MIDNIGHT ALGORITHMS (DATA SCIENCE AND…DICK)
SUMMARY — you were supposed to be studying for your data science retake. instead, you ended up riding the university’s biggest nerd until he came in his jeans and begged to stay inside. gojo satoru is a virgin, a computer science major, and apparently completely obsessed with you…and your pussy.
CONTENT — nerdjo! x f!reader, p in v, university au, exhibitionism, cunnilingus, overstimulation, sub gojo, virgin gojo, bimbo reader, academic corruption lol, first time (gojo), mean reader, cumming untouched, pussy-drunk gojo, filthy smut with little plot.
[WC 5.164]
gojo fanart credits to @/lemiruu on x
the library at 12:32 a.m is quiet. nevermind the fact that it’s summer, you happen to be one of the unlucky dwindling population of students staying behind during break. still, the dorms are nearly empty now, the halls so quiet you swear you could hear the building itself breathing with lights faintly buzzing overhead and that weird flicker of static in the walls.
this wasn’t how you imagined your summer. you were supposed to be in okinawa, sunkissed and full of grilled squid and mango shaved ice. but that fantasy had dissolved as fast as the email that tanked your plans. failed. you didn’t even clear the minimum requirement for your data science class.
and sure, maybe that was on you. you’d chosen your major on a whim, thinking “business” sounded safe. you figured you’d learn a thing or two about money and come out the other side with a degree and a vague sense of superiority. you hadn’t accounted for things like statistical modeling or working with python. you hadn’t even googled the course description, let alone the syllabus. you assumed, stupidly, that business school meant learning how to make money and definitely not how to interpret scatterplots and write shitty codes. you just signed up because it sounded useful. future-proof or…whatever.
it all came down to this: a midnight lecture from none other than gojo satoru himself.
stuck on campus. in the middle of july. retaking a class you hated.
he was… peculiar. he always sat behind you in class. always with those big, square glasses so out of style that sometimes you had to stop yourself from scoffing because—really, those glasses? is it some weird proclamation that he’s smart? and he is, to be fair, but it somehow annoys you to the bone. and always in the same kind of too-large hoodies (just in different colors), chewed raw at the hem. he’s so aggressively unfashionable you almost thought it was ironic. and he’s fidgety, you noticed. always had the time to raise his hand in class, only to stumble through answers in stutters and incoherent babble, pushing up his stupid glasses with one finger. and yet, he always got a nod of approval from the professor. smart, but weird.
weirder were the random instagram likes—one on a post from months ago, something you’d forgotten you even uploaded. and then, a few minutes later, it’d vanish. like he got caught and unliked it. like it was never supposed to be there in the first place.
by the last day of finals, an email from your data science professor landed in your inbox like a final nail in the coffin.
please meet me in my office. urgent regarding your final standing.
you already knew what it meant.
turns out, you were officially at risk of failing the class. and with it, your chance of graduating on time. the professor didn’t mince words. he offered you a single chance to retake the exam over the summer, provided you stayed on campus.
“but—i have plans!” you blurted, cheeks flushing hot as he raised an unimpressed eyebrow.
“well,” he said, voice flat, “that’s on you. and your priorities.”
and just like that, your summer was over before it began.
“to help with your review,” he added, already shuffling through papers, “i suggest reaching out to gojo satoru. i assume you know him. he’s a computer science major. i’ve already contacted him to ask if he’d be open to tutoring. so that much is settled.”
gojo satoru was your only shot.
when you first met up to study, he short-circuited.
“w-what? teach you? i mean—i could, yeah, but like—wow, i mean—not wow like that, i just—yeah.”
‘wow’? seriously?
now you were both here, slouched at the farthest end of the library under a dying desk lamp. the only other people still around in the same miserable predicament were just packing up their tote bags and heading out. it hadn’t even been ten minutes and you were already sighing like this was your last breath.
gojo froze, then turned slightly toward you, hand awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “sorry? am i boring you?”
you blinked. “no. i mean, yes. but it’s not you. it’s the material.” you jabbed your pen at his screen, frowning at the words bayesian inference like they personally insulted you.
