Lacrimadreams

Satoru’s wife Mainly Gojo x reader fic writer Angst enthusiast

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Rima 𑣲⋆｡˚ || 21 yrs ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀|| Writer⋆˚꩜｡ || She/her

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[lacrimadreams]

A Night Well Earned ᥫ᭡. Gojo Satoru x Reader

A Oneshot

pairings - Lovesick!Husband/Dadjo x Wife!reader (f/m)

WC- 6.6k

SMALL SYNOPSIS- Gojo Satoru loved his wife (you) so much, it was embarrassing. So what will happen when a misunderstanding risks him losing you forever? (hint: a lot of sex!)

♡ ₊˚‧ WARNINGS :: No use of Y/N :: Husband Gojo:: Yearner Gojo :: Real World AU:: TENSION!:: Angst:: SMUTT :: mild fluff:: Fingering:: Making out :: Grinding :: Overtime :: Established relationship :: Car Sex :: Misunderstanding:: Dom Satoru :: Slight fluff:: HEAT :: Intimacy:: partying:: Sensuality:: Semi-public sex:: Teasing:: Drinking:: multiple orgasms:: Nicknames:: Sweet talking:: NOT proofread:: (probably more)

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: Um... Hi everyone. I don't really know what to say. I know it has been SO LONG since my last fic, and I deeply apologize to my readers for making you guys wait so long. I pushed myself so hard during the school year that I was left totally spent and burnt out by the time summer rolled around, and working on fics was unfortunately the last of my concern until I got my needed rest. I wanted to thank you guys for your patience with a super sweet and smutty fic, and also wanted to tell you personally that while updates might not be as common as they were before my break, I have slowly but surely started writing again. I am so excited to continue sharing my works with you, and value your support so much. Thank you to all of you again, and I really hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

🎧ྀི♪⋆.✮MUSIC RECS: Anything by The Weeknd

The bass was loud enough to make the shitty walls crumble. Not even just metaphorically, because Aoi Todo spent so much of his nonexistent budget on booze that housing was a secondary concern. The only requirement was that it had to be suitable for parties, which was a condition currently being questioned. 

Every few seconds, the glasses stacked behind the rented bar gave a faint rattle against each other, accompanied by a hundred bursts of laughter coming from every direction. Waves of music rolled through the dinky house like a physical blow, and conversations were audible from every corner of the space. 

A giant gold banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY TODO hung crookedly across the living room, the tape on one side already beginning to peel away while taking some of the wallpaper with it. Confetti littered every available surface, and someone had somehow acquired a fog machine. Another person had decided that the party wasn’t enough of a choking hazard and was currently rolling around with a handheld confetti cannon, blowing it straight into people’s faces. 

It was chaos– which, frankly, made perfect sense for Todo’s birthday party. This man approached his celebrations with the same level of restraint he approached anything else in his life– which meant absolutely none. 

“SATORU!”

Todo’s voice boomed from somewhere across the room. Gojo looked up just in time to see his friend standing on a coffee table with a drink raised high above his head. The crowd around him erupted into cheers. Gojo snorted into his beer. Of course. 

Five years ago, he would have been right up there beside him. But now? Now he found himself leaning back against a makeshift couch that was wedged against the wall, nursing his drink and wondering if Arwen had nursed as many times as she needed to tonight. 

The realization hit him hard enough to make him laugh. He was thirty years old. Married for years. A father to a four month old baby that he genuinely thought had anger issues given how she pumped her tiny fists in the air any time she was inconvenienced. 

Which is why, somehow, while standing in the middle of one of the most ridiculous parties he had attended in years, all he could remember to think about was whether his daughter was cuddled up with her microwaveable stuffed rabbit, asleep. The thought made him smile. 

Without even thinking, he pulled out his phone and his lockscreen lit up immediately. 

You.

And Arwen. You were sitting cross-legged in the grass at the park, laughing up at Satoru as he took the picture while Arwen sat in your lap, tiny fingers clutching the neckline of your shirt, her eyes transfixed on a very interesting dandelion fuzzy floating through the air as her small mouth dropped open in awe. The picture was slightly blurry and neither of you were looking at the camera. 

It was perfect. 

Gojo stared at it for a moment longer than needed and an aching warmth settled in his chest. 

God, he missed you. 

It hadn’t been long since he’d seen you– he’d been right by your side this morning, this afternoon. You had helped him pick his outfit right before he left for the party. Yet somehow that never seemed to matter, because the second he was gone, he found himself thinking of you. 

“Whipped.”

Gojo looked up. Geto sat beside him, completely uninvited as usual. “You’ve checked your phone four times in the last ten minutes.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Three.”

Geto took a sip of his drink. “It was four.” Gojo rolled his eyes. 

You had also been invited to Todo’s party, but had chosen to stay home with your baby, desperately looking forward to a night in after a long work week.

Across from them, Nanami looked deeply unimpressed by the whole conversation. “I genuinely cannot imagine caring enough to count.” 

Gojo snorted, tipping his bottle up toward his lips. “Don’t be mean, Kento, you know he doesn’t have much to do since he doesn’t have this~” He held up his wedding band in an exaggerated, obnoxious way, a shiny silver ring that glowed in the glaring neon light. 

The conversation dissolved into rolled eyes and laughter. For a while, Gojo got his mind off of home. Things were easy, friends and drinks, background noise and the familiar comfort of people who had known each other for years. 

Nanami passed around another serving of beers, Geto started arguing against the artistic value of the generic Homegoods paintings Todo had adorned his home with, causing Todo to appear long enough to shout something unintelligible before disappearing back into the crowd. 

The party continued surging around them, and somewhere in the mix a new voice entered the conversation. A younger guy– maybe twenty-one, twenty-two. Gojo hadn’t seen him before, but he vaguely remembered someone mentioning that Todo had some family visiting. A cousin, or a nephew, who cared? The details escaped him. 

The kid had inserted himself into their circle about 10 minutes ago and hadn’t stopped talking since. At first, nobody paid him much attention, giving his snark remarks distant nods. But then he kept talking. And talking. And talking. The conversation shifted to people they knew from University, and Ms. Eden got brought up. 

Who is Ms. Eden? Well… 

Geto smiled at the memory. “That teacher assistant for Professor Wilke’s lecture that always baked hundreds of cookies for us. God, those were the highlights of the week for broke college students.” 

Gojo chuckled in agreement. “She was great. I hope she’s become a professor herself now. She deserves it.” 

The kid leaned forward immediately. “She is a professor now, I had her for English 101. Wilkes retired the year before I got there.” 

Gojo's eyebrows raised “Oh, that’s great. Good for h–”

“Her ass is so fat. All the guys loved it when she wore those little pencil skirts, really showed everything off.” he snickered. “I mean, that was the most feminine thing she could do after choosing such a male-centered career. Finding out it was a female professor is what almost made me switch out the class, but I’m glad I stayed for the show.”

The circle fell quiet for a second, but the kid kept laughing, apparently mistaking the silence for encouragement. “I’m serious. That’s literally all I noticed every time she walked in.” 

Gojo took another sip. Slowly. Very slowly, before lowering his bottle. His eyes hiked over to Nanami, who had his own closed while Geto pinched the edge of his nose. Then over to Shoko, who had wandered over at some point and looked about one comment away from throwing her drink at him. The kid was rambling the entire time. 

“Seriously, though–”

“Oh my God.” The interruption came from Shoko. The kid stopped. “Can you shut up?”

The entire group froze awkwardly before Geto chuckled, slapping his hand onto the kid’s shoulder. “Seriously, dude. You sound gross. You should stop.”

Shoko nodded and grimaced, taking another sip of the drink. “Jesus. I’ve known you for about three minutes and every one of them has been exhausting.” 

The kid just stared, cheeks pinking, obviously awestruck and embarrassed at his misjudgement of the type of crowd this was. Geto burst out into laughter. Nanami looked away immediately, clearly attempting not to smile and even Gojo couldn’t stop the grin that appeared on his lips. 

“I was just saying–”

“No,” Shoko interrupted. “You were embarrassing yourself, so I suggest you stop before you do it further.”

Geto laughed harder, and someone behind them snorted at how the kid finally seemed to realize that the conversation wasn’t going to be directed in the way he’d imagined. For the first time all night, he fell fucking silent. Peace settled over the group– beautiful, immediate, glorious peace. 

Gojo took one final sip from his bottle. Empty. He glanced down at it, and then toward the kitchen where fresh ones were being kept. Honestly, that seemed like a better use of his time. 

Setting the bottle down on the nearby table, he pushed himself to his feet. “Well,” he said, brushing invisible dust off of his T-shirt, “that’s my cue.” 

The others barely acknowledged him. Shoko was still glaring at the kid and Geto was still dying. Nanami nodded at Gojo, looking seconds away from leaving the party entirely. 

Gojo shook his head, amused, then he turned toward the kitchen in search of another ice cold beer. The kitchen was one of the few places in the house that wasn’t completely swallowed by the party. The music still rattled the windows and voices still drifted in and out, but compared to the packed living room, it was serene. He welcomed the momentary break. 

He crossed the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and grabbed another drink from one of the overcrowded shelves. He took a second to look at the other things in Aoi Todo’s fridge. Beer. Milk. Diet Coke. Cereal. More beer. Gojo let out a laugh under his breath before he closed the fridge, trying to think of how he could tease Todo about putting a cereal box in the fridge whenever they ended up having a conversation next.

He turned his attention to the cold bottle, slick with condensation against his palm. He shut the door with his hip, hooked a finger beneath the cap, and twisted it free. The sharp hiss sounded almost soothing. He took a deep exhale before taking a sip. 

“..well, hello.”

The voice came from his right. Gojo glanced over. A blonde woman stood beside the kitchen island, smiling at him. She was undeniably attractive. Her long baby blonde hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, and she wore a fitted red set with tall heels that clicked against the hardwood floor whenever she shifted her weight. Several pieces of jewelry glittered beneath the kitchen lights. The smile she gave him was practiced, confident. The kind that suggested she rarely experienced rejection. 

Gojo already felt a headache forming. 

The woman tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stepped closer. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“We haven’t.” His answer was polite enough. Brief enough that most people would’ve taken the hint. 

Unfortunately, she didn’t. In fact, her smile widened. “That’s a shame.”

Gojo silently took another sip of his beer. Across the room, someone opened the back door and a burst of music flooded through the kitchen before fading again. The woman leaned against the counter. “So what’s your name?”

“Satoru.”

“Pretty name.”

Gojo hummed noncommittally. His eyes drifted behind her head to the hallway. He briefly wondered again if Arwen had fallen asleep. She struggled with new bedtime routines, and Gojo was usually the one who cradled her to sleep at night. The memory tugged a smile back onto his face. 

The blonde woman immediately noticed. “There it is.”

He blinked, trying to bring his focus back to reality. “There what is?”

“That smile.” she pointed at him, biting her lower lip. “You should do that more often.”

Gojo immediately stopped smiling. 

The woman laughed, apparently finding his reaction amusing. “Wow. Tough crowd.”

He took another drink, not responding. She stepped closer, not enough to be blatantly obvious, but enough to be intentional. “You know,” she said, “Todo mentioned you’d be here.”

That got his attention. “He did?”

“Mhm.” The woman nodded slowly. “Said you were tall and handsome.”

Gojo already hated where this conversation was going. “And?”

Her grin turned playful. “He undersold it.”

There it was. The flirting. Direct, unsubtly, absolutely exhausting. Gojo had to resist the urge to sigh. The woman reached out and placed a hand against his chest. The movement was casual and familiar, like she’d assumed she would be welcome here. Gojo's jaw immediately tightened, and without hesitation he caught her wrist and gently but firmly moved her hand away. “I’m married.” 

The woman blinked. Then laughed, actually laughed as though he had told a joke. “That’s your concern?”

“My concern?”

“Relax.” She waved a dismissive hand, “I don’t mind.”

Gojo stared at her. For a moment, he genuinely wondered if she’d heard him correctly. Then he realized she had, she just didn’t care. And that epiphany annoyed him far more than he expected. 

The woman stepped closer again. “One night isn’t the end of the world.” 

Gojo’s expression flattened. In his mind, he saw you immediately. Not some idealized version or fantasy, just you. You laughing in the kitchen, cooking dinner with him, you showing up to his office during work breaks and stealing kisses in the elevator, you asleep with him after long nights with a newborn, you holding Arwen for the first time in that hospital room. You crying, laughing, you existing. 

Every moment was precious. Every moment belonged to home. To his family. The very idea that he would risk any of it felt absurd. Not tempting or difficult– completely absurd. “I think you misunderstood me.” The amusement faded from his voice. The woman seemed to notice, because her smile weakened slightly.

Gojo set his beer on the counter before placing both hands on her shoulders and carefully guiding her backward, creating space between them. Intentional but not aggressive. “I love my wife.” His voice was calm, certain. The woman opened her mouth but he continued before she could. “I love her more than anything.” A step back. “I love my wife and daughter more than anything.” His expression softened despite himself, his body taking another step back.

The kitchen suddenly felt quieter. The woman stared at him for a moment. Then rolled her eyes. Rolled. Her. Eyes. Gojo nearly laughed from disbelief. 

“You’re serious.” She said, raising an eyebrow. 

“I am.”

“Wow.” She folded her arms, a grin spreading across her face. “It’s okay. Usually it takes more than one try.” 

Gojo raised an eyebrow. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means most guys need a few chances before they cave.” she shrugged. “And as far as married men go, you’re surprisingly difficult.” 

His face went completely blank. The woman sighed dramatically. “Fine.” Then she smiled again, “One last shot.”

Before he could respond she stepped forward, fast. Both arms looped around his neck as she leaned closer. He could feel her hot, alcoholic breath on his lips and it sickened him. “What are you–”

A tiny sound interrupted him. Not loud, or even a full word. Just a soft, uncertain squeak from the doorway behind them. 

“...Toru?”

Everything stopped. The noise, the music, the conversation, his heartbeat. Gojo knew that voice, he would know it anywhere. Slowly, he turned around. 

And saw you. Standing in the kitchen doorway. For one impossible second, his mind forgot how to function. You looked beautiful. Not in the domestic, casual way he was accustomed to since Arwen, but in a way that stole the air from his lungs the second he whipped around. 

Your makeup was done, your hair had been carefully styled, soft voluminous curls fanning your perfect face. The black dress you wore was elegant and striking, short and deep necked, lace details tracing along the tops of your breasts in the fabric. You looked like you’d stepped straight out of one of the photos hidden in his wallet, like the version of you he would brag about to everyone who would listen. Like his wife. 

His wife. 

Who was currently staring at another woman wrapped around his neck. 

The blood drained from his face, pure horror flashing across his features. The blonde woman seemed to realize her mistake at exactly the same moment. Gojo reacted instantly. He grabbed her wrists, pulled her arms away, then firmly moved her backward. The distance between them appeared immediately, but it was already too late. Your eyes never left the scene. 

Gojo watched your expression change– confusion, recognition, pain. Your lower lip trembled just slightly, barely noticeable, yet somehow he saw it more clearly than anything else in the room. You looked so small. So hurt. The realization drove through his chest. 

“No.” The word escaped him before he could stop it. Your gaze dropped to the floor. You turned around and started walking away. 

Gojo felt his heart shatter into pieces. “No, no no–” 

His beer remained forgotten on the counter. The blonde woman disappeared from existence entirely. Nothing mattered except you. Getting to you. 

He moved immediately, pushing past the island, ignoring the music, ignoring the party, ignoring everything, only one thought existing in his head as he hurried after you. 

You thought he’d betrayed you, and if he didn’t fix this right now, he wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive himself. 

Gojo sprinted. People turned, startled by the 6’3” guy suddenly barreling his way through a dance floor full of drunk idiots. Some girl spilled her drink, another yelled “Dude!” as he shouldered past. But he didn’t care– not at all. He saw your black dress disappearing toward the front door and pushed faster, adrenaline fueling each step. The guilt was crushing, but right now he had to focus on getting to you before you could leave with the wrong idea. He yelled out your name, voice booming over the music, raw with panic. 

Closer to the door, the partygoers parted like a wave as Gojo shoved through, his broad shoulders knocking aside anyone with the misfortune of being in his path. You were almost to the door, hand reaching out for the handle, but he closed the distance in seconds. He grabbed your wrist gently but firmly and spun you around to face him. His eyes were frantic, wide and pleading. “Baby,” he choked out. “It’s not what you think.” 

You swallowed, a shaky breath leaving you. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

You wiped quickly at the tears staining your face, embarrassed, trying to compose yourself and pretend your heart wasn’t breaking. “I didn't mean to interrupt.”

His stomach dropped. “Interrupt?”

You laughed softly, a sad laugh that hurt infinitely more than crying. “Your fun.”

Gojo stared at you. Then stared some more as the words refused to process. “My what?”

You looked down again. “I just..” your voice cracked, “I wanted to surprise you.” 

God. Oh God. His heart physically ached. 

You glanced toward the door. “I got Arwen to sleep early.” Another sniffle, “I did my hair.” Your fingers twisted together nervously. “I thought maybe we’d stay for a little while together.”

Gojo’s chest caved in at your tears. Your voice– so small, so broken, hurt worse than anything. That frown, the small sniffle, he’d never felt like a bigger piece of shit in his life. He stepped forward and yanked you forward into his arms, crushing you against him and burying his face into your hair, inhaling. “No.” he rasped desperately. “No, no, no…. Baby there was no fun. I swear on my life. On Arwen’s life.” His hands trembled as they clutched onto the back of your dress. That girl was nothing. She was less than nothing. The whole night wasn’t worth shit, much less worth you standing here hurt because of it.

Gojo pulled back just enough to cup your face, to wipe away fresh tears with a calloused thumb, his own eyes burning now at the thought of you believing he had done something like that to you. “She came onto me,” he said urgently, voice thick. “I didn’t touch her, didn’t flirt back. I told her I was married the second she touched my chest.” He took a shaky breath, pressing his forehead to yours so you could see how serious he was. You searched his face and he let you, because he had nothing to hide. “I would never do that to you.” His eyes softened. “Ever.” 

Neither of you spoke. The music from inside continued to shake the walls. Laughter erupted somewhere nearby. The front hallway was filled with people shuffling in and out of the living room. The party continued around you, completely unaware that Gojo felt like his entire universe had nearly collapsed. 

He looked around once and then back at you. “Nope.”

You blinked. “What?”

“We’re not having this conversation here.”  Before you could protest he reached down and took your hand, naturally, immediately, like breathing. His fingers laced through yours as he guided you through the front doorway, away from the noise and crowd, from everything. The night air greeted you the second you stepped outside, cool and quiet compared to the chaos unwinding indoors. Gojo didn’t stop until you were near the car, fairy lights hung between the trees of the neighborhood. Then he turned to you fully, still holding you close to him. 

Moonlight caught onto your tear streaked face and it destroyed him. Without hesitation. He leaned in and locked his lips with yours softly, warm breath fanning over your cheek. His mouth moved languidly against yours as he poured out regret and love in one desperate motion. His other arm wrapped around your waist again, pulling you close, wanting to erase every second you had felt pain tonight. When he finally pulled away, your eyes were still closed for a second. He rested his forehead back against yours and you sniffled quietly. The sound made him smile despite himself. “So?” he murmured. 

You opened your eyes, and there was still some uncertainty there, some vulnerability. “Okay…” your voice was small. “So you really didn’t do anything with her?”

Gojo immediately shook his head “No.” Not a second of hesitation, not a moment of consideration. “Not a single thing,” he swore, voice rough. “She touched me first– like, right when you walked in– and I shoved her off the second I realized what was happening.”

His thumb brushed another stray tear away before cradling your cheek. “I was getting another beer because some kid was pissing me off by talking about women like objects and I needed a break… and then she came up to me.” A frustrated grunt. “I didn’t even know her name.” He leaned in to kiss your forehead this time, a gentle apology. 

Finally, some of the tension left your shoulders. Then more, then more. Until you simply stepped forward and tucked yourself against him. Gojo nearly melted. A breath escaped him long and heavy. That was all he needed, proof that you believed him, that you still trusted him. His arms locked around you, one hand sliding up to hold the back of your head as the other rubbed slow circles on your spine through the black dress fabric. He pressed kiss after kiss to the top of your hair, your temple, wherever he could reach without pulling away from the hug. 

The familiar motion eventually drew out a less quiet version of you again. “Did you have fun?” You murmured against him.

Gojo chuckled against your hair before shaking his head– no. “Not at all.” he admitted quietly. He hadn’t had fun, not really. The party was too loud, the people were too obnoxious. “I just came because Todo begged me.” A pause. “I spent the whole night thinking about you.”

Your expression softened. 

“And Arwen.” He grinned. “Mostly Arwen.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, maybe fifty-fifty.”

“Definitely lying.”

Gojo laughed again, pulling you closer. “Let’s just say I would’ve rather been home with my girls.”

You nuzzled into his chest as your gaze drifted toward the house, toward the glowing windows, the music and laughter spilling into the night, then you looked back at him. “Do you wanna go back in?”

Gojo followed your gaze. Stared at the party for exactly two seconds. Then looked at you. 

His wife, standing beneath the dim light. 

The woman he’d fallen in love with years ago. 

The mother of his baby girl.

The person he wanted beside him when he was twenty. 

And thirty. 

And seventy. 

The person he’d choose every single time. 

His expression softened, and he leaned down to press a kiss against your temple, shaking his head slightly. “Nah… let’s go home.” His voice was warm with finality, and he already had his keys out of his jacket pocket as he gently guided you toward the car parked on the side of the road. Todo could keep his party– Gojo had everything he wanted right here. 

You let out an exaggerated sigh, the last remnants of your earlier tears giving way to something lighter. “What a waste of a good dress. You didn’t even notice.” 

Gojo stared at you before he let out a laugh. “A waste?” Without warning, he spun you around against the car door and kissed you deeply, hungrily. “Oh I noticed it. Just didn’t seem appropriate to bring up your rockin’ bod when you were in tears.” he murmured against your lips, one hand sliding down to grip your hip while the other held onto your jaw.

He had ways of appreciating this dress that were far better than you showing it off at some stupid party, ways like peeling it off and bending you over until—

He groaned at the thought, thumb swiping at your lower lip, glistening with red cherry gloss that had rubbed onto your chin with his messy kisses. The dress– tight, sleek, hugging every perfect curve of your body– was suddenly an obstacle he wanted to destroy. His lips met yours again and the kiss turned hotter, rabid, sticky cherry liquid intoxicating his tongue as his hands roamed down the black fabric, mapping the shape of you before squeezing your ass possessively. 

Then he broke the kiss long enough to tilt his lips toward your ear as he growled. “Get in the car.” 

You exhaled shakily as he pulled open the passenger seat and got in first, pulling you into his lap to straddle him soon after. Your thighs settled on either side of him, and you panted as he slammed the car door shut, licking his lips as his eyes raked over you.

A blush crawled its way up your neck to your cheeks, warming your face and causing a devilish grin to spread onto Gojo’s, cerulean eyes gleaming with mischief. “Toru.. this is right in front of a party. Someone could see us.” You mumbled. 

Gojo didn’t give a single fuck about the party. “Let them see.”

He had his wife– gorgeous, blushing, straddling him in that sinful dress– and he was done waiting. His hands immediately gripped your thighs, hiking up the skirt of your dress as he crushed your mouths together again, the kiss messier now with teeth clashing and tongues swishing. One hand slid up your spine to tangle in your hair while the other pressed flat against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him so you could feel exactly how affected he was. The car windows were slightly tinted, but was it still risky? Absolutely. 

You kissed him back but felt the heat in your cheeks grow even more. “Satoru!”  You whisper-scolded, but Gojo ignored you completely. The whispering and blushing only fueled him more. He nipped at your bottom lip, calloused palms growing even bolder, slipping under dress fabric to trace your bare waist as the other massaged the back of your neck. The car was parked in the shadows near streetlights, tinted windows mostly hiding you from view, but your nervous energy made the moment burn even hotter. 

“You came dressed like this,” he murmured between kisses, voice gravelly with want. “What did you think was gonna happen?” 

You whimpered as his hot lips moved down to the underside of your jaw, sucking and kissing the sensitive skin, nipping before smoothing the motion out with his sticky, languid tongue. You panted softly as you melted into the swirl of sensation, your own anxiety slowly being overpowered by the sheer feel of him all around you, the intoxicating scent of his cologne helping to overwhelm your mind. 

Gojo smiled against your skin– gotcha. 

The way your body became pliant, melting like butter under his lips and teeth?-- it was perfect, your incoherent breaths music to his ears. He sucked a small purple mark right below your jaw, the sting melting into pleasure as he admired the hickey, claiming, gorgeous on your already clammy skin. He trailed kisses down your collarbone, his tongue darting out as he moved even lower, glistening the bouncy tops of your tits, licking where the dresses neckline dipped slightly lower. 

His hands worked in sync, one still gripping your thigh, the other gliding under your dress, feeling the shakiness of your back, warm skin smooth under his palm. Every single touch was deliberately placed to drive you crazy, to build heat slowly. And he took every hitched breath of yours as permission to keep going. 

His hands slowly dipped further down under your dress. Gojo’s groan was filthy– low, guttural, when his palms encountered the thin, pathetic lace of a thong. 

Fuck.

The realization that you’d dressed up this sexy for him on purpose– it made him short circuit as he fought to not rut up into you right then and there. Without another second wasted, he squeezed your ass through the fabric, thumbs hooking under the sheer elastic to pull it taut, testing how flimsy this little piece of lingerie really was. 

He dragged his lips back up to yours to capture them in another searing kiss, feeling your soft huffs of breath as he started kneading those perfect cheeks with his greedy hands. Gojo was obsessed with how you felt– round, plush, beautiful. 

Every squeeze drew another pant from your lips against his, and it drove him wild. He kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours, as fingers dipped under the fabric of the thong this time, tracing the sensitive skin that lined where you wanted him– needed him most.

The car seat creaked slightly under your shifting weights, but Gojo didn’t care about anything other than touching every inch of you he could reach. His skillful hands moved up and hooked your thong to the side, long fingers sliding through your slick folds, spreading you open before two of them pushed inside without warming. The stretch made your breath catch, and your head tipped back in a breathless “oh” as he started pumping them in and out, curling just right on every stroke. 

Gojo watched you, rapt, as your lips parted in silent pleasure. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough against your ear as he continued curling his fingers inside you, testing how tight you were, how hot despite the semi-public setting. “So fucking wet already, You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you? My fingers buried in this tight little pussy, stretching until you can’t anymore.” His thumb brushed over your clit in slow circles as he added a third finger, the sopping sounds filling the space between you. He watched your face the whole time, sharp eyes drinking in every twitch and gasp. 

“So pretty.” He growled, and he didn’t let up. His fingers drove deeper, scissoring inside you, twisting and pressing up against a spot that made your knees tremble. “Tell me how bad you wanna come,” he said, the command edged with heat. “Say it, gorgeous. I want to hear you beg for it.”

You squirmed on his hand, hips rolling without even thinking, but the words stayed stuck in your throat. The pleasure built fast, your walls clenching and spasming around his fingers, but you stayed quiet. Gojo’s jaw tightened, and with a grunt he pulled his fingers out completely, leaving you empty and aching. 

A whine slipped out of you at the sudden loss. Your hips chased after his hand on instinct, but he held them back with his free palm.

“You have to talk to me, or I stop, baby,” he said, voice dark and steady. “I’m not gonna let you come if you don’t use that pretty mouth. Open.” Your lips parted shakily, as he wanted them to. He brought his three slick fingers up and dragged them across your mouth, coating your lips in your own arousal. The taste hit your tongue– salty, musky, sweet, unmistakably you. “There. Much better than that cherry lipgloss, hm?” 

The filthy act made heat flood into your face and your core at the same time. Your tongue flicked out without thinking, licking the taste off your lips. Gojo watched you with a hungry smirk, waiting, his cock twitching in his pants. 

“Please,” You finally gasped, voice unsteady. “I want to come so bad. I need it. Please, Toru–”

His fingers were back inside you before the last word even left your mouth, thrusting hard and deep as he reclaimed your lips in a kiss. “That’s it,” he praised, voice thick with approval. “Good girl. Fuck yourself on my fingers. Show me how desperate you are.”

You rocked your hips forward, grinding down onto his fingers while he held them steady. Every roll dragged his knuckles against your walls, the heel of his hand pressing against your clit with each small movement. His free hand slid up to your throat, fingers resting lightly there, the pressure driving you to the edge. Gojo leaned in closer, lips brushing your ear as he kept talking.

“Look at you, riding my hand like you can’t get enough. So fucking needy. You’re dripping down my wrist, baby. Keep going. Faster. I want to feel this pussy squeeze me when you come.”

You clutched his shoulders, nails digging into the expensive fabric of his shirt as you moved with growing urgency. Every downward grind dragged his thick fingers deeper, the wet sounds even more obscene now in the confined space of the car. Your head dropped back forward, pressing against the side of his as you rode his hand, chasing the friction he kept giving you. 

Gojo watched you with the same sharp, hungry focus, his free hand sliding down from your throat. He worked the buckle of his belt open one handed, the metallic clink loud between your ragged breaths. The zipper followed, and he freed himself with a low hiss. His cock sprang up, curling toward his stomach– heavy, flushed, red hot, and dripping with precum that beaded at the slit and slid down the thick shaft. 

He pulled his fingers free without warning, the sudden emptiness making you gasp, but before you could protest he gripped your hip, lined himself up, and sank you down onto his cock in one smooth motion. The stretch was brutal, perfect, mouthwatering as your walls rubbed against his every ridge slowly, agonizingly. Both of you cursed at the same time– your voice high and broken, his a raw groan– as he bottomed out inside you, the fat head of him kissing your cervix. 

Your orgasm crashed through you instantly. He barely had time to process it before your walls clamped down around him, squeezing him in tight, rhythmic pulses. Gojo’s jaw clenched, a rough sound tearing from his throat. He held you there, buried to the hilt, letting you ride out every wave. 

When the tremors finally eased up, he pressed a slow kiss to your temple as he started moving again, lips brushing your skin as he whispered, “That’s my girl.”

You whined immediately, the overstimulation sharp and electric. Your nails scraped down his chest through his shirt, legs trembling on either side of him. “I can’t– s’ too much–” the words came out shaky and pleading. 

But he didn’t stop, not yet. He adjusted his angle just slightly, hitting that spot inside you with each slow roll of his hips, and trapped your hands against his chest with his own. “Shhh…” he murmured, biting your earlobe before kissing down your jaw. “You can take it.” His thrusts stayed deep and controlled initially, torturously steady despite how bad his body was screaming at him to slam into hers. 

Eventually, Gojo felt it, the shift. How your shaking turned into pliant, moving thrusts against him, how your whines softened against his mouth as pleasure rebuilt under the overstimulation. 

Yes. 

That was the sweet spot, right where you got dizzy with sensation but still chased more. He kissed you deeper now, swallowing every hushed little sound as his pace gradually increased, adding more friction in a newer way. One hand slid down to grip your thigh and hike it higher, changing angles to hit even deeper. 

His hands locked on your hips, strong and sure, lifting you up and dropping you back down onto his cock with deliberate force. The drag of him inside you, thick, veined, splitting you open again and again, sent sparks racing up your spine. You whimpered in his lap, body still caught between the fading aftershocks and the new pressure, building fast, melting you against him. “God– I love you so much. See how utterly yours I am?” he panted. “I can’t even look at another girl. You’ve ruined me…so fucking perfect.” 

Gojo’s eyes dropped between your bodies, watching the way your slick cunt swallowed him on every thrust. His cock gleamed with your arousal, disappearing into you again and again, the wet slap on skin and the smell of sex filling the car. He guided your movements with firm control, rolling his own hips up to meet yours, grinding deep each time you were dragged down. 

Then… voices. 

You froze, a sharp gasp escaping you. “Fuck– Toru–”

Gojo’s head snapped toward the noise– a group of people laughing, stepping out onto the front porch.. Probably Todo’s douchebag friends taking a smoke break. 

He hushed you instantly, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck. “Shh, baby. They can’t see us.” He pulled you down into a kiss, mouth claiming yours with slow, filthy strokes of his tongue. His teeth caught on your lower lip as he kept you moving in shallow rolls. The people walking by started giggling. “Oooh those people are making out~” 

You smirked softly against Gojo’s lips, feeling him do the same. Making out? They had no idea. You felt your anxiety fall away.

The second the voices faded, Gojo’s restraint snapped. He yanked you down hard, impaling you back onto his cock with a low growl. He abandoned the kiss to bury his face near your shoulder, biting down gently on your pulse point. His hands tightened on your hips as his movements turned erratic, using you like he needed it, pistoning you up and down in desperate thrusts. The car rocked with the force. He was panting now, breath hot against your neck, low groans rumbling out of his chest every time you clenched around him. 

“Fuck you feel so good,” he rasped, voice wrecked and slurring. “So tight– never want to let you go.” His pace grew frantic, hips snapping up to meet every drop of your body. Sweat beaded at his temple. Every sense felt heightened against the wet heat of you, the way your nails dug sharply into him, the slap of skin, the scent of cum thick in your surroundings. 

You felt him swell inside you, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release. Your second orgasm approached fast, coiling low and right. When it hit, you cried out into his mouth. Gojo followed right after, burying himself to the root with a broken groan as he came. Hard. Hot pulses of cum flooded you, his cock twitching deep inside while his hands held you flush against him. Both of you shook through it, moans and heavy breaths mingling as the pleasure gradually ebbed. 

He stayed inside you afterward, arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close while your bodies cooled. His lips brushed your ear, voice soft again. “So good for me, baby.” His hand moved to rub circles again along your back and his lips pressed soft kisses against your hairline as he whispered again. “....so I think I really love this dress.”

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: AAAAnd that's it for my comeback fic! Please let me know your thoughts, even if it's just to scream at me for being gone so long, all of your feedback is greatly appreciated. I love you guys, and see you soon.

Love, Rima.

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[lacrimadreams]

A Night Well Earned ᥫ᭡. Gojo Satoru x Reader

A Oneshot

pairings - Lovesick!Husband/Dadjo x Wife!reader (f/m)

WC- 6.6k

SMALL SYNOPSIS- Gojo Satoru loved his wife (you) so much, it was embarrassing. So what will happen when a misunderstanding risks him losing you forever? (hint: a lot of sex!)

♡ ₊˚‧ WARNINGS :: No use of Y/N :: Husband Gojo:: Yearner Gojo :: Real World AU:: TENSION!:: Angst:: SMUTT :: mild fluff:: Fingering:: Making out :: Grinding :: Overtime :: Established relationship :: Car Sex :: Misunderstanding:: Dom Satoru :: Slight fluff:: HEAT :: Intimacy:: partying:: Sensuality:: Semi-public sex:: Teasing:: Drinking:: multiple orgasms:: Nicknames:: Sweet talking:: NOT proofread:: (probably more)

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: Um... Hi everyone. I don't really know what to say. I know it has been SO LONG since my last fic, and I deeply apologize to my readers for making you guys wait so long. I pushed myself so hard during the school year that I was left totally spent and burnt out by the time summer rolled around, and working on fics was unfortunately the last of my concern until I got my needed rest. I wanted to thank you guys for your patience with a super sweet and smutty fic, and also wanted to tell you personally that while updates might not be as common as they were before my break, I have slowly but surely started writing again. I am so excited to continue sharing my works with you, and value your support so much. Thank you to all of you again, and I really hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

🎧ྀི♪⋆.✮MUSIC RECS: Anything by The Weeknd

The bass was loud enough to make the shitty walls crumble. Not even just metaphorically, because Aoi Todo spent so much of his nonexistent budget on booze that housing was a secondary concern. The only requirement was that it had to be suitable for parties, which was a condition currently being questioned. 

Every few seconds, the glasses stacked behind the rented bar gave a faint rattle against each other, accompanied by a hundred bursts of laughter coming from every direction. Waves of music rolled through the dinky house like a physical blow, and conversations were audible from every corner of the space. 

A giant gold banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY TODO hung crookedly across the living room, the tape on one side already beginning to peel away while taking some of the wallpaper with it. Confetti littered every available surface, and someone had somehow acquired a fog machine. Another person had decided that the party wasn’t enough of a choking hazard and was currently rolling around with a handheld confetti cannon, blowing it straight into people’s faces. 

It was chaos– which, frankly, made perfect sense for Todo’s birthday party. This man approached his celebrations with the same level of restraint he approached anything else in his life– which meant absolutely none. 

“SATORU!”

Todo’s voice boomed from somewhere across the room. Gojo looked up just in time to see his friend standing on a coffee table with a drink raised high above his head. The crowd around him erupted into cheers. Gojo snorted into his beer. Of course. 

Five years ago, he would have been right up there beside him. But now? Now he found himself leaning back against a makeshift couch that was wedged against the wall, nursing his drink and wondering if Arwen had nursed as many times as she needed to tonight. 

The realization hit him hard enough to make him laugh. He was thirty years old. Married for years. A father to a four month old baby that he genuinely thought had anger issues given how she pumped her tiny fists in the air any time she was inconvenienced. 

Which is why, somehow, while standing in the middle of one of the most ridiculous parties he had attended in years, all he could remember to think about was whether his daughter was cuddled up with her microwaveable stuffed rabbit, asleep. The thought made him smile. 

Without even thinking, he pulled out his phone and his lockscreen lit up immediately. 

You.

And Arwen. You were sitting cross-legged in the grass at the park, laughing up at Satoru as he took the picture while Arwen sat in your lap, tiny fingers clutching the neckline of your shirt, her eyes transfixed on a very interesting dandelion fuzzy floating through the air as her small mouth dropped open in awe. The picture was slightly blurry and neither of you were looking at the camera. 

It was perfect. 

Gojo stared at it for a moment longer than needed and an aching warmth settled in his chest. 

God, he missed you. 

It hadn’t been long since he’d seen you– he’d been right by your side this morning, this afternoon. You had helped him pick his outfit right before he left for the party. Yet somehow that never seemed to matter, because the second he was gone, he found himself thinking of you. 

“Whipped.”

Gojo looked up. Geto sat beside him, completely uninvited as usual. “You’ve checked your phone four times in the last ten minutes.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Three.”

Geto took a sip of his drink. “It was four.” Gojo rolled his eyes. 

You had also been invited to Todo’s party, but had chosen to stay home with your baby, desperately looking forward to a night in after a long work week.

Across from them, Nanami looked deeply unimpressed by the whole conversation. “I genuinely cannot imagine caring enough to count.” 

Gojo snorted, tipping his bottle up toward his lips. “Don’t be mean, Kento, you know he doesn’t have much to do since he doesn’t have this~” He held up his wedding band in an exaggerated, obnoxious way, a shiny silver ring that glowed in the glaring neon light. 

The conversation dissolved into rolled eyes and laughter. For a while, Gojo got his mind off of home. Things were easy, friends and drinks, background noise and the familiar comfort of people who had known each other for years. 

Nanami passed around another serving of beers, Geto started arguing against the artistic value of the generic Homegoods paintings Todo had adorned his home with, causing Todo to appear long enough to shout something unintelligible before disappearing back into the crowd. 

