathering at the corners, making his lashes clump together—definitely with emotion. his breath comes out shaky, visible in white clouds between you. his thumbs stroke your cheekbones, a repetitive soothing motion like he's trying to convince himself you're real.
"you have me," he says. fierce and certain, voice rough. "for—for as long as you want. I'm—I'm all in. I'm terrible at doing anything halfway and this—"
he gestures between you with his hand holding yours tight, the other still creating soft circles on your cheek.
"—this I want to do all the way. completely. no half-measures. no holding back. if that's—if that's okay. if that's not too much too fast I just—I need you to know that I'm—I'm serious about this. about you. about us."
"that's okay." you reach up with your free hand and push his hair back from his forehead. it's cold and slightly damp from the night air. "that's more than okay."
he kisses you again under the streetlight. slow and sweet and perfect. his lips move against yours with careful attention, like he's memorizing this. you can feel him smiling against your mouth—actually feel the curve of his lips pressing differently against yours. can't help smiling back, until you're both just pressing grins together, breath huffing out in small laughs.
his free hand comes up to cup your face, palm warm despite the cold. his thumb strokes your cheek in that gentle repetitive motion that makes you feel precious. the kiss tastes like bad coffee and possibility—the lingering sweetness of caramel mixing with bitter espresso and something that's just him.
when you pull apart you're both grinning like idiots. can't stop, even when you try to school your expression into something less ridiculous. his eyes are crinkled at the corners, those small lines you've memorized appearing, making him look younger somehow despite being markers of his smile. his cheeks are pink—from cold or emotion or both, you can't tell. the color spreads down his neck, disappearing under his collar, and you can see where his ears have gone red too. he's breathing hard, white clouds puffing between you, and he can't seem to stop looking at your mouth.
at your dorm, you linger in the doorway. neither of you wants the night to end. you can feel it, the weight of goodbye even though it's just for a few hours.
"same time next week?" he asks. then catches himself. "wait, no—"
"next week?" you interrupt, mock-offended. "what about tomorrow?"
his face does something complicated. hope and disbelief and joy all at once, flickering across his features in rapid succession. "tomorrow?"
"I have a philosophy paper to work on. you could—you could read while I write? if you want. we don't have to do physics. we could just—"
"be together," he finishes. his voice has gone soft, barely above a whisper. vulnerable. like the words themselves are fragile things he's afraid to speak too loudly in case they shatter.
"yeah." you agree. the word comes out quieter than intended, but weighted with meaning. with promise.
"I would—" his voice cracks. he clears his throat, tries again. "yes. tomorrow. definitely tomorrow. and the day after that. and—and as many days as you'll let me. I'll—I'll bring better coffee. actual good coffee. coffee I don't hate. we can—we can figure out what I actually like."
"it's a date."
"a date," he repeats, testing the word. his smile is incandescent. "yes. a date. tomorrow at 11?"
"or earlier. if you want."
"earlier. definitely earlier. I'll—how about 10? 9? I can do 9. I'll bring dinner. or—or snacks. do you like snacks? what am I saying, everyone likes snacks. I'll bring options—"
"satoru."
"yeah?"
you kiss him just one last time. slow and lingering. "goodnight."
"goodnight," he breathes. he's still holding your hand, like he can't quite make himself let go.
"you have to actually leave for it to be goodnight."
"right. yes. leaving." but he doesn't move. just stands there, looking at you, fingers tangled with yours. his thumb is doing that absent tracing thing on your palm again. his eyes are soft and slightly dazed, like he's forgotten what leaving means. like the concept of walking away from you has become fundamentally impossible.
"satoru," you prompt, but there's no real urgency in it.
"mhm." still not moving. his lips are still slightly parted, kiss-swollen. you can see him swallow.
"you have to let go of my hand first."
"do I though?" but his fingers loosen slightly, reluctant.
you squeeze his hand once—firm and grounding—shake your head with a smile you can't quite suppress, a quiet giggle escaping despite your best efforts. the sound makes his whole face do something soft and wondering. you slip inside, the warm air of the lobby hitting you after the cold outside.
you take the stairs up to the third floor—faster than usual, slightly breathless. your roommate is asleep, room dark except for the green glow of her alarm clock. you drop your bag and go straight to the window.
he's still there. standing under the streetlight where you left him, looking up. the light turns his hair silver-bright, makes him look ethereal. unreal. like something out of a dream.
he stands there for a long moment—thirty seconds, a minute—just looking up at your window. even from three floors up you can see his expression. soft and amazed, like he still can't quite believe this is real. like he's trying to memorize the sight of your building, your window, this moment.
then, slowly, he starts walking. not toward his dorm immediately, but in a small circle, like he has too much energy to contain. you see him stop, run his hands through his hair, look back at your building one more time. he's smiling—you can tell even from here, can see it in the way he holds himself.
finally, he turns and starts walking. the right direction this time—toward his dorm, the route you'd looked up weeks ago when you first started noticing. but he only makes it ten steps before he stops, turns around, looks back up at your window one more time.
he sees you there—you're not even trying to hide now—and his whole face lights up. he waves—enthusiastic, almost goofy, his whole arm moving. not the small casual wave from before. this is unguarded. happy. real.
you wave back, pressing your palm against the cold glass.
he stands there for another moment, just looking up at you, and even from three floors up you can see his expression. joy and wonder and disbelief all mixed together. like you're something impossible. something he can't quite believe he gets to have.
finally—reluctantly—he turns and walks away for real this time. you watch his figure get smaller, watch him pass under streetlight after streetlight. at each one he looks back. every single time.
when he finally disappears around the corner by the physics building, you sink onto your bed, heart still racing.
satoru gojo. element 119. the most brilliant person you've ever met. and somehow, impossibly, wonderfully—he's yours.
Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine
-Art in the banner from nek0zuu_ on X-
Pairings- Former Nerd! Gojo and F! reader
Summary - Satoru Gojo was the biggest nerd EVER in high school with you, next door neighbors, study buddies, you were the best friends in the world. Never having the courage to ask you -the 'popular girl' out- you never knew he felt for you. He ended up leaving town, moving to the big city of LA- getting famous with a modeling career, and lost touch with everyone from his old life. While you're working the family pub to help out your parents, years later, he finally comes back to visit, just to have you making his drink. Everything about him is different, aside from those pretty blue eyes and the sweet grin. You feel he's so accomplished now, and you're just a small town girl, but little do you know, you've never left his mind.
CW- Will be explicit and smutty (it's me!?) based on the 2005 Rom com Just Friends - part of my amazinggg moot @indiewritesxoxo's Friday night flicks! 🌙 Nerdjo turned famous and cocky, but he's still just a Nerdjo deep down hehe- he'll have a whole retainer and he'll dance to boys to men a la the movieee
WC- 57k- ongoing
playlist:
Extras- Sukuna's POV here
Kofi link (if you feel generous & wanna buy me a ☕️
mdni. your boy best friend.ᐟgojo pops your cherry—for real this time…
cw: explicit sexual content. boy best friend.ᐟ gojo x fem virgin.ᐟ reader. smut w/ plot. oral (again), p in v, raw, tummy bulge, wtv it’s called when there’s a mirror, he’s actually lost in it (me next i’m begging).
song: friends—chase atlantic
(part one ‹𝟹 part two)
𝜗ৎ
things between you and gojo had been strangely normal—especially considering that a couple weeks ago he was eating your pussy like a man starved.
he didn’t mention it after that night.
so, neither did you.
he continued to come over and play games. text and ask if you wanted to get food together. sit next to you in every class you shared, seek you out in the library, invite you to his friend’s parties. talk to other women at those parties.
that last part pissed you off more than you cared to admit. but if he was gonna be mr. nonchalant after spilling all over your sheets just from eating you out, then you were going to be the president of nonchalant town.
even if behind closed doors, you couldn’t stop touching yourself to the mental image of his clothe-less body, pretending your fingers were his.
nobody else had to know about that.
you’re in the shower now, eyes closed, head dizzy with the memory of the way it felt as he guided your hips, creating the perfect friction. the way he looked absolutely ruined when you said you wanted him inside you.
it’s cerulean blue eyes that you see as you brace one hand against the cool tiles, while the other dips between your legs.
you pull your bottom lip between your teeth at the first circle of your fingers against your swollen clit, your breaths becoming heavier, your arousal diluted by the hot stream of the shower. you let it cascade over your head as you slip a finger inside yourself for the first time, jaw dropping.
it isn’t the same.
your eyes squeeze shut as you curl your finger, timidly, searching for that spot he found. his name tumbles from your lips the same way it did that night.
it. isn’t. enough.
“fuck,” you moan, words lost to your ears by the sound of the downpour. “what am i doing?”
“i’m wondering… the same thing.”
at first, you’re certain your ears are deceiving you. you’re so horny that you’ve gone prematurely senile, and now you’re conjuring up the voice of your best friend echoing around your bathroom whilst you fuck yourself with your fingers.
you look up and turn to your left. lift the hand from between your legs and push your soaked hair out of your face. use the other hand to clear the condensation from the glass divider.
“satoru,” you say, voice far too casual. “what are you doing in my bathroom?”
he steps forward, dazed. “i was waiting in your room, ‘nd, ah… i heard my name. thought you needed help.”
you watch as the blurred figure of your imagination takes another step forward. notice the way his hand reaches down to palm his cock while he watches the rise and fall of your tits with every ragged breath. it looks almost subconscious, like he isn’t even aware he’s doing it. his eyes are burning into yours, voice hoarse when he says,
“do you need help, y/n?”
“satoru, wh—” your pussy throbs, aching at the mere sight of him. something vaguely similar to a sob chokes out of you. “yes. help me, toru.”
he nods, entranced. drags his t-shirt over his head, tousling his hair. pushes his shorts and underwear down and off. steps out of his slides, and rounds the divider.
you press your back against the tiled wall behind you, making room for the way his frame crowds the space, and you know this is real. you know it because your brain couldn’t conjure up a masterpiece such as this one. it couldn’t fabricate the way his cock hangs hard, heavy and leaking between his thick thighs, so much more than how you remembered it. or the way his abs ripple with every breath, just as laboured as yours.
couldn’t capture the way the spray of water dampens the greatest’s hair as he lowers himself to his knees in front of you.
the way he doesn’t look away as his hands move up to stroke your sides. one hand rests at your hips, while the other tracks the soft curve of your ass. it stops at the back of your thigh. lifts your leg and positions it until it’s draped over his broad shoulder.
you moan, and he hasn’t even touched you where you want him.
satoru watches you as he buries his face in your wet cunt. watches the way your mouth falls open on a silent ‘o’, the way your brows pull down, and your stomach sucks in on a breath.
he sucks, licks, kisses your pussy like it’s a meal he’s been craving for weeks. squeezes your ass while looking up at you through white lashes dripping with water.
you thread your fingers through his hair, hips jerking forward involuntarily as his tongue swirls around your clit. it’s a great effort, trying to keep your eyes open, to memorise your best friend’s face nuzzling your pussy for a second time.