“oh—yeah, i mean, totally fair,” he muttered, pushing up his glasses again. “but i’m trying to help you not get held back, so… maybe if you try to—”
you rolled your eyes. “what, you think i’m stupid?”
he sat bolt upright. “no! no, no, no! i just—you asked for help, and i’m just—”
you grinned suddenly, cutting him off. “i’m kidding. relax.”
he let out a strangled laugh, eyes darting to your mouth too quickly before looking away. the poor guy’s ears were turning red. that kind of red you only get when you’re really flustered or freshly slapped.
you leaned back in your seat. “can we take a break? my brain is going to ooze out through my nose.”
gojo hesitated, glancing down at his hands. he was still fidgeting with the drawstrings of his hoodie. “y-yeah. sure. you want coffee or… i have matcha pocky?”
“you brought snacks?” you raised an eyebrow. “you didn’t even bring a charger.”
“i thought sugar helps with cognitive performance,” he mumbled.
you bit back a smile. “you’re such a nerd.”
he opened his mouth to defend himself, but nothing came out.
you inched closer while you look at him struggle to open the box of matcha pocky like it might explode.
“you okay?” you ask
he nods quickly, “y-yeah, just it’s late.”
i raised an eyebrow, biting back a laugh, “am i making you nervous?”
“no.” he swallows. “i mean. maybe a little. but not from—i’m good.”
“mhmm.” you smirk, reaching forward and plucking a stick from the box. you let it hang lazily from your lips, watching him watch your mouth.
you snap it between your teeth.
“so,” he stammers, eyes flicking back to his screen, “when you look at the—”
you laugh. “you’re joking.”
he blinks. “what?”
“you were two seconds from spontaneously combusting and now you’re back with this coding shit?”
he shifts awkwardly in his chair. “i’m just… trying to focus.”
“hmm.” you cock your head, pretend to consider that.“you ever think about me when you’re alone?” the words slip out of your mouth before you even had time to fully register it, but with the look on his face right now, you don’t regret it.
he chokes on absolutely nothing. “what—what do you mean—”
“like… at night.” you lean forward just slightly, elbows on your knees. your voice drops into something almost bored. “you ever jerk off to my pictures?”
he goes rigid.
“i—what—no—i mean—i would never—”
“you would never?” you echo, raising an eyebrow, eyelash battling up so deliberately, “so you haven’t?”
he looks wrecked. completely cornered. cheeks flushed, breath stuttering, hands visibly shaking now.
“i—i didn’t think you noticed me.”
“well…i did.”
his eyes snap up to yours… almost desperately
you smile, lazy and cruel.
“that bikini post? you liked it four times. you probably saved it. pretty sure i saw your username on my views list at two a.m.”
he opens his mouth, closes it, then mutters, “fuck.”
you lean in, just close enough to smell his skin; cheap detergent, matcha?
“you’re cute when you panic,” you murmur. “kinda makes me want to see how messy you get when you’re desperate.”
his whole body stiffens.
your hand moves, slowly resting on his thigh. not too high. not low enough to be innocent either.
“you want me to stop?” you ask
he doesn’t answer.
“gojo.”
his breath hitches. his eyes flick to your hand, then to your mouth, then back to your hand.
“no,” he says. it comes out rough.
“don’t stop.”
you squeeze, just a little.
he’s going to come in his jeans before i even kiss him.
his thigh twitches under your hand. tense, trembling. like he’s trying so fucking hard to stay still, to be good, to not grind up into your palm like a pathetic thing.
and he’s failing. you can feel the heat through his jeans and the he obvious ache he’s trying to hide.
“you seriously never touched yourself thinking about me?” you ask again, quieter this time.
he squeezes his eyes shut.
your thumb drags up the inside of his thigh, just shy of where he’s aching. you can practically see the pulse in his neck.
“don’t lie,” you murmur. “you seem like the type who’d come just from scrolling.”
he swallows. his adam’s apple bobs like he’s choking on the truth.
“i—i didn’t mean to,” he croaks. voice raw.
your lips curl.
“you accidentally came to my bikini photos?”
“fuck,” he whispers.
“how many times?” you press. “once? twice? how often do you stroke your pathetic little cock to pictures of me smiling with a cocktail?”
he looks like he’s going to die. or beg. maybe both.
“i don’t know,” he says. “a lot. too much. i can’t—fuck, i couldn’t help it.”
you climb into his lap slowy and he jolts.
his hands hover in the air like he doesn’t trust himself to touch. you roll your hips forward, drag your cunt over the hard line in his jeans, and the sound he makes is obscene.
“shit—wait, please—”
“you’re hard already?” you coo. “you came in your pants to my stories and now you can’t last two minutes with me on top of you?”
his hands finally land on your waist, gripping tight. too tight. like he’s holding on for dear life.
you grind down again. slower this time.
he gasps— actually gasps, like he’s drowning, his pupils dilates before he throws his head back.
“you gonna cum, satoru?” you whisper, licking into the corner of his mouth without kissing him. “you gonna soak your boxers like a good little virgin?”
he whines.
“fuck, fuck—please—”
“please what?”
“let me—i need to cum, i’m sorry, i can’t—”
“you’re humping me like a dog, baby.”
“not yet,” you murmured, tilting his chin up with a firm grip, fingers pressing into the soft give of his cheeks. “open your mouth.”
his breath caught. “wait—wait, what are you— I, ngh—”
despite the confused protest, he obeyed. flustered and still fucking obedient with his lips parted and tongue out.
then with a filthy ptfffhh—a thick, wet string landed square on his tongue, and the obsecenesound of it filled the space between you. his lips twitched like he didn’t know whether to close them or moan.
and when you kiss him all wet, deep, and filthy, he completely falls apart. his hips jerk up. his entire body shudders. and he cums. in his jeans. like a boy who’s never been touched properly and just had his favorite fantasy spit in his mouth and ride his thigh. because that did happen.
his mouth is open, eyes dazed, and his glasses are fogged now. wetness spreading between you.
you lick your lips.
“pathetic,” you whisper.
“i know,” he pants. “fuck—i’m sorry—”
“don’t be.”
you drag your fingers up his chest, to his neck. squeeze. not tight. just enough to make him stop rambling.
“you wanna make it up to me?” you ask, tilting your head.
he nods, instantly. desperate.
“get on your knees.”
-
yeah… you didn’t know how a study session turned into this, let alone with him. gojo satoru, the biggest nerd you knew. now he was on his knees, flushed to the tip of his ears, breath hot against your inner thigh, fingers twitching like he didn’t know whether to hold your hips or fold them into an apology.
“didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you muttered, fingers threading into the soft mess of white hair, tilting his head back just enough to see the desperate flicker in his eyes.
gojo swallows hard. his throat bobs under your grip like a silent apology, lips parted as if waiting for permission to breathe. he’s panting already, like just being this close to your cunt is doing something to him. knees planted to the cold tile, thighs trembling, pupils blown wide.
this is what he dreamt of, this is what he shamefully jerk off to. thinking of bending you over in class and ripping away every inch of your clothes— and now your dripping cunt is mere inches away from his face, its slick clinging to the thin fabric of your panties.
“I—I want to be good,” he says, voice low, breaking like a fault line. “please.”
the way he says it, you almost almost moan. fuck.
you shift forward in the chair, spread your knees just wider for him to see the wet line of your underwear, soaked through from grinding on his lap ten minutes ago. he stares like it’s proof that god is real. his eyes licker back up to yours frantically
tongue out, already panting, his hands trembling as they settle on your thighs like he’s trying not to squeeze too hard. his tongue drags up your slit through the soaked fabric and he moans, like you’re doing him a favor.
god, he’s starving. licking through cotton like he’s grateful just to have it in his mouth. you let him mouth at you like that, messy and soaking the fabric further, his nose pressed against your heat like he wants to drown in it.
“is this what you think about in your little dorm bed?” you ask, tone llazy. onehand settles in his hair. “this exact moment?”
he groans in response, and it vibrates against you in a way that makes your thighs twitch.
“i bet you do,” you whisper. “every night. jerk off with your hand wrapped tight, thinking about me sitting on your face.”
his hips jerk against the floor. pathetic.
he adjusts, and fuck, he learns fast. he licks you with slow, deliberate drags now. eye fluttering shut as he lets your taste melt into him. you grind against his face with purpose, shamelessly, slick dripping down his chin, and it’s obscene—he’s obscene. on his knees under you in a university library, face soaked, hands digging crescent moons into your thighs.
and he’s hard again. so hard it must hurt, his cock straining against jeans soaked in his own cum. He’s rutting against the floor now. fucking grinding like it’ll give him relief.
“you gonna come again just from eating me out?” you whisper, breath catching as your orgasm starts to bloom behind your ribs.
he nods frantically, moaning into your cunt like it’s a prayer.
“fucking loser,” you gasp when he hits the spot that makes you squirm. “you’re not even touching yourself.”
“i don’t— i don’t need to,” he pants, lips dragging over your clit in a clumsy, worshipful kiss. “you taste so good—fuck—I wanna stay here—please—”
of course, you obliged, and you pulled his head impossibly closer, grinding into his face harder.
“say it,” you gasp. “say you’re addicted.”
“I’m—fuck—I’m addicted,” he sobs. “I love your pussy—please—please come, I need it—need to taste it—”
and you do.
with a sharp cry, hips bucking into his mouth, thighs clamping around his head like you want to crush the air out of him.
and gojo comes untouched. again. soaking his pants all over again like a high school virgin who just discovered the word “thighs.”
“nghh—satoru—“ you gasped as he suddenly picks you up with such ease just to place you on the table. his hands are already on your thighs, spreading them open with a force that’s barely controlled before you could even catch your breath.
laid out across the library table, the edge cool beneath your hips, legs parted just enough to show him everything. your panties are caught halfway down your thighs, damp and useless, and your cunt’s already shining in the low, sterile light. his spit and your slick still wet on your skin. there’s a mess between your legs and it’s his fault. he knows it. you know it. the air smells like it.
satoru’s breathing like he just ran here.
his hoodie’s rucked halfway up, hair a wreck, glasses crooked on his nose. he’s standing between your thighs like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, fingers twitching at his sides, eyes locked on the place between your legs like it’s gravity.
“i’ve never—” he starts, but his voice breaks off into static. he swallows thickly, still staring, like he’s scared if he blinks you’ll disappear. “i mean, i’ve thought about it. with you. so many times i—fuck.”
you tilt your head, a slow smile pulling at your lips. “stop thinking then,” you murmur, breath warm. “do it.”
and he does.
his hands fumble at his waistband—nervous, fast, like he’s scared of waking up. and when he gets his jeans open and pushes them down, his breath catches. a sharp, startled sound. he drags his boxers lower, and—
oh.
his cock bounces free, flushed dark pink at the head, already leaking, the tip smeared wet with precum that’s dribbling down the length in slow, heavy beads. thick and aching. there’s a soft tuft of white hair at the base, and he’s so hard it curves slightly up toward his belly. his hand hovers near it, like he doesn’t even know whether he’s allowed to touch it now. like it doesn’t belong to him anymore. like it belongs to you.
you stare.
lips parting on instinct, breath caught in your throat. your thighs twitch open wider on reflex.
“…jesus christ,” you whisper. “how the fuck is that gonna fit?”
he blinks at you like he’s never heard you speak before. he follows your gaze and lets out a broken, whining sound, like he’s embarrassed to be seen like this, like being this hard in front of you is humiliating.
“i’m sorry,” he breathes. “i didn’t—i didn’t mean to be this—fuck, it won’t stop—”
you lick your lips slowly, “what? hard? leaking all over yourself?” you drag your gaze down, voice thick with heat. “your cock’s throbbing, satoru.”
he moans and grabs himself at the base with a shaky hand and nearly doubles over. ”f-fuck, don’t say that, i’ll—i’ll fucking cum,” the second his palm closes around his cock, his hips jerk forward like he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.
he groans and rubs his cock through your folds, just once, dragging the head against your soaked slit, back and forth, back and forth—and it punches a sound out of both of you at the same time.
holy shit,” he breathes. “you’re—fuck—you’re so wet it’s all over me—look at it—fuck, fuck, i’m gonna cum just from this.”
he keeps rutting through your slick like he’s lost his mind, his tip catching on your clit, making your hips jerk every time. you feel it smear between your thighs—sticky, hot, messy.
“you like that?” you whisper. “humping my pussy like it’s your pillow at home?”
his hand falters, and his hips stutter.
you laugh, breathless. “you do. you’ve done this before, huh? jerked off to pictures of me and pressed your dick between your sheets thinking it felt close enough.”
he whines—actually whines into your neck—and kisses you like he’s trying to crawl inside your mouth. his lips are hot and wet and frantic, teeth knocking into yours, tongue licking into you with the same rhythm his hips grind against your cunt.
he pulls back, dazed. pupils blown. cock still rubbing sloppily through your folds.
“can i—” he chokes on it, eyes wild. “can i put it in? please. i can’t—I need to—I have to—”
“beg,” you breathe, dizzy with it.
“please, please let me fuck you,” he gasps. “i’ll be good, i swear, i’ll—I’ll do anything—just let me feel it—fuck—please—”
you nod, slow. “do it.”
he grips your thighs like handles and pushes in.
just the tip.
your breath leaves your lungs in a moan so sharp it cuts the silence in half. he sinks into you inch by inch and it’s so hot, so tight, so wet—he starts to tremble.
“oh my god,” he gasps. “you’re gonna fucking ruin me—i can’t—i can’t—fuck, you’re clenching so hard, i’m gonna cum, i’m gonna—”
you lock your legs around his waist, drag him deeper.
“do it,” you whisper. “cum inside me like a loser.”
and he does.
you feel it, the stutter of his hips, the thick, hot spill of it flooding you, the way he groans so loud it echoes down the rows of bookshelves.
but he doesn’t stop.
he keeps going. cock twitching inside you, fucked dumb, mind blank, still grinding into your cunt like he’s chasing the next high.
oh my god.
oh my god.
he’s tucking into you again, cock buried deep, and he swears he’s never felt anything like this. never imagined anything could feel this good. you’re so warm. so wet. squeezing around him like you don’t want to let go. like your body wants him deeper, even when he’s already pressed as far in as he can go.
he groans, forehead pressed to your shoulder, hips rocking just to stay sane. you moan under him and it makes his knees buckle.
what the fuck are we doing.
this is crazy. this is so, so fucking crazy. you’re in the damn library. it’s open. it’s the middle of the night but not locked. anyone could walk in. some poor TA could be returning a textbook. someone could hear you. the soft slap of skin. the way the table creaks every time he ruts into you. you—breathless and high off it, telling him not to stop.
and he won’t. he can’t.
he’s losing it. actually losing it.
she let me fuck her. she’s letting me fuck her. i’m inside her. right now. my cock is inside her and she’s moaning for more—holy shit—
he bites his lip, trying not to cum again too fast. his glasses are fogged, probably crooked, and he doesn’t even care. all he knows is the tight slick heat of you pulsing around him and the way your nails dig into his back like you’re clinging for life.
“fuckfuckfuck—y/n, i can’t stop—i need to stay in you—feels so good—so fucking good—you’re mine now, right? you have to be—”
“mhhmm—“ you pulled him by the neck and clashes your lips onto his. you’ve broken him. you know it the second he gasps your name like a prayer, or a curse, and drags his cock through the mess he made inside you, still hard, still leaking, like he doesn’t understand what it means to be finished. his hips twitch, rhythm sloppy, hands gripping your thighs so tight it hurts. he’s not even trying to hold back anymore.
he’s still hard.
you feel it inside you, thick and flushed and too much already. twitching like it doesn’t know what just happened. and the way he moans—god—the way he moans, it’s almost unbearable. soft, choked, high in his throat, like he’s been split open by something he doesn’t have a name for yet.
“satoru—” you try, but your voice splinters around the edges. “you—fuck, you already—”
“i know,” he gasps. “i know—but i can’t stop, it feels so good, it’s too much—”
“i-i came,” he stammers, breathless. “i already—I came and i’m still—fuck, i can’t stop—”
he sounds guilty. confused. like he’s doing something wrong. like he thinks you’ll tell him to stop but he can’t make himself do it unless you say the words.
your only answer was the filthy sounds of AH! AH! AH! from your mouth and the way your tongue lols out.
and he keeps moving.
wet, slow thrusts, dragging the head of his cock through the thick mix of cum and slick that’s pooling between your thighs, and he whimpers at the sound of it.
SCHLAP! SCHLAP! SCHLAP!
“is it always like this?” he pants, voice wrecked. “this warm—this wet—it’s so—i-i can’t—fuck, it’s too good—”
his hips twitch, involuntary.
he’s still rutting into you like he doesn’t know any better. like instinct’s got him by the throat. like he thinks he’ll stop breathing if he pulls out. and maybe he would, the way he’s grabbing at your waist, palms pressing so hard into your skin they leave imprints.
“y/n, you’re so tight,” he gasps. “you’re sucking me in like you want more—like you want to keep me—do you? do you want me to stay inside?”
you clench, and he cries.
he actually lets out a sound, desperate and high, mouth falling open in shock, like he’s short-circuiting.
“holy—fuck—you’re doing it on purpose—oh my god—”
he’s rambling. babbling. you don’t think he even knows what he’s saying anymore.
and he just keeps going.
“i didn’t know,” he whispers. “i didn’t know it would feel like this. i didn’t think i’d get to have it—have you—you’re so soft—so hot—i can feel you everywhere—i’m gonna lose my fucking mind—”
he’s shaking now. trembling over you, mouth pressed against your jaw, like he’s trying to ground himself in your skin.
your legs twitch around his waist, overstimulation crackling along your spine, and he feels it.
“wait—are you—? oh my god,” he moans. “are you gonna come again?”
you nod, breath catching, and that’s it.
he breaks.
“fuck—fuck—do it, please—cum on me—use me—i don’t care what you do—just don’t stop—please—please let me make you feel good—”
his hips stutter again, frantic, and your body arches into his, hands scrabbling at his back as the pressure finally snaps inside you again—hot and sharp and clenching hard around him.
“satoru.” you moan out and his eyes rolled back at the way you say his name, “say it again.” he pulls back and pushes in harder.
“satoru.”
you cum.
loud.
clenching down on his cock, tighter than before, and he loses it.
you clench down around him. all tight, fluttering, spasming in waves, and that sets him off.
he gasps like he’s been punched in the chest. like his heart just stopped and kicked back to life. you feel the shift in his body, the way his hips jerk forward, no rhythm left, no restraint—just pure, frantic instinct.
“fuck—fuck—oh god—i’m gonna—i’m—”
he moans into your mouth, loud and cracked open. and then he’s cumming again, deep inside you, hips stuttering as he spills into you all over again, thick and hot and endless. you feel it flood you—heat pooling inside your cunt, filling you up all over again. it’s so much more than the first time. more desperate. more raw. he stays buried as it hits him, jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut, whispering things he probably doesn’t even realize he’s saying.
“so warm—fuck—fuckfuck, i’m sorry—it’s so much—i couldn’t stop—i couldn’t—”
his whole body’s trembling, fingers gripping your waist like he’s holding onto the edge of the world. and when the last twitch of his cock pulses inside you, he lets out a sound so soft, so wrecked, it makes your chest ache.
his forehead rests against yours. you’re both gasping for air. his lips find yours again, slow this time, dragging across your mouth like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. it’s messy. wet. you both keep moaning into it like it’s the only way you know how to breathe now.
his hand brushes your cheek, trembling. “you okay?” he whispers, breath ragged.
you nod, still clinging to him. “so good.”
he kisses you again. deeper this time. slower. like a thank you he doesn’t know how to say out loud. his hips give a soft, involuntary roll forward, just enough to make both of you hiss at the oversensitivity. and he groans.
“…fuck. i should pull out.”
you nod, legs loose around him now, and he gives one last kiss—wet and sticky—before he slowly, carefully draws his cock back.
you both moan at the drag. it’s too warm, too sensitive, too full.
and when he slips free—soft and still twitching—you both stare.
his cum leaks out of you in thick, creamy strings, dripping from your swollen cunt down to the table. it’s obscene. wet. ruined. a mess of his first orgasm and his second spilling from your folds like you were made to be filled.
satoru sucks in a shaky breath.
“holy shit,” he whispers.
you look up at him through your lashes, dazed, lazy, spread open and dripping. your cunt clenches instinctively, twitching from the exposure.
“you’re leaking,” he says softly. and then, like something snaps in his mind: “fuck—wait—i can’t leave you like that, i made a mess, i have to—”
your chest is still rising in stutters. your thighs ache from how wide he spread you, still twitching from the aftershocks. your cunt’s messy, flooded—his cum dripping thick down your folds and pooling between your legs. everything around you is still: the quiet hum of the library lights, the flicker of a dying bulb overhead, the late hour heavy in the air.
you’re still laid out over the table.
used. ruined. wrecked.
and warm.
so fucking warm.
from the inside out.
you blink slowly, dazed, like you’re surfacing from water you didn’t know you were drowning in.
this wasn’t supposed to happen.
you didn’t mean for this to happen.
you were supposed to review a couple chapters, complain about your professor, maybe tease him a little if he blushed too much. not this. not grinding yourself raw on his cock until he came twice inside you. not the way your body feels now; sore and open, humming with overstimulation, and filled with something heavy you’re trying not to name.
“holy shit,” you breathe, voice barely above a whisper. your limbs feel loose. like you’ve melted into the table. “i just… we really…”
you trail off.
there’s cum on your thighs. on the inside of your calves. your panties are still rucked halfway down your legs and your bra’s shifted, barely covering anything.
you cover your face with one hand. not in even in an embarrassed way, just… stunned.
you feel him shift
and then he’s dropping to his knees between your legs.
“satoru—?”
“let me clean it,” he breathes, already nosing between your thighs. “please. let me.”
and then he licks.
long, slow, and filthy, his tongue dragging through your overstimulated, used cunt like it’s the best meal he’s ever tasted. and when he groans, deep and guttural, it vibrates against you.
“you taste like me,” he moans, tongue pushing deep inside, lapping at the mixture he spilled into you like he’s starving for it. “so fucking sweet—fuck—i made this mess—i have to get all of it—”
his tongue is everywhere. cleaning the slick from your folds, nudging your clit, slurping up the mix of your cum and his with noises so obscene your thighs twitch around his head.
“satoru—fuck—please—”
he keeps going. tongue soft and messy, mouth hot and wet, arms wrapped tight around your thighs like he’s never letting go. your back arches. hands scramble against the table edge, trying to ground yourself, but he wraps his arms around your thighs and holds you there. not rough. desperate. worshipful.
“gonna keep eating you until you stop leaking,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your cunt. “i’ll clean every drop. i’ll be so good. let me be good.”
he’s going to make a mess just to clean you up again.
again. and again. and again.
