she/her 24 multi fandom literature, art, poetry, rock music, folk music, desi music, lots of yearning and pining but in the end, it all comes down to love, always (in the trenches)
ranveer singh has been consistently delivering stunning performances since his debut but it took dhurandhar for the masses to acknowledge him as great actor and yet they continue to compare him to his contemporaries, like that’s genuinely insulting for him, that man is in a league of his own!! nobody compares
Over - Sydney Rose/Norwegian Wood - Haruki Murakami/“Drama Queen"- ROAR /unknown/The Truth About Grief - Fortesa Latifi/ Sidewalk - Richard Silken/Over - Sydney Rose
geto suguru is everyone’s first crush. having a crush on him is as hopeless as it is inevitable though your friends quickly disagree that the awe-struck, mouth gaping expression is a strictly you thing, and that he isn't as much of a campus celebrity as you believe he is. regardless, you're determined to put your inability to hold a conversation with him in the past. the solution is simple, you seek out his best friend. if geto suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then gojo satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak.
pairing: frat&icehockey!gojo x reader
content: mdni, idiots in love, oblivious reader, baby’s first kiss + virginity taken by same person (satoru ><), suguru as the wingman, a little angst, mostly fluff + crack !! titjob, a little spitting, p in v, degrading, oral, fingering handjob etc etc 37k+
note: happy belated national arabian horse day! this was meant to come out on the 19th but life got in the way... regardless of the day hit up a friend and start beating a dead horse to celebrate!
Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush.
Your friends insist you’re seeing him through some delusional rose-tinted lens and that he is, in fact, not as much of a campus celebrity as you believe him to be. You reject that notion. One look at him from across the room, other party goers be damned, is all it takes to confirm what you already know.
Geto laughs at something one of his friends says, tipping forward slightly as the alcohol softens his movements. You catch the tail ends of his laughter through the thumping bass, the glint of light reflected off his lip piercings when he smiles wide, his hand running through his untied black hair.
It would be as easy as walking up and saying hi to start a conversation. It would be as easy as smiling for him to turn his head and grace you with a smile of his own.
Oh, what you would give to be bathed in his gaze, for that pretty smile to widen at the sight of you. He’d spot you through the crowd, you’d tuck your hair shyly behind your ear and he’d politely excuse himself from his conversation to walk over to introduce himself to this mysterious beauty from across the room.
Shoko makes a noise like she’s strangling herself but when you turn to save her, she’s staring at your face. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”
“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 onward.
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. “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 cause 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?”
a/n: i had to repost this because i realised i could fit everything into one post but holy hell reformating everything made me wanna die so please smash that like button hit subscribe and don't forget to turn on that notification bell ++ shoutout to flatline and happy pokemon day to those who celebrate
Time after Time-Finished- Wc: 103k- (Ao3) CEO Gojo x fem assistant reader, you're his lead assistant for years, and you put in your two weeks notice, because your boss is a grade A ASS of a man! so your boss Satoru Gojo pulls out ALL the stops to keep you, not realizing how good he has it and how lost he'd be without you. Is he who you thought he was, or more? Smutty/fun/sweet - my first Gojo fic
rewrite of Time after Time here! Chap 1 and 2 out
Take Me Home Tonight - Finished-Wc: 136k- law professor Gojo/x law student (A03) you hook up with a sexy white haired man at a club after passing your bar, only to be in his class two months later!?!? The arrogant top notch Lawyet, Satoru Gojo. Just how can you handle falling in love with your professor, and can you both keep this a secret? Very witty/lots of banter, law setting-smutty and sweet
Fractured Desires - Finished- explicit- wc 95k (angsty/ toxic/smutfest) Ao3 You're Suguru Geto's girlfriend, and he decides to 'share you'- with his friend who is otherwise a a dick to make you all get along. It becomes a fkn MESS, when you find out that Satoru has wanted you all along, and Suguru isn't who you think he is. (Starts off as Sugu/reader- Extremely explicit-yandere asf, Evil suguru, psycho Gojo)
Silent Serenades - Finished- wc 152k - You are promised to marry the handsome Duke Gojo, you're the diamond of the season, after all. Only thing is, he HATES you, and has no intention of being faithful. Now you're stuck in a loveless marriage that eats you from within, but you won't let him break you down, no you give him a taste of his very own medicine. Has he pushed you into the arms of another, and can he ever get you back? Angsty arranged marriage AU, love triangle, cheating, toxic- set in the 1800s- AO3
Healing Hearts - Dr. Gojo/intern-ongoing- 82k You're an exhausted intern, living with your three friends, Maki, Toge and Yuuta, and you just so happen to be Dr. Gojo's intern. - or as you soon call him 'Dr. Hojo' he seems perfect, but he's hiding a dark secret. The two of you couldn't be more different, is there any hope? what sort of demons does the 'perfect' doctor Gojo posess? Heavy angst/Hospital setting - angsty Ao3
Baby You're a Star - finished - 85k wc - you meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, the two of you hit it off, but he is the top pornstar there is. You don't sleep around, soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream of the boy you like. Just how will that go for you both!?- explicit, super fkn angsty- shy/Demi reader w/Pornstar Satoru- Ao3
Just Friends!? -hiatus- 57k Nerdjo x popular reader- based on the movie 'Just Friends'- Satoru left his old life behind, leaving town, moving to the big city of LA- Everything about him is different, aside from those pretty blue eyes and the sweet grin, but is he still your sweet best friend deep down?- lots of angst and feels, friends to nothing to lovers- Ao3
Veiled Secrets- ongoing - 75k wc - you've been set to marry the new emperor Satoru Gojo, but he wants nothing to do with all of that, he doesn't even come to your first meeting - rude! No, he must bathe with his concubines, but when he sees you for the first time and doesn't even know you're his wife? Everything shifts, but it turns out he doesn't know that you're not happy to be here either - but when a tentative bond forms, and love blooms, the court tries to tear you apart. Who can you trust? ao3
Ricochet - ongoing - 50k - you're a young college professor teaching English Lit and history, you don't live an insanely exciting life - no, you enjoy spending time at home with a good book and a glass of red. You're perfectly content until a certain student sets his pretty blue eyes on you - senior Satoru Gojo. who has become obsessed with you, and he won't stop until you're all his. ao3
Dopamine ongoing -52k You're married to Satoru Gojo - an arrangement since your childhood, one you're so excited for. You soon find out - he wants nothing to do with you. Any one is preferable. Torn apart by insecurities, you decide to find something to keep you going until Gojo finds a way to end the marriage. That's what lands you right in the notorious boxing ring in town - led by Ryomen Sukuna, who finally sees you Ao3
Mini Series
On Thin Ice- Satoru Gojo - hockey Star- loves three things - hockey, coke and women. Which is the reason his coach Sukuna wants to make sure he stays as far away from his niece - you - as possible. Satoru can't help but become obsessed the moment he sees you spinning on the ice. But there's one big problem - an overbearing, grumpy one named Uncle Kuna. Is he right to protect you, or is there more to Satoru than what's on the surface?
You belong with me - ongoing - 18k - You were friends with him from birth - the boy across the street, Satoru Gojo. However, you lose touch in college, but finally you're going to the same school! You have a love letter written, but you find Satoru - the football captain - is dating the top cheerleader. And she hates you. Can the two of you have a friendship anymore, and does he feel the same way as you?
Brooklyn Baby - FInished- 40k wc - you've got the opportunity of a lifetime for an audition for Julliard, your dream, but there's just one problem, the hotel in New York has booked your room and has nothing available. Good news, your dad's best friend Satoru Gojo shows up, bad news - you both want each other, and it cannot happen, right? - ao3
Losing Control Now- Finished - 45.5k- Mafia AU, notorious mobster Satoru Gojo becomes obsessed with you, the pretty bartender at his favorite club- but he finds you have your own secrets, threats to your life, and plans to save you at all costs. Lots of smut, Satoru being obsessed, mafia themes - sweet Gojo- explicit - Ao3
Took You Like a Shot - finished - wc- 42k - You and Satoru Gojo (fratboy/fuckboi Gojo) have been rivals for all of college, right up until the last day of school, where you end up under him and... pregnant somehow!? shit. But have you two actually hated each other, or are you both lying to yourselves? Can a party boy raise a kid? - Ao3
Would you come with me? - Finished- 22k wc - You have been Satoru's best friend forever, and one day he asks you a really big favor- marry him. Just a pretend marriage, to get them all off his backs of course! But have you been in love all along!? Three parts, fluffy and hella smutty, friends to lovers. Ao3
୨୧˚ Satoru Gojo long Oneshots ˚୨୧ // ୨୧˚ Satoru Gojo short oneshots ˚୨୧
𝜗𝜚 summary: Gojo gets sick (rare). You take care of him. He's clingy and honest in his fever.
𝜗𝜚 contents : clingy gojo and extreme fluff
You find out Satoru is sick the way you find out about most things with him — too late, and only because he physically cannot hide it anymore.
It starts with a text.
coming home early
You stare at it.
Baby?? Are you okay??
The dots appear and disappear three times. Which is how you know it's bad, because Satoru Gojo types the way he does everything — fast, loud, certain. He does not deliberate over texts. He sends seven in a row without waiting for a response. He uses so many exclamation points that it borders on aggressive.
Yeah, just tired.
You're already moving.
You go to the bathroom cabinet first. Thermometer, paracetamol. Then the kitchen — you check the fridge and the cupboards and start a mental list. Then the linen cupboard for the big blanket, the weighted one. You carry it all to the living room and arrange it without really thinking about it, the way you do when someone you love needs something, and your hands just know what to do before your brain catches up.
Then you sit on the couch and wait for him.
The door opens, and he looks terrible.
He looks terrible, and he's the most beautiful person you've ever seen, and both of those things are true at the same time. His sunglasses are pushed up lopsided into his hair. His jacket is half off one shoulder. He's pale in a way that looks wrong on him, because Satoru is usually so vivid, so present, like someone turned the brightness up on him specifically.
Right now, someone has turned it all the way down.
He sees you on the couch, and his whole face does something. Like the last bit of whatever he was holding himself together with, just — let's go.
"Hey," he says. His voice is completely wrecked. Raspy and low and small.
"Oh, sweetheart." You're already off the couch, crossing the room. "Come here."
You don't wait. You just put your hand to his forehead, and the heat hits you immediately, and your heart squeezes so hard it almost hurts because he's really not well, he's genuinely not well, and he's been on the train like this and walking home like this and trying to text you. Yeah, just tired like this—
"You're burning up," you say softly.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine, baby." You take his bag off his shoulder. Set it down. Start on his jacket. "You should have called me; I would have come and got you—"
"Didn't want to bother you."
You look up at him. He's watching you with those glassy eyes, standing there letting you peel his jacket off him like he hasn't got the energy to do it himself, and something about the way he said that – didn't want to bother you – makes you want to wrap him up in seventeen blankets and never let him do anything alone ever again.
"You are never a bother," you tell him, firmly and clearly. "Ever. Do you understand me?"
He blinks. "I—"
"Ever," you say again. "Now come sit down."
He comes.
You get him settled on the couch, which takes some arranging because he's so big and also apparently has lost the ability to organise his own limbs. You get the blanket over him, get his shoes off, and get a pillow sorted behind his head. He watches you do all of it with this stunned, slightly feverish expression, like he cannot fully process what's happening.
"Thermometer," you say. "Open up."
He opens his mouth like an obedient, exhausted golden retriever.
38.9. You show him. He squints at it.
"That's not—"
"That's a fever." You're already handing him the water and the paracetamol. "Take these. All the water, not half."
He takes them. Drinks the whole glass without being asked twice, which tells you he feels worse than he's letting on. Hands the glass back and then just — sinks. Into the blanket, into the couch, like he's been fighting gravity all day and has finally stopped.
You pull the blanket up higher. Tuck it in around him properly.
He makes a sound.
It's so small. So involuntary. Just this tiny, helpless sound of warmth and relief and something that's been needed for a while. Like a sigh that goes all the way down.
Your heart absolutely cracks in half.
"Better?" you murmur.
"Yeah." His voice is barely above a whisper. "So much better."
You sit on the edge of the couch beside him. Without even thinking about it, you reach out and start carding your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, just the softest thing.
He goes completely still.
Like an animal that's been startled into trust. Like he's not sure this is real, and he doesn't want to move in case it stops.
"You're okay," you tell him softly. "I've got you. Just rest."
And the great Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer in the world, the man who has never in his life been told to rest and actually listened, closes his eyes.
"Okay," he breathes.
He's asleep in eight minutes.
You know because you're watching. Sitting beside him, hand still moving slowly through his hair, feeling the moment his breathing evens out and his face goes fully slack. He looks young like this. Softer than he ever lets himself be awake, all the careful noise and brightness turned off, just him underneath.
You sit with him for a long time before you do anything else.
Eventually, you get up, slow and careful so you don't wake him, and go to the kitchen. You make soup because, of course, you make soup — proper soup, the kind that takes time, stock from scratch, and the good vegetables. You're not doing it to be impressive. You're doing it because he came home pale and exhausted and said he didn't want to bother you, and something in you needs to fill every corner of today with warmth until he understands that he is never, not ever, a bother.
You check on him twice while it cooks.
Both times, he's exactly as you left him. Both times, you stand in the doorway for a moment and just look at him.
He wakes up when you carry the bowl out. His nose twitches first — actually twitches, like a sleepy animal catching a scent — and then his eyes open and find you immediately, like he knew exactly where you'd be.
"Hey," you say softly. "How are you feeling?"
"Hm." He considers this with genuine effort. "Weird. Hot. My throat hurts."
"I know, baby." You set the bowl down and sit beside him. "Can you sit up for me?"
He sits up slowly. His hair is a complete disaster. There's a crease on his cheek from the pillow. He looks absolutely ridiculous and completely precious, and you have to physically stop yourself from saying that out loud.
You hand him the bowl.
He looks at it. Looks at you. Looks back at the bowl.
"You made soup," he says. His voice comes out strange. Thick.
"Mm-hm."
"From scratch?"
"It's nothing; eat it while it's hot—"
"You made me soup from scratch." He says it like he's reading something very important. Like he's memorising it. "While I was asleep, you went and made me soup."
"Satoru—"
"That's the nicest thing anyone has ever—" He stops. Swallows. And you watch him get slightly overwhelmed about soup, which should be funny and is instead the most endearing thing you've ever witnessed. "Sorry. I'm – the fever, probably."
"Probably," you agree gently. " Eat."
He eats. Slowly and carefully, both hands wrapped around the bowl, you sit right beside him with your hand rubbing slow circles on his back, and you feel every time he swallows, every small wince when his throat protests, and you make a mental note to get honey and lemon after this.
He finishes most of it.
Hands the bowl back and then immediately, without any preamble, lies sideways and puts his head on your shoulder.
"Okay?" you ask, smiling.
"Mm." He pulls the blanket up around himself. His hand finds yours, and he wraps both of his around it, holding on. "Can we stay like this?"
"Of course we can."
"For a long time."
"For as long as you want."
He makes a happy, feverish little sound and closes his eyes.
The afternoon unfolds like something slow and golden.
You don't go anywhere. You don't suggest he should be fine, or ask if he needs anything every five minutes, or hover in a way that makes him feel like a burden. You just stay. Right there. His head on your shoulder, his hands around yours, your thumb moving back and forth over his knuckles.
He drifts in and out. Half-asleep, then murmuring something, then quiet again. At some point, he shifts so he's more horizontal, head in your lap, and you don't say anything. You just let him. Start running your fingers through his hair again, and he sighs so deeply it moves through his whole body.
"That's nice," he mumbles. "Don't stop."
"I won't."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
A long, contented pause. "You're the best person I've ever met."
"You're feverish."
"Doesn't make it less true." He turns his face slightly into your hand. "I mean it. Best person. By a lot. Everyone else is miles behind."
He sleeps for two hours. Proper deep sleep, the healing kind, his face completely soft against your leg. Your phone is on the armrest. You answer emails one-handed and watch bad TV with the volume barely on, and every now and then, you just look down at him.
He's okay. He's going to be fine. He just needs today.
You're so glad he came home to you.
When he wakes up, it's almost five, and the room is going amber, and he blinks up at you from your lap with those heavy, glassy eyes, and for a moment, he just looks at you without saying anything.
You smile down at him. "Hey, sleeping beauty."
His whole face goes soft. "Hey." He doesn't move. Doesn't seem to have any interest in moving. "Were you there the whole time?"
"Where else would I be?"
He blinks. Like that's a concept he's still working out. Like, where else would I be? is something he's turning over carefully, examining.
"You didn't have to—"
"I know." You push his hair off his forehead, gently. "I wanted to. How's your head?"
"Better." He still doesn't move. "How long was I out?"
"A couple of hours."
"Were you uncomfortable? Your lap—"
"I was perfectly comfortable."
"You're not just saying that?"
"Satoru." You look down at him warmly. "I was sitting with you while you slept. That's exactly where I wanted to be."
He stares at you. Something's happening in his expression that's very close to the surface right now, fever-thin, with all the usual layers stripped back.
"I don't know what I did," he says quietly. "To get you."
Oh.
"You didn't have to do anything," you tell him, just as quietly. "You just had to be you."
He turns his face into your knee. Hides there for a second. When he comes back, his eyes are a little bright, which you are going to absolutely attribute to the fever and not mention.
"Okay," he says roughly. "Okay."
You make him honey and lemon tea, and he holds the mug in both hands and watches you move around the kitchen from the couch with this particular expression, soft and tracking, like he can't quite let you out of his sight.
Every time you glance over, he's watching.
"You're staring," you tell him.
"I know." He doesn't stop. "You're nice to look at."
"Drink your tea."
"I can do both." A pause. "Come sit with me when you're done."
"I will."
"Soon?"
"Satoru, I'm literally making you tea."
"Soon, though."
You come back with your own mug and sit beside him, and he immediately rearranges things so he's leaning against you properly, your arm around him, his head on your shoulder. He makes a small pleased sound. Pulls the blanket to cover both of you.
"Hi," he says, satisfied.
"Hi," you say, smiling into your tea.
He sips his drink. You sip yours. The evening comes in through the windows, and the apartment is warm and quiet and golden, and he keeps adjusting imperceptibly, just small movements, getting incrementally closer, and you let him; you keep letting him because he can have every inch.
"Can I tell you something embarrassing?" he says.
"Always."
A pause. "I was really glad when you told me to come sit down. Earlier. When I came in." His voice is careful. Honest. "I was going to say I was fine. I had the whole speech. And then you just—you said, "Come sit down," and I just..." He exhales. "I just did. Because you said it like it was easy. Like taking care of me was easy."
"It is easy," you say. "It's the easiest thing."
"It's not, though. I'm a lot—"
"You're not a lot." You lean your head against his. "You're just Satoru. And taking care of Satoru is something I would choose every single day."
He's quiet for a long time.
Then, very softly: "Even when I'm like this? All... pathetic and clingy and—"
"Especially when you're like this." You squeeze his hand. "This is my favourite version, if I'm honest."
He makes a sound that is absolutely not a laugh but might be one.
"Your favourite is when I'm sick and miserable?"
"My favourite is when you let me in," you say it simply, the way you say most things that matter. "You don't always. So when you do, I want to make the most of it."
He doesn't say anything for a while.
Then he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. Slow and deliberate, and so sincere it takes your breath away.
"Thank you," he says against your hand. "For today. For all of it."
"Thank you for coming home to me," you say.
Dinner is simple — he's not up to much, and honestly, neither are you, too content on the couch to want to make a production of it. You heat up rice and make some eggs, and he eats sitting right beside you, your thighs pressed together, and it's the best dinner you've had in weeks for no logical reason except that he's here and he's warm and he's leaning against you between bites.
After he puts his bowl down and immediately turns and opens his arms, you don't even hesitate. You go. You let him pull you into his chest, let him wrap both arms around you and hold on, and he's so warm, so solid, so present, and he says into your hair,
"I love you."
"I love you too, Satoru."
"I love you a lot."
"I know." You press a smile into his shirt. "I love you a lot too."
"I don't say it enough."
"You say it plenty."
"I could say more." His arms tighten. "I'm going to say it more. Starting now. I love you. There. That's one."
"Very romantic."
"I love you. Two." He's smiling; you can hear it. "I love you. Three. This is called being prolific. I love you—"
"Satoru."
"Four—"
"Bed," you say, laughing. "You need to sleep."
"I've been sleeping all day."
"You need more."
A groan. A dramatic, exhausted, absolutely put-upon groan. But he lets you untangle from him, lets you pull him up from the couch, and follows you down the hall with his hand in yours and his forehead drooping toward your shoulder from behind.
"Carry me," he suggests.
"Absolutely not."
"I'm sick."
"You're also twice my size."
"So? Where there's a will—"
"Walk, Satoru."
He walks. But he keeps his hand in yours all the way to the bedroom, and he doesn't let go when he climbs into bed either, just pulls you with him and rearranges the entire situation until you're exactly where he wants you — tucked into his side, his arm around you, his chin resting on the top of your head.
"Hi," he says, for approximately the sixth time today.
"Hi, baby." You settle your hand on his chest. Feel his heartbeat. Steady and slow. "How are you feeling?"
"Honestly?" A pause. "Like the luckiest person alive."
"You have a fever."
"Both can be true." His hand starts moving on your back, slow and gentle. "I mean it, you know. Today was—you were so—I didn't know it could feel like this."
"Like what?"
"Like being taken care of." His voice is getting quieter, sleep pulling at the edges. "I've been taking care of myself for so long. And then you just—you do it like it's nothing. Like it's the obvious thing. Like I'm worth that without having to—" He stops. "Without having to do anything to earn it."
Your throat gets tight.
"You are," you say softly. "You are worth that, Satoru. You're worth so much more than that."
"I'm working on believing that," he mumbles.
"I know." You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "I'll be here while you work on it. For as long as it takes."
He makes a sound that goes right through you. Soft and undone and full.
"Yeah?" he whispers.
"Yeah," you tell him. "I promise."
His breathing slows. His hand on your back goes still, resting warm and heavy.
"Best person," he mumbles, right at the edge. "Empirically. The best person in the world. All the world's..."
He's asleep before he finishes the sentence.
You stay awake a little longer. Listening to him breathe. Feeling the warm weight of his arm around you, the steady thump of his heart under your palm, and the way the whole apartment feels softer with him in it.
He came home and let you take care of him.
He said he didn't want to bother you, and let himself be bothered anyway.
He said I didn't know it could feel like this, and meant it in a way that made your chest ache.
You press a kiss to his shoulder. Pull the blanket up a little higher. Let your eyes close.
He's okay. He's safe. He's here.
That's everything.
Morning.
You wake to the smell of something — coffee, maybe, or —
You open your eyes.
Satoru is not in bed.
You sit up. The space beside you is warm still, recently vacated. You blink at the ceiling. Then you hear it — movement in the kitchen. The specific clink of your favourite mug.
You get up.
He's standing at the counter in his pyjamas, hair in absolute chaos, squinting at the coffee machine with the concentration of someone who is not a morning person and never has been. He's made coffee. Two cups. He's also, you notice, slightly pink in the cheeks — not fever-pink, just him, just the warmth of sleep.
He hears you and turns.
And the smile he gives you—
Full and real and soft around the edges, the morning version is the one that's just for you in the spaces before the day asks anything of him.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi." You cross the kitchen and press your hand to his forehead. Cool. Properly cool. "The fever's gone."
"Told you. Exceptional recovery speed." But he turns his face into your hand slightly, the same as yesterday. Same small helpless lean. "How'd you sleep?"
"Really well." You drop your hand to his jaw and cup it gently. "How do you feel?"
"Good." He covers your hand with his and holds it there. "Really good." A pause. His eyes are clear and warm, and looking at you like you're something remarkable. "Thank you. For yesterday."
"You already said that."
"Saying it again." He turns his head and presses a kiss to your palm. "And again. And probably many more times after this." He pulls you in by your hand, wraps his arms around you, and rests his chin on your head. You feel the long exhale move through his chest. "I mean it. Yesterday was—I didn't know I needed it until I was in it."
"I know," you say into his chest.
"Can we do it again sometime? Minus the fever?"
You laugh. "Lazy day on the couch?"
"Soup. Blanket. You." He squeezes you. "That's the whole list. That's everything I want."
You look up at him. He looks down at you. And he's smiling — that full, real, unguarded smile — and his hair is ridiculous, and he's in his pyjamas, and he's healthy, and he's yours, and the morning is soft and golden, and there's nowhere either of you has to be.
"Yeah," you say. "We can do that."
He beams.
Then: "Can we have the soup for breakfast?"
"That's not—"
"I'm recovering. I'm fragile. Medically speaking, the soup is probably—"
"I'll make you toast."
"Toast and soup?"
"Satoru."
"I'm just saying it's not mutually—"
"Toast," you say firmly. "And then we're going back to the couch."
He grins. Ducks down and kisses your forehead, warm and slow.
"Deal," he says. "Best person in all the worlds."
You roll your eyes. But you're smiling so hard it almost hurts.
"Go sit down," you tell him. "I'll make breakfast."
He goes. And you turn to the counter, and your heart is so full it almost doesn't fit, and outside the morning is doing something beautiful with the light, and somewhere in the living room Satoru is arranging himself on the couch and saving you a space.
You're already looking forward to filling it.
𑣲 likes, reblogs, comments, and follows are always appreciated and really motivate me.
wc: ~17.4k | cw: smut, fluff and more fluff, formula 1 au! f1 gojo/racer gojo x f1/racer reader! use of alcohol, oral sex (female receiving), slight overstimulation, fingering, explicit language, unprotected sex, suggestive themes, rivals to lovers, slow burn.
summary: gojo’s gift reaches you and you read the note.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
GOJO’S HEART RATE hasn’t slowed from the moment he woke up.
Well, if you could even call it waking up.
He’s hardly slept at all.
He pretended he did—stretched out on the bed, one arm over his face like rest might miraculously take him, but every time he closed his eyes the only thing he could see were those words he scribbled.
He wrote that note knowing it was reckless, knowing he was asking for more than he has any right to, and did it anyway.
And, here he is now, the man who everyone thinks is untouchable, some chosen prodigious driver, Satoru Gojo is pacing barefoot in his kitchen at 6:38 AM, panicking over a girl like a clueless teenage boy.
Though, not just any girl.
You.
His phone sits face-down on the kitchen island, he hasn’t touched it in over an hour, he simply can’t bear to. Every time he thinks about checking it, something in him resists. Superstition maybe, or fear.
He’s not sure what he’s waiting for exactly.
A yes? A no? A thank you? A question? Silence?
He hates that silence could mean anything.
The coffee he had brewing clicks off automatically, the sound sharp in the quiet. He doesn’t move to pour it into his cup, far too distracted with his own thoughts to do anything of use.
“Goddamnit,” He spits, “Calm down, you fucking loser.”
He breathes once, then twice, finally feeling like he’s regained control over himself again, but of course the universe has other plans. His phone starts to ring, the noise startling him enough that he actually flinches. He stares at it for a moment before flipping it over.
It’s a number he doesn’t have saved. He answers anyway, “Hello?”
“Good morning, Mr. Gojo,” A woman’s voice, polite and professional. English, with a light Japanese accent, “This is the front desk at the Suzuka Grand Hotel.”
His spine straightens instantly, “Yes,” He blurts, already tense, “Is—Is everything okay?”
“Yes, sir,” She reassures quickly, “I’m only calling to inform you that the gift you arranged has been successfully delivered to the guest in room 802.”
His breath leaves him in a slow, controlled exhale, “Thank you.”
“There were no issues,” She continues, “The guest accepted it personally.”
Accepted it.
His fingers curl against the edge of the counter,, “Thank you for letting me know,” He repeats, “I appreciate it.”
“Congratulations again on your win, Mr. Gojo,” She adds kindly before hanging up, “If there is anything else we can do for you, feel free to let us know.”
The call ends and the house is silent again. He stays exactly where he is, phone still pressed to his ear long after the line cuts.
You have it—the dress, the note, the things he told himself weren't a mistake. Relief washes through him first, followed by that damned feeling again.
Panic.
He lowers the phone down slowly, setting it down like it might explode if he’s careless.
Okay. You got it. That’s good.
That’s…good.
He told himself he wouldn’t expect anything so early. No immediate response or assurance, he didn’t do it for a reaction after all. He did it because he was done pretending restraint meant distance.
Still, this is stressful as fuck.
His gaze drifts back to the phone against his will—nothing.
“Of course there’s nothing, Satoru,” He sighs, dragging a hand down his face.
It’s only 7 AM. You have debriefs, Luca to deal with, media obligations—your own life to figure out.
You’re doing too much, a voice in his head mutters, one that sounds suspiciously like him.
He ignores it and decides to spring into action. He pours the coffee into his mug, takes a sip, grimaces. It’s gone cold, obviously, it’s been sitting there for the past twenty minutes. He sets the mug aside and grabs his keys instead.
If he stays here, in this massive house, held ransom to his thoughts, he’s going to spiral completely.
Outside, Tokyo is already awake. He pulls a black cap low over his hair, throws sunglasses on out of habit more than necessity, and steps into the street. The recognition he receives is almost instantaneous.
Not overwhelming, not yet, but it’s enough to notice. A double take, his name whispered like it’s something sacred, someone lifting a phone. By the time he’s halfway down the block, people are calling out to him, excited and breathless, and he forces a smile that feels automatic.
That settles it.
Whatever he wants to do with you, can’t be anywhere public. No fancy restaurants, no cafés, no quaint places he can pretend would let you be normal.
If you were here, if you walked together side by side anywhere but the paddock, it wouldn’t just look like a date. It would be a fucking headline.
If he can’t take you out, he’ll still find a way to make it special. He has to.
He changes direction mid-step, already running through it in his head. Tomorrow, if you come, when you come—no, don’t assume that yet.
Okay. Think. I need a plan.
I’ll need flowers, real ones, not the sad bouquets from a convenience store. Dinner. I need to cook. Not order in or call someone. Cook. Something good, preferably Japanese, close to home that she’ll love.
Groceries. My fridge is basically empty. If she’s staying a night or two, we’ll need actual food—things she likes. I’ll have to remember those. I do remember those. Of course I do.
Candles? That feels pretentious. I’m not trying to seduce her, I’ve done that already. Accidentally. Purposely. Repeatedly. Maybe it’s for…ambience. Yeah. That.
Jesus. I need sleep. Anyways—clean the house, that’s a given.
Fix the guest room…Wait, guest room? No—no, not the guest room, dumbass. She’ll be sleeping with you. Hopefully.
And miles away, you’re on the phone with Maya, lying on your back, staring at the ceiling, “I need to tell you something. And you’re not allowed to freak out.”
She immediately freaks out, “Um—now I’m freaking out. What do you mean?”
“No, seriously, don’t,” You warn, squeezing your eyes shut, “Just…listen.”
“Okay…Go on.”
You inhale, long and shaky, “So…Gojo and I have been—”
Maya leans in so close to the mic you hear her exhale, “Yes? You’ve been…?”
“—sleeping together.”
There’s absolute silence on the other end. Until there isn’t.
“I knew it!” She screeches, “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! We all knew it! The way he looks at you? The way you pretend not to look at him? Bitch, are you kidding me?”
“I hate this,” You groan, “I hate everything.”
“Oh my God,” She continues, unraveling, “So you’re saying you’ve been flying around the world having secret enemies to lovers sex with the hottest man alive and you didn’t tell me? Fuck you, honestly.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be anything!” You snap, sitting up, “It was supposed to be stupid and impulsive and a mistake we weren’t supposed to talk about—”
“And then?”
“And then it stopped being that,” You admit, voice thinning, “And now I don’t know what it is.”
Maya’s tone drops, “Explain.”
“He’s been…different. Pulling back sometimes, then coming close again, then not at all. And this weekend—” Your throat tightens, “—I saw him with a woman.”
“What woman?” She practically yells.
“I don’t know. Someone he knew. They looked…” You swallow, “…Comfortable.”
“Describe her to me. I’m gonna check his Instagram following.”
“Maya.”
“C’mon, please! I just need a face.”
“Maya.”
“Fine,” She sighs dramatically, “But I’m filing her as an enemy until proven otherwise.”
You laugh despite yourself, small and tired. Then she asks softly, “Do you have feelings for him?”
Your chest constricts, “…Yeah.”
“And does it scare you?”
“God, it terrifies me.”
“Okay. Then you’re not crazy. You’re just in deep.”
You open your mouth to reply and a knock cuts you off. You freeze, “Someone’s at my door.”
“Do not open it!” Maya orders, “What if it’s that woman—”
“Fuck off, Maya.”
You get up, pulse quickening for reasons you don’t have the energy to unpack, and crack the door open.
A hotel staff member stands there, perfectly polite, holding a white box tied with ribbon, “Good morning, Ms. (L/N), my apologies for disturbing you this early, but a gift was requested to be delivered before breakfast.”
Your stomach flips, “A…gift?”
“Yes,” She answers brightly, “From the gentleman who stayed in room 819. Mr. Gojo Satoru.”
Your heart stutters so violently you nearly drop the box as she hands it over. You thank her in a haze and shut the door with your hip.
Maya is screaming over speaker, “What is happening? What is that? What did he send you? Show me! Show me right now!”
You place the box on the bed, untie the ribbon, and the lid lifts. Maya goes dead silent.
Inside the box is the dress.
Short, red silk, the one from Vegas he tore off your body like a man possessed. Replaced and restored.
You touch it with quivering hands as if it might evaporate.
“Oh,” Maya whispers, “Girl, he’s down bad for you. He remembered the dress he destroyed?”
Something slips from the beneath the fabric, a small envelope—your name is his pristine handwriting.
You don’t open it. You can’t yet.
You sit down instead, dress pooling across your lap, breath uneven, “Maya,” You say gently, “I think he might want me in Tokyo with him.”
A heartbeat passes, then Maya screams so loudly your cat, Clementine, yowls from under her bed, “Oh my God! Tokyo?”
You squeeze your eyes shut, heart slamming against your ribs, “What do I even do?”
“The fuck do you mean ‘what do I even do?’,” She shrieks, “You go! You go to Tokyo right now—no, tomorrow! Tomorrow, you go to that beautiful man’s house and you—you—”
She breaks into unintelligible sounds of excitement. You bury your face in your hands, “I’m scared.”
“Of what? Being loved?”
You stay quiet, the silence stretching long enough that she stops joking entirely, “Hey. Talk to me.”
You swallow thickly, “I’m scared of…getting hurt.”
Maya exhales like she’s been expecting that response, “Yeah. I know.”
You blink at the ceiling, waiting, “But you’ve been hurting anyway. Every time he gets close. Every time he pulls away.”
“I don’t want to misread him.”
“You aren’t,” She says quickly, “And even if you do? You’re strong enough to survive it.”
Maya’s voice gentles even further, “But you know what you won’t survive? Not knowing.”
Something in your chest twists, “You’re already halfway in. The only difference is now he’s meeting you there.”
You press the heel of your hand to your forehead, overwhelmed, “Listen to me. You’re going to Tokyo.”
“Maya—”
“No. You are going,” Her tone sharpens, “I’m your best friend. I know you and I know when something is real. And this?” She scoffs, “This is so real it’s disgusting and I’m insanely jealous.”
You laugh weakly, Maya softening again, “You want him. He wants you, clearly, and he finally did something about it. Please don’t be the one who fucks it up.”
You stare down at the dress, then at the envelope—your name in his writing. There’s only one way this ends and it’s with him.
“I’m scared,” You repeat, “But…I’ll go.”
The call ends not long after that and the room feels too quiet in its absence.
You fold the dress carefully, placing it back into the box, set the envelope on top still unopened, and force yourself to stand. Your hands are still shaking as you grab your credentials, slip your phone into your pocket, and head out.
Whatever is waiting for you in Tokyo, will have to continue to do so, because Monday isn’t over.
The paddock is already buzzing by the time you show up, too many people moving with purpose while you feel half a step behind everything. You can’t seem to settle—adjusting your lanyard, tugging at the hem of your polo, shifting your weight from foot to foot like you’re trying to outrun your own thoughts.
You don’t even notice you’re doing it until you hear, “Ragazza.”
You look up, Luca is watching you with that familiar mix of patience and concern, “You’re pacing.”
“I am?” You still, forcing your feet to stay planted. It lasts maybe three seconds before you fidget again.
He lifts a brow, “You’ve fixed that badge five times already. What’s going on?”
You open your mouth to brush it off, then close it. The hesitation gives you away, “I’m…heading back to Tokyo.”
Luca blinks, “Again?”
“Tomorrow. I think.”
That’s all he needs to know, the recognition hitting him subtly. His posture morphs, the pieces sliding into place without you needing to say another word.
“For him?” He asks quietly.
“…Yeah.”
“Okay,” That’s all. No judgment.
“Just make sure,” He adds after a beat, “That you’re going because you want to. Not because you’re nervous.”
“I want to…I really do.”
Luca smiles faintly, “Then I’m glad.”
A voice cuts in from just behind you, “Huh. Interesting.”
You both turn. Dan is standing a few steps away, tablet in hand, eyes flicking between the two of you with casual curiosity.
”Didn’t expect you back in Tokyo so soon,” He deduces, “Gojo’s there now too.”
Your stomach tightens, Luca’s expression doesn’t change, but you catch the brief glance he gives you—quick, assessing, “Oh, is he?” Luca says lightly.
Dan hums, “Yeah. Busy city this week for Ferrari, apparently.”
His gaze lingers on you for half a second too long before dropping back to his screen, “Anyway. Debrief’s in ten.”
He walks off like he hasn’t said anything loaded at all, “Oh, he so knows.”
Luca nods, “Not much.”
“But enough.”
He shoots you a look, “Only enough to be curious, not interfere.”
The noise of the paddock swells around you again; radios crackling, engines firing somewhere in the distance, someone calling your name.
You peer down at your hands. They’re still trembling.
The waiting game has officially begun and damn, is it unbearable. Monday stretches itself thin like it’s doing it on purpose, taunting and teasing, every hour dragging as if it’s aware you’re counting each one.
You move through the rest of the day solely on instinct—debriefs, media, nodding when spoken to, smiling when cameras turn your way. Your body performs the motions it’s been trained for, but your mind, well that’s somewhere else entirely.
Tokyo. Him. The unopened envelope sitting back in your hotel room like a dare.
You don’t want to check your phone, petrified you’ll see something that’ll send you over the edge.
By the time evening falls upon Suzuka, the adrenaline coursing within your veins has burned itself out, leaving you restless and exhausted; your room feels too quiet when you step back in.
The box is right where you left it.
You sit on the end of the bed and stare at it for a long moment, fingers flexing in your lap. The dress is folded neatly inside, red silk catching low lamplight even through tissue paper.
The envelope rests on top, your name written in that familiar precision, decisive strokes with no hesitation.
“Okay,” You murmur, mostly to yourself.
You slide a finger beneath the flap before you can overthink it, unfolding the paper with care.
There isn’t much written. But sometimes, less is more.
Come home with me.
Tokyo. Tomorrow.
You read it once, then again. It’s exactly what you thought it would be. An invitation, both honest and terrifying in its simplicity.
Your chest tightens, but not in fear this time, “Guess I’ve tortured you enough, huh…Satoru.”
You pick up your phone, the weight of it suddenly far too heavy in your hands, and tap call on his contact.
It rings and on the third one, he answers, “Hello?”
He sounds breathless, like he’s been moving around the room or pacing.
“I got your gift.”
“Yeah?” Then a pause, “And?”
“I read your note.”
Another pause settles, longer this time. You can almost picture him holding his phone a little tighter.
“And?” He repeats, softer now.
“I’m coming,” You say, “Tomorrow. I’m coming.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest all day.
“Okay,” He says, then like he needs to say it again to believe it, “Okay.”
“So…do you wanna send me an address, or should I just, like, aimlessly wander Tokyo until I find you?”
There’s a huff of a laugh, “Please don’t do that,” He murmurs, “…I’d worry.”
Your heart lurches as he clears his throat, the warmth in his voice returning, “Besides…You’re far too pretty to get lost on your own.”
You giggle at that, “Nice. Real smooth.”
“Hey,” He jives defensively, “I panicked. Don’t hold it against me.”
You shift on the bed, glancing at the dress folded beside you, the note resting back on top of it, “So. What happens now?”
He pauses again, this one deliberate, “I’ll send a car. From the hotel, straight to me,” He says, “You don’t need to worry about anything else.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“…Hypothetical question.”
He hums, already weary, “Mm?”
“Should I…” You hesitate, then commit, “…wear the dress?”
“Yes,” He answers a little too quickly, catching himself “—yeah. Yeah, please wear it.”
Then he adds, quieter, almost embarrassed, “I promise I won’t…tear it off you this time.”
Warmth coils low in your stomach, “What if…I wanted you to?”
His laugh comes out breathy, helpless, gone as soon as it appears, “That’s,” He says carefully, “A dangerous thing to ask.”
He stops before starting again, “But if you did…then I’d do whatever you want.”
You smile to yourself, “Good.”
“…Good.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Satoru.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
You hang up before either of you can say anything else. On the other end, he’s still grinning when the line goes dead.
And for the first time all day, the waiting doesn’t feel so unbearable anymore.
You set your phone down slowly, stare at longer than needed, as if he may say something else or the line may reopen on its own. It doesn’t.
Leaning back against the headboard, your eyes drift to the box beside you and the dress that’s folded neatly. You don’t touch it again, not tonight.
Instead, you change into something that lets you pretend, even for a sliver of a second, that this is still a normal Monday evening after a race weekend and your heart isn’t doing laps around your ribs.
You order room service you barely eat, scroll through your phone without really seeing anything, every so often your thoughts betray you and drift back to his voice, and you fall asleep, eventually—but not deeply.
And in Tokyo, Gojo doesn’t sleep at all. Again.
He stands in the doorway of his bedroom, phone still in hand, staring at literally nothing.
She’s coming.
The thought feels unreal every time he circles back to it.
He moves through the house restlessly, turning lights on, lights off, then on and off again. Opens the fridge, yes everything is there—the things she likes, closes it. He checks the stove even though dinner won’t be until tomorrow, straightens something that was already straight.
At one point he stops in the living room, imagining you there—laughing, maybe making fun of him for whatever reason, touching things like you belong.
That makes his chest ache. In a way that feels…strangely good.
He sinks onto the couch, leather creaking under his weight, elbows bracing on his knees, phone resting loosely in his hands. He doesn’t text or call, he already has what he needs—your answer. The knowledge that tomorrow, you’ll be here, with him.
He exhales and tilts his head back until it rests against the couch, eyes tracing the high ceiling above.
He’s not panicked over tomorrow anymore. What scares him now is how much of himself he’s going to lose the moment you’re close enough to touch.
And before either of you are ready for it, tomorrow is finally today.
You wake with your heart already too high in your chest and sit up slowly. Your legs feel unsteady when your feet hit the carpeted floor.
The dress sits draped over a chair and you touch it once, fingertips grazing red silk. You shower, the water hotter than usual, taking extra time with everything, moisturizing after, minimal makeup, perfume at every pulse point—the neck, inner wrists, behind the knees, and ankles, just in case…other things transpire. All in the same delicate vanilla scent.
You tell yourself you’re doing it on purpose, but really it’s because preparing is the only part of this day you can control.
Your phone buzzes as you finish packing the rest of your things.
One message.
gojo: car’s downstairs
Nothing more.
You don’t bother with a reply. Instead you grab your bag, check the room one last time, see the empty box on the desk like evidence of a crime and leave before you can create reasons to stay.
Your hands are trembling when you press the elevator button and you catch your reflection in the mirrored panel, barely recognizing your own expression. It’s calm, focused, serene even, but your eyes? Well, those never lie. They give you away, burning with an emotion you haven’t let yourself name.
Outside, the driver is waiting beside a black sedan, opening the door before you can even speak. You slide in, greeted by cold leather, and the second the car pulls out of Suzuka something in your chest tightens—anticipation.
The highway unspools beneath you, the scenery shifting; suburbs, then open stretches, then the looming outskirts of a city that’s far too large. You watch everything and nothing at once, rehearse what you’ll say and forget it just as quickly. At one point you rest your head against the window, an attempt to let the rhythm of the road quiet your mind.
It doesn’t work in the slightest. Every time you close your eyes, you just hear his voice in the way it sounded when he said “I’ll be waiting.”
Come afternoon, Gojo hasn’t managed to sit down, not one time.
The house is spotless, immaculate actually, though he hardly remembers cleaning it. The kitchen smells vaguely of ginger and dashi, dinner prep started hours too early. Flowers, real ones—expensive ones, sit on the counter, arranged and rearranged until he finally convinces himself to stop touching them altogether.
He keeps checking his watch.
12:47.
1:13.
1:40.
2:05.
2:18.
It’s modern day, medieval adjacent torture.
He walks through the house again, restless and wired, looks at the dinner he’s merely begun cooking, the hallway mirror he wiped down twice.
Finally, his phone buzzes—the driver.
Ten minutes out.
Gojo goes completely still before forcing himself to cross the living room. He steps onto the sunlit stretch where the floorboards always warm this time of day, and stops in front of the large window overlooking the quiet street.
A long, shaky exhale escapes him and then he sees it.
The car turns into the neighborhood, slowing, gliding into the driveway like it’s delivering fate itself. His hand grips the window frame tight.
You don’t get out at first. The tinted door stays shut, engine clicking softly as it idles; Tokyo’s late-afternoon light washes everything in gold.
Gojo’s pulse slams, bullseye perfect behind his ribs as the car door opens. Your heel touches the pavement before the rest of you emerges and he swears under his breath in his native tongue—quiet, reverent, because nothing prepared him for how you’d look standing in front of his house in that dress.
His dress.
The one you wore for him in Vegas, the one he destroyed, the one he replaced, the one you chose to wear for him again.
You pause, just for half a second, he sees it.
And that half-second nearly undoes him.
You straighten your posture, lift your chin, and close the door behind you gently. The driver drives away, leaving only silence between you and the front door.
Gojo doesn’t move. His hands stay braced on the window frame, heart pounding with a force that’s borderline painful.
You look up at the house. It isn’t ostentatious, despite being so large; softened by wood and greenery, glass reflecting the sky, it’s a place built to keep one man alone.
Then you look at the door. Then, slowly, as if your body already knows where he is, your gaze lifts to the window.
Your eyes meet his piercing blues through the glass.
And everything stops.
The races, the noise, the city, the fear, the carefulness, the waiting.
All of it.
You inhale softly, whereas he doesn’t breathe at all.
For one suspended, wicked moment, it feels like both of you are standing on the edge of something neither of you can step back from ever again.
You look down first—at the steps, at your own hands, at anything other than him, and take one quiet breath that doesn’t do nearly enough to calm you. Then you walk.
Inside, Gojo forces himself to move with controlled urgency, and reaches the entryway. His hand hesitates on the door handle, only for a heartbeat, before he finally opens it.
Warm late-afternoon air spills in and so do you. You stand at the foot of the steps, just beyond the threshold, the red silk of your dress reflecting sunlight like it remembers exactly why he sent it.
Gojo leans one shoulder against the doorframe, only to stop himself from stepping toward you too soon. His eyes drag over you once, languid, with the kind of restraint that only barely holds.
“Hi.”
His answering inhale is almost a laugh, almost a curse, “Hi.”
It’s ridiculous how much heat one syllable can hold.
You shift your weight, suddenly aware of the bag at your side—he notices instantly.
“Give me that,” He says softly, not a command exactly but not a request either.
Before you can protest, his hand reaches for the strap. His fingers brush yours and that’s all it takes for the ground to tilt under you.
He takes the bag from you easily, slinging it over his shoulder with one fluid movement. It looks wrong on him—too domestic, absurdly intimate, like a man already living a life that includes you.
He steps back into the house, opening the door wider, “Come in.”
Two words, low and utterly devastating.
You step forward and the threshold feels like a line you cross with your whole body. Gojo closes the door behind you, almost as if to seal the moment in place, and you turn to face him.
He’s much closer now, so close you can see the tension in his jaw along with the way his eyes hold yours like he’s memorizing everything.
Then he murmurs, so quiet that it barely counts as a sound, “You came.”
“I came.”
His throat works around whatever he wants to say next, grip tightening on your bag before he finally steps past you, giving you space but never truly pulling away.
“Let me take this,” He says, though he already has. The straps creak as he adjusts it, “I’ll put it in my room.”
My room.
He hears it at the same time you do. A heartbeat of silence hangs there, charged and thick.
He clears his throat, eyes flicking away for a second, “Unless—you want the guest room. I didn’t think to—”
You interrupt softly, biting down a chuckle, “Your room is fine.”
He goes still again. Entirely. Then he nods once, something dangerous funnels into his countenance—want, tension, excitement, all bound tightly behind good intentions that most likely will not stand a damn chance later.
“Okay,” He lifts your bag more securely on his shoulder, turns, and starts down the hallway.
“You can…look around,” He says without looking back, like the thought of you wandering through his house is something he both equally craves and fears, “Make yourself at home.”
You stand alone in the foyer for a moment, trying to breathe normally. Unfortunately, you can’t.
His footsteps fade down the hall, your heart thundering for one too many reasons, and then you take your first step deeper into his house—into him.
The entryway opens into a wide, soft-lit living space, sunlight pooling across pale wood and dark furniture. Everything is warm and deceptively calm, which doesn’t match the man you’re here with.
You find the kitchen by scent before sight. Savory, rich, a quiet simmer of soy and something citrusy beneath it. Dinner—not finished yet, but started, tended to, fussed over. It shouldn’t make your pulse jump, but it does.
Your gaze drifts from the stove to the cutting board, knife still out, vegetables sliced with the same precision he drives with; his footsteps approach from behind and he rounds the corner, trying very hard to look like he isn’t watching your reaction even though he absolutely is.
You blink, stunned, and look over at him, both his sleeves rolled haphazardly to his veiny forearms, “…Didn’t know the golden boy could cook.”
He freezes for half a second, his mouth curving, subtle and dangerous, “Didn’t know you were into domestic men.”
You cross your arms loosely, “I didn’t say I was into it.”
“No?” He steps closer to the stove, but his eyes flick toward you with unmistakable smugness, “Your face says otherwise.”
You scoff, turning slightly, warmth spreading up your neck, “Please. I’m just surprised. Thought you lived off takeout and bullshit sugar coffee-milk and desserts.”
He lets out a soft laugh, “I cook,” He says, stirring the pot once, “When I care about the person I’m feeding.”
The wooden spoon pauses. Your heartbeat does too.
You open your mouth, to tease him or maybe deflect, but nothing comes out. He glances over his shoulder at you, eyes dipping briefly to the red silk you’re wearing.
“That dress…” His voice drops, “I’d almost forgotten how good it looks on you.”
He sets the spoon down, wipes his palms on a dish towel, and fully turns to you, “I’m glad you wore it,” He adds, with a sincerity that hits harder than any flirtation
“…Me too.”
Gojo clears his throat once, looks back toward the stove as if remembering it still exists, then ticks the heat lower.
“Dinner needs another hour,” He notes, wiping his hands again even though they’re already clean, “Come on. I…should probably give you a tour before I burn something trying to pretend I’m not nervous.”
You smile, slow and knowing, “You’re nervous?”
He shoots you a look, half indignation, half confession, “Only a little. You’re in my house. That’s…different,” He gestures for you to follow, you do.
The hallway opens into a wide space bathed in late-afternoon gold. Everything feels curated, but lived in—soft colors, touches of personality that catch your eye even when you try not to look too hard. He pauses by the first door and pushes it open.
“Simulator room,” He says, almost sheepishly.
You step in and nearly laugh, not at him, but at how perfectly the setup fits him. Multiple screens, wraparound monitors, a full-motion rig, branded gloves on the desk, telemetry notes scattered everywhere.
“You’re insane,” You mutter, running your fingers lightly along the carbon-fiber seat.
“I know.”
Your gaze shifts to the walls—various helmets on shelves, framed photos, mostly racing. A few of him on podiums, mid-overtake shots, a candid where he’s laughing with Dan.
Then one catches your attention.
A photo of him at eighteen. White hair cut shorter, wearing a formal hakama and haori, traditional clothing crisp against the backdrop of a garden. He’s not smiling, the expression he bears is cold, distant, resigned. As if he’s physically there in that moment, but mentally elsewhere. Nobody else is in frame, the edges of the picture clipped, like someone was cut out.
You feel something twist in your chest, “You look different here.”
He stands next to you, posture tightening ever so slightly, “Yeah. Birthdays were…festive. For everyone but me.”
You don’t push and he doesn’t elaborate. Instead, your eyes drift to the opposite shelf, where you freeze.
“…Are those Digimon figurines?”
“No,” He lies. Badly.
You pick one up, a tiny Agumon, “Oh my fucking God. They are.”
“This shelf is off-limits,” He seethes, reaching to take it from you, but you dodge him, giggling.
“Satoru, you have a shrine. That’s like the nerdiest, most geeked out shit I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s not a shrine,” He counters, mortified, grabbing the figurine with tragic dignity, “It’s—nostalgia.”
“Uh-huh. Right.”
Gojo places the rescued Agumon back onto the shelf with too much ceremony for a grown man, muttering something in Japanese that you’re certain is a threat toward ever showing you anything personal again.
You can’t help but continue laughing, and something in his shoulders uncoils a little.
“Let’s go,” He says, “One more room before the best one.”
You follow, steps soft on polished wood until he slows in front of a wide sliding door—hesistation so slight you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t already pick up on how he masks vulnerability.
He pushes it open to reveal warm light, floor-to-ceiling shelves, lamps, a sunlit window seat, and books. Hundreds of them.
You don’t gasp because it’s surprising, but because it’s so completely him.
He watches your reaction, attempting for nonchalance. It doesn’t fool you for a second.
“Nerdjo…” You coo, stepping inside.
He groans like he’s being murdered, “So we’re really making that name stick?”
“Duh,” You reply, running your fingers lightly across a row of novels he’s definitely read more than once, “You thought you were escaping that? Especially after your little toys?”
His jaw drops in offense, “They’re not toys.”
You tap a book spine, worn, smile softening, “And this? This is definitely a Nerdjo habitat.”
He crosses his arms, half defensive, half flustered, “I’ll have you know that this is a very normal library for a very normal man.”
You hum a chuckle, stepping toward the table where an annotated Murakami sits open beside a dense engineering text, one with most the pages flagged.
“I knew you read,” You say quietly, then almost to yourself, “I just didn’t know you read like…this.”
His eyes flick to yours, something tightening in that charged space between you, “Like what?”
“Like you breathe better in here.”
His throat moves, he doesn’t deny it. Not this time.
And because the air suddenly feels too intimate and revealing, he clears his throat and gestures toward the door again, “Before you psychoanalyze me to death,” He says, “We should keep going.”
You grin, “Afraid of what I’ll find next?”
“Oh, horrified,” He deadpans, “Which is why the best room is last.”
You narrow your gaze playfully, “Let me guess—the bedroom?”
He laughs at that, warm, startled, all earnest, “I’m ninety-five percent sure that if I show you the bedroom right now, you’ll hit me.”
“Ninety-eight percent, actually.”
He smirks, steps back, and nods toward the opposite hallway, “Then good thing the best room isn’t the bedroom.”
You raise a brow, intrigued, “Oh? Then what is it?”
Then that slow, devastating grin spreads across his face—the one that got you into this mess in the first place.
“The garage.”
And just like that, your pulse is back in your throat. He leads you down another hallway, past a minimalist bathroom and a closed laundry room door, until flooring shifts—wood to polished marble. The air cools, hum of the house fading.
He stops at a black metal door with a keypad, “This,” He announces, typing the code with ease, “Is the best room in the house.”
You scoff, “Really bold claim for a man who owns a library and Digimon shrine.”
He huffs, the corner of his mouth twitching, “Ha, hilarious. Prepare to apologize.”
The lock clicks, the door swings open, and your breath stops.
For a moment, there’s nothing but light. Soft overhead strips illuminating lacquered curves, aerodynamic lines, metal and carbon laid out like art.
“…Holy shit.”
You step inside without waiting for permission. You don’t need it. He built this place for worship.
Four cars sit in immaculate formation, each spaced like they equally deserve their reverence. You go silent, enchanted, and Gojo watches your reaction.
You move first toward the Porsche 911 GT3 RS, pristine carrara white gleaming under the lights, “992 generation,” You note, “That’s the 4.0 L flat-six, right? Naturally aspirated?”
His eyebrows shoot up, “Yeah.”
You circle the rear end, eyes narrowing, “Swan-neck wing. Stock. Not aftermarket.”
“…Yeah,” He blinks, “How did you—?”
“The mounting points,” You say, crouching slightly, “They’re too clean for aftermarket.”
Gojo looks personally attacked by your words, in the best way.
You straighten, grin tugging at your lips, “What? You thought I only knew how to race cars, not build them?”
“I never doubted you,” He answers, too quick, “But this is…hot.”
Heat prickles your cheeks, you turn away before he can see you react. Your attention snags on the Ferrari 812 Competizione, dark red that shines viciously in the light.
“This one,” You point, stepping closer, “Feels like a trophy.”
“…Ferrari gave it to me after my first WDC,” He admits, “It’s beautiful but it’s…not really mine.”
You run a hand along the fender, “That makes sense,” You look at him, “It’s gorgeous. But it’s not…you.”
His eyes soften and you move on. The Nissan GT-R R35 draws you over next, deep pearl blue, subtle but clearly very loved.
“This one,” You say immediately, “Is the fun car.”
Gojo beams radiantly, “Thank you. Dan says it looks like a midlife crisis.”
“Dan is an idiot. This is—wait…” You crouch again, “Ohlins coilovers?”
“Yes.”
“And the exhaust—HKS?”
“Yes.”
“And you tuned the ECU—”
“—Your brain should not be allowed to be this sexy.”
You freeze, startled laughter breaking out of you, “Satoru.”
“What? I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”
You push his arm lightly, shaking your head as you stand again. Then something else catches your eye. You move toward the Nissan Fairlady Z, its off-white paint glowing warmly, patina and all.
“…You restored this.”
He stills, “I did. Over a few years. Engine first, suspension, brakes. I kept the interior original on purpose.”
“This is…beautiful. Like—painfully beautiful.”
“It’s my favorite.”
You look at him meaningfully, “Mine too.”
Something unspoken sparks between you, heat sliding under your ribs. This time, you’re the one clearing your throat.
“So,” You say, “That’s four. What’s next? You strike me as the kind of guy who already knows exactly what he wants to buy.”
He chuckles once—short and nervous, like he didn’t expect you to ask. Then his whole face lights up, “Okay,” He says, rubbing his palms together, “This is gonna sound insane.”
“I’m listening.”
“An air-cooled Porsche. Late ‘80s. Probably a 964.”
Your eyes widen, “That’s your next project?”
“Yes. And—” He gestures with both hands, animated, completely losing composure in the cutest way, “I found this forum thread about engine rebuilds and there’s this one guy who documents everything, like, everything. Wiring, gaskets, leak testing—every single step. It’s crazy. It’s perfect.”
You stare at him and he doesn’t notice at first—he’s in flow state, talking with his hands, blue eyes impossibly bright, voice warm with enthusiasm. Then he finally looks at you and stops.
“…What?”
You shake your head slowly, a smile pulling at your lips, “Nothing. I just—like seeing you like this.”
“Like what?”
You step closer, close enough he feels it, “Excited,” You answer, “Nerdy. Happy.”
He swallows hard, dangerously so. The air shifts yet again, slow. Sure. Inevitable.
And then, because he can’t help himself, he says it, “After dinner…if you want…you can drive one.”
Your head snaps toward him so fast he laughs, “Seriously?”
“Yeah,” He replies softly, “Whichever one you want.”
You just look at him like he’s given you something precious, which in a way, he has, “Satoru,” You breathe, “That’s—kind of intimate.”
He steps closer, the distance between you collapsing into something warm and electric, “So is letting you into my house.”
Your pulse skips, he takes another step closer, “And my kitchen.”
“My library,” Another step.
“My garage,” He’s right in front of you now.
“And soon,” He adds, voice dipping low, “My driver’s seat. If you want it.”
You glance up at him, heart pounding so fiercely it hurts, “I want it.”
His breath leaves him shakily, quietly undone, “Good.”
Then the kitchen timer goes off in the distance, shrill and divinely timed. You both blink, he coughs a weak chuckle, “Dinner.”
“Dinner.”
But neither of you move. Not for several seconds. Because suddenly, everything feels different. Everything feels like the beginning.
The timer keeps screaming from the kitchen, you both stay frozen like neither of you wants to be the first to step back into reality.
Finally, Gojo forces himself to move, “Come on,” He mutters, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand that isn’t trembling, “Before something actually burns.”
You follow him out of the garage and into the warmth of the house again, the smell hitting you instantly. Gojo grabs oven mitts, kills the timer, lifts the lid from the simmering pot on the stove, and exhales like he’s been holding that breath for a decade.
“Still alive,” He says in mock relief, “Barely.”
You lean against the counter, “Do you want me to pretend I’m not impressed, or should we skip straight to praising you?”
He side-eyes you over his shoulder, smirk tugging, “You can praise me later.”
Heat crawls up your neck at the way he says it.
He opens the oven next, steam rolling out into the kitchen, and slides out a tray of flawlessly crisped chicken katsu. The breading golden, the edges bubbling.
You blink, “You really made that?”
“Yeah.”
“From scratch?”
“Yeah.”
You just stare and for the first time all day he looks almost afraid with a flash of uncertainty, “…Is that bad? Do you not like—”
“No, no. It’s great,” You cut him off quickly, “It’s—wow.”
He looks down and bites back a smile like he can’t stand how good it feels to impress you. Then, he plates everything with quiet focus, like cooking is something he does to steady himself. Rice steamed to perfection, miso soup ladled with care, pickled vegetables arranged neatly, the katsu sliced at exact angles.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” You mention softly.
“I know,” He replies, “But I wanted to.”
He doesn’t look at you when he says it, probably because he knows if he does, it’ll mean too much.
The dining area is small compared to the rest of the house—warm light, a table set for two. He moves around you to pull out your chair and your heart nearly stops.
He doesn’t touch you, but he almost does. His hand brushes the back of the chair where your spine had been a second ago. A ghost contact.
You sit, he takes his seat across from you, and now you’re acutely aware of everything. The clink of cutlery, the faint simmer that’s still happening in the kitchen, the low hum of the refrigerator, the uneven rhythm of your breathing.
He pushes your plate gently toward you, “Tell me if it’s bad,” He warns, “Lie if you have to.”
You take one bite and your eyes widen, “…Satoru.”
His entire posture straightens, tense.
“It’s amazing,” You laugh, genuinely surprised, “Like better than a restaurant.”
He slumps back in his chair, relief crashing over him, “Thank fuck.”
You take another bite, “Why don’t you ever talk about cooking? This is absurd.”
He shrugs one shoulder lightly, “No one in my life has ever really cared.”
You still, his eyes flick up. Blue, clear, and vulnerable in the way he hates being.
“Until now,” You murmur.
He holds your gaze a beat too long, then looks down and picks up his chopsticks as if he didn’t show you a piece of his heart on accident.
The conversation turns easy after that, like how it always does when you’re both pretending nothing monumental is occurring.
You ask about the recipe, he downplays it.
He asks about your father’s cooking, you tell him stories about burnt vegetables, but perfectly grilled steaks.
He tells you about the first time he tried to cook rice alone and learn that he accidentally destroyed the pot.
You snort so loudly he threatens to revoke your dinner privileges.
Halfway through the meal, he watches you eat, elbow braced on the table, chopsticks paused between his fingers.
“What?” You ask, swallowing.
“You…You look good in my house.”
Your pulse trips, ”Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
You break eye contact first, because you know that if you don’t, you may melt through the floor.
And dinner finishes in a slower silence, soft tension humming beneath every movement.
When you stand to help clear the dishes, he moves too fast, “No,” He says, “Sit.”
“You cooked,” You protest, “I can help—”
He steps in close, “Sit,” He repeats, voice gentle but unwilling to bend.
So you sit and watch as he clears the table, washes the dishes, and moves through the kitchen like someone who has never let another person into this space and isn’t sure how to act now that he has.
When he finally turns back to you, drying his hands on a towel, something shifts once more.
The house is quiet.
Dinner is done.
And he looks at you like the next part of the night is a precipice he’s about to willingly step off.
“Ready for the last part of the tour?”
You stand slowly, “Yeah. I’m ready.”
Gojo leads you back to the foyer, the evening settling into the windows—Tokyo shifted from gold to deep blue without either of you noticing. Streetlights blink on the outside, soft halos on wet pavement.
He grabs a jacket from the hook by the front door and slides it on one arm at a time, looking at you from the corner of his eye like he can’t not.
“You cold?” He asks.
You shake your head, he nods once, then tips his chin toward the hallway that leads back down the garage, “This way.”
His hand doesn’t touch you, it doesn’t even graze you, but he walks so close that you feel the heat radiate off him.
The garage lights flick on automatically when he opens the door and even though you’ve seen it already, it still hits you.
He moves in front of you, hands in pockets, almost shy but trying very hard not to show it.
“So,” He says lightly, “Which one do you want to drive?”
“I—what?”
He smirks, tilting his head, “After dinner, remember? I said you could drive one if you wanted.”
“You weren’t serious.”
“Oh, I was,” He replies, stepping closer to stand near the Porsche GT3 RS—your gaze flicks to it instinctively and he notices, “Pick one.”
You laugh under your breath, “You’re crazy.”
“And you like it.”
True.
Your eyes sweep the lineup, taking your time, the car-lover in you fighting with the rational human who knows these machines cost more than a house. He crosses his arms, observing you, saying nothing—letting you choose in peace.
Your gaze lands on the GT3 RS again. The carrara white gleaming under the overhead lights, satin-black wheels, red brake calipers like a beating heart.
He sees it and grins, “You want the Porsche.”
“Can I?”
“You can drive anything in this garage,” He says simply, “I trust you.”
Your stomach drops as you walk toward it, fingertips grazing the curve of the hood, “It really is gorgeous.”
“It’s a beast,” He corrects, stepping beside you, “And she’ll eat you alive if you’re not ready.”
“Good thing I am.”
He laughs and walks around to the driver’s side door, tapping the handle, “Get in.”
You slide into the bucket seat, the bolstering hugging you tightly, the smell of alcantara and fuel and something distinctly Gojo lingering around you. He leans in over you, reaching across to check the seat positioning.
“Move up a little,” He murmurs, eyes flicking to your legs, “You’re way too far back.”
“Right,” You chuckle, adjusting, “Forgot about your freakishly long limbs.”
His mouth lifts and he stays right there for longer than necessary. You feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek, heart seizing when you realize that he’d only have to tilt his head an inch to kiss you.
“Better,” He mutters, gaze dropping to your hands on the wheel.
He reaches for the seatbelt next, fingers brushing the fabric first, then your hip as he draws it across your body—the touch steals your breath for a second.
He clicks it into place without looking at you, his jaw flexing once, betraying a thought he won’t say aloud, “Safety first.”
You almost laugh.
You also almost remind him that he’s the least safe thing in this garage.
But the joke dies on your tongue when he finally pulls back, closing your door before walking around to the passenger side.
The cabin shifts when he sinks into the seat, everything smaller, warmer, oddly too intimate in a way that feels like crossing yet another line you can’t uncross.
He turns his head toward you, profile cut by the soft overhead light, “You’ve driven fast cars,” He says quietly, “But this one…she’s temperamental. She bites.”
The faintest curl of a smirk forms on his face, “…Kinda reminds me of you.”
You lift your chin, matching his tone, “Oh? Should I be offended?”
His eyes flick to yours before dipping once to your mouth, “No,” He murmurs, “You should be worried what I mean by it.”
Your fingers rest on the steering wheel to keep your hands busy before you do something reckless. His words hang there between you, thickening the space like rising heat before he shifts his weight.
One hand braces gently on the roof of the car as he leans in, the scent of his cologne wafting over your shoulder.
“Anyways,” He says, tapping the carbon-fiber door frame with the side of his knuckle, “She’s yours for the night.”
A heartbeat passes—a breath he lets himself take.
“Just,” He adds, “Don’t make me regret trusting you.”
“Relax. I’ll behave.”
His laugh is soft, disbelieving, almost fond, “No,” He says, eyes dragging over you with slow, devastating certainty, “You won’t.”
And God, the way he says it, like it’s a promise, a hope, like he’s already imagining which version of you he’s going to meet tonight—it knocks the air out of your lungs.
He nudges his head forward, “Go on, (Y/N),” He urges, “Show me.”
Your breath steadies, barely, and you reach toward the ignition. Gojo watches your hand more than he watches the dashboard, the way your fingers hover, the way you settle into his seat like you’ve already decided you belong there.
You press it and the Porsche snarls awake. A clean, violent sound that blooms through the garage and vibrates through the bucket seat into your ribcage. The headlights flare against the polished floor, a sweep of white across glossy car bodies.
“Good,” He praises, barely audible over the idle rumble, “Feel her.”
You grip the wheel a little tighter out of anticipation. He moves in his seat, one arm resting on the central bolster, the other lifting to adjust the vents like he’s pretending to not study your every micro-movement.
“You’re already sitting like a driver.”
You smirk, fingers brushing the paddle shifters once, familiarizing yourself, “I am a driver.”
“Mm,” His eyes drag over your body again, slower this time, “Not like this.”
You don’t ask what he means. The air answers for him.
Pressing the brake gently, the engine note changes. Lowers, sharpens, reacting to you.
“Put her in manual,” He says slowly, like he’s savoring the moment, “First gear.”
You tap the paddle, the gearbox clicks into place.
“Good,” He murmurs again, “Easy out of the garage.”
You release the brake and the Porsche creeps forward—controlled, smooth, obedient to every small adjustment of your foot. Gojo leans back, watching the world shift through the windshield.
More so, watching you in his car.
When the Porsche noses into the cool night, the temperature change sweeps across your skin, waking every nerve ending. The engine’s echo dies into the open space of the driveway, a deeper, cleaner resonance.
Gojo mumbles something in Japanese, too soft for you to catch fully, but the tone gives him away.
Awe, restraint, something scarily close to admiration.
You stop at the end of the driveway, foot on the brake, engine purring beneath you. He turns his head toward you again, eyes unbearably blue in the partial darkness.
“How does it feel?”
“Like she wants to run.”
A slow grin tugs at his mouth, pleased, “I knew you’d understand her.”
You roll your shoulders once, settling deeper into the seat. Everything in you feels awake, sharpened, humming in sync with the machine in the same way it always does once you get behind a wheel.
He watches that too.
He watches everything.
“You ready?” You ask.
His tongue grazes the inside of his cheek, just once, a tell he doesn’t hide fast enough or maybe didn’t want to hide at all.
“For you?” He murmurs, “Always.”
Heat pools low in your stomach and you check the road. It’s all clear.
Your foot eases onto the accelerator, the Porsche responds immediately, a fluid surge forward as the revs climb. Gojo’s breath leaves him in a quiet involuntary sound, not shock, no—want.
You shift into second, the engine snaps brighter, night air rushes across the windshield, and he looks at you, not the road.
Not even once.
“You really are dangerous,” He whispers.
You smirk, eyes forward, “You let me drive your GT3. That’s on you.”
“Oh, I know,” He says, rougher, “But watching you like this might actually kill me.”
You shift again, smooth enough that he lets out a soft laugh that really isn’t one, more a release of something pent-up. City lights streak by, the road opening wider, inviting speed you don’t take yet.
Gojo notices that too, “You’re teasing her.”
“Maybe.”
His knee bounces once, then stops, like he’s resisting the urge to reach over and touch you. Or the wheel. Or both.
“You drive like…” He stops himself, searching for the right words, “…like you’re tasting something before you decide whether to crave it.”
Your throat tightens as he leans the slightest bit closer, but still of course, not touching.
“And God,” He adds, voice low, “I love watching you crave.”
A sharp breath escapes you, Tokyo flickers past in silver and shadow, and somewhere in the quiet between gear changes and everything the two of you have been dancing around, something in him softens and something in you opens.
“Left up here,” He directs.
You take the turn cleanly.
“Perfect,” He says, barely a whisper.
The next bit of silence hangs, delicate as glass, before he adds so quietly you almost miss it.
“I could get used to this.”
You swallow, “Driving?”
He shakes his head once, eyes still on you, “No…You. Here. Next to me.”
Your heart plummets into your stomach, unable to form the words to respond to that. Instead, a slow smile works its way onto your face, which for him is answer enough.
The road ahead opens wider, the city thinning into quieter residential stretches. The Porsche feels impatient under your hands; coiled, ready, alive.
“Let her breathe a little,” Gojo mutters, elbow resting on the door, “Not too much yet…just enough.”
You ease onto the accelerator and the car responds, a smooth, eager pull tightens the harness across your chest. The engine note lifts, bright and clean, a sound that vibrates through the steering column and directly into your pulse.
Gojo inhales softly, trying to mask it, but fails, “You feel that?”
“Of course I do.”
He watches you again, the way your shoulders settle, your grip changing once you trust the weight shift, your expression sliding from careful to hungry.
“Straightaway up ahead,” He points with two fingers, “If you want…you can open her up a bit.”
You really fucking want to.
But you don’t floor it, not yet. You let the revs rise little by little, teasing the power curve, learning the car breath by breath.
“You’re being gentle,” He notes, voice dipping, as if he’s unraveling something in real time, “Didn’t think you would be.”
You slide into the next gear, “She hasn’t earned rough yet.”
He exhales a helpless laugh, tipping his head back like he needs the ceiling to cool him down, “Oh yeah…you’re going to kill me.”
The city lights thin further, the straightaway opens in front of you like an invitation; Gojo’s knee bounces once.
“You can go now,” He murmurs, eyes flicking from the road back to you, “If you want.”
And right then, his phone connects to the car. A quiet click through the speakers, a split second pause.
Then the opening notes of Who’s Crying Now spill into the cabin. You freeze. Gojo freezes.
You let out a soft chuckle, “Oh my God. You listen to Journey?”
He goes rigid in the passenger seat, staring ahead as if the dashboard suddenly became fascinating.
“It was on a playlist,” He defends weakly.
“You made this playlist.”
He’s silent, but you can hear him scrambling internally. You grin despite yourself and reach for the volume dial, he watches your hand.
“Don’t you—”
Too late.
You turn it up, loud. All the way.
His head falls back against the seat with a groan, “Oh no.”
But he’s smiling already like he can’t stop it.
And when the chorus hits, you press the accelerator. Not all the way, but enough that the Porsche lunges forward with a razor-sharp pull that pushes both of you deeper into the seats.
Gojo’s breath catches and you shift, revs spiking. He grips the edge of the bolster with one hand, jaw tightening, every muscle in his body strung tight, but he doesn’t tell you to slow down. He doesn’t want you to.
“Jesus,” He whispers, watching the way your eyes narrow with focus, “Okay. Okay. Yeah. You’re—”
Another gear shift, this time the engine opens ferociously, the road rushes under you in a blur of silver and shadow. Gojo’s voice cuts off as he looks at you like he’s witnessing something private. Something he shouldn’t be allowed to see, but something he can’t turn away from.
You feel the exact moment he breaks, the exact second something inside him gives out. He breathes your name once, so quietly you might’ve imagined it.
Then the chorus kicks again.
“Two hearts born to run,” You belt out, exhilarated and bright, head tipping back. Streetlights flash across your skin, the breeze whipping you through the open windows, and Gojo…
Gojo forgets the universe exists.
He watches you sing, full volume, the wheel steady in your hands even as you completely surrender yourself to the moment.
You look free.
You look alive.
You look like every reason he ever fell in love with racing and every reason he might be falling in love with something far more treacherous.
His hand slides from the bolster to his knee, gripping it, “You’re incredible,” He mutters to himself.
You don’t hear it. You’re too busy laughing, the song drifting around you, hair catching in the draft you caused, the whole car vibrating with the force of your joy.
He hears that—feels it too.
It ruins him.
The straightaway stretches ahead, clear and begging. He leans closer, giving you the goddamn world with two quiet words that change the entire night.
“Go on.”
You inhale, shift gears once more, and then, you floor it. The Porsche roars, fierce and grateful; Gojo’s hand flies to the door, not out of fear, but because he can’t contain the way his body reacts to the acceleration.
“Holy shit—” He breathes, blue eyes blown, then narrowing, then widening again, “Yes, yes, just like that—”
He’s gone.
Utterly gone.
For you.
You fly down the straightaway, the car slicing through the darkness in a long, clean arc, the engine screaming in approval. Journey hits the emotional peak, chorus engulfing you.
You yell it like you’re exorcising something holy.
And Gojo—his chest rises and falls too fast, his throat works around a sound he can’t let out, his gaze stays glued to you instead of the road.
Then you ease off, smoothly decelerating, guiding the Porsche back to a sane speed, letting her cool down from the rush rather than dropping her cold.
“You’re unreal,” He says finally, voice hoarse, “Totally unreal.”
You bite back a smile, “You were quiet there for a second. Are you scared?”
He looks at you for a long minute. He knows what you mean by that—scared of the speed, scared of the way you just manhandled his most prized possession without blinking. But that isn’t how he hears the question.
He hears, “Are you scared of this?”
And thinks back to that Singapore shower in which he whispered things in a language you don’t understand, claiming to be scared of love.
But now?
All that fear has dwindled into nothingness.
“…No,” He answers softly, “Not anymore.”
A slow breath escapes you and the song fades, but the moment doesn’t.
The road ahead softens into curves, the lights growing sparser, the city dipping behind a ridge as the air cools noticeably. Gojo fidgets in his seat, running a hand through snowy strands like he’s trying to get the oxygen back into his lungs.
“That was…” He trails off, exhaling through his nose, “…fuck.”
You laugh quietly, easing the Porsche around another bend, “Good fuck or bad fuck?”
He turns his head towards you, eyes heavy, voice low, “Good. Obscenely good.”
You shake your head, but the smile won’t leave your face. Up ahead, the road widens into an overlook pulling off the main stretch—a small rise in the hill offering a panoramic spill of Tokyo’s skyline below.
Gojo nods toward it, “Pull in there.”
You guide the Porsche into the overlook, gravel crunching under the tires. The city sprawls beneath you, glittering, endless, a beautiful living thing breathing in and out.
You shift into park, the engine ticks softly as it cools. He unbuckles first, pushing his door open. A rush of cold air sweeps in immediately, cutting right through the silk of your dress. You inhale at the shock of it.
Gojo freezes with recognition, catching the way your shoulders tense and your arms fold to hold warmth that isn’t there.
He rounds the front of the Porsche with a purpose you feel more than see and opens the door for you—the wind hits harder out here.
It passes through your hair, slips up your calves, rolls across your bare arms until a shiver crawls up your spine. Gojo is stopped in front of you, the city lighting half his face in gold, the rest shadowed and unreadable.
“You’re cold.”
“I’m fi—”
He doesn’t let you finish, he just shrugs out of his jacket in one smooth motion, unhurried, and steps much, much closer.
“Arms up.”
Your breath catches in your throat, “Satoru, I’m—”
He gives you a look, soft, unyielding, one that says let me take care of you.
So you let him and lift your arms slightly, he slips the jacket around your shoulders from behind. He doesn’t rush it, he drapes it gently, like you’re something precious.
The fabric settles over your arms, your chest, your waist—heavy and warm, carrying his heat, his cologne, and the quiet intimacy of someone doing something they didn’t plan to but wanted to.
His hands smooth the collar into place, fingertips brushing the base of your neck, and you feel him everywhere.
He stands behind you so close that his breath warms the shell of your ear and that the absence of touch becomes its own kind of touch.
“Better?”
You swallow, voice small, “Yeah. Better.”
When he steps around to face you again, the jacket nearly swallowing you whole, something happens in his expression. Something he tries to hide for exactly one second, then loses to it fully.
“What?”
“You…” He says softly, “…Are going to be the fucking end of me.”
The words hit harder surrounded by an open, starlit sky and frigid air, with his warmth wrapped around you. You feel the heat bloom low and deep in the pit of your stomach.
Your fingers close around the lapels of the jacket without meaning to. He sees that, too, and then, “I don’t think you understand what you just did to me back there.”
You open your mouth, yet nothing comes out. Because he’s stepping closer, wind catching his hair, voice dropping like he’s confessing his sins.
“Watching you drive my car like that…Watching you laugh like that…Listening to you sing like that…”
His jaw flexes and his gaze drops to your mouth, then up again.
“Yeah,” He sighs, “I’m done for.”
That sits between you for a beat too long—delicate, stunned, the kind of confession that seeps into your bones instead of the atmosphere. You inhale before you lose yourself completely and here of all places, nodding toward the passenger door.
“You drive us back,” You murmur, feigning steady, “I wanna see how you handle her.”
His eyes flick over your face and he bows his head silently, obedient. You switch seats and the cabin feels different instantly. Tighter, warmer, something charged buzzing between the leather and the dark glass.
Gojo settles into the driver’s seat like he was born there, but doesn’t start the car right away. He glances at you once, swift and sharp, like he’s checking if you’re certain about whatever this is becoming.
You meet his eyes.
That’s enough.
The engine comes alive underneath you, a low, throaty purr that vibrates through the bucket seats. He eases the Porsche out of the overlook, smooth like the silk you’re wearing, the city lights appearing and disappearing through the trees as you descend the ridge.
Neither of you speaks, but the silence isn’t empty. It’s crowded, thick, full of everything that almost happened out there and everything that’s about to.
His left hand rests idly on the wheel, his right drifts to the center console and just rests there.
You pretend you’re looking out at the city, he pretends he’s focused on the road, but every inch of you is aware of that hand—your pulse keeps stumbling toward it like gravity.
The car careens into a long, gentle curve. Gojo’s fingers tap once against the console, a small, unconscious tell.
You don’t move, not yet.
Night air pours through the cracked window, fanning over your skin even beneath his jacket. You pull the fabric in a little tighter around your shoulders.
He sees that, doesn’t say anything, but his hand shifts. Just barely. Closer to the point it makes your throat swell.
The tires hum over smooth asphalt, the headlights carving out a tunnel of gold ahead. The rhythm of the road is hypnotic and for one moment, you almost forget to breathe.
Then Gojo glances at you, not fully, only a flick of his eyes, there and gone just as fast.
And your left hand moves, slowly, almost imperceptibly, as if drawn toward him instead of chosen.
Your fingers drift onto the console and that’s when the air changes—you feel it, he feels it.
The Porsche keeps driving forward, perfectly graceful, like the car knows better than to interrupt.
His fingers twitch once.
That’s all it takes.
Your pinky grazes his knuckles, accidentally, not accidentally in the slightest. A breath leaves him, too soft to count as a noise, too blatant to ignore.
He doesn’t look away from the road, but he turns his hand palm-up.
An invitation.
Your heart stutters.
You give him your hand anyways.
Your palm slides into his—warm, smaller against his calloused grip, and the moment your fingers interlace, something inside both of you snaps taut.
The shock of it is immediate. Electric. A pulse that travels straight through your spine. He inhales sharply like you punched the air out of him.
And then his thumb moves, only once, a slow stroke across the back of your hand that feels more intimate than anything that’s ever happened between you.
Still, neither of you say a word.
He drives one-handed, steady as a heartbeat, his other hand wrapped around yours like he’s afraid you might disappear if he loosens even slightly.
Your chest feels too full and the road straightens out, long and empty. He lifts your joined hands reverently, without looking away from the windshield.
Your body tenses as he brings your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles with the kind of care that makes every neuron in your brain fire.
A delicate press of his lips, hot, lingering, almost trembling. Something deeper and dangerous than lust or teasing.
Something that feels like the beginning of the fall he’s been fighting since Austria.
When he lowers your hand, he doesn’t let go. His voice finally breaks the silence, so quiet it could thread the space between your fingers.
“Hold on,” He murmurs, gaze still fixed ahead, “I’m not done showing you.”
“Showing me what?”
“How I handle things I shouldn’t want this much.”
Your heart plummets straight through your ribs and Gojo refuses to let go of your hand for the rest of the drive back.
He holds it lightly at first, careful, but as the roads narrow and the familiarity of his neighborhood grows, his grip changes. An attempt to ground himself with you or anchor you with him, maybe both.
The Porsche hums softer now, the engine shifting into a civilized purr as he navigates the backstreets toward home. Houses drift past in muted silhouettes, warm windows glowing in the blue hour.
It’s silent again, both of you afraid that saying anything might break whatever fragile thing has formed between your joined hands.
Several times he glances at you. Small, quick looks, but loaded with meaning. Like he’s memorizing this exact version of you next to him.
The version he doesn’t get on track or in the paddock.
The version who isn’t fighting him.
The version who’s letting him hold her hand like he’s allowed to.
Your thumb brushes his when the road dips, a tiny, involuntary motion. Neither of you acknowledges it.
The turn into his driveway is gentle, smooth, reluctant. As if the car itself doesn’t want this moment to end.
He shifts into park, the engine finally relaxing, the silence growing ever so louder. But he still doesn’t let go of your hand.
It takes a full five seconds before he releases, slowly, like peeling away from you pains him. You feel the ghost of his touch long after he withdraws the contact, a sear that burns into your skin.
Gojo inhales once, a useless try to regain control and gather himself before he opens the door.
The night air hits you first, crisp and cool, scented faintly with pine. Gojo steps around the front of the car toward you, jacket still slung over your shoulders, eyes flicking over you in the lowlight like he’s checking if you’re still real and still here.
He doesn’t touch you. He almost does. God does he want to.
His hand brushes the small of your back instead, not landing of course, guiding without pressure. The walk to the front door is short, although it feels like infinity.
You hear your own footsteps, you hear his, and you also hear the sound of his breath—a little uneven from more than just the drive.
When he unlocks the door, he looks at you over his shoulder. In warning, anticipation, something that borders surrender, “Come in.”
Those two words feel much heavier now than they did hours ago.
The door shuts behind you and the house exhales, warm, dim, scented with ginger and leftover heat from dinner. You don’t realize how quiet it is until the sound of your heartbeat fills the emptiness.
Gojo steps out of his shoes and then reaches for the jacket you’re still wearing, his fingertips grazing your shoulders as he slides it off you.
A shiver ripples down your spine and he notices, his hands stilling for a fraction. Then, he clears his throat and hangs the jacket back near the door.
“You…uh,” He says, “Want something to drink?”
You nod because you don’t trust yourself to speak.
He gestures toward the living room, “Sit. I’ll bring it.”
You lower yourself onto the floor beside his coffee table—soft wood, throw pillows scattered. The vibe is intimate by accident or maybe by design. Your knees fold beneath you, your palms press lightly to the rug, and he returns with a bottle of sake and two small ceramic cups; pale ivory, slightly chipped.
He sets them down and takes a seat right beside you, thigh brushing yours when he finally settles. Just a whisper of contact, one that reminds you both that earlier he held your hand like it was holy.
He pours for you first, then himself, “Kanpai,” He murmurs, softer than anything he’s said tonight.
The rims of your cups touch and the first sip warms your chest. The second loosens your shoulders and the third unhooks the part of you that’s been braced for too long.
Your leg touches his, neither of you create distance. Gojo swirls the sake once, eyes on the ceramic instead of you, like he’s mentally preparing for honesty he never gives easily.
“So,” You say gently, “Tell me something real.”
His mouth twitches like you caught him off guard, “Something real?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” He sighs, pondering, “Real.”
He shifts to face you fully, arm draped loosely over his knee, fingers absently tracing the grain of the table.
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
You blink, he keeps going, “I wanted you to,” He says, “God, I wanted you to. But wanting things has…never gone well for me.”
You study him, the slight tightness around his mouth, the flicker of uncertainty he tries to bury. It hits you that no one has ever asked him for truth without expecting something back.
“What made you do it? The note. The dress. Tonight.”
His eyes lift to yours, “I was tired,” He murmurs, “Of being careful.”
Your chest constricts, “And,” He continues, exhaling shakily, “I was afraid if I waited any longer…I’d miss the moment entirely.”
Afraid. The Satoru Gojo was afraid.
“What moment?”
He wets his lips, a nervous gesture—rare and disarming, “The one where you look at me…and I’m allowed to look back.”
The room falls silent, frighteningly so, and the sake bottle is already half-empty.
Your pulse is skittering, the room feels small, in a way that makes you want it to be smaller. You let your knee lean into his, purposely this time. His breath hitches.
After another sip, you ask the question that’s been weighing on your conscience since Suzuka, “Satoru…the woman at the paddock?”
He closes his eyes briefly, he expected this at some point, surprised it didn’t come sooner, “Shoko,” He reveals, “It’s not like what you may have thought, I promise. She’s…family.”
“Family?”
“The one you choose,” He clarifies, “Not the one you inherit.”
You wait for more, “She’s known me since I was a kid. She’s…protective. And she’s one of the only people who can call me out on my bullshit and live.”
That earns a small laugh from you, relief flashes across his face.
“Does she know about us?” Part of you fearing to be kept a secret.
“Somewhat,” He swallows, “But I’ll tell her everything soon.”
Your chest loosens just a fraction. You pour him another cup and he lets you. The conversation slows, deepening.
“Why did you start driving?” You ask, “I’ve heard all the stories before in your bullshit interviews, but I want to hear it from you.”
He huffs a breath that isn’t quite a laugh, “Because I wasn’t allowed to quit.”
He keeps his gaze forward, but you can hear how much weight those words carry, “My family…” He rolls the cup between his palms, “They cared about winning, legacy, maintaining whatever image they wanted. Not me. Not how I felt. Just…results.”
Your throat tightens, “I got good at driving because I didn’t have a choice,” He explains, “Then I stayed good because it was the only place I ever felt I belonged.”
His fingers tap the ceramic cup, head tilting, “And you? I’ve heard the stories too, but I want to hear it again.”
You roll your eyes because you need the deflection, “Then you know how silly it is.”
He shakes his head, faint smirk tugging, “No. I know how you tell it. I want how you feel it.”
You avoid his eyes, which is how you miss the way he already knows the answer.
“You were six, right?” He mutters, voice precariously gentle, “Your dad took you to one of those county fairs with the janky go-kart track.”
You look up sharply and he’s watching you, really watching, “And you begged him to let you drive,” He continues, bright blues softening, “And he thought you’d get scared. Only you didn’t. You were flat-out in the first straight, tiny helmet almost too big for you.”
Your heart leaps.
He remembers that?
You’ve told that story a handful of times in interviews and TV specials—the miracle, the American girl who fought her way into F1, but never with this much detail.
“And afterward…” Gojo murmurs, leaning back slightly, shoulders loosening, “You wouldn’t stop babbling about the engine noise the whole car ride home. Your dad said he knew right then and there he was screwed.”
A giggle escapes you, small, disbelieving, but touched, “You really remember all that?”
His eyes drag over your face, slow enough to feel like hands, “I remember everything about you.”
You swallow around a lump that wasn’t there a second ago.
“And after that fair,” He adds, softer still, “He built your first kart with you in your garage?”
You nod, “He wanted me to have every chance to chase my dreams.”
Gojo’s jaw tightens, because he didn’t have anyone who wanted that for him.
You feel that truth between the two of you—heavy, real, shared.
“And you never looked back,” He finishes for you.
“No…I never did.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty, it’s full of everything neither of you has said yet.
The childhoods you survived.
The reasons you run.
The invisible bruises racing gifted you both.
Gojo lifts his sake cup again, but doesn’t drink. He just looks at you, like the pieces of your story explain parts of him too.
His voice is barely a murmur when he speaks next, “That’s why tonight—why I wanted you here. Because you’re the only person who knows what it feels like when the engine drowns out everything else.”
Your pulse jumps, “And maybe…” He adds, eyes dropping to the table for a breath before returning to you, painfully earnest, “…The only person who ever looked at me and didn’t see just a winner.”
You inhale sharply like his words sucked the oxygen from your lungs. He doesn’t take them back either, he can’t.
The sake is finished. Your hearts are half open.
He reaches for the bottle, turning it slightly, noticing it’s empty, “I’ll get another.”
And as he walks away, sleeves rolled, shoulders broad, hair mussed, you stand and drift toward the crate of vinyls sitting beside the record player.
Your fingers ghost along the spines.
A few Japanese artists you don’t recognize.
Some classic rock your dad would absolutely approve of.
A row of classical composers.
Alternative bands you’ve seen a hundred times on moody F1 playlists.
But then your gaze lands on it.
The Cure. 1989’s Disintegration.
Their album.
Your parents didn’t agree on much, but they agreed on this record. Sunday mornings and long drives, this album was one of the soundtracks of your childhood. You grew up believing love was something that sounded like this.
Your fingertips rest on the sleeve, tracing the worn cardboard.
Behind you, you hear Gojo open a cabinet, the faint clink of glass as he searches for another bottle, and you slide the record out. Gojo turns just in time to see the cover in your hands.
He freezes. Because this album—it’s his.
Geto’s album.
The one they played on the crappy turntable in Geto’s room as wannabe edgy teenagers, lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling like nothing else mattered. The album they knew by heart. The one that played during summers and stupid conversations and long silences.
And the one he hasn’t listened to since…not since a room full of strangers used words like condolences and tragedy, and nobody said Geto’s name like it meant something.
He hasn’t touched this vinyl in years, doesn’t even know why he left it on the shelf. His chest tightens as his breath goes shallow.
Not here. Not in front of her. Hold it together.
You kneel beside the record player, smiling sweetly, “My parents used to play this all the time. It’s kind of their thing. I always thought it sounded like what love was supposed to feel like.”
The words hit him like a truck.
Parents, love, belonging.
Everything he never had, everything he lost, everything he was scared to want.
His voice comes out thin, frayed at the edges, “Yeah? That’s…nice.”
But it isn’t nice at all. It hurts.
Because you’re holding something sacred without realizing it and he doesn’t know how to stop this slow, involuntary unspooling inside him.
You lower the vinyl onto the turntable with careful hands, Gojo shuts his eyes for half a heartbeat. The needle drops and soft static fills the room, he feels it like a bruise being pressed.
The the opening track plays—beautiful and haunting. Gojo doesn’t smile like you do. He can’t.
He takes a seat across from you and tries to swallow down everything rising to the surface. The memories, the phantom laughter he can still hear, the version of himself he buried alongside a person with too many dreams.
“Good choice?” You tease lightly, unknowing.
He meets your eyes, something raw flickering behind his, “…Yeah. It’s perfect.”
You pat the empty space beside you on the floor, “Come listen with me.”
He obeys without thinking. Now, the two of you sit shoulder to shoulder, the room dim, the music low and expansive. The notes seep into the silence between you, thickening it, making everything feel like too much.
He watches you instead of the spinning vinyl and in the opening swell of the album, he feels it.
The past bleeding into the present.
The old ache meeting the new one.
The terrifying realization that he’s letting someone close again and wants to.
He tries to breathe steadily, but the music, your presence, the gentle weight of memory—it all blends into something unbearably tender.
You take another sip of sake and so does he, “I used to fall asleep to this album,” You admit quietly, eyes elsewhere, “Back home. Sundays. My dad would put it on while he cooked.”
Gojo clenches his jaw tight. He doesn’t tell you that he and his best friend used to lie on a cheap carpeted floor, swearing that the world would be different when they got older.
That they both believed it. That they both were wrong.
Instead, he says, “I always listened to it at night.”
“Because you liked it?”
No. Because it was the only time I didn’t feel like I had to be someone else.
“…Yeah,” He murmurs, “Something like that.”
Another track fades into the next, the static soft between transitions. You shift, leaning back on your palms, your knee brushing his. He stills for the smallest fraction of a second from the impact.
But he doesn’t move away. Actually, he shifts closer. Slightly. A soft, hypnotic gravitational pull.
Your voice is gentle when you ask, “You ever play this for someone before?”
God, no. Never. He played it with someone, a liftetime ago.
But for someone? For someone he wanted? Never.
He turns his head just a little, eyes scanning you, lingering on the curve of your cheek in the dim light.
“…No,” He breathes, hardly audible, “You’re the first.”
Something inside you folds; tight, hot, impossible to ignore.
Your fingers drift closer to his on the floor, not touching, but he feels that humming between your knuckles like a fuse.
And maybe it’s the sake, maybe it’s the music, or maybe it’s him falling ever so helplessly further into whatever he feels for you.
He can’t pinpoint the reason, but he drops his hand, palm landing beside yours. A silent, deliberate offering of proximity.
“Do you always get this sentimental after dinner?”
He bites back a laugh, eyes lowering, “Only with you.”
Your pulse flutters as the next track begins, darker, deeper, dreamlike.
“Damn…” You mumble, leaning your head back on the couch, “I forgot how this album makes everything feel.”
“How?”
You close your eyes when you answer because you fear that looking may shatter the fragile thing you’re holding between your hands.
“Like the world gets quiet. Like all the noise stops for a minute.”
He watches the line of your throat as you speak, the rise of your chest, the way your fingers curl unconsciously toward his.
“That’s what racing feels like,” He says finally, “Right before the lights go out.”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
And then he shifts, not much, but enough to notice. His thigh presses lightly against yours, shoulder grazing, a warm deliberate contact that he pretends is casual. Yet it is everything but.
You open your eyes.
He’s already looking at you.
The moment stretches, charged, and his gaze falls to your mouth.
“Listening to this album…it’s hard to remember why I ever tried keeping things distant.”
The air tilts and then, Lovesong bleeds through. His hand inches closer to your until your fingers brush, feather-light, barely there contact that ignites something inescapable.
He doesn’t pull away and neither do you.
His voice drops to a whisper, cracked open, and horrifyingly honest, “This one…is my favorite.”
“…Mine too.”
And then finally, he lets his fingers slip between yours—careful, like a promise he’s terrified to make but even more terrified not to.
The world doesn't just go quiet anymore.
It comes to a full stop.
And you don’t know if it’s the song or the alcohol or the hours of agonizing emotional unraveling between you, but you lean ever so closer, arms touching.
Gojo leans into it, the heat of him finding you through the sliver of space left between your bodies. His breath skims your cheek, lips inches from your skin.
Your voice drops, weak and wanting, “Satoru…”
He looks at you like the sound of his own name falling from your mouth might genuinely kill him. His hand tightens around yours, then releases only so he can reach for you with tottering fingers, swiping a stray hair from your cheek.
A simple gesture, but its impact is devastating.
“You don’t know what you do to me, (Y/N).”
Your face tilts toward his fingers before you even think to stop and his thumb grazes your lower lip as if he’s been dying to do so the moment you walked in.
“God…” He breathes, not meaning to say it aloud.
You don’t know who bridges the gap first. You only know that the space between you disappears.
He kisses you softly to start—impossibly soft, like he’s testing the feel of you again and remembering the shape of your mouth before giving in fully.
You make a small sound you didn’t mean to and that’s it.
That’s the undoing.
His hand slides to the back of your neck, warm fingers sinking into your hair, guiding you deeper into him and the kiss and the heat that has been festering between you since the rivalry first started.
The kiss turns hungry in a single breath. Slow breaks into starved, soft switches to desperate. Your hands slip up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his button up as you pull yourself closer.
He groans against your mouth, like he wasn’t prepared for the way you’d kiss him back.
Your body angles toward him without hesitation or thought; your knee nudges his thigh, hips titling in a way that makes something within him fracture.
Gojo reaches for your waist, one large hand guiding, “Come here,” He whispers over your lips, almost pleading, “Please—”
You climb into his laps before he finishes the word and straddle him. Your thighs bracket his, the hem of your dress riding scandalously high as you press into him. His breath stutters—hot, harsh, and helpless as his hands find your hips, pulling you down onto him like he’s been envisioning this for longer than he’s willing to admit.
The kiss turns frantic; lips parting, tongues tangling, mouths chasing each other as if you’ve been craving this exact moment.
He kisses you like he’s losing the ability to breathe without you.
Your fingers knot in his hair, tugging enough to make him gasp into your mouth. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss with a low, desperate sound that’s been waiting to escape him for far too long.
His hands travel—your waist, your lower back, the curve of your hip, needing to feel everywhere.
“Fuck…” He curses when you grind against him without meaning to.
The kiss turns even more fevered. He breaks from your lips only to kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the line of your jaw, your neck, your ears, as if he can’t stand the thought of stopping, even for air.
“Satoru—”
He groans and his hands slide higher up your spine, pulling you tighter against his body, chest to chest, nothing between you but thin layers and every unspoken thing you’ve been circling around.
“You have to stop saying my name like that,” He whispers, forehead pressed to yours, “It makes me lose my fucking mind.”
Your lips crash onto his again, greedy, messy. He kisses you back harder, one hand in your hair, the other guiding your hips in slow movements that make your head fall back with a quiet moan.
And when you do, he follows your mouth instantly, chasing you, kissing down the column of your throat.
It’s frantic and unrestrained and everything both of you have been holding back.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, heartbeats wild against each other’s chests, and he pulls you closer like he doesn’t know where you end and he begins, the kiss the only thing keeping him anchored to earth.
And under it all, the music continues.
“Whenever I’m alone with you…”
You kiss him with intense desire.
“You make me feel like I am whole again…”
And he kisses you back tenfold, as if the lyrics said what he never could.
Your hips rock into his lap again, firmer and he grunts into your mouth before breaking the kiss once more, just barely, “Come here,” He murmurs again.
Before you can ask what he means, his hands slide down the backs of your thighs, and he lifts you with a strength that makes your heart pound.
He carries you those few feet, effortless and determined, and sets you down on the couch. You blink up at him, lips bitten raw, chest heaving, legs still open as red silk rides high across your hips.
Gojo shifts onto his knees, right there between your thighs, and says not a word. He just looks at you, pupils dilated, hands trembling as they smooth along the outsides of your legs.
Then he leans forward, pressing a kiss to each knee, and then higher. Another kiss, right above them. His lips brush the inside of your thigh and he mouths gently at your skin, trailing soft open kisses up the path to where you need him most. When he reaches the edge of your lace panties, he exhales like he’s finally come home.
You can feel his breath there, warm, teasing, and when his thumbs hook into the waistband, sliding the fabric down your legs, you don’t stop him. You couldn’t stop him if you tried.
Gojo kisses the inside of your thigh again, closer this time, so close, and then his mouth opens against your core. Just a slow, wet kiss to start. Your hand grips the leather cushion immediately, hips twitching, but it’s only the beginning.
Because he’s ravenous.
His tongue licks a slow stripe up your folds and you gasp, jerking uncontrollably. You clutch his hair, a breathless cry crooning from your throat, “Shit—Satoru—”
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even waver. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as he works his tongue in ruinous circles. You writhe under his mouth, the pleasure spreading outward.
He groans again, longer this time, like the taste of you is everything he’s ever wanted, “Fuck, you taste so good…” He mutters into your skin, “…so, so good.”
You throw your head back, hand fisted in his hair, thighs quaking from how amazing it feels.
He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks harder, your whole body jolts, “Oh my God—”
And he doesn’t let up. The next song plays in the background, but you can’t hear any of it. You’re too lost in the moment, hips rolling into his mouth now, seeking friction, chasing release, and he gives it to you. Over and over.
His hands pin you in place as you start to squirm, legs quivering relentlessly from the pressure, the pleasure, the overwhelming intimacy of him on his knees for you like this.
You whimper, trying to pull back, “It’s—too much—”
But he growls, the sound guttural, almost unrecognizable, and he drags you closer.
“No…no,” Gojo pants between licks, tongue never easing, “No, not enough—never enough. I need all of you. Every fucking sound—every tremor. Don’t hold back.”
His appetite is insatiable and his mouth is persistent. You’re sobbing now—not from pain or overstimulation yet, but from the intensity and the way he’s worshipping you like he’ll die if he stops.
So he doesn’t stop. Not when your thighs clamp around his head or your back arches off the couch. Not even when you cum, a loud sob, gasping his name like it’s the only word you remember how to say.
He keeps devouring you through it, drinking it in, like your climax is a sacred thing he’s been praying for and has been blessed with. And then, only after your body collapses against the couch, leather creaking in protest, convulsing and stunned, does he lift his mouth from you.
His face is slick, his breathing labored, and his eyes, when he looks into yours, glisten with something that scares you in the best possible way. Desire. Devotion. Maybe even love.
And without saying a word, he leans in and kisses your thigh as if to apologize for what he put you through, but you know the night is far from over.
He rises, kneeeling between your legs, he cups your jaw and kisses you. All teeth and tongue, greedy and unashamed—you taste yourself on him and mewl low into his mouth.
His palm slides down to your neck, thumb brushing your throat, mapping every inch of you by feel alone. His body is tense, coiled, but his touch is delicate.
It’s the kiss that gives him away, however. Open-mouthed and panting, a little fringed at the edges. He bites your lip once, then kisses the sting away, pushing himself forward until you feel the hard ridge of him through his pants.
“I’m not done,” He murmurs, grabbing you by the waist, “Not even close.”
Then he lifts you up again like you weigh nothing. You cling to his shoulders, laughing breathlessly against his jawline, high off oxytocin and him.
Gojo carries you through the hallway, kissing you with every step, bumping into a wall midway down where he pins you hard enough that the plaster rattles—your back hits the wall, his mouth latches onto your neck.
He drags his canines along your pulse point, then sucks a bruising mark into your skin, groaning when your hips jerk against him in response. You fist his hair, tugging him closer and he bites down just to hear your breath catch for him.
You moan as he grinds into you deliberately, letting you feel exactly how hard he is. The friction knocks your head back against the wall. Then, his hand slips between your thighs. Two digits glide inside you easily, the lewd sound echoing in the hallway, and he hisses through his teeth.
“Still dripping,” He mutters, “God, you’re—”
He can’t finish the thought, instead he just moans, deep in the back of his throat and fucks you with his fingers until you’re whimpering again—nails clawing, back bending.
“Satoru, wait—”
“No,” He snarls softly, increasing the pace, “Take me—just like that, yeah.”
Your whines vibrate off the walls, helpless little sounds you don’t even recognize as yours. You’re shaking, too close already, hips rocking against his palm as he works you open, “I…want you.”
He stops at that, something dangerous crosses his face—heat, hunger, possession. He pulls his fingers from your core, drenched by you, and without looking away, he sucks them into his mouth.
Slowly, obscenely. Eyes fluttering shut as if you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, “That’s it,” He snaps, “I can’t fucking wait.”
Gojo turns sharply carrying you the rest of the way. He kicks the bedroom door and it flies open under the force.
You’re tossed onto the mattress, back hitting the sheets, legs still locked around his waist, dragging him down with you. The music still hums in the living room, echoing down the hall; soft, haunting, bassline vibrating through floorboards and bones.
He unbuttons his shirt with one hand, impatient, gaze never leaving you, and you do the same; tugging off red silk that clung to your body like a second skin.
When he drops his trousers, his cock springs free—thick, flushed, heavy, already leaking at the tip. You stare openly and he watches you stare. Then he strokes himself once, twice.
Crawling up the bed, he kisses a path up your stomach, your breasts, your collarbone. You pull him in, arms wrapping around his neck, desperate for more, and he pushes into you. An agonizing stretch.
You gasp as he goes slow at first, studying every twitch of your expression as he sinks deeper and deeper, until he bottoms out and your entire body gives.
“F-Fuck,” He groans, face buried into the hollow of your throat, “You’re…you’re perfect. You’re fucking perfect.”
He pulls back and thrusts again, long strokes that make your breath hitch on every exhale. He grinds into you at the end of each one, hitting the spot that makes your vision spark.
“You feel that?” Repeating his question from earlier, filthier in meaning now, “Feel what you do to me?”
You answer with a frenzied kiss, your hand sliding up the line of his jaw to tug him closer. He grunts into your mouth and ruts into your harder, faster, hips snapping forward in a rhythm that melts your thoughts.
Then Gojo shifts, grabbing one of your thighs, he lifts it and throws your leg over his shoulder. The angle is electrifying; he kisses your inner thigh, pale face twinged pink, blue eyes blown.
You scream, whole body jerking with each of his movements; the sound of skin against skin makes your head spin and makes him curse under his breath as he pistons into you.
“Satoru—”
He chokes on a sob and bends forward, forehead touching yours, “Fuck—I love it when you say it like that.”
His hips stutter, losing rhythm for a moment before he grabs your wrists suddenly, pinning your hands above your head, fingers lacing through yours.
The gesture is tender, but his thrusts aren’t.
“You feel like—fuck—you feel like mine,” He growls, the words breaking out of him, “Are you?”
And for reasons unknown, you nod, “Yes—yes. Yours.”
He kisses you again, like your response rearranged his entire world.
Gojo doesn’t last much longer. You know by the way his thrusts start to lose precision, how his grip tightens around your hands, how his breath goes ragged.
”I’m…I’m gonna, (Y/N)—”
You clench around him, back arching as your own orgasm crashes over you, sharp and overwhelming, shattering every thought except his own name.
He collapses into you with a broken moan, spilling deep inside you, thrusting through it, desperate to feel every second of your climax around him.
Gojo stays buried in you, stays holding your hands over your head, stays pressed to your chest like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
The music from the living room continues to hum as another track plays, mournful and daunting. The Same Deep Water As You.
The irony of the title is almost laughable.
You exhale shakily, your body too numb to move yet, and he rests his head against yours, catching his breath like he raced another fifty laps. Neither of you break the silence yet, the world too quiet to not feel everything.
His hands loosen around yours, letting your fingers tangle lightly, palms still pressed together. He swallows hard, you feel it against your throat, and his breath warms the side of your jaw as he shifts slightly; hips following yours. A tiny, helpless movement that reminds you he hasn’t pulled out, that your bodies are still joined in the most intimate way.
You inhale sharply, his eyes fly to yours at the noise, and you can’t help but notice how wrecked he looks, “Hey.”
He closes his eyes like the sound of your voice is too much. When he opens them again, his expression is different—softer.
“You’re still…” He murmurs, voice breaking as he feels you tighten around him from the slightest shift, “…God, you’re still holding on.”
“So are you.”
His mouth parts, emotion flickering across his face in a way you’ve never seen. Not on track, not in victory, not even in loss. Something perilous in its honesty.
He presses a shaky kiss to your cheek, then another to your jaw. Then, gently, to the corner of your mouth. Not hungry or frantic this time.
The song outside deepens, hypnotic notes pulling like ocean water around ankles.
You feel it—that slow, inevitable sinking you’ve been avoiding to name. He feels it too.
Gojo’s hands slide from your fingers to your waist, keeping you flush against him, his thumbs stroking thoughtless patterns into your skin.
“(Y/N)…” He whispers, “I don’t know how to…” He stops, breath faltering, “I wasn’t supposed to feel like this with you.”
Your heart skips violently, his fingers tighten once around your waist as if the truth physically hurts him to say.
“But I do,” He admits, reluctantly.
The room sways around you, not because of the sake or the sex, but from the unmistakable sincerity in his voice. Your hands come up to his face, cupping his jaw, your thumb grazing just below his cheekbone where he’s flushed and warm.
“Satoru…”
You don’t know what else to say.
He nuzzles into your palm, like he’s starved for the contact and has been waiting to be touched gently his whole life. You kiss him again, a kiss that says everything you’re too afraid to say aloud, and he melts into it.
When he pulls back, he still stays inside—hips locked to yours, foreheads touching, breaths syncing. The music outside keeps playing, echoing into the room.
You hear it faintly and almost laugh at the ache.
Because this is exactly what the song feels like. Two people knee-deep in something vast and dark and beautiful, realizing too late that they can’t swim alone.
He grabs your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip, eyes flicking down as if recalling every time he’s stared at your mouth and forced himself not to act.
“Look at us,” He whispers in wonder and disbelief, “Same deep water.”
Your chest constricts, the weight of everything hitting you at once.
You’re in this now. Completely submerged.
With him.
With no way back to the surface you knew before.
His hands slide to your back and he pulls you into a full-body embrace, limbs tangled, hearts pressed together.
Devastating closeness. The kind that destroys people.
He tucks his face into your neck, “I don’t want to come up for air.”
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