Put Him In His Place ᥫ᭡. Gojo Satoru x Reader
pairings - Lovesick!Fratjo x Badass!reader (f/m)
♡ ₊˚‧ WARNINGS :: No use of Y/N :: Frat boy Gojo:: Yearner Gojo :: Fluff:: TENSION!:: ANGST:: Nerd Fratjo :: Eventual smut -> (more tags coming soon) :: Strong female MC :: Neuroscience Major MC:: HEAT :: Intimacy:: Grinding:: Dirty dancing:: Sensuality:: Teasing:: Smoking (Marijuana):: Drinking:: Partying::Nicknames:: Slowburn:: (probably more to come!)
𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: Hey yallll here's five. LOVE this chapter. Thank you all for your support! More coming very soon.
🎧ྀི♪⋆.✮MUSIC RECS:
- Rush - Troye Sivan
- One Dance - Drake
- Rude Boy - Rihanna
DANCING SCENE + AFTER:
- Yeah! - Usher
- Dangerous Woman - Ariana Grande
- Do I Wanna Know? - Arctic Monkeys
- King Of The Fall - The Weeknd
The bass hit you before you even reached the door. It was low and heavy, vibrating through the pavement like a second heartbeat, pulsing up your shoes and ingraining into your chest. You could almost feel the earth shaking under you.
Becca squeezed your hand once as you both stepped up onto the porch, her curls bouncing with the movement, blonde strands catching flashes of neon from inside. “Okay,” she said, glancing at you sideways. “Last chance to turn back and go study like the responsible academic weapon you are.”
You rolled your eyes, adjusting the strap of your small bag over your shoulder. “I’m fine.”
“Mhm.” She knocked twice. Unnecessary, considering the door was already half open—and pushed it the rest of the way in. The party swallowed you whole the second you stepped inside.
It was exactly what you expected, yet somehow still more. The house was big, ridiculously so, with an open layout that made everything feel connected. The living room bled into the kitchen, which spilled into a hallway where people were already crowding and laughing and yelling over the music.
The lights, or really the lack of them, made everything feel surreal. Dim overhead bulbs flickered occasionally, but most of the illumination came from strips of neon lining the walls and furniture: electric pinks, greens, blues that shined in time with the music.
Every few seconds, the main lights would cut completely, leaving everything in darkness, and then everything glowed. Paint streaked across arms, faces, shirts. Handprints on walls. Neon signs flickering to life like they’d been waiting for the dark. People lit up in pieces– bracelets, necklaces, shoes– like constellations moving through the room. Then the lights would come back, and it would start all over again.
You stepped further in, taking it in, your eyes adjusting. Everyone was dressed the same in a way that still somehow looked different; black tops, black shorts, black dresses. A blank canvas for the glow. Your outfit blended right in.
A black fitted tank top clung to you, stopping just high enough to show a small sliver of your lower stomach when you moved. Black shorts hugged your waist and hips, simple but clean. The light-up necklace around your neck blinked softly in shifting colors, matching the bracelets stacked loosely around your wrist. Your hair was pulled back into two tight Dutch braids, neat and practical—but still soft around your face, a few strands escaping from your hairline.
Becca looked at you again, then down at your outfit. “…Yeah,” she said slowly. “This is not a ‘just came to hang out’ outfit.”
She grinned, bumping her shoulder into yours as you both moved further into the crowd. “I thought you had that Anatomy test tomorrow.”
She stopped walking, turning to look at you fully, one brow raised.“You did,” she repeated.
You kept walking. “I still do.”
She followed, catching up easily. “You never go out the day before something graded.”
You shrugged. “It’s one night.”
You could feel her looking at you. Hard. She gasped. “Ohhh,” she said slowly, dragging it out. “I wonder why.”
You groaned under your breath. “Becca—”
“No, wait,” she continued, gasping dramatically. “I’m so sorry. Not why—for whom.”
You shot her a look. “Be quiet, your lipsticks gonna rub off if you keep talking.”
She laughed, grabbing your arm and pulling you into a quick side hug. “Relax, I’m kidding,” she said, though the grin on her face said she absolutely was not. You rolled your eyes again, but you were smiling. She leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. “Enjoy your night, squeaky,” she said, softer now. “And tell me everything after.”
You huffed a quiet laugh.“I hate you.”
She pulled back, already scanning the room. “I’m gonna go grab punch and find Brayden,” she added. “Call me if you need me.”
You nodded. “Bye, Duck. Love you.”
And just like that, she was gone, slipping into the crowd, blonde curls bouncing as she disappeared between people, already waving at someone across the room.
You stood there for a second, alone, hyperaware of your surroundings. The music thumped around you, voices overlapping, laughter cutting through the noise in bursts. Someone brushed past your shoulder, muttering a quick “sorry” before disappearing again.
You adjusted your bag slightly, fingers brushing over the small bottles tucked inside. Your bottles. The glow mixture. You’d brought a few from the lab, different colors this time. You’d stayed up a little later tweaking the formulas, adjusting concentrations, testing how they reacted under different light levels.
Not for any big reason. Just because. Because it was fun. Because you could. Because a small, annoying part of you wondered what his face would look like when he saw them.
You exhaled quietly, glancing around the room again, scanning, trying not to be obvious.
“You look like you’re searching for something.” The voice came from your left, too close.
You turned slowly and immediately regretted it.
He was standing in front of you, one hand holding a red cup and the other tucked lazily in his sweatpant pocket, fist slightly dragging them down to show a sliver of his lower abdomen. Ashy pink hair, sharp features, dark tattoos staining his skin, the kind of smirk that felt practiced—like he’d used it a hundred times and expected it to work every time. Yup, this was definitely a frat guy.
Sukuna. You didn’t know his name yet, but you knew the type instantly.
Your expression flattened just slightly. “…Am I?”
He pushed off his foot, stepping a little closer. “Yeah,” he said, eyes dragging over you in a way that made your skin prickle. “Or maybe you’re just lost.”
He hummed. “Could’ve fooled me, pretty girl.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Bold.”
He grinned. “What? You like that? Just me observing, sweetheart.”
You crossed your arms loosely. “And what else are you observing?”
He tilted his head slightly, like he was considering how to phrase it. “…That you don’t look like you belong here. Let me take you upstairs, sweetheart.”
There was a beat, then you let out a short laugh. “Wow.”
“That might be the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”
He chuckled, unfazed. “Wasn’t a pickup line.”
“More like an opening statement.”
You stared at him. “…That’s worse.”
He stepped closer again, too close.
“You here alone?” he asked.
“Your friends ditched you?”
You tilted your head. “Why? Wanna take all of us to bed at once?”
“Tempting offer.” He smiled. “You think you could set it up?”
Your irritation spiked, fast and immediate.You let out a quiet breath through your nose, uncrossing your arms. “Let me save you some time,” you said flatly. “You don’t have a chance with one girl of value, let alone multiple.”
His smirk twitched slightly, but didn’t drop. “C’mon,” he said. “Don’t be like that.”
You stared at him, unimpressed. “Like what?”
There it was, that word something in your expression shifted, sharpened.
“Difficult?” you deadpanned. “Maybe you’re just not that interesting.”
The music pulsed louder for a second. Or maybe it just felt like it did, because the look on his face changed. “Feisty,” he said, a little amused now.
