mal

I write <3 pls be nice tumblr

[kingkruell]

CURSED HEARTS & SOFT THREADS — ˎˊ˗ ↻( .̀ ̮.́)Ψ

mal | she/her | 19 years old | ir student (i traded geopolitics for gojo’s emotional repression. everything hurts and i like it).

anime. mangas. music. books

current fave jam — ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

I DON’T NEED ₊˚⊹ TO SELL MY SOUL , HE’S ALREADY IN ME— I WANNA BE ADORED …

-> line breaks and love letters [masterlist]

-> rules under the cursed house

-> requests r open !

[nondelphic]

me: this is gonna be a super grounded emotional story

also me: and then he dies. and then he comes back. but he’s different now. also there’s a prophecy.

[kingkruell]

i haven't stopped thinking about still rolling since i read it three days ago! i love how you write choso!

aww i’m so glad u love it :( thank u so much this made my day hehe

[kingkruell]

THE MORNING AFTER — friends with benefits was supposed to be simple. then sukuna started staying after, touching soft, and wanting more. he’s not in love. probably. maybe. shit.

the first time, it’s nothing.

you look good under him, sure. better than most. but sukuna’s had pretty things before, what matters more is how easy you are about it. no clinging. no questions. no asking what this is, or where it’s going.

it starts with just a message that says “your place or mine?” and then followed by the sound of your moans echoing in his chest.

so, yeah. he keeps seeing you. but only because it’s convenient. only because you look so fucking pretty when your mascara smudges and your breath hitches. only because you don’t ask for anything. that’s the whole point.

he doesn’t even remember who started it. maybe it was you. maybe it was him. doesn’t matter. all he knows is that you’re in his bed again, skin warm, hair damp with sweat, legs tangled with his like you belong there.

and now—you’re still catching your breath, chest rising and falling slow, a little smirk tugging at your lips like you know you did something to him. maybe you did. he’s not sure yet.

“you always stare this much after?” you murmur, eyes still closed.

sukuna scoffs, “you’re imagining things.”

you crack one eye open to look at him, and god, you’re smug. smug and tired and glowing from the inside out. it pisses him off. but not enough to pull away, it seems.

he tells himself it’s just sex. you’re hot. you’re fun. you don’t ask for anything. that’s rare. he likes that. that’s why he keeps calling you over. that’s all it is.

still, his hand lingers on your waist longer than it should. not even groping, it’s just resting there, thumb brushing lazy circles over your skin. he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until you shift, blinking up at him.

“…you good?”

“yeah,” he says too quickly.

you hum like you don’t believe him, but you don’t press. just flop back down and close your eyes again, body relaxing right up against his like you trust him or some shit. like he’s not a walking red flag with blood on his past and a temper sharp enough to cut bone.

he watches you breathe. watches the way your lashes flutter when you start to fall asleep. and it hits him, out of nowhere, like a sucker punch to the gut: he likes you.

no—he fucking likes you.

he could live with finding you attractive. that’s normal. that’s easy. but this? this heat in his chest, this dumb itch to ask you about your day, this weird anger at the thought of anyone else touching you?

no. he doesn’t like that. he doesn’t like that at all.

his hand still hasn’t moved from your waist. you haven’t said anything. you’re just breathing slow and even and peaceful beside him, like you don’t realize you’re becoming a problem.

sukuna swallows. he shifts a little, then stops himself from pulling away. it’d feel like flinching. he doesn’t flinch.

“you staying?” he mutters.

your voice is muffled in the pillow. “you kicking me out?”

“…didn’t say that.”

a sleepy laugh escapes your lips, one that he’s grown too familiar with.

“guess i’ll stay, then.”

you’re out cold a few minutes later. he doesn’t sleep. just stares at the ceiling and curses himself in silence.

this was supposed to be nothing. but you’re still here. and for some reason, that doesn’t feel like a mistake.

[kingkruell]

your choso fic was so good it genuinely changed the chemistry of my brain. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE never stop writing. i enjoyed it so muchhhh

sending a lot of love — anon

hi anon ^^ omg you have no idea how feral i get when i get messages like this 😭 thank u sm. i will literally never stop writing choso. this is a one-person mission to bring my unhinged delusions to life🧎‍➡️

ALSO to everyone that might be seeing this…please send in ideas or requests for any jjk characters you want. i’ve been especially enjoying writing smut and i want to see y’all’s perverse thoughts. #normalizegooning.

so, requests r open for y’all nasty ass mfs.

[kingkruell]

❝ STILL ROLLING! ❞ | CHOSO KAMO

SUMMARY — choso never meant for it to happen like this. you were work partners, it was a mission. he never meant to mess with the cursed footage, never meant to press play. and he definitely never meant to fuck you on the desk while ‘it’ looped behind him. CONTENT — jujutsu sorcerer! choso x reader, unprotected p in v sex, oral, mutual pining, overstimulation, slow burn tensions, work partners-to-something more, pussy-drunk choso, soft dom, overstimulation. WC — 5.600

if anyone asked what working with choso kamo was like, you’d say it’s like trying to read poetry through fogged-up glass. there’s meaning, sure, but it’s… buried.

you’ve got to truly lean close and listen, and even then, half of it’s silence. he doesn’t speak unless necessary. doesn’t laugh unless it catches him off guard… or if it’s yuji. doesn’t look at people unless he’s thinking about them way more than he should.

and unfortunately (or fortunately) for you, he’s been thinking about you a lot.

you weren’t a rookie, not by a long shot. after four years under jujutsu high and another two in field ops, you’d been stationed in one of the more niche departments: the bureau of cursed media. fancy way of saying you got sent to poke around haunted vhs tapes and paintings that bled if stared at too long. it was quiet work, more cerebral than combat-heavy. a good fit for your sharp tongue and your ability to walk into a cursed building with a smile and walk out with a fucked-up relic in your bag.

and it was a good fit for choso.

you’d met him on a mission in osaka. low-threat cursed audio file. someone had put it on loop in a recording studio and the engineer had flayed himself with a guitar string before anyone pulled the plug. you were assigned backup but ended up doing most of the fieldwork while choso quietly neutralized the lingering curse. he said maybe ten words the whole time, but two of them were “thank you,” and he said them like he meant it.

and somehow that stuck with you.

and somehow, he kept sticking. one mission turned to two, then five. if you actually think about it, you and choso had been assigned more times than you could count, not because you got along (you did, though neither of you talked about it), but because your skillsets worked well together. all things aside, you didn’t mind it, really. he was easy to read once you figured out he wasn’t cold—just guarded. you, on the other hand, didn’t guard shit. you were loud, sharp, smiled too wide when you were nervous. you made jokes during briefings that made higher-ups blink. sometimes choso thinks you’re just too… bright for him.

still, he kept watching.

he never even touched you. never flirted, not once. but when you sat next to him on long drives, his hands always twitched against his thighs like he didn’t know what to do with them. when you tossed your jacket over a chair, he’d glance at it like it meant something. when you laughed, he’d freeze for half a second too long.

but you weren’t stupid to know that men like choso didn’t make the first move.

the first time you caught him watching you, really watching you, was in the field—two months into working together. you were crouched over the body of a painter who had stabbed both her eyes out with a brush. you’d reached out, brushing the edge of the cursed canvas. your fingers came away sticky with cursed pigment, something like dried blood.

he called your name twice, quietly, before you turned. his eyes were wide. scared…but not for himself it seemed.

you remember thinking: he doesn’t even know me yet.

but then, maybe he did.

since then, you’d gotten used to the way he acted around you.

he hovered and never ever close enough to touch, yet always close enough to catch you if you fell. you knew what that meant. he was awkward, sure, but he wasn’t dumb. choso only kept his distance when he was trying very, very hard not to reach.

he never said anything and you didn’t push it.

sometimes, you wanted to grab him by the collar and ask him if he was ever going to do anything about it.

which is probably why the cursed theater hit as hard as it did.

.

the assignment came in mid-afternoon. you were sitting cross-legged on the cold tile outside the cursed object records wing, slowly working your way through a bag of rice crackers and scrolling through mission reports for fun. it was quiet, boring. a pretty normal day all things considered—until your phone buzzed with a new dispatch.

“old theater downtown,” the text read. “reported visual manifestation. unstable cursed media.”

a cursed projector in a defunct theater. multiple reports of “inappropriate footage.” one sorcerer on recon had walked out and refused to say what he’d seen. the cursed energy readings were fluctuating, but not lethal.

you texted back: “alone or partnered?”

“choso.”

you grinned around a mouthful of rice crackers and leaned your head back against the wall.

by the time you pulled up to the theater, he was already there, arms crossed, standing like a bad omen in front of a place that should’ve been condemned ten years ago. the sign out front still said showing: double feature. the doors creaked like a warning.

“fancy meeting you here,” you said, shutting your car door with a hip bump.

choso nodded, gaze flicking to you. “wasn’t sure you’d show up.”

“now why would i miss a romantic evening like this?” you motioned to the rotting façade and half-smashed ticket booth. “take me somewhere nice next time.”

he looks away, but not fast enough to hide the flick of a smile.

inside, the air smelled like old curtains and metal. the lobby was caved in on one side, popcorn machine gutted and overturned.

“residual energy’s strong,” you said, flicking your flashlight on. “something happened here.”

choso was already scanning the area, steps deliberate andquiet. “projector room’s intact,” he said. “i felt a pulse upstairs.”

you followed him up the warped stairs, boots thudding on thin wood. the projector room was barely lit, old film canisters stacked in piles against the wall. dust moved when you stepped in, unsettled like breath.

you stepped over a film canister, boot scuffing against something metal. “jesus…place is a shitshow.”

behind you, choso grunted in agreement. “smells like someone died in here.”

“wouldn’t be the first time,” you muttered, brushing off your jacket. “you think the curse is in the reels or the building itself?”

he didn’t answer right away, just scanned the torn screen and the dust-caked projector with narrowed eyes. “reels, probably. the energy feels… curated.”

you glance around the room, the eerie quiet pressing in around you like padded walls. “someone set this up. probably the last person who got curious.”

he doesn’t respond.

the machine itself is old, rusted at the joints, but intact. a single unlabeled canister sits mounted, like someone had been in the middle of setting up a show.

you shine your light on it. “choso, i swear to god, if this thing plays the ring, i’m quitting.”

he’s scanning the walls, fingers flexing unconsciously. “the cursed energy is thickest here.”

you crouch beside the projector, looking it over. “no timer. no power cord. so it shouldn’t be able to run. unless…”

you reach for your toolkit, ready to tag the canister—

and the projector clicks on.

you both flinch.

the screen flickers to life behind you, casting pale light over the room. static. then film grain.

“did you touch it?” you snap.

“no.” his voice is sharp, eyes locked on the screen.

you turn.

the footage is shaky, the color tone warm and vintage. a bedroom. familiar. a bed with crumpled sheets, legs splayed, camera angled from the floor like someone had carefully set it up—

you freeze.

because that’s you on the screen.

you recognize your voice first, barely a whisper. then your breath. then the shape of your body, bare and flushed, thighs trembling, head thrown back.

and then him.

choso.

between your legs.

his mouth slow, worshipful. his eyes locked on you like he’s memorizing every flicker of your face.

you stagger back.

“what the fuck,” you breathe.

choso hasn’t moved. he’s staring at the screen like it might kill him.

you grab his arm, hard. “that never happened.”

“i—i know,” he says, voice low. “i know.”

your stomach flips. the image is vivid. too vivid. down to the rings on your fingers. the way your hips twitch. the way he moans your name like it’s killing him to say it.

“you’re not—this isn’t—” you start, but your throat is dry.

choso finally turns to you. he’s flushed. his eyes are glassy, lips parted like he’s halfway through a confession he never meant to give.

“i didn’t mean for you to see this.”

your chest tightens. “what is this?”

“it’s not a… memory…t-this never happened.” he swallows hard. “but it’s not— i don’t think it’s fake either.”

it’s a fantasy? yours, his, maybe both.

you stare at him.

the way his fists are clenched. the way he won’t meet your eyes now. you realize suddenly that this isn’t new. not for him. he’s thought about this before. often enough for the curse to pick it up.

your breath catches. “you’ve imagined this?”

he hesitates. then nods once. tiny. miserable.

there’s too much in the room. the heavy pulse of cursed energy radiating from the projector. the sound of your own voice echoing from the screen in short, breathless moans. choso’s breath hitching beside you. the way your skin is flushed like your body doesn’t care that it isn’t real, only that he’s seeing you like this.

your voice on the reel whimpers something indecent. choso winces. you feel your face heat.

he looks at you, mouth parted slightly, and for a moment he says nothing. the projector whirrs behind you like it’s holding its breath.

“i tried not to,” he says finally, low and rough. “i always tried.”

there’s so much in that sentence. guilt, obviously. shame, probably. but also vulnerability. like he’s been holding his breath around you since day one and only just exhaled. and now he’s afraid you’ll hate him for it.

you turn to face him, arms crossed tight. “so what, the film just reached into your head and hit play?”

“it’s not just me.” his eyes meet yours. “you’re …reacting.”

you open your mouth. close it.

because he’s not wrong.

your thighs are pressed tight together. your pulse is skipping. you feel like you’re standing too close to something dangerous, and the worst part is how much you don’t want to move away.

you shake your head, laughing under your breath—bitter, incredulous. “this is insane.”

choso stays quiet.

the reel keeps going.

it changes angles now. your back arched, choso’s mouth pressed low and firm against your center, slow and dragging like he’s trying to imprint the taste of you into memory. the way his hands grip your hips, your fingers in his hair—so desperate. his name on your lips, again and again.

you flinch.

he steps away from the projector like distance will help. like he hasn’t already watched this in his own mind more times than he can admit.

“i didn’t think it would be this clear,” he says.

“clear?” your laugh is sharp. “it’s in 4k, choso.”.

you rub your palms down your thighs, like friction will ground you.