The party continued surging around them, and somewhere in the mix a new voice entered the conversation. A younger guy– maybe twenty-one, twenty-two. Gojo hadn’t seen him before, but he vaguely remembered someone mentioning that Todo had some family visiting. A cousin, or a nephew, who cared? The details escaped him. 

The kid had inserted himself into their circle about 10 minutes ago and hadn’t stopped talking since. At first, nobody paid him much attention, giving his snark remarks distant nods. But then he kept talking. And talking. And talking. The conversation shifted to people they knew from University, and Ms. Eden got brought up. 

Who is Ms. Eden? Well… 

Geto smiled at the memory. “That teacher assistant for Professor Wilke’s lecture that always baked hundreds of cookies for us. God, those were the highlights of the week for broke college students.” 

Gojo chuckled in agreement. “She was great. I hope she’s become a professor herself now. She deserves it.” 

The kid leaned forward immediately. “She is a professor now, I had her for English 101. Wilkes retired the year before I got there.” 

Gojo's eyebrows raised “Oh, that’s great. Good for h–”

“Her ass is so fat. All the guys loved it when she wore those little pencil skirts, really showed everything off.” he snickered. “I mean, that was the most feminine thing she could do after choosing such a male-centered career. Finding out it was a female professor is what almost made me switch out the class, but I’m glad I stayed for the show.”

The circle fell quiet for a second, but the kid kept laughing, apparently mistaking the silence for encouragement. “I’m serious. That’s literally all I noticed every time she walked in.” 

Gojo took another sip. Slowly. Very slowly, before lowering his bottle. His eyes hiked over to Nanami, who had his own closed while Geto pinched the edge of his nose. Then over to Shoko, who had wandered over at some point and looked about one comment away from throwing her drink at him. The kid was rambling the entire time. 

“Seriously, though–”

“Oh my God.” The interruption came from Shoko. The kid stopped. “Can you shut up?”

The entire group froze awkwardly before Geto chuckled, slapping his hand onto the kid’s shoulder. “Seriously, dude. You sound gross. You should stop.”

Shoko nodded and grimaced, taking another sip of the drink. “Jesus. I’ve known you for about three minutes and every one of them has been exhausting.” 

The kid just stared, cheeks pinking, obviously awestruck and embarrassed at his misjudgement of the type of crowd this was. Geto burst out into laughter. Nanami looked away immediately, clearly attempting not to smile and even Gojo couldn’t stop the grin that appeared on his lips. 

“I was just saying–”

“No,” Shoko interrupted. “You were embarrassing yourself, so I suggest you stop before you do it further.”

Geto laughed harder, and someone behind them snorted at how the kid finally seemed to realize that the conversation wasn’t going to be directed in the way he’d imagined. For the first time all night, he fell fucking silent. Peace settled over the group– beautiful, immediate, glorious peace. 

Gojo took one final sip from his bottle. Empty. He glanced down at it, and then toward the kitchen where fresh ones were being kept. Honestly, that seemed like a better use of his time. 

Setting the bottle down on the nearby table, he pushed himself to his feet. “Well,” he said, brushing invisible dust off of his T-shirt, “that’s my cue.” 

The others barely acknowledged him. Shoko was still glaring at the kid and Geto was still dying. Nanami nodded at Gojo, looking seconds away from leaving the party entirely. 

Gojo shook his head, amused, then he turned toward the kitchen in search of another ice cold beer. The kitchen was one of the few places in the house that wasn’t completely swallowed by the party. The music still rattled the windows and voices still drifted in and out, but compared to the packed living room, it was serene. He welcomed the momentary break. 

He crossed the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and grabbed another drink from one of the overcrowded shelves. He took a second to look at the other things in Aoi Todo’s fridge. Beer. Milk. Diet Coke. Cereal. More beer. Gojo let out a laugh under his breath before he closed the fridge, trying to think of how he could tease Todo about putting a cereal box in the fridge whenever they ended up having a conversation next.

He turned his attention to the cold bottle, slick with condensation against his palm. He shut the door with his hip, hooked a finger beneath the cap, and twisted it free. The sharp hiss sounded almost soothing. He took a deep exhale before taking a sip. 

“..well, hello.”

The voice came from his right. Gojo glanced over. A blonde woman stood beside the kitchen island, smiling at him. She was undeniably attractive. Her long baby blonde hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, and she wore a fitted red set with tall heels that clicked against the hardwood floor whenever she shifted her weight. Several pieces of jewelry glittered beneath the kitchen lights. The smile she gave him was practiced, confident. The kind that suggested she rarely experienced rejection. 

Gojo already felt a headache forming. 

The woman tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stepped closer. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“We haven’t.” His answer was polite enough. Brief enough that most people would’ve taken the hint. 

Unfortunately, she didn’t. In fact, her smile widened. “That’s a shame.”

Gojo silently took another sip of his beer. Across the room, someone opened the back door and a burst of music flooded through the kitchen before fading again. The woman leaned against the counter. “So what’s your name?”

“Satoru.”

“Pretty name.”

Gojo hummed noncommittally. His eyes drifted behind her head to the hallway. He briefly wondered again if Arwen had fallen asleep. She struggled with new bedtime routines, and Gojo was usually the one who cradled her to sleep at night. The memory tugged a smile back onto his face. 

The blonde woman immediately noticed. “There it is.”

He blinked, trying to bring his focus back to reality. “There what is?”

“That smile.” she pointed at him, biting her lower lip. “You should do that more often.”

Gojo immediately stopped smiling. 

The woman laughed, apparently finding his reaction amusing. “Wow. Tough crowd.”

He took another drink, not responding. She stepped closer, not enough to be blatantly obvious, but enough to be intentional. “You know,” she said, “Todo mentioned you’d be here.”

That got his attention. “He did?”

“Mhm.” The woman nodded slowly. “Said you were tall and handsome.”

Gojo already hated where this conversation was going. “And?”

Her grin turned playful. “He undersold it.”

There it was. The flirting. Direct, unsubtly, absolutely exhausting. Gojo had to resist the urge to sigh. The woman reached out and placed a hand against his chest. The movement was casual and familiar, like she’d assumed she would be welcome here. Gojo's jaw immediately tightened, and without hesitation he caught her wrist and gently but firmly moved her hand away. “I’m married.” 

The woman blinked. Then laughed, actually laughed as though he had told a joke. “That’s your concern?”

“My concern?”

“Relax.” She waved a dismissive hand, “I don’t mind.”

Gojo stared at her. For a moment, he genuinely wondered if she’d heard him correctly. Then he realized she had, she just didn’t care. And that epiphany annoyed him far more than he expected. 

The woman stepped closer again. “One night isn’t the end of the world.” 

Gojo’s expression flattened. In his mind, he saw you immediately. Not some idealized version or fantasy, just you. You laughing in the kitchen, cooking dinner with him, you showing up to his office during work breaks and stealing kisses in the elevator, you asleep with him after long nights with a newborn, you holding Arwen for the first time in that hospital room. You crying, laughing, you existing. 

Every moment was precious. Every moment belonged to home. To his family. The very idea that he would risk any of it felt absurd. Not tempting or difficult– completely absurd. “I think you misunderstood me.” The amusement faded from his voice. The woman seemed to notice, because her smile weakened slightly.

Gojo set his beer on the counter before placing both hands on her shoulders and carefully guiding her backward, creating space between them. Intentional but not aggressive. “I love my wife.” His voice was calm, certain. The woman opened her mouth but he continued before she could. “I love her more than anything.” A step back. “I love my wife and daughter more than anything.” His expression softened despite himself, his body taking another step back.

The kitchen suddenly felt quieter. The woman stared at him for a moment. Then rolled her eyes. Rolled. Her. Eyes. Gojo nearly laughed from disbelief. 

“You’re serious.” She said, raising an eyebrow. 

“I am.”

“Wow.” She folded her arms, a grin spreading across her face. “It’s okay. Usually it takes more than one try.” 

Gojo raised an eyebrow. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means most guys need a few chances before they cave.” she shrugged. “And as far as married men go, you’re surprisingly difficult.” 

His face went completely blank. The woman sighed dramatically. “Fine.” Then she smiled again, “One last shot.”

Before he could respond she stepped forward, fast. Both arms looped around his neck as she leaned closer. He could feel her hot, alcoholic breath on his lips and it sickened him. “What are you–”

A tiny sound interrupted him. Not loud, or even a full word. Just a soft, uncertain squeak from the doorway behind them. 

“...Toru?”

Everything stopped. The noise, the music, the conversation, his heartbeat. Gojo knew that voice, he would know it anywhere. Slowly, he turned around. 

And saw you. Standing in the kitchen doorway. For one impossible second, his mind forgot how to function. You looked beautiful. Not in the domestic, casual way he was accustomed to since Arwen, but in a way that stole the air from his lungs the second he whipped around. 

Your makeup was done, your hair had been carefully styled, soft voluminous curls fanning your perfect face. The black dress you wore was elegant and striking, short and deep necked, lace details tracing along the tops of your breasts in the fabric. You looked like you’d stepped straight out of one of the photos hidden in his wallet, like the version of you he would brag about to everyone who would listen. Like his wife. 

His wife. 

Who was currently staring at another woman wrapped around his neck. 

The blood drained from his face, pure horror flashing across his features. The blonde woman seemed to realize her mistake at exactly the same moment. Gojo reacted instantly. He grabbed her wrists, pulled her arms away, then firmly moved her backward. The distance between them appeared immediately, but it was already too late. Your eyes never left the scene. 

Gojo watched your expression change– confusion, recognition, pain. Your lower lip trembled just slightly, barely noticeable, yet somehow he saw it more clearly than anything else in the room. You looked so small. So hurt. The realization drove through his chest. 

“No.” The word escaped him before he could stop it. Your gaze dropped to the floor. You turned around and started walking away. 

Gojo felt his heart shatter into pieces. “No, no no–” 

His beer remained forgotten on the counter. The blonde woman disappeared from existence entirely. Nothing mattered except you. Getting to you. 

He moved immediately, pushing past the island, ignoring the music, ignoring the party, ignoring everything, only one thought existing in his head as he hurried after you. 

You thought he’d betrayed you, and if he didn’t fix this right now, he wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive himself. 

Gojo sprinted. People turned, startled by the 6’3” guy suddenly barreling his way through a dance floor full of drunk idiots. Some girl spilled her drink, another yelled “Dude!” as he shouldered past. But he didn’t care– not at all. He saw your black dress disappearing toward the front door and pushed faster, adrenaline fueling each step. The guilt was crushing, but right now he had to focus on getting to you before you could leave with the wrong idea. He yelled out your name, voice booming over the music, raw with panic. 

Closer to the door, the partygoers parted like a wave as Gojo shoved through, his broad shoulders knocking aside anyone with the misfortune of being in his path. You were almost to the door, hand reaching out for the handle, but he closed the distance in seconds. He grabbed your wrist gently but firmly and spun you around to face him. His eyes were frantic, wide and pleading. “Baby,” he choked out. “It’s not what you think.” 

You swallowed, a shaky breath leaving you. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

You wiped quickly at the tears staining your face, embarrassed, trying to compose yourself and pretend your heart wasn’t breaking. “I didn't mean to interrupt.”

His stomach dropped. “Interrupt?”

You laughed softly, a sad laugh that hurt infinitely more than crying. “Your fun.”

Gojo stared at you. Then stared some more as the words refused to process. “My what?”

You looked down again. “I just..” your voice cracked, “I wanted to surprise you.” 

God. Oh God. His heart physically ached. 

You glanced toward the door. “I got Arwen to sleep early.” Another sniffle, “I did my hair.” Your fingers twisted together nervously. “I thought maybe we’d stay for a little while together.”

Gojo’s chest caved in at your tears. Your voice– so small, so broken, hurt worse than anything. That frown, the small sniffle, he’d never felt like a bigger piece of shit in his life. He stepped forward and yanked you forward into his arms, crushing you against him and burying his face into your hair, inhaling. “No.” he rasped desperately. “No, no, no…. Baby there was no fun. I swear on my life. On Arwen’s life.” His hands trembled as they clutched onto the back of your dress. That girl was nothing. She was less than nothing. The whole night wasn’t worth shit, much less worth you standing here hurt because of it.

Gojo pulled back just enough to cup your face, to wipe away fresh tears with a calloused thumb, his own eyes burning now at the thought of you believing he had done something like that to you. “She came onto me,” he said urgently, voice thick. “I didn’t touch her, didn’t flirt back. I told her I was married the second she touched my chest.” He took a shaky breath, pressing his forehead to yours so you could see how serious he was. You searched his face and he let you, because he had nothing to hide. “I would never do that to you.” His eyes softened. “Ever.” 

Neither of you spoke. The music from inside continued to shake the walls. Laughter erupted somewhere nearby. The front hallway was filled with people shuffling in and out of the living room. The party continued around you, completely unaware that Gojo felt like his entire universe had nearly collapsed. 

He looked around once and then back at you. “Nope.”

You blinked. “What?”

“We’re not having this conversation here.”  Before you could protest he reached down and took your hand, naturally, immediately, like breathing. His fingers laced through yours as he guided you through the front doorway, away from the noise and crowd, from everything. The night air greeted you the second you stepped outside, cool and quiet compared to the chaos unwinding indoors. Gojo didn’t stop until you were near the car, fairy lights hung between the trees of the neighborhood. Then he turned to you fully, still holding you close to him. 

Moonlight caught onto your tear streaked face and it destroyed him. Without hesitation. He leaned in and locked his lips with yours softly, warm breath fanning over your cheek. His mouth moved languidly against yours as he poured out regret and love in one desperate motion. His other arm wrapped around your waist again, pulling you close, wanting to erase every second you had felt pain tonight. When he finally pulled away, your eyes were still closed for a second. He rested his forehead back against yours and you sniffled quietly. The sound made him smile despite himself. “So?” he murmured. 

You opened your eyes, and there was still some uncertainty there, some vulnerability. “Okay…” your voice was small. “So you really didn’t do anything with her?”

Gojo immediately shook his head “No.” Not a second of hesitation, not a moment of consideration. “Not a single thing,” he swore, voice rough. “She touched me first– like, right when you walked in– and I shoved her off the second I realized what was happening.”

His thumb brushed another stray tear away before cradling your cheek. “I was getting another beer because some kid was pissing me off by talking about women like objects and I needed a break… and then she came up to me.” A frustrated grunt. “I didn’t even know her name.” He leaned in to kiss your forehead this time, a gentle apology. 

Finally, some of the tension left your shoulders. Then more, then more. Until you simply stepped forward and tucked yourself against him. Gojo nearly melted. A breath escaped him long and heavy. That was all he needed, proof that you believed him, that you still trusted him. His arms locked around you, one hand sliding up to hold the back of your head as the other rubbed slow circles on your spine through the black dress fabric. He pressed kiss after kiss to the top of your hair, your temple, wherever he could reach without pulling away from the hug. 

The familiar motion eventually drew out a less quiet version of you again. “Did you have fun?” You murmured against him.

Gojo chuckled against your hair before shaking his head– no. “Not at all.” he admitted quietly. He hadn’t had fun, not really. The party was too loud, the people were too obnoxious. “I just came because Todo begged me.” A pause. “I spent the whole night thinking about you.”

Your expression softened. 

“And Arwen.” He grinned. “Mostly Arwen.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, maybe fifty-fifty.”

“Definitely lying.”

Gojo laughed again, pulling you closer. “Let’s just say I would’ve rather been home with my girls.”

You nuzzled into his chest as your gaze drifted toward the house, toward the glowing windows, the music and laughter spilling into the night, then you looked back at him. “Do you wanna go back in?”

Gojo followed your gaze. Stared at the party for exactly two seconds. Then looked at you. 

His wife, standing beneath the dim light. 

The woman he’d fallen in love with years ago. 

The mother of his baby girl.

The person he wanted beside him when he was twenty. 

And thirty. 

And seventy. 

The person he’d choose every single time. 

His expression softened, and he leaned down to press a kiss against your temple, shaking his head slightly. “Nah… let’s go home.” His voice was warm with finality, and he already had his keys out of his jacket pocket as he gently guided you toward the car parked on the side of the road. Todo could keep his party– Gojo had everything he wanted right here. 

You let out an exaggerated sigh, the last remnants of your earlier tears giving way to something lighter. “What a waste of a good dress. You didn’t even notice.” 

Gojo stared at you before he let out a laugh. “A waste?” Without warning, he spun you around against the car door and kissed you deeply, hungrily. “Oh I noticed it. Just didn’t seem appropriate to bring up your rockin’ bod when you were in tears.” he murmured against your lips, one hand sliding down to grip your hip while the other held onto your jaw.

He had ways of appreciating this dress that were far better than you showing it off at some stupid party, ways like peeling it off and bending you over until—

He groaned at the thought, thumb swiping at your lower lip, glistening with red cherry gloss that had rubbed onto your chin with his messy kisses. The dress– tight, sleek, hugging every perfect curve of your body– was suddenly an obstacle he wanted to destroy. His lips met yours again and the kiss turned hotter, rabid, sticky cherry liquid intoxicating his tongue as his hands roamed down the black fabric, mapping the shape of you before squeezing your ass possessively. 

Then he broke the kiss long enough to tilt his lips toward your ear as he growled. “Get in the car.” 

You exhaled shakily as he pulled open the passenger seat and got in first, pulling you into his lap to straddle him soon after. Your thighs settled on either side of him, and you panted as he slammed the car door shut, licking his lips as his eyes raked over you.

A blush crawled its way up your neck to your cheeks, warming your face and causing a devilish grin to spread onto Gojo’s, cerulean eyes gleaming with mischief. “Toru.. this is right in front of a party. Someone could see us.” You mumbled. 

Gojo didn’t give a single fuck about the party. “Let them see.”

He had his wife– gorgeous, blushing, straddling him in that sinful dress– and he was done waiting. His hands immediately gripped your thighs, hiking up the skirt of your dress as he crushed your mouths together again, the kiss messier now with teeth clashing and tongues swishing. One hand slid up your spine to tangle in your hair while the other pressed flat against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him so you could feel exactly how affected he was. The car windows were slightly tinted, but was it still risky? Absolutely. 

You kissed him back but felt the heat in your cheeks grow even more. “Satoru!”  You whisper-scolded, but Gojo ignored you completely. The whispering and blushing only fueled him more. He nipped at your bottom lip, calloused palms growing even bolder, slipping under dress fabric to trace your bare waist as the other massaged the back of your neck. The car was parked in the shadows near streetlights, tinted windows mostly hiding you from view, but your nervous energy made the moment burn even hotter. 

“You came dressed like this,” he murmured between kisses, voice gravelly with want. “What did you think was gonna happen?” 

You whimpered as his hot lips moved down to the underside of your jaw, sucking and kissing the sensitive skin, nipping before smoothing the motion out with his sticky, languid tongue. You panted softly as you melted into the swirl of sensation, your own anxiety slowly being overpowered by the sheer feel of him all around you, the intoxicating scent of his cologne helping to overwhelm your mind. 

Gojo smiled against your skin– gotcha. 

The way your body became pliant, melting like butter under his lips and teeth?-- it was perfect, your incoherent breaths music to his ears. He sucked a small purple mark right below your jaw, the sting melting into pleasure as he admired the hickey, claiming, gorgeous on your already clammy skin. He trailed kisses down your collarbone, his tongue darting out as he moved even lower, glistening the bouncy tops of your tits, licking where the dresses neckline dipped slightly lower. 

His hands worked in sync, one still gripping your thigh, the other gliding under your dress, feeling the shakiness of your back, warm skin smooth under his palm. Every single touch was deliberately placed to drive you crazy, to build heat slowly. And he took every hitched breath of yours as permission to keep going. 

His hands slowly dipped further down under your dress. Gojo’s groan was filthy– low, guttural, when his palms encountered the thin, pathetic lace of a thong. 

Fuck.

The realization that you’d dressed up this sexy for him on purpose– it made him short circuit as he fought to not rut up into you right then and there. Without another second wasted, he squeezed your ass through the fabric, thumbs hooking under the sheer elastic to pull it taut, testing how flimsy this little piece of lingerie really was. 

He dragged his lips back up to yours to capture them in another searing kiss, feeling your soft huffs of breath as he started kneading those perfect cheeks with his greedy hands. Gojo was obsessed with how you felt– round, plush, beautiful. 

Every squeeze drew another pant from your lips against his, and it drove him wild. He kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours, as fingers dipped under the fabric of the thong this time, tracing the sensitive skin that lined where you wanted him– needed him most.

The car seat creaked slightly under your shifting weights, but Gojo didn’t care about anything other than touching every inch of you he could reach. His skillful hands moved up and hooked your thong to the side, long fingers sliding through your slick folds, spreading you open before two of them pushed inside without warming. The stretch made your breath catch, and your head tipped back in a breathless “oh” as he started pumping them in and out, curling just right on every stroke. 

Gojo watched you, rapt, as your lips parted in silent pleasure. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough against your ear as he continued curling his fingers inside you, testing how tight you were, how hot despite the semi-public setting. “So fucking wet already, You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you? My fingers buried in this tight little pussy, stretching until you can’t anymore.” His thumb brushed over your clit in slow circles as he added a third finger, the sopping sounds filling the space between you. He watched your face the whole time, sharp eyes drinking in every twitch and gasp. 

“So pretty.” He growled, and he didn’t let up. His fingers drove deeper, scissoring inside you, twisting and pressing up against a spot that made your knees tremble. “Tell me how bad you wanna come,” he said, the command edged with heat. “Say it, gorgeous. I want to hear you beg for it.”

You squirmed on his hand, hips rolling without even thinking, but the words stayed stuck in your throat. The pleasure built fast, your walls clenching and spasming around his fingers, but you stayed quiet. Gojo’s jaw tightened, and with a grunt he pulled his fingers out completely, leaving you empty and aching. 

A whine slipped out of you at the sudden loss. Your hips chased after his hand on instinct, but he held them back with his free palm.

“You have to talk to me, or I stop, baby,” he said, voice dark and steady. “I’m not gonna let you come if you don’t use that pretty mouth. Open.” Your lips parted shakily, as he wanted them to. He brought his three slick fingers up and dragged them across your mouth, coating your lips in your own arousal. The taste hit your tongue– salty, musky, sweet, unmistakably you. “There. Much better than that cherry lipgloss, hm?” 

The filthy act made heat flood into your face and your core at the same time. Your tongue flicked out without thinking, licking the taste off your lips. Gojo watched you with a hungry smirk, waiting, his cock twitching in his pants. 

“Please,” You finally gasped, voice unsteady. “I want to come so bad. I need it. Please, Toru–”

His fingers were back inside you before the last word even left your mouth, thrusting hard and deep as he reclaimed your lips in a kiss. “That’s it,” he praised, voice thick with approval. “Good girl. Fuck yourself on my fingers. Show me how desperate you are.”

You rocked your hips forward, grinding down onto his fingers while he held them steady. Every roll dragged his knuckles against your walls, the heel of his hand pressing against your clit with each small movement. His free hand slid up to your throat, fingers resting lightly there, the pressure driving you to the edge. Gojo leaned in closer, lips brushing your ear as he kept talking.

“Look at you, riding my hand like you can’t get enough. So fucking needy. You’re dripping down my wrist, baby. Keep going. Faster. I want to feel this pussy squeeze me when you come.”

You clutched his shoulders, nails digging into the expensive fabric of his shirt as you moved with growing urgency. Every downward grind dragged his thick fingers deeper, the wet sounds even more obscene now in the confined space of the car. Your head dropped back forward, pressing against the side of his as you rode his hand, chasing the friction he kept giving you. 

Gojo watched you with the same sharp, hungry focus, his free hand sliding down from your throat. He worked the buckle of his belt open one handed, the metallic clink loud between your ragged breaths. The zipper followed, and he freed himself with a low hiss. His cock sprang up, curling toward his stomach– heavy, flushed, red hot, and dripping with precum that beaded at the slit and slid down the thick shaft. 

He pulled his fingers free without warning, the sudden emptiness making you gasp, but before you could protest he gripped your hip, lined himself up, and sank you down onto his cock in one smooth motion. The stretch was brutal, perfect, mouthwatering as your walls rubbed against his every ridge slowly, agonizingly. Both of you cursed at the same time– your voice high and broken, his a raw groan– as he bottomed out inside you, the fat head of him kissing your cervix. 

Your orgasm crashed through you instantly. He barely had time to process it before your walls clamped down around him, squeezing him in tight, rhythmic pulses. Gojo’s jaw clenched, a rough sound tearing from his throat. He held you there, buried to the hilt, letting you ride out every wave. 

When the tremors finally eased up, he pressed a slow kiss to your temple as he started moving again, lips brushing your skin as he whispered, “That’s my girl.”

You whined immediately, the overstimulation sharp and electric. Your nails scraped down his chest through his shirt, legs trembling on either side of him. “I can’t– s’ too much–” the words came out shaky and pleading. 

But he didn’t stop, not yet. He adjusted his angle just slightly, hitting that spot inside you with each slow roll of his hips, and trapped your hands against his chest with his own. “Shhh…” he murmured, biting your earlobe before kissing down your jaw. “You can take it.” His thrusts stayed deep and controlled initially, torturously steady despite how bad his body was screaming at him to slam into hers. 

Eventually, Gojo felt it, the shift. How your shaking turned into pliant, moving thrusts against him, how your whines softened against his mouth as pleasure rebuilt under the overstimulation. 

Yes. 

That was the sweet spot, right where you got dizzy with sensation but still chased more. He kissed you deeper now, swallowing every hushed little sound as his pace gradually increased, adding more friction in a newer way. One hand slid down to grip your thigh and hike it higher, changing angles to hit even deeper. 

His hands locked on your hips, strong and sure, lifting you up and dropping you back down onto his cock with deliberate force. The drag of him inside you, thick, veined, splitting you open again and again, sent sparks racing up your spine. You whimpered in his lap, body still caught between the fading aftershocks and the new pressure, building fast, melting you against him. “God– I love you so much. See how utterly yours I am?” he panted. “I can’t even look at another girl. You’ve ruined me…so fucking perfect.” 

Gojo’s eyes dropped between your bodies, watching the way your slick cunt swallowed him on every thrust. His cock gleamed with your arousal, disappearing into you again and again, the wet slap on skin and the smell of sex filling the car. He guided your movements with firm control, rolling his own hips up to meet yours, grinding deep each time you were dragged down. 

Then… voices. 

You froze, a sharp gasp escaping you. “Fuck– Toru–”

Gojo’s head snapped toward the noise– a group of people laughing, stepping out onto the front porch.. Probably Todo’s douchebag friends taking a smoke break. 

He hushed you instantly, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck. “Shh, baby. They can’t see us.” He pulled you down into a kiss, mouth claiming yours with slow, filthy strokes of his tongue. His teeth caught on your lower lip as he kept you moving in shallow rolls. The people walking by started giggling. “Oooh those people are making out~” 

You smirked softly against Gojo’s lips, feeling him do the same. Making out? They had no idea. You felt your anxiety fall away.

The second the voices faded, Gojo’s restraint snapped. He yanked you down hard, impaling you back onto his cock with a low growl. He abandoned the kiss to bury his face near your shoulder, biting down gently on your pulse point. His hands tightened on your hips as his movements turned erratic, using you like he needed it, pistoning you up and down in desperate thrusts. The car rocked with the force. He was panting now, breath hot against your neck, low groans rumbling out of his chest every time you clenched around him. 

“Fuck you feel so good,” he rasped, voice wrecked and slurring. “So tight– never want to let you go.” His pace grew frantic, hips snapping up to meet every drop of your body. Sweat beaded at his temple. Every sense felt heightened against the wet heat of you, the way your nails dug sharply into him, the slap of skin, the scent of cum thick in your surroundings. 

You felt him swell inside you, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release. Your second orgasm approached fast, coiling low and right. When it hit, you cried out into his mouth. Gojo followed right after, burying himself to the root with a broken groan as he came. Hard. Hot pulses of cum flooded you, his cock twitching deep inside while his hands held you flush against him. Both of you shook through it, moans and heavy breaths mingling as the pleasure gradually ebbed. 

He stayed inside you afterward, arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close while your bodies cooled. His lips brushed your ear, voice soft again. “So good for me, baby.” His hand moved to rub circles again along your back and his lips pressed soft kisses against your hairline as he whispered again. “....so I think I really love this dress.”

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: AAAAnd that's it for my comeback fic! Please let me know your thoughts, even if it's just to scream at me for being gone so long, all of your feedback is greatly appreciated. I love you guys, and see you soon.

Love, Rima.

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[lacrimadreams]

So i came across ur book on ao3 (I LOVE ITT) but I have one question, you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to spoil but will The Roots Of Us have a bad ending? Some years ago I read a book with a bad ending and left me broken for MONTHS so now im really careful when I come across a fanfic.. (traumatized)

Hiii guys PLS DONT KILL ME IK ITS BEEN RLLY LONG SINCE I POSTED. But no, TROU will most likely have a happy ending because I personally can’t handle bad endings for a fic i’ve gotten attached to. For now though, the fic isn’t set in stone as for the plot of the ending, so I will update you if that changes. I am so happy you guys love it and I swear I will bring out an update as soon as I can. Exams for me end on June third, so after that you guys have the freedom to torment me until I release a chapter. Will have very good things in tow as an apology for my break— i love you all and see you again very very soon!

- Rima

[wadafuckdel]

why are people using ai to write fanfics now WHAT HAPPENED TO CREATIVITY AND IMAGINATION

[lacrimadreams]

Put Him In His Place ᥫ᭡. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Chapter 06-> previous

pairings - Lovesick!Fratjo x Badass!reader (f/m)

WC- 20k (ITS LONG I KNOW I'M SORRY)

♡ ₊˚‧ WARNINGS :: No use of Y/N :: Frat boy Gojo:: Yearner Gojo :: College AU:: TENSION!:: ANGST:: Nerd Fratjo :: Fingering:: Making out :: Grinding :: Jealousy :: Toxic behavior :: Dirty talk :: Eventual smut:: Strong female MC :: Neuroscience Major MC:: HEAT :: Intimacy:: Using:: Sensuality:: Lying:: Teasing:: Drinking:: Partying :: lowk blueballing:: Nicknames:: Slowburn:: (probably more to come!)

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: Hey guys here's six. I.. I'm kind of speechless, not gonna lie. Also DYING to know how you feel about this one. Thank you all for your support! More coming very soon. (Semi-proofread) Look at end for more notes! 🎧ྀི♪⋆.✮MUSIC RECS: Dark, broody, tense, sexy vibes - Best Friends - The Weeknd - Is There Someone Else? - The Weeknd - Noble - F3miii - Wine Pon You - Doja Cat - Kiss it Better - Rihanna - Me and Your Mama- Childish Gambino - Lonely Star - The Weeknd - House of Balloons/Glass Table Girls- The Weeknd

It had been twelve days.

Not that he needed to check.

The night you left had been bad– worse than he’d admit to anyone sober.

Geto had kicked everyone out after you were gone, something about “damage control” and “reading the room” but Gojo barely registered it. He’d been sitting on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets, staring at nothing with a half-empty bottle in his hand.

Geto had crouched in front of him at some point, arms crossed, watching him with that familiar mix of annoyance and concern. “You gonna sit there all night or are you planning on doing something productive with your misery?” he’d asked.

Gojo had laughed, a quiet, broken kind of sound that didn’t match him at all. “I always fuck everything up,” he muttered, voice thick, words slurring just slightly.

Geto sighed. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “You do.”

Gojo let his head fall back against the cabinet, staring at the ceiling. “She hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Geto replied, tone softer now despite the words. “You just said something stupid. Which, again, not shocking.”

Gojo dragged a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I really don’t understand how you did mean it, though, Satoru.” Geto said.

“That doesn’t help,” Gojo shot back.

“No, it doesn’t,” Geto agreed. Then, after a beat, “But sulking about it like a drunk idiot isn’t helping either.”

Gojo didn’t respond, didn’t move, just sat there, quiet, until something in his chest tightened too much and—

God, it was humiliating—

He leaned forward and grabbed onto Geto, arms wrapping around him in a clumsy, uncoordinated hug.

Geto froze. “…are you serious right now?”

“I fucked it up,” Gojo mumbled into his shoulder.

“Yes,” Geto said again, exasperated, but his hand came up anyway, patting Gojo’s back once. “You’re also drunk off your ass, so maybe try not to spiral like this tonight.”

Gojo didn’t let go, and Geto didn’t push him off.

Gojo had stopped counting somewhere around day four, when the silence stopped feeling temporary and started settling into something heavier, something that pressed against his chest every time he reached for his phone and already knew what he was going to see. Nothing. No missed calls returned. No texts with your name lighting up his screen. Just the same message thread sitting there, unchanged, his side cluttered with attempts that grew increasingly less composed the further down you scrolled.

At first, he had played it the way he played everything. Easy, confident, like this was just another sneaky link who needed a little space before she came back around. A couple texts, casual, teasing. A “you alive?” tossed in like it didn’t matter whether you answered or not. A call or two, just to hear your voice, just to prove to himself that he could still reach you if he wanted to.

You didn’t answer.

So he tried again. And again. And again, until the calls started to feel different, less like habit and more like something he couldn’t stop himself from doing, like if he just heard your voice once—just once—it would snap something back into place inside him that had been wrong ever since that night.

It didn’t.

Every call rang out into nothing. Every text sat there, delivered, read in his imagination but never in reality. Except once.

The stupid fucking tacos.

He doesn’t even remember ordering them, not really, just that he’d been sitting there staring at his phone, thumb hovering over your contact like it had been for the past hour, when the idea hit him, sudden and desperate and ridiculous enough that it felt like it might actually work. You liked food. Everyone liked food, although not many could compare to your love for mexican. It wasn’t even about the tacos, it was about getting you to respond, about forcing some kind of break in the silence that had wrapped itself so tightly around him he could barely think straight.

He’d ordered them at two in the morning, half drunk and fully spiraling, standing in the kitchen with his phone in one hand and Toji yelling in the background about how that was “the dumbest move of all time.”

She’s not gonna forgive you because you sent her food, dumbass.

“Shut up,” Gojo had snapped, already typing in your address.

He remembered your exact order too.

Extra everything. No substitutions. The order felt like you, decisive, a little chaotic, unapologetic.

He added hot sauce just like you had that night after the library. Didn’t think twice.

The response came twenty minutes after delivery.

One text.

Five words.

Squeaky: Too spicy for my taste.

That was it.

No anger, no softness, no opening for him to latch onto, just a flat, indifferent sentence that somehow felt worse than anything else you could’ve said, because it meant you weren’t even willing to fight him. You didn’t care enough to be mad. You just… dismissed it. Dismissed him.

He must’ve read it a hundred times, trying to find something hidden in it, some tone, some clue, anything that told him there was still something there worth chasing, but the more he stared at it, the more it stayed exactly what it was.

Nothing.

After that, he tried everything.

He went out, surrounded himself with noise and bodies and music so loud it rattled through his bones, let people touch him, flirt with him, lean in too close the way they always did, waiting for that familiar spark to kick in, that easy detachment that made everything simple. It never came. Their hands felt wrong, their voices grating, their laughter empty. He found himself comparing every single one of them to you without even meaning to—the way you looked at him like you saw through him, the way your voice sharpened when you called him out, how your smile had hit him like something real, something solid, something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing until it was right there in front of him.

He tried not going out, too.

Stayed in his room, buried himself in anything that might distract him, schoolwork, mindless scrolling, anything that didn’t leave space for his thoughts to drift back to you, but it didn’t matter, because you were there anyway, slipping into every quiet moment, every pause, every second his brain wasn’t actively occupied.

You were everywhere. He couldn’t open his messages without seeing your name sitting there at the top, unmoving. His chest tightened every time he thought about that night, about the way you had looked at him before you walked away, disappointed, expecting more from him. 

And that was the worst part, worse than you leaving, than you not answering him.

It was that look.

Because he knew you were right. That everything you had said, every word thrown at him in that sharp, cutting tone that didn’t let him hide behind anything, had landed exactly where it was supposed to, digging into something he had spent years burying deep enough that no one—not even himself—could reach it.

And you saw it anyway.

You saw him.

Not the version he showed everyone else, not the one that was easy and effortless and untouchable, but the one underneath it, the one he had built this entire life trying to outrun, and instead of laughing, instead of turning it into a joke the way everyone else always did, you had taken it seriously.

You had expected better.

And he had failed you.

The memory of you that night wouldn’t leave him alone, the argument, the way it ended, everything before it, too– the way your body had felt pressed against his, warm and real and grounding in a way he had never experienced before, the way your hands had moved over him without hesitation, unscared of him, like you didn’t see him as something to chase or impress but something to meet head-on. The way your laughter had mixed with the music, the way your breath had caught—soft, barely there, but enough that he noticed, enough that it replayed in his head at the worst possible times, dragging him right back to that moment like it was happening all over again.

Nothing compared.

Not the parties, not the people, not the life he had built so carefully around himself.

Nothing even came close.

For the first time in years, something as stupid as a business exam had thrown him off.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It never mattered. Those classes were easy, predictable, something he could coast through without thinking too hard, without trying too hard, without being anything more than the version of himself he showed everyone else. He’d built his entire college life around that balance, doing just enough to stay at the top without anyone questioning how effortless it looked.

Except this time, it wasn’t effortless. He’d gotten the test back, barely glancing at it at first, expecting the same thing he always saw—perfect score, clean, untouched, nothing to think about. But then his eyes caught on the number at the top of the page, and something in him stalled.

98%.

It was such a small difference. Two points. Something most people wouldn’t even blink at, something they’d brush off with a shrug and move on from without a second thought.

He couldn’t, because it wasn’t about the grade, it was about the fact that he had missed something. That somewhere between rereading your old texts at three in the morning and staring at his phone like it might magically light up with your name, between replaying your voice in his head and trying—failing—to drown it out with anything else, he had lost focus. Slipped. Let something as basic as a marketing test get away from him.

And all he could think about was how you would’ve looked at that paper. Unimpressed and knowing. The idea hit harder than it should have, sharper than anything the red ink on the page could’ve done, because it wasn’t really about the exam sitting in front of him—it was how you had gotten into his head so deeply that even the parts of himself he had always relied on, the parts that never faltered, were starting to crack.

His grip tightened on the edge of the paper for a second before he let out a quiet, humorless breath, pushing back from his chair so abruptly it scraped against the floor, loud enough to turn a few heads.He didn’t care, didn’t bother collecting his things properly or wait for the rest of the class to file out, didn’t even look back at the test as he left it sitting there on the desk like it meant nothing, even though it clearly did.

Because suddenly, none of this felt important. The grade, the class, nothing.

Which is how Gojo ended up here.

Walking across campus with no real plan, just a direction, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket like that might somehow steady him, even though nothing about him felt steady right now. His mind kept jumping ahead, running through every possible version of how this could go, none of them landing anywhere good, because he didn’t know what he was going to say, didn’t know how to fix something he barely understood himself.

He just knew he couldn’t do this anymore.

Couldn’t keep sitting in that silence, couldn’t keep pretending this was something he could just wait out, that you would eventually come back on your own like everyone else always did.

You weren’t like everyone else, that had been clear from the moment you slapped him.

It was clearer now than ever.

His steps slowed just slightly as he got closer to the building, the familiar structure of it coming into view, something tightening in his chest that had nothing to do with the walk and everything to do with what was waiting for him inside. He knew your schedule, memorized it without even meaning to, knew exactly where you were supposed to be right now, what lab, what time, how long you would be there. He’s thought about this moment too many times over the past twelve 

days, imagined a hundred different versions of it, none of them feeling real enough to prepare him for the actual thing.

Because this wasn’t a party. This wasn’t a drinking game.

And for the first time in a long time, Gojo had no idea how this was going to end.

He just knew he was about to see you.

And that terrified him more than anything else ever had.

By the time he reached the building, that restless, buzzing energy under his skin had sharpened into something tighter, something almost unbearable, every step forward pulling him closer to a moment he couldn’t undo once it happened, and for a split second he considered stopping, just turning around and walking away before he had the chance to make things worse, because that was what he did, wasn’t it? He pushed, he tested, he ruined things before they could ruin him, but the thought barely lasted, flickering out the second his eyes caught on a familiar figure just outside the entrance.

You.

You were standing a few feet from the doors, bag slung over your shoulder, posture relaxed in a way that immediately told him something he hadn’t felt in over a week—you were okay. Not waiting or looking around like you expected someone to show up, or carrying even a trace of the tension that had been eating him alive for days. You looked… normal, like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t been unraveling piece by piece while you went on with your life untouched.

And you weren’t alone. The realization hit slower than it should have, his gaze shifting, locking onto the guy standing in front of you, tall, blonde hair catching the light just enough to stand out, black glasses sitting neatly on his face, the kind of composed, put-together look that immediately made something ugly twist low in Gojo’s chest. The guy leaned slightly toward you as he spoke, saying something Gojo couldn’t hear, and then you laughed—soft, genuine, unguarded in a way that made something in him snap tight.

He hadn’t heard you laugh like that in twelve days, not once, and now here you were, giving it so easily to someone else.

He stopped walking without realizing it, feet planted just far enough away that neither of you noticed him, his entire focus locked onto the two of you like if he looked away for even a second something would shift, change in a way he wouldn’t be able to track. The guy said something else, and you shook your head, nudging his arm lightly in a way that felt… familiar, easy. This wasn’t the first time you’d stood like this together, this wasn’t new, Gojo registered immediately. His jaw tightened.

He watched as the conversation slowed, and the guy adjusted the strap of his bag, taking a step back and still smiling at you, still holding your attention like it was the easiest thing in the world. Then he said something else, quieter this time, something that made you smile again, softer now, and for a second Gojo thought you might follow him when he turned, might walk away with him like this was nothing, like you had already moved on.

But you didn’t. You stayed where you were, watching as he stepped back, lifting a hand in a casual wave, simple.  You waved back.

And then he turned and left.

Gojo didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until it came out in a slow, controlled exhale, something still tight in his chest but changing now, redirecting itself into something sharper, and more focused as his eyes followed you instead, watching as you adjusted your bag and turned toward the building, completely unaware of the fact that he was standing there, that he had just watched all of it, that something in him had twisted into something he didn’t quite recognize at the sight of you with someone else.

He moved before he could think too hard about it or that hesitation could creep back in, slipping in behind you just as the doors closed, the familiar smell of the building hitting him as he stepped inside, sterile and sharp and nothing like the world he usually existed in, but somehow still tied to you in a way that made everything feel too real, too immediate.

You walked ahead of him, unaware, your steps steady, purposeful, like this was routine, like everything in your world was still exactly the same.

He followed. Down the hall, past the same turns you had taken him through before, until you reached the lab. You stepped inside first, already moving toward your station, setting your bag down, your back turned just long enough for him to step in behind you, the door clicking shut a little louder than it should have in the quiet space.

And then, before he could overthink it, before he could soften it or make it easier or less him, he spoke.

“Squeaky.”

Your reaction was immediate.

Sharp, startled, real.

“AH—!” The sound tore out of you before you could stop it, your whole body jolting as you spun around, hand flying instinctively to your chest like you could physically catch your heart before it leapt out, your chair scraping loudly against the floor as it shifted with the sudden movement. Your eyes were wide, unfocused for half a second, adrenaline still catching up to the fact that there wasn’t actually any danger, just him—standing there, too still, too intense, watching you in a way that made your expression shift just as quickly as it had flared. “Gojo?! What the hell—what is wrong with you?” you snapped, breath still uneven as you let out a short, disbelieving laugh, more from shock than amusement. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He didn’t react, apologize, or even acknowledge it. The words barely seemed to register as anything more than background noise, because the second you turned and faced him, the only thing that mattered, the only thing that stuck, was the image of you outside with that guy, the sound of your laughter replaying in his head like it had been burned there.

“Who was that?”

It came out immediately, cutting straight through your words without hesitation, the question sitting heavy in the space between you, too blunt, too direct, and just a little too sharp to pass as casual curiosity.

The shift in your expression was subtle but immediate. Your brows drew together slightly, eyes narrowing as the last traces of surprise drained away, replaced by something far more measured as you studied him for a second, deciding how to respond, or if you even wanted to. “…Excuse me?” you said finally, your tone quieter now, but controlled.

“The guy outside,” he clarified, taking a small step further into the room, like closing the distance might somehow make the answer come easier, his gaze fixed on you in a way that didn’t leave much room to deflect. “The one you were just with. Who is he?”

For a moment, you just looked at him, and then your eyes narrowed a fraction more, something almost incredulous flickering across your face as you let out a slow breath through your nose, steadying yourself. “That,” you said carefully, crossing your arms as your weight shifted slightly onto one leg, your posture closing off, “is not what you should be opening with right now.”

He felt it, the misstep– the moment everything tilted just slightly out of his control. His jaw tightened, the silence stretching just long enough to make it uncomfortable before he exhaled, dragging a hand back through his hair in a rare show of something that almost looked like uncertainty. “Yeah,” he muttered, quieter now, the edge dulling just slightly as he looked away for half a second, like he needed the break from your gaze. “Yeah, I know.”.

He swallowed, his throat feeling tighter than it should have as he forced himself to meet your eyes again, and for once, there was no easy charm to fall back on, no practiced line waiting to smooth things over. 

“I’m sorry.”

The words came out low, steady, but stripped of everything he usually hid behind, leaving them exposed. “For that night,” he added, his voice rougher now, like the admission cost him something. “What I said… it was messed up. I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

You exhaled slowly, your arms loosening just slightly as your gaze shifted, not away, but over him, trying to read something beyond what he was saying. “I can tell,” you said after a moment, your voice more thoughtful, but still guarded, “that there’s something you’re not telling me.”

The statement hung there, heavier than a question, because it wasn’t one. You weren’t asking, you were stating.

And he reacted the way he always did when something got too close to the surface.

“There’s not,” he said immediately, the denial quick, almost automatic, slipping into place before he could even consider letting it be anything else.

Your eyes sharpened. “Gojo,” you said, a warning threaded lightly through his name, like you were giving him the chance to correct himself, to take it back and try again.

“There isn’t,” he repeated, firmer this time, his shoulders squaring slightly, like if he stood in it hard enough it would hold.

You stared at him for a second longer, searching, your gaze steady and unflinching, making it clear you weren’t convinced, not even a little. “Then why does it feel like you’re lying to me?” you asked, your voice still even, still controlled, but with an edge now that hadn’t been there before, something sharper, something more frustrated. “Why does it feel like there’s a whole part of you you’re just… not letting me see?”

He let out a quiet, humorless breath, shaking his head slightly as he glanced off to the side. He needed a second to regroup, to find a way around it. “It’s not that serious,” he said, deflecting, defaulting, his tone slipping back into something lighter, easier, even if it didn’t quite land the same way it usually did. “I said something dumb, I came to apologize. That’s it.”

You didn’t budge. Your eyes narrowed just slightly as you tilted your head, studying him in that way that made it feel like you were peeling something back layer by layer, whether he wanted you to or not. Your lips pressed together, something unreadable passing through your expression before it settled flatter.

“Right,” you said, the word landing without any real weight behind it, like you didn’t believe it enough to argue. The silence that followed stretched longer than either of you seemed willing to fill, the tension getting heavier, and then, finally, you shrugged.

It said more than anything else you could’ve done.

“If you’re not willing to be truthful with me,” you said, reaching for your bag, your movements calm, deliberate in a way that made it clear you had already made your decision, “then there’s no point in this.”

His head lifted slightly, something sharp pulling through his chest. “What do you mean—”

“I mean,” you cut in, slinging the strap over your shoulder as you looked at him again, your gaze steady, unwavering, “I like authentic people, Gojo. I don’t want to stand here and guess which version of you I’m getting.”

You moved toward the door, there was nothing left here worth staying for. “I guess I’ll just work on the experiment later.” you muttered.

“Hey—wait,” he said, stepping forward quickly now, the shift immediate, the composure cracking just enough for urgency to slip through as he reached out, stopping just short of actually grabbing you.

But you didn’t stop or turn back. “Goodbye, Gojo.”

And then you were gone.

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft, final sound that echoed louder than it should have in the empty lab.

He stood there for a moment, unmoving, staring at the space where you had just been, his jaw tight, something heavy and sharp coiling in his chest as his hands slowly curled into fists at his sides, the tension building, contained, with nowhere to go.

He had been right there.

And he had still lost you.

—-----------------------------------------

Fourteen days. You hadn’t meant to keep track, not consciously, not in any way you would ever admit out loud, but the number had settled somewhere in the back of your mind anyway, attaching itself to small, ordinary things until it became impossible to ignore. Two weeks since the party, the argument, since the last time you had let yourself stand close to him without feeling that sharp, steady resistance in your chest that told you to step back, to hold your ground, to remember why you had walked away in the first place.

It hadn’t felt the same since.

You noticed it in ways that irritated you more than anything else, in the quiet gaps between tasks, the seconds where your brain wasn’t fully occupied and something slipped in uninvited. You would be halfway through reading an article, eyes scanning the same paragraph for the third time without absorbing a single word, and suddenly you would catch yourself thinking about the way he used to interrupt you mid-sentence, how you would get annoyed but he’d keep talking anyway because part of him expected it. You would reach for your phone out of habit, not even for anything specific, just that unconscious urge to check something, and your thumb would hover over messages for a second too long before you forced yourself to lock the screen and set it face down like that would stop the thought before it formed fully.

So you worked, you buried yourself in it. Labs, lectures, readings, assignments—anything that required enough focus to keep your mind from drifting. You stayed later than you needed to, volunteered for extra work, double-checked data that didn’t need to be checked twice, anything that kept your hands busy and your thoughts moving in a straight, controlled line instead of looping back to something you had already decided you weren’t going to revisit. Hit tennis balls cross court until your arms were so numb you couldn’t do anything but flop in bed. 

It should have worked. This was your space, your routine, the thing that had always grounded you no matter what else was going on in your life. You had always found something steady in it, something that made sense when everything else didn’t, and for the most part, it still did.

But there was a difference now, a kind of emptiness that didn’t belong there. It didn’t stop you from functioning, but it lingered just enough to make everything feel slightly off, like something had been shifted a few inches to the left and you couldn’t quite adjust to it. And you hated that, hated that it affected you at all, that despite everything, despite the way things had ended, despite the fact that you knew why you had walked away, you still felt it.

“Okay, seriously, what is going on with you?”

Becca’s voice cut through your thoughts one afternoon, sharp enough to pull you out of the cycle you hadn’t realized you’d slipped into again, your pen pausing mid-note as you glanced up from your notebook.

She was leaning against the edge of your desk, arms crossed, watching you with that look she got when she had already decided she wasn’t going to drop something until she got an answer.

“What?” you asked, even though you already knew what she meant.

“Don’t do that,” she said immediately, narrowing her eyes slightly. “You’ve been weird all week.”

“I’ve been busy,” you replied, your tone even as you turned back to your notes, flipping the page like that settled it.

Becca didn’t move. “Yeah, you’re always busy,” she shot back, unimpressed. “This is different. You’re like… here, but not really here.”

You exhaled slowly, setting your pen down this time, knowing she wasn’t going to let it go.

“I’m fine,” you said, more firmly now, meeting her gaze.

She held it for a second, clearly unconvinced, before her expression shifted just slightly, something more knowing slipping in. “Is this about Gojo?”

The name landed heavier than you expected. You didn’t react immediately, didn’t let anything show on your face as you reached for your water bottle instead, taking a sip just to give yourself a second.

“No,” you said, setting it back down with more care than necessary. “It’s not.”

Becca raised an eyebrow. “Right,” she muttered, the word dragging slightly, like she didn’t believe you at all but wasn’t sure how hard she wanted to push it. “Because you were stalking the frats instagram for two hours last night for no reason.”

You didn’t respond to that. There wasn’t anything you could say that didn’t open a door you had already decided to keep closed. The truth was, you couldn’t seem to shake him. Not completely.

You had tried, replayed the argument in your head enough times to wear down the sharpest edges of it, had gone over every word he said, every tone shift, every look, until there was nothing left to analyze, nothing left to question. And it still didn’t sit right.

Because it wasn’t just about what he said, it was about what it meant. The way he had talked about “nerds,” the way he had thrown the word around so easily, so carelessly, like it didn’t hold weight, like it didn’t represent real people, real lives, real experiences. The way he had tried to separate you from it, like you were somehow an exception, like you were above it, like that made it better.

It didn’t. If anything, it made it worse, because those “nerds” he dismissed so casually weren’t some abstract concept to you, they weren’t strangers you could detach from. They were your people.

Shoko, who stayed in the lab longer than anyone else and still managed to check in on you when you looked too tired, who understood your work without needing explanations and pushed you when you needed it.

Yuji, who had this way of making everything lighter without ever taking anything important less seriously, who showed up for people without hesitation, who never made anyone feel small for caring too much.

Choso, quiet but steady, someone who didn’t say more than he needed to but meant every word when he did, someone you trusted without having to question it.

They weren’t “losers,” they weren’t something to be pitied or looked down on or used as a comparison point to make someone else seem better. And the fact that Gojo could stand there, in front of you, and say something like that—even if he didn’t mean it the way it came out, even if there was more underneath it he hadn’t explained—meant something.

It meant he still didn’t get it, or worse, that he did, and he chose to ignore it. And you couldn’t just let that go. 

No matter how much you wanted to.

Because that was the part that frustrated you the most, the part you didn’t like admitting even to yourself. You had wanted to forgive him, it would have been easier to accept the apology, to smooth it over, to pretend it hadn’t hit as deeply as it did and go back to the way things had been before everything got complicated. But that wouldn’t have been honest, and if there was one thing you refused to compromise on, it was that, so you held your ground.

Even when it left that quiet, persistent ache sitting just under the surface, even when things didn’t feel as steady as they should have, even when part of you still caught itself thinking about him at the worst possible times, because wanting something didn’t mean it was right and you weren’t going to trade your values for something that fragile. Not even for him.

Still, there were moments, small ones.

You sat in your neuroscience lecture, notebook open in front of you, pen moving automatically as the professor spoke, words filling the page in neat, organized lines that made it look like you were fully present, fully engaged, like nothing was off. Your eyes followed the slides, your hand kept up with the pace, but somewhere halfway through a discussion on neural pathways, your attention slipped, quiet and gradual, until the words stopped meaning anything at all and your thoughts drifted somewhere else entirely.

It wasn’t even a clear memory at first, just a feeling, something familiar pressing at the edges of your focus, and before you could catch it, it shifted into something more defined, something you hadn’t meant to revisit. Gojo, sitting across from you in the library, chin propped up on his hand, watching you instead of his work, completely unbothered by the fact that you had told him—multiple times—to focus. The way he had grinned when you got irritated, the way he had leaned closer just to see your reaction, crystal blue eyes blinking at you like it was the most entertaining thing in the world to him.

Your pen slowed.

“…and this is where the signal transmission becomes most efficient—”

You blinked, the professor’s voice snapping back into clarity just as you realized you had missed at least a full minute of information, your notes trailing off into something incomplete, your hand hovering awkwardly above the page.

“Earth to you.” The whisper came from your left, low but pointed enough to break through the last of the haze, and you turned slightly, catching Shoko’s gaze as she leaned back in her chair, one eyebrow raised in quiet amusement.

“You good?” she murmured, tilting her head toward your notebook. “Because that is definitely not the right diagram.”

You glanced down. Yeah. It wasn’t. A small breath left you, something between a sigh and a quiet laugh as you shook your head, quickly correcting the lines you had drawn wrong.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you muttered back, though it came out a little less convincing than you would have liked.

Shoko didn’t push it, didn’t press further, just watched you for a second longer before giving a small nod, like she was choosing to let it go for now. “Okay,” she said, turning back to her own notes, then pausing briefly before adding, “Just making sure you weren’t about to submit that and ruin your perfect record.”

You snorted softly under your breath, the sound quiet enough not to draw attention, but enough to loosen something tight in your chest. “Please,” you murmured. “I’d never recover.”

That earned a small smile from her, quick and subtle, but real, and for a second, the weight sitting on your shoulders felt a little lighter. The rest of the lecture passed without much incident, though you caught yourself drifting once or twice more, each time pulling yourself back a little faster, a little more deliberately, like you were learning how to manage it, how to redirect before it pulled you too far under.

By the time it ended, you were already packing up your things, sliding your notebook into your bag as the room filled with the low hum of conversation, chairs scraping, people shifting around you.

“Hey,” Shoko said, nudging your arm lightly as she stood, waiting just long enough for you to look up. “You’re still coming tomorrow, right?”

You blinked at her for a second, your brain catching up. “Tomorrow?”

“The debate thing,” she clarified, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “At Yuji’s. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget,” you said quickly, straightening slightly, the corners of your mouth lifting just a little. “I was literally thinking about it earlier.”

That wasn’t entirely a lie, it just hadn’t been the main thing on your mind. Shoko studied you for a second, like she was deciding whether or not to believe that, then shrugged lightly. “Good,” she said. “Because Yuji’s already planning to argue something ridiculous, and Choso’s been preparing like it’s an actual debate competition.”

A small laugh slipped out of you, easier this time, more natural. “Of course he has.”

“And I’m bringing topics,” she added, her tone shifting slightly, more animated now. “Ethics, morality, all that fun stuff. None of that surface-level arguing.”

“Obviously,” you replied, adjusting your bag as you stood, falling into step beside her as you both moved toward the door. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

“Exactly,” she said, satisfied.

You could already picture it. Everyone crammed into Yuji’s place, half of you sitting on the floor, someone inevitably bringing snacks no one actually needed, voices overlapping as arguments built and shifted and spiraled into something louder, more chaotic, but still grounded in that shared understanding that made it feel safe. Hot takes thrown out just to see who would bite, serious discussions tangled up in jokes, someone always playing devil’s advocate just to keep things going.

It sounded good, normal, something you were genuinely looking forward to.

“Yeah,” you said after a second, a little more firmly this time, like you were confirming it not just to her, but to yourself. “I’ll be there.”

Shoko nodded once, satisfied, and the conversation shifted to something lighter as you stepped out into the hallway, the noise of the building filling in around you. And then, like it always did, your mind wandered again, quieter this time, less intrusive but still there, slipping in between thoughts.

Gojo would’ve made a comment about it.

You could hear it clearly, the teasing edge in his voice, the way he would’ve dragged out the word “debate” like it was something ridiculous, something overcomplicated for no reason, probably thrown in a joke about how you were all a bunch of dweebs arguing about philosophy  for fun.

The thought lingered for a second. Because you also knew—without a doubt—that he would’ve enjoyed it. He would’ve sat there, pretending not to care at first, making comments from the sidelines, and then gotten pulled into it anyway, arguing back, pushing at points just to see where they would break, enjoying the back-and-forth more than he would ever admit.

You shook your head slightly, a small, almost imperceptible motion, like you could physically clear the thought before it settled too deeply. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t there. And you weren’t going to keep filling in spaces for him that he hadn’t earned the right to occupy.

By the time you stepped outside, the air felt a little cooler, a small shift that grounded you again, bringing you back into the present as you adjusted your bag on your shoulder.

“Hey.”

The voice came from your right, familiar enough that you turned without thinking, already knowing who it was before you saw him.

“Hey,” you replied, your expression softening slightly as your eyes landed on him.

Ethan. Tall, blonde, glasses slipping just slightly down the bridge of his nose as he pushed them back up with an absent motion, his bag slung over one shoulder in that slightly unbalanced way that made it clear he had packed it in a rush.

“Leaving a lecture?” he asked, falling into step beside you easily, like this had already become routine.

“Yeah,” you said, matching his pace as you started down the path. “Just finished.”

“How’d it go?”

“Good,” you answered, then added with a small exhale, “Finally got the diagram that explains half of the homework assignments. And no labs anytime soon, at least for this class.”

“Nice,” he said, genuine interest lighting up his expression. “What about the fluorescent paint experiment? The one you were telling me about last week from your chem class?”

You glanced at him, a little surprised he remembered the specifics, then nodded. “I finished that a while ago. Submitted it too.”

“That’s actually really cool,” he continued, his tone picking up slightly as he spoke, slipping into that familiar enthusiasm he had whenever the conversation leaned toward something technical. “We’re working on something similar in one of my classes, but more on the application side—like integrating it into imaging systems for better contrast.”

“Biomedical engineering english should be considered a different language because I have no idea what you just said. ” you laughed.

“Yeah,” he said with a small grin. “Figured I’d try to make things slightly more complicated for myself by picking the major.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly. “Of course you did.”

The conversation flowed easily after that, moving from one topic to another without much effort, his energy steady, engaging without being overwhelming, the kind of presence that made it easy to respond, to talk without overthinking every word. He was… good. Genuinely.

Smart, thoughtful, funny in a quieter way that caught you off guard sometimes, the kind of person who paid attention to what you said and actually listened, who asked questions because he was interested, not because he was trying to impress you.

And it would’ve been easy to lean into that, to let yourself feel something more.

But you didn’t. Because no matter how much you appreciated him, no matter how comfortable the conversation felt, there was still that missing piece, that lack of something deeper that you couldn’t force, no matter how much sense it would make if you could.

It wasn’t fair, you knew that. He deserved someone who met him fully, not someone who was still untangling feelings for someone else. Still, you liked talking to him, and right now, that was enough.

“By the way,” he said after a moment, glancing over at you with a small, slightly hesitant smile, “I was thinking—there’s this thing this Sunday, kind of like a research showcase? I was going to go, and I thought maybe—”

You caught the shift in his tone, the way he was easing into the suggestion, and something in your chest tightened just slightly, not in a bad way, just in recognition of what he was trying to do. You opened your mouth to respond— and then, without meaning to, your mind flickered back.

To the lab, to Gojo standing there, looking at you like he had something to say but didn’t know how to say it, the way his voice had sounded when he apologized, the question he had asked first.

Who was that?

A small, involuntary warmth stirred low in your chest before you could stop it, quick and fleeting, but noticeable enough that it caught your attention immediately. It felt… good. Annoying, but also good. The fact that he cared enough to ask, that there had been something sharp in his tone, something close to jealousy—it shouldn’t have mattered. It didn’t change anything, fix what he said, didn’t make his refusal to be honest any less frustrating.

And you were still pissed at him. Still hurt, standing exactly where you had been when you walked away, but you were also honest with yourself, and the truth was, a small part of you had liked it. The realization made you exhale softly, almost under your breath, shaking your head just slightly as you forced your attention back to Ethan, who was still mid-sentence, waiting for your answer.

“—but yeah, no pressure or anything,” he finished, his expression open, easy.

You offered a small smile, grounding yourself again. “That actually sounds interesting,” you said, meaning it, even if your thoughts had been elsewhere a second ago. “I’d be down to check it out.”

His face lit up just a little at that, subtle but real, and you felt a flicker of something softer in response, something that had nothing to do with Gojo and everything to do with the fact that Ethan was a good person. You could work with that. And as you kept walking, the conversation picking up again, you let yourself stay in that moment, pushing everything else just far enough to the side that it wouldn’t interfere, even if you knew it wasn’t gone.

Just… waiting.

By the time you got back to your dorm, the sky had already started to dim into that soft, early evening blue that always made campus feel a little quieter than it actually was. Everything had settled just enough for the day to blur into night without anyone really noticing the exact moment it happened. You pushed your door open with your shoulder, bag slipping slightly down your arm as you stepped inside, already expecting the usual—low music, maybe Becca on her phone, something easy and familiar.

Instead, you walked straight into chaos.

Closet doors were wide open, clothes half-pulled from hangers and draped over the back of a chair, makeup scattered across the desk, suggesting she had been digging through it for something specific and never bothered to clean up after. Becca stood in front of the mirror, one hand holding up two different tops, her expression narrowed in intense concentration like this was a decision that actually required that level of thought.

She glanced at you through the mirror the second the door shut behind you. “Oh thank god,” she said immediately, turning halfway around, both tops still clutched in her hands. “Help me pick. Black or—actually, no, don’t even answer that, it’s obviously black.”

You dropped your bag onto your bed, letting out a quiet breath as you took in the scene, the faint smell of perfume already hanging in the air. “You look like you robbed a store,” you muttered, toeing off your shoes as you stepped further into the room.

“It’s called effort,” she shot back without missing a beat, tossing one of the tops onto the bed before turning back to the mirror, already pulling the other one on. “You should try it sometime.” 

You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head as you moved to sit on the edge of your bed, rubbing a hand over your face briefly before letting it fall back to your lap. “Don’t need it. You know they used to call me effortless back in the day, right?” You grinned. 

Becca rolled her eyes, adjusting the top, smoothing it down, then reaching for something on the desk, her attention shifting quickly from one detail to the next. “You’re coming tonight, right?” she asked, casual, like it was already decided.

You didn’t even hesitate. “No.”

The answer came out flat, immediate, leaving no room for interpretation as you leaned back slightly, bracing your hands behind you. She paused, slowly turned her head. “…That was aggressive,” she said, one eyebrow lifting as she studied you through the mirror.

“I’m not going,” you repeated, a little less sharp this time, but just as certain.

“Why not?” she pressed, turning fully now, arms crossing loosely over her chest. “You haven’t been out all week.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, and now you’re not,” she shot back, taking a step toward you. “Come on, it’ll be fun. You need to get out of your head for like, two seconds.”

You shook your head slightly, gaze dropping to your hands for a moment before lifting again. “I’m good,” you said, quieter now, but still firm.

Becca watched you for a second longer, something more observant slipping into her expression, like she was picking up on the shift in your tone, the way your answer wasn’t just about the party. “... this is about him, isn’t it?” she asked, softer this time, but still direct.

You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t confirm it, didn’t deny it, just exhaled slowly, your gaze drifting slightly off to the side as the question settled.

It wasn’t entirely about him, but it wasn’t not about him either. “I just don’t feel like it,” you said finally, pushing yourself up from the bed, moving toward your desk just to have something to do with your hands.

Becca didn’t push it, not immediately. She turned back to the mirror, picking up where she left off, but you could feel it lingering, the question still sitting there even if she hadn’t said anything else.

You reached for a random paper on your desk, flipping it over without really reading it, your mind already drifting somewhere else, somewhere less focused, less controlled.

A party. Loud music, crowded rooms, people pressed too close together, energy high enough to drown out everything else for a few hours. And him, because of course he’d be there. The thought slipped in before you could stop it, settling heavier than the rest, pulling your attention back in a way that was harder to ignore.

You could see it.

Him across the room, surrounded by people like always, easy, untouchable, like nothing had changed. Or maybe not, maybe he’d look different. But you doubted it. Your grip tightened slightly on the edge of the paper before you set it back down, your jaw tightening just a fraction as you exhaled through your nose.

And then, uninvited, another thought followed. Ethan. The image formed easily, too easily—him standing next to you, talking, laughing, his attention steady, genuine, the way it always was.

You could bring him.

The idea hit sharper than the others, sudden enough that it made you pause completely, your body going still for a second as your brain caught up. You could show up with him. You could watch Gojo see it, watch that shift in his expression, that flicker of something he wouldn’t be able to hide completely, that same sharp edge you had heard in his voice earlier when he asked about him.

It would be easy. Simple, effective. Your stomach flipped slightly at the thought, something warm and complicated curling low in your chest before you could stop it, and you immediately straightened, shaking your head once, sharp and quick.

No.

That was—

No.

That was immature. Petty. Exactly the kind of thing you would’ve called someone else out for.

You let out a quiet breath, pressing your lips together as you leaned back against your desk, arms crossing loosely as you forced the thought away, pushing it down before it could take root. You were better than that. You didn’t need to prove anything to him, you didn’t need to play games just to get a reaction. That wasn’t who you were.

And yet…

You hesitated just slightly, because the truth sat there anyway, stubborn and honest in a way you couldn’t ignore. You had never done something like that before, never made a decision just because it felt reckless, just because it went against your usual logic, your usual control. You were always measured, intentional, every choice had a reason, every action had a purpose, everything aligned with something you believed in.

And this?

This would be… different.

A small, almost disbelieving laugh slipped out under your breath as you glanced toward Becca, who was now digging through her makeup again, completely unaware of the internal spiral happening three feet away from her. 

Why not?

The question came quieter this time, less defensive, more curious, and that alone made you pause again, your brows pulling together slightly as you considered it.

Why not?

Because it was immature? Messy? Because it didn’t fit neatly into the version of yourself you had always maintained? Or because it might actually feel good?

You stared at the floor for a second longer, your thoughts shifting, turning, before you finally pushed yourself off the desk, crossing the room slowly. “Hey,” you said, your voice cutting through the soft music playing in the background.

Becca glanced up immediately, already half-done with her eyeliner, her expression shifting the second she registered your tone. “…Yeah?”

You hesitated, just for a second. “…What if I did something bad?”

The words came out quieter than you expected, but steady, your gaze fixed on her as you waited. There was a beat of silence, and then her entire face lit up.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, dropping her eyeliner onto the desk without a second thought as she turned fully toward you, eyes wide, a grin already spreading across her face. “Tell me everything.”

You huffed a small laugh despite yourself, shaking your head slightly. “It’s not—don’t make it a big deal.”

“It’s already a big deal,” she shot back immediately, stepping closer, her energy shifting completely, focused now, locked in. “You just said you want to do something bad. You never say that. What are you thinking?”

You crossed your arms, leaning your weight onto one leg as you tried to phrase it in a way that didn’t sound as impulsive as it felt in your head. “I was just—” you started, then paused, exhaling slowly. “What if I went tonight.”

Becca blinked. “That’s it?” she said, her grin faltering just slightly. “That’s the bad thing? You going to a party?”

“With Ethan,” you added, the name slipping out a little faster, a little more intentional.

And there it was, the reaction you were expecting. Her grin came back instantly, sharper this time, more knowing. “Oh,” she said slowly, dragging the word out as her eyes lit up. “Oh, you’re evil.”

“I’m not—” you started, already shaking your head.

“You are,” she cut in, pointing at you like she had just caught you in something. “You are, and I love it.”

“It’s not like that,” you insisted, even though you weren’t entirely sure that was true anymore.

“It’s exactly like that,” she shot back, stepping even closer now, her excitement building with every second. “You want him to see you with someone else.”

You hesitated just enough, and that was all the confirmation she needed. “Okay, yeah,” she said, nodding to herself. “We’re doing this.”

You let out a quiet laugh, rubbing a hand over your face as the reality of what you were suggesting settled in more fully. “This is a terrible idea.”

“It’s a great idea,” she corrected immediately. “It’s an amazing idea.”

“It’s immature.”

“It’s fun.”

You shook your head again, but this time there was less resistance behind it, more uncertainty, more consideration than outright refusal. “I don’t even know if he’d care,” you muttered, quieter now.

Becca scoffed. “Please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “The way you two were dirty dancing the other night? He already cares.”

Your chest tightened slightly at that, the memory of his voice, his expression, flashing briefly through your mind before you pushed it away again. “This isn’t about him,” you said, though it came out weaker than before.

“Sure,” she said, clearly unconvinced, but not pushing it further, her grin softening just slightly as she looked at you. “But maybe it’s about you doing something you normally wouldn’t.”

You met her gaze, something quieter settling in your chest now, something less reactive, more thoughtful. Maybe it was, and that made it harder to dismiss entirely. “…I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice softer now, less certain.

Becca’s expression shifted, just slightly, something more reassuring slipping in. “You don’t have to decide right now,” she said, her tone lighter again, but still steady. “But if you do go…”

She stepped back, gesturing toward the mess of clothes scattered around the room. “We’re picking you an outfit.”

A small smile pulled at your lips before you could stop it, the tension easing just enough to let something lighter in. “You better make me look really hot.”

“Obviously.”

—---------------------------------------------

By the time the three of you stepped off the sidewalk and onto the path leading up to the frat house, the music was already loud enough to feel in your chest, a low, steady bass that pulsed through the ground and up your legs with every step forward, blending with the hum of voices spilling out from the open windows and the glow of lights flickering behind them. It was the kind of energy that usually hit you all at once, something chaotic and overwhelming and almost contagious if you let it be, but tonight it felt different, like there was a layer between you and it, like you were watching yourself walk into it instead of fully being there.

Becca walked on your left, her energy bright and easy. She was talking, of course she was. Her voice moved easily between you and Ethan, picking up threads of conversation and spinning them into something louder, brighter, pulling both of you along whether you were fully present for it or not. She had one hand looped loosely through your arm at first, her energy grounding and warm, then she let go when she needed to gesture, only to drift back again a few seconds later without thinking, like she was keeping you tethered without making it obvious.

Ethan stayed on your right, matching your pace without thinking about it, his voice steady as he responded to her, slipping into that comfortable rhythm he always seemed to find in conversation, where everything flowed naturally, no pauses that felt forced, no pressure to fill silence that didn’t need filling. He knew Becca from a couple classes, and he was a great conversationalist regardless. 

“And I’m telling you,” she was saying, glancing over at Ethan with exaggerated emphasis, “if you start explaining anything with actual equations tonight, I will physically remove you from the room.”

Ethan let out a quiet laugh beside you, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder before responding, his tone light but still carrying that steady intelligence he never seemed to turn off completely.

“Okay, first of all, that’s discrimination,” he said, pushing his glasses up slightly with one finger. “And second, you asked me what I was working on.”

“I asked for a summary,” Becca shot back immediately. “Not a full lecture.”

“It was a short explanation.”

“It was not short.”

You let out a small laugh at that, the sound softer than usual, but real enough that Becca glanced at you quickly, like she was checking to make sure you were still there with them.

“See?” she said, pointing at you like you were proof of something. “She agrees with me.”

“I didn’t say that,” you replied, your voice lighter now, the rhythm of their banter easy to slip into even if your thoughts kept drifting just out of reach.

Ethan glanced over at you, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You definitely did,” he said.

“I literally didn’t,” you shot back, though there wasn’t much bite behind it, just enough to keep the conversation moving.

Becca snorted. The conversation continued, shifting naturally from one thing to another, but your attention kept slipping, not fully detaching, just… lagging, like you were half a step behind everything being said, catching pieces of it instead of the whole. You responded when it felt necessary, added comments when something landed, but your mind kept circling back to the same place, the same thought, the same steady pull that had been there since you left your room.

You were hyper-aware of yourself.

Of how you looked, how you felt moving through the space.

The fabric of your top shifted with each step, soft and fluid, the champagne satin catching the light from the streetlamps in a way that felt almost deliberate, like it was drawing attention without asking for it. The cowl neckline dipped low but naturally, the folds of it resting against your skin without needing adjustment, the thin straps tied at your shoulders sitting neatly, delicate but secure. The asymmetrical hem added just enough edge to balance the softness, the way it angled slightly against the clean line of your black mini skirt grounding the entire look so it didn’t feel too polished.

Becca had taken her time with it. You could still hear her voice in your head from earlier, directing you without hesitation, swapping out pieces until everything sat exactly how she wanted it to, adjusting your jewelry last, her fingers brushing lightly against your skin as she fixed the earrings into place.

“These,” she had said, stepping back to look at you properly, her expression satisfied. “These are staying.”

The gold caught the light every time you moved, subtle but noticeable, the black quatrefoil details tying into the rest of the outfit without overwhelming it, the bracelet resting lightly against your wrist, shifting just enough to remind you it was there. She told you the accessories “matched your divine feminine energy.” You hadn’t known what to do with that then, and you weren’t entirely sure what to do with it now.

“You look insane, by the way,” Becca said suddenly, effectively pulling you back out of your thoughts, glancing at you mid-conversation, her eyes sweeping over you again like she was still admiring her own work. “Like, actually unfair.”

You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head slightly, though the comment still landed somewhere warm in your chest. “You literally picked everything,” you reminded her.

“Exactly,” she shot back without hesitation, grinning. “But it is your face. I must give credit where credit is due.”

Ethan glanced over at you then, his expression softening just slightly as he took you in properly, like he hadn’t had a full second to process it until now. “She’s right,” he said, his tone easy but sincere, no hesitation behind it. “You look beautiful.”

The compliment was simple, honest, and you felt it. A small shift, something light, something you could accept without overthinking, and you gave him a small smile in return. “Thank you.”

He nodded once, satisfied, and the conversation picked back up around you, Becca already moving on to something else, her voice blending into the background again as your attention slipped just slightly out of reach.

The house was getting closer. Too close. The front yard was crowded, people gathered in loose clusters, drinks in hand, voices overlapping in a constant stream of noise that blurred together into something indistinct. The porch lights cast everything in a warm glow, shadows shifting as people moved in and out of the doorway, the music spilling out more clearly now, bass heavy, steady, impossible to ignore.

Your steps slowed. Your chest tightened slightly, your fingers curling a little more firmly around your clutch as your thoughts sharpened, losing that hazy edge they had before and settling into something more focused, more pointed.

This is stupid.

The thought came clean, immediate, cutting through everything else with a clarity that made your stomach twist. You could feel it now, the weight of what you were doing pressing down harder the closer you got, the reality of it settling in with every step forward.

This is so immature.

You swallowed, your throat a little tighter than it had been a minute ago, your gaze fixed on the entrance like you could force yourself through it just by looking at it long enough.

Why are you doing this?

Your pace slowed again, more noticeable this time, enough that Ethan’s shoulder brushed yours lightly as he adjusted to match it, his attention shifting toward you.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, his voice dipping just enough that it didn’t carry past you.

“Yeah,” you said automatically, though it came out thinner than you intended, your focus still somewhere else entirely.

You could turn around. Right now. It wouldn’t even be a big deal, you could just stop, say you forgot something, that you weren’t feeling it, anything, and it would make more sense than this, more sense than walking into a situation you had deliberately set up just to see how someone else would react.

Why am I spending my time trying to make a guy jealous?

The answer wasn’t as simple as you wanted it to be. Your chest tightened slightly as another thought slipped in, quieter but heavier, settling deeper than the rest.

What if he does the same thing? The image came without warning. Gojo, inside, exactly where you knew he would be, surrounded by people, girls pressed close to him, laughing at everything he said, touching him like they always did, like they had every right to, like it didn’t mean anything to him at all.

Your stomach dropped, a sharp, unpleasant feeling cutting through the rest, heavier than the nervousness, heavier than the doubt, something that made your steps falter for half a second before you caught yourself again.

Of course he would. Why wouldn’t he? That was his thing, that had always been his thing, and you had known that from the beginning.

So why did it feel different now?

Why did the thought of it sit so wrong in your chest, like something you couldn’t quite swallow down no matter how much sense it made? You exhaled slowly, your grip tightening slightly on your clutch again as your gaze dropped briefly to the ground before lifting again, forcing yourself forward.

He found you attractive. That much was obvious. You didn’t need to question that part, didn’t need to overanalyze the way he looked at you, the way he touched you, the way he reacted to you. But that didn’t mean anything deeper, not necessarily.

A slow, uncomfortable realization settled in behind the thought, creeping in quietly but firmly. Maybe that’s all it was. Attraction, interest, something fun– something different for him. 

Your chest tightened again, this time slower, heavier, like the thought had more time to settle, to take hold. You thought about the way he had acted before all of this, before things got complicated, before you started seeing more than what he showed everyone else. Hookups. No attachment. No depth.

And even after everything—after the library, the lab, the way he had looked at you like you mattered more than that—you couldn’t fully ignore the possibility that it hadn’t meant the same thing to him that it had started to mean to you.

Maybe you were just… a fun time. A challenge, a break from his usual routine.

The thought sat there, heavy and uncomfortable, pressing against something you didn’t want to examine too closely. You didn’t realize you had slowed again until Becca’s hand brushed against your arm, grounding you just slightly as she glanced over.

“We’re here,” she said, her voice lighter, like she could feel the shift in your energy but wasn’t calling it out directly. You looked up.

The door was right there now, open, loud, alive, everything spilling out into the night like it was waiting to pull you in. For a second, you stood there, caught between stepping forward and turning around. Your heart beat a little faster than it should have, your thoughts louder than the music, louder than the voices, louder than anything else.

And then you took the step forward.

The second you stepped through the doorway, the noise hit you all at once, louder than it had sounded from outside, heavier, thicker, wrapping around you like something physical as the bass from the speakers pulsed through the floor and up into your chest. The air felt warmer inside, crowded with bodies and movement, the faint scent of alcohol and cologne and something sweet mixing together in a way that was almost overwhelming if you focused on it too long. For a brief second, you hesitated just past the threshold, your hand still resting near the doorframe like you needed that extra point of contact to ground yourself before fully committing.

Then the theme registered. Yacht club.

White and navy everywhere, people leaning into it with varying degrees of effort, some in full linen outfits and boat shoes, others just throwing on anything vaguely preppy and calling it a night, kind of what you had done. Someone had hung cheap nautical decorations along the walls, rope accents, little anchors taped onto random surfaces, the lighting dimmed just enough to make everything feel hazy, like the whole room was operating at a slightly slower, looser pace than usual.

Becca let out a soft laugh beside you, already scanning the room with interest. “Okay, wait,” she said, leaning in slightly toward you, her voice raised just enough to carry over the music. “This is actually kind of cute.”

“You would think that,” you replied, though your attention was already drifting, your eyes moving over the room in quick, careful passes.

Ethan stepped in fully beside you, his posture shifting just slightly as he took everything in, his gaze moving slower, more observant, like he was processing each detail instead of just absorbing it. “This is… a lot,” he said, a small, amused smile pulling at his mouth as he watched a group of people attempt to pour drinks into plastic bongs without spilling.

“You get used to it,” Becca said easily, already moving a step further into the crowd. “Or you don’t, and then you just pretend you do.”

Ethan huffed a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head slightly, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable, just… out of his element, taking it in with that same steady curiosity he applied to everything else.

You nodded faintly, though you weren’t really listening anymore, because you were looking. You told yourself you were just taking in the room, just scanning, but your eyes moved too deliberately for that, too focused, slipping past groups of people without really seeing them, skipping over faces that didn’t matter, your attention narrowing without you meaning for it to.

You knew where he would be. Somewhere central, but not too central, somewhere he could see everything without being fully swallowed by it. Your chest tightened slightly as your gaze shifted again, sharper now, more intentional—

And then you found him.

It was immediate.

He stood near the far side of the room, just off from the main cluster of people, exactly where you expected him to be, a drink loose in his hand, his posture relaxed in that effortless way that always seemed so natural on him. Geto stood beside him, leaning in slightly as he said something you couldn’t hear, his expression calm, amused, like he always was.

But Gojo wasn’t looking at him.

He was looking at you. Directly. Completely.

Like he had been waiting for you to walk in.

The impact of it hit harder than you expected, your steps stalling before you could stop yourself, your body going still for just a fraction of a second as your breath caught somewhere in your chest.

His eyes didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Didn’t soften, that same sharp, icy blue you remembered locked onto you with a focus that felt almost unreal, like everything else in the room had fallen away and you were the only thing left in his line of sight. There was no hesitation in it, no confusion, just something intense and steady and heavy enough that you felt it before you could process it.

Your stomach dropped. Your heart kicked harder against your ribs, fast and uneven, your fingers tightening slightly around your clutch as you stood there, caught in it longer than you meant to be.

And then his gaze shifted. Slow.

Deliberate.

From you to Ethan. You watched it happen, watched the exact moment his attention moved, the way his eyes dragged over Ethan like he was assessing him, measuring something silently, something sharp settling behind that blue that hadn’t been there a second ago.

Then back to you, even slower this time. More focused.

His eyes narrowed. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but you saw it. You felt it– that slight tightening, that shift in expression that made your chest constrict in a way that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with something else entirely.

Something heavier, something you hadn’t meant to trigger. Your breath hitched, small and quiet, but enough that you noticed it, enough that it snapped you out of whatever frozen state you had slipped into.

Too much.

It was too much. Too fast.

You dropped your gaze immediately, your head dipping just slightly as if that alone could break the intensity of it, your heart still racing, your thoughts scrambling to catch up with everything that had just happened in the span of a few seconds.

What are you doing?

The question came back, louder now, more urgent, your pulse still uneven as you forced yourself to move, to do something, anything that would put distance between you and that stare. Your hand moved before you fully thought it through. Reaching, finding Ethan’s, grabbing onto it a little tighter than you meant to. “Let’s go this way,” you said quickly, your voice just steady enough to pass, even as you tugged him slightly, already turning in the opposite direction of where Gojo stood.

Ethan blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift, his hand tightening instinctively around yours as he stumbled half a step to keep up. “Woah—okay,” he said, a small laugh slipping out, surprised but not pulling away. “That was—fast.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, your grip not loosening as you moved through the crowd, weaving past people without really seeing them, your focus entirely on putting space between you and that side of the room.

Your heart wouldn’t slow down. It pounded harder with every step, your chest tight, your thoughts tangled, the image of his face, his eyes, still burned into the back of your mind like you hadn’t actually looked away at all.

You shouldn’t have come.

The regret settled in quickly, heavy and immediate, your stomach twisting slightly as you tried to ground yourself in something else, anything else.

This was a mistake.

You didn’t think it would hit like that.

You didn’t think he would look at you like that.

“Hey,” Ethan said, his voice closer now, a little more concerned as he leaned in slightly, trying to catch your attention. “You sure you’re good?”

“Yeah,” you said again, though it came out softer this time, less convincing, your grip on his hand still firm as you slowed slightly, your steps losing some of that urgency.

You forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Steady.

It’s fine. You told yourself that, even as your chest still felt tight.

It’s fine.

You glanced back. You didn’t mean to, it was instinct, automatic, your eyes lifting just enough to look over your shoulder— And he was still there.

In the exact same spot. Hadn’t moved. Hadn’t shifted or looked away. His eyes were still on you. Locked. That same stare, sharp and intense and unrelenting, cutting through the distance like it didn’t exist at all, like it didn’t matter how far you moved, how many people stood between you, he would still find you, still hold you there in his gaze without effort.

Your breath caught again, sharper this time. 

God.

Your stomach flipped, something tight and electric coiling low in your chest as you turned back quickly, your grip tightening on Ethan’s hand again without thinking. You needed to do something. Anything to break that feeling.

“Um—” you started, your voice a little breathless as you looked at Ethan, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Let’s dance.”

The words came out quick, slightly uneven, more of a decision than a suggestion, your body already turning toward the center of the room before he could even respond.

Ethan blinked again, surprised, but then he smiled, easy, going along with it without question. “Yeah,” he said, letting you pull him along. “Okay.”

And you moved further into the crowd, into the noise, into anything that would drown out the feeling of those eyes still on you, even when you couldn’t see them anymore.

When you reached the makeshift dance floor, the crowd had thickened enough that there wasn’t really a clear boundary between where people were standing and where they were dancing, bodies shifting and adjusting to the music in loose, overlapping rhythms that blurred together into something chaotic but cohesive at the same time. The bass hit harder here, deeper, the kind that settled into your chest and stayed there, syncing with your heartbeat until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Colored lights flickered overhead, catching on movement, on skin, on fabric, turning everything into something slightly unreal if you let your focus soften for even a second.

Ethan let out a small, almost surprised laugh as you pulled him into it, his earlier calm slipping just slightly as he took in the shift, then adjusted without hesitation, his body falling into the rhythm faster than you expected. “Okay,” he said, his voice raised just enough to carry over the music, his grin easy, genuine. “I can do this.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, some of the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction as you let yourself move, your body following the beat more naturally than your thoughts, your hands lifting slightly, your shoulders relaxing as you found that familiar rhythm you didn’t have to think about. “Good,” you replied, your voice lighter now, the word slipping out easier than anything had in the last ten minutes.

For a few moments, you focused on that. On the music, movement, the fact that Ethan was right there with you, matching your energy without overstepping, his presence steady, grounding in a way that made it easier to stay in the moment instead of drifting back to everything else.

He wasn’t trying too hard, wasn’t watching you in that intense, searching way that made you feel like you had to respond to it. He just… moved with you. And it helped. Slowly, the tightness in your chest eased, your breathing evening out as you let yourself settle into it, your thoughts quieting just enough that the noise around you started to feel less overwhelming, more like something you could exist inside without being consumed by it.

You even smiled. Not forced, not practiced, just there, brief but real as Ethan spun slightly, shifting his weight with the music, his expression bright with a kind of easy confidence that made it hard not to mirror. “See?” he said, leaning in just slightly so you could hear him, his tone teasing. “Not doin’ so bad, am I?”

You shook your head faintly, a small laugh slipping out as you adjusted your footing, your hand brushing lightly against his arm as you moved. “Give it time,” you shot back, though there wasn’t much resistance behind it anymore.

Minutes passed. You didn’t count them, but you felt the shift. Felt the way your body loosened, the way your thoughts stopped circling as tightly, the way the earlier tension faded just enough that you could almost forget why you had come in the first place. Almost.

Because even as you moved, even as you let yourself fall into the rhythm, there was still something sitting low in your chest, something unsettled, something that hadn’t fully gone away. You weren’t looking for him anymore, at least, you told yourself you weren’t. Your eyes stayed forward, your focus on Ethan, on the movement, on anything that kept you from turning your head and checking.

But your body knew he was somewhere in the room. Knew it in that quiet, persistent way that didn’t need confirmation.

Ethan shifted closer after a few minutes, the space between you narrowing gradually, not abrupt, not forced, just a natural adjustment as the crowd pressed in tighter around you. His hand brushed your waist lightly at first, tentative, like he was testing the boundary before fully committing, and you felt it immediately, your breath catching just slightly at the contact. Then his hands settled there. Warm and steady, resting against your waist with a light pressure that grounded you in the moment more than anything else had so far.

Your eyes lifted to his face almost instinctively, a flicker of surprise slipping through before you could mask it completely, your body going still for half a second as you processed it. He noticed. Ethan leaned in just slightly, his expression softening, his voice dropping lower so it didn’t have to compete with the music. “Is this okay?” he asked, quiet but clear, his hands not moving, not tightening, just resting there, giving you the space to decide.

The question hit you harder than the touch itself. Because he asked, didn’t assume, he gave you the choice instead of taking it.

And for a second, you hesitated, not because you were uncomfortable, but because your mind flickered somewhere else again, uninvited, pulling a comparison you didn’t want to make, reminding you of hands that didn’t ask, that just knew, that took without hesitation because they had always been sure you would let them.

Your chest tightened slightly. You pushed the thought away, focused back on the present. On Ethan, on how he was looking at you now, waiting, giving you that moment without pressure.

You nodded. Small. Quick. “Yeah,” you said, your voice steady enough, even if something underneath it still felt slightly off. “It’s okay.”

His expression shifted immediately, something softer settling in, a small smile pulling at his mouth as he relaxed just slightly, his hands still gentle, still respectful, but more certain now. “Okay,” he said simply.

And then he moved with you again, closer now, the space between you smaller, more intentional, the rhythm shifting just slightly to accommodate it. Your hands came up naturally, resting lightly against his shoulders, your fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt as you adjusted, your body following the motion without overthinking it.

It should have felt normal, and in some ways, it did, but there was still that tension underneath it, that quiet awareness you couldn’t fully shake, sitting just beneath the surface no matter how much you tried to ignore it.

You let your gaze drift for a second. Just to the side. Just to—

And then you saw him. Gojo stepped into view like he had been there the whole time, like he had just been waiting for you to look again, his presence cutting through everything else without effort, without hesitation.

Your breath caught. He wasn’t across the room anymore. Still not close enough to touch, not close enough to speak, but close enough that you didn’t have to search for him, close enough that his presence pressed against your awareness whether you wanted it to or not.

And his eyes— Still on you.

Exactly the same. Sharp. Focused. Unmoving.

That same icy blue, intense and unwavering, locked onto you with a weight that made your chest tighten instantly, like nothing had changed, like the distance you had tried to put between you meant nothing at all.

He didn’t look at Ethan this time. Didn’t glance away, didn’t break. Just you.

Only you.

Your stomach twisted hard, a mix of nerves and something heavier hitting all at once, your fingers tightening slightly against Ethan’s shoulders before you caught yourself. “Shit,” you muttered under your breath, the word barely audible, slipping out before you could stop it.

You dropped your gaze immediately, your head turning just enough to break the line of sight, your focus snapping down and away from him as your heart started racing again, faster than before, louder than the music, louder than anything else.

Don’t look.

Don’t look.

You forced your eyes anywhere else, anywhere that wasn’t him, your body still moving, still following the rhythm, but your mind completely elsewhere now, caught in that moment, in that stare, in everything it carried.

Ethan felt the shift before you even said anything, your body still moving with his but your focus clearly somewhere else, your hands a little less present on his shoulders, your rhythm just slightly off. 

“Hey,” he said, leaning in closer, his voice low enough to cut through the music without forcing you to strain to hear it, his brow pulling together just a bit as he searched your face. “What happened?”

You blinked, like you had to pull yourself back into the moment, your gaze flickering toward him before settling, a small, soft smile lifting onto your lips almost automatically, practiced enough to pass. “Nothing,” you said, light, easy, like it didn’t mean anything.

But your eyes betrayed you, because they shifted, just for a second. Back over his shoulder.

Gojo stood a little further off now, leaning back against the wall like he had all the time in the world, one hand wrapped loosely around his drink, the other tucked casually into his pocket, his posture relaxed in a way that would’ve looked effortless to anyone else. But you could see it—the tension underneath it, the way his shoulders held just a fraction too tight, the way his jaw set slightly, like something was being held back instead of released.

And his eyes. Still on you. Still locked in. Irritation sat there, clear and unmistakable, a quiet edge that hadn’t been there before, something that tightened the space between his brows just slightly. But underneath it—something else flickered, something that didn’t match the rest of it, something lighter, almost out of place.

Amusement.

Your stomach dropped. A flush of heat spread through your chest, quick and immediate, your grip tightening slightly on Ethan’s shoulders as the realization hit you harder than anything else had all night.

Of course.

Of course he thought this was funny.

Of course he was standing there, watching you like this was some kind of game, like he had already figured it out, already decided what you were doing and why, already dismissed it as something predictable, something he didn’t have to take seriously.

He knew. He knew you came here to get his attention. And instead of it working the way you thought it would, instead of him reacting in some real, tangible way, he was tickled pink.

The embarrassment hit fast, sharp and uncomfortable, twisting low in your gut, making your chest tighten as your thoughts tripped over themselves. God.

This was exactly what you didn’t want. Exactly what you had told yourself you weren’t going to do. And now he was standing there, watching you like he had the upper hand, like he understood the situation better than you did, like he was in control of something you had barely even thought through.

Your jaw tightened slightly. The embarrassment shifted, curled, turned into something hotter. Frustrated. What, he thinks you won’t actually do anything? The thought came quick, defensive, your gaze still fixed on him even as your expression tightened just slightly, your brows pulling together.

He thinks this is just for show?

He thinks he can just stand there and watch and laugh it off?

Something in your chest flared, sharp and immediate, pushing back against that sinking feeling, replacing it with something else entirely. Fine.

Your lips pressed together, your eyes narrowing just a fraction before you forced your gaze away from him, your attention snapping back to Ethan, who was still watching you, still trying to read something in your expression. “Hey,” you said, your voice quieter now, but more intentional, more focused.

He blinked slightly, caught off guard by the shift in your tone, but nodded. “Yeah?”

You hesitated, just for a second. Because it was impulsive, reckless, it was exactly the kind of thing you had told yourself you weren’t going to do. Your heart pounded harder, your chest tight, your thoughts loud for one last second, then you leaned in slightly, your gaze holding his, something more serious settling into your expression. “Can I do something?” you asked.

Ethan’s eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t question it beyond that initial reaction. “…Yeah,” he said slowly, still watching you carefully, like he was trying to understand where this was coming from but wasn’t going to stop you.

And before you could think about it again, you moved. Your hand slid up from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers curling lightly into the short locks of his hair as you pulled him down toward you, closing the space between you in one smooth, decisive motion. And then you kissed him. It wasn’t soft in the way something uncertain would be. It was intentional.

Your lips pressed against his with a firmness that surprised even you, your body leaning into it just enough to make it real, to make it convincing, to make it something that couldn’t be brushed off as accidental or meaningless.

Ethan froze for half a second, just long enough for you to feel it. The surprise. Then he responded. His hands tightened slightly at your waist, pulling you a fraction closer as he leaned into the kiss, his lips moving against yours with an ease that came naturally, like he wasn’t overthinking it, like he was just… there, present, meeting you where you were.

The world around you blurred. The music, the voices, the movement—everything dulled at the edges, your focus narrowing to the contact, the warmth, the pressure, the reality of what you were doing settling in even as you continued it.

And for a split second you forgot. Forgot why you started it. Forgot who you were trying to prove something to. Forgot everything except the fact that you were here, in this moment, doing something you never would have done before.

Then– 

Sharp.

Immediate. Like the air itself had changed.

You felt it before you saw it. That presence. Closer. Heavier.

And then your arm was grabbed. Hard. Not enough to hurt, but enough to startle you completely, your body jerking slightly as the contact broke through everything else, ripping you out of the moment before you could react.

“Hey—!”

The sound left you in a small, startled yelp, your head snapping to the side as you were pulled back, your lips breaking away from Ethan’s as the space between you was forced open without warning.

Gojo. He was right there. Closer than you had expected, closer than you had prepared for, his grip firm around your arm as he pulled you toward him in one quick, decisive motion, like there was no hesitation in it, no room for you to resist before it was already happening.

His expression had changed completely, whatever amusement had been there before long gone, replaced with something raw, sharp.

Anger.

It sat heavy in his features, in the tight line of his jaw, in the way his brows had drawn together, in the intensity of his gaze as it locked onto you again, closer now, unavoidable.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“Gojo—what—” you started, your voice uneven as you tried to pull your arm back, but his grip didn’t loosen.

Behind you, Ethan moved immediately, his hand reaching out instinctively, like he was trying to stop whatever was happening before it escalated further. “Hey—!” he said, confusion and alarm mixing in his tone as he stepped forward, his fingers brushing your arm for a split second before Gojo pulled you just out of reach.

It happened fast. Too fast. Ethan’s hand fell back slightly, his expression shifting, caught somewhere between shock and uncertainty as he watched you get pulled away without fully understanding what was going on.

Gojo didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t look back. His grip stayed firm as he dragged you through the crowd, people shifting out of the way without question, the space opening in front of him like they could feel the tension radiating off him and didn’t want to get caught in it.

Your heart raced, your thoughts scrambling to catch up, your free hand instinctively moving to his wrist, trying to steady yourself, trying to ground something that felt completely out of control. “Gojo—stop,” you said, your voice sharper now, breathing uneven.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at you. Just kept moving, pulling you further away. And you didn’t know if it was the grip on your arm, the look on his face, or the way your heart wouldn’t slow down—

But something in you burned just as hot as the anger written all over him.

“Gojo—what the hell are you doing?” Your voice came out sharper than you intended, breath uneven from how fast everything had shifted, your arm still caught in his grip as he pulled you through the crowd like he had somewhere very specific in mind and no patience left to explain it. People blurred past you in fragments—faces, flashes of light, the press of bodies shifting out of your way—and none of it registered fully because your focus was locked on the fact that he wasn’t slowing down, wasn’t answering, wasn’t even looking back to see if you were keeping up.

“Gojo— stop!” you tried again, this time with more force behind it, your heels catching once against the floor as you stumbled slightly.

He didn’t. If anything, his grip tightened just slightly, his pace unwavering, his silence louder than anything he could’ve said. It wasn’t until he turned sharply down a side hallway, away from the main room, that the noise shifted, the music dulling just a fraction, the crowd thinning enough that you could actually hear your own breathing over everything else. The lights were dimmer here, shadows stretching longer across the walls, the chaos of the party fading into something more contained, more private.

And then he stopped. Suddenly. So fast that you barely had time to adjust before he turned, pulling you with him in one sharp motion that sent your back pressing flat against the wall behind you, the impact enough to knock a small breath out of your chest.

“Snowman!—”

You didn’t get to finish it, because he was already there. Right in front of you, close enough that the space between you felt nonexistent, his hands coming up to brace against the wall on either side of your head, boxing you in before you could even think to step away, his presence overwhelming in a way that made your pulse spike instantly.

Your breath caught.

His face was inches from yours, closer than it had any right to be, his expression tight, controlled in the worst possible way, like whatever he was holding back was sitting just beneath the surface, ready to snap if pushed even a little further.

And his eyes, they were different now. No distance, no restraint, just raw, unfiltered intensity, that same icy blue sharpened into something that burned instead of froze, something that locked onto you and refused to let go.

“Me?!” he shot back, his voice low, rough, carrying something that sounded dangerously close to a growl as it pressed into the small space between you. “What the hell are you doing?”

The audacity of it hit you immediately, cutting through the shock just enough to spark something back in you, your brows pulling together as you straightened against the wall, your glare snapping up to meet his without hesitation.

“I can do whatever I want,” you fired back, your voice tight but steady, even as your heart pounded harder against your ribs. “And it was just a kiss.”

His jaw tightened. You saw it. A low sound left him, something frustrated, something sharper than anything he’d said so far, and then one of his hands dropped from the wall, sliding down to your hip in one quick, deliberate motion, his fingers pressing into it firmly enough to make your breath hitch.

“Don’t give me that ‘just a kiss’ crap,” he said, his voice lower now, more controlled but somehow more intense because of it, every word deliberate. “I don’t care if it was ‘practice’ like before. I don’t care if it was just a kiss.” His grip tightened slightly, grounding his point in a way you couldn’t ignore. “You can’t do that.”

Your eyes flashed. The anger came fast, cutting through everything else, sharp enough to steady you even with how close he was, even with the way his hand was still on your hip, even with the way your body reacted to it despite yourself. 

“You telling me what to do?” you shot back, your voice rising just enough to match his, your chin lifting slightly as you held his gaze without backing down.

His expression darkened. Something in him tightened further, you had hit something that was already stretched too thin. 

“Yes,” he snapped, the word coming out harsher than anything else he’d said so far, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach twist. “Yes, Goddamnit, I am.”

The words hung there for a second, heavy, charged, the air between you tightening around them. His breath was uneven, you could hear it now, feel it, the space between you too small to ignore the way his chest rose and fell, the way his control seemed to be slipping piece by piece the longer this went on.

“Do whatever you want,” he continued, his voice dropping again, quieter but no less intense, something rougher threading through it now, something closer to desperation than anger. “Scream at me, hit me—” his grip on your hip tightened again, his other hand pressing harder against the wall beside your head, caging you in further, “just don’t fucking disappear on me again or I swear—”

“What?” You cut him off immediately, the word sharp, your frustration flaring right back up, refusing to let him steer this into something else without answering for it. “What exactly are you going to do, huh?!” you demanded, your voice rising, pushing back against him, against the intensity, against everything he was throwing at you without explaining.

There was a pause. A real one, one that settled into the space between you and held there, just long enough to be significant.

His gaze didn’t leave yours. Not for a second, but something flickered too fast for you to fully catch.

And then he moved.

Before you could react, before you could process it, before you could even take a full breath—

His lips were on yours.

The impact of it hit harder than you expected, your breath catching sharply as everything else dropped out from under you for a second, the tension that had been building snapping all at once into something physical, something undeniable. It wasn’t gentle, there was no hesitation in it, no question, no pause to see how you would respond.

It was urgent, demanding, all the frustration, all the anger, all the confusion he hadn’t been able to put into words poured into it instead, his hand tightening against your hip as he pressed closer, closing whatever space was left between you like he refused to let it exist anymore.

Your back pressed harder against the wall, your fingers curling instinctively into the front of his polo shirt as your body reacted before your mind could catch up, the heat of it immediate, overwhelming, pulling something out of you that you hadn’t been able to reach all night.

It was messy. Real. Too much and not nearly enough at the same time.

Your thoughts scrambled, trying to make sense of it, trying to hold onto the anger, the frustration, the things you had been so sure about just seconds ago— 

But it all blurred under the weight of it. Under the way he kissed you like he meant it, like he had been holding back for too long and finally snapped, like he didn’t care about anything else in that moment except you.

Your heart pounded so hard it almost hurt, your chest tight, your breath uneven as you tried to keep up with it, tried to ground yourself in something that made sense when nothing about this did.

And he didn’t pull away, didn’t loosen his grip, didn’t give you space to think, just held you there, like letting go wasn’t even an option.

Gojo's lips pressed harder against yours, the kiss deepening with a hunger that pulled you under like a current you couldn't fight. His mouth moved with deliberate pressure, tongue slipping past your parted lips to tangle with yours in slow, insistent strokes that sent sparks racing through your veins. 

You matched him, your hands fisting into the fabric of his shirt at his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palms as if it echoed your own frantic pulse. The world narrowed to the heat of his body against yours, the faint taste of mint lingering on his breath mingling with something uniquely him—warm and addictive.

His hand at your hip shifted first, fingers splaying wide before sliding upward to curl around your waist, pulling you flush against him with a firm grip that left no space between your bodies. The press of his hips into yours ignited a fresh wave of awareness, the hard line of his arousal evident through your thin layers of clothing, grinding subtly as the kiss grew more urgent.

You arched into the contact without thinking, a soft sound escaping your throat, vibrating against his lips. His other hand followed his first, trailing from your hip with a deliberate drag of his fingers over the curve of your ass, cupping it fully and squeezing with just enough force to make your breath hitch sharply, but he caught it immediately, his mouth sealing over yours again to devour the sound, turning it into fuel for the kiss that refused to let up.

Your breaths came in hot bursts against his skin, mingling when his lips pulled back for the smallest moment, only to crash back in with renewed intensity. Each time he pulled away, you heard the soft, ragged inhale he took, chest expanding against yours as if he were drawing you in deeper with every breath. It was maddening, that rhythm of pull and plunge, the way his exhales fanned warm air across your cheek, carrying the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the saltiness of his sweat. Heat coiled low in your belly, tightening with every brush of his tongue, every flex of his fingers on your body, building into an insistent ache that made your thighs clench together instinctively.

He broke the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, voice low and rough, words tumbling out in a husky whisper that you barely registered, something about how good you felt, how he couldn't stop. But the haze of the sensation drowned it out, frustration flickering through the desire, and you shook your head slightly, pressing your forehead to his. "Shut up," you breathed, the words sharp but laced with need, your fingers digging into his shoulders to emphasize the command. 

Gojo paused, his blue eyes flickering open to meet yours in that brief space, a spark of amusement lighting them even as his grip on your ass tightened possessively. He didn't argue, didn't push back with his usual teasing. Instead, a slow, satisfied smile curved his lips before he dove back in, obeying with an eagerness that made your pulse stutter.

Your hands slipped under the hem of polo shirt, fingers pressing against the warm, firm ridges of his abs, tracing the hard lines of muscle that flexed under your touch as you moved higher to feel the solid plane of his chest. His skin burned hot against your palms, and he let out a soft groan, the sound rumbling deep in his throat. "Fuuuck, Squeaky," he murmured, his voice rough and edged with need, before he kissed you harder, his mouth claiming yours with a fierce urgency that made your lips tingle. 

His hands gripped your waist tighter, pulling your back away from the wall where he'd pinned you moments before, and he turned you slowly, guiding you backward into the small bathroom just off the hallway, the door swinging open behind him as he backed you inside step by step.

The cool edge of the countertop bumped against your hips as he maneuvered you further in, reaching back to shut the door with a decisive push, the wood clicking into place. His hands slid down to the undersides of your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh there as he hoisted you up effortlessly, lifting you onto the marble surface.

 Something—a bottle of soap or a small container—rattled and tipped over from the force, clattering into the sink, but neither of you paid it any mind. You heard the soft click of the lock engaging, and then his arms wrapped around you, pulling your body flush against his as his lips left yours to trail to the underside of your jaw. He hummed there softly at first, then pressing open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck, his breath wet and warm against your skin, sending waves of dizziness through you, making your head spin.

One of his hands drifted up, his fingers grazing lightly over the thin strap of your satin top, the touch feather soft and hesitant, a silent question hanging in the air between you. You answered instantly, breathlessly, by hooking your fingers under the strap and pulling it down yourself, the fabric whispering over your shoulder as it slipped free. 

Gojo moaned low against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. His palms slid under the satin, warm and calloused, pushing the material up and over your head in one smooth tug before he tossed it aside, his lips crashing back to yours immediately, kissing you like he couldn't get enough, like your taste was something he was already hooked on, his tongue sweeping in deep and demanding.

With his eyes half lidded and focused solely on the feel of you, he reached behind your back, fingers working blindly at the clasp of your bralette until it came undone, the straps loosening as it fell to the floor in a soft heap. He drew back just enough to look at you, huge, calloused hands coming to rest on your sides, grazing the bare skin there with a gentleness that didn’t quite match the heat in his gaze. 

He exhaled sharply, a huff of breath that carried all his admiration, his blue eyes drinking you in like you were the most precious thing he'd ever seen, tracing the curve of your shoulders, the swell of your breasts now exposed to the cool air of the bathroom. "So gorgeous," he whispered, his voice thick, before he leaned in again, capturing your lips in a slower kiss this time, his hands moving up to cup your breasts softly, thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks as he massaged them with careful pressure.

A soft whimper escaped you at the sensation on your nipples and he breathed against your lips in response, his words coming out in a murmur that was half growl, half affection. "...irritating, aggravating, beautiful girl." The words sent a shiver racing down your spine, your skin prickling with the intensity of it all, and you opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't form, lost in the haze of his kisses as you leaned into him, your lips parting to meet his again, deeper, hungrier.

His hand stayed on your breast, kneading the soft flesh with a steady rhythm, fingers rolling your nipple between them just enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand trailed down, skimming over the fabric of your skirt before slipping beneath it, fingers moving with purpose up your inner thigh, the touch sending sparks through your nerves until they reached the edge of your panties. He dragged the thick pad of his finger over your already damp slit, pressing just enough to feel the heat through the thin barrier, and you let out a choked groan, the sound muffled against his shoulder as you gripped his shirt tighter.

"Shh," he hushed you softly, his lips brushing your jaw in a trail of kisses that distracted and soothed at once, his voice a low rumble. His index finger hooked into the side of your panties, pulling the fabric aside with a gentle tug, exposing you to the air with a small gasp. Gojo slid that same finger into you slowly, the intrusion smooth and deliberate, your body welcoming him with an immediate clench. 

His middle finger joined soon after, stretching you just right, and you groaned louder, clutching at his back, nails digging into the fabric of his polo over the muscle underneath. He kissed a path to your shoulder, lips lingering on the skin there before moving back toward your collarbone, his fingers pushing deeper inch by inch, the pace torturously slow, drawing out every sensation until your thighs trembled around him.

You whimpered, the sound high and needy, and he wrapped his free arm around your waist, holding you close against his chest, his heartbeat thudding steadily under your sternum as he increased the rhythm just a fraction, his thumb finding your clit and starting to rub slow, firm circles that made your hips buck involuntarily. Your head fell back against the mirror behind you, the cool glass a stark contrast to the heat building inside, and you groaned his name, the syllables breaking on your tongue. "S– S'toru–"

He lifted his head to watch your face, his cerulean’s locked on yours, blown with desire. "Yeah? Like that?" he asked, his voice husky, fingers curling inside you to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. He didn't wait for an answer, just kept the pressure steady, his thumb pressing harder on your clit in tighter patterns that had you gasping, your body arching toward him. "Or is this better?" He twisted his wrist slightly, the angle changing just enough to send a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, his fingers thrusting deeper now, the wet sounds of it filling the small space between you, obscene and intimate.

You choked on another moan, your hands fisting back in his shirt as he worked you relentlessly, his mouth returning to your neck, sucking lightly at the skin there to muffle your cries. He didn't rush, though—every push of his fingers was measured, drawing out the build, letting the tension coil tighter in your core until you felt like you might snap. 

His arm around you tightened, pulling you impossibly closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered slurred encouragement, his voice a constant thread weaving through the haze. "That's it, just like that—feel how soaked you are for me? God, you're so tight, squeezing my fingers like you never want me to stop." His thumb flicked over your clit faster now, the circles turning erratic, matching the way your breaths came in short, desperate pants.

The pressure built relentlessly, your thighs quivering as you rocked against his hand, chasing the edge he'd brought you to so carefully. He kissed your collarbone again, teeth grazing the skin just hard enough to sting, then soothed it with his tongue, his fingers never faltering, plunging in and out with a rhythm that had you seeing white. "Come on, Squeaky, let go for me," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, the words vibrating through you. "I know you want to. You’re burning to, aren’t you?" His free hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he held your gaze, those blue eyes nearly all black with the depth of his want, watching every twitch of your expression, every flutter of your lashes.

It hit you all at once, the release crashing over you in a shuddering wave, your pussy clenching hard around his fingers as you came with a drawn out moan that muffled as he crashed his mouth back onto yours, your body shaking in his arms. He didn't stop right away, easing you through it with slower strokes, his thumb gentler now, but still rubbing on your clit until the aftershocks faded, tongue swiping fervently over your bottom lip, leaving you boneless against him. Finally, he backed away and pulled his fingers out of you, slick and glistening, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean with a deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving yours, the taste of you on his tongue making his gaze darken even further. 

Suddenly, the bathroom felt smaller than it should have.

Too warm, too quiet compared to the chaos outside, the bass from the party reduced to a dull, distant thump that pulsed faintly through the walls instead of swallowing everything whole. The overhead light buzzed softly, casting a dim, yellowed glow across the counter, across the mirror, across the two of you, close enough that there was no real separation left, no space for anything to breathe.

You panted on the countertop, your hands braced behind you for a moment, fingers pressing into the cool surface as you tried to steady your breathing, your chest rising and falling in uneven patterns that you couldn’t quite control. Your lips still felt warm, tingling faintly, your skin sensitive everywhere he had touched, like your body hadn’t caught up to the fact that you had stopped moving.

You exhaled slowly, the sound soft, shaky, barely there.

Gojo stepped closer in between your legs, close enough that your knees brushed against his sides, his posture looser now, less rigid than it had been just seconds ago, some of that earlier tension burning off into something quieter, heavier but less explosive. His hands came to rest on the counter on either side of you, trapping you there without force this time, just presence, just proximity.

He was looking at you, softer, something almost disbelieving.

A small grin tugged at his lips, faint, unsteady, like he hadn’t fully processed what had just happened either, like he was still sitting in it, letting it settle instead of tearing it apart. “Hey,” he murmured, voice lower now, rougher around the edges, like he hadn’t used it in a while.

And then he leaned in again, slower this time, no urgency, no intensity driving it forward. His lips brushed yours first, light, testing, giving you a second to meet him halfway instead of taking it outright.

And you did. For a moment.

Your lips moved against his, softer now, the kiss less frantic, more deliberate, your body leaning into it instinctively, your hands shifting slightly against the counter as your shoulders relaxed just a fraction.

It felt different, quieter, yet more dangerous somehow. Because it wasn’t just pure adrenaline anymore, it was choice. 

And that’s when your mind caught up.

It hit all at once. Sharp. Loud. Irritatingly unavoidable.

What am I doing?

The thought cut through everything, slicing clean through the haze that had settled over you, through the warmth, through the pull, through the way your body had been responding without hesitation. Your stomach twisted. He’s probably done this with so many other girls.

Your lips faltered, just slightly, the movement slowing without you meaning for it to, your breath catching faintly against his as your chest tightened.

He still hasn’t been honest with me.

The weight of that pressed harder, heavier than everything else, dragging the moment back into reality, back into everything that hadn’t been resolved, everything that still sat between you, temporarily ignored but not gone.

I can’t just forget what he said.

Your hands tensed against the counter, fingers curling slightly as your thoughts spiraled faster, louder, piling on top of each other until it felt suffocating.

What the fuck just happened to me?

Your lips stopped moving, stilled.  The change was small, but he felt it immediately.

Gojo pulled back just enough to look at you, his brows pulling together slightly, confusion flickering across his face as he tried to read what had changed, what he had missed in the span of a few seconds.

“Hey…” he said softly, his voice quieter now, careful in a way that didn’t match him at all, like he was stepping into something fragile without knowing where it might break. One of his hands lifted from the counter, moving toward your face, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek as he tucked a stray piece of hair back, the touch gentle, almost hesitant.

“You okay?” he murmured.

Your throat tightened. You swallowed, your gaze dropping instantly, unable to hold his, your eyes flickering anywhere but at him as your thoughts continued to race, your chest still tight, your breathing uneven in a completely different way now.

“U-um…” you started, the word catching awkwardly, your voice not nearly as steady as you wanted it to be.

Your hands moved, almost on their own, reaching down to your top where it had shifted, the satin pooled slightly around your midsection from everything that had just happened. You tugged at it, fingers fumbling just a bit as you pulled the fabric back into place, lifting the straps back up over your shoulders one at a time, the motion small but deliberate, like you needed something to focus on, something concrete to ground yourself in.

The change didn’t go unnoticed.

Gojo stilled completely.

The softness in his expression faltered, confusion sharpening into something more unsettled, his hand dropping slowly from your face as he watched you, really watched you this time, trying to piece together what had suddenly shifted.

“What are you doing?” he asked, the question coming out quieter than before, but heavier, like he already didn’t like the answer he was expecting.

You shifted on the counter, your body turning slightly as you moved to slide off, your heels finding the floor again, your balance a little off as you stepped back from him for the first time since he had pulled you away from the dance floor.

“I’m—” you started, your voice catching again, your hands smoothing down your skirt unnecessarily, your thoughts still tangled, still loud, still impossible to organize into something that made sense out loud. “I’m sorry, I just…”

You trailed off, shaking your head slightly, like even you didn’t fully understand how to explain it, your gaze still fixed downward, avoiding him completely.

“I really should go.”

The words hung there. Heavy. Final.

The silence in him was immediate, you felt it before you even looked up. The space between you changed, the air tightening, something in his posture pulling inward like he had been hit with something he hadn’t seen coming.

When you did glance up, just briefly, you saw it.

The color had drained from his face slightly, the earlier warmth gone completely, replaced with something that sat somewhere between disbelief and something deeper, sharper, something that made your chest ache the second you recognized it.

“…Seriously?” he asked, the word quieter now, rougher, like he was trying to keep it together and failing just slightly.

You hesitated, just for a second, because the look on his face, it was pure, unbridled hurt. Clear. Unfiltered. And underneath it, something worse. Desperation.

Your chest tightened painfully, your throat closing up slightly as you took him in, really looked at him, and felt something crack just a little inside you. You swallowed hard, your gaze dropping again before you could lose your nerve completely.

“Goodbye, Gojo,” you muttered, the words softer this time, almost swallowed by the space between you.

And then you turned. You didn’t wait for him to respond, didn’t give yourself the chance to change your mind.

You reached for the door, your hand hesitating for the briefest second on the handle before you pushed it open, the noise of the party flooding back in instantly, louder than before, harsher, overwhelming in a way that made it easier not to think. And then you stepped out, leaving him behind.

Alone in that too small bathroom, standing exactly where you left him, with everything you didn’t say still hanging in the air between you.

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: First of all... JUSTICE FOR ETHAN! Guys genuinely this chapter hyped me up and pmo at the same damn time. I haven't indulged in writing smut very much, so I would deeply appreciate all and any feedback-- both positives and negatives, so I can keep writing the best content possible for all of you. Thank you so much for reading allat, ik 20k words was a lot.. I will try to make the next chapter much shorter. Love you all!

Sidenote: Girl left her bralette in the bathroom... smh

@hatoslay divider creds

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[lacrimadreams]

Put Him In His Place ᥫ᭡. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Chapter 06-> previous

pairings - Lovesick!Fratjo x Badass!reader (f/m)

WC- 20k (ITS LONG I KNOW I'M SORRY)

♡ ₊˚‧ WARNINGS :: No use of Y/N :: Frat boy Gojo:: Yearner Gojo :: College AU:: TENSION!:: ANGST:: Nerd Fratjo :: Fingering:: Making out :: Grinding :: Jealousy :: Toxic behavior :: Dirty talk :: Eventual smut:: Strong female MC :: Neuroscience Major MC:: HEAT :: Intimacy:: Using:: Sensuality:: Lying:: Teasing:: Drinking:: Partying :: lowk blueballing:: Nicknames:: Slowburn:: (probably more to come!)

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: Hey guys here's six. I.. I'm kind of speechless, not gonna lie. Also DYING to know how you feel about this one. Thank you all for your support! More coming very soon. (Semi-proofread) Look at end for more notes! 🎧ྀི♪⋆.✮MUSIC RECS: Dark, broody, tense, sexy vibes - Best Friends - The Weeknd - Is There Someone Else? - The Weeknd - Noble - F3miii - Wine Pon You - Doja Cat - Kiss it Better - Rihanna - Me and Your Mama- Childish Gambino - Lonely Star - The Weeknd - House of Balloons/Glass Table Girls- The Weeknd

It had been twelve days.

Not that he needed to check.

The night you left had been bad– worse than he’d admit to anyone sober.

Geto had kicked everyone out after you were gone, something about “damage control” and “reading the room” but Gojo barely registered it. He’d been sitting on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets, staring at nothing with a half-empty bottle in his hand.

Geto had crouched in front of him at some point, arms crossed, watching him with that familiar mix of annoyance and concern. “You gonna sit there all night or are you planning on doing something productive with your misery?” he’d asked.

Gojo had laughed, a quiet, broken kind of sound that didn’t match him at all. “I always fuck everything up,” he muttered, voice thick, words slurring just slightly.

Geto sighed. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “You do.”

Gojo let his head fall back against the cabinet, staring at the ceiling. “She hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Geto replied, tone softer now despite the words. “You just said something stupid. Which, again, not shocking.”

Gojo dragged a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I really don’t understand how you did mean it, though, Satoru.” Geto said.

“That doesn’t help,” Gojo shot back.

“No, it doesn’t,” Geto agreed. Then, after a beat, “But sulking about it like a drunk idiot isn’t helping either.”

Gojo didn’t respond, didn’t move, just sat there, quiet, until something in his chest tightened too much and—

God, it was humiliating—

He leaned forward and grabbed onto Geto, arms wrapping around him in a clumsy, uncoordinated hug.

Geto froze. “…are you serious right now?”

“I fucked it up,” Gojo mumbled into his shoulder.

“Yes,” Geto said again, exasperated, but his hand came up anyway, patting Gojo’s back once. “You’re also drunk off your ass, so maybe try not to spiral like this tonight.”

Gojo didn’t let go, and Geto didn’t push him off.

Gojo had stopped counting somewhere around day four, when the silence stopped feeling temporary and started settling into something heavier, something that pressed against his chest every time he reached for his phone and already knew what he was going to see. Nothing. No missed calls returned. No texts with your name lighting up his screen. Just the same message thread sitting there, unchanged, his side cluttered with attempts that grew increasingly less composed the further down you scrolled.

At first, he had played it the way he played everything. Easy, confident, like this was just another sneaky link who needed a little space before she came back around. A couple texts, casual, teasing. A “you alive?” tossed in like it didn’t matter whether you answered or not. A call or two, just to hear your voice, just to prove to himself that he could still reach you if he wanted to.

You didn’t answer.

So he tried again. And again. And again, until the calls started to feel different, less like habit and more like something he couldn’t stop himself from doing, like if he just heard your voice once—just once—it would snap something back into place inside him that had been wrong ever since that night.

It didn’t.

Every call rang out into nothing. Every text sat there, delivered, read in his imagination but never in reality. Except once.

The stupid fucking tacos.

He doesn’t even remember ordering them, not really, just that he’d been sitting there staring at his phone, thumb hovering over your contact like it had been for the past hour, when the idea hit him, sudden and desperate and ridiculous enough that it felt like it might actually work. You liked food. Everyone liked food, although not many could compare to your love for mexican. It wasn’t even about the tacos, it was about getting you to respond, about forcing some kind of break in the silence that had wrapped itself so tightly around him he could barely think straight.

He’d ordered them at two in the morning, half drunk and fully spiraling, standing in the kitchen with his phone in one hand and Toji yelling in the background about how that was “the dumbest move of all time.”

She’s not gonna forgive you because you sent her food, dumbass.

“Shut up,” Gojo had snapped, already typing in your address.

He remembered your exact order too.

Extra everything. No substitutions. The order felt like you, decisive, a little chaotic, unapologetic.

He added hot sauce just like you had that night after the library. Didn’t think twice.

The response came twenty minutes after delivery.

One text.

Five words.

Squeaky: Too spicy for my taste.

That was it.

No anger, no softness, no opening for him to latch onto, just a flat, indifferent sentence that somehow felt worse than anything else you could’ve said, because it meant you weren’t even willing to fight him. You didn’t care enough to be mad. You just… dismissed it. Dismissed him.

He must’ve read it a hundred times, trying to find something hidden in it, some tone, some clue, anything that told him there was still something there worth chasing, but the more he stared at it, the more it stayed exactly what it was.

Nothing.

After that, he tried everything.

He went out, surrounded himself with noise and bodies and music so loud it rattled through his bones, let people touch him, flirt with him, lean in too close the way they always did, waiting for that familiar spark to kick in, that easy detachment that made everything simple. It never came. Their hands felt wrong, their voices grating, their laughter empty. He found himself comparing every single one of them to you without even meaning to—the way you looked at him like you saw through him, the way your voice sharpened when you called him out, how your smile had hit him like something real, something solid, something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing until it was right there in front of him.

He tried not going out, too.

Stayed in his room, buried himself in anything that might distract him, schoolwork, mindless scrolling, anything that didn’t leave space for his thoughts to drift back to you, but it didn’t matter, because you were there anyway, slipping into every quiet moment, every pause, every second his brain wasn’t actively occupied.

You were everywhere. He couldn’t open his messages without seeing your name sitting there at the top, unmoving. His chest tightened every time he thought about that night, about the way you had looked at him before you walked away, disappointed, expecting more from him. 

And that was the worst part, worse than you leaving, than you not answering him.

It was that look.

Because he knew you were right. That everything you had said, every word thrown at him in that sharp, cutting tone that didn’t let him hide behind anything, had landed exactly where it was supposed to, digging into something he had spent years burying deep enough that no one—not even himself—could reach it.

And you saw it anyway.

You saw him.

Not the version he showed everyone else, not the one that was easy and effortless and untouchable, but the one underneath it, the one he had built this entire life trying to outrun, and instead of laughing, instead of turning it into a joke the way everyone else always did, you had taken it seriously.

You had expected better.

And he had failed you.

The memory of you that night wouldn’t leave him alone, the argument, the way it ended, everything before it, too– the way your body had felt pressed against his, warm and real and grounding in a way he had never experienced before, the way your hands had moved over him without hesitation, unscared of him, like you didn’t see him as something to chase or impress but something to meet head-on. The way your laughter had mixed with the music, the way your breath had caught—soft, barely there, but enough that he noticed, enough that it replayed in his head at the worst possible times, dragging him right back to that moment like it was happening all over again.

Nothing compared.

Not the parties, not the people, not the life he had built so carefully around himself.

Nothing even came close.

For the first time in years, something as stupid as a business exam had thrown him off.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It never mattered. Those classes were easy, predictable, something he could coast through without thinking too hard, without trying too hard, without being anything more than the version of himself he showed everyone else. He’d built his entire college life around that balance, doing just enough to stay at the top without anyone questioning how effortless it looked.

Except this time, it wasn’t effortless. He’d gotten the test back, barely glancing at it at first, expecting the same thing he always saw—perfect score, clean, untouched, nothing to think about. But then his eyes caught on the number at the top of the page, and something in him stalled.

98%.

It was such a small difference. Two points. Something most people wouldn’t even blink at, something they’d brush off with a shrug and move on from without a second thought.

He couldn’t, because it wasn’t about the grade, it was about the fact that he had missed something. That somewhere between rereading your old texts at three in the morning and staring at his phone like it might magically light up with your name, between replaying your voice in his head and trying—failing—to drown it out with anything else, he had lost focus. Slipped. Let something as basic as a marketing test get away from him.

And all he could think about was how you would’ve looked at that paper. Unimpressed and knowing. The idea hit harder than it should have, sharper than anything the red ink on the page could’ve done, because it wasn’t really about the exam sitting in front of him—it was how you had gotten into his head so deeply that even the parts of himself he had always relied on, the parts that never faltered, were starting to crack.

His grip tightened on the edge of the paper for a second before he let out a quiet, humorless breath, pushing back from his chair so abruptly it scraped against the floor, loud enough to turn a few heads.He didn’t care, didn’t bother collecting his things properly or wait for the rest of the class to file out, didn’t even look back at the test as he left it sitting there on the desk like it meant nothing, even though it clearly did.

Because suddenly, none of this felt important. The grade, the class, nothing.

Which is how Gojo ended up here.

Walking across campus with no real plan, just a direction, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket like that might somehow steady him, even though nothing about him felt steady right now. His mind kept jumping ahead, running through every possible version of how this could go, none of them landing anywhere good, because he didn’t know what he was going to say, didn’t know how to fix something he barely understood himself.

He just knew he couldn’t do this anymore.

Couldn’t keep sitting in that silence, couldn’t keep pretending this was something he could just wait out, that you would eventually come back on your own like everyone else always did.

You weren’t like everyone else, that had been clear from the moment you slapped him.

It was clearer now than ever.

His steps slowed just slightly as he got closer to the building, the familiar structure of it coming into view, something tightening in his chest that had nothing to do with the walk and everything to do with what was waiting for him inside. He knew your schedule, memorized it without even meaning to, knew exactly where you were supposed to be right now, what lab, what time, how long you would be there. He’s thought about this moment too many times over the past twelve 

days, imagined a hundred different versions of it, none of them feeling real enough to prepare him for the actual thing.

Because this wasn’t a party. This wasn’t a drinking game.

And for the first time in a long time, Gojo had no idea how this was going to end.

He just knew he was about to see you.

And that terrified him more than anything else ever had.

By the time he reached the building, that restless, buzzing energy under his skin had sharpened into something tighter, something almost unbearable, every step forward pulling him closer to a moment he couldn’t undo once it happened, and for a split second he considered stopping, just turning around and walking away before he had the chance to make things worse, because that was what he did, wasn’t it? He pushed, he tested, he ruined things before they could ruin him, but the thought barely lasted, flickering out the second his eyes caught on a familiar figure just outside the entrance.

You.

You were standing a few feet from the doors, bag slung over your shoulder, posture relaxed in a way that immediately told him something he hadn’t felt in over a week—you were okay. Not waiting or looking around like you expected someone to show up, or carrying even a trace of the tension that had been eating him alive for days. You looked… normal, like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t been unraveling piece by piece while you went on with your life untouched.

And you weren’t alone. The realization hit slower than it should have, his gaze shifting, locking onto the guy standing in front of you, tall, blonde hair catching the light just enough to stand out, black glasses sitting neatly on his face, the kind of composed, put-together look that immediately made something ugly twist low in Gojo’s chest. The guy leaned slightly toward you as he spoke, saying something Gojo couldn’t hear, and then you laughed—soft, genuine, unguarded in a way that made something in him snap tight.

He hadn’t heard you laugh like that in twelve days, not once, and now here you were, giving it so easily to someone else.

He stopped walking without realizing it, feet planted just far enough away that neither of you noticed him, his entire focus locked onto the two of you like if he looked away for even a second something would shift, change in a way he wouldn’t be able to track. The guy said something else, and you shook your head, nudging his arm lightly in a way that felt… familiar, easy. This wasn’t the first time you’d stood like this together, this wasn’t new, Gojo registered immediately. His jaw tightened.

He watched as the conversation slowed, and the guy adjusted the strap of his bag, taking a step back and still smiling at you, still holding your attention like it was the easiest thing in the world. Then he said something else, quieter this time, something that made you smile again, softer now, and for a second Gojo thought you might follow him when he turned, might walk away with him like this was nothing, like you had already moved on.

But you didn’t. You stayed where you were, watching as he stepped back, lifting a hand in a casual wave, simple.  You waved back.

And then he turned and left.

Gojo didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until it came out in a slow, controlled exhale, something still tight in his chest but changing now, redirecting itself into something sharper, and more focused as his eyes followed you instead, watching as you adjusted your bag and turned toward the building, completely unaware of the fact that he was standing there, that he had just watched all of it, that something in him had twisted into something he didn’t quite recognize at the sight of you with someone else.

He moved before he could think too hard about it or that hesitation could creep back in, slipping in behind you just as the doors closed, the familiar smell of the building hitting him as he stepped inside, sterile and sharp and nothing like the world he usually existed in, but somehow still tied to you in a way that made everything feel too real, too immediate.

You walked ahead of him, unaware, your steps steady, purposeful, like this was routine, like everything in your world was still exactly the same.

He followed. Down the hall, past the same turns you had taken him through before, until you reached the lab. You stepped inside first, already moving toward your station, setting your bag down, your back turned just long enough for him to step in behind you, the door clicking shut a little louder than it should have in the quiet space.

And then, before he could overthink it, before he could soften it or make it easier or less him, he spoke.

“Squeaky.”

Your reaction was immediate.

Sharp, startled, real.

“AH—!” The sound tore out of you before you could stop it, your whole body jolting as you spun around, hand flying instinctively to your chest like you could physically catch your heart before it leapt out, your chair scraping loudly against the floor as it shifted with the sudden movement. Your eyes were wide, unfocused for half a second, adrenaline still catching up to the fact that there wasn’t actually any danger, just him—standing there, too still, too intense, watching you in a way that made your expression shift just as quickly as it had flared. “Gojo?! What the hell—what is wrong with you?” you snapped, breath still uneven as you let out a short, disbelieving laugh, more from shock than amusement. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He didn’t react, apologize, or even acknowledge it. The words barely seemed to register as anything more than background noise, because the second you turned and faced him, the only thing that mattered, the only thing that stuck, was the image of you outside with that guy, the sound of your laughter replaying in his head like it had been burned there.

“Who was that?”

It came out immediately, cutting straight through your words without hesitation, the question sitting heavy in the space between you, too blunt, too direct, and just a little too sharp to pass as casual curiosity.

The shift in your expression was subtle but immediate. Your brows drew together slightly, eyes narrowing as the last traces of surprise drained away, replaced by something far more measured as you studied him for a second, deciding how to respond, or if you even wanted to. “…Excuse me?” you said finally, your tone quieter now, but controlled.

“The guy outside,” he clarified, taking a small step further into the room, like closing the distance might somehow make the answer come easier, his gaze fixed on you in a way that didn’t leave much room to deflect. “The one you were just with. Who is he?”

For a moment, you just looked at him, and then your eyes narrowed a fraction more, something almost incredulous flickering across your face as you let out a slow breath through your nose, steadying yourself. “That,” you said carefully, crossing your arms as your weight shifted slightly onto one leg, your posture closing off, “is not what you should be opening with right now.”

He felt it, the misstep– the moment everything tilted just slightly out of his control. His jaw tightened, the silence stretching just long enough to make it uncomfortable before he exhaled, dragging a hand back through his hair in a rare show of something that almost looked like uncertainty. “Yeah,” he muttered, quieter now, the edge dulling just slightly as he looked away for half a second, like he needed the break from your gaze. “Yeah, I know.”.

He swallowed, his throat feeling tighter than it should have as he forced himself to meet your eyes again, and for once, there was no easy charm to fall back on, no practiced line waiting to smooth things over. 

“I’m sorry.”

The words came out low, steady, but stripped of everything he usually hid behind, leaving them exposed. “For that night,” he added, his voice rougher now, like the admission cost him something. “What I said… it was messed up. I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

You exhaled slowly, your arms loosening just slightly as your gaze shifted, not away, but over him, trying to read something beyond what he was saying. “I can tell,” you said after a moment, your voice more thoughtful, but still guarded, “that there’s something you’re not telling me.”

The statement hung there, heavier than a question, because it wasn’t one. You weren’t asking, you were stating.

And he reacted the way he always did when something got too close to the surface.

“There’s not,” he said immediately, the denial quick, almost automatic, slipping into place before he could even consider letting it be anything else.

Your eyes sharpened. “Gojo,” you said, a warning threaded lightly through his name, like you were giving him the chance to correct himself, to take it back and try again.

“There isn’t,” he repeated, firmer this time, his shoulders squaring slightly, like if he stood in it hard enough it would hold.

You stared at him for a second longer, searching, your gaze steady and unflinching, making it clear you weren’t convinced, not even a little. “Then why does it feel like you’re lying to me?” you asked, your voice still even, still controlled, but with an edge now that hadn’t been there before, something sharper, something more frustrated. “Why does it feel like there’s a whole part of you you’re just… not letting me see?”

He let out a quiet, humorless breath, shaking his head slightly as he glanced off to the side. He needed a second to regroup, to find a way around it. “It’s not that serious,” he said, deflecting, defaulting, his tone slipping back into something lighter, easier, even if it didn’t quite land the same way it usually did. “I said something dumb, I came to apologize. That’s it.”

You didn’t budge. Your eyes narrowed just slightly as you tilted your head, studying him in that way that made it feel like you were peeling something back layer by layer, whether he wanted you to or not. Your lips pressed together, something unreadable passing through your expression before it settled flatter.

“Right,” you said, the word landing without any real weight behind it, like you didn’t believe it enough to argue. The silence that followed stretched longer than either of you seemed willing to fill, the tension getting heavier, and then, finally, you shrugged.

It said more than anything else you could’ve done.

“If you’re not willing to be truthful with me,” you said, reaching for your bag, your movements calm, deliberate in a way that made it clear you had already made your decision, “then there’s no point in this.”

His head lifted slightly, something sharp pulling through his chest. “What do you mean—”

“I mean,” you cut in, slinging the strap over your shoulder as you looked at him again, your gaze steady, unwavering, “I like authentic people, Gojo. I don’t want to stand here and guess which version of you I’m getting.”

You moved toward the door, there was nothing left here worth staying for. “I guess I’ll just work on the experiment later.” you muttered.

“Hey—wait,” he said, stepping forward quickly now, the shift immediate, the composure cracking just enough for urgency to slip through as he reached out, stopping just short of actually grabbing you.

But you didn’t stop or turn back. “Goodbye, Gojo.”

And then you were gone.

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft, final sound that echoed louder than it should have in the empty lab.

He stood there for a moment, unmoving, staring at the space where you had just been, his jaw tight, something heavy and sharp coiling in his chest as his hands slowly curled into fists at his sides, the tension building, contained, with nowhere to go.

He had been right there.

And he had still lost you.

—-----------------------------------------

Fourteen days. You hadn’t meant to keep track, not consciously, not in any way you would ever admit out loud, but the number had settled somewhere in the back of your mind anyway, attaching itself to small, ordinary things until it became impossible to ignore. Two weeks since the party, the argument, since the last time you had let yourself stand close to him without feeling that sharp, steady resistance in your chest that told you to step back, to hold your ground, to remember why you had walked away in the first place.

It hadn’t felt the same since.

You noticed it in ways that irritated you more than anything else, in the quiet gaps between tasks, the seconds where your brain wasn’t fully occupied and something slipped in uninvited. You would be halfway through reading an article, eyes scanning the same paragraph for the third time without absorbing a single word, and suddenly you would catch yourself thinking about the way he used to interrupt you mid-sentence, how you would get annoyed but he’d keep talking anyway because part of him expected it. You would reach for your phone out of habit, not even for anything specific, just that unconscious urge to check something, and your thumb would hover over messages for a second too long before you forced yourself to lock the screen and set it face down like that would stop the thought before it formed fully.

So you worked, you buried yourself in it. Labs, lectures, readings, assignments—anything that required enough focus to keep your mind from drifting. You stayed later than you needed to, volunteered for extra work, double-checked data that didn’t need to be checked twice, anything that kept your hands busy and your thoughts moving in a straight, controlled line instead of looping back to something you had already decided you weren’t going to revisit. Hit tennis balls cross court until your arms were so numb you couldn’t do anything but flop in bed. 

It should have worked. This was your space, your routine, the thing that had always grounded you no matter what else was going on in your life. You had always found something steady in it, something that made sense when everything else didn’t, and for the most part, it still did.

But there was a difference now, a kind of emptiness that didn’t belong there. It didn’t stop you from functioning, but it lingered just enough to make everything feel slightly off, like something had been shifted a few inches to the left and you couldn’t quite adjust to it. And you hated that, hated that it affected you at all, that despite everything, despite the way things had ended, despite the fact that you knew why you had walked away, you still felt it.

“Okay, seriously, what is going on with you?”

Becca’s voice cut through your thoughts one afternoon, sharp enough to pull you out of the cycle you hadn’t realized you’d slipped into again, your pen pausing mid-note as you glanced up from your notebook.

She was leaning against the edge of your desk, arms crossed, watching you with that look she got when she had already decided she wasn’t going to drop something until she got an answer.

“What?” you asked, even though you already knew what she meant.

“Don’t do that,” she said immediately, narrowing her eyes slightly. “You’ve been weird all week.”

“I’ve been busy,” you replied, your tone even as you turned back to your notes, flipping the page like that settled it.

Becca didn’t move. “Yeah, you’re always busy,” she shot back, unimpressed. “This is different. You’re like… here, but not really here.”

You exhaled slowly, setting your pen down this time, knowing she wasn’t going to let it go.

“I’m fine,” you said, more firmly now, meeting her gaze.

She held it for a second, clearly unconvinced, before her expression shifted just slightly, something more knowing slipping in. “Is this about Gojo?”

The name landed heavier than you expected. You didn’t react immediately, didn’t let anything show on your face as you reached for your water bottle instead, taking a sip just to give yourself a second.

“No,” you said, setting it back down with more care than necessary. “It’s not.”

Becca raised an eyebrow. “Right,” she muttered, the word dragging slightly, like she didn’t believe you at all but wasn’t sure how hard she wanted to push it. “Because you were stalking the frats instagram for two hours last night for no reason.”

You didn’t respond to that. There wasn’t anything you could say that didn’t open a door you had already decided to keep closed. The truth was, you couldn’t seem to shake him. Not completely.

You had tried, replayed the argument in your head enough times to wear down the sharpest edges of it, had gone over every word he said, every tone shift, every look, until there was nothing left to analyze, nothing left to question. And it still didn’t sit right.

Because it wasn’t just about what he said, it was about what it meant. The way he had talked about “nerds,” the way he had thrown the word around so easily, so carelessly, like it didn’t hold weight, like it didn’t represent real people, real lives, real experiences. The way he had tried to separate you from it, like you were somehow an exception, like you were above it, like that made it better.

It didn’t. If anything, it made it worse, because those “nerds” he dismissed so casually weren’t some abstract concept to you, they weren’t strangers you could detach from. They were your people.

Shoko, who stayed in the lab longer than anyone else and still managed to check in on you when you looked too tired, who understood your work without needing explanations and pushed you when you needed it.

Yuji, who had this way of making everything lighter without ever taking anything important less seriously, who showed up for people without hesitation, who never made anyone feel small for caring too much.

Choso, quiet but steady, someone who didn’t say more than he needed to but meant every word when he did, someone you trusted without having to question it.

They weren’t “losers,” they weren’t something to be pitied or looked down on or used as a comparison point to make someone else seem better. And the fact that Gojo could stand there, in front of you, and say something like that—even if he didn’t mean it the way it came out, even if there was more underneath it he hadn’t explained—meant something.

It meant he still didn’t get it, or worse, that he did, and he chose to ignore it. And you couldn’t just let that go. 

No matter how much you wanted to.

Because that was the part that frustrated you the most, the part you didn’t like admitting even to yourself. You had wanted to forgive him, it would have been easier to accept the apology, to smooth it over, to pretend it hadn’t hit as deeply as it did and go back to the way things had been before everything got complicated. But that wouldn’t have been honest, and if there was one thing you refused to compromise on, it was that, so you held your ground.

Even when it left that quiet, persistent ache sitting just under the surface, even when things didn’t feel as steady as they should have, even when part of you still caught itself thinking about him at the worst possible times, because wanting something didn’t mean it was right and you weren’t going to trade your values for something that fragile. Not even for him.

Still, there were moments, small ones.

You sat in your neuroscience lecture, notebook open in front of you, pen moving automatically as the professor spoke, words filling the page in neat, organized lines that made it look like you were fully present, fully engaged, like nothing was off. Your eyes followed the slides, your hand kept up with the pace, but somewhere halfway through a discussion on neural pathways, your attention slipped, quiet and gradual, until the words stopped meaning anything at all and your thoughts drifted somewhere else entirely.

It wasn’t even a clear memory at first, just a feeling, something familiar pressing at the edges of your focus, and before you could catch it, it shifted into something more defined, something you hadn’t meant to revisit. Gojo, sitting across from you in the library, chin propped up on his hand, watching you instead of his work, completely unbothered by the fact that you had told him—multiple times—to focus. The way he had grinned when you got irritated, the way he had leaned closer just to see your reaction, crystal blue eyes blinking at you like it was the most entertaining thing in the world to him.

Your pen slowed.

“…and this is where the signal transmission becomes most efficient—”

You blinked, the professor’s voice snapping back into clarity just as you realized you had missed at least a full minute of information, your notes trailing off into something incomplete, your hand hovering awkwardly above the page.

“Earth to you.” The whisper came from your left, low but pointed enough to break through the last of the haze, and you turned slightly, catching Shoko’s gaze as she leaned back in her chair, one eyebrow raised in quiet amusement.

“You good?” she murmured, tilting her head toward your notebook. “Because that is definitely not the right diagram.”

You glanced down. Yeah. It wasn’t. A small breath left you, something between a sigh and a quiet laugh as you shook your head, quickly correcting the lines you had drawn wrong.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you muttered back, though it came out a little less convincing than you would have liked.

Shoko didn’t push it, didn’t press further, just watched you for a second longer before giving a small nod, like she was choosing to let it go for now. “Okay,” she said, turning back to her own notes, then pausing briefly before adding, “Just making sure you weren’t about to submit that and ruin your perfect record.”

You snorted softly under your breath, the sound quiet enough not to draw attention, but enough to loosen something tight in your chest. “Please,” you murmured. “I’d never recover.”

That earned a small smile from her, quick and subtle, but real, and for a second, the weight sitting on your shoulders felt a little lighter. The rest of the lecture passed without much incident, though you caught yourself drifting once or twice more, each time pulling yourself back a little faster, a little more deliberately, like you were learning how to manage it, how to redirect before it pulled you too far under.

By the time it ended, you were already packing up your things, sliding your notebook into your bag as the room filled with the low hum of conversation, chairs scraping, people shifting around you.

“Hey,” Shoko said, nudging your arm lightly as she stood, waiting just long enough for you to look up. “You’re still coming tomorrow, right?”

You blinked at her for a second, your brain catching up. “Tomorrow?”

“The debate thing,” she clarified, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “At Yuji’s. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget,” you said quickly, straightening slightly, the corners of your mouth lifting just a little. “I was literally thinking about it earlier.”

That wasn’t entirely a lie, it just hadn’t been the main thing on your mind. Shoko studied you for a second, like she was deciding whether or not to believe that, then shrugged lightly. “Good,” she said. “Because Yuji’s already planning to argue something ridiculous, and Choso’s been preparing like it’s an actual debate competition.”

A small laugh slipped out of you, easier this time, more natural. “Of course he has.”

“And I’m bringing topics,” she added, her tone shifting slightly, more animated now. “Ethics, morality, all that fun stuff. None of that surface-level arguing.”

“Obviously,” you replied, adjusting your bag as you stood, falling into step beside her as you both moved toward the door. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

“Exactly,” she said, satisfied.

You could already picture it. Everyone crammed into Yuji’s place, half of you sitting on the floor, someone inevitably bringing snacks no one actually needed, voices overlapping as arguments built and shifted and spiraled into something louder, more chaotic, but still grounded in that shared understanding that made it feel safe. Hot takes thrown out just to see who would bite, serious discussions tangled up in jokes, someone always playing devil’s advocate just to keep things going.

It sounded good, normal, something you were genuinely looking forward to.

“Yeah,” you said after a second, a little more firmly this time, like you were confirming it not just to her, but to yourself. “I’ll be there.”

Shoko nodded once, satisfied, and the conversation shifted to something lighter as you stepped out into the hallway, the noise of the building filling in around you. And then, like it always did, your mind wandered again, quieter this time, less intrusive but still there, slipping in between thoughts.

Gojo would’ve made a comment about it.

You could hear it clearly, the teasing edge in his voice, the way he would’ve dragged out the word “debate” like it was something ridiculous, something overcomplicated for no reason, probably thrown in a joke about how you were all a bunch of dweebs arguing about philosophy  for fun.

The thought lingered for a second. Because you also knew—without a doubt—that he would’ve enjoyed it. He would’ve sat there, pretending not to care at first, making comments from the sidelines, and then gotten pulled into it anyway, arguing back, pushing at points just to see where they would break, enjoying the back-and-forth more than he would ever admit.

You shook your head slightly, a small, almost imperceptible motion, like you could physically clear the thought before it settled too deeply. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t there. And you weren’t going to keep filling in spaces for him that he hadn’t earned the right to occupy.

By the time you stepped outside, the air felt a little cooler, a small shift that grounded you again, bringing you back into the present as you adjusted your bag on your shoulder.

“Hey.”

The voice came from your right, familiar enough that you turned without thinking, already knowing who it was before you saw him.

“Hey,” you replied, your expression softening slightly as your eyes landed on him.

Ethan. Tall, blonde, glasses slipping just slightly down the bridge of his nose as he pushed them back up with an absent motion, his bag slung over one shoulder in that slightly unbalanced way that made it clear he had packed it in a rush.

“Leaving a lecture?” he asked, falling into step beside you easily, like this had already become routine.

“Yeah,” you said, matching his pace as you started down the path. “Just finished.”

“How’d it go?”

“Good,” you answered, then added with a small exhale, “Finally got the diagram that explains half of the homework assignments. And no labs anytime soon, at least for this class.”

“Nice,” he said, genuine interest lighting up his expression. “What about the fluorescent paint experiment? The one you were telling me about last week from your chem class?”

You glanced at him, a little surprised he remembered the specifics, then nodded. “I finished that a while ago. Submitted it too.”

“That’s actually really cool,” he continued, his tone picking up slightly as he spoke, slipping into that familiar enthusiasm he had whenever the conversation leaned toward something technical. “We’re working on something similar in one of my classes, but more on the application side—like integrating it into imaging systems for better contrast.”

“Biomedical engineering english should be considered a different language because I have no idea what you just said. ” you laughed.

“Yeah,” he said with a small grin. “Figured I’d try to make things slightly more complicated for myself by picking the major.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly. “Of course you did.”

The conversation flowed easily after that, moving from one topic to another without much effort, his energy steady, engaging without being overwhelming, the kind of presence that made it easy to respond, to talk without overthinking every word. He was… good. Genuinely.

Smart, thoughtful, funny in a quieter way that caught you off guard sometimes, the kind of person who paid attention to what you said and actually listened, who asked questions because he was interested, not because he was trying to impress you.

And it would’ve been easy to lean into that, to let yourself feel something more.

But you didn’t. Because no matter how much you appreciated him, no matter how comfortable the conversation felt, there was still that missing piece, that lack of something deeper that you couldn’t force, no matter how much sense it would make if you could.

It wasn’t fair, you knew that. He deserved someone who met him fully, not someone who was still untangling feelings for someone else. Still, you liked talking to him, and right now, that was enough.

“By the way,” he said after a moment, glancing over at you with a small, slightly hesitant smile, “I was thinking—there’s this thing this Sunday, kind of like a research showcase? I was going to go, and I thought maybe—”

You caught the shift in his tone, the way he was easing into the suggestion, and something in your chest tightened just slightly, not in a bad way, just in recognition of what he was trying to do. You opened your mouth to respond— and then, without meaning to, your mind flickered back.

To the lab, to Gojo standing there, looking at you like he had something to say but didn’t know how to say it, the way his voice had sounded when he apologized, the question he had asked first.

Who was that?

A small, involuntary warmth stirred low in your chest before you could stop it, quick and fleeting, but noticeable enough that it caught your attention immediately. It felt… good. Annoying, but also good. The fact that he cared enough to ask, that there had been something sharp in his tone, something close to jealousy—it shouldn’t have mattered. It didn’t change anything, fix what he said, didn’t make his refusal to be honest any less frustrating.

And you were still pissed at him. Still hurt, standing exactly where you had been when you walked away, but you were also honest with yourself, and the truth was, a small part of you had liked it. The realization made you exhale softly, almost under your breath, shaking your head just slightly as you forced your attention back to Ethan, who was still mid-sentence, waiting for your answer.

“—but yeah, no pressure or anything,” he finished, his expression open, easy.

You offered a small smile, grounding yourself again. “That actually sounds interesting,” you said, meaning it, even if your thoughts had been elsewhere a second ago. “I’d be down to check it out.”

His face lit up just a little at that, subtle but real, and you felt a flicker of something softer in response, something that had nothing to do with Gojo and everything to do with the fact that Ethan was a good person. You could work with that. And as you kept walking, the conversation picking up again, you let yourself stay in that moment, pushing everything else just far enough to the side that it wouldn’t interfere, even if you knew it wasn’t gone.

Just… waiting.

By the time you got back to your dorm, the sky had already started to dim into that soft, early evening blue that always made campus feel a little quieter than it actually was. Everything had settled just enough for the day to blur into night without anyone really noticing the exact moment it happened. You pushed your door open with your shoulder, bag slipping slightly down your arm as you stepped inside, already expecting the usual—low music, maybe Becca on her phone, something easy and familiar.

Instead, you walked straight into chaos.

Closet doors were wide open, clothes half-pulled from hangers and draped over the back of a chair, makeup scattered across the desk, suggesting she had been digging through it for something specific and never bothered to clean up after. Becca stood in front of the mirror, one hand holding up two different tops, her expression narrowed in intense concentration like this was a decision that actually required that level of thought.

She glanced at you through the mirror the second the door shut behind you. “Oh thank god,” she said immediately, turning halfway around, both tops still clutched in her hands. “Help me pick. Black or—actually, no, don’t even answer that, it’s obviously black.”

You dropped your bag onto your bed, letting out a quiet breath as you took in the scene, the faint smell of perfume already hanging in the air. “You look like you robbed a store,” you muttered, toeing off your shoes as you stepped further into the room.

“It’s called effort,” she shot back without missing a beat, tossing one of the tops onto the bed before turning back to the mirror, already pulling the other one on. “You should try it sometime.” 

You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head as you moved to sit on the edge of your bed, rubbing a hand over your face briefly before letting it fall back to your lap. “Don’t need it. You know they used to call me effortless back in the day, right?” You grinned. 

Becca rolled her eyes, adjusting the top, smoothing it down, then reaching for something on the desk, her attention shifting quickly from one detail to the next. “You’re coming tonight, right?” she asked, casual, like it was already decided.

You didn’t even hesitate. “No.”

The answer came out flat, immediate, leaving no room for interpretation as you leaned back slightly, bracing your hands behind you. She paused, slowly turned her head. “…That was aggressive,” she said, one eyebrow lifting as she studied you through the mirror.

“I’m not going,” you repeated, a little less sharp this time, but just as certain.

“Why not?” she pressed, turning fully now, arms crossing loosely over her chest. “You haven’t been out all week.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, and now you’re not,” she shot back, taking a step toward you. “Come on, it’ll be fun. You need to get out of your head for like, two seconds.”

You shook your head slightly, gaze dropping to your hands for a moment before lifting again. “I’m good,” you said, quieter now, but still firm.

Becca watched you for a second longer, something more observant slipping into her expression, like she was picking up on the shift in your tone, the way your answer wasn’t just about the party. “... this is about him, isn’t it?” she asked, softer this time, but still direct.

You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t confirm it, didn’t deny it, just exhaled slowly, your gaze drifting slightly off to the side as the question settled.

It wasn’t entirely about him, but it wasn’t not about him either. “I just don’t feel like it,” you said finally, pushing yourself up from the bed, moving toward your desk just to have something to do with your hands.

Becca didn’t push it, not immediately. She turned back to the mirror, picking up where she left off, but you could feel it lingering, the question still sitting there even if she hadn’t said anything else.

You reached for a random paper on your desk, flipping it over without really reading it, your mind already drifting somewhere else, somewhere less focused, less controlled.

A party. Loud music, crowded rooms, people pressed too close together, energy high enough to drown out everything else for a few hours. And him, because of course he’d be there. The thought slipped in before you could stop it, settling heavier than the rest, pulling your attention back in a way that was harder to ignore.

You could see it.

Him across the room, surrounded by people like always, easy, untouchable, like nothing had changed. Or maybe not, maybe he’d look different. But you doubted it. Your grip tightened slightly on the edge of the paper before you set it back down, your jaw tightening just a fraction as you exhaled through your nose.

And then, uninvited, another thought followed. Ethan. The image formed easily, too easily—him standing next to you, talking, laughing, his attention steady, genuine, the way it always was.

You could bring him.

The idea hit sharper than the others, sudden enough that it made you pause completely, your body going still for a second as your brain caught up. You could show up with him. You could watch Gojo see it, watch that shift in his expression, that flicker of something he wouldn’t be able to hide completely, that same sharp edge you had heard in his voice earlier when he asked about him.

It would be easy. Simple, effective. Your stomach flipped slightly at the thought, something warm and complicated curling low in your chest before you could stop it, and you immediately straightened, shaking your head once, sharp and quick.

No.

That was—

No.

That was immature. Petty. Exactly the kind of thing you would’ve called someone else out for.

You let out a quiet breath, pressing your lips together as you leaned back against your desk, arms crossing loosely as you forced the thought away, pushing it down before it could take root. You were better than that. You didn’t need to prove anything to him, you didn’t need to play games just to get a reaction. That wasn’t who you were.

And yet…

You hesitated just slightly, because the truth sat there anyway, stubborn and honest in a way you couldn’t ignore. You had never done something like that before, never made a decision just because it felt reckless, just because it went against your usual logic, your usual control. You were always measured, intentional, every choice had a reason, every action had a purpose, everything aligned with something you believed in.

And this?

This would be… different.

A small, almost disbelieving laugh slipped out under your breath as you glanced toward Becca, who was now digging through her makeup again, completely unaware of the internal spiral happening three feet away from her. 

Why not?

The question came quieter this time, less defensive, more curious, and that alone made you pause again, your brows pulling together slightly as you considered it.

Why not?

Because it was immature? Messy? Because it didn’t fit neatly into the version of yourself you had always maintained? Or because it might actually feel good?

You stared at the floor for a second longer, your thoughts shifting, turning, before you finally pushed yourself off the desk, crossing the room slowly. “Hey,” you said, your voice cutting through the soft music playing in the background.

Becca glanced up immediately, already half-done with her eyeliner, her expression shifting the second she registered your tone. “…Yeah?”

You hesitated, just for a second. “…What if I did something bad?”

The words came out quieter than you expected, but steady, your gaze fixed on her as you waited. There was a beat of silence, and then her entire face lit up.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, dropping her eyeliner onto the desk without a second thought as she turned fully toward you, eyes wide, a grin already spreading across her face. “Tell me everything.”

You huffed a small laugh despite yourself, shaking your head slightly. “It’s not—don’t make it a big deal.”

“It’s already a big deal,” she shot back immediately, stepping closer, her energy shifting completely, focused now, locked in. “You just said you want to do something bad. You never say that. What are you thinking?”

You crossed your arms, leaning your weight onto one leg as you tried to phrase it in a way that didn’t sound as impulsive as it felt in your head. “I was just—” you started, then paused, exhaling slowly. “What if I went tonight.”

Becca blinked. “That’s it?” she said, her grin faltering just slightly. “That’s the bad thing? You going to a party?”

“With Ethan,” you added, the name slipping out a little faster, a little more intentional.

And there it was, the reaction you were expecting. Her grin came back instantly, sharper this time, more knowing. “Oh,” she said slowly, dragging the word out as her eyes lit up. “Oh, you’re evil.”

“I’m not—” you started, already shaking your head.

“You are,” she cut in, pointing at you like she had just caught you in something. “You are, and I love it.”

“It’s not like that,” you insisted, even though you weren’t entirely sure that was true anymore.

“It’s exactly like that,” she shot back, stepping even closer now, her excitement building with every second. “You want him to see you with someone else.”

You hesitated just enough, and that was all the confirmation she needed. “Okay, yeah,” she said, nodding to herself. “We’re doing this.”

You let out a quiet laugh, rubbing a hand over your face as the reality of what you were suggesting settled in more fully. “This is a terrible idea.”

“It’s a great idea,” she corrected immediately. “It’s an amazing idea.”

“It’s immature.”

“It’s fun.”

You shook your head again, but this time there was less resistance behind it, more uncertainty, more consideration than outright refusal. “I don’t even know if he’d care,” you muttered, quieter now.

Becca scoffed. “Please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “The way you two were dirty dancing the other night? He already cares.”

Your chest tightened slightly at that, the memory of his voice, his expression, flashing briefly through your mind before you pushed it away again. “This isn’t about him,” you said, though it came out weaker than before.

“Sure,” she said, clearly unconvinced, but not pushing it further, her grin softening just slightly as she looked at you. “But maybe it’s about you doing something you normally wouldn’t.”

You met her gaze, something quieter settling in your chest now, something less reactive, more thoughtful. Maybe it was, and that made it harder to dismiss entirely. “…I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice softer now, less certain.

Becca’s expression shifted, just slightly, something more reassuring slipping in. “You don’t have to decide right now,” she said, her tone lighter again, but still steady. “But if you do go…”

She stepped back, gesturing toward the mess of clothes scattered around the room. “We’re picking you an outfit.”

A small smile pulled at your lips before you could stop it, the tension easing just enough to let something lighter in. “You better make me look really hot.”

“Obviously.”

—---------------------------------------------

By the time the three of you stepped off the sidewalk and onto the path leading up to the frat house, the music was already loud enough to feel in your chest, a low, steady bass that pulsed through the ground and up your legs with every step forward, blending with the hum of voices spilling out from the open windows and the glow of lights flickering behind them. It was the kind of energy that usually hit you all at once, something chaotic and overwhelming and almost contagious if you let it be, but tonight it felt different, like there was a layer between you and it, like you were watching yourself walk into it instead of fully being there.

Becca walked on your left, her energy bright and easy. She was talking, of course she was. Her voice moved easily between you and Ethan, picking up threads of conversation and spinning them into something louder, brighter, pulling both of you along whether you were fully present for it or not. She had one hand looped loosely through your arm at first, her energy grounding and warm, then she let go when she needed to gesture, only to drift back again a few seconds later without thinking, like she was keeping you tethered without making it obvious.

Ethan stayed on your right, matching your pace without thinking about it, his voice steady as he responded to her, slipping into that comfortable rhythm he always seemed to find in conversation, where everything flowed naturally, no pauses that felt forced, no pressure to fill silence that didn’t need filling. He knew Becca from a couple classes, and he was a great conversationalist regardless. 

“And I’m telling you,” she was saying, glancing over at Ethan with exaggerated emphasis, “if you start explaining anything with actual equations tonight, I will physically remove you from the room.”

Ethan let out a quiet laugh beside you, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder before responding, his tone light but still carrying that steady intelligence he never seemed to turn off completely.

“Okay, first of all, that’s discrimination,” he said, pushing his glasses up slightly with one finger. “And second, you asked me what I was working on.”

“I asked for a summary,” Becca shot back immediately. “Not a full lecture.”

“It was a short explanation.”

“It was not short.”

You let out a small laugh at that, the sound softer than usual, but real enough that Becca glanced at you quickly, like she was checking to make sure you were still there with them.

“See?” she said, pointing at you like you were proof of something. “She agrees with me.”

“I didn’t say that,” you replied, your voice lighter now, the rhythm of their banter easy to slip into even if your thoughts kept drifting just out of reach.

Ethan glanced over at you, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You definitely did,” he said.

“I literally didn’t,” you shot back, though there wasn’t much bite behind it, just enough to keep the conversation moving.

Becca snorted. The conversation continued, shifting naturally from one thing to another, but your attention kept slipping, not fully detaching, just… lagging, like you were half a step behind everything being said, catching pieces of it instead of the whole. You responded when it felt necessary, added comments when something landed, but your mind kept circling back to the same place, the same thought, the same steady pull that had been there since you left your room.

You were hyper-aware of yourself.

Of how you looked, how you felt moving through the space.

The fabric of your top shifted with each step, soft and fluid, the champagne satin catching the light from the streetlamps in a way that felt almost deliberate, like it was drawing attention without asking for it. The cowl neckline dipped low but naturally, the folds of it resting against your skin without needing adjustment, the thin straps tied at your shoulders sitting neatly, delicate but secure. The asymmetrical hem added just enough edge to balance the softness, the way it angled slightly against the clean line of your black mini skirt grounding the entire look so it didn’t feel too polished.

Becca had taken her time with it. You could still hear her voice in your head from earlier, directing you without hesitation, swapping out pieces until everything sat exactly how she wanted it to, adjusting your jewelry last, her fingers brushing lightly against your skin as she fixed the earrings into place.

“These,” she had said, stepping back to look at you properly, her expression satisfied. “These are staying.”

The gold caught the light every time you moved, subtle but noticeable, the black quatrefoil details tying into the rest of the outfit without overwhelming it, the bracelet resting lightly against your wrist, shifting just enough to remind you it was there. She told you the accessories “matched your divine feminine energy.” You hadn’t known what to do with that then, and you weren’t entirely sure what to do with it now.

“You look insane, by the way,” Becca said suddenly, effectively pulling you back out of your thoughts, glancing at you mid-conversation, her eyes sweeping over you again like she was still admiring her own work. “Like, actually unfair.”

You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head slightly, though the comment still landed somewhere warm in your chest. “You literally picked everything,” you reminded her.

“Exactly,” she shot back without hesitation, grinning. “But it is your face. I must give credit where credit is due.”

Ethan glanced over at you then, his expression softening just slightly as he took you in properly, like he hadn’t had a full second to process it until now. “She’s right,” he said, his tone easy but sincere, no hesitation behind it. “You look beautiful.”

The compliment was simple, honest, and you felt it. A small shift, something light, something you could accept without overthinking, and you gave him a small smile in return. “Thank you.”

He nodded once, satisfied, and the conversation picked back up around you, Becca already moving on to something else, her voice blending into the background again as your attention slipped just slightly out of reach.

The house was getting closer. Too close. The front yard was crowded, people gathered in loose clusters, drinks in hand, voices overlapping in a constant stream of noise that blurred together into something indistinct. The porch lights cast everything in a warm glow, shadows shifting as people moved in and out of the doorway, the music spilling out more clearly now, bass heavy, steady, impossible to ignore.

Your steps slowed. Your chest tightened slightly, your fingers curling a little more firmly around your clutch as your thoughts sharpened, losing that hazy edge they had before and settling into something more focused, more pointed.

This is stupid.

The thought came clean, immediate, cutting through everything else with a clarity that made your stomach twist. You could feel it now, the weight of what you were doing pressing down harder the closer you got, the reality of it settling in with every step forward.

This is so immature.

You swallowed, your throat a little tighter than it had been a minute ago, your gaze fixed on the entrance like you could force yourself through it just by looking at it long enough.

Why are you doing this?

Your pace slowed again, more noticeable this time, enough that Ethan’s shoulder brushed yours lightly as he adjusted to match it, his attention shifting toward you.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, his voice dipping just enough that it didn’t carry past you.

“Yeah,” you said automatically, though it came out thinner than you intended, your focus still somewhere else entirely.

You could turn around. Right now. It wouldn’t even be a big deal, you could just stop, say you forgot something, that you weren’t feeling it, anything, and it would make more sense than this, more sense than walking into a situation you had deliberately set up just to see how someone else would react.

Why am I spending my time trying to make a guy jealous?

The answer wasn’t as simple as you wanted it to be. Your chest tightened slightly as another thought slipped in, quieter but heavier, settling deeper than the rest.

What if he does the same thing? The image came without warning. Gojo, inside, exactly where you knew he would be, surrounded by people, girls pressed close to him, laughing at everything he said, touching him like they always did, like they had every right to, like it didn’t mean anything to him at all.

Your stomach dropped, a sharp, unpleasant feeling cutting through the rest, heavier than the nervousness, heavier than the doubt, something that made your steps falter for half a second before you caught yourself again.

Of course he would. Why wouldn’t he? That was his thing, that had always been his thing, and you had known that from the beginning.

So why did it feel different now?

Why did the thought of it sit so wrong in your chest, like something you couldn’t quite swallow down no matter how much sense it made? You exhaled slowly, your grip tightening slightly on your clutch again as your gaze dropped briefly to the ground before lifting again, forcing yourself forward.

He found you attractive. That much was obvious. You didn’t need to question that part, didn’t need to overanalyze the way he looked at you, the way he touched you, the way he reacted to you. But that didn’t mean anything deeper, not necessarily.

A slow, uncomfortable realization settled in behind the thought, creeping in quietly but firmly. Maybe that’s all it was. Attraction, interest, something fun– something different for him. 

Your chest tightened again, this time slower, heavier, like the thought had more time to settle, to take hold. You thought about the way he had acted before all of this, before things got complicated, before you started seeing more than what he showed everyone else. Hookups. No attachment. No depth.

And even after everything—after the library, the lab, the way he had looked at you like you mattered more than that—you couldn’t fully ignore the possibility that it hadn’t meant the same thing to him that it had started to mean to you.

Maybe you were just… a fun time. A challenge, a break from his usual routine.

The thought sat there, heavy and uncomfortable, pressing against something you didn’t want to examine too closely. You didn’t realize you had slowed again until Becca’s hand brushed against your arm, grounding you just slightly as she glanced over.

“We’re here,” she said, her voice lighter, like she could feel the shift in your energy but wasn’t calling it out directly. You looked up.

The door was right there now, open, loud, alive, everything spilling out into the night like it was waiting to pull you in. For a second, you stood there, caught between stepping forward and turning around. Your heart beat a little faster than it should have, your thoughts louder than the music, louder than the voices, louder than anything else.

And then you took the step forward.

The second you stepped through the doorway, the noise hit you all at once, louder than it had sounded from outside, heavier, thicker, wrapping around you like something physical as the bass from the speakers pulsed through the floor and up into your chest. The air felt warmer inside, crowded with bodies and movement, the faint scent of alcohol and cologne and something sweet mixing together in a way that was almost overwhelming if you focused on it too long. For a brief second, you hesitated just past the threshold, your hand still resting near the doorframe like you needed that extra point of contact to ground yourself before fully committing.

Then the theme registered. Yacht club.

White and navy everywhere, people leaning into it with varying degrees of effort, some in full linen outfits and boat shoes, others just throwing on anything vaguely preppy and calling it a night, kind of what you had done. Someone had hung cheap nautical decorations along the walls, rope accents, little anchors taped onto random surfaces, the lighting dimmed just enough to make everything feel hazy, like the whole room was operating at a slightly slower, looser pace than usual.

Becca let out a soft laugh beside you, already scanning the room with interest. “Okay, wait,” she said, leaning in slightly toward you, her voice raised just enough to carry over the music. “This is actually kind of cute.”

“You would think that,” you replied, though your attention was already drifting, your eyes moving over the room in quick, careful passes.

Ethan stepped in fully beside you, his posture shifting just slightly as he took everything in, his gaze moving slower, more observant, like he was processing each detail instead of just absorbing it. “This is… a lot,” he said, a small, amused smile pulling at his mouth as he watched a group of people attempt to pour drinks into plastic bongs without spilling.

“You get used to it,” Becca said easily, already moving a step further into the crowd. “Or you don’t, and then you just pretend you do.”

Ethan huffed a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head slightly, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable, just… out of his element, taking it in with that same steady curiosity he applied to everything else.

You nodded faintly, though you weren’t really listening anymore, because you were looking. You told yourself you were just taking in the room, just scanning, but your eyes moved too deliberately for that, too focused, slipping past groups of people without really seeing them, skipping over faces that didn’t matter, your attention narrowing without you meaning for it to.

You knew where he would be. Somewhere central, but not too central, somewhere he could see everything without being fully swallowed by it. Your chest tightened slightly as your gaze shifted again, sharper now, more intentional—

And then you found him.

It was immediate.

He stood near the far side of the room, just off from the main cluster of people, exactly where you expected him to be, a drink loose in his hand, his posture relaxed in that effortless way that always seemed so natural on him. Geto stood beside him, leaning in slightly as he said something you couldn’t hear, his expression calm, amused, like he always was.

But Gojo wasn’t looking at him.

He was looking at you. Directly. Completely.

Like he had been waiting for you to walk in.

The impact of it hit harder than you expected, your steps stalling before you could stop yourself, your body going still for just a fraction of a second as your breath caught somewhere in your chest.

His eyes didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Didn’t soften, that same sharp, icy blue you remembered locked onto you with a focus that felt almost unreal, like everything else in the room had fallen away and you were the only thing left in his line of sight. There was no hesitation in it, no confusion, just something intense and steady and heavy enough that you felt it before you could process it.

Your stomach dropped. Your heart kicked harder against your ribs, fast and uneven, your fingers tightening slightly around your clutch as you stood there, caught in it longer than you meant to be.

And then his gaze shifted. Slow.

Deliberate.

From you to Ethan. You watched it happen, watched the exact moment his attention moved, the way his eyes dragged over Ethan like he was assessing him, measuring something silently, something sharp settling behind that blue that hadn’t been there a second ago.

Then back to you, even slower this time. More focused.

His eyes narrowed. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but you saw it. You felt it– that slight tightening, that shift in expression that made your chest constrict in a way that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with something else entirely.

Something heavier, something you hadn’t meant to trigger. Your breath hitched, small and quiet, but enough that you noticed it, enough that it snapped you out of whatever frozen state you had slipped into.

Too much.

It was too much. Too fast.

You dropped your gaze immediately, your head dipping just slightly as if that alone could break the intensity of it, your heart still racing, your thoughts scrambling to catch up with everything that had just happened in the span of a few seconds.

What are you doing?

The question came back, louder now, more urgent, your pulse still uneven as you forced yourself to move, to do something, anything that would put distance between you and that stare. Your hand moved before you fully thought it through. Reaching, finding Ethan’s, grabbing onto it a little tighter than you meant to. “Let’s go this way,” you said quickly, your voice just steady enough to pass, even as you tugged him slightly, already turning in the opposite direction of where Gojo stood.

Ethan blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift, his hand tightening instinctively around yours as he stumbled half a step to keep up. “Woah—okay,” he said, a small laugh slipping out, surprised but not pulling away. “That was—fast.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, your grip not loosening as you moved through the crowd, weaving past people without really seeing them, your focus entirely on putting space between you and that side of the room.

Your heart wouldn’t slow down. It pounded harder with every step, your chest tight, your thoughts tangled, the image of his face, his eyes, still burned into the back of your mind like you hadn’t actually looked away at all.

You shouldn’t have come.

The regret settled in quickly, heavy and immediate, your stomach twisting slightly as you tried to ground yourself in something else, anything else.

This was a mistake.

You didn’t think it would hit like that.

You didn’t think he would look at you like that.

“Hey,” Ethan said, his voice closer now, a little more concerned as he leaned in slightly, trying to catch your attention. “You sure you’re good?”

“Yeah,” you said again, though it came out softer this time, less convincing, your grip on his hand still firm as you slowed slightly, your steps losing some of that urgency.

You forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Steady.

It’s fine. You told yourself that, even as your chest still felt tight.

It’s fine.

You glanced back. You didn’t mean to, it was instinct, automatic, your eyes lifting just enough to look over your shoulder— And he was still there.

In the exact same spot. Hadn’t moved. Hadn’t shifted or looked away. His eyes were still on you. Locked. That same stare, sharp and intense and unrelenting, cutting through the distance like it didn’t exist at all, like it didn’t matter how far you moved, how many people stood between you, he would still find you, still hold you there in his gaze without effort.

Your breath caught again, sharper this time. 

God.

Your stomach flipped, something tight and electric coiling low in your chest as you turned back quickly, your grip tightening on Ethan’s hand again without thinking. You needed to do something. Anything to break that feeling.

“Um—” you started, your voice a little breathless as you looked at Ethan, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Let’s dance.”

The words came out quick, slightly uneven, more of a decision than a suggestion, your body already turning toward the center of the room before he could even respond.

Ethan blinked again, surprised, but then he smiled, easy, going along with it without question. “Yeah,” he said, letting you pull him along. “Okay.”

And you moved further into the crowd, into the noise, into anything that would drown out the feeling of those eyes still on you, even when you couldn’t see them anymore.

When you reached the makeshift dance floor, the crowd had thickened enough that there wasn’t really a clear boundary between where people were standing and where they were dancing, bodies shifting and adjusting to the music in loose, overlapping rhythms that blurred together into something chaotic but cohesive at the same time. The bass hit harder here, deeper, the kind that settled into your chest and stayed there, syncing with your heartbeat until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Colored lights flickered overhead, catching on movement, on skin, on fabric, turning everything into something slightly unreal if you let your focus soften for even a second.

Ethan let out a small, almost surprised laugh as you pulled him into it, his earlier calm slipping just slightly as he took in the shift, then adjusted without hesitation, his body falling into the rhythm faster than you expected. “Okay,” he said, his voice raised just enough to carry over the music, his grin easy, genuine. “I can do this.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, some of the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction as you let yourself move, your body following the beat more naturally than your thoughts, your hands lifting slightly, your shoulders relaxing as you found that familiar rhythm you didn’t have to think about. “Good,” you replied, your voice lighter now, the word slipping out easier than anything had in the last ten minutes.

For a few moments, you focused on that. On the music, movement, the fact that Ethan was right there with you, matching your energy without overstepping, his presence steady, grounding in a way that made it easier to stay in the moment instead of drifting back to everything else.

He wasn’t trying too hard, wasn’t watching you in that intense, searching way that made you feel like you had to respond to it. He just… moved with you. And it helped. Slowly, the tightness in your chest eased, your breathing evening out as you let yourself settle into it, your thoughts quieting just enough that the noise around you started to feel less overwhelming, more like something you could exist inside without being consumed by it.

You even smiled. Not forced, not practiced, just there, brief but real as Ethan spun slightly, shifting his weight with the music, his expression bright with a kind of easy confidence that made it hard not to mirror. “See?” he said, leaning in just slightly so you could hear him, his tone teasing. “Not doin’ so bad, am I?”

You shook your head faintly, a small laugh slipping out as you adjusted your footing, your hand brushing lightly against his arm as you moved. “Give it time,” you shot back, though there wasn’t much resistance behind it anymore.

Minutes passed. You didn’t count them, but you felt the shift. Felt the way your body loosened, the way your thoughts stopped circling as tightly, the way the earlier tension faded just enough that you could almost forget why you had come in the first place. Almost.

Because even as you moved, even as you let yourself fall into the rhythm, there was still something sitting low in your chest, something unsettled, something that hadn’t fully gone away. You weren’t looking for him anymore, at least, you told yourself you weren’t. Your eyes stayed forward, your focus on Ethan, on the movement, on anything that kept you from turning your head and checking.

But your body knew he was somewhere in the room. Knew it in that quiet, persistent way that didn’t need confirmation.

Ethan shifted closer after a few minutes, the space between you narrowing gradually, not abrupt, not forced, just a natural adjustment as the crowd pressed in tighter around you. His hand brushed your waist lightly at first, tentative, like he was testing the boundary before fully committing, and you felt it immediately, your breath catching just slightly at the contact. Then his hands settled there. Warm and steady, resting against your waist with a light pressure that grounded you in the moment more than anything else had so far.

Your eyes lifted to his face almost instinctively, a flicker of surprise slipping through before you could mask it completely, your body going still for half a second as you processed it. He noticed. Ethan leaned in just slightly, his expression softening, his voice dropping lower so it didn’t have to compete with the music. “Is this okay?” he asked, quiet but clear, his hands not moving, not tightening, just resting there, giving you the space to decide.

The question hit you harder than the touch itself. Because he asked, didn’t assume, he gave you the choice instead of taking it.

And for a second, you hesitated, not because you were uncomfortable, but because your mind flickered somewhere else again, uninvited, pulling a comparison you didn’t want to make, reminding you of hands that didn’t ask, that just knew, that took without hesitation because they had always been sure you would let them.

Your chest tightened slightly. You pushed the thought away, focused back on the present. On Ethan, on how he was looking at you now, waiting, giving you that moment without pressure.

You nodded. Small. Quick. “Yeah,” you said, your voice steady enough, even if something underneath it still felt slightly off. “It’s okay.”

His expression shifted immediately, something softer settling in, a small smile pulling at his mouth as he relaxed just slightly, his hands still gentle, still respectful, but more certain now. “Okay,” he said simply.

And then he moved with you again, closer now, the space between you smaller, more intentional, the rhythm shifting just slightly to accommodate it. Your hands came up naturally, resting lightly against his shoulders, your fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt as you adjusted, your body following the motion without overthinking it.

It should have felt normal, and in some ways, it did, but there was still that tension underneath it, that quiet awareness you couldn’t fully shake, sitting just beneath the surface no matter how much you tried to ignore it.

You let your gaze drift for a second. Just to the side. Just to—

And then you saw him. Gojo stepped into view like he had been there the whole time, like he had just been waiting for you to look again, his presence cutting through everything else without effort, without hesitation.

Your breath caught. He wasn’t across the room anymore. Still not close enough to touch, not close enough to speak, but close enough that you didn’t have to search for him, close enough that his presence pressed against your awareness whether you wanted it to or not.

And his eyes— Still on you.

Exactly the same. Sharp. Focused. Unmoving.

That same icy blue, intense and unwavering, locked onto you with a weight that made your chest tighten instantly, like nothing had changed, like the distance you had tried to put between you meant nothing at all.

He didn’t look at Ethan this time. Didn’t glance away, didn’t break. Just you.

Only you.

Your stomach twisted hard, a mix of nerves and something heavier hitting all at once, your fingers tightening slightly against Ethan’s shoulders before you caught yourself. “Shit,” you muttered under your breath, the word barely audible, slipping out before you could stop it.

You dropped your gaze immediately, your head turning just enough to break the line of sight, your focus snapping down and away from him as your heart started racing again, faster than before, louder than the music, louder than anything else.

Don’t look.

Don’t look.

You forced your eyes anywhere else, anywhere that wasn’t him, your body still moving, still following the rhythm, but your mind completely elsewhere now, caught in that moment, in that stare, in everything it carried.

Ethan felt the shift before you even said anything, your body still moving with his but your focus clearly somewhere else, your hands a little less present on his shoulders, your rhythm just slightly off. 

“Hey,” he said, leaning in closer, his voice low enough to cut through the music without forcing you to strain to hear it, his brow pulling together just a bit as he searched your face. “What happened?”

You blinked, like you had to pull yourself back into the moment, your gaze flickering toward him before settling, a small, soft smile lifting onto your lips almost automatically, practiced enough to pass. “Nothing,” you said, light, easy, like it didn’t mean anything.

But your eyes betrayed you, because they shifted, just for a second. Back over his shoulder.

Gojo stood a little further off now, leaning back against the wall like he had all the time in the world, one hand wrapped loosely around his drink, the other tucked casually into his pocket, his posture relaxed in a way that would’ve looked effortless to anyone else. But you could see it—the tension underneath it, the way his shoulders held just a fraction too tight, the way his jaw set slightly, like something was being held back instead of released.

And his eyes. Still on you. Still locked in. Irritation sat there, clear and unmistakable, a quiet edge that hadn’t been there before, something that tightened the space between his brows just slightly. But underneath it—something else flickered, something that didn’t match the rest of it, something lighter, almost out of place.

Amusement.

Your stomach dropped. A flush of heat spread through your chest, quick and immediate, your grip tightening slightly on Ethan’s shoulders as the realization hit you harder than anything else had all night.

Of course.

Of course he thought this was funny.

Of course he was standing there, watching you like this was some kind of game, like he had already figured it out, already decided what you were doing and why, already dismissed it as something predictable, something he didn’t have to take seriously.

He knew. He knew you came here to get his attention. And instead of it working the way you thought it would, instead of him reacting in some real, tangible way, he was tickled pink.

The embarrassment hit fast, sharp and uncomfortable, twisting low in your gut, making your chest tighten as your thoughts tripped over themselves. God.

This was exactly what you didn’t want. Exactly what you had told yourself you weren’t going to do. And now he was standing there, watching you like he had the upper hand, like he understood the situation better than you did, like he was in control of something you had barely even thought through.

Your jaw tightened slightly. The embarrassment shifted, curled, turned into something hotter. Frustrated. What, he thinks you won’t actually do anything? The thought came quick, defensive, your gaze still fixed on him even as your expression tightened just slightly, your brows pulling together.

He thinks this is just for show?

He thinks he can just stand there and watch and laugh it off?

Something in your chest flared, sharp and immediate, pushing back against that sinking feeling, replacing it with something else entirely. Fine.

Your lips pressed together, your eyes narrowing just a fraction before you forced your gaze away from him, your attention snapping back to Ethan, who was still watching you, still trying to read something in your expression. “Hey,” you said, your voice quieter now, but more intentional, more focused.

He blinked slightly, caught off guard by the shift in your tone, but nodded. “Yeah?”

You hesitated, just for a second. Because it was impulsive, reckless, it was exactly the kind of thing you had told yourself you weren’t going to do. Your heart pounded harder, your chest tight, your thoughts loud for one last second, then you leaned in slightly, your gaze holding his, something more serious settling into your expression. “Can I do something?” you asked.

Ethan’s eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t question it beyond that initial reaction. “…Yeah,” he said slowly, still watching you carefully, like he was trying to understand where this was coming from but wasn’t going to stop you.

And before you could think about it again, you moved. Your hand slid up from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers curling lightly into the short locks of his hair as you pulled him down toward you, closing the space between you in one smooth, decisive motion. And then you kissed him. It wasn’t soft in the way something uncertain would be. It was intentional.

Your lips pressed against his with a firmness that surprised even you, your body leaning into it just enough to make it real, to make it convincing, to make it something that couldn’t be brushed off as accidental or meaningless.

Ethan froze for half a second, just long enough for you to feel it. The surprise. Then he responded. His hands tightened slightly at your waist, pulling you a fraction closer as he leaned into the kiss, his lips moving against yours with an ease that came naturally, like he wasn’t overthinking it, like he was just… there, present, meeting you where you were.

The world around you blurred. The music, the voices, the movement—everything dulled at the edges, your focus narrowing to the contact, the warmth, the pressure, the reality of what you were doing settling in even as you continued it.

And for a split second you forgot. Forgot why you started it. Forgot who you were trying to prove something to. Forgot everything except the fact that you were here, in this moment, doing something you never would have done before.

Then– 

Sharp.

Immediate. Like the air itself had changed.

You felt it before you saw it. That presence. Closer. Heavier.

And then your arm was grabbed. Hard. Not enough to hurt, but enough to startle you completely, your body jerking slightly as the contact broke through everything else, ripping you out of the moment before you could react.

“Hey—!”

The sound left you in a small, startled yelp, your head snapping to the side as you were pulled back, your lips breaking away from Ethan’s as the space between you was forced open without warning.

Gojo. He was right there. Closer than you had expected, closer than you had prepared for, his grip firm around your arm as he pulled you toward him in one quick, decisive motion, like there was no hesitation in it, no room for you to resist before it was already happening.

His expression had changed completely, whatever amusement had been there before long gone, replaced with something raw, sharp.

Anger.

It sat heavy in his features, in the tight line of his jaw, in the way his brows had drawn together, in the intensity of his gaze as it locked onto you again, closer now, unavoidable.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“Gojo—what—” you started, your voice uneven as you tried to pull your arm back, but his grip didn’t loosen.

Behind you, Ethan moved immediately, his hand reaching out instinctively, like he was trying to stop whatever was happening before it escalated further. “Hey—!” he said, confusion and alarm mixing in his tone as he stepped forward, his fingers brushing your arm for a split second before Gojo pulled you just out of reach.

It happened fast. Too fast. Ethan’s hand fell back slightly, his expression shifting, caught somewhere between shock and uncertainty as he watched you get pulled away without fully understanding what was going on.

Gojo didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t look back. His grip stayed firm as he dragged you through the crowd, people shifting out of the way without question, the space opening in front of him like they could feel the tension radiating off him and didn’t want to get caught in it.

Your heart raced, your thoughts scrambling to catch up, your free hand instinctively moving to his wrist, trying to steady yourself, trying to ground something that felt completely out of control. “Gojo—stop,” you said, your voice sharper now, breathing uneven.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at you. Just kept moving, pulling you further away. And you didn’t know if it was the grip on your arm, the look on his face, or the way your heart wouldn’t slow down—

But something in you burned just as hot as the anger written all over him.

“Gojo—what the hell are you doing?” Your voice came out sharper than you intended, breath uneven from how fast everything had shifted, your arm still caught in his grip as he pulled you through the crowd like he had somewhere very specific in mind and no patience left to explain it. People blurred past you in fragments—faces, flashes of light, the press of bodies shifting out of your way—and none of it registered fully because your focus was locked on the fact that he wasn’t slowing down, wasn’t answering, wasn’t even looking back to see if you were keeping up.

“Gojo— stop!” you tried again, this time with more force behind it, your heels catching once against the floor as you stumbled slightly.

He didn’t. If anything, his grip tightened just slightly, his pace unwavering, his silence louder than anything he could’ve said. It wasn’t until he turned sharply down a side hallway, away from the main room, that the noise shifted, the music dulling just a fraction, the crowd thinning enough that you could actually hear your own breathing over everything else. The lights were dimmer here, shadows stretching longer across the walls, the chaos of the party fading into something more contained, more private.

And then he stopped. Suddenly. So fast that you barely had time to adjust before he turned, pulling you with him in one sharp motion that sent your back pressing flat against the wall behind you, the impact enough to knock a small breath out of your chest.

“Snowman!—”

You didn’t get to finish it, because he was already there. Right in front of you, close enough that the space between you felt nonexistent, his hands coming up to brace against the wall on either side of your head, boxing you in before you could even think to step away, his presence overwhelming in a way that made your pulse spike instantly.

Your breath caught.

His face was inches from yours, closer than it had any right to be, his expression tight, controlled in the worst possible way, like whatever he was holding back was sitting just beneath the surface, ready to snap if pushed even a little further.

And his eyes, they were different now. No distance, no restraint, just raw, unfiltered intensity, that same icy blue sharpened into something that burned instead of froze, something that locked onto you and refused to let go.

“Me?!” he shot back, his voice low, rough, carrying something that sounded dangerously close to a growl as it pressed into the small space between you. “What the hell are you doing?”

The audacity of it hit you immediately, cutting through the shock just enough to spark something back in you, your brows pulling together as you straightened against the wall, your glare snapping up to meet his without hesitation.

“I can do whatever I want,” you fired back, your voice tight but steady, even as your heart pounded harder against your ribs. “And it was just a kiss.”

His jaw tightened. You saw it. A low sound left him, something frustrated, something sharper than anything he’d said so far, and then one of his hands dropped from the wall, sliding down to your hip in one quick, deliberate motion, his fingers pressing into it firmly enough to make your breath hitch.

“Don’t give me that ‘just a kiss’ crap,” he said, his voice lower now, more controlled but somehow more intense because of it, every word deliberate. “I don’t care if it was ‘practice’ like before. I don’t care if it was just a kiss.” His grip tightened slightly, grounding his point in a way you couldn’t ignore. “You can’t do that.”

Your eyes flashed. The anger came fast, cutting through everything else, sharp enough to steady you even with how close he was, even with the way his hand was still on your hip, even with the way your body reacted to it despite yourself. 

“You telling me what to do?” you shot back, your voice rising just enough to match his, your chin lifting slightly as you held his gaze without backing down.

His expression darkened. Something in him tightened further, you had hit something that was already stretched too thin. 

“Yes,” he snapped, the word coming out harsher than anything else he’d said so far, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach twist. “Yes, Goddamnit, I am.”

The words hung there for a second, heavy, charged, the air between you tightening around them. His breath was uneven, you could hear it now, feel it, the space between you too small to ignore the way his chest rose and fell, the way his control seemed to be slipping piece by piece the longer this went on.

“Do whatever you want,” he continued, his voice dropping again, quieter but no less intense, something rougher threading through it now, something closer to desperation than anger. “Scream at me, hit me—” his grip on your hip tightened again, his other hand pressing harder against the wall beside your head, caging you in further, “just don’t fucking disappear on me again or I swear—”

“What?” You cut him off immediately, the word sharp, your frustration flaring right back up, refusing to let him steer this into something else without answering for it. “What exactly are you going to do, huh?!” you demanded, your voice rising, pushing back against him, against the intensity, against everything he was throwing at you without explaining.

There was a pause. A real one, one that settled into the space between you and held there, just long enough to be significant.

His gaze didn’t leave yours. Not for a second, but something flickered too fast for you to fully catch.

And then he moved.

Before you could react, before you could process it, before you could even take a full breath—

His lips were on yours.

The impact of it hit harder than you expected, your breath catching sharply as everything else dropped out from under you for a second, the tension that had been building snapping all at once into something physical, something undeniable. It wasn’t gentle, there was no hesitation in it, no question, no pause to see how you would respond.

It was urgent, demanding, all the frustration, all the anger, all the confusion he hadn’t been able to put into words poured into it instead, his hand tightening against your hip as he pressed closer, closing whatever space was left between you like he refused to let it exist anymore.

Your back pressed harder against the wall, your fingers curling instinctively into the front of his polo shirt as your body reacted before your mind could catch up, the heat of it immediate, overwhelming, pulling something out of you that you hadn’t been able to reach all night.

It was messy. Real. Too much and not nearly enough at the same time.

Your thoughts scrambled, trying to make sense of it, trying to hold onto the anger, the frustration, the things you had been so sure about just seconds ago— 

But it all blurred under the weight of it. Under the way he kissed you like he meant it, like he had been holding back for too long and finally snapped, like he didn’t care about anything else in that moment except you.

Your heart pounded so hard it almost hurt, your chest tight, your breath uneven as you tried to keep up with it, tried to ground yourself in something that made sense when nothing about this did.

And he didn’t pull away, didn’t loosen his grip, didn’t give you space to think, just held you there, like letting go wasn’t even an option.

Gojo's lips pressed harder against yours, the kiss deepening with a hunger that pulled you under like a current you couldn't fight. His mouth moved with deliberate pressure, tongue slipping past your parted lips to tangle with yours in slow, insistent strokes that sent sparks racing through your veins. 

You matched him, your hands fisting into the fabric of his shirt at his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palms as if it echoed your own frantic pulse. The world narrowed to the heat of his body against yours, the faint taste of mint lingering on his breath mingling with something uniquely him—warm and addictive.

His hand at your hip shifted first, fingers splaying wide before sliding upward to curl around your waist, pulling you flush against him with a firm grip that left no space between your bodies. The press of his hips into yours ignited a fresh wave of awareness, the hard line of his arousal evident through your thin layers of clothing, grinding subtly as the kiss grew more urgent.

You arched into the contact without thinking, a soft sound escaping your throat, vibrating against his lips. His other hand followed his first, trailing from your hip with a deliberate drag of his fingers over the curve of your ass, cupping it fully and squeezing with just enough force to make your breath hitch sharply, but he caught it immediately, his mouth sealing over yours again to devour the sound, turning it into fuel for the kiss that refused to let up.

Your breaths came in hot bursts against his skin, mingling when his lips pulled back for the smallest moment, only to crash back in with renewed intensity. Each time he pulled away, you heard the soft, ragged inhale he took, chest expanding against yours as if he were drawing you in deeper with every breath. It was maddening, that rhythm of pull and plunge, the way his exhales fanned warm air across your cheek, carrying the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the saltiness of his sweat. Heat coiled low in your belly, tightening with every brush of his tongue, every flex of his fingers on your body, building into an insistent ache that made your thighs clench together instinctively.

He broke the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, voice low and rough, words tumbling out in a husky whisper that you barely registered, something about how good you felt, how he couldn't stop. But the haze of the sensation drowned it out, frustration flickering through the desire, and you shook your head slightly, pressing your forehead to his. "Shut up," you breathed, the words sharp but laced with need, your fingers digging into his shoulders to emphasize the command. 

Gojo paused, his blue eyes flickering open to meet yours in that brief space, a spark of amusement lighting them even as his grip on your ass tightened possessively. He didn't argue, didn't push back with his usual teasing. Instead, a slow, satisfied smile curved his lips before he dove back in, obeying with an eagerness that made your pulse stutter.

Your hands slipped under the hem of polo shirt, fingers pressing against the warm, firm ridges of his abs, tracing the hard lines of muscle that flexed under your touch as you moved higher to feel the solid plane of his chest. His skin burned hot against your palms, and he let out a soft groan, the sound rumbling deep in his throat. "Fuuuck, Squeaky," he murmured, his voice rough and edged with need, before he kissed you harder, his mouth claiming yours with a fierce urgency that made your lips tingle. 

His hands gripped your waist tighter, pulling your back away from the wall where he'd pinned you moments before, and he turned you slowly, guiding you backward into the small bathroom just off the hallway, the door swinging open behind him as he backed you inside step by step.

The cool edge of the countertop bumped against your hips as he maneuvered you further in, reaching back to shut the door with a decisive push, the wood clicking into place. His hands slid down to the undersides of your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh there as he hoisted you up effortlessly, lifting you onto the marble surface.

 Something—a bottle of soap or a small container—rattled and tipped over from the force, clattering into the sink, but neither of you paid it any mind. You heard the soft click of the lock engaging, and then his arms wrapped around you, pulling your body flush against his as his lips left yours to trail to the underside of your jaw. He hummed there softly at first, then pressing open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck, his breath wet and warm against your skin, sending waves of dizziness through you, making your head spin.

One of his hands drifted up, his fingers grazing lightly over the thin strap of your satin top, the touch feather soft and hesitant, a silent question hanging in the air between you. You answered instantly, breathlessly, by hooking your fingers under the strap and pulling it down yourself, the fabric whispering over your shoulder as it slipped free. 

Gojo moaned low against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. His palms slid under the satin, warm and calloused, pushing the material up and over your head in one smooth tug before he tossed it aside, his lips crashing back to yours immediately, kissing you like he couldn't get enough, like your taste was something he was already hooked on, his tongue sweeping in deep and demanding.

With his eyes half lidded and focused solely on the feel of you, he reached behind your back, fingers working blindly at the clasp of your bralette until it came undone, the straps loosening as it fell to the floor in a soft heap. He drew back just enough to look at you, huge, calloused hands coming to rest on your sides, grazing the bare skin there with a gentleness that didn’t quite match the heat in his gaze. 

He exhaled sharply, a huff of breath that carried all his admiration, his blue eyes drinking you in like you were the most precious thing he'd ever seen, tracing the curve of your shoulders, the swell of your breasts now exposed to the cool air of the bathroom. "So gorgeous," he whispered, his voice thick, before he leaned in again, capturing your lips in a slower kiss this time, his hands moving up to cup your breasts softly, thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks as he massaged them with careful pressure.

A soft whimper escaped you at the sensation on your nipples and he breathed against your lips in response, his words coming out in a murmur that was half growl, half affection. "...irritating, aggravating, beautiful girl." The words sent a shiver racing down your spine, your skin prickling with the intensity of it all, and you opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't form, lost in the haze of his kisses as you leaned into him, your lips parting to meet his again, deeper, hungrier.

His hand stayed on your breast, kneading the soft flesh with a steady rhythm, fingers rolling your nipple between them just enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand trailed down, skimming over the fabric of your skirt before slipping beneath it, fingers moving with purpose up your inner thigh, the touch sending sparks through your nerves until they reached the edge of your panties. He dragged the thick pad of his finger over your already damp slit, pressing just enough to feel the heat through the thin barrier, and you let out a choked groan, the sound muffled against his shoulder as you gripped his shirt tighter.

"Shh," he hushed you softly, his lips brushing your jaw in a trail of kisses that distracted and soothed at once, his voice a low rumble. His index finger hooked into the side of your panties, pulling the fabric aside with a gentle tug, exposing you to the air with a small gasp. Gojo slid that same finger into you slowly, the intrusion smooth and deliberate, your body welcoming him with an immediate clench. 

His middle finger joined soon after, stretching you just right, and you groaned louder, clutching at his back, nails digging into the fabric of his polo over the muscle underneath. He kissed a path to your shoulder, lips lingering on the skin there before moving back toward your collarbone, his fingers pushing deeper inch by inch, the pace torturously slow, drawing out every sensation until your thighs trembled around him.

You whimpered, the sound high and needy, and he wrapped his free arm around your waist, holding you close against his chest, his heartbeat thudding steadily under your sternum as he increased the rhythm just a fraction, his thumb finding your clit and starting to rub slow, firm circles that made your hips buck involuntarily. Your head fell back against the mirror behind you, the cool glass a stark contrast to the heat building inside, and you groaned his name, the syllables breaking on your tongue. "S– S'toru–"

He lifted his head to watch your face, his cerulean’s locked on yours, blown with desire. "Yeah? Like that?" he asked, his voice husky, fingers curling inside you to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. He didn't wait for an answer, just kept the pressure steady, his thumb pressing harder on your clit in tighter patterns that had you gasping, your body arching toward him. "Or is this better?" He twisted his wrist slightly, the angle changing just enough to send a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, his fingers thrusting deeper now, the wet sounds of it filling the small space between you, obscene and intimate.

You choked on another moan, your hands fisting back in his shirt as he worked you relentlessly, his mouth returning to your neck, sucking lightly at the skin there to muffle your cries. He didn't rush, though—every push of his fingers was measured, drawing out the build, letting the tension coil tighter in your core until you felt like you might snap. 

His arm around you tightened, pulling you impossibly closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered slurred encouragement, his voice a constant thread weaving through the haze. "That's it, just like that—feel how soaked you are for me? God, you're so tight, squeezing my fingers like you never want me to stop." His thumb flicked over your clit faster now, the circles turning erratic, matching the way your breaths came in short, desperate pants.

The pressure built relentlessly, your thighs quivering as you rocked against his hand, chasing the edge he'd brought you to so carefully. He kissed your collarbone again, teeth grazing the skin just hard enough to sting, then soothed it with his tongue, his fingers never faltering, plunging in and out with a rhythm that had you seeing white. "Come on, Squeaky, let go for me," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, the words vibrating through you. "I know you want to. You’re burning to, aren’t you?" His free hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he held your gaze, those blue eyes nearly all black with the depth of his want, watching every twitch of your expression, every flutter of your lashes.

It hit you all at once, the release crashing over you in a shuddering wave, your pussy clenching hard around his fingers as you came with a drawn out moan that muffled as he crashed his mouth back onto yours, your body shaking in his arms. He didn't stop right away, easing you through it with slower strokes, his thumb gentler now, but still rubbing on your clit until the aftershocks faded, tongue swiping fervently over your bottom lip, leaving you boneless against him. Finally, he backed away and pulled his fingers out of you, slick and glistening, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean with a deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving yours, the taste of you on his tongue making his gaze darken even further. 

Suddenly, the bathroom felt smaller than it should have.

Too warm, too quiet compared to the chaos outside, the bass from the party reduced to a dull, distant thump that pulsed faintly through the walls instead of swallowing everything whole. The overhead light buzzed softly, casting a dim, yellowed glow across the counter, across the mirror, across the two of you, close enough that there was no real separation left, no space for anything to breathe.

You panted on the countertop, your hands braced behind you for a moment, fingers pressing into the cool surface as you tried to steady your breathing, your chest rising and falling in uneven patterns that you couldn’t quite control. Your lips still felt warm, tingling faintly, your skin sensitive everywhere he had touched, like your body hadn’t caught up to the fact that you had stopped moving.

You exhaled slowly, the sound soft, shaky, barely there.

Gojo stepped closer in between your legs, close enough that your knees brushed against his sides, his posture looser now, less rigid than it had been just seconds ago, some of that earlier tension burning off into something quieter, heavier but less explosive. His hands came to rest on the counter on either side of you, trapping you there without force this time, just presence, just proximity.

He was looking at you, softer, something almost disbelieving.

A small grin tugged at his lips, faint, unsteady, like he hadn’t fully processed what had just happened either, like he was still sitting in it, letting it settle instead of tearing it apart. “Hey,” he murmured, voice lower now, rougher around the edges, like he hadn’t used it in a while.

And then he leaned in again, slower this time, no urgency, no intensity driving it forward. His lips brushed yours first, light, testing, giving you a second to meet him halfway instead of taking it outright.

And you did. For a moment.

Your lips moved against his, softer now, the kiss less frantic, more deliberate, your body leaning into it instinctively, your hands shifting slightly against the counter as your shoulders relaxed just a fraction.

It felt different, quieter, yet more dangerous somehow. Because it wasn’t just pure adrenaline anymore, it was choice. 

And that’s when your mind caught up.

It hit all at once. Sharp. Loud. Irritatingly unavoidable.

What am I doing?

The thought cut through everything, slicing clean through the haze that had settled over you, through the warmth, through the pull, through the way your body had been responding without hesitation. Your stomach twisted. He’s probably done this with so many other girls.

Your lips faltered, just slightly, the movement slowing without you meaning for it to, your breath catching faintly against his as your chest tightened.

He still hasn’t been honest with me.

The weight of that pressed harder, heavier than everything else, dragging the moment back into reality, back into everything that hadn’t been resolved, everything that still sat between you, temporarily ignored but not gone.

I can’t just forget what he said.

Your hands tensed against the counter, fingers curling slightly as your thoughts spiraled faster, louder, piling on top of each other until it felt suffocating.

What the fuck just happened to me?

Your lips stopped moving, stilled.  The change was small, but he felt it immediately.

Gojo pulled back just enough to look at you, his brows pulling together slightly, confusion flickering across his face as he tried to read what had changed, what he had missed in the span of a few seconds.

“Hey…” he said softly, his voice quieter now, careful in a way that didn’t match him at all, like he was stepping into something fragile without knowing where it might break. One of his hands lifted from the counter, moving toward your face, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek as he tucked a stray piece of hair back, the touch gentle, almost hesitant.

“You okay?” he murmured.

Your throat tightened. You swallowed, your gaze dropping instantly, unable to hold his, your eyes flickering anywhere but at him as your thoughts continued to race, your chest still tight, your breathing uneven in a completely different way now.

“U-um…” you started, the word catching awkwardly, your voice not nearly as steady as you wanted it to be.

Your hands moved, almost on their own, reaching down to your top where it had shifted, the satin pooled slightly around your midsection from everything that had just happened. You tugged at it, fingers fumbling just a bit as you pulled the fabric back into place, lifting the straps back up over your shoulders one at a time, the motion small but deliberate, like you needed something to focus on, something concrete to ground yourself in.

The change didn’t go unnoticed.

Gojo stilled completely.

The softness in his expression faltered, confusion sharpening into something more unsettled, his hand dropping slowly from your face as he watched you, really watched you this time, trying to piece together what had suddenly shifted.

“What are you doing?” he asked, the question coming out quieter than before, but heavier, like he already didn’t like the answer he was expecting.

You shifted on the counter, your body turning slightly as you moved to slide off, your heels finding the floor again, your balance a little off as you stepped back from him for the first time since he had pulled you away from the dance floor.

“I’m—” you started, your voice catching again, your hands smoothing down your skirt unnecessarily, your thoughts still tangled, still loud, still impossible to organize into something that made sense out loud. “I’m sorry, I just…”

You trailed off, shaking your head slightly, like even you didn’t fully understand how to explain it, your gaze still fixed downward, avoiding him completely.

“I really should go.”

The words hung there. Heavy. Final.

The silence in him was immediate, you felt it before you even looked up. The space between you changed, the air tightening, something in his posture pulling inward like he had been hit with something he hadn’t seen coming.

When you did glance up, just briefly, you saw it.

The color had drained from his face slightly, the earlier warmth gone completely, replaced with something that sat somewhere between disbelief and something deeper, sharper, something that made your chest ache the second you recognized it.

“…Seriously?” he asked, the word quieter now, rougher, like he was trying to keep it together and failing just slightly.

You hesitated, just for a second, because the look on his face, it was pure, unbridled hurt. Clear. Unfiltered. And underneath it, something worse. Desperation.

Your chest tightened painfully, your throat closing up slightly as you took him in, really looked at him, and felt something crack just a little inside you. You swallowed hard, your gaze dropping again before you could lose your nerve completely.

“Goodbye, Gojo,” you muttered, the words softer this time, almost swallowed by the space between you.

And then you turned. You didn’t wait for him to respond, didn’t give yourself the chance to change your mind.

You reached for the door, your hand hesitating for the briefest second on the handle before you pushed it open, the noise of the party flooding back in instantly, louder than before, harsher, overwhelming in a way that made it easier not to think. And then you stepped out, leaving him behind.

Alone in that too small bathroom, standing exactly where you left him, with everything you didn’t say still hanging in the air between you.

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: First of all... JUSTICE FOR ETHAN! Guys genuinely this chapter hyped me up and pmo at the same damn time. I haven't indulged in writing smut very much, so I would deeply appreciate all and any feedback-- both positives and negatives, so I can keep writing the best content possible for all of you. Thank you so much for reading allat, ik 20k words was a lot.. I will try to make the next chapter much shorter. Love you all!

Sidenote: Girl left her bralette in the bathroom... smh

@hatoslay divider creds

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[pillsatoru]

HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS - PIN IT 𑣲 gojo x reader

synopsis ⟢ you've ran out of things to publish for the school's magazines, that is until your friend brought up an amazing suggestion after seeing another friend get absolutely heartbroken, you all figured it would only be appropriate to have an article for what not to do for dating. so you take up the role of the annoying clingy girlfriend with none other than Satoru Gojo. but things go south when he's not taking the bait and actually falls for you instead.

pairing ⊹ ࣪ ˖ uni au soccer player! gojo x journalist! reader

warning / tags : 18+, fem reader, angst, fluff, second hand embarrassment, jealousy, he falls first she fell harder, cursing, gojo is a total sweetheart, eventual smut, tba ... art @/naomiiocha series masterlist here

TAGLIST IS CLOSED TAGLIST IS CLOSED

Chic of the week. 

It’s everything put onto a magazine. Fashion, culture, love, diets, anything you can think of that will help out the girls of New York University. You blink repeatedly at your dry eyes that have been staring at your computer screen. 

“I’ve got nothing.” You placed your hands to the back of your head, slugging back at your desk chair with a groan. Even after hours of thinking about your next issue, nothing came to mind. Utahime leaned over, peeking at the blank screen, watching as the cursor blinked. “Oh sweetheart, you’ve got writer's block?” You nodded, poking your tongue against your cheek. 

“I just wish I could write about something other than how to properly wax your armpits, or how to lose weight in 5 days. There’s real world problems out there that I would love to bring awareness to.” 

“Yeah well, this is a chic magazine, not a political magazine. Once you have your career and you’re out of this hell hole, write all about what you want.” Utahime reasoned. She was right, this wasn’t a job, it’s just a club that writes for the school. 

“Where’s Miwa when you need her?” Your voice came out in a whine, slamming your fingers at your keyboard. Utahime glanced around the room, looking for the familiar blue hair. “She’s late. The meeting began over half an hour ago.” 

She sighed, stepping back when you pushed off your desk. “Look what came into my mail this morning.” You grumbled. Utahume’s ears perked up, reaching for the envelope. Inside were two tickets to the world cup. USA versus Paraguay, middle seats, perfect view. “Woah ho-ho, what are these?” 

“Remember that editor from the sports magazine I had a drink or two with last week? Guess he mistook my kindness for flirting or maybe he really appreciated me being the sweet girl I am.” 

“Must be nice.” 

You both turned to the voice behind you, making you and Utahime jump in fear. 

“Miwa! Jesus.” Your hand grabbed onto your chest, feeling your heartbeat accelerate. There were dark circles underneath her eyes and the ruined mascara evidence of tears. “What happened to you?” 

“What didn’t happen?” She sniffled, dragging his hand over her stuffy nose. “He dumped me. Oh my god, he dumped me.” 

“Get her a cigarette.” Utahime whispered. You hurriedly digged into your purse, taking out the box of cigs, handing them over to Miwa. “You guys didn’t make it past two weeks.” You hit Utahime’s stomach with your elbow, making her wince. 

“I know. And it was the best goddamn week and a half of my life.” 

“What even happened girl?” You opened up your arms to comfort her in a hug that she happily accepted. “I don’t really wanna talk about it.” 

You nodded, rubbing her back. 

Then, she broke down again. “He said I was ‘too much’ and I didn’t understand because I thought everything was going great! It was great and I blew it all up because I moved too quickly.” 

“What do you mean?” Utahime rested against the desk after trying her long hair into a ponytail in hopes of escaping the hot weather. “Don’t tell me you said ‘I love you’, that’s common sense.” She snickered. 

“Well..” 

“Miwa.” You and Utahime scolded. 

“The sex was really beautiful!” Miwa added, as if that made matters better. “And I cried and I said it, it just slipped out!” 

“That’s why he ended it?” 

“I think. Or maybe it was because of the amount of times I called him while he was “busy” or y’know, it’s probably because I’m fat.” 

“You’re not fat.” Your voices came out in unison once again. As you continued scolding Miwa for her poor choices in the ephemeral relationship, a lightbulb turned on inside Utahime's head. She clapped her hands in order to get your attention. “There it is. There’s your page.” 

“My page?” 

“Uh huh. Think about all those girls on this campus who are struggling just like Miwa. Ones that have problems hanging on to relationships. You can write about these classic mistakes most women do that drive men away.” 

You stood up straighter, all kinds of ideas popping into your head. “That’s not bad at all. I can ‘date’ a guy and see how long it takes until he snaps.” 

Your friend nodded, squealing. “Yes!” She clasped her hands with yours, jumping up and down. “It’ll be titled ‘How to lose a guy in 10 ways..” Utahime looked over to her fourth wall, moving her hand to the side to picture the title. 

Miwa blew her nose loudly, reminding you that she was still here. 

“How about ‘How to lose a guy in 10 days?’ That’s the total you guys were together right?” You cringed when Miwa threw her used tissue on your desk. “Yes, that’s right.” 

“Perfect. Now all that’s left is to find the guy.” 

The windows in the classroom were open, letting the slight breeze pass in. Outside, a whistle blew along with some yelling. “I can’t focus with all the chatter, what’s even going on?” You all made your way towards the window, peeking out. The soccer team was lined up, some doing reps while others stood by, discussing some very serious matter. 

“They’re getting ready for an upcoming game.” You leaned forward, hair blowing all over the place. The field was buzzing with energy, cleats full of the freshly cut grass. Miwa walked away, crying once again. “I saw him just now.” 

“Oh my god Miwa.” Utahime followed after her. 

You stayed put, skimming through the small crowd until someone stood out. His white hair almost blinded you from the sun’s reflection. The guy was tall and well built, you could tell even from a distance. “What about him?” 

“Who?” 

“Number 10.” 

Utahime immediately groaned. “Oh absolutely not. He’d drive you insane before you even got to try your little experiment first.” 

“Do you know him personally?” Your eyes never left him. 

“Satoru Gojo. Went to high school with him, worst guy ever. He never knows when to shut up.” You finally left the window, deep in thought. “Then I guess I’ll be the one to change him up.” 

⋆˚꩜｡

The team was still outside having practice games, taking turns shooting at the net. A boy with hair thrown up into a bun kicked harshly only to miss, earning a groan from others. “Yo man, it’s like you've got two left legs!” 

“I’ll shove them both up your ass if you don’t shut the fuck up.” 

Yikes. You lingered a moment before going over to the bleachers. There he was, standing with both hands on his hips, getting ready to catch the ball. 

“How do you plan on talking to him?” Miwa leaned over to whisper into your ear. You hushed her, about to scold her for her attempt at whispering when suddenly, the ball came flying directly at you, hitting you straight in the face. 

A sharp pain struck across your nose, making you bring your hands up to cover it. 

“Oh my god!” Miwa’s voice jumped an octave, grabbing your arm to gently tug it off your face. “Hold on, let me see!”

Another voice appeared, one that was breathless and panicked. “Shit, I’m so so sorry! Are you okay? I have a super bad aim today for some reason.” Your eyes widened when they met him, it was Satoru, looking down at you with a worried look on his face. 

He was even more oddly beautiful up close. 

“Uh.. it’s fine.” You managed out. 

“Are you sure? You don’t look fine.” He chuckled, wiping the small drop of blood that dripped out your nostril. “That’s gonna leave a bruise.” If it wasn’t for your article, you would've punched him repeatedly to break his nose. “I’m sorry again.. Uh I can go get you ice-”

“No, no it's fine, seriously.” 

Miwa gave you a look, one that was urging you to ask him for his number or anything. “You can make it up to me some other way..” Your words slipped out suddenly. Satoru’s brows lifted. “Yeah? What way are we talking here?” 

A grin was slowly morphing its way onto his face. 

“.. By taking me out.” 

“Out?”

“On a date.”

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[lacrimadreams]

Put Him In His Place ᥫ᭡. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Chapter 05-> previous

pairings - Lovesick!Fratjo x Badass!reader (f/m)

WC- 11.5k

♡ ₊˚‧ WARNINGS :: No use of Y/N :: Frat boy Gojo:: Yearner Gojo :: Fluff:: TENSION!:: ANGST:: Nerd Fratjo :: Eventual smut -> (more tags coming soon) :: Strong female MC :: Neuroscience Major MC:: HEAT :: Intimacy:: Grinding:: Dirty dancing:: Sensuality:: Teasing:: Smoking (Marijuana):: Drinking:: Partying::Nicknames:: Slowburn:: (probably more to come!)

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: Hey yallll here's five. LOVE this chapter. Thank you all for your support! More coming very soon. 🎧ྀི♪⋆.✮MUSIC RECS: - Rush - Troye Sivan - One Dance - Drake - Rude Boy - Rihanna DANCING SCENE + AFTER: - Yeah! - Usher - Dangerous Woman - Ariana Grande - Do I Wanna Know? - Arctic Monkeys - King Of The Fall - The Weeknd

The bass hit you before you even reached the door. It was low and heavy, vibrating through the pavement like a second heartbeat, pulsing up your shoes and ingraining into your chest. You could almost feel the earth shaking under you. 

Becca squeezed your hand once as you both stepped up onto the porch, her curls bouncing with the movement, blonde strands catching flashes of neon from inside. “Okay,” she said, glancing at you sideways. “Last chance to turn back and go study like the responsible academic weapon you are.”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting the strap of your small bag over your shoulder. “I’m fine.”

“Mhm.” She knocked twice. Unnecessary, considering the door was already half open—and pushed it the rest of the way in. The party swallowed you whole the second you stepped inside. 

It was exactly what you expected, yet somehow still more. The house was big, ridiculously so, with an open layout that made everything feel connected. The living room bled into the kitchen, which spilled into a hallway where people were already crowding and laughing and yelling over the music.

The lights, or really the lack of them, made everything feel surreal. Dim overhead bulbs flickered occasionally, but most of the illumination came from strips of neon lining the walls and furniture: electric pinks, greens, blues that shined in time with the music.

Every few seconds, the main lights would cut completely, leaving everything in darkness, and then everything glowed. Paint streaked across arms, faces, shirts. Handprints on walls. Neon signs flickering to life like they’d been waiting for the dark. People lit up in pieces– bracelets, necklaces, shoes– like constellations moving through the room. Then the lights would come back, and it would start all over again.

You stepped further in, taking it in, your eyes adjusting. Everyone was dressed the same in a way that still somehow looked different; black tops, black shorts, black dresses. A blank canvas for the glow. Your outfit blended right in.

A black fitted tank top clung to you, stopping just high enough to show a small sliver of your lower stomach when you moved. Black shorts hugged your waist and hips, simple but clean. The light-up necklace around your neck blinked softly in shifting colors, matching the bracelets stacked loosely around your wrist. Your hair was pulled back into two tight Dutch braids, neat and practical—but still soft around your face, a few strands escaping from your hairline.

Becca looked at you again, then down at your outfit. “…Yeah,” she said slowly. “This is not a ‘just came to hang out’ outfit.”

You snorted. “Shut it.”

She grinned, bumping her shoulder into yours as you both moved further into the crowd. “I thought you had that Anatomy test tomorrow.”

“I do.”

She stopped walking, turning to look at you fully, one brow raised.“You did,” she repeated.

You kept walking. “I still do.”

She followed, catching up easily. “You never go out the day before something graded.”

You shrugged. “It’s one night.”

“Mhm.”

You could feel her looking at you. Hard. She gasped. “Ohhh,” she said slowly, dragging it out. “I wonder why.”

You groaned under your breath. “Becca—”

“No, wait,” she continued, gasping dramatically. “I’m so sorry. Not why—for whom.”

You shot her a look. “Be quiet, your lipsticks gonna rub off if you keep talking.”

She laughed, grabbing your arm and pulling you into a quick side hug. “Relax, I’m kidding,” she said, though the grin on her face said she absolutely was not. You rolled your eyes again, but you were smiling. She leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. “Enjoy your night, squeaky,” she said, softer now. “And tell me everything after.”

You huffed a quiet laugh.“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“Unfortunately.”

She pulled back, already scanning the room. “I’m gonna go grab punch and find Brayden,” she added. “Call me if you need me.”

You nodded. “Bye, Duck. Love you.”

“Love you.”

And just like that, she was gone, slipping into the crowd, blonde curls bouncing as she disappeared between people, already waving at someone across the room.

You stood there for a second, alone, hyperaware of your surroundings. The music thumped around you, voices overlapping, laughter cutting through the noise in bursts. Someone brushed past your shoulder, muttering a quick “sorry” before disappearing again.

You adjusted your bag slightly, fingers brushing over the small bottles tucked inside. Your bottles. The glow mixture. You’d brought a few from the lab, different colors this time. You’d stayed up a little later tweaking the formulas, adjusting concentrations, testing how they reacted under different light levels.

Not for any big reason. Just because. Because it was fun. Because you could. Because a small, annoying part of you wondered what his face would look like when he saw them.

You exhaled quietly, glancing around the room again, scanning, trying not to be obvious. 

“You look like you’re searching for something.” The voice came from your left, too close.

You turned slowly and immediately regretted it. 

He was standing in front of you, one hand holding a red cup and the other tucked lazily in his sweatpant pocket, fist slightly dragging them down to show a sliver of his lower abdomen. Ashy pink hair, sharp features, dark tattoos staining his skin, the kind of smirk that felt practiced—like he’d used it a hundred times and expected it to work every time. Yup, this was definitely a frat guy.

Sukuna. You didn’t know his name yet, but you knew the type instantly.

Your expression flattened just slightly. “…Am I?”

He pushed off his foot, stepping a little closer. “Yeah,” he said, eyes dragging over you in a way that made your skin prickle. “Or maybe you’re just lost.”

“I’m not.”

He hummed. “Could’ve fooled me, pretty girl.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bold.”

He grinned. “What? You like that? Just me observing, sweetheart.”

You crossed your arms loosely. “And what else are you observing?”

He tilted his head slightly, like he was considering how to phrase it. “…That you don’t look like you belong here. Let me take you upstairs, sweetheart.”

There was a beat, then you let out a short laugh. “Wow.”

“What?”

“That might be the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

He chuckled, unfazed. “Wasn’t a pickup line.”

“Right.”

“More like an opening statement.”

You stared at him. “…That’s worse.”

He stepped closer again, too close.

“You here alone?” he asked.

“No.”

“Your friends ditched you?”

“No.”

He smirked.

“Then where are they?”

You tilted your head. “Why? Wanna take all of us to bed at once?”

“Tempting offer.” He smiled. “You think you could set it up?”

Your irritation spiked, fast and immediate.You let out a quiet breath through your nose, uncrossing your arms. “Let me save you some time,” you said flatly. “You don’t have a chance with one girl of value, let alone multiple.”

His smirk twitched slightly, but didn’t drop. “C’mon,” he said. “Don’t be like that.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “Like what?”

“Difficult.”

There it was, that word something in your expression shifted, sharpened.

“Difficult?” you deadpanned. “Maybe you’re just not that interesting.”

The music pulsed louder for a second. Or maybe it just felt like it did, because the look on his face changed. “Feisty,” he said, a little amused now.

You glared back. 

Across the room, Gojo noticed you instantly.

He hadn’t meant to. He was mid-conversation, half listening to something Toji was saying, something about how he wanted to fuck a girl in one of his classes, while Geto leaned back against the couch with that knowing, amused look he always had when he was letting chaos unfold without interfering.

Gojo had a drink in his hand, head tipped back slightly as he took a long sip, the burn settling easy in his chest. And then he saw you, right in the middle of the living room. Black on black, blending in with everyone else, but still somehow standing out. The light-up necklace around your throat blinked softly, your bracelets catching flashes of neon as the lights flickered. Your hair was braided back, clean and tight, and it made your face look sharper somehow. Clearer.

And in your hands, water bottles filled with something glowing.

Of course. Of course you brought your own. Gojo’s mouth twitched slightly, and then his eyes shifted to the person standing way too close to you. Sukuna.

And the look on your face—

God.

It was kind of hilarious. Flat. Irritated. That very specific expression you got when someone was already on your nerves and had about five seconds left before you said something they weren’t gonna recover from.

Gojo’s jaw tightened just a little.

“…You even listening?” Toji asked, nudging him with his elbow.

Gojo didn’t answer, didn’t look away.

Geto followed his gaze and paused, huffing a quiet laugh under his breath. “…Oh, this should be good.”

Gojo exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yeah,” he muttered. He tipped his head back and chugged the rest of his drink, no hesitation, no pacing– just downed it. 

Toji blinked. “...Goddamn. Okay.”

The bottle hit the table a second later with a dull thud. Gojo didn’t say anything, just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and started walking toward you. He didn’t rush, but there was something in the way he moved. Direct, purposeful, making people shift out of his way without really knowing why. The crowd blurred a little as he pushed through it, shoulders brushing against strangers, music pounding louder the closer he got to the center of the room.His eyes didn’t leave you. Not once.

You were just about to walk away, done with the conversation, already turning your body slightly when an arm slid around your waist. Warm. Firm. Familiar.

You froze for half a second. Your head snapped up, and there he was. Gojo. Right beside you. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of your top, his hand resting just above your hip like it belonged there. Casual, effortless. Like it wasn’t even a question.

You blinked, caught off guard. There was a flicker of something, surprise, maybe a little fluster, but it disappeared almost as quickly as it came. You masked it easily, your expression settling back into something controlled.

But your heart, your heart definitely noticed.

Gojo didn’t look at you right away, his attention was on Sukuna. He gave him a small, deadpanned smile, the kind that wasn’t really a smile at all. “Problem?” he asked.

Sukuna looked between the two of you. Once. Then again. His confusion lasted exactly half a second. His eyes widened slightly. “Oh—” A beat. Then he let out a short, incredulous laugh. “OH—This is slap girl?!”

Gojo groaned immediately, dropping his head back slightly. “Can we not call her that—”

You, however, smiled, bright and unbothered. You liked that nickname. “That’s me,” you said, shifting your weight slightly, still very aware of Gojo’s arm around you. “Nice to meet you…” You tilted your head just a little. “…Kind of.”

Sukuna snorted. “Damn. Didn’t realize it was you. I was expecting like.. a crazy chick with blue hair or something. Mm.. and big boobs”

You blinked in mild surprise. Gojo shot him a desperate look at his words, screaming ‘SERIOUSLY, bro?!’

Sukuna stuttered, held his hands up slightly in mock surrender. “Relax, man. I was just talking.”

“Yeah,” Gojo replied flatly. “I saw.” There was a subtle edge there. Sukuna noticed it, of course he did. His smirk returned, but it shifted, less cocky, more entertained.

“Didn’t know you had a claim here,” he said.

Gojo didn’t even blink. “I don’t.” His arm didn’t move. If anything, his hand settled just slightly more securely at your waist.“But she’s not interested, Kuna. I could see it from the other side of the room.” he added.

You glanced at him briefly, then back at Sukuna, whose eyes dropped to you. You shrugged a little, grinning at him. Sukuna exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. I get it.” He stepped back slightly, hands still raised.”

Gojo didn’t respond, just watched him.

Sukuna’s gaze flicked between you one last time. Then he smirked. “Give me one second.” And just like that, he disappeared back into the crowd.

The space around you shifted, quieter somehow even with the music still pounding. Gojo’s arm was still around you, and you both noticed. 

You exhaled softly, looking up at him. “…Nice timing.”

He looked down at you then, eyes raking over your face, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. He was taking in the braids. The necklace. The faint glow of the bottles still in your hand.“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, lips twitching. “Another thirty seconds and he would’ve tested his luck.”

Gojo huffed a quiet laugh, free hand coming up to rub his cheek where you had put a big purple bruise not too long ago. “Wouldn’t have gone well for him. ”

“No,” you agreed lightly. “It wouldn’t have.”

There was a small pause. “…You came,” he said quietly.

“I said I would.”

“Yeah,” he nodded. His thumb shifted slightly against your side without him realizing, a small movement, barely there. “Didn’t think you’d actually show,” he added.

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Your lack of faith in me is crazy.”

“I have faith,” he said. “Just… not in your ability to choose fun over studying.”

You snorted. “Rude.”

“Accurate.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, then you lifted one of the bottles slightly. “You like the theme?” you asked.

His gaze dropped to it, the neon liquid inside catching the light. “…You made those?”

“Maybe.”

He looked back at you, and something in his expression softened again, that same look from the lab. “That’s insane,” he said quietly.

You shrugged. “It’s fun makin’ em.”

He studied you for a second longer. His arm loosened slightly, not fully leaving your waist, but moving just enough to give you space. “C’mon,” he said again, a little softer this time, nodding toward the counter where people were crowded around bottles and cups. “Let’s get you something to drink before you start assaulting more people with neon chemicals.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, adjusting your grip on the bottles in your hands. “That was one time.”

“You literally attacked me.”

“You deserved it. And you attacked me right back!”

“Debatable.” He started guiding you through the crowd—not forcefully, just a light pressure at your side, his hand still resting at your waist like it had settled there without asking permission.

The music pulsed around you as you moved, bodies shifting, people brushing past. Someone laughed too loud behind you, someone else spilled something on the floor, and through it all, Gojo kept a steady path forward like he knew exactly where he was going. You glanced up at him briefly. “…So this is your natural habitat, huh?”

He smirked.

“Yeah. Impressive, right?”

“Very,” you said dryly. “The sticky floors really tie it together.”

“Hey,” he nudged you lightly. “That’s years of neglected cleaning you’re disrespecting.”

“Mm. I can tell.”

He laughed under his breath, and yet again it felt like it was just the two of you in the middle of everything else.

You were almost at the kitchen. Almost. When—

“Satoruuuu.”

The voice cut through the music like it had been waiting. Gojo froze. You felt it immediately, the subtle shift in his posture, the way his hand tensed just slightly against your side.

He exhaled slowly. “…Don’t turn around,” he muttered.

You blinked. “…That’s never a good sign.”

Too late. Multiple footsteps approached, and you turned anyway.

Sukuna. Of course. Grinning like he’d just set something up and was about to enjoy the outcome. And behind him, three more guys. All very different, all very obviously together.

You instinctively took a small step back. Not out of fear, just genuine surprise at the cult meeting forming in front of you. Gojo’s hand dropped from your waist almost immediately. “Guys,” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Can we not do this right now?”

Sukuna laughed. “What?” he said, spreading his arms slightly. “Embarrassed of us?”

“Yes.”

Sukuna ignored that completely. “I said give me a second for a reason, didn’t I?”

You glanced between them, then back at Gojo. “…You have a welcoming committee?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Wow. I feel so special.”

“You should,” Sukuna cut in. “You’re the first girl he’s ever not scared off in five minutes.”

Gojo shot him a look. “I hate you.”

“Love you too.”

Before you could respond, one of the other guys stepped forward, the one with long dark hair tied back loosely, expression calm—almost too calm for the environment. He reached for your hand gently, oddly respectful. You let him. He lifted it slightly and pressed a light kiss to the back of your knuckles. “Welcome to the house..” he said smoothly.

You blinked twice. That was not what you expected at all. You tilted your head slightly, studying him. “…You’re way too polite to be here.”

He smiled faintly. “I get that a lot.”

Gojo snorted quietly behind him. “Don’t let him fool you.”

“Please,” the guy—Geto, you assumed—said mildly. “I’m on my best behavior.”

“Liar.”

You let out a small laugh. “I believe it,” you said. “No one just casually does that at a frat party unless they’re either very practiced or very suspicious.”

Geto’s smile widened just slightly. “Maybe both.”

“Dangerous combination.”

“I try.”

“Alright, enough of the gentleman act,” Sukuna cut in, gesturing to the others. “We’re here to meet slap girl.”

Gojo groaned again at the nickname. “She has a name.”

You smiled. “I don’t mind it.”

“Of course you don’t,” Gojo muttered. 

The other two stepped forward now. One was tall, broad, with messy dark hair and a lazy posture that somehow still felt… imposing. He looked you over once, assessing. “…You’re the one that hit him?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yep.”

He huffed a short laugh. “Nice.”

You grinned. “Thanks.”

“Toji,” he said, jerking his chin slightly.

You gave a small nod. “Neat. ” The last one stepped forward more quietly. Blonde. Neat. Composed in a way that stood out immediately in a room like this. He adjusted his sleeve slightly before speaking. “…Nanami,” he said.

You nodded. “Squeaky.”

There was a brief pause.

Then “…That is not your real name,” he said.

You smiled. “No, it’s not.”

“…Good.”

You let out a small laugh. There was a beat, then suddenly you realized all of them were looking at you, curious, measuring.. a little too interested. Gojo shifted beside you. “…Can you all stop staring at her like that?”

Sukuna smirked. “What? We’re observing.”

“Oh, well um. Stop..”

“To be fair,” you cut in lightly, “you did bring me into a house full of strangers.”

“You walked in willingly.”

“Details.”

Toji huffed a quiet laugh. “I like her.”

“Yeah,” Sukuna added. “She’s got a mouth on her.”

You tilted your head. “And you don’t?”

He grinned. “Fair.”

Geto glanced at the bottles still in your hands. “…What’s that?”

You lifted one slightly. “Glow paint.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You made that?”

“Yeah.”

Sukuna leaned in. “No way.”

Toji grabbed one, inspecting it. “…This is actually kinda sick.”

Nanami studied it more quietly. “…Is it safe?”

You nodded. “Completely non-toxic.”

“Good,” he said simply.

“Relax,” you added, glancing at him. “I’m not trying to poison your entire frat.”

“That would be inconvenient.”

You smiled. “Very.”

Gojo watched all of this happen like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was seeing. The way you answered easily, how you didn’t hesitate to use your wit, how you matched their energy without trying too hard. You weren’t intimidated or even trying to impress them, you were just… you. And somehow they were eating it up.

“…Okay,” Gojo muttered under his breath. “Can we go now?”

Sukana snorted. “Wow,” he said.. “You trying to get rid of me already?”

“I’m trying to get you a drink,” he shot back.

“To calm me down after meeting your… unique friends?”

Sukuna laughed. “Unique?”

You nodded seriously. “Absolutely. I’m intrigued. And a little scared”

Toji snorted sarcastically. “Yeah, because you look terrified.”

“I’m masking it well.”

Nanami shook his head slightly, almost amused. “She’s fine.”

Geto smiled. “She’s more than fine.”

Gojo rolled his eyes. “Great. Can I have her back now?”

“You want a drink, why don’t we all join you, Satoru?” Sukuna said, grin sharp and needling, “you talk a big game, ‘Squeaky’. Let's see if your alcohol tolerance matches your wit.”

You tilted your head slightly, unimpressed but entertained.

Toji cut in, folding his arms loosely, “we haven’t seen any proof yet.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Proof of what?”

Sukuna’s eyes flicked over you once, assessing, challenging. “That you can keep up.”

There it was. You felt Gojo shift beside you subtly, like he already knew where this was going. “…Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, low enough that only you heard.

You glanced at him, then back at Sukuna. A slow grin spread across your face. “Oh, I can keep up.”

Sukuna’s smile widened. “Yeah?”

You shrugged. “Try me.”

“Oh, she’s in,” Toji laughed, pushing off the counter. “Let’s go.”

Nanami sighed under his breath. “…This is a terrible idea.”

Geto smiled faintly. “And yet, you’re coming with us.”

Nanami adjusted his sleeve. “…Of course I am.”

The garage was louder than the rest of the house, if that was even possible. Music blasted from a speaker shoved into the corner, bass rattling against the walls, the air thick with heat and sweat and the sharp smell of alcohol. People crowded around a long folding table set up in the middle—cups stacked into pyramids, liquid sloshing, hands moving too fast to follow.

Rage cage.

Stack cup.

Chaos.

Exactly what you expected, exactly what you signed up for. “Alright!” Sukuna called, grabbing a stack of cups and slamming them down onto the table. “We got a challenger!”

A few heads turned, eyes landed on you, curious, interested. Someone whistled.

“Toji, don’t break her,” a guy laughed from the side.

You snorted. “Worry about yourself.”

Gojo hovered close to your side as the group gathered around the table, his presence quieter now—but there. Always there. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, leaning slightly toward you so you could hear him over the noise.

You glanced at him, smiling. “Relax, snowman.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He studied your face for a second, huffing a quiet laugh. “…You’re insane.”

“You like it.”

“I do.”

Cups were filled. Liquid sloshing, hands moving, people shouting rules that no one was fully listening to. You rolled your shoulders back slightly, setting your bottles off to the side, game mode.

“Alright, Squeaky,” Sukuna said, tossing you a cup. “Let’s see what you got.”

You caught it easily. “Don’t cry when I win.”

“Toji,” Sukuna called, ignoring you, “keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t cheat.”

Toji snorted. “She doesn’t look like the cheating type.”

“I don’t cheat,” you added. “I just win.”

Gojo let out a short laugh beside you. “…God, you’re cocky.”

“Guess you’re rubbing off on me, Snowman.”

“I absolutely am not. That’s all you.”

—--------------

“GO!”

The game exploded into motion. Cups moved, hands grabbed, liquid splashed.

You didn’t hesitate, you just moved, chugging the first cup like it was nothing, the burn hitting your throat fast and hard but not slowing you down. You flipped it, slammed it down, grabbed the next without missing a beat.

Someone cursed next to you. You didn’t look, didn’t care. The world narrowed into the table—the rhythm, the motion, the speed.

“Holy shit—”

“She’s fast—”

“Watch it—watch it—”

You laughed under your breath, breath already coming a little quicker, warmth spreading through your chest as the alcohol hit. Gojo stood just to your right, half playing, half watching you like he couldn’t decide which one he was more focused on. “…Okay,” he muttered, grabbing his own cup slower. “Okay, I see you.”

“You’re falling behind,” you shot back, already finishing another.

“I told you I have a low tolerance!” 

You giggled, actually giggled. It slipped out easier now, lighter. “Skill issue.”

“Rude.”

—--------------------

The game blurred, fast, loud, and messy. Cups knocked over, laughter spilling over itself, people shouting instructions that didn’t matter, you kept going. Kept up, more than kept up, you were ahead.

Toji raised an eyebrow mid-game. “…Damn.”

Sukuna let out a sharp laugh. “Okay—okay, I see it now.”

Geto shook his head, amused. “She’s committed.”

Nanami muttered something about poor decision-making under his breath—but he was still playing.

And you, well you were thriving.

—--------------------

At some point you grabbed Gojo’s arm. He blinked, caught off guard. “…What—?”

“C’mere,” you said, already looping your arm through his.

He froze for half a second. Then realized.“…Oh.”

The crowd noticed instantly.

“OHHHH—”

“Couple shot—!”

“Do it—do it—”

You grinned, lifting your cup. “Don’t slow me down, snowman.”

“Hey,” he scoffed, but he was smiling now, something softer underneath it. “You’re the one dragging me into this. My liver might fail tonight.”

“Drink.”

“Bossy.”

“Drink.”

He laughed. You both tipped your heads back at the same time. The liquid burned sharper this time, your arms linked, shoulders brushing, his presence right there—close, warm, solid. You could feel him swallow, hear it. The world tilted slightly, then snapped back into place. You slammed the cup down, he followed half a second later. You looked at him, grinning. He stared right back at you, a little flushed, breathless. “…You’re insane,” he said again.

You laughed. “Keep up.”

—--------------------

The game kept going. Everything started to blur together—the lights, the music, the shouting, the constant movement of hands and cups and bodies. You lost track of how many rounds, how many drinks. Didn’t matter, you just kept going. At some point, someone knocked into you, and you stumbled slightly. 

Gojo’s hand caught your arm instantly, steadying you. “Careful,” he said, voice lower now, closer.

“I’m fine,” you said, breathless but smiling.

He smiled at you. “I can see that.”

—--------------------

By the time it started winding down, the energy had changed, looser, sloppier. The kind of messy, end of the game chaos where people were laughing a little too loud, leaning a little too heavily on the table, missing cups they definitely would’ve made ten minutes ago.

You, somehow weren’t, your movements had slowed just a fraction, a soft warmth settling under your skin, your head feeling a little lighter—but you were steady. Balanced. Present. Tipsy, comfortably so.

Meanwhile Sukuna missed his cup entirely and didn’t even notice until someone shouted it. Toji was leaning half his weight on the table, blinking like he was trying to remember where he was. Nanami had that very specific, tightly controlled expression of someone who was deeply regretting his life choices but refusing to show it. Geto just looked amused.

Gojo— Gojo was somewhere in between.

Not gone, but definitely enjoying life a bit more than you at the moment, a little looser around the edges. A little slower to react. His cheeks faintly flushed, hair slightly more disheveled than usual, that easy grin sitting on his face like it belonged there.

And his eyes still glued on you.

“Alright,” Sukuna finally exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair as he leaned back. “I’m calling it.”

“To reclaim your dignity?” you asked, tilting your head.

“To preserve what little I have left,” he shot back.

Toji let out a long breath. “…Yeah. I’m done.”

Nanami nodded once, like this was a business decision. “Agreed.”

Geto clapped his hands together once, light and amused. “Well,” he said, looking at you, “I believe we have a winner.”

Sukuna snorted. “Yeah,” he admitted. “We do.” He pointed at Gojo. “You got a powerful one, man.”

Gojo blinked. “…A powerful one?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you cut in immediately.

“Too late,” Toji muttered.

And then Toji let out the loudest, most unapologetic burp imaginable. The table went silent for half a second. 

“Ew—what the hell—”

“Dude—”

“Have some class—”

You, however, laughed. Cackled actually, the slight buzz making everything funny, head tipping back slightly, shoulders shaking, the sound bright and real and completely unfiltered.

Toji grinned. “See?” he said, gesturing at you. “She gets it.”

“Absolutely not,” Nanami muttered.

“Absolutely not.,” you agreed, still laughing. “Though I will admit, that was impressive.”

“Thank you,” Toji said, nodding like he’d just been honored.

Sukuna reached behind him, grabbing something off the table. “Alright,” he said, holding it up. “Since we’re doing this properly—” A cheap plastic trophy, gold-colored, slightly crooked, definitely something he found last minute at the dollar tree.

You stared at it for a second, and then your grin widened. “Oh my god.” Before anyone could say anything, you stepped up onto the table, quick and easy. 

“HEY—” someone yelled.

“Careful—”

Too late. You were already up there, balancing effortlessly despite the drinks, grabbing the trophy out of Sukuna’s hand and holding it high above your head. “I’D LIKE TO THANK—” you started loudly, voice cutting through the noise.

The crowd around you turned, some laughing, some cheering.

“I’D LIKE TO THANK MYSELF,” you continued, pointing dramatically at your chest, “FOR BEING BETTER THAN ALL OF YOU.”

“BOOO—”

“RIGGED—”

“She’s insane—”

You grinned, spinning slightly on the table, the neon lights catching on your bracelets, your necklace, the faint glow still smeared along your arms.

“I WORKED HARD FOR THIS,” you declared.

“YOU DRANK HARD,” Sukuna shot back.

“KEY WORD: HARD!!!”

The laughter around you swelled, chaotic, loud and alive. Gojo stood at the edge of the table, looking up at you, and for a bit everything else blurred out, the noise, people, music. All of it.

Because you were standing there. Laughing. Completely unbothered. Completely yourself. A little flushed, a little glowing under the lights, hair slightly messy now from the night, but still beautiful. Real, unfiltered, so irreparable human. You weren’t trying to impress anyone or play a role, you were just you.

And somehow, that made it impossible for him to look away. His chest tightened slightly, heavy in a way he didn’t quite understand yet. He exhaled slowly, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips..

He was in trouble.

“AND FINALLY—” you were still going, completely committed to your fake speech, “I’D LIKE TO DEDICATE THIS WIN TO—” 

Your foot slipped, just slightly. The table edge caught wrong, your balance shifting—

“Whoa—”

Your body tipped forward, and then warm hands caught you. Firm. Immediate. Gojo. He stepped in without thinking, hands gripping your waist as you stumbled down off the table, pulling you steady against him before you could fall. For a second you were just there, close, your hands instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders, your balance still catching up.

You blinked, then glanced up at him. He was already looking at you, smiling. Soft. Easy. A little breathless. “Careful,” he said, voice low.

You let out a small laugh, still catching your breath. “Yeah, yeah.”

“You good?”

“Always.”

He didn’t move his hands right away. Neither did you. The noise of the room rushed back in around you, but the space between you felt… quieter somehow. Smaller.

You tilted your head slightly, still smiling. “Nice catch, snowman.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Had to save the trophy.”

You gasped. “Wow.”

“Priorities. I mean.. Look at it. It is a beaut.” You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t step away immediately either. He opened his mouth slightly, closed it, hesitating. “…You wanna dance?” he asked. It was casual, not a big deal. But his heart was beating so hard he thought it might literally jump out toward you. 

You grinned. “Yeah.” You leaned over the table, grabbing the nearest bottle without even checking what it was, taking a quick swig. The burn hit sharp, but you didn’t flinch. “Let’s go,” you added, breathing a little lighter now. He laughed, shaking his head, but he didn’t argue. He just took your hand and led you back into the crowd.

The music hit harder the closer you got to the center of the house. The bass thudded through the floorboards, up your legs, settling somewhere in your chest like it belonged there. The air was warmer here, thicker, bodies packed close, moving in sync and completely out of sync at the same time.

Gojo didn’t let go of your hand.

Not when you pushed through the last bit of the crowd, not when you stepped into the middle of it all. And the second you stopped, you grinned, wide and unfiltered before you started dancing.

Your shoulders rolled into the beat, hips following, your bracelets flickering in soft bursts of neon as your hands moved through the air. Your head tipped back for a second, laughter slipping out of you like it didn’t need permission.The alcohol sat warm in your veins, loosening everything just enough to make it feel effortless.

Gojo watched you for half a second and joined in. It wasn’t coordinated or polished, it was messy, a little chaotic, completely in rhythm with the music and nothing else, the kind of dancing that didn’t care who was watching.  Gojo followed your movement, stepping closer, laughing under his breath when you bumped into him slightly.

“Watch it,” he said, smiling.

“You’re in my space,” you shot back, grinning.

“This is my house.”

“Then why am I having more fun?”

“You always have this much fun?” he leaned in just enough for you to hear him over the music.

“Only when I’m winning.”

“You’re still on that?”

“I will always be on that.”

He laughed, bumping his shoulder lightly into yours as the bass dropped harder, the crowd around you erupting louder with it.

And then—

The lights cut completely. The room dropped into darkness so fast it felt like everything paused for half a second. You heard collective groans around you.

“Oh come on—”

“Who killed it—”

“Fix it—”

But before the complaints could even settle: 

“FEAR NOT!” Sukuna’s voice rang out like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

You turned, squinting slightly through the dim. He was standing on the couch again, arms thrown up like he was hosting something, grin wild and a little unhinged.

“Toji!” he barked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Toji laughed, already climbing up beside him.

And then you saw them, your bottles. You barked out a laugh. “No—no way—”

Too late, they popped the caps and started smearing the neon across the walls.

The room lit up instantly, brighter than before. Streaks of glowing color dragged across every surface they could reach– walls, pillars, even the edge of the couch—lighting the room in chaotic bursts of neon. It bled into everything, reflecting off skin, clothes, hair—turning people into moving, glowing shapes in the dark.

The crowd loved it, cheering, laughing. Someone started chanting Sukuna’s name.

You just stood there for a second, laughing. Full, loud, completely unfiltered.

“They’re taking the credit for all my work!” you said, but you were already moving again, already caught up in it.

Gojo glanced at you. “…You’re not even mad.”

“How could I be?” you shot back, spinning slightly as the glow caught your arms. “This is kind of awesome.”

The music picked up again, harder, faster, and you leaned into it fully.  Your hands reached up without thinking, fingers tugging at the ends of your braids. You pulled one loose—then the other—quick, messy, not caring about neatness as you shook your head slightly, letting your hair fall free.

Gojo watched it happen, eyes stuck onto you like he couldn’t help it, the way your hair fell around your shoulders, a little messy now, a little wild, how you ruffled it out with your hands, laughing to yourself like it didn’t matter, like nothing did except this moment.

His grin didn’t leave his face, it was ingrained, soft and a little disbelieving. Because… you. Like this. Carefree. Bright. Completely unfiltered. You were.. God, you were everything.

“Hey—!” You barely had time to react before arms wrapped around you from behind—

But not Gojo’s. You turned quickly— “BECCA—!” You practically launched yourself at her, arms around her shoulders, pulling her into a tight hug, your laughter spilling out again, a little louder, a little looser now. “You’re hereee!” you said into her shoulder.

“I’ve been here!” she laughed, hugging you back just as tight. “You disappeared!”

“I was busy winning.”

“Of course you were.” She pulled back slightly, hands still on your arms as she looked at you, really looked. Hair loose. Eyes bright. Slight flush across your cheeks. “…You’re tipsy,” she said, grinning.

You squinted, holding your fingers up in front of her, almost touching. “Un poquito”

“Sure.” She glanced over your shoulder at Gojo, then pointed at you, mouthing crazy.

Gojo huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, mouthed back I know.

Becca’s grin widened. “Be nice to him,” she stage-whispered to you.

“I am nice!”

“Riiight okay. Don’t beat his ass again is what I’m trying to say.”

You leaned into her ear, “honestly, if I did I have a feeling he might like it.” She cackled in response.

You danced with her for a bit, spinning, laughing, bumping into each other, the kind of easy, familiar movement that came from years of knowing someone. But eventually she squeezed your hand.

“I really have to pee and then I think I’m tapping out for the night,” she said, already backing up. “You’ll be okay here?”

You nodded, still dancing, and she laughed at you. “Don’t do anything too insane.”

“No promises!”

And then with a grin she was gone again. You were turned away from Gojo, and he took an opportunity before he could overthink it.

You were caught up in the music again, in the lights, in the way your body moved without thinking—hair loose now, brushing your shoulders as you laughed to yourself, completely unaware of him moving behind you. And then huge hands found your hips, warm and firm and certain.

You gasped—soft, surprised—the sound barely audible under the music, but it left you before you could stop it.

And then he pulled, enough to draw you back into him in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his like it had been meant to land there.

Your back pressed to his chest, your ass to his evident bulge. You almost slipped out a moan. He was solid. Warm. Close. Too close to pretend it was nothing. For a split second, your breath caught, your hands hovered mid-air like you weren’t sure what to do with them. Behind you, you felt him lean in slightly—felt the shift of his chest against your back, the faint brush of his breath near your ear. “Hey,” he said, low, a grin threading through his voice.

You swallowed, tilting your head just enough to glance back at him, catching that familiar, infuriatingly confident smile—except it wasn’t entirely the same. There was something else in it now, something softer. Something darker. 

“…Hi,” you managed, voice just a little quieter than before.

His hands adjusted slightly on your hips, not sliding anywhere they shouldn’t, just settling more naturally, thumbs pressing into your skin lightly like he was grounding himself as much as you. And then the music pulled you back in. Your body moved again instinctively, and this time, he moved with you. 

Every shift of your hips met the steady rhythm of his behind you, your movements syncing without thought, the space between you completely gone. The subtle way he followed your lead instead of taking it—letting you set the pace, matching you beat for beat like he didn’t want to break whatever this was. You could feel everything. The rise and fall of his breathing, the way his grip tightened just slightly when the crowd pressed in too close, how he tried to shift his hips back from you so you wouldn’t notice how hard he really was. But it was too late. 

You let your ass tip back just slightly for a second, just enough to brush against the crotch of his sweats. It was light, you could even play it off as accidental if you wanted to. You felt his breath hitch, a small hiss leaving his lips in echoed silence against the booming speakers. Your lips curved.

He recovered quickly. “Still think you’re having more fun?” he murmured, voice low, closer now, right near your ear, barely there but impossible to ignore. You turned your head slightly again, your cheek brushing his neck. “Obviously,” you said, a hint of a smile in your voice.

He huffed a quiet laugh, but it came out softer this time. “Trust me, you’re wrong. Never been this giddy in my life.”

You grinned “Yeah?” Your hands finally found somewhere to settle—resting lightly over where his sat on your hips, pulling them closer. Acknowledging it, the contact, the moment. Your fingers shifted slightly over his, absentminded, tracing the edge of his knuckles as you kept moving, and his grip tightened just a fraction.

Around you, the party blurred. The music still loud, people still moving, neon lights still flashing across skin and walls—but it all felt a little distant, secondary. Because right here, this moment was just yours. The warmth of him behind you, the steady rhythm you both fell into, how neither of you pulled away, not even a little, not even when you probably should have

You slipped out of his hold for a second, just to turn, just to move differently for a moment. Your body facing him now instead of away, your hands brushing his arms as you shifted. And before you could even think about stepping away, he caught your wrist lightly, guiding you back into his arms. 

Your hand landed flat on his chest to catch yourself, fingers unintentionally digging into the broad, muscular skin through his shirt. His arms circled around you, one hand resting on the side of your waist while the other snaked to your lower back. You shivered as his thumpad grazed your bare skin, a shot of heat pooling right where it shouldn’t. 

The music still pounded around you, neon lights flickering across his face, catching in his hair, reflecting faintly in his eyes, and he was already looking at you. “…Mind if I do something bad?” His voice cut through the moment, low, almost amused—but there was something underneath it. Something quieter.

You blinked, tilted your head slightly. “…That depends.”

His lips twitched. “On?”

You didn’t answer right away, just watched him. “On how bad,” you said finally, a small, curious smile pulling at your mouth.

That was all the permission he needed. One of his hands slipped away from your waist and the absence was immediate, noticeable. He reached into his pocket, movements unhurried, like he had all the time in the world—even though the music was loud, the crowd pressing in, everything moving fast around you.

He pulled something out. A joint, you recognized the second it caught the light. Your eyes dropped to it, then lifted back to him. Something in your expression shifted, something knowing, amused, as a slow smile spread across your face. “Well, whadya know…” you murmured, voice softer now, edged with quiet humor. “He’s a pothead too, huh?”

He grinned, pleased.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I had you pegged for a vodka-cranberry kind of guy.”

He snorted. “That’s offensive.”

“Is it wrong?”

“…A little.” He smiled, eyes glued to yours as he brought the joint up to his lips. His expression changed, like he was checking, asking you again if it was okay without saying it out loud. You didn’t look away, didn’t move, just holding his gaze. That was enough. 

The lighter clicked, a small, sharp sound that somehow sliced through everything else. For a second, the flame lit his face—warm, flickering, catching in the blue ocean of his eyes. Then he inhaled, slow and deliberate. The tip of the joint glowed faintly. You watched. You couldn’t not.

The way his chest rose slightly. The way his shoulders relaxed as he exhaled, smoke curling from his lips in soft, lazy spirals that drifted between you. Some of it brushed your face, the scent wrapping around you before you could think about it—earthy, faintly sweet, blending with the heat of the room, the press of bodies, the neon glow.

Your breathing spiked just slightly. The music changed just then, shifting into a heavier tune, lower, a darker song that didn’t demand as much energy. Your movements adjusted on their own, less chaotic now, more purposeful. Closer. Your hands shifting slightly onto his arms, your fingers curling just a little more, grounding yourself without realizing it. His grip followed suit, tightening. 

Your eyes flicked down to his shirt, black and basically untouched, sprinkled with some bits of glow here and there, but nothing like yours. Barrel compared to everything around you. You frowned slightly, a small, instinctive pout forming before you could stop it. Your gaze dropped and lifted back to him. 

He caught it immediately, he always did. His lips curved slightly, the joint still resting between them as he tilted his head down just enough, eyes narrowing in quiet amusement. “What?” he murmured, voice low, smoke slipping between the word.

You hesitated for half a second. “You don’t have any glow,” you said, like it actually mattered, genuinely bothered you. Your fingers shifted slightly against his arm, thumb brushing absentmindedly against the fabric of his shirt like you were confirming it.

He didn’t look down, didn’t check, didn’t break eye contact– not once. He held your gaze steadily, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before it settled. “I’ve got plenty.”

You almost swooned right there. You could physically feel the pressure curling in your lower stomach, the lightness caused by the alcohol making your head fuzzy in all the right ways. It sat somewhere low in your chest, heavier than it should’ve been, echoing in a way that didn’t quite match the chaos around you. The music still pulsed through the floor, through your ribs, people still moving and laughing and shouting—but it all felt just slightly out of focus compared to him. Compared to the way he was looking at you.

You inhaled slowly, you needed the breath to steady something, and then your hand lifted. The movement wasn’t even fully conscious, brain acting on its own agenda.  Your fingers moved toward him, toward the faint curl of smoke still drifting from his lips, and brushed lightly against his hand as you took the joint from him. The contact was brief, but not accidental, your skin grazing just enough to register, just enough to linger.

His lips parted as you pulled it away, soft and quiet. His eyes didn’t leave yours. Not even for a second. You brought it to your mouth, holding his gaze, and inhaled slowly. The smoke filled your lungs, warm and thick, curling inward and settling deep before you let it out in a controlled exhale. It hit almost instantly this time, just a slight shift, a soft buzz at the edges of everything. The lights stretched a little longer, the music sank deeper into your body, your limbs felt a fraction heavier but somehow more fluid at the same time.

You were still completely there, still in control, just… looser. Warmer. More aware of everything that mattered—and right now, that was him. Because he was still staring at you, fully, completely entranced, like he was trying to memorize every indent on your skin.

Or maybe like he already had.

Your hand dropped then, slipping into your bag without breaking eye contact. You went slow, didn’t fumble—just moved with the same slow, deliberate rhythm that everything had taken on, moving felt like it took a year, your fingers found the bottle immediately. The last one.

You pulled it out, the neon liquid inside catching what little light there was, glowing faintly even before you opened it. His gaze flicked down to it for the briefest second, curiosity sparking, but it didn’t linger. It went right back to your face, like that’s where it belonged.

You twisted the cap open, the small click feeling louder than it should’ve. You tipped it into your palm. The liquid coated your skin in a soft, luminous sheen, dripping slightly between your fingers before you spread it, rubbing your hands together agonizingly slow, making sure it covered every inch. Because you knew he was watching, you could feel it, how his eyes tracked every movement like he didn’t want to miss a single second of it, how his shoulders had stiffened slightly. 

You stepped closer, as if there had even been space left to close. Your hands lifted, hovering for just a moment over his chest, right where his shirt was still bare, still dark, untouched by everything else glowing around you.

And then you placed them there, flat and firm, right over him.The contact wasn’t shy. Your palms pressed against him, and you felt it immediately—the warmth of his body beneath the fabric, the slight tension in his muscular chest as your hands settled there. The neon transferred instantly, glowing bright against the black, spreading under your touch.

You didn’t look down, you didn’t need to, you just dragged your hands down, painfully slow. Your fingers spread slightly as they moved, the glowing liquid streaking across his chest in uneven lines, catching the light with every inch you covered. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing under your palms, feel the way his chest expanded slightly, then held, then shifted again as your hands moved lower.

He didn’t stop you, didn’t move, but his body reacted anyway. He swallowed, you felt it, felt it in the way his muscle kept tensing under your touch, subtle but unmistakable. Felt it in the slight hitch in his breath, the way it caught and didn’t quite settle again.

A sound slipped from him then, soft, unintended, A quiet, breathy whimper that he clearly hadn’t meant to make, your name. Your fingers slowed even more at that, registering it. You really liked it. Then they continued, dragging lower, finishing the motion, leaving glowing streaks all the way down his shirt before finally stopping.

Your gaze dropped then, not to your hands, but to his lips, slightly parted, still, the faint trace of smoke lingering there. Then back up to his eyes, darker now, pupils dilated and locked onto you, something in them that hadn’t been there before.

You shifted the joint in your mouth slowly, holding it between your canines as you tilted your head just slightly, your expression softening into something almost satisfied. “There…” you murmured, voice quiet, just for him.

Your hands didn’t leave him right away, they lingered there for a second longer, pressed lightly against his chest, feeling the warmth, the tension, the way his breathing hadn’t quite evened out yet. Then, finally, you let them fall, but your eyes stayed exactly where they were the entire time, waiting to see what he’d do next.

The glow you’d smeared across him pulsed faintly in the dark, streaked over the black fabric, uneven and messy in a way that made it feel more intentional. Your palms still held the faint tacky warmth of the neon, your skin buzzing—not just from the alcohol, not just from the smoke, but from him. From how close he was.

His hands moved, they slipped from your waist, slowly enough that you felt the absence before you understood the intention, before you realized he wasn’t pulling away. His fingers found yours, curling around them, warmer now, slightly damp with the paint you’d just spread over him. 

There was something almost grounding in it, the way his hands enclosed yours, steady and sure, like he needed to feel it, needed to feel you, before anything else. His thumbs began to move, dragging slowly over your palms, smearing the neon across your skin and his, blending the glow between you until it was impossible to tell whose was whose anymore.

You let out a soft breath, barely noticeable even to yourself. The joint was still resting between your lips, and when you exhaled, the smoke drifted forward in a slow, lazy stream, curling between you before brushing against his face.

He didn’t pull away, instead, his eyes stayed locked on yours as he leaned in—slowly, deliberately—closing that already small distance even more. His lips parted slightly as he moved into the space your breath had just filled, inhaling the smoke from you like it belonged to him. 

The effect hit sharper this time. The warmth in your chest deepened, spread, softened the edges of everything. The music felt thicker, heavier, the neon lights stretching just slightly in your vision. He let your hands go then, but only because he had somewhere else to put them.

One of his hands lifted, slower now, like he was fully aware of every inch of movement. His fingers brushed the side of your neck first, light—so light it almost didn’t feel real—before settling more firmly. His thumb rested just under your jaw for a second, and then he dragged it down. You felt every inch of it.

Over your throat, across your collarbone, down the slope of your shoulder. The neon smeared as he moved, transferring from his skin to yours in glowing streaks, his palm flattening slightly as it followed the curve of your body.

Your breath hitched.. His other hand had already started moving too, beginning higher this time—just beneath your chest, fingers brushing the edge of your ribcage through the thin fabric. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t press too hard. Just enough for you to feel it.

And then he dragged it down, slow and steady, following the line of your waist like he was tracing something he didn’t want to forget, his touch warm and deliberate, the contrast of the cool neon against your skin making every inch feel sharper.

The space between you had almost disappeared now, your bodies closer than before, your chest rising and falling just slightly faster, brushing against his. Your faces were only a few centimeters apart, close enough that you could feel his breath every time he exhaled. Warm and uneven, unsure, mirroring yours.  Your eyes flickered down for a second again, to his lips, slightly parted—before pulling back up to meet his gaze again.

Still there, still watching you like he hadn’t blinked in minutes. His hands didn’t stop moving. They shifted lower, sliding around your sides, settling at your lower back, pulling you just a little closer without fully closing the space. It wasn’t forceful. It didn’t need to be. Your body followed anyway instinctively, leaning in just slightly, enough to press into him, enough to feel the heat of him through both your clothes.

The joint was still between your lips, you’d almost forgotten about it, but he hadn’t. His gaze dipped again, just briefly, before he leaned forward that final fraction of space. Your breath caught—this time noticeably—as his face moved closer, so close you could feel the faint brush of him before anything even happened.

And then he bit down gently on the joint, pulling it from your mouth, careful, his lips brushing just barely against it as he took it back, the contact so brief it almost didn’t count—but it lingered anyway. His hands moved further, spreading the smooth liquid down over your ass, thick fingers reaching under the suppleness gently to pull up, squeezing lightly, a breathy pant escaping his lips at the feel of you.

He pulled back just enough to create the smallest bit of space again, the joint now resting between his own lips, his eyes still locked on yours. Neither of you moved. His hands were still at your ass, yours hovered near his chest, uncertain for the first time all night. In the middle of all that noise, all those people, all that chaos, it felt like it was just the two of you.

 “..God, Squeaky–”

“YO—GOJO!”

Sukuna’s voice cut straight through everything—loud, abrasive, completely out of place against the slow, heavy quiet that had built between you. “Why does this drink taste like someone pissed in it, man—I'm not even joking—”

It was instant. You and Gojo separated like you’d both been caught doing something you couldn’t explain, fast—too fast to be casual. Your hands dropped from his chest, his grip loosened from your back, and suddenly there was space again. Air. Distance that hadn’t been there seconds ago.

It felt wrong.

Sukuna stopped mid-step when he actually looked at you both. His expression shifted—realization hitting in a slow, awkward wave. His brows lifted slightly, then his mouth twisted. His eyes roved over you, spotting the neon pink handprints on the back of your shorts. “…shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “My bad. Didn’t mean to, uh—” he gestured vaguely between the two of you, “—interrupt whatever the hell that was.”

Gojo didn’t laugh, he just stared at him, eyes narrowed, jaw set, still a little hazy but visibly irritated. “What about the fucking drinks?” he snapped, voice sharp, like he was clinging to the interruption just to redirect the moment.

Sukuna blinked, thrown for half a second, then scoffed. “I’m serious, dude—try it. It’s suspicious.”

“Everything you drink is suspicious,” a voice drawled from behind him. Toji. He and Nanami stepped up a second later, both of them clearly drawn in by the noise. Toji looked amused immediately, eyes flicking between Sukuna’s cup, Gojo’s expression, and then—finally—you.

Nanami was quieter, more observant. His gaze landed on you and stayed there a second longer than comfortable, taking in details the others didn’t bother to. That’s when Sukuna noticed it, the joint still hanging lazily from Gojo’s lips.

Then your eyes. Still just a little glassy, a faint red lining the edges, your expression softer than usual—but not gone. Not out of control. Just altered.

His brows shot up. “…wait,” he said slowly, pointing between you and Gojo. “No fucking way.”

You didn’t move, didn’t flinch. “What?” you asked, tone flat, unimpressed.

“You smoke?” Sukuna let out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. That’s—yeah, didn’t expect that at all. Thought you were like… I don’t know—library princess or something. Straight A’s, drinks water at parties, leaves before midnight.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unbothered. “I just outdrank you and half your little circus like thirty minutes ago.”

Toji barked out a laugh at that, hand coming up to cover his mouth like he was trying—poorly—not to react too hard. “She’s not wrong,” he said, nudging Sukuna with his elbow. “You were struggling.”

“Shut up,” Sukuna shot back, but he was still grinning, eyes flicking back to you with renewed interest. “Alright, fine. Didn’t peg you for that either.”

Nanami finally spoke then, his tone even, almost too neutral. “That doesn’t mean much in this house.” His gaze stayed on you, steady, analytical. “Most people here drink themselves stupid to feel like they belong,” he continued. “You don’t seem like the type.”

It wasn’t outright rude, but it wasn’t kind either. More like a test. You shifted your weight slightly, something small tightening in your chest, though you didn’t show it on your face. “Depends what you think ‘the type’ is,” you replied evenly.

Sukuna snorted, crossing his arms. “He means you don’t seem like one of those try-hard academic robots. Y’know—the ones who walk into a party like they’re doing field research and spend the whole night judging everyone.”

“To be fair,” Toji added lazily, “those ones are the worst. Act like they’re above it, but still show up.”

Nanami didn’t disagree. “They tend to lack self-awareness,” he said simply.

Sukuna laughed again, louder this time, gesturing toward you. “Yeah, but she’s not like that. She’s got—what, neuroscience or whatever, right? And she’s not a total buzzkill. That’s rare.”

“High-functioning,” Toji added, glancing at the faint glow still smeared along your arms.

“Dangerous combo,” Sukuna said, nodding. “Smart, hot, and not calling campus security every five minutes. You scored a good one, Gojo.” He raised up his glass of piss drink.

You let out a quiet breath through your nose, something between a laugh and not quite that. Before you could respond, a familiar weight dropped over your shoulders. Gojo’s arm, loose and warm. He pulled you in just slightly, his hand settling against your upper arm like it belonged there, like it had every right to be there. You tilted your head up instinctively, eyes finding his, expecting… something. Defense, a correction, anything. 

But he was grinning. Too wide, too easy, eyes just a little unfocused. “Damn right,” he said, voice louder than necessary, words slipping out without hesitation. “She’s not like those fucking losers.”

Sukuna huffed a laugh, already nodding along. “Yeah, those types are insufferable. All that ‘I’m better than you’ shit—like relax, it’s college, not an ethics competition.”

“To be fair,” Toji added, “half of them don’t even know how to talk to people. You say one thing wrong and they look at you like you just shot their dog.”

Nanami didn’t laugh this time, but he didn’t interrupt either.

Gojo just kept going. “Yeah, like—no offense—but most of them are fucking miserable,” he said, tightening his grip on your shoulder just slightly, like he was emphasizing the point. “All book-smart, zero social skills, think they’re above everything. It’s annoying as hell. No one cares how interested you are in fuckass algebra, keep it to yourself.”

Your smile faltered, just a little.

“Walking GPA calculators,” Sukuna added. “No personality, no chill.”

“Exactly,” Gojo said, nodding, completely missing it. “But she’s not like that. She’s actually—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to, because the damage was already done. It settled, slow, quiet, heavy. Your eyes widened, the shift so small it would’ve gone unnoticed to anyone who wasn’t looking for it—but you felt it, sharp and immediate, right in the center of your chest. Like something had slipped out from under you without warning.

The music was still loud. Bass still vibrating through the floor, through your ribs, people still moving around you like nothing had changed. But something had. Completely.

Your mind cleared in an instant. The warmth from the alcohol, the soft haze from the weed—it all pulled back just enough for everything to feel too sharp instead. Too clear. Every word he’d just said replaying, louder now, stripped of the careless tone he’d used when he said them.

Those other nerds.

Fucking miserable.

No personality.

And suddenly, the arm around your shoulders felt wrong, heavy in a way it hadn’t before.

You shifted under it, subtle but firm, lifting your shoulder just enough for his arm to slide off. It dropped back to his side without resistance, like he didn’t even process it at first. Your gaze lowered, fixed somewhere near the floor, your fingers curling slightly at your sides as you swallowed. “I’m gonna go,” you muttered.

It wasn’t loud, but it was enough. Sukuna blinked, confusion flashing across his face. “Wait—what?” Toji straightened slightly, brows lifting. Nanami’s gaze sharpened, like he’d caught something the others hadn’t yet.

And Gojo— 

Gojo went still.

Completely.

You didn’t look back, didn’t explain. You just turned and started walking, weaving through the crowd, past bodies and noise and flashing neon, your heart beating a little too fast, your chest too tight. 

It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t have hit this hard, but it did, because it wasn’t just what he said, it was how easy it came out.

“Hey—” His voice came from behind you, closer than you expected. Footsteps followed—quicker, uneven, catching up fast. “Hey, wait—” His hand caught your wrist lightly, not rough, but enough to stop you. You turned, faster than you meant to, something sharp in your expression now, something that hadn’t been there all night.

“What?” you snapped. It came out harsher than you intended, but you didn’t take it back.

He blinked at you, thrown off immediately, like he hadn’t expected that tone from you. Not you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, brows pulling together, confusion lacing through his voice. He took a small step closer, like he was trying to close the distance again, like he didn’t understand why it had opened in the first place.

You stared at him for a second, then let out a short, disbelieving breath. “‘Losers’?” you said, the word cutting sharper this time. “Did you even hear yourself back there?”

His expression shifted—confusion deepening, a flicker of defensiveness creeping in. “What? I was just—”

“Just what?” you cut in. “Just talking shit? Just trying to be funny?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Because there wasn’t a good answer.

You shook your head, a humorless laugh slipping out as you ran a hand through your hair. “I don’t get why you do that,” you said, quieter now but more pointed, each word landing more deliberately than the last. “Why you act like you’re—like that.”

“Like what?” he asked, a little sharper now, like he was starting to feel cornered.

“Like you’re stupid,” you said plainly.

That stopped him. Cold. His entire expression shifted, something real breaking through the haze for the first time since you’d met him. “…what?” he said, softer now.

“I’ve seen you,” you continued, your voice steady despite the tightness in your chest. “You’re not dumb. You’re not even close. You catch things other people miss. You pick up on stuff fast. You—” you hesitated, searching for the right words, then shook your head slightