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❝ SHE'S ABOUT TO GRADUATE WITH A DEGREE IN SLUTOLOGY! ❞

ㅤ⋆ ──── professor GOJO SATORU

Going through ovulation week hell? Boys your age just don't know how to fuck you? Need someone older, more experienced? — No worries! Your astrophysics professor can show you how a real man should treat a woman — and his dicking-down's so powerful it can magically turn that F into an A, too! Err, of course... isn't he the one who deliberately curated an assignment based on your weaknesses in the first place? Oopsie. Was this all just an excuse to fuck his sluttiest student into her place? Duh! You were getting too cocky, after all. Now remind him, baby, who's the real prodigy here?

wc ──── 16k (30-ish pages, kindly throat it to the base thx)

cws ──── strictly NO under 18s. smut with plot. professor x student trope. age gap (Gojo 30s, reader 20s). he kinda totally falls in love with you (oops). cocky Gojo vs cocky reader. solo m. masturbation. clothed dry humping. breast play. hair pulling. fingering. spanking. a few pussy slaps your honor. protected to unprotected sex. rough sex. praise & degradation. dirty talk. multiple orgasms. creampies. name-calling: good girl, slut. pet names: babydoll, sweets, etc. breeding kink. big dick shenanigans. ovulation nonsense. marking his back. aftercare because he's a real man. angst but it's resolved. gets a bit emotional. fluff ending.

an ──── Behold, my love letter to my wifey @sweethearticism. You might need a drink and snacks for this one, and if you survive Professor Gojo's big dick exam lmk what you think 💗💋 and sorry that it took so long lol!!

MORE ME ⋆ P.TAGLIST

ㅤ⋆

The man’s gone pale when he sees you clip-clopping across campus, ducking before you can even catch his silhouette in your peripherals.

It’s quite funny, really — you’d think a man like that would fear nothing. But even the strongest has his weakness. And Satoru’s kryptonite? One feisty, petite A-Grade princess... who happens to be his student.

It’s 8:30. He’s already choked up, hidden away in the bathroom, stooping low to reach the sink. The way he’s cupping the water to his mouth, you’d think he’d just been through a traumatic event. But nah. That’s not the case.

It’s 8:35. Got to stretch his legs on the green expanse of the quad. A group of students are puffing and passing, the stench of weed wafting his way and causing him to curl his nostrils. He gives them a scolding look.

It’s 8:45. He’s running hot and darts off to his car — the moment the door shuts, he’s whipping his cock out for a quickie. Hissing through gritted teeth, a few brisk strokes is all it takes to bring him to orgasm.

The fact that he just came using his own underwear as a cum-collector? Ew, foul.

But you know what’s worse?

That he came to the image of you; figure folded into a mean mating press underneath him, moaning obscenities as your cunt clenches his cock.

That’s what he saw flashing in his mind about 0.3 seconds before he exploded like Mt. Vesuvius.

Heaving a disappointed sigh (directed towards himself), Satoru brushes his wispy bangs off his tacky forehead and fwips down the visor to check his pretty, pale visage.

Yep, getting older all right. But still handsome.

Oh, and also he looks like he just ran a marathon in 5 minutes. Or was it 3? Well, he’s gonna be late to his 8:30 class either way.

His cheeks are heavily flushed and shimmery with sweat, heart hammering beneath his ribs. Chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.

It’s 9:00 AM on the dot and he, my friend, is late for his own fuckin’ lecture so he hurries back across campus with a shuffling gait, lookin’ like a comic book character with the way he’s trying to force his pearl-knit sweater to cover up his very obvious commando-mode situation down there.

Students await Mister Never On Time, all cooped up in that stuffy, warm lecture room.

Satoru stills for a moment outside the door, staring at the inscribed plaque mounted upon it: Prof. S. Gojo, PhD. Astrophysics.

This is the part of his day where he — still a bit flustered and disoriented — completely shifts gear into who he’s expected to be (a god damned professor); poker face, suave and silky as satin, with an iconically perpetual smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa.

Daddy long legs, striding into his lecture room, so slowly, so dramatically; like a diva claiming the spotlight. His pretty ski-slope nose upturned, the professor’s air is so serious — what with his polished Oxfords clacking against the cold floor and rimless glasses pushed high upon that nose bridge — that a few sighs are released from students who find him intolerably pompous.

But the worst part is when he opens his mouth.

Because the sound of his crisp rasp alone could wake a vampire from slumber.

“Morning, everyone.”

Yes, that’s all he says. No apology for being late, because it gets repetitive when said every day, y’know?

He’s trying so hard not to search out the face of his favorite post-grad, because wouldn’t that be making it a little too obvious?

Satoru drawls, “Boy do I hope you’re all in a very good mood today,” he thwacks his palm down on a stack of papers sat on his mahogany desk, “because I’ve got your graded papers right here — and grading these put me through The Five Stages.”

There’s that sneering grin twisting on his face. You see it everyyy fuckin’ morning.

He’s a prodigy, a self-proclaimed intellectual.

And what does one typically want to do with intellectuals?

That’s right, throttle them.

But you... oh, you’d rather throttle him between your thighs. Or so you whisper as much to your best friend, who suffers every morning at your side during Satoru Gojo’s lecture — because she would much rather just throttle the self-proclaimed intellectual’s neck.

Once your gaze is on him, it’s over; you’re not focused on anybody else for the entirety of the lesson.

In whispers, your friend scolds you.

“Stop it.” she hisses.

“Stop what?” you hiss back.

“Checkin’ him out like he’s the fuckin’ deli special.”

You soften your face in amusement, fingers toying with your pen.

“Mm, what I’d give to have a taste of his meat.”

She groans, palming one side of her face, “Please, mon amie salope, this comes from the bottom of my heart: drop out.”

Just as you laugh, a pair of woman-killing blue eyes flash your way, lingering for far too long.

The pause, one hand smoothly sunken in his pants, of his toned torso makes something tick beneath your ribcage and without realizing, you’re nibbling the tip of your pen.

Satoru continues, apologizing for the deviation, “... where was I? Ah, never mind, you wouldn’t appreciate my metaphor — none of you probably even know who Dostoyevsky is. But I guess, that’s why you’re in my class and not Professor Nanami’s... ha-ha.”

The way he drops that laugh, it rouses a lot of stifled sighs. Not only does this room of sleep-starved academics have to endure Satoru Gojo’s spirit-breaking assignments by night, but also his holier-than-thou monologues.

Sickening. Just watch him pace the length of the blackboard, like he’s a god in your life. But the only semblance he bears to the man upstairs is his sadism when he tests you.

ㅤ⋆

Cours terminé.

Satoru’s sifting through his desk, letting out an oddly cute, boyish yawn and scratching at his sharp-edged undercut. You love it when he does that. How he so fuckin’ erotically drags his hand up to meet the fluff of moony-white, there’s something about it—

“—that just makes me wanna do tricks on it.”

“Hey babyface?” your friend lilts her voice, “Remind me next time to bring a bottle of wine and a corkscrew so I can shove a fuckin’ cork in that mouth of yours.”

“I’d much rather you shove something else in my mouth.”

You’re cackling. She looks like she’s rethinking this whole ‘best friends’ label, and you’re cackling.

She can hardly tolerate it, yet you continue.

“God, he moves like a cat. Just watch him.” you admire.

Massive hands pushing up each sleeve of his white shirt up, revealing the veiny daddyish masterpiece that are his forearms. Upon one arm, he perches the papers. Tongue poking out, he swipes the pad of his thumb across it — oh, beautiful. He gives you too much fuel for that deranged imagination of yours.

He’s working his way through the aisles, sometimes needing to blow his wispy white bangs out of his angelic blues. You’re observing him with thighs clenched tight.

Since he’s mostly just a small thing pacing the length of a blackboard most of the day, you tend to forget just how large he is.

The way the breadth of those shoulders tapers off to that leg-lockable waist, to those long, long legs of his — should be illegal, don’t you think?

But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t hate his haughtiness.

The swanky style, feline gait, how he upturns his nose to those he deems ‘sub-par’ students (AKA, anyone who achieves lower than an A) — it’s gut-churning even if he is an Adonis.

It’s like he’s living in shades of cool, like he’s royal blue and heavenly gold and everyone else is just the dried-up, murky corner of an artist’s palette.

There’s nothing in his controlled appearance that reveals anything about his morning antics, but fuck does he feel paranoid because underneath those tailored pants he’s not wearing anything. If you flirt too hard with him today, he might just honestly kick you out of his classroom (seriously).

And just when he’s clenching his jaw in fear at the thought of popping a boner for you, whose voice does he hear rippling down from the top seats?

“There’s no way I’m not gonna jump his bones.”

Your friend sighs at you, resignedly, “Please, get a hold of yourself — he’s like, thirty-something.”

“Yum.” you lick your lips, “I’ve always had a taste for men who are older. It’s always been, ’s no surprise...”

His stomach tightens at hearing this.

He doesn’t need to glance your way to see that you’re making eyes at him, because he can feel the imprint of the hearts you’re burning into his skin, pretty baby. You make it too damn obvious.

You’re watching his every movement very, veryyy closely.

The stale lecture room air carries the hushed tones of your friend’s voice, then yours, right over to Satoru. What? No, no; he’s not straining his ears, or anything. He just happens to overhear this.

“This isn’t you; it’s the ovulation demon speaking.” quivers your friend.

To which you reply, “Yah, and it’s whispering for me to spell my name on his dick.”

She looks like she’s about to cry from the embarrassment of being your friend.

You hiss, “—Sorry, but where is the sign saying ‘do not ride the professors’? They should put it up on Geto’s and Nanami’s office walls, too.”

“My girl!” she cries out, “Please, please drop out!”

“As if! I’m gonna graduate with a degree in slut-ology. Ha!”

My my, could you make it any more obvious? You silly thing. Gonna work him up again and it’s not even lunch break yet.

Gojo Satoru’s heard just about enough of your crazy talk to start blushing just a little. How endearing, you’re just like he was in his peak years at college — getting straight-As and his dick wet. The familiarity he finds you could almost make him feel something under those pretty pecs.

But Satoru catches himself right before your words take root in his glass heart; he tells himself to straighten the fuck up and obeys the whip of his own self-discipline.

He’d never make himself late to his own lecture just because he had to get off ’n cum with you on his mind. Gaslighting? Um. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m telling you he would never ever do that, and he didn’t.

Head bowed as he assumes that elegance, Satoru’s snuffed out his crazy hormones by now and is no longer going through the male version of ovulation. He’s quite fine, thank you.

Swiftly, composedly, he distributes the graded papers while whistling a soft tune on his lips.

