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lolkency · 1 month ago

Text

Secret(Shh)

⋮ you unexpectedly see your former ta at a house party

❥ nerdmin x reader

cw: oral sex, fingering, squirting, sexual intercourse, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, (kinda) rough

𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠...

RANDOM PARTY

The buzz from the pre-game shots spread through your veins, as you and your friend Sasha walked up the stairs to a random party. She'd begged you to go as soon as she learned about it through her friend Connie.

She knew you never turned down a party, it was the only way to distract yourself from the hellish life of being a pre-med student.

Apparently it was thrown by some guy named Eren, whoever he was, he was loaded. The all white mansion's lights shined bright in the night.

"Nice house" you admired, still walking up the never ending stairs.

"Yeah, his family's loaded, his dad's a really big surgeon around here" Sasha replied.

"Mhm maybe I could shadow him...you think I could get an internsh-"

"Ah ah, no nerdy talk right now" Sasha shushed you, as you finally made it to the front door.

You thought maybe there'd be some sort of security because of the scale of the party, and it being in such a wealthy neighborhood, but Sasha just walked right in, and you followed.

The crowd was massive, everyone practically bumping shoulders...or other parts. You couldn't help but admire the chandeliers above you, the lights changed colors along with the beat of the music.

Taking your attention away from the pretty lights, you caught the eyes of a familiar blonde. His blue eyes glowed in the now purple lights, glasses framing his face. He wore a dark green t-shirt, and a multi-colored flannel, with jeans.

Before you could wave, nod, or give him any type of acknowledgment, you were pulled in the opposite direction.

"C'mon I wanna see what they have to drink" she shouted over the music. You just nodded, still being tugged toward the kitchen. Once you were there, Sasha fixed you and her cups of punch.

You however, were still thinking about the blonde. He was your Biochem TA from last semester. You'd always thought he was sweet and kinda hot in a sorta nerdy way. You felt there was a bit of tension between you, but you never acted on it.

He even had one on one tutoring sessions with you before your exams. If it weren't for him you doubt you would've passed with an "A".

You wondered if he even remembered your name, he probably had so many other things to worry about.

Sasha handed you your drink, "Y/n?"

"Hmm" you finally snapped out of your thoughts, grabbing the red solo cup.

"Did you hear anything I said" she sighed, taking a sip of her punch.

"No, sorry. What did you say?" you shook your head, sipping the red concoction. It was actually pretty good, a bit sweeter than you'd like, but good.

"I saidddd, Nic is here!" She exclaimed. Nic being her crush of a few months, who you're sure that everybody knows likes her, but her.

"What? How?" You questioned.

"I sent him a snap of me at the party to make him a bit jealous, but then he snapped me back saying he was here too and asked if I wanted to hang" she could barely contain her excitement.

"So you're leaving me for your crush?" You playfully pouted.

"No of course not, you can come too" she smiled, not seeing anything wrong with you intruding.

"Ugh no Sash, I don't think Nic wants to hang with me. I think he wants one on one time with you, ya know?" You chuckled.

"No...he doesn't think of me in th- wait really?"

"Yeah Sash I'm pretty sure he likes you back, like 99.999% sure"

"Okay I'm going, you sure you'll be okay?" She looked up at you, concern in her brown eyes, oh how you loved her.

"Yes, I promise. I'll find something...or someone to do" you laughed, half joking.

"Alright wish me luck" she kissed your cheek and then she was off in another direction.

You decided to walk back towards the heart of the party. Scanning the crowd, your eyes moved towards the area of the familiar face, only to see he was gone.

"Looking for someone?" A voice questioned, close beside you. You instinctively jumped, turning to see Armin Arlert, your former Biochem TA.

Although the air was filled with weed and liquor, you were still able to get a whiff of his citrusy cologne. Well, you'd found him, or rather he'd found you.

"Yeah, I was looking for you actually. You're the only familiar face I've seen and my friend just ditched me" you sipped more of the sugary drink.

Armin only hummed in response, nodding over to his former spot in a corner. You nodded, following him through the crowd.

"So, you still a TA for Professor Hange?" You shouted above the music.

"Yep, not the same as last semester though" he replied, finally making it to the corner, where the music wasn't as loud.

"How so?" You questioned.

"The students don't ask for my help, I kinda feel useless" he let out a soft chuckle.

"You know I kinda missed you, you actually seemed like you wanted to learn". He smiled over at you, his pretty eyes meeting yours.

You took another drink of punch before responding."Really? You missed me?" You laughed. He only responded with a head nod, licking his lips, unintentionally giving you get a glimpse of his tongue ring. That god damn tongue ring.

"I missed you too" you blurted out, a smirk formed against his lips.

"Yeah?" He moved closer to you, his cologne was intoxicating.

"Yeah" you responded, with an innocent smile.

"There's no other TA like you" you added, finishing the cup of punch which you're pretty sure was 80% sugar, but you still felt a slight buzz.

Armin's cheeks burned red, and you couldn't tell if it was from the alcohol in his red solo cup or your comment, but you hoped it was the latter.

"You know, I kinda thought you didn't remember me" you continued.

"Who could forget such a pretty face" Armin's eyes flickered up at yours then to his drink, taking another sip.

"Am I just a pretty face?" You teased, moving even closer, face to face.

"No, you're smart and passionate about your future, it's admirable" he smiled at you, genuinely.

You didn't know if it was the punch or the way he was complimenting you, but you felt like you had a chance, and you took it.

"I've always thought you were cute"

"Cute? Just cute?" He asked, his mouth twitched into a smirk.

"And smar-" Armin's free hand grabbed your face, pulling you into an abrupt kiss. His lips were soft and sweet from the punch.

The kiss was quick, but you could still feel his warm lips pressed against yours once he pulled back.

"Thanks, but I'm not just cute" he smiled, his hands left your face, and back into his pockets.

"How so?" You teased.

"Let me show you"

The next thing you knew, you were upstairs in a random bathroom.

Armin locked the door, pushing you against it, connecting your lips again. He held your face in one hand, while holding your hip with the other. This kiss was rougher, less calculated, more frantic.

Feeling his tongue push against your lips, you let it slip in. The silver ball you'd fantasized about in class, was now in your mouth, and you couldn't help but moan at the thought.

Armin broke the kiss a string of saliva moved with him, still connected to your lips. He smirked down at you before grabbing the ends of your tank and lifting it over your head.

You quickly discarded your bra, your nipples hardened from the cool air of the bathroom. "Fuck, they're even better than I imagined" Armin drooled at the sight of your breast, you took it he was a boob guy.

His lips attached to one of your nipples, playfully flicking his tongue before sucking it. You let out a soft moan, grabbing his head, fingers running through his hair.

His other hand moved to play with your other breast, pinching and grabbing it, until it stung. The slight pain went straight to your cunt, begging for attention.

His teeth bit down on the sensitive skin and you swore you could see stars. You moaned out, grabbing his hair and pulling him up to look at you.

"You're a little freak aren't you" you teased, before grabbing the back of his neck, pulling him into another kiss. You moved from the door, sitting on the sink. Your legs spread, letting Armin in between, both his hands laid on your thighs.

Your hands moved from his neck, back to his soft hair, tugging it a bit, when he bites down on your bottom lip. He pulled back from the kiss, out of breath.

"I like to be in control" he looked at your sternly, glasses at the slope of his nose.

"Then take control" you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, his clothed erection against your clothed cunt. There were too many barriers between you at the moment.

He let out a chuckle, before giving your thighs a light squeeze to let go of his waist. He moved away from you and over the toilet, placing his glasses on the seat.

Then his flannel and shirt were off, and you couldn't help but admire his body. Holy sleeper build.

Once he's in front of you again, your hands immediately attach to his chest, his heart was racing, and for some reason you felt your pussy pulse because of it.

His hands moved to lift your skirt, sliding your black panties off. He balled the thin fabric, before placing them in your mouth with a smirk. "Shh" he lifted a finger to his mouth.

Then he was on his knees, between your legs. "You know, it may be perverted to say, but I've imagined what you'd taste like" his breathe shuddered against your cunt. He was such a freak, and you loved it.

Armin wrapped his arms around your legs and pulled you closer to the edge of the counter. Without warning, he dipped his tongue into your heat, down to your hole lapping up your slick and moving to your clit.

His tongue moved in circles against the sensitive bud, the metal ball adding a new element of pleasure. He slurped and sucked your clit just as hungrily as he'd done your breasts.

You moaned into your panties, moving your head back against the mirror. His fingers dug into your thighs, as his tongue dipped into your hole, swirling around before slurping your arousal.

He took a hand from your thigh, taking his ring and middle finger into his mouth and interning them into your cunt. "Mmm" you moaned, muffled by the fabric.

"You're so wet" he smiled up at you innocently, so much that it gave you whiplash. How could he look like that but do things li-

His lips attached to your clit again, as his fingers eagerly pumped inside you with a slight curve, hitting your sweet spot.

"Mmm mm" you pleaded, wanting to announce you were close, your hands grabbed a hold of his hair, pressing him further onto your cunt.

Armin continued his pursuit against your pussy, never letting up. He sucked your clit so hard you swore the stars were back, and with another pump of his fingers hitting that spot, you came undone.

Pleasure ran through your veins, the pressure in your abdomen releasing, you squirted against Armin's fingers. Your arousal and liquids all over his face, but he continued pumping into you.

"Mmm mm mm" you wanted to cry out from the pleasure and overstimulation, but Armin continued attempting to get another orgasm out of you.

He groaned against your clit, before lifting his head to look at you, "cmon you can do it again, I know it" he coached you.

"Just lift your hips a bit"

You nodded, moving your hands from his hair to the marble bathroom counter, slightly lifting your hips, arms trembling.

"Good girl" he smirked, still pumping his fingers into you, he spat against your clit before adding pressure with his thumb.

Armin watched your face the entire time, your second orgasm slowly built and he knew the moment your cunt clenched around his fingers you were almost there.

With his fingers bruising your cunt, you came undone again. Tears left your eyes, as you squeeze them shut, coming down from the high. Your hips jerked against his hands and Armin finally removed his fingers, giving your clit a soft peck.

He raised from his knees, taking the panties from you mouth. You let out a sigh, catching your breath, your body slumped on top of the counter.

A smirk formed across his lips, sticking his fingers into your mouth and you sucked them clean. Armin brought you into a quick kiss, unbuttoning his pants.

His jeans and underwear dropped to floor and the only thing left was his painfully erect dick. It was...pretty, just like him. You couldn't stop yourself from smiling.

"Stand up and turn around" Armin ordered, and your smile immediately faded, you didn't even know if you could stand anymore.

"You can do it" he added, his blue eyes softened.

You nodded, slowly getting off the counter, your legs took a second to readjust, but you were good...for now.

Turning around, you placed your hands against the marble counter. Armin's hands grabbed your ass, kneading it before aligning himself with your cunt.

"Ready?" He asked.

"Mmhm" you replied, looking back at him over your shoulder.

Armin slid himself inside you, and you finally felt whole. You let out a small whimper, which gained a slight moan from Armin.

A hand slapped your ass, forcing another whimper out of you, the pain hurt so good. Armin's strokes started off slow, but it wasn't long before his pace quickened, his hips snipping against you.

Each stroke, hitting your already bruised cervix. He looked down at himself moving in and out of your cunt. You swallowed him whole, taking him so well.

Your cunt dripped with your arousal, and he was proud to say he'd made you this way. You had gotten wet just for him. "Mmhm" he moaned, lifting a hand and slapping your ass again.

You looked up at the mirror, dried mascara streaks against your skin. You looked fucked out, but you could go for another orgasm, and he for sure gonna give it to you.

Armin increased his speed, pounding into you over and over. Your hands gripped against the counter, close to your release.

"Fuck Armin" you cried out, your legs trembling from his pursuit. He abruptly pulled out of you, turning you around and picking you up. To be honest, you hadn't thought he could lift you, but he did so effortlessly.

You instinctively wrapped your legs around him, as he pushed you back down onto his length. Pushing your back against the door, Armin began pumping into you again. With his face in the crook of your neck, he moaned, fingers digging into your thighs, he was close.

His hips snapped into you, coaxing your orgasm. You tightened your legs around his waist, wanting no space between you. Your hands moved to his hair again, giving it a slight tug.

Your hips bucked against his, "Mmhm Armin" you cried out, your third orgasm washed over you. New tears fell down your face, as you sobbed from the pleasure.

Armin groaned against your neck, "fuck I'm gonna cum." His strokes became staggered, sinking his teeth into your shoulder, as he came inside you, his warm seed coating your insides. He pumped into you a few more times, coming down from his high.

Armin caught his breath, slowly placing you to your feet, giving your forehead a soft peck.

✎ i promise he gave after care(i mean it’s armin we’re talking abt)

sorry for any grammar/spelling errors, i’ll fix em when i have the time<3

- ciara💻

#anime #armin arlert #armin x reader #nerd armin #nerdmin #armin aot #aot #aot x reader #armin smut #snk armin #aot fanfiction #attack on titan fanfiction #attack on titan #aot smut #nerd shit

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kingkruell · 29 days ago

Text

MARGINALIA | PART 1: INTRODUCTION

THE SPACE BETWEEN LINES

WC: 3.029

a nerdjo series

listening to the boy - the smashing pumpkins

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

taglist: @sylusonlylove @bakugouswaif @n1vi @arthrizzia

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

gojo satoru doesn’t belong in this class.

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

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

his eye scans the room. empty seat. you.

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

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

you glance at him. sideways, unimpressed.

“you in journalism?”

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

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

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

it’s really not.

still, he stays.

that’s the problem.

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

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

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

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

but he notices things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

satoru chews. looks away.

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

instead, he just keeps showing up.

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

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

he had, actually.

“skimmed it,” he lies.

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

he shifts in his chair. “did i?”

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

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

nanami [10:55 pm] .

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

satoru has left the chat

yeah, it starts to bother him.

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

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

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

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

but this?

this is... what?

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

emotional spike when subject speaks: moderate

unprompted recall of subject’s prior comments: high

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

increased engagement with previously irrelevant topics: off the charts

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

you’re not a simulation.

you’re not data.

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

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

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

he closes the tab.

he’s not in love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he flinches.

“what girl?”

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

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

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

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

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

after that, it spirals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

geto raises an eyebrow. “sure.”

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

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

both heads turn toward him.

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

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

a beat of silence.

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

satoru shrugs. rubs the back of his neck.

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

“shut up.”

“you’re writing poetry about her penmanship.”

“i said shut up.”

“tell her,” geto says.

satoru sits up straight. “what? no.”

“why not?”

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

“you’re literally top of our major.”

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

a quiet moment.

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

geto blinks. “what?”

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

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

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

“you absolutely are.”

“shut up.”

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

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

“kill me,” satoru mutters into his hands.

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

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

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

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

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

“what…” you chuckled, brows stil furrowing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but your eyebrows?

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

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

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