elytr.ty

AHHHHHHH I LOVE THE WRITING I REPOST • 20 •

[elyxrty]

Where the Ice melts.

Hockey Captain! Toji Zenin x Reader x Hockey Player! Gojo Satoru You didn’t come to Jujutsu University hockey games for anything serious, just something to do with your friends. But somewhere between the ice, the crowd, and the noise, you catch the attention of two completely different players. Satoru Gojo, the star everyone watches without trying, and Toji Zenin, the arrogant captain who notices everything he shouldn’t. CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1 - CHAPTER 2 - CHAPTER 3 - CHAPTER 4

You don't really know how you ended up at a hockey rink. It wasn't even your thing at first, just something that happened because your friends dragged you out one day, saying it would be fun, something different, a normal outing, and you went along with it the way you usually do when it's easier to say yes than explain why you'd rather not.

Now somehow it turned into this.

One day you're hearing names in passing — Zenin, Gojo, Geto — and the next you're sitting in the cold stands of Jujutsu University's rink like you belong there, like you've always had a reason to be watching them.

The team runs on three main pillars, the ones people actually come to see. Toji Zenin, number ten, the captain. Suguru Geto, number nine. And Satoru Gojo, number eleven. But only one of them commands the room before he even steps into it.

Satoru Gojo.

Because Gojo isn't just a hockey player, he's everything else too. You'd seen him before you ever knew his name properly; ads, photoshoots, Calvin Klein campaigns, magazine spreads that girls save to their phones like a reference point for something they can't quite name. He exists in that particular way where attention just follows him around like it was never something he had to reach for in the first place. And when he's on the ice, it's worse, because he plays like the whole thing is slightly beneath him and somehow that just makes everyone watch harder.

You're not immune to it. You don't even try to pretend you are.

So when he scores you stand up with everyone else. When he laughs on the ice like the game is some kind of private joke, you find yourself smiling without meaning to. When he looks your way just once, you spend a few seconds deciding it meant something even though it probably didn't. You start watching him more than the actual game without really noticing the shift, and by the time you do, it's already just the way things are.

Toji Zenin notices.

Not because he's looking for it. He just does.

It starts as something small, the way your attention doesn't move the way everyone else's does, how it stays locked on one player even when the puck is nowhere near him, how it doesn't drift the way most people's do when the game gets complicated. He picks it up in pieces over the course of the first period, you watching Gojo, reacting to him, existing in the stands like the rest of the game is just background noise. And something about it sticks in a way Toji doesn't particularly examine, quiet and persistent, like a thought that showed up without permission and decided to stay.

The game tightens as the score evens out. Two minutes left and the arena feels like it's holding its breath, every person in the building leaning slightly forward without realizing it, and then Gojo scores and you're on your feet before the thought even forms. The crowd erupts around you and you go with it, completely natural, completely unguarded.

You don't notice Toji's grip tightening on his stick. You don't notice that he's stopped looking at the puck.

Thirty seconds left. Everything shifts in a way nobody sees coming. Toji steals the puck from Gojo in one clean motion, no hesitation, no wasted movement, the kind of play that looks simple only because the person doing it already knew exactly where everyone was going to be before they got there. He scores. The game goes to overtime and the arena loses its mind all over again.

Gojo skates up beside him almost immediately, laughing like none of it happened, not annoyed, not impressed, just entertained in that easy way he always seems to be. "What was that about?"

Toji doesn't look at him right away. "Play the game," he says, but his eyes drift upward anyway, to the stands, to you, just for a second longer than it should be.

Gojo notices. He doesn't say anything.

Overtime is chaos, bodies colliding and skates cutting hard into the ice, the whole game breaking open under the pressure of it. But Toji plays like something is personally bothering him now, every decision sharper, every movement faster, every glance upward harder to keep casual. And slowly, gradually, you start feeling it — the way his eyes keep finding the stands, keep finding you, in the spaces between plays where it almost looks accidental but isn't quite.

Your gaze meets his once, just for a second, and something quiet and curious settles in your chest that you don't entirely know what to do with.

Then it ends. Geto scores and the game is over and the arena goes completely unhinged, but Toji doesn't really react to any of it, just exhales once like something inside him didn't land the way he wanted it to.

After the game everything is too loud and too warm and your friends are already pulling you toward the exit when someone says your name.

You turn around, and he's just standing there.

Toji Zenin. Still slightly damp from the shower, dark hair loose and a little messy like he ran a hand through it too many times on the way out, close enough that it takes a second for your brain to connect the person in front of you to the one you've only ever watched from far away. It's different up close. He's a lot to process up close.

"Y/n Sato," he says.

You blink. "…How do you know my name?"

"People talk," he says simply. "You're not exactly hard to miss."

That alone should probably make you uncomfortable. It doesn't.

"You were watching Gojo," he adds, not a question, just a fact he's laying out flat.

You shrug slightly. "Yeah. He's a interesting player I guess."

Satoru Gojo appears before you even finish the sentence, arriving the way he always seems to, like the space just rearranges itself to fit him, arm slung casually over Toji's shoulder like tension isn't a thing that exists between them.

"Am I?" His smile is easy and immediate, the kind that feels slightly too practiced to be accidental.

Something in Toji goes still. Not visibly, just in the air. Gojo looks at you the way he probably looks at most things, like he's already decided you're worth his attention and is just waiting to see what you do with that.

"Number eleven fan, huh?" he asks.

You laugh slightly, playing along. "I guess."

Toji shifts just barely, just enough to block Gojo's angle without making it a whole thing. You don't consciously register it. Some part of you does anyway.

Gojo leans in slightly. "You enjoy the show?"

"I did," you say, and he smiles like that's exactly what he wanted to hear.

"Maybe you should wear my number next time." Your face warms before you can do anything about it. "Maybe I should." You know you're feeding into him. You do it anyway.

He laughs softly like it's nothing at all, and somewhere slightly behind him, Toji's eyes darken in a way that isn't quite anger, something quieter than that, something more contained.

Gojo notices. He looks like he enjoys it.

"Can you sign my phone case?" you ask, and the words are out before you've fully decided on them.

Gojo takes your phone like it's completely normal, like this is just something that happens to him regularly, which it probably is. He signs it quickly and hands it back with that same easy smile that doesn't quite leave his face. "Anything for my biggest fan." His eyes stay on you a second longer, like he's turning something over in his head.

You take it and say goodbye and leave, and the silence that settles after you're gone stretches out between them in a way neither of them immediately fills. Then Gojo exhales a quiet laugh. "Looks like you've got some competition, captain."

Toji looks at him. "Shut up."

"What? Jealous she asked me to sign her phone?"

Toji says nothing, which is its own kind of answer.

Gojo's smile widens slowly. "Oh. So that's how it is." Toji turns away like the conversation is already finished.

It isn't. Not even close. And somewhere underneath all of it, without any of you having named it yet, something has already started moving.

Yay! I finally managed to post it! 🎉 More parts are on the way, so stay tuned. Thank you so much for reading—I’d love to hear your thoughts and feedback!

[cherrymuseum]

come get your man ft. fratjo

content: reader has a roster, toxicity, alcohol, partying, mentions of smut, petty arguments, childish tit for tat relationship w fratjo, fratjo and fratji mention *bites knuckle*

a/n: first time posting gojo...

art by @/kasswio on x - divider by @/pixopix

Satoru Gojo wasn’t much to you, but he was a mistake that you made more often than you cared to admit. You tried to justify it by saying that as long as he kept his mouth shut, and the dick was good that was all that mattered. 

The unfortunate thing was that he was not very good at keeping his mouth shut.

As president of the largest, most infamous fraternity on campus he certainly had a knack for drawing attention. In fact, you would argue that he shone the brightest in the spotlight. 

How else would he uphold his position and make his fraternity revered?

Of course, you were only a little better than him. You certainly had a decent sized lineup if you wanted to fuck, and you certainly fucked guys that hated each other, knowing that they hated each other.

Really the only thing that made you any better than him was that you were not in a sorority, not involved in greek life other than getting dicked down by a couple of the presidents every once in a while. 

Nobody blamed you, if anything, they were envious of you. Who wouldn’t want to fuck Toji Fushiguro or Satoru Gojo?

And every time there was drama, you feigned innocence by claiming that you were just a bystander getting dragged into a long-standing rivalry.

As long as the two of them never interacted in front of you and never tried to drag you between them, you could have your cake and eat it too.  

Toji Fushiguro was much better than Gojo in regards to hardly ever opening his mouth, only ever offering you the occasional pissy comment. You two had a mutually beneficial agreement, neither of you wanting to complicate things further than falling into bed with each other. 

He was the fraternity president of Satoru’s rival fraternity. Both men somehow seeming like they were born to hate each other, which was no concern to you as long as they did their jobs and gave you orgasms. 

Toji was way too busy with being captain of the hockey team and president of a fraternity to ever spare you more than the designated time for sex. It was entirely too easy to call him when you needed uncomplicated sex. 

Satoru on the other hand was who you called when you needed a thrill, somehow every time you saw each other it began with an argument and ended with you two having hate sex. And Satoru was very, very good at having hate sex. 

He was also very good at causing situations in your life that annoyed you to no end. Unfortunately you found yourself amused enough if only for the fact that you enjoyed planning on how to get him back. 

It was a delicate balance, a push and pull that was unspoken between the two of you. 

Earlier this week at tailgate, you were happily shotgunning a beer with a few of your friends. Staying as far away from the greek tents as you could manage, hoping for a day of peace away from the two presidents. 

Your hopes were unanswered by whatever higher being watched over you, as you watched Satoru walk over to your small group. A bottle of liquor hanging from his slim, pale fingers. 

“You fucking him too?” He asked, pointing at your friend who was crushing his newly finished can. 

“Fuck off Gojo,” you rolled your eyes, turning your back to him. 

“Just curious,” his voice was close behind you, his free hand settling low on your hip. 

You looked back at him, glaring, “As if it’s any of your business who I fuck.”

“Right, cause that includes Toji? And what, thirty other guys?” His words were slightly slurred, his head falling near your ear as his breath ghosted across your cheek. 

“Like you’re any better,” you grumbled. “For as big of a slut as you are, you seem to care about one of your fuck buddies too much.”

“Careful, you know I’m into degradation,” you could hear the smile in his voice as his lips ghosted your ear. 

“Get out of here, go dick measure with your best friend Toji,” you tried nudging him away, failing miserably as his arm snaked around your hips. 

“You know Suguru is my best friend,” he shifted slightly, making sure you saw the dramatic pout on his lips. 

You flicked him on the nose, "Get out of here before I start treating you like the dog you are.”

“Keep being mean, I’m close,” his smile was way too smug for your liking. 

You scoffed, pulling your phone out to quickly dial Suguru’s number as Satoru shoved his face into you, placing kisses between your shoulder and neck. 

You were thankful when Suguru said he’d be over as soon as possible, apologizing for losing sight of Satoru and letting him wander away. 

“Your buddy’s on the way,” you huffed. 

Satoru somehow ended up behind you during your conversation with Suguru. His head was resting limply on your shoulder, his arm still holding you close. Your friends had drifted away, giving you space as you dealt with whatever this was. It was incredibly irritating, you were here to have fun and drink with your friends before the football game. Instead you were stuck babysitting a frat president as you waited for his vice president to come retrieve him.  

You couldn’t wait to get Satoru back for this. 

The pieces began falling into place when Toji responded to your text for dick with a “go fuck Satoru tonight.”

You were not at all concerned about whatever had him in a pissy mood as you plotted and schemed how you’d get Satoru back at his party tonight. 

As you danced and drank in the living room, the bodies of people moving around you, you spotted Satoru stumbling across the room, heading straight for you. His backwards hat was slightly skewed, a cup hanging limply from his fingers as he focused all his effort on taking steps. 

Satoru was probably the biggest lightweight you’d ever met, despite his impressive height and build, so when he practically fell in your arms you laughed quietly.

“Okay there, bud?” You asked, snaking your arms under his to steady him. The distance you kept between you quickly became nonexistent as he rested his head against your shoulder, pulling you closer by your waist.

“Mmm okay now, pretty,” his words were jumbled together, hardly coherent over the loud music.

“Let’s get you upstairs,” you patted his back, trying to steady your feet as you felt more of his weight bearing down on you.

A whine of protest left him before he pulled his face back just enough to look at you, those blue eyes glowing under the LED lights, a pout taking over his lips, “Too early.”

“Who’s fault is that?” You tapped his nose, shifting yourself around to begin walking towards the staircase.

Trying to shoulder the weight of a six foot three frat man who worked out regularly was not the easiest thing in the world, you thought as you struggled to move through the crowd.  How the hell you'd get him up the stairs would be its own challenge that you chose not to think about until you got there.

Satoru's head bobbed around, his long legs taking shaky steps as you continued maneuvering him throughout the bodies of people crowded around you two. A few people stopped and laughed to themselves, the sight of the frat president wasted was apparently very humorous to them. How could it not be when they weren't the ones about to struggle getting him up the stairs?

As the large marble staircase finally came into view, you said a silent prayer to whoever was watching over you to help you get this idiot up there as easily as possible.

Nobody was listening, again. Not when Satoru gripped the railing tightly, moaning incoherent words as he doubled over, vomiting all over the floor and almost dragging you into it. You dropped your arm away, letting him hold his weight against the railing as he continued heaving.

"Get it out before we get upstairs, or I swear to god, I'm letting you fall asleep in your throw-up clothes," you threatened, watching as his back heaved again. 

He did look a little funny, all hunched over and succumbing to the consequences of his actions, but it wasn't enough to satisfy your need for payback. This was his own doing, you craved something of your doing. 

When he finally stood up, stumbling back a step, you stepped near him again, shouldering his weight as you grumbled, "Let's go, pretty boy."

"You think I'm pretty," it wasn't a question, rather, a giddy statement as his head lolled backwards.

You took the opportunity to grab the hem of his shirt and wipe his mouth, ignoring him completely as you began to tackle the first step. You hoped someone would come by, maybe Geto would see you, or his friend Nanami, and then they could take it from here.

No such thing happened, your thighs burning and sweat dripping down your temples as you finally cleared the top of the staircase. Satoru's head was hanging forward limply as you walked him to his room, his free arm occasionally steadying him against the wall as he walked.

When you finally got to his door, you let out the longest sigh, "Code?"

Satoru mumbled some incoherent words.

"Try again," you sighed.

"Phone," was all he managed, his head falling against the wall as he leaned straight into it.

You grabbed his phone from his jean pocket, tapping the screen to see that it was locked. You poked his cheek, "Password?"

He mumbled four numbers, the phone unlocking on the first try. You quickly made your way to his notes app, figuring he kept his door code in there somewhere. The sight of a few interesting notes was quietly filed away in your mind as you searched.

In true Satoru fashion, it was titled DOOR CODE (SECRET), a six-digit code that had the lock lighting up green before you pulled him inside. You led him to his bathroom, helping him to the floor as he began leaning over the toilet. You figured he wasn't done yet, and you were right as you heard the sound of him heaving as you searched for a change of clothes for him.

By the time you made it back to him, he was lying on the floor, curled up and looking five seconds away from falling asleep. You helped him sit up, leaning his back against the wall as you brushed his teeth for him.

When that was done, you helped him change, his shirt being the easiest. As you struggled with his jeans, you sighed, helping him to stand before leading him to his bed. You laid him down, shimmying his jeans the rest of the way off before slipping a pair of pajama pants up his long legs. 

He whined your name as you stepped away, his hand darting out and locking around your own. His voice was pleading, a quiet hope laced in the singular word, "Stay."

You sighed, slipping your top off as you went to his closet and took his most luxurious plain t-shirt, also snagging a pair of expensive sweats for yourself. By the time you lay beside him, setting both of your phones on the nightstand, he was already drifting off. His arm came around you, tucking you close into his body as his head buried itself into your neck.

You internally sighed, once again wondering why he just didn't talk as much. He was so much more bearable when he wasn't speaking, in fact, it was pretty endearing that he drew so much comfort from you in his drunkenness.

Not enough to stray you from what you were really here for, though.

You waited until his breathing was deep and even before unlocking his phone. You made your way to Instagram, seeing at least ten women he'd talk to today. 

The plan was simple.

You sent yourself a little bit of money, knowing he wouldn't even notice, before getting up and finding your discarded clothes. After pulling out your lip liner, not even a marker, because you were going easy on him, you wrote on his forehead.

WHORE

Before drawing a dick near his slightly open mouth.

You were trying to hold in your laughter as you took a picture, sending it to each woman with the caption, "COME GET YOUR MAN :("

The replies started rolling in quickly, but in the spirit of not wanting to spoil his fun, you didn't open any of the chats. You went to his group chat with his frat, took one last picture for them, and sent it with the same caption.

You sent the picture to yourself before deleting the message off his phone, quietly laughing as you made your way out of his room.

You were $1000 richer, had new clothes, and got to embarrass him a little. A perfect get back, and you couldn't wait to see what the morning brought you.

a/n: the things i could write about this reader and gojo...

[fireladylisa]

— the arrangement ∬ ֗ ₊

chapter one

ა ˙˖ summary → there’s no one you hate more than satoru gojo. he’s arrogant and entirely too full of himself. when you agree to be strictly enemies with benefits, gojo takes this as the perfect opportunity to finally make you his. ა ˙˖ content: 12.3k wc, accurate portrayal of fraternities so the boys are jerks srry, hazing, rough sex, spit play, overstimulation, spanking, choking, desperate gojo, you really hate him so not much fluff this chapter! probably more I can't name rn. it's a lot.

frat!jo 𝓍 fem!reader

When you first got your acceptance letter to your dream school three years ago, you never thought it would end up with you in this position. The side of your face pressed into the cold wooden desk by the hand of your enemy, your shorts and panties dropped to your ankles, his cock slamming into you so hard that your research papers and pens go flying to the library floor. 

The sound of the legs creaking fill the study room room, his pace ruthless, long fingers digging into your cheek to keep you down as you bit your lip to stop yourself from crying out his name and begging him to go harder.

One might wonder how you, the notorious frat hater, ended up letting a playboy like Gojo Satoru get into your pants not once, not twice, but eight times in the last two weeks after swearing he was your number one enemy.

It all started the first day of uni when you let your roommate Shoko convince you into going to a sorority party after a long day of classes and reading syllabuses. 

You had been minding your own business, laying on your too small bed with your headphones blaring music as you scrolled through Instagram and pretended like your mom hadn’t been trying to call you for the past twenty minutes.   

She was probably calling to check in since she thought you were just getting out of practice, given that you lied about making the gymnastics team to get her off your back. You never even signed up, never had interest in it but had been forced into it as a child. Your mother always told you that one day you’d make it to the olympics and while you were good at it, you had no plans on doing such a thing.

So when her name pops up again, you hit the red button and put your phone on dnd. It was nine, you would just tell her you were asleep.

When you went to play your music again, your roommate walks in and immediately locks eyes with you, a grin spreading on her face that has you squinting suspiciously. 

You really liked Shoko. You officially met two weeks ago when you were finally allowed to start moving your stuff in and you had both bonded surprisingly quick over the short period of time, spending almost every day together exploring the campus and surrounding city. Which means you were starting to differentiate between her smiles and the one she wore now told you she wanted to ask you something.

“Thank god you’re still up!” She practically skips into the room, slamming the door shut behind her. 

You sigh and sit up, removing an earbud. You pull your rising shorts down and cross your arms with a raised brow. She moved to stand in front of your bed, biting her bottom lip and failing to contain her excitement. 

“Spit it out already.”

“There’s a sorority party in an hour and I got invited which means by extension you’re invited and puhleasee, don’t make me go by myself!”

You tried everything to get out of going, from feigning illness to lying that you had to be up early tomorrow for class even though you both basically had the same schedule and your morning was lecture free. 

You weren’t a boring person, you partied a lot in high school but this was college and even though you had no clue what you wanted to major in yet, this was where you truly needed to lock in and focus on getting good grades. 

Unfortunately for you, Shoko wasn’t having any of it. For every excuse you came up with, she had an argument against it. You don’t wanna be hungover? Fine, just don’t drink! You’re tired? You’re only nineteen, you can rest when you’re dead! 

“When your kids ask what you were like in college, are you gonna tell them that you were a loser who sat in her dorm all day or that you were young, hot, and knew how to have fun?”

She had a point. It was just one party, what harm was there in enjoying yourself for a night? If you didn’t like it, you would simply leave. Plus it was at a sorority. You could manage that, though you couldn’t say the same for frats. 

You’d die before being caught in one of those.

Fraternities were the embodiment of hell, nothing good ever happened at any of them based on the horror stories your older sister told you while helping you pack for uni. Sweaty, packed rooms, obnoxious men that only wanted to get in your pants, stale beer and hazing were far from your kind of parties. 

Fate, as it would turn out, had different plans in store for you. 

You had begrudgingly squeezed into a tight dress, letting Shoko fix your hair and makeup before she was dragging you out the door and into her car. 

When you guys pulled up outside of the sorority house, the scene before you was far from what a typical party looked like. The lights were mostly off except for a few rooms that were still lit and it was eerily quiet outside, no loud music or drunk college students dancing around the lawn.  

Shoko had assured you that it wouldn’t be as hectic as a frat party would but you hadn't expected it to be deader than your social life. You turn and glare at your friend in the driver's seat who looks just as confused as you do. 

What the fuck was this? You could have been in bed, doom scrolling through TikTok and here you were, dressed up for a party that apparently wasn’t even happening.   

“I’ll go check, give me a minute.” Shoko mummers, hitting her vape before jogging up to the front door.

Your leg anxiously bounces up and down while you wait, watching as she knocks and someone with purple hair opens the door a few seconds later. You can’t hear anything but the conversation seems heated and brief before your roommate is stomping back to the car, annoyance evident on her face. 

“The party is canceled. Someone got the flu and the entire sorority is sick.” 

You fight to hide your smile, not wanting to rub it in Shoko's face since she was already upset. As much as it sucks that someone was sick, you couldn’t deny that you were happy. You didn’t want to go out in the first place and now you could-

“Buut.” Shoko sings, eyes twinkling as she looks at you with that same smile from earlier. 

“There is another party happening like ten minutes away.”

“Great.” 

It was far from fucking great when you pulled up in front of what was obviously a fraternity. The white house was big enough that it was basically a mansion, it had a flag with greek letters flying and the amount of people out front alone made you sick, the music loud enough that you heard it from the opposite side of the street. 

You hadn’t signed up for this, you wanted no parts in it. 

“Absouletly not. Take me back.”

“Stop.” Shoko’s eyes were pleading, her bottom lip poking out. “We’re already here and you promised you’d be my wingman. Wingwoman. Whatever.”

“I didn't promise shit. You said we’d be going to a sorority party, not a frat!” Your cheeks heated in irrational anger, even though you knew it wasn’t her fault. 

She had no idea how much you despised fraternities but it didn’t mean you’d be going to one just because she was putting on her best puppy face, big brown eyes shining and silently begging for you to say yes. 

“One hour. If you still hate it, we leave. But you’re already here, might as well give it a chance.”

You look back toward the house, your stomach twisting and heart racing a little faster. You weighed the pros and cons. If you did agree to go, you'd probably end up drinking more than you should and wake up with a nasty hangover. You’d also be breaking your promise to yourself and your sister to never step foot in a fraternity. 

Maybe it was unfair that you let a handful of horror stories shape your perception of them but it wasn’t as if they came from nowhere. You had watched the news, seen the headlines. Hazing. Alcohol poisoning. Freshmen being pressured into doing things they probably never wanted to do. 

Your older sister had made sure you knew exactly what kind of places to avoid when you left for college, and frat houses had been at the very top of her list.

But then again, you had waited for this moment since you got your acceptance letter. To meet new people, make new memories outside of your shitty hometown and to truly experience college life.

You were nineteen. What was the harm in going to one party? You’d appease Shoko, confirm your thoughts that frats were terrible and never step foot in one again. 

One night couldn’t ruin your entire college experience. Right?

You sighed and let Shoko pull your hand until you were walking through the front door and the smell of stale booze, and musky body heat hit you, the music rattling the speakers. The living room had been stripped of anything breakable and replaced with white folding tables sticky with spilled drinks and red solo cups. 

A group of guys were playing beer pong, shouting as the ball flew too far and rolled under a couch. Further into the house, a girl was setting up a karaoke machine and slurring the lyrics to the Pitbull song that was playing, almost tumbling off the table. 

The scene made you itch, your feet already hurting from the heels you’d been forced to wear. You let Shoko guide you through the crowd anyways, scowling at the way a few shirtless guys eyed you like you were nothing more than a piece of candy. She led you toward the kitchen, hand wrapped tight around yours, where a group had gathered around the island counter. 

A tall guy with long black hair tied back noticed you first, grinning at Shoko and holy fuck he was hot.

“Shoko, I didn’t expect to see you here!” He raises his red solo cup in the air. “And you bought a friend.” 

“This is my roommate, (name).” Shoko tugs you forward until you’re standing by her side. “Be nice to her, will you? She’s already planning my funeral for bringing her here.”

He nods at you, tossing back the rest of his drink and your knees go weak because he had to be one of the hottest guys you’d ever seen in your life. 

“Geto Suguru but you can call me Suguru. Any friend of Shoko’s is a friend of mine.” He sticks his hand out and you wipe yours on your dress before reaching over the island and taking his into yours. 

“Nice to meet you.” You force a shaky smile, pulling your hand back. 

When you ask how they know each other, Suguru explains that they went to high school together but Shoko had decided to take a gap year and travel the country.

Shoko introduces you to the rest of her friend group. There was Choso, a guy with two ponytails and a scar across his nose. His girlfriend, Yuki, was nice enough even though you were sure she was flirting with you. Nanami, who seemed entirely too sweet to be there and next to him was the human incarnation of a golden retriever, Haibara. 

After introductions were over, they pulled you into a game of flip cup and you were surprisingly good at it. The satisfaction of slamming your cup down before Choso was enough to make you forget where you were, cheap booze loosening you up and allowing you to truly enjoy yourself. Even if some asshole kept bumping into your ass and forgetting to apologize. 

You even let Shoko and Yuki drag you to do karaoke, stupidly singing Promiscuous and moving your hips in circles, hair loose and falling into your flushed face. You hadn’t noticed the way Suguru watched you with a smirk, arms crossed while someone whispered something in his ear. 

It only took an hour for you to be reminded that frats were in fact the root of all evil, your short lived fantasy that maybe you were wrong crashing down when he decided to show up.

You felt him before you saw him, your skin tingling as you sat on the couch and nursed a headache while actively fighting the urge to throw up, half listening to the group's conversation. You had just been about to tap Shoko and invoke your one-hour rule when the energy in the room shifted. The sea of people were parting to make way for someone, a few petrified freshmen scrambling to get out of the way. 

When enough people cleared, two of the most unique looking men you’d ever seen came into view. 

Now let’s get one thing straight: you were far from a pick me, never had been and you never would be. However, even you weren’t immune to the rare moment of being so mesmerized by the beauty of a man that you just stare with your mouth slightly agape. 

One of them had pink hair and tattoos covering his face and massive arms. He was kind of scary looking but in the hottest way possible. It was a shame he already had someone on his arm. Then there was the guy next to him, with a backwards hat that white hair slipped out of and eyes so blue they looked fake.

Your brain short-circuited for exactly half a second. Fuck. He was in fact the hottest man you’d ever seen, forget what you said earlier. Objectively. Scientifically, whatever. It wasn’t even a matter of opinion, just facts.

He was lean and tall with the face of a god, a pointy nose and full lips and you had to squeeze your thighs together when he looked in your direction, though his eyes weren’t on you. 

Shoko notices you staring and smirks. “Oh right. I forgot you haven’t met Gojo yet!”

“What?” You finally blink, glaring at your friend. “I wasn’t-”

“Satoru!” Shoko waved him over. “Come here, I want you to meet someone.”

Gojo locked eyes with her and smiled, leaning to whisper something to the man he had walked in with and handing him the case of beer he was carrying before moving toward the couch you were currently gripping. 

He was even more handsome up close, the smell of his cinnamon cologne cutting through the stench of sweaty bodies and alcohol. It was too bad he had to open his mouth and ruin everything. 

“Shoko.” His voice vibrates through you more than the music does, and it makes you feel pathetic. Since when have you ever let a man affect you like this? “Making new friends already?”

“This is my roommate,” Shoko says, gesturing toward you and tells him your name. “Play nice.”

When he turned those big blue eyes on you, your breath got caught in your throat, his smile widening as he held out his hand. “Well hello there. I’m Satoru, sophomore and president of this fine establishment.” 

Sophomore and president of an entire frat? You didn’t want to think of what kind of douchebag he had to have been to pull that off. You reluctantly shake his hand and pull it away faster than you did Suguru’s, your mouth growing sour. 

“You’re a quiet one.” He plops down on the couch between you and Shoko and you feel your irritation growing, your headache picking back up, mood completely ruined just from a few words. “It’s the hair, right? Or the eyes? Most people say the eyes. I get it, I’m a lot to process.”

He throws an arm on the couch behind you, leaning back and spreading his legs just wide enough to piss you the fuck off. Fuck this guy! 

“Wow,” You say flatly, moving from under his arm and turning to face him. “Do you practice being insufferable, or does it just come naturally?”

Shoko snorts into her cup while Suguru who had been sitting next to her lets out a “oh shit” under his breath. This was his and Satoru’s second year here and he had never heard anyone snap at his friend. 

Gojo’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew as he leaned into your space. “Naturally. It’s a gift, but I’m sensing some hostility, sweetheart. Are you not enjoying yourself? I’m sure I can show you a better time upstairs.”

You wanted to throttle him. So this is what your sister was trying to warn you about? What a fucking idiot you were to doubt her for even a second.

“I’d rather eat glass then let you touch me.”

He simply laughs at that, moving a little closer and forcing you to awkwardly lean back, heat creeping up your neck and to your ears. He was close enough to kiss you and you were about to smack him until he smiled and moved to stand up. 

“Nice to meet you, freshman. Maybe I’ll see you around, yeah?”

He disappears into the crowd and you want the floor to swallow you whole. You try to stay for the sake of your friend but each passing minute proves why you’d never show your face at these parties again. 

People were passing out from how drunk they were, someone had almost thrown up on your shoes and to top it all off, loud cheers were sounding from the backyard. You were about to tell Shoko it was time to go when she started running toward the back door to see what was going on and you reluctantly followed. 

The sight made your blood boil. Standing side by side was Gojo and the pink haired guy from earlier who you’d learn was Sukuna. There was a third guy with them, tall with broad shoulders, dark messy hair and a scar on his lip. 

A line of freshmen boys stood at the edge of the pool, each looking paler than the last. Sukuna was barking out orders and you watched in horror as they began to take off their shirts and then their shoes and pants. 

People were laughing, clapping and yelling for them to take off their underwear. You glared at the guy who said that, but he just shrugged and turned back to the show. Several phones appeared in the air despite Gojo’s threats that anyone caught recording would have them smashed.

This was so fucking sick. 

The poor guys looked like they wanted the ground to swallow them whole and just when you moved to put an end to this, an arm reached out to stop you. You snapped your head up, ready to lay into the person until a familiar set of dark eyes stared down at you. 

Suguru. 

“Get off of me.” You say through gritted teeth, pure anger making your heart beat faster and your blood pump harder.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” He warns you and you suddenly hate him as much as his prick of a friend, snatching away from him and turning back to the scene unfolding. 

Without an ounce of sympathy, Gojo clapped his hands together and nodded to the freshmen, his shorts hanging loose on his hips. 

"No need to be nervous. We've all got the same equipment!”

"If you're too embarrassed to strip," The scarred lip dude shouts over the cheering crowd. "you're probably too soft to wear our letters anyway."

A little motivating glare from Sukuna who looked even less interested in preserving anyone's dignity and they were stripping off the remainder of their clothes. You stared in absolute disbelief as the first pledge squeezed his eyes shut, signaled something that looked like a prayer and canonballed into the pool completely naked. 

One by one the others followed and you started to push through the crowd of students, ignoring Shoko yelling your name and evading Suguru’s attempt to grab you again.

Any microscopic chance you'd had of warming up to fraternities evaporated on the spot. These people were insane, fucking psychopaths and deserved a taste of their own medicine. 

By the time you reached the pool, the pledges were climbing out of the water, shivering and red-faced as older fraternity members tossed towels in their direction. They looked humiliated, their smiles not fooling you for a second.

“Hey asshole!” You shout toward the white haired douchebag, storming up to him and gaining the attention of the crowd who started to quiet down to listen to the spectacle you were creating. 

Good. Let them watch!

Gojo, who had been in the middle of laughing at something Sukuna said, looked at you and the grin spreading across his face only further annoyed you. He was so fucking hot but his personality sucked!

“Couch girl!” 

You ignore him, walking until you were close enough to stick your arm out and push his chest. He hardly moved but it was enough to knock that stupid smug smirk off his face for a split second before the corner of his mouth was lifting again. 

"What kind of pathetic excuse for leadership is this?" You gestured toward the soaking pledges who did their best to cover themselves with their small towels as they exchanged nervous glances. "Making them strip in front of half the campus because you think it's funny?"

“It was voluntary.” Sukuna spat, folding his arms and scowling at you, but you kept your eyes on Gojo who steps a little close to you.

“Oh please. Do you really expect me to believe a bunch of freshmen are gonna tell the people deciding if they get into this fraternity or not, ‘no’?” 

When someone in the crowd yelled that you had a point, Sukuna shot them a glare from the deepest pits of hell that had them shutting up and cowering back into the crowd. 

Meanwhile Gojo looked thoroughly entertained, that bastard. Not a hint of embarrassment on his face as he reaches forward and twirls a piece of your hair around his finger. His carefree attitude catches you off guard and you’re dumb founded, losing yourself in his big blue eyes before snapping out of it and pushing him away again. 

“You’ve known me for what..” He pulls his hand away and looks at the imaginary watch on his wrist. “Two hours and you’re already lecturing me? We're basically an old married couple already.” 

Your eye twitches. You hadn’t really thought of how he would react but amusement was the furthest thing you’d expect from someone getting scolded like an insolent child. 

You take a step back, not missing the way he eyes your body and your skin crawls.

“Fuck you dude! I wouldn’t let someone like you touch me with a ten foot pole, let alone let you marry me.”

He tilts his head as the crowd snickers and you grow impossibly hotter. You can feel Shoko pulling your arm but your feet are glued to the ground. It would take an act of god to get you to move before you were done saying what you had to say.

“Aww don’t be shy now. You’re making me feel self conscious too.” 

The words get under your skin more than you should have let them and the look on his face, the slight glint in his eyes tells you that he knows it. Before you can rip into him, the scarred lip dude butts in, pushing between the two of you. 

“Cute." He rolls his eyes. "Now either kiss or kill each other somewhere else. We've got pledges to traumatize."

You glare over his shoulder at Gojo one more time, seething at the way he winks at you, clearly finding this entire thing entertaining, before letting Shoko pull you away this time. If you saw him fifty years down the line it would still be too soon! 

You had to get an uber since you and Shoko were both too tipsy to drive and you outright declined Suguru’s offer to drop you off, having had your fix of frat boys for the next century. 

You rested your temple against the cool glass of the car window, nursing the dull ache forming behind your eyes while your stomach churned from the cheap vodka and lingering irritation.

Gojo Satoru.

Just thinking of his name made your jaw tighten.

He wasn't the first arrogant person you’d met. You’d known plenty in high school, cocky guys who were captains of some team or were blessed with a nice jawline and thought the world revolved around them. 

Gojo surpassed all of them. 

He wasn’t just cocky, but the kind of person that took everything as a joke, constantly performing and acting as if everyone around him was just a part of one big act. And the worst part about it, the part you refused to let yourself think of for more than a second because fuck that, was that he had no business looking the way he did.

It was almost offensive that someone as infuriating as him had a face that made you want to forget every sin he committed. 

You would just have to try your best to stay far away from him, steer clear of frat houses, frat parties, and anywhere someone like him might possibly show up.

Later that night you and Shoko are both wide awake, laying in the dark listening to the faint sounds of the occasional car or ambulance flying by. You’re still fuming, your earlier encounter making it hard for you to find sleep. 

“Hey Sho?”

“Yes?” 

“If you ever invite me to anything that asshole is at again, I’ll kill you both.”

“Noted.”

That was the day you grew to hate Satoru Gojo and the day he fell in love with you.

Now here you were. Your junior year came faster than you thought it would. 

In the time since you started at Jujutsu University, you joined the cheer team, made the dean’s list multiple times and built a tight knit friend group that consisted of you, Shoko, Utahime, Yuki and occasionally Suguru. 

Best of all, you had mostly stuck to your promise and kept away from Gojo, with the exception of a few incidents during your sophomore year when he had decided that you would be his new target of interest. It didn’t matter that you made your disdain for him clear, he never really gave up on his desperate attempts to win you over. 

One of the most memorable times was when you picked up Shoko from an invite only party and he answered the door. He was grinning, telling you that he knew you couldn’t resist him and lifting his black shades to his head, blue eyes flashing. 

"This is my favorite plot twist so far."

You bit your tongue and rolled your eyes, telling him you were here for Shoko only but nothing you said would get through that massive inflated head of his. 

“You were invited by the way. Why didn't you come?”  He actually frowns and you fight the urge to pinch yourself because he genuinely looks like a kicked puppy and you hate the way it tugs on your heart for a split second before you remember who you’re talking to.

“Because your last party fucking sucked.”

His ticking jaw and flared nostrils were your only signs that you had finally gotten to him before he was covering it up, licking his lips and looking down at your glossed ones with a grin. 

“Oh so you’re one of those girls.” He clicks his tongue, giving a dramatic shake of his head.

“Excuse me?” You cross your arms, chest already growing tight with irritation. This was supposed to be a quick pick up and somehow you ended up stuck talking to the one person you wanted to avoid.

“You know.. a judgmental stuck up bitch.” 

You had smiled, pride swelling in your chest because yes.. that’s exactly what you were and you hoped that now he’d take a fucking hint and leave you alone. If you were a little meaner maybe you’d scare him away for good. 

“That’s one way to put it.”

“You’re so evil.” He leans against the door frame, lowering his shades back to his face. “It’s hot, you’re just my type of girl, sweets.” 

The first week of your junior year had gone great, you hadn’t seen Gojo once which was a blessing in disguise since as you would later find out, you were both majoring in psychology. Your first day of cheer practice was coming up, you and Shoko were still sharing a dorm in your third year, your professors were all amazing and you managed to score an interview for a research internship next summer. 

Everything had been going in your favor.

It felt like you were on top of the world until the white haired devil himself walked into the lecture hall, dressed in a snapback, faded jeans and a football jersey. He looked out of place. Suguru was by his side as they looked for a seat and your heart was pounding as you snapped your head forward so fast it was painful, not wanting him to feel you staring. 

You sunk into your seat and dipped your head.

No, no, no! What the fuck was he doing here? Did he get lost? There was no way someone like Satoru Gojo would actually be taking a psychology class without being forced into it. Suguru, maybe. Satoru? He belonged in someone's business class, maybe engineering.

There was simply no universe in which he voluntarily enrolled in social psychology. 

But it didn’t matter what you thought, because he was here and you could hear him getting closer to you, his voice sending sparks down your spine. Just when you thought you were going to get lucky, the sound of a chair scraping beside you made your stomach flip. 

Painfully, you turned your head just as Gojo plopped down onto the seat to your right, his cologne invading your senses. Suguru apologized as he squeezed into the thin space to slip past you, taking the seat to your left. 

What a genius you were, picking a spot with two free seats on either side of you. 

Fantastic. Now you were trapped and Gojo only nodded at you when you glared at him, clearly fighting a smile as he leaned back in his seat as if he’d won a battle in this silent war you’d been in for two years. 

This was fine. You’d just ignore him like you always did. He thrived off of attention, so you would simply deprive him of it. 

Easy enough right? That’s what you thought until he opened his mouth and you remembered just how easily he got under your skin. How good he was at provoking a reaction out of you and it didn’t help that he looked hot as fuck with his skin slightly tanned from summer break, arms and chest a little bigger. 

“Would you look at that? Looks like we’re classmates now, princess.”

You tried to ignore him, really you did but whenever he was around you simply lost all sense of rationality, ten brain cells dying with every word that came out of his mouth.

“Don’t call me that.” You keep your eyes forward, trying to listen to the professor who was going over what you’d be covering this week. 

“Noted, princess.”

Surprisingly, you make it through most of class without Gojo bothering you. He only looks your way once but quickly turns his head when you catch him eyeing your exposed legs and pull your skirt down, his cheek dusted a light pink. 

You ignore the way you feel your ears burning from the attention, a desperate ache growing between your legs.

"Before anyone gets too comfortable, I should let you know this course revolves around a semester-long research project." 

A collective groan ripples through the lecture hall but your professor smiles anyways. 

"You'll be working in pairs. By the end of the semester, you'll present a research-backed analysis of interpersonal attraction and the psychological mechanisms that influence it. This isn't a project you can throw together the night before. You'll be meeting with your partner regularly throughout the term."

Partners? Fuck! 

You were a smart girl, always had been but working in groups had never been your strong suit. You were hyper independent and hated relying on others to carry their weight, especially when they hardly ever did. You either ended up doing all the work yourself or none of it, there was no in between. 

"To avoid everyone choosing their friends, I've paired you using a wheel spinner."

A projector illuminated the screen behind her and names began appearing in two neat columns. You leaned forward, quickly scanning for your name and when you found it, you read it again. 

And again, and again until you were shaking your head no and clenching your fists. 

Gojo, Satoru — [Full Name]

"...You've got to be kidding me." The words come out louder than you meant for them to, your professor looking at you with a raised brow. 

“I’m afraid there will be no changes. If anyone is unsatisfied with their partner you’re welcome to make your case after class but I'm afraid my decision is final unless you are at risk of being harmed.”

Did your emotional well being count? This was disastrous, a catastrophic fuck up and you would in fact take her up on her offer and be having a word with your professor once everyone left. You’d get on your knees and beg if you had to. 

Gojo’s lightly laughed beside you and you snap your head toward him with the meanest glare you can muster, eyes burning with fury. 

“What could possibly be funny?” 

He shrugs, biting his bottom lip and staring at your strawberry gloss covered one, not giving a fuck that you could see him checking you out. You squeeze your thighs, annoyed at the way your body was reacting to his attention, betraying you in a way that was unforgivable. 

“Guess fate ships us.”

Cheer practice hadn’t gone any better. As it turned out, Gojo had joined the football team and watching him run around all sweaty with his hair sticking to his head, kicking a ball in his blue uniform, was bad for someone trying to nail down their newest routine. 

The cheer gym was delayed on its remodeling and the auxiliary gym had been in use so the only free space was the football field, hence your current situation. 

It was hot, and you kept fucking up your stunts, eyes lazer focused on the field, instantly finding a set of white hair whenever you got tossed in the air. He hadn’t been looking at you, instead focusing on winning the mock game between teammates.

Yet he was still a nuisance even when he wasn’t trying to be and it didn’t help that you were still fired up from your conversation with your professor from earlier. When you begged to swap places with someone else, she had told you that ‘i don’t get along with fratboys’ wasn’t a legitimate reason to switch partners and that the project was worth fifty percent of your grade so you’d better find common ground fast.

Another thing nagging at you? You had only gotten laid a handful of times in the last year. Discovering you had an abnormally high libido after losing your virginity at the end of freshman year had been rough. Every guy you tried to build something with either couldn’t last more than two rounds before tapping out or wanted something more. 

You weren’t looking for a relationship, just someone to help you get off once or twice a day. Your vibrators could only do so much. You craved the real thing, but struggled to find someone who could meet your needs. 

"Focus!" Your captain's voice snapped you back to reality.

You blinked, realizing you had been staring at Gojo as he power kicked the ball into the net from halfway across the field, kicking dirt up. It was hot as fuck and irritated you at the same time. 

“Sorry.”

You shake your head, stepping into position and letting your bases lock their grips around your ankles before they launch you upward. The familiar rush of adrenaline hits as soon as your body lifts into the air, muscle memory taking over as you balance yourself.

You should have been focused on your counts, on the people responsible for catching you if something went wrong. What did you do instead? You let your eyes wander until they found him again, heart lurching when you saw that he was already staring at you. 

He waved and even from a distance you could tell he was smirking at you, ball in his hand as he pointed at the net and lowered it back to the ground. He moved his head from side to side, looking at you one last time before kicking the ball so hard that it almost took the goalie out, slamming into the back of the net.

Your cheeks burned, the ache from earlier returning. 

You were completely unaware that you were one second away from falling because your brain apparently thought watching him was more important than not breaking your neck. Stupid girl. 

“Eyes up!” Your captain's voice rang through the air and you forced your gaze down, correcting your posture before your bases caught you as you landed safely. 

When your feet hit the ground you exhale sharply, slightly stumbling. Gojo had gone back to playing, as if he hadn’t almost killed you by distracting you.

“Are you alright? You’ve been out of it this entire time-”

“I’m fine! Let’s go again.” 

You weren’t fine. You had just discovered that your brain was your biggest enemy, betraying you with a sudden attraction to your nemesis. That psychology degree was going to be very useful, now that you needed to diagnose why Satoru had become your biggest distraction.

Remember when I said, one might wonder how you of all people ended up with Gojo between your legs? Well here’s the straw that broke your back.

With the way your day had been going, you weren’t really surprised when your shift had gone to shit within the first thirty minutes. You hadn’t even changed out of your cheer uniform and were grateful your manager was nice about it and only made you put on an apron.

You were a baker at a small shop, and while you usually only iced pastries and baked bread, the cashier had called out so you were forced to cover both positions. 

After ringing up the nastiest group of teenagers, you accidentally burned an entire rack of focaccia bread and your finger in the process. Your manager was understanding and thankfully had been able to find someone to cover your shift. You weren’t happy about missing out on money but at least you could lay in your bed and relax after the shit day you had. Right?

Wrong!

Usually when Shoko has company, she texts you beforehand to let you know, so imagine your surprise when you walk into your dorm and you’re scarred for life with the sight of a random’s man ass as he fucks your friend into the mattress. 

The worst part is that they don’t even notice you! No one jumps up in shock and rushes to cover themselves. They continue to fuck like animals, as if you weren’t standing in the hall in shock. 

After a few seconds you realize you should probably leave, jealousy coursing through you as you slam the door and storm from the building. Even Shoko, who never showed romantic or sexual interest in anyone, was getting laid while you were barely getting by with your toys. 

Fine. If you weren't going to get some rest, you could at least be productive. 

The library was the perfect place to study, especially at this time of night. Most people were partying, working or if they were Shoko, getting fucked in their dorms. Libraries didn't contain drunk assholes, frat presidents trying to flirt with you or rude customers screaming at you over something you couldn’t control. It was calm. Quiet. 

And closed..

You stared at the locked doors, legs aching from the walk you just took to get here, thumb still hurting from earlier. You slowly walk to the locked doors, shrugging your cheer bag over your shoulder and checking the sign posted on the front door.

CLOSED DUE TO SHORT STAFFING

The universe was working against you, repaying you for some sin you committed in a past life and deciding you weren’t even allowed one small win today. And to make matters worse, you were still in your cheer uniform and it was getting chilly out.

You blamed Gojo. All of your issues started the moment he walked into that fucking lecture hall and decided to sit next to you. You were completely distracted after that which led to a shit cheer practice, a thirty minute shift and a burnt finger, and walking in on your best friend getting fucked. 

You could kill him right now and not feel an ounce of remorse, even if you logically knew it wasn’t really his fault. You had to blame someone. 

You read the sign again, as if it would magically change and the library would open. It was closed and you were fucked. Simple.

Based on the rare times Shoko did bring someone to your room, it lasted a few hours but you were always at work so it had never been a problem until today. 

"Unbelievable." You dropped your head back with a groan, tightening your grip on your bag and staring into the dark sky. Of course the one night you needed somewhere quiet to hide, the universe decided to laugh in your face. 

You kick lightly at the pavement, annoyed at yourself more than anyone else. If you hadn’t cut off the last guy you had been sleeping with just because he tried to invite you to a frat party, maybe you’d also be getting fucked right now. 

It was your own fault really. You were too stubborn for your own good, your mother would tell you. “No one will want to put up with your high demands.” as if you hadn’t gotten that trait from her. That was fine. You didn’t need anything more from a man than sex, but no one had been able to match your high drive. 

“I just need…” You look at the door again, tugging the handle just in case someone had forgotten to take down the sign.

Locked. 

“God dammit!” 

A laugh sounded from behind you and you froze, knowing exactly who it was without even turning around. Apparently the universe hadn't finished ruining your night yet. Yay, you. 

“Rough night?” 

You ball your fists and take a deep breath, counting to three and fighting back tears of frustration. When you turned around, you took in a sharp breath at the sight in front of you.

Gojo was holding a textbook under his arm and wearing a brown cardigan with a blue shirt underneath, light beige pants and were those..

He was wearing glasses. Not shades but bulky glasses that made him look kinda nerdy and the sight had the hair on your arms standings and your pupils expanding. He looked like a completely different person but you could tell it was him from the signature smirk he wore.

He stares at you with a titled head and you swallow the spit forming in your mouth. You weren’t seriously thirsty over Gojo right now, right? I mean, you knew you were sex deprived but he was everything you stood against so why were you staring at him like he was the best thing to walk the earth since Jesus himself? 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Came to study. Crazy concept, right?”

Your hand tightens around the handle of your bag, eyes drifting back to the textbook he was holding, though that was far from what you were staring at. Since when did Gojo have such huge hands and why were you attracted to his veins protruding as he grips the book?

“For you, yeah.” 

“Ouch.” He laughs, soft and gentle and the sound has your pussy clenching against nothing. No fucking way was your body betraying you right now. You had never in your life clenched at a laugh, nor grown wet at the sight of someone and yet it was happening no matter how hard you tried to ignore it. 

Gojo hadn’t even touched you, nor made any kind of sexual joke like he typically would and yet you were acting like a cat in heat. 

“You really think so little of me? I’m kind of heartbroken.” 

Yes. But you don’t say it, just look back at the dark building in defeat. Gojo notices and looks over your shoulder, his own sagging as he mumbles something you can’t understand.

“That’s unfortunate. You need somewhere to study, sweets? We can go to my place.” 

You’re turning to him so fast your head spins, shoulders stiff as you prepare to lay into him but he beats you before you can even open your mouth, hands come up defensively. 

“Not at the frat, I only live there part time. I have an apartment off campus, and a desk we can use.” 

He waits for you to say something before giving up and sighing in exhaustion. You could tell he was annoyed but you didn’t care. If he was going to try to get you back to his place, he’d have to try a little harder than whatever this was.

“We should probably study together anyways right? You know, since we’re partners now..”

You should have said no, told him to fuck off but he did have a point. The library was closed, your roommate was otherwise occupied, and the faster you and Gojo finished your project, the sooner you’d never have to see each other again. 

"One hour."

His grin appeared immediately as he held his free hand out to you. "Knew you couldn't resist me."

You scuff and move past him, getting into the passenger seat and making sure you glared out the window the entire ride there.

Gojo didn’t live far, no more than twenty minutes away from campus and you were grateful. Being in an enclosed space with him was hard enough, especially since the entire thing smelled of that cinnamon cologne that drove you crazy.

He tried to talk to you. About football practice, the assignment, the terrible song on the radio, anything to hear your voice but you were dead set on ignoring him, answering in low grunts and one word responses. 

“The uniform is hot by the way. Had no idea you were a cheerleader, but I can’t say I mind watching you while I practice. The next time you want my attention though, just ask. No need to risk cracking your head open just to look at me.” 

You’re insulted, face burning but you won’t feed into this petty spat he clearly wants to have. In the two years you’ve known him and the times you had to suffer his presence, you came to learn that everything he said was to get a reaction out of you.

Not this time. 

“Gojo?”

“Yes, princess?” 

“Shut up.”

Gojo’s apartment smelled like expensive air freshener and a faint trace of weed he swore he didn’t smoke anymore and it was from Sukuna and Suguru who had been over earlier. You ignored him, dropping your bag on the living room floor and looking around. 

It was nice. Not spotless but cleaner than you thought it would be. Most of the furniture, you noticed, was black. His couch, the tables and chairs, even the curtains. 

A stack of textbooks sat on his coffee table alongside a half-empty sports drink and what looked like a few polaroids. You move to get a better look but before you can really see anything, Gojo brushes past you and snatches them.  

“Tsk, nosey girl.” He clicks his tongue and moves toward the kitchen. “Do you want anything?” 

An hour later, you’re full off the takeout food Gojo got delivered and knee deep in your studies. You try to ignore the fact that the desk you’re sitting at is in his fucking bedroom but if he wasn’t overreacting to it then you weren’t going to either. 

The last thing you needed right now was for Gojo to get distracted. He had actually been focusing on the project, refraining from making any crude comments or staring at your breast though you’d caught him looking at your bare legs once.  

"Interpersonal attraction refers to the positive feeling one person forms toward another,'" You were sitting together at his desk as he read aloud from the textbook while you took notes. "'Researchers generally agree attraction develops through a combination of biological, cognitive, behavioral, and environmental factors.'"

You typed the definition into your outline while he skimmed farther down.

"'Repeated exposure to an individual tends to increase positive feelings toward them, even in the absence of meaningful interaction.'"

You don’t miss the way he lets his shoulder bump into yours, body moving an inch closer to yours. You have to squeeze your legs and bite back the moan creeping up your throat. He was still wearing the glasses, claiming his contacts were drying his eyes and that you would have known he wore them if you spent more than five minutes around him without ripping his head off. 

You clear your throat and lean your body the opposite way. "The mere exposure effect."

"Mhmm. Which basically means people annoy each other until they fall in love."

Your fingers paused over the keyboard, slightly shaking as you look over at him. He was already staring, having moved closer to you again. The desk was big enough to hold both your laptops but small enough that you still invaded each other's space, his trick of turning his chair to face you doing nothing now that his knees brushed against the side of your thigh. 

He was reaching a hand out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and you didn’t stop him, didn’t yell at him to fuck off. You just sat there, breathless, mind trying to process what was happening as he frowned at your lip tucked between your teeth.

"That’s not what it says." You whisper and he leans in closer, the corner of his mouth tugging in a small smile, eyes soft behind his glasses.

Gojo had been a thorn in your side since freshman year. He was everything you hated: arrogant, a fratboy, rich nepo baby, and a massive fuckboy that played with girls' hearts like they were toys meant for his entertainment.

But he was also infuriatingly smart when he bothered to try, and right now, he was watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle and your pussy grow wet. 

“Sure, whatever my princess says.” His voice is sultry and low as he reaches a hand out again to rubs his thumb on your lower lip, pulling it out before letting go. 

You swallow hard, butterflies fluttering in your belly. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re tense.” He lets his hand travel to your shoulder, slow enough so that you could pull away, and when you don’t, he continues tracing your exposed collarbone, toying with the v-neck of your top. 

“You’ve hated me for three years. That takes a lot of passion, ever wonder why you care so much?”

You opened your mouth to yell at him, to defend yourself against what he was implying because you had plenty of reasons to hate him but couldn’t think of any at this moment. Your brain was short circuiting and it was humiliating. 

“I don’t care.” You manage to spit out.

Gojo’s eyes darkened, his grin fading. “Liar.” 

His other hand slid up your thigh, creeping under your skirt and still, you didn't move away. Instead you decided to embarrass yourself even further and spread your legs to give him easier access. 

“The chapter says physical attraction can override rational judgment. Maybe that’s what’s happening here. You claim I'm an asshole but you’re still sitting in my room, letting me touch you.”

“I’m-, oh!” You cry when he hovers over your clothed cunt, barely touching it and you’re bucking against him for more. So pathetic, so stupid. “I’m merely analyzing the s-subject matter.”

“Yeah, princess? Let’s put that theory to the test. I’ll keep touching you..” He turns your chair toward him, ignoring the way you gasp and glare at him for the loss of contact. He pulls it closer, the legs scrapping against the floorboard.

“And we’ll see if your rational judgment kicks in.” 

He taps your thigh and you lift your hips as he pulls your panties down and tosses them over his shoulder. He’s spreading your legs again, further this time and he doesn’t waste a moment. His fingers are rubbing against your slit and you toss your head onto the back of the chair, hips shaking as you whine into his hand.

Gojo moved to kneel in front of you, his middle finger slipping between your folds and nudging at your entrance. When you looked down at him, entire body on fire, he was staring up at you as if looking for your approval. 

Obviously grinding against him like a desperate whore wasn’t enough. No, Gojo wanted to hear you, to humiliate you and mock you for all the shit you had given him just to let him finger you when you should have been working on your project. 

“Use your words or I'll stop.” He goes to pull his fingers away and your heart lurches. 

The last thing you wanted was to beg him of all people but you were too far gone to not get something out of this. So you swallow your pride and nod. 

“Keep going, you fucking jerk.”

He chuckles and grabs your thighs, placing them both over his shoulders. “I’m about to eat your pussy and you still can’t be nice to me.” 

You don’t respond and he’s pushing his middle and index fingers through your neglected hole, not giving you any time to adjust before leaning down and taking your clit in his mouth. 

“Satoru!” You cry out his name and the sound of coming from your lips has him groaning against you and closing his eyes to savor it. 

You reach a hang out to grab his hair, looking down and clenching around his fingers because the way he has his head under your skirt is so fucking hot you think you might cum on the spot. He was so hungry for you that he didn’t even properly undress you, greedy man that he was. 

His fingers curl inside of you, pumping a little faster as he licks up and down your slit, stopping to suck on your clit each time he passes it. When you try to close your legs, he grabs your thigh with his free hand and pulls it further open. 

“Mmff, shtay righ' there.” He mumbles against your pussy, wrapping his lips back around your clit and sucking hard, using his teeth to lightly nibble and you’re leaking so much you can feel it dripping down your thighs. 

This wasn’t the kind of research you had been expecting to do but you would accept it just this once, for the sake of your grade of course. This is also the longest he’s ever been quiet in your presence and if you had known that he was such a good pussy eater you would have put his mouth to use long ago. 

‘Haaah, go deeper, I- oh god, nggghh I need more!” You grind against his face harder, gripping his hair and pulling him closer. 

He just moans encouragingly, burying his fingers knuckles deep and fucking you dumb with them. Your squishy walls contracted around his fingers and with the next curl of them, you were wrapping your legs around his head and cumming so hard that your vision turned white, orgasm stealing your sight while you buck wildly against his face. 

You were making a huge mess but Gojo didn’t seem to mind, licking you through it and only slowing his fingers when your legs dropped. He placed a kiss on your pussy before pulling from under your skirt and sucking on his fingers, looking right up at you. 

His glasses were crooked, face glistening with your release and his cheeks were flushed red. Your chest heaved up and down dramatically as you fought to breathe properly again. 

You couldn't remember the last time you came that hard and irritated you, made you crave more but you could never let him touch you again. This was a mistake, a serious lapse of judgement and yet you still needed more, your pussy already coming back to life. 

You quickly stand and pull your skirt down, legs weak as you move around Gojo to find your panties, mortified at your own feelings right now. You just let a frat president go down on you and now you were thinking of how he would fuck you? 

Clearly you weren’t in the right state of mind. 

“You’re not tired of running away from me yet?” Gojo snaps, all sense of playfulness gone. 

He was annoyed, you could hear it in his voice. Not that you cared but he was your ride here so you might as well appease him a little, right? 

“I’m not running!” You yell, fingers digging into your palms. You were so beyond angry with yourself, disappointed that you got this far without falling into his den and now here you were. “I got what I wanted, the theory was correct but I think this study session has lasted longer than it should have.” 

He looks at you in disbelief, taking his glasses off with a sigh and setting them on the desk before walking over to you, running his hand through his messy hair. 

You were frozen. Every rational part of your brain screamed at you to shove him away and walk out. But your body was humming, and the way he looked at you made you want more. 

He hovered over you, grabbing your chin and titling your head back so he can look you in the eyes, his other hand on your hip and playing with the waistband of your skirt. 

“I can tell you haven’t been touched properly in a long time. Why do you insist on pretending like you don’t feel this pull between us, even if we hate each other?”

“You hate me?” Your lip twitches. While you can confidently say you despised him, he never gave the impression that he felt the same unless he had some sick way of showing it. 

Gojo frowns and you hate how beautiful he looks. “No, never. I do want to fuck you though, so maybe we can help each other out.”

He pulls your skirt down just a little, fingers rubbing at the skin on your hip and sending a shiver through your body. 

“Kind of like.. an arrangement. You can keep on hating me in public but in this room, I get to fuck you for as long as I want. Call it research for our project. Deal?” 

You take a minute to think about it. 

You were still seething at yourself for letting him touch. This meant nothing, you still hated him but even you had needs that needed to be met and if Gojo made you cum that hard from his fingers and tongue, you had to know what his cock could do.

“Fine, but I should warn you that I have a really high libido that most men can’t keep up with. If it’s too much I’ll just find-”

He cuts you off with a laugh, grabbing your hips and pulling you close enough that you feel his rock hard cock twitching against your stomach. He grabs the back on your neck and squeezes until you’re looking up at him again. 

“You just haven’t been with a real man yet, princess. But don’t worry, I'll take real good care of you. Now take off your fucking clothes.” 

You bite your tongue, resisting the urge to ask who he was talking to and at the same time, kicking yourself because you kind of liked it.  

“Safe word?” He asked, unbuttoning his pants and stepping out them, his bulge huge against his white boxers, a small wet spot sitting on the front of them. 

You roll your eyes and lift your shirt off, then your skirt. “We’re not children. Our safe words are stop and no.” 

He nods and pulls his cardigan off and then the shirt underneath. Holy fucking sleeper build. Gojo was ripped but you’d never be able to tell under the clothes he wears. You’re taken aback by just how attractive he was, remembering the day you first saw him and how he was ten times hotter now. 

Still a fratboy, still a prick but even you couldn't deny that he was one of the most stunning humans out there. Kind of otherworldly if you thought about it long enough.

“How about kissing? You cool with that, orrr?” He asks while pulling his boxers down and stepping out of them, his cock hitting his stomach and it was definitely the biggest one you’d ever seen. Thick and pulsing, pre leaking from the mushroom tip.

“Off limits. We’re strictly enemies with benefits, nothing more.”

 There was no need to make this more difficult than it already was. You were beating yourself up for even being attracted to him, then to add kissing on top of that? You needed to save a shred of your dignity so you would be keeping your kisses. 

“Fine, and we always use condoms. Not trying to be a dad in college like Toji. And no whining.”

You nod in agreement even though you were on birth control, snapping your bra off and tossing it, letting Gojo admire you and relishing in the way he looks like a lovestruck fool, hearts basically bursting in his eyes. 

You don’t give him long, moving to climb on his bed and lay on your back. Your body was tight with need and you hadn’t even realized what you were doing, spreading your legs and playing with your pussy. 

Gojo stands by the side of the bed and watches you as he reaches into the nightstand for a condom, using his teeth to rip it open and stroking it on. 

You feel the bed dip first, his body climbing between yours, using his legs to nudge yours further open and then the heat of his cock pressing against your thigh. 

“Fuck, you look so perfect.” 

You open your eyes and if you didn’t hate him you’d say the same thing. His white hair messy on his head, the longer pieces falling into his bright blue eyes. His body was perfect, his shoulders not too broad but muscular, his waist thinner. 

“Whatever, just fuck me.” You huff and in a blink he’s smacking his cock on your pussy then lining himself up with your entrance. 

His heat engulfs you when he lays over your body, tapping your thigh so you wrap your leg around his waist.

He places his forehead on yours and smiles as sweetly as possible, one hand digging into the bed above your head to hold him up, the other placed on your hip.

“Ready?” He nudges your nose, gripping the sheets to stop himself from kissing you. 

You bit your lip and nod, before stopping and pushing at his chest when he starts to nudge the tip in. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll ruin your life.” 

He rolls his eyes, swallowing the words ‘you already have’. “Sure, now can I fuck you?”

When he pushes the first few inches in, you gasp from the sting and before you can stop him he’s leaning down and pressing his soft lips against yours to quiet you.

He squeezes your hip and with one more brutal thrust, he was inside you, filling you to the hilt in one go. You cried into his mouth and he swallowed it, your back arching off the bed as he bottomed out, his balls pressing against your ass. He was almost too big, stretching you in ways that should’ve been painful but wasn’t. 

He was the perfect fit, just what you had been looking for, the tip of his cock pressing deliciously against your cervix.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” he groaned, pulling back to look at you before slamming into you again. And again, his hips pistoned against yours, each snap of his pelvis driving him deeper and grinding onto your clit, your toes curling from the intense pleasure. 

“Satoru! Huuuh, yes, fuck me just like that!” You tighten your legs around his waist, moving your hips up to meet his. 

You clawed at his back, your nails leaving red marks as he fucked you like he hated you. Like he wanted to ruin you and punish you for making him wait years to do this. And god, did you love it.

“Harder,” you gasped.

He laughed darkly, gripping your throat just enough to make your vision swim. “You want it rough, baby? S-shit! You want me to fuck you like the enemy that you are?”

“Yes Satoru! P-please.”

In a flash he was flipping you over, placing you on your hands and knees and slamming back into you before you could catch your breath. Your ass was in the air and he pushed your head down until it was flat on the mattress, his hands tight on your waist as he pounded into you, his hips snapping against yours with a bruising force. 

Thank god he had his own place because each thrust had the bed rocking and sent a jolt of hot pleasure through you, your pussy clench around him and making obscene wet squelching noises that only fueled his hunger for you.

Gojo picked up his pace, veiny cock rubbing against your walls and he wished he could feel your raw pussy, wanted to stuff you full of his cum but he knew better so he ignored his instinct and focused on fucking you. 

The cries you let slip out are music to his ears, a song he wanted to hear every fucking day but he would settle for tonight, for now. He leans forward and fucks into you harder, hand squeezing your boob and twisting your nipples, pinching and pulling until you’re whimpering, tears pooling down your face. 

“Didn’t I say no whining?  Be a good girl, princess.”

You don’t hear what he’s saying, too drunk on his cock as he fucks you stupid, drool spilling from your mouth and onto the sheet. The sight has Gojo groaning, his balls tightening as he splits you open on his cock and fucks you stupid.

“Shit, look at you. All fucked out. Fucking take it baby. Take my cock like a good cum slut.”

His words have you shaking violently with your second orgasm, eyes rolled back as he fucked you through it, squirting heavy on his cock and making a beautiful mess. 

“Never letting anyone fuck you again.” He pushes you further onto the bed, your stomach flat against the mattress as he grinds deep into you, completely dominating you, his hands gripping the sheets above you. “This is mine, say it’s my pussy, baby. Tell me you belong to me-fuck-haaah.”

You don’t answer but the way you’re crying for more is enough to satisfy Gojo and he’s filling the condom with white hot cum, gasping as wave after wave of pleasure rocks him, his hips twitching as he empties himself into the latex.

He gives sloppy, lazy thrusts as he rides it out, pushing deep into you one last time before pulling out and falling onto his back next to you. While you come back down to earth, he’s ripping the condom off, tying it and tossing it into the trash before reaching for another one. 

Before you know it, he’s rolling it and pulling you onto his lap, lining himself up and pulling you down onto his cock while pushing up into you, fingers digging into your hips. 

“Ready for round two?” He smirks when you start to move despite still trying to remember how to breathe properly.

He doesn’t stop after that, keeps fucking you until you’re on the verge of passing out, body weak and shaking but still wanting more.

“What number are we at now, four? Come on, princess. Gimme another one, I know you can do it. Gotta get to five, it’s my favorite number.”

Holy shit.. Gojo was everything you had been looking for in a sexual partner. You had been fucking for two hours now and yet he still has the energy of a man running on spite and arrogance.

It was almost comical. You were a fucking goddess, you could get anyone you wanted, any man would be lucky to have you. Yet the only one who seemed to know how to satisfy you was the one guy you couldn’t stand. 

Not that any of that mattered when he had you riding his cock, again, your pussy swollen from how hard he’d been fucking you without tiring. Your clit was overstimulated but he kept rubbing it anyway, your back arching as you felt the pressure building in your belly again.

“C-can’t Toru’” You slurred, drooling dripping down your chin, your face completely wet with tears, makeup long ruined.

“I believe in you, baby.” He smacks your ass hard and then does it again just to watch the way you jump. “Look at you, taking me so well. S’proud of you babe.” 

You ignore the pet name, ass on fire and too close to cumming for the fifth time to argue with him over it.His hands grip your hips, pulling you up and down on his cock. You twirled your hips, spelling your name out as you fucked him back, body aching from the intense fuck session. 

It wasn’t long before you were grinding harder against Gojo’s pelvis and squirting on him again, fingers pressing into his shoulders as he fell over the edge with you. Pushing himself up and throwing his head back with a roar, legs stretching out as he pumped a thick load of cum into condom. 

You move up and down as much as you can, helping him finish his orgasm before collapsing against his chest. Gojo wraps his long arms around you, cock still seated inside you as you both fight to breathe, sweaty bodies sticking together, eyes droopy with exhaustion. 

What a fucking night. 

You would one hundred percent be fucking him again, even if it was just until you found someone you could tolerate outside of the bedroom. As for now, Gojo was the only one that could tame the fire inside of you and fuck did you hate to admit that. 

You can feel his heart beating against your own, his hand rubbing up and down spine, lips kissing the side of your head. As reality comes back to you, you freeze before pushing yourself off him and laying next to him on the bed. 

You ignore the hurt look on his face. 

“Wanna shower with me?” Gojo asks, sitting up and pushing his hair from his forehead, looking at you over his shoulder with cloudy eyes. 

“Seperate.”  You don’t even look at him. Way to flip the script on him, he was usually the one ignoring girls after getting what he wanted.

He nods and goes through his drawer before finding a pair of sweatpants to put on, the obvious bulge of his still hard cock making your pulse jump.

He goes into the bathroom connected to his room and you hear the shower turn on before he comes back out and tosses you a towel. You can tell he’s upset but you ignore it. He wasn’t your man, it wasn't your problem. 

After you wash your body and your hair, you find that he’s left you a pair of shorts and a shirt on the bed. When he comes back in the room and sees you dressed in his clothes, the size of it swallowing you, his heart damn near stops and you see the way he swallows the lump in his throat. 

He clears his throat and smiles at you, slowly walking toward you and your body goes cold when he places his hand on your cheek and leans down to kiss your forehead. 

That was the second time he broke your rule and the second time you didn’t correct him.

“Stay. I’ll bring you home in the morning, I can take the couch.” 

You nod your head ok, lost for words and he simply nods and moves past you to take his shower.

Later that night you toss and turn before giving up and laying on your back, staring at the ceiling in the nearly dark room, drumming your fingers on your stomach. You sometimes had nights where you just couldn’t sleep no matter what you did and it seems tonight was one of those nights. 

You’re still sore between your legs, a reminder that you went back on your word and let Gojo fuck you. You didn’t regret, even had plans on doing it again but that didn’t mean you weren’t angry with yourself. More so because you smelled just like him after using his soap.

He just knew all the right places to touch you, all the best ways to make you cum harder than you did the time before, his cock fitting so perfectly inside of you. It was a shame he had the personality of a walnut. 

When you finally turn on your side to go to sleep, eyes burning from exhaustion, you feel the bed dip behind you and strong arms wrap around you. 

You try to squirm out of Gojo’s grip but he tightens his arms around you, pulling you until your ass is flush against his hard cock, his chin tucked atop your head. 

“Gojo.. we need to sleep, we have class tomorrow.” 

“So I’m only Satoru when I fuck you? Wicked girl.” He leans down to kiss your neck and you let him, again, feeling your clit grow erect and that ache return. 

“That’s your name isn’t it?” You huff out, moving your hips back against him.

He ignores you, hand going to your hip you pull you close as he grinds into you, slipping yours and his pants down. He quickly puts on a condom before pushing into you, bottoming out in one thrust, hand covering your mouth to keep you quiet. 

“Gonna fuck you until you only know Satoru.. You know, my favorite number is actually six.”

You may have bitten off more than you could chew.

❦ lisa's note: sorry about the pledge scene 🥲 I wanted to show how frats are and needed you to truly hate them. promise I'll make up for it!

© art creds: gojouify

⤳ series tags 1: @timgiohlover1767 @liahcharms @kissprl @lunevarin @keiito066 @pinkpantherrrrss @lounastar @luvs-angel @luvbambiboo @scramblenigojo @nationalmegumidihhopper @5secondsofdorkss-blog @sadteam666 @alittlekurumi @lovebythuuu @rinnyho @user09815 @setia1256 @weirdothatwrites @kingjuliancypher @espresshoe012 @miwarumi @pinkpantherrrrss @ioveariaa @ibelieveintrafalgarlawsupremacy @asiitwas @iilovechoso123 @slovair @izumkay @megottheswaskikacooooke @introvertedfreakk @skeletaldynamolegion @nctwayv127dream @0soleilmist @bambi-lia @thecoolest4eva @yujiswifey @angelziez @valkyrieanqel @fzvcfjky @roroclarinett @billiondollarworth @coolprincessgirls-blog @mariaaliyha @secretsofchance @yeagerluvr @suguruuslut @wiserion @nemisimp @yochicoz

[tays-writing]

Masterlist

★ smut

Satoru Gojo

you get off to !nerdjo whimpering ★ part 1 . part 2 . part 3 . part 4. part 5 (...)

saying “I wish I had someone strong to rely on” to the strongest ★

putting a collar on !nerdjo ★

forcing !nerdjo to read his notes while you touch yourself ★

don't fall for me ★

if you were sober: part 1 . part 2 . part 3 . part 4 ★

sucking off your boyfriend in his cousin's wedding ★

SMAU | boyfriend Satoru vs your LADS husband(s)

Love and Deepspace

trying the “am I allowed to eat?” tiktok prank on the LADS men

when LADS men meet ft Rafayel & Xavier

slapping your boyfriend as a birthday gift (caleb) ★

punishing your boyfriend with your stilettos (sylus) ★

you are testing my restraint (zayne) ★

gojo coded (xavier)

forcing the LADS men to experience CupcakKe songs against their will

LADS men as Taylor Swift Songs | The Life of a Showgirl Version

SMAU | trying the 'AI naked man' tiktok prank on the LADS men

SMAU | LADS men Tinder profiles

SMAU | asking the LADS men if they've seen the news about the "unidentified beast" in Linkon 🐺

SMAU | who's my good boy? ft Valko

SMAU | wrong chat: in which you accidentally confess to the LADS men

[tays-writing]

!nerdjo x reader | part 4

Exam stress leads to a late night horny decision. Everything is going great, until the guy in the video starts sounding a little too familiar

part 1 here! . part 2 here! . part 3 here!

cr: 3vangel1ne_ on X

Play this.

-

By the time you arrived at Choso’s party, his house was already overflowing.

Bodies crowded every room, conversations blurred into laughter, red cups littered every available surface; and the air smelled like cheap perfume, vodka, and the unmistakable sweetness of someone smoking weed by the open door to the garden.

You'd already lost count after your second shot.

Maybe your third.

Shoko was talking to Choso beside you, animated as always, but the alcohol had turned her voice into little more than background noise.

Then the music shifted. The opening beat sent a ripple of cheers through the room. You barely noticed, until the lyrics started.

“I wanna watch you like a movie…”

Your fingers tightened around your cup. Not now.

“I wanna put you on the stage…”

You took another sip. Maybe the burn of the alcohol would be enough to keep that damn video from resurfacing every time the lyrics seemed determined to drag it back.

“I wanna know what you’d do to me…”

Apparently not. The universe had to be fucking with you.

“I wanna put you on the tape…”

The corner of your mouth twitched. Whoever had made the playlist had an awful sense of timing.

“Flashing red light, baby you’re a star…”

You lifted your cup for another drink, your eyes drifting absentmindedly across the room.

“Fuck me all night, show me who you are…”

Your eyes landed on a familiar face, and suddenly the music died.

“No fucking way” you whispered.

Satoru was leaning awkwardly against the far wall, towering over almost everyone around him, looking as though he’d somehow got lost on his way to the library.

A plain white T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, dark jeans hugging long legs that seemed unfairly endless. His white hair was still messy in that unintentionally perfect way, but something was different—

He wasn’t wearing his glasses. 

You’d never seen him without them before.

Under the pulsing red and blue lights, his eyes looked impossibly bright, scanning the room with the same restless uncertainty he always seemed to carry outside the safety of a classroom.

God.

The alcohol was making this so much worse.

He looked dangerously handsome.

And completely miserable.

Only then did you notice the blonde girl standing beside him, chatting easily with a small group of friends.

Satoru wasn’t saying much. His shoulders were stiff, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his smile polite but painfully strained. He looked like he was about to jump out of his own skin. Every few seconds his eyes drifted somewhere else, as though he were searching for an escape route.

The sight twisted something ugly inside your chest.

He definitely came here for her.

So why did he look like he wanted to be anywhere else?

“Oh… damn,” Shoko murmured, following your gaze “He cleans up nice.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, your eyes found Choso behind the kitchen counter, busy pouring another round of drinks.

“Choso” You called over the music, nodding toward the living room. “Do you know that guy? The really tall one with white hair?”

Choso glanced over, squinting through the crowd. “Oh, him? Not really” He shrugged “The blonde girl invited him—I think? They’re in the same class or something.”

Your chest tightened painfully. Of course. You’d known it before you’d even asked. He’d come because she invited him. That was why he was here, looking unfairly hot in a party setting he clearly didn’t belong in.

Jealousy burned hot and ugly in your stomach.

“Right” you muttered.

You reached for the nearest cup and downed it in one go. It tasted like fruit punch and regret, but it didn't matter. 

Shoko raised an eyebrow “You good?”

“Perfectly” you lied.

An hour later, you were properly drunk. You’d lost Shoko what felt like an eternity ago, and the air downstairs had become too thick—heavy with perfume, sweat, and a bass that hammered relentlessly against your temples.

You needed to get out.

Your feet ached inside heels that had long since become instruments of torture, carrying you away from the madness. You drifted through the crowded house, weaving between strangers with half-empty cups in their hands. Laughter blurred into conversations you couldn't quite make out. 

Your head felt pleasantly light.

Or maybe dangerously so.

As you climbed the stairs, the flashing lights faded behind you. The music that had swallowed the house only moments ago softened into a dull pulse, vibrating through the floorboards and echoing faintly against the walls.

The upstairs hallway was almost empty. A single lamp cast a warm glow over the wooden floor, leaving the far end swallowed in shadow.

You blinked once.

Twice.

Letting your eyes adjust.

And then you saw him.

Satoru was standing at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall, half-swallowed by the darkness, his phone resting loosely in one hand. The pale glow of the screen washed over his face, tracing the line of his jaw and the curve of his neck.

Somehow, he looked even more beautiful than usual.

For a fleeting second, reality snapped back into focus. The precarious balance on your heels. The dull ache in the arches of your feet. The desperate need to stay upright.

Almost instinctively, your fingers found the hem of your skirt, tugging it down where it had ridden up against the back of your thighs—a clumsy, subconscious attempt to make yourself look at least a little more put together.

He came here for her.

And yet… He was alone. The girl who’d barely left his side downstairs was nowhere to be seen.

Your eyes lingered on the broad shoulders hidden beneath the plain white T-shirt, then drifted to the long fingers loosely curled around his phone before settling on the nervous way he shifted his weight against the wall.

He looked exactly the same as he always did.

Quiet. Awkward. Completely unaware of how beautiful he was.

Your curiosity curled hot in your stomach.

The version of Satoru you knew in daylight and the one you’d watched through a screen felt like two different people.

You were dying to know which one would look back at you if you got close enough.

Before your brain had the chance to catch up, your feet were already moving across the hallway, the sharp click of your heels breaking the silence.

“Hey.” 

Satoru startled so badly he nearly dropped his phone.

“Shit—”

He looked up, quickly locking the screen before slipping the phone into his pocket with practiced ease. The movement was almost too quick, too casual—the kind of I’m just standing here composure that would’ve been convincing if his ears hadn’t already started turning pink.

“Oh…” His eyebrows lifted. “Hi.”

A beat.

“…You’re here.”

You took another step toward him. The hallway suddenly felt much narrower.

“Didn’t expect to see you at a party.”

“Yeah, I…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t usually come to these.”

“But you came because she invited you.” you countered, the alcohol sharpening your edges

He blinked, visibly caught off guard by the accusation.

“I—”

You didn’t let him answer. 

Instead, you tilted your head, your gaze drifting over his face.

“You’re not wearing your glasses.”

You were close enough now to catch his scent—clean soap, something fresh and woody, and something underneath it that was unmistakably him.

His hand flew to his face almost on instinct.

“Oh. Yeah. I... I thought the contacts might be better for a party. Less likely to get knocked off or fogged up or… whatever.” He laughed nervously “I feel weird without them.”

You took another step. The height difference was staggering; he had to look down at you, and the way he did it—soft, shy—made your knees feel weak. You reached out, your fingers ghosting over his jaw, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone. 

Satoru went completely still. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating until the icy blue was nearly swallowed by black.

“I like you better with the glasses,” you murmured, your eyes fixed on the place where your fingertips brushed his skin. “They make you look… smart. Cute.”

“You…” His voice cracked, a high, strained sound. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned into your touch as if he were trying to memorize the feeling. “You're…” He hesitated, struggling to find his voice. “...really close.”

“Does it bother you?” you challenged, your hand moving to the back of his neck, your thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. “Or is it that you’d rather be with someone else?”

He shivered, a visible tremor running through his broad shoulders. He looked down at your lips, his own parting slightly.

“N-no” he whispered.

You smiled, the expression a little tipsy and a whole lot dangerous. Your other hand came up, resting flat against his chest. The fabric of his shirt was soft, but the muscle beneath it was hard, and you could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your palm. You tilted your head back to meet his gaze, savoring the warmth radiating from him.

“You’re too tall,” you murmured, the words slipping out with a hunger you didn't bother to hide. “Always towering over everyone.”

Satoru swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. “I know. Sorry—I’m always in the way.” He tried for a light laugh, but it came out as a ragged exhale. His hands remained at his sides, fists clenched until the knuckles turned white, as if he were physically anchoring himself to the wall to keep from touching you. “You’re… you’re drunk, aren’t you?”

The question sounded like a desperate attempt to break whatever had settled between you, to remind himself of the boundaries that were rapidly dissolving. 

You didn't answer. Instead, you leaned in closer, your nose brushing against his collarbone as you inhaled deeply, letting his scent fill your lungs.

“You smell so good,” you whispered against his skin, almost drunk on it “God, why do you smell so good?”

You didn’t care anymore that you weren’t the girl he thought about when he recorded those videos. The alcohol had burned away every last bit of restraint.

“You’re so soft..” you breathed, dragging your lips slowly along the warm skin of his neck, savoring the feeling.

Without a second thought, you pressed a slow, lingering kiss right where his pulse was jumping wildly beneath your lips. 

He let out a soft, broken sound—half whimper, half sigh. It was the exact sound you’d heard a dozen times through your headphones, but hearing it now, feeling it vibrate against your mouth, was a visceral, jolting experience. The hallway felt like it was closing in, and the muffled music from the party below felt miles away. 

“You shouldn’t… I mean, you’re drunk, and I—” He whispered the words. But even as he spoke, he betrayed himself by tilting his head slightly, giving you more access to his neck.

You welcomed the invitation.

Your lips trailed lower, moving to the ridge of his collarbone. You dragged your tongue slowly across the bone in one long, teasing lick. Satoru shuddered violently, a pretty, needy moan escaping his throat.

“Fuck—why are you...” His breath hitched “Ahh—why are you doing this to me?”

You could feel him hard against your hip when you pressed closer, the thick outline unmistakable. Yet his hands remained glued to his sides, fists clenched, shaking with restraint.

One of your hands slid to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his soft white hair. You pulled him down slightly, making the height difference even more obvious, and latched your mouth onto the side of his neck again.

This time you kissed him open-mouthed, sucking gently on his skin. Satoru whimpered, the sound breaking beautifully as you sucked harder, determined to leave a mark.

“Please—” he breathed. “I can’t—”

He still wouldn’t touch you back. His arms stayed rigid at his sides, his hands clenching and unclenching like he was fighting a war with his own instincts.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him.

Satoru’s eyes were half-lidded, lashes fluttering, his lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink. It finally clicked in your hazy mind: he wasn’t touching you because he knew you were drunk. He was letting you use him however you wanted, but he refused to take advantage.

That realization might have been the hottest thing you had ever experienced in your life.

You leaned in slowly again, the height difference forcing you to stretch. Satoru’s eyes widened the moment your breath brushed his lips, impossibly surprised, almost disbelieving. He stared at you, pupils blown wide with shock and something much darker.

“What are y—”

You kissed him.

It started soft — just a gentle press of lips — but the second you felt the tiny, broken whimper vibrate against your mouth, something inside you snapped. You tilted your head and deepened the kiss, sliding your tongue along his bottom lip before pushing inside.

Satoru moaned into your mouth, the sound needy and desperate. His body trembled against yours, but his hands still stayed glued to his sides, shaking.

You kissed him harder, hungrier. Your tongue explored his mouth with lazy confidence, tasting him, teasing him, sucking on his tongue whenever he shyly tried to respond. Every little sound he made — those pretty, broken whimpers you had become addicted to — only made you more relentless.

One of your hands stayed at the back of his neck, fingers tangled in his soft white hair, while the other slowly slid down his chest. You felt every hard line of muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, your palm gliding lower and lower until it stopped just above his belt.

You could feel how hard he was.

The thick, heavy length of his cock pressed insistently against your stomach, hot and unmistakable even through his pants. The same pretty cock you touched yourself to while watching him fall apart on camera. The realization made heat flood between your thighs.

The kiss turned wet and messy. Obscene sounds filled the quiet hallway as you devoured his mouth, biting his bottom lip gently before soothing it with your tongue. Satoru was shaking, breathing heavily through his nose, completely lost in the kiss but still refusing to touch you back.

God, he’s really not going to touch me.

He was letting you use his mouth, his body, his neck — whatever you wanted — while he held himself back because you were drunk.

It was infuriatingly respectful. And an absolute torture.

Just then, a voice echoed from downstairs.

“Hun? Are you up here?!”

Shoko.

Your heart jolted. You pulled back sharply, breathing hard, lips still tingling. For a second you just stared at him — at the mess you had made of him — and reality came crashing down like cold water.

Fuck. What did I just do?

Your hands were shaking. Your knees felt weak. The hallway suddenly felt too bright, too quiet. You took a shaky step back, almost losing your balance on your heels.

“I—” you whispered, voice cracking.

You couldn’t even finish the sentence.

You gave him one last frantic look — his messy white hair, swollen glossy lips, and the faint red marks you had left on his neck — before turning around. You walked away quickly, almost stumbling down the hallway, your heart hammering wildly in your chest.

You didn’t look back.

Just as you disappeared down the stairs, Satoru’s head fell back against the wall with a quiet thud, eyes squeezed shut. A second later, his legs gave out and he slowly slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, completely ruined.

He didn’t know what was more pathetic: his trembling hands, the frantic drum of his heart, or the warm, humiliating mess in his pants.

yep. i'm basically torturing everyone: reader, Satoru, you and me.

Reblogs are sooo appreciated ✨

part 5 coming soon ! masterlist

taglist: @butterbeanandsparkleface @seungkwansflower @ninjaturtletoes @krispy7akay @wiserion @aaudreys @chosslut @erideight @quanxistoelicker @stuckinadream0 @nanahach1 @carcelswaifu @c4ndyyy @cridtiins @cupidslie @suguphile @msblyshie @ashtraaay @lovvsp @itsjustmesofiedk @cutiepie208 @gojodotexe @shinobui @emeraldlegacyobserver @ifartmatcha @sparklefarts214 @kissmekissmecure @di1f-lover @mafezinhasworld @skylaryippee @toru-saki @kun4ril @marsieonist @s3werslvtt @affinityblues @bat-brainzzz @ariilovesmoney @trizymiia @looha @megsbows @srslyoceans @whatsernamekei @gojoful @zlinguss @gabbiepickle @tootyallfarty @boomboom-tanjiro2019 @hauntedbyink @dasiybynight @winniethepoohjusttookapooh

taglists are full. Thank you!! :)

[tays-writing]

!nerdjo x reader | part 3

Exam stress leads to a late night horny decision. Everything is going great, until the guy in the video starts sounding a little too familiar

part 1 here! . part 2 here!

CW: NSFW. Masturbation. Watching porn.

cr: 3vangel1ne_ on X

When you arrived at the library on Friday afternoon, Satoru was already there.

He was sitting alone at a table tucked away in one of the quieter corners, a simple blue T-shirt stretched across his broad frame. His glasses rested neatly on the bridge of his nose as he stared intently at his laptop, white hair falling slightly over his forehead.

You lingered by the entrance for a moment, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag, before finally walking over.

"Hey" you said.

He looked up immediately. His expression softened into a small, genuine smile the second he saw you.

"Hey... you came."

"Of course I did."

"I, um..." He glanced at the cup sitting across from him. "I bought you coffee. It's just a latte. If you don't like it, that's okay. I didn't have your number, so I couldn't ask if you preferred oat milk or almond milk or—"

"Satoru," you interrupted, unable to hide your smile. "I like it. Thank you."

The tips of his ears turned a soft pink.

"...Okay" he mumbled, looking visibly relieved.

You settled into the chair across from him and pulled your notebooks from your bag. He tried to focus on his laptop, but you noticed how his eyes flicked up when you slipped off your jacket. The moment your gazes met, he quickly looked back down at his notes, his ears still flushed.

"So..." He cleared his throat. "Have you thought about what we should research?"

You paused as if considering his words, but you already knew what you were going to say. In fact, you'd known the moment you'd walked into the library. 

It was childish. Maybe even a little cruel. But after reading his reply the other night… You wanted to see his face when you said it.

You held his gaze.

"What about vancomycin?"

For a split second, something flashed across his face. His brows lifted ever so slightly. Surprise. Confusion. 

"...Vancomycin?"

You held his gaze.

"Yeah"

He stared at you for another beat. Then he blinked and gave a small, sheepish smile.

"I… wasn't expecting you to say that."

"Is that a bad idea?"

"No!" he answered a little too quickly. "No, not at all" He let out a quiet, shy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's actually one of my favorite antibiotics."

"Figures" you muttered before you could stop yourself.

Satoru blinked.

"I—sorry?"

Your eyes widened.

"Nothing"

He nodded and leaned forward slightly, visibly more comfortable now that the conversation had shifted to something academic. 

"We could focus on its mechanism of action and the molecular basis of resistance," he said, eyes lighting up behind his glasses. "There are a lot of interesting papers we could draw from. It could make for a strong presentation."

You nodded, trying to ignore how attractive he looked when he got excited about the topic.

"Sounds good to me."

For the next hour, the two of you worked quietly, reading through papers, comparing notes, and deciding which studies were worth including.

As you jotted down a few notes, your thoughts drifted back to the Q&A post.

There's this girl in my chem class

The blonde girl immediately came to mind. 

You glanced up from your notebook. Satoru was completely absorbed in the article in front of him, absently tapping his pen against the table as his brows furrowed in concentration.

A strange feeling settled in your chest.

Jealousy? 

…No. You barely knew him. 

"Replacing the amide linkage in D-Ala-D-Ala with an ester linkage in D-Ala-D-Lac alters both the hydrogen-bonding donor/acceptor capabilities and—"

He stopped.

"Are you... still with me?" He looked at you, searching your face with a mixture of concern and that characteristic, debilitating shyness. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Am I talking too much?"

His shoulders slumped just a little.

You blinked.

"No—no." You shook your head quickly. "I'm listening. Sorry... I'm just tired."

And catastrophically attracted to you.

Before he could apologize again, a familiar voice cut through the silence.

"There you are."

You looked up to see Shoko making her way through the library, one hand tucked into the pocket of her jacket. She smiled the moment she spotted you.

"I've been looking everywhere for—" She stopped mid sentence.

Her eyes landed on Satoru. Then on you.

Then back on Satoru.

Her eyebrows climbed almost to her hairline.

You already knew that look. With a quiet sigh, you slowly shook your head.

Don't.

Shoko pressed her lips together, clearly fighting back a grin.

"This is Shoko," you said, gesturing toward her. "My friend."

Satoru looked up from his laptop, sitting a little straighter.

"Oh… Nice to meet you."

Shoko smiled warmly.

"Likewise." She tilted her head ever so slightly, looking him over for just a second. "You have really pretty eyes."

Satoru visibly froze. His ears immediately flushed pink.

"T-Thank you."

Only then did Shoko turn back to you, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

"So," she said, as if she hadn't just short-circuited the poor guy, "you're still coming next Saturday, right?"

You frowned.

"...Next Saturday?"

"Choso's party?" she repeated.

You stared at her blankly.

"...There's a party?"

Shoko let out an exaggerated groan, dragging a hand down her face.

"Oh my God. The semester has completely eaten you alive. I've mentioned it, like... three times already. You are coming, though."

You winced.

"...Sorry."

She pointed a finger at you.

"You'd better be there."

You laughed softly.

"I will."

"Good."

With one last nod, Shoko turned to leave. As she walked past Satoru, she flashed him an easy smile.

"Bye, pretty eyes."

Satoru looked up, visibly caught off guard.

"O-Oh... bye."

She kept walking. Once she was behind him, she glanced back at you. Slowly, she mouthed—

Fucking. Handsome.

You rolled your eyes, fighting back a laugh.

The two of you worked for another fifteen minutes in comfortable silence before Satoru finally closed the article on his screen.

"...I think we have enough to get started," he said quietly. "We can call it a day, if you'd like."

You looked up from your notebook.

"Yeah. That sounds good."

Satoru closed his laptop and stood, instinctively ducking his tall frame beneath one of the low-hanging library lights. The motion was so natural it made something warm flutter in your chest.

"...See you in class, then."

You nodded, briefly distracted by how tall he looked standing so close. He offered you one last small, almost nervous smile before turning toward the exit.

"Wait."

He stopped mid-step and looked back at you.

You quickly tore a small sheet from your notebook and scribbled down your number before holding it out to him.

Satoru blinked in surprise.

"...My number," you said, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. "So we can plan another one." 

He accepted the paper carefully, as though he were afraid of crumpling it.

"I..." He cleared his throat. "...I'll text you later."

He paused, seeming to realize how that had sounded.

"...So you have my number too. I mean—for the project, of course."

You nodded.

"See you, Satoru."

With one last awkward nod, he turned and walked away a little faster than before.

—

A week slipped by faster than you expected.

He’d texted you just a few hours after you'd gotten back from the library that first Friday — a simple "Hey, this is Satoru" — and you’d saved his number with fingers that felt a little too eager.

Since then, the two of you had met once more. Working with him was surprisingly easy. Conversations flowed naturally when they stayed on the project, and before you knew it, you'd already finished nearly half of it in just two study sessions.

You'd done your best not to make things weird. Not to give yourself any more reasons to visit his page again.

But today...

You'd been walking down one of the science building's long hallways when you spotted him in the distance. The blonde girl was standing beside him again, talking animatedly about something you couldn't make out. 

Satoru listened quietly. Then, for whatever reason, he looked up. His eyes found yours from the other end of the hallway, surprise flashing across his face. He lingered there for a heartbeat before turning back to her. You watched his lips move.

"Okay."

That single word had been enough.

By the time you made it back to your room, your emotions were a tangled mess.

Jealousy. Want. Need. It was driving you insane.

Two glasses of wine later, the hesitation you usually carried melted away.

You chose the video he'd uploaded a couple days ago. The moment it started, your hand slipped between your thighs.

The camera was angled down over his body, capturing the subtle definition of his collarbones and the way his chest rose and fell with already shallow breaths. The grey sweatpants clung to his hips, the thick outline of his cock already straining against the soft fabric.

He didn’t start stroking right away. Instead, his large hand slowly dragged over the bulge, palm pressing down firmly, rubbing in lazy strokes. A low, shaky exhale escaped him.

Your fingers found your folds, already obscenely wet. You could feel your own slick coating your fingers as you started teasing your clit 

"Mmh… fuck," he whispered, voice already breathy. 

On the screen, his hips twitched upward into his own palm, chasing the pressure. He rubbed harder, fingers splaying wide so the heel of his hand dragged along the full length of his clothed cock. The fabric shifted, outlining every inch—thick, heavy, and clearly aching. 

"God… I need you to touch me. Please. I’ve been thinking about you all day."

The words hit you hard, jealousy flooding you once again. You weren't even lying to yourself anymore—you were fucking jealous. Yet, you were far too aroused, eyes fixed on the sight of his giant cock bulging against his sweatpants, stretching all the way to his pocket. 

Shit. 

Would you even be able to fit him inside?

He let out a broken little moan, rolling his hips again. The wet spot forming at the tip of his cock was starting to darken the grey material, and he traced it with two fingers.

"I'm already leaking so much… just for you. Look what you do to me." His voice cracked on the last word "I like you so much. You have no idea. You're so smart and you smiled at me today and I—ahh—fuck, I got hard right there like a fucking loser."

Your fingers moved faster, circling your clit as heat flooded your body. The way he said it—so raw and filthy—made you clench around nothing, your pussy aching for him, wishing he would just pull those damn sweatpants down once and for all.

He kept rubbing himself over the sweatpants, while his free hand fisted the sheets beside him, knuckles turning white. 

"I'm this needy because of you," he whimpered, the words tumbling out faster now. "Every time you looked at me I wanted to crawl under the table and beg ´Please… let me cum for you. I'll be so good. I'll do anything you want´"

He gripped himself through the sweatpants now—properly palming the thick length and stroking in long, firm pulls that made the material bunch and slide.

"I want you to feel how much I need you. I'd let you edge me for hours if that's what you wanted. I'd whimper your name until my voice gave out."

You couldn’t believe how dirty his mouth was. The contrast between the polite, slightly awkward Satoru and this desperate, whining version of him was making you lose your mind.

A soft, needy whine escaped him as he squeezed the head through the cloth. He was breathing harder now, little gasps and whimpers punctuating every stroke.

"F-fuck… I'm so sensitive today. Because of you. Because you sat in front of me, smelling like vanilla and coffee and I wanted to bury my face in your neck and—ahhn—beg."

You pushed two fingers inside yourself, biting your lip to hold back a moan as he shoved his sweatpants down and freed his cock. It slapped heavily against his stomach, thick and veiny—the same obscene, pretty cock you’d seen before. Your mouth watered at the view, and jealousy clouded your mind again, fueled by the overwhelming heat in your veins.  

You knew he wasn't thinking of you. He was thinking of her—the blonde girl who hovered in his orbit, who didn't know the dark, frantic secrets he kept behind the screen. You hated her for it, and yet, you were intensely, violently grateful that he was recording this. 

He wrapped his fingers around the base and squeezed, holding it there while his hips rolled in shallow thrusts, fucking into the tight ring of his fist slowly.

"Let me cum please, I beg you," he whined, voice pitching higher. The words were pure roleplay now, directed straight at the camera—at you. "I'll be your good boy. I'll hold it as long as you want."

His abs flexed with every thrust, thighs trembling as he fucked up into his fist harder.

"God, I'm so close already… but I don't want it to end. I want to stay like this for you. Needy and desperate and saying stupid shit because I can't think straight when It's about you"

His words kept pouring out — needy, filthy, and shockingly honest. The desperation in his voice, the way his thighs trembled and his abs flexed with every desperate thrust into his fist… it was too much.

He slowed down deliberately, teasing himself cruelly. The contrast was devastating—his body clearly aching for release, hips twitching uncontrollably, yet he kept himself on that edge.

You kept fucking yourself harder as he edged himself on camera, whimpering and begging for someone that wasn't you. 

A particularly sweet, broken moan tore from his throat as he finally sped up again.

"I'm gonna—fuck—please—"

"Fuck—" you moaned, finally hitting your own orgasm as his voice cracked beautifully on that last plea. Thick ropes of cum shot across his stomach and chest in powerful, rhythmic spurts.

You came with him, your thighs shaking, a broken whimper slipping past your lips. He milked every last drop, his body twitching with aftershocks until he was panting, spent, and trembling. 

You lay there in the dark, your heart hammering against your ribs, your pussy throbbing so hard it was almost painful.

When you finally caught your breath, your pulse still racing, your fingers moved to the comment section. 

"Vancomycin boy… you have no idea what you just did to me."

You knew then, with a dark, twisted certainty, that you no longer wanted to just watch him on a screen. You wanted to be the one making those whimpers rip from his throat—even if he was thinking of her instead.

Thank you so much for all the support this fic has received!! It made me so happy!! 🥹

If I missed anyone on the taglist, please let me know!

Reblogs are sooo appreciated ✨

part 4 here! masterlist

taglist: @butterbeanandsparkleface @seungkwansflower @ninjaturtletoes @krispy7akay @wiserion @aaudreys @chosslut @erideight @quanxistoelicker @stuckinadream0 @nanahach1 @carcelswaifu @c4ndyyy @cridtiins @cupidslie @suguphile @msblyshie @ashtraaay @lovvsp @itsjustmesofiedk @cutiepie208 @gojodotexe @shinobui @emeraldlegacyobserver @ifartmatcha @sparklefarts214 @kissmekissmecure @di1f-lover @mafezinhasworld @skylaryippee @toru-saki @kun4ril @marsieonist @s3werslvtt @affinityblues @bat-brainzzz @ariilovesmoney @trizymiia @looha @megsbows @srslyoceans @whatsernamekei @gojoful @zlinguss @gabbiepickle @tootyallfarty @boomboom-tanjiro2019 @hauntedbyink @dasiybynight @winniethepoohjusttookapooh

[tays-writing]

!nerdjo x reader | part 2

Exam stress leads to a late night horny decision. Everything is going great, until the guy in the video starts sounding a little too familiar

part 1 here!

cr: 3vangel1ne_ on X

By the time you reached the lecture hall—having arrived a full half-hour early just to avoid the possibility of walking past him—your nerves were completely frayed. You slipped into your seat, keeping your eyes glued to your coffee, the dark liquid swirling like your chaotic thoughts.

You felt his presence before you even saw him. He slid into his usual front-row seat. He was wearing it. It looked exactly the same as it had on screen, but now the white fabric was bunching around his broad shoulders as he leaned forward to set his bag down. You could almost see the phantom imprint of his skin beneath the cotton, the memory of his palm wrapped around his own heat flashing behind your eyelids with vivid, sickening clarity.

Before he finished settling in, he scanned the room until his eyes locked onto yours. When he realized you were staring, his eyes went wide, and he spun around with a flustered haste, quickly tucking himself into his seat.

Your face burned with embarrassment. Great. He caught me staring. But you couldn’t stop. Your mind kept betraying you, flashing back to last night. That pretty pink cock — the most beautiful and filthy thing you had ever seen. So long and thick, with a flushed rosy tip that glistened with precum, veins standing out as he stroked himself. The way it twitched in his hand, the way it looked so obscenely perfect when he came… It was burned into your memory.

The professor began to speak, but you couldn't focus on chemistry. Your gaze moved to his hands, a traitorous shiver running down your spine as you imagined those same hands, currently holding a pen, doing something much dirtier. 

Then your eyes drifted to his lap. Underneath those cute jeans, you knew exactly what he was packing. You remembered the way his skin had looked, the way his veins had throbbed, and the way his whimpers sounded so filthy on your ears. A wave of heat rushed through you, so intense it felt like a fever. You shifted in your chair, thighs pressing together, trying to stifle the sudden, aching throb between them. 

The rest of the class dragged on painfully. You tried to take notes, but your handwriting was messy and distracted. You were just painfully aware of him the entire time.

A few minutes before class ended, you noticed the blonde girl beside him trying to strike up a conversation. She leaned in with a bright smile, clearly interested, and said something you couldn’t quite hear.

Satoru, however, looked visibly uncomfortable. He gave her a small, awkward nod, rubbing the back of his neck while barely making eye contact. It was obvious he had no idea how to handle the attention.

No one would ever guess what this boy does in his free time, you thought, biting the inside of your cheek. 

And yet, the girls were always drawn to him. They’d approach him after class with sweet voices — “Toru, would you explain this to me?”, “Do you want to pair up for the next project?” — looking up at him with obvious interest, drawn in by his height, his pretty face, and that unintentionally charming shyness.

He was painfully awkward every single time... and somehow, that only made him more attractive. Completely unintentionally. He had absolutely no idea. 

The professor clapped her hands, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Alright everyone, before you leave — we’re starting a major paired project today. It’ll count for thirty percent of your final grade. You’ll be working together on research and a final presentation.”

She began listing the pairs. With every name, your heartbeat grew louder. Then she said it.

Your name.

Followed immediately by his.

You froze. And across the room, Satoru — who had been quietly packing up his things — went completely still too.

“That's all for today,” the professor said before leaving the lecture hall. Around you, conversations resumed as students packed their bags and slowly filtered into the hallway. You stayed in your seat until only a handful of students remained. Then, after taking a deep breath, you stood and walked toward him. 

You approached from behind his seat and stopped right in front of his desk. Satoru had only just gone back to packing his bag when he noticed you approaching. He looked up at you, his blue eyes widening slightly in surprise.

“Oh…hi,” he said softly “So… we’re partners.”

“Yeah,” you replied, trying to sound as casual as possible even though your mind was still flooded with images you definitely shouldn’t be remembering right now. “Looks like it.”

There was a short, awkward silence. Satoru still couldn’t hold your gaze for more than a couple of seconds.

“If you want… I can handle most of the research,” he offered carefully. “Or whatever you prefer. I don’t want to bother you too much.” He paused, then added quickly, “Or I can ask the professor to pair you with someone else, if you'd rather.” 

You looked at him for a moment. This tall, broad-shouldered boy with the soft voice — the same one who had been moaning and stroking that pretty pink cock on camera just last night — was now offering you an easy way out because he didn’t want to “bother”. It made you want to scream.

“It’s okay,” you said with a small smile. “If you don’t mind, we can work together.”

“No—I don’t mind at all,” he replied quickly, almost tripping over his words, a faint blush coloring his cheeks “I'd... like to work with you.”

“We could meet at the library” you suggested. “Does Friday at 5pm work for you?”

“Friday at 5 is perfect” he said, nodding a little too eagerly. 

Another brief silence fell between you. Satoru gripped the strap of his bag tightly, as if he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Then… I’ll see you on Friday” you said.

As you turned to leave, you could feel his eyes following you for a few seconds longer than necessary. Your heart was racing, and the warmth between your thighs still hadn’t faded.

This is going to be a big problem.

—

Later that night, you were back in your dorm room, sitting cross-legged on your couch with your phone in hand. Your thumb hovered over the “Subscribe” button on his page for what felt like the hundredth time.

You knew you shouldn't. You'd spent the entire day telling yourself you wouldn't. But after seeing him today — hearing his voice, watching him blush, remembering exactly what that voice sounded like when it cracked in pleasure — your self-control was hanging by a thread.

With a quiet curse under your breath, you tapped the button.

Thank you for subscribing! 

The page refreshed, unlocking the full profile. 

Dozens of videos filled the screen, none of them showing his face. There were audio posts too, some of them nothing but long, breathy whimpers and moans that made your thighs press together instinctively. Subscribers could leave requests for specific kinks or scenarios, and judging by his uploads, he seemed to take at least some of them into account.

But what really caught your attention were the Q&A posts.

Especially one from a month ago.

“Do you ever think about someone specific when you record?”

“Yes… there’s this girl in my chem class. She’s so smart and pretty. I wish I could talk to her properly, but every time I try I just get awkward and stupid. She’d never look at someone like me that way anyway. Especially if she knew I’m doing this while thinking about her… Why am I like this?”

Your mind immediately went to the blonde girl who'd been talking to him before class ended. Is it her? That would explain why he'd looked so uncomfortable around her today. 

You kept scrolling. Hundreds of comments called him pretty boy, good boy, needy prince, and much filthier things. Some were surprisingly sweet, others shamelessly explicit. He'd replied to almost every single one with shy thank-yous, always sounding just a little embarrassed. 

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you typed a question in the Q&A box:

“I watched one of your videos where there’s a hoodie in the background. I keep wondering… What molecule is that?”

You hit send.

Then immediately locked your phone and threw yourself back onto the couch, covering your face with both hands.

You hadn't even finished thinking, What the hell am I doing? when your phone buzzed.

Frowning, you grabbed it again.

“oh? It’s vancomycin! It looks terrifying, but isn’t it cool?!”

You couldn’t help but smile.

Vancomycin.

You shook your head, laughing quietly to yourself.

Somehow, he'd managed to make you forget why you'd subscribed in the first place, and suddenly, Friday felt a lot closer. 

Reblogs are sooo appreciated ✨

part 3 here! masterlist

taglist: @butterbeanandsparkleface @seungkwansflower @ninjaturtletoes @krispy7akay @wr3ck3dxxx @wiserion @aaudreys @chosslut @erideight @quanxistoelicker @stuckinadream0 @nanahach1 @carcelswaifu @c4ndyyy @cridtiins @cupidslie @suguphile @msblyshie @ashtraaay @lovvsp @itsjustmesofiedk @cutiepie208 @gojodotexe @shinobui @emeraldlegacyobserver @ifartmatcha @sparklefarts214 @kissmekissmecure @di1f-lover

[tays-writing]

!nerdjo x reader | part 1

Exam stress leads to a late night horny decision. Everything is going great, until the guy in the video starts sounding a little too familiar

part 2 here!

CW: NSFW. Masturbation. Watching porn.

cr: 3vangel1ne_ on X

You were sprawled on your bed, laptop glowing in the dark dorm room, fingers lazily scrolling through video after video.

It was one of those nights—stress from exams, and a long day of pretending not to stare at that tall, white-haired nerd from your chemistry class who always claimed the front row. The one with the quiet voice who answered questions with effortless precision while wearing the same white oversized hoodie every class. 

The hoodie that somehow made his broad shoulders look even wider, the fabric hanging loose on his lean frame. You had spent far too many lectures tracing the strange structural formula printed across its back with your eyes, wondering what molecule it represented and why it suited him so perfectly.

The memory of him leaning over to borrow your notes earlier that day, offering that soft, shy smile, had lingered. Combined with the crushing stress of exams, it naturally led you to a late-night horniness that had you deep in the tags until one thumbnail catched your eye. A lean, pale torso filled the frame, a large hand wrapped around an absolutely obscene cock. The title was simple: “Needy boy whimpering.”

Below it, the description read: If you want more content, please consider subscribing. I’m a broke uni student 🙏🏻 Thank you!

You smiled faintly. It sounded so polite, almost shy, despite the filthy image attached to it. Without thinking twice, you clicked.

The video opened in a dimly lit room. The guy was already flushed, sitting on the edge of a messy bed with his long legs spread wide. His face remained carefully out of frame, but the camera angle gave a perfect, shameless view of his toned body. His abs were faintly defined, his skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat. One large hand was slowly stroking his thick, veiny length, the head flushed dark and already leaking precum that caught the low light with every lazy pass of his fingers.

A soft, breathy whimper floated through your headphones as his thumb circled the tip.

“F-fuck… ahh—”

Your breath hitched. That voice. Sweet, boyish, and trembling with need. It sounded painfully familiar, the same voice you had heard muttering answers under his breath during lectures.

No. You were imagining it. You had to be. You were just that desperately horny.

Pushing the thought aside, your hand slipped beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers gliding over your already soaked folds. On screen, his long fingers tightened around his cock, stroking a little faster. Another broken whimper escaped him, higher this time, sending a sharp throb straight to your clit. You circled the sensitive bud in time with his rhythm, thighs trembling as heat pooled low in your belly.

You pushed two fingers inside yourself, curling them just right, eyes never leaving the screen. His breathing grew ragged. The wet, obscene sounds of his hand moving along his slick cock filled your ears, filthy and addictive.

The camera shifted slightly as he adjusted his position. Your gaze drifted for a moment over the background, taking in the cluttered desk, the scattered notebooks. And then—

Your fingers stilled.

Draped casually over the back of his chair, right in the corner of the frame, was a white oversized hoodie. And there, clearly visible even in the low lighting, was the distinctive structural formula printed across the back — the strange, intricate molecule you had stared at countless times during morning lectures.

It was him.

Satoru Gojo. 

The quiet, annoyingly hot chemistry nerd who always borrowed your notes with that shy boyish smile, and thanked you in that soft voice that now whimpered so prettily for the camera.

The realization crashed over you like lightning. A loud, broken moan tore from your throat as your fingers resumed their frantic pace, pumping harder, your thumb pressing desperately against your swollen clit. On screen, a high-pitched, needy whimper spilled from his lips as his hips bucked into his fist.

“Mmnh—gonna cum… fuck, I’m so close—”

His voice cracked on the last word, just like it always did when he laughed nervously in class. You imagined him sitting there, stroking himself stupid, his pretty glasses perhaps fogged up from the heat of his own pleasure. The thought made your head spin.

Your thumb pressed hard on your clit, the coil in your belly tightening unbearably.

On screen, Satoru’s abs flexed, his thighs shaking. Thick ropes of cum shoot across his stomach and chest as he kept pumping through his orgasm, whimpering softly with each spurt.

You came hard at the same time, back arching off the bed, a broken cry leaving your lips as your pussy clenched around your fingers. The orgasm dragged on, wave after wave of intense pleasure washing over you while you watched him pant, breathless and flushed, lazily smearing the mess over his skin.

When the video finally ended, you lay there in the dark, chest heaving, heart hammering against your ribs. The image of that white, oversized hoodie with the weird structural formula lingered behind your closed eyelids.

Tomorrow in class, when Satoru slid into his usual seat you weren’t sure you’d be able to look at him without getting wet all over again.

Or without wondering how much prettier those whimpers would sound in real life.

Reblogs are sooo appreciated ✨

part 2 here! masterlist

[gojosconsort]

︵ ೀ mdni. satoru finds your secret sketchbook full of him and in a haste to explain yourself, he offers to be the nude model for your assignment ( artist!reader x sports!satoru / college au / wc 5.7 k )

satoru finds your sketchbook on the library table, left behind in the rush to make it to class on time. he almost doesn't open it—almost. but his name catches his eye, written in pencil at the corner of a page peeking out, and curiosity wins.

the first few pages are normal. simple shapes, little notes about elbows and shoulders, the kind of boring practice sketches he has seen you do countless times. he almost closes it, kind of bored. but he keeps flipping, and then he stops.

it's him. there's no mistaking it.

his jaw, drawn in a few quick lines. the way his head tilts when he's only half listening to someone talk. his eyes are on the next page, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair the way it sometimes is. you got the little crease at the corner of his eye right, the one that shows up right before he laughs.

he turns the page again. his hands this time. three different versions, like you couldn't decide which one you liked best. then his shoulders. the curve of his neck. a quick sketch of him stretching after practice, his shirt riding up a little at his side.

he keeps flipping. faster now. and then there's a full body drawing. him, shirtless, soft shading along his stomach and chest. his hipbones. the dip of his waist. it's not messy or rushed. it's careful. like you spent real time thinking about where the light would hit him and where the shadows would fall.

satoru sits down on the edge of the table, the sketchbook open in his lap, and stares at it for a second too long. he's not sure what he's feeling. he's used to people looking at him. he's not used to being looked at like this—slow, careful, like every detail actually mattered to the person drawing it.

he's so caught up in it that he doesn't even hear you walking up until you're right next to him, out of breath and a little panicked.

"satoru, have you seen my—"

you stop talking. your eyes drop to his hands, to the sketchbook open on his knees, to the exact page he's on—the shirtless one—and your face goes white for a second before turning bright red.

"oh my god."

he looks up at you, a grin already pulling at his mouth. "you draw me?"

"give it back." you reach for it, but he just lifts it out of your reach, way too entertained by this.

"wait, wait, wait." he flips back a page, holding it up. "are these abs? i don't think i actually have abs like this."

"satoru—"

"i mean, kind of," he says, grinning even wider, "but you really went all in here. there's shading. you gave me a six pack i don't fully have."

you try to grab it again. he holds it just out of reach again, smiling down at you.

"you drew my hands three times. why does a hand need three tries."

"because hands are hard, okay? that's not weird, hands are literally one of the hardest things to draw, ask anyone—"

"never said it was weird." he finally lowers the sketchbook, though he doesn't hand it back yet. he just looks at you for a second—your face completely red, your arms crossed tight like you're trying to disappear. "it's flattering."

you groan and cover your face with both hands. "it's for class. i'm not being weird about it."

"didn't say that either." his smile softens a little, more curious now than teasing. "but seriously. why me?"

you peek at him through your fingers, like maybe if you don't fully participate in this conversation it'll just end on its own. "we started a new unit," you mumble. "figure drawing. like, anatomy, proportions, the whole body. they bring in models for class and it's just—it's so awkward, satoru. you're sitting there for three hours trying to draw a person you've never even talked to."

"so you draw me instead."

"my professor said it's easier when you draw someone you actually know," you say quickly, like talking fast will make this less embarrassing. "like, it helps to already be familiar with the person. and you're a sports major, you're literally built like the examples in our textbook, so i thought... i don't know. it made sense."

"so you thought, 'oh wait. i've got a pretty handsome friend. i'll draw him.'"

"i did not think about it like that."

"you basically did."

but he's not really laughing at you. there's something kind of warm in the way he's looking at you now, the sketchbook still resting on his knee like he's in no rush to give it back. "you know," he says, his voice a little quieter now, "you could've just asked me."

"i didn't want to make it weird."

he raises an eyebrow. "weirder than it already is?"

you groan and bury your face in your hands again. "stop it."

he chuckles, finally closing the sketchbook but still not handing it back, just holding it loosely against his chest like he's claimed it now. "so what's the assignment actually for? like what's due."

you hesitate. this is the part you really didn't want to get into. "it's, um. it's a full figure study. like, a finished piece, not just sketches."

"okay. so like what you already drew?"

"kind of. except—" you stop, feeling your face heat up all over again.

"except what?"

you sigh, giving up on hiding it. "it has to be a nude study. that's the whole point of the unit. like, the body without clothes, the way the muscles and proportions actually work without fabric getting in the way."

his eyebrows go up, surprised, but he doesn't say anything teasing this time, just listens.

"and everyone else in class already has their reference done," you continue, the words spilling out faster now that you've started. "they've all been going to the model sessions for weeks. i missed like three of them and now i'm behind. i don't have anything to actually work from, and it's due monday, and i don't know what i'm gonna do."

he's quiet for a second, turning the sketchbook over in his hands like he's thinking. then he shrugs, easy, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "so draw me."

you blink at him. "what?"

"draw me," he says again, like he's repeating himself for someone a little slow. "for the assignment."

"satoru, i don't think you understand what i just said—"

"i understood it fine." he leans back against the table, arms crossed now, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "you need a body to draw. i have a body. solves your problem."

"that's not— you don't have to do that."

"you didn't ask. i offered."

"satoru."

"what? you already drew me shirtless without even asking," he points out, smirking. "feels like i should at least get a say in it this time."

your mouth opens and then closes again, no actual argument coming to mind.

"so," he says, holding the sketchbook out to you now, finally, "when do you want me."

you stare at him for a long moment, waiting for the joke to land, for him to laugh and say he's kidding. it doesn't come. he just watches you, sketchbook held out between you, patient in a way that's almost worse than if he were still teasing.

"you're serious," you finally say.

"dead serious." he wiggles the sketchbook a little, like he's reminding you it's still there, still yours to take. "i mean, unless you don't want it to be me. i get it if that's weird."

"it's not that i don't want it to be you," you say quickly, before you can think better of it, and then immediately wish you could take the sentence back the second you hear how it sounds out loud.

his grin widens. "oh?"

"shut up. you know what i mean." you finally take the sketchbook from him, hugging it to your chest like it might protect you from the rest of this conversation. "i just don't want you to feel like you have to. it's a big ask."

"could just say thank you, you know." he checks his phone, then looks back up at you. "okay, so. when's good. you said it's due monday?"

your stomach does something complicated at the thought of this actually happening, of him actually meaning it. "i mean—if you're really down, friday night could work. gives me the whole weekend after to finish the piece."

"friday night works. come by my dorm, like, eight?" he says it so casually, like he's inviting you over for a movie and not offering to sit there while you draw every inch of him. "more privacy than the studio anyway. don't gotta worry about randos walking in."

"right." your voice comes out a little higher than you mean it to. "yeah. that makes sense."

"bring your stuff. pencils, whatever you need." he's already turning to go, slinging his bag over one shoulder, looking far too unbothered for someone who just volunteered for this. then he glances back at you, smirk creeping in again ""and hey—make sure you get the good angles. i have a reputation to maintain."

"i make no promises."

he laughs at that, walking backward a few steps before finally turning around fully and heading off down the hall, leaving you standing there with your sketchbook clutched to your chest and friday suddenly feeling very, very far away and not far away at all.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

you knock on his door right at eight, sketchbook tucked under your arm. when the door swings open, you almost forget how to speak entirely.

he's standing there in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, hair still damp and pushed back messily from the shower, a few stray drops sliding down the side of his neck. he looks completely unbothered by it, leaning one arm against the doorframe like he just answered the door for a pizza delivery and not for you.

"hey," he says, grinning at the way your eyes immediately snap up to his face. "you're early. or i'm late. one of those."

"you said eight," you manage, voice coming out a little strangled.

"yeah, and it's eight." he steps back to let you in, completely at ease, while you do your absolute best not to stare at the water still tracking down his collarbone. "wanted to shower first. figured you'd want clean reference material, not sweaty me."

"right. that's—considerate." your face is heating up fast, and you hate how obvious it probably is.

he notices, of course he notices, smirk pulling wider as he shuts the door behind you. "you're already red and i haven't even dropped the towel yet."

"i'm not red."

"you're very red." he says it gently, almost fond, like he's enjoying this a little too much. "relax. you're gonna see me naked in like, five minutes anyway. no point getting shy now."

"that's—that doesn't make it less weird, satoru, that makes it more—" you cut yourself off, setting your bag down on his desk a little too forcefully, mostly to give your hands something to do that isn't fidgeting.

he just laughs, clearly enjoying every second of your suffering. "you're the one who's been secretly sketching me for who knows how long without even telling me. i'm just catching up to the project at this point."

you need something to say, anything, because the silence stretching between you feels too loud, too charged, like it's just waiting for you to do something stupid like keep staring at him. "so, um." you clear your throat, eyes darting anywhere that isn't directly at the towel. "how was practice?"

he glances at you over his shoulder, clearly clocking the fact that you're filling dead air for the sake of filling it, but he humors you anyway, padding over to the little kitchenette tucked in the corner of his dorm. "long. coach had us running rounds for like two hours straight. my legs are gonna hate me tomorrow."

"sounds rough."

"it was fine." he pulls a shaker bottle down from a shelf, dumping in a scoop of protein powder with one hand while the other holds the towel in place at his hip. "you get used to it after a while. body adjusts."

"right. makes sense." you nod way too many times for someone agreeing with such a simple statement, perching yourself on the edge of his desk chair, flipping your sketchbook open.

he adds water, screws the lid on, and shakes it, the muscles in his forearm shifting in a way you absolutely do not need to notice right now and notice anyway. then he tips his head back and drinks, and you watch—you can't help it, your eyes just go there on their own—the long line of his throat moving as he swallows, a bead of water from his still-damp hair sliding down the side of his neck and disappearing somewhere past his collarbone.

you realize you're staring a full two seconds too late.

"you're staring," he says, lowering the bottle, that slow grin spreading across his face like he's been waiting for an excuse to call it out.

"what?" your voice comes out a little too fast.

"you heard me." he sets the shaker down on the counter, leaning back against it. "staring. at me. just now."

"i wasn't staring," you say, way too quickly, your face heating up all over again as you fumble to look anywhere else—the ceiling, the floor, the stack of textbooks on his desk, anywhere that isn't him.

"you were so staring." he pushes off the counter, walking closer with that unhurried way he moves, like he has all the time in the world and fully intends to use it to torture you. "it's fine. i get it. i'm a lot to take in."

"oh my god."

"i'm just messing with you." he laughs. "relax. you look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm fine."

"uh huh." he doesn't push it further. he turns and heads toward the open space near his window, where the evening light is still soft and golden enough. he glances back at you over his shoulder. "okay. so how do you want me. like, pose-wise."

"oh—right." you fumble for your sketchbook, flipping it open to a blank page, grateful for something to focus on besides the fact that he's still only in a towel. "um. standing's probably easiest to start. maybe just—natural. however you'd normally stand."

"natural how. like this?" he straightens up, shoulders back, doing this exaggerated, stiff superhero pose that's clearly meant to make you laugh.

it works. a small laugh escapes you despite everything. "no, not like that. just—relaxed. like you're not thinking about it."

"hard to not think about it when you're staring at me with a pencil." but he loosens up anyway, settling his weight onto one leg, one hand coming up to rest at the back of his neck. "this work?"

your pencil is already moving before you fully register deciding to start. "yeah. that's—that's good. don't move."

"wasn't planning to." his voice has dropped a little, quieter now, watching you work. "you gonna tell me when the towel needs to come off, or am i supposed to guess."

your pencil stutters against the page. "right. um. whenever you're ready, i guess. it's—it's for the assignment, so."

"so professional," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's fighting back a grin. "okay. you ready?"

"yeah." you swallow, gripping your pencil a little too tight. "ready."

he reaches up and tugs the knot of the towel loose, and it drops to the floor without any of the fanfare your racing heart seems to think the moment deserves. he doesn't flinch, doesn't make a big show of it—just steps back into the same easy stance from before, one hand resting at the back of his neck, weight settled onto one leg, completely at home in his own skin in a way that makes your nerves feel almost silly by comparison.

you keep your eyes on the page for a long moment before you let yourself actually look, telling yourself it's just reference, just anatomy, just the same thing you'd be doing with any model in class.

but it doesn't feel like just anatomy. it feels like every line of him is something you've already know from the sketches you didn't think anyone would see, except now the soft pencil shading has nothing on the real thing—the actual shape of his shoulders, the dip of muscle along his stomach, the lean lines of him standing there like an italian renaissance sculpture.

and god, he's better than you imagined. better than he looked in your head late at night when you couldn't sleep, which—not that you dream about him, obviously, that would be ridiculous, that's not a thing that happens—but if you did, hypothetically, this would still somehow be better than that.

it's almost unfair, really. the way his body looks like it was carved out of stone, like michelangelo himself spent way too long getting the proportions exactly right—shoulders broad and strong, the muscle down his arms, the curve where his waist narrows into his hips.

it's the kind of body you'd expect to see behind glass in a museum somewhere, with a little plaque underneath, except this version breathes and makes dumb jokes.

you let your eyes trace lower, the way you would with any reference, you tell yourself, purely for the sake of the assignment. his cock rests heavy between his thighs, thick and full, and bigger than you thought it would be (not that you'd ever thought about his dick, obviously, that's not a thing you do.)

the head shows a soft flush where it brushes against his leg, and the fair hair trails down from his navel and gathers in pale curls at the base. the sharp v of his hips frames it all in clean lines that make your fingers itch to draw every shadow and curve.

"you still with me?" he says, a little amused, like he's clocked exactly how long you've been staring without actually drawing anything.

"yeah—sorry, yeah." you blink, snapping your eyes back up to his face, pencil finally moving again.

"should i have, like, shaved or something?"

your face goes instantly red all over again. "what? no—it's fine. you're fine. it's not—that's not a thing you need to worry about."

"figured i'd ask." he shrugs. "usually i shave when i've got a girl coming over, but i was running late today, so."

"oh my god." you cover your face with one hand, pencil still somehow managing to keep moving against the page with the other. "i did not need to know that."

"only wanted to clear the air."

you peek at him through your fingers, deciding two can play this game. "so what you're telling me is you haven't had anyone over in a while, huh?"

a short surprised laugh, like he wasn't expecting you to fight back. "wow. okay. didn't think you had it in you. but—i mean, i have someone over now."

"to draw you. that's different."

"you're still seeing my dick or whatever."

"that's not the same thing and you know it."

"feels pretty similar from where i'm standing."

"so, the other girls sit across the room admiring you for twenty minutes with a sketchbook before anything happens? is that what you're telling me?"

"oh, so you're admiring me."

"that's not what i—i meant artistically."

"sure you did."

"i hate you."

"just so you know—they're not usually sitting across the room admiring me for twenty minutes. they're usually under me about thirty seconds after they walk through the door."

"oh my god, satoru."

after another ten minutes or so, your pencil finally slows, then stops altogether, hovering over the last few finishing strokes before you sit back to actually look at what you've got. it's good. better than good—the proportions feel right in a way they never quite did with the strangers from class, like having an actual person in front of you instead of just a body made all the difference.

"okay," you say, clearing your throat. "i think i've got what i need. you can relax."

"oh thank god." he drops the pose immediately, shoulders slumping, rolling his neck out with an exaggerated groan like he's been holding some kind of intense athletic stance this whole time and not just standing there looking effortlessly good. "puhhh. finally. you have no idea how hard it is to stand still that long."

"you literally do athletic training for two hours a day."

"that's different, that's moving. this was just—" he shakes out his arms, grabbing the towel off the floor and wrapping it back around his waist, "—standing there being stared at. way more exhausting than it sounds."

"you're so dramatic."

"i'm a very dedicated model, is what i am." he flops down onto the edge of his bed, finally looking properly relaxed for the first time all evening, then immediately perks back up, craning his neck toward your sketchbook. "okay, lemme see it."

you instinctively pull the book a little closer to your chest. "it's not done done. it's just the reference sketch."

"i don't care, i wanna see." he's already getting up, padding over. "c'mon. i posed for, like, twenty minutes straight. i've earned a peek."

"fine. but you can't make fun of it." you hold the sketchbook out, a little reluctant, watching his face carefully as he leans over to look.

he goes quiet for a second, which is rare enough on its own that you almost want to comment on it. his eyes move slowly over the page, taking in the lines of his own shoulders, the careful shading along his stomach, his easy stance you'd worked so hard to get right.

"huh," he says finally.

"what? is it bad?"

"no, it's—" he tilts his head. "it's really good, actually. like, you made me look good good. not just accurate good."

"that's literally just what you look like."

"i don't know, i feel like you're being generous with the shoulders." but he's smiling now, something a little softer underneath the teasing, still looking at the drawing instead of you. "you're actually talented. like, properly. i wasn't expecting it to be this good."

"you say that like you thought i was bad."

"i didn't know what to expect! you draw secret abs sketches of your friends, forgive me for having questions about your technical skill." but he says it gently, nudging your shoulder with his again, and when he finally looks up at you there's something warm in his expression that wasn't quite there before, something that makes your stomach flip a little. "seriously, though. this is really good. you should be proud of it."

"thanks," you say, feeling a little warm under the actual sincerity of it, fumbling slightly for something to do with your hands besides just standing there basking in gojo satoru's approval like it means something. "i mean, it's still rough. i've gotta clean it up before monday."

"still." he's still looking at it, then glances up at you with a grin starting to spread. "can i take a picture of it?"

"what? why?"

"i don't know, for personal use." he's already reaching for his phone on the nightstand. "this might genuinely be the most insane nude i could ever send to a girl. like, nobody's topping that."

"satoru, oh my god, no." you yank the sketchbook back against your chest, half laughing despite yourself. "you are not sending this to anyone."

"think about it though. any other guy sends a regular picture, basic, boring, zero creativity behind it. i send this and i'm instantly the most romantic man alive." he's grinning, clearly enjoying how flustered you've gotten all over again. "it's basically a love letter. you put thought into this."

"it's an anatomy assignment."

"a very thoughtful anatomy assignment." he reaches for the sketchbook again, more playful than serious about actually taking it. "c'mon, one picture. i won't even send it to anyone. probably."

you let him, mostly because you know arguing further is a losing battle, and he snaps a quick picture before setting his phone back down, looking entirely too pleased with himself about the whole thing.

"okay," he says, dropping back down onto the edge of the bed. "anything else you need from me? more poses, weird angles, you want me to flex my biceps?"

"no, it's fine." you start gathering your things. "i think i stressed you out enough for one night."

"you didn't stress me out." he watches you for a second, head tilted, clearly not buying the way you said that. "spill it."

"what?"

"you've got a face. the 'i want to say something but i'm not gonna' face." he leans back on his hands. "what is it."

you hesitate, fingers tightening slightly around your pencil case. "i mean—maybe we could do one more pose? like, a different angle or something. just so i actually have options when i sit down to finish it properly. i don't wanna hand in the first thing i drew if there's something better i could've gotten."

he blinks, then grins, already pushing himself back up off the bed. "yeah. sure. why not." he rolls his shoulders out, stepping back toward the open space by the window. "you're the artist. tell me where you want me this time."

he settles into the chair this time, leaning back with his head tipped against the top of it, one leg stretched out, the whole thing far more relaxed than the standing pose from before. one hand comes to rest loosely in his lap, fingers resting near his cock without much thought behind it.

"oh, this is way better. way less work than standing there like a statue." he glances down at where his hand landed, a flicker of realization crossing his face, and he laughs a little, shifting like he's about to move it. "oh—sorry, that's just habit. didn't even think about where i put my hand."

"no, it's—" you hesitate, voice catching, face going hot all over again. "it's, um—it's fine. really. genuinely fine. do whatever's, uh—whatever's comfortable for you. i'm not—this isn't a big deal."

he looks at you for a second, like he's checking you actually mean it, then shrugs, settling back into exactly the same position, hand staying right where it was. "okay. if you're sure. i'll stay like this, then."

your pencil is already moving, eyes flicking between him and the page. it takes you a few minutes to notice that he's stopped looking out at nothing and started watching you instead, head tilted slightly against the back of the chair.

"what?"

"nothing." but he doesn't stop watching you. there's something almost soft about the way he's looking at you now, the corner of his mouth pulled into a small smile, like he's caught himself thinking something he wasn't planning on. "you get this face when you're drawing. all scrunched up and serious."

"i do not."

"you so do. little furrow right here." he reaches up, tapping a finger lightly between his own eyebrows to demonstrate, careful not to actually shift out of the pose. "it's kind of cute."

your pencil stutters against the page. "don't move," you mutter, mostly to give yourself something to say that isn't reacting to that.

"i'm not moving."

he settles back again, and keeps watching you. his cock twitches once under his hand where it rests in his lap. he feels the slow thickening start before he can stop it. oh fuck. the words stay stuck in his throat but they echo in his head as he presses his fingers down a little harder. he tries to hold the growing length discreetly against his thigh but it is no use. another twitch makes the head nudge up against his palm.

your pencil pauses on the page. you see it. the subtle flex of his fingers. the unmistakable twitch that makes his cock strain despite the way he tries to keep it down. heat spreads low in your stomach and between your legs so fast it leaves you dizzy.

"sorry about that," he mutters. the flush on his neck deepens and his hand stays pressed over the twitching length like he can will it back down. but it twitches again anyway. slow and heavy and impossible to ignore. "long day, i guess. lot on my mind."

you swallow. "it's fine."

"i don't know, i normally kind of—wind down at night. on my own. you know. guess my body didn't get the memo that tonight's schedule looked a little different."

"oh! uh—i can go," you blurt out, already half reaching for your bag, face burning. "like, seriously, if you need a few minutes or—whatever, i don't want to make this weirder than it already is—"

"no, no, you don't have to go." he sits up a little. "it'll pass. it's fine. i'm fine."

"are you sure? because i really don't mind waiting outside, or coming back tomorrow, or—"

"i'm sure." he gives you a small, almost sheepish smile, the most genuinely embarrassed you think you've ever seen him. "just finish your drawing. i swear i'm not gonna combust."

"okay." you sink back down slowly, still not entirely convinced, sketchbook settling back into your lap. "if you're sure."

"i'm sure." he resettles into the chair, head tipping back again, doing his best to look casual about it even though his ears are still a little red. "c'mon. let's just—finish this. pretend it's a normal tuesday."

"it's friday."

"pretend it's a normal friday, then. work with me here."

you pick your pencil back up, trying to focus on the page instead of the very obvious tension radiating off him from across the room. for a minute or two it almost works, both of you pretending pretty hard that everything's fine.

the quiet stretches between you. you try to keep drawing but your focus slips every time he shifts in the chair. his hand presses down harder in his lap. he is trying to push his cock fully flat against his thigh now. his breathing turns heavy and uneven like he cannot quite catch it. you hear every inhale, every slow exhale. he is getting so worked up just from sitting there while you look at him. his cock under his palm thickens and twitches against his fingers no matter how he tries to hold it still.

then his fingers move slower. deliberate. he touches himself a little. just the barest drag of his thumb along the side like he is checking how hard he is getting. it twitches again under the touch. bigger this time. he presses down quick to try and calm it but it does not help. his breath catches on a low sound he does not quite manage to swallow.

your pencil stops moving. heat floods through you so fast your face burns.

"okay," he says, dragging a hand down his face. "okay, i think i actually need a few minutes this time."

"oh god, yes, okay." you're already on your feet, sketchbook nearly sliding off your lap in your rush. "i'll just—i'll wait outside, or—"

"you can stay." he says it quickly, almost too quickly, like it surprises even him. "i mean—if you want. it won't take long."

"satoru."

"what? i'm just saying, you don't have to leave the building over this."

"i'm not waiting in here while you—"

he does not look away from you as his hand slides back down between his legs. he is already painfully hard. his cock stands thick and flushed in his palm, the head dark and wet at the tip. he wraps his fingers around the length and strokes once slow and tight like he has been holding back for too long.

"i think i like it when you watch," he almost moans.

"i'm gonna—" you don't even finish the sentence, just grab your bag and bolt for the door, nearly tripping over your own backpack strap on the way. "air. i need air. i'll be right back."

"wait! you don't have to run—"

but the door already slams shut behind you, and you stand in the hallway for a solid ten seconds just catching your breath, face burning, heart absolutely pounding, before you let yourself slide down against the wall and bury your face in your hands.

you stay quiet. your breathing slows but your heart does not. then you hear it, muffled through the door. the low rough sound of his voice. a groan, and the wet sound of skin moving on skin. another sound comes through, sharper this time, and a low fuck.

you press your thighs together where you sit on the floor. the noises do not stop. they get a little louder like he has stopped holding back now that you are gone. you can picture it perfectly, his hand moving fast on his thick cock. another groan filters through the door and your body reacts hard, heat flooding between your legs.

you sit there against the wall, staring blankly at the hallway carpet while your brain refuses to move away from his door and not listen to his moans and groans anymore.

how. how are you supposed to look him in the eye after this. how are you supposed to sit across from him in the dining hall next week, or wave at him across campus, or exist in the same general vicinity as gojo satoru ever again without your whole face just instantly catching fire.

you bury your face deeper into your hands, groaning quietly to yourself. it was one thing when it was just sketches. it was even survivable when he found the sketchbook, mortifying as that had been. but this. this is a whole new tier of humiliation you didn't know existed until tonight.

you're going to have to transfer schools. change your name. move to another country, probably. there's no version of monday where you walk into the dining hall and he's there and you don't immediately die on the spot.

somewhere behind the door, things have gone quiet.

you really, really don't want to think about what that means.

[kamiflix]

˗ˏˋ My Love Note ´ˎ˗

“Bet you’re thinkin’ of me while he’s fucking you, huh?”

❧ Synopsis | In which Choso Kamo, your asshole of a best friend, starts to change after you get involved with a rather cheeky cashier, Gojo Satoru.

❧ Word Count | Roughly 118k in total.

❧ Pairings | Choso Kamo x f!reader & Gojo Satoru x f!reader

❧ Need To Know | This story was originally written by me on wattpad with different characters. It got deleted & I moved here. The Gojo fanart above is by @/fukenkou16, and the Choso fanart is by @/jozpic !!

❧ Contents | afab!reader, explicit nsfw scenes, college non-curse au, toxic altercations, angst, reader lowkey hops around between the two, jealousy, possessiveness, slut activities, gen z references, alcohol, fluff, 18+ scenes, porn w plot, etc.

| Chapters |

1 | Something about you

2 | draws me so close

3 | that it has to

4 | be true.

5 | My hearts light

6 | like a feather.

7 | What's it gonna take

8 | for you to say

9 | four stupid letters?

10 | I know that's

11 | what this is

12 | and I know

13 | you know it too.

14 | For this

15 | is the birth

16 | of something new.

17 | So please

18 | stop being dumb

19 | and just say,

20 | “I love you.”

| @kamiflix | ff status; complete | happy reading!! <3

[vogujojo]

♡ DIGITAL HEARTS ♡

Nerdjo x fem!reader >>mean popular girl!reader is secretly an obsessive cozy gamer. nerd!gojo is weird, blunt, chronically online, and unfortunately exactly her type behind a screen.

setting: college au, no curses au, popular girl! reader, mean girl!reader, nerd gojo, online friendship, slow burn-ish, flirting, eventual mature themes, author tries writing mean girl!reader but kinda fails, emotional constipation, toxic family mentions, no smut, author goes crash out

Word Count: 6.0k

⏮️back Masterlist ⏸️ next⏭️

Gojo Art by @albdgreen on insta, Images used from digimon, heavy inspiration and images used from stardew valley, collage made by @vogujojo

Chapter two: bad connection, good company

DigivolveThis: your greenhouse is locked

CerryHex: because someone kept moving my seed chests

DigivolveThis: they were in a stupid place

CerryHex: they were in a cute place

DigivolveThis: cute is not a navigation system

CerryHex: ugly people always say that

Your avatar stands outside the Crescent Glass Greenhouse with a watering can in one hand and a mooncat circling your boots. DigivolveThis is on the other side of the locked door, jumping every few seconds like he’s trying to annoy the pixels into letting him in.

It has been three days since the meteor shower.

Three days of logging in “just for dailies” and somehow staying online until your eyes burn. Three days of him criticizing your farm layout while still using all of your crafting stations. Three days of you telling him to leave and then sending him coordinates to rare spawns because, unfortunately, he is useful.

DigivolveThis: open the door

CerryHex: say please

DigivolveThis: no

CerryHex: then perish outside

DigivolveThis: i helped fund that greenhouse

CerryHex: you donated one celestial core and a personality disorder

DigivolveThis: two valuable resources

You laugh under your breath and unlock the door.

His avatar runs in immediately and stops by the moonberry planters. He doesn’t harvest anything, which is smart, because you would actually ban him. He just walks around like he’s inspecting the place for structural damage.

DigivolveThis: why are the sprinklers hidden behind flower pots

CerryHex: because i have taste

DigivolveThis: because you hate efficiency

CerryHex: i hate ugly machines

DigivolveThis: machines don’t care if you think they’re ugly

CerryHex: that’s why they’re ugly

DigivolveThis: the game chat is awful

CerryHex: skill issue

DigivolveThis: it has a character limit

CerryHex: maybe it’s trying to protect me from you

DigivolveThis: maybe it’s badly designed

CerryHex: don’t insult moonvale in my house

DigivolveThis: your house has six rugs in one room

CerryHex: and yet you keep visiting

You stare at what you just typed. It’s not that deep. It’s just a sentence, a sentence you sent to some random guy in a game because he keeps showing up on your farm and acting like he pays rent. Still, it sits there on the screen looking slightly too smug.

DigivolveThis stops moving.

Then the chat updates.

DigivolveThis: your storage shed is still tax evasion but the crafting access is convenient

CerryHex: romantic

DigivolveThis: horrifying word choice

CerryHex: you brought this energy here

You are smiling and you hate that you’re smiling.

The Moonvale mobile chat pings on your phone beside the laptop, delayed and out of order because the app is apparently held together by prayers and loose string. You pick it up, watch the same messages load wrong, and make a face.

CerryHex: okay you’re right

CerryHex: this chat sucks

DigivolveThis: finally

CerryHex: don’t sound proud

DigivolveThis: i’m radiant

Another pause.

Then:

DigivolveThis: discord?

CerryHex: wow

CerryHex: moving fast

DigivolveThis: for basic functionality

CerryHex: sure

CerryHex: blame the app

DigivolveThis: i will blame the app professionally

You sit back in your chair, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Discord is not a big deal. Everyone uses Discord. It’s not personal. It’s not like exchanging numbers. It’s not like giving him anything real. Still, it feels like moving something out of Moonvale and into your actual life, even if only by one small step.

You type before you can make it weird.

CerryHex: cerryhex

DigivolveThis: same as your game name?

CerryHex: brand consistency

DigivolveThis: misspelled brand consistency

CerryHex: send the request or die outside again

The friend request appears less than a minute later.

DigivolveThis wants to add you as a friend.

His profile picture is a tiny pixel dinosaur with a star background.

You accept and a new Chat opens immediately.

DigivolveThis: test

CerryHex: did you just knock on discord

DigivolveThis: yes

CerryHex: freak

DigivolveThis: you accepted the freak request

CerryHex: under protest

He sends you a screenshot of your greenhouse with a red circle around one corner.

DigivolveThis: this sprinkler can cover four more tiles if you move the lantern

CerryHex: touch that lantern and i’ll uninstall your bones

DigivolveThis: medically difficult

CerryHex: i’ll learn

You should sleep, you reeaally should. But of course you do not. You spend another hour arguing about sprinkler radius, moonberry growth cycles, and whether function without aesthetics is just “organized sadness.” He does get on your nerves, which makes it easy to just leave. He also does not get boring, which makes it harder to stop.

Eventually, you log off with a headache, a finished harvest, and one new Discord friend you definitely do not tell Mika or Reina about.

The next day, you are walking across campus with a Coke Zero in one hand and your phone in the other, which is a stupid combination in hindsight but feels completely manageable until the exact second it isn’t.

Mika is fighting for her life in the group chat.

mika: silver top yes or no

reina: no

you: no

mika: this is oppression

you: it’s friendship

reina: it’s mercy

mika: both of you are ugly inside

You’re typing something mean enough to make her probably pull her hair when someone turns the corner near the science building too fast.

There is no graceful version of what happens.

Your shoulder hits something solid. Your phone almost slips out of your hand. The plastic lid of your Coke Zero pops loose like it has been waiting all day to betray you, and cold soda splashes forward before you can save it.

Straight onto someone’s shirt.

Black fabric, NASA logo, white hair, square glasses.

You look up. Satoru Gojo looks down.

For one horrible second, both of you just stare at the wet stain spreading across his shirt. Then you look at the bottle in your hand. Your first feeling should probably be guilt.

It is not.

“My Coke Zero,” you say, genuinely upset.

Gojo’s eyes move from his shirt to your face.

“Your Coke Zero?”

“It was basically full.” You say in sorrow.

“My shirt is wet.”

“I can see that.”

“With your drink.”

“Not anymore,” you say, looking into the bottle. “Now it’s mostly air.”

He stares at you like he cannot decide whether you’re joking or if this is just how you move through the world.

You are not sure either.

A few students pass around you, glancing over quickly noticing enough that you feel your shoulders settle into place automatically. Chin up. Face calm. Don’t look embarrassed unless you want people to remember it.

You glance down at the stain again. It’s bad. Worse than you want it to be.

The Coke Zero has splashed across the front of his NASA shirt and soaked into the black long sleeve underneath, darkening the fabric in an ugly, spreading patch. A few drops slide from the hem and hit the floor between his shoes, slow and sticky and impossible to ignore.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

You look at the bottle in your hand. There is barely anything left in it.

That feels personally insulting.

Satoru follows your gaze, then looks down at his shirt, then back at you with a face so flat it almost makes the whole thing worse.

“You’re looking at the bottle like it died in your arms.”

“It basically did,” you say, lifting it slightly. “This was new.”

His eyebrows rise behind his glasses. “So was my shirt this morning.”

You glance at the NASA logo, now half-covered in soda, and make a small face before you can stop yourself. “Yeah, well. It already had a lot going on.”

He stares at you for a beat. “Did you just insult my shirt after assaulting it?”

“I didn’t assault anything. You turned the corner too fast.”

“I walked.”

“You appeared.”

“I came from a hallway. That’s usually how hallways work.”

“You came from nowhere wearing a black-and-white jump scare.”

Satoru looks down at himself like he’s checking whether that description deserves a response. His mouth twitches, but he kills it quickly. “You were staring at your phone.”

“I was glancing.”

“You walked into me.”

“You were in the way.”

“I was using the hallway for its intended purpose.”

You hate how calm he sounds. No embarrassment, no awkward sputtering, no easy little crack in his confidence. Just him, standing there with Coke Zero soaking through his shirt, looking at you like you are a mildly fascinating inconvenience.

People are starting to look too, which makes it worse. So you do what you always do when you feel even slightly cornered. You get meaner.

“You should’ve moved.”

Satoru blinks once. “From the collision I didn’t know was happening?”

“You’re tall. You had more time to see it coming.”

“That is not how height works.”

“It is now.”

He adjusts his glasses with two fingers, slow and irritated. “Amazing. Physics is dead.”

“You would know, NASA.”

His eyes narrow a little at that, and for some reason the look almost makes you smile.

Almost.

You glance down at the bottle again and sigh, dramatic enough to make it clear who you think the real victim is. “Great. Four dollars gone.”

Satoru looks at the bottle. Then at the stain covering his chest. Then back at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says dryly. “Should I comfort the drink first, or can my shirt be included in the grieving process?”

“It was Coke Zero.”

“And this is cotton.”

“Coke Zero has caffeine.”

“So does shame, apparently, because you seem very awake right now.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. Okay.

So he is still weird but not defenseless.

You tilt your head, giving him the kind of smile that usually makes people reconsider speaking. “You’re kind of dramatic for someone dressed like a lost science fair project.”

“I’m covered in soda because you can’t walk and text at the same time.”

“I can multitask.”

“You failed in real time.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“That’s the stain talking.”

You look down despite yourself.

The dark patch has spread even more, clinging to the fabric in a way that does make you feel a little guilty. Unfortunately, he is also being annoying, and that makes apologizing feel like handing him a trophy. Still, your eyes flick toward the vending machines, then back to him.

“Do you want napkins or something?”

Satoru glances around the hallway, then back at you. “From where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere.”

“Great plan. Very detailed. Did you workshop it?”

“You want help or not?”

“I want to not be sticky.”

“Then go be sticky somewhere else.”

He stares at you for a second, and this time he actually does laugh under his breath. Not a real laugh, barely more than an exhale, but enough to make your irritation catch on something stupid and warm.

“You’re awful,” he says.

You lift your chin. “And you’re leaking on the floor.”

He looks down at the drops near his shoes, then back at you with the tired patience of someone explaining something obvious. “Because you spilled Coke on me.”

“Allegedly.”

“There are witnesses.”

“They look bored.”

“They look entertained.”

You glance around and, annoyingly, he’s right. A couple of people are pretending not to watch, badly. Someone near the lockers is smiling into their phone. Your skin prickles.

Fine.

You sigh like this entire thing is deeply inconvenient for you, because it is “Okay. Sorry about your shirt.”

Satoru studies you over the top of his glasses. “That sounded like it had to crawl out of you.”

“It did.”

“Do you need water?”

“Do you need a towel?”

“I asked first.”

“And I asked better.”

For a second, you both just look at each other. Then his mouth twitches again, and you hate that yours almost does too. You step aside, giving him enough room to pass. “There. Hallway’s yours again.”

Satoru looks at the space you made, then at you, still pinching the wet fabric away from his skin like the texture personally offends him. “Generous.”

“Don’t get emotional.”

“Too late,” he says dryly. “My shirt and I are going through something.”

You roll your eyes and look away before your mouth can betray you. Because laughing would be embarrassing. For a second, you think that should be the end of it. You have apologized, technically. He is free to go be sticky somewhere else. The hallway can go back to normal, and everyone can pretend they didn’t just watch you lose a fight with a plastic bottle and a physics major.

Then you look down at the Coke Zero in your hand.

There is maybe one sip left. Mostly foam. Completely useless.

You sigh “I’m getting another one.”

Satoru pauses, like he actually needs a moment to process that this is where your priorities have landed. “Right. Obviously the real tragedy here.”

You glance back at him. “I already said sorry.”

“You said it like someone held you at gunpoint.”

“It still counts.”

“Legally, maybe.”

You open your mouth, then close it again, because unfortunately, that almost gets a laugh out of you.

Absolutely not.

Instead, you turn toward the vending machines before your face can do anything stupid.

Behind you, he mutters, “Unbelievable.”

You do not turn around. You definitely do not smile.

By the time you get home, you are still annoyed about the Coke Zero.

You change out of your campus clothes, wipe off your makeup, and open Moonvale Crossing before answering Mika’s messages. Your greenhouse glows under a pixel sunset, moonberries ready to harvest, storage shed still exactly where you put it behind the trees because DigivolveThis does not control you.

Discord pings almost immediately.

DigivolveThis: campus was especially annoying today

CerryHex: same

CerryHex: i lost a drink in a tragic public incident

DigivolveThis: dramatic

CerryHex: it was basically full

DigivolveThis: okay that is tragic

CerryHex: thank you

DigivolveThis: i had an incident too

CerryHex: did you also lose a drink

DigivolveThis: worse

CerryHex: impossible

DigivolveThis: someone made me part of their drink problem

CerryHex: vague

DigivolveThis: intentionally

CerryHex: were you annoying about it

DigivolveThis: i was the victim

CerryHex: victims can be annoying

DigivolveThis: horrifying sentence

CerryHex: accurate sentence

You harvest moonberries while smiling at the chat.

Neither of you says enough for it to click. You keep it vague. He keeps it vague. Someone had a bad day, someone lost a drink, someone was apparently the victim of “an incident.”

Very tragic. Very campus. So neither of you thinks much of it. Which is probably for the best.

DigivolveThis: people should need licenses to walk and hold beverages

CerryHex: people should need licenses to turn corners

DigivolveThis: suspiciously specific

CerryHex: trauma is specific

DigivolveThis: your tragedy has layers

CerryHex: finally someone respects my suffering

DigivolveThis: i respect nothing

CerryHex: ugly brand but consistent

DigivolveThis: speaking of ugly

DigivolveThis: your storage shed is still behind trees

CerryHex: my storage shed is shy

DigivolveThis: your storage shed is inconvenient

CerryHex: it’s mysterious

DigivolveThis: it is six seconds farther from the crafting bench than necessary

CerryHex: oh no

CerryHex: six whole seconds

DigivolveThis: per trip

CerryHex: thoughts and prayers

A screenshot appears in the chat. Your farm again, marked up in red lines and arrows like a crime scene.

DigivolveThis: if you move it here, it improves route efficiency by 40%

CerryHex: if i move it there, it ruins the view by 100%

DigivolveThis: fake statistic

CerryHex: go cry

DigivolveThis: i hate it here

CerryHex: you keep coming back

DigivolveThis: for science

CerryHex: for my greenhouse

DigivolveThis: for efficient crop management

CerryHex: you don’t even own crops here

DigivolveThis: emotionally i do

You laugh, softer this time. Your phone lights up with Mika’s name, but you flip it face-down without answering.

CerryHex: you’re very attached to my property for someone who hates my layout

DigivolveThis: i hate the choices

DigivolveThis: not the potential

CerryHex: that almost sounded nice

DigivolveThis: delete it from your memory

CerryHex: screenshotting it

DigivolveThis: criminal

You play for almost two hours. At some point, he sends another message.

DigivolveThis: voice would be easier for meteor runs eventually

CerryHex: eventually?

DigivolveThis: typing “mobs left” while fighting is bad design

CerryHex: practical excuse

DigivolveThis: practical reason

CerryHex: same ugly outfit different wording

DigivolveThis: you love calling things ugly

CerryHex: only when they deserve it

DigivolveThis: dangerous worldview

CerryHex: effective worldview

DigivolveThis: so eventually?

CerryHex: maybe

DigivolveThis: suspicious answer

CerryHex: accurate answer

You sit there for a second, looking at the word maybe glowing on the screen. Then you open your inventory, equip your pickaxe, and send him coordinates for the next meteor spawn.

mika: Today. suguru’s. no excuses.

reina: she always has excuses when she doesn’t like the guest list

mika: no bc this time the guest list is good good

mika: like actually good

mika: like men with jobs and jawlines good

you: they’re college students

mika: potential jobs

reina: potential jawlines

you: i have an essay

You send the lie while sitting cross-legged on your bed in pajama shorts, laptop already open in front of you, Moonvale Crossing glowing across the screen.

Your essay is not due for six days.

It is not even a difficult essay. It is sitting half-finished in your documents folder, which means it is basically done if you choose to be emotionally generous about it.

Mika starts typing immediately. Then stops. Then starts again.

mika: no you don’t

you: crazy how you know my coursework better than me

mika: i know your lying face through text

reina: she does have a point

you: i have a headache too

mika: from what? being mean?

you: probably

Reina calls, you stare at the screen until it stops ringing. Mika calls two seconds later, you decline that too.

mika: ?????

mika: HELLO

mika: did u just decline me

you: headache

mika: i’m not loud over text

reina: debatable

You toss your phone onto the blanket and pull your headset over your ears. The thing is, you could go. You know exactly how the night would look. Mika would pregame too fast and accuse everyone else of being boring. Reina would say she wasn’t drinking much and then become terrifyingly honest after two cocktails. Suguru’s apartment would be crowded and hot and full of people pretending not to care who was watching them.

You would look good. You would say the right things. You would laugh at the right jokes, cut someone down just enough to make Mika cackle, stand beside Reina in someone’s kitchen like you belonged in a magazine spread titled girls you should not text after midnight.

It would be fine. It would probably even be fun.

But Moonvale has a limited dungeon event tonight, and DigivolveThis has been sending increasingly unhinged messages about preparation for the past hour.

DigivolveThis: bring frost charms

DigivolveThis: not the decorative ones

DigivolveThis: actual frost charms

DigivolveThis: cerry

DigivolveThis: do not bring pretty useless charms

DigivolveThis: i can feel you considering it

You click into Discord and type back.

CerryHex: i hope you know your messages have the energy of a divorced father packing for a camping trip

DigivolveThis: good

DigivolveThis: camping trips require preparation

CerryHex: it’s a pixel dungeon

DigivolveThis: that’s what the unprepared say before dying in a pixel dungeon

CerryHex: maybe i want to die beautifully

DigivolveThis: then do it on your own time

You smile despite yourself and load into Moonvale.

The event dungeon sits at the edge of the Hollow Crater, only open during meteor season. The Glassroot Catacombs. Pretty name, horrifying place. The entrance is an archway of translucent roots twisting down into the moon’s crust, glowing pale green and blue. Tiny stars pulse inside the bark like trapped fireflies.

It looks gorgeous. Which means it is probably going to try to kill you.

DigivolveThis is already there. Of course he is.

DigivolveThis: you’re late

CerryHex: by forty seconds

DigivolveThis: late

CerryHex: i hope the dungeon eats you first

DigivolveThis: statistically unlikely

CerryHex: still possible

You open your inventory just to check, even though you already checked twice. Frost charms. Healing buns. Glow bombs. Moonblade. Pickaxe. Stamina tarts. Two revive feathers, because you refuse to be embarrassed by a root monster in front of a man whose username is a Digimon pun.

He sends a trade request. You accept, suspicious.

He puts three extra healing buns into the trade box.

CerryHex: aw

CerryHex: you care

DigivolveThis: your death would inconvenience me

CerryHex: poetry

DigivolveThis: logistics

You accept the buns.

CerryHex: thanks

DigivolveThis: don’t make it emotional

CerryHex: i’m sobbing actually

DigivolveThis: hydrate

You pause at that. Then laugh, because of course the most annoying person online would sound exactly like an overprepared dungeon dad.

CerryHex: you sound like you own emergency snacks

DigivolveThis: i do

CerryHex: that was not supposed to be true

DigivolveThis: emergencies happen

CerryHex: what emergency requires snacks

DigivolveThis: many

CerryHex: name one

DigivolveThis: being hungry

CerryHex: genius. revolutionary.

The dungeon gate opens with a soft chime, and both of you step inside. The first level is almost peaceful. Pale roots curl through the stone walls, and the floor is covered in shallow water reflecting blue crystals overhead. Little glass frogs hop away from your avatars as you pass. The soundtrack shifts into something soft and eerie, all chimes and low strings.

CerryHex: okay this is pretty

DigivolveThis: don’t get distracted

CerryHex: ugly advice

DigivolveThis: survival advice

CerryHex: same thing from you

The first mob drops from the ceiling thirty seconds later. It looks like a spider made of glass and bad intentions. You hit it with your moonblade. It splits into three smaller spiders.

CerryHex: ew

DigivolveThis: don’t hit the big ones with blade attacks

CerryHex: you could’ve said that earlier

DigivolveThis: you could’ve waited

CerryHex: for what? its traumatic backstory?

Three more spiders drop. Then two root wisps wake up.Then a little moonmole bursts through the floor directly under DigivolveThis’s avatar and launches him into the shallow water. You laugh so loudly you have to clap a hand over your mouth.

DigivolveThis: no

CerryHex: that was art

DigivolveThis: don’t

CerryHex: the mole chose you

DigivolveThis: don’t make this spiritual

CerryHex: you were baptized

DigivolveThis: i’m leaving

CerryHex: by the mole? yes

Another spider lunges at you while you are typing, and your health drops by a third.

DigivolveThis: typing is going to kill you

CerryHex: worth it

DigivolveThis: it is absolutely not worth it

CerryHex: comedy is always worth it

DigivolveThis: your funeral will be inefficient

You make it through the first level, but barely. Not because either of you is bad. You’re not. That’s the annoying part. You both know what you’re doing, but the dungeon is designed to punish anyone who tries to type while mobs are spawning from every wall like the game has a personal grudge.

By level two everything gets worse.

The water is deeper. The roots move. Some of the crystals explode if you mine the wrong ones. DigivolveThis tries to type instructions and gets body-slammed by a frog. You actually wheeze.

CerryHex: THE FROG

DigivolveThis: i saw

CerryHex: it hates you

DigivolveThis: everything hates me tonight

CerryHex: maybe you’re the problem

DigivolveThis: rude

CerryHex: observant

DigivolveThis: don’t steal my word

A cluster of root wisps appears around you.

You try to type left left left and accidentally open your inventory instead. Your avatar stands there like an idiot while the wisps start chewing through your shield. DigivolveThis runs back, drops a glow bomb, and clears half of them.

DigivolveThis: discord call

CerryHex: what

DigivolveThis: now

CerryHex: bossy

DigivolveThis: you’re dying

CerryHex: i’m thriving under pressure

DigivolveThis: you opened your inventory during combat

CerryHex: tactical purse check

DigivolveThis: call. now.

You stare at the Discord call button.

Your heartbeat does something deeply stupid.

It’s not like voice calling someone is intimate. People do it all the time. Mika sends you voice messages from bathrooms, Reina calls just to complain about people she “doesn’t care about,” and Suguru once called you for half a minute to ask which translation your professor preferred because he trusted your rage more than the syllabus.

So it should not feel like a big deal.

But DigivolveThis is still just a username. He exists in chat bubbles, dungeon invites, and annoying little comments about your greenhouse layout. That is manageable. That is safely not real.

A voice is different.

A voice gives him timing and a way to sound less like a random gamer and more like an actual person sitting somewhere on the other side of the call.

Another wisp hits your avatar while you’re staring at the button. Your screen flashes red.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, sitting up straighter.

Fine.

You click call before you can think about it too much.

It rings once, then connects.

For half a second there is only static. Loud ugly static that makes you pull one side of your headset slightly away from your ear.

Then his voice comes through, a little too loud and already annoyed.

“Holy shit, is your headset underwater?”

You freeze.

Not because of what he says.

Because of his voice.

It is familiar in the most frustrating way. Not really clear enough to place, definitely not known enough to name but something about the dry edge of it catches in the back of your mind. You’ve heard that tone somewhere. Maybe in a hallway? Maybe in passing? Maybe not.

The static crackles again.

You clear your throat. “First of all, rude.”

Your voice comes out softer than you meant it to.

Maybe it’s the room. The laptop warm against your legs, the blanket twisted around one ankle, your pajama shorts, the stupid little glow of the game reflected on your screen. There’s no hallway full of people here, no Mika watching your face for cracks, no Reina waiting to turn one wrong word into a weapon.

You don’t have to perform for anyone.

Which is probably why, when you answer him, you sound less sharp than usual. Sleepier, almost. Amused in a way you would never let happen on campus. You notice it a second too late.

“Second,” you add clearing your throat, “my headset is old, not underwater.”

“Your headset sounds like shit,” he says, right after the call stops crackling long enough for his voice to come through properly.

You blink, one hand still on the keyboard. “Hello to you too?”

“I’m serious. Are you calling me from inside a microwave?”

You glance at the headset cable like it personally betrayed you. It is not even that old. Okay, maybe it is old, but not old enough to deserve public humiliation. “It works fine.”

“It absolutely does not. Every time you breathe, it sounds like a plastic bag losing a fight.”

“Maybe you’re just sensitive.”

“Maybe your mic is begging for retirement.”

You open your mouth to argue, but a wisp slides across the screen and nearly clips your avatar before you can move. Satoru’s voice changes immediately, the teasing still there but pushed under focus.

“Left side. Glow bomb first, then move before the roots come up.”

You throw the glow bomb, just not exactly where he told you to. It lands a little too far right, bursts against the stone, and somehow still catches two wisps in the blast. The path flashes pale blue.

There is a pause on the call.

“Okay,” he says slowly, “that was wrong, but it worked.”

You smile. “So it was right.”

“No. It was wrong with confidence.”

“That’s still a skill.”

A root snaps up from the ground before you can answer properly, catching your avatar and dragging your health down so fast you sit up straighter. Your fingers stumble over the keys.

“Don’t blade it,” Satoru says.

“Then what am I supposed to do, compliment it until it leaves?”

“Frost charm.”

You look at your inventory. Then you look again, like maybe the correct item will magically appear if you believe in yourself hard enough.

Satoru goes quiet for one very dangerous second. “You brought one, right?”

“I brought a charm.”

“Which charm?”

You hesitate. “The pretty one.”

The silence that follows is so heavy you can almost hear him judging you through the headset.

Then, very calmly, he says, “I’m going to uninstall your bones.”

You burst out laughing, loud enough that your mic crackles again.

“See?” he says immediately. “It’s doing it again.”

“I’m sorry my headset isn’t up to your royal standards,” you say, still laughing as you try to get your avatar unstuck from the wall. “And for the record, the charm has frost in the name.”

“It’s called Glitter Frost.”

“Exactly.”

“It’s decorative.”

“It’s emotionally useful.”

“You’re at six health.”

“Then heal me, dungeon dad.”

His answer comes way too fast. “Do not call me that.”

“You packed extra buns and made me a route map.”

“I regret helping you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He says nothing to that, but your health bar jumps back up a second later.

The voice call changes everything faster than you expect. Faster callouts. Cleaner fights. Less dying because you’re trying to type insults while something made of glass tries to eat your avatar’s face.

But then the practical part settles, and something else slips in around it.

His little annoyed exhale when you run toward a shiny ore vein mid-fight.

Your laugh when he gets attacked by the same frog again.

The way he says “behind you” before you even notice something moving.

The way you say “got it” and actually do.

By the third level, the two of you have settled into a rhythm that is almost too easy to notice.

He takes the ranged mobs before they can corner you. You clear the smaller ones when they get too close to his side. When the path splits, you go left because there are glowing flowers and ruined archways and the entire area looks like it was designed by someone with taste, while he goes right because there are resource nodes, a hidden chest, and what he calls “an actually useful shortcut.”

Annoyingly, both of you end up being right.

“Do you see the crystal door?” he asks after a while, his voice quieter now, focused in that way he gets when the dungeon stops being cute and starts actively trying to kill you.

You move your camera until the door comes into view. It sits between two twisting roots, pulsing with a soft blue light, very obviously placed there to be noticed.

“Yeah, I see it.”

“Good. Don’t open it yet.”

You pause with your avatar already halfway toward it. “Yet?”

“Yes. Yet. As in wait until I’m actually near you and not on the other side of the room.”

The door glows again. That feels important.

You open it. For one beautiful second, nothing happens.

Then the entire room bursts open with tiny moon bats, all wings and glowing eyes, flooding toward you like you have personally offended their bloodline.

He says absolutely nothing.

Not a gasp. Not a curse. Not even one of his little irritated keyboard clicks. Just silence.

The kind of silence that makes you painfully aware of every single bat currently pouring out of the room you were specifically told not to open.

You press your lips together, already losing the fight against a laugh.

Then his voice comes through, very quiet and deeply controlled.

“I hope you know I’m staring at you through the screen right now.”

That does it.

You start laughing so hard your avatar runs straight into the side of the doorway, which immediately makes everything worse because three bats turn on you at once.

“I thought it might have loot,” you manage, trying to get your character to move while the screen fills with flapping little nightmares.

“It had bats.”

“It was glowing.”

“Bad things glow too. That is a very important life lesson you keep refusing to learn.”

One of the bats clips his avatar as he finally reaches your side, and his mic crackles with the sound he makes under his breath. He starts fighting them off, but there are too many of them, and the whole thing gets ugly fast. Your screen flashes with damage, his health drops, yours drops, and the dungeon music suddenly feels way too dramatic for something this stupid.

“It looked important,” you say, still laughing, because at this point pretending you’re sorry would be insulting to both of you.

“It was locked,” he snaps, though there’s panic tucked underneath the annoyance now. “Locked is the game’s way of saying maybe think for once.”

“Locked is the game’s way of flirting with me.”

“Seek help.”

You try to help. You really do. But the sight of his little purple-jacketed avatar sprinting away from a swarm of bats while still trying to sound composed is ruining your ability to function. He disappears behind a root pillar, comes out the other side with two bats still on him, then immediately has to circle back because a third cuts him off.

“You know,” he says, voice tight as he dodges badly enough that you know he is annoyed for real now, “I made a route for this.”

“That’s so sweet.”

“I made a route so this wouldn’t happen.”

“And yet look at us. Bonding.”

“This is not bonding. This is unpaid babysitting with rabies.”

“They’re moon bats. Be respectful.”

“They’re eating my health bar.” One of them starts chasing him in a tight circle around the root pillar and does not stop. It follows him once, twice, then a third time while he makes this quiet, furious sound through the mic, and you have to bite your lip so hard it almost hurts.

“Why is that one so obsessed with you?”

“Probably because it can sense I’m the only competent person here.”

“Or fear.”

“Or the consequences of your personality.”

You finally stop laughing long enough to aim properly. The frost charm hits the bat midair, freezing it in place with its wings spread and its tiny mouth open like it was about to complain too.

His avatar stops moving.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The dungeon music keeps playing softly in the background, completely unaware that you have just created a workplace incident.

Then his voice comes through, quieter and suspicious. “Was that the right charm?”

You lean back against your pillows, smiling at the frozen bat on your screen. “Maybe I’m growing as a person.”

“No,” he says immediately, but there is a laugh tucked into the edge of his voice now. “Don’t say things we can’t prove.”

“You’re welcome.”

He laughs then.

It is quick and surprised, like it got out before he had time to make it sarcastic.

The sound catches you off guard.

It makes your room feel a little less empty for a second. Which is annoying.

Because now you want to hear it again.

You clear your throat and focus on the game.

“You sound familiar,” you say before you can think better of it.

The line goes quiet except for the faint hum of your terrible headset. For a second, only the dungeon music fills the space between you, soft and weirdly dramatic for how stupid this conversation suddenly feels.

„What?“

Taglist: @yourlocalcatscammer @looha @tarzanfollowsyou @batficdweller @dollienanaaa @sugarxrottentiger @captaineelliee

[vogujojo]

♡ DIGITAL HEARTS ♡

Nerdjo x fem!reader >>mean popular girl!reader is secretly an obsessive cozy gamer. nerd!gojo is weird, blunt, chronically online, and unfortunately exactly her type behind a screen.

setting: college au, no curses au, popular girl! reader, mean girl!reader, nerd!gojo, online friendship, slow burn-ish, flirting, eventual mature themes, author tries writing mean girl!reader but kinda fails, emotional constipation, toxic family mentions, no smut, author goes crash out

Word Count: 5.8k

Masterlist⏸️         next⏭️

Gojo Art by @albdgreen on insta, Images used from digimon, heavy inspiration and images used from stardew valley, collage made by @vogujojo

Chapter one: GAME START?

By the time your bedroom door clicks shut, the version of you that belongs to campus starts coming off piece by piece.

The earrings go first, dropped into the little ceramic dish by your mirror with a soft clink. Then the rings one after another, leaving faint little marks around your fingers. After that comes the blazer Reina insisted you wear over your skirt because, according to her, it made you look "expensive but approachable," which was probably the most Reina way of saying she had approved your outfit before you even asked.

Your phone buzzes on the bed while you're removing your makeup.

mika: are we still going to that party friday?

reina: depends who's there

mika: depends if that guy from media studies is there

reina: you mean the one with the bad haircut?

mika: tragically hot

reina: seek help

You watch the messages pop up in the group chat and don't answer. Usually, you'd send something mean enough to make Mika scream and Reina respond with a tiny "don't be mean," even though Reina was always meaner when it counted. Tonight though, your attention keeps slipping toward your desk, where your laptop is already open and waiting.

Moonvale Crossing glows softly from the screen.

The loading menu washes your room in blue light, all floating islands, silver trees, and tiny animated stars drifting around the title. It is a ridiculous game, honestly. Cozy enough to look harmless, but addictive in the way harmless things always become once they give you daily tasks, a little house to decorate, and a mining system that rewards actual obsession.

Mika and Reina probably think you're doing skincare, texting someone, or watching some messy dating show in bed. They do not know that the first thing you do after washing off your mascara is log into a multiplayer farming-survival game where you own a moon cottage, grow glowberries, and have spent three real-life hours arranging pixel lanterns along a digital riverbank.

They are not going to know either.

Not now, not ever.

You settle into your chair, pull on your headset, and enter the public server.

Your avatar spawns inside a house, standing between a bookshelf and a kitchen. Outside, the lunar farm glows under a pale artificial night. Tiny star-moths drift around the garden beds, crystal goats sleep in their enclosure, and the meteor bell near the town square is silent.

everything looks peaceful. Then a notification flashes across the top of your screen.

>>A rare meteor shower has been spotted near the Hollow Crater. Moonsteel fragments may appear for the next 20 minutes<<

You sit up straighter before you even realize you've moved.

Moonsteel, finally!

You've been trying to craft the Crescent Glass Greenhouse for a week, and the game has been acting like giving you three pieces of moonsteel would collapse the entire server economy. The greenhouse isn't even necessary. It won't unlock some secret questline or make your farm stronger in any meaningful way.

It’s just pretty.

And you want it.

You open your inventory, grab your upgraded pickaxe, eat a stamina tart, and teleport to the Hollow Crater before anyone else can get there.

The game drops you near a field of black stone and glowing purple cracks, the sky above streaked with slow-falling stars. A few little crater sprites bounce around the edges, harmless until you mine too close to their nests. You ignore them and sprint toward the impact site, already scanning the terrain for the silver-blue glow.

There, half-buried in the crater floor, is a huge chunk of meteor rock, steaming faintly as tiny sparks drift off its surface.

Your fingers move fast over the keyboard.

Then another avatar runs onto your screen from the opposite side.

He has white hair, a purple jacket, and a little floating pet bobbing beside him like some accessory. His username appears above his head.

DigivolveThis

For maybe two seconds, neither of you moves. Then he takes one step toward the meteor.

Absolutely not.

You swing your pickaxe first. The meteor makes a satisfying crack sound, and a chat bubble pops up above his avatar almost immediately.

DigivolveThis: wow

DigivolveThis: okay

DigivolveThis: theft

You keep mining.

CerryHex: public spawn

DigivolveThis: i was here first mentally

CerryHex: tragic that the game doesn't reward delusion

DigivolveThis: it rewards speed and route planning

CerryHex: apparently not yours

His avatar circles the meteor like he's trying to find the best angle, which is insane because it is a game rock, not a real excavation site. You keep mining from your side, watching the health bar go down with every hit.

