You hate the taste, the smell, and every little weird stupid modification you can make. Coffee and you never mixed. The smell made you gag and the one time you did drink it your stomach fought back and won very handedly.

Tea or some nice hot chocolate was always your go to. Caffeine was caffeine and you'd rather have it by sipping a nice cup of honey oolong with sugar.

But on your first day at the planet you were greeted with Clark shyly offering you a cup of coffee. He was probably the hottest man you had seen ever and here he was in front of you smiling so nicely that you didn't have the heart to say no.

You assumed it was just a first day thing, a welcome gift of coffee that every other reporter seemed to chug down like it was water. But when you came to work on your second day and Clark hurried in a couple minutes late he had four cups of coffee and one of them with your name on it.

A month of lies just so you could brush your fingers against his and see that gorgeous smile every morning.

Cat thinks its romantic, Jimmy thinks its funny, and Lois? Well poor Lois is so fed up with the two of you she swears she's surrounded by children.

"This is getting sad." She says as she watches you fake a sip just so Clark doesn't get suspicious.

"Will you keep it down! He might here you." You whisper as you grab her mostly empty cup and switch it with your full one. "

From where? The bathroom?" Lois says as she picks up the full cup. You try and shoo her away from your desk but she doesn't budge.

"I can't tell him now! It's too late." You argue back and she sighs.

"Oh my god it's coffee." Lois has been forced to have a front row seat to this for the past month and she has had it.

"I think it's adorable, you know he always saves you for last so he can take his sweet time." Cat teases as she walks by.

"Not helping." Lois says.

"You two are acting like love sick teenagers it makes me want to vomit." She leans in close and points to Clark who was caught in a conversation with Steve.

The poor guy he looks miserable. He glances over your way, making a small pout and his eyes begging for help. You can't help the soft smile that forms on your lips, a laugh escaping you.

"Just tell him. It's Clark for gods sake. The worst thing that could happen is he gets flustered and embarrassed for not reading your mind on your first day of work." Lois says before walking back to her desk.

She's wrong. The worst thing that could happen is that you blurt out that you have a massive crush on him, he rejects you, stops speaking to you, and he becomes someone you can only talk to in your dreams.

"Hi." You nearly jump out of your seat at the sound of Clark's voice.

"Hi," You say gently. Your hands fidgeting with pencil on your desk.

"I am dying to get out of here for lunch, Steve keeps pestering me about my article." He says with a sigh.

"That's what happens when you have as many front page articles as you do Clark, it attracts attention."

"It's not really Steve's attention I'm trying to attract." He mumbles, eyeing the coffee cup on your desk. Your breath catches in your throat, your mind going somewhere you should never let it go.

"So uh…Lunch?" It's hard to tell the man in front of you is so tall with the way he's hunched over just slightly, making his very handsome bulky frame smaller.

"Lunch sounds great Clark." He smiles as he gestures for you to move before he does.

The walk to the deli was quiet but not a bad quiet. More a comforting quiet than anything. You can tell he's got a lot on his mind. The way his face contorts and he mumbles quietly under his breath. His face wincing as he tries to figure out what to do with his hands. Letting them flail around a bit before stuffing them in his pockets. A loud noise catches both of your attention.

"What was that?" You ask but Clark doesn't respond. He stares off into the distance before pulling out his wallet and handing it to you.

"Why don't you head in and order, I'll be right back!"

"Wait Clark!" You call but he's already gone. The man is 6'4 and yet he disappears in the crowd in an instant.

You glance down at his wallet and shake your head. You order, sticking his wallet in your pocket and paying for it yourself. By the time your order number rings out Clark is rushing back inside. He's breathing heavily and his tie is all askew.

"Just in time." You hold up his sandwich and he sighs in relief.

"You really shouldn't hand people your wallet by the way." You hand it back to him and he shrugs.

"It's you, I trust you. Plus I don't think you'd have much use for my Baskin Robbins stamp card." He jokes.

"I don't know, I really love rocky road." He unwraps his sandwich, slightly surprised to see his usual order.

"You knew?" He asks with a smile.

"You get the same thing every time so…I just noticed it." You say as you stare at your own sandwich.

Was that weird? Are you being too forward or maybe he thinks you're a stalker? Stalkers would know that kind of thing right?

"So where did you run off to?" You ask to change the subject.

"No where. I mean…It was nothing really just a fender bender. This lady…" As Clark rambles on you feel a guilt creeping up on you.

The whole coffee thing looming over you again. It was just a small gesture that really wasn't that significant but the man was sitting in front of you made it feel like the he had bought you a million roses. He's just so nice it kills you. I mean he just went and helped a car accident on his lunch break. He's too sweet, too kind.

Ugh.

"I hate coffee." You blurt out before you can help yourself. Clark stops talking, his words trailing off as he tilts his head in slight confusion.

"Coffee makes my stomach explode and the smell is so gross and it's so bitter I hate it." You can't stop talking as you flood gates finally release.

"But god I love it when you bring it to me every morning. I love that stupidly charming smile and your stupidly handsome face. So I lied because I was afraid that if I told you the truth there would be no reason for you to talk to me anymore."

"You think I'd stop talking to you because you don't like coffee?" He asks slowly, a slight pout on his lips.

"Yes. Well actually my brain said that you'd hate me for lying and everyone would turn against me and you'd hate me and I'd die alone." You admit, realizing how ridiculous your anxious mind really sounds outloud.

He raises an eyebrow. Not in a You're insane way but of a I can't believe you've been hiding this for so long way.

"I'm sorry." You say softly. Squeezing your eyes shut in emabrassment.

"You're sorry? I'm sorry I've been forcing you to smell coffee every morning for the last month." You almost gawk at how sincere he sounds. You've been lying and he's the one apologizing.

"It's not like you could have known." You reply and he just chuckles.

"Lois was right, it was getting sad." You groan into your hands and Clark reaches across the table, gently pulling at your wrist.

"I don't think it's sad, I think it's cute." You glance at him through your fingers and you feel the sincerity radiating off him.

"Besides, I was the guy brining you coffee every morning because I wanted to talk to you." He admits, smiling when you bring your hands down.

"You know we probably could have spoken like normal coworkers." You mumble and he nods his head.

"Yeah, but it was easier to hide behind a cup of coffee."

"You're doing a pretty good job now."

"So are you honey." Oh you swear you almost melt into the leather booth. Honey are you kidding?? Your eyes soften and he notices the way your body reacts and he likes it.

"So if not coffee what is your drink of choice?" He asks, preparing to catalog your order for tomorrow.

"Tea and sometimes hot chocolate depending on the weather."

"Noted." Your hour lunch is up far too fast for your liking.

The walk back to the office was once again filled with silence. But this time the two exchanged soft looks, ones that made your heart beat faster. Your hands brushing up against eachothers as you walked through the crowded city. In the elevator up you see him staring at you, a faint smirk on his lips.

"What?" You ask, seeing that he was clearly thinking of something.

"So…you think I'm handsome?"

And the funniest part? Everyone notices except you.

He tries so, so much to impress you—it’s almost embarrassing. Almost.

Like the way he suddenly becomes louder when you walk into a room, laughing a little too much, standing a little too straight. Or how he starts wearing nicer outfits on days he knows you’ll be around, pretending it’s “just coincidence.”

Franco acts confident around cameras, fans, drivers… but one smile from you and he’s fighting for his life not to trip over air.

When you talk to him, he listens like you’re explaining the secrets of the universe. When you compliment him —even something tiny, like “good race today”— he blushes so fast it’s actually comedic.

And when other guys your age talk to you? Yeah. He gets competitive in the most adorable, clueless way.

He’ll pop out of nowhere like: “Oh hey! Didn’t see you here. Funny. Anyway, Y/N, did you watch my quali lap? No? I can show you.”

He says it like he wasn’t literally waiting for you to finish your conversation.

He starts doing small things to show he’s “mature.” Helping you carry stuff even when it’s not heavy. Opening doors for you like a proper gentleman. Trying to stay calm and collected even though he’s buzzing inside like a shaken soda can.

And the best part?

He absolutely melts when you treat him gently — when you fix his cap, adjust his fireproofs, or brush something off his cheek. He tries to play it off, but the second you turn around, he’s smiling like an idiot.

You find him cute, obviously.

But you don’t see what he sees in himself: a rookie trying to reach someone totally out of his league.

Once, you tell him, laughing, “You don’t have to try so hard, you know?”

And Franco freezes.

Then, with this burst of honesty he didn’t plan to release, he blurts: “I… want you to think I’m worth your time.”

You blink.

He backtracks immediately —waving his hands— “I mean, not like that, well, yes like that, but also— you just— you’re… incredible. And I’m just— me.”

He’s red to the roots of his hair.

You step closer, softening your voice. “Franco… you’re more impressive than you think.”

And that moment? It sticks with him for weeks.

It makes him drive harder, push more, believe in himself a little differently—not to prove anything to the world, but to live up to the version of himself he thinks you see.

Suddenly, every victory feels brighter because your smile is the one he looks for first. Every loss hurts a little less when you squeeze his shoulder and tell him you’re proud.

He’s young, yes.

But he loves fiercely, genuinely, without games — and that’s the thing that wins you over in the end.

Because Franco doesn’t want to impress the world.

He wants to impress you. And damn, does he try.

© 2025 lap90. All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication, distribution, or modification of this content is strictly prohibited.

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Joaquin would tell you to do a lap to survey the area and you would hold your breath to stay as quiet as possible, even though no one was ever able to hear your voice other than Joaquin. Bullets would come flying his way and you would find yourself shaking with adrenaline as he ran for cover. You thought after the first couple of missions it would get easier watching him fight, but somehow (when you weren’t fearing for his life) you found yourself getting all flustered whenever you watched him flip one of the bad guys over his shoulder, or he’d do a spinning kick and knocking them on their asses. He was impressive and he always left you breathless.

“Wooooo!” Joaquin crowed as he pumped his fists in the air in triumph. “Did anybody see that!?” he cried out. You watched his POV through the second monitor as he looked around him for anybody, the man desperate for an audience, but as always, it was just you.

“I did. I’m always watching,” you said through the comm link, but somehow, the way his head hung low, told you that he didn’t think your presence counted.

“Thanks Fearn,” he muttered to himself as he began to trek back up the dirt path at the back of the property.

It wasn’t the first sign he’d given you that he didn’t think you were a real person but you still weren’t completely sure he wasn’t either, especially on the times you flirted and held longer conversation with one another.

“Would you like me to send the footage to Cap?” you asked him in a teasing tone, hoping the more human like teasing interaction would reassure him of your actual presence in the world.

He froze. “No, no, no.” he quickly said and you could feel his cheeks growing pink even though you couldn’t see them.

“But you said you wanted someone else to see.” you replied.

“Yeah, I did, but like in the moment,” he replied. “I feel like sending him a video of me kicking some dude’s ass is bragging and he just won’t think I’m cool.”

“I think you’re cool.” you replied through the com link.

“Thanks Fearn,” he replied. But once again his voice sounded a little dejected.

“That’s alright, Joaquin.”

You watched as he began to recheck over some of the modifications on the arms of the suit as he walked, you flying the drone at his shoulder as he made his way back towards the warehouse where Cap and a crew of military personnel were waiting for his return.

“Umm, Fearn, you can go to sleep now.” Joaquin instructed, his voice still a little dejected as he approached them.

You didn’t want to shut down. He was clearly going through something and you wanted to make sure he was okay, but it was your job to follow orders so you reluctantly docked the drone on the back of his suit and shut it down, ready for the next time he had use of you.

You waited a few more minutes just to be sure the mission was officially over and you weren’t needed, before you finally logged off, knowing you’d be able to take a longer break for a while. You looked at the time. 3:30pm. Time for a coffee and sweet treat reward. But as you slipped on your shoes and grabbed your keys and tote bag and headed out the door to pop to your local coffee shop, your mind was still focused on Joaquin.

It gnawed at the pit of your stomach all the way to the coffee shop and back. You tried to push it to one side and enjoy the slice of banana bread you had bought as your treat whilst watching a couple episodes of your favourite tv show of the moment, but still your mind kept wandering to him. You just wanted to know he was okay. But other than Fearn you had no idea how else to contact him.

“Hey, Fearn?” his voice suddenly called out into your appartment and you raced over to your computer to activate the drone. When the video feed kicked in, you realised he wasn’t in his suit. In fact he didn’t look to be on a mission at all. Was this… where he lived?

“Fearn?” he said again and although it wasn’t your real name, the way he said it made you ache for him.

“Yes, Joaquin? How can I be of assistance to you?”

There was a pause as he leant forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he thought.

“You said you could send the footage of me fighting earlier to Cap. Umm, do you keep all the footage from my missions?” he asked.

“Yes. All your missions are recorded for training and security purposes.” you replied.

“Can you access them and play them back for me?” he asked nervously, his hands rubbing together to alleviate some of his tension, as he struggled to keep eye contact with the drone.

You woke up your second monitor and began pulling up files and video footage ready. “Which mission would you like to see first?” you asked.

“Ummm,” he mumbled as he thought for a moment. “Can you bring up the footage from that rooftop fight last week?” he asked.

You began flicking through the folders on your screen finding the mission he was asking about and opening up the video footage. “Is there a particular moment you would like to revisit?” you asked.

He rubbed his hand bashfully through his hair before scratching at the back of his neck. “Can I rewatch the bit where I swooped in and kicked the guy off the top of the roof?” he asked.

You smiled, remembering the moment well. You fast forwarded through the video footage on your screen until you found it. You then manoeuvred FEARN so you could project the video onto his blank wall behind his bed.

“Wow,” he sighed as you activated the footage, the moment playing out for him again, just how he had seen it the first time from his suits point of view.

You rewatched with him as he swooped in and knocked the guy over the edge of the building as he landed seamlessly on the edge looking down. You silently counted down with the version of him in the recorded memory as the guy inched closer and closer to the ground, his screams of panic calling back up to him. When he got to one he stepped off the roof himself and began to free fall after him, the jet on the back of his suit kicking in to propel him forward faster so he could catch up with the man.

He caught him just before he was able to hit the concrete, the man literally pissing himself as Joaquin shot him back up again to the top of the roof and dumping him down. The man rolled across the gravel at the top as he landed.

“Joaquin?” You found yourself asking. He turned his attention back towards the drone to let you know he was listening. “What does it feel like?” you asked him. “To fly like that?”

You turned the sound down on the video, the rest of the fight just becoming background noise as Joaquin answered you. “Like the most thrilling adrenaline rush you’ll ever get.” he replied, a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he thought on it. “It’s like getting to go on a rollercoaster every day, except there’s no track to follow and you get to make up the ride as you go along.” He paused a second before he continued. “Actually FEARN, can I tell you a secret.” he said, leaning into the drone as if it were a real person, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “It’s actually ruined rollercoasters for me.” You almost laughed at that. “I tried to go to six flags with my cousin a few months ago, but every ride I went on just felt boring. There just wasn’t any thrill in it anymore.”

“That sounds sad,” you replied, your heart breaking for him.

“Yeah, I guess it is.” he replied, his attention returning to the video on the wall. “Can you replay the footage from today?” he eventually asked?

"I’m telling you, it’s a total crime to hide that figure," Nobara said, leaning against your doorframe with her arms crossed, a sharp, appreciative gleam in her eyes. "The standard uniform options are so blocky, but yours? The way you did the silhouette—it’s perfect."

You offered her a small, grateful smile as you smoothed down the fabric of your customized Tokyo Jujutsu College uniform. You had fought your traditionalist clan tooth and nail for those modifications, altering the jacket and adjusting the uniform to give yourself a shred of personal identity. To your family , the custom cut was entirely too modern, a rebellious departure from the rigid, stifling modesty they demanded. Nobara, of course, had fully validated your stubbornness, loudly insisting that they had zero taste.

"Thanks, Nobara," you murmured, adjusting the hem. "It took a lot of arguing with my clan to keep it."

Nobara snorted, rolling her eyes dramatically, but her gaze softened as she stepped into your room, closing the door behind her to keep the conversation private.

She walked right up to you, gesturing to your reflection in the mirror.

"God forbid a girl actually wants to show off that she has a nice body and a nice figure," Nobara insisted, her tone leaving absolutely zero room for argument. She nudged your shoulder playfully. "Seriously, you look gorgeous in this. The fit hugs your figure perfectly without losing that sharp look. Why are they suddenly breathing down your neck so hard anyway? I thought you were supposed to be the low-key, quiet daughter who stays out of trouble."

A cold, heavy knot twisted tight in your stomach.

You couldn't tell her. You couldn't. Your family had forbidden you from speaking a single word of the arrangement to anyone outside the clan, but it was more than that. Admitting to Nobara that the ink was practically drying on a marriage contract to a misogynistic idiot like Naoya Zenin felt like admitting defeat. It felt like admitting that the precious, everyday time you shared with your friends had an expiration date.

You knew exactly what would happen once you were married. Naoya would never tolerate you keeping ties with Tokyo Tech. He wouldn't allow you to stay friends with Yuji, completely unable to see past the fact that he was Sukuna’s vessel. And he certainly wouldn't let you associate with Megumi—who was a Zenin by birth, but being raised under Satoru Gojo's wing brought an entirely different layer of clan politics into the conversation. If you told Nobara, it would make the end of your freedom real. And you weren't ready for it to be real.

So, you kept the truth locked tight behind your teeth, offering a half-truth instead.

"They're breathing down my neck because they're obsessed with control," you murmured, keeping your gaze fixed on your reflection as you picked up a hairpin. "My family’s political standing in Kyoto is crumbling, and my father and brothers are terrified I'll do something to overshadow them or embarrass the clan."

Your voice dropped a fraction, the deeper secret burning beneath your tongue. And if they realize I have a large pool of cursed energy to draw from, they'll probably try and marry me off even sooner.

Nobara’s eyes flashed with a sudden, fierce anger on your behalf. She walked over, grabbing your shoulders and forcing you to square up against the glass.

"It’s pathetic," she said, her voice ringing with absolute certainty. "They’re breathing down your neck because they’re weak, and they're terrified of anything they can't lock in a box. Don't let them break your confidence, okay? Look at yourself. You have a great figure, you fought them on the uniform, and you won. You are not their pawn."

The raw, unwavering confidence in her voice acted like a temporary shield against the crushing weight of your reality. For a second, looking at her fierce expression, you actually believed her.

"Thanks, Nobara," you said softly, a genuine smile breaking through your anxiety. "I really needed to hear that."

Good. Let one of those old fossils try something. See how fast I introduce them to my hammer." she smirked, checking her phone with a groan. "Anyway, I gotta go grab Yuji before he eats something off the floor. Change quick and get out to the grounds. Let's go blow off some of that family stress!"

The moment her footsteps faded down the hall, the warm atmosphere evaporated. You turned back to the mirror, the heavy, suffocating reality of your life settling right back onto your shoulders. Reaching into your vanity drawer, you pulled out the traditional Tsushima hairpins.

One by one, you gathered your loose, curly hair and pinned it back ruthlessly against your scalp. You did it tightly, so tightly that the pins left a dull, throbbing ache at your temples. It gave you no joy styling your hair this way, but loose curls invited immediate criticism from your family.

Too unruly. Too distracting. Too different.

The restriction of the pins felt entirely worse today. In the Kyoto estate, the ink was practically drying on the arranged marriage contract to Naoya Zenin. Your family was ready to hand you over like prize breeding stock to secure a crumbling political line, and keeping the truth from Nobara left a bitter taste on your tongue. Whenever his name drifted through your thoughts, a cold, oily wave of nausea bottomed out in your stomach, your throat tightening until it felt dry as ash. You had to stay low-key. If you stood out now, the cage would lock forever.

Because of that, deception was your only shield. While you were focused on a Grade 1 promotion to ensure you could defend yourself and use it as leverage to gain a semblance of control over your own life, your entire existence was a lie. You kept a tight, suffocating grip on your massive cursed energy reserves, forcing them down until you registered as a standard, predictable Grade 2. The true capacity of your cursed energy and technique had to stay buried until you were able to get promoted. If the elders ever realized what you were truly capable of, you wouldn't be a student—you would have been given away a long time ago.

By afternoon, the lecture hall at Tokyo Jujutsu College was unusually quiet.

You sat in the third row, the metal casing of your pen biting hard into your fingers. You kept your back straight, your shoulders squared against the back of your seat. It was an exhausting performance, but appearances were the only shield you had left.

At the front of the room stood Suguru Geto, his dark hair tied back loosely, writing across the board.

Political structures. Clan influence. The balance of power.

Somehow, Suguru Geto made the dry, political dust of the jujutsu world breathe. His smooth baritone carried easily through the room, striking a rhythm that felt entirely too intimate for a lecture hall. Every time his dark eyes swept across your row, a sudden, tight warmth bloomed at the base of your throat, making you lower your gaze to your notes. A lecturer first and a special-grade sorcerer second.

Or so you thought.

Sitting on the edge of a desk nearby was Satoru Gojo, looking as though he had absolutely no interest in the curriculum. One leg swung lazily. An arm draped over his knee. His black blindfold concealed the Six Eyes, but nobody in the room was foolish enough to think he was blind to the space. Gojo was your active instructor, and his blatant, shameless favoritism was a constant source of agony for your shy disposition. Every few minutes he would cut across Geto’s lecture with a sharp, teasing comment, his blindfold tilting directly toward your row. He didn't care about the lesson. It was like he was waiting for the tiny hitch in your breathing—waiting to watch you deliberately look away as the skin across your cheekbones prickled with a sudden, localized heat.

The routine was familiar. Comfortably so. Which was why the creeping sensation beneath your skin bothered you so deeply.

Your gaze lifted briefly. Geto had turned toward the class, his cold, analytical gaze sweeping across the room until it locked directly onto you. The sheer, heavy weight of his focus made your pulse stumble, a hard knot settling in your stomach before he smoothly looked away. You looked back down, the frantic scratching of your pen filling the quiet. When you glanced up again, Gojo had leaned forward, his face aimed squarely at you.

Your heart struck hard against your ribs. He wasn't moving. He was just existing in your direction. But the unyielding attention of Satoru Gojo never felt casual. It felt like a gravity that wanted to pull you right out of the seat your family had assigned you.

A few rows ahead, someone shifted in their chair. The windows rattled softly from a passing breeze. Geto continued speaking. Normal. Everything was supposed to be normal.

Then—

"Satoru." Geto didn't even look away from the board, his voice a low, vibrating warning.

Gojo clicked his tongue dramatically, leaning back. "You're no fun, Suguru."

A few students laughed. Geto ignored them. You ducked your head, a tiny, helpless pull at the corner of your lips fighting against your deep unease. They had always been like this. Effortlessly familiar. Two Special-Grades who understood each other so completely that entire conversations happened in the spaces between their breaths, leaving the rest of the world locked outside.

And God, you wanted to know what it felt like to be understood like that. To have someone look straight through your walls and accept the storm inside you. Just once.

When the bell finally rang, its shrill tone sliced through the suffocating silence. You shoved your notebook into your bag, eager to put as much distance as possible between yourself and the lecture hall.

"Hold on."

The voice stopped the blood in your veins.

You didn't look up immediately. Instead, you kept your hands occupied, deliberately focusing on the smooth slide of your notebook entering your bag, trying to project a nonchalance you didn't feel. Gojo had moved with that terrifying, instantaneous absence of space. Sometime during the dismissal, he had slipped off the desk and rewritten the distance between you. Now, he stood directly at the edge of your desk, blocking the aisle entirely—a wall of black fabric and radiating heat.

Your stomach twisted into a tight, nervous coil. Keeping your eyes on the strap of your bag, you smoothly zipped it shut. "Gojo?" you asked, aiming for a casual, detached pitch. The syllable still came out a fraction softer than you intended, the deep, defensive shyness of your childhood trying to betray you.

"I wanted to talk to you about yesterday," Gojo said. His voice was casual, almost breezy, but there was an underlying weight to it that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You adjusted the bag's strap over your shoulder, finally lifting your chin to meet his direction, forcing your expression into something blank and innocent. "What about yesterday?"

"Your little sparring match out on the training grounds," he replied, leaning forward slightly, bringing his face closer to yours. Up close, he simply eclipsed the room. He loomed over you, completely invading your space until you could feel the serene, terrifying pressure of his presence. The blindfold concealed his eyes, yet you felt entirely exposed beneath it. "You've definitely improved in the short amount of time you've been here at the college. Your kinetic reading is sharp. Fast, agile, perfect balance. You beat that upperclassman without even trying."

A brief recollection flashed through your mind. The heat of yesterdays sun, the sound of the boys cheering, and the quiet satisfaction of winning without using a single spark of your technique. You had thought you were perfectly under the radar.

"But you know what's really fascinating?" Gojo continued, his lips curving into a sharp, knowing smile as he tilted his blindfold down toward you. "The Six Eyes don't just look at footwork. Even when you're just sitting there, I can see the baseline of your pool. You're holding back a lot of cursed energy. "

Your heart struck hard against your ribs. Your fingers tightened imperceptibly against your bag.

Internally, panic flared. He had seen straight through the defense mechanism you had spent your entire life perfecting. It wasn't a temporary restraint; it was a constant, grueling act of suppression—maintaining a flawless, artificial baseline twenty-four seven so that jujutsu society would look right past you. It was an unyielding, passive instinct that required absolute, exhausting control.

"Hiding your energy like that... it's in constant effect with you," Gojo murmured, his tone shifting into a fascinated, dangerous curiosity. "Which leaves me with one really big question. Why go through all that trouble?"

He tilted his head, tapping a long finger against his chin thoughtfully. You stood frozen under the his gaze, terrified of how effortlessly he had just mapped the mechanics of your survival.

"Because then I hear this rumor floating around the clans," Gojo continued, the playful edge evaporating as he leaned down another fraction of an inch. "People are whispering that your family is finalizing a little arrangement. An arranged marriage contract to Naoya Zenin."

His tone dropped into a dangerously low, sharp register that vibrated straight through the floorboards, stripping away the eccentric instructor and leaving only the strongest sorcerer alive.

"Tell me they aren't actually that stupid," Gojo demanded softly, his focus pinning you to the floor. "Is that why you're playing dumb? You're shrinking yourself because of him?"

You swallowed hard, the tight knot of nerves in your throat threatening to choke you. You didn't dare look away from his blindfold, knowing that any micro-expression or sudden shift in your pulse would be dissected instantly.

“I’m not really supposed to talk about it,” you said softly. You kept your gaze fixed firmly on your lap, trying to use your family’s rigid rules as a shield to shut him out. “It’s supposed to be private.”

Gojo didn't budge. If anything, your quiet retreat only made his sharp smile curve a fraction wider. A low, amused rumble vibrated in his chest, a sound so warm and intimate it made the skin across your collarbones prickle with a localized heat. He loomed over your small frame like an eclipse, blocking out the rest of the classroom until his presence was the only thing left for you to breathe.

"Private," Gojo repeated, the word dripping with mock fondness. "Right. Because the old men in Kyoto love doing their dirty laundry in the dark." He straightened up slightly, though his presence still completely eclipsed your desk. "Hiding behind daddy's rules to avoid answering the question? That's a classic, but you're missing the point. I'm not asking what your family told you to say. I'm asking why you are making yourself small."

Must be nice, you thought bitterly, staring into the absolute black of his blindfold. Must be so incredibly easy to be Satoru Gojo. To stomp through the world so carelessly, entirely blind to the cages other people had to live in because your own strength afforded you absolute freedom.

Gojo’s sharp smile softened, his head tilting as if he were cataloging the exact frequency of your anger. The Six Eyes didn't miss the slip of your mask. He saw the flash of the storm inside you, and he looked entirely too fascinated by it.

Before you could pull your walls back up, Suguru Geto stepped forward, his shadow falling smoothly over the wood of your desk.

A cold, primitive instinct warned you to freeze. Geto didn't crowd you like Gojo did, but the air around him always carried a faint, sickening undertone—the heavy, weighted trace of the curses he commanded. The rumors whispered in the dorms came rushing back: a mission gone horribly wrong years ago, a slaughtered village, an execution order that Gojo had somehow managed to get stayed. Geto was only allowed in these halls under strict supervision, a lethal threat in the guise of an instructor.

"If you're using submission as a survival strategy, it's a poor one," Geto intervened, his smooth baritone carrying a weighted, clinical chill. He crossed his arms, his dark eyes fixed on your posture. "The Higher-Ups are already tracking your growth, regardless of what rank you try to project."

Geto tilted his head, his gaze narrowing. "We need a full breakdown of Severance. I'd like to know exactly how your touch unravels cursed energy at a fundamental level. We need to know your true limits."

Gojo’s dangerous, playful grin returned instantly, cutting across Geto’s academic tone. He leaned down again, his voice dropping into an intimate murmur that made your skin prickle with a localized heat.

"You know, you might possess the only technique in existence that can actually bypass my Infinity... you do know what I'm getting at, right?"

“I… I don’t think I’d ever be strong enough to do something like that,” you murmured, not quite disagreeing.

It was a technical truth. Cursed energy output and raw precision were areas where you genuinely lacked, even if your massive inner reserves made up for the deficit. But that wasn't how Severance worked anyway. Simply possessing an immense pool of energy meant absolutely nothing if you couldn't control the technique with surgical precision—and that kind of fine-tuned mastery was something you were still desperately trying to learn. The mere idea of wielding a volatile, unrefined defensive technique against someone like Satoru Gojo right now was laughable.

The truth was, Severance had never been the limitation. You were. Your cursed energy reserves were vast, but without the experience or control to wield them properly, much of that power slipped through your fingers before it ever reached your technique.

But Severance didn't reward brute force. It rewarded control. Every thread had to be manipulated with painstaking precision, and your technique was still far too unrefined. No matter how much cursed energy you possessed, challenging someone like Satoru Gojo now would have been laughably naïve.

Heat spread across your face despite every effort to keep your expression neutral. You straightened your shoulders instead of looking away.

Gojo sighed loud enough for half the lecture hall to hear. "You're selling yourself short." He tilted his head, studying you with a smile that was just shy of teasing. "You really have no idea how interesting you are, do you?"

His grin returned, sharp, testing, and entirely too bright for the tight space between you. He leaned down another fraction of an inch, his voice dropping into a testing register that made your skin tingle with a sudden, furious friction.

"Want to try it?"

You blinked, completely stunned, your defensive shyness betraying you. "Right now?!"

"No better time than the present," Gojo chuckled, stepping a fraction closer until he completely eclipsed the light from the tall windows. He slowly extended his hand toward you, palm open, hovering just inches away. "Go on. Touch me."

Terrified of what would happen if your technique actually connected—or worse, if it failed entirely—you looked past Gojo’s broad shoulder, silently begging Geto for some kind of intervention. But Geto merely gave a smooth shrug, entirely willing to watch the experiment play out.

Slowly, hesitantly, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your chest, you began to lift your hand. Your fingers trembled slightly as you extended them toward him. The space between your skin and his palm shrank down to millimeters. You could feel the absolute, static hum of his Infinity radiating against your fingertips, a microscopic wall of endless space waiting to be undone—

Then the lecture hall doors violently burst open.

The sharp bang echoed off the walls. An auxiliary manager stood in the doorway, chest heaving, his face completely drained of color.

"Gojo-san. Geto-san." The sheer panic in his voice shifted the room's atmospheric pressure instantly. Both special-grades straightened, their casual postures vanishing into rigid, lethal alertness. "The Higher-Ups have called an emergency assembly."

"The primary chamber?" Geto’s question was smooth, but cold.

The auxiliary manager nodded frantically. "They're requesting your immediate presence. It's... it's Principal Yaga. He's ordering all staff to the core."

A flash of genuine, dark irritation crossed Gojo's face. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a unreadable mask, but the sudden spikes in his cursed energy sent a primitive shiver down your spine. Your eyes moved between him and Geto. Neither looked surprised. Neither asked why.

Gojo exhaled slowly, then looked back down at you. The dark storm in his aura vanished, replaced by a sudden, quiet softness that felt far more dangerous than his anger.

"We'll finish this conversation later," he murmured.

You opened your mouth, a dozen defiant questions surging to your teeth. About your family. About Naoya. Why they cared about the limits of your technique.

But before you could utter a single syllable, Gojo reached out. His long, pale finger tapped lightly against your forehead.

The gesture was brief, almost careless, but the raw weight of his Infinity brushing against your skin felt entirely deliberate. It was a localized winter pressing against your skull. Your breath trapped itself in your chest, a sudden, prickly wave of heat surging up the column of your neck until your skin felt tight and entirely too small for you. You froze—utterly pinned beneath the casual geometry of his hand, your tongue turning to lead against the roof of your mouth.

"Go handle your assignment," his tone softened, though it carried the weight of an unalterable decree. "You'll be fine."

By the time your brain scrambled to find its wiring, your lips could only form a muted, compliant murmur. "Yes, Sensei."

Behind him, Geto was already gathering his things, his dark eyes lingering on your face for one final, heavy second before he turned away. The two special-grades exchanged a brief, unreadable look, and then they were gone, leaving the classroom door swinging in their wake.

The moment the soles of their shoes faded down the hall, a wave of intense, burning frustration crashed over you.

Yes, Sensei? Really?

You mentally kicked yourself, wanting to scream at your own reflection in the window glass. You had a devastating innate technique, you were nineteen years old, and you had let him completely shut you down with a single tap to your forehead like a child. You should have demanded to know how they found out about the Zenin contract. Instead, you had stood there with your blood roaring in your ears, giving them exactly the meek, obedient response your clan had spent years drilling into you.

On the other hand, just how aware was Jane Austen, the very religious daughter of a country rector, of the commonness of this? There’s a huge difference between knowing affairs and sex workers existed (and no one who had seen a Georgian newspaper could be blind to this) and realising that the majority of wealthy men saw sex workers at some point even if they condemned the more public and profligate affairs. The literature for young ladies at the time paints extramarital sex - including the lust of men outside of marriage - as pretty universally bad and dangerous. This message is seen from 'Pamela' and other gothic fiction to non-fiction conduct books which Jane Austen would have encountered. Here's something I found in 'Letters to a Young Lady' by the reverend John Bennett which I found particularly interesting as it's in direct conversation with other opinions of the era:

"A reformed rake makes the best husband." Does he? It would be very extraordinary, if he should. Besides, are you very certain, that you have power to reform him? It is a matter, that requires some deliberation. This reformation, if it is to be accomplished, must take place before marriage. Then if ever, is the period of your power. But how will you be assured that he is reformed? If he appears so, is he not insidiously concealing his vices, to gain your affections? And when he knows, they are secured, may he not, gradually, throw off the mask, and be dissipated, as before? Profligacy of this kind is seldom eradicated. It resembles some cutaneous disorders, which appear to be healed, and yet are, continually, making themselves visible by fresh eruptions. A man, who has carried on a criminal intercourse with immoral women is not to be trusted, His opinion of all females is an insult to their delicacy. His attachment is to sex alone, under particular modifications.

The definition of a rake is more than a man who has seen a sex worker once, it's about appearance and general conduct too, but again, would that distinction be made to young ladies? Because they seem to simply be continuously taught 'lust when unmarried is bad and beware men who you know engage in extramarital sex.' As a side note, Jane Austen certainly knew at least something about the mechanics of sex: her letters and literature she read alludes to it, and she grew up around farm animals in the countryside which is an education in itself.

We can also see from this exert that the school of thought seems to be 'reformed rake' vs 'never a rake' in contention for the title of best husband, there's no debate over whether a current rake is unsuitable for a young lady. And, from Willoughby to Wickham to Crawford, I think we have a very clear idea of Jane Austen's ideas of how likely it is notably promiscuous men can reform. This does not preclude the possibility that her disparaging commentary around their lust is based more on over-indulgence or the class of women they seduce, but it's undoubtedly a condemnation of such men directly in line with the first part of what John Bennett says so it's no stretch to believe she saw merit in the follow-on conclusions of the second part as well. Whether she would view it with enough merit to consider celibacy the only respectable option for unmarried men is a bit unclearer.

I did consider that perhaps Jane Austen consciously treated this as a grey area where she couldn’t possibly know what young men did (the same reasoning is why we never see the men in the dining room after the ladies retire, etc) and so didn't hold an opinion on men's extramarital encounters with sex workers/lower-class women at all, but I think there actually are enough hints in her works that this isn’t the case. Though, unsurprisingly, given the delicacy of the subject, there’s no direct mention of sex workers or gentlemen having casual lovers from among the lower-classes in her texts.

That also prevents us from definitively knowing whether she thought extramarital sex was so common, and as unremarkable, as most gentlemen treated it. But we do see from her commentary around the consequences of Maria Bertram and Henry Crawford's elopement that she had criticism of the double standards men and women were held to when violating sexual virtue. Another indication that she perhaps expected good men to be capable of waiting until marriage in the way that she very clearly believed women should. At the very least, a man who often indulges in extramarital sex does not seem to be one who would be considered highly by Jane Austen.

She makes a point of saying, in regards to not liking his wife, that Mr Bennet “was not of a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice.” This must include affairs, though cheating on a wife cannot be a 1:1 equivalent of single young men sleeping around before marriage. However, the latter is generally critically accepted to be one of the flaws that Darcy lays at Wickham’s door along with gambling when talking about their youth and his “vicious propensities" and "want of principle." Though this could be argued that it’s more the extent or publicity of it (but remembering that it couldn't be anything uncommon enough that it couldn't be hidden from Darcy Sr. or explained away) rather than the act itself, or maybe seductions instead of paying women offering those services. I also believe Persuasion mentioning Sunday travelling as proof of thoughtless/immoral activity supports the idea that Jane Austen might have been religious enough that she would never create a hero who had extramarital sex.

So, taken all together this would make Darcy potentially a virgin, or, since I couldn't find absolute evidence of her opinions, leave enough room that he isn’t but extramarital sex isn’t a regular (or perhaps recent) thing and he would never have had anything so established as a mistress.

I’ve also been wondering, if Darcy isn’t a virgin, who would he have slept with? I’ve been musing on arguments for and against each option for weeks at this point. No romantasy has ever made me think about a fictional man's sexual habits so much as the question of Darcy's sexual history. What is my life.

Sex workers are an obvious answer, and the visits wouldn’t have raised any eyebrows. Discretion was part of their job, it was a clean transaction with no further responsibilities towards them, and effective (and reusable, ew) condoms existed at this time so there was little risk of children and no ability to exactly determine the paternity even if there was an accident. It was a fairly ‘responsible’ choice if one wanted no strings attached. In opposition to this, syphilis was rampant at the time, and had been known to spread sexually for centuries. Sex workers were at greater risk of it than anyone else and so the more sensible and risk-averse someone is (and I think Mr Darcy would be careful) the less likely they would be to visit sex workers. Contracting something that was known as potentially deadly and capable of making a future wife infertile if it spread to her could make any intelligent and cautious man think twice.

Servants and tenants of the estate are another simple and common answer. Less risk of stds, it can be based on actual attraction more than money (though money might still change hands), and is a bit more intimate. But Wickham’s called wicked for something very similar, when he dallies (whether he only got to serious flirting, kissing, or sleeping with them I don’t think we can conclusively say) with the common women of Meryton: “his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.” And it isn't as though Wickham had any personal duty towards those people beyond the claims of basic dignity. Darcy, who is shown to have such respect and understanding for his responsibilities towards the people of his estate and duties of a landlord, would keenly feel if any of his actions were leading his servants/tenants astray and down immoral paths. Servants, especially, were considered directly under the protection of the family whose house they worked in. I think it's undoubtable that Mrs Reynolds (whose was responsible for the wellbeing - both physically and spiritually - of the female servants) would not think so well of Mr Darcy if he had experimented with maids in his youth. It would reflect badly on her if a family entrusted their daughter to her care and she 'lost her virtue' under her watch. Daughters/widows of others living on the estate not under the roof of Pemberley House are a little more likely, but still, if he did have an affair with any of them I can only think it possible when he was much younger and did not feel his duties quite so strongly. Of course lots of real men didn't care about any of this, but Darcy is so far from being depicted as careless about his duties that the narrative makes a point of how exceptional his quality of care was. Frankly, it's undeniable that none of Jane Austen's heroes were flippant about their responsibilities towards those under their protection. I cannot serious entertain an interpretation that makes Darcy not, at his current age, at least, cognizant of the contemporary problems inherent in sleeping with servants or others on his estate.

A servant in a friend’s house would remove some of that personal responsibility, but transfer it to instead be leading his friend’s servants astray and in a manner which he is less able to know about if a child did result. That latter remains a problem even if we move the setting to his college, so not particularly likely for his character as we know it… though it wouldn’t be unusual for someone to be more unthinking and reckless in their teenage years than they are at twenty-eight so I don’t think having sex then can be ruled out. Kissing I can much more easily believe, especially when at Oxford or Cambridge, but every scenario of sleeping with a lower-class woman has some compelling arguments against it especially the closer we get to the time of the novel.

Men did of course also have affairs with women of ranks similar to their own, though given Jane Austen’s well-known feelings towards men who ‘ruined’ the virtue of young ladies we can safely say that Darcy never slept with an unwed middle- or upper-class woman. Any decent man would have married them out of duty if it got so far; but if he was the sort to let it get so far, I think it impossible Jane Austen would consider him respectable. Widows are a possibility, but again, the respectable thing to do would be to marry them. Perhaps a poorer merchant’s widow would be low enough that marriage is off the table but high enough that the ‘leading astray’ aspect loses its master-servant responsibilities (though the male-female ‘protect the gentler sex’ aspect remains) but his social circle didn’t facilitate meeting many ladies like that. Plus, an affair with a woman in society would remove many layers of privacy and anonymity that sex-workers and lower-class lovers provided by simply being unremarkable to the world at large. It carries a far greater risk of scandal and a heavier sense of immorality in the terms of respecting a woman’s purity which classism prevented from applying so heavily to lower-class women.

I think it’s important to note here that something that removes the need to think about duties of landlords towards the lower-classes or gentlemen towards gentlewomen is having affairs with other men of a similar rank. But, aside from the risk of scandal and what could be called the irresponsibility of engaging in illegal acts, it’s almost certain that Jane Austen would never have supported this. For a devout author in this era the way I’m calculating likelihoods makes it not even a possibility. But if you want to write a different fanfiction (and perhaps something like a break-up could explain why Darcy doesn’t seem to have any closer friend than someone whom he must have only met two or so years ago despite being in society for years before that) it does have that advantage over affairs with women of equal- and lower-classes. I support alternate interpretations entirely – it just isn’t how I’m deciding things in this instance.

I keep coming back to the conclusion that, at the very least, Darcy hasn’t had sex recently and it was never a common occurrence. It wouldn’t surprise me if Jane Austen felt he hadn’t done it ever. Kissing, as we can see from all the parlour games at the time, wasn’t viewed as harshly, so I think he’s likely made out with someone before. But in almost every situation it does seem that the responsible and religious thing to do (which Jane Austen values so highly) is for it to never have progressed to sex. I also don’t think it conflicts with his canon characterisation to say that he wouldn’t regard sexual experience as a crucial element of his life thus far, and his personality isn’t driven to pursue pleasure for himself, so it’s entirely possible that he would never go out of his way to seek it. So, I’m inclined to think that the authorial and textual evidence is in favour of Darcy being a virgin even if the real-world contemporary standard is the opposite. (Though both leave enough room for exceptions that I’m not going to argue with anyone who feels differently; and even if you agree with all my points, you might simply weight authorial intent/textual evidence/contemporary likelihoods differently than I do and come to a different conclusion).

Remember that even if Darcy is a virgin this wouldn’t necessarily equate to lack of knowledge, only experience. There were plenty of books and artwork focused on sex, and Darcy, studious man that he is, would no doubt pay attention to what knowledge his friends/male relatives shared. Though some of it (Looking especially at you, 'Fanny Hill, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure') should NEVER be an example of appropriate practice for taking a woman's virginity. Darcy would almost certainly have been taught directly or learnt through exposure to other men talking to make sex good for a woman – it was a commonly held misconception (since Elizabethan England, I believe) that women had to orgasm to conceive. It would be in his interests as an empathetic husband, and head of a family, to know how to please his wife.