“satoru,” you moan breathily, voice pitchier than usual.
he looks up at you as if his tongue isn’t dipping into your hole. as if he isn’t drinking up your arousal like it’s the elixir of life.
“i want you to fuck me,” you sigh, cunt grinding against his face. “please, i want it so bad. i need it.”
you thought you might die if he didn’t.
he pulls away from your pussy, nods his head silently, lips still parted. stands up to his full, towering height so that he can grip your face. shoves his tongue into your mouth while it’s still coated with your juices.
you’re panting by the time he pulls away to look at you with dark, hooded eyes, lips pink and swollen. you inch your face forward, desperate to taste him again, but he draws back, mouth tilting up into a smirk.
he flicks off the shower. reaches down to grip you beneath your ass, and lift you up. your clit drags along his abs as he steps around the glass divider, carrying you through the bathroom, into your bedroom, and leaving a trail of water in his wake.
satoru drops you down onto the bed, less gentle than the time before, and stands over you, imposing. keeps his blue eyes trained on yours like a predator stalking his prey as he walks over to your chest of drawers that he always dumps his belongings on.
you watch the muscles in his back ripple as he opens his wallet, pulls out a black foil wrapper.
“satoru,” you say quietly.
he turns.
you swallow. “are you clean?”
his eyes flick over your face as he nods.
“m’on birth control.” you shake your head. “don’t use it.”
his eyes flutter shut, head tipping back as he pushes a hand into his hair and grips it at the scalp. he nods at the sky. drops his wallet and the foil back on the wooden surface.
“y/n,” he says softly as he climbs between your legs. you drag your attention away from his shaft. “i really want this. i want it too badly.”
“so do i,” you tell him.
“i don’t know if…” he swallows, eyes on your stomach, hand stroking your calf. “if you’ll be able to handle it—”
“always so worried. look at me, gojo.”
slowly, he does.
you glide your hand down your damp body, stopping when your fingers meet your clit. he watches the way you press your fingers into the bud, and you watch him while you stroke yourself.
“i hughhm—h-haven’t been able to think about anything other than your cock in weeks,” you tell him. watch his dick jump at your confession. “when you left your sweater here the other week, i put it on, and i touched myself. came s-sooo hard, just because it smelled like you.”
his throat works, eyes jumping back up to yours.
“fuck me, toru. i won’t ask you again.”
he nods like a man under a spell, settling between your legs and gripping the base of his cock. his hand trembles, movements restrained as he lines it up with your heat, jaw clenching, eyes falling momentarily shut. he glides his tip between your folds and mixes your arousal with his. your hips buck up, shifting forwards.
satoru studies your face as he tilts his hips forward, and when the first inch pushes into your hole, you gasp. toru’s lips part, brows furrowing.
“fffuuuck, y’re s-so tight,” he whines, already panting. “are you—nngh, okay, baby? want me to keep going?”
you pull your lower lip between your teeth. nod.
he nods in return. grips your inner thigh with his free hand, unintentionally bruising, while he uses the other to guide his cock inside of you. the stretch is like nothing you’ve ever felt before. so achingly full as he slides against your walls, pushing into your wetness. you squeeze your eyes shut, breath caught in your throat.
“y/n…” he says quietly.
“more,” you moan. “don’t stop.”
he groans low in his throat, cages your head with his arms as he continues to sink into you. you look down, watch the way your pussy swallows him whole. and every moment you think he’s finished—that he couldn’t possibly have more to give— another inch glides in. you’re so full that it momentarily paralyses you.
“holy fuck, ‘s big,” you sigh as you shift your hips, testing, adjusting.
he isn’t listening, though. he’s looking down between your bodies. his fingers ghost over the bulge in your lower stomach.
“y/n,” his voice is just above a whisper. “i can see myself inside of you.”
it’s ridiculous that your best friend can have such an affect on you after years of friendship, because the sheer wonder in his voice makes you clench around him. it sends waves of pleasure pulsing from your pelvis.
it takes you saying his name twice for him to finally look up at you, irises swallowed by his pupils. he looks distraught, lips agape, chest heaving.
“toru, move,” you tell him.
“can’t,” he moans. “i’ll— mmngh, i’ll cum, y/n.”
a strangled sound leaves your lips before you pull his face down. he presses his forehead against yours, lips ghosting over your mouth, his breath filling your lungs. you buck your hips up, and the sound that leaves his throat is pathetic. he grips your hip to stop you, fingers digging into your skin.
“i can’t…” his voice breaks on the word. “baby ju—mmm, just give me a second.”
you nod, wrap your arms around his shoulders as he blankets your body with his, stroke the curves of his back as he buries his face into your neck, taking deep, ragged breath.
after a minute, or maybe two, you feel his hips rut up, experimentally. his hand slides down your waist to grip your ass, to hitch your leg up over his hip. he kisses your neck. grazes his teeth against yours throat as he begins to rock into you.
“i can feel you e-verywhere, toru,” you whimper, brows furrowing.
“oh my god, y/n,” he mumbles into your skin. “feel so good. y’re squeezing me so good.”
his pelvis strokes your clit, cock drags along your walls, tip nudging a spot so deep inside of you that you feel it in your stomach. he sits up, hovering his pretty face above yours.
“more. please,” you say.
he nods. pushes himself up with the arm that isn’t gripping your ass so that he can kneel between your legs again. he pulls out to the tip, then watches your face as he sinks back into you, bottoming out.
“fuck,” he murmurs, pressing his palm to your lower stomach as he fills you up again, and again. “look at how well you’re taking me, baby.”
he grips your chin in his hand, then. turns your head so that you can see your reflection in the mirror propped up on the other side of the room. you see yourself, hand between your thighs. you see satoru’s hips moving fluidly as his cock repeatedly disappears inside of you. you see his eyes on your face, watching you, even in the reflection.
the pleasure builds quickly, frighteningly so, and you grip his thick bicep. “toru, i’m gonna cuh-uum,” you tell him.
he just watches you, hips snapping into yours roughly, hands gripping your skin tight enough to bruise.
he dips his head down to kiss you deep, achingly soft. your vision turns as white as the hair on his head.
you moan, almost heart wrenchingly, into his mouth as you climax around his cock, wave, after wave, after wave of heat spreading from your pussy throughout your entire body.
satoru pounds into you, eyes tracing every detail of your reaction, even as his own face crumples in pleasure. even as his hips begin to stutter, and a long, deep groan spills from his lips.
you feel him emptying himself inside of you, stream after stream of warmth filling your hole until it’s spilling down the crevice of your ass and onto the already damp sheets beneath you.
even then he doesn’t stop, dropping his head back to the crook of your neck and making pathetic little noises while he continues to thrust into you, until he’s spilling into your hole again. stuffing you full, again.
“ohhhmigod.” his words come out muffled.
minutes later, he’s still inside of you. you physically feel his cock soften, and regain its blood while it’s still warming your hole. you stroke the back of his head, pussy numb, eyelids heavy.
“toru,” you mumble quietly.
he presses a kiss to the curve of your shoulder. “yeah, doll?”
“i made the greatest cum twice…” you sigh, eyes fluttering shut from pure exhaustion. “s’that give me the title of the greatest pussy?”
it’s so ridiculous that you feel his body shake with laughter on top of yours. don’t even have it in you to stop yourself from snorting as you cradle his head to your chest.
“yeah, baby,” he chuckles, lifting his head to plant a kiss on the side of your jaw. “i think you have the greatest pussy in all the world.”
𝜗ৎ
@ yut2achoya. do not copy, feed into ai, or repost on any other platform!
a/n: the way he locks in and goes nonverbal over that super soaker slip n slide coochie… genuinely bit a huge chunk out of my phone while writing ts. if i can’t join in, i’ll be fine with a cuck chair, thanks. also did you notice i tried to write in protection for once… didn’t end up accomplishing it, but it’s the thought that counts 😊 well done me.
Gojo fucks his crush (who has a crush on his best friend)
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut with no plot, fem!reader, p in v, coming on face, reader has/had a crush on Geto, Geto is kind of a jerk, fourth year setting (all characters are aged up to +18), pet names (princess, baby, sweetheart)
a/n: first time writing smut, so please bear with me!
art by @/thatsallchief (i love their art so much)
Gojo Satoru knew that his crush liked his best friend.
The way your eyes wandered around the room, and instead of landing on him, it always settled on the black-haired boy that was sitting next to him.
And he always watched your heart get broken when your ears perked up at the sound of Suguru’s voice, low, leisure, and level as though it was a daily occurrence to be talking in the classroom about how he booked a hotel with a university girl, studying nursing or some other shit, to spend the night with.
Shoko would stick her tongue out, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she stared at her phone, while Gojo would laugh for a moment, making fun of Suguru playfully as always before turning to look at you, eyes concerned.
And his darling crush, gentle and kind even when your heart is shattered into pieces, would always smile awkwardly, uncomfortable as your murmured a faint complaint about appropriate behaviour at school grounds, or sometimes nothing at all when Suguru’s description became too detailed, too promiscuous.
The worst part was… Suguru knew.
Suguru knew that your rosy cheeks were meant for him, that her gentle voice was only directed at him.
He even casually complained how to indirectly let your down, not wanting to confront the awkwardness since he still thought of you as a precious, fellow classmate—the one that would always give him a piece of candy to get rid of the horrid taste of the curses he swallow.
Suguru was appreciative of your kindness, but not enough to reject you directly with kind words.
That was why it always made Satoru grit his teeth in fury at his best friend, whom he still deeply cared for, but also from annoyance at the way you always let him run over you, still naively trying to cling to the hope that somehow Suguru would like you back.
Satoru knew that you weren’t just a crush—he adored you, loved you, that it sometimes hurt to look at you from the way you made his heart race.
