Chapter Text
You should’ve known better than to agree to a bet with your best friend, because she’ll literally do anything under the sun to make sure she wins. She doesn’t just play to win—she plays to ruin you. But backing down? That’s not in your blood either. Pride over sense, every damn time.
So when you lost, heart-wrenching, gut-punch, absolute humiliation, you’re standing in front of her now, bracing for whatever malicious shit she’s about to dump on you.
“Ugh, can you just say it already, Aira?” you groan, leaning against her desk, arms crossed.
“Ohhh, nahhh,” she says, smirking. “I gotta think.”
“You’re so mean,” you huff, rolling your eyes.
“Mean? Babe, I’m merciful compared to what I could make you do.” She taps her chin, eyes narrowing like a predator tracking prey. “Hmm… let’s see…”
You watch her in silence, and that’s the mistake—because the moment her face lights up, you know something ugly is coming.
“Ohhh, I’ve got it,” she says, grinning wide. “You have to sleep with the biggest loser in our class.”
You blink at her, your jaw dropping. “…The what?”
She doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. That’s your punishment.”
“WHATTTTT???” you practically scream, standing straight up. “Aira, you must be joking!”
Her grin just gets wider. “Dead serious.”
“You’ve lost your mind! No way! absolutely no way! That’s, like… ruining my life territory! My image will never recover!”
“Babe, you lost the bet. A bet’s a bet.” She shrugs like this is the most reasonable thing in the world.
“This is insane! He’s a fuckin' loser! That dork!” you snap, pacing. “He probably doesn’t even know what to do with a girl—hell, does he even talk to girls? Ugh! Aira, no. Sleeping with him would be… it would be…”
“Hot? Fun? Character building?” she teases.
You glare at her so hard your vision goes white. “Shut up.”
She tilts her head, still smiling like the devil. “C’mon, you said yourself you’re not a coward. So prove it. Seduce him, take him to bed, and,” she pauses dramatically, “do it properly. None of that quick nonsense.”
You throw your hands up. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re making me take a loser dick like his. This is the most humiliating thing you’ve ever—”
“Made you do?” she finishes for you. “Exactly.”
You groan, sinking onto the chair, dragging your hands down your face. “This is so wrong. Like really wrong. Like… my soul is gonna rot.”
She just laughs. “Guess you better make it worth it then.”
And that’s it. No escaping. You lost, and now you’re stuck with the punishment, that is, assigned to seduce and sleep with the biggest, most hopeless nerd you’ve ever laid eyes on.
Talking about the loser guy, it’s none other than Gojo Satoru. People don’t call him a loser because he’s ugly or broke or anything. Hell no. That man got majestic features. Tall, broad shoulders, snow-white hair, eyes so stupidly blue they look fake, and his wallet? Definitely stacked. But god, his personality. That’s the dealbreaker. So cringe it’s almost impressive. Enough to make people look right past his face like he’s invisible. That’s how big of a loser he is. Atleast that's what you heard of him.
And it’s painfully obvious he’s a virgin. The way those cheeks go pink whenever his gaze accidentally drops to your cleavage says it all. Virgin. Grade-A.
But there’s no other way. You have to pounce on this loser kid. And Aira, of course, had to make it worse. She didn’t just tell you to sleep with him. Oh no. She had rules. You can’t just straight-up ask him to fuck you like it’s a deal. No, you have to seduce him. Make him fall for you. Make him want it bad enough to do something about it. Which means you’ve got to work.
Fine. Be it.
First step: get his attention.
He’s at the front of class, being that guy, asking the professor ridiculous, nerdy-ass questions that no one cares about. You can tell even the professor’s tired of him. And you’re sitting there thinking, 'I have to fuck that thing?'
Class ends. You feel Aira’s eyes on you. You roll yours and mutter, “Fineeeee,” before you get up and strut toward him.
He’s sitting at a desk, book open, scribbling something down like the world’s going to end if he doesn’t finish it. Whatever.
You’re in your sluttiest pants, the ones that hug your ass so tight the seam practically draws the line for people and a cropped zip-up top with the neckline already halfway down. You walk slow, hips swaying, until you’re right there in front of him.
“Hey, handsome?” you purr.
His head snaps up. “M-me?”
“Yeah, you, Sa-to-ru.”
The man looks flabbergasted. Like, the hottest chick with the nicest boobs he’s ever seen (not that he’s seen much outside of PornHub — if he even watches porn, who knows) is standing here, talking to him? Sitting down next to him? Slowly pulling the zipper lower so her cleavage is basically right there? Yeah, his boxers might already be a crime scene.
“H-hey,” he stutters, eyes flicking everywhere but your chest, which is hilarious because you want him to look.
“I, uh… had some doubts,” you say, leaning in just enough to give him the view. “Think you can clear them for me?”
“Oh, um, sure?” He sounds more confused than anything.
You rest your hand on his arm, brushing his bicep, and holy shit. Goddamn. That’s a nice bicep. “Do you… work out?”
“Uh… sometimes.”
“Mmh. Thought so.” You smile like you just found treasure. “So… when can you teach me?”
He blinks. “Uh, maybe… in the library? There’s peace and quiet there, so it’s easier to study.”
You almost laugh in his face. Does he actually think you’re buttering him up for his tutoring skills? Ugh. Fine. Play along.
“Satoruuuuu,” you whine, tilting your head. “Noooo. I don’t like going there. Too many people. We could get alone…”
His whole damn face is red now. “O-oh. Uh… where else?”
“Your place.”
His eyes go wide. “My… my place?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong? I’m not invited?”
“N-no! I mean, no, it’s fine, it’s just… are you sure?”
You smirk. “Yeah. Definitely.”
He swallows hard, still looking like he’s caught between a dream and a stroke. “…Okay. Then… my place.”
Your phone dings, and you don’t even have to check the sender to know it’s Aira.
'your acting skills are good, now take that loser on a date.'
You don’t reply. You just stare at the text for a second and sigh, because there’s no goddamn escape from this mess she’s put you in.
Sliding your phone back into your pocket, you turn to Gojo. “Since we’re gonna go to your place… can we drop by a cafe on the way?”
He blinks like you just offered him a key to heaven. “Y-yeah, sure! Yeah, that’s… totally fine!” He’s nodding so much you’re worried his head might fall off. The flustered idiot probably thinks he’s in some dream he doesn’t wanna wake up from.
You follow him out of the building, and he points toward the far side of the parking lot. “I parked over here.”
You were expecting a decent car but, Holy fuck. That’s a nice-ass car. Sleek, polished, clearly expensive and definitely the kind of thing someone like him shouldn’t be driving. But for a boy born with a silver spoon shoved so far down his throat it’s practically in his stomach, it’s just another toy.
He walks around to the passenger side, unlocks the door, and opens it for you with a grin. “Get inside, sunshine.”
You nearly gag. It’s the kind of thing a guy thinks is smooth but just makes you wanna chew glass. But you paste on a polite little smile and slide into the seat anyway.
He gets in on his side, buckling up like he’s about to go on the most important road trip of his life. “So… uh… you like coffee, right?”
You snort. “Of course. I like coffee.”
He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right, right. Just making sure. You know, there’s this place I go to a lot, Brew & Bloom? They have the best cinnamon rolls in the city. I mean, the best. I go there, like, twice a week. The staff even knows my name.”
“Wow,” you say flatly.
“Yeah, which is probably embarrassing to admit, but hey, free samples sometimes.”
“Mhm.” You lean back in the seat, watching the road. “So… you’re, like, a regular there?”
“Oh yeah. Cinnamon is actually—”
“An aphrodisiac?” you interrupt, raising your eyebrow.
He jerks his head toward you so fast you hear the seatbelt strain. “Uh—what—no! I mean, maybe? I was gonna say it’s good for circulation, but… I guess it could be… that too?”
You smirk, enjoying the way his ears go bright red. “You’re easy to mess with, huh?”
He laughs weakly. “Only when you’re the one doing it.” And then, quickly, “Not that you should stop or anything! You can, uh, keep… saying stuff like that if you want.”
“Careful, Satoru,” you say, tilting your head, “or I might think you’re into me.”
He chokes on air. “Wh—what—? I—uh—”
You just laugh and look out the window.
When he pulls up to the cafe, he doesn’t just park. He unbuckles, gets out, and comes around to open your door again like some kind of chauffeur. “Milady,” he says with a little mock bow.
You roll your eyes, but you don’t miss the way his gaze drops, quick, almost panicked to where your top pulls tight when you get out. And you make damn sure your ass brushes his arm as you step down, just to watch him freeze for half a second.
Inside, the air changes. You feel the stares right away the 'what the fuck is she doing with him looks.' Like you’ve committed some sort of high-level social crime by being seen with him. Every step toward the table feels like another little crack in your image, a black mark you can’t scrub off later.
Gojo, of course, seems completely unfazed. He leads you straight to a window-side seat, pulling out your chair for you like some overenthusiastic date from a teen romcom. He’s calmer now than he was earlier in class, maybe because you zipped your top up a bit, maybe because he’s just glad to have someone to talk to, even if she’s way out of his league.
You sit, cross your legs, and let him start talking. And talking. And talking. Some story about a book he’s reading or a professor he likes, you’re not even sure anymore because you’ve tuned him out halfway through.
“Mhm,” you cut in at some point, leaning your chin on your hand. “Can we order something first?”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” he says immediately, grabbing the menu like you just reminded him the point of this place.
As he’s looking down at it, you find yourself studying him without meaning to. His nose… huh. It’s kind of big. But not in a bad way. Pretty, actually. It suits his face.
What the hell are you even thinking?
Your little spiral gets cut short when the waiter appears beside the table, pen and notepad in hand.
Gojo orders some ridiculous sweet shit, layered cake, cream-filled pastry, sugar on sugar because of course he’s a sweet tooth.
He glances up at you while the waiter’s scribbling. “What about you?”
“Coffee,” you say flatly. Just coffee. You’re not here to sugar-binge with him, you’re here because Aira’s a demon.
When the waiter leaves, he leans forward like he’s finally getting to the important part. “So, what doubt did you have?”
Crap. You didn’t even think that far ahead. Your mind scrambles for something academic-sounding. “…Biology.”
His eyes light up like a kid who just got a new gaming console. “Oh, which part? Human anatomy? Genetics? Plant physiology? Micro—”
You cut him off with a little smirk. “I’ll tell you once we get home.”
You can actually see the gears turning in his head. And, of course, he nods like that’s a totally normal answer.
Somehow, you endure the so-called cafe date with a loser. But you’re not backing down, halfway through, you unzip your top again, letting your cleavage breathe, leaning in so his dumb blue eyes keep getting pulled there before he jerks them back up to your face like he’s scared of burning his retinas.
At one point, he offers you a bite of his pastry. “Y/n… want some?”
You don’t even hesitate, you just part your lips, leaning forward. “Sure.”
His hands shake when he lifts the fork to your mouth, like he’s never done something this intimate before. The cream smears at the corner of your lip and you catch his gaze flicking to it.
“You gonna clean that off for me?” you ask, deliberately slow.
He freezes. “… y-you mean like…?”
You tilt your head. “Come on.”
“Oh—uh—yeah.” He fumbles for a napkin instead and wipes at your mouth like he’s afraid to touch your skin too much.
The hints are screaming, but he still thinks you’re just some girl desperate for his biology tutoring. Fine. Let him think that.
After the bill’s paid by him, obviously, he walks you back to his car, all gentleman again, opening the door like this is prom night. He drives, and you lean against the seat, watching him.
“Satoruu, honey,” you say sweetly, “where’s your apartment?”
He blinks. “Uhmm… apartment?”
“You don’t have one? Then… is it dorms?”
“… no. I have a house.”
“Ohhh.” Of course he does. Loser with money. Makes sense.
He takes you there, and holy fuck it’s big. And gorgeous. Easily nicer than most family homes.
“Damn,” you say, stepping inside. “You didn’t tell me you lived in a mansion.”
He laughs awkwardly. “It’s not a mansion. But… thanks. I like it.”
“Yeah, well… I’d like it too if I owned it,” you mutter.
“Do you mind if I take a shower before we start studying?”
“Go ahead,” you say, already wandering around like you own the place.
He disappears into the bathroom, and you stroll into his bedroom. And holy hell, the amount of books this man owns… He’s got an entire library in the house, but somehow his bedroom has another mountain of books stacked against the wall. It smells like paper and faintly like him.
You skim titles, half to kill time, half out of curiosity, until you hear the bathroom door click open.
“Hey,” his voice calls, casual.
You turn your head and HOLYYY FUCKINNN CRAP.
The doorway’s filled with six-foot-three worth of pure sin.
No shirt. Just a loose pair of grey sweatpants hanging so damn low on his hips you can see that sharp V dipping under the waistband. The thin cotton’s clinging to him from the steam, and there’s no hiding the heavy outline hanging down one thigh, making your stupid little slutty brain short-circuit. His abs are still wet, water trailing down between them, catching on the ridges before disappearing into the band of his sweats. Broad shoulders, arms flexing as he rubs a towel over his mess of damp white hair the ends sticking to his neck, to his jaw.
His skin’s flushed from the heat, and he’s got that lazy, just-out-of-the-shower smell already hitting you from across the room, clean, warm, like soap and something sharper that’s just him.
“… y/n?” His voice is soft, a little curious, like he doesn’t notice your eyes glued to him. “Did you get bored?”
You snap your head up, praying your jaw isn’t still hanging open. “Oh. No… I’m… fine.”
“Alright then,” he grins, oblivious, “let’s start?”
You watch painfully as he ruins your view by pulling a black t-shirt over that ridiculous torso, fabric stretching over his chest before falling loose. He drops into one of the stools at the study table, patting the seat beside him.
Crap. He’s really gonna start teaching you.
But you didn’t come all this way to actually learn biology.
You slide onto the stool next to him, your knees brushing under the table. He flashes you that stupid smile, leans an elbow on the desk. “So, what’s your doubt?”
You flip open the textbook, pretending to skim like you’re deciding, then your finger lands, oh, perfect — on the male reproductive system diagram.
“Oh… this one,” you say, tapping the page.
His brows lift, but he nods. “Alright. The basics then?”
You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “So… this is the part, right?” you point dead at the shaft outline on the diagram, “it stays… like this… normally?”
“Mhm. Flaccid,” he says easily, leaning closer to point. “When it’s aroused, blood flows into—”
“so it… fills up? Gets hard?” you cut in, eyes wide like you’re just a curious student.
“Uh, yeah,” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Blood pressure makes the tissue expand.”
You nod slowly. “And… what happens after? I mean… it can’t just stay like that forever, right?”
His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smirk. “No, it… eventually goes down after ejaculation.”
You fake confusion. “Ohhh… so… like, when it’s… leaking? That’s…?”
“Pre-ejaculate,” he says, and you can hear the faint strain creeping into his voice. “It lubricates—”
“so it’s already… wet before it even… finishes?” you press, watching his Adam’s apple bob.
He clears his throat. “Sometimes, yeah. Not always.”
You lean forward just enough that your shoulder brushes his arm. “And… does it get bigger when it's… full?”
His ears are a little pink now. “It’s not… about the size.”
“oh, so size doesn’t matter?” you ask, deadpan, eyes on him instead of the book.
That makes him laugh, but it’s nervous this time. “That’s… not what I said.”
You smile sweetly. “So it does matter?”
He shifts in his seat. “Depends on the person.”
Your tone stays airy. “And… does it hurt? When it’s that hard?”
There’s a pause. “If there’s no release… yeah, it can be uncomfortable.”
You nod like you’re just absorbing the information. “So… if someone wanted to help… they’d just… touch it?”
His mouth actually parts for a second before he recovers. “That’s… one way.”
“And… um… where exactly do you… you know… touch first?”
He drags a hand through his damp hair. “You’re… being very specific with these questions.”
You bite your lip. “Just trying to understand.”
His knee bounces once under the table. “The tip. That’s… usually a good start.”
“Mhmm… and pressure? Or just light?”
He swallows. “Depends on the guy. Light’s good at first.”
You tilt your head. “And then… harder?”
The corner of his mouth tugs, but his voice is lower now. “Yeah. Usually.”
You nod like you’ve just learned the cure for cancer. “So… if someone kept going… it would…?”
“Make him finish,” he says flatly, and you can hear the crack in his composure now.
“Ohhh…” you hum, flipping the page like you’re done, but your knee stays pressed to his. “Thanks for explaining, Satoru.”
“Sure,” he mutters, eyes on you longer than necessary. “If you want, we can do the female reproductive system next.”
This dense idiot.
You have to bite back a laugh. He’s really going to keep going with his little lesson while you’re sitting here aching to get under him.
“Noooo, Satoruuu…” you lean forward on the table, voice dripping with false innocence. “I’m still having doubts about this part… I don’t understand.”
He hums like he’s about to launch into another lecture. “Oh? Uhmm… tell me, then.”
You flip the page back to the diagram, finger tracing the crude drawing of a shaft and balls. “So… you said the blood flows when it’s aroused…” You tilt your head, big-eyed. “But when does it get aroused? Hmm?”
He shrugs a little, still looking at the book. “Oh, well it’s, uh—it’s connected to the brain, y’know? When men see something, or hear something, or touch… there…” His eyes flick to you, just for a second.
“Oh… see something?” you murmur. “Like… this?”
The zip on your top is loud in the quiet room, and his head snaps up just in time to watch the neckline fall open, exposing the swell of your bare tits underneath.
His jaw drops.
And, God, you see it, the twitch in his sweats, the way his thigh shifts as his cock starts to swell, obvious through the thin fabric.
"Come on… say something, Satoruuu."
“… well… yeah… like this…” His voice cracks, eyes glued to your chest. “that’s… that’s one way…”
You bite your lip, leaning a little closer so the fabric gaps more. “So… when the blood flows there… it gets hard, right?”
He swallows hard. “Y-yeah. It… it stiffens so it can—uh…” His voice trails because his eyes keep dropping to your tits like they’re magnetic.
You hum, all fake curiosity. “Mmm… I’m a visual learner, y’know.” You let your finger run down the page, stopping on the cartoon cock. “So… can I see it? Just… to study?”
He freezes, knuckles tightening on the stool’s edge. “…Are you sure, y/n?”
You nod, slow and deliberate. “Yeah…”
He’s blushing now, actual color in his cheeks but you can see his cock straining against his waistband.
“Let’s… sit on the bed, okay?” You push yourself up, your top hanging open now. “You can look at these,” you tug the neckline wider, tits bouncing slightly “and show me what’s happening to your dick, big boy.”
His breath hitches. He nods, standing up so fast the stool scrapes against the floor.
You lead him to the bed, sitting back against the pillows, your top hanging completely open now. His gaze is heavy, greedy, locked on your bare chest like he’s starving.
“Come on…” you murmur, tilting your head, eyes dropping to the bulge in his sweats. “Show me.”
His Adam’s apple bobs. Then, slowly, he hooks his thumbs under the waistband and tugs it down just enough to free the thick, flushed head of his cock already leaking, already heavy and twitching.
You smile, wicked. “Ohhh… so that’s what happens…”
"Yeah, kinda."
You really thought having to fuck him would be something you’d do as a punishment. But now… now it doesn’t feel like much of a punishment at all.
Because who would’ve guessed the biggest loser in your class would be packing the kind of cock that makes your thighs clench just looking at it? Thick, long, flushed, with that faint twitch every time you drag your gaze over it.
“…It’s… bigger than I thought,” you say, tilting your head like you’re just making an observation. “Like… way bigger. Is that normal, Satoru?”
His ears flush. “I– uh… y-yeah…”
You lean forward, eyes fixed on the way his cock twitches against his palm. “So this is… what happens when you get hard? And you… you just sit there and… stroke it like that?”
He swallows hard. “Yeah… helps it…”
“Mhm.” You hum, eyes still glued to him. “Show me exactly what you do. Like… from the start?” You grin, mock-innocent. “For studies.”
He drags his fist down the length, slow, the muscles in his arm flexing. His breath’s already uneven, but he’s trying to pretend he’s still “teaching.” You watch, not blinking, letting your gaze linger deliberately on the head as it leaks.
“What do you feel?” you press, voice light but edged with something heavier.
“Good…,” he mutters, but his eyes won’t leave your tits. His strokes are getting faster.
“You do this often?”
“Y-yeah…”
“Thinking about what?” You tilt your head, feigning curiosity.
He hesitates, bites his lip. “…Stuff.”
Your mouth curls into a smirk. “Stuff? Like my tits?”
He groans low. “Y/n…”
“What?” you say sweetly, shifting forward so your chest is in his line of sight even more. “It’s relevant to the lesson.”
His jaw tightens, and for a second you swear his hips jerk up to meet his own hand. His breathing’s heavier now, his face hot. Then he stops, blinking like he’s trying to pull himself together. “…Y/n… this is enough, right?”
“Nooo, Satoru,” you say, almost whining. “I want to see… how ejaculation happens.”
He freezes, his ears going red. “…But…”
You watch for a moment, but then tilt your head again. “Would it help you if you got to see something else while you do it?”
His brows furrow, confused. “…Like what?”
“Like this.” You hook your thumbs into your waistband, shimmy your pants and underwear down in one go, spreading your legs slow enough that you hear him exhale sharply.
His eyes go wide, locked between your thighs.
“See?” you say, leaning back on your hands so he gets the full view. “Just… helping. You can look down there and… imagine doing it, if that helps.”
His hand instantly speeds up, eyes glassy, breath ragged. His other hand fists in the sheets like he’s holding himself together.
“Touching yourself faster now, Satoru?” you murmur. “Is it ‘cause you can see my pussy? Do you like watching it spread for you?”
He chokes on a groan, hand pumping so fast now you can hear the slick noises over his breathing.
“Come on, big boy,” you purr. “Show me what happens when you finish.”
His head tips back for half a second, then his hips thrust up and he gasps—deep, sharp—before ropes of cum spill over his knuckles and stomach. His hand keeps working through the spurts, his eyes locked shamelessly on your bare, glistening core until he’s shaking.
You grin, leaning forward. “Such a good boy.”
His voice cuts through, ragged and low. “Y/n… is… this enough… for your doubts?”
You smirk slow, tilting your head like you’re actually considering it. “Hmm… you’ve been a pretty good teacher.” Your fingers trail over his thigh, just skimming the base of his cock. “And I think good teachers deserve gratitude.”
He blinks at you, dumbfounded, mouth parting like he can’t quite keep up.
Before he can process it, you climb onto his lap, straddling him. His hands hover like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch, but you grab his shoulders and push firm until his back hits the mattress.
“Relax,” you murmur, leaning down so your breath brushes his ear. “I’m just… helping you make sure the lesson sticks.”
You slide forward, the head of his cock catching against your folds, slick already smearing over him. He groans—loud, almost desperate—hips twitching like he’s fighting the urge to buck up into you.
“Sensitive, huh?” you purr, rocking your hips just enough to let him feel how wet you are without letting him inside. “Bet you’d cum like a loser if I just kept grinding like this.”
His hands find your hips, trembling. “Y/n… please—”
You cut him off with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips, letting the tip drag over your clit before sliding back to press against your entrance again. “You gonna beg me for it, Satoru? Or are you hoping I’m feeling generous?”
He swallows hard, eyes glassy, chest heaving. “Please… just—”
“Just what?” you tease, leaning down until your lips are ghosting his. “Say it. Tell me what you want.”
“I want—inside you.”
“Mmm… thought so.” You shift your hips back, grinding harder, putting all your weight on his poor pathetic cock.
His head tips back, a broken groan spilling out as his fingers dig into your thighs.
“Ohhh, you are sensitive,” you whisper, rolling your hips on it just to feel him twitch.
He’s shaking now, hands gripping you like you might vanish. You grind down once, slow and firm, and his breath catches like you’ve knocked it out of him.
“Y/n—”
“Shhh…” You press a finger to his lips, smirking. “Lesson’s not over yet.”
You grind harder, slow circles that drag his tip right against your clit until you’re biting your lip to keep the little sounds in. You’d planned on teasing him longer, making him beg until he was about to cry, but your body betrays you—heat pooling low, every twitch of him under you making your thighs tremble.
“Fuck it,” you mutter under your breath, and before he can react, you lift your hips just enough to line him up and sink down in one smooth motion.
The sound he makes is pathetic—high and broken—his back arching clean off the bed like your pussy’s electric. His fists twist in the sheets, knuckles white, head thrown back as his mouth falls open.
“Ohhh—oh fuck, fuck—” he’s gasping, voice cracking like he can’t keep up with how good it feels.
Typical virgin behaviour—like you just handed him the meaning of life between your legs.
You can feel him twitching inside you already, that thick length pulsing, leaking so much it’s slippery between you. You brace your hands on his chest, feel the wild hammer of his heartbeat under your palms, and start rocking your hips slow, deep, just to watch his eyes roll back.
“Satoru…” you purr, leaning forward so your tits drag over his shirt, your lips brushing his ear. “You gonna cum already? I’ve only just put it in.”
He shakes his head frantically, but his hips jerk up into you, chasing the friction like he can’t help it. “N-no, I—ah—shit—”
You grind down harder, clenching around him on purpose, and he shouts, grabbing your hips like he’s trying to anchor himself.
“Holy—y/n—don’t, I’m—”
“What?” you smirk, lifting and dropping your hips so the slap of skin echoes in the room. “Gonna cum? Already?”
He groans, a sound from deep in his chest, and his thighs are trembling under you. He’s leaking so much you can feel it slick between your folds, dripping down your thighs every time you move.
You pick up the pace, bouncing now, letting him feel every squeeze, every slick slide of your walls milking him. His nails dig into your skin, his voice breaking on every gasp.
“Please—please slow down—”
“Why would I do that?” you whisper, grinding your hips down hard, making him hit deep enough you see his toes curl. “You cock's too good.”
He lets out another ragged cry, and you can feel him swell inside you—right before the first hot pulse hits, thick spurts spilling as he arches off the bed again, hips twitching uncontrollably.
You don’t stop.
You can’t.
Even as he whimpers, even as he tries to grab your hips to make you stop, you keep rolling against him, feeling him overstimulate under you. His abs are tightening, his thighs jumping, and his eyes are glassy, wet in the corners from how hard it’s hitting him.
“Too much—y/n—please, it’s too much—”
“Mmm… maybe for you,” you murmur, grinding down slow and deep, watching his face twist like he’s on the edge of another. “But I’m not done yet.”
Your own climax hits just seconds after his, the rhythm of your hips breaking into messy, desperate little circles until you’re collapsing forward, forehead pressed to his shoulder. His cock throbs inside you, still spilling hot and thick as your walls clamp down greedily around him.
You stay there for a while—bodies slick and trembling, breaths syncing in the quiet between you. His chest rises and falls under your palms, his fingers still clutching your hips like he’s scared to let go. You can feel every twitch of him still buried deep, every lazy pulse making your oversensitive muscles flinch.
When you finally shift, bracing your hands on his chest to lift yourself off him, you barely get an inch up before his hands tighten, almost bruising, around your hips.
“Satoru—” you start, confused, but the next thing you know he’s dragging you back down, flipping you onto your back with a suddenness that knocks the air out of you.
Your legs are folded up before you can protest, thighs pressed tight to your chest in a perfect mating press, his hips slotting between them like he’s done this a hundred times.
“Satoruuu—what are you—”
Whatever you were going to say dies in your throat when he slams into you in one hard thrust, bottoming out so deep your toes curl.
“Sorry,” he groans against your ear, voice wrecked but hungry, “y/n… so fucking good… so warm… so—ahh—teasing…” His breath is hot, his words ragged, like he can’t get them out fast enough.
Your nails dig into his shoulders. “Wait—you just—ah—”
He doesn’t. He can’t. His hips pound into you like he’s lost his mind, each thrust driving the breath from your lungs, making the bed creak and your body rock helplessly under him.
“I can't help it y/n…I'm sorry…bear with me please," he growls, nipping at your jaw between words. “You ride me all slow… grinding on my cock like that… looking at me with those eyes…”
You moan as his thrusts turn sharp, punishing, each one angled so deep you swear he’s in your stomach. The position has you wide open for him, every wet slap of skin echoing in the air, the lewd squelch of your bodies only making him groan harder.
“Why—ahhh—why are you…” he’s panting now, lips brushing your ear, “…such a fucking tease?”
You can feel his body winding up again, the steady throb inside you turning urgent. And it’s insane, because you just came, and so did he—twice—and yet he’s moving like he’s chasing something more, something deeper.
Your thighs are shaking against his ribs, your hands pushing weakly at his shoulders even as your hips lift to meet every thrust. “Satoru—wait—too much—”
“Can't,” he breathes, pinning your legs tighter, his eyes wild now like the haze has cleared and something feral’s replaced it. “Can't stop. It's so soft and…and wet and tight…I can't stop…please.”
The coil in your belly tightens again, impossibly fast, every nerve in your body screaming.
He groans low, deep, like the sound of you falling apart is feeding him. “Gonna cum again y/n?… just like that… for me? Please do it, please please please—”
You shatter around him, voice breaking, body spasming in his grip. He doesn’t stop. Even as his cock swells, spilling into you again with a groan so loud it rattles through your chest, his hips keep moving—slower, but still rolling, still grinding his length through the mess he’s made inside you.
You’re whimpering, twitching under him, but he just buries his face in your neck, breath hot and shaky.
“Can’t stop,” he murmurs, almost to himself, still moving even as you both tremble. “Not when you’re this wet… this warm… fuck, y/n…”
And from the way his hips keep rolling, you know he really can’t.
You’re still catching your breath, while his hips sinking against you like he's trying to fuse himself to you. When the aftershocks start to fade, his hands are trembling on your waist, his chest heaving like he’s run a marathon, and for a second you actually think that’s it—your little “lesson” with the loser is finally over.
You try to shift under him, legs wobbly, but his grip tightens—fingers digging into your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“Satoru—what the fu—”
He just stares down at you, sweat beading at his hairline, pupils blown wide. Then his hips roll forward and you gasp, because somehow, even after everything, he’s hard again.
His voice is shaky, almost breaking.
“I… I can’t, y/n… you just—” a thrust, deep and slow, making your toes curl. “You just came onto me like that… and… just… took my first time… and now you’re asking me to stop?”
Hearing it—him saying it—hits different. Yeah, you knew he was a virgin. He radiated virgin loser energy. But having him admit it while he’s still buried in you, face flushed and eyes desperate, makes your cunt clench hard around him.
Your nails bite into his back.
“Don’t say that—”
“Don’t…?” His voice cracks halfway into a groan. “Y/n… did you just—oh fuck—don’t do that, please… you’re teasing me…”
That’s when you feel it—the twitch in his cock, the way his length swells just a bit more inside you. The unmistakable sign that he’s hardening all over again. For the fourth time.
You could fight it. You could push him off. But why would you? That loser dick is still the best one you’ve had yet, and you’re not about to turn it down.
What starts as slow shaky thrusts turns into something else again—something relentless. His hips slam into you with a rhythm that has the mattress groaning under the both of you. His breath is hot against your ear when he leans in, the words spilling out between ragged gasps.
“Y/n… so good… you’re… fuck—so warm… so tight… you just keep letting me in and my cock…”
And he is losing it—eyes glassy, jaw slack, every roll of his hips deeper, lazier but more desperate. You feel like you’re being wrung out from the inside, his thrusts leaving you gasping, thighs trembling against your chest.
Mid-fuck, you passed out. You don’t know when you fall asleep, maybe somewhere between his panting and his lazy thrusts, but when you wake, you’re on your back, sheets tangled around your legs. And there he is—Satoru Gojo—under the blanket, asleep with his lips latched around your nipple like he’s in a dream about it.
Yeah. You didn’t just fuck the loser, you’re cuddling him now. Great.
You stare a little too long, taking in how unfairly pretty he is. The messy white hair, the stupidly long lashes, the relaxed way his hand rests on your hip. You sigh, grab your phone, and snap a picture of him on your tits.
You send it to Aira with the caption-less image. Her reply comes quick, a sticker and “wow, I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
“Ugh, bitch,” you mutter, tossing the phone aside.
You manage to wriggle out from under him without waking him—because if he did wake up, you know damn well he’d go for another round without hesitation. You slip your clothes back on, legs still sore, and make a quiet escape from his place.
Your last thought before stepping outside?
That “loser” just made you see stars, and you’re not sure you’re ever going to be able to forget it.
You just went straight home and crashed for the rest of the day. He didn’t have your number. Otherwise, he’d have blown up your phone by now, because that’s how panicked he was when he woke up and didn’t find you in his bed. His first time, his first woman, and you just left without saying a word. Poor boy wanted to cry. And he probably did.
The next day in class, you show up like nothing happened. His eyes light up the second he spots you. You don’t give him so much as a glance, walking straight to your seat. You can feel his gaze on you, flicking over every few seconds, but you keep ignoring it. Now he’s pouting like some abandoned puppy—but somehow, after yesterday, there’s something different about the way he looks at you. Those big, soft eyes… when the hell did this loser get so cute?
You shake your head, trying to focus on the lecture, but that cock is not something you can forget. Neither is the expression on his face when he came—wide-eyed, trembling, mouth open like he didn’t know whether to breathe or moan.
When class ends, you don’t say a word. You just scribble something on a scrap of paper, walk past him, and drop it on his desk. He stares at it for a beat, then tears it open as you head for the door.
''6 PM. Your place.''
By the time you reach the door, you don’t have to look back to know his whole sulky, abandoned-puppy face has shifted—eyes wide, mouth curling like he just got handed the rest of his life on a silver platter.
That loser’s already hooked, and you know it.
Chapter Text
Satoru Gojo is hooked.
Completely.
You can see it in his eyes, the little hitch in his breathing, the way his chest rises and falls when he thinks you’re not noticing.
And honestly… isn’t that obvious? He’s a loser. A pretty one, sure. Good hair, perfect blue eyes, rich as hell, the kind of body people drool over but still a total mess when it comes to women. Completely clueless. Useless at using what he’s got. And until last night, a virgin. Well… technically not anymore.
And he got you. You, the girl who could pick anyone, get anyone, manipulate anyone with just a glance or a tilt of your head. And everyone, every single boy who ever looked at you practically melts in your wake. And yet, somehow, devil’s luck, Satoru Gojo ended up in your bed. His first time. His first real taste of… everything.
It’s not rare. Boys get addicted after one taste, one brush, one touch. It’s always been like that. And that’s what makes you smirk to yourself—the sheer power you have.
You could ruin his brain with a look, make him grovel or beg or fuck himself silly with just a whisper. And yet here you are, wondering why your own body is twitching at the thought of going back to him.
Because that’s the thing. This was supposed to be a punishment. A humiliation. Something that would leave a black mark on your life that you could never let anyone know about. And technically… it still is. It would be, if anyone ever found out. But for some reason, that thought doesn’t stop you.
And now… you’re thinking about going back. For what? For him? For yourself? For the thrill? It doesn’t make sense. The thing with the loser is easy to understand—he’s getting to fuck the hottest girl, and it’s his first real taste of it, so naturally, he’s hooked.
But you? What the fuck are you thinking? Why are you letting yourself drive over to his place again, like some kind of desperate fuck?
One day? Fine. You could call it a study session or whatever excuse floats. People wouldn’t question it. But two days? Two nights in a row? That’s dangerous. That’s getting sloppy.
Still, there’s that tiny, infuriating part of you, the part that keeps thinking about him. That part of you knows you’re driving straight into temptation, and you ain't stopping.
So you sit there, hands gripping the wheel, staring out at the street, the engine idling, your mind bouncing between logic and lust. And somewhere deep down, you know exactly why you’re going back. Because goddamn, it’s going to be fun.
You tap your fingers harder, thinking about last night. That's when your phone dings. You freeze. You checked it. Don’t recognize the number. Haven’t saved it. Profile picture flashes. Wait… familiar. Probably some other guy you slept with, ghosted, didn’t text back. You groan. Typical.
Two texts:
"hey, haven't seen you in a while..."
"wanna come to my place tonight?"
Attached is a sweaty post-gym pic. You raise an eyebrow. Ughh. Satoru’s abs were way better. Way, way better. And why are you thinking about his abs right now? You roll your eyes at yourself. Shit.
You lean back, sighing, the whole world narrowing down to the thought of Satoru waiting. That loser—pretty, awkward, clueless who’s been completely consumed by you. And now you’re letting yourself go back. Second time. Yeah, smart move. Real smart.
But fuck it. Fuck it all. Your fingers grip the wheel, engine hums to life, and you push out of the parking lot. Thoughts drift to him again. The way he shivered, the tiny noises he couldn’t hold back, the flush spreading across his cheeks when you teased him. Yeah, he’s a loser, but goddamn, that loser gets you in ways other guys never even imagine.
You drive, mind racing, imagining him pacing, wondering if you’ll actually show. The thought makes you smirk, having him wrapped your fingers.
By the time you pull up to his house, your chest is still tight, your pulse quick.
Big driveway, quiet street, the perfect loser fortress. You sit there a second, catching your breath, and thinking how fun it's gonna be once you steps in.
The door swings open before you even have a chance to knock, and there he is. Post-shower, hair wet and messy, towel slung over one shoulder, casually rubbing his head like he’s trying to act normal, but his eyes? They fucking light up the second they see you.
“Y/n… you’re early…” His voice cracks just slightly, a little too high, and you catch that tiny hitch in his breathing. The way he’s staring at you, you know he’s already hard under those sweatpants he hasn’t bothered to change out of yet.
Shit. You glance at the clock. Five. Fucking five. You were supposed to be here at six. And here you are, standing on his porch like some desperate idiot. You roll your eyes at yourself, smirk curling, and step in anyway.
“Ahh, well… I had plans earlier, then they got canceled, so I thought I might come here early… for the lessons,” you say, dragging the words out like it’s completely normal, letting the smirk stay plastered across your face.
He swallows. Hard. The second his brain realizes no lessons are happening, his knees almost buckle. “Y-yes… y/n… lessons, of course,” he stutters, voice tight.
“So… you gonna let me stay here?” you ask, tilting your head, arms crossed, watching him squirm like a little puppy.
“Oh… s-sorry, y/n… I… come in, please,” he mutters, stepping aside like a gentleman, though his hands are shaking ever so slightly.
You glide past him, smirk widening, letting your eyes roam over his damp chest, the stray droplets clinging to his skin. “Let’s go to your room,” you say, the tone smooth, teasing, leaving no room for argument.
“… y/n—what?” His voice cracks again.
You hum, feigning distraction, and then he wave a hand toward the kitchen. “I made you coffee, snacks… can we eat first?”
Ughh, what is this loser doing? Being all cute and domestic. You came here to fuck him, to bounce on that cock—and now he’s playing house husband? The thought makes you laugh quietly to yourself.
Two days ago, this guy couldn’t even get your attention, and now? Just the way he’s looking at you, with those wide, innocent, desperate eyes… your thighs clench without even realizing it.
“Y/n?” he asks softly, worried, and you snap back into focus.
“Oh yeah… Gojo… tell me.”
He flinches at the name. “Uhh… why did you call me that…?”
You smirk devilishly, leaning in slightly. “Is there a problem, Gojo?” You let the name hang in the air, low and flirty.
“… no… but… can you… please call me Satoru, y/n… please…” His voice cracks again, desperate and needy, and the way he’s looking at you, like a kid begging for a cookie, makes your stomach flutter in the filthiest way.
You can’t resist. You step close, letting your palm glide over the bulge straining through his sweatpants, tracing it deliberately. “Sa-to-ru,” you say, syllable by syllable, slow, teasing, letting him feel every bit of it under your hand.
Holy fuck. His entire body twitches, jaw slack, hips shifting unconsciously, and you can feel the heat pooling between your own legs. He shakes his head like he’s trying to resist, but it's of no use.
Smirk firmly in place, you grab his hand and lead him toward the couch, letting your body brush against his as you move. He disappears into the kitchen for a moment, leaving you standing there.
When he comes back, it’s with a tray: coffee, cookies, pastries, chocolates all laid out neatly.
You raise an eyebrow, smirk curling cruelly. Is this boy… trying to kill you ? Coffee, pastries, chocolate… and he’s already hard under those sweatpants, watching you like he might not survive the next hour.
You can feel your own pulse spike just looking at him, that puppy-eyed, desperate, perfect-for-you mess. And oh, it’s so fun knowing that all of this, every twitch, every sigh, every little stammer—is because of you.
You bite your lip and sit on the edge of the couch, letting your gaze roam over him, letting your hand rest innocently on your lap… and wait. Because this, this little domestic show he’s putting on, is only making you want him more.
You cradle the coffee cup lazily, legs crossed, pretending you don’t notice how quiet he’s gotten. His usual chatter is gone, and instead he’s fidgeting, chewing the inside of his cheek, eyes darting everywhere but at you.
“You’re quiet,” you murmur, dragging the words out like silk. “Why’s that?”
His shoulders stiffen. “It’s nothing.”
You cock your head, feigning innocence. Then, just for fun, you lean forward a little, letting your shirt slip open. His gaze flickers down and instantly snaps away. That makes you smirk. Slowly, deliberately, you undo a button. Then another. You don’t even bother hiding it.
“Ohhh,” you purr, voice dripping with mock sympathy, “is this why?”
He shakes his head too quickly.
“Tch tch…” you click your tongue, tilting forward so he can’t escape the view. “Good boys don’t lie.”
That makes him crack. He swallows hard, nodding once, still avoiding your eyes.
You lean closer, lips grazing the rim of your cup. “Then say it. Say what’s bothering you. I wanna hear it.”
He stammers, face burning. “...It’s your… your boobs.”
You laugh softly, wicked. “Oh, really? Do they bother you?”
He nods again, miserably.
“In a good way, or a bad way?” you press, whispering it softly.
He exhales, shaky. “...a good way.”
Your grin widens. You set your cup down and pat the space beside you on the couch. “Come here then.”
He obeys instantly, scooting over until his thigh brushes yours. He sits stiffly, hands pressed against his lap, his pants visibly tenting.
You drag your nails lightly across your chest, teasing yourself just to see him squirm. “You like them?”
His throat bobs. “...yeah.”
You tilt your head, pouty, finger to your lip. “Do you wanna see them?”
He hesitates, then nods.
“No nodding,” you chide sweetly, “use your words.”
His breath hitches. “Yes… I wanna see them.”
Your smile sharpens. “Good boy. Do you wanna touch them?”
His voice is almost a whimper. “...yes.”
The bulge in his pants twitches at his own confession. You can’t help but laugh low, cruel and sweet at once.
“So easy,” you tease, and take his wrist, guiding his trembling hand toward your chest. You stop just before he makes contact, making him hover there. His fingers twitch, desperate, before finally brushing against you.
The first touch is clumsy, almost reverent. His palm cups you awkwardly, thumb stroking like he doesn’t know what to do, but can’t stop himself. You watch his face—eyes wide, lips parted, already breathing like he’s about to fall apart.
And that’s when you notice his other hand. He’s palming himself through his pants, not even subtle, rutting into his palm like he can’t help it.
Your laugh is sharp and filthy. “Touching yourself?”
His cheeks flame but he doesn’t stop. His grip on you tightens, kneading now, learning the shape of you while he strokes himself with the other hand.
“God,” you whisper, leaning into his ear, “such a loser."
He groans low in his throat, squeezing you harder, hips jerking under his own hand.
You drag it out, his clumsy, eager hands on your chest, his needy rutting, your constant teasing.
But your smirk wavers when his thumb brushes over your nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt. It’s clumsy, unpracticed but the pressure is real, desperate. He groans like the sound is being ripped out of him, and before you can taunt him again, he leans down, hot breath spilling over your chest.
“Fuck…” he whispers, voice shaky but so damn hungry. “They’re so soft… so big… I can’t—”
Your breath stutters when he mouths at you through your shirt, hot and wet, his tongue pressing against the outline. Where did your boldness go anyway?
Now that he’s on you, mouthing, sucking, leaving your fabric damp while his hand works furiously between his legs.
“S-Satoru…” you start, trying to keep the upper hand, but your voice betrays you, shaky and high.
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips swollen, a little wet, eyes glazed. “Y/n. . .is it good?” His voice is soft but filthy, a lazy drawl that makes your stomach twist. “I feel so good y/n. Can’t keep my hands off your tits. Can't stop stroking my cock when I touch you.”
Your body heats all over. You should be teasing him but all that comes out is a shaky exhale.
He pants, and his free hand slips under your shirt at last. Skin to skin. His palm is hot, rougher than you expected, squeezing firmly this time. He groans when your flesh spills against his hand, like he’s losing his mind.
“fuck… so much better without the shirt,” he mumbles against your skin. Then he bites lightly, teeth grazing the swell of your breast, not shy at all anymore.
You gasp, your hand flying up to his hair, tugging but it’s not to stop him. He exhales into your chest, breath hot.
“Y/n,” he calls out, voice muffled as he sucks hard over your nipple through your bra, “it's so sweet, your tits.”
The blunt filth in his tone makes your thighs clench. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out, just a shaky breath.
He notices then he pressed a kiss to your nipple.
Meanwhile, his other hand hasn’t stopped. He’s got his cock out now—thick, flushed, leaking—and he’s stroking it in time with the way he kneads your chest. His wrist glistens with slick as he pumps himself, pre dribbling down his knuckles.
You can’t help but stare, your mouth going dry.
Your boldness is gone, crumbling under his weight, his words, the sight of him stroking his cock while groping you like he can't wait. And when his hands come up to press your tits together for him, your breath hitches because you don’t even hesitate, you just went on with it.
Your confidence wavers when he presses closer, his big frame curling over you as if he wants to swallow you whole. His hand is under your shirt, warm skin on bare flesh, and you feel his palm squeeze greedily.
“Y/n…” he murmurs, voice rough, almost trembling. His lips graze your chest through the thin fabric of your bra. “It’s… so soft… I like it so much.”
Your pulse skips, heat pooling in your belly. You try to keep the edge in your tone, to tease, but it comes out shaky. “you—hah—you really like it?”
He doesn’t even answer with words this time. His mouth opens against you, hot, wet, dragging over your skin through the lace. His hand squeezes tighter, desperate, kneading you like he can’t get enough. His hips twitch, and when you glance down you see him still jerking his leaking cock clumsily.
Your bold little smirk is gone, your lips parting, shaky, when he pushes your bra aside and mouths at your bare nipple.
He groans, the sound spilling right into your skin. “Y/n… it’s so good. Do you… d’you like what I’m doing?” His voice breaks a little as he sucks harder, tongue swirling over your nipple. “Please… tell me you like it.”
Your back arches before you can think, a soft sound leaving your throat. The way his tongue drags against you, sloppy and messy, sends sparks through your whole body.
“I—” you breathe, “y-yeah… I like it…”
That’s all it takes. He gets bolder. He slides a hand to squeeze your other breast, kneading, pinching, rolling your nipple between his fingers while his mouth devours the other. He moans like he’s the one being touched, every groan vibrating against your chest.
“Y/n…” he pants, pulling back for just a second, lips shiny, cheeks flushed. His hand works furiously at the bulge in his pants now. “… I can’t hold back.… you feel so good.”
Your thighs squeeze together at the sight, him rutting against his palm, chest heaving, completely undone just from touching you.
Then he surprises you again—he fumbles with his cock, thick and flushed, already dripping with pre. He strokes himself with shaky, needy movements while pressing your tits together with his free hand, moaning as his tip brushes the valley of your chest.
“Y/n… ahh, fuck—” he groans, voice trembling, “I wanna—please… can I—can I use them?” His words are needy, cracked with desperation. “Please… I can’t stop thinking about it. Just—just let me, just once.”
Your breath catches. You should be teasing, you should have the upper hand but the heat rolling through you makes it impossible to say anything but a soft, broken little: “O-okay…”
And the way his face lights up, shaky, desperate, like you’ve just given him the world, makes your heart twist.
Your lips part as his cock pushes between the swell of your breasts, heavy and flushed, the slick bead of pre dribbling down the thick vein along his shaft. He’s rutting clumsily, squeezing your tits together with both hands now, moaning so shamelessly it makes your own body throb.
“Y/n… oh ohh—” his head tips back, throat straining, voice cracking. “It’s—ahh—so warm, so soft… I-I can’t—”
The fat tip keeps sliding up, brushing higher and higher, until it’s right under your chin. You blink down at it, at the way it twitches with every desperate jerk of his hips, dripping slick right there in front of your mouth.
You shouldn’t—god, you shouldn’t—but your boldness comes back in the filthiest way possible. Your tongue darts out, just a little flick across his tip when it drags too close to your lips.
The noise he makes, raw, desperate, like he’s losing his mind, nearly makes your thighs clamp shut. His hips stutter, cock jerking hard between your breasts.
“Y/n—” he gasps, eyes flying open to stare down at you, pupils blown wide, sweat beading his forehead. “Did you—ahh, you licked me? Oh my god…”
Your lips curl into a wicked little smirk as you press your tits tighter around him. “Like it?”
He groans, nodding his head desperately, but the words that come out are nothing but broken honesty. “I… I can’t take it—I like it too much, please—please do it again.”
So you do. You lean forward, lips parting, and this time you drag your tongue flat along the swollen head of his cock as it slides up past your cleavage. The taste is salty, messy, addictive.
He chokes out your name like a prayer, hips bucking helplessly.
“Y/n… fuck, fuck, it’s so good—I can’t—” He breaks off with a whine, pressing his forehead against yours, panting. “I can’t hold back if you keep doing that…”
But the truth is, you’re already lost to it too. His cock keeps smearing against your lips, hot and slick and right there and before you can second-guess it, you open wide and take the swollen head into your mouth.
The reaction is instant. His whole body jerks, a strangled cry tearing from his throat.
“Y-Y/n! Your mouth—it’s so warm—” His hand shoots up to cradle the back of your head, not pushing, just holding like he’s terrified you’ll pull away. His hips rock forward helplessly, sliding the thick tip over your tongue.
You hum around him, savoring the weight, the way his precum floods your tastebuds. Your hand wraps around the base, stroking him while you suck, drool slipping down your chin and onto your chest where his cock is still nestled.
He’s babbling now, completely undone.
“Y/n… ahh, I like it, I like it so much—your mouth is perfect—so wet, s-so soft—please don’t stop, don’t stop, I can’t—” His hips keep rutting forward, messy and desperate, as if every second inside your mouth is heaven and it is for him.
You swirl your tongue under his tip, hollow your cheeks, and the sound he makes is practically a sob. His cock twitches violently, and you know he’s close.
You pull back just long enough to look up at him, eyes half-lidded, lips shiny with spit. “Gonna cum Satoru? Make a mess?”
He whimpers, actually whimpers and nods frantically. “Y-yes, please, I can’t—ahh, I need to—I need to cum, please, Y/n—”
And you take him deeper, stroking what you can’t fit, bobbing your head while squeezing your tits tight around the rest. It’s sloppy, wet, perfect torture, and his moans get higher, sharper, his whole body trembling under the pleasure.
“Y/n—oh, I—ahhh, I’m gonna—” His voice cracks, his cock throbs violently, and then he’s spilling hot and heavy into your mouth, thick ropes of cum flooding your tongue.
His cries are shameless, echoing through the room as his hips buck weakly, grinding into your tits, spilling until it drips down your chin and across your chest.
When you finally pull off with a pop, strings of spit and cum stretch from your lips to his cock. He’s panting, shaking, eyes glassy and dazed as he stares down at the filthy sight of you covered in him.
“Y/n…” he whispers, voice hoarse, raw. “I… I'm sorry—I couldn't hold it in.”
It’s a mess, your chin sticky, your chest streaked, his cock still twitching between your tits and yet you can’t bring yourself to care. You’ve been with enough men to know what good sex feels like. But Satoru? God, what makes him special is how he looks at you even now, wide-eyed and reverent, like he can’t believe you’re real. Like every messy second of this means more to him than anything he’s ever touched.
And that stupid part of you, the one that swore this was just a bet, just a one-time thing, can’t hold back anymore. Not when your body is buzzing, aching, desperate. Not when your pussy is soaking through your panties, need clawing at you worse than it has in ages.
You lean back on your hands, breathing hard, your chest still heaving with every rise. “Fuck…” you mutter under your breath, staring at him as he pants, sweaty and dazed. “Need you, Satoru. Right now.”
Your fingers slip down, tugging your skirt up and hooking into your panties. You don’t even strip all the way, just shove them to the side, baring yourself to him, wet and swollen from how much you’ve been holding back. The cool air hits your skin and makes you shiver, but it’s nothing compared to the way his gaze drops immediately, pupils blowing wide when he realizes what you’ve just done.
You spread your thighs a little, teasing your pretty hole open for him, your own need too loud to ignore. “Can’t wait anymore,” you whisper, biting down on your lip, voice shaking with urgency. “… what do you want to do to me, Satoru?”
His breath catches, he looks like he’s about to pass out and cum again all at once but his hands are already twitching like he wants to grab you, to touch you, to make a mess of you all over again.
His throat bobs when he swallows, Adam’s apple twitching like he’s trying to keep words down, but his body betrays him, his hands are already reaching, fumbling like a man starved. He moves closer, hovering between your spread thighs, his face flushed, his cock still wet and hard from your mouth.
“Y/n…” His voice is a hushed wreck, shaky and wanting. “You—y-you look so… , I can’t—” He cuts himself off with a groan, palm dragging up your thigh until his thumb grazes over your bare folds. The sound that slips out of you makes his head drop, white hair falling forward. “S’so soft… and wet…”
You smirk even through your own ragged breathing, fingers threading into his hair to tilt his face up. “Need it?”
He nods so fast it makes you laugh, pupils dilated to the point of black. His fingertips are trembling as he spreads you open with both hands, staring at your slick heat like it’s the most obscene, holy thing he’s ever seen. You roll your hips into his touch, coaxing him, needy and shameless.
“See how bad I want you?” you whisper, dragging your panties further aside so nothing’s hidden. “You did this to me. You made me this wet. Do something, Satoru.”
His breath stutters. He’s already lining himself up before he even answers, cock heavy and throbbing in his grip, smearing precum against your entrance. “Y/n, I—I can’t hold back anymore…need you…”
You gasp when the blunt head nudges against your slit, sloppy and desperate, not even trying to tease. He’s shaking, whining under his breath as he grinds forward, smearing himself in your slick. His tip slips just barely inside and both of you moan, your walls clutching around nothing, his jaw falling slack as if the world just tilted.
“Yeah, like that,” you coax, cupping his face, smirking despite your own need. “Put it all in….”
He groans deep from his chest, like he’s been unleashed, and with one messy thrust he sinks into you, too fast, too much, stretching you in a way that steals the air right out of your lungs.
The second he’s inside you, it’s chaos. No rhythm, no patience, just sloppy, desperate thrusts, his hips slamming into yours like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment. The couch creaks under the force, your nails digging into his back as you cry out his name over and over, and all he can do is grunt into your neck, voice breaking.
“Y/n—so good—I can’t—oh my god, you feel so good—” His words tumble out in ragged gasps, half-whimpers, half-praises, his forehead pressed to yours as if he needs the contact to keep from unraveling.
Your body is a mess beneath him, legs spread wide, panties pushed aside, his cock dragging deep inside you without mercy. Every thrust is needy, frantic, like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t take everything now. And you love it, you love the way he’s not holding back, the way your own body betrays you with how fast you’re clenching around him.
He’s babbling between thrusts, almost whining. “So tight—y/n, you’re so fucking tight—can’t stop—”
You can barely breathe through your moans, the messy sounds of skin and slick filling the room. You grip his cheeks and kiss him hard, muffling your whimpers against his mouth, tasting his desperation.
But then he does something that steals your breath entirely, he pulls out, chest heaving, and before you can even complain, he’s scooping you up into his arms. His cock getting buried inside you once again, and the shift makes you gasp, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
“Satoru—!” you choke out, clinging to his shoulders.
He groans, bouncing you a little in his grip, eyes rolling back. “Y/n—moving like this—I don’t wanna stop.”
And he doesn’t. He carries you, still fucking you with short, deep thrusts, stumbling toward his bedroom. Every step makes his cock slide deeper, and all you can do is cry out his name, clinging tighter as if you’ll fall apart otherwise.
On the bed, it only gets worse—better. He’s trying everything he’s ever seen, ever imagined, fumbling with your body like a man possessed. Doggystyle with his hands gripping your waist too tight, lifting your leg high while he slams into you, even pulling you onto his lap to bounce while he moans about how hot you look. It’s clumsy sometimes, messy and uncoordinated, but it only makes it hotter, because he doesn’t care about being smooth, he just needs you.
“Y/n— I love it, I love it—” he pants, lost in it.
By the time he pushes you down into a mating press, you’re both gone, dripping with sweat, your chest heaving as he folds you in half and drives into you like he’s chasing oblivion. His face is flushed, hair plastered to his forehead, mouth hanging open as he fucks you so deep you see stars.
Your nails claw at his shoulders, voice breaking on his name. “Satoru—please—I’m—I can’t—”
“Y/n—y/n, please, I’m so close—don't wanna stop,” His words are raw, needy, his thrusts pounding until your vision blurs, until your moans turn into screams muffled against his lips.
When it finally crashes over you both, it’s messy, unrestrained, your body convulsing around him while he buries himself deep, groaning your name like it’s the only word he knows. His release floods you hot and thick, and he trembles above you, kissing your face, your lips, babbling brokenly.
“Y/n… so good… love this, so much—don’t wanna stop, ever—”
You think it’s over when he spills inside you, when he collapses above you with his face buried against your neck, panting like he’s just run a marathon. Your whole body is buzzing, shaking from the high, skin damp with sweat. But then you feel it. His hips. Still moving.
“...Satoru,” you whisper, breathless, pressing a hand to his shoulder as his cock lazily grinds into you. “You already came.”
He lifts his head, eyes hazy, lips red and wet, and gives you a helpless little groan that makes your stomach flip. “Sorry, y/n… my hips won’t stop…” His voice cracks, soft and desperate, like he’s confessing some weakness, like it’s out of his control.
And god, it’s so hot. The way he says it, the way his body keeps chasing you without thinking, it makes you clench down around him on purpose.
The effect is immediate. His eyes roll back, his mouth drops open in a choked moan. “Fuck—y/n—don’t—don’t do that, I’ll—ah—I’ll get hard again—”
“The w—whole point,” you whisper against his ear, teasing even through your exhaustion.
And he does. Within moments, he’s swelling inside you again, whimpering like he doesn’t even understand his own body, but moving anyway. He’s clumsy, unskilled, nothing like the practiced rhythm of other men you’ve had, but it doesn’t matter. The sheer desperation in the way he thrusts, the needy sounds falling from his lips, the way his body won’t quit, it’s intoxicating.
Somehow, his messy, sloppy fucking feels better than half the guys who ever thought they knew what they were doing.
Hours blur together. He tries everything, over and over, like he’s testing out what he’s only ever seen on a screen, and it’s ridiculous how good it is because he’s so earnest about it. On your back, on your stomach, straddling him, bent over the edge of the bed—positions shift, the sheets tangle, the room fills with your voices. Sometimes it’s too deep, too clumsy, and you both break into breathless laughter between moans. Other times he hits just right, and you’re left screaming his name as he babbles yours through clenched teeth.
You lose count of how many times you come, how many times he does. By the time exhaustion wins, your thighs are trembling too much to even stay open, his hips are moving slower and slower, both of you half-delirious. Eventually he slumps against you, cock still inside, mumbling something incoherent into your skin before finally passing out.
You drift off too, wrapped up in the warmth, the mess, the dizzy afterglow.
When you wake in the middle of the night, the room is quiet except for his steady breathing. He’s on his side now, curled around you, arms banded tight across your waist like he’s afraid to let you go. His face is buried in your tits, lips brushing the sensitive peaks, still clinging to you even in sleep.
And for a second, lying there in the dark, you wonder how the hell a nerdy, clumsy loser like Satoru turned out to be the one who ruins you like this.
You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, brain slowly catching up to what your body has already decided. Your chest is still rising and falling against his, your legs tangled, and a faint ache lingers between your thighs from… well, the memories of the last few hours.
What were you even doing?
It’s like your mind flicks off entirely, and your cunt—that sharp, wicked little part of you—takes over, making decisions without asking for permission. And those decisions are all about Satoru Gojo. Twice in a row, in his bed. Both times. Initiated by you.
You glance down at him, the way his chest rises under your touch, his lips parted in sleep, the faint twitch of his fingers curling around your side. He’s peaceful, angelic even, like he doesn’t have the faintest clue he’s completely ruined your brain and body at the same time. You suppress a laugh, amused at how utterly deceiving this loser is. He’s flawless and clueless all at once.
Your fingers trail through his damp hair, brushing it back from his forehead. God, he’s too pretty for his own good, and the contrast between his angelic face and the chaos he just caused your body? Killer. You watch him inhale slowly in his sleep, mumbling something soft. “…y/n…soo good…like it…”
A shiver runs through you.
Fuck, why is this loser both adorable and impossibly hot? Is it him? Or is it just boys like him that you have a weakness for? Doesn’t matter. The heat pooling between your legs reminds you exactly why you can’t leave yet.
You shift slightly, thinking you can sneak out, trying to untangle from him. He reacts immediately, draping an arm over your waist, pulling you closer until your chest is pressed fully to his face. “…y/n please…” he murmurs, voice thick and sleepy, heavy with the aftermath of last night’s chaos.
You freeze, because yes, this is exactly why you can’t leave. He’s like a magnet, a total fucking trap, soft and desperate in ways that make your heart thump and your brain short-circuit. Your pride tells you to leave. Your pussy tells you to stay. The pussy wins. You sigh, pressing a kiss to the top of his head and settling back into his arms.
Minutes stretch out, the quiet punctuated only by the soft rhythm of his breathing and the occasional low hum of contentment.
You think about how insane this is. Two days ago, you couldn’t even imagine finding him appealing. And look at you now—spread out on Gojo Satoru’s bed, the same idiot you swore you’d never fuck. The loser you laughed about is buried so deep inside you that your cunt’s leaking his cum down your thighs. Your belly’s heavy with his load, and his face is stuffed between your pretty tits like they're his personal pillows.
You stroke his hair, letting your fingers trail down his arm, teasing the edge of his palm. He twitches, half-awake, muttering something unintelligible.
Look at him, lying there like some angelic idiot after what he just did to you. Like, seriously, he didn’t just paralyze you from head to toe in the most delicious way possible, he practically rewired your brain with that touch, those movements, that… everything.
Were you just fucked senseless, or was he running a full-on step-by-step tutorial on how to fuck a girl properly in different angles? Beginner’s guide edition? You chuckle quietly, brushing your fingers through the soft, damp strands of his hair, feeling the tension in his scalp, the warmth of him, the little rise and fall of his chest.
Your eyes drift to the clock. Almost midnight. God. You really can’t stay here forever. You need to go. But the pull of him, how he smells, how warm he is, how he wraps around you like you belong there is telling you otherwise. You shift slightly, trying not to make a sound, but even that little movement makes him twitch in sleep, murmuring something indecipherable, and a little thrill runs through you.
Ugh, why is he like this? Why is it impossible to leave when every part of him is tempting you to stay? You sigh, exhaling slowly, knowing your brain is screaming “get the hell out,” but your body is perfectly fine being trapped in his warmth a little longer.
How the fuck did you even end up in this mess? Lying here with Satoru Gojo all warm and soft like some idiot willing to get wrecked again, when this was supposed to be a punishment, not… whatever this is. That loser’s face, the way his chest rises and falls, the little twitch of his hands and fingers… it’s like every single thing about him screams “fuck me harder” and you can’t even pretend to resist.
But no. You can’t let anyone find out. Not Aira, not anyone. Not a soul. This little fucked-up arrangement is yours. Yours to keep locked away like a dirty secret no one gets a hint of.
Yeah, this is definitely going to stay your secret.
Chapter Text
You have no idea what’s going on with you anymore.
Now it’s just routine—class ends, you drag yourself out there, and somehow you end up in Satoru Gojo’s bed, letting that loser split you open like it’s his full-time job.
It’s embarrassing how easy you cave. You should be studying, eating, sleeping, literally anything else. Instead, you’re bent over his sheets, his mouth full of you, his cock stretching you raw until your brain turns to mush. Half the time you’re the one crawling back, acting like you’re doing him a favor when really it’s your pussy begging for it.
Every day or at least most days, you play the same role. You hang out with your friends, laugh, pretend you’re just heading back to your place. Everyday you excuse yourself with the same line, “I’m tired, I’m going.” None of them suspect shit. But instead of crawling into your own sheets, you’re driving straight to Gojo’s place.
He’s always there. Always waiting like a dog who hears his owner’s footsteps. He's always half-dressed, cock already straining against his boxers. Always showered and fresh, smelling like soap and waiting on the couch like he’s rehearsed your arrival. He doesn’t even have to say anything anymore, the second you step inside, it’s game on. He’s got that look, that puppy eyes, like come on, y/n, please let me fuck you.
And you do. Every fucking night.
It’s become a routine, the way his mouth goes straight to your tits. He’s obsessed with them, like a kid with candy. Half the time he doesn’t even let you sit down before his face is buried between them, sucking your nipples raw while his hands squeeze and paw at the flesh. He drools on you, leaves your chest red and swollen, moaning like it’s his meal of the day. You let him, because you know the second he gets his fill he’s yanking your panties down, desperate to sink into you.
That’s the other part of the routine: his cock. Always hard, always twitching for you, always sliding into you like he belongs there. Some nights it’s fast, he bends you over the nearest surface, pulls your skirt up, and ruts into you like an animal until you’re choking back screams. His hand smothers your mouth, his hips slap against your ass, and the only sound in the room is the wet slap of him pounding into your soaked pussy. Other nights he makes it long, drawn-out, flipping you from one position to another like he’s reading from a goddamn instruction manual—missionary, cowgirl, reverse, doggy, sideways, piledriver—testing them all like he wants to write a book called “How to Ruin Her Pussy 101.”
And he cums. God, does he cum. Half the time it’s inside you, thick and messy, leaking down your thighs when you finally stumble to the bathroom. Sometimes it’s all over your stomach, streaks of white painting your skin while he grins like he just marked his territory. Once, he even came all over your tits after sucking them for an hour straight, smearing it around like lotion while laughing about how pretty you looked covered in him.
Afterwards, you lay there, legs numb, body sore, chest littered with bite marks. He always tries to be clingy, tries to keep you longer, his arms around your waist, that puppy-dog pout when you start dressing.
But you made one rule: boundaries. No cozy shit. No acting like a couple. No smiles in class, no touching, no pretending this is anything but what it is. And he listens. Because he knows better. He knows the deal. He keeps his distance when people are around, even if it kills him a little.
Still, you catch him looking sometimes. Those sharp blue eyes flicking your way when he thinks no one notices. You know he’s imagining you spread out on his bed, moaning his name, dripping with him. Cute, really. Not that you care, as long as he doesn’t make it your problem.
So the cycle keeps spinning. Every night, you end up in his bed. Every night, you let him fuck you stupid, let him soak his cock in your pussy until you’re clenching and shaking. Every night, you sneak back out with sore legs and cum leaking down your thighs, praying no one ever notices.
And by now, it’s not even about how you ended up here. It’s about the fact that you can’t stop.
********
Yet another night in Gojo Satoru's bed.
Your body feels wrecked, skin sticky with sweat and cum, and yet he still won’t let go. His long arms are wrapped around you like restraints, his messy white hair tickling your chest as his mouth stays glued to your tits. His lips are puffy from sucking, tongue flicking lazily at your nipple, then dragging lower to bite at the swell of your breast before climbing back up to your collarbone.
You groan, fingers in his hair, tugging him back when you feel that sharp sting on your neck.
“Satoru,” you breathe out, tilting your head away, “don’t leave marks where people see.”
He pulls back just enough to pout, bottom lip sticking out, blue eyes glassy and wide like you just kicked his puppy.
“Why not?” he mumbles against your skin, brushing kisses up your throat anyway.
You roll your eyes and push at his shoulder. “Come on. We talked about this.”
He freezes, mouth hovering by your jaw, and for once he actually looks hurt. Like the reminder stabbed him. Then he shifts back down, face pressed between your tits again, voice muffled against them.
“Y/n… can I say something?”
You groan again, but for a whole different reason. “Yeah. Anything except you’re in love with me.”
His head pops up, hair sticking up in every direction, mouth hanging open.
“Wha—no! That’s not—” He stammers, blinking, cheeks flushing pink under the moonlight leaking through his curtains. “I—I didn’t mean that, I—”
“Then spit it out.” You tilt your head, smug. “Come on. Say it.”
He swallows, clearly second-guessing this whole decision. His thumbs rub circles into your waist as if stalling. Finally, he whispers, “Well… I always feel so… bad when you… ignore me.”
You blink at him. Ahh, here we go again.
Does this moron even realize what he’s asking for?
“So what?” you shoot back flatly, hand dragging up his chest until your nails scrape lightly over his collarbone.
His lips wobble like he’s fighting between a whine and a pout.
“Y/n… I mean… I know you don’t want people to know, b-but it’s fine if we talk like friends, right? Sometimes?” His eyes dart down, embarrassed. “Maybe you can say you’re asking me doubts or something… please, y/n…”
You laugh, sharp and humorless, shoving his face back down into your tits where it belongs.
“Satoru. That’s enough. Look at you—you’re suckling on my tits as we speak. Isn’t it enough that I’m with you like this every single day?”
He jerks up again, shaking his head, eyes desperate. “Noo, no, y/n, that’s not— I meant— I mean, I like being with you like this, but… I like to do other things too… like talk… and… go somewhere…”
You sigh, dragging your nails down his abs, feeling him shiver.
“Do you even hear yourself right now?”
“What’s wrong with that?” His voice cracks, and he sounds so fucking pathetic you almost laugh.
“Satoru.” You grab his jaw, forcing his eyes on you. “Let me make it clear. It’s either this—” your hand slides down, pressing against the heavy cock still twitching against your thigh— “or nothing at all. Okay?”
His whole body jolts under your touch. He nods fast, terrified.
“Y/n—s-sorry, don’t say that—please don’t leave me. I won’t talk about it again, I swear.”
You chuckle darkly, leaning in until your lips brush his ear.
“Yeah… now that’s a good boy.”
Then you kiss him, slow and messy, tongue sliding into his mouth while your hand drifts lower, wrapping around the thick base of his cock. He moans into your mouth, already hard again despite the god-knows-how-many rounds you just finished.
You pull back with a smirk, guiding him down, pressing the head against your swollen pussy lips. His mouth falls open, eyes rolling back as you drag him up and down your slit, coating him in your slick and his own cum.
“F-fuck,” he gasps, hips jerking against your grip, “y/n—”
You cut him off, rubbing his head against your clit, letting him twitch and throb while you smear the mess across your folds.
“Satoru. You wanted to talk?” You grin, guiding him lower, not letting him inside, just sliding him back and forth over your cunt. “Here’s your conversation. My pussy talking to your cock.”
He whines, actually whines, his head dropping to your chest again as you use him like a toy. Each drag makes his cock leak, smearing more pre all over you.
“Y/n—please—stop teasing—”
“Stop teasing?” you echo with mock innocence, grinding him hard against your clit until your body jolts. “Isn’t this what you wanted? To be more than just this? To talk?”
He groans loud, rutting against your hand, desperate to push in. But you tighten your grip, keeping him right where you want him, his cock sliding along your soaked slit but never breaching.
Your nails dig into his hip as you guide him, up and down, over and over. His whole body shakes, his breath hitching against your tits.
“Say it,” you whisper against his ear. “What do you want?”
He moans, voice cracking, cock twitching hard in your grip. “Y/n—fuck—please let me in—”
You laugh low, dragging him harder against your clit until your thighs tremble.
And he breaks, moaning shamelessly as you keep grinding his cock against your swollen pussy, making a filthy, wet mess between your thighs.
You keep him right there, desperate, needy, grinding his cock against you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, and you don’t even let him in. Just rub him up and down against your slit, dragging him slow sometimes, fast other times, just enough to drive him insane. His hips jerk, his chest heaves, and the way his eyes keep rolling back while his hands grab at your waist—pathetic. Pathetic, but so damn cute.
And when it finally hits him, when he spills all over himself just from the teasing, he looks ruined. Teary-eyed, bottom lip trembling, cheeks red like he’s embarrassed but too blissed out to care. It’s almost laughable how easy it is, how quickly you can pull him apart without even giving him what he’s begging for. He’s such a pretty loser like this—messy, whiny, and still looking at you like you’re untouchable, like you’re his whole damn world.
You lean down, watching his face up close while he catches his breath, and it only makes you smirk harder. Gorgeous, ruined boy. It’s addictive—the way he worships you, the way he can’t hide how obsessed he is. And knowing he’d let you use him like this forever if it meant staying close to you? Makes teasing him all the more delicious.
But is his dick the only reason you keep going back every day? Is it just that? Just the way he falls apart under you, the way his cock keeps you filled, stretched, satisfied until your legs give out? Or is it the fun of teasing him, of making him whine and pout and beg like a needy puppy? You tell yourself that’s all it is—that it’s just dick and fun. That he’s just a loser you use whenever you want, that you’re the one in control.
But if it was really only about dick and fun, then why don’t you talk to guys anymore? Why aren’t you texting your fuck buddies who used to hit you up every weekend? Why aren’t you slipping into the backseat of some stranger’s car after a night out, the way you used to? You’ve been to clubs, to bars, to house parties. You know the thrill of letting someone new take you apart. So why aren’t you doing any of that anymore? Why does it feel like your life has shifted, quietly, without your permission?
Because now, most nights, you’re not even considering anyone else. You hang around your friends before excusing yourself and drive straight to his place, and he’s always there waiting smiling, jittery, like he knows what’s coming. And every single time, without fail, you give it to him. You let him fuck himself stupid into you, you let him cling, you let him beg. And you act like it’s nothing. Like it’s casual.
You talk a big game about keeping it detached, about boundaries, about how this doesn’t mean anything. But look at you. Look at your routine. You don’t even let him talk to you in class, but at night, you’re letting him bury his face in your tits, holding him close while he whimpers your name like it’s a prayer. You don’t let him near you in public, but behind closed doors, you let him cum inside you, again and again, until you’re full of him.
Who’s really fooling who?
You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything. But the way you’ve stopped entertaining anyone else—the way you’ve stopped even looking—it says something you don’t want to admit.
It’s not that you can’t go out and fuck someone new. You could. You know it’d be easy. But lately, the thought doesn’t excite you. The thrill isn’t there. Not when you’re already getting ruined by him every night, not when Satoru alone is enough to drain every ounce of energy and leave you craving more the second you walk out his door.
Because Satoru is a lot. A lot for your mind, with how he always wants more, more touches, more kisses, more little pieces of you that he’s not supposed to have. And a lot for your pussy too, because he never fucking stops. His stamina, his desperation, his absolute obsession with you, it’s overwhelming. He dicks you down until you’re hoarse from moaning, until your thighs ache, until you’re trembling and still begging for one more. He’s a loser, but he’s your loser, and that’s starting to sound way too dangerous in your own head.
You groan, fingers tightening on the steering wheel as you pull into your place. Another late night. Another round—or five—with him. Another morning where you’ll wake up sore, stretched, and still unsatisfied because somehow he only makes you want more. You try to brush it off, but deep down, you know the truth: whatever this is, it’s gotten under your skin, and it’s not letting go anytime soon.
******
The next day, Aira had that look on her face the second class ended—the one that said you weren’t escaping her. She cornered you near the stairwell, blocking your way with that smug little smirk.
“Y/n, what’s going on with you lately? You’re… so different,” she dragged out the word, eyes narrowing. “Always rushing home, never hanging out with us anymore. Am I being ditched or what?”
You forced a laugh. “Come on, Aira. Don’t start. I’m fine. It’s just… I’ve had a lot going on, okay? Energy’s low.”
Her arms crossed, hip cocked, not buying it. “Energy low my ass. You used to have too much energy. You were the first one to drag me out. Remember that girl? Where is she? Now I blink and you’re gone.”
You shrugged. “People change.”
She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Yeah, or maybe you got yourself another bestie I don’t know about. Someone’s replacing me?” She tilted her head, voice teasing but with that bite underneath.
“It’s not like that, Aira…” you muttered.
“Then what? Tell me. Because you’ve been ignoring me. And don’t say you’re fine. That’s bullshit.”
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I just don’t feel like going out. That’s all. Don’t make it into something it’s not.”
Her pout was exaggerated, the kind she knew you hated because it always made you cave. “You used to enjoy it. What happened? I miss my girl.”
“Aira—”
“Nope. No excuses. Sarah’s hosting a house party tonight and guess what? You’re coming with me. Don’t argue.” She wagged a finger at you like you were a child.
“Tonight?” you groaned. “Evening? Ugh, Aira, really? Why not the weekend? I’ll be more free—”
“Nope. Don’t even try. You’re not getting out of this. You’re coming.” Her grin widened.
You pressed your lips together, shaking your head, but she looped her arm through yours and that was that. Aira never let go once she latched on.
*****
By evening, she had you all dolled up and dragged along, dressed cunty as usual—short skirt, tiny top, confidence dripping off you. You stared at yourself in the mirror before leaving, thinking about how Satoru would lose it if he saw you like this, smiling to yourself.
At Sarah’s house, the place buzzed with bass and bodies, familiar faces everywhere. Too familiar. Guys you used to laugh with, grind on, kiss just because it was fun. Guys you used to let take you home, let fuck you sloppy, and forget their names the next day. You sighed, the nostalgia hitting and grating at the same time.
And of course, the moment you stepped in, eyes started scanning you.
“Yo, y/n,” a voice called, and you turned to see Brad leaning against the counter with a drink. “Haven’t seen you in forever.”
“Yeah,” you smiled tightly. “Been busy.”
“Busy with what?” His smirk widened. “Got a boyfriend or something? That’s not you. Yeah?”
Your mouth twitched. “Nah, nothing like that. Just… personal stuff.”
“Ohh. I tried texting, even called once. You didn’t pick up.”
Your stomach dipped. “I must’ve missed it. Sorry.”
“Yeah? So what’s the plan tonight then?” He leaned closer, eyes running down your body. “Wanna come with me after this?”
“Brad—”
Before you could answer, Aira swooped in like a hawk. She hooked an arm through yours, yanking you back. “Bye, Brad,” she sang out. “You don't give head anyways.”
You whipped your head around. “Aira!!!”
Brad looked offended, staring at both of you. “What? She told you that?”
“Exactly,” Aira grinned.
“Unbelievable, girl,” you muttered, glaring as she dragged you away.
She only winked. “Saved you, didn’t I?”
*******
Upstairs, away from the crowd, you ended up sinking into the couch with a drink. Music thumped through the walls, laughter echoed, but your eyes drifted to your phone. You unlocked it checking the time. Right around when you usually go to Gojo's.
You typed out the words: I won’t be coming today.
You stared at it. Fingers hovering. Wait… what the hell were you doing? Why would you even tell him?
Basic manners, sure. Otherwise he’d wait. He’d probably stare at his door, pacing, restless, desperate. Like a stupid puppy waiting for its owner.
Cry, maybe. Pout. Be pathetic in that way only he could.
But sending that text? That would be a signal. That would mean something. And he’d twist it into what he wanted—that you cared, that you were his.
And you weren’t about to give him that.
So you did the petty, bitchy thing: you erased the draft. Slid your phone back into your bag. Let him wait. Let him ache for you, crawl for you in his head.
Tomorrow? He’d be better for it. Tomorrow he’d fuck you like he’s starving. Tomorrow he’d be obsessed even more, more of a good boy.
You smirked to yourself, leaning back on the couch. One night wouldn’t kill him. Let's just hope it wouldn't kill you either.
Time to forget about him. Time to enjoy the party.
Well, that enjoyment doesn’t last long when she shows up.
That bitch.
The one who’s always been jealous of you, jealous enough to smother you with fake compliments to your face while running her mouth behind your back. Always acting sweet, soft, and innocent, when everyone knows she’s a manipulative fuck. You and Aira never liked her, not one bit.
She walks into the room, slotting herself right between the guys on the couch like she owns the damn place. The moment her eyes land on you, her face lights up with that fake smile you hate.
“Ahhh, Y/N! Didn’t see you there.” Her voice drips with mock surprise.
You force your lips into a polite curve, a fake smile just to keep the peace. “Hey…”
She tilts her head, eyes raking over you like she’s inspecting a bug. “Haven’t seen you around anymore… what happened? You disappeared on us.”
You exhale sharply through your nose, keeping your tone clipped. “Just… busy. Personal stuff.”
“Personal stuff,” she echoes, like she’s tasting the words just to spit them back out.
One of the guys across the couch smirks, lifting his drink. “Maybe y/n’s got herself a secret boyfriend.”
The room laughs lightly. You’re already preparing a half-assed denial, but then she jumps in, her eyes wide with faux innocence, her words sharp as glass.
“Oh no way. Y/n doesn’t do boyfriends.” She giggles, looking around the room for approval. “She needs a different dick each day.”
Your eyes widen, stomach flipping at the bluntness. Even though you’ve heard worse, the way she spits it out in front of everyone makes heat rise to your cheeks.
“Aira—” you hear her sharp inhale, already ready to throw hands, but you grip her wrist before she can move.
Some people laugh at the comment, some shrug, some raise brows. Not that you care. Not that you want to care.
She leans back against the couch, twirling her hair like she’s the main character. She keeps talking, more shit pouring from her mouth, the kind that makes you grind your teeth just to stop yourself from snapping.
And then—
“Guys, you know that big shot in our class? The white-haired one?”
"Who?"
"You know the one from Gojo family."
Another guy scoffs. “What about that loser?”
She licks her lips, grinning. “Well… he’s in my project team. Our group were working together last week. And, like, I swear… that boy seems so different nowadays.”
Someone else frowns. “Why would you even care about him?”
She shrugs dramatically. “No, that’s not it. Yesterday I saw him… and he had a hickey on his neck. Like… an actual mark.”
Your whole body freezes. The blood drains from your face. You stare at the floor, praying no one notices the way your hands start trembling.
“Does he have a girlfriend or something?” she asks loudly, all faux-curious, lips curling with the nastiest smirk.
“Impossible,” someone snorts. “Imagine someone like him having a girlfriend. How dumb would she be?” Laughter bounces across the room.
That bitch laughs the loudest. “Exactly! I mean, come on. If he does have one, she must be pathetic as fuck. Like… imagine dating him.”
More chuckles. Another guy adds, “Nah, he probably just paid a whore. Guy’s loaded, right? With money anyone can get anything.”
You pretended you didn’t hear it. You scroll through your phone, eyes glued to the screen like you’re totally detached, like none of this is crawling under your skin. But your ears won’t stop ringing. Your chest feels like it’s caving in.
And then her voice cuts through again, sweet as poison.
“Ohhh, Y/n…” she drags your name, and your head snaps up before you can stop it. She tilts her head, her grin wolfish. “When I think about it… haven’t seen you around lately. Are you, perhaps, that loser’s secret girlfriend?”
Your jaw slackens. Eyes widen. It’s like the room tilts. You choke on your own breath, stuttering— “W-what? N-no, that’s—”
But before you can even form words, another guy bursts out laughing, shaking his head.
“Ahhh, no way. Y/n’s got class. Tell jokes that at least have a potential to be true.”
The room erupts again. You sit there, frozen, heart hammering so loud it feels like everyone can hear.
She claps her hands together, giggling. “Haha, I was just kidding, of course.”
The problem is… was she? Was she actually kidding, or did she fucking know?
You can’t stay there anymore. Not for another second. You shoot up from the couch, muttering, “Excuse me, washroom.”
As you turn away, she calls after you, voice saccharine.
“Y/n, come on! That was a joke! Don’t be so sensitive.”
Her laughter follows you as you push into the washroom and slam the door behind you, pressing your back against it, chest heaving.
You lean against the sink, staring at yourself in the mirror. Your chest is tight, your jaw locked, hands gripping the porcelain as if you could wring it to dust.
That fuckin' bitch. She had no idea, but she hit way too close. “Secret girlfriend.” The words won’t stop replaying in your head.
It was just a joke, sure, just her usual digging claws into you and twisting them around. But your throat is dry because it didn't feel like a joke to you. This time it was aimed right at the sore spot.
Because it is true, isn’t it? You’re basically acting like his fucking girlfriend without ever saying it. Always at his place. Always in his bed. Always leaving marks, letting him cover your body in his brand.
You don’t go out, don’t fuck around like you used to. Aira’s already suspicious. And now that girl outside just dragged his name into the open. And if this keeps going on, people will start connecting the dots no matter how “pathetic” they think he is.
You splash water on your face, but it doesn’t help. Your reflection looks more rattled than before. You try to breathe, to think logically.
Okay, calm down. She doesn’t know shit. Nobody knows shit. You just gotta play it cool. Keep that fake smile plastered and let them think you’re still the same slutty little free spirit they remember.
But then another thought creeps in, nasty and sharp: And if anyone finds out?
Your stomach twists. You wipe your face with the back of your hand, staring yourself down in the mirror like you could bully yourself into sense.
You swallow hard, nails tapping against the sink. You hate that bitch outside, but she’s right about one thing: whoever Gojo’s “girl” is would have to be pathetic. And staring at yourself, you realize—you’re already halfway there. You squeeze your eyes shut, whispering under your breath like you could confess it to the empty air.
You’re fucked for real now.