30 days to get in your pants | Gojo S. x Reader
Chapter 2 - Trope (6.2k words) Masterlist
Synopsis: You arrive in Japan with a soft heart and nothing to lose until the meanest, the most popular fuckboy in your class chooses you as a bet, smiling at you like it means something.
While you fall for him counting the petals of the roses he gave you, he's only counting days to get in your pants.
Tags: Angst, emotional manipulation, bet trope, power imbalance, fluff, fear of abandonment, slow burn, smut, college AU, soft reader, rich mean Gojo, lots of drama.
Art Credits: wp_63, -_3aem
And now lays the perfect time to lay his trap!
You say yes. And he grins like he’s won something. Not loud or arrogant. Just that slow, lazy curl of his lips as if the universe has tilted exactly the way he expected it to. In his head, it’s the first checkbox ticked. The first yes in a long list of them where ultimately this will end up with “Oh Yesssss! FUCK ME harder Ahhh”. He doesn’t rush it. He never does. Victories taste better when they’re savoured after all.
“Cool,” he says easily. “My friends’ll be there. Come on.”
And before you can overthink it, before your instincts can catch up to your heart. His hand finds yours.
Like he’s holding something fragile.
Your breath stutters. This is happening too fast, you think. Why is this even happening at all, you think. You follow him because your feet move before your fear does, because his palm is warm and steady and because somewhere deep inside you’re tired of always choosing loneliness over risk.
You walk behind him through the halls, eyes glued to the floor, painfully aware of the way people stare. At him. At you. At the way your hands are joined like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You’ve avoided the cafeteria since the first day. Crowds make your chest feel heavy . Sitting alone makes your skin crawl. And new friendships…those scare you most of all. They always start the same way. Coffee. Laughter. Late-night talks. Promises. And then a goodbye you never get to prepare for.
So instead, you built yourself a routine. A park nearby. A sandwich wrapped carefully in paper. Kids laughing. Cats stretching lazily in the sun. Chocolate hidden in your bag like a reward for surviving another day.
Safe. Predictable. Quiet.
This is none of those things. The cafeteria is loud. Bright. Alive. And his table, in-fact their table is already full. Suguru. Sukuna. Toji. Haibara. Maki. Nobara.
Your palms start sweating immediately. “Hey!”
Hands wave. Chairs scrape. Smiles flash.
They look… excited. Like you’re a novelty. Like you’re something new they’ve been waiting to poke and prod and figure out. Gojo squeezes your hand once, reassuring, before letting go.
“Guys,” he says, voice smooth, easy. “This is my new friend.”
He says your name like it belongs in his mouth. Like he has known you forever. “She’ll be joining us for lunch from now on”.
The words echo in your head.
He pulls out a chair for you. Actually pulls it out. Gestures you to sit like you’re royalty. Like you’re the only girl that exists, you feel like this is where you’re meant to be.
You feel ridiculous. Flustered. Seen.
Shoko stops by, eyes flicking over you with something like concern, like she’s assessing a patient rather than a person.
“Nice having you here,” she says gently.
You nod. Words fail you again.
Orders are placed. Conversations overlap. Plans are made. You mostly listen because you’re good at listening. You’ve always been. It’s safer to observe than to participate.
And then Gojo turns fully toward you. “What do you want, sweets?”
He grins. “You look like you’d like sweets.” … “also, yeah! I did call you that, you do feel like a sweet person”.
You giggle before you can stop yourself, covering your mouth like you always do. “Um… I’ll just have a sandwich.”
His eyebrows lift. “Perfect. Same.”
It shouldn’t mean anything.
The conversation flows around you. Easy, chaotic, alive. You nod, smile, absorb. And every few seconds, you feel his gaze drift back to you.
At one point, he lifts his dessert up. Something strawberry, soft, too pretty to eat and holds it out toward you.
You freeze. “I—I’m okay.”
“You have to,” he says lightly. “It’s my favorite.”
You shake your head. He ignores it.
“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “Just a bite.”
He gently pushes the spoon to your mouth. Close enough that you can smell him- clean, warm, something faintly sweet and unmistakably expensive. Your resolve dissolves embarrassingly fast.
You give in. The cream smudges your lip.
Suguru gestures subtly. Your face burns as you reach for a napkin but Gojo’s already there.
He wipes your lip carefully. Slowly. Like he has all the time in the world. Your heart forgets how to beat.
Yesterday, you felt invisible.
And then the craziest part of it all is that he doesn’t disappear. Not like the other guys you think.
He doesn’t overwhelm you either. No dramatic confessions. No relentless hovering. Just consistency, slipped into your life so gently you almost don’t notice when it becomes routine.
A message the next morning.
And then it becomes a routine.
He remembers you don’t like loud places. Remembers you go quiet when you’re overwhelmed. Remembers the exact pink hoodie you wore on Tuesday and tells you casually that it suited you.
“I just like talking to you,” he says one evening, walking beside you. “You’re easy to be around.”
No one has ever called you that before. All your life you’ve felt like you’re too messy and difficult to be dealt with. Like being around you or with you should come with a manual. Like someone who ever decides to put up with you, your antics, and your crazy load of emotions should get a reward.
And most of all? Why would an almost 6’3 dude who’s a gym rat, is rich, aces his tests and looks like an angel turned human would put up with someone like you?
It’s all a dream indeed and someday…someone might wake you up from this fever dream. Yeah, that’s what will happen. You’re almost sure of it.
At home, your room stays the same. Soft lights, folded clothes, jackets hanging neatly. You change into another oversized hoodie, pink again, curl up on your bed and stare at your phone like it holds something fragile.
Your name lights up the screen.
“You good? You were quiet today.”
You swore he could read your mind.
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Something inside you loosens.
You’re so addicted to him. You hate how you’ve been wanting to stay in his proximity for these past few days. Who would believe that you met him about just a week ago? Well, you’ve read about the couples who meet and there’s just this instant chemistry and how they know they’re soulmates and get married.
You stop yourself. You were doing that thing again. That thing where even slightest of emotions or care from someone would make you feel special.
Days stack like this. Texts. Walks. Quiet jokes. He notices everything: what you eat, what you avoid, the way you smile when you forget to hide it with your palms.
You learn things about him too. That he boxes. That he’s good at it. That his family is rich in the way people don’t talk about, old money and all. That he dresses effortlessly. Clean lines, expensive fabric, baggy jeans, compressed T-shirts , confidence stitched into every seam.
And yet with you he never makes you feel small. He makes you feel selected. You start waiting for his messages. Start replaying his voice in your head. Start believing dangerous thoughts.
Maybe I’m just right…for him.
You don’t see the pattern yet.
Don’t see how easily he’s woven himself into your days. Don’t see how the warmth you feel is something he’s practiced.
All you know is this: For the first time in a long while, you don’t feel like running. And you don’t know if it should excite you or terrify you.
You don’t know that after shooting that last message to you, he was emptying his balls inside someone (18+). Some other girl whose tits were all over his bed now, you don’t know how he’s scrunching up her hoodie in his hands from the back.
After that day, things change in ways so small you almost convince yourself you’re imagining them.
He starts walking you to class.
Not every time. Not obviously. Just enough that it feels coincidental like he happened to be going the same way, like it’s destiny, like you didn’t rearrange his entire route in his head the moment he saw you zip up your bag.
“Need help?” he asks one afternoon, glancing down at your notes.
It’s casual. Effortless. Like of course he knows the answer. You shake your head immediately. “I’m okay.”
He hums. “You always say that.”
Not accusing. Almost fond.
And then he explains the concept anyway. Clean, brilliant, simple. He makes it sound easy, like it was always meant to make sense to you. When you look up at him, eyes wide, lips parted just a little in awe, something warm settles in his chest.
Validation works best when it feels earned.
Some days, he catches you at your locker.
He’s just come from practice. Hair damp, skin flushed, shirt clinging to muscle like it doesn’t know how to let go. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt, and when he leans down to talk to you, it’s all heat and his tall height and his beautiful presence.
You have to tilt your head back to look at him.
What must it feel like…to be chosen by someone like him?
Your fingers fidget with the zipper of your bag. He notices. He always notices. “You okay?” he asks softly, like he already knows the answer. Already knows that his magic, his charm is working on your boundaries.
He reaches down to grab a pen you’ve dropped, sinking to one knee without thinking. His eyes flick up for half a second too long on your legs before he hands it back, fingers brushing yours.
Your breath stutters. He pretends not to notice.
He texts you. Constantly.
Nothing heavy. Nothing demanding.
“You’d laugh if you saw Toji right now.”
You smile at your phone more than you’d ever admit. Meanwhile, girls drift in and out of his life like cigarettes. Names you don’t know, faces you never quite see.
And you’re not supposed to care.
One afternoon, you’re studying together in the library. He’s sprawled across the chair, chin propped on his hand, watching you more than the page.
He glances at it, sighs, it’s another girl he’s been wanting to hook up with with. He turns away from you slightly as he answers.
Japanese flows easily from his lips—lazy, dismissive.
“Relax,” he murmurs into the phone. “She’s nothing. Just… there. Like décor.”
You don’t understand the words of course. But it’s his voice and his words so it must be something kind and beautiful.
When he turns back to you, his smile is exactly the same.
“Sorry,” he says lightly. “Where were we?”
You nod. Smile. Keep reading.
You don’t know that an hour later, his bathroom was a mess clothes draped over the sink, towels stacked neatly because he always keeps extras. He doesn’t mind when girls take them. Doesn’t mind the shower running after. Doesn’t mind the mess.
He likes when people enjoy themselves.
You don’t know any of that.
All you know is that when he looks at you, it feels like the world narrows.
He insists on going shopping with you. You try to say no. You really do. But he smiles like it would be the world’s greatest honour to do so. Like it’s already decided.
You don’t tell the others. It feels like something just for you.
He hovers close the entire time. His hands brushing, fingers grazing your wrist when he passes you clothes. Compliments slip out of him like poetry.
“You’d look amazing in that.”
“You have really good taste, you know.”
You laugh nervously, cheeks warm. He insists on buying you all of it but you pay for your own things. You always do. Your father is a successful businessman and you might not be as rich as Gojo but weren’t far away either.
But later, when you’re not looking, he buys a few things anyway.
When he hands the bag to you outside the store, your eyes go wide.
“I wanted to,” he says simply.
That night, you lie in bed replaying everything as you watch “The fragrant flower blooms with dignity”. You can’t help but notice the quite resemblance of it. How Gojo is so tall like Rintaro. How you’re a big foodie like Kaoruko. It’s stupid really but can you blame yourself when all yourself when the past few days of your life have been nothing but magic?
The touches. The looks. The way he says your name like it’s a secret he likes keeping.
You don’t know that you’re one in a massive pool with multiple objects of his desire. You just know that he makes you feel special.
And that, is everything you’d ever wanted.
It starts with skipping one class. Just one. He says it like it’s nothing, like it’s not a moral crime you’ll carry in your bones forever.
“Come on,” he murmurs, already slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll teach you better anyway.”
You hesitate. Of course you do. You always hesitate. Your parents’ voices live rent-free in your head. Discipline, rules, schedules, consequences.
“You’re not doing anything wrong,” he says, softer now. “You’re just… having fun sweets.”
Hell, you loved when he called you that. Moments where you feel like you’re his girl. “Gojo’s girl” does something to your abdomen and brain chemistry.
The word makes you feel cute and truly special.
And the sky doesn’t fall. No alarms blare. No divine punishment arrives. You sit with him instead on cool steps, on a patch of grass, in places you were never supposed to be during class hours and he explains everything with that lazy brilliance of his, like knowledge is something he casually hands out.
You laugh more that day than you have in weeks. God, when did you start laughing this much?
Later, when your parents asked where you were, you lie. A small one.
And lord knows how freeing it feels.
He learns about your parents slowly. Not because you tell him everything, you don’t. You’re too careful for that. But he listens when you slip. When you mention curfews. Expectations. The way you were raised to be good before you were allowed to be happy.
He never mocks it. He just says, “That sounds heavy.” And somehow, that makes the burden lighter.
Around him, you’re braver. Louder. You tease him back. You roll your eyes instead of shrinking. You think, This is who I’d be if I wasn’t scared all the time.
This must be what it feels like to be Gojo’s girl.
Even if you refuse to call it that.
Day 9 and he starts touching you like it’s instinct. Forehead kisses when you’re quiet too long. Knuckles brushed against his lips like it’s a habit. His hand warm at the small of your back when you walk through crowds.
You tell yourself this is normal.
This is what close friends do. You’ve just… never been close to a guy before. Still, your body betrays you. You lean into him without thinking. Your fingers toy with the fabric of his sleeve, knead lightly at his arm when you laugh. You crave his touch in a way that makes you dizzy.
And every time that thought forms, another one follows, sharp and cruel:
You list the signs. The texts. The kisses. The way his eyes soften when he looks at you and ignore them all. Alarm signs all over but fuck pink because Red is your favourite colour now.
And still something in your gut whispers that luck like this doesn’t happen to people like you.
The next afternoon, you’re sprawled on the grass together. You’re playing with his hair, sliding your little clips into it, giggling when he pretends to be offended.
“Absolutely humiliating,” he says, deadpan.
“You look cute,” you argue.
Lets you take pictures. Lets you decorate him like he belongs to you. What you don’t see is how still he goes. How aware he suddenly is of your hands, your laughter, the way you hover over him like something precious.
Get it together, he tells himself.
You’re overthinking. She’s just… different. That’s all. He dresses better on days he sees you. Tries harder. Uses all his charm and still feels like it’s not enough.
That same evening, Gojo and your friends decided to an arcade. Lights flashing. Music blaring. Friends shouting over each other.
The plaid skirt. The cute, elegant top. The new shoes your father bought you as an apology wrapped in leather and laces. You glow in a way that makes people look twice.
Your confidence shocks everyone.
Game after game, you win. Not loudly. Not obnoxiously. Just effortlessly like this is another part of you no one ever bothered to ask about.
Instead of competing, he hands you his tokens. “Play for me, sweets!” he says, leaning close. “I like watching you win.”
Your cheeks feel hot and red. All eyes are on you. You feel special. Seen.
For the very first time in your life. Aware of all the cells, organs and other shit in your body.
He notices everything! The curve of your neck when you tilt your head, your collarbones catching the light, the way your lips flush when you’re excited, the sway of your hips when you walk.
He can’t WAIT to rearrange your guts and make you moan his fucking name. No Gojo bullshit, you screaming “Satoru” with your plush lips. Him making you loose your damn mind, hair displayed on his pillow, legs open, back arching while he fucks you with a burning passion. He’s at the arcade for games but the game running on his mind? It’s far more enticing than anything.
His daydreaming stops as he watches your ass. God, he notices it each day like it’s a ritual. Ass, back of the head, and then your chest. Almost like a small routine.
He looks away before it gets dangerous.
Later, when it’s quiet, when the night has settled into something soft and forgiving, you realize something terrifying.
You don’t want to go back to who you were before him.
You like this version of yourself. Gods be good you LOVE this version of yourself.
Who isn’t afraid all the time.
And somewhere deep down, you wonder if freedom feels like this…what happens when you can’t live without it anymore?
The door barely closes before the noise hits you.
Voices: sharp, loud, disappointed. Accusations hurled like stones.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“This is extremely disrespectful.”
“You’re becoming arrogant.”
“This is not how good girls behave.”
“We didn’t raise you like this.”
You stand there with your bag still on your shoulder, the echo of the arcade lights still buzzing behind your eyes, his laughter still warm in your chest and for the first time, something inside you doesn’t fold.
You slip your earphones back in. I thought I saw your face today by She & Him playing in your ears.
Your mother’s voice follows you, frantic now. She says she cooked dinner for you. She says she waited. She says you’re ungrateful if you don’t eat.
“I’m not hungry,” you say, quietly.
Because earlier, much earlier- he made sure you weren’t.
Massive burgers. Greasy fries. That bitter coffee you like, the one most people hate. He watched you eat like it was the most interesting thing in the world, like you weren’t someone who used to panic over a single spoonful of rice in front of others.
“You’re not going home hungry,” he’d said easily. “That’s non-negotiable.”
You remember the way he looked proud when you demolished your food. The way he laughed when you won yet another game. The Digimon figure you’d shoved into your his hands. Tiny, ridiculous little collectible he insisted he’d “loved.”
As if he was capable of loving anything.
“You’re insane,” you’d told him.
“Yeah,” he’d grinned. “But you’re incredible.”
Upstairs, in your room, the shouting fades into background noise.
You sit on your bed, shoes still on, heart still racing but not with fear, with something lighter.
For the first time, you don’t care what they think. Life isn’t supposed to be this rigid. It isn’t supposed to hurt this much to exist. You stare at your phone.
And you think that maybe this is who I’ve always been. Maybe he didn’t change you. Maybe he just let you breathe. That thought settles deep. That’s the danger.
It starts at night. Not all at once. Just… quietly.
A message from him when you’re already in bed, lights off, ceiling fan humming above you.
You stare at the screen longer than necessary before typing back.
Three dots. Gone. Back again.
No one has ever said that to you like it’s a given. Like you’re supposed to be there. Like your presence is assumed, wanted even.
You talk about nothing at first. About your day. About a professor who annoyed you. About how you couldn’t find your favorite lip balm and it ruined your mood more than it should have.
He listens. Really listens. Asks questions no one ever bothers to ask.
“Why does that matter to you?”
“Did it make you feel small, or just tired?”
“You always downplay things that hurt you, you know that?”
You freeze with your phone pressed to your chest.
You’ve never told anyone that.
You type slower after that. More carefully. And somehow, you say things you promised yourself you never would. About your parents. About the constant pressure. About the feeling that you’re always one mistake away from being disappointing.
There’s a pause on his end. Then you see three dots on your screen again.
“You don’t have to be perfect to be worth loving.”
Silence follows but not the uncomfortable kind. Not the kind that makes you scramble for words. This silence feels… shared. Like you’re sitting beside each other, not speaking, and it’s enough.
You fall asleep with your phone in your hand.
The days start to blur after that.
Libraries become your thing. Quiet corners where you sit across from him, knees brushing under the table. Sometimes you study. Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you just watch him lean back in his chair, legs stretched out, eyes half-lidded as he watches you pretend not to notice him watching you.
Empty classrooms. You perched on a chair, he sitting on the desk in front of you, swinging his legs like he owns the damn world.
“You always dress like you know exactly who you are,” he says once, eyes dragging over you slowly. “It’s hot.”
You laugh it off. You always do.
But later, alone, you replay it in your head.
Parks. Quiet streets. Your hand in his, just like friends, you tell yourself. Even though your fingers lace together without thinking. Even though he never lets go first.
His scent is everywhere now. Clean skin. Sweat. Something warm and expensive and distinctly him. You breathe it in like it steadies you. You refrain from washing your sweaters sometimes because they faintly smell like him and you’d want to sleep while hugging them, thinking of all the things that you both could do in your bed, how he would brush your hair to the back of your hair, how he’d feel under you, how his abs would tense when you’d touch him, how his name from your name would sound like when he’s breathless, how his hot mouth would feel around your nipples.
Hand-holding had started lasting too long nowadays. His thumb brushes your wrist absentmindedly when he talks these days. His fingers trace the back of your hand when he thinks you’re not paying attention. Once, his hand settles on your thigh while you’re sitting close like it had always belonged there.
You don’t move it away. You tell him everything now. What you ate. What you bought. The recipe you tried. The fight you overheard at home. The way your parents looked at you like you were slipping through their fingers.
His opinions start to matter more than you realize. “You’re not wrong,” he tells you, easy and confident.
“They’re just very controlling,” he says about your parents.
“You deserve more space than that,” he says about your life.
His voice becomes the calm one in your head. The one you trust. The world doesn’t feel so sharp when he’s around. Your anxiety quiets. Your shoulders drop. You laugh more. You breathe easier.
Bad days feel survivable because he knows about them now. Because you have someone to share them with. Because he understands you.
And somewhere along the way, escape turns into need. You sit in the front rows of his football games. Everyone sees it. The way his eyes find you in the crowd. The way he grins when he scores, like it’s for you.
You believe, truly believe that he would never hurt you. The world might. Your parents might. Life definitely will.
A reward, you think, for all your good deeds in life. For all the times you endured quietly. At night, you scroll through his Instagram.
Further back than you should.
Your chest tightens at pictures you don’t recognize. Girls you don’t know. Captions that make your stomach twist. Jealousy rises fast and ugly, bile at the back of your throat.
You hate this about yourself.
You’ve always hated how deeply you feel. How intensely you want. But with him, it’s worse.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You’ve only known him for days. Ten. Fifteen. That’s nothing.
You swear it’s different. You start craving him in ways that surprise you. His hands. The veins along them. His rings. His jaw. His lips. The way his body fills space so effortlessly.
You’ve never been like this. Never thought like this. Never wanted like this.
Late at night, alone, you touch yourself with shaky fingers trying to imagine its his instead, your tiny fingers trying to fuck yourself thinking it’s his long ones instead. Heat pooling low in your belly , his name caught between your lips like a secret oath.
You don’t know that intimacy doesn’t always come with promises. Sometimes, it comes disguised as safety. And you’ve already given him the most intimate thing you own- your belief that he couldn’t possibly hurt you, ever.
He becomes your routine before you realize you’ve lost the ability to function without him in it. Mornings start with his name lighting up your screen.
“Want me to pick breakfast for ya?
“What’re you wearing today?”
“Send me a pic when you reach.”
If you reply slower than usual, he notices. Everything about him is attention trained to sound like care.
Your chest tightens every time. Not butterflies, there’s rats in your stomach now. You rush to reassure him.
Distance feels like punishment now. Silence feels like abandonment. But something in your intuition warns you to move ahead carefully.
Rules break easily these days. Without guilt. Without second thoughts. You stay out late. You lie smoothly. You skip classes when he says, Come on, I’ll teach you better anyway.
Life feels bright—almost painfully so until the days he doesn’t show up.
The campus looks dull when he isn’t there. Food tastes flat. You don’t feel like having chocolate those days. Music doesn’t hit the same while taking the subway even when you’re listening to Jealous Type by Doja Cat lol.
You catch yourself thinking ridiculous things. People fall in love fast all the time. When it’s right, time doesn’t matter. This is just how it’s supposed to feel. He’d ask you out soon.
You fall asleep smiling. He falls asleep counting the process of his task i’e You. That morning, he brings you a rose.
Deep red. Perfect. Heavy in your hand.
“Valentine’s over,” you say softly, smiling anyway.
“So?” he shrugs. “Should feel like that every day.”
You keep it pressed between the pages of your notebook all day. Counting the petals in your head like a secret prayer.
Across campus, his phone buzzes. A group chat. “30 days to get in Y/N’s pants”.
You don’t know about any of it it.
He types casually: detached fingers, lazy grin.
“She’s gone soft lately boys”
“Can’t stop touching me *sighs*”
“Looks at me like I’m oxygen.”
Someone sends a laughing emoji.
Another makes a crude comment.
By nightfall, he’s restless.
Engines. Noise. Speed. Tokyo streets bleeding neon. He lives for it. “Come with me,” he tells you like it’s obvious.
You don’t hesitate. You’d follow him through hell at this point, all he needs to do is ask. You dress carefully, more carefully than usual. A skort this time. A fitted shirt. A soft cropped sweater with a shallow neckline, a red scarf, Glasses perched on your nose. Earrings matching your shoes.
You look… different. Brave. Pretty in a way that makes your heart pound.
You don’t think about your parents. You don’t think about consequences. All you think about is him.
He’s already there when you arrive. White shirt clinging to his frame. Baggy jeans. Silver rings catching the light. A chain at his throat. Helmet tucked under his arm.
His eyes soften when he sees you. You step closer without thinking. He hooks two fingers under your chin, tilts your face up.
“Sit at the back,” he murmurs. “Be my lucky charm.”
You laugh nervously. “Can’t afford to loose?”
He smiles slow and confident.
“Baby,” he says, “I always win.”
Toji laughs loud enough for everyone to hear. “Since when does Gojo let girls ride with him?”
Your chest swells with something dangerously close to pride. He helps you on.
“You can hold me,” he says over his shoulder. “Tight.”
The bike roars to life beneath you.
Your arms wrap around him. Your cheek presses to his back. You feel small. Safe. Claimed. The city blurs. Wind tangles in your hair. Your heart races faster than the engine.
“Don’t lose me,” he says casually.
The engine roars beneath you.
The vibration travels straight through your thighs, up your spine, into your chest. You’ve never been this close to him.
Your arms wrap around his waist at first, tentative. But the second the bike shoots forward, instinct takes over. You press closer. Your palms flatten against his stomach, fingers curling into the fabric of his tight white shirt.
Every shift of the bike makes your body slide into his. Your fingers move before you can stop them tracing over his abdomen, feeling the ridges beneath cotton. Your nails drag slightly, unintentionally.
“…fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
You don’t know if you were meant to hear that.
You pretend you didn’t. The race blurs into streaks of neon and wind. His body leans, adjusts, controls. You feel every flex of muscle beneath your hands. Every controlled movement. Every ounce of power.
By a ridiculous margin. Toji, Sukuna, Haibara, Geto all of them trailing behind like background noise. He slows to a stop and doesn’t even bother celebrating at first.
Just lifts both hands off the handles for a second, flashing a lazy peace sign like this is routine. Like he does this every night.
“I knew it,” he calls out over the engine’s dying hum. “You’re my lucky charm.”
The boys catch up, hooting, clapping him on the back.
“Guess we know why you won.”
You feel so so so special.
And when you quietly say, “Gojo… it’s almost midnight. I should go home,”
“There’s just one place I need to take you first.”
The city looks unreal from up here.
Tokyo spread out like spilled stardust. Lights blinking. Buildings glowing. The moon hanging heavy and silver above it all.
He parks at the overlook. You sit sideways on the bike, hands folded in your lap, red scarf falling softly over your shoulder. The wind is cooler here.
He stands in front of you.
“I didn’t think I’d meet someone like you,” he says quietly.
“Someone kind. Soft. Beautiful.” His eyes don’t leave your face. “I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful.”
Your pulse is loud in your ears.
“You’re amazing Y/N,” he continues. “Now I wake up curious about the day. About what you’ll say. What you’ll wear. What you’ll think. Fuck, I look forward to my days now”.
The words sound effortless. Natural. Like they were always meant to come out of his mouth.
“I like you.” His voice is firmer now. Certain. “I really do.”
Your ears burn. Your palms are sweating. Your vision feels slightly dizzy around the edges.
“You can’t be serious,” you breathe. “You’re not—”
The world stops! It isn’t rushed. It isn’t sloppy. It’s deliberate. His hand slides into your hair, fingers curling at the back of your neck. The other settles at your waist, pulling you off the bike just enough to press you fully against him.
Like he’s taking his time memorizing you.
His lips move gently at first, testing. Then deeper. Warmer. His thumb tilts your chin to adjust the angle. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
It feels like being consumed.
Like the world shrinks to the space between your mouths. Your fingers clutch at his shirt. Your knees feel weak. Your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can feel it.
You’ve read shoujo your whole life. None of it compares to this. You pull away first, breath uneven. “Are you sure?” you whisper.
“Yes,” he says immediately. “Yes. I’m sure sweetheart.”
He leans his forehead against yours.
“Will you go out with me?”
You giggle nervously, hands flying to cover your mouth. He catches your wrists gently, pulling them down.
“Stop hiding that smile,” he murmurs. “And kiss me again.”
“I like you too, Gojo,” you say breathlessly.
He bumps your nose with his.
Your heart might actually stop.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, Satoru. I’ll go out with you.”
Like he’s sealing something. Marking something. Engraving it somewhere deep inside you. His fingers tangle briefly in your red scarf as he pulls you closer.
The ride back feels like flying.
Your cheek pressed to his back. Arms tight around him. The city lights softer now. Warmer. You feel like you’re glowing from the inside out. When he drops you home, you can’t even meet his eyes properly.
You mumble goodbye, jump and float toward your door. Smiles not leaving your face for even a bit.
You collapse onto your bed, smiling into your pillow.
He sits on his bike a moment longer.
The red scarf still looped loosely around his neck. He notices it when he reaches to take off his helmet.
Soft fabric. Your scent faint on it.
He could just toss it in the trash on his way home.
You fall asleep believing you’ve just found love.
He rides home thinking, Level five complete. ✅
A/N: And with thatttt, Chapter 2 comes to an end!!! Holy shit, I enjoyed and cried while writing this chapter FUCK.
Pleaseeeeeeee let me know what you guys think of it in the comments and reblog if you liked it.
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