“have you really thought about it? about… me?”

his jaw ticks. he nods.

you stare.

there’s heat bubbling under your skin now, thick and wrong and so stupidly human you almost laugh. because this is choso. the same man who barely speaks during missions. who scowls at vending machines like they insulted him. who once got flustered because you said his hands looked pretty.

but he’s also the man who carried you out of a tunnel on a broken leg. who never once looked away when you cried after an exorcism that went south. who always hands you the last drink in the cooler, even when he’s thirstier.

and he’s been imagining this.

your thighs press together without thinking. there’s heat already pooling low in your stomach, matched by the sharp guilt of knowing you’re getting turned on by watching versions of you that don’t even exist. at least, not yet.

you glance back at the screen, then at him. arms crossed tight, like they’ll hold you together. “so, are we just gonna stand here pretending we don’t want it?”

despite this, your breath is uneven when you say it.

choso’s gaze snaps to yours. he opens his mouth. closes it. his hands are clenched at his sides. “what—”

you take a step closer, heart pounding.

you murmur, “i’m asking if you’re gonna do something about it.”

he swallows hard. “this isn’t—this isn’t how i wanted it to happen.”

you laugh, breathless. “then what, choso? you were gonna take me on a date first? or just jerk off to me forever and pretend you’re a good guy for not touching?”

then, he’s on you in a second.

he grabs you by the waist and slams you back into the desk at the end of the room with a grunt, his mouth crashing into yours like he’s trying to shut you up with his teeth. and you let him. you kiss him back just as filthy, biting his bottom lip, shoving your hands under his shirt like you’ve been dying to touch him.

his hips grind against yours, the weight of his cock heavy even through both your clothes.

you rut up against him, panting. “god, you’re already hard? what, just from seeing me get eaten out on screen?”

he groans. “you think i haven’t been hard since we walked in?” he pants against your neck. “i saw the projector and thought about fucking you over it.”

you let out a strangled laugh, head falling back as his mouth finds your throat.

his hands go from your jaw, your neck, your waist— like he doesn’t know what to do with it—until they finally go to your shirt, and he pulls it over your head like he’s tearing open a gift, dragging your bra straps down with trembling fingers. your chest bounces free and his breath hitches. his eyes dart all over, from your face to your collarbone to the curve of your breasts like he can’t believe they’re real.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re so…”

he doesn’t even finish.

he dips his head and sucks your tit into his mouth like he’s been thinking about this exact moment since the day he met you.hot tongue flicking over your nipple, slow and then sloppy as he starts to lose the rhythm, lips wrapping around it, sucking like he wants to drink the sounds out of your throat. his groan vibrates through your chest, and you whimper, back arching, hands tangling in his hair.

“god—choso—”

he palms your other breast while his mouth stays locked on the first, moaning into it like it’s heaven. he switches with a wet pop and sucks on the other one, rougher this time, like he’s already getting addicted to the taste of your skin.

you feel his breath, warm and shaky, ghosting down your chest as he licks over the curve of your breast one last time, teeth dragging gently before he kisses the underside with something that feels like worship. your skin is slick with his spit, nipples throbbing, chest rising fast.

he exhales hard through his nose like he’s trying to get control of himself, but it’s no use.

your legs shift restlessly on either side of him, the edge of the desk pressing into the backs of your thighs. you’re hot all over, your panties soaked and clinging, and when your hips roll up again on instinct, the friction is nowhere near enough.

“choso,” you breathe, curling your fingers into the hem of his shirt to yank it over his head. “take the rest off..”

he drags his shirt off with one hand, eyes locked on yours, then fumbles to kick off his jeans and boxers the rest of the way, his cock bobbing against his abdomen, already flushed, the tip glistening. you almost say something—almost tease him again—but the way he looks at you shuts you up.

you hook your thumbs under your panties and slide them down slowly. choso steps back just enough to watch, breathing uneven, gaze locked between your legs like he might drop to the floor and start begging if you made him wait any longer.

you let the fabric drop around your ankles. kick it away. then lean back slightly on your hands, one leg still propped on the desk.

he drops instantly.

hands on your thighs, spreading them with slow pressure, like he’s peeling open something sacred. his thumbs trace the softness near your hipbones, then trail downward, eyes following every inch of slick skin like he wants to memorize it.

“you’re so pretty,” he mutters, almost in disbelief. “fuck… you’re so pretty down here.”

you open your mouth to say something smart, but it turns into a gasp when he leans in and licks a slow, flat stripe up your cunt, dragging from your entrance to your clit like he wants to taste all of you at once.

your hands fly to his hair. “oh my god—”

he groans into you—loud—and goes back in with zero finesse.

the second lick is sloppier. hungrier. he shakes his head between your legs like he’s trying to drown in it. his tongue finds your clit and circles it slowly at first, like he wants to savor it, and then he flattens his mouth and sucks, wet and messy and noisy, and your thighs clamp around his head before you can stop them.

“fuck, choso—fuck—” you choke out, hips twitching. “don’t stop.”

he mumbles something into your cunt that you don’t catch, but you feel it vibrate everywhere.

his hands dig into your thighs, pulling them wider, keeping you open. his tongue dips down again, pushing into your entrance, fucking into you with short, eager thrusts. he switches between that and flicking your clit with the tip of his tongue, like he’s experimenting, learning every reaction by feel.

you’re already shaking.

you glance down, and the sight alone almost finishes you.

choso’s kneeling in front of the desk like it’s an altar. his hands wrapped around your thighs, his mouth shiny with spit and slick, eyes half-lidded and dark, totally gone.

he’s rutting against the floor.

his cock is leaking onto the wood beneath him, untouched, twitching every time you moan louder. he’s eating you out like it’s enough. like tasting you is better than getting off himself.

“choso,” you breathe, tugging his hair to make him look up.

he does. lips shiny, chin wet.

you cup his jaw. “you’ve wanted this for so long, haven’t you?”

he nods, dazed, breathless. “please.”

“then make me come on your face,” you say, leaning back and spreading wider.

he moan. moans. and dives back in.

his tongue flicks your clit again, focused, deliberate now. his mouth seals over it, sucking hard enough that your legs jerk, a sharp cry ripping from your throat. he’s learning what makes you twitch, makes you beg. and he’s feeding off it.

“fuck—choso, oh my god—”

he drags two fingers up your thigh and slides them into your cunt without warning—thick, slow, curling deep until you swear you black out for a second.

your hands fist in his hair. “right there—fuck!—”

he hums against your clit like he’s proud, and the vibration sends heat curling all the way up your spine.

he loves it. loves hearing you fall apart. loves how you can’t stop grinding on his face like you need to get off now, like it’s his job to make you lose control.

your hips stutter. you’re getting close.

the sound of his fingers pumping into you is wet, obscene. you hear yourself panting, whimpering, half-crying with the pressure that’s building.

“choso,” you gasp. “i’m gonna—fuck, i’m gonna—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

he doesn’t even blink. he locks his mouth over your clit, sucks hard, groans deep in his throat—and the way his fingers hit just the right spot again makes you snap.

your orgasm hits with a full-body jolt. your thighs clamp tight around his head. your back arches. you come so hard you swear you scream—loud, raw, messy. your cunt pulses around his fingers, squeezing tight, leaking all over his mouth.

anr he doesn’t stop.

he keeps licking, even as you tremble through it, even as you squirm and try to push him away, your body too sensitive now. he groans like he can’t help. and his tongue is so greedy, flicking up every drop of slick like he wants to keep it forever.

“choso—fuck—too much—”

you’re laughing, breathless and so overstimulated. he finally pulls back, panting, mouth and chin soaked, his cheeks flushed like he’s just been kissed back to life.

he looks wrecked. devoted.

and then, without thinking, you reach down and stroke his face with your thumb, wiping a smear of your slick from his bottom lip. he kisses your thumb.

you blink. heart suddenly pounding harder than before.

“come here,” you whisper.

he stands. he’s still hard and still leaking. his cock is flushed and throbbing, twitching up against his stomach, and the look in his eyes is almost pleading.

“please,” he whispers, voice cracked. “i need to be inside you.”

you grab his cock and line him up, sliding the head through your folds, slow and teasing.

he’s standing in front of you, flushed and trembling, cock flushed dark at the tip and twitching under your fingers. your slick is still dripping down your thighs, and the way he’s looking at you—lips parted, eyes glazed—is almost pathetic.

beautifully pathetic.

you lean back on your elbows, one leg bent up on the desk, the other falling open lazily. you don’t even speak yet. you just jerk him off slow, twisting your wrist around the head, spreading his pre-cum down the shaft with your palm.

he moans—soft and desperate—then catches himself and bites his lip.

“let me hear you,” you murmur, thumbing his slit. “don’t hide it.”

“fuck,” he gasps. “y-you’re… that feels…”

his hips twitch into your hand. you stroke him slower. just enough to keep him on edge.

“you’ve touched yourself thinking about this?” you ask, watching the way his stomach flutters under your fingers.

he nods immediately. “yes—fuck, yes. i’ve—i’ve thought about your mouth. your hands. the sounds you make when you come…”

you squeeze his cock tighter. “and your favorite part?”

he stares at you, pupils huge.

“say it,” you whisper. “what do you think about most?”

he swallows. his voice breaks when he says it.

“you riding me. sitting on my cock, full and tight and dripping, telling me i’m good—telling me it’s mine.”

you hum, pleased, and stroke him again—slower this time, almost cruel.

“he chokes on a breath. “please…”

you lift your hips just slightly and guide the head of his cock to your slit. not inside. not even close.

just sliding. rubbing.

you press his length along the folds of your pussy, let it glide up over your clit, back down through the mess he made of you. you’re so wet it’s obscene—his cock slips against you like you’re made of silk.

he groans. loud. his eyes roll back for a second, and you watch his thighs flex.

“fuck—fuck, please,” he mutters, hips rocking forward involuntarily. “please let me—just the tip—just—fuck, i need to be inside—”

you laugh softly and lean back again, keeping him there, teasing.

“you’re this needy already?” you ask. “didn’t even fuck you yet and you’re begging like you’ve lost your mind.”

“i have,” he breathes, panting, forehead pressed to yours. “i’ve lost my fucking mind over you.”

you guide him again—up, down, letting his cock rub over your clit until he shudders, leaking all over your folds.

“f-feels like i’m already inside,” he whimpers. “fuck, it’s so wet—please, let me put it in. i can’t—i can’t wait anymore—”

he grinds into you again, and you hold him there, feel the desperate twitch of his cock against your entrance. he’s right there. one push and he’d slide all the way in.

“beg for it,” you whisper, letting his head nudge at your hole just slightly—just enough to tease.

“please,” he groans, louder now, broken. “please, i need you, i need to feel you—please let me fuck you, i’ll be good, i swear, i’ll make you come again—i just—fuck—i need it.”

you let go of him.

and he does it.

snaps.

he pushes in without waiting, hips slamming forward, cock sliding all the way inside with one deep, needy stroke that knocks the wind out of both of you.

you both gasp.

he goes still, buried to the hilt, his chest heaving, his mouth parted in a silent moan.

your pussy clenches tight around him, already fluttering, and he shudders, hands gripping your thighs like he’s trying not to fall apart.

“holy fuck,” he gasps. “you’re—so fucking tight—warm—wet—i can’t—I can’t think—”

you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him closer, locking your ankles behind his back. his hips jerk. he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“you okay?” you whisper, biting back your own moan.

he whimpers. whimpers.

“i’m not gonna last,” he chokes. “i’m gonna come so fast—i’m sorry—i can’t help it, you feel so fucking good—”

“you’re gonna come just from being inside me?”

he nods, frantically. “i can’t stop—fuck—i’m trying, i swear, i’m trying—”

you dig your nails into his back and rock your hips, just once.

he moans into your neck, hips stuttering, cock twitching deep inside you. just the feel of you is too much. he tries to pull back but he can’t.

not with how tight you are. not with the way your pussy keeps fluttering around him like it wants to suck him deeper, drag every drop out of him.

“fuck—fuck—I’m gonna come,” he chokes out, voice cracked and panicked, like it’s wrong to come this fast, like he thinks he’s gonna ruin it by not lasting.

but you just hold him tighter, fingers in his hair, pulling his face to yours.

“then do it,” you whisper into his mouth. “come in me. i want it.”

his eyes flutter open, wide and wrecked. “you—you want—?”

you grind your hips up into his again and feel it—how close he is, how deep he is, how desperate his whole body is to give in.

“come inside me, choso.”

that’s all it takes.

he lets out a strangled, helpless moan—almost a sob—and slams into you, once, twice, then stays buried as deep as he can go.

you feel it—feel it—his cock twitching inside you as he spills, hot and thick, pulse after pulse of cum flooding you in waves. his whole body goes tight, chest pressed to yours, lips parted against your shoulder as he groans through it, eyes squeezed shut like it’s killing him.

“feels so good, choso.”

“bet you’ve wanted this since the first day we met.”

he nods into your neck, trembling. he sounds like he’s almost crying, breath hitching with every twitch of his cock inside you.

“i—i have,” he breathes. “i’ve wanted you so bad i thought i was sick.”

you run your fingers through his hair, keeping him there, not letting him pull away. you can feel him still twitching, overstimulated, still buried deep.

“you’re still hard,” you murmur.

he nods, dazed, panting. “you’re squeezing me so tight i—fuck, i think i could go again.”

you press your heels into the small of his back and rock your hips slow, making both of you moan.

he bites your shoulder. gently. but like he has to do something or he’ll explode again.

“i’m not done with you,” you whisper.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, hair sticking to his forehead, his cheeks flushed and eyes glassy like he’s drunk. pussy-drunk. you-drunk.

he’s still inside you, twitching, leaking, half-hard but staying thick, the two of you tangled and panting against each other. the air is thick with the sound of your breathing, the distant whirr of the projector still spinning behind you.

then, slowly, you lift your hips.

his cock slips out with a wet drag, and the sound alone makes you both shiver—followed by the obscene drip of his cum sliding out of your cunt, thick and hot down your inner thighs.

choso groans, low and guttural.

“fuck… it’s leaking out,” he says, voice ruined. “i filled you so much it’s leaking down your legs.”

you glance down and see it: the sinful view of his cum glossy between your thighs, a thick string clinging to your folds before it slips free.

you smirk and push at his chest. “lie down.”

he blinks, dazed. “what?”

“on the desk.” you kiss his jaw, slow and warm. “i’m not done. not even close.”

the desk is sturdy. solid wood, wide enough to hold both of you without a creak, and when he lies back, muscles flexing, hair spilling out under him, you swear it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

choso, flushed and wrecked, his cock still wet with your slick and cum, twitching up against his stomach.

you crawl over him, swinging one leg over his hips, and reach down between you both. you rub him once, twice, spreading the mess of your bodies together. his cock jolts under your palm.

“still so hard for me,” you murmur, stroking him slowly. “even after you just came like that.”

“i could come again just from looking at you,” he whispers, head tilted back, eyes locked on the mess between your thighs. “you’re dripping. holy fuck, you’re dripping, and it’s mine.”

you raise your hips, guide him to your entrance and sink back down with a wet squelch that knocks the air from both your lungs.

“y/n—oh my god”

the stretch feels filthy. you’re still so wet—everything is sloppy, slick. the glide messy as his cock slides in again, deeper this time, your walls fluttering around him as if they were waiting for this.

he tries to lift his head, watching where you take him in. “jesus fuck, look at that—it’s still on the screen.”

you glance over your shoulder.

the cursed film is still running. flickering shadows of yourself, on your knees, lips parted, moaning from a memory. it’s surreal. erotic. narcotic. like watching a dream fuck itself into reality.

