“What’s wrong? Did I smudge my liner?”

You pull out your phone to check your makeup using the reflection but between the flashing lights and someone’s elbow jutting from your peripheral, you’re only eighty percent sure you don’t look a mess.

Considering you dragged your roommate out to this party last minute, Shoko sips her drink with commendable patience. “Even if you did, that would be the least of your worries. Look, you really don’t have to overthink this. We didn’t just spend all night planning this for you to end up weirding him out with that look in your eye.”

“Shit, that was the rehearsed deer look I was talking about!

“Rehearsed how?

You decisively ignore her. “I just want to do this right."

Her eyes soften slightly. She’s always been weak to your woes. “You will. He’ll love you. If you don’t believe in yourself, believe in me. I promise you, I’ve known this guy for years and you’re exactly the type of person he just eats up.”

You think of all your attempts to enter Geto’s world. There's just something mystifying about him, some kind of aura he emits that has you tripping over your tongue and freezing at the worst moments. Your words become stilted, your humour and wit abandoned at every crucial moment, causing you to simultaneously dread talking to him as much as you wished for it.

Shoko turns you to face her, eyes steady in a way yours isn’t. “Are you ready?"

You let out a slow breath and attempt to mimic her determination with a single nod.

“Then go find him.”

When you hesitate to even take a single step forward, Shoko gives you a push and then you’re off, legs moving without another thought. The crowd swallows you, bodies brushing past and jolting your shoulders, knocking you here and there. But none of that matters. Not when your heart is already set. Not when determination is the one thing keeping you upright, guiding you closer and closer to the boy who somehow makes a packed, sweaty houseparty fade into background noise

For too long, you’ve let this intoxicating feeling linger, letting it settle deep in your chest, almost convincing yourself that watching from the sidelines was enough. As if anything short of his eyes on you, perhaps even his lips on yours, could quiet the restless longing twisting in your heart. Limerence is what Shoko diagnoses you with, but the word feels too small for the intensity that surges through you every time his name crosses your mind.

Geto appears like a beacon before you, the crowds having finally parted enough for you to catch a good look. The party music transitions to an angelic choir but admitting that is basically affirming Shoko’s concerns that your infatuation is unhealthy, so you quickly refocus. Your heart clenches, pounds against your ribcage, and you only hope the dim lighting will hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks. He’s right there, right within reach. All you have to do is say his name.

All you have to do is make him see you.

You take a step forward, mumble an apology to the girl you bumped shoulders with, take another step towards where he’s laughing with a friend—then veer sharply to the right and slip into the kitchen.

If talking to Geto were really as easy as saying hi, you would have done it months ago.

The kitchen is quieter, the bass reduced to a distant, muffled thump and you can finally breathe as the crowd thins. There’s still chatter though significantly more bearable and your eyes fall onto the small cluster of boys within, standing in the near dark.

Your feet instinctively slow but Shoko’s voice in your head tells you that you’ve done too much to stop now and with a deep breath, you step beyond the threshold. One by one, the group takes notice of you, their rambunctious laughter quietening into soft chuckles as heads pop up to look. It’s not strange for someone to enter the kitchen at a party so the most you get is a head nod in greeting before they return to their conversation. You reach for a red cup and then for a jug of some mysterious jungle juice. Unfortunately, the jug sits behind one of the boys. Even worse, it sits behind who you’re really here at the party looking for. Leaning lazily against the counter and nursing a red solo cup of something strong no doubt, stands Gojo, Geto’s best friend. If Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then Gojo Satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak. You can feel the burn of Gojo’s stare as you get close enough to lift the jug and pour, hands trembling slightly. Before you can help yourself, you steal glances from the side of your eye, landing squarely on his shirt specifically at the crude letting that reads ‘Two Seater’, arrows pointing abashedly toward both his crotch and his face. You look back up immediately. You don’t want to know. The punch sloshes into your cup, some of it missing due to your shaky hands and you don’t notice until a sticky trickle runs over your fingers. You hastily stop pouring and lick at the mess. Before you can figure out how to announce your presence, there’s a rush of footsteps and another frat boy appears. Hikari, you think his name was, stands by the kitchen entrance, hair slightly disheveled from his usual style, loud and demanding as he’s always been. “Hey!” He calls, scanning the room. “You guys need to come see this. A chorus of half-drunk “what?” and “see what?” answers him like a herd of seagulls. “In the living room,” he says. “There's two people on the floor and—” He stops, glancing over his shoulder like the situation might escape him if he looks away for too long. “Just hurry up! His vague words cause curiousity to spread faster than wildfire. The group of boys begin funnelling out of the kitchen, cups still in hand, voices rising with excitement. “What is it? “Is it a fight? “Please tell me it’s a fight.” “Did someone break something?” Hikari doesn’t elaborate, instead turning and leaving the kitchen, confident the herd will follow. One friend, Choso if you remember correctly, looks back at Gojo who remains calmly drinking from his cup, still leaning against the counter beside you “Aren’t you coming, Satoru?” Gojo shrugs, tipping back the last of his drink. “Nah. You go on ahead.” Choso hesitates like he wants to ask why, then seems to think better of it. “Suit yourself,” he mutters, already backing toward the door as someone behind him shoves past with a whoop. Within seconds, the kitchen drains of bodies. You’re deathly aware of the warm presence beside you. You inhale deeply and turn, ready to get this over and done with only to find him shamelessly looking at you. For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other, his expression unreadable as he looks you over before his face splits into a lazy grin. “Hey.” “Hi,” you squeak, immediately reprimanding yourself at the awkward sound. His smile only grows. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you looking for someone? Or maybe you missed the exit? It’s down the hall to your right.” “That’s rude.” You cross your arms in an attempt to place distance between the two of you and to maintain a confidence you don’t feel. “I attend parties.” Gojo huffs and you feel slightly offended. He straightens and steps closer, close enough that his cologne hits you—sharp, expensive, and entirely too much. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never seen you at one of these before.” His head tilts, regarding you. “How do you even know Sukuna?

For a moment you blank, wondering why he was asking about Sukuna. It hits you then that this party must be his. “Ah. I came with Shoko.” He hums. “That makes sense. Shoko always did have a habit of collecting strays. “Excuse me?” “Not a stray,” he amends lightly at  your glare. “More like her lost puppy.”“Just because you’ve only ever seen me when I’m with Shoko doesn’t mean I’m always with Shoko.”

“I was talking more about how you were holding onto her shirt in the crowds earlier. She didn’t bring a leash for you?

“Don’t project your weird kinks onto me.

“Do you often spend time thinking about what weird kinks I might be into?” Thankfully, Gojo lets the topic go before you really do decide to throw it all away and walk out. “But alright, let’s say I believe you and you’re just here for the party. Why are you here in the kitchen, then?”

“What else do people come to parties for? I’m here to drink. And stuff.” You trail off, clearing your throat.

“Really?” He eyes your untouched cup. “Because that’s just juice. The good stuff’s over here.

He steps into your personal space to reach over you to grab a bottle from the top of the fridge and you’re face to face with the gross words on his top. He retracts his arm, bottle in hand, but doesn’t step back. “Want me to pour you one?”

You think back to the last time you let yourself drink under the unwise judgement of Shoko, and how you can only recall glimpses of light and the vague memory of a toilet bowl “It’s fine, I’ve already had a lot to drink.

“Right,” he says, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t believe you for a second.

You watch as Gojo pours himself another drink, sipping leisurely, pointedly ignoring the way you’re staring.

Gojo isn’t exactly a stranger, but it’s an overestimation to call him your friend. In truth, he’s Shoko's friend—which means she occasionally drags him back to your shared dorm before disappearing to do whatever it is best friends do. You catch glimpses of him in passing, fleeting and inconsequential, never quite crossing into ‘introduce-yourself’ territory. Why would he? He’s the kind of guy who turns heads without trying, long-limbed, effortlessly confident, wearing the grin of someone who’s never been told no in his life.

Where Geto is soft-spoken and warm, guiding you through conversation with patient smiles and gentle ease, Gojo is loud and vibrant and reckless. There's a challenge in his eyes, a knowing smirk on his lips, like the world is perpetually entertaining and he’s always in on the joke.

You, on the other hand, are about as normal as it gets.

When the silence draws into something a little less casual and far more awkward, you clear your throat. “I’m Y/N by the way.

“I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“Shoko’s roommate, right? We’ve seen each other before. She’s mentioned you too.” He offers a hand, eyes holding yours like he knows you’ll pull away with anything less. “I’m Gojo. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

You go to echo his words, that of course you knew he was the Gojo Satoru but hesitate, settling instead for shaking his hand. His grip is warm and solid, carrying none of the jitteriness you feel. Hell, maybe you should have accepted a drink after all. What is this, a job interview? Why are you shaking his hand?

When you let go, you become painfully aware of how damp your palms are and curse yourself silently.

Gojo picks up on the silence and moves to lean against the counter, mimicking your earlier pose such that his arms are crossed over his chest, only emphasising his biceps in his sleeveless top. “So, Y/N. If you didn’t come in here for a drink, why are you here?”

His words cause you to still. This was it. Every moment in your dorm, huddled around the whiteboard usually reserved for studying, now littered with far less academic plans, Shoko chiming in her own thinkpieces occasionally. It all accumulated to this moment.

“I was looking for you actually. I wanted to talk to you.” Your voice is barely a whisper and humiliation slowly sinks in when he doesn’t answer immediately. Perhaps he didn’t hear you considering you’re speaking to your shoes. When you finally look up, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. Gojo slowly tracks his eyes up and down your figure. Finally, he straightens, head tilted slightly. “Talk to me? Alone?" You nod, and his face breaks into a broad grin. “I wasn’t expecting that. Not that I hate it,” he purrs, voice dropping into something smoother as he steps closer and curls a loose lock of your hair around his finger. “What did you want to talk about, princess?" Your mind vaguely registers the gesture, feeling the dampness of your palms once again. “I don’t really want to say here." His fingers still, your hair wrapped around it. “Oh?" You wonder what that look in his eyes meant. “Could we go upstairs?” Gojo cocks his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His brows knit slightly, but his eyes gleam with amusement as he releases your hair, the strand falling back into place in a soft wave. “You do know I’m Shoko’s friend, right? And you’re her best friend?” “Why does that matter?” “Seriously? You don’t think it’ll be awkward?” Awkward? You blink, trying to make sense of his words. Perhaps Gojo and Shoko had argued recently. Maybe he didn’t want her catching sight of the two of you together else it put you in an awkward position. He’s more considerate than you expected. “It doesn’t have anything to do with her,” you say carefully. “Whether you or I are friends with Shoko—it doesn’t matter to me. I just want to talk to you.” You smile in satisfaction, relaxing a little at his kindness. Gojo suddenly laughs, brushing a hand through his hair as he throws his head back like you’ve said the funniest thing. When he looks back down at you, his eyes are shining. “That’s what I’m saying! But every time I joke about it to Shoko, she goes all crazy on me. Looks like we have a lot in common, huh? I guess that makes us compatible.” You continue to smile, the corners of your lips wavering a little in uncertainty. You’re not entirely sure what he means by that but considering you’re about to ask him for a favour, you appreciate his good mood. “Well, alright,” he says at last, taking your hand. “I’d love to hear you out. Lead the way.” Ignoring the little flip of nerves your stomach does as you hold his hand (perhaps he felt too drunk to climb the stairs alone?), you turn and lead him back into the living room and up the stairs to the quieter rooms of the house. The hand holding serves another purpose, you realise, as you weave through the crowds of people and he would surely have lost you had you not held on tighter, practically dragging him onwards. You feel a tug before your feet can even touch the second floor, like he’s suddenly become immovable. Before you can turn and check on him, you feel the warmth of  his chest against your back, his hand slipping from yours to settle at your waist. You’re pulled to a stop, his breath now brushing against your ear, his hair tickling the side of your face. You’re certain he’s leaning over you despite being a step lower, and the faint scent of alcohol and sandalwood fills your senses. “I didn’t think you’d be so proactive,” he murmurs. You think he might have inhaled, slow and deliberate, but it’s hard to tell over the base vibrating through the floorboards and the frantic pounding of your heart. “What else are you hiding from me, hm?” He reaches for your hand and turns you slightly so you can watch as he licks your fingers, tasting the sticky residue of your spilt juice. His blue eyes seem to sparkle, mesmerising in a way that makes you freeze. “You taste sweet.” Your breath hitches and he must have heard because the hand on your waist tightens and pulls you against him, head leaning down to gently nip at your neck. Your stomach does that little flip again, this time accompanied with a hot flush that short-circuits your brain. 

“Wait!” He chuckles softly, lips ghosting over a soft spot that makes your knees tremble a little. “Don’t be nervous. You have me right where you want me.”

You freeze, heart hammering, fingers twitching. When his hand slips just barely beneath the hem of your top, the words tumble out of you in a rush.

“I like Geto!”

For a heartbeat, everything goes still, his hand, his lips, his breath. Gojo pauses, lips pulling back from your sweaty neck. In fact, his entire body jerks back, both feet returning to the step beneath you, hand leaving your waist to turn you to face him. His fingers find your chin to tilt your face down, eyes dark as they hold yours.

“What did you just say?”

You swallow, looking him in the eye. “I like Geto.”

He stares at you wordlessly for a few more moments before he frowns, letting go of you completely and stepping down one more step just for good measure. “What the fuck are you doing here with me then?"

You gesture frantically between yourselves, finding the answer quite simple. “To talk? That’s what I said earlier, didn’t I? I wasn’t—I wasn’t insinuating… I wasn’t trying to—you know?”

“You said you wanted to come with me upstairs.”

“Yeah?”

“Alone.”

“Right.”

His frown only deepens at your easy response. “You know how that sounds, right? To get a guy alone upstairs at a party?”

“It sounds like I wanted to talk to you privately?” You try again at his disbelieving expression. “The music was super loud. I didn’t think you’d be able to hear me downstairs and I had to ask you something important so I didn’t want to risk it.”

He lets out a huff, something short and breathy, lips quirked upwards like he finds something amusing, even as his eyes stay locked on you, unmoving. “You’re kidding me, right?”

You hold out your hands as if to say, ‘What can you do?’.

Gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Figures this was too good to be true.” His hand drops from his eyes to cover his mouth as he continues to stare at you. “Nothing about that situation implied you just wanted to talk. And about Suguru, of all things? Seriously, he’s being a cockblock and he isn’t even here.”

“What was that?”

“Forget it.” He drops his hand. “I’m leaving.”

You quickly hold onto his arm before he can completely turn. “Wait!”

Maybe it’s the desperation in your voice, maybe it’s your iron-clad grip on his bicep but he doesn’t attempt to pull away. Instead, he looks back and wrinkles his nose at you, a strangely childish gesture.

“I’m not in the mood to just talk. Not anymore.”

“Come on, please? There’s no one else I can ask!”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“If you could just please, out of the kindness of your heart, hear me out I would seriously appreciate it!”

He doesn’t budge.

“I won’t tell anyone I rejected you!”

He frowns. “First of all, you didn’t reject me because it was a misunderstanding. Second of all, are you really in a position to blackmail me right now?”

“I won’t tell Shoko you were the reason her favourite candle knocked over and singed a bit of her rug.”

His frown only deepens. Blackmail, you think, is surprisingly effective. “Hold on, how do you even know that?”

“What do you mean? I was literally right there.”

Gojo lets out a deep, long groan. He wriggles out of your hold, sending you a glare. “You know, you really suck at asking for help.”

“You don’t have to agree to helping me just yet. Just at least give me a chance to explain. We’re already here, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, well, I had other plans when we got up here that didn't involve just talking.”

You remind yourself to be patient. Again, you were the one asking for a favour, he’s the only one that can help you with your dilemma, you need him. Don’t call him a disgusting freak and walk away.

Clapping your hands together, you muster your best pleading look and send it his way. “Please, Gojo.”

You’re not really sure what broke through his defenses. For your own ego, you decide it must be because of your puppy dog eyes because he lets out a sigh and gives a reluctant nod.

“Go to the room to the right of the stairs.”

You bite back the instinct to cheer. Halfway through turning around, you look over your shoulder. “You’re coming too, right?” “Just get up there before I change my mind.” Wondering if souring his mood like this would backfire on you, you quickly hop up the remaining steps and head to the mentioned room just in case he really does change his mind. It would be beneficial to appease him before you ask for a crazy favour, after all. Therefore, you don’t even try to eavesdrop as Gojo continues to mumble to himself as he follows behind, worrying that somehow he might hear and turn around. When you both reach the room, he closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed over his chest and expression flat in a way that feels very un-Gojo. You’re suddenly struck by the unfairness of it, of how someone with such a careless, teasing exterior can also appear so unreadable when he wants to. “Five minutes.” You clear the irrelevant thoughts from your head. “Excuse me?” “You have five minutes before I’m going back down.” You take a deep breath. This is it, no backing out now. “Okay. I need your help.” He huffs, unamused. “So you’ve said. But with what exactly? Calculus? Because spoiler, I’ve been drinking.” “With Geto.” You watch in real time as the connection in his brain is made. He straightens off the door slightly. “Wait. Suguru? You want help with Suguru? What kind of help? Love help? You want love help with Suguru?” Every word from his mouth is like a bullet to your dignity. Through gritted teeth, you hiss, “Yes. Can you be any louder?” “I can try,” He says with a hint of humour. The smirk returns to his face and a feeling of foreboding looms over you. “This is what you wanted to get me alone to say?” “Look, I needed someone who’s close with him and you’re–” “Close? Please, I’m his best friend. I’m practically his wife.” “Oh. So that makes us competition?” He wrinkles his nose and looks you up and down. “You want me to help you get him.” You nod. “You want to confess to him.” “Obviously.” “Date him?” “That’s the goal." “Sleep with him?” You give him a look so incredulous that he laughs, short and amused. “If you want advice just hit up reddit. If you want him to like you back then an etsy witch has you covered for five dollars. I don’t see why you have to bother me.” “Because,” You say slowly. “He’s surrounded by people. He doesn’t even know me. I need all of that, the advice, the reciprocation, and I need someone who can get me close enough to him where he can notice me. And I feel like getting an etsy witch to manipulate his dreams to include me would cost more than five dollars. And I’m broke. And I’m kind of bad with guys.” “So, what? You want me to introduce you to him?” “Sure. And maybe tell me what he likes?" Gojo looks you up and down again. He leans back against the door but this time, there’s something smug and arrogant about his posture, eyes lazy as he takes up as much space as he can. “You’re not even his type.” “That’s fine, I’m flexible.” “That’s something you say at a job interview, not when you’re trying to get a boyfriend.” “Just shows that I have an adaptable personality.” “He just came out of a 2 year relationship,” He shoots back. “I accept and embrace his past.” “He has a habit of leaving his jackets on the arm rest of couches.” “I have hands, I can put them away.” “Where’s your self-respect?” “With him. I’ll get it back after I get with him.” Gojo huffs. “He doesn’t even know you.” “That’s why I’m asking you for help.” “You know, I think I liked you better when you were just a shy little thing stumbling over your words.”

Again, you can only shrug.

When he only frowns, you decide to use your hidden ace. Before he can open his mouth and surely reject you, you beat him to it, voice overlapping his.

“I’ll tutor you!”

His eyes narrow and when he doesn’t say anything else, you push on.

“I know you’re aiming for that sports scholarship to study abroad next year.”

“How do you even know about that?” He catches on quick with a groan. “Shoko.”

You nod. “And I know that you’re looking for someone to tutor you because you need to get good grades to get accepted. If you help me with this, I promise I can definitely bring your grades up. We both benefit!” Gojo stares at you like you’ve just grown a second head and you think you’ve lost him when his lips twitch. Then, almost traitorously, one corner lifts higher. “You,” he says slowly, pointing at you like he’s identifying a rare species, “Are trying to bribe me. You’re trying to bribe me because you can’t get game by yourself.” “It's not a bribe,” you say stiffly. “I'm just saying there’s something in it for the both of us.” “It’s a bribe,” he repeats, delighted now. “Holy shit, Shoko's roommate is bribing me. How desperate can you get?” “I’m offering to give you academic support!” “With strings attached.” “Yes,” you sigh. "That's usually how deals work.” He grins, wide and boyish and every bit infuriating as you’ve ever known him. “You think I can't get a tutor without helping you bag my best friend?” “Well, you haven’t yet.” “That's because I don't need one.” “Right. So I should just forget all the times Shoko has ranted to me about how you keep asking her for help?” “You know, this conversation has really enlightened me on who my real friends are.” His gaze slides back to you, assessing. “And you’re confident you can help me?” You straighten your shoulders and give a solemn nod. “I’ve fixed worse than you.” He studies you, eyes tracking your features down to your shoes and you fight the urge to squirm self consciously. He seems to be recalibrating you, seeing you not as Shoko’s tagalong but as an actual person making a very earnest, albeit very ridiculous, request. Finally, he sighs, long and dramatic. “Well, at least you have one thing going for you. Suguru eats this kind of stuff up, hardworking, stubborn, a little pathetic—” “Hey.” “—in a cute pet way,” he amends smoothly. “Relax.” You glare at him anyway but the rational part of your brain reminds you that you need this. He grins back, entirely unrepentant. “Fine,” he continues, raising a finger, “If I do this, we’re doing it my way. That means we need rules.” You fight the urge to jump up and down in joy. “I was going to suggest that anyway! How about this, we—” “Rule one,” he says, face settling into something serious. “You can’t fall in love with me.” Unable to help yourself, you burst out laughing. “Trust me, that’s not going to be an issue. You're definitely not my type.” At your laugh he smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Rule two, no complaining. Keep that mouth in check, sweets.” You giggle. “What's wrong, fragile ego?” He raises an eyebrow and you mumble irritated curses under your breath. “Sorry.” “Rule three, if Suguru ends up falling head over heels for you, you owe me big.” “How big?” His eyes flick down to your mouth again, then back up, smirk slow and dangerous. “I’ll decide later.” You catch the movement and swallow, feeling none of the humour from earlier. “Okay, deal. Then, rule four, you take your studying seriously. I don't tutor people who don’t care.” “I think between the two of us, I want to succeed the most so that’s a given. Any more rules, sweets?” When you shake your head, he nods. “Then, we’ll start tomorrow.” “Not today? I mean he’s literally right here,” You quickly clarify. “Not a complaint, just a question!” “I came here to get drunk and have a good time. I’m going to need at least three drinks to get me back there so be a good girl and wait. I’ll text you tomorrow if you really can’t be patient. Unless, you want to back out already?” You straighten your shoulders, trying to match his confidence. “I’m not backing out! I just want to make sure you’re not going to ditch me. This isn’t really a normal request.” “Oh, so you know?” You roll your eyes at him but have the decency to at least look bashful. “Tomorrow,” he repeats then jerks his chin toward the door. “Go on, sweets. Before I sober up and regain some self-respect.” “Don’t call me that.”

“A complaint?” You bite your lip. “A suggestion.” “Here’s a real suggestion,” he starts, turning around to open the door. Standing in the doorframe, he gives you one last look. “Next time you ask a guy to go upstairs with you at a party, maybe start with the part about not wanting to make out.” Your face gets hot instantly, mouth opening to splutter, “I didn’t mean anything by it!” But he doesn’t stay to hear the end of it, rejoining the masses downstairs without another word. He lifts his hand once as a goodbye and then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the room, half mortified, half exhilarated. Unwilling to give him any sense of victory with his last words, you head back downstairs and find Shoko to tell her the results of the first step of your plan. It’s a struggle pushing through the thick waves of people but you finally find your roommate off to the side, musing herself in a conversation with someone you don’t recognise. Instinctively, your eyes search for Geto if only to recall what you’re doing this for. Standing beside him, arm swung over his shoulder is Gojo, already sipping from a cup and laughing into the conversation with a natural ease that reminds you of the gap between who you were and who he is. As if sensing your gaze, he looks over and you flinch as if burnt. Something stirs in your gut and you wonder if your little plan to get with Geto has taken a slightly unpredictable turn. “You okay?” Shoko asks, noticing your fluster. You nod, looking away quickly. “Of course. All going to plan, you know?” “Then I guess you’re up to step two.” “Right,” Your eyes drift back to Gojo and find him looking at you over the rim of his cup. The feeling in your stomach lurches. “Step two.” 

Step two begins with Gojo texting you at the ass crack of dawn. You blink the sleep from your eyes, squinting at the bright light of your screen in mild disbelief and annoyance as he tells you to pull up to his 9am lecture. Despite the lingering feeling that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, you understand that this is necessary.

You know for a fact that you have no classes today and therefore no reason to make the trek to university. a whole day,just gone and tasked with the impossible task of putting up with that infuriating player.

No, you reprimand yourself as you text back your agreement. No complaining. Do it for him, do it for Geto. With those words repeating in your head like a mantra, you pull yourself together and out of bed to get to campus.

It would be helpful, after all, to see where his studies were at if you were going to take this tutoring business seriously.

You get a coffee at the station to combat your sleepiness and the chill of a winter morning before hesitating and getting another. With two coffees, one in each hand, you wait outside his lecture room until the doors swing open.

Spotting him wouldn’t be too hard, you muse, considering Gojo is impossible to miss.

And then, you see him.

His unmistakable frame, hair a messy white halo catching the late morning sun, strides into view. He's mid conversation as he steps out, animated, half-grinning, and you find yourself understanding why so many girls lose their minds over him.

“Gojo!” You call out, voice slightly drowned out by the chatter all around.

You’re about to give him a piece of your mind, him having been the reason why you kept to your phone all of last night like a wife anticipating the return of her war husband, when you freeze. Because when Gojo turns, your mind barely registering the amused look he gives you, the person he was talking to comes into view.

Because of course, where there’s Gojo there is Geto, the yin to his yang.

You weren’t ready for both of them.

Noticing your sudden stiffness, Gojo looks beside him and scoffs. Unimpressed, he starts walking over. You panic, attempting to smooth out your clothes and fix up your appearance though your hands are full of coffee so you end up doing an awkward wiggle.

“Look at you,” Gojo starts when he’s close enough. “Loitering outside my class like a fan. Maybe this is more urgent than I thought, not because you like Suguru but because you really need your self-respect back.”

You open your mouth to respond, to clarify, to deny, to just say something, but Geto catches up beside him and suddenly every possible word tangles up in your throat.

“Oh. Hey,” Geto says, recognition flickering across his face. “You’re Y/N, right?”

You blink, knees feeling weak and mind in shambles that he even knew your name let alone match it to your face. “Uh, yeah! That’s me!”

He smiles, soft and easy, all the charm you’ve seen him use on others now directed to you. “I thought so. You’re in one of Shoko’s tutorials, no? I think I remember her mentioning you.”

“I’m her roommate, actually.” You try for a smile and pray it doesn’t give off the extent of your adoration towards him.

“Right, that would be it. I’m Geto.”

You nod mutely, wishing your brain would reboot to say something, anything that doesn’t make you sound like you’ve never spoken to a human before. Geto, he says, like you didn’t already know his name, like he wasn’t one of the most known people on campus. Still, the fact that he so humbly introduced himself only proves his humility and your heart gives a quiver.

This moment was everything you’ve ever fantasied. His eyes on you, giving you that pretty smile you’ve only seen directed at others. You could have stood there and basked in his attention until the end of time if Gojo didn’t suddenly clap Geto’s shoulder and butt in.

“Great, so glad you’re both acquainted,” he says, ignoring your glare and throwing an arm around your shoulder to pull you into his side. “But as much as I’d love to keep standing here and soak in this riveting small talk, I think my very dedicated super fan here needs me for something.”

You shoot him a look. “I am not your super fan.”

“No? And is that not my coffee?” You look down at your hands as if only remembering now what you were holding. Biting back a remark, you thrust out a coffee. “It is.” He grins, taking it and letting his fingers brush against yours. “Thought so.” Geto looks between the two of you. “Oh, I see how it is." Your eyes fling back to him at the same time Gojo exclaims, “What?” “Woah, did I touch a nerve there or something?” Geto’s smile quickly turns smug. He returns Gojo’s earlier gesture and thumps him hard on the back twice. “I get it. I’ll get out of your hair then. Be gentle with him, Y/N. He’s actually a pretty sensitive guy.” It takes you a while to process his words so Gojo reacts first. “Dude, I’m telling you it’s not like that.” “Sure,” Geto says in a tone that very much suggests he isn’t convinced at all. “Guess I’ll see you around, yeah? Later, Satoru.” You only realise seconds after he leaves that you hadn’t said goodbye. In fact, after Gojo’s interruption, you hadn’t managed to say anything more to Geto. “Huh,” Gojo muses, breaking the silence. “You get like that around him?” You groan and find the lump in your throat gone. “I stood there like an idiot!” “You did.” “He probably thinks I’m a freak!” “Probably.” “And you!” You look up to glare at him. “You didn’t have to make it sound so weird!” “So now it’s suddenly my fault?” “You caught me off guard by calling me your super fan!” “Right, like that was the weirdest part of the conversation,” he shoots back, lips curled in dry amusement. “That, and not the super sour face you were making at him. Like a grimace.” He mimics your expression and you properly grimace this time, hoping against all odds that that was not the face you had been making at the person you were actually a super fan for. Deciding you will only lose if you continue to defend yourself, you choose to change the subject. “You should have told me he’d be here.” “You never asked. Besides, is it my fault if you didn’t prepare for that to happen?” You sulkingly mumble a yes and he wags his finger at you, tutting disapprovingly. “No complaining, remember? Come on, let’s go. We have things to talk about.” You sigh though relent to fall into step beside him, fingers curling around your own coffee as the crowd thins around you. Now that Geto is gone, the world feels marginally more comfortable, less bright, less sharp, but also less mortifying. You remember your stuttering self a few minutes ago. Still a little mortifying but now bearable. Gojo takes a long sip of his coffee, then glances sideways at you over the rim. “For future reference, I don't like coffee.” You dig your elbow into his side and he winces but doesn’t remove his arm around your shoulder. “Where are we going? I was thinking we could go to the library and look over your courses. That way I can pinpoint your weakness and where to target first. We only have a few months into graduation so we’re in a bit of a time crunch but I'm positive I can raise your grades from whatever they may be to… what?” You trail off when you find Gojo looking down at you in disbelief. He shrugs when your eyes meet and shrugs, though the gesture is a little awkward with his arm over your shoulders. “I just didn’t think you were serious about the whole tutoring thing.” “I keep to my promises, Gojo,” you pause. “And I hope you will too.” He reaches over with his free hand to ruffle your hair, ignoring your squeak. “Desperation isn’t a good look on you, sweets. Relax, relax, I'll get you two together. Trust me.”

You grumble but don’t voice your suspicions, instead letting him drag you in a certain direction. You perk up when you don’t immediately recognise your surroundings.

“Where are we going?”

“I get it, you want to check me out. I'm just taking us somewhere where that can happen.”

“Your studies, not you,” you clarify.

“Yeah, and my studies are mine so you’re checking me out.”

You grimace and he chuckles, turning you around a corner. “The library is too quiet so we’re going back to my place.”

You stop abruptly.

“Your place?” “Yeah.” “Your place?” Gojo cocks his head as if listening to something in the distance. “Did you just hear that echo too?” “Forgetting the fact that we should clearly just go to the library or somewhere on campus at least, I thought you lived in Sig Kap?” “Right you are. Wow, I'm really starting to see why you’re the perfect choice as a tutor.” “But you just said we’re going to your place.” “Nothing gets past you.” “Your place as in the Sig Kap house.” “Look at you go.” You stare at his side profile, waiting for a punchline that won’t come. “Gojo.” “Yeah?” “I am not going to your frat house.” “What happened to not complaining? That was the first rule and you’re already breaking it, sweets. I'm starting to dread this whole arrangement,” he continues to tease, looking ever so peaceful. “I'm sorry, I don't know what you think I'm about but I wouldn't willingly walk into a den full of men named things like Chad. Do you even have furniture?” “I only had a cot for the majority of first year but now I've upgraded to a mattress on the floor.” “Great. Let's end this here.” Gojo hooks his finger in your belt hoop before you can walk away. “First of all, we don’t have a Chad. We do have a Kyle though.” “You're not doing yourself any favours.” “Second,” he continues on, pulling you back towards him with his finger. “It’s ten in the morning. Half of them are in class and the other half are probably legally dead.” You stand your ground. “Library.” “Sig Kap.” “Library.” “Sig Kap.” “Gojo.” He leans in suddenly, close enough that you can see the faint crease at the corner of his eyes from squinting in the sun. “You want Suguru, right?” Your breath catches and despite yourself, you hear him out. “So? How is that relevant?” “Because,” he says mildly like he’s talking to a little kid. “Sig Kap is where Suguru hangs out. He's my best friend, you know he’s my best friend that’s why you came to me. Why wouldn’t he be over at mine all the time? If you can’t handle coming over now how are you ever going to fuck him?” “I am not—” you choke, voice pitching before forcefully lowering your voice when you notice people looking at you. “That is not— I haven't even—” Gojo hums, watching you with a victorious grin. “So you don’t want to sleep with him?” You make a startled noise and start walking in a random direction, eager to leave him behind. Life, however, is full of disappointments considering he follows, his arm draping over your shoulder once more. “So where are we going?” You give in. “Sig Kap.” “Wrong way, sweets.” You groan but follow as he steers you in the opposite direction. Gojo chatters in your ear the entire walk to where the frat houses are situated on campus, about how his least favourite professor is out to get him, about someone in his frat who set off the fire alarm this morning, about the latest philosophical debate holding the frat hostage: whether cereal is a soup or not. It's a steady stream of nonsense, ridiculous but unbroken because at least he wasn’t talking to you so much as at you. At some point, you stop responding entirely. Somehow, his mere presence is enough to change your opinion and you actually feel relief when you finally see the house before you. Sig Kap stands broad and sunlit, paint only mildly chipped, windows open to let in the winter air. There's a couple bikes leaning against the porch railing and there’s an abandoned hoodie on the outdoor chairs. “Oh thank god,” you mumble under your breath when he finally stops talking. He lets you go to jog up the steps, opening the door to what you’re positive is about to be an overstimulating nightmare. Warm air hits you first, carrying the scene of coffee and something oily. Sunlight stretches across worn hardboard floors until Gojo closes the door behind you and the hallway dims. A TV murmurs somewhere deeper into the house and there’s a loud conversation happening upstairs.

“You said everyone would be either in class or dead!” You hiss. “It was an exaggeration,” he says lightly. "Don't worry, everyone’s harmless. But if you’re worried, you can just stick close to me.” You ignore his cocky grin and shove him to get him walking. Unfortunately, getting to the stairs meant walking past the living room and you know things won’t be as harmless as he says when a voice calls out. “Yo!” Gojo pauses and steps back to poke his head into the living room. “Morning.” You awkwardly step back to let him, pushing you into view too. Two heads snap toward you at once. One of them is sprawled across the couch, blanket half-tangled around his legs and a bowl of popcorn balances on his stomach. The other is slouched in an armchair, controller in hand, eyes bloodshot and face pale as if he was still hungover. Considering the state of the party last night, you don’t doubt that he might be. Speaking of the party, you recognise the one on the left as Hikari. “You’re bringing a girl back in broad daylight?” The controller guy says, no tact whatsoever. Hikari snaps his fingers in recognition. “Hey, you’re the girl at the party.” “Damn, back for more?” Hikari shoves controller guy’s head down at the crude comment. “She's here to save my GPA,” Gojo explains. “So keep it down, yeah?” “That's what we should be saying to you,” controller guy smirks. Unfortunately, Gojo smirks back. “You know they can’t help it. I'm just too good.” He guides you back towards the stairs as the boys in the living room chuckle, and when you finally think of something to say you’re already standing in the middle of his room. By then, there’s another something to take up your mind and computing power. Despite the relatively large floor plan, Gojo has decided to use none of it. True to his words, there’s a mattress lying on the floor against one wall, blanket a mess and a single pillow sitting flat at the top. A stack of old textbooks make up a bedside table where there’s a cute small lamp. On the other side sits a couch and a giant flat screen in front of it at a distance that would make optometrists frown. Maybe that’s why Gojo is sometimes seen wearing sunglasses indoors. Maybe they’re prescription. “This is what you bring girls back to?” Gojo drops his bag on the floor and flops down onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Come sit.” You eye the seat in disdain. “What's with the look?” “Is that even sanitary?” He snorts. “Worried you’ll get cooties or something? Relax, I rarely bring anyone back. Usually I go to the girls’ place for that kind of stuff. Fucking on a mattress is pretty harsh on the back, you know. You’re the first girl I've brought back in a while. Lucky you, right?” You grimace but sit down gingerly. “Can you tell me what courses you’re doing?” “What's the rush? Let's get to know each other better,” he says but he still reaches over to grab his laptop from his bag, opening it on his lap. You can picture it so clearly, Gojo coming back from a long day of (skipping) classes to do his assignments and homework like this, slumped over his laptop on this surprisingly comfortable couch. The bare mattress on the floor might be a big contributing factor to his back pain, but you have no doubts that this routine wasn’t doing him any favours. “Here,” he places his laptop on your knees and leans back, pulling out his phone from his pocket. “You look.”

Considering his complete disregard of safety is not your issue, you don’t protest and quickly type in the college website. As if sensing this is not the right time, a prompt pops up to log in again.

“Password?” you ask, tilting the screen to him.

He barely looks up from his phone, one arm behind his head, the other typing away. “Sixeyes69 question mark exclamation mark.”

You pause and type it in. It goes through.

“What's the number?” He asks, disinterested.

You look on the screen. “67.”

He chuckles. “Nice.” “Are you seriously okay with telling me your password like that?” He shrugs, screenshotting the multi authenticator screen before hitting enter. The website in front of you loads and opens to his details. “Tt’s not like there’s anything you can do with that. Are you planning to sneak in and do my assignments for me?” Finding no fault in his words, you accept it and click through the tabs. Your brows quickly knit together as you read the contents. “Gojo.” “Mhm?” “You’re missing three assignments in this class, you have a midterm for another in two weeks and you’re barely passing first year statistics.” Gojo looks up at the ceiling in deep concentration before looking down with a smile. “Yeah, that sounds about right, why?” “This is insane! I'm not a miracle worker!” “Better find a lamp that grants wishes soon because your love life is on the line,” he points out. “That was the deal, you find a way to get me into that scholarship and I get you and my best friend together. It's not my fault you were weirdly confident and didn’t check to see where I was at before proposing that.” Flabberghasted, you can only open and close your mouth like a fish. “Look, the midterm in two weeks, I can probably help with. The three assignments? You failing statistics?” “Pretty sure I passed that last quiz. Maybe check again?” “51 is just barely passing which is basically a fail.” “Oh no, it seems like you can’t do this after all. Looks like the deal is over. Hey, by the way, since you’re already here, why don't we—” Gojo sits up and leans in, one hand on your thigh above his laptop. “I demand another favour.” He freezes. “You can’t just do that.” “I can,” you square your shoulders and meet his eyes. “I did this statistics class during my first year so I still have my notes. I can easily alter them and give them to you and if you have any questions, we can meet up and I'll go through the questions with you. There's no way you can submit two of the three missed assessments as late but I can help you write the one that was due last week. There will be a mark reduction but I'll make sure it’s as good as can be. And, like I said, studying for the midterm is possible in two weeks.” Gojo stares at you as if seeing you for the first time. When he finally moves, it’s only to remove his hand from your knee and slump back into his leather couch. “You’re insane.” You wonder if he’s sulking. “But,” you continue on. “If I help you with this then I can add to my condition. Besides, I made it too vague earlier and you’ve helped me see that. So thank you.” He rolls his eyes. “Just tell me.” You bite your lip. “Go on a practice date with me.” He blinks at you, giving you that same incredulous look before bursting into a fit of laughter that does wonders for your ego. “Hey.” He keeps laughing, one hand resting on his chest. “Hey!” You hit his arm and he finally cracks an eye open to look at you. “You’re kidding,” he chuckles, struggling to catch his breath. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t do dates.” “Don't refer to yourself in third person.” You smack his bicep one more time for good measure and because he’s weirdly solid under your touch. “It won’t actually be a date. I just need to know how dates work. I can't just go from zero to not-zero without practice!” His laughter trails off though the smile remains on his face. He tilts his head to the side. “You’re at zero?” You freeze, feeling like you’ve walked into a trap. “Define zero.” “Have you kissed anyone?” You look away. “Define kissed.” He laughs again, though mercifully shorter. “That's crazy. Next thing you know, you’re going to ask me to teach you how to—” “Please!” You say quickly. “It won't be anything serious. I just need to know the mechanics, you know, how dates actually work. What you’re supposed to say, how you sit, when you pay, whether eye contact should be continuous or intermittent—” “Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re actually a lost cause.”

“Well I've never done one before!” You clamp your mouth shut after, mortified at how loud you just got. Gojo watches you for a long moment, the amusement still there though dimmed now by something closer to curiousity. Maybe even concern if you squint. Silence stretches between you, warm sunlight pooling across the floor, distant house noise muffled beyond the door. He looks down at his laptop on your lap then back up to your face. “...okay.” Your heart stumbles and you inhale sharply. “Okay?” “I’ll do it.” “Really?” Relief overwhelms your system and your shoulders relax. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t go back on his promises.” He straightens and places a hand over his heart, a mock solemn expression on his face. Before you can poke fun of his use of third person again, he continues. “Besides, I need to figure out where you stand. Let's go on a date tomorrow.” “Eager much?” He shrugs. “Rip the bandaid off. Besides, I have no other time this week, I have practice all of this week for the upcoming game.” Though you were ready to disagree, you find yourself nodding. “Okay, tomorrow.” “It's a date,” he says sweetly before clapping his hands together once loudly. “So, does that mean I'm off the hook for today? Steam is having this massive sale and I have money to spend.” You snort. “What makes you think you’re free to go?” “You got what you wanted,” he points out reasonably. “Practice date secured so mission accomplished, right? Seems like a natural stopping point and the Steam store is calling me.” He reaches lazily toward the laptop. You smack his hand away without hesitation. “Well hang up because you’re failing statistics and the submission box for that technical report is waiting for you. I'm afraid you’re going to have to reschedule.” “You're kidding. I dragged you here and gave you nothing to prepare with, there’s no way you'll have anything to tutor me with.” You stretch out your arms, fingers interlaced, and listen to the satisfying pop of your joints. “Watch me.” Night has long since settled by the time you return to your dorm. Despite his perennial sulking throughout the entire tutoring session, lips jutted out when he isn’t whining, eyes drifting from the screen when you’re not giving him your full attention, he still offers to walk you back to the opposite side of the campus where the dorm houses are. Guiding him through the writing assignment was somewhat akin to extracting teeth from a little kid, but he’s surprisingly quiet when you’re talking and only chooses to complain when you’ve stopped. And by the end of it, you’re proud to announce that he has 500 words on a once empty doc that was almost ready for submission. Hey, you did mention before that you can’t create miracles. Still, there’s something bright in his eyes when he reads through his own work, mumbling the words under his breath. So then, when you had reached down to pick up your tote bag and call it a day, he’s on his feet almost instantly, laptop snapping shut as he follows.“I’ll walk you,” he says, like it’s not even a suggestion.

The campus at night feels different, all those late nights in the library had taught you that. It’s quieter, softened at the edges and maybe it's placebo, maybe it isn’t, but the air feels fresher and time seems to slow. Streetlamps cast warm pools of light along the pathways, the winter air crisp enough to bite at your cheeks. Your breath fogs slightly as you walk, footsteps echoing in companionable rhythm.

For once, Gojo isn’t talking.

He makes the occasional comment, something about how dead campus feels after dark, how he hates early morning practices, how someone keeps taking his chocolate milk from the fridge, but for some reason you don’t find it so tolerable. Maybe it’s the way he’s saying it, slower and calm, nothing like before.

You steal a glance at him.

His hands are shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed, expression softer than you’re used to seeing. Without the performative grin and constant chatter he looks less like the campus celebrity Everyone knows and more like he’s just some guy. Albeit, very attractive but you digress. 

“You didn’t have to walk me,” you say into the silence that he hadn’t immediately rushed to fill after his last anecdote. “I know.” “Then why are you?” He shrugs. “Just felt weird not to. Besides, it’s late out and your dorm is half a century away. I need you alive to fix my grades, remember?” You give him a faint chuckle and look forward again. A few more steps pass in silence, broken only by the shuffle of feet. “Hey,” he says suddenly. You look up, watching the light scatter over his side profile. “Thanks.” “For what?” “For today.” He kicks at a pebble on the path, watching as it skitters ahead. “For not giving up on me after the first five minutes.” You huff softly. “I said I'd help. And Y/N never goes back on her promises.” He looks over at you and you both share a smile before his expression turns thoughtful. “Yeah, but people say stuff all the time.” You study him. “Do they?” He hums and doesn’t elaborate. The dorm building comes into view ahead, lights glowing warmly through the windows. There's still a couple students drifting in and out, bundled in hoodies and coats and wearing slides, soft laughter spilling into the night. You slow, suddenly aware that the walk is almost over. You turn to him so you can look at each other. “You know, you’re not as hopeless as you think,” you say quietly. “I think you’ve just never pushed yourself to seriously try.” He snorts. “Thanks, real inspirational.” “I’m serious,” you protest but the corners of your lips quirk up. He looks at you then, properly looks, eyes searching your face with a small frown. When he can’t find whatever he’s looking for, his brows relax. “You really think I can pass?” “Yes.” Something in his shoulders loosens, tension easing away. “Okay,” he breathes out. “Then, my grades are in your hands, teacher.” You make a face. “I think I prefer sweets.” He laughs and you turn to walk up to the entrance. The automatic doors remain stubbornly closed until you step into the sensor’s range, humming softly as they slide open. Warm air spills out, smelling faintly of old carpet and air freshener. For some reason your feet slow. “Hey, Y/N.” You turn, looking at him as he stands just outside the warm lobby light, hands in his pocket, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. “Yeah?” He hesitates. “See you tomorrow." You bite your lip and nod, repeating his words softly. Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn and walk into the building. The doors close with a soft thud, sealing you inside. Through the glass, you watch him turn and head down the path, white hair catching the glow of the streetlights. And of course, he doesn’t look back. Your reflection stares back at you instead, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes a little too bright, heart still beating faster than it should. Tomorrow, apparently, you’re going on a date, practice or not. For some reason, Geto pops up in your mind and you tighten your hold on your tote bag, making your way up the stairs. The soft curve of his smile earlier this morning, the way he had said your name like it belonged in his mouth, or maybe that was just wistful thinking. But the warmth in his eyes that had nearly short-circuited your brain was most definitely real and you cling to the image. Right, this is for him. Your phone buzzes a little after you settle into bed that night, making you jolt. you roll onto your side and reach for your phone, pulling it free from your charger as you read through your notifications. gojo: i made it back safe in case you were wondering ><

You get comfortable, tucking your doona under your chin as you type back, your phone the only light source in your dark room.

you: trust i wasn’t worried but thanks ig gojo: who said anything about being worried? also don’t flake on me tomorrow i’m taking this mentorship very seriously so u better asw you: i won’t flake ik i’m already asking sm of u

gojo: oh u know do u?

so ure going to pay for our date tmrw?

you: it’s not a date

gojo: sure it isn’t

you: it’s just practice

gojo: i didn’t say it wasn’t but if you admitted it was a real date i’d pay yk you: please like i’d actually want you to pay for my coffee not a date, not real, don’t need u to pay for my drinks gojo: ure a hard girl to please you: if its from someone like you, its gonna be harder than just hard try impossible gojo: harder than hard? you: ? gojo: something feels wrong about that sentence for some reason anyway is the campus close for you or should we meet up in the city you: the campus works for me gojo: ure not just saying that to avoid the date allegations are you you: no way gojo: sure sweets i believe u don’t wear anything boring first impressions matter yk you: oh my god stop pushing the date allegations its just practice !!!! gojo: okay and you can practice dressing up for me for suguru like for practice you: ? i know what u meant but sure as long as u do too theres no way im embarrassing myself by showing up overdressed if u show up in sweats and a hoodie gojo: wouldn’t dream of it see u saturday sweets You stare at the nickname longer than you should. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before moving. you: goodnight gojo The reply bubble appears then disappears before appearing again. Nothing comes of it as it disappears one more time and stays gone. You swipe off the app and place your phone back on your bedside table, ignoring the pleasant buzz running through you. 

You show up early like a super fan.

You’ve been sitting at the little corner table situated at the back of your favourite campus cafe for the past ten minutes now, stirring your drink just to look busy. The cafe hums around you with soft chatter, clinking spoons against teacups and ceramic against ceramic, a mellow playlist faintly playing in the background, but your nerves drown most of it out.

You’ve already gone through three mental checklists as you sit there, waiting. Your fingers curl around your empty cup, feeling the beads of water drip down your fingers and you really hope you won’t need to make an awkward break for the bathroom anytime soon considering he should be here about now.

You tell yourself you’re not nervous but you catch yourself glancing at the door every other second, heart jumping each time it swings open.

The bell chimes again and you look up with a start, eyes immediately locking onto Gojo as he saunters in, lifting his sunglasses so they rest on his head. He’s dressed casually, a white and blue jersey over a pair of blue baggy jeans, but his good looks mold the outfit into something appropriate for a date.

Gojo spots you at his first look around and grins, sliding into the seat across.

“Morning,” he greets, a wide smile on his face. His eyes flicker down once at your empty cup. “Did you wait long?”

“No, not at all!” You remember who you’re talking to and relax a little. “Actually, I got here fifteen minutes early. I guess I got a little anxious.”

“Well, you don’t need to be. You look nice,” he says, tone light. His eyes look you over once to make his words comprehensible and then one more time purely for the love of the game. “Trying to impress me?”

You scoff, trying to recover. “You told me to dress nice.”

“C’mon, sweets. Play along. We’re on a date, you know. Your next lines should be something like,” he suddenly tucks his elbow in, body curving to the side slightly, hand half closed and held delicately over his lips and chin. His eyelashes flutter over his cheek as he looks down and to the side, a faux shyness that makes you want to laugh. “‘Thank you, you look good too’.”

You let yourself laugh, shoulders relaxing. “What the fuck?”

“You give it a try. It always works in anime.”

“No way in hell,” you continue, laughing fading into occasional giggles as his gesture replays in your mind. “Besides, this is a practice date. I'll save that technique for the real deal, thank you very much.”

“And for practice, we’re going to pretend this is a real date.” He leans back into his seat, legs stretching out and bracketing yours under the table. His feet bump against yours lightly.  “Let's give it another try. Did I make you wait long?”

You stir the straw inside your drink, pretending to be nonchalant, though your fingers twitch slightly against the glass. “Not long… I guess.” You try a mysterious act, hearing that guys like a woman with secrets. At least, that’s what Shoko told you though a small part of you wonders if you should be taking “how to seduce a guy 101” from a lesbian. “‘I guess’?” he echoes, tilting his head. “That’s the best you can do? You’re supposed to be charming me, remember? At least try to make it look like I'm not coercing you here.” “I don’t care if I charm you or not,” you say quickly, cheeks warming. “I’m here to learn and you’re here to teach me.” He laughs, a low, easy sound that makes your chest tighten. “You know, I'm not exactly made of time. Do you know how many girls and guys would kill to be in your position right now?” You resist the urge to roll your eyes though don’t stop yourself from making your voice dry. “Oh sure, let’s spend this entire date talking about all the competition I have.” “We would need at least four more dates to cover it all.” “I didn’t know getting into a relationship with you would be such an investment.” You snort. “If all five of our dates are just going to be you listing my competition, I'd rather stand you up now and save myself the time. And the money.” “I did offer to pay for your drinks.” He grins at the back and forth, the sides of his shoes bumping into your ankles lightly. “That’s it, you’re getting into it.” “For practice.” “Sure, sweets. Practice. Speaking of,” he says, leaning forward just enough that the sunlight catches his hair. “You should call me Satoru. We’re on a date, remember? I can’t tell if you’re on a date with me or my dad if you call me Gojo.” You grimace. “Calling you by your first name makes it too real.” “It is real. That’s what you should tell yourself to get into this.” He juts out his lower lip, drawing his eyebrows inward. “Come on, sweets, let me hear you say my name.” “When you say it like that, it makes me want to throw a drink in your face.” “Just once, Y/N.” You huff and roll your eyes. “Satoru.” “Oh my god, a girl called me by my first name!” He squeals. You almost stand to get out of here if it means preventing people from associating you with him. He grabs your hand and drags you back down into your seat before you can properly escape, much to your dismay. “Relax, I’m just playing.” “Are you here to mess around or help me?” “Well, you need to tell me so I can help you. What do you even know about him?” “About Geto?” “Yeah, unless there’s someone else you want to know more about?” He grins, easy and confident. You ignore his comment. “Well, I know he… likes books. music. He's kind… thoughtful. Plays the guitar. Ah, specifically electric." “Are you listing off what’s on his dating profile right now?” “Shut up,” you snap, but it comes out weaker than intended. “He isn’t actively on any dating app right now, just for your information.” “And how would you know this? What are you doing on there?” “I’m not on hinge, unfortunate for the female population, I know. We just tell each other everything,” he says, leaning back, one elbow resting on the armrest of his chair as he studies you from across the table. “I’m helping you, you know? First rule, don’t just parrot his interests. Though maybe I don't have to worry about that since you’re clearly struggling to even remember them.” “I wasn’t going to parrot him.” “I know you were,” he interrupts, wagging a finger. “Last time I checked, liking exactly what he likes does not make you compatible. It makes you predictable. And desperate.” “Okay, harsh.” “It's all tough love, sweets.” You fold your arms, slumping back in your seat, letting gravity do half the work of your sulk. “Fine then, oh wise love guru. What should i say instead? Like, let’s say he asks me what I'm into and my mind goes blank like last time. What then?”

“You're asking like it’s that difficult. Just be honest, tell him what you like regardless if it matches his interests. Do you want to be a groupie or be something more than a friend?” “I want to be someone he likes.” “So you're going to play the role of Suguru’s perfect girlfriend? And what after that, genius? Are you just going to pretend forever?” Gojo looks over to the front counter and smiles at some waitresses standing there already looking in his direction. He turns back as they start giggling and playfully arguing over who should come over to take his order. “Don’t force yourself to perform for him or curate yourself to be digestible. If the two of you are meant to be then he should want you.” You look away, picking at nothing on your glass. “That's easy for you to say.” “It's actually incredibly tiring being this emotionally intelligent all the time,” he says, face neutral. You snort despite yourself and he looks satisfied. “And what if I tell him and he doesn’t like it?” Gojo shrugs, slow and deliberate. “Then he’s not for you.” You frown. “Wow, you’re terrible at pep talks.” One of the waitresses finally makes it to your table, an eager smile on her face and a determined look in her eyes. Behind her, you catch the rest of the staff shooting encouraging looks. She clutches her notepad a little too tightly, taking in a deep breath before talking. “Hello, are you, um, both ready to order?”

“Yeah,” Gojo says easily, flashing her a smile. “I’ll just grab a hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”

The woman quickly scribbles his order down. “Of course! one hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”

“And whatever she wants,” he adds, nodding toward you.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I already ordered earlier. I'm fine for now, thanks.”

The waitress spares you a glance, eyes flickering briefly over you before returning to Gojo like a magnet snapping back into place. “Not a problem. Is there anything else I can get you started with today?”

“We're good, thank you.”

Her face falls. She nods, but lingers a moment too long, clearly hoping for something, another question, a joke, anything to keep the interaction going.

Gojo’s grin grows just a little bit wider as he obliges.

“Busy today?” He asks casually, tone warm and interested.

Her face lights up and she quickly steps forward again. “A little! It's usually busy in the mornings what with the morning rush and all. Honestly, it’s like nonstop until at least 1pm.”

“That’s brutal,” he sympathises, leaning back in his chair, posture loose and open. “At least you’ve got good coffee to survive on.”

She laughs, a bright and breathy sound that makes it clear she’s not just laughing at the coffee comment alone. “Perks of the job, I suppose. Do you come here often?”

Gojo tilts his head as if the question deserved genuine thought and wasn’t just a throwaway pick up line.

“Not as often as I should,” he decides easily. “But I might start if the service is this friendly.”

Her smile widens, pink creeping into her cheeks. “We try our best.”

“I was talking about you, sweetheart.”

You’ve been listening and watching with apt attention, taking mental notes on the right time to smile, when to tilt your head just so, when to tuck your hair behind your ears and when to employ the double tuck, when his last words make you frown.

You clear your throat, eyes fluttering away when both Gojo and waitress look over at you.

“Well,” the waitress starts suddenly, glancing down at her notepad like she needs to remind herself she’s on the clock, "I'll bring your drink out as soon as it’s ready.”

“Looking forward to it,” Gojo replies, though he hasn’t looked away from you yet.

She lingers half a beat longer, then turns and walks away, shoulders a little straighter than before.

“Done staring?” He teases.

“I was not staring. Don't you have the tact to not flirt with someone else when you’re on a date?”

“Oh, so now it’s a date? Only when it’s convenient for you, huh?”

You reach over for a napkin and crumble it up to throw it at him. It barely makes it halfway across the table before it starts fluttering down.

“It’s only manners,” you insist, cheeks warm. “I didn't know what to do when the two of you were talking.”

He snorts. “You could’ve joined the conversation.”

“And said what? "Hello, I'm also present and this jerk’s date for the day?”

“Hey, I like the sound of that,” he muses. Your next crumpled up napkin doesn’t get any further than its predecessor. You glare at him, something about that conversation rubbing you the wrong way, echoing unpleasantly in your head in a way that makes you want to peel your skin off. You clear your throat again. “You're here to teach me like I taught you statistics, right? Even though one is clearly harder than the other.” “Right. Getting you to date ready is much more difficult.” You ignore him to save the life of one napkin. “So, how do I do that? Flirt so effortlessly and not make it cringe?” “You want to use what I just said with the waitress on Suguru?” He actually laughs out loud. “Do not, he’s going to see right through you. You should have met his last ex. The two of them were absolutely disgusting and— oh wait, should I not talk about that?” “Yeah, let’s not.” He hums and changes the subject. “Anyway, just let it happen. Be natural. You talk to me just fine.” “Yeah, but you’re you. frivolous, class clown, never takes anything seriously, probably never commits to anything,” you start listing, counting them on your fingers. “I feel like the first thing and the last thing mean the same thing. Put one finger down.” You refuse, still holding up four fingers. “Sleeps on a mattress on the ground.” “So does half of Sig Kap. But relax, I get it. So you suck at flirting. Shouldn’t you be happy I gave you a live demonstration of how it’s done?” That gets you frowning again. “Do you always call everyone something?” “What does that even mean?” “You called her sweetheart.” “I don't know her name. I wasn't about to call her ‘woman’, that sounds very sexist and I'm a feminist at heart. Thoughts on banning periods?” “She has a name tag.” “I don’t look at that area on a woman on the first date,” he pledges. You continue without thinking.“How is anyone supposed to know when you actually mean it when you give everyone similar nicknames?” He goes quiet, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?” Before you can elaborate, or maybe divert and make him look away so you can dig yourself out of the hole you just created, the waitress returns with his drink. She leans over him, placing it down carefully. “Here you go!” “Thanks,” he says, polite but no longer quite as engaged. In fact, he hasn’t looked away from you, still giving you that same disbelieving look. You fiddle with your own drink. Maybe you should have ordered something else if it meant spicing up the number of objects you have in your possession to pass awkward silence with. The waitress lingers a moment before hesitantly leaving when it’s clear there’s no encore performance. “I just meant it’s confusing for anyone, hypothetically,” you say in a rush, beating him. “Anyway! Flirting techniques, let’s talk about them!” He watches you for a moment longer before dropping his head and ruffling his hair. You grimace, eyeing how close his head is to his open drink. When he looks back up, whatever conflict on his face has disappeared. “Fine, okay. Let's talk. First of all, it’s important where the date takes place. There's unspoken etiquette for every typical date location.” “Like how you go on a coffee date, you shouldn’t flirt with the waitress.” Gojo cracks a grin. “You’re getting it. Look, Suguru is kind of an artsy guy. He'd probably take you to an art museum or like a jazz bar for your first date.” You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that?” “I told you, he tells me everything. Focus.” He dismisses your look. “He’s kind of an enjoy-the-moment kind of guy. Probably won’t talk too much while you’re both admiring something together and saves all the talking until after when he leads you to some underground totally underrated dinner spot.” You wince. “Shit. I kind of like making little jokes in the moment.” He snaps his fingers, face brightening. “Right? Like when you’re watching a movie in the cinemas!” “Okay, that is a bit tricky. It depends.”

“Don't Genshin theorycraft me.” “You're lucky I got that reference.” Gojo shrugs. “Well, Suguru enjoys just existing with his special someone. Don't get me wrong, he definitely talks when you get him started but I think he’s kinda cool for being able to sit in silence with someone.” You chew the inside of your cheek. “I’m kind of bad with silences. I end up embarrassing myself just to fill them. Do you think it’s fixable? Should I just not talk?” “Woah, slow down. It’s fine, he has enough social awareness to fill in the gaps if you’re uncomfortable. But i’m just telling you what he likes,” he studies you. “He doesn’t like petnames, by the way.” Heat creeps up your neck. “That’s fine, it’s not a dealbreaker,” you mumble.

“I'm just saying. He's a real fan of using your first name. When you two get on that basis, of course.”

“Anything else, Geto expert?”

Gojo hums, taking a long sip of his latte, eyes tracking up. “He likes meaningful stuff like art with a story behind it, long conversations about philosophy. Like yeah he still likes doing things just for fun but there’s a difference between like and love.”

You wince. “But love is meant to be silly, meaningless stuff. Like sending pictures of dogs cuddling because it reminded you of us or whether you’d still love each other if you turned into worms. Like taking the longer way back home just to spend more time together. Or, I don't know, building blanket forts as adults.”

Gojo’s mouth twitches.

You stop, suddenly aware you sound like you’ve been storing these thoughts and they’ve suddenly all gotten loose.

“Stuff that doesn’t matter,” you finish weakly.

He rests his chin on his palm. “Like going to the arcade and getting plushies for each other at the claw machines?”

You laugh, shoulders relaxing. “I'd obviously do better. You look like you have no hand eye coordination.”

“Did you forget I literally play ice hockey?”

“Right, your role as the benchwarmer?”

“My ass has never once graced those benches.”

“I don't know, I swear I remember seeing you on the sidelines.”

“You’ve come to watch me play before?” He grins, cheek slightly smushed from his position.

“Because Shoko went.”

He juts his lower lip out. “Harsh.”

There's a few seconds of silence as the conversation replays and you feel a sudden rush of embarrassment. You look up to see if he clocked your earlier slip up but he only tilts his head more into his hand.

“What?”

“Nothing.” You clear your throat and look down at your drink. It's left behind a ring of water around its base. “How are you two best friends when you’re so different?”

“Because he slows me down,” Gojo says like it’s simple. “And I drag him out of his head. But he doesn’t need another person to do that for him so don’t even think of taking my spot.”

You both share a laugh and it lingers a little longer than the joke deserves, warm and easy, until it naturally tapers off into something softer.

“Why do you even like him?” He suddenly asks, voice soft against the murmur of the cafe.

You slowly slide your gaze out the window as if reliving the moment. You can almost feel the rain on your skin, the warmth of a hoodie not your own, and the residual laughter at the back of your throat that makes you smile.

“Last semester when it was pouring rain, he saw me waiting outside a building without an umbrella and we ended up running through the storm. It’s stupid but it was fun and meaningless and definitely what I needed after my finals.”

Your words make him frown, finger tracing a random shape on the wet surface of his glass absentmindedly. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought?” You offer.

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s my other half.”

“Again, should I be concerned right now?”

“Are you homophobic?”

“No?”

“Then you’re fine.”

“Wait…”

Gojo glances down at his phone and sighs. “It's getting late, sweets. I'd love to stay longer but I promised the boys we’d go do this carwashing event.”

He pauses and looks up.

“Did you want to come?” he quickly adds on, “You don’t have to come alone, you could bring Shoko along or something.”

You wrinkle your nose. “No thanks.  You can imagine that she’s not keen on seeing a bunch of shirtless boys.” He grins. “Suit yourself. I'll walk you out. It's the least I can do on this date.” You roll your eyes but stand and follow him out anyway, ducking under his arm as he holds the door open for you. Stepping out, you’re almost blinded by the bright sun and you have to cover your eyes to look up, squinting even with the shade provided by your palm. He moves to stand in front of you. “Well, I'll see you around.” Next tutoring session,” you remind him, letting your arm drop to your side. "Don't forget to watch the online lectures before then. And remember to do the weekly quizzes this time. And—” He reaches over to ruffle your hair fiercely, laughing when your words turn into a startled squeak. “Yes, yes, I got it,” He lets you go and watches with a toothy grin as you start fixing your hair, glaring up at him and his audacity to smirk. His face quickly softens. “Sorry I can’t walk you back to your dorms. I'm already running kind of late.” “Don't worry about it,” you say when you feel like you look presentable enough. “Um, get there safe?” “I will,” he starts stepping back. “Text me if you need anything.” “Okay, make sure to—” “Relax, sweets, I got it,” He says with a chuckle and a wave, before he turns and starts walking off in your opposite direction. You watch him go for a little longer before heading back to your dorm.You stare up at your ceiling. your ceiling stares back down at you. You've been staring at your popcorn ceiling for so long that you’ve begun to discern shapes and different shades of what you had previously considered to be beige, plain and simple, but was now warping into the image of Gojo.

Something he had done yesterday clung to you even hours after the date. The ease in which he allowed the waitress’ fingers to brush his as he handed her the menus, the way he easily held onto your hand at the party, the lack of concern as he stood close to you on the walk back. You lift up your hands and slowly interlace your fingers. It's comfortable, familiar. until you start wondering one hand as someone else's.

Before you can doubt yourself, you pull yourself up and gather your phone and keys, heading to the door without another thought. On the way through the dorms, you send a quick text.

you: u free? im coming over

You stand outside Gojo’s door and knock. There's a muffled, incoherent reply before the door is pulled open, revealing Gojo. His hair is slightly damp with stubborn strands clinging to his forehead and he’s brushing his teeth. He's not wearing a shirt.

You stare at his chest.

“One second,” he says around the foam in his mouth. He holds the door open a little wider and ushers you in, letting the door fall to a gentle click behind you. “Sit on the couch.”

Wordlessly, you do, watching his bare back as he heads into his bathroom. The sound of water muffles your racing thoughts until he reappears, still shirtless but at least he’s not brushing his teeth anymore.

“Hey,” he says, irritatingly casual. “I saw your text. You didn’t even wait to see if I was free or not. For the record I am but imagine I wasn't. That would have been an awkward situation and between you and her, I would have picked her.”

You blink away your surprise and look up at him. “Her?”

“It’s a Friday night, Y/N. You’re lucky I don't have someone over.”

You frown a little at that and he continues, heading to his kitchenette to open his fridge, pulling out two beers. He hands you one, pushing it towards you once more when you don’t immediately take up his offer.

“So, what are you doing here?”

“Are you going to put on a shirt?”

He blinks before a wide grin splits across his face. “I was wondering what you were looking at so deep in thought. I didn't want to assume again after you made a fool of me at the party but I guess you do have working eyes after all. Do you want me to put on a shirt?”

You blush, finally looking away. “Obviously.” He chuckles and places his beer down on the coffee table before going on a hunt to find a clean shirt. “But from the way you were eyeing me it really wasn’t that obvious. Besides, you’re telling me to put on a shirt in my own home?” “It's common sense when you have a guest over.” His voice carries over from his room. “You’re not really a guest, more like a pest. A guest implies I invited you over, no?” “But yesterday you said I could come to you for anything.” “Right. What was I thinking?” Gojo comes back out and flops next to you, the couch dipping under his sudden weight. He takes the beer from your hands and cracks it open before handing it back and doing the same to his. “So, you finally going to tell me what’s up or are you just here to leech off my dwindling beer supply?” “I don’t even drink,” you mumble, watching as the water beads down your fingers. “No, but I do have some manners for my guest.” “You just said…” you trail off, recognising that you’ll only go round and round in circles if you keep up this conversation. you place the beer on the floor and turn to him. “Forget it. I'm here because I need your help.” “Figures.” He holds the beer to his lips and takes a deep swig. “What can I do for you today?” You bite your lip before turning to him. “Can I kiss you?” Gojo chokes, pulling the beer from his lips with a hack, liquid spitting out onto his no longer clean shirt and sweatpants. He finally manages to get his mouthful of beer down, but he only coughs and hits at his chest. Hesitantly, you reach over and pat his back lightly. He shrugs your touch away, looking at you in disbelief. “What did you just say?” “I was wondering if you’d let me kiss you?” “Just because you’re saying it politer now doesn’t take away how crazy you sound.” He stares at you incredulously. “Look, I know we went on a date yesterday but I thought you of all people knew it was a practice date. I'm sorry but I don't feel the same way. Gojo Satoru doesn’t do relationships.” You groan, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t suddenly develop a crush on you, Gojo.” “Satoru,” he corrects you despite his shock. “Satoru,” you emphasise. “I don’t like you.” “Could have fooled me.” “Yesterday just got me thinking. You’re so natural with touching and stuff and I realised that I have literally no experience whatsoever. I know Geto isn’t the type of person to care about whether I'm a virgin or not but I care. I care because I know I'll freeze up if we ever get to that part.” He stares at you. “When i asked you a few days ago about whether or not you wanted to sleep with him, you told me to shut up.” “That was a few days ago.” You shuffle closer to him on the couch and watch as his eyes drop to your thighs inching closer, then back up, something like fear on his face. “I know this is a big favour but I thought since you’ve kissed so many girls before and they’ve never meant anything that you might be okay with this? I mean you thought we were going to kiss that time at the party. So is this really that crazy to ask?” “Yes,” he says immediately. “It is. because you like Suguru and I'm his best friend.” “But this is practice.” “You can’t just echo what I've said in the past.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking off in the distance before coming back to you. “Suguru isn’t the type of person to rush to things like that. You'd be in good hands.” “I know but this is for me. So I know what to expect.” His face is contorted in a way you’ve never seen before. You decide to give another push. “Just think of me as one of your hookups.” He exhales softly, eyes staring into yours. “Are you sure? Have you even thought this through?”

“Yes, I have,” you lie. “I mean, there aren’t any cons. I'll lose my first kiss, get experience, and it’s all under practice anyway so it won’t mean anything. And you get a hookup for the night. It's a win win!” His face only seems to pale more at your words. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet? Fuck, that’s a lot of pressure. And I feel like you have the wrong idea about what a hookup entails.” You shrug. “Kissing? Making out?” “Sex.” You pause. “Well, we won’t go that far. Maybe.” “Maybe?” He exclaims and you quickly deflect because he’s looking more and more shocked. “We can start with kissing.” You shift closer, your thigh pressing against his. “Come on, it doesn’t have to mean anything.” Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, from the encouraging look in your eyes to the determined line of your lips. He huffs, running another hand through his hair at the absurd change to his Friday night plans. Sure, kissing someone wasn’t a big deal for him, not when he’s tasted the lips of many before, but there was something different about taking someone’s first kiss. Finally, he sighs, long and hard. “Just a kiss.” You beam, face lighting up. “Of course!” He hesitates, cursing under his breath something long but incoherent, before gently reaching out to tilt your chin up. “Tell me if you change your mind. Just shove me away, okay?” You nod enthusiastically. “What do I have to do?” “Just let me take the lead for now. And if you feel confident enough to kiss back, go for it.” Again, Gojo mumbles something under his breath, the absurdity of the situation still not lost to him. He leans forward as if to seal the deal before pausing, moving his hand up to caress your cheek tenderly. Your breath hitches, eyes wide as you curse your own touch-starved form. “You okay?” He asks, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. “Changed your mind?” You shake your head slightly. Gojo huffs and you feel the puff of air against your lips. When his lips finally press against yours, fitting against yours in a way you’ve only ever seen in movies, you feel… nothing. You squeeze your eyes tighter, trying to dig through the sensations and pick out the one that’s meant to set off fireworks and melt your stomach into goo. Instead, it just feels like there’s someone’s lips touching yours. Sensing your discomfort, Gojo pulls back, eyes fluttering open to meet your unsure ones. His nose scrunches up a little as he studies your expression. “Hey,” he starts, voice low. “You're hurting my ego.” You lick your lips, trying to return your lips to their usual sensation. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting.” “What were you expecting?” “Butterflies?” He chuckles, hand still caressing your cheek. “You're kissing me without any feeling. It’s not my fault you’re as stiff as a board. Relax. Imagine Suguru or something.” Now it’s your turn to make a face. "Wouldn't that hurt your ego more?” “Just relax,” he repeats and you make the conscious effort to focus on the way he’s stroking your face soothingly. “That’s it. Good girl.” “Don't call me that, I cringed.” He laughs, leaning in. “Abandon the part of you that cringes not the part of you that is cringe.” With that, he brushes his lips against your again, letting you feel the slow movement and determine the pace. It’s not exactly rocket science, this kissing business, and you start to mimic the motion of parting your lips against his. It takes a few tries for him to hum in approval and deepen the kiss, his free hand sliding up to cup your neck and gently pull you closer to him. You let out a soft squeak and quickly pick up from the momentary break in rhythm on your end. When his tongue slides against the seam of your lips, you blanch and pull back. “Okay,” he starts. “That really hurt my feelings.” “What was that?” You cover your mouth with your hands, the slimy sensation replaying in your mind. “That was my tongue.” “Why didn’t it feel good?”

He rolls his eyes at your complaint and slides an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re half on his lap. “Because you’re thinking too hard.” “I was not thinking at all, actually,” you say, scandalised. “I didn't know I was going to be ambushed.” “Okay, my bad, I should have given you a heads up.” He pauses and announces solemnly, "I'm going to start using my tongue.” You make a face and he huffs out a laugh, forehead dropping briefly against yours. Up close like this, you can feel the vibration of it in his chest, the way his grip tightens just a little like he doesn’t want you getting any bright ideas about you escaping. “You're doing fine,” he says more softly, thumb brushing slow circles at your waist. You think briefly that this must be the allure to him that has girls fawning for his attention. You're not immune either, and you sub consciously melt under his touch, relaxing again. Once you’ve done it once, given into his temptation, it’s easy to fall back again. “Fine doesn’t seem like outstanding status,” you mumble, trying to maintain some resistance. “For your first time, it wasn’t so bad.” His nose nudges yours, playfully and coaxing and you’re in his web again. “C’mere.” Gojo doesn’t pull you this time. Instead, he just waits, one arm warm and steady around your hips, hand stroking your hair as he waits for you to come to him. It's a sign of consideration that has you feeling jittery and warm, though there’s a lazy smirk on his lips that suggests he has other ulterior motives that makes it as infuriating as it is attractive. Your gaze flicks to his mouth then back to his eyes. His lashes lower just slightly, watching you watch him, and something in your stomach flips over completely. Probably your common sense. “Just… slower,” you mumble. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Slower.” He still doesn’t move first which is deeply unfair, because now you have to be the brave one. You lean in. It's clumsy at first, more of a gentle bump of noses and a too-soft press of lips than anything smooth or cinematic like he had kissed you earlier. You almost pull back in embarrassment, ready to admit that maybe he was a better kisser than you had given him credit for if it’ll mean this pathetic peck of yours can end and he can make it good again, when his hand tightens on your hip and he takes over. His mouth settles properly over yours, angle shifting until the awkwardness disappears, until it stops being baby’s first kiss and starts becoming a warm, steady pressure that has your toes curling. Yhe faint brush of his breath against your cheek, the subtle tilt of his head that fits your mouth together and when he nips at your bottom lip, a soft startled sound escapes before you can stop it. He swallows it down without hesitation. His hand tightens reflexively and slides down, cupping your ass as he leans back and guides you onto him, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes to keep you there, not that you had any plans of moving. One moment your body is twisted awkwardly to meet him and the next you’re seated full on his lap, his warmth solid beneath you. His breath fans across your cheek in uneven bursts, warm and damp, and the faint scrape of his teeth lingers as a tingling awareness. You realise, distantly, that you’re no longer stiff. Your hands, which had been braced awkwardly against his shoulders, loosen without permission. One slides up into his hair as you lean into him, damp strands cool at the ends, warm near the scalp, and the sensation grounds you in a way nothing else does. His mouth opens at the sensation and when his tongue sweeps along your lower lip again, you don’t pull away. It isn’t slimy or invasive like last time, in fact you welcome it, mimicking his openness and the kiss deepens.

Your breath mingles, movements syncing up and under the guidance of his lips and tongue, you start getting bolder. You shift closer, just a fraction, your head moving up and face tilting down to angle yourself deeper when a low sound slips out of him. Your eyes fly open and you pull away. “Was that—” “Nope,” he says immediately, eyes darker than when you last checked. He's panting beneath your palms, a slightly warm tint to his face as he stares at you. You swallow. “You just—” “I didn’t,” he insists, far too quickly. When he’s so adamant like that, it’s a little hard to say anything more. Besides, while it’s almost fun to poke the bear, the memory of his mouth on yours has you thinking about something else entirely. You don’t move from his lap and he doesn’t push you off. “Think you’re getting it?” he asks, watching you with something unreadable lurking in his eyes. You don’t hesitate. “No.” You stare at each other, catching a much needed breath. “Alright,” he says, voice rough. “One more. and then we have to stop.” You lean in and he lets out a soft sigh like a man doomed before meeting you halfway. Gojo doesn’t start slow this time, maybe because he knows if he does, he won’t be able to control himself. His hand slides more firmly to the back of your neck, guiding you towards him with a kind of impatience, mouth finding yours with confidence, your chest tightening at the gesture. Your fingers clutch at his shirt instinctively and he makes a low noise at the back of his throat, deepening the kiss until you slide your fingers up and into his hair. A low exhale slips through his nose, almost shaky and he tilts his head in response to your faint tugs. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your lips. Emboldened, you tilt your head and slide your tongue into his mouth to taste him. He tastes like beer and minty and something addictive that has you repeating the movement over and over. When he reciprocates, your stomach swoops instead of recoiling. You shift, suddenly desperate to get closer and settle over his bulge. Wow. You both jerk away from each other quickly, your hands leaving his hair and his arm retracting from your waist. The break feels violent in its suddenness, like surfacing too fast in deep water. Cold air rushes between you where there had only been warmth seconds ago. Your lips tingle, oversensitive, parted as you drag in a shaky breath. Gojo’s chest rises and falls sharply, eyes wide in a way you’ve never seen before, pupils blow dark. For once, there is no smirk, no teasing glint, just a raw, stunned awareness, like he’s trying to process several things at once and failing at all of them.

You become acutely aware of exactly where you’re sitting.

Heat floods your face and to the tips of your ears. you scramble backward, knees slipping against the couch cushions, putting space between your bodies even as the loss of his warmth makes your skin prickle.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, horrified. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn't trying to—”

“Don’t,” he groans, slumping back, covering his flushed face with his arm. His other hand reaches down to adjust himself though he doesn’t seem to have any ideas of covering himself so you watch unabashedly. “Just don’t say anything for a second.”

You clamp your mouth shut obediently.

The room feels too small, too quiet, every little sound like the rustle of fabric or the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchenette, even your own uneven breathing, suddenly feels magnified.

Eventually, Gojo pulls himself up, fixing dark eyes on your figure.

“I’m sorry.” You rush to say, though you’re not sure what you’re apologising for.

“It’s fine, it’s not your fault. It wasn't because of you, I guess I've just been pent up,” he runs his hand through his hair and you watch as he pauses, something passing over his face before he abruptly pulls his hand away. “Anyway, it’s normal.”

You nod too fast. “Right, yes. Totally fine. Super normal, nothing weird happened.”

“Right,” he says. “Nothing weird.”

Your shoulders sag a little, tension leaking out now that that’s been cleared up. The adrenaline leaves behind a strange floaty sensation and you try, and fail, to push down the sudden desire to continue, to explore even further. “We’re definitely stopping the practice today,” he says, crushing your dreams. You nod again, somewhat grateful that a decision has been made for you considering the conflict thoughts warring in your head. “Okay.” He suddenly ruffles his hair all messy and stands up with an exaggerated groan that makes you jump. “Okay! That's over. You did good by the way. You’re gonna be trouble when you actually start dating someone.” You frown. “Why?” “It's a compliment, sweets, learn to recognise them, yeah?” He starts walking over to his kitchenette. “Want an actual drink?” Your brain is still somewhere back in that last kiss, struggling to catch up. “Sure. Just water, right?” He snorts. “I’m not a creep.” When you lean back against the couch and close your eyes to recenter yourself, he steals a glance and lets out a long exhale. He closes his eyes for a moment like he’s deeply exhausted. When he opens his eyes again and makes his way to you, his signature smirk is back.

If anyone saw how nervous you look about to text Gojo, they might think you had a crush on him. Which is absurd because you clearly have a crush on Geto. Your thumb hovers over the send button, chewing the inside of your cheeks as you debate whether this is a good idea or not. It’s been a week since you first asked Gojo for advice and though his methods weren’t orthodox nor was he incredible help, you still had to give him his merits. Talking to him was relaxing in a way, the constant back and forth familiar and even his judgement didn’t seem to come from a bad place. The physical stuff was a whole other story and did not influence your thoughts on how you felt about him whatsoever. In summary, Gojo has given you determination that you couldn’t have achieved on your own. Using this newfound confidence, you take a deep breath and finally hit send. you: hey are you in class today? Not even a full minute later, his reply buzzes. gojo: yeah i am stalking me, super fan? you: god this is exactly why i hate texting u gojo: :( why whats up though ur class doesn’t finish until 2 right? you: yeah how did u know that? u sure ure not my super fan? gojo: guilty! i just know dont ask what u cant handle so u gonna leave me in suspense or are u gonna tell me you: well you have class with geto right The inside of your cheeks starts getting a little tender as you continue to gnaw and bite at the flesh, anxiously waiting as Gojo’s typing bubbles appear and disappear. gojo: yeah i do you: can i come see you? gojo: what you: like ill come to your class but can you leave after so its just me and him u were talking about creating these situations on saturday right so like wouldnt this be perfect? gojo: god this conversation isn’t good for my heart you: ? gojo: our class ends later than urs you: that’s fine i can wait !! gojo: nah i dont feel like it you: ????? man what the hell you said you’d help me gojo: and i did on saturday what if i want suguru all to myself today? you: come on please??? gojo: what if i dont want to see u you: well i wont be bothering u this time i just need an excuse to see him i think whatever magic u casted over me on sat worked im feeling like scarily confident i want to talk to him before the feeling goes away like i feel like i can really do it this time you know? please satoru? gojo: god u have no idea how evil u are fine ill get us to go to the library you: THANK YOU@!!!!!! gojo: u owe me you: YES DEFINITELY gojo: another date this friday then you: OKAY!!! wait what Waiting at the library is agonising. you attempt to complete some smaller tasks for your courses that you’ve left in lieu of thinking about, well, boys. But just like every time before, your thoughts stray and settle on him. His pretty effortless smiles, his soft laughter, that sparkling glint in his eyes when he looks at you and it’s like the world quietens just to listen too. his long fingers, the mole on his earlobe, his white— When your phone buzzes again an hour later, you jump up from your seat to find the location of the photo Gojo sent. You slip into the fifth library floor as quietly as possible, scanning the endless rows of students for the familiar top of someone’s head. It doesn't take long for your eyes to settle on him. Gojo is impossible to miss, slouched low in a study booth, hood up and drooping over his hair and the bottom pulled up to cover his mouth. His arms are crossed over his chest as he stares at his laptop screen. And of course, Geto sits across from him. Taking in a deep breath, you slow your pace into something that might pass as a casual stroll as if you had randomly come upon them by chance and stop by their booth.

“Oh, hi Satoru!” He doesn’t look up. “Hey.” Then, after a manual moment, you turn to Geto. “Oh my god! Geto? Wow.” Your voice comes out pitched a little too loud. “What a coincidence!” Geto looks up with a smile. “Hey, Y/N. What are the chances we ran into each other?” Gojo snorts and you don’t miss how pointed it is. You take the chance to glare at the side of his face but he only sinks into his hoodie with a grumble. You continue to stare, even narrowing your eyes as if it’ll sharpen your gaze and he finally lets out a loud groan, flipping the hood down to ruffle his hair and sit up. “Oh no,” he announces into the silence, loud enough to draw a few irritated glances, not that he cares. He checks his phone, staring at his empty notification list. “It looks like my best friend accidentally locked himself out of his dorm.” Geto pauses. “I'm your best friend.” You purse your lips, watching as Gojo begins to slowly pack up his things. Granted, he only needed to close his laptop and shove it into his tote bag, without a case mind you. He refuses to look up despite your efforts to catch his gaze. “Sorry man, duty calls. I can’t help that i’m such a good friend.” He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. When he passes by, his arm brushing against yours despite the empty space all around, he leans down to whisper, “Good luck.” You don’t have the time to decipher if it’s sincerity or sarcasm that you detect because he leaves, his lingering cologne the only sign that he was ever there. You turn back to Geto, offering a small, awkward smile, wondering if he’s caught on. “What was that about?” You laugh. Geto chuckles softly. “Sorry about him. You know how he can be sometimes.” He looks up at you patiently. “Well, an empty spot has opened up. Are you staying to study?” You fight the urge to celebrate. You happily erase thoughts of Gojo from your mind, leaving the gruelling task of decoding his strange behaviour for another day. Gojo’s seat is still warm when you take it, pulling out your laptop just for the act. There was no way you were wasting this golden opportunity with actually studying, don’t be silly. “So,” you begin, picking at the corner of your sleeve. “Any plans this weekend?” “You didn’t hear? Satoru is having a game this weekend. It’s just a preliminary but he’s been hyped for it. I'm sure he’d love it if you rocked up.” You almost laugh out loud. “No way. He'd hate that.” Geto’s brows lift, amused. “Why would he hate it?” “Because,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “We're not really friends. More like we have a symbiotic relationship. If we didn’t have that, I doubt we’d even talk to each other.” “I don't think so,” Geto smiles at you but instead of giving you the butterflies, it leaves you feeling unsure. “But you should come. Not by yourself, of course, I'm sure Shoko would come along.” “If she was going to go, she’d just take Utahime.” You shift in your seat, throwing the idea around in your head. “Even if I wanted to, I don't think I know anyone else who’d want to come with.” “Do you want to go with me?” Your brain blanks. “What?” “I was planning on going anyway,” he says, tone casual and all your senses tunnel-vision on him. “Besides, I've been curious about the girl who’s been taking up so much of Satoru’s time.” Your answer is obvious. “I’d love to!” It comes out a little too fast, a little too bright, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care. Relief, excitement, disbelief, it all tangles together in your chest until the only discernable thing left is a giddy sort of lightness. Geto’s smile widens, clearly pleased and you beam back. He hands you his phone. “Can I have your Insta then?So I can text you the details later.”

Your hands shake as you take it, thumbs clumsy as you type in your username, backspacing more times than you’d like to admit. You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything, the way he’s close enough to see your screen, the warmth of his hand where it had just been, the ridiculous desire to go through your own profile but through his eyes settling on your mind. Later, you can already imagine stalking your own profile, scrutinising every photo, every caption, trying to imagine what it would look like to be him scrolling through for the first time. When he takes his phone back, he doesn’t immediately pocket it. Instead, he actually looks, thumb scrolling down, humming. Oh god, he’s looking right now. "Where's that quote from your bio from?” He asks, glancing up briefly. “It sounds familiar.” “Oh, um. It’s from my favourite novel.” Your eyes flutter across his face as you tell him the title, sneaking in a quick description to try to sell it. “I’ll have to check it out then,” Geto says, putting his phone away. “Do you read often?” “Not as much as I want to. You know how it is, with school and everything. Not to mention books are crazy expensive nowadays.” He nods sympathetically. “There's this small bookshop tucked away near the city. It's actually close by the rink where Satoru’s game is. I could show you after his game on Saturday.” Your breath catches. “After the game?” You repeat, trying very hard to sound normal and not out-of-breath. Geto nods, completely at ease. “If you’re not in a rush to get back after,” he adds, considerate as ever. “It says open pretty late.” You stare at him for a second, thoughts scrambling over each other. He’s inviting you out after a game. That meant walking together, talking more, being alone without the buffer of a crowd screaming over a bunch of men slamming into each other and hitting with their sticks. You realise you’re meant to give an answer and quickly hurry. “Yeah, that sounds perfect actually!” You say, a touch too fast, then wince and try again, softer. “I mean—yeah. That sounds really nice.” “Good,” he says simply, smile deepening. “It's a cozy place. You could get lost in there for hours.” “That sounds dangerous. I already have a book-buying problem." “Secondhand prices,” he reminds you. “It's much safer.” You hum. “That's debateable. Lower prices just means I have to buy more.” You can’t believe your luck. Not only had Geto basically invited you on a date to Gojo’s game, he’s also asked you to go book shopping together afterward. And somehow, you had just finished a perfectly normal conversation with him without embarrassing yourself beyond recovery. Could things possibly get any better? “You know,” he starts up again and you lean in. “Satoru’s doing suspiciously good in his classes recently. Any clue why?” You freeze, temporarily thrown off guard. “He better be. I don't tutor him for nothing.” “I knew it was you. Why are you tutoring him? If he’s blackmailing you, I can help,” he says with a straight face. “No, no! nothing like that!” You rush to explain. He cracks a smile. “I’m just joking. He's not actually as bad as his reputation makes him out to be. It's all bad rep, you know?” While you’ve known Gojo through his reputation for as long as you can remember, you’ve never once stopped to consider that might not be everything about him. “What do you mean?” “Sig Kap had a frat sweetheart two years ago,” Geto explains, folding his hands loosely on his laptop. “She was nice, really sweet but some of the older guys treated her like shit. When Satoru called some of the boys out for messing with her they weren’t too happy.” Your brows lift. “So did they kick him out or something?” “Not that there’s much they could have done considering his family.” “What about them?” He glances at you surprised. “You don’t know?”

You shake your head. “Huh.” His expression softens into something gentler. “Yeah. A lot of people approach him because they want something, connections, favours, you know the deal. He absolutely hates it. Ironically, that influence is also what kept the older guys from pushing back too hard and they couldn’t exactly scare him off so he’s there to stay.” “And some people still don’t like him?” “Some still don’t,” Geto confirms. “So they spread all those stupid rumours instead. Probably easier that way since it’s not exactly traceable.” Your stomach tightens. “What kind of rumours?” He hesitates, then shrugs. “Stuff about him sleeping around. that he’s messed with every girl on campus, that kind of thing. You don’t have to look so devastated, it doesn’t bother him much. If anything, it gets him more game. But it’s far from the truth. I mean you’re a girl on campus and he hasn’t messed with you.” Something about the way he says it, calm and matter-of-fact, makes your chest ache. “He did earn a lot of respect back,” Geto continues, oblivious to your growing distress. “Especially from the younger guys. But some of the older ones never really got over it.” He falls silent, studying you with that gentle, searching look that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope and the spotlight is shining down on you. Whatever he sees under the lens makes him smile. “It’s nice,” he says softly. “That you’re so genuine with him. He doesn’t get that very often.” The words hit like a punch to the gut. Couldn't he have used a word other than ‘genuine’? Because you aren’t genuine, far from it, and that realisation makes your stomach drop, nausea blooming sharp and sudden and upheaving the contents. You approached Gojo with a plan just like all those who have approached him with ulterior motives in the past. And you’ve used him for his friendship and his willingness to help, to get closer to the person right in front of you. You are no better than the people Geto just described. Worse, even. Heat rushes to your face, then drains away just as quickly, leaving you cold. You push your chair back abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. “Where did Gojo go?” you ask, wincing internally. Geto blinks up at you, startled by the sudden shift. “Oh, uh.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit. “He said he had to help me—that is, his friend unlock his door. He's probably back in his room now though.” You nod too quickly, already stuffing your laptop into your bag with fumbling hands, cables tangling as if they’re conspiring against you. “Are you going after him?” Geto asks gently. You freeze for a split second. Are you?Here you are, sitting across from the person you supposedly like, the person you engineered this entire situation to get closer to, and you’re about to abandon the conversation to chase after his best friend. This is your chance, the perfect golden opportunity, and you’re throwing it away. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to completely doubt yourself. “Yeah,” you say, half a smile hovering on your lips. “I’m so sorry. There’s just something I need to say to him.” You bite your lip. “See you at the match though?" Geto’s surprise melts into an easy grin. "Don't worry about it. Good luck. And Y/N, seriously, take care of him, okay?” The words prick at your skin with a faint sense of deja vu, but you don’t stop to examine it. Instead, you give Geto one last shaky smile, sling your bag over your shoulder, and hurry toward the exit. Your heart pounds so loudly it drowns everything else. 

You knock at what you believe is his door if memory serves correct. “Go away, I'm jerking it.” You can’t decide if he’s being serious or just scaring unwanted guests away. Regardless, you clear your throat and talk. “Sorry for interrupting? Look, it’s me, it’s Y/N. Can I come in?” No sooner had you said your name, the door flies open, Gojo standing right behind, eyes wide and face flushed. “Y/N?  What are you—I mean, I thought you had that date with Suguru?” He goes to run a hand through his hair but pauses, switching to his other hand. “Yeah well, clearly I left him to come see you.” You sigh deeply and brush past him into his room. “There’s something I need to say to you and it’s really eating up at me for some reason.” “No sure, go ahead. Walk right in,” he mumbles but doesn’t try to stop you, instead closing the door gently. “What are you doing here? Because if you’re here to gloat or have a girl talk, Shoko is the one for you.” You flop onto his couch, staring up at his ceiling. He pauses before following, the couch cushions dipping under his weight as he drops down beside you. “Gojo, I’m really sorry,” you say, turning to him. He stares back unamused. “I told you to call me Satoru.” You blink, momentarily caught off guard before correcting yourself. “Satoru. I'm really sorry.” “Okay.” His frown lifts and he leans back to look at you. “About what?” You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly unsure where to even start. “About everything?” You try weakly. He raises a brow. “That narrows it down.” You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Okay, specifically I feel like I've been using you and being annoying and dragging you into my mess. And also I abandoned you in the library which was rude and I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn't and I'm really sorry.” Gojo blinks at you and you hold your breath for the verdict. “...that’s it?” “That’s not ‘it’, that’s a lot,” you argue, pushing yourself up. “You've been helping me this whole time and I'm just barging into your life, asking for unreasonable favors and taking up your time.” He watches you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, surprise, confusion, maybe even something softer that he quickly buries under a flippant expression. “That's it?” he repeats, slower this time. You nod, twisting in your fingers together in your lap, the fight leaving your body as quick as it came. “I mean, it's not nothing. I know I've been a lot. And you didn’t have to help me at all, with any of it, but you did and I…” Your voice falters. “I don't want you to think I was just… using you.” Silence settles between you, thick but not entirely uncomfortable. The hum of his mini fridge in the corner fills the gaps. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams and laughter echoes faintly before fading. Gojo exhales through his nose and leans back, head tipping against the couch cushion as he stares up at the ceiling. “You’re terrible,” he mutters. He turns his head to look at you properly, blue eyes sharp in a way that makes your chest tighten. Up close like this, without the buffer of banter or crowds or motion, it’s impossible to ignore how intense he can be when he isn’t performing for anyone. You've had the privilege to see this side of him a few times, and the thought that he’s let you in and you’ve only gone and used him fills you with more guilt. “You didn’t abandon me in the library,” he continues. “I left on my own free will, remember?” “Yeah but—” “And you’re not using me,” he adds, voice flattening slightly. “If you were, then you aren’t using me to my full potential.” You huff a weak laugh. “Thanks?” “I mean it,” he says, not smiling. “People who use others don’t show up at their door looking like they’re going to throw up from guilt.” Heat creeps up your neck. “I did not look like that.” “You did,” he says easily. “Still kind of do.”

You shove his shoulder lightly. He barely moves, solid as ever, but the corner of his mouth lifts and the tension in your chest loosens at the sight. “So… you’re not mad?” You ask carefully. He considers that more seriously than you expected. “I was.” The worry comes back tenfold. “But not for the reason you think. So stop looking like you’ve aged ten years, sweets, it’s not a good look on you.” You wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t. You sigh, unable to keep up with the emotional whiplash and opt to instead throw it all away. “Okay, well that’s cryptic," you mutter. He shrugs. “I'm a mysterious guy. It’s all part of the irresistable, untouchable charm.” “I don’t see how you can be mysterious when you’re so loud.” “I open up to you and this is what I get?” “You did not open up.” He turns his head back toward the ceiling. “And now I'm closing back down.” You roll your eyes, but the knot in your chest has loosened enough that you can breathe again, you almost miss this back and forth and it seems he does too because he relaxes fully into his couch. Without thinking, you mimic him, shoulder brushing his. This time, neither of you moves away. The proximity feels different than before. You've been closer to him than this, and you randomly recall being on his lap for some reason unrelated to this specific moment and the charged, quiet atmosphere. After a moment, he speaks again, softer. “Did you at least get what you wanted?” You hesitate, the question knocking you out of orbit. “I think so. I mean he asked me to go to the game with him. and then a bookstore after.” Gojo goes still beside you. “My game?” He shakes his head with a scoff. “Figures. Well, good for you.” You twist the fabric of your sleeve between your fingers, suddenly unsure why that answer feels so unsatisfying. “Yeah,” you say anyway, forcing brightness into your voice. “It is good.” He hums noncommittally, eyes still fixed somewhere on the ceiling. For someone who never shuts up, his silence feels louder than anything he could say. You sneak glances at him from the corner of your eye, observing the strong curve of his nose, the harsh bob of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of his chest and his big hands you’ve had the opportunity to feel on your ass. The quiet stretches, though it is far from quiet inside your head. Then, before you can stop yourself, you’re already opening your mouth. “Can I ask you something?” His gaze slides to you instantly, sharp and attentive as if he was waiting for you to break the silence first. “Not to be that guy but you just did.” “A real question.” You roll your eyes though his somewhat predictable rage bait helps ease some tension. Still, you hesitate, throat tight. If you say it out loud, it becomes real and no longer a suppressed fantasy. But if you don’t say anything, this feeling in your chest might never go away, tainting every future you might have with Geto. “How do you know what you’re doing?” You ask. One white brow lifts. “In what context? I'm good at a lot of things. You're gonna have to narrow it down, sweets.” You groan softly. “With girls. With… touching. And stuff. Etcetera.” Understanding dawns slowly, then all at once. You don’t catch the shift in experience because you stare stubbornly at your hands clasp in your lap, heat flooding your face. “Oh.” “I just don’t know,” you admit, voice small. “I don't know what I'm doing at all and it’s embarrassing.” He sits up a little, attention sharpening in a way that makes your skin prickle. “Y/N.” You press on before he can interrupt. “I mean, I know theoretically, obviously. That's what bio class is for right? But I know in practice I’ll just freeze. Or overthink or do nothing. And if things ever go further with Geto, I don't want to be useless. You mentioned he’s had exes before, right? But I haven't. And that kind of sucks to think about.”

Then softly. “You're probably the closest thing to experience I have.” “Useless,” he starts. “Is not the right word I'd use. Suguru would never think that. He’s not a dick.” You finally look at him. “I don’t want him to regret it. Or think I'm awkward. or that I don't want him.” He studies you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s looking for something he hopes not to find. “And you’re telling me this because…?” You scoff. “You're not stupid. I mean sure, you almost failed baby’s first statistics but you’re not dumb.” “No, I guess I'm not, thanks,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But I was kind of hoping maybe I'm still fantasising.” “You were fantasising before?” “Let's not go there.” “It’s a Friday,” you say slowly. "Shouldn't you have a hook up right about now?” He pouts, looking oddly down. “I wasn't feeling like it.” “So you had to use your hand.” “I wasn't jerking off, Y/N.” Neither of you believe that statement. Here you are, sitting on the couch of campus heartthrob Gojo Satoru, joking around about the lack of a female body against him while you’re upset about being a virgin. Even Gojo, who isn’t admittedly the best at math, shouldn’t struggle with putting two and two together. “Right, I believe you.” You bite your lip, opening your eyes wider as you plead. “I just hate feeling unprepared. You’ve seen just how bad I freeze. Can’t you help me?” He chews on his lips aggressively before finally groaning, running a hand down his face. “You have the worst ideas known to man. Fine. I'll help you. But we're stopping if it gets weird.” “Obviously.” “Do you even remember how to kiss?” “Find out for yourself.” You grab his collar and tug him towards you, smacking your lips against his the second he’s in range. It's not the graceful, fireworks-exploding moment from rom-coms, more like two magnets clashing awkwardly, teeth bumping before you recall the right angle. Gojo chuckles into the kiss, the vibration tickling your mouth, and you pull back just enough to glare at him. “It hurts that you don’t remember my lessons, sweets,” Gojo purrs, clearly enjoying your fluster. “Shut up and kiss me properly,” you mutter, snarky even as your cheeks burn. You dive back in, and this time it clicks, most likely due to his more active participation. Your lips move in sync, his tongue slipping past your teeth. It's surprisingly nice, all heat and shared air, making your stomach flip in a way that’s equal parts nerves and excitement. You didn’t realise how much you were craving this since the last time. Gojo’s hands stay loose on your waist, respectful but firm, until he deepens the kiss with a low hum. You feel him shift under you, his body reacting before his brain catches up. When you break apart for air, his eyes are darker, pupils blown wide. He adjusts his hips, and there’s no missing the semi-hard bulge straining against his jeans because it nudges insistently against your inner thigh. You both look down. “Uh, yeah,” he says, voice a little rough, something like accusation in his eyes as he glares down at Gojo junior.  “Guess that means you do remember lesson one after all. Mind if I lose the pants?” You snort, trying to play it cool despite the heat pooling in your gut. “Not so reluctant now, huh?” “Game is game.” He grins, all cock swagger, and pops the buttons off his jeans. They slide down his legs in a heap, leaving him in snug black boxers that do nothing to hide his growing interest. Gojo’s leaner than you’d pegged him for, abs carved from lazy gym sessions, waist dipping in before flaring to solid shoulders. But your eyes zero in lower, where his cock twitches half-hard against the fabric, outlining a decent length that’s got you curiously intrigued rather than intimidated. When he sits back down, he leans back on his palms and smirks. “You can touch me, you know. I bet it’s better than just looking.” “Anywhere?” “I'm practically offering myself up to you on a platter. Yes, Y/N. Everywhere’s fair game.” 

You eye him for a little longer. He's not as big as he carried himself around to be. As if sensing your unspoken realisation, he hurriedly explains, "I'm not completely hard yet.” You nod, sympathetically. “Right, no I get it.” “I’m serious, Y/N, stop looking at me like that.” He grabs your hand and places it on his abs, ignoring your sudden squeak. “You’re going to have to work to get me there.” He watches as you hesitate, his heartbeat quickening slightly under your touch. “This seems less like teaching and more like you just wanting someone to get you off.” “You’re learning.” Despite his teasing tone, he eases you closer to him. “Look, it’s not exactly rocket science and what I tell you probably won’t apply to everyone. But most guys are animals so if you can make them feel good then that’s all that matters. What's meta for most guys though is probably their neck and lower stomach. But you can start anywhere.” His smirk falters just a tad when you explore, tentatively at first, palms sliding over his ribs and thumbs brushing his nipples until they pebble under your touch. Gojo’s breath hitches, but he keeps it together, murmuring encouragement. “I guess you could try there too. Fuck, this is kind of embarrassing. Can’t you be normal and go at my neck or something?” “Your neck?” Your fingers slide up to touch him there but he laughs and gently brushes your hand away. “Okay, don’t strangle me. When I say touch, I don't just mean with your fingers. You can touch your lips too, can’t you?” You bite your lips and nod, wetting them quickly with your tongue. You lean in closer, your lips finding the pulse point of his neck. It's a quick peck at first, testing, and he just arches a brow, unimpressed. Fine, challenge accepted. You brace yourself on his shoulders and lick a slow stripe up the tendon, tasting salt and faint cologne which isn’t the best tasting thing in the world, so you nibble the skin. Gojo hums, head tilting to give you better access, and you dive in, sucking lightly, alternating with kisses that leave faint marks. It’s heady, this rush of control. His bare chest radiates warmth against your arm, heavy breaths ghosting your ear as he lets you lead. “Hungry, are you?” Gojo finds his footing against the absurd situation because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s receiving attention from pretty women. If he closes his eyes like so, focusing only on the cute licks against his neck, he can almost ignore the fact that it’s coming from you. “I'd be careful not to leave any marks. Girls get jealous easily, you know?” You roll your eyes at his very unsexy comment. He's underestimating you, you’re sure he is, and you’re even more determined to prove him wrong. You kiss down his neck, licking at the column of his neck, and when you find this soft patch of skin, pale under your lips and glimmering with a thin layer of sweat, you do what your instincts roar at you to do and bite him as he’s mid yapping. “I never really let girls kiss me like this, so be grateful that I—ohfuck!” Gojo’s reaction is immediate as a downright sinful moan escapes his pretty lips unchecked. His hands tighten in your hips, head dropping forward, panting as he catches his breath from the sudden sharp inhale. You let go, licking at the mark left behind. “Oh, sorry. You don’t do marks, right?” “That was…” He trails off, eyes dark as he holds you in his gaze. “Jesus, sweets, where did you even learn that kind of stuff?” You shrug, letting him hold you back and feeling a little bit like a rabid animal. “It was just something I wanted to do. Was it bad? Did it hurt?” “No, it was fine. Keep going just… use your hands a bit more too,” he hurries to add on, clearing his throat and loosening his hold on you. “It feels better if you use both your mouth and hands at the same time. Keep going, but don’t forget the rest of me.”

Finding no error in his words, you enthusiastically go back to kissing and sucking on his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. Meanwhile, you slide your hands down his chest, marveling at how smooth he feels despite his muscle. When you graze your finger tips between the medial line of his abs, you feel him shiver and you detach your lips from his neck to watch his eyes track your every move, hungry and unblinking. “Atta girl,” he rasps, abs flexing under your palm and he shivers as you slide even further down, hand hovering his stomach. His cock visibly thickens in his boxers as you trace the ridges of his abs.“That’s it. Take your time, sweets. I'm not going anywhere.” You never considered that Gojo would be so vocal during sex, not that this even counted as sex yet. If anything, that made you even more curious, wondering if he himself knew how much he was talking and how little any of it even meant. In case he didn’t, you didn’t dare talk in case it would break the spell. Your fingers skim the waistband of his boxers and he sucks in a breath, voice dropping an octave. “Fuck, yeah. That’s the spot.” The fabric tents fully now, his cock hard and straining, the tip outlined clearly. It's thicker than you expected, pulsing with need, and the sight sends a thrill straight to your core. Gojo’s eyes flick between your hand and your face, flushed and focused. “See? told you it’d wake up. want to see all of it?” You nod, eyes trained on his bulge. He grins, taking your hands to hook your thumbs into the sides of his boxers. He helps you slightly though he lets you do most of the work. Emboldened, you tug the boxers down just enough to free his cock, watching it spring up, thicker now, veins prominent along the shaft, the head flushed and glistening with a bead of precum. Your first words are, of course, very sexy. “Oh damn.” Gojo laughs breathlessly. For my own ego, I'm going to take that as a good thing.” “It just doesn’t look how I expected it to.” That makes him frown. He ducks his head to meet your gaze. “Hey. She has feelings too, you know. Don’t imply that she’s ugly, she’ll sag.” “She?” It's so ridiculous you snort, the nervousness running away to let curiousity fuel your movements once again, fingers curling around his hot, velvety length. He's rock hard under your soft touch, precum slicking your palm as you pump him experimentally. Gojo groans low in his throat, head falling back against the couch. “Shit, just like—ngh—that,” he grits out, voice wrecked. The sound hits you like a spark, raw and primal, making your thighs clench. “My—my dick has she/her pronouns. It’s 2026 now, get woke.” Still looking at you, he takes your hand again, wrapping it around his shaft. “Hold it properly. Feel how hot it is.” He groans softly as you hold him, guiding your hand up and down in a slow stroke, pressing down where he’s sensitive just the way he likes it. “Squeeze gently and twist your wrist as you move.” He demonstrates the twist motion, his large hand enveloping yours, precum beading at his tip from both the sight and feel of you. He lets you go, leaning back on his elbows, enjoying the view of you jacking him off. “You’re a natural, keep going, just like that.” His breathing becomes heavier, his abdomen tensing. He can’t help but buck slightly into your hand. Despite his unattractive dirty talk, it doesn’t drive away the power you feel and it doesn’t take away from the sounds, the way his body trembles under your control. It's all so intoxicating, way better than any awkward fumble you’ve imagined with Geto late at night with your hands down your pants. To shut him up, you squeeze a little tighter and he hisses, pulling you away. “Slow down,” he pants, catching his breath. He closes his eyes for a moment before locking you in a fierce gaze. “Do you usually shove your finger inside when you’re dry?”

“What?” “This is why lube exists, woman. God, my poor lady,” He looks up at you, eyes trailing down from your eyes to your lips. “Please don’t refer to your dick as a lady.” “I’ve gotten no complaints so far.” Gojo reaches up, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb, dragging it down slightly. “Have you ever spat on anyone?” “Excuse me?” You look down at him as if he’s grown another head. He lets out a strangled groan, hips bucking up under you. “Yeah, keep looking at me like that and spit on my dick. Give her the good old hawk tuah.” Your grimace only grows and he bites his lip, the corners quirking up. “Please,” he whispers and you’ve lost. The word hangs between you like a dare, his blue eyes locked on yours, all wide and pleading in a way that clashes hilariously with his usual attitude if the unsure quiver to his lips didn’t wreck you. Gojo’s cock throbs in your loose grip, the head leaking more precum that drips down the shaft, making your fingers slick without even trying. You hesitate, face heating up at the sheer audacity, but the way his abs tense, the subtle roll of his hips begging for more, chips away at your resistance. “Fine,” you mutter, rolling your eyes to mask the flutter in your stomach and you must have imagined the way he groans. “But just know I’m judging you the entire time.” “Even better,” he moans. You lean over him, one hand steadying on his thick thighs, firm muscle under smooth skin, and purse your lips as you spit on him. It’s awkward as hell, the glop of spit landing off-centre on the underside of his shaft, but you smear it around with your palm. The glide turns smoother instantly, wet and filthy, your strokes picking up speed as his cock slicks up fully. Gojo’s reaction is immediate, a deep, rumbling moan spills from his chest, his head knocking back against the couch with a thud, not that he notices. “Fuuuck, yes—that’s it, just like that.” His hands fist the fabric of the couch on either side of his hips, knuckles white, like he’s fighting not to grab you and take over. But he doesn’t, he lets you work him, hips jerking up in shallow thrusts to meet your rhythm, the tip bumping your palm on every upstroke. “Keep going, tighter… shit, you’re killing me here.” The power rush hits you harder now, watching him come undone under your touch. His cock feels massive in your hand, thick and veined, pulsing hotly as you pump from base to tip, thumb swiping over the slit to collect more precum and spread it down. You can feel every ridge, every twitch, and it’s nothing like the vague fantasies you’d spun about Geto. This is real, messy, and way more intense. Your own arousal builds, thighs pressing together as you grind subtly against nothing, the heat between your legs turning insistent. “Does it… feel good?” You ask, voice breathy and you slow your strokes just to tease, squeezing the base and watching in awe as a fresh bead of precum pearl at the head. He cracks one eye open, gaze hazy and dark, lips parted in a pant. “Good? Sweets, don’t sell yourself short.” A grin tugs at his mouth but it falters into a groan when you resume, faster now, the wet schlick of your hand echoing in the room causing you to squirm. “Don’t stop,” he all but whines. “Gonna cum if you keep this up. Want me to, sweets? Want me to paint your hand or what?” The crudeness should turn you off, but it doesn’t, it only amps up the thrill, making you bold. You nod, biting your lip as you lean closer, free hand bracing on his chest to feel his heart hammering. “Yeah, do it. cum for me.” Gojo’s control snaps like a rubber band. his moans pitch higher, body arching as his cock swells in your grip, veins bulging. “Fuck—fuck, can’t help it, I’m gonna—” He bucks hard once, twice, and then he’s erupting, thick spurts of cum shooting from the tip to splatter your fingers, his stomach, even a streak across his abs. It's hot, sticky, rope after rope as you milk him through it, not knowing what else to do. You slow your strokes until he’s spent, twitching sensitively in your palm. 

He slumps back, chest rising and falling like he ran a marathon, a lazy, disbelieving laugh bubbling out. He runs a hand down his face, groaning softly. “I am…” He lets out another breathless laugh, head dropping back against the armrest of the couch. “So fucking washed. What the hell was that, sweets?” You blink, a little dazed yourself. Your hand is still loosely wrapped around him, slick and messy, and only when his eyes flick down do you jolt and snatch your hand back like you’ve been burnt. “I—I don’t know,” you mumble, gratefully accepting the tissue he hands you, awkwardly deciding to dab at his stomach and abs too, anywhere your eyes can safely land that isn’t his softening cock. “That was… hey, wait a minute. Shouldn’t i be asking you? What the hell was that spitting thing?” He shrugs, your body moving with the motion as you remain on his lap. “I told you, there’s some things some guys like and some don’t. As a note of reference, maybe don’t spit on Suguru. You’ll kill his ego.” He has the audacity to smirk at the thought considering the state of him, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, mouth pink and kiss-swollen from all the swearing and groaning. “You're disgusting,” you accuse weakly, trying not to think about how he’d looked under you a few seconds ago, jaw slack, eyes glazed, like you’d wrung the soul out of him. “Mmm.” His gaze drags over your face, down the line of your throat, lingering a beat too long at your chest before he drags it back up. “So, how are you feeling after all that?” “Embarrassed,” you say immediately. “But kinda turned on, too?” he guesses, just as fast. Your mouth drops open. “I did not say that.” “Don’t have to,” he says, maddening. “You’re still sitting on me, you know.” You freeze. You're still straddling his lap, knees planted on either side of his thighs on the couch, hips pressed to his, fingers bunched at his stomach. You'd be so focused on that scrunched up look on his face when he came that you kind of forgot to be mortified about the position. Now you remember. “I was busy,” you mutter, shifting like you’re about to climb off. His hands come up automatically, one at your waist, one braced at your hip, holding you there without quite pulling you back down. “Hey, hey. I didn't say you had to move.” “But you’re all…” you wave a hand vaguely at his lap, face burning. “Post-nut clarity or whatever. You should be resting or something.” “That’s hilarious, do you think I’m an old man?” He huffs a laugh. “If my stamina lasted one puny handjob I would never show my face anywhere. Hey, don’t glare at me like that. you know what that does to me. you glaring at me and spitting on my cock while you jerk me off—fuck.” “Don't say it like that,” you hiss, heat flooding your chest. “You literally told me to.” “And you did so good,” he croons. “Look at you, all flustered now. You were seconds away from calling me pathetic, you know.” “How are you turning this on me? You’re the one that liked it,” you shoot back, shoulder tensing. His fingers flex at your waist, like he’s remembering it. “Yeah. I really, really did.” The way he says it sends a tiny shiver through you. You feel ridiculously aware of yourself suddenly, of your damp palms on his chest, of the way your thighs are pressed around him, of the restless thrum under your skin you’ve been trying not to notice since he first groaned for you. You shift again, intending to put some space between you, and hiss as the movement drags you a little too firmly against him, sparking through the ache low in your belly. You go very still and so does he. His eyes flicker, dropping for a fraction of a second to the point where your hips meet his. You can feel the change in him, no longer wrecked and loose-limbed, but sharpened like he’s honing in on every tiny flinch. “Oh,” he says softly. “Feeling something, sweets?”

“Don’t start,” you warn, feeling every urge to catapult yourself off his lap. His hand tightens on your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles, maddeningly casual. “Can you let me go already?” “But it’s not over yet, are you sure you want to miss the best part? If I said I wanted to make it your turn, would you say no?” The question hangs between you, heavier than his usual teasing. “This isn’t… about that.” “Sure it is,” he whispers, lips curved into a wicked grin. “You wanna learn how to make a guy feel good right? Then you also need to know what you like. If you know what works for you, it’s easier to tell him what works for him.” Has Gojo always been so reasonable? “Besides,” he continues when you’re not rushing to sign up to his touch. “I’m being selfless here. You can’t seriously think I'd let you walk out of here without repaying the favour first, right?” “Way to sound like a douche.” You swat at his chest, a weak attempt to appear levelheaded. “How else am I supposed to say it?” He laughs softly, catching your wrist but not pushing it away, thumb stroking over your pulse. “I want to touch you. properly. Can I?” Your stomach swoops. “Just to know what it feels like?” “Exactly.” His smile goes crooked at the edges. “Now you’re getting it.” You stare at him, breathing shallow. Your heart is thudding way too fast. you’re hyperaware of your own body again, of the way your panties stick uncomfortably, of the restless ache that’s only been getting worse, of how easy it would be to fall into his tempting embrace. “Hey, come back to me,” Gojo murmurs. “We don't have to do anything you don’t want. I promise I'm not a dick. So? What do you want, sweets?” You look down at where his hands rest, big and warm on your hips, fingers flexing like he’s trying very hard to stay put. You could say no, you know that. He'd let you hop off, probably make a dumb joke to break the tension, and the both of you can go back to pretending the constant physical touch is driving you up the wall. But you also know your legs are still a little unsteady, and that every time you shift you have to bite back a sound you really don’t want him to hear. You swallow, hard. “You have to listen,” you say finally. “If I say stop, you stop. and none of your stupid comments either.” His expression sobers instantly, hands jumping a little at your hips. “Promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” “I’m telling you, when you say shit like that, everything goes back inside.” “Yeah, yeah, I get it, you want me quiet. So can I touch you or are you going to keep torturing us both?” “You deserve the torture,” you grumble, then quieter, “But, yeah. okay.” He hums. “Not good enough. Say it again?” You bite back a complaint. “I want you to…touch me.” It comes out barely more than a whisper, but it hits him like a truck. His eyes darken, lashes lowering as he sucks in a breath. One moment you’re straddling him, the next he’s sat up and turned you around so your back leans against his chest, his breath tickling your neck. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans, hands sliding down to your stomach. His fingers play with the hem, nails barely grazing your bare skin. “Can I?” You shiver, looking down to watch his hands with anticipation. Swallowing, you brace yourself and nod. “Good girl,” he breathes. His hand trails under your shirt, fingertips tracing nonsense shapes on your skin. He doesn’t go straight where you know you’re aching for him to go. Instead, he takes his time, mapping out the sensitive spots he finds, where your muscles jump when he squeezes, lowering his hand to where your breath stutters when he drags his knuckles along the inside of your thigh. “You're wound so tight,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Relax for me, Y/N.” “Shut up and stop teasing,” you hiss, and then gasp when his hand finally slips higher, brushing over the edge of your waistband. “Is that a no?” He asks instantly, stilling. 

]You want to throttle him. “I’m just… nervous.” “Of course you are,” he says, voice going stupidly soft in your ear, hands playing with the fabric. “The first time’s always weird. But it doesn’t have to be bad-weird.” He slowly slips his hand under the band, feeling you go still. “Hey.” He presses his lips to your hair, mumbling soft words of praise. “You're okay, you’re doing good. Just breathe for me.” You do, albeit shakily, his fingertips brushing the damp centre of your panties. “You’re already… Jesus," he says quickly. “I really did a number on you, huh? And without even touching you, too.” “If you don’t shut up, I'm leaving,” you threaten weakly. He chuckles, guiding your attention away. Gojo slides your shorts down so you can see exactly where his fingers press against, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks at the sight of his thick fingers prodding against the backdrop of the panties you chose out this morning. If you knew something like this would happen, you would have worn something else. Gojo thankfully doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he slowly explores, no sudden movements, no overwhelming pressure, just the occasional slide against your clit. “Okay?” he asks, and you realise you’ve gone silent, holding your breath again. “Yeah,” you gasp. “Just feel different than—nevermind.” “Different good?” He prompts, thumb pressing down on your clit and you jolt, an audible inhale escaping you. You feel his arms tighten around you. “Oh, there we go,” he mutters, sounding ridiculously pleased with himself. “That got you.” You don’t dignify that with an answer, not that you have the capacity to because the next moment, he’s moving his fingers with practiced purpose. His thumb circles your swollen clit through the damp fabric, the barrier muffling any sharp pleasure though it helps you wrap your head around the sensation. When you start lifting your hips to meet his touch, he knows he has you where he wants you. With his other fingers, he slowly slides your panties to the sides and touches you directly. The effect is immediate, your eyes snap down to watch, body tensing, want like you’ve never known it before shocking you. The sight of your own arousal makes you wetter and he abandons his touch to touch you directly. “Look at that,” he coos in your ear, voice breathy with awe and smug satisfaction. “Here you were acting like you wanted to leave when you’re this wet. Thought I wouldn't know, sweets? That I couldn't see you eye my dick all hungry like that?” He emphasises his words with a harsh pinch of your clit and your head falls back to rest on his shoulders with a filthy moan ripped from your throat, raw and unprocessed. Gojo takes the chance to kiss your neck. You should hit him for his words, you really should. But instead, your hand flies up to his forearm, nails digging in when he slides a finger to circle your entrance and the world briefly whites out. He groans quietly, like your reaction is doing something to him. “That’s—fuck, you’re so cute. Do that again.” “Don’t tease,” you say again, voice barely there and brain too mushy to think of something original. And like he knows, Gojo slowly slides a finger into your pussy and the pressure temporarily pushes out all of the pleasure. But then his free hand is playing with your clit and he’s telling you how good you are and how pretty you sound, and it comes back. He thrusts that finger in and out slowly, letting you adjust to the intrusion and when you’re sighing soft moans and broken demands again, he curls it and doesn’t stop moving. He could easily overpower you, could pin you down and take, take, take, but he doesn’t. Every time you tense like you might pull away, he backs off just enough, murmuring at your ear, though by the time you’re close you haven’t panicked in a while. He’s the one breathing hard when you start to chase your peak, like he’s the one being touched. You’re writhing now, his arms having to tighten around you to keep you still as he slides another finger inside. 

“That’s it,” he whispers, panting when your thighs clamp around his hand, head tipped back on his shoulders and eyes starting to roll back. “There you go. I've got you. Let go for me, yeah? Doing so good for me, sweets.” “S-Satoru,” you choke out, the name ripped from somewhere deep. His whole body jolts behind you and you feel a twitch near your ass. “Oh, fuck,” he groans, like you’ve done something filthy. “Say my name like that again, I swear to god—” You don’t because suddenly, you’re gone. His fingers pressed against the spongy spot inside, his thumb circling your clit, and suddenly everything tightens then snaps and you’re tumbling, shaking around the steady anchor of his hand and his arm and his voice in your ear. He doesn’t speed up, letting you ride your orgasm on his hand, mumbling sweet nothings against your sweaty neck. It’s messy and overwhelming and a little scary for a second, then his palm is flat over your lower stomach, grounding you as waves of sensation roll through your body. His other hand finally gentles and you can breathe again. When you finally slump back against him boneless, the room feels dimmer. your chest heaves, skin prickling with aftershocks that he guides you through. He eases his hand away and wipes it on his pants, keeping you steady on his lap. “Hey,” he says softly, lips brushing your hairline. “You still with me?” You nod, or at least you try to. “I think so.” “Yeah?” He presses, smiling against your skin. “Yeah.” “Good.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath with you. “You did amazing, sweets.” “You're making me sound like a dog.” “Well, you were very obedient,” he says lightly, then winces. “Okay, that sounded kinda bad.” He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re still half-leaning against him. One of his hands comes up, hovering for a second like he isn’t sure if touching you again is allowed, then settles gently at your side. You catch your breath, stealing a glance. His hair is a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes still blown wide but there’s something softer around the edges, so different from his usual cocky composure that it does something strange to your chest. “You're the worst,” you mumble, just to say something. “Oh?” his brows lift. “You seemed pretty satisfied with the lesson.” You keep your mouth shut because there is absolutely no winning that argument. Silence falls, not heavy nor awkward, but certainly unfamiliar. Without the distraction of movement or adrenaline, your mind starts spinning into the consequences of your actions. And the fact that you’re still sitting between his thighs. You stiffen and he notices immediately. “Uh. Do you… want to—” “Yes,” you say at the exact same time he says, “We should probably—” You both stop, voice overlapping as you tell each other to continue then stop again. It’s funny if not awkward and you laugh, startled and breathless. “Okay,” he says, hands lifting slightly in surrender. “You first.” “No, you go,” you insist, scrambling upright a little too fast. The room tilts for half a second and you grab his thigh to steady yourself. His hands hover again, then settle at your waist just in case. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re still a little… y’know?” You straighten and stand away from the couch, legs wobbling in a way you pretend not to notice. The cool air hits your skin and reality comes rushing back in a tidal wave of embarrassment. Your skirt rests on your thighs but they’re crumpled, and your hair is surely a mess. Gojo watches, biting his lip hard enough to leave teeth marks. He stands too, running a hand through his hair, suddenly looking almost shy as he grabs his discarded shirt and pulls it back on. For a moment, neither of you know where to look. You fixate on a crack in the wall and he studies the floor. “Do you, uh… want me to walk you back?” The normalcy of the question feels surreal. “I’m fine with walking,” you say quickly. “The weather’s nice so.” “Yeah,” he nods. “Fresh air. Definitely.”

You grab your bag with fumbling hands, nearly knocking it off the couch in the process. He catches it before it hits the floor, fingers brushing yours again as he hands it over. Neither of you pull away immediately. Then, you both do at the same time. “Right,” you say. “Right,” he echoes. He opens the door for you, peeking into the hallway first before gesturing. “You sure you don’t want me to walk you back?” You almost cry at the visual of a way out. “No, no, I'm fine. It’s not too far anyway.” Gojo studies your face like he’s trying to decide whether to argue or not. For once, he doesn’t look like he’s in on some big secret. He just looks uncertain. “If you say so,” he mutters, stepping aside. You slip past him into the hallway, letting out a big sigh of relief when you hear the door close gently behind you with a soft click. Looking over your shoulder, you see Gojo follow you out anyway. Your feet slow. “You don’t have to, I'm really okay.” “I’m not,” he says quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m just heading in the same direction. That's all. What a coincidence?” “Uh-huh.” The staircase is only a few doors down, but the short walk stretches, each step heavy with things unsaid. You can hear voices downstairs, life continuing on, oblivious. At the top of the stairwell, you stop. “Are we still going the same way?” He shakes his head. “I’ll see you around,” you settle on when the silence stretches. “See you, Y/N.” You take one step down, then another. After a third, you glance back. Gojo is still there, watching. your chest does something uncomfortable as he waits. “Goodnight, Satoru,” you say softly. He blinks, like the name catches him off guard every time. Then he smiles, small but warm. “Night, sweets.” When you reach the bottom and push out into the night air, it feels shockingly cool against your overheated skin. The campus is quiet, streetlights painting everything gold and shadowed, the distant sound of traffic humming like white noise. You walk faster than necessary because if you slow down, the thoughts will quickly flood in. And if you start thinking, you might realise that somewhere between asking him for help and leaving his room tonight, something has gone very, very wrong. 

You’re not sure why you care so much. 

You tell yourself it’s because Geto will be there, because this is a chance to make a real impression, because this is what all of it has been building toward. But as you stand in front of your mirror, turning this way and that, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, adjusting your hair for the third time, checking your reflection from angles no one in real life would ever see, you realise this isn’t normal. 

You’ve never put this much thought into a “casual” outing before. 

Not the outfit, carefully balanced between cute and effortless, like you didn’t spend forty minutes deciding between two nearly identical tops just for the jersey to cover it anyway. Not the makeup, soft enough to look natural, deliberate enough to feel like armor. Not the way your stomach flips every time you picture stepping into the arena. 

You know deep down this isn’t about Geto. That thought alone makes your chest feel tight. 

You grab your purse before you can overthink it further and leave. 

When you walk into the arena, the roar of the crowd hits you like a physical force, loud and electric, buzzing with anticipation and cheer. It bleeds through the concrete walls, through your bones, and through the floor beneath your shoes. 

The game hasn’t officially started yet, you made sure to come before then, but the energy is already at a fever pitch.

Your eyes sweep the rink automatically, searching. And you spot him immediately. 

Gojo, in his navy and white jersey, skates across the ice like it belongs to him, like the rink exists solely to accommodate his momentum. It doesn't seem to matter that his helmet obscures most of his face, you’d recognise him anywhere. the easy confidence in the way he moves, the loose, effortless posture, the casual speed that looks like he isn’t even trying—it’s unmistakable. 

His hair, damp under his helmet, peeks out in soft white tufts. His cheeks are slightly flushed from exertion, breath fogging faintly in the cold air as he glides past teammates, exchanging easy shoves and taps of sticks. He's the easiest person in the world to look at and the hardest to look away from. 

He glances up towards the stands during warm-ups, scanning lazily, and your heart stutters. You freeze, suddenly aware of yourself, of the crowd, of how ridiculous it is to hope he’ll notice you among hundreds of people wearing the same colours. 

I mean, all these people? All wearing the team jersey? And you wouldn’t call yourself beautiful, not in the kind of way that makes someone stand out across a packed arena, and certainly not in a way that draws eyes automatically, not—

Gojo turns a little more. and then his eyes meet yours. 

The jolt is instantaneous, sharp and electric, like touching a live wire. Your breath catches, lungs forgetting their purpose entirely as a stupid, bright grin spreads across his face. 

A strange warmth floods your chest, blooming outward until it feels too big to contain. You bite your lip, trying and failing, to suppress your own giddy smile as you tug lightly at the hem of your jersey, lifting it just enough to show the number at the front and point at it. 

06. 

If it's even possible, his grin widens. He spins around without hesitation, and easily mind you, skating backward for a few seconds just to show off the back of his own jersey, jabbing a glove thumb at the matching number with pride. 

Heat rushes to your face. 

It's ridiculous, childish even, but your heart is pounding and the warmth in your chest swells until it’s almost overwhelming. 

When warm-ups end, he lifts his stick in your direction in one last, unmistakable acknowledgement before skating toward the bench, where his teammates swarm him instantly. One of them hooks an arm around his neck, dragging him down while another plays bongos on his helmet, elbows digging into his ribs. 

From this distance you can’t hear what they’re saying, but you don’t need to. His expression gives everything away, the wide grin and mock protests, and the way he shoves them back half-heartedly while still laughing. 

Someone whistles, another bumps his shoulder and one even points toward the stands, toward you. Your stomach flips. 

“Y/N?” 

You start, tearing your eyes away as if caught doing something incriminating. Geto stands beside you, already holding two drinks, his expression warm and easy. 

“Hey,” he says, offering you one. “You made it. I found seats over here, it’s a pretty good view, if I don’t say so myself. We should head over before the game starts.” 

You take the cup automatically, fingers brushing his. “Thanks!”

He smiles, guiding you through the rows of people with gentle awareness, making space and steadying you when someone brushes past too close. It's thoughtful and careful and exactly the kind of thing that made you fall for him in the first place. 

Once seated, conversation comes easily to him. It’s all polite small talk and soft jokes, quiet observations about the team and season. He fills in the silence like Gojo had predicted, never letting it become uncomfortable. He does all the right things that you could almost tick them off a list. He laughs at your comments like they’re genuinely funny and asks questions that make it clear he’s paying attention. 

It should be perfect, it should be everything you’ve ever wanted. 

And yet, your eyes drift back to the rink, to the flashes of navy and white. 

To the tall figure leaning against the boards, helmet off now, shaking his hair as he listens to a coach, nodding absentmindedly while his gaze flicks upward. 

Your pulse jumps when his eyes land on you again. Except this time he doesn’t grin. It might be your imagination but he seemingly looks to Geto beside you, then back, just watching. 

You force yourself to look back at Geto, nodding at something he just said, hoping your smile looks natural and not strained. 

BUZZWORD

The game starts fast. 

Faster than you expected, faster than anything you’ve watched on TV, faster than seems physically possible for men balancing on thin blades over frozen water. The pluck drops and suddenly the rink explodes with motion, bodies colliding, sticks clashing, skates carving violent crescents into the ice. 

You lost track of the puck almost immediately.

Geto leans closer, voice raised just enough to carry over the roar of the crowd. “Watch Satoru, he plays center so he’ll usually be in there.”

Your eyes find him easily. 

He moves differently from everyone else, you see, loose, flashier, or maybe that’s just you. No, you reject that notion as he accelerates in bursts, gliding between players with impossible precision, stick tapping the ice impatiently when he doesn’t have the puck. 

Every time he skates past your side of the rink, your chest tightens and your throat hurts a little more as you try to cheer louder. 

The first goal goes to the other team. 

Your side of the arena groans as one, a wave of disappointment that rattles through the stands. You feel it too, a sinking drop in your stomach, though you don’t fully understand the play that led to it. 

Gojo slams his stick once against the ice in frustration, then shoves off hard, jaw set. 

Geto doesn’t seem worried. “They’ll bounce back. Satoru is the best they have, after all.”

Just like he predicted, they do. Midway through the second period, one of Gojo’s teammates manages to slip the puck past the goalie, and the building detonates. People surge to their feet to cheer and you find yourself in that crowd, cheering without thinking, adrenaline crackling through your veins like you personally contributed. 

On the ice, Gojo grabs the scorer by the shoulders and shakes him, helmet bumping into helmet, grin blinding even through the cage. 

It’s a tie game until it’s not. Another goal to the opposing side which Gojo’s team equalising moments after. Again and again, a tense back and forth that even has Geto inhaling sharply at moments. 

By the third period, your nails are dug into the flimsy paper cup in your hand, ice long melted into a yucky watered down version of whatever was in the drink. You barely notice when Geto takes it from you and sets it aside so you don’t crush it completely. 

The scoreboard reads 3-3 and the clock tells you there’s two minutes left. 

The noise is deafening now, frantic and desperate, every movement on the ice met with gasps or shouts. 

Gojo has long since lost the playful edge from earlier. He circles near centre ice, knees bent, weight forward, eyes tracking the puck like it’s the only thing that exists in the world. A defender tries to box him out and he shrugs him off with a brutal shoulder check that makes the crowd howl. 

The puck slides loose along the boards, ricocheting off a tangle of skates and sticks like it has a mind of its own. Someone on Gojo’s team snatches it first and fires it forward, a risky pass that slides clean across open ice, and towards him. 

Gojo receives it in stride, blade cushioning the impact with effortless control. He doesn’t even glance down. his head is already up, scanning his way forward. A defender lunges for him and he slips past with a sharp pivot, hips twisting, edges biting deep into the ice. 

You’re on your feet before you realise you’ve moved. 

“Go—!” you scream and like a domino effect, people around you start to cheer. 

Gojo fakes a left. The goalie commits. 

He snaps right, dragging the puck across his body in one powerful motion, forcing the goalie to witness the outplay. And then he flicks his wrist and a sharp crack echoes across the rink. 

The puck lifts, a black blur slicing through air, threading the narrowest gap between glove and shoulder, and slams into the back of the net. 

For half a heartbeat, there is silence. Then the buzzer screams and the crowd erupts. 

Sound crashes over you in a tidal wave, screaming, stomping, clapping, the metallic rattle of the stands shaking under hundreds of pounding feet. You’re shouting too, throat tearing with it, hands flying to your mouth before dropping again because you need them free to clap and wave, anything to release all this energy exploding out of you. 

Down on the ice, Gojo throws his head back and roars, pure exhilaration bursting out of him. His teammates collide with him seconds later, swarming him in a pile of navy and white, shoving his helmet and grabbing his shoulders, almost knocking him over in their celebration. 

He's laughing. 

Even through the cage, from the distance, you can see it, the wild brightness in his eyes and the way his chest heaves with adrenaline. 

They won. 

They actually won. 

You’re bouncing on your toes without realising, hands clasped in front of your mouth. 

Gojo breaks free from the pile just enough to turn and look up into the stands. It's easier finding you this time around when he knows where to look. 

His whole face lights up, grin splitting wide and unrestrained, so bright it feels like it could blind you, he lifts his stick and points it straight at you then thumps it once against the ice in a triumphant salute. 

Your stomach swoops violently. 

You laugh, breathless and giddy, lifting both hands to wave back like an idiot. Your body is already leaning forward, feet shifting as instinct screams for you to move. To go down there, to be closer, to meet him at the glass while he’s still glowing with victory looking as beautiful as you’ve ever seen him, so alive that it radiates off him in waves. 

You want to throw your arms around his neck. 

You want to tell him that was incredible. 

You want—

“Y/N?”

Geto’s voice cuts gently through the chaos, close to your ear.

You blink, tearing your gaze away from the ice to find him watching you with a small, amused smile. 

“That was intense,” he says, laughter in his voice. “I forgot how crazy these games get at the end. Makes you glad you came, right?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, though it comes out shaky and raw from all the cheering. “Yeah it was. Definitely.”

Your eyes flick down despite yourself and find Gojo still looking up, smile dimmed. 

Geto gestures toward the aisle. “If we leave now, we can beat the post-game crowd. The bookstore’s only a short walk away anyway. We can find Satoru after he comes out.” 

The words land heavy in your chest. How could you forget? There was a plan in action, the reason why you came, the person you’re supposed to be focusing on. 

“Right,” you say, though your voice sounds far away even to your own ears. 

On the ice, Gojo’s teammates are tugging him toward the bench, shouting in his ear and shoving him here and there. He goes easily enough, though not without one last glance at you. He tilts his chin, a silent question in your eyes, clear despite the distance. 

Are you going?

Your fingers curl into fists at your side. 

“Ready?” Geto asks softly.

You swallow. “... yeah.”

But as you turn to follow him up the aisle, the roar of the arena swelling behind you, you can’t shake that you’ve made the wrong decision. You feel it, that strange, electric thread stretching thinner and thinner behind you as the tunnel swallows Gojo whole. 

BUZZWORD

It should be fun. 

Geto is easy to talk to, he’s polite, thoughtful and gentle, and all the right things. You trail behind him between the shelves as he talks about a book he likes, or some theory he discovered that explains so much and makes so much sense. 

You try, you really do. You nod your head and attempt to store that information away.  

But everything just doesn’t feel right. It's hard to store that information away when your head is full of that look Gojo had given you, the way his white hair had stuck out from under his helmet, damp from the effort and glory of winning, eyes sparkling under the stadium lights, the way he had lifted his stick to point at you. 

Geto is kind. But your tastes don’t match. Your jokes land in different places. He's nice, and you do enjoy his conversation. But not in the same way you had enjoyed Gojo’s company that day in the cafe. 

You don’t feel nervous. You don’t feel excited. Honestly, you just feel like pretending. 

And as if the universe is screaming at you about something just beyond your grasp, when you reach for the same book, your fingers don’t brush. And you don’t want them to. 

Geto’s phone buzzes when he’s in the middle of explaining some theories from this guy called Slavoj Zizek? He winces at whatever he reads. 

“Sorry,” he starts, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I need to head out. But hey, here–” He pulls a paperback off the shelf and hands it to you. “This is the one I was talking about. I think you’ll like it.” 

you accept it automatically. “Thanks,” you say, and then he’s waving and gone the next moment, door swinging behind him. 

For a while, you wander the bookstore in an attempt to rationalise the complex emotions warring inside you. Geto is your crush. You know this. And yet, it all feels so superficial. Gojo had been right, there was nothing personal about the things you liked about him to explain the crush. 

You stand in the quiet of the aisle, holding a book you frankly don’t care about, surrounded by a silence that feels like the wrong choice made tangible long after the last customer walks out. Heavy rain falls outside, pelting against the roof of the store, a steady white noise that backgrounds your thoughts. 

When the bookstore begins to close, you’re ushered outside. You swear as you’re suddenly caught in the harsh weather and through the heavy sheets of rain, there looks to be no other store open. Hastily, you run out in the rain to find some place where you can get cover over your head. Finally, you see a small awning from a closed shop. 

You run under the awning, hugging your arms to your chest as you wait out the storm, feeling stupidly alone and stupidly unsure why you’re this upset. This is what you wanted right? But the part of your heart that has always known the truth traitorously voices the thoughts you’ve been pushing down all this time. 

Gojo. 

Through the sheets of heavy rain, someone is running towards you. Tall, white hair, still in his jersey, his hair now damp (read: soaked) with rain water rather than sweat.

He skids under the awning, breathless, terribly drenched, an unopened umbrella in one hand. 

“What the hell,” he says immediately, voice sharp with concern and frustration. “Are you trying to get pneumonia? Why didn’t you go home? Didn’t you check the weather? It clearly said it was going to rain today!”

You blink, gaping at his sudden presence. “What are you, no, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

He snorts. “Yeah, I was. Until Suguru texted. Said he left you at the bookstore and for me to pick you up. Seriously, you didn’t even bring an umbrella?”

The situation finally catches up to you and you frantically gesture to his own umbrella. “How can you lecture me when you just ran out all the way here without opening your umbrella? it’s literally in your hands, all you had to do was open it!” 

“Like i had the time to! My legs are literally burning from the game and you made me run all this way out to save you!”

“I never asked you to!”

“Well, I had to!” He steps closer, finally freeing himself from the rain completely. His presence fills up the cramped space under the awning and you catch a whiff of cedar and sweat. “I couldn’t just let you die out here in the cold!”

Speechless, you open and close your mouth like an idiot. Finally, you manage to ask, “How did you even know I was out here?”

“Weren’t you listening? I told you Suguru told me he ditched you!” 

At Geto’s name, your face falls. Ah, right. your little moral dilemma about Geto. 

Gojo also calms down a little, his chest heaving a little slower as he uses the silence to catch his breath. his eyes scan your expression, picking up on the way you bite your lip, eyes looking away. 

“Hey,” he says, voice soft though still strained. “You okay?”

Your throat tightens. “I guess? I don't know. Look, sorry. I appreciate you coming.”

“Don't give me that. Just don’t. You’ve told me every embarrassing thing about yourself when you outed that you, you know, like Suguru. Don’t hide something from me now. Are you upset that he left?” His hand comes out to wipe water off your cheek. “Don't cry.”

You scrunch up your face in mild disgust. “I’m not? That's literally just rain water.”

“Oh. So you're okay?”

You inhale and let it out slowly. Were you okay? You shouldn’t be, not if Geto was your crush and he just ditched you. And yet, under Satoru’s shadow as he stands in front of you, blocking the rain, brows furrowed and lips pressed tight as he looks you over in concern, you find yourself feeling okay. More than okay. 

“Why do you even like him?” He asks, quietly, a question that would have easily been lost to the rain if you weren’t hanging off his every word. 

“I told you,” you start, just as quiet. “He saved me that one time.” 

“Yeah?” He opens the umbrella with one hand, and holds your hand in the other, gently guiding you out from under the awning. Rain hits heavy against the fabric and he holds you close to keep you out from the storm, your chest grazing his. “He saved you that day in the rain, did he?”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“Just like this?” 

Mutely, you nod. In his arms, you barely notice the slight chill. 

Gojo searches your eyes for something. He exhales, long and uneven, like he’s been holding this in for longer than he’s willing to admit. And yet, he doesn’t shy away, doesn’t tear his gaze away from yours, just keeps holding the umbrella over your head, tilted ever so slightly in your direction such that you’re completely covered. 

“That day,” he says, quiet but steady, “When you got caught in the rain after that stupid orientation thing? Suguru wasn’t on campus. He went back home for a month before the semester started and didn’t come back until the second week. I was the one that found you.” 

Your breath falters. “What? But he… he gave me his hoodie. His name was on the tag.” 

“Yeah,” Satoru laughs, a single disbelieving puff. “I was wearing his hoodie. He wasn’t at the dorms so I stole some of his clothes to wear. It’s whatever, he steals some of mine sometimes. The point is, I was the one that helped you.” 

For a moment, you stop breathing entirely. The rain pours around the two of you, a curtain of noise, but it’s silent under the umbrella. 

You’ve never seen Gojo so nervous. Definitely not before the big game earlier, not on any of the practice dates, never when he talks to a group of people. Between the two of you, nervousness came more naturally to you. And yet, standing before you vulnerable, wet lashes stuck together, cheeks flushed from running and is that a faint bruise forming on his jaw? He looks nervous and it’s a sight that sends warmth all over your face. 

His eyes are unbearably soft as he waits for your verdict. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice sounds too small. 

“Because you thought it was Suguru. Because you liked him. And back then, I didn't realise that I wanted you to know it was me.”

Your heart thuds, something a little more daring saying the next few words for you. “And now?” 

This moment was perfect. The two of you had been slowly closing that small gap of distance, eyes seeing nothing but each other and suddenly all those rom coms and kdramas come to mind. All those scenes of first kisses (forgetting the practices because those didn’t include real romance), all those late night conversations with Shoko about what it’s like, they all come and leave your brain. 

But instead of leaning in and sealing the deal, Gojo’s entire body suddenly stiffens. His arm around you loosens, placing more distance between the two of you. 

What the hell? 

His gaze drops a little further before coming back up with a discipline that can only come from reciting the digimon opening theme over and over in his head. “Now I'm trying really, really hard not to stare at you.”

Curious, you look down to your soaked shirt where the fabric clings painfully close, embarrassingly sheer. It only serves to emphasise the lines of your bra and though you can’t really see anything, Gojo’s face is flushed pink not just from exertion, and his jaw is tight. 

“Satoru–”

“my place,” he blurts. “we should, uh, get you warmed up. Your shirt is literally see-through and if I have to keep pretending I don't notice, I'm going to walk myself right into traffic.” 

“That is so dramatic.” The beginnings of a smile causes the corner of your lips to quiver upwards at his flustered state. 

“i’m dramatic,” he insists, voice strained, still not looking. “now come on. I still don’t want you catching pneumonia out here and Sig Kap is literally right near the gate. We can keep talking there when you don’t look like a puppy left out in the rain.”

“Says you.” You eye his white hair plastered to his forehead and smile, reaching up to move a few clinging strands from his eyes. “But okay. I’d like that a lot.”

Unfortunately, the gesture makes him look back down at you, inevitably making him catch an eyeful of your chest. He closes his eyes. “Let's just go before I give you this umbrella and walk onto the road.” 

You laugh a little. “Geez, you really are dramatic.” 

He walks you to Sig Kap, refusing to stand fully under the umbrella. When you try to grab his arm and pull him under, he only launches into a talk about being a feminist and how chivalry isn’t dead and how much he hates periods and loves matcha. You laugh and he smiles down at you before looking away. Seriously, he needs to get over that. 

At the door outside the house, Gojo stops you. 

“Here.” he hands you the umbrella, fingers brushing yours, before reaching down to take his jersey off. You instinctively blush and look away, but considering your state of undress it would only be fair if you stole a glance. So you peek at him from the corner of your eyes. 

You only manage to look just below his abs when something warm and slightly damp flops over your head. 

“Hey!”

He takes the umbrella back from you, standing in front of you and covering your back with the umbrella.. “Put that on before we head inside. Take your wet jersey off, hurry.”

Feeling warm despite the rain, you hastily pull off your soaked top, making sure he’s looking politely away, and throw his jersey on. It’s still damp but not as drenched as your own. Looking down, it falls past your skirt and just above your knees. 

“You’re going to walk in shirtless?”

“Better than you walking in looking like that.” He doesn’t give you a moment to think about his words. “Come on, you’re going to catch a cold.”

He leads you to the now familiar front door and when it opens before Gojo can even touch the doorknob, you understand the reasoning of his actions. 

“Dude!” Hikari cheers, wrapping an arm round Gojo’s shoulders and eagerly pulling him in despite his grunt of protest. “Congrats on the win, man!”

Hikari quickly notices your presence. 

“Oh. So you’re already celebrating, huh?”

Gojo brushes past him, his hand holding tours to guide a path through the sweaty frat boys. “Shut it, Hikari. Is Sukuna in?”

“Nah. The whole floor’s gone.” Hikari answers, raising his voice as Gojo quickly places distance between him and you. 

When the door of his room closes behind you both, he turns and pulls you in, his hand falling down on your hips, pulling you close. You both look like wet dogs but you couldn’t care less.

“Sorry about them,” he mumbles against your hair. 

“It’s fine,” you pause. “Who's sukuna?”

“The guy in the room next to mine.”

“Oh.”

He hesitates, searching your eyes in the dark of his room. The storm rages on beyond his window, rain entering through a slightly ajar window, but neither of you make the responsible move to close it. Instead, you find yourself pressing up against him, hoping for more. 

“Sweets,” he says, his voice low. “Please don’t tell me this is still practice.”

“It’s not.” 

He takes a deep breath in. “You piss me off. You’re annoying, and insistent, and you always get what you want.”

You frown a little. “Hold on, I thought this was going a different way.”

He shushes you by placing a finger against your lips. “You never listen to me and you never act how I think you will. You’re definitely not normal and your thoughts are all weird and messed up. But you’re always in my head and you have the prettiest smile and the softest voice and when you tell me to shut up I want to drop to my knees and lick your feet.”

“Okay, it’s definitely getting weird now.” 

“I think I’m seriously doomed,” he whispers despite your protests. “Because I bought that coffee you gave me months ago and I still drank it even though I hated how it tasted. And I haven’t been able to get it up without thinking about you and those pretty lips.” 

“Now I see why you don’t do relationships.”

Gojo chuckles, eyes unbearingly soft. “I think I’m in love with you, Y/N. You’re all I can think about.” 

You let out a slow exhale. 

This was not how you imagined any of this. That day when you sat down with Shoko to plan a devious scheme to get with Geto, you naturally assumed it would end with him by your side, or with a crippling inability to reassimilate with society. 

Never in a million years did you think you’d be here, in Gojo’s enormous room inside a frat house, him hanging off your every word. 

But thinking on it now, there’s nothing you want to change in your plan. 

“I think I’m in love with you too.” You say just as quietly, a smile playing on your lips. 

“Really?” If he had dog ears, they would have surely perked up. “Because I was lying, I definitely don’t just think that.”

“Woah, let’s calm down a little.”

He chuckles, breath misting your face. 

His thumbs rub circles and you shiver at the faint sensation.

“Cold?”

You bite the lip and nod. Now that you’ve confessed, the forbidden desire building up in your core no longer feels like something you need to hide. Instead, you embrace it, and you let Gojo see the change in your eyes. 

He nods back, looking down at his jersey on you. 

“You should probably take this off or you’ll get sick.” 

You grab the bottom of his shirt and pull it over your head, leaving you in just your bra. You mentally fist bump your past self for overthinking your attire earlier that morning and throwing on a matching set. 

His pupils dilate as he looks at you, eyes lingering on the delicate lace. 

“Am I moving too fast?” He whispers, breath misting your ear as he leans in. 

You rapidly shake your head, heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with tension, the rain pattering against the window like a distant drumbeat. 

He sighs, a low, relieved sound that vibrates through his chest. “Good. C’mere.”

He backs you up against the door, the wood cool against your bare back. His hands slide up your sides as he traps you. The guise of getting you out of wet clothes feels like a thin excuse now, but you don’t mind, your own hands already tugging at his waistband, eager to feel more of him. 

Gojo’s lips crash into yours, hungry and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim your mouth. You kiss back just as fiercely, fingers digging into his shoulders as you push against him, guiding him backward step by step. He stumbles slightly, surprised by your assertiveness, but a smirk tugs at his lips against yours. 

He falls onto the couch with a soft thud, pulling you down on top of him. You straddle his lap, only because it’s the only position you’ve had experience with thus far, and the friction of his hardening cock against your core sends sparks through your body. Your mouths meet again in a heated makeout, tongues tangling, breaths mingling in short, desperate gasps. 

His hands roam your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. You arch into him, pressing your bare breasts against his chest, nipples hardening from the contact. 

“Fuck, you’re so hot like this,” he growls, nipping at your lower lip. “Where were you hiding all of this, hm?”

You shiver, fingers digging into his shirt. “You like it when I tell you what to do, don’t you? Big bad frat boy, already so hard because a girl’s got you pinned.”

He groans, hands gripping your ass to grind you against him. “Keep talking like that, and I'll show you who’s really in control.”

But you don’t stop. Instead, you push him back further into the cushions and trail your lips down his jaw, his neck, biting lightly to mark him. He lets you, for now, his breath hitching. 

His eyes look down your body, hands feeling the softness of your skin before resting at the waistband of your cute, little skirt. He smirks and before you know it, you’re torn from his neck because he flips you onto your back in one swift move, pinning your wrists above your head. 

“My turn,” he purrs, voice rough. 

You try to wriggle free. “What are you doing?”

“You've always had a thing against my tongue, haven’t you?”

“That was weeks ago, I don't—wait a minute!” Your hands find his head, trying to push him back up but he refuses, settling properly between your legs and lowering. 

“Relax.” He turns his head and kisses your palm, eyes on yours. “I'll make you feel good. I always do, don't I?”

You hesitate, your arms losing their strength as the tension eases from your body. He watches you carefully, his gaze soft yet intense, making sure you’re okay before he moves. With a gentle nod from you, he lifts the edge of your skirt and flips it up onto your stomach, groaning low at the sight of the damp spot on your panties.

“So cute,” he hums, his free hand sliding between your legs to rub at the numb poking out through the fabric. “This little clit’s begging for attention.” 

You let out a startled gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily at the sudden touch. It’s all still so new, the sparks of pleasure shooting through you like electricity. 

“You want my mouth on this pretty pussy, don’t you?” He murmurs, lowering to mouth against your panties. 

His warm breath seeps through the thin material, and the flat of his tongue presses against you, exploring with teasing pressure that’s not quite enough to satisfy the ache building inside. 

You jolt again, the sensation overwhelming, back bowing slightly as if to instinctively pull away. He doesn’t let you go far, his hand on your thigh tightening to pull you back against his mouth. 

“I know, I know,” he coos against you. “It's too much, isn’t it?”

You whimper, looking down and feeling a fresh surge of heat when you meet eyes with him. 

“That’s it, just feel it,” he encourages, his thumb stroking your thigh in slow circles. 

Finally, he draws your panties to the side and doesn’t waste another second. 

Gojo’s mouth descends on your pussy, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit. 

You gasp sharply, hips bucking up as he sucks the sensitive nub between his lips, rolling it gently. His hands hold your thighs apart, fingers digging into your skin to keep you open for him. He eats you out like he’s starved, tongue delving inside you, tasting your wetness then circling back to your clit with firm, insistent strokes. 

“Oh god,” you choke out, the words tumbling from your lips in a breathless rush. “Fuck, it’s too—fuck it’s so good!” 

With your hands free, you curl your fingers in his soft white hair, guiding him exactly where the pleasure feels strongest. It's your first time feeling anything like this, and the intensity builds fast, a coiling heat that’s overwhelming but addictive. 

He hums against you, the vibrations making you whine as his tongue thrusts in and out, mimicking what’s to come, stretching you open with wet, probing motions.

“Mmm, taste so fucking sweet,” he growls between licks, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your folds. “You’re clenching so hard already—gonna finger fuck you open so you can take my cock later.”

He adds a finger, sliding it inside your slick heat slowly, curling it to brush against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “That's it baby, feel how wet you are for me? so tight around my finger, imagine how you’ll squeeze my dick when I'm buried deep.”

You nod frantically, the haze of pleasure making it hard to form words. 

He senses your building release, slipping a second finger inside to stretch you further, scissoring them gently to prepare you while his mouth latches back on your clit, sucking harder. “Come on, cum for me—wanna taste you so fucking bad, sweets. I want to feel you shake.”

The orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over your body without warning. you cry out, back arching off the surface beneath you as your pussy clenches around his fingers, pulsing with release. He doesn’t stop, lapping at you through it, drawing out every shudder until you’re boneless and gasping for air, his tongue coaxing every last tremor from your oversensitive folds. 

Gojo pulls back slowly, a string of saliva still connecting to you until he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he crawls up your body. 

“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he murmurs, leaning in for a deep kiss and letting you taste yourself on his lips. 

You kiss back weakly making him chuckle, and he pulls back with a wet chu. 

“You okay?”

You nod weakly. One moment you’re catching your breath on the couch, the next he’s lifting you over his shoulder and laying you down on his bed. 

You yelp, feeling gravity turn on its head until you’re safely on his mattress. 

Watching as he eagerly strips, you say, “You got a bedframe.”

He grins widely, shimmying down his boxers to join his sweatpants on the floor. “Yeah, I did. Do you like it?”

You huff. “Yeah. About time, Satoru.”

Gojo’s smile is oddly bright as he gets on the bed and hovers over you. He shifts, propping himself up on his elbows, his blue eyes darkening as they fixate on your chest. Without a word, he moves down, his mouth hovering just above your skin before he presses his face into the soft valley of your tits, inhaling deeply as if savouring your scent. 

“God, I love these things.” he groans, voice muffled, his lips brushing the sensitive underside. “So goddamn perfect. Feel how hard you make me just staring at them?”

You squirm, indeed feeling his cock throb against your leg. “You’re such an animal.”

“I can't help it. Been thinking about these ever since last time.” He peeks up at you though he’s still hesitant to part with them completely. “Can i fuck them?”

Your nod is all the consent he craves. He straddles your waist carefully and guides his thick length to rest in the plush channel you’ve created by pressing your breasts together. The first slide is torturously slow, the velvety skin enveloping him as he rocks forward, the tip emerging shiny with precum near your collarbone. 

“Shit, yes,” he hisses, hips snapping in a shallow rhythm. “So soft, so fucking warm around me. Look at that, sweets. Your tits are hugging my dick like they were made for it.”

His voice drops lower, rough with building pleasure, each word punctuated by the slick glide of skin on skin. 

You watch him, mesmerised by the concentration etching his features, brow furrowed, lips parted as he pants. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his temples as his abs flex with every controlled push. The friction builds between your tits, his precum smearing across your skin, making the slide even smoother and more obscene. 

He glances down to watch his cock disappear and poke out from your cleavage. “Open your mouth for me, baby.”

“Sweets,” you remind him. 

He lets out a stifled groan, hips jerking forward. “Sweets, please. Let me see your pretty tongue. Want it on my tip when i come through so fucking bad.” 

The nickname sends a thrill through you, and you part your lips obediently, flattening your tongue in invitation. He groans at the sight, hips stuttering as he angles higher, the flushed head of his cock brushing your waiting mouth on the next thrust. 

“Fuck, just like that,” he rasps. “Your tongue feels so good lapping at me like that. Swirl it around, taste how much I want you. God, sweets, you’re killing me.” 

You do, tracing the sensitive underside when he pushes forward, the salty tang of him flooding your senses. His reaction is immediate, a deep, guttural moan escapes him, his rhythm faltering as he jerks deeper, chasing the wet heat of your mouth. 

“Can't get enough,” he growls, drawing back only to thrust again, his tip kissing your tongue with deliberate precision and drawing back a sticky string of his precum and your saliva. “Gonna fuck your mouth next, stuff it full of my cock until you’re choking on it. You'd take it so well, wouldn’t you? Suck me down like the greedy little thing you are.” 

Saliva pools on your tongue and drips down to mix with the mess on your chest. He watches it all with hooded eyes, rutting faster now, the slap of his hips against your breasts echoing softly in the room. 

“Fuck, sweets—gonna cum,” he warns through gritted teeth, his forehead creasing in that pretty, desperate way. “Can’t hold back with you squeezing me like this. Shit, i’m gonna paint you, mark every inch of these pretty tits.”

He lurches forward suddenly, back bowing as he towers over you, one hand bracing beside your head while the other strokes his base to control his release. The first hot spurt lands across your neck, thick and warm, followed by another that arches toward your open mouth. He aims with a focused groan, pressing down on the head to guide it, ropes of cum landing on your tongue, filling your senses with his taste. 

“Take it, that’s a good girl,” he pants, voice breaking on a final, shuddering thrust. “Look at you, covered in me. So fucking hot, dripping with my cum on your face and tits.” 

His body quakes through the aftershocks, eyes never leaving yours, drinking in your reaction as he milks every drop onto you. 

When he’s spent, he collapses forward slightly, catching himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you and leans down. 

Your lips meet his in a deep, unhurried kiss, tongues tangling slow and sweet at first, then hungrier as you melt into it. The taste of him, salty from earlier, mixed with the faint tang of your own arousal, ignites you, and you tug him down, hands roaming his shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle under sweat damp skin. A soft moan escapes you, and he swallows it, his grip tightening just a fraction. 

He pulls back and pants against your lips, half laughing. 

“Sorry, I should have warned you. Kind of not the most virgin friendly thing to do, huh?” He sits up and reaches for some tissue to clean you. “Should of saved this for inside you, sweets.”

You clench, squeezing your thighs together. “I’ve never…”

His eyes soften, wiping the last of his cum. “I know, sweets. We can wait if you need to, there’s no rush.”

But curiousity and want is a dangerous cocktail and you find yourself shaking your head. “I want to.” 

Gojo lets out a shuddering breath and nods, sliding off your chest, his cock glistening and heavy against his thigh. “Let me get you warmed up again.”

He doesn't find much difficulty with that because one hand against your slit and his eyebrows are rising, feeling your wetness despite the lack of attention. 

You blush, feeling caught. “What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s embarrassing.”

“What’s got you so wet, hm?”

You squirm, feeling the lingering pleasure flare up. “It’s not my fault you’re so vocal.”

“Dirty girl. You like hearing how good you make me feel?” His thumb smears your entrance, picking up and spreading the fresh arousal that gathers there and it’s as good as any verbal answer. “Feel that? So worked up with nowhere to go.”

His fingers part you gently, circling your entrance with feather-light strokes that make you gasp. 

“Let me warm you up again, sweets. You’re so swollen here, feels like you’ve been waiting for more. Gonna make sure you’re nice and ready for me.”

He plays with the mess between your legs, his own expression a mix of hunger and restraint, breaths coming in measured pulls as he fights the urge to rush. One finger dips inside you shallowly, then two, curling just right to brush that spot that sends sparks up your spine. 

The stretch is easier now, your body remembering the pleasure, and he coos softly at your soft whimper, thumb finding your clit to rub in slow, firm circles. 

“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans quietly, voice rough around the edges. “So warm and wet, it’s killing me not to slide in right now. But we’re taking our time, yeah? Making this perfect for you.”

Your hips rock instinctively into his hand, the coil of heat tightening low in your belly, and he grins, leaning in to pepper kisses along your jaw. 

“Look at you, getting into it. My sweet girl, so responsive.”

You whine, the pleasure having reached a plateau and when you buck up for more, he withdraws his hand. The loss makes you whine but he hushes you with a gentle kiss to your forehead, reaching over to the nightstand and searching through his messy drawers for a condom. 

The foil crinkles under his fingers as he tears it open and positions himself at your entrance. You're still slick, he’s made sure of that, but the anticipation makes you clench, nerves building up. He notices your sharp inhale and lets his tip nudge your slick folds, parting them teasingly though he pauses there to let you feel the pressure without pushing in. 

“Hey, eyes on me, sweets,” he murmurs, voice steady despite the way his chest heaves, his cock twitching against you. “You still okay? Tell me if it’s too much, I’ll stop, I promise. But fuck, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be inside you.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper breathlessly, fingers curling into the sheets below. “Just… go slow?”

He notices and slides a hand down to interlace your fingers, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss to your palm. “Of course. Whatever you want.” 

The stretch is immediate, a slow burn as he guides himself in, sinking bit by bit. His cock is much thicker than his fingers but the warmth of him, the way he watches every flicker of your expression with that twitch in his jaw, makes it bearable. 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” he rasps, eyes shutting briefly. “Gripping me so good already. Easy, sweets, just relax into it.”

His voice cracks a little on the end, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds himself still once he’s halfway in. 

It aches, but the fullness is intoxicating, waves of pleasure chasing the discomfort as your body yields. You gasp, squeezing his hand and he coos softly, stroking you with his thumb. 

“Can I keep going?” 

You nod and even before your next breath, he’s already sliding in and bottoming out with a shared gasp, hips flushed against yours. His forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the humid air. 

"How's that feel? Too much?” He asks softly. 

“Full… so full,” you whimper, rocking experimentally and he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up just a fraction before he catches himself. 

“Fuck, want me to move, sweets?” He shifts beneath you, guiding your hips in a gentle circle to grind against you, his praises making the movement slick. 

“Please,” you gasp out as the fullness sparks pleasure deep inside and he rewards your honest words with a slow roll of his hips. 

“Good girl,” he praises, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he starts to move, shallow thrusts that build a steady friction. Each slide in and out drags against your inner walls, drawing out filthy whimpers and sighs as he hits that sweet spot with precision born of his experience. 

Soon, your toes are curling and your back bows off his mattress, desperate to meet his thrusts. 

“Listen to those sounds you’re making,” he coos, emphasising his words with a deep thrust. “You’re taking me so well, sweets. makes me want to stay buried in your forever.”

The pace gradually quickens, his control fraying at the edges as your moans encourage him. He shifts the angle, one leg hooking over his shoulder to deepen the penetration, and the new position has you crying out, pleasure coiling tight in your core.

Sweat beads on his skin, dropping onto your chest and he leans down to capture a nipple between his lips, sucking gently as he thrusts harder, the wet slap of skin echoing softly. 

“That’s it, let go for me,” he urges against your tits, teeth grazing the peak before soothing it with his tongue. “I can feel you squeezing, you close for me already? Come on, sweets, chase it.”

His words weave through the haze, dirty and devoted, spurring you higher as his freehand slips between you to circle your clit in time with his hips. The dual sensations overwhelm, building to a peak that has you trembling beneath him. 

When it hits, it’s blinding, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, walls clenching rhythmically around him and pulling him deeper. He groans your name like a prayer, thrusts stuttering as rides it out with you, prolonging the bliss with expert rolls of his hips. 

Only when you slump, sweaty and panting, does he let himself follow, a filthy groan escaping his lips as he buries himself deep one last time and spills into the condom, body shuddering as he struggles to hover over you. 

He doesn’t pull away immediately, instead pressing his hips closer to ensure you’ve gotten everything before collapsing half on top of you, peppering lazy kisses along your neck. 

“You’re amazing,” he whispers. “My perfect girl, did so good for us.”

You whimper against the ticklish sensation. “You're too heavy.”

He chuckles and rolls off you, slowly pulling out to pull the condom off and discard it. you watch him with sleepy eyes, eagerly nuzzling into his arms when he settles back beside you. 

“Need anything? Water? Cuddles?” 

You hum, feeling the satisfaction morph into a drowsiness that has you melting into his arms, only feeling his warmth. 

“You?”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’m so glad I stole you away. You’re so fucking perfect for me.” 

You lean into his side, feeling a sense of indescribable completeness that fills you with certainty. 

Geto Suguru may have been everyone’s first love but Gojo Satoru is the one you choose. 

And judging by the way his arm tightens around you, the way his grin softens when he looks down at you, he knows it too. 

Geto Suguru is everyone’s first love.

Even to this day, your friends will roll their eyes and insist that can’t possibly be true. But from experience, that was exactly who he was, someone to admire from afar like a painting behind glass. Beautiful and alluring, and just out of reach. 

You see him now up, sitting on the couches at the house party driving the murmur of conversation with ease, a red cup used to gesture. Laughter ripples outward in waves, people leaning closer, drawn in.

You smile out of solidarity, resting against the wall with content misplaced at a busy place like this. 

“Did you wait long?”

You turn your head to find your boyfriend weaving through bodies with the casual confidence of someone who assumes space will make itself around him. Two drinks in hand, hair messy under his cat, grin already forming because he’s caught you staring. 

You push off the wall, reaching automatically for whichever cup is closer but he pulls back to sniff both before handing you the opposite one.

You take it gratefully and when you take a sip, you realise it’s your favourite juice. 

“Wait time longer than the lines at Universal,” you tease. 

He grins, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Next time I'll get us the priority pass. Not that it looked like you minded the wait. Don’t think I didn't see you eyeing Suguru like that. Do I have competition again?” You shove him playfully. “Please, like I'm the one who’s been draping themselves over him for the past hour.” Across the room, Geto laughs again, someone hanging off his shoulder while he tries to keep the liquid in his cup from spilling. He catches your eye briefly and lifts his cup in greeting. You return it with a smile. Next to you, Gojo sighs dramatically. “Wow,” he says flatly. “Right in front of me too. Why can’t I see any remorse in your eyes?” “Because there isn’t any there,” you snort. “You're the one who told him to come tonight.” “Where there’s Satoru, there’s Suguru.” “I learnt that the hard way.” He hums, arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against his side. His thumb starts tracing lazy circles just above your hip, absentminded and affectionate, a touch so familiar you barely notice as you lean into him in return. “Still,” he murmurs, quieter now, his breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to keep looking at him like that.” “Like what?” “Like you’re thinking about what you could have had.” You tilt your head to look up at him. His expression isn’t jealous, not completely, just searching, softer than the bravado he usually wears. “I'm not,” you promise gently. “It was always superficial. You know that better than anyone. I guess now, looking at him is like looking at a relic of a different version of me.” He hums. “He would have liked that sentence.” You roll your eyes, ever so familiar with his dramatics. “You have nothing to worry about, baby. I promise.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” You reach up and adjust the brim of his cap slightly, smoothing down a piece of hair that refuses to stay put. “Besides, I think I traded up.” “Keep talking like that and I'm going to start thinking you actually like me,” he grins, voice lowering. You smack his chest but your other hand lingers in his hair, fingers slipping into the soft hair at his nape. "Don't get cocky.” Too late. He's already smiling wide, not the loud, flashy grin everyone else gets, but something softer and almost boyish reserved just for you. Gojo leans down and finds your lips. The kiss is slow and unhurried, deeper than something meant for a crowded room but not quite indecent, like he’s forgotten where you are or just doesn’t care. He pulls back just enough to talk. “Hey, I have an idea that’ll solve this three way jealousy.” “What? “Why don’t we just have a threesome?”

Even Yu’s ever-present puppy grin coin flips into a faltering press of teeth, sucking in a breath and murmuring out a painful, “oooh…”

Nanami clears his throat, the first to speak.

“Let’s not make her go through the trouble,” He found himself saying hastily, finger hooking to adjust his shirt collar in a rigid series of movements. “You should both relax. Besides, Gojo already offered to buy everyone dinner, it’d be rude to turn it down.”

Nanami? Concerned with disrespecting Gojo?? Suguru’s brows pull together and he glances towards the window minutely to make sure grass is still green.

Haibara’s quick to jump on that train, head nodding exuberantly as he claps his hands together— almost a pleading gesture. “Yeah! Let’s just all go out, chillax, grab a bite n’ few drinks and—“

“—HER FOOD TASTES LIKE HOW RARERAREMON LOOKS.” Satoru gags over Haibara’s placation, an overdramatic shudder causing him to spasm some weird little wriggle.

He squeezes his eyes shut, tongue lolling. “Guhhh, I feel sick just thinkin’ about it. There’s probably some curse out there manifested by fear of her cooking, blegh!”

Shoko pinches him, eyeing him disapprovingly with a scoff. “That’s not—“ True? “—the way you should say it.”

She shakes her head when Gojo poutily mutters something along the lines of we were all thinking it as he rubs his side, folding her arms as her lazily lidded gaze shifted to Suguru.

“Geto, I mean this as nicely as I can put it, because I love your wife more than you do.” She leveled dryly. “Girl can’t cook. Like, at all. Let’s give her a break and go karaoke.”

Nobody argues.

It’s probably not the feedback any husband wants to hear from his closest friends regarding his wife, but it’s not like Geto didn’t entirely expect this reaction.

He knows that— by traditional standards— you’re no critically acclaimed chef.

But in truth, he’s no critic either.

Suguru can’t remember exactly at what point his sense of taste diminished, it’s not one of those things you can pinpoint to an exact memory. It had to have been somewhere in his teens, just one day realizing his miso didn’t taste like miso.

No, now that he recalls, the taste of food had become the least of his concerns at that point, eclipsed entirely by the acrid sapor that was necessary for him to consume.

He used to take a bite, shift it around from one side of his mouth to the other, waiting for it. The comfort of a warm meal, of his most favorite indulgences to ground him. To remind him that just like everyone else he could still be pleased by something so simple. Food looked good, it smelled good. It looked familiar and weighed on a utensil like it was supposed to, but when it met his mouth he felt nothing. It mashed between his molars, diluted with his saliva and clung to the back of his throat like a weak perfume over the stench that was humanity’s worst.

Curses don’t go down like anything natural. They linger, make his body recoil on itself like anything that shouldn’t be inside it would. They coat his tongue, nestle into the soft parts of his mouth, make home in the cleaves of his teeth right near the gum. Smug and permanent. Kissing his taste buds like sulfur.

It’s not something he could ever rinse with water, brush raw, or floss away. They sat stubborn and stagnant as bristles scraped futilely, even when he couldn’t recognize the metallic tang of his own blood until he was spitting it into the cavern of the sink, ruddied foams of white swirled mockingly with a minty blue he imagined was spicy and fresh.

He used to gorge right after.

Shovel in as much as he could to overwrite the residue curses left. Salty, sweet, sour, savory, spicy, umami, bitter. All faint and trapped beneath the flavor of something wrong, until his stomach protested. A fruitless effort, he learned eventually.

It didn’t disappear all at once, but it eroded. Sanded down slowly, until the memory of eating and feeling sated afterward was more akin to something he’d read in a book than something he actually experienced. Rice became a warm weight on his tongue, soup eventually just heat that stung any open wound in his mouth. Salt? Meat was a texture, sweetness existed as a concept that Satoru indulged in constantly, and sourness only if it was aggressive enough to bite through the numb.

And then eating became mechanical. Habit instilled by repetition over days, and weeks, and months, and years— since when he was small and new. But in those days it became action without reward, cruelly melding with his newest habit of taking in curse after curse. Over days. Weeks. Months. Years. Meal and mission were one blurred definition, joint disgust.

But he’ll still eat. If not for fuel, then for the questions to stop.

“Suguruuu, h’ve you lost weight?”

“Woahhhh duuude, you’re thinnin’ out! You look like Nanami—”

“—Hey.”

“You all good?”

“You hungry? Did you eat yet?”

“You okay?”

Ate earlier. Heat fatigue. He’ll eat later.

It all came from a good place, he’s sure. But it feels more like probing fingers than an extended palm.

In a restaurant it was a performance, pretending to savor what he couldn’t remember he was chewing as friends around him still found space for those small, menial disappointments that had become myth.

“This is waaayyy too salty.”

“How many calories do you think is in this?”

“Ughhh, I wanted something sweet!”

“What’d you wanna order again, Geto?”

At his name, Suguru’s head lifted from where he’d been blankly staring at the menu— pages of symbols and pictures all running together that might as well be the same word printed in a threat.

EAT.

But there was Haibara, grinning and staring expectantly for his choice. He smiled, a stretch of lips rehearsed for moments like these.

“Choose for me. Anything’s fine.” Everything was a varying shade of tolerable. After a moment’s thought, he added, “something sweet, maybe.” Satoru would probably end up picking off his plate.

All of it made him acutely aware of his own charade, how far away he was from the people he was sitting right next to. People who’ve never tasted a cursed spirit, who were still human enough to eat, and enjoy it. Praise or complain about what was on their plates.

No matter what was sitting before him, on smooth ceramic or in his hand, on a fork, pooled in a spoon, between his chopsticks. All of it was beginning to provoke the same reaction within him.

Just gaping his jaw with the intent of filling his mouth with something rancid disguising itself in different textures and colors and ‘flavors’ was starting to make his gut churn. Lazy, nauseous rolls beneath his ribs, sloshing, trying to prod and rise up his throat in a rush as if to punish him a second time.

He didn’t feel particularly nourished anymore. Food sat like a pile of stones when he could remember to eat it and managed to keep it down. Every swallow was a mistake, absorption or meal, it didn’t matter. He dreaded both with exhaustion, with the heavy clarity that nothing good waited for him at the end of either one.

So what was he doing this for?

For people, non-sorcerers that would never know the cost or the day to day toll. Who would keep committing horrible acts under his protection, at the cost of his struggle and the lives of sorcerers around him.

There was no longer really a question of what he would eat, just the why.

Why was he doing this? For who?

You, of course, were none the wiser to the depth of this turmoil.

A dull clunk! reverberates throughout the aisle.

You muttered some curse under your breath as you dropped a can of soda, shiny red aluminum rolling beneath the shelf you were stocking. The last month or so had been a blur of hazy summer days with a persistent sun and by night even harsher fluorescent lights buzzing overhead with the sharp scent of floral disinfectant biting at your nostrils.

You’d been working a lot of nights at this little 24-hour convenience store, donning the hideously patchwork-colored polo shirt because you needed a summer job to keep you busy and rack up some cash. But sometimes you debated whether or not the ¥1,075 wages were more worth than lounging around in your fuzzy socks binging movies and shows to your heart’s content.

You mourned such as you lowered yourself to your hands and knees, one elbow digging into the grout between the cool tiles as you stretched the other below the shelf and— yeesh, maybe you really should clean under here instead of skipping it every few nights.

A couple frustrated grumbles escape you as you peered under, cheek hovering dangerously over the un-mopped floor and fingers groping just the air before the can, when the little ring ring! of the storefront door’s bell chimed. Beyond this shelf and the next’s, you see a familiar pair of socks and sandals lay foot on the doormat.

With a final stretch you graze the side of the can into rolling towards you, snatching it before it can stray again.

“Gotchya,” you mutter to no one as push yourself back to your feet and set the thing back on the shelf, fleetingly considering how shaken up it was. Someone was sure in for a surprise when they opened that.

Only then do you swing your head around the shelf to glance at the customer that had ambled in.

You’ve seen him here several times before, always at varying times of night during your shift. Tall, broad-shouldered, with deep ebony hair sometimes loose, sometimes loosely tied back with stubborn strands slinking out and crowding his temples. Head hung slightly downcast like keeping it upright was becoming too much an effort, white shirt hollowed a bit around his collar bones, as if it was a size or two too big. He’s handsome, don’t get it twisted, but every visit he just looks more worn.

The man’s narrow eyes befall the hot case, drift to the drink coolers, and then briefly to you.

“Welcome in,” you chirped automatically upon eye contact, like you always did after staring at him a bit too long (which happens often.) He muttered some noncommittal thanks with a nod before wading into the store, towards the refrigerated section.

Your interactions always followed a sort of formula.

He comes in, you welcome him, he wanders around the store for a while, and turns up with some items at register. There you make a little small talk that’s become increasingly less awkward, and you bid him a good night.

Which, arguably, is about the normal routine for any store regular, but you guess you pay special attention to him.

When you first noticed his visits he used to approach the counter bearing tons of snacks, a slurry of different flavors. Just a splurge of low effort indulgences that were pre-prepared, things you could eat and enjoy without really thinking much of it. You’d make a bad joke about it being one of those days that you felt terrible for making him pretend to laugh at, and send him on his merry way with handfuls of plastic bags.

But that was quite some time ago. Now his visits were more spotty, and he never brought more than an onigiri or nikuman to the counter. Maybe it was rude, but you wondered, from the looks of him, if he ever ate more than what he bought from here. It was like he showed up now only when he either remembered or was reminded by his body that he needed to eat at least something, and chose this sucky konbini for his collations.

You’re staring again, you realize when he finally chooses something that he doesn’t seem like he’s particularly interested in and starts walking towards the register.

“How’s your night going?” You blurt conversationally as he approaches, finding yourself behind the counter before he could be you there. To which he hums.

“How it usually goes,” like usual, smiling a pull of lips that’s practiced. He places a pork bun on the counter. “Just this, please.”

As you ring him up, you sift through a catalog of mundane conversation topics to fill the silence between clacks of the cash register and rustling of coins. The weather maybe? Or how his troublesome egomaniac friend’s doing that he’d brought up in a couple past talks— him or that peppy kōhai he seemed to be fond of and worry over.

Somehow you find the gull to ask, “do you like cooking?”

You bite down on your tongue the second the question stumbles out your mouth. Hopefully it doesn’t sound as probing as you actually mean it to be. You can’t help it, really. Watching him meander around the store like a half rotted corpse so many times has really started twisting some anxious little knot behind your ribs. You suppose it’s a bit better than blurting out “who died?” or “are you okay??” like you really wanted to.

His glazed eyes slid up from the greasy quartz to your face, regarding you with the curiosity of an unamused feline. Okay, so today definitely wasn’t a small talk day. But he humored you still.

“Not often,” he admitted, in a blink his eyes on the counter again. “I suppose I don’t find the time to.”

“Ah.” Without thinking, you respond. Mostly because you know if you don’t, the conversation will die here. “I do. I mean, I’m trying to learn.”

Your cadence is crooked somehow, sounding like you meant to add something then lost the nerve as you spoke. The air feels as stiff as your holding your shoulders— with painful, unnecessary awkwardness that you’ve brought upon yourself. You’ve really got a knack for talking your way into a proverbial corner.

“I’m bad at it,” you add quickly, falling back on self deprecation to hopefully smooth over this situation. “Like, bad bad. Like burn water bad.”

His lips twitch, not into what you might call a smile, but the tightness behind his expression definitely eases a tad. When he blinks, interest flickers in the inky hues of his eyes. He huffs a breath through his nose.

“Is that so?”

You nod, a bit too eagerly, a whole lot relieved that he didn’t just push the steamed bun back across the counter and walk out the door to escape the situation— which you totally wouldn’t have blamed him for.

“Yeah. But it’s pretty fun. I think if I keep trying at it I’ll, like, get the rhythm down, y’know?” You prattle, fingers tapping at the counter as the receipt prints. When it does, you tear it and secure it over the pork bun’s packaging— no bag, because you remember he’s politely declined it in some previous visit, and slide it towards him.

“Even when it turns out bad, though, at least I can say I tried,” you continue like you’re talking yourself into that affirmation. “Like, it’s slop, but it’s my slop…plus I kinda need to cut down my spending, and it’s cheaper than take-out, sooo…”

He hums again, not particularly dismissive or indulgent. “I’m sure.”

You’re just saying “Yeah.” another one too many times when the bell jingles, signaling another customer walking in, the moment stretching thin.

“Well,” you default back to script, self-consciousness cresting on you ten times stronger now with some stranger milling about. “You have a good night.”

He looks like he hesitates a second, like he might apologize for something or explain himself or— god forbid— force you to make more awkward attempts at small talk. But mercifully, he turns to leave.

“You too,” he replies automatically, and the bell tolls again with his exit.

Without him realizing, his visits start taking an incline into earlier hours of the night, while the sky is still bruised purple instead of ink black. Sometimes you’re there, and sometimes you’re not. Absurdly when you’re not, he feels cheated, somehow.

When you are there, though, you talk. And he means that in a very one-sided manner.

You tend to talk a lot when you get nervous, but he doesn’t mind that about you. Rather likes it, actually, it’s nice. It’s like putting a few yen into a guarantee-win pachinko and watching the little marbles spill out tumbling over one another. He’d only ever have to say a couple words at a time, sometimes surprise you with a full sentence or two. He listens more than he responds, and you babble more than enough to fill in the spaces between without expecting too much of him, or ever questioning his purchases despite it being so painfully obvious you wanted to ask.

You regale him with tales of annoyingly ardent customers with expired coupons, how you have to poke a hole in the buns before you microwave them, because last week you found out the hard way when one exploded in the microwave. And of your cooking exploits— which admittedly, sound less than lackluster. Or dare he say plain disastrous, but you aren’t ever without a new story somehow.

When he jokes about paying respects to your poor kitchen that takes the brunt of your chef’s journey, you groan in embarrassment and press your fingers over your eyelids and palms over your burning face as you sputter something about how if you keep trying you’re bound to get better, practice makes perfect and all that.

Like he said, it’s nice. It’s cute. It turns into something similar to routine.

Until one day you produce a small, carefully wrapped box from under the counter. Your palms look tacky, like they have to peel away from the packaging when you set it down.

Despite your stilted motions and intense expression about yourself, you seem…proud? Or maybe just more anxious than usual.

“I made these,” you say too fast. It’s almost too easy to watch you and tell where you’re derailing from lines you’ve rehearsed in your head. It lightens the threat the cutely wrapped package on the counter between you imposes on him. “For you. Or I guess— I tried to make them. This batch looked pretty edible. I think, so, yeah.”

He stares at the box, something vile twisting low in his gut. Not hunger, but trepidation.

He should refuse it, and he knows that. Accepting it means performing, pretending to enjoy something he knows he can’t, to revisit the familiar hollow disappointment he so often did. He’d like to smile, deflect, retreat back into indifference.

But he doesn’t need to look at your eyes to read your thoughts.

You’re watching him with wide eyes he can feel like spotlights, your braced patience that’s already half way to disappointment regardless of the way you're trying not to make it completely obvious. Like you already anticipated his rejection, convinced yourself you misread something or overstepped somewhere.

Distantly, the questions that’ve been gnawing at him for months loom overhead.

What was he doing this for? Why was he doing this?

“They’re cookies. You don’t have to take them. They’re kinda okay?” You blurt in a rush, not allowing his contemplative silence to settle lest you cave in on yourself completely. “I think I used tablespoons on accident when I was measuring the baking soda. Or is it baking powder?— whatever the one is that’s supposed to be in cookies. I hope.”

His hand moves before he has the chance to finish the thought.

The pads of his fingers brush the soft fibers of the cloth wrap, tracing where it creased at the corners.

“…Thank you,” he murmured quietly, and the look on your face is worth the wave of nausea gaining traction in his stomach.

You’re grinning like you’ve just been handed a passing grade you weren’t expecting, relieved and crooked. Like he’s doing something for you rather than you for him. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

He doesn’t eat the cookies right away. And honestly, didn’t plan to eat them at all.

He’d just dump them out, pretend he did, and tell you they were good. It’s an easy lie he tells himself, he’s practiced at it.

He cements the actions in his mind despite the way he walks through the streets with the box gingerly tucked under an arm.

At home he sets the box on the table as he strolls by it, and lets himself forget about it.

He showers, rinses the day off his skin until the water runs lukewarm and the sensation between clean and numb blurs. He changes, tries to tend to some things. Plants he needed to water, a surface he hasn’t dusted in awhile, texts that feel so burdensome to respond to. The trash isn’t full enough to take out. Nor are there dishes to be done in the sink.

However when he circles back around to the kitchen, the cloth clad cookie box is still there. A pop of color in the dim space, patient and unassuming on the tabletop. And he just can’t seem to distract himself from it, not when the image of you standing there behind the counter wringing your fingers that were so obviously riddled with little burns from hastily grabbing a baking tray, claiming that you’d made them for him was so fresh in his mind after hours. For him.

When he opens the cloth wrap, it’s out of guilt rather than hunger.

And when he opens the box he finds…cookies?

Objectively, they’re bad. Just looking at them he can tell— lumpy little discs that are darkened a hideous brown at the edges and a gooey, sickening pale in the middles. Chocolate chips are measured by heart and distributed by an oligarchal system, some ‘cookies’ with more chips than dough and some with none at all.

Everything about them looks wrong, and muddled, and…frankly a bit pathetic.

He exhales from his nose. You really, really tried. At least these ugly cookies don’t look at him like they’ll pretend to taste good.

As he lifts one to take a bite, he can almost see it: you overmixing, using the wrong measuring cups. Apron smudged white and puffed cheeks flour dusted too, frowning as your head whipped between a bowl and instructions, muttering curses directed towards whoever made their recipe blog ridiculously impossible to navigate, refusing to quit when the first batch failed.

When he finishes the cookie, and then another, terribly unique, simultaneously crumbly and goopy texture dissolving away in his mouth, they don’t taste good. I mean, duh, just look at the things.

But the putridness of curses that always so eagerly latched onto whatever landed on his tongue is white noise. There and constant, but not overwhelming for once. Sickness doesn’t even curl beneath his ribs. They taste just like everything else he’s eaten in the past several months, but there’s sentiment in them that makes them bearable, dulling the worst of the taste.

He ends up wrapping the rest up, slow and more reverent than necessary, and sets them aside. They stay where they are on the table, a visible and intentional reminder.

“I liked them.” Suguru graces you with a smile on his next visit. His clothes still hang a bit awkwardly but at least the darkness beneath his eyes is not so harsh, though maybe that’s because of how immediate his grin reaches them. Unpolished and wide, a kind of smile that made him look boyish. “They were good, you did a wonderful job.”

He really expected you to fluster under the praise, but much to his surprise you angle your head and squint, giving him a sideways glance. “…you’re lying.”

He sputtered, his eyebrows hiking up his forehead as he blinks. “I’m not?”

“There’s just no way you actually ate those!” You accuse with folded arms, incredulity tugging your bottom lip forward. “I tried one and even I thought they were bad, you’re so lying.”

“I’m not!” Suguru repeats again, this time his words filtering through a chuckle as he leans forward against the counter, elbows planted on surface and palms loosely clasped. “I’m not lying. Believe me, you’d know if I was lying.”

His eyes drift a bit as he makes that statement. That’s a lie in and of itself. He thinks himself a fairly good liar.

Your eyes narrow though, so maybe you did catch on to that scant hint of arrogance. Maybe you truly would know if he was lying.

“I did like them. Please,” He drapes himself a bit more over the counter, lips spelling your name for possibly the first time since you’ve met him, and it sounds so pleading, too. A shock darts through your system, at his cadence, sure, but also because you completely forgot he even knew your name. That he cared to remember it from your first introductions months ago. (Later you’ll realize you’re very clearly wearing your name tag.) “You’ll make me more, won’t you?”

“…I mean— I guess.” You murmur, your nail digging at some worn price sticker that’s been stuck to the oily counter since forever, eyes bouncing from one corner of his face to the gauge in his ear to his shoulder and back again. Anywhere but his eyes. “I guess we’ll see how long it takes for my food to kill you.”

He smiles softly at that, and it makes you feel unchecked warmth everywhere under your skin. “We will, won’t we?”

It’s not that you held some miracle cure— you didn’t make rice taste like good ol’ bland rice again. Didn’t bring sweetness back to mochi. Didn’t take away the mildewed tang of curses. But you gave him a reason to want to keep trying.

Instead of laying awake at night dreading, am I going to have to eat again? How soon? He could close his eyes musing, Oh god, what’s she going to try to make next? Burnt or undercooked? Both?? a smirk ghosting his lips.

Because if you’re going to put in the effort to try to make a meal for him, just for him, the least he could do was try to eat it. And he’d like to wager he’s maybe the best at eating your food. If nothing else.

You’re worth the effort.

That’s why when he pushes himself up from the table and turns fully to his friends all gathered in the break room, his eyes are upturned in tight little crescents. Mouth curved in a sharp sickle of a smile that just really radiates love for his wife.

Love for his wife, and sinister intent directed towards whoever dares to oppose him.

“You’re all invited to my birthday dinner,” Suguru reasserts calmly, the tranquil rumble of his voice seeming to leer like a warning. “You’ll eat it, and you’ll like it.”

“Scary,” seems to be the telepathical thought that links Shoko, Satoru, Kento, and Yu. Suguru could be that way when he wanted to be.

So they all turn up on the 4th of February to the Geto household's doorstep, knocking at 6:00pm sharp.

Mimiko stands there to greet them, a doll stuffed in the hollow of one elbow and other hand on the door handle. Nanako’s next to her, head craned down to the tablet between her palms, tip-tapping away at the screen and barely sparing them more than a glance. The collar of her shirt is hooked up over the tip of her nose, a makeshift mask.

“Hey, Uncle Ken. Auntie Shoko, Uncle Yu. Gojo.” The tween says flatly.

What’s truly noteworthy however is the fog, billowing out the opening the door made, thick and stinking like something evil just died in this house.

“Dad let Mom into the kitchen. Again.” Mimiko monotonously supplies the explanation that’s really not needed, but it doesn’t fail in inducing a fresh wave of apprehensive terror anyway.

Though it deters them, it doesn’t stop the group from depositing their shoes near the door. They’ll still find seats around the table, try to smile and not cry when you dish out servings of what looks like the uncensored version of dubious food from some video game.

It truly is impressive how consistently borderline inedible your cooking is even after years. Endearing to some, dreaded by others.

“Sorry, it’s not the best.” You apologize preemptively before they even lift their utensils, but that’s not gonna make any of the ‘food’ go down easier.

Everyone still thanks you, Nanami and Ieiri maybe a bit better at feigning gratitude than Haibara and Gojo. Yu tries, honestly really tries to look appreciative, but he looks more like he’s just been issued a suicide mission and trying to put on a brave face about it.

Satoru meanwhile tosses his eyes dramatically, muttering “no kidding,” under his breath— right before hissing sharply. Under the table, Shoko and Kento have crushed all ten of his piggies.

The girls duck under the table when neither you or Suguru are watching to scrape their portions off their plates and into the gaping mouth of the worm curse wriggling around on the floor, weaving through table and chair legs.

And when you threaten everyone with cake wearing a gentle smile, Satoru starts praying. Not for grace to any god, but that maybe by some slim chance the aforementioned dessert might be store bought. (It’s not.)

But it doesn’t really matter that by the end of the dinner everyone is looking green around the gills or that Nanako is already plotting her and Mimiko’s secret take-out order later in the night.

Suguru’s happy. Sitting at the head of the table like he’s hosting a perfectly ordinary birthday dinner and not an active biohazard. The way he’s situated with lax shoulders and chin propped in a palm after polishing off a second serving of what everyone else could barely stand to stomach a first of, speaks of fondness. And a touch of smugness, somehow.

He seems perfectly content letting everyone else at this table battle their own digestive systems, like he doesn’t even notice it.

But when Satoru’s literally muttering his first prayers (since last year’s birthday dinner at least,) under his breath, you can’t help but notice. You lean towards your husband slightly, grimacing a bit in concern as you whisper.

“It’s not that bad this time, is it?” You wince. “…too much salt?”

The warmth of his hand covers yours, and without hesitancy he affirms, “it’s perfect,” tone gentle and sure, infinitely appreciative. “Thank you.”

ᥲᥒ 𓏲ּ𝄢 geunyang pogihae eochapi— eat it up, eat it eat it uuuup! I super headcanon geto having dysgeusia or hypogeusia (or combo of the two?) so I hope u enjoyed and see my vision! happy late birfdai to the princess himself <3

late + not proofread + I’m sick if this sucked pls dont kill me im new gennnn ૮ ྀིྀ◞ ⸝⸝ ◟ ა but do not shy from sharing your thoughts, im eating the feedback for breakfast before class

m.list

You turned your nose up at the idea, scoffing under your breath. 

But for all your poise, all your prestige, there was only so much you could push back until the wedding planning came. Albeit, years later, but still. 

You picked up the wedding invitation in front of you with a frown, the edge pinched between your gloved fingers as you squinted at the cursive print. 

Other women would probably be more excited over their own engagement to the most eligible bachelor in a hundred-mile radius. Well, the whole country, really. The cream of the crop – and all yours. 

“This is the wrong shade of pearl,” you shook your head, dropping it back down on the table. 

Gojo was tempted to remind you that it was the same color you picked out last time. But that was what you wanted. An argument, another delay, some excuse to shove back the wedding date some more since each time you wanted a new sample, the wedding date had to be changed in order to accommodate it. Your fall wedding had already been shifted to the winter, and if with one more delay? It’d be spring again. 

“I’m sorry, my dove,” he purred, offering an apologetic smile and reaching across the table to grab your hand. You didn’t move. Just sat there stiff, let him hold it while your pretty scowl scrutinized him. “We already sent them out.” 

There was really nothing more fun than watching the faint twitch of your lips, how your jaw locked before you reminded yourself to release it. A constant battle to control your expressions in front of him. 

Sometimes though, he wondered what you were trying not to betray. 

Secret affection buried underneath your blunt exterior? That you enjoyed this back-and-forth as much as he did?

“Without my approval?” Your question was clipped, but not chilly. It was just as calculated as everything else about you.

“You approved it when the vendor showed us a month ago,” Gojo shrugged. He leaned back in his chair, one of those annoyingly stiff ones that was designed to look ornate, wood carved with a million details while the cushion could use more stuffing. Your parlor was full of stuff like that. Pretty, yes. But cold. Uncomfortable.  

Like you were trying to say you can look, but you have to get out. 

Gojo appreciated that. Appreciated that you knew you were above the visitors you might receive, the lords and ladies who attended your family’s parties that you entertained with your practiced manners and perfect smile. 

In a world of social climbers and scum that would stick to the soles of your shoe if they could, you were the star shining at the top of it. What his days and nights revolved around, his heart pumping just to hear your voice and imagine how warm your hand must be under that glove. 

It was improper, but he was dying to peel it off, to take his time to expose every inch of your skin and press a kiss to the back of it. Each finger too, if you’d let him, even your palm. He’d eat out of it you said to. 

“Are you upset with me?” He asked, innocently tilting his head to the side. 

“Why would I be upset with a dog when it barks?” You hummed, the pitch of it too high as you swallowed hard. It was your way of calling him an imbecile. 

Saying that you expected him to be stupid because you thought he was already. You didn’t say it as directly as you used to, no more muttered insults saying he was a moron, just sly ones that slipped out.

“Is it too much to be asked to be pet then?” He teased, grinning again at your stoic reaction. 

“That would not be proper,” you declined, but he watched you swallow hard and couldn't help but hope some small sliver of you had thought about it at least. 

“For my fiancée to touch her husband-to-be?” He pestered, but you just pushed your lips together. 

“You are not my husband yet,” you reminded him. 

And it seemed the most he would ever manage to get from you until then was a dance at whatever event your family forced you to attend. 

But your virtue, how hard you clung to it around him, how steadfast you were about saving your intimacy and affection for after marriage, it was admirable. You didn't entertain other men. Refused to dance with them and cited your engagement every time they tried. Declined drinks and invitations, stepping away if they tried to sneak by your side. 

Your love would be hard won. 

But Gojo refused to lose. 

“It will be dark soon,” you softly said, glancing towards the window. The sun was not going to set for another hour, but he’d rather leave on your good side than risk you being mad at him at the ball next weekend. 

He exhaled as he stood, smoothing out any wrinkles in his clothes, stretching his limbs out to drag out the moment as long as he could though. 

“I will be back to pick you up next Saturday,” Gojo informed you, not giving you any room to squeeze out of it. “Your dress should arrive here for you in a day or two.”

It was the only way to get you to match with him, despite your protests. He saw it coming now, the way your features pinched together. 

“I have other dresses I could-”

“It's already been custom-made for you,” he lightly scolded, walking around to your side of the table. “It would be rather rude to the designer if you didn't wear it.”

You hesitated, biting your lip before nodding. “Fine.”

That was his girl. 

You weren't doing it for your own reputation – but for someone else’s. 

“Good night,” he happily hummed, leaning down to leave a small kiss on your forehead while you sat still. 

Your face looked a little flushed when he pulled away though. 

“Get home safely,” you muttered. Your voice was strained, your stare shifting out the window so you didn't have to watch him leave. 

His footsteps echoed through the exquisitely-decorated halls on his way out, the rest of your family absent despite the fact their unmarried daughter was meeting with the man she was engaged to wed. 

Giving them space. 

Most other parents wouldn't have dared to do the same. But given both their – and most importantly, his – place in high society, he suspected they were trying to secure the marriage even if it meant the two of you having premarital sex beforehand. 

He wasn't the only one who'd taken notice of your reluctance to make it to the aisle. 

But he had a date now. A day set – and invitations set out to show it. It would be the main subject of the next society event, the two of you the center of conversation.

He walked out the front door to the pretty path down to where his carriage was waiting for him, blue eyes locking on something who shouldn't be there. 

Or someone, technically. 

Not that the man feeding his horses sugar cubes really counted as a person to be noted. He was unremarkable. Dark hair, dark eyes. Dressed in plain clothes. Not quite as tall as him. 

Just a peasant playing horse whisperer with one of his well-bred studs while his carriage driver was who-knows-where. 

Gojo cleared his throat. 

The man didn't jump, but just glanced over at him. He didn't offer any respects or stammered apologies. 

“Beautiful horses,” he complimented instead, his voice deep, filled with gravel. 

“Expensive ones,” Gojo huffed. 

“One would imagine so,” he replied, letting the lead horse lick another sugar cube off his palm. It pricked at Gojo, bothered him far more than it should, but he couldn't quite pinpoint why. 

“I don't appreciate you touching what's mine,” Gojo heard himself sneer. 

The stranger seemed to get the message. He slipped the rest of the sugar cubes in his pocket, heading down a branching path to the back of your house. 

Your stable boy, he supposed. 

Gojo automatically didn't like him. 

It was obvious he was the sort that didn't know his place. 

You'd have sympathy for someone like him. Scold Gojo for not falling all over himself to accommodate the poor man who’d spend the rest of his life looking after horses. 

He made a mental note to inquire with your parents about how well they instructed him that one of their servants would feel so comfortable as to handfeed his animals. 

But he immediately forgot when you sent a letter three days later informing him you would just meet him at the ball instead of allowing him to pick you up. 

He placed the floor, put his own paper on paper a hundred times, but he couldn't find the words to convince you otherwise when you punctuated your words so precisely. Signed your name with no affection. 

Had he done something to piss you off? Push you away? 

He deliberately arrived at the ball early, knowing you would be precisely on time. But that just meant he could start chatting up the other couples there, chirping away about the upcoming nuptials before you could come up with another delay. 

“She's lucky to have such a devoted fiancé,” Lady Manami clicked her tongue, throwing a disdainful look to her husband and his friend, who had not been all that interested in marrying her. 

Geto rolled his eyes at the woman on his arms, both of them unhappy in their match but confined to staying for the sake of having children, of cementing their stake in high society. 

“I’m lucky to have her,” Gojo grinned. 

The door opened, and your name was announced, his head swivelling to see your head fixed forward, held high as the skirt of your dress shimmered and shifted with your movement. It was just as pretty in person as he pictured it. A soft shade of blue that would match his eyes, one that went well with his suit. 

He was there to take your hand before anyone else had the chance to approach you. Bowing and bending to kiss it, counting the seconds until you were starting to slyly tug your arm back before he stood and escorted you back properly. 

He was about to compliment you, to praise how pretty you were, already leaning down to murmur in your ear, but you were turning your head up towards him first. 

“Happy now?” You quizzed, immediately looking back ahead as if you hadn't said it. 

“I'm always happy with you,” he murmured back, keeping his voice light, airy even if he was annoyed at your attitude. 

Wasn't he trying? Wasn't he doing everything he could to make this work? 

He understood your reservations. He didn't push. Let you delay and drag your feet within reason. Marriage meant you moving out of your family's home, being his wife before your own person, managing an estate. 

But that was what you were bred for. What your life had been built around – being his. 

It wasn't like he was some asshole who would mistreat you. You'd be spoiled, treasured, treated like the pretty trophy at the top of the pedestal, protected and worshipped. 

Why wouldn't you want that? 

He even spent the rest of the night acting like the gentleman he thought you wanted, keeping his hand in polite places, holding your drinks for you, not stepping on your toes during dances. Did he bring up the wedding planning whenever he had the opportunity? Maybe. But was it really so wrong to look forward to seeing you walk down the aisle? 

“I'm not feeling well,” you murmured, barely two hours in, wiping the back of your forehead. But there wasn't any sweat there. 

“What's wrong?” He frowned, eyes narrowing as you stepped back and shook your head. 

“I think I should return home,” you quietly replied. “My head is throbbing.” 

Gojo wanted to believe you. Truly. 

But when you let him walk you out the main entrance, allowed him to pull you close enough for an embrace where he could smell the perfume clinging to your skin? 

He couldn't convince himself what you said was true.  

So he did what any other puppy would do – follow its master. 

Gojo trailed you outside, the light of the moon casting long shadows across the thick shrubs and well-maintained greenery surrounding the path out front. You were in a hurry the second you thought you slipped out of sight from the rest of the party, holding up your skirts high enough he caught a glimpse of your ankle underneath as you rushed down the cobblestone to where your carriage was waiting. 

He lurked, lingered in the cover of the night, edging closer as your carriage driver held out his hand to help you in. 

The same man he thought belonged in your stables. 

Gojo froze, thankful for the darkness to disguise himself in while he watched your hand take his. Grabbing it to tug that peasant inside your carriage. 

Gojo felt the disgust lodge itself firmly in his throat as he moved closer, desperate to convince himself this was just some misunderstanding. A mistake the universe made instead of one you were making. 

“Choso,” You whispered another man’s name as if it was the only thing that anchored you. Low and soft, filled with something that sounded an awful lot like love. A pretty purr that should be reserved for him. 

“You look divine,” a gruff voice replied, and Gojo couldn’t help but wonder if he could even spell that. There was no way that man was educated. Could he even read? 

He could hear the rustle of clothes, soft thuds and light giggles as Gojo imagined those filthy hands touching your pristine skin. Dirtying it with heavy touches and calloused palms. 

“Show me how much you mean it,” you whispered back, and the excitement in your tone, the way it wavered and lilted, it gave him goosebumps. 

It should be him. 

But no, you were lowering yourself for a quick fuck in a carriage with a man who would never do more than driving it – rather than one who could buy you two hundred of them. Could your Choso even count that high? 

The groan he heard next had him clenching his fist, digging his nail into his palm so he didn’t rip the carriage door open and punch him for defiling his bride-to-be. The only reason he didn’t was because you might not forgive him. 

Just blame him for being the bad guy.

Besides, making a scene at your expense would only end up worse for him. You were supposed to be his wife. Not the laughingstock of society who had a secret affair with some stable boy three months before your wedding. 

You might be willing to throw away your future, but Gojo wasn't. 

The carriage creaked, the walls vibrating as your gorgeous moans escaped, albeit muffled by the sounds of sex and sacrilege. 

“How soon?” You hummed, your voice all airy as you sucked in breaths. 

Gojo couldn’t breathe. How soon until what? 

“Yuji’s getting over the flu. Give me two weeks,” Choso murmured back, and there was the sound of wet kisses, the lewd noise of something thrusting in-and-out. “Then we’ll go somewhere far away from here.” 

“Promise?” You pleaded, a whine that left his shoulders slumping, his heart stalling. 

“Promise.” 

You were trying to leave him. 

He couldn't let that happen. 

So he played dumb. Walked away and waited until your carriage rode off to go back to the party and pretend nothing happened. 

Went back to sleep in his soft bed and dreamt up ways to win you back, made and discarded a million plans before he settled on the same conclusion every time. 

He had to get rid of Choso.

Figuring out how was harder. 

He paid a private investigator, someone who knew how to keep his lips sealed – and sent him to look into your servant. He came back quickly, he might be the same age, but he’d spent half his life taking care of his younger siblings, scrounging for any coins he could to spend and save for them. He started working at your family’s estate last year – and had somehow wormed his way into your heart since then.

Gojo settled on sending a letter to the shack he called home, short and simple – but not shying away from the threat. Demanding a duel for your hand or face the fury of his family. And the shame that would slander your name until your parents would put iron bars on your windows and refuse to let you leave your home. 

If Choso cared at all, was even a fraction of devoted to you as he was, he’d be at the meeting place at the specified time. Gojo just didn’t know how to feel about it when he stepped into the clearing behind your house two days later and he was. 

“You’re late,” Choso called out, a pistol sheathed by his side, hanging on a loose belt. Gojo was surprised he even had one. Wondered what black market he must have bought it from. 

Typically, the person being challenged would be the one to choose the grounds and the weapons to be used, but Gojo had figured someone as poor as him wouldn’t be able to provide either. Gojo tossed the extra pistol he brought onto the grass, chuckling as Choso stared him down. 

“I was with my fiancé,” he taunted.

You were taken aback when he showed up, your hair hanging loose, no makeup dusting your features and a dress hastily tied up by your personal maid when you greeted him. But for the first time, there was a hint of guilt in your pulled-tight smile. Like you thought he was terrible but still felt bad for him. 

More tolerant of his teasing, more accepting of his jokes – appropriate or not – listening with a distracted expression, all dreamy and dazed as you nodded along. Still, you shooed him out the second the clock struck and reminded you that he’d stayed more than long enough to be considered polite.

Today was the first time he wasn’t really here for you though. 

He had a problem to take care of. 

“She’s not in love with you,” Choso spoke firmly, but it was soft, weak. 

It didn’t change anything. This had never really been about love. 

He had enough for both of you. He could live without it if it meant you’d still stay next to him – somewhere he could touch and hold. 

“I don’t really care,” Gojo admitted, shrugging his shoulders and slipping his own pistol out from where he’d been keeping it hidden. “She’s still mine.”

Choso was the one in the wrong. The one stealing what was rightfully his. 

“She’s not a thing you can claim,” Choso gritted his teeth, frown lines etched into his skin and tired circles under his eyes. 

“And yet you came to claim her,” Gojo retorted, reminding him that Choso was like him too. A man desperate to hold onto you by any means necessary. 

Gojo could admit it, at least. 

“That’s-” 

“Let’s just get this over with,” He interrupted Choso before he could reply. “When you lose, you leave. Disappear back wherever you came from and never speak to her again.” Choso scoffed, brown eyes squinting at him across the clearing. His mouth opened, but it took him a few seconds to reply, probably because his brain didn’t work quite as quickly as Gojo’s did. “Fine. Fifteen paces.” 

Gojo had never challenged anyone before, but he’d seen a few duels. Been shooting since he was old enough to join his father for hunts. Fifteen paces was nothing to shooting flying feathered birds or taking down wild deer. 

They followed the steps, his brain already considering where to aim – his shoulder maybe, or his arm. Enough to maim, but not to murder. Minimize how mad you’d be if you found out. 

Losing had never been a consideration. 

But when he turned, when his gun fired on the signal, the two seconds it took were marred by a sudden blinding pain. Burning radiating up his hand, his nerves screaming at him that something was wrong, wrong, wrong. 

Choso’s shot had hit. His didn’t. 

Above the knuckle on his left ring finger, where a gold band was supposed to be in a couple months, was nothing. Blood was already dripping down the rest of his hand, staining his clothes. The burning had twisted into a deep ache, a painful throbbing, one that forced him to put up his gun to pay attention to it. He held his finger, what was left of it, pressing down and putting pressure on the wound as he seethed and scrambled for some control. 

“You lost,” Choso deadpanned, dropping his pistol down by his side. “So let her go.”

No.

The dark eyes across from him were cold, cruel. Empty as they stared straight through him, jaw locked tight. But Gojo still saw it – the hint of pride in his twitching lips. 

Had you ever seen this side of him? 

“What do you think will happen?” Gojo snarled. “You run off with her and live happily ever after in some shack?” 

God, even the thought of you slumming it on a straw bed in some plain dress with a few brats that weren’t even your own crawling over you made him sick. Chasing after children in a village where there probably wasn’t even clean water to drink or wash your face with. 

“She’s used to being bathed with roses and imported bath salts. She has a personal maid. Do you even know how many servants her parents hired for her? What foods she’s used to eating? How much just a yard of fabric for her simplest dresses cost?” Gojo scoffed, each word an assault in itself. 

Choso’s somber face faltered. Fell. Brows pinching together just to droop. 

“How long until she comes running back to me?” He added. Maybe he was spoiled – but you were too. 

“She wouldn’t,” Choso shook his head. 

“Maybe not after everyone knows she ran off with a guy who shovels horse shit,” he snapped back. Gojo didn’t sound anything like himself. 

But Choso flinched. His resolve to keep you was crumbling with just a few sentences. 

He didn’t deserve you. Because if the positions were reversed, he would’ve burned the rest of the world to have your love – and this guy was just giving it away.

“What do you want?” Gojo scoffed. “Money? I could give you enough to take your brothers and get as far away from here as fucking possible. Enough to send them to private school. To get real jobs.” 

He wanted to roll his eyes when he saw the hesitation. The consideration on Choso’s face. 

Choosing gold coins before a future with you.

“How much?” 

Choso was gone in two days.  

He, however, spent an entire week shuttered up in his room, shivering and shaking as the best doctors in a hundred miles worked to keep infection out of his hand, cleaning and wrapping it and insisting he stay in bed while he healed. Fussed over how something like this could’ve happened while he was hunting. He claimed his gun was faulty. Made up a story about a misfire. 

But it didn’t matter. All the pain, the disfigurement, he’d do it again just to feel the relief when the investigator he had trail your former lover to his new home sent a letter back that Choso had made it there, little brothers-in-tow. 

He didn’t write to you. Made no attempt of contact. Just took his coins and called it quits. 

Hadn’t Gojo done you a favor? Saved you from the suffering being with a man whose love wasn’t pure would put you through? 

He wrote to you like a wet kitten, whining about his injury, seeking sympathy. But your reply was hardly a page long, wishing him to heal well. Only signed with your name. 

Almost three weeks passed before he heard from you again. 

A short invitation for tea – and a single sentence saying you hoped he was feeling better. 

He might’ve lost the duel, but you were the one wearing the defeat on your face when he walked through the door to your parlor. 

“Satoru,” you said his name like it was the last thing you had left. Your eyes were tinged red, sleepless circles underneath them, worry written in the lines of your face. “Hi, angel,” he greeted, getting on his knees to kiss the back of your hand. 

You were fidgeting. Glancing out the window every few seconds. Fingers curling, clutching at your skirt just to release it when you realized what you were doing. Your eyes darted over to him, and he didn’t say a word before standing and wrapping his arms around you. 

Pulling you in for a tight hug, letting you bury your face into his chest. He could feel the dampness through his shirt, quietly crying, holding your breath like you didn’t want him to know. 

“Can we move up the wedding?”

Of course. 

The whispers started when the new invitations were sent out. 

People wondering out loud if his hunting accident had anything to do with the new date. But they knew better than to say it to him. Well, almost all of them.

“So, what finger are you going to wear the ring on?” Manami bluntly asked at the next party the four of you were at. You, in a matching dress, hanging by his side, numbly staring at a spot on the wall while he did most of the talking. Him, with his hand still-bandaged up tight. 

“My right hand works fine,” Gojo casually replied, but there was a cold edge to it that he didn’t hide. Suguru hated his wife, so why should he pretend to like her?

“Shame it happened so close to the wedding,” she feigned sympathy, shrugging as Suguru slipped away from her to find a drink to drown himself in. Manami settled her sights on you, face scrunched in a stuck-up pout. “I mean, I probably would’ve pushed it back if I were you. But I guess sooner is better when you’ll be sizing u-” 

“Well, isn’t it wonderful you’re not me?” You blinked, cutting her off before she could hurl another insult at you. 

She made a shrill noise, some annoyed scoff that drew attention from the closest lords and ladies trying to listen in. Manami turned on her heels, heading off in the direction Suguru went. 

But Gojo was replaying her last sentence. 

He knew what she was trying to imply. That you were running to the altar because you were pregnant. That he knocked you up and now you were both just saving face. 

Gojo wanted to deny it.

To call it absurd. 

But he’d be lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind when you started handling all the details of wedding planning, pushing for vendors and moving up all the arrangements on your own when you’d been dragging your feet and dodging every single question he asked about it. 

And after a life spent studying you at any given opportunity, the signs stood out. When he came over early one afternoon to catch you trying to squeeze into a wedding dress that had been using your measurements from six months ago just for it to fit tighter than it should.  

But he didn’t know until he heard you throwing up in the bathroom down the hall the morning of the wedding at his estate after he went to check on you. Heard your choked-up coughs and sniffles and the faint sound of crying. 

Still, an hour later, he stood at the end of the aisle, straight-faced and waiting for you to walk down the petal-lined walkway. 

No one else had to know. 

When you walked down, still perfect, still the prettiest girl he’d ever seen in your white dress, he cried too. Slipping the ring on your finger and saying vows he’d meant even now, to love you through sickness and health and everything in between, dipping you down to kiss you despite his suspicion that it was really three of you up there. 

Maybe he was missing a finger. Maybe you were pregnant.

But those were just details. Tiny details that didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter. 

Because you were his wife. 

The rest of the reception was a blur, dancing with you, dragging his thumb over your lips after you pretended to drink wine, not even damp. But he still popped it back in his own mouth, like he could taste it anyway. Kissed you again with no shame, ignoring guests and insisting on feeding you cake with his fork. 

“I’m stuffed,” you complained, trying to pull his hand down. There weren’t bandages on it anymore, but what was left of his finger still felt ugly, like it belonged to someone else. Not him. 

“Ready to retire then?” He hummed, tilting his head to the side. Teasing a different question his brain had been lingering on. 

Consummation. 

You might not be a virgin. But he’d fuck you hard enough it felt like you were. Let his touch wash away any other set of hands that defiled or deflowered you. 

Gojo felt the heat rise to his face, the color dusting his cheeks as your breath hitched in your throat, probably thinking what he was. “I suppose so.”

It might’ve been duty to you. That you had accepted this was just the role you’d been raised for, resigning yourself to filling it. But you still held your head high. Walked into his bedroom with your wedding dress brushing against the floor as if you had never dreamed of anything else.

You stood straight as his fingers worked to unlace your corset, to loosen it up. Your maid had moved in with you, and you had offered to call for her to help get you undressed.

But he wanted to do it. Wanted to feel capable of taking care of you. 

You didn’t need anyone else. 

Gojo just had to help you see that. 

The dress fell in a heap to the floor – but there were still other undergarments, ones he carefully stripped you free of until you were standing naked in his room. He imagined this moment a million times. What you might look like, the curves and lines he’d die just to trace, how soft your skin might feel, how warm. And nothing could compare to the real thing.

It was funny, Choso was the last thing he wanted to think of here, but he couldn’t help but briefly consider what a moron he’d been to walk away when he had a taste of this. 

“I’ve dreamed of this,” Gojo breathed, and for the first time, he felt what it was like to be the one to make you blush. 

“You can never be serious, can you?” You lightly scolded, your voice tight as you stood there, arms folding across your chest to cover your breasts. Your stomach had yet to swell, no tell-tale bump or anything to betray what you’d done before him. 

He wanted to lie to himself. Blame all the other signs on you being distraught, devastated that the man you tried to leave him for had left you first. 

But it was harder to forget the sound of you moaning when he was hearing it again fifteen minutes later. 

When you spread your legs for him before he’d even fully laid you down on his silk sheets, your hair splayed out and head propped up on one of his pillows. Soft thighs pliant for him as his palms traveled up them.

“I may not bleed,” you warned him, your lip twitching as you lied right as his mouth trailed kisses up the inside of your leg. “The doctor said my hymen broke from horseback riding as a teenager.” 

“I trust you,” he murmured back, just to feel your muscles tense. 

“You’ve never really known me,” you incredulously started to argue, a bad habit you hadn’t broken, but your protest died when he kissed your clit next. He wasn’t well-versed in women’s anatomy – but he’d stolen a few of his mother’s illicit romance books to get an idea of how to pleasure a lady like you over the years. Planned what he’d do once he had you in his palm. 

“I’m the only one that ever has,” he teased back, wrapping his lips back around your sensitive bud, sucking softly before rolling his tongue over it.

It was harder for you to talk back when he pushed two fingers (from his right hand) inside your pretty pussy next. Felt you squeeze around them, try to suck them in deeper. 

“S-Satoru,” you stammered his name, and it was immediately seared into his head. “You don’t have to-”

“Worship my wife?” He wryly laughed into your skin, feeling you shudder around him as he thrusted his thick fingers in deeper. 

Choso clearly had never fucked you well enough, because it only took five minutes to turn you into a shivering mess, squirming and sweating as your body tensed and jolted each time he curled his fingers or lapped at your clit, finding a steady rhythm and dragging it out.

“I-I can’t,” you whined. Even your whimper had him rock-hard, rutting against the bed to soothe the ache in his pants. “S’too-”

“That’s it, pretty,” he purred, coaxing you to cum. 

You had never been as pure as he thought you were, but you were even more perfect than he could ever imagine. Glossy eyes all glazed over, lips parted when you finished for the first time. It wouldn’t be the last tonight. 

He practically ripped his own clothing getting it off, leaving it in a pile on the floor before climbing back on top of you, guiding your hands to cling onto his shoulder blades as he nudged his leaking tip by your entrance. 

Gojo groaned the second the first couple of inches slipped in. Grinded his molars and gripped onto his self-restraint until he was choking on it, taking his time to sink into your heat. To stretch you out as he brushed your hair from your face and kissed your lips as if they were the secret to everything he’d been searching for.

You kissed him back. Soft. Slow. Scared. 

Like you weren’t sure if it was right. But you didn’t spill your secret. Just dug your nails into his shoulder blade and tethered your fingers in his silky white locks to tug on when he pulled back out only to thrust all the way back in. 

Gojo tried to be sweet. To be a sensitive lover. Caressed your cheek and left a long line of kisses from your mouth down to your chest, purring promises as he fucked into you in fast thrusts. Toyed with your swollen clit and tried his hardest to hold off on filling you up with cum until he knew you’d finished a second time. 

It was a little clumsier than he intended. A little sloppier. 

Fucking his cum back inside you until his cock went soft again, collapsing on top of your body, his chest slick with sweat as he held onto you. Staying like that until you both fell asleep. 

That was what marriage should be. 

Connection. Intimacy. Knowing you inside and out. 

In the morning, he woke up to you getting dressed, insisting on some menial task or chore that you needed to do. Thank-you letters or organizing a society event for socialities and merchants that only wanted to make money off of you. 

But you spent every night in his bed. Having sex or just sleeping, it didn’t really matter to him as long as his hands were on you. As long as you were never more than six inches away. 

And three months later, you were showing. 

“I’m pregnant,” you muttered over breakfast, spoon halfway from your bowl to your mouth, waiting for him to say something as he sipped his juice. 

“I know.” 

You never said it was his. 

And Gojo never asked. 

Some slim part of him hoped. But the logical side of him knew better. 

The whispers turned into talking after you went into labor early. 

An entire month before you should’ve – just to deliver a healthy-sized baby. One with dark hair and dark eyes. But the rumors that spread were wrong anyway, claiming you slept with Suguru before the wedding. It didn’t help that Manami hadn’t given him any children yet, or that Suguru came over nearly every weekend for parties or hunting or just to get away from his wife. 

But Satoru just smiled, carried around him as if it was his own, because the baby was his. You both were. He was half-you anyway. He shut down anyone who tried to say otherwise. Fired any member of his staff that dared to insinuate you were a whore or slept around before the marriage. Made up an imaginary aunt that your son just happened to look like, insisting on the lies until they started to sound real. 

Everyone was too terrified to try to say otherwise.

You softened after you had him. Stopped arguing. Stopped calling him spoiled or selfish. No longer stared at the ceiling like you were waiting for the world to crumble and fall on top of you.  You looked at him with something he told himself was adoration when you watched him dress your son up and spoonfeed him. As he helped teach him how to walk and sang to him on his birthday. 

“Toru,” you murmured, staring at your reflection in the mirror so you didn’t have to meet his eyes. He’d just put him to sleep in his crib in the adjoining room, although he was almost too big for it now – would need something new soon.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He hummed, coming up behind you to rest his head on your shoulder. Glancing down at the ring on your finger, the gleam of white gold and the glittering diamond, before looking back to your face. He saw it there. The hesitation, the confession on your tongue ready to roll off. 

“He’s-” 

“Our boy is growing up, hm?” He interrupted before you could do it. Before you could crush the illusion of the perfect marriage he’d spent so long crafting. This worked better when you felt bad about it. 

Gojo didn’t need the confirmation he was Choso’s. He just wanted you to give him one of his own.

“Yeab,” you breathed.

“Perhaps it’s time for another one?” 

The next baby looked like him. A gorgeous chubby-cheeked girl with white hair and bright blue eyes. Something about the way her small fingers wrapped around his, and how she looked nestled against your chest had him craving a third. And you gave him that too. A son with white hair, but your eyes. 

He had tuned out most of the rumor mill. Proudly showed off all three of his children and his pretty wife by his side. You were too busy chasing after them, too busy being his for your mind to ever wonder now. Not when he fucked the thoughts back out of them once he got you back in his bed at night. 

Gojo got everything he ever wanted.

Treasured each second of it. Trained you to forget about those silly notions of a life where you didn’t belong to with him. 

Years slipped by. The kids grew older. Traded teething toys for wooden trains for trinkets. But over time, you slowly started to fall for him. To appreciate and respect his protectiveness instead of recoiling from it. Reaching out and rolling over to curl next to him in bed. Pressing kisses to his cheek and smiling at him when he paid you compliments. 

Your love wasn’t as intense as his. Didn’t consume and cling for more. But it was there.

And that was all he ever wanted.

But not everything stays buried. All it took was a Tuesday. Coming home from a trip to the market to pick up your eldest’s favorite snack food just to find an unfamiliar carriage by the gates. 

A stranger was sitting in your parlor room, across from you and your son, but the mood was far from somber, none of you smiling as he stepped foot in the room.

“Who’s this?” Gojo chirped, striding over to plop a hand down on his son’s shoulder, the ends of his dark hair now reaching his fingers, faintly tickling them. 

The man was more like a boy, barely of age, if he had to guess. Well-dressed though, broad like he’d been raised on steaks instead of scraps. Pale pink hair and innocent features all screwed up in disbelief, pointedly staring at the boy that was technically his nephew. 

“This is Yuji,” you answered, but your voice was strained, tight. “His brother used to work in my family’s stables.” 

“Oh,” Gojo said, forcing a smile.

“He passed away two months ago. Influenza,” Yuji added, and the pain pinching his brows together was obvious, but the only emotion racing through Gojo’s veins was relief. “He asked me to deliver something.” 

That was short-lived. 

Because in your hand was an open letter, one with handwriting he didn’t need to recognize. Gojo looked at your face and only found betrayal there, disdain.

“They moved before we were wed,” you coldly said. “But I suppose you knew that already.” 

“That was a long time ago,” Gojo shrugged, feigning innocence.

You wanted to scoff. To scream. 

But you held it in. 

“Yuji, I’m happy to see your doing well, but I think you should go,” you spoke slowly, choosing your words carefully. “C-can I ask something?” He blinked, still looking at your son. Like he had connected the dots, figured out who his real father was. 

“My wife requested you leave,” Gojo stopped him before he could. 

Yuji listened – even if he looked like a kicked puppy dog walking back out to his waiting carriage. You waited for your son to return to his room before you turned to Satoru with that sharp fury he’d fallen for back when he was a kid.

“You paid him to leave me,” you accused. Correctly. 

“Was I supposed to let you destroy our life?” He hummed, raising a brow and settling a hand on his hip. Besides, wasn’t losing a finger penance enough? Punishment for not paying enough attention that you’d gotten such a silly idea in your head in the first place? 

“My life,” you tried to sound strong, but he saw the way you were already shaking. 

What was the point in fighting when Choso was already dead?

Gojo outlived him. All you had was him now. All you ever had was him. 

“He chose to leave,” Gojo reminded you. “I didn’t force him to do anything.” 

Choso had won the duel after all. He just put his brothers before you. Although, he supposed his decision might have been different if he knew he knocked you up.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You demanded, but he was already mentally wagering how long you’d hold onto the anger.

“You didn’t tell me whose he was.” Gojo twisted it back around, fixing the blame on you instead. 

“You knew before I had him,” you flinched as you realized it, like you couldn’t face the truth in front of you. 

“Of course,” he retorted. “I just never cared.” 

“Why?” You whispered.

Choso was never going to be more than your past. Gojo was always going to be your future. 

“Because you’re mine.”