“—And this is the behavior of a cum laude student?” croaks your friend.

“Oh yeah, I’m gonna cum laude all over him.”

Satoru stops whistling.

He inspires a deep, deep breath.

Your friend just barely contains her own laughter, but the squeak she lets out before she manages to clap her hand over her mouth is just enough to garner some disturbed looks from students.

His pale face turns in your direction.

An enigmatic, Mona-Lisa smile tugs at his rosy lips. And then, just as smoothly, he turns away and continues.

Paper down, “Good job.”, onto the next. Paper down, “Keep it up.”, continue. Lips pulling thinner as he repeats the gesture over and over again — like a mantra, the professionalism miraculously calming whatever movement’s going on beneath his belt. Sure, a little hard. But not enough for it to be obvious — right? Oh god.

Nothing escape’s a slut’s eyes, does it?

You’ve snatched your friend’s cat-eyed Dolce & Gabannas off her nose, now peering at him from over the rim, catching on the slight — very very very slight — outline of what he’s packing under those pants.

“It’s not a joke anymore… I think I’m hot for teacher.”

His breath is caught in his throat right as he’s delivering a praising remark to another student.

You can hear him clear his throat, can see him briefly tug down his shirt like he was trying to cover up a little situation.

One click — two, three —of his sharp polished shoes until they finish making a path to your desk. Three. He was three steps away, and you had the audacity to say that?

Yeah, push those fuckin’ sunglasses up your nose. To shame, honestly.

Was it fun, to get a man hard in his own lecture room? And you call yourself prestigous.

He stills at the edge of your desk, air seemingly freezing around around him. He’s casting that strange, quivering gaze over you — the one that makes you squirm in your seat, the one you can’t make sense of no matter how many times he bears it down at you like you’re supposed to be able to decipher it. The fucker. He’s presenting himself like a theory for you to figure out.

How can such cold eyes make you feel so warm? More curiously, what kind of thoughts laid behind them?

“Girls, don’t you think it’s a little bit rude to talk behind someone’s back?” Professor Gojo greets professionally, setting each paper down carefully, first your friend’s and then yours.

Your friend decays into ash and dust besides you. How mortifying.

But never mind that.

You look down at your paper.

96 out of 100.

And there, you feel that familiar leap in your chest, the one that only academic validation can make you feel — and you daresay it feels better than resolved daddy issues.

Upon drawing your gaze up, you meet with a pair of violent blues peering over rimless glasses.

Not a word of praise leaves his lips.

Instead, he just winks at you.

Ah fuck. There it is. The spark before the fire. That dangerous lurch of the stomach — warning you that your fantasies will become reality if you don’t tread carefully.

But you’re an idiot.

So you blurt out to him:

“Mm, this was too easy Mr. Gojo! Are you losing your edge?”

Your friend stomps on your foot beneath the desk. It’s quite possible that heaven won’t see your arrival, with the way her side-eye alone is trying to drag you to hell.

But his reaction?

A wicked smile that has the power to make yours falter.

Something in his air shifts. Like, your words just angered the tectonic plates under his chest to move and gnash over each other.

“Sorry, who’s the prodigy here?” he returns jokingly — ‘jokingly’.

You laugh nervously, backtracking. “Kidding, kidding! Um, I just meant—”

He interrupts, “—don’t get too cocky now. That’s my job, sweets. You keep studying hard. Would pain me to see my most promising student fall from grace ’cause she got too big for her boots, hm?”

That’s what he leaves you with, before smoothly disappearing. Your breath is fucked up, heart rate spiked like you just got thrown out of a high-speed car on the god damned highway.

Fuckfuckfuck what have you done? — I don’t know. But you did something, flipped a switch, triggered a cataclysmic event — all because you can’t keep your damn mouth shut for one moment.

He hands out the last few papers to students with a cheery whistle on his lips — but the melody haunts you this time.

Your friend steals back the sunglasses off your face, needing to hide behind something after that — whatever the fuck that was. A quicktime event you clearly failed.

“I can’t believe you fuckin’ said that to him!” She croaks, distraught. “Are you crazy!”

You mutter back, “Ow, by the way.”

“Well-deserved!” She whispers, sliding even further down her seat, looking out for Gojo Satoru as if he’s the boogeyman.

“He’s scary as shit. How can you find him hot!”

“Dilf.”

“… why am I friends with you…”

Something alights in your eyes.

“But did you hear that? He called me ‘sweets’...” you feather. “Oh, my uterus!”

Your friend bangs her palm on the table as she wails; “Please, dropooout!”

ㅤ⋆

He’s alone in his office.

Rather, alone with it.

In his ribs, it’s thumping. And in his pants, it’s throbbing.

Satoru’s tie is slackened around his collar, hanging low, the tail dipping into his crotch as he assumes the most egregrious posture a spine has ever known.

He widens his legs, lazing back in that kinda tacky, sumptuous chair of his.

His pretty white hair is tousled, sticking up at the back, not like he’s been playing with it but rather abusing it out of sheer horny frustration.

It wasn't just your best friend who was done with your slutty nonsense, but him, too.

Because tell me, how do you think he feels fighting off a boner in the middle of his own classroom?

It's not like when he was in his teens, having a simple crush on a girl that fades within a week. Not like his twenties, either, when he couldn’t care less about the girl’s name — only her tightness, her eagerness to please him.

This is different.

Is it the taboo? Your appearance — you’re hotter than the rest, is that it? Maybe it’s the way you squeeze your thick hips and thighs into the tiniest clothes. How you make your cleavage a little more pronounced when you walk past him on campus. Th-the way you say his last name with the smallest hint of sluttyish disrespect.

Or, maybe just the simple fact that you’ve got a thing for older men?

—Fuck.

The thumping and throbbing just got harder.

His cock is testing his willpower right now. Letting off steam twice in one day is really not his style, but today’s one of those days.

He’s considering it, grasping at the rigid outline, tightening his jaw. It’s a bit iffy, you know, because he’s never actually jerked off in his own office.

ㅤ“I’ve always had a taste for men who are older.

“Fuck.” Satoru chokes under his breath as he remembers your words.

Something snaps — oh, it’s his willpower.

Yeah, it’s definitely the fact you’ve got a thing for older men.

Satoru starts gently palming at his bulge, cock aching under the stimulation.

“Fuck, hah, ah-ah... hah.”

Oh... well, that’s not good, is it? A little teasing over fabric shouldn’t feel this good, shouldn’t have him leaking precum.

Nutty is a flavor professors often come in, sure, but Satoru’s a whole fucking bag of macademia nuts; only he could be getting it up for the girl who just so casually insulted him in his own classroom.

“Ugh, pretty girl... affecting me like this even when you’re not here is unfair.” he curses you under his breath.

He purrs as he palms at his cock harder, breath hitching.

The sensitivity is making his head spin, because fucking hell it never usually feels like this even when he’s in a hormonal crisis.

That rush cascades down his body, and suddenly there’s a clinking noise sounding through his empty classroom as he’s whipping off his belt.

Spreading his legs and leaning back in his chair, tugging that looong zipper all the way down in a moment of haste, Satoru’s got the front of his pants flayed open and his heavy cock slapping hard against his tense abdomen.

Et voilà.

The man can’t resist admiring his own cock — but come on now, is it not a bit much to give himself a taste-test? Maybe it’s because he’s too deep in his fantasy of you swirling your soft tongue around his mushroomy tip, letting his precum be your new lip-gloss.

Purrs turn into throaty, masculine groans as he begins bullying his fist up and down his leaky cock.

His ministrations soothe the ache, but it’s not enough; he needs something more than his hand, something tighter, sluttier... an A-grade pussy with a bad record of amateurish one-nighters, a sweet thing that he could teach a thing or two to — it is his job, after all.

But you know, sometimes even prodigy like him could be enlightened by the right kind of woman. And old dogs can still learn new tricks, right...?

Could you slut him out?

Are you dirtier than him?

Those rumors that the boys of his classroom whisper about amongst themselves; are they true or are you really just a sloppy amateur, who’s never gotten fucked how she deserves?

It's too much.

The sensitivity, how heavy and tight and full his balls feel — and now he’s blabbering dirty talk under his breath.

Remember what I said about nutty professors? Yes, well, only a true nutbag like him could be dirty talking to himself in his own vacant classroom... to fantasies of his own fuckin’ student.

“Fuck, fuck... like that; such a good girl.” he feathers, glowering at his fat cock, imagining your face under it, “Like being a good girl f’me, don’t you?”

With brisk strokes, he pumps his hand along his throbbing length, other hand coming down to cradle those heavy, perfect balls.

“Just like that and I’ll cum — don’t you want it as badly as I do, b—aaaby?”

Faster, faster, he’s pumping his cock towards a way better orgasm than the hasty one this morning. Jaw slacking, he shifts his legs around. Satoru’s hips buck into the air, stomach blooming with butterflies and a smidge of guilt right before he cums.

“Fuck, fuck! Gonna cum...!”

There we go — he moans your name like it’s just been waiting to spill over his bottom lip.

Hot ribbons of white spill out his flushed tip as he milks his orgasm out for all it’s worth. Rivulets of cum roll down his shaft, over his knuckles, thick and gooey and god so pungent and a total waste of his virile seed, in his opinion.

“Ugh, fuck.” he groans, head thudding against the padded back of his chair.

It’s crazy, how the post-nut clarity hits him almost instantly. He blows his dampened bangs out his eyes, but they don’t budge; how’s he working up such a sweat on his forehead and he’s not even in it yet?

Wait.

‘Yet’...?

Satoru lets out a chuckle, releasing his drooping cock from his grasp.

Tissues and hand sanitizer stashed in his drawer find themselves hastily pulled out as he carefully cleans up his sin.

“And this is the behaviour of a PhD?” he jokes to himself, “I’m about as bad as that cum-laude.”

ㅤ⋆

Satoru needs to take a few steadying breaths to cleanse his mind after... uh, such vigorous activities unbecoming of an intellectual.

He’s unzipping his leather briefcase, stealing his carefully prepared bento out of it, trying not to focus on the whole situation happening in his pants.

But he’s not hungry.

In fact, he’s got a bellyache.

You’re his nightmare. His headache. His wet dream.

His head feels like it could pop if he lets another thought of you squeeze into it — there’s no fuckin’ space, you’ve hoarded all of it.

Shit, at this rate, it feels like you puppeteer him.

Satoru lets out a grunt, stressing a hand over his face and running it over his silky bangs.

God, how pathetic — it’s like he’s a student of these halls again, too distracted by his own horniness to focus on anything else.

Satoru rubs his hand across his mouth. His lashes quiver, eyes shutting. The weight of a meager four hours of sleep comes down over him like the final hammer.

