♡ Pathetic! ♡
Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5.
Loser! Nerd! Choso Kamo , Mean Girl! Bully! F!Reader!
AU 2000s cliche, college, mean girl and pathetic nerd inspired. Like Regina George meets Peter Parker. But instead with adorable babe Choso.
Poor Choso gets bullied endlessly by you, clad in expensive tracksuits and glossed lips, though he should hate you, you make his life actual hell, he can't help but enjoy the humiliation she gives him, sometimes it feels like her degradation means more than just bullying.
TW and Authors Note!- lots of smut not smut scenes, like teasing also harsh bullying, yes I went all out, she does physically bully him aswell as some maybe harsh verbal bullying. Also cheating, vary vague. Excessive use of 'please' i love a man who yearns. Cliche and kind of cringe. Um Dacryphilia. Men who cry...lord. Also maybe slight virginity kink, he gets shamed for being a virgin and like I dont care if its weird. Im a pervert in the wise words of Ethel Cain. He masterbates and he begs on his knees. I dont regret anything. Also no spell checking or editing, so apologies for issues. I should have been writing an essay but I yearn for Nerd Choso and there's barely any. Like Choso would totally be a loser nerd. Oh maybe OOC, its an AU so does he really need to be in character?
• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •
The fluorescent lights of Shibuya University buzzed overhead as Choso Kamo pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose for the third time that morning. They kept sliding down, a problem he'd been meaning to fix for weeks but never quite got around to. His oversized burgundy sweater hung loosely over his frame, the sleeves bunching awkwardly at his wrists as he clutched his binder closer to his chest like a shield.
It was 7:47 AM, and he was already at his desk in the back corner of Calculus. Thirteen minutes early, like always. He pulled out his calculator, his pencils (already sharpened to perfect points), and his color-coded notes. The classroom smelled like dry-erase markers and that weird lemony cleaner the janitors used. A few other students trickled in, their Sidekicks already out, texting before the bell even rang. Choso tried to focus on reviewing yesterday's derivatives lesson, but his attention kept drifting to the doorway.
Don't look. Don't look. Don't—
He looked. And there you were.
You swept into the classroom at 7:58 exactly, always perfectly timed for maximum impact. Today's outfit was a baby pink Juicy Couture tracksuit, the jacket cropped just enough to show a strip of smooth skin above the matching velour pants that hugged every curve like a second skin. Your tank top underneath was white and impossibly tight, your lip gloss caught the harsh fluorescent light like diamonds, and your hair cascaded down your back in glossy waves that moved like water with each step. Your platform sandals clicked against the linoleum as you made your way down the aisle, directly toward him. Choso's throat went dry. His fingers tightened on his pencil.
Please walk past. Please walk past. Please—
You stopped right in front of his desk, "Oh my God, what is that smell?" You wrinkled your nose dramatically, loud enough for half the class to hear. Your friends, Madison and Brittany, both in matching pink velour, stopped behind you, already giggling. "Seriously, does anyone else smell that? It's like... desperation and... what is that, Axe body spray?" Choso felt his face immediately flush red. He had used Axe this morning. His little brother Yuji had convinced him it was ‘what girls liked.’ "I... I don't—"
"Oh, wait." You leaned down, hands on your hips, your face level with his. This close, he could see the perfect application of your eyeliner, smell your perfume, expensive and vanilla-sweet and nothing like the drugstore body spray he'd doused himself in. "It's coming from you, isn't it, Cho-so?" You dragged out his name mockingly. "Did you actually think spraying yourself with half a bottle of discount body spray would make you smell less like a virgin?" The class exploded into laughter.
Choso wanted to die. Actually die. Just disintegrate into his chair and cease to exist. "I—it's not—I just—" His voice cracked horribly, and he immediately shut his mouth, his jaw clenching.
"Aw, he's stuttering." You turned to your friends, your voice pitching up in fake sympathy. "That's so sad. He literally can't even form sentences around me. Brittany, is that sad or is that pathetic?"