Across the room, Gojo noticed you instantly.
He hadn’t meant to. He was mid-conversation, half listening to something Toji was saying, something about how he wanted to fuck a girl in one of his classes, while Geto leaned back against the couch with that knowing, amused look he always had when he was letting chaos unfold without interfering.
Gojo had a drink in his hand, head tipped back slightly as he took a long sip, the burn settling easy in his chest. And then he saw you, right in the middle of the living room. Black on black, blending in with everyone else, but still somehow standing out. The light-up necklace around your throat blinked softly, your bracelets catching flashes of neon as the lights flickered. Your hair was braided back, clean and tight, and it made your face look sharper somehow. Clearer.
And in your hands, water bottles filled with something glowing.
Of course. Of course you brought your own. Gojo’s mouth twitched slightly, and then his eyes shifted to the person standing way too close to you. Sukuna.
And the look on your face—
It was kind of hilarious. Flat. Irritated. That very specific expression you got when someone was already on your nerves and had about five seconds left before you said something they weren’t gonna recover from.
Gojo’s jaw tightened just a little.
“…You even listening?” Toji asked, nudging him with his elbow.
Gojo didn’t answer, didn’t look away.
Geto followed his gaze and paused, huffing a quiet laugh under his breath. “…Oh, this should be good.”
Gojo exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yeah,” he muttered. He tipped his head back and chugged the rest of his drink, no hesitation, no pacing– just downed it.
Toji blinked. “...Goddamn. Okay.”
The bottle hit the table a second later with a dull thud. Gojo didn’t say anything, just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and started walking toward you. He didn’t rush, but there was something in the way he moved. Direct, purposeful, making people shift out of his way without really knowing why. The crowd blurred a little as he pushed through it, shoulders brushing against strangers, music pounding louder the closer he got to the center of the room.His eyes didn’t leave you. Not once.
You were just about to walk away, done with the conversation, already turning your body slightly when an arm slid around your waist. Warm. Firm. Familiar.
You froze for half a second. Your head snapped up, and there he was. Gojo. Right beside you. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of your top, his hand resting just above your hip like it belonged there. Casual, effortless. Like it wasn’t even a question.
You blinked, caught off guard. There was a flicker of something, surprise, maybe a little fluster, but it disappeared almost as quickly as it came. You masked it easily, your expression settling back into something controlled.
But your heart, your heart definitely noticed.
Gojo didn’t look at you right away, his attention was on Sukuna. He gave him a small, deadpanned smile, the kind that wasn’t really a smile at all. “Problem?” he asked.
Sukuna looked between the two of you. Once. Then again. His confusion lasted exactly half a second. His eyes widened slightly. “Oh—” A beat. Then he let out a short, incredulous laugh. “OH—This is slap girl?!”
Gojo groaned immediately, dropping his head back slightly. “Can we not call her that—”
You, however, smiled, bright and unbothered. You liked that nickname. “That’s me,” you said, shifting your weight slightly, still very aware of Gojo’s arm around you. “Nice to meet you…” You tilted your head just a little. “…Kind of.”
Sukuna snorted. “Damn. Didn’t realize it was you. I was expecting like.. a crazy chick with blue hair or something. Mm.. and big boobs”
You blinked in mild surprise. Gojo shot him a desperate look at his words, screaming ‘SERIOUSLY, bro?!’
Sukuna stuttered, held his hands up slightly in mock surrender. “Relax, man. I was just talking.”
“Yeah,” Gojo replied flatly. “I saw.” There was a subtle edge there. Sukuna noticed it, of course he did. His smirk returned, but it shifted, less cocky, more entertained.
“Didn’t know you had a claim here,” he said.
Gojo didn’t even blink. “I don’t.” His arm didn’t move. If anything, his hand settled just slightly more securely at your waist.“But she’s not interested, Kuna. I could see it from the other side of the room.” he added.
You glanced at him briefly, then back at Sukuna, whose eyes dropped to you. You shrugged a little, grinning at him. Sukuna exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. I get it.” He stepped back slightly, hands still raised.”
Gojo didn’t respond, just watched him.
Sukuna’s gaze flicked between you one last time. Then he smirked. “Give me one second.” And just like that, he disappeared back into the crowd.
The space around you shifted, quieter somehow even with the music still pounding. Gojo’s arm was still around you, and you both noticed.
You exhaled softly, looking up at him. “…Nice timing.”
He looked down at you then, eyes raking over your face, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. He was taking in the braids. The necklace. The faint glow of the bottles still in your hand.“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said, lips twitching. “Another thirty seconds and he would’ve tested his luck.”
Gojo huffed a quiet laugh, free hand coming up to rub his cheek where you had put a big purple bruise not too long ago. “Wouldn’t have gone well for him. ”
“No,” you agreed lightly. “It wouldn’t have.”
There was a small pause. “…You came,” he said quietly.
“Yeah,” he nodded. His thumb shifted slightly against your side without him realizing, a small movement, barely there. “Didn’t think you’d actually show,” he added.
You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Your lack of faith in me is crazy.”
“I have faith,” he said. “Just… not in your ability to choose fun over studying.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, then you lifted one of the bottles slightly. “You like the theme?” you asked.
His gaze dropped to it, the neon liquid inside catching the light. “…You made those?”
He looked back at you, and something in his expression softened again, that same look from the lab. “That’s insane,” he said quietly.
You shrugged. “It’s fun makin’ em.”
He studied you for a second longer. His arm loosened slightly, not fully leaving your waist, but moving just enough to give you space. “C’mon,” he said again, a little softer this time, nodding toward the counter where people were crowded around bottles and cups. “Let’s get you something to drink before you start assaulting more people with neon chemicals.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, adjusting your grip on the bottles in your hands. “That was one time.”
“You literally attacked me.”
“You deserved it. And you attacked me right back!”
“Debatable.” He started guiding you through the crowd—not forcefully, just a light pressure at your side, his hand still resting at your waist like it had settled there without asking permission.
The music pulsed around you as you moved, bodies shifting, people brushing past. Someone laughed too loud behind you, someone else spilled something on the floor, and through it all, Gojo kept a steady path forward like he knew exactly where he was going. You glanced up at him briefly. “…So this is your natural habitat, huh?”
“Yeah. Impressive, right?”
“Very,” you said dryly. “The sticky floors really tie it together.”
“Hey,” he nudged you lightly. “That’s years of neglected cleaning you’re disrespecting.”
He laughed under his breath, and yet again it felt like it was just the two of you in the middle of everything else.
You were almost at the kitchen. Almost. When—
The voice cut through the music like it had been waiting. Gojo froze. You felt it immediately, the subtle shift in his posture, the way his hand tensed just slightly against your side.
He exhaled slowly. “…Don’t turn around,” he muttered.
You blinked. “…That’s never a good sign.”
Too late. Multiple footsteps approached, and you turned anyway.
Sukuna. Of course. Grinning like he’d just set something up and was about to enjoy the outcome. And behind him, three more guys. All very different, all very obviously together.
You instinctively took a small step back. Not out of fear, just genuine surprise at the cult meeting forming in front of you. Gojo’s hand dropped from your waist almost immediately. “Guys,” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Can we not do this right now?”