For the way you would hide your eyes away when they welled with tears whenever Suguru breaks your heart, not wanting to disturb the moment with your friends. The way you would smile gently at Satoru when your eyes meet. The way you would giggle slightly when Gojo pokes your cheek teasingly. The way you would prettily part your lips for a bite for a piece of strawberry Pocky that would make him swallow as something else flash behind his eyes, imagining how they would feel wrapped around his tip—
“Sa…toru,” you slurred, eyes hazy and sparkling with tears—not from your heart getting broken, but rather from how fucking deep his cock was inside you, kissing your cervix affectionately with every thrust. It brought an undeniably deep satisfaction at the sight. “I-It’s too much…”
Satoru instantly moaned at your whine, ducking in to let you burrow your face into the crook of his neck, as he pressed his nose against your head, smelling your shampoo and the faint smell of sweat that formed on your skin from how long he's been fucking you. His large hand wrapped around your head tightly, the other on your hip, keeping you there as he kept snapping his hips to search for your hot, sopping, messy cunt.
This was real.
This was fucking real. Shit, shit, shit—
“Fuck, princess… stop clenching so tight. Feels too”—he gasped, eyes turning wide as you tightened around him impossibly more that made him roll his eyes back—“good…”
This was the third—no, maybe fourth—time he brought you to his dorm room to fuck you mindlessly to drive Suguru out of your pretty mind. This was the third time inviting you to his bed, next to Suguru’s dorm, to comfort you as he went off to another hotel with no doubt another slightly older woman in his arms.
The other one time was when you invited him over to your dorm, and the memory of your bashfully lowered eyes and soft voice as you tenderly led him to your room was enough to prompt him another pathetic whine as he thrusted so roughly into you that made you see stars.
So yes, this was the fourth time that you were in his arms to have his cock deeply nestled inside, wrapped by your heavenly walls, and the third time he was able to make his girl come tonight. He silently thinks in his pussy-drunk mind, that no matter how many times the two of you fuck—make love—he would forever be questioning whether this was real, if you were real because no way does he have his dream girl in his arms right now, letting him fuck you to an oblivion.
And some sick part of him liked to imagine that you were still in love with Suguru. The thrill of knowing that he was fucking you, making you feel so good that you couldn’t help but think of him as you stared at his blue eyes instead of a pair of purple ones. But by the looks of the way your brain was fucked dumb, your lips only dribbling his name repeatedly, was an enough of an indicator that you weren’t thinking of Suguru anymore.
“Satoruuuu!!!” you screamed as you came undone, muffled against his neck. That effectively brought him back from his pussy-drunk reverie as he grinned down at you.
“Sorry, baby…”
He pulled out with a gasp, pulling off the condom with a snap as he stroked around his cock. You were about to whine when another moan slipped out of you when his thick, long fingers curled inside of you, his thumb rubbing quick, tight circles around your clit to prolong your pleasure.
“I’m going to c-come.” He swallowed. “Can I come on your face? Please, baby? You’ll look so fucking pretty with my cum.”
You nodded eagerly, managing a faint reassuring smile that twisted at his heart painfully with affection as he cupped your face and kissed you senseless, thumb caressing your cheek as the other hand continued to stroke his cock to prompt his impending release. His lips gently suckled on your tongue while giggling deliriously with pathetic whines, prompting you to clench tightly around his fingers.
“Satoru!”
And that was it—thick, white spurts of cum splattered across your face, making you gasp at the sticky sensation on your skin. Satoru grinned at the sight, cooing softly yet his fingers harshly fucked you dumb, the quelching sounds incredibly filthy that almost made his cock hard instantly.
As you came your nth time of the night and breathed heavily from your climax, your eyes widened at the sight of him ripping another condom, and rolled it on his pretty cock.
Satoru chuckled at your surprised face, leaning in to press a quick kiss on your lips before pulling back, grinning at you fervently.
“Don’t think we’re over just yet, sweetheart.”
The next morning, when you came out wearing Satoru’s overly large t-shirt with heated cheeks and a horrifying amount of hickies across your neck and collarbone, and a Satoru that had his lips curled into a dopey grin at your side, with a nervous Suguru that was rubbing his neck awkwardly by his door… you only could hide behind Satoru, hands gripping the back of his shirt, and a cheek pressed against his broad back, as the white-haired boy laughed full of satisfaction and fucked up elation.
“Um… fun night?” Suguru asked, his smile uncharacteristically awkward as he looked at Satoru and glanced at you curiously.
“Yeah, too much fun,” Satoru said with a grin, laughing when you scrunched his shirt up more, nails digging into his back like last night to shut him up—fuck, he was going to get hard from just that. “How was your night, Suguru?”
Maybe it was cruel to ask that when he didn’t really know if you still liked Suguru or not, but his cocky ass just couldn’t help but ask, knowing that he fucked your mind out last night, and he that he can and would continue to do it for the rest of his life, because that means that you would only think about him at that precious moment.
“Uh… yeah… I guess,” Suguru murmured as an answer, his eyes still glued to you. Since when did you look so cute? Suguru could acknowledge that he was acting like an asshole right now, knowing that he was starting to have interest in you after Satoru has swept you off of your feet and dicked you down a little too good.
