#talk to your professors first

[corvid-corvette-coven]

lemme throw an ice cube in this hot boiling pot of oil that is AI debate

I feel like the misuse of AI tools for profit or exploitative/ fucked up gain really devalues the genuine usefulness of the programs.

as much as i always wish to go to a HUMAN for help like this, i was low on time so i will admit i used CHATGPT to summarise some legalese.

I am firmly against alot of things people are trying to do with AI these days, its actually fucking ludicrous how far its being taken.

(sorry for how wordy this is I have a few things to say)

I also feel like the use of AI for giving any second opinion on academic knowledge cuts off an important connection people develop with (good) teachers and professors, who would respond to my email and give me this response (if i had time)

(basically i dont condone or enjoy the use of AI as a replacement for asking for help that could be provided from another person)

I dont use CHATGPT to write essays or schoolwork, regardless of how highly people praise it, i find its just genuinely shit and I wouldn't be doing a course if I'm not prepared to fail at it (personal philosophy).

But i jokingly mocked a friend i saw had a CHATGPT tab open recently (i wagged my finger and said "tsk tsk tsk look at you becoming a slave to our robot overlords"), and they told me that actually they use it to summarise painfully worded text and school documents and shit.

So today I took that idea, and used CHATGPT to help me summarise some legalese (as much as consulting tumblr was my first option i wasn't prepared to put my faith in you guys for something due so soon)

and this thang WORKED, very well, i get it now

I didnt use that text in my essay, but it HELPED yknow

and i just wish i didnt have as much guilt of using AI when I was in a painful spot, on a deadline, in need of help

[wishchip106]

i need to read more xmfc cherik fics but its in the POV of the other xmen

them constantly sneaking off somewhere together and the others ARE SICK OF IT

everyone having breakfast/dinner together and cherik just staring into each others eyes across the table the whole time

someone getting up in the middle of the night to get a snack but just finding cherik making out in the kitchen

cherik flirting with each other during training times that whoever is being trained just gets third-wheeled “it’s not even about me anymore ☹️”

waking up to a telepathic bleed when cherik are doing the devils tango 🤨

getting a misdirected telepathic message of what Charles wants to do to Erik 😧😟

and then boom all of a sudden beach divorce what the fuck happened

messiest breakup in history

these guys drive me insane and i’m sure they drove the others insane too

[smile-files]

it feels sort of silly being surrounded by all this layclaire stuff while in the throes of an obsession with a completely different set of layton characters. i acknowledge the tenderness and tragedy of it all but i'm just not in the headspace to engage with it in any meaningful way lol

[vacantgodling]

psst hi hello hi I see you liveblogging waiting for Godot a play I have been extremely normal and fine about (did an audio production for my high school final project thing). I would love to talk about it if you'd like to talk about it, it *is* absolute nothingsoup and I did not know about samuel's why are you letting women here tantrum however. It's my favorite boy of a horrid play creature. Would you enjoy talking about the horrid play creature any more or are you over it n would rather not,

oasjcx yeah i've been kinda looking at the wiki side by side when i did my little read-skim and there's an entire section dedicated to his objection of female actors playing any of the roles but especially vladimir and estragon.

(there's more to it im just. lmao. literally a court in rome in 2006 ruled that it was fine for women to play the roles but im like why the fuck did this go to court in the first place this is asinine odjcodjn i get having an artisitic vision which is why i said i "understand" surface level why he was adament about it but it just feels weirdly misogynistic for reasons unknown to anyone)

n e way, i suppose it depends? i don't mind talking about it generally--and hearing from someone who enjoys it could be enlightening about what there is to Enjoy about it--but i have always had a contempt for this play and i find it, generally speaking, insufferable. obviously, you Can always gain something out of anything you read and if you really sincerely try, you can put meaning to anything. so, i can see (if i squint) how people gain Things and Meaning from it, i just don't think its that intellectually stimulating.

so i really only say it depends based on how you feel about talking to someone who kind of hates it. like i don't hate it enough to Scream about it but i definitely don't like it at all even after this second read and even when we talk about it i still won't like it BUT i am definitely open to hearing your thoughts about it and what your opinions of it are because it'll definitely be more stimulating than me sitting here like :|

[lieutenantselnia]

I'm currently unsure whether I should be happy or stressed about the fact that there are only like 5 more weeks until the end of the semester - on one hand the summer holidays can't arrive fast enough so I can rest and have free time again but on the other hand there's still so much to finish within that time frame and ugh I'm just tired���‍💫

At least today (or more like yesterday by the time I post this) I had a fun day, I went to a wildlife park with friends (a trip we've had planned since a couple weeks already), I'm sure I haven't been to the place in like a decade but it was really fun! I didn't think to take a lot of pictures of the animals, but here's a plush trout I got at the souvenir shop🐟

[six-improbable-things]

My uni's theatre department accidentally coined a new motto today:

Don't be a dick. Show up and do your job.

[wishchip106]

these guys make me sick

i will forever be grieving over the fact they never kissed on screen during this whole scene

WHO GIVES A SHIT ABOUT WHAT JFK HAS TO SAY GO MAKE OUT ON THE GRAVEL NOW‼️‼️‼️‼️

[vnlucura]

just submitted an application for a residency in the summer finally even though I probably won’t be able to afford paying for it if I get in

[adapotata]

She fucking killed Beasley???

[nazumichi]

tear in favorite jacket moment haha i’m losing control of it all

[sixeyesonathiel]

shy girls suck the best!

fratjo x nerd!reader, fluff & smut, m receiving, overstimulation, whimpering toru. 3.5k wc, 18+ only, MDNI.

satoru gojo is experienced.

he’s cocky for a reason. he’s made girls scream his name more times than he can count, and he knows exactly how to make someone fold in under five minutes—ten if he’s playing nice. he’s all confidence, charm, and unearned a’s from professors who don’t want to deal with his antics. his reputation precedes him in every room, and he walks like the world’s already bent over backwards just to please him.

everything about him screams untouchable, and he’s used to people treating him that way. he wears his varsity jacket like armor, a walking billboard of fratboy glory, all swagger and smirks and lazy confidence that makes people gravitate toward him like he’s got his own gravity field.

but then there’s you.

the shy girl in glasses, always scribbling in your notebook with an absurdly cute pen, whispering apologies when you bump into people, hiding in the back row of class like you owe the world an explanation just for existing. you don’t talk unless spoken to, don’t make eye contact, and definitely don’t give satoru the attention he’s used to. it’s not that you’re cold—it’s that you seem like you live in your own quiet little world, and satoru’s never wanted to be invited somewhere so badly.

and maybe what undoes him first is that he sees you before you see him. you’re already there, present in the corners of his attention before he understands why he’s looking. he notices you one day during lecture, tucking your hair behind your ear as you underline a sentence three times with an intense little frown. it doesn’t seem like much. but something in him clicks.

at first it’s curiosity. then amusement. then it festers into irritation—because why the fuck aren’t you reacting to him like everyone else?—and then fascination. and then something deeper that coils in his chest and makes his throat tight every time he sees you. he tries not to care. he wants not to care. but you’re already rooting yourself in places inside him he didn’t know were hollow.

satoru notices you because you don’t notice him. not the way everyone else does. you don’t flutter your lashes when he smirks. you don’t laugh at his jokes like they’re scripture. you don’t even flinch when he calls you “baby” out of nowhere—just blink at him like he’s an equation you don’t understand. it bruises his ego. and for some unholy reason, he loves it.

the problem is, you’re not immune to him at all. you’re just hiding it better than anyone ever has.

because what he doesn’t know is—you’ve always had a crush on him. from the very first time he walked into class, sleepy-eyed and bright-smiled, wearing that damn jacket like it belonged on a movie screen. you just figured he’d never notice someone like you. so you admired from afar. watched him flirt with others, watched the way he filled a room with laughter, memorized the cadence of his voice like it was part of your playlist.

your crush was harmless. private. something you never expected to act on. you played it safe. after all, guys like satoru gojo don’t fall for quiet girls with awkward posture and color-coded notes.

but maybe that’s what draws him in—the absence of performance. the quiet genuine way you exist. no theatrics. no games. just you, completely unaware that you’ve started haunting his every thought.

it starts small.

he catches himself watching the way your hands move. the way your nose scrunches when you’re deep in thought. the way you roll your pen between your fingers when you're anxious. it becomes a loop, a soft little addiction. he remembers details he shouldn’t. what color post-its you use. your preferred snack during study sessions. your favorite seat in the library. you don’t change. he just tunes in.

and then, one day, he realizes he’s rearranging his life around yours.

he starts showing up everywhere you are. loiters in the library, conveniently always around during your shifts at the campus café, makes excuses to sit next to you in class. offers to carry your books, asks you about calculus even though he already passed it. satoru gojo, golden boy of his frat, reducing himself to extra tutoring just to see you smile. it’s humiliating in theory, but it feels like worship in practice.

and it’s not just your smile. it’s the way you get passionate when you talk about obscure theories. the way you light up when you don’t think anyone’s watching. the way you stammer when he gets too close, but don’t pull away.

you don’t feed his ego. you feed something softer. quieter. something he didn’t think he had in him. he tells himself it’s because you’re innocent. because you’re shy and sweet and you deserve to be treated right.

he wants to be good for you. slow, patient, gentle. he holds doors open. he listens. he lets you rant about your thesis for forty-five uninterrupted minutes and actually understands it. he even looks up the books you reference, reads them just to impress you. he takes an annotated copy of your favorite book. he starts writing your name in the corners of his notebook like some love-struck high schooler. you haunt him in the best way.

and then—you kiss him.

it’s after a late-night study session. the campus is quiet. the lights in the library flicker like they’re caught between timelines. your voice shakes when you say “thank you for walking me back.” you pause, fidget with the strap of your bag. and then, like you’ve been gearing up for battle, you rise onto your toes and kiss him.

it’s chaste. hesitant. warm. like you're afraid he'll vanish if you lean in too much.

you pull back like you’ve done something wrong, but satoru’s frozen, staring at you like he’s just been baptized. you’re blushing so hard he can feel the heat radiating off your skin.

“you… sure?” he whispers, voice ragged, leaning in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

you nod, barely audible: “i’ve read… a lot. i think… i wanna try. with you.”

and he short circuits.

he thought he’d lead. thought he’d ease you into it, kiss your forehead, hold your hand like a gentleman. but then your hands are on his chest, pushing up under his shirt—the varsity jacket creaking as it shifts on his shoulders, the cotton brushing your fingertips. your eyes are searching his like you’re looking for confirmation that he’s real. you study every reaction like a research project. when he shivers, you smile, barely-there, and go back to tracing the line of his abs with trembling fingertips.

it’s not even mischief.

it’s curiosity. slow-burning, chest-aching, and barely held together by your own hesitation. the sort of yearning that tastes like nervous giggles and the edge of something terrifyingly new. you pause between touches like you're checking your hypothesis, calculating the way his muscles tense under your fingers. each brush of your skin feels like a question he's too dazed to answer properly.

“does that… feel good?” you whisper, lips barely moving, as though you’re scared to break the spell.

“f-fuck—yes, baby, yeah,” he gasps, throwing his head back, one hand clutching the edge of the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

your lips trail down his throat, each kiss a trembling prayer, following a path only you can see. his skin is fever-hot, tasting of mint and salt, boyish charm unraveling under your mouth. when you press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone, his pulse jumps, a twitch rippling beneath your lips. his breath catches, a sharp stutter that makes his chest lurch, and his hands hover, fingers flexing like he’s afraid touching you will break the spell.

satoru gojo—fratboy, golden boy, untouchable—is quiet. too quiet. his eyes are hazy, pupils wide and unfocused, lips parted like words have abandoned him. his varsity jacket is bunched at his elbows, leather creaking, shirt rucked up to his ribs, abs clenching under your trembling fingers. he could take charge, flip this with a smirk—he’s done it countless times, effortless and expert. but now? he just watches, reverent, like you’re a deity he’s too awestruck to approach.

he’s known mouths. polished ones with perfect rhythm, greedy ones that took without giving, bold ones that knew every angle. but yours? it’s hesitant, new, like you’re crossing a threshold you’re not sure you’re worthy of. the way you look at him—eyes flickering behind slipping glasses, wide with awe—shouldn’t hit this hard. shouldn’t feel this fucking intense. but your fingers, shaking as they tug at his waistband, send a jolt through him that makes his vision spark.

satoru’s hand grazes your cheek, a trembling brush of knuckles. “baby… keep going. please.”

you nod, glasses sliding, your breath hitching as your fingers slip under his jeans, easing them down. your eyes flick up, catching his—flushed, jaw tight, his whole body fighting to stay still. it hits you like a blade: he’s done this a thousand times, fucked girls who knew every trick, but you’ve got him like this. trembling. aching. satoru gojo, invincible, unraveling because of you.

guilt stabs your chest, sharp and fleeting. you shouldn’t have him like this, shouldn’t be the reason his hands clutch the couch like it’s his only anchor. he’s always cocky, untouchable, the center of every orbit. now he’s breaking, and it’s your fault—your lips, your touch, your fault. but the guilt only fans the heat in your core, makes your thighs press together as you lean closer, your breath ghosting over his skin.

satoru is used to being wanted. but not like this. not with this aching, earnest hunger that makes his chest tighten.

you press shaky, open-mouthed kisses to his hip, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. spit gathers at the corner of your mouth, a slick trail left behind as you suck softly at the sensitive skin just above his cock. he jolts, hips jerking before he catches himself, a low curse slipping free, his hands clenching until his knuckles bleach. the sound he makes—fuck, it’s a choked gasp, raw and ragged, like you’ve torn it from his core.

you shift lower, hands sliding up his thighs, fingers digging into the taut muscle. your kisses grow bolder, sloppier, your tongue dragging along the crease where his thigh meets his groin, leaving a glistening streak of drool that catches the dim light.

he tastes like heat and need, and the way his skin trembles under your mouth makes your own pulse hammer. you pause, lips hovering over his cock, spit pooling on your tongue, and glance up—his head is thrown back, throat bobbing as he swallows, a groan clawing its way out of him.

“holy shit—baby, you—fuck,” satoru gasps, eyes snapping open, blown wide as his hand grips the couch, fabric groaning under his fist.

you take him in your mouth, lips wrapping around the tip, soft and slick with spit that drips down his length. your tongue swirls, slow and deliberate, tracing the ridge as drool spills from the corners of your mouth, coating him in a wet sheen.

he’s hot, heavy against your tongue, and you hum—a low, vibrating sound that pulls a whimper from his throat. your fingers curl around the base, stroking in time with the bob of your head, slick with the spit that pools at his base, making your grip slippery. you suck, gentle at first, then harder, lips stretching around him as spit slicks your chin, a glistening trail dripping onto his thighs.

he’s panting, desperate, each breath a ragged plea. his abs flex, thighs trembling under your palms, and he’s biting back whimpers, trying not to overwhelm you. that restraint—fuck, it’s gorgeous, the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes flutter shut like he’s fighting to stay grounded. he doesn’t push, doesn’t guide, just moans your name like it’s a prayer, raw and broken. “that’s it, baby—fuck—just like that—your mouth’s so fucking perfect—”

the satoru gojo is unraveling, and it’s because of you. the way you glance up, glasses fogging, eyes glassy with effort, lips shiny and stretched around him, spit dripping down your chin in messy strings. the way your tongue flicks, catching the sensitive spot under the head, makes his hips buck, a choked sob escaping.

your hand slides lower, fingers brushing his balls, tentative but deliberate, slick with the drool that’s pooled at his base. you cup them, rolling gently, and his whole body seizes, a string of curses spilling out as his hand fists the couch tighter, the fabric creaking under the strain.

he’s had every fantasy, every trick, but this—your mouth, slow and reverent, full of wonder, messy with spit that coats him like a second skin—hits like a fucking freight train. it’s too much, too good. he wants to last, to let you explore, but you’re too fucking intent.

you hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, tongue swirling in tight, wet circles, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth as you take him deeper, throat tightening around him. he chokes, hips jerking as his control frays. “gonna—baby, gonna cum, wait, fuck—”

you don’t stop. your lips slide further, tongue flattening, taking him as deep as you can. it’s filthy—spit drips down your chin in thick strings, pooling on his thighs, your glasses fogging as breaths puff through your nose. you’re focused, watching his every twitch, adjusting when he gasps, slowing when he whimpers, like you’re mapping him.

his hand grips the couch, knuckles white, and he breaks with a sound that’s barely human—a shattered cry as he spills, hot and pulsing against your tongue.

you try to swallow it all, but it’s overwhelming—cum mixes with the spit already coating your lips, spilling past them in a slick, messy rush, dripping down your chin, onto his thighs, and pooling on the couch. you pull back, gasping, wiping your mouth with trembling fingers, but the slickness clings, smearing across your skin as your eyes stay wide behind crooked glasses. he’s trembling, chest heaving, shirt clinging to sweat-slick skin, pupils blown like he’s seen the divine.

you should stop.

you fucking should.

he’s wrecked, twitching, fucked out beyond reason. but the ache in your chest—the sharp, flickering guilt of breaking him—only makes you hungrier. you lick your lips, tasting the salty mix of him, and your thighs press together, a soft whimper escaping as you lean in again, spit still clinging to your chin.

“just once more?” you whisper, voice barely audible, like you’re afraid the words will burn you.

his eyes flutter open, unfocused, dazed. he groans, raw and low. “baby… you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

but he doesn’t stop you. doesn’t even try.

you start again, slower, your mouth softer but hungrier, lips wrapping around him with a reverence that makes him twitch instantly. he’s sensitive, still pulsing, and the second your tongue grazes him, he whines—a high, broken sound that makes your stomach twist. you suck lightly, lips gliding along his length, spit pooling at the base and dripping onto his thighs in slow, glistening trails. 

satoru buries his face in a cushion, muffling a sob. “s-sensitive—fuck, it’s too much—”

his thighs tremble under your hands, hips jerking as you kiss the tip, tongue darting out to lap at the bead of cum still leaking from him, your spit mixing with it in a slick, glossy sheen. you linger, savoring the taste, the way it coats your tongue in a sticky film, and he whimpers again, louder, his hand flying to his mouth to bite his knuckles.

your fingers slide to his balls again, rolling them gently, slick with the drool and cum that’s dripped down, making your touch slippery and warm. he arches, a desperate, “please—fuck—please—” spilling from his lips like he’s begging for mercy but craving more.

you don’t rush. your tongue traces every inch, slow and deliberate, swirling around the head before dipping lower, dragging along the vein with a wet, sloppy kiss that leaves a trail of spit in its wake. your breath is hot, teasing, each exhale making him twitch, and you pause to suck at the base, lips lingering as your tongue flicks out, tasting the musk of him through the sticky mess. his hand finds your hair, fingers threading loosely, not pushing, just holding—like he needs to feel you’re real.

you grow bolder, hungrier, your lips tightening as you take him deeper, throat fluttering around him, spit bubbling up and spilling over, coating his cock in a thick, glossy layer. you hum, low and vibrating, and he chokes, a wet, pathetic whimper breaking free.

your hand strokes the base, slick with spit and cum, fingers sliding in the mess, and you slide a finger lower, brushing the sensitive skin behind his balls, now slippery with the drool that’s dripped down. he jolts, a high, keening sound tearing from his throat, his hips bucking as his whole body trembles.

