It started with waking up late, spilling his coffee all over the counter, and ended with tripping while walking up the stairs to the apartment.
His sigh is heavy when he finally passes the threshold of the door.
You are not home. You are not home, and you were possibly the only person he wanted to see.
He suddenly remembers the conversation you two had this morning.
“I won’t be home till late, don’t wait up.”
Another heavy sigh leaves his mouth.
His briefcase falls to the floor, and his coat follows. He doesn’t care enough to put them in their assigned places.
When he collapses on the couch, the relief he feels is close to heavenly, but it isn’t enough to clear his sour mood.
He knows what he needs; it’s been in the back of his mind since some client at his internship flirted with him, but it’s quickly heading for the front.
His hand reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.
It’s muscle memory: the way he types in his passcode, opens the app with the blue icon, and switches from his professional account to the one he made with a burner email, the username a key slam.
His pupils dilate as the first few posts come into view.
There was a shit ton of explicit stuff immediately, stuff that usually got the job done for him. A video of a guy holding up a camera to his girlfriend’s face while he fucks her from behind. But he isn’t in the mood for that.
He’s in the mood for a specific genre of pictures. Pictures of women with a certain skin tone, color of hair, and body shape. Pictures of women he could imagine are you.
It was outright wrong of him. You were his roommate, not his girlfriend, not even his friend with benefits. But he could never stop himself from indulging.
He unbuttons his slacks with one hand while he scrolls with another, staying for a few seconds on pictures that show potential, liking them, but moving on.
He scrolls past something that makes him backtrack.
A picture of a woman lying down in bed on her side in a pretty set of underwear, not anything fancy or extravagant. Her body is gorgeous, but it’s not what makes him backtrack.
What makes him backtrack is the heart-shaped birthmark on her upper thigh.
He recognizes it.
A while ago, the two of you went out for drinks. It was the day before your birthday, and you were within your rights to overindulge, so you did. It ended with you throwing up all over your clothes and all over the cab on the way home.
Higuruma had to strip you down to your underwear and throw the clothes in the wash himself because you were too drunk to do so.
He had looked because he couldn’t help himself, and he saw it. The birthmark. It burned into his mind.
And he’s seeing it right in front of his face again.
His hand stalls from where he was plaming himself through his underwear.
He opens the page slowly and begins to scroll, reading every post and connecting all the dots in his head.
The day you two went out for drinks, and he saw the birthmark, the account had tweeted requesting someone to send money for drinks. A few weeks ago, when you got your nails done, the account replied to another saying thank you for nail money.
He moves onto the images page and recognizes your bedroom immediately.
He recognizes your body shape and the length of your hair, too.
You had a secret twitter account, and he found it.
It’s worse than when he pretends the other women in the pictures are you; it’s so much worse. He should close the app and go take a cold shower, but he can’t bring himself to.
His cock hardens as he scrolls through the account, his mind taking care to memorize every picture and every detail you share about your intimate life.
There’s a post about you touching yourself in front of a mirror that sends him over the edge.
He pulls his cock out of his underwear and begins to stroke himself, slowly and deliberately, head lolling to the side as he continues to scroll.
There’s a picture of you in a big t-shirt and lacy underwear that makes him freeze because he realizes the t-shirt is his. One you stole not too long ago on your laundry day when you had nothing else to wear. One you never gave back.
He almost cums then and there, but he stops mid stroke, holding his cock, beginning to try to take slow and even breaths to draw out his pleasure.
He gets in the pattern of it: stroking until he’s almost there and edging himself.
When he finally lets himself go, it’s to a picture of you on the very couch he’s sitting on, stripped down to cotton panties and a bra. It’s intense, more intense than when he’s slept with certain women, and he knows it’s because of you.
His breaths are erratic, and his cum is all over his hands and slacks.
He drops the phone and moves his free arm to cover his eyes, the other still on his cock, stroking himself to overstimulation.
A whimper leaves his mouth as his mind brings up made-up images, more explicit ones than the ones he was staring at moments before.
When he finally stops, he feels a buzz throughout his body and his heartbeat in his legs.
He stuffs himself back in his underwear and sits for a moment, picking the phone back up and scrolling through the account more, all the way until he finds the beginning of it.
The first post is sweet, a polite introduction, which makes a smile graze his face.
He refreshes the page and sees a post made a few minutes prior.
On my break, anyone wanna send me money for a snack? (;
He goes through the motions of anonymously wiring you 50 bucks through the linked website without even hesitating or really thinking about it at all.
After, He turns off his phone and wonders how he’ll face you when you come home knowing what he knows and did.
a/n: it falls flat towards the end but WHATEVER!! here!! have it!!!!!!!
pairing ⸺ nerd/academic rival/rich boy!gojo x reader
summary ⸺ you abhor your academic rival, satoru gojo. he's a cocky asshole that you fight with constantly for the spot at first place. but when you finally discover what's underneath all those lame sweaters of his with a once in a blue moon visit at the gym (spoiler alert: he's not a scrawny nerd), you'll be fighting your severe attraction to the man who makes your life a bit harder. and maybe fall in love with him, too, in the process.
warnings ⸺ smut, f recieving oral, praise, he makes you beg for it lol, p i v sex, making out, angst if you squint, a lot of fluff, college AU, nerd!gojo, reader gets insecure sometimes and is treated horribly by her discord mod TA/research advisor, typical misogyny/sexism in STEM fields, but gojo defends her!!!, sleeper build gojo with a happy trail because im a slut, the good old pining and yearning i like. art by @/deltapork
a/n thank u to all my beta readers for editing part of this for me :3 happy valentines day!!!
general masterlist
You blink at your paper.
98.
You suppose you should be happy—it’s a graduate level physics class, anyways. For a moment, you stare at the red markings of the TA that graded it, as if willing an error in the one problem you made a mistake on could make it go away.
2+2=5.
You exhaled sharply, almost fighting back tears. You’d think you could avoid simple arithmetic mistakes, but apparently doing tensor products comes easier than simple addition to you. Shoving your backpack on your chair, you stuff in your laptop and the test haphazardly, not caring that it’s going to get messed and crumpled up in your backpack after your folders and binders jostle around. Fuck that test.
You wouldn’t normally act as if the test had personally wronged you—trust, you were not going to get that heated were it any class. But because of this one class, one person, you knew it was coming. The inevitable.
"Better luck next time." The voice, drenched in smug satisfaction, slithered through the air behind you, his voice and demeanor like a slimy, slimy snake.
Your jaw tightened, but you forced yourself to remain calm as you turned around. And there he was—Gojo Satoru, the bane of your existence, a plague upon your academic record, a walking, talking statistical anomaly who somehow managed to be both infuriatingly brilliant and aggressively insufferable.
He leaned against the desk beside yours, glasses sliding down just enough to reveal the glint of those ridiculously blue eyes. He crosses his arms while they’re covered in that ridiculous, ugly sweater he’s wearing—he’s probably going for the old money aesthetic, but he doesn’t need to know he gives off more “finance bro that helps billionaires evade taxes,” or whatever finance bros do.
“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” you sniff, pretending to act nonchalant while you grab your backpack, swinging it roughly on your shoulder like it was the weight of your grievances against him.
"The test." Gojo unfolded a crisp sheet of paper with the kind of theatrical flourish reserved for revealing royal decrees. A perfect 100, circled in bold red ink.
Your stomach twisted. This is what those two points meant. Two stupid, meaningless, soul-crushing, rage-inducing points.
"Guess that makes it… what, five to three this semester?" He tapped his chin, pretending to count, as if the score wasn’t already seared into your brain like an irreversible branding. "My lead, obviously. But hey, if you ever need tutoring, I could always squeeze you in."
You bite the inside of your cheek in frustration. “I wouldn’t want to impose on the time for any of your hobbies. After all, when will you get the time to watch anime? My 5000 Year Old Girlfriend is Stuck in a Twelve Year Old’s Body, was it?”
He presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt, as if your words had truly pierced him through his chest. “Tut, tut. After all this time, I’d think you’d have my anime preferences memorized since you’re so obsessed with me. It’s Digimon, not whatever pedophilic shit you think I jerk off too.” He pauses, and then his voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “But you know Fred, the grad student TA that holds recitation every Wednesday? I just know he’s probably a Discord mod of a server that sends, like, daily tentacle porn. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on the Megan's law registry either.”
Now, you have to hold back your smile because Gojo has a point. Fred is not just any TA. Fred is the grad student that mentors you on a research project; the program’s super selective, so when you realized you got him, you couldn’t just back out and give up the opportunity. However, Fred isn’t just a weird–-he’s sooo handsy with his greasy ass hands, so you accept any and all Fred slander. Because he’s your research advisor, you can’t wait to finish the project any faster. He probably would be into underage girls, but you don’t need to express your approval to Gojo, or worst of all, let him think he’s funny. God knows that would get into his head. “Yea, yea. Whatever. Anyways, I hope you have fun with your Pokemon—”
“Digimon.”
“—or whatever. I’m leaving. Some of us have things to do. Later, Gojo.”
You turned on your heel, lest Gojo hook you in with another taunt.
Maybe you needed to blow off some steam, if you’re allowing yourself to lose to Gojo.
Worst of all, it’s become a streak, like two times in a row—one on this quiz, and the other on the midterm a few weeks back. Your mind goes back to the last women in STEM recruiting event you had went to, and, how, in the middle of taking a bite of the delicious margherita pizza they offered, you registered that the woman in the panel had insisted that what helped her power through her PhD and dickwad supervisors was by exercising. Her fervor over pilates could almost qualify as a cult pitch, but it made you pause at the moment. Before you continued to further engorge yourself on the food offered on the charcuterie board.
But maybe it was time to hone your focus in, and some sweaty endorphins might help you get just that.
You’re not really surprised the demographic at your university’s gym looks like the way it does. After all, not only was it renowned for its academics (from all the nepo babies like Gojo whose families donated buildings and had like four generations of alumnus), but it was also a Division I school. So not only was the gym packed but it was packed with men.
As you walked in the hallway towards the room that contained weight machines, gym bag slung over your shoulder, you eyed the glistening backs of the (D1, mind you) men’s swim team through the glass that separated your path and the swimming pool.
Wow, those Speedos really hugged their asses. You imagined Gojo in one, and almost snorted. Rich boy nerd Satoru definitely didn’t learn how to swim; his family’s mansion probably had a twenty year old personal lifeguard that Gojo lost his virginity to, or something. Regardless, he would squint in his silly swim goggles, the exact antithesis of sex appeal while his glow-in-the-dark eyes lit up the pool while he stroked, cheeks puffed like a pufferfish.
Regardless, the smell of testosterone that hits you when you enter the weight area is almost nauseating, and, if you’re honest, a little intimidating. You’re not exactly the fittest of people, so you quickly speed walk past the grunting and sweaty men at the squat machines and barbells, avoiding eye contact and praying furiously that none of them perceive you.
When you reach the dumbbell stands, you hunch over, taking random light weights. Then, you pretend you know what you’re doing while jumping every so slightly whenever anyone comes in six foot distance of you. It’s only when another girl comes in to grab a weight (and when she bends over, you definitely ogle her ass in a way that would get you slapped if you were a man) that your gaze removes itself from where it was focused on the 2.5 lb dumbbell you were previously bicep curling with. To see him.
The glint of ivory hair is unmistakable—you’ve basically gotten off to the fantasy of razoring it off in his sleep. His blue eyes are bored, pretty boy face framed in glasses. Now, he’s giving teenage boy turned to Andrew Tate after a breakup. Black sweatshirt and sweatpants that are too small, because they cling to his legs in a form-defining way. He’s walking over, hands in his pockets, to a barbell station. Slaps some guys on the shoulder as he goes through, gets a lot of daps.
Which is weird to you, because you only the Gojo inside your physics class, not outside. He’s a fucking nerd—a loser that spends his time beefing with you, so why is he so popular when he gives you the time of day?
There are three dimensions to gaining alpha status, or whatever they call male popularity. You have to be 1) rich, 2) really physically fit, or 3) just really charismatic. Considering that Gojo—in all his clothing—-looks like a twink moreso than ripped gym bro, it’s definitely not dimension two. So you conclude that it’s because he’s rich and probably throws yacht parties so these ripped guys don’t push him into a locker, or something.
When he finally reaches his destination, you smirk to yourself. With that scrawny build underneath all those loose sweaters, you know he’s only going to be able to lift the bar, no plates. After all, he was warming up. insulting Gojo in countless of ways by taking jabs at his physique mentally, so you barely register that he’s grabbing for the hem of his sweatshirt, peeling it up—
To reveal his bare torso.
Your first thought: Wow, he has huge bazonkas.
That has easily got to be one of the most built physiques you’ve seen at your college so far. His pectorals basically pop out out of his torso as he moves to grab plates. First, he grabs a really big plate—you’re not a gym expert, so you wouldn’t know the weight—and stacks it. And stacks another. And another. And another, until you’re sure it’s definitely more than your bodyweight.
As you’re staring at him in awe, your 2.5 lb dumbbells hang limply by your sides, abandoning all pretense of training to openly gawk at the clench of his biceps, the sweat rolling down his temple, and the set of his jaw as he stares holes into the bar. And by the way there’s heat creeping up your cheeks you realize one thing:
You’re screwed.
“You know what?”
You keep your eyes on your notes firmly, refusing to look at Gojo sitting right next to you. You don’t know why he always chooses to sit next to you on recitation, really—it’s not like you’re receptive to his company. After all, he could be doing other things—like metaphorically sucking a TA’s dick by talking about their research, where Gojo probably knows more about the TA’s research than they do themselves.
From your periphery, you notice Gojo pouting, then scooting his chair (dragging it, so it makes a god awful screeching noise against the floor tiles that has you cringing) until he’s so close that he slings an arm on the back of your chair and leans in closer and closer. You’re fighting to keep your eyes on your notes, face heating up traitorously until you feel his breath fan across your neck because he’s just so close.
“Rude, ignoring me. Look where that got you.” He then points to a problem on your paper, one you were currently working on. “You’re doing that wrong.”
You finally turn to glare at him, but he’s closer than you anticipated, his face just inches from yours. His grin is all sharp edges and knowing amusement, and it makes your stomach flip in a way you refuse to acknowledge.
“I’m not doing it wrong,” you argue, despite the creeping suspicion that, okay, maybe you did mess up somewhere.
“Oh, really?” Gojo drawls, tilting his head slightly. “Then why is your integral off by a factor of two?”
Your eyes snap back to your notes, scanning through the equations—and, dammit, he’s right.
You huff, begrudgingly erasing the mistake. “Whatever.”
“You know, you should really be thanking me,” Gojo muses, still leaning way too close for comfort. “If I weren’t here, who knows how many mistakes you’d make?”
“She’d have me,” comes a greasy voice, and you have to fight the tears in your eyes that arise when Fred (the aforementioned pedophilic TA and your research advisor) comes, his moldy cheese stench following him as he takes a seat from across you and Gojo. You grudgingly turn your face away from where it was so close to Gojo’s to look at him and sigh inwardly. At least Gojo’s face was prettier to look at.
“Hi, Fred,” you smile tightly, willing him to go away. “We’re good here, so you can help out other students—”
“How was your weekend?” He instead replies, and you wince. Stealing a quick glance at Gojo, it seems that his jaw and posture are uncharacteristically tense.
“Lot of work for the class and for, uh, our research,” you respond, nodding and averting your gaze to your paper and feigning working on a problem so that he would get the hint.
Fred, unfortunately, does not get the hint. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes too focused on you. “You really ought to take breaks, you know. You can give me the code late. Someone as cute as you shouldn’t stress so much. You’ll get wrinkles.”
Your fingers tighten around your pencil, your skin crawling at the way his tone veers into something too familiar, too patronizing. You open your mouth to give a clipped response, but Gojo beats you to it.
“Oh? Didn’t know you were an expert on skincare, Fred,” Gojo drawls, his voice deceptively light. His arm, which was still resting on the back of your chair, shifts just slightly—not quite pulling you in, but making his presence more noticeable. “Though, if we’re giving out advice, maybe you should take your own. I mean, stress must be rough on you too, right? All those late nights grading papers, staring at screens. Takes a toll.”
Fred bristles, but Gojo just smiles lazily, pushing up his glasses as he tilts his head. “Actually, you know what? Maybe we should all focus on our own business. Like, say, teaching, instead of weirdly hovering over students. Crazy thought, huh?”
You swear you see the muscle in Fred’s jaw twitch, but he forces out an awkward chuckle, shifting uncomfortably. “Right, right. Just looking out for her.”
“Don’t worry,” Gojo interrupts smoothly, now fully leaning into your space, his arm draping a little lower behind your chair, “I think she’s got plenty of people looking out for her already.” His voice is soft, but there’s an undeniable edge beneath the words.
Fred lingers for a second too long, but finally, he mutters something about helping another student and stands, walking off with an air of forced nonchalance.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, slumping slightly in your seat. Gojo hums beside you, his fingers tapping idly against the back of your chair.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” he teases, but there’s something in his tone that’s softer than usual. He then makes a show of stretching, raising his arms. His sweater rides up a bit, exposing his lower abs and peeks of white that has you averting your gaze, the heat creeping up at his proximity once again. Then, his arm back on your chair. Weirdly, you find that you don’t mind it.
You sigh, resigned. You’ll figure out these feelings later. “Yeah. Thanks, Gojo.”
But you don’t immediately go back to your work, because Gojo suddenly hunches down and whispers in your ear. “Yea, I definitely saw an underage anime girl sticker on his laptop.”
Your responding snort is so loud everyone turns to look at you and Gojo, who is now sporting a mischievous and satisfied smile.
It starts with a single drop, fat and cold where it splats against your wrist. You glance up from your phone just in time to see the sky split open.
“Shit,” you mutter, stuffing your phone into your bag. The library doors shut behind you with a heavy clang, sealing away the scent of old books and the quiet hum of studying students. Outside, the air is thick with the petrichor of freshly fallen rain, and within seconds, the pavement is slick, puddles forming in the uneven cracks of the sidewalk. The streetlights reflect off the wet ground, casting fragmented golden glows against the darkening sky. You’d been studying to grind for the upcoming assignments; after all, to rival Gojo is a no small feat. It’s just unfortunate it seems to take you thousand times more effort than it does for Gojo.
“Guess we’re stuck together, huh?”
You don’t have to turn to know who it is.
Satoru Gojo, standing beside you under the library’s narrow overhang, wearing that insufferable grin like he’s amused by the entire situation. Like the rain personally fell from the sky just to give him an opportunity to bother you.
“I’ll take my chances,” you say flatly, shifting your bag on your shoulder. But as you peer past the downpour, your stomach sinks. The rain is merciless, an unrelenting sheet of water stretching as far as you can see. There’s no way you’re making it back to your dorm without looking like you took a fully clothed shower.
Gojo hums, pulling something out of his bag. You blink when he flicks open a half-broken umbrella, the metal ribs slightly bent like it’s barely holding itself together. He gives it a little shake, sending droplets flying, before glancing at you with a smirk.
“Well?” He lifts a brow. “Wanna be smart about this?”
You do not want to be smart about this. You want to wait out the rain or make a break for it. But the storm shows no signs of letting up, and the thought of walking through it alone makes you hesitate.
Reluctantly, you sigh. “Fine. But I get most of the cover.”
“Hey, sharing is caring.” He tilts the umbrella slightly, just enough to make a point.
With great reluctance, you step closer. The moment you do, you regret it.
Gojo is warm. Even in the damp, chilled air, he radiates heat, standing so close that his sleeve brushes against yours. He smells good, too—like expensive laundry detergent with a faint undercurrent of something sweet, something distinctly him.
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stare straight ahead as the two of you start walking. The rain pounds against the umbrella, droplets cascading off the edges, and with every step, you’re hyper-aware of the way Gojo moves beside you—loose-limbed, annoyingly graceful, a stark contrast to the crooked metal above your heads.
“Man, this thing’s on its last leg,” he muses, tilting the umbrella just slightly. Water dribbles off the side, landing directly onto your shoulder.
“Gojo!” you yelp, recoiling as the cold soaks through your shirt.
“Oops.” He does not sound remotely sorry.
You glare at him, but before you can snap back, he shrugs off his jacket and—without preamble—drapes it over you.
You freeze.
It’s warm, still carrying the heat of his body, and it smells so much like him—clean, sweet, dizzyingly familiar. Your brain short-circuits.
You force yourself to breathe, keeping your gaze firmly ahead. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice tight.
“I wanted to.”
Something in his tone makes your stomach flip. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, and—
Damn him. Damn him.
Water drips from his bangs, clinging to the sharp edges of his jawline, sliding down the curve of his throat. His shirt sticks to his skin, fabric clinging in a way that reveals the toned lines of his arms, the broad plane of his chest. He’s watching the rain, the usual teasing glint in his eyes softened into something contemplative.
You swear your eggs just recently got released, for you cannot help but avoid your ever going attraction to Satoru Gojo except the age-old excuse: ovulation. Your mind wanders to how his arms would feel around your head, to lay on his chest, how he’d be able to manhandle you, force you to take it—
But you’re snapped out of your inappropriate thoughts by what he says next.
“You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like this. Just us, no grades, no competing.”
You pause.
He says it so simply, so easily, like it’s nothing at all. But the words settle deep, curling somewhere warm inside you, and you don’t know what to do with them.
So you do what you do best: you shove them away, bury them beneath years of rivalry, of late-night study sessions fueled by caffeine and stubbornness, of sharp words and sharper glances.
You roll your eyes, forcing a scoff. “Don’t get used to it.”
But even as you say it, your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, holding it a little tighter.
It’s been a week since you saw Gojo. He had dropped you at your dorm in a surprisingly gentlemanly way, and you had insisted on returning the jacket only after washing it, to be courteous. What you didn’t mention was how you kept repeatedly smelling it in your dorm whenever you got a reprieve from your roommate’s eyes because Gojo smelled like expensive cologne and he did one thing most nerds / physics majors don’t do: shower. This fact, unfortunately, made you more attracted to him because the bar is truly in hell.
You’ve concluded that these…feelings can’t hurt you and that it isn’t real, like a beefy and shirtless Gojo-looking demon that’ll jump and surprise you from under your bed. So you move on your life, caught in the ever perpetual slog of studying and researching.
Thus, you find yourself at the library once more.
The night hums low around you, quiet except for the occasional shuffle of paper and the distant hum of the library’s espresso machine (only librarians could use it, however. you fervently thought that was a form of elitism, but you digress). You’re at the corner table, the one by the window, where the dim light pools just enough to illuminate your notes but not enough to make you feel like you’re being studied under a microscope. You think you’re alone—until you aren’t.
You don’t have to look up to know it’s him.
Satoru Gojo is hard to miss, even when he’s not trying. He slides into the chair across from you with the kind of ease that makes it seem like he belongs there, like he was always going to end up sitting across from you tonight. His hair is tousled, white strands falling forward in a way that makes him look softer under the warm light. His glasses are perched low on his nose, a rare sight given that he usually has them pushed up like some kind of pretentious scholar.
The two of you don’t speak.
It’s surprising, really. Gojo never runs out of things to say, whether it’s an obnoxious quip or some unnecessarily insightful observation that makes you want to throw your textbook at his face. But tonight, he just pulls out his own notes, taps his pen against the edge of his lips, and starts reading.
You should focus on your own studying, but something about this—this silence, this late-night haze, this tiny moment carved out of time—makes your mind wander. You steal glances when you think he won’t notice. His brows furrow when he’s concentrating, his jaw tightens when he’s stuck on something, and when he exhales, it’s this slow, measured thing, like he’s trying not to get frustrated. He’s just—
He’s just really there.
You’ve spent years defining Gojo as your rival. Your competition. The person standing in your way at every academic milestone. And yet, somehow, somewhere, he’s slipped into something else, something harder to define. Because you’ve seen him like this before—when he’s so focused that he forgets the world around him, when he bites his lip in thought, when he gets so caught up in something that he mutters under his breath without realizing it. And for the first time, it dawns on you: you don’t actually hate it.
You don’t hate this comfortable silence. This moment of peace, a white flag waving lazily between you both.
The hours blur. The café starts to empty. Your notes turn into background noise. It’s late, and the warmth from inside lulls you into something dangerously close to comfort.
A soft sound breaks through the quiet.
You glance up and freeze.
Gojo’s head has tilted to the side, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. His hand is curled loosely around his pen, and his breathing has evened out. He’s asleep.
For a moment, you don’t move. You barely breathe.
Gojo, asleep, is not something you’ve seen before. He’s always in motion, always buzzing with energy, always running his mouth about something. But right now, he’s still. His long lashes cast faint shadows over his cheekbones, and the tension he always carries—the cocky bravado, the smirking sharpness—is nowhere to be found. He just looks… peaceful.
Cutie.
What?
The thought slips in so quickly, so effortlessly, that it nearly makes you jolt. But when you look at him again—head tilted just slightly, glasses slipping down his nose, breathing slow and even—you can’t deny that the word fits. He looks like a lazy cat napping in a sunbeam, limbs loose, utterly unguarded. It’s so unlike him that you find yourself staring, caught in the contrast.
Your fingers twitch. Before you can stop yourself, you reach forward, slow and hesitant, to push his glasses back up his nose. But you catch yourself just before you touch him, as if the warmth of his skin might burn. Your hand hovers in the air for a fraction of a second too long, and then—
You pull away.
Your heart is pounding. It’s fine. It’s nothing. You just need to get out of here.
You gather your things quietly, glancing back at him one last time before slipping out the door into the cool night air. The moment you step outside, you take a breath, deep and shaking. The world feels different now. You feel different now.
Because for the first time, it isn’t just that you find Gojo attractive.
It’s that you care.
And you don’t know what the hell to do about it.
The gym, once again, smells like sweat and overpriced protein powder.
You don’t know what’s possessed you to come here today. Maybe it’s because you keep telling yourself that you need to exercise more, or maybe it’s because you need to take a break from studying before your brain melts. But deep down, if you’re really being honest with yourself, you know the real reason.
Gojo is here.
You spotted him the first time by accident. You were on the treadmill, barely jogging at a pace that wouldn’t embarrass you, when you caught a flash of white hair across the gym floor. And there he was—dressed in a fitted black sleeveless top and joggers, casually loading plates onto a barbell.
And he wasn’t wearing his glasses.
It was a stupid, inconsequential detail, but it made all the difference. Without them, he didn’t look like the annoying academic rival who constantly got under your skin, flashing his smug grin as he beat you in exams by the smallest possible margins. He looked… sharp. Unfiltered. Effortlessly attractive in a way that made your stomach tighten in ways you didn’t like.
You’d seen him in his regular clothes before, of course. You knew he had broad shoulders and long legs, that his body wasn’t just a lanky frame hidden behind layers of sweaters. But here, in the gym, watching him roll his shoulders as he prepped for another set—it hit differently. He was lean but muscular, his arms flexing as he adjusted his grip on the bar, and for some godforsaken reason, you couldn’t look away.
You shouldn’t be watching him. You should be focusing on your own workout, pretending you don’t care. But the way his shirt clung to his back, the way his forearms tensed, the way he exhaled sharply as he lifted—
You’re so screwed.
You force yourself to look away, grabbing the smallest dumbbells available and curling them in what has to be the weakest excuse for a workout imaginable. You’re barely paying attention to what you’re doing, too busy sneaking glances at Gojo between sets. It’s pathetic, but at least no one else is watching you.
Or so you think.
Because then she appears.
A girl.
Tall, toned, and effortlessly gorgeous, with sleek hair pulled into a high ponytail. She strides over to Gojo with a confidence you could never dream of and smiles at him, saying something that makes him laugh. Her ass is definitely bigger than yours, and she’s in this coordinated, cute, pink set, looking like she walked straight out of a fitness TikTok. You can’t hear what they’re talking about over the sound of weights clanking and some obnoxious EDM song blasting through the speakers, but you can see it. The way she leans in, the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way Gojo—
—smiles at her. That easy, lazy grin he always wears when he’s teasing you, except this time, it isn’t for you.
Your grip tightens around the dumbbells, something ugly curling in your chest. It gets worse when she gestures toward the squat rack, and Gojo nods before moving behind her, hands hovering just slightly as she sets up for a squat. You watch as he spots her, one hand resting lightly on her lower back, close enough to correct her form but far enough to be polite. He’s focused, watching her movements carefully, murmuring something that makes her laugh before she drops into another rep.
Your stomach twists.
This is stupid. You have no reason to be feeling this way.
It’s then that it hits you—you can have your silly little academic rival moments with Gojo, but, in the end, you’re just a footnote in his story, a fleeting challenge in a life where everything already belongs to him. He quite literally has generational wealth; he’s not going to spend his life buried in grant applications or clawing for recognition in a field that demands twice the effort for half the reward. He’ll be the one funding the research, sitting at the head of the table, making decisions that shape the future. And you? You’ll be one of the many who struggle just to be in the same room.
He’s the guy who spends his vacations on yachts or private islands—not just surrounded by wealth, but by people who belong there. Girls who glide through life with the same effortless ease as him, girls who don’t second-guess if they deserve to be in the spaces they occupy. Girls who don’t have to fight for their place at the table because it was always set for them.
Girls that are his equal—equally attractive, equally smart, equally rich.
Not you.
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to look away, but the image is burned into your mind. The easy way he talks to her. The way she tilts her head when she listens. The way he doesn’t even know you’re here.
You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care.
But you do.
You grip the dumbbells tighter, exhaling sharply. Then you put them back, pick up your water bottle, and walk out of the gym before you do something stupid.
The office is too small. Too suffocating. Too filled with the weight of unspoken words and the sharp-edged smile of Fred, the TA, as he leans back in his chair and laces his fingers together.
"You know," he begins, voice sickly sweet, "I really expected more from you."
You sit stiffly in the chair across from him, your hands curled into fists in your lap, nails digging crescents into your skin. Your heart pounds, but your face remains carefully neutral. You've been called into his office under the guise of "academic guidance," but you know better. You always know better.
"I don't know what you mean," you say, keeping your voice even.
Fred exhales dramatically, shaking his head. "Come on. You and I both know you're barely keeping up in this project of ours."
You grit your teeth. You're not barely keeping up. You're giving him your work at the highest level, at its best. But Fred—Fred has always had a way of twisting things, making you feel small, insignificant, like your achievements are nothing more than accidents.
“I think my progress speaks for itself,” you respond tightly. Mind you, while he was supposed to be your mentor, you’ve done 80% of the work.
But you think Gojo’s defense of you ran deep into Fred’s heart because by the way he’s sleazily smirking at you, you know he’s trying to get back at you.
He smirks. "Your progress? Sure, you’re smart. But you think that’s enough? You think anyone’s going to care about a girl like you when there are people out there who don’t have to struggle to be exceptional?" He leans forward, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. "You’re wasting your time. The best you can hope for is being someone’s assistant. Maybe a glorified research grunt if you’re lucky. Just like for me."
Your stomach twists. You shouldn’t care. You know you shouldn’t care. But the words burrow deep, hitting a place inside you that already doubts, that already wonders if you’re nothing more than a temporary obstacle in a world built for people like Gojo Satoru—people born brilliant, born wealthy, born effortless.
Fred’s eyes flick over you, assessing, smug. "You’re working yourself to the bone for what? You’ll never be at the top. Not really."
The bitterness of the situation really dawns on you—Gojo’s the one who took a jab at Fred last week, not you. But you’re the one who’s left to deal with its consequences. You’re not going to assign blame and lament that it’s not Gojo in this office dealing with him. It was in your defense, after all.
But Fred’s words remind you. You’ll never be at the top. At Gojo’s level, who’s at the top without even seeming to put in effort.
You’ll never be his equal.
You stand abruptly, shoving your chair back so hard it scrapes against the floor. "If that’s all, I have work to do."
Fred chuckles, leaning back, clearly pleased with himself. "Sure, sure. Don’t say I never tried to give you advice."
You don’t respond. You just walk out, gripping your bag so tightly your knuckles turn white, the echo of his words following you down the hall, settling in your bones like lead.
The hallway is too bright. Too loud. Too full of people who don’t know that you’re on the verge of crumpling in on yourself like a dying star.
Your breath feels too shallow, too quick, and there’s a weight pressing down on your chest that no amount of rationalizing can shake off. It’s not even your meeting with Fred—just a slow accumulation of stress and exhaustion and frustration that’s settled deep in your bones. A grade lower than expected, an upcoming deadline you’re nowhere near prepared for, a general sense of drowning no matter how hard you try to keep up. It’s all too much, and your hands are starting to shake from how tightly you’re gripping the strap of your bag.
You just need to get out of here. You need air, space, something.
But, of course, the universe has a cruel sense of humor, because when you round the corner, you slam straight into Satoru Gojo.
“Whoa—”
Your balance is already precarious from the way you were rushing, and the impact sends you stumbling. For a split second, you think you might actually fall—your ankle twists awkwardly, the world tilts—and then there’s a strong hand gripping your wrist, another bracing against your back, steadying you before you can hit the ground.
You don’t process what happens immediately. Your mind is still stuck on too much, too fast, can’t breathe, and it takes you a second to realize that Gojo is holding you upright, his hands firm but careful, his expression hovering somewhere between amusement and concern.
“Jeez, what’s the rush?” he teases, but his voice lacks its usual careless lilt. He’s searching your face now, eyes narrowing behind his glasses, and that’s when you realize: you must look as bad as you feel.
Shit.
You jerk away from him, a little too fast, a little too sharp. “I’m fine.”
Gojo doesn’t look convinced. “You sure? Because it kinda seemed like you were about to pass out on the spot.”
“I said I’m fine.” You adjust your bag over your shoulder, shifting your weight onto your other foot, ignoring the faint throb in your ankle. “Go bother someone else.”
Most of the time, that’s enough to send him off with an exaggerated sigh and a smirk. But not today.
Today, Gojo just stands there, watching you like he’s trying to piece something together—like you’re a problem he wants to solve. He doesn’t press, not yet, but the silence stretches, and it’s unbearable, because you can feel the weight of his gaze, and you don’t want to be seen like this. Not by him.
So you give him a tight nod in dismissal, and walk away.
There’s a knock at your door. You frown because you didn’t expect any visitors, and you’re in your sleepwear. Regardless, you pad your way lazily and open the door.
To see Gojo.
What the fuck.
He’s drenched in the glow of the hallway light, looking entirely too at home despite standing on your threshold. His hair is still slightly damp from the rain, white strands falling over his forehead in careless disarray. He’s not wearing his glasses.
"Why are you here?" you demand, gripping the doorframe, willing your voice to stay steady.
He quirks an eyebrow, tilting his head just slightly. “You’re holding my jacket hostage.”
Oh. Right.
You make your way to your wardrobe, where the now-cleaned jacket hangs neatly on a hanger. Grabbing it, you hand it over to Gojo, who’s standing at your threshold while eyeing the insides of your dorm, as if trying to take in what your living space looks like. You shove it into his chest, stepping back like the heat of it burns. "Here."
Gojo takes it, but instead of leaving like a normal person, he lingers, running his fingers over the material like he’s checking for something. Then,, he lifts a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it in that way that only makes his biceps flex, his lean muscles shifting beneath his shirt. You hate that you notice.
A beat passes.
"You know," he muses, far too casually, "you seemed a little disheveled back there."
Your stomach twists. "It's not a big deal—"
"—Bullshit." His voice cuts through yours, sharp and immediate. He shifts, stepping just the tiniest bit closer, his tone losing its usual teasing lilt. “You’re lying. I saw what you looked like. What happened?”
“It's none of your business,” you say, stiffening. “Nor is it a big deal, really.”
Gojo exhales, something heavy in the sound. His eyes don’t leave yours, and for once, they aren’t filled with their usual mirth or mischief. Just something searching, something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t have the strength to deal with right now.
"You always do that," he says, softer now, but no less intense. “Act like no one’s supposed to care. Like you’re carrying the world alone.”
Your fingers curl into your palms. Your lips press together. You don’t want to hear this. You don’t want to acknowledge the way his words settle too close to the truth.
And then, quietly, Gojo asks, “Do you not consider me your equal?”
You swallow.
Your silence must be enough of an answer because something shifts in his expression. It isn’t anger exactly, but it’s something close—something bitter and disappointed and aching all at once.
"You’re the one who shuts me out, you know." His voice is sharp now, edged with frustration. "You act like I'm the one keeping you at a distance, but every time I try to get close, you push me away."
Your throat tightens. “Why do you even care?”
Gojo lets out a breath, his head tilting just slightly, eyes scanning your face like you’re something he’s trying to figure out. Then he laughs, quiet and humorless.
“You really don’t know?”
“I—” Your voice wavers. “What do you mean—”
“For a girl so smart, you sure do act stupid.” He steps forward then, closing the space between you just enough to make you want to back away, but your feet don’t move. His voice drops lower. "Do you think I talk to you because I give a fuck about physics?"
Your brain short-circuits. “What—”
He groans, dragging a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I give zero fucks about the class or any class, trust me. I have better things to do than to try to aim for 100s on every test."
Your heart is pounding now, too loud, too fast. “Then why—”
"God," he exhales, tipping his head back, like he's debating whether or not he should even say it. Then, after a beat, he looks at you again, and whatever is in his eyes makes your stomach flip, makes your breath hitch.
Something in your chest lurches, but before you can even process it, he huffs a laugh—like he’s just remembered something ridiculous.
"You didn’t even look my way the first week," he says, eyes flicking over your face, searching. "I could tell you only cared about anyone that could challenge you. Like, it wasn’t even until I did better than you on the second midterm that you even talked to me."
You open your mouth, then close it, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Because—yeah. He’s not wrong. You had ignored him, dismissed him as just another overconfident rich kid who thought he was smarter than he was. It wasn’t until he proved himself, until he became a real obstacle in your path, that you bothered to acknowledge him.
Gojo smiles, but it’s not cocky this time—it’s small, almost rueful. "And then you looked at me like I was finally real. Like I existed."
Your breath hitches.
He shrugs, eyes dropping for a brief second before snapping back up to yours. "So, yeah. Maybe I started trying harder. Maybe I cared about all those stupid tests because it meant I got to see that fire in your eyes, that I got to be the one you were pushing against." He rubs the back of his neck, his biceps flexing in a way that would usually annoy you, but right now, you’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe.
Gojo stares at you for a long moment, gaze unwavering, like he’s daring you to say something—anything.
Your chest feels too tight, your pulse erratic, and you don’t know what to do with the way Gojo is looking at you—like you’re something precious, something worth holding onto.
But he’s wrong. He has to be wrong.
“You can’t like me,” you whisper.
Gojo frowns, expression shifting. “What?”
Your throat clenches, and before you can stop it, heat pricks at your eyes, blurring your vision. “You can’t like me,” you say again, voice cracking. “I can’t even match you.”
Gojo's face slackens, his teasing demeanor completely gone.
"You do everything so effortlessly," you force out, your fists clenching at your sides. "It’s so infuriating." A shaky breath escapes you, and you shake your head, looking down. “So why would you even want this? You make me feel this way, and I—I hate you for it.”
For a second, there’s only silence.
Then, Gojo exhales softly.
“Is that what you think?” His voice is so gentle it makes something inside you ache.
You don’t answer. You can’t.
Gojo shifts, stepping forward slowly, carefully, like you’re something fragile. And then—then he reaches out, his fingers ghosting along your wrist before curling around it, grounding you. “It’s not effortless,” he murmurs. “I try so hard. You just don’t see it because I don’t want you to.”
"You really don’t get it, do you?" His voice is quieter now, something dangerously close to vulnerable. His fingers twitch at his sides. "I care because it’s you."
You shake your head, still not understanding, still unable to believe it.
Gojo watches you for a moment, then exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You act like I just woke up one day and decided to like you.” He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no real amusement in it. “Do you know how long I’ve been stuck on you? How infuriating it was, realizing that no matter how much attention I got, the only person I wanted it from was too busy treating me like an obstacle?”
Your breath catches.
“I tried everything,” he continues, voice rougher now. “Teasing you, annoying you, beating you in tests, losing to you in tests. It didn’t matter what I did, because you—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “You only saw me when I gave you a reason to compete.”
Your fingers tremble slightly at your sides. You don’t know what to say, don’t even know what you can say.
And suddenly, everything—the teasing, the constant pestering, the way he always had to be around you—it all clicks into place.
Your heart hammers in your chest, and before you can second-guess it, before you can even think, you surge forward and kiss him.
It’s a mess of a kiss—too rushed, too desperate, all clashing teeth and uneven breaths—but Gojo groans softly against your lips, like he’s been waiting for this. His hands are on you immediately, one slipping around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he presses you flush against him.
You’re dizzy. Overwhelmed. But it’s good. It’s him, and you don’t want to stop.
When you finally pull away, breathless and unsteady, Gojo is grinning, his lips slightly swollen.
“Worth the wait,” he murmurs, eyes shining.
You avert your gaze, fully blushing now. “But I—” You take a look at him, then hide your face in your hands. “I’m a stalker.”
“Maybe I’m into that.”
“No,” you bemoan. “I’ve stalked you at the gym, and I—” Your voice drops into a shameful whisper. “You were good. Like, stupidly good. Like, making everyone stare at you good.”
His lips twitch. “You were staring too, huh?”
You glare at him, but he just grins, all teeth, clearly eating this up.
“I hated it,” you insist, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “I hated that you’re already smarter than me, that you already have all these advantages, and then—and then you also have that? Like, it’s just unfair. You’re unfair.”
Gojo is silent for a second, and you think you’ve screwed up, but then exhales a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “You are so cute.”
“Stop it!” you whine, but you don’t protest when he pulls you closer and locks your lips with his another time. You clutch the front of his shirt, drag your hands on his chest, his arms, everywhere. Then, you guide his to firmly clutch your ass, to which he freezes.
“We can stop here. We don’t have to do anymore than this, and—”
But you interrupt him, slamming your lips against his once more. Grabbing him by the shoulder you pull him into your room and slam the door behind you, pushing him against the door. “Fuck no.”
He laughs breathlessly, then continues to switch your position, now you against the door. “Thank god. Now, jump.”
You do, and you almost moan at how easily he grabs you in his arms, your legs straddling him. It’s like you weigh nothing to him as he carries you over to your bed and manhandles you into it, following not long after.
When he gets on top of you, he maintains eye contact as he pulls your shirt over your head, trailing kisses down to your neck, the valley of your breasts (but not before giving each of the girls their own tender kiss), and your stomach. With his eyes boring into you, he slowly, teasingly drags the pants you were wearing down your legs until you’re just in your panties.
You let out a noise, and he coos. “I know, I know, baby.” He gives you a gentle kiss on the top of your mound, and you clench, squirming from the contact. “Let me take my time, though.”
He gently, but firmly, lays a hand on your hip as he starts licking the crotch of your panties. It’s truly maddening—the sensation is there, but you oh so wish his skilled tongue was meeting your skin, bare and electric.
He’s taking his time laving, ravishing your taste, but you’ve had enough. “Gojo, please,” you sob, throwing your head back and grinding further into his tongue, which he welcomes. “Stop teasing.”
“Mmmm,” he pretends to think, all while focused and looking only at your crotch, now rubbing your clit in small, miniscule circles. “I can, but,” and now he’s just mocking you, with the way he adopts a babying tone, “I think you’re going to have to beg for it.”
You groan in frustration as a response, but he only clicks his tongue as his fingers reach and finally rid you of your panties. He spreads your folds with two fingers, his face oh so close to your bare pussy. But instead of finally giving you what you want, he clicks his tongue, pouting as if you’re the one forcing him to be a bastard. “Yea, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to earn it.”
Before you can respond, he holds out his tongue and inches his face even closer to your bare folds until you can feel his warm breath over it. “You just have to say please.” Then, he ahhh-s, as if holding his tongue out to a doctor and says, “Look I’m so close—ahhh.”
You can only plead with him. “Please, Gojo.”
“No, it’s Satoru to you now, baby.”
“Satoru, please eat me out.”
He smiles. “Yeaa, that’s my girl.” And proceeds to eat you out in a way that has your toes curling.
He acts like a man eating his last meal on death row. It’s the masterful combination of laving over your folds, kissing your clit, and groaning and making noises that has you inching closer and closer to your orgasm. When you tell him, you’re close, he does exactly what he’s supposed to do—keep doing what he’s doing, same spot, same tempo, same pressure.
With a cry of his name, you come quickly, and he takes your writhing hips and their motion like a champ, easing you through it. When you feel the all-too-familiar feel of over sensitivity, you grab his hair and pull him towards your face, kissing him tenderly.
He maneuvers his huge frame to lay down next to you, and you fall easily into a gentle embrace. It’s a comfortable silence, as he burrows his face into your chest and you stroke his hair gently.
Gentler than how you’ve ever treated him.
It’s this thought exactly that you voice to him. “You know,” you muse softly. “I was such a bitch to you.” This gets his attention, because he moves from where he was comfortable (your boobs) to look at you in alarm. “Like, I was always mean, and like acting all high and mighty—”
“Whatever you think you did, it was hot,” he interrupts you, grinning boyishly. “Like damn when you insult me I get all fired up—”
“Satoru!” You laugh, shocked, looking down at him. “You’re crazy.”
“Yea,” he winks. “Crazy for you.”
You smile softly at that, biting your lip. “I mean, I get that.” You feel his curious gaze rove over you and heat creeps up your neck as you confess, “Like I was stalking you at the gym. I saw you one time, and um. You definitely have a sleeper build.”
He hums. “I get that a lot.”
“Yea,” you blurt. “you’re really hot. Like you have really big arms, which I definitely didn’t notice in all those sweaters you wear. You could definitely throw me around.”
Silence.
When you look down at him, he’s looking at you mischievously. He sits up, takes off his shirt, and says, “Want to test that theory?”
The both of you test the theory, indeed—it’s a nice nod to your guys’ academic, theoretical physics roots. But instead of some theory involving dark matter or quantum physics debated while in class, this theory takes all night to prove.
general masterlist
a/n special thank you to @purplegemadventures ily pookie <3 we were discussing how a lot of fics so far have made seem nerd gojo really cute and shy but we tried to envision a shit eating sassy diva just like hidden inventory arc <3 like what that one anon said i need my gojo to be a little annoying cocky (but cute) bastard (or, i quote, "your gojo makes me want to oil his scalp and give him an aggressive head massage and mess his hair up"). ANYWAYS props to that one anon that dropped the "nerd gojo with sleeper build" and my beloved @tiramisuandlove i love you forever
Getting your nipples pierced was a last minute decision.
Earlier that day, you went with Allie to get her navel pierced. She was so excited, talking about all the piercings she would love to have but isn’t sure about. Which led to her saying, “You would look absolutely fucking amazing with your nipples pierced. I bet Dean would have a field day with it, too.”
She kept babbling, saying stuff like, “Not that I’m suggesting it for him. Only for yourself, obvi. And me and Han, I know she would agree.”
You laughed it off, saying it was cool but not your thing.
Until you were inside the piercing shop.
The girl at the counter asked what the two of you needed, saying for a piercing it would be around a ten minute wait. Allie told the girl what she wanted, but before she wrote it down you butted in.
“Um, actually—I wanted to get my nipples pierced, can we do that today too?”
The worker responded politely, “of course!” before writing your information down.
Allie whipped her head around to face you as you walked away from the counter, her curls swaying. “Really? I thought you weren’t into the idea…” She squealed, excitement clearly coursing through her body.
You shook your head, hoping she didn’t see through your false confidence when you replied, “I mean, why not? It’s cute.”
When you got home later that day, Dean was already cozying up in your bed. He knew you’d be out with Allie for a while but you’d told him he could be there if he wanted to. You didn’t really think he’d take the offer.
“Oh! Hi,” you mumbled as you walked in the door, your brain hyperaware of your new piercings. You’d been so consumed by the thought of the piercings themselves that you’d forgotten that Dean was going to see them, probably very soon.
You’d also forgotten how sensitive they’d be.
“Hey, baby,” his voice was muffled from being beneath a big pile of your blankets and stuffed animals, “Have fun with Allie?”
The way you paused mindlessly before answering with a soft, “Yeah,” was Dean’s first red flag. The second was how stiff you were standing as you walked around the room, putting your purse away and taking off your shoes.
He sat up, moving the little bunny stuffy he got you for Valentine’s day.
When you finally met his eyes, your guard was up immediately. His bright blue eyes were narrowed and his lips were pressed in a pout. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay. Tell me what happened.”
Laughing, you sat on the empty side of the bed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Dean rolled onto his stomach, taking up the empty space and revealing his shirtless torso. “You’re acting weird. I want my girlfriend back, please.”
You rolled your eyes, running your hand over his hair soothingly.
“Okay,” you cleared your throat, trying to push down your racing thoughts. What if he hates it? What if he has to pretend to like it? What if—“I have something to tell you.”
His playful smile dropped, worry taking over his features. “Yeah?”
Dragging a hand over your face, you let out a heavy breath. “I got my nipples pierced,” you mumbled against your palm.
There was a beat of silence before Dean said, “What was that?”
“Dean.”
“I really couldn’t hear you, baby,” He laughed, his hands coming up to wrap around your wrists and pull your hands away from your face. “Can you repeat it? Please?”
Groaning, you repeated louder, “I got my nipples pierced.”
There was another silent beat, but Dean’s eyes had an unmistakable fire in them. The corner of his lips quirked up, his eyes dropping to your chest and back up.
“What?”
“I am not repeating myself again, Di Laurentis.”
“No, no. I just—Wow,” he blew out a breath, his chest rising and falling more dramatically than before. “Can I see?”
That’s how you ended up here, with Dean’s hands resting on your hips and his legs open wide for you to stand between. Your shirt was in a pile on the floor, the cool air making your nipples hard and even more of a view for Dean.
“Wow. You look…” he trailed off, his gaze never straying from your tits. His hand reached up, aiming for your new piercings, until you stopped his hand.
“Can’t touch. Y’gotta be careful with ‘em.”
Your boyfriend dragged out a low groan, dropping his head to your stomach—making sure to avoid hitting your sensitive piercings. “You’re already killing me, and now I can’t even touch you? What am I being punished for?”
You scoffed, “You’re not being punished, you big baby. And if you’re expecting me to wait until my piercings are fully healed for you to touch me at all, I’m offended.”
His head snapped up at that, his eyes telling you everything you need to know. That and the very clear boner he’s sporting through his sweats. “I just gotta avoid the tits for a little? That’s all? No surprise piercing down there that I need to know about?”
You shook your head, recognizing the undeniable heat in his voice, “Everything else is still on the table.”
The entire night felt like it was just Dean complimenting you. He said something at every point.
Took your pants off? “Gorgeous.” Came on his fingers? “So fucking hot.” Finished on his face? “Delicious.”
He would not stop.
Even when he was buried to the hilt inside you, while you were squirming from the pleasure and milking his cock dry, he felt like he had to keep praising you. “You’re so pretty, baby. I fucking love—Holy shit—I love your nipples. I love your nipple piercings. So fucking sexy, baby.”
The man literally begged you to go on top. He said he “wanted to have your pretty tits up close and bouncing in his face if he couldn’t even touch them.”
You agreed, expecting to have to take control. Not expecting to have him fucking up into you, hitting you at a new angle that made your back arch and your entire body shake. Your eyes were teary and clamped shut, moans spilling out of your mouth faster than you could feel them coming.
“That feel good, sweetheart?” The cocky bastard asked you with a devilish grin on his face. “Looks like it from down here.”
Your hand cupped over his mouth, your way of telling him to shut up without having to speak. He kissed your palm and grabbed your hand, lacing his fingers through yours.
The new angle you took to reach his mouth made your clit rub against his solid body, adding extra pleasure that made you squeeze around him. “Oh my god. Dean.”
Dean groaned at the sound of your shaky voice gasping his name, the feeling of your tight pussy around him and your nails digging into his biceps bringing him closer to his release.
“I’m close,” his deep voice rasped in your ear, his hands gripping your hips as he continued plowing into you. You threw your head back with your body, Dean’s fingers promptly coming to toy with your clit, working you over the edge.
“Dean—”
“I know, baby. Ride it out f’me,” he cooed, continuing his thrusts until you pushed on his chest to stop him.
You slowly pulled off, careful not to overstimulate your very sensitive cunt. Flopping over on your back, Dean was quick to roll on his side to look at you. He didn’t say anything more, just stared until you turned away in embarrassment.
Summary: Garett attends y/n’s awards night expecting a long night of academic jargon. Instead, he watches his girlfriend collect award after award, realising his nerdy girlfriend might be the smartest person he’s ever met.
Word Count: 1.5K
“Why do I have to come?”
Garett glanced up from tying his shoes to where Dean sprawled dramatically across the couch in the hockey house living room.
“Because Tucker’s busy, Logan said no, and I need someone to suffer with me.”
Dean pointed accusingly.
“So you admit this is suffering.”
“It’s an awards ceremony, not a funeral.”
Dean stared at him blankly.
“For science students.”
“…fair.”
Dean groaned loudly and dragged himself upright anyway.
“You owe me wings after this.”
“Done.”
“And beer.”
“Greedy.”
“And if anyone starts talking about molecules, I’m leaving.”
Garett snorted and shoved his jacket on.
Honestly, he didn’t think the night would be a big deal.
Y/N had invited him earlier that week while curled against him in his dorm bed, absentmindedly highlighting something in a chemistry textbook thicker than his anatomy notes.
“Will you come to my awards ceremony Thursday?”
“What kind of awards?”
“Science department stuff.”
Garett had immediately grimaced.
“That sounds horrifying.”
She kicked his leg lightly.
“Please?”
And because Garett Graham would probably agree to literally anything when she looked at him like that, he’d sighed dramatically and said yes.
He figured it was one of those polite academic events where everyone got a certificate for surviving organic chemistry.
He just needed to uphold the supportive boyfriend duties, easy enough.
Now though, standing outside the university’s Natural Sciences building while Dean looked personally victimized beside him, Garett was beginning to question his life choices.
Students and faculty crowded the entrance dressed significantly nicer than usual for a Thursday night. Parents carried flowers. Professors chatted near display boards filled with research posters Garett absolutely did not understand.
Dean stopped dead in front of one.
“What the hell is computational biophysics?”
“No clue.”
“There are graphs.”
Dean shook his head solemnly.
“This is why athletes should stay with athletes.”
Garett rolled his eyes.
Then he spotted Y/N across the lobby.
And for a second, everything else disappeared.
She stood near the auditorium doors talking to a professor, wearing a dark blue dress and heels he already knew were going to kill her feet later. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders and she laughed softly at something the professor said.
But what caught Garett off guard wasn’t how pretty she looked.
It was the way everyone around her seemed to know her.
Students waved while passing. Professors stopped to talk to her. One older faculty member actually touched her shoulder proudly while speaking. It reminded Garett uncomfortably of hockey banquets. Of people stopping him after games. Recognizing him on campus. Talking about his stats and goals and future.
Only this wasn’t hockey.
This was her world.
And apparently she mattered in it a lot more than he realized.
Y/N spotted him then and immediately brightened.
“There you are.”
Garett grinned automatically as she walked over.
“You know,” Garett said while following her up the stairs, “you still haven’t explained what this actually is.”
Y/N glanced back at him with a grin.
“It’s just the College of Natural Sciences awards ceremony.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s not fake.”
“It sounds fake.”
She laughed under her breath and hooked her fingers through his.
The building buzzed with students and faculty dressed nicer than usual. Professors chatted near the entrance while families filled rows of seats inside the auditorium.
“Nerd convention,” he muttered.
Y/N nudged him with her shoulder.
“You’re literally dating one of them.”
“Yeah, but you’re my nerd. Different category.”
That earned him an eye roll, but he caught the smile she tried to hide afterward.
Dean looked between them and gagged dramatically.
“You two are disgusting.”
“Why are you here?” Y/N laughed.
“He was emotionally forced.”
“I was bribed with wings,” Dean corrected.
Y/N smiled before slipping her hand into Garett’s.
“You look nice, hockey boy.”
“You saying I usually look bad?”
“I’m saying your formalwear is usually team-issued.”
Dean barked out a laugh.
Before Garett could respond, someone called Y/N’s name from across the lobby.
She turned immediately.
“Oh, I have to go sit with my department. You guys are over there.” She pointed toward the auditorium seating. “Please try to survive.”
“No promises,” Dean muttered.
Y/N leaned up to kiss Garett quickly before disappearing into the crowd.
Dean watched her leave before looking at Garett.
“She’s definitely smarter than you.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious. I can feel it.”
Garett shoved his shoulder as they headed into the auditorium.
The room slowly filled while faculty shuffled papers near the stage. Dean looked seconds away from death already.
“If this lasts longer than an hour,” he whispered, “tell my family I loved them.”
Garett ignored him, gaze drifting toward Y/N a few rows closer to the front.
She sat between other science students laughing quietly about something, completely relaxed.
Comfortable.
Again, it reminded him of himself before games.
Like she belonged here.
The ceremony started a few minutes later.
Dean lasted approximately seven minutes before leaning over.
“I haven’t understood a single word.”
Garett smirked slightly.
A professor stepped to the podium.
“We’d first like to recognize undergraduate excellence in research…”
Polite applause filled the room.
Garett half-listened at first, attention drifting occasionally.
Then….
“For her work in analytical chemistry research…”
Y/N’s name echoed through the auditorium.
Garett straightened immediately.
She walked across the stage while the audience applauded warmly.
Dean blinked.
“Oh. She’s getting an award-award.”
Garett frowned slightly.
“Apparently.”
Then twenty minutes later her name got called again.
And again.
And again.
By the fourth time, Dean looked personally offended.
“What the hell?”
Garett could only stare.
Because suddenly the entire room was making sense.
The professors that knew her.
The students whispering about her.
The way she carried herself here.
This wasn’t some random ceremony where everyone got participation certificates.
This was recognition.
Real recognition.
One professor smiled while handing her an award and said into the microphone:
“Students like Y/N remind us why we love teaching.”
The audience applauded louder at that.
Garett felt something warm and overwhelming settle in his chest.
Because he knew what it felt like to be noticed for something you worked your ass off at.
To walk into a room and have people know your name because you earned it.
Hockey had always been that for him.
But sitting there now, watching professors light up when his girlfriend crossed the stage, he realized science was that for her.
And somehow that made him emotional as hell.
Dean leaned toward him slowly.
“Dude.”
“Yeah?”
“Your girlfriend’s kinda famous.”
Garett laughed quietly under his breath, unable to look away from her.
Y/N sat back down, smiling shyly while another student whispered congratulations beside her.
“She’s just…” Garett trailed off.
“Terrifyingly smart?”
“Yeah.”
Dean nodded solemnly.
“She could probably build a bomb.”
“She studies chemistry, not terrorism.”
“How do you know there’s a difference?”
Garett shoved him again, but he was smiling.
By the end of the ceremony Y/N had four awards, two faculty recognitions, one research distinction, and apparently an entire department ready to adopt her.
Garett honestly felt stunned.
Because outside of this building, people looked at him first.
At parties.
At games.
On campus.
He was Garett Graham.
Star hockey player.
Center of attention without trying.
But here?
Here, people looked at her the same way.
Like she was impressive.
Important.
Exceptional.
And watching it happen made him absurdly proud.
After the ceremony ended, the lobby filled immediately with congratulations and conversation.
Y/N got stopped every three feet.
A professor asked about her summer research plans.
Another student congratulated her tutoring award.
Someone’s mom literally told her, “You were wonderful up there.”
Garett stood off to the side watching her laugh politely through it all.
And suddenly he understood something.
This was her version of the rink.
This was where she shined.
A few minutes later she finally escaped the crowd carrying several certificates against her chest.
Dean stared at the stack.
“I’m actually embarrassed for the rest of the department.”
“Oh my god,” Y/N laughed.
“I’m serious. You won half the ceremony.”
“It was not half.”
“Forty percent minimum,” Dean argued.
She rolled her eyes before turning toward Garett.
But the second she looked at him properly, her smile faltered slightly.
“What?”
Garett stepped closer slowly.
“You never told me you were basically the Wayne Gretzky of science.”
Y/N immediately groaned.
“Please never say that again.”
“I’m serious.”
Her cheeks pinked slightly beneath the lobby lights.
“You looked at home up there,” Garett admitted quietly. “Like… this is your thing.”
Something softer flickered across her expression then.
“It is,” she said.
And Garett swore he’d never heard her sound prouder.
He reached for the awards in her arms before leaning down enough to kiss her forehead gently.
“I’m really proud of you, baby.”
The words clearly hit harder than she expected because her entire expression softened instantly.
“I understood like three percent of the ceremony,” stated Garett.
Dean nodded seriously beside them.
“I understood zero percent and even I’m impressed.”
Y/N laughed quietly.
Then Garett wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into his side.
And standing there surrounded by professors and research students and academic achievements Garett felt more certain that his girlfriend was every bit as exceptional as people said he was on the ice.
꒰ 呪術廻戦 ꒱ › shopping with masc! girlfriend maki. sfw
maki zen’in x f! reader. toothrotting wlw fluff. set in canon
it’s one of those rare afternoons with no curses. you’re dragging maki through another high-end department store, gojo-sensei’s black credit card in your back pocket. you’d barely had to ask, he’d just tossed it at you with a wink and a “have fun, try not to bankrupt me.”
maki — bless her — is laden with bags from the last three stores against her toned biceps. she doesn’t complain, just follows you diligently in her street clothes
you stop at a perfume counter, a rainbow of glass bottles glinting under the lights. you spritz a few on cards, wrinkling your nose at a floral that’s too sweet and a woodsy one that smells like air freshener. then you find one you like, something soft and citrusy, and spritz it on your wrist. you hold it out to maki, extending your arm so your pulse point is right under her nose.
“what do you think of this one?”
she leans in, sharp amber eyes scanning your face before they flick down to your wrist. she takes a short, sniff. then she straightens up.
“smells fine,” she says, “but your sol de janeiro is better.”
you pocket gojo-sensei’s card without buying the new perfume. “fine. i’ll stick to mine.”
next is makeup. you’re drawn to a display of new lipglosses, tubes filled with shimmering, syrupy colors. you pick out a rosy nude and swipe it on, then turn to maki. she’s watching you, one eyebrow slightly raised.
you don’t ask for her opinion. you lean in and press a soft, sticky kiss to her lips. she hums and when you pull back, a faint, glossy sheen is on her own mouth. she licks it away.
“tastes like cherries,” she comments.
you try a shimmery peach next. this time you cup her jaw, thumb stroking her skin as you kiss her again, a little slower. when you part, you search her pretty amber eyes.
“and this one?”
she considers it, her gaze dropping to your mouth. “peachy. it’s fine.”
“maki, you’re not helping.”
“i like ‘em all,” she says, a smirk playing on her lips. “especially when you’re the one wearing them. now pick one so we can go.”
you end up buying both.
finally, clothes. you find a section filled with soft, flowy tops. you pull out a navy blue halter top with lace trim and hold it against yourself. “what about this?”
maki’s leaning against a nearby pillar, arms crossed over her chest, looking bored out of her mind. she glances over. “it’s a shirt, babe”
you sigh, putting it back and grabbing a black skirt instead, holding it up to your waist. “and this?”
“it’s a skirt.” she shrugs “shorter than your other ones. congrats on finding a new way to flash me.”
“maki,” you whine, stomping your foot just a little. “be helpful.”
she pushes off the pillar and walks over. she stops right in front of you, so close you can feel the heat radiating from her. her eyes scan you from head to toe. she reaches out, her fingers hooking into the belt loops of your jeans and tugging you just a fraction closer.
“they all look the same to me,” she says, lowering her voice. she makes your stomach flip. “you’d look good in a paper bag, now stop wasting time and pick something.”
her thumb rubs a small circle on your hipbone, and your breath hitches in your throat. being nonchalant and curt is her version of being romantic. you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your bones, that she loves you. you grab the top and the skirt, and a soft sweater you’d just spotted, and head for the register.
then maki’s pulling you along again, her expression once again a mask of indifference. she’s still holding all your bags, including the new one. you fall into step beside her, your shoulders brushing.
“you didn’t like anything?” you ask, when you realize she hasn’t picked out anything for herself all morning
“i liked watching you try stuff on,” she says. she doesn’t look at you, just keeps walking forward. “now are you grabbing food or not? i’m not carrying all this shit around for free.”
Summary: Luke and a few of the Devils players make a bet for who could actually achieve no nut November. However Luke's girlfriend proves to make the task unintentionally much harder than he expected and he didn't realise just how much they have sex till it was off the table.
Themes/warnings: Smut
Word count: 2.1k
Luke doesn't know why he agreed to the bet, it's stupid money because hockey players clearly have too much money to play with. But given his current contract, he was really not in need to make any bets. But the competitor came out of him and he placed money down, proving himself to be one of the players with more money than sense.
He thought he might stand a pretty good chance till he got back to the apartment and was reminded that his girlfriend is like poster child for the sin of lust.
"Just remember. I'll sell your ass out." Jack states earning a groan.
"I'm moving out. It's time." Luke declares earning y/n's attention before she smiles moving towards him.
"Be careful, y/n. No touching below the waist for Luke for the next month."
"What?" Y/n frowns looking at Luke in very confused over his brother's words.
"There's a few guys who made a stupid bet. Seeing who can do no nut November."
Y/n immediately smiles in amusement before snorting a little and looking at Jack.
"Are you doing this too then?"
"Yes, Nico roped me into placing a bet down." Jack grumbles clearly also regretting his choice to partake.
"Alright that's great. So no sex for November." Y/n hums in thought before sighing. "Is it really that much money?"
"It is but also I'm not going to lose baby." Luke states making reminding her that she is in fact dating a competitive athlete who doesn't like to lose for any reason. Luke flicks to his gaze seeming to check that Jack isn't listening. "Doesn't mean no sex for you, just from my side."
"Oh so I can give you blue balls." Y/n jokes then kissing him.
"Looking the way you do you already are." Luke states not even pulling back from the kiss as he speaks while y/n smiles against his lips then drops down.
"So long as I'm getting a cut of the winnings. I'll make sure you are celibate." Y/n laughs patting his chest and then moving back. "Will have to find more modest stuff from my wardrobe to remove temptation."
"You'll have to move out, baby." Luke declares earning a laugh before y/n begins shifting away from him.
"No! No. You can't just throw her out to avoid it." Jack calls out.
"That isn't a rule!" Luke shouts back then looking down at y/n and groaning.
"What?"
"I need a cold shower." Luke declares considering how many it will take for him to get through the month unscathed.
"I didn't even do anything."
"You don't have to."
Y/n giggles to herself as Jack reappears and shakes his head.
"You're gonna cost that man money."
-
Luke had struggled through the first week only by the skin of his teeth, more than once he'd woken up forgetting his bet and practically pounced on y/n and grinding down on her before she came around and scolded him playfully reminding him of his challenge.
Thankfully they're on a 4 game roadie for the second week, which means y/n and Luke's only contact is texts and calls with her posting one very PG photo dump on Instagram and she doesn't appear most of the pictures either.
But one thing he realised was an issue is that usually once he's back from a roadie himself and y/n make up for lost time and on the journey home his mind strays to all those occasions of him coming home and y/n greeting him with the best sex.
He gets so lost in his reliving of his memories that he hardly notices that they've landed till Jack shakes the chair next to him and he's knocked out his thoughts.
Luke is driving them back to the apartment where y/n has made sure to be in her least sexy state after having used the boys being gone as an opportunity to deep clean the entire apartment.
They have a cleaner who comes in and she does a good job but y/n gave her the week off paid and spent the week pulling out furniture to clean underneath, stripping the covers from the sofa. Load after load of laundry. She's really disheveled and despite having scrubbed herself down this morning in the shower, she has worked up a sweat.
Luke and Jack return but Jack apparently has some plans because he throws his bags down and mumbles something about going somewhere before heading back out practically spending seconds in the apartment before he's gone.
Meanwhile Luke places his bags down and decides that he can't possibly restrain himself anymore. And without Jack there, he's going to take the opportunity.
"Baby?! Where are you?" Luke calls out hearing her curse before a loud rumble of thudding is heard making him move into their bedroom and find a large pile of his excessive amounts of hoodies on the floor with y/n's upper body poking out and for a moment he forgets his intentions and smiles down at her. "What you doing?"
"I was trying to reach your hoodies-which you insist on keeping out of my reach." Y/n huffs as she sits up while Luke crouches down to her. "You're home late."
"Traffic was bad. Trust me I hated it more than you did."
"Where's Jack?"
"Said something about needing to go out. Probably some date or something." Luke shrugs as his body reminds him about what he's there for. "Baby, I need you. I need to feel you."
Y/n frowns at him before realising that he's about to revoke his participation of the no nut November bet.
"But-"
"No one has to know and find out. I'd put even more money down to bet that the others had sex the day we made the bet." Luke declares while y/n seems to consider it. "Baby, please we really don't have time to waste and I don't know when Jack will be back."
Y/n scrambles to get up pushing the pile of hoodies off of her and before she can even get up from the floor Luke has pulled her up and tossed her onto the bed. His large body is over her in an instant and honestly if anything Luke's driven more crazy by y/n's more unkempt appearance.
Luke has spent their entire relationship worshipping y/n's body when he got the opportunity and actually despite the promise of nothing lacking on her side, y/n had done Luke the favour of not making him fulfil the promise knowing it would only taunt him.
"You have no idea what kind of torture it is not to feel you." Luke groans literally ripping the clothes off of her, tearing the material with a strength that he wasn't even aware he possessed. But when testosterone is guiding your movements it's fair to say that there might be a lack of awareness in the strength used.
Y/n feels a tug to stop him but honestly she's missed having sex too. It's not like they're dependent on it but what is a relationship without sex? They already spend the hockey season going longer than they'd like without sex when he's on the road.
"We need to make this quick." Y/n states since she knows Jack would broadcast the news the moment he stepped in the apartment and clocked what they were doing. "No marks."
Luke grumbles since he is a man who likes to leave marks, in whatever way he can but he knows that is going to have to go a miss today. He does try to move down y/n's body wanting a taste but y/n pulls him back up and locks him into a kiss.
"If you give me head right now, you risk not getting your dick in me. Head is ok any time. Focus on that later." Y/n instructs making Luke swallow but nod.
Luke definitely has one thing on his mind and if skipping over the usual steps gets him there faster with y/n's permission, then he's not about to dispute her on it.
Y/n swallows thickly as she looks at Luke undress before he's spread her legs fingers gently poking into her since he's not about to go in dry and make it hurt for her. And apparently she's not wet enough for his liking before the scarily precise spit that lands on her gets rubbed in while she whines.
"Don't act like you don't love that." Luke smirks as he guides his dick to her using the tip to spread his spit around mixing with her slowly growing wetness.
"You hockey men are too good with how precise you target your spit."
"We need to work on your dirty talk." Luke smirks pushing into her with a sigh of satisfaction.
Y/n's legs hook around him and she is pulls him closer. Y/n honestly didn't realise how badly she needed Luke until he really closed the space between them and suddenly she feels like she's starved.
Luke, admittedly, completely loses his composure. He's thrusting into y/n as if he could make it last forever, stretch this moment out long enough that he might never actually have to stop. Y/n does her best to move her hips in time with him but the speed and ferocity behind his movements are far too much for her to keep up with. The feeling of his movements, the stretch of his length and him hitting spots that only he's capable of reaching doesn't take long to push her over the edge and Luke follows in tandem managing a few sloppy but forceful thrusts into her before he leverages his weight to remain fully seated inside her, relishing in the pulsing heat for as long as he can.
"Are you ok?" Y/n whispers while feeling Luke shift and just press his weight down on her with his face hiding in her neck.
"I don't know if I care about the bet anymore." Luke groans as y/n laughs a little.
"You know, there wouldn't actually be any crime committed if you said fuck the bet I want to have sex with my girlfriend whenever I want." Y/n smiles and Luke's reaction is like she just had the biggest revelation for him. "What did you think there was some sort of gun held to your head? If they try to mock you for deciding giving up sex isn't worth the money, then tell them I want to have a word with them."
-
After y/n's declaration that any issues of Luke not seeing the bet through would be sorted by her, Luke followed through on making up for all the sex they didn't have.
Y/n pretty much passed out and he wasn't far after her, only managing to give her a brief clean up and trying, and failing, to get her to drink some water while half asleep.
When she wakes up, she leans over kissing Luke while he's out cold and then moving to pull on whatever clothes she can find, or whatever of Luke's clothes she can steal quietly before walking out of the bedroom and finding Jack cooking them some sort of meal.
"Hey." Y/n smiles earning the older brother's attention.
"Any reason I'd have to deal with noise complaints from the neighbours."
"You really want the grotty details about your brother's sex life?" Y/n challenges and Jack's groan of disgust is answer enough. "I didn't think so."
"Well he's lost some money."
"I can promise you, he thinks it's worth it." Y/n smiles laughing when Jack tells her to stop it. "Where did you disappear to anyway?"
"I...also lost the bet." Jack admits sheepishly. "But I wasn't causing noise complaints."
"Sounds like I really made the right decision with which brother I chose then." Y/n smiles as they both hear thuds and shuffling before Luke appears with a hoodie on and shorts. He's drawn to y/n like a moth to a flame as he wraps his arms around her with a sigh. "Apparently we disturbed your neighbours."
"I don't care." Luke mumbles sleepily and honestly his tired grumpiness makes it pretty obvious that he almost feels compelled to upset the neighbours more.
"Jack lost the bet too." Y/n informs him which actually seems to catch his attention a little more. "So you can both be mocked."
"Worth it." Luke shrugs before finally sitting down next to her on the other stool.
previously on... | currently airing: episode eleven | episode guide
you've got a text! looks like you're about to spend your summer on everyone's favorite trashy reality dating show searching for love (...or that cash prize at the end) will a certain pretty (annoying) blue-eyed boy catch your attention? or perhaps his dark-haired best friend? it seems this villa has a few bombshells in store too!
pairings: Gojo x Reader, Geto x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Choso x Reader
content: MDNI, angst and some light fluff, fem reader!, she's a little bitchy but we love her anyway, inspired mostly by love island and similar dating shows, emotional hurt, past cheating trauma, Sukuna wants us back, other background relationships, COUPLING UP CEREMONY TIME !!, lots of men yearning, mutual pining, reader is so done
creds: gorgeous art by @baobei-bu and divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more
"Are you excited for the coupling up ceremony tonight?"
You'd actually rather jump off the dock and break both legs than stand there on national television waiting for a man to pick you, but you couldn't actually say that to the blinking camera as the producers waited for you to deliver a screentime-worthy confessional.
"If Sukuna chooses me, I might stab him in his sleep," you bluntly said instead, even though you were pretty sure the powers that be were praying you actually did for the ratings and viewership they'd rake in from it. Honestly, they would probably even give him first priority, give him the opportunity to pick first.
But really, you had no clue who you would choose if it was your turn.
What were your actual options here?
A man who admitted he cheated on his ex-girlfriend, albeit for a good reason? A guy who'd slept with more people than you knew? Your ex-boyfriend who may or may not have brought a stalker into your life?
Were you just supposed to wait and hope prince charming came along?
You had already accepted that love wasn't real. That lust was all you'd find here. But instead of finding freedom in that knowledge, of doing whoever you wanted without guilt, you just felt fucking depressed.
Your solution?
Getting drunk.
Sipping on the strongest margarita you could make, Yuki giggling and tossing one back with you before you were ushered back up to the dressing room and instructed to get ready. She tried cheering you up. Talking about how those guys were loser, chirping that you could do better while she twisted and turned to stare at her own ass in the full-length mirror in a short black dress.
"He's going to pick me," you groaned, still begrudgingly applying lip gloss and leaning in to look at your own reflection. Your fingers weren't quite cooperating with you, clumsily dropping the tube as you frowned at your failed attempts to put on fake lashes.
"Maybe it's, like, fate or something," Manami dryly muttered across from you, chiming in with an opinion you very much hadn't asked for.
You faltered, brows scrunching together as your lips parted in surprise while your brain tried to come up with a reason for speaking up.
Was she just hoping you got with Sukuna so Suguru would be all hers? Did she still like him? Or was she trying to make amends now that her and Naoya sorta seemed like a thing?
"Do you think this looks okay?" Utahime broke the tension though, tugging down a short skirt and spinning around. She wasn't asking the group though, her eyes sticking to Shoko - who was already watching her.
"Great," Shoko answered, her voice soft and slow, not betraying her usual bored tone even if her stare had stuck to her friend's body.
You were reflexively looking back over at Yuki, raising an eyebrow to silently ask if she was seeing the same thing you were, but the blonde was already slipping on her heels and scurrying back over to the chair next to yours, rummaging through her messy pile of stuff to find some perfume to spritz over her tanned skin.
"Who do you hope picks you?" You changed the subject, not sure what she'd say. Maybe the kiss with Satoru had swayed something for her. And just maybe, the idea of them coupling up and sleeping in the same bed together, made you sorta ill.
The warmth in your chest rising into a suffocating smoke, your throat drying up and forcing you to take another long swallow of your drink.
"If I had to pick Geto, I guess," she shrugged her shoulders. "But honestly, as long as it's not Naoya-"
You couldn't resist glancing back over to Manami while Yuki was still chatting about how much she couldn't stand him, but she was pretending to be unbothered, focused only on touching up her hair in the mirror now, even though her lips were pressed in a thin line.
"What about you?" Yuki finished as she finally turned towards you, tilting her head to the side and sighing when she saw the state of your unfinished makeup. "Close your eyes."
She dragged her chair closer, picking up your makeup as you hesitantly listened, letting her finish applying the rest while you considered her question.
"No clue," you exhaled. "I haven't really gotten to talk to Nanami much. So, Satoru, maybe?"
Even if he was a man-whore.
And by the time Yuki was done, and producers had sent you up and down the stairs ten times in some dramatic group formation before finally letting you all go the fire pit for your continued public humiliation, you had already changed your mind again, the alcohol clouding your fuzzy thoughts as you struggled to stay steady in your heels.
Nanami was probably the only safe option here.
But despite the fact Utahime seemed more interested in, um, brunettes, you sort of doubted that he would pick someone other than her.
You felt like an idiot walking over to your mark to stand, stuck between Yuki and Manami, insecurities you usually shoved down resurfacing at being sandwiched in the middle of two insanely gorgeous girls.
Honestly, you didn't even want to look at the guys, but someone whistled, and your eyes were immediately searching for Satoru.
Stupid.
You knew it was stupid, but you still held his stare, locked onto his annoyingly pretty face, his big blue eyes shining in the brightly-lit space no matter how late at night it actually was. Wearing some loose white button-up with far too many of those buttons left undone, his sculpted chest on display as he leaned back on the curved couch.
The show's host came out, some pretty idol you'd seen a thousand times in commercials and advertisements, smiling all pretty as she recited her memorized spiel about how coupling up works, repeating it until production was satisfied and sure they got the right shot.
And just like you'd been anticipating, she called out Sukuna's name, coming up with some excuse for letting the newest arrival choose who to couple with first.
He awkwardly stood up, scowling as he reached back to scratch the back of his head, the short sleeves of his shirt just making your name on his skin stand out even more.
In your years of experience, he never wanted to be anywhere other than his own bedroom. Or begrudgingly getting drunk at a bar.
And yet, he was here, glaring and grimacing as his mouth parted, "The person I want to couple up with is-"
You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood, bracing yourself as you imagined how it would feel to be forced to sit next to him for however the ceremony took, for his arm to slip around your waist and squeeze while he treated you like you were his girlfriend again.
"Shoko."
What the hell?
You had no idea what sort of face you were making, only that it was stunned, eyes probably bulging and blinking fast as your head swiveled between the two of them. Shoko snorted, sifting her fingers through her hair and starting towards him like she couldn't feel everyone's stare on her. Utahime hissed out the same sentiment you'd just been thinking, but everyone else was completely silent, too many of them turning their attention to you when the new pair was basically a brick wall when it came to emoting.
The host was talking again, coyly saying something about what a surprise match that was, and you couldn't bring yourself to fully listen.
Not when Sukuna kept throwing you looks like he was trying to ask if this was what you wanted.
Was it?
It bothered you more than it should to see her with him, reclining back into the couch and crossing her legs even if she looked like she was dying for a cigarette.
But the ceremony was moving on, the host calling up Naoya next, who at least called Manami like you thought he would, her pink curls bouncing as she walked over to him.
Nanami chose Utahime too, but for a fraction of a moment, you could've sworn his amber eyes drifted over to you before he said her name.
Which just left Suguru and Satoru.
And you and Yuki.
"Geto," the host grinned, gesturing for him to stand up, her freshly-done manicure matching her designer dress. "What about you? Who's your girl tonight?"
He chuckled, low and soft as he stood, brushing lint from his slacks as he stood up and rolled his shoulders back. He looked as handsome as he always did, put-together, lips pursed as he respectfully glanced between you and your new blonde friend.
You tried to tell yourself that you wouldn't be disappointed if he chose her. That you'd have the chance to sort out your sprouting strained feelings for Satoru.
But you were still standing up straighter, swallowing the spit in the back of your mouth as you made up your mind not to sleep with whoever you wound up with.
Like you didn't seriously doubt your own self-control.
You were so distracted in your own head that you almost missed when Suguru said his girl was you.
His dark gaze pulling you in like it was gravity, trying to draw you in his orbit while he waited for you to walk over. You took the first step, stiff and awkward as you briefly shifted your stare to Satoru, his previous easy smile wiped away and replaced with hot anger. Sheer disbelief that you were being stolen from under his nose.
A sliver of you felt bad for Yuki too, almost like you'd taken something from her even if she sounded apathetic about it before.
Still, your feet kept moving you forward, and once you were close enough, Suguru was slipping a strong arm around your waist and pulling you to him.
He answered the host's questions for you, talking about how he'd been charmed since you kissed on that first fast date, murmuring that he was hoping he'd get another chance to kiss you how he did during the blindfold challenge, your stomach flipping and heart fluttering at the memory of man who tried to make out with you before Sukuna showed up.
Confirming that it really was him.
The rest of the ceremony wrapped up with more of that terrible tension still crackling in the air, sitting next to Suguru while he leaned in to softly whisper in your ear that he was happy he got the chance to be coupled up with you - only to end up sandwiched between him and Satoru after he was automatically paired with Yuki.
She didn't seem too unhappy about it at least, putting her hand on his shoulder and leaning into him even if it was just for the show.
All you really wanted was to go back to bed. Curl up under the comforter and pretend you didn't feel the body that would be sharing it with you tonight.
However, it only took about forty seconds after the host walked off for everything to fall apart.
Satoru was standing first, grabbing his best friend by the collar of his shirt and starting to drag him away, careful not to actually touch him so he didn't break any of the rules, but aggressive enough you were gasping and glancing around to see if anyone would stop them.
Shoko laughed a little, her hand going over her mouth to hide it as Utahime stood up - but only to go pull the brunette away from your ex-boyfriend.
Everyone else just looked mildly amused.
You huffed, reluctantly getting up and trailing after them after they disappeared around a corner. Probably heading off for the illusion of privacy, even though you all knew pretty much every conversation you had was subject to be aired and viewed by millions.
That was at least what excuse you told yourself to justify what you did next - pausing against a trellis covered in fake plants to listen in on their conversation when you heard Satoru's raised voice.
"I fucking called dibs, dude," Satoru hissed at him. "And you keep-"
"We're here to get to know people," Suguru retorted, short and snappy. "I want to get to know her."
"Well, I wanted to first," he argued back. "We already-"
"You can't just act like you're in love with her after a few fucking days," Suguru scoffed, a sharp edge in his voice, stubborn and strong. "Just because she gave you a handjob?"
"It's more than that-"
Was it though?
You didn't know what to think, leaning against the wall while you eavesdropped, waiting for one of them to say something and make up your mind for you.
"She'll have to decide at the next ceremony anyway," Suguru pointed out, but Satoru made some disgruntled sound back.
He wasn't confident you'd choose him.
And you weren't confident in anything anymore.
You thought they might be about to wrap up, that the initial rage was subsiding into something they'd be able to talk through like grown adults, but before you could hear what Satoru had to say back to your new, um, partner, a finger tapped your shoulder twice.
Despite all of tonight's twists, you still found it in yourself to be surprised when you realized it was Sukuna.
Frowning as he jutted his thumb behind him, obviously trying to steal you away without alerting the two men bickering about who deserved your attention.
And because you were stupid enough to be with him in the first place, you reluctantly followed, arms folded across your chest as he led you to the daybed you made him sleep on last night.
More curious than you cared to admit about him coupling up with another girl after his whole speech about only being here for you and too drained to put up your own argument about anything.
"I'm not interested in her, you know," he immediately said before you even sat down.
You didn't respond, just bending over to start taking off your heels, rubbing your sore ankles and waiting in silence for him to explain more.
"She's gay," Sukuna dryly added, gesturing back in the direction of the fire pit as your head snapped back at him so he could see your jaw drop.
"You can't just, like, assume-" You started scolding him only to get a familiar scoff back.
"She was staring at the black-hair chick's tits for half the stupid ceremony," he pointed out, as if it was obvious.
"I mean, it's-" Your own voice died, unable to come up with a proper protest before you buried your head in the hands and exhaled hard.
Why the fuck were you damned to deal with this dumb shit 24/7?
Was this the universe punishing you for deciding to go on reality tv?
"You told me to leave you alone for a little bit," Sukuna grunted, and you couldn't lift your head to look at him. "That's the only reason I chose her. I'll give you space, or whatever, but I'm not leaving and I'm sure as fuck not letting go of you."
He stood up and walked off without giving you the opportunity to tell him not to.
Truthfully, you weren't sure there was anything in your relationship with him worth saving. But part of you missed him when he wasn't around anyway. A part of your brain permanently preoccupied with him whether you liked it or not.
You were supposed to be here to forget about him.
To shove the past under the waves and swim out as someone new. Or with someone new.
Maybe what you really needed to move on was to make an actual move on someone else. Have hot sex or a sloppy makeout session to stop thinking about all the serious stuff you'd be stuck with in your real life anyway.
The question was...with who?
NEXT EPISODE...
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REMINDER THAT ON THE POLLS WHOEVER WIN WILL NOT BE IN THE NEXT POLL !! ALSO STOP ASKING ME IF IM GONNA DISCONTINUE THIS OR IF IT'S FORGOTTEN IT IS SO IRRITATING