“is that turning you on?” you ask, already rocking your hips. “watching it while i ride you?”

he groans, eyes fluttering shut. “it’s fucked. you’re fucking me while you’re getting eaten out on screen—I think i’m losing my fucking mind.”

you roll your hips harder.

each wet slap of your thighs meeting his sounds louder now, echoing through the room. his hands grab your waist, tight, trembling, trying to slow you down, but you don’t stop. in fact, you grind even deeper into him, clenching around him on purpose, feeling every twitch, every breathless curse.

he’s panting like he’s overheating. he’s convinced the pleasure alone would send him into a fever.

“fuck, fuck—I can’t—” his eyes open again, barely focused. “you feel so fucking good—tight, warm—perfect.”

you lean over him, your mouth by his ear. “you gonna come again, choso?”

he nods like he’s ashamed. “i’m close. already. i’m sorry—I can’t—”

and then he snaps.

he sits up without warning, hands gripping your ass hard, and fucks up into you: deep, rough, fast. so sudden your moan cuts off in a gasp.

“oh my god—!”

his rhythm is frantic, hips slamming up into yours with the sound of wet skin and breathless whimpers. he buries his face in your neck, grunting with every thrust, losing himself in it.

“i—I can’t stop,” he chokes. “you feel too good, i can’t stop—gonna come again—gonna fucking fill you up again—fuck—!”

you grind against him, meeting every thrust, squeezing him as hard as you can, and that’s it.

he lets out a broken noise; somewhere between a moan and a sob, and spills inside you again, cock pulsing, warmth flooding your cunt for the second time. his whole body shakes as he holds you down on him, breathing ragged, face buried in your neck, completely undone.

you feel everything. the twitch and the he pulse. the wetness seeping out around where you’re still connected is so filthy you feel almost shameful about it.

he holds you there for a long time. doesn’t pull out. doesn’t even try.

just stays inside you, cock softening slowly, still buried in the mess of your shared heat.

and finally, voice raw, he says:

“…the projector’s still going.”

you laugh, weak, falling forward to kiss his jaw.

“then i guess we keep going until it ends.”

[kingkruell]

MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

* - smut | + suggestive

-> gojo satoru

one-shots

starless, still

three nights and forever

midnight algorithm*

series

marginalia

-> choso kamo

one-shots

pulse memory

muse

still rolling!*

drabbles

things i do instead of telling you i like you

-> ryomen sukuna

the morning after +

-> multi

things unsaid, things held

[kingkruell]

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ HOUSE RULES . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

[a few things to know before you stay awhile]

✦ this blog is mostly jujutsu kaisen, but i’m open to writing for other animes too. feel free to ask.

✦ i write fluff, slow burn, and character-driven fiction. occasionally bittersweet. sometimes sharp around the edges. intimacy matters in all its form <3 currently working on writing smut.

✦ this is an 18+ space. no minors. if you’re not of age, don’t interact.

✦ female/female-bodied reader inserts. this is mostly due to the fact that writing is my escapism and of course, a self indulgence, especially as a girl :3 but i’m very open to write or at least start practicing writing male readers.

✦ this is also a writing space. not a content farm. please do not copy, translate, or repost anything from here. that includes feeding it into AI.

✦ requests are open, so feel free to send ideas, the more specific, the better!

✦ if you like my work, kindly reblog them, it means a lot. and if u have actually read my writings, thank you!

✦ i do not follow a posting schedule. if messages or requests aren’t replied or i haven’t published the next part to a series, i’m sorry (genuinely). i’m mostly busy with universityx so please do understand.

✦ inbox are always open to anyone who wants to talk. please keep things respectful.

WHAT I DON’T WRITE — incest/stepcest, pedophilia, teacher-student in canon dynamics, character x character, wide age gaps, abusive ships.

[kingkruell]

MIDNIGHT ALGORITHMS (DATA SCIENCE AND…DICK)

SUMMARY — you were supposed to be studying for your data science retake. instead, you ended up riding the university’s biggest nerd until he came in his jeans and begged to stay inside. gojo satoru is a virgin, a computer science major, and apparently completely obsessed with you…and your pussy.

CONTENT — nerdjo! x f!reader, p in v, university au, exhibitionism, cunnilingus, overstimulation, sub gojo, virgin gojo, bimbo reader, academic corruption lol, first time (gojo), mean reader, cumming untouched, pussy-drunk gojo, filthy smut with little plot.

[WC 5.164]

gojo fanart credits to @/lemiruu on x

the library at 12:32 a.m is quiet. nevermind the fact that it’s summer, you happen to be one of the unlucky dwindling population of students staying behind during break. still, the dorms are nearly empty now, the halls so quiet you swear you could hear the building itself breathing with lights faintly buzzing overhead and that weird flicker of static in the walls.

this wasn’t how you imagined your summer. you were supposed to be in okinawa, sunkissed and full of grilled squid and mango shaved ice. but that fantasy had dissolved as fast as the email that tanked your plans. failed. you didn’t even clear the minimum requirement for your data science class.

and sure, maybe that was on you. you’d chosen your major on a whim, thinking “business” sounded safe. you figured you’d learn a thing or two about money and come out the other side with a degree and a vague sense of superiority. you hadn’t accounted for things like statistical modeling or working with python. you hadn’t even googled the course description, let alone the syllabus. you assumed, stupidly, that business school meant learning how to make money and definitely not how to interpret scatterplots and write shitty codes. you just signed up because it sounded useful. future-proof or…whatever.

it all came down to this: a midnight lecture from none other than gojo satoru himself.

stuck on campus. in the middle of july. retaking a class you hated.

he was… peculiar. he always sat behind you in class. always with those big, square glasses so out of style that sometimes you had to stop yourself from scoffing because—really, those glasses? is it some weird proclamation that he’s smart? and he is, to be fair, but it somehow annoys you to the bone. and always in the same kind of too-large hoodies (just in different colors), chewed raw at the hem. he’s so aggressively unfashionable you almost thought it was ironic. and he’s fidgety, you noticed. always had the time to raise his hand in class, only to stumble through answers in stutters and incoherent babble, pushing up his stupid glasses with one finger. and yet, he always got a nod of approval from the professor. smart, but weird.

weirder were the random instagram likes—one on a post from months ago, something you’d forgotten you even uploaded. and then, a few minutes later, it’d vanish. like he got caught and unliked it. like it was never supposed to be there in the first place.

by the last day of finals, an email from your data science professor landed in your inbox like a final nail in the coffin.

please meet me in my office. urgent regarding your final standing.

you already knew what it meant.

turns out, you were officially at risk of failing the class. and with it, your chance of graduating on time. the professor didn’t mince words. he offered you a single chance to retake the exam over the summer, provided you stayed on campus.

“but—i have plans!” you blurted, cheeks flushing hot as he raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“well,” he said, voice flat, “that’s on you. and your priorities.”

and just like that, your summer was over before it began.

“to help with your review,” he added, already shuffling through papers, “i suggest reaching out to gojo satoru. i assume you know him. he’s a computer science major. i’ve already contacted him to ask if he’d be open to tutoring. so that much is settled.”

gojo satoru was your only shot.

when you first met up to study, he short-circuited.

“w-what? teach you? i mean—i could, yeah, but like—wow, i mean—not wow like that, i just—yeah.”

‘wow’? seriously?

now you were both here, slouched at the farthest end of the library under a dying desk lamp. the only other people still around in the same miserable predicament were just packing up their tote bags and heading out. it hadn’t even been ten minutes and you were already sighing like this was your last breath.

gojo froze, then turned slightly toward you, hand awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “sorry? am i boring you?”

you blinked. “no. i mean, yes. but it’s not you. it’s the material.” you jabbed your pen at his screen, frowning at the words bayesian inference like they personally insulted you.

“oh—yeah, i mean, totally fair,” he muttered, pushing up his glasses again. “but i’m trying to help you not get held back, so… maybe if you try to—”

you rolled your eyes. “what, you think i’m stupid?”

he sat bolt upright. “no! no, no, no! i just—you asked for help, and i’m just—”

you grinned suddenly, cutting him off. “i’m kidding. relax.”

he let out a strangled laugh, eyes darting to your mouth too quickly before looking away. the poor guy’s ears were turning red. that kind of red you only get when you’re really flustered or freshly slapped.

you leaned back in your seat. “can we take a break? my brain is going to ooze out through my nose.”

gojo hesitated, glancing down at his hands. he was still fidgeting with the drawstrings of his hoodie. “y-yeah. sure. you want coffee or… i have matcha pocky?”

“you brought snacks?” you raised an eyebrow. “you didn’t even bring a charger.”

“i thought sugar helps with cognitive performance,” he mumbled.

you bit back a smile. “you’re such a nerd.”

he opened his mouth to defend himself, but nothing came out.

you inched closer while you look at him struggle to open the box of matcha pocky like it might explode.

“you okay?” you ask

he nods quickly, “y-yeah, just it’s late.”

i raised an eyebrow, biting back a laugh, “am i making you nervous?”

“no.” he swallows. “i mean. maybe a little. but not from—i’m good.”

“mhmm.” you smirk, reaching forward and plucking a stick from the box. you let it hang lazily from your lips, watching him watch your mouth.

you snap it between your teeth.

“so,” he stammers, eyes flicking back to his screen, “when you look at the—”

you laugh. “you’re joking.”

he blinks. “what?”

“you were two seconds from spontaneously combusting and now you’re back with this coding shit?”

he shifts awkwardly in his chair. “i’m just… trying to focus.”

“hmm.” you cock your head, pretend to consider that.“you ever think about me when you’re alone?” the words slip out of your mouth before you even had time to fully register it, but with the look on his face right now, you don’t regret it.

he chokes on absolutely nothing. “what—what do you mean—”

“like… at night.” you lean forward just slightly, elbows on your knees. your voice drops into something almost bored. “you ever jerk off to my pictures?”

he goes rigid.

“i—what—no—i mean—i would never—”

“you would never?” you echo, raising an eyebrow, eyelash battling up so deliberately, “so you haven’t?”

he looks wrecked. completely cornered. cheeks flushed, breath stuttering, hands visibly shaking now.

“i—i didn’t think you noticed me.”

“well…i did.”

his eyes snap up to yours… almost desperately

you smile, lazy and cruel.

“that bikini post? you liked it four times. you probably saved it. pretty sure i saw your username on my views list at two a.m.”

he opens his mouth, closes it, then mutters, “fuck.”

you lean in, just close enough to smell his skin; cheap detergent, matcha?

“you’re cute when you panic,” you murmur. “kinda makes me want to see how messy you get when you’re desperate.”

his whole body stiffens.

your hand moves, slowly resting on his thigh. not too high. not low enough to be innocent either.

“you want me to stop?” you ask

he doesn’t answer.

“gojo.”

his breath hitches. his eyes flick to your hand, then to your mouth, then back to your hand.

“no,” he says. it comes out rough.

“don’t stop.”

you squeeze, just a little.

he’s going to come in his jeans before i even kiss him.

his thigh twitches under your hand. tense, trembling. like he’s trying so fucking hard to stay still, to be good, to not grind up into your palm like a pathetic thing.

and he’s failing. you can feel the heat through his jeans and the he obvious ache he’s trying to hide.

“you seriously never touched yourself thinking about me?” you ask again, quieter this time.

he squeezes his eyes shut.

your thumb drags up the inside of his thigh, just shy of where he’s aching. you can practically see the pulse in his neck.

“don’t lie,” you murmur. “you seem like the type who’d come just from scrolling.”

he swallows. his adam’s apple bobs like he’s choking on the truth.

“i—i didn’t mean to,” he croaks. voice raw.

your lips curl.

“you accidentally came to my bikini photos?”

“fuck,” he whispers.

“how many times?” you press. “once? twice? how often do you stroke your pathetic little cock to pictures of me smiling with a cocktail?”

he looks like he’s going to die. or beg. maybe both.

“i don’t know,” he says. “a lot. too much. i can’t—fuck, i couldn’t help it.”

you climb into his lap slowy and he jolts.

his hands hover in the air like he doesn’t trust himself to touch. you roll your hips forward, drag your cunt over the hard line in his jeans, and the sound he makes is obscene.

“shit—wait, please—”

“you’re hard already?” you coo. “you came in your pants to my stories and now you can’t last two minutes with me on top of you?”

his hands finally land on your waist, gripping tight. too tight. like he’s holding on for dear life.

you grind down again. slower this time.

he gasps— actually gasps, like he’s drowning, his pupils dilates before he throws his head back.

“you gonna cum, satoru?” you whisper, licking into the corner of his mouth without kissing him. “you gonna soak your boxers like a good little virgin?”

he whines.

“fuck, fuck—please—”

“please what?”

“let me—i need to cum, i’m sorry, i can’t—”

“you’re humping me like a dog, baby.”

“not yet,” you murmured, tilting his chin up with a firm grip, fingers pressing into the soft give of his cheeks. “open your mouth.”

his breath caught. “wait—wait, what are you— I, ngh—”

despite the confused protest, he obeyed. flustered and still fucking obedient with his lips parted and tongue out.

then with a filthy ptfffhh—a thick, wet string landed square on his tongue, and the obsecenesound of it filled the space between you. his lips twitched like he didn’t know whether to close them or moan.

and when you kiss him all wet, deep, and filthy, he completely falls apart. his hips jerk up. his entire body shudders. and he cums. in his jeans. like a boy who’s never been touched properly and just had his favorite fantasy spit in his mouth and ride his thigh. because that did happen.

his mouth is open, eyes dazed, and his glasses are fogged now. wetness spreading between you.

you lick your lips.

“pathetic,” you whisper.

“i know,” he pants. “fuck—i’m sorry—”

“don’t be.”

you drag your fingers up his chest, to his neck. squeeze. not tight. just enough to make him stop rambling.

“you wanna make it up to me?” you ask, tilting your head.

he nods, instantly. desperate.

“get on your knees.”

-

yeah… you didn’t know how a study session turned into this, let alone with him. gojo satoru, the biggest nerd you knew. now he was on his knees, flushed to the tip of his ears, breath hot against your inner thigh, fingers twitching like he didn’t know whether to hold your hips or fold them into an apology.

“didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you muttered, fingers threading into the soft mess of white hair, tilting his head back just enough to see the desperate flicker in his eyes.

gojo swallows hard. his throat bobs under your grip like a silent apology, lips parted as if waiting for permission to breathe. he’s panting already, like just being this close to your cunt is doing something to him. knees planted to the cold tile, thighs trembling, pupils blown wide.

this is what he dreamt of, this is what he shamefully jerk off to. thinking of bending you over in class and ripping away every inch of your clothes— and now your dripping cunt is mere inches away from his face, its slick clinging to the thin fabric of your panties.

“I—I want to be good,” he says, voice low, breaking like a fault line. “please.”

the way he says it, you almost almost moan. fuck.

you shift forward in the chair, spread your knees just wider for him to see the wet line of your underwear, soaked through from grinding on his lap ten minutes ago. he stares like it’s proof that god is real. his eyes licker back up to yours frantically

tongue out, already panting, his hands trembling as they settle on your thighs like he’s trying not to squeeze too hard. his tongue drags up your slit through the soaked fabric and he moans, like you’re doing him a favor.

god, he’s starving. licking through cotton like he’s grateful just to have it in his mouth. you let him mouth at you like that, messy and soaking the fabric further, his nose pressed against your heat like he wants to drown in it.