DigivolveThis: your positioning is bad

CerryHex: your username is a cry for help

DigivolveThis: your username is misspelled

CerryHex: it's stylized

DigivolveThis: sure

CerryHex: mine faster or cry quieter

For a moment, he doesn't move. Then his avatar steps in and starts mining too.

You hate that he has an upgraded pickaxe. You hate even more that he clearly knows what he's doing. Most random players are either too slow, too confused, or too busy jumping around to farm rare materials efficiently. This one moves like someone who has studied spawn patterns and probably has strong opinions about them.

The meteor's health drops fast. You're already calculating how the drops might split when three crater sprites wake up from the nest behind him and bounce toward both of you with angry little squeaks.

CerryHex: mobs

DigivolveThis: i see them

CerryHex: then do something

DigivolveThis: i'm mining

CerryHex: multitask

DigivolveThis: hostile work environment

One sprite launches itself at you. You dodge, switch from pickaxe to moonblade, and hit it mid-bounce. Another goes for him, and he moves at the last second with clean, annoying timing before striking it with a staff that sends out a purple spark.

The third sprite heads for the meteor, and both of you turn on it immediately. It dies in two hits.

DigivolveThis: acceptable combat response

CerryHex: don't compliment me like a loading screen tip

DigivolveThis: it wasn't a compliment

CerryHex: good because it was ugly

The meteor cracks again. This time, it breaks.

Moonsteel fragments scatter across the crater floor, and you lunge for the nearest pile at the exact same time he does. The game gives you four fragments, two starstones, and one meteor seed.

Not enough for the greenhouse.

You glare at the screen like that might intimidate the loot table into apologizing.

CerryHex: how many did you get

DigivolveThis: define how honest you want me to be

CerryHex: if you got more than me i hope your crops wither

DigivolveThis: six

CerryHex: die

DigivolveThis: you asked

CerryHex: i regret promoting honesty

His avatar stands there with the little pet floating beside him while the meteor shower continues overhead. More fragments might spawn nearby, but the main rock is gone.

You should leave. You got something out of it, and staying near this guy will probably only make you mad.

Instead, you open the chat again.

CerryHex: are you using a meteor tracker

DigivolveThis: obviously

CerryHex: share

DigivolveThis: no

CerryHex: ugly behavior

DigivolveThis: says the person who tried to solo a public meteor

CerryHex: i didn't try

CerryHex: i almost succeeded

DigivolveThis: almost is where people live when they don't understand spawn cycles

You stare at the message.

Then despite yourself you laugh laud enough that the sound feels strange in your quiet room. This person is irritating, definitely, but at least he is not boring.

Your phone buzzes again.

mika: helloooo

mika: party friday yes or no

reina: she's ignoring us

mika: rude

reina: probably doing a face mask

mika: without us? fake

You glance at the messages, then turn your phone face-down.

On screen, DigivolveThis has started moving toward the north side of the crater.

You follow without thinking.

CerryHex: where are you going

DigivolveThis: second impact zone

CerryHex: there's another one?

DigivolveThis: yes

CerryHex: and you were just going to leave?

DigivolveThis: yes

CerryHex: you're literally evil

DigivolveThis: efficient

He stops walking, and for one second his avatar just stands there under the falling stars.

Then another message appears.

DigivolveThis: keep up then

You smile before you can stop yourself.

The second impact zone is farther out, past the crater bridge and through a patch of silver mushrooms that drain stamina if you step on them. He knows exactly how to avoid them. You hate that this is useful. You hate even more that he slows down once when you get stuck behind a cluster of crater sprites.

The second meteor is smaller and guarded by more sprites and one lunar mole that keeps burrowing under the ground and popping up at the worst possible moments.

Somehow you end up fighting together in the loose and chaotic way the game allows. Not back to back, obviously. Pixel avatars don't have that kind of drama unless someone mods it in. He mines while you clear mobs, then you mine while he covers, and the rhythm works so well that it becomes annoying. At one point, a sprite jumps at your avatar while your health is low, and he hits it before it lands.

By the time the second meteor breaks, you have enough moonsteel for the greenhouse.

Barely.

He gets the rare drop this time: a Celestial Core, glowing gold in the pickup notification. You see it appear in the chat log and immediately feel betrayed by the universe.

CerryHex: no

DigivolveThis: yes

CerryHex: i did most of the work

DigivolveThis: bold lie

CerryHex: give it to me

DigivolveThis: no

CerryHex: i need it aesthetically

DigivolveThis: that is not a need

CerryHex: spoken like someone with an ugly base

DigivolveThis: my base is functional

CerryHex: that's what ugly people say about ugly bases

There's a pause. Then he sends a trade request.

You blink at the screen. The trade window opens and he places the Celestial Core in his slot.

For a few seconds you only stare at it, suspicious enough to feel like the game should let you squint.

CerryHex: what do you want

DigivolveThis: greenhouse access

CerryHex: excuse me

DigivolveThis: you're crafting the Crescent Glass Greenhouse

CerryHex: how do you know that

DigivolveThis: you were hoarding moonsteel and complained aesthetically

CerryHex: creepy

DigivolveThis: observant

CerryHex: annoying

DigivolveThis: also true

You should decline.

You don't.

CerryHex: fine

CerryHex: but if you put one ugly machine in my greenhouse i'm banning you

DigivolveThis: your design priorities are hostile to progress

CerryHex: your progress is hostile to eyesight

You accept the trade.

The Celestial Core drops into your inventory, glowing like a tiny captured sun. His avatar jumps once, and it looks accidental, which somehow makes it funnier.

DigivolveThis: server?

CerryHex: you're inviting yourself now?

DigivolveThis: i paid rent in celestial core

CerryHex: one-time visitor pass

DigivolveThis: exploitative landlord

CerryHex: thank you

You invite him.

Five minutes later he appears at the edge of your farm.

Your farm is not the biggest on the server but it is yours, and it looks fucking good. The paths curve around the glowberry beds in neat little arcs. The lanterns are placed by color and height. The river has moon lilies along the bank. Your house has a dark roof, violet windows, and a little reading nook visible through the front glass.

You spent hours making it look effortless.

He pauses at the automated sprinklers hidden behind flower boxes. Then at the storage shed tucked behind the trees. Then at the decorative crystal columns you placed to block monster spawns without ruining the view.

For some reason you actually wait for his opinion, which is stupid. He is a random online guy with an stupid username and suspiciously efficient meteor routes. His opinion does not matter.

DigivolveThis: huh

CerryHex: eloquent

DigivolveThis: it's not as useless as it looks

CerryHex: wow

CerryHex: frame that review

DigivolveThis: the hidden sprinklers are good

CerryHex: they're also cute

DigivolveThis: tragic priority but acceptable execution

You lean back in your chair, smiling like an idiot.

Then you catch your reflection in the dark part of the laptop screen and immediately stop.

You are not smiling over a stranger calling your sprinkler placement acceptable. That is not a thing you are doing.

The greenhouse takes most of your remaining resources to craft. When you place it, the whole structure builds itself in a soft animation of silver beams and crescent-shaped glass panels.

For a moment, both avatars stand in front of it.

It is really pretty actually.Worth the grind, unfortunately.

CerryHex: okay maybe i'm a genius

DigivolveThis: architecturally dramatic

CerryHex: say thank you for being allowed here

DigivolveThis: thank you for the greenhouse i partially funded

CerryHex: disgusting phrasing

DigivolveThis: accurate phrasing

Your phone lights up again.

This time, Mika is calling.

You let it ring twice, panic flickering through your chest even though she cannot see your screen. You mute your laptop automatically as if that would somehow hide the evidence from a phone call.

Then you decline.

A message follows almost instantly.

mika: RUDE

mika: are you with someone 👀

reina: she would've told us

mika: unless it's embarrassing

reina: then definitely

You stare at the messages a little too long.

On screen, DigivolveThis moves toward your newly built greenhouse and opens the door.

CerryHex: don't touch anything

DigivolveThis: i'm looking

CerryHex: you better be

DigivolveThis: with scientific curiosity

You type before you can overthink it.

CerryHex: i have to go soon

DigivolveThis: tragedy

CerryHex: try to sound less devastated

DigivolveThis: i'm in mourning

CerryHex: obviously

DigivolveThis: same time tomorrow?

CerryHex: for moonsteel?

DigivolveThis: for preventing you from wasting rare materials

CerryHex: i hate you

DigivolveThis: same time tomorrow then

You sit there for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

CerryHex: maybe

You log off before he can type anything back. Your room feels too quiet afterward.

You take off your headset, check your phone, and finally reply to the group chat.

you: friday depends who's going

mika: THERE SHE IS

reina: face mask done?

you: obviously

mika: liar you ignored my call

you: i was busy

mika: with what

you: becoming hotter

reina: acceptable excuse

You drop your phone onto your bed and look back at your laptop, where the Moonvale Crossing menu still glows softly.

A stranger named DigivolveThis now has access to your farm. That should bother you.

It kind of does.

Just not enough to cancel tomorrow.

The next morning, you walk into campus like you did not stay up until nearly two farming moonsteel with some random gamer whose entire personality seems to be efficiency, sarcasm, and being weirdly good at not dying.

No one would know.

That is the whole point.

Your hair is done, your outfit is clean and intentional, your lip gloss is exactly the shade Mika once called "aesthetic hoe" and your expression is the kind that makes people in crowded hallways move aside before they even realize they are doing it.

Reina is waiting outside the literature building when you get there, leaning against the wall with two coffees in hand. "You look like shit," she says as you reach her.

You take the coffee from her. "Good morning to you too."

"I said it with love."

"You said it with judgment, bitch."

Reina hums, eyes moving over your face in that quick, irritating way of hers. She always notices too much. A smudge in your eyeliner, a tired blink, the way you hold your coffee like it's the only thing keeping you upright. "Late night?"

"Not really."

"That means yes."

"That means shut up."

She smiles like she expected that and turns toward the entrance with you. The two of you barely make it three steps before Mika appears from behind one of the pillars, sunglasses in her hair, tote bag sliding off her shoulder, looking pretty in the very specific way someone can look pretty after definitely losing a fight with her alarm clock.

"Don't start without me," Mika says, squeezing herself between you and Reina like there was an assigned spot waiting for her. "Are we gossiping or being academic? Because I only have energy for one."

Reina gives her a look. "You never have energy for being academic."

"I have academic energy."

"You called symbolism 'author Easter eggs' last week."

"And everyone knew what I meant."

You take a sip of your coffee, trying not to smile into the lid. "Sadly, she's right."

Mika points at you immediately. "See? This is why you're my favorite."

"I'm not defending you. I'm saying you're understandable in the worst way."

"That still counts."

Reina mutters something under her breath about being surrounded by idiots, but she's smiling when she says it, so Mika lets it go. The three of you head inside together, falling into step without thinking about it. Mika starts complaining about the seminar before you've even reached the stairs, Reina corrects her on something from the reading, and you let their voices fill the space around you while you focus on drinking enough coffee to feel like a person again.

Literature seminar is already half-full when you enter. Suguru Geto sits near the middle with one book open in front of him and one earbud in, his dark hair tied back loosely. He looks up when your group passes, his eyes moving from Reina to Mika, then to you with that calm, unreadable look of his.

You know Suguru in the way people know each other when they share a major, half the same seminars, and too many mutual acquaintances. He is popular, Football captain, literature major, pretty in a way that makes people embarrass themselves, and somehow still the type to actually do the reading.

Mika once called him "hot in a tragic poem way."

Reina had said, "Unfortunately, yes."

You had pretended not to agree.

"Morning," Suguru says.

"Is it?" Mika asks, dropping into the row behind him.

Suguru smiles faintly. "Apparently."

You sit two seats away from him because sitting right beside him would feel too friendly and you are not in the mood to donate warmth for free.

Reina takes the chair beside you. Mika leans over the back of yours and immediately starts whispering about the guy in the front row who brought three highlighters and a tote bag with a quote from a dead Russian author on it.

"Do you think he knows women are real?" Mika whispers.

You glance over. "His tote bag knows. He doesn't."

Reina presses her lips together, trying not to laugh.

The lecture starts, and for the next hour, you are exactly who you are supposed to be.

Sharp, prepared enough, pretty enough. Bored in the right places and engaged in the ones that make you look clever. When the professor asks about narrative voice, you answer smoothly, and Reina nudges your shoe under the desk like silent approval. When Mika tries to online shop during a discussion about unreliable narrators, you lower your voice and tell her that if she buys that skirt, you'll pretend you don't know her. "You already pretend that," she whispers.

"Only when you deserve it."

"So daily?"

"Hourly."

By the time class ends, you have almost forgotten about Moonvale Crossing.

You are slipping your notebook into your bag when your phone lights up on the desk. It is not the group chat this time, or a campus notification, or some useless email you will pretend to read later.

It is the Moonvale Crossing mobile app.

You only have it because the game sends server pings through it when someone messages you, and last night, in a moment of absolute stupidity, you turned them on.

DigivolveThis: walked past your greenhouse again

DigivolveThis: it's pretty, but the layout is doing violence to efficiency

DigivolveThis: confusing experience. emotionally and structurally

You stare at the messages for a second too long.

A smile tries to happen.

You stop it before it can fully reach your face, but not fast enough.

Mika, who had been shoving her laptop into her bag with zero care for its survival, pauses beside you. Her eyes flick from your mouth to your phone, then back again. "Why did you just make that face?"

You lock your phone and slide it off the desk. "What face?"

"That one."

"I didn't make a face."

"You looked pleased. It was disturbing."

Reina glances over while zipping up her bag, calm in that annoying way that always makes her seem like she knows more than she does. "Who texted you?"

"No one."

Mika's eyebrows lift. "No one made you smile?"

"I didn't smile."

"You almost did, which is honestly worse. Very off-brand."

You shove your phone into your bag and give her a look. "Can you not hover? You're dressed like you slept in a dryer."

Mika looks offended for half a second before smoothing a hand over her hair. "Okay, first of all, this is intentional."

Reina gives her a quick once-over. "It isn't."

"Whose side are you on?"

"The side with eyes," Reina says, then looks back at you, her mouth curving just slightly. "But she's right. You were being weird."

"I got a notification. People get those."

"People don't usually hide them like they owe money," Mika says, leaning closer like proximity will magically give her answers.

„You guys are just so bored and brain dead that you imagine stuff“

Mika grabs her tote and follows immediately. "I'm not bored. I'm invested."

"In what?"

"In whatever made you look less dead for two seconds."

Reina falls into step beside you, coffee in hand, eyes forward but clearly still listening. "It's probably nothing."

"Thank you," you say.

Then she adds, "But she's acting like it's something."

You turn your head slowly and look at her.

Reina only smiles into her cup.

Mika points between you two as the three of you move toward the door. "See? Even Reina thinks you're lying, and she lies recreationally."

"I do not," Reina says.

"You once told a guy you were allergic to his cologne so he'd leave."

"That was community service."

You adjust your bag on your shoulder, keeping your face bored because that is safer than letting either of them see anything else. "Are we done?"

Mika hums, still looking way too pleased with herself. "For now."

"Great."

"But just so you know," she adds, stepping around someone's chair as you leave the row, "whatever this is, your face is not helping your case."

The hallway outside the seminar room is crowded, everyone spilling out at once with books, laptops, coffees, and the particular post-class energy of people pretending they understood more than they did. Suguru steps out behind you, sliding his book into his bag, when someone near the staircase calls his name.

"Suguru."

The voice is male, light, a little too loud for the hallway, and somehow already irritated by something.

Suguru looks up, and his expression changes just enough to suggest familiarity "There you are" he says.

You glance over because Reina does first, and Mika follows anything Reina notices like it is a campus sport.

A guy is standing near the staircase with a backpack hanging off one shoulder, a strawberry milk carton in one hand, and the kind of posture that says he has been waiting for exactly three minutes and considered that a personal betrayal.

He has white hair, black rectangular glasses, a NASA shirt, black jeans, and a tiny Digimon keychain clipped to his backpack. He is tall in a slightly unfair way, built more solidly than the rest of him suggests, and he looks like he either lost a fight with the wind or never agreed to participate in hair maintenance as a concept.

Mika leans closer to you. "Who is that?"

„How should i know?" the irritation in your voice still precent from the earlier conversation.

You have seen him before, maybe. Around campus. In the library once, possibly. He has the unmistakable energy of someone who belongs to the science building, the kind of guy people mention in passing because he got a perfect score in something horrible or corrected a professor and somehow didn't get smited on the spot.

But this is the first time you really look.

And he is weird.

Not ugly, which would be simpler. The outfit is weird. The milk is weird. The keychain is weird. Even the way he squints at the literature hallway, like the building has personally wronged him, is weird.

He looks directly at Suguru,"There you are. I swear this building has no signs anywhere."

Suguru adjusts the strap of his bag. "It's one hallway."

"It's a hallway with doors that all look the same."

"That means you got lost."

"I took the wrong turn once."

"You texted me three times."

Satoru takes a sip from the carton, completely unbothered. "Because your directions were bad."

Mika snorts under her breath.

The white-haired guy looks at her. He does not say anything to her, just glances once and then looks back at Suguru like he has already moved on.

Suguru looks between him and your little group. "Satoru, this is—"

Satoru cuts him off by pointing his strawberry milk carton toward the stairs. "Can we do introductions later? Shoko said if we're late again, she's starting lunch without us."

"She always starts lunch without us," Suguru says, but he is already shifting his bag higher on his shoulder.

"Yeah, but this time she said she'd eat my dessert too."

Suguru pauses for a second, then sighs. "Fine. That actually sounds like her."

Satoru gives him a pleased look then steps aside for Suguru to lead the way. "Thank you. Finally, someone understands urgency."

"You're friends with Suguru?" Reina asks, still looking at Satoru like the answer might be embarrassing for everyone involved.

Suguru opens his mouth, but Satoru gets there first.

"Don't say it like he lost a bet."

Mika lets out a small laugh, surprised more than amused, while Reina's smile sharpens.

"I didn't," Reina says sweetly.

"You kind of did," Satoru says, taking a sip from his strawberry milk like this conversation is already wasting to much energy. "It had that tone. The one people use when they find something in the back of their fridge."

Suguru sighs under his breath, but he looks more used to it than actually annoyed. "This is Satoru."

Satoru lifts the milk carton in a lazy half-greeting. "Hi."

Mika looks him up and down, less subtle than Reina and clearly not trying very hard to be. Her eyes catch on the keychain, then the shirt, then the milk. "Wow. That's... a lot going on."

Satoru glances down at himself, then back at her. "And yet I managed to leave the house without asking."

Reina's brows lift.

You almost laugh.

You press your tongue against the inside of your cheek and look away before it shows, because Mika is still staring at him like she cannot decide if he is funny or if he should be studied in a controlled environment.

Reina, unfortunately, is quicker to decide.

"You're kind of rude," she says, soft enough that it could pass as casual to someone who doesn't know her.

Satoru looks at her properly then, eyes moving over her face for half a second before he answers. "You opened with judgment. I'm just matching the room."

Mika's mouth parts a little, offended on Reina's behalf and entertained despite herself. Suguru makes a low sound, almost a warning.

"Satoru."

"What?" Satoru says, turning toward him with the kind of innocence that is clearly fake. "Am I wrong?"

Reina lets out a quiet laugh, but there is nothing warm in it. "You always talk like this to people you just met?"

"Only when they start shit first."

For a second, even Mika shuts up. Then she huffs out a laugh and adjusts the strap of her bag. "Okay. Weird little guy has teeth."

Satoru gives her a flat look. "Tall little guy. Accuracy matters."

You hate that it almost gets you again.

The laugh sits right there in your throat, stupid and inconvenient, because he is strange and badly dressed and holding strawberry milk like a twelve-year-old, but he answers fast. Faster than most people do when Reina and Mika start circling.

Reina tilts her head, still smiling like she has never been insulted in her life. "Suguru, where did you even find him?"

"Physics building," Suguru says dryly.

"That explains so much," Mika mutters.

Satoru's gaze slides to her. "And yet you still look confused."

Mika's eyes widen. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

Suguru puts a hand briefly over his face. "Can we not do this in the hallway?"

"I'm being extremely polite," Satoru says.

"No, you're not."

"I haven't called anyone stupid yet."

Reina's smile turns colder. "Should we clap?"

"If you need the encouragement, sure."

You have to look down at your coffee.

Because fuck, that was funny.

And that annoys you, because he is exactly the type of guy you would normally write off in three seconds. This guy is clearly just another weird STEM boy with no filter.

But people do not usually talk back to Reina like that.

Suguru says his name again in the way someone does when they know the damage is already done but still feels responsible for trying. "Satoru."

Satoru looks at him. "What? I was answering questions."

"You were making it worse."

"They asked bad questions.“ he say while his eyes wonder towards you now.

You are used to being looked at. You know the difference between admiration, interest, jealousy, judgment, and all the little versions in between. His look is none of the fun ones. It is quick, assessing, and unimpressed in a way that makes your spine straighten before you decide to do it.

He sees the outfit. The coffee. Reina and Mika. The gloss on your mouth. The way the hallway shifts around your group without anyone saying it out loud. Whatever conclusion he reaches, you can tell it is not flattering.

So you give him one right back.

Weird.

Definitely weird.

Probably thinks owning a NASA shirt counts as foreplay for the universe.

You let your eyes drop to the little Digimon keychain clipped to his backpack, then lift them back to his face with the kind of smile Reina usually called bitchy.

"Cute keychain," you say.

Mika makes a tiny sound beside you, barely held back, because she knows that tone. Reina's mouth twitches too, not enough to count as a smile, but enough to make it clear she caught exactly what you were doing.

Suguru glances at you, then at Satoru, like he is already tired on everyone's behalf.

Satoru looks down at the keychain. For a second, you expect something. A defensive little laugh, maybe. Some awkward attempt to explain it away. At the very least, a flicker of embarrassment.

Instead, he just lifts it slightly with two fingers, like he is showing off proof of purchase.

"Thanks," he says. "It's my favorite."

The answer is so plain that it throws you off more than a reaction would have. He does not shrink from it. Does not pretend it is ironic. Does not give you anything useful to work with.

Somehow, that is worse.

Mika tilts her head, eyes narrowing at the little figure. "Is that from one of those kid shows?"

"Digimon," Satoru says, without missing a beat.

Mika nods slowly, lips pursing like she is trying very hard to be polite and wants everyone to know she is trying. "Right. That makes sense."

"It does," he says, looking at her. "That's usually what happens when people recognize things."

Reina lets out the softest breath of a laugh, more entertained by the audacity than by him. Mika blinks, clearly unsure if she has just been insulted.

You press your tongue against the inside of your cheek.

Do not laugh.

Absolutely do not laugh.

Satoru adjusts the strap of his backpack and turns slightly toward Suguru, already done with the conversation in a way that is somehow ruder than if he had actually said something mean. "We're leaving."

Suguru gives him a look. "Subtle."

"I'm being efficient." He starts walking, then stops after two steps and looks back at Suguru with visible irritation. "Wrong direction. You lead."

Mika laughs before she can stop herself.

This time, you do too, quietly, because the timing is too stupid not to.

Satoru looks at you when he hears it.

For a second, your smile is still there.

Then you remember yourself and let it fade.

His gaze lingers for a second, its the type of gaze were you already know they have decided not to spend energy on you.

Then he turns away.

Suguru passes by your group with a small nod. "See you on Friday."

Then he follows Satoru down the hall.

Mika watches them go before leaning close to you. "That guy is so fucking strange."

Reina hums. "Painfully."

You glance after them once.

Satoru is walking beside Suguru now, talking with one hand while still holding the strawberry milk in the other. Suguru looks amused. Satoru looks irritated. The Digimon keychain bounces against his bag with every step.

"Yeah," you say.

Definitely weird.

[elyxrty]

Where the Ice melts.

Hockey Captain! Toji Zenin x Reader x Hockey Player! Gojo SatoruYou didn’t come to Jujutsu University hockey games for anything serious, just something to do with your friends. But somewhere between the ice, the crowd, and the noise, you catch the attention of two completely different players. Satoru Gojo, the star everyone watches without trying, and Toji Zenin, the arrogant captain who notices everything he shouldn’t. CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 1 - CHAPTER 2 - CHAPTER 3 - CHAPTER 4

You spend about four minutes staring at the notification before Yuki physically takes the phone out of your hand. "Okay," she says, holding it up like evidence in a courtroom. "Okay. Satoru Gojo. Followed you. On Instagram."

"I know," you say. “I’m aware.”

"Were you though?" She turns the screen toward Shoko. "Were any of us really aware this was going to happen?” Shoko looks at it once, takes a slow sip of her tea, and sets the mug down. "Hm," she says, which from Shoko is basically a standing ovation. The three of you are in your apartment, which is how most of your evenings end up, somewhere between your place and theirs, takeout containers on the coffee table, the ambient noise of whatever neither of you is actually watching on the TV in the background. It's a normal night. It was a normal night. And then your phone happened.

"He literally has a million followers," you say, trying to locate some perspective about this. “And you’re one of the only people he follows,” Yuki says. "There's a difference between existing and being seen." She puts the phone back in your hand with the gravity of someone handing over something fragile. "This is being seen." You look at the notification again. satorugojo started following you. It still says the same thing. You were hoping it might update.

"Toji told me not to overthink it," you say, and you don't entirely know why you say it out loud, except that it's been sitting in your head since the hallway and apparently needed somewhere to go. The room goes quiet in a specific way. Yuki turns slowly. "Toji." "Zenin," you clarify, like that helps. "You're on first-name terms with Toji Zenin, the captain of the hockey team..” she says. "He told me to call him that." "He told you—" She stops. Looks at Shoko. Looks back at you.  "Nothing happened." "He told you to call him by his first name because he wants to be closer to you than Gojo," Yuki says, with the precision of someone who has been paying attention even when you thought she wasn't. 

"That's not nothing. That's actually a lot." You don't say anything, which is an answer she takes note of. Shoko reaches for her mug again. "So you've got Gojo following you online," she says, "and Toji wanting to close the distance in person." She pauses. "That's a specific kind of problem to have." "It's not a problem." "It's going to be," she says simply, and somehow that lands more than if she'd said it dramatically.

Your phone buzzes. You look down.

A DM. From satorugojo.

The message is four words: took me long enough huh

You stare at it for a second. Something about the casualness of it, like he's been meaning to do this for a while and finally got around to it, does something small and annoying to your chest.

You type back: were you looking?

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. 

Then: obviously

Yuki reads over your shoulder and makes a sound that is not quite human. You angle the phone away from her. She angles herself back. You give up. 

you literally asked if I went here, you send.

okay that was bad, he replies immediately. 

Then a second later: genuinely one of my worst moments

is that rare for you

shockingly yes

I don't believe you

you should. I'm usually much smoother than that

You almost type something sarcastic and then stop because his next message comes through before you can

in my defense you were distracting

You put the phone down on your knee and look at the ceiling for a second. Yuki snatches it back up. "He said you were distracting," she announces to the room.

"I know, I can read,” you say. "Shoko. He said she was distracting." Shoko has already put down her mug. She is watching with the quiet focus of someone who has decided this is the most interesting thing happening tonight and plans to observe it until its natural conclusion. You take the phone back and keep going, because apparently that's what you're doing now. The conversation threads through the rest of the evening in a way that feels too easy for something that started forty minutes ago — he's funny in the way that suggests he knows what he’s doing, which should be insufferable, and mostly is, except there are these moments where something more direct comes through, a sentence that lands differently than the ones around it, a question with more weight than it looks like on the surface.

At some point he sends

 there's a party friday. delta sig. you should come

Not an invitation exactly. Not a question. Just a fact he's putting in front of you and leaving there. You look at it for a second.

maybe, you send back.

that means yes, he replies immediately.

You put your phone face-down on the cushion and look at the ceiling once more.

"Well?" Yuki says. "There's a party Friday." She screams into a throw pillow. Shoko nods once like this was always going to happen.

Friday arrives too quickly, the week collapsing into itself without warning. You spend longer getting ready than you'd normally admit to, which you justify to yourself as just caring about how you look in general and not as anything specific. Shoko watches you change outfits twice from her position on your bed, legs crossed, expression professionally neutral. Yuki offers opinions on everything with the enthusiasm of a person who has never once been asked to tone it down.

You end up in something simple. Something that still looks like you tried.

The party is loud before you even get through the door. Delta Sig is one of the bigger frat houses on campus, which means it has the specific energy of too many people in a space that is technically big enough but doesn't feel like it. Music thudding through the walls, conversation competing with itself on every surface, the kind of warm dim lighting that makes everything look slightly more cinematic than it actually is.

Yuki disappears almost immediately, absorbed into someone she recognizes with the easy confidence of someone who is comfortable anywhere. Shoko finds a quieter corner and a drink and stays there with the calm of a person who has already decided exactly how much of this evening she is willing to participate in. You're still getting your bearings when you hear him.

Not his voice specifically. Just the shift in the room, the particular frequency change that happens when Satoru Gojo enters. You look up without meaning to and he's already looking at you, already crossing the distance between you like he'd spotted you the second you walked in, which he probably had."You came," he says, and he's smiling in that way where it reaches everything, easy and warm and slightly reckless. "You said maybe meant yes," you say. "It did." 

He looks at you the way he sometimes does, like he's taking stock of something, the kind of attention that makes you want to stand slightly straighter without knowing why. "You look good."

It lands simply. No performance around it. "Thank you," you say, and mean it in spite of yourself. The next hour is easy in a way you didn't entirely anticipate. Gojo in a party is a natural phenomenon, he moves through it the way water moves through a space, filling every surface without any apparent effort, and people gravitate toward him the way they always do, like he's generating something they want to be near. But he keeps finding his way back to you. Checks in. Brings you something to drink without making it a whole thing. Laughs at something you say with his whole face, not the measured kind of laugh he uses when he's performing, something more genuine, caught off guard.

It's those moments that get you. The ones where he forgets to be Satoru Gojo for a second and is just someone standing next to you, finding something funny.

At some point, he gets pulled into something, someone needing him, the way people always need him at parties, for a photo or a conversation or just because he's there, he shoots you a look over his shoulder that says one second in the universal language of parties. You wave him off genuinely. Take a breath. Step back from the center of things.

The room is still full and warm and loud, but you find a slightly quieter margin near the edge of it, somewhere between the main space and the hallway, where the music is still there but the press of people isn't quite so immediate. You stand with your drink and let yourself just exist for a moment without performing anything. You don't notice him right away. That's the thing about Toji he doesn't announce himself. He's just suddenly there when you look, leaning against the wall a few feet away with a drink in his hand, watching the room with the detached patience of someone who came to this party purely out of obligation and has made his peace with it.

He glances over when he feels you notice him. Doesn't say anything immediately, just holds the look for a second the way he does, like eye contact is something he has an unlimited supply of and sees no reason to ration.

”Didn't take you for a Delta crowd," you say, because it's easier than saying nothing. "I'm not, geto dragged me here” he says simply.

You look back out at the room. He stays where he is. The silence between you isn't uncomfortable exactly, just present, which somehow feels more loaded than if either of you had filled it. "There's a game next Thursday," he says after a moment. Not looking at you when he says it, just out at the room, like it's a casual observation about the weather. "Home ice." You glance at him. "Why are you telling me this?” "You should come."

It lands quietly. No performance around it, no smile attached to it. Just stated, the way he states most things, like he already decided it was true and is just informing you. Something shifts slightly in your chest. "Is that an invitation?” He looks at you then, just briefly, those green eyes settling on yours with that steadiness that always makes you feel like he's reading something you didn't hand him. "It's whatever you want it to be," he says.

And then he looks away again, like that's the end of it, like he said the thing and now it just exists between you and you can do whatever you want with it. No follow up. No pressure. Just the thing, sitting there. You open your mouth, close it again. Decide not to examine why your pulse did what it just did. "I'll think about it," you say. The corner of his mouth shifts. Not quite a smile. Something close enough that it counts. "Sure."

The crowd behind you moves and swells, and then the familiar shift in the air, that specific frequency change the room makes when Satoru Gojo decides to reclaim it. He finds you in about four seconds flat. You clock the exact moment he spots you because his whole face changes, easy and warm and already smiling before he's even crossed the distance, and then he sees Toji and something underneath that smile sharpens without touching the surface of it at all. "There you are," he says, but he's looking between the two of you now, gaze moving once and then settling on you like that's where it was always going to land. "Here I am," you say. He looks at Toji. "Captain." The word is easy. Conversational. Completely deliberate. "Gojo." Flat. Unimpressed. The same way it always is.

Something unspoken passes between them in that half-second, carrying the weight of a conversation neither of them is going to have out loud. Then Gojo steps closer to you, not dramatically, just enough that the geometry of the three of you shifts, his shoulder angling toward yours in a way that doesn't look like anything and is obviously everything.

"You've been hiding over here," he says to you, easy smile back in full effect. "I was taking a break." 

"From me?"

"From the noise."

He tilts his head, that particular look crossing his face that means he's deciding something. Then he reaches past you to set his drink on the ledge behind you, casual, leaning in just close enough that it's a statement dressed up as a practical decision. "Dance with me," he says. Not a question. Not quite a command. Just Gojo opening a door and waiting to see if you walk through it, which he already knows you will because he knows exactly what he's doing.

You feel Toji's stillness beside you without looking at him. "Gojo—" you start. "One song," he says, and he's already smiling like it's done. You make the mistake of glancing sideways. Toji is watching you with that perfectly unreadable expression, drink at his side, giving you absolutely nothing. No reaction, no signal, no indication of what he's thinking. Just those green eyes sitting on you, patient and still, waiting to see what you do.

Somehow, his stare makes you nervous, makes you overthink.

You look back at Gojo. "One song," you say. Gojo's smile widens and his hand finds yours loosely, already turning back toward the main room, and you go with him because you made the choice and you're not going to stand there reconsidering it with both of them watching. The warmth of his hand is real and the music is loud and the party swallows you both back into it like the last ten minutes were nothing at all.

You don't look back. You think about looking back the entire rest of the night. The evening blurs forward from there. Gojo was in the center of everything, pulling you along with him in that effortless way he has, making it easy to laugh and easy to stay and easy to almost forget the quiet conversation by the wall that keeps resurfacing in the back of your mind, whether you want it to or not. He's good at this. That's the thing about him. He makes everything feel like the most natural place in the world to be standing, and for long stretches of the night, you believe it completely.

But at some point, your eyes drift across the room without permission. The spot by the wall is empty. You find him eventually, further back, near the edge of the kitchen doorway with Geto beside him, both of them deep in some low conversation, Toji with his drink and his usual stillness, not scanning the room, not looking for anything. Completely settled. Like the night has asked nothing of him and he's given it exactly that. He doesn't look in your direction once.

You stay in the party. You laugh at the right moments. You let Gojo say something in your ear that makes your face warm, and you don't move away. And underneath all of it, small and persistent and refusing to quiet down, is the echo of something stated simply by a wall while the rest of the room wasn't paying attention.

There's a game next Thursday. You should come.

Not a question. Not a performance.

Just a door, left open.

And you're still thinking about it when you get home.

[elyxrty]

Where the Ice melts.