“baby—god—please—fuck, i can’t—” satoru’s voice cracks, raw and whining, as you suck harder, tongue swirling in relentless, wet circles, spit and cum mixing in a frothy mess that drips onto the couch. every noise is desperate—gasps, whimpers, sobs that he tries to muffle but can’t. his body arches, twitching like he’s unraveling at the seams, and you feel it: the moment he breaks again.

he cums with a wail, sudden and violent, hips jerking as he spills into your mouth. it’s messier, hotter, a flood of cum and spit that overwhelms you, spilling out in thick, sticky ropes that coat your lips, your chin, your glasses, dripping onto his thighs and pooling in the creases of his skin.

you swallow what you can, lips still wrapped around him, tongue lapping at the oversensitive tip through the slick mess until he’s twitching, a broken, “n-no more—please—” escaping as he clutches the cushion.

time slips. minutes? hours? you’re tugging his shirt, pulling him closer like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. ten minutes later, he’s gripping the sheets, praying, fucked senseless by every move you make. you flinch when he whines too loud, hands flying to your mouth, eyes wide with guilt—but then you lean in again, bolder, hungrier, chasing every twitch, every broken gasp of your name.

he’s never felt so cherished and so destroyed at the same time.

every touch is careful, but determined. you’re hesitant but thorough, like you’ve read the same passage in a smutty fanfiction a hundred times and are finally getting the chance to test it out. and the worst part? you’re good at it. really good.

your mouth, your hands, the way you watch his face for every twitch of pleasure—it’s enough to make him lose all sense of pride. the way you keep glancing at his reactions, as if adjusting your technique in real time, is insane. terrifying. he’s never been studied so hard. he likes it. he needs it. he’s suffering in the best way.

he’s never had to hold back like this. never had to breathe through it. never felt this fucking sensitive. he’s gripping the cushions like a man possessed. he’s whispering your name like a prayer. he’s not even sure he’s still speaking coherent sentences. you’ve wrecked him. utterly and entirely.

you pull back, panting, your hands shaking as you adjust your glasses, eyes glassy and wide. your lips are swollen, chin wet with a glistening mix of spit and cum, and you lick them, tasting him again, a soft moan slipping free as your thighs press together.

satoru is ruined—sprawled on the couch, shirt clinging to his chest, chest heaving like he’s fought a war. his hand is still in your hair, loose, trembling, and he’s staring at you like you’re a fucking goddess.

“thought you were the innocent one,” he chokes out, breathless, watching you nibble your lip and adjust your glasses with shaking fingers.

“i still am,” you murmur, face tucked into his shoulder. “kind of.”

he huffs out a laugh, dazed and wrecked. he can feel your heartbeat against his ribs. he doesn’t want to move. his hands are still trembling from how hard he tried to keep it together for you—and yet, you’re the one who took the lead. you’re the one who made him forget how to function. you kiss the edge of his jaw, soft and uncertain, and it undoes him more than anything else.

satoru gojo, campus heartthrob, ruined by a shy nerd girl who reads too much smut on her kindle late at night under the covers. who probably has a secret ao3 account and bookmarked folders. who looks like a timid schoolgirl but fucks like she’s been studying him like a midterm exam. and passed with extra credit. honors. valedictorian. summa cum laude of making him lose his damn mind.

he’s never been so obsessed.

and you? you’re already pressing your forehead to his chest, voice small, eyes wide with want and something raw and messy and needy as you look up at him.

“can we… try again? i think i missed a step.”

he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh, cry, or propose.

he’s never been more in love. and all he knows is he’s done for.

[shokocide]

LAW OF ATTRACTION - GOJO SATORU

summary. Newton said the smaller the distance, the stronger the pull. Gojo Satoru thinks that explains the way he feels when you’re close.

word count. 18.2k (i need help)

content. mdni, fem!reader, college au, nerd! gojo, simp gojo supremacy, fluff, banter, tensionnnn, pet names, he's so down bad it's actually pathetic, teasing, smut, male mast., oral (male + fem rec), cum eating, face sitting, p in v, mating press, slight hair pulling, praise, swearing, light dumbification (just a lil), tit play, overstim, creampie, aftercare, pillow talk

author's note. fashionably late (?) to the trend BUT HERE WE ARE

Gojo Satoru is already arguing with the professor.

The classroom smells like coffee and too-new textbooks, the kind of sterile atmosphere that clings to the first week of university. Half the students aren’t even paying attention yet, still easing into the rhythm of things. But not him.

Gojo stands tall near the front, hands in the pockets of his pressed slacks, sweater vest and button-up perfectly in place, thick-rimmed glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. His snowy hair is perfectly messy, his posture relaxed—almost bored.

“I’m just saying,” he drawls, voice smooth and annoyingly self-assured, “you can’t talk about general relativity without at least addressing gravitational time dilation. Not if you want to keep your credibility.”

There’s a beat of silence. Someone in the back stifles a laugh.

The professor straightens her notes. “We’ll get there, Gojo.”

“Sure,” he says, unbothered, but there’s a glint in his cerulean eyes. “But isn’t it a little irresponsible to feed undergrads simplified versions of reality? We’re not children.”

“You’re barely adults,” the professor mutters under her breath.

And just when it seems like he’s winding up for another volley—another casually devastating critique that’ll make the professor’s eye twitch—the door opens with a quiet creak.

“Sorry I’m late.”

The room stills.

You step inside, backpack slung over one shoulder, sunlight catching in your hair like some perfectly staged movie scene. You aren’t frazzled or apologetic—just calm, composed, like this is your class and everyone else is simply borrowing space in it.

Gojo turns. And forgets how to speak.

He doesn’t recognize you even though he’s memorized everyone’s faces during the orientation. But yours is unfamiliar. Distractingly so. And in that moment, standing half-turned at the front of the classroom, he is completely, totally, undeniably wrecked. His mouth parts slightly. No sound comes out.

The professor clears her throat. “Try to be on time next class.”

You nod easily. “Of course. Won’t happen again.”

Gojo’s eyes follow you as you make your way to an empty seat—his row. The one he claimed early on for optimal note-taking and strategic interruption placement. And of course, because the universe clearly enjoys watching him suffer, you pick the seat right beside his.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t sit. Just watches as you settle in beside him and flip open your notebook like nothing’s happened. Like you didn’t just reset the laws of gravity around his universe.

“Gojo?” the professor prompts from the front.

He startles. “Huh? Oh—yeah. I mean, yes. Sorry.”

Silence stretches as the lecture resumes. Gojo Satoru’s foot bounces beneath the desk. His fingers twitch like they want to scribble something but forgot how pens work.

He chances a glance at you from the corner of his eye. You’re taking notes, completely unfazed. Like you haven’t just walked into his orbit and thrown everything off-axis.

-

It’s quiet in the library. The kind of quiet that almost feels sacred, broken only by the occasional rustle of paper or the soft click of a keyboard. You’re tucked away at a corner table, head down, headphones in, completely immersed in your reading.

Gojo spots you the moment he steps in. He hadn’t meant to come here—physics homework was the last thing on his mind today—but the second he saw you seated, that changed. Suddenly, he’s very interested in gravitational lensing and quantum field theories.

He chooses the table diagonally across from yours. Not directly opposite—that would be too obvious. But just close enough that he can sneak glances without it being weird. Probably.

He flips open a textbook. Doesn’t read a single word. Just peeks at you over the top of the page like a little nerdy menace in disguise. Every time you adjust your hair or furrow your brows or smile faintly at something you read, it’s like he’s been hit in the chest. Repeatedly.

Then you look up.

He freezes. Straightens up. Pretends to be deeply fascinated by a diagram of a particle collider. You blink. Tilt your head a little. Then—you pull your headphones out. “Gojo Satoru, right?”

He almost drops his pen. “Uh—yeah. That’s me.”

“You’ve been staring at page fifteen for like… twenty minutes.”

He blinks. Looks down at his book. Flips it to page thirty-seven. “Right. Yeah. That’s, uh—intentional.”

You smile. “Sure it is.”

He wants to melt into the carpet.

You go back to your notes, sliding your headphones on again like it’s nothing. But that smile doesn’t leave your face. And Gojo’s certain he’ll be thinking about it for the rest of the week.

-

You're sitting under the tree near the physics building, nose buried in your laptop, headphones on, pretending you don’t feel someone staring at you. You do. Of course you do.

You glance up. He’s there.

Gojo, the cocky know-it-all from class. Still in that damned sweater vest, hair all floofy like he just rolled out of a nap and somehow made it fashion. He’s holding a coffee cup with one hand and awkwardly adjusting his glasses with the other, pretending like he just happened to pass by. He absolutely did not.

You blink. He panics.

“Oh. Uh—hey,” he says, and it comes out a little too loud, a little too fast, like his vocal cords staged a mutiny the second your eyes met.

You slide your headphones down. “Hi.”

There’s a long pause. He fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt, eyes flicking everywhere but your face now. “You, uh… You always sit here?”

You raise an eyebrow. “During this exact 30-minute window between classes? Yeah. Kinda my thing.”

“Oh,” he says, and laughs—nervously. “Coolcoolcool. I just—uh. I just thought you looked like someone who enjoys differential equations under tree shade.”

You squint. “You’re making fun of me.”

“What? No! I—I do that too. All the time. Big tree guy. Huge… leaf enjoyer.”

There’s a beat of silence. You bite back a laugh. “You good?”

“I was,” he mumbles, almost to himself, then louder: “Yeah! I’m totally—so good. Amazing, even.”

You give him a look. He clears his throat and tries again. “Listen, I didn’t get your name earlier, and that’s kind of a crime in several countries, probably. So…”

You pause, then finally tell him.

He repeats it under his breath like a prayer. “Pretty.”

You tilt your head at him, teasing. “So… was there a reason you were looking at me in class? Or is staring at people just part of your regular schedule?”

He flinches. Like, visibly. Adjusts his glasses again even though they’re already perfectly in place. “Staring is a strong word.”

“You choked on air.”

He groans, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “Okay—yeah, that… may have happened. But in my defense, I didn’t know I was capable of being that flustered until you walked in.”

Your eyebrows lift. “You were flustered?”

“Fatally,” he replies without missing a beat. “It was the most embarrassing moment of my entire academic career. And I once accidentally called a professor ‘dad’ in front of the entire cohort, so.”

You snort. “No you didn’t.”

“Unfortunately, I did. That man never looked at me the same again.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. There’s something kind of charming about the contrast—how sharp and smug he is in the lecture hall, then how weirdly dorky he gets the second he talks to you.

Gojo notices the smile. He lights up. “That’s a win, right?” he grins. “That counts as a win?”

You roll your eyes. “Barely.”

“Still counts,” he sings, rocking back on his heels. “You like coffee?”

You blink. “That’s random.”

“I just thought—maybe next time I bring one, I could bring you one too. You know. If we’re both going to be professionally loitering under this tree during our thirty-minute window.”

You pretend to think about it. “What kind?”

“Whatever kind makes you smile again.”

You pause. Okay. That was smooth.

You look away, just for a second, to hide the grin threatening to take over your whole face.

“You’re annoying,” you mutter.

He beams. “You’re not the first to say that.”

You part ways not long after, the building just a few steps ahead, and Gojo’s still standing where you left him—hands in his pockets, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, hair gleaming like spun silver in the sunlight.

You steal one last glance as you walk away, and—yep. He’s still watching you.

Still smiling like he knows something you don’t.

And just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed, you hear his voice call after you: “By the way, if you keep looking at me like that, I will ask for your number next time!”

You don’t turn around. You can’t. Your cheeks are already on fire.

But he laughs, bright and victorious, and you know he saw the way you tripped on the curb a second later. Cocky bastard.

And yet… you’re smiling the whole walk to class.

-

You’re seated a few rows back this time. Thought it might help with the whole not staring directly at Gojo Satoru like he invented astrophysics problem.

It doesn’t.

Not when he’s in his usual seat up front, one leg crossed over the other, sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’s here to work. Glasses low on his nose. A pen between his fingers that he keeps spinning—casually, like it’s no big deal he’s also kind of stupidly good at everything.

The professor drones on at the front of the room, explaining quantum field theory, but you’re only half-listening.

Because Gojo raises his hand. Again.

“Actually, that’s not entirely accurate,” he says, voice way too smooth for a know-it-all. “If you factor in the renormalization group flow, the outcome shifts entirely. I can show you if you want.”

She blinks. “I… well. That’s a fair point, Gojo.”

He grins, leans back like he didn’t just out-nerd a tenured physicist, and then—then—he looks at you. Like he knows you’re watching.

And you are. You so are.

Gojo tilts his head slightly, mouth curling into that infuriating little smirk as he mouths: Impressed yet?

You look away instantly.

You are. You’re very impressed. Unfortunately. But you’re not gonna let him know that. Not yet.

So instead, you raise your hand. And when the professor calls on you, you challenge his answer.

Gojo looks like you just proposed.

-

Class ends and students start filing out, a low murmur of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping filling the air. You’re casually packing up your things, pretending not to notice the way someone is lingering by the door.

He should’ve left already. But no—he’s leaning against the wall like it’s a conscious choice, not that he’s waiting for you or anything. Totally not that.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and head out. You don’t even get five steps into the hallway before you hear—

“So…”

You turn.

Gojo’s standing there, hands in his pockets, lips parted like he’s still catching his breath. His glasses are a little crooked. Probably because he’s been running that hand through his hair again. He straightens up when you face him.

“That was… impressive,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like, really impressive.”

You smile. “Thanks. You were good too, by the way.”

He blinks. “Good? I—good? That’s it?”

“Yup.” You start walking. “Try harder next time.”

There’s a pause. And then he jogs up beside you, looking equal parts offended and delighted. “Oh, okay. So that’s how it is?” he teases, grinning. “You’re one of those girls.”

“What girls?”

“The ones who enjoy crushing the academic dreams of sweet, helpless nerds like me.”

You give him a look. “Helpless?”

“Devastatingly,” he says, deadpan.

You snort. “You literally made a PhD cry last week.”

“She recovered.”

“You sent her a fruit basket.”

“See? I care.”

You try to hold back your laughter but fail miserably, and he lights up like you just handed him the Nobel Prize.

You turn the corner toward the next building, Satoru trailing beside you like a very tall, mildly wounded puppy.

He’s oddly quiet—hands still shoved in his pockets, eyes flicking your way every few seconds like he’s waiting for a verdict. It's kind of adorable.

You stop walking. “Come on,” you say, already veering toward the campus café. “I’ll buy you a coffee.”

Satoru blinks. Twice. “L-like… like a date?”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Woah there. Hold your horses, bud. I’m doing it so maybe you’ll stop moping around.”

He gasps—actually gasps—hands flying to his chest in mock offense. “I am not moping!”

“You literally sighed ten times during that walk.”

“I was brooding. It’s different.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You pouted when I said you were just ‘good’ in class.”

“I’m a sensitive soul!”

“You’re insufferable.”

“But charming,” he says quickly, catching up to walk beside you again, shoulder bumping yours. “Undeniably charming.”

You hum, lips twitching. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

He grins, all pearly teeth and pretty-boy smugness, practically floating now. And just as you're about to step into the café, you hear him mutter something behind you, half to himself—

“I’m so gonna make you fall in love with me.”

You turn slightly. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” he chirps, already holding the door open for you like a gentleman. “Ladies first!”

-

He watches you from the tiny round table by the window, chin propped in his hand, glasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose. You’re standing at the counter, reading over the menu with a furrow between your brows like you’re solving quantum equations instead of choosing between oat milk or soy.

He could watch you forever. Not in a creepy way—okay, maybe a little creepy—but in that dumb, enamored kind of way where even the way you tap your fingers against the counter makes his heart do this weird flip.

You step up, voice soft but certain when you order. Vanilla latte, extra shot, light foam.

He files it away instantly. Vanilla. Extra shot. Light foam. He’s going to remember that forever. He could write a thesis on it.

Your name is called, and he watches the way your eyes crinkle a little when you thank the barista. When you turn around, drinks in hand, and start walking back toward him, he panics—because suddenly he’s hyper-aware of how dumb he must look just staring.

He quickly looks down at his phone screen, pretending to scroll through something important. It’s literally just his calculator app open from earlier. Nothing’s calculated. 

You slide his drink toward him when you sit. He doesn’t even care what it is. You could’ve handed him gasoline and he would’ve sipped it happily.

“Thanks,” he says casually—way too casually for someone whose brain short-circuited the moment you looked at him.

And then you take a sip of yours, and he blurts it out without thinking:

“You’re sweet.”

You blink. “Huh?”

He clears his throat. “The drink, I mean. It’s sweet.”

Smooth. So smooth.

You squint at him suspiciously. He hides behind his cup and takes a sip.

You're mid-sip of your latte when he says it—completely out of nowhere, eyes locked on you like he's trying to memorize your entire existence.

"You're kinda pretty when you’re annoyed, y’know?"

You almost choke. "What?"

He leans forward, resting his chin in his palm, grinning like he just cracked the code to the universe. “Just an observation. Purely academic.”

"You’re impossible," you mutter, eyes darting away—and he sees it, the blush creeping up your neck.

And that’s it. That’s his victory.

He leans back in his chair, smug as hell. “You're blushing.”

"I'm not."

“Oh no, don’t worry. I think it’s cute,” he says, like it’s a fact in a textbook.

You throw a sugar packet at him. He dodges with a laugh.

"You trying to kill me? And here I thought this was a date."

You give him a look. “It’s not a date.”

He shrugs, grabbing your drink and stealing a sip like it is. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You snatch your cup back, but it’s too late—he’s already smacked his lips like a wine critic.

“Are you always this annoying?” you ask, sipping your drink now.

He shrugs. “Only when I like someone.”

You freeze for half a second. And he sees that too.

Your voice is careful, teasing but cautious. “So you like me now?”

He hums, looking away dramatically, as if he’s pondering some great cosmic truth. “I don’t know… Maybe. You’re cute when you’re flustered. And when you’re mean to me. And when you roll your eyes. And—”

“Okay, stop.”

“Nope. You gave me coffee. I’m powered up now. Can’t shut me up.”

You groan, slumping in your seat with the most dramatic expression you can manage.

He grins wide, and that smug sparkle in his eyes softens, just a bit. “But seriously,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like talking to you.”

And that shuts you up for a beat.

You meet his eyes again, and this time, there’s no teasing, no cocky grin—just sincerity, wrapped in dorky charm. “…I like talking to you too,” you admit, soft.

And just like that, he lights up all over again.

-

You both exit the café, coffees in hand, the air warmer than before but still crisp. The sun’s out, and so is Gojo’s smile—until you stop at the sidewalk and glance down at your phone.

“Shit,” you mutter. “I’ve got class right now.”

His face drops instantly. “Wait—already? But I haven’t even finished annoying you yet.”

You laugh, nudging his arm with your elbow. “You’ve done plenty in the last thirty minutes, trust me.”

He exhales dramatically, shoulders sagging as he pouts. “This is tragic. A real loss for humanity.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“But I miss you already,” he says. “Who’s gonna listen to my unfiltered genius now?”

You raise a brow, backing away slowly. “I’m sure you’ll find a new victim. See you, Gojo.”

“Wait—wait, when do I see you again?” he calls after you, half-joking, half-not.

You shoot him a smile over your shoulder. “You’ll live.”

And as you disappear into the crowd, he just stands there for a moment, lips pressed together, watching you go.

“…No I won’t.”

-

You don’t think much of it when Gojo catches up to you outside the lecture hall again. He’s chatty as usual, teasing you about your keychain, dramatically proclaiming how he almost tripped over a squirrel on the way here, all while walking a half-step closer than necessary. Same old Gojo stuff.

You head toward your usual seat, a few rows back from the front—just enough distance to not get called on every two minutes. You’re used to watching him breeze right past, to the very first row, like he’s the poster boy for "overachiever of the year."

So when you slide into your seat and Gojo casually takes the one right next to you, backpack dropping with a thud at his feet, you do a double take.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

He only shrugs, flashing that annoyingly pretty smile. “Just felt like switching it up today.”

You’re not the only one caught off guard. A few students glance over and someone even nudges their friend like this is newsworthy.

Because Gojo Satoru doesn’t switch it up. He’s the guy who color codes his notes and brings a backup calculator. But now he’s here, sitting so close that his knee bumps yours beneath the table and stays there.