“is this what you think about in your little dorm bed?” you ask, tone llazy. onehand settles in his hair. “this exact moment?”

he groans in response, and it vibrates against you in a way that makes your thighs twitch.

“i bet you do,” you whisper. “every night. jerk off with your hand wrapped tight, thinking about me sitting on your face.”

his hips jerk against the floor. pathetic.

he adjusts, and fuck, he learns fast. he licks you with slow, deliberate drags now. eye fluttering shut as he lets your taste melt into him. you grind against his face with purpose, shamelessly, slick dripping down his chin, and it’s obscene—he’s obscene. on his knees under you in a university library, face soaked, hands digging crescent moons into your thighs.

and he’s hard again. so hard it must hurt, his cock straining against jeans soaked in his own cum. He’s rutting against the floor now. fucking grinding like it’ll give him relief.

“you gonna come again just from eating me out?” you whisper, breath catching as your orgasm starts to bloom behind your ribs.

he nods frantically, moaning into your cunt like it’s a prayer.

“fucking loser,” you gasp when he hits the spot that makes you squirm. “you’re not even touching yourself.”

“i don’t— i don’t need to,” he pants, lips dragging over your clit in a clumsy, worshipful kiss. “you taste so good—fuck—I wanna stay here—please—”

of course, you obliged, and you pulled his head impossibly closer, grinding into his face harder.

“say it,” you gasp. “say you’re addicted.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m addicted,” he sobs. “I love your pussy—please—please come, I need it—need to taste it—”

and you do.

with a sharp cry, hips bucking into his mouth, thighs clamping around his head like you want to crush the air out of him.

and gojo comes untouched. again. soaking his pants all over again like a high school virgin who just discovered the word “thighs.”

“nghh—satoru—“ you gasped as he suddenly picks you up with such ease just to place you on the table. his hands are already on your thighs, spreading them open with a force that’s barely controlled before you could even catch your breath.

laid out across the library table, the edge cool beneath your hips, legs parted just enough to show him everything. your panties are caught halfway down your thighs, damp and useless, and your cunt’s already shining in the low, sterile light. his spit and your slick still wet on your skin. there’s a mess between your legs and it’s his fault. he knows it. you know it. the air smells like it.

satoru’s breathing like he just ran here.

his hoodie’s rucked halfway up, hair a wreck, glasses crooked on his nose. he’s standing between your thighs like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, fingers twitching at his sides, eyes locked on the place between your legs like it’s gravity.

“i’ve never—” he starts, but his voice breaks off into static. he swallows thickly, still staring, like he’s scared if he blinks you’ll disappear. “i mean, i’ve thought about it. with you. so many times i—fuck.”

you tilt your head, a slow smile pulling at your lips. “stop thinking then,” you murmur, breath warm. “do it.”

and he does.

his hands fumble at his waistband—nervous, fast, like he’s scared of waking up. and when he gets his jeans open and pushes them down, his breath catches. a sharp, startled sound. he drags his boxers lower, and—

oh.

his cock bounces free, flushed dark pink at the head, already leaking, the tip smeared wet with precum that’s dribbling down the length in slow, heavy beads. thick and aching. there’s a soft tuft of white hair at the base, and he’s so hard it curves slightly up toward his belly. his hand hovers near it, like he doesn’t even know whether he’s allowed to touch it now. like it doesn’t belong to him anymore. like it belongs to you.

you stare.

lips parting on instinct, breath caught in your throat. your thighs twitch open wider on reflex.

“…jesus christ,” you whisper. “how the fuck is that gonna fit?”

he blinks at you like he’s never heard you speak before. he follows your gaze and lets out a broken, whining sound, like he’s embarrassed to be seen like this, like being this hard in front of you is humiliating.

“i’m sorry,” he breathes. “i didn’t—i didn’t mean to be this—fuck, it won’t stop—”

you lick your lips slowly, “what? hard? leaking all over yourself?” you drag your gaze down, voice thick with heat. “your cock’s throbbing, satoru.”

he moans and grabs himself at the base with a shaky hand and nearly doubles over. ”f-fuck, don’t say that, i’ll—i’ll fucking cum,” the second his palm closes around his cock, his hips jerk forward like he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.

he groans and rubs his cock through your folds, just once, dragging the head against your soaked slit, back and forth, back and forth—and it punches a sound out of both of you at the same time.

holy shit,” he breathes. “you’re—fuck—you’re so wet it’s all over me—look at it—fuck, fuck, i’m gonna cum just from this.”

he keeps rutting through your slick like he’s lost his mind, his tip catching on your clit, making your hips jerk every time. you feel it smear between your thighs—sticky, hot, messy.

“you like that?” you whisper. “humping my pussy like it’s your pillow at home?”

his hand falters, and his hips stutter.

you laugh, breathless. “you do. you’ve done this before, huh? jerked off to pictures of me and pressed your dick between your sheets thinking it felt close enough.”

he whines—actually whines into your neck—and kisses you like he’s trying to crawl inside your mouth. his lips are hot and wet and frantic, teeth knocking into yours, tongue licking into you with the same rhythm his hips grind against your cunt.

he pulls back, dazed. pupils blown. cock still rubbing sloppily through your folds.

“can i—” he chokes on it, eyes wild. “can i put it in? please. i can’t—I need to—I have to—”

“beg,” you breathe, dizzy with it.

“please, please let me fuck you,” he gasps. “i’ll be good, i swear, i’ll—I’ll do anything—just let me feel it—fuck—please—”

you nod, slow. “do it.”

he grips your thighs like handles and pushes in.

just the tip.

your breath leaves your lungs in a moan so sharp it cuts the silence in half. he sinks into you inch by inch and it’s so hot, so tight, so wet—he starts to tremble.

“oh my god,” he gasps. “you’re gonna fucking ruin me—i can’t—i can’t—fuck, you’re clenching so hard, i’m gonna cum, i’m gonna—”

you lock your legs around his waist, drag him deeper.

“do it,” you whisper. “cum inside me like a loser.”

and he does.

you feel it, the stutter of his hips, the thick, hot spill of it flooding you, the way he groans so loud it echoes down the rows of bookshelves.

but he doesn’t stop.

he keeps going. cock twitching inside you, fucked dumb, mind blank, still grinding into your cunt like he’s chasing the next high.

oh my god.

oh my god.

he’s tucking into you again, cock buried deep, and he swears he’s never felt anything like this. never imagined anything could feel this good. you’re so warm. so wet. squeezing around him like you don’t want to let go. like your body wants him deeper, even when he’s already pressed as far in as he can go.

he groans, forehead pressed to your shoulder, hips rocking just to stay sane. you moan under him and it makes his knees buckle.

what the fuck are we doing.

this is crazy. this is so, so fucking crazy. you’re in the damn library. it’s open. it’s the middle of the night but not locked. anyone could walk in. some poor TA could be returning a textbook. someone could hear you. the soft slap of skin. the way the table creaks every time he ruts into you. you—breathless and high off it, telling him not to stop.

and he won’t. he can’t.

he’s losing it. actually losing it.

she let me fuck her. she’s letting me fuck her. i’m inside her. right now. my cock is inside her and she’s moaning for more—holy shit—

he bites his lip, trying not to cum again too fast. his glasses are fogged, probably crooked, and he doesn’t even care. all he knows is the tight slick heat of you pulsing around him and the way your nails dig into his back like you’re clinging for life.

“fuckfuckfuck—y/n, i can’t stop—i need to stay in you—feels so good—so fucking good—you’re mine now, right? you have to be—”

“mhhmm—“ you pulled him by the neck and clashes your lips onto his. you’ve broken him. you know it the second he gasps your name like a prayer, or a curse, and drags his cock through the mess he made inside you, still hard, still leaking, like he doesn’t understand what it means to be finished. his hips twitch, rhythm sloppy, hands gripping your thighs so tight it hurts. he’s not even trying to hold back anymore.

he’s still hard.

you feel it inside you, thick and flushed and too much already. twitching like it doesn’t know what just happened. and the way he moans—god—the way he moans, it’s almost unbearable. soft, choked, high in his throat, like he’s been split open by something he doesn’t have a name for yet.

“satoru—” you try, but your voice splinters around the edges. “you—fuck, you already—”

“i know,” he gasps. “i know—but i can’t stop, it feels so good, it’s too much—”

“i-i came,” he stammers, breathless. “i already—I came and i’m still—fuck, i can’t stop—”

he sounds guilty. confused. like he’s doing something wrong. like he thinks you’ll tell him to stop but he can’t make himself do it unless you say the words.

your only answer was the filthy sounds of AH! AH! AH! from your mouth and the way your tongue lols out.

and he keeps moving.

wet, slow thrusts, dragging the head of his cock through the thick mix of cum and slick that’s pooling between your thighs, and he whimpers at the sound of it.

SCHLAP! SCHLAP! SCHLAP!

“is it always like this?” he pants, voice wrecked. “this warm—this wet—it’s so—i-i can’t—fuck, it’s too good—”

his hips twitch, involuntary.

he’s still rutting into you like he doesn’t know any better. like instinct’s got him by the throat. like he thinks he’ll stop breathing if he pulls out. and maybe he would, the way he’s grabbing at your waist, palms pressing so hard into your skin they leave imprints.

“y/n, you’re so tight,” he gasps. “you’re sucking me in like you want more—like you want to keep me—do you? do you want me to stay inside?”

you clench, and he cries.

he actually lets out a sound, desperate and high, mouth falling open in shock, like he’s short-circuiting.

“holy—fuck—you’re doing it on purpose—oh my god—”

he’s rambling. babbling. you don’t think he even knows what he’s saying anymore.

and he just keeps going.

“i didn’t know,” he whispers. “i didn’t know it would feel like this. i didn’t think i’d get to have it—have you—you’re so soft—so hot—i can feel you everywhere—i’m gonna lose my fucking mind—”

he’s shaking now. trembling over you, mouth pressed against your jaw, like he’s trying to ground himself in your skin.

your legs twitch around his waist, overstimulation crackling along your spine, and he feels it.

“wait—are you—? oh my god,” he moans. “are you gonna come again?”

you nod, breath catching, and that’s it.

he breaks.

“fuck—fuck—do it, please—cum on me—use me—i don’t care what you do—just don’t stop—please—please let me make you feel good—”

his hips stutter again, frantic, and your body arches into his, hands scrabbling at his back as the pressure finally snaps inside you again—hot and sharp and clenching hard around him.

“satoru.” you moan out and his eyes rolled back at the way you say his name, “say it again.” he pulls back and pushes in harder.

“satoru.”

you cum.

loud.

clenching down on his cock, tighter than before, and he loses it.

you clench down around him. all tight, fluttering, spasming in waves, and that sets him off.

he gasps like he’s been punched in the chest. like his heart just stopped and kicked back to life. you feel the shift in his body, the way his hips jerk forward, no rhythm left, no restraint—just pure, frantic instinct.

“fuck—fuck—oh god—i’m gonna—i’m—”

he moans into your mouth, loud and cracked open. and then he’s cumming again, deep inside you, hips stuttering as he spills into you all over again, thick and hot and endless. you feel it flood you—heat pooling inside your cunt, filling you up all over again. it’s so much more than the first time. more desperate. more raw. he stays buried as it hits him, jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut, whispering things he probably doesn’t even realize he’s saying.

“so warm—fuck—fuckfuck, i’m sorry—it’s so much—i couldn’t stop—i couldn’t—”

his whole body’s trembling, fingers gripping your waist like he’s holding onto the edge of the world. and when the last twitch of his cock pulses inside you, he lets out a sound so soft, so wrecked, it makes your chest ache.

his forehead rests against yours. you’re both gasping for air. his lips find yours again, slow this time, dragging across your mouth like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. it’s messy. wet. you both keep moaning into it like it’s the only way you know how to breathe now.

his hand brushes your cheek, trembling. “you okay?” he whispers, breath ragged.

you nod, still clinging to him. “so good.”

he kisses you again. deeper this time. slower. like a thank you he doesn’t know how to say out loud. his hips give a soft, involuntary roll forward, just enough to make both of you hiss at the oversensitivity. and he groans.

“…fuck. i should pull out.”

you nod, legs loose around him now, and he gives one last kiss—wet and sticky—before he slowly, carefully draws his cock back.

you both moan at the drag. it’s too warm, too sensitive, too full.

and when he slips free—soft and still twitching—you both stare.

his cum leaks out of you in thick, creamy strings, dripping from your swollen cunt down to the table. it’s obscene. wet. ruined. a mess of his first orgasm and his second spilling from your folds like you were made to be filled.

satoru sucks in a shaky breath.

“holy shit,” he whispers.

you look up at him through your lashes, dazed, lazy, spread open and dripping. your cunt clenches instinctively, twitching from the exposure.

“you’re leaking,” he says softly. and then, like something snaps in his mind: “fuck—wait—i can’t leave you like that, i made a mess, i have to—”

your chest is still rising in stutters. your thighs ache from how wide he spread you, still twitching from the aftershocks. your cunt’s messy, flooded—his cum dripping thick down your folds and pooling between your legs. everything around you is still: the quiet hum of the library lights, the flicker of a dying bulb overhead, the late hour heavy in the air.

you’re still laid out over the table.

used. ruined. wrecked.

and warm.

so fucking warm.

from the inside out.

you blink slowly, dazed, like you’re surfacing from water you didn’t know you were drowning in.

this wasn’t supposed to happen.

you didn’t mean for this to happen.

you were supposed to review a couple chapters, complain about your professor, maybe tease him a little if he blushed too much. not this. not grinding yourself raw on his cock until he came twice inside you. not the way your body feels now; sore and open, humming with overstimulation, and filled with something heavy you’re trying not to name.

“holy shit,” you breathe, voice barely above a whisper. your limbs feel loose. like you’ve melted into the table. “i just… we really…”

you trail off.

there’s cum on your thighs. on the inside of your calves. your panties are still rucked halfway down your legs and your bra’s shifted, barely covering anything.

you cover your face with one hand. not in even in an embarrassed way, just… stunned.

you feel him shift

and then he’s dropping to his knees between your legs.

“satoru—?”

“let me clean it,” he breathes, already nosing between your thighs. “please. let me.”

and then he licks.

long, slow, and filthy, his tongue dragging through your overstimulated, used cunt like it’s the best meal he’s ever tasted. and when he groans, deep and guttural, it vibrates against you.

“you taste like me,” he moans, tongue pushing deep inside, lapping at the mixture he spilled into you like he’s starving for it. “so fucking sweet—fuck—i made this mess—i have to get all of it—”

his tongue is everywhere. cleaning the slick from your folds, nudging your clit, slurping up the mix of your cum and his with noises so obscene your thighs twitch around his head.