Satoru’s eyes narrowed as he stepped a little to the side to hide you completely, holding the door. “Anyways, we’re going to have amazing morning sex from now, so go fuck yourself.”
Satoru grinned when he heard you let out a loud gasp at his words as he slammed the door right in front of Suguru’s face, before spinning around to face you.
Cradling your face in his large hands, he kissed you senseless as he pushed you towards the bed, tongue lolling out with yours as he lapped at yours like a pathetic mutt. His cock twitched at the sound of your surprised giggles, and he couldn't help but let out an unabashed moan.
Gojo makes your pretty belly bulge for all his viewers ♡
୨୧ — The chat explodes when Gojo hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drags them aside.
He doesn't take them off- just stretches the soaked fabric to one side and holds it there, pinning it against your inner thigh so nothing obstructs the camera's view. His other hand slides between your legs, two fingers pressing against your slit, and then he spreads you open.
Slow. Deliberate. Like he's unwrapping something precious.
"There she is," he murmurs. The ring light catches everything- the dewy, flushed stretch of your cunt, the slick strands of arousal that glint and snap as he parts your folds wider, webbing between his fingers like honey. Your hole clenches on nothing, gummy and pathetically empty.
Heh, look at that. She's dripping already and I've barely touched her.
"See how wet she gets?" His voice is like silk, pitched for the microphone. Donations ping in a frenzy. "All these people watching and your little pussy's just weeping for it."
He keeps you spread with one hand and uses the other to guide his cock to your entrance- just the tip, fat and flushed and shiny with precum. The camera catches the exact moment he nudges in... the way your gummy walls stretch and clench around the head, resisting and yielding in the same breath, that first inch sinking into wet, sucking heat.
"Nnnh-"
"Shh, I got you." He rocks forward -just barely- letting the stream see how your pussy swallows him centimeter by centimeter, that tight ring of muscle gripping his girth like it's trying to milk him already, "watch this."
He snaps his hips.
Your scream breaks apart into static. One brutal thrust buries him to the hilt, his cock punching so deep you feel it in your fucking chest- and when you look down, when the camera tilts to follow his gaze, you can see it.
The bulge.
His cock outlined against your lower belly, a thick ridge pressing up beneath your skin with every thrust. He presses his palm flat against it, feels himself moving inside you.
"Right there," he groans, grinding up into that deep spot "feel that? That's your cervix, baby. That's where I'm gonna -fuck- where I'm gonna ruin you."
And then he batters it.
His pace turns savage- hips snapping with brutal precision, that fat cock ramming your cervix over and over until your insides feel like mush. Each thrust punches a whimper out of you, your walls going soft and sloppy around him, unable to do anything but take it. The bulge in your tummy jumps with every stroke, obscene and undeniable.
"Oh god- oh god- 'Toru- c-can't -hnngh-"
"yeah you can." His voice is wrecked, strained, "and you're gonna cum while they watch."
She's getting so tight- squeezing me like she's trying to break my cock off-
The wet sounds are obscene. Your pussy squelches with each pump, arousal churning into something thicker, frothier- a white, creamy mess that clings to his shaft and oozes out around the stretched rim of your hole. It smears against his pelvis, his balls, drools in sticky rivulets down to the sheets.
"There it is," he breathes, thumb finding your clit, "there's my messy girl. You hear that? Hear how sloppy you're getting?"
Schhllk
He grinds against your battered cervix, holds there, and your orgasm crashes through you like a wave- walls clamping, legs seizing, voice cracking on a sob as your cunt creams around him in thick, milky spurts. He doesn't stop. He can't stop. Just fucks you through it, churning your release into a frothy ring at the base of his cock, the camera catching every filthy detail.
The view count ticks past thirty thousand.
His cock throbs inside your spasming cunt, and Gojo just laughs- breathless, wrecked, mean.
synopsis . In which nerdjo gets turned on by bimbo!reader's harmless teasing in the middle of putting together a puzzle. content . afab!reader, virginity loss, dorkjo, awkwardness, reverse cowgirl, praise, really premature ejec, etc. (Inspired by this post)
“It’s too big, ‘Toru,” You’d whine, followed by an awfully innocent, “Stop trying to squeeze it in there!”
Puzzle pieces. The two of you are talking about puzzle pieces, obviously. So, why the hell is his cock swelling up against his pants?
Oh, that’s right. Because your comments are making his mind go somewhere dirty each time he closes his eyes, the only thing keeping him sane being the use of context in the situation. His hand had brushed over yours one too many times and he's stuttered halfway through every sentence of his during the duration of this little game. The two of you were just spending your free time putting together a really cute 'n friendly jigsaw puzzle and now he was using a nearby pillow to cover up his boner.
You're aware that your nerdy friend Gojo is the biggest loser ever but, you don’t seem to mind it too much. The only thing you do is tease him until he's sitting next to you with a mess of blush plastered all over his face. "Hey, why'd you stop?" You'd ask after noticing the way he's siting awkwardly on the floor beside you, "I know I said that piece was too big but if we stop now we'll never finish this tonight."
"Uh," Gojo's voice is coming out in that dorky pitch for a moment before he quickly clears his throat and brings a hand up to readjust the thick frames decorating his face, "Well, I just wanted to take a break, y'know? We've been doing this for hours and-"
You cut him off with a light scoff, "Oh c'mon, there's no way you're tapping out on me already." Then you're standing on your knees, shuffling closer to him, and reaching over him for one of the further puzzle pieces below. It was fine. He was fine.