Sukuna laughed. “What?” he said, spreading his arms slightly. “Embarrassed of us?”
Sukuna ignored that completely. “I said give me a second for a reason, didn’t I?”
You glanced between them, then back at Gojo. “…You have a welcoming committee?”
“Wow. I feel so special.”
“You should,” Sukuna cut in. “You’re the first girl he’s ever not scared off in five minutes.”
Gojo shot him a look. “I hate you.”
Before you could respond, one of the other guys stepped forward, the one with long dark hair tied back loosely, expression calm—almost too calm for the environment. He reached for your hand gently, oddly respectful. You let him. He lifted it slightly and pressed a light kiss to the back of your knuckles. “Welcome to the house..” he said smoothly.
You blinked twice. That was not what you expected at all. You tilted your head slightly, studying him. “…You’re way too polite to be here.”
He smiled faintly. “I get that a lot.”
Gojo snorted quietly behind him. “Don’t let him fool you.”
“Please,” the guy—Geto, you assumed—said mildly. “I’m on my best behavior.”
You let out a small laugh. “I believe it,” you said. “No one just casually does that at a frat party unless they’re either very practiced or very suspicious.”
Geto’s smile widened just slightly. “Maybe both.”
“Alright, enough of the gentleman act,” Sukuna cut in, gesturing to the others. “We’re here to meet slap girl.”
Gojo groaned again at the nickname. “She has a name.”
You smiled. “I don’t mind it.”
“Of course you don’t,” Gojo muttered.
The other two stepped forward now. One was tall, broad, with messy dark hair and a lazy posture that somehow still felt… imposing. He looked you over once, assessing. “…You’re the one that hit him?” he asked.
He huffed a short laugh. “Nice.”
“Toji,” he said, jerking his chin slightly.
You gave a small nod. “Neat. ” The last one stepped forward more quietly. Blonde. Neat. Composed in a way that stood out immediately in a room like this. He adjusted his sleeve slightly before speaking. “…Nanami,” he said.
Then “…That is not your real name,” he said.
You smiled. “No, it’s not.”
You let out a small laugh. There was a beat, then suddenly you realized all of them were looking at you, curious, measuring.. a little too interested. Gojo shifted beside you. “…Can you all stop staring at her like that?”
Sukuna smirked. “What? We’re observing.”
“To be fair,” you cut in lightly, “you did bring me into a house full of strangers.”
“You walked in willingly.”
Toji huffed a quiet laugh. “I like her.”
“Yeah,” Sukuna added. “She’s got a mouth on her.”
You tilted your head. “And you don’t?”
Geto glanced at the bottles still in your hands. “…What’s that?”
You lifted one slightly. “Glow paint.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You made that?”
Sukuna leaned in. “No way.”
Toji grabbed one, inspecting it. “…This is actually kinda sick.”
Nanami studied it more quietly. “…Is it safe?”
You nodded. “Completely non-toxic.”
“Relax,” you added, glancing at him. “I’m not trying to poison your entire frat.”
“That would be inconvenient.”
Gojo watched all of this happen like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was seeing. The way you answered easily, how you didn’t hesitate to use your wit, how you matched their energy without trying too hard. You weren’t intimidated or even trying to impress them, you were just… you. And somehow they were eating it up.
“…Okay,” Gojo muttered under his breath. “Can we go now?”
Sukana snorted. “Wow,” he said.. “You trying to get rid of me already?”
“I’m trying to get you a drink,” he shot back.
“To calm me down after meeting your… unique friends?”
Sukuna laughed. “Unique?”
You nodded seriously. “Absolutely. I’m intrigued. And a little scared”
Toji snorted sarcastically. “Yeah, because you look terrified.”
Nanami shook his head slightly, almost amused. “She’s fine.”
Geto smiled. “She’s more than fine.”
Gojo rolled his eyes. “Great. Can I have her back now?”
“You want a drink, why don’t we all join you, Satoru?” Sukuna said, grin sharp and needling, “you talk a big game, ‘Squeaky’. Let's see if your alcohol tolerance matches your wit.”
You tilted your head slightly, unimpressed but entertained.
Toji cut in, folding his arms loosely, “we haven’t seen any proof yet.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “Proof of what?”
Sukuna’s eyes flicked over you once, assessing, challenging. “That you can keep up.”
There it was. You felt Gojo shift beside you subtly, like he already knew where this was going. “…Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, low enough that only you heard.
You glanced at him, then back at Sukuna. A slow grin spread across your face. “Oh, I can keep up.”
Sukuna’s smile widened. “Yeah?”
“Oh, she’s in,” Toji laughed, pushing off the counter. “Let’s go.”
Nanami sighed under his breath. “…This is a terrible idea.”
Geto smiled faintly. “And yet, you’re coming with us.”
Nanami adjusted his sleeve. “…Of course I am.”
The garage was louder than the rest of the house, if that was even possible. Music blasted from a speaker shoved into the corner, bass rattling against the walls, the air thick with heat and sweat and the sharp smell of alcohol. People crowded around a long folding table set up in the middle—cups stacked into pyramids, liquid sloshing, hands moving too fast to follow.
Exactly what you expected, exactly what you signed up for. “Alright!” Sukuna called, grabbing a stack of cups and slamming them down onto the table. “We got a challenger!”
A few heads turned, eyes landed on you, curious, interested. Someone whistled.
“Toji, don’t break her,” a guy laughed from the side.
You snorted. “Worry about yourself.”
Gojo hovered close to your side as the group gathered around the table, his presence quieter now—but there. Always there. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, leaning slightly toward you so you could hear him over the noise.
You glanced at him, smiling. “Relax, snowman.”
He studied your face for a second, huffing a quiet laugh. “…You’re insane.”
Cups were filled. Liquid sloshing, hands moving, people shouting rules that no one was fully listening to. You rolled your shoulders back slightly, setting your bottles off to the side, game mode.
“Alright, Squeaky,” Sukuna said, tossing you a cup. “Let’s see what you got.”
You caught it easily. “Don’t cry when I win.”
“Toji,” Sukuna called, ignoring you, “keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t cheat.”
Toji snorted. “She doesn’t look like the cheating type.”
“I don’t cheat,” you added. “I just win.”
Gojo let out a short laugh beside you. “…God, you’re cocky.”
“Guess you’re rubbing off on me, Snowman.”
“I absolutely am not. That’s all you.”
The game exploded into motion. Cups moved, hands grabbed, liquid splashed.
You didn’t hesitate, you just moved, chugging the first cup like it was nothing, the burn hitting your throat fast and hard but not slowing you down. You flipped it, slammed it down, grabbed the next without missing a beat.
Someone cursed next to you. You didn’t look, didn’t care. The world narrowed into the table—the rhythm, the motion, the speed.
You laughed under your breath, breath already coming a little quicker, warmth spreading through your chest as the alcohol hit. Gojo stood just to your right, half playing, half watching you like he couldn’t decide which one he was more focused on. “…Okay,” he muttered, grabbing his own cup slower. “Okay, I see you.”
“You’re falling behind,” you shot back, already finishing another.
“I told you I have a low tolerance!”
You giggled, actually giggled. It slipped out easier now, lighter. “Skill issue.”
The game blurred, fast, loud, and messy. Cups knocked over, laughter spilling over itself, people shouting instructions that didn’t matter, you kept going. Kept up, more than kept up, you were ahead.
Toji raised an eyebrow mid-game. “…Damn.”
Sukuna let out a sharp laugh. “Okay—okay, I see it now.”
Geto shook his head, amused. “She’s committed.”
Nanami muttered something about poor decision-making under his breath—but he was still playing.
And you, well you were thriving.
At some point you grabbed Gojo’s arm. He blinked, caught off guard. “…What—?”
“C’mere,” you said, already looping your arm through his.
He froze for half a second. Then realized.“…Oh.”
The crowd noticed instantly.
You grinned, lifting your cup. “Don’t slow me down, snowman.”
“Hey,” he scoffed, but he was smiling now, something softer underneath it. “You’re the one dragging me into this. My liver might fail tonight.”
He laughed. You both tipped your heads back at the same time. The liquid burned sharper this time, your arms linked, shoulders brushing, his presence right there—close, warm, solid. You could feel him swallow, hear it. The world tilted slightly, then snapped back into place. You slammed the cup down, he followed half a second later. You looked at him, grinning. He stared right back at you, a little flushed, breathless. “…You’re insane,” he said again.
The game kept going. Everything started to blur together—the lights, the music, the shouting, the constant movement of hands and cups and bodies. You lost track of how many rounds, how many drinks. Didn’t matter, you just kept going. At some point, someone knocked into you, and you stumbled slightly.
Gojo’s hand caught your arm instantly, steadying you. “Careful,” he said, voice lower now, closer.
“I’m fine,” you said, breathless but smiling.
He smiled at you. “I can see that.”
By the time it started winding down, the energy had changed, looser, sloppier. The kind of messy, end of the game chaos where people were laughing a little too loud, leaning a little too heavily on the table, missing cups they definitely would’ve made ten minutes ago.
You, somehow weren’t, your movements had slowed just a fraction, a soft warmth settling under your skin, your head feeling a little lighter—but you were steady. Balanced. Present. Tipsy, comfortably so.
Meanwhile Sukuna missed his cup entirely and didn’t even notice until someone shouted it. Toji was leaning half his weight on the table, blinking like he was trying to remember where he was. Nanami had that very specific, tightly controlled expression of someone who was deeply regretting his life choices but refusing to show it. Geto just looked amused.
Gojo— Gojo was somewhere in between.
Not gone, but definitely enjoying life a bit more than you at the moment, a little looser around the edges. A little slower to react. His cheeks faintly flushed, hair slightly more disheveled than usual, that easy grin sitting on his face like it belonged there.
And his eyes still glued on you.
“Alright,” Sukuna finally exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair as he leaned back. “I’m calling it.”
“To reclaim your dignity?” you asked, tilting your head.
“To preserve what little I have left,” he shot back.
Toji let out a long breath. “…Yeah. I’m done.”
Nanami nodded once, like this was a business decision. “Agreed.”
Geto clapped his hands together once, light and amused. “Well,” he said, looking at you, “I believe we have a winner.”
Sukuna snorted. “Yeah,” he admitted. “We do.” He pointed at Gojo. “You got a powerful one, man.”
Gojo blinked. “…A powerful one?”
“Don’t make it weird,” you cut in immediately.
“Too late,” Toji muttered.
And then Toji let out the loudest, most unapologetic burp imaginable. The table went silent for half a second.
You, however, laughed. Cackled actually, the slight buzz making everything funny, head tipping back slightly, shoulders shaking, the sound bright and real and completely unfiltered.
Toji grinned. “See?” he said, gesturing at you. “She gets it.”
“Absolutely not,” Nanami muttered.
“Absolutely not.,” you agreed, still laughing. “Though I will admit, that was impressive.”
“Thank you,” Toji said, nodding like he’d just been honored.
Sukuna reached behind him, grabbing something off the table. “Alright,” he said, holding it up. “Since we’re doing this properly—” A cheap plastic trophy, gold-colored, slightly crooked, definitely something he found last minute at the dollar tree.
You stared at it for a second, and then your grin widened. “Oh my god.” Before anyone could say anything, you stepped up onto the table, quick and easy.
Too late. You were already up there, balancing effortlessly despite the drinks, grabbing the trophy out of Sukuna’s hand and holding it high above your head. “I’D LIKE TO THANK—” you started loudly, voice cutting through the noise.
The crowd around you turned, some laughing, some cheering.
“I’D LIKE TO THANK MYSELF,” you continued, pointing dramatically at your chest, “FOR BEING BETTER THAN ALL OF YOU.”
You grinned, spinning slightly on the table, the neon lights catching on your bracelets, your necklace, the faint glow still smeared along your arms.
“I WORKED HARD FOR THIS,” you declared.
“YOU DRANK HARD,” Sukuna shot back.
The laughter around you swelled, chaotic, loud and alive. Gojo stood at the edge of the table, looking up at you, and for a bit everything else blurred out, the noise, people, music. All of it.
Because you were standing there. Laughing. Completely unbothered. Completely yourself. A little flushed, a little glowing under the lights, hair slightly messy now from the night, but still beautiful. Real, unfiltered, so irreparable human. You weren’t trying to impress anyone or play a role, you were just you.
And somehow, that made it impossible for him to look away. His chest tightened slightly, heavy in a way he didn’t quite understand yet. He exhaled slowly, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips..
“AND FINALLY—” you were still going, completely committed to your fake speech, “I’D LIKE TO DEDICATE THIS WIN TO—”
Your foot slipped, just slightly. The table edge caught wrong, your balance shifting—
Your body tipped forward, and then warm hands caught you. Firm. Immediate. Gojo. He stepped in without thinking, hands gripping your waist as you stumbled down off the table, pulling you steady against him before you could fall. For a second you were just there, close, your hands instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders, your balance still catching up.
You blinked, then glanced up at him. He was already looking at you, smiling. Soft. Easy. A little breathless. “Careful,” he said, voice low.
You let out a small laugh, still catching your breath. “Yeah, yeah.”
He didn’t move his hands right away. Neither did you. The noise of the room rushed back in around you, but the space between you felt… quieter somehow. Smaller.
You tilted your head slightly, still smiling. “Nice catch, snowman.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Had to save the trophy.”
“Priorities. I mean.. Look at it. It is a beaut.” You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t step away immediately either. He opened his mouth slightly, closed it, hesitating. “…You wanna dance?” he asked. It was casual, not a big deal. But his heart was beating so hard he thought it might literally jump out toward you.
You grinned. “Yeah.” You leaned over the table, grabbing the nearest bottle without even checking what it was, taking a quick swig. The burn hit sharp, but you didn’t flinch. “Let’s go,” you added, breathing a little lighter now. He laughed, shaking his head, but he didn’t argue. He just took your hand and led you back into the crowd.
The music hit harder the closer you got to the center of the house. The bass thudded through the floorboards, up your legs, settling somewhere in your chest like it belonged there. The air was warmer here, thicker, bodies packed close, moving in sync and completely out of sync at the same time.
Gojo didn’t let go of your hand.
Not when you pushed through the last bit of the crowd, not when you stepped into the middle of it all. And the second you stopped, you grinned, wide and unfiltered before you started dancing.
Your shoulders rolled into the beat, hips following, your bracelets flickering in soft bursts of neon as your hands moved through the air. Your head tipped back for a second, laughter slipping out of you like it didn’t need permission.The alcohol sat warm in your veins, loosening everything just enough to make it feel effortless.
Gojo watched you for half a second and joined in. It wasn’t coordinated or polished, it was messy, a little chaotic, completely in rhythm with the music and nothing else, the kind of dancing that didn’t care who was watching. Gojo followed your movement, stepping closer, laughing under his breath when you bumped into him slightly.
“Watch it,” he said, smiling.
“You’re in my space,” you shot back, grinning.
“Then why am I having more fun?”
“You always have this much fun?” he leaned in just enough for you to hear him over the music.
“I will always be on that.”
He laughed, bumping his shoulder lightly into yours as the bass dropped harder, the crowd around you erupting louder with it.
The lights cut completely. The room dropped into darkness so fast it felt like everything paused for half a second. You heard collective groans around you.
But before the complaints could even settle:
“FEAR NOT!” Sukuna’s voice rang out like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
You turned, squinting slightly through the dim. He was standing on the couch again, arms thrown up like he was hosting something, grin wild and a little unhinged.
“Yeah, yeah,” Toji laughed, already climbing up beside him.
And then you saw them, your bottles. You barked out a laugh. “No—no way—”
Too late, they popped the caps and started smearing the neon across the walls.
The room lit up instantly, brighter than before. Streaks of glowing color dragged across every surface they could reach– walls, pillars, even the edge of the couch—lighting the room in chaotic bursts of neon. It bled into everything, reflecting off skin, clothes, hair—turning people into moving, glowing shapes in the dark.
The crowd loved it, cheering, laughing. Someone started chanting Sukuna’s name.
You just stood there for a second, laughing. Full, loud, completely unfiltered.
“They’re taking the credit for all my work!” you said, but you were already moving again, already caught up in it.
Gojo glanced at you. “…You’re not even mad.”
“How could I be?” you shot back, spinning slightly as the glow caught your arms. “This is kind of awesome.”
The music picked up again, harder, faster, and you leaned into it fully. Your hands reached up without thinking, fingers tugging at the ends of your braids. You pulled one loose—then the other—quick, messy, not caring about neatness as you shook your head slightly, letting your hair fall free.
Gojo watched it happen, eyes stuck onto you like he couldn’t help it, the way your hair fell around your shoulders, a little messy now, a little wild, how you ruffled it out with your hands, laughing to yourself like it didn’t matter, like nothing did except this moment.
His grin didn’t leave his face, it was ingrained, soft and a little disbelieving. Because… you. Like this. Carefree. Bright. Completely unfiltered. You were.. God, you were everything.
“Hey—!” You barely had time to react before arms wrapped around you from behind—
But not Gojo’s. You turned quickly— “BECCA—!” You practically launched yourself at her, arms around her shoulders, pulling her into a tight hug, your laughter spilling out again, a little louder, a little looser now. “You’re hereee!” you said into her shoulder.
“I’ve been here!” she laughed, hugging you back just as tight. “You disappeared!”
“Of course you were.” She pulled back slightly, hands still on your arms as she looked at you, really looked. Hair loose. Eyes bright. Slight flush across your cheeks. “…You’re tipsy,” she said, grinning.
You squinted, holding your fingers up in front of her, almost touching. “Un poquito”
“Sure.” She glanced over your shoulder at Gojo, then pointed at you, mouthing crazy.
Gojo huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, mouthed back I know.
Becca’s grin widened. “Be nice to him,” she stage-whispered to you.
“Riiight okay. Don’t beat his ass again is what I’m trying to say.”
You leaned into her ear, “honestly, if I did I have a feeling he might like it.” She cackled in response.
You danced with her for a bit, spinning, laughing, bumping into each other, the kind of easy, familiar movement that came from years of knowing someone. But eventually she squeezed your hand.
“I really have to pee and then I think I’m tapping out for the night,” she said, already backing up. “You’ll be okay here?”
You nodded, still dancing, and she laughed at you. “Don’t do anything too insane.”
And then with a grin she was gone again. You were turned away from Gojo, and he took an opportunity before he could overthink it.
You were caught up in the music again, in the lights, in the way your body moved without thinking—hair loose now, brushing your shoulders as you laughed to yourself, completely unaware of him moving behind you. And then huge hands found your hips, warm and firm and certain.
You gasped—soft, surprised—the sound barely audible under the music, but it left you before you could stop it.
And then he pulled, enough to draw you back into him in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his like it had been meant to land there.
Your back pressed to his chest, your ass to his evident bulge. You almost slipped out a moan. He was solid. Warm. Close. Too close to pretend it was nothing. For a split second, your breath caught, your hands hovered mid-air like you weren’t sure what to do with them. Behind you, you felt him lean in slightly—felt the shift of his chest against your back, the faint brush of his breath near your ear. “Hey,” he said, low, a grin threading through his voice.
You swallowed, tilting your head just enough to glance back at him, catching that familiar, infuriatingly confident smile—except it wasn’t entirely the same. There was something else in it now, something softer. Something darker.
“…Hi,” you managed, voice just a little quieter than before.
His hands adjusted slightly on your hips, not sliding anywhere they shouldn’t, just settling more naturally, thumbs pressing into your skin lightly like he was grounding himself as much as you. And then the music pulled you back in. Your body moved again instinctively, and this time, he moved with you.
Every shift of your hips met the steady rhythm of his behind you, your movements syncing without thought, the space between you completely gone. The subtle way he followed your lead instead of taking it—letting you set the pace, matching you beat for beat like he didn’t want to break whatever this was. You could feel everything. The rise and fall of his breathing, the way his grip tightened just slightly when the crowd pressed in too close, how he tried to shift his hips back from you so you wouldn’t notice how hard he really was. But it was too late.
You let your ass tip back just slightly for a second, just enough to brush against the crotch of his sweats. It was light, you could even play it off as accidental if you wanted to. You felt his breath hitch, a small hiss leaving his lips in echoed silence against the booming speakers. Your lips curved.
He recovered quickly. “Still think you’re having more fun?” he murmured, voice low, closer now, right near your ear, barely there but impossible to ignore. You turned your head slightly again, your cheek brushing his neck. “Obviously,” you said, a hint of a smile in your voice.
He huffed a quiet laugh, but it came out softer this time. “Trust me, you’re wrong. Never been this giddy in my life.”
You grinned “Yeah?” Your hands finally found somewhere to settle—resting lightly over where his sat on your hips, pulling them closer. Acknowledging it, the contact, the moment. Your fingers shifted slightly over his, absentminded, tracing the edge of his knuckles as you kept moving, and his grip tightened just a fraction.
Around you, the party blurred. The music still loud, people still moving, neon lights still flashing across skin and walls—but it all felt a little distant, secondary. Because right here, this moment was just yours. The warmth of him behind you, the steady rhythm you both fell into, how neither of you pulled away, not even a little, not even when you probably should have
You slipped out of his hold for a second, just to turn, just to move differently for a moment. Your body facing him now instead of away, your hands brushing his arms as you shifted. And before you could even think about stepping away, he caught your wrist lightly, guiding you back into his arms.
Your hand landed flat on his chest to catch yourself, fingers unintentionally digging into the broad, muscular skin through his shirt. His arms circled around you, one hand resting on the side of your waist while the other snaked to your lower back. You shivered as his thumpad grazed your bare skin, a shot of heat pooling right where it shouldn’t.
The music still pounded around you, neon lights flickering across his face, catching in his hair, reflecting faintly in his eyes, and he was already looking at you. “…Mind if I do something bad?” His voice cut through the moment, low, almost amused—but there was something underneath it. Something quieter.
You blinked, tilted your head slightly. “…That depends.”
You didn’t answer right away, just watched him. “On how bad,” you said finally, a small, curious smile pulling at your mouth.
That was all the permission he needed. One of his hands slipped away from your waist and the absence was immediate, noticeable. He reached into his pocket, movements unhurried, like he had all the time in the world—even though the music was loud, the crowd pressing in, everything moving fast around you.
He pulled something out. A joint, you recognized the second it caught the light. Your eyes dropped to it, then lifted back to him. Something in your expression shifted, something knowing, amused, as a slow smile spread across your face. “Well, whadya know…” you murmured, voice softer now, edged with quiet humor. “He’s a pothead too, huh?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I had you pegged for a vodka-cranberry kind of guy.”
He snorted. “That’s offensive.”
“…A little.” He smiled, eyes glued to yours as he brought the joint up to his lips. His expression changed, like he was checking, asking you again if it was okay without saying it out loud. You didn’t look away, didn’t move, just holding his gaze. That was enough.
The lighter clicked, a small, sharp sound that somehow sliced through everything else. For a second, the flame lit his face—warm, flickering, catching in the blue ocean of his eyes. Then he inhaled, slow and deliberate. The tip of the joint glowed faintly. You watched. You couldn’t not.
The way his chest rose slightly. The way his shoulders relaxed as he exhaled, smoke curling from his lips in soft, lazy spirals that drifted between you. Some of it brushed your face, the scent wrapping around you before you could think about it—earthy, faintly sweet, blending with the heat of the room, the press of bodies, the neon glow.
Your breathing spiked just slightly. The music changed just then, shifting into a heavier tune, lower, a darker song that didn’t demand as much energy. Your movements adjusted on their own, less chaotic now, more purposeful. Closer. Your hands shifting slightly onto his arms, your fingers curling just a little more, grounding yourself without realizing it. His grip followed suit, tightening.
Your eyes flicked down to his shirt, black and basically untouched, sprinkled with some bits of glow here and there, but nothing like yours. Barrel compared to everything around you. You frowned slightly, a small, instinctive pout forming before you could stop it. Your gaze dropped and lifted back to him.
He caught it immediately, he always did. His lips curved slightly, the joint still resting between them as he tilted his head down just enough, eyes narrowing in quiet amusement. “What?” he murmured, voice low, smoke slipping between the word.
You hesitated for half a second. “You don’t have any glow,” you said, like it actually mattered, genuinely bothered you. Your fingers shifted slightly against his arm, thumb brushing absentmindedly against the fabric of his shirt like you were confirming it.
He didn’t look down, didn’t check, didn’t break eye contact– not once. He held your gaze steadily, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before it settled. “I’ve got plenty.”
You almost swooned right there. You could physically feel the pressure curling in your lower stomach, the lightness caused by the alcohol making your head fuzzy in all the right ways. It sat somewhere low in your chest, heavier than it should’ve been, echoing in a way that didn’t quite match the chaos around you. The music still pulsed through the floor, through your ribs, people still moving and laughing and shouting—but it all felt just slightly out of focus compared to him. Compared to the way he was looking at you.
You inhaled slowly, you needed the breath to steady something, and then your hand lifted. The movement wasn’t even fully conscious, brain acting on its own agenda. Your fingers moved toward him, toward the faint curl of smoke still drifting from his lips, and brushed lightly against his hand as you took the joint from him. The contact was brief, but not accidental, your skin grazing just enough to register, just enough to linger.
His lips parted as you pulled it away, soft and quiet. His eyes didn’t leave yours. Not even for a second. You brought it to your mouth, holding his gaze, and inhaled slowly. The smoke filled your lungs, warm and thick, curling inward and settling deep before you let it out in a controlled exhale. It hit almost instantly this time, just a slight shift, a soft buzz at the edges of everything. The lights stretched a little longer, the music sank deeper into your body, your limbs felt a fraction heavier but somehow more fluid at the same time.
You were still completely there, still in control, just… looser. Warmer. More aware of everything that mattered—and right now, that was him. Because he was still staring at you, fully, completely entranced, like he was trying to memorize every indent on your skin.
Or maybe like he already had.
Your hand dropped then, slipping into your bag without breaking eye contact. You went slow, didn’t fumble—just moved with the same slow, deliberate rhythm that everything had taken on, moving felt like it took a year, your fingers found the bottle immediately. The last one.
You pulled it out, the neon liquid inside catching what little light there was, glowing faintly even before you opened it. His gaze flicked down to it for the briefest second, curiosity sparking, but it didn’t linger. It went right back to your face, like that’s where it belonged.
You twisted the cap open, the small click feeling louder than it should’ve. You tipped it into your palm. The liquid coated your skin in a soft, luminous sheen, dripping slightly between your fingers before you spread it, rubbing your hands together agonizingly slow, making sure it covered every inch. Because you knew he was watching, you could feel it, how his eyes tracked every movement like he didn’t want to miss a single second of it, how his shoulders had stiffened slightly.
You stepped closer, as if there had even been space left to close. Your hands lifted, hovering for just a moment over his chest, right where his shirt was still bare, still dark, untouched by everything else glowing around you.
And then you placed them there, flat and firm, right over him.The contact wasn’t shy. Your palms pressed against him, and you felt it immediately—the warmth of his body beneath the fabric, the slight tension in his muscular chest as your hands settled there. The neon transferred instantly, glowing bright against the black, spreading under your touch.
You didn’t look down, you didn’t need to, you just dragged your hands down, painfully slow. Your fingers spread slightly as they moved, the glowing liquid streaking across his chest in uneven lines, catching the light with every inch you covered. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing under your palms, feel the way his chest expanded slightly, then held, then shifted again as your hands moved lower.
He didn’t stop you, didn’t move, but his body reacted anyway. He swallowed, you felt it, felt it in the way his muscle kept tensing under your touch, subtle but unmistakable. Felt it in the slight hitch in his breath, the way it caught and didn’t quite settle again.
A sound slipped from him then, soft, unintended, A quiet, breathy whimper that he clearly hadn’t meant to make, your name. Your fingers slowed even more at that, registering it. You really liked it. Then they continued, dragging lower, finishing the motion, leaving glowing streaks all the way down his shirt before finally stopping.
Your gaze dropped then, not to your hands, but to his lips, slightly parted, still, the faint trace of smoke lingering there. Then back up to his eyes, darker now, pupils dilated and locked onto you, something in them that hadn’t been there before.
You shifted the joint in your mouth slowly, holding it between your canines as you tilted your head just slightly, your expression softening into something almost satisfied. “There…” you murmured, voice quiet, just for him.
Your hands didn’t leave him right away, they lingered there for a second longer, pressed lightly against his chest, feeling the warmth, the tension, the way his breathing hadn’t quite evened out yet. Then, finally, you let them fall, but your eyes stayed exactly where they were the entire time, waiting to see what he’d do next.
The glow you’d smeared across him pulsed faintly in the dark, streaked over the black fabric, uneven and messy in a way that made it feel more intentional. Your palms still held the faint tacky warmth of the neon, your skin buzzing—not just from the alcohol, not just from the smoke, but from him. From how close he was.
His hands moved, they slipped from your waist, slowly enough that you felt the absence before you understood the intention, before you realized he wasn’t pulling away. His fingers found yours, curling around them, warmer now, slightly damp with the paint you’d just spread over him.
There was something almost grounding in it, the way his hands enclosed yours, steady and sure, like he needed to feel it, needed to feel you, before anything else. His thumbs began to move, dragging slowly over your palms, smearing the neon across your skin and his, blending the glow between you until it was impossible to tell whose was whose anymore.
You let out a soft breath, barely noticeable even to yourself. The joint was still resting between your lips, and when you exhaled, the smoke drifted forward in a slow, lazy stream, curling between you before brushing against his face.
He didn’t pull away, instead, his eyes stayed locked on yours as he leaned in—slowly, deliberately—closing that already small distance even more. His lips parted slightly as he moved into the space your breath had just filled, inhaling the smoke from you like it belonged to him.
The effect hit sharper this time. The warmth in your chest deepened, spread, softened the edges of everything. The music felt thicker, heavier, the neon lights stretching just slightly in your vision. He let your hands go then, but only because he had somewhere else to put them.
One of his hands lifted, slower now, like he was fully aware of every inch of movement. His fingers brushed the side of your neck first, light—so light it almost didn’t feel real—before settling more firmly. His thumb rested just under your jaw for a second, and then he dragged it down. You felt every inch of it.
Over your throat, across your collarbone, down the slope of your shoulder. The neon smeared as he moved, transferring from his skin to yours in glowing streaks, his palm flattening slightly as it followed the curve of your body.
Your breath hitched.. His other hand had already started moving too, beginning higher this time—just beneath your chest, fingers brushing the edge of your ribcage through the thin fabric. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t press too hard. Just enough for you to feel it.
And then he dragged it down, slow and steady, following the line of your waist like he was tracing something he didn’t want to forget, his touch warm and deliberate, the contrast of the cool neon against your skin making every inch feel sharper.
The space between you had almost disappeared now, your bodies closer than before, your chest rising and falling just slightly faster, brushing against his. Your faces were only a few centimeters apart, close enough that you could feel his breath every time he exhaled. Warm and uneven, unsure, mirroring yours. Your eyes flickered down for a second again, to his lips, slightly parted—before pulling back up to meet his gaze again.
Still there, still watching you like he hadn’t blinked in minutes. His hands didn’t stop moving. They shifted lower, sliding around your sides, settling at your lower back, pulling you just a little closer without fully closing the space. It wasn’t forceful. It didn’t need to be. Your body followed anyway instinctively, leaning in just slightly, enough to press into him, enough to feel the heat of him through both your clothes.
The joint was still between your lips, you’d almost forgotten about it, but he hadn’t. His gaze dipped again, just briefly, before he leaned forward that final fraction of space. Your breath caught—this time noticeably—as his face moved closer, so close you could feel the faint brush of him before anything even happened.
And then he bit down gently on the joint, pulling it from your mouth, careful, his lips brushing just barely against it as he took it back, the contact so brief it almost didn’t count—but it lingered anyway. His hands moved further, spreading the smooth liquid down over your ass, thick fingers reaching under the suppleness gently to pull up, squeezing lightly, a breathy pant escaping his lips at the feel of you.
He pulled back just enough to create the smallest bit of space again, the joint now resting between his own lips, his eyes still locked on yours. Neither of you moved. His hands were still at your ass, yours hovered near his chest, uncertain for the first time all night. In the middle of all that noise, all those people, all that chaos, it felt like it was just the two of you.
Sukuna’s voice cut straight through everything—loud, abrasive, completely out of place against the slow, heavy quiet that had built between you. “Why does this drink taste like someone pissed in it, man—I'm not even joking—”
It was instant. You and Gojo separated like you’d both been caught doing something you couldn’t explain, fast—too fast to be casual. Your hands dropped from his chest, his grip loosened from your back, and suddenly there was space again. Air. Distance that hadn’t been there seconds ago.
Sukuna stopped mid-step when he actually looked at you both. His expression shifted—realization hitting in a slow, awkward wave. His brows lifted slightly, then his mouth twisted. His eyes roved over you, spotting the neon pink handprints on the back of your shorts. “…shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “My bad. Didn’t mean to, uh—” he gestured vaguely between the two of you, “—interrupt whatever the hell that was.”
Gojo didn’t laugh, he just stared at him, eyes narrowed, jaw set, still a little hazy but visibly irritated. “What about the fucking drinks?” he snapped, voice sharp, like he was clinging to the interruption just to redirect the moment.
Sukuna blinked, thrown for half a second, then scoffed. “I’m serious, dude—try it. It’s suspicious.”
“Everything you drink is suspicious,” a voice drawled from behind him. Toji. He and Nanami stepped up a second later, both of them clearly drawn in by the noise. Toji looked amused immediately, eyes flicking between Sukuna’s cup, Gojo’s expression, and then—finally—you.
Nanami was quieter, more observant. His gaze landed on you and stayed there a second longer than comfortable, taking in details the others didn’t bother to. That’s when Sukuna noticed it, the joint still hanging lazily from Gojo’s lips.
Then your eyes. Still just a little glassy, a faint red lining the edges, your expression softer than usual—but not gone. Not out of control. Just altered.
His brows shot up. “…wait,” he said slowly, pointing between you and Gojo. “No fucking way.”
You didn’t move, didn’t flinch. “What?” you asked, tone flat, unimpressed.
“You smoke?” Sukuna let out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. That’s—yeah, didn’t expect that at all. Thought you were like… I don’t know—library princess or something. Straight A’s, drinks water at parties, leaves before midnight.”
You raised an eyebrow at him, unbothered. “I just outdrank you and half your little circus like thirty minutes ago.”
Toji barked out a laugh at that, hand coming up to cover his mouth like he was trying—poorly—not to react too hard. “She’s not wrong,” he said, nudging Sukuna with his elbow. “You were struggling.”
“Shut up,” Sukuna shot back, but he was still grinning, eyes flicking back to you with renewed interest. “Alright, fine. Didn’t peg you for that either.”
Nanami finally spoke then, his tone even, almost too neutral. “That doesn’t mean much in this house.” His gaze stayed on you, steady, analytical. “Most people here drink themselves stupid to feel like they belong,” he continued. “You don’t seem like the type.”
It wasn’t outright rude, but it wasn’t kind either. More like a test. You shifted your weight slightly, something small tightening in your chest, though you didn’t show it on your face. “Depends what you think ‘the type’ is,” you replied evenly.
Sukuna snorted, crossing his arms. “He means you don’t seem like one of those try-hard academic robots. Y’know—the ones who walk into a party like they’re doing field research and spend the whole night judging everyone.”
“To be fair,” Toji added lazily, “those ones are the worst. Act like they’re above it, but still show up.”
Nanami didn’t disagree. “They tend to lack self-awareness,” he said simply.
Sukuna laughed again, louder this time, gesturing toward you. “Yeah, but she’s not like that. She’s got—what, neuroscience or whatever, right? And she’s not a total buzzkill. That’s rare.”
“High-functioning,” Toji added, glancing at the faint glow still smeared along your arms.
“Dangerous combo,” Sukuna said, nodding. “Smart, hot, and not calling campus security every five minutes. You scored a good one, Gojo.” He raised up his glass of piss drink.
You let out a quiet breath through your nose, something between a laugh and not quite that. Before you could respond, a familiar weight dropped over your shoulders. Gojo’s arm, loose and warm. He pulled you in just slightly, his hand settling against your upper arm like it belonged there, like it had every right to be there. You tilted your head up instinctively, eyes finding his, expecting… something. Defense, a correction, anything.
But he was grinning. Too wide, too easy, eyes just a little unfocused. “Damn right,” he said, voice louder than necessary, words slipping out without hesitation. “She’s not like those fucking losers.”
Sukuna huffed a laugh, already nodding along. “Yeah, those types are insufferable. All that ‘I’m better than you’ shit—like relax, it’s college, not an ethics competition.”
“To be fair,” Toji added, “half of them don’t even know how to talk to people. You say one thing wrong and they look at you like you just shot their dog.”
Nanami didn’t laugh this time, but he didn’t interrupt either.
Gojo just kept going. “Yeah, like—no offense—but most of them are fucking miserable,” he said, tightening his grip on your shoulder just slightly, like he was emphasizing the point. “All book-smart, zero social skills, think they’re above everything. It’s annoying as hell. No one cares how interested you are in fuckass algebra, keep it to yourself.”
Your smile faltered, just a little.
“Walking GPA calculators,” Sukuna added. “No personality, no chill.”
“Exactly,” Gojo said, nodding, completely missing it. “But she’s not like that. She’s actually—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to, because the damage was already done. It settled, slow, quiet, heavy. Your eyes widened, the shift so small it would’ve gone unnoticed to anyone who wasn’t looking for it—but you felt it, sharp and immediate, right in the center of your chest. Like something had slipped out from under you without warning.
The music was still loud. Bass still vibrating through the floor, through your ribs, people still moving around you like nothing had changed. But something had. Completely.
Your mind cleared in an instant. The warmth from the alcohol, the soft haze from the weed—it all pulled back just enough for everything to feel too sharp instead. Too clear. Every word he’d just said replaying, louder now, stripped of the careless tone he’d used when he said them.
And suddenly, the arm around your shoulders felt wrong, heavy in a way it hadn’t before.
You shifted under it, subtle but firm, lifting your shoulder just enough for his arm to slide off. It dropped back to his side without resistance, like he didn’t even process it at first. Your gaze lowered, fixed somewhere near the floor, your fingers curling slightly at your sides as you swallowed. “I’m gonna go,” you muttered.
It wasn’t loud, but it was enough. Sukuna blinked, confusion flashing across his face. “Wait—what?” Toji straightened slightly, brows lifting. Nanami’s gaze sharpened, like he’d caught something the others hadn’t yet.
You didn’t look back, didn’t explain. You just turned and started walking, weaving through the crowd, past bodies and noise and flashing neon, your heart beating a little too fast, your chest too tight.
It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t have hit this hard, but it did, because it wasn’t just what he said, it was how easy it came out.
“Hey—” His voice came from behind you, closer than you expected. Footsteps followed—quicker, uneven, catching up fast. “Hey, wait—” His hand caught your wrist lightly, not rough, but enough to stop you. You turned, faster than you meant to, something sharp in your expression now, something that hadn’t been there all night.
“What?” you snapped. It came out harsher than you intended, but you didn’t take it back.
He blinked at you, thrown off immediately, like he hadn’t expected that tone from you. Not you.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, brows pulling together, confusion lacing through his voice. He took a small step closer, like he was trying to close the distance again, like he didn’t understand why it had opened in the first place.
You stared at him for a second, then let out a short, disbelieving breath. “‘Losers’?” you said, the word cutting sharper this time. “Did you even hear yourself back there?”
His expression shifted—confusion deepening, a flicker of defensiveness creeping in. “What? I was just—”
“Just what?” you cut in. “Just talking shit? Just trying to be funny?”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Because there wasn’t a good answer.
You shook your head, a humorless laugh slipping out as you ran a hand through your hair. “I don’t get why you do that,” you said, quieter now but more pointed, each word landing more deliberately than the last. “Why you act like you’re—like that.”
“Like what?” he asked, a little sharper now, like he was starting to feel cornered.
“Like you’re stupid,” you said plainly.
That stopped him. Cold. His entire expression shifted, something real breaking through the haze for the first time since you’d met him. “…what?” he said, softer now.
“I’ve seen you,” you continued, your voice steady despite the tightness in your chest. “You’re not dumb. You’re not even close. You catch things other people miss. You pick up on stuff fast. You—” you hesitated, searching for the right words, then shook your head slightly. “You can outsmart every single person in this room, including me. So why do you stand there and talk like that? Like you’re proud of being… shallow?”
He stared at you, really stared this time, stunned. No one had ever said that to him before, he didn’t even know what to do with it.
You let out another breath, stepping back slightly, creating space that felt necessary now. “I’m not gonna stand there and laugh while you tear down people like that just to fit in,” you said. “I’m not doing that.”
“That’s not what I—” he started, voice rougher now, but it faltered halfway through. Because he didn’t know how to finish it, because part of him knew you weren’t wrong. All of him, really.
Instead of arguing, instead of explaining, he stepped forward, closed the space again and pulled you into him. It was messy, desperate. His arms wrapped around you tight, almost too tight, trying to keep you from leaving just by holding on. His head dropped forward, pressing into your shoulder, his breath warm and uneven against your skin.
“Please don’t leave…” he mumbled, voice muffled, softer now, rougher. “Don’t—just don’t go, okay?”
You stiffened immediately. Your hands came up, pressing against his chest, trying to push him back.
“C’mon, Squeaky.” he said, pulling back just enough to look at you, his grip still firm on your arms. His eyes were glassy now, unfocused in a way that made your stomach twist. “Let’s just—let’s go somewhere else. Yeah? Get food or something. You like tacos. Let’s go get tacos.” His words tumbled over each other, jumbled and unorganized, his grip still tight on you like if he let go, you’d disappear.
Your chest ached. Because part of you wanted to say yes, wanted to pretend it didn’t matter, wanted to go back.
You pushed against him again, firmer this time, and this time, he let go. His hands dropped slightly, just enough for you to step back fully.
He blinked at you, like the word didn’t register. “—what?”
“I said no,” you repeated, your voice steady even if your chest didn’t feel it. “I’m leaving.”
“Why?” he asked, softer now, almost helpless. “It was just a joke—”
“That’s the problem,” you cut in. “It wasn’t funny.”
That landed. You saw it, his expression falter. You looked at him for a second longer.
The neon handprints still smeared across his shirt, at the way his hair was a mess from dancing, at how he looked at you now—confused, a little desperate, like he didn’t understand how things had unraveled this fast, alcohol still hazing his mind.
And it hurt more than it should’ve.
“I’m not one of your jokes,” you said finally. Then you turned. And this time when you walked away, you didn’t stop.
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