Hockey Captain! Toji Zenin x Reader x Hockey Player! Gojo SatoruYou didn’t come to Jujutsu University hockey games for anything serious, just something to do with your friends. But somewhere between the ice, the crowd, and the noise, you catch the attention of two completely different players. Satoru Gojo, the star everyone watches without trying, and Toji Zenin, the arrogant captain who notices everything he shouldn’t. CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 1 - CHAPTER 2 - CHAPTER 3 - CHAPTER 4

The sociology lecture feels more tense than usual, and it has nothing to do with the material.

Your cursor blinks over half-finished notes while the professor's voice moves through the room at its usual pace, steady and easy to follow on any other day. Today your attention keeps slipping sideways without permission, drifting three rows down to where Toji Zenin is sitting like he has no real interest in being here and somehow still manages to take up more space than anyone else in the room. One arm rests lazily across the back of his chair, black compression shirt pulling across his shoulders in a way that feels slightly unfair. He isn't doing anything, not really, just existing in that particular way he has where it all looks completely effortless, like he doesn't need to try for anything and doesn't particularly care either way.

You tell yourself not to look. It lasts about ten seconds.

When you do look, it's at the exact wrong moment, because his gaze lifts at the same time, green eyes finding yours from across the room like he already knew you'd cave eventually. It hits you all at once, that eye contact, too direct and too steady, and the heat that rises to your face is immediate and deeply annoying. You look away fast, redirecting your attention to your laptop screen like it suddenly became the most interesting thing in the building. When you risk a second glance, he's still watching you. Not subtle about it at all. And then the corner of his mouth shifts, just barely, into something that is definitely a smirk.

You face forward again and stay there.

You're still quietly recovering from that when the professor calls your name, cutting cleanly through the room. You answer on reflex, voice coming out smooth and structured the way it always does in class, the kind of answer that makes a few people glance over afterward. You don't notice them. You're a little too focused on not looking in Toji's direction again, which you manage, mostly, until the lecture ends and the room fills with the usual noise of everyone packing up at once.

You close your laptop and reach for your bag, telling yourself whatever that was is done now.

Then you register that someone is standing next to your desk.

Toji is closer than you expected, close enough that you notice things you didn't from across the room, the way he carries himself like he's never in a hurry, one hand in his pocket, the other adjusting his bag strap without any urgency at all. He looks like he has nowhere else to be. Like he decided this was his stop and that's just the end of it.

"Why are you standing there like that?" you ask before you fully think it through.

"To talk to you," he says simply.

Something tightens in your chest and you immediately decide to ignore it. "Zenin—"

"Toji," he cuts in, calm as anything.

You blink. "What?"

"You call Gojo by his last name," he says. "I want to be closer to you than that. So call me Toji."

That sits with you for a second longer than it should. You feel the warmth creeping up before you can get ahead of it, which of course he clocks immediately, because apparently nothing gets past him. There's something in his expression that shifts just faintly, like he's already filed the information away somewhere useful.

You recover the only way that makes sense, which is to push back. "You flirt like this with everyone," you say. "Or am I special?"

His eyes move over you slowly, like the question actually requires consideration. "Every rich finance major who stares at me for an hour? Yeah."

Your mouth opens, then closes again. You didn't think he'd just say it like that. "You're extremely arrogant," you tell him.

"Mhm."

"You could at least deny it a little."

"Nah."

It should irritate you more than it does. Technically it does irritate you. But it also does something else that you don't have a clean word for, something that sits quietly in your chest and refuses to leave.

You start packing your bag mostly just to have something to do with your hands. "You play hockey and take sociology electives?" you ask, mostly because it feels safer than anything else you could say.

"Bad scheduling decisions," he says.

That gets a small laugh out of you before you can stop it, which feels like a betrayal of your own self-control. "So what did you actually want to talk about," you say, getting it back together. "There's no way you're just standing here to stare."

A pause follows, unhurried and completely intentional.

"What if I am," he says. "Would that be an issue?"

You open your mouth, lose the sentence somewhere, and close it again. He watches this happen with the patience of someone who already knows they've won. "You're cute," he adds, like it's just an observation, like he's noting the weather.

You stand up. Grab your bag. "You flirt too much."

"I'm not flirting," he says.

You stop. "…What?"

"I'm stating."

And somehow that's worse. So much worse. You don't even have a response ready for that and you can feel it on your face, which is exactly the kind of thing you hate.

Before you can pull anything together, the hallway outside the classroom shifts, getting louder in that specific way that means something is happening. Satoru Gojo appears at the far end of it looking like he's already in the middle of going somewhere, hockey bag slung over his shoulder, white hair doing whatever it wants, entirely unbothered as usual. Suguru Geto walks beside him at the same easy pace, quieter, watching everything with that calm awareness he always seems to carry. Gojo is clearly heading to practice, but the second he sees you, his steps slow down.

And then he sees Toji.

He doesn't stop walking immediately. His attention just sharpens in a way that's subtle but there, a small recalibration, like something just got more interesting. He lets his bag drop to the floor with a casual thud and leans against the wall like he planned to end up here the whole time.

"Oh," he says lightly, eyes moving between the two of you. "This is interesting."

Suguru's gaze settles on you briefly, quiet and cataloging, then drifts away again.

"You're the hockey fan," Gojo says, looking at you now with that easy grin that somehow always feels like it's got something behind it.

You give him a flat look. "And you're the guy who thinks that's a personality."

He laughs like you've genuinely delighted him, head tilting back slightly. "You remember me already," he says. "I like that." His eyes stay on you a beat longer than necessary, warm and a little reckless, like he's deciding what to do with this. Beside you, Toji hasn't moved, but the air between the two of them changes anyway in that quiet way it has when neither of them has to say anything for the tension to exist.

"You disappeared after the game," Gojo adds, almost casually, like it's just something he noticed and not something he's been sitting with.

You blink. "What?"

"You left without saying bye," he says. "I wanted to talk to you more."

"You signed my phone case. I thought that counted."

"It did," he says, smile widening, "but still."

Toji exhales quietly beside you, barely audible. Suguru glances between all three of you like he's watching something develop in real time and finding it mildly entertaining.

Then, calm as anything, Suguru says, "He talked about you for twenty minutes after the game, by the way."

Gojo turns on him immediately. "That is not true."

"It is."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"You're obsessed with me."

"Unfortunately," Suguru says sarcastically.

A laugh escapes you before you can catch it, real and sudden, and Gojo's attention snaps back to you the moment it happens, like that sound mattered more than anything else going on in the hallway. Something in his expression settles into something more deliberate, still easy, still bright, but with that particular focus underneath it that makes him feel like a lot more than just fun.

Toji notices. You can feel it without even looking at him.

Gojo eventually pushes off the wall and adjusts his bag, stretching slightly like he's already transitioning back into motion. "I've got practice," he says. "Coach is gonna kill me if I'm late." He pauses at the edge of leaving, and for a second he looks at you, then at Toji, and then back at you with a smile that feels like he's tucking something away for later. "I'll see you around."

Then he's gone, and Suguru with him, the two of them disappearing back into the flow of the hallway. Gojo glances back once before he fully rounds the corner, just once, and whatever look is on his face when he does stays with you after he's already gone.

The hallway feels quieter than it should.

Toji shifts his bag and turns slightly, like he's about to leave too. "Don't overthink it," he says.

You look at him. "What?"

"Gojo talks a lot," he says, already stepping back. "Doesn't mean much."

And then he's gone too, unhurried as always, like he wasn't just standing next to your desk saying things that are still sitting somewhere in your chest being quietly annoying about it. You stay there for a moment longer than you mean to, in a hallway that suddenly feels too open and too quiet and very, very aware.

Your phone buzzes.

Yuki: WHY IS GOJO FOLLOWING YOU

Then immediately after —

Yuki: WHAT DID YOU DOOO

You let out a breath that is almost a laugh and open Instagram without really thinking about it.

And then you go completely still.

satorugojo started following you.

Your heart does something embarrassing. You stand there staring at the notification for a second, then two, like it might change if you look at it long enough.

I thought she was lying.

Imma drop dead and go to sleep

[elyxrty]

Where the Ice melts.

Hockey Captain! Toji Zenin x Reader x Hockey Player! Gojo Satoru You didn’t come to Jujutsu University hockey games for anything serious, just something to do with your friends. But somewhere between the ice, the crowd, and the noise, you catch the attention of two completely different players. Satoru Gojo, the star everyone watches without trying, and Toji Zenin, the arrogant captain who notices everything he shouldn’t.  CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 1 - CHAPTER 2 - CHAPTER 3 - CHAPTER 4

The morning after a game always settles back into normal too easily. The arena, the crowd, the way thousands of people rose and fell like a single living thing — all of it belongs somewhere separate from real life, and Jujutsu University in daylight feels like a completely different world. Calmer. Cleaner. Students move between buildings with coffee cups and half-open laptops and the particular kind of tired that comes from last night's decisions catching up with this morning's schedule.

You pass a few groups still talking about it though. The game. The overtime. Someone says something about Gojo's goal like it's still unreal, like it belongs more to a highlight reel than something that actually happened in front of thousands of people twenty four hours ago. You don't slow down. Your schedule pulls you forward the way it always does.

Lecture hall. Back row. The familiar rhythm of opening your laptop and settling into your notes, fingers moving at a steady pace while the professor's voice fills the room. Financial forecasting. Market structure. Investment stability. The kind of material you've been surrounded by since you were old enough to sit through dinner conversations about it, which means you've also never really had to question whether it was something you chose. Being a Sato means a lot of things were already waiting for you to grow into them. Business was one of them. An inheritance dressed up as a future, and you don't mind it, mostly because you're genuinely good at it, and there's a particular kind of satisfaction in being good at something even if you didn't pick it yourself.

Your screen flickers slightly when a notification drops into your group chat.

Yuki: this lecture is killing me physically

A second later —

Shoko: then die quietly

You exhale something close to a laugh, keeping it quiet enough that the people beside you don't notice.

You: we're literally in the same class

Yuki: and suffering equally

You glance down the row. Yuki is three seats over, already twisted in her chair with the energy of someone who has been awake for two hours and resents every minute of it, waving at you with exaggerated enthusiasm the moment she catches your eye. Shoko sits beside her with her coffee, posture loose, dark circles underneath her eyes that look less like a bad night and more like a permanent feature at this point. You look away before either of them can escalate it.

Near the end of the lecture the professor calls on you without warning. You answer automatically, no hesitation, no need to look up from your screen, the kind of response that makes a few people glance your way afterward like your last name still carries weight even in a room like this. It probably does. You don't think about it.

By the time class ends Yuki has already found you, looping her arm through yours with the dramatic energy of someone who has been waiting for this specific moment. "You looked emotionally distressed in there."

"I was taking notes," you say flatly, adjusting your bag.

"Mhm."

Shoko falls into step beside the two of you, coffee still in hand, bag hanging off one shoulder like it made its own decision to be there. "You've been distracted since the game," she says, completely even.

"I haven't."

"You stared into space for ten minutes."

Yuki gasps like this is the most devastating thing she's ever heard. "Oh my god. Hockey boys are ruining your academic career." You push her shoulder lightly as you walk. "You're both annoying." "But are we wrong?" she asks immediately.

You don't answer, which is an answer.

The truth is you don't entirely know why your thoughts keep drifting back there. Satoru Gojo existed in a completely different category before this week — someone you saw in passing online, in campaigns and edits that felt curated and distant, like they belonged to a world you could look at but never actually step into. And yet somehow now he exists in yours, and you can't quite figure out when that became a thing that was happening.

You're somewhere in the middle of that thought when your shoulder collides with someone turning the corner too fast, your things nearly slipping, a quick sorry already leaving your mouth before you even look up — and then you look up and find blue eyes and white hair and a slow, easy recognition spreading across Satoru Gojo's face like he has all the time in the world.

"Well," he says, smiling already. "Look who it is."

Up close he is somehow more than he already was. Grey hoodie, slightly messy hair, sunglasses balanced at the top of his head for no apparent reason given that it's shady outside, everything about him loose and effortless in a way that should honestly be a little irritating.

Yuki goes completely silent beside you. Shoko takes a slow sip of her coffee.

"You're the hockey fan," Gojo says, like he's pulling it from memory and finding it satisfying.

Heat creeps up slightly into your neck. "Yeah. I'm surprised you remembered."

"The phone case," he says, grin widening. Right. That. "You go here?" he asks.

Yuki actually chokes at his statement. You stare at him for half a second. "…Yes?"

He laughs immediately. "Okay that was an obvious question." He doesn't look embarrassed about it at all, just amused, standing there with his hands in his pockets like this is a perfectly normal way for a morning to go. His eyes move over you in that openly curious way he has, not uncomfortable, just like he's taking inventory of something he hasn't fully figured out yet. "You headed somewhere?"

"My elective."

"Sounds boring," he says instantly.

Yuki grabs your arm. "Actually we were just leaving—" You shoot her a look she completely ignores, already angling you slightly away with the cheerful energy of someone who has decided she is the reason good things happen to you. Shoko watches the entire thing unfold with the calm detachment of a nature documentary narrator.

Gojo glances between them, then back at you, like they're context and you're the subject. "I can walk with you for a bit," he says.

It lands simply, no pressure in it, just offered. You hesitate for a fraction of a second longer than you mean to. "…Okay."

Yuki looks deeply satisfied in a way that immediately makes you suspicious.

The walk starts easy enough, just campus paths and moving crowds, but it doesn't stay simple for long. Gojo talks like pauses are optional, easy and unhurried, while students recognize him every forty feet or so — some greeting him directly, some just staring as he passes, a few whispering after he's already gone like they need a moment to process that he exists in the same physical space as them. He seems entirely used to all of it in a way that isn't arrogance exactly, just familiarity. Like this is just what his life is and he stopped finding it notable a long time ago.

You ask about hockey because it feels like the safest place to start. He answers easily, asks about your major, then groans the moment you say finance. "That sounds painfully responsible."

"It is."

"You actually like it?"

"A little."

"You're either really weird or you're a nerd," he says, and something in his voice makes it sound like either option is interesting to him.

You laugh before you fully realize you're doing it, and his eyes flick toward you when you do, something in them settling into something a little more attentive, like that was the thing he was waiting to see.

There's a pause after that, not awkward, just present in a way that neither of you immediately fills. Gojo notices it too, and smiles like it's something worth noting. "What class do you have?" he asks. "Sociology." "Oh," he says casually, "that's near my building actually." You don't question whether that's true because you honestly couldn't tell either way.

When you reach the entrance he slows slightly beside the door. "Guess I'll see you around."

"Maybe," you say, and mean it more than you intend to.

His smile widens just slightly before he steps back and disappears into the current of students behind him, one hand raised in an easy wave without looking back. You stand there for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside.

The hallway is quieter. Lecture rooms branching off in both directions. You're still somewhere in your own head when you walk into your classroom, and it takes a moment for your attention to fully land.

Then it does.

Because sitting three rows down, leaned back in his chair with a notebook open in front of him and absolutely no urgency about any of it, is Toji Zenin.

Your steps slow before you consciously decide to slow them. You've seen him here before, you realize. Not just at the rink. Here, in this classroom, probably every week. You just never looked long enough to register it.

As if he feels it, Toji glances up. His green eyes find yours without any searching, no surprise crossing his face at all, like he clocked you the moment you walked in and was just waiting for you to catch up. The eye contact holds for a beat too long, steady and unbothered on his end, and then his gaze drops back to his notebook like nothing happened.

You stand there for a second in the doorway.

Somehow that affects you more than if he'd said something.

I hope this was an enjoyable readd, as a first Tumblr mini series I'm very inspired at the moment!! hehe

[gojosconsort]

︵ ೀ mdni. riding naoya zenin in his car

the truth is, nobody can know you’re fucking naoya zenin.

not because you’re taken, not because he’s got some perfect girlfriend waiting at home (you’re pretty sure he’s got a rotating roster of girls who think they’re special), but because the idea of anyone seeing you—perfectly reasonable, selectively bitchy you—spread open and moaning for campus’s most insufferable misogynist makes your skin crawl with embarrassment.

so you do it in his stupid black benz, with its windows tinted, parked in the abandoned service lot behind the engineering building at 2 a.m. on a tuesday because apparently naoya zenin doesn’t do “wait until tomorrow.”

tonight he’s got the driver’s seat reclined as far as it’ll go, one hand braced on the ceiling, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while you straddle him. your skirt’s shoved up around your waist, panties long gone—somewhere on the floor mat probably—and his trousers are open just enough for his cock to jut up thick and flushed between you.

“you’re so fucking loud tonight,” he sneers, but his voice cracks when you sink down another inch, taking him slow, letting your walls flutter around the stretch. “thought you didn’t want anyone to hear.”

“shut up,” you hiss, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. “this is your fault for picking a car with leather seats that squeak like a porno.”

he laughs—low, mean—and thrusts up hard enough that your head snaps back, a startled moan ripping out before you can stop it. the sound bounces off the windows; you slap a hand over your mouth, mortified.

naoya’s grin turns feral. “there she is. my dirty little secret.” his free hand slides up under your blouse, shoving your bra aside so he can palm your breast, thumb flicking your nipple until it hardens. “look at you. riding me like you hate me, clenching like you love it.”

you do hate him. you hate the smug tilt of his mouth, the way he calls you princess when he’s balls-deep, the casual arrogance that makes you want to slap him and fuck him harder at the same time. but god, he fills you perfectly—thick enough to ache, long enough to nudge that spot that makes your thighs shake.

you roll your hips, grinding down until your clit drags against his pelvis. he groans, head tipping back against the headrest, throat working. “fuck—do that again.”

you do. slower this time, deliberate, watching his composure fracture. sweat beads at his temples; a strand of blond hair sticks to his forehead. for once he looks almost human—flushed, desperate, pupils blown wide.

“you’re close,” he mutters, like it’s an accusation. his hand leaves your breast to grab your ass, spreading you wider so he can thrust up sharper, deeper. the wet slap of skin on skin fills the car; the windows are starting to fog.

“so are you,” you gasp, voice breaking when he angles just right and hits that spot again. your rhythm stutters; you brace both hands on his chest, riding him faster, chasing it. and he watches you with something close to awe—then ruins it by smirking. “come on my cock, princess. make it quick. i’ve got an 8 a.m. lecture.”

you want to curse him, but the words dissolve into a choked cry as your orgasm slams through you—hard, blinding, walls spasming so tight he curses under his breath. he follows two thrusts later, hips jerking up, spilling hot and thick inside you with a low, guttural sound that vibrates through your chest.

for a long minute you both just breathe—harsh, uneven—foreheads almost touching, but not really because... ew. his hand stays on your hip, thumb stroking absently over the mark he left. then he opens his mouth.

“you’re still a slut for me, even if you pretend you’re too good for it.” you roll your eyes, already climbing off him (wincing at the mess dripping down your thigh). “and you’re still an asshole.”

he just smirks, tucking himself back into his trousers like nothing happened. “same time thursday?”

you flip him off as you slide into the passenger seat.

but you both know you’ll be here.

[blkkizzat]

♡ A Water Type MILF: Zenin Edition ♡

♡ spawned from this ask which was inspired by this fic.

｢𝓬𝔀: smut ﾉ MDNI 18+ ﾉ naoya x milf!reader ﾉ canon au ﾉ brief mentions of toji x reader situationship/marriage ﾉ reader has a baby girl with toji (tomie) ﾉ naoya also becomes our baby girl ♡ ﾉ heavy lactation kink ﾉ reader bullies naoya until he breaks ﾉ dommy mommy reader ﾉ naoya tears ﾉ dirty smut ﾉ cowgirl ﾉ fluffy bits ﾉ naoya got lots of mommy issues to heal ﾉ reader is a kamo and has blood manip CT ﾉ there's a bit of plot too sprinkled in too ﾉ tiny mentions of choso and gojo as well ﾉ art: fateshatter ﾉ 𝔀𝓬: 9714｣

Someone will die soon.

Naoya scowls, glaring up at the ceiling in his bedroom. 

The slated bamboo above him offers zero consolations to the fact that the universe is, personally and specifically, out to get him.

Fate has decided he should share a wing of the Zenin estate with Toji's latest scandal—a pretty wife and a newborn daughter—the latter of whom has declared war on his sleep schedule.

Flipping onto his stomach, Naoya crushes two pillows over his head to no avail—the piercing wails cut straight through.

Tsk. This entire situation is a special grade clusterfuck.

All thanks to Toji "deflowering" and knocking up the Kamo clan's most precious eldest daughter—yet another scandal he’d dragged back to the Zenin household.

Truthfully, you are equally at fault.

A debutante turned degenerate, you're the furthest thing from pure or lotus-like. Your true nature has stayed hidden from good jujutsu society only through your father's willful blindness—and even now, thoroughly scandalized, you can still do no wrong in his eyes. Nor in Choso's, your annoyingly overprotective half-cursed cousin.

As far as they were concerned, you'd been “corrupted against your will”.

So the blame landed squarely on Toji. And with his less than stellar reputation—to put it generously—no one dared argue otherwise.

Not that it stopped his snark every time he was scolded for it: "That garden had already been ransacked—I merely pitched a tent."

So despite being little more than glorified fuck buddies, both clans scrambled to save face. A shotgun wedding was arranged overnight. Heavens forbid a disgraced black sheep and a thot-daughter spark a war between two of the most powerful families.

The result: you and your squalling little parasite are now Zenin property.

But that alone wouldn't have landed Naoya in this mess.

No—this situation is special.

Seeing as the union only granted you and your daughter entrance to the family—not Toji.

Not that he'd return even if given the chance. He only agreed to marry you for your sake, and your daughter's. Nothing beyond that. So without any real tie to an actual Zenin, you're little more than a ward who took on the name.

Yet Toji thought enough of you not to throw you to the wolves entirely. Before leaving to do gods-know-what as an assassin, Toji asked Naoya personally to watch over you both.

Naoya scoffed at first. Playing babysitter to some woman and her infant? Technically his father Naobito's responsibility—nothing he'd have to bother with until he assumed the role of heir.

Still—Naoya wasn't about to deny a request from Toji, who made it a point never to ask his family for a fucking thing (and who could also destroy them all on a whim.)

Toji-kun said he trusted Naoya alone with the task.

And to Naoya, that acknowledgment was everything.

Fine.

However, that just means seeing to your proper treatment—it didn't mean Naoya signed up to be sleep-deprived. 

Fuck—and if even a hint of a dark shadow appeared on his flawless complexion by morning?

There. Will. Be. Bl—

The final straw arrives before Naoya even finishes the thought. 

A possessed banshee, 7th ring of hell, kind of screech—that even rivals some curses he's previously exorcised—rings out so loud his right ear pops.

That’s fucking it!

Naoya is out of bed, his room and down the corridor in only four strides. 

You had to be awake. 

Not even the dead could sleep through this.

So, why the hell hadn’t you handled it already?

How hard is it of all things to get a baby to shut the fuck up? 

You’re its mother aren’t you?!

Reaching your quarters, Naoya yanks the shoji door open.

And immediately freezes.

As he expects, you’re wide awake. 

Yet nothing could've prepared him for your silk robe to be wide open and resting at your elbows—leaving your breasts completely exposed.

Seated in the midst of tangled blankets and sunken pillows, you shift restlessly to find a position that comforts your baby girl enough to latch while she stubbornly thrashes in your arms.

You give up with a weary sigh, returning to the rocking. Her cries have lessened to frustrated whimpers now that she's moving, but they haven't stopped.

From the doorway, Naoya gives you a measured once-over.

You look like shit. Hair frizzy and damp at your temples, tired eyes, a slight tremor of exhaustion in your hands as you reposition your daughter. 

That said, somehow, infuriatingly, you still manage to look appealing.

The moonlight spilling through the slatted window ensures it as it traces your plush curves, highlighting the faint sheen of exertion on your skin catching the light like a glow.

Gaze dropping, Naoya’s jaw ticks at the sight of your swollen, milk-heavy tits—nipples taut and glistening with pearlescent drops, coaxed free by your baby's cries. 

A creamy bead falls, dotting your daughter's cheek and you gently wipe it away. 

You haven’t noticed Naoya yet, too wrapped up in cooing out the same soft mantras of comfort that have proven useless all night.

Leaning against the doorway now with his arms folded, Naoya narrows his eyes, not used to being ignored. Even if unintentionally. However, his scathing reprimands die on his tongue, something about the scene turning his mouth desert-dry.

Every second drags like an hour, and Naoya with no patience remaining, sharply clears his throat, announcing his presence. 

Your head lulls over to him without startling nor making any move to cover yourself. You just give him a drowsy, crooked smile that practically screams finally, someone capable of rational thought and basic impulse control.

"Tch. Pathetic reflexes. A curse would've killed you both by now."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. 

Technically, many would consider Naoya’s very presence to be a curse all of its own.

However, in your defense, your own senses have been greatly off kilter since your pregnancy and childbirth. Not to mention, the sheer exhaustion a newborn brings to a first time mother—you’re too concerned with your daughter, Tomie, to notice anything else. 

Of course, you don’t expect Naoya of all people to realize that though.

“See, Tomie?” you whisper preciously to your daughter as you continue rocking her, “You woke up your cousin with all that fuss. Now Nao-chan’s just as grumpypuss as you, my love.”

Nao-chan?!

The nickname lands like a slap and Naoya flinches, no longer reclined on the door.

You weren’t even that much older than him—so what gives you the right to reduce his name to something so…ugh, cutesy?

It makes him sound soft. 

Like some harmless stuffy to be cooed at alongside the child in your arms. Nevertheless, a small flush creeps up Naoya’s neck all the same.

Tutting, you shift Tomie upright so she can get a proper look at her cousin, still rooted in the doorway like he's being personally affronted.

She stills at the sight of Naoya, matching his energy.

Appraising him with tiny copies of Toji's stark emerald eyes, Tomie holds that same unsettling scrutiny packaged in a cute face that carries you both unmistakably.

Not to be outdone, Naoya sharpens his gaze, his lips set in a thin line.

You snort under your breath at the scene. 

Looks like the infamous Zenin scowl curses another generation—and Naoya, the pompous heir himself, doesn't look remotely inclined to lose a staring contest to someone who can't even burp unassisted.

Growing bored, ultimately Tomie gives first as she blinks, babbling baby talk. A chubby arm wriggling free and batting clumsily toward him, breaking the stalemate.

"Oh?" you simper, eyes flicking from Naoya, who looks smug to have bested an infant, to your daughter. 

"Not you being the mature one, my girl."

Your giggles make Naoya bristle, his mouth opens to speak—but you're already talking over him.

“C’mere, she wants a truce.” you beckon sweetly, inviting him in. 

Frankly, you’re thrilled something has caught your baby girl’s attention long enough to distract her from crying—even if it is her obnoxious ass cousin.

Naoya, for his part, fully intended to reject the invitation. 

To snap at you to—shut that thing the fuck up and put those saddlebag tiddies away while you're at it—to be done with the whole debacle so he could sleep. But his scathing reply dies somewhere between your airy laughter and the light sheen of milk saturating your areolas. 

Conceding like he’s being called by some unknown force, Naoya crosses your threshold. He reasons that if a quick greeting would quiet the petite goblin for the night, he could comply just this once for his own sake.

Approaching your futon, Naoya sits beside you, back straight, on his knees. His posture is cautious, as if through mere proximity alone either your baby girl or your milk heavy tits could explode at any moment.

Which brings him to the point that you still haven't moved a muscle towards covering yourself for some fucking reason that eludes him entirely.

However, Naoya isn’t about to let a mere pair of tits shake him. If you don’t care, neither does he. At least that’s what he tells himself as he forces himself to keep his eyes level with yours. 

Noaya, steady with all the focused determination expected from the leader of the Hei and Zenin heir—eyes shoot to your tits again the moment you glance at your daughter.

Fuck.

Swallowing heavily, Naoya doesn’t even understand why he’s so enthralled with them. He’s seen plenty of boobs, ones that look way better than yours too. From this close, Naoya can make out the strain of them, skin stretching thin and the small veins showing from underneath. Not the delicate sight of a lady’s chest, no, yours are so obscenely engorged—not to mention leaking—more like fattened cow udders.  

So huge, in fact, that they look heavy and feverish. 

Or…maybe, that was just him. 

The room is getting kinda stuffy.

Shit. Naoya just can't seem to look away from your ginormous mommy milkers. Unable to decide if he's repulsed or utterly entranced. And he's so busy wrestling with that internal crisis that he doesn't stop you from doing something completely fucking unhinged—

—like handing him Tomie.

Realization hitting, for the briefest, teeniest micro-second, Naoya nearly yeets her. 

Not even to be an asshole. Just pure reflexes.

Naoya genuinely abhors children. He’s never held anyone’s child and he sure as hell hadn't expected you to dump yours into his arms out of fucking nowhere.

Thankfully—as that very well would have been his ass once Toji found out—Naoya’s a well skilled sorcerer. His own self-preservation instincts reduce the action to a mere undetectable twitch of muscle.

Even so, he looks far more petrified than he realizes and that you do pick up on. 

It doesn't register to him how ridiculous he looks until you're practically shaking with suppressed laughter at his statue-like posture. 

“She’s not made of glass, you know,” you chuckle at Naoya clearly being so majorly out of his depth. “Just relax, yeah? Rock Tomie a little—she likes you for some reason. You can manage that can’t you?”

Naoya looks at you like you've sprouted two heads. 

He doesn’t want to rock a fucking baby—even if it is Toji-kun’s offspring. 

Who the fuck do you think he is? 

Besides, relaxing wasn't really an option considering how close he'd come to his own death sentence moments ago. But even stranger, he realizes, he hasn't said anything cutting in a minute to remind you of your place, which is frankly weirding him out more than holding the baby is.

However…

You’re simply trusting Naoya to hold her at the moment, easy as that. 

He’s the Zenin heir—of course that’s fucking something ‘he can manage.’

To Naoya’s surprise, Tomie has actually settled—tension gone from her tiny body, that very Zenin furrow smoothing from her brow as though to say finally, another Zenin graces her prescenes. 

She gurgles up at him, blows a bubble and pats his chest with a proprietary little hand.

Naoya frowns. Why does this feel less like soothing a child and more like being evaluated?

"There—" you yawn unceremoniously, a flicker of life returning to your voice as you treasure the break. "See? She's just bored of mommy. Probably wondering where that deadbeat daddy of hers is."

Your slanderous, yet entirely accurate, remark about Toji is what finally has the venom returning to Naoya’s tongue. 

You of all people should consider yourself lucky to be married to him and birth his child.

Eyes flaring, Naoya turns to you and—

Big mistake.

You're in the middle of a stretch. Arms overhead, back bowed, the sheer weight of your tits pulling at your spine until something cracks between your shoulder blades. Milk beads at your nipples from the motion—then scatters. Futon. Blankets. Your lap.

A single drop landing square on Naoya's robe.

He braces for disgust. For his throat to tighten at the sheer audacity of your bodily fluids landing on him.

But the feeling never comes.

Just an overwhelming chemical need to lick the creamy droplet from his sleeve before it soaks in.

“Aha!” you whisper excitedly, attention still on your baby girl in his arms. “My little angel is finally asleep.”

You lean into Naoya, shoulder resting against his, your nipple grazing his arm—and a dribble of milk trails down his sleeve. The drops bleed through the fabric, faint but undeniable.

He doesn't want to notice.

But he does, along with its scent—something like warm mochi and milk buns and pure want to taste it surges so hard this time he bites his cheek.

"Aww, how sweet..." Seemingly oblivious, you dare to poke his cheek, cooing. “Tomi-chan loves her cousin Nao-Nao~!"

Nao-Nao?!

Hairs up on end, Naoya wants to hiss at you.

But your tone is too pure, too genuine.  

You’re just… like this. 

A gentle aura surrounding you while next to your newborn causes you to mother everything in your surrounding area.

And that makes it all the worse.

Naoya doesn’t need mothering. He never did, not even as a child himself.

Yet those thoughts contrast the awkward and unfamiliar warmth Naoya is so insistently trying to keep out of his chest.

Truly, he’d rather be put out of his misery than suffer it a moment longer. 

As a Zenin, Naoya had been trained to treat any affection as weakness—and weakness as a Zenin was the worst sin one could commit.

There’s an unspoken understanding in the clan: No scared cows. 

No one member valued more than the strength of the whole.

And now, as a Zenin, you'd be no exception either. Even at the risk of Toji’s or the Kamo clan's displeasure. 

The Zenin are well practiced at making consequences look like natural outcomes—be it accidental or personal failures. 

Watching you smile so tenderly at your child, Naoya tells himself what he feels isn't guilt.

It's obligation.

Toji left you and Tomie in his care. Therefore it falls to him to set you straight if you both are to survive.

That's all.

"You're Toji-kun's wife and my ward.” Naoya growls—albeit low, careful not to trigger Tomie into another hellish chorus.

“You will henceforth address me, the future head of this clan, as ‘Naoya-sama’." 

His words are cutting and to the point.

“And fuckssake, you will cover yourself when in front of men. You are not a Kamo any longer, you’re a Zenin. You will act accordingly or you will be handled.”

You retract immediately, smile dropping, wetting your lips into a pretty little pout that might have worked on a lesser man.

Naoya considers, for a moment, that he almost feels bad for you. Your lack of discip—

Then you dissolve into hushed giggles and he regrets it entirely.

"Oh my gawwwd, you're actually deadass right now, aren't you!?" Hand over your mouth, tears of amusement prick your eyes as you try to keep your voice contained.

“..or you will be handled”, you mimic, trying to sound as pompous as Naoya, although you don’t imagine anyone ever could.

Noaya growls but you pay him no mind through your amusement, so he is almost startled when you suddenly stop and crowd his space once more.

“Handled, huh?”

Naoya keeps his eyes on yours through sheer force of will—refusing to acknowledge your tits swaying in his peripheral.

“And just who is going to handle me…” You challenge, batting your eyes with a sensual pull of your lips, “...you, lil Nao-chan?”

Naoya grits his teeth, his eyes flashing. 

Here he was trying to warn you and you’re making a mockery of him?! 

If you weren’t Toji’s wife he’d teach you a lesson, he’d—

"Awe, c'mon, Nao-Nao," you purr, caressing his arm which he quickly snatches away. "I thought you'd be the fun one! Ya know…Toji said you were the only half-decent guy in the family."

He stiffens. 

"Toji-k-kun…” Naoya clears his throat.  “...he said that?"

“Mm-hmm.” You hum. Not missing how Naoya’s golden eyes catch light at his older cousins' praise of him. “Told me you were the only one here Tomie and I could count on.”

The light blush on Naoya’s ears creeps down his neck and just like that Naoya begins rocking Tomie as you initially suggested. Carefully, too—as if in this very moment he's made it his life’s mission to earnestly exceed all of Toji-kun's expectations for him.

Chest puffed and prideful, Naoya insists that, as future clan leader, it's ‘only natural’ Toji-kun would say such a thing about him.

You on the other hand have to perse your lips to keep from bursting into actual hysterics this time.

Why’s that?

Because you just lied through your goddamn teeth.

The only thing Toji told you was that Naoya was an easy mark.

And he is. 

Almost painfully so. 

The way his ego swells. The way his whole aura brightens just from hearing his cousin's name. 

It’s all too adorable, honestly.

Naoya is too easily charmed and you're no stranger to charming all kinds of men. Hell, that's how you got knocked up in the first place.