"Definitely pathetic," Brittany said, examining her nails. You turned back to Choso, and before he could react, you reached out and flicked his forehead. Hard. "Earth to loser. Stop staring at my tits."
"I wasn't—!" Choso's voice came out too loud, too defensive. His ears were burning now. He had been looking at your face, but his eyes had definitely, for just a second, dropped lower, and of course, you'd noticed. Of course, you had. "Yes, you were." You grabbed his calculator off his desk, holding it up like evidence. "God, you're such a perv. Does your little calculator help you add up all the times you've creeped on girls in the hallway? What's the equation for 'massive fucking loser' again?" Madison snorted. "I think it's L plus no-bitches times virgin-forever."
"That's not—that's not even mathematically coherent," Choso muttered, immediately regretting it. Your eyes lit up. Not in a good way. "Oh, I'm sorry." You leaned in closer, your voice dropping to something poisonously sweet. "Did I hurt your little nerd feelings? Are you going to cry about it?" You shoved his shoulder, not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to make him rock back in his seat. "Gonna run home to mommy and tell her the mean girls were picking on you?"
"No," Choso said quietly, trying to hold onto whatever shred of dignity he had left. He reached for his calculator. "Can I just have that back?" You held it above your head, and even with your platform heels, you weren't that much taller than him sitting down, but the angle was humiliating. "Say please."
"...Please."
"Please, what?"
Choso's jaw worked. His fingers curled into fists on his thighs. "Please give it back."
"Please give it back, your majesty," you corrected. The classroom was dead silent now, everyone watching. Even Mr. Suoh wasn't here yet. Choso could feel every eye on him. His face was so hot he thought his glasses might fog up. But he needed that calculator. He had a test third period. "...Please give it back, your majesty," he whispered.
"What? I couldn't hear you, Cho-so. You're mumbling like a little bitch." Something in his chest twisted, hot and uncomfortable and confusing, because he should be angry. He should be furious. But instead, he just felt... small. And weirdly, sickeningly aware of you. Of how close you were. Of the way your glossed lips curved into that mean smile. "Please give it back, your majesty," he repeated, louder this time, his voice flat. You studied him for a moment, like you were deciding whether to push further. Then you dropped the calculator on his desk. No, you threw it, so it clattered loudly and skidded off the edge. Choso had to lunge to catch it before it hit the floor. When he straightened back up, you were already walking away, your hips swaying in those pink velour pants. "You're welcome, virgin," you called over your shoulder. Your friends dissolved into giggles as you took your seat three rows up.
The bell rang. Mr. Suoh walked in, apologizing for being late. Choso tried to sink into his chair, tried to disappear, but he could still hear the whispers.
"—so fucking pathetic."
"...did you see his face?"
"Probably gonna go home and jerk off thinking about her!"
That last one came from somewhere near the window. Choso didn't look to see who said it. He opened his notebook and stared at the blank page, his hands shaking slightly as he tried to write the date. His face was still burning. His shoulder still tingled where you'd shoved him. The worst part was that when you'd leaned in close and called him a perv, when you'd made him beg for his calculator back, when you'd shoved him and insulted him and humiliated him in front of everyone...
He'd had to shift in his seat and pull his binder lower onto his lap. Because apparently, his body was just as pathetic as the rest of him.
Halfway through Mr. Suoh's lecture on implicit differentiation, a crumpled piece of paper hit the back of Choso's head. He tensed but didn't turn around. Didn't react. Another one hit his shoulder. Then another. He could hear the stifled laughter from the jocks in the back, probably Satoru Gojo and his friends, who sat behind him specifically to make his life hell.
"Yo, Kamo," Gojo whispered, loud enough for half the class to hear. "She's right, you know. You do smell like a virgin." More laughter. Choso kept his eyes on his notes, his pencil moving across the page even though he wasn't actually processing anything Mr. Suoh was saying anymore. Another paper ball. This one bounced off his glasses. He pushed them up with one finger and kept writing.
Don't react. Don't give them anything. Just get through the class.