You try to focus when class begins—but it's hard when he's right there beside you, radiating warmth. Every now and then, his fingers graze your thigh beneath the desk—casual, like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

You don’t look at him. But you know he’s grinning. And just when you're starting to think this can’t get more distracting—

“Before we end today,” the professor says, “I’m assigning a group project. Pairs, selected at random.”

Your stomach sinks. You glance at Gojo, who’s already turned toward the front again, fingers drumming lightly on the desk. Like he knows.

You hear names being rattled off. A list of partnerships. Then—

“And lastly, Gojo Satoru and…” A pause. “You.”

Silence. You blink. Gojo leans back with a loud, satisfied sigh and stretches his arms behind his head.

“Oh no,” you mutter, already dreading what’s coming.

“Oh yes,” he says, grinning so wide it should be illegal.

-

You step out of the lecture hall with Gojo hot on your heels, practically bouncing with excitement. He’s still beaming about the professor’s decision like he just won the lottery.

“This is fate,” he says, catching up to walk beside you. “We’re gonna be the best pair in that class. I mean, you’ve got the brains and the beauty, and I’ve got the everything else.”

You snort. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” He adjusts the strap of his backpack with dramatic flair. “This is the beginning of a legendary academic alliance.”

You roll your eyes, trying to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “So, when do we start this legendary alliance of yours?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Thought you’d never ask. I was thinking… we could cash in that coffee date you promised me. Use the time to plan out our project. Very responsible. Very scholarly.”

You shoot him a look. “It’s not a date.”

“Sure,” he says easily, eyes twinkling. “A purely educational rendezvous at a cozy café where we might happen to sit close enough to accidentally brush knees again.”

You groan. “Fine. But we’re actually working on the project this time.”

“No promises,” he grins.

And you hate how you laugh at that.

-

You’re tucked into the booth of a café, a half-empty cup of coffee sitting forgotten as you scribble into your notebook. Across from you, Gojo’s talking a mile a minute—bouncing between theories, concepts, and potential outlines for your project with the kind of ease that only someone dangerously smart could pull off.

And the worst part? Every word out of his mouth actually makes sense.

You glance up at him, brows lifting slightly. “Okay, that last one? That’s actually… really solid.”

He beams. “Right? I knew you’d see the brilliance.”

You shake your head with a small laugh. “I hate to say it, but I’m impressed.”

Gojo leans forward, resting his chin on his hand with a smug grin. “Careful now. Compliments like that might go to my head.”

You ignore him, scribbling something down beside his last idea. The two of you work like that for a while—you writing, him throwing ideas around and occasionally sipping from his drink. And before you know it, you’ve got the skeleton of a full project mapped out.

He stretches his arms above his head, shirt riding up just enough to be distracting. “Whew. Honestly? I didn’t expect to get this much done.”

You close your notebook, tapping your pen against the table. “We could start putting together the first draft later this week.”

Gojo nods. “Yeah, sure. We could work at my place or someth—”

You cut him off, tone light. “You could come to mine.”

He freezes. Blinks. “Y-your place?”

You smile sweetly. “Mhm.”

He stares at you, cheeks tinged pink behind his glasses. “I—yeah. Yeah, totally. Your place. Great idea. Love that. Very efficient. Extremely platonic and professional.”

You laugh. “You’re cute when you malfunction.”

“I don’t malfunction,” he mumbles.

You don’t believe that for a second.

He’s trying so hard to play it cool, but his brain short-circuited the moment you suggested your place. His legs bounce under the table, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt like it’ll ground him somehow.

You lean back in your seat, arms crossed as you observe him with a smug little smile. “You alright there, genius?”

Satoru clears his throat, adjusting his glasses even though they’re not crooked. “Me? Totally fine. Just recalibrating. You know, like… spatially. Mentally.”

You blink at him. “Uh-huh.”

He runs a hand through his snowy hair, the tips poking out in every direction like even they are flustered. “I just wasn’t expecting that, is all.”

“You weren’t expecting me to suggest we work on the project?”

“No—I mean, yes—but at your place?” He lifts his hands, palms up like he’s holding the concept of your apartment in the air. “Do you even realize what that implies?”

You tilt your head. “That I trust you to not snoop through my things?”

He looks offended. “I would never snoop. I am a gentleman.”

“Okay, gentleman,” you say, standing and grabbing your bag. “Then bring snacks when you come over.”

That shuts him up real quick. He stares up at you, blinking as you sling your bag over your shoulder and give him one last little smirk. “Oh,” you add casually, “and maybe wear those glasses again.”

His jaw drops.

You don’t wait to see his reaction. You just turn and walk off with the smuggest little sway to your step, leaving Gojo sitting there—completely malfunctioning, heart doing gymnastics in his chest.

He presses a hand over it, eyes wide. “Oh god.”

-

[gojo]: hey. hey hey hey

[gojo]: when u said ur place… u meant like. like ur apartment right

[gojo]: like ur home. with walls. and couches. and stuff

[you]: i am aware of what my apartment contains, yes.

[gojo]: just checking ��

[gojo]: do i need to bring a textbook? or will u be tutoring me using sheer intimidation alone

[you]: i thought i was the one taking notes last time?

[gojo]: yeah but you intimidated me into being smart. that’s powerful

[gojo]: anyway what’s ur address 👀

[you]: [sends location]

[you]: and bring snacks like i said. i’m not letting you in if you show up empty handed

[gojo]: what kind of snacks

[you]: surprise me

[gojo]: …

[gojo]: you have NO idea what you’ve just done

[you]: satoru it’s literally just snacks

[gojo]: and now i’m overthinking EVERYTHING. chips? chocolate? do i bring a charcuterie board???

[gojo]: i need you to know i’m taking this Very Seriously.

[you]: i’m sure you are.

[gojo]: 😤 just u wait. i’ll be the best study buddy you’ve ever had. 

[you]: is this your way of flirting or are you always like this

[gojo]: …yes

-

You open the door and there he is—standing on your doorstep. His arms are full: a tote bag slung over his shoulder, a drink carrier in one hand, and a plastic bag filled with snacks in the other.

“You said surprise you,” he announces, stepping in. “So I brought everything. Chips. Cookies. Gummy worms. Protein bars, because balance. And boba. I panicked.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You brought a buffet.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he says, dead serious, slipping his shoes off at the door.

You stifle a laugh and step aside. “Come on in.”

Your place is cozy, warm lighting humming softly. Gojo’s eyes flit around like he’s taking mental notes of every detail—your throw pillows, your bookshelf, the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air. You pretend not to notice how he seems ten times quieter than usual.

“Sit,” you say, motioning to the couch. 

He plops down next to you, thigh brushing yours, and pulls out his notes. “So. I was thinking we model the phase shift in the magnetic field using—wait—wait, are you actually listening or just staring at my mouth?”

You blink at him. “I was listening. You just talk a lot.”

He leans in, smirking. “But you were also staring.”

You swat his arm. “Focus.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, hiding a very pleased grin.

As you two dive into the project, it’s surprisingly productive. He’s brilliant—he rattles off concepts with such ease that you’re genuinely impressed. You ask questions. He answers. You scribble notes while he paces your living room barefoot, gesturing wildly as he explains advanced equations like they’re children’s bedtime stories. He’s in his element. And kind of hot, too, in a completely nerdy, passionate way.

“You’re really smart,” you say eventually, mid-note-taking.

He freezes. Turns to you slowly. “Say that again.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I said you’re smart—”

“No no,” he says, dropping onto the couch beside you again. “Say it slower. Maybe into my ear this time.”

You laugh, shoving him gently. “God, you’re impossible.”

“And yet you invited me over.” His voice drops just slightly, eyes glittering behind those thick-rimmed glasses. “Kinda makes me think you like having me around.”

Your heart skips. “Maybe I do.”

He stares for a moment—really stares—and then gives you the softest smile. “Then I guess I’m not leaving until we finish the whole project. Top marks, remember?”

“Top marks,” you echo.

When your hands brush reaching for the same pen, you both freeze.

You recover first, pulling your hand back slightly. “You can have it,” you say, trying to keep your voice casual.

Gojo, stubborn as ever, immediately shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. You can have it.”

“No, seriously, take it.”

“I insist.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“You like when I’m annoying,” he says with a cheeky grin.

You roll your eyes and shove the pen towards him. “Just take it before I stab you with it.”

There's a beat of silence where you both just stare at each other—awkward, heated, too aware of how close you’re sitting. You can feel the air shift between you, something lingering and soft.

Gojo clears his throat loudly, leaning back against the couch with exaggerated nonchalance. “Uh—snack break?” he says, voice a little too high-pitched to be smooth.

You bite back a smile, grateful for the out. “Yeah. Snack break.”

He springs up like he’s been given a second life, muttering something under his breath about chips and cookies while you try very hard not to laugh.

Gojo rummages through your cabinets like he lives there, narrating dramatically under his breath. "Let's see... we have some chips, half a granola bar... oh-ho, instant ramen! A true feast fit for a queen."

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with an amused smile. "You're so dramatic."

He whirls around, holding the ramen packet in one hand like it’s a sacred artifact. "Dramatic? No, no, this is culinary excellence, sweetheart."

You snort, covering your laugh with the back of your hand. "You're about to microwave that."

"Precisely." He winks at you. "Modern problems require modern solutions."

You roll your eyes but grab a cup, filling it with water and handing it to him. Your fingers brush when he takes it, and maybe you’re imagining it, but he seems to pause for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing yours again on purpose.

"I'll make you the best cup ramen of your life," he declares proudly, tossing it into the microwave and punching in the time.

"Bold of you to assume I have low standards," you tease.

He leans an elbow on the counter, cocking his head at you with a lazy, smug grin. "Again. You invited me over. I'd say your standards are excellent."

Your cheeks flame immediately. "Shut up."

He just laughs, tossing his messy hair out of his eyes, looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the room.

The microwave dings and Gojo gasps. "It's time."

He pulls the ramen out like it’s a precious treasure, dramatically blowing on it before holding it out to you.

"Milady," he says in a terrible fake accent, "your meal."

You’re laughing too hard to even be annoyed. You take the cup from him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

-

You both make your way to the couch after the world's most gourmet snack break (according to Gojo), slumping down with your legs tucked under you while he scrolls endlessly through your streaming options.

"Pick something," you say, poking his thigh with your toe.

"But it's so hard," he whines dramatically. "What if I pick something that doesn't match our vibe?" He flashes you a sly, boyish smile, the kind that makes your heart lurch even when you don't want it to.

You roll your eyes, tossing a throw pillow at him. "Just pick something, drama queen."

He catches the pillow effortlessly, still grinning, and finally settles on some random romcom—probably because he thinks it'll impress you with how emotionally available he is. Not even five minutes in, he does the whole exaggerated stretch and casual arm drop behind you. Textbook.

You give him a look. "Subtle."

He just beams, smug and utterly unbothered. "Thanks. Been practicing."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath, but you don't move away. Instead, you let the warmth of his arm hovering behind you linger there, like a secret.

You both slowly ease into a lazy sort of comfort, shoulders brushing every so often, knees bumping when one of you shifts. He’s fidgety, though—tapping his fingers against the cushion, sneaking glances at you when he thinks you won't notice.

You notice. You just pretend not to.

Time blurs, the movie forgotten as conversation picks up again. Dumb stuff. Stories about professors, weird classmates, Gojo ranting about a physics experiment gone wrong because "the equipment was stupid, not me," and you laughing so hard your stomach hurts. At some point you realize how late it’s gotten.

You glance at your phone. "Shit, it’s almost midnight."

Gojo pouts dramatically. "Nooo, don’t kick me out."

"You have class at eight tomorrow," you remind him, stretching your arms above your head. "Don’t you dare blame me when you fall asleep in class."

He sighs, long and exaggerated, standing up anyway. "Fine. But just so you know, leaving is painful for me. Agony, even."

You snort, pushing yourself off the couch. "You'll live, Satoru."

He lingers by the door, bouncing on his heels like he wants to say something. And then he blurts, all in one breath: "Do you wanna go on a date with me?"

You blink, caught off guard. "A coffee date?"

"No, no!" He waves his hands frantically. "Like—a real date. A good one. A fancy one. With food and everything!"

His voice goes a little desperate toward the end, as if you're seconds from rejecting him.

You cross your arms, fighting back a laugh. "Are you begging, Gojo?"

"Yes," he says instantly, with zero shame.

You tap your chin, pretending to think it over just to mess with him. He looks genuinely tortured, hands clutched in front of him like he's praying.

Finally, you shrug. "Alright. You can take me out."

The way his whole face lights up could rival the sun. "YES—YES, OH MY GOD—okay, okay, I won’t screw this up, swear on my honor—"

You laugh, pushing him lightly toward the door. "Text me the details, Romeo."

He’s still beaming when he stumbles out, waving giddily.

You shake your head, grinning to yourself as you shut the door behind him.

-

You stand in front of the mirror, arms crossed, glaring at the mountain of clothes on your bed.

It’s ridiculous. It's Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake—the same man who wears sweater vests unironically—so why are you panicking about what to wear?

You pick up a red dress, stare at it, and toss it aside. Too much.

A simple blouse and jeans? Too casual.

You want to look good. Scratch that—you want to make his brain short-circuit when he sees you.

Finally, after what feels like hours of spiraling, you settle on a black off-shoulder dress that hugs your figure flatteringly. It’s something that feels like you—simple but pretty, enough to make your heart skip when you catch your reflection.

Right as you’re fixing the final touches, your phone buzzes.

[gojo 💙]: here <3

[gojo 💙]: try not to fall in love with me too fast ok

You snort under your breath. Too late, you think, heart thudding faster than you’d ever admit.

You grab your bag and head outside, spotting him. 

You almost don't recognize him at first.

Gone are the thick-rimmed glasses and the nerdy sweater vest he usually sports in class. Tonight, Gojo Satoru is dressed in a simple white button-up—sleeves rolled up to his forearms—and black dress pants that cling just right to his lean frame. His snowy hair is still messy, like he ran his hands through it a million times, but somehow, it works. He looks effortlessly good. Stupidly good.

And when he spots you, he nearly trips over his own feet.

"Hey," you greet, a little breathless from how unfairly good he looks.

"Hey," he says back, voice cracking halfway through. He coughs, fumbling to form literal words, cheeks flushed. "You, uh—you look—wow."

You laugh softly as he practically skips toward you, offering you his arm with an exaggerated flourish. "Shall we, m'lady?"

You roll your eyes but take his arm anyway, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt.

He leans down to whisper in your ear, cocky and sweet all at once: "Just so you know, I'm totally gonna brag about this to my future grandkids."

You elbow him lightly in the side, and he laughs, the happiest sound you've heard all day.

You laugh softly, letting go of him to get into the car, and he stands there for a second like he’s been shot.

When he finally gets himself together and slides into the driver’s seat, he sneaks a look at you. "You’re—" he starts, then cuts himself off, shaking his head like he can’t believe his own luck. "Perfect," he finishes under his breath.

You pretend not to hear it, hiding your smile as he pulls out onto the road—one hand casually on the wheel, the other fiddling nervously with his collar.

Neither of you says much at first. The radio hums softly between you.

But every few seconds, you catch him sneaking glances your way, grinning like this is already the best date ever.

-

You recognize the place immediately.

It’s a beautiful rooftop restaurant—one you’d mentioned wanting to try in passing, months ago, when a friend posted about it on social media. You hadn’t even realized he was listening.

The fact that he remembered makes your heart swell.

Satoru pulls into the valet line, hands slightly fidgety on the steering wheel. He throws a quick, nervous glance at you, like he’s scared you won’t like it.

"You, uh, mentioned it once," he says, almost shyly. "Thought it'd be better than, y'know... coffee again."

Your chest tightens in the softest, sweetest way. You open your mouth, ready to tease him, but the look on his face—the earnest hope in his eyes—makes you stop. You just smile instead.

"It’s perfect," you say quietly.

And the way he beams after that? God, you almost have to look away. Too much.

He practically leaps out of the car the second it's parked, sprinting around to your side to open the door for you. Except—he miscalculates the timing and almost slams it into his own shin.

"Ow—shit—" he mutters under his breath, recovering quickly and yanking it open like nothing happened. He straightens up, all suave-like, grinning down at you.

"Milady," he says dramatically, offering you his hand.

You roll your eyes but take it anyway, letting him help you out of the car. His hand is warm—so much bigger than yours—and he doesn’t let go right away. In fact, he keeps holding it as you walk toward the entrance, fingers intertwined like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And you don’t pull away. If anything, you squeeze a little tighter.

Inside, the restaurant is even more beautiful than you imagined—glittering fairy lights, soft music, a gentle breeze whispering across the rooftop.

Gojo glances down at you, smiling like you personally hung the stars. "Ready for the best date of your life?" he teases, but there’s a nervous edge to it—like your opinion actually, genuinely matters to him.

You bite your lip to hold back a grin.

"Lead the way, Romeo."

And he does. Hand in hand, heart thundering, wearing the dopiest smile imaginable.

Dinner with Gojo is…effortless.

For once, he isn’t tripping over his words or cracking half a dozen stupid jokes just to fill the silence. He’s confident—naturally confident—in a way that makes your heart stutter. It’s like all the nervous energy he usually carries around you has melted away tonight, leaving behind nothing but the real Satoru.

He leans back in his chair, the sleeves of his white button-up rolled up to his elbows, flashing the veins in his forearms as he lifts his wine glass to his lips.

There’s a lazy smirk playing on his mouth as he listens to you talk, bright blue eyes never straying from your face.

"You’re staring," you tease after a moment, pretending to inspect the menu like you’re not burning under his gaze.

"Yeah," he says simply, not even bothering to deny it. "You’re beautiful. I’m allowed to stare."

You nearly choke on your water.

Recovering quickly, you raise a brow. "Smooth," you deadpan, setting your glass down.

He chuckles lowly, the sound curling around your spine like smoke. "Only because it’s true," he says, and the sheer casualty of it has your cheeks heating up.

And the worst part? You can’t even pretend you’re unaffected—because he sees it. The way your lips twitch, the way your eyes flicker away for just a second.

"So," you say quickly, trying to regain control of the conversation, "when you’re not busy terrorizing professors and making girls swoon, what do you do for fun, Gojo?"

He hums, pretending to think about it, tapping his fork against his lip.

"Hmm...think about you mostly," he says airily.

You whip your napkin at him across the table, and he lets out a bark of laughter, catching it midair like a reflex.

The two of you fall into easy conversation after that—bantering, laughing, throwing subtle (and not-so-subtle) jabs at each other. It feels so natural that you almost forget this is your first real date.

There’s a moment—between courses, when you’re both picking at the remains of dessert—that you catch him just looking at you again. No teasing. No smirk. Just watching. Soft, and a little awed.

You shift slightly, suddenly aware of the intimacy stretching between you. "What?" you murmur.

He blinks, as if waking up. Shakes his head, smiling faintly.

"Nothing," he says, voice a little rough. "You’re just—really fucking gorgeous."

It’s so sincere that you don’t even know what to say back. You just look at him, feeling your chest tighten in that dangerous, dangerous way again.

-

The drive back is quiet—not uncomfortable. Just…full.

Full of things unsaid, full of that warmth that’s been simmering between you both all night.

Gojo parks in front of your place, turning off the engine, but neither of you make a move to get out right away. You just sit there, the hum of the night wrapping around you, the silence speaking louder than words ever could.

He turns in his seat slightly, arm draped over the steering wheel, looking at you with that soft, lopsided smile he reserves only for you now.

"I had a really good time," he says quietly, like it’s a secret meant only for you.

You smile back, feeling something sweet and dangerous unfurl in your chest. "Me too," you murmur, fingers twisting slightly in your lap.

The moment stretches—comfortable, a little electric—and you know you should say goodnight. You should.

So you finally reach for the door handle, pulling it open—And then, without thinking, you turn back.

Leaning in quick, before you can psych yourself out, you press a soft kiss to his cheek.

It’s light, barely a brush, but Gojo freezes like you’ve just electrocuted him.

You don’t wait for his reaction. Your face burning, you practically stumble out of the car, slamming the door shut behind you with a muttered, "Goodnight!"

Through the window, you catch a glimpse of him: Wide-eyed, stunned, a hand lifted dazedly to his cheek like he can't believe what just happened.

And then he laughs—a breathless, giddy sound that you swear you can hear even as you rush up the steps to your door, heart hammering like crazy.

Inside the car, Satoru slumps back against the seat, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. "God," he mutters to himself, still touching the spot where you kissed him, "I’m so fucked."

-

You’re lying in bed when your phone buzzes in your hand. Heart still racing from that impulsive kiss you planted on his cheek, you scramble to pick it up, thumbs fumbling.

[gojo 💙]: next time, you’re not getting away with just a kiss on the cheek.

You nearly drop your phone.

Oh. Oh.

Your stomach flips. Your face burns. And even though you want to play it cool, you can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. You bite your lip, thumbs hovering over the keyboard before finally typing back:

[you]: is that a threat, satoru?

The reply comes almost instantly, like he was waiting for you:

[gojo 💙]: no baby, that’s a promise.

You stare at the screen, heart hammering against your ribs. 

Baby. God, you’re so done for.

And like he hasn’t already made you melt enough tonight, he sends another message:

[gojo 💙]: get some sleep, pretty 

You bury your face into your pillow with a squeal, kicking your feet into the mattress. You type back quickly before you lose your nerve:

[you]: goodnight, satoru. try not to miss me too much.

And a few seconds later:

[gojo 💙]: too late.

[you]: careful, satoru. you're sounding real desperate rn.

You barely have time to smirk before he hits you with:

[gojo 💙]: desperate?

[gojo 💙]: for you? always.

And like he knows you’re losing it, he sends one more:

[gojo 💙]: sleep tight, gorgeous.

[gojo 💙]: dream of me.

[gojo 💙]: i'll definitely be dreaming of you. (and if i wake up hard, it's your fault btw)

You scream into your pillow.

Your hands tremble as you type your final text:

[you]: sweet dreams, toru <3

[you]: maybe next time you won’t have to just dream ;)

And the moment you send it, you shut your phone off and toss it across the bed because there’s absolutely no way you’re surviving if he replies. (He does. Five seconds later.)

[gojo 💙]: fucking hell.

-

Satoru’s still staring at your last text. Eyes wide. Mouth parted.

maybe next time you won’t have to just dream

He drops his phone onto the bed with a dull thud, dragging both hands down his face.

"Goddammit," he breathes, tipping his head back against the headboard.

You’re gonna kill him. You’re actually gonna kill him.

He sits there for a good minute, struggling to breathe normally, heart hammering against his ribs, cock already half-hard just from that one text. (Just from a text. He's so far gone it's not even funny.)

"Pull it together, Gojo," he mutters, raking a hand through his messy hair.

But the moment he squeezes his eyes shut, it’s you he sees—smiling up at him all coy, leaning in close, whispering things in that pretty voice you have, like you knew exactly what kind of mess you were leaving him in.

You did. You knew exactly what you were doing.

He groans, thunking his head back harder against the headboard, biting down a low, frustrated sound as your words loop endlessly in his brain.

You’re driving him insane.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he shoves his sleep shorts down just enough and wraps a hand around his cock, cursing under his breath when he realizes how hard he already is.

It’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong—you haven’t even properly kissed yet. But god, you're just so, so perfect. So effortlessly beautiful. 

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his hand moving slowly, pretending it’s you instead—your hand wrapped around him, your body pressed close, your breath ghosting over his ear as you whisper all the filthy things he can barely even let himself imagine.

"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up into his fist, desperate for more.

He can’t help it.

You’re in his head. You’re under his skin. And he’s not even sure he wants to be saved.

His thighs tense, muscles flexing as he fists himself harder, chasing that high like a man starved. The sound of his breath—harsh and broken—fills the room. Your name nearly falls from his lips like a prayer.

And when he finally comes, it’s with a soft, bitten-off moan, warmth spilling over his knuckles. 

His mind blanks for a long, dizzy second—nothing but the feeling of you filling every corner of him.

He collapses back against the pillows, breathless. Staring at the ceiling like he’s just been fucking wrecked. Sweaty. Panting. His hand sticky and his soul halfway out of his body.

He drags a hand down his face again, groaning. "...I'm so fucking screwed," Satoru mutters to himself, glaring uselessly at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible for his downfall.

-

The sunlight’s barely filtering through his blinds when Satoru stirs awake, messy hair flattened against his forehead, phone slipping from his chest with a quiet thunk onto the mattress.

Groaning, he blindly pats around for it, eyes still crusted shut from sleep.

When he finally blinks them open, he sees the last thing he remembers: your text. The text that ruined his entire night.

He slaps a hand over his face and drags it down slowly, mumbling, “I’m going to hell.”

But because he’s an idiot—an idiot in love—he still unlocks his phone, thumbs hovering nervously over the screen.

He needs to text you. Needs to act normal. Needs to pretend he didn’t almost cry last night over how fucking good it felt imagining you touching him.

He taps out a message, agonizing over every word:

[you]: good morning :) hope you slept well!

He stares at it for a second longer, wondering if he sounds too eager, then panics and deletes the smiley. Then retypes it. Then deletes it again.

Then sends it without the emoji because God forbid he looks like he’s about to propose or something.

He tosses his phone down and flops back against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the answers to his sins.

Not even ten seconds pass before his phone buzzes. Heart slamming against his ribs, he fumbles to read it:

[sweetheart 💖]: you too, toru. sweet dreams? ;)

He physically chokes. Coughs. Slaps his own chest like he’s trying to restart his heart.

“Sweet dreams—?” he sputters aloud, horrified, voice cracking. “SWEET—?”

The images from last night flash vividly in his mind: your lips, your breathy giggles, your hands sneaking lower—

He shoves his face into a pillow and screams.

When he finally peeks out, shame swirling in his gut, he types back with trembling hands:

[you]: sweetest dreams ever. totally normal. nothing weird about them at all.

And then he turns his phone face-down. Because he cannot. He cannot see what you’re going to reply.

He’s so down bad it's physically painful.

-

You stare at your phone, biting your lip to hold back a grin. 

Totally normal. Nothing weird about them at all.

Sure, Satoru. Sure.

You kick your feet a little under your blanket, giddy, heart thumping like crazy. You know exactly what you’re doing. You know exactly what you’re doing to him.

And you’re not done yet. You let him stew in his own panic for a few minutes—just to watch him suffer—before tapping out a reply:

[you]: sounds like someone’s overcompensating… ;)

You hit send and immediately burst into laughter, flopping back into your pillows. You can practically imagine him screaming into his hands right now, scrambling to figure out what to say without incriminating himself even more.

And because you’re a menace, you follow it up:

[you]: it’s okay, toru. you can dream about me whenever you want <3

There. You’ve officially ruined his whole morning.

You toss your phone aside and stretch, feeling like you just hit a home run. But then your phone buzzes again—multiple times—and you grab it, giggling.

First, from Satoru:

[toru 💙]: you’re evil. pure evil. i’m never sleeping again.

And then another, right after:

[toru 💙]: coffee today? my treat. i need to see your evil little face or i’m going to combust.

You roll over onto your stomach, kicking your legs up behind you, cheeks aching from smiling so hard.

Maybe you are evil. But god, it’s so fun when he’s this easy to tease.

You tap out your reply, heart light:

[you]: only if you promise not to die before you get here.

-

It doesn’t even take ten minutes before there’s a knock at your door. You blink in surprise—you hadn’t even changed yet.

Another knock, this time a little quicker, a little eager.

You pad over and crack the door open—and there he is.

Satoru, all messy hair, rumpled shirt, soft smile. Holding two coffees in his hands.

And looking at you like you hung the moon.

"Hi," he says, almost shyly. "Brought you a coffee."

You blink at him.

He fidgets, rocking on his heels. "I, uh... thought maybe we could, y'know, hang out a little. If you’re not busy."

Your heart melts a little at how hopeful he sounds.

"You’re impossible," you tease, swinging the door wider.

"And you're stuck with me," he chirps, stepping inside like he belongs there.

You take one of the coffees from him, fingers brushing, and he beams like you’ve just given him the greatest honor.

"Thanks," you say, smiling into your cup. "Even though you didn’t have to."

"I wanted to," he says simply, plopping onto your couch with zero hesitation. (And he leaves way too little space for you, thigh already brushing yours.)

You sit down beside him, your shoulders bumping. He hums under his breath, swinging his legs a little like a kid who’s gotten his favorite candy.

For a minute, it’s just the two of you, sipping coffee, the silence warm and comfortable.

And then, out of nowhere, he leans his head dramatically onto your shoulder.

You freeze for a second, heart skipping.

He sighs—loudly—against you. "You’re not gonna kick me out, right?"

You laugh, nudging him with your elbow. "Not if you behave."

"That’s asking for a lot," he grins, tilting his head up to look at you. His smile’s a little mischievous, a little boyish.

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your blush behind your coffee cup.

And because he’s shameless—and he knows he’s winning—he adds, voice low and teasing: "Maybe if you give me another goodbye kiss?"

You almost spill your coffee.

He sees it—the way your fingers fumble, the way your face flushes—and smirks.

"C'mon," he teases, nudging your knee with his. "Wasn't that bad of an idea, was it?"

You narrow your eyes at him, trying—failing—to fight your smile. "You," you say, poking his chest, "are way too full of yourself."

"And yet..." Satoru leans in, slow, eyes locked on yours. His voice drops to a whisper. "...you're not moving away."

Your breath catches. Because he's right—you’re not. If anything, you're leaning in too.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The room feels too quiet, too charged. You can hear his breathing, slow and steady, can feel the heat radiating off of him.

Satoru’s gaze drops to your mouth—and lingers there. "Can I?" he murmurs, so soft you almost don’t catch it.

Your heart thuds loud in your chest. You nod.

That’s all he needs.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he closes the gap, giving you every chance to pull away—but you don’t. You tilt your chin up, meeting him halfway.

When his lips finally brush yours, it’s gentle—barely a kiss, more like a breath, a promise.

You sigh against him, and that tiny sound seems to undo him. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss just slightly, just enough to taste you. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin so tenderly it makes your chest ache.

You kiss him back, slow and sweet, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.

It drags out—neither of you in any rush, savoring every second.

He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops. And you kiss him like you’ve been waiting forever for this moment.

When you finally, reluctantly, pull apart, you're both breathless. He presses his forehead against yours, grinning like an idiot. "So..." he whispers, voice a little hoarse. "Can I stay a little longer?"

You pretend to think about it, biting your lip to hide your smile. "Maybe," you tease. "If you behave."

He groans, flopping dramatically onto your couch again, tugging you down with him so you land half-on top of him, laughing.

"Not a chance," he says happily.

You're warm against him, tucked into his side, your head resting on his shoulder like you belonged there. And for a moment, Satoru feels like the luckiest man alive.

Until his brain—traitorous, evil, rotten—reminds him.

Reminds him of how he spent last night fucking his fist like a deranged lunatic, thinking about you. Reminds him that you have no idea just how far gone he already is.

A quiet, horrified voice in his head: I'm a monster.

His throat goes dry.His hands twitch awkwardly where they rest on your waist, unsure if he should even be touching you like this—until you shift, just slightly, peeking up at him with this sleepy little smile.

And just like that, every coherent thought leaves him. All that's left is you.

"You're comfy," you mumble against him, snuggling closer.

Satoru lets out a weak, broken little laugh, hiding his burning face against your hair.

If you only knew. If you only knew what you did to him.

He doesn't know how long he sits there with you tucked into him, drinking in your warmth. He could stay like this forever, he thinks. Hell, he wants to.

But then his phone buzzes.

He barely registers it, ignoring it at first. Until it buzzes again. And again.

He groans, reluctant, fishing it out of his pocket while you shift sleepily against him. The screen flashes: a reminder for his evening tutoring session he totally, utterly forgot about. He slumps.

"Something wrong?" you ask, voice soft, blinking up at him.

"I gotta go," he mutters like he's being forced into exile.

You bite back a smile, stretching lazily. "Duty calls?"

"Yeah." He pouts, actually pouts. "Stupid duty."

You laugh under your breath, and it's so unfair how easily you knock the air out of his lungs without even trying.

He stands reluctantly, dragging his feet like a kid leaving recess early.

"Hey," you call out. "Aren’t you forgetting something?"

He turns around and blinks at you, confusion flickering across his face—but then you smile. Soft. Warm. Something just for him.

You step close, tiptoe a little to reach him. And Satoru swears, swears, his heart stumbles in his chest when you press a gentle kiss to his lips.

It's feather-light. Barely there. Sweet enough to make his knees almost buckle.

And when you pull back, a cheeky glint in your eye, he's just standing there. Frozen. Speechless. The stupidest grin pulling at his mouth.

"See you later, ’Toru," you say lightly, nudging him toward the door.

And all he can manage—voice cracking slightly, heart hammering out of his chest—is a dazed "Y-Yeah. Later."

You shut the door behind him with a little wave, and he stands there for a good ten seconds before he finally remembers how to move.

-

Class feels different today.

You’re hyper-aware of everything.

The way Satoru brushes his knee against yours under the table, all casual-like. The way his pinky keeps nudging yours on the desk until finally, finally, you relent and let your fingers curl around his. The way he keeps sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye—and every time you catch him, he just smiles, like he’s getting away with something.

It’s infuriating. It’s adorable. It’s Satoru.

You pretend to focus on the lecture. Really, you do. But it’s hard when you can feel the warmth of his hand ghosting over your thigh under the table, a barely-there touch that sends your heart skittering against your ribs.

By the time the professor starts wrapping up class, you’re halfway to combusting.

"Don’t forget," she says, tapping the whiteboard, "project updates are due next week."

You scribble the deadline in your notes, but Satoru’s already turning toward you, practically bouncing in his seat.

"Hey," he says, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "How about we work on it at my place today?"

You blink, startled. "Your place?"

He grins, bright and boyish. "Yeah! First time for everything, right?"

The way he says it—light, teasing, almost a little shy—makes something flutter wildly in your chest.

"It’ll be chill," he continues. "We can grab some snacks, order takeout, maybe actually get stuff done this time—"

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. "Are you actually suggesting a productive study session or trying to lure me into a trap?"

He gasps, hand clutching dramatically at his chest. "Me? Lure you? I’m offended." Then he drops the act, leaning in close, that mischievous spark lighting up his eyes. "But if you happen to end up in my lap or something, y’know... destiny."

You shove him lightly, cheeks warming. "God, you’re insufferable."

"Face it—you love this," he says, nudging your shoulder with his. 

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your head. Still...you find yourself smiling.

"Fine," you say, packing up your stuff. "But we’re actually working this time."

He pumps a fist in victory. "Yes! Bring that sexy brain of yours, princess. We’re gonna kill this project."

You throw a crumpled sticky note at him. He catches it midair, flashing a grin that practically glows.

-

You’re home, lounging on your bed, phone in hand.

The texting starts innocent enough.

[you]: what should I bring?

[toru 💙]: just that pretty little self of yours

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile.

[you]: be serious

[toru 💙]: i am. i’m dead serious. maybe a notebook too though lol

You roll your eyes, thumbs hovering over your screen. Before you can type anything else, another message pops up:

[toru 💙]: also… try not to look too pretty

[toru 💙]: kinda hard to focus when you’re around

You blink at the screen, heart skipping a beat. The sudden boldness makes you squirm a little under your covers.

Before you can even react, a third text follows:

[toru 💙]: here’s my address

A pinned location pops up. Followed by—

[toru 💙]: hurry over please

You stare at the messages, warmth blooming in your chest (and spreading lower, if you were honest).

You should probably be nervous. You should definitely be more cautious.

But all you do is grin, toss your phone onto the bed, and start getting ready.

-

You barely knock once before the door swings open.

And there he is.

Black tank top clinging to his chest, basketball shorts slung so low it should be illegal. Lean muscles on full display. Sleep-mussed white hair falling over his forehead.

You actually forget how to breathe. Your brain just... shuts down.

Satoru’s mouth twitches into a knowing smirk. He leans lazily against the doorframe, crossing his arms — muscles flexing, because of course they do — and tips his head at you.

“Well, well," he drawls, amusement dripping from every word. "Didn’t think you’d be that easy to stun."

You blink — once, twice — scrambling to find your voice. "I’m not stunned," you blurt out, way too fast to be convincing.

"Mhm," he hums, that smug little grin widening. "Sure. You just like standing on people's porches looking like you forgot your own name?"

You shove past him with a flustered scoff, cheeks burning. But you can feel his eyes trailing after you, slow and satisfied, as he shuts the door behind you.

"You didn’t tell me the dress code was..." you flounder, gesturing vaguely at his entire existence, "thirst trap casual."

"Aw, you think I’m a thirst trap?" he coos, stepping dangerously close — close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly.

"I think you’re an asshole," you snap — except your voice comes out all breathy, completely ruining the effect.

Satoru chuckles — a low, rich sound that vibrates all the way through you. "You can be honest, y'know. It's just us here." He leans down, dropping his voice into a whisper, "You like what you see."

You make a strangled noise in your throat and whirl around, pretending to inspect the living room like it's the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen. "Where’s your project stuff?" you demand, heart thundering against your ribs.

"Wow," he says behind you, tone all fake-hurt. "Use me for my brain and ditch me for my abs. Brutal."

"You have a brain?" you retort, finally finding a shred of composure.

He laughs again — easy, bright — and brushes past you, the barest graze of his arm against yours sending your nerves into a frenzy.

"Come on, nerd," he calls over his shoulder, tossing a wink at you that almost knocks you off your feet. "Project’s not gonna finish itself."

You huff, yanking your notebook out of your bag to try and hide the stupid, giddy smile pulling at your lips.

You’re just barely settled on the couch, notebook balanced on your lap, when Satoru stretches — arms over his head, tank top riding up dangerously — and says, “Actually... we’ll have more space in my room."

You blink at him, heart skipping a beat. "Your room?" you repeat, raising an eyebrow.

He flashes a wide, shit-eating grin. "Yeah. Bigger desk. Better lighting."

You narrow your eyes, pretending to be skeptical. "Oh? Already trying to get me in bed?"

Satoru stops dead in his tracks — but only for half a second. Then he tosses a look over his shoulder, cocky and wicked. "Don’t give me ideas," he says, voice low and playful.

Your cheeks burn so hot you’re surprised you don’t spontaneously combust. But you’re stubborn — so you just huff and follow him anyway, ignoring the smug little chuckle he lets out as he leads you down the hall. And then you step into his room — and freeze.

Because it’s... it’s not what you expect. Sure, it’s a little messy — loose clothes on a chair, half-done laundry — but what really grabs your attention is the shelf. More specifically: the shelf packed with colorful little figures. Posters. Framed prints. All of it instantly recognizable.

"...Is that—" you start, pointing.

"Digimon," Satoru says immediately, like he's bracing himself for judgment.

You stare. You blink. And then — you laugh. Loud, bright, uncontrollable.

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I knew it. I knew you were gonna make fun of me."

You grin at him, unrepentant. "You? Cool, confident, six-foot-whatever Gojo Satoru... secret Digimon stan? Oh, this is gold."

"It’s not secret," he grumbles, crossing his arms like a petulant kid. "Digimon’s fucking awesome. Better than Pokémon. Better story arcs, deeper characters—"

"You sound so defensive," you giggle, stepping closer to inspect a particularly adorable stuffed Agumon perched on his bed.

He steps up beside you, bumping your shoulder lightly with his and picks up the plushie to toss it somewhere else. "You're lucky you're cute," he mutters, mock-threatening, "or I’d kick you out right now."

You bite back a smile, feeling that fluttery, giddy warmth bloom in your chest again. Because for all his teasing, all his cocky bravado — there’s something painfully endearing about how unapologetically himself he is. No hiding. No shame. Just... Satoru.

"You’re such a nerd," you say fondly.

Satoru smirks, eyes glinting mischievously. "Yeah? Still think I’m a thirst trap though?"

You sputter, flustered all over again — and he cackles, so pleased with himself it’s criminal.

God. You are so screwed.

You perch awkwardly on the edge of his bed, notebook in your lap again, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of how huge his bed is, how close he is, how the mattress dips slightly under his weight when he flops down next to you.

"Alright," he says, stretching lazily, flashing a sliver of toned stomach again. "Serious time. Project planning. Let's go."

You nod, throat a little dry. "Serious," you echo, flipping open the notebook. "No distractions."

"None whatsoever," he agrees solemnly.

You start brainstorming, scribbling notes in the margins, muttering ideas under your breath. For a few minutes, everything’s fine. Normal. Until you feel it — the slight brush of his knee against yours. At first, you think it’s an accident. You shift slightly to the side.

But then it happens again. And again.

And then — Satoru leans closer, peering over your shoulder, his breath warm against your cheek. His hand rests casually on the bed behind you, fingers curling ever so slightly around the edge of your shirt.

You pretend to ignore it. Pretend so hard it almost works.

But then he hums low in his throat — a thoughtful, lazy little sound — and lets his hand slide up, fingers brushing lightly against your lower back, and your entire body tenses.

"'Toru..." you murmur, trying for stern, but it comes out way too breathy. You don’t even look at him — you can’t — because you already know what you’ll find: those blue eyes, lazy and half-lidded, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Focus," you manage, tapping the notebook for emphasis.

He leans in, so close his nose almost brushes your temple, and murmurs in a voice so low it makes your stomach flip:

"You make it hard to."

His hand is bold now — fingers tracing slow, idle patterns over the dip of your waist, so gentle it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. Your breath stutters in your throat. You feel your heart hammer against your ribs.

You finally — finally — dare a glance at him.

And he’s looking at you like he’s starving.

For you.

The tension is a physical thing now, heavy and thick in the air between you. You swear you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.

"...You're unbelievable," you whisper, the notebook slipping from your fingers.

His smirk deepens, shameless. "You like it."

God help you — you do.

You scramble, trying desperately to recover your sanity, to remember why you’re even here in the first place. The project. The project, dammit.

You slap your palm over the notebook, pushing it toward him. "W-We should really— really focus," you stammer, voice wobbling embarrassingly.

He just grins, slow and easy, that grin that makes you forget your own name.

"I am focused," he says, voice dropping into that low, teasing rasp. "Focused on you."

And before you can react, he shifts — the bed dipping under his weight as he gently crowds into your space.

Your breath catches.

He cages you in with a hand planted firm beside your hip, his other hand curling loosely around your wrist like he’s giving you the option to pull away — like he’s daring you to.

You don’t. You can’t.

You’re frozen, wide-eyed, heart thudding like crazy.

His forehead presses lightly to yours, and you feel the whisper of his breath against your lips.

"You drive me crazy, y'know that?" he murmurs, voice impossibly soft. Every word vibrates through you.

You open your mouth — to say what, you’re not sure — but no sound comes out. You’re too busy trying not to melt.

And then he moves. Sudden but gentle, he presses you down against the mattress, his body hovering above yours, careful not to crush you.

Your hands instinctively fly up to his chest — oh, God his chest — and you feel the steady pound of his heartbeat under your palms.

He’s close now, so close you can see every detail of his face — the slight pink flush on his cheeks, the playful crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide with something between affection and hunger.

"You’re so cute when you're flustered," he teases, and you want to hate him for it, you really do.

But you don’t. You can't.

Instead, you fist your hands in the soft fabric of his shirt and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will your racing pulse back to normal.

He chuckles, low and smug. Then — so lightly you almost think you imagined it — he brushes his nose along the side of your jaw, breathing you in.

"You’re killing me," he whispers.

You whimper — actual, real, humiliating whimper — and he grins.

But he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

He just stays there, letting the tension thicken, letting you squirm, savoring it.

It’s agony. It’s perfect.

You feel it — the exact moment his lips almost touch yours.

It’s a whisper of a moment, barely-there, the ghost of contact that makes your whole body tense up in anticipation.

He’s so close. So close you can taste the heat radiating off him, the sweet, addictive scent of his cologne, the lazy tilt of his grin as he leans in—

And that’s when you snap out of it.

At the very last second, you slip a hand between your bodies, planting your palm firmly against his chest to stop him.

His eyes fly open, confused, slightly wild.

You smile — sweet, smug — up at him.

"Uh-uh," you say, your voice still a little breathless but steady enough to make him narrow his eyes suspiciously. "Project first."

The sheer betrayal on his face.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he groans, dropping his forehead dramatically onto your shoulder like you just mortally wounded him. "I was so close, baby, c'mon—"

You cackle. Gojo finds it beautiful.

He lifts his head, leveling you with the most pathetic pout you’ve ever seen. "You're evil," he accuses.

You just wiggle your eyebrows at him, smirking. "Should've thought about that before trying to seduce me in broad daylight, Gojo."

He collapses beside you with a dramatic huff, flopping back against the bed like his soul has been snatched from his body.

"It’s almost 7. Unbelievable," he mutters. "This is harassment. I should sue."

You reach over, patting his chest twice, condescending and sweet. "There, there."

He turns his head, glaring at you — but the slight twitch of his lips gives him away.

"You owe me later," he says, pointing a finger at you like a solemn oath.

You hum, pretending to think it over, before shooting him a wicked little grin. "We'll see if you're good."

His groan is loud enough to rattle the bed.

You're absolutely thriving.

You’re trying so hard to focus. You really are. Project notes scattered across the bed, laptop open, a half-written paragraph blinking at you like it's taunting your lack of progress.

And then—

"Break time!" Satoru declares, already tugging you off the bed by your wrist before you can even protest.

You stumble after him, laughing breathlessly. "Satoru, we barely got anything done!"

"Exactly why we need a break," he grins, dragging you toward the kitchen like a man on a mission. "You’ll thank me later."

You roll your eyes but let him haul you along, too curious (and maybe a little too charmed) to resist.

He lets go of your hand once you reach the kitchen and dramatically cracks his knuckles, looking far too proud of himself.

"Watch and learn, sweetheart," he says, shooting you a wink. "You're in the presence of greatness."

You snort, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter. "Oh yeah? You gonna burn the house down, master chef?"

He gasps — actually gasps — clutching his chest like you mortally wounded him. "You wound me."

You just laugh, watching as he rummages through the fridge with entirely too much flair, pulling out random ingredients and setting them on the counter.

"You're literally just making instant ramen," you point out dryly, but there's a smile tugging at your lips.

"Gourmet instant ramen," he corrects, wagging a finger at you. "With egg. And scallions. And a lil’ bit of love."

He tosses you another wink and you lose it, doubling over in silent laughter.

You lean back against the counter, arms folded, trying — and failing — to look unimpressed as he hums to himself, clattering pots around. He’s in a black tank top and low-hanging shorts, muscles flexing casually with every movement, hair messy from dragging his hands through it.

And it’s... distracting. Way too distracting.

Especially when he starts cracking an egg one-handed like a cocky asshole.

"Show-off," you mutter under your breath.

"Don’t act like you’re not impressed," he sing-songs, peeking at you from under snowy lashes, smug as hell.

You flip him off lazily. He just grins wider.

The kitchen fills with the scent of broth and spices, steam curling in the air. He moves with this effortless, chaotic sort of confidence — a little reckless, a little messy — but somehow everything comes together perfectly.

When he turns to you again, ramen bowl in hand, he looks so goddamn pleased with himself you want to laugh.

"See?" he says, stepping closer. "I'm basically husband material."

You tilt your head, raising a brow. "You make instant noodles and think you deserve a ring?"

"Handmade. Special edition. Enhanced with love." He winks, holding up the bowl like an offering. "You should be honored."

And even though you roll your eyes, you can't help the smile tugging at your lips — can't help the way your stomach flips stupidly as he steps even closer, towering over you with that lazy, confident grin.

-

You set the now-empty bowl down on the counter, nudging him with your elbow. "Since you whipped up such a gourmet meal, I guess the least I can do is the dishes."

Satoru leans back against the counter, grinning so wide it's almost embarrassing. "You spoil me."

You roll your eyes but start gathering up the dishes anyway, rinsing them under the tap. The warm water and simple task are oddly comforting, your movements easy, natural.

And from behind you, you can feel it — his gaze, warm and heavy, drinking you in like he's memorizing this moment.

Before you can even finish rinsing the second bowl, you feel him — long arms sliding around your waist, pulling you back into him, chest pressed against your back.

You huff a soft laugh, not bothering to fight it. "Needy much?"

He just hums, nose nudging into the crook of your neck, his hair tickling your skin. "You smell good," he mumbles, voice low and content.

"Why, thank you," you say, but it’s half a smile.

"I could get used to this," he murmurs, squeezing you a little tighter.

You finish up the dishes like that — his arms around you, his weight solid and comforting at your back, his soft little praises murmured into your ear in between.

"You're pretty," he says at one point, completely unprompted. "So pretty I don't know how I'm supposed to concentrate when you're around."

You duck your head, smiling to yourself, feeling your cheeks burn.

When you finally dry your hands and turn around to face him, he's already looking down at you with stars in his eyes, a little breathless like he can't believe you're real.

You loop your arms around his neck without thinking, tugging him a little closer, and he leans into it easily, lazily, like he's been waiting for this exact moment. "Can I kiss you yet?" he asks, grinning like an idiot, voice all hopeful and teasing.

You laugh, soft and fond, brushing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "Sure, loverboy."

And he doesn't waste a second — swooping down to finally, finally claim your lips in a kiss that's sweet and warm and a little clumsy with excitement, like he just can’t hold it in anymore.

The moment your lips meet, it’s like something clicks into place.

At first, it’s a gentle brush of mouths, shy and smiling. He kisses you once, then twice, like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. But then you tilt your head just a little, arms tightening around his neck, and he groans — a low, helpless sound that rumbles against your chest.

And just like that, the kiss deepens.

His hands, which had been resting innocently at your waist, slide down — gripping your hips with a little more urgency, pulling you flush against him. You gasp softly into his mouth, and he takes full advantage, slotting his mouth over yours in a way that leaves your knees just barely holding you up. You feel it when his fingers flex, pressing you closer, when his body shudders lightly against yours.

God, he’s starving for you. You can feel it in the way he kisses — slow but hungry, like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

When he pulls back for just a breath, his forehead presses to yours, and his voice is ragged, wrecked. "You’re gonna kill me," he whispers, before diving back in, more desperate this time.

You whimper into his mouth without meaning to, clutching at the front of his shirt, feeling the heat of him seeping into your palms.

Satoru groans again, hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your shirt, skin to skin.

It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s slow — simmering — like he’s savoring every second, like he wants this moment to stretch on forever.

And it’s only when his teeth gently tug at your bottom lip — when your breathing turns shallow and desperate against each other — that you finally, finally break away.

Both of you stand there for a second, breathing hard, faces flushed.

You feel dizzy. He looks completely wrecked.

You’re both breathless when you pull apart, foreheads resting together, lips tingling.

Satoru’s hands are still on your waist, holding you close like he’s not ready to let go. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours — shallow, like he’s trying to calm himself down.

He gives a short, breathy laugh. “Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You smile, dazed. “Pretty sure that’s mutual.”

There’s a beat of silence — heavy with everything unsaid — before he leans in again.

Hungrier. Rougher. Like he’s been holding back all night and can’t anymore. His mouth moves over yours with unfiltered need, hands pulling you closer like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You make a soft noise into his mouth, and it only spurs him on. The way he kisses you — it’s not perfect. It’s messy and fast and desperate, teeth catching on your lower lip, hands gripping tight like he’s scared you’ll slip away.

Your fingers wind into the fabric of his tank top, pulling him even closer until you’re practically wrapped around him.

He breaks the kiss just barely, lips brushing yours as he breathes out, “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You shake your head. “It’s not. I—” You swallow. “I want this. You.”

His expression softens for a split second before that heat comes rushing back. His mouth is back on yours, slower this time but no less intense — like he’s trying to memorize how you taste.

When his hand slips under your shirt and settles on the small of your back, warm and firm, you shiver.

He kisses you like he means it. Like he feels it.

And when you finally pull back again, breathless and flushed, he just smiles — eyes glassy, voice low.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s kissing you again.

No warning, no hesitation — just the searing press of his mouth against yours like he’s starving for it. Like he needs more. And you give in without thinking, letting him pull you closer until there’s not a sliver of space left between your bodies.

His hands are on your waist, fingers tightening like he’s trying to anchor himself. And when your hands slide up his chest, over those broad shoulders, he groans into your mouth — low and wrecked.

It’s dizzying, the way he kisses you. Every time you think he’ll stop, he comes back for more — messier, deeper, rougher. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his lips trail down to your jaw, then your neck, slow and hot and reverent.

And then suddenly, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.

His voice is breathless, raw. “Hold on.”

Before you can ask what he means, he lifts you — effortlessly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You let out a startled gasp, arms wrapping around his neck as he carries you through the apartment. Your heart’s hammering so hard you’re sure he can feel it.

He’s grinning now, cocky and breathless all at once. “I warned you I’m husband material.”

“Shut up,” you mutter against his neck, flustered beyond reason.

But there’s no hiding the way your legs tighten around his waist.

He nudges his bedroom door open with his foot, stepping inside, and the second you’re both in, he sets you down gently. And just like that, he’s on you again — kissing you like he’s waited his whole life for this.

His mouth is still on yours when he shifts forward, slowly pressing you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You stumble slightly, gripping his arms for balance—and the second your weight tips back, he goes with you.

The two of you collapse onto the mattress in a tangled mess of limbs and breathless laughter, but he’s quick to recover. Quick to pin you there beneath him, hands braced on either side of your head, his hips snug between your thighs.

He looks down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

And then that glint returns—dangerous and wicked and so unlike the stammering nerd you met on day one.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes, voice low and rough in your ear.

You shiver.

His lips find the side of your neck again, and this time they don’t linger—they devour. Hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your back arch, that pull quiet, helpless sounds from your throat. His hands wander too, slow at first, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, every line and dip he can find.

You reach for him, needing more—but he grabs your wrists, pins them gently above your head with one hand.

“Nuh-uh,” he smirks. “I’m in charge now.”

You’re just about to sass him when he dips down again, this time trailing kisses down your collarbone. Then lower. He peppers slow, aching kisses across your chest, teasing the hem of your top with his free hand.

And then he sits up, straddling your hips, eyes practically burning.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks, and it’s a loaded question.

You nod.

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I jacked off to the thought of you the other night.”

Your breath catches—your whole body burns.

“After that text you sent,” he goes on, voice like velvet laced with sin. “You have no idea what you did to me. I read it once and couldn’t stop imagining it. You—whispering in my ear like that, all sweet and smug and filthy.”

He moves again, kisses dragging hot and slow down the slope of your neck, and then your chest, until he’s tugging your shirt up and over your head.

“I was in bed,” he murmurs. “One hand on my phone. The other…” He lets the implication hang, but his hand slips down your thigh, then up again, teasing, until your breath comes in sharp gasps.

“I was thinking about you,” he says. “About your voice. About what you’d look like straddling me, telling me what you wanted while I fucked up into you so slow.”

Your hips buck at that—and god, the smirk that pulls at his lips should be illegal.

He starts undressing you slowly, worshipping, like every piece he reveals is a treasure.  “I need you,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse, eyes searching yours like he needs you to understand. 

The kiss that follows is devastating—open-mouthed and hungry, a collision of breath and teeth and need. You’re clawing at his clothes like they personally offended you, yanking at the hem of his shirt with fumbling fingers and a frustrated groan.

“Off,” you hiss against his lips.

He laughs, breathless, tugging it over his head and tossing it aside, revealing smooth skin and defined muscle, the dip of his waist disappearing into those loose shorts you suddenly despise.

You push at them with impatient hands, and he grins—cocky, flushed, wrecked and loving every second of it. “Desperate, huh?” he teases, voice still husky from the kiss.

“You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, dragging your nails down his sides. “You’re not exactly subtle, loverboy.”

He’s all hands again then—roaming your body, trailing heat in their wake as he presses you down into the bed, lips never far from your skin. Every motion is frantic and reverent all at once, like he’s starving but determined to savor every inch of you.

You push at his chest gently, and he lets you, eyebrows raised in surprise as his back hits the mattress.

“Oh?” he breathes, propping himself up on his elbows. “Taking control now?”

“Didn’t you say I killed you the other night?” you murmur, crawling between his legs with a sly smile. “Figured I should finish the job.”

His eyes darken immediately—heat blooming in them so fast it’s dizzying. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You do—because the second your hands slide up his thighs, he’s already sucking in a breath, already biting back a groan. His abs tense under your touch, his head tipping back as he watches you through lidded eyes, gaze glazed over with anticipation.

“You been thinking about this, ’Toru?” you ask softly, dragging your nails lightly along the waistband of his shorts.

He swallows thickly. “Every night.”

And when you finally tug his waistband down, your breath catches.

He's thick, long and heavy, flushed a pretty pink at the tip, and already straining toward you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever. Your mouth parts without thinking. You don’t even realize you’re staring until he lets out a shaky, nervous laugh. Your hands wrap around him and his hips instinctively buck upwards.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” he mutters, voice gravelly.

He’s already gone—chest rising and falling in short, sharp breaths. His hands clutch the sheets when you lean in, letting your tongue flick across the swollen head, tasting him. 

“Oh fuck—”

You take your time. You don’t give him all of it, not yet. You swirl your tongue around the tip, teasing the slit until he hisses between clenched teeth. He jolts when you lick a slow stripe along the underside, right at the base where it’s most sensitive, your fingers cradling him, gentle and thorough.

He groans—loud and raw—and you feel his hands fist the sheets tighter.

“You’re killing me,” he pants, head tipping back, voice nearly wrecked.

And still, you don’t rush. You bob your head slowly, steadily, sinking down deeper with each pass until his abs tighten and he moans—loud, desperate. You feel him twitch on your tongue, hear the soft, breathy curse that falls from his lips as you wrap your hand around him and roll your wrist just right. You squeeze his balls and he nearly sobs.

You glance up through your lashes, and the sight of him—head tossed back, jaw clenched, face flushed, his entire body shaking with restraint—is seared into your memory.

You don’t take your eyes off him, not even as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper. He’s so close—you can feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his breath stutters, the broken sound he makes when you moan around him.

“Fuck—baby, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You want it. Want to see him fall apart. And he does, with a choked groan that rips out of his chest as he spills into your mouth, hot and thick. His hand flies to your hair, not to pull you away—but to keep you there, his hips giving the slightest jerk as he rides it out. You swallow it all only pulling off when he starts to twitch. And when you finally draw back, lips slick and chin damp, he looks completely undone. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, dazed. 

You just smile sweetly and wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb.

He’s still catching his breath when you go to pull back fully, smug and satisfied. “Mm-hm,” he hums, voice rough and curling with mischief. His hand catches your wrist, firm but gentle. “My turn, sweetheart.”

You blink. “Oh?”

Before you can tease him back, he moves—effortlessly. One arm wraps around your waist, the other plants on the bed, and in a single fluid motion he’s pulling you up, flipping you like you weigh nothing and settling you inches away from his face. You squeak—actually squeak—as your knees plant on either side of his head.

“Satoru—”

“Shh.” He grins, that ridiculous confident smirk plastered across his flushed face. “Sit, baby. Be good for me.”

He gives your ass a squeeze, encouraging, eyes gleaming up at you. You hesitate for half a second and he adds, voice dipped low and sinfully sweet,

“You got to have your fun.”

Then he pulls you down.

His mouth is on you immediately—hot and unrelenting. Tongue flicking, lips sealing around your clit as he groans like you taste better than anything he’s ever had. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh, holding you there like he’s starving and you’re the feast. And when your hips twitch, instinctively trying to lift off—he drags you right back down.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, voice muffled and vibrating through your core, “I said sit.”

You’re braced against the headboard now, knees shaking, thighs clenched tight around his head as you grind down—slow at first, then faster, chasing that high with ragged breath and trembling limbs.

He’s not just letting you. He’s encouraging it.

Big hands grope your ass, fingers digging in, guiding you against his mouth like he wants you to lose it. His tongue moves with practiced precision, sucking and flicking, drawing soft whimpers and broken gasps from your lips as your body arches.

You glance down again and the sight nearly finishes you—his eyes half-lidded and dazed, cheeks flushed, hair a total mess from how many times you’ve tugged on it.

He looks wrecked. But he’s moaning like he’s in heaven. Like this is exactly where he wants to be.

And then he says it—muffled, half-choked, voice thick with lust and absolutely feral. “So fucking sweet.”

You grind harder, hips rolling, and he groans into you.

He doesn’t care if he can’t breathe. Doesn’t care if he’s dizzy. Doesn’t care if you’re seconds from suffocating him. He’s already decided this is how he wants to go out.

Buried between your thighs, mouth full of you, hands holding you down like you’re sacred.

And when you finally break—back arching, eyes fluttering shut, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashes through you—he doesn’t stop. Not for a second.

He rides it out with you, tongue still moving, swallowing every sound you make.

When he finally lets go you collapse beside him, completely spent, your body still trembling in the aftermath. Your cheek presses into the pillow, breath catching in your throat as you try to come back to yourself. Satoru shifts next to you, propping himself up on one elbow. He brushes your hair back gently, eyes soft, and asks quietly,

“You okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah. Just—holy shit.”

He huffs a small laugh and leans down to kiss your shoulder, warm and unhurried. “Good.”

You feel him watching you for a second longer, like he’s making sure you’re really alright. You stretch out, boneless and warm, assuming this is the part where you both wind down.

But then his hand slides down your back.

You feel him shift behind you, and when you glance over your shoulder, his expression’s changed. Still gentle—but focused. Hungrier.

“You done?” he asks softly, voice right at your ear now.

You blink. “I… thought we were.”

He smiles, and it’s a little crooked, a little smug—but not cocky. Just him.

“Not even close.”

Before you can respond, his hands are on your hips, guiding you forward. You let him, moving onto your knees again, bracing your hands against the headboard as the mattress shifts beneath you. He settles behind you slowly, fingers trailing up your sides. The air changes—more intimate now, more intense.

“You okay like this?” he murmurs.

You nod.

“Good.” He kisses the back of your neck. “Hold on to something.”

He settles behind you again, one hand steady on your hip, the other guiding himself down. You feel the slow drag of him through your folds—warm, thick, and deliberate. You suck in a breath, hips twitching slightly. But he doesn’t press in. Just rocks forward enough to slide himself through you again. And again.

Your fingers curl tighter around the headboard. “…Satoru,” you breathe.

“Mhm?” His voice is low, calm. Way too calm for what he’s doing.

You try to push back into him, but he keeps you where he wants you—just a firm, gentle grip at your hip keeping you still.

He’s quiet for a moment. You glance over your shoulder and catch the look on his face: focused, a little tense, clearly feeling it—but taking his time anyway.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you mutter.

A breath of a laugh leaves him. “Yeah. Kind of.”

Your forehead drops forward. “’Toru…”

He groans softly—just a little, like he’s trying not to—but doesn’t stop. Just drags himself over you again, slower now. “God, you feel good,” he mutters. “I just… give me a second.”

You shift again, needy and frustrated, and he finally stills behind you, tip resting right where you want him. You both freeze.

“…You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, exhaling hard. “Please.”

There’s a beat. And then he leans forward, lips brushing your shoulder, voice quiet and serious against your skin. “Yeah. I got you. Just spread ‘em a bit for me… yeah, that’s it.”

He eases in with that first, deep stroke—slow enough to feel every inch of him push through your walls. The stretch burns just a little, but the heat in your core blooms even hotter. He’s thick, heavy, and you feel every vein drag along your inner walls, textured and pulsing, making your whole body clench around him without thinking.

Behind you, Satoru groans—low and raw, like it’s dragging out of his chest. “God… you feel unreal,” he mutters, breath shaky.

He holds still once he’s fully inside, his hips pressed against the swell of your ass, his hand flexing on your waist like he’s trying not to move too fast. His cock twitches inside you and you gasp at how full you feel—your body stretched and throbbing around him, nerves lighting up from the inside out.

“Okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing the back of your shoulder.

You nod, voice barely there. “Yeah. Just—fuck, Satoru.”

He pulls out slow, almost all the way, and you feel every ridge of him drag against your soaked walls. Then he sinks back in with a soft grunt, and you swear you feel him throb again—your body squeezing around him on instinct.

The pace he sets is slow but deep, grinding into you just right, the friction steady and maddening. Your thighs are trembling already, your hands gripping the headboard like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Every time he pushes in, his cock presses against that spongy spot deep inside you, and every time he pulls out, it’s this slow, deliberate scrape that leaves you gasping. There’s no space left between you—just wet heat and tension, pressure building with every stroke.

And then—his hand moves. Slides down from your waist, slipping between your legs, fingers finding your clit with no hesitation. The first pass is light, almost teasing.

You jolt. “Satoru—!”

“I got you,” he says quietly, like a promise. His thumb circles you, slow and tight, while his other hand braces your hip steady against him. And all the while, he keeps fucking into you—deeper now, rhythm starting to slip, strokes a little rougher, his breath coming harder against your skin.

“You feel so good around me,” he murmurs, thumb pressing down just a little harder. “So warm. So tight. You keep squeezing me like that, baby—fuck.”

Your whole body is shaking now, moaning helplessly as his fingers keep working your clit, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. Every stroke is slick, deep, devastating. You can hear the wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you, the soft slap of skin, his strained breathing—your own whimpers growing louder with every thrust.

The pressure builds sharp and fast, your body locking up as your orgasm crashes toward you—

And Satoru’s still going. Still thumbing your clit, still grinding his cock into you like he can’t get enough.

Your body tightens around him without warning, breath catching as the pleasure crests—sharp, blinding, unstoppable. You cry out, head dropping as your orgasm rips through you, muscles clenching so hard around his cock that it knocks the air out of both of you.

“Oh my—fuck, that’s it—” Satoru groans, stuttering inside you as your walls flutter and squeeze around him.

You’re still shaking, coming down from the high, when he slows—lets you ride it out, then carefully pulls out, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. You barely have time to blink before he’s flipping you onto your back like you weigh nothing.

He spreads your thighs open, throws your legs over his shoulders, and lines himself up again with a low, strained breath. His eyes meet yours—still soft, but blown wide, jaw tight with restraint. There’s nothing teasing left in him now.

He doesn’t ask this time. Doesn’t wait. He thrusts back in hard—deep—and keeps going.

No more slow buildup. No more holding back. Just relentless, steady drive—his hips snapping into yours over and over, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.

You gasp, fingers flying to his forearms as he leans over you, caging you in. His pace is brutal now, almost punishing, but it never stops feeling good—the angle perfect, the pressure hitting deep with every stroke.

“Satoru—” you sob, voice cracking.

He groans through gritted teeth, muscles tense, hips moving like he’s possessed. “You’re so—fucking—tight.”

You can barely think. Your legs tremble over his shoulders, body arching with every thrust, your orgasm still making aftershocks ripple through you.

He reaches down between you again, hand slipping to your clit like it’s second nature—his thumb moving in tight, fast circles that make your back arch off the bed. “You gonna give me another one?” he pants, voice rough and shaking. “Come on, sweetheart—I know you can.”

You don’t even answer. You can’t. The pressure’s already building again—too fast, too much, your body barely holding on as he keeps fucking into you like he’s been waiting for this all night.

You feel him twitch inside you, hear his breathing hitch—but he still doesn’t come. He’s chasing you again, driving into you like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

You don’t know how he keeps going like this. His pace is ruthless, hips pistoning into you like he’s been starving for it—but it’s the focus that kills you. He’s watching every twitch in your body, every gasp, every time your walls flutter around him like he’s memorizing it.

Then he shifts—leans in until your knees are almost pinned to your chest, folding you in half under him. The new angle makes you cry out, his cock hitting impossibly deep, your body arching beneath the weight of him. “You feel that?” he breathes, voice rough and close to a growl now. “So deep inside you, baby. Just like this.”

And then—his mouth is on your chest. You gasp when he takes your nipple between his lips, tongue circling, sucking slow and steady while his hips never stop. The hot pull of his mouth makes your toes curl, especially when his free hand moves to palm your other breast—thumb brushing over the sensitive peak, fingers squeezing just enough to make you whimper.

It’s too much. You’re overstimulated—his cock still driving into you, thumb still tight and unrelenting on your clit, his mouth sucking, teasing, biting gently down before soothing with his tongue.

Pleasure spikes sharp and fast, and it’s not building—it’s crashing. Your entire body locks up as the heat inside you explodes again, white-hot and shattering, a sob wrenching out of your throat. “Fuck—Satoru—!” Your cunt clenches tight around him, waves of pleasure ripping through you, and he feels it. You feel him falter, his rhythm breaking as he groans like you’ve just knocked the wind out of him.

“Shit—fuck—fuck, I’m—,” he doesn’t even finish the sentence before he’s coming too, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a choked moan. You can feel him pulsing deep inside, every twitch of his cock matching the aftershocks still tearing through you.

He holds you tight through it, arms wrapped around your back, forehead pressed to your shoulder as you both shake through the comedown—nothing but breathless curses filling the room.

You don’t even realize your eyes have fluttered shut until you feel him shift, just a gentle repositioning of his weight as he carefully pulls out—slow, like he doesn’t want to hurt you. You wince, breath catching at the sting, and immediately his voice is there, low and warm in your ear. “Hey, you with me?”

You nod faintly, your body boneless, brain melted, heart still pounding. He kisses your shoulder—once, twice—and gently lowers your legs from where they’re still draped over him, massaging your thighs like he knows they’re trembling.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right back, yeah? Don’t move.”

You can’t even laugh at that. He gets up anyway, grabbing the closest towel and heading to the bathroom, still totally naked, completely unbothered. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror across the room—hair a mess, chest flushed, thighs shaking—and you groan, flopping back against the sheets.

By the time he returns, you’re still half out of it, and he just smiles, fond and lazy as he nudges your legs apart again. “Easy,” he whispers, wiping you down gently, taking his time like you’re made of glass now. “You did so good for me, baby. So fucking good.”

You sigh as he finishes, and the second he’s done, he tosses the towel and climbs back into bed with you—pulling you against his chest, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s anchoring himself. You melt into him, cheek pressed against his collarbone and he grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

A pause. Then—“You’re unreal, you know that?” he murmurs. “I mean, I already knew, but—Jesus.”

You roll your eyes, lips twitching. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I made you come so hard you forgot your own name.”

“Sweetheart,” he says solemnly, “Don’t be mean.”

You laugh—tired, soft—and he smiles at the sound.

Then quieter: “You’re incredible.” He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead.

You bury your face in his chest, heart warm and too full. “Stop being sweet,” you mumble.

“Never.” He grins.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just breathe—slow and steady—as his hand runs gently along your back, grounding you. The room’s quiet now, save for the soft hum of the city outside the window, and the faint rustle of sheets as you both settle into the aftermath. He shifts just enough to pull the blanket higher over the two of you, tucking you in without saying a word.

Your eyes are heavy, but you blink them open to look at him. He’s already watching you—messy hair, flushed cheeks, the ghost of a smile on his lips like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“What?” you murmur, voice rough with sleep.

He shrugs a little, eyes soft. “Nothing. Just… you’re kinda perfect, y’know?”

You snort under your breath, too tired to fight it. “Don’t start.”

He chuckles, nose brushing your hair as he tucks you in closer. “I won’t. Promise.”

There’s a pause, just the two of you breathing in sync, his thumb stroking slow circles into your hip. “Stay here tonight,” he whispers.

“But ’Toru… we have class tomorrow.”

He groans dramatically into your skin. “Let’s bunk.”

You snort. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s the right answer every time.” He lifts his head enough to look at you, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes still heavy-lidded but shamelessly clingy. “C’mon. It’s late. Just stay.”

You hesitate, even though you’re already leaning toward yes. He catches that and nudges his knee between yours, coaxing you closer.

“I’ll set an alarm,” he adds. “You can wear one of my shirts. I’ll even make you coffee in the morning.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think I had to.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already settling in again, your cheek resting over his heartbeat. “Fine,” you murmur. “But if we oversleep, I’m blaming you.”

He hums, content. “That’s fair.”

So you stay like that—comfortable and a little too in love to care about anything. And with Satoru’s arms around you—his breath steady against your skin, his presence anchoring you—you drift off. No words needed. Just safe. Just held.

Perfect.

author's note. whoever started the nerdjo agenda, i owe you my firstborn child

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

[thespacesay]

also even in the sciences, that's not always good advice. it's absolutely worth looking into more recent publications, but everyone is citing older things. you're gonna want to check what older things they cite as relevant, and sometimes you end up ten citations deep and find that everyone cited someone else citing a paper from the 40s... with someone just claiming something and no citation as to why. Good research involves fact checking, and you have to consider if the new science has fundamentally sound footing too.

it does make me laugh when general purpose academic advice is like "all citations must be RECENT, if it's over ten years old it's probably been superseded" and it's like. maybe in sciences bro but over here i still regularly have to cite stuff from the 19th century because nobody has written on the topic since

[sapphoshands]

A lot of fiction these days reads as if—as I saw Peter Raleigh put it the other day, and as I’ve discussed it before—the author is trying to describe a video playing in their mind. Often there is little or no interiority. Scenes play out in “real time” without summary. First-person POV stories describe things the character can’t see, but a distant camera could. There’s an overemphasis on characters’ outfits and facial expressions, including my personal pet peeve: the “reaction shot round-up” in which we get a description of every character’s reaction to something as if a camera was cutting between sitcom actors.

When I talk with other creative writing professors, we all seem to agree that interiority is disappearing. Even in first-person POV stories, younger writers often skip describing their character’s hopes, dreams, fears, thoughts, memories, or reactions. This trend is hardly limited to young writers though. I was speaking to an editor yesterday who agreed interiority has largely vanished from commercial fiction, and I think you increasingly notice its absence even in works shelved as “literary fiction.” When interiority does appear on the page, it is often brief and redundant with the dialogue and action. All of this is a great shame. Interiority is perhaps the prime example of an advantage prose as a medium holds over other artforms.

fascinated by this article, "Turning Off the TV in Your Mind," about the influences of visual narratives on writing prose narratives. i def notice the two things i excerpted above in fanfic, which i guess makes even more sense as most of the fic i read is for tv and film. i will also be thinking about its discussion of time in prose - i think that's something i often struggle with and i will try to be more conscious of the differences between screen and page next time i'm writing.

[telephoniii]

REALLY…HIM?

☆彡 in which professor trein judges your relationship with the NRC boys

NRC boys x Reader (minus Ortho)

Word Counter: 3K

Warnings: Reader is Prefect, Trein is your father figure, established relationship, possible OOC

A/N: life’s getting pretty hectic so i’m sorry if my upload schedule slows down. i hope you enjoy :>

ace trappola

Can’t say he’s surprised, just disappointed. It makes sense; he was one of your first friends. However, that doesn’t make him any less troublesome. Despite being a first-year, Ace is one of the biggest slackers and troublemakers on campus— much to Trein’s dismay. His main worry is that Ace will poorly influence you. He’s already seeing it with the two of you getting a crazy amount of detentions and scoldings for unthinkable reasons. You’ve got it rough already being from another world, you don’t need a devil on your shoulder convincing you to get into all kinds of trouble. It’s a real shame said devil is your boyfriend. He’ll allow the relationship and all will seem swell. Little do you know that he pulled Ace aside and had a long chat.

deuce spade

A fine pick; Trein is neither severely impressed nor disappointed. He doesn’t think Deuce is too bad, but he believes you could do better. Deuce will need to somehow prove himself to Trein. On the outside, Trein looks like he absolutely hates his guts. His eyes are always staring at Deuce with this sharp look and it gets the card soldier real nervous real fast. In reality, it’s just Trein keeping a closer eye on him + his RBF. He’s relatively neutral on the first year, yet Deuce is fully convinced that his professor wants to set him on fire.

cater diamond

Trein is very annoyed with your choice. He doesn’t like Cater’s social media addiction and would much rather have you hit the books than scrolling through Magicam. Not to mention, he feels as though something about Cater’s happy-go-lucky attitude is a facade, and doesn’t trust him around you. Cater finds Trein scary, but he’s not as intimidated as Deuce. As he does with Ace, Trein takes Cater to have a talk, and—surprisingly— his opinions on the third year improve. He doesn’t fully like him, but he’ll tolerate Cater more so than beforehand. Cater also offers to help Trein make a social media account; it’s cute yet chaotic all the same watching them bond.

trey clover

Before Trein can form a solid thought on Trey, the vice housewarden is subtly trying to win his favor. Trey knows how about his father-like connection to you and immediately shapes up. He gifts Trein different pastries and learns which ones he’s partial to. What really wins the professor over is when Trey starts volunteering to help clean his classroom after class. Trein won’t even know the two of you are already together and he’ll make comments around you like, “That Clover boy is real nice…” Needless to say, Trein approves of Trey long before he finds out you both are in a relationship.

riddle rosehearts

Trein immediately scowls when he hears the news of your relationship. You’d think he’d approve due to Riddle’s intellect and dutiful behavior. Admittedly, Trein does like that about Riddle. But he despises the boy’s bursts of anger, finding them childish and unfitting for a future mage. He’s seen the housewarden go berserk on one too many students and doesn’t trust he won’t do the same to you. Trein doesn’t want you walking on eggshells around your own partner. This is another one who’ll have to prove themselves to Trein. Riddle will be upset when he hears of Trein’s low opinion of him, but gets a surge of motivation to convince him otherwise. You’ll find Riddle working even harder on his studies than before you didn’t even think that was possible in hopes of gaining Trein’s favor. He’ll eventually get it. I imagine that Riddle does some small, heroic deed for you that really shows his love, and Trein just so happens to be passing by and sees it. Once your unofficial official father in Twisted Wonderland gets along with Riddle, expect to be nagged about missing assignments and homework a WHOLE LOT.

jack howl

Similar to Trey, he immediately knows about your bond with Trein. Instead of trying to win over the professor, Jack takes a more blunt approach. He goes straight to his desk after class and tells him about your relationship, being upfront about his feelings towards you. Trein respects it. He thinks that Jack has more guts than most on campus and trusts him to protect you. He’s quite supportive of the relationship, acting as a mentor for the both of you. You can catch him watching the two of you with a tiny smile, murmuring something along the lines of, “Young love.” The two of you remind him of his own marriage with his late wife. It makes him sentimental in a way.

ruggie bucchi

A BIG 180 FROM JACK. Trein thinks this guy is sleazy. Ruggie couldn’t care less in the beginning, finding it funny to practically hang off your shoulder while Trein stared daggers into him. Then it started to seep in that it may or may not be important to get Trein’s approval for a long-term relationship with you. That’s when he gets his act together and completely starts sucking up to Trein. He’ll help out with paperwork, errands, cleaning up, etc! All for free! much to his dismay All Ruggie asks for in return is Trein’s support for your relationship. He catches Trein by surprise with how well his work ethic is. The lengths the hyena goes to for you ends up leaving the professor impressed.

leona kingscholar

Professor Trein is both surprised and disappointed. Now how did this happen? He didn't think Kingscholar was capable of being nice to anyone, let alone get into a whole relationship. Well, he bugs you to tell your boyfriend to start showing up to class. He’s not exactly happy with you dating a huge slacker like him, but Trein knows that Leona is a smart boy. Brash and not his first pick, sure, but he wouldn’t play with your heart or rope you into anything stupid. He trusts Kingscholar to protect you. But if he starts seeing you begin to skip class— which is going to happen, Leona’s going to make you do it at least once— he’ll pull YOU aside and give you an earful. Tough love, unfortunately.

floyd leech

Hell no. All the red blaring flags. Now why would you go and do that? Really? Out of EVERYONE? You bet your bottoms Trein is actively speaking out against your relationship every single time he sees you. He doesn't even want to try to talk to Floyd. Trein is convinced you are addicted to getting in trouble and lets out the biggest old man sigh. Is there any way Floyd can win the professor’s favor? Probably not. And if there was a way, would Floyd even do it? Big fat no. Floyd thinks it is hilarious that Professor Trein disapproves, upping his affections around him with that toothy grin of his. And if you guys have a class together that Trein teaches? Chaos. Expect a lot of paper balls to be thrown at you.

jade leech

“Are you okay??” Is the first thing Trein asks when you tell him you and Jade are in a relationship. Doesn't exactly trust the boy, but Jade tends to behave around him. The professor has always seen him being picture-perfect whenever he’s around which is 100% suspicious, but Trein doesn't have any solid reasons to disapprove. Jade, like his brother, finds the whole situation very amusing. He’s always figuring out new ways to appear like the ‘ideal boyfriend’ to Trein. If he ever talks to the professor he’ll slip in a comment like, “I never disappoint, trust me” and it makes Trein distrust him even more.

azul ashengrotto

Now what bet did you lose for this to have happened? At least Ashengrotto is a star student, you need to hang out around more of those in his opinion. After confirming that, “No, no bet was lost,” and “No, he’s not paying for my love,” Trein was pretty alright with it. The Monstro Lounge is a student-ran organization, it's clear from that the young boy is capable and responsible. He just keeps a very, very close eye on you two. The last thing Trein wants is for Azul to take advantage of you since— knowing him— he seems like the type to do so. Expect frequent questions of “How’s your relationship going?” and “He’s treating you right, right?” Azul is going to get asked to stay after class to talk. Trein then proceeds to threaten lecture him on how to properly treat your lover. He just wants to make sure you don't get wrapped up in one of those contracts he’s heard about. Azul has quite the track record.

kalim al asim

Automatically assumes you’re dating him for the money and begins to ramble about how you should marry for love. Tells you about his late wife and how much he loved her— it is so sweet I'm actually crying. That's the kind of love he wants you to have. You’ve got to reassure him that, “Yes, my certified father figure, I do love him very much and I’m not just in it for the money.” After that talk, he finds the relationship sweet but kind of concerning. Kalim is a nice boy but severely naive and, frankly, incompetent. Trein starts to go a little harder on Kalim in class, not that he was going easy anyway. He scrutinizes the essays he turns in and chastises him for missing an assignment. As he watches you kiss Kalim on the cheek after getting an A, Trein can only sigh and think, “He’s lucky he’s rich.”

jamil viper

Trein’s pretty okay with him. He’s a level-headed guy with passable grades and the title of a vice housewarden. However, the professor did hear about his Overblot and does think that there's more beneath the surface. He doesn't judge him for his Overblot, no. But Trein does keep a closer eye on him to make sure he isn't scheming anything involving you. The professor also tries to push him to do better academically. He’s heard from you about how smart Jamil truly is and can see his potential, so he tries to get him to stop holding back. Jamil is a little appreciative of it and respects Trein as your father figure, but still isn't a fan of sticking out. Nor does he plan on giving into Trein’s attempts.

epel felmier

Is fine with the relationship at first. He was polite, soft-spoken, and a part of Pomfiore. Most students belonging to that dorm are pompous, but respectful nonetheless. Then Epel’s true nature comes out and Trein is constantly reprimanding him for horseplay. It's kinda funny how surprised Trein is by Epel’s country toughness. The professor definitely had his suspicions— nobody at NRC is innocent, he’s learned every student here has some sort of dark side— but he definitely wouldn't have expected this. A part of Trein actually prefers him like this. You are dating someone with a backbone who will defend you. He encourages Epel to be himself around him, promising a judgment-free area. They get along pretty well surprisingly, with Trein being a sort of mentor to him. Overall, very sweet and Trein approves.

rook hunt

In the most blunt way possible, Trein tells you, “Your boyfriend weirds me out.” He thinks Rook is an oddball for sure. No way around it. Is half convinced Rook is stalking him. Because he is. When you explained to your boyfriend about the bond you had with Professor Trein, he got way too intrigued and ended up ‘watching’ Trein like he does to Leona. It's not until the professor makes a passing comment about being paranoid that he’s being watched that you realized, “Oh shit my boyfriends stalking you.” You don't say that to him— you don't want Rook getting in trouble. So you settle on having a really long talk with Rook about it who reassures you he’d never disturb your father figure or the absolutely beautiful bond between the two of you. He still worries you sometimes when he goes missing and randomly reappears by walking out of Trein’s classroom.

vil schoenheit

Trein worries that Vil won’t make the time for you. He’s aware that Schoenheit is a busy boy as he’s missed his class plentiful in the past. He’ll make Vil stay after class for a little to talk to him about it, giving him a fatherly warning about being ready to fully commit to a relationship and the time it takes to manage one. Vil is, admittedly, insulted that Trein doubts his ability to wholeheartedly love you but takes it in stride. He sees this as a sign to up his game in the romance department and properly does so, dedicating more time to pampering you. The professor expresses his concerns to his coworker, Crewel, who talks his ear off about how much of a “good pup” Vil is and that he won't disappoint. Trein can’t help but agree when he spots you walking into class looking more freshened with slight makeup on and a new hair-do that Vil definitely did for you.

idia shroud

Once you break the news to Trein, he immediately asks to meet with Idia one-on-one. The blue-haired student rarely shows up to class! And that iPad isn't going to cut it forever! He needs to be able to size him up in person. Idia, naturally, is scared to death. At first, he immediately declines, insisting that they don't really need to meet up, the whole idea is stupid, and it’ll be fine if he stays right there in his room. Then you sit down with him and tell him how important Trein is to you and… sigh You landed a natural 20 on the dice of persuasion. Idia can’t believe he's doing this. You’re beside him the whole time as he stutters in front of Trein. Is Trein impressed? No, not at all. Yet your confidence in the Shroud and constant praise is reassuring. The professor’s going to make you force Idia into showing up in person in class. His attendance rivals Leona's.

sebek zigvolt

Doesn't really care for Sebek despite the first year's desperate attempts at trying to impress him. Sebek lost him after he started talking about Malleus when Trein asked about you. Ever since then, it’s just been him trying to win him back to no prevail. Kinda sad to watch. He’ll be the biggest gentleman ever: rushing to doors to open them for Trein, scrubbing his whole classroom for him from top to bottom, and yelling at other students to be quiet— though he was pretty much doing that before you two even got together. But every time Sebek gets close to winning the professor’s favor, he ends up going on a tangent about how amazing his liege is, and we're back at square one. You’ve got to rub him on the back and kiss him on the cheek while telling him, “Trein will come around one day!” Even if that day never comes.

silver

Not a fan. He’s witnessed Silver fall asleep in his class one too many times and thinks it's disrespectful. Once you tell Silver, he’s upset as it's not exactly something he can change, but will put in extra effort not only in Trein’s class but in all his classes. He studies with you beside him so you can prevent him from falling asleep when you see him get all drowsy-eyed. Trein immediately takes note of Silver’s hard work and grit as the boy passes his class with flying colors while asking if there’s anything he could do to help him after hours. It's only when he hears from his fellow teachers that Silver has been doing exceptionally well is he actually impressed. Afterwards, Trein will start being more understanding of Silver’s constant sleeping. He won't be any less strict, but he won’t lay into him for it as hard as before since learning it's out of Silver’s control. Trein thinks rather positively of your relationship, comparing it to the ones in the fairytales.

lilia vanrouge

A bit disturbed, to say the least. Lilia is older than him after all. Trein tried to keep a close eye on the two of you, but Lilia always caught him and pursued a staring match. Trein was always the first to look away. Lilia finds it entertaining. He tries to play tiny tricks on the professor, but you stop him at the very last minute. You sit down and try to explain that you deeply care about Trein and, by extension, what Trein thinks of him. Lilia proceeded to suggest that he brings Trein some cookies to win him over to which you immediately say no. Honestly, I don’t see Trein really ever warming up to Lilia. He just pretends the old bat doesn't exist and isn't your boyfriend. Lilia finds that incredibly funny while you're dying inside.

malleus draconia

The fact you were able to get close to the Draconia is an impressive feat to Trein. However, future ruler of Briar Valley or not, he intends to make sure that Malleus treats you right. Right when you tell Malleus that Trein is basically your father, the fae goes straight to the professor, confesses to him about your relationship, and swears to take good care of you with this ominous tone. Trein isn’t very fond of Malleus at first, struggling to decipher whether or not that introduction was genuine. It isn't until you go to him after class, gushing about the late-night walk you went on with Malleus yesterday and shoving cute little polaroid photos in his face does Trein begin to trust the fae. He makes sure to scold you for not being asleep at that time, yes, but he stares at one of the photographs for way too long, imagining you and Malleus as him and his late wife for a moment. A small smile appears on his face. However, he can’t help but think that the two of you are down a similar path; the happiest marriage ever, kids, and one lover outliving the other. A tragedy, but he’ll let you enjoy it while it lasts just like he did. As long as you’re happy.

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

Giving the nerd a chance

tags: nerd!nanami/fem!reader, college!au, stsg, nsfw, dirty talk, asphyxiation, size kink, mdni!!

a/n: this one’s a long one :) pace yourself and enjoy!

Kento Nanami is a social enigma. He is a total outlier but in the weirdest way possible.

This man is conventionally attractive. Some would even go as far to say Nanami’s handsome, almost in a filthy way. His looks are sneaky too. He’s not someone you’d immediately notice in a room, but once you did…

You would notice his sculpted jaw line first. Then, his naturally high cheekbones that gave way to his soft hazel eyes. He had a serious look on his face always, but his eyes told a different story. Maybe you’d notice his blonde hair that sat neatly on his head, styled with an undercut. Yeah, Nanami was fucking hot.

But that’s not the weird part. No, you haven’t heard him utter a single word except to answer the professor’s unanswered questions once the silence was unbearable.

That’s not exactly weird either. There are tons of people who go through college without the intention of making friends… but Nanami has friends. He doesn’t just have like one friend. No, he’s apart of a friend group.

The weirdest part was he seemed to be close with the most popular guy in your university, star quarterback Satoru Gojo. Gojo was seemingly every college girl’s wet dream. He’s the type to stand out in a room. His looks and personality demand attention.

He’s the complete opposite from Nanami.

Then, there was Suguru Geto… Geto was also a strange friend for Nanami to have. Geto was smart, funny, and well-mannered… when he was in class. But you’ve seen how Geto acts at parties. He smokes cigarettes, shotguns whiskey, and keeps up with all of Gojo’s antics. Shoko was the exact same way, except she didn’t care enough to keep up with Gojo’s buffoonery.

They were the complete opposite from Nanami as well.

Yu Haibara was a cutie patootie. He’s also a sweet social butterfly. Another one of Nanami’s friends that just didn’t seem to be his type.

You caught yourself staring at the friend group as you’re sitting on a couch at a frat house. Your college team just won the game, so Satoru had invited a whole slew of people over. You somehow made it on that list. Your friend, Utahime, is begging you to leave, but something is telling you to stay.

“Go on without me, Uta. I’ll be fine, promise.” You say over the music as you flash her a small smile to assure her.

“I really, really, really don’t want to leave you here alone, yn. I don’t want you to end up on the front page of the news.”

“Don’t wish that shit upon me.” You laugh as you gently nudge her arm, urging her towards the door.

“I’m serious, yn. Please text me. If you’re not back in the dorm by midnight, I’m calling the cops.” She says as she grabs your shoulders, forcing you to face her directly.

You admire your friend’s caring demeanor, but she was being a total cock block for you right now.

“I will text you. I promise.” You assure her once again. “Go back to the dorm. Love you.”

She sighs deeply as she lets you go. She’s still not comfortable with the idea of leaving you here, but she can’t force you to leave. “Love you too. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Oh, that’s all I’m gonna do.” You smirk as she flips you off and leaves the frat house.

You take a drink from your red solo cup to gather your nerves. Nanami has been sitting in the corner of the kitchen all night. He’s alone, but he doesn’t look lonely. Sometimes, Satoru will drunkenly slouch his weight onto the blonde and slur something inaudible to him. From what you can see, Nanami just rolls his eyes and shrugs his friend off his shoulders.

You want to approach him, but you’re still too afraid he won’t talk to you. As you sit down your cup, an intoxicated Satoru is standing over you.

“I’m sorry- I don’t remember your name.” He gives you a slanted smile as he crouches down a bit so you two are face-to-face.

“That’s okay. I don’t remember yours either.” You snip back with a small grin. Something sparkles in his eyes as you give him a little bit of a challenge. He finds it to be endearing.

“Cheeky. Give me your number.” He demands, keeping his smirk on his face.

“Why should I give it to you?”

“Because it’s not for me.” He slurs as he leans in close to you. He nods his head towards the kitchen. “I’m doing this for my pussy friend over there.”

Your eyes dart towards Nanami. His eyes are glaring holes into Satoru with more anger and emotion than you’ve ever seen from him. Your stomach swirls with butterflies.

“That is a really good reason.” You murmur as you quickly type your number into Satoru’s phone.

*** *** ***

It had been days since the frat party and not a single word from Nanami. Your excitement had honestly fizzled out into sulking. Were you not good enough for him? Did Satoru lie? Was it all a sick prank?

Not even Utahime could get you in a good mood.

“Yn. This is so ridiculous. If you like him that much, just go up and talk to him.” She chides

“Noooo.” You groan into your pillow as you turn onto your stomach in your bed. “He’s too cool. Out of my league.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Kento Nanami? The nerd who barely ever talks? The know-it-all in class?”

“Utahimeee.”

“You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Let me wallow in my self pity.” You gripe before you hear your phone buzz. The sound of your phone notifying you doesn’t even excite you anymore. It’s always some lame ass notification.

Unknown Number: Is this yn?

Your eyes widen as you stare at your phone in disbelief. Your body involuntarily sits up in bed, startling Utahime.

“Jesus Christ. What? What happened?”

“He texted me!” You beam proudly. You are embarrassing. Utahime scoffs and walks away from you, unable to take the second-hand embarrassment.

Yn: Yeah, that’s me :)

Unknown Number: This is Kento Nanami. I’m sorry Gojo felt the need to disturb you at the party. 

Yn: No need! He didn’t disturb me too much.

Nanami: That’s good to hear.

God. Now, what do you say? Of course Nanami is a dry texter. You stare at the text conversation for a while, trying to think of something.. anything to break the ice.

Yn: Did you ask him to get my number, or did he do that on his own volition?

Nanami: Gojo does things on his own volition.

Yn: Ah.. I see.

He left you on read.

Goddammit.

You had your chance, and now, you blew it. Sighing, you lock your phone and try to forget he even ever texted you in the first place.

*** *** ***

I mean, who even needs Nanami? He’s really not even that handsome or mysterious. You keep telling yourself as you get ready to go to another party Gojo invited you too.

Oh, also, Gojo kept your number for himself as well. He mostly asked to copy your notes when Nanami refused to let him copy his notes. He would also send the occasional invitation to one of his signature parties.

This one was apparently labeled as “exclusive”. You had no idea what that meant, but you weren’t allowed to bring a plus-one this time.

Luckily for you, Utahime was visiting back home for the weekend, so she couldn’t scold you for going out to another party this weekend.

Black eyeliner was smeared across your waterline, and you puckered your lips as you carefully applied some sheer gloss. You decided to be casual with your outfit, wearing a basic off-shoulder black top with some jeans.

As soon as you got to the frat house, you quickly understood what “exclusive” meant. It was only their closest friends in the house. Satoru and Haibara were on the couch, lounging. Suguru and Shoko were sitting by the window, sharing a cigarette. Nanami was sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, looking as stoic as ever. Immediately, you were grateful for going with a more casual look.

“Yn! So glad you made it!” Satoru grinned in a more sober voice than the last time you spoke with him.

“Am I imposing on something?” You ask as you close the door.

“Of course not, silly. I sent you an invite for a reason.” Satoru says casually as he pats the spot between him and Haibara on the couch. “Come have a seat. Get comfortable. We’re just hanging out tonight.”

You stare at the seat between Gojo and Haibara, and you decide to sit in the open chair next to them instead.

“Afraid that we might bite?” Gojo grins as he leans over the arm of the chair towards you.

“Stop it, Satoru. You’re going to scare her away.” Shoko scolds before taking a drag off her cigarette.

Your phone gently buzzes in your pocket as Satoru and Shoko begin to bicker about his social skills. You sneakily check your phone.

Nanami: You look pretty tonight.

OH. We are so back, baby.

Yn: Thank you :) You look as handsome as ever.

Nanami: Oh yeah?

It is so small and insignificant, but that little “oh yeah?” makes your stomach flutter with excitement.

“Yn?” You snap your attention up to Shoko and realize she has been trying to talk to you.

“Shit- sorry. What’s up?”

Your phone lightly buzzes again, and you quickly glance down to check.

Nanami: You’re blushing.

“I was asking what your major is.” Shoko smiles calmly as she’s sat upon the windowsill. She flicks her cigarette outside before blowing out a cloud of smoke. You try to ignore how your heart is skipping beats right now.

“Oh, I’m just in general studies right now. I’m kind of indecisive. What about you?”

“I’m pre-med right now.” Shoko answers.

“I thought you swapped to nursing.” Haibara asks as he shifts his body to face her. The two start conversing together, giving you a chance to check your phone.

Nanami: Are you ill, or do my words just affect you that much?

Yn: I’m actually ill.

Nanami: You’re also apparently a liar, sweetheart.

How the fuck was this man so bold over text, but wouldn’t speak to hardly anyone in person?

Yn: Sweetheart? I didn’t know we were on that sort of level yet.

Nanami: Does that make you uncomfortable?

Yn: No

Nanami: Good. Then don’t complain.

The throb your cunt just did should’ve been illegal. There was no reason for you to be so turned on by that, but you were.

Yn: What would you have done had I said that it did make me uncomfortable?

Nanami: I would’ve found you a nickname you were more comfortable with.

He was being sweet, and you were over there clenching around nothing like a whore.

You had been so caught up in your phone that you didn’t realize Yu had went and gotten everyone a beer out of the fridge. You decide to risk a glance at Nanami. He looked calm and composed. You wondered if he even knew the effect he had on you truly.

“Shoko, when are you finally going to get some bitches?” Satoru asks with a laugh. Your eyes widen as you notice Suguru is on his lap now. You had really been so distracted by your phone…

“At this rate, I think Nanami will beat me.” Shoko laughed as she took a drink of her beer. You shift slightly in your seat as Shoko cuts her eyes towards you with a small grin.

Nanami: I will

Yn: Will what?

Nanami: I will beat her.

Yn: Confident or competitive?

Nanami: Both.

Yn: You didn’t strike me as the type.

Nanami: You don’t think I can do it?

Yn: I never said that.

Nanami lays his phone on his lap, and you can feel his eyes trailing up and down your body. Feeling your heart skip a beat, you decide to look up at him. Your breath hitches in your throat as you glance over him. He looks relaxed. His head is propped up in his hand, and he’s almost giving you a lazy smile.

Knowing more about Nanami, you recognize it as a cocky smile now.

The rest of the “party” goes without a hitch. You decided it was time to leave once Suguru and Satoru were obnoxiously making out, Shoko was asleep on the floor, and Haibara wouldn’t shut the fuck up about the intricacies of anime.

“I’m gonna head back to my dorm now. Thanks for inviting me.” You say quickly as you stand from your seat.

“Hey yn-!” Satoru says as he tugs from Suguru’s lips. The dark-haired male made quick work of moving down to his neck. “Thanks for coming. You should come out here more often.”

“Oh um, I’ll think about it.” You smile politely as you head out the front door. The cold night air nips at your skin. The only light was from the moon high up in the sky. The dorms were a few blocks away.

You never like walking alone at night, but you try to remember that college campuses have security patrolling at all times. Taking a deep shaky breath, you step off the porch.

The sound of the door closing again immediately startles you. You quickly flinch and look towards the frat house. Nanami was calming walking up to you.

“Let me walk you back.” His voice was calm and steady, just like his presence. He really wasn’t phased at all by your subtle flirting earlier?

“Thanks.. I was actually kinda scared.” You mumble as you two walk side by side on the pavement. Your arms hug your body, trying to hide from the snippy air.

“Why didn’t you ask one of us to walk you home then?” Nanami asks as he slips his coat off from his shoulders. He then loosely drapes it over your shoulders. You feel your heart skip a beat as you mumble a quick thanks. Your body snuggled into his coat as it swallowed your frame whole. It was the first time you realized… Nanami is a big man. He’s not just some scrawny nerd. He’s actually pretty well built.

“I didn’t want to be a bother.” You answer quietly, noticing how Nanami shoves his hands into his pockets while you two walk.

“That’s foolish. We invited you. The least we could do is make sure you make it home safely.”

“We?”

Nanami goes silent, and he looks away from your shorter self. The wind blows harshly, making the leaves crinkle and hiss on the trees.

“Yes, we.” He finally answers your question. You smile softly as you look down towards the ground. It seems like Satoru wasn’t the only one who wanted you around.

Standing in front of your dorm door, you slowly slip the coat off from around your shoulders and try to hand it back to him. “I don’t want it.” He answers calmly, making no effort to take the jacket back from you.

“It’s yours, silly.”

“And?”

“Take it.” You gestured the coat to him once more

“No, I want you to have it.” He says as he towers over you. You subconsciously take a step back to create space, and your back hits the door. He leans over you, having to angle his back to see eye-to-eye with you. You can feel his warm breath ghosting over your cheek as he cocks his head towards your ear and neck. “Text me.” He murmurs lowly before pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

You were left against your door blushing madly as he casually sauntered away.

*** *** ***

You almost think you dreamt that kiss up come Monday morning. You hadn’t texted him all weekend, not even knowing what to say. You felt scared about messing things up and taking his advances the wrong way. He hadn’t reached out to you either.

You were sitting in Neurology, half-ass paying attention as the professor lectured about neuron pruning. Nanami sat a few rows over. He always appeared to he intently listening when you glance over at him. You perk up as you feel your phone buzz on your thigh.

Nanami: You’re not going to do well if you don’t pay attention.

Yn: I could say the same for you.

Nanami: Could you?

Yn: …. point taken

Nanami: You know, you could’ve at least texted me if you didn’t like the kiss.

Yn: Who said I didn’t?

Nanami: So, you disobey my request for fun?

Yn: Disobey is such a strong word. You told me to text you, and I just.. haven’t yet.

Nanami: We’ll come back to the disobedience topic. Why haven’t you texted me “yet”?

Yn: Nervous.

Nanami: You’re adorable. What’s there to be nervous about?

“Can anyone name an example of synaptic pruning?” The professor’s sudden loud voice catches you off guard. You hadn’t been paying attention at all, and you feel your heart start to race at the thought of being randomly called upon.

“Anyone?” The professor asks once again. “Yn-“ She almost says your first name before Nanami interrupts.

“Crown thinning.” He answers the question, saving you from total embarrassment.

“Very good. Thank you, Kento.” The professor praises as she turns back around to start lecturing from the powerpoint again.

Yn: You totally just saved me.

Nanami: Pay better attention.

Yn: Then stop texting me.

Nanami: No.

Nanami: Answer my question. Why were you nervous?

Yn: I just didn’t want to say the wrong things.

Nanami: You’re hopeless.

Yn: You’re starting to sound like Utahime :(

Nanami: Will you coo to me that you love me if I act like her?

You feel your heart start to race as you read his text over and over. He was way more observant than you gave him credit for. You couldn’t even think of a time where you told Uta that you loved her in front of him.

Yn: Is that what you want?

Nanami: That does sound nice. Though, I think I’d rather hear you breathlessly professing your love to me.

oh…

oh.

You sat your phone down. No way were you going to let some simple words over a screen let you get horny in class. You didn’t dare to glance in his direction as you suddenly decided to start paying attention and taking detailed notes on Neurology.

Nanami: You’re blushing again.

Damn him and his observant personality. Damn him and his filthy words that make you squeeze your thighs together to soothe the ache.

Yn: I’m well aware.

Nanami: It’s cute. Makes me want to say more things just to get a reaction out of you.

Yn: Please don’t

Nanami: Why? Scared you might like it?

Nanami: Scared you might like the thought of being beneath me, begging for more?

Jesus. There was no misinterpreting that. You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth as you stared down at your phone, rereading his message over and over. It painted a picture in your brain.

Yn: As if you could make me do that.

Nanami: I can, and I will. Come over tonight.

Yn: To the frat house?

Nanami: No, to my room. I’ll tell Haibara to not come back until late.

Yn: That seems rather rude.

Nanami: It’s far better than the treatment you’ll be receiving later.

Your head feels like it’s spinning as the professor dismisses class. The rest of the day drags by painfully slow as you feel every little heartbeat and flutter in your chest. Nanami talked big game for someone who seemed too shy to really speak to you. It made you feel intrigued. How could he be so confident in his ability to make you beg?

You took your time once you were back at your dorm: going through your everything-shower routine. You wanted to make sure that every inch of you was soft and smooth just in case! It’s not like he’s actually going to make you do anything.

Knocking on his door, you feel your stomach churn with anxiety. You two seemed to be doing better at keeping up a conversation, but you were still deathly afraid of that awkward silence sinking in.

The click of the lock gains your attention, and Nanami opens the door for you. “Come in.” He says flatly, moving out of the way of the door so you can squeeze past him. He’s wearing his usual button-up shirt with black slacks on. How does this man even relax?

Of course his room is completely clean. His bed was even made military style for crying out loud. What the fuck does this man know about making women beg?

“Your room is nice.” You compliment, trying not to sound too awkward.

“It’s a room.” He shrugs nonchalantly before his eyes travel your body.

“How did you tell Haibara not to come home?” You ask, and he gives you a slightly puzzled look.

“I told him the truth.” He says as he loosens his tie from around his neck.

You swallow harshly as you watch his slender fingers pull at the fabric. His jaw is perfectly sculpted along with his neck, and his adams apple bobs as he steps towards you.

“Which is?” You reluctantly ask.

“I told him not to come home unless he planned on watching me fuck a pretty girl to tears.”

Your breath hitches in your throat, and you stare up at him with almost a frightened gaze. His movement feels much more predatory now as if he’s been watching you for a while, sizing you up. He had observed and stood by, waiting for the prime opportunity to pounce.

“What is it? Cat got your tongue?” Nanami asks as he steps forward again. The back of your knees hits his bed, and his smile shifts to a lopsided grin.

“No. I just…” You had no idea what to even say to that! You weren’t use to a man so confidently bolstering about his skills without sounding like a total idiot. Nanami was a rarity. He could talk the talk and walk the walk.

“No. I just..” He mocks you. “You’re awfully nervous for someone I haven’t even touched yet.” His fingers gently caress over your collarbone, before he carefully nudged you back. You tipped over and found yourself sitting on his bed, looking up at him with big round eyes.

“Christ. Have you ever even done this before?” He asks as he leans over you. His hand press down on the mattress at both of your sides, effectively trapping you beneath him.

“Yes!” You exclaim with a huffy attitude that makes him chuckle. “Have you?” You ask, trying to even the score.

“No.” He responds before closing the distance between you two. His lips press against yours and move delicately. Your eyes widen before you realize what was going on, and you slowly melt into the kiss.

Lips smack together as he takes the lead on the kiss. His hands gently cup and caress their way down your body before resting upon your hips. His knee finds it’s way between your thighs, and he applies pressure to your core.

Stifling a small whine, you entangle your fingers through his blonde hair. It’s softer than you imagined it to be. His kisses are growing more and more demanding as he’s pushing you back onto the bed more and more.

He gently bites at your lip, and he applies more pressure with his knee. As soon as you let another another small whimper, he slips his tongue into your mouth.

He’s taking complete and utter advantage over your body while you’re still trying to wrap your head around the fact he said “no”. He’s claiming to have never done this before.

His thumbs dig into your hipbones before he makes you grind against his knee.

“That’s right. Use me.” He purrs lowly, encouraging for you to keep rolling your hips. Once you found a steady rhythm, rubbing yourself against his knee like a desperate slut, he releases your hips and grabs your wrists, pinning you down to the bed.

“Ken..” You gasp out lowly, and he immediately eats up your words, forcing his lips right back upon yours.

The grinding was slowly making you feel all dizzy in the head as you slowly start to mess up your rhythm. He immediately notices your messy state. His hands leave your wrists to grab back ahold of your thighs to make sure you don’t stop. If his slacks weren’t black, he was sure there would be a small damp spot on his leg from your delicious juices.

“Hah~” You gasp as you lean your head back.

“Does that feel good?” He questions lowly before carefully nipping at your neck.

“Yes… Yes, Kento.. more..”

“Oh, what was that, darling? I didn’t hear you.” He taunts as he bites his way down your neck.

“M-more!” You whimper out as you grow impatient.

“So greedy…” He murmurs before his sucks a small hickey on your neck all while he’s still making you grind your pitiful pussy against his thigh. “Beg.”

You feel that defiant nature wanting to kick in. You were needy for him, but you weren’t to the point of begging yet.

“Did you hear me? I said beg.” He demands as he forces you down on his leg harder. Your legs tremble around him as he’s making you rock hack and forth.

“Please-“ You finally choke out against your defiant nature. “I-I.. want more, please… I need you to.. to ruin me.”

“Ruin you, hm?” He asks as his hand carefully trails upwards to your neck. He applies just a bit of pressure. “A pretty girl like you asking for me to ruin her… How could I say no?”

He removes his leg from between your leg, and he quickly replaces it with his hand. His fingers rub firm circles around your clit through the cloth of your leggings. You immediately shudder from the new stimulation. You hold his gaze as he lightly chokes you.

“I think I want to see you come on my fingers first.” He says as he’s quick to shove your leggings and panties down. You gasp quietly as you look down at him. He shuffles himself down between your legs, and he has a determined look on his face. He was set on making you come with his hand.

You push your thighs together with a small whine as he gives your glistening cunt an amorous gaze. Nanami places his hands on both of your knees as he forces your legs back apart. “Now, you know why you came here. What are you running from?”

“I- … You’re looking at me like…” the words ‘like you want to eat me’ die upon your tongue. His aura is just so.. almost intimidating. Not in a scary way, just in a he’s-not-here-to-play way.

“You’re so pretty, but gods, you’re so confusing.” He shakes his head as he carefully drags his tongue up your slippery folds. “Just sit still and let me take care of you, darling.” He mumbles before he laps at your cunt again. He purses his lips and gently sucks on your clit. It almost feels like he’s making out with your pussy.

“Oh.. f-fuck..” You gasp as you lean your head back into his mattress. Your hands fist at the blanket beneath you, ruining his perfectly made bed.

Nanami continues to lick and suck. The sounds in the room were nothing short of erotic. The wet sounds of his lips and tongue smack and almost slurp at you. His hands hold your thighs up, practically wearing them as earmuffs as he eats you like a starved man.

His fingertip gently traced over your opening before he carefully slipped a finger in. He continued to lap at your cunt as his finger pumped in and out and prodded around.

“Oh my-! .. N-Nanami.. ah~” You pant out. In his eyes, your entire body was flushed. You were so subtly grinding yourself against his tongue. In his eyes, you were a goddess in touch with her sexuality and femininity. You just needed a small nudge to get there.

He adds a second finger, and he so carefully curls them upwards to gently press right on the spot that made you see stars.

Your hands abandoned the bed, and you grabbed onto his hair. His hazel eyes flutter up at you, and his glasses were pushed up onto his head.

Your orgasm was building quicker than it ever had before. “Nanami-! fuck, I’m gonna..” You try to warn, but he’s already a step ahead of you. His fingers start pumping a big more aggressively, and he’s pointed with his tongue, focusing all his attention on your clit. His tongue swirls in tight circles around the small bundle of nerves.

Your orgasm washes over you as you clench around his fingers, spasming on his face. He continues to thrust his fingers, letting you ride out your orgasm on his face and hand. Pressing a few more small kisses to your overly sensitive cunt, he slowly pulls away. “Good girl.” He praises lowly.

Your heart is pounding in your chest as you recover from the best orgasm you’ve ever received. Your eyes flutter open weakly to see Nanami ditch his glasses. He uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth and chin dry.

He then places the fingers he so deliciously used to fuck you into his mouth, and he sucks them clean with a satisfied groan.

“You taste so sweet.” He mumbles as he slowly unbuttons his shirt. It falls to the floor as he starts to unbuckle his belt. You can already feel your arousal building up again as you see the absolute tent in his slacks. Of course the nerd was absolutely hung.

Without another word, his pants and boxers are on the ground. His dick stood hard at attention. It was too heavy to press all the way up towards his stomach. Speaking of stomach, he was absolutely fucking built. He had well-defined solid abs and a broad chest.

You watch carefully as he fists his length a few times. You admire the way the veins bulge from his hands and arms. He wastes no more time: climbing up on top of you. He guides your legs up onto his shoulders, and he leans forward, putting you in a mating press.

His hand suddenly covers your mouth. “Spit.” He orders bluntly.

“W-what-?”

“I didn’t stutter. Spit. Unless you want me to go in dry.”

The thought of that sounded like a nightmare, so you gathered as much saliva into your mouth as you could, and you spat into his hand.

He doesn’t look phased in the slightest as he lubes himself up with your spit. He lets out a soft breath as the wet sounds of him gliding his hand up and down his cock fill the room. He then wipes his hand off on the bed, and he covers your mouth tightly with his hand. “Try not to be too loud, darling. I don’t want anyone to come and bother us.”

He was so fucking confident that he was going to make you noisy. It almost pissed you off, but Nanami was a man of his word.

He aligned himself up with your entrance, and with one deep motion, he buried himself all the way to the hilt. You let out a silent scream into his hand, and your back arches up off the bed. His eyes darken as he lets out a guttural growl.

Your cunt was just too precious to him, squeezing him so perfectly. You were absolutely sopping wet and so goddamn warm. He actually had to bite his tongue to not come prematurely. Once he tasted the hint of metal in his mouth, the urge to finish subsided.

“Shhh, shh. Be a good girl. The pain will subside soon.” He assures you quietly as his hips gently rock back and forth shallowly.

“Mmmnnf~ K-kento!” You moan into his hand. He hates having to muffle your pretty noises, but he really can’t risk getting a noise complaint right now.

“That’s right, darling.. Take it..” His hips start to roll with a bit more conviction. His thrusts are slow but powerful. Each time he buried himself deep in you, you went all dizzy in the head.

“Oh fuck, you’re so pretty like this.” He praises as his other hand holds one of your thighs up for you. Your body is almost slack from how harsh his hips are snapping into you. His leaking tip was bruising your cervix with each brutal thrust.

Nanami wishes he could take a picture right now. Your eyes are all glossed over. Your face is flushed the prettiest shade of pink, and your lips are all puffy and slightly parted. Your babbling utter nonsense as your greedy pussy takes him in with each thrust.

“F-fuck..! So big.. can feel you right here~” You moan as you point towards your lower stomach.

Nanami looks to where you’re pointing, and as if this man needed anymore courage, he begins to fuck you harder.

Plap! Plap! Plap! Plap!

“Yeah? Y’feel me in your womb, darling?” He groans. Noise complaint can be damned. He lets your mouth go and grabs your hips as he continues to pound your pretty pussy.

Tears involuntarily spring into your eyes from the sheer intensity. When Nanami said he was going to fuck you to tears, you thought it was just a figure of speech. Nah, you were lying in his bed, crying because the dick was so good.

“Look at me.” He demands as he grabs your blushed cheek and forces you to look up at him. “This pussy’s mine from now on, understand me?”

“Y-yes!” You cry out to him. Your stomach starts to coil with white hot pleasure as your orgasm builds up again.

“Tell me you love me when you cum on my cock.” He demands lowly. You’re too fucked stupid to argue.

The bed squeaks and wails in agony as he his thrusts are growing more erratic and sloppy. You could feel him getting closer and closer to his release as he gets more vocal and noisier too.

Your eyes cross as you feel your body gyrate on him. Your second orgasm crashes over you so suddenly you didn’t even have time to warn him. Your soul nearly floats away from you as you feel warm juices flood out from you. “Fuck~.. I-.. I love you, Nanami!” You whimper out. In the heat of the moment, it does feel like love.

Such pure pretty words being uttered during such a lewd time. Nanami is instantly emptying himself into you. His dick throbs as he shoots ribbon after ribbon of cum inside of you. His hands are shaking as they hold onto your hips. “Ngh.. I love you, darling. Take it.. All of it. Don’t waste a drop.” He lowly growls.

The room is quiet as both of you pant softly. After a few moments, you realize you had professed a love to him that you weren’t even sure about. Yes, Nanami was attractive physically and mentally. Sure, he was apparently a god in bed, but love???

What if he wasn’t even being serious when he told you to say that? He probably didn’t even mean it when he said it back. What if you made things weird? Is that why he’s being so silent?

Nanami leans down and presses a small kiss to your forehead. “That was intense. Are you alright, darling?” He asks affectionately.

You nod weakly, not wanting to frustrate him with your insecure thinking style.

“Are you sure? I’m not only talking about physically.” He murmurs softly as he slowly allows for your thighs to slip down to around his hips. His hand carefully strokes your cheek.

“I told you I love you..” You murmur out quietly, avoiding his gaze.

He exhales softly in amusement. “You did do that. It was very sexy. Do you regret saying it?”

“I.. I don’t know.” You confess quietly. “You said it back too…”

“I did. Seeing your body in such a vulnerable state as you were trusting me with your very essence made me feel full with love.”

You look up at him as he just said the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard.

“I don’t think I regret it.”

“I’m glad. I don’t regret it either.” He smiles and presses another small kiss to your temple.

*** *** ***

“Was that really your first time?” You giggle as the hot water coats your body. Nanami’s fingers are attentively massaging shampoo into your scalp.

“It really was.” He laughs quietly. “Why is it so hard to believe.”

“You were too good for a virgin.”

“I’m glad my darling thinks so.” He smiles and carefully leans your head back, so the water can rinse the shampoo from your hair.

“Where did you even learn that stuff from?” You ask curiously, wondering if Nanami just had a secret raging porn addiction.

“I have the horniest friend group. They don’t understand the concept of too much information.”

Ah. That makes sense.

tags: @lemonlimecrystal-blog