⋆.˚ gracie ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Whatever Etsy witch he paid to ruin your life would have been hunted during the Salem witch trials because you never find peace following the breakup. You find out he’d been cheating on you with a plethora of girls, you find out the lady living in the apartment next to yours is moving out, and worst of all, you find out the free elective course you enrolled in specifically to take it easy gives you an assignment on love.

ARTS505: Screen Media Practice Assessment 1: Observational Short Film — “Love” Weighting: 30% Due: Friday, 11:59 p.m. Length: 3–5 minutes For this assessment, students are required to produce a short observational film responding to the theme of love.

Go fuck yourself.

The day your neighbour next door moves out, you tear up at the news and let her believe it’s because you’ll miss her and not because you’re terrified her replacement won’t be nearly as forgiving.

Because she smiles when you run into her at the bottom of the staircase and gives you small containers of food, nagging you in the way old women do about eating healthy and sleeping early. To her sweet, unassuming face, you tell her you will though you won’t, and she’ll nod like she believes you and tells you she’ll try to keep it down, kindly avoiding the fact that she can hear you wail at atrocious hours in the night when you’ve assumed everyone has already fallen asleep.

She understood the highs and lows of being a newly single woman in this current social environment. But whoever moves in next? You’re not so sure will.

Okay, so maybe you do miss her.

Because you find out someone new has moved in from the heavy thumping of feet crossing the floor, the thuds of boxes dropped onto the floorboards, the vibrations seeping into your own floors. It seems Naoya’s Etsy witch still has their grip on you because your new neighbour is horrible. They play loud music in the morning, the afternoon, late at night, usually right when you have convinced yourself that this night you will finally get eight uninterrupted hours of blissful sleep. Thuds, banging, thumping, any onomatopoeia, your neighbour has done it.

Sometimes, they leave a pair of sneakers outside their door for two whole days, directly in your path to the stairs, so you have to step around them every morning. Their moving boxes sit in the hallway for so long they might as well be furniture, and you’ve started dumping your tote on the tower of them whenever you dig around for your keys. Packages get delivered to your door instead of theirs. They seem to always be ordering DoorDash, too, the scent of something sugary-sweet seeping under your door until you start craving DoorDash yourself. 

It’s even worse today. You’d come home with groceries instead of takeout, washed your bedsheets for the first time in a long while, lit a candle called Midnight Sunset, and sat down at your desk with the firm intention of brainstorming your film assignment.  Then, from the other side of your bedroom wall, your neighbour starts assembling what can only be a large, flat-packed piece of furniture. For forty minutes, there is nothing but the intermittent scrape of wood, the clattering of metal parts, occasional low murmured curses, and one very loud crash that caused the floorboards to tremble, along with all the tiny screws that rattled in an echo. By the time the banging finally stops, your candle has burned unevenly, your tea has long gone cold, and the only thing written under love film ideas is: ‘kill him’.

shoko: utahime and i are heading to the library to lock in we’re inviting you so you can’t say shit like there’s always a duo in a trio but don’t actually come we’re probably gonna js make out

you: ?

utahime: she’s joking we’re going to study

shoko: booo u whore you’re a cockblock y/n

you: i literally didn’t do anything if anything utahime is cockblocking you but i’ll come if ygs are actually studying i need a fucking break

shoko: we aren’t

utahime: we are shut the fuck up shoko oh my god

shoko: whats with u y/n u sound grouchy

you: im going to kill my new neighbour hes playing shit music through the wall like i miss the old lady so bad

shoko: you really gotta complain to the landlord or smth

you: hell no im not a snitch

utahime: ure weirdly compassionate abt the wrong things hows the assignment going?

shoko: teacher teacher! im snitching!

you: ? do u want me to snitch or not and its not going good at all how can i think about love when theres someone playing phonk in my ear at 6pm on a random tuesday afternoon?

shoko: have u even seen this person?? go up and give them a piece of ur mind or smth also come lib

you: give me a sec i might ive never seen them though theyre usually out at weird times and doesnt really sleep in their own room ?? but what if its a 40 yo gymrat and i get bodied

utahime: yeah thats actually scary write a note or something

shoko: and then come library

you: give me fifteen minutes

Perhaps Shoko’s insistence on going to the library is contagious because you’re suddenly eager to rip out a piece of paper to spill just how much you appreciate phonk in your ears to your neighbour. Or maybe you really just want to tell your neighbour to die.

It starts off innocently enough, the last of your patience allowing kinder words and a light reminder that your neighbour isn’t the only one living in this creaky, ancient building. But then it gets to you, the music, the thudding, the inability to remove laundry from the laundry machine appropriately, and you find you’re pressing the lead of your pencil deep into the paper until it almost leaves a mark on the table beneath.

You heave out a breath of pure catharsis and read it over, giving it an approving nod. This will certainly do.

Then, with your heart much lighter and a perk in your step, you sling your tote over your shoulder and head for the door. Instead of walking to the elevator after you’ve locked up, you make a small detour to your neighbours door and bend down to slide the letter under their door.

There, problem fixed.

With a smile, you turn and walk to the library, oddly lighter for it.

Shoko and Utahime thankfully do not make out the entire time you’re at the library. Unfortunately, they’re still Shoko and Utahime and the three of you waste time gossiping about the high school dead horse that just broke up again instead of doing anything productive. Your document for planning your films remains as empty as ever, only now it’s been shared to two email addresses so they can witness your writer’s block unfold in real time.

By the time you drag yourself back from the library, night has already settled in and you have to use your phone’s flashlight to illuminate the path to your building. The hallway is hushed in that apartment building kind of way, distant television laughter, pipes clinking somewhere behind the walls, the hum of someone’s microwave. You’re fishing for your keys when you notice it, a torn corner of lined paper stuck to your door with blutack.

You blink, too tired to make the connection straight away, brain still slogging through the haze of a caffeine crash. But then you peel it free, turn it over, and squint at the scrawny handwriting on the back.

are you twelve? what’s with the note passing come talk to me if you have an issue also i told the landlord btw lol have fun with that —4b

You crumple the note in your hand.

That fucking asshole.

The landlord does, in fact, show up at your door the next morning wearing a stern expression and with even sterner words. You apologise with a tight smile, offering up the half-truth that you’ve been under a lot of stress lately and didn’t mean it. And then, because two can play at that game, you finally snitch on 4B too, feeling a sharp jolt of triumph when the landlord sighs and assures you that’ll be having a word with the resident next door.

You incorrectly assume that’s the last of it. Because when you come home at the end of another long day of classes, there’s a sticky note taped to your door.

snitch

A disbelieving huff slips out of you as you let yourself into your apartment, your tote sliding off your shoulder with a dull thump, hands too busy flattening the wrinkled paper to catch it. Five minutes ago, all you wanted was to collapse face-first into bed and sleep through the rest of the day. Now, irritation blazes through you so quickly it feels like caffeine, sharp and immediate, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re fishing a pen from your bag and scrawling a reply across the back.

you literally snitched first asshole. maybe if you weren’t playing anime music at 7pm in the evening i wouldn’t have to snitch on u at all

You stick it to his door on your way back from taking out the trash, pressing your palm against the paper just to make sure it stays there. When you leave the next morning for your usual nine a.m., another note is waiting.

you literally told me to die im not a masochist i wasn’t gonna let that slide ps. ntm on the digimon opening theme that’s something special to me

You write a reply during class, sticking it to his door when you come home.

and u’ve been loud as fuck ever since u moved in here yk the apartment has thin walls right? also what the hell is digimon

It doesn’t take long this time. You’re still boiling water for a coffee when there’s a faint tap at your door. When you open it, there’s a new note stuck smack in the middle, scrawled in hurried letters. You glance up and down the hallway and see no one, and smile as you step back inside.

then just walk those five steps to my door and tell me next time? and ofc someone as unfun as u has never experienced the highs and lows of digimon in ur childhood it all makes sense now

You sip your coffee as you pen your reply.

i swear i’ve knocked in the morning and u didn’t open the door so r u gonna keep edging me or r u gonna tell me what digimon is

It’s only after you’ve already closed your door that you realise you didn’t respond to his second comment so you quickly take a pen and walk back to his door, pursing your lips in effort as you try to add another line against the door. Maybe you’re imagining it but you swear you hear footsteps pause on the other side of the door.

also i just searched it up and i can’t believe my next door neighbour is 12 years old watching cartoons

You quickly scurry back to your apartment just in time, hearing their door open after yours just as you closed yours. A couple seconds later, there’s a knock.

digimon is NOT just for kids

You stare at the note for a second, oddly thrown by the concession considering it had seemed too easy. You’d expected another argument, maybe some smug reply, maybe an insult in even messier handwriting. But instead, he had simply folded.

For some reason, it feels less like a victory and more like a sudden end to something you hadn’t realised you were enjoying. Your other neighbours probably didn’t feel the same considering they had to listen to you and 4B open and close your doors consecutively for the past few minutes.

Still, you tell yourself as you peel the note off the door, a win is a win.

The next morning, you check your door out of habit and is immediately rewarded by a piece of a4 paper stuck to the front.

hey 4a, first of all i want to say that i’ve been very good and very quiet recently which i hope pleases you. please acknowledge my growth — 4b

Because you’re lazy, you flip the paper over and write.

4b, sure ur growth has been noted (?) i feel like there’s more to this do u need something — 4a

You slide it under his door before you can overthink it. By the time you come home that afternoon, there is another note waiting.

4a, thank you for acknowledging my progress but i fear i have received your criticism and decided not to grow from it. maybe head out for the evening also important question do u own a screwdriver ?? thanks, 4b

You frown then write back:

why?

Five minutes later, his reply slides under your door and you watch as the paper slips through completely before standing and reaching for it.

i give u a yes or no question and u still manage to dodge do u own one or not? please. — 4b

The next time you tape a note to his door, you also leave a screwdriver on the ground beneath.

u better give this back

You’re halfway to backing your things for the library when his reply slides under your door. You pick it up while locking your apartment and read as you walk, catching the tail ends of some heavy thudding and hammering from the door beside yours.

people assume just because im a man i must have five screwdriver variants in my drawers or smth anyway im making furniture for my friend and its ikea :( wish me luck 

You snort despite yourself, tucking the note into your pocket as another dull bang sounds behind his door. 

“Good luck,” you think as you walk by, and then, less generously, “and good luck to all the other people living in this building.” 

The library turns out to be the right choice. You spend three hours pretending to work, two hours ranting to the group chat about Naoya’s latest monthly photo dump, and fifteen minutes with your fingers tapping away at your keyboard which is still fifteen minutes more of productivity that you wouldn’t have achieved at your apartment so you’d call that a success.

When you come home, you brace yourself before reaching your floor. 

Surprisingly, there’s a lack of any noise at all. No thudding, no  scrapping, no IKEA-related violence. Your screwdriver sits neatly outside your door, wrapped in a sticky note. 

returned in one piece like i promised! im hoping u took my advice and left the building otherwise can u write your complaint in five words or less? im sleepy zzz

You look at his door, a reluctant smile on your face. For the first time since he moved in, you wonder if maybe the problem was never that he was impossible to live beside. Maybe the walls were thin, and he was loud, and you were miserable, and neither of you had known how to be people around each other yet. 

Maybe, if you both communicated like normal neighbours, this could actually work. 

If you assumed life would look up following this revelation, then you’re sorely underestimating the evil forces (read: Naoya’s Etsy witch) conspiring against your happiness. 

Because the next morning, it isn’t some upbeat anime opening that wakes you up. Instead, it’s the mucus trapped in your airways and the pounding at your temples, dragging you from the dead only to make you feel worse for it. You throw your duvet over your head and pray that when you resurface, your cold will have miraculously disappeared. It doesn’t work, to no surprise, though that thought irritates you too. Then again, maybe that’s just the built up annoyance from having your nose blocked. Miserable and stuffy, you close your eyes and remind yourself to take in a deep breath through your nose when you’ve healed, just to not take it for granted. 

It’s times like this when you miss your good-for-nothing ex, times like this when you remember there used to be someone you could text without thinking, someone you could badger for some chicken noodle soup and maybe a hug and a kiss on your forehead. 

Your own weakness pisses you off.

With great effort, you drag yourself upright and shuffle into your kitchen, pawing through empty pantries. Any plans of heading to that early morning tutorial this morning immediately leaves your mind at your pathetic show of strength. 

You’re halfway through grabbing cereal, any other breakfast option simply too tedious, when a loud voice cuts through the haze. 

“Yeah, she just didn’t get it. And when you have to explain a joke, it’s already over. No dude, obviously it’s her fault for not being with it and not because I’m unfunny, don’t even kid.”

You frown slightly, munching on another chip, thumb scrolling past a video you’re not even sure you watched. Who the hell says ‘with it’?

“If you don’t fuck with with it, then you’re one of the people who aren’t with it. You’re without it.” He continues.

You make a small noise of consideration, vaguely thinking that you might get along with his friend as they seemingly voice your own thoughts.

Your neighbour continues, undeterred from his friend’s unenthusiastic responses. “There’s no chance I’m seeing her again. She did text me but I’m just going to leave her on delivered. Is it cruel or is it saving myself from someone who called my Agumon keychain the deformed twin Charmander consumed in the womb?”

You laugh, sound muffled when your neighbour’s voice peaks.

“He doesn’t, Charmander is from a completely different franchise! And I’ll have you know that keychain was from an artist at Anime Con so when you’re picking on my little guy, you’re making fun of a small business.”

A pause. You scrunch your nose.

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to call it my little guy. If it helps, I gave my dick she/her pronouns like how a truck guy calls his truck a real beauty so she’s not my little guy.”

You snort, crunching down on a chip. You wonder if that sweet salesman next door is as enthralled in 4B’s love life as you were.

“Don’t make such a disgusted sound, she’ll take offence.”

There’s shuffling from above as your neighbour supposedly shifts to a different position, now closer to you such that you could faintly make out the voice of his friend.

“Is liking Agumon such a big deal breaker for you?” his friend says, voice smoother than the whiny tilt in 4B’s.

“Honestly, no. Agumon is my favourite character and I’m not really comfortable sharing him with others because he means a lot to me. But then when I started talking about Digimon she asked me why I didn’t just get a Pikachu keychain instead since everyone at least knew Pikachu and it’ll save me from the questions. Pikachu. The mainstream corporate mouse.”

“Okay,” his friend sighs, “but to be fair, most people know more about Pokemon than Digimon. At least she was trying?”

“That’s the problem!” your neighbour fires back and the image of him in your head changes around his enthusiasm about digital monsters. “No one gives Digimon the respect that it deserves. People act like it’s Pokemon’s weird cousin when really it’s more like Pokemon’s smarter, cooler, better-dressed older sibling who went overseas to continue pursuing their education.”

“And did you tell her that?”

“Yeah, right there in the restaurant."

“You’re never getting a second date.”

He snorts, apparently offended. “Please, like I wanted one.”

Despite yourself you laugh though the silence that follows is enough to rid you of all your amusement. Awkwardly, you trail off by clearing your throat, feeling somewhat like a creep for letting your eavesdropping be known. All this talk about knowing to stay quiet and yet you catch yourself slipping.

You listen as 4B says a quick goodbye to his friend. There’s a rustle, a soft thud, and then his voice comes again, closer this time, like he’s leaned right up against the wall between your apartments.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

For one fleeting second, you think that if this were a horror movie, he would absolutely be the first to die. Not that you’d fare much better, considering you answer him.

“Hi.”

There’s a small pause, then, “No way. 4A? What the hell, I thought you already left for class.”

Your heart skips, thudding against your ribs. For a second, you consider staying quiet and let the walls swallow the moment whole. Pretend it wasn’t you, pretend like the two of you haven’t been trading insults like you were passing notes in class.

There had been a fragile understanding between the two of you to never reach out. And yet, in this moment, you can’t bring yourself to remember why.

You clear your throat, thick with the tail end of your cold. “Well it looks like you guessed wrong. Do I need to send you another death threat for you to keep it down?”

You hear him wince, a quiet sound muffled by the walls. “Maybe we should go back to writing notes to each other. I didn’t know you’d sound like a 40 year old smoker.”

“I’m sick, jackass.”

He hums, unconvinced. There’s a beat of silence as he thinks of what to say. Then, “So, you’re a girl?”

Your eyes roll to your ceiling as you sigh, whatever you were expecting immediately thrown away. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

He huffs out a small chuckle like he can hear the exasperation in your voice and finds it amusing. “I’m just surprised. I mean, you’re so mean to me. Girls usually love me, you know, I’m kind of a ladies’ man.”

That pulls a laugh out of you, rough on your sore throat but impossible to stop. “You? With that personality? Consider me the one surprised.”

“I’m serious. I’m kind of a campus celebrity. Girls flock to me.”

You hoist yourself up onto the kitchen counter, angling your back against the wall where his voice comes through clearest. “You don’t have to lie to impress me.”

There’s a pause and you wonder if your playful insults had gone a little too far in your sick state.

“Oh, I might be into this.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” There’s the faint sound of movement on the other side before your mysterious neighbour talks again. “I meant, what type of person do you think I am then?”

“Considering you fumbled a first date because of a cartoon, I think you have your answer,” you coo with faux sympathy. “You should be nicer to her since I’m sure your cooldown for the next date might take a while.”

“First of all,” he says, apparently offended. “It’s not a cartoon. Second, she fumbled the date on her end. It was a necessary culling for me.”

You snort. “You got dumped over Digimon, let’s settle down.”

“You didn’t even know what Digimon was until I put you on a few days ago.”

You shrug, despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture. “And now that I know it’s even more pathetic. Agumon is the weird orange dinosaur thing, right?”

His whine comes through the wall, only cementing the fact that whoever is on the other side might be the biggest nerd you know. You wonder if he lied about not being a masochist considering he’s taking your insults pretty well. “Hey, come on. He’s just a cute little guy.”

“Right,” you draw out, unimpressed. “Don’t glaze him when he might be the reason you’re a social shut in.”

“That’s a new one. I am now, am I?”

“Please,” you start, warming up to the idea as she speak it into existence. “If women are all over you like you claim they are, why haven’t I heard anyone come over? You and I both know just how thin the walls in this place is.”

“Exactly,” he shoots back. “So why would I bring them back here? Unless you want to be kept awake all night.”

That makes you laugh, the idea of this voice you’re hearing now having any experience at all extremely humourous, much less with the ability to go all night long. You can almost imagine the state of his room, littered with anime posters and plushies making sex feel like a group activity. If you looked up past his figure over you, you’d probably see neon light up stars on his ceilings.

“If you can talk so much about my love life,” he trails off, voice deceptively casual and airy, “do you have a boyfriend?”

That makes you freeze. Something hard and spiky settles in your stomach and you shift on the countertop, searching for a spot that’s comfortable because for some reason, it feels like you’ve lost it. “No.”

The voice doesn’t say anything for a while. “My bad. Touchy subject?”

You shrug despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture and pull your legs to your chest. “It’s fine. It’s been, like, half a year. He was a douche anyway.”

“Okay, six months, not bad.”

Hearing the slight mumble from the other side of the wall but unable to understand it coherently, you frown and press your ear closer. “What was that?”

4B clears his throat. “I’m just saying maybe don’t talk shit when I haven’t heard you bring anyone over either.”

You roll your eyes, forcing your shoulders to relax and somewhat grateful at his deflection. “At least I don’t claim to be a microcelebrity. I keep my circle small and that works.”

“Is there room for one more?”

A laugh escapes you, genuine and surprised. “Why? Asking for a friend or yourself?”

You can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “You diagnosed me as a social shut in, remember? I’m clearing asking for myself.”

“We’ll see, 4B,” you say, though you’re matching his tone with a smile. It doesn’t, however, stop your voice from sounding croakier than intended and you have to painfully make an awkward gargling sound to clear your throat a number of times.

4B winces sympathetically, and he lets you get the worst of it out before speaking again. “Sounds like you might need some water and then a nap.”

“Trust me, that was the plan.”

You start to wiggle down from your counter and grab something to drink, wrongly assuming the conversation ends here.

“Are we going to talk again?” he asks in a rush, and you huff as your feet touch the ground.

“We live next to each other, genius. I don’t think I could avoid you even if I tried.”

“And would you try?”

You sip from your glass, ignoring him.

“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll win you over, just wait.” There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s grinning, you can hear it in the peaks of his voice. “I’ll try to keep it down for you. And then maybe you’ll be less grouchy when you wake up?”

“Go fuck yourself, 4B.”

You roll your eyes, glad that there’s a wall between you to prevent him from seeing your smile. “Goodnight, 4A.”

Gojo Satoru isn’t a man who lacks. 

He’s got the grades (barely, but they’re there), the genes (obviously), the height (something even Suguru finds unfair), the charm (obnoxious), and a reputation on campus that both precedes and betrays him. He walks into a room and people notice. Professors sigh, girls nudge each other, guys scowl though it’ll be his friends that’ll roll their eyes at his presence first. 

He is used to winning. More importantly, he is used to having almost everything in a way that requires very little effort on his part. 

So what the hell is he doing, lying on his bedroom floor where the voice of a stranger still lingers, staring at his wall like it might crack open and offer him answers? She hadn’t even said much, not enough to leave this big of an impression. 

Maybe it was the shock that the person leaving at ungodly hours in the morning beneath him was a girl. He doesn’t know why he’d assumed otherwise. Maybe because the notes had always read so dry, so flat, so quick to snap back at him that somewhere along the way he’d started hearing them in Suguru’s voice. 

Except the voice through the wall had been unmistakably feminine, and now Gojo was having the deeply inconvenient realisation that he might, in fact, be into that. 

It wasn’t even what she said more so how she said it, offhanded and easy as if talking to him was nothing, like he was nothing. and curse his enormous ego, he was Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake. He’s got at least three people in his dms right now asking what he’s up to tonight and it would be as easy as typing back “nothing” to have any one of them. 

But none of them had left a note that told him to get his shit together. None of them made him laugh when ten seconds prior he was so ready to implode, none of them had him craning to his floor like some desperate victorian man listening to the ghostly whispers through the thin plaster. 

Gojo drags a hand down his face, then turns his head again to look at it.

The wall. Plain, off-white, slightly cracked near the skirting board, absolutely identical to every other wall in this terrible building and yet suddenly the most compelling thing in his apartment because now, you’re behind it. Separated from him by a few layers of plaster and paint and bad insulation, close enough that he can hear your laugh if the room is quiet, close enough that he can picture you leaning back against the other side without ever having seen it happen.

Gojo runs a hand through his hair, frowning. 

“This is bad,” he mutters for the second time that day as he explores the foreign feeling in his chest. 

The urge to hear from her again beats like a second heart in his chest, and the distinction between hear and see is important because now it feels less about appearances and more about something else, something he doesn’t have a smug enough name for yet.

Gojo reaches for his laptop, then drops it back onto the floor a second later when even pretending to do work feels stupid when he’s one bad decision away from knocking on the wall just to see if you answer.

Because Gojo doesn’t lack. 

Yet tonight, as he sits on his cold carpet, phone face-down beside him and no urge to answer any of his unread messages, he realises he might be wanting. 

The next time you wake, your fever has left you in an uncomfortable puddle of your own sweat, damp sheets sticking to your skin. A reluctant glance at your alarm clock confirms the worst: it’s 7 a.m. the next day, and you have a 9 a.m. lecture to attend. Somehow, you’d managed to sleep through a near-complete twenty-four-hour cycle, vaguely only remembering how you had stumbled out of bed for the bathroom or small bites of whatever you could find. 

When you open your door to make a hasty exit, jammed toast between your teeth and the delirious hope that you’ll run into a handsome guy around the corner of your block, you almost trip over something that ends your hopes (and almost your life). Thankfully, you catch yourself on your hands and glare down at the perpetrator. 

A sports drink looks back up at you, adorned with a yellow sticky note stuck to its side. After looking left and right down the empty corridor, you pick up the bottle and read the note. 

im not a fan of sick neighbour asmr —4b

You snort despite yourself, heading for the stairs. On the way, you flip the note around and pen a short reply, sticking it to 4B’s door before heading out. 

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Somehow, despite being sick, Shoko shows up to your tutorial later than you. You wave as she dumps her tote under the table and flops unceremoniously into the seat beside you. 

“Are you still sick?” she asks in lieu of a greeting. “You shouldn’t come to class if you’re not feeling well.” 

“What makes you think I’m still sick?” you ask in a voice that can only be attributed to years of smoking or recovering from sickness. 

She gives you a look. “Right. So the eyebags are just your usual go to?”

“It would be fucked up if i always looked like this and you just called me ugly.” You cover your face with your hands. “But it’s not that bad, is it? I still have a reputation I care about.” 

“I’m genuinely afraid of telling you the truth because it might push you over the edge. So yes, girl you look gorgeous.” 

You roll your eyes, slumping to rest your cheek against your arms, looking at her from the side. Her phone vibrates and you hear it loud with your ear pressed against the desk, flinching slightly until she picks it up. 

“What is it?” 

Shoko lets out an unamused huff and shows you the screen. 

gojo (DO NOT ANSWER): wanna hit me up with the pre lab questions? 

It would be a mission to go through university without hearing the name ‘Gojo Satoru’ whether in secretive whispers or muffled in laughter. For one, he’s sport captain for some sport you’ve never paid enough attention to remember. He’s stupidly charming in a way that makes people sigh even when they’re rolling their eyes with an accompanying begrudged smile. Half the girls in your course claim he’s flirted with them whilst the other half say they’d punch him given the chance, before pausing and muttering something like, “but he’s kind of funny, I guess.” 

The only other piece of information you know about him is that he’s loud, annoyingly so which places you in that category of girls that would more likely punch him in the stomach than kiss him. 

You wonder how on earth Shoko could be friends with someone her complete opposite. 

You look up and raise an eyebrow at her. “Well? Are you going to?”

“Do you read with your eyes closed? I clearly saved his contact as ‘do not answer’. If Gojo wants pre-lab questions that badly, he can go flirt them out of one of his fifty fans.”

You snort.“Glad to know you’re a bad friend to everyone and not just me.”

She shrugs. “He thinks I owe him a huge favour for something he did for me a while ago when that is not true at all. I’m sure there’s other people he can hit up for answers. You know how he is, there’s always someone trailing after him like a lost puppy.” 

“Considering I don’t know the guy, no not really,” you say, nudging your cheek more firmly into your folded arms, locking in for a storytime. “Tell me about him.”

Shoko narrows her eyes at you. “You want to know about him?”

“Girl,” you huff, “like gossip. I promise I’m not a groupie. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had a conversation with him so don’t look at me like that.”

“That makes sense. He’s usually only on lower campus so there’s little chance of him showing up randomly, anyway.” 

“Sounds like you don’t like him,” you say, intelligently. 

“I’ve been stuck with him and Geto since high school,” she starts and you actually feel bad for her. “God forbid I don’t want to see him in my formative years, too.” 

You laugh because misfortune is always better on others than yourself. “Now you have to tell me. What did he do to you?”

Shoko doesn’t seem amused. She looks you up and down, eyes narrowing at the smile on your face. “You know, I’m actually an incredible friend and as a friend who cares about you deeply, let me tell you this. You do not want to hook up with him.”

You splutter, lifting your head. “What the fuck? I just wanted to know about the guy! Can we start with being friends first, damn?”

“Let’s just say I know him,” your best friend continues, unfazed. “He wouldn’t be able to stay as just friends with someone like you.”

“Okay, and what the fuck does that even mean?”

“Look,” she says, and you open your mouth to cut her off because the telltale signs that she’s about to change the topic are there. “He’s also in Sig Kap.” The words hit like cold water. Whatever fragile lightness had been carrying you through the morning dims all at once. Shoko notices immediately, of course she does, and some of the bite leaves her expression.

“I just thought you should know.”

You slump back into your chair, crossing your arms and looking down at your table, contemplating if you should start banging your head against the hard surface and end your suffering. “What a mood killer. Did you really have to bring that up?”

“I’m just saying, if you start seeing Gojo around, the chances of also seeing your ex is very high. Sure, they’re not in the same frat but they’re both still in that same group of guys. You know, inter-fraternity relations.” 

“There’s a lot of assuming going on right now, like the fact that I would even see Gojo in the first place, but I’ll let it slide because I suddenly feel the urge to shoot myself in the head.” 

“I thought you were over your ex?”

You don’t say anything for a while, trying to muse out the complex ball of feelings in your gut. 

You had been falling out of love with Naoya for months before the breakup. Maybe even longer, if you’re being honest. It wasn’t like it happened all at once, and there wasn’t one dramatic collapse, no one, big, awful fight, just a slow and steady erosion. A hundred small disappointments, a hundred moments of realising he was more interested in having a girlfriend than being a boyfriend. He forgets the things you tell him, interrupts you to tell your own stories better, talks all pretty to your girl friends and then simultaneously talks shit to you about them when you ask him to stop requesting them on Instagram. 

So if you do miss him, then you might have a masochist streak in you. 

What you miss, maybe, is who you were before all of that. The version of you that believed romance was something soft and mutual and worth fighting for, instead of something performative that slowly hollows itself out while you stand there insisting it’s still alive.

“Y/N?”

You blink and realise Shoko is watching you. “Oh, uh. I am over him. I just wish I could have the pre-Naoya me back, that’s all.”

Shoko makes a disgusted sound on your behalf. “Do not say his name. I gagged.”

“Right?” You shake your head and dismiss whatever useless thoughts still linger, forcing yourself to relax back into something a little more light-hearted. “But it’s whatever. I’ve learnt my lesson now, frat boys are not to be trusted and dating one is like draining all the whimsy out of your body. I honestly don’t care about him anymore and I wouldn’t even think about him at all if I didn’t have that film to make.”

That makes your best friend giggle. “The one about love.”

“Is this funny to you?” you ask with a huff, but you’re grateful that she doesn't force you to say any more than you’re ready for.

“Extremely.” She nods, then dodges when you reach over to try and playfully hit her. “Look, I’m sure inspiration will hit you soon. Love always arrives when you least expect it, and all that.”

You give her a long look, face unmoving. “I don’t want the girl with the girlfriend of three years to say that. Get out of my face.”

Shoko laughs loudly, and you both trail off as the lecture starts. 

The rest of class passes in the usual blur of half-listening and half-heartedly playing minesweeper on the google chrome extension open on your laptop. By the time you make it back to the sketchy, wilted building you unfortunately call home, winter evening has settled in for real, the kind that turns everything blue-grey and has you squinting down the street every few minutes just to make sure the shape in the distance is a person and not a fire hydrant. You had to use your phone’s flashlight for this, and in the last few steps up to your apartment, it betrays you by dying. 

Thankfully, you still manage to make it to your place in one piece. 

You peel the note off your door on your way in, flick on the lights, and let your tote bag drop to the floor with a tired thud.

feeling better?

A soft smile tugs at your mouth before it fades just as quickly, replaced by a small furrow in your brow. Weird.

You’re halfway to the kitchen to find the stack of sticky notes you left on the island in a rush this morning when the world abruptly cuts out.

“The fuck—”

“Ow!” In the sudden darkness, you misjudge the turn around the counter and slam straight into the corner of it.

From the other side of the wall, 4B’s voice comes a little louder. “4A? You okay?”

You suck in a sharp breath, one hand nursing your hip as you try to steady yourself. “Yeah. Just walked straight into my counter corner. What the fuck happened?”

There’s the sound of faint footsteps, then the creak of something shifting as he leans against the wall in his kitchen. “I think this is what they call a power outage. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“I know that, smartass,” you mutter, though not so quietly where he can’t hear. “But how did that happen? It’s not even storming or anything.”

“What’s wrong? Scared of the dark?”

You scoff, already dreading the upcoming conversation. Despite this, you fumble to where that familiar countertop sits against the connecting wall between your apartments and hoist yourself up easily, leaning back so his voice is clearer when he speaks. “No. We pay rent for this place, of course I want to know what’s happening when the lights all suddenly cut.”

“I can text the landlord. If it happened to both of us then it’s probably a building wide thing so it’ll be their responsibility. But all we can do is wait.”

You sigh, long and full of suffering. “This sucks. Couldn’t the power go off at midnight or something?”

“I’ll let the landlord know your availability.” 

You roll your eyes and make yourself comfortable, relenting to stay for however long it’ll take for there to be light again. You mourn the death of your phone then, holding the power button for some kind of miracle and get reminded that, once again, your life sucks and is only full of betrayal and tragedy. 

For a short moment, silence settles between you, and suddenly you’re struck by the irritating realisation that beyond his notes, his terrible taste in alarms, and his frankly irresponsible attachment to Digimon, you know almost nothing about the stranger on the other side of the wall.

“So,” you start.

“Yeah?”

“What were you up to? You know, before the power went out and everything.”

“Curious, hm?” your neighbour replies, that irritating teasing tilt in his tone. “I was just about to lock in for an assignment so I can focus on the midterms coming up in a week.” 

You hum. “What course are you doing?” 

“Physics. And I know what you’re going to say—”

You snort. “Nerd.” 

“You know, some people find intelligence attractive.”

“Do those people also happen to be the same imaginary campus-wide fanbase you keep bringing up?” 

He laughs and you immediately lock onto the pleasant sound, not because you particularly care, but when your vision is knocked out, everything you hear seems amplified. Including the pretty tilt in his tone, the richness in his laugh, and the fact that his voice sits somewhere deeper than you expected from his petulant notes.

“Well, what about you, then? If I’m the resident physics nerd, what are you?” 

You glance out into your dark apartment, the outline of your living room barely there in what little evening light still makes it through the windows. Your camera sits somewhere on the table, your laptop buried inside your tote, your assignment still waiting to be done. 

“Film,” you say at last. “Well, not film-film. I’m just doing one elective this semester to boost my grades but if I could go back in time I would have picked that social media class everyone else does as a GPA booster.”

Your neighbour makes a sound of recognition. “Oh, that! Yeah, I took that in my first year. Our midterm was to write a report on the significance of ‘get ready with me’s’. I’m so serious.” 

You groan, dropping your head onto your knees. “I know, my friend was telling me how she did that class too.”

“Who’s your friend? Wouldn’t it be so funny if your friend was actually in my class that year?”

You roll your eyes. Shoko would have definitely told you about someone like him. “I doubt it. We do the same course and none of our classes are ever near the physics buildings.” 

He hums. “You never know. I get around.” 

That makes you laugh. “Sure, 4B. Let’s stick to hypothetical equations instead of your hypothetical maladaptive daydreams, okay?” 

“You pick on me too much,” he whines. “Give me something to work with, I’m starting to really feel this power imbalance. What’s your film assignment about?”

You let out a long breath through your nose, already hearing his voice in your head and every possible jab he can make. “It’s a film on love.”

He snorts. “Right, because when I talk to you I’m just overwhelmed by the love seeping out of you.”

You sigh. “Kill yourself.”

“See, this is what I mean.”

“All you know about me is my voice,” you shoot back, not necessarily offended so much as annoyed. “I’ve been told that I’m a very benevolent and kind person.”

He hums. “Maybe not when you’re so grouchy then.”

“I’m not being grouchy.”

“At least try and make your point come across.”

“My point is that I’m a delight,” you say flatly. “A warm presence, a gentle soul. Campus-wide rumours actually say I’m beloved by all who meet me.”

“Now who has the imaginary campus-wide fanbase?” he laughs, and even though you roll your eyes, it’s harder to hold onto your irritation when he sounds that pleased with himself.

The dark presses in around your apartment, turning everything into vague shapes and corners, but his voice keeps coming through the wall like a little light you cannot see.

“Okay, then,” he says after his laughing fit. “Prove it.”

You frown, even though he can’t see you. “Prove what?”

“That you’re not grouchy. That you’re a person full of fun and whimsy. If your film is about love, then tell me one thing you love.”

You make a face. “That sounds like world’s worst icebreaker.”

“Someone’s getting defensive,” he sings, sounding far too amused. “Come on, 4A. one thing. It doesn’t have to be deep. Actually, please don’t make it deep, I’m not emotionally prepared for that. Just something stupid that makes you happy. That’s still love, you know?”

You open your mouth with another complaint ready, but nothing comes out. Which is annoying, because it should be easy. Before Naoya, before the breakup, before the awful assignment and the worse timing, you had liked plenty of things without needing to justify them. You liked when orange and pink bleeds across the sky on the walk back from a long day of classes, you liked smiling at dogs when they crossed your paths on the streets, you liked the warmth of a delicious heated drink in your hands on a cold, winter morning. You liked watching people reunite at train stations, you liked filming light moving across your bedroom wall because, at the time, it had seemed like something worth keeping.

Now, asked to name that something out loud, your mind offers you nothing but static.

“Jesus, okay,” he says after a beat. “The silence is very telling.”

There is a soft scrape on his side of the wall, like he is sliding down to sit more comfortably. “Okay, I’ll go first since clearly you need a role model. I love when vending machines actually drop the thing you paid for instead of holding it hostage behind the glass. I love when you think a package is coming next week and then it arrives today like a tiny miracle.”

Despite yourself, you huff. “Sounds like you just love consumerism.”

“I also love when a dog on the street looks like it has somewhere important to be. Like, where are you going? Do you have a meeting? Are you late? Should I call ahead?”

Fuck, that was on your list too. 

“Fine,” you say, shifting on the counter until your socked foot bumps against one of the cabinet handles. “I love when you’re walking past a bakery and they’re making bread, but you’re not hungry, so you just get to enjoy the smell without spending money.” 

“How very financially responsible of you. You’re like the opposite of me. Anti-consumerism.” You can hear the grin in his voice. “Okay, next. We’re making a list now. That’s how brainstorming works, right?” 

You sigh like this is a burden, like you are not already turning the question over in your hands. “I love when the train comes right as you get to the platform.” 

“Really? That sounds stressful.” 

“I love when someone in front of you in line is ordering something complicated and you get annoyed, but then they’re actually really nice to the worker, so you forgive them.” 

“Because is it ever that serious?” 

You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you by pulling into a smile. It feels strange on your face, like trying on an old jacket you had forgotten in the back of your closet, something that had once been yours. It’s not a terrible feeling, you decide, perhaps just a little unfamiliar. 

“Okay, my turn again,” 4B says. “I love when you see someone running for the bus and the bus driver waits for them.” 

“That’s rare, some people have that sadistic bone in their body that wants to only see others suffer.” 

“Which is why it makes those off chance moments better. Rarity increases market value.” 

“There’s that consumerism bleeding through again.” 

A thought arrives quietly, not quite the decision you were hoping for in the library, but it’s a small, familiar itch of wanting to keep something before it passes.

“I love when someone laughs so hard they make the other person start laughing even if they don’t know what’s funny,” he continues.

Your eyes have gone to the table again. There isn’t a clean, decisive moment to it, certainly no sudden burst of artistic purpose that you might call inspiration. You simply slide off the counter while he keeps talking, careful not to knock your hip into the corner again and feel your way through the dim apartment toward your camera.

“Also,” he continues, completely unaware. “I love finishing a book or movie and getting so into it that you look it up on Twitter for everyone else’s take.”

“Sounds like you just struggle to form an original thought on your own.”

“I’m superseding my opinion.”

“Oh, what a big word! Good job, 4B.”

You finally find your dust camera hidden by more important things, and take it back to the kitchen.

The room is too dark for the lens to catch anything properly. For a second, you nearly give up, but then your gaze lands on the candle sitting untouched on your dining table, the one you bought months ago because it smelled like vanilla and cedarwood and you had convinced yourself buying one candle would somehow turn your apartment into a Pinterest board’s dream. You’ve never lit it.

But for some reason, the desire to make a mark in the wax comes to front and you set it on the windowsill without any more thinking.

The lighter takes three tries to catch.

“What’s that clicking sound?”

“What clicking sound?” you mumble, brows burrowed as the fire dies again.

“Am I going crazy? Just warning you but I have crazy keen hearing. And now with my sight gone, I’m even more locked in. Sounds like… are you lighting a birthday cake? Is it your birthday?”

“That’s what you think of first when you hear a light?” You don’t know whether to laugh or coo at his innocence in your dorky neighbour. “I’m just lighting a candle because it’s dark.”

The candle flame shivers to life, small and uneven. Throwing a weak gold light over the window ledge and the lower half of the glass. It’s frankly a terrible light source, dim but somehow managing to catch the smudge of your fingerprints on the window and turns the kitchen sink into a dark, warped shape in the reflection. When you prop the camera up against your water jug, lifted by two stacked coasters, the frame tilts slightly to the left.

You hit record.

“Okay, your turn,” he says.

You blink at the red dot on the camera screen. “What?”

“It’s your turn again. Don’t think I didn’t notice you going quiet there. Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean you can get away with not contributing your part to this list.”

“As if you’re keeping track of everything.” You settle back against the counter, close enough to the camera that your voice will catch. “Okay, here’s one. I love it when people apologise to furniture after walking into it. Oh, and, when someone saves you a seat.”

He hums, turning the thought over in his head. “That’s a good one. Could even be your thesis statement for your film, honestly. Something pretentious. Like how love is making room.”

You giggle. “Love is setting aside a space for someone.” 

“Love as chair politics,” he says smartly. 

“Love is an empty seat: an interdisciplinary exploration into effort-based decision-making.” 

“Okay, you made this not fun by actually sounding smart. What the hell is effort-based decision-making?” 

“Google is free.”

You hear the grin in his voice as he bounces off your words. “So is a tree, hang from it.” 

The laugh leaves you before you can stop it. It is sharp and ugly, startled out of you in a way that makes you clap a hand over your mouth too late. The sound echoes faintly in your dark kitchen, caught by the camera, your shadow probably distorted by the terrible angle and the water jug propping it upright. 

There is a beat of silence on the other side of the wall. Then, quietly, delightedly, “Oh, you thought that was funny. You think I’m funny?” 

“Please, it was a fluke.” 

“That was the healthiest you’ve sounded all day.”

You make an offended noise and reach blindly toward the counter until your hand lands on a tea towel. You throw it at the wall and it hits with a soft, deeply unsatisfying slap before flopping onto the floor. 

He gasps. “Did you just throw something at me?” 

“Consider it a formal complaint.” 

“I’m snitching to the landlord.” 

“Tell them to fix the power while you’re there.” 

“Fine. But I’m adding attempted murder on top of that previous violent note.” 

You shake your head to yourself, still smiling. If you were sane, you might take the time to wonder what the fuck you were doing, sitting on your kitchen counter, arguing with a man you’ve yet to seen, smiling like an idiot at your own wall. And yet, you hesitate to move. 

For a moment, neither of you say anything and a silence that isn’t quite awkward settles over you both. 

Then, with a sudden electric hum, the fridge kicks back on and the ceiling light blinks once, twice, and then floods the kitchen in a harsh yellow that makes you squint, and makes your neighbour curse in surprise. 

“Oh!” 

From the other side of the wall, he lets out a sigh. “Boo.” 

You laugh again, leaning over to check your camera. “Boo?”

“I was having fun,” he says, almost accusingly. “The dark was doing wonders for our dynamic. You were less mean when you couldn’t see.”

“You mean when I was visually impaired and vulnerable?”

“Exactly. It was bringing out your softer side. Or maybe it was all me.”

Looking at the camera, you see that the little red dot is glowing steadily on the screen, and only then remember what you were meant to be doing in the first place. Most of the clip is probably just your kitchen window, your voice too close to the mic and his voice muffled through the plaster, the two of you listing stupid things that barely count as anything. 

Still, your fingers hesitates over the stop button. 

On the other side of the wall, he shifts and the wall groans. “You alive over there? The light didn’t evaporate you when they turned back on, did they?” 

You press stop. “Now how does that make any sense?” 

You pick up the camera, thumb hovering over the saved clip. The thumbnail is dark and grainy, almost useless at first glance, but when you play the first second back, your own laugh cracks through the tiny speaker before you panic and mute it. 

Your face warms. 

Stupid. 

So, so stupid. But you don’t delete it. Instead, you set the camera carefully on the counter and blow out your candle still burning against the window. 

“Anyway, since the lights are back, I’m going to pretend to do my assignment now. Keyword pretend because I like to keep my goals realistic,” 4B says and the strange mood lifts and dissipates with the candle’s smoke. 

“Good luck with that.”

“Good luck with your love thing.”

You look down at the camera again.

“Yeah,” you say, picking it up before you can change your mind. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

You pause. Then you tuck the camera against your chest and head out of the kitchen. “Nothing.”

Behind the wall, 4B laughs like he does not believe you at all, and you leave before he can ask.

You don’t remember when but sometime along the semester, you begin to enjoy waking up. You hadn’t grown a newfound appreciation for your alarm, no that was still a work in progress, but something about opening your eyes to start a new day no longer evoked a groan. Your next door neighbour did that for you instead.

One morning you were waking up to a quiet early morning and the next, you hear an alarm ring parallel to yours.

You hear it again this morning as you rub the sleep from your eyes as some anime opening plays, muffled by the distance. When you step into your kitchen, it’s louder, and you hear the soft padding of feet against floorboards as 4B wakes.

“Morning,” he’ll mumble, voice rough from sleep, just as he did now.

“Good morning,” you’ll say back and hope he doesn’t hear the smile in your voice.

He’ll grunt in acknowledgement, heading for his bathroom which you’ve come to realise shares a wall with your bedroom. You’ll get started on packing a lunch to take to campus while he takes his sweet time getting ready. You wake far too early for him, after all.

You’ll pause on your way out, just as you did now, tilting your head slightly to listen. If he hears your door open, he’ll call out, “Good luck with your classes!” and if he doesn’t, water too loud or too immersed in something else, you’ll say, “See you later!”

It’s a routine you’ve come to love.

Sometimes when he hears you sigh coming back from campus, you’ll hear him close his fridge and fall into his couch. “Grey's Anatomy?” he’ll ask loudly and you’ll laugh softly, hand already reaching to grab your remote despite your drowsiness.

You tell yourself it isn’t a big deal. Plenty of people have neighbours and plenty of people talk to said neighbours. Plenty of people probably know the exact sound of their neighbour’s footsteps in the morning, the difference between their sleepy voice and their smug voice, the exact pause before they say something annoying just to get you to react. 

Probably. 

Still, the thought follows you out of your apartment and all the way to campus, sitting somewhere uncomfortable behind your ribs. It’s there when you catch yourself slowing down near the front steps because someone ahead of you laughs a little too loud and, for one stupid second, you think it might be him. It is there when you buy coffee and almost order an extra pastry because 4B once mentioned he loves sugary things first thing in the morning and frankly any other time of the day. 

It is there when you realise, with a kind of quiet horror, that you might actually like him. 

Recognising the telltale signs that you’re about to spiral, you decide to at least try and prevent it by taking a walk and touching grass. Unfortunately, you forget that there are evil forces against you because when you step into the main courtyard on campus on your way out, you immediately find yourself in hell. 

Like, actual hell. Like there’s a frat car wash happening in the middle of the campus kind of hell.

A row of cars lines the curb beside the courtyard, soapy water running down the pavement in bright, bubbly streams. Someone has set up a folding table with a cardboard sign that reads SIG KAP CHARITY CAR WASH in marker thick enough to be seen from across the street. A group of people have already crowded around the main attraction snapping away and laughing, the men scattered around yelling over each other as they try and organise the mess. There’s a JBL speaker playing Cbat and other such EDM trap that has you wondering if you’ve walked yourself into a rave. 

And standing in the middle of it all, shirtless and holding a sponge as flexes for his groupies, is Gojo Satoru. 

He’s hot. There’s really no polite way around it. His hair is damp from the spray of the hose, white strands pushed messily off his forehead and curling slightly at the ends. Water runs in thin lines down his throat, over the sharp cut of his collarbones, then lower and lower, disappearing along the hard planes of his stomach and tapering down into droplets that catch the sun on his abs. 

Your eyes follow a line of water that continues further down which is definitely a mistake. 

A deeply human mistake, but still a mistake nonetheless because it means you get an unwillingly thorough look at the narrow dip of his waist, the low-slung band of his shorts, the way his abdomen tightens when he twists the sponge out over the hood of a car. 

You shake your head, rattling any more indecent thoughts from your head. Sure, fine, he’s hot as fuck. But who is genuinely stupid enough to get seduced into donating money because some guy with abs and wet hair smiles at them whilst simultaneously wiping bird shit off a windscreen?

A group passes by the table and drops a note into the donation jar. 

You stare. Okay, nevermind. Apparently some people really will. Still, it has absolutely nothing to do with you. You don’t have a car, you don’t carry cash on you, and you don’t want to entertain a bunch of frat guys especially after all you’ve learnt this year. So, you adjust the strap of your tote higher on your shoulder and keep walking. 

“Hey, you in the band shirt!” 

Your foot catches slightly on the uneven pavement, and you make an embarrassing gesture getting back on two feet. Blind panic and something warmer, something more traitorous, jolts through you like a beam of lightning. 

No. 

No, because that voice—

You’ve barely rationalised anything before your head is whipping so fast over your shoulder you think you’ve given yourself a cramp. It’s instinctive more than anything, a kind of desperate hope for something indescribable, heart leaping up to your throat at the thought that a voice behind a wall has suddenly become attached to a body. 

And what a body. 

Gojo jogs toward you, shirtless and damp and unfairly attractive under the sun, towel bouncing against his neck with each step. There is soap clinging to his hands, water sliding down the firm line of his chest, one hand running through his hair as he shakes it of loose droplets. 

He comes to a stop in front of you, grin already loaded. You don’t even flinch when he flicks water onto your face accidentally. 

“Band shirt! Running away already?” he asks. “I didn’t even pitch you yet.” 

Gojo Satoru just spoke with 4B’s voice.

Your 4B. Except he’s no longer a faceless voice in the dark. He is Gojo Satoru. He is shirtless in front of you. He is looking at you like he’s waiting for an answer. 

“You cryin’? he asks, head tilting slightly as he glances at the droplets on your cheek. “Is the sun getting to you? We have buckets of water back there if you want to dunk yourself. Or maybe you want to dunk me and live vicariously through that? I noticed you staring.”

You force your mouth to move. “I don’t have a car.” 

Unfortunately, the voice that comes out is wrong. It’s too high like you’ve swallowed your own throat and replaced it with someone doing customer service over the phone. 

Gojo blinks. 

You clear your throat. “I mean, I don’t have a car,” you repeat, lower this time. 

Great, now you sound like you’re about to rob him. 

His smile twitches, one eyebrow raising slowly as he regards you. 

“Right,” he says, slowly. “No car. I think I got it the first time. What about a bike? We can wipe down the seat or something.”

You shake your head. 

“Scooter? Skateboard?” 

“No.”

“How do you get around?” 

“Feet.”

He looks down and you suddenly feel self-conscious of your shoe choice. 

“We don’t typically offer pedicures but I could make an exception for you,” Gojo says with a wide grin. “Or we could give your shoes a good scrub.”

“I don’t have anything for you to wash.” 

“What? Don’t tell me you’re attached to that layer of grime you have on them.” 

You’re so offended you temporarily blink of your stupor to splutter. “They’re not that dirty! They’re just well-loved!” 

“They’re clearly crying out for some divine intervention. Lucky for you, I might as well be the second coming of Jesus.” 

You scoff. “No way. Maybe I like them ugly, okay?” 

Gojo’s grin widens. “So you admit they’re ugly.”

You hate that he catches it so quickly. You hate even more that your heart picks up like a trapped hummingbird beneath your skin. 

Behind him, someone whistles. “Satoru, stop flirting and actually help!” 

“I’m not flirting,” he calls back without looking away from you. “I’m recruiting customers!”

He lowers his voice so it’s just for you. “You are planning on being a customer, aren’t you?”

You scoff. “Is this what the whole pitch is? Bullying people’s shoes until they donate?”

“No, that was just tailored marketing.” He leans slightly closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to reveal a conspiracy. “The real pitch is much more moving.”

“Okay,” you say, because apparently you’ve lost the will to survive. “Go on then.”

Gojo flashes you another smile, or maybe he hasn’t stopped smiling not even once throughout this entire encounter, and steps back, pressing one wet hand dramatically to his bare chest. He adopts a pitiful expression as he gazes at you. “Every year, hundreds of cars on this campus are forced to suffer through bird shit, pollen, and the mysterious sticky stuff that appears under trees for reasons science refuses to explain.”

You grimace.

He continues, undeterred. “For just five dollars, you can help one of these poor vehicles experience dignity again.”

“I don’t have five dollars.”

“For just three dollars—”

“No cash.”

“For one encouraging word—”

“Not happening.”

“—you can support a hardworking student athlete in his fight against grime,” he finishes calmly. 

“I think you just want to be shirtless,” you say what’s been on your mind the entire time, letting yourself steal another glimpse of his chest. Is it just your imagination but did he just flex his pecs at you?

He looks down at himself like he has only just remembered the state he is in. “This? It’s a uniform. Works wonders for pulling in interest.” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder where another person has just dropped money into the donation jar without taking her eyes off his back. “See? The system works.” 

“How are you so blatantly shameless?”

He shrugs. “Shame only slows you down.” 

Gojo steps slightly to the side when someone passes behind him with a bucket, and the movement brings him just close enough for you to catch the clean, cozy smell of soap and sunscreen underneath the damp heat of him. The towel around his neck drips onto his chest and a bead of water slips from his collarbone, trailing lower. 

Your eyes follow it again. Good lord. When you force your gaze back up, he’s watching you smugly. 

“So,” he says, voice dropping a little, “should I put you down as morally opposed to charity, or just immune to my charm?” 

“Those are the only options?” 

“Hey, I’m open to feedback. If you have a complaint, I’m all ears.” 

“Add a financially unavailable option.” 

“Okay.” He nods gravely. “Morally opposed, charm-resistant, and broke.” 

“I didn’t say broke.” You cut yourself off when you realise you’ve spent too long arguing with him when you had been so determined to walk away moments before. “Forget it, I’m walking away.” 

Gojo laughs and steps directly into your path, head tilting as he studies you like he’s trying to place a song from the first few seconds.

“You have quite the mouth on you,” he says, and something foreboding settles in your gut. “What’s your name, band shirt?”

Something about his voice tricks you into almost answering, perhaps because 4B has spent weeks training a response out of you. He says something stupid, you respond with something worse, and you fall into conversation that way. But while they sound the same you force yourself to remember this isn’t 4B through the wall. 

You have only one goal here: get out before he starts connecting ‘band shirt’ to ‘familiar voice’ that becomes ‘girl through the wall’ because then you’ll have to move apartments and potentially countries. So, you straighten your shoulders, lift your chin, and speak in the blandest tone you can manage. 

“No,” you say. “Short for none of your business.”

“That’s a terrible name,” Gojo says, nose scrunching up. “What did you do to your parents to deserve that? It’s going to look quite hurtful on the donation receipt.” 

“I’m not donating,” you say, already looking for the cleanest route around him. “So thankfully, your admin concerns are none of my concern. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” 

“You won’t donate, you won’t volunteer, and you won’t give me your name,” he says, still watching you too closely. “But you’ll stand here and argue with me.”

“That’s because you seem like the type who needs things explained slowly,” you quip back. “And besides, you’re in my way.”

His gaze flicks briefly to the open space beside him. You both look at it.

Then he looks back at you, smile unbearably smug. “Am I?”

You hate him because he is right, and because the longer you stand here, the more his voice settles into place with his face, and the more impossible it becomes to separate Gojo Satoru from 4B. You can feel it happening in real time, the two versions of him overlapping until the faceless boy through the wall starts becoming this shirtless jerk with wet hair and water dripping down his chest. 

“You’re very intense about names,” you say, forcing your voice into that same bland, too-flat register. “Maybe work on that before the next person you corner.” 

“Relax,” he says, voice dipping into something smoother. “I’m just saying, if a girl insults me this much, I feel like I should at least know what to call her.” 

“Band shirt is working fine for you. And if it’s not going on a donation receipt then I don’t see why you really need it.”

“Can I guess?” he asks instead, already leaning forward like the idea has thrilled him. 

“Absolutely not.” You take a step to the side, causing him to promptly mirror you. “Dude, quit it.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, immediately stepping back with both hands raised to showcase his harmlessness though it’s ruined by his smile. “Got excited. You’re so nonchalant and mysterious it just draws me in, you know? Come on, I’ll leave you alone if you just give me a name, your real name.”

“No.” 

“Okay, not a real one,” he concedes far too quickly. “Just so I have something to call you in my head when you’re already running through it so much.” 

“I’m not giving you a fake name either.” 

“That’s so much worse,” he says, sounding wounded. “Now you’re not even trusting me with a lie? I’m shirtless for charity, band shirt, I’m vulnerable.”

“Vulnerably harassing a stranger for her name in the middle of campus?” 

“Stranger feels harsh.” His smile shifts a little, still playful yes, but the focus underneath it becomes visible. “You don’t exactly feel like a stranger.” 

You need to get out here right now. 

You tighten your hold on your tote bag and start walking, not caring where your dirty shoes led you, not caring if it even led you back to that God forsaken carwash. Gojo doesn’t give up, trailing after you and eating up the distance you try to place with his long legs, body facing yours even as you speed walk. 

“Do I know you?” 

“No,” you say. “We don’t know each other.”

“But it feels like we know each other.”

“We? There’s no we. Maybe you’ve seen me in passing but it’s not something to obsess over. Okay, bye.” 

“Possible,” he says, nodding solemnly. “I do have a wide reach. I’m trying to expand it, actually, which is why I need your name.”

You pass the front of the carwash table once more and someone at the front turns, practically jumping on the spot upon seeing Gojo. He ignores them, still drilling holes into the side of your face. 

“First initial?”

“N. For No.”

“Last initial?” 

“O.”

“Does it have an A in it?” 

“Do you know when to quit?” 

“Is that a yes?”

“No.”

“No, it doesn’t or no, you won’t tell me? Or secret third option, No as in No your name.” He clicks his tongue like you’re the one being difficult. “See, this is getting really confusing. You could solve this entire problem by telling me your real name.”

You keep walking for a few more steps but it’s getting harder to pretend you don’t have a golden retriever trailing after your every step, and word, especially when he’s shirtless and a microcelebrity on campus. 

“Look,” you say, stopping and turning to give him a piece of your mind. “I don’t know you, you don’t know me, so this has been deeply unnecessary. Let’s just leave it at that okay?”

His smile softens as he also stops, looking at you. “Then tell me your name and we can fix that.”

For one stupid, horrifying second, you almost do. His voice dips around his words, warm and familiar, and your brain gives you 4B through the wall saying morning, 4A, soft with sleep, and suddenly your name feels like something dangerously close to being handed over.

His hand lifts, reaching for your wrist at your hesitation but hovers short of actually touching, eyes holding yours for permission. 

Then someone calls, “Satoru!”

His face twists, mouth opening like he is ready to spit out another excuse, when a towel hits him square in the back of his head.

He jolts, hand leaving the space between you to grab at the towel before it falls. “What the fuck?” 

You both look over in the direction of the carwash. 

Sukuna stands by the donation table with another towel hanging from one hand, looking like he would rather be dragged behind one of the cars than be there voluntarily. He is also shirtless, because can you even see a guy with his shirt on in a fifty metre radius around you? Water drips from the ends of his pink hair, sliding down the hard line of his neck and over his chest, his skin still shining from whatever girl had convinced him to stand under the hose for a photo. 

“Oi,” Sukuna calls, lifting the towel like he might throw it again. “Are you done begging, or should we put a bowl out for you too?” 

Gojo’s expression immediately collapses into offence. “I’m not begging. I told you I was networking! You’re really cramping my style.” 

“Whatever you want to call it.” Sukuna jerks his chin toward the cars. “Get back here. Some girl paid ten dollars because you promised to write her name in soap on the windshield.” 

Gojo ruffles a hand through his hair and you catch a glimpse of his undercut before he groans, ducking his head. “Shit! I forgot I said that. Can’t you take one for the team, Sukuna?”

“She asked for you.”

The imaginary campus-wide fanbase turns out to be true, you think mournfully. 

A few people around the table laugh, and Gojo turns just enough to argue back, towel clutched in one hand, wet hair sticking messily to the back of his neck. You take the sight of his back muscles as a sign to leave. So before he can turn back around, you step away. 

Then another step. Then several more, fast enough that your tote bumps against your hip and your grimy shoes slap loudly against the wet pavement. It’s not running, because running would imply guilt, and you are innocent of everything except being cursed. 

“Band shirt,” Gojo calls behind you and because it’s not your name, you don’t turn around. 

You especially don’t turn around when Gojo’s half-groan, half-laugh follows you across the courtyard, short yet familiar enough to make your stomach twist. 

4B is Gojo Satoru.

Gojo Satoru is 4B.

Someone needs to take down the Etsy website.

You never do wear that band shirt again. 

Not that it mattered much because you also don’t really go outside for a week, not if you could help it. You want to call it locking in because the midterms are coming up but in the brief moments when you allow yourself the truth, you admit it’s because you’re preventing any chance of running into Gojo again. 

It’s difficult to do that when he’s your neighbour. Or, well, when 4B is your neighbour. 

That distinction becomes very important to you. Gojo Satoru is someone you saw shirtless in the middle of campus using charity as an excuse to flex obscenely at the general public moving through their day. Gojo Satoru has wet hair, a stupid grin, and is highly dangerous because he has a face and a body and a set of eyes that pins you down, 

4B is a voice through the wall. 4B is his alarm going off too loudly in the morning, all groans and curses as he heaves himself from the warmth of his bed. 4B is ranting about the latest anime he’s watched, whispering through plaster when it gets late, knocking twice against the wall when he wants your attention but isn’t sure if you’re in.

So you let yourself have it. You avoid Gojo, and you keep talking to 4B.

After a while, there aren’t many problems with having Gojo as your next door neighbour. Sure, he can get loud during phone calls with his friends but you quickly forgive him when he gives sheepish apologies and dials down his volume. And sure, his alarm is loud but after that initial morning when you grilled him on the cheerful tune, he had changed it to something more appropriate.

The way he laughs is loud, the way he sings as he cooks is loud, the way he says your unit number is loud, all bright like he’s been waiting to catch you the moment you step into your apartment.

It seems Gojo can’t help but be loud. In every aspect.

You wonder if you should bring it up.

It really was unfortunate that your bedroom and his bathroom shared a wall. Whoever constructed this building many, many years ago must not have planned it out too well and simply settled for fitting rooms of different apartments together like tetris. And because of this, his bathroom ends up right next to your head when you sleep. 

You also gather that his shower is pressed against the said wall that you share with him, if his groans are any indication. 

You should probably bring it up. 

But how does one even bring up such a conversation? Hey neighbour! Not that I’ve been listening but I can hear you jerk off in the shower. Could you stop? 

In his defence, you relent, rolling over and pressing your pillow against your ears, he was trying to be subtle about it. You appreciate that he wasn’t doing it in his room since that would certainly turn you off from whatever you’re eating in your kitchen next to him. But if he believes the rush of water is enough to muffle his moans, he’s sorely mistaken. 

You roll onto your other side, shuffling when even this position isn’t comfortable. Your thin sheets are tangled around your legs and you’re desperately trying to focus on the book you’re reading on your phone. But who are you kidding, your thumb has been frozen on the same paragraph for the past five minutes, mind a million miles away. 

There’s a thud of something being placed down on the tiled floor, a slight rustle. And then, a low, breathy groan—so faint you could almost convince yourself you imagined it. 

But you definitely did not. 

You breath catches as you place your phone down and stare at the ceiling as if that will make the sounds stop. It never works. You tell yourself to just roll over again, put in your airpods and drown it out. You’ve done it before, you can do it again. 

But your hand is already drifting down, sliding over your stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of your shorts. 

The first stroke is unintentional, a simple slow press through cotton just to feel something. But then you hear him again, a sharper exhale, a whispered word you can’t quite make out, and your hips shift, pressing your palm harder against your cunt. 

Fuck. 

You close your eyes and instead of the dark of your room, you see steam. A shower, his shower, the one right on the other side of this wall. 

You don’t want to think about Gojo like this so you settle instead on your 4B. All you know is the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, the messy scrawl of his handwriting, the sound of his door opening and closing, the low rumble of his laugh when he teases you. It’s deep and a little rough around the edges. You’ve built a version of him from the sound alone, and right now, that’s more than enough. 

Fingers tracing the outline of your clit through the fabric, circles so light they’re barely there, you let your mind wander. 

You imagine stepping into that shower. The air is thick and wet, fogging up the glass. He’s already under the spray, back to you, water streaming down his shoulders. You don;t want to see his face, but you can see the way his muscles shift as he turns his head ever so slightly, giving you the slightest glimpse of his side profile before the steam whisks it away. 

It would be foolish to hesitate. You slide your hands around his waist from behind, palms flat against his stomach, and he laughs, the vibrations meeting your chest. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice deeper, lower with him so close to you. “Look at you, giving me a helping hand, hm?”

“Shut up,” you’d probably mumble against his shoulder blade, fingers already trailing lower, through the thatch of hair at the base of his cock. “You’re always so loud.”

He’d be hard already, and you can feel the heat of him, the slight twitch as your fingertips brush the underside of his shaft. 

“No, I don’t think that’s right,” he says. “Because you’ve been listening, haven’t you? All those nights wrapped up all pretty in your blankets, thinking you can get away with using me to feel good, thinking you’re an angel for trying not to listen. But you know exactly what I sound like when I’m close, don’t you?”

Your breath hitches as you wrap your hand around him, and he groans, deep and guttural, exactly the sound that’s coming through the wall right now. Your hand moves in time with the fantasy, slow strokes, thumb pressing into the slick tip, and he leans back into you, letting his head fall against your shoulder. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “Such a good girl. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to touch me. Wanted to feel your hand on my cock for so fucking long, angel.” 

“Since when?” 

You stroke him faster, twisting your wrist the way you imagine he does, and his breathing turns ragged. 

“Since the moment you opened that pretty mouth and told me off. Fuck—faster, angel. Just like that, don’t stop. Your hand feels so perfect.”

Your own fingers press harder against your clit through your shorts, and you let out a tiny whimper you hope he can’t hear through the wall. Maybe he can, maybe he really does know exactly what you’ve been doing. That thought makes you even wetter, a choked gasp escaping. 

In the fantasy, his body tenses. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your grip tighter around him. 

“I’m gonna cum,” he says, voice strained. “I’m gonna paint the tiles with it, and you’re gonna watch. You’re gonna listen to me fall apart because of you. And then—fuck—then I’m gonna fuck you.” 

His hips jerk forward, and you feel the hot pulse of his release against your hand, the way he shudders and moans your name (which he doesn’t know, but you give it to him anyway, a whispered invention). His cum slicks the inside of your fingers, and you keep stroking until he pushes your hand away with an overstimulated whimper that might be your own. 

He turns around. 

You still don’t see his face, just the broad outline of his chest you saw during the carwash incident, the water catching in the hollow of his collarbone. He pushes you back against the cool tile with one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding down your stomach, between your legs.

“My turn,” he purrs. “I’m gonna fuck you right here, in my shower, where you can hear every sound I make. And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you? Gonna be an angel for me and let me use this pussy like I’ve been dreaming about.”

You nod, mouth open, and he sinks two fingers into you without warning.

The gasp that escapes your lips is real. “Gojo—!”

“Nuh uh, pretty,” he coos in your ear. “Call me Satoru. C’mon, say my name, angel.” 

You shake your head against your pillow, back arching. “That’s—that would be weird.” 

He slows down, taking his time with you, dragging his fingers against your gummy walls before sliding over that spot that makes you see stars, chuckling when you gasp. “I’m making you feel this good and you’re still talking back? Gonna need to fuck that attitude out of you.” 

You bite your lip hard. “Satoru…”

He stills, before he presses down hard. “Hm? What was that?”

“Satoru!”

His voice is a rough, airy thing in your ear. “That’s it, pretty, you’re doing so good for me.”

Your own fingers mimic the motion, pushing inside yourself while your thumb circles your clit. You can hear him through the wall—a wet, rhythmic sound, faster now, and a string of words you catch in fragments. “Yeah… that’s it… take it…”

You imagine his cock,thick, already half-hard again from the feel of you, sliding between your thighs. He lifts your leg, hooks it over his arm, and presses the head against your entrance.

“Look at me,” he says, and you try, but his face is a blur of heat and water, just shadows and the gleam of wet skin. “Look at me while I fuck you. I want you to remember this.”

He pushes in slow, and you feel the stretch in your fantasy and in your own body as your fingers sink deeper. You bite your lip to keep from moaning out loud.

“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead pressing against yours. “You feel that? That’s my cock filling you up. That’s what you get for listening in, for touching yourself to the sound of me cumming.”

He sets a hard rhythm, the slapping of wet skin echoing off the shower walls. Your fantasy-self clings to him, nails digging into his back, and he keeps talking, his voice ragged and dirty, exactly what you need.

“That’s it, it feels so fucking good, huh? Bet you love this, love that you didn’t know what I looked like but you know the sound of my balls slapping against your ass. You’re such a fucking slut for it. Is it hotter now that you know who I am? Open your mouth and tell me, Y/N.”

You whimper, hand curling into the sheets. “I—I can’t. You’ll hear.”

“I know, I know, you’re trying so hard to be quiet for me,” he mumbles, so soft and understanding even as he drives into you. “But I’m going to need to hear you, okay? Need to hear how much you want this.” 

Your fingers move faster, matching the pace in your head. Your breathing is ragged now, little moans falling from your lips that you can’t hold back. You don’t care if he hears, and maybe if you’re slightly truthful, you hope he does. “Oh god, Satoru, it feels so good!”

In the fantasy, he’s close again. You can feel it in the way his thrusts lose rhythm, in the way his grip tightens on your hip.

“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he growls, and it’s a question and a statement all at once. “You want that? Want to feel my cum dripping down your thigh?”

“Yes,” you whisper out loud, into your empty room.

He buries himself deep, and the fantasy explodes in a rush of heat and words: “Fuckfuckfuck—take it—take my cum, you dirty little thing—gonna fill you up so full—”

You climax with a gasp, your back arching off the mattress, your fingers pressing hard against your clit as waves of pleasure roll through you. You hear yourself moan, a high, broken sound, and you don’t care.

The sounds from his side of the wall change.

There’s a final, shuddering groan and the squeak of a hand against tile. And then silence, broken only by the rush of water from a showerhead.

You lie there, panting, hand still between your legs, your skin flushed and damp. You can almost smell the steam, almost feel the ghost of his fantasy-body pressed against yours.

The shower turns off and you climb out of bed, running away to the living room. 

You’re not a freak. You can’t be. 

You’re a kind, virtuous person who knows no sin, who is gracious and angelic and trustworthy and not someone who listens in on her neighbour jerking it in his shower. That’s simply not who you are and not something you’d ever do. 

Despite this obvious fact, your brain tells you otherwise. And when you are at war with yourself, what else is there to do but consult your friends?

You find Shoko outside the campus cafe, sitting at one of the metal tables with an iced coffee and her laptop open, clacking away with a frown. The chair opposite her is empty though not welcomingly. It’s buried under her tote bag, a packet of cigarettes jutting out that would have her girlfriend at her throat if she saw. 

You walk over, tuck the box further into her bag and under her jumper, before putting her bag on the ground. “You’re smoking again?” 

“Hi,” Shoko says, looking up briefly before slumping down over her laptop. “Just to get the edge off. Midterms are coming around and I’m already feeling the effects.”

You nod, stealing her drink and taking a long sip. She looks at you again, squinting. 

“You don’t look as bad as I thought you would.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Isn’t that film of yours due next Friday? Where’s the panic and stress? Also, that’s my coffee you whore.” 

You take one last long sip and slide it back over. “I have bigger fish to fry. But shit, Shoko, you look completely under it already. We can call off girls’ talk for another day, I promise it’s not that serious.”

“Not that serious?” Shoko scoffs, hitting enter before closing her laptop. “You triple-texted last night at 3 a.m. not making any sense at all. What happened? Did Naoya text you again? You didn’t unblock him, did you?” 

“What? No! It’s…” you groan, covering your face. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse. I think I’m at the edge of the abyss staring down. Like whatever I do here on out will either make or break me.”

“Okay,” she replies slowly, clearly not expecting your response. “And who is this about exactly?” 

You wonder if you can tell her the truth. Hey Shoko, you might decide to start with, I’ve been crushing on the voice of my neighbour for the last month who I just found out is Satoru, you know your friend? Also, I’ve been listening to him jerk it for a while now and I have an inkling that he knows.

Instead of any of this, you whisper, “Satoru.” 

She flinches as if you’ve slapped her. “What?”

Your finger comes up to point before you stop yourself, realising it was impolite to point, but your gaze is far too telling. She hesitates, taking in your horrified expression before looking over her shoulder to find Gojo stepping into sight, head turning about as if searching for something. 

You almost delude yourself into thinking that when his gaze stops at your table, his eyes light up because he’s looking at you. You almost delude yourself into thinking that he’s making his way to your table. You almost delude yourself into thinking the smile he wears is for you. 

Only one of these things is true because the moment you see him, you’ve pulled your hoodie up until it’s almost flopping back over your eyes, leaning back and tucking your chin in.

Gojo saunters up to your table and stops just beside Shoko. Your friend groans, dropping her head into her hands. 

“He’s right behind me, isn’t he?” 

Not wanting to speak, you only shrug uselessly. Gojo doesn’t even spare you a glance, whining as he tugs on her sleeve to grab her attention. 

“Come on, Shoko, I’ve been trying to text you for hours now. Ignoring me isn’t going to make me disappear, you know.” 

“I know now,” she mumbles before yanking her arm away from his touch. “Okay, out with it, Gojo. I refuse to be seen in public with you so let’s get this over with.” 

“I need your help with something.” When Shoko only stares, unimpressed and not surprised, he presses on. “It’ll be quick, I swear! And it isn’t about the pre lab questions this time, I promise. I’m cashing in that one favour you owe me from last year.” 

“What favour?”

“Me hosting a party that got you and Utahime together.”

Shoko shoots him a withering look. “That wasn’t a favour, we just happened to meet at your party. You didn’t even know her back then.”

Gojo grins, and for a moment, you get lost in it. It would be so easy to tell him now and have that smile directed at you with recognition instead of casual politeness. You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose, but you feel yourself getting smaller as he keeps talking to Shoko and only Shoko, sitting there silently as if being quiet and sipping at Shoko’s coffee might excuse your lack of presence. 

Shoko rolls her eyes, turning to look at you. “Sorry, Y/N. We’ll talk after I’m done dealing with this kid.”

You wave her off stiffly and she narrows her eyes at you, sensing something off when you don’t say anything. Gojo seems to notice you then, looking over at you briefly. He tilts his head at you before Shoko’s voice pulls him back. 

“So? What do you want?”

“I need help finding someone.” 

You choke on your drink, hastily wiping at your chin when they both turn to look at you, a range of concern across both their faces. You wave them off dismissively, making small sounds to clear your throat as they continue. 

“For revenge or…?”

He hums, seriously considering her quip. “Maybe the opposite?” 

She narrows her eyes at that. “I don’t know everyone on campus. How are you so confident you can come to me for this?” 

“Because you’re doing the same degree as her and you’re a girl and so is the person I’m trying to find.”

There's still liquid in your throat and it’s getting harder for Gojo to pretend like his friend’s friend isn’t slowly dying from across the table. He lifts his eyes to study you, taking in the way you’re clearing your throat, struggling to keep quiet, and he sighs. 

“Hey, breathe through your nose.” 

You finally look up at him, the hood obscuring most of your vision though you still try to shoot him a look as if to say, oh no, really? and he smirks at that.

“I'm serious, just breathe for a second. Through your nose, come on. It’ll get rid of that coughing fit.” 

You close your mouth with effort and take a deep, shaky breath in. It goes in smoothly though the urge to cough still persists and you have to concentrate to not relapse. 

Gojo pushes your iced coffee closer to you, wiping his wet hand on Shoko’s sleeve after despite her protest. You take it gratefully, taking in a few sips before clearing your throat. 

Realising you couldn’t get out of this without speaking at least once, you lower your voice as much as you can and mumble, “Thanks.”

Gojo hums, accepting it easily, but his eyes linger on you for half a second too long before he turns back to Shoko. “She's someone in your course doing cardiovascular physiology. She has a lab on Tuesday and morning tutorials on Friday." 

You don’t miss the way Shoko has been staring bullets into you though her eyes flicker over to Gojo every once in a while. “A lab on Tuesday, you say.” And there’s something in her tone that has you looking up frantically. 

Gojo doesn’t seem to notice, nodding instead. “She usually comes back late, at around 5:20? Which means her classes end around 5 p.m.”

“5 p.m,” she repeats, her eyes never straying. 

You try to shake your head as subtly as possible. 

“She has the prettiest voice you’ve ever heard and the softest laugh when she finds something amusing. But then when she finds something funny, like really funny, her laugh is super loud and bright and it’s honestly cool the way she doesn’t seem to care.”

You kick Shoko’s foot under the table and she barely winces, realisation or something similar dawning on her. 

“I don’t need to know any of that, that won’t help.” Her lips quirk upwards slightly. “And why are we looking for this girl, Gojo?” 

He pouts at her words. “I’m looking for my neighbour.”

Shoko makes a gesture as if to ask if he’s serious. “Just go knock on her door? You literally know where she lives. That’s probably more than I could ever tell you.” 

“You don’t get it,” he says, tutting, wagging his fingers even. “We have this thing going on and I don’t want to ruin her trust by camping outside her door, for example. So instead, I’ll just conveniently come across her on campus because somehow our timetables seem to line up.”

 Shoko stares at him blankly. “So stalking.”

“Don’t be so crude, Shoko. It’s not stalking if I’m being emotionally considerate about it.” He leans forward slightly, hands on the table, and for a moment his voice loses some of its usual shine. “I don’t want to scare her off, okay? I know where she lives, but that feels like cheating. If you know her, ask her first. Ask if she’s okay with me knowing, or if she wants me to stay clueless and suffer with dignity.” 

Shoko’s expression barely changes. “You don’t do anything with dignity.” 

“I could start for her,” he says, then seems to realise what he’s admitted because he looks away with a small, helpless laugh. “Look, I know it sounds stupid, but I like talking to her. I like not knowing too much. I like that she can hang up on me by walking away from the wall whenever she wants. If I just knock on her door, then I’ve taken that choice from her.” 

For once, Shoko doesn’t interrupt. 

Gojo rubs at the back of his neck, grin returning but weaker this time, more embarrassed than smug. “But also, I’m going a little crazy. Call me pathetic, but sometimes she says something and I forget what my own point was. She’s mean in this really specific way, and funny, and then every now and then she’ll be nice like she didn’t mean to, and it fully ruins me. So yeah, I want to know who she is. I just don’t want to find out in a way that makes her regret talking to me.” 

You kick her foot again. 

“And what happens if you do find her?” she asks, rubbing the toe of her shoe against the floor like you have injured her beyond repair. “You’re going to walk up and say, hi, I’ve been listening to you through the wall for weeks and I reverse-engineered your timetable?”

Gojo makes a face. “No, obviously not. I have charm. I’ll make her fall for me first.”

You stand with a start, slamming your hands on the table, knocking your empty cup over. You hastily pick it up, shooting Shoko as many SOS signals as it’ll take for her to follow your lead. She lets out a slight laugh, especially after seeing Gojo’s bewildered face, and stands, albeit slowly. 

“I think I have an idea of who you’re looking for.”

“You do?” Gojo says, eyes wide and smile hopeful. 

“I have a feeling.” Her eyes leave yours after a pause, moving to shove her laptop into her bag. “But I’m going to need to confirm it before I tell you. Wouldn’t want to drag an innocent into your life.” 

He nods quickly and you mournfully think that he looks like a puppy. You didn’t need that imagery, especially not right now. You tune out the rest of their conversation though it mainly consisted of Gojo demanding more details and Shoko shooting him down firmly. When you have your tote over your shoulder, Shoko tilts her head towards the door. 

You all but run out. Vaguely, you hear Gojo ask, “What’s up with her?”

“Boy problems,” Shoko says before she catches up to you and the two of you walk out. 

“Where are we going?” 

You look over your shoulder, heart only settling when you don’t catch any glimpse of white hair. “Away.”

“Oh, so now you feel like talking.”

“Please, Shoko. Please.”

She laughs, loose and unrestrained. “Want to tell me what that was all about? Gojo looking for some Cinderella and you looking like you’re about to choke to death?”

You spin around, hands coming up to hold her still by the shoulders. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s exactly that. Shoko, stop looking at me like that, I’m going to freak out.” 

“Okay, okay.” Her hands come up to wrap loosely around your wrists, not pushing you off, just holding you there. “Take a breath. He doesn’t know.” 

“He almost knows.”

“I’m pretty sure he only suspects something,” she corrects. “Those are two very different things. And if you really don’t want him to know then I’ll tell him that. He might seem a little clueless in areas such as personal space, but he’s not a complete jerk. He’ll respect that.”

You let go of her shoulders slowly, though your hands stay half-raised between you like you might need to grab her again if she starts looking too entertained. “He was describing me.”

“He was describing his neighbour,” Shoko says, softer now. “You are only panicking because you know that’s you.”

“That does not make me feel better.”

“It should a little.” She tilts her head, cigarette-less and serious in a way you rarely get from her before noon. “Look, if he wanted to corner you, he could’ve knocked on your door. He literally knows where you live. But he didn’t. He came to me because, in his own stupid Gojo way, he’s trying not to scare you.”

“That’s the complete issue,” you sigh, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “The issue is that he’s Gojo, the exact kind of guy I said I was done with. I know what these kinds of guys are like, hell, I dated the textbook example of one.”

Shoko’s expression softens and in the silence, something bubbles up. 

“4B wasn’t that,” you say, voice smaller than you mean for it to be. “4B was just mine.” 

The second it leaves your mouth, your face warms. Mercifully, Shoko doesn’t pounce on it and instead nods slowly, looking away from you. 

“I get that,” she says and when you glance at her, she repeats herself. “I do, you’re not crazy. But Gojo being in a frat doesn’t automatically make him Naoya variant 2.0.”

“I know that,” you grumble. 

“Do you?” Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You don’t have to trust him just because he’s 4B. You also don’t have to punish him just because he looks like the kind of guy who would have ruined your life last semester.” 

“So what am I supposed to do?” you ask. 

“For now? Nothing. You don’t have to suddenly jump out and introduce yourself, but you also don’t have to shut up and ghost him forever. See for yourself what kind of guy Gojo really is now that you know both sides to him.”

Sometimes, Shoko’s rationality surprises you and you find yourself nodding along to her words, a small, dawning hope struggling out of its shell inside your heart. Just as you’re about to thank her profusely for her wise words, she opens her mouth and says, “You should come to Utahime’s this weekend.” 

“Uh.” You blink. “What?”

“It’s a small party, like actually small,” she says before you can look horrified. “Not a frat thing. It’ll just be a few of Utahime’s close friends, some drinks and food, you know. I haven’t seen you come out of your apartment for an entire week, Y/N, it’s setting off alarm bells. You’re hot. Funny. Maybe you’ll meet someone there that doesn’t remind you of Gojo or Naoya.” 

“Oh my God,” you say slowly, disgusted. “Why are those two people my only options right now? You’re right, I need to go out.” 

“I’m sure you didn’t mean it,” Shoko says with sympathy before groaning. “Can I say ‘I told you so’ yet or are you still spiralling? Because I told you so, I told you to stay away from Gojo but lookie here, who’s scouring the campus for even a whiff of you?” 

You glare at her. “Not helping, Shoko.” 

Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You can tell him when you’re ready. Or let him figure it out slowly if you want to be annoying about it.”

You shove her shoulder back in return, and she laughs, and for a few steps, it almost feels like a normal afternoon. Like you are just two girls walking across campus, talking about weekend plans, not one girl trying to outrun the consequences of accidentally falling for her neighbour through a wall. 

Then Shoko tilts her head toward the bus stop. “So. Do you want to go back to your apartment or not?” 

You think of the wall, of 4B’s—Gojo’s—voice slipping through it, probably asking why you were so quiet this morning, probably making some stupid comment about your sleep schedule, probably having no idea that your whole life has just rearranged itself around his face. 

You sigh. 

“Unfortuntely,” you say. “I live there.”

Gojo wonders if he has an addictive personality. 

Or maybe it’s just you. 

But when it’s just him alone in his mind, hands running through his hair to try and catch every last runaway thought about you, he allows himself the truth. It’s probably just you. 

And the kicker is that he was only 90% certain you even existed. Suguru was the one who planted the idea in his head, that the physics had finally fucked him over and he was hallucinating the voice of a sweet, snarky girl, If he hadn’t collected your sticky notes over the last few months, that statistic might have even fallen to a good 38% and even then he wouldn’t be too sure if it was the twisted humour of his friends or if he genuinely had his own Wattpad neighbours-to-lovers arc. 

He sighs and leans back into his chair, feeling it give way under the motion with a creak. He wonders, as he so often does these days, if you heard it. His body stills and he waits for an indication that you might be home, a soft chuckle, an exasperated sigh, or his favourite, that soft way you say his name (read: unit number). 

When it doesn’t come, he slumps. 

Fuck, he was so far gone. 

It’s not like this is new to him, the wanting. Gojo wants things all the time. He wants the last pudding cup from the convenience store, wants Suguru to stop pretending he’s above gossip when he’s the nosiest person alive, wants Shoko to stop stealing his lighters despite the fact that he doesn’t smoke because he needs them to light up his birthday candles. He wants good grades with minimal effort and attention when he enters a room and for his hair to sit right without having to do anything about it. 

He also wants you. 

Gojo’s phone buzzes against his desk and he only looks at it because he’s desperate from his own thoughts. Though he immediately regrets this when Utahime’s name lights up on his screen. 

utahime: party this weekend

show up or dont 

idc

He snorts. 

gojo: woww dont get too excited inviting me im basically suffocating in ur enthusiasm 

its chill though if u dont want me there

i wont go ive got plans anyway 

Another notification drops down after he hits send. 

shoko: do NOT come to utahime’s this weekend 

that was a mistake 

DO NOT COME 

Gojo freezes, eyes blinking at the message. He taps it, opening up his chat history with her that consists of many, many time stamps and read receipts, and very slowly, something that critical thinking sparks behind his blue eyes. 

Do not come, said so blunt and immediate and so suspiciously timed right after Utahime’s invitation as if Shoko had decided his presence would cause a problem. 

A problem for who? 

Gojo’s mouth parts. Then, slowly, his grin spreads. His thumb quickly swipes out to re enter the chat with Utahime and glides across the keyboard. 

gojo: actually ykw 

wouldn’t miss it for the world <3

utahime: wait im uninviting u 

gojo? 

i said u cant come

dont leave me on read you dick 

Gojo laughs, turning off his phone. 

He turns his head toward the wall, still grinning like an idiot, thriving off the single crumb he’s been graciously fed after days of searching for you. 

“You going to Utahime’s this weekend, 4A?” he asks softly, knowing you are not there to answer.

The wall says nothing but Gojo’s grin doesn’t fade.

“That’s okay,” he murmurs, phone warm in his hand. “I’ll find out.”

There are two possible explanations for your current situation. Either Shoko is a liar (completely and utterly plausible) or her girlfriend has around 50 close friends. You don’t put it past Utahime either but at least Utahime did you a favour and made sure not to invite anyone from TDP so you settle for shooting Shoko a withering glare.

Music thrums through the floorboards, bass rattling the soles of your shoes as you tap your feet subconsciously against the beat. It’s loud, too loud for talking unless you enjoy shouting directly into someone’s ear, though no one seems to mind. Certainly not Shoko as she leans close to Utahime, mouth brushing against her ear, eyes half lidded as she practically has her on her lap.

You roll your eyes, feeling slightly sour.

Shoko notices your bitter look and acknowledges it with a slight chuckle, taking your cup of orange juice and switching it with hers. “Loosen up!” She yells over the music.

Without many other options, you take the drink and cup your hand around your ear as if you can’t hear her, just to piss her off.

Utahime snickers when your friend swats you away, her hand comfortably wrapped around Shoko’s. The sight of a happy couple sickens you and when Shoko yells for you to “go find someone to make out with!” you do decide to stand up and leave, though not because of her words, obviously. 

You’re just getting air, maybe a refill. And maybe putting at least one wall between yourself and Shoko’s terrible, smug, in-love face. 

The rest of the apartment is no better. Utahime’s place is bigger than yours, of course, because some people get exposed brick and large windows while others get mysterious ceiling stains and a neighbour loud enough to seep into your own personal life. 

Bodies crowd every available inch of space. Someone is sitting on the arm of the couch with a drink in one hand and someone else sprawled across their lap, fingers pushed into their hair. A group by the kitchen is screaming the lyrics to the song currently playing and there’s two girls taking photos in the hallway mirror, swaying together, cheek to cheek. 

You’re halfway through to the kitchen when you see him. For a second, your brain doesn’t even attach a name to the sight. It only registers white hair, too tall, black shirt, one hand loose around a red cup as he leans against the wall near the hallway. 

Then your stomach drops. 

Gojo. 

The thought arrives with immediate, unreasonable betrayal. 

What the fuck? Didn’t Utahime promise you she wouldn’t invite any frat guys? 

Not that you care. You absolutely do not. Gojo Satoru could attend every party in the city and you would remain unaffected, obviously. It is just the principle of the thing. You had been promised a Gojo-free environment, and there he is, laughing at something one of the girls around him says, head tilted down so he can hear her better over the music.

There are three that you see, maybe four. It’s hard to count when they keep shifting, hair shining under the cheap coloured lights, shoulders angled toward him like flowers reaching for the sun. 

It would be easier to be angry, to roll your eyes and hate him in the clean, uncomplicated way you usually do. Instead, something dull and familiar settles under your ribs. 

You turn away before he can look your way. 

The drink in your hand is half-empty and you make it fully empty in one long swallow, grimacing only after it burns the way down and cursing Shoko’s name in your head. Someone near the kitchen cheers for no reason and you suddenly decide that if the universe wants to be annoying, if that stupid Etsy witch wants to fuck with you that bad, you might as well ruin yourself first. 

By the time Shoko finds you again, you have acquired another drink. And then another, and then even more. She squints at you with the vague concern of someone who knows your limits better than you do but you’re already being dragged toward the cleared space in the living room by one of Utahime’s pretty friends, and the music there is cathartic. 

So you stop thinking. For the first time all night, you let yourself move without checking who is watching. Your drink is gone, your cheeks are warm, and the room is soft and bright, all coloured light and laughing mouths and hands in the air. There is no assignment, no terrible apartment, no faceless neighbour slipping into your life through the poor insulation, no Gojo leaning against a wall with half the party orbiting him. The houseparty is bumping, the ladies look good, the alcohol is flowing. There is much pain in the world, but not in this room. 

Then an arm slides around your waist. It’s muscled, warm, steady in the way it wraps around you, the scent of something masculine and fresh entering your peripherals. 

For one stupid, glittering second, you let yourself hope. It’s only the alcohol, probably. The music, even, the heat of the room or the betrayal of coloured lights making everyone look better than they are. 

But the arm is firm around you, and the body behind you is tall, and when he leans in, his breath skims close to your ear. 

Maybe. 

The thought is so sweet it makes you dizzy and you almost lean into the hope. 

“Having fun?” 

Your stomach drops so fast the whole room seems to go with it. You turn, and Naoya’s ugly face is looking down at you. What the fuck is he doing here? Oh, you are so having a word with Utahime about this. 

And okay, Naoya isn’t actually ugly, not in a way that has anything to do with his features. What’s really ugly is his expression, the entitlement in his smile and the slow drag of his eyes over you like he’s appraising something he believes is his. 

His mouth curls and all at once, the music goes thin and static-y. 

You shove him away and stumble a few steps at your own strength. “Don’t touch me.” 

Naoya lets his hand fall, but not before making a show of it, palms lifting like you are the unreasonable one. “Relax. I was just saying hi.” 

“Okay, well you’ve said your hi. Now leave.” 

He laughs, eyes dropping to your mouth, then back up again. “You’re still so dramatic. I forgot how much effort it takes to talk to you when you’re like this.” 

You step back, but the floor tilts slightly beneath you. Fuck, too much alcohol, too much heat. There’s too many bodies pressing around the living room, none of them paying enough attention as you try to place distance between you and your ex. Your shoulder knocks against someone behind you and you mumble a sorry without taking your eyes off Naoya. 

He notices the stumble and his grin sharpens. “You’re drunk. Haven’t learnt how to control yourself in this kind of places yet, have you? It’s cute.” 

He leans closer, voice lowering as if the two of you are sharing something intimate. “Did you dress up for someone tonight?” 

Your face twists. “As if it’s any of your fucking business anymore, Zenin.” 

“No, I’m serious.” HIs eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and your skin crawls. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about being blacklisted. Sometimes things happen to teach you a lesson, you know? Looks like you’ve learnt to finally put more effort into what you’re wearing again. You should be thanking me.”

“I am not doing this with you.” You try to sound confident but you both hear the pathetic slur to your words. 

“You’re not doing much of anything,” he says. “You’re just dancing around hoping some desperate fucker takes pity on you and notices.” 

“Fuck off, Naoya.”

His expression hardens, that little thread of irritation pulling tight because you did not blush, did not smile, did not give him even a crumb of the reaction he came looking for. “You know, this is exactly why people get so tired of you. You make everything so fucking difficult. I’m trying to be nice, and you’re acting like I cornered you in a damn alleyway.” 

“You put your hands on me!” 

“An arm, Y/N. I put my arm around you,” he corrects, like you’re the one being embarrassing. “Don’t make it sound so ugly.” 

“Well, it felt ugly.” 

For a moment, you think he might finally drop the act. But then his mouth curves again, albeit thinner and meaner at the edges. 

“Come on,” he says, taking a step closer and the crowd seems to bunch in to prevent you from leaving. “Don’t be like that. We know each other, don’t we? You don’t have to do the whole untouchable thing with me.” 

The alcohol is making everything lag a second behind. The music, the lights, the heat under your skin now sickening, the disgust rising sharp and sour in your throat. You know what he’s doing, you know it so clearly it almost sobers you. That glint in his eyes as he shamelessly trails his gaze down your face and between your tits, the way his hand is already lifting to grope you, how his voice has softened to be more convincing. 

You take another step back. 

“I said leave.” 

Naoya laughs. “You’re seriously going to act like you weren’t leaning back into me a second ago?”

“I thought you were someone else.” The words are out before you can catch them and shove them back down. 

His expression drops in a way that’s almost satisfying, if not for the fact that it twists into something worryingly familiar seconds later. You hate that your stomach sinks. You hate that, even now, some stupid trained part of you expects the punishment that comes after disappointing him. 

Naoya leans in again, close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath under whatever expensive cologne he sprayed on himself. “So what was the plan? Get drunk enough that you could pretend it was an accident when you went home with someone?” 

Your fingers curl into a fist by your sides. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

“Like what?” he asks, eyes wide with fake innocence. “I’m just saying, you’re the one dancing around like you want attention looking like that. You can’t get mad when someone gives it to you.”

“Move,” you hiss. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You always do shit like this. You act so above everything it’s a surprise you haven’t been humbled yet. Is that going to have to be my job now too?” 

“You don’t know anything about me anymore.” 

“Don’t get such a big head,” he sneers. “You’re still so easy to read. Still so fucking pathetic. Still need to feel someone’s attention on you, need to feel wanted, just so damn needy all the time.”

Your hand comes up so fast that you know the weight in which it’ll strike across Naoya’s face will give you the nicest, most satisfying crack. 

But before you can bring it down against his stupid fucking face, someone grabs your wrist and gently redirects it.  It takes you a moment to register what just happened. Someone had cut cleanly into the space Naoya had taken from you, still holding your wrist behind his back, and you blink at the grey shirt until you look up and see white hair. 

“Is there a problem?” Gojo’s voice is light enough that, for a strange second, it almost sounds like he’s walked into the wrong conversation. 

Something imperceptible flashes across Naoya’s face, something easily missed if you didn’t know his every tell. 

“Not your business, Gojo.” 

“Oh,” Gojo says, “don’t be like that. It looked fun over here. What were you guys talking about?” 

You don’t care for this passive aggressive approach of his. You yank at your arm. “I was about to slap him.”

Gojo glances back at you. 

You’re too drunk and too angry and too humiliated to care that his face is suddenly closer than expected, all pale hair and blue eyes and a mouth pressed into a thin line. You tug again, uselessly. 

“I’m serious,” you insist. “Let me slap him.” 

Naoya scoffs and takes a step back like he has other things on his agenda than to be publicly embarrassed. “This is insane. You’re both insane. Whatever, I’m done here anyway, what a fucking turn off.”

He turns to walk away, one hand running through his piss-coloured hair. 

Gojo’s other hand snaps out so fast you barely catch the motion. One second, Naoya is tilted to walk forward and the next, Gojo has his wrist caught in one hand, fingers locked around him with an ease that makes Naoya’s whole body jerk to a stop. 

Naoya suddenly hisses. There’s a thin red line where one of Gojo’s rings has bitten too hard into the skin. Despite this, Gojo does not give him the time of day. Instead, he looks at you. 

“Hm,” he says, tone casual, as if you have asked him whether he wants another drink. “I hear you, band shirt, but there’s an issue. If you slap him, you might get into trouble.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“He’s the president of—”

You squeeze his arm holding yours. “I don’t care. He’s never been slapped before in his life and it’s obvious. He needs to be slapped, Satoru, he deserves this.” 

Gojo pauses. Then, very seriously, he starts to nod slowly,  “I suppose that does make a lot of sense.”

Naoya jerks against his grip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Gojo’s hand only tightens, short nails digging into the skin, though he still doesn’t look away from you, not even when you whip your gaze over to your ex, wishing that looks could indeed kill. 

How did you ever date a guy like him? You stare at Naoya, at his ugly, furious, blotchy-red face, at the way he keeps looking around like there should be someone here to save him from the consequences of his own mouth. He keeps tugging and pulling but Gojo effortlessly keeps him there. 

“But it looks like you just got your nails done,” Gojo ponders. “And you could hurt yourself.” 

“It has to be me, Satoru.”

Gojo’s eyes soften at that and he finally smiles, voice going lower. “I know.” 

Then he shifts, letting go of your wrist. For a second, you think he’s going to tell you not to do it after all, that he is going to be sensible in ways that severely go against his reputation. Instead, he lifts his free hand between you, palm up. 

“Okay,” he says. “Then don’t hurt yourself doing it.” 

You blink. “What?” 

“If you’re going to do it, then do it properly,” he says, still speaking to you like Naoya is not standing there trying to pull free. “No weird wrist thing, And don’t throw your whole body into it just to put more force behind it. It’ll just make you fall over because you’re a little drunk and unsteady. You’ve gotta plant your feet.” 

Naoya laughs, no humour behind it. “Gojo, are you serious?” 

Gojo ignores him. “Also,” he adds, glancing at his own hand, “now that I think about it, rings might help.”

He holds your gaze for a little longer before offering you a kind smile and lowering his hand to you, fingers pointing towards you. 

“Are you sure?” you ask, gaze flickering up to his face then to his rings. “They might get bloody.”

“It’s okay, just take your pick. I can always clean them. This chance might not come again for you,” he tells you in a similarly soft tone. 

You reach out and take the one from his pinky finger because any other ring might be a size too big, and slide it onto your middle finger. 

Naoya’s face pales. 

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” he snaps, trying again to wrench his wrist free. “You’re going to let her hit me?” 

Gojo finally looks at him. The smile he gives Naoya is bright enough to be mistaken for friendly. “Hey, man, it’s none of my business.” 

The ring is still a little too loose, the metal heavy and cold against your skin, and your hand trembles once before you curl it into a fist and open it again. 

Gojo notices and his attention is back on you. His voice drops just enough for only you to catch it again. “You sure?” 

You look at him, then past him, at Naoya’s pale, furious face. “Yes.” 

Gojo studies you for half a second longer, something soft passing through his expression before it disappears beneath a bright, almost cheerful smile. 

“Okay!” he says. “Then first, plant those feet and let your shoulders relax a little. If you hit him like that, it’ll go through your wrist, and then you’ll be mad tomorrow because he got your hand and your mood.” 

You nod and adjust. 

Naoya jerks in grip. “No, wait—”

Gojo doesn’t look at him. “You don’t need a big wind-up. It’ll be painful even if you don’t hit hard so no pressure.” 

“Hey,” Naoya snaps, voice pitching higher. “Someone get him off me.” 

“But I want to hurt him,” you say to Gojo. 

“You will,” Gojo says, very simply. “But you don’t have to hurt yourself to do it. You’re doing this for you, remember? To get it off your chest.” 

Naoya tries to laugh. It comes out wrong. “Come on, man. I said I’m sorry. Tell her to stop being dramatic.” 

Gojo tilts his head at you, as if listening to a distant appliance hum. “Do you hear something?”

You stare at him, cocking your head in a mirror of his own gesture. “The music?”

“No.” He waves his question away. “Something annoying. Anyway. Hand open, shoulders down and feet on the ground. You’ve got this.” 

You do as he says and then turn to look at Naoya. 

For months, he had made you feel like every reaction you had was too much, too loud or too needy, too embarrassing, too difficult to love. He had taught you how to swallow anger until it sat heavy in your stomach and called that maturity. He had always walked away with his shoulders up because you were always the one trying not to make a scene. 

And now, you’re finally going to leave a mark on him. 

You slap him. 

The sound cracks across the room, sharp enough to split cleanly through the music. Naoya’s head snaps to the side at the force of it, mouth open, but finally, finally, nothing leaves it. 

Your palm burns immediately, a bright sting rushing up your arm and the ring presses back into your finger, cold against the heat of your skin. It hurts a little. But it hurts so good. 

Gojo lets go of Naoya at once. Your ex stumbles back, one hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide with shock. “You fucking—”

“Holy shit!” Gojo says loudly. “Is that Naoya from TDP? Dude, what are you doing here, do you even know Utahime?”

Naoya’s face drops slightly in confusion. “What?” 

Gojo’s voice carries easily over the music now. “No, seriously. Aren’t you the guy that one post was made about in the group chat? I wouldn’t have come to a party when you haven’t even said anything about the allegations.” 

The crowd surrounding you instantly starts murmuring amongst themselves, shooting Naoya dirty looks. 

Naoya grits his teeth, anger flooding his face all over again. “I didn’t—”

“It’s weird, I really don’t think Utahime would have invited you.”

“I was invited.”

“By who?”

Naoya opens his mouth but nothing comes out fast enough.

A girl by the couch scoffs. “Utahime would never invite him.”

“Yeah, didn’t she literally say not to let him in?”

“How did he get inside?”

Someone near you nods along to his words, and a girl wraps her arms around you, running her hand up and down your side. It could have so easily gone wrong, Naoya yelling something about being hurt and suddenly you became the problem. The drunk girl, the angry ex seeking vengeance. The one who slapped someone in the middle of the party. 

But now everyone is looking at him. And Naoya seems to realise this too because his eyes dart around the room, searching for sympathy and finding none. 

“Creep,” someone mutters.

“Get him out,” another voice says.

Naoya points toward Gojo, furious and scared in a way you have never seen before. “He’s lying. She’s drunk and she’s always been—” 

“Ugh, spare me, I know you were creeping around me too!” 

Gojo doesn’t stick around for the aftermath and you don’t either, his hand closing around your other hand to gently tug you through the growing crowd, his broad back guiding the way. 

It’s nice, you realise, which is a stupid thing to immediately think of next after slapping your ex-boyfriend in the middle of a party. Still, it is. 

The way he moves through the room without dragging you behind him, the way people part for him easily, but he keeps glancing back anyway, like he’s making sure you’re still there  and not swallowed by the music and body and the roaring awareness of what you’ve just done. His hand is warm around yours, loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to, firm enough that you don’t have to think too hard about where you’re going. 

You let yourself follow. Past the kitchen, past the hallway mirror, past two girls whispering near the wall,  both of them looking over your shoulder toward where Naoya had disappeared, their expression twisted with disgust. 

The noise dulls a little near the back of the house. The music still reaches here, bass-heavy and insistent, but the air feels cooler, less packed with breath and perfume. Just before the back door, Gojo stops. 

You nearly bump into him and he chuckles, turning around.

“Careful.” He looks you up and down not unpleasantly. “How’s the hand?” 

“It’s fine,” you say automatically. Then you pause, looking down. 

His ring is still sitting crooked on your middle finger, too loose and faintly warm now from your skin. Your palm is red and your fingers tingle but the slap keeps replaying in your head in satisfying flashes: the crack of it, Naoya’s face turning, and any regret you might have felt dissipates. 

“Okay, it might sting a little.” 

Gojo’s expression softens. “Let me see it.” 

You lift your other hand not in his, and he reaches out to take it, a sharp thrill running up your arm when he makes contact. He turns your hand over carefully, fingers light and ticklish against your palm as he inspects it. For a moment, you wonder about this gentleness that he shows you, how sharply it contrasts with the way he had held Naoya hard enough to draw blood. His fingers move over your palm with careful attention, thumb brushing beneath the base of your fingers, moving down to the sensitive skin of your wrist and making you shiver. The hallway is too warm and too cold at once, music pulsing behind you in dull waves, but all you can really feel is the shape of his hand around yours and the ridiculous, traitorous flutter under your ribs. 

“You’ll live,” he says eventually, fingers splaying over your wrist and forearm before dropping. “And you’re staring.” 

You blink when you process that he’s looking right into your eyes, his lips quirked into a small smile as he watches you.  “Thanks for helping me slap my ex.”  He shrugs. “It’s no problem, band shirt. I think my ring did the bulk of everything.”  You look down at your hand and notice that he’s right. The silver sits crooked on your finger, too loose and too pretty, catching the hallway light like it has any right to look innocent after drawing blood across Naoya’s cheek. Thank you, pretty silver ring, for your service. May your efforts haunt him for at least a few business days. Gojo lowers his hand under yours again and for a second, you think that he’s going to ask for it back. Instead, he lifts your hand slowly such that you have the chance to pull away. His eyes stay on yours until the last moment, before he lowers his mouth and presses a soft kiss to the ring.  Technically, it’s his ring and not your hand he kissed. Still, the warmth of his breath brushes your skin, and something bright and winged breaks loose in your stomach. Your fingers twitch once in his hold as your breath catches. His lashes lower into the kiss, before he opens his eyes again and looks up at you through them.  He smiles at you cheekily.   “Can’t run away from me now, can you?” he asks, lowering your hand just enough to comfortably interlace his own fingers with yours. “I never did give you my name that one time before but it’s Gojo Satoru, though it looks like you already know. Come sit with me.” 

‘Me’ ends up being him, and also his friends. Which is not as awkward as you thought it would be, mostly because the second Gojo opens the back door, Utahime and Shoko both sit up from where they’ve been lounging together on an outdoor chair like two cats disturbed mid-nap. Their fingers point at you at the exact same time.  “You!” “With him?”  “Hi guys.” You drop your hand from his under the piercing gaze of your friends. “How’s the party?” Gojo doesn’t say anything, only stepping around you with that easy, unbothered smile of his, and joining a conversation with some guys standing around the bonfire. 

Utahime’s backyard has been transformed into something of a cozy hangout spot. Cheap fairylights hang crooked from the overhead roof, blinking out of sink, and a few mismatched outdoor chairs and beanbags sit in a loose circle around a low table cluttered with cups, jackets, and a neat stack of cards. There’s a small lit fire further out, but you drag your eyes away from its company to focus on the people you do know.  Shoko shuffles closer to her girlfriend, patting the space next to her which you gratefully take. “Hold on, so did you find someone to make out with after all? And was it…?”  You quickly look back at Gojo who is now talking quietly with someone you don’t know, the long-haired boy nodding in serious thought at whatever is leaving his mouth. His eyes slide to you and when they meet yours, you flinch, looking away. “No! That’s not—God, my head is killing me. I didn’t make out with anyone, okay? I’m not here to find someone to hook up with.”  “Why are you here then?”  “You threatened me to come.” You point out.  “Well, you weren’t going to not come, that’s not in the cards.” Shoko presses you another cup into your hands and, because you have yet to learn your lesson from earlier, you take a trusting sip.  You almost choke out the battery acid when it hits your tongue, covering your mouth with your arm as you glare at your friends. “Oh, ew, Shoko. Seriously? Can’t you make something good for once? Your jungle juice is always so ass.”  “That’s how you know it works. Tongue loosened up yet? Why did you just walk out with Gojo? What’s going on between you two? Does he know now?”  You lean back into the seat at Shoko’s interrogation, and take another deep chug of Shoko’s disgusting drink. “Before you grill me, I have to grill you. Want to tell me what Naoya is doing at your party, Utahime?”  Utahime blinks. “Naoya is at my party?” 

“Was,” you correct yourself. “I think he got the message after I slapped him that he shouldn’t be here.”  “You slapped him?” Utahime sits up with a bright smile. “Oh my God, tell me you got that on video! To clear my name though, I definitely did not invite him. He must have snuck in or something.”  “Well, basically everyone saw so I’m sure there’s a video on someone’s story by now.” You look back at Gojo now standing with just one other guy. “Satoru just happened to be there at the right place and time to help. That’s it.”  When your friends don’t immediately press for more questions, you turn back and find them whispering and giggling to each other. When they feel your suspicious gaze, Shoko looks up. “Sorry, yes, right. Gojo saved you.”

Utahime clears her throat suddenly. “Wait, shut up. Three o’clock.”  You stiffen when a weight presses against you, someone’s body dropping into the narrow gap between you and the armrest. 

You instinctively shuffle closer to Shoko to make room, though there is not enough room to make. Your thigh presses ages his, shoulder brushing against yours, and his arm slides along the back of the chair, not quite touching your neck, but close enough that your skin tingles.  Shoko mutters, “This chair is clearly only meant for three.”  “I’d hate to think you don’t want me here,” Gojo says cheerfully. “What are we talking about? Me?”  “Your head is so far up your ass you only ever think of yourself,” Utahime grumbles.  You freeze, unsure where your limbs should go when you’re pressed up to the person behind the faceless voice in your walls. Admittedly, this realisation comes a little late. You should have armed your walled defenses the moment Gojo had grabbed your wrist and pulled you behind him, should have simply walked away after slapping Naoya (that was a non-negotiable, canon event) instead of letting him drag you back where you’re now trapped. Because he doesn’t know you’re her. And right now when you’re drunk and unsteady on your feet and thoughts? This might be the worst possible time for him to find out.  “That over there is Suguru,” Gojo suddenly leans in to say, breath ghosting the shell of your ear. His voice sends shivers down your neck and along your spine, every sensation suddenly all too much. The fabric that isn’t your own grazing high on your thigh, his hair tickling your cheek, his feet nudging yours slightly so you can move over just a little bit more for him.  “That’s Kento, with the frown and beside him is Yuu, without the frown. And those, on the table, are my Digimon cards. Who the fuck brought them out here?”  Haibara laughs. “Geto did! We were playing truth or dare with them!”

“You’re lucky that’s my dupe deck or I’d end this friendship right here and now,” Gojo says, an easy grin on his face as if he wasn’t pressing up against you, his chest warm and hard against your side, your elbow awkwardly jutting into him.  Your hand flexes around the cup, and the ring shifts slightly on your finger. Gojo’s gaze drops to it for half a second, a private little smile cutting across his mouth before he looks back at the table.  “We heard about what happened inside,” Geto says. “Are you okay?”  Would it be too late to suddenly go mute? If you’re able to recognise Gojo by his voice, then the chances of him putting name to face with the girl next door and you is also very high. Though, considering the way he isn’t immediately pulling you aside to ask if you are indeed the voice in his walls, you want to believe that he has yet to figure out your identity.  So no, it isn’t too late to go mute.  You nod in response to Geto’s question and flash him a smile, hoping none of it comes off as rude.  Gojo hums beside you, the vibration travelling through your bodies. He leans down to speak into your ear, a conversation just for you. “Not much for words? What happened to all the snark earlier?” You stall for time by taking a long sip of Shoko’s concoction, the sting temporarily skyrocketing to the top of your concerns. This may or may not be a bad idea because now that you’re seated, all the previous drinks sloshing around in your stomach and this adding sip burning down your throat, you feel the world tip a little. You probably can’t deflect this question, not when he asks like this, so you settle for something else.  Clearing your throat, you try for a lower octave than usual. “I only talk to the people that deserve it,” you say, then let out a small huff at how ridiculous you sound.  The grin he shoots you is all confidence and self-assurance, leaning in a fraction closer. “How would you know if you’ve never given me a chance?”  “It’s pointless, I already know what you’re like.” Maybe it’s the bonfire or the drink in your hand but you are getting really warm. You take another long sip. 

“We talked for ten minutes max the other day, I highly doubt that,” he cocks his head at you. “Do I know you from somewhere else?”  You hum. “Maybe.” 

“I think I would remember someone like you.”  That causes you to raise an eyebrow, letting his casual flirt roll off you.  “Flattery,” you start, poking his chest. You let him catch your hand in his, holding it there against his heart, “won’t get you anywhere especially when it’s empty.” “Who said it was empty? Besides, I know I wouldn’t forget such a pretty girl.” “Oh, you would. You are.” You laugh again, finding the inside joke hilarious. “Try a little harder to remember, hm Satoru?”  The challenge makes his eyes glow just like you knew they would, always have known from the moment when a wall still separated the two of you and he had laughed at your provoking, all dark and not humourous at all.  “Maybe if you gave me a name.” You’re not quite ready to hear his name from your lips just yet so you only shake your head, wagging your finger at him playfully. “Where’s the fun in that?” “I’m usually a patient man and I’m all for the chase,” he starts, fingers inching closer, brushing hair from the back of your neck as he leans in, “but you’ve left me high and dry for so long.” His words go in one ear and out the other, your breath hitching at the slightest touch. Despite yourself, you gulp and taste the bitter alcohol in your mouth. You feel it too, warmth pooling in your gut and making your head spin.  “I’m not an easy person,” you whisper, eyes flickering down to his lips and you bite your own, the rush of all your fantasies suddenly overwhelming you. In all other them, you’ve never once imagined his lips on yours, not until now. And you don’t doubt that after this, you'll be thinking of them often.  “Trust me,” he chuckles. “You’re not easy, you’re stubborn as hell and you always give me a hard time.” As if sensing your temptation, Gojo’s eyes trace the way your teeth dig into your lip, watching the pull before you release it, red and slightly jutted out. It makes him want to sink his teeth into your bottom lip and lick the marks it leaves behind. 

Your breath hitches. He leans in slightly, looking up to search your face and wait to see if you’ll pull back. When you don’t, when he accepts whatever look is in eyes, he leans forward more. The anticipation builds and morphs into budding frustration when he continues to play this game of chicken, giving you countless moments to pull away if needed even when you’ve shown no sign of stopping.  Shoko clears her throat and you jump, accidentally crushing your solo cup. The liquid bursts up and flows down your wrist and into your lap.  “Shit!” you curse, immediately jumping up and pulling the fabric away from your skin.  Gojo quickly follows, one hand hovering on your lower back in case you tip back.  “Oh, fuck,” Shoko says. “You okay?”  “Yeah, it’s just super sticky.” You wince, accepting the tissues Nanami hands you though they do little good. “Ew, it’s, like, sticking to my skin.”  Utahime speaks up, watching you from over the rim of her cup. “There’s a bathroom down the corridor. Gojo knows where it is, he can show you.” “And maybe the two of you can make out there instead of right in front of us,” Geto says offhandedly, though his cup can’t completely hide his grin. The people around the table giggle at his words, Shoko probably the loudest.  You blush, immediately going to deny his accusations but Gojo beats you to it. “Shoko and Utahime are one second away from eating each other’s faces off but no one says anything about that!”

“That’s because this is my party, Gojo.”  “Yeah, well it was my party that got you two together,” Gojo shoots back childishly.  Everyone laughs again, chattering as they descend into the topic of other inside jokes, playing word association as they leap from memory to memory. There’s a sense of belonging that oozes from everyone as they lean into one another and talk and gossip. You might have appreciated this moment more, enjoyed the fact that they’re allowing you into this intimate moment, if not for the sudden blossoming warmth inside you. Before you can really think about it, you tug on Gojo’s shirt.  He immediately leans down, angling his ear to you. “Hm?” 

“Take me to the bathroom?”  Gojo stiffens, eyes flickering to your face then down your body. He bites his lip hard to focus, ignoring the temptation to let his mind wander at your innocent words. They had to be innocent, right? You, who was now looking up at him through your lashes with a pout playing on your lips, one hand tugging on the hem of his shirt, thumb rolling over the fabric slowly. You who was fidgeting ever so slightly, thighs rubbing together due to the cold. “Yeah,” he says suddenly, all humour gone. “Let’s go.”  Someone cheers behind you as Gojo helps you up and opens the back door for you, though neither of you seem to care. He doesn’t bother with answering greetings, only smiling shortly as you pass familiar people, something more impatient when he guides you than before.  He leads you down a corridor and into a dark room, closing the door behind you. Your heart leaps to your throat until he turns on the light, and you wince at the brightness.  “Sorry, pretty. Should’ve warned you,” Gojo says, only looking vaguely apologetic as he leans against the closed door, one hand still on the knob like he’s giving you a chance to back out.  He watches you carefully, tracing the line of your jaw, the slightest twitch of your brow and then, his favourite part, the flush climbing your cheeks. “The bathroom should be safer than a spare room. Who knows who is in there doing what.” You hesitate. “You didn’t have to follow me in.” 

“No?” He tilts his head, eyes roaming over you before settling smugly on your face. “You’re still holding onto my shirt. Maybe let go if you want to sound convincing.”  You shiver, letting go immediately and stepping back closer to the sink. You open your mouth to say something, a stupid excuse perhaps, but he beats you to it.  “You cold?”  “What?” “Earlier.” His eyes fall to your legs. “You were fidgeting. Thought maybe you were cold. Call me a desperate guy if you want, but don’t ask a guy to take you somewhere private while looking at me like that.”  “Like what?”  Gojo pushes off the door and you take a step back instinctively. “Like you wanted me to misunderstand you.”  You hesitate, looking around the bathroom. He seems to notice, and stops immediately, eyes softening. “Hey, I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. Just shove me away and I’ll go, I promise.”  “It’s not that,” you bite your lip.  “Then what is it, pretty?”  “You talk too much. You’re too loud,” you manage to say, warm despite the chill of the drink on you. “Always have been.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah?”  “Yes.”  “Good.” He takes one step closer. “Then make me shut up.”  Your back meets the sink before you realise you have moved, the contrast of cold porcelain against your overheated skin making you gasp. He’s on you in an instant, hands roaming down your side until they’re gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.  “You’re so tense,” he murmurs against your neck. “You have no idea I’ve been watching you all night, do you? That little skirt? This tiny little top?”  He slaps your tits and you jolt, looking up at him in surprise to which he only grins down at you. You can’t seem to form a coherent thought, not when there’s alcohol swimming in your veins and turning your limbs to jelly, mind to fog. Still, you manage to say, “Did you just slap my boob?” “Don’t act like you didn’t like it. If I shove my hand down your skirt, am I going to find you wet, pretty?”  His knee nudges between your thighs, spreading them open as he steps closer.  “You are so gross—” you start, but he cuts you off with his mouth on yours.  The kiss is brutal and demanding all at once. His tongue slides against yours, tasting of expensive liquor and something sweet, or maybe that’s just your taste and he’s shoving it back against your mouth. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, tilting your head back. 

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your throat, sucking hard at the pulse point. “Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve wanted this since the first time I heard you. You have quite the perverted streak to you, don’t you?” Your breath hitches. His hand slides down, palm flat against your stomach, then lower. He doesn't bother with the fabric of your panties, just pushes them aside and drags his fingers through your slick folds. “Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re soaked. And you're gonna tell me you weren't dreaming about this? Getting yourself off to the thought of me touching you like this?”  His middle finger sinks into you without warning. You cry out, a sound that would be embarrassing if you had any sense left. But all you can feel is the stretch, the fullness, the way your body clenches around him desperately. “That's it,” he coos, tone shifting to something truly mocking. “You’re really feeling it now, aren’t you?”  He adds a second finger, fucking them into you with a rhythm that has your knees buckling. His thumb circles your clit in lazy, torturous circles. You're already so close, the buildup of tension from hours of dancing, of drinking, of watching him across the room, it all crashes toward a peak. “Please,” you whimper. “Please what? Use your words, pretty.” “Please fuck me,” you manage to gasp, fantasy and reality crashing together in a dizzying mess.  He pulls his fingers out abruptly, and you groan at the loss. But then you hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the zipper of his pants, and your mouth waters. He takes himself in hand, strokes once, twice, and then the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance. “Look at me,” he commands.

You force your eyes open. His are dark, pupils blown wide, a little furrow between his brows. 

“Are you with me?” he asks, brushing your hair out of your eyes.  You nod, rutting forward pathetically.  “Come on, pretty, I need to hear you say it.” “I’m here!” you choke out, gasping. “Please, I want this, I promise I—I want you. Satoru, please.” He groans, the tip of his cock pressing forward beyond that little ring of resistance, swearing at the involuntary thrust. “Okay, okay, I’ve got you.”  He noses into your temple, inhaling deeply, one thumb holding you open as he presses in and groans, filthy and depraved.  “Fuck—you’re so tight,” he gasps, cock stuttering through until he’s buried deep.  The sensation of being stretched wide open on his cock makes you tense, before a ragged, grateful cry escapes your swollen lips. You can barely breathe through your nose, head spinning with pleasure.  “Oh god, oh my god!” you cry out, head thrown back. 

“Shh,” he hisses against your ear, his breath hot and sweet. His cock rams into you—a thick, punishing rhythm he picks up easily—and every thrust pushes your back against the sink. “You gotta stay quiet, angel. We don't want anyone hearin’ how much of a slut you are, do we?” But of course, all good things have to come to an end because through the hazy pleasure, you hear a grating voice.  “Hey! Y/N! I know you're in there!” You can recognise Naoya’s voice anywhere even, it seems, when you’re being fucked for every inch of your life.  Gojo’s hand closes around your mouth as he looks at you, grunting softly with every thrust. He pulls out briefly and you whine until he turns you around and presses you up against the cold tiles, driving up into you like he never left. His rhythm doesn’t falter, if anything, he pounds harder.  “Mm-mm,” you try to say, shaking your head, panic rising. He doesn't stop. He slams into you and your body jolts, your forehead knocking against the tile. “I said I know you're in there!” Naoya's voice is slurred, angry. He kicks the door. “Open the fuck up! We need to talk!” Gojo’s hand slides off your mouth though not enough to leave completely. It’s just his palm moving, his fingers hooking into the corner of your lips, prying your mouth open. Two of them slip inside, salty with your own slick, and he pushes them back until you're gagging.

“Answer him,” Gojo whispers, his lips brushing your ear. “Go on. Tell him you’re busy.”

You can’t. His fingers are deep in your throat. You gag, tears springing to your eyes, and he just laughs, low and dark. “Oh, right. You can't talk with my fingers in your mouth, can you?” He pulls them out, slick and wet, and wraps them around your jaw, tilting your face toward the door. “Try again. Use your words.” “Naoya,” you choke out, your voice wrecked, breathless. “I’m—I’m fine. Just—” “Just what?” Gojo thrusts, hard, and your sentence crumbles into a gasp. His cock sinks so deep you feel it in your stomach. “Just getting fucked stupid? Tell him the truth.” There’s a beat of silence. You can picture Naoya on the other side of the door, his fists clenched, his jaw tight. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, certainly enraged. “You’re lying. I can hear you breathing. Open the fucking door.” Gojo’s hips slow. He pulls almost all the way out, leaving just the tip, and then drives forward in one smooth, devastating motion. You cry out, quickly muffled by your own hand. “Don't make me break this door down,” Naoya warns. Gojo chuckles, right in your ear. “He sounds mad. Poor guy. You really do know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?” He leans closer, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But you’re not his anymore, are you? You're mine. For tonight, anyway.” He fucks you slow now, deep and deliberate, his cock dragging along every inch of your walls. You feel every ridge, every vein and your legs tremble in the delicious drag.

“Tell him,” Gojo whispers, “that you’re busy. That you don’t have time for him anymore. ‘Cause he’s nothing to you now, right? Tell me he’s nothing to you.”  You swallow, wanting nothing more than to open your mouth and babble about how incredible it is to get railed in a bathroom, how brainless Gojo’s cock is making you but you have to be good, he’s waiting for you. So instead, you manage to say, “Naoya, leave me—ngh—alone!” Naoya growls at the closed door before him, even going so far as to stomp his feet like a petulant kid. “Fine! Fucking fine, Y/N! But I promise you, you’ll regret this! I’ll make sure you do!”

Sure, you think, eyes rolling back, as if your Etsy witch can touch me anymore when Gojo is fucking me. You slump forward, relief flooding you when you hear his footsteps retreating, but Gojo doesn’t let you rest. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, and resumes his brutal pace. “Good girl,” he purrs. His voice is different now, softer, honeyed and  almost affectionate. “Such a good fucking girl. You did so well. You listened. You obeyed.” He kisses your shoulder, open-mouthed, wet. “See? I knew you could be good for me.” The whiplash is dizzying and it only makes you arch more, something inevitable and delicious approaching in the far distance.  “That's right,” he murmurs, still fucking you deep and slow. “You took that so well. Pretended you weren’t getting your tight little cunt stuffed while your ex was right outside. That takes skill, pretty. You’re so fucking perfect for me.” His hand snakes around your front, fingers finding your clit. He rubs slow, tight circles, and your hips buck. “Bet you've been practicing, haven't you?” His voice is a low, knowing drawl. “All those nights you thought nobody was listening. Thought nobody could hear you moaning. But weren’t you the one to tell me? The walls are thin as shit, angel.” He’s ramming into you now, fast and rough again, his words spilling out between each thrust and all you can do is be a ragdoll in his hold.  “You'd lie in bed, late at night, fingers in your pussy, listening to me stroke my cock. I’d hear you. The wet sounds. The little ‘oh, yes’s. And I’d think... fuck, I need to have that. I need to feel that cunt clench around me.” You're dizzy, overwhelmed. His hand on your clit, his cock in your cunt, his words in your brain, it’s all too much. “Did you think I didn’t recognize you at the party tonight? The girl with the needy little moans?” He bites your earlobe, hard enough to sting. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to corner you. And then you showed up drunk and sad, with that asshole on your heels, and I knew tonight was the night.” He’s watching you in the mirror and you catch his reflection. His eyes are dark, lips parted, face flushed. He’s absolutely beautiful.

“I'm gonna fill you up,” he growls. “Gonna pump my cum so deep inside you it leaks out for days. And when you walk past my door tomorrow, you're gonna know. You’re gonna remember this. You’re gonna touch yourself to the memory, and I’ll be right there, on the other side of the wall, stroking myself to the sound of you coming undone.” His hips slam into you. Once, twice, three times. You feel the pressure building, the coil in your belly tightening to the point of pain. “Satoru—” you gasp, hands fumbling for purchase on the wall.  “I know, angel, I know. Cum for me,” he demands. “Wanna finally feel you cum on my cock—fuck.” You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, your cunt clenching around him, your body shaking. You cry out his name—Satoru—and he follows a second later, buried to the hilt, his cum hot and thick inside you. He holds you there, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slick and sticky. Then he pulls out slowly, watching his cum drip down your thigh. “Good girl,” he says again, his voice a warm, approving caress. He turns you around, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you, soft, tender, unhurried. “You did so well, pretty. So, so good for me.” Your knees are weak and he notices, turning you and pressing you to his chest to keep you upright. He continues to whisper in your ear as your senses return to you, and when you finally lift a hand to gently push at his chest, he lets you, eyes immediately flickering down to your eyes.  “Still with me?”  You nod, before you fall forward into his arms. 

When your body breaks down alcohol, it converts the ethanol into acetate, a process that produces a lot of NADH from NAD⁺. The imbalance of the NADH⁺ ratio leads to the feelings of weakness and grogginess that come from a horrible night out.  You wake now, approximately ninety percent NADH and ten percent regret.  For a while, you refuse to move. You only stare at your ceiling, blinking slowly at the familiar crack in the paint above your head, the soft grey light pressing through the curtains, the horrible cotton-dry feeling your tongue against the top of your mouth.  How the fuck did you get home? Your own bed, in most cases, the preferred place to wake up after all. It’s safe, it’s familiar, and most importantly, it’s yours. But the last thing you remember is not collapsing into the warmth and security of your own bed. The last thing you recall comes in fragments: Utahime’s party, Gojo’s hands on your body, the bathroom light flickering too bright overhead, the sink cold behind you and his voice low in your ear.  And then nothing. You suppose there are brief pieces after that, blurry and soft around the edges. Glimpses of a car window, someone cursing under their breath, the sound of your keys jingling and the vague sensation of being carried. That one must have been a drunken hallucination because it’s humiliating and therefore cannot be the truth.  You fumble for your phone which is not beside your pillow where you usually place it after your nightly doomscroll before bed, but placed neatly on your bedside table. There’s a few texts from friends on your lock screen, but there’s only one person you want to text. 

shoko: alive?

actually don’t answer if you’re dead

if you’re alive though please drink some water and let me know that you’re ok 

You laugh softly. Why did you jump to conclusions so quick? Of course it was Shoko that took you home! Who knew her upper body strength was so good that she managed to carry you into your own bed after a night of drinking. 

you: im alive!!

thank u so much for taking me home btw 

i owe u :3

She quickly reacts to your message with a heart before the typing indicator appears. 

shoko: i didn’t take u home (?) 

gojo did obv

he WHAT? is probably what you’re thinking but please remember to breathe and drink some water before you crash out 

You are, in fact, thinking he what?And because Shoko accurately called you out on that, you decide to follow through on the rest of her advice. You turn your head and stop a sticky note stuck to the glass of water beside your head, bright yellow and neat as a warning label. 

water is important when you’re recovering from a hangover! — satoru

Then, a little to the left, attached to a packet of painkillers, 

because i know your head probably feels like shit rn — still me 

“Oh my god,” you whisper, unsure whether to laugh or to run away. 

You do neither because your head really does hurt like a motherfucker, and take the painkillers along with a generous gulping or two of water. The cool liquid does little against the parched nature of your throat, but when you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, you feel alive enough to venture out of your bed.  There’s a sticky note on the ground next to a pair of slippers you swore you had separated, one in the kitchen one somewhere in the living room. 

the ground is cold! wear slippers! — forever urs :3

“Forever yours?” you repeat aloud, voice wrecked with sleep and dehydration even as you shove your toes in. 

There’s another note on the back of your bedroom door. 

no matter what u see in the mirror remember you’re beautiful! — shrek to ur fiona?

You open your bedroom door and make your slow, regretful way to the bathroom where you lay your tired eyes on your puffy face. You have definitely seen better days. There’s another note stuck to your mirror. 

face wash is on the left toothbrush is on the right if you use the face wash as toothpaste, that’s between you and god — not your doctor 

Huffing out a sound that might be amusement, you pick up your toothbrush and ensure you squeeze toothpaste onto its bristles. The toothpaste is minty and makes your eyes water slightly, but by the time you rinse your mouth, you feel one step closer to not feeling like the undead. 

There’s another note stuck to the towel rack. 

if ur eyes are puffy, put a cold compress over them! — still not a doctor

From the bathroom back to your room for a change of clothes and even on your way to the kitchen, you’re guided by a series of sticky notes. 

clean clothes! i didn’t look through your drawers dw — feminist 

welcome to the kitchen! huge milestone for you — ur biggest fan 

water already boiled in here so when you wake up to reboil it it’ll take less time — the kettle knower 

drink real water first before the coffee !! seriously don’t put coffee in me just yet — mug 

soup inside on the second shelf :3 not homemade so don’t get too excited i’m handsome, not magical i couldn’t have it both ways — :(

in the microwave for two minutes with lid half on! take it out when it’s boiling — the soup sipper 

You finally feel alive enough to laugh, embarrassingly loud in the quiet of your kitchen. You stand there in your slippers, teeth brushed, face washed, and dressed in clothes when any other time you might have still been under the covers. 

The apartment feels full of him. A note when you open your utensil drawer for a spoon, a note sitting on top of a coffee pod conveniently placed on your counter, a note against the body of a vase you’ve placed on your dining table to feel more homey. 

eat slowly, you get hiccups when you rush! 

The notes take you away from your drying rack when you’ve finished the store-bought soup and washed your spoon, taking you to your living room. Your camera sits on your coffee table, a sticky stuck on the surface that reads: “turn me on ><” You roll your eyes but do so, lifting it up and framing the sorry state of your living room before hitting the record button. The first shot captures just how many sticky notes litter the surface of almost every object, the words telling you a funny joke or reminding you to put something back. You take your time walking through all of them, his handwriting everywhere, his name everywhere (except when he decides to write down a silly nickname). 

Satoru.

Satoru.

Satoru.

Then, you find the last one on your front door. 

if you’re overwhelmed, you don’t have to open this today. if you’re angry at me, just yell at me through the wall :( if you’re okay, i’d like to see you — satoru

And then, before you can think it through, you reach forward and open your door.  Gojo stands in the hallway, a bouquet of flowers clutched in both hands like he’s praying. His eyes light up when you open your door and he moves forward instinctively. He’s so close that the toe of one sock is nearly edging over the threshold of your apartment.  You let out a short scream.  He startles just as badly, eyes going wide as he reaches forward on instinct to steady you, and your camera slips from your hand. “Oh—”  It hits the floor before either of you can grab it, bouncing once, then sliding sideways across the carpet until it knocks gently against the leg of your couch. The camera keeps recording from there, tilted on its side. It catches the lower half of your open door, Gojo’s socked feet in the hallway, your bare feet on the carpet, and the hem of your sweater falling over your shorts. “Are you okay?” he asks in a rush. 

“What are you doing standing right in front of my door, you creep?” you shoot back, one hand pressed to your chest. “Were you standing there the entire time?” 

“I was trying to be romantic.” He shoves the bouquet toward you, panic making his voice crack at the edges. “I literally got you flowers!”  You take them automatically, bewildered by the weight of roses in your hands. “Thank you? Is that why you’ve littered all over my apartment?”  His face falls. “Was that not cute?” 

You blink. “Cute?”  “Did you not think it was cute?” he asks, suddenly horrified. “Because I thought it was cute. I mean, not in a weird way. Well, maybe a little weird. But intentional weird. Charming weird.” 

“The sticky notes?” He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Look, I’ve never done anything like this before, okay? This whole romance thing is seriously above me, I have no idea how I’m meant to ask you this without scaring you away.”  You stare at him for a long while before laughing. The sound pulls from your throat loud and bright that it almost hurts with an incoming headache, but it’s so funny you just can’t stop. “I knew you had no experience with women. I called it all along, didn’t I?” “Please, this and that are completely unrelated.” His shoulders seem to relax at your laugh, and he finally cracks a smile, running a hand through his hair. “You never were going to make it easy for me, were you?” 

“Easy? When you’ve just left forty sticky notes in my apartment and then lurked outside my door?” His smile trembles, trying to stay bright, but the nerves are still there beneath it. You can see them now that you know to look. The way his fingers flex at his side, the way his eyes keep flickering from your face to the threshold like he is measuring the exact line he is not allowed to cross.  “I wasn’t lurking,” he says, quieter. “I was waiting.”  Your fingers tighten around the bouquet.  Gojo looks down at it, then back at you. “I wanted to knock earlier, but I thought if you woke up and saw me before you were ready, you’d panic.” “Please, I wouldn’t have panicked.”  “You literally panicked ten seconds ago.” “Touche.” You look at him for a short while before glancing down at your slippered-feet. “I’m still scared, honestly. I think I’ve been cursed in every possible aspect of love. That’s why when I heard your voice all the way back during that carwash event, I didn’t want you to know it was me. It would break what we had going on through the wall and I liked that. It felt like something I could just keep to myself. And then I found out you were Satoru and it was obvious you weren’t just mine anymore.”  Gojo lets you talk, lets you call him Gojo again without saying a single word until you finish. Then he says, “Were you disappointed?”  “No,” you say immediately. “It wasn’t like that.” 

He smiles then, head tilting to the side. “Then I can be just Satoru. Just your Satoru, if that helps.”  It’s so stupidly cheesy that you have to scoff, even as your cheeks warm.  “I’m serious,” he chuckles along with you, stepping a little closer. “I liked being 4B. I liked that you knew me when I was just some guy through the wall that you liked talking to. I liked talking to you through blackouts and through shitty phone calls. I liked what we had too. Have, if you’ll let me.” “Are you asking me out?” He huffs, a weary smirk on his face. “Isn’t it obvious?”  Instead of answering him, you shove the bouquet of flowers back into his chest, watching as his brows furrow in confusion, before you’re reaching forward to cup his face and kiss him. In one suspended second, Gojo simply stands there doing absolutely nothing. He freezes so completely beneath your hands that, if you risked opening your eyes, you might find his bright blue ones staring back at you. His lips are still against yours, the rest of him gone rigid, roses crushed between his chest and yours, fingers locked around the stems not quite sure what else to do.  You almost pull back. 

But then, in a rush of movement, the bouquet is gone.  He throws it blindly into your apartment with a kind of urgent, graceless force that makes several roses scatter across your carpet. Before you can laugh, his arms are around you.  One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close enough you half tread on his feet, other hand coming up to cradle the side of your face, warm and shaking just slightly. Nothing in the world has ever felt so right.  There’s too much smiling in the kiss, and your noses are pressed awkwardly for the kiss to be smooth but then he tilts his head and gets it right.  You kiss him until your lungs begin to object and then slowly, you pull away. Gojo follows you for half a second before he catches himself, eyes opening slowly. His pupils are blown wide, hair a mess, and his mouth is parted without anything clever coming out of it.  “So,” he licks his lips, eyes flickering down for a moment. “Is that a yes?”  From the floor, your camera continues recording from its crooked angle. It captures none of it neatly, not your face and not his, not the way his thumb brushes your cheek. It catches the fall of the roses, the way your bodies draw the other in in a rush, the stumbling as he walks you back into your apartment and you both disappear from the frame in a fit of giggles and whispered words.  “Yes, Satoru,” you laugh, letting him guide you further into your apartment. “It’s a yes.”  Later, when you edit the film, you leave the shot in. It isn’t as graceful as it could be nor will it win an Oscar in cinematography, but for your love assignment, you decide that this will do. 

you couldn’t remember the last time you’d slept through an entire night without waking up every few hours and staring blankly at the ceiling, spiraling thoughts keeping you company until sunrise. 

instead, you had a deep and comfortable sleep. the kind you genuinely thought stopped existing for you years ago. 

and somehow, against all reason, your brain supplied the answer before you could stop it. 

satoru. 

you physically recoiled from the thought. 

the movement caused satoru’s grip to tighten instinctively around your waist and your stomach dropped. 

fuck, this was so so so bad. 

your rules were practically meaningless now. 

you carefully lifted his arm from your waist, holding your breath the entire time as you slowly untangled yourself from him. 

after waiting for a second, eyes trained on his features, he was unmoving still and you breathed out. 

the second your feet touched the carpeted floors, relief flooded through you.

your clothes from last night were dry now, resting against the armchair and you made a beeline for the items, putting them on quickly but quietly. 

as your jeans buttoned fully, you heard shuffling from the bed behind you and your heart dropped. 

slowly, almost amusingly careful, you turned around to see that satoru hadn’t moved from his position. 

one arm tucked beneath his head, icy eyes half-open beneath the morning light as he watched you from his place in bed. 

for the first time since you’d met the boy, you felt your stomach churn. 

your stomach fluttered, not anxiety exactly, but something closer to apprehension. 

you could barely name it, but you felt a bit nervous. 

you were never nervous!

“um, i uh-” you cleared your throat once as satoru watched you lowly, jaw clenched under your gaze, “i should get home.” 

a beat passed, then another and you hated to admit how much you despised silence from satoru. he was always irritatingly loud and his silence kind of unnerved you. 

your eyes didn’t leave him, wide and watching, unusually unguarded and even he could see that. 

satoru closed his eyes once more then, pulling the blanket up higher to his chin and essentially going back to sleep. 

you felt a pang in your chest, his hurt practically tangible in the air between you. 

it isn’t my fault!

you had to remind yourself of that. the nature of your relationship was laid out clearly and he couldn’t blame you for re-establishing them every time you accidentally stepped over the line. 

so with that, you grabbed your bag from beside the door and exited his room. 

unbeknownst to you, satoru’s eyes fluttered open once more, chest heavy as he watched the door to his room close and he felt his jaw clench. 

and for once, it wasn’t hurt that settled but anger. 

fucking annoyance. 

it was utterly irritating how you refused to let him in. 

you were a fucking nuissance and he wanted you more than anything. 

☀︎

there was something wrong with you, you were sure. 

why was your anxiety flaring up? why were you so uneasy? 

why is satoru being off with you throwing you off your axis?

you noticed the change instantly, but refused to acknowledge it. 

it’s been three days since you’d woken up atop satoru gojo and he’d made no effort to see or text you since then. three.

this was unusual considering the frat president normally found at least six excuses a day to bother you. 

you’d become accustomed to random texts that made no sense, texts telling you to come to parties or him simply sending you his location. 

you’d ignore most of them anyways, so when your phone remained suspiciously quiet, you simply carried on with your day. 

what did it matter? if anything, space was perfect after the way you’d embarrassingly been atop him that morning. 

except you kept glancing at your phone throughout the second day then immediately becoming increasingly irritated with yourself. 

what were you expecting exactly? a good morning text? 

ugh, you nearly gagged at the thought. 

your feet swung back and forth where you’d been laying on your stomach atop your bedsheets. 

when your thumbs hovered over his contact anyways, you blamed it on the fact that you were bored and needed a distraction. 

trouble: come over?  8:32pm

his response came twenty minutes later. twenty. 

usually, the text would barely be received before he’d already answered. 

and the response made you wish you had never sent a text in the first place.

gojo: busy  8:54pm

busy? busy? 

your jaw clenched momentarily, a feeling you weren’t quite used to settling in your stomach like a bag of bricks. 

his text was left unanswered. 

you blamed the stupid storm and your stupid self for letting yourself sleep, unknowingly making you more vulnerable. 

you wanted nothing more than to go back and erase that from happening completely, but you couldn’t. so you’ll settle for regret. 

you were sprawled out on the grass beside luna, attempting to work on your paper while she rambled on about some girls from her economics lecture. 

it was sunny that day, warm enough that students littered the campus in little groups. 

“so, i told her-” luna paused momentarily, “are you even listening?” 

your eyes snapped to her from where you’d been scanning the quad, huffing with a short nod quickly, cheeks uncharacteristically warm. 

“yes, of course i’m listening!”

luna seemed unconvinced, eyes narrowed but she didn’t spare one more second before going back into her discussion. that’s what you loved about luna, she was truly the perfect distraction. 

until she started asking a million questions, then you were simply annoyed. 

it was a tuesday, meaning satoru usually came by after practice despite not having a single class anywhere near the science building. 

he always showed up purely to pester you like a particularly persistent stray cat. 

sometimes he’d bring you a cherry coke, sometimes a chai latte, depending on the weather. and sometimes he’d bring pastries and sit beside you, absolutely annoying you to near death. 

you thought you’d feel relief once he stopped, except your eyes kept drifting around, waiting for him to appear. no, willing him to appear. 

just as you went to snap yourself out of this limbo he’d put you in, you spotted him. 

it was embarrassing how your stomach instantly settled. 

only to drop again. 

satoru walked across the quad with nanami beside him, hands tucked into the pockets of his sweats as his sunglasses rested atop his head. 

satoru was laughing at something nanami had said, properly laughing and your eyes followed him automatically. 

satoru glanced over, gaze finding yours as if fate herself had dragged his eyes over. 

your face remained neutral but you didn’t look away. but he did. 

satoru looked away without a grin, a wave or coming over, simply leaving alongside his friend. 

your stomach twisted unpleasantly, eyes immediately moving downcast. 

“ouch…” luna stated as she turned to watch you. 

you lifted your head up, eyes blank, “what?” 

luna’s brows raised, “weren’t you two, like, besties just last week?” 

your ribs tightened, “tch. i told you we’re not friends.” 

and it was true. you weren’t lying. 

satoru and you were anything but friends, barely even acquaintances! 

so why should you care that he was being so annoying?

“you sure?” luna hummed, violet hair bouncing a bit, “cuz everytime we sit here, he’s really eager to-” 

“luna.” you cut off, refusing to acknowledge the pit at your stomach, “satoru means nothing to me. can we stop talking about this?” 

you placed your ipad beside you on the grass, huffing as you pulled your legs to your chest, resting your chin on your knees. 

ugh, he was so irritating!

you don’t remember the last time you spared any person, besides your brothers and grandma, this much thought. let alone satoru! 

that’s what you liked about him from the start, that you didn’t have to think when you were with him. he’s ruining everything!

“did he say anything about tonight’s party?” 

your ears perked up like a damn cat, head turning to face her, “party?” 

“mhmm.” luna nodded eagerly, ever the biggest fan of sartoru’s idiot frat, “i’m not sure of the theme but it should be insane! can he invite us?” 

your tongue poked against your cheek, eyes narrowed on your friend as your mind moved a mile a minute. 

practically every party satoru had ever invited you to, you’d rejected. 

and now he didn’t even bother to invite you. that just irritated you more. 

“we’re invited luna.” you smiled at her, almost smirking as she narrowed her eyes at you but grinned eagerly regardless. 

“seriously?” she excitedly voiced as you nodded with a shrug. 

“yup.” you nodded once, “we’re going.”

luna eyed you suspiciously, uncharacteristically wary about a party, “you sure? do you even know the theme?”

no, you didn’t. but how hard would that be to figure out? 

you’d become somewhat friendly with the frat the last few months. well, at least your kind of friendly. 

you could just ask. 

☀︎

it was an ABC party. 

Anything But Clothes. 

music bled through the walls violently enough that you could feel the bass vibrating beneath your shoes while bodies crowded the front lawn in every imaginable interpretation of the theme. 

people wearing trash bags were on the roof, a girl wearing a whole outfit made from beer boxes waiting in line for sukuna to let her in and a guy walked past wearing nothing but purple bubble wrap around his crotch. 

“college is a disease.” you muttered as you watched the insane state of the alpha phi house. 

luna snorted beside you, “says the girl wearing caution tape.” 

you glanced down at yourself, the bright yellow tape wrapped around your body in overlapping strips, creating a sort of mini dress. technically. 

it had taken nearly two hours and a breakdown to assemble. 

“ugh, this is ridiculous.” 

“hey, you look hot!” luna stated with a grin as she adjusted her makeshift crop top that was made out of playing cards. she looked great too. 

“alright, let’s go.” you stated as you looked at the line outside the frat that stretched down the porch steps and practically down the block. 

pledges stood near the entrance checking names while drunk sophomore and freshman attempted to negotiate. 

your stomach twisted then. maybe this was all stupid. 

fuck, you should’ve stayed home! what were you even thinking? 

satoru obviously doesn’t want you here and he clearly has no interest in speaking to you. 

“next.” the deep voice immediately pulled your attention forward. 

sukuna. of course.

the vice president stood at the front of the door like a nightclub bouncer from hell, arms crossed and expression murderous. 

so murderous, you didn’t even feel the need to laugh at the pool noodles wrapped around his crotch like a diaper. 

he looked thoroughly unimpressed as the guy stepped forward, “c-carson.” 

the poor freshman in front of him visibly swallowed as sukuna looked down at his phone. 

he didn't even speak, simply looked up and shot the kid a look, as if daring him to argue that he was on the list. 

“um, i-”

“next!” 

luna winced from beside you, “as much as i would love sukuna to yell at me, he’s really scary.” 

you nodded once, “he enjoys this.” 

sukuna’s eyes lifted then, rolling his eyes at the two freshman girls babbling excuses and flirtatious remarks at him. then his eyes met yours.

his gaze dropped to the caution tape, slowly and deliberately before lifting back to your face, his lip twitching. 

“what the fuck are you wearing?” 

you scoffed, “i know you’re not asking me that.” 

sukuna’s smirk instantly fell, as if you reminded him just how ridiculous he looked, “shut up.” 

you grinned falsely as sukuna rolled his eyes once, looking mildly annoyed which probably meant he wasn’t actually annoyed. 

“name.” he stated flatly, eyes tinged with a touch of amusement. 

your eyes narrowed, “you know my name-”

“name.” 

he raised a brow as you stared back, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. 

luna was practically trembling beside you, hand reaching out to hold your arm, as if in warning. 

“um, she’s not even in line!” a freshman girl whined from the front of the line, pouting up at the salmon haired man. 

he offered her a sharp side eye that not only made her shrink back but her and her friend both scurried away. 

you’d barely paid attention to him at that point because you saw a glimpse of white hair inside the house and your heart flipped once. 

“not on here.” sukuna announced after glancing at his phone, a smirk tilting his mouth up as you glared at him. 

“well, check again.” you demanded, arms crossing once more, eyes frantic as they tried to follow the moving head of white. you knew damn well your name wasn’t on that list on his stupid phone. 

sukuna raised a brow once more, “i’d be nicer to me, sweetheart. m’the one that can magically make you appear on this list.” 

your jaw clenched once as his smirk remained painted on his ruggedly handsome face. 

this asshole. 

“um, maybe we should just go-” 

“let me in, asshole.” 

the words left you before you could stop them, tumbling from the tip of your tongue, absolutely riddled with your desperation to get inside. 

luna practically squeaked as her wide eyes looked between you and sukuna. 

the front of the line had gone quiet as well, awaiting the wrath of the vice president. 

meanwhile, sukuna’s face didn’t change and if anything, his smirk widened. 

“that your version of nice?” 

he almost sounded amused but you were anything but, huffing gently as your features melted into a scowl, “what do you want?” 

sukuna huffed out a laugh, “how bout we say you owe me one.” 

now, you didn’t know sukuna all that well but you knew enough to know that owing ryomen sukuna could not be a good thing. 

you, in your right state of mind, would have simply walked away, but you weren’t in the right state of mind. you were under some sort of curse caused by the frat president and you would do anything to stop feeling this way.

you’d been feeling weird the past few days and desperation to see satoru clung to your bones. you were probably just sexualy frustrated, that was all. 

“fine.” 

sukuna’s smirk widened, stepping away from the door, “have fun, sweetheart.” 

you merely shot him a glare as luna clung to your arm as you both walked into the chaos of the party that looked somehow worse from the inside. 

music rattled your ribcage, people dancing on tables and a girl had fully had two solo cups on each breast and around eight covering her lower half. 

“this is insane!” luna practically squealed, the words of fear she wanted to utter about sukuna dying in her throat, “look, it’s cole! i’m gonna go before ava gets to him!” 

she didn’t give you the chance to respond before she was zooming past you towards the blonde who you assumed to be cole. 

you shook your head softly, eyes lifting as you moved towards the kitchen to grab a drink. 

you willed your eyes to keep forward and not to scan the entire room like you desperately wanted to. 

with a small sigh, you grabbed a drink and leaned back on the counter, eyes drifting across the sea of people.  

you were not looking for satoru. you simply wanted to walk around, so you did. 

your feet carried you to each corner of the room, eyes scanning and checking before you made it to the little side room that was usually open. 

and after ten minutes of absolutely not looking for satoru gojo, you’d found him. 

or rather, you’d heard him. 

“YOU HAVE TO MAKE OUT!” 

your brows furrowed as you moved towards the open door and lo and behold, there he was. 

satoru was sprawled across the floor amongst a circle of people, white hair messy and eyes almost bloodshot. 

and he was practically naked. oh god. 

you looked at his version of anything but clothes and you wondered if he missed that the point is that you have to make clothes out of the item. meaning he should not be naked. 

satoru had a three giant ruby christmas bows around his crotch and ass. 

and despite the ridiculousness of it all, he looked damn good. 

his lean figure was leaning back on his hands, muscles bulging and chest glistening with a thin layer of sweat from, no doubt, his partying. 

there were a group of people, around seven, seated on the floor with an empty beer bottle in the middle. 

besides satoru, you’d only recognized nanami and that alone surprised you. 

whatever they were playing, you didn't think nanami would be taking part. 

you weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there but it must’ve been long because when you looked back at satoru, he was already looking at you. 

something flashed across his face as your eyes met his, something akin to relief. 

but you were more focused on the bloodshot nature of his eyes, you had no doubt he was both high and drunk. 

you hated it. 

his gaze softened on you before the softness disappeared just as quickly. 

“hi.” you stated simply as satoru’s jaw clenched at the mere sound of your voice. 

“hey.” the word left him flat, almost cold.

it sounded all wrong, causing your jaw to clench gently. 

what the fuck was his issue?

“we’re playing seven minutes in heaven!” a girl announced, slurring her words as your eyes flatly met hers, “come play so we’re equal!”

your mouth opened to protest-

“she doesn’t wanna play.” satoru stated lowly, bringing his beer to his lips as his gaze avoided yours and your fists clenched. 

fuck him!

without a word, you moved towards the circle, taking a seat directly beside satoru. 

his eyes followed you, almost surprised before his eyes flared in irritation. 

“you look like a mess.” you stated lowly, referring to the distant bloodshot look in his eyes. 

“you look like a construction site.” 

a few people within the circle barked out a laugh as your jaw clenched, satoru’s lips twitching. 

“okay, let’s play.” the girl announced as you looked forward, meeting nanami’s eyes as he shot you a gentle smile that you returned lowly. 

“why are you here?” satoru whispered beside you as you turned to shoot him a glare, irritation bubbling beneath your ribs at his indifference.

two people drunkenly stumbled into the closet in the room, already pawing at each other’s clothes as the girl started the timer. seven minutes. 

“what kind of question is that?” you scoffed, face devoid of emotion as you faced forward once more, ignoring satoru’s gaze on the side of your face. 

“pretty simple one.” 

“it’s a party. people come to parties, y’know.” 

satoru chuckled but it lacked any real humor, “not you. trust me, i’d know that.” 

your eyes flickered over to him then, noting the bitterness lacing his words. 

“what is your problem?” 

finally, his gaze slid towards yours, blue eyes bloodshot and unfairly pretty. 

“don’t got one.” 

you scoffed once more, “yeah, clearly.” 

“careful, sweetheart, you almost sound like you care.” satoru smirked menacingly, voice dipped in bite you weren’t used to from satoru. 

your stomach twisted as realization overcame you, memories of leaving behind a half-asleep satoru plaguing your mind. 

around you, everyone was gossiping, predicting what the two were doing in the closet, unaware of the tension between you both. 

“you’re seriously upset about that?” your voice was back to being monotonous, guard high and eyes blank. satoru felt his stomach twist but his expression didn’t change. 

“upset?” 

“yes.” 

“didn’t know i was upset.” his tone matched yours and you had to fight to remain emotionless because god, you wanted to ring his neck. 

your jaw clenched, “you’re acting pretty upset.”

“and you’re acting like sleeping in my bed was a federal crime.” 

your eyes widened just a bit, “keep your voice down!” 

“why?”

“because!” 

satoru leaned closer, breath fanning over your cheek, “because what?” 

you hated him. you absolutely despised him. 

he always fucking did this, he poked and poked and poked until he found the one thing you didn’t want to talk about. 

your jaw clenched as the two began stumbling out of the closet, hair a mess and clothes askew. 

you looked forward, ignoring the man beside you and you could feel his gaze on the side of your face. 

“you left.” his voice left him quieter now, not as angry and somehow, that felt worse. 

you glanced at him, watching his jaw clench and nostrils flare as he met your gaze, “you always leave, that’s what you do.” 

you looked away again and immediately regretted it as a soft laugh left him, bitter and real. 

“right…” 

your hands turned to fists by your sides, hating that he basically made you prove his point. 

damn him. your stomach clenched because you hadn’t expected his words. 

for a second, he looked tired and something beneath your ribs twisted. 

you really shouldn’t have come, this was just making everything inside you, whatever this sickness was, feel even worse. 

“alright!” the girl running the game clapped loudly, saving you from whatever this conversation would’ve become, “next spin!” 

the bottle spun and everyone starting making suspenseful ooohs and ahhhs. 

you watched it lazily, mind far away as your mind remained occupied on satoru's words.

the bottle spun slower and slower until it stopped, pointing directly at the man beside you. 

the room erupted instantly. 

“GOJO! LET’S GOOO!”

satoru rolled his eyes, smirking lowly as if feeding his fans and you could see the fakeness from where you were. it was pathetic. 

“spin again!” the girl grinned, sitting up wider and you could practically see her entire soul wishing the bottle would stop on her and frankly, you hoped it did. 

so you could fucking leave while he was in the damn closet and forget you’d ever even came. 

satoru’s hand wrapped around the bottle, giving it a hard spin and you watched it rotate. 

once, twice, three times before it gradually slowed…

and your stomach dropped. because the bottle wasn’t stopping, it was landing directly on you. 

everyone cheered, the girls evidently disappointed as you stared at the bottle, then at satoru. 

satoru was already looking at you and for the first time that night, he smiled. a real, him smile. 

slow, dangerous and boyish.

“would ya look at that…” his eyes locked onto yours, “almost like fate, don’t ya think?” 

yes, you really could ring his neck.

☀︎

the second the door shut behind you, the cheering outside became muffled. 

like the rest of the party had been shoved underwater as you entered the dark and cramped closet. the place was small, way too fucking small to fit two people, let alone satoru’s 6’5 ass. 

satoru had been in this very closet a hundred times before with a hundred different girls, different intentions, different conversations or lack-thereof. 

he’d never once felt nervous. yet somehow, standing two feet away from you had his heart betray his decision to distance himself.

“ugh, i can barely breathe…” you complained, crossing your arms as the little light allowed him to only imagine the look of annoyance on your achingly pretty face. 

fuck, when he saw you in that stupid caution tape sorry excuse of a dress, he regretted his decision to go with christmas bows on his cock. 

he was achingly hard for you, not even just physically but mentally. 

he had a heart boner for you too, he concluded. because the mere sight of you made a sense of relief so deeprooted fill him in an instant. 

satoru rolled his eyes at your words, despite the beating of his heart hammering against his chest, “the lack of space is supposed to serve a purpose, sweetheart-”

“stop calling me that!” you huffed out, squirming against him as satoru scoffed. 

“sweetheart?”

“yes! it’s cheesy and stupid and you never call me that, so quit it.” the words left you dripping in annoyance and he relished in pulling that reaction from you. 

any reaction from you was better than your indifference, even if it was severe irritation. 

“you call me gojo and i don’t like it-”

“that’s your name!”

“not to you,” satoru breathed out before realizing how his words sound, “i mean, people i don’t like call me gojo, ones i’m not close to…so, you shouldn’t call me that…”

he was met with silence and he sighed, able to picture you as you practically crawled back into your shell. 

he shook his head as his knees cramped, “fuck, can you just-”

before you knew it, satoru was sinking to the ground with you in his grip, pulling you to sit on his lip, straddling him and though you were caught by surprise, relief filled you instantly at the comfortable position. 

satoru let out a sigh of exasperation as his legs stretched out a bit, head tilting back against the wall. 

you relaxed in his hold, “don’t be so thrilled.” 

satoru barked out a laugh, “rich coming from you.”

your eyes narrowed, “meaning?” 

“meaning you look like somebody’s holding you hostage.”

“you can’t even see me!”

“i can feel it!” 

“well, sorry i didn’t even wanna play.” 

satoru tilted his head as his chest clenched in anticipation, “then why did you?”

your jaw clenched and he could feel you stiffen up in his lap, "because they asked.” 

satoru scoffed once as you squirmed against him, “bullshit.” 

“excuse me?” you shifted again and his jaw clenched, big hands spanning your hips before pulling you down, keeping you there. and you understood his issue, conceding. 

the lack of clothes made it hard to miss. 

“i said bullshit.” satoru repeated, his grip tightening as he shook his head, “you hate people.”

you scoffed gently, “i do not hate people.”

“you hate most people.” 

you rolled your eyes once, “what’s your point?” 

sartoru’s jaw clenched as he debated getting into this. there was a chance, a huge one, that this would just make you want to run even more. 

he may never see you again after today but he would risk it even if the thought made him want to vomit because frankly, he couldn’t take the heartache anymore. 

“why’d you come?” satoru demanded more than asked as your expression flattened, he could fucking feel it. there it was, that goddamn wall that he despised more than anything. 

“i already told you.” you replied as he shook his head. 

“i wanna hear it.” 

“it’s a party. people come to parties.”

“and i already told you, you don’t. name fucking three parties you’ve attended voluntarily.” 

the light from the little sliver of space offered him a look at your irritated expression, you looked annoyed enough to bite him and satoru found himself smiling in victory. 

“you’re insufferable.” you whispered as he grinned. 

“you came anyway.” 

there was this silent understanding, a low hum of truth that filtered between you both, something you’d usually never allow to linger. 

you came for him. and he knew that. and you allowed him to know that. 

that was more than you’ve ever given him before and for now, it was enough. 

silence filled the space momentarily before your voice penetrated it, uncharacteristically soft and low, “you’ve stopped talking to me.” 

the words left you so quietly, he almost missed them but his entire being was so attuned to you that he simply couldn’t miss anything when it came to you.

he blinked once, twice and watched as your face twisted in subtle embarrassment, regret filling you at the vulnerability he could see. as if it escaped you accidentally. 

and his heart nearly punched through his ribs because holy shit, you noticed. not only that, but you cared.

satoru laughed, actually laughed and you felt your face twist in irritation, “what is so funny, asshole?”

satoru’s hand moved to splay across your lower back, pulling you just a bit closer, “you leave every single time we hang out-”

“we don’t hang out, satoru, we have sex!” 

satoru. satoru. satoru. 

you called him satoru and not fucking gojo. 

his chest twisted as if your hand reached through his sternum and petted at his heart that was so entirely gone for you, he was sick. 

“you know what’s crazy?” 

you rolled your eyes, “here we go.” 

“you slept on me!” satoru stated lowly, “you slept on me.”

“don’t remind me.” your arms crossed once more, jaw clenching as satoru scoffed as if he wasn’t even hearing you. 

“you fully drooled on me…”

your face warmed, eyes widening, “i did not!”  

“you literally did!” satoru exclaimed with bright eyes, the anger diminishing just enough for you to recognize him once more. 

you looked genuinely horrified and satoru laughed so hard, he nearly doubled over. 

god, he missed you, he missed this which was honestly pathetic. 

“you’re such an asshole.”

“and you’re a runner.” satoru claimed with a shake of his head, the words slipping out before he could think about them.

your expression changed then, the space between you growing tense once again. 

fuck, he shouldn’t have said that. 

you felt raw, as if someone had stripped you naked, looked for your oldest scar and carved into it again. 

he could tell you were hurt and he was drunk and hurt. and you were right there, close enough to touch, to kiss, to want. 

“i didn’t mean-” 

“it’s fine.” the words left you sharp and it cut through the air as he sighed, hands moving from your hips to his face, digging into it with a shake of his head. 

“no, no it’s not,” he looked at you then, “i’m just drunk and high and stupid…”

you remained quiet, fingers fiddling with the caution tape fraying by your side, jaw clenched and walls up so high, he could barely tell what you were thinking but god, could he feel it. 

then satoru panicked. 

“you give me boners!”

your eyes widened just a bit, startled as you looked up at him, ever the most straightforward man of all time, apparently.

“excuse me?” you breathed out as satoru groaned, mind too jumbled to think properly and honestly, he preferred it this way. 

“you…you give me boners.” satoru stated lowly, slurring just the slightest bit as the last three shots he took back to back twenty minutes ago hit him all at once. 

you sighed gently, “isn’t that the point of our dynamic, satoru?”

satoru groaned as he realized his words didn’t quite mean what he intended for them to mean. 

“no, i mean…” he breathed out slowly, “you give me all kinds of boners like…like in my heart and stuff.”

your brows furrowed in confusion, “i give you…heart boners?”

satoru nodded frantically, hands gripping your hips again, pulling you even closer till you were flush against him, caution tape against his muscled front, “yes! yeah, you…you give me heart boners all the time, even when you're not even there.” 

you were too focused on his body against yours, more specifically, the christmas bow snug against your panties, “you sure, satoru? cuz i can only feel one type of boner right now.”

satoru huffed in irritation as his confession flew right over your head. 

seven minutes suddenly felt way too short and way too long. 

just as his mouth opened to speak, light spilled into the closet and both your eyes squinted up at nanami who stood before you, face all too unimpressed at your compromising position. 

“its been longer than seven minutes. we’ve been calling out for you for a while.” nanami stated lowly before turning to walk away and you were quick to jump up from satoru’s lap, stumbling out of the closet as you looked at satoru in what had to be the most uncomfortable position on the ground. 

satoru groaned lowly before stumbling into a standing position, hand cupping the christmas bow at the front, “think game’s over for me.”

you gulped lowly, ignoring everyone’s cheers before stepping back, “yeah, me too.” 

you offered satoru one last look before walking past the circle and out of the room, towards the drinks. fuck, you really needed a drink. 

☀︎

the party had somehow gotten louder or maybe you were simply reaching your limit. 

either way, the music felt harsher now, the room hotter, bodies moving together in a blur of alcohol and flashing lights. 

you had been trying to find luna while simultaneously avoiding satoru for the past hour. 

fuck, you just wanted to go home but you couldn’t leave luna and she wasn’t answering her damn phone.

the closet had done absolutely nothing to improve your mood, instead, it made your regrets about coming to this stupid party even worse. 

satoru’s words followed you through every room you entered as you tried to locate your purple haired friend. 

you’re a runner. 

the worst part about it all is that everything he had said was right. and you fucking hated that he even noticed, that he cared enough to notice in the first place. 

a frustrated sigh left you as you looked down at your dying phone, luna’s contact staring back at you, all your calls and texts left unanswered.

the house seemed less crowded now, people dispersing into bedrooms, hallways and the pool as the night stretched later and you had to dodge every guy that came to hit on you. yuck. 

you barely registered the conversations happening around you until a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“he’s a fuckin’ mess.” 

your head turned automatically, suguru standing near the staircase, rubbing the back of his neck while nanami looked vaguely exhausted beside him. 

“where is he?” nanami questioned, bringing his cup up to his lips to take a sip. 

suguru pointed toward the living room, “he decided he could outdrink sukuna.” 

nanami immediately looked disappointed, “oof. stupid.” 

despite yourself, your eyes drifted towards the living room and they instantly found him. of course they did. 

satoru was slumped sideways across the couch, one arm hanging off the edge, snowy hair a complete mess. 

he looked absolutely gone. 

your stomach tightened as you glanced between him and luna’s contact. 

“he’s fine…” you muttered to yourself as you shook your head. 

“he’s absolutely not fine.” suguru stated from beside you as you turned to look at him, the slightest bit startled as you didn't realize how close they were before you noticed the knowing look on his face, instantly irritating you. 

“he drinks all the time.” you retorted lowly, eyes giving nothing away as suguru scoffed out a chuckle. 

“not like this, he only does this shit when he’s upset.”

something in suguru’s voice made your attention sharpen as you stiffened, “why would he be upset?” 

suguru merely stared as nanami cleared his throat from beside him, “probably something to do with those seven minutes.” 

your jaw clenched before letting out a breath, “right.”

before you knew it, choso had called out for the two men beside you, something about a sophomore puking in the pool.  

you hated how you felt half responsible for satoru’s current state. 

a low sigh left you as you glanced at the living room once more, however this time, a girl was leaning over him. 

your brows furrowed, moving closer to see the girl with inky hair in a bob clad in a tiny skirt far too close to him, one hand resting against his chest. 

she was talking into his ear while he sat there, looking dazed and half-asleep. 

your gut churned once more. god, you were really getting sick of that feeling. 

the girl laughed at something satoru mumbled, her hand moving into his hair and something ugly flared beneath your ribs. 

you hated how much the sight was making you sick, how vulnerable satoru looked and you hated that your feet were already moving before your brain could catch up. 

the walk across the room felt entirely too long and every step gave you another opportunity to turn around. you didn’t. 

by the time you reached the couch, the girl was in his lap, kissing down his damp neck. 

your jaw clenched, “hey.” 

the word left you sharp, cutting through whatever intimacy she was imagining was occurring between them. 

the girl turned and you recognized her as a girl in luna’s class, the girl your friend absolutely despised, which in turn made you despise her. emi. 

you could see satoru’s eyes blink open just the slightest bit, your voice like a siren bringing him to life. fuck, he craved to hear you, to feel you always. 

his entire face softened, a lopsided smile painting his face like sunlight breaking through clouds. 

“hey, trouble..” 

the word sleft him slurred and your heart betrayed you instantly. 

emi, however, looked significantly less pleased, her long nails tracing over satoru’s jaw as he flinched lowly. 

“can i help you?” 

you barely spared her a glance, taking one more step closer, “satoru?” 

his eyes remained fixed on you, completely and entirely like everyone else had ceased to exist. 

“yeah, baby?” 

you allowed the nickname to slide off your back, knowing he was too out of it to be aware of his actions or words. clearly. 

“c’mon, let’s go.” 

emi instantly frowned, turning to look at satoru who looked up at you as if you promised him the moon, stars and everything in between. 

“go where?” 

“upstairs.”

a slow grin stretched across his face, the absolute stupidest but prettiest grin you’d ever seen, “okay.” 

he stood immediately, stumbling just the slightest bit as emi yelped, tumbling off his lap to the ground. 

you caught his arm before he could faceplant into the coffee table, “for fuck’s sake.”

satoru was now pressed aginst you, clammy hands cupping your cheeks to force you to look up at him, “hi...”

your eyes narrowed at his wide and hazy grin, “you already said hi.”

satoru merely grinned, leaning down so his nose brushed against yours, once, twice before you sighed and pushed him just a bit back. 

“let’s go, satoru…” you held his hand, turning to pull him away before you felt a tug on your other arm causing you to turn around. 

emi stood before you, visibly fuming as she glared at you, “what the fuck are you doing?! we were in the middle of something!” 

you glanced down at where she’s touched you with a look of pure disgust before looking back up at her, “that’s not how it looked to me.” 

emi’s fists clenched, “you don’t own him, you bitch!” 

your tongue pressed against your cheek before smirking at her, leaning back to look up at satoru who was already gazing down at you with a lopsided smile, “who owns you, satoru?” 

“you do, trouble.” his response was immediate, instantaneous and you had to ignore the rush going through you to shoot her a glare. 

emi faltered, tears filling her eyes as she glared at you both. 

you tugged at satoru’s hand, making a move towards the staircase before turning to her once more, “and don’t put your hands on people who can barely stand, you sick freak.” 

you shot her one more glare before guiding satoru away, helping him towards his room as he followed with no argument, his hand somehow finding the back of your ‘dress’ and remained there as you climbed up the stairs. 

as if he was afraid you’d disappear. 

the walk to his room took forever, mostly because satoru kept getting distracted by paintings, doors, absolutely nothing. 

at one point, he stopped in the hallway entirely as you sighed, turning to look up at him, “what is it now, satoru?” 

his blue eyes blinked down at you, “you’re so pretty, it makes me nauseous sometimes.” 

a sigh left your plush lips as you tugged at his hand once more, “mhmm.” 

you forced his steps, one after the other before you made it to his room, guuiding him inside. 

you expected him to collapse instantly, however, he sat on the edge of the bed and simply looked at you, eyes all droopy and bloodshot. 

the room felt strangely quiet compared to the chaos downstairs, the silence stretched and his gaze never moved away from you. 

it made something uncomfortable settle beneath your ribs as you shifted, “what?” 

satoru smiled, small and sleepy and dangerously genuine, “i like that you showed up.” 

your breath caught and his eyes were already drifting shut, half-asleep and entirely unaware of what he was saying, “i always know when you’re about to leave.” 

the confession landed softly, somewhere right in your chest. 

“you do this thing,” his hand moved vaguely, “with your phone…”

you froze because you did, absolutely. you always checked the time before getting up from his bed. every single time. 

“i know when you’re annoyed too…” his voice was quieter now, the fight gone as well as the frustration until only honesty remained, “you scrunch your nose all cute like…” 

you hated that you knew exactly what he meant, your hands clenching beside you.

“and you pretend you don’t care about stuff…people…but you do.” 

the room suddenly felt too small, too warm and too fucking claustrophobic. 

you let out a short breath, “okay, time to go to bed, satoru.”

you moved forward, helping take off his shoes before ushering him forward till he was beneath his blankets, head heavy against the pillow. 

you couldn’t help but move your fingers into his white locks, brushing it away from his sweaty face before sighing gently and moving back. 

“stay.” 

the word left him soft and simple, nothing dramatic or grand about it. 

it was simply one exhausted request. 

and it caused every instinct you’ve ever had to scream at you to run. 

you’re a runner. 

your eyes drifted toward the boy, hair messy and eyes heavy, heart somehow worn openly across his sleeve in a way that was braver than you ever could be. 

and for the first time since you met satoru gojo, you stayed.

☀︎

an | this is deffo my fav chapter so far i love them so bad AHHHHHH

It’s the look of vague constipation that catches your attention, initially.

Izuku finds you in the library. He finds you in the library, on your third cup of coffee at eleven in the morning, hunched over a book and a pile of highlighters, pens and sticky notes for annotations. You aren’t exactly sure why, you don’t see him outside of class, unless required (Debate). When you do, it quickly devolves into an argument the moment he corrects something unnecessary, and you snap. He does it on purpose—you know he does.

So, when you see forest green hair at the entrance, you just sigh, redirect your attention, and wait for him to find you. Silently hoping you won’t get exiled from the library, again.

You get distracted with what you’re doing, and forget about him entirely.

“Hey.”

You jump.

“Jesus—Izuku, you scared the shit out of me,” you huff with hand over your heart, but then you take in his face—his vaguely constipated face. Why.

He places hands on the long desk and leans forward with painful determination, but doesn’t say anything. He wavers, like when your roommate got her ears pierced and you didn’t notice for a week. You blink. And then, against your better judgement:

“Are you…okay?”

The spell shatters. His face goes red, and Izuku returns to himself. You wish you could say that you’re less confused.

“I—Yes, obviously. I just, um, had a question, but I answered it, so never mind.”

With bending eyebrows, and you faintly point to yourself. “You had a question…for me?”

“Not anymore,” he grins, before peering at the book you’re hunched over like a live grenade. “What’cha reading?”

With a growl, you pull the book away from him. Far, far away from him. “Why do you care.”

“Curious,” he shrugs, but it’s with a smile that hints he’s only talking to piss you off. At least, he stands up, up and away, and where you can’t smell him anymore. Good riddance.

“Tolstoy.”

Izuku hums with a nod, and squints his nose beneath round glasses. “Mm, yeah…he’s a little pedantic. You should try Dostoevsky.”

The highlighter you hold creaks under your fingers.

Your teeth grit into a smile, and you pray you don’t explode—one more citation from the librarian, and you’re banned for the semester. And, thanks to your roommate, you really, really can’t afford to be banned for the semester.

“I don’t like Dostoevsky.”

“Oh,” Izuku makes a face of light disgust, like he caught a whiff of something sour, and then it’s gone. You blink rapidly—angrily. He scoffs, and runs a disbelieving hand over his mouth. “Wow, um. Okay.”

You scowl.

“Why are you still here.”

“Honestly, great question,” Izuku nods, and you thank your lucky stars when his feet start moving. “I will, um, see you in Debate.”

“Looking forward to it,” you grin. It’s much more of a wince, and it’s to his back, so he doesn’t see. Then, under your breath, out of earshot, you mutter: “Loser.”

“Oi—Deku. The hell was that?”

“She pisses me off so much, Kacchan.”

Izuku hates the way he goes storming a few rows over and where he’s supposed to meet his friend. His face is hot, probably a little pink because he’s sweating, sweating from the angry little fire brewing in his belly. He hates you—God, he hates you so much—you’re rude, and dismissive, and need to get off your high horse and understand that you don’t know it all, that you’re not some cosmic architect with the secrets to the universe, that you’re just as human as everyone else at this school.

Izuku swears he isn’t normally like his—he’s a nice guy, really. He helps old ladies across the street, takes bugs outside the apartment instead of stomping them to nothing, fucking recycles—but, there’s something about you specifically that burrows under his skin, and makes it crawl.

He sits down in a stiff wooden chair, and kicks the empty one beside him until it topples. Katsuki snorts.

“Yeah, I know,” he nods, chucking a thumb over his shoulder, “I mean—why the fuck did you roll up on her like that.”

“Oh! Um, I have a plan,” Izuku slams a determined fist into an open palm, and turns to the blond. “But, it needs…workshopping.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes. “And, your plan is to what? Seduce her from her schoolwork?”

Katsuki says the last half as a joke, but Izuku goes silent. Katsuki looks away from his laptop to glower properly.

“Deadass.”

“It sounds worse when you say it out loud,” Izuku whines, crossing his arms on the table to he can tuck his head in between them.

“The hell am I gonna do with you,” Katsuki sighs. Izuku doesn’t lift his head.

“Put me out to pasture.”

“Tempting,” Katsuki grunts, and when Izuku looks, it seems like he’s mulling over something. His thumb rubs at his bottom lip with furrowed brows, eyes distant and thinking. Until they are no longer, and they snap to his face.

“Come with me.”

katsuki [11:15 am]

Code Green.

short circuit [11:15 am]

FUCK YEAH

eijiro [11:15]

holy shit deadass

okok lock in boys, get in positions

hanta [11:16]

,,,we’re in the same room ,,,,

Katsuki leads him to a private study room.

It’s dark, and Izuku doesn’t think much of it, assuming his friend will handle the lights. Instead, a heavy hand guides him into a chair by his shoulder, an articulated lamp clicks on. It’s blinding.

“Um…hello?”

Katsuki has disappeared into the darkness. Now, it’s just Izuku, and a lamp. Alone.

“Kacchan?”

“So. You like a girl.”

Not alone.

The voice is definitely not Katsuki’s—predictable gruff is replaced with something boyish, something mischievous, a voice Izuku recognizes as…

“Denki? And—wait a minute, I don’t like a girl.”

There’s a clearing of a throat, and Denki tries again.

“So. You love a girl.”

“Can someone turn the lights on?” Izuku presses against the chair to look behind him, but can’t see much, thanks to the blinding lamp. “This is weird.”

“That’s what I said,” Katsuki huffs, and flicks them on. The yellow canned lighting reveals Izuku at the head of a conference table, with Katsuki’s friends all gathered with hands steepled in front of their faces. Izuku knows them well, knows them enough, but not well enough for…whatever this is.

“What is this?”

“So. You love a—”

Hanta slaps Denki upside the head to avoid making everyone suffer for a third time. The electric blond whines.

Eijirō looks to Katsuki for an explanation, and Izuku’s dear childhood friend snorts as he settles in the open chair beside him.

“Apparently, we’re out here seducing academic rivals.”

“For distraction!” Izuku adds, wholly unsure as to why his business must be aired, and why Katsuki’s friends seem so invested. He sees them sometimes—at the big stuff, a few times a year—but couldn’t say any time he’s talked to them one on one. Eijirō, maybe.

But, Izuku finds himself divulging to the friends that are not his friends regardless. For research.

“I was, um,” Izuku fiddles with the hands in his lap, because, yeah, he sounds a little insane when said aloud. “I tried to…girls like forearms, right? So I like, flexed them on the table, and gave her, like, a look, but um, it…didn’t quite…work.”

There’s a shared look between the semi-strangers in the room, possibly an inside joke, a train of thought he didn’t buy a ticket for, something he lacks the context to understand. Eijirō gives a thoughtful hum, before turning to him.

“And, the problem is…what. She doesn’t like you like that?”

“No,” Katsuki chuckles. “The problem is that he’s bad at it.”

“Kacchan!” Izuku hisses. He’s not necessarily wrong, though. And, this—his friends could help, probably, but like—

“We got’chu,” Denki insists with confidence, mouth finally free from Hanta’s clutches. “We’re all very hot guys with an equal amount of pull.”

The room sighs, and something tells Izuku that is not the case.

But, Izuku is desperate. Folding is easy.

“…What would you have me do?”

Denki pushes away from the conference table, rolling in his chair for a moment, before strutting to a whiteboard in the front of the room. He pops the cap of an EXPO marker off with his teeth, writes in a faded yellow that’s almost too light to read, and talks into the plastic laminate.

“You my friend, need to—”

TIP 1 — DENKI’S IDEA — PLAY HOT TO GET. (LOSE A DEBATE.)

“…Hot to Get…” Katsuki mutters, reading what Denki wrote aloud, before shoving his face into palms and pulling. “Who let him go first.”

“Shut—“ Denki taps the whiteboard with the opposite end of his marker, “the fuck up, Kacchan, and let me lay down the law.”

Katsuki bristles. “I will blow your face off. Don’t you fuckin’ call me—”

“With what? Your hands?”

Katsuki grumbles something under his breath that Izuku can’t quite hear, and Eijirō groans to the ceiling.

“Guys.”

“He distracted me,” Denki defends, before turning to Izuku with a glint in his eyes, like he’s the next test subject in the lab. He points at the greenette, marker in hand, “Now. You.”

“Me,” Izuku straightens.

“You will send,” then, Denki turns back to the board, lower body bowing as he rests a forearm to write in slanted and uneven lettering. He speaks as he writes, and that just makes things messier. “M—i—xed si—gnals, right? Hot and Cold, you’re there, and you’re not.”

Izuku frowns, struggling to understand how he would even apply such a vague concept. Denki whirls back to the whiteboard, clumsily writing a 1. smushed in the left corner, before starting a second row below it, this time, labeled properly. 2.

“Are these…do they go in any particular order, or are these just general pointers?”

“Pointers,” Denki huffs over his shoulder, still writing furiously, before he pivots. The back of his marker taps the board again with a soft clink. “Look hot. You, my friend, have got to sell the Izuku Midoriya brand, and right now, this ain’t it.”

Denki forms a circle with the marker in the air in reference to Izuku’s…entire self. He looks down at his green zip up and frowns.

“…What’s wrong with my…brand?”

“Ugh, everything,” Denki scowls like it’s been bothering him for a while, Izuku’s ‘brand,’ then turns back to the board. “Send me your closet.”

“Like…a picture?” Izuku asks, because, he kind of needs his clothes, and that sounds awfully expensive to be taken literally. He looks at Katsuki—not exactly sure what he’s trying to find, and the ash blond, who doesn’t seem to either, just shrugs back.

“You dress like a nerd, Nerd—I don’t fuckin’ know.”

Denki, who is now writing 3. on the board, shouts straight into it in hopes the words ricochet enough for them to hear—they do. “Kat, you’d wear a garbage bag if it was socially acceptable!”

Katsuki snorts, chucking a thumb at Denki’s back. “Dumbass is just mad that I’d look good in a garbage bag.”

“Three!” Denki hollers, turning back to the room now, with a huff that has Hanta snorting. “There will be a moment. A Mo—ment, okay?”

He turns his upper body to put stars around the word ‘moment,’ which is already underlined multiple times, circled, and somehow, bolded. Izuku nods.

“Moment.”

“Yes,” Denki nods, pointing the marker at him, before he motioning wild enough that Izuku worries the marker will going to go flying and hit Kacchan in the head, or something, and then they’ll really have a problem. “You’ll feel it—the heat in the air, the glimmer in her eyes. And then, you attack.”

“I just want to distract her,” Izuku pouts, crossing his arms on the table. “Not…attack.”

“Not attack-attack, like—“

“God, I hope not.”

“Quiet, Kacchan, I’m in the fucking zone,” the crosshairs of the marker redirect to his heckler, who bristles until Eijirō places a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Attack as in that’s when you go in. That’s when you seduce.”

Izuku blinks slow.

“But…how do I…seduce?”

“That, my friend,” Denki moves to a different area on the whiteboard, where more words sit, circled and underlined, just like ‘moment,’ “is when your natural instincts come in. Now—”

He pops the cap off the marker again.

“Are you a top or a bottom?”

Is this the moment Denki was talking about?

Where it feel like time could stop and there’s a heat in your eye—is this it?

Izuku didn’t even think you’d agree, if he’s being honest.

The cafe part was Denki’s idea—the study part, his. Denki picked out his outfit, thankfully not too uncomfortable or out of character. (He was a little fearful about getting shoved in skinny jeans, and as great as Denki looks in them, Izuku feels like they may choke his knees.) They worked with what he owned until he was left wearing something a slight league ahead what he normally would, and either you don’t notice, or don’t care. But, that’s—

“Thanks,” you mutter, and take the drink he passes after freezing for a beat too long, eyes flicking back to your textbook.

—That’s something, right?

Despite all the effort he put into this, you wear what you always do, literally—there isn’t much in your closet under than high school mathlete t-shirts and college sweatshirts. He knows, because that’s all he sees you in. Meanwhile, Izuku’s eyes still burn from the twenty minutes it took to put contacts in.

He slides into the horseshoe booth, settling himself a little closer than necessary. Five pm sunlight cuts through the window and into the side of your face, and Izuku wavers, before realizing, no, this is tension, and Denki told him to cut the tension with a bold move. Bold move, um—

Deciding to forgo the recommended yawn, Izuku just stretches his arm along the booth behind your head. You don’t say anything about it.

“We got the topic early, this time,” he adjusts in his seat, returning to the reason you’re both here in the first place. Well. The fake reason.

You hum, nodding the head resting in your hand. “‘Perception and truth are fundamentally distinct’—pretty straight forward.”

“Yeah,” Izuku snorts. “Good luck to the Opposition.”

You pop the cap off a highlighter to run it across the sentence. For some reason, you insist on printing everything—something about a sheet of paper being easier to read, to annotate. But, all Izuku hears is the death of a forest and you struggling. “Why?”

“Because, we obviously have the right answer.”

“It’s a debate,” you huff, looking at him with the intensity of a college professor discussing their field. “There is no right answer.”

Izuku whines in consideration, teetering his head as he watches a mother and daughter cross the street. “Eh. There is, sometimes.”

“Well, I think it’s the opposite.”

“No, you don’t,” Izuku shakes his head, positive that you just said it to spite him. His urge to correct your spite and/or stupidity burns, and then, he has to say something, right? He leans his elbow on the table and speaks through a sardonic but polite smile. “Perception is subjective, and truth is objective—fundamentally, they’re distinct.”

“Fundamentally, you’re a pain in the ass,” you hiss, before fixing your face into something palatable again. “You can argue just as easy that perception is truth, because we understand truth through perception.”

And then, beautifully tacked on, the fin of your argument under your breath: “Dipshit.”

Izuku’s smile cracks.

“Does that not negate the literal definition of truth?”

With a yawn, you pull your phone up to glossed lips. The glare you wear so proud never falters. “Hey Siri—definition of truth.”

Siri bah-leep’s to life, and for some reason, yours is a grown man with an Australian accent.

“Truth is the property of being in accord with fact, reality, or actuality, or fidelity to an original, or to a standard, or ideal.”

“See?” Izuku gestures to the phone with an open hand. “Fact.”

You roll your eyes and set the phone down a little harder than necessary. “Fact is literally—it was a fact that the sun revolved around the earth in the 16th century!”

“Holy shit,” Izuku groans into his hands, completely flabbergasted by your idiocy. “Yes, but we have modern technology, now. Technology, that—“

“That we think is right, but who really knows? Also—get your arm off the back of my seat, you creep.”

“Gladly,” he huffs, and does exactly that.

You end it there, snatching the drink off the table to take a long, sugar-fueled sip. Your lips wrap tight around a plastic straw and your glower never ceases, looking through his eyes and into the back of his skull, and Izuku…Izuku—

What was he going to say?

What was he going to say, because he can’t think of anything other than how pretty those lips would look wrapped around something else, something like his—

IZUKU: 0. YOU: 1.

He hates you.

TIP 2 — EIJIRŌ’S IDEA — LOVE LANGUAGES. (ACT LIKE YOU THINK SHE’S SMART. YOU DON’T.)

“Riddle me this, Midoriya—What’s her love language?”

Izuku groans. What the hell is a love language?

Eijirō is perched at the opposite head of table, the one closest to the whiteboard, tossing a marker in his hand without a second glance. The confusion on Izuku’s face seems to explain everything to the football captain, as he starts to prattle on about something that is definitely not a science.

“‘Kay! So, there’s five, right?” He gestures to the board, to something written in red and done before Izuku’s arrival today. “Words of affirmation, physical touch, receiving gifts, quality time, acts of service, good deal?”

Izuku frowns—his head hurts from school already, and you, and now, this. Rubbing a knuckle into his temple, he says, “…I feel like I should be writing this down.”

“Yeah, probably,” Eijirō says over his shoulder without a second thought. Izuku has to shift around him to see the whiteboard better. “Now—looking at the board, do you think you could figure out which one is her love language?”

Izuku bites the inside of his cheek, adjusts thick rimmed glasses, and reads as well as he can between squinted eyes. That, and respectfully, Eijirō’s hand writing isn’t any better than Denki’s—just, somehow, more crooked. At least it’s missing the internet slang.

“Mm…” he hums, and mulls it over, and over, and over again, until he realizes, “no.”

Eijirō deflates a little.

“That’s…fine, let’s just, um,” he looks forward again, tapping the marker on his chin. The cap is still on, but he smears a line of red across his chin, regardless. “Well, quality time isn’t an issue…maybe, like, buy her coffee before class, or something? And compliments—maybe tell her she’s smart?”

Izuku bristles.

“She’s not smart.”

“Oh, but I thought you—”

“So, compliment her and buy her stuff,” Hanta shrugs at the board, before turning to Izuku with a grin, and ultimately saving both him and Eijirō from further embarrassment. “Seems pretty straightforward.”

“Yeah, say she has pretty eyes,” Denki chirps, drumming his fingers against the table. “Girls love that!”

Izuku groans, stuffs a hand into his hair, and hides behind his forearm. There’s no way he’s going to be able to do this. He should give up.

“Too late for that,” Katsuki grunts, reading his mind. “You already got those fuckers involved.”

“I didn’t get them involved!” Izuku says with a shrill whisper, lifting his head to accuse his friend with eyebrows in his hairline. “You did!”

Katsuki shoots him a quick and fake smile, one that reads ‘I know,’ before it drops. His jaw pops under the gum between his teeth, and he moves on, looking towards the front of the room again.

“And, y’know,” Eijirō adds with a shrug, “Maybe, like, a hug, or something—”

“I’m not touching her.”

“O-kay,” Eijirō nods slow, wary. “Well, I think those two things are good to focus on, either way. Oh! And, be manly—open doors, pull out her chair, etcetera etcetera.”

Izuku thinks those are all horrible things to focus on. Compliments? Chivalry? Are you fucking kidding me?

“…Guys, I think he’s gonna combust,” Denki says, eyeing his face. It’s probably red as hell, literally—he probably looks like a strawberry, he can’t help it, he’s pissed.

“I’m…fine,” Izuku whimpers. Though, he imagines the satisfying look of defeat on your face when you score lower than him on your last final of the year, and yeah, no, he’s totally fine.

He’s going to be the reason you fail, and it’s going to feel so good.

“You look good today.”

“I look good everyday, what’s your point?”

The grip Izuku has on the coffee he bought tightens, along with his smile. He places it on your desk.

“Got you coffee.”

Now, you frown, blinking up warily, “…It’s poisoned.”

“N—“ he lets out a sharp exhale, hands lifting and falling at his sides. No matter what he does, he literally can’t win. Just take the damn coffee and be flattered. “Do I look like Maleficent to you?”

You give him a good look. Up and down, studying him like you would a textbook, and it makes his skin crawl.

“Honestly? A little.”

He gives up.

“Whatever,” Izuku says, chucking a hand over his shoulder as he pivots. Luckily, his seat in Advanced Philosophy Seminar is far away from yours—the exact opposite side of the room, in fact. You sit on the left side towards the back, him the right side towards the front. It’s nice to not have to look at your face, but he still has to hear your voice, and that’s enough to enrage. Class begins, and you take all of the participation points. You raise your hand and answer without being called on, like an overactive teacher‘s pet. This is college.

“St. Thomas Aquinas outlined four distinct types of law in his Summa Theologiae, what are—”

“Eternal, Natural, Divine, and Human Law!”

“—and, what’s the definition of Eternal l—”

“Eternal law is God’s rational plan and purpose for all of creation, existing from eternity.”

“Thank you, Ms. L/N. Now—Natural law i—”

“Is the rational creature’s participation in the Eternal Law. It’s the moral code discovered through human reason and examining human nature.”

“Okay, Ms. L/N, thank you, but I would like to hear from your classmates as well.”

The class snickers. You huff, but don’t say anything else. Izuku catches your eye from across the room, mouths the word ‘embarrassing,’ and you flip him off behind your laptop screen.

The next time you raise your hand, you wait to be called on.

“Yes, Ms. L/N?”

“I think St. Aquinas’ biggest fault was associating reason with the church,” you say, wide mouthed and factual, hand still half-hung in the air. It’s kind of cute. “While it makes sense for the time, obviously, most Philosophy was, this risks turning philosophy into a tool for defending pre-set conclusions rather than questioning them.”

And now, Izuku must do the thing he’s been preparing for the entire class. Has to hype himself up for it, actually. His teeth grit, the bitter taste in his mouth already present despite the words still sticking to his throat, and he really doesn’t want to do this.

But also, he really wants to watch you flounder. So.

“I agree with Y/N on that one,” Izuku says, forcing it past his lips in and into actuality. Ew. “He builds a system where reason is expected to say inside a theological boundary. I think that boundary changes the definition of ‘free thinking’.”

Someone else has a rebuttal to that opinion, but Izuku isn’t paying it much mind. He finds you across the room, lips parted and eyes wide, hands tucked in soft balls on both sides of your laptop, bracing for something that never came. Izuku shoots you a smug smile.

Gotcha.

IZUKU: 1. YOU: 1.

You’re kind of cute, though. He’ll give you that.

TIP 3 — HANTA’S IDEA — A VERY PERSONAL, VERY PRIVATE ‘NOT DATE.’ (SWAP SPIT—NOT LIKE THAT.)

Hanta doesn’t even write anything on the board. Just stays where he is, spinning to face Izuku in his chair.

“Okay. We’re gonna pick up where Denki left off with the whole branding thing,” Hanta says with a snap and a point. Denki brings a fist in tight with a small and celebratory ‘yes.’ “What’s something you use everyday that’s, like, physical? Like a sweatshirt, or rings, or…”

“Um,” Izuku goes digging in his bag, hissing when poked by something, before he finds a small and oblong bag full of matching, “No. 2 Pencils?”

Katsuki sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose. “…This is depressing.”

“Hey,” Izuku pouts, and Katsuki gawks, pulling out a hand beneath folded arms to gesture to the pencil pouch like it’s a proper defense. It is not.

“How the hell are we supposed to woo a bitch with a pencil?”

“Easy,” Hanta shrugs, leaning into his chair. “You leave it.”

Izuku nearly gasps, clumsily pressing the pouch close to his heart. “But—”

“Nerd,” Katsuki begins carefully, like he’s coercing something feral out of its corner. “There’s a whole pack in there. You can donate one. To fail. Again.”

Izuku groans to the ceiling, and has to remember why he’s doing this.

“Fine,” Izuku exhales through a tight jaw, because he’s only human, and humans have their boiling points—and his, for some reason, is having to deal with you for more than five minutes, and losing one of his lucky pencils in the process. Looking back at Hanta, he loosens his clutch on the pouch. “So, what—leave a pencil, and then what? That’s it?”

Hanta hesitates, lifting a hand for a breath, before pointing at him with two fingers, “Yes and no. I have another thing—they’re two separate entities.”

Izuku sighs. “Okay.”

“Second thing,” the finger guns flip upward and split until they make a two. “Can you get her alone?”

“Uh,” Izuku almost snorts. Why does this feel like an sting operation? Operation it is, but sting it is not. “…How…alone…?”

Hanta looks up and into nothing in contemplation, and only for a moment.

“Like, a date, alone.”

Izuku snorts, chortles, guffaws, and all the other ugly noises that have weird names to match their weird sounds. Shaking his head, he insists, definitively, “I’m not asking her on a date.”

“I didn’t say ask her on a date. I said get her alone.”

Izuku groans in defeat, and now it’s his turn to pinch the bridge of his nose. There is a Debate this weekend out of town, meaning… “Yeah, maybe.”

“Okay,” Hanta snaps, “Do that—take her on a ‘not-date,’ but not like the one before. Make it private, make it personal. Like, at night.”

“Ooh, night time is so romantic,” Eijirō adds with wide eyes, and Izuku wants to do violent things.

“I feel like that’s going to waste both of our time, not just hers,” he mutters, and Hanta leans forwards on both forearms, squinting his eyes.

“Do you like this woman, Midoriya?”

This feels like a trick question.

“…No?”

“Is two hours of your time not a worthy sacrifice to get her to think about you twenty-four seven,” Hanta asks, with a lift of one eyebrow. Izuku’s head teeters in consideration. Then, he remembers—that face. Failure.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” and Hanta slaps a big hand on the table so hard it jolts Izuku’s soul right out of his skin. “Then it’s settled. Now, we gotta teach you how to talk.”

“I talk…fine?”

“Hey, um—I think I left my pencil.”

This is stupid. This is so stupid it hurts.

You look over your shoulder to the No. 2 Pencil that is, in fact, still lying on the hotel desk he left it on. Today’s half of the debate went well, and tomorrow is shaping to be even better—and the whole team crammed inside your hotel room to make sure of it.

But, it’s late, and everyone’s retired to their own rooms by now. As did Izuku—and, he thinks he’s supposed to leave the pencil for longer, probably overnight, but he cannot, in good consciousness, let his lucky pencil rot outside of its lucky pencil case for too long. So. Thirty minutes it is.

“Oh,” you notice, before you walk there and back, pencil in hand. Izuku twitches, thinking don’t touch it, don’t touch it, don’t touch it, but the circumstances are, seemingly, out of his control. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” He wants to pick it up by the eraser, but doesn’t. Is it possible to wash a pencil? He tucks it and his hands into the leather jacket he got while thrifting with Denki, and sucks at his teeth. Now, for the hard part. The other hard part.

“I was…um, thinking of going for a walk, actually.”

You scoff, crossing your arms and tossing a shoulder. “Okay.”

“And, uh, was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”

Your sour face curdles.

“…Why.”

“Well, you know,” Izuku laughs it off, taking a sweaty hand out of his pocket to gesture between the two of you. Honestly, his plans were to, like, invite you over for a movie, or something, but he’s sharing room with Shōto, and can’t exactly invite himself into to your room, can he? His mouth positions itself to spew a load of bull, throat tight because he really doesn’t want to do this. “Because, y’know, we gotta build camaraderie between Captain and Co-Captai—”

“There is no Co-Captain.”

“Right,” Izuku lets out a shaky exhale, one filled with rage, because how dare you undermine his role like that, literally everyone knows he’s a spiritual co-captain. “Well. Thought I’d extend the invite, either way.”

You waver, biting the inside of your cheek. That’s when he realizes, holy shit, you’re actually considering—

“Give me five,” you grunt, and slam the door behind you, leaving Izuku and his lucky pencil in the hallway.

Okay. Okay, cool.

You took ten minutes to what—put on a jacket?

Izuku tries to keep his cool on the walk, but it’s hard. It’s hard, when he points out a streetlamp and says he likes the design of the victorian ones, just for you to say they’re flawed because ‘sewer gas destructor lamps’ burned flammable methane and hydrogen sulfide fumes from sewers. He turns to you with a frown.

“You’re really depressing, you know that?”

“Thanks,” you beam. It’s fake, but it makes him feel weird, regardless. “It’s a part of my charm.”

Izuku snorts. Stupid.

So, when you pass a river with quacking ducks by it’s edge, and coo, saying ‘awh, i wish i had bread,’ he makes sure to pop your bubble right then and there.

“Actually, you shouldn’t encourage that because they won’t be able to survive on their own, otherwise—they’ll just live in the pond, probably die from malnutrition, diseases, or bad water quality.”

You blink at him with the most appalled look he’s ever seen. You’re…smiling, though, which is a weird on you. It’s weird, all around.

“And you say I’m depressing?”

“Mm,” Izuku taps his chin and hums like he’s thinking about it. He’s not. “Yes.”

Eventually, you two stumble across an ice cream shop. They close in five minutes, and he doesn’t even like ice cream, but you still in your tracks and stare at the place with stars in your eyes. A disgruntled worker behind the counter sighs, and puts their gloves back on.

Izuku buys your ice cream—and gets himself a cone, too.

He doesn’t know why. He likes sweets enough, and definitely isn’t in the mood for them right now. But, here is, with a waffle cone of mint chocolate chip dripping through the grated slats of a metal table. What a mess.

“Oh my God—it’s so good,” you moan past a spoonful of your own, before scooping another and shoving it under his nose. “Try it.”

Izuku doesn’t give himself much time to think—he’s tired, his brain hurts, mint melts over his knuckles, and he doesn’t know if he has enough napkins. With a distracted hum, he takes the spoonful into his mouth, with no consideration of the fact that it was just in yours.

It’s not until he’s pulling back, spoon halfway out of his mouth, that you also seem to realize your mistake. It’s your small squeak that gets his attention, as he looks at your wide eyes, and he—oh. Oh.

Izuku recoils so quick.

“That’s, um,” he remembers there’s ice cream in his mouth, remembers to swallow, forgets to breathe. “That’s not bad.”

“Uh…yeah,” you agree, also a bit breathless.

You avoid his eyes when you take the next bite, same spoon.

IZUKU: 1. YOU: 2?

Ah, shit.

TIP 4 — KATSUKI’S IDEA — GO GHOST. (MISS YOU, OR SOMETHING.)

“Saved the best for last,” Katsuki tosses up a marker and catches it, walking before the whiteboard in a half-hearted pace. Hanta rolls his eyes and Denki groans, but Eijirō just fist pumps the air.

“Hell yeah, Bro!”

“My pointer?” Katsuki punctuates his words with a heavy tap to the board, to what he wrote in bright orange. “Do fuckin’ nuthin’.”

Izuku sighs. He wants to go home.

Luckily, he’s not the only lost boy, as Eijirō narrows his eyes at the board, leaning forward like Katsuki wrote anything other than ‘FUCKING NOTHING.’ “…But—”

“You’ve done the groundwork,” Katsuki points at Izuku, wholly steamrolling his friend. “Now, you disappear. Should be easy if you don’t like her, right?”

Izuku swallows, nods. His hands lift to the sides of his face, and he’s prepared to drag them down at the slightest inconvenience. “Right.”

He hopes he doesn’t feel as unsteady as he sounds.

“So—go ghost,” Katsuki taps the whiteboard with a knuckle this time, before his pacing restarts. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or some shit—make her realize she misses you.”

“Maybe leave another pencil, give her something to reminisce over,” Hanta waves, absentminded, and Izuku can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He’s not leaving another pencil.

“…Okay,” he shifts with caution, eyes moving from the very determined pencil thief to his childhood best friend. “But, I still have to see her though, like, for debate and stuff.”

“That’s fine,” Katsuki shrugs, “the most important part is to go back to how things were.”

“Y’know, Kat, this explains a lot about you,” Eijirō hums with a hand on his chin and a vaguely distant gaze. He looks like some red bastardization of the Thinker. Katsuki whirls around with a look Izuku doesn’t understand.

“Watch it, Shitty Hair.”

Eijirō giggles, but leaves it alone.

“…Okay. Then what?”

“Then, you’re done,” Katsuki says like it’s obvious, and it is, it should be, but— “She fails, too busy missing you to study, and you win.”

He wins. Right.

“Um, are you sure?”

There’s a fist in his lap that tightens when a word flashes through his mind. Excuses. Why is he making excuses? He wants this to be over—he hates you.

Katsuki snorts, and gives him a knowing glance. Izuku is just confused as to what he knows.

“Yep.”

Izuku nods. “Okay.”

Okay. He can do this. It’s not like he’ll miss you, or anything.

He misses you—or something.

Or something, probably, because he still hates your guts. You still piss him off in Debate, in class, undermining anything interesting he has to say. So, vice versa—you say one thing and he says another, and that’s that.

Things have gone back to the exact way they were. Almost.

They did. But—

Izuku (11:34 pm)

hey, wyd?

It was a lapse in judgment. And, a lapse in alcohol. You don’t even respond.

Izuku wakes the next morning, sweaty with a unpleasant taste in his dry mouth. He groans, pulling at the knots in his hair, because fuck, Kacchan said no contact, and now it looks like he’s thinking about you. Which he’s not—and when he does, he gets mad. Because, he hates you.

Finals roll around, and he can’t fucking focus.

Not because of you—never because of you. But, because he feels like he hasn’t done his job thorough enough, and while he’s confident, if you get anything above a 50%, he will be a little annoyed. Maybe, he’s setting himself up on that one.

The morning of his Philosophy final, he gets a text.

You (7:45 am)

dont fail too hard

Izuku snorts, rolling onto his back in his bed, and stifles a yawn.

Izuku (9:05 am)

Oh, I’m passing with flying colors

YOU on the other hand…

Then, it’s 9:45, and he’s sat at his desk with his laptop open and ready, watching the minutes count down until 9:50. In that time, he triple checks his notifications, but isn’t quite sure what he’s looking for.

Izuku feels fine when it’s done. Apparently, the LMS has other ideas.

45%

“Forty-five?!”

Izuku groans, sinks deeper into his chair and drags a hand over his face, sending his glasses askew. He’s never scored 45% in his life, in anything. Social skills in middle school, maybe, but that was situational more than anything else.

45%

How did this go so wrong? And, yes, there’s still a writing portion to be graded by human hands, that should bump him up a little, but not nearly enough. Maybe, the teacher will let him re-do it—this is out of character for him. Maybe, he can feign a family emergency, or cite his mental health, or…or…

Izuku tries to pinpoint the exact reason, the exact moment he lost his grip on reality, when—

Ding!

He sighs, opening the messages on his laptop.

You (12:05)

READ IT AND WEEP BITCH

[attached photo]

It’s a picture of you in front of your desktop, with a thumbs up and a grin. Izuku has to zoom to properly see the score—100%, and wants to throw something. It’s when he doesn’t care all that much, stupidly grinning at the picture along with you, that he realizes—

Oh.

“Fuck!”

He slams his head into the desk. It hurts.

This is embarrassing.

TIP 5 — IZUKU’S IDEA — FOLD LIKE A LAWN CHAIR. (A LAPSE IN JUDGEMENT.)

The debate team goes out for drinks at the end of the school semester. As is tradition.

What isn’t tradition, is Izuku actually attending—normally, he sits it out, choosing to stay in with a movie and take-out to recover his poor battered brain. He teeters in the an entrance of a bar he’s never attended, and severe regrets passing on Tenya’s offer to carpool, as he’s left to fend for himself in a sea of people who know exactly where to go.

“Izuku—Hey!”

Oh, thank God.

“Ochako!” He nearly sighs at the sight of a familiar face, and gives her a half-hug in the threshold. “Oh great, I did not want to go in alone.”

She frowns, pointing at the sign, “You’ve never been here?”

Izuku shakes his head. Maybe this place is popular among the students, or something.

He’s proven correct as he steps in, and it’s packed.

Mainly, he assumes, with students fresh out of finals, just like them—dead and trying to resuscitate, with alcohol and weed and whatever other substance will put a pep in their step. The music is loud enough for him to feel the bass in his feet, for glasses rattle on their shelves. He can’t help but wonder if this is a bar, or a club masquerading as one. Wonders how much business they lose during finals season.

Eventually, they weave through the crowd and to a booth. You’re not here, yet—not that he’s looking for you, it’s just that he noticed—and he slides into the booth along with his friend, texts the group chat, waiting for others to arrive.

“So,” Ochako wiggles brunette eyebrows at him, “you and Y/N, huh?”

“Um,” Izuku frowns. “No?”

She giggles, quirking her head. “Was that a question?”

“No,” Izuku clears his throat, “Um—no, we are not…whatever you’re implying.”

“I could’ve been implying that you’re both excellent Co-Captains,” she shrugs, but Izuku narrows his eyes.

“Were you?”

“No,” she snorts, shaking her head, before pointing towards the bar—or, pointing towards a group of people that look like they’re surrounding a bar. “Want a drink?”

He waves a passive hand. “I’m good—want me to get it?”

“No. Just watch the stuff,” she says, already sliding away. “If anyone else comes and they want something—text me!”

He gives a stiff salute, watching her disappear between shoulders and into nothing. (Or—everything?) Izuku gets a little restless, after that. Nightlife isn’t really his thing. He likes hanging out with people, hell, he doesn’t mind a party as long as it doesn’t get too crowded and he can comfortably perceive an exit—but, the issue with college is, everything is crowded.

“Oh—it’s you.”

Izuku lifts his head off the booth to the apathetic voice, and—oh. It’s you, too.

And, you’re not in a mathletes shirt.

No, you’re actually in a dress—a form-fitting one, one that makes him wonder what you look like with it off, and that’s not a very good thought to have about your Arch-Nemesis For All Time.

“It’s me,” he drums his fingers on the table and he forces his eyes at your face, which doesn’t help as much as he thought it would. “Ochako went to go get a drink, if you want something.”

“Nah,” you huff, sliding into the opposite side. You take your jacket off, which is worse, actually, because now he can see shoulders and collarbones, and Izuku understands why the Amish cover their ankles now.

But, it’s okay—all you have to do is open your mouth, and say something that’ll probably piss him off, and the spell will be broken. Yeah, you’re pretty, so what—so are lots of other people.

“Ugh, I want to go home already,” you mutter under your breath. Izuku snorts.

“You just got here.”

“So?” You turn to him, and he can’t tell if the look of pure disgust is because of him, or the environment—probably both. “And I want to go home.”

“Well. I think you need to get out more,” he decides aloud, which is, albeit, a little hypocritical, but you don’t need to know that. He hopes it’ll rile you up, get you normal again, c’mon, look ugly—

“I don’t care what you think,” you growl, resting forearms on the table. Izuku hates the fact that it makes him lean a little closer. The fire in his belly burns just the same—but, different, this time. Sweeter.

“You should,” Izuku clicks his tongue and pouts in faux pity. “I’m, like, really smart.”

The Final stays between him and his laptop. It was a fluke. A fluke!

He hums, settling his chin on a hand, and watches you take the bait. (Except, the fish he catches isn’t quite the fish he expects—the fish he catches is a lot prettier, and he kind of wants to fuck the fish?)

You groan with your head to the ceiling before rolling your head right. Your hands on the table ball into fists, and your tone turns mocking. (Not that his wasn’t.) “You’re, like, really not. You like Dostoevsky.”

His frown borders on appalled, but there’s a smile threatening the edges. “You like Tolstoy.”

“Because Tolstoy creates a whole world, it’s interesting.”

“It’s pedantic.”

“Your pedantic.”

“Your mom’s pedantic.”

You snort, and narrow your eyes, but it’s not a glare—it lacks the heat. “That’s the best you could come up with?”

“No, that’s the best you could come up with, actually,” he points, and you huff when you realize he’s right. Izuku finally lets the smile slip.

“See? Smart.”

“You piss me off,” you spit, and Izuku shrugs.

“Feeling’s mutual.”

“And I hate you.”

“Likewise, Doll,” Izuku says with a polite smile. To be honest, the pet name just sort of slipped, but comes out relatively condescending, so he’s not too mad about it.

(Why aren’t you ugly yet?)

You falter. Well, not falter, per-se, but you look at him to ensure he knows what he just said. For a moment, he thinks he sees a glint, until disgust covers that sparkle in your eye.

“Never call me Doll again. That was disgusting.”

“Mm,” Izuku hums, because now, he has a theory to test. “Is Baby better, then?”

“None of them are.”

“Okay,” Izuku nods, just enough for you to relax a little, before, “Doll.”

You scowl and kick him under the table.

Okay, now—is it a lapse in judgement that he’s here? Or is it a lapse in judgement that he wants to be, in the first place?

“Okay, okay—f-fuck—okay.”

The genkan bench is not comfortable to sit on for longer than five seconds. Noted.

“Oh my—fuck, Doll, that’s so good, you’re so good, jus—”

You pull your mouth off of him while rolling your eyes, but not the good kind. Not the sex kind.

“Shut up, you’re embarrassing yourself,” you huff, hand working on his cock as methodically as it writes your essays. Izuku likes you better when your mouth is full, he realizes.

“You’re on your knees for me, and I’m embarrassing?” He chuckles, cradling the back of your head. “Right.”

That gets him what he wants—you hiss, and put him back into your mouth with a purpose. The issue is that the purpose has his toes curling, and the back of his head knocks into the wall. If he didn’t have that drink, this would feel much worse, he thinks.

You laughs at him around his dick, which has to be on a whole different level of disrespect, but it only makes the coil in his belly grow tighter. There’s a new determination in there, when he realizes there’s new environment to remind you of your place in.

This might work.

He forces your head further down, far enough that it wipes that gloating look from your eyes and replaces it with something else entirely, as you choke and splutter but don’t push at his hips. He lets go after that, and you pull off with a snarl and a cough.

“What the fuck was th—”

He snatches the back of your head again and forces it down with little resistance. You choke initially, but he lets you pull back to where you’re comfortable. Once you get too comfortable, he shoves you south again.

“Awh, look at you,” he coos, grabbing both sides of your face to move you, and yeah, this is nice, “Chok—fuck—Choking on me like a fucking slut, huh? Is this how you let the football team do you? No wonder you’re so good at this.”

But, you can’t even respond, because there’s a dick in your mouth—his dick—and that makes him giddy in the way cutting you off in class just can’t, building bubbles in his blood and depriving his oxygen. Izuku feels great—on top of the world, even—until you pinch his inner thigh, and he makes a sound wholly unlike himself. Anymore.

His stomach tightens tenfold.

“What—h-hey—”

You pick up the calm, peaceful rhythm that he set for himself—a rhythm he was relaxing into, thank you very much. It’s not his fault. It’s his arms fault, actually. Or, his hands…they frame your face too well, and when you look up at him, he realizes he’s a little too close for his liking. A little.

“Okay, okay, let—let’s slow down,” Izuku huffs a laugh, and thinks he might be drooling—that inhale was a little wet, “Let’s, um—oh shit—”

You choke on him, willingly, and hard enough to spring tears from your eyes. Izuku does not watch the mascara starts to run at the edges, does not watch the way your lips stretch around him, does not look down your dress and into your chest. Nope. Does not.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no—hey,” he coaxes, practically pleading, and massages corners of your eyes. Bad, stupid, dumb idea—wet mascara smudges under this thumb when it slides, and, you look—you look—

“Shi—it,” Izuku drones, slamming his head into the wall (didn’t he already do that?) as his thighs lock, and he spills down your throat. You cough and splutter, and pull off halfway through, and God, you look—

“The hell, Asshole?” You huff, wiping at the corners of your lips with a sour look on your face. “Warn a girl, fuck.”

—fucking stunning.

“Hey, Nerd—”

“Get out, Kacchan!”

“Yeah, no sh—wait, what the fuck—you didn’t tell me she was hot—”

“Um…Hello?”

“Go back to sleep, Baby—Kacchan, out!”

© mamashima/pumaya. do not edit, translate or copy my work without my permission. do not use for ai. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.