"Mr. Suoh?" Your voice rang out, clear and sweet. "Can you explain that last part again? I'm a little confused." Of course, you weren't confused. You had a 98% in this class. But Mr. Suoh loved you, everyone loved you, so he went back over the problem, and while he was distracted, you turned around in your seat. Your eyes locked with Choso's. You smiled, slow, mean, beautiful, and mouthed: "Fucking loser." Then you turned back around, flipping your hair over your shoulder, and Choso sat there with his heart pounding and his face hot and his pathetic, treacherous body reminding him that he was exactly what you said he was. A virgin. A loser. A creep who couldn't stop staring at the one person who made his life a living hell.
The bell rang forty minutes later. Choso gathered his things quickly, trying to get out before… too late. You were waiting by the door with Madison and Brittany. And Gojo. And half the basketball team. "Kamo!" you called out, your voice sickeningly cheerful. "Come here for a sec!" Every instinct screamed at him to find another exit. But there was only one door, and you were blocking it, and if he tried to run, it would be so much worse. So Choso walked toward you, his head down, his binder clutched to his chest. "Yeah?" he managed. You looked him up and down slowly, deliberately. Then you turned to Gojo. "Doesn't he look like a bad high school movie extra? Like, 'Random Background Nerd Number Three'?" Gojo laughed. "Nah, he looks like he'd get killed off in the first episode of The Walking Dead"
"Oh my God, you're so right." You looked back at Choso, your eyes glittering with amusement. "Hey, Choso, if you were on tv, what would they say about you? 'Cause of death, too much of a pussy to talk to girls?" Madison choked on her laughter. Choso's jaw tightened. He could feel the anger now, finally, burning under the humiliation. "Can I just get past—" You put your hand on his chest and shoved. Hard. Choso stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet. His binder fell, papers scattering across the hallway floor.
"Oops," you said flatly. "Better pick those up, virgin. Wouldn't want to lose your precious homework." You stepped over his papers, your platform heel leaving a faint mark on one of his worksheets, and walked away, your friends trailing behind you. Choso stood there for a moment, breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists. Then he knelt down and started gathering his papers, his glasses slipping down his nose again.
Just get through the day. Just get through the day.
Behind him, he heard Gojo mutter, "Man, that's actually sad." Yeah. It really was.
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The cafeteria was a war zone of social hierarchy, and Choso knew exactly where he ranked. Bottom. He clutched his lunch tray, wilted salad, questionable pizza, and a chocolate milk he probably wouldn't drink, and navigated through the chaos of designer bags on chairs, letterman jackets draped over tables, and the suffocating cloud of competing colognes and perfumes.
His usual spot was in the back corner, at a half-empty table near the emergency exit where the other "invisibles" sat. The quiet kids. The ones who didn't get invited to parties or have their names chanted at pep rallies. Safety. Except today, safety was compromised. Because you were sitting at his table. Not at it. On it.
Your platform heels rested on the bench seat, your legs crossed as you perched on the tabletop itself, as if you owned it, which, socially speaking, you did. You owned everything in this school. The pink velour of your Juicy tracksuit pants stretched across your thighs, riding low enough on your hips that the lacy pink whale tail of your thong rose above the waistband like a deliberate taunt. Your cropped jacket was unzipped, and your tight white tank top left absolutely nothing to the imagination. The distinctive padding and push-up of a Victoria's Secret Bombshell bra creating cleavage that had probably caused at least three minor accidents in the parking lot this morning. You were holding court with Madison and Brittany flanking you, plus two cheerleaders whose names Choso didn't know, all of them laughing at something on someone's Sidekick. Choso stopped walking.
Turn around. Find another table. Literally anywhere else.
But his feet wouldn't move. And you'd already seen him. "Oh my God," you said loudly, your voice cutting through the cafeteria noise like a knife. "Are you kidding me right now?" Every head at the surrounding tables turned. Choso felt his stomach drop. "This is your table?" You looked around theatrically, your glossed lips forming a perfect ‘O’ of mock surprise. "This sad little corner where all the rejects sit? Choso, that's actually so depressing I might cry." Madison giggled. "You should see his lunch. I bet it's like, a calculator and a pack of mechanical pencils."