Is he losing his edge?

Oh, fuck.

—Is he?!

Heart like a panic alarm in his chest, Satoru’s eyes flash open.

The drawer of his desk smacks open, massive hand fishing out a tiny notebook.

It’s a special notebook; bound in leather, a dog-eared page in the middle of it which details two things;

Your name.

And your weaknesses.

Maybe you don’t think you have any areas to improve on, but just like Gojo Satoru, even the top student has a kryptonite.

And yours is... gonna be question 12. He’s decided.

But hey, how thoughtful is it of him to remember your favorite mathematician is Gauss, huh? Kind of sweet, honestly. He’s gonna make you hate him.

Now, is it fair, to design a test specific to your weaknesses? No. Potentially illegal, even. He can’t just draw a red circle around one particular student, bend her over and absolutely rail her, can he?

That’s unfair.

But you’ve been unfair to him all year.

And there’s two things Gojo Satoru loves in life; orgasms, and karma — both he prefers to deliver with his own hand.

Besides, it’s your fault if you choose to fuck around instead of study for an upcoming test. And he told you, oh so long ago, that this question would rear its ugly head again.

Click click, his pen jots down a few notes before he’s moving onto his laptop.

Face alight with the blue glare, rimless glasses reflecting back the contents of a word document that would soon become the test that he hopes will give you a real mind-fuck.

ㅤ⋆

“Ah… ah!!”

“More… more…!!”

Eyes pinched shut, your legs looped around the slim waist of a pretty boy from accounting.

He was just barely grazing your favorite spot… ignorant to how your walls cried out for more. Maybe, just maybe, you hoped, if you squeezed even tighter around his cock, then it would finally feel better.

Okay, sure; it kind of helped. You could feel the subtle tingle of an orgasm building up, albeit a lame one.

You’re focused on chasing it out, but then—

“Cumming!”

“Huh?” your eyes blinked open.

Already?

The boy on top of you lets out a long groan, stilling inside you.

You’re hiding your disappointment with practiced ease while he heaves a satisfied sigh and withdraws — a little too quickly, like, what is this, a drive-thru?

The ceiling looks bleak, and so does the outlook for your pussy because she is not cumming tonight unless you run back to your dorm and charge up your vibrator.

This is agony.

You’re considering asking him to help you orgasm, untiiil you see just how quickly he slips out of bed and goes to discard the condom in the trash — the way he did it, without even looking at you, just… gave you the biggest fucking ick of your life.

God, why did it feel like he threw you in the trash instead of the condom?

No post-sex cuddles. No orgasm for you – yeah, ’cause his is all-important… and yours? Optional.

He huffs, clearly exhausted after giving it his pathetic all for about… eh, seven minutes? No foreplay. Just male orgasm & French exit. Bravo, you thought bitterly.

This guy, he put so little effort into pleasuring you, and then he had the audacity to ask;

“Was I good?”

—without even looking in your general direction, as he was too focused on dressing himself.

“Yeah.” You blatantly lied, throat aching, “Good.”

Even your pussy constricted in disappointment — because what were you actually fucking doing? Was being everybody’s girl worth it? No, let me tell you; it wasn’t, it never could be, and you knew that from day one. Because men, or at least college boys, fucked like they only just recently learned how to use their dick.

Because sex for them was just that – for them. Pullup, unzip, swipe their cock through your folds, enter like it's a drive-thru, finish, pullout, zip-up. No thank yous to your hardworking pussy, no foreplay, no praise, and most importantly – no orgasms for you.

And now? It’s you and the ceiling, baby. You, the ceiling, and the regret of giving one more measly broccoli-haired boy a chance.

Defeat evident on your face as you dress up, you mutter an excuse and tell him a swift goodbye.

“Are you mad at me, or something?”

“Let me tell you something; you better make lots of fuckin’ money one day, otherwise no bitch will tolerate that needle-dick. Good-fuckin’-bye.”

Those are the last words he hears out of you before you wrench the door shut.

A hatred for men pools in your stomach as you traipse across campus to the women’s dorms — but the reason it hurts even more is because you know it’s not true; someone’s out there who can make you cum, make you feel cared for, make you feel real exhiliration. But you just haven’t had the fortune of meeting him yet.

Shit, how’d you end up in a sleazy boy’s bed the night before your assignment was due, anyways?

Well, because this is what transpired between you and your best friend about two hours prior:

ㅤ“What crack was Gojo smoking when he wrote these questions? This shit’s impossible!”

ㅤ“I don’t get it, aren’t you always going on about how easy everything is?”

ㅤYou shake your head, “Ha-ha, maybe he took my comment personally—”

ㅤ“—yeah, ’think maybe you should have held ya fuckin’ tongue?! The man’s making our lives a living hell for it, clearly. This is just like first year all over again.”

ㅤ“—you say that like it’s actually my fault! The old man’s just showing off ’cause he’s self-conscious. ㅤOh, fuck it! I look too good tonight to stay cooped up like this — I’m going to Cole’s.”

ㅤShe groans in disgust, “You’re choosing Cole’s six-incher over me? I’m appalled.”

ㅤ“Six and a half.” You correct.

ㅤ“The half makes no difference, sweetie.”

ㅤ“Whatever. Anyyyways… if you figure out the answer to question twelve, can you—”

ㅤ“Absolutely not! Do it yourself, Miss Perfect. Anyways, be safe and go enjoy yourself.”

ㅤ“Thanks, I will.”

—You didn’t.

Worse. You arrive back to a pitch-black dorm room, your roommate seemingly long abandoned the assignment, giving up right in the middle of question twelve.

You sit down at the desk, hearing her soft snores as she sleeps, and stare a long, dewy-eyed stare into the paper as if trying to will it into answering its own questions.

This wasn’t an assignment. This was an atomic bomb to the mind. Voluntary torture — no, paid-for torture. You put money down on this shit.

Above all, this paper was a reminder; a reminder that Satoru Gojo is a prodigy, that he’s above all you fuckin’ dweebs and you better remember it.

The marks where you had viciously erased show the ghost of horrendously incorrect answers. You skim through the paper, not really thinking about its contents. How can you? Your pussy is clenching with a familiar disappointed ache in its walls, one you’ve grown so used to by now. Is it weird to say that it feels like your uterus cries sometimes? Because right now is one of those times.

Well, boys may suck but you know what doesn’t? Technology.

One thing that stays true is that vibrators are a girl’s best friend.

So you creep across the room and pull open the night stand drawer, hand scouring amongst your panties looking for the soft, grey pouch.

The plum-colored egg-shaped toy is beautiful in every way, but most of all because it’s a stealth weapon — and boy, do you use it as such against your clit.

Writhing under the thick of your blanket, you roll the vibrator over and over — but your clit’s gone sleepy and the damn toy’s not fully charged, so it’s vibrations are pitifully weak.

Then, like the universe itself is writing the comedy into your life, it goes dead.

A groan escapes your throat.

Well, maybe this is a sign.

You tuck the useless thing under your pillow and then bring Gojo Satoru’s atomic bomb assignment to the comforts of your bed, poising the pencil at question fuckin’ twelve.

ㅤ⋆

Good morning? No. Bad morning. You’ve got 0 orgasms and ovulation week hormones surging through your blood. Plus, the papers have been graded. And you know damn well that you bullshitted your way through question twelve.

The sun is glaring. The birds are annoying. And worst of all; Satoru Gojo has had a much too cheery whistle on his lips since the start of this lecture. Just what the fuck is he so happy about? Oh but god, he looks so bleary-eyed and cute today, plus his hair is perfectly tousled, so how can you hate him? You can’t.

You’re sat in your seat, talking shit with your friend.

When she makes a grimace, Professor Gojo can almost guess what you’ve just said — speculating his dick size, maybe? Or wondering if he’s hiding abs underneath his shirt? Maybe you wanna tug on his tie? Have his babies?

Just look at the slutty little giggle you let out when you catch him staring.

Yeah, babydoll, can't wait to see those glossy lips make a nice O shape for me.

Once again, he’s handing papers out to students. This time, heavily praising each one for their hard work.

He’s creeping closer towards your desk, looking a little too edible with that snatched waist and those thick biceps squeezed into a tight black turtleneck.

Your friend lets out a groan, and Satoru can just barely make out what you’ve said.

“I’d happily have blue-eyed mini-Gojos running around my house if he’s packing nine inches.”

“Nine inches! Girl, nobody can take nine inches.”

“Speak for yourself!”

How sweet, so you are speculating his size. But what was that — um — thing you said that eluded to him giving you his babies? I think he might have nearly had a heart attack because of that.

The murmur of his voice instantly snaps your attention away from the horrendous dirty talk you’ve been subjecting your friend to.

“Girls, what did I say about yapping?” He drawls, something different in his voice — smugness? But he’s always smug. This sounded… far more amused than usual. Like he was trying not to break.

“Sorry, sir.” you feather.

He slides your friend’s paper across the table, then places yours down with an even more firm thud of his fingertips — as if he was saying something.

Eye contact.

It stuns you dumb this time. Satoru's cologne meets your nose, invades your lungs, travels south.

He smiles too sweetly at you; something’s off.

“Better luck next time.” he whispers, disappointment pretentious on his tongue.

You look down at your paper.

Your stomach drops.

ㅤF—

ㅤSee me after class :)

Your mouth drops into a delicious O-shape.

Ah, well fuck, if that isn’t the most satisfying thing he’s ever seen...

“… what the fuck?” you breathe, so fucked up on seeing that F that you zone out for a solid minute.

You look up in panic, but find no blue eyes — the fucker’s left you gaping there, like an idiot, and continues handing out the rest of the papers in silence.

He strides down back to his desk, so fast you can’t even get his attention, but you do clip a frame of his face.

Was he fuckin’ smirking?

Oh, just what the fuck is going on here?

You’re rereading his squiggly handwriting over and over, unable to accept that this has actually happened to you.

There has to be some mistake, right? Is this someone else’s paper?

Nope.

That’s your name at the top, that's your handwriting, and that's your four year A—grade streakbroken.

It’s his fault.

The blue-eyed bitch is evil. Diabolical. Heinous. Impossible. What was he even trying to prove with an assignment this hard? What made it all worse is how he treated his class like it was the top gun of the school. They were the elite, and among them the best of the elite used to be you. Um, bitch, not anymore! Crown stolen. And he revels in it.

“This shit was hard, I can't believe I actually passed. What’d you get?” your best friend asks.

But you don't even hear her, too busy glaring at your professor — you could swear that he looks like he’s holding back from snickering.

This isn’t possible. No way. No fucking way.

