#nerdjo x reader

[bowtiepasta]

nerdjo helps you study for your math finals by making you count the inches. get a tutor, they said. it’ll be good for you, they said.

you’re sure they meant a different kind of good. not the kind he asks about while he’s pushing into you, and pulling out inch by inch, calling it addition and subtraction. but you’re not one to complain. even if it’s been three slow, torturous hours of this.

him teasing, dangling you over the edge but never fully sinking in. yet his breathing gives him away — it’s as punishing to him as is it is to you, it so obviously is. so much so that his glasses collect fog, sliding down his nose and interrupting his ‘lesson’.

“how deep is it right now baby? you gettin’ tired yet?”

it’s ironic, really. how much of a slut he is. you know what they say about nerds, but you never expected.. this much. he’s normal. or at least he seemed to be. the posters in his room aren’t cut from magazines, they’re from comic books and conventions.

he walks his fingers from between your legs up to your navel, counting the ‘steps’ until he can press down on your stomach. “sweetheart, pay attention.” he whispers, “can’t have you failing.”

“if you wanna pass, we’re gonna have to start multiplying.”

[rlnk]

The Strings Between

art by @/6enesiass

To everyone else, you were rivals. Bitter, relentless, and painfully agonizing.

But to Gojo, it wasn't that simple.

Sure, he'd never miss an opportunities to get under your skin, but beneath the facade—beneath all that sarcasm—was something deeper. Something that tugged at his chest every time he sensed your menacing presence.

You always arrive early. Early enough that Gojo had started showing up even earlier—just to beat you. Without a word, the two of you would always end up sitting side by side together, faces buried in books. Never acknowledging each other, but always acutely aware.

Gojo would pretend not to notice when you'd flip a page, or how your brow twitched every time you encountered a difficult passage. He'd chant to himself that he wasn't competing with you over a book as he started reading a little faster, highlighting with more intent.

But he was.

You both were.

This was your thing—competing without even talking.

Never giving the other the sweet satisfaction of a hint of recognition.

With this rivalry came familiarity—an unspoken rhythm between the two of you.

But lately, it felt like something else entirely.

At first, it was the stares. You'd look at him just a little too long. Not the usual narrow—eyed glare, but something steadier. Focused. Had you always looked him like that? Not with challenge, but with... intent. Like you wanted to say something, but kept choosing silence instead.

Then came the conversations. Actual ones. You'd go out of your way to talk to him about a theory you read, or debate over a book you both knew inside out. No more cold silence or passive-aggressive side-eyes. This was different.

It was still sharp. Still competitive. But now... almost collaborative?

Gojo didn't even know when it started. Didn't know when he stopped brushing it off. But he knew he didn't hate it. In fact, he started looking forward to it—your opinions, your sarcasm, the way your mind worked, the way your eyes lit up when something genuinely interested you.

To anyone else, it probably looked like another pointless debate. Just two know-it-alls arguing to kill time.

But to Gojo, it felt like something real. Personal.

Even if neither of you dared call it that.

Now, the two of you sat eye to eye, knees brushing as you sank down between the bookshelves. The space was barely wide enough for both of you, open books forming a chaotic mess across the floor. Physics. Philosophy.

You were speaking again—something about string theories again.

"—like, threads vibrating across dimensions. Not just particles or waves but strings. Orchestrating the universe, if you think about it." You turned a page, eyes fixed on the text in front of you. "Makes you think of the red string theory too."

Gojo blinked. "What, the soulmate thing?"

You gave a tiny shrug, almost dismissive. "Just saying. If the universe is built on strings, maybe some of them are... meant for connecting people."

He didn't respond. He couldn't.

Not because he didn't have a comeback—he always had a comeback—but because you finally looked up at him when you said it. And there was something strange about your expression. Not teasing. Not sarcastic. It was Curious. Like you were asking him to take you seriously for once.

And he did.

Your knees still brushed, a quiet but constant reminder of just how little space remained between you. Your breath hitched slightly as you spoke again, quieter this time.

"Or maybe I've lost it—I mean, it's just a theory anyway... "

Gojo should've said something. Anything. Should've told you that you were getting sentimental and ruining your image. But instead, he just stared.

And then, just for a second, your eyes flickered to his lips.

Suddenly, the silence wasn't comfortable anymore. It was thick. Tense. Vibrating. Like the strings you talked about.

He swallowed, gaze narrowing just slightly. "So... which are we?" he asked, voice low.

"Random strings that just happened to cross? Or... one of those connected ones?"

You didn't answer.

But your smile—small, almost knowing, told him everything he needed to know. His ears flushed pink, betraying him before he could even think of a response.

[ohimsummer]

PUCKER UP! ft. NERDJO

— minors dni, nerdjo x meangirl! reader, college! au, pegging, ass-eating, this started getting sloppy nasty lmao reader is a freak fr, hints of stsg, pet names (pretty boy, princess), kind of proofread

wc 3k….😭

it's easy to get satoru to do anything for you.

he's caught off guard when he opens the door to his dorm and you’re shoving yet another homework assignment in his hands, backing him into the room. he's easily victim to honeyed words from your glossy lips, the flutter of your eyelashes. though, if that isn't enough, a firm palm to his already-hardening bulge is sure to get you whatever you want. the gesture is topped off with a promised reward of sucking him dry, however, you're both painfully aware that you would have done so anyway.

satoru settles beside you on his bed, where you lay browsing through social media. he works dutifully, though still listening and responding to the mindless school gossip that no one else would ever let him know about. you keep him well-informed.

twenty minutes have passed, and you spare the papers a glance. it astounds you that satoru is already halfway finished in less than thirty minutes with what would have taken you at least an hour. it's easy for him...maybe a little too easy. maybe a little unfair.

"you're working too fast.", you huff, wrinkling your nose.

satoru pauses, pen hovering over the paper. he looks between you and your homework. "... is that a problem...?"

you sit up on his bed, staring in disdain at the half-finished work in his lap. "if it was? you're not just rushing, are you?"

here he comes with the pouting. satoru is extremely confident in his work, and he knows you know he'd never let you get a bad grade. "don't critique me, i know what i'm doing–“

"bend over, i'm bored."

his jaw falls slack as you tug open the drawer next to his bed, and pull out the lengthy, baby-blue toy hidden away.

"you–, now–?", he sputters. "i'm in the middle of–"

"oh, shut it, shut it.", you wave off his complaints with a manicured hand. "can't you multitask?"

satoru opens his mouth to give a snarky reply, but his words fall short when you slip the tip of the dildo between your lips. he can feel your eyes on him, but his gaze won't leave the way the toy disappears into your mouth, and blood goes rushing to fill the half-erect hard-on he's been sporting since you got here.

you pull the dildo from your mouth with a 'pop!'. "so? be a good boy and bend over for me?"

it's kind of funny, how you don't even have to touch him or bat a lash or use that one flirty tone that makes his head spin, yet satoru still tugs his own shirt off and pants down. he faces away to lower his head and present his round ass to you. a finger traces over the hem of his boxers, embedded with two bold sets of initials on them: yours and an S.G. not satoru's own name, of course.

with a quick kiss to his thigh, you're pulling the white boxers down his legs and tossing them inside. satoru's asshole sits bare and on display for you, puckered and twitching as you admire him.

as if reading your thoughts, he mumbles, "don't stare so much..."

you break gaze with the hole inches from your face to raise a brow at your boyfriend. "shouldn't you be doing my homework?"

"uh–“, he scrambles to form a sentence."yeah, but–"

"pass me the lube and the harness, too."

satoru obeys your command, reaching into the still-open drawer to pull out a bottle of strawberry-flavoured lubricant and a light blue, leather harness. he reaches back a hand to give it to you, where you snatch both items from his grasp and satoru immediately hears the sound of the tube cap clicking open.

not wanting to be chastised again, satoru tries his hardest to steer his focus back to the papers beside him. the pencil trembles in his hand, but he manages to write all of three words before feeling your finger circling his hole.

he jolts, his face flushes at your mischievous giggle behind him, and satoru coerces his body to relaxation once more. it's a feat which is basically impossible when his mind is fixed on the way your finger traces the rim of his entrance, and the more subtle, wet sounds of you massaging lube into the dildo.

"i don't see you doing any work.", you scold him, and satoru yelps when you pluck a harsh finger against his hole. despite the surprise, his dick twitches at the mild discomfort.

pushing himself again to focus on the blurry words and math problems in front of him, satoru mashes the lead a little harder than he should into the paper, clenching the pencil tightly in his fist. he blocks out the movements and sounds going on behind him: the slick pumping of the dildo strapped to your waist, your other hand clutching and gripping either ass cheek in your palm, sinking nails into the skin for a quick lesson in pain before the pad of your thumb pokes and prods at his puckered hole again.

this lasts for what seems like an eternity before a new sensation sends a shiver up his spine, something that forces a gasp from his lips and raises the thin hairs on his neck. it's warm, wet, and familiar—the overwhelming feel of your tongue bullying its way into his insides.

"hey, hey, i–i won't be able to focus if you're doing that–!", satoru whines, but you pay him no mind. his fists wrench the fabric of the comforter as the slimy, pink muscle worms inside.

behind him, you moan at the flavor, slipping your tongue from his orifice to flatten it against his pale skin, running it from satoru's balls to the top of his ass crack. satoru flinches when you spit on his hole, and whines like a mutt in heat at the sloppy way you make out with his asshole. every kiss and bite to his cheeks has him tightening around your tongue, but you wriggle it with a driven intent to get him nice and loose for the absolute pounding you're about to bestow upon him. it's disgusting, and satoru fucking loves it.

he's so lost in you and your heavenly tongue that he almost doesn't register the warmth spreading in his lower body. it's at the last second that satoru lets out a strangled moan and his first orgasm comes washing over him. ropes of cum shoot out to coat his bare thighs and chiseled abdomen as satoru squirms from the sheer pleasure. he's so fidgety, he almost lets your assignment go slipping off the edge of the bed. it’s grabbed just in time, and he shoves it a little further away to avoid any more of the wet spots his drool has already stained into them.

you let him have his fun, come down from his little high, and then satoru feels your touch retreat from his sensitive behind. "did you still plan on getting that done today, or...?"

satoru shivers, and cranes his neck to give you a puppy-eyed gaze, tears having built up on his lash line. "...it's hard."

his poor, pathetic, puppy-dog tone and the deep pink tint across his cheeks and up to his ears yank at your heartstrings. it's times like this where you feel bad for being mean to him, even if it's all an act. satoru's just so fucking cute, he reminds you that can't keep up the cruel demeanor towards him forever.

"ohh.", you coo at your nerdy, loser boyfriend and peck short kisses onto his ass cheeks. "you want me to go slower, baby?"

"yes. yes, please.", he whines. "i can't focus to finish your work."

so adorable. truthfully you couldn't give less of a fuck about the papers anymore, but it's still a little endearing that even in such a position, satoru is still determined to get you the passing grade you don't deserve.

as promised, you take it down a notch, just to give him more control of his thoughts. and satoru figured taking things a step back would do wonders when you weren't absolutely ravishing his hole, but this...this may be significantly worse.

the once intense fervor of your movements has been replaced with a skillful precision. every stroke and flick of your tongue around his rim feels more pleasurable than the last, and satoru's cock jerks and aches at the slow, sensual sucks to his ass. you replace the dig of your nails with the occasional, unforgiving smack!, only to layer on top a coat of soothing kisses. the drawn-out movements make him even more conscious of every single thing you're doing.

but still, your plan was to grace him with some mercy, and satoru won't allow you to say he didn't at least try. so, with newfound strength, he squeezes the pen in his hand, and he gets to work.

his body remains painfully aware of the thrills and pleasure you shower him with, and satoru struggles to keep those feelings at bay from distracting his mind. it's a challenge, but satoru does likes a challenge, and he finds he's managed to complete the remaining bottom half of the current page. this is it. he's on the final paper, so close to the finish line, before he can stop having to worry about it. and then he feels your gentle tap on his thigh.

it takes him out of the space he's forced himself into. satoru turns until he just sees you in his peripherals. "huh? what's wrong?"

"nothing.", you reassure him. "do you want to pack that up before i start?"

'start?', he thinks, and then he feels the slap of the rubber dildo between his ass cheeks. "ah, um–“

his throat goes dry, and you gliding the heavy length back-and-forth along his asshole doesn't help in the slightest.

"just do your best, okay? i'm happy with a B."

satoru isn't happy with anything below an A-, but the complaint is stripped from his tongue as he feels the thick tip of your cock sinking into his hole. even with your slow movements, it knocks the wind from his lungs, and all he can let out is a choked moan. stuck gripping the streets, his cheek is smushed against the bed and his mouth agape, until satoru finally feels you flush against the back of his thighs.

there’s a beat, then your encouraging voice in his ear: “breath, satoru.”

a second later and you can see the tension leaving his larger, toned body. your hands make a delicate path up the curve of his back, massaging his sensitive nape which leaves him gasping, before one of them trails back up his spine. you apply pressure as you go, further pronouncing the arch in satoru’s pliant body, and the wandering hand ends at his hip.

slowly, you unsheathe the girthy, faux length from his ass, revealing more and more and more until only the tip remains. his hole tightens, and you don’t think you’ve ever been so jealous of both a man or a piece of fucking silicone in your entire life. you’d kill to have a real one right now, to feel satoru’s moist insides and the way he’d clench around you, sucking you in further and further until you were stuck balls deep in him. it’s fucking unfair.

“m–move, please.”, he begs in such a soft mewl. so needy, so impatient. so spoiled as you plunge your cock into him again.

a sharp gasp flees his lips, followed by satoru's strangled moan as you bury yourself to the hilt. there’s a prominent vein on the back of his hand from how tightly he grips the sheets, pillow, anything satoru can get his hands on.

though you move languidly, satoru quickly dissolves into an utter wreck. your hands hold tight onto his waist with initial intent to keep him steady, but his moans bring out a crazed animal in you. soon you're manhandling him back-and-forth to meet the ever-growing roughness of your thrusts. the sound of you pounding into him can't even be heard over the slutty noises tumbling out into the open air, hitting all four walls to fill the dorm room. it makes you ache, yearning for some relief other than the occasional friction of the harness against your clit.

"fuck, you're so hot.", you lean down and pant against his ear. satoru babbles something you can’t understand, and it makes you laugh. you can't help mock him a little.

"so loud, too.", comes the bratty taunt, and satoru whimpers out a barely coherent 'sorry'. god, he's so cute and pathetic. you feel like you're bullying him, corrupting your little nerd boyfriend, and it turns you on tenfold.

"aren't people living in the dorm next to you? they’re gonna be pissed.", you tease further, though never letting up on your thrusts and in fact picking up the pace. "these walls are pretty thin. suguru was here yesterday, did you get a noise complaint?"

"mhm."

that response catches you off guard—his audible confirmation along with a weak nod of the head.

"are you serious?" satoru nods again, and you let out an incredulous scoff. "damn, i was just kidding. i may have to go harder, then, i want them to know how well i treat you, too!"

it’s all gibberish in satoru's mind. with such scrambled thoughts, he can barely hold on to a thing you're saying, let alone worry about maintaining his now continuously waning status as a considerate neighbor.

"c'mere." your words sound muffled amongst the fog in his head. satoru strains his eyes and barely sees your blurry figure hovering over him. "pass me the pillow, babe."

he flails a feeble hand in the general direction of said object, finally landing on the soft cushion and using what—in his current state—feels like an absurd amount of strength in order to hand it back to you. a second later, he feels you tugging at his waist. “lift your hips up.” and, ever the helpful boyfriend, satoru uses every bit of remaining energy in his bones to raise his body.

"look at you, my good little loser." he feels you squeeze the pillow between him and the bed, and then goes limp again beneath you. his cock twitches at the soft pressure surrounding his length. it reminds him of a fleshlight, something you and suguru make sure he's extremely familiar with.

there's a 'smack!', and satoru whimpers at the sharp slap to one of his ass cheeks. you knead at the fat flesh in your hands, dulling the pain, and pull satoru’s ass apart to stare at the way his hole quivers and tightens around you.

"do you like being lazy?”, you tease. "letting me do most of the work?" he nods. "say it. tell me you’re my pretty little pillow princess.”

"i’m y–your pretty–, pretty pillow princess.", satoru moans with a cheek against the mattress, and lets out a feeble cry when you give his ass another loud smack.

"mmm, yeah." a sinister grin paints itself across your lips. your hands continue squeezing satoru’s sore ass in your palms, and your boyfriend groans in pleasure as you begin fucking into him again. "fuck, such a good toy for me."

you say something else, something he doesn’t hear, if not for satoru’s bedframe thudding against the wall, or the lewd slapping of skin on skin, then definitely because of his own moans echoing in his ears. there’s a short pause. satoru registers the dip of the mattress on each side of his head, and the blurry details of your manicure. the ticklish touch of your fingers brush against his forehead, moving locks of stark white hair to reveal more of his gorgeous face.

"my pretty boy.”

satoru whines at the praise before feeling the length of your cock rubbing against his prostate. it's calm at first, a frustratingly slow grind against his ass where he can feel the silicone balls of your strap up against his own. but soon you're picking up pace, slamming into him with each thrust, thrusts that send satoru flying forward every time you plunge deep into him again. every rock of your hips against his brushes satoru’s leaking cock harder and faster along the pillow under his body. it feels out of this world, and all too much to endure.

the heat and pleasure overrunning satoru has steadily evolved from a slow trickle, to growing waves, to a huge tsunami bearing down on him. his entire body is searing; he releases a particularly loud cry of your name as cum shoots straight into the fluff of the pillow, soaking deep inside the fabric as waves of pleasure flood over him. tears burn at his hazy, blue eyes, making it impossible to see clearly, but that doesn't matter when satoru's eyes are wrenched shut anyway as you slow to another grind against his ass, fucking him through his final orgasm.

satoru lies there, trembling and taking in heaving breathes of air. he lets out one last pathetic whimper when you pull out, leaving his hole tragically empty, but still accepts the press of a few soft kisses to his pink, tear-stained cheeks.

"satoru?", you whisper softly against his ear. “all good?” and you give him another kiss on the forehead when he gives a weak nod. "atta boy, you did so well. i'm going to get you a towel, 'kay?"

your boyfriend only makes a weak effort to grasp your hand, but you understand what he’s asking for, regardless. “fine, pretty boy. i’m right here, just relax and catch your breath for me.”

and, as usual, satoru follows your instructions without question. he is comforted by the gentle squeeze of your hand, the caress of your fingers through his hair, and the doting kisses you place on his shoulders, neck, and face. eventually, his brain is empty, drained. satoru begins dozing off to sleep in a far-away land—away from his room and away from homework, yet still surrounded by your soft, lingering presence.

🩵: @staryukis @lxnarphase @anthoosies @deepenthevoid @bubblez-blop @luvvmae @risuola @bunnymacaron @snowsilver2000 @hellkaiserinphoenix @cinnamoneve @satoruxsc @starlightanyaaa @domainexpansionmypants @giasssslife @babytoshiii @kissesfrombelle @v0ctin @purplegemadventures @luvvforliaa @apatuaia @sataraxia @leilalilox @sugu-love @manyno @the-monster-under-the-bed @blindbabycadder @xinfvl @jianyuu4mii @sherb3t @sugoroo @hellokittyish @satorvs @notdwenby @mamshousehusband @rubiesoferebor @andyramblingstuff @gojosbabyma @ravenbc @superkoolartist @nillosgarden

[madamechrissy]

Just Friends!? - masterlist

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six

-Art in the banner from nek0zuu_ on X-

Pairings- Former Nerd! Gojo and F! reader

Summary - Satoru Gojo was the biggest nerd EVER in high school with you, next door neighbors, study buddies, you were the best friends in the world. Never having the courage to ask you -the 'popular girl' out- you never knew he felt for you. He ended up leaving town, moving to the big city of LA- getting famous with a modeling career, and lost touch with everyone from his old life. While you're working the family pub to help out your parents, years later, he finally comes back to visit, just to have you making his drink. Everything about him is different, aside from those pretty blue eyes and the sweet grin. You feel he's so accomplished now, and you're just a small town girl, but little do you know, you've never left his mind.

CW- Will be explicit and smutty (it's me!?) based on the 2005 Rom com Just Friends - part of my amazinggg moot @indiewritesxoxo's Friday night flicks! 🌙 Nerdjo turned famous and cocky, but he's still just a Nerdjo deep down hehe- he'll have a whole retainer and he'll dance to boys to men a la the movieee

WC- 36k- ongoing

playlist:

Extras- Sukuna's POV here

Kofi link (if you feel generous & wanna buy me a ☕️

[kisakunt]

nerdjo! who whines while he’s tutoring you. it’s been thirty five minutes and you’ve gotten through two problems, he reminds you. but you won’t stop changing the topic, or poking at his arm, or brushing his hair from off his glasses.

nerdjo! who begs you to stay up til midnight when you have a nine am lecture the next day so you can watch a new episode of his favorite, albeit lame, show with him because he wants to share it with you.

nerdjo! who, instead of bars, takes you to museums. he doesn’t act priss— he still laughs loudly at your jokes, he still slings an arm around your shoulder and tugs you along like you’re alone— but he does go into extensive detail when he sees an artifact he’s studied before or an art piece he looked up because it reminded him of you.

nerdjo! who calms you down when you have a big assignment coming up and insists on helping you with it (free of charge). he buys any supplies you may need, listens to you explain what you want to do with it, and compiles a step by step plan for how to achieve your goal as soon as possible.

nerdjo! who builds you lego flowers. call him lame, call him a child, but they’re forever! he says. he puts all but one together by himself and saves the very last one for you to do together, so the memory will last too.

nerdjo! who begs you to come with him to his optometrist appointment so he can make sure you still think he’s cute with his new frames. he wants to branch out, explore, switch it up— but he’s deathly afraid you’ll find him any less than handsome. he loves to impress you.

nerdjo! who knows you’re attracted to him. he knows he’s attractive as is, he’s not insecure about his looks. he’s an observant man, he knows what he does that makes you squeamish and he profits on it.

nerdjo! who pushes his glasses up while looking at you with two fingers. who tugs on ties he wears to interviews with one hand while he presses the other to your hip. who yanks his fingers through his hair and holds it in the air for just a second too long so you can see the way his eyes shine.

nerdjo! who, while he may be a nerd, radiates a confidence to him. that confidence shines through in moments like this, with his hands pushing your hips down as you desperately try to raise them.

nerdjo! who knows what he’s doing. his tongue is as precise as he is in between your thighs, lapping up at the sheer slick that covers you. he’s good at facts and memorization, so he’s memorized exactly when to flatten his tongue nice and slow and when to point it all fast like.

nerdjo! who moans when you do, rolling his hips into the bed as he continues dutifully. he’s obsessed. you’re everything, you’re the ground he walks on, you’re the hottest thing alive.

nerdjo! who has done this so many times it’s like religion to him. who is so used to your taste and your smell and the way you feel and it never gets old. and— no matter how many times he has been here, no matter how long he can last, no matter how little he’s being touched…

nerdjo! who cums in his pants more than half the time when he goes down on you. his whines vibrate against your clit, muffled by you dripping cunt.

nerdjo! who blushes a pink red, buries his face into your thigh, raises the pitch in his voice as he goes “couldn’t help it, baby, you’re so pretty… can i still fuck you?”

[snail-day]

Roll for Initiative

Part One - You Got This, Nerdjo

Part Two - Your Turn to Roll

Part Three - Second Male Lead Syndrome

Part Four - I'm still a man! Don't you know?

[yujisdreamgirl]

gojo satoru had experienced hell before, that one time he lined up to get his favorite manga signed by the author but kept letting people cut in front of him because he was too scared to say something and he’s just nice like that. that was until geto told him off for doing it because he ended up not getting his book signed. he’s so dumb.

but this—this was a different kind of hell. he’s sat on the couch at a house party with.. yeah, you guessed it. the squad: suguru geto, toji fushiguro, ryomen sukuna… a whole bunch of hotties

it’s not really a pleasant sight to see. 2 girls clinging onto sukuna, fushiguro making out with one and geto talking to a girl who is clearly interested in him..

and then there’s gojo.

sitting there awkwardly, clutching a cup in his hand while sipping on nothing.

sure, he loves his best friend suguru. he just hates how popular he is. at every function, all the girls seem to be magnetised to his mysterious and brooding aura. and gojo’s just there, i guess. he huffs at the thought. he thinks knows that he could treat a girl soooo right if they just gave him a chance!

geto excuses himself to go upstairs with the girl. satoru already knows where this is going, so he brushes it off. he then eyes the group of girls from afar giggling and whispering to each other while looking at the guys on the couch. actually.. it looks like they’re looking towards his direction.

“come on y/n! just ask him!” your friends keep nudging and shoving you towards his direction, and gojo couldn’t help but scowl.

after finally mustering up the courage to come up to him, you fiddle with your fingers before stuttering out a quiet “hi,”

gojo sighs, “if you’re here to ask for suguru’s number, i’m not interested.”

your eyes widen in confusion which makes him confused too.

“oh, uh.. i was actually going to ask for yours..?”

what.

there’s no way.

“it’s fine if you’re not interested, i’m sorry—”

“NO, NO, I AM!” he internally cringes at his response. “sorry, i just.. thought you were gonna ask about suguru.” he puts his palm out, silently asking you to give him the sharpie. you shrug and give it to him, rolling your sleeve up.

you smile after he writes down his number on your forearm, giving you back your pen. “thanks,” he nods at you. “and for the record.. i think you’re way cuter than geto.” gojo’s face heats up as you walk away, burying his face into his hoodie.

you tuck the pen into your pocket, suppressing a grin as you walk away. behind you, gojo groans, burying his face deeper into his hoodie, his muffled voice barely audible.

“way cuter than geto,” he mutters to himself, kicking at the ground. “way cuter. oh my god.”

͙͘͡★ divider by @zerowhy & @cafekitsune 🩵

[kingkruell]

first part is published, go check it out!

MARGINALIA | GOJO SATORU

A NERDJO SERIES . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

SYNOPSIS he wasn’t supposed to stay past week three. but now he’s showing up early, quoting lectures he barely pretends to listen to, and watching the way you underline your notes like it means something. somewhere between shared worksheets, side-eyes, and scribbled margins—gojo satoru starts falling for the girl by the window. and maybe, just maybe, she starts noticing him too.

CONTENT nerd!gojo satoru x classmate! reader, female reader, informatics student gojo x journalism student reader, university!au, non-sorcerers, slow-burn, slice of life, gojo being soft, love-struck gojo, campus and classrooms settings, awkward crushes, emotional intimacy, fluff, friends-to-something more, unspoken attraction, smut.

A/N this blog will be updated regularly along with new parts. a trigger warning at some ill-attempt on humor as well as (perhaps) an inaccurate usage of coding or journalistic terms.

listening to la lune - king krule

see i was raised to the moon just to hold a gaze with a view across the other side it won't be long till you're inside till you're inside my heart to be with you, such a view to be elevated to you

[nerdjo artwork by su2kuna on twitter]

comment to be added to taglist! first part (intro) will be published very soon and reblogs are very much appreciated <3

— and you'll see the details between the margins

PART 1 the space between lines [int.] ⊹₊ ⋆

PART 2 coming soon...

PART 3 coming soon..

PART 4 coming soon..

PART 5 coming soon..

and more to come.

[gojosoups]

saw this on twitter, nerdjo giving you backshots while studying for his upcoming midterm tmr

[sixeyesonathiel]

told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

synopsis : you crushed on him for months, watched him dodge every advance like you were malware. so you dressed up a little, played a little dumber—and now he’s got you spread out in pixels and moaning in surround sound. worst part? you kinda want him to do it again.

tags/cw — masturbation, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, marking, overstimulation, explicit language, filming, voyeurism, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, obsession, lingerie, virgin weeb satoru, questionable but effective way of seducing ur crush. 13k wc, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : plz don't nitpick about how a fashion vlog shouldn't be like that bc that's the point. toru doesn't know the difference because all he watches is 2d girls

the compressor’s peaking again.

satoru squints at the waveform, drags the threshold down two decibels, then listens back to the same three-second clip of voiceover for the tenth time. it’s a podcast intro, some wannabe influencer droning about mindfulness. he doesn’t care. he’s just here to make it sound less like it was recorded in a bathroom.

“sounds like shit,” he mutters, even though it’s clean. crisp. perfectly balanced.

it doesn’t feel right. nothing ever does. he tweaks the bitrate, checks the export codec, wonders if he should build a custom ffmpeg preset. maybe write a quick script to batch clean all future files—something to shave off a few milliseconds of his life. his fingers hover over the keyboard, itching for efficiency, for control.

ping.

discord overlay glows in the corner of his ultrawide monitor, a neon-green intrusion on his meticulously organized desktop. he freezes. the notification pulses like a heartbeat.

you.

he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…

his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.

“no,” he types, then erases it.

“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.

after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:

i guess. send what you have.

he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.

flashback.exe

he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.

they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.

but you were different.

not better. just... a different kind of stupid.

you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.

“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.

you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”

typical.

he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.

you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.

he watches again.

his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.

he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.

he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.

he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.

he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.

the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.

the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.

his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.

his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.

he’s close. too close.

his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.

he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—

he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”

he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.

he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:

np.

what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?

he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.

your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.

he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.

you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.

his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.

to replay your giggle.

he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.

the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.

it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.

that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done. 

he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.

and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.

ping.

another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.

hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!

he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.

he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.

the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.

“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do. 

“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”

then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.

he freezes.

his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?

you giggle.

“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”

he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.

you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?

satoru’s fingers twitch.

one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.

he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.

he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.

his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.

he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.

you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.

he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.

he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.

he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.

he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—

he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.

he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.

exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”

he tries to normalize it.

“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.

he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.

he tells himself he’s just learning.

every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.

now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.

“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”

right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.

he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.

the next class is worse.

you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.

you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.

he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.

your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.

he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.

his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.

he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.

a new text lights up his screen:

 hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T

you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.

you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.

he hates himself.

but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.

the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.

it starts with static in his skull.

not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.

he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.

it doesn’t help.

not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

satoru’s trying.

really.

he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.

2:03 a.m.

his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.

hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!

march haul (raw).mp4

he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.

click.

of course he does.

the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.

you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.

your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.

“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.

he knows it.

his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”

he does.

the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—

he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.

you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.

he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.

he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.

he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.

he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.

it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.

he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.

his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.

at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.

the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.

he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.

but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.

he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.

you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.

you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.

he doesn’t blink.

he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.

he can’t breathe.

his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.

someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.

“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.

satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.

but it’s you.

always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.

he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.

he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.

no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.

he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.

he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.

it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.

the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.

it’s been three weeks.

folders on folders: “hauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.” “audio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.” “color tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.”

some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.

the worst part?

you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.

but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.

he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.

satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.

the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.

your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.

in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”

he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.

he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.

the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.

you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.

you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”

baby.

it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.

everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.

when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.

satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.

he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.

his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.

he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.

he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.

he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.

the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.

it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.

he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”

he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.

you, on the other hand, don’t break character.

in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.

you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.

one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.

the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.

“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.

satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”

you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.

he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”

you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”

you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”

00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.

“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.

his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this. 

he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.

he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.

he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.

his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.

he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.

he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.

he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.

you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe

he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.

it starts with a ping.

innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.

his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space. he’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.

he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.

you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”

he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.

he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.

he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.

“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.

he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.

you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.

he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.

“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”

“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.

you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”

he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.

“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”

you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.

his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.

the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.

he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.

“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.

you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.

“fuck.”

he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.

you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.

you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.

his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”

he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.

you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”

you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.

“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.

he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”

his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”

he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”

he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”

he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”

you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.

the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.

he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.

he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”

you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”

you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.

satoru doesn’t stop.

in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.

the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.

he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.

“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.

“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.

you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.

“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.

he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”

satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.

he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”

each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.

he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.

“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”

he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.

but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.

he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.

“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.

you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”

he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.

“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.

satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.

“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”

his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.

you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.

“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”

he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.

he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.

he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”

he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”

he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”

you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”

he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.

he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”

he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.

“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”

but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”

he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”

he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”

you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.

“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.

“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.

but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.

satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.

he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.

you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.

your silence makes him spiral.

“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.

you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”

he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”

you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”

“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”

you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”

he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.

you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.

“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”

he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.

“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”

he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.

“i know.”

a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.

“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.

“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”

you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”

he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.

and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.

“mine.”

you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.

especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.

friday’s going to be filthy.

[vinamari]

NERDJO who first notices you when you add to his ideas and explanation on electromagnetism and it’s applications on actuators

NERDJO that has a tight knit friend group but wants to talk to you but feels too shy

NERDJO in which he got laughed at by his friends at night because he was so flustered after ranting to you about Digimon after you asked him if he had any special interests

NERDJO who is always so quick and witty to answer questions or make snarky remarks in class but turns into a mess trying to talk to you outside of school

NERDJO that gets set up by Shoko and Geto by inviting you to Gojo’s dorm only to not be there, leaving the both of you alone under the guise they both had errands to run

NERDJO learns that day your interest in Pokémon so you both sit and rant to each other about your favorite characters before realizing you need to study

NERDJO becomes giddy when you end up sleeping over because of how late it was

NERDJO who’s friends tell him that he sees you more than just a friend from physics class

NERDJO that begins writing nerdy jokes about physics in your notebook column as a way to show his interest in you

NERDJO who you find very endearing and dorky, especially the little notes and doodles he leaves in your notebook

NERDJO who you notice rambles a lot about quantum physics and Digimon all while pointing at his computer screen and squinting

NERDJO who you have now learned to harbor feelings for and vice versa

[rlnk]

Too smart, too pretty, and definitely too close

art by @/chu-cho

wc. 1.3k

Gojo was extraordinary—skimming through classes like they were side quests, acing every test with minimal effort, and making it all look so easy. What was there to study when everything came so naturally to him? On top of that, he was absolutely adored by the teachers. His endless rants, as irritating as they were, left them in awe. After all, what other student grasped everything on the first try?

He was the top student for a reason.

Then, you transferred to his school and suddenly, everything changed.

You were slowly, yet surely, creeping up behind him—matching him score for score. While others flinched at his remarks, you met him head-on, snapping back at him. And you weren't just smart—you were sharp.

For the first time, Gojo wasn’t the only one the teachers praised. Suddenly, it was always you and Gojo—sitting together, constantly compared, constantly pit against each other like academic rivals. Apparently, to them, it was amusing to see the two of you bickering like a married couple.

And if he was being honest… it wasn’t just the teachers who had taken notice of you.

Everyone did.

You were friendly. Charismatic. The kind of person who effortlessly gathered people around you. Meanwhile, Gojo had his small circle—and he liked it that way. But you? You were orbiting everything.

Including Gojo. A little too much for his liking.

At first, it irritated him. How could someone like you waltz in and start shaking up his world? How were you always there—ready with a sharp remark, always matching his pace?

But then… mild irritation turned into something else. Something more persistent.

He started catching himself watching you in class. Noting the way your brows furrowed when you were deep in thought, the way your fingers tapped restlessly against your notebook when you got impatient, and the way you laughed—bright and easy—surrounded by people who gravitated to you like planets to a star.

It was infuriating.

Because the more he watched, the more he realized that he didn’t exactly hate it.

And that? That was the worst part.

You were always in his space—pushing up next to him to compare answers, cornering him after a test to discuss questions, and occasionally bumping into him during lunch with some ridiculously complex physics book clutched like a prize. (One of his books, actually.)

But no matter how much he told himself it annoyed him, Gojo just couldn’t quite bring himself to pull away.

“It was just so fascinating,” you said, eyes practically sparkling, wild energy in your voice as you bounced on your feet—probably from the sheer mix of exhaustion and caffeine. You held up The Elegant Universe like it was some kind of treasure. “I actually… stayed up all night reading it. Thanks for lending it to me.”

Your grin was shy but knowing, like you knew how insane it sounded. You stepped slightly closer without realizing it, and suddenly, Gojo was very aware of how close you were.

The height difference meant he had to look down, and you had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. Barely a few inches of space between you. The only thing separating you was that stupid book.

He could feel your warmth. But all he could look at… were your lips. Shiny and parted slightly as you caught your breath. Oh god, had your lips always looked that glossy?

Gojo blinked.

What were you saying again? Right—the book. His book.

He’d lent it to you mostly on a whim, fully expecting you to take your time with it. He knew you were smart, sure—you always had some clever answer ready, always kept up with him—but this? He hadn’t expected you to devour the whole thing overnight.

Not many people could stomach the kind of dense, theoretical science he read for fun. But you? You’d eaten it up like it was nothing—and actually liked it.

When had he ever met someone who matched him like that?

And the worst part?

He loved that.

He scoffed, trying to recompose himself, shaking his head. “So… you lost sleep over the book I gave you?” His voice came out more amused than he intended, the smirk on his lips automatic.

He shoved his hands into his pockets—just to stop himself from doing something stupid. Like brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You shot him a grin and nudged him with your elbow, completely unaware of the chaos you were creating in his head. “You make it sound like you haven’t done the same.”

Damn. You got him there.

But even with your excitement, he could see the exhaustion plain on your face—your eyelids drooping, shoulders sagging, swaying slightly like the textbook in your hands was the only thing keeping you upright. And still… you were so unapologetically you.

He sighed.

You looked ridiculous. Endearing. Exhausted. Kind of like a sleep-deprived monkey that had stumbled into his space just to ramble about string theory.

Without thinking, he muttered under his breath, “Get some rest, nerd.”

You blinked up at him, thrown by the surprising gentleness in his voice. Your brow quirked. “Aw, is that concern I hear? You getting soft on me, Gojo?”

He tried to roll his eyes, but it didn’t quite land. Instead, he glanced away, jaw tightening like he’d just gotten caught doing something very uncool.

Maybe he should’ve kept quiet. Let you wander off—half asleep, rambling about quantum mechanics, blissfully unaware of how much space you’d started to take up in his head.

He had more books at home. Obscure ones. And the idea of you—sitting cross-legged on his bed, flipping through them with that same glint in your eye—made his throat go dry.

Would you be impressed by his collection? Would you run your fingers along the spines, reading titles under your breath like some kind of spell? Would you flop onto his bed like you owned the place, teasing him for alphabetizing them?

Oh no. Nope. Not going there—wait.

…What if it were more than just books?

His breath hitched.

What if you were sprawled across his sheets, legs tangled in his blanket, lazily flipping through another of his nerdy-ass physics books? What if your shirt slipped just enough to show that stupid collarbone he’d been obsessed with lately? You’d been wearing looser shirts lately—blaming the heat—and god, it was driving him insane.

Especially when you leaned closer beside him, practically gifting him a view of your collarbone… and more.

It was a miracle he hadn’t failed the last quiz.

What if you laughed at one of his dumb jokes again, shoved his shoulder, and the two of you stumbled onto his mattress? What if you climbed on top of him—smug, unbothered—with those glossy lips curved into a flirt so sharp it made his heart stutter.

What if you leaned in close—close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath against his mouth and murmured something like—

“So… you gonna offer me another book, or are you just gonna keep staring?”

Fuck.

His entire body tensed. His mind short-circuited. His gaze flicked to your lips again like they held the answer to some impossible equation.

And the worst part?

You sat beside him in every class. Every. Damn. Day. Shoulder-to-shoulder. Desk-to-desk. Grinning at him like you weren’t absolutely wrecking his sanity one teasing comment at a time.

Goddamn it.

His face flushed deep red, heat blooming up his neck like a fever. He couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think. His hands twitched uselessly in his pockets, desperate not to imagine what they’d be doing if even a fraction of that fantasy was real.

You tilted your head, squinting at him. “Dude. Did your brain just blue-screen or something? You okay?”

He coughed, suddenly snapping back to reality—dragging a hand through his hair and forcing a smirk. “Yeah. Fine. Just… visualizing the tragic end of your sleep schedule.”

You snorted. “Worried about me again? You’re getting really bad at hiding your love for me, Gojo.”

Before he could snap back with something halfway clever, you flashed him a cheeky grin and turned to walk off—raising the book in a lazy wave.

“Later, nerd.”

Gojo stood there, flushed, frozen, heart thudding against his chest like it wanted out.

Yeah.

He was so screwed.

part 2.

[cuntygojo]

18+ content – mdni.

“slowly— fuck.”

your hand comes to a stop at gojos tip, precum pooling at his sensitive slit.

“tell me what to do again and you won’t cum at all.”

he gulps, muttering a soft apology, and you quickly get back to work. your hand wraps around his thick cock with a squeeze, sliding down to his base. gojo’s hips jerk— your hand moves faster. it’s a vicious and repetitive cycle that gojo has yet to notice. his eyes are half lidded, tears pooling, letting out a guttural moan. he wants to cum, he needs to. he’s desperate at this point, and anything he can do to get some release— he was going to do it. gojo starts moving his hips as if to fuck your hand. the soft, warm tightness of it evoking a high pitched whimper.

“are you tryin’ to cum without permission?” you huff.

“no– no no, i’m sorry, i’m sorry—“ another whimper escapes him, “it feels t’good.”

you pause to look at him, he’s a mess— a fucked out mess, if you will. but god, does he look delicious. hand: moving on their own, yours slide up and down eagerly on gojos sensitive tip. he moans into your neck, pressing soft, warm kisses onto it.

“cum baby, cum for me gojo.” you whisper softly onto the shell of his ear.

white spurts from his red tip, cock pulsing, hands desperately gripping at anything he can grab ahold of. he was always so, so sensitive. and god did you love teasing him for it.

[miiyas]

satoru gojo’s passion for quantum physics and its theories has always overshadowed you.

maybe that’s why you ended things with him and maybe that’s why he drowns himself in work and numbers to patch the inevitable hallow parts of his heart. but when he sees you among the bustling life of people at one of those science conventions you’ve deemed ‘ridiculously ridiculous and so him,’ the rough stitching of his heart, one where he had mended together, seem to snap and falter on the spot.

his suit suddenly feels all too formal on him, the world around him goes deaf in his ears, and his eyes can’t leave yours. you’re wearing a pretty, familiar blue dress that eases the eyes and compliments your smile; a duller color than his eyes. you’ve kept the one he bought you a few years ago for a convention just like this one, the one you’ve refused to go and the one you two broke up over.

you’re standing a distance away from him, arms looped around some … guy. satoru couldn’t tell who it was. but as if on instinct, he feels himself walking away from his booth, ignoring whoever was speaking to him and pushing past crowds, jaw slack and his eyes never leaving your figure and the way you laugh— gosh, the way you laugh made his ears ring and his hands go static and his cheeks burn.

you looked perfect. you were always perfect. the way you wear that pretty blue dress with a small smile resting your face makes his heart ache. it should be him you’re with and it should be him that has his arms around you and before he knows it, he’s standing arms length away from you, breathing shallow, quick breaths and your eyes finally meet his.

the smile on your face slowly drops in realization of just who was beside you, eyes growing round and wide as your whole body suddenly goes numb.

“hey, satoru ! sorry, i was just introducing my girlfriend to wataoshi sensei. i’ll be back to our booth in a few minutes.” gojo lifts his head to face the person you’re with and his heart drops dead. you came to the convention, the one you continuously told him you hated going to, with his research partner. and now, you’re his girlfriend.

girlfriend. the word echoes in the young man’s mind, staring at his partner for a moment longer as if he was waiting for a punchline. but the creeping silence makes his throat bob and his fingers twitch as the reality of things crawl back to him.

his project partner is smiling and wataoshi has his hands behind his back as he introduces himself to gojo, smiling with wrinkles creeping up his soft features, but his words go in one ear and out the other. gojo nods along but his eyes slowly slide back to you, lips slightly parted as if he was going to say something, his brows knitted in confusion.

betrayed ? satoru gojo felt beyond betrayed. to see you arm in arm with his research partner in this specific event, the one you ingrained in his mind saying you despised, it makes his head spin and world cloud to highlight you and only you.

you swallow a lump down your throat and the grip you have on the guys arm loosens, stained memories of satoru lapsing in your mind. his bright blue eyes dart around to scan the features on your face, staring at you with a look that looks soft and painful, like he’s trying to figure out what he should be mad about. but with a clench of his jaw and a swallow of thick spit, gojo brings a hand to his glasses and pushes them up, looking back at his partner with a thin, forced grin; charming as ever.

“take your time,” he nods, pointing a thumb to the crowd and wave of people behind him and the peek of the booth. “a few people are waiting for us, but i can stall them.” with that, satoru leaves with a bow to wataoshi and a second glance to you, biting the inner flesh of his bottom lips before walking away.

the soft, red carpet that gojo walks on feels like it’s swallowing him whole, each step heavier than the other. the air feels too warm for him and he can feel your eyes still on him even through the large wave of people, staring at his back and the way his figure distances itself and becomes smaller with each step.

satoru’s heart aches and his hands clench into a fist before he hides them in his dress pants pockets. within the caves of the pocket, he plays with a stick of chapstick and subconsciously rubs his lips together, uncapping and capping the stick with his thumb and index finger quietly.

your chapstick. the one you gave him a long while ago and the only thing he has closest to a kiss from you.

[yviqq]

nerdjo rant

the amount of mischaracterisation this fucker goes through, even in au, is insane 😭😭 becase gojo himself is already some fuckass nerd in canon that only understood stuff when explained in DIGIMON terms. in nerdjo au ppl say hes so shy and stutters n doesn't know hes attractive BROTHER ARE WE TALKING ABOUT THE SAME GODDAMN CHARACTER RN ?!!!?!?? nerdjo would be sooo cocky bruh he'd be one of those "um aksually 🤓" ahh fuckers that geniunely get on your nerves bcs of how entitled and know-it-all he is, not the fuckin nerd that drops all his books on the floor in a massive aura loss event and then goes "u-u-um s-s-s-sowwy 😣🥺" FUCK OOOFFFFFF that fucker has digimon n anime stickers all over his laptop and makes u think hes one of those weirdos that live in their parents basement n go crazy on discord w their e-kittens😭 until you approach the fuck n ask about his stickers. his unapproachable and resting bitch face will immediately fizzle and he'll start yapping about his interests n then realise he's yapped a little too much n stfu to recover from the aura loss.

sigh... anyways..... im not really THAT phased by people characterising Gojo like an uwu nerd 'cause it's your fic and you can do what you want i just wanna read more fics w cocky annoying fuck nerdjo 🥲🥲

[snail-day]

You got this, Nerdjo!

Part One // Next Part // Masterlist

Gojo Satoru was not stalking you. He just happened to be standing in the board games aisle of the popular bookstore near campus. At the same time you were. For the third time this week. Total coincidence. Really. He was just hear for an expansion pack. For Dice. Okay maybe he is here for you. He's been thinking about you since the moment he saw you checking out the Gundam section last week. Really. He wanted to give you his opinion but...he didn't want to seem like a total dick. A mansplainer of sorts.

Oh god, there you are again. Picking up a game. Oh you look so focused. So beautiful. So smart. Wait, is that - oh no. Not that one.

You were reaching for a notoriously convoluted board game, one even Redditors have many complaints about, and before he could stop himself, his feet were moving. Mouth was moving. Everything was moving except his common sense.

Okay, Satoru. Tap the shoulder. Speak. Be your usual charming self. It's just a girl. A very pretty girl. Say something. Be normal.

He tapped your shoulder. Lightly. You turned to look at him with the kind of expression one might give to a stranger who had absolutely no business tapping them in a bookstore. Which, honestly, he didn't have the business to do. Then cleared his throat - loudly, awkwardly - and blurted out:

"Ireallydontthinkyoushouldpickupthatgametherulesaredifficultactuallytherulesdon'tevenmakesenseImeanwhoevencameupwiththem - "

Oh my god. Oh my god. Did I just say that out loud? What did I just say?

First, your brows knit together slowly as you blinked, turning towards him with a touch of confusion and offense on your face.

“You don’t think I can understand… the rules?”

Shitshitshit

His heart dropped straight to his ass.

Going to throw up. Going to throw up. Going to throw up.

How am I fumbling this bad?

He could practically see the social bar above his head draining to zero. As your very pretty, bright eyes stared up at him. He wondered just where did you get those eyes from? His future mother-in-law or father-in-law? Wait no don't be fucking weird.

“No, oh god no! I didn’t mean - uh, that’s not - I think you could totally get it! I mean, you probably solve logic puzzles for fun! You look like you’re really good at thinking! Wait, not that you look like a nerd, but - uh - like, in a hot way - shit, no, I mean - "

End me. Just smite me down right here between Settlers of Catan and Uno.

Waving his hands now, panicking in real time. You, somehow composed, just turned the game box over and calmly read the back, letting him spiral like a dying Beyblade.

“I just meant - it’s a bad game,” he added weakly. “Like, the win condition is unclear and the rulebook has typos and there’s no official errata - it's just, um… bad design.”

You finally looked back up at him. “So what game would you recommend?”

For a second, Gojo just stood there.

You're still talking to me. Oh god. Oh no. You, beautiful and stunning, want my opinion. My professional opinion. I can’t screw this up

“S-Splendor,” Satoru blurted, voice cracking at the edges. “Or maybe Wingspan? No wait. Cascadia? Or - do you like deck-building mechanics? I could make a whole list. I actually have a spreadsheet. A whole reddit. ”

You absolute loser.

But you were… smiling. Just a little. And nodding like you were genuinely interested.

Gojo, poor nerd Gojo, practically short-circuited on the spot.

You ended up leaving the store with a board game you didn’t plan on buying. Not because of the game, really. But because the tall, twitchy, white-haired guy with far too much enthusiasm had somehow roped you into a monologue about probability mechanics, game balance, and “that one time my friend Nanami rage quit a co-op dungeon crawl.”

He was… weird. But kind of charming. In a feral raccoon digging through your trash for affection kind of way.

“So, uh,” he said, hovering beside you outside the store, practically bouncing on his heels, “if you ever want to, y’know, play a game or something - like, totally casually, not like, a date, unless you want it to be, which - no pressure - uh - I just thought maybe you’d be into - um…”

He trailed off. Heart thundering. Couldn't even ask Reddit for Advice You stared. He swallowed. Blinking rapidly, those pretty-blues darted anywhere but you.

“…I run a D&D campaign,” Satoru said suddenly. “Every Friday night. Very low-commitment! Very chill! High-level story arcs. I made all the NPCs. I do voices. I - it’s cool. I swear.”

What are you doing what are you DOING you weren’t supposed to tell them about the campaign yet they’ll think you’re weird this is why you don’t have a girlfriend Satoru you idiot -

But you smiled. Then handed him your phone - little charm dangling off the case. Something cute. You probably picked out without a second thought. God, he’d kill to have matching phone charms with you.

“…Add your number,” you said. “Text me the details.”

He blinked at the phone, questioning how he is worthy enough to text you. Then promptly fumbled it, typed his name with three emojis, deleted them, re-added one, panicked, backspaced everything, and tried again.

You mentioned you had class.

Right. You're busy. That's fine. Yes. He has your number. Oh god why is his heart pounding so loud. Can you hear it? Could you feel it when his hand brushed against yours?

Satoru nodded too fast. Rushed words as you trailed away with a wave. He was left there wondering what your major was. Who you knew. If you'd actually show up next Friday. If he’d just imagined all of this.

When he finally texted you later, it read:

Hey it’s Gojo from the bookstore 🧠 I asked my party and there’s a spot open in the campaign 👀 you’d be perfect. Unless you hate fun. Then we can just play Wingspan lol anyway let me know!! pls 🥺

And before you could even respond, another message came in.

also pls ignore any typos i'm at the gym 💪getting ready for all those monsters we're going to be slayin ⚔️

Friday night. Gojo’s apartment. He had cleaned. Like, deep cleaned. Scrubbed corners no one would ever look at. Decorated the bathroom. Lit a candle that smelled like vanilla and cedar. (He may or may not have spent an hour on Reddit reading forums titled “What candle scents make girls fall in love with you?” and this one had the best upvotes.)

He had set the scene. Maps unfurled like ancient scrolls of destiny. Dice sets lined up in a neat little rainbow offering to the gods of chance. Snacks meticulously arranged in what was supposed to be a dragon shape, though now it looked like a pile with tiny wings. Still. It was the thought that counted.

Everything was ready.

You're coming. Oh god. You're really coming. You're gonna sit here. With me. Maybe next to me. Or maybe not. No - no, no, you can sit next to Shoko. Or Nanami. Shit. What if you like Nanami? Oh my god, what if you like Nanami and not me? He’s got that broody thing.

He paced.

Screw it. Just play my campaign. Laugh at my jokes. Please. Just - please think I’m cool. Just once. Please don’t see through how desperate I am.

He adjusted his glasses. Then adjusted them again. Re-checked his rulebooks even though he wrote half the notes inside them himself. He’d already rehearsed your character’s intro fifteen times. But he did it again.

“…and as the tavern door creaks open, a figure steps through the mist. Cloaked in shadows, yet - no. No, too dramatic. They’ll think I’m trying too hard. Which I am, but like, subtle. Okay. Again - ”

His voice cracked mid-practice. He flopped down into his DM chair, then stood up again two seconds later, muttering, “Nope, can’t sit. Gonna combust.”

They’re gonna be here soon. They’re gonna walk through that door and I’m gonna die. Literally die. Headlines: Local Dungeon Master Dies When Pretty Person Shows Up.

The doorbell buzzed. Satoru physically jolted. Then stood there frozen in front of the door, hands out like he was about to catch a falling star. Or a live grenade.

Okay. Okay. It’s fine. Just breathe. Be normal. Don’t say anything weird. Don't tell them about the custom soundtrack you made for their backstory. Don't confess anything emotionally compromising in the first five minutes.

He opened the door. A stupid smile formed on his face.

Is he blushing? Please don't be blushing. Oh no. They’re even cuter than I remembered. I’m so screwed.

Wearing the coziest hoodie. Carrying a dice bag. Smiling. Beside you - because of course - was Geto Suguru. Satoru’s longtime friend. Fellow player. Tall. Cool. Calm. Hair tied back in a lazy bun that somehow made him hotter. That bastard. Satoru barely had time to panic before you laughed at something Geto said. A soft, amused laugh that curled around Gojo’s ribs and squeezed.

Then it happened. You looked at Geto. Blushed. Just the faintest pink brushing your cheeks. Just a second too long of eye contact. Just enough to punch Satoru square in his already fragile, overly romantic, nerdy heart.

You don’t like him. Right? No. It’s just warm. It’s almost summer. The hallway’s probably stuffy. Your hoodie’s too thick. That’s it. That’s all it is.

“Hey,” you greeted, blissfully unaware of his internal collapse.

“H-Hey!” Satoru yelped, voice cracking at a completely unnecessary octave. “You made it! That’s so cool. That’s - you look. Uh. Dice. You brought dice. Awesome. Good job.”

What the hell are you saying? Shut up.

Geto smiled at him. That smug, easy smile that Satoru had seen melt hearts and start trouble since freshman year.

“You didn’t tell me your new player was cute,” he said, tone maddeningly casual. You blinked. Satoru stopped breathing.

“Oh,” you said, voice softening, eyes flicking away. A little flustered. “Um. Thanks.”

You’re just being polite. That’s not real. That wasn’t real. Right?

Satoru forced a smile that came out more like a grimace. His brain was melting. His heart was clawing against his ribs.

“Haha! Yeah. So anyway! Let’s, uh. Go. Sit. Down. And have a drink. Or a seat. Or both. Whatever people do. When they enter rooms. With other people.”

Oh my god, please shut up. Please shut up. You’re going to die here and your ghost will be a virgin forever.

a/n: if you see any mistakes...no you don't totally not editing this while getting ready for wicked...totally not