"No, no—it's definitely one of those sad Lunchables his mom packed for him," Brittany added. Choso's grip tightened on his tray. "Can you just... can you move? Please?" Please. God, why did he always sound so pathetic? You tilted your head, examining him like he was something you'd found stuck to the bottom of your shoe. "Did you just tell me what to do?"
"I—no, I just—this is where I—"
"Where you what? Where you sit by yourself like a loser and probably do extra credit homework during lunch?" You slid off the table, your platform heels clicking as you landed. Even with the heels, you had to look up slightly to meet his eyes, but somehow you still made him feel about two feet tall. "That's so fucking sad, Choso. Do you even have friends? Or do you just sit here and, like, fantasize about what it's like to be normal?" The surrounding tables had gone quiet now. Everyone was watching. Choso could feel his face burning again. His ears. His neck. "I have friends."
"Oh yeah? Where are they?" He didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because the truth was, the couple of guys he sometimes sat with weren't here today, one was sick, the other had a dentist appointment, and he was going to sit alone, and you knew it, and everyone knew it. You stepped closer, and Choso caught the scent of your perfume again. Vanilla and something floral and expensive. So different from the cheap Axe still clinging to his shirt. "That's what I thought." You poked his chest with one manicured finger. French tips, perfectly done. "You're a loner, Choso. A weird little virgin who eats lunch by himself and probably goes home and plays World of Warcraft or whatever the fuck nerds do."
"I don't play—"
"I don't care what you play." You grabbed the chocolate milk off his tray and examined it. "Chocolate milk? What are you, seven?" Before he could respond, you casually tossed it over your shoulder. It hit the floor with a wet splat, the carton bursting open and spilling brown liquid across the tiles. "Oops," you said flatly. "Butterfingers." Choso stared at the spreading puddle of chocolate milk. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt. "That's... you can't just—"
"Can't just what?" You stepped even closer, and now you were almost touching him, so close he could see the perfect application of your lip gloss, the little beauty mark just above your collarbone. "What are you gonna do about it, loser? Tell a teacher? Run to the principal? Cry?" He wanted to say something. Anything. Wanted to tell you to fuck off, to leave him alone, to stop making his existence a living hell. But his voice caught in his throat, and all that came out was a pathetic, strangled: "Just—"
"Just what? Use your words, Cho-so." You dragged out his name mockingly again, and behind you, your friends giggled. Then your expression shifted. Your eyes lit up with something cruel and delighted. "Oh, baby!" you called out suddenly, your voice pitching higher, sweeter. "Come here!" Choso's stomach turned to ice. No. No, no, no…
Ryota Takahashi materialized from the crowd like a Ken doll come to life. Varsity basketball captain. Square jaw. Perfect hair. Letterman jacket. The kind of guy who'd probably peaked in high school but didn't know it yet. Your boyfriend. "What's up, babe?" Ryota slid an arm around your waist, his hand immediately going to rest on the exposed strip of skin between your jacket and pants, his fingers playing with the pink lace of your visible thong. You leaned into him, your hand sliding up his chest. "Nothing, just talking to Choso." You said his name like it was a joke. "You know, the guy from Calc? The one who smells like Axe and desperation?"
Ryota looked at Choso like he was noticing him for the first time. "Oh. Yeah. Virgin guy, right?" Choso wanted to disappear. Wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. "Virgin guy," you confirmed, grinning. Then you turned back to Ryota, your voice dropping to something breathy and deliberate. "Baby, I'm like, so bored right now. Entertain me?" Choso knew what was coming. He should walk away. Should just leave his tray, leave the cafeteria, leave his dignity splattered on the floor with the chocolate milk. But he couldn't move.
You grabbed Ryota's face and kissed him. Not a peck. Not a casual kiss. A full-on, tongue-down-his-throat, press-your-body-against-his makeout session right there in front of Choso and half the cafeteria. Ryota's hands slid lower, grabbing your ass through the velour pants. You made a little sound, performative, theatrical, and tilted your head to deepen the kiss. The cafeteria erupted. Whistles. Catcalls. Someone yelled, "Get a room!" And you pulled back just enough to look at Choso over Ryota's shoulder, your lips swollen and glossy, your eyes locked on his.