But this type of emotionally stunted man? 

Oh, you could definitely have some fun with him. 

With Tomie finally asleep, you feel the familiar pull of mischief tug at you. 

“Besides, Naoya-sama~~”

Your voice is all velvety compliance causing Naoya to completely miss the sarcasm underneath. He's also too distracted by your head on his shoulder and your boobs molding into his arm as you reach across him to fix Tomie’s swaddling.

"I think I'm decent enough, no?" Your lips curl deviously. "Seeing as I don't exactly count you as a man."

Naoya’s cursed energy spikes, fury bleeding through his veins—but your Tomie shifts in his arms and Naoya has to choke it back, holding his fury. 

You just cock your head, all innocence, like you haven't said something utterly slanderous.

"You shameless fucking slut—" The chill in Naoya voice drops to frostbite temps, “I know you of all peo—”

“Aye!” 

The whiplash is instantaneous—Naoya doesn’t finish the sentence before you have two fingers pinching his cheek, twisting with the particular ferocity of a momma bear who's been awake for thirty-six hours and has simply stopped tolerating bullshit.

"Watch your fucking potty mouth around my damn kid, asshole."

Naoya seethes. He wants to tear into you—the thot-daughter of the Kamo clan, standing on absolutely zero moral grounds—he really, genuinely does. But the twist on his cheek tightens and this time he doesn't even need his survival instincts to do the math for him.

Naoya doesn't know your grade but you aren’t a weakling.

Half his cheek isn’t worth it—especially if it woke the little hellhound in the process.

"...Whatever."

Satisfied at him backing down, you release him, smirking at the red blooming across his face. 

Naoya resists rubbing it. Instead he huffs, hoisting your Tomie up onto his shoulder and bouncing her there in pointed silence. She'd stirred more from your outburst than anything he'd done all night.

This is all fucking ridiculous.

Naoya thinks and the second she settles once more he thrusts her toward you.

"Here. Take her. You're welcome, by the way—since clearly it takes a real Zenin to do what her own mother couldn't manage all night."

Rolling your eyes, you stop just short of slapping the shit out of Naoya. 

The facts remain: that even as a newlywed, your ass might as well be a single mother. Your exhaustion is near biblical and your nerves are near shot and Tomie—the perceptive little thing she is—has likely picked up on every ounce of it, your nerves feeding hers in one miserable feedback loop tonight.

Yet, thanks to Naoya of all people, that loop is finally broken.

Shaking your head, you reach for your daughter—and then your body seizes. The pain hits your chest like a vice, jolting you back hard enough to steal your breath. Your hands fly to cup your breasts on instinct, fingers sinking into the weight of them.

"OH, shiiii—owwww!" You wince.

“What the hell now?” Naoya still holds the baby out to you expectantly, brow arching as you curl into yourself.

"What the hell do you think, Naoya?" You grimace, biting back at him. 

Face crunched in pain, eyes shut, you’re careful to take measured sips of air.

“She cried all night and didn't eat. My tits are fucking killing me."

Realizing this meant he’d have to hold your baby girl even longer, Naoya makes an exasperated sound as he brings her fully into his arms again.  

“You know this is your archaic ass family’s fault, right?” 

You crack an eye open at his diva-like attitude.

“I asked for a pump and the old battleaxe of a caretaker said no. ‘All Zenins are fed from the source’, you mimic in a nasally voice. “Like be so fucking for real—what damn century is this again?!”

Naoya snorts. 

You've never had house rules imposed on you—your father let you run the streets without consequence. So really, you're in no position to complain about the Zenin clinging to their traditions, insufferable as they may be, at least they had them.

"You know—Zenin wives are typically chosen for their training and poise. To think that the Kam—" Naoya stops. 

Mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-everything—his mouth open, agape like a fish. 

Robe now pooled around your hips, you begin working one of your swollen breasts in both hands. Clinical in the way only fatigue makes a person, no couth left in you at this hour. Your thumbs knead carefully, pressing firmly into tender tissue, heel of your palm dragging across a tight knot to stimulate the stagnant flow of your milk glands.

A deep moan slips from your lips in tandem with a hard squirt spraying from your breasts as a reward for your efforts.

Another escapes, then another. 

Your oversensitive nipple is drawn taunt with the prickly pain of relief as a thin stream begins to run along the curve of your tits, painting your skin in shiny rivulets all the way to your bellybutton. 

Through it all Naoya has not even blinked, nor taken a breath for that matter. 

Oblivious to his own staring—and your haughty smile. 

"Really now, Nao-chan? You're salty I don't consider you a man—" you muse, hands still diligently working out small drops of milk, "—but how can I? When you’re drooling over my tits like a thirsty newborn."

Shaken, Naoya’s eyes lock on with yours. The flush that had been camping at his neck floods his face all at once, searing his cheeks.

“I...”

You hush him.

Two fingers find your sternum, unhurried—drifting down your chest, down your belly, tracing the streaks of milk all the way down to your navel, gathering in the soft pudge of your mommy tummy.

Fingers thoroughly soaked, you gradually lift them to his lips. You hover them patiently, like you would a treat to a dog. 

“Open.”

Not used to taking orders, Naoya hesitates—then parts his lips anyway. Your fingers slide in and the taste hits him, rich and creamy with a faint savory edge he wasn't expecting.

It's good. Dangerously good.

His brain short-circuiting, Naoya doesn't stop even when the taste fades, lapping at your fingers and sucking the remnants from your nails with an eagerness he'll hate himself for later. A low croon threatens to escape his throat—the kind of sound he'd never make consciously—and he forces it down along with the last traces of your milk.

More—he wants more.

One look in Naoya’s eyes tells you that. Dark, hooded, their usual sharp calculation completely gone—replaced by something unguarded and hungry. He's still tonguing your fingers like there might be something left to find. The needy, restless flick of his tongue stroking heat into your core.

"Good," you murmur, retracting your fingers. "Now, go put Tomie down on her futon."

Naoya doesn't move.

But this stillness is different. Every muscle is coiled, feral cursed energy strumming hot through his veins. A wire crossed. His restraint is less like surrender and more like the moment preceding a strike.

"Go on," you simper, "...and I'll let you sample from the source... you know the proper way to feed a Zenin."

Naoya says nothing. His aura speaks for him as he rises smoothly, crosses to the tiny futon, and sets your daughter down.

You simper in approval—he's not half bad at this—but you couldn't tell him that now. Not with the tension this thick.

Returning, Naoya lingers at the edge of your futon. The particular stillness of someone who's already decided how this ends—he’s just letting you go first.

"Well, c'mere—don't go shy on me, Nao-Nao."

You crook a manicured finger at him, giggling.

Poor thing doesn’t realize he’s playing right into your hands.

"I'm not shy."

He's not. But you're Toji's wife, and he's well aware of that. Somehow though, it only makes whatever this is more forbidden.

More worth taking.

"No?" Your voice dips playfully, baiting.

"Just a virgin then?"

Naoya sucks his teeth. He's never met a woman as infuriating as you he decides.

"I'm no virgin, whore."

No real bite to Naoya’s voice this time though, not as he drops to his knees in front of you like a good dog. His own annoyance betrayed only by the whitening of his knuckles in his lap.

"Gotta be mommy issues then," you murmur, closing the remaining distance with a crawl—one last barb delivered right as you sink into his lap, forcing him cross-legged beneath you.

His contained fury is the most endearing thing you've seen all night to be sure.

"Shut u-up," he grits, voice scraping thin.

You rest your arms on his shoulders, holding deliberate space between your bodies. Tilt your head and take stock—he's handsome, you'll give him that. Good bone structure, pretty mouth. 

Shame he ever has to open it.

Your fingers drift to the piercings at his earlobe, toying lazily—while your other hand works the short hairs at his nape, featherlight scratches that make him shiver.

Naoya steels himself, an unwelcome and unexplained feeling blooming in his chest as he wills himself to stay focused.

"I'll shut up once you help me." Your hand leaves his ears to find his wrist, guiding it to your body. "Please, Nao-chan. It hurts."

The need etching in your voice worms its way under his skin like a tick and Naoya is finding his ability to keep control greatly diminished from all the blood flowing into his cock.

"Massage from the base," you breathe, giving him instructions to stimulate the milk flow. "Pressure out, not in."

Naoya's palm flattens flush against your breast and whatever plans he had for control slip away on contact.

The heat hits first—it's swollen, much heavier than he expected. Then the give of it, firm but yielding as his fingers curl to sink deeper. Naoya can feel the subtle shift of milk tracking beneath your skin, your breath hitching when he finds the right pressure, your nipple drawing tight against his palm.

"Just like that," you sigh when his rhythm smooths out. "You're a natural."

He adjusts without being told, reading your body's responses, and soon adds his second hand—finding the knot easily, pressing with both thumbs.

Surprise flickers across his face when milk spurts over his knuckles.

He nearly stops breathing.

You don't. 

Your shaky exhale of relief punches straight through him and his cock throbs against his robes like a second heartbeat. 

Naoya shifts, trying to adjust himself without you noticing.

You do however, gaze dropping, at the motion. He's so much larger than you'd have guessed for a man with such a fragile ego.

"Hmm. Certain parts of you are definitely enjoying this, Nao-chan."

Naoya clicks his tongue but doesn't deny it. He's too fucking hard to deny it.

His hands move again—one on each breast now, thumbs circling, palms compressing—drawing a deep moan past your lips. He watches with something close to reverence as milk wells up with each careful stroke.

The less your chest aches, the lower heat travels, melting into your core. You’re pulsing at the thought of his thumbs sweeping the same circles across your clit.

Breath heavy, biting your lip, you grasp at the robe on his shoulders to brace yourself. A  momentary loss of your own control which Naoya is in no position to take advantage of.

Not when his attention is fully captured by a fat, opalescent drop welling on your nipple, shiny even in the dim light.

Eyes wild with need, Naoya’s tongue nearly pokes through the inside of his cheek.

"You wanna taste."

It’s not a question. 

"I already said you could—or would you rather lick it up again, like a dog?"

But you’re just as desperate to be drained as he is to drain you. Naoya notices, you can tell. But his jaw is clenched so tight his molars might crack, eyes still glued to your nipples, and you almost tell him to relax before he breaks something and really does require nursing.

Your tits ache too badly to wait on his pride all night.

This time Naoya doesn't flinch when you cup his cheek. You guide him forward with unhurried gentleness—the same patience you show your daughter—and something about that tenderness dissolves whatever protests he had left.

His mouth closes over your nipple and he sucks, greedy and unguarded. Your fingers card into his hair immediately, drawing him in as the first pull sends an achy relief flooding through your breasts.

Naoya moans around you, shameless. Gluttonous. All pompous pretense abandoned.

"There it is," you murmur, smiling as you stroke him affectionately.

Your touch only makes him hungrier though—his tongue flickering, writhing for more even as your milk flows steady now. You jolt when his hands grip your hips without warning.

Naoya braces himself but he's nowhere near steady. Nothing about him is. Breath ragged against your skin, his whole body carries a tremor he probably doesn't realize is visible.

"It's okay, I'm not going anywhere…" you whisper, honeyed coos finally reaching him. "You’re a good boy."

Naoya freezes.

He unlatches with a wet gasp—glossy white ring around his lips, golden-brown eyes blown wide and wild. Something just cracked open in him that he wasn't prepared to feel.

"Don't—"

Croaking on his own spit.

"Don't what? Praise you?" Your hands keep working through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp, lulling him toward a surrender he's still trying to fight. "For doing so well?"

"I'm not a child."

But his voice wavers, unconvincing even to his own ears. 

You're teasing him, yes—but there's no cruelty underneath it. No disdain he can pinpoint as an excuse to push you away and escape from whatever this is.

"No?"

Bending forward, your lips ghost against his temple as you whisper:

"You don't want to be my good boy, Naoya?"

His nostrils flare—anger, need, humiliation—all of it written plain across his face. 

Like an animal he’s cornered, unsure of his next move.

A moment passes. 

Then Naoya’s gaze flicks sharply to your other breast he’s yet to sample.

You raise a brow, but Naoya has just enough pride left to not dignify your question with an answer. Can't anyway—his mouth is already latching onto the next target—the conversation over.

Need won. Clearly.

Naoya feeds more ravenously this time—tongue rolling around your sensitive flesh, teeth scraping in a way you'd smack him for if it didn't feel so fucking good.

He's messy about it too. Milk running down his chin, neck and spilling into his collar.

Fuck—this little shithead can really work his tongue.

Your head lulls, arching into him, melting against his mouth as you let him take his fill. 

Your own lust is dampening your thighs now.

Damn. This wasn't the plan. 

You'd meant to tease him a bit—let him suck on your fingers, string him along and then duck him. Peel his pride back layer by layer, slowly, to keep yourself amused living amongst such a stuffy clan.

You had no idea how affection-starved Naoya was. 

Let alone how much seeing him like this would turn you on.

Your pussy is screaming at you, becoming impossible to ignore. You haven't seen Toji in weeks—relief is overdue in more ways than one.

"N-Naoya…?"

You call him, but he doesn't answer.

His thoughts are in disarray—walls crumbling around something long abandoned inside him.

What this is—what he’s feeling?  It’s deeper than anything he's charted. And it has nothing to do with your tits, your supple skin, or the way your milk dissolves on his tongue.

Naoya rarely finds himself lacking. 

An upbringing in the Zenin estate hones you for perfection built from very specific arithmetic—cursed technique, tradition and hierarchy. Assembled inside those walls you learn quickly that anything useless you cut out—or someone else cuts it out for you.

But now?

Your gentle words. 

You warm embrace.

Your hand moving through his hair like—like he's something worth tending to. 

Like his worth was never something he had to earn.

It's driving him mad.

Worse—he doesn't want you to stop.

“Hello? Earth to Nao-chan.” You lit, snapping him out of his daze. “Not you milk drunk already, baby?”

Pouty and petulant, Naoya’s arms snake around your waist to drag you closer until his face is buried between your tits, ignoring you.

Your hand slides between your bodies and finds him—thick and straining through his robes, the rigid shape of his cock unmistakable even through the layers. You lazily trace the outline of his long length with your palm.

Naoya's hips jerk up, gracelessly bucking into your touch.

You won’t let him go soft on you at the moment. Figuratively or literally.

"Aw, Nao-Nao," you coo mischievously. "What would Toji-kun think if he saw you like this?"

That finally gets you a reaction. 

Naoya looks up at you scowling—though not to much effect as your nipple stays lodged in his mouth like a binky, spit-slick against his bottom lip. 

He doesn't pull off—can't, maybe.

Because as much as he worships his older cousin, the realization is settling in like rot: Toji-kun, for all his monstrous strength—enough to tear apart the entire Zenin legacy—wasn't strong enough to resist you. 

Hell, could anyone? Naoya considers the strongest he knows but—pshhh—he’s seen how Gojo is around women, too—he wouldn’t stand a fucking chance against you either.

It makes him feel slightly less pathetic, if only barely.

"He'd not have any room to talk," Naoya growls against your skin as he continues to fuck himself against your palm, grinding his cock against your hand through the fabric in urgent thrusts.

You’re feeding him and unraveling him at the same damn time. Leaving him chasing release and something else he can't articulate.

“Shit—let me fuck you before I completely lose it.”

Naoya’s hands shoot to your ass, fingers digging into your flesh, gripping hard enough to bruise.

You blink, a part of you shocked he's even asking—even if it is half-demanding and half-begging.

"Oh? So now you want to be in charge?" 

Your hand withdraws and you let him roll your hips forward against his—it’s more leisurely than the pace Naoya wants though, especially as your robes spread around your thighs and your bare pussy slides against his clothed cock. 

You're so soaked, and he can feel your juices flooding through the silk, your wet heat branding him through the fabric.

Naoya grits, caught somewhere between rage and ruin. 

God, how he wants to slip his cock inside you—inside your mouth, your tits—and definitely that haughty lil cunt of yours.

See what was so good it even stopped Toji-kun from pulling out.

"You think you're fucking me, Nao-Nao?"

Cradling his head, you swipe at your own cream still lingering at the corner of his lips.

“You still have my milk around your mouth, baby.”

Naoya groans, barely controlled, like he's trying to rut through the layers of fabric. 

He doesn't even realize how undignified he looks. The sounds he makes suckling at your tit are sloppy and needy—and you know he'd be mortified if he could hear himself over the squelching of your pussy rubbing against his silk robe.

Tightening your grip in his hair, you wrench his head back, forcing him to release your nipple with a wet pop.

A string of milk stretches from your bud to his lip—then snaps.

Naoya gasps. 

Lips trembling, chin sopping, eyes unfocused. Poor thing. He looks completely ruined and you've barely started.

Naoya’s fists the fabric of your robe, already working at the tie. His gasps puff against your throat, mouth grazing up to your chin as he nibbles harder—threatening meaner bites.

"L-Let me fuck y-you." 

Naoya is begging now, not even trying to mask his need.

You tilt your head, considering, pondering on it like Naoya wasn’t on his last thread of sanity, driven to insanity by the treacley taste of your creamy milk.

"Mm. No."

"I need—"

Cutting him off, you push Naoya onto the futon in one smooth motion. 

"Haven’t you realized I know what you need, Nao-Nao?" Your voice is syrupy as you straddle him, hovering.

"I-I—Fuck—" The word scrapes out of him, guttural, clutching the sheets and throwing his head back onto the futon as his hips buck up into nothing.

You stay perfectly still. Not letting him take a single thing.

"Look at you." You coo, skimming a finger along his milk-stained collar. "Reduced to humping the air? Imagine, a Zenin heir with so little self-composure."

"S-Shut the fuck up, s-slut." 

But his insults don’t stop his hips, microthrusts wanting to chase the feeling of your messy pussy sliding over his cock again.

"Why?" You swivel your hips—one deep agonizing grind that lets him feel your cunt clench against his cock through the ruined fabric. He's dripping now too, precum mixing with yours. 

"I think you like it when I make you beg. You want to, don't you? So beg me."

Naoya's cheeks burn. He could easily flip you, pin you, and have his way.

He won't though.

Even through your teasing there's a care to your touch he's never let himself experience—and resisting it has his nails biting crescents into his palms, hard enough to bleed.

"I bet you'd cum just like this…" 

Your plush lips ghosting his Adam's apple, smirking as he squirms under you. 

"...without ever getting inside. Soiling your own robe like a needy, prideful little boy who couldn't simply ask nicely."

The moan that rips from Naoya's throat is feral with need and thick with humiliation. His hips shoving upward, wanton for contact.

You don't give it, suspended just above him, your drooling cunt barely grazing his cock, watching him fall apart with all the patience in the world.

"Naoya, baby" Your hand slides up to cup his cheek, tenderly. "Tell Mommy what you want."

Naoya’s eyes go wide. 

Every muscle taut. Cheeks flushed dark. 

The Zenin composure he was built from crumbling, reducing him to this. 

On the brink, never has Naoya waited this long for something. Never has he been this turned on—and as much as he’s fucking furious about it, he’s also way past giving a fuck.

His eyes rake your body and snag on the trail of milk—smeared on your tits, your belly, all the way to your cunt where it glistens in the dim light.

His mouth waters. Whatever resolve he had left shatters.

"Please..." Naoya whimpers, tears dusting the edges of his eyes, too wound up to realize he's handing you everything. "...fuck me."

You raise a brow, waiting. 

Oh, he’s so close.

He knows it too. He knows what you want. 

Naoya can see it on your face but there's no coming back from it once he says it. But what choice does he have? He’d die if you sent him away like this.

"Please, fuck me—"Naoya’s voice cracks clean in half, a single tear running down his cheek. "—Mommy."

You push his bangs up fondly, planting a chaste kiss right on his forehead. 

"That’s my Good boy."

Naoya watches you with tears burning his eyes, chest heaving, too far gone to resist you any longer.

You tug the ties loose on his robe until the fabric falls away. His cock springs free—angry, leaking and bobbing with every shaky breath he takes.

You have to admit it's pretty. His flushed red, cockhead peeked through its foreskin. You can feel his whole body shiver as you peel it back more. 

Your mouth is watering for a taste yourself and god, if Naoya wasn’t such a fucking tool you’d gladly suck him off. 

That could come later though—you’d make him earn that too. Subservience looks good on him afterall. 

You'd be tempted to deny him longer if you weren't so hard up for it yourself, your gooey walls vibrating at the thought of a cock inside, at long last. 

Toji's been gone for weeks and you need a stress release, bad.

You position your cunt just above the swollen head of his cock—close enough for your juices to drip salaciously onto his tip, dribbling down his shaft.

Naoya squirms beneath you, and you drink it in.

"Craving to wet your cock inside Toji-kun's wife, hm?"

He can't answer—not when you sweep his cockhead through your folds, letting him glide through the mess of your wetness and the milk still coating your thighs. You're soaked enough to take him whole right now, no prep needed, and the thought makes your cunt clench around nothing.

Naoya moans, hips snapping up, trying to piston into you—and you shove him back down by the hip, pinning him to the futon.

"Behave."

"I'm—" He swallows, voice wrecked. "I'm trying."

You smile, wiping the sweat off his brow with something close to care in your touch.

"Try harder for Mommy then, yeah, Nao-baby?"

You don't wait for his response.

You sink down, pussy swallowing him whole in one brutal stroke.

The stretch punches the breath out of you—wet as you are, he's still thick enough to make your walls spasm, to make your spine bow as he splits you open. You hate how good his cock feels dragging over every ridge inside you, the fat head kissing your cervix hard enough to make your thighs tremble.

Naoya gasps like you've knocked the wind out of him. You watch his mind go blank.

Hands flexing useless at his sides. Mouth falling open, slack and dumb. Eyes rolling until you can only see the whites, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

"Y-You're f-fuckin’ tight," he rasps, too loud. "F-Fuck—you're tight, y-you're so—"

Clamping your hand over his mouth, palm pressed to his lips, your nails curl into his cheek. You feel him arch off the futon beneath you, a muffled whine vibrating against your skin.

"Shh." You hush. "You'll wake the baby."

Naoya nods furiously, chest heaving. You smile once he settles.

"Atta boy."

Naoya whines as you start to move—hand still clamped over his mouth, bracing yourself as you ride him. A calculated wind at first, controlling the roll of your hips as you get a feel for him. The way he stretches you. The way a meaty vein throbs against your g-spot as you move. 

Shit—Not bad.

Naoya trembles beneath you, hands fisted white-knuckled in the sheets, whole body wracked with the effort of staying still. Of not fucking up into you like a desperate, rutting animal.

"Mmmm," you murmur, rotating your hips in a lazy figure-eights. "Just like that, let it all go. Let me ride you. Let Mommy take care of you."

Naoya’s whimpers bubble under your palm—pathetic, needy. He knows he’s being used. He’s maintained zero control of the situation. 

And yet? 

He can’t deny a he’s a fucking fiend for it.

Not when your cunt grips him like a fist. Not when he can feel how wet you are— slick saturating his balls, staining the futon beneath you both. Your gooey pussy squeezes him so tight he can barely breathe, silky and warm, milking his cock like she was made to ruin him.

Then you feel it—his balls twitching underneath your ass, drawing up tight. He's close. 

Fuck, already?!

“C-Cumming that fast?” you pant out. “ T-That fast? From your cousin’s wife’s tits and cunt? Do I feel that good?”

Naoya is groaning as his eyes squeeze shut, biting his inner cheek and fisting the sheets.

"Nuh-uh." You tsk, stilling completely. "Bad boy. Not allowed."

Naoya's eyes fly open as yours begin to glow—red and ancient, blood-dark lines blooming beneath your lashes. He feels it. Your cursed energy pouring into him, flooding every vein, every capillary, settling hot and heavy in his balls.

The Kamo inherited technique—blood manipulation—seizes complete control.

Instantly, he veins in his balls bulge obscenely, his cock swelling even harder inside you. But he can't cum. You won't let him.

Naoya cries out, breaking into a sweat, pleasure flaring through him to excruciating levels as every one of his nerve endings lights up.

"I may be a Zenin by name," you breathe, leaning in until your tits smush into his chest and your lips brush his ear, "but I'll always be a Kamo by blood."

You bite down on the tender tissue, feeling him shudder beneath you, cock throbbing helplessly inside your cunt.

"Don't worry." You sit up, savoring his broken whine from the loss. "I'll let you cum, Nao-baby. I'm going to milk you dry—just like you milked me—after I get my nut."

You lift up just enough to meet his wild, glassy eyes.

"Nod if you understand."

Naoya nods. He understands perfectly now—understands exactly how you wound up pregnant by Toji. Understands why a man like that couldn't stay away.

He sobs beneath your hold, tears spilling hot over your fingers, breath hitching against your palm. You clench, a methodical squeeze—and his whole body jerks violently, a broken "nnngh—!" muffled against your hand.

You ride him in earnest now. Harder. Faster. Greedy for it. Your tits bounce wild, milk spilling with every slam of your hips—they’re sore but you don't care, chasing your pleasure like nothing else matters. You're soaked, the sound of it obscene—wet squelching filling the room, your arousal and milk splashing filthy with his pre where your bodies meet.

Naoya’s cock hits that gushy, spongy spot inside you over and over and your rhythm starts to falter.

"F-Fuck—"

You're getting sloppy. Losing focus. Your thighs burn from exertion but you can't stop, can't slow down, bouncing on his cock like you'll die yourself if you don't cum on it. Your pussy greedily convulsing around him—shit, you could easily fuck your own self stupid if you aren’t careful. 

You learned well enough not to underestimate Zenin dick fucking around with Toji.

Thankfully, however, Naoya is ruined. Flushed crimson from chest to ears beneath you, his tears streaming and his cock so engorged inside you that he looks like it must hurt. His hips spasm with aborted thrusts, toes curling as he is fighting his body's urge to rut even now.

He’s still trying so hard to be a ‘good boy’ for you and that thought alone almost makes you cum.

You consider, through the haze of your own pleasure, appraising his pathetic form beneath you, that you might accidentally give him a brain aneurysm if you keep this up much longer.

“P-Puulease—Mommy” he gasps out when you lift your hand from his lips.

"Wait your turn," you moan, brows furrowing as you try to concentrate.  

You're close. So fucking close. You use him like a toy now, hips rolling carnally, chasing the tingling friction. building white-hot at the base of your spine. Your nails dig into his abs as you tilt, angling yourself so his girth scrapes against your g-spot with every bounce. 

Quiet sobs tumble over your lips as you tense, fucking yourself on him until—

"O-oh—oh fuckfuckfuck—"

You shatter, orgasm ripping through you, pussy fluttering wild around his length and gushing to coat his balls as you ride it out. Vision edges white, as your thighs quake, your hips rotating in stuttering circles as the waves crash through you.

Chest heaving, when you regain your senses again, Naoya is barely there himself, sanity hanging by a thread with eyes blown—watching you cum so erotically on his cock like a man witnessing something holy.

You bring your face centimeters away from his, your lips ghosting his own as you release your technique.

"Cum."

And he does.

With a broken moan Naoya busts inside you—cock pulsing thick and hot, spurts of cum flooding your cunt white as his hips stutter up helplessly. You let him pull you down, let him clutch you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth as your lips smash together.

You seal your mouth over his, devouring every ragged cry. Your tongue sweeps sweetly against his trembling one as you steady his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his tear-damp cheeks, kissing him quiet.

All the while his cock continues to pump you full—and you’ve kept your promise. 

This is the most Naoya’s ever cum in his entire life.

When he comes down enough, Naoya rolls onto his side, taking you with him as he curls into you—face buried in your chest, sucking in breaths, completely undone and still twitching inside you. 

A bit overspent yourself, not having activated your ability since Toji got you pregnant in the first place, you don't move yet. You keep him buried inside of you, pulsing with the aftershocks of what he just let himself become.

His arms wind tight around your waist like he's afraid you'll disappear. You cradle the back of his head, stroking softly.

He doesn't speak and you don't rush him. Not eager to test for any remaining snark you failed to fuck out of him.

It feels good just being needed like this, you are a mother afterall.

Eventually the heat between your thighs starts to cool, and you shift—peeling him off slowly, feeling the thick spill of his cum leak out of you. He shudders at the loss, an inaudible sound catching in his throat.

You ease him onto his back, robes rumpled beneath him, face still ruddy. He watches you through heavy-lidded eyes—quiet, stunned, like he doesn't recognize himself.

And then—

A single, involuntary whimper escapes him when his gaze catches on your breasts again. 

Still heavy and still leaking—milk beading at your nipples.

You smile.

"Still hungry?"

He turns his face into the pillow, ears burning.

You laugh—not mocking this time. Your voice is warm, almost fond.

"Poor Nao-chan," you murmur, settling beside him as you reach for a baby wipe nearby. "Your first time letting someone take care of you, and now you don't know what to do with yourself."

"I didn't say I wanted—"

You wipe his chest clean of milk, sweat—all of it with a tenderness that makes him forget what he was saying. Naoya’s throat bobs as he goes silent.

Unhurried, you wipe yourself off next. Then once satisfied, looking over to confirm that Tomie is still sleeping peacefully, you secure the discarded blanket over you both, effectively tucking him in, before gathering him in your arms.

"You don't have to say it," you whisper against his hair. "Mommies always know."

Sure, you certainly aren't his mother.

Yet something in your heart still aches for the broken little boy inside Naoya all the same. His cruel upbringing was hardly his fault, although it's been everyone else’s problem since. 

Plus, you're fairly certain you just did more for his mommy issues in one night than years of therapy could ever achieve—even if someone managed to drag Naoya there, against his will.

Sigmund Freud couldn't have even accomplished this. Someone should really give you a nobel peace prize.

You hum a low lullaby against his temple as Naoya’s eyes close. He doesn't fight it. Between your soothing song, warmth and the exhaustion your technique left behind, he doesn't have the strength to fight you—nor does he want to.

Naoya’s lips are at your nipple again. He's not sucking this time—just holding you on his tongue, lavishing slow and kitten-soft licks, nursing you like a pacifier.

"You did well, Naoya."

It's the last thing he hears as sleep pulls him under.

⟡

Hours later, Naoya wakes to the sound of your voice.

His eyes squint against the harsh morning light pouring into the room. As they adjust, he makes out your shape—sitting on the edge of the futon, knees tucked beneath you, fully dressed, bouncing Tomie in one arm while you chat on the phone.

A dizziness hits him all at once. Naoya finds himself sluggish, bodily functions recalibrating as the effects of your technique linger. 

He feels like he got hit by a goddamn truck. 

A truck that happened to also fuck him stupid and then tucked him in after.

Grumpy, the loss of your warmth pulls a low growl from him.

Naoya hauls himself across the futon and plants his head in your lap, nuzzling into you like you owe him now.

You try to ignore him, continuing your conversation, but Naoya is persistent. His nose keeps traveling higher—nudging toward the apex of your thighs and burying his face into your mound. The lingering musk of sex is still strong through your kimono and Naoya's cock stirs, already half-hard at the thought of tasting how well his seed has marinated inside you.

Naoya hums petulantly into your pussy, clearly territorial of whoever has your attention.

You roll your eyes at the display. 

Give men an inch and they will always take a mile. 

You threw him a crumb of affection and now he's acting starved for it.

Shifting your daughter to one arm and wedging the phone between your shoulder and cheek, you card your fingers through Naoya's hair. It's enough to soothe him—for now. He sighs against your thigh, using your plush lap as a pillow, and drifts back toward sleep.

"Huh? Say that again—" You grit, more irritated now at the man on the other line than the one in your lap. "Ugh, fine. I'll spot you this time, Toji."

Even half asleep, Naoya goes deathly still.

You smirk, feeling him tense in your lap as you continue to speak.

"But that’s only on the condition you visit Tomie this weekend, you oaf. She'll forget your face if you keep this up, ya know."

A pause. Then snort.

"Hm? Oh yeah. Yup, uh-huh.” You smirk amused by whatever Toji's saying on the other line. "Yeah, yeah, Ji. I'll let him know—and jeez, I got it, okay…I'll do the transfer now. GOODBYE."

You hang up with a huff, mildly annoyed—until you glance down and see your daughter happily cooing, her tiny hand patting Naoya's head alongside yours as you reluctantly transfer Toji the money he asked for.

Naoya, mortified, had been holding his breath this entire time—just in case Toji could sense it over the phone—sighs in relief.

"Shit... that was close," he mumbles, wincing as your daughter's pats turn into enthusiastic slaps against his temple. 

Toji-kun told him to take care of you, sure. 

He's fairly certain this wasn't what he meant.

"Huh? Oh, you mean Toji?" You blink down at Naoya. "I already told him."

Naoya shoots upright like you just announced a curse had just blown up half of Tokyo.

"Relax, Naoya, my god." You wave a hand, dismissing him. "Toji's cool about it. We were never exclusive or anything, ya know."

Naoya exhales, exasperated, and flops onto the futon, on his back, his hand over his face as you rise shuffling elsewhere in the room.

He knows his cousin—this won't be the end of it. Toji will definitely expect something in return.

But Naoya can't think about that now. His head is throbbing, it's early as hell, and he's gotten maybe two good hours of sleep.

He knows he should return to his own sleeping quarters—but this is his wing after all and he honestly can't be arsed to move for anything right now.

"However," you add lightly, when you see Naoya's body bracing for blow, "he did say you have to bankroll a parlay for him every time you fuck his wife."

And there it is.

Naoya doesn't even lift the hand over his face, just grunts.

"Sure."

"Anddddd, he's charging you by the ounce for—and I quote—'sucking up all his tiddy milk like a pansy lil b-i-t-c-h.'"

You spell out the word in lieu of saying it now that Tomie is awake.

Naoya groans, wishing he'd woken up earlier. He's not sure what kind of narrative you fed Toji, but he's too exhausted to argue about it now. 

"...Fine." Naoya replies, wincing at your giggles prickling his skull.

Toji's money schemes don't matter much to him anyway—he's rich, he can afford whatever bullshit ‘tiddy milk tax’ this is.

Naoya just needs you to shut up about it now.

Every chuckle out of your mouth drives another rusty nail into his skull.

"Oh, one last thing," you call over your shoulder, smirking as you scoop Tomie's diaper bag and head towards the bathroom to change her.

"Toji says if you get me knocked-up, you’re raising that one too."

You laugh hardly, leaving the room with Tomie happily cooing in your arms.

Whatever.

Naoya sighs, smashing two pillows over his face. 

He'd just pull out next time.

Simple. Problem solved. 

It's a small price to pay for your soft creamy tits and that sweet, gooey mommy puss—

...

Hold on.

What the fuck did Toji-kun mean by 'too'?

𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍. 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚋𝚕𝚔𝚔𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊𝚝 © 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟹-𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟼

♡ hope u enjoyed! i hope to see a lot more recruits in the naoya army after this fic lol! also i loved writing in tomie here. i didn't name toji's and your's baby in the previous one but i really like this name so i decided to use it. shes so sassy shes def gonna give noaya hell. hsjdfbvjshdbfvhsd. read my other naoya fic here

Status updates: Caracal!sukuna p4 (20% done), invisible man!gojo (35%), stepdaddy!nanami (60% done), nerd!geto p2 (45%), 69 choso fic (30%) [y'all remember caracal sukuna won the poll so freddy!sukuna and elevator will have to wait!] stepdaddy!nanami next

𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼? then please 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 or 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠! you can also join my gen. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 or contribute to the 𝐛𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐨$𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐝.