Chapter Text
“Fucking bitch wrote all over my essay,” Sukuna growled, stomping into the quad like he was ready to commit a crime.
From under the shade of the tree, Geto snorted loud enough to scare a nearby pigeon. Gojo lazily lifted his sunglasses, while Choso blinked up from his sketchpad, unbothered.
Toji didn’t even flinch—he was practically part of the earth, arms crossed behind his head, one leg propped lazily over the other, chewing gum like he had no plans to move ever again.
“Who pissed in your existentialism this morning?” Gojo called out, a grin already tugging at his lips.
Sukuna dropped his bag directly on Toji’s stomach, earning a choked cough and a middle finger. “The fuck is wrong with you?!”
“She is!” Sukuna snapped, yanking a crumpled essay from his folder like it personally offended him. “‘This does not apply to the bundle theory’—what the fuck is a bundle theory?! I wrote three paragraphs on Descartes and now it’s just red ink and attitude!”
Gojo burst out laughing so hard he nearly knocked over his iced coffee. “Isn’t the bundle theory that thing where like…objects are just a bunch of traits stuck together?”
“Bro,” Geto muttered, “that’s literally a chicken nugget.”
Choso looked up from his sketchbook, blinking slowly. “I thought bundle theory was a phone plan.”
“Exactly!” Sukuna waved the paper around like it personally betrayed him. “She writes like I’m supposed to know this shit already. She wrote, and I quote, ‘Your argument is too personal and emotional which lacks analytical depth.’ I almost set fire to the English department.”
“Sounds like someone got schooled by the campus cryptid,” Geto drawled, twisting a cherry lollipop in his mouth. “Remind me—what’s her name again? The one who only appears at twilight and grades in riddles?”
“Toji’s dream girl,” Gojo added with a grin.
“Oh fuck off,” Toji grunted from the ground. “My dream girl doesn’t correct my grammar in green pen.”
Sukuna raked a hand through his hair and flopped down beside them like a man defeated. “She acts like a librarian possessed by Nietzsche. Literally told me ‘you can’t quote Nietzsche if you spell it Neechee.’ Bitch.”
“Keep bitchin’ like that and you’re gonna end up writing her love letters,” Suguru smirked.
“Please,” Gojo groaned, draping an arm dramatically over his face. “She tutors me for Lit, and she’s so mean it gives me PTSD. I told her I liked The Great Gatsby and she asked me to define ‘symbolism’ with a straight face.”
“She made me rewrite my thesis because I used the word ‘vibes,’” Choso muttered, shading in an eye with surprising aggression. “I was being creative and she said it was AI.”
“She called me a ‘walking red flag’ and said my critical thinking skills were ‘nonexistent,’” Sukuna sneered.
Gojo cracked open one eye. “...And you’re obsessed with her now, huh?”
“Eat shit.”
“You are!” Geto sat up, pointing. “Oh my god. He’s got it bad. You hate her guts, she edits the soul out of your essay, and now you can’t stop thinking about rearranging her guts!”
“Yeah?” Sukuna snapped. “Why don’t you go try seducing her then, huh? See how far you get before she corrects your pronunciation of cunninglingus.”
A moment of silence passed.
Then Toji let out a low whistle. “Bet I could hit.”
Everyone paused.
Gojo blinked. “You what?”
“I said what I said,” Toji shrugged, not even looking at them. “I bet I could pull her.”
“Oh, now that’s rich,” Suguru grinned, fully invested. “You think she’d fall for you after she literally called you ‘a slab of meat with daddy issues’?”
“That’s not a no,” Toji replied smugly.
“Oh my god,” Gojo laughed, slapping his knee. “Alright, alright—bet. First one to sleep with the pretty little nerd wins $100 from each of us.”
“You’re all degenerates,” Choso said without looking up.
“And you’re in,” Geto smirked.
Choso sighed. “…Yeah, okay.”
Sukuna rolled his eyes, but his jaw tightened ever so slightly. “Y’all are dreaming. She hates us. All of us.”
“To be fair,” Gojo said, “we are annoying.”
“That’s what makes it fun,” Suguru grinned. “May the worst man win.”
Sukuna just sat there, arms crossed, eyes on the red pen scars on his essay.
He wasn’t going to lose to them.
Especially not to Toji. Broke ass.
And that’s where it all started.
You’d always assumed college would be a slideshow of bad coffee, half-hearted hookups, and the slow rot of your motivation.
But lately, it was the staring that got to you.
Every time you walked into Fine Arts West, you felt eyes on you—too intense, too focused. The kind that were unblinking, obsessive, hungry—like a pack of over-educated zoo animals who’d just been told your bones were made of cocaine and artisan pastries.
Case in point: Gojo.
Gojo had insisted you tutor him thrice a week now. He even went so far as to beg you to leave your stationery and notes at his house, citing efficiency, proximity, and something about “aesthetic motivation.”
(You did not. You left behind a single dying pen out of pity—and perhaps, to keep the peace.)
Then there was Geto. A mystery in every sense, given that he wasn’t even in any of your classes. You only ever saw him orbiting around Gojo like a handsome, slow-moving planet.
Still, the moment you accepted his follow request on social media, your notifications burst into song. Like. Like. Like. It was as if he’d taken it upon himself to curate your entire feed with little hearts. A connoisseur of selfies, apparently.
Choso remained, as ever, a quiet constant—albeit with a small behavioral shift. You began to notice that whenever he became stressed during your tutoring (which was often), he’d start tugging absentmindedly at his long hair like a Victorian governess on the verge of tears.
Concerned for both his mental well-being and his hairline, you offered him your spare hair tie. He accepted it solemnly, as though you’d knighted him, and has worn it on his wrist ever since. You've since realized it may as well have been a promise ring.
Sukuna—oh, Sukuna—was the worst offender of them all. One might argue he initiated the madness. One thundery afternoon, after forcing you to stay late and assist him in deconstructing what could only be described as a manifesto masquerading as an essay, he casually offered you a ride home.
You accepted, mostly because you feared the wrath of pneumonia from the frigid rain. He made it seem as if he were doing you a favor, despite the fact that you saved him from submitting something that began with “According to me—”
And don’t even get started on Toji.
Toji, who had no business being near your classroom, let alone loitering outside it. And yet, there he was, leaning against the wall like a delinquent in juvie. The moment you stepped out, he snatched your bag like it was a sacred artifact and took off running. You, in all your academic dignity, were forced to chase him—around the campus.
By the time Sukuna tackled him to the ground (grumbling something about “fucking idiot” and “give it back, jackass”), you were dripping in sweat and the very picture of academic ruin. Toji, grinning from the pavement, had the audacity to offer you a towel. As if that somehow made up for the cardio.
Sweet, right?
Absolutely not.
Because unbeknownst to you, they had been jacking off to every single essence of you.
You didn’t ask to haunt these men, but here you were: worming your way into the darkest recesses of their brains, gnawing through all logic until only the rotten core of need remained.
Maybe you should have felt bad. Maybe you should have stopped doing such horribly slutty things such as: lending a pen, wearing deodorant, tying up your hair, existing on Instagram, or sweating in someone’s car. But you didn’t, because the universe is cruel and so are you.
If only you knew the monster you’d unleashed in each of them.
Gojo was the first to spiral.
Your mistake was agreeing to tutor Gojo one-on-one.
Gojo’s apartment was exactly what you’d expect from a rich kid pretending to be broke: Scandinavian furniture, meme décor, and lighting that made everyone look like a vampire in a porno.
The centerpiece? A massive oil painting of shirtless Gojo, painted in what could only be called Terry Crews from White Chicks. Suspiciously dust-free too.
He opened the door in a silk robe patterned with naked cherubs, sunglasses still on. “Hey, genius. Come in. Don’t make yourself at home—I like to keep the place unsullied by normalcy.”
“You know I’m not your TA, right?” you said, sidestepping a kitchen island stacked with protein pancake boxes.
“Yeah, but you’re the only one on campus who gets irony. Also, you never bore me. Also also—” He cut himself off, stared at you for three whole seconds. “Nevermind. You're so distracting.”
You barely opened your laptop before he was leaning over your shoulder. “You smell good,” he said, like that was relevant.
“So. You wanted help with—”
“I wanted help with so much more,” he replied gravely, sliding into the seat next to you until your knees knocked. “But mostly? Quiz me.”
“You know this one,” you said. “We literally covered it in class.”
“Humor me. You explaining things is hot.” He snatched a highlighter, his fingers grazing your wrist with an obviousness that might as well have been a handjob in a crowded subway.
You glared, weakly.
An hour in, it hit you: he’d been getting every answer right before deliberately screwing it up.
“You’re not failing,” you accused. “You just want attention.”
Hand to his chest, wounded. “That hurts. I was hoping you’d tutor me out of the goodness of your overflowing heart. Or at least pity for my tragic, lonely handsomeness.”
“Tragic, lonely handsomeness only counts if you shut up for more than thirty seconds.”
He grinned, leaned in until your foreheads almost touched. He smelled like aftershave, sugar cereal, and something sharp, electric. For a second, you thought he might actually kiss you.
Instead, he looked at your pen, then at you, then at your pen again. "You’re using a Pilot G-2," he murmured, as if it was a sin or a secret.
"I like them," you said, instantly defensive.
"Leave it here," he said, soft and grave, like it was his dying wish. "I want to remember you every time I write an answer so wrong that it makes God cry."
He took the pen and cradled it in his palm, caressing it with his thumb. "It’s warm," he said, then locked eyes with you. "Because it was just in your hand." He bit his lip—fully, unironically, like a high school musical parody of a boy in love.
"You’re so weird," you said.
"You into it?" He shot back, and for once, his tone was sober, almost hopeful.
You gathered your things, sensing this would be your only exit window. "Do you need any actual help?"
"Just the pen," he said, and then, as you walked out, "Wait. Y/N."
You turned. Gojo stood there in the robe, clutching your G-2, and for a flash, you saw a hint of panic under the swagger.
"Don’t forget your phone," he said, and handed it to you like it was a rare gem, his fingers deliberately brushing yours.
Outside, the evening was cold and disorienting. For the rest of the walk home, you had the ghost sensation of Gojo’s eyes, fingers, and very probably other body parts, fixed firmly on you.
By the time you checked your phone, he’d already sent you seven texts. All of them were photos of your pen, artistically staged around his apartment: on a pile of manga, tucked into a cereal bowl, wedged between his bare toes.
The last one said, “I miss you already.”
You did not reply.
And you did NOT want that pen back.
Back at home, Gojo went to town on your pen.
He waited until you left before tiptoeing to his room, cradling the bent Pilot G2 you’d once chewed to death in class. It was obscene how you treated stationery, like every pen was a substitute for something else in your mouth.
He gripped it between his fingers, flicking the clicker with the same rhythm he imagined your tongue would use, all the while muttering variations of your name like a prayer or a curse.
He propped your notebook open (that you left... Or maybe he stole it), admiring the violence of your cursive and the way you looped your y’s: little nooses.
He was already halfway hard, but Gojo didn’t jerk off like a normal person; it was all performance art. He set the scene: lights down, sunglasses on, a jazz playlist that made it feel illegal.
The pen went into his mouth—he tried to get the same bite marks you’d left. It tasted like ink and forbidden knowledge. By the time he actually touched himself, he was already moaning your name into the pillow, eyes rolled back so far he swore he could see into the future.
You featured heavily. Maybe it was you straddling his lap in the library, reading dirty limericks off your phone while crushing him in place.
Maybe you were a schoolteacher, rapping his knuckles and threatening “detention” if he came too fast. The scenarios grew more deranged by the second.
But in every single one, you wielded a pen like a weapon, using it to scrawl the dirtiest phrases imaginable along his trembling cock.
When he came, it was embarrassingly loud, and he caught himself painting a quick “I heart Y/N” on his thigh in the aftermath.
Geto was no better.
If Gojo was a firework, Geto was a gas leak: colorless, odorless, but the damage lingered for weeks. He’d tell himself he was too mature for this nonsense.
He’d pour a drink and read articles about “emotional detachment” and “parasocial relationships.” But then your latest Instagram post would drop—a mirror selfie, captioned with something mindless like “#wokeuplikethis”—and the entire philosophical argument crumbled.
He truly felt like a victorian man seeing ankles for the first time. He swore he was a respectable man—until your Instagram stories turned into softcore porn.
He’d double-tap so hard he left a dent in the screen, then click through the photo set in a trance.
It started innocently enough: a mirror selfie, your book covering your face, but your tits—God, your tits—subtly pressed between your arms.
Then came the backless dress. You, arms raised toward the golden sky, back glistening under sunlight. It wasn’t even raunchy—it was elegant—but it had Geto palming himself with the desperation of a man possessed.
The way the light kissed your shoulder blades? The gentle curve of your spine? The tease of skin? He was panting into his fist before he even realized.
And then the bikini shot dropped.
A bikini photo that made his hands tremble and his soul leave his body. The way you cocked your hip and smiled, self-aware and dangerous, was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. Geto would spend a few minutes trying to convince himself that he wasn’t going to jerk off to it, that he was above this sort of base-level reaction.
He always lost that battle. Sometimes it took two minutes. Sometimes it took six shots of whiskey and a full hour of prelude: scrolling your feed, analyzing old comments for hints of interest, decoding every emoji like it was Morse code for “please break me in half.”
He liked to tease himself, to edge until his whole body was one nerve ending. But he didn’t even make it to the second slide. Just one look at the way the fabric clung to your hips and Geto was bent over his bed, rutting into the mattress, breathless.
When he finally gave in, it was a humiliating flood. He’d come with his fist wrapped around the phone, then stare in horror at the mess on his own bed, muttering “pathetic” under his breath even as he scrolled up for one more look.
Geto fancied himself immune to modern lust. But all it took was a notification on his phone—a stupid little ping—to bring him crawling back to base humanity.
It was, of course, you.
Geto tossed his phone aside, flopped back on his bed, and tried to will himself into calm. He made it maybe a minute before the first intrusive thought hit: you, bare-legged, lounging on his sheets, asking him to take photos "for a new post," all faux-casual before turning it up to eleven and demanding he get you wet for real.
The scenario played out like a fever dream. In his mind, you posed, twisted, taunted. When you looked at him, you never smiled—not a real one—but your gaze bored into him, flayed him with the promise of ruin.
You’d order him to direct, but then ignore his instructions, flipping the script and mounting him, pinning his wrists while you balanced your phone above and snapped photos of him coming apart beneath you.
He was hard, fully and violently, without having touched himself. His jeans were suffocating. He undid the fly and palmed himself, the first groan slipping out before he could even try to bite it back.
He checked the time—ten minutes before his next class. No time to be thoughtful, just enough for the most desperate, hungry wank of his life.
Geto propped the phone up on his knee, eyes glued to your photos as he jerked off again. He scrolled with his free hand, jumping from mirror selfie to backless dress to bikini, each image seared into his retinas, his mind layering them with more and more obscene variations.
You straddling his face, grinding down until he choked. You whispering a command into his ear—“Don’t cum unless I say so”—and then ghosting him, leaving him to leak and whimper and edge for hours.
He moaned your name into his pillow, hoping the soundproofing was as good as the dorm brochure claimed. The fantasy careened out of control: you recording a private video, sending it to him with a "for your eyes only" note, then forcing him to reenact every moment while you watched from the foot of the bed, cold and brilliant, loving every second of his humiliation.
He came faster than he wanted, a shameful, full-body seizure that left him arching off the mattress and clutching the phone like it might float away.
The orgasm lingered, hollow and sweet, as he stared at the screen in a daze, your final selfie grinning down like the Mona Lisa of perverts.
He lay there, sticky and panting, for a long, long time.
Eventually he cleaned up, but not before saving the whole set to a private folder. He even liked the post, just to see your name pop up in his own notifications. He nearly commented, but thought better of it. Next time, he promised himself. Next time he’d be braver.
Because there would always be a next time.
Choso was doing no better.
It wasn’t even intentional.
He kept his obsessions small and sacred, like religious relics. He found a single strand of your hair caught in the hair tie you offered him that one study session.
At first, he tried to ignore it. But then he started carrying it everywhere: tucked behind his ear, slipped inside his sketchbook, even pressed against his lips when no one was watching.
He couldn’t throw it away. He couldn’t even think about throwing it away. The more he fixated, the more perverse it became.
He’d sneak off to the bathroom, tie the hair around his finger, and stroke himself while picturing you kneeling in front of him, your hair trailing over his thighs as you looked up at him with those dark, glassy eyes. The idea of you noticing him at all—of you wanting to touch him, to ruin him—sent him over the edge every single time.
Sometimes he’d wrap the hair around his cock and get off in ten seconds flat, only to collapse in a post-orgasmic spiral of shame and longing.
He told himself it was a one-time thing, but he knew he was lying. The hair lived on, passed between new hiding places as the days went by. It became his most treasured possession, second only to the memory of your smile.
And the hair tie itself? It smelled like you.
Choso spent the whole day debating whether to touch it.
It sat in his jacket pocket, a soft coil of faded brown, already saturated with your scent. He found it that morning, abandoned on a common room table, forgotten like a molted snake skin.
He’d meant to return it—to leave it somewhere you’d find it, maybe even slip it into your backpack in a moment of social competence—but by midday, he’d failed, and by sundown, he knew he never would.
He thumbed the elastic absently, running it over his lips, his cheek, the sensitive edge of his ear. Each pass released a hit of your shampoo, plus the mineral-salty funk of your scalp from that brutal group run.
It was intimate in a way nothing else was. More than a photo, more than a shared secret. This was physical proof you existed, and for the briefest moment, you’d belonged to him.
By midnight, he’d stopped pretending. He stripped down to boxers, climbed into bed, and cradled the hair tie like a rosary. If anyone could see him, he would die. But no one could, so he pressed it to his nose and inhaled, long and slow, until the ache in his chest migrated lower.
And the scent—fuck, the scent—was intoxicating. It clung to his skin, settled in his bloodstream like an aphrodisiac. It was floral, warm, slightly musky—like sin basking under a sunset.
He pressed the band to his nose. Once. Twice. Then again. His eyes fluttered shut, body slouched on the couch, pants shoved down. His cock was rock solid, flushed dark and twitching with need.
Precum dribbled steadily from the tip with each inhale. He wrapped the band around his shaft, hissing at how tight it squeezed, how real it felt.
It was like you were there—your breath ghosting down his chest, your lips dragging lower, your head bobbing between his thighs. He fucked into his own fist like it was your throat.
He closed his eyes, let the fantasy bloom. You’d come to his room to ask for it back. He’d offer it—polite, nervous—but you’d see the desperation in his face.
Instead of taking it, you’d crawl onto his lap, straddle him, pin his wrists to the comforter. You’d yank your hair free and demand he brush it out, tugging it over his face, smothering him in warmth and sweetness until he was hard and dizzy and incapable of speech.
He shuddered, hips jerking up against nothing. He wrapped the elastic around his palm, flexing his fingers so it bit into his skin, a perfect reminder of your control.
In his mind, you’d notice the effect you had on him. You’d laugh—not cruel, but knowing—then slide down his body, dragging hair and heat and your whole terrifying presence over every inch of him.
The scenario rewrote itself: you wrapped the tie around the base of his cock, yanking it tight, using it to guide him into your mouth. He moaned into his pillow, bit his forearm to keep from making noise.
It was too much, too soon, but he couldn’t stop. He stroked himself in rough, desperate bursts, every pass pushing the scent deeper into his skin.
The rubbery pull of the hair tie was just enough pain to keep him present, but the real torment was knowing you’d never, ever see how wrecked he was for you.
His hips stuttered. He grunted, barely catching himself before a full-out sob. He imagined you watching, unimpressed, tapping your foot and threatening to take back the hair tie if he couldn’t finish like a grown-up. The shame made it so much hotter.
He spilled over his fist, white and hot and endless, painting his stomach and the hair tie and the bedsheet with proof of his devotion.
And the hair tie was still wrapped around his base.
He wouldn’t take it off.
He knew he wouldn’t. But in the morning, he’d wash the tie, dry it in the sun, and start all over again.
Sukuna was a freak.
He lived in a world of skin and sweat, and nothing got him going faster than evidence of you invading his territory. You’d left a sweat print on the passenger seat of his car after chasing Toji down.
He’d noticed it as soon as you left: a perfect crescent of dampness, the ghost of your ass imprinted into the faux leather.
He didn’t mean to notice it. But he did.
And then he leaned in. Just a little. Just to confirm.
And suddenly, he was face down in his car, hard as a rock, sniffing around like a pervert in heat. Your scent hit him like a truck—salt, sweetness, you.
The heady ghost of your deodorant hung in the air, clinging to the seatback like a dare. He pressed his face to it, inhaled so hard his eyes watered. Under the chemical top note, it was you: sharp, slightly sour, rich with evidence of your existence.
It made him dizzy.
He was hard in seconds, the kind of hard that didn’t care about consequences or common sense. He unzipped, palmed himself, already leaking from the thought alone.
In his mind’s eye, you were sprawled on the backseat, shorts shoved down, slick with sweat and arousal, egging him on with every hissed insult and moan.
A sniff. A moan. A sloppy, desperate stroke. And then he was licking the seat like it owed him something, groaning like a man possessed.
He jerked himself with one hand, nose still mashed to the seat, rocking the entire car with every violent pump. It was fast, dirty, and shameless. Exactly the way he liked it.
He imagined you riding him, grabbing the seatback for leverage, soaking both of you in a haze of sex and heat. He’d mark the leather with you forever if he could.
When he finally came—thick, hot, and embarrassingly fast—he had to brace a hand against the dashboard to keep from collapsing. Later that night, he texted Toji:
keep making her run. trust me.
Then, for the sheer thrill of it, he leaned back, cradled the headrest, and fantasized about the day he’d press you into this very seat and make you scream for real.
And remember that towel Toji offered you?
That towel—the one he oh-so-helpfully offered after he made you run laps like a goddamn P.E. teacher—was now pressed firmly against Toji's face. He’d waited until he got home, locked his bedroom door, then flopped onto his mattress like a man on a mission.
The moment he got a whiff of your sweat, his hips bucked. His cock throbbed against his palm, and his mind spiraled into sin.
What if you were on top of him? Panting. Soaked. Grinding against his tongue.
He tried not to think about the way your legs looked, wrapped around his waist and kicking like you actually thought you could escape. He failed.
Toji’s favorite mental movie was the imagination of your thighs squeezing his ribs, the heat of your body soaking through both your shorts. He could almost hear your breath in his ear, angry and desperate, begging him to let go.
He never would. Not in fantasy, not in real life.
His hips started moving on their own, rutting against his bed, towel, mattress, anything. He was too stubborn to touch himself directly—he liked the challenge, the power play of getting off hands-free, like he was showing off for an invisible audience.
In his head, you took control. You sat on his face and dared him to breathe. You rubbed your whole self over his mouth until he was drunk on you, desperate for every drop. He could feel your hands in his hair, the scrape of your nails down his chest, the sound of your voice as you told him to fucking take it.
He stuffed the towel between his face and the mattress, braced himself with one hand against the headboard, and humped the bed so hard he thought he might break it.
It didn’t take long. When he came, he didn’t make a sound; he just bit down on the towel and ground his hips into the sheets, leaving a mark he’d have to explain to the laundromat lady later.
“Fuck—fuck,” he growled, stroking himself so fast it was like he was trying to win a race. The towel was balled up over his nose, your scent overwhelming every sense.
Then his phone dinged.
A text from Sukuna. keep making her run. trust me.
Toji chuckled darkly, his abs tightening. He swore he was going to text Sukuna back. One of his hands swiping across the screen to reply while the other held onto the towel above his nose.
And then he was hit with a thought.
Just the idea of you running from him, breathless and flushed, had him cumming untouched—thighs tensed, cock spurting buckets of cum across his chest, the towel still clutched in his fist like a trophy.
May God bless their souls, they truly have no idea what they’re getting themselves into.