wc: ~7.8k | cw: fratjo! slight angst, possessive/obsessive tendencies, toxic relationship dynamics, post-abortion grief, substance abuse references, panic attack, childhood emotional neglect/control, toxic family dynamics, academic pressure, self-loathing, music references, gojo highkey going thru it again
a/n: just a lil heads up, any dialogue written in italics is to show that the characters are speaking in japanese!
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
AFTER EXPERIENCING THE worst birthday of his entire life, Satoru Gojo believes, rather foolishly, that nothing can possibly get worse.
Then final grades are released.
And suddenly? The soaked clothes, the coke, the club, the ultrasound shaking in his hand, the mochi, your lips on his—all of it has found a new place to bleed.
His fucking GPA.
Gojo just stares at the screen, sitting there at his desk in the quiet wreckage of his room with his laptop open in front of him and the number glowing back like an accusation.
This has to be a mistake, is his first thought, because he does not get grades like these. He never has. Not in high school or college, not even in the classes he barely respected enough to attend with any sort of genuine consistency. No. Never.
There are plenty of things people misunderstand about him, and for the most part, he lets them. It’s easier that way. Play the part of the frat boy. Let them think he’s just rich, that he coasts along life. Let them think that the face, the name, the money, the effortless charm means there isn't a brain underneath the performance.
That assumption has always served him fine. Girls don’t care that he could destroy a finance case study in one sitting. His brothers didn’t need to know he could skim fifty pages before class and still debate circles around half the room. The professors, though, figured it out eventually. The wealthy international student from Japan, the pretty frat boy asshole who everyone assumed was an idiot, is actually intelligent. Very intelligent. They are always quietly surprised when they realize that, as if intelligence looks strange on someone so attractive and careless.
Even you didn’t know the full extent of it. You knew he was quick-witted, obviously. Sharp in that annoying way that made him impossible to argue with. He was clever, strategic, cruelly observant when he wanted to be, you know all of that from experience. But, you had zero idea about the substantial fact that he is rather a genius, despite the role he plays.
He never told you, not directly at least. He didn’t offer it up like it was something precious worth knowing about him because the thought of you looking too closely at him, well, another version of him he didn’t know how to explain, scared him shitless.
He blames his silence on the possibility that intelligence, much like everything else in his life, had never felt entirely his. No, that belonged to his family first—the Gojo name. Proof of his usefulness and that he is capable of being handed an empire that he never asked to inherit.
Though, Satoru figured he shouldn’t feel too bad for withholding this information from you. He never told anyone, never corrected anyone, either. Being underestimated is useful when you’re arrogant enough to enjoy proving others wrong. But this? This is wrong in a way that makes his skin sting bitterly cold.
He refreshes his Canvas page once, then twice, like the big fat 68% on his Microeconomics final might rearrange itself out of embarrassment…To his dismay, it doesn’t. His perfect 4.0 GPA is now tainted, the A+ he formerly had has dropped to a B- because of the exam that was worth more than half of all the other assignments combined.
He leans back in his chair and drags both hands over his face, pressing hard enough that colors spark behind his eyelids. His room is still a disaster from the last few days; clothes on the floor, empty water bottles by the bed, the faint sweetness of your perfume still clinging to fabric he should have washed but refuses to, the mochi you had gifted him has since been eaten, yet he couldn’t find it in himself to throw out the box—it’s there on his nightstand, close to him while he sleeps so that maybe he’ll dream of you and not the other shit that’s been haunting him. On his desk, half-hidden beneath his notebook, the corner of a sketch peeks out.
Your eyes. Again.
He looks at it and immediately wants to rip the paper in half. Because, God—they look too real, alive almost. Your lashes, the shape of your gaze, the softness at the corners that he has no business recalling in this much detail.
He had drawn them during a lecture he didn’t listen to, then again at three in the morning. Then again after checking his phone and finding no reply from you. Yeah…you never did reply to that text he sent on his shitty night out. That was probably for the best anyway. Hope is a dangerous thing for a man like Satoru Gojo. So, he’s better off like this.
Though, it had only started with drawing your eyes. But then, your eyes morphed into a page of your mouth. Your neck with your own initial where his chain used to be. The tilt of your head in his passenger seat when you admitted that you missed him too.
He had told himself this was just something to do with his hands, which is a lie, obviously. Apparently, grief does not just ruin sleep, appetite, dignity, and, subsequently, your life. Apparently, it also digs up old graves, hands you a pencil, and tells you to start sketching the girl who left you.
Satoru lowers his hands and looks back at the grade. He uselessly tries to convince himself it’s fine. People bomb finals all the time. He’s seen other students cry in library bathrooms during finals week, walk out of exams looking shell-shocked, email professors with desperation seeping through every word. That’s normal college misery shit. But, he can’t be normal about this.
He’s not supposed to be the guy who lets a breakup crawl into his coursework or the guy who rereads one stupid birthday text until four in the morning instead of reviewing for Microeconomics. He’s not supposed to sketch your face in the margins of his notebook while the professor explains material that will absolutely be on the final. And he is definitely not supposed to glare at one question for seven minutes because the word “future” appeared in the prompt and suddenly all he can think about is a folded ultrasound tucked behind his ID.
A bitter laugh leaves him before he can even think to stop it. Of course you would find a way to ruin accounting too. Except it’s not really you who ruined it, and that realization wipes the disbelieving smile off his face. He did. He ruined it. He ruined everything.
He sat in class and didn’t listen. He opened practice exams and saw your face instead of numbers. He spent nights drawing when he should have been studying; drinking and snorting coke when he should have been sleeping, then lying awake sick with the guilt when even heavy intoxication couldn’t get his head quiet enough to rest.
This grade isn’t bad luck. It’s only just more evidence, another exhibit in the case of how badly he’s unraveling.
Fuck, maybe I shouldn’t have flushed the Adderall—
His phone buzzes on the desk and he glances at it too fast, pathetic muscle memory snapping his attention toward the screen. The notification didn’t come from you, though a small part of him wished it did. Rather, it’s an email from the registrar and three texts from Ryan’s dumbass.
ryan: grade drop yet?
ryan: bro if i failed mirco econ im killing myself ong
ryan: also you alive? you dipped outta class hella quick
Gojo flips the phone facedown. The fucking guy can’t even spell micro right and is wondering if he failed?
Damn…guess I’m not one to talk.
He doesn’t bother texting him back. He can’t talk to Ryan right now. Can’t hear some joke about finals or GPA not mattering when you’re hot and rich and inheriting your family’s multi-billion dollar company anyway. No, he can’t stomach that, because none of this is small.
A 68% is not small. A B- is not small. A less than 4.0 GPA is not small.
Not for the family he is flying home to tomorrow.
Home.
He’s always hated home, but now even more so.
His mother will ask as soon as she sees him before she asks about anything else. That is the first real blade of panic sheathed between his ribs.
She will ask because she always does. His grades don’t exist privately, they aren’t something he can just hide and lie about like other students can. Nothing about him exists privately. His transcript is more than just school. It’s proof of discipline and control, and that the future heir to the Gojo company is still worth trusting with everything his family has decided he’ll run.
A slip is not a slip in that house. A slip is a symptom, and his parents love hunting for causes.
Because this is not the first time his grades have slipped. The last time they did, his parents found the cause rather quickly. Drawing. Except it was only that. It wasn’t drawing and the loss of you and the life he almost had.
It was only a slight dip of his grades. A microscopic imperfection, really. But in the Gojo household, imperfection does not stay small for long. Satoru remembers it all too clearly.
He was nine then, maybe ten. Young enough that his feet didn’t fully touch the floor when he sat in the stiff armchair by his father’s office window. Naive enough that the pencils in his hand felt more important than anything else in the world. Innocent enough to believe that if something made him happy, that happiness must be allowed to exist somewhere in his world.
He had dreams then.
Small ones, stupid ones, probably even impossible ones. The kind of dreams children form before adults teach them what lineage costs and what is expected of them. He used to think maybe he could draw forever. Maybe he could make beautiful things for no reason except the simple fact that he liked making them. He could become an artist, oh, or an architect, or anything other than the pre-decided thing his family had already built a life around him becoming.
How silly he was to think such things. How silly he was to have even dreamt at all.
He can see his father’s study when he shuts his eyes. Dark wood, pale winter light. The smell of paper, leather, and ink filling his senses. His mother standing near the desk with one of his sketchbooks open in her hands, turning the pages slowly with the same calm attention she gives documents littered with errors.
His father stands beside her. Neither is angry in the way you’d expect. They never show emotion openly. They don’t yell or slam doors. They don’t ask their son why he’s been staying up late drawing buildings and nameless faces and mythical creatures in the margins of his workbooks. They don’t ask why he hid the art under his bed or why his fingers are always smudged gray at the tips.
No, they don’t give a damn, honestly. They only care about cold, hard facts. They simply present the evidence. His math marks had slipped. A few points lower than they wanted. And they found the answer hidden beneath his bed.
Sketchbooks, charcoal pencils, ink pens. A book on figure drawing, another on architecture. Cheap tiny things, most of them, bought secretly and tucked away like treasure.
His mother turns another page. On it is a portrait of the housekeeper who used to sneak him warm milk when he couldn’t sleep. Her name was Emi. She had gentle eyes and a soft voice, and once, after discovering one of his drawings folded into a textbook, she smiled at him like he had handed her something precious.
“You’re very good, Satoru-sama,” She had whispered.
He had never forgotten that. It was about the only words of encouragement he had ever received. Though he pretended not to care, he proceeded to draw her until two in the morning that same day.
It wasn’t perfect by any means. The eyes were a little too wide, the shading clumsy around the lips, but he had worked on it all night because he wanted to get her smile right. She had looked at the sketch when he finished it and covered her mouth with one hand.
“You made me look kind.”
“You are kind,” Satoru had answered.
Now his mother stared at that same drawing without an ounce of emotion, “She bought these for you?”
Satoru’s throat tightened as he looked at the sketchbook, then at his father, then down at his knees, “She said I should practice.”
His father’s face didn’t move an inch, his mother slammed the book shut, “That was not her place.”
Something cold moved through Satoru then. Confusion at first, unable to comprehend how something given out of grace can become wrong just because an adult has decided it is.
His father steps forward and picks up one of the pencils from the desk, “Satoru,” He said, voice even, “Your marks have declined.”
Satoru looked at the pencil instead of his father’s face, “O-Only a little.”
His mother’s gaze sharpened. A little, in that house, is not a defense. A little is proof that he doesn’t understand the capacity of what is expected of him as the only child of the Gojo family.
“This,” His father noted, lifting the pencil slightly, “Is why.”
Satoru’s hands curled in his lap, “...It’s just drawing.”
“No,” His mother snapped, “It’s distraction.”
The word landed with certainty, like once she had named it as such it could no longer be anything else. His father broke the pencil in half right after, the sound was so small, yet Satoru flinched anyway. Then, his mother began placing the sketchbooks into a black trash bag one by one.
He watched all of it, because they made him watch. That is the part he remembers most. The witnessing, the instruction of it. His mother’s pristine, white sleeve brushing against the dark plastic bag. His father gathering the art books from the desk. Pages disappearing, hours disappearing. Small, private pieces of himself being discarded like they are garbage.
His parents always handled his happiness like paperwork.
“You are not a boy who gets to waste time dreaming,” His mother informed.
His father adds, colder somehow, sounding almost bored, “Dreams are for people with nothing expected of them.”
Satoru doesn’t cry. Not there. Not in front of them, he couldn’t. He just sat very still while his mother took the sketchbook with Emi’s portrait and placed it in the bag too. He thought, stupidly, childishly, that maybe she’d spare that one because it’s good. Emi assured him it was. The eyes were almost right, the smile was sweet, he spent an entire night fixing the shading on her cheek, and he adored it.
But his mother spared nothing. By dinner, all the art supplies had been removed from his room. And by morning, Emi was gone too. None of the other staff said the word fired in front of him, no one had the heart to. He caught her in the entryway with her coat on and her bag clutched in both hands. She bowed deeply to his mother, then his father, then, finally, to him.
She didn’t look at him long, which made it worse. Because even at nine years old, Satoru understands shame. He knew that she was leaving because of him. Since she bought him the pencils and books. She encouraged him to keep going. Because he loved something too obviously and someone had been kind enough to help him love it.
He wanted to say I’m sorry.
He wanted to beg, please don’t go.
He wanted to tell his parents it wasn’t her fault, that he asked, that he wanted them, that he was the problem.
But his father’s hand rested lightly on his tiny shoulder in silent warning, so Satoru said nothing. Emi bowed one last time, then left. Later on, that night, he cried in the bathroom with the faucet running. Quietly, ugly, and soundless into the sleeve of his silk pajamas, teeth pressed hard into the fabric because even then he knew better than to be heard.
His chest hurt with it, his throat ached. He sobbed until his round, pale face felt swollen and hot and humiliating.
It wasn’t because of the pencils or drawings, entirely. He now understood something.
Love is not something he is allowed to have. Real love, the gentle kind that sits beside his bed with warm milk and tells him he’s good at something no one else cares to even notice. Buys him cheap pencils and art books and whispers that he should keep going, looking at the things he made with his own hands and treating them like they matter.
No.
Love like that—softness like that, does not belong in a house like this.
He imagines that his parents love him, maybe, in the surface level way people like them know how to. Through discipline and expectation; expensive clothes and private tutors and language lessons and posture perfected with a hand anchored between his shoulder blades. Their version of love shines through reminders of what he owes, who he is, and what will one day be his whether he wants it or not.
But Emi, she had loved little Satoru differently. In small, careful gestures that to the average person are the bare minimum, yet to him, meant everything. And his parents tossed her out too.
That is what hurts most—losing Emi. The only person in that house who had ever made love feel like gentleness instead of surveillance.
So Satoru learned the lesson clearly with her removal and the banishment of his hobby.
He cannot love things. He cannot dream things.
Dreams require wanting. Wanting requires softness. Softness creates weakness. And weakness, in the Gojo household, is corrected until nothing living remains.
So he stops, slowly. Children seldom kill parts of themselves so cleanly. He stops drawing first, then stops talking about things he wants, then eventually, stops wanting anything that fails to fit the shape of what is expected of him. Instead, he gets better at his studies because intelligence is useful, according to his parents. He learns how to be charming because charm, in the right situation, is a useful skill too. He also becomes beautiful, bored, and unobtainable, because, once again, those are useful.
Years pass, and the lesson follows him into adulthood. Girls come easy because he does not love any of them. Sex leaves him unfulfilled since it does not beg for any tenderness. Frat parties are a performance in which nobody at Sigma Chi bothers to learn anything real about him.
Satoru Gojo can be adored without ever being known, he can be wanted without being loved. He can fuck girls and feel nothing afterward, which is fine, preferable even, because feeling nothing has always been safer than feeling the thing he was taught he shouldn’t.
Oh, but then…you happen. You happen, and at first, he doesn’t recognize or understand it as love. Why would he? Love has never brought him anything good.
So when the feeling blooms within his chest, big and ugly and fucking impossible to ignore, he funnels it into the only concepts that make sense to him. Lust, possession, control. He thought, mine.
Mine, mine, mine.
The word feels similar enough to love when you have never been given anything softer to compare it to.
He never knew how to love you gently, so he loved you with the kind of desperation as someone trying to keep the last warm thing in a freezing house. With both hands, too tight, so afraid of losing you that he made himself into the very thing that pushed you away.
Then he loved you—actually loved you.
Too late, obviously. Badly, too, but truly. Truly enough that losing you cracked open the same sealed, repressed place in him where the desire to draw had been deeply buried.
Perhaps, that’s the sickest thing of all. You did not only make him love again. You made him dream again.
Of course, his dreams stemmed out of greed first. He dreamed of making you his, keeping you, tying you to him so tightly that nothing could ever take you away. A dream of a future with you and a baby and a terribly confused idea of love. Twisted and poisoned by every lesson his family ever carved into him, but it was a dream nonetheless.
A dream of you and a family that is warm, human, and entirely his. And now look.
He loved drawing, and it was taken. He loved Emi, and she was taken. He loved you, and he lost you too.
Now, he sits here alone in his room at USC, twenty-one instead of nine, staring at a mediocre grade with sketches of your face half-hidden beneath his notebook, and the old wound splits open all over again; bleeding through every layer of him he thought has scarred over.
Maybe his parents were right. Maybe dreams really are for people with nothing expected of them and love is only for people who can afford feeling it in the first place.
Last time his grades slipped, they found the drawings and blamed Emi. This time, he already knows that they will find and blame you.
And the next morning comes quicker than Satoru would’ve liked. He walks out of Sig Chi with his passport, one suitcase, one carry-on, and every ruined part of himself carefully zipped inside.
The car waiting outside is not one he called for, that alone is a bad sign. A Black Mercedes sits quietly at the curb, sent by his family of course, because even from across the Pacific Ocean, they can reach him and replace his choices with arrangements. His Porsche 911 GT3 stays parked where it is, useless, Carrara white, and too Westernized, while some Japanese driver in a dark suit takes his luggage from his hand like Satoru is already less of a person and more of an itinerary. It almost makes him laugh.
“Van Nuys, Gojo-sama?” The driver asks.
Satoru looks out at the early morning light, glittering pale over Greek Row; dawn has just started to break, “Yes.”
The ride to the private airport is particularly silent, save for the low hum of the Maybach and the occasional tick of its turn signal. Los Angeles slips past in pieces—palm trees swaying in the breeze, traffic despite the hour, glass buildings that look too perfect to be real, countless strip malls; ordinary life carrying on, stupid and indifferent, whilst Satoru sits in the backseat with his phone clutched in his hand and thumb hovering over the Canvas app like hopefully the Microeconomics grade has changed overnight out of pity.
Horribly, it hasn’t.
68%.
A stupid B fucking minus.
His stomach turns as he locks his phone and then unlocks it again almost immediately. How pathetic. He checks his messages, saddened to see that there is still nothing from you, yet why would there be? You left that corny-ass birthday night text on read, and honestly, you were right to. He should be grateful that you ever even acknowledged him that night at all, let alone left him with a gift and a kiss he’ll forever remember.
Halfway to Van Nuys, his mother texts and whatever sorry shit he was thinking about you, vanishes.
mother: Lunch will be ready when you arrive. Your father and I have seen the transcript update.
Satoru reads it once. Then again. Then a third time because his brain refuses to process the words in the correct order. Of course there is nothing about having a safe flight or any lingering belated birthday affection or even a simple Oh, how are you, Satoru? We’re so excited to see you. We missed you.
He could gag at the mere thought of either of them showing any sort of fondness, yeah as if. There’s a greater chance of hell freezing over. And as he sits there, stirring over the fact that his parents only give a fuck about the fact that he’s slipped, a painful sharpness pricks beneath his ribs.
Oh.
This again.
He has not felt it in years. He used to get them more when he was younger, before he learned how to turn fear and distress into arrogance and performance, swallowing every unwanted emotion down, but his body remembers it distinctly. His chest tightens first, like a hand closing slowly around his heart, causing him to shift in the leather seat and inhale deeply through his nose. Yet the air doesn’t go anywhere; it stays trapped.
He tries again, and still, nothing. His heart kicks once, hard enough that his hand twitches against his thigh, then again, then faster. Satoru looks out the window as if the highway requires his full attention, pretending that he’s not aware of every inch of his own body. Yeah, because there’s totally no phone in his palm open with a text from his mother, or ultrasound in his wallet, or sketchbook in his carry-on; your eyes drawn over and over, shoved between pages like some dirty secret.
His lungs feel too small, which is stupid—obviously they aren't. He knows what breathing is, he’s actively doing it, his body is pulling air in considering he’s still alive. Though the air doesn’t land correctly despite it. His fingers start to tingle, he closes his hand into a fist, opening it almost as soon as does. The tingling has begun to spread anyway, crawling beneath his skin like static. His mouth goes dry, the road tilts strangely, only for a second, and his stomach lurches so hard that he has to swallow against it.
“Everything alright, Gojo-sama?” The driver asks.
Satoru’s head snaps up too fast. For one horrifying moment, he thinks he might actually tell the truth; he may say no.
No, pull over.
I can’t breathe.
Take me back.
I don’t want to go home.
I’m dying.
Instead, he gives him a smile through the rearview mirror, small, yet perfect as always, “Yeah…Fine.”
The words leave him with ease, though his body knows he’s lying through his teeth. And by the time they reach the private terminal, his pulse is hammering in his throat. Van Nuys is too quiet, of course it fucking is. There’s no obnoxious crowds to blend into, no TSA lines, no screaming children, no gate agents mumbling out boarding groups—no, being privileged and flying privately means that there are only the soft voices of people catering to him like he’s royalty rather than a kid on the verge of breaking down.
The jet waits beyond the glass windows and Satoru stares at it for exactly three seconds too long because the room bends on him. Although, to everyone else, he is probably still standing there like himself—tall, pretty, expensive, faintly bored. But inside his skull, something there slips sideways. The edges of the airport lounge blur, sound pulls away from him, muffled and distant, as if everyone is speaking underwater.
His heart no longer is beating. Now, it’s punching. He presses a hand to the center of his chest on instinct. Shit. This is bad.
Bad, bad, bad.
Really fucking bad.
A staff member mentions something about departure time. Satoru doesn’t hear the middle of the sentence, he only catches his name at the end, “Mr. Gojo?”
“I need the bathroom,” He says, urgent enough that the woman blinks and immediately, he’s moving.
Walking, not running, that would be way too embarrassing and he already feels mortified. He follows the discreet sign down a short hall and pushes through the bathroom door with one hand at his throat. The door shuts behind him and the moment he’s alone, the mask drops so abruptly it feels physical. His first breath comes in wrong, a thin, broken inhale that scrapes high in his chest and gives him nothing. He braces both hands on the marble sink and tries again, desperately.
Nothing. Again. Absolutely nothing.
“Fuck,” He whispers, eyes brimming with tears.
He bows his head, white strands falling forward, fingers spread against cold marble. His chest feels locked, sealed shut, like there’s a band around his ribs and it’s pulling tighter with every breath he fails to take.
He can’t get enough fucking air.
One hand flies back to his chest, palm pressing firm over his heart as if he can somehow hold it in place. It’s beating too fast, too loud; his entire body has gone hot and cold simultaneously, sweat gathering at the back of his neck while his hands numb.
He thinks, right then and there, that he’s having a heart attack. The years of abusing bullshit coke have finally caught up with him. But then he thinks, no. This is much more humiliating than that.
Panic attack.
Somehow, that’s worse. Because he knows this. He knows this feeling, and it’s still happening; his knees threaten to give.
“No,” He grits out.
Hating himself for how pathetic it sounds he turns the faucet on full blast, water crashing into the sink, loud enough to cover the pitiful, uneven way he’s breathing. The act is out of muscle memory, maybe, or rather, childhood memory. Running water has always been useful for hiding things that should not be heard.
Satoru grips the sink again, inhales and—no. Another inhale…No.
No air gets through.
His reflection stares back at him from the mirror, pale under the luxurious lighting, blue eyes glassy, mouth parted, one hand still pressed to his chest like a boy who has forgotten how to function. Now, he hates himself even more.
He loathes that his body is doing this here of all places. In a bathroom nicer than most people’s apartments, minutes away from boarding his family’s private jet, over stupid grades. But if he’s being honest it really is more than just the grades. He’s panicking over his mother, over going home, over you, over the baby, and truly, over having a life so fucking privileged nobody would ever believe it could feel like a cage.
His vision starts to turn gray at the edges, he bends forward and gags once into the porcelain sink. Nothing comes up. Everything he does yields a whole lot of nothing, except shame.
“Stop…” He whispers, voice shaking with the word.
He forces his eyes shut, but behind them he sees the black trash bag and mother’s white sleeve. He sees Emi bowing in the hallway, then your initial at your throat where his chain used to be, the ultrasound in his back pocket, his mother’s text. He sees every horrible thing that’s caused all the distress.
This time, the sound that escapes him is not a sob, though it’s close. Miraculously, the noise is uglier, smaller, a broken airless whine he barely can recognize as his own. He clamps a hand over his mouth and for a few seconds, Satoru can’t do anything but stand there with the faucet running and his mouth covered, trying to breathe around the fact that he has nowhere to put all of this. There’s no version of himself that is even allowed to carry such a thing.
His whole body jolts when a polite knock on the door snaps him back to reality, “Mr. Gojo?” A voice calls from the other side, “My apologies for the interruption, but the crew is ready whenever you are.”
If he could gather any air at all, he’d laugh at that. He has never once been ready for any of this. Catching another glimpse of himself in the mirror, he instantly notices that his eyes are wet—God, fuck…no. I can’t be seen like this.
Doing his best to erase his almost-tears he turns the faucet colder and splashes water over his face twice, then once again until the shock of the temperature gives his body somewhere else to focus. His breathing is still shallow and fast, but it’s quieter, at least. Quiet enough to pass if nobody looks too closely at him.
Though, nobody ever does. It’s both a blessing and curse.
Today, it is definitely the former.
Satoru dries his face with a hand towel so soft it’s insulting, then grips the edge of the sink one last time. He breathes in…out. His lungs hitch with each breath, but he straightens anyway. When he opens the bathroom door, his expression is back where it belongs. Pretty, cool, bored—the Satoru Gojo everyone loves.
“Sorry,” He says to the attendant, voice smooth as silk, like the last five minutes were just a figment of his imagination, “Had a long night.”
She smiles sweetly, relieved to have an explanation that costs her absolutely nothing to believe, “Of course, Mr. Gojo.”
He walks past her toward the tarmac, one hand in his front pocket, fingers numb, heart trying to claw its way out of his chest. The jet waits, so does home, as does his family, and somewhere behind him, on a campus he is leaving for nearly a month, you are still gone.
Stepping up and inside the jet, it is exactly as he remembers it from August, before junior year and ever meeting you. He’s met with cream leather seats, polished wood paneling, soft lighting, a glass of water already placed in his cup holder, condensation beading down the sides; a folded blanket rests on one of the seats, a warm towel is offered to him by a flight attendant who bows slightly and says his name like it means something special.
Gojo-sama.
The title follows him into the cabin and settles over his shoulders heavier than any jacket he’s ever worn. Here, now, that name is the only one that matters anymore.
Satoru thanks her in Japanese, taking the towel because refusing would require more energy than accepting, wipes hands that don’t feel entirely his, and sits near the window because that is where he always sits. Out of habit, mostly.
The door seals and his chest tightens again. Here we fucking go. He thinks, humiliatingly, that the whole thing is about to restart right there in the leather seat with two flight attendants and a pilot close enough to hear him fall apart. His hand curls around the armrest, fingers digging into the seam, and he forces himself to breathe through his nose.
In…out…that’s it.
“Would you like anything before takeoff, Gojo-sama?” The attendant asks.
A few lines, maybe. Or anything to take my fucking mind off works.
Oh, a different family too.
How about a version of myself that doesn’t ruin every good thing I touch?
He says none of his thoughts aloud, however, “No, thank you.”
She disappears, silent as a ghost, leaving him alone in the cabin with the sick luxury of being taken care of by people who don’t know him at all. That has always been the strangest part of wealth. The world will arrange itself around your comfort while never once asking if you are okay.
The plane begins to move, slowly at first, then faster, rolling over the private runway while Los Angeles remains beyond the oval window. Satoru watches it all blur—the hangars, tarmac, low buildings, the dry California light peaking through morning clouds. His phone sits heavy in his pocket; his wallet sits heavier. His carry-on rests near his feet with the sketchbook inside it, buried beneath a folded USC hoodie like hiding it there makes him less insane.
He thinks of you somewhere across the city.
Maybe still asleep. Maybe awake. Maybe walking to get coffee with Blair. Maybe packing your stuff to go to Boston. Maybe already home. Probably wearing that little initial necklace and not thinking about him at all.
The jet lifts, his stomach drops as the ground falls away, and he watches as Los Angeles becomes small enough to hopefully forget. The city flattens into grids, roofs, and tiny threads of freeway; USC disappears almost instantly, swallowed by clouds and the kind of money that can remove him from a place before he’s ready to leave it.
Satoru presses his head back against the seat. He should sleep, he knows that. He barely slept last night or the nights before that, really, and the time difference is going to fuck him worse. He should close his eyes, drink water, possibly take one of the melatonin tablets his mother’s assistant packed in the side pocket because even his exhaustion is something they prepare for.
He closes his eyes and immediately, there’s your face. It’s not the full thing, no, that would be too much mercy for he who deserves none. He only sees your mouth in his car, lower lip parted against his. The soft, broken way you kissed him like you knew you shouldn’t, but did so anyway. Then your throat—that dainty necklace, specifically.
His eyes shoot open; the cabin is primarily quiet, except for the sound of humming engines. His hand moves before he fully permits it to, reaching down to unzip the carry-on and pull out the sketchbook.
The sight of it in this cabin makes his stomach twist, because it doesn’t belong here. Or maybe it does. He’s unsure of which he’d rather it be. The cover is plain leather, expensive in the way all his things are, but not obviously so. He had bought it off campus weeks ago without giving it much thought, back when the first sketch of your eyes had happened like an accident and not a relapse. In here, it feels like something illegal in his lap.
Ridiculous. A fucking sketchbook, and he’s holding it as if it may explode if he opens it incorrectly.
He flips it open anyway, and your eyes stare back at him on the first page. On the next page is your mouth, then your hands, and then it keeps going; the curve your cheek turned toward his passenger window, drawn directly from memory with a precision that makes him want to throw the fucking thing across the cabin.
There are pages he doesn’t even remember starting or finishing, pages from nights he doesn’t remember even surviving—your neck, your lashes, the crease between your brows when you tried not to cry, the small pendant resting against your skin. His thumb pauses over that drawing.
He had hated that necklace the second he saw it. Well, no. He had hated what it meant.
It meant you had filled the space he left behind with yourself, that the hollow at your throat had not stayed empty and waiting for him like he wished it would be. You had, instead, found some symbolic way to say, I belong to me, and Satoru had no right to be angry about it, which of course, made the anger burn sharper. Now, looking at the sketch, he only feels tired.
Tired, and ashamed, and so fucking lonely that it feels childish.
He turns the page—blank. For a while, he just stares at it as his pencil rests in his hand; the feeling of it there is so familiar it almost hurts more than the B-. His fingers remember things his mind spent years rejecting; the soft drag of graphite against paper, how to build something living out of lines.
He also tells himself that he will not draw you again. He’s done with that. He’s already drawn you too much, leaving behind a multitude of evidence, turning you into a thing his mother could find and name.
So when the pencil touches the paper, what he first draws is nothing recognizable. It’s only a line, then another, then a curve of a wrist. Your wrist, perhaps. The way your fingers looked holding the mochi box on his birthday, careful and tense, like the act of giving a gift weighed more than it ever should. He draws the box next; the little fold of the packaging, followed by the angle of your thumb and a tiny shadow beneath your nail.
He fucking hates himself for remembering, yet he keeps going.
At some point, he puts his headphones in, and what would play other than The Neighbourhood?
A few weeks ago, he would’ve skipped it so fast his thumb could crack the screen; avoiding them after you left because the songs made him think of you too clearly. Sweater Weather alone had been enough to ruin his whole damn night once, which was particularly embarrassing considering he’s supposed to be a grown-ass man and not some lovesick loser getting emotionally fucked by a song everyone knew in high school.
But then, somewhere between grief and heartbreak, the avoidance became something else. A ritual, of sorts.
He started listening to them because the songs reminded him of you. You used to play them whenever you slipped into his passenger seat at night, singing along to each and every word as he drove off. He would pretend not to notice, only to eventually learn the words from your mouth by kissing them out of you while one of their slow, miserable songs played through the speakers.
And after a while, the songs stopped feeling borrowed. He began recognizing the openings before the lyrics came in, started knowing which ones he likes more than others, and playing them when he wasn’t even trying to torture himself. It’s still not usual shit, of course. Left to his own devices, Satoru Gojo listens to whatever is deemed cool to fit the image—Bass-heavy rap in the Porsche, house music at frat parties, anything loud and obnoxious enough to make his thoughts shut the hell up.
He’d never even think to put some shit like The Neighbourhood on. Every song sounds like it was made for yearning after someone you’ve lost and ruined. Though, maybe that’s the point.
The Neighbourhood doesn’t feel like Sig Chi, or coke in bathrooms, or girls leaning into him while brothers shout his name. It feels like you, so much so that he can still feel your mouth smiling against his when he kissed you before the song could end.
So he lets it play, because it keeps you close in one of the only ways he’s still allowed to have you. And with your music in his ears, your face under his hand, and the Pacific stretching endlessly beneath him, Satoru allows himself to become fully, pathetically immersed in the act of missing you.
The plane climbs higher over the ocean, and Satoru draws you in pieces because a whole version of you would probably kill him. He tries convincing himself that it is only habit, but that’s an awful lie. It’s grief finding an old language. A language he had been forced to forget, and somehow, horribly, you had taught his hands to speak again.
One of the attendants comes by once with more water, fruit, some neatly arranged bento box he doesn’t touch. She glances at the sketchbook for half a second too long before kindly looking away. Satoru slams it shut with haste, though her face doesn’t change at all. She was trained better than that.
Still, heat licks up his neck, “Would you like me to clear this, Gojo-sama?” She asks, gesturing to the untouched food.
“Yeah,” He answers, “Thanks.”
He waits until she disappears behind the partition before opening the sketchbook again, slower this time, pissed with himself for being startled. He feels nine years old again, like someone is about to take it from him. Like his mother’s white sleeve is going to appear between the seats and start tossing pages into a trash bag.
No one comes and the cabin remains as quiet as it was. Satoru looks down at the page and realizes then that he has drawn your eyes too soft. He considers fixing them, but doesn’t. Because that is how you looked at him in his car when you whispered that you missed him too.
Angry, yes. Hurt, definitely, but soft anyway.
That might be the part he doesn’t know to forgive you for—the softness.
You had every right to be crueler. You could have looked at him like he was the worst thing in the world. Instead, you gave him his favorite mochi and kissed him and told him that you missed him, then still left because apparently you had managed to learn how to love someone without surrendering your spine.
He draws until his hand aches and Los Angeles is long gone. Until the version of Gojo who exists at USC starts clipping off in pieces. His Dodgers cap is already packed away, the USC hoodie folded in his carry-on shoved beneath clothes he will not wear in Japan because he’d be chastised for it. His rings are off except for the single one his family approves of. His hair has been pushed back more neatly, though he knows he will fix it properly before landing.
The boy from California, the one who can get drunk and stupid high in a frat house, making entire rooms chant his name, is being stripped away slowly by altitude and distance.
And hours later, when they begin their final descent, Satoru has stopped pretending he’s not afraid.
The captain announces Tokyo in a voice too calm for how he feels inside. The cabin lights shift, attendants preparing for landing. Outside the window, clouds break apart, and Japan appears beneath him in gray-blue stretches of land and sea.
Satoru stares at the sketchbook still open in his lap, your face stares back—unfinished, because he can never find it in himself to complete it.
He looks at it for a long moment, then closes the cover with a carefulness he cannot explain. His hands move before his pride can stop them, sliding the sketchbook into his carry-on, but then he hesitates. The front pocket is too obvious of a placement, the top of the bag is too easily accessible. He unzips the larger compartment and shoves it beneath folded clothes, though that is still not enough. He takes out a dark jacket, lays it over the sketchbook, then presses the whole thing down like he’s burying a body.
It’s dumb, really. He’s a twenty-one year old man now, not a little boy. Yet, he can’t stop himself from acting like one.
By the time the jet touches down at Haneda, your face is hidden underneath two shirts and a jacket, shielded away like the prettiest contraband to grace earth. Satoru sits back, jaw tight, and peeks out the window as the runway rushes past.
Tokyo receives him how it normally does, without ceremony. It never needs to make a spectacle of taking him back like California does.
wc: ~13k | cw: fratjo! angst again ofc, possessive/obsessive tendencies, toxic relationship dynamics, substance abuse references, substance/alcohol use, drug relapse, frat culture, mentions of blood/bleeding, post-abortion grief, explicit sexual language, dark romance vibes, gojo highkey going thru it, music references, dual povs
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
IT’S BEEN DAYS since Thanksgiving break.
Boston had been a much needed pause despite being surrounded by those who are arguably even more suffocating than Gojo ever was, but at least it had muffled the pain for a week.
California, unfortunately, doesn’t do that.
However, you’ve gotten better at functioning through it, though. Or at least you’ve improved upon performing as functional, which is basically the same thing in college.
Thankfully, the bleeding has mostly subsided. It’s nowhere near as horrific as it was in Boston or the kind of blood that made you sit on a disgusting communal bathroom floor and stare at your own thighs like your body was separating from you. Now, it’s just spotting; manageable, insignificant enough to ignore if you change your underwear quickly and don’t look too closely. That sad fact alone almost makes you feel normal again.
So, you begrudgingly go to class, answer when professors call on you for the sake of being a nuisance, laugh when Blair says something she thinks is funny, eat enough that she stops looking at you like she may have to force feed you.
From the outside, you probably look okay, good even—nothing like the girl who had to end her pregnancy and relationship.
But on the inside? You still feel as broken as can be.
And then there’s Gojo. Or, more accurately, the absence of him.
At first, right after the breakup, he wouldn’t let you breathe. There were endless calls, texts, voicemails you refused to listen to, and apologies that came in waves so frantic they were borderline frightening.
i’m sorry
please answer
please
can we talk ?
i love you
i’m sorry
i’m sorry
i’m so fucking sorry
Then, eventually…He just stopped.
He had given up once you turned your phone off before you left. Well, not given up per se, but gave you the distance you wanted.
And though you wanted it, the silence hurts in a way you didn’t expect. It’s not that you wanted him to keep begging, that would be evil of you, but the fact that he understood what your silence meant and for once in his life, actually decided to listen.
That should be relieving, right? He’s starting to respect your wants and needs. Yet, it leaves you with this awful, hollow ache, like the world has gone too still in the wake of where he used to be. Then you make the terrible mistake of checking Instagram three nights after getting back; you had sworn off of it for a temporary period during break, but for some reason accidentally clicked on the app, possibly due to boredom, muscle memory, pure masochism, or some terrible blend of the three.
You go to your profile first—everything looks the same as you left it. 30K+ followers, a few aesthetic posts with pictures taken off a digital camera, a plethora of highlight reels of travels, food, yourself, friends and family and missing throughout all of it, is him. The one post, a single photo of the two of you is gone, though not fully. It’s tucked away safely in your archived posts just in case that maybe does ring true.
But then, you type in Gojo’s user and click on his profile too. Your breath catches in your throat when you realize that you’re also missing.
All his posts with you in them are gone. The little glimpses of you he made sure to include in photo dumps vanished. Even the highlight reel with your initials has disappeared. He cleaned it all out. Archived, hopefully. Deleted, hopefully not. You don’t know, but either way the effect is the same.
It hurts more than you thought it would and more than it should. You stare at his profile for far too long, chest tight, because seeing yourself erased from his feed feels strangely worse than removing him from yours ever did. You had to because you needed distance; you were trying to survive.
But him? The sight of it makes ugly thoughts whisper through you.
Oh…So he really let it go.
Which is irrational, hypocritical even.
You’re the one who ended it, who left, who wished for distance. Yet knowing that he looked at every trace of you and hid it anyway makes your throat burn. Fuck this. You don’t check his profile again after that, you can’t bear to…At least, not until tonight.
Tonight, you’re sitting cross-legged on your twin XL while Blair straightens her hair in the mirror, and your eyes drift toward your phone where the date glows at the top of the screen like a warning.
December 6th. Tomorrow is his birthday.
Then, against your own better judgment, your gaze slides to the small white box sitting on your desk; Blair, watching it all from the reflection, notices immediately, “Don’t start that shit.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked at the box.”
You exhale and lean back on your hands, “It’s not…that serious.”
“The fuck it isn’t,” She turns around, flat iron still in hand, eyebrows raised, “You bought that asshole birthday mochi.”
Your eyes flick back to it. Yeah, she’s right. You did.
Two days ago, without really planning to, you found yourself at that quaint Asian market off campus he once dragged you into because he swore the imported snacks there were better than anything Erewhon could ever pretend to sell. That was the first time he bought you kikufuku—the zunda and cream flavor because he was adamant about it being the best.
You remember rolling your eyes and saying there was no way cream and edamame could ever taste good together. Then you remember the way he looked at you after, unbearably smug, when you took a bite and reluctantly confessed it was actually really good.
So when you saw the same box in the refrigerated case a few days ago, you bought it. Zunda and cream flavor, of course, because some part of you, buried deep enough that you can still lie to yourself about it, has apparently been carrying the possibility all along.
Maybe you’ll see him on his birthday. Maybe he might ask. You might say yes if he does.
Blair sees your face do all of this reminiscing in real time and groans, “Oh my God. You do wanna see him.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Liar.”
You scowl, “I bought him mochi. That’s…harmless.”
“No,” She presses, “That’s fucking worse.”
You grab a pillow and throw it at her, she catches it one-handed, snorting, “You know what your problem is?”
“Enlighten me.”
“You keep acting like feelings don’t count if you don’t say them out loud.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s totally true,” She sets the flat iron down and points at the box, “That’s literally a dessert full of unresolved emotional bullshit.”
Despite yourself, a laugh almost escapes, but your eyes catch the time on your phone and it stops that from happening.
11:47 P.M.
Blair follows your line of sight and narrows her eyes, “Do not.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Mm-hmm.”
You reach for the phone anyway and tell yourself you won’t text him, you’re just looking; just holding it in your hand to stare at the date and time and let the heaviness of it settle in your palm. Somewhere on this campus Satoru Gojo is about to turn twenty-one and despite everything—the blood, grief, damage, and silence, you still know his favorite mochi flavor by heart and maybe want to see him more than you’re willing to admit.
Blair sits beside you on the bed, careful now, like any sudden movement might spook a decision out of you, “You don’t owe him a happy birthday.”
“I know.”
“You don’t owe him softness just because you still have some.”
You know that too, but it doesn’t stop you from hovering your thumb over the empty message bar, glaring at the blinking cursor that’s practically waiting for you to make a mistake. Maybe this is one. Definitely, actually.
Though the thing about grief is that it doesn’t always listen to dignity. Sometimes it’s shameful and weak and aggravatingly sentimental. Other times it makes you remember a boy standing in an Asian market aisle holding up a little box of zunda and cream mochi like it was something sacred, telling you with complete seriousness that if you didn’t like it, he’d have to reconsider everything.
You had laughed then.
God, you hate remembering yourself happy.
Blair’s knee presses against yours, “What are you gonna say?”
You swallow, eyes burning for no reason and every reason at once, “Nothing crazy.”
“Good.”
“Just happy birthday.”
“Good,” She repeats, yet she sounds like she knows there’s no such thing as just anything when it comes to him.
The clock changes.
11:58.
Your pulse starts to tick harder. You think of locking the phone, putting it facedown, and letting midnight pass without acknowledging him at all because that would be much smarter, healthier—whatever damn word people use when they’re pretending not to be haunted.
But then you think him alone somewhere, or maybe not alone; most likely surrounded by idiot frat brothers and music and girls, his whole curated college universe of bullshit. And somehow that image hurts too. Because even if he’s surrounded, you know him well enough now to understand that none of it means he isn’t lonely.
11:59.
Blair looks at the phone, then at you, and you type before you can talk yourself out of it.
happy birthday, satoru
Lowercase, simple. No I miss you tucked between the letters, though it’s there anyway; bleeding invisibly through the screen. Your thumb trembles once, Blair inhales, and then the clock flips.
12:00 A.M.
December 7th.
You hit send.
Nothing happens right away; the little blue text bubble sits there delivered, but your stomach drops, “Okay,” Blair says gently, as if she’s talking you down from a ledge, “Phone down.”
So naturally, you don’t put the phone down. You stare at the message until your eyes begin to blur, waiting for the typing bubble on his end, dreading it, wanting it, hating yourself for wanting it.
Then it appears, almost instantly. Blair sees it and mutters, “Oh, that man was deadass sitting on the text thread.”
You ignore her, unable to answer because after days of silence and utter absence, Satoru Gojo is typing back too fast.
Across campus, Sigma Chi is losing its fucking mind.
The clock hits midnight and the house erupts like the ball just dropped in Times Square instead of it being some rich frat boy douchebag’s twenty-first birthday. Music is blasting so loud the windows in the living room shake as beer cans lift into the air, liquor sloshing over knuckles and onto the floor that the pledges will be bitched at to clean come tomorrow.
“Gojo! Gojo! Gojo!” The chant starts somewhere near the kitchen and spreads fast, stupid, and affectionate in the way frat guys get when they’re drunk enough to mistake yelling for love.
Gojo stands in the center of it all with a red solo cup in his hand, wearing a loose black button-up half undone at the throat, silver chain glinting beneath the collar, but not the one he gave you, of course. No, that one is still sitting on his dresser after you took it off, waiting for the day you’ll wear it again.
He looks perfect, but then again, that’s his job, right?
Inside, though, he feels nothing. Actually, no, he feels too much. Which is arguably worse.
Every cheer hits his skin wrong, every clap on his back makes him want to step out of his own body. There are girls pressed too close, their perfume burns his nostrils because it’s not yours, voices pitched high as they wish him happy birthday like they’re offering themselves up with it.
One of his brothers shoves a shooter into his hand. Another tries to fix his collar. Someone yells something about a “two night bender” and “being twenty-one, baby.”
Baby.
The word makes his jaw flex. He downs the Fireball shooter because it gives his mouth something to do besides wanting to say your name.
“Birthday boy!” Ryan shouts, appearing through the chaos with conviction, “Center. Now.”
Gojo’s brows furrow, “Why?”
“Because we love you.”
“That sounds like a threat, not gonna lie.”
“It is,” He replies with a sly smile.
The room parts almost theatrically, which is typically how it does for him, and then he sees it. One of the pledges is on one knee in front of him like he’s about to propose, except instead of a ring box, he’s holding up a Smirnoff Ice, and the house explodes.
“Oh, fuck off,” Gojo says immediately, but there’s a laugh built into it because that’s what he’s supposed to do here. Laugh, play along, be the guy everyone wants him to be.
“Kneel!”
“Don’t be a fuckin’ pussy!”
Ryan claps him hard on the shoulder, “Tradition, bro. Everyone gets iced on their day.”
Gojo glares at the bottle; cold glass, sticky condensation dripping over the pledge’s fingers. The whole room is watching him, waiting for him to make it fun. Usually, he would. The Gojo they know would drop to one knee with some obscene joke, chug the whole thing, and come up grinning already asking for another. He’d make the moment appear effortless, because that’s what Gojo does. He takes whatever spectacle is handed to him and makes himself the greatest part of it.
But tonight his body feels slow, “Come on!” Someone yells.
He reaches for the bottle and right as he does, his phone buzzes. Once, small, barely anything beneath the roar of the room, yet it stops him in his tracks. Ryan notices first, “Bro?”
Gojo pulls his phone from his pocket, pissed at himself for checking because there are very few names in the world capable of making him look away from an entire room screaming for him. And, the name on his screen just so happens to be one of the very few. It’s yours.
The house disappears after that. The music, the cheers, the alcohol, the girls watching him from the stairs, Ryan’s hand on his shoulder; the whole stupid fucking birthday celebration evaporates.
There is only your name and your message.
happy birthday, satoru
Satoru. Not the name everyone is yelling like they own a piece of him. Just…Satoru. Always Satoru. Never Gojo.
Something moves through his chest so sharply it hurts; his fingers tighten around the phone, screen blurring for half a second and…fuck, no. Hell fucking no. He is not about to get emotional in the middle of Sig Chi with a Smirnoff Ice being held up to him like some cursed object.
Your message is the only thing that matters now anyway. Proof that at exactly midnight, you still thought of him. Ryan leans closer, trying to see, “Who is it?”
Gojo turns the screen away on instinct and that alone says enough. Yeah, everyone is aware of the breakup. It’s impossible to date a girl like you, lose her, and expect the whole university not to notice the crater she left behind. Especially when you’re you—football royalty, too pretty and too wanted for people not to keep tabs on. And especially when he’s him. Sig Chi’s golden boy who is suddenly meaner, quieter, harder to get drunk in a fun way, moping around like someone skinned him and sewn him back together wrong.
They know it was bad. Bad enough that you stopped showing up at the house and that you’ve both disappeared from each other’s Instagram profiles. So of course, people whisper rumors.
He cheated. You cheated. He got bored. Your dad forbade the relationship. He got too possessive and jealous. You were too smart to put up with him.
Yet, nobody knows the real story. They know nothing about the pregnancy and the abortion and the ultrasound folded behind his ID as a means to torture himself. They don’t know that you bled through the end of him, that he begged in an In-N-Out parking lot like a pathetic little boy and still watched you leave.
The only thing people do know is that the breakup was nasty, not that it was a death.
Ryan’s expression changes, “Oh.”
The chants start dying unevenly, “Gojo?”
The pledge is still kneeling, the ice is still waiting, yet Gojo sees none of it. He types back before he loses the moment.
thank you
No. Too simple. He adds more.
thank you. i didn’t think you’d text me
Ugh. No. That’s shit too. He deletes it entirely, and sends the only thing he actually wants to say.
can i see you?
His lungs feel tight as Ryan mumbles under his breath, “Oh, you’re cooked, bro.”
Gojo shoots him a look, but then the typing bubble appears and takes his attention away. Across the room, someone shouts, “Is he seriously texting right now?”
“Yo, chug the shit!”
Gojo doesn’t bother to peer up, your reply coming in.
idk if that’s a good idea
His chest aches so badly he huffs out a laugh. Of course you’d say that, still careful and keeping the knife between you and him where it belongs. He types back.
probably not
Then, after one, whole second.
but i still want to see you
He stares at the thread; the typing bubble appears, vanishes, appears again, and finally—
just for a little
Gojo’s eyes shut for half a second. Just for a little. God, he would take ten seconds if that was all you gave him.
He pockets his phone and steps back. Ryan grabs his arm, “Where the hell you going?”
“Out.”
A few brothers erupt on instinct, “No fucking way.”
“Dude, it’s your birthday.”
“What about the Ice?”
Gojo looks at the pledge still kneeling there, “Give it to Ryan.”
Ryan’s face drops, “The fuck?”
“You heard me.”
The room boos, a brother yells that he’s dead to the brotherhood, but truly, he doesn’t give a damn at this point. His body has already turned toward the front door. Ryan follows him a few steps, voice lower only for him to hear, “You sure about this?”
Gojo pauses with his hand near his keys. No. No, he’s not sure. This is absolutely a terrible idea. Seeing you might rip him open worse. It may give him just enough hope to ruin him all over again. It’ll probably end with him sitting in his Porsche alone afterward, tasting your name in his mouth like the blood that’s been spilled.
Still, he says, “Yeah.”
Ryan studies him for a second, then sighs like he knows there’s no point trying to stop a car already wrapped around a tree, “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Gojo bites back a laugh, “Bit late for that,” Then he leaves.
Behind him, the house keeps yelling, music stays pounding, and the birthday nonsense rolls on without him. But for the first time in days, Satoru Gojo feels alive. All because you texted him, remembered, and are willing to give him just a little.
Although, you almost change your mind four separate times on the way downstairs. Once in the hallway, when the elevator takes too long and gives your brain too much space to start thinking rationally. Then in the lobby, when a group of girls stumble in from some party, maybe even Sig Chi, laughing loudly, the smell of perfume and vodka trailing after them, and all it does is make you feel bizarrely exposed. As if somehow everyone can look at you and know exactly where it is you’re going.
You almost change your mind when you push through the front doors of the dorm and the December air pinches your cheeks and lastly, when you spot the Porsche. Parked at the curb, sleek and glowing white in the darkness. The same car that has held various versions of you—angry you, drunk you, happy you, crying you. The you who let him touch and fuck you in ways that made your whole body feel owned and the worst you of all, the one who sat in the passenger seat with an ultrasound who told him it was done.
Your feet refuse to move for a second, the small paper bag in your hand crinkles when your fingers clench around it. Fuck, this is stupid. This is so fucking stupid.
You should go back upstairs, text him that you changed your mind, crawl into bed beside Blair and let his birthday pass by without his voice, without his blue eyes, and without whatever damage seeing him will do to the place inside you that has started learning how to scab over.
But then the driver’s side door opens and Gojo steps out.
Damn, he looks tired.
Not in that pretty, careless way he sometimes does after partying too hard with his hair mussed and eyes bright and mouth curved like the exhaustion is part of the image. No, this is different and you could think of a few reasons why. He’s solemn underneath the streetlight, white hair falling softer than usual over his forehead, black button-up slightly wrinkled, hands slotted in his pockets because he doesn’t know what else to do with them.
He sees you and goes completely still, which is honestly worse than if he had smiled. Neither of you says a word as you stand there on the sidewalk with his gift in hand and he stands beside the car looking at you like he’s afraid if he moves, you’ll vanish. Eventually, he swallows the lump in his throat and walks around to open the passenger door. A tiny, stupid ache pulls at your heartstrings. You hate that even now he still does that and hate it more that you still notice.
“Thanks,” You murmur, slipping past him into the seat and the moment you’re inside, the scent of leather and his cologne engulfs you; familiar enough to make your stomach churn.
Armani, a hint of weed clings to the upholstery, and beneath it, just barely, there’s another smell; something sweet. Your perfume.
It’s faint, almost hidden under everything else, but it’s there, sticking to the air in a way that does not belong inside his car unless…unless—you don’t let yourself finish the thought.
Satoru shuts your door gently, acting as if loud noises are suddenly a threat, then walks back around and gets in. The Porsche dips narrowly with his weight and once he closes his door, the heavenly scent of Killian Angels’ Share wafting off you hits him.
Warm on your skin and sweet at your neck; that boozy apple-cinnamon softness tucked into your pulse, real and moving in the seat beside him instead of the fabricated version he bought as a replacement for your absence. His hand tightens around the steering wheel and you catch it. A flex of his fingers followed by a bob of his throat. His gaze stays forward for a second too long because seeing you while smelling you might actually kill him.
Your heart gives one miserable, small kick, “Happy birthday.”
He turns his head then, eyes finding yours, until they drop automatically. He doesn’t mean for them to, or maybe he does. There may just be some sick, hopeful piece of him that still expects to see silver resting against your collarbone—his chain, his claim sitting pretty at the base of your neck like proof you were his. But it isn’t there of course. That chain is back in his lonely frat bedroom that reeks of a piss poor imitation of you.
Instead, a smaller necklace glints against your skin, delicate and simple, your own initial hanging where he used to be. Something in his chest folds in on itself. You didn’t let the hollow spot sit there like a wound he could pretend might still belong to him again someday. No, you filled it with yourself; you’ve reclaimed yourself again. He peers back up before you notice him staring. Too late, perhaps. You shift slightly in the passenger seat as you wait for him to say something—anything.
He can’t even find his voice, fixated on the sight of your initial catching in the night, but soon enough, he responds with, “Thank you.”
Your grip tightens around the bag in your lap and the paper crinkles. You can’t hold onto it anymore. The longer it stays there, the more obvious it becomes; the more it says, I thought of you without you even asking me to. So you raise it, refusing to look directly at him, “...I got you something.”
His gaze falls upon the bag and your face warms instantly, embarrassingly so, “It’s small,” You add, “...And don’t make it weird.”
That almost pulls a smile from him; you shove the bag toward him before you lose your nerve, “It just felt wrong getting you nothing.”
Satoru takes it from you slowly as if the paper hurts to touch. His fingers brush yours for less than a second, but the contact hits both of you hard enough that you pull back quickly. He looks down into the bag, reaches inside, and pulls out the box. Kikufuku mochi. His favorite flavor. Zunda and cream.
The exact one he had been passionate about in that little Asian market weeks ago, carrying the box like it was some national treasure while lecturing you about how most American mochi should be criminalized. His mouth parts, thumb shifting over the edge of the box. His eyes lower, then lift to you again, softer and more devastated than your heart can handle, “You…remembered?”
You look out the windshield rather than looking at him, “You were very dramatic about it.”
His breath leaves him shakily, something too broken to be a laugh, “I was not dramatic.”
“You said American mochi is shit.”
“Cause it is,” The reply comes so fast, so naturally, that for one brief moment the air between you loosens; a tiny flash of normal.
You almost smile. So does he. Then the almost-normalcy passes by just as quickly as it came, and the silence afterward is painful. A painful reminder of what it used to be.
Satoru peers down at the box once more, setting it carefully in the center console, adjusting it twice so it won’t slide when he drives, but as he does so, he can’t help but recall what sat there in that center console the last time you were here with him. Uneaten In-N-Out and an ultrasound picture that’s since been stuffed safely in his wallet.
He snaps himself out of it and puts the car in drive without asking where you want to go, not that you planned on asking anyway. The Porsche pulls away from the curb, smooth and rumbling, USC slipping past in fragments through the tinted glass. A pair of students walk close under one jacket, a guy bikes one-handed with a bag filled with food swinging from his wrist; the campus looks strange at night in December, emptier than usual, as if everyone who belongs somewhere has already gone there, unlike you and Satoru.
For a while, the only sound in the car is the low hum of the engine and the repeated click of the turn signal, neither of you speak once. That’s probably for the best. If either of you open your mouth too soon, the wrong thing will come out.
When the silence grows so thick it is palpable, he reaches for his phone and plugs it into the charger. Apple CarPlay connects and a song starts playing automatically. The opening notes are so faint you almost miss them, but then you hear the voice. It’s…The Neighbourhood?
Your head turns toward the dash, title glowing back at you.
Reflections.
Satoru doesn’t even react, which somehow makes it worse. He knows you love The Neighbourhood. So the question on your mind now is did he put this on because of me? Or has he been listening to it alone?
The second possibility unsettles you more. The idea of your music becoming part of his loneliness feels too intimate, like he took something of yours after you left in order to keep him company. You look out the window before he can clock your expression.
He drives to a quiet overlook tucked just far enough from campus to feel private without being romantic in any deliberate way. There’s no sweeping stars, especially not with this light pollution, and no city lights sparkling either. Just a half-empty lot with a row of dim streetlights, a few parked cars, and Los Angeles stretching dull and enormous beneath the night.
Putting the car in park, The Neighbourhood continues to play softly in the background, and then his eyes drop to the mochi, “Can I open it?”
You hate how cautious his voice is; if you hadn’t known better you would think he was asking for more than dessert. You nod, speaking feels too risky, and he reaches for the box. His fingers are gentle with it, absurdly so. Satoru Gojo, who has never handled anything in his life like it could break unless it was you.
He peels the packaging open and holds the tray between you. The mochi is still cold from sitting in the fridge for the past two days, pale and lightly dusted, “Have one with me?”
“Satoru…”
“Just one,” He presses quietly, “Please.”
Please used to sound different in his mouth—dirtier, needier, hot enough to make you stupid, but tonight it only sounds small. Like he knows that even asking you to have one piece of mochi with him may be asking for too much.
So you take just one and the two of you sit in his Porsche at some lonely little overlook, sharing cold zunda and cream mochi from a plastic tray at midnight on his twenty-first birthday. It would’ve been funny if anything about this still knew how to be funny without hurting afterward.
You take a bite and the soft chew of it, the sweet cream, the hint of nutty-earthiness, all of it makes the moment feel horribly normal. As if you could be any two people—he could be just a boy on his birthday and you could be just a girl who remembered something he loves. It feels nothing like the truth of what you are.
“You were right,” You say after a prolonged silence and he glances over, “This is way better than any American mochi.”
His mouth twitches, “Obviously.”
“Don’t be smug.”
“I’m being incredibly humble, actually.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m grieving and still correct. Let me have this.”
The line slips out too naturally, the air loosening in its wake. A tiny smile threatens your mouth, yet the moment he sees it, something in his face breaks. His half-grin disappears first, then yours does too.
There it is again. That awful glimpse of what this used to be. The two of you in his car, teasing over bullshit, your body remembering what happiness is before your brain kills it. The silence that follows after that is worse than the one in the beginning. Satoru looks down at the open box between you, thumb brushing along the plastic edge.
“The day didn’t feel real until you texted,” He says, eyes lowered, “Everyone was yelling and shoving drinks at me. Ryan was trying to make me chug some dumb shit. People kept saying happy birthday and I just…” His jaw works once, “I didn’t feel anything…but then your name showed up.”
Your heart knocks painfully against your ribs, “Satoru—”
“I’m not saying it to make you feel bad.”
“I know.”
“I mean it,” He swallows hard, hating the fact that he has to clarify at all because he’s given you every reason to doubt each soft thing rolling off his tongue, “I’m not trying to turn it into something,” You look at him then, though he still isn’t looking at you, “I just wanted you to know that it mattered.”
You fix your eyes on the mochi box instead before responding, looking at him is far too dangerous, “I didn’t text you because I wanted to start something.”
“I know.”
“It’s just that…it would’ve been wrong if I hadn’t.”
He nods, taking that in, not pouncing on the words or turning them into proof. Part of him wants to ask then what does that mean? Or you still care, don’t you? But he doesn’t. No, old him would’ve done this. The Gojo that made you scared and ruined what you had would have known exactly how to weaponize some shit to say. This new, heartbroken Gojo just accepts the little you give him without trying to steal the rest.
“Thank you.”
The two words gut you somehow anyway, and you take another bite of your mochi piece in order to keep your mouth occupied. Satoru watches the city through the windshield, one hand loose on his thigh, the other resting too close to the center console. Your hands are close enough that if either of you shifted, your fingers would touch. So neither of you do.
Instead, he awkwardly asks, “How was your break?”
You peek down at the mochi in your hand, thumb brushing over the soft powder on your fingertips, “It was okay.”
Carefully, he says, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Your eyes sting despite yourself, “Boston was cold as hell.”
His mouth almost moves into a smile, “Sounds right.”
“And Sam was annoying.”
“That also sounds right.”
“He called me a bitch at the airport.”
His brows lift faintly, “Nice.”
“Lovingly.”
“Of course.”
A tiny breath crawls up your throat, kind of a laugh but not really. Satoru’s whole face changes for a split second, the sound doing something terrible to him, “My family was…” You trail off, “My family.”
“Yeah?”
You nod, staring at the dash now instead of him, “They could tell something was off,” Satoru goes still, “They didn’t know,” You add quickly, the shift in him too immediate to go unnoticed, “Not everything…but they knew something.”
His fingers flex once against his thigh, the car feeling smaller after that. You keep going after a harsh swallow, “It’s hard being around people who love you when you’re trying to hide the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”
Satoru looks down, unable to speak right away. You don’t know what expression he makes because you refuse to even look, only hearing the faint scrape of his breath when he whispers, “I’m sorry.”
You close your eyes, “Don’t.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean it,” Your voice comes out softer than you wanted, “I didn’t say that so you’d apologize.”
“I know,” He says again, but this time it sounds worse, “I just am.”
You glare at the open mochi box. All you can think about is your old bedroom, Nick staying when everyone else left, the way you cried so hard your ribs ached. You keep that detail to yourself; that part is yours, or maybe Nick’s. Either way, Satoru doesn’t need to know.
“I wasn’t alone,” You say finally, his head lifting slightly, “Blair was there. And Nick was…” Your throat swells, so you stop before you reveal too much, “He was good.”
Satoru’s face changes in the corner of your vision; relief first, then grief right after it, “I’m glad.”
You glance at him, “Are you?”
“Yeah,” It lacks bitterness, that old possessive flare that used to live there, no wounded male pride over someone else getting to be near when he couldn’t, “I’m glad somebody was good to you.”
Your chest constricts as he drags his thumb over his knee, needing to do something with his hand because it might reach for you by mistake, “I hate that you needed it because of me.”
The car turns painfully quiet besides the faint music obliviously humming along, “Satoru…”
“Don’t comfort me,” He says, pleading almost, “Please. I’m not saying it for that,” He stares at his hands like there’s blood on them, “I’m glad Blair was there. I’m glad Nick was there. I’m glad you had people…”
A broken little breath leaves him, “...I just can’t stop thinking that you had to go home and be taken care of cause of what I did to you,” Your eyes burn immediately, he laughs once, but it’s wet and pitiful, “Happy fucking birthday, right?”
“It’s not funny.”
“No,” He agrees, eyes still lowered, “It’s not.”
Another silence settles, this one feeling different than the last. You look at the mochi once more, the sight of his face becoming too much to bear, “How was yours? Your break?”
His mouth twitches lightly. You think he might make up some stupid lie both of you could pretend to believe, but he opts for the ugly truth, “Bad.”
You nod slowly, “Because of me?”
He looks at you then, the answer in his face before he can even say it.
Yes.
Yes, of course.
Yes, every fucking second was terrible because of you.
But, the answer he says is much more honest, “Because of what I did,” Feeling ashamed, he turns away, “You were part of it. Obviously. But it wasn’t just missing you. It was missing you and knowing exactly why you were gone.”
Aware that this was the case, it doesn’t make your heart hurt any less. Unfortunately Satoru can’t stop speaking either. The floodgates have opened and he’s letting it all out, “I kept wanting to call you. Then I’d remember I already did. A fucking million times like some dumbass loser,” His mouth twists, “I kept wanting to apologize, and then I’d think…for what? What apology could you possibly give that can make up for this?”
Your fingers tangle in your lap as you remain silent. He glances at the mochi box, then the windshield, “My room felt wrong. The house felt wrong. Everything fucking smelled wrong.”
You remember the faint sweetness in his car when you got in—your perfume, hiding beneath leather, Armani cologne, and weed. Your body freezes and Satoru notices; his eyes flick to yours for half a second, then away, embarrassment cutting across his countenance so fast you mistake it for anger.
“I know…I know how pathetic that is,” He mutters and shakes his head once, disgusted with himself, “I missed you so fucking badly I started doing shit I can’t even say out loud.”
The confession lies there between you. He won’t specify, no, he’d rather die than admit he bought your exact perfume and sprayed it everywhere, then proceeded to jerk off to old videos of you. When that didn’t help he took it out on those around him and started drawing again, desperate to keep you alive in his room in any way, shape, or form.
Your voice wavers, “Satoru…”
“I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me…I don’t deserve that.”
“I know.”
He looks at you, the honesty in your words catching him off guard. You hold his gaze for a heartbeat, then force yourself to look elsewhere. He breathes out slowly, “Yeah…”
More unbearable silence ensues, but you ask another question, needing somewhere else to put all this hurt, “Are you going home for winter break?”
“Yeah.”
“Japan?”
“Tokyo.”
The reply comes easily, but his face tells a whole different story. You know he loves Tokyo, you know that. He talks about the food like it’s holy, whereas he complains about LA 7-Elevens as if they’re a disgrace to society. He has his best friend Geto there, twenty-one years of history overseas, a whole language that changes the shape of him when he speaks it. So why does he look like that?
“You don’t…seem excited.”
His mouth curves, small and tired, “I like Tokyo…” The curve fades as a few seconds pass, “...I don’t like being home. It’s—” He looks down at the steering wheel, “It’s different there.”
“With your family?” You ask, and he nods, “How?”
For a minute, he doesn't answer, “At USC, everybody wants me loud. At home, everybody wants me quiet,” His thumb grazes over his knee, “Same shit. Different volume.”
You realize it then. The performance of Satoru Gojo. The characters he portrays.
Gojo as noise. Satoru as silence. Both versions wanted for their usefulness, watched under a microscope. And neither of them are free.
“You make it sound like nobody wants you as you are.”
His face changes, barely. He looks into your eyes and in that moment, he appears so young it almost makes you angry. Angry at him, his family, yourself—at the fact that you can still want to reach for him after everything.
“Maybe they don’t know what that is,” His eyes flick away before the sentence can grow too vulnerable, “I didn’t either…not until you,” But he seems to regret it instantly, jaw clenching, “Fuck. I didn’t mean—”
“What did you mean?”
“I don’t know,” He admits, sighing deeply, and for some reason that hurts more than if he had given you some perfect response, “I just know it was different with you. And I handled it like shit.”
Not yet wise enough to understand himself, he sits here on his twenty-first birthday, trying to name a wound with tools he doesn’t have.
“I really fucking missed you,” He says suddenly, so sudden your heart stops, “I missed you all the time,” The words scrape out of him, humiliating but honest, “All the time. In class. At the gym. Driving. Standing in my room doing nothing. I’d hear something and think I had to tell you. But then I’d reach for my phone and remember—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, there’s no need to. You can fill in the blank. He’d remember that he couldn’t do that anymore.
“I kept thinking it would fade,” He says, “Like after a few days, my body would remember you were gone, but it never did,” He laughs once under his breath, “Do you know how fucking stupid that feels? To miss somebody and not even be able to miss them cleanly?”
“...What does that mean?”
“It means every time I want you, I remember what wanting you cost.”
Oh. That one stings.
His eyes flick toward you, wet and furious with himself, “And I still want you,” Then looks away immediately, like he has no right to look at you after saying it, “I still want you. I still love you. I still fucking miss you. And none of that makes me less guilty.”
Your eyes burn so sharply you have to blink rapidly. God, this is worse. This is so much worse than him begging. You could reject begging in all its pitifulness, but this? This just hangs in the air, true and useless. And you do the idiotic thing by saying it back, “I missed you too.”
His body draws taut, so you keep going before he can turn the words into hope, “But I’m still angry.”
“I know.”
“And I still don’t know what to do with you.”
“I know.”
“And I can’t let missing you make decisions for me.”
He flinches, a small one that he tries to bury too late, and nods, “Okay.”
For some reason, him sitting there and letting the boundary stay intact breaks you more. You half-expected him to be the version of himself you knew how to leave, the one you could shove back. Maybe you even wanted that, honestly. But no. He’s being the person you wished he was weeks ago.
You blink again, but this time the tears come anyway. Satoru sees them and looks away, feeling undeserving to witness it. A miserable chuckle catches in your throat, “This is so stupid.”
His mouth twists sadly, “Yeah.”
“It’s your birthday.”
“Yep.”
“And we’re sitting in your car eating mochi and crying.”
“You’re crying,” He corrects gently.
You shoot him a look through blurred vision, “Don’t start.”
“I’m not.”
“You looked like you were about to.”
“That’s…a lie.”
There it is again—a breath of something normal. So little, yet painful you could hate him for giving it to you. Your lip trembles, stuck somewhere between a laugh and another sob, and his face softens in a way that makes the whole car feel dangerous. Because throughout it all, he’s the boy who can still make you almost laugh while you’re crying in the passenger seat of the car where you broke each other’s hearts. He’s the boy you still love.
Fuck.
The boy you still love.
Which is exactly why you wipe your cheeks and turn away, “I should go back soon.”
His expression falters for a breath, but then he nods, “Yeah,” He says quietly, “Okay.”
Again, all he can answer with is okay and again, it hurts.
The drive back to your dorm is quieter than the drive there. Though, the silence has weight now, packed full of everything neither of you knows how to say without making the night worse. The Neighbourhood keeps playing low through the speakers, A Little Death. You shrink in your seat slightly, knowing that the song has nothing to do with dying.
Satoru keeps both hands on the wheel, it’s the only way he can keep himself from trying to reach for you. He knows better—if his hand moves even an inch, yours might move too, and then this whole fragile little near-peace will become something neither of you can survive.
The mochi box sits closed in the center console, safer now, and when Satoru pulls up outside your dorm, he doesn't kill the engine right away. The Porsche idles at the curb, streetlamp cutting across his face.
Right away, you know you should unbuckle; thank him for the drive, take this puny victory of leaving before either of you ruins this, and go back upstairs to Blair, who is absolutely awake and waiting to interrogate you.
But, like the foolish person you are, you sit there, and so does he. Neither of you looks at each other first, “Thank you for coming.”
You stare blankly at your hands, “Well, it’s your birthday…”
It sounds like an excuse more than an answer. Hell, it probably is one. A flimsy thing to hide behind because saying I wanted to see you would be too honest, and honesty has already done enough damage tonight.
Satoru turns his head, looking at you now, and you can feel it before you even see it. The weight of his gaze—softened, tired, and wanting in a way that doesn’t feel like the old hunger or maybe it does. That’s the problem, really. With him, tenderness and hunger have always come intertwined.
You finally look back and…big mistake. His eyes are too blue in the dark, glassy around the edges, pale lashes lowered like he’s trying to hold himself in place through sheer will alone. His mouth parts as if he’s going to say something, but nothing comes out.
Thank fucking God.
If he says one more sad thing, you might actually crawl out of your own skin.
“I should go,” You whisper.
“Yeah.”
But you still don’t move and that’s when his gaze drops to your lips, only for a second, maybe less, yet it’s long enough to ruin you, “Satoru,” You warn, though it lacks strength.
“I know,” He murmurs, eyes flicking back up to yours, “I’m not doing anything.”
Yeah. He isn’t. He’s just sitting there, hands glued to the wheel, letting you leave if you want to leave. Which, inexplicably, makes you want him more. You hate that so badly your chest aches with it.
Your seatbeat clicks before you remember deciding to unbuckle it. Satoru’s eyes drop to the belt, then back up to your face. This is when you know you really should open the door and go, but you still don’t. Your hand moves seemingly on its own, across the center console, and your fingers find the front of his shirt, curling lightly into the fabric near his chest. His breath catches so quietly you almost miss it.
Then, his hand leaves the steering wheel, slowly, giving you every chance to stop him. His fingers come up to your face, thumb brushing beneath your jaw with a gentleness so careful it makes your insides twist. You close your eyes before his mouth touches yours.
The kiss is soft at first, a wary press of his lips against yours, warm and trembling, like he’s afraid of scaring the moment away—one wrong move and you’ll disappear into your dorm and leave him with nothing but the mochi box and a mouth full of things he didn’t have the balls to say.
You make another big mistake. The mistake of kissing him back…really kissing him back.
Your fingers tighten in his shirt and that cracks the rest of his restraint. You feel his body shift, his breath leaves through his nose and his hand slides from beneath your jaw to the side of your neck. His thumb rests under your chin, tilting you just enough for the kiss to deepen, and God, the second it does, everything comes rushing back.
His mouth opens against yours and the sound he makes is barely there, broken and swallowed, but it sends heat straight through your core. Your free hand comes up without permission, fingers slipping into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and he shivers like the touch burned him.
The kiss turns ravenous for one precarious second. Deep, aching, familiar in a way that makes your blood run like fire in your veins. His lips move over yours like he remembers everything and is trying not to remember too much at the same time. His hand stays at your neck, thumb stroking once beneath your jaw and it’s so gentle it almost feels worse than if he had been reckless.
Reckless is what you know. You can survive reckless. This is so much harder. This is Satoru holding you like he knows he’s already lost the right to.
You hesitantly pull back first, forehead touching his; his breath is uneven against your mouth, though he follows you without even thinking. His lips chase yours, instinctive, starved for more, and your heart stutters because you know if he kisses you again, you’ll let him.
But he stops himself. His brilliant blue eyes open and he sees your face, noticing the line you’re trying to hold with both hands, and stops. The restraint is visible, painful even. His fingers flex once against your neck before he lets it fall away slowly, like it physically hurts him.
“I’m sorry,” He breathes.
You shake your head, still too close to him, “Don’t be.”
He swallows, now the car feels warmer, smaller. Your mouth is tingling and your hand is twisted in his shirt, so you force yourself to let go. The fabric slips from your fingers and rests back against his chest. That tiny loss hurts too.
You look away first, blinking hard, “They’re making you go out later, aren’t they?”
His mouth curves as he sighs, “Unfortunately.”
“Bars?”
“Pregame first,” He says, “Then a club. Apparently they reserved a few sections.”
Your stomach twists in an ugly way that makes your skin prickle beneath your clothes. Club. Sections. Of fucking course.
He’s going to be surrounded by bottle girls and frat brothers who are bad influences. Bottles of booze with stupid sparklers and cocaine in the dirty bathrooms. Music will be blaring so loud you can’t even think. Girls in tiny dresses leaning over him to say happy birthday, hands on his shoulder, lips too close to his ear because the bass gives them an excuse.
Girls who don’t know any of it. They don’t know that he was almost a father and that he keeps that grief folded behind his ID.
No, they will look at him and see exactly what everyone sees when they look at him. Pretty, rich, wanted Gojo.
The boy with the hair white like snow and the Porsche to match and the captivating cerulean colored eyes and the kind of mouth girls dream about before they know what it feels like.
Your mouth still knows. Yet tomorrow he’s going to walk into some club with your kiss still lingering on his lips while other girls orbit close enough to smell his cologne.
The thought makes you sick, which is ridiculous, hypocritical again too. You were the one who ended this. So why does some awful, possessive little part of you still want to put your hand over his chest and say no, don’t go?
You hate that the thought makes you sound so much like how he used to.
“Oh,” You say, barely a word.
Satoru glances over as you keep your eyes on your lap, afraid that your face has already betrayed you and that he can see the whole rottenness buried within your body—jealousy, concern, mourning, want, the miserable tiny claim you still carry like a bruise.
He exhales quietly, “I don’t even want to go.”
Hearing that makes you feel better, albeit slightly. But then it makes you feel like shit because relief has no business blooming inside you over that. You don’t get to be relieved that your ex-boyfriend doesn’t want to spend his twenty-first birthday surrounded by girls and liquor and people who aren’t you.
You don’t get to care, you know that, yet you do anyway, “Then don’t.”
The words slip out accidentally, or maybe not accidentally at all. Satoru’s gaze drops to your mouth again, briefly, almost like he can’t help himself, “You know I wouldn’t go if you asked me not to.”
Your heart thumps once, a frantic kick. The sad part is that you believe him. He would absolutely throw away the whole stupid night if you gave him the smallest reason to. He’d let the brothers call him whipped, pathetic, pussy or whatever insult they could conjure after six shots and a fuck ton of bumps. Gojo would sit in this car until sunrise if it meant one hour of you looking at him like this.
Which is exactly why you can’t ask. You already told him missing him can’t make decisions for you, “I’m not asking.”
He bows his head, “Okay.”
Again, that fucking word. Okay. You despise how much restraint sounds like loss when it comes from him.
He looks forward, jaw tight, “I’ll go for a bit. Show my face. Then leave.”
You almost laugh. Yeah, you’ve heard that one before. Plenty of times while you were up sick, pregnant, and scared, “You say that now.”
“I know.”
Well, at least he’s honest. The both of you are no stranger of what this world does to him. The drinks, the noise, the bathroom counters, the lines. Your jealousy folds into fear so quickly it makes you dizzy.
“Satoru,” He turns to you, “Be careful.”
Be careful means too many things. The girls. The drinking. And of course, the worst of them all, the drugs. Mainly you mean, be careful with the version of you that comes out when everyone wants Gojo and nobody cares what happens to Satoru afterward.
He understands every meaning. You can tell by the guilt that crosses his face, brief and unmistakable. And for one second, you think he might promise.
Old Gojo would have. He would have looked you dead in the eye and lied beautifully because he was good at that. He would have said I will, baby with enough conviction to make you want to believe him.
But this version of him gives the cowardly, truthful answer, “I’ll try.”
Your throat tightens and you force a grin like it doesn’t hurt, “Okay.”
And then you open the door before the possessive, grieving thing inside you can ask him to stay or before you forget, for one weak second, that you’re not his girlfriend anymore and he isn’t yours. Even if some ruined part of you still feels like he is.
Cool air rushes into the car as you step out, Satoru watches you from the driver’s seat, but doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t make this harder than it already is. You shut the door gently and stand on the curb, looking at him through the tinted window. You can’t see him clearly, only the pale shape of his hair and the outline of his face turned toward you.
You spin on your heel and walk to the dorm, every step feels like tearing open a scabbed wound. Behind you, Satoru doesn’t drive away until you’re safely inside, you know that without looking back.
Once you are, he breathes out a deep breath and reluctantly drives off. The drive back to Sig Chi takes less than five minutes, but it feels longer. Even with The Neighbourhood still playing low through the speakers, the car is too quiet. Your perfume lingers in the passenger seat, tangled with the ghost of your mouth on his. The mochi sits in the center console, yet the only thing he tastes is you.
Pulling up to the curb outside the house, he isn’t surprised to see that the party is still going. People are on the porch, two brothers pass around a bottle of whiskey back and forth like the entire world isn’t actively rotting. At least, for Gojo it is.
He sits in the driver seat for a few minutes, contemplating even going inside, though he knows he should. He should drink, smile, let Ryan shove another stupid beer can into his hand, have the night become loud enough to make him forget your mouth from his memory. Yeah right, like he ever could.
Eventually, he works up the courage to move, grabbing the mochi box as he does so. The second he steps inside, three different voices shout for him.
“There he is!”
“Birthday boy’s back!”
“Where the fuck did you go?”
Someone jeers from the living room, loud and stupid, “Nah, bro definitely went to see her.”
A few brothers erupt instantly, drunk off the idea of it before he even says anything.
“Ohh, he went to see the ex.”
“Birthday pussy, let’s fucking go.”
“Fuckin’ dog,” One of them laughs, clapping him too hard on the shoulder as he passes, “Left his own party and still got laid.”
Gojo bites his tongue; this is the only version of events that they can understand. He left for you, so he must have fucked you. You must have missed him so much and oh it’s his birthday so you let him talk his way back in between your legs. And now he’s returned, triumphant and smug, body loose with satisfaction, another dirty frat house story for the boys to cheer over.
And yeah, some selfish, greedy part of him would be lying if he pretended the thought didn’t make his body ache. Of course he wanted to fuck you. He always wants you. One kiss had been enough to remind him of that in the cruelest way possible. Your fingers tugging his hair, your mouth opening under his, the soft pull of your hand in his shirt like you still know where to hold him.
His body had reacted immediately, stupidly, like no time passed at all and nothing bad had happened.
But of course, wanting to fuck you isn’t as simple as it used to be. Now, you’re recovering from an abortion, from him, from the damage he had wrapped around you and called love.
So no, it’s nothing like what they think. He didn’t get to fuck you just because you missed him. He didn’t get to crawl back inside you like forgiveness lives there. Honestly, he barely even deserved a kiss at all.
That’s what makes the frat laughter feel so grotesque. They’re cheering for a conquest that never happened, for a version of him that would’ve taken the joke and worn it. Gojo would’ve normally smirked, let them believe it, maybe even add some filthy comment to make himself look better than what he is.
Instead, it makes him sick because nothing about seeing you tonight felt like a win.
Ryan appears from the living room, flushed and drunk, eyes narrowing when he clocks Gojo’s face, “You alright, bro?”
Gojo doesn’t stop walking, “Yeah.”
“That sounded fake as shit.”
“Then why ask?”
Someone behind him calls, “Don’t let him go upstairs, he might start writing love letters.”
Another voice yells, “Nah, let him rest. Man just put in work.”
More laughter ensues and Gojo keeps moving. The words follow him up the stairs, crude and wrong in every possible way. He stands in the middle of his room with the mochi in one hand, your kiss still burning on his mouth like an injury, and shuts his eyes.
Fuck.
He almost wishes you hadn’t kissed him at all.
Before tonight, missing you had become horrible in a way he could recognize. It had a routine, actually. Wake up. Think of you. Hate himself. Go to class. Think of you. Resist the urge to call and text. Hate himself some more. Survive another hour. Another day. Another night. Repeat. Sure, it hurt, but at least it had started to scab. Now, you have torn it open with your mouth.
When Gojo finally moves again, it's to set the mochi all the way back in his mini fridge, behind two bottles of water and a lonely, forgotten Red Bull. Hiding it because if one of his drunk frat brother fucks eats it later, he genuinely may kill them.
Then he sits on the edge of his bed and bows his head, alone on the first hour of his twenty-first birthday, glaring at the floor like it might miraculously split open and swallow him whole. Shit, I wish it would, he thinks.
And by the time he sleeps, it could barely be defined as such. He drifts in and out, caught in miserable scraps of memory. Rain taps against the window before he even opens his eyes, soft at first, then harder. A steady December downpour, rare for Los Angeles but fitting for what day it is.
Gojo lies there in his bed, listening to the soothing sound of rainfall, staring at the ceiling. His phone is already full of messages. Girls he hardly remembers, a couple of guys from class, frat brothers. He scrolls past all of them and opens yours.
happy birthday, satoru
That’s the only one that feels real. He rereads it until the words start to blur, then locks his phone and throws an arm over his eyes. He should probably get up. Shower. Go to class. Be normal in some capacity. Skipping class would feel too obviously pathetic and Gojo has always hated being pathetic in public more than he hates almost anything. So he goes.
Mentally though, he is nowhere near the USC campus. He sits in his Microeconomics lecture with his phone facedown on the desk, laptop untouched, rain ticking against the tall windows in the back of the room. Someone beside him wishes him happy birthday and he smiles automatically; beautiful, yet empty.
“Thanks.”
A girl two rows down turns around before the class starts, “Happy birthday, Gojo.”
“Appreciate it.”
The professor starts talking soon after and Gojo hears none of it. The only thing he can think about is your mouth and your necklace—your initial where his chain used to be. That should make him proud of you, there’s definitely a part of him that is, but another part of him feels like he’s choking on glass.
When he leaves class, the rain has gotten worse. Harsher, colder, bouncing off pavement and turning every walkway into a slick, ugly mirror. People speedwalk under jackets and umbrellas, shrieking as cars splash through puddles. LA students are dramatic about rain in a way that would’ve been funny if Gojo had any humor left in him.
Everywhere he goes, someone says happy birthday, and every single one feels hollow after yours.
At nine o’clock that same night, Sig Chi is alive again. The rain pounds against the windows while the house overheats from too many bodies packed inside. Music shakes the walls, bottles crowd every flat surface. Gojo dresses for his role, understanding the assignment. Black designer jeans, grey button-up open slightly at the throat, silver chain sitting on his collarbone.
His white hair is styled messily, he’s sprayed Tom Ford cologne on every pulse point instead of Armani, wears his AP watch with the diamond bezel that catches the light every time he moves his wrist. Everything loud, bright, and expensive enough to remind everyone who he is supposed to be.
He looks perfect, but he feels nowhere near it.
“Bro,” Ryan says when he sees him, already holding a bottle by the neck, “There he is.”
Someone whistles, “AP is mad tuff, bro.”
“Section’s about to go fucking crazy.”
“Hella bad bitches too,” Another brother adds, grinning as he throws an arm around Gojo’s shoulders, “You’re gonna be swimming in pussy tonight, birthday boy.”
The room laughs and Gojo flashes a faux smile, “Yeah.”
It’s convincing enough for drunk people, but Ryan’s eyes narrow anyway because for all of his flaws, he’s not completely stupid. He notices that the laugh doesn’t reach Gojo’s eyes, “You okay?”
“Fantastic.”
“Lie better.”
Gojo takes the vodka bottle from his hand, drinking straight from it, “That better?”
“No.”
But then a brother yells for both of them and the moment vanishes into the noise. They’re led upstairs into a room, where lines of coke are being cut on a glass coffee table. Gojo sees them before anyone even offers.
No, he thinks immediately, do not fucking do it.
His fingers tighten at his sides, reminiscing the moment he flushed all his shit down the toilet—pills and powder, feeling lonely and furious and half-sick with shame, staring back at the drugs like they could stare back, because he knew. He knew what that shit made him. What it cost him. And he told himself he’d sworn off of it.
“Birthday boy,” A brother drawls, already drunk and slurring. His smile is too wide as he holds a rolled bill toward him, “First line of the night is for you.”
The room turns to watch him now, which is always how it goes. He looks at the white line and thinks of your face when you told him to “be careful”. The taste of your mouth on his. Your initial where he used to be. The mochi you got him because you still thought of him when he didn’t deserve it.
Fuck, it makes him sick. Not the thing that made you lose her.
He almost steps back when he recognizes it. Coke never did bring him any good. So, say no. Push the bill back. Laugh it off like you usually do. Drink more instead. Leave this goddamn room.
One night. It’s only been one night since you warned him to be careful. And he answered with a bullshit, I’ll try.
Yeah. Sure. Try.
His mouth goes dry, someone chuckles again and says, “Bro, don’t pussy out on us.”
And something ugly inside Gojo folds as if it’s tired of standing. He takes the bill and the rational part of him makes one last futile attempt—don’t.
He bends anyway, closes one nostril, and the line disappears. Nothing happens at first, but then the burn hits bitterly through his nose and down the back of his throat, familiar and shameful.
His eyes begin to water, his heart kicks quicker, the room around him snaps brighter at the edges. Every sound too close, his skin too tight over his bones underneath it.
And instantly, before the high can even pretend to be relief, the thought comes.
Really, Satoru? His hand braces on the table as he glares at the empty space where the cocaine used to be. You couldn’t listen to her?
The shame crashes so fast it almost knocks the breath out of him. Because for one stupid, humiliating second in the car, with your lips close and your voice telling him those words, he had wanted to be careful for you. Wanted it badly enough to believe that wanting might count, but of course it doesn’t. Wanting means shit if you have zero discipline.
And Gojo still stands there, in a room full of people who don't know what he lost, choosing the thing that helped make him lose it.
“Another?” His brother asks.
No. The voice in his head pleads. Stop.
You already did it. Don’t make it worse.
Don’t become this again.
He hates that voice, hates it because it sounds like you. The version of you he invented in his conscience. The one that used to look at him with disappointed eyes and never screamed because she was too tired. The girl who already knows he failed before he even tells her.
His throat swells as he heaves out a breath. Fuck that. I can’t listen to it all night.
“Yeah,” He murmurs, “Another.”
And he snorts a second line, then a third; they do nothing to help him feel better, but at least they get the voice in his head to shut the fuck up.
By eleven, he is drunk and high like everyone wants him to be; drunk and high enough to fake their idea of Gojo that no longer exists in reality.
They Uber to the club in West Hollywood and the ride is pure chaos that never fully registers to him. Rain hammers the roof, people chant his name; Ryan is half-laughing, half-yelling at a brother to not spill tequila in the car and fuck up his Uber rating.
Gojo just smiles out the window, his reflection staring back at him from the dark glass, handsome and vacant. He barely recognizes himself.
At the club entrance, the sidewalk is crowded with bodies and slick with rainwater. Music spills from inside every time the door opens, bass thudding into the wet street. Then the bouncer asks to see his ID.
Behind him, his brothers erupt like this is the pinnacle of human achievement. Ryan grabs both his shoulders and shakes him once, laughing too loudly. People start chanting again.
“Gojo! Gojo! Gojo!”
The name feels like it belongs to everyone except him, yet he laughs because that’s what Gojo is supposed to do. He opens his wallet and immediately freezes at what he sees.
The folded edge of the ultrasound tucked safely behind his ID. A small, thin sliver of gray and white. And the noise around him doesn’t fade, no, it grows louder.
Ryan laughing, cars hissing through rain, girls squealing, the bouncer saying something he misses, and in the middle of all that life, stuffed behind the proof that he is finally old enough to drink legally, is the closest thing he has to a grave.
His thumb stills against the leather. The ultrasound also brings up the memory of you. Your shaking hands, your face turned away in the passenger seat, your body carrying something both of you were too young and wrecked and terrified to love properly before it was gone.
Mine, he had thought then. Out of possession, but wonder too. Terror. A future nipping at his heels.
Maybe the baby would have had your eyes. The maybe hurts worse than certainty ever could.
Maybe your eyes. Maybe his hair. Maybe your smile. Maybe his nose. Maybe some tiny, impossible combination of both of you that never got to become a person.
No face. No laugh. No first birthday. No teeny hand wrapped around his finger. No you in his passenger seat, annoyed and beautiful, telling him to stop driving like a jackass because there’s a baby in the backseat. No appointment where he pretended not to cry. No anything.
Only this. A folded gray edge in his wallet. A dead future pressed behind his license while everyone screams for him to start living.
“Bro,” Ryan calls, snapping him out of it, “ID.”
Gojo blinks and the sidewalk comes back wrong. Bright, loud, too full of people who have no clue of what he’s holding. Carefully, so carefully, he pulls the license free.
Because touching the ultrasound feels dangerous; like if his finger grazes against the paper long enough, he might take it out right there. He might unfold it in front of the bouncer, under the neon, with all of Sigma Chi watching, and say—look.
Look at what I lost.
Look at what I fucking did.
Look at who should still be here.
But of course he doesn’t. He just hands over the ID; the bouncer checks it, glances at him, and gives it back, “Happy birthday, man.”
Satoru grins, but there is not an ounce of happiness in it, “Thanks.”
The guys cheer again as he steps inside; the night ruined before it even started. Seeing the ultrasound didn’t sober him up. Instead, it makes him want to be worse.
Unfortunately, or maybe mercifully, the section is perfect. Tons of bottles, tons of girls, sparklers with the dumbass signs, phones recording, brothers yelling. Someone shoves a drink into his hand before he even sits down. A girl touches his bicep and says, “Happy birthday, Gojo,” like she has any right to the name.
He drinks more since everyone is watching and he doesn’t want to feel any of it. The club swallows him whole because the alternative is standing still long enough to feel the full weight of the folded paper in his wallet.
But the ultrasound follows him anyway. So do you. So does the baby. So does the quiet, private thought that keeps surfacing beneath every beat of the music.
I’m sorry.
Not to one person, but to both.
To the baby who should still be here and the girl who should have been beside him tonight.
The life that was gone before he ever learned how to love anything gently.
A girl in a silver dress sits beside Gojo too close, her thigh touches his and her perfume disgusts him because it isn’t yours. He shifts away on instinct, she giggles like she thinks he’s teasing, but he’s not.
Another girl leans over him to pour champagne into his mouth while his brothers cheer. The bottle tips, gold liquor spilling cold over his tongue, down his chin, onto the open collar of his shirt. Club lights catch on his AP watch when he lifts a hand to wipe it away.
The whole section fucking loves it. Though, Gojo wants to crawl out of his fucking body.
Every hand feels wrong. Every girl feels wrong. Every yell makes him lonelier. The section isn’t a celebration. It’s a parody of a life he can’t get back into.
At some point in the night, he ends up in the bathroom or maybe a side hallway, he’s too fucked up to really know. All he processes is a brother holding a baggie between two fingers and saying something he can’t hear.
He does more coke. Bumps off keys. Then drinks again.
His heart starts racing too fast, frenzied thumps against his ribs. His skin feels scorching hot beneath the cotton of his shirt. The club tips slightly when he moves, not enough to scare him, no, he’d need a lot more than that, but just enough to make everything feel less real.
Good. Less real is the goal.
He doesn’t want to feel the birthday or your mouth or the baby folded behind his ID.
Yet, despite the drugs and alcohol, he fails at not feeling all three.
Sometime after 1 A.M., he steps outside for air, telling no one. Ryan is turned away, arguing with someone about the bill or fetching more bottles, and Gojo slips out like he has been waiting for this chance.
Outside the club, West Hollywood is still pouring. At first, he stands under the awning with the smokers and the girls waiting for Ubers, rain splashing against the curb hard enough to mist his sneakers.
He inhales once, but it isn’t enough. So he steps past the awning, letting the rain hit him. It soaks through his hair first, collapsing the careful styling until white strands cling to his forehead and lashes. Then his shirt, cotton sticking to his chest. His jeans become heavy, his sneakers darken after dampening. The AP watch on his wrist catches streetlight through rainwater, absurdly expensive and useless.
For the first time all night, he feels something real. Basking in it until he’s been standing there for too long. His phone buzzes.
ryan: where tf did yo go
ryan: brooo
ryan: dont be doing sum weird shit rn
Another text, another brother. More noise trying to follow him outside. Gojo ignores all of it and orders an Uber, waiting in the rain instead of going back in.
He’s completely drenched by the time the car arrives and the driver glances at him in the rearview mirror, wondering if he should cancel the ride, but Gojo slides into the backseat before he can even decide.
The drive is dead silent save for the rain and the squeaky windshield wipers. His clothes cling cold to his hot skin, wet hair dripping onto his collar. And in all of that, he feels the folded ultrasound in his wallet like a bruise. The performance is finally fucking over.
When he gets back to Sig Chi, the house is still partying downstairs, but Gojo avoids all of it. He heads straight upstairs, shuts his bedroom door, and stands there in soaked designer clothes, shivering once.
He should probably change. The shirt is stuck to his skin, his jeans are disgustingly heavy, his socks are drenched. Water drips from his hair onto the floor and his watch is still on, glittering faintly against his wrist like the most ridiculous proof in the world that money can’t save you from being miserable.
Shower, maybe. Sleep after. But no, what does he do?
He opens the mini fridge. The mochi is still there, hidden in the back where no drunk asshole could find it. Gojo takes the box out and sits on the edge of his bed. The dampness from his clothes sinks into the sheets, yet he doesn’t care. Discomfort feels appropriate—rightfully earned, even.
The mochi box opens with a soft plastic sound, zunda and cream, your gift; and eats one slowly. Then he thinks of how he imagined his twenty-first a month ago.
A month ago, he imagined ending the night with you in his bed. Under him and around him. His hands in your hair, your thighs locked around his waist, his mouth against your neck while he fucked you so deep you couldn’t think about anything else except his name.
He imagined getting greedy with it, too. Starting his birthday with you, ending his birthday with you. Keeping you on his cock until the sun came up because turning twenty-one meant nothing in comparison to you.
And maybe, if he’s being honest in the ugliest, most deranged part of his own mind, he imagined his hand spread across your belly too.
Right where the baby should’ve been.
Right where, a month ago, the baby was.
That horrible fact guts him so brutally he stops chewing.
God, he was so fucking stupid.
He had confused love with permanence. He wanted something that was his and real, reaching for it with both hands closed around its throat, only to lose it anyway.
His hand trembles as he reaches for his wallet. The ultrasound slides free and he holds it in one hand while the mochi sits open beside him.
Downstairs, a brother shouts his name again, muffled through the floor.
Gojo.
Gojo.
Gojo.
Upstairs, Satoru cries quietly in wet clothes.
Tears roll hot down his face while his heart beats too fast from the coke and the alcohol and everything he is too ruined to define. His phone lies open beside him, still on your thread.
happy birthday, satoru
He stares at it until the letters all jumble together. Then he types.
come over
Deletes it.
i need you
Deletes that too.
please
He deletes that one so fast his thumb almost slips, and looks back down at the mochi, then the ultrasound, then your message. His own reflection is faint in the black edge of the phone screen; wet hair, red eyes, shirt soaked by the rain, the world’s prettiest fucking disaster sitting alone on his bed while the party below celebrates a man who doesn’t exist.
Finally, he types the only thing he feels about this shitty night.
none of this meant anything without you
He sends it and is immediately regretful. For a second, he thinks he might genuinely be sick. He glances at the ultrasound shaking in his hand, tears flowing.
Satoru Gojo gets twenty-one birthdays.
The baby never even got one.
He presses the heel of his hand to his mouth, but the sound comes out anyway. Soft, broken, pathetic, and barely human.
I wanted to make the colored text thingy and it didn’t work i actually started crying from the frustration but hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it(i genuinely did fucking NOT)🥺. I also do apologise in advance if this is similar to other works on here I just love gojo like an arrogant guy with no self respect whatsoever so my fyp is all about it unfortunately.
The bass from the Sigma Chi party pounded through the floorboards in heavy, violent waves, strong enough to rattle the cheap kitchen cabinets and make the red plastic cups stacked beside the sink shiver against each other. The entire house felt overheated and alive — packed shoulder-to-shoulder with drunk college students, humid with sweat, spilled beer, and expensive cologne trying and failing to mask the smell of cheap vodka.
Colored lights flashed lazily across the ceiling, staining the crowded rooms blue, then pink, then red. Somewhere downstairs, people screamed the lyrics to a song that was too loud to even recognize properly anymore. Laughter erupted every few seconds from different corners of the house, sharp and messy and alcohol-soaked.
Bodies shoved through narrow hallways without apology. Someone stumbled into the kitchen island hard enough to slosh liquor across the counter while another couple made out openly against the refrigerator like nobody else existed.
The whole frat house buzzed with the kind of chaotic energy that only existed after midnight at parties like this — when everyone was drunk enough to stop pretending to be embarrassed.
And through all of it, Gojo Satoru somehow still managed to stand out effortlessly.
Leaning against the back patio doorway with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a half-empty beer dangling from his fingers, he looked completely at home in the noise and disorder around him. His white hair was messy from people touching it all night despite how much he complained about it, and his laugh carried easily over the music — low, warm, careless.
The kind of laugh that made people turn toward him automatically.
The kind that usually pulled you toward him too.
You should’ve gone home an hour ago.
Instead, you stayed in the hallway outside the living room with your shoulder against the wall and your arms crossed tightly over your chest, pretending you weren’t exhausted by the party, by the noise, by the constant attention that came with existing in rooms like this.
The house was overheated and loud in the way frat houses always were after midnight — bass shaking faintly through the floors, drunken laughter ricocheting off the walls, liquor and smoke hanging thick in the air. The lights were dim enough to flatter everyone and blur everything ugly.
Girls from your sorority clustered nearby in tiny glittering groups, perfume sweet enough to make your head ache. Every few minutes someone passed through the hallway and looked at you twice.
That happened constantly.
You were used to it.
At this school, everyone knew who you were before they met you. Beautiful. Intimidating. Mean, depending on who got rejected. Guys chased you relentlessly until they realized you didn’t hand out affection just because someone wanted it from you.
Most of them couldn’t stand that.
Gojo Satoru had seemed different.
At first.
He didn’t scare easily. Didn’t fold when you dismissed him. If anything, he got more interested.
And unfortunately for you, every other girl on campus wanted him too.
Which made whatever existed between you feel less like flirting and more like a war neither of you wanted to lose.
A week ago, after another party exactly like this one, he’d caught your wrist while you were heading upstairs to find your friends.
“Where do you keep disappearing to?” he’d asked with a grin.
You rolled your eyes. “Why? Miss me?”
“Obviously.”
Cocky.
You should’ve walked away then.
Instead you let him drag you into his room.
The door barely shut before he kissed you.
Messy and heated.
Like both of you were trying to overpower the other.
You remember pushing him backward onto the mattress just to hear him laugh against your mouth. Remember his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. Remembered him muttering “fuck” into your skin when you bit his lip.
And afterward—
Afterward was what ruined everything.
Because afterward, when the tension settled and the room finally went quiet, Gojo looked at you like he actually cared.
Like he wanted something from you that had nothing to do with sex.
You panicked and left before he could say it out loud.
Now you wished you’d left this party too.
Because from the other side of the half-open living room door, you heard your name.
You froze immediately.
Inside, the room buzzed with drunken conversation. You could practically picture the scene without looking — Gojo spread across the couch like he owned the fucking house, one arm slung over the back cushions, everyone gathered around him waiting to be entertained.
“…I’m serious,” Gojo was saying.
Someone laughed. “Bro, you’ve been staring at her all fucking night.”
Your stomach tightened.
Another guy chimed in. “Can you blame him? Every dude here’s obsessed with her.”
A pause.
Then Gojo laughed softly.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the funny part.”
The room laughed with him.
“She’s got every guy in this house acting stupid,” he continued. “You all see the attitude and suddenly wanna fix her or some shit.”
Your jaw tightened.
Suguru laughed. “Sounds jealous to me.”
“Jealous?” Gojo scoffed. “Please. I just think it’s funny watching these guys flirt with her when she was literally in my bed last week.”
The room erupted.
Heat flooded your face instantly.
Someone shouted, “NO FUCKING WAY.”
“Way.” he scoffed.
“Oh my god,” another guy groaned. “You finally got her?”
Gojo snorted.
“‘Got her’ sounds dramatic,” he drawled lazily. “Wasn’t exactly hard.”
The words hit like a slap.
“She acts all untouchable,” he continued, “but honestly? Half that shit disappears the second you get her alone.”
“She walks around acting like God or shit,” he said, voice edged with something sharper now, something ugly and possessive underneath the amusement. “Then suddenly she’s grabbing onto me because she wants attention.”
Your stomach twisted hard.
Because now you could hear it clearly.
Jealousy.
Not just bragging.
Punishment.
“She doesn’t seem clingy,” Suguru said.
Gojo barked out a laugh.
“She’s not clingy,” he said. “She’s just fucking needy when it’s just me and her.”
Humiliation crashed through you so fast your ears rang.
“And the crazy part?” Gojo continued. “Every dude here keeps staring at her like they’d have a chance if she gave them one.” He scoffed. “Cute.”
Someone whistled.
Gojo’s voice dropped lower.
“But she wasn’t acting all up when she was on my dick, so.”
The room exploded.
Your pulse pounded violently now.
“She let you hit, for real?” someone asked incredulously.
Gojo laughed under his breath.
“Man,” he said mockingly, “all it took was getting her alone for ten minutes and suddenly the attitude disappeared.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“She talks so much shit too,” he continued. “Then you touch her the right way and she goes all quiet.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’m serious,” Gojo said, sounding smug now. “Acts like she hates everybody but melts the second you give her attention.”
Every word felt deliberately cruel.
Like he wanted them picturing you beneath him.
Like he wanted every man in that room to know he’d gotten something they hadn’t.
Then he laughed again — softer this time, but somehow meaner.
“Watching all these guys flirt with her tonight after hearing the noises she made for me is fucking hilarious.”
The room LOST IT.
Your vision blurred instantly.
Because that one was intentional.
Designed to humiliate you.
To mark you as his.
“Satoru, you’re an asshole,” Suguru laughed.
Gojo only hummed.
“Maybe,” he said lazily. “But she still came back to me, didn’t she?”
And Gojo scoffed.
You didn’t hear the rest.
Blood rushed in your ears so loudly it drowned out the music downstairs. One of your friends touched your arm, eyes wide with horror, but you stepped away before she could say anything.
You walked straight through the party with your head high.
Despite everything that just happened.
—
By the time Gojo realized you’d heard, you were outside.
Cold night air hit your skin as you stood on the front lawn, staring at nothing. The muffled party sounds behind you felt far away.
A beat of silence.
Then hurried footsteps.
“Hey.”
You ignored him.
“Hey, wait.”
His hand caught your wrist lightly, and for the first time since knowing him, he actually looked nervous.
“You heard that?”
You let out a short laugh. “What gave it away?”
Gojo ran a hand through his hair. “Look, we were joking around—”
“So you decided to humiliate me for entertainment?”
“That’s not what I was doing.”
You finally looked at him then, and something in your expression made him stop cold.
Because you looked hurt.
“I get it,” you said quietly. “You needed your friends to think you’re cool.”
His jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”
“Oh, please.” You folded your arms. “You think I don’t know how guys talk after they hook up with a girl? You sounded just like the rest of them.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
For once, he didn’t have an answer ready.
The silence between you stretched painfully thin.
You swallowed hard before speaking again. “You know what’s funny? You were the first guy here I actually liked.”
His eyes widened slightly.
“And hearing you talk about me like that…” Your voice cracked despite your effort to stop it. “That was embarrassing enough. But the worst part is that I actually thought you were different.” you emphasised the word ‘were’.
The look on his face shifted instantly — regret hitting so hard it almost looked physical.
“Wait,” he said softly. “You liked me?”
You laughed again, except this one sounded miserable.
“There it is,” you whispered. “That’s the part you heard.”
Then you pulled your wrist from his grasp and walked away before he could see the tears finally falling.
Before everything went wrong, you and Gojo had been a disaster waiting to happen.
Everybody knew it.
The tension between you started long before you ever touched each other.
You were the girl people moved out of the way for in crowded hallways. Sharp tongue, perfect clothes, colder smile. Most guys on campus either wanted your attention or were terrified of becoming the next victim of your public humiliation.
Gojo somehow became both.
Because from the moment you met him at a fraternity mixer sophomore year, he would not stop provoking you.
“You always this mean,” he asked lazily that first night, “or am I special?”
You looked him up and down. “You’re not special enough for that.”
His grin widened instantly.
Most people got offended when you bit back at them.
Gojo looked delighted.
After that, it became a game.
He’d steal your phone and hold it above your head while you threatened murder. You’d insult his outfits in front of his entire friend group just to watch him laugh instead of getting mad. He’d walk into rooms and immediately search for you without realizing it.
Everybody noticed before you did.
“You two flirt like divorced parents,” Shoko told you once.
“We do not flirt,” you snapped.
Across the room, Gojo yelled, “She’s obsessed with me!”
You flipped him off instantly.
He looked unbearably pleased.
The thing was, nobody else got under your skin like he did.
And nobody got under his skin like you did either.
You challenged him constantly. Didn’t fall for his charm. Didn’t care that half the campus worshipped him.
Actually, sometimes you seemed actively annoyed by how loved he was.
Which only made him chase your attention harder.
He started sitting next to you in lectures he didn’t even need to attend.
Started showing up at parties only after hearing you’d be there.
Started noticing little things.
Like how you were only cruel to arrogant guys. How you secretly covered for drunk girls at parties. How you pretended not to care about anyone while quietly taking care of everyone around you.
And you noticed things too.
Like how Gojo got loud whenever he was uncomfortable.
How he hid exhaustion behind jokes.
How sometimes, after everybody else left, he’d look strangely lonely.
You never said any of this out loud, obviously.
That would’ve required emotional honesty.
Suguru once watched you both argue for twenty straight minutes over whether Gojo was banned from your apartment after he ate your roommate’s leftovers.
“You hooked up yet?” he asked eventually.
“No,” both of you answered immediately.
Then glanced at each other.
Suguru sighed. “Jesus Christ.”
The truth was, there had always been something dangerous underneath all the teasing.
Every touch lingered too long.
Every argument felt weirdly intimate.
Gojo would lean too close while smiling at you, all confidence and amusement, and your stomach would twist in a way that made you angry at yourself.
And sometimes you caught him staring at you when he thought you weren’t looking.
Like he forgot to hide it for a second.
You both knew this thing between you wasn’t casual long before you slept together.
The way he looked at you afterward made you think maybe this could become something real.
Which was exactly why hearing him laugh about you later hurt badly enough to ruin everything.
That night at the party only happened because the tension between you and Gojo had finally snapped after months of unresolved feelings, stupid arguments, dangerous eye contact, and pretending neither of you noticed the way everything changed whenever you were alone together.
The party itself had already become unbearable. Music pounded hard enough to shake the walls, people were yelling over each other in the living room, and someone had apparently broken a lamp an hour earlier because shards of glass still glittered near the hallway. The entire apartment smelled like alcohol, cheap perfume, and overheated bodies packed too close together.
You had escaped to the kitchen for exactly thirty seconds of peace before Gojo followed you in.
Of course he did.
“You’re avoiding me,” he announced immediately, pointing at you with the hand holding his half-empty drink.
You leaned back against the counter and sighed. “I’m surviving you.”
“Ouch.” He pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. “And here I thought we were connecting tonight.”
“You spilled alcohol on me.”
“You looked stressed. I was trying to include you in the experience.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m emotionally vulnerable.”
“You’re emotionally stupid.”
“Wow,” he gasped dramatically. “And people say romance is dead.”
You rolled your eyes, but a laugh escaped anyway before you could stop it.
Gojo noticed immediately.
The grin on his face faded just enough for your stomach to tighten. The teasing look in his eyes disappeared too, replaced by something quieter and infinitely more dangerous. The shift happened so fast it made your pulse stumble.
One second he was joking around like always.
The next he was staring at you in complete silence.
The noise around you suddenly felt distant, muffled beneath the violent pounding of your heartbeat. Even the music seemed quieter somehow.
Gojo straightened slowly and took a step closer.
Then another.
Not enough to corner you. Not enough to force anything. Just enough to make it obvious he was giving you time to move away if you wanted to.
You didn’t move.
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes, and the tension that settled between you after that felt almost unbearable.
“Satoru,” you whispered softly.
You didn’t even know what you meant by saying his name like that. Maybe it was supposed to be a warning. Maybe a question. Maybe you were trying to stop whatever this was before it destroyed the fragile balance you’d both been pretending still existed.
Gojo looked at you like he understood every possibility anyway.
“You know this was gonna happen eventually, right?” he asked quietly.
Your chest tightened painfully because the worst part was that he was right.
You had known for months.
You’d known every time he stood too close to you just to get a reaction. Every time his hand brushed yours and lingered for half a second too long. Every argument that somehow felt more intimate than actual flirting. Every lingering glance that neither of you ever acknowledged out loud.
You knew.
You just never expected either of you to finally cross the line.
Gojo stepped closer until warmth radiated off him in waves. Close enough that your breathing started feeling uneven. Close enough that one small movement would close the distance completely.
“Tell me to stop,” he said softly.
The words should’ve made this easier.
Instead they ruined you because he actually meant them.
Despite the flirting and the cocky attitude and the constant teasing, he was giving you a real choice. If you told him to back away, he would.
But you didn’t want him to.
Not even a little.
Your fingers tightened against the edge of the counter behind you while Gojo searched your face one last time like he was looking for hesitation.
Then he kissed you.
And it wasn’t cocky or careless like you expected it to be.
There was no smugness in it. No teasing.
It felt terrifyingly sincere.
Like months of tension and affection and restraint had finally snapped all at once.
The second his mouth touched yours, your brain stopped functioning properly. Heat rushed through your body so fast it almost hurt. Gojo kissed you carefully at first, like he still thought you might pull away, but the moment you kissed him back something in him broke completely.
His hand slid to your waist, pulling you against him hard enough to drag a sharp breath from your throat.
“Fuck,” he whispered against your lips.
The sound sent a violent shiver down your spine.
Without thinking, you grabbed the front of his shirt, and Gojo made this low, wrecked sound that nearly destroyed what little self-control you had left.
The kiss deepened instantly after that.
Messy, desperate, months of unresolved tension crashing together all at once.
Your head spun from how overwhelming he felt. The warmth of his body, the faint taste of alcohol on his mouth, the rough sound of his breathing every time you pulled him closer—it was all consuming you faster than you could process.
It felt dangerous in the worst possible way because you already knew this wasn’t something either of you would be able to come back from afterward.
And honestly?
You didn’t care anymore.
Gojo’s hand tightened slightly against your waist while the other moved up your neck, his thumb brushing your jaw so gently it almost contrasted painfully with how hard your heart was pounding.
You barely had time to breathe before you looked up—
And you’re outside the party, crying your heart out.
wc: ~13.5k | cw: fratjo! smut, kinda angsty, possessive/obsessive tendencies, toxic relationship dynamics, masturbation (m!), recorded sexual content, unprotected sex, creampie, substance abuse references, frat culture, lil bit of hazing, blood/bleeding, pregnancy loss, post-abortion grief, explicit language, use of pet names (baby, princess), dark romance vibes, gojo lowk a sick freak, reader’s dad is basically tom brady lmao, sports + music references, dual povs
summary: while you go home to boston, gojo stays behind in los angeles to rot in everything you left him with.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
BOSTON IS BRUTALLY cold this time of year.
Isn’t that fitting?
You’ve lost your baby and your boyfriend all within the same week and now, three days later you’ve landed back home for Thanksgiving break. Expected to slip right into normalcy like your life hasn’t been thrashed around in the cruelest way imaginable.
You’re still bleeding, though it’s become manageable. So has the cramping. Fairly reminiscent of a period, it’s close enough that you can lie to yourself if you don’t think too hard about it.
So that’s what you do.
It’s a period, yeah. Just a period. Only blood and cramps.
Not your body finishing what you started with those two pills or your baby withering away. Just…a period.
The second you and Blair step outside, past the sliding doors at Logan Airport, the wind slices through your coat so sharply your whole body tenses, “Ugh, fuck this shit,” Blair hisses, dragging her suitcase behind her as she ducks into herself, “I’m already counting the days ‘til we’re back in LA.”
A weak breath leaves you, the chill in the air stinging your throat like swallowed glass shards, “Same.”
You’re not itching to go back by any means, not to the place that has wrung you out this badly. But being here? Surrounded by family and people who love you enough to notice something is wrong? Well, that seems even more tortuous. At least strangers don’t ask questions. Family does—especially yours. And honestly, you don’t know which one is worse; lying to them for the next seven days, or telling the truth and watching it detonate at the dining table.
You’re tired in that bone-deep way sleep hasn’t been able to touch since Tuesday. Your lower stomach still hurts in little waves if you move too fast and even hauling your suitcase across the curb feels harder than it should. But then you spot your two older brothers waiting near passenger pickup, all broad shoulders and puffy winter jackets, and the same thought slithers into your mind. You want to turn around, get back on that plane, and disappear to the west coast.
Unfortunately though, you’re stuck here and Sam will make it his life mission to annoy the hell out of you every day, “Yo! There she is! Our Cali girl, aww!” He calls, so loud and obnoxious that a few passersby glance over, one arm waving high like you might somehow miss the 6'4 Notre Dame quarterback making a spectacle of himself as he often tends to do.
Standing right beside him, Nick, the oldest of the three of you, just shakes his head. Sam gets to you first, obviously, reaching for your suitcase before you can protest with that easy swagger of his. But when he clocks your neutral expression, he raises a brow, “Oh, great,” He murmurs, “LA turned you into a bitch.”
Blair snorts, “She’s exhausted, asshole. Leave her alone.”
“Sheesh, they got you too then, huh? Lovely,” He points at her, “You, I missed. Her?” He jerks his chin toward you, “Debatable.”
Normally, that would get a reaction out of you. Some snarky comeback, possibly a shove, or at least an eye roll with life in it, but today all you can manage is, “Hi, Sam.”
He recoils theatrically, “Wow. That’s all I get? Just hi?” He lets go of your suitcase just long enough to flip you off with both middle fingers, “Have fun walking home.”
Your lack of any energy at all is what makes Nick actually look at you, quietly observing. He steps in then, softer than Sam ever is, and pulls you into one of those solid, brief hugs that says everything he won’t say aloud, “Hey, (Y/N).”
“Hi.”
When he pulls back, his eyes dip over your face for a moment too long. He sees it up close now—the fatigue, the fact that even standing still you look as if bracing against something. He notices, meanwhile, Sam notices nothing. He’s already grabbing Blair’s suitcase too, leading the four of you toward his Range Rover.
“Mom and dad are home,” He says, flicking his gaze over his shoulder, “They’ve been acting like the fuckin’ pilgrims all morning getting food ready. Also, we’re going to the Bruins game tonight, so try not to look this depressed by then, ‘kay?”
Your stomach twists into a tight knot. Bruins games are your favorite. Hockey has always been entertaining to watch and a family tradition your father developed over the years, but the idea of going to one now only makes you sick. You force on a smile as Nick opens the back door for you and waits while you climb in carefully. Your movements are slow, slower than usual, and his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.
Sam doesn’t catch it, too busy slamming the trunk shut and rounding the SUV, still yapping nonsense you stopped listening to once the word Bruins rang out, “Dad’s already in one of his weirdly good moods too, so don’t ruin it.”
Blair slides in beside you and mutters under her breath, “God, he’s annoying.”
You peer out the window as the cold gray city blurs past and hum in agreement. Boston looks exactly how you left it. The streets are still narrow and mean, clogged with traffic and old brick buildings; the sky hangs low and colorless over everything like God forgot to adjust the saturation.
Bare trees line the sidewalk in stiff, skeletal rows, branches clawing at the air. People in wool coats hurry past coffee shops and miscellaneous stores, shoulders hunched against the frigid wind, cheeks flushed from the cold.
It is nothing like California and feels familiar in a way that should comfort you, but doesn’t at all. Instead, it makes your chest feel tighter like every mile closer to home is another reminder of the girl you used to be when you left in August. That girl had been restless and spoiled, desperate to be touched by something reckless. She had been stupidly convinced that freedom would be loud, hot, easy, and that it would taste like vodka and some frat boy’s mouth on hers.
Now, freedom tastes like blood, heartbreak, and ibuprofen with the inside of your cheek bitten raw so you don’t start crying in front of your brothers.
Sam drives in the same manner as he plays football—aggressively, confidently, and with an incredibly questionable belief that everyone else should just fucking move. He cuts someone off near the tunnel entrance and throws up a hand when the guy honks.
“Relax, Prius,” He mutters, “You were literally born to yield, buddy.”
Nick, from the passenger seat, sighs, “You’re trying to kill us.”
“You’re just jealous,” Sam says, one hand loose on the wheel, “Not everyone can have elite field vision like me.”
“You almost hit a bus.”
“I saw the bus.”
“You were looking at your phone?”
“Okay—I sensed the bus.”
Blair leans closer to you, whispering, “Seven days of this bullshit, yay.”
A feeble smile twitches at the corner of your mouth and she notices instantly, feeling victorious like she dragged a laugh out of a corpse. Sam catches it in the rearview mirror and points back at you without looking away from the road, “There’s my little sister. Knew California didn’t fully kill her.”
Your smile vanishes before it can become anything real.
California didn’t kill you. It just killed something within you. That’s different, right?
Your hand drifts toward your stomach before you can stop it, fingers pressing lightly through your coat to feel the ache still thrumming there, low and dull. Guess your body is keeping score even if your mind is begging it not to.
Nick sees that too. His inquisitive gaze flicks from your hand to your face in the rearview, but he doesn’t say anything. That’s the thing about Nick. He’s always been less intrusive than Sam, less explosive than your father, less determined to drag answers out of people before they’re ready.
Sometimes that makes him easier to love, other times it makes him terrifying.
By the time the SUV pulls into your neighborhood, the sky has darkened into that early winter blue-gray that makes every colonial mansion on the block look colder than it is. The houses sit back from the road behind iron gates and perfect hedges, Christmas wreaths already hanging from some doors even though Thanksgiving hasn’t even taken place yet. Your mother has always been one of those people who starts decorating early because she just “can’t help herself”.
Sure enough, when Sam turns into the driveway, the house glows. Warm windows, garland wrapped around the columns, the faintest glimpse of gold lights through the front hall. Everything is pretty, expensive, preserved, and perfect—a snowless New England postcard for people with too much money and too many familial issues.
You stare at it and feel your throat start to close.
Home.
God, you used to think getting out of here would be the hardest thing you’d ever do. How naive of you. Walking back in will be ten times as hard.
Sam parks crookedly near the front step and hops out before anyone else can move, “Alright ladies and loser, we’ve arrived.”
“Thank the fucking Lord,” Blair mumbles, “I was getting carsick.”
Nick opens your door quicker than you can reach for the handle, again. You look up at him and neither of you says a word, then he offers his hand. You hate that your first instinct is to take it, but hate even more that you need it. Delicately, you step out, a tiny pinch of pain pulling in your abdomen when your foot hits the pavement. It’s not even the worst cramp you’ve had today, but your face gives you away for half a second. Nick’s jaw tightens, you pretend that it didn’t.
Inside, the house smells like roasting vegetables, butter, cinnamon, and your mother’s expensive vanilla candles. The ones she loves and buys in bulk from some boutique in Beacon Hill and burns like your father isn’t the one funding it.
She appears from the kitchen the minute the front door opens, wearing one of those soft cashmere sweaters she always looks so graceful in, cheeks flushed from cooking.
“Oh, my girls!” She gasps, arms already opening. Blair gets swept in first because she’s basically a second daughter. Your mother kisses both of her cheeks, then turns to you. Her whole face softens and that is the gesture that almost breaks you, “Sweetheart…”
You step into her hug and immediately regret it. It’s not that you didn’t want it—no, you absolutely did. Her arms wrap around you, warmth and familiarity hitting you like a punch to the gut, hand smoothing over the back of your head like you’re five years old again instead of the girl who spent Tuesday bleeding through a choice that remains lodged under your ribs.
You breathe her perfume in, powdery and clean, and your eyes sting so sharply you have to blink rapidly against her shoulder. She notices the stiffness in your bones and pulls back to look at you properly, “You okay?”
Question number one. They’re starting earlier than expected.
You force a smile with such delicate effort it’s like using tweezers to pull your own face together, “Yeah…Just—my period’s bad.”
Period. Yeah. That’s what it is, remember?
“Oh, honey,” She coos, thumb brushing once beneath your eye, “Do you need anything?”
“No. No, I’m good.”
Sam drags your suitcase in behind you and announces, “She’s been miserable as fuck since she landed.”
“Sam,” Nick warns.
Your father’s voice booms from somewhere down the hall before he appears, “Who’s miserable?”
And then he’s there. Your dad. Still larger than life, carrying himself like a man who once had seventy thousand people screaming his name every NFL Sunday and never fully learned how to become regular afterward. He’s wearing jeans, a Patriots quarter-zip, and that expression he gets every time he sees you after more than a week apart; the one where he’s relieved that you still exist.
You exist, but not as the same daughter he knows.
His smile breaks open, “There’s my princess.”
The word makes you cringe. It sounds wrong now, though it shouldn’t. It’s been yours forever. His favorite name for you, the same one he used when you were missing teeth and wearing oversized jerseys. The same one he said when he hugged you goodbye at USC.
But now? It drags something out of you that hurts in the worst way.
Because Gojo said it too—soft, filthy, possessive, worshipful, tender, cruel. All of it. Even names that don’t belong coming out of his mouth, he’s claimed as his own.
Princess.
Your stomach churns. Your dad doesn’t know any of that, blissfully unaware of how much baggage the two syllables yield. He just crosses the foyer and pulls into a hug so tight your ribs scream in protest; you wince before you can stop yourself and he loosens immediately.
“Sorry,” He says, brows pinching, “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” You answer suspiciously quick, “I’m fine.”
Nick’s eyes move to you again, Blair’s also. Fuck, you’re surrounded by witnesses.
Your father, thankfully, is too emotional to fully process it. He kisses the top of your head and holds you at arm’s length, “Look at you. California didn’t steal my girl completely, at least.”
“Yeah, right,” Sam interjects, walking past with Blair’s suitcase, “I don’t recall her being this moody.”
Your dad glares at him, “She just got off a flight.”
“Yeah, from LA, not fucking combat.”
Your mother claps once, mercifully interrupting before Sam can continue being, unfortunately, himself, “Okay, everyone into the kitchen. Food’s almost ready, and your father has been hovering over the mashed potatoes like it owes him something.”
“It does,” He confirms, “I have expectations.”
“Of potatoes?” Nick asks.
“Of everything,” No one bothers to argue with that. Everything with him is an expectation.
You all file into the kitchen, where it is brighter and warmer than you remember, but then again there hasn’t been much brightness or warmth in your life lately. Your mother moves between counters, Sam steals a roll and gets swatted with a dish towel, Nick leans against the island; arms folded, quietly watching the room, more so watching you.
You shed your coat gingerly and hang it near the mudroom. Beneath it, you’re wearing leggings and an oversized USC crewneck that is yours and not Gojo’s. You made sure of that. You left every piece of him folded inside a drawer back in LA as if that could erase everything.
Yet, when you take your seat at the table along with Blair, the empty space at your throat feels too obvious to ignore.
There’s no chain there anymore. No claim. No mark. Only bare skin.
You wonder if your body remembers the weight of him there. If skin can even grieve silver. If you’re a little insane for wondering all of that in the first place. Probably. No, not probably. You absolutely are.
The first hour of dinner passes in a blur of normalcy so aggressive it feels borderline violent. Your mother asks about classes, Sam talks about Notre Dame, bowl projections, NIL deals, interviews, how he’s guaranteed the Heisman—just like dad was, speculation that he’ll go first overall at the draft come April. Your father tries not to look overly proud, but fails miserably.
Nick gives a dry update about his baseball career—spring training is not that far away, he’ll start his first ever MLB season in March with the Washington Nationals; he complains about one of the coaches who keeps fucking with his batting stance even though it’s the one that got him to the show.
Everyone laughs at the right moments, including you. Then you take two bites of mashed potatoes and feel like you’ve swallowed wet cement with the way it clings to your esophagus. You’re not as unsuspecting as you thought; your parents notice your lack of appetite, but your father speaks first because subtly has never been his strong suit.
“You’re not eating.”
Your fork stills, “I am.”
“You’ve moved that potato around for ten minutes.”
“Maybe…” You trail off, thoughtlessly, “I’m…sculpting.”
Blair coughs into her water, a poor attempt to not laugh. Sam points his fork at you, “Honestly, let her. Maybe she finally found a talent.”
You scowl at him weakly, “You’re literally one concussion away from forgetting how doors work.”
Sam smiles, he’s waited for a comeback like that since the moment you came home and your dad laughs brazenly, but it fades quickly when he glances down at your plate again, “You sure you’re feeling okay?”
Question number…what? You’ve lost count.
You nod, “Just tired. And the plane food was gross.”
Blair perks up, “You didn’t eat plane food.”
Your head snaps toward her and her eyes widen behind her glass. Oh, she knows she fucked up.
“Liar,” Sam rings out.
Blair recovers swiftly, nervously flipping her hair, “I-I mean, because she has taste. Unlike you, who ate nasty airport pizza at ten in the morning on the last family vacation.”
“That pizza was artisanal.”
“It was from Pizza Hut.”
“And nobody out pizzas the hut.”
Your mother laughs despite the initial concern, and the attention shifts. Thank God. But the relief is short-lived. Because eventually, inevitably, horribly, Gojo’s name somehow finds its way into the dining room.
It happens because Sam, in his infinite talent for being emotionally tone-deaf and far too noisy, leans back in his chair and asks, mouth half-full, “So where’s the frat boyfriend?”
The room doesn't fall silent immediately. Instead it does something worse—it slows. Your fork taps lightly against the plate, Blair freezes beside you, Nick’s eyes lift. Your mother’s face changes by a fraction, soft confusion settling there. Your father looks up from cutting into his chicken, brows knitting.
Sam keeps talking because to your dismay, the universe has decided to not strike him dead, “What?” He says, glancing around as if he asked something he shouldn't have, “I was looking forward to fucking with him. Dude has white hair, right? Japanese finance frat guy? Drives a GT3? Dad showed us his Insta.”
Dad showed us. Of course he did. Of course he stalked Gojo after dinner that one night and showed your entire family. Your dad clears his throat, feigning casualness because he’s physically incapable of being casual when it comes to you and boys, “He was…interesting.”
“That means dad hated him,” Nick says.
“I did not hate him,” Your father argues, “I had concerns.”
“You have concerns when male waiters refill her water,” Sam adds.
“Sometimes they do it flirtatiously.”
Blair usually would be in tears laughing by now, but she doesn’t even crack a smile. She just looks at you, waiting, asking what the fuck are you gonna say without asking. You feel every pair of eyes slowly land on you.
“So?” Sam presses, still oblivious but starting to notice the energy shift, “He stayed in California or what?”
You peer down at your still full plate and consider lying, mentally noting your options.
He’s busy.
He went back to Japan.
His family doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving.
Anything easy or temporary or whatever the hell lets you survive this meal without breaking in front of everyone, but the lie dies on your tongue. You don’t even know why. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it's the fact that Gojo is too big of a ghost to pretend he’s only a scheduling conflict. Or it could be because saying he exists somewhere waiting for you feels worse than admitting he doesn’t have the right to anymore.
You set your fork down, “We broke up.”
There. You’ve said it.
Your mother’s expression flips first, “Oh, sweetheart.”
Your dad goes very still. Nick doesn’t react much at all, and Sam, for once in his life, shuts up for two whole seconds. Then he mutters, “Oh. Shit.”
“Samuel,” Your mother scolds.
“Sorry,” He says quickly, sitting up straighter, all the joking suddenly drained from him, “I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
He looks uncomfortable now which somehow makes the tension worse. You probably have a higher chance of getting struck by lightning than seeing him act gentle. Your dad places his knife down with extreme care, “What happened?”
Your heart rate starts to climb, “Nothing,” You lie and your father narrows his gaze. Immediately you correct yourself, “Okay, not nothing. Just…we broke up.”
Sam’s face twists with the obvious conclusion, “He probably cheated.”
“No.”
“Sure. Pretty frat boys like him always cheat,” He says, tone sharpening now that he has somewhere to put the anger, “That’s their thing. Alcohol, drugs, whoring around—”
“Shut the hell up already, damn,” Nick cuts in, annoyed.
“What? I’m right.”
You shake your head, forcing your tone even, “He didn’t cheat.”
Alcohol and drugs? Yes. But cheating? No.
Cheating would've been easier.
Cheating is clean. Humiliating and devastating too, yes, but understandable. Something you could package and hand to your family with a bow made of rage. He cheated, he was an asshole, I left. Everyone would know what to do with that. Your father would want to kill him, Sam would probably DM him some threat, Nick would go silent in that scary way of his, your mother would hold you through it, Blair would put him on blast for all of USC.
Simple.
But…how do you explain the real reason?
He loved me badly.
He wanted me too much.
He got me pregnant.
I ended it.
I ended all of it.
He cried in his car, begged me not to go, and I did anyway.
No. There is no family-dinner, family-safe version of that. So you swallow and opt for a half-truth, “We just…broke up. I needed to be alone.”
Your dad’s relief appears before he can fully hide it, flashing across his features, brisk and guilty. Relief that Gojo is gone; that his daughter is no longer involved with the rich boy who drove a Porsche and wore a Rolex and looked too composed at dinner. Relief that whatever threat he sensed has removed itself.
Because the reality is, after meeting him that night, your father looked him up. Really looked him up, and whatever he found unsettled him. That “tech company” Gojo mentioned so casually over dinner? It turned out to be far bigger than he’d let on.
Old money, serious influence, the kind of family powerful enough to make even your father’s skin crawl. So yes, some guilty part of him is relieved, but the relief curdles fast when he looks at you. There is nothing in this world he detests more than seeing you upset.
“Oh, sweetheart…” Your mother whispers again, softer this time.
God, you fucking hate that. The tenderness and sympathy. You hate that everyone is looking at you like you’re a wound they don’t know how to patch.
“It’s fine,” You say, reaching for your water, “I’m fine.”
Your father shifts after a long pause, visibly trying to choose between protective interrogation and not making you sprint out of the room. You can practically see the war occurring behind his eyes, “Is there anything I should know?”
Your hand tightens around the glass. This question comes closest to fishing the real answer out of you. Blair’s foot presses against yours under the table.
You stare at your dad, at his meticulous face, the man who spent eighteen years trying to keep bad things from touching you.
The man who would never survive knowing that the bad thing had already happened and that you were the one who had to choose what to do with the wreckage.
“No,” You finally respond.
Nick’s eyes dart over to you as your father holds your gaze. You ponder whether he knows you’re lying. Maybe not exactly what you’re lying about, no, there’s no possible way that your situation is the one he’s imagining, but he knows that something is being buried right in front of him.
Eventually, he nods once, accepting your answer as is, “Okay,” Though the word nearly costs him.
Dinner miraculously continues after that, but barely. Conversation starts up again in fragments, weaker than before. Sam tries to lighten the mood by talking about the Bruins lineup, despite it sounding like he’s being held at gunpoint. You catch your father glancing at you every so often, almost as if he’s deciding whether asking you more questions may help or just ruin everything. He says nothing, fearing the latter.
Nick gets up halfway through to grab another can of Diet Coke from the fridge and when he passes behind your chair, his hand touches your shoulder. The contact is brief, gone before anyone can read into it. You burn holes into your plate and try not to cry into the mashed potatoes.
That would be mortifying and beyond damning for the lies you told. Also, they’re too buttery. It would fuck up the texture.
By the time the early dinner ends, your body feels like it’s been wrung out again. You help clear dishes because sitting still and replaying everything that happened is worse, but your mother shoos you away when she sees you moving prudently with a stack of them, “Go rest.”
“I can help.”
“You look exhausted, honey.”
“I swear I’m fine.”
“Go rest,” Nick repeats from behind you.
You turn around; he’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, expression blank but voice gentle enough that arguing feels pointless. So you don’t. You retreat upstairs to your old room, Blair following close behind with both your bags. The moment your bedroom door shuts. She exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the name Gojo entered the dining room.
“Holy fuck.”
You sit on the edge of your bed, “Yeah.”
“That was terrifying.”
“Yeah.”
“And your dad definitely knows something is up.”
You look around your room instead of answering. Cream walls, white bedding, framed photos from high school, a few old trophies on the shelves from sports you quit after graduation, the stuffed bear your dad bought you after your first Patriots playoff game as a baby still sits on the window sill, absurdly preserved despite all the years that have passed.
Everything is clean and sweet and untouched. A shrine to a girl who no longer exists.
You hate that thought. You hate it because it’s true.
For a while, the two of you sit in silence. Downstairs, the house moves along. Silverware clatters, Sam’s voice booms loudly as always, your dad says something that makes your mother giggle. The warmth of it floats upstairs, muffled and unreachable.
Your phone sits face down on the nightstand, off. Still off. Blair turned it off right before the flight because Gojo started calling again at five in the morning and you almost answered because you were half-asleep and sad and weak in that way grief makes people weak. She took one glimpse at your face, snatched the phone straight out of your hand, and cursed, “Absolutely fucking not.”
And you haven’t turned it back on since.
Does he know I’m back in Boston?
You think he does, somehow. It’s Thanksgiving break after all. Where else would you go? He probably checked your location before you turned the phone off. Maybe he asked around. You bet he’s sitting in his room at Sig Chi refreshing your dead contact like if he does that enough, you’ll come back to life.
Your chest constricts. You hate him a little for that too. For making you imagine him destroyed when you’re the one bleeding for his mistakes.
Blair realizes that your eyes keep drifting toward the phone and says, “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Girl. Your face did.”
Before you can speak again, your bedroom door swings open without a knock because Sam has never respected privacy a day in his life. He’s wearing a Bruins hoodie now, hair damp like he managed to shower in the twelve minutes since dinner and has the audacity to point at you after almost blowing up your biggest secret, “Why are you in bed? We leave in two hours.”
You blink at him, Blair slowly turns her head, “Do you ever knock?”
Confusion is plastered onto his countenance, “Why would I?”
“Because women live here.”
“Yeah—hardly,” He snorts, gesturing at you, “That one’s dying.”
You groan, “Go away.”
“No. Get dressed. Dad got the suite tickets and I am not sitting next to Nick the whole time. He analyzes sports too much. Shit’s fuckin’ annoying.”
From the hallway, Nick’s voice rings, “I can hear you.”
“Good!” Sam shouts back. Then to you, “Seriously. Jersey, boots, whatever bullshit you wear. Let’s move.”
You don’t answer right away. The thought of TD Garden, the crowd, the noise, the cold seats, the smell of beer and fried food, the roar after a goal—all things you usually love, makes your stomach fold in on itself. You press a hand low against your abdomen.
Sam doesn’t pick up on it, though Nick, who appears in the doorway behind him, does.
“I’m not going,” Finding your voice, you manage.
Sam’s face falls into instant offense, “The hell you mean you’re not going? It’s the Bruins.”
“I know.”
“Against the Rangers.”
“I know.”
“We have the suite all to ourselves.”
“Sam.”
“What?” His tone pitches higher, baffled, “You love this shit.”
You do—well, did. That’s the issue, “I’m tired.”
“You can be tired at the game,” He reasons, “That’s what sitting is for.”
Blair opens her mouth to fight him for you, but Nick beats her to it, “Leave her alone.”
Sam glances back, “What?”
“She said she’s not going.”
“Yeah, and that’s weird.”
“I know,” Nick agrees.
Sam looks between the two of you then, finally, something like understanding seems to form in that empty brain of his, “Oh,” He says, awkward now, “Okay. Uh…you sick or something?”
“Something like that,” You murmur.
His brows pull together and for a moment, he resembles your dad so much it hurts. Loud, protective, frustrated by not knowing where to put his hands. He clears his throat, “You want me to bring you anything back?”
The question almost ruptures you. Sam being a pest is easy, but Sam being sweet makes your throat swell, “No thanks.”
He nods once, too fast, “Cool. Yeah. Fine. Whatever,” Then, because he cannot stand sincerity for more than three seconds, he points at Blair, “You coming?”
“Do I look like I’m leaving her?”
Sam throws his hands up, "Unbelievable. Everyone’s boring now. College ruined both of you.”
“Wow, something we agree on,” Blair sighs.
Sam mumbles something about “LA being demonic” and disappears down the hall, footsteps heavy on the floorboards. Nick stays, “You need anything?”
You shake your head. He doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t push. He just says, “I’m around,” and leaves the door open halfway when he goes. For some reason, that gentleness aches more than everyone else’s questions.
Later, when the house starts shifting into Bruins-game mode, the noise downstairs becomes unbearable in a different way. Your father is yelling for Sam to find his wallet, Sam yells back that he doesn’t know where it is. Your mother urges everyone to wear jackets. You lie still on your bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling twelve years old and ancient simultaneously. And a few minutes later, your mom calls up, “Sweetheart? Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
You sit up just enough to answer, voice scraping, “I’m sure.”
There’s a pause, your father appearing at the bottom of the staircase, voice traveling upwards and softer than before, “Princess? You need me to stay?”
The question causes the whole house to go still, even Sam. You can picture your father standing there in his Bruins fleece, keys in hand, halfway between wanting to honor your response and wanting to cancel the entire night because his beloved daughter sounds wrong.
You almost say yes, not because you want him specifically, but the wounded, childlike part of you wants your dad to come upstairs and sit outside your door like he used to when you had the flu. Back before everything became complicated and comfort came with explanations.
But if he stays, he’ll ask. And if he asks gently enough, you might tell him the entire truth, “No. Go. Have fun.”
The quiet that comes after tells you he doesn’t like it. Then Nick’s voice cuts through from below, calm and decisive, “I’m staying too.”
Your head lifts, Blair’s eyes widen slightly. Downstairs, Sam erupts, “What? No, you’re not.”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Bro, put your jersey on,” Sam demands, “There’s no way you're skipping brewskis with the boys to stay at home and what? Paint your fucking toes with the girls?”
Nick ignores him, “Just go without me.”
Sam groans loudly, “You guys are such bums. Actual bums. This family used to mean something.”
“Take pictures,” Nick coos.
The front door opens; your mother calls up one more goodbye and your dad tells you to text if you need anything. Then the door shuts and the house falls into true silence this time. Just you, Blair, and Nick lurking somewhere downstairs.
“Okay,” Blair breathes, standing up from the bed, "I'm gonna pee and then steal one of your mom’s blankets because she has the rich lady ones and I deserve luxury.”
You nod and when she leaves, you’re alone for a mere minute until Nick knocks softly on the half-opened door. The difference between him and Sam is comical.
“Can I come in?”
Your voice is small when you reply, “Yeah.”
Nick steps into your room holding a mug in one hand and a heating pad in the other. He looks slightly awkward with both, like he realized halfway up the stairs that this isn’t a typical brotherly offering, “Mom keeps this in the pantry,” He notes, lifting the heating pad, “For her back, I think.”
Your throat constricts before he even reaches the bed, “And hot chocolate,” He adds, setting the mug on your nightstand, “With a ton of tiny marshmallows because I know you love them.”
You stare at the cup, steam curling off the rim, and press your lips together; a useless attempt to stop the tears as they come anyway.
Nick sees them and goes still, “Hey,” He says softly, “Okay.”
He sits beside you on the edge of the bed, close enough that his shoulder touches yours, but giving your room to breathe. The heating pad lands carefully in your lap, “Does this help?”
You nod, crying harder now for absolutely no reason, and his arm comes around you slowly; giving you time to move away if you want to, but you don’t. You collapse into him so suddenly the mug rattles on the nightstand. Nick catches you on instinct, one arm locking around your shoulders, the other hand cradling the back of your head. And then you break.
You break like a little girl who finally found the one person in the house who won’t ask her a million questions or urge her to be okay faster. Nick just holds you through it, firm and warm.
After a while, when your crying turns jagged, he murmurs, “I knew it was more than just a breakup.”
Your fingers curl into his sweatshirt. You should deny it, maybe even lie, say whatever to protect the secret of what truly happened for at least one more night. Instead, your voice comes out broken against his chest, “I was pregnant.”
You feel his entire body tense under your touch at the words. Your face crumples again before you get to the rest of it, “...I’m not anymore.”
His arm tightens around you then, only to keep you from falling apart alone. You sob so hard your ribs ache and he bends his head over yours, voice low and gutted when he says, “Oh, (Y/N)...”
And somehow, that is what ruins you the most.
You cling to him as you reveal most of the details you won’t dare tell anyone else. The pregnancy tests, the clinic, the ultrasound, Gojo and how bad he got. The drugs, the fighting, how he wanted it and wasn’t ready for it. The abortion itself along with the bleeding and the cramps that you’re still experiencing. The relief you feel guilty for and the grief you can’t fully explain. The fact that you still love Satoru, even after all of it.
It feels like you said too much, yet not enough. Despite that, Nick listens to every part and doesn’t interrupt once. Not even when you confess, in the most fragile voice, “I dreamed about it for a minute…keeping it.”
That’s when his breath hitches, barely, but he doesn’t judge you. He just presses his cheek lightly to the top of your head and says, “I’m sorry you had to do that alone.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, “I wasn’t alone completely…I had Blair.”
“I know,” He assures, “I mean…without us.”
“I couldn’t tell dad,” You rasp, “He’d never look at me the same.”
Nick pulls back to take in a glimpse of your face, his eyes glossier than they were before, “He would.”
You shake your head instantly, “No.”
“He’d freak out,” Nick says honestly, “Probably worse than anyone alive. He’d say the wrong thing first—maybe the wrong ten things, but he would still look at you the same. You're his favorite.”
You’re his favorite, sure. But that’s because he thinks you’re still the perfect daughter he raised. So you can’t find it in yourself to believe any of that. At least, not yet…hopefully someday.
And Nick doesn’t force it. He just wipes under one of your eyes with his thumb, the way he used to when you were little after Sam made you cry by convincing you your American Girl dolls were possessed.
“You want me to keep this between us?”
“Yes,” You answer immediately, panic swirling hot within your chest, “Please don’t tell anyone. Not mom. Not dad. Not even Sam.”
“I won’t.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
The certainty in his tone settles you. For once, a man says something and you trust that he won’t take it back when he gets scared.
Nick glances down at the heating pad in your lap, then back at you, “Are you still in pain?”
“A little.”
“Bleeding?”
Your cheeks heat with humiliation, though you know that he is only asking because he cares, “Yeah…but not as bad.”
He nods, “Do you need a doctor?”
“No. They told me what to expect.”
“They gave you instructions?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” He exhales through his nose, trying to process without making you feel watched, “Okay,” He stands suddenly and you worry for half a second, but he only reaches for the hot chocolate and hands it to you, “Drink some.”
You take it because arguing with Nick when he’s quiet like this feels impossible. The mug is warm against your palms; the marshmallows have melted slightly on top, soft little white clouds in cocoa, and for some odd reason the sight makes you want to cry again. You take a sip, it’s too sweet and perfect.
Nick sits back down next to you, “You want to talk more?” You shake your head, “Want me to leave?” There’s another shake, “Okay. Then I’m staying.”
Blair returns ten minutes later wearing one of your mother’s cashmere throw blankets around her shoulders like some duchess and freezes in the doorway when she clocks your face, Nick’s arm around you, and the hot chocolate in your hands.
You look at her, she looks at Nick, Nick looks at her. Something passes between them, silent and serious. An agreement you’re too exhausted to translate. Then Blair announces, voice suspiciously thick, “I found the good blanket.”
Nick smiles faintly, “Huge.”
She climbs onto the bed on your other side, wrapping the blanket around all three of you with dramatic ceremony, as she usually does with everything else. You’re in the middle of them, heating pad low on your stomach, hot chocolate in hand, your brother on one side and your best friend on the other, and for the first time in a long while, nobody wants anything from you.
Here, in your old bedroom with marshmallow sweetness coating your tongue, you feel the smallest possible version of safe. You’re nowhere near close to being okay, but you’ve got warmth and people who care.
For tonight, that has to be enough.
However, three thousand miles away, all the way across the country, Satoru Gojo spends his Thanksgiving break in a manner totally opposite of you.
You’re home in Boston, he knows you are without needing to be told because where else could you have gone during break? Where else would a girl like you disappear to after something like this besides the city that made you and the family that raised you?
The thought of it makes him sick. You tucked beneath warmth and money and people who love you enough to notice when something is wrong, yet still unable to tell them the truth of any of it—the pregnancy, the abortion, him.
And what plagues him most? The fact that you’re probably still hurting.
God, not probably. Definitely.
Bleeding, cramping, sore in ways that have nothing to do with sex anymore. He looked it all up after the breakup like some miserable masochist; researched abortion side effects, the recovery, how long the pain can last, just to understand exactly what you’re enduring without him.
Without him.
Yeah…That’s right.
It’s over.
Initially, he fought that outcome like a fucking idiot. Calls, texts, apologies sent at obscene hours of the night when he couldn’t sleep. Whole strings of messages ranging from I’m sorry to please answer me to shit that sounded halfway deranged even to him by the time he reread it. You ignored every single one. Eventually, he understood what your silence meant.
And while you’re back home in Boston, surrounded by family who know how to love you, he’s alone in Los Angeles; wallowing in the grief that has swallowed him whole and rotting inside a room that no longer smells like you.
Yet beneath all of that grief lies something even crueler. Guilt.
The type that doesn’t flare hot and burn off, but lingers, seeping into everything; into his sleep, into the scent of his own room. It follows him around like a punishment he earned fair and square.
God, is he sorry. More sorry than he knows how to say without sounding pathetic or manipulative or too fucking late. He’s sorry that he ever made love feel dangerous and that when you needed him most—needed somebody safe, steady, and sober, he was none of those things.
And the saddest part is that he still loves you. He loves you so much it makes him nauseous. Which means that he misses you with the kind of constancy that turns every hour into one he has to survive. It would’ve been easier if you had stopped mattering the second you walked away, but no. You matter more now, somehow. In absence, in silence, and in all the places he can no longer reach you.
He notices it standing in the middle of his bedroom with one hand hooked on his hip and the other dragging his Dodgers cap off his head. The room smells like him now. Armani cologne, clean laundry, the faint trace of weed that has seeped into the curtains; nothing that shows you were ever here at all.
That’s the part that really fucks him up.
Because somewhere along the line, this room had stopped smelling like a frat boy’s bedroom and started smelling like you, and now that it doesn’t, he can’t fucking stand it.
The sheets don’t smell like your shampoo anymore. The pillows don’t carry that warm, expensive sweetness he got used to pressing his face into when you weren’t looking. Even his hoodies you used to steal like they belonged to you smell like absence.
It shouldn’t matter as much as it does, yet it unsettles him in a deep, intimate way that makes him feel crazy.
Because scent is memory—proof. Scent is the body telling the brain that something was here, and if he lets yours fade out of his room completely then what? What’s left? A fucking ultrasound in his wallet and a bed that looks too big now that it’s missing you?
He can’t do that. He won’t. So he grabs his keys and leaves.
The Porsche starts with that same bassy snarl it always does, the engine purring under him unaware that it’s being driven by a man who hasn’t felt right in weeks. Gojo throws it into drive and doesn’t think too hard about where he’s going until he’s already halfway to the mall with music filling the car.
At first, he barely hears it.
Just a Spotify playlist of all his liked songs spilling through the speakers, different artists, different genres, one track bleeding into another. He’s been listening to whatever these past few agonizing days while driving aimlessly around the city, mostly because he has no fucking clue what to do with himself or any of this.
But then the title of the next song that shuffles on catches his eye on the dash.
Tie That Binds.
A Drake song off Honestly, Nevermind. Why the fuck was this even in his likes? He hated the album when it first dropped, Drake’s attempt at house and club music? That shit felt wrong. Over time he admitted to himself that the album was a little underrated, but still. This song? That title? Now?
Gojo scoffs once under his breath, of course. Of fucking course that’s what starts playing while he drives to the mall to buy perfume since the smell of his ex-girlfriend has faded from his room and he can’t cope like a normal person.
Fuck it. He lets it play anyway.
Mostly because he’s too tired to skip it; his hand is fixed around the steering wheel and moving even one finger feels like more effort than he’s willing to give. The beat doesn’t hit him nearly as hard as the title did, but then the lyrics finally register, and the second Drake repeats please don’t leave me, you know I need you, over and over along with melancholic guitar riffs that sound as lonely as he feels, something ugly twists in his chest.
That’s practically what he said, wasn’t it?
Not those exact words, but similar enough to stun him. He sat there in that parking lot and begged in every way he knew how, asking you not to go. Not to leave him alone with this grief that’s been eating him alive. He pleaded because he wanted a second chance, just one, so that he could become a man worth staying for.
And you left anyway. You had to.
You knew it. And deep down, beneath the selfishness, he knows it too.
The realization sours in his stomach worse than the song itself.
Gojo’s jaw tightens as it continues to play, fingers curling taut around the steering wheel until the leather creaks beneath his palm. Outside the windshield, Los Angeles keeps moving like nothing happened. Cars glide past, palm trees sway in that stupidly easy California way that usually makes everything feel cinematic, yet fake.
Today, it just pisses him off. Well, for the past few days it has.
Because the whole city is carrying on as normal while his life has been ripped apart so quietly that nobody even knows. Nobody looks at him and sees the fact that his ex-girlfriend went through an abortion without him. Nobody is aware of the ultrasound folded behind his ID. Nobody has a clue that he’s managed to ruin the one thing that ever stopped feeling casual.
Then the song ends, and as if the universe has decided to really fucking hurt him, the opening notes of the next one drifts through the speakers.
Sweater Weather.
Gojo reaches for the dash and skips before Jesse Rutherford gets a word out, “Fuck no.”
That one is too much. Too much yours.
He can hear you in it too easily, can picture you humming along absentmindedly with your feet tucked up in his passenger seat while you scrolled on his phone to queue more songs. He can see the cute smile you’d get whenever you caught him staring for too long.
The song doesn’t just remind him of you.
No. It practically resurrects you in the seat beside him, and he is nowhere near strong enough to survive that right now.
Tie That Binds hurt because it got too close to him. Sweater Weather hurts because it’s you.
So instead of letting the playlist move onto something easier or mindless that won’t split him open, Gojo does something worse.
He goes back and replays Tie That Binds from the beginning. Because apparently hurting once wasn’t enough. He wants to hear the wound again. Plus, he’s already so far into this pathetic ritual that the repetition feels deserved.
The song starts over, and this time he doesn’t even try pretending it’s background noise. He lets it hit every place it wants to. The dependency of it, the longing, the almost-family shape buried under the need. The humiliating truth that maybe some part of him wanted to take you somewhere so deep inside his life that you’d never be able to leave it.
And now look.
Now he’s driving to Sephora. Alone. Like a fucking psychopath.
By the time he pulls into the mall parking structure, his hands ache from how tightly he’s been gripping the wheel. He kills the engine, the car falling silent around him at once, and for a second he just sits there staring aimlessly into nothingness, like maybe if he waits long enough, this will stop feeling so damn ridiculous. It obviously doesn’t, so he grabs his keys and forces himself out.
The mall is busy in that glamorous, soulless LA way—bright storefronts, women in matching sets and designer shoes, guys carrying shopping bags for girls they probably won’t know in six months, but hey, who is he to talk? Christmas decorations are already up because America loves making every season feel commercial and desperate. Gojo hates every bit of it.
He walks into Sephora in a black hoodie and sweats, Dodgers cap low over his eyes, looking too good to be this dead inside. He’s halfway to the fragrance section before one of the sales associates intercepts him with a smile.
“Hi, can I help you find something?”
He shoves both hands into the pocket of his hoodie and nods once, “Yeah, I need a perfume.”
“Okay,” Her eyes brighten, “Do you know which one?”
“No.”
She pauses, “Do you know the brand?”
“No.”
Another pause, smaller this time, “Do you know what it smells like?”
His pulse ticks. Oh…he knows exactly what it smells like.
He knows what it smells like on your neck when he buried his face there. On your wrists when you looped your arms around him. On his pillow after you slept over. In the collar of his hoodies whenever you gave them back. He knows what it smells like after sex, half-faded and still sweet enough to make him want to drag you back into his bed and fuck you all over again.
But out loud, he only says, “Warm.”
She waits, anticipating more. Gojo exhales through his nose, already annoyed that he has to translate memory into language, “Expensive. Sweet, but not that cheap type of sweet. Not like vanilla body spray or some shit,” He glances off toward the fragrance wall, trying to pin it down without sounding completely insane, “Kinda…boozy. Maybe apple. Cinnamon. Something like that.”
Her face lights up with recognition, “Wait here,” She disappears for a moment, then comes back holding a bottle and a paper test strip. She sprays it once before handing it to him, “Try this.”
Gojo takes it, brings it up to his nose, and there it is. There the fuck it is.
The second the scent hits him, everything in his body reacts before his mind can catch up. It brings back every memory of you.
It brings him right back to that first night at Sig Chi—your tiny little shirt with the filthy red lettering across your chest, your skirt barely covering anything, the second he looked up from the kitchen and saw you standing there like he had to have you before anyone else did. He can still remember leaning in close enough to smell it on your skin, instantly knowing that you were going to ruin him and him ruin you.
Then the memory shifts, one of those nights he took you out somewhere nice, one of the stupidly expensive restaurants where the menus didn’t have prices and you’d roll your eyes every time he paid before you could even pretend to reach for your purse. You wore that perfume then too. He remembers it lingering on your throat all through dinner, distracting him so badly he barely tasted his own food. And like always, the night ended the same way—your body under his, his mouth on your neck, his cock buried so deep as if being inside you was never enough. Like no matter how close he got, some fucked up part of him still wanted more, needed more.
And then, because his life is cruel in every possible direction, the scent drags him to the worst place of all. You sitting in that passenger seat, but this time it’s with dead eyes and Blair’s sweatshirt on your body instead of his. Your purse in your lap, the ultrasound and untouched In-N-Out on the console, your voice so quiet it barely sounded like yours when you told him, “It’s done.”
His throat swells immediately, “What…is this called?”
“Killian Angels’ Share.”
He almost laughs, that would be the name. The perfume he’s buying because he can’t let your ghost leave his room is named something that sounds like loss and heaven, “I’ll take it. The biggest size you have.”
She smiles and nods, “It’s a beautiful scent.”
He doesn’t answer. No, beautiful isn't the word. Devastating, maybe.
As she begins leading him toward the register, before he moves to follow he picks up the tester and sprays a little onto his wrist too. Huge mistake.
The scent blooms almost instantly against his pulse point and makes everything worse. Now you’re on his skin too. Clinging to him while he pays over four hundred dollars to psychologically damage himself further.
When he gets back to Sig Chi, the house is too quiet. Most people went home for break, leaving the frat hollowed out and wrong. There’s no brothers shouting from downstairs or bass rattling the walls, only too much empty space and nowhere for grief to hide.
He climbs the stairs, locks himself in his room, and stands there with the Sephora bag hanging from one hand. Then, he opens it.
The bottle feels heavy in his palm as he pulls the cap off. He doesn’t let himself think too hard about what he's doing because if he does, he’ll have to admit how seriously pathetic it is.
One light spray on the pillows, another over the sheets. Then the hoodies. The gray one you used to steal when you got cold after sex. The USC one you wore out to the kitchen once with no bra on and nearly made him kill three brothers for being in the same vicinity. The white Essentials hoodie that still carries one faded stain of your lip gloss near the collar.
He doesn’t spray enough to choke the room with it, just enough that when he nuzzles his face into the fabric later, you’ll be there.
This should feel dirty, but it doesn’t. That’s the issue. It doesn’t even feel sexual, honestly. It feels worse than that. Holier, sadder, like he’s trying to preserve something before the world strips it away completely. Which, again, is fucking crazy. He knows that, yet still does it.
Afterward, the room smells like you left an hour ago instead of days. A lie, of course, but it makes the world feel survivable for exactly long enough that he sits down on the edge of the bed and finally notices his phone.
He opens Instagram without thinking, thumb flicking out of habit more than intention, and the first thing he sees is your profile. Or rather, what’s missing from it.
The one picture you had posted of the two of you is gone. His blood runs cold.
No, it’s not archived. He doesn’t assume that. He assumes the harsher version on instinct because why wouldn't he? Everything about this has been the harsh version.
You deleted it. Erased him. Made the breakup visible.
He clicks over to his own profile and just stares. Geto was right. At some point, his Instagram stopped being about him.
There’s you in too many places. A shoulder of yours in one photo, Too many glimpses of your hand in his. Three actual posts with you as clear as day. A stupid highlight titled with your initials like he’s some lovesick high school loser instead of the frat boy who fucking runs this university.
His page, once curated within an inch of his life—thirst traps, aesthetics, parties, cars, has you leaking through it in a way that makes him feel suddenly naked.
You’re not together anymore, so he should delete them. He knows he should. But he can’t bring himself to.
Instead, one by one, he archives every post that has you in it, and archives the highlight too. Deleting would mean destroying them, archiving means hiding them. Preserving them somewhere out of sight and somewhere he can still reach when he gets desperate enough. Also, that maybe is doing a lot of work in his life lately. He’ll cling onto that as if he’ll drown without it.
When he’s done, his profile looks emptier, cleaner, more like the version of Satoru Gojo USC expects. It also feels completely wrong, because the truth is, none of this feels like letting go. It feels like burying something alive where only he knows where the body is.
And that should be enough emotional self-harm for one day, but he’s a foolish idiot so he opens his photos app next.
He stares at the hidden folder for way too long.
That alone should be enough to make him stop. Any decent man would.
A decent man would look at the screen, feel the punch to the gut of seeing your face again in thumbnails and private little moments that should’ve died with the relationship, and lock his phone.
Gojo is evidently not a decent man.
Because he opens the folder anyway and is met with the sight of you. Not the same version of you that was plastered all over his Instagram, hell no. This is worse…or better, really, depending on how you look at it. It’s explicit photos—nudes you sent without him even asking. He wasn’t that type of guy, but fuck did he appreciate every little gift you’d ever given him. Then there’s the pictures he’d taken of you in all kinds of positions, a couple of short clips, little scraps of what the two of you were behind closed doors.
He knows he should delete them, truly he does. His thumb even hovers over the option to delete all for a second, but then one particular video catches his eye and that resolve dies before it can turn into anything earnest.
It’s from October 19th, over a month ago, a mere few days before the pregnancy tests and the implosion. An ordinary night when you were still his and the future felt like something you could fuck your way through instead of something that would destroy you both.
The clip is long, almost a full four minutes. You’re in his bed wearing nothing but his chain and a pair of lace panties, skin warm against his sheets, hair mussed, eyes heavy with sleep and a bratty little smile tugging at your mouth. You’re half-hiding behind your hands, giggling as you jokingly tell him, “No, don’t look, Satoru.”
The camera shifts slightly with his low, teasing laugh right behind it, “Oh, but baby, you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” He murmurs, voice thick with desire, “Need a closer look, yeah?”
You make a soft, embarrassed sound, but your thighs spread a bit wider anyway as he crawls onto the bed joining you, phone still in hand. His free hand hooks into your panties and pushes the fabric aside, two thick fingers slide through your slick folds before sinking inside you. He pumps them lazily to start, stretching you open until your thighs tremble and your tiny giggles melt into needy noises. The camera stays right there on your face—close enough to see your lashes flutter and your lips part before he finally yanks the panties down your legs and tosses them aside.
He lines up and pushes into you in one smooth, greedy thrust. The phone angle shifts as he bottoms out, your legs wrapping tight around his waist, a broken gasp punching out of your throat. He fucks you deep and steady at first; long, rolling strokes that make the chain bounce on your sternum and the headboard scrape the wall.
The camera catches every detail—the sheen of sweat on your skin, his cock glistening with your arousal every time he pulls back, the way your eyes stay locked on his like he’s the only thing in the world.
His pace picks up, gets rougher, meaner. Skin slapping skin, your moans climbing higher. He leans the phone in closer, almost too close, the shot is nothing but your pretty face and the wet sound of him driving into you.
“Shit—princess,” His voice growls in the video, half-laugh, half-groan, “The camera loves you.”
And then you start begging halfway through, desperate exactly the way he remembers, “Please, Toru—fuck, please—”
“Please, what?” His tone is filthy, the same one that used to make you clench around him instantly, “Want me to fill you up, baby? Cum so fuckin’ deep you feel me for days?”
You nod, “Yes—yes, please, I need it.”
Of course he fucks you through the plea, hips snapping harder. The phone abruptly drops to the sheets with a soft thud, screen going black for a few frantic seconds, nothing but your broken sobs of his name and his guttural groans as he rails you even deeper, chasing that climax. Then the camera jerks back up, his hand shaky and panting heavily as he angles it down between your bodies.
He buries himself to the hilt with a ruined noise, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, thick and endless. The lens stays there close, catching every pulse, every twitch, his cum starting to leak out around his cock while you’re fluttering around him.
He doesn’t pull out right away, just holds the phone still, breathing hard, obsessed with the sight of himself claiming you like this—marked, full, his.
The video ends on that last trembling breath, both of you tangled and heaving, the silver chain still gleaming on your sweat-slick skin.
Gojo’s entire body reacts at once, “Fuck…”
The word leaves him under his breath before he can help it. His cock is already pressing hard against his sweats, the response immediate and humiliating. Of course it is. A month later, grief later, a fucking abortion later, and his body still doesn’t hesitate when it comes to you.
He replays the clip. Then again. And by the third time, his hand is inside his pants, fist wrapping around himself with a shivered exhale because what else is he supposed to do now? Sit here and pretend he isn’t painfully hard over old footage of the girl who broke his heart for reasons he deserved?
The perfume in the room does him absolutely zero favors. It’s on the pillows, in the sheets, faintly clinging to the hoodie he’s wearing, so by the time he starts stroking himself properly the whole room feels infested with you. Your scent in the air, your face in his hand, chain around your throat while you smile at him like he still belongs near you—right before he tears your panties off and fucks you full on camera.
He jerks his cock slow, just enough to drag out the ache, thumb swiping over the leaking tip while the clip loops over and over; every part of the video ruining him. The close-up of your face, the way your eyes roll back, the final, obsessive shot of his load trickling out of you like proof you were still his.
That’s what really does it. Not your body, honestly. The fact that you used to be his.
That thought should cool him off, but it doesn’t. It only makes his grip tighten.
Soon he’s pumping himself harder, breathing through his nose in uneven pulls, head tipping back for one second before dropping again because he can’t stop watching. He knows every inch of you in that clip, knows what happened after it ended; he stayed buried inside you, grinding slow while you whimpered through the aftershocks, showering you with kisses everywhere—your forehead, your lips, your jaw, your neck, for being so good. Both of you laughed breathlessly about how much you loved this.
His fist speeds up, he can almost feel it again now—feel you again. God, how pathetic, he thinks.
He’s sitting here alone during Thanksgiving break in a room he’s sprayed with your perfume, jerking off to a secret sex tape while imagining the exact moment he dropped the phone and fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside you.
Despite the shame, he keeps going, and when he cums, it hits him hard. A sharp groan tears from his throat as he spills over his own hand, hips snapping uselessly into nothing; the kind of orgasm that should feel better than it does. He breathes through it in ragged bursts, phone still clutched in his other hand, your face glowing back at him while he falls apart to the ghost of you.
Then the clip ends again, just like that. The room goes silent except for his breathing. And there it is—that awful, immediate drop after. The one where all the heat evaporates and the same truth remains underneath it.
His fist loosens as he crashes backward against his sheets. The perfume still hangs in the air, but now it feels meaner somehow. More like proof of how fucking gone he’s become.
Because none of this changed anything.
It is still only you.
And you are still not here.
The next day, Gojo decides he needs to get a fucking grip. Or at least imitate one.
He wakes up already pissed at himself and the room and the fact that he jerked off an old video like some sad creep instead of doing literally anything productive; the kind of humiliation that sticks to the inside of his skin and doesn’t wash off, it only mutates into a foul mood.
His gaze drifts unwillingly toward his desk drawer, the one with the coke and adderall and all the terrible things he swore were temporary.
For a moment he just glares, then yanks it open. The sight of it causes a horrid sourness to climb up the back of his throat. Quarter-sized baggies, orange prescription bottle, the same dumb shit he kept turning to every time life got too real or too difficult to sit through sober.
The weed is still in there too, he notices that automatically; grinder, rolling tray, crinkled papers. He notices, too, that he doesn’t reach for any of it. Maybe it’s hypocritical, that he’s drawing this shameful little line in the sand, but the coke and pills feel far worse. They’re tied to the ugliest parts of him and all the nights he left you in his room or at your dorm, nauseous, scared, and hurting. This is where he has to start, he knows that much.
Without letting himself think too hard about it, he grabs both and takes them into the bathroom. The coke gets dumped first, then the pills. White and blue and bitter-looking as they rattle out of the bottle and vanish down the toilet like they’re nothing. He flushes once, watching as it all disappears.
It doesn’t feel noble. It doesn’t feel even close to recovery. But he can’t touch any of that garbage without being reminded of how badly he failed you.
Then he goes to the gym. Because lifting usually fixes things. If it doesn’t fix, then it at least dulls. Working out gives him something acceptable to put all that restless male shit into—rage, ego, adrenaline, self-hatred. Typically if he pushes hard enough, sweats enough, wrecks his body just right, the noise gets quieter after.
Today it does not. You follow him through every set.
Lat pulldowns? Your thighs around his waist in bed.
Bicep curls? Your nails down his back.
Rest between pull-ups? The way your face looked in the Porsche when you told him you can’t do this anymore.
By the time he leaves, his compression shirt is soaked through, he’s got the best arm pump of his entire life, his body is exhausted, and none of that shit helped ease any of what he feels. If anything, it’s made him angrier.
He walks back into Sig Chi drenched and infuriated to find three pledges still cleaning up after last weekend’s party. The whole first floor looks like shit.
The living room smells like stale beer, the hardwood floors are sticky, red solo cups are jammed under the couches, there’s liquor rings crusted into the granite tops of the kitchen island, a trash bag is hanging half open like even that gave up halfway through.
Gojo stops dead in the middle of the room and just stares at it, then flatly, “What the fuck is this?”
All three heads spring up so fast it’s almost laughable. One of the pledges straightens, trash liner in hand, face going pale the second he sees who’s standing there, “We’re cleaning it right now—”
“No shit,” Gojo cuts in, voice razor-thin, “I have fucking eyes. I’m asking why it still looks like this at noon.”
The pledge opens his mouth and closes it, which sends Gojo over the edge. He takes two slow steps forward, towering over all of them, gym sweat still cooling on his skin, expression gone bright in that awful way that means he’s about to enjoy himself.
“Seriously,” He says, glancing around the room, “Did they start letting anybody pledge now? Is that what this is?”
Nobody says anything. He laughs once under his breath and points to the kitchen island, “That stain’s still there. There’s beer on the floor. Cups under the couches. Trash not tied. Counter sticky as shit.” His eyes flick back to the boy nearest to him, “So tell me—are you all this fucking incompetent or did I interrupt the three of you circle-jerking the last working neuron you have left?”
“Gojo, we were just—”
He whips his head toward the excuse instantly, “Don’t,” His voice drops an octave, “Do not start a sentence with ‘we were just’ unless the next words are ‘being useless as fuck’.”
The pledge goes red in the face, another one looks down at the floor like maybe disappearing into it is an option, but Gojo keeps going because now that he’s started, stopping would mean feeling everything else again.
“You know what’s crazy?” He gestures vaguely around the house, “Cleaning up after a party is not actually hard. Like, at all. You pick shit up. You wipe shit down. You don’t leave the frat looking like a fucking crack den,” He tilts his head, “Yet somehow the three of you have managed to turn basic manual labor into a group project for dumbasses.”
One of the pledges tightens his jaw, just slightly and Gojo catches it, a smile tugging at his lips, “Oh? You offended?” He’s answered with silence, “That’s adorable.”
He steps closer to him specifically now, close enough that the freshman has to lift his chin up to meet his eyes, “You should be embarrassed,” Gojo spits, “You’re standing in my house, wearing letters you haven’t earned, doing a job a fucking Roomba could do better, and still find room in yourself to be offended.”
The kid swallows hard, Gojo’s gaze drops pointedly to the rag in his hand, then back up, “Wipe the fucking counter.”
He scrambles to do it, though too slow, “Jesus Christ,” Gojo mutters, dragging a hand over his mouth before snapping, “Faster. What, do your arms not work either?”
The other two pledges are moving now too, suddenly frantic, tripping over each other to gather cups and drag trash and wipe surfaces that should’ve been handled hours ago.
It doesn’t satisfy him in the slightest, because this was never about the cleanup. It was about the fact that the house still smelled wrong and his skin still felt wrong. He spent over an hour and a half trying to lift the grief and humiliation out of his bloodstream and all he has to show for is an even worse mood and three terrified pledges.
One of boys almost drops the trash bag and Gojo rounds on him immediately, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“S-Sorry—”
“No, I’m actually asking. Are you fucking kidding me?” He takes another step in, voice rising now, “You have one job. One. Hold a bag. And you still look this overwhelmed? Did someone drop you on your head or were you just born like this?”
The pledge’s face falls. From the doorway, two active brothers hover in awkward silence, clearly trying to act like they’re not witnessing any of this. Gojo sees them too and doesn’t care. Let them watch. Let the whole fucking house watch.
After Gojo’s rampage comes to an end, the pledges look gutted. One of them won’t meet his eyes, another’s ears are bright red all the way down his neck. The actives in the doorway have gone stiff in that uncomfortable manner people do when they know a brother is being too cruel but aren’t stupid enough to say it out loud.
Gojo looks around one last time, jaw flexing, “Fix this shit,” He hisses, “And if I come back down here in an hour and it still looks like shit, I’m making all three of you scrub the bathrooms too.”
Then he leaves, feeling no calmer than when he walked in. Truthfully, he feels even uglier now. Like he peeled his own skin back and let everyone in the room see the rancidity that lies within him.
He takes the stairs two at a time and slams his bedroom door hard enough to rattle the frame, standing there breathing through his nose as if maybe getting in more oxygen will make him less of a fucking asshole.
Yeah. As if.
He heads for the bathroom to shower because what else is there to do? Maybe he can try to wash the mean out of himself. Try to scald away the gym and the house and the scent of nasty beer and pledge panic clinging to his skin. However, it fails to.
It gets the sweat off him, sure. Sends the day circling down the drain in hot water and steam, but when he steps back into his room, toweling himself dry, that same dreadful heaviness is still there waiting for him exactly where he left it. The misery, the rot, the awful thing that has lived inside him ever since the last time he saw you.
His gaze lands on one of the hoodies thrown over the arm of his desk chair. One of yours. Well, his, technically. But it’s the grey one that you wore so often that his brain has categorized it differently. Now it smells like your perfume because of what he did to it. That should make him feel deranged, actually, it does. Still, he pulls it on anyway, dragging the fabric down over his damp white hair like that’ll change anything.
The second the fabric settles over his shoulders, the scent rises warm around him—sweet, expensive, achingly familiar to make his eyes shut for a second. And God, that’s fucking embarrassing. How fast it works; how his whole body, taut and hideous and vibrating from the stupid fucks downstairs and the gym and the nauseating grief, quiets just a little because he smells you.
“So pathetic,” He mutters to himself.
Grabbing his laptop, he sits down at his desk like he’s going to do something normal with the rest of his day instead of the psycho shit he’s been doing for the past twenty-four hours. He’ll get ahead on assignments, look over notes, be a man with a functioning future instead of some loser holed up in a room he’s turned into a shrine.
Gojo opens one tab, then another. A finance case study, an assignment due right after break. He stares at it, then reaches for his phone and headphones. That part feels automatic now too. Slipping them on, he opens Spotify, and without even pretending to stew over it, taps back to the song that haunts him.
Tie That Binds.
Because apparently yesterday wasn’t enough. Hearing it in the car while driving to Sephora to buy your perfume like a fucking lunatic didn’t hurt sufficiently, so he has to listen to it alone in his room too.
The wistful guitar comes in first, followed by the lyrics.
Please don’t leave me, you know I need you.
Behind his eyes it begins to sting hot. The song hits differently like this in his headphones. Like this, it barely sounds like Drake anymore. It sounds like something dangerously close to his own thoughts.
Please don’t leave me.
Please don’t leave me alone with what I’ve done.
Please don’t make me sit in what I turned into.
His mouth twists bitterly, but he lets it keep playing. He’s long past the point of protecting himself from pain. Pain is damn near all he has left of you.
Then his fingers curl around the pencil beside his notebook before he even realizes they’ve moved.
He tells himself he’s focusing, thinking, reading over the assignment prompt while the song bleeds into his ears, but the pencil starts moving despite it.
Just graphite against paper. Lines in the margins. Something to do while his gaze remains focused on the screen. A shadow here, a curve there. Totally Mindless.
Until it isn’t.
Gojo glances down and his stomach drops.
Eyes.
He drew a pair of eyes.
Oh, but not the pretty anime shit people always try sketching when they’re bored in class.
Your eyes.
He recognizes them immediately. Of course he does. He would know them anywhere.
The shape, the slight softness at the outer corners. The way they appear bright even when you’re tired, the exact line of lashes. The openness of them and the warmth.
Fuck, it devastates him. Because eyes aren’t lust.
He didn’t draw your tits or your mouth wrapped around his cock or your body spread out on his bed like in that clip he watched on repeat like a fucking freak.
No. He drew the thing that looked back at him, the thing that saw him.
Gojo stares at the paper too long, feeling oddly winded. Everyone always talks about his eyes. His stupid fucking eyes in all their striking beauty. Too blue, too intense, whatever. He’s heard it his whole life from girls, his family, strangers, frat brothers trying to gas him.
But God, he loves yours.
Your eyes are gorgeous in a way his never will be. Softer, alive, more human; his get admired, yours get adored.
And then…the second realization hits even harder.
He’s drawing again.
The pencil slips from his fingers and lands on the wooden desk with a light thud.
What the fuck?
Gojo hasn’t done this in years. Drawing used to feel like solace, like the one place he didn’t have to perform. He used to have stupid, private dreams about it once. Then those dreams died and so did the version of him that could afford to want something so soft.
He peers down at the paper again. The awful truth creeps up his spine in slow, cold pieces.
Grief has revived an old part of him that was buried deep.
And it’s looking back at him in the shape of your eyes.
wc: ~16k | cw: fratjo! hella angst, mentions of drug use, blood, possessive/obsessive tendencies, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation, frat culture, abortion, explicit language, use of pet names (baby, princess), dark romance vibes
summary: everything falls apart and this time, satoru gojo, can’t outrun the consequences of his actions.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
YOU KNEW FROM the second the words left your mouth that Gojo wouldn’t listen.
Apparently “don’t come after me” means the opposite, because as soon as you step into the hallway, he’s following.
“Are you fucking serious?” His voice ricochets throughout the corridor so aggressively it makes you flinch on instinct.
You don’t turn around, you keep booking it down the hall with your hoodie slipping off one shoulder and phone locked in your hand so tight your fingers ache. You also know that if you were to look back, you might scream at him. Or cry. Or embarrassingly both.
Behind you, his bedroom door slams open hard enough to shake the frame, “(Y/N)!”
Ignoring him, you keep going, and that’s what really sets him off. In one second flat, Gojo goes from drunk, high, and defensive to something far scarier—panicked, with fear cutting through the bullshit in his bloodstream.
His footsteps hit the floorboards fast and suddenly his hand is clamped onto your wrist, firm enough to stop you dead in your tracks. You rip around violently, teeth gritted as you seethe, “Let go of me, Satoru.”
He looks even worse than he did a mere minute ago. His chest is heaving, black shirt half-unbuttoned, other silver chain crooked, white hair a complete mess, eyes huge with pupils blown so dark it’s hard to tell where the blue even starts.
“No,” He snaps, tightening his grip without meaning to, jaw flexing, “No, you don’t get to say some shit like that and walk out.”
Your stomach churns, “Say what?”
He laughs once, cruel and disbelieving, as if the answer is so obvious it offends him, “Planned Parenthood? Fix it?” His voice drops an octave, “You think I’m just gonna stand there and let you leave after saying you might kill my baby?”
My. My baby. Again. Even now he can’t stop claiming things as his own. Your whole face twists in disgust, “Oh my God.”
He hears himself; realizes how badly he screwed the wording up, yet still can’t stop. Fear always curdles into the same thing with him—possession, panic, and total fucking collapse.
“No—don’t do that shit,” He hisses, stepping closer when you try to yank your wrist, “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m—” He breaks off, breathing too hard, “Like I’m not fucking terrified right now.”
That almost gains your sympathy, but then his hand tightens. His voice stays in that dangerous register, his body is too close for comfort, and so it dies before it can fully form.
“You’re not stopping me from leaving.”
“Yes, I am.”
Your eyes widen, “Do you hear yourself?”
“I hear myself just fine.”
“No,” You say, voice rising now, “You’re drunk, you’re high, and you’re acting fucking insane.”
His nostrils flare, “I’m acting insane?”
“Yes!”
He lets go of your wrist only to throw both hands through his hair, pacing one sharp step back and then forward again like he doesn’t know what to do with his own body or any of this, “You tell me you were maybe gonna keep it, then tell me maybe you’re gonna get rid of it, then tell me it’s because of me—yeah, I’m fucking insane right now.”
“Good,” You manage, throat swelling, “Maybe now you understand what I’ve felt like.”
His whole demeanor changes, however the spiral doesn’t end. He’s still too far gone and scared, reacting like if he lets you reach those stairs, something irreversible will happen before morning. So when you step around him, he shifts too, blocking you.
You stop short and glance up at him. It’s startling, truly. You don’t recognize the person standing in front of you anymore, “Satoru.”
He’s aware of what he looks like, of how bad this is—knows that he should move, but he doesn’t, “You’re not walking back alone at three in the morning while you’re this upset,” He says, subtly pleading, “You’re not.”
The laugh that escapes you is broken and furious, “You don’t get to do that. Stop fucking acting like I’m fragile now.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
He stares at you, and because he’s too fucked up and devastated to say the right thing, what comes out is the wrong truth in the wrong shape, “It’s me not letting you leave to go do something you can’t take back.”
Your face goes blank; hearing him say not letting you out loud is so horrifyingly, yet perfectly him, “You really think you still get to let me do anything?”
That sobers him more than any of what you said has. The panic in his expression cracks and shows the ruined, frightened boy underneath. His mouth opens, then shuts, and for one second, one hopeful second, he almost looks like he’s going to apologize. You stupidly think that maybe, he’ll take it all back. He’ll say he’s sorry over and over until he can’t speak. That whatever is left between you and him can be salvaged.
But before any of that can even happen, a door opens farther down the hall. You recognize him immediately—Sigma Chi’s president steps out in grey sweats and a white tee, sleep-rumpled but more awake than either of you would prefer. He blinks once, takes in the scene with the speed of someone who has most definitely dealt with this before, and his countenance hardens.
“The fuck’s going on?”
Gojo answers for the both of you, too quickly, “Nothing.”
The president’s gaze flicks to you, blotchy cheeks, phone in hand, visibly crying whether you want to admit it or not, then back to Gojo who is wide-eyed, wired and swaying just enough to make the whole thing worse.
“Yeah,” He says coldly, “I don’t think that’s true.”
Gojo’s jaw tightens, “I’ve got it, Pres.”
“No,” He replies instantly, tone sharp enough to shut down any argument before it starts, “You don’t.”
The silence that follows is brutal, because he’s right and all three of you know it. Gojo’s whole body stiffens, “She’s not walking back alone.”
The president looks at him for a long moment, and when he speaks again his voice is lower and controlled, which somehow carries more than yelling ever could, “You’re drunk. You’re high. You’re standing in the middle of our hallway at three in the morning with your girlfriend who is very clearly trying to leave.
Gojo opens his mouth to protest, “Don’t,” The president cuts in, “We don’t do this shit here. You boys know better.”
Your heart is pounding so hard it hurts; partly due to the fight, partly from the humiliation of being caught like this, and partly because of the dawning realization that if he hadn’t intervened, you’re not even sure how long Gojo would’ve held you hostage in this hallway.
The president turns to you then; tone much calmer, careful, “You need to get back to your dorm?” You nod and he tips his chin once, “Okay. I’ll walk you.”
Gojo’s head jerks toward him so fast it’s almost inhuman, “No,” He spouts the word furiously in a way that makes the president’s face go dead flat, “She’s not getting walked home by another guy.”
The president glares at him, “You have got to be out of your fucking mind.”
You close your eyes for a second, the shame of it all hitting in waves and you don’t know how much more your body can handle before it gives out. When you open them again, Gojo is looking at you. There is something so deranged in his expression that you can almost see every part of him fighting itself at once, but finally something else wins.
The cold reality that he cannot win this one.
He breathes in and out shakily, and when he finds the words to say, his voice is shredded; torn to pieces, “I don’t trust anybody else with you.”
It stings more than it should, because under all the fucked up impulse to control, you know he really means it. Though, that doesn’t make this okay. If anything, it only makes it sadder.
You don’t respond, you can’t. Instead, the president steps closer, unfazed by Gojo’s bullshit, “She’s leaving. I’m taking her back. You’re going back to your room, shutting the door, and sleeping off whatever the fuck this is. And if you want to deal with it tomorrow, you deal with it when you can act like somebody who deserves to be in the same conversation.”
Gojo chuckles under his breath, “Tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” The president affirms, “Tomorrow. Cause right now? You’re done.”
For a minute, you think Gojo might argue again. You can tell by the twitch in his hands, the way his lips part, but then his eyes flick to your face one last time. And whatever he sees there, kills it.
The fight in him drains all at once, leaving behind a feeling more damning than rage—sorrow. His voice, when it comes, is so soft that it almost isn't a sound, “You really mean it.”
He doesn’t ask it like a question, no, just a statement that you confirm, “Yes.”
And that ruins him. His face breaks, the look that’s left there is one you’ll remember no matter how hard you try to forget. The president steps beside you, “C’mon.”
Your legs feel numb when you start moving, but this time no one stops you. You pass Gojo with enough space between you that he couldn’t reach out to touch you even if he wanted to; surprisingly, he doesn’t even try. He stands there pitifully, in the middle of the Sig Chi hallway, appearing much younger than he ever does when he’s performing as Satoru Gojo for the rest of Los Angeles.
As you step down the first stair, you risk one glance back. Of course he’s still there, still watching as if he’s itching to say something—beg, curse, promise, apologize, threaten, anything. Yet, he says nothing. He just stares at you like he can’t fathom how you’re actually leaving.
Out on the lawn, the air is colder than what hung in that corridor, damp with that before-dawn stillness. Somewhere in the distance, a car passes. Somewhere else, down Greek Row, a frat boy laughs too loud. USC continues to exist around you despite your world imploding for the hundredth time.
When you get to the sidewalk, the president's gaze flicks to you, “You okay to keep walking?”
You answer, shamefully honest, “Not really.”
All he can do is nod at that as you both keep going, and you make it about halfway past the block before he adds, “He’s been on a bad run.”
You stare straight ahead, “I know.”
“And that wasn’t okay.”
“I know…”
By the time the dorms come into view, the pain in your chest has started losing ground to exhaustion. Your knees feel weak, your stomach hollow and sour, and every step up the front path is heavier than the last.
At the entrance, the Sig Chi president stops and looks at you properly this time, “Take care of yourself, (Y/N).”
A simple farewell, yet it sits strangely beneath your ribs. It sounds too knowing and you wonder how much of that scuffle in the hall he heard, if anything at all. Does he know that you’re pregnant? Did he hear the part about you “killing his baby”? It’s humiliating enough to make you nauseous all over again.
You force yourself to respond anyway, “Thanks.”
He waits until you’re safely inside the building before turning back toward Greek Row and the moment the door to your room shuts behind you, the quiet is suffocating. You barely make it two steps when your knees buckle and your shoulder clips the wall. The phone nearly slips from your hand as you catch yourself, breath coming in short, ugly bursts that hurt on the way in and out. Your stomach twists meanly again, too many emotions clawing for room inside you at once.
And because the universe decided you hadn’t endured enough embarrassment for one night, Blair’s lamp clicks on, “What the fuck…?” Her voice is thick with sleep at first, but it shifts the moment she sees you half-folded against the wall in one of Gojo’s hoodies with your face caved in.
She’s out of bed in seconds, “Hey—hey, what happened?” You try to answer, nothing comes out except a broken inhale that has her get to you quickly, “Did he do something? What happened?”
You shake your head with tears spilling, “We f-fought,” You choke, “I left and he—he came after me and then—” Your breath snags so hard you have to stop and swallow around it, “The president from Sig Chi had to walk me back.”
“The frat president,” She repeats, very carefully, “Why?”
You paw at your cheeks angrily, using the sleeve of the Nike hoodie, “Because Satoru was fucked up and blocking the hallway and wouldn’t let me leave and I—I said Planned Parenthood and he lost his fucking mind.”
Blair’s face twinges with fury, “Are you serious?”
You let out a laugh that sounds more miserable than anything else, “I wish I wasn’t.”
She gets one hand around your elbow and steers you toward your bed before you can pass out, “Sit. Right now.”
You listen to her because your legs were on the verge of giving out anyway. Once the mattress sinks under you, it makes everything worse. Sitting still means you can feel all of it now—your pulse still rapidly rabbiting, the ache in your chest, the sick twist in your stomach that has nothing to do with the baby there and everything to do with the fact that even after what happened, the look on his face as you left him there has been burnt into memory.
Blair takes a seat next to you, “Tell me everything.”
You start from the beginning, how Gojo promised he’d only be an hour but somehow that turned into five. Him coming back home annihilated. The argument that ensued afterward. You suggesting Planned Parenthood. Him saying my baby as if he’s the only one dealing with the pregnancy.
By the time you finish, Blair looks like she might actually kill him, “No,” She says, scowling, “No. Absolutely the fuck not.”
“...Yeah.”
She stands on her feet and starts pacing manically, “He said all that, blocked you from leaving, and then another dude had to walk you home?” She turns so fast her hair swings over her shoulder, “Oh, I’m gonna beat his ass.”
“Blair.”
“No, really, because what the fuck is wrong with him?”
You shut your eyes. That’s the main question on your mind too. What the fuck is wrong with him? Worst of all, what the fuck is wrong with you that some ridiculous sliver of your heart hurts for him anyway?
Blair notices how your face has changed as you contemplate these things and exhales hard through her nose, reigning herself in just barely. She returns by your side, “You don't have to deal with him tonight.”
A sarcastic laugh slips from your lips, “Pretty sure I already did.”
“You know what I mean.”
Yeah. You do, and unfortunately, your hands drift to your stomach without even meaning to. Neither of you say the word, but it hangs in the air anyway—pregnant. Yet, now it’s different. Now, it’s not just panic and oh, shit, my life is cooked and my dad’s gonna murder me.
Now, it’s causing fights and has Gojo saying things like don’t kill my baby and your future becoming impossibly more uncertain.
You finally break in front of her. Blair wraps both arms around you and you cry into her shoulder, “I can’t do this. I actually can’t,” You rasp, “I can’t fucking do this.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t,” You sob, because obviously she doesn’t. Nobody really does, “He looked at me—like I was about to do something so horrible and I just—I can’t do this with him…I can’t.”
She holds you tighter and gives you the only advice she can conjure, “Then don’t.”
You pull back enough to look at her through blurred vision. She wipes under one of your eyes with her thumb, face still hard with restrained anger, “If you can’t do this with him, then don’t. You don’t owe him that. You don’t owe him anything.”
You know that, of course. You’ve always known that. Yet, logic has nothing on grief when it decides to sink its teeth in, “I still…feel bad for him.”
Blair’s mouth parts, then she blinks at you like she cannot believe you even said it, “Oh my God.”
You scrub the heels of your hands into your eyes, exhausted and pissed at yourself, “I know. I know how it sounds.”
“No, because what the hell?” She throws one hand up, pacing again for half a second before swinging back around to you, “He comes home coked out of his mind, says horrifying shit, chases you into a hallway, acts like your uterus is something he has control over and you’re over here sad for him?”
“...Yes?”
She looks like she wants to scream, but for your sake she drags both hands into her hair instead, “Jesus Christ. Girl, you’re in love with a psycho.”
There it is. The ugly truth spoken out loud. The truth you wanted to refuse to admit.
How pathetic.
A frat boy you’ve only known for three months. One who got off on what knocking you up meant and then abused substances to cope with the reality of it. And you love him—you love him to the point where you pity him.
Fresh tears threaten to spill and Blair sees it instantly, “No, no. Don’t start.”
“What do you want me to do?” Damn, you’ve never felt like such a crybaby, “Turn it off?”
Blair almost says yes out of pure frustration, but since you're on the verge of crying, she suppresses the impulse. She sighs, “I think we’re a little past that. Here’s what we’re gonna do, though—” She grabs her Stanley from her desk and shoves it into your hands, “—Drink.”
You stare up at her with glazed eyes, “But I’m not—”
“You have no problem listening to him,” She interrupts, “So how about you listen to me?”
That shuts you up quickly. You chug the water because, once again, Blair manages to say something blunt and honest enough to leave you with no comeback. When you lower the Stanley, breathless from drinking too much too fast, she’s already moving on, “Now, take that cursed ass hoodie off.”
Your fingers curl around the edge of the sleeve on instinct, you catch a whiff of the scent still clinging to the collar. It smells just like him—Armani cologne with the faintest hint of weed. It’s embarrassing how much it comforts you.
Blair clocks that immediately, “He doesn’t get to haunt my room too. I can smell his cologne from here. Shit is burning my nostrils.”
That drags a laugh out of you, and as if it physically pains you, slowly you peel the Nike sweatshirt off your body, tossing it to the floor like it means nothing. It should mean nothing. It’s just a piece of fabric that belongs to the guy who has caused one too many problems in your life. Yet, removing it feels like the beginning to an end.
Blair smiles proudly, “Good,” She reaches for her favorite coral crewneck and gives it to you, “Wear mine instead. Probably fits you better anyway.”
Too tired to be defiant, you put it on as she says, and hate how right she is—it obviously fits you better, smells unlike Gojo in every which way. Coconut lotion, Sol de Janeiro spray, clean laundry. All good things that should soothe you more than his hoodie did, but for some reason, don’t.
You force a grin at her like they do, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
She sighs dramatically and plops beside you on your bed, “Me neither, but good thing we’ll never have to know. ‘Cause we’re stuck together forever.”
Your head falls onto her shoulder, “Even when I do stupid shit?”
“Especially when you do stupid shit…like falling in love with an entitled frat boy and letting him impregnate you.”
You shoot her a glare so sharp it could cut skin, “Oh, fuck you.”
“Hey,” She snorts, throwing her arms up lazily, “At least he’s hot and rich, because girl—if he wasn’t? We’d be having a very different conversation.”
That pulls a real laugh out of you for the first time tonight, and just like that, she somehow has lightened the mood for a split second. Enough to distract you from all the bad, and all the bad that awaits.
“You should get some sleep though, yeah?” She suggests, “It’s four in the morning. You need to rest. Tonight’s…been a lot.”
“Yeah,” You murmur, shifting to settle into bed, “Yeah, it has.”
Once you crawl under your blanket, the second your face hits that pillow, your whole body starts to sink. Blair gets up, clicks the desk lamp off, checks the lock to see if it’s deadbolted—multiple times because she’s paranoid, then saunters over to her bed across from yours.
Your voice comes out small in the dark, “You think he’ll come here.”
Blair knows that you aren’t asking, “Yes.”
Something in your chest caves a little more, because of course he will. You expect nothing less from the man who looked like his whole world was shattering in that hallway. Satoru Gojo is not the kind of guy who goes back to his room and sleeps this shit off just because some frat president ordered him to.
You squeeze your eyes shut, “...Don’t let him in.”
She doesn’t hesitate, “Not a fucking chance.”
Her response should make you feel better. She’ll stop him, she’ll play bodyguard, stand between you and whatever version of him shows up next, but it doesn’t. Not really. Because you know damn well that he’ll come here looking half-dead, desperate, apologetic, yet wretchedly beautiful and seeing him like that would only ruin you further.
The room goes quiet except Blair moving around softly and the awful sound of your breath evening out. The last thing you think before sleep takes you is Gojo’s face. The expression he wore as if you weren’t just planning to end a pregnancy. He looked at you like you were killing a part of him too.
And less than four hours later, the knocking starts.
Three quick knocks against the dorm door that are almost polite if not for the hour, and because Blair had never quite fallen asleep in the first place, her eyes snap open instantly. For one second she just lies there in the dark, staring at the ceiling while her heart kicks hard once against her ribs.
Then the knocking comes again; more urgent, this time. Her head turns toward your bed. You’re out cold, face buried in the pillow, lashes damp, breath faint and uneven, one arm curled under the blanket over your stomach like even in rest your body knows where the hurt lives.
Blair’s jaw tightens. There’s no doubt in her mind that it’s him standing beyond that door. She checks the time on her phone—7:34 A.M. God, it’s too early for this shit.
She throws her blankets off and stalks to the door barefoot, not bothering to fix her hair because she already knows who it is. The energy of it alone gives him away; that relentless, miserable insistence like if he knocks just enough, reality will bend for him. He has a knack for thinking that way. Guess growing up ridiculously privileged has its downsides.
Before unlocking anything, she peers through the peephole. Gojo. Yep, no surprise there, and he looks dreadful. Still in the same black shirt, wrinkled to hell now. That backup silver chain of his still draped around his neck. Same white hair, tousled and messy. Skin so pale it makes the bruised shadows under his eyes stand out. He doesn’t appear drunk anymore, or at least not in the same way; the chemical sharpness in his gaze has flattened into something hideous. He’s gotten no sleep and has no clue what to do with his own grief except bring it here.
Blair opens the door, but barely, cracking it slightly where only very little light from the hallway illuminates her face. When he realizes that it’s her and not you, he seethes, “Move.”
She laughs softly, cautious not to wake you, “Morning to you too, asshole.”
“I need to see her.”
“No.”
He blinks once, like he expected pushback, but not total denial, “Blair.”
“No,” She repeats, sternly now, “You don’t get to come here after all the bullshit you pulled and start barking orders.”
He runs a hand through his hair, rough and impatient, then glances past her shoulder automatically like he might somehow see you through the dark room, “I’m not here to fight with you.”
“Then you picked the wrong dorm.”
That nearly gets a reaction out of him. Instead, he exhales through his nose and says, slower now, as if trying not to lose his temper and ruin whatever chance he has of seeing you, “I need to talk to her.”
Blair folds her arms over her chest, “She’s asleep.”
His expression drops, only for a heartbeat. A small, involuntary flinch at the reminder that you cried yourself unconscious and he still had the nerve to come pounding on your door before eight in the morning on a Friday.
Despite that, he murmurs, “Wake her up.”
“No.”
“Blair—”
“Bro, no,” Her voice sharpens, “Some dickhead kept her up all night, so no, I’m not gonna wake her up because you need to feel better.”
Gojo’s face shutters, “This isn’t about me feeling better.”
“Oh, please,” Blair leans harder into the crack of the door, “Everything with you is about you feeling better. You drink because you feel bad. You snort coke because you feel bad. You showed up here because you feel bad. Meanwhile, she’s the one who actually has to carry what you did.”
His nostrils flare, “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you don’t know anything,” She snaps, “Or last night wouldn’t have happened—hell, none of this would’ve happened. She wouldn’t be pregnant with this fucking baby.”
As soon as she hisses the words, she thinks he might slam his hand into the doorframe, say something incredibly vile, or plow his way inside the dorm room, but he does nothing. He goes eerily still.
His voice pitches lower, “She told you?”
Clueless as to what he’s referring to, she doesn’t even care to know, “Yeah. No. You don’t get to ask me shit.”
His throat works once, “She okay?”
The question is quieter than everything else he’s said so far, but she doesn’t soften or diverge from the truth, “She is not okay.”
Gojo looks down for a moment, both hands braced on his hips like if he doesn’t physically hold himself together, he might fall apart right here. He looks back up, “I need to hear it from her.”
“No. You need to leave.”
His mouth tightens, “Blair.”
She silences him immediately, “She does not want to see you.”
All the blood drains from his face. It’s almost frightening how fast all the visible damage dissipates because he’s forcing it down so hard it leaves him looking carved out. A smile tugs at his lips as if he doesn't believe that, “Bullshit.”
“Actually, what’s bullshit is showing up here after grabbing her at Sig Chi and acting like you’re entitled to another conversation.”
His bright eyes flash, “I didn’t hurt her.”
“No?” Blair’s voice shifts deceptively calm, “Because she came home hysterical and your fucking president had to escort her back, which tells me whatever you think happened and whatever really happened aren’t aligning.”
He recoils, the shame and velocity of his own actions hitting him square in the stomach. Even then, it seems like he wants to refute it, like he wants to defend it. Yet, he knows he can’t do either without making himself look worse than he does. So, he bargains, “Just five minutes. That’s all.”
Blair leans her shoulder against the door, “No.”
He lets out a huff of a laugh, dry and helpless, “You’re not even gonna ask her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
She almost gives in at that—almost. Because there is something painfully earnest in the way he asks, that for half a second, Gojo sounds less like a rich, possessive frat fuck and more like a twenty year old boy who didn’t sleep, is aware he screwed up, and has no idea how to bear the consequences of any of this yet.
But then Blair recalls your face, the way you sobbed into her, and your one, specific instruction. Don’t let him in.
So, she won’t. All her sympathy vanishes, “Because she already answered you,” She reasons, “You just didn’t like the answer.”
Gojo goes silent. Morning waking up around them piece by piece. A door down the hall opens and closes, the whole campus keeps moving. He drags a hand over his mouth and says, hushed, “Well…I’m not leaving.”
Blair tilts her head, “How cute,” He stares at her, she stares right back, “Try me.”
Something in his countenance morphs again—anger, disbelief, exhaustion, all of it braided together, “You gonna call the RA?”
“Yes.”
He looks past her shoulder one more time, praying to catch a glimpse of you in the shadows. But his prayers go unanswered, “Campus police?”
“Yes. I’ll call the real fucking cops if I have to.”
The tiniest, ugliest chuckle leaves him, “You’re serious.”
She doesn’t miss a beat, “Dead.”
He nods once, finally believing her, and for a long minute, neither of them says anything. Until he does, because apparently he still has some humiliation left to continue on. He asks the one question he probably hates himself for needing.
“Did she…sleep at all?”
Blair’s grip tightens on the edge of the door, “A little.”
He closes his eyes, briefly. When they reopen, they’re bloodshot and beautiful in that awful way of a person running on no sleep and grief and sheer refusal to stop standing upright.
“Tell her—” He breaks off, Blair waits. He laughs once under his breath like even he in this state can hear how pathetic he’s about to sound, “Tell her I came.”
Blair just looks at him, he turns red with frustration in an instant, hearing it too, “Not like that, Jesus fucking Christ—”
That startles a snort out of her before she can stop it and of course he’s pissed that he accidentally made her laugh, “Tell her I was here. Tell her that I need to talk to her.”
“I’ll tell her you came by.”
His jaw flexes, “Blair.”
“That’s the best you’re getting.”
He bows his head, stiff and defeated, hating every second of this. Blair starts to shut the door, but right before the gap disappears, he says, low enough that it almost doesn’t make it through, “Make sure she eats something.”
Blair freezes; it sounds so heartbreakingly ordinary after everything else. So fucking him. Such the fucking problem. She stares at him one last time through the narrowing crack, “You don’t get to play boyfriend right now.”
He doesn’t argue, because he knows, though it won’t stop him from trying anyway. The door closes in his face with a final click and on the other side of it, Satoru Gojo stands in the hall for another few seconds glaring at painted wood, hands useless at his sides, before reluctantly dragging himself away.
When you wake from sleep at 11:14 A.M., you already decide that you’re skipping your afternoon classes. You’re in no mood or position to go to them anyway. You have bigger problems to solve. Blair, surprisingly, keeps her word to Gojo and tells you exactly what she said she would, “He came by.”
Your brows lift as you sit up, blankets still wrapped around you, “When?”
She sighs from her bed, having gotten remotely zero rest, “Fucking seven-thirty.”
“What did he say?”
“Y’know, the usual—the usual shit guys say when they’re sorry for ruining everything.”
You swallow thickly, all you're able to manage is a pathetic little, “Ah.”
Then, because you’re afraid that he might come back or worse—try to corner you somewhere else over the weekend, you plan accordingly. You won’t step outside the dorm unless absolutely necessary. Despite being on the fourth floor, the window curtains remain drawn, your phone stays away from you, and Blair more or less appoints herself as keeper now instead of bodyguard.
Though your phone doesn’t remain silent for long. It blows up within minutes of you waking, his name flooding the screen.
Satoru
Satoru
Satoru
Texts first, then calls, and when you ignore those too, he sends more texts.
please answer me
i’m sorry
please
can we just talk
please don’t do it like this
where are you ??
baby please
That last one makes you flip the phone over so quick it nearly slips from your hand. Blair watches the whole thing from across the room, and says very calmly, “I’m going to kill him.”
You almost laugh. But you can’t find it in yourself to. You wind up tucking your phone under your pillow like that will somehow make you forget that wherever he is right now, he’s trying his hardest to reach you.
And though it shouldn’t, the thought hurts. Because you know exactly what he sounds like sending those messages without even hearing him. Rasped, broken, unfairly pretty in that infuriating way he always is when he’s trying to be sincere. Another thing you know is that if you answer him, even once, he’ll wedge himself into the softest part of you like always, and stay there until the edges of your anger start blurring.
So you don’t give him the chance to do so. You continue to ignore, ignore, ignore.
The weekend passes by like this, slow and torturous. You sleep at weird hours, you cry in random bursts and curse at yourself for it. You shower once, which in itself should count as an achievement, but you stand in there too long because being inside your own body has suddenly become unbearable. It doesn’t feel like yours in the uncomplicated way it used to. Rather, it’s turned into a place where fear and sex and grief all got trapped together and have fed off each other.
And all the whole while, the question lingers. The one you’ve wanted to avoid the same way you’ve avoided Gojo. What now?
You try, for the sake of honesty, to think about keeping this baby. You try to look past the stupid fantasy version Gojo has probably built in his head where all this destruction somehow transforms into permanence, love, and redemption, and envision the reality of what being pregnant truly means.
You’re eighteen years old. In your first semester of college three thousand miles away from home. Your life has barely even begun. Your body feels too young and terrified for this. Your father, your mother, your brothers would all view you as a disappointment, probably. You’d be forever tied to a man who looks at you like the only girl in the world, then does coke behind your back as if nothing else in the world matters. A man who can be so soft it makes you ache, then selfishly stand in front of you like your body is something he has a vote on.
And every time you picture this future, the same answer keeps meeting you at the end.
You cannot do this.
Not with him. Not now. Maybe never.
The decision should feel clean, yet it doesn’t. That’s the sick part. That’s the part nobody warns you about. The part most people wouldn’t understand.
But, on Sunday night. You finally work up the courage to do it.
You sit cross-legged on your bed with your laptop open in front of you, staring at the Planned Parenthood website like the words are in some foreign language.
The appointment page glows back at you—location, time, date. Your finger hovers over the trackpad for so long your hand starts to cramp. You click on schedule appointment. Such a small phrase for something so life-altering.
Blair sits beside you, but doesn’t even breathe too loudly. She just stays there, warm and steady, letting you be the one to do this. When the forms are filled out and submitted, the confirmation page loads a second later.
Monday at 3:00 P.M.
Just like that, it changes. The grief, the fear, the future. It all changes shape. No longer is it a possibility that hangs over your head. Now, it has a date, time, place. Your throat swells until it hurts.
Blair reaches over gently and closes the laptop for you. Neither of you says much after that because what is there to say?
Beneath your pillow, your phone buzzes again. You don’t need to see the screen to know who’s the cause, choosing to let it ring itself into silence. Your eyes close, and you start to imagine his face—the look that will be there when you tell him it’s done.
They open right back up. No, you can’t imagine that. If you do, some weak part of you may change your mind. But the universe won’t give you the opportunity to back out. Because Monday comes, whether you want it to or not.
Of course, you skip class again. How could you not on a day like this, with the appointment looming over your head like a storm cloud?
By the time Monday afternoon rolls around, your body feels oddly detached from you. Too light in certain places, too heavy in others. Blair barely lets you out of her sight long enough to throw on shoes and a hoodie, hovering in that way she does when she’s trying not to make a big deal out of how worried she actually is.
“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?” She asks for maybe the third time today.
You shake your head, fingers tightening around your phone, “No. I just…I think I need to do this part alone.”
Her face twists like she hates that, but she doesn’t push any further. She walks you downstairs and stands next to you on the curb while you wait for your Uber, “Call me if you need anything. I mean it.”
“I will.”
Your Uber arrives a few minutes later and you stumble into the back on trembling legs. You picked a clinic farther away on purpose. Far enough that hopefully, you won’t run into anyone who knows your face, your name, your father, or worst of all—him. The last thing you can handle right now is seeing someone from USC while you’re walking into a Planned Parenthood.
The ride there is about as awful as you could expect. Every stoplight feels too long, every street too normal. People are out living their lives while yours has been put on hold, and your stomach keeps churning around the fact that you’re on your way to end something before it ever really had the chance to begin.
When you get there, you check in at the front desk with your voice sounding strangely unlike your own, then sit down in the waiting room with your knee bouncing so hard it makes the chair creak. There are a few other women there; none of you really look at each other, everyone quietly minding their own business. You despise how comforting that is.
After a brutal ten minutes, your name is finally called and your entire body jolts. The nurse is kind, too kind, honestly. It makes you want to cry for some reason.
She asks the standard questions, takes your vitals, has you pee in a cup, and even though you already know what the result is, your chest still throbs when the pregnancy test comes back positive. Like some delusional piece of you had been hoping the universe might pull one last miracle out of its ass. It doesn’t.
Then comes the blood draw. You warn the nurse before she even touches you that you’re bad with bloodwork, that you get dizzy and lightheaded, and she gives you that practiced little smile like she’s heard it a thousand times before.
Which somehow makes it more humiliating when you still have to turn your gaze away and clamp your eyes shut. Your fingers curl so tightly in your lap your nails leave small crescents in your palm, and when it’s over, a wave of nausea climbs up your throat that you force yourself to swallow.
The ultrasound, though. Oh, it is so much worse.
You weren’t prepared for how quiet the room would be or how your whole body would go tense the second the screen beside you flickers to life. At first, you don’t understand what you’re looking at, but then…you do.
It’s so small. So impossibly tiny that for a moment, your brain almost rejects it completely. That can’t be anything. That can’t be real.
Except it is. Your heart thumps aggressively against your ribs at the sight of it.
The technician explains how far along you appear to be and you hate how you grow hot and cold at once hearing it spoken aloud.
“Seven and a half weeks.”
You stare at the screen so long that your eyes begin to sting. Then, before you can stop it you hear yourself ask, “Can I…have a copy of it?”
She glances at you and nods, “Of course.”
You breathe out shakily, fingers twisting in your lap, “Two, actually.”
The technician plasters on a thin smile, “Okay.”
Because despite everything, you still feel like he should get to see this one thing. Just enough to remember and know it existed.
When she hands them over a few minutes later, the paper feels feather-light between your fingers. Two identical black and white prints.
One for you and the baby you can’t keep.
One for the boy you can’t do this with.
And thankfully, the doctor walks in before you can think too hard about it. She starts walking you through your options, calm and neutral, which only makes this all feel so horribly ordinary. Surgical, medication, what to expect, the timing, the symptoms, follow-up. You hear all of it, but you’re not really listening.
When she asks what you want to do, your voice falters, “Medication.”
She nods like she knew that might be where this was heading and explains the process. The first pill taken here, the next one taken tomorrow. What the cramps may feel like, along with the bleeding, the clotting, when you should call if something feels wrong.
You sign what needs signing and take the first pill. It shouldn’t feel this massive, it’s just one little white pill, but your hand quivers when you lift the cup of water to wash it down.
Because this is it. This is the beginning of the end.
The doctor gives you the prescription for the second medication and the instructions for what’s next. You take the papers, nodding like you’re absorbing every word even though your ears are ringing.
At the front desk, you pay for the procedure in cash. There’s no fucking way you’re letting a charge hit your dad’s credit card to sit there like evidence—something that can be traced back to you later with one brow raised and a suspicious, “What is this?”
So you count the bills out with twitchy fingers, shove the receipt in your purse, and walk out of the clinic into a California sunset that makes the world appear too peaceful for what happened inside.
The Uber ride back to campus miraculously feels even quieter than the first, you text Blair when you’re five minutes away and she’s waiting downstairs before the car even pulls up.
And as soon as you step out, she takes one look at your face and loops her arm through yours, “CVS?”
“Yeah.”
The walk over feels surreal this time. Unlike the other times you’re not buzzing with adrenaline while Gojo rips a Plan B off the shelf or riddled with panic reaching for a box of pregnancy tests. No, today, you’re just…numb.
You pick up the second dose of the medication and on the walk back to the dorms, Blair glances down at the paper bag once. Neither of you say a word. Because all you can think is that it’s hard to believe that a bag that weighs almost nothing will change everything.
You barely speak once you get back to the dorm, though Blair forces you to eat a cup of ramen noodles because she knows you won’t eat otherwise. You take a few bites, but lose your appetite because the little paper bag sits on your desk like it has a pulse of its own and you can’t stop looking at it.
Your phone also does not stop vibrating. At first, you ignore it as per usual, but when that’s not enough you silence it. Then eventually you shove it underneath your comforter because if you see the name Satoru light up the screen, you might genuinely lose your fucking mind.
Despite not seeing it, you know it’s him. It’s always him.
Text after text. Missed call after missed call. Long paragraphs. Short sentences. Ones that are probably apologies, some that are maybe him trying to explain. You don’t doubt that there are some angry ones thrown in there as well because when Gojo feels, he feels every emotion at once.
But later, when Blair goes downstairs to grab you both some more food and you’re alone for five whole dangerous minutes, curiosity gets the better of you. Or maybe masochism. Hard to tell the difference between the two.
You check the messages.
i went to your building
you didn’t go to class today ???
i know you’re seeing these so fucking answer already
shit i’m sorry baby
please let me explain
Of course he would fight himself in his own texts. Of course, still running on little to no sleep and sheer panic, he would stalk the path of your day trying to find you in it. You can picture it too easily—him posted outside the lecture hall with his hands shoved into his pockets, looking up every time the doors open, realize after twenty minutes that you’re not coming, then text again like that may somehow bridge the distance.
The image hurts in that mean, involuntary way everything about him hurts now. So you lock your phone and shove it back under the covers as if burying a body.
That night, when you try to sleep, it never takes you. Every time you doze off, you jump awake an hour later with your body already bracing for Tuesday.
Tuesday.
God, you’ve always hated Tuesdays. Possibly even more than Mondays. And with a Tuesday this terrible nipping at your heels, the hatred feels justified.
When morning greets you—LA sunshine and birds chirping and students moving around outside as if all is well on earth, you feel raw from the inside out.
You skip class once more because there’s no way you could force yourself to, not when the second pill sits in your palm feeling heavier than anything you’ve ever carried.
Blair watches you from her bed, “You want me to stay?”
Originally, you were going to say no. Tell her to be a good student for the both of you and attend class, but selfishly, you’re too scared to do this entirely alone, “Yes.”
So she stays.
The first hour after you take the pill is cruel, because nothing happens right away. You figured maybe everyone over-exaggerated the symptoms. But of course, that’s right when the cramping starts.
At first, it’s manageable. They hit low and insistent, but then they sharpen. The pain doesn't come cleanly either. It rolls, builds, drops off just enough to trick you into thinking, oh, maybe that was the worst of it, only to return and hit you harder.
By the time the bleeding starts, you’re sweating. Blair’s stopped pretending to do anything but keep watch. She brings you water, helps you to the bathroom once when the nausea becomes so unbearable you see spots, rubs your back when you lean over the sink trying not to throw up from the cramping alone.
And just when you think the bleeding couldn’t get any worse, it does. It gets so horribly bad that you can’t stand being in bed anymore. You need the shower—that’s how you know you’re desperate. Because the communal bathrooms are disgusting. Everyone’s aware of that. But right now, you couldn’t care less.
You sit on the freezing tile of the shower floor with your knees pulled up, letting the water beat down over your back until the heat starts to slip and the whole room turns into steam and ache. Your stomach keeps twisting in on itself, each cramp strong enough to make your thighs tremble. When you peer down, blood and clots are still sliding between your legs, thinning out into pink when the water catches them before they disappear into the drain.
That’s the part you can’t stop staring at. The disappearing.
Water runs down your face, but at some point you stop knowing which of it is from the shower and which of it is from your eyes. The doctors did warn you. They mentioned the heavy bleeding and the cramps, nausea, dizziness, fatigue, the full disclosure.
They did not warn you that it would feel like your body was trying to empty itself so completely it forgot you were attached to it. They also did not warn you of how much it would hurt to sit here and watch the evidence of that.
Because that’s what this is now, isn’t it? Evidence.
Proof that something had been there and proof that it’s not there anymore.
If you didn't know better, you would think you were dying. But it isn’t you. And that truth possesses its own kind of violence.
You knew you were never ready for it. Even now, shivering on tile and half-sobbing under lukewarm water, you knew this choice had to be made. Yet, it still feels like mourning.
Mourning a future you never asked for, the version of yourself that would’ve had to exist to survive it, and mourning, too, the ugly realization underneath it all. That maybe, under different circumstances, in a different life, with a different version of Gojo, this wouldn’t have been the way it ended.
But this is the life you got and he made sure of that. So all you can do is sit and watch the water carry everything away.
Eventually, you make it back to the room, wrapped in a robe and moving carefully like every inch of your body aches; the bleeding is still bad, but not as apocalyptic as it was before. You change into soft clothes with hands that won’t stop jittering and crawl into bed without Blair even needing to tell you to.
Evening slips toward night by then and you feel hollowed out in a way you never thought possible. Like something was torn through you and took more than just blood on the way out. Yet, under all that emptiness and pain, there is a blossoming relief you can’t ignore. It’s thin, fragile, you feel guilty for feeling it although you shouldn’t, but it’s there. You hate that it’s there. Because relief feels like betrayal when grief is sitting right beside it.
The relief that simmers in your veins like a reminder that once this passes, your life can resume. You can live out the life you craved when applying to a college this far away; you can be free.
When you close your eyes, you feel wrung out. The phone on your nightstand stays dark because Blair turned it off hours ago, which is probably for the best. Since you already know he’s still trying to reach you.
On Wednesday morning, the bleeding is lighter, the cramps still knead low in your abdomen, but nothing like yesterday.
And less than a mile away, in a frat house room that smells like Armani cologne and the absence of you, Satoru Gojo decides to call the only person left who he can confide in.
Suguru Geto answers the FaceTime on the fourth ring. His face appears in the dim glow of the screen; he’s wearing a black tee, black jewelry, long black hair half-up, half-down. His lip ring catches the faint light. There's ground up weed spread out on a tray in front of him and rolling paper pinched between his fingers.
He squints at the screen, “Goddamn,” He mutters, “You look like shit.”
Gojo lets the phone fall back against his chest, “Thanks.”
Geto starts rolling up like this is any other late-night call between childhood best friends, “No, seriously. You look like you got hit by a bus and then the bus reversed.”
“Fuck you, bro.”
“You’re the one who called me looking like that,” Geto licks the paper shut and glances at him again, “Wanna explain why?”
Gojo goes quiet, until he works up the courage, “Bro…I fucked up.”
Geto snorts, “What else is new?”
“No,” Gojo drags a hand down his cheek, “No, bro. For real this time.”
That makes Geto pause. His hands freeze for the first time since he picked up, “Okay,” He says carefully, “What happened?”
Gojo stares up at the ceiling into nothingness, “You’ve seen my girl, right? The one I’ve posted, like…everywhere.”
Geto shoots him a look, “Oh yeah. The one your Insta turned into a fan page for?” He leans back on his couch, “Yeah, I’ve seen her. You finally settled down, man. I was proud of you. She’s bad as hell too, so congrats.”
Gojo huffs out a breath that sounds like a laugh, “Yeah. I know.”
Geto knows what that noise means, “But?”
“But I think I ruined it.”
The room goes very still on the other end. Geto props an elbow on his knee, joint seemingly forgotten between his fingers, “How?”
And since there’s no nice way to say it, Gojo doesn’t even attempt to, “I got her pregnant.”
Geto blinks, then blinks again, “…You what?”
“Yeah…”
A thick, stunned silence hangs in the air. Then Geto leans back and rubs a hand over his mouth, “Oh my God.”
“...Yeah.”
“How pregnant?”
“I don’t know…Been a few weeks now.”
“And you’re just now telling me this?”
Gojo laughs once, bitter and humorless, “There hasn’t exactly been a good time to pencil it in.”
Geto stares at him, trying to assess the damage through the screen, “Okay. Start from the beginning.”
Gojo’s throat works, and then it all starts flowing. He tells him about finding out. About the panic and trying to act like he had it under control when he absolutely did not. About the fact that he had to be strong for her, for himself, and the hard pill to swallow—his life had tilted off its axis and was never going to be the same again.
His voice goes flatter towards the end, “And I turned back to coke.”
Geto’s entire face hardens, but Gojo continues on anyway, he might as well now, “I kept going out. Drinking. Leaving her alone. Coming back later than I said I would. Just…being a fucking mess. And now? Well…She might get rid of it.”
Geto stays silent. Gojo turns his head and looks at the phone now, at his friend’s face lit silver-blue in the dark, “I wanted it,” He admits, and saying it out loud makes him sound sick even to himself, “Honestly, I did.”
Geto’s brows pull together and Gojo chuckles under his breath, an ugly one, “I know how that sounds.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, I do,” His voice cracks on the last word, “I know it’s fucked up.”
Geto sets his joint down completely, which already is a bad sign. Gojo knows he’s about to get the lecture of a lifetime that he so rightfully earned, “Really, bro? Coke again?”
Gojo looks away, “C’mon, man,” Geto snaps, “That shit is fucking horrible. You know that. You can die off that shit—get some laced garbage and just be gone. And you’re leaving your pregnant girlfriend alone to go get fucked up? Go do coke with your loser ass brothers?”
Gojo says nothing. For what is there to say?
Yes? No? I’m a selfish piece of shit?
But because he’s him and shame makes him stupid, he opts for none of that, “I mean…I get it. She’s the one doing the hard part. All I had to do was bust a nut and suddenly my whole life changed too.”
“You are not funny enough to be joking right now,” Geto deadpans, “Like, nah. No. I don’t blame her at all.”
The words hit Gojo harder than he expected them to as Geto keeps going, “She has every right to want to get rid of it. Because you’re not being the guy she needs you to be…Deadass what girl wants to raise a baby with some frat dude who’s hooked on blow? None, Satoru. The answer is none.”
Gojo rests his forearm over his eyes, “I know.”
“No, I don’t think you did,” Geto says, “If you did know, you wouldn’t have kept disappearing on her like that.”
“I dunno, man…” Gojo trails off, “…I just—I just expected her to talk to me by now,” He turns his head toward the phone again, face twisted with exhaustion, “Normally if we fight, she comes back to me, I nail her shit, and then we’re good. But now? Fuck. I haven’t heard from her in days.”
Geto looks offended on your behalf, “You can’t just solve problems by fucking, bro.”
Gojo gives a dry, miserable little shrug, “Yeah, well when you put it down like me, you kinda can.”
The joke gets Geto to bark out one laugh despite himself, then he immediately reins it in, “You’re such an asshole. Do you even love her or do you just love fucking her?”
That wipes every trace of smugness off Gojo’s face in an instant, “‘Course I love fucking her,” He replies, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, “God, she’s unreal.”
Geto rolls his eyes, Gojo’s voice drops, “But…I love her too. I love her so much it’s made me fucking insane.”
Silence falls upon them both once more, Geto studying him before asking, “Did you actually want the baby? Or did you just want what it meant?”
Shit. It’s the question he’s never been able to answer without sounding like a total monster.
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
“I wanted…” He stops, starts again, “I wanted something permanent.”
Geto listens thoughtfully, “I wanted something that was mine,” Gojo admits, then grimaces at himself, “Fuck. See? That sounds—”
“Possessive? Evil? Both?” Geto supplies.
“Yeah.”
“It is,” And he lets that sit there, heavy and humiliating, adding, “But, I asked what you wanted. Not what sounds nicer.”
Gojo’s throat closes in on him, “I wanted her,” He says at last, “I wanted her in a way that would keep us together. I wanted…” He chuckles again, hollower this time, “I don’t fuckin’ know. I wanted nobody else to have her. Something that proved it was real.”
Geto exhales calmly, “There it is.”
“Yep.”
“And now?”
Now? Now, is the part he can’t even fucking breathe around.
“Now I think she’s aborting it,” He sighs, “Or already did, I don’t know. She won’t even answer me. Her friend won’t let me near her. She’s been skipping her classes. I went to her buildings and she’s not there and—” His voice catches, this is the worst thought of all, “—I think she’s going through it without me.”
On the other end of the line, Geto doesn’t have any words. He just absorbs everything Gojo has said. But eventually, he finds them, “You might have earned that.”
Gojo flinches like he got slapped, “I know.”
Geto rubs at his jaw, “Did you…tell her any of this?”
“What, that I’m fucked in the head?”
“No, dumbass. That you were fucking scared. That you wanted it. You spiraled because you didn’t know how to hold all this without chemically nuking yourself.”
“Not exactly in those words, no.”
“What did you say?”
Gojo peeks at the screen, then abruptly away from it. Which tells Geto pretty much everything he needs to know, “Oh, nah. What did you say?”
“She mentioned Planned Parenthood,” He grits out hesitantly, “And I, uh, said…she couldn’t kill my baby.”
Geto slaps a hand to his face, “Bro.”
“I know.”
“No, that is crazy.”
“I know.”
“That is actually fucking crazy.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Geto sits back on his couch and lets out one long breath through his nose, like he’s gathering the strength to not call him every name he has available in two fluent languages. Then he picks the joint back up, observes it, and sets it back down again without lighting it, “Jesus, man,” He mutters, at a loss, “You are really trying to lose the love of your life in the dumbest way possible.”
The love of his life. He doesn’t even refute it.
He’s never even been in love before. No. Definitely not, but whatever this is has to be it. Nothing else would make him feel so goddamn insane, this insatiable, this fucking ruined. He wants you with the kind of greed that makes even him disgusted; wants you so badly that he hasn’t stopped to think about what that wanting has cost you. Or him. Or the thing that was growing between you.
Geto sees it then, how hopelessly deep in this Gojo is, “Oh…You’re cooked.”
He can only laugh the pain off, “Uh huh.”
“Okay. Then stop making this about your wants,” Gojo frowns, Geto points directly at him through the FaceTime, “I’m serious. Stop talking about the baby like it’s a symbol. Stop talking about permanence. Stop talking about what you’re losing. She is the one carrying this. She is the one bleeding for it if she does it. She is the one whose body is actually on the line.”
Gojo reluctantly nods, he knows he’s right.
“And if you really love her?” Geto adds, “Then you need to fucking act like it. Not like some coked out frat douchebag who thinks fear gives him a free pass to control everything.”
The call falls silent for the third time. Tokyo glows faintly behind Geto’s shoulder through the glass windows of his apartment. Los Angeles leaks pale sunlight through the slit of Gojo’s blackout curtains. Two different cities. Two different time-zones. Same awful conversation.
Gojo is the first to break the silence, “What do I do, Suguru?”
Geto looks him dead in the eyes, past the pixels and the bullshit. There’s no teasing left in his face, no irritation either. Just the fatigued honesty of someone talking to his best friend when he has run out of gentler ways to say it.
“You wait,” He insists, “And if she lets you back in at all, you better come back as somebody worth letting in.”
The FaceTime ends shortly after that. There’s not much else to say, especially not after Geto stripped it down to the bare, embarrassing truth and handed it back to him.
You wait.
You better come back as somebody worth letting in.
Gojo stares at the black screen for a long time after Geto hangs up, his own reflection dreadful even in the glass. Pale, empty, white hair sprouting in every direction. Blue eyes bloodshot enough to make him look feverish.
Cooked. He’s cooked.
Yeah. That sounds fairly accurate.
He tosses his phone aside lazily and peers up at the ceiling again as if it may solve all his problems for him. For the first time since the fight, he decides he won’t text you.
He won’t call, won’t send another frantic please or where are you or princess answer me like if the pathetic messages pile high enough, they may build a bridge back to you.
No, today he just…waits. Which is its own special kind of torture.
By noon, he’s checked his phone more than thirty times. At two, he’s thrown it across the bed twice and still reached for it every ten minutes anyway. When four o’clock rolls around, he’s paced the length of his room so frequently he wouldn’t be surprised to see grooves in the floor. He doesn’t leave his room, doesn’t go downstairs, skips class too. He doesn’t even bother pretending to be the same guy everyone at USC puts on a pedestal.
His brothers knock once around dinner-time, probably to see if he’s alive, and he tells them to fuck off through the door without even lifting his head.
Still, even now, after all the grueling hours have drifted on by, he doesn’t text you. Although, every nerve in his body is screaming at him to.
Each time his phone touches his fingertips, Geto’s voice echoes in his skull. Stop making this about your wants.
So he tries—badly, but the effort is there. And the hours drag. Six o’clock comes, then six-thirty. By then, he’s lying flat on his back again with the phone balanced on his stomach, burning holes into the cream-colored ceiling like it might pass the time faster. It doesn’t.
At 6:58, he caves just enough to unlock the screen. His text thread with you is the first to greet him. Of course it is. A graveyard of his own making.
His thumb hovers over the keyboard and he types despite himself.
please talk to me
Desperate, but then again every text he’s sent lately has been. And he’s past the point of having humility. He deletes it, though.
i’m so fucking sorry
Pathetic. Useless. Repetitive garbage you’ve seen before.
just tell me you’re okay
That one is selfish. Because if you’re not okay, what exactly is he going to do about it now?
He swears under his breath in Japanese and tosses the phone back down on his chest.
“Fuck this.”
Another minute ticks by. Then another. At 7:03, he grabs his phone again, jaw tight, ready to ignore Geto’s fuckass advice completely and text you anyway because sure, maybe waiting is noble in theory, but in practice it feels like dying slowly.
But that’s exactly when the screen lights up in his hand, and for one horrible breath, his brain doesn’t process it. He just stares.
It’s your name. At the top of his notifications. A new message underneath it. You.
He opens it swiftly, unable to wait another second.
we need to talk
Gojo doesn’t even care about how ominous it sounds. No, not at all. Because after days of nothing, after all the avoidance and the blocked doors and the missed lectures and the ill feeling of knowing you were out there going through this without him, he’s finally gotten something.
You reached for him. Even if it’s to deliver the news that might gut him. His fingers clench around the phone so hard they almost ache. God, he doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or terrified.
He texts back ridiculously fast anyway.
okay
i’ll come get you
You leave him on delivered for three agonizing minutes that feel closer to thirty, and when your next message comes through, his pulse is trying to jump out of his throat.
come to my dorm in 20
Only that. No Satoru. No sweetness. Nothing. He waits another ten seconds, glaring at the thread like maybe you’ll send more. When you don’t, he drops the phone onto the bed beside him and scrubs both hands over his face.
He should feel some sort of ease, instead he feels like throwing up. You want to see him, and deep in his gut, where all his ugliest instincts live, he already knows this won’t end well.
Regardless, he moves. He springs out of bed and has to steady himself on the nightstand because his body is still paying for the last few days of moping around in full. Then he starts cleaning up the wreckage of himself with the same frantic energy he used to put into getting ready for parties.
Fresh shirt, washes his face, brushes his teeth, puts on deodorant because he’s been too depressed to shower, sprays a little cologne but then immediately regrets it. What if it’s too much? What if you smell it and think of club bathrooms and every hour he left you alone while you were carrying his baby?
He rubs at his neck with a towel like he can erase the thought. When he catches himself in the mirror, he pauses. He still looks like shit.
Ravaged, tired in a way sleep wouldn’t even fix if he had gotten any. His once vibrant eyes look older somehow, like in the span of four days he’s managed to destroy the easy prettiness he’s coasted on his whole life.
Good. I deserve to look destroyed.
He grabs his keys off the desk and leaves before any of his brothers can stop him. The drive to your dorm feels weirdly short and excruciatingly long at the same time. He keeps one hand taut on the wheel and the other taps incessantly against his thigh, trying not to overthink what any of this means, what you’re going to say, whether you’ll even get in the car once he gets there.
Which by the time he pulls up outside your dorm, he’s early. Of course he would be. He idles at the curb like a miserable asshole, Porsche engine low and smooth beneath him, checking his phone every five seconds though there’s nothing new. He nearly texts you that he’s outside, then stops himself.
No. Geto advised him to wait. So he does.
At exactly nineteen minutes past your last message, the dorm doors open, and there you are.
The first thing he notices is that you’re wearing one of Blair’s sweatshirts, not his. The second is how slowly you move. Nobody else would clock it, but he knows you too well now, maybe in all the worst ways, and sees it almost instantly. The carefulness in how you step off the sidewalk. The way your shoulders stay a little too tight. The brief hesitation before you lower yourself into the passenger seat when he leans across the middle console and pushes the door open for you from the inside.
His whole body goes rigid. Something happened. Or maybe not something. Maybe the exact thing he’s been trying not to picture from the moment you said the words.
He refuses to believe that yet. He doesn’t know if he can survive believing it before you say it out loud. So he just watches you get in; moving like your body hurts, like sitting hurts, like existing inside yourself hurts. He hates that.
When you shut the door, the quiet within the GT3 feels immensely heavy. Neither of you dare to speak. Up until Gojo hears himself ask, too rough, too fast, “Have you eaten?”
Your eyes flick to him, exhausted and unreadable, “No.”
He nods once, already putting the car in drive, “Okay.”
You look at him like the question irritated you, or confused you, because that’s not what you came here to do, “Satoru—”
“Something small,” He cuts in, not risking a glance at you because he’s afraid that if he does, he might start saying things he shouldn’t, “Just…let me get you something small.”
You don’t argue back, so he takes it as permission because he’s greedy and desperate and doing something normal, even this, even now, is the only thing that can keep him from losing his mind entirely.
And the drive-thru line at In-N-Out is stupidly long. It always is. Yet, tonight, it feels like the world insists on teasing and fucking with him, reminding him that despite his life caving in everything else will continue to go on as normal.
There are USC kids laughing two cars ahead of him, someone blasting rap music with the windows down, a couple in the outdoor dining area sharing fries as if this is any other Wednesday in Los Angeles. Inside the Porsche, it feels dead by comparison.
He looks at you once while the line inches forward. You’re staring out the tinted passenger window, one arm folded over your stomach without really seeming to realize it, your face sunken in the dashboard glow. You don’t look at him, and he grips the wheel harder.
When he reaches the speaker, he doesn’t sound like himself, “What do you want?”
You blink like he dragged you back from somewhere far away, “I…don’t know.”
He swallows, “Something easy.”
“...Fries,” You say quietly, “And maybe a shake.”
“Okay.”
You thank him when he hands you the bag in the parking lot a few minutes later, but it’s soft and automatic, like the word came out before you thought about whether he deserves it. Gojo parks near the edge of the lot where it’s darker, less crowded, as private as possible.
The food sits between you, warm and fragrant and absurdly ordinary. Neither of you move to touch it. And that’s when Gojo can feel the conversation crouched there waiting to happen. He can feel it in the way you keep peering down at your lap as if building up the nerve. Your breathing has gone far too shallow, you shift carefully in the seat like even the leather under you is something you have to endure.
There it is—that careful little movement again. His chest constricts so hard it almost makes him nauseous.
But he doesn’t ask, not yet. If he asks too soon and you tell him the truth too soon, he’ll come apart right here in an In-N-Out parking lot with a double-double growing cold in his cupholder.
So instead, he reaches for the ginger ale he bought days ago and sets it gently in front of you. Your gaze catches it, then snaps to him, and again he can’t read the expression on your face. His voice is low when he says, “Thought you might need it.”
That’s the first thing to have made your mouth change at all. Not a smile. God, no. Although he wishes. But it's the faintest crack in the wall. Something crueler than anger.
You look back down at the can. Your fries stay uneaten in the bag between you. Outside, tires crunch over gravel, headlights sweep past, someone giggles in the distance. Finally, Gojo turns toward you fully. You’re still not looking at him.
And softly, like maybe softness might save him now, he says, “Okay…Talk to me.”
Your fingers dig into the strap of your purse and with movements that feel too delicate to belong to you. You reach inside, brushing past your wallet, lip oil, the folded receipt from the pharmacy, then pull out his copy of the ultrasound.
The second he sees the glossy black and white paper, every inch of him freezes in that terrible, instinctive way the body does when it recognizes something before the mind is brave enough to.
You place it on the center console. Gojo’s eyes drop immediately, his whole face drains. He knows better—he knows before you say a single word that this is so serious that he can’t charm or fuck his way out.
His voice comes out low, “What’s…this for?”
“You know what.”
He does, yet he still stares at the print like if he looks hard enough it might rearrange itself into mercy or a timeline where he got there in time. Into anything except what this clearly is.
You swallow thickly, “They said I was around seven and a half weeks.”
His eyes flutter shut, when they open again, they’re glassy in that awful way he gets when he’s fighting a feeling far bigger than pride.
“And?”
Finally forcing yourself to look at him, you whisper, “It’s done.”
The words strike him like something physical and you watch it happen. His shoulders stiffen first, his lips part, his hand starts to move for the ultrasound, but slowly, as if afraid that the paper may burn him.
He picks it up with trembling fingers, stares, then turns back to you, “You—” His throat works, “You did it?”
“Yes.”
“Without me?”
You nod and it ruins him more than the first confession did, because this is where it becomes real. You went through it and he wasn’t there. His voice cracks around the edges, frayed, “Why?”
A laugh almost escapes you, the answer is so obvious it’s cruel he has to ask. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe he needs to hear every part of this dragged cleanly into the light, “Because I knew you’d try to stop me.”
He begins to quietly collapse. A boy finding out too late that he made himself the person you had to protect yourself from. His head dips, the ultrasound still pinched between his fingertips, and when he looks back up there’s something fractured in his expression.
It’s almost as if he can’t bear your face and the image in the same glance, unknowing of which one will kill him slower. You keep talking, because if you don’t, you’ll lose your nerve.
“I got the second copy for you on purpose,” You say gently, “I wanted you to know it was real. It existed. I wanted you to see it at least once, I just…” Your breath wavers, “I didn’t want it to feel like nothing.”
Gojo’s one hand leaves the steering wheel to cover his mouth and keep whatever is breaking inside himself contained. In his other hand, his thumb grazes over the edge of the ultrasound ever so slightly, like he feels undeserving of even that much contact.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology is so devastating you barely recognize it as his own voice.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t,” Your eyes land back on him, his chest rising uncontrollably, “I’m sorry I left you alone. I’m sorry I got high. I’m sorry I made this—” He breaks off, “I’m sorry I made you feel you had to do that by yourself.”
Your vision goes blurry. There he is. The version of him you wanted before. The one who used to sound like somebody you could’ve leaned on, and he’s arrived too late.
You shake your head, just once, stray tears streaming down flushed cheeks, “I can’t do this anymore.”
“(Y/N)—”
“No,” Your voice cracks, but you force it through, “No, listen to me this time.”
He does, or at least he turns silent enough to pretend he will.
“I can’t do this anymore,” You repeat, smaller now, “Not this. Not us like this. I can’t.”
His free hand moves on pure instinct and panic, straight for yours. He grabs it where it’s twisted up in your lap and for a moment you tense, but he doesn’t squeeze hard. He just lifts your hand and presses your knuckles against his cheek as if he can’t stomach the thought of you disappearing on him.
You’re met with warm skin and a shuddering breath, the whole thing is so pitifully pathetic it almost kills you. He looks nothing like the frat boy who runs Sig Chi with easy arrogance. Here, he is just a boy with beautiful wet eyes pressing your hand to his face like he can keep you there through sheer desperation, “Please don’t.”
You let him find comfort in your touch for a heartbeat, then because you know you need to, you pull your hand away. That’s when he starts bargaining, quick and messy, scared to let you slip between his fingers.
“I’ll fix it,” He says immediately, “I will. I swear to God, I will. I’ll stop. I’ll stop everything. I’ll stop going out, I’ll stop drinking, I’ll quit the coke, I’ll—I’ll do whatever you want, (Y/N). Just—”
He can’t even bring himself to finish the sentence. Just please don’t go.
You hear the words anyway, but know that what’s left of this relationship is beyond repair, “Satoru—”
“I’m serious,” He insists, teeth gritted, “I’ll change. I’ll be good—I’ll be so fucking good to you. I’ll be whatever the fuck you need me to be.”
A strained noise reverberates from your chest as it gets worse. He looks at you with his whole face pained and pleading in a way that only he could manage to make appear so unfairly pretty. Then he confesses the one thing that maybe once would’ve fixed everything. A last ditch effort to undo all the damage and convince you to stay.
“I love you.”
The three words hang there and the worst part? You wholeheartedly believe him, which sparks the tears before you can bite them back. He sees them and mistakes it for hope.
“I do,” He says again, faster now, leaning toward you like if you can understand the magnitude of it, maybe you won’t leave, “I love you. I love you so much. I know I fucked this up, I know I did, but I love you, baby, I—”
“Did you love me, Satoru…” You’re crying so hard that your body hurts with it, but you keep your gaze on him and ask the question, “...or did you love that I was yours?”
He has no simple answer to that. There isn’t one. He peers down at the ultrasound in his hand, the glowing dashboard, then his eyes land back on you, “I didn’t know how to love you,” He admits, voice scraping raw, “Without wanting all of you.”
Tears dribble down your cheeks faster. A chuckle rips out of him, but it sounds sick, “And I know how fucked up that is. I know it.”
You wipe at your face angrily, “I wasn’t ready, Satoru.”
Gojo nods once, immediate, frantic; tone sadder when he musters a pathetic little, “I know.”
“No,” You spit, “Listen. I wasn’t ready,” You drag in a shaking breath, “I’m eighteen. I don’t even know who I am yet. I can’t be somebody’s mother. I can barely be a fucking person on my own right now,” Hearing the hopelessness in the way you say it, shuts him up quickly, “And you weren’t ready either.”
He winces at the truth being spoken aloud. He can’t deny it, he knows he can’t. His eyes snap back to yours, “You wanted it,” You note, “That’s not the same thing as being ready.”
His jaw tightens as he sits there, every word hitting like a crack of a whip, “You were ready to want the baby,” You continue, voice breaking on every other syllable, “But you weren’t ready for what it actually meant. For being there. For staying sober. For coming home. For not disappearing into Sig Chi and coke and alcohol every time shit got too real.”
Now he looks like he’s bleeding out through his face, the shine in his eyes dying like the rest of him, “For almost two weeks, you didn’t step toward responsibility,” Your breath hitches, “Maybe eventually you would’ve figured it out, got better. Maybe you would’ve become ready. But I can’t bet my whole life on a maybe.”
He bows his head, of course he understands it—respects it too, but that doesn’t make him loathe himself or the situation any less, “I hate that this was still hard,” You whisper, “I hate that I chose it and it still hurts like this. I especially hate that under different circumstances…maybe I would've kept it.”
His body tenses as you squeeze your eyes shut, “I’m gonna have to live with wondering that…and I hate you a little for that too.”
He takes it all without defending himself. Thank God. Because you’re nowhere near finished, “I need to be alone,” You say, staring straight ahead through the windshield, “I came to USC for freedom. I wanted to figure out who I was away from Boston and my dad and everybody who thought they knew me…and before I could even become anyone here, I became yours.”
That leaves the car dead silent, you can almost feel how still he’s gone beside you, “I don’t know who I am outside of us anymore and I need to,” You mutter, “And maybe you need to be alone too.”
He laughs bitterly through his nose, “That’s fucking great.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know,” He says, “That’s what makes it worse.”
Another awful silence falls upon you, until everything said finally registers and he latches onto the one word you shouldn’t have given him, “Maybe?” He repeats softly, “So what, maybe we’ll get back together?”
You turn to him and feel ill seeing the hope already there trying to reassemble itself in his face, “No promises. Don’t do that.”
“But maybe.”
“Maybe,” You echo, because you won’t lie to him, “But I can’t promise anything. I’m not asking you to wait either.”
“Doesn’t matter,” He murmurs, “I’m gonna wait anyway.”
Your eyes start stinging again, because of course he’d wait. The saddest thing you’ve learned about Satoru Gojo is that when he loves, he loves so deeply that it ruins everything, including him.
His voice is lower when he asks, “...Did you love me too?”
It hits like a punch to the gut. You think, for a split second, to lie to him. Tell him no, you never did, so that maybe he’d be able to get past this easier. But you can’t find it in yourself to.
“Yes,” You admit, crying openly now, “I still do and it still can’t be this.”
That confession seems to hollow him all the way through and slowly, with hands that don’t even feel like yours, you reach for his silver chain at your throat. His glassy eyes drop to it instantly, then widen, “No,” He says, already shaking his head, “No, no don’t—”
But you unclasp it anyway, the chain slipping free and feeling heavier in your palm than it ever did on your collarbone. You place it carefully in the center console, beside the untouched In-N-Out and all the ordinary things that have become evidence of everything that has died tonight. The noise it makes when it lands is tiny, but the devastation it creates is immense.
“No,” This time it’s smaller. Childlike, almost. Then, louder, crumbling apart, “Please don’t do this. I can’t lose you too,” He pleads, the tears finally spilling over, “Not both. Please, baby, not both.”
Your face twists with the guilt of breaking his heart and knowing you had no other choice. His voice drops to a whisper so broken it barely exists, “Please don’t leave me alone with this.”
The specific grief. Don’t leave me alone with this.
With what I did. With what I lost. With the baby. With the ultrasound in my hand and your chain in the console and the consequences sitting where you used to.
You look at him and can’t even see properly through the endless tears, somehow managing to say the cruelest, yet truest thing all night, “I needed you before, Satoru. When I was scared and sick—trying to figure this shit out…But you weren’t there.”
All the fight left in him dies with that. His mouth opens, but nothing comes. And after a silence so brutal it feels almost holy, he says, “Tell me again…not to come after you.”
You laugh through your sobs, “Like that would stop you?”
“I know…That’s the problem.”
Neither of you move for a long, painful minute. Until you reach for the door handle and immediately his head jerks toward you, panic flashing in his eyes. But unlike that Thursday night, he doesn’t grab you or try to block. He just sits there, trembling, looking at you like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of what losing you feels like.
When he speaks one last time, his voice is too quiet—torn to shreds, “Make sure to eat something.”
The oxygen gets punched out of your lungs. Even after all this, even while he’s drowning he remembers that you haven’t eaten. You can’t spare a glance at him when you respond, “Okay.”
You step out of his Porsche on weak legs, the cool night air hitting your tear-stained face as the noise of the outside world arrives with it—traffic far off, distant chatter from the In-N-Out dine-in area. Life continuing on, disgustingly normal. You close the passenger door softly, as if the car deserves the grace you didn’t show Gojo.
And for one second, with the dark glass between you, you can faintly see him sitting there; hands motionless, head bowed so far his chin touches his sternum. Then you turn around and walk back towards the dorms, leaving him there.
He lifts his head, just an inch, enough to watch you. Your figure moving away beneath the parking lot lights; small from here, smaller than you should be. One hand is hooked around your purse strap, shoulders drawn in, walking like every step you take aches. He drags in a breath, but it doesn’t work.
His chest locks halfway through it like something inside him has actually given out. He folds forward on instinct, elbow braced against the steering wheel, one hand clamped over his mouth, eyes squeezed shut like darkness might somehow make the last half hour not real.
All of your words hit him again as he sits in pure silence. Meaner this time now that your presence can’t soften any of it.
It’s done.
Seven and a half weeks.
I didn’t want it to feel like nothing.
A sound tears out of him, unable to stop it. A broken, raw exhale that catches in his throat and scrapes on the way out. He presses the heel of his hand harder against his mouth, his whole body feels wrong. Too tight. Too hot. Skin too thin. Thoughts moving too fast and too slow at the same time, each one snagging on the same image over and over again.
You sitting next to him with that dead, careful calm, reaching into your purse, handing him the ultrasound like it was a live bomb. And the biggest wound of all? Is that you went through it alone.
You sat under fluorescent lights and listened to strangers tell you how far along you were and asked for a second copy and then got into his car afterward with all of that and let him buy you fries and a bullshit chocolate shake like that would ever be enough.
The second wound he can’t get past? That when it mattered, when you needed somebody safe—you didn’t choose him. Well, worse. You thought of him and knew better. His hand falls from his mouth and he stares blankly through the windshield.
The lot in front of him is blurred. He blinks once, hard, and realizes that his eyes are still wet, “Fuck.”
He peeks down at the ultrasound in his other hand, the glossy paper shivering in his grip. A grey blur, numbers in the corner, medical shorthand he doesn’t even understand. It looks like nothing and everything.
His thumb sweeps against the edge of the photo and he has to stop himself from holding it too tight. The idea of crumpling it makes something inside him recoil violently, so he loosens his hand immediately, gripping it flatter, gentler, like tenderness can still be useful now. There’s a wrecked little huff through his nose as he says to no one.
“You asked for two copies.”
For some reason, that part really gets him—you still thought of him inside it. His throat swells, he throws his head back against the leather seat and closes his eyes.
But you weren’t there.
It burns and hollows him even now. Because there’s no arguing a line like that. If you had left because of one night, maybe he could’ve fixed one night. He knows how to throw himself at a single disaster until people mistake his desperation for change. But this? This was everything that led to it.
Every hour he stayed out. Every lie by omission. Every time he chose being drunk and high over being sober and present. Every time he loved you like wanting was enough to make him safe.
He wanted to make himself permanent. That had been the whole dark, depraved pulse under everything, hadn’t it? Not just to fuck you, but to keep you. To get inside your life in a way no one after him could touch. And for one brief, sick stretch of time, the twisted fantasy looked back at him and said yes.
Now, all he has is an ultrasound in his hand, a silver chain in the console, untouched fries and a melted shake, and an empty passenger seat.
He bends forward suddenly, forearms pressed against his thighs, the photo hanging loosely between his fingers. Then his chest hitches, and he doesn’t even realize he’s sobbing at first. It doesn’t feel dramatic enough for that. Just heat slipping down down his cheeks while he sits in the dark like a fucking idiot and your side of the car abandoned.
He scrubs at his eyes angrily, but it makes no difference. His mind keeps catching on the same details. You still loved him and it still wasn’t enough. That’s what kills him. This can’t be how love looks.
Gojo looks down at the ultrasound again, studying the tiny, incomprehensible blur like there’s any way to read a future inside it now.
“I would’ve loved you.”
Would’ve. Would’ve gotten his shit together. Would've loved you right. Would’ve loved the baby right.
But none of that matters. Would have is for cowards and ghosts, and tonight Satoru Gojo is both.
He folds the small paper up with almost obscene care and slides it into his wallet, tucked flat behind his licence like he’s trying to press it close enough to keep it from disappearing too. Then he just sits there—five minutes, ten.
The parking lot empties more. An In-N-Out employee drags a black trash bag across concrete. Another store’s lights click off. Life keeps happening around him with the kind of indifference that makes him want to put his fist through the fucking windshield. Instead, he just stares at the passenger door.
Make sure to eat something. The memory of his own voice saying it has him cringing.
Pathetic. That’s what he is. Still caring like caring counts for anything now.
But he means it. He means all of it.
He loves you. He loved the baby that will never be. He still wants to know if you’re bleeding too much, if you made it back okay, if you’re curled up in bed right now hating him, if you’re crying, if you’re sleeping. The wanting doesn’t stop just because he deserves nothing from it.
Eventually, he reaches for his phone and stares at your contact. One text, that’s all it would take.
are you okay?
did you eat?
i love you
i’m sorry
please come back
His hand clenches instead, and slowly, like he’s trying to defuse something explosive, he slides the phone back into his pants pocket, “No…”
No, what? No texting? No chasing? No making this worse? He doesn’t even know.
He leans back in the seat and drags both hands down his face. When his eyes open again, the windshield reveals his reflection—a stranger is staring back at him.
Then, so quietly no one in the world would ever hear it, he says into the dark, “I’ll still come after you…”
A confession, something sick and helpless and true.
wc: ~26k | cw: fratjo! heavy smut, kinda angsty, lots of filth, possessive/obsessive tendencies, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation, jealousy, unprotected sex, rough sex, light spanking, cum swallowing, oral sex (f), multiple creampies, huge breeding kink, degradation/praise, accidental? pregnancy, use of alcohol, implied drunk driving, drug use, frat culture, gojo’s still lowk evil, violence/blood, talks of abortion, explicit language, use of pet names (baby, princess), dark romance vibes, reader’s dad is basically tom brady lmao
summary: satoru gojo wanted to make you his. he just didn’t think about what would happen after.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
GOJO DIDN’T EXPECT the crash to feel like this.
It’s been two days since you found out you were pregnant; forty-eight hours of pure panic and swallowing fears that kept rising. Now, you’re curled into his chest, exhausted beyond anything he’s ever seen, lashes still clumped with dried tears, and Gojo can’t look away.
Because he wanted this.
He wanted to stay inside you, fill you up until you were dripping with him, hear you fall apart on his cock and know that it was he who claimed you before anyone else could. That desire had been simple when it lived in the heat of your bodies and lust, but wanting you like that is different from facing what it means now.
Lying here, feeling your breath stutter against him every few minutes like even your own dreams refuse to let you rest, he finally understands the weight of what he did.
You haven’t stopped crying since the moment you found out. He’s watched you crumble over and over, and every time you broke, something inside him did too. Unable to see past his own recklessness and selfishness, he’s now the reason behind your red eyes, tremors, nausea, and all-consuming dread.
And Gojo tried to reassure you, he really did. He tried to hold your face in his hands, tell you things were going to be okay, convince you that you were safe with him. However, with your tense body pressed against his and the reality of fatherhood lodged in his ribs like a knife, he doesn’t even believe himself. Fuck, he doesn’t even know what safety looks like.
He’s never kept anything steady in his life, he’s never had to. At heart, he’s the frat boy who drinks too much, fucks too much, parties too much; who has cocaine hidden in drawers that he keeps swearing he’ll “clean out tomorrow” along with the adderall he “only takes during exam weeks” and would rather die than let you discover how much of a disaster he actually is.
He jokes about responsibility to hide the fact that he’s never held any, because why would he? He grew up in a wealthy, aristocratic family in Japan that owns a multi-billion dollar tech company in which he’s promised to once he graduates. The only thing he figured he’d be responsible for is how the fuck he’ll be spending all that money once he has it.
But now? Now, he’s got plenty of responsibility. Because he has you and you’re pregnant. With his baby. The truth of that still stuns him every time it enters his consciousness.
He’s going to be a dad. A fucking dad.
Him. Satoru Gojo. Of all people.
The thought drags needles down his spine. It’s not that he doesn’t want it, but he wants it too much without being anywhere near ready.
He tightens his arm around your waist instinctively, protective, helpless, scared—though he’ll never say it out loud. Despite not being prepared or remotely the man you need, he wants to try.
He peers down at your sleeping face—tear-damp, swollen, still somehow scrunched with tension, and something in his chest twists so painfully he has to close his eyes.
He should apologize, he knows he should. Any decent person would for ruining a girl, but he can’t bring himself to say the words. Because for him, saying “I’m sorry” would mean admitting something darker and far more unforgivable.
It would mean confessing that he wanted this. That some evil, primal part of him liked the idea of giving you something permanent. Admitting that would make him a monster, exposing the dark fantasies he never meant for you to see, so he stays quiet.
And the most humiliating part? Even now with the guilt clawing through him, fear constricting his lungs, and future looming too fast—he still doesn’t regret any of what he’s done. He only regrets that he wasn’t someone safer to fall into when your world collapsed, but someone safer would’ve never done something like this to you in the first place.
So, he does what he can for now. He holds you closer, terrified he won’t be enough to make any of this okay, but will do his best anyway.
And the second you stir awake the next morning, Gojo does too as if he’s been listening for you all night.
His hand, already curled around your waist, tightens almost imperceptibly, “Morning,” He murmurs, voice still thick with sleep but…gentle. Way too gentle for him, “You okay? You need anything?”
It’s the tone, the careful one he’s never once used up until three days ago that makes your eyes sting. You blink slowly, the world blurry, your cheek still pressed to the stretch of his firm chest. His skin carries the faint scent of the Armani cologne he always overuses, but there’s something heavier underneath it now. Worry, sleeplessness, him compensating for the calm he doesn’t actually have.
You lift your head just enough to see him and he’s already looking at you; not with that lazy, smug grin he usually wears in the mornings. He’s watching you like you might cry again, bracing to hold you through it if you do.
“How’re you feeling?” He whispers, brushing your face with the softest sweep of his fingers.
Normally, he’d follow up a question like that with something stupid like “Besides beautiful, obviously” or “If your answer doesn’t include sucking me off, it’s wrong”.
But today, there is none of that, “I…don’t know.”
He nods once, “That’s okay…You don’t have to know yet.”
You breathe out shakily, his thumb strokes slow circles into your hip—an awkward attempt at comfort, like care is something he’s forcing himself to learn for your sake.
Then your phone buzzes; you freeze and Gojo does too, but only for a second before his hand smooths over your back in silent reassurance.
Your heart is racing when you reach for it, the screen lights up with the name you’ve been dreading for three days now.
dad: Hi sweetheart! Just landed in LA. Let’s get breakfast just like old times. I’ll pick you up in 45 minutes.
Old times. Right. Back when the worst thing you ever did was lie about getting a C on a quiz.
Fuck, you already feel sick.
Gojo senses it immediately. His hand slides up into your hair, palm warm against the back of your head, fingers threading gently like he can soothe the rising panic, “Come here,” He murmurs, pulling you back into his chest. His voice is still unnaturally delicate, but beneath it lay a tremor he’s trying to bury deep, “It’s okay…Just breathe.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt, clinging to him because you don’t know what else to hold onto, “I might tell him,” You whisper, “I don’t think I can lie to him. Not about…any of this.”
Gojo’s whole body stills for a heartbeat, then he nods against your temple, “Okay. If that’s what you need to do…then you tell him.”
You pull back just enough to see his face, he looks strange like this. Soft around the eyes, jaw relaxed, mouth not curved into a smirk; just Satoru Gojo stripped bare, “You’re not upset?”
He shakes his head, thumb grazing your cheek, “This isn’t about me,” He says simply, “It’s your dad. You love him and you’re scared. I get it.”
A tiny, broken sound slithers from your throat, his expression shifts instantly—tenderness sharpening into a protectiveness that feels like fire in your veins.
“Hey,” He whispers, forehead leaning toward yours, “I’m right here. Whatever happens, I’m here.”
“But he doesn’t know you.”
A soft exhale escapes him, almost a laugh but not quite, “He will,” He murmurs, “When you’re ready. And I’ll come in however you need me to.”
“And if he hates you?”
Gojo lifts your chin with two fingers, his voice dropping stubbornly certain, “He might. But I’m not going anywhere, princess.”
And for the first time since the pregnancy tests, the panic that had wrapped itself around your neck like a noose, finally loosens just enough for you to stay alive.
You lay tucked against Gojo for a few more minutes, letting his words settle, letting yourself believe him, but then your phone buzzes again. Another text from your dad, a reminder that reality is still moving whether you want it to or not.
You pull away slowly, wiping under your eyes with the back of your hand, “I should…get ready.”
Gojo nods, but something in his expression flickers, something that says he wishes he could stop time or crawl inside your ribs to hold your heart steady for you. He sits up when you do, raking a hand through his white hair as if trying to gather whatever version of himself you need him to be.
He watches you get dressed, quiet and entirely too still. When your hands shake trying to clasp his chain to put it back on, he’s suddenly behind you.
“Here,” He fastens it before you can protest, “I got it.”
The gesture shouldn’t make your throat tighten, but it does. Everything does since that day.
When you slip into your shoes, he’s already at the door, leaning against the frame with his hands tucked in the pockets of his grey sweatpants, pretending like he isn’t clocking every change in your breathing.
“Text me when you get there,” He says, “And when you’re leaving. And if he says anything that freaks you out. And if you need me to come get you. And—”
“Satoru.”
He stops rambling as you step toward him; his hand comes up instinctively to cup the back of your neck, fingers sweeping the hinge of your jaw while his gaze trails over the silver chain sitting on your collarbone.
“You’ll be okay,” He mutters, even though neither of you truly believe it, “I’ll be right here when you get back.”
You nod, though your stomach is a fist of nerves; he presses a delicate kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger like he’s afraid that if he pulls away, you’ll fall apart.
And miraculously, you manage to walk out. Gojo stays in the doorway until the stairwell swallows you, his eyes fixed on your back like he wishes you wouldn’t leave but knows you must.
Outside the dorms, your dad’s rented SUV is parked at the curb, hazard lights blinking, and he jumps out the second he sees you, “There she is!” He hugs you so tightly you squeak, “(Y/N), you look great! Little tired, maybe. Eating okay? Sleeping? Studying too hard? Not hard enough?”
“Hi, Dad,” You choke out, half-laughing because he hasn’t changed at all.
He opens the passenger door for you and once you’re buckled in he pulls out of the parking lot with the confidence of a man who thinks his daughter is completely fine. You stare out the window the entire ride, breakfast sitting like a brick in your stomach before you’ve even ordered it.
Your dad glances at you once, twice, three times, “You’re quiet.”
You shift uncomfortably, hands balled tight in your lap, “Just tired.”
He gives you a look, the one he gives when he doesn’t buy what you’ve said, but he doesn’t press, “Hm,” He hums, “Alright.”
When you get to the breakfast place, you text Gojo like he asked, a simple here. He responds back instantly.
satoru: ok good
satoru: lmk how it goes and if you need me
satoru: try not to stress
Not stress? Yeah, sure. Like that’s fucking possible with your father sitting directly across from you with no idea at all that his precious daughter is knocked up by his literal worst nightmare.
The menus come and go, pancakes arrive along with eggs and fried ham, the smell of it just adds onto your queasiness—pregnancy and anxiety entangled into one for the most diabolical stomach ache.
Your dad chatters easily about the flight, the hotel, the USC tailgate tomorrow, the studio setup for College GameDay, how the other campuses were, how your mother’s holding up with empty nest syndrome. You nod along, but you’re too distracted on fighting back the urge to vomit.
He pauses mid-sentence, “Sweetheart, you’ve hardly touched your food.”
And since you can’t say, sorry Dad, I can’t eat because I’m a nervous, nauseous, pregnant, hormonal mess and might throw up all over the place, you opt for the line, “I’m just…not that hungry.”
Your dad studies you for a moment, really looks at you, and his expression softens into concern. Shit, he didn’t believe the lie.
“You okay?” He asks quietly, “You seem…off.”
Freezing, your fork slips in your hand as your stomach rolls, and when you finally force yourself to look him in the eye—you almost lose it entirely.
Because all you feel is guilt. Overwhelming, crushing guilt. He spent eighteen years doing everything in his power to protect you and you threw it away for what? Rebellion? Sex? A boy you hardly know?
Or was it worse? Was every reckless choice, every late night, every fuck, every collapse into and onto Gojo nothing more than a slow-motion implosion you tried to mask as freedom?
Your chest caves in at the thought.
You want to tell him. God, you want to tell him.
Dad, I’m pregnant.
I need you.
I can’t do this on my own.
I’m sorry for throwing my youth away.
Please don’t hate me.
The words burn up your throat, begging to be said, but your tongue betrays you. The truth cowers behind your teeth, too real to set free, and your dad watches you with careful, growing worry; his brow folding in that exact way that always meant talk to me, sweetheart.
But instead of doing that and giving him the truth he deserves, you choke on your own fear. The pressure becomes unbearable, the silence stretching long.
“Dad I…” Fuck, just say it, “I’m…”
Your dad leans forward, eyes soft, “You’re…what, sweetheart?”
Your pulse spikes so sharply it causes you to blurt the wrong thing, “I’m…I’m dating someone!”
Your dad blinks; you want to curl into a ball and die or projectile vomit, either one works.
“Yeah…” You push on, breathless, as if momentum alone can save you, “…I—I have a boyfriend.”
Goddamnit, it even sounds fake. Though it’s not, really. Gojo is…something like your boyfriend. A two-month situationship turned baby daddy has to count for something, right? “Boyfriend” feels cleaner than the guy who fucks me and takes me out on dates occasionally.
Your dad stares at you, blindsided, “A boyfriend,” He echoes slowly, like he needs time to process this, “You’re…dating someone.”
Heat floods your face, shame burns under your skin, “Yes. I—yeah.”
It isn’t good at all, actually. It’s a fucking mess.
He regains his voice before you do, “I figured you would eventually, I just…didn’t think it would be so soon. I mean, it’s not even November yet.”
You force a thin, brittle smile, “Yeah.”
He picks up his mug of coffee, eyes staying on you over the rim. You can feel the questions building in him, stacking like bricks, “What’s he like? He’s—he’s a good guy, right? Nice? Respectful?”
“He’s…great,” You manage weakly. Mhm, he’s the greatest. At rearranging my guts, maybe.
Your dad nods once, stiffly. Then again, slower, then again, like he’s trying to keep from passing out, “…He’s not an athlete, right?”
“No,” You answer instantly.
“Good,” Your dad breathes, setting his coffee down like it weighs forty pounds, “Because sweetheart—I was a D1 quarterback at Georgia.”
You roll your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose. Here we fucking go.
“You know what that means?” He asks gravely.
“Yes, Dad,” You sigh, “I know what it means. You were the best player to ever touch the field, Heisman Trophy winner, everyone else was a problem. You’ve told me the story a million times.”
He waves a dismissive hand, “Yeah, yeah, all that’s true, but that’s not what I meant,” Leaning in slightly, he lowers his voice, “It means I’ve seen things. Terrible things. Things a young woman should never be exposed to.”
You brace yourself, “Our star running back,” He says, voice grim, “Had a girlfriend he claimed to ‘love more than life’ and I watched him make out with two different girls in the same hour at a—”
“No. Nope. Stop,” You interrupt so fast he startles, “He’s not an athlete. He’s not. We’re not doing this.”
“…He’s really not?”
“No,” You repeat firmly, before he can list anything else that may accidentally describe Gojo’s personality.
Your dad exhales, relieved, but then his eyes narrow; a new thought forming, “…He’s not in a fraternity, either…right?”
Your whole body seizes, “Dad—”
“Because those degenerates are worse.”
You take a sip of your orange juice as if it may soften the blow, “They’re athletes with no supervision,” He stresses, stabbing his fork into his eggs so violently the plate slides, “Horny. Lawless. Running on alcohol and hazing and peer pressure.”
You cover your face, he squints at you with suspicion brewing, “Sweetheart…Tell me he’s not in a fraternity.”
“He’s…not an athlete,” You repeat uselessly.
His expression goes blank, “Oh my God. He is in a fraternity. Didn’t I tell you to stay away from them?”
You sink lower in your seat, “Dad, please—”
“No, no, don’t ‘please’ me,” He says, jabbing a finger in your direction, “I gave you one rule before I left you—one. Stay away from the frat boys. Do you remember that?”
“Vaguely.”
“Vaguely?” He sputters, “Let me guess. He’s majoring in finance too?”
You don’t answer, which is of course, an answer, “Oh, fantastic,” He mutters, “He’s already living up to the stereotypes.”
You wince, your dad’s gaze flicks from your face to the unfamiliar silver resting on your collarbone, “And is that…his chain on your neck?”
Your stomach flips, “N-No, I—It’s mine.”
He glares at you and blinks once, unconvinced, “So…it’s his.”
“Dad—”
“Yeah, no,” He cuts in, shaking his head, “I already don’t like this kid. I’m gonna have to meet him.”
Your mouth falls open, the nausea hitting you again, “What? Why? When—”
“Dinner,” He says, reaching for his phone, “Tonight. Works best for me.”
“T-Tonight?”
“Yes,” He confirms, taking a bite of his pancakes that have since gone cold, “I want to look this boy in the eye and see what kind of trouble you’ve dragged into this family.”
Oh, you’ve dragged in a whole lot of trouble.
A faux grin works its way onto your face, “Alright, sure…I bet he’ll be excited to meet you.”
Your dad nods, satisfied, whereas you feel like you’re dying. Your fingers slide under the table, unlocking your phone with a shaky thumb; you type fast.
we need to talk when i get back
Gojo replies immediately, like he’s been waiting.
satoru: did you tell him ??
no
i couldn’t
This time he pauses, a sign that you know he’s thinking.
satoru: yeah i figured
satoru: just breathe
satoru: i’ll be here
Your throat swells at how stupidly steady he sounds.
okay
satoru: now eat your breakfast
satoru: you’re gonna pass out
Something flutters in your stomach—dread, relief, both and despite everything, your lips twitch. Just a little.
Your dad pays the bill, claps you lightly on the back, and walks you to the car like everything is normal and you’re still the daughter he left here in August, except now you have a frat boy boyfriend.
He pulls up to the dorm curb, shifts into park, and gives you a grin that makes your stomach pitch, “Okay, princess,” He says, leaning over to kiss your temple, “Reservations are made for seven. I’m…looking forward to meeting this kid.”
You almost faint as he squeezes your shoulder, oblivious, “Get some rest. And try eating something before then, sweetheart. You look a bit…tired.”
Right. Tired. Not pregnant. You absolutely don’t look that.
You step out on wobbly legs, wave goodbye, and watch the SUV pull off with your pulse hammering so hard you feel it in your teeth. The second it turns the corner, your breath collapses in on itself and your hands have gone numb.
Your knees threaten to give all the way up to the fourth floor to your dorm and by the time you twist the knob, your vision is fuzzy at the edges.
Gojo is exactly where you left him, still in grey sweatpants and a worn white tee, looking like he hasn’t moved in hours even though he’s clearly been listening for your footsteps the whole time.
His head lifts in an instant, “Hey,” He coos, searching your face, “What happened? You—”
“Seven.”
He blinks, “Huh?”
“Seven. Tonight. He—” Your voice cracks, “He made reservations. For us. He wants to meet you at seven.”
Gojo stills, processing your words, then his mouth curves; unbearably self-assured, “Oh,” He murmurs, pushing off the bed and standing tall, “That’s all?”
“Satoru, what do you mean all—this is—this is a disaster. My dad thinks you’re—he’s literally expecting—”
“—a boyfriend,” Gojo finishes smoothly, stepping closer until your back hits the door you just walked through, “And that’s what I am now, right?”
Your jaw drops, you guess Satoru Gojo is officially your boyfriend?
He cups your cheek like you might shatter, thumb wiping a tear you didn’t realize had fallen, “Princess…why are you shaking?”
“Because this is bad,” You whisper, “He already hates you and he hasn’t even met you and he thinks you’re…you’re just…”
“A frat boy?” Gojo supplies, raising a brow, “Accurate.”
“Satoru!”
“What?” He laughs under his breath, “Your dad’s not wrong. I am in a frat and I am definitely fucking his daughter.”
You shove his chest, mortified, “Stop joking—this is serious—”
“I am serious,” He says, catching your wrist gently, “Baby, look at me.”
Your eyes meet his and the smirk fades to reveal the truth beneath it. He’s scared too, though he’s burying it for you and your sake, “He wants dinner?” He asks calmly, “Good. I’ll show up. I’ll be polite. I won’t say anything insane. I’ll even wear my expensive shit.”
Your breath hitches, caught somewhere between panic and disbelief, “You’re acting like this is nothing.”
His eyes soften, “It’s not nothing. It’s important. You’re important. So I’m gonna handle it.”
“You don’t…need to be so relaxed for me.”
“Yeah, I do,” He slides his hand to your waist, steadying you, “If I freak out, you’ll freak out. And I can’t have you melting into a puddle before dinner. Not for something stupid like meeting my future father-in-law.”
The oxygen leaves your lungs, “What makes you think he’ll be your future father-in-law?”
“Because…” He presses a kiss into your hairline, “…You’re mine. The both of you.”
Your stomach drops straight through the floor, because he said it so casually. So confidently, like it wasn’t the single most earth-shattering sentence you’ve ever heard, “You…you can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not?” He mutters, brushing his nose against your temple, “I mean it.”
Your breath snags uselessly in your throat, “Satoru, you don’t—you don’t get to just claim things like—like that.”
“Princess…I claimed you the second you let me stay inside,” He leans down, lips grazing your jaw, “And you didn’t pull away then.”
“That’s—” You choke, “That’s not the same.”
“It is to me.”
Your pulse is thrumming wildly, your sense of self-preservation obliterated, because suddenly you’re seeing it clearly.
Gojo wants this—he wants you.
You, the tiny secret growing inside you, and the whole impossible future, “Hey,” He murmurs, dragging his thumb along your lower lip, “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
“You didn’t,” You lie.
“Princess, your pulse is trying to escape through your neck.”
You want to shove him again, tell him to shut up, tell him he’s not allowed to talk about future father-in-laws or claiming, but when he looks at you like this…like he’s ridiculously sure of you? You can’t say any of it.
Instead, your voice comes out small, “What if tonight goes wrong?”
“It won’t,” Gojo assures, lifting your chin with two fingers, “Your dad’s a smart guy. He’ll know exactly what he sees.”
“And what’s that?”
“A man who’d do anything for you.”
Your throat swells shut, he kisses your forehead again, lingering and reverent in a way he shouldn’t be capable of, “Let me worry about tonight. You just try to eat something so you don’t pass out and your dad doesn’t think I starve you.”
You huff out a tiny laugh and Gojo’s grin appears, bright, unfair in its radiance, “There she is,” His knuckles sweep down your cheek, “My girl.”
Your heart doesn’t stop pounding after that.
It doesn’t stop when Gojo finally leaves to get ready, giving you one last glance over his shoulder. It doesn’t stop when there’s a soft knock on your door hours later and you open it to see him—God.
He’s in a crisp white button-up that hugs his muscles, sleeves rolled neatly to his toned forearms, a black Rolex glinting at his wrist. His slacks are tailored, expensive and sharp; white hair styled, but not too much, leaving it soft at the ends, and he smells like that signature Armani cologne he always wears.
For once, Gojo looks less like a typical frat boy and more like something dangerously close to a man.
Your heart doesn’t stop pounding when he tilts his head at you, blue eyes skating down your mini dress with slow appreciation before murmuring, “Beautiful”.
It continues even when he opens the passenger door of his Porsche, hand hovering at your lower back; it keeps pounding as he drives, Los Angeles blurring past your window, sun dipping behind the skyline, the route shifting toward Beverly Hills and a dinner reservation that feels like an execution.
You can barely breathe when he pulls into valet, bluish-white headlights washing over marble, glass, gold accents, and still, your heart hasn’t stopped pounding.
Even after he circles the car to open your door, offering his hand for you to take because your legs are trembling too hard, lips brushing your ear to say, “I’m right with you, princess.”
Then he straightens, pastes on a calm he absolutely doesn’t feel, and nudges you gently toward the entrance right where your father is waiting, and your heart feels about ready to burst.
Your father’s face brightens the second he sees you—wide grin, arms already opening like he plans to crush you into his chest again, but then his attention flicks, just slightly, over your shoulder, and he stops walking like his brain needs a full minute to process what’s approaching him.
Because Gojo steps into the light behind you, tall, immaculate, terrifyingly put together, and your dad’s gaze darts through a rapid-fire checklist.
The Porsche 911 GT3 he passed over to valet, the tailored shirt hugging Gojo’s broad shoulders, rolled sleeves exposing forearms built like he could bench the same as him in his prime, Rolex gleaming with old money arrogance, the fact that he’s easily 6’3, maybe more, towering like a tight end.
Your dad blinks twice. This is not the frat boy he envisioned. This isn’t a Chad, or a Brad, or God forbid, a Thad; the man standing in front of him is someone else entirely.
Gojo steps forward before you can get a word out, hand briefly grazing the small of your back to show you he’s still here, before dropping it and adopting the exact posture of polite charm you didn’t know he possessed.
He bows, a clean, subtle dip of the head and shoulders in traditional Japanese fashion, respectful and disarming—so disarming your dad fully freezes.
“Good evening, sir,” Gojo says, voice lower, smoother, softened in a way he reserves exclusively for you, “I’m Satoru Gojo. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Your dad stares at him blankly, “Sa…toru?”
“Satoru,” Gojo repeats gently, “But Gojo is fine, sir,” Then, effortlessly, he switches to the American custom; extending his hand for a shake and somehow, Gojo nails the grip. Firm, confident, but not overcompensating.
Your dad takes it, but his eyes travel again—wrist, Rolex, shoulders, height, jawline, what the fuck…?
Finally he huffs out a tiny, bewildered exhale, “Well,” He says, trying and failing, to mask the surprise in his tone, “I, uh…I wasn’t expecting a Satoru.”
Gojo smiles, proper but serrated with mischief, “Understandable.”
Your dad clears his throat like it’ll help reset his brain, “I thought you’d be more of a…Chad.”
His grin sharpens, “No, thankfully not a Chad.”
Your dad glances at you, then back at Gojo, clearly reigning in the immediate relief that this foreign, polished, and frighteningly handsome man is not the alcoholic frat fuck stereotype he braced himself for.
“Well,” He says, stepping back, regaining authority with the stiffness of a man who refuses to be impressed, “Nice to meet you, son.”
Gojo nods, “Likewise, sir.”
Your dad’s gaze shifts to the Porsche parked outside once more, then to the watch, his eyes twitch just barely. You already know that he’s silently praying, please don’t let this kid be an asshole.
“Alright,” He chimes, clearing his throat again, “Our table’s ready. Follow me.”
You fall into step behind him, but Gojo stays close; arm brushing yours, warmth radiating off him. You don’t miss the way your dad clocks the closeness or the way Gojo subtly straightens trying to project composure.
The restaurant is all dim lighting and hushed conversations, you feel the weight of your heartbeat in your throat with every step. By the time you reach the table, your dad finally breaks the silence, “So, Satoru,” He says, “Tell me about yourself. Where you’re from. What you do. All that.”
Gojo slides your chair out for you, not performative, just instinctive, and your dad of course notices. Only after you’re settled does Gojo sit, folding his long frame into the chair with an ease that shouldn’t be possible.
He meets your father’s gaze without flinching, “I’m a junior, twenty years old, from Tokyo originally,” He answers, tone even; nothing like the guy who fucks you stupid and talks you through panic attacks, “Came to USC for a change of pace. Wanted to see more of the world while I’m young.”
You nearly choke, because that is not why he came here. Your dad just nods slowly, “Japan, huh? That’s…far.”
But you already know what your father’s thinking. Oh, he’s Japanese? This must mean he’s polite, well-mannered, and disciplined—He could not be any more incorrect.
“Yes, sir,” Gojo replies easily, “But I like it here. California’s been good to me.”
Your dad’s gaze fixes on the Rolex again, then his shirt and posture, the way he carries himself as if he had been raised in wealth, “And your family?” He asks carefully, because that’s the real question for him. What is this boy’s foundation?
Gojo doesn’t blink, “They run a tech company back home.”
“A…big one?”
Gojo gives a small, humble shrug that is absolutely not humble, “It does well.”
You almost kick him under the table for the understatement. Multi-billion dollar empire does “well”?
Your dad’s brows lift, unimpressed but intrigued, “And you…plan to take it over someday?”
“That’s the idea,” Gojo says, folding his hands neatly in his lap, “So I’m studying finance to be prepared when the time comes.”
Your dad hums low, finally Gojo said something he respects, “Well,” He leans back slightly, “That’s admirable. Not a lot of young men think that far ahead.”
Gojo smiles, small and controlled, “I try to.”
Then your dad narrows his eyes, skeptical again, “And the fraternity?”
Your blood runs cold, but Gojo doesn’t shy away, “Honestly, sir? I didn’t know anyone when I moved here. Joining seemed like the fastest way to make friends. A community.”
A blatant fucking lie. Sigma Chi is many things, but calling it a “community” is generous. Your dad is still evaluating the validity of that statement, “Frats can be trouble. A lot of guys lose themselves there.”
Gojo lets out a quiet breath, somewhat a laugh, “College is…loud,” He admits, “But I don’t…lose myself.”
Your heart stutters at the honesty buried in his words and your dad analyzes him again, closely, seeing the steadiness beneath the polished exterior.
“And what do you do for fun?” He asks casually, though his tone is anything but, “Besides…fraternity bonding?”
Gojo leans into his seat, effortlessly composed, “Watching sports, studying, lifting…” His eyes flick to you, so quick your dad doesn’t catch it, but you do, “…cardio.”
You kick Gojo in the shin instantly, “Oh, please,” You say, giving your dad a dazzling smile, “His cardio? It’s awful.”
Gojo scowls as your dad laughs, entirely oblivious, “Is that right?”
“Embarrassing,” You continue, “He taps out fast.”
Gojo turns his head toward you with the calm, collected expression of a man mentally ruining you in every which way; your dad looks down at his menu—big mistake, because Gojo leans in, voice a thread of velvet, “Princess,” He murmurs, heat slipping between the syllables, “If my cardio was bad…”
His hand grazes your thigh under the table, “…you wouldn’t be sitting here with my kid inside you.”
Your breath shatters, Gojo smiles lethally, “But sure,” He whispers, lips fanning your ear, “Tell your dad I can’t last. Tell him whatever you want,” His fingers press once into your thigh, unmistakably possessive, “I’ll fuck the truth back into you later.”
Your fork slips from your hand onto the tablecloth and you silently pray your dad didn’t hear a single thing that was said, “You okay, sweetheart?” He asks.
“Fine!” You choke, “Totally—totally great.”
Gojo sits back, expression pristine, the devilish glint in his eyes the only evidence of the filth he whispered. Your dad chuckles, shaking his head in fatherly amusement, “Glad you two have a sense of humor, at least.”
You stare straight ahead, trying not to combust. Gojo taps your knee under the table slowly, promising hell later, and when you dare sneak a glance at him, he mouths, “Keep going”.
Your dad finishes laughing, wipes his mouth with his napkin while the dinner finally starts to feel normal again. However, normal never lasts with your father, “So…how did you two meet?”
You and Gojo both go rigid, your dad just smiles, relaxed and completely unaware. Gojo recovers first because he has to; he sits back, eyelids lowered in that deceptively calm way that means he’s about to lie so beautifully you might actually believe him.
“We met at a party.”
Your head whips toward him so violently your vision blurs, “A party?” You echo, far too loudly and because you’re a nervous, hormonal idiot, you blurt, “No—we met at the library!”
Your dad looks between the two of you, deeply confused. Gojo clears his throat delicately, “Um—right. Yes. That’s what I meant.”
Your dad glares hard, “So…which one is it?”
You and Gojo speak at the same time.
“The library.”
“A party.”
Your dad closes his eyes like he’s begging the gods above for the strength. Gojo tries again, sitting neatly upright as if he didn’t just mutter I fucked a baby into you ten minutes ago.
“What she means, sir,” He says with terrifying confidence, “Is that it was a…party at the library.”
“A what now?”
“A party,” Gojo repeats calmly, “At the library.”
The look on your dad’s face already tells you that he knows it’s bullshit, but Gojo presses on anyway because he’s shameless, “USC implemented it on Thursday nights—a new studying…initiative.”
You want to die on the spot as your dad stares at you, then at Gojo, then at you again, “Sweetheart,” He says flatly, “You met this boy at a frat party, didn’t you?”
You sigh, “Yes.”
Your dad exhales through his nose, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, “Of course you did.”
Gojo, for the first time all evening, appears slightly sheepish, “That’s on me, sir,” He takes the blame, “I was trying to make a better first impression.
“Well, son, lying isn’t usually the way to do that.”
Gojo inclines his head, respectful and maddeningly attractive, “I understand, sir…won’t happen again.”
Your dad nods once, satisfied by the correction, but then his gaze shifts from your flustered face to Gojo’s relaxed posture to your knees touching under the table, and something in his jaw tightens, “So what exactly happened,” Voice spuriously mild, “At this…party?”
And because Gojo can’t give him the honest answer, well, sir we fucked and I came in her, he says, “I saw your daughter, and I knew I needed to introduce myself.”
Partial truth. He did do this.
“Just like that?”
Gojo’s gaze snaps to you, “Just like that.”
“Hm,” He says finally, leaning back in his chair, “Alright then.”
But his suspicion is awake now, fully. Watching you both and lingering.
After that, the conversation blends into a blur—small talk about USC, football, baseball, and you manage to hear Gojo mention naturally being a Shohei Ohtani fan, but you’re too busy trying not to throw up to register most of it.
Gojo handles himself with unnerving suave, speaking with measured charisma, even cracking a joke that makes your dad actually laugh, though it’s tight and guarded. But then…the food arrives.
Your dad’s plate hits the table, a seared ribeye, buttery and bloody; the second the smell reaches you, your stomach lurches so harshly your eyes water. The scent thickens, clinging to the back of your throat and you choke on nothing, hand flying to your mouth.
“Sweetheart?”
“I—excuse me—sorry, just…” You barely get the words out before scraping back your chair and stumbling toward the bathroom. You don’t see Gojo bolt upright, but your dad does.
Gojo freezes halfway out of his seat, jaw clenching like he’s about to chase after you right then and there—only remembering at the last second that he can’t sprint after you like a panicked, guilty idiot in front of your father.
He forces himself still, barely, and your dad observes him quietly before saying, “She gets queasy when she’s anxious.”
Gojo swallows once, “I know.”
Your dad folds his napkin carefully, gaze never leaving Gojo’s face, “And she’s been anxious all day.”
Gojo forces a steady breath, “Yes, sir.”
Silence settles like dust as your dad sits back, voice low and firm with no room for misunderstanding, “Listen, Satoru—I’ve spent the past eighteen years keeping her safe,” He explains, “And now I’m trusting you to do the same.”
Gojo’s spine straightens and for once, he doesn’t lie, “I will. I care about her…A lot.”
Your dad studies him, searching for cracks, but Gojo doesn’t cower. So, instead he nods, “Good.”
But Gojo’s heart is beating so hard he thinks it might bruise his ribs, because he knows exactly what your father doesn’t.
I’m the exact kind of guy she needed to be protected from, but I don’t care anyway. She’s mine, whether I deserve her or not.
You return to the table a few minutes later, palms damp, pulse still ricocheting from the bathroom mirror. You expect the atmosphere to be thick, your dad to look worried, Gojo to appear guilty, but instead Gojo is sitting exactly where you left him, so relaxed you wonder if you imagined the panic in his eyes when you fled.
Your dad peers up first, “Feeling better, sweetheart?”
You nod rapidly, “Yeah—yeah, sorry. Just needed some air.”
He smiles, soft and fatherly, trying not to push, “Okay. C’mon, your food’s getting cold.”
You sit, heart still uneven, and Gojo’s knee taps yours once beneath the table—tender, checking on you, reassuring, grounding. You don’t look at him, but feel his warmth like static under your skin.
Dinner drifts after that, surprisingly normal. The conversation glides back to sports, classes, life in Japan, stupid LA traffic. Your dad loosens, laughing twice; Gojo doesn’t slip again, infuriatingly perfect at pretending he’s not everything your father fears and hasn’t gotten his only daughter pregnant.
By the time dessert menus are declined and the check comes, your dad doesn’t seem convinced yet, but is no longer braced for disaster. Something about Gojo’s poise, his politeness, his ridiculously hidden aristocratic manners, all pile together into a version your dad can tolerate.
Outside the restaurant, in the glow of Beverly Hills streetlights, your dad pulls you in for another hug, squeezing a little tighter this time, “Hopefully I’ll see you two at the game tomorrow, but no promises. I’ll be working.”
“Yeah,” You answer, breathless,” Hopefully.”
He looks between you and Gojo, accepting only what he chooses to, “And hey,” He adds, voice dipping into familiar dad-warning territory, “Be careful tomorrow night. Halloween on a college campus gets crazy. I know you’ll probably be going to some parties or whatever—just be safe.”
Halloween. Right.
You and Gojo had both completely forgotten about it ever since the whole pregnancy revelation. Which is a first for Gojo considering he typically lives for Halloweekend, having picked out your costumes two weeks ago out of anticipation.
Gojo nods respectfully, “Yes, sir. We will.”
Your dad gives him a curt nod back, then looks at you one last time, softening, “Love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you too.”
He watches until you and Gojo cross the valet lane, noticing the way Gojo places a careful hand on the small of your back and how you lean into it without thinking. Then he gets into his SUV, pulling away with a frown you don’t see.
Only when the headlights disappear does Gojo finally exhale, “Well,” He murmurs, opening the passenger door for you, “That wasn’t the worst thing to ever happen.”
You slide into the Porsche, the red leather cool against your thighs, “I think I blacked out for half of it.”
“Yeah,” He says, shutting your door gently before circling to the driver’s side, “Same.”
He gets in, starts the engine, and the bassy purr of the GT3 fills the air; shifting into drive, his hand rests on your bare knee, thumb stroking once, slowly, intentionally. Your breath snags, because you know that touch. It’s prelude to something.
Headlights wash over his profile—sharp jaw, rolled sleeves, forearms flexing as he grips the wheel. His eyes flick to you, hunger slicing through the blue.
“Princess.”
“Yeah?”
“You kicked me under the table.”
You look out the window, “Because you were being gross.”
He huffs a laugh, “And you said my cardio is bad.”
“Satoru, don’t start,” But he already has.
His fingers slide higher on your thigh, stopping just short of where you’re already throbbing, “Baby…I didn’t forget what I said to you in there.”
Your lungs tighten, “Satoru—”
“And I didn’t forget what I promised I’d do.”
You squeeze your thighs together involuntarily and he notices, his smirk curving slow and knowing, “You tried to embarrass me in front of your dad,” He explains, turning onto the street leading toward Greek Row, hand still possessive on your thigh, “Told him I can’t last.”
“I—I didn’t think—”
“Mm,” His thumb brushes the hem of your dress, “You’re gonna think about it now.”
The heat between your legs surges, because this is the version of him you recognize. The one who takes, teases, ruins, devours, and after three days of fear and grief and sleepless nights—you fucking want him.
He pulls into the Sigma Chi driveway; the house is quiet, most of the brothers out for Halloween weekend, wind rustling the flags out front. He kills the engine and doesn’t move or look at you, just breathes once, like he’s holding himself back with every tendon of his body.
“Satoru?”
“Get out,” He says, voice thick with intent.
Your knees barely hold you as you walk toward the house with Gojo right behind, body radiating heat like he’s burning alive. He follows you up the porch and the second the door closes he’s steering you fast through the dark house, up the stairs.
He doesn’t say a word as his grip stays firm around your wrist, urgent enough that your pulse won’t steady, and when he gets you inside his room, he barely manages to shut the door before he’s on you. His mouth crashes against yours with a starvation sharpened by fear, guilt, desire, and the unbearable tension of sitting across your father pretending he hasn’t put a baby inside you.
Your back smacks the wall with a soft thud, a gasp breaking into his mouth. His hands are already on your body, one gripping your hip, the other sliding up the back of your thigh like he’s been craving this.
“All night,” He mumbles against your lips, breath hot and shaking, “All night I’ve had to fucking behave.”
Your fingers tangle in his shirt, dragging him closer, and he groans; a low, feral sound like you’ve cracked him open, “Then don’t.”
That snaps every ounce of his restraint. Gojo spins you around so quickly your palms slap his desk, dress shoved up over your hips in the same motion. Your panties get yanked to the side and he bends you over it like he’s been picturing you like this for hours.
“Yeah?” He murmurs in your ear, ass pulled flush against the pitched tent in his slacks, “You want that, baby?”
You nod frantically as the metallic clink of his belt buckle fills the room, followed by the slow drag of leather sliding free. He takes his time as he folds the designer belt in half, letting the looped end trail lightly down your spine before bringing it down in one sharp smack across your ass. It isn’t hard enough to hurt, only a slight sting that has you gasping and arching.
“That,” He trills wickedly, “Is for what you said earlier,” He tosses the belt beside your hand on the desk and pulls his pants down, freeing his cock that’s hot and heavy as a result of going days with no release.
He rubs himself through your slick once, twice, coating the tip while you’re already a whimpering mess, “And this…Is what I’ve been dying to give you since then.”
The way he says it makes your body jolt, he laughs at the reaction, dark and delighted; “Mm, I know, baby—you’re dying for it too. And to think, just an hour ago you were sitting across from your dad smiling like the sweetest little princess in the world.”
He notches his cock at your entrance, rubbing the head through your folds one more time, agonizingly slow, “Spent the whole night lying to him and now look at you—bent over my desk, begging for this dick. Isn’t that right?”
You try to answer, but he thrusts inside you so hard it knocks the air out of your lungs; a cry tears out of you instead and his hand flies over your mouth, “Shh,” He breathes against your shoulder, “You wanna get fucked full of cum, you take it quiet.”
The desk groans beneath you when he starts moving; fast, rough, unrelenting. There’s no more teasing. It’s all the pressure from that dinner—the lies, the fear, your father sitting a foot away from him, the sight of you in that dress with his chain on and his baby in you, finally detonating.
He keeps one hand over your mouth and the other locked on your hip, forcing you back to meet every brutal thrust, “Sat there looking so fuckin’ innocent,” He mutters, voice serrated at the edges, “Meanwhile you’ve got this greedy little pussy squeezing around me like it wants more.”
Your cunt clenches so tight he chokes on a groan, “That’s it,” He pants, “Fuck—take this cock.”
The lamp on his desk rattles, finance worksheets slide off the wood one by one. Your muffled noises keep breaking against his palm no matter how hard he tries to keep you silent, “Maybe you like this,” He sneers, “Maybe you want my brothers hearing how good I fuck you.”
You helplessly shake your head, but your body betrays you; pushing back, clenching around him, trembling as the pleasure starts to build way too fast. He laughs when he feels it, “That’s what I thought,” His hand tightens over your mouth, “Those pretty moans are mine. You’re mine. You hear me?”
You sob into his palm and that only makes him rougher and when you cum your body jerks, broken cries swallowed by his hand. The second your pussy starts throbbing around him, Gojo loses whatever was left of his mind.
“Fuck—” He buries himself further, “There it is. There it fuckin’ is—” He cums hard with a grunt punched out of him, still shoved all way the way inside, grinding against you through every pulse like he’s trying stuff every drop as deep as he can.
Gojo stays still for a moment, breathing labored against your nape, then slowly pulls out to look at the mess he made, “God…” He whispers, all filthy reverence. Two of his fingers drag through the warm, white globs, smearing it up your folds and shoving it back inside you where it belongs, “Filled you s’much, princess—gonna give you more.”
Curling his fingers in your cunt for one last pump, he hesitantly removes them, and you whine at the sudden emptiness. Thick strands of cum cling to his fingers that glisten in the low light; Gojo towers behind you when his voice drops into something low and commanding, “Stand up.”
You push off the desk on weak arms; he spins you around to face him and lifts his hand, bringing it toward your mouth, “Open.”
Your lips open on instinct, tongue licking the pads of his fingers and he shoves them inside. The taste hits you immediately, salty and bitter, but unequivocally him. Your cheeks hollow as you suck them; his eyes flutter shut for a second, “Yeah…clean me, princess.”
He watches you the entire time—how your tongue works, the way you swallow everything. His free hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth where a little bit escapes. He hums, satisfied, “Good girl,” He praises, pulling his fingers out with a wet pop, “Now, c’mere…I’ll fuck you right this time.”
You let him lift you; your legs wrap around his waist involuntarily, dress still bunched, panties hanging off one ankle only to hit the floor with a soft thud. Gojo lays you down on his bed gently, climbs over you, and doesn’t waste a second—sinking his cock back inside you in one deep, dragging stroke that makes both of you shudder.
“Mine,” He whispers against your throat, mouth lingering at the chain around your neck.
His rhythm is slower now, hips rolling in sensual circles that make your eyes roll back. His hands roam, one gripping your thigh to hitch it higher, the other sliding down to sprawl flat over your lower belly, thinking about how good it fucking feels that you’re carrying a piece of him.
You feel it the second he touches you there, the way his breathing catches, his whole body changing, “Satoru…”
He doesn’t answer. He just looks at you with mussed white hair, and eyes too blue and ruined, thrusting deeper. Every one feels more possessive, like he’s claiming you all over again now that the dinner tension has evaporated. When he finishes a second time, it’s quieter—a wrecked groan into the crook of your neck, hips slowing but never stopping, filling you while his fingers flex against your belly.
He stays there after, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your jaw like he doesn’t know how to pull himself apart from you.
Eventually he does, only to drag you closer and do it all over again. He fucks you over and over, not rushed or angry, just deep, obsessive, and insatiable. Every time he feels his cum leaking out of you, he gets that same dark expression and pushes it back in deeper as if he can’t stand the thought of anything being lost.
At some point, you stop being able to count how many rounds he’s gone. He stops only when you're literally falling asleep on his dick, utterly spent from the multiple climaxes, overstimulation, and being filled to the brim. When the exhaustion finally wins, your head is tucked under his chin and he stays buried inside your snug cunt until he goes soft.
As you drift off, his hand subconsciously slides down your body and rests back onto where it was before—your lower belly, palm spreading wide and protective. He stays awake a little longer, long enough for reality to settle back over him.
His baby is there. His.
The truth of that should terrify him more than it does—hell, it does, but beneath the fear sits that same ugly, impossible thread of satisfaction.
He pulls you in closer, pressing a lazy kiss onto your temple, “Goodnight, princess.”
Then his eyes close too, palm still spread over the place where his future is growing, calmer than he has any right to be.
And the next morning, when you wake, it isn’t to peace and quiet. It’s to bass and Fisher being played at full fucking volume.
The music vibrates faintly through the floorboards beneath Gojo’s bed, followed by a burst of male laughter loud enough to make your face scrunch before your eyes even open. Then you hear the sound of people shouting, the back door slamming, and sneakers thudding up and down the hallway.
Your body feels like it’s been pulverized. There’s soreness tucked into every inch of you—your thighs ache when you think about moving, your hips feel bruised from the inside out, and your lower stomach twists with that now-familiar, unpleasant nausea that seems to greet you before the rest of the world does.
You try to burrow deeper into the pillows when he calls for you, “Baby.”
His voice is amused; you make a tiny, miserable noise into the sheets and keep your eyes shut, “Princess,” Gojo tries again, closer this time, and there’s something off about his tone, “C’mon. Wake up.”
You blink your eyes open slowly, and there he is. Already dressed in a USC shirt and snapback, face flushed pink, and holding a red solo cup in one hand. Underneath the hat, his hair is slightly messy, his mouth is partially swollen, and his blue eyes are far too sharp for someone who hasn’t been awake in a normal, sober way.
He smells like Armani cologne and cheap Keystone beer, which means that not only was he awake, but he’s been downstairs with the brothers drinking. Of course he has.
You stare at him in disbelief, voice frayed, “Have you been up long?”
He gives you a half-shrug like the answer doesn’t matter, “Long enough.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
He grins, and it’s that lazy, impossible grin you know too well and like too much, “It’s game day.”
You squint at him, “It is nine-something in the morning.”
“And?” He lifts his cup to take a sip, “School spirit.”
“Alcoholism,” You correct.
He laughs at that as he sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress sinks beneath his weight and you immediately feel it everywhere; Gojo catches the grimace that crosses your face and his grin widens.
“Oof, baby,” He says, looking way too pleased with himself, “I really did a number on you last night, huh?”
You look at him, deadpan, “You did.”
“Hm,” He hums almost thoughtfully, “Shouldn’t have insulted my cardio.”
“Toru.”
“What?” He leans down and presses a quick kiss to your temple, ignoring what he said, “Baby, get up. Everybody’s outside.”
You frown, “Outside?”
“In the backyard,” He jerks his head vaguely toward the door, “Tailgate’s literally happening right now. You don’t even have to go anywhere yet. Just come downstairs.”
The bass thumps again, shaking the walls as if to prove his point. You let your head fall back against the pillow dramatically, “I’m tired.”
“No shit,” He brushes a hand over your bare thigh poking out from the comforter, “You slept like I killed you.”
“You basically did.”
“Yeah,” He says without a hint of shame, “I know.”
For one stupid second, you almost smile, but then you try to sit up and your body instantly punishes you for it. Your stomach turns and the room tilts; Gojo notices the change in your expression, “You okay?”
“I…don’t feel that good.”
That gets his full attention. The frat house noise continues to rage outside, but it suddenly feels farther away. His eyes trace over your face carefully now, “Like sore? Or like weird?”
You hesitate because the answer is annoyingly both, “Sore,” You admit, “And tired. And my stomach feels…” You don’t finish the sentence, pressing a palm there, “Off.”
Gojo’s gaze drops to your hand and there’s a flicker in his expression—something protective and tense and very scared hidden under the drunkenness, but the sound of someone screaming his name downstairs snaps the moment in half.
“Gojo! Where the fuck you at?”
A whole chorus of brothers begin chanting right after that—idiotic, loud, feral. Gojo closes his eyes briefly like he hates them, then looks back at you, “You want me to stay?”
The question surprises you so much that you eventually meet his eyes, because he means it. You can tell he does. He’s already been downstairs, already started drinking, already in the middle of all this, and still, he’d stay with you.
You hate that it makes your throat tighten, “No,” You say softly, “It’s okay.”
He’s not even the slightest bit convinced. You force yourself upright a little more, blanket clutched to your chest, “Go have fun.”
His mouth flattens, “Baby.”
“No, seriously. I’m fine.”
That’s not even remotely true, but if he stays up here hovering over you all morning, you’ll feel even more pathetic and fragile, and you already feel like some strange, broken version of yourself as it is.
Gojo studies your face for a long minute, but because he is still Satoru Gojo, he flops sideways across the bed and drops his head into your lap.
“But baby,” He complains into the sheets, voice muffled, “I don’t wanna be alone.”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, “There are like forty frat brothers downstairs.”
“Yeah,” He says, lifting his head just enough to look up at you with bright, glassy eyes, “But none of those dumbasses are you.”
You shake your head, but your hand lifts to his jawline on instinct. He goes quiet under the touch before leaning into it like he’s been waiting for it, “C’mon,” He murmurs softly, “Just come outside with me for a little bit…Please?”
The pleading almost gets you, but you hesitate. Outside, the backyard is alive. You can hear it, the music, yelling, that uniquely college football weekend chaos you moved across the country for in the first place.
Despite how awful you feel some stupid part of you still wants to be eighteen and normal. Fun and hot and outside with your hot frat boy boyfriend while USC loses its mind over a noon kickoff on Halloween.
Maybe the fresh air will help, Blair will probably be there, and if you stay in this bed all morning you will absolutely think too much, “Fine,” His whole face lights up, “But—if I feel worse, I’m coming back upstairs.”
“Done.”
“And I’m not drinking.”
“Obviously,” He sits up straight again, reaching for his cup, “You’re drinking water and pretending whatever I give you later is alcohol.”
Your mouth twitches despite yourself, he points the red solo cup at you, “Don’t give me that look. I’m being responsible.”
“You’re drunk before ten.”
“It’s tradition.”
“It’s a problem.”
He smiles, “Yet you still like me.”
You groan and let yourself flop against the pillows for one more second, “I need like…ten minutes though.”
Gojo’s eyes trail over you and the small marks he left all over your skin last night, “Wear something cute.”
Your jaw drops, “Satoru.”
“What?” He shrugs, “It’s a tailgate.”
“It’s your backyard.”
“Exactly,” He backs toward the door, grin returning full force, “Ten minutes, princess. Or I’m coming back up here and dressing you myself,” Then he disappears back into the chaos downstairs before you can throw a pillow at his head.
You sit there in the wreckage of his bed for another moment, listening to the house pulse around you. The frat boys, the house music, the ache in your body, the nausea still curling in your stomach.
God, you’re really fucking pregnant. The word moves through your head again, heavier than it was before. You press a hand to your belly without thinking, then you drag in a breath, throw the blankets back, and force yourself out of bed because apparently you’re getting dressed to go stand in your boyfriend’s backyard while he day drinks himself into oblivion before morning’s over.
You get dressed as quickly as your body allows, you throw on a pair of shorts and one of Gojo’s oversized USC shirts, and that’s about as best you can do before the bass starts making your skull throb.
By the time you make it downstairs, the first floor of Sig Chi is hectic in the most obnoxious way possible—music blasting through speakers, brothers shouting over one another in the kitchen, the back door slamming every few seconds, red cups and beer cans everywhere like the tailgate’s been going for hours. Honestly, it probably has.
The second you step out onto the back patio, warmth and noise hit you at once. The backyard is packed. A folding table is set up for pong, USC flags are hanging off the fences, and at least three brothers are drunk enough to the point where they won’t make it to the actual game at twelve.
“Bitch.”
You turn around and are met with Blair, “Morning.”
She makes a face as she hurries toward you, her eyes drag over you once and her mouth falls open, “Why do you look,” She says slowly, “Like you got railed?”
Your eyes cut to Gojo who's standing a few feet away with his drink in hand and a smirk of filthy pride, “She always looks like that.”
Blair gags, “You are both so deeply disturbing,” Then she leans closer, voice dropping just enough, “Are you okay?”
The softness of the question makes something in your chest loosen a little. You nod, even though it’s only half true, “I’m alive.”
She gives you a look that says she knows exactly what that means, but mercifully lets it go, “Good. Because if you pass out before noon, I’m not carrying you.”
“Love you too.”
One of the brothers barrels up to Gojo, a few drinks deep, clapping him on the shoulder, “Gojo! Bro—finally got Sleeping Beauty out here?”
Gojo shoves him off immediately, “Watch your hands.”
The brother blinks, then notices your face and grins, “Damn, (Y/N), you look—”
“Don’t,” Gojo cuts in flatly.
You turn your head toward him, “Seriously?”
He takes a sip from his cup, jaw tight, “What?”
You chuckle once, incredulously, “You dragged me out here and now nobody’s allowed to look at me?”
“Looking’s fine,” He says, “They just don’t know how to without pissing me off.”
The explanation is so absurd you actually laugh, but unfortunately that seems to do something to him. He reaches for you, hand sliding around your waist in that casual possessive way of his that never feels casual, and pulls you closer into his side, “Stay near me.”
“Why?”
His fingers flex once around your hip, “Because you looked like you got fucked dumb in my bed,” He murmurs, “And I don’t feel like dealing with the consequences of that yet.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks so fast it almost makes you dizzy. You elbow him playfully in the ribs but he only laughs and keeps you tucked against him while the backyard keeps buzzing. And throughout the bass, the screaming, and the annoyingly bright California sun, your stomach rolls again to remind you that nothing about your life is normal anymore.
The next hour passes in a blur; more drinks appear in Gojo’s hand than you can keep track of, brothers cycle in and out of conversations around him, slapping his back, yelling in his face, dragging him into games of beer pong, and despite getting drunker he keeps finding his way back to you like it’s instinct.
A hand on your waist, fingers brushing your wrist, his body slotting in beside yours whenever the crowd gets too tight; he comes up behind you once to whisper in your ear that, “I should’ve fucked you one more time before bringing you out here.”
You slap his arm weakly, he only chuckles and kisses the side of your head before some brother calls his name and drags him three feet away again.
You do your best to stay in it by smiling when you’re supposed to and laughing when Blair says something stupid. You let the music pound through you and try to pretend your body doesn’t feel heavier with every passing minute.
By the time the tailgate starts thinning and people begin leaving for the stadium, kickoff is close enough that the whole backyard feels sharper, “Finally,” One of the brothers groans, crushing his empty bear can, “I thought we were never gonna get there.”
“You’ve been talking about the game for three hours,” Blair notes dryly, “Relax.”
Gojo snorts from beside you, snapback sitting a little crooked on his head now, cheeks even more flushed. His palm slides low across your back as the group starts filtering toward the gate, “You good?”
You almost say yes automatically, “Kind of.”
His eyes narrow just slightly, “Kind of isn’t an answer, baby.”
“I’m okay,” You assure, “Just tired.”
Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. Gojo just nods like he doesn't believe you, keeping his hand on your back when the crowd starts moving; and when the stadium rises into view, massive and gleaming under the west coast sunlight, your stomach rolls once more, but this time? It doesn’t stop right away.
And when the three of you make it inside the stadium, it only gets worse.
The noise hits you first, thousands of people packed shoulder to shoulder screaming fight songs and wearing red and gold. The entire place is vibrating with that distinct college football electricity you used to think looked so glamorous from the outside. Now it just makes you sick.
Gojo, on the other hand, looks right at home.
He’s looser now than he was in the backyard, cheeks pink from hours of drinking, sunglasses hooked into the collar of his shirt, one hand curled around his beer while his other keeps clinging to your waist every few minutes like he physically cannot stop touching you.
“You good?” He asks again.
You nod because that’s what you’ve been doing all day, “Mhm.”
Before he can push any further the whole student section erupts as USC runs out onto the field. The frat brothers around you lose their minds, jumping out of their seats so urgently it shakes the row. Gojo’s mouth curves into a grin, bright and reckless and boyish in a way that almost makes you forget everything.
Almost. Because somewhere in all of this bullshit, your dad is here too.
Here—somewhere above the field in a blazer and headset, smiling for cameras, existing in the same vicinity as the secret rearranging your life, commentating like nothing is wrong while you sit in the stadium trying not to throw up with his grandchild inside you.
The thought lands ugly, and you try to ignore it, you really do, but it gets harder with every passing minute. The sun feels hotter in the stands, the sounds are sharper, the smell of beer and sweat and fried foods hangs thick in the air. The metal bench is unforgiving on your already sore body and your stomach has gone from uneasy to totally fucked.
And by the middle of the first quarter, you’re no longer watching the game; you’re enduring it. Gojo notices before anyone else, “Baby,” He leans closer, “Talk to me.”
“I’m…trying.”
“Trying what?”
“Not to throw up.”
Blair’s head snaps around from your other side in an instant, “Oh.”
Gojo is already setting his beer can under the seat, “Okay, we’re leaving.”
“No—”
“Yes,” His hand slides to the back of your neck, cool and steady, “I’m taking you back.”
“I don’t want to ruin—”
“Baby, I do not give a fuck about this game right now.”
The words come out firm enough that even Blair lifts her brows. You look at him, you can tell he means it; there’s nothing but concern written all over his face, drunken concern, but concern nonetheless.
Still, guilt rises within you anyway. Because he’s been excited for this and drinking since morning and hanging with his brothers, living the exact college life you came here to taste too. Dragging him out right after the game barely started feels like one more thing your body is taking from both of you.
“I can go with Blair.”
His expression hardens, “No.”
Blair blinks, “Damn, okay. Fuck me, I guess?”
You let out the faintest laugh, “Satoru.”
“No,” He repeats, jaw tight, “You feel sick. I’m coming with you.”
Blair leans forward, “Okay, hold on. Before everybody starts acting insane—”
“I’m not acting insane,” Gojo assures.
She stares at him blankly, “You sure about that?”
He ignores her and looks back at you, thumb brushing the side of your neck once, “You want me to take you back?”
The question comes out quietly, softly, more sincere. You know he’ll do it with zero hesitation, no resentment toward you, he’ll leave and not look back, and maybe that’s exactly why you shake your head, “No. I want you to stay.”
His face drops, frustration tangled with something helpless, “Baby—”
“I’m serious,” You force yourself to hold his gaze, “You stay. Blair can take me.”
“She can barely take care of herself,” He grumbles.
“I’m right here, dickhead.”
The crowd around you erupts again over some wild play that just happened on the field and none of you even glance down. Your whole little world has narrowed to this row of bleachers, Gojo’s hand on your neck, Blair waiting, and your stomach turning harder with every second.
Gojo still looks like he hates every part of that sentence, you touch his wrist gently, “Please.”
That’s what finally gets him. His bright eyes close like he’s actively swallowing whatever protest was about to come out and when they open again, they’re still brilliantly stubborn and worried, “Text me when you get back,” You nod, “And if you throw up—”
“Satoru.”
“I’m deadass.”
“I know.”
He stares at you before leaning down and pressing a kiss on your forehead, protective in a way that makes your chest ache, “I mean it,” He murmurs against your skin, “Text me.”
“I will,” You say as Blair hooks her arm through yours and helps you stand. The movement makes your stomach pitch again, and Gojo’s entire body tenses as if he’s about to change his mind and leave with you anyway.
But, you squeeze his hand once before letting go and somehow, that’s enough to keep him in his seat. Barely.
He watches you and Blair start carefully make your way up the stadium steps, his frat brothers obnoxiously yell around him, the game still playing below, but none of it touches him now. When you glance back once from halfway up the section, he’s still looking right at you.
Blair catches you turning and mutters, “Jesus. He is down horrendously bad for you.”
A tiny laugh escapes you, strained, “Shut up.”
But it’s true. She knows it, you know it, he knows it, everyone knows it.
And with one hand gripping the railing and the other looped through Blair’s arm, you let her guide you out of the stadium while the noise of the game swells behind you and your boyfriend stays seated only because you asked him to.
You don’t realize how drained you are until the dorms finally come into view, and the moment you step inside your room, it all catches up to you at once.
The silence feels foreign after the stadium, your body sags with it immediately. You shut the door behind you and narrowly make it to the edge of your bed before sitting down too hard, exhaling shakily through your nose like your bones gave out all at once.
Blair drops her purse by her desk and gives you a once-over, and because she’s Blair and has known you too long to be fooled by anything, her whole face softens, “Oh, babe.”
“Don’t…say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m…” You break off, throat tightening, “Like I’m something you need to feel sorry for.”
Blair’s expression switches, “I don’t feel sorry for you.”
You look up at her, she walks over and sits beside you on the bed, “I feel bad that you’re having a rough day,” She corrects, “That’s not the same thing.”
You giggle, but it’s thin and tired, “Feels the same.”
She nudges your knee gently with hers, “It’s not,” And the silence settles again. Somewhere, faint and far off, you can still hear the dull roar of the stadium. It makes your chest hurt for reasons that have nothing to do with football. Blair leans back and looks at the ceiling, “You scared the fuck out of him, by the way.”
You let out the smallest huff of air, “I know.”
“No, like…really,” She turns her head to you, “He…genuinely might be obsessed with you.”
Something warm and painful twists beneath your ribs at that, Blair studies you, then says quieter, “You should probably lie down.”
You nod, but don’t move. That’s how she knows something bigger is sitting in the room, “What is it?”
You keep staring at your hands, because now that the noise is gone, the real question sits with you, waiting to be answered, “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
Blair doesn’t respond yet, she lets the words sit between you, lets you hear them after they’ve been spoken into existence. Then she reaches over and takes one of your hands in hers, thumb grazing slowly over your knuckles, “You don’t have to know today.”
Your eyes sting without warning, “I feel like I do.”
“Why?”
“Because everything keeps moving,” You whisper, “My dad is here. Gojo’s acting…like whatever the fuck. Everyone’s still going to games and getting drunk and dressing up for Halloween and I’m just—” Your throat closes around the rest of it, “I’m just stuck.”
Blair squeezes your hand, “You’re not stuck.”
“I’m pregnant.”
The word lands like a slap, even now. Even after the multiple tests and the crying and the panic. Your free hand drifts to your stomach before you can stop it, her eyes follow the movement. Then very carefully, she asks, “Do you want to keep it?”
There it is. The question you’ve been circling around for days without touching head-on. You open your mouth, then close it again, because the answer should be simple, shouldn’t it?
You’re eighteen, in your first semester of college, across the country from home, pregnant by a frat boy you’ve only known for a matter of months and who only recently started treating you like you mattered. So, the answer should be obvious. Of course you’re not fucking keeping this baby.
But yet, you still find yourself torn, “I don’t know,” Blair nods and your tears prick hotter now, “I keep thinking I should know.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“But I do,” Your voice cracks, “I feel like if I don’t decide right now, I’m already deciding.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“Then how?”
Her grip on your hand tightens, “You need to stop trying to answer with what sounds smartest or least messy or least disappointing and answer with what’s actually happening in your chest.”
You look away, because that’s the problem. What’s happening in your chest is not logical. It’s emotional and humiliating and tangled up in things you don’t even want to say aloud.
“I’m scared,” You admit, “I’m scared of ruining my life and my dad hating me.”
“He won’t,” You shoot her a look and she winces, “Okay—he’ll freak out, aggressively, but he won’t hate you.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself, then the tears finally slip loose, “And I’m scared—that if I don’t keep it…something in me will never be okay after.”
Blair goes entirely still as you squeeze your eyes shut. There. It’s out now. The ugliest part about all of this. The one that makes you feel the most insane.
Because you know how ridiculous it sounds. You know how young you are and how little sense it makes to feel attached to something that started as panic and recklessness, but the fear is real anyway.
The thought of terminating the pregnancy doesn't just scare you because of what it means, it scares you because some part of you already feels like someone is there; tiny, fragile, impossible, but yours and his.
Blair shifts closer, pulling you into her arms, and you let her, “I know,” You choke out, “I know how stupid it sounds.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid at all,” She rubs a slow hand up and down your back, “It also doesn’t mean you’ve made your decision, but it does mean this isn’t just fear for you anymore.”
Your breath catches—she’s right. That’s the part you’ve been trying not to name. The terrifying subtle difference between I’m pregnant and there’s a baby; between anxiety and attachment, between disaster and something that, definitely shouldn’t, feel like it belongs to you.
You pull back to wipe at your face, “I think Gojo wants me to keep it.”
“Yeah,” She says dryly, “No fucking shit.”
You stifle a laugh, “Like…” You sniff, peering down at your lap, “He hasn’t said it and I don’t think he would. But I know he’d want me to.”
“And what do you want? Not him. You.”
“I think…” You pause, unable to fathom that you’re really about to say this, “I’m leaning toward keeping it.”
Blair only nods, slow and serious, “Okay.”
That’s all. No, are you sure? No, oh my God. No, what the fuck are you actually doing? Just, okay.
Your lips tremble, “That’s it?”
Blair shrugs one shoulder, “You can still be scared and hate the timing and think this is the most crazy thing that’s ever happened to you, but none of that cancels out the part where you already care.”
Hearing that wrecks you more than anything else has all day. You let out one shaky breath and lean back against the wall behind your bed, eyes stinging all over again. Outside, life keeps going—the game, the campus, Halloween, your father, Gojo somewhere in the crowd probably worried out of his mind, checking his phone, waiting for your text.
He does really try to watch; he dropped back into the bleachers after you left, but it’s like someone reached into his chest and yanked him a few inches out of place because nothing sits right now. Not even the beer helps, because every five fucking seconds he’s checking his phone.
One of the Sig Chi boys yells something about the refs being blind and Gojo joins in a beat too late because he’s staring at your contact photo instead of the field.
“Bro,” Ryan finally laughs, leaning over from two seats down, “You good?”
Gojo takes a long sip from his Coors Light and lies without blinking, “Fine.”
He is not fine in the slightest. You’re back at the dorm with Blair, feeling like shit, and he’s stuck here pretending to care about a game while every part of him is halfway across campus with you. It’s irritating; embarrassing, honestly. He should be drunk enough by now to not care this much. Instead, he cares more.
When your text finally comes through—
back at dorm
laying down
i’m okay
—his whole body loosens so fast it almost pisses him off.
He replies instantly.
ok good
actually rest
and tell me if you throw up fr
my poor baby
He stares at the screen for a second longer before shoving his phone back in his pocket and trying, once again, to be present. It lasts maybe ten minutes.
By the time the game ends, he’s drunker than he was when you left and somehow in a worse mood. His brothers are all shouting over one another on the walk back to Sig Chi and Gojo falls into stride with them, but his head won’t shut the fuck up.
About you. The way you looked in the stands, the way you touch your stomach without thinking lately, the conversation you and Blair are probably having right now that he isn’t in the room for. He thinks about whether you’re crying or laying in his hoodie in that teeny dorm bed trying to decide what the rest of your life is going to be.
He hates not knowing, but he hates even more that there’s no fix for it.
They arrive at Sig Chi faster than he hoped, the whole house already shifting gears from football Saturday to Halloweekend; Gojo is buzzing in that ugly, uneven way that comes from too much alcohol and not enough internal silence.
He heads straight upstairs to his room with two brothers behind him, post-game rally in motion.
“Bar at ten!” Somebody shouts.
“Yo, Gojo. You dressing up or what?”
He snorts, “Fuckin’ obviously.”
His room still smells like last night, like you—like sweat, sex, his cologne, and all the fucked up possessive satisfaction he’s been desperately trying to ignore for days now.
One of the guys tosses him a beer from the mini fridge and Gojo catches it one-handed. Cracking it open, he drinks half of it in one go. It doesn’t help.
Nothing’s helping, actually. Not the alcohol or the noise downstairs or the USC win or the thought of Halloween, and that’s when he realizes what the problem is.
He’s fading, physically now. A result of too much beer, sun, and stadium. If he wants to make it through the bar tonight, and he does, because some stupid part of him is already clinging to the idea that this is one of the last Halloweens he gets to do like this—he has to fucking rally.
His jaw tightens and for a moment, he just stands there with the Coors Light in his hand and stares at the ajar drawer of his desk.
Fuck, he shouldn’t. He knows that. Not when everything feels like he’s suddenly one bad choice away from confirming exactly what kind of shitty man he is.
But the problem is, Halloween weekend has always come with its own rules, and Gojo has spent too many years learning how to sharpen himself back to life whenever his body starts lagging behind what the night demands.
He opens the drawer anyway. The orange bottle clicks softly in his hand. Adderall.
“Gojo,” Ryan calls from across the room, “You crashing?”
He scoffs, “Please,” And taps one out into his palm, staring at it for too long.
This is just to rally, he tells himself. One won’t hurt. Then he throws it back dry, chases it with beer, and slams the can down on the desk harder than necessary.
“There he is,” Ryan laughs.
Gojo smirks automatically, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Because as the pill starts its slow, familiar path through his bloodstream, there’s a small vicious thought already coiling low in his chest.
Next year, everything will be different. And for reasons he doesn’t feel like examining too closely, that thought makes him drink even faster, far more recklessly.
And a few blocks away, you’re waking up from your nap at the same time Gojo is getting belligerently drunk and high.
Blair’s voice drifts over from across the room, makeup is scattered over every single surface, your costume is hanging from the closet door.
Fuck. It’s Halloween. You forgot while in the midst of your mental breakdown.
Blair glances over the second she hears you shift, “There’s my girl!”
You groan and roll onto your back, “How long was I out?”
“Like two hours.”
Your eyes widen, “Blair. I thought I told you thirty minutes max?”
“Bitch, you looked dead. So, I let you live by sleeping more.”
You drag a hand over your face, then sit up slowly. You’re still sore and tired and pregnant of course, but now you’re also expected to put on a Playboy Bunny costume and function in public.
“How do you feel?”
“Decent enough.”
“That’s the spirit!” She’s already half-done with her own costume—and because she calls herself a ‘maneater’, she had to be Jennifer Check. There’s fake blood on her lip, skimpy purple cheerleader fit on. Predictably, she looks incredible.
Your eyes then drift to your own costume hanging there. The black bodysuit, the cuffs, the ears, the collar. A weird feeling moves through your bones.
Because part of you wants to laugh at how absurd it all is, yet another part of you wants to cry because your life is cracking open in the most unserious outfit in the world, and third, a more dangerous part of you still wants to look hot.
It’s your first Halloween as a college student. You want Gojo to see you and lose his fucking mind, and you also want one night where you can step back into your own skin and feel like the hottest girl in the room instead of the saddest.
Blair follows your gaze and smiles, “You still wanna wear it?”
You look at her, “Fuck it…Yeah.”
She squeals loudly, excited that for at least right now, she’s got her friend back. You’re up on your feet before you know it and she’s zipping you into your costume and helping you with your makeup while the room slowly returns to a girl space rather than a crisis room.
Blair fastens the cuffs on your wrists, your makeup is prettier than usual and a little heavier around the eyes. The satin bunny ears sit perfectly on top of your head whereas the collar clasps your throat in place of the silver chain. That’s what catches your attention in the mirror—your throat, bare.
Blair notices the exact second you do. “What?”
You touch the collar lightly, “Nothing.”
But it isn’t nothing. Gojo’s chain is missing and something about that bothers you more than it should.
And in a room that still miraculously smells like you, Gojo ties the red velvet robe of his stupid Hugh Hefner costume and downs the last of another beer with a grin too sharp to be harmless.
Somewhere in the space between you both—Gojo turning himself into the king of Sig Chi again and you turning yourself into every filthy college boy’s dream, Halloween waits with its mouth wide open.
The walk back to Sig Chi feels different at night, it always does, but because it's Halloween it’s turned into something dirtier. Music comes from every frat house that’s throwing, bass vibrates the pavement, girls in slutty costumes weave through crowds of frat boys already obliterated.
Beside you, Blair looks insane in the best way possible, and she glances over at you for what feels like the tenth time in two minutes and grins, “Yeah,” She says, eyes dragging over you, “No. You look fucking unreal.”
You roll your eyes, but it lacks heat, “You’ve said that six times.”
“And I’ll say it twelve more.”
Your bunny ears shift slightly in the breeze, white round tail bouncing faintly every time you walk, collar snug around your neck; it’s ridiculous and obscene and the exact kind of costume that would send your father into cardiac arrest if he saw you. Yet, standing here in it now, you feel a little more like yourself again.
Blair loops her arm through yours as the Sig Chi house comes into view, heaving with life, “Prepare yourself.”
“For what?”
“For your boyfriend to go fucking bonkers.”
You laugh under your breath, “He’s seen the costume.”
“Seeing it in theory and seeing it on your body are not the same thing, babe.” Fair point.
The front lawn is mayhem. Brothers spill down the porch steps, the music inside is so loud it rattles the windows, somebody dressed as a priest is making out with a fairy. Yeah, you ignore that and barely make it through the front door before the house consumes you. Heat, perfume, sweat, vodka, people in costumes, and then, he sees you.
You don’t notice at first, Blair does, “There’s your man.”
You turn and Gojo is across the room near the kitchen island, half-surrounded by brothers and girls and red solo cups and all the filthy excess of Halloween at Sig Chi. For one split second he goes completely still.
The Hugh Hefner costume on him is criminal. Burgundy robe hanging open over a bare, toned chest. Black pants slung low on his hips and wearing slippers, of all things. His white hair is messy under the little cap, cheeks flushed from almost twelve hours of straight drinking, blue eyes blown brighter than they should be.
And the moment those eyes land on you, every person around him may as well disappear. His mouth parts as his gaze trails over you once, every inch of you getting cataloged, then his jaw clenches.
One of the brothers says something to him, but he doesn’t even react. Then, he moves, slowly. Purposeful. Predatory in that lazy, intoxicated way only Satoru Gojo can pull off. Like he already knows there’s nowhere on earth you’re going that won’t end with him in front of you.
The crowd parts for him without meaning to and when he reaches you, your pulse is beating in your ears to the point you can’t hear the music anymore. He stops too close, you can smell the alcohol on him and the Armani cologne underneath it.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Hi.”
His eyes flick to yours, “No—No, that’s actually fucked up.”
You fight a smile, “What is?”
He gestures vaguely at your body, “This.”
That makes you laugh, tiny and breathless; the sound seems to hit him somewhere deep because his whole expression darkens another shade, “Baby.” He says, dropping his voice lower, “What the fuck.”
“You picked it.”
“Yeah. As a concept.”
Blair turns away and starts giggling into her hand. Gojo ignores her completely and that’s when his attention catches onto your throat—on the white collar around it and the fact that there’s no silver chain there; no visible mark of him except the faded hickey on your collarbone from the night prior.
His eyes narrow as one of his hands comes up, thumb passing lightly over it, “You wore this instead?”
Your breath catches slightly, “It’s part of the costume.”
“Mm,” That one sound alone is loaded enough to make your thighs press together. His fingers trace down the side of your throat, then drop. The movement is small, but you feel the tension under it. He leans closer, mouth fanning your ear, “Can’t have you walking around looking like this with nothing on your neck.”
Your stomach flips violently and Blair, who is close enough to hear the tone if not the words, gasps, “Okay. I’m gonna go somewhere else,” And disappears into the flood of people before you can stop her.
Then it’s just you and him, or at least, it feels like it despite half the campus being here. Gojo steps in closer, hands finding your waist, fingers spreading wide and firm over the curve of it. His gaze drags again, slower now, greedier, “You’re really gonna walk around like this all night?”
“That was the plan.”
He huffs a chuckle that has no humor in it, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His jaw flexes, “That’s adorable.”
Your heart stutters, “Why are you talking to me like that?”
“Because,” He says, eyes finally lifting back to yours, “I’ve been drunk since breakfast and I’m trying very hard not to put you over my shoulder in front of everyone and fuck you now instead of later.”
Heat floods your face, he notices, “That’s what I thought,” He murmurs, sounding almost satisfied; then he glances around once, quick and sharp, checking who’s watching, who’s looking, who’s too close. When he looks back at you, something in him has gone quieter, meaner, “C’mere.”
He doesn’t wait for your answer. His hands just tighten on your waist and he guides you through the house, through the bodies, past the kitchen and down the hallway, his pace deceptively calm even though every line of his body feels strung too tight. You stumble a bit trying to keep up in your thigh high boots, “Satoru.”
“Mm?”
“Where are we going?”
He glances back once, “Gonna fix your costume.”
Your pulse jumps so harshly that you almost trip again and with every step further into the hallway, Gojo’s grip on your waist seems to say the same thing over and over without him needing to speak it out loud. Mine, mine, mine.
You can feel the alcohol on him more clearly back here, his palm spreads impossibly wider as if he’s reminding himself that you’re really here wearing that fucking costume in his house while every drunk guy on Greek Row breathes the same air as you, “Toru…you’re being weird.”
He fully laughs at that, “Baby, if this is me being weird, you should be grateful.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It shouldn’t.”
His fingers flex once and keep steering you forward until he’s got you backed into the little shadowy pocket near the stairs. Far enough that nobody’s paying attention, but close enough to his room that you know exactly where this is heading. The wall kisses your back and Gojo plants one hand beside your head, looking at you again.
His tongue drags slow across his lower lip, “Turn around.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
You should probably argue, but you turn like he said. Behind you, Gojo goes silent in that dangerous way of his. You hear his breath first, then the rustle of velvet, then his hand slides over the back of your neck. He shifts the collar slightly to expose your throat. You shiver and a soft sound leaves him; almost a hum, almost approval.
“Yeah,” He murmurs, mouth ghosting your skin, “There it is.”
He leans in, nose brushing your ear first, breathing you in like he’s been waiting all day to get you somewhere alone. His other hand lands low on your hip, anchoring you in place, “I don’t like it.”
Your voice comes out smaller than you hoped, “Don’t like what?”
“That there’s nothing here,” His thumb glides over your neck, “No chain. No mark. Just this cute little collar and every drunk fuck in my house staring.”
Warmth pools low in your belly, you glance over your shoulder, “You’re drunk.”
He smiles against your skin, “Very,” Then his mouth is on you. He starts with a kiss just below your ear—open-mouthed, lingering, nothing lewd yet. Just a touch to make your knees threaten to go traitor beneath you.
You exhale shakily, “Satoru—”
“Shh,” He hushes, planting another kiss lower. His lips lag down the side of your throat with obscene patience and you understand immediately that he’s kissing you because he’s trying to decide exactly where he wants the damage to bloom.
Hidden in the dark, Gojo sucks a slow mark into your neck like nothing else exists. You gasp and his hand tightens on your hip, “Don’t move.”
That only makes your thighs press together harder, a quiet laugh brushes hot against your skin before his teeth graze the place he just kissed, sending a sharp little spark through you, “Oh my God.”
He kisses the same spot again, then pulls back to admire his own work; the hickey peeks just above the collar—impossible to miss, “Much better. Now everyone will know.”
“You really dragged me into a hallway to brand me.”
His mouth curves, “And?” That stupid answer makes your blood run hot, “C’mon. Before I stop behaving.”
You turn fully, eyes squinted, “You are not behaving.”
“Ohh, princess,” He grins, “Trust me. I am.”
He guides you back toward the party with his hand planted low on your back and the second you step into the light again, Blair peeps the mark on your throat, “Okay. So he’s fucking crazy.”
Gojo reaches for somebody’s drink off the kitchen counter and takes a casual sip like he did nothing out of the ordinary, “Thank you.”
Blair points at him, “That was not a compliment.”
“Still counts,” Your face burns while Gojo looks entirely too pleased with himself, and you shamefully don’t hate any of it.
You don’t hate the hickey warming your throat or the way he keeps staring at it like it’s a work of art or the fact that he’s been drunk since sunrise and is somehow getting prettier instead of the opposite. Some reckless, humiliating side of you like this version of him too. The possessive one, the one who looks at you like he’d kill whatever guy gets too comfortable.
Maybe Gojo can tell, because when his eyes flick back to your face and catch whatever’s there, his grin sharpens, “C’mon,” He says, voice rough with amusement, “We’re leaving.”
“For the bar?” Blair asks.
Gojo glances toward the kitchen where a handful of brothers are already yelling over each other, grabbing wallets and fake IDs, “Yeah.”
One of them stumbles past in a toga and points at Gojo with a Casamigos bottle, “Uber’s outside, bro.”
And the walk out of Sig Chi is chaos from the first step. Gojo keeps one hand on you the entire way down the porch, firm at your lower back, guiding and possessive.
By the time your group reaches the college bar, the line outside is long as hell; Gojo takes one look at it and scoffs, “Oh, absolutely the fuck not,” Then walks straight past it.
A couple people shout, “what the fuck?”, but Gojo doesn’t even break stride. He reaches the bouncer, says something too low for any of you to hear, and slips a folded hundred dollar bill into the man’s hand with the same ease he does everything else.
The bouncer gestures you guys in, “Go ahead.”
Gojo pats him on the back, “Thanks, boss.”
Your mouth just falls open as Blair leans in at your shoulder, “That was so hot, unfortunately.”
Inside the bar, it’s worse. It’s hotter, louder, darker. The whole place is packed wall to wall with USC kids in Halloween costumes and the manic energy that only exists on holiday weekends. Lights flash over moving bodies, bass rattles your bones, drinks slosh over hands and sticky tabletops.
For the first few minutes, it’s actually fun. Gojo keeps you tucked close as he steers the three of you through the crowd, carving out space like he owns this place too. At the bar, he orders without asking—something alcoholic for himself, something virgin for you.
“Just a club soda,” He tells the bartender, then presses it into your hand, “Hold it like it’s vodka.”
You giggle lightly, “Why are you so committed to this?”
“Because everyone in here is fucking dumb,” He says simply, his gaze slides down your figure again, “And because I don’t need them knowing anything about you except that you’re with me.”
Heat licks low through your stomach and his mouth curves, “Mm, yeah. That one got you.”
Then, out of thin air, one of his brothers appears behind him and jerks his chin toward the back hallway, “Yo, Gojo.”
Gojo’s gaze flicks to him, then back to you. His hand drags once over your hip, absentmindedly, “Toru?”
“S’nothing, baby,” He says when you eye him, “Stay here. Close to Blair.”
That’s not a real answer and you both know it, but it doesn’t stop him from leaving with the guys. Blair watches him vanish into the pack of people, then glances at you, “He’s gonna come back worse, by the way.”
You take a sip of your club soda, “Probably.”
And back near the dark stretch of hallway by the bathrooms, Gojo stands with the others and rubs a hand over his mouth, “Fuck…”
The adderall he popped after the game was one thing, but cocaine is another.
He told himself he’d never do that around you. That shit belonged to an older version of him, the version that showed up with the boys in bar bathrooms and frat-house bedrooms when nobody expected anything decent from him. But then again, it is Halloween. And he’s tired.
Tired of trying to be careful and thinking too hard and feeling every fucking little thing at once. He’s spent days saying the right shit, keeping himself contained for you, your dad, and the future already nipping at his heels. So maybe he deserves one night—this night, to stop acting like a father to a baby who isn’t even here yet. One night, to feel like himself again. Doesn’t he?
The answer comes quicker than it should. Ryan offers the key topped with white powder and Gojo stares at it for half a second too long, jaw tight, then takes it; lifting it to his nose like muscle memory.
Because it is, and that’s the saddest part. The burn hits sharp and immediate, harsh enough to sting behind his eyes. After Gojo straightens, the room already feels cleaner around the edges yet dirtier underneath.
When he pushes back into the crowd, he finds you instantly. You’re laughing at something Blair said, hand around your soda disguised as liquor, hickey peeking above the white collar, black satin clinging to every inch of you like it was purposely designed to ruin him. Something in his soul hooks mean.
Blair spots him first, “Oh no.”
You turn, “What?”
Gojo winds up in front of you like he materialized. He’s faster now, brighter, his hands are on your waist before you can blink, mouth crashing onto yours in a sloppy kiss that tastes like vodka and something sweeter and chemical beneath it. When he pulls back, his pupils are huge, his smirk crooked, “Miss me?”
“You were gone for like ten minutes.”
He pouts, “Longest ten minutes of my life.”
Before you can even chuckle at that, his mouth is on your earlobe and the words start flowing frantically, roughly, almost tripping over themselves.
“I was standing back there thinking about fucking you in this little outfit,” Your knees weaken and he keeps talking like he can’t stop, “You look so fucking hot. Like so fucking hot. These ears, this collar, that stupid little tail—” His hand drops just enough to tap the curve of your ass where it bounces, then slides back up, “You’re wearing this shit and expecting me to be normal?”
“You’re so gone.”
“And you’re so fucking sexy,” His hands move when he speaks now—restless, possessive. One dragging up your spine, the other planted on your waist. He kisses your neck again, sloppy and totally lewd, “Been trying not to drag you to the bathroom, y’know that?”
Your thighs tense immediately, “Yeah,” He teases softly, feeling it, “That one got you too.”
Blair looks between the two of you and mutters, “I need everyone here to die.”
Gojo smirks, tipping your chin up with two fingers and staring down at you like he needs the image of you like this burnt into his brain, “So do I. Need them all to die. Because they keep fuckin’ looking at you.”
You know it’s a joke, but the way he says it almost sounds like he means it. Then, of course, some idiot in a football jersey who doesn’t know any better appears at your side with a drink in hand and a smile that shows he’s already too confident.
“Hey,” He says to you, disregarding Gojo, “You want—”
The cup never makes it to you, because Gojo smacks it straight out of his hand. The plastic hits the floor and liquor splashes over everyone’s shoes. The guy recoils, stunned, “What the fuck, bro?”
Gojo steps forward before you can blink, grin flashing quick and frightening, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
The guy glances at you, then at him, then at the drink on the floor, “I was just being nice.”
“Yeah, okay. Try that shit again,” Gojo threatens, voice almost pleasant, “See what happens.”
The guy mumbles something and leaves fast enough to prove he isn’t half as brave as he thought he was. You turn back to Gojo, “That was a little psychotic.”
He looks at you instantly, all that jagged energy smoothing into something playful, “Nah—you want another soda?”
Blair snorts and Gojo vanishes for less than a minute and comes back with another club soda with lime for you and another drink for himself. He presses yours into your hand, “Don’t take drinks from anyone who isn’t me.”
“Okay, psycho.”
He leans in, lips ghosting your ear, “Call me a psycho all you want, princess,” His voice is low and too wired now, “I’m still the one splitting you open later.”
Your entire body lights up, but across the bar laughter cracks too loud from the back near a cluster of TKE boys, and Gojo’s head turns. You follow his line of sight, and that’s when you see him.
Kyle is already a few drinks past coherent, standing with a couple of his brothers like the whole bar belongs to them, but the second his eyes land on you in that costume? His mouth curves with the kind of drunk confidence only mediocre men seem able to summon.
He has the audacity to say your name loud enough for the people around him to hear, for you, and definitely for Gojo. Kyle laughs, shaking his head like he’s remembering something hilarious, “Man, three weeks ago I had my hands all over (Y/N)’s tits. They’re no fuckin’ joke bro.”
Your blood runs cold as one of the TKE boy barks out a laugh and Kyle keeps going, “Almost fucked her too,” He adds, ego swelling with every word, “Would’ve—if it weren’t for Gojo being a little bitch.”
The table around them erupts and Gojo goes terrifyingly still. Humiliation burns under your skin, hot and vicious, not because Kyle’s telling the truth but rather he’s saying your name like it belongs in his mouth. Like you’re a story he gets to tell and your body is a punchline he can pass around between frat boys.
But next to you, Gojo smiles; that’s the worst part. He hands Blair his drink without looking at her and takes two steps forward. You grab his wrist instantly, “Satoru—”
He doesn’t even acknowledge you; his voice, when it comes, is calm enough to make your blood run colder, “Damn,” He drawls, stopping outside the threshold to be heard without shouting, “You’re still talking about touching my girl’s tits from three weeks ago?” Kyle’s smirk falters slightly. Gojo tilts his head, the grin is still there, but brighter, “That the closest you’ve gotten to pussy all semester?”
A few people around them wince and go ohhh before they can stop themselves, Kyle’s face hardens immediately, “Watch your fuckin’ mouth.”
Gojo laughs brazenly, “Why? Honestly, bro I was joking that day when I called you TKE guys cucks, but I genuinely don’t think that shit’s a joke anymore.”
That line lands hard. The brothers around Kyle go tight all at once, one of them mutters, “Yo,” Another straightens. Blair, beside you, says, “Okay, this is about to get really bad.”
Kyle pushes off the wall and steps forward, drunk enough to be sloppy but not nearly drunk enough to miss how badly he and his frat got humiliated, “You have a lot to say for a guy who loses his fucking mind every time someone looks at her.”
Gojo shrugs once, “And?”
The answer is so easy, so unbothered, that it makes the whole thing worse. Kyle scoffs, shaking his head, “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” Gojo says, “Least I ain’t bragging about almost getting pussy, though.”
Your pulse is hammering now. The crowd around the two guys is shifting, sensing blood in the water, and Kyle points at you then—Gojo’s entire expression changes, “Don’t.”
Kyle either doesn’t hear the warning or is too drunk to care, “I’m just saying, bro,” He goes on, laughing to his boys again, “I had her in my bed. If you didn’t start tweaking out like an insecure obsessive freak, I would’ve—”
He doesn’t get to finish that sentence, because Gojo punches him. It happens so fast it barely looks real at first. One second Kyle’s talking, the next Gojo’s fist connects with his face hard enough to snap his head sideways and send him stumbling into one of the tables. Drinks go flying, somebody screams, a brother yells, “Oh shit!”
And then the whole bar detonates. Kyle swings back on instinct, wild and already bleeding from his nose, but Gojo dodges it easily, too easily, and shoves him so hard that they both slam into the crowd.
A girl in angel wings shrieks when someone crashes into her; two TKE boys lunge forward at once and so do three Sig Chi brothers from somewhere behind you like they’d been waiting their entire fraternity careers for a moment like this.
The whole bar erupts into turmoil. Bodies surge, someone gets thrown into a high-top, chairs scrape along the floor and music keeps blaring over all of it like the DJ either hasn’t noticed or absolutely has and doesn’t give a fuck. The room fills with shouting that it blurs together, but that doesn’t stop you from trying anyway, “Satoru!”
Blair grabs your arm, “Fuck no! Absolutely fucking not!”
You yank against her grip, wanting to find him through the mess of bodies before shit gets worse, “I need to—”
“You need to stay the fuck out of that!”
She’s right. You know she’s right, but your heart is still trying to beat out of your chest. Across the room, Gojo has Kyle by the collar of his shirt now, driving him backward into the wall rough enough to rattle whatever bullshit posters are hanging there. Kyle gets one hand on Gojo’s shoulder and shoves him off, but Gojo is already coming back with that same wicked, radiant expression—drunk and high and entirely gone.
Despite it all, he looks hot. Scarily hot. That is probably the most disturbing thought you’ve had in your life. His robe is half-open, disheveled white hair, mouth curled into something ecstatic; he looks like the exact kind of rich frat boy every parent warns their daughter about—the exact kind of guy your father warned you about. Kyle throws another punch, Gojo takes it glancingly to the jaw and laughs.
“Oh, he’s deadass batshit,” Blair says, horrified and almost impressed.
One of the TKE guys tries to jump in on Gojo, but immediately gets body-checked by Ryan who appears out of nowhere, and Kyle swings again, this time Gojo catches his wrist. And because he hasn't caused enough damage yet, Gojo leans in so close that only the people right on top of them can hear, and says something in Kyle’s face that makes him turn red with a whole new kind of rage.
Then he punches Kyle in the stomach, he folds, and you can’t tell what’s happening anymore after that because the whole bar has shifted into that mob-like state where nobody knows why they’re swinging, only that everybody else is swinging so that means you have to.
But then you hear it, “Cops!”
Everything changes in an instant. People start scattering in waves, some toward the bathrooms riddled with coke and vomit, some toward the back exit, some stupid enough to freeze in place and pretend they weren’t involved. Blair’s hold on you tightens until it hurts, “We’re getting the fuck outta here.”
“But, Satoru—” As if the universe is sick of hearing his name from your tongue, he appears through the bodies a second later. His lower lip is split, there’s blood at the corner of his mouth, and the velvet robe is hanging off his shoulder. He spots you and comes straight over.
The second he reaches you, his hand is on your waist, “You okay?” You just stare at him and he frowns like your silence is the real problem here, “Princess.”
“You’re bleeding,” You blurt.
He ignores that as if it’s not worth noticing and says, “We need to go,” He tightens his grip on your waist, catches Blair’s forearm with his free hand, and starts moving urgently. He shoves through the crowd like a man parting water, all long limbs and brute intention, keeping you tucked close that you nearly trip twice trying to keep up in your boots. Blair curses the whole time behind you and the music is somehow still pounding.
You glance back and see one last flash of Kyle being held upright by two of his boys, blood dribbling down his mouth, screaming something after Gojo you can’t hear over the noise. Gojo doesn’t bother turning around, he just pushes the back door open and drags you both out into the alley behind the bar.
The cooler air hits like a slap, the alleyway packed with other escapees—girls fixing their costumes and guys laughing too hard with adrenaline still chewing through them; a minute later, the first siren cuts through the block. Blair whips around, “Oh shit.”
Gojo keeps moving; there’s a black SUV idling half a block down, hazards blinking, “Is that—” You start.
“Our Uber.”
Blair glares at him as the three of you half-run toward it, “Did you seriously order it before we even got out?”
“I ordered it when someone yelled cops.”
“You’re actually a psychopath.”
“Yep,” No shame, not even a little. The driver looks wildly alarmed when he sees the state of Gojo—robe open, lip bleeding, cheek swelling, but the second Gojo slides a folded bill through the open passenger window, the man’s expression changes to immediate acceptance, “Get in.”
Blair climbs in first, you start to follow, but Gojo catches your arm and turns your face toward his, “You’re good, right? Nobody hurt you?”
You stare at him. The look in his eyes is still electric, still riding the high of everything he just did, and worst of all? He looks happy, alive in a way that makes your heart flutter, “You started a frat war.”
“He talked about your tits. He’s lucky I didn’t kill him,” He says it with a grin, like that explains everything, and maybe it does.
The ride back to Sig Chi barely registers for any of you, and when the Uber pulls up, the house is still shaking with music, Halloween nowhere near finished, people scattered across the lawn and porch.
Blair steps out first, muttering something about Gojo needing a psychiatric evaluation, but Gojo doesn’t hear any of it because the moment your boots hit the pavement, his hand is on you again—desperate, bruising your waist, the other catching your wrist when the staircase gets too swarmed.
He shoves past his brothers crowding the doorway, ignoring every “What the fuck happened?” and “Yo, did you beat his ass?” with a clipped “Not right now”. He drags you upstairs like the only thing wired in his body is the need to get you alone.
“Satoru—” His bedroom door shuts behind you and he just stares. The collar of your Playboy costume, the fresh hickey blooming on your throat, you. Then something in him snaps.
He crosses the room in two strides and kisses you with a haste that steals the breath from your lungs—teeth clashing, split lip reopening, the metallic taste of blood flooding your tongue as he licks into your mouth as if he’s trying to crawl inside you.
His hands are everywhere at once, one hand fisting the back of your bodysuit; the other is in between your thighs, shoving it to the side, and plunging two long fingers into your soaked cunt without warning.
He curls them viciously, and you can feel how hard he is through his black pants. Suddenly, a short, wrecked laugh tears out of him; his forehead dips to yours for a split second, grip tightening at your waist, “He doesn’t get to call me that and be right.”
Kyle’s voice echoes in his head, “obsessive insecure freak”, words Gojo would’ve disregarded from anybody else, except some ugly little part of him has already thought the same thing—fuck, honestly he is right. Gojo knows he’s a freak for wanting you as badly as he does, for finishing in you knowing it was wrong, for feeling good now that something of his is growing inside you.
“He’s not right,” You whisper.
Gojo chuckles under his breath, but it’s humorless, “You don’t know that.”
“Doesn’t matter,” You say, thumb grazing the corner of his bloody mouth, “I’m here, aren’t I?”
His eyes slam shut for a heartbeat and when they reopen, whatever ounce of control he had left has dissipated, “Yeah…you are,” He kisses you again and after that it goes feral.
He shoves you onto his bed, robe hanging open, pants pulled low enough for his cock to spring free—thick, flushed, veins pulsing, already leaking.
There’s no teasing, he just hooks one of your legs over his hip, lines himself up, and drives into you in one brutal thrust, bottoming out so deep your back arches off the mattress and a broken cry slips from your throat. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, he just starts fucking you hard and fast, hips snapping with punishing force, the wet slap of skin drowning out the muffled bass from downstairs.
Blood from his split lip drips onto your tits as he bends to bite your neck. One of his hands locks around your throat while the other slides down to splay wide and utterly possessive over the tiny secret swell of your belly, pressing like he can feel the life he deliberately put there.
“You still want me?” He pants against your ear, voice humiliatingly raw. “Even like this? Tell me.”
You answer by pulling him back down, nails raking along his back, “I—want you.”
That reassurance hits him like gasoline, like being chosen in this state is the exact worst thing that could happen to a guy like Satoru Gojo. His rhythm turns vicious, folding you harder, pounding deeper, cock dragging over that spot inside you with every stroke until your vision whites out.
“You’re mine. Still mine,” He snarls, fragments of words scraping out between thrusts, “He doesn’t get to say your fuckin’ name—doesn’t know shit about us.”
You cum with a shattered moan, cunt clamping around him so taut his hips stutter; he follows with a guttural sound, burying himself to the hilt and jerking through every pulse like he can’t stop claiming you even after he’s empty.
Downstairs, Halloween keeps raging; up here, the room has gone strange and silent. He stays buried deep, bright blue eyes blown, palm warm and heavy on your stomach—tracing slow circles like the touch alone can quiet the perturbed thing still howling in his chest and that’s the part that stays with you.
Not the fight, not the rougher than usual sex, just the fact he looks calmer with his hand resting there, like all this did was soothe something in him for a little while.
Which may be the scariest thing of all.
And after Halloween? Gojo doesn’t settle down like he told himself he would or how you thought he would. No, he keeps going.
You don’t know if it’s Kyle’s words still haunting him, or the pressure of fatherhood starting to cave in his chest, or the awful possibility that he was never ready to let this frat boy lifestyle go in the first place. Or hell, maybe it’s all three.
But all you do know is that you start measuring the nights by what he smells like when he gets to you. Beer and Armani cologne, vodka and cigarette smoke. A little bit of weed, sometimes. That sharp, chemical wrongness in his eyes that tells you it’s more than just that.
He still picks you up from class in his Porsche; keeps ginger ale in the passenger seat, notices when your stomach starts to turn, rests his hand low on your back when he walks you through a crowd and opens every door like he’s got manners bred into his bones and not fucking coke in his desk drawer back at Sigma Chi.
That’s what makes it so hard to call him what he’s becoming. Because Gojo is sweet and attentive, but he’s also getting worse.
One night he shows up flushed from the cold and three drinks deep, Dodgers hat low over his white hair, and kisses you before you can even ask where he came from. He laughs into your mouth when you stumble backward, catching your thigh with one big hand, and drags you onto his lap like he’s been picturing it the whole drive over.
“Hi to you too,” You murmur breathlessly.
“Mm,” He hums against your lips, already tugging your shorts off, “Missed you more.”
That night he fucks you fast, like something in him is burning too hot and your body is the only place that can cool it. His mouth stays on your neck the whole time, swallowing every sound you make, and when you whimper too loud at the first hard thrust, he groans, “Shit—there it is,” As if he’s been waiting hours to hear that exact sound.
His one palm spreads low over your stomach, fingers flexing there every time he drives in deep, “Needed this pretty pussy so bad,” He pants into your throat, “Fuck—been thinkin’ ‘bout you all night.”
And when he finishes inside you like always, it’s with his forehead against your shoulder and his body pressed so firm into yours it feels like he’s trying to shove himself under your skin.
The next morning, he shows up outside your class with a toasted bagel and a bottle of water already open, “You eat breakfast?”
You squint at him, “Did you?”
He passes over half of the bagel, “That’s not what I asked, princess.”
Two nights later, he texts you at 1:17 A.M.
satoru: open your door
You do as he says; he’s in a white hoodie with pupils the size of saucers and a jaw working way too much for the time of night. He’s far too awake, too restless. His hands don’t stop moving, they grab at your waist, the hem of your USC shirt, your throat, your hair, almost as if touching you is the only thing in the universe keeping him tethered. He gets you on the bed in under thirty seconds and the sex is rough enough to rattle the frame against the wall.
His hand closes around your cheeks halfway through, “Look at me, baby,” He says, voice shredded and low, “No—look at me.”
When you do, he kisses you once, filthy and open-mouthed, then drags your bottom lip between his teeth and thrusts so forcefully you whine, “That’s it,” He mutters, tone almost mean, “Let me see it. Let me watch you take my cock.”
He’s absolutely feral that night. Mouth on your throat, tits, jaw; one hand on your face, the other pinning your thigh open like he needs to see every twitch of his cock entering your cunt and hear every broken little sound you make just to convince himself he’s still here.
After he cums inside you with a ragged groan, he rolls onto his back and drags you on top of him like he can’t even bear the thought of being separated. You lie there listening to his heart hammer under you and know, with a sinking twist in your ribs, that he is high out of his mind.
The next day he texts you from class to ask how you’re feeling, and by the first weekend in November, it’s become a pattern. He goes out or hangs with the boys, gets drunk, gets higher than he means to, and shows up at your door, your window, or the curb outside your dorm.
And every time he comes back to you, the sex is different. Sometimes it’s all teeth and hands and him steering you into dark hallways or empty bathrooms like he can’t wait until you’re somewhere soft. One hand over your mouth, the other fisted in your skirt, his body crowding yours so completely you can’t tell where you end and he begins.
“Shh,” He hushes in your ear, “Wanna hear you, baby—but nobody else can.”
Then he kisses you after as if he didn’t just fuck you up against a bathroom door hard enough to make your knees nearly buckle. Other times, it’s in the driver seat of his Porsche, your knees digging into red leather, his chain cold against your collarbone while he mouths at the spot below your ear and keeps hauling your hips down harder onto his cock like he can’t get you close enough.
He’ll breathe, “Fuck, baby, just like that,” Against your throat in this ruined little voice that makes it sound like he’s the one being destroyed, not you.
Sometimes, it’s in his bed, face-down in the pillows while he grips the back of your neck and pins your body beneath his, hips snapping harsh and unforgiving while he mumbles filthy things into the shell of your ear, “That’s my girl”, “Mine”, “Look at how fuckin’ good you take it”, all half-praise and half-possession.
And once, he pushes too far. Not in some horrible, monstrous way or bad enough to tell him to stop, but it’s enough that your body finally gives up trying to keep pace with whatever is eating him alive. He’s too rough that night, too high and drunk, the room is dark and his breathing has gone shallow. His grip is tight and his voice is sharp around the edges.
“Take it,” He growls, wrecked, gone, “C’mon, baby—fuck, just like that.”
You’re trying. God, you are, but then something catches in your throat and the tears come before you can stop them. A humiliating kind of sob that slips out because you’re overwhelmed and your heart is too full and everything has been too much for too many days.
Gojo sees it as soon as it starts and stops. His hand loosens, he pulls out of you, sitting on the back of his heels to assess the damage, and the roughness drops off his face so fast it’s jarring, “Hey.”
You turn your head away, embarrassed, “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” His voice is different now, quiet, soft. He brushes your damp cheek with shaky fingers, looking at you like he hates that he caused this, “Baby…Did I hurt you?”
You don’t answer right away, which is an answer on its own. His eyes close for one second like he’s trying not to swear at himself, then he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, another to your jaw, slower and careful now, “I’m so sorry.”
And before you can say anything, he shifts lower, “Satoru—”
“Let me take care of you,” His hands slide over your thighs, guiding them back open. He kisses the inside of one knee, then the other, then the plush skin higher up with a reverence that makes your throat swell all over again.
There’s nothing frantic about him now. He moves as if trying to soothe the ache out of you by eating your pussy so good you can’t feel anything else, “That’s it,” He murmurs against your clit, “I’ve got you.”
He takes his time, more time than he has in days, more patience than you thought he still had in him, and when your fingers finally knot in his hair and your body softens instead of bracing, he lets out this low, ruined sound like relief itself. After you orgasm more times than you can count and he comes back up for air, he kisses your knee again, your stomach, then your mouth.
“Better?” You nod, still trying to find your breath and he kisses you once more—this one lingers, “Good.”
That’s what confuses you about him so much. Boys who don’t care don’t stop the moment they spot tears. Boys who don’t care don’t drop to their knees and try to worship you like that’s the closest thing they know to an apology.
One Sunday, he lets himself into your dorm and finds you curled under a blanket, exhausted and trying to pretend nausea hasn’t hollowed you out all day. He kneels in front of you without saying a word, “You eat anything?”
“A little.”
“What’s a little?”
You shrug and his mouth twitches. It’s not a smile, more so tired affection, “Okay,” He mutters, “That’s annoying. We’re getting you soup.”
You laugh weakly, “You say that like I’m five.”
“No,” He says, standing and tugging you gently up with him, “If you were five, you’d probably listen to me.”
Later, after he gets some food in you and rubs your back while you complain the whole time, he kisses you like he’s trying not to scare you with how much he wants you. He undresses you like he has all the time in the world; kisses your stomach, the inside of your wrist, the little crease where your thigh meets your hip. When he pushes inside you, it’s only inch by inch, eyes fixed on your face as he bottoms out.
“You okay?”
You nod and he exhales like he’d been holding that breath for longer than he meant to. Those nights, he doesn’t touch you like he’s starving. He makes love to you like he’s sorry. Every movement slow and deep, mouth fanning yours, one hand laced through your fingers while the other is on your lower stomach, staying there while he catches his breath like that’s where all his prayers go now.
On those nights, when he tucks you into his chest afterward and kisses your forehead and reaches blindly for the blanket to pull it higher around you before you can even shiver, he feels sweeter than anyone should. And that is exactly the problem.
Because the very next Friday, he’s back at the bar. Another afterparty, another sea of girls in tiny dresses and frat boys yelling. Gojo disappears with the brothers for “an hour” and comes back closer to two smelling like tequila and sharpened by lines of coke.
He sees some business major from one of your classes wave at you outside Sig Chi and he goes dead-eyed for the rest of the walk upstairs. He doesn’t say anything either.
Then your back hits his bedroom door as soon as it closes, his knee splits your thighs open, one hand tangles in your hair while the other grips your waist hard enough to bruise.
“Who the fuck was that?” He asks, in a tone that’s somehow worse than yelling.
You tell him and he just stares at you blankly. Then he kisses you roughly and spends the next twenty minutes proving a point your body understands before your brain does. His hand is on your throat, his mouth at your neck, his teeth bite into your shoulder. The edge of the door digs into your back as he fucks you like he wishes every guy who’s ever looked at you would just die.
“Wanna smile at him now?” He snarls against your pulse, accented by a thrust, “Wanna wave back now?” He thrusts again, harder, and you yelp, “Yeah—didn’t fuckin’ think so.”
Later, when he’s filled you to the brim, he uses a knuckle to wipe under your eyes so carefully it makes your chest ache, “Baby…Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“...Like I’m crazy,” He smiles when he says it, but something in your stomach turns cold.
A different night, he takes you to dinner. Just like he used to before your life imploded. It’s a quiet little Thai place thirty minutes away from campus. Gojo’s wearing black slacks and a cream sweater, looking so unfairly good it pisses you off. He watches you eat like it’s his favorite sight on earth, slides your water close when you stop paying attention to it.
“You gonna keep staring or are you gonna actually eat?”
He smiles over the rim of his glass,” Can’t I do both?”
For two whole hours, he is perfect. Soft spoken, attentive, present. When he drops you off at your dorm, he kisses you so slow it sends a shiver down your spine and says, “Text me if your stomach starts hurting again.”
At 1:43 A.M., your phone lights up.
satoru: come outside
Shocker. He’s parked under the dorm lights, one elbow hanging out of the Porsche window, sunglasses on at night like a complete asshole. He looks beautiful and slightly ruined. You know before you even open the door that he’s been drinking again.
“Are you serious?” You ask when you slide in, “You went out after dinner?”
He glances over, lazy and unashamed, “Only for a little.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” He says softly, thumb grazing your bottom lip, “Still came back to you, though.”
That’s the line that does it. That’s the line that always does it. And you end up in his lap, sweatpants ripped off, his mouth hot on your throat while the tinted windows fog and his Rolex digs cold into your skin. He fucks you slow at first, then harder when you moan his name in that way that destroys him. One of his hands claws at your hip and the other remains locked around the back of your neck as if he can’t stand the idea of you leaning away from him.
“Say it again,” He mutters, “Fuck, baby. Say my name like that again.”
When you do, his grip on your hip tightens. By the time he’s finished, there’s a red mark on your thigh from where his watch kept catching every time he drove you down harder.
Afterward, he doesn’t drive. He just holds you in his lap, cum dripping out of you, cheek pressed to your shoulder, “I hate when you’re not with me,” He murmurs eventually.
You don’t know what to do with that, so you say nothing, and he kisses your forehead like he regrets letting it out.
And then…there’s the really bad nights—not because he’s rough, but because he isn’t. He comes to you sober, exhausted, shadowed under the eyes. He’ll stand in the doorway of your dorm or his bedroom or wherever the hell you are and just look at you like you’re something holy he’s ruined and is trying desperately not to ruin worse.
He doesn’t say much on those nights. Just, “C’mere”, and when you do, his whole body morphs around you. He’ll climb into bed behind you fully dressed and tuck his face into the back of your neck, rubbing delicate circles over your stomach with the heel of his palm and breathe like that alone calms him down.
Those are the nights that make you believe him. Make you believe the soft voice and the checking in and the forehead kisses and the waters in the car and the way he hovers now when you look even remotely sick—the way he still comes every time you call and even when you don’t.
But then the next weekend rolls around and he’s done-up by midnight, bar-hopping with the boys, throwing ragers at Sig Chi, blowing through drinks and lines like he’s trying to empty himself out one substance at a time. By mid-November, you stop predicting what version of Satoru Gojo will show up.
The frat boy with pink cheeks and whiskey on his breath. The high one with blown pupils and fingers that won’t stop fidgeting. The jealous one who yanks you into empty rooms and fucks you like every guy who’s looked at you owes him something. Or the quiet one who acts like being close to you is the only thing that heals him.
Only thing you’re sure of is that he always comes back, and every time he does, he looks a little more beautiful, a little more destroyed, and a whole lot harder to trust.
And maybe that’s why, when he tells you at 11:03 on a Thursday night that he’s just stepping out for Ryan’s twenty-first birthday and will only be gone an hour, you try not to make it into anything bigger than that.
He’s half-dressed in front of his bedroom mirror when he says it, one hand fixing the collar of his black shirt, the other already reaching for his watch off the dresser. You’re in his bed in one of his old USC tees, legs tucked under the blanket, trying to ignore the way your stomach’s been off since dinner.
“An hour?” You repeat.
Gojo glances over at you and grins, easy and radiant and too beautiful to be as stressful as he is, “Maybe ninety minutes.”
“Satoru.”
“What?” He chuckles softly, walking back over to the bed, “It’s Ryan’s twenty-first, baby. I gotta show face.”
“You always ‘show face’ for like four hours.”
He drops onto the mattress just long enough to crowd over you, one hand braced by your head, the other smoothing a strand of hair. His mouth brushes yours once, twice; gentle and distracting, “Not tonight,” He murmurs, “Promise.”
You look at him—at the other silver chain at his throat, the lips that have lied to you before without meaning to call it that. At the version of him that still somehow looks soft when he’s asking for trust he hasn’t fully earned, “An hour.”
He nods, presses one last kiss to your forehead, then lower, at your mouth, “I’ll be back before 12:30.”
You want to believe him, so you do the stupid thing and let yourself, “Okay.”
“Okay,” He echoes, knuckle dragging once over your jaw, “And text me if you feel sick, yeah?”
You almost laugh at the hypocrisy of him saying that while fixing his shirt to go get hammered and high at a birthday bar crawl, but you’re too tired for a fight and too used to this by now, so you just nod. He gives you that look then, the one that always makes your ribs ache; too fond, too soft, too much like the version of Gojo you keep hoping will win.
“Get some sleep while I’m gone, princess.”
Then he’s grabbing his keys and leaves at 11:11. At 11:47, you’re still awake. At 12:18, you check your phone—nothing. At 12:43, you tell yourself not to be annoying. It’s Ryan’s birthday, he’s with the boys, it hasn’t even been two hours. You don’t want to be the girl who starts acting like a nagging girlfriend because her frat boy boyfriend went out for a few drinks.
At 1:06, you roll onto your side and stare at the wall. Then, at 1:32, you text him.
where are you?
He doesn’t respond. At 1:57, your stomach twists hard enough to make you sit up. You pad to the bathroom, splash water on your face, look at yourself in the mirror too long. You look exhausted, younger than you feel, more pregnant than you should even though that part is probably just in your head. Then, at 2:14, you’re hunched over the toilet, heaving into it, nauseous as ever.
You manage to make it back to his bedroom and clamber into bed, but sleep doesn’t come. Every car that passes outside makes your head lift hopefully before sinking again and at 2:38, you call him—it goes straight to voicemail.
Now the nausea returns, but it’s not just the pregnancy this time. It’s anger, humiliation, sadness, and that hot, awful feeling of knowing exactly what he’s probably doing; shots, bumps, frat boys yelling over each other in some ratchet bathroom while you sit here in his shirt waiting like a fucking idiot.
At 2:51, he still isn’t home. By 3:07, the handle of his bedroom door finally turns, and the moment you hear it something in you stills. Because now, he’s here, and you get to see which version of Satoru Gojo came back this time.
Unfortunately, it’s one of the worst ones.
The door swings open too hard and bounces off the wall with a loud crack. Gojo stumbles in after it, shoulder clipping the frame, one hand barely catching himself on the dresser before his hip knocks into the corner of it hard enough to send a half-empty water bottle and a pair of sunglasses clattering to the floor. He laughs, some dazed, breathless little huff like almost eating shit is hilarious.
The smell hits you before the sight fully does. Tequila, sweat, smoke, Armani, and underneath all of it, that sharp, acrid wrongness that makes your stomach roll all over again. He’s fucked up; belligerently drunk in a way that’s not cute, where he’s not overly affectionate and pink-cheeked. No, he’s totally gone.
Pupils swallow his blue irises, black shirt wrinkled, chain crooked at his throat, white hair a complete mess like he’s been dragging his hands through it for hours. For one awful second, he doesn’t even clock that you’re awake. But then his gaze lands on you sitting upright in bed—his worn USC tee slipping off one shoulder, blanket bunched around your waist, face hot and blotchy and damp from being sick and crying; the lazy smirk on his mouth slips.
“Hey,” He says, voice loud and way too loud for the quiet room “You’re awake.”
You just stare at him as he bends to kick one shoe off, nearly loses balance again, catching himself with a palm against the wall and blinks like the room tilted on him, “Baby?” He says softer, finally looking at you properly now, “Why’re you still up?”
A laugh escapes you, but there’s nothing funny in it. It’s thin, wet, more hurt than humor because of course that’s the first thing he asks. He doesn’t say I’m sorry or shit, I’m late or I said an hour and it’s three in the fucking morning. No, he asks that, “Wow.”
He pushes off the wall and takes a few uneven steps toward the bed, “Baby—”
“Don’t,” The word cracks harder than you mean it to and he stops entirely.
You press a hand to your stomach because it’s twisting again, mean and sour, his eyes drop there automatically. That old reflex and old softness, that part of him that still sees you and the baby before anything else. It only makes you angrier, “You said an hour,” His face twinges, only slightly, “You said an hour, Satoru.”
He runs a rough hand through his hair, “Ryan turned twenty-one. It got—”
“No,” You shake your head, “No, don’t fucking do that. Don’t stand there and say that like it explains anything.”
He exhales sharply, already defensive because the guilt in him never gets the chance to shine through; pride always gets there first, “I’m just telling you what happened.”
“At eleven o’clock,” You snap, voice climbing, “You kissed me and told me one hour.”
“S’what do you want me to say?” He bites back, “I’m here now.”
There it is. The exact wrong thing. The wrong thing a man says when he’s too drunk and high and ashamed to understand that arriving eventually is not the same as being there when it mattered. Your eyes sting so fast it pisses you off, “You’re unbelievable.”
“(Y/N), I said I’m here.”
“And I’m telling you that doesn’t fix it!” Your voice breaks on the last word and now you hate yourself too. You hate that you’re crying in front of him, hate that the whole night you promised yourself you wouldn't be this girl—waiting up, getting sick and emotional over a frat boy who was doing God knows what with his idiot fucking brothers.
Gojo scrubs both hands down his face, “Okay. I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Late?” You laugh again, “That’s what you think this is?”
He’s getting irritated now, you can tell. But not because he doesn’t care, no that would almost be easier, rather he’s too fucked up to sit in his own shame without lashing out, “What do you want from me right now?”
The question lands so wrong you just glare at him, “What do I want?”
“Yeah,” He says, stepping closer, “What do you want me to do? I’m home. I’m here. You want me to get in bed? Hold you? Tell me what the fuck you want.”
That last sentence comes out harsher than he means it to and you flinch; the second he sees it, his whole body freezes. For one breath, the real him shows up—horrified, immediate, sobered by the fact that he made you look at him like that. But it’s too late, because now your face is crumpling and the tears are back; your stomach hurts and you are just so, so tired of this.
“I wanted you to come back when you said you would,” You keep going, “I wanted you to answer your phone. I wanted to not sit here throwing up and wondering if you were alive while I was here by myself.”
Gojo’s mouth opens, then shuts, “It was one night.”
“No,” You reply, wiping angrily at your face, “That’s exactly the problem. It’s not one night,” Your tears burn hotter now, “It’s been almost two weeks of this shit, Satoru. One day you’re soft and sweet and perfect, making me feel insane for doubting you.
Your hand presses harder on your stomach, “And then the weekend comes and you’re drunk, high, you fuck me like it solves things, and I never know which version of you I’m getting,” His lips part, but you don’t let him speak, “You keep doing this. Keep acting like if you come back and hold me enough after, I’m supposed to forget the rest of it.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what are you doing?” You fire back, “Because it’s like you care about me one day and the next you’re trying to black out to not feel any of this.”
God, those good nights where he does everything right makes nights like this worse. They made you believe that beneath all this frat boy bullshit and all the liquor and cocaine, there is still somebody who understands what this is doing to you. And maybe that’s the cruelest part of all—that you’re starting to realize maybe he doesn’t. Or maybe he does, and some sick part of him just didn’t care enough tonight.
Then, the ugliest thought makes its way up your throat, “Did you get me pregnant because it turned you on, Satoru?” Gojo goes completely still, “Did you?” You demand, “Was it just hot to you? Knocking me up, getting to walk around knowing I’m the one carrying your baby while you still get to do whatever the fuck you want?”
He laughs once, ugly, humorless, straight up frightening, “You want honesty right now?”
“Yes.”
His eyes lock onto yours, “Yeah,” He answers, “It was hot,” The admission hits like a slap, he can’t stop either, “Yeah, it was hot,” Repeating himself, crueler because cruelty is easier than panic, “Wanted to fill you up. Wanted to know no one else was ever gonna have you the way I do.”
Fresh tears dribble down your cheeks and he sees them, but keeps talking, “And don’t act like you didn’t want it too. You fucking begged for it. You wrapped your legs around me. You told me not to pull out. You told me to make you mine.”
Your mouth falls open, “That is so fucking low.”
And he knows that, you can see it in the way his jaw tightens right after, the flicker of something ugly and regretful behind his blown eyes. But the damage is already done, “You know what’s fucked up?” You ask, “Yeah, I wanted you—I wanted all of it. I wanted you so bad I let myself be ruined by you.”
“(Y/N)—”
You cut him off, “I wanted you—but wanting you is not the same thing as asking for this,” His nostrils flare, “You got to get off on it. You got to make it hot. And now I’m the one stuck in the part after.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“Like what? Like this is actually happening to me?” He takes a breath like he’s about to say something, but you beat him to it, “It’s not that I can’t do this. I just can’t do this with the man standing in front of me.”
The panic hits him the moment the words leave your tongue, “You think that’s what this is? He seethes, stepping toward you too fast, “You think you get to throw that shit at me just because you’re pissed?”
You flinch again and for a heartbeat, the look on his face says he hates himself for that too, but he’s too far gone now to pull anything back, “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to be honest,” You admit, crying harder, “Maybe I should just go to Planned Parenthood and fix this.”
Something in his expression fractures at the sound of that. Because never, not once, had he imagined a world where you would willingly get rid of the one thing keeping you bound to him. His voice comes out shredded when he finally finds it, “You don’t get to fucking do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say you’ll get rid of my baby like it’s some fucking line to win an argument.”
You recoil in disgust, “Your—” You choke out, stunned and furious, “Oh my God. Your baby? That’s all you heard? Not the shit about my body or my life or me not being able to do this with you like this. Just—your fucking baby?”
“Don’t.”
“No, fuck you,” You snap, getting off the bed to grab a hoodie from his desk chair and yanking it on wrong, “Fuck you,” You echo, louder now, “You wanna know what’s actually sick? I was leaning toward keeping it…I was. And then you came home like this. You said all that bullshit and now all I can think is maybe I’d be keeping it if it wasn’t yours.”
That one guts him. Gojo’s body goes rigid like every muscle locks at once. His pupils blow even wider, chest snatching on one sharp inhale like the room has suddenly become too small to hold him. For a second he just stares at you, not blinking, not breathing right, like his mind physically cannot process the shape of what you just said.
You? A baby that isn’t his? You’d carry another man’s baby? He’d rather fucking die. Or kill someone.
His eyes flash with rage, hurt, something so possessive it borders on deranged, “Don’t fucking say that shit. Don’t even put that shit in my head.”
“Why?” You hiss, “Hurts?”
He takes a step toward you, hands twitching at his side, “You’re not fucking leaving me.”
You stop moving, only because you truly can't believe he said it. You turn slowly, phone clenched in your hand, and when you look at him your face twists, “Again, you make this shit about you.”
His chest is rising too hard, too quick, “You’re not walking back at three in the morning fucking pregnant. Not by yourself.”
“Oh, now that matters?” His jaw flexes, “That didn’t matter to you before though, did it?”
He winces, “Baby—that’s not—”
“No,” You interrupt, “You don’t get to disappear for hours and come back drunk and high off your ass and suddenly act like you’re worried about me being pregnant,” You reach for the doorknob, “If I go to Planned Parenthood, it’s because you finally made me realize what my life looks like with you in it.”
Your words devastate him now, “Don’t come after me,” You look back one last time, and this time, there is nothing soft in your face at all, “You wanna do whatever the fuck you want? Fine.”
Not the way the world feels wrong in his hands, not the way time seems thinner than it should be—but the memory. Clear and unforgiving.
He remembers you.
Not as you are now, laughing with your friends, brushing past him like he is nothing more than a passing inconvenience—but as you were. Standing at the threshold of a life he shattered with his own hands.
He remembers the silence that followed when you were gone.
And he remembers that it was his fault.
—
In this life, he meets you again too easily.
Same city. Same school. Same orbit of people, as if the universe is mocking him—dangling something just out of reach and calling it mercy.
You don’t remember him.
He notices it immediately.
There is no flicker of recognition in your eyes, no hesitation, no quiet grief. Just indifference. Casual, effortless indifference.
It should have relieved him.But he’s still bound to you.
—
Sukuna is careful this time.
Careful in a way he never was before.
He does not touch what isn’t his. Does not indulge in fleeting distractions. Does not allow his gaze to wander the way it used to. Every action is deliberate, restrained, almost painfully so.
He learns what you like.
The way you take your coffee. The songs you hum under your breath when you think no one is listening. The way you laugh harder at stupid jokes than clever ones.
He memorizes it all like scripture.
He thinks—if he does everything right, if he becomes better, if he is patient enough—
—
You ignore him.
Completely.
You’re polite. Friendly, even.
You include him in conversations, sit beside him in group settings, smile when he speaks.
But there is always something missing.
A distance.
Like you’ve already decided what kind of person he is—and filed him away accordingly.
He overhears it once.
Not meant for him.
“I don’t know… he just seems like the type,” you say, voice low but certain. “Like he’d get bored and cheat or something.”
It shouldn’t hurt.
He has been called worse.
He has been worse.
But hearing it from you—someone who doesn’t even remember why that might be true—
—
You date someone else.
Of course you do.
Someone kind. Safe. Predictable in all the ways he never was.
Sukuna watches from a distance.
That’s what he’s learned to do now.
Watch.
He tells himself it’s enough, just being near you. Just knowing you’re alive. Just seeing you smile—even if it’s not because of him.
But it’s a lie.
—
Sometimes, in quieter moments, you catch him staring.
There’s something unsettling about it—not threatening, just… heavy. Like he’s looking at you with too much meaning, too much history for someone you’ve only known a short while.
“Do I have something on my face?” you joke once.
He almost says your name the way he used to.
“No.”
—
It happens again.
And again.
And again.
Different lives. Same ending.
He meets you. He tries. He fails.
You live your life untouched by what came before, while he carries the weight of every version of you he’s ever lost.
wc: 22k (i’m sorry omg) | cw: 1k special!! fratjo! heavy smut, lots of filth, hints of fluff, possessive/obsessive tendencies, toxic relationship dynamics, lil corruption kink, jealousy, unprotected sex, oral sex (m + f), too many creampies, huge breeding kink, degradation/praise, accidental? pregnancy, contraceptive failure, use of alcohol, frat culture, gojo’s lowk evil, explicit language, use of pet names (baby, princess), reader’s dad is basically tom brady lmao
summary: the hottest frat boy at usc, satoru gojo, becomes obsessed with you and develops a kink he was never supposed to have.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
LIFE AS THE daughter of one of the greatest quarterbacks to ever step foot on a football field should’ve been considered a dream come true, and in most aspects, it was.
You grew up in the nicest suburbs of Boston, got whatever it was you wanted, traveled on first-class flights before you were old enough to spell, had a father who treated you like gold in human form.
But, that last one? Yeah, that was the problem.
Being adored feels a lot like being controlled when you’re the only daughter of a man the entire country worships. Because in hindsight, you were. Not purposely, of course. You were daddy’s little princess from day one, which meant he needed to protect you at all costs.
From the moment you entered your elite preppy high school at age fourteen, that was when his watchful eye sharpened into one that never stopped watching. As a hall of fame athlete, a New England Patriots legend, he’s seen too much of this world to know that he needs to keep his precious girl safe from it all.
And when he retired? It got so much worse. He was always there. Which basically meant you couldn’t do anything without him knowing or without his permission.
Your best friend, Blair, who lived two houses down, lived the life you wished you could. Another rich, preppy privileged girl, yes, but one with parents who didn’t give a single fuck what she did. And she’s been partying since, well…forever.
She lost her virginity in the bathroom of a Red Sox game, threw a rager so big when her parents left for Saint Barts she got suspended for two weeks, snuck out of the house so often she practically wore a path through your backyard.
She begged you to join her. To come out and have fun, be a normal teenager, but you never could. Sometimes you wondered if your father even realized he’d built a cage around you—a gilded, loving, suffocating one. And you were tired of not being able to live life to the fullest.
Which is why when the time finally came to decide on college? You knew you had to choose the furthest plausible option. You also knew that wherever you went, would have to be with Blair.
So the two of you sat down and planned it. She listed all sorts of schools, Miami, Alabama, Ohio State, Wisconsin, all known for their party scene, but they weren’t far enough in your eyes.
Then, the idea hit you. California. All the way across the country, nice ass weather with no brutal winters, huge nightlife. It ticks every single box.
“How about USC?” You suggested.
Blair’s eyes widened like she’d won the lottery, “That’s it! That’s the fucking school. We’re applying—today.”
You indeed did apply that same day, keeping all of it, every whispered dream of palm trees and frat parties, a secret from your father. He didn’t need to find out that you were plotting your escape. Only if you got accepted, would you tell him.
After applying, came the long, excruciating wait. Every notification made your heart jump, every morning felt loaded with possibility and impending doom, but then on a random Tuesday afternoon after school, Blair got an email. You were sprawled across her bed when her phone dinged and when she checked it she froze, slowly looking at you, “No fucking way.”
Your heart stopped, “What?”
She glanced back at her screen as if it might disappear, “Bitch…I got in!”
You barely had time to process it before she launched herself at you, both of you collapsing onto the bed in a fit of hysterical laughter, “Check yours,” She demanded, already grabbing your laptop.
Your hands shook as you logged into the portal and when the screen flashed in red and gold, Congratulations! We are pleased to offer you admission to the University of Southern California…
Your vision blurred, you were going to finally leave Boston and remove the shackles. Blair grabbed your shoulder, “You’re free, babe.”
The word hit differently—free. But not yet, because you still had to tell him.
You waited until dinner, when the house was calm and your father set down his fork and asked warmly, “How was your day, princess?”
You pushed the printed copy of your acceptance letter across the table, watching as he unfolded it slowly. His sharp eyes scanned the words once, twice, then a third time, as if they might rearrange themselves into something less horrifying.
“…Southern California?” He said at last, voice tight, “That’s three thousand miles away.”
“I know.”
“And…you want to go there?”
“I do. Really bad.”
There was a heartbeat, a breath, a visible internal meltdown occurring within him, until he asked, “Is Blair going?”
“Yes. She got in too.”
He exhaled through his nose like that single fact alone saved his life, though it probably shouldn’t have. She’s the last person on Earth he should want going with you, but thankfully, he’s blissfully unaware of who she really is, “Well. I guess that’s different.”
Your mother kicked him under the table, “Just say you’re proud of her, honey.”
He looked at you again, long, conflicted, and terrified, yet still soft, “I am proud of you,” He murmured, “You know that. I just…you’re my little girl. And California is far.”
“I’ll be okay.”
He didn’t believe that, not at all, but he nodded anyway, “Then I guess…USC it is.”
Just like that, you were free. You could almost taste it. And now, months later, you’re here—Move-in day.
The California sun hits hotter and brighter, like even the light feels less restrained than anything you ever knew in Boston. Your father sits restlessly in the rented SUV that’s packed full with your belongings, your mother is in the passenger seat, Blair is following behind with her mom.
It should’ve been a sweet, sentimental moment. College send-offs usually are, but this one? Yeah, it wasn’t. Because in order to get to your dorms, you had to pass Greek Row, and your father sees everything he fears most.
A group of shirtless guys on a lawn, covered in sweat playing dye on an old, warped table. Two frat brothers throwing a football back and forth across the street like they own it, a cluster of girls in micro shorts walking toward one of the houses, someone’s shotgunning a beer while blasting John Summit so loud it shakes the sidewalk. Your father’s hands tighten on the steering wheel so hard the leather creaks.
“Oh,” Your mother murmurs gently, “Look at that…school spirit.”
He does not share the same sentiment. He stares, shell-shocked, shoulders squared like he’s preparing for war. One of the frat boys looks straight at the car, lifts his chin at you through the window, and smirks. Your dad nearly swerves into the closest telephone pole, “Oh hell no,” He curses under his breath, “Absolutely not. Over my dead body—”
“Dad,” You warn softly, cheeks burning.
He tears his eyes away from the horror, but keeps muttering, “This is a bad idea. This is a terrible idea. They let freshmen live near this? They let you live near this? Those boys are—They’re—”
“College students?” Your mom offers.
“Degenerates.”
You hide your smile behind your hand. Because the truth is, everything he saw that scared him? Is everything you wanted.
The noise, the craziness, the alcohol, the energy, the…boys. A world you were never allowed to touch is now directly outside your window.
Your father grips the wheel harder like he’s debating whether or not to spin the car around and drive your happy ass back to Boston himself, but he doesn’t. He continues onward; straight to the dorms, your new life, and the one thing he could never fully control—your freedom.
But freedom, apparently, also comes with an audience. The moment your father pulls into the freshmen unloading zone, heads turn. A few students stop mid-conversation, some whisper, some don’t even bother whispering. Phones lift in that sneaky, sideways way people use when they swear you won’t notice.
“Is that—?”
“That’s him, right? That’s him?”
“Dude, her dad is literally the goat.”
“Wait, does that mean she’s—?”
You feel the heat crawl up your neck, but your father doesn’t react. He’s practiced at this, years of fan interactions, interviews, cameras shoved in his face at even the most inconvenient moments. Nothing really shakes him—well, except the frat boys. Those do.
He steps out of the car and grabs your suitcase with one hand, posture straightening like he’s going on National TV. A couple of guys across the quad nudge each other when they recognize him, jaws dropping as if a God descended onto USC’s campus.
“Sir!” One of them calls out, already pulling out his phone, “Big fan! Like…huge fan!”
“Thank you,” Your father says with a polite nod, slipping seamlessly into his media smile and then, because the universe enjoys humor at your expense, another voice bursts from a group near the dorm steps.
“Holy shit, that’s his daughter?”
You want to sink into the pavement, but your mom slips her arm through yours, “Don’t mind them, sweetheart. They’re just excited.”
Blair, climbing out of her mom’s BMW behind you, practically cackles, “Oh my God,” She whispers gleefully, “You’re famous already. Do you understand the power you’re about to wield?”
You glare at her, but she’s too busy vibrating with excitement. Meanwhile, your father spots the second wave of frat brothers who’ve stopped tossing a football to stare openly at the scene unfolding, and stiffens.
His tone drops into one that is low and protective, “Stay away from boys who look like that.”
“I will,” Oh, you most certainly won’t.
Once you’re all inside the dorm lobby, even more chaos ensues.
Athletes, business majors, engineering kids with lanyards all mingling, moving, dragging various pieces of furniture; and then there’s the group of girls next to the elevators, eyes flicking between you and your father with thinly-veiled recognition.
One whispers, not nearly quiet enough, “You think Gojo’s seen her yet?”
The other girl beside her giggles, “Please. Someone’s probably already told him.”
You freeze, Blair’s head snaps toward you like a bloodhound catching a scent, “No way! You’re being talked about by him?”
“Who is him?”
Blair lowers her voice, “Okay, so—remember how I stalked USC on TikTok for, like, two months straight?”
“…Yeah?”
“Well,” She says, pushing her Prada sunglasses up her nose, “There’s this international student from Japan, Satoru Gojo. Apparently the frat guy on campus. Junior, filthy rich, shameless, hot as fuck, total slut, owns a white Porsche, finance bro who probably fails all his classses, and ends up on every ‘hottest men at USC’ list.”
You stare at her, “And you know all of that from TikTok?”
“Yep,” She says proudly, “I do my research.”
You open your mouth, then close it, “Okay, but what does any of that have to do with—”
Blair gestures vaguely at your face, “Sexy freshman girl with famous NFL seven time Super Bowl Champion quarterback dad? You’re deadass his exact type of…project.”
You almost choke, “Project?”
She nods sympathetically, “Project as in…he’d want to be the guy to ruin you for every other man on campus.”
Your father hears the word ruin and nearly breaks his own neck whipping around. Blair immediately straightens, innocent smile plastered onto her face.
“Don’t worry,” She says softly out of the corner of her mouth, “You probably won’t even meet him,” Then quieter, when she knows your father isn’t eavesdropping, adds, “You’re totally going to meet him.”
Your dorm room on the fourth floor is already propped open when you reach it. Small, bright with two twin beds and bare walls. It’s nothing like the Boston mansion you grew up in, yet somehow it’s more exciting than any bedroom you’ve ever had.
Blair lets out a delighted gasp, “We live here? Oh my God, we actually live here!”
She races inside to claim her side of the room, throwing herself onto the bed next to the window. Your father stands in the doorway, scanning like he’s doing a threat assessment, “It’s…smaller than I expected.”
“It’s a dorm, honey. Not the Ritz,” Your mother reminds him.
He hums, but does not relax in the slightest. And just like that, the four of you are unpacking boxes, hanging clothes, folding towels, arranging the mini-fridge that your father inspects with the seriousness of a homicide detective. He tests the door three times, plugs it into a power strip, unplugs it, inspects the outlet, then plugs it back in.
“Dad,” You sigh, “It’s a fridge, not a life-support machine.”
“You say that now,” He warns and you just chuckle.
It’s chaos, but the warm kind. The kind you’ll remember and cherish forever, yet also feels like the end of something and the beginning of quite literally everything else. At one point, Blair steps behind you to hang a string of fairy lights and whispers, “Okay, but seriously—imagine Gojo in this room.”
You elbow her so hard she drops a clip, your father spins around, “What was that?”
“Nothing!” You and Blair answer in unison.
Your mother laughs softly. Your father absolutely does not.
Eventually, after your bedding is on, your father stands there at the foot of your bed with his hands on his hips. A silence settles, one that says that this is real, this is happening, and this is goodbye. For now.
He checks his watch, again. He’s been doing it all morning. He has a flight to Oregon to catch—the new job he picked up right after you announced you were moving across the country. He needed the distraction, otherwise he’d be stuck in Boston all day, thinking about what you’re doing out here…and what you probably shouldn’t be doing.
He’s a commentator for College GameDay. Covering the biggest football games of the year, traveling to each host school every week, however, he should’ve left ten minutes ago. But he just can’t.
“Princess,” He says quietly, “You sure you want this?”
You nod, heart pounding with the thrill of independence, but your face softens into the kind of innocent expression that always makes him melt, and you’ve absolutely learned how to weaponize it.
“I do,” You say softly, then perfectly timed and aimed, you hit him with the, “But…do you really have to leave so soon?”
His entire chest caves in, “Oh, sweeheart…” His voice thickens immediately, “I don’t want to. I wish I could stay with you the whole day.”
Inside, you’re buzzing, thinking, please leave already. Oh my God, leave and let me live.
But outside? You look up at him with big, sad, puppy dog eyes, “I’ll miss you.”
He pulls you into a crushing hug, “I’ll miss you more,” He murmurs, “So much more. I hate the timing of this stupid College GameDay thing—I should be here helping you settle in, not rushing to the airport.”
You cling just enough to sell it, but not make him change his mind and stay, “It’s okay, daddy,” You say, ultra sweet, “You have to work.”
He sniffles, “I’ll FaceTime you from Oregon,” He promises, “Every night.”
You nod against his chest, all gentle affection while your internal monologue screams, yes, yes, yes. Commentate on football and go.
Your mom steps in next, hugging you warmly, “Call whenever you need anything. And maybe…don’t tell your father everything you’re doing.”
Your father shoots her a look of the utmost betrayal, she ignores it. Blair hugs them both dramatically, “You guys are like my second parents. I’ll miss you too.”
Then he steps away, still unwilling, still staring at you like you’re five years old heading into kindergarten instead of nearly nineteen. He wipes his palms on his jeans and breathes out shakily, “Okay. Okay, I can do this. You’ll be fine. You’ll be safe. Blair, keep her away from—”
“Boys?” She fills in the blank.
“Exactly.”
You almost laugh as he heads for the door, pauses, and looks back one last time, “You sure you’ll be okay without me?”
You nod sweetly, oh so, so sweetly, “I’ll manage.”
Resigned, he gives you one last look and disappears down the hallway with your mother. The moment they’re gone, Blair turns to you, deadpan, “Oh, you are one evil bitch.”
But you’re not pretending anymore. A slow, wicked grin spreads across your face, one you’ve been holding back for years, “Blair,” You breathe, “I am finally free.”
And somewhere down Greek Row, in a house with bass shaking the floorboards, a brother with white hair and blazing blue eyes checks his phone, seeing the group chat’s new messages.
sig chi or die
ryan: yo gojo you see the qb’s daughter?
ryan: she just moved in and she’s BADDDD
And he smiles, one full malicious intent. He hasn’t seen you yet, but he already plans to.
Blair gives you exactly ten seconds of peace after your parents leave before she turns to you, eyes manic with purpose, “Alright. Put on something slutty. We’re celebrating.”
“We literally just unpacked.”
“Exactly!” She says, already digging through her suitcase, “Sigma Chi is open for business and so are we.”
You laugh, half nerves, half adrenaline as she tosses the tiniest black skirt you’ve ever seen your way and a cropped baby tee. You catch it, then go still, because across the chest in red rhinestones it says, Let Them Eat Cunt.
“Blair.”
She beams like it’s the funniest joke on Earth, “I got it custom-made. For today. For your whore arc!”
“My dad would literally die if he saw this.”
“I know,” She says proudly, “Now put it on.”
You hesitate for only one second, then slide both the shirt and skirt on. The moment you do, Blair makes a strangled noise, “Oh my God, bitch. The guys are going to lose their fucking minds.”
You look at yourself in the mirror; skirt so short it could be considered a napkin, rhinestoned filth across your boobs, lips perfectly glossed and instead of nerves, a spark catches in your bloodstream. This is what you’ve been waiting for.
“Yes,” You murmur, adjusting the hem, “They will.”
Blair freezes, “Oh? Oh?”
“Blair,” You say, meeting her eyes in the mirror, “I didn’t move across the country to behave.”
She shrieks into her palms, “You are out for blood tonight.”
“Dick, actually,” You correct calmly, “I’m out for dick.”
Her soul leaves her body, “Oh my God—yes! Say it again!”
“I want to get drunk,” You explain, “I want a hot guy. And I want to erase the last eighteen years of being babysat.”
Blair is feigning tears, “This is everything I’ve ever prayed for. I feel like a mother watching her child blossom into a slutty flower.”
“Let’s bloom, then,” You grab your phone, keys, and head for the door without a semblance of doubt.
Blair scrambles after you, “Wait, slow down—!”
“I have places to be,” You coo, already striding down the hallway.
“We haven’t even pregamed!”
“Sig Chi has alcohol,” She laughs manically at that and follows you outside into the California heat.
The walk over is brutally short, every step feels like peeling off another layer of innocence, the music from Greek Row growing louder, deeper, and dirtier. Blair bumps your shoulder, grinning slyly, “You know…he’s probably there. This is his frat.”
You already know who she’s referring to…Gojo. Again with this guy?
You roll your eyes fondly, “Blair, you haven’t even seen him.”
“Oh, but on TikTok I have,” She says, “And trust me—foreign rich boys? They’re always the ones who fuck like they’ve got something to prove.”
That piques your interest. Maybe, just maybe you’d have to find that one out for yourself.
You round the corner and Sig Chi rises ahead of you. Three stories in all its glory, music blaring, people spilling across the lawn, lights pulsing behind the windows.
Blair squeezes your hand, wicked grin glued to her face, “Okay. Deep breath, babe. Act natural.”
“I am natural.”
“Not with you wearing that shirt.”
You scoff as you step inside and the frat swallows you whole. It’s loud and cramped, bodies swaying under LED lights, the smell of beer and flavored vape clouds hanging in the air. A table of jungle juice sits in the corner, multiple couples are making out aggressively against walls, and then, you see him.
You don’t even realize it’s him at first, you just register—absurdly tall, insanely built, ocean eyes, broad shoulders, cut-off muscle tee showing biceps carved by God himself, LA Dodgers snapback backwards on his white hair, laughing lazily with two girls hanging off him like decorations.
So, this is the infamous Satoru Gojo. No wonder why he runs USC. He’s hot as fuck and knows it. He’s leaning against the kitchen island like it’s his throne, until one of the brothers near him nudges his shoulder.
“Yo, QB’s daughter just walked in.”
Gojo doesn’t react immediately, he never does. Instead, he finishes whatever joke he was saying, grinning, dimples deep, girls giggling into his ribs.
Then, slowly, he looks up. The moment his eyes find you? Everything stops. The flirting, the talking, the lazy smile—gone.
His mouth parts just a little, eyes raking down your body, the skirt, your legs, and then eventually stopping right on your shirt. For a split second, he genuinely looks stunned, but then?
Oh, he smirks. A slow, sinful curl of his lips like all of his dreams have finally come true.
You don’t answer, because he isn’t just staring. He’s studying, recognizing, and realizing. Because he knows who you are, everyone does. You’re the football dynasty princess, Boston royalty, a girl whose father could call the dean of USC directly and have a frat shut down in ten minutes flat.
And yet, here you are. In that shirt, in his house, looking like trouble he suddenly, desperately wants.
A girl he wants to ruin before anyone else has the chance to.
He straightens up from the counter and sheds the girls clinging to him without a second glance. They look confused and annoyed, but he doesn’t give a shit. He was never one to care about girls’ feelings anyway.
His eyes stay locked on you. Blair inhales sharply, “Oh my God—he clocked you. He fully clocked you, bitch.”
You swallow as he continues to stare, smirk, and look at your shirt like he wants to frame it above his bed. Then, he murmurs something to the guys beside him, still not breaking eye contact, and you feel it—the shift, the moment the king of Sig Chi decides he’s going to make you his next conquest.
Blair elbows you, “I swear to God if you don’t at least talk to him—”
“Blair—”
“No, shut the fuck up. I’m your wingwoman. I’m morally obligated to get you laid.”
You exhale, pulse electric, heat flickering under your skin as Gojo starts to move. Not toward you yet, but closer. Circling, watching, like a wolf that noticed the rabbit wasn’t scared of him.
You catch his eyes again, sharp blue under the brim of his backwards hat, and this time, he tilts his head. Acknowledgment, interest, amusement, and mouths something. Blair grips your arm, “What did he say?”
You gulp because you know exactly what he said. Two simple words, as clear as day, “Nice shirt.”
Her grip on your arm grows so taut your circulation stops, “Okay, holy shit. We need to get drinks right now or I’m going to pass out.”
You let her drag you toward the jungle juice table, but you feel his eyes following you. Every step you take, every sway of your skirt, his gaze is glued to it like he’s trying to memorize your movements.
Blair shoves a cup into your hand and whispers, “He’s coming over. I repeat, he is coming over!”
“Don’t look,” You whisper back.
“I’m not,” She lies, staring directly at him.
You take a sip of the juice; sweet, disgusting, perfect, and then, Gojo appears. He leans one shoulder against the wall beside the drinks table, arms crossing slowly, biceps flexing under his cut-off tee, snapback still backwards, silver-white hair falling into his eyes. He’s taller up close, annoyingly so, towering even with the casual slouch.
He looks at your face first, then your shirt again, and smirks, “Bold choice,” He drawls, voice low and painfully self-assured, “You always introduce yourself with your chest, or is tonight special?”
Blair chokes on her drink, you swallow, “It’s a shirt, not a dissertation.”
He grins, cocky and fucking lethal, “Could’ve fooled me,” He murmurs, eyes dipping to your bare stomach, your hips, your legs, “That thing’s doing a lot of talking.”
Your heart flips, but you refuse to fold so soon, “Then stop staring at it.”
He laughs, quiet, dangerously pleased, and drags his eyes upward until they lock directly with yours, “Oh, princess,” He says softly, like he already knows the nickname from his mouth will ruin you, “I’m not staring at the shirt.”
Your breath hitches as Gojo’s tongue slides across the inside of his cheek before he tilts his head, diverting conversation, “You’re new.”
“Freshman.”
“No shit,” His smile widens, “I meant new as in…no one here’s touched you yet.”
Blair coughs so violently she has to turn away, your cheeks heat, “Why would you assume that?”
He shrugs, bending slightly to dip his cup in the jungle juice bowl, filling it lazily, eyes never leaving you, “Because I’ve never seen guys on my lawn look so fucking scared.”
“Scared?”
His smirk grows, possessive and knowing, “They were staring at you like you’re a grenade with the pin half-pulled. Pretty skirt, filthy shirt, famous daddy?” He takes a slow sip of his drink, “Yeah. They’re terrified.”
You open your mouth, but he steps closer, close enough that you can smell his cologne—clean, expensive, a bit woodsy. His voice drops to something only you can hear, “But I’m not.”
Your pulse stutters and he notices, of course he does. He’s got girls’ body language down to a fucking tee. He leans in, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “You walk into my house wearing that,” He whispers, “And you really think I’m letting anyone else talk to you first?”
Your soul leaves your body. He pulls back just a bit, eyes locking onto yours again, darkened now and unblinking; his smirk softens as he nods to the crowd, “Guys are already looking,” He says, almost dismissive, “Thinking about walking over.”
He lifts your chin with one knuckle, light as a tease, heavy as a claim, “But they’re not going to.”
Your lips part, “Why not?”
Gojo smiles, wicked, "Because you’re talking to me.”
Something hot shivers down your spine. Blair, silently screams in triumph. Gojo watches your reaction like he wants to eat it almost as much as he wants to eat you.
Then he lowers his voice even further, “And if any other guy touches you tonight?” He taps the rim of his cup against your, a subtle clink, “They’re dead.”
Your heart slams against your ribs, he smirks again, “You don’t even get what that shirt’s doing to people,” He says, leaning back just slightly to give you a moment to breathe, but not space to escape, “But it’s okay. I’ll show you.”
Your mouth goes dry. He straightens up, flicks his eyes over your legs one more time, and adds softly, “Stay where I can see you.”
Then he walks off, not far, but far enough to make you watch and to tell every brother and guy in the house that you’re his.
Not yet. Not fully. But don’t even fucking try.
Blair is still gripping your arm like a talon when Gojo strolls off, leaving you breathless, dazed, and partially frenzied.
“Holy shit,” Blair hisses, “Okay. Okay. We need more alc immediately. You need to ride the confidence wave.”
“I’m…pretty sure confidence isn’t my problem right now.”
“No,” She agrees, dragging you toward the bar counter, “Your problem is wanting to climb that man like a tree, but that’s what vodka is for. Loosen up, be the slut you were born to be.”
You snort so hard you almost trip. The kitchen island is cluttered with liquor bottles, chasers, cups, and three guys already pouring shots.
Blair slaps her palms on the counter, announcing way too proudly, “This is my best friend! She is having her slut awakening tonight, if you care!”
“Blair—!”
They shout like they’ve just been told USC won the national championship. One of them, a blond with aviators on indoors, grins at you, “You taking shots or you just gonna stand there and look hot?”
Blair gasps, offended on your behalf. You roll your eyes and reach for the Tito’s bottle. Blond aviators whistles, “Oh, she’s going straight for the hard stuff.”
Blair squeals, “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea.”
You raise the bottle, “Wait—” Blair warns.
Too late, you’re already taking a deep, burning, reckless swig. The kitchen collectively screams and you cough once, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, “Fuck.”
Blair smacks the counter, beaming, “Yes! That’s my best friend!”
Someone shoves a red cup into your hand, another chanting, “Chug! Chug! Chug!”
So you do, because why the hell not? This moment has been eighteen years in the making and the drink is warm, disgusting, and makes your head pleasantly light.
Blair hops onto the counter, already dancing, “I am so proud of you!”
Guys around you start cheering harder, forming a half-circle as if you’re performing, and you laugh—dizzy and loud.
For the first time in your life, you’re not a quarterback’s daughter with curfews and rules and expectations. You’re just a girl in a filthy shirt getting worshipped by a kitchen full of frat brothers.
One leans in, too close, grinning, “So, uh—you rushing? Because we were thinking—”
Another cuts him off, slinging an arm around his shoulders, “—thinking we should make you Sig Chi’s sweetheart.”
Blair snaps her gaze to you, giggles erupting, “Oh my God, (Y/N), they’re already trying to crown you.”
The first guy leans closer, bold with liquid courage, “You’d run this place.”
“Yeah?” You tease, voice looser than normal, “What would I get out of it?”
He smirks, “Priority at every party. Your own room. Free booze. And—”
Before you can even smile, a low voice cuts through the kitchen like a knife, “Who the fuck told you idiots you could talk to her?”
Gojo stands in the doorway, cup in hand, expression blank and walks in with the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea, “You boys drunk or just dumb as fuck?”
“Gojo, we were—”
“Don’t speak,” He snaps, stepping closer, “You think you can ‘crown’ girls now? Offer them rooms? Priority access?" He laughs once, “You can’t even organize a mixer without me holding your hands.”
One brother stiffens, “Gojo, come on—”
Gojo turns his head slowly, “You interrupting me?” The guy goes pale, Gojo’s voice drops, “As active brothers you’re supposed to know the rules,” He nods over toward you, “And rule number one—you don’t approach girls I’m watching.”
A ripple flows through the kitchen, “G-Gojo—”
“Probation,” He replies simply, “All three of you,” Their faces drop, “No parties. No tailgates. No socials. You’re on cleanup duty for two weeks with the Pledges.”
The room detonates with whispers, “And if you ever look at her again? I’ll pull your letters myself,” They stare at him horrified, “Now, get the fuck out of my kitchen.”
The brothers scatter like roaches and Gojo turns to you, “Having fun?” He asks, voice warm again, teasing the way only danger could.
“M-Maybe.”
He steps closer; his knee brushes your thigh, the scent of his cologne wraps around your spine, and the buzz of the vodka evaporates from how stupid hot this is, “I thought I told you to stay where I could see you.”
Your heart jumps, heat rushing straight into your stomach, “I didn’t go anywhere.”
His eyes flick down your body, slow and deliberate, “Oh, you went everywhere,” He says, “Guys over here. Guys over there. Taking shots on my counter like you’re trying to get a reaction.”
Blair is wheezing into her cup somewhere behind you. You lift your chin, “What—did it bother you?”
His jaw ticks, just once, but you feel it like a pulse under your skin. He steps closer, body angling into yours, hand coming down beside your hip on the counter. He’s caging you in without even touching.
“It bothered me,” He says quietly, “How much fun you were having without me,” Your stomach churns, his voice drops further, “Didn’t like seeing other guys look at you like that.”
“You told them off,” You remind him.
“I shouldn’t have had to.”
Your mouth opens, he watches you react—your pulse, your breathing, and soaks it up like it feeds him, “You’re drunk,” He says, eyes glinting, “But you’re not stupid.”
“Meaning…?”
He leans in, lips brushing your jaw, “Meaning you know exactly what you’re doing.”
Your thighs press together on instinct and he catches it, something daring flickers across his expression; hunger, annoyance, restraint, then he nods toward the staircase, “Come with me.”
“Where?”
He smirks in the way he always does before hooking up with girls, “Upstairs.”
Your breath falters, “Why?”
He takes your wrist gently, shockingly gentle for someone with such big hands, and pulls you away from the counter. His thumb slides across your pulse point, “You want me to say it?”
You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t. But you nod.
His eyes drag down to your shirt again, bold letters across your chest, daring the world. He lifts his gaze back to yours, “Because, princess…” He murmurs, voice an unholy whisper, “…I wanna do what your shirt says.”
Your knees nearly give and Gojo’s hand tightens on your wrist, “Come upstairs,” He says again, firmer this time, “Before I do something stupid right here.”
You don’t think or even breathe, you just let him lead you through the kitchen, past the music, up the stairs; his hand warm and unyielding around yours, every step feeling like the point of no return, and everyone watches.
Because the king of Sig Chi just bagged the coveted QB’s daughter.
Gojo hears all their whispered words, but they don’t affect him. He just smirks over his shoulder, hand still wrapped around your wrist, doing what he’s done almost a hundred times before, and keeps walking.
Up the stairs, down the hall, past guys who stop talking just to watch you go. You can feel the attention, the shock, the rumors already spreading like wildfire and the second the door to his room shuts, he’s on you.
His mouth crashes onto yours before your back even hits the door, one hand sliding into your hair, the other gripping your waist and dragging you closer until there’s no space between you. Your hands fist in the hem of his shirt; he groans into your mouth, the sound dark, low, sinful.
And then Gojo doesn’t walk you to the bed, no. He throws you onto it. One push to your hips and you fall back onto his mattress, bouncing once; he stands at the edge for a second, just looking at you, chest rising, jaw tight, like he’s trying not to pounce too fast.
Then he laughs under his breath. A quiet, disbelieving sound. He’s had all types of girls on this bed—sorority girls, party girls, girls who begged for his attention, but none of them ever looked like this.
His shirt rides up as he pulls his hat off to run a hand through his hair, eyes raking over every inch of you. The skirt pushed high, the lewd baby tee, your glossy lips parted from panting.
You’re not like the others…you’re worse. You’re a good girl, not his usual type, not ran through; temptation he was never supposed to touch, the quarterback’s daughter with the perfect reputation, and the perfect face, and the perfect body he’s dying to destroy.
His laughter fades, replaced by something darker and hungrier as he steps closer, eyes dragging over you like he’s choosing which part of you to ruin first.
“Yeah,” He murmurs, tone dropping, “I knew you’d look good on my bed.”
Then his hands, big and unforgiving, close around your thighs. He drags you down the mattress in one smooth, brutal pull, your skirt sliding up high on your hips, your breath punching out of your lungs.
Your ass hits the edge of the bed, legs falling open for him on instinct. Gojo inhales sharply like the sight of you hurts him, “Fuck,” He breathes, half a laugh, half a groan, “You’re gonna kill me.”
He doesn’t climb onto the bed, doesn’t join you, he just stands there, looming, tall and broad, with his thumbs pressed into the soft inner curve of your thighs; pushing them wider until the stretch borders on obscene.
You can feel your pulse now, between your legs, desperate and unable to ignore. He looks down at you like he’s about to pray to whatever god put you in front of him or ruin you for sport. You can’t distinguish the two.
His fingers hook into the sides of your panties, “Lift.”
You obey in an instant; he slides them down your legs slowly, savoring the reveal, until they hit the floor with a soft thud.
The second he sees you, bare and already wet for him, his jaw flexes, “Jesus Christ,” He mutters, running a hand through white strands to control himself, “You’re soaked.”
Heat floods your face at the sight, at the words, and he smirks because he can tell, “Shy now?” He teases, “You wore that shirt and came to my frat but this—” His thumb barely grazes the inside of your thigh, nearly touching where you want him, “—this is what makes you flush?”
You try to speak, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, he bends deliberately slow, bringing his mouth closer until his breath hits your skin. Your thighs tense, it only makes him grip them harder, “Relax,” He coos, eyes lifting to yours from between your legs, “I’m gonna take care of you.”
You don’t get a chance to register anything, he leans in and licks one long, slow stripe up your pussy—so slow you swear he’s doing it just to see how flustered you’ll get from the first touch alone.
Your head falls back against the sheets and he laughs, a soft, smug sound that vibrates right into your core, “Taste so good,” He mutters, already going back in for more, “Knew you would.”
And then he loses himself. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting your hips off the edge of the bed, dragging you closer until your knees are hooked over his shoulders and his mouth is pressed fully against your sopping cunt.
He eats you like a man starved, depraved, one that’s been waiting for this ever so patiently, and one whose life mission is to ruin you for every man who could ever come after him. His tongue flicks and circles and presses, “Satoru—”
He groans, the sound reverberating so deep your body shudders, “Say it again,” He says between licks, “Fuck, say my name again.”
You do, over and over, because you simply can’t not.
He tightens his grip on you, holding you still as he sucks your clit with a filthy reverence, and your back arches so hard your vision spots. Your legs try to close on instinct, but he doesn’t allow it. Gojo pushes your thighs wider with his shoulders, pinning you open without even trying.
“Yeah…” He murmurs into your skin, breath so hot it makes you twitch, “Keep ‘em open for me.”
He dips his head again, sucking your clit into his mouth with a force that knocks a cry out of you and you try to wiggle away from the intensity, but he stops you.
He growls, a low warning, fingertips digging into your thighs, “Oh no, you’re not running from this,” His voice drops, rough, entertained, and mean, “Daddy’s princess doesn’t get to run.”
Your body jolts like he slapped you and he feels it; pausing for a second, his lips still brush your folds as he lifts those piercing blues to watch your reaction. A smirk cuts across his face.
“Oh my fucking God,” He breathes, “You liked that shit.”
You try to lie, “I—no.”
But you did like it. Some depraved, twisted part of you liked it.
He laughs, delighted, “Yeah? You denying it?” He gives your cunt another slow lick, “Cause your pretty pussy’s kinda telling me everything I need to know.”
Your face burns with shame, unable to stop the shrill sound that falls out of you. He groans, guttural and hungry, “Holy shit—daddy’s good little girl getting off on being talked to like a slut?”
He moves closer to whisper directly on your skin, your lashes flutter from the warmth, “Guess daddy’s girl isn’t so good anymore.”
You can’t stop yourself from reacting to that, your hands yank his hair hard and he moans straight into your cunt at the pull, “Ohh fuck yeah,” He hisses, “Give me that again, princess.”
You tug him once more, pushing him deeper into your core; your voice comes out small and shaky, “Don’t…wanna be good…” Gojo tenses, your next words fracture on a whisper that will haunt him forever, “…just wanna be good for you.”
That line sends him into a frenzy, his mouth crashes back onto you sloppily—tongue working like he wants to drag that confession out of you again, sucking your clit with a messy, perfect pressure that shatters your thoughts.
He holds you open as he devours you; there’s no rhythm to it at all, just a man fully out of his fucking mind.
“Satoru—Toru—” Your voice cracks as your orgasm slams through you with a force you didn’t think possible.
And he groans like your pleasure pleases him, licking you through the entire climax, refusing to let go of you until you collapse onto the mattress, trembling.
When you do, he pulls back slowly; face glazed, breathing erratic, eyes wild, “Fuck,” He whispers, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “Need to be inside you.”
He doesn’t waste a minute, lifting you by the hips again both effortlessly and possessively, he drags you up the bed until your head hits his pillows.
“Goddamn, look at you,” He sneers, hovering, “Already fucked dumb and I haven’t even put my cock in you yet.”
You whimper helplessly as he’s already lining himself up; thick, flushed, heavy in his fist, and pushes in, sinking inch by inch into a pussy so tight his eyes flutter shut.
“Ahh—fuck, princess,” His voice wavers, “You’re gripping me—fucking gripping my shit already—”
He tries to breathe properly, but fails miserably, “God, you’re so fuckin’ tight. Feels insane.”
He pulls out, pushes back in deeper this time, and your cry is instant. It’s music to his ears, “Yeah…that’s it. Take it. All of it.”
His pace builds, slow at first, then faster, angling to hit the spot that makes your nails drag down his back. When you clamp around him, his breath stutters, “Oh my God—don’t do that shit,” His hips jerk without his permission, “Fuck, I’m trying to pull out—I’m trying.”
But he’s not. He’s lying.
You feel it in the way he grips your thighs harder, his hips snapping deeper, the shudder that runs down his spine like he’s fighting himself.
“Toru—”
He cuts you off with a broken groan, “I’m trying to pull out, I swear. But your pussy—shit, won’t let me.”
Your walls clench around him again and he grunts, forehead pressing to your cheek, “Princess—stop squeezing, fuck.”
He tries to pull back this time. He really does, but he can’t. You’re too warm, too tight, and way too fucking wet from how good he ate you out.
“Oh—no, no, no,” He chokes out, “Fuck—I can’t, I can’t.”
His thrusts turn frantic and the filth spills right out of him, “Shit, I-I’m gonna cum—inside,” His hips slam into yours, desperate, “Can’t pull out. Fuck, I can’t—pussy won’t let me.”
Your nails claw into him now, so hard it’s certain to leave marks, and that’s what ends him, “Fuck,” He drags the word out, burying himself all the way to the hilt, and cums right inside you.
Spilling into you in long, uncontrollable pulses, hot and thick. He groans into your neck, “God—fuck, fuck, princess—cummin’ in you—so deep, shit.”
Each spurt drags another sound out of him, almost pained with a hint of reverence; his hips keep spasming and he stuffs himself deeper, like he can’t help it.
When you finally finish milking him dry, he lifts his head, looks down between your bodies, and sees it.
Where he’s still inside you, how full you are, a ring of white already gathering around the base of his cock and something shifts in him, “…Holy fuck.”
You blink, dazed, “What?”
He doesn’t hear you at all, eyes glued to the sight of you stretched around him, dick nestled in you like it belongs there. His tone drops into something low and stunned, “I—I really came in you.”
You nod weakly, out of breath, “Mhm.”
He swallows hard, but doesn’t pull out. Instead, he presses in even deeper, like he needs to feel it one more time. You gasp and he throws his head back, “Oh my God…” He mutters, almost to himself, “…it’s so warm.”
He runs his hand down your stomach, stopping right above where he’s still buried. Then he pushes gently, just enough to feel his load shift deeper, and you whimper.
“Shit…” His voice is nothing but pure, filthy awe, “I’ve never…fuck, I’ve never done that before. I don’t even fuck raw.”
You expect panic, but what hits him is the opposite. A wave of feral, possessive pleasure that lights up every neuron in his brain. He exhales shakily, eyes flicking up to yours with an emotion that looks close to worship.
“Princess…” He’s smiling, a crooked one, “That felt fucking incredible.”
Your stomach flips, because he’s right. It really fucking did.
He lifts your thigh higher on his hip like he wants to see everything and have this visual burned into his mind forever, “Fuck…” He whispers, chest rising faster, “You took all of it.”
His fingers gently spread you open around him, his cum spills out just a little, and he moans, “Ohh, fuck—look at that…” A soft laugh falls from his lips. You’ve never seen a man look so corrupted by his own desire.
But then, reality slaps him across the face, “Oh shit. Shit, shit, wait—no, no, no—” He drags a trembling hand through his mussed hair, expression fracturing between pleasure and dread, “—I cannot believe I just fucking did that.”
“Satoru—”
He cuts you off, still staring at the wetness leaking around him, “I mean…That was fuckin’ crazy—like way too good. Scary good. I get it now.”
Your pulse trips, “But also—” He finally pulls out of you and when more of his cum spill onto the sheets he moans again, “Fuck, okay—we need to go. Now. Like now-now.”
You raise a brow, “You’re freaking out?”
His eyes snap up to you, “Do I look like I’m freaking out?” He gestures at your pussy, “I just creampied the girl whose dad could literally shut down our chapter. Of fucking course I’m freaking out.”
But then he pauses, glancing down at you, your thighs, the mess between them, and something hot flickers back onto his face, “Not gonna lie though…it looked really fucking good.”
Heat floods your cheeks and he smirks, clapping his hands once decisively, “Okay. Get up. We need a Plan B before I start thinking with my dick again.”
You’re still trembling, the last of his load spilling out onto the sheets, and he stares at it—at you, for a second too long, chest rising like he’s physically restraining himself from going back inside.
But then he steps away, fast, a black hoodie already in his grip when he barks out, “Up. Now.”
You’re in a haze, legs barely working, but his urgency snaps you out of it. You sit up, shaking, pulling your skirt and panties back into place.
Gojo’s already dressed, hoodie thrown over his head, white tendrils sticking out, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle twitch, “Satoru…”
His sharp eyes cut to you, wide from leftover adrenaline, “Not now,” He says quietly, “We can’t talk right now.”
Because he’ll lose it and he’s hardening again, even with his cum leaking out of you, “Let’s go.”
You barely get your shoes on before he’s grabbing your hand and leading you out the room, down the stairs, and through the pulsing music, ignoring every brother who tries to high-five him and every girl who wants to touch him.
He’s too wound up and aware of the possibility sitting warm between your legs.
Outside, the cool west coast air hits, but it does nothing to help him. His grip stays taut on your hand, guiding you quickly down the sidewalk, away from Sig Chi and anyone who might see him like this.
He doesn’t speak to you, not once, but you can hear his uneven breathing and every few steps he mumbles something nearly inaudible.
“Fucking dumbass…”
“Should’ve pulled…”
“Evil ass pussy…”
However, thank God for college towns and their love for twenty-four hour pharmacies; a CVS sign glows bright up ahead and Gojo moves quicker, beelining it with you in tow.
Once inside, he pauses at the automatic doors, lifting his hood higher to shield his face, then walks straight to the family planning aisle. He doesn’t hesitate, there’s no need to browse or think, he just grabs the Plan B box so fast the air moves with it and heads for self-checkout.
No cashiers, no chance for eye contact, no witnesses. He’d rather be shot dead than caught lacking like this. If anyone found out that Satoru Gojo had a weak ass pull-out game, he’d lose all sense of power on campus.
He scans the box with tottering hands, grabs a bottle of water from the mini cooler next to the register, pays in cash, and throws the receipt away as soon as it prints. Only then, does he finally look at you, “Come on.”
The two of you make it maybe ten steps outside before he’s gnawing the Plan B box open with his teeth. He places the tiny pill in your hand and shoves the water at you, “Take it.”
He watches every centimeter of movement; the pill hitting your tongue, the rim of the bottle on your lips, and the bob of your throat when it’s all swallowed.
When it’s done, his shoulders fall, showing you how fucking scared he actually was, “Okay…” He murmurs, nodding, “Okay. Crisis averted.”
But then you shift your weight and his gaze drops to your legs, the memory of how you squeezed around him hits, “…Fuck.”
“What?”
His voice is quieter now, “You look way too good right now for someone I almost got pregnant.”
You laugh softly, but he doesn’t. There’s not even a flicker of amusement behind those bright eyes. He steps closer though, hand lifting to your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, “Come here.”
Gojo tilts your chin up, scanning all of your features with that same predatory focus he had right before he got on his knees for you. Then, he speaks like he’s laying down scripture. A speech he’s given to hundreds of girls before, you’re sure.
“Alright, princess. We need to set some ground rules.”
“Rules?”
His thumb grazes your lip, “Number one,” He says, tone steady, “This is just sex. Nothing more.”
You gulp as he continues, “Number two. I will never be your boyfriend.”
That one stings for reasons unknown. You nod anyway, “Number three. You don’t ask who I’m seeing.”
So he still plans on seeing other girls. Okay.
“Number four…” He steps closer, so close you think he might kiss you, “…when I want you, I get you.”
The way he says it makes your stomach flip violently, “And number five,” He adds, “You don’t let any other guy touch you like I did tonight.”
He can fuck other girls, but you can’t fuck other guys? The fuck?
“Why not?”
His eyes burn into yours, “Because you told me you wanted to be good for me…and I’m holding you to it.”
Then just like that, he steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets, hood still up, fully composed frat boy again, “Got it? Okay, cool,” He rushes, “I’ll text you.”
“That’s it?”
“Yup,” He pops the p, starts walking backward, eyes dragging over your entire body one last time, “Night, princess.”
And turns away, leaving you standing under the glow of the CVS sign like some whore he used, legs shaking, heart pounding, and the worst part about it all? You still want him and still want more.
Freedom like this is too much fun.
But you tell yourself you won’t text him back. This was a one-time thing, you needed to get it out of your system as a repressed daddy’s girl. That you’re not the type who gets addicted to a frat boy she met at a party, no matter how hot he looks or how good he fucks.
Yeah…that lie lasts about less than twenty-four hours. Because the next night, at 12:47 A.M., your phone buzzes.
satoru: open your dorm window
You blink at the message, confused, until headlights sweep across the courtyard, bright, white-blue, and unmistakable—his Porsche.
Blair is already asleep beside you, your heart’s sprinting. You slide the window open to peek out and there he is, leaned against the hood, hoodie up, hands in his pockets, looking at your window like he knew you’d listen.
He lifts his chin, “Come down.”
He doesn’t say please or explain further and you go, of course you go.
The next time you see him, it’s in your dorm room. And it starts with kissing—always kissing.
He’s got you pinned against the inside of your locked door, hands under your ass, lifting you like you weigh nothing, grinding you against the thick outline in his sweats with a low, starved sound in his throat.
“Missed this,” He mutters, lips on your neck, “Missed you.”
You don’t have time to decipher the meaning before your phone rings. Your dad’s contact photo lights up the screen.
You freeze, but Gojo doesn’t. He looks at it, then at you, and smirks evilly, “Answer it.”
“Toru—” But he’s already dropping to his knees.
Your phone quivers in your hand as you swipe to accept the call, “Hi, princess,” Your dad’s voice comes through, “How was your first few nights in the dorms?”
Gojo pushes your skirt up, your pulse skyrockets as you force a steady tone, “G-Good. Umm. Really good.”
He drags your panties down with agonizing slowness, eyes locked onto yours the entire time, enjoying every ounce of panic flickering across your sweet face.
“That’s good to hear,” Your father continues, “You settling in okay? Eating enough? Staying safe?”
Gojo’s mouth touches you and you nearly drop the phone. His tongue slides through your folds, deliberate and slow, savoring you like he’s got all the time in the world.
You bite your lip so hard you taste blood, “Mhm,” You manage, “I’m—Dad, I’m—I’m very safe.”
Gojo laughs softly against your pussy, “Good girl,” he murmurs, too quietly for anyone but you to hear and sucks your clit into your mouth.
Your voice breaks into the speaker, “What was that?” Your dad asks suddenly.
“N-Nothing!” You choke out, breathless, “Just—Just moving…something.”
Gojo looks up at you, eyes blazing, pupils dilated, and pride dripping from his smirk as he ruins your composure with the lightest touch of his tongue. You end up cumming so hard you have to mute yourself.
When you hang up, Gojo wipes his mouth with his thumb and stands, kissing you deeply, giving you a taste. Then he whispers on your lips, “Next time you say you’re safe…you’re gonna tell him that I’m the one keeping you that way.”
You don’t know whether that’s true or the biggest lie you’ve ever heard.
And the next time after that happens three nights later. You’re wearing tiny shorts and a tank top when he texts.
satoru: out front
satoru: now
You slide into the passenger seat of his 911 and the smell of him, clean and sharp, wraps around you immediately.
He doesn’t even say hi. His hand is in your hair before you finish closing the door; he’s pulling you over the console, kissing you with the same urgency as the first night.
Then he leans back in his driver’s seat, spreads his legs, and nods down at his lap, “Need your mouth,” He breathes, strained like he hasn’t gotten off in months instead of last night with some other girl, “Now, princess.”
And you give him it, because you’re somehow already gone for him and want to see what you can do. He grips your hair while you throat him deeper and deeper, until he’s cursing under his breath in Japanese and dragging a shaky hand over his mouth.
God, you fucking love it when he does that.
“Fuck—baby, baby, wait—” He pulls you off his throbbing cock, kisses you hard, and pushes your panties to the side, “Get on top.”
You straddle him and he drags you onto his dick in one long, devastating push. The car rocks as his hands grab everywhere—your hips, ass, waist, guiding you, using you, groaning into your neck.
“Mmm, that’s it—ride me,” He whispers, “Show me how bad you want it.”
You ride him until the windows fog and the V6 engine ticks with residual heat. He cums on your stomach with his face buried into your chest; a low, wrecked moan muffled against your skin.
That same weekend, there’s a night where he pulls you into a dark hallway at Sig Chi during a party. He pushes you against the wall without warning and slides into you from behind, hand clamped over your mouth.
The bass of house music is pounding, the hallway is thankfully empty, your skirt is bunched around your waist, and he fucks you slow and deep—like he’s trying to memorize the exact way your cunt clenches around him.
“You’re so fuckin’ addictive,” He breathes into your ear, “Gonna end up wearing you out every night.”
You don’t doubt it.
A week later, you’re in your communal dorm bathroom when you see it—blood. Thank the fucking Lord. The Plan B had worked.
You text him two words.
period came
Four minutes later he responds.
satoru: i’m here
You barely have time to lie down before he’s on top of you, mouth everywhere, voice rough with relief, “Good girl…” He murmurs against your stomach, “Fucking good girl.”
Then he pushes two fingers into you and you arch your back, whining. He smiles into your neck like it’s the best thing he’s heard, “Celebration sex,” He decides, “C’mere.”
Period? He does not care whatsoever. He fucks you like you’re his reward, and you let him.
But one morning, you catch him staring. Not at your tits or ass or mouth—at you and your face, something beneath your skin he’s trying and failing to deny.
He looks away fast, jaw tight, hoodie pulled up like he’s hiding from a fact inside himself and you pretend not to see it.
Because you know if you acknowledge it and name the thing growing between you, what you and him have will stop being fun and become dangerous.
Though the truth lingers in the air the next time he texts you at 1:03 A.M.
satoru: want you
And your fingers answer before your brain does.
come get me
He comes quickly.
Ten minutes after your text, his Porsche glides to a stop outside your dorm like it was summoned, and sends a text.
satoru: here
You’re already moving. As soon as you open the door, he grabs your jaw and kisses you before you can even sit down, pulling you into his lap like he’s starved. It’s harsher tonight.
“Always taste so fuckin’ good,” He mutters against your mouth, “Just for me, right?”
You don’t answer because you know he doesn’t need you to, it’s obvious. However, the next time he’s throwing you onto his bed, when you land on the sheets—something shifts.
There’s a scent in the air. Faint and sweet, a floral perfume you don’t wear. You don’t do floral, only gourmand fragrances. It hits you before you even spot the evidence.
There’s a hair tie on the nightstand that’s not yours, tube of lip gloss half-tucked under his pillow like it was hidden there in a hurry, a sweatshirt on the floor that definitely isn’t his.
And the worst part? He doesn’t even notice you noticing, because he’s too busy touching you.
His hands are already on your thighs, spreading them, his mouth dragging down your neck, voice thick with desire that doesn’t sound recycled or casual, “You been thinking about me all day?” He murmurs, “Thinking about how good I fuck you?”
You force yourself to swallow it down. The perfume, the hair tie, the gloss, the clothing, the ache blooming beneath your ribs.
But because you don’t answer, he grabs your jaw gently, making your eyes look into his, “Don’t get quiet on me now,” He smirks, “You’re not allowed.”
He kisses you again, filthily, and the sadness knots inside you in a way you refuse to acknowledge. Not now, not when he’s touching you and you want him this badly.
So you pretend.
You let him wreck you again, let him fuck you into the mattress with the haste of a man who can’t get enough. Although something tiny fractures within you when he flips you onto your stomach and you see the lip gloss again.
You shut your eyes, a yelp breaking from you as you try to imagine that it was never there.
Then four days later, you’re the one who texts first. You hate yourself for it, but you can’t help it.
you busy?
Delivered with no response.
Ten minutes pass, then twenty, then an hour.
You throw your phone aside, furious for caring in the first place. You knew what you were getting into from the moment you let a guy like Satoru Gojo fuck you.
Blair, who’s sitting in her bed beside you, glances at your expression and raises a brow, “Him again?”
You lie, “No.”
Two more hours pass and nothing. Your stomach twists with something awful and sharp because you know exactly what he’s doing. More so, who, he’s doing.
At 1:36 A.M., your phone lights up.
satoru: nah
satoru: come thru
You look at the texts, pissed off by his lack of consideration, but even more pissed by your lack of control. Because you go to him like he says.
You hear the music from the street when you arrive at Sig Chi. The house is loud and buzzing, full of energy he clearly enjoyed without you present.
He meets you at his bedroom door and the second you see him, all the oxygen leaves your lungs.
His hair is tousled under his blue snapback; his shirt is twisted, collar stretched like it was yanked. There’s a pink flush across his face, his lips look too red, like he’s been kissing for hours.
His breathing is slightly off as if his heart rate still hasn’t calmed down yet, but the room? Oh that’s the killer blow.
The sheets are tangled and half on the floor, there’s mascara smudged on his pillows, and God the trashcan ruins you. You can see multiple golden foils from where you are—condom wrappers.
And Gojo just stands there, letting you take it all in like he doesn’t even care. He watches you, blue eyes cool, leaning against the doorframe like you’re the one who kept him waiting, “You coming in?”
Your throat burns. Say no. Say no. Say fucking no.
But you step inside anyway and the door clicks shut behind you, sealing you with the smell of a perfume that isn’t yours.
“Come here,” Gojo says.
And because you’re weak and something about him has rewired your brain, you walk closer instead of slapping him.
He hooks a finger under your chin, tilts your face up, and kisses you like he wasn’t just inside another girl before this. It’s greedy and possessive in a way he has no right to be; you let him take and take, until something within you snaps.
You push him back a step, breathing labored, “Satoru.”
He lifts a brow, already annoyed at being interrupted, “What?”
“I want…” Fuck, you hate yourself for how small it sounds, “…I want to be the only one.”
There’s dead silence in the room, but then—then he has the fucking audacity to laugh, “Oh, princess,” He coos, amusement curving his mouth as he pulls your waist against his, “That’s not how this works.”
Your stomach is in knots, the smirk is still there, “You can’t be the only one,” He says unapologetically, “But—”
His hand slides down your ass, gripping hard enough to make you gasp, “You can be my number one.”
Number one. Like you’re just barely good enough to earn the top spot on a team’s roster.
“…Your number one,” You echo.
“Yeah,” His lips brush your throat, “The one I fuck the most. The one I come back to. The one I call when I actually want it.”
You feel sick, “And what about me? Do I get anyone?”
He pulls back to look at you with eyes as sharp as knives, “No.”
The word lands like a slap, “No?”
“No,” He confirms, “You don’t let any other guy touch you. That was the deal.”
“That wasn’t a deal,” You seethe, “That was something you said after you—after you almost got me pregnant.”
He shrugs, “So? Still stands.”
Heat floods your entire face—anger, humiliation, desire, all tangled, “You’re allowed to fuck other girls,” You vocalize, “But I’m not allowed to—”
He cuts you off with a kiss so deep you forget how to breathe and when he breaks it, his voice is dangerously soft, “I don’t share.”
You swallow, pissed at yourself for the way your body always reacts to him, “And what if I don’t want to be your number one?”
Gojo smiles, “Then you wouldn’t be in my room right now.”
Your pulse trips because he’s right and you hate it. You shove him weakly, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head as he walks you backward toward the bed, “Don’t start pretending you don’t want this. Not after the way you moan for me.”
“Satoru—”
“You asked for the only one treatment?” He asks against your mouth, “Fine. I’ll fuck you like you’re the only girl in the world.”
He pushes you onto the mattress, “And then…I’ll remind you that you’re not.”
His tone is cruel, you’re never heard him sound like this, and despite that fact, your body still betrays you. He drags your shorts down, mouth already on your inner thigh, kissing higher and higher, biting hard enough to leave a mark.
“Satoru—stop,” You whisper, but you don’t mean it and he knows you don’t.
His tongue licks up your folds and your back arches like you’ve been shocked. The reaction makes him laugh, “See? This pussy knows who it belongs to.”
You want to hit him, kiss him, run, and stay all at once. Your voice is barely a sound when you say, “I hate you.”
The words make him grin, “No, you don’t.”
He flips you onto your stomach before you can respond, pulling your hips up, positioning himself behind you—no condom, like always, “I’m your number one, too,” He murmurs, tip prodding your entrance, “You just don’t want to admit it.”
“Satoru—” He pushes into you in one long, ruthless stroke.
Your gasp shatters in the quiet room, “Fuck,” He groans, hands gripping your hips so tight you think they’ll bruise, “Every time—every time, you’re tighter.”
Then he fucks you like he’s proving a point, “Say it again,” He growls, “Say you want to be the only one.”
“I—I want—” You choke out, tears blurring your vision, “I want to be the only one—please—”
He moans, he actually fucking moans at that, as if your pain gives him pleasure, like he’s some sick sadist.
“Oh, princess,” He says, kissing your shoulder, “You break so pretty.”
And then he leans down just enough to whisper the nail in your coffin, “But you never will be.”
You cum around him anyway. Because you foolishly still want him, and maybe you’re some sick masochist too.
And when he finishes, pulling out of you with a quiet hiss, you think maybe he’ll soften—maybe he’ll say something real. But all he does is toss you a towel to clean yourself and grab his hat to shove it back on his head, muttering, “Close the door behind you.”
And like the dumbest bitch alive, you do.
You walk home at 3:12 A.M. with aching thighs and your heart bloodied. When you slip into your dorm, Blair is still awake with her laptop open. She looks up once, clocking everything in a single glance, “You good?”
“I’m fine,” You lie, kicking your shoes off.
She just stares and you stare back, knowing that she doesn’t believe you in the slightest, but doesn’t press.
You shower and scrub your body as if it can erase Gojo from your skin but you still feel him everywhere. Then you crawl into bed, praying you wake up a new person, but of course. You don’t.
The next morning, right as you wake, you open Instagram on autopilot, and Blair, sitting cross-legged in her bed eating dry cereal from the box looks over at you as your face goes blank.
Because on your feed is his story.
@.gojosatoru
Posted 32 minutes ago.
He’s at In-N-Out, with a blonde girl in his passenger seat, and her hand on his thigh. No caption.
Blair freezes mid-chew, “…Is that—?”
“Uh-huh.”
She leans closer, “Oh, fuck no.”
Your fingers go numb as you remember last night. He told you you were his number one, held you down, and fucked you like you belonged to him.
Now he’s posting publicly with other bitches? So as number one you can get the sex but you’re not worthy of anything else? Sure.
Blair sets her cereal aside, “Babe…are you okay?”
You fucking hate that she has to ask that. You swallow hard, “Yeah. Totally.”
She scoots closer, voice lower, “(Y/N)…he’s an asshole.”
You know, you’ve always known. But last night, in his bed, with his hands on you and his cock so deep—you forgot.
Blair studies you, then says gently, “You’re not this girl.”
Something inside you snaps back into place.
She’s right. You’re not. You’re not the girl who gets hidden, you’re not the girl he gets to fuck at 2 A.M. and replace by breakfast, and you sure as hell are not someone’s afterthought.
You inhale slowly, exhale sharply, and stand. Blair blinks, “What are you doing?”
You look her dead in the eye, “Remembering who the fuck I am.”
“And who is that?”
You don’t answer her with words. Instead, you walk over to your dresser and pull out the skimpiest bikini you own. Blair lets out a low whistle, “Damn. You’re gonna make someone crash their car.”
Putting it on, tightening the strings so it sits just right, you look at your reflection in the mirror.
The girl staring back at you isn’t the one crying over a frat boy. She’s someone else entirely; someone Satoru Gojo should have never underestimated.
You grab your phone, open your camera, and take the mirror selfie. Blair leans over your shoulder, “Caption?”
“Don’t need one,” You say with a smile, all you do is post the location of where you’ll be—Santa Monica Beach.
Oh, but you do decide to throw in a blue heart emoji, just to twist the knife. Then you hit post.
The likes come in immediately and your DMs explode. Blair’s jaw literally drops, “Oh my God, babe—TKE is already swiping up. Like, three different guys, holy shit.”
Yeah, that’s right. This is who you are.
Blair laughs with pure joy, “And guess who else viewed it?”
You don’t even ask, already knowing. Because a second later, your phone buzzes excessively.
@.gojosatoru: wtf is this pic
@.gojosatoru: delete ts
@.gojosatoru: answer your fucking phone
@.gojosatoru: (y/n)
Blair snorts, “Oh, he is so pressed.”
You slide your phone into your tote bag choosing to ignore it. He can scream into the void for all you care.
“Coming?” You ask Blair casually.
She grins, grabbing her sunglasses and keys, “Fuck, yeah I am. I ain’t missing this shit.”
You sling your towel over your shoulder and for the first time since you came to USC, you feel like yourself again, “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
You smile, “To remind him why he should’ve never posted that blonde bitch in the first place.”
You and Blair barely make it into the hallway before your phone vibrates again, but it’s not Gojo this time. It’s the TKE boys again.
tyler: u heading to santa monica?
zach: come slide we’re pregaming in the lot
kyle: we got room in the jeep if you need a ride
Blair leans over your shoulder, “Oh, we’re definitely taking the ride.”
You shouldn’t, but then you think of Gojo and how you’re done letting him dictate your life as if he’s the only one with power.
So you type back.
still at the lot?
The response is instant.
zach: still here. u look insane btw
kyle: pls come im begging
Blair cackles, “They’re literally foaming at the mouth, Jesus.”
You head downstairs and step outside into the morning California sun, the second the TKE boys see you, the whole group goes silent.
“Damn,” Tyler says, walking forward with a grin way too confident for someone who failed Econ twice, “You look…wow.”
You lift your sunglasses with one finger, giving him a lazy once-over, “Thanks. You driving?”
“Yeah,” Zach blurts before Tyler can speak, “You two riding over with us?”
You exchange a glance with Blair, “Sure.”
The boys practically beam; Tyler opens the passenger door for you and Blair slides into the middle seat, Zach sits beside her trying to play it cool.
The TKE boys are laughing, hyping each other up as music blasts through the speakers, and they glance at you like they can’t believe you’re actually coming with them.
You feel Blair tap your shoulder from behind, “You good?”
“Never better.”
But your phone keeps vibrating in your bag and you know exactly who it is.
satoru (16 missed calls)
satoru (24 messages)
You peep the last three.
satoru: where tf are u
satoru: stop ignoring me omg
satoru: seriously pick up
Blair sees the name and giggles, “He’s unraveling.”
Tyler leans over the center console, spotting the contact too, “Oh shit—Gojo’s blowing you up?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t matter.”
Zach scoffs, “Isn’t he like…obsessed with you?”
You smile sweetly, “Nah. He’s not.”
They seemed pleased with that answer and in less than twenty minutes, the Jeep rolls into the Santa Monica lot. Warm wind tangles through your hair as the ocean comes into view.
Everyone hops out quick, grabbing something to bring, but you? You step out slowly, letting the sun hit your bare shoulders and letting the boys stare unabashedly because they can’t help themselves. And God, does it feel good.
You eventually spread your towel on the sand, lay back, and get right to tanning. Everything is warm and golden, the boys crack open beers, Blair sets up the speaker playing Bad Bunny on full volume.
Tyler hands you a High Noon and you take a sip, laughing at something stupid Kyle says. And for one moment, you feel free again. But your goddamn phone won’t stop buzzing in your bag.
Blair nudges you, “You gonna check that?”
“Nope.”
She grins, “Good.”
“(Y/N)!” Tyler calls, tossing a football, “You play?”
You catch it one-handed despite being off guard, “Do you forget who my dad is?”
They laugh and so do you, but your phone still keeps popping off like a warning for what’s about to come next. Because not even ten minutes later, you hear it.
That sound, the unmistakable growl of a high-performance engine being pushed too hard. A Porsche 911 tears into the parking lot—his Porsche. Your heart plummets as Blair whispers, “No fucking way.”
The boys turn, heads all over swivel, and then he appears. Satoru Gojo steps out of the Porsche like he didn’t run five red lights on the drive here. His white tee is wrinkled to shit, blue shorts slung low on his hips, sunglasses pushed into his mussed white strands, jaw clenched so hard you see the muscle jump.
In his hand is his phone, the one he used to blow up yours, and he doesn’t walk over to you, no, he stalks. Across the sand, straight toward you with a purposeful, terrifying calm, the kind that makes groups of guys instinctively step back.
But you’re not scared in the slightest. You lift your sunglasses and meet his eyes; cold blue, laser-focused. He stops in front of your towel, shadow sprawled over your body, chest heaving like he’s on the verge of losing it.
“(Y/N),” He hardly ever uses your name, “Get up.”
You make him wait three whole seconds before you do; you stand, unbothered, brushing sand off your thighs, refusing to break eye contact. He takes a step closer, nostrils flaring, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Pretty sure I’m sitting on a beach.”
The TKE boys shift behind you, Gojo’s eyes flick to them—Tyler holding a drink, Kyle shirtless and smiling, Zach close enough that his knee had brushed yours.
He laughs once, “With these loser cucks?”
Kyle bristles instantly, “Bro—watch your fucking mouth.”
But Gojo doesn’t spare him a glance, he keeps his eyes on you, “Deadass?” He murmurs, “This the shit you’re on now?”
You shrug, “Looks that way.”
“You ignored sixteen calls. Sixteen.”
“Yeah,” You reply, lifting your drink again, “Cause I didn’t wanna answer.”
Kyle folds his arms, “Yo, she’s busy. Maybe back up.”
Gojo turns his head just enough to look at him, “I wasn’t fucking talking to you,” Then his eyes snap back to yours, “So you’re really out here with TKE?”
“Why not?” You ask.
He bites the inside of his cheek, “They know that you were on my dick last night?”
Your cheeks grow hot with rage, but he wants that reaction. He gets off on the power it gives him, so you decide to give him nothing, “Thanks for the reminder. I almost forgot.”
“You forgot?” He repeats, voice tight, “After the way you were screaming my name?”
Kyle steps forward, fists clenching, “Alright, back the fuck off—”
You lift a hand, stopping him without looking away from Gojo, “No. Let him talk.”
“You’re really gonna stand here and pretend last night didn’t happen?”
“You mean the part where you said I’ll never be the only one?” You ask, titling your head, “Or the part where you posted the blonde on your story less than twelve hours later?”
His jaw ticks, “That’s what this is about?” He snaps, “A fucking story?”
“No. It’s about you thinking I’m stupid.”
“You’re jealous.”
You genuinely laugh, “No, Satoru. You’re delusional.”
His hands twitch at his sides, like he’s debating grabbing you or strangling someone. He glances at the boys again and something cold creeps into his countenance, “Answer me something.”
You raise a brow as he gestures at the guys behind you, “You fucking one of them now?”
Tyler coughs, Kyle looks away, Zach smirks like he hopes so, “Why? You care?”
Gojo steps closer, the warmth of his chest brushing the top of yours, “That’s cute. Acting like I don't."
“Go home, Satoru.”
“No.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
His gaze drags over your bikini again, “Get in the car.”
It’s sad—that some part of you almost gives in like always. Because you know that if you left now, the argument would end. It’d end with him giving you the craziest dick of your life and you back at square one; you refuse to do that again.
So, you stand taller, “No.”
A muscle in his cheek pops, “…No?”
“You heard me.”
And because Gojo can’t win with logic and can’t bear the thought of being denied for once in his life, he reaches for cruelty, “Fine…You’re cut.”
Cut. From his roster. But your voice is steady when you say, “Good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah,” You say, “Good. You did me a favor.”
Gojo’s expression flattens, “Cool. I’ll replace you in an hour.”
You take one step forward and smile, “I’ll replace you in fifteen minutes. Won’t be hard.”
The collective gasp from the boys is audible. Gojo doesn't even blink, but the vein in his neck jumps and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks hurt. Real hurt.
He steps back, then once more, “Enjoy your day,” Adding coldly, “Princess.”
He turns and walks away, sand kicking up beneath his feet, and you don’t look after him. Not even when the Porsche engine snarls and he peels out of the lot so fast seagulls scatter.
Blair exhales, “Holy shit…I’m glad I came.”
Tyler whistles low, “Yo…you’re gonna break that dude.”
“Good,” You say, laying back down on your towel, “It’s his turn.”
But the beach doesn’t go back to normal after that. You tan, you swim once, you drink enough to feel warm, the boys continue to orbit you like planets caught in your gravitational pull, yet it's not the same.
Blair leans in at one point, whispering, “You know you don’t have to actually hook up with any of them, right?”
Right. That was the whole reason why you did this in the first place. To get revenge.
You hum, “I know.”
Though when the sun begins to set, casting amber over the waves, Kyle asks if you want to come back to the TKE house and you hear yourself say, “Sure.”
Not because you’re dying to fuck him, but because of everything Satoru Gojo did. The house is louder and dirtier than Sig Chi—bass rattles the wall, bodies are everywhere. Kyle leads you upstairs, respectful, a little nervous, but beyond eager.
Your stomach twists with anticipation, you’re finally getting your lick back. Kyle closes the bedroom door behind you, “Want a drink?”
“No.”
You step closer and his breath catches, “You sure?”
“Positive.”
He leans in and kisses you…It’s fine, you guess. Soft, warm, nothing like the way Gojo does. You’re unsure if that’s a good or bad thing. Kyle’s hands are on your waist and his mouth moves down your neck. He’s sweet, careful, and you should like this more—you don’t.
But you need it. You need something to hold onto that isn’t him. Kyle whispers, “You’re so fucking pretty,” And you let him guide you toward the bed.
Your phone buzzes in your bag, you ignore it. Then it buzzes again, long and insistent. Kyle notices, “You can get that if you want—”
“No,” You breathe, “Keep going.”
He nods and kisses you again, and you try, God you try to lose yourself in it. But the second his hand slips under your top, your phone lights up in the dark room. Bright enough in your bag that you both see it.
satoru: answer
satoru: stop playing
satoru: (y/n)
You go still, Kyle pulls back, “Hey…you okay?”
“Yeah,” You lie, “Just—just keep going.”
He leans in, but your eyes stay fixed on the glowing screen. Another message comes through and it’s not angry this time. It’s worse.
satoru: please
Your breath stutters as Kyle kisses your shoulder, your phone vibrates again.
satoru: princess please
Your entire body locks, because this isn’t how he talks. This isn’t a man who begs and it definitely doesn’t sound like one who moved on in an hour. Kyle’s hands slide down your waist, his lips brush your collarbone, and then you reazlie—you can’t do this.
You sit up abruptly, “Wait.”
Kyle freezes, “Oh. Uh, did I do something wrong?”
“No,” You say quickly, “No, you’re great. I just—I can’t.”
He bows his head, disappointed, “It’s cool. Really.”
You grab your phone and open the messages, staring at the last one until your chest aches.
satoru: please just pick up
Blair texts you at the same time.
blair: WHAT DID YOU DO? HE LOOKS LIKE HE’S HAVING A BREAKDOWN
You inhale sharply as the truth slams through you. You’re not over him, not even remotely. Your fingers tremble as you text Blair back.
where is he
blair: SIG CHI bro he showed up like a psycho
blair: he asked EVERYONE if they’ve seen you
Your pulse spikes so hard it hurts. Kyle is still on the end of the bed, giving you space and pretending he doesn’t see your face falling apart, “You sure you’re okay?”
You nod even though you aren’t, and stand too quickly, grabbing your bag, “I—I have to go.”
“Because of him?”
“…Yeah.”
He nods slowly, expecting it, like every guy on campus knows that whatever the hell is happening between you and Satoru Gojo is bigger than anything they could touch, “Douchebag doesn’t even deserve you.”
Yeah, he’s probably right about that but you bolt out of the room anyway, run down the stairs, and through the crowd spilling beer everywhere. Someone calls your name, but you don’t care. Your phone is in your hand, Gojo’s name filling the screen over and over like he’s clawing to get to you.
Pushing out into the street, cool evening air slams into your chest and you call him without thinking. It rings only once, “(Y/N).”
“Satoru—”
“You’re at TKE?” He blurts out. There’s noise behind him—music, voices, and footsteps as if he’s pacing through Sig Chi.
“Yes…”
“Did you go back with Kyle?” Your mouth opens, but you’re unable to speak, so he does it for you, “You did.”
“Satoru—”
“Just tell me,” He cuts you off, voice shaking with fury he’s trying to swallow, “Did he touch you?”
Your pulse slams against your ribs, Gojo keeps going, “He kissed you, right? You let him? You went into his room? You let him fucking—” He stops suddenly, breath hitching like finishing the rest of his sentence would choke him.
“Nothing happened.”
“…You’re lying.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, frustrated tears burning, “I left, Satoru. I left him. I’m literally calling you—”
“Why the fuck were you even there?”
“Because of you!”
A voice in the background of Gojo’s line says, “Bro, chill—” and you hear him snarl, “Shut the fuck up,” Followed by a door slamming so loudly you flinch. Now he’s alone and the truth crawls out of him, “I thought you were gone…I thought you actually went and—and fucked him.”
“I didn’t.”
“You almost did.”
Almost…and you would’ve too if he hadn’t kept texting, “You don’t understand,” He says hoarsely, “I’ve been looking for you for hours. I tore through the whole fucking house. I asked everyone. I—”
“Satoru…”
“Where are you now?”
“Heading toward Sig Chi.”
You hear movement and the sound of his breath catching, his shoes hitting the floor, something crashing behind him as he pushes through the thumping house.
“Stay on the phone,” He orders, “You’re not walking alone.”
“I’m fine.”
“Stay on the fucking phone.”
You listen then. Breath syncing with his footsteps as he barrels through the hallway and out the back door, onto the street. He’s running now, you can tell, “Satoru—slow down—”
“No,” He pants, keys jangling, car door slamming, Porsche engine purring to life, “You think I’m letting you walk alone after someone else had their hands on you?”
Your grip tightens on the phone, “So what? You’re coming to get me?”
“I’m already halfway there,” He breathes, rounding a corner so sharp the tires skid, “Don’t hang up.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
A long exhale leaves him, desperation blended with rage, “Tell me again. Tell me nothing happened.”
“…Nothing happened.”
He lets out a broken laugh of disbelief, “Good…Because I’m two minutes away, and if he had fucked you—”
You feel it in your bones, the relief so violent it comes out as anger, “Satoru,” You whisper softly, “Just…get here.”
“I’m coming, princess,” And then he hangs up.
The Porsche’s roar echoes down the street long before his headlights appear and once they do, he swings by the curb so fast you stumble back a step. He rolls the window down only to say, “Get in the car.”
You open the door, slide into the passenger seat and the second you’re in, he peels off so hard your shoulder hits the door, “Fuck—relax.”
“Can’t,” His knuckles are white on the wheel, every muscle in his forearm flexes with barely contained aggravation, and he doesn’t look at you once during the drive. He whips into the Sig Chi driveway, parks crooked as shit, and kills the engine.
Finally, he turns his head, eyes blazing, “Inside.”
You don’t argue; you follow him through the front door with your pulse in your throat, up the creaking stairs, through the hall, until he shoves his bedroom door open and pulls you inside, slamming it with so much force the walls shake.
“What the fuck was all of that?”
“Oh, don’t do that,” Your tone is full of bitterness, “Don’t think I forgot about the blonde you posted today. Don’t act like you didn’t show me exactly where I stand.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?” You step closer, chest heaving, “Was it different when I walked into your room last night and saw a trashcan full of condoms? When your sheets were a fucking mess? When your lips were swollen and you looked like you’d just—” You don’t finish that thought. He flinches at your words, but you don’t stop there, “When you fucked me and laughed in my face, telling me I’d never be the only one?”
His throat works, “Say something,” You snap, “Go on. Justify it. Tell me I’m crazy.”
“I didn’t fuck her,” He runs a trembling hand through his hair, “I didn’t fuck anyone,” He says louder, “Not the blonde. Not last night. Not today. Nobody.”
You stare at him, “Satoru. Your room—your trash.”
“I couldn’t even get it up,” He spits out the truth like it hurts, “Happy?” Your stomach drops, “I kept—” He gestures violently, “—trying. With someone else. But it didn’t matter. My dick wouldn’t stay fucking hard.”
Your mouth falls agape, he keeps going, voice cracking down the middle, “I kept putting the condom on. And I’d go soft. Again and again and again,” He laughs once, “That’s why there were wrappers. Not because I fucked anyone, but ‘cause I literally couldn’t.”
He steps closer, “You wanna know why?” You don’t say anything, but he gives you the answer anyway, “You.”
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” He says, voice dropping dangerously soft, “Can’t stop seeing your face, can’t stop remembering how you sound when you cum, can’t stop thinking about how it felt to be inside you.”
Your thighs press together involuntarily, “And do you know how fucking pathetic that makes me feel?” His voice breaks again, “That I can’t fuck anyone else because the only pussy I get hard for is yours?”
Now you’re trembling, “But sure,” He sneers, “Go ahead. Tell me again you were just being petty. Tell me again that you thought going home with that TKE fuck was gonna hurt me.”
“I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did,” He rasps, “You wanted to make me jealous,” He takes a step closer, “You wanted me to come find you,” Then another, “You wanted me to lose my fucking mind over you.”
Your back hits the wall, he cages you in with his arms, “And congratulations…It fucking worked.”
“Satoru…”
His forehead presses to yours, breaths mingling, anger turning molten, “You’re not replacing me, and I’m sure as hell not letting anyone else touch you…because you’re mine.”
Something hot flickers in your chest, “And you’re mine.”
He freezes, blue eyes turning a shade darker, “Say that again.”
You lift your chin, “You’re mine.”
As soon as the words leave your tongue he surges forward, mouth crashing onto yours with a force that feels like the room exploded. His hands are already on your hips, lifting you, dragging you toward the bed.
Your back hits the mattress, bouncing once before he’s on you, over you, everywhere; kissing you like it’s oxygen. His teeth catch your bottom lip, his tongue forcing its way in, and his fingers tear your shorts down so fast the friction burns.
“Spread,” He growls against your mouth. Without hesitation, you spread your legs wide open. He drags you down the bed by your thighs like you’re something he gets to rearrange however he wants, and when he drops to his knees—it’s over.
His mouth is on your cunt instantly, tongue flattening against your clit, sucking and licking like he’s trying to claim you with his mouth first.
You arch intensely, a choked cry crooning from your throat, “Fuck—Satoru,” Your thighs clamp around his head, but he forces them wider. You try to lift your hips and he pins them down.
“Stay still,” He mutters, “Or I’ll take my time,” It’s a threat, a wonderful filthy one. He eats you until your vision blurs and you’re pulling at his white tendrils; when you cum, you break with your head thrown back, mouth fully open, moaning his name in a way that would destroy him if he weren’t already in shambles.
“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” He pants, climbing over you, dragging his mouth up your stomach, ribs, throat, “Ruined and wet and waiting for me—fuck.”
He lines his cock up without looking, he doesn’t have to at this point. He knows your body by heart, and when he pushes in it’s one languid stroke that make your nails claw into his back and his breath punch out of him, “Shit—baby, so tight—”
He locks one hand behind your knee, shoving it higher, deeper, opening you more than you’ve ever been before, “You feel that?” He grits, hips snapping hard enough the headboard slams the wall, “Feel how easy this pussy takes me after I eat you out?”
The moan that escapes you sounds like a sob, “Feel how deep I am?” He thrusts again, brutal and perfect, “Feel me right fucking there?” One of his big hands presses right on your lower belly, a helpless whimper falls from your lips; his eyes go dark, “That’s where I wanna cum.”
Your stomach drops, “Satoru—”
“I want it so bad I can’t fucking think,” Each thrust is more forceful, sloppier, desperate, “You have no idea,” He pants, “No fucking idea what it did to me the first time—seeing my cum dripping out of you. Fuck, I been thinking about it every night since.”
Your cunt clenches around him, his eyes roll back, “Yeah…” He groans, “You liked that, didn’t you?”
His hand slides to your jaw, holding your face still so you can’t look away, “You want me to fill you again? Want me to make you mine for real?”
God, you shouldn’t want it. Not one bit.
Not with him and not when the risks outweigh the rewards. But at the same time, you fucking do.
Your brain fogs, melts, almost liquifies, “I want—” You gasp, nails sinking into his back, “I want you to fill me—”
He growls, “Fuck, princess—don’t say it unless you mean it—”
You’re too far gone to stop yourself, “Make me yours,” You whisper, trembling, “I want all of it, please.”
Hearing you beg for a load would make even the strongest man fold, and for a guy like Gojo, it takes very little to get him to. He snaps, thrusts turn punishing, ragged, the rhythm of a person who has lost every ounce of sanity, “You don’t—understand what you’re asking for.”
You cling to him, eyes half-lidded, “Satoru—don’t pull out.”
He shudders, grip on you tightening painfully, “Baby—fuck. You’re gonna make me—shit, you’re gonna make me cum—”
You wrap your legs around him and pin him in place, he fails to hide the moan that leaves him, “Oh my God,” He grunts, “You want it—you actually want it.”
He convulses then, slamming into you one last time, shoving himself all the way until his tip kisses your cervix, and cums inside you with a sound that is pure, ruined surrender.
His cock is throbbing, pulse after pulse, pumping you full of hot, thick white ribbons. He stays there, trembling through it, shaking, and when he finally pulls out, he looks down.
The sight that greets him is his favorite in the world. His cum leaking out of your pussy in warm, heavy streams, “Fuck…That’s perfect.”
He drags two fingers through the load, smearing it, then pushing it back in you with the darkest smirk on his face, “I could get addicted to this,” He murmurs, before adding, “Maybe I already am.”
Your chest is heaving, the room spinning around you. He’s still hovering over your hips, transfixed on the mess he made like he can’t look away, “Should make you keep it.”
Your entire body tenses because he doesn't look at your face when he says it—he’s still staring at your legs, like the sight has rewired something fundamental in him.
He pushes his fingers deeper, you whine, “But I can’t,” He mutters more to himself than you, “I shouldn’t.”
He pulls his fingers out and wipes them on your thigh, eyes hooded and dark with something you’ve never seen in him before. Gojo sits back on his heels, rakes a hand through his hair, when it finally hits him—reality.
He actually did it. He came inside you. On purpose this time. His eyes flick up to yours, unsure, “…We need to get you a Plan B.”
You knew that was coming, but the tone is different. He sounds shaken, disappointed even, “Okay.”
But he doesn’t move. He just keeps staring at you—the bite marks blooming on your throat, the mess between your thighs he put there, and something in him cracks all over again, “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
Your pulse stutters as he exhales hard, standing. The room tilts as he grabs his USC hoodie off the floor, tugging it over his head with shaky hands. He hesitates a second too long before speaking, “I-I didn’t mean to…do it like that.”
“Do what?”
His eyes flick away shamefully, “Nut in you like you I was trying to get you pregnant,” He mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “Because that’s what it felt like,” Your heart skips, he glances back at you, almost pained, “But that’s not—we’re not doing that.”
Silence stretches, then he shakes his head as if snapping himself out of whatever daze he’s in, “Get dressed. Please.”
You pull your shorts back on and he hands you one of his shirts without looking directly at you—like one wrong glance, on more glimpse of you fucked-out and dripping, and he’ll pin you back on the bed to do it again.
When you’re covered enough to leave, he grabs his keys; his hand finds yours, he squeezes without thinking and doesn’t let go. He leads you out of Sig Chi through a side door because he doesn’t want anyone seeing you like this.
He walks too quick, not talking, not until you reach the quiet part of the sidewalk does he finally say something, “Don’t ever let me lose you like that again.”
You look up and he’s staring straight ahead, but his grip tightens, exposing more than he means to, “Come on,” He murmurs, unlocking the Porsche, “We’ll get the Plan B.”
But even as he says it, even as he feigns rationale, his hand won’t stop squeezing yours. The Porsche unlocks with a chirp, he opens your door for you and then slams his own harder than necessary. He starts driving, fast, silent, and focused but not on the road.
Every streetlight flickers across his face, shadowing and revealing the truth in flashes. Good. She’ll take the pill. This was just heat, adrenaline, possession.
But beneath that, something far darker hums through him. Still…fuck. I could give her what no one else can. I want that.
He swallows hard, grips the wheel tighter, drives even faster. The CVS is almost empty, thank God. He shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets because he doesn’t trust them not to shake, walking over straight to the aisle he was in mere weeks ago.
Gojo remembers the last time he bought it, but the last time he never wished, that for one stupid second, that if biology had given him a loophole, that maybe—maybe you’d keep a piece of him.
He grabs the box with stiff fingers and at the register, the cashier doesn’t make eye contact; something ugly and possessive in Gojo likes that. Likes that no one here knows what he just did or what he put in you and how deep you let him.
He pays the fifty dollars again, shoves the box into his pockets, and hands it to you the second he makes it back to the car as if he may take it back if he doesn’t.
You take the pill out, open a water bottle, tip your chin back, and he watches. His jaw moves once, like he’s grinding the idea to dust. Good. She’s safe. She won’t be pregnant. This isn’t happening.
Then, right behind it, a quieter, eviller truth. Would’ve been kinda nice if it was.
And the thought doesn’t fade, it festers. Even after you swallow the pill and he drives away with his hands white-knuckled on the wheel, even after he drops you off at your dorm and tells you to text him when you’re inside.
No, it fucking lingers. A wrong desire he keeps trying to destroy, a feeling he can’t outrun. Something vital within him shifted when he finished in you that second time, and it bleeds into everything that happens next.
The next morning, you’re brushing your teeth when your phone buzzes.
satoru: you got class at 10 right?
Before you can answer, another text comes.
satoru: be outside in 5
He picks you up with a coffee in the cupholder, the exact way you like it, and a muffin he claims he “accidentally bought two of”. You don’t call him on the lie.
Gojo doesn’t drop you off at the curb, either. He walks you all the way to the building and when you turn to go inside, he hesitates, “Text me when you’re done.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” He cuts you off quietly, “But just do it,” And he walks away before you can fight him on it.
The night after, he shows up again in the same hoodie with the same look in his blue eyes, and that same damn inability to stay away.
He kisses you before the door fully closes behind you—soft at first, almost tentative, like he’s afraid of wanting you too much. Then he remembers your voice calling him yours, your legs wrapped around him, your cunt squeezing around his dick while he came inside you, and suddenly? He’s not soft anymore.
He lifts you, carries you to your bed, lies you down like you’re fragile, but unravels you like he’s ravenous. He fucks you slow and deep, way too deep; breathing into your neck, voice shredded, hands quivering on your thighs.
At one point, he stops entirely. Stops moving, buried all the way inside you, hips pressed flush, eyes squeezed shut like he’s in physical pain, “Princess…” His forehead presses to your jaw, “If I move, I’m gonna cum in you again.”
You shiver and he doesn’t pull out, not yet, only when he finally forces himself; finishing on your stomach, staring at your body the way a sinner stares at temptation—ruined, in awe, and absolutely starved for more.
In the days after, he starts acting like your boyfriend. Though neither of you ever say the word, and acting like your boyfriend also apparently includes spoiling you rotten, but he’d never admit that’s what he’s doing.
It starts with him handing you his card one afternoon, “Here. Go get your nails done. Want your hands lookin’ nice around my cock.”
You choke on air, but he won’t meet your eyes, pretending it’s not the sweetest, filthiest thing anyone's ever said to you. Next thing you know, he’s paying for all kinds of appointments. He sends you money for your facial along with a text claiming, “i could give you a better one but idt you’d like it as much”.
Then he’s bringing you on routine mall runs. He takes you straight to Sephora, Aritzia, Zara—anywhere you so look at or mention and buys everything you touch. You tell him he’s insane, but he just shrugs, “It’s not a big deal. Gotta keep you pretty for me.”
You don’t buy the reason for a second.
Then comes the dates. Real ones at fancy places. The first time you’re confused when he tells you to “dress nice”. The second time, you’ve learned that “dress nice” means he’s dropping a stupid amount of money at a restaurant where the menus don’t have prices.
From sushi restaurants in Beverly Hills to Italian spots in West Hollywood, the dinner always goes the same way. With him watching you the entire time like the sight of you sitting across from him looking so beautiful is doing things to his soul and paying the bill without giving you any time to even pretend to pick it up.
“Don’t insult my manhood, princess,” He jokes, already placing his card down, “I’d rather die than let you pay a dime.”
But the worst parts aren’t the dates or the ridiculous instances of spoiling you. It’s what happens after.
One night, you’re sitting in his bed when he removes his silver chain he never takes off, the one you’ve seen in every photo and TikTok. He’s hooking it around your throat while you protest, “Toru—”
“Shh,” He hushes, “Just try it.”
It settles against your collarbone, cool and heavy with a distinct weight to it. His eyes drag over your neck, slow and hungry, like the sight of something that’s his on you does something violent to him, “Mm,” He hums, thumb grazing the metal, “Looks real good on you.”
Your pulse stutters and he kisses you before either of you can process what it means.
And then there’s the night where you’re laying on his chest, tangled in the sheets after he fucked you senseless, when you ask, “What’s Japan like?”
His voice softens in a way you feel in your ribs, “Depends where you go. Tokyo’s crazy. Kyoto’s pretty. Snow up north is perfect.”
You smile into his skin, “Sounds amazing.”
“Yeah,” He replies, adding way too casually, “I’ll have to show you one day.”
You’re quiet for a second before saying, “Teach me something.”
His eyes are warm, melting, “Okay…Say this—suki.”
“Suki,” You whisper; he exhales slowly, almost shakily, “What does it mean?”
He hesitates, choosing to lie gently, “It means…I like this.”
You believe him, but the truth is written all over his face. He doesn’t mean he likes the moment, he means you. Then he looks at you with his chain glinting on your neck, wondering when wanting you turned into needing you—and he’s terrified he can’t stop.
And the need for you only grows.
He picks you up every day from class, keeps snacks in his car that he only buys when you’re around, gives you his favorite sweatshirt when he notices your cold, opens your door every time. On his wrist sits your hair tie, although he says it’s for you, part of you thinks he wears it just because it’s yours.
When you’re walking together, he switches sides so he’s closest to the street. When guys stare, he sees it before you do. One afternoon on the quad, a guy from your lab waves too eagerly at you. Gojo’s voice is flat, “Who the fuck is that?”
You elbow him, “He’s just in my class.”
Gojo scoffs, “Yeah. Don’t like how he looks at you.”
You try not to smile, yet you do.
His frat brothers also start to tease him, “Gojo doesn’t even talk to other bitches anymore.”
“Bro’s whipped.”
“He’s in love with the QB’s daughter.”
He throws a pong ball at their heads, but doesn’t bother denying any of it.
Then, the sex between you? It starts to evolve into something precarious. He no longer fucks you like some sleezy, fuckboy frat bro chasing a climax. The tempo is slower, sensual, intimate in a way that makes your blood curdle.
There’s a night in his room with the lights low and music soft, where you’re riding him, moving slow, his hands gripping your hips like you’re sacred.
His head falls back against the pillow, he’s too sensitive, too close, “Baby…” His voice breaks, “Don’t…don’t do that unless you want—”
But you roll your hips anyway and he loses it. His fingertips dig into your thighs, eyes rolling back, breath catching in a strangled gasp, “Fuck, princess—stop, stop—if I cum like this it’s going inside you.”
And the terrifying part is that he doesn’t sound scared of that. He sounds desperate for it.
He pulls out at the very last heartbeat, just barely. His cum splashes across your chest in hot, heavy ropes and he stares at you like he’s memorizing it. He touches it, swipes some with this thumb, smearing it over your skin. He whispers, almost reverently, “God…would’ve looked better in you.”
Then his gaze glosses over his chain around your neck, and he wonders what it would be like to give you something more permanent.
Next weekend, there’s a tailgate at Sig Chi for the USC football game. It’s loud and crowded, red solo cups litter the backyard and Don Toliver is blasting from a blown out speaker Gojo keeps threatening to throw over the fence.
You’re sitting in his lap in a tiny red skirt you probably should’ve reconsidered, but he hasn’t stopped touching you since you showed up. His hand rests on your thigh at first until it slithers its way to the curve just beneath your ass; thumb rubbing slow circles like he’s publicly claiming territory.
Every time you shift, you feel how hard he is under you. He’s shameless in how he pretends not to care, but his brothers definitely notice. One of the Pledges walks by and does a double take, though Gojo doesn’t look up. He just tightens his grip on your waist and says, completely causal, “Yo, Pledge. Flick me up with my girl.”
My girl. The words strike your bones, “Your—your what?”
Gojo finally lifts his eyes, jaw set like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and that he hates the entire Pledge class, “My girl,” He repeats, patting your thigh once, “C’mon, hurry the fuck up, idiot.”
The Pledge blinks and scrambles to grab his phone, you try to move off Gojo’s lap, flustered, but his arm locks around your waist, “Sit still,” He murmurs into your neck, “Wanna see how pretty you look sittin’ on me.”
Your pulse skitters and he doesn’t even look at the camera—he looks at you, hungrily, lazily possessive, like he already knows he’s gonna post this shit.
When the Pledge sends over the photo, he’s immediately plugging it into his feed on Instagram, which is something he never does. His feed is reserved for himself, thirst traps, aesthetics. So when he posts you with a caption, “me and mine”, all of USC sees it and implodes.
He brushes a kiss onto your jaw, “Let them talk.”
And that same night, you barely make it inside his room before he has you against the wall, kissing you like he’s been deprived of it. Your skirt is on the floor already, your top has been shedded. He lifts you, legs locking around his waist, and thrusts into you so deep your vision spots.
His entire body is shaking, “Princess—fuck, slow, slow, if you keep—”
But you’re too cockdrunk to stop. He grips your ass, burying himself inside you to the hilt, moaning into your shoulder like he’s rupturing, “I’m not gonna…baby—I can’t, if you don’t let go.”
You tighten your legs around him and he falls apart. For one terrifying, heart-stopping second, he doesn’t pull out. He stays in your pussy, groaning into your neck, the two of you trembling against each other.
Gojo only yanks himself out at the very last fraction of a second, finishing in thick, desperate ropes on your inner thighs; he stares at the mess like it’s his masterpiece, but also like he wants it somewhere else.
He strokes your thigh with the back of his fingers, voice impossibly soft, “I can’t keep doing this. I’m trying. I swear I’m trying. But every time—every fucking time, I almost stay inside you.”
Your heart skips a beat, “And the worst part?” He looks at you, eyes blazing, “I don’t even know if I’d stop myself next time…”
And it happens two nights later, when things between you have settled into this terrifying, intoxicating rhythm. You’re already falling asleep in his bed, cheek pressed to his shoulder, his arm wrapped around your lower back like he’s locking in you place.
He whispers, “Come here,” Pulling you into his chest so your thigh slots between his and you feel him instantly—he’s hard, achingly so.
You look up at him through sleep-heavy eyes and he caves. He rolls you onto your back, slow, like he’s been waiting for an excuse to fuck you.
His mouth finds yours, hungry and unhurried; your breathing is barely steady when he finally pushes his cock into you and it’s different. All of it is. Far too deliberate, delicate, deep.
He groans into your neck, voice already wrecked, “Fuck…I’m obsessed with you.”
He’s still sliding himself in when you clutch his biceps, arching up into him with his breath catching in his chest, when he loses the last piece of control he had. His hips snap forward sharply, burying his cock fully inside, and curses low like the feeling of being right where he is now knocks the sense out of him.
He does try to pull out once, you feel it, the hesitation in his hips. But for reasons unknown, you wrap your legs around his waist on pure instinct rather than purpose, and he can’t stop what happens next.
Gojo collapses into you with a broken sound, forehead to yours, thrusts morphing sloppy and desperate, “Baby—fuck, don’t—” His voice cracks, “I can’t—if you do that—”
But you’re already tugging him closer, nails digging into his back, those pretty little cries spilling from your lips send him straight past rational thought and make him stop trying to pull out.
His hands clamp around your hips, dragging you flush against him, “Oh…God—” He chokes and thinks maybe for a second, he’ll try to pull himself back, but the moment he feels you tighten around him, he breaks with a sound he’s never made before.
A desperate, helpless moan punched out him as he bucks his hips and stays there—buried, locked to you like he couldn’t move even if he tried.
“Fuck, I’m cumming—inside…shit,” And you feel it, hot spurts filling you so completely full that it steals your breath. He can’t even stop, his entire body spasms against yours, quaking through the release, his forehead lodged into your throat as if he’s holding onto you while he falls apart.
It’s a lot. More than the last time. More than either of you expected. So much, it’s leaking around him even while he’s still stuffed deep, twitching through the last waves. He doesn’t move, he just stays there, even when he pulls his face up to look at you with blue eyes blown, “…Fuck. I didn’t pull out.”
Your heart sits high in your chest, he watches your expression like it’s life or death, “Not gonna lie…I didn’t even try.”
But that’s when it hits him. He should tell you to go on birth control. He knows it. That it’s the responsible, sensible, smart thing to do; the normal thing guys in college say when they don’t want their lives derailed.
Though, truth is? He doesn’t want normal, not with you. Because birth control kills the possibility, the danger, the fucked up little thrill that coils low in his stomach every time he pushes in deep and realizes that he could claim you in the one way no other guy has.
If you were on the pill, there would be no risk. No moment where he hovers on the edge, shaking, wondering if he should pull out or just stay, and he lives for that moment. That heartbeat of insanity right before he cums, where he thinks, if I don’t pull out, she’s mine for real.
So that’s why he never says the words, “You should get on birth control.”
And as deranged as it is, he doesn’t want to eliminate the one thing that makes fucking you feel holy, catastrophic, and fate-altering.
But…little does Satoru Gojo know that you’re already on it. You got on it right after that second time he finished in you.
Because that night scared you—you couldn’t trust him anymore, you couldn’t trust yourself either, and the recklessness was going to ruin you both.
You weren’t an idiot. Despite being a sheltered good girl your whole life and being inexperienced with sex, you know the consequences. And after watching his hesitation to pull out disappear night after night and feeling him stay inside you longer each time you fucked, you knew you made the right call.
However, you kept it a secret. You figured it was what was best for the both of you. You were protecting yourself all while letting him play out his little fantasy or whatever sick game he gets off on, letting him think every time might be the time he gets you pregnant.
It was smart, it was calculated, it was you being safe. Or…So you thought. Because of course, life had other plans, cruel and ironic ones. The kind of plans that are in motion before you even realize anything is wrong.
The Plan B you took after that second time he finished in you? Yeah. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work when you’re ovulating. And that night was exactly when you were.
The symptoms creep up on you so sneakily that you don’t even notice them. At first, it’s just fatigue. A bone-deep heaviness that sinks into your limbs on a random Monday morning, although you chalk it up to Gojo keeping you up until 3 A.M. again—him pinning your wrists above your head and whispering “one more round, princess”.
But then the smell of breakfast the next day makes you nauseaous, an odd twist within your gut when you catch a whiff of Blair’s bacon egg and cheese sandwich, “Girl, you good?”
“Fine,” You lie, "Probably just dehydrated,” Though you’ve been drinking water all day and still feel wrong.
Then your boobs hurt, really hurt. Tender in a way you’ve never felt before and Blair notices when you flinch throwing your tote bag over your shoulder, “That bad?”
“I think I’m getting sick.”
You’re not getting sick. You know what your body feels like when something is off and this feels different. The next morning you’re brushing your teeth when Blair says casually from the sink beside you, “When did you last get your period?”
“Last month,” But then your hand stops in mid-air.
Last month. You haven’t gotten it this month yet and it should’ve come by now. Your blood runs cold, “Wait…what day is it?”
Blair checks her phone, “October 27th.”
No. No, no, no. Your toothbrush slips from your fingers and clatters into the sink as realization cleaves through your ribs. It’s been three weeks since that night. Three weeks since the Plan B. Absolutely enough time to pass to start experiencing...pregnancy symptoms. And you already know it has a reputation for not always being effective.
“(Y/N)…?” Blair frowns, “What’s wrong?”
You lift your trembling eyes to hers, “Fuck class, we’re skipping. I need to go to CVS.”
She nods at that and the two of you urgently walk together to the CVS of doom and despair. Except this time, there’s no adrenaline buzzing within your veins, only fear.
You’re in the family planning aisle once again, but not to grab a Plan B, instead it’s a box of three pregnancy tests that feel far too heavy in your shaky hands. Blair hovers behind you, pale, “You really think—?”
“I don’t know,” You whisper, voice breaking, “I don’t know.”
But you do. You do know. You just can’t bring yourself to admit it. Your hands continue to tremble as you pay and walk back to the dorms and shut the bathroom door. Blair waits outside for you, “(Y/N)…I’m right here, okay?”
You nod, barely breathing, your reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger—pretty, terrified, wearing his silver chain around your throat like a brand or prophecy to something more.
You open one of the tests, take it, and set it on the counter. You wait two minutes, only two, and grip the sink and pray. For what, you’re not sure. That it’s negative? Or that it’s positive so you don’t have to keep pretending you aren’t already half in love with Satoru Gojo?
Negative. Yeah, definitely negative. You’re only eighteen, in your first semester of college. You moved across the country for this experience. Your dad would literally murder you for fucking it up.
You squeeze your eyes shut, then you look, and everything inside you falls, collapses, and rearranges.
Two pink lines. Bold and immediate. You’re fucking pregnant. That can’t be. You rip open another test and force yourself to pee again. False positives happen all the time, right? Right?
You wait another two minutes, only for the result to be the exact same…pregnant. Yeah, there’s no denying both. But fuck it, might as well take the third.
Another test, another positive. Three positive fucking tests, “Oh my God,” You whisper, “Oh my God…oh my fucking God—”
Blair knocks lightly, “(Y/N)? You okay? What’s happening?”
“He…” Your voice cracks, “He got me…pregnant.”
The word tastes unreal in your mouth, “But didn’t you take a Plan B? Aren’t you on birth control—?”
“I must’ve been ovulating or something,” You hiccup, tears brimming, “I-I did everything right.”
“Baby…open the door.”
You open it, numb, and Blair pulls you into a crushing hug as the three tests shake in your hand, “Oh, sweet girl…” She coos, “What are you gonna do?”
You shake your head, tears hitting her shoulder, “I—I have to tell him.”
As soon as you make it back to your dorm room you text him.
toru come over
now
please
He replies instantly.
satoru: omw what’s wrong
satoru: princess ??
You don’t answer, but minutes later you can hear the rumble of his Porsche pull into the dorms’ parking lot and not even seconds pass before his frantic knocking rattles your door. When you open it, he stops breathing. Your eyes are bloodshot red, your entire body is quaking, and his chain, of course it’s still on your neck.
“(Y/N),” He exhales, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him with trembling fingers, “What the fuck’s going on? Did someone—did a guy—? If someone touched you I swear I’ll—”
“It’s not that,” You whisper and hold out the three tests.
Gojo goes utterly still. He looks at the tests, then at you, then at the tests again. His throat bobs, “…What are those?”
“You fucking know what they are.”
“They’re…positive?”
You nod once, he inhales sharply like someone punched him, “Fuck,” He says it again, quieter, “Fuck.”
You watch his whole demeanor short circuit. At first it’s shock, but then something within him settles, something darker, something like acceptance wrapped in possession. He’s already thinking, you’re pregnant. With my baby. Mine.
His throat works once, hard. His mouth twitches, barely but unmistakably, because he tried to smother whatever expression is trying to surface.
“C’mere,” He murmurs, pulling you into him like he can fold the entire world away. You break immediately, tears spill hot and fast, your hands clawing into his hoodie as you shake uncontrollably.
And Gojo holds you, arms wrapped around your waist, palm pressing the back of your head gently into his chest, and behind your hair, unseen, his lips curl with a quiet, corrupt satisfaction he can’t suppress.
He does feel bad that you’re crying. He really does, but he also doesn’t care in the way he probably should. Because at the end of the day, you’re carrying his baby, and no one else will ever be able to say that.
He keeps rubbing circles into your spine, shushing you softly. His voice is warm, soothing, everything he thinks he’s supposed to sound like in this moment, “It’s okay, princess…breathe. I’m here.”
But really, ever since you said the words, he’s been reminiscing. Which time was it? After the third time he came in you, he’s stayed in you more often than not. He’s lost count of the nights he finished deep inside, hand fisted in the sheets, moaning your name.
Was it the night on his couch? The night he fucked you in the bathroom of his frat formal because he couldn’t stand the way his brothers were looking at you? Was it when he pulled you onto his lap and didn’t even pretend to pull out? Or—
You sob, “I don’t—I don’t know how it happened—I thought—”
He pulls back slightly, thumb brushing your cheek, “Well, we stopped buying Plan Bs. So we weren’t exactly being…safe.”
Your chest tightens, oh, right. He has no idea that you’ve been on the pill, “Satoru…I need to be honest with you.”
His thumb stills against your cheek, petrified for whatever you’re about to say, “…Okay,” He says slowly, carefully, “Tell me.”
Your bottom lip trembles, “I…I’ve been on birth control.”
Everything in him freezes, “…What?”
“I started it…after that second time, the night we fought,” You whisper, tears slipping fast down your cheeks, “I couldn’t trust us anymore. I knew we were being stupid and I just…needed to do something. But I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want things to change.”
Gojo stares at you like the entire universe just rearranged itself behind your eyes. Birth control. You were on birth control and still wound up pregnant. It wasn’t the nights after. It wasn’t the couch or the bathroom, it wasn’t the time he came in you so deep he saw stars behind his eyelids.
No, it was that night. The one where he called you his and you called him yours, the one where he finished inside you on purpose and you wanted it. The night you took the Plan B after he watched his cum drip out of you like it was the eighth Wonder of the World. Of course it was that night; a night that ended up being prophecy.
Gojo isn’t even upset with you for not telling him about the whole birth control thing, either. Matter of fact? Some twisted, fucked up, and deranged part of him feels satisfied. Because you really tried, you tried so hard not to get pregnant.
But fate already made its decision long before either of you pretended you had control and the idea of that makes something warm and primal settle in his chest, “Oh my God…it was that night.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, fresh tears dribbling down your cheeks, “Satoru, I—I don’t know what to do. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I took the pill, I was on birth control, we—we should’ve been fine—”
He shakes his head immediately, firmly cupping the back of your skull. What he wants to say is that this was always supposed to happen, but instead he opts for, “Hey. Stop. No. This isn’t on you.”
Because it isn’t. If anything, the blame sits squarely on him—he’s the one who kept cumming in you like he was trying to write your future with his body alone. You were the one taking precautions and trying to keep things under control. He was the one who didn’t stop.
So, of course you got pregnant. He practically begged the universe for it with the way he fucked you, “I should’ve been pulling out,” He murmurs, thumb brushing away the tears, “But I didn’t. That’s on me.”
Your breath breaks, “How come you don’t you look upset?”
Gojo stiffens at the accusation. He doesn’t look devastated or destroyed and he definitely doesn’t look like a twenty year old frat boy whose life got flipped upside down.
He looks…eerily calm, “I don’t know what I’m feeling yet,” He lies; he knows exactly what he’s feeling and it’s not something he can say out loud without disrupting whatever fragile world you’re clinging to.
You turn away, pressing your hands to your face, shoulders jerking, “My whole life is screwed, Satoru. My dad—my classes—everything. I don’t even know how to breathe right now.”
His stomach twists, he hates that his lack of fear and panic makes him feel like a monster. He steps closer until his chest brushes your back and wraps his arms around you from behind, tugging you into him.
“Princess,” He murmurs against your shoulder, “I know you’re terrified. I get it. You have every right to be. But I need you to hear me,” You don’t look at him, but he tilts his head, voice dropping into something achingly soft, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Your lips quiver, “Then why does it feel like everything is falling apart?”
He exhales slowly, forehead dropping to the curve of your neck. Everything is falling apart for you, but for him? It feels like everything is falling into place. You’re pregnant. With his baby, and no one else on the planet will ever be able to say that.
The girl who arrived to USC that every guy wanted, the girl who has always been good until she met Satoru Gojo, had been claimed by him. He closes his eyes, swallowing down the feral pulse in his chest, “It feels like it’s falling apart because you’re shocked. It’s big and sudden. Anyone would feel what you’re feeling.”
You shudder and he tightens his hold, protective in a way that feels instinctual, “But you’re not alone in this. Not for one second.”
You sniff harshly, “You’re taking this way too well.”
He almost laughs at how easily you see through him, “I’m taking it the only way I know how.”
Quietly, privately, his mind says a different thing, because some part of me knew this was coming the second I didn’t pull out. He presses a soft kiss to your temple before you can see the flicker in his expression.
“Talk to me,” You whisper, voice rasped, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
He hesitates, because the real answer is, you’re pregnant because of me. Because you told me to make you mine and I did. What he says to you is gentler, “I’m thinking that we’ll figure it out and that you’re safe with me.”
But beneath it, humming like electricity in his bloodstream, I don’t regret it. Not even a little. It was always gonna be us. You were meant to be mine.
You don’t even get a chance to respond to what Gojo has said when the universe decides to fuck you over for a second time. Your phone vibrates in the pocket of the hoodie you’re wearing—his hoodie. A single buzz, then another. You still instantly, Gojo’s hands pause on your waist, “Who is it?”
You pull back just enough to fish your phone out, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. Your vision blurs as you blink at the notification. And when you see the name on the lock screen, you freeze entirely.
Gojo’s brows knit, “Baby?”
“…It’s my dad,” You swipe his message open with tottering fingers and the text hits you like a brick to the sternum.
dad: Hey sweetheart! Good news! College gameday is in USC this weekend so I’ll be seeing you in a few days.
dad: I can’t wait to see you, princess. Love you.
Your throat swells, he leans in slightly to read the message himself because you can’t find your own voice.
And for the first time tonight, Satoru Gojo breaks, “…Oh fuck.”
Your dad is coming in three days.
And has no idea that his daughter is knocked up by a frat boy.
TW: mentions of blood, infidelity, mourning, emotional distress, death
The incense had long burned out in the halls of the shrine, but Ryomen Sukuna still sat there, unmoving. The King of Curses did not tremble and he did not cry, but he couldn’t stop staring.
It had been a quiet evening when you found out.
Almost painfully quiet.
The servants ran the second they felt your cursed energy spike—rage and heartbreak twisting together into something sharp enough to cut through the air.
You had never been weak. You stood beside him, you looked at him like he was just a man. And he ruined it.
He remembers how your hands shook, not because you were scared of him, but because something inside you had completely shattered. Your voice cracked when you asked him why.
Sukuna had scoffed, because pride was easier than honesty and arrogance was safer than guilt. He told you that a king takes whatever he wants, that you should have known what kind of man you married.
Then he left, left you holding the sorrow eating at you in your hands.
Everything went still.
No sorcerer had ever pushed him to his knees. No enemy had ever outsmarted him. Yet there he was, kneeling in a spreading pool of red, his hands hovering uselessly over your body like he couldn’t understand what he was seeing.
The shrine feels colder now, like the warmth left with you. The woman he entertained before is long gone too; her laughter started to irritate him, and he silenced it without hesitation. It didn’t make him feel better.
At night, he almost imagines you sitting across from him. He almost speaks to you. Almost apologizes. But he doesn’t know how to say the words, and even if he did, there’s no one left to hear them.
He hasn’t let anyone clean the shrine.
Your robes are still folded where you left them. Your comb rests beside the mirror. The faint scent you used still lingers in the air if he focuses hard enough. And the bloodstain remains untouched, dark against the floor, because it’s the only proof that you were real and that he once had something worth losing.
He has endless time stretching in front of him, and that feels like the cruelest punishment of all. Because none of those years will ever have you in them.
I’m so genuinely bored of writing the Gojo x Reader fic. I LOVE IT GENUINELY, I just hate the fact that it takes up so much of my time and I never really work on any other ideas at first I just posted the first chapter just like that and wanted to make a second part and end it there but the idea I had was obviously bigger than that so I just went with it.
I’ve made rough drafts of the chapters that come after and I’m working hard on them so I’m really sorry if I don’t really post😭
But I wanted to ask if people had any ideas for one shots or anything like that that they would like me to write about . If you please do request anything you’d like me to write since I do wanna work on other projects BUUTTTT if you guys just want me to finish the fic first I will.
I can currently work on bleach, jjk, aot, avatar(would really like to write something about Varang)
There’s no other word for it. Your legs are hooked around his, his arm heavy and secure across your waist, your face pressed into the warm dip of his shoulder like you crawled there on instinct sometime in the night. His fingers are carded loosely through your hair; his thumb brushes your scalp in slow, absent strokes.
You shift, half-asleep, nuzzling closer without thinking.
He hums, amused. “You do that on purpose?”
“Mhm,” you mumble. “You’re comfortable.”
“That’s dangerous information,” he says quietly, his grip on your arms tightening. “I’m never letting you go now.”
You smile against his skin, kissing his shoulder once. Then again. Then higher, just under his collarbone. He exhales sharply, head tipping back against the pillow.
“Wow,” he mutters. “Good morning to me, I guess.”
You lift your head just enough to look at him. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, hair a mess — not the polished version of him everyone else gets. This one feels like it’s just for you.
“You’re staring,” you say.
“Can you blame me?” His hand glides to your lower back, drawing you flush against him. “You’re all warm and clingy and not yelling at me for once.”
“Don’t get used to it,” you say, but you lean in anyway, kissing him properly this time. Slow. Unrushed. The kind of kiss that lingers because there’s nowhere else to be.
He kisses you back.
When you pull away, he chases it, pressing his forehead to yours. “You know,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing, “we could just… not get up.”
You raise an eyebrow. “And do what?”
His smile turns lazy, dangerous. “I can think of a few things.” Then softer, brushing a kiss along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, “How about another round?”
You scoff, but your grip tightens in his shirt. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he says, nuzzling your neck, “you’re still here.”
The playful haze starts to thin just enough to allow the edge of reality back in.
You sigh, leaning your head back against his chest. “We can’t keep doing this without talking about it.”
“I know,” he says immediately. No teasing this time. His hand stills, grounding. “I’m not trying to avoid it.”
“Good,” you mutter. “Because I don’t want this to turn into something weird.”
He gently tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Hey. Look at me.”
You do.
“Last night wasn’t just anything” he says quietly. “And this morning too. I’m not pretending otherwise.”
Your chest tightens. You swallow. “We should figure out what we are.”
“Eventually,” he agrees.
You laugh despite yourself. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Your idiot,” he says casually.
You don’t correct him.
Finally, you get out of bed — slowly, grudgingly — but the heat remains. The touches do not let up entirely. A hand at your waist as you walk downstairs. A glance held a second too long.
And the air feels different as you enter the kitchen together.
Lighter. Warmer. Like something has shifted — not resolved, not settled — but undeniably real.
The kitchen is already warm when you walk in, sunlight spilling over the counters and turning everything gold and lazy. Someone’s left the windows open, the curtains moving with the breeze, and the whole place smells like coffee and toasted bread. The group is scattered everywhere—half-asleep, hair a mess, moods soft in that rare way that only happens when nobody has anywhere urgent to be.
Utahime is perched on a stool with a mug clutched in both hands, squinting at the light like it personally offended her. Shoko’s leaning against the counter, scrolling on her phone and stealing bites off someone else’s plate. Geto looks oddly peaceful, Sukuna quiet in a way that makes it clear he’s choosing not to be annoying rather than being incapable of it. Even Nanami looks less tense than usual, sleeves rolled up, sipping his coffee slowly.
Satoru stays close to you without making a show of it. A hand brushing yours when you reach for a plate. His shoulder nudging yours as he passes. Subtle enough that no one comments, obvious enough that you feel it in your chest.
Breakfast drags on in the best way. No one’s rushing. Conversations overlap—complaints about the heat, jokes about how nobody’s recovering from last night, half-serious plans that dissolve into laughter. Eventually someone suggests staying in for the day, and it’s agreed on immediately, like the idea had been floating there waiting for permission.
By early afternoon, hunger creeps back in. There’s a brief debate before they decide to send someone out to grab lunch. Geto volunteers, already reaching for his phone, and before you really think about it, you follow him toward the door.
The kitchen is warm in that lazy afternoon way, sunlight slanting through the open windows and catching on the counter. Geto is cooking with the calm focus of someone who actually enjoys it, knife tapping steadily against the cutting board, music low in the background. It smells good—comforting, almost annoyingly so.
The kitchen is warm in that lazy afternoon way, sunlight slanting through the open windows and catching on the counter. Geto is cooking with the calm focus of someone who actually enjoys it, knife tapping steadily against the cutting board, music low in the background. It smells good—comforting, almost annoyingly so.
You linger nearby, pretending you’re not watching him.
“You can sit,” he says, nodding toward the stool. “You’re making me nervous hovering like that.”
You huff and sit, folding your arms. There’s a pause. Not awkward—just waiting.
“I like him,” you say suddenly.
Geto doesn’t stop chopping. “Yeah.”
That almost irritates you more than if he’d reacted. “That’s it?”
“I’m listening,” he says simply.
You exhale sharply, words tumbling out now that you’ve started. “I don’t know if he actually likes me or if he just likes the idea of me. Or the chase. Or the fact that I don’t make it easy for him.”
Geto glances over at you, expression neutral but attentive. “And that scares you.”
“Yes,” you snap. Then quieter, “Because I don’t want to be stupid about this.”
He sets the knife down, turning the heat lower, and finally faces you. He leans against the counter—not too close, not distant either.
“You’re not stupid,” he says. “You’re cautious.”
“That’s a nice word for it.”
“It’s accurate.” He shrugs. “Satoru’s not subtle. He makes it hard to tell what’s real and what’s just… noise.”
You nod, jaw tight. “Exactly. And I hate that I care enough to notice.”
There’s a beat. Geto reaches past you to grab a dish towel, brushing your arm briefly in the process. It’s casual, almost accidental—but it grounds you.
“You’re allowed to care,” he says. “Doesn’t mean you’re losing.”
You stare at the counter. “Feels like I already have.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t contradict you just to be comforting.
“All I’ll say,” he adds, turning back to the stove, “is that he’s not as careless with this stuff as he pretends to be.”
You watch him stir the pan, movements unhurried. “You sound sure.”
“I am.” Then, after a moment, “But it’s still okay if you don’t trust it yet.”
That lands softer. Safer.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Thanks.”
He nods once, like that’s enough. When the food’s ready, he slides a plate toward you without comment, like feeding you is the most important thing in that moment.
——————————————————————————
A/n: very lazy chapter im sorry, but Christmas and new year’s vacation doesn’t feel like a vacation💔
Word Counter - Not only does it count the number of words you’ve written, it tells you which words are used most often and how many times they appear.
Tip Of My Tongue - Have you ever had a word on the tip of your tongue, but you just can’t figure out what it is? This site searches words by letters, length, definition, and more to alleviate that.
Readability Score - This calculates a multitude of text statistics, including character, syllable, word, and sentence count, characters and syllables per word, words per sentence, and average grade level.
Writer’s Block (Desktop Application) - This free application for your computer will block out everything on your computer until you meet a certain word count or spend a certain amount of time writing.
Cliche Finder - It does what the name says.
Write Rhymes - It’ll find rhymes for words as you write.
Verbix - This site conjugates verbs, because English is a weird language.
Graviax - This grammar checker is much more comprehensive than Microsoft Word, again, because English is a weird language.
Sorry for how short this is! I wanted to only include things I genuinely find useful. p>
Synopsis: hottest guy in campus crushing over the meanest mean girl?
Warnings(❗️): Explicit sexual content, rough dynamics, degradation (consensual), emotional vulnerability, toxic relationship elements, alcohol, club setting.
Part 4 Part 5
The boys don’t announce their exit.
Keys scrape against the counter. Someone mutters about needing alcohol. The door opens and closes with the kind of finality that means they’re gone long enough to matter.
Gojo’s the last one out. He lingers by the door like he forgot something important — or like he’s considering saying something he already knows he won’t. He doesn’t look at you.
You don’t look at him.
The door shuts.
Utahime exhales immediately.
“Okay. Bathroom schedule. I’m not negotiating.”
Shoko drops onto the couch, kicks off her shoes. “I’m showering whenever I feel like it. Deal with it.”
You snort and head upstairs before either of them can drag you into an argument.
The shower is too hot. You let it be. Steam fogs the mirror, water stings your skin, and for a few minutes the only thing you can hear is white noise instead of thoughts. You stay longer than necessary.
When you’re done, you move on autopilot. Skincare. Hair brushed smooth. Nails checked even though you know they’re fine. Control in small, stupid rituals.
Downstairs, music starts. Utahime sings along loudly and off-key. Shoko yells at her to shut up and immediately starts singing too.
You come back down barefoot, robe loose, hair still damp.
He’s there.
Gojo stands in the kitchen like he belongs, grocery bags on the counter, sleeves pushed up, phone in his hand. He looks relaxed in a way that immediately pisses you off.
Utahime stops mid-sentence.
“…Why are you back?”
“Forgot something,” Gojo says easily.
Shoko glances between the two of you. “You’re blocking the kitchen. Either help or get out.”
Gojo’s eyes lift then — straight to you.
There’s a pause. Short. Heavy.
You don’t stop walking.
You pass him to grab water, close enough that your robe brushes his arm. It’s barely anything, but his attention snaps fully to you. You feel it in the air, in the way he straightens just a fraction.
“Need something?” you ask, not looking at him.
“Yeah,” he says.
You wait. He doesn’t continue.
Utahime claps once, loud. “Okay! Shoko, upstairs. I need the mirror and you’re hogging the couch.”
Shoko smirks at you. “Don’t do anything while we’re gone.”
The sound of footsteps dies down. The villa goes quiet.
“You’re ignoring me,” Gojo says.
You twist the cap on your bottle. “I’m busy.”
“With what?”
“Living?”
He steps closer. Slowly. Not cornering you, not touching you — just enough that you feel him in your space.
“You walked away last night,” he says.
“You stood there,” you shoot back.
He hums. “Guess we’re both stubborn.”
You finally turn to face him. His expression is serious now — no grin, no joke. It unsettles you more than if he were mocking you.
“And?” you ask.
“I didn’t sleep,” he says. Simple. Flat. “You?”
You shouldn’t answer. You really shouldn’t.
“No.”
That lands.
He reaches past you to move one of the grocery bags off the counter, his arm briefly boxing you in. Still no contact. Still intentional.
“You do this thing,” he says quietly, “where you act like you don’t care, then get pissed when I believe you.”
“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me.”
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m just stating what I see.”
Your chest tightens. You shove his shoulder — not hard, just enough to break the space.
“Move.”
He looks down at where you touched him. Then back at you.
Something dark flickers across his face — not anger. Decision.
“Say that again,” he says softly.
“Move,” you repeat.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he leans in just enough that his breath hits your cheek.
“Knew you were,” he murmurs, “but never this much.”
Your pulse is loud. You hate that he can hear it.
“Ew, shut the fuck up,” you snap.
“Make me.”
That’s when it breaks.
Not violently. Not dramatically.
Your hand fists in his shirt first — frustration, impulse, exhaustion — and he reacts immediately, hand coming up to your jaw, steadying, grounding. There’s a split second where you both freeze.
Then you kiss him.
Hard. Messy. All teeth and pressure and pent-up bullshit. His grip tightens instinctively, like he’s been holding himself back for weeks and finally stopped pretending.
He kisses you back just as fiercely — not dominating, not gentle — matching you beat for beat. His hand slides to your waist, firm, anchoring, like he’s afraid you’ll bolt if he loosens his hold.
It’s hungry. It’s angry. It’s real.
He slows it first.
Not because he has to — because he’s choosing to.
Forehead against yours, breath uneven. “If we keep going,” he says quietly, “this won’t end well.”
Your laugh is sharp and breathless. “You think anything about us is going well?”
His thumb brushes your lower lip — slow, deliberate — and it wrecks you more than the kiss did.
Footsteps upstairs.
He pulls back immediately.
The distance feels wrong. Abrupt.
He straightens, jaw tight, expression controlled again. “Get dressed,” he says, casual like this didn’t just happen. “We’re gonna late.”
Then he’s gone — door closing behind him, grocery bags still on the counter.
Utahime and Shoko come back down a minute later, arguing about eyeliner.
Utahime stops when she sees you. “You look… weird.”
“Utahime please,” you say automatically.
Shoko studies your face, then your mouth. She smirks.
You go upstairs without another word.
You lock your door.
And for the first time since this trip started, you sit down on the edge of the bed and let your hands shake.
——————————————————————————
The club doesn’t let you think.
It’s all heat and sound and bodies pressed too close, lights stuttering like they’re trying to keep up with the music. Utahime’s already drunk enough to shout lyrics in your ear, Shoko laughing as she pulls her closer, Sukuna disappearing toward the bar with Geto following after like they’re too scared to come out of the closet.
You dance anyway.
Not for anyone. Just to move. To burn off the static under your skin that hasn’t settled since the kitchen, since his mouth on yours, since the way he walked away like he didn’t feel it too.
You feel him before you see him.
Gojo steps in behind you without touching, close enough that his chest almost brushes your back when the crowd surges. You don’t turn. You don’t need to. Your body reacts anyway — shoulders stiffening, breath catching just a little.
Utahime leans in. “Oh my god,” she yells over the music, “he’s right there.”
“I know,” you snap.
Shoko smirks. “You gonna kill him or kiss him?”
You don’t answer.
The song changes. Slower. Heavier.
Gojo’s hand settles at your waist like it belongs there — not gripping, not claiming — just warm and deliberate. Your head tips back slightly, enough to let him lean in.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he says near your ear.
“What thing?” you ask, eyes forward.
“Pretending you don’t want me,” he murmurs.
You turn then, finally facing him. The lights catch his face just right — sharp jaw, dark eyes, expression unreadable and far too calm for how close he is.
“Did you suffer a concussion when you were a kid?” you say.
He smiles, lazy and knowing. “No but I feel like I’m suffering it right now.”
That’s when you act.
You grab his wrist.
Not dramatic. Not rushed. Just firm enough to let him know you mean it.
You push through the crowd without looking back to see if he’s coming. He is. Of course he is. His grip tightens slightly around your hand, grounding, protective, like he’s already bracing himself for whatever you’re about to do.
Utahime’s voice cuts through the noise. “Hey— where are you—”
The hallway outside the bathrooms is quieter, the bass muffled but still present. You don’t slow down. You push open the door to the restroom and pull him inside with you, letting it swing shut behind you.
The air in the bathroom is thick.
Humidity clings to your skin. The lights hum softly overhead. The music seeps through the walls in a dull, constant pulse. The mirrors are fogged and streaked, the counters cluttered with abandoned drinks and makeup bags.
You turn to face him.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then his hand comes up — not to your mouth, not to pull you in — but to your cheek. His thumb brushes along your jaw slowly, almost reverently.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not,” you lie.
He hums like he doesn’t believe you and leans in — not to kiss you — but to press his mouth to your cheek. Soft. Lingering. Again. And again. His lips trail along your skin like he’s mapping you out, like he’s in no rush to get where he’s going.
Your breath stutters anyway.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” you mutter.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “So are you. We’re even.”
His hands settle at your hips, thumbs pressing in slow, grounding circles. Not groping. Not grabbing. Just enough pressure to make your knees weak.
Then his mouth finds your neck.
Not a quick kiss — lingering, deliberate, over and over again. He mouths at your skin, lips warm, teeth grazing just enough to make you inhale sharply. One hand slides up your back, steady, supportive, like he’s holding you together while his mouth does its worst.
“You bruise so easy,” he murmurs against your throat.”
“Do you know that it’s okay to just shut up sometimes,” you say, even as your head tips back, giving him more room.
He doesn’t.
He kisses your neck again, slower this time, like he’s savoring it. His thumb presses into your side, massaging, grounding, while his mouth leaves mark after mark — not rushed, not careless.
“You like this,” he says softly. Not a question.
You don’t answer.
Your hands fist in his shirt instead.
That’s when he finally kisses you — not hard this time, but deep and consuming, like he’s taking his time now that he knows you won’t pull away. You melt into him despite yourself, hips rocking forward instinctively, grinding into him just enough to feel how badly he wants you too.
His grip tightens, controlled but unmistakable.
“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
A toilet flushes somewhere. Laughter outside the door.
Reality seeps back in.
He pulls away slowly, hands lingering on your waist like he’s reluctant to let go. His eyes flick over your face, your neck, dark and heated and sharp.
“We need to go,” he says, voice rougher now.
You nod, breath still uneven.
He straightens your dress gently, like an apology you didn’t ask for, then presses one last kiss beneath your ear — softer than all the others.
The villa is quiet when you get back.
Shoes are abandoned by the door. Someone laughs softly upstairs, already half-asleep. Gojo doesn’t rush you — he lets you lead again, fingers brushing yours as you walk down the hallway.
In your room, he slows everything down.
Really looks at you.
His hands are careful — steadying you as you sit, brushing your hair back, grounding you when your bravado starts to slip. His mouth stays cruel, teasing, murmuring things that make your chest ache and your pride flare all at once.
You don’t tell him you want this.
You show him instead.
“Fuck, you’re so desperate baby. You don’t hide it so well under that mean girl facade” he’s mocking you as his hands travel everywhere they’re not supposed to. He signals for you to lift your arms as he proceeds to lift your dress over your head.
“Stop staring,” your murmur, drowning in embarrassment as his eyes stare daggers at you. If you didn’t know any better you’d say he’s judging you “I’ve been dreaming of this, let me savour the moment.”
You start unwrapping his shorts laces(?) after you push him, making his back hit the bed. He shoots you a knowing grin while you start sliding down his shorts.
His hands come up touching your breasts, drawing circles on your nipples without actually touching you tho. You squirm at that “So sensitive, aren’t you,”
His left hand slowly travels down your body, reaching your pussy “Fuck you’re soaked baby.” he traces slow circles on your clit, making your arch back against him, placing your hands on his shoulders.
In a matter of seconds you’re flipped on your stomach, Satoru’s holding your head up by your hair, while the fast rhythm of
plap! plap! plap!
echoes in your room, you’re a mess “Fuck ‘Toruu-“ you whimper, desperately trying to keep it down and failing miserably “It’s okay baby. I know, I’ll make you feel so good,” he pants “My girl.”
You genuinely hate how easy you get for him. How putty you get. Throwing all your morals out the window as soon as he gives you the attention you’ve been waiting for. But it feels so disgustingly good.
You just hope he doesn’t break your heart…
Your thoughts get pushed to the back of your head as his hand goes to your neck bringing you up, back arching off his now sweat-soaked abs “So mean of you to not pay me attention baby,” he leaves a trail of kisses on your jaw and below your ear as one hand positions itself on your tit, and the other in between your legs, stroking your clit.
“Toru!-“ you yelp, it feels too much for poor little you. But all your complaints die down as he keeps peppering you with kisses and sweet words. You feel so high off his words you’ll actually faint. His pace quickens, his thrusts are merciless.
If you didn’t know any better you’d say he hates you “I’m so close,” he puts you down, positioning his hands on your hips, as he watches your ass jiggle after the mean slaps of skin on skin. His eyes watch everything unfold like he’s a teenage boy having just discovered the greatness of sex. Like his 16 year old self who has been dreaming of this moment.
“Ahh- I’m coming! Unghhhh-“ your slurred words make you more embarrassed about the way you’re acting. But they make him just cockier than ever. Your orgasm hits you like a truck.
Heavy.
Messy.
And you can feel him grunting behind you as he pulls out, coming on the outside of your pussy “Fuck. You okay?” he asks while searching for your panties around the room “Yeah, you?” You say while your pants start slowing down. “Never been better.” He approaches the bed with the biggest grin on his face.
Later, you’re curled against him in the quiet aftermath, sheets tangled, the world reduced to breathing and warmth. His arm rests around you discoveringly, fingers tracing slow patterns along your shoulder.
You stare at the ceiling, fragile in a way you’d never admit out loud.
“Still pretending you hate me?” he asks softly.
You scoff. “I do.”
He smiles into your hair. Leaving a kiss on your forehead.
And for now — that’s enough.
——————————————————————————
A/N: ts took so long because of the sex scene. I don’t really like writing smut and stuff. I’m so proud of it thoo.. but yeah I’m so sorry for disappearing for so long I’ve had a fever for like 5 days straight, thought I was dying.
Synopsis: hottest guy in campus crushing over the meanest mean girl?
Warnings(❗️): strong language, a toxic and unresolved dynamic, subtle emotional manipulation, jealousy, mean girl behavior, passive-aggressive interactions, and brief suggestive physical intimacy.
Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
The villa woke slowly — like the air itself couldn’t be bothered to move yet.
Someone was cooking something that smelled like sugar and burnt butter, cicadas were already screaming their lungs out, and the sea behind the house glittered like it had been waiting for drama.
You were the first one outside.
Coffee. Sunglasses. Zero patience.
The sliding doors opened again with the sound of someone who had too much morning energy.
Gojo Satoru.
Of course.
He stepped out like sunlight was tailored to him — hair still messy from sleep, a white t-shirt draped low over his collarbones, just obnoxiously pretty for no reason at all.
He slowed when he saw you.
You didn’t turn.
Didn’t even give him the satisfaction of a blink.
You sipped your coffee like his existence was background noise.
And yet — you felt it.
His eyes, lingering.
Too observant.
Too familiar.
He walked past you with forced casualness, but his jaw was tight. You noticed. You filed it away.
You always do.
The others trickled in like hungover cats.
Shoko with her hair in a clip and a cigarette she didn’t light.
Geto with that lazy-soft smile that disarms people.
Nanami already dressed like he had stocks to check.
Utahime trying to command chaos and failing instantly.
Someone suggested the beach. Someone groaned.
You didn’t care who said it — you only cared that Gojo looked too awake for this early.
You spoke first.
“Fine. But if someone thinks I’m running into the water like an excited labrador, I’m not.”
Shoko snorted.
Utahime rolled her eyes.
Gojo smirked.
“I like labs,” he murmured under his breath.
You didn’t look at him — but your lip curled.
Enough of a reaction to feed him for hours.
Everyone eventually returned to their rooms to change.
You took your time — deliberately slow. Lotion, perfume, ankle bracelet.
Power was 70% timing and 30% ignoring men. You had mastered both.
When you finally walked back out into the hallway, they were waiting.
Geto leaned against the wall, hair half tied, phone forgotten in his hand.
Nanami adjusted his glasses like sand would personally offend him.
Shoko looked criminally unbothered.
Then Gojo stepped out of his room.
Blue swim shorts.
White linen shirt open.
A look like the universe was his mirror.
He saw you — really saw you — and stopped.
There it was.
The moment he forgot to breathe.
You didn’t give him one in return.
You walked past without acknowledging him, the scent of your perfume hitting him like a car.
He blinked — dazed — and followed the group to the beach with a tiny, private smile.
He loved when you ignored him.
It meant you were looking.
Even if you never turned your head.
——————————————————————————
The beach wasn’t loud — it was alive.
Waves licking the sand in slow, jealous pulls.
Heat settling on shoulders like a warning.
You laid your towel with surgical precision.
Gojo flopped his next to yours with intentional carelessness — like a dog claiming territory.
You glanced at his towel touching yours.
He grinned.
You moved your towel two inches away.
He deflated half a millimeter.
No one else noticed.
But you did.
And he knew you did.
Everyone ran ahead — even Nanami, reluctantly.
You walked like the sea should be grateful you were approaching.
Salt hit your calves. Cool, sharp, perfect.
You waded in up to your waist, hair still dry.
Gojo swam closer — too close.
His shoulder bumped yours “accidentally.”
You didn’t react at first.
Then quietly, low enough only he could hear:
“If you touch me again, I will drown you.”
He laughed — a little too breathless.
“You say the cutest things.”
You walked deeper, ignoring the way his eyes followed the curve of your spine.
He was careful not to splash you again.
But he kept drifting near. Close enough that if you turned, your mouths would almost — almost — brush.
He never acted on it.
You never acknowledged it.
That was the game.
Heat eventually won. You retreated beneath shade, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of your nose.
Your skin glowed — water droplets sliding down your collarbone like jewellery.
Gojo returned five minutes later like he’d been waiting for the right moment.
He sat beside you, towel low on his hips, hair pushed back.
He didn’t look at you directly.
He waited for you to break first.
You didn’t.
You were scrolling on your phone, feigning disinterest, when he spoke softly — too soft for anyone else to hear.
“You missed sunscreen on your back.”
You paused.
Tension stretched thin as wet fabric.
You didn’t look at him when you handed him the bottle.
You simply said:
“Try not to be annoying about it.”
His breath hitched — nearly a laugh, nearly something else.
You felt the mattress of sand shift as he moved behind you, knees brushing your hips, fingers spreading lotion with slow precision.
Warm palms.
Long, deliberate strokes.
Barely touching — almost hovering — like he was afraid to lose control.
You exhaled through your nose. Controlled.
Not a shiver. You refused to tremble for him.
Still, he noticed your breathing stall for half a second.
He smirked — you could feel it.
His lips came close to your ear but never touched.
“You’re not as unaffected as you pretend.”
You tilted your head just enough to cut him with a look.
“And you’re not as subtle as you think you are.”
A beat.
He bit back a laugh.
Bit his lip like he wanted to say something reckless.
You stood up before he could.
“Thanks,” you said flatly.
Not gratitude — punctuation.
You walked back toward the shoreline, leaving him sitting there with lotion still on his hands, staring like he was trying to memorize your spine.
——————————————————————————
Dinner was lazy, sun-swept, half exhausted laughter.
You barely acknowledged Gojo the rest of the night, yet every time you shifted, he noticed.
Open denial was your language.
Silent obsession was his.
Later, when everyone drifted inside to shower, he paused behind you in the hallway.
Just a fraction too close.
“Hey.”
You didn’t turn fully — just enough that he could see one eye over your shoulder.
He swallowed.
“I’m… not trying to fight with you.”
Your voice didn’t soften.
“Then stop giving me reasons to.”
Another inhale. Tight.
He nodded once — not defeated, but held back.
Like he had more to say, more to push, but the fire between you wasn’t ready to burn like that.
Not yet.
You walked away first.
But he stood there long after you entered your room — hand hovering at the door, forehead slightly lowered, like he was craving a universe where things were simpler.
Things would break later.
They always do.
Just not tonight.
Tonight was just tension and salt.
And both of you tasted it.
——————————————————————————
A/N: this slow burn is hurting me too, and it will not be worth it cause it won’t really end how most tics like this end. Enjoy getting edged❤️
Synopsis: hottest guy in campus crushing over the meanest mean girl?
Warnings(❗️): Alcohol use, sexual talk, mentions of STDs, cussing and strong language, emotional tension, mild bullying, suggestive tension
Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
You couldn’t sleep.
Of course you couldn’t.
Not after today.
Gross.
You rolled onto your side, annoyed at the world, annoyed at your pillows, annoyed at your own damn heartbeat.
And then—
A knock.
Followed by a whispered:
“Open up, bitch.”
Urahime.
You groaned and stomped to the door, yanking it open with murder in your eyes.
“What.”
Urahime, wearing pajama shorts, hair a mess, grinned sleepily.
“It’s 2AM and we’re going to the pool.”
“Why.”
“Because I said so,” she shrugged. “Bring your attitude, it’ll float.”
You flipped her off but grabbed your bikini anyway.
When you stepped into the hallway, everyone else was being dragged out of their rooms too.
Shoko was holding a cigarette like it was the only thing keeping her alive.
Nanami looked like someone had interrupted his REM cycle for the first time in 15 years.
Geto had a blanket draped around him, expression zen but also vaguely suicidal.
Sukuna glared at everyone like he was the only person in the world.
And Gojo—
Well.
He looked at you.
You looked away.
Urahime clapped her hands. “Okay guys , let’s go.”
You snorted.
Nanami sighed.
They followed her out.
Gojo walked behind everyone, barefoot, hands in pockets, hair messy, stupidly hot despite being a menace to society.
You didn’t look at him again.
Because you didn’t have to.
You could feel him.
⸻
The pool lights were already on, glowing blue and dreamy, reflecting off the tiles like a screensaver.
Everyone stood around the edge, half-asleep, half-feral.
Shoko dropped her towel and said, “If someone splashes me I’m committing arson.”
Geto stretched. “Honestly? Same.”
Nanami muttered, “I regret this.”
Gojo cracked his knuckles. “Everybody in—”
“Don’t.”
You jabbed a finger at him.
“I swear to god if you cannonball I will drown you myself.”
He raised his hands like he was innocent.
“I would never-“
He cannonballed.
Of course he did.
The splash hit all of you.
Shoko screamed.
Nanami swore loud enough to wake the neighbors.
Geto sighed like he’d aged a decade.
Sukuna shoved his wet hair back, looking ready to kill.
Urahime kicked her legs in the air, laughing like a gremlin.
And you?
You clenched your fists and seriously considered homicide.
“You’re dead,” you hissed.
“Come kill me,” Gojo grinned, floating on his back like a starfish.
You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your brain.
Still—you jumped in.
It was cold in the best way, shocking your nerves awake, washing off the last of today’s irritation.
You all eventually ended up on the big outdoor sofa, wrapped in towels, legs tangling over each other, still dripping and shivering.
Shoko took a drag of her cigarette and exhaled toward the stars. “Okay,” she said. “Who here has the worst first-time story.”
Sukuna groaned. “No.”
“Yes,” Urahime insisted. “I need to feel better about myself.”
You smirked. “Mine’s pretty good.”
Shoko pointed at you. “Start.”
You stretched your legs out, crossed them, and said very plainly: “So I was about to fuck this guy—”
Nanami immediately rubbed his temples.
“—and right before we got started,” you continued, “his phone rings. It’s another girl. She’s bawling. She tells him she got tested positive for chlamydia.”
Everyone’s mouths dropped.
“WHAT?” Shoko wheezed.
“Yeah.” You shrugged. “I literally pulled my panties back on and said ‘have fun at the clinic.’ Then blocked him.”
Geto lost it laughing.
Urahime clapped like she was at a concert.
Sukuna muttered, “Holy shit.”
Even Nanami cracked a tiny, pained smile.
Gojo just stared at you with an unreadable expression.
Then Urahime pointed at him. “Okay pretty boy, your turn.”
Gojo stretched lazily. “My first time? Easy. The girl cried.”
Everyone choked.
“In a bad way?” Shoko asked.
“In a… overwhelmed way,” he said.
“Bullshit,” you said immediately.
He looked at you.
Smirked.
“No, really. She said it felt too good.”
“Please shut up,” Nanami begged.
You scoffed. “Delusional.”
Gojo leaned forward. “You wanna check?”
“Kill yourself.”
Sukuna barked a laugh.
Geto went next. “Mine was in a hot car. We kept hitting the horn on accident.” He sighed. “Mine wasn’t that bad, but one of my hookups was… yeah.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘yeah’.”
Geto rubbed his face.
“Okay, so I was hooking up with this girl from chem class. Cute, funny, kind of crazy, but like… manageable crazy. We go to her place, everything’s fine, and then—”
He snapped his fingers.
“She stops. Looks me dead in the eyes. And says, ‘Please don’t look at my dolls.’”
Shoko snorted. “Oh God.”
Geto nodded.
“I thought she meant like… two dolls. On a shelf. Whatever. No. She had a whole wall of them. Like twenty. All staring at me. Glass eyes. Different sizes. One of them blinked. I swear.”
Sukuna laughed. “You hallucinated, bro.”
“No. It blinked,” Geto insisted. “And then the girl starts TELLING me their names. Like we’re in a meet-and-greet with demon toys.”
Urahime clapped her hands. “Did you leave?”
“I ran,” Geto said. “Not walked. Ran. I didn’t even tie my shoes.”
Nanami covered his mouth to hide a smile.
“That is horrifying.”
“Yeah,” Geto sighed. “She still texts me on holidays.”
Shoko slapped her knee, cackling.
Nanami reluctantly admitted, “I misread the moment and asked for permission four times. She thought I was asking her to marry me.”
Urahime fell off the couch.
Sukuna rolled his eyes like this entire conversation offended him.
“My first time was boring,” he said. “I don’t do sentimental shit.”
“Tell it anyway,” you said, bored.
He glared.
You raised a brow.
He caved.
“She kept saying my tattoos were distracting.”
“Because they look like crime,” Shoko said.
Sukuna kicked her.
She kicked him back.
Shoko flicked her lighter.
“Alright. Mine. Brace yourselves.”
Urahime groaned. “This is my villain origin story.”
Shoko nodded proudly.
“So, you know how I said my first time was in the nurse’s office?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Already unhinged.”
“It gets worse,” Shoko said. “We didn’t lock the door.”
You winced. “Ew..”
“I know,” she groaned. “I was dumb. He was dumb. We were both dumb. And halfway through—”
She pointed at Urahime.
“This one walks in.”
Urahime looked traumatized all over again.
“I saw… too much. Way too much.”
“Imagine being the one in the act,” Shoko said dryly. “He screamed. I screamed. She screamed. The nurse screamed after she walked in behind Urahime.”
Nanami leaned back. “Why was the nurse there?”
“She works there?” Shoko said. “What do you mean why?”
Sukuna wheezed laughing.
“You traumatized an entire profession.”
Eventually the laughter faded, the night cooled, and everyone dragged themselves back inside.
You walked toward your room, exhausted but lighter—maybe from laughing, maybe from chlorine, maybe from avoiding eye contact with a certain white-haired menace all night.
You reached your door.
Hand on the knob.
And then—
“Wait.”
Gojo.
You turned slowly, already annoyed. “What.”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Can we talk?”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“Please.”
You hated that he said it softly.
You hated that it worked.
You crossed your arms. “Two minutes.”
He nodded and stepped into your room when you opened the door—like he’d been waiting all night.
The silence buzzed with leftover tension, leftover anger, leftover something-you-refused-to-name.
He finally spoke.
“I didn’t like how we ended things yesterday.”
He sighed. “I shouldn’t have said it like that.”
“No shit.”
He stepped closer.
Close enough that your pulse betrayed you.
“I was frustrated,” he said. “And scared I made things worse.”
“You did.”
“I know.”
Another step.
“I’m sorry.”
You looked away.
You HATED apologies.
Hated sincerity.
“Whatever,” you muttered. “Just don’t talk to me like that again.”
He tilted his head.
“I don’t want to fight with you.”
You rolled your eyes.
“You’re the one who keeps starting something.”
“No,” he murmured, stepping even closer—
“You keep starting something.”
You froze.
His hand brushed your waist.
Barely.
A ghost of a touch.
Your heart did something humiliating.
He leaned in, just enough for his breath to hit your cheek.
Not touching.
Not kissing.
Just hovering.
“You can be mean all you want,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Your throat tightened.
You whispered back, “I didn’t ask you to stay.”
He smirked—quiet, slow, dangerous.
“Yeah. That’s the problem.”
You almost kissed him.
You hate that you did.
You hate that your body leaned first, your breath stuttered, your fingers curled like you were about to grab his shirt and drag him down to your level.
But you pulled back at the last second.
“Get out,” you whispered.
His eyes flickered with something sharp.
“Say it nicer.”
“Get. Out.”
He chuckled softly.
“Night, princess.”
He left.
You shut the door.
And slid down it.
And cursed him under your breath until you finally dragged yourself to bed and fell asleep.
——————————————————————————
A/n: let’s ignore the fact that I’ve been writing Utahime as Urahime, I feel so dumb and honestly I really don’t feel like correcting cause my fingers feel numb. Do you guys like what I did with the title and stuff, and also do certain things make you laugh. I wheezed while writing the “he cannonballed” shit. Btw let me know if I should change something, like warnings which I’ve put effort in in this last chapter.
You were on your way to the salon to get your nails done, mentally rehearsing colors and trying to protect the last thread of sanity finals week hadn’t already chewed through. The plan was simple: walk in, get pampered.
But you didn’t even have to look to know he was there.
Gojo Satoru had a presence you could feel from a mile away — loud, obnoxious, impossible to ignore. And sure enough, as you crossed the parking lot, you spotted your friend group clustered together like a chaotic flock of birds… with him right in the middle, talking with his hands, laughing too loudly, being his usual dumbass self.
“Hey! Come here!” one of your friends shouted, waving you over before you could pretend you didn’t see them.
You considered walking straight to the salon anyway. You really did.
But they kept calling you, and eventually you sighed, flipped your hair over your shoulder, and made your way toward them.
The second you got close enough, Gojo turned. His grin softened into something different — not sweet, not apologetic, but definitely not his usual brand of cocky.
“Princess,” he said, stepping toward you.
You didn’t slow down. “Don’t.”
He ignored that, of course. Because he never listened. Instead, he gently hooked his fingers around your wrist, guiding you a few steps away from the group, lowering his voice like this was some dramatic moment.
“Just give me a sec,” he murmured. “I’m trying to apologise.”
You raised a brow. “For what? Be specific. The list’s quite long.”
He exhaled, actually looking a little sheepish — which was new, and honestly suspicious. “For the whole… ‘daddy’s girl’ thing.”
“It’s okay…. I guess?”
——————————————————————————
The airport was chaos, but the easy kind — coffee lines too long, people dragging suitcases that were definitely overweight, your friends yelling at each other across terminals like they owned the place.
You showed up with sunglasses on and a tote bag hanging off one shoulder, fully prepared to ignore Gojo for the entire travel day.
And weirdly… he let you.
He waved when you arrived — that stupid little two-finger salute — but he didn’t push, didn’t tease, didn’t try anything. He just stuffed his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and kept talking with Geto and Nanami about snacks and seating and whatever dumb thing guys talk about before 9 a.m.
It was almost peaceful.
On the plane, you didn’t sit next to him — thank God — but he still twisted around in his seat three rows ahead to grin at you every time the flight attendants walked by.
You flipped him off each time.
By the time you landed in Greece, everyone was exhausted in that excited way — loud, buzzing, already planning the night even though no one had slept in 20 hours.
The villa was beautiful, annoyingly so. White stone, blue accents, infinity pool overlooking the water. One of those places you’d see in an influencer’s feed and mutter, okay, liar.
And then everything fell apart at once.
A villa staff member reached for your luggage to help, and you yanked it back too aggressively.
“I’ve got it,” you snapped.
His startled look made guilt prick your chest — you ignored it.
Nanami tried to calm you down. “It’s not that serious—”
“It IS serious,” you cut in. “Nothing is ever organized when you dumbasses plan stuff.”
Urahime touched your arm. “Hey, we can fix it, just relax—”
“I am relaxed,” you snapped. “Stop talking to me like I’m fucking 5 years old.”
Geto stepped in next. “We’re all tired. Let’s just talk later—”
“No we’re not, you’re all useless. You guys can’t do shit.”
Shoko blinked at you. “You’re being dramatic.”
“And you’re being annoying. What’s new?”
Sukuna — who normally would be instigating — stared at you with an irritated scowl.
When you kept muttering under your breath, calling everything stupid and everyone incompetent, he finally snapped, “Alright, enough.”
“Stay out of it,” you shot back.
He clenched his jaw and looked away like he didn’t care… but he very clearly did.
One by one, everyone drifted off, leaving you alone at the end of the hall with your suitcase and a sinking, burning feeling you refused to call tears.
Then Gojo appeared.
Leaning on a doorframe.
Looking at you like he had been waiting for exactly this moment.
“You done?”
You turned, irritated. “Excuse me?”
He walked toward you with that slow, casual swagger that made you want to throw something.
“You’re being spoiled,” he said. “Like… you are actually 5.”
Your mouth fell open. “I’m not—”
“You are.”
Sharp. Unamused. Disappointingly serious.
“You didn’t get the room you wanted, so suddenly the whole villa is shit? Really?”
Your breath caught. Shame and rage tangled in your throat.
“I’m tired,” you tried. “And everything’s going wrong, and—”
“And you’re taking it out on everyone,” he said firmly. “They’re trying to start vacation, and you’re acting like the world’s ending because your bed doesn’t face the sea.”
Your vision blurred for half a second.
Not tears.
Just… humiliation.
He stepped closer, voice dropping.
“Get over yourself. Before you ruin everyone’s night.”
Something in your chest cracked.
You swallowed hard, blinking fast, letting out a little sniff.
He didn’t soften.
Didn’t take it back.
Just stared at you for a second longer, then turned away.
“Fix your attitude,” he said over his shoulder. “Then come downstairs.”
And then he was gone.
Leaving you in the hallway — devastated, furious, humiliated, and shaking.
You made your way to your room as soon as the hallway was empty, and threw yourself on the bed ruining the fresh pillows with your mascara running all over your red cheeks.
You didn’t look up when the door clicked shut again — you just kept your face in your hands, shoulders tight, breathing uneven in that humiliating, angry, hurt way.
Sukuna didn’t speak at first.
He just walked over, slow, like he was approaching a wounded animal that might bite.
Then he sat down next to you — closer this time — and after a long moment, he muttered, “Come here.”
You shook your head instantly. “No—”
But Sukuna didn’t wait. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you into him, firm and steady, like he’d done it a hundred times.
Your forehead hit his collarbone, your breath stuttered, and the tears you’d been trying to choke down finally broke loose.
“It’s okay,” he said, low and rough. “Let it out. No one’s here but me.”
That somehow made it worse — or better — because your hands fisted in his shirt and you curled against him, crying harder.
Not loud — just that quiet, shaking kind that hurts more.
Sukuna held you with both arms now, one big hand cradling the back of your head, thumb brushing once — just once — against your hairline.
“He was out of line,” he said. “He was pissed, and he said it wrong. You’re really not that embarrassing. You’re just… you.”
You let out a wet laugh against his chest. “That’s not a compliment.”
“It is when I say it.”
He smirked a little, voice softer. “You’re dramatic, not spoiled. There’s a difference.”
You sniffed, still clinging to him. “Everyone probably hates me.”
“No one hates you,” he said immediately. “They know how you get. They don’t take it personally.”
You lifted your head, eyes puffy, lashes clumped together.
Sukuna looked at you for a beat — really looked — and brushed your tear-sticky cheekbone with his thumb.
“You need air,” he said. “And if you stay in this room, you’re going to replay the whole thing until you go nuclear.”
You frowned. “…And?”
“And we’re going to the beach.”
Your eyes widened. “What?”
He was already pulling you up. “Before dinner. Before you have to see everyone. Come on. Sunset’s perfect and the water’s warm.”
You hesitated, wiping your face again. “I look awful.”
“You always look awful,” he said dryly. “Let’s go.”
You smacked his arm, but you followed him out.
——————————————————————————
The beach was empty except for the fading streaks of gold and pink over the water.
The breeze hit your face first — cool, soft, clean — and it felt like the first real breath you’d had all day.
Sukuna kicked off his shoes halfway down the sand.
“So,” he said, “you gonna keep sulking? Or am I gonna have to throw you in the water?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Five seconds later you were chasing him down the shore, both of you dodging waves, yelling, splashing each other whenever you got close enough.
You were laughing — actually laughing — the kind that bubbles out without permission.
He grinned — a real one — and grabbed your wrist, spinning you once in the shallows until your hair flew around you and you nearly fell over from laughing.
By the time the sun dipped low, both of you were drenched up to the knees, out of breath, and sitting side by side in the sand.
You leaned your shoulder against his.
He didn’t move away.
“You feel better?” he asked quietly.
“…Yeah,” you admitted. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me.”
He nudged your knee with his. “Just don’t go cry in your room alone again. It was pathetic.”
“You’re the worst.”
⸻
Up on the villa balcony, the group had gathered for dinner prep — Geto with drinks, Shoko with a cigarette, Urahime setting the table, Nanami attempting to maintain order, and Gojo leaning against the railing.
Urahime spotted you first.
“Oh,” she breathed, smiling. “She’s okay.”
Geto followed her gaze. “Told you she just needed space.”
Shoko flicked ash. “Or someone who isn’t Satoru.”
Even Nanami softened. “At least she’s laughing.”
And Gojo…
He froze.
There you were, running through the edge of the waves, hair glowing in the last light of sunset, Sukuna chasing you with seafoam splashing around his ankles.
Laughing.
Happy.
Safe.
And absolutely nowhere near him.
Gojo clenched the railing without meaning to, jaw tight.
Shoko glanced at him. “You okay?”
He didn’t answer.
He just watched you — the way you swatted Sukuna’s arm, the way Sukuna ruffled your hair, the way you didn’t seem angry anymore.
Dinner was already laid out by the time you and Sukuna walked back up to the villa — hair wind-tangled, sand sticking to your ankles, cheeks still a little pink from crying and laughing both.
Everyone looked up when you stepped onto the terrace.
Shoko grinned first. “Look who didn’t drown.”
Urahime rushed over with a gentle smile. “Are you feeling better?”
Geto raised his glass. “Good timing. Food’s getting cold.”
Nanami gave a polite nod — his version of affection. “Take a seat.”
And then there was Gojo.
He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t joke.
He just watched you walk to the table, blue eyes narrowed like he was trying to solve a problem he didn’t like the answer to.
Every time your shoulder brushed Sukuna’s, his jaw ticked.
You pretended not to see it, sitting down between Shoko and Geto, avoiding the seat directly across from him — because you weren’t emotionally stable enough for that yet.
Sukuna sat beside you anyway, chair scraping loudly, arm lifting behind your chair in that lazy, protective way that wasn’t subtle at all.
Gojo’s glare sharpened.
You cleared your throat, picking up your fork. “So… I guess I should say something.”
The table went quiet.
Everyone looked at you — except Gojo, who was staring directly at Sukuna like he was two seconds from switching seats by force.
You pushed a piece of bread around your plate. “I wasn’t trying to ruin anything. I was just stressed. And tired. And the room thing wasn’t my fault, so—”
Geto cut in gently. “Hey. None of us are mad at you.”
Shoko nodded. “Seriously. We’ve all seen you worse.”
Urahime reached across the table to squeeze your arm. “It’s okay. Really.”
Nanami added, “We understood the situation. And you weren’t the only one frustrated with it. It was annoying.”
Their kindness hit harder than an actual scolding would’ve.
You blinked down at your plate, swallowing. “Thanks. I’m… I’m not apologising-apologising. I’m just saying I wasn’t being a brat for no reason.”
Shoko smirked. “We know.”
Geto chuckled. “Trust me — we’ve traveled with Satoru. You’re allowed to have an off moment.”
That finally made you smile. Thank god.
——————————————————————————
The morning stayed easy.
Breakfast turned into a loose, sleepy conversation about what to do first — everyone tossing out ideas between bites of fruit and sips of too-strong coffee.
Urahime wanted to shop, Shoko wanted the beach, Geto voted for “something scenic,” Sukuna didn’t care but said he’d rather die than walk uphill in that heat.
You just sat there eating grapes, pretending you weren’t hyperaware of Gojo sitting two chairs down, not looking at you once.
Eventually, the group settled on a simple plan: a short walk into town, explore the seaside shops, grab something cold to drink, then hit the beach.
Easy. Harmless. No drama.
You hoped.
Walking through the small streets was… nice, actually.
The buildings were white and sun-washed, the air smelled like sunscreen and pastries, and the sea glimmered between rooftops like it was deliberately showing off.
Shoko looped her arm with yours.
“You seem better today,” she said gently.
“I’m fine,” you answered, too quickly.
“Uh-huh.” She didn’t believe you, but she didn’t push.
Behind you, Sukuna muttered, “She’s fine. If she wasn’t, we’d hear about it.”
“Thanks?” you said.
“That was a compliment.”
Kind of.
Gojo drifted somewhere behind the group, hands in his pockets, sunglasses reflecting the bright sky.
Every time laughter broke out, he didn’t join.
Every time someone pointed something out in a shop window, he just nodded.
He wasn’t teasing you.
He wasn’t looking at you.
He wasn’t anything.
And somehow that bothered you way more.
About halfway down the street, Geto slowed his pace until he was beside you.
“So… you and Satoru,” he said casually.
You groaned, head falling back. “Oh my God. No.”
“I’m not judging,” he said, completely judging. “Just observing.”
“There’s nothing to observe,” you snapped.
Urahime snorted. “Yeah, except the fact you two are allergic to being normal near each other.”
Sukuna added, “It’s like watching two cats argue over a sunbeam.”
“Shut up,” you muttered, walking faster.
Behind you, Gojo finally said something — quiet but annoyed.
“Can you guys mind your business?”
Everyone froze for half a second.
You didn’t turn. You just kept walking.
The beach came as a relief — bright, sparkling water, soft sand, umbrellas already set up by other tourists. A breeze cooled the heat clinging to your skin.
You dropped your bag, kicked off your sandals, and let the ocean wind lift your hair.
Shoko sighed. “See? This is what we needed.”
For a moment, it really did feel perfect.
Everyone relaxed — laying out towels, spreading sunscreen, dipping their feet in the shore.
Even Sukuna laughed when a wave splashed his ankles and he pretended he wasn’t startled.
You found yourself smiling.
Actually smiling.
Gojo stayed further back, sitting on a towel with his knees drawn up, watching the horizon like he was refusing to look anywhere else.
You tried not to let it bother you.
Tried.
Lunch was at a small beachfront café — plastic chairs, fresh lemonade, grilled food that smelled way too good.
“Okay,” Urahime said, stirring her drink, “I know we’re all acting casual, but is anyone gonna talk about the world’s quietest tension between those two?”
“Urahime,” Geto warned.
“What?” She shrugged. “I’m just saying. The vibes are—”
“Don’t,” you snapped.
Everyone went silent.
Gojo didn’t even look up from his plate.
You hated that.
Sukuna cleared his throat, trying to cut the tension. “Anyway. The food’s good.”
Shoko whispered to you, “You okay?”
“I’m great,” you lied.
You weren’t. Lunch felt tight, heavy, like everyone was stepping around something huge and invisible.
Back at the villa after lunch, the heat had grown thick, the kind that wraps around you and makes everything feel louder.
You were heading toward your room when you heard footsteps behind you.
Gojo.
Of course.
He didn’t touch you, just stopped at your side.
“You’re ignoring me,” he said simply.
You let out a hollow laugh. “Wow. Shocking observation.”
He exhaled through his nose, frustrated. “I’m trying to give you space.”
“That’s funny,” you shot back. “Just shut up.”
You finally turned to face him.
For once, he didn’t have a joke. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t deflect.
“I’m just…” he started, then stopped. “I’m trying to not make things worse.”
“That’s the thing,” you said, voice cracking even though you tried to hold it steady. “You already did.”
And you walked into your room before he could say anything else.
Every party, every hallway, every group chat you were in, there he was: loud, unserious, six-foot-something of smugness wrapped in a fit white shirt. He had that stupid grin girls melted for and the cocky attitude that made you want to run him over.
A year ago he came up to you at a frat party, blue eyes glinting like he already owned you.
And you’d rejected him.
You could still remember the way his smile dropped, just a little, before reforming into something cockier and definitely more annoying.
He never got over it.
Ever since, he’s made it his mission to haunt you.
Pranks. Comments. Laughing too loudly whenever you walked past. Acting like he was God’s gift to earth just because half the campus drooled over him. His fanbase swore they hated you to death for rejecting him, as much as they were grateful for that, but in their minds you could never reject THE Gojo Satoru. Very controversial.
And yet… he always came back.
You were at your locker touching up your lip gloss when Gojo’s reflection appeared behind you, leaning so close his breath touched your shoulder.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the meanest girl on campus.” His voice was a low, mocking drawl. “With the amount of guys you’ve gone through, you could’ve just let me fuck you, y’know.”
You didn’t even flinch.
“It’s rich coming from you, Satoru,” you said, smacking your lips together and admiring the shine. “You probably have three different STDs and a coupon for a fourth.”
He grinned like your insults were compliments.
“You’re so mean. You know that?”
“Yeah, it’s hard keeping up the good work,” you said, slamming your locker shut. “But you make it real easy.”
Gojo shoved his hands into his pockets, leaning forward with that signature smirk that probably got him out of parking tickets.
“I’d give you such a good time,” he murmured. “All you gotta do is give in a little. I’m actually doing you a favor, you know. Every girl on campus would dream of this, but you—” he tapped your chin lightly, “you’re so spoiled.”
You raised a brow, turning away and letting your hips sway as you walked off, your pink skirt sliding a little higher with each step.
“Oh my god,” you huffed dramatically. “You just never give up, do you?”
“Nope,” he called, following you with infuriatingly long strides. “A man who yearns, earns.”
“If you weren’t such a dickhead,” you said, stopping in front of him, “I might’ve considered it.” You jabbed his chest with one manicured finger. “But after the stunts you’ve pulled? Do you really think I’d let you hit?”
Gojo leaned down, eyes locked on yours—a challenge, a promise, a spark of something stubborn and stupid and addictive.
“Oh, I know you will.”
Your laugh was sharp. “Delusion looks good on you.”
He smirked, stepping even closer. “You keep saying no, princess. I’ll keep giving you reasons to change your mind.”
You rolled your eyes and walked away, “I expect to see at the party tonight” he yells, bringing his hand up. “I’m not coming so don’t bother.”
He was annoying.
He was relentless.
He was Gojo Satoru.
And worst of all?
You had a feeling he was far from done with you.
——————————————————————————
The party was already too loud, too crowded, and too full of people you didn’t like—but you walked in anyway, pretending to act like you’re not as annoyed as you actually were.
You made it exactly five minutes in before he found you.
Gojo appeared beside you like a bad magic trick. “Look who showed up.”
You didn’t even look at him. “Congratulations. You can see.”
He leaned down until his breath brushed your ear. “I can see a liar, actually.”
You turned, lifting your cup between you like a shield. “What did I lie about?”
“You said you weren’t coming.”
“We’re both full of shit then. Next.”
He grinned, delighted. “So we agree.”
“No.” You crossed your arms. “I’m just acknowledging your bad personality.”
“Awww ,” he said, placing a hand dramatically on his chest, “that hurts. Hurts deeply.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re impossible.”
He gasped—loud, theatrical, absolutely ridiculous. “Impossible? Me? I’ll have you know I’m a delight. A treasure. A gift.”
“A gift people try to return.”
A few people nearby snorted. Gojo’s jaw dropped in offense so fake it deserved an award.
“Wow,” he said, “you’re in a mood tonight.”
“I wonder whose fault that is.”
“Yours,” he replied instantly. “Because you’re obsessed with me.”
You choked on air. “Obs— Are you okay?” You finish while jabbing a finger to the side of your head, making him understand that you’re asking if he’s “brain damaged” to which he chuckles.
“Only a little,” he said cheerfully. “But not enough to miss the fact that you’re still here in front of me right now.”
You blinked. “I’m here because you’re blocking the drinks.”
“Ohhh.” He nodded wisely. “Right. You came all the way here just for vodka cranberry. Not for me.”
“Exactly.”
“Not because you missed me.”
“I didn’t.”
“Not because you were thinking about me.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Not because you wanted to see if I’d kiss you.”
He really knew how to get on your nerves. “Gojo, please shut the fuck up.”
He smirked like he’d just won a prize. “And there it is.”
You shoved past him, heading toward the kitchen, but of course he followed—lazy steps, smug smile, eyes burning with trouble.
“This isn’t an argument, cause I literally wouldn’t know who you are if you weren’t always being a pain in the ass” you snapped.
“Oh, but it is,” he countered easily. “A very serious one. You’re mad at me.”
“I’m not mad.”
“You’re so mad.”
“Gojo.”
“Like, furious.”
“Gojo.”
“Princess-level rage.”
You stopped, turning sharply. “Why are you like this?!”
He blinked. Then, deadpan, “Genetics?”
You stared. He smiled.
“I can’t stand you.”
“Mhm. You say that,” he said, leaning closer, “but you showed up.”
Your heart thudded once, traitorously loud.
“If you keep talking,” you said, “I’m walking right out that door.”
He stepped back, hands raised. “Okay, okay. I’ll behave.”
You raised a brow. “You? Behave?”
He grinned.
“Alright, fine. I’ll behave ironically.”
Later in the night, someone dragged a folding table into the living room and declared it was time for a game.
A stupid one.
Of course Gojo was already there, sleeves pushed up, smirking like he’d been waiting just for you.
“Oh look,” he drawled when you approached, “here to lose?”
“You don’t even know what we’re playing.”
“Don’t need to,” he shot back. “I can beat you at anything.”
You stepped up beside him, arms crossed. “Bold words for someone who cried the last time he lost Mario Kart.”
“That was one time,” he corrected. “And my controller was broken.”
“Right.”
He leaned down, whispering, “Keep talking. Just makes beating you more fun.”
Someone shouted that the game was flip cup, and before you could refuse, Gojo was already lining you up across from him like it was a duel at sunrise.
The music thumped, people cheered, and you knocked your first cup back with ease. It flipped perfectly on the first try.
Gojo’s didn’t.
You smirked. “Aww. What happened, hotshot?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Beginner’s luck.”
“Please. I was born better than you.”
The next round you both flipped in sync, cups slamming onto the table at the exact same time. The group roared.
Gojo grinned wide, his competitive streak burning bright.
“Princess,” he said, “if you wanted to be this close to me, you could’ve just asked.”
“Shut up and drink, Satoru.”
The rivalry escalated—trash talk, shoulder bumps, the occasional brush of his fingers against yours that he absolutely did on purpose.
But somewhere between rounds, the atmosphere around you shifted.
People were getting sloppy. Loud. Reckless. Someone was half passed out on a couch, drinks spilling, others recording them instead of helping. A couple was making out in the hallway so aggressively it looked painful.
Your mood soured instantly.
You stepped back from the table. “I’m done.”
Gojo blinked. “What? Scared to lose?”
“As if,” you snapped. “Just not interested in watching everyone dissolve into brainless animals.”
He raised a brow as you grabbed your phone. “So you’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Because people are drunk?”
“Because people are disgusting,” you corrected sharply. “There’s a difference.”
He watched you with that lazy, assessing look of his—half amusement, half something else.
Then he laughed.
A low, taunting sound that made you stiffen.
“There it is,” he said. “The princess attitude.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting.” He took a step toward you, hands in his pockets, tone dripping with sarcasm. “You’re so dramatic. One person throws up and suddenly you’re too good to exist in the same building.”
You bristled. “It’s pathetic. They’re embarrassing.”
“They’re in college,” he countered. “Being embarrassing is the whole point.”
“Well I’m not interested.”
“You’re not interested,” he echoed, mocking lightly. “Yeah, I know. Because you’re spoiled.”
Your jaw tightened. “Excuse you?”
“You heard me.” His smirk grew. “Spoiled little daddy’s girl. Never had to deal with anything messy.”
“That’s not—”
He cut you off with a shrug. “It’s fine. Honestly? Kinda cute.”
Your glare sharpened. “Call me that again and see what happens.”
He leaned in, voice low and teasing, deliberately pushing your buttons.
“Daddy’s. Girl.”
For a moment the party noise faded behind the rush of heat in your chest—anger, embarrassment, something sharper you refused to name.
You stepped away from him.
“I’m leaving,” you said coldly. “Enjoy your little zoo.”
You turned toward the door.
Behind you, Gojo sighed—dramatic, annoyed, but also…something else.
“Princess,” he called after you, “don’t actually go home mad.”
You didn’t look back.
“Fuck you” you said, walking out into the cool night air.
But your tight grip on the doorknob said otherwise.
——————————————————————————
A/n: I love disappearing for months and coming back one night out of nowhere. I wanted to make it longer but colouring every dialogue took so much energy out of me I don’t wanna write this story anymore🙏🏼
