He flunks his tests on purpose just to piss you off.
You know it. He knows it. He leans back in his chair, lazily twirling his pen between long fingers, his big, smug body stretched out while you grind your teeth next to him, correcting his mistakes. Itβs humiliatingβsomeone like him, the strongest, the smartest, asking you to tutor him. As if Gojo Satoru needed anyone.
βOops,β he chuckles, shoulder bumping yours, as his stupidly expensive fountain pen rolls off the desk. You bend to grab it, and before you can sit back up, his hand slides between your thighs under the table, cupping the softest part of you over your skirt.
You freeze.
βOops,β he says again, voice dripping with amusement, his hand slipping under the fabric, fingers dragging over your panties as his breath ghosts the shell of your ear. βDropped something else too, huh?β
You hate him.
Hate the way his fingers thread into your hair, forcing your cheek into the sheets, his knee pressing your thighs apart as he slides inside.
βYouβre soββ His laugh is breathless, eyes blown, your own tears catching the dim light. βSo fucking uptight all day, but you melt the second Iββ He rocks his hips forward. You cry out, and his grin widens. ββpush in, huh?β
You donβt melt. You break.
Your fingers dig into the mattress, helpless. Heβs too strong, too big, too deep.
βTch,β he clicks his tongue, dragging out almost all the way before shoving himself back inside with a sharp snap of his hips. His breath catches. βFuck, thatβs good.β
His grip tightens in your hair, forcing your spine into an arch. You whimper. He laughs.
βYou always tell me to shut up in class,β he murmurs, dragging his lips along your neck, βbut I think I like you better when youβre the one trying not to make a sound.β
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