Then you smiled. Slow. Mean. Victorious. And went back to kissing your boyfriend. Choso stood there, frozen, his tray trembling slightly in his hands. His face was on fire. His chest felt tight. And lower, God, lower, his body was betraying him again, responding to the sight of you like the pathetic virgin you'd called him. He forced himself to turn around. Forced his feet to move. Behind him, he heard you pull away from Ryota with an exaggerated gasp.
"Aw, where are you going, Choso?" you called out, your voice carrying across the entire cafeteria. "Don't you want to watch? You'll probably never see a real kiss in your entire life, so I figured I'd give you a show!" Laughter exploded around him. Choso kept walking. Past the tables. Past the stares. Past the whispers and the laughter and the humiliation. He dumped his tray in the trash, he wasn't hungry anymore, and pushed through the cafeteria doors into the hallway. Empty. Quiet. He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe. His hands were shaking. His glasses had fogged up slightly. And he could still smell your perfume, could still see the way you'd looked at him while kissing someone else, could still feel the ghost of your finger poking his chest. Fucking loser. Virgin. Pathetic. Yeah. You were right. He was all of those things. And the worst part, the part that made him want to punch the wall or scream or just break something, was that even now, even after all of that, some sick, twisted part of him was already wondering what you'd do to him tomorrow. Already waiting for it. Already wanting it.
Choso pressed his palms against his eyes and tried not to think about the fact that he'd have to see you in fifth period. Just four more hours. He could survive four more hours. Probably.
11:47 PM - Choso's Bedroom
Choso lay sprawled on his bed in an old Naruto t-shirt and grey lounge pants, staring at his ceiling like it held answers to questions he didn't want to ask. His room was exactly what you'd expect, posters of anime characters he'd had since middle school, a bookshelf crammed with textbooks and manga, his desk cluttered with notes and a half-assembled Gundam model he'd been working on for weeks. The blue glow of his laptop screen was the only light, casting shadows across his face. He rubbed his eyes hard enough to see spots, trying to scrub away the memories of today.
Fucking bitch.
The thought came hot and angry, and he let it. Let himself think all the things he'd never say out loud.
Spoiled, mean, shallow bitch who gets off on making people miserable. Probably peaked in high school. Probably gonna end up working at a mall kiosk selling cell phone cases when her looks fade and nobody gives a shit about her anymore.
It felt good. For about thirty seconds. Then he remembered the way you'd looked at him in the cafeteria. That smile. That cruel, knowing smile while you had your tongue down Ryota's throat and your eyes locked on his. Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Like you enjoyed it. "Goddammit," Choso muttered, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. Because now he was thinking about it again. About you again.
About the pink velour hugging your hips and ass like it was painted on. About that stupid whale tail, pink lace, Victoria's Secret, rising above your waistband every time you moved. About your tank top stretched across your chest, the obvious push-up of your bra creating cleavage that had made him nearly walk into a locker between third and fourth period. About your lips. Glossed and pink and perfect, wrapped around words like virgin and loser and pathetic. "Fuck," Choso groaned, throwing his arm over his face. He was pathetic. You were right. You were absolutely, completely, one hundred percent right. His laptop sat open on his desk, the screensaver bouncing across the screen.
Don't. Don't do it. Just go to sleep. Just—
Choso sat up. He pulled the laptop onto his bed, the springs creaking under his weight, and opened Firefox. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. Probably one of the worst ideas he'd ever had, and he'd once tried to microwave a Pop-Tart still in the foil wrapper. He typed it anyway.
(Your Full Name) MySpace
Your profile was the first result. Of course it was. Choso clicked. The page loaded in that janky mid-2000s way, glittery background, auto-playing an Ayesha Erotica song (he immediately muted it), and your profile picture front and center. You, in a pink halter top, duck-face lips, peace sign, the flash of the camera washing out your skin, but somehow making you look even hotter.
Your status: "ugh mondays 🙄💕 but at least i look cute lol"
Top 8 friends: Ryota's picture was first. Of course. Then Madison. Brittany. Some other popular girls Choso vaguely recognized. A few basketball players.
Choso scrolled. Your bio was exactly what he expected:
About Me: im that girl ur bf wants 💋👑 taken by the hottest guy in school ❤️🏀 dont like me? cool, i dont wake up every day trying to impress you 😘 CHEER CAPTAIN. SENIOR. CLASS OF '06 BITCHESSS
Interests: shopping, my girls, my man, parties, starbucks, tanning, PINK, victoria secret, coach bags, looking hot, being hot, etc
Choso's jaw clenched. "Vapid," he muttered. "Completely vapid." But he kept scrolling.
Photos section. 147 albums.
"me nd my girlsss 💕"
"beach dayyy ☀️"
"ryota ❤️❤️❤️"
"cheer comp!!!!"
Choso clicked on the most recent album: "random pics lol"
The first few were typical. You and your friends at the mall. You holding a Starbucks cup. You in your cheer uniform. He stopped. Scrolled back. The cheer uniform photo. You were mid-jump, legs split, skirt flipped up just enough to show a flash of your spanks underneath. Your top was tight, your hair perfect, your smile wide and fake and so fucking pretty it made his chest hurt. Choso's throat went dry. Pathetic. You're so pathetic. He kept scrolling. More photos. Birthday party. Someone's pool. You in a bikini that should probably be illegal. And then he saw it. You, crouched down on what looked like your bedroom floor, holding a tiny white dog—one of those yappy purse dogs rich girls always had. You were wearing a denim mini skirt, the kind you wore to school that definitely violated dress code but somehow you never got in trouble for. A tight pink tank top. Your hair falling over one shoulder. But it was your pose that made Choso's breath catch.
You were crouched low, knees bent, holding a peace sign with your free hand and smiling at the camera. The angle was low, someone sitting on the floor with you, and the way you were positioned meant the skirt had ridden up high enough that he could see almost all of your thigh. Smooth. Tan. The hem of your skirt barely covering anything. "Jesus," Choso breathed. His hand moved to his trackpad. He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. He scrolled down. More photos from the same day. You making duck lips. You and Madison. You holding up a Coach bag like it was a trophy. And then a selfie. Mirror selfie, actually. You holding your pink Motorola Razr up, angled down from above. Your hair was slightly messy, like you'd just woken up or just gotten out of the shower. You were wearing a different tank top, white, thin, the straps falling off your shoulders. And the angle showed everything. The curve of your breasts pushed together by that goddamn Victoria's Secret Bombshell bra. The lacy edge of the cup visible above the neckline of your tank top. Cleavage for days.
The caption: "felt cute might delete later idk 🤭"
Posted six months ago. Never deleted.
Choso groaned, a low, frustrated sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest. He slammed the laptop shut. Then immediately opened it again. "No," he said out loud to his empty room. "No. Don't. Don't do this." But his eyes were already back on the photo. On the curve of your body. On your lips. On the way you looked at the camera like you knew exactly what you were doing. Like you knew some pathetic virgin would find this photo and… "Fuck," Choso whispered. His hand moved to the waistband of his lounge pants.He stopped.
This is wrong. This is so wrong. She hates you. She called you a virgin in front of the entire cafeteria. She threw your chocolate milk on the floor. She shoved you. She makes your life hell.
But his body didn't care about any of that. His body only cared about the way you looked in that mini skirt. About the lace of your bra. About your glossed lips and your mean smile and the fact that you'd looked at him today, had put your hands on him today, had said his name over and over even if it was just to humiliate him. Choso looked at the photo one more time. At you, crouched on the floor in that impossible skirt, showing off your cleavage like it was nothing. And he let out a long, shaky breath.
I'm so pathetic.
Then his hand slipped beneath his waistband, and he hated himself, and he couldn't stop, and the worst part was knowing that tomorrow you'd probably find some new way to torture him and he'd still end up right back here. Pathetic. Virgin. Loser. Every single thing you'd ever called him. All true.