“satoru—fuck—please—”

he keeps going. tongue soft and messy, mouth hot and wet, arms wrapped tight around your thighs like he’s never letting go. your back arches. hands scramble against the table edge, trying to ground yourself, but he wraps his arms around your thighs and holds you there. not rough. desperate. worshipful.

“gonna keep eating you until you stop leaking,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your cunt. “i’ll clean every drop. i’ll be so good. let me be good.”

he’s going to make a mess just to clean you up again.

again. and again. and again.

[kingkruell]

hey guys i have an edit account on tiktok if u guys wanna check out lol

— tiktok: @/ryanevermiss

[kingkruell]

MARGINALIA | PART 2

LOVE LETTERS (AND OTHER TRAGEDIES)

WC: 5.287

SUMMARY - gojo satoru, half-drowned in his hoodie and fully drowning in his own crush, sends the text—something about your handwriting curling its toes and your eyebrows having feelings. you laugh. he panics. you say hi. he short-circuits.

a nerdjo series

listening to side by side - crumb

nerdjo artwork by @/629sora on X

[reblog and comment for next part’s taglist]

part 1 >> part 3

“fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck.”

the words tumble out of gojo satoru’s mouth like a prayer on a loop, low and urgent under his breath as he paces his dorm room like a man possessed. beads of sweat glisten at his hairline, clinging to the white strands plastered against his forehead. the rain taps softly against the half-open window, cool night air sneaking in to brush against his skin, but inside the dim, cramped room, he’s burning.

not from the heat. not from the ramen cup he forgot he made.

from you.

from the text.

oh god. the text.

he stops mid-step, fingers tightening in his hair as he stares blankly at the glow of his phone screen on the bed. it might as well be a live grenade. his heart is a fist in his throat.

this isn’t happening.

there is no way gojo satoru—the guy who barely flinches at project deadlines, who routinely forgets socks are a social expectation, who hasn’t seriously thought about a girl since he discovered how many command-line tools exist—just blew a fuse over a couple of dumb messages.

except he did.

and it wasn’t just some girl. it was you.

fucking y/n.

earlier, it had started out like any other rainy thursday. he was wandering the sociology building like a ghost without purpose, nursing a vending machine coffee that tasted criminally close to battery acid. geto warned him, but did he listen? no. because apparently, he was too busy daydreaming like a loser.

because there you were.

just like that.

half-tired, notebook hugged to your chest, earphones dangling from your hoodie. you didn’t see him, but he saw you. all of you. and for one excruciating second, the world kind of stuttered to a halt. gojo watched the way your eyes narrowed at your phone, the way your brow furrowed in concentration, and he had the stupidest, most uncontrollable thought:

i want to be the reason she looks that focused.

he didn’t even say hi.

he couldn’t. he froze like a total coward, eyes wide behind his glasses, mouth twitching like he was buffering.

you walked right past him.

by the time he got back to his room, he was spiraling. the door slammed behind him, rain-slick hoodie still clinging to his back, shoes kicked off like an afterthought. he didn’t turn on the lights, just let the soft blue wash of his monitor screen and the streetlamp outside guide him. he told himself he was going to work on that media ethics assignment. ha. yeah. right.

instead, his thumb hovered over your name in his contacts.

you were still in there from that one group project. the one where he barely made eye contact with you, too busy sweating bullets anytime you leaned over to check his slides. your name had just sat there since. quiet, unbothered. he’d opened the chat more times than he could count, typing out things like “do you know what the professor meant by—” only to backspace until it was blank again.

but tonight? honestly, gojo doesn’t even know what took over him.

maybe it was the coffee. maybe it was the sound of your voice echoing faintly in his head. maybe he finally just lost his grip on self-preservation.

because he sent it.

he actually sent it.

two messages. innocent in theory. mortifying in execution.

your handwriting’s kind of insane. in a good way. like if emotions could curl their toes

also your eyes do this thing when you’re listening really hard. like your eyebrows lean forward first?? anyway

he stares at them like they’re the last thing he’ll ever see before his soul departs his body.

“why the fuck did i say that?!” he screeches, voice cracking in the quiet of the room.

he throws himself face-first into his pillow, limbs flailing dramatically before curling up like a dying spider. his brain is already drafting his obituary. gojo satoru, 19. died of terminal rizz failure. survived by his equally pathetic browser history and one unopened can of monster energy.

he rolls onto his back, eyes wide as he mentally replays the possible outcomes:

• you think it’s weird and block him.

• you think it’s creepy and report him to the dean.

• you laugh at it with your friends and never make eye contact with him again.

but worst of all?

you don’t respond.

time slows. then stretches. then coils into a painful kind of silence. he stares at the message bubbles until they blur. nothing. not even the “typing…” indicator. his stomach twists. he tries to distract himself with anything—with his assignment, even opens up a github repo to trick his brain into feeling productive, but his fingers hover uselessly over the keys. he can’t write a line. he’s too busy imagining you reading it and cringing. or worse, never reading it at all.

hours pass. he doesn’t change out of his hoodie. doesn’t brush his teeth. he just lies there, eyes flicking to the phone every few minutes like clockwork, until exhaustion finally drags him under.

when he wakes up, it’s nearly 11 pm. his neck hurts, his hair’s a mess, and his laptop fan is still whirring. groggily, he grabs his phone with one eye open. he fumbles it. it clatters to the ground. he groans.

no new notifications.

no response.

he stares at the ceiling, heart sinking with finality.

social suicide complete. mission failed. we’ll get ’em next semester.

gojo satoru has fallen, and he might never recover.

the next media ethics class arrived like a guillotine.

gojo hadn’t slept the night beforec not really. he’d laid in bed, eyes pinned to the ceiling, limbs limp with exhaustion but mind wired with that special brand of self-loathing reserved for people who had just committed social suicide via text message. some obscure tech podcast murmured from his speakers, something about open-source compression algorithms. he wasn’t listening. he just needed noise. white, meaningless noise to drown out the replays of his own message.

the message.

god, the message.

he had scrolled back to it more times than he wanted to admit, rereading it like some deranged literary critic dissecting his own obituary. it had started off almost charming in his mind. quirky, even. a little heartfelt.

but now? now it just read like he had a toe-curling kink for handwriting and eyebrows.

why did he say that?

what the hell were “emotions curling their toes”?

what did that mean?

by morning, he’d convinced himself that the only viable course of action was to change his name, drop out, and rebrand as a goat herder in a remote scandinavian village.

but his stupid academic guilt complex, the same one that wouldn’t let him miss a single assignment deadline, dragged him to class anyway. hoodie half-zipped, bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder, he trudged through the gray, rain-slicked campus like a man marching toward execution.

and now, here he was. standing at the door of the lecture hall like it was the gates of hell.

the room buzzed with the usual ambient noise: chair legs scraped against tile, laptops chimed as they booted up, a small group of students near the front debated whether a tabloid could ever be considered real journalism. fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting everything in that cold, slightly too-blue glow that made everyone look vaguely sleep-deprived.

gojo scanned the room once.

and there you were.

you were already seated, halfway through a fresh page in your notebook, your brow slightly furrowed in concentration. your water bottle was propped against your phone, your bag slouched beside your chair like a lazy dog. you looked focused, calm, beautifully unaffected. the exact opposite of how he felt.

and…there it was.

the empty seat beside you.

the seat he always took.

gojo’s breath caught in his throat. his fingers flexed on the strap of his bag.

just sit. it’s fine. just act like nothing happened.

but his feet betrayed him. a cold spike of fear lanced through his chest and propelled him in the opposite direction. his brain screamed “ABORT MISSION, ABORT MISSION!” and he obeyed without hesitation, making a sharp left turn toward the back of the classroom, where he found refuge behind a guy with shoulders the size of a small hatchback.

he dropped into the chair and immediately regretted everything.

his notebook? forgotten. his pen? nowhere in sight. his laptop? dead. of course.

all he had was a buzzing skull and a heart that refused to beat at a normal pace.

class started, but he barely registered the lecture. the professor’s voice was just background noise, a wash of academic syllables about media frameworks and ethical responsibility. gojo stared at a blank corner of the wall and replayed every moment from the past three days like his brain had become a cursed vhs tape.

why didn’t she say anything?

why didn’t she reply?

was it too much?

was it creepy?

a cold sweat crept down the back of his neck.

he caught himself glancing at you once, just once, a flicker of a moment between self-flagellation loops. you didn’t seem upset. or weirded out. you looked… the same.

but maybe that was worse.

when class finally ended, gojo shot up like the room was suddenly underwater and he needed air. he gathered his things with uncharacteristic efficiency, shoving loose pages into his hoodie pocket, slamming his laptop shut even though it hadn’t been on, practically sprinting for the door.

and then—

“hey, gojo.”

he froze.

you said his name like it wasn’t a weapon. soft. casual. friendly, even.

his body seized like someone had unplugged him from reality.

he turned his head toward you, barely.

you were standing by your desk, bag slung over one shoulder, a quiet smile blooming across your lips. your eyes were calm. not mocking, not at all.

huh

his throat cinched tight, like his body had suddenly forgotten how to breathe. he blinked, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between awe and full-on panic—like a deer in headlights with a crush and zero emotional regulation.

and god. why did you have to look like that today?

he’d never seen you wear that skirt before. it hugged your hips just enough to send his brain into a slow, buffering spiral. the way it moved when you walked—soft, swaying, completely unbothered—was unfair. cruel, even. his gaze darted away before he could make it weirder than it already was.

nope. nope nope nope. abort. he was being weird. he was absolutely being weird.

“hi,” he blurted. too fast. too high. the i cracked like glass under pressure.

and then, because his body was a traitor to his entire existence, he bolted.

nearly tripped on someone’s bag. stumbled into the hallway. didn’t stop until he was out of the building and two full blocks away, standing outside a noodle shop he didn’t even like, chest heaving like he’d just outrun a very specific and emotionally perceptive ghost.

he makes his way into the dorms, gojo burst into his dorm room like he was being chased by armed regret.

the door slammed shut behind him with a thud that made his abandoned ramen cup tremble on the desk. his hoodie was half-off, halfway on—he yanked it off like it offended him and threw it across the room. then immediately regretted that, too. what if it was bad hoodie karma? what if the fibers of shame were still on it?

he paced a quick, frantic loop. once. twice. on the third, he tripped over his own backpack and nearly took out the cheap lamp by the bed.

“okay,” he muttered. “okay, okay, okay.”

then, he reached for his phone like a soldier hitting the emergency signal.

group chat

gojo

emergency

gojo

code red

come to my room or i’m deleting myself from the academic system

two minutes later, his door flew open again, this time with the worn-out creak of someone who didn’t even bother knocking.

“every time you say ‘emergency,’ i lose a year off my life,” utahime snapped as she entered, dragging her umbrella with her. “this better not be about your failed protein shake experiment again.”

nanami followed, looking like he’d been dragged there directly from the library. he was holding a book and the disappointment of a man with finals on his mind.

geto came last, coffee in hand, eyes amused already.

gojo flailed toward them like a man going down with the ship.

“she said hi,” he announced.

there was a pause. the silence that followed was not triumphant. it was clinical.

utahime blinked. “and…?”

“and i bolted!” gojo shouted, arms thrown skyward. “like—physically fled the scene! i said ‘hi’ and then literally almost tripped over a backpack trying to escape. i can never show my face in that class again.”

nanami sighed. “you interrupted my reading time for this?”

“you don’t understand,” gojo said, spinning toward him like this was a courtroom drama and nanami was the judge. “i sent her the text. i told her her eyebrows lean forward when she listens and that her handwriting has emotional toes. toes, nanami.”

geto nearly choked on his coffee.

“i didn’t think it could get worse than the eyebrows,” utahime muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“she didn’t respond,” gojo said, collapsing onto the floor like gravity had finally taken him. “it’s been two days. that’s, like, six college years. and then today, in class, she looked normal. like not-murderous. and she said hi. i should’ve just sat down next to her like usual but instead i went full cryptid and sprinted out like a cursed victorian child avoiding eye contact in a hallway.”

geto had officially stopped pretending to sip his coffee. “i’m sorry—emotional toes?”

“curled their toes,” gojo corrected, miserably.

there was a beat of silence. and then, as if summoned by the universe’s sick sense of timing, a sharp ping echoed from gojo’s phone. it lit up beside him on the floor.

all four of them froze.

gojo blinked. “oh no.”

utahime stared. “is that—”

“no,” he whispered.

nanami leaned in slightly. “you gonna check it or just die next to it?”

gojo reached for it like it was a bomb and he didn’t know which wire to cut.

the screen lit up again.

y/n

hi lol sorry for the late response

but lmao the toe thing made me laugh. didn’t know my eyebrows had a personality but i’m honored. also. you’re kinda weird. but like. the good kind??

he reread it. then reread it again. his hand dropped from his mouth.

geto leaned over his shoulder. “damn. she likes weird.”

utahime grinned. “miracles happen.”

gojo’s heart was doing something unnatural. something that felt suspiciously like hope with a caffeine overdose. he rolled onto his back, phone clutched to his chest like it was a lifeline.

“she responded,” he whispered. “she doesn’t hate me. she thinks i’m weird in the good way.”

he stared at the screen for a long moment. then sat up slowly, still dizzy with disbelief.

his fingers hovered over the keyboard

gojo didn’t move for a solid ten seconds. just lay there on the floor, like the world had glitched and he wasn’t sure whether to reboot or ascend.

geto squatted beside him, one brow raised. “is he breathing?”

“hard to say,” utahime said, already rifling through gojo’s snack drawer like she lived there. “he looks like he just saw god. or her instagram story.”

gojo finally inhaled, sharp and sudden, like he’d forgotten that breathing was, in fact, required. “she doesn’t hate me,” he whispered again, like it was a sacred chant. “she laughed. she said i’m weird. but the good kind. the good kind, guys.”

nanami, who’d settled stiffly into the desk chair, sighed and set his book down. “you’re telling me this entire scene,”—he gestured vaguely at the mess of gojo’s body, hoodie, and emotional meltdown—“was over one semi-flirty, eyebrow-themed text and a delayed response?”

“one text?” gojo sat up like he’d been resurrected. “that was a piece of my soul, nanami. that was vulnerability. that was toe metaphors. you can’t just come back from that.”

utahime tossed a protein bar at his head. “well, she did. so now what? you gonna text her back or keep twitching like a victorian orphan with a quill?”

gojo clutched the protein bar like it was a holy artifact. “what do i even say?”

geto settled onto the bed, propping himself up with a pillow that had definitely not been washed in months. “you want honesty or strategy?”

“both,” gojo said.

“okay,” geto shrugged. “be honest, but like…strategically honest. no more body part metaphors. maybe just… ask her something. keep the convo going. be normal.”

“define ‘normal,’” gojo said.

nanami raised an eyebrow. “something you are fundamentally incapable of.”

utahime snorted. “just tell her you’re glad she replied. maybe make a joke. and do not overthink the punctuation.”

gojo scrambled upright, gripping his phone with the reverence of a man about to disarm a bomb.

“i can do this,” he muttered. “this is fine. we’re just talking. humans talk. this is a normal college interaction. i’m not falling apart over a girl who annotates her readings with pink highlighters and wears golden hoop earrings and—”

“gojo,” geto cut in, amused. “focus.”

“right, right.” he stared at the screen like it was staring back. then started typing.

gojo

honored to be the weird good kind.

also didn’t know i outed your eyebrow microexpressions but now i feel weirdly responsible for them

should i apologize or apply for naming rights?

he hovered over the send button. his thumb trembled.

“send it,” utahime said.

“don’t look at me while i do it,” gojo muttered.

“no promises,” geto grinned.

and with a deep breath—he hit send.

the message whooshed off into the void. gojo launched himself backward onto the bed, covering his face with a pillow, muffling a noise that might’ve been a scream or a wheeze. hard to tell.

“you’re ridiculous,” utahime said, chewing through the protein bar like it owed her money.

“and yet somehow,” geto added, “this is the most effort i’ve seen you put into anything that wasn’t a debate about anime endings or multithreaded processing.”

gojo peeked out from under the pillow, hair sticking in every direction. “is it always like this?” he asked. “liking someone?”

nanami stood, dusted off his jeans, and picked up his book like this detour into emotional chaos had already stretched too long.

“no,” he said, “sometimes it’s worse.”

utahime rolled her eyes, but her smirk softened. “you’ll live. probably.”

geto slung an arm over gojo’s shoulder before standing. “just tell us if she responds with another poetic breakdown of your social awkwardness.”

and in the silence that followed, broken only by the sound of crinkling wrappers and someone’s spotify lo-fi playlist looping in the background, gojo felt something strange.

she laughed, he thought. she read it and laughed.

either way, he’d take it.

so….you hadn’t meant to say hi.

or rather, you hadn’t expected it to feel like dropping a match into a very dry field. it was a small word, casually thrown over your shoulder as you zipped your bag, the kind of thing you said to people in passing, people who shared a table in a group project once, people you vaguely recognized. and yet when it hit gojo satoru, he reacted like you’d lobbed a brick at his chest.

you saw him before class even started—gojo, hair an absolute mess as usual, strands defiantly curling and sticking up like they had their own agenda. he looked jittery, the kind of nervous energy that made his limbs twitch just a little too much, like he was trying to run a thousand thoughts through his brain all at once and none of them had a pause button.

as usual, you shifted you bag, nudged your books aside, making room for him in the seat beside uou. It’s a routine by now, kind of like a silent pact: he slides in, maybe fiddles with his hoodie zipper, and we settle into the lecture. It’s a small gesture, but it’s one that’s grown familiar, comforting even.

but today was different, because he suddenly pivoted to sit somewhere further back. and after class, after you said that simple “hi,” you barely caught the way his shoulders jerked up, stiff as glass, or how his eyes, all wide and electric behind his glasses, flicked to you like he was still buffering. he looked… trapped. like you’d cornered him with your voice alone. and then, as if driven by some internal crisis too large for the moment, he took off.

not just turned and walked. no. he fled.

stumbled past chairs and bags with the coordination of a baby deer in combat boots, muttered something that could’ve been a farewell or a final wish, and practically careened out of the classroom.

you watched him go, your lips quirking into a quiet smile, half in disbelief, half in curiosity. then you packed up the rest of your things and left the room without ceremony. the hallway buzzed with student chatter and wet sneakers, but your mind lingered elsewhere.

okay. what the fuck was that?

oh. oh. the text.

the thing is, his message had made you laugh.

you’d gotten it just after a dizzying study session in the library. you hadn’t expected it. hadn’t even remembered he still had your number. you’d stared at his name for a moment, blinking.

and then you’d read it.

gojo

your handwriting’s kind of insane. in a good way. like if emotions could curl their toes

also your eyes do this thing when you’re listening really hard. like your eyebrows lean forward first?? anyway

it was so stupidly specific. so weird. and oddly tender.

you hadn’t responded right away. not out of malice or even confusion (maybe a little), but mostly because you’d been tired. it had been a long week, and his message was oddly placed in a timeline of academic chaos and grocery lists and crumpled notes you kept forgetting to rewrite. you meant to get back to it, but the day swallowed you whole.

when you did reply, it was while walking home in the rain, phone screen spotted with droplets and your fingers half-numb. you sent the message with a casual smile at your phone, thumbs moving instinctively.

hi lol sorry for the late response

but lmao the toe thing made me laugh. didn’t know my eyebrows had a personality but i’m honored. also. you’re kinda weird. but like. the good kind??

you hadn’t really expected anything from it. certainly not for it to mean anything.

but watching him today…panic in his retreat, the split-second way he’d looked at you, like you’d turned gravity on its head… you started to realize something.

gojo satoru was unraveling.

and apparently, you were the reason.

by the time you returned to your dorm, the rain had stopped. the air smelled like wet pavement and cheap shampoo. you dropped your bag by the door and collapsed into the cushions with your phone still in your hand.

it buzzed.

gojo

honored to be the weird good kind.

also didn’t know i outed your eyebrow microexpressions but now i feel weirdly responsible for them

should i apologize or apply for naming rights?

you exhaled slowly. the corners of your mouth lifted again.

there was something charming about him. not the polished kind of charming that knew it was charming, but the kind that stumbled, full of good intentions and poorly timed exits. it was the sort of charm that didn’t ask for anything. it just… flailed. loudly. like with…glitter.

you didn’t know what to make of it yet. you didn’t have to.

still, you typed back.

y/n

if you apply for naming rights, i expect royalties

also: who gave you the right to be this observant?? do you have a side hobby in eyebrow analytics or smth

you hesitated before sending it, thumb hovering, then tapped send anyway.

across the room, your laptop blinked with a reminder about an overdue article analysis. you ignored it. your eyes were still on the screen.

typing…

the indicator blinked, then vanished. then blinked again. and vanished.

you smiled and tucked the phone beneath your thigh.

.

.

the next day came quietly.

your morning routine was the same: lukewarm tea and a podcast you barely listened to while brushing your teeth. you didn’t check your phone first thing, only that he was there when you walked into the café on campus. alone. hoodie on, glasses pushed to the top of his head, typing furiously into a laptop with crumbs of what looked like a chocolate croissant decorating the table like confetti.

you paused. you could have walked right by. you nearly did.

but something in you itched.

you walked over and pulled the chair across from him, sat down like you’d done it before. his hands froze mid-keystroke. slowly, almost comically, his head lifted.

his eyes widened. mouth parted. you could practically see the full-body crash happening behind his expression.

“i didn’t know we were doing surprise interrogations now,” he said, blinking. “do i need a lawyer?”

“no,” you said, shrugging. “just wanted to see if you were real.”

he stared for a moment longer, then sat back. there was an odd quiet to him now, like he didn’t trust the calm.

“you read the text.”

“i did.”

“and you still chose to sit here.”

“i did.”

gojo let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped since the jurassic era.

you smiled, took a sip of your drink, and tilted your head.

“so,” you said. “what’s your next move, eyebrow analyst?”

he grinned sheepishly, the kind of grin that had probably ruined better men than him.

“i was thinking…” he said, adjusting his glasses, “let me redeem myself with something drinkable. on me.”

and you said…yes.

he blinked like he hadn’t expected that outcome. like he’d offered as a joke, a throwaway line to cover the shaky scaffolding of his nerves. but you said yes anyway, and in that moment, gojo satoru sat a little straighter. just barely. like the air in his lungs had shifted from carbon dioxide to something less fatal.

he stood too fast, nearly knocked over his laptop, and spent the next five seconds wrestling with a tangled charger and a crumpled receipt he insisted on stuffing into his back pocket.

the table between you was still cluttered with the remnants of class: his half-shut laptop, your barely touched drink, the waxy paper wrapper from a croissant he must’ve inhaled before you arrived. after awkwardly standing in front of the cashier ordering your drink, he came back with a warm cup of coffee as he simultaneously fumbled to make space, shifting things around as if arranging a fragile ecosystem. a pen rolled to the floor. he chased it.

“wasn’t sure you’d actually… say yes,” he said, finally settling. his hands hadn’t figured out where they belonged. one hovered near his cup, the other curled against his knee.

you wrapped both palms around the warmth of your coffee. “i wasn’t sure you were actually asking.”

he laughed—short, surprised. “honestly, i wasn’t either.”

outside, the rain had tapered off into a low mist, brushing against the fogged windowpanes. inside, the café remained its usual brand of sleepy academic clutter. warm lights. old speakers playing jazz covers of songs that didn’t need them. the hum of someone’s study playlist bleeding from cheap headphones. the barista, predictably, didn’t glance your way.

“i think i owe you an apology,” he said after a beat. “for the text.”

you looked at him over the rim of your cup. “why? you didn’t say anything mean. just… strange.”

he winced, grinning despite himself. “god. yeah. the eyebrow bit.”

“and the toes,” you added.

“please. i’m trying to repress that part.”

you shrugged. “i laughed.”

he looked up at that, gaze catching yours. his eyes—blue, always blue, but dimmed now with a soft touch—searched your face like it mattered.

“you did?”

you nodded. “not in the way you probably hoped. but it wasn’t a bad thing.”

he blinked slowly. “i’ll take not-bad.”

your fingers traced the curve of your mug. his thumb tapped once, twice, against the side of his.

he didn’t meet your eyes. at least not fully. his loud, unruly, sometimes unbearable confidence in a classroom setting had dulled at the edges. definitely not gone, but contained.

“i noticed you,” he said suddenly.

something behind your ribs pulled taut. you tried not to react as you tilted your head to the side, a small smile etched onto your skin.

he rubbed the back of his neck. “way before the message. just—thought you should know.”

you weren’t sure what to do with that. he’d said it too gently to be performative. too soon to be meaningful.

“i didn’t notice you,” you said after a moment…your eyes wandering around, thinking. you weren’t even trying to land a jab, just being honest—especially with how vulnerable gojo looks right now, it felt right to keep it real. “not really. not until the project. even then, you didn’t say much.”

“was trying not to combust,” he murmured.

you laughed, quiet and involuntary. he looked up at that, eyes flicking to yours like he was surprised by the sound. his mouth curved into a grin.

eventually, he leaned forward, arms crossed on the table.

“i don’t know if i’m someone you’d notice,” he said, barely audible. “but i think i’d regret it if i didn’t at least try to talk to you. without the metaphors this time.”

your gaze softened, just slightly.

“do you always try like this?” you asked.

his laugh was short. almost embarrassed. “only when it feels like it matters.”

to your own surprise, you stayed longer. probably longer than you should. he stayed on his side of the table, close enough to hear your voice when you finally began to speak again. not about eyebrows. not about feelings. just… things. the weather. the professor’s terrible slides. a book you pretended to like last semester.

when you finally glanced at your phone, the time hit you like a cold splash of water. your next class started in ten minutes.

“shit,” you muttered under your breath.

gojo tilted his head slightly. “what’s up?”

you were already reaching for your things, half-distracted, trying to cram your notebook back into your bag without making a mess of it. “class,” you said quickly. “i’m gonna be late.”

he blinked, as if he hadn’t quite realized how long you’d been sitting there.

you stood, adjusting your strap and smoothing the edge of your sleeve, already half-turned toward the door. “sorry. i’ll see you next class.”

“right,” he said.

you took a step.

“i’ll text you,” he added, a little too fast. like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud until it already was.

you paused for a split second, but didn’t turn around.

“okay,” you said over your shoulder.

and then you left.

and just like that, you had him wrapped around your fingers.

god. he was so fucked.

[kingkruell]

sire... sire please... your fics are so good...but i am Begging you to use readmores. its so hard to look thru your works when it takes five years to scroll through each post

hi nonny! i’ll work on it 😭😭 i’m so sorry i haven’t really gone through organizing my page since i’ve been caught up w college rn. i will soon. thanku for the suggestion !!

[kingkruell]

istg the week before finals is the worst…whats w the sudden barrage of assignment bro let me breath 😭😭

[kingkruell]

MARGINALIA | GOJO SATORU

A NERDJO SERIES . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

SYNOPSIS he wasn’t supposed to stay past week three. but now he’s showing up early, quoting lectures he barely pretends to listen to, and watching the way you underline your notes like it means something. somewhere between shared worksheets, side-eyes, and scribbled margins—gojo satoru starts falling for the girl by the window. and maybe, just maybe, she starts noticing him too.

CONTENT nerd!gojo satoru x classmate! reader, female reader, informatics student gojo x journalism student reader, university!au, non-sorcerers, slow-burn, slice of life, gojo being soft, love-struck gojo, campus and classrooms settings, awkward crushes, emotional intimacy, fluff, friends-to-something more, unspoken attraction, smut.

A/N this blog will be updated regularly along with new parts. a trigger warning at some ill-attempt on humor as well as (perhaps) an inaccurate usage of coding or journalistic terms.

listening to la lune - king krule

see i was raised to the moon just to hold a gaze with a view across the other side it won't be long till you're inside till you're inside my heart to be with you, such a view to be elevated to you

[nerdjo artwork by su2kuna on twitter]

comment to be added to taglist! first part (intro) will be published very soon and reblogs are very much appreciated <3

— and you'll see the details between the margins

PART 1 the space between lines [int.] ⊹₊ ⋆

PART 2 coming soon...

PART 3 coming soon..

PART 4 coming soon..

PART 5 coming soon..

and more to come.

[kingkruell]

first part is published, go check it out!

[kingkruell]

MARGINALIA | PART 1: INTRODUCTION

THE SPACE BETWEEN LINES

WC: 3.029

a nerdjo series

listening to the boy - the smashing pumpkins

[please comment down below if you know the artist for the nerdjo art, all credits to them]

taglist: @sylusonlylove @bakugouswaif @n1vi @arthrizzia

<3 kindly reblog and comment to be added on the taglist for the next part!

gojo satoru doesn’t belong in this class.

he knows it the second he steps into room 4b-21—ten minutes late, naturally. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they’re annoyed with him, the ac is set to arctic, and his iced coffee is already half melted by the time he shoulders the door open with the kind of carelessness that only comes from doing things too often without consequence.

he isn’t supposed to be here. media ethics, of all things. a filler elective he picked in a blur of last-minute registration panic, he thought the title sounded dramatic. maybe something about wartime propaganda or political psy-ops. instead, it’s all discussion boards and debates about journalistic framing. he should be bored.

his eye scans the room. empty seat. you.

you’re just there, pen between your fingers, the glow from the window softening the edges of your face as you tilt your head, reading over something like it matters. you’ve got that look about you; focused, unbothered, maybe a little skeptical. he blinks once, as if that might help. then, without thinking too hard, he slides into the empty seat beside you.

“hey,” he says, like he’s always sat there, like you’ve been in this together and not like he just transferred into the class two weeks late because he “forgot to register.”

you glance at him. sideways, unimpressed. 

“you in journalism?”

“god, no,” he replies, almost offended. “i’m in theoretical computer science.”

your eyebrow arches. “so why are you in media ethics?”

he shrugs. “thought it’d be about cults or propaganda or something. it’s not.”

it’s really not.

still, he stays.

that’s the problem.

because satoru’s the kind of guy you expect to vanish after week three. the one with the untamable hair, the anime stickers, the half-zipped hoodie over a shirt that probably says something stupid like “404: motivation not found.” the guy with a laptop full of code windows and two tabs open to reddit. he doesn’t belong here. not in this room, not beside you.

but then he starts showing up early. sometimes earlier than you.

he reads the articles. not always thoroughly, but enough. he doesn’t speak often in class, but when he does, it’s sharp and strangely lucid. once, he compared legacy journalism to a failed open-world game release. the professor paused. then wrote it down.

you don’t think much of it at first. he’s just another guy with too much brain and not enough filter.

but he notices things.

or, he doesn’t, not really. not in the beginning. you’re part of the ambient noise of the class to him: the scribble of pens, the shuffle of laptops, the soft chime of someone’s phone not quite silenced. until you say something about editorial bias in conflict zones. no warning, just words delivered with this clipped cadence of someone who knows what they’re talking about.

he’s halfway through fidgeting with his airpod case when you speak, and by the time you finish, his fingers are still.

and then he realizes—he hasn’t written a single note.

“huh,” he says under his breath, not really to anyone.

the next time he sees you, he notices your handwriting. it’s kind of a mess. tight, slanted, like it’s always mid-sprint. but when you’re really focused, it straightens out. neat. clear. he catches himself watching the shift, like it’s some kind of code he could learn to read.

he doesn’t tell anyone about you. not at first.

but one day, over lunch with geto on the grass behind the comp-sci building, he’s halfway through a takoyaki and staring at nothing when geto asks, “you like that class?”geto leans over during their late lunch in the quad, picking limp rice from his bowl with tired chopsticks.

satoru shrugs, mouth full of takoyaki. “it’s fine. good lighting.”

suguru eyes him. “you stayed the whole hour. that’s new.”

satoru chews. looks away.

he doesn’t say your name. doesn’t mention the way your earphones are always tangled or how you tilt your head when you’re thinking, like you’re listening to a voice only you can hear. he doesn’t mention how sometimes, when you smile to yourself at something you’re reading, it throws him completely off balance.

instead, he just keeps showing up.

and you start noticing. maybe. he likes to think you did.

like when he accidentally ends up in your seat, technically unassigned, but everyone knows classroom territory is sacred, and you don’t move your bag. like when he murmurs commentary during a documentary screening and you roll your eyes, but don’t tell him to shut up. like when you ask if he did the reading, not to challenge him, but just because you’re... curious.

he had, actually.

“skimmed it,” he lies.

“you quoted it last class,” you say, barely looking up.

he shifts in his chair. “did i?”

you hum, keep typing. he watches your fingers fly across the keys and wonders—not for the first time—what it is you’re writing. you hum. keep typing. your laptop has a cracked sticker on it that says ‘support local journalist’, he doesn’t know whether you’re being earnest, or maybe it’s just ironic. he doesn’t know yet. later that week, he sends a message in the group chat with nanami and utahime.

satoru [10:49 pm] what font says “i’m not flirting i just think your brain is hot”

nanami [10:55 pm]                       .

utahime [11:00 pm] is this about the girl in your ethics class

satoru has left the chat

yeah, it starts to bother him.

not with a bang, not with some spectacular implosion of routine. satoru’s life doesn’t work like that. he’s calibrated, habitual. if something’s wrong, it shows up in data: a late submission, a missed semicolon, a glitch in a simulation. but this? this is quiet. this is slow. it settles like a bug in his system that doesn't crash anything outright, but keeps making things slightly off.

it lives in the silence between your questions, in the little pauses where he finds himself watching your hands rather than answering. it lingers in the rhythm of your pen clicking against your notebook when you're thinking, like punctuation to the air between your thoughts. it’s in the way his code starts to blur after hours at his desk, because some part of his brain keeps returning—rebooting, replaying—something you said two days ago in a tone that shouldn’t matter but somehow does.

he doesn’t even know what it is, not exactly. just that it’s inconvenient.

satoru doesn’t do crushes. he crushes deadlines. he crushes bot matches at 3 a.m., fingers flying, screens casting their ghostly light across his room. he crushes ice into his coffee like it owes him rent.

but this?

this is... what?

he tries to analyze it the only way he knows how: through logic. he builds a mental chart, starts labeling behaviors like they're lines of code in need of debugging.

emotional spike when subject speaks: moderate

unprompted recall of subject’s prior comments: high

involuntary proximity-seeking: very high (potential red flag?)

increased engagement with previously irrelevant topics: off the charts

it’s a pattern. familiar, almost. he’s seen it in his ai simulations. character attachment markers, relational drift patterns. but the thing about simulations is that you can reset them. you can scrub the memory, rerun the code.

you’re not a simulation.

you’re not data.

and that makes this—whatever this is—unquantifiable. unstable. real.

he googles how to tell if you like someone at 1:12 a.m. and instantly regrets it. but he keeps scrolling anyway, curled into his hoodie, blinking under the cool burn of the monitor. the listicles are unhelpful. so are reddit threads. half of them contradict each other.

his heart doesn’t race. that’s not how it feels. it's more like... the world slows down when you're near. like your presence drags a cursor across his attention span and highlights everything he didn’t think to notice before. this is different, right?

he closes the tab.

he’s not in love.

you just have this cadence when you speak. a sort of precision, like you’re choosing words by feel. it loops in his brain like a clean line of code. efficient. elegant.

he finds himself remembering things you’ve said for no reason. little throwaway observations. a quote from an article you were writing. a joke about the vending machines in the journalism building. things that should fade into the background, but don’t.

and the worst part? he’s started reading your articles.

he doesn’t even like journalism. he used to scoff at it; too many feelings, too little structure. but now, he reads them at night, scrolling with a concentration he usually reserves for research papers and rare dev blogs. and when he gets to the end of one, there’s this strange ache in his chest, like the absence of your voice on the page leaves something unfinished.

then he hears your name. maybe from the professor, said in passing with the kind of casual fondness that suggests you've answered every discussion prompt with too much insight and not enough hesitation. maybe from the attendance sheet, called out and answered with that familiar cadence of yours: low, even, like you’re measuring syllables with your breath.

either way, it lodges itself in his head. loops like a line of unused dialogue in a game he hasn’t unlocked yet.

after class, he walks out with shoko. she’s not in the class—just passing through, loitering near the bike racks with a cigarette dangling from her lips and her hoodie pulled halfway over her face.

satoru scrolls aimlessly on his phone, thumb moving, screen static.

“you’re quieter than usual,” she says, exhaling smoke into the sharp winter air.

“huh?” he looks up, a little too quickly. “no, i’m not.”

shoko squints, amused. “you watching that girl the whole time?”

he flinches.

“what girl?”

she laughs. doesn’t answer. just flicks ash onto the pavement and says, “thought so.”

it gets worse when you start talking to him like you've known him for years.

“hey,” you say one morning, sliding into the seat next to him two minutes before lecture. your jacket’s damp from the mist, and your fingers are cold as they brush the edge of his notebook by accident. you don’t look at him. “your tea smells sad.”

he blinks. glances down at his drink. “…it’s honey milk jasmine.”

“exactly,” you mutter, opening your laptop. and he doesn't know why that makes his chest feel too warm.

after that, it spirals.

you bump elbows when reaching for shared worksheets. you roll your eyes when he mutters commentary during in-class documentaries, but you don’t tell him to stop. sometimes—only sometimes—you ask his opinion on a topic. just a simple, “what do you think?” or, “would you quote that?” and it shouldn’t mean anything. it probably doesn’t. but it makes his hands feel clumsy and his thoughts slow, like someone tilted the world just enough to make him stumble.

he doesn’t know when it started, exactly—the shift. the way your presence makes the air feel different. charged. softer. like the light hangs a little differently when you’re near, like even the shadows pause to trace the shape of your face.

he watches you when you speak, catches the way your mouth curves on certain vowels, the quiet determination in your hands when you gesture mid-sentence. the way your hair always falls a little undone, like it refuses to obey neatness. like it’s alive with the same restless energy you carry in your eyes.

one friday night, the dorm is half-asleep. the halls hum with fluorescent fatigue and leftover noise from weekend plans. satoru, geto, and nanami are holed up in the corner of the common room, buried in the skeleton of their semester project: cables, printouts, energy drinks, three laptops overheating in synchrony.

satoru is supposed to be debugging a simulation script. instead, his screen flashes an error message he’s read twenty times without understanding. the cursor blinks at him, smug.

geto doesn’t look up. “you haven’t typed anything.”

satoru stretches, hoping it looks nonchalant. “thinking.”

nanami frowns. “you’ve been on the same line for half an hour.”

geto finally glances over—and smirks. “why is the student blog open?”

satoru slams the tab shut so fast it clicks. “i was researching.”

“researching what,” geto says, deadpan. “your feelings?”

satoru throws a pocky stick at his head. “shut up.”

too late. nanami exhales, long-suffering. “so it’s the girl from your ethics class.”

“what—no,” satoru says. way too fast. “i just—i like her writing.”

geto raises an eyebrow. “sure.”

a pause. the low hum of the heater. the quiet clicking of nanami’s keyboard.

“…i like her handwriting,” satoru says, softer this time, like he can’t stop himself.

both heads turn toward him.

“it’s weird,” he continues, eyes fixed on a water stain on the ceiling.

“it’s all cramped and slanted, like she’s racing against her own brain. but when she writes something she really cares about—like in class, during a heated discussion or something—it straightens out. like the thought pulls her posture up. like the words stop running and start standing still.”

a beat of silence.

then geto, almost reluctant: “okay, that’s actually… kind of beautiful.”

satoru shrugs. rubs the back of his neck.

“you’re gone,” nanami mutters. “this is pathetic.”

“shut up.”

“you’re writing poetry about her penmanship.”

“i said shut up.”

“tell her,” geto says.

satoru sits up straight. “what? no.”

“why not?”

“she thinks i’m dumb,” he mumbles. “or just loud. or annoying.”

“you’re literally top of our major.”

“yeah, but she’s—” satoru gestures helplessly. “journalism. she talks like every sentence is a thesis. like she’s narrating her own memoir. and i’m just… me.”

a quiet moment.

then he adds, a little softer, “she once said mmorpg guild politics reminded her of inter-office media sabotage.”

geto blinks. “what?”

“like, hierarchy. gossip. power plays. she had this whole theory about it. i thought it was insane but… she wasn’t wrong.”

nanami downs the rest of his coffee. “you’re in love with her.”

“oh my god,” satoru groans. “i’m not.”

“you absolutely are.”

“shut up.”

“no, seriously,” geto grins. “tell her. worst-case scenario, she writes a scathing editorial about it.”

“actually,” nanami says, “worst-case scenario, she corrects your grammar.”

“kill me,” satoru mutters into his hands.

for you, it begins with a message you don’t expect.

thursday, just after six, you’re halfway through a walk back from the library, one earphone in, your other hand balancing a lukewarm americano and a half-folded notebook crammed with interview notes. your phone buzzes in your pocket at the crosswalk, and when you check it, there it is—his name.

gojo satoru [6:28 pm] your handwriting’s kind of insane. in a good way. like if emotions could curl their toes

gojo satoru [6:31 pm} also your eyes do this thing when you're listening really hard. like your eyebrows lean forward first?? anyway

you stare at the screen. then at the sender. then back at the screen.

“what…” you chuckled, brows stil furrowing.

you stop walking. weird. the phrasing is so… him. the kind of message that wasn’t written so much as spilled. and of course, the compliment is… unexpected. not unwelcome, but oddly specific. precise in a way that feels more like observation than flattery. 

you blink once. then again. then let out a laugh under your breath. he’s the guy who always sits beside you in media ethics—his seat habitually taken before you even arrive. he’s the one whose backpack is always unzipped, half his notebooks spilling out like paper confetti, whose hair looks perpetually mussed from leaning over three monitors at once. apparently, he’s some comp-sci genius, top of his major, apparently.

he’s an acquaintance. a classmate. the two of you share the same demographic footnote in your university’s directory but nothing more. your conversations barely crack three lines before they dissolve into polite nods and the gentle tap of keys. once, you joked about the vending machine coffee being “ethically problematic,” and he quipped back that even corporate exploitation has a kernel of truth. you smiled and returned to your notes; he returned to his hidden commentary in the margins of his notebook. that was the sum of it.

he got your number from that group project, probably. the one where he did three people’s worth of work in one nigh because half ot the group had ghosted you bot that time, and he insisted he could finish off the rest of the job. only that then he forgot to attach the final report until ten minutes before the deadline. he cracked a few jokes over the shared google doc. you corrected his grammar once. he said “rude” and added a semicolon with theatrical flair.

yet now, suspended between his casual compliment and the question of what it means, you realize how little you actually know him. not the way you know the soft clack of your favorite pen, or the comforting weight of your notebook when it lies open on your lap. you don’t know if he’s the kind of person who guards secrets behind that easy grin, or the kind who shares half-spoken thoughts like breadcrumbs, trusting that someone is paying attention. you don’t know whether he values precision or spontaneity. 

you don’t know why you’re even thinking about this. you shrug your shoulders.

you don’t respond. not because you’re ignoring him, but because you genuinely don’t know what to say. like seriously, what does one respond with to a message like that? that night, in bed, with your laptop still open to a blank document and the hum of a podcast low in the background, you tap on his message again. you read it under dim light, curled on your side, wondering what compelled him to notice something so small. you thought for a moment: my handwriting is nice. a little cramped, maybe, but controlled. readable. you write with the same discipline you speak with: measured, intentional, clean lines. you don’t show your drafts unless they’re ready.

but your eyebrows?

you squint at your phone. what a stupid thing to notice. what a weird, wonderful, too-much sort of observation.

…and weirdly enough, it stays with you longer than you expect.

[kingkruell]

MARGINALIA | PART 1: INTRODUCTION

THE SPACE BETWEEN LINES

WC: 3.029

a nerdjo series

listening to the boy - the smashing pumpkins

[please comment down below if you know the artist for the nerdjo art, all credits to them]

taglist: @sylusonlylove @bakugouswaif @n1vi @arthrizzia

<3 kindly reblog and comment to be added on the taglist for the next part!

gojo satoru doesn’t belong in this class.

he knows it the second he steps into room 4b-21—ten minutes late, naturally. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they’re annoyed with him, the ac is set to arctic, and his iced coffee is already half melted by the time he shoulders the door open with the kind of carelessness that only comes from doing things too often without consequence.

he isn’t supposed to be here. media ethics, of all things. a filler elective he picked in a blur of last-minute registration panic, he thought the title sounded dramatic. maybe something about wartime propaganda or political psy-ops. instead, it’s all discussion boards and debates about journalistic framing. he should be bored.

his eye scans the room. empty seat. you.

you’re just there, pen between your fingers, the glow from the window softening the edges of your face as you tilt your head, reading over something like it matters. you’ve got that look about you; focused, unbothered, maybe a little skeptical. he blinks once, as if that might help. then, without thinking too hard, he slides into the empty seat beside you.

“hey,” he says, like he’s always sat there, like you’ve been in this together and not like he just transferred into the class two weeks late because he “forgot to register.”

you glance at him. sideways, unimpressed. 

“you in journalism?”

“god, no,” he replies, almost offended. “i’m in theoretical computer science.”

your eyebrow arches. “so why are you in media ethics?”

he shrugs. “thought it’d be about cults or propaganda or something. it’s not.”

it’s really not.

still, he stays.

that’s the problem.

because satoru’s the kind of guy you expect to vanish after week three. the one with the untamable hair, the anime stickers, the half-zipped hoodie over a shirt that probably says something stupid like “404: motivation not found.” the guy with a laptop full of code windows and two tabs open to reddit. he doesn’t belong here. not in this room, not beside you.

but then he starts showing up early. sometimes earlier than you.

he reads the articles. not always thoroughly, but enough. he doesn’t speak often in class, but when he does, it’s sharp and strangely lucid. once, he compared legacy journalism to a failed open-world game release. the professor paused. then wrote it down.

you don’t think much of it at first. he’s just another guy with too much brain and not enough filter.

but he notices things.

or, he doesn’t, not really. not in the beginning. you’re part of the ambient noise of the class to him: the scribble of pens, the shuffle of laptops, the soft chime of someone’s phone not quite silenced. until you say something about editorial bias in conflict zones. no warning, just words delivered with this clipped cadence of someone who knows what they’re talking about.

he’s halfway through fidgeting with his airpod case when you speak, and by the time you finish, his fingers are still.

and then he realizes—he hasn’t written a single note.

“huh,” he says under his breath, not really to anyone.

the next time he sees you, he notices your handwriting. it’s kind of a mess. tight, slanted, like it’s always mid-sprint. but when you’re really focused, it straightens out. neat. clear. he catches himself watching the shift, like it’s some kind of code he could learn to read.

he doesn’t tell anyone about you. not at first.

but one day, over lunch with geto on the grass behind the comp-sci building, he’s halfway through a takoyaki and staring at nothing when geto asks, “you like that class?”geto leans over during their late lunch in the quad, picking limp rice from his bowl with tired chopsticks.

satoru shrugs, mouth full of takoyaki. “it’s fine. good lighting.”

suguru eyes him. “you stayed the whole hour. that’s new.”

satoru chews. looks away.

he doesn’t say your name. doesn’t mention the way your earphones are always tangled or how you tilt your head when you’re thinking, like you’re listening to a voice only you can hear. he doesn’t mention how sometimes, when you smile to yourself at something you’re reading, it throws him completely off balance.

instead, he just keeps showing up.

and you start noticing. maybe. he likes to think you did.

like when he accidentally ends up in your seat, technically unassigned, but everyone knows classroom territory is sacred, and you don’t move your bag. like when he murmurs commentary during a documentary screening and you roll your eyes, but don’t tell him to shut up. like when you ask if he did the reading, not to challenge him, but just because you’re... curious.

he had, actually.

“skimmed it,” he lies.

“you quoted it last class,” you say, barely looking up.

he shifts in his chair. “did i?”

you hum, keep typing. he watches your fingers fly across the keys and wonders—not for the first time—what it is you’re writing. you hum. keep typing. your laptop has a cracked sticker on it that says ‘support local journalist’, he doesn’t know whether you’re being earnest, or maybe it’s just ironic. he doesn’t know yet. later that week, he sends a message in the group chat with nanami and utahime.

satoru [10:49 pm] what font says “i’m not flirting i just think your brain is hot”

nanami [10:55 pm]                       .

utahime [11:00 pm] is this about the girl in your ethics class

satoru has left the chat

yeah, it starts to bother him.

not with a bang, not with some spectacular implosion of routine. satoru’s life doesn’t work like that. he’s calibrated, habitual. if something’s wrong, it shows up in data: a late submission, a missed semicolon, a glitch in a simulation. but this? this is quiet. this is slow. it settles like a bug in his system that doesn't crash anything outright, but keeps making things slightly off.

it lives in the silence between your questions, in the little pauses where he finds himself watching your hands rather than answering. it lingers in the rhythm of your pen clicking against your notebook when you're thinking, like punctuation to the air between your thoughts. it’s in the way his code starts to blur after hours at his desk, because some part of his brain keeps returning—rebooting, replaying—something you said two days ago in a tone that shouldn’t matter but somehow does.

he doesn’t even know what it is, not exactly. just that it’s inconvenient.

satoru doesn’t do crushes. he crushes deadlines. he crushes bot matches at 3 a.m., fingers flying, screens casting their ghostly light across his room. he crushes ice into his coffee like it owes him rent.

but this?

this is... what?

he tries to analyze it the only way he knows how: through logic. he builds a mental chart, starts labeling behaviors like they're lines of code in need of debugging.

emotional spike when subject speaks: moderate

unprompted recall of subject’s prior comments: high

involuntary proximity-seeking: very high (potential red flag?)

increased engagement with previously irrelevant topics: off the charts

it’s a pattern. familiar, almost. he’s seen it in his ai simulations. character attachment markers, relational drift patterns. but the thing about simulations is that you can reset them. you can scrub the memory, rerun the code.

you’re not a simulation.

you’re not data.

and that makes this—whatever this is—unquantifiable. unstable. real.

he googles how to tell if you like someone at 1:12 a.m. and instantly regrets it. but he keeps scrolling anyway, curled into his hoodie, blinking under the cool burn of the monitor. the listicles are unhelpful. so are reddit threads. half of them contradict each other.

his heart doesn’t race. that’s not how it feels. it's more like... the world slows down when you're near. like your presence drags a cursor across his attention span and highlights everything he didn’t think to notice before. this is different, right?

he closes the tab.

he’s not in love.

you just have this cadence when you speak. a sort of precision, like you’re choosing words by feel. it loops in his brain like a clean line of code. efficient. elegant.

he finds himself remembering things you’ve said for no reason. little throwaway observations. a quote from an article you were writing. a joke about the vending machines in the journalism building. things that should fade into the background, but don’t.

and the worst part? he’s started reading your articles.

he doesn’t even like journalism. he used to scoff at it; too many feelings, too little structure. but now, he reads them at night, scrolling with a concentration he usually reserves for research papers and rare dev blogs. and when he gets to the end of one, there’s this strange ache in his chest, like the absence of your voice on the page leaves something unfinished.

then he hears your name. maybe from the professor, said in passing with the kind of casual fondness that suggests you've answered every discussion prompt with too much insight and not enough hesitation. maybe from the attendance sheet, called out and answered with that familiar cadence of yours: low, even, like you’re measuring syllables with your breath.

either way, it lodges itself in his head. loops like a line of unused dialogue in a game he hasn’t unlocked yet.

after class, he walks out with shoko. she’s not in the class—just passing through, loitering near the bike racks with a cigarette dangling from her lips and her hoodie pulled halfway over her face.

satoru scrolls aimlessly on his phone, thumb moving, screen static.

“you’re quieter than usual,” she says, exhaling smoke into the sharp winter air.

“huh?” he looks up, a little too quickly. “no, i’m not.”

shoko squints, amused. “you watching that girl the whole time?”

he flinches.

“what girl?”

she laughs. doesn’t answer. just flicks ash onto the pavement and says, “thought so.”

it gets worse when you start talking to him like you've known him for years.

“hey,” you say one morning, sliding into the seat next to him two minutes before lecture. your jacket’s damp from the mist, and your fingers are cold as they brush the edge of his notebook by accident. you don’t look at him. “your tea smells sad.”

he blinks. glances down at his drink. “…it’s honey milk jasmine.”

“exactly,” you mutter, opening your laptop. and he doesn't know why that makes his chest feel too warm.

after that, it spirals.

you bump elbows when reaching for shared worksheets. you roll your eyes when he mutters commentary during in-class documentaries, but you don’t tell him to stop. sometimes—only sometimes—you ask his opinion on a topic. just a simple, “what do you think?” or, “would you quote that?” and it shouldn’t mean anything. it probably doesn’t. but it makes his hands feel clumsy and his thoughts slow, like someone tilted the world just enough to make him stumble.

he doesn’t know when it started, exactly—the shift. the way your presence makes the air feel different. charged. softer. like the light hangs a little differently when you’re near, like even the shadows pause to trace the shape of your face.

he watches you when you speak, catches the way your mouth curves on certain vowels, the quiet determination in your hands when you gesture mid-sentence. the way your hair always falls a little undone, like it refuses to obey neatness. like it’s alive with the same restless energy you carry in your eyes.

one friday night, the dorm is half-asleep. the halls hum with fluorescent fatigue and leftover noise from weekend plans. satoru, geto, and nanami are holed up in the corner of the common room, buried in the skeleton of their semester project: cables, printouts, energy drinks, three laptops overheating in synchrony.

satoru is supposed to be debugging a simulation script. instead, his screen flashes an error message he’s read twenty times without understanding. the cursor blinks at him, smug.

geto doesn’t look up. “you haven’t typed anything.”

satoru stretches, hoping it looks nonchalant. “thinking.”

nanami frowns. “you’ve been on the same line for half an hour.”

geto finally glances over—and smirks. “why is the student blog open?”

satoru slams the tab shut so fast it clicks. “i was researching.”

“researching what,” geto says, deadpan. “your feelings?”

satoru throws a pocky stick at his head. “shut up.”

too late. nanami exhales, long-suffering. “so it’s the girl from your ethics class.”

“what—no,” satoru says. way too fast. “i just—i like her writing.”

geto raises an eyebrow. “sure.”

a pause. the low hum of the heater. the quiet clicking of nanami’s keyboard.

“…i like her handwriting,” satoru says, softer this time, like he can’t stop himself.

both heads turn toward him.

“it’s weird,” he continues, eyes fixed on a water stain on the ceiling.

“it’s all cramped and slanted, like she’s racing against her own brain. but when she writes something she really cares about—like in class, during a heated discussion or something—it straightens out. like the thought pulls her posture up. like the words stop running and start standing still.”

a beat of silence.

then geto, almost reluctant: “okay, that’s actually… kind of beautiful.”

satoru shrugs. rubs the back of his neck.

“you’re gone,” nanami mutters. “this is pathetic.”

“shut up.”

“you’re writing poetry about her penmanship.”

“i said shut up.”

“tell her,” geto says.

satoru sits up straight. “what? no.”

“why not?”

“she thinks i’m dumb,” he mumbles. “or just loud. or annoying.”

“you’re literally top of our major.”

“yeah, but she’s—” satoru gestures helplessly. “journalism. she talks like every sentence is a thesis. like she’s narrating her own memoir. and i’m just… me.”

a quiet moment.

then he adds, a little softer, “she once said mmorpg guild politics reminded her of inter-office media sabotage.”

geto blinks. “what?”

“like, hierarchy. gossip. power plays. she had this whole theory about it. i thought it was insane but… she wasn’t wrong.”

nanami downs the rest of his coffee. “you’re in love with her.”

“oh my god,” satoru groans. “i’m not.”

“you absolutely are.”

“shut up.”

“no, seriously,” geto grins. “tell her. worst-case scenario, she writes a scathing editorial about it.”

“actually,” nanami says, “worst-case scenario, she corrects your grammar.”

“kill me,” satoru mutters into his hands.

for you, it begins with a message you don’t expect.

thursday, just after six, you’re halfway through a walk back from the library, one earphone in, your other hand balancing a lukewarm americano and a half-folded notebook crammed with interview notes. your phone buzzes in your pocket at the crosswalk, and when you check it, there it is—his name.

gojo satoru [6:28 pm] your handwriting’s kind of insane. in a good way. like if emotions could curl their toes

gojo satoru [6:31 pm} also your eyes do this thing when you're listening really hard. like your eyebrows lean forward first?? anyway

you stare at the screen. then at the sender. then back at the screen.

“what…” you chuckled, brows stil furrowing.

you stop walking. weird. the phrasing is so… him. the kind of message that wasn’t written so much as spilled. and of course, the compliment is… unexpected. not unwelcome, but oddly specific. precise in a way that feels more like observation than flattery. 

you blink once. then again. then let out a laugh under your breath. he’s the guy who always sits beside you in media ethics—his seat habitually taken before you even arrive. he’s the one whose backpack is always unzipped, half his notebooks spilling out like paper confetti, whose hair looks perpetually mussed from leaning over three monitors at once. apparently, he’s some comp-sci genius, top of his major, apparently.

he’s an acquaintance. a classmate. the two of you share the same demographic footnote in your university’s directory but nothing more. your conversations barely crack three lines before they dissolve into polite nods and the gentle tap of keys. once, you joked about the vending machine coffee being “ethically problematic,” and he quipped back that even corporate exploitation has a kernel of truth. you smiled and returned to your notes; he returned to his hidden commentary in the margins of his notebook. that was the sum of it.

he got your number from that group project, probably. the one where he did three people’s worth of work in one nigh because half ot the group had ghosted you bot that time, and he insisted he could finish off the rest of the job. only that then he forgot to attach the final report until ten minutes before the deadline. he cracked a few jokes over the shared google doc. you corrected his grammar once. he said “rude” and added a semicolon with theatrical flair.

yet now, suspended between his casual compliment and the question of what it means, you realize how little you actually know him. not the way you know the soft clack of your favorite pen, or the comforting weight of your notebook when it lies open on your lap. you don’t know if he’s the kind of person who guards secrets behind that easy grin, or the kind who shares half-spoken thoughts like breadcrumbs, trusting that someone is paying attention. you don’t know whether he values precision or spontaneity. 

you don’t know why you’re even thinking about this. you shrug your shoulders.

you don’t respond. not because you’re ignoring him, but because you genuinely don’t know what to say. like seriously, what does one respond with to a message like that? that night, in bed, with your laptop still open to a blank document and the hum of a podcast low in the background, you tap on his message again. you read it under dim light, curled on your side, wondering what compelled him to notice something so small. you thought for a moment: my handwriting is nice. a little cramped, maybe, but controlled. readable. you write with the same discipline you speak with: measured, intentional, clean lines. you don’t show your drafts unless they’re ready.

but your eyebrows?

you squint at your phone. what a stupid thing to notice. what a weird, wonderful, too-much sort of observation.

…and weirdly enough, it stays with you longer than you expect.

[solemnlyswear93]

Every single time someone kudos or leaves sweet comments on one of my silly lil stories. 🥹 I will never not be flattered or surprised. 😅