ㅤ⋆

You waited until everyone left the classroom, telling your girl that you'll see her later for lunch if you don't end up going to jail for murdering your professor instead.

The nerve she had to ask “What, not hot for teacher anymore?”

Inspiring a deep, deep breath, you piece together your shattered confidence by reapplying a thick layer of lipstick. Top lip, bottom lip, compact mirror snapped shut.

And then you go in for the kill.

Satoru loves watching you walk over to him; he relishes in the sight of your thighs and breasts violently jiggling as you bring your pretty little body his way.

“Sir.” You begin roughly, trying hard to soften your voice. “Sir, I think there’s a mistake with my paper.”

Satoru tilts his head, feigning confusion.

“Oh? Whatever do you mean? Let me take a look. Mm. No, no that’s right.”

“What the f—um. Sir, I just… I don’t — hnn, um...” you struggle.

Satoru patiently waits for you to speak, in the same way that a cheetah watches its wounded prey try to escape what’s coming.

Leaned back in his big smug chair, he laces his fingers together.

“I just don’t understand, you see.” You continue, close to splitting the fucking paper down the middle. “Hah, ummm, because I’ve never gotten anything below an A—grade before.”

Satoru leans forward, lips parting to speak.

And fuck, his voice has never sounded this deep, this taunting — just the first word has you beyond humiliated.

“What, lost your edge, baby?”

Your mouth hangs open.

“Huh?”

Oh no, he almost breaks into a smile.

And it's not just him that's about to break; so are you. And he's just trying his best to bring you to that climax.

“This — this was deliberate.” your voice quavers.

Mm, there it is. Why does revenge kinda make him hard?

He cups a hand to his ear, “Hm? Sorry, can you repeat that? I’m a little hard of hearing.”

“Don’t act dumb. I—I know exactly what you’re doing.”

His lips spread into a dirty smile that makes a heat pool between your thighs.

“What exactly am I doing, sweets? Tell me.”

“You failed me on purpose!” you accuse.

He nearly laughs, leaning back into his chair. His voice lowers into a smooth rumble.

“Aw, angelface — this is a very serious accusation.”

Shit, all his little nicknames are getting to you. You’re clinging to composure by a thread.

“Y—you know it’s true!”

“And are you sure this grade isn’t a result of you spending more time daydreaming about your professor fucking you, instead of actually studying like a good girl should?”

You're dumbfounded. Rendered speechless. Wildly turned on.

Satoru just marvels at your dumbified state. Truly, it makes his heart lurch.

He’s sure your anger could rip apart tectonic plates, but it’s got nothing on him ’cause he’s on top of the world.

Those violent blue eyes feel like they’re cutting right through you.

“Got nothing more to say, do you?”

“Mother—fucker.” you blurt.

“Bite me, baby.”

Suddenly, you’re climbing over his desk and biting his nose.

Hard.

Teeth sinking into cartilage, like you’re gonna bite the tip of his nose right off.

Satoru’s chair groans loudly as he recoils backwards, sheer shock on his face at first.

Nothing has ever caught him off-guard quite like that. He’s had girls slap him for being a jerk, yes, more times than he can count — but this? Getting his pretty little nose bitten? That’s a first.

You release his nose from between your teeth, face close to his, knocking a few things off his desk.

He looks at you with wide-blown eyes.

Ass poised in the air, wet panties hit with cool air, clit all puffy and annoyed, and hot pink rage all over your face. And him? Cock twitching in those tight, tight suit pants.

And then he bursts out laughing.

“Ha-ha, wow. Wow, you’ve really got some attitude, huh? Crazy slut.”

“Fuck. You.”

“Come over here and fucking do it, then.” He challenges, voice pure fucking ice.

Your eyes flit between his parted lips and his tie — right before knuckling up on the satin, reigning him into a kiss. That action alone makes him so fucking horny it honestly takes all his strength just to refrain from stripping you bare and fucking you on his desk.

Melding your lips together, he lets out a low growl. Satoru meets reciprocates the passion, moving his wetted lips roughly over yours.

If a kiss could kill, shit, well... both of you would be dead right now. It was violent — have you ever made out with a man like this? No, and he can feel it in the way you tremble under him.

“Fuck!”

“Mhm, get on my lap.”

“Ooh — I hate you.”

And yet, you crawl right into his lap.

“Then why are you wet for me? God, look at you, just a little kiss has got you all fucked up.”

You moan, “Don’t act l—like you’re any better; you’re hard, s—so hard…”

“Yeah, see what you do to me? H—ahhh, baby, easy; I’m not going anywhere.”

You’re dizzy on his dirty talk, beginning to dry hump him like you’re feverish for it.

Feeling your tiny pussy glide over the outline of his pulsing cock pulls groans from the back of his throat, makes him roll his head back.

“Fuck, there you go — fuuuck, what’re you so horny for? Way too fuckin’ young for me, y’know. ’s just that fact alone enough to turn you on?”

You whimper, rutting against his lap like you’re in heat, clit buzzy and already close to cumming. Cock so hard against you, you can only imagine how good it would feel to get stretched out by it.

“S—shut up and take my bra off.” You huff.

He nearly rolls his eyes — like what’s so fuckin’ funny?

You’re in shock with what ease this man can unclasp your bra and practically tear up your shirt to free those pretty breasts.

“Mm, perfect all over, aren’t you?” he murmurs, “Why are your girls lookin’ at me like they want my lips on them?”

“O—oh—! Ah, fuck! Mmm! Please, sir, fuck!”

He’s got a mouthful of your breast, tongue swirling around your perky nipples, other hand disappearing for a moment until it lands harsh on your ass.

“Ow!” you moan, inching closer to orgasm with each swipe of your pussy over his outline.

“—bad girl; that’s for not studying for the test I so thoughtfully fuckin’ wrote for you.”

“Mmm! Do it again, please.”

“Aw, look at that, my most prestigious student likes getting her ass slapped — is that it? Like it when someone older plays with your pretty body like this?”

“Yes! Nn!” you mewl, clit buzzing beneath your soaked panties.

He knows what he’s doing. He’s been watching you closely, how your hips quicken like you’re—

“Gonna cum all over my lap just like this, b—aaaby?” he looks at you through his wispy bangs, lips forming a lopsided smirk.

“Yes, please! Let me, please? I need it so bad, your cock feels so good against my clit.”

He doesn’t reply, only crashes his lips back on yours with fervour and grabs hold of your hips.

“Cum for me.” He growls into your mouth, roughly biting at your bottom lip.

“C—cumming, professorrr!”

He slips in the opportunity to tickle his ego.

“That’s right — remind me, baby, who’s the real prodigy here?”

“You are, S-S-S-Satoru!”

“Fuckin’ right, baby. Don’t forget it.”

What a smile that put on his face.

He moans at the feeling of you cumming hard in his lap, pussy flush against his cock totally soaking through his pants to his cock.

“Good girl, good girl — can’t stop cumming, can you? Is it that good?”

You nod weakly, eyes hazed over and mouth agape with a bit of drool at the corners. You look downright possessed by the ovulation monster, twitching on his lap like this.

Satoru’s cock throbs, as he swirls his his up into you.

“Oh my god, I wanna fuck you so badly — ah, cummin’!” he confesses.

Grabbing two handfuls of your soft breasts, Satoru rolls his hips up into you. His eyes roll back into his skull right and he lets out a throaty moan before spilling all his mature seed hot cum under his pants.

You feel the warmth and wetness spread under you, the scent driving you nuts.

He grits his teeth, balls tensing and relaxing with each pump until it’s all let out.

It’s hard to explain how it makes you feel, watching an older man cum under your clothed pussy like this. Is it pathetic? Well, with how tousled his white hair is… yeah, kind of. But he’s beautiful when he’s catching his breath.

“I—I wanna fuck you, too.”

“Fuck. As if that wasn’t obvious. You really are a crazy little slut, you know that? Who cums this hard on their professors lap?”

“Says you!”

It’s cut short there, because he’s kissing you again.

Brushing those rough, calloused palms over your breasts, like he’s apologizing for holding onto them for dear life while cumming.

You’ve kissed so many boys before. Spin the bottle at stupid sleepovers. In the closet of your best friend’s bedroom. Been pinned against the wall, kissed hard, fucked hard — in the backseat, in the bathroom of the dive bar. Never a single orgasm, never a real feeling behind those empty gazes boys have served you.

And when you’ve parted from this kiss, you see the mess you’ve made. Half the things on his desk were knocked over. Your lipstick was smudged across his cheek like a sin he can’t wipe off.

He can taste you on his lips and tongue, feel his cum wet in his pants, trapped in the heat of his afterglow.

Finally, he talks — voice a hot murmur over your swollen lips.

“How about this, baby; if you can slut me out, I’ll turn that F into an A.”

ㅤ⋆

There’s a bassy pounding beyond his ribcage — deep and low — accompanied by the occasional stutter of his breath and tense swallow. He’s sitting taut in the driver’s seat of his car — waiting — one hand resting atop the steering wheel, the other twitching on his thigh.

One glance at his wristwatch — 5:45 PM — then another, as if a second glance might will it into ticking faster towards the next hour. The two of you agreed on meeting at 6 PM.

For the next few minutes, Satoru’s staring into the depths of the visor’s mirror, a horror of aged blue springs staring back at him. The distant honey-glow of the campus streetlamps barely illuminate his face, yet he can see the slither of age lines showing on his once young face. It fucks him up; the fact he’s been watching his youth slip away.

Does he still look handsome, even when his face is as heavy as it is now? With the way the skin between his pinched brows wrinkles so acutely, right now it feels more like the latter.

1989... I’m getting old.

“Oh fuck me!”

A knocking at his passenger seat window startles him right out of his contemplative silence.

And there, appearing like beauty materialized from darkness, is your soft face — bearing neither frown nor smile, only a quivering brow and dark glint in your eyes.

He rolls down his window.

“You scared the shit out of me.” he scolds softly.

“Well-deserved.”

He’s attentive, gaze rolling over you in the small moment of quiet.

The difference between you and Satoru is like night and day.

You’re all lacy and ribbons and pink and Dior gloss, but him… he’s white shirt and sleek black leather Oxfords and 18-carat on the wrist and Sauvage dabbed at the neck.

He raises his gaze to meet your eyes.

“You get all dolled up just for me, sweetheart?" he asks.

“Mmmaybe…” you purred back.

He grins, leaning just a bit closer.

“I’m flattered… such a good girl, aren’t you?”

He notes how that makes your bottom lip tremble a little.

“Why don’t you save the praise for later, when I’ve earned it, mister.”

His heart makes a funny beat.

“Hah... sure. Hop in, babyface.”

Baby blues follow your figure as you swiftly round the hood of his car, making way to the other side. He opens the door for you from the inside.

“Hm, are you going to be this chivalrous when you fuck me?” you quip.

“You’ve got quite an edge today.” he notes.

“I wonder why. Maybe it has something to do with my professor failing me on purpose.”

A soft chuckle falls from his rosy lips, “Hah, oh sweetheart,” he turns the key, warning lights and the radio coming on. “thanks for the laugh, I needed it.”

“So you’re not even denying it? Was this all part of some grand scheme of yours to get in my pants? Y’coulda just fuckin’ asked.”

His voice hardens; you feel it like a caress between your thighs.

“First of all: it’s harder than that. Second of all: it’s your fault for not applying yourself, babyface. Had you focused on your weak spots instead of your sweet spots, you wouldn’t have failed. But you were too busy getting your pretty brains fucked out to study, weren’t you?”

Shit.

You blush a little, lowering your head.

“Aw, is someone ashamed? How cute.”

The engine rumbles to life. For a split second, he looks so much younger than he really is in this dim lighting.

“Whatever...” you mumble.

Satoru flashes a smile at you, large hand coming to caress on the rise of your thigh, “And to answer your question: yes, I will.”

A warmth pools between your legs, feeling those butterfly-like contractions. Satoru notes how you squirm under his touch, smirking to himself before he withdraws his hand — it’s pathetic how you immediately miss the warmth.

That jawline could cut diamond. Wispy white bangs messy, hanging just over his brows, angel blues quivering behind those rimless lenses.

Your heart beats wildly. Skin flushed, breathing ragged.

He’s just maneuvered into reverse gear when you suddenly leap on him for a kiss, connecting your lips with him in frenzy, your hands flying at the collar of his shirt.

He comes right off the clutch, stalling the car.

“Mmf, shweetheart,” he mumbles into your mouth, prying your tightly fisted hands off his collar, “Behave.”

“But I want to kiss you so badly.” your pout — oh, it has his heart.

“We’re in a parking lot.”

“I don’t care; I want you.”

“And you can have all of me,” he whispers against your lips, “when we’re not in a position to be caught, okay? Control yourself.”

With the aftertaste of your kiss haunting his tongue, he restarts the engine from the stall and heads off to his home.

ㅤ⋆

The heavy door clicks closed behind Satoru.

You’ve always known he was rich, but entering the foyer overwhelmed you in a way that you never have been before.

It’s not just the Parisien chandelier glittering above you, but the taste of old money in the air that honestly makes you feel unworthy to even present yourself in a place of such taste.

Gojo Satoru is an expensive man — a spoiled, proud-faced one at that.

He’s curious as to why — out of all the splendour you could find in a mansion — that you choose to linger on the most boring part of it all; the vase of flowers sitting on the centerpiece table.

Then he learns why.

“Fake flowers? How tacky.” you scoff.

His heart throbs fondly at your insult, “I know — I hate them, too. I would much rather have you on it.”

“—Huh?” you stutter, feeling him close behind you, extending his hand.

He tips over the ornate vase like it’s worth nothing, letting it crash to the ground into a million pieces.

“Oops, ’m so clumsy.”

“You’re crazy!”

Before you can let out a laugh, before you can even turn to face him, he’s arching you over the table and giving a hard smack to your ass.

“Oh! Professor—”

“—please, call me Satoru.”

Your breath hitches at the feeling of his thick fingers slotting between your plush lips.

Satoru’s lips spread into a smile, “Oh...? Feels like somone ruined their panties already.” he notes, “Is that how much you feel for me? ’m so flattered.”

“Satoru—” you moan out softly, letting him tease your aching pussy.

“—moan my name like that in my ear.”

So you do, “Satoru, you’re so fucking arrogant — it’s no wonder you don’t have a partner.”

Well that earns one sharp slap to your pussy.

Satoru gets all up in your ear, “And where’s yours, little slut?” he growls, “Let me guess, ’think you’re too good to belong to just anyone, right? Just a spoiled princess trying to resolve her daddy issues by fucking older men.”

His palm aggressively kneading between your thighs, other hand coming to yank a fistful of your hair.

“Don’t act like you fuckin’ know me!” you snap.

“Right back ’atchya, darling.” he retaliates hotly.

He’s got you bent over like this — back arched — on the center table of his mansion’s foyer, upon which once sat a pricey vase but is now just shards scattered across marble.

“Kiss me!”

“Where’s your manners?”

“Please!”

Eager lips come crashing down on yours, nearly knocking the wind out of you. Molding his mouth to yours, one massive hand wringing your jaw open so he can slither his tongue inside and the other nimbly pushing aside your panties.

The way your slick instantly coats his fingers has you blushing ear to ear, and him grinning against your parted lips.

“Fuck — oh you reaaally like me, huh?” he whispers into your mouth, “Hah, ’guess ’m gonna see just how waterproof a Rolex is.”

“Do you ever stop talking!”

Your legs shudder as he teases the length of your slit, spreading your juices everywhere.

“What, are you sick of my voice already?” he coos, fingertip coming threateningly close to your clit, “That’s too bad, ’cause I never shut up.”

“A fact that p—probably attributes to you being single. AH!”

Another sharp slap to your pussy — well, if she wasn’t awake before, she is now.

Satoru lowers his voice to a dangerous purr, “I’ve definitely gotta do something about that attitude of yours, ’s getting on my nerves.”

One thick finger slips inside you with little resistance, your walls eagerly accepting the intrusion.

“Oh, fuck—mmh!”

“Look how she sucks me right in — what a good girl.”

Your legs shudder softly as he carefully explores inside, the ease with which he does it making his experience gap between him and boys your age very evident.

He coos at your ear, “Relax, bambi. If you shake this much from a little teasing, then I’m honestly quite worried for you.”

He’s stroking at your walls like he’s looking for something, when suddenly you clench them around his fingers tight and purr out.

“Looks like I found someone’s sweet spot, huh? Must feel like a world record for you.” he whispers, eyes observing the way your mouth just falls open when he starts pumping his finger in and out. “Mm, feels good?”

“—ooh, sooo good!! More, please!”

His wispy white bangs are sticking to the side of your face until he pulls his face away to get a better look at the state you’re in.

“More? Oh, ’cause one’s not enough for you, hm? My little slut’s so greedy, she’s already wanting to be stretched out, is that it?”

You nod frantically, hardly in a position to retaliate when he’s got you so close to orgasm like this. But you need more before you give into it, to feel stuffed full.

But you should have realized by now; he likes to keep you on your toes by throwing curveballs — like when he compiled an assignment out of your biggest weaknesses.

He slides his finger out, then completely disorients you by suddenly kneading your clothed breast with his free hand.

“Who’s a good girl?” he purrs in your ear.

“M-me!” you squeak.

“Uh-huh. That’s right,” he smirks, continuing his rough fondling, “and you’re gonna take whatever I give you, however I give it?”

“Yessir!”

“Such a good girl — that’s what I like to hear.”

Why does all this feel like a diversion tactic? — because it is.

Just when your head is all full of being called a good girl so many times by your professor, he seeks out your very puckered, hyper-sensitive clit and bullies it.

“Fuck!” you hiccup, “ ‘m cummingcummingcumming!!!”

Mister Blue Eyes ’n Prodigal PhD behind you is smiling so hard when you announce this, genuinely shocked at how he hasn’t even stroked your tiny clit for more than three seconds but you’re already spasming through a damn-near full-body orgasm.

“Aw, a little bit of manhandling made her cum like a virgin.”

Pussy spasming, tingling with post-orgasm sensitivity, another sharp slap landing on it.

Suddenly, you hear a sucking sound behind your ear — and find that Satoru’s pointedly sucking your juice off his finger.

“Mmm,” he hums thoughtfully, “You’re so sweet... want a taste?”

Not giving you time to respond, he shares the taste of you in a dirty, heavy kiss.

“Mmf!”

Never before now would you ever have thought that a kiss alone could give you a post-orgasm orgasm, but it does. It’s subtle, just a quake up and down your trembling limbs.

The heat of his cheeks fans yours as he flushes hotter, your sweet breath got him feeling alive in his mouth. Satoru moans into your mouth. Your heads spins.

You gasp when he releases you, practically panting against his parted lips. Shit, has anybody ever kissed you like that?

“Tell me,” Satoru begins, taking a hold of your hips, “how many orgasms do you get through in a week? ’cause right now, my hunch is telling me it’s close to zero.”

“Well, I—I’d have more if men were not so fucking incompetent!”

Satoru lets out a good laugh. “I love your witty comebacks, sweets,” he speaks, “but you’ve been fucking with stupid boys, not men. Let me show you the difference.”

Roughly, he’s spinning you a 180 right into the warmth of his puffed-out chest.

Your gaze falls below his belt.

He’s quick, too quick for you to keep up with; by the time you’re registering the fact he has a raging boner in his pants, he’s already hugging you into a rough kiss again and grabbing handfuls of your ass.

He almost feels bad for you.

No, scratch that, he totally feels bad for you.

He feels like he needs to compensate for all the lousy men you've endured up until now.

You're not a virgin, not even close, but you may as well be, 'cuz none of those losers ever really fucked you; they used you.

But none of that matters now; all those lousy faces are a blur in your mind, their names long forgotten, because the only person that exists right now is Gojo Satoru.

Three words, one command, is all that leaves his lips;

“Strip for me.”

ㅤ⋆

There’s a crime scene of clothes scattered down the upper halls; the tatters of a torn blouse precede a bra — flung carelessly — which hangs from the ornate wall light, a belt once snaked around narrow hips is now abandoned along with its black suit pants.

Like a trail, it leads to a door, beyond which there emits the sounds of muffled moans and a low murmuring of two voices.

An athletic torso arched over a petite frame, torn-open XL condom wrapper tossed aside, the clear signs of manhandling showing on the disarray of the room — a knocked-over chair? Entire duvet curled on the floor? What happened here is only known to the two animals fighting on the bed.

Two pillows are strewn across the room as if a playfight occured. The black sheets you’re trapped on have already shifted off the corners —owed to the man currently bowing over you, who took great pleasure in showing off his strength when he was shoving and pinning a giggling, wriggling little you down.

Heat ripples in waves off his body. There’s a raggedness in his breath, like he’s been puckered against another pair of lips for the past hour.

One massive hand wielding his cock, so heavy as it’s sliding through your slicked folds.

He catches on your entrance, eliciting a choked noise out of you. The skin creases under his baby blues, like he’s amused.

“Biiig stretch, babydoll.” murmurs Satoru through pouty, swollen lips.

Your heart skips a beat as he eases his tip into your inviting walls.

Satoru releases a broken moan from his chest.

“Ugh, fuck — are you sure you’re not a virgin, sweets? ’cause it feels like it.”

“I-I’m really not.” you stutter out, tears forming at the corners of your eyes as you watch him inch in and out, diving just a little deeper each time.

Satoru hisses through his teeth, “So you’re just a tight young slut, hm? — stop smiling, you’re gonna give away that degradation kink of yours.”

He bucks his hips forward, thrusting his cock in to stretch out your tiny hole even more.

“Fuck!” you cry out, “Uhng, y-you should warn a girl before you — ahh, fuckfuckfuck!”

“Well, weren’t you the one begging me to manhandle you earlier? Little miss ‘decorate me in bruises’ — all talk, just like in class.”

A series of soft grunts fall from his lips as he begins thrusting.

One, two, three — seven. In just seven hits and you’re KO’d.

Satoru lets out a proud sigh when you gush around his length.

“Ahh-hh—hn! Fuck!” you quaver.

Satoru eases out a little, “You okay?” he asks softly, stroking at your cheek.

“Yes!” you sniffle.

“N’aw, crying already? Keep it together, girl. You’re not getting that A-grade ’till you slut me out.”

ㅤ⋆

A newly torn condom wrapper sits next to a Rolex on the night stand. To the right, the bed’s shuddering halts for a moment, the sound of sheets shuffling

Two hands grapple your ankles, folding your tender body into a tight, sweaty mating press.

“You can gimmie one more, can’t you?”

“No waaay! ’impossible.”

“Ha-ha.” he chuckles the same boyish chuckle as he always has, “Be a little more ambitious, darling.”

Your knees are squished against your breasts, pussy weeping around his girth as he continues his relentless thrusts.

He ogles your shuddering breasts, quaking legs — the orgasmic face beyond them. Ah, god, what he’d give to put a baby in a girl like you. A sweet, ovulating, young slut. But he pushes the thought away — like that’s going too far.

“I caaan’t! I really can’t, ’m gonna go crazy! Your cock is too fuckin’ fat.” you babble, close to another orgasm the moment he starts shaking his hips again.

“Then it you’re gonna have to kiss that A-grade goodbyeee~” he sings.

It’s like those words lit a fire inside you.

No fucking way.

No fucking way have you taken it this far just to leave empty-handed afterwards.

Firstly, there’s no way this crazy little situationship will survive and that’s a fact. This is your one and only chance with Gojo Fucking Satoru.

Secondly, you’re getting that A-grade even if it means being a little fucking crazy.

The sound of obscene squelching and plapping ricochets off the walls as Satoru’s hips meet yours with each thrust. He’s like a demon. Thumb greeting your sensitive clit, rubbing expertly. Tensing muscles, wispy white bangs sticking to his forehead.

“Cum for me, just like th—"

“—nuh-uh, ’wanna do it raw.”

His hips stutter. Smile falters.

“Huh?”

“Please.”

“No way, darling.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s no way I’m gonna be able to pull out of a tight little slut like you.”

A smile creeps across your hazy expression.

“What, lost your edge, old man?”

His mouth hangs open, cock throbs angrily.

“C’mon, don’t you wanna be the first to ever creampie such a tight, young slut? I th-thought we were trying to slut each other out here.”

He rolls his head back, mutters an exasperated “fuck” and slips himself out.

“And are you on — ”

“No. I’ll take Plan B.”

“Fuck.”

He says it not because he’s worried about anything you think he’s worried about — because a good girl like you will always take plan B the day after. Rather, he’s worried that he’s gonna...

ㅤ⋆

Something was throbbing low in his ribcage when he felt your buttery soft walls melt around him. Tight, wet, velvety — clinging to him with that ‘get me pregnant’ grip.

“Fuck, you feel s-so good, clinging to me like such a good girl...” he purrs.

Condom discarded somewhere in the sheets, your legs up in the air crybaby style, his form slippery and hot and dripping with sweat as he snaps his hips to meet yours, heavy milky balls smacking into your puckered hole, his thick muscular thighs starting to feel the burn.

You’re dewy-eyed, voice reaching a crescendo each time he hits a perfect stroke, legs quivering under him, lips bitten raw.

He’s more focused than he was earlier, eyes narrowed at your body taking it all in; how you shake for him, how you mewl out. As a prodigy, of course he’s quick to learn your tell-tale signs.

“That’s it, cum for me. Fucking soak me in it.” he groans, bullying your clit as you tense up and cry out.

Your scent is hitting his nose. That glow on your face, your pert nipples, how your breasts look so full and nearly radiant... wait a fuckin’ god damn minute —

“—are you ovulating?” he asks.

Sweat-damp face so close, pushing your legs way too far back.

No answer. But your silence and blinking bambi eyes say it all.

Satoru groans. His cock throbs harder, stiffly presses against your wall, curvature digging right into the spot that’s been abused for the past hour.

“I-it’s fine! I’ll take plan B.”

“No, no, don’t stress yourself, angel. I’ve got good pullout game.”

“But—” you can’t finish, because he’s lifting his hips and letting them slam into you.

“—fuck! That’s deep!” you cry out.

“Yeah? Tell me where you feel me.”

“R-right there.”

You feel his fat tip exploring deeper, like he’s trying to make a point — who else has been this deep in you? Nobody. And he knows it; your untried walls give it away.

Satoru presses his palm down your tummy, making you feel the bulge.

“Mhm, I’m riiight here.”

He thrusts again, only this time slower and hard-hitting. Your breasts shudder with each successive stroke, hiccups and nonsensical babble escaping your pouty lips.

Satoru’s grunting heavier and heavier, enjoying the bliss of being balls deep in a girl whose pussy actually seems to appreciate his size; she milks it right, doesn’t whine or complain or jump off — ohhh never mind, there you go.

“Nuh-uh, no running from me,” he croons, forcing your hips to meet his pulls a sob from your chest, “You said you wanted it, now take it. Every inch.”

“B-but ’s too much!” you slur, “I can’t think straight like this!”

“N’aw, but could you ever?”

Ankles dangling over his shoulders, too fucked-out to retaliate, the only thoughts swimming in your head are how big he is, how you’re fucking an older man, how you’re practically milking a good grade from his cock. It’s all too much.

Satoru’s driving into your weeping hole, grunting a lace-soft mantra of your name.

All he can focus on is how you grip him, how his balls feel fuller and tighter than ever before like he’s gonna burst and drain them in your fertile pussy. He’s beginning to thrust slower, each stroke sloppier than the previous, lazy.

“Oh, fuck. Watch me,” he commands, grabbing at your neck, calling out your name and hanging onto each syllable like it’s the only prayer that’s gonna get him into heaven after a sinful fuck like this.

“Don’t take your eyes off of me or I’ll stop.”

“Yessir!”

You peek into his baby blues, he spreads your legs open and glares right back.

His eyes are hot on you, cock buried so deep that you feel his perfect balls squish against you and it just makes a switch flip in your brain.

He’s been crazed for your cute moans this whole time, sure — who wouldn’t be turned on by a soft-to-the-touch woman whimpering and whining underneath them like a small, sweet little bunny? But now those moans start sounding a little more real — like a heavy-hearted goddess, like a nymph in orgasm, sighing and letting it out raw, gutteral.

It’s just different.

He thinks he might be a little bit in love — but only in the safe space of bedsheets. He’s lightyears ahead, thinking about how he’s going to have to break your little heart, as he looks down at your sopping little face so pretty an orgasmic with your mouth hung wide open.

Trembles along your walls, his cock dragging through you like a demon, sucking him to the base of his cock and somehow, your pussy still thinks she’s not getting enough of him.

His tip kissing your cervix is what sparks your sudden ovulation fever, and suddenly you need it bad.

Nails, red, poised on his back raking down and leaving crimson marks on his pale skin.

You’re in control of every inch of him for a split second, and it just takes one tiny thing to push him over the edge.

“Put a baby in me!”

“—fffuck!”

Satoru’s voice strains, hips stutter, abs tense up.

Just like that, Satoru’s grinding his hips into you with desperation, orgasm ripping through him, pumping his potent cum so deep inside you while holding you closer than he’s probably ever held anyone else.

You can feel a warmth spreading deep inside you.

“Stay still and take it.” He grunts, voice hoarse.

You’re pinned under his heavy muscles, nowhere to run.

Oh. Fuck.

Nobody’s done like him before. No one has held you in place as tightly as Satoru when he’s cumming so hard, so desperately that it’s almost pathetic how much he wants and needs you in that moment.

Breathless, muscles sore from his over-exertion, Satoru nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck and hides it there as he comes down, grunts fading out into soft sighs as he tries to catch his breath with you.

Satoru’s breath is shaky, his hair tousled to knots. He lets out a few heavier groans, like he’s just got his life force sucked right out — and he did, in a way, by a—

“Crazy little slut.” he swears, cracking a lopsided smile.

Satoru’s eyes can hardly open any wider than a slight bit. Jaw slacked, grip on your body loosening, he withdraws from the comforts of your neck and looks down, watching as he glides his cum-coated cock out of your weeping hole.

A tired laugh escapes his lips when he sees how your tummy bulge disappears the moment his cockhead isn’t pressing all the way inside.

“Hah, fuck — took me like such a good girl, huh?”

The fact your professor just creampied you doesn’t fully register until you look down; you watch him withdraw, tip catching on your entrance, and see creamy white decorating the length of his shaft.

White bangs wet against his forehead, sweat beading off his flushed cheeks, the maturing wrinkles between his scrunched brows — he’s so pretty, wonder what it would be like to have his babies.

It looks like even he’s taken aback by the fact his cum is leaking out your sore pussy. Or rather, that his student just slutted him out and gave him a new kink.

“ ‘put a baby in me’ — were you trying to give me a heart-attack or an orgasm there?”

“I’m sooo sorry...! I got carried away!” you apologize dozily.

“Hah... sure ya did, princess. Got so carried away that you wanted to me to get you pregnant.”

Satoru’s not looking at you, but at the rivulets of cum flowing out your tired hole.

Breath stuck in his throat, heartbeat rushing in his ears, he slowly pushes his cum-coated cock right back into you.

“I really can’t go a-again...” you croak tiredly.

“Relax, baby, I’m just enjoying the mess I made of you.”

Teasing just the tip of his slowly softening cock in and out of your hole, enjoying the creamy mess – how could he not? He’s a dirty boy. Of course he obsesses over these tiny things. The stretch, the gooey white wring that’s formed around the base of his cock.

“Princess stuck in the afterglow, huh?”

You blink at him, feeling rearranged. It’s like you’re trying to bring back your thoughts after he fucked them right out of your head.

You look at him shyly. Satoru widens his toothy grin at you, runs one hand through his drooping bangs.

He withdraws his cock, whimper escaping his lip as his tip catches on your tight entrance once more.

“You’re so cute.”

His cock droops tiredly.

“I feel like you jus’ fucked me into graduation.”

He playfully taps your ass, “Yeah, I’m so proud of my little slut.” he jokes, “Earned your degree in slut-ology.”

ㅤ⋆

"Fuck,” he smiles, “We made a real mess, huh, sweetheart? C'mon, let's get cleaned up."

He gives a gentle smack to the side of your thigh.

"N-need... in a minute… w’nna enjoy being messy." You groan, lazy in your afterglow, quietly obsessing over how his creampie feels – how you feel claimed, as cheesy as it sounds.

He chuckles. “M’kay, doll.”

Weird how you could cum again just from hearing his laugh alone.

Satoru sniffs out the air, like there’s a joke in it.

“Smells like WAP in here. What? Why are you cringing at me!? — that was funny! You should know that song, you’re young. Young people listen to that stuff. Stop laughing at me, you little slut!”

You groan like you’re wounded, tears forming in your eyes, hiding from his cringe in the sheets, “Old man jokes and you’re not even forty yet!”

Satoru grins stupidly, itching at his undercut. “Heh.”

You're too sore to move. Hair all crazy. Skin between your thighs all sticky.

But Satoru? He's sprung to life, whistling, bouncing off the bed and across the room and sliding into his Calvin Klein's and...

It's just nice to listen to him, to watch him, as he's half-naked and breathing heavy, after he's fucked you silly.

You're curious about his every movement, watching him with fascination through droopy eyes.

So that's how his muscles flex when he moves, that's how sculpted his ass is, that's the way he moves after a good fuck — flits about like a busy bird, exact opposite to his smug smooth slowness in the classroom. It almost seems like it was all a persona to you, now, as you observe him in such an intimate setting. He’s so energized, so unserious — playful without the I’m-better-than-you edginess.

It was such a contrast to the man you’ve known that you began to wonder.

Who was Gojo Satoru, really?

You’re so close to figuring him out, like he's been a theory itching the back of your mind, when suddenly you're snapped back to reality.

"Hydrate."

He shoves a bottle of water into your face, taunting it in front of you, until you prop yourself up on your elbows and take it.

It’s the bottle he always drinks from in class. You take desperate gulps.

Your heart made a funny beat right then.

Did his orgasm enlighten you? Yes, but it wasn’t just that.

How he continued to enjoy your company, to care for you after the whole ordeal, that is what shocked you. It shocked you into deep, contemplative silence — once Satoru noticed, he got worried that he had fucked you a little too hard.

So he softened himself, guard completely down for the woman splayed naked on his bed.

"Hey," he spoke to you tenderly, blue eyes fixed on your state, "You okay? Not too sore, I hope?"

“A little bit… well, a lot… but I like the feeling. I mean, not ‘cuz I’m a masochist, or anything — well a little bit, but I mean! You know! It feels good because you did it… you know what I mean?” you babble.

He looks at you like you’re the strangest girl in the world. Like you’re a theory he can’t figure out; a truly enigmatic woman.

“Can I use your bathroom?” you ask.

“Absolutely not.” He returns sarcastically, “I’ll creampie a woman… but bathroom-sharing? Gross.”

He leans in to give you a kiss to your forehead, a brief stroke to your hair — the act of affection unknown to you before now. It fucks you up a little bit.

“Such a good girl for taking me so well. I know I’m a bit… intense. But you did really good, considering. Looked good while getting ya brains fucked out, too.”

You blink at him, a mixture of astonishment and wonder in your eyes. He’s so nice.

See, you’ve always known that there was a man out there capable of bringing you to orgasm, but one who cared about you? That was something that you had long accepted didn't exist.

But oh... he’s real.

And he exists right in front of you.

And he’s your professor.

And this is an affair that can’t last.

So why not indulge completely in it, while it lasts?

“Join me for a bath?” you give him your best pleading eyes.

Satoru looks at you hesitates for a moment before agreeing.

“U-um, and I’m too sore to stand. Can you—”

“—carry you, right?” he completes.

“Please?”

“Come here.”

ㅤ⋆

The lights are a dim honey-glow. A NASA sticker is stuck to the mirror over the sink — did he put it there? How dorky.

Muscles soothed by the warm kiss of a bath. Satoru’s scooping a handful of bubbles, gazing at them contemplatively.

“I like bubbles,” he begins, “it’s one of my favorite things in physics.”

Then this man proceeds to go on a full bubble-ramble. You don’t really listen, rather, you’re focusing on how oddly cute it is when he’s going on an enthusiastic tangent. It’s in his voice; he speaks with a quirky passion that only a physicist could speak with.

It’s the first time you’ve ever heard him talk without that pretentious edge, which he always has in the classroom. He doesn’t even sound like a professor; he sounds like a little kid explaining the plotline of his favorite TV show. How can you not marvel at him?

Bubbles get scooped up and smushed between his big hands, over and over again, as he rattles on.

Satoru notices how your attention has wavered, and stops mid-sentence.

“Sorry. Am I boring y—”

“Please, you could never. Continue. What about Bernoulli’s theorem?”

That something throbs in his ribcage again. This time, it feels all-consuming. He’s radiant with affection right then, glowing like a god-damned light bulb.

Satoru shakes his head. “No, no; if I continue we’ll be stuck in this bath all night.”

“Oh yeah, and I definitely wouldn’t want that.” you chuckle, swirling at the bathwater.

Why, oh why, does that laugh of yours make him want to hold you, squeeze you?

Shit, he can’t help it now.

He’s fawning over the fact he creampied you, okay? It makes a dorky smile curl on his lips.

Yes, you’re going to take plan B tomorrow because you’re too responsible to get pregnant with your professor’s baby — but what’s the harm in him basking in the idea of letting this creampie get you pregnant?

Something’s quaking in his ribcage.

“Look who’s glowing — what are you so happy about?”

“Nothin’...”

He shrugs and doesn’t elaborate.

In fact, he quickly changes topic.

“Wanna know a kinda gross secret about me?” he teases.

“Tell.”

“Have you ever read Napolean and Josephine’s letters?”

“No?”

Satoru pauses before explaining, “In one of them, he writes; ‘home in three days, don’t bathe.’ And I’ve always remembered it like it’s a Bible quote — Sex isn’t supposed to be a clean act, it’s gross — but endearingly so. Is that weird?”

“So you like the stinky sex smell? I bet you were the type of kid who smelled your fingers after scratching your ass.”

He groans, “What the hell! Ugh, you don’t get it...”

“I’m pulling ya leg, prof.”

Satoru lets out a laugh. A genuine, baby blue laugh, from the bottom of his chest. It causes his dimples to appear. It puts every other laugh you’ve ever heard to shame. It’s pure, boyish — makes you want to protect him.

Then there’s that twinkling in his eyes. Something eluding to who he is underneath all those layers he shells himself inside.

There’s something about you. With others, he could identify why he loved them. It wasn’t even hard. Their body, their mind, their soul. But it was usually one out of three that he loved. But you? He liked you in that cosmically incomprehensible way. You’re making him scramble his brain more than he did for his PhD thesis.

When you wash your hair, a fondness throbs in his heart. When he watches you rolling soap over the hills and valleys of your body, the feeling only grows.

He’s eyeing out your lips… leaning in for a kiss… a kiss outside of sex?

Fuck, what am I doing?

He goes a little loopy… gliding his lips over yours, so soft and wet with your breath mingling with his and god, it’s the smell of your sweet breath that gets to him.

Fuckfuckfuck, what am I doing?!

And that’s when it strikes.

He hardens his expression. He leaves your lips although he’s aching for more. He scratches out his feelings before they even stand a chance.

You can feel it, having been a professional for years at sensing the subtlest shift in someone’s demeanor.

Now, you know it’s over before it’s even begun, yet you linger; determined to leave him with a mark he can’t scrub off — one longing look into his eyes, a deep and unashamed stare that pierces right through his veil and scratches the very surface of his soul.

Fuck.

ㅤ⋆

By Monday, you feel like you’re about to go crazy.

Everything you do, from dressing to brushing your teeth to texting your friends to applying two highly emotional layers of mascara — it’s all done from the third perspective as you’re too busy replaying that night with Satoru Gojo. The sex. The post-sex kisses. The bath... fuck, the bath — what the fuck was that all about?

You took meticulous care with your make-up —lip-liner making your lips look oh so kissable, lashes all curled up to the sky.

But he takes no notice and walks right past you the moment he enters his 9:30 lecture. Late. Hair a mess. Suit tie crooked. Eyes puffy. Head held low.

No wink. No nod. No nothing.

He’s like a ghost.

He ignores your hand when you raise it in class.

Your stomach drops.

No, you’re the ghost.

ㅤ⋆

Now, by lunchtime, you’ve completely lost it.

Food is the last thing on your mind when you feel so violently sick to your stomach with wretched desire for a man you never intended to fall in love with, let alone over one good fuck.

It was supposed to be a bit of raunchy fun, you know? Ha-ha, I fucked my professor — the trump card to any secret-sharing contest. Few people could top something as crazy as that.

You’re stomping across the student union hall, fuming, rubber soles of your sneakers thumping hard against the blue waxed floors, muttering madly under your breath, fingers clawed around your phone, as you try one more time to dial Gojo Satoru.

“Answer, motherfucker…”

He hasn’t answered your calls, texts, nothing.

You fix your gaze on the ground. Why are you wandering campus like a lost lamb? Has Gojo Satoru really got you so fucked up that you linger outside the arts department building? You hate three boys from this place, and somehow you’ve found yourself nearby.

Bees are feasting on the fallen blossoms.

Students are crawling about campus, crossing the quad, lingering by the second-hand bookstore. The world feels like it’s spinning harder than it ever has before.

Not you. You’re idling there, awkwardly, having a staring contest with the bees, sipping thought after thought trying to soothe yourself.

Just what the fuck was this? A one-nighter? Like intended? Like promised? Hell no!

One more time, you pull out your phone, for the first time so zoned out from the people around you when before you used to peacock around in hopes for a few cheap stolen glances. Now you’re not even bothered by the attention of those pussy-hungry amateurs because you have something bigger on your mind — someone bigger — it’s an all-consuming rage and lust for—

ㅤ⋆

Satoru gently pries your small hands off his shirt.

“Babydoll, what are you giving me those big eyes for? You’ve got what you wanted, a pretty little A-grade, now we’re over—”

“—no way!” your voice trembles.

So cold, so cruel, yet candy-sweet in his voice. He’s masking. You’re trying to feel out the feelings trapped under his skin.

But he just won’t let you get through to him, no matter how much it tugs at his heartstrings to see your eyes well up with tears.

“Listen; you’re my student.”

“—yet you call me ‘babydoll’!”

His lips twitch in annoyance.

“—and I’m way too old for you—”

“—yet you creampied me!”

“Hey, keep y’fuckin’ voice down!” he hisses, giving a paranoid scope of the area.

Satoru plants to rough hands on your narrow shoulders and looks you dead in the eye.

“You’re such a sweet girl, and I had a really good time with you.”

“Don’t gimmie that drivel! I want to know what it really meant to you! I-I want to know that I meant more to you than just ‘a really good time’, that I’m more than just a ‘sweet girl’!”

His voice hardens, it sears you, “You’re being childish. Now listen to me; after graduation, you’re going to forget I even exist. Don’t get hung up on someone like me—”

“—but I’m in love with you.” you cut him off.

“Fuck.”

He runs a hand over his mouth and breaks the eye contact for the first time. Suddenly, he looks much more pale-faced; like you just sliced through his middle, reached up and gutted him.

Satoru’s searching

“Are you in love with me?” you ask desperately, eyes so dewy that it tugs his heart strings.

“It’s late. Go home.” is all he replies with.

Your stomach twists, twists, twists — with all the violence of all your affection.

But Satoru turns away from you, the heel of his shoe clicking on the bricked pavement.

The fucker is walking away from you? Nuh-uh.

“Fuck you, don’t you leave me here!”

Your words stop him in his tracks.

He sways a little before facing you with a guilty smile.

It’s that smile, how it lifts his cheeks, announcess his dimples and agelines, that just shreds you to pieces.

Rosy lips part to speak;

“Baby, have you ever considered that maybe I want to be the sting in your heart? That maybe I’m a sick fuck, who loves to lodge himself into girl’s hearts like a thorn? I’ve been everybody’s favorite boy before, I’ve been the lover they’d kill for, I’ve been through all that shit. I’m not letting it catch me off-guard again. Now, goodbye.”

Rendered speechless, he leaves you to spin in the riptide of his words as he walks away.

Pulse in fingertips. Breath heavy and broken. One hot little tear escapes those baby blues but it’s not like you can see it, nor did you catch even a glimpse of how he really felt.

ㅤ⋆

Livid, you sought out your best friend. Unfortunately, good company can’t heal the fresh wound that has just been carved into you.

“Fuck Satoru Gojo.”

She pauses her cigarette at her lips and gives you a long look. Funny, how her face slowly recoils inwards until she makes a double chin.

“Nah. Tell me you didn’t.”

Your silence says it all.

She stresses, smacking her forehead with her palm.

“Yah! My god, no! Augh, why! Of all the bad decisions you could have made...!”

You go quiet, curl your mouth into a funny pout and look away. My. Why aren’t the flowers lovely in spring? Look at ‘em.

“You’re insane, possibly even clinically so! First you start the year off fucking that loser from the arts department, then abandon me on study night to fuck Needle Dick, and now our fuckin’ professor! God, you know, when I met you in first year, you weren’t like this at all—”

She continues crucifying you despite the fact you’re clearly not listening.

The day is coming to an end. You’re not one to smoke, but a shitty day like this really calls for it. Eyes vacant, fixed on the man in your mind, lips aching with need.

Suddenly, your phone vibrates in your pocket.

Your heart pains — please be you please be you please be you.

ㅤ✉️ 1 NEW — S. GOJO

ㅤSee you in the parking lot in 5.

Your breath comes out ragged, heart rate spiking at the notification.

“—what slutty demon possessed you to do something so immoral, so unhinged—where are you going!?”

“See you tomorrow!”

“Don’t just leave me hanging here, harlot! Explain yourself!” she cries out. “You deserve fuckin’ better than these rotten men, you know that!? Oh for fuck’s sake... there she goes.”

Her chest caves in as she releases a sigh of defeat, watching as your silhouette disappears around the corner.

ㅤ⋆

He’s idling around his car in the vacant staff parking area, hands in pockets, with an enigmatic expression on his pallid face.

Your legs stutter at the sight of him. He stands so limply, like a wilted flower — it’s not normal.

Just a moment before those troubled eyes discover you, he rolls his head back on his shoulders and lets out a suppressed sigh.

He shapes up the moment he sees you there, poor posture correcting itself.

It's so not normal, to see him appear so tousled, so unlike himself.

He watches as you warily approach him, watches every step you take without breaking eye contact.

“Oh, professor — what happened to your principles? Too horny to care now?”

He doesn’t answer, just nibbles his bottom lip and bears a stern look down at you.

Mary Janes and Oxfords, facing one other. Barely a foot apart. Two heartbeats, throbbing beneath the surface.

Taboo, secrecy — it’s all nipping at the corners of the air enclosing the two of you. The parking lot may be vacant, but that doesn’t matter; this tryst, this rendez-vous, is so fragile, so delicate, that even the appearance of a ghost could cause the two of you to scram. The fear of being found out is enough to raise the goosebumps on your skin.

Satoru’s lips part, but it’s like his thoughts disperse the moment he opens his mouth — so he closes it again. He swallows thickly, eyes all over the place, hands digging a little deeper into his pockets.

It’s awful how it feels like the sky is watching; birds eavesdropping, rustling trees mocking him before he can even get his first few words out.

“Okay. So. Listen.” never have you heard him staccato like this.

He’s awkward.

Satoru Gojo’s being awkward.

It shocks you to your core, not just because of its abnormality but because you’re the one who caused it. You’re the little worm wriggling in his heart right now, disrupting even the very flow of his thoughts.

He heaves a sigh, like he’s frustrating even himself.

Your silence is just making it worse. The throbbing in his ribcage. The memories of your kiss, of your breath alive in his mouth.

His eyes flit between your lips and the environment. Never your eyes. He can’t handle looking into them right now.

A small ‘fuck’ falls from his lips, one hand stresses over his mouth right after.

“Cat caught your tongue?” you mock.

“Listen,” he emphasizes,

“—you’re not really saying much, so how can I?”

“Oh don’t be a smarty-pants.”

“Well I learned it from you...” you sass.

Satoru inhales sharply.

Then, he proceeds to make one big mistake that breaks his resolve — he looks into your eyes.

Satoru’s mouth melds to yours, feverishly hot.

“Profesh’r.” you mumble into his mouth.

He breaks from the kiss, sparing you one ragged breath.

“It’s Satoru.” he corrects.

“Mmf!”

He reconnects his lips with yours, locking you into the kiss.

Spine scolding him for kissing a short girl, he arches way down just to kiss you — see how he completely ruins his posture for it?

Two hands cupping your cheeks, he releases the littlest of whimpers against your puckered lips.

Satoru’s stealing the breath right out of your lungs until you’re rendered dizzy, gone nearly limp in his tight embrace. It kills him to feel how perfectly your body slots against his own.

His crazy kiss leaves the two of you gasping against each other.

“Sir.”

“I’m sorry.”

No excuses, no words — he’s stunned by his own actions. Honestly — he didn’t expect to kiss you at all; he wasn’t planning it, in fact, he told himself to refrain. But lo and behold, even Gojo Satoru has a weakness...

Never has a kiss felt so meant to be. Is it because he’s experienced, or because you fit to him like his favorite sweater? God, I don’t know. But there’s an air of sin hanging heavy above you after it, one that encourages you to do it again and again and again.

His chest is heaving, lips quivering, hands trembling — reckless thoughts running rampant behind those heavenly blues.

“Who knew,” you begin. He holds onto your every word, “that the prodigy has one weakness; a woman. Ha-ha...”

“You think this is funny? You’ve ruined me.”

“I’ve ruined you?!”

“Yes, you’ve ruined me. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t cum — without thinking of you. It’s like you’re a god-damned parasite in my brain. A curse; you’re a curse!”

“And this is coming from the same cocky fucker who made an assignment based on his own student’s weaknesses t—to get in her pants instead of just asking to fuck like a normal person would!?”

“Fuck y—”

“—you really have lost your edge, professor.”

“You little slut.”

“Bite me.”

The next thing you know, the tip of your nose is clamped between sharp teeth.

“Ow!” you yelp.

“Karma.”

“And you called me a crazy slut!”

“Because you are.” he sneers.

“Hardly, compared to you.” you retort.

Heat of the moment, his lips find themselves on yours again, wet tongue swiping at your lower lip — why deny it? You want him to consume you, after all, isn’t that right?

“I hate you.” you mumble into his mouth.

He pulls away, palm cupped at your cheek.

“—that’s not what you were saying earlier, my baby.”

“Don’t get all affectionate now! What you said hurt, asshole!”

“I’m sorry.”

You can’t believe it. His voice is thick with sincerity. Those eyes are pleading.

“Come home with me ’n you can hate me in the bedroom all you want.”

It’s hot, coming off his tingling lips in a moment of raw honesty.

“The bedroom?” you chuckle, choking up a little, all your bitterest memories washing ashore in your mind, “And what happens afterwards?”

Satoru thumbs a tear off the corner of your eye.

“—afterwards, I’m gonna yap your ear off about bubble physics.”

“Hah.”

Why now? Why would you meet a man like him only now? Worse, one ten years older than you. Worse fuckin’ yet, your professor.

You’re blubbering, unable to form a proper sentence.

Just say yes — that’s what his eyes seem to beg for.

Like chivalry has any power of persuading you, Satoru opens the passenger car door. Invitingly.

Your heart’s hammering in your chest, edge dulled as he towers over you.

“Fuck.” you feather, “Alright, checkmate; you win.”

Satoru’s lips spread into a triumphant smile. The dull ache in his chest subsides, his muscles relax, the moment you slip your divine little form into the passenger seat.

an ──── Excuse the errors. My keyboard is a bit broken, so if you see double-up or missing letters... no you didn't 🙂 Also, this fic is the girthiest fic I've ever worked on; the wordcount kind of railed me from all angles, so there are probably a lot of overlooked mistakes even though I did try to weed most of them out.

I worked on this for a few short months, but then had to revise it completely after finding plotholes. I'm still not sure about the academic plot points. Personally, I love physics (at a distance) and have a thing for physics students/professors (lol) — they're accidental poets and I could ride them like a carousel while they tell me all about quantum this-that. If you study physics, I love you, nerd, c'mere 💋

ㅤ⋆ 𝖛𝖊𝖊𝖏𝖎𝖊𝖟

A flirty thank you to all who enjoyed reading this, and a cheeky kiss to those on my permanent taglist!

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