Then he looked down, noticed the skirt you had on started to rise against your thighs, and... fuck. You've got the prettiest pair of panties on—the color of them peeking out just a fraction enough for him to catch its hue. Blue. Just like his eyes. Of course you decided not to wear some shorts under your skirt today. Of course. Now he's left gawking at a lacy pair of panties and letting out a strange noise without thinking, earning a glance over your shoulder that only makes you look sexier.
"Satoru?" You call out moments after, to which his eyes fly back up to where they should've been this entire time, on your face. Watching the man gulp like the biggest dork you know him to be, you flash a smirk, "Did you just look under my skirt?"
There's no way you didn't know what you were doing. He may be a big nerdy virgin who never got any sort of play but he was far from stupid. Gojo swallows down something pathetic before shaking his head hurriedly, "N-No? Pfft, what? Why.. Why would I-, hah, why would I do something like that?"
You cock a brow, "Because you're a loser who acts like he's never seen what a woman looks like under her clothes? I dunno."
He blinks dumbfoundedly, "You think I'm acting?"
You send him the same bewildered stare, "You're a six-foot tall, nerdy, pretty boy with glasses, there's no way you're some kinda virgin."
"Well... uh..." He gulps thickly and leans back, the pillow in his lap faltering with the way he readjusts his long legs to try and ease the rather annoying ache in between them, "I kinda am..."
Now you were giving him that cute deer-in-headlights kinda look as if there wasn't a single thought inside your head, the same look that has him flustered for some reason. Followed by which is a turn of your head before you casually return to reaching for that needed puzzle piece, "That's surprising. 'Thought a guy like you would have tons of women."
Gojo looks around for a second before pointing at himself, "You though I would have tons of women? Me?" He scoffs as if that were the most ridiculous thing in the world. "I mean, I know plenty of women who talk to me, sure. But, I've never slept with any of them."
"Why's that?" You ask, knees shifting against the floor so that you could find the desired spot for the piece in your hand, "If you don't mind me asking, of course."
You seem to be entirely oblivious to the way your skirt is still rising against your thighs, especially as you bend down a bit to plop the little puzzle piece into place. Gojo finds himself looking up at the ceiling now, hoping for you to become self aware any moment now, "I dunno, I'm not good at flirting, I guess." He says with a shrug of his shoulders.
The sound of that makes you glance back at him again. This time you look down at his now uncovered crotch and spot the boner prettily resting there. Smiling a bit, "I could teach you." You offer sweetly.
His cock drools at the idea alone before he's fixing his glasses against his face and looking at you again, "Really? You'd teach me how to flirt?"
You snort, "No, silly. I'm offering to teach you how to fuck."
Now, Gojo is many things. Filthily educated in Digimon? Well, of course—he's even got it plastered all over his shirt right now. The most studious individual in every academic institution he's ever attended? Duh. And a completely closeted freak who does nothing but imagine what it'd be like to feel pussy for the first time? Well, yeah...
So when you offer to teach him how to fuck and essentially, take his virginity, he doesn't think he's ever nodded his head faster in his life.
Next thing he knows and your legs are sprawled out over him, caging the sides of his lengthy limbs in between yours as your ass hovers in the air and you move a hand back to tug your panties to the side. Your cute nerd of a friend thinks he's in love as your gorgeously soaked cunt is revealed to him.
He almost reaches out to touch it-, to touch you but, he controls himself and lets you do all the work. After all, he has no idea what he's doing. Gojo only knows things about sex through porn and... well, that can only teach a person so much.
"Y-Y'know," And then he's starting already—yapping as if that would hide his nervousness. His cock is out and you're rubbing two pretty fingers through your folds before moving your hand in between your legs to grab ahold of him. "S-Shiit... Y'know this uh, this puzzle we got-, oh... it-, oh, that feels good-, it was a limited edition-"
"Satoru, you're cute but," You giggle as the lips of your pussy begin to close around his drooling cockhead, "If this is your idea of dirty talk then you have so much to learn..."
He tries to swallow a whine down his throat but it unfortunately escapes him as he continues his rambling, "I just-, goddamn... I thought you'd wanna know that," Gojo utters with a nervous chuckle, hips bucking up slightly to sink himself deeper into the dewy warmth that's currently swallowing up his length. "'Cause o-only a thousand," his breath hitches as you get about halfway down on him, "You're so fuckin' warm... Only a-ah.. a thousand of those sets were s-sold..."
Biting back your own moans whilst his thick cock stretches up into your welcoming walls, "Yeah?" You chime as if you genuinely cared about what he was saying. It's not that you didn't care at all but, the puzzle was the last thing on your mind with the way his dick felt slowly splitting you open. "T-That's... so nice, sweetie."
Gojo's hips snap up at the sound of the praise—wether or not you meant it to be sarcastic—and it's instant the way he brings a hand up to your hip to hold you down as the rest of his lengthy shaft disappears inside you. "Fuck, that felt good," He gasps as if this were some kind of new discovery for him, "C-Can you say that again? Praise me more?"
You work up a steady rhythm of lifting and then slamming your hips down on him after only a few moment of adjusting to his staggering inches, your jaw quickly falling open with slutty drool dangling out past your lips, "You're into that?" You huff softly before glancing back at him, "Y-You want me to-, mmnh, praise you more?"
Gojo's eyes are a little glossy from pleasure and he nods cutely, "P-Please? I'm being good so far, aren't I?" Then he looks down and you feel his cock throb inside of you, "Fuuuck... I haven't even-, ohgod... h-haven't even told you any more s-stupid facts. Aren't you proud of me?"
Another laugh exits your lips before you still your hips down against his, grinding with his cock buried inside of you instead of bouncing on it, "Yeahhh, I guess you have a point," You snort. Then you turn your face forwards and reach for a new puzzle piece before placing it somewhere. Your honeyed pussy clamps around his bulging girth and you hear the way he chokes out a gasp. "I'm so proud of you, 'Toru. Bein' such a good boy for me, aren't you?"
What you don't expect is the thick cum that spills out inside you. The hand he has on your hip grips a little tighter and he groans loudly, tossing his head back losing it at the sound of those words on your tongue. Well, that and the way you'd went back to those puzzle pieces as if this was just another Thursday night for you...
You have a little smile on your face as you feel him finishing inside you and by the time you look back at him, Gojo seems to be completely out of it—as if that was singlehandedly the best nut of his life. Glasses crooked on his face now, hand still anchoring your hip against him, hair tousled, and heavy pants exiting him, you can't help but tilt your head.
"Wow, two minutes. Impressive, really." You snort.
Gojo looks at you, just barely, and then pouts, "It was my first time, I'm sorry."
banner art by rororogi mogera || perm gojo tags (1/2):
Something about bouncing up and down your personal trainer!toji's cock is everything you'd been fantasizing about for the past few months and more.
During workouts he's always been very firm and encouraging with you but now those hands you're always staring at were slapping at the fat of your ass all heavily while you slammed your hips down on him. Leaving him groaning and sweatier than those workouts usually did, "Jus’ like that, doll. Uhuh, put that ass to work.” He huffs all heavily before smacking your ass again.
Your trainer’s a nasty man. If you think you’ve been fantasizing about this then you’d be shocked to hear the things he’s been fantasizing about himself. He feels this inherent need to take credit for at least some of the pretty body bouncing up and down his thick cock right now.
Each smack to your ass served as some sort of silent thank you, meant to let you know he was proud of the results his traditional workouts gave you. Big, greedy hands find the purchase of your hips and he works you up and down his curving cock, grunting, “Thaaaat’s it, doll. Let me take care of ya’, like I always do, uhuh..” before he lifts you just a little and aids your body up and down.
Sounds of slick filth bounced off the interior of his car that’s parked just outside the gym and you’re letting yourself moan all unashamedly. “Mmph, ah-, fuck, Toji!” You whine, slutty actions leaving his windows fogged.
Your trainer starts smiling all of a sudden and grunts, “Mmgh, look at that. Look at the way I stretch those lips open, fuck.” He points out, one hand moving your ass cheek to get a better view of your puffy folds parted so prettily around the veins of his shaft, “You spread so wide for that cock, don’t you?”
When you nod and then lean up a bit to let gravity force you all the way down on him again, both of you moan in sync. You were missing one payment and this was the only thing you thought to offer. After all, you couldn’t lose your best trainer and it’s a mere coincidence you both have been wanting to fuck each other!
Toji’s head flies back with a soft thump against his headrest and his hips being to grind up into you, cockhead thrashing against your sweet spot. “Yeahhh ya’ do. Lettin’ me train this pussy, huh?” He teases.
You receive languid strokes up into your cunt for long enough to have you drooling, “Uhuh, hahh, I gotta-, oh fuck.. w-work on my endurance..!”
“Heh, riiiight… endurance..” He echoes all slyly before his hand suddenly presses into your arching spine. Then holding your body up in the air slightly, Toji’s feet shift against the car floor and then starts pumping his fat dick up into you with no remorse—your pussy letting sweet juices mess up both his thighs and the seats below the two of you. “Endure that fuckin’ cock then. Just like that, ma.”
You slump forward and cling onto the headrest in front of you while he just plows his weighty shaft in and out of your slobbering cunt. “T-Toji… ohmygod… fuck!”
“‘Couple more reps, pretty girl. We’re almost done, don’t worry.” He coos.
The car is all but bouncing and shaking with both of your frantic movements, letting anyone who walks by get the perfect idea of what was going on inside. “Something feels d-different… hnngh..” You end up whimpering as your spongey walls clamp around him tighter.
“Ohh? You gonna squirt for me? Hm?” Your trainer guesses with a crooked smirk on his scared lips, his fingers digging into the skin of your hips while he pounds himself up into you. Voice breathy, “Gonna leave my dick a sloppy wet mess as a reward for tainin’ you s’good, right?”
Somewhere in the mix of your strained cries of his name and cockdrunk babbles in agreement, you do, in fact, squirt on your personal trainer!toji's cock. The moment you do, he’s pulling out and letting his length slap against your crying pussy, making sure you soak every single inch of him.
“Fuuuck,” Toji groans loudly. “Your next few sessions… shit… are free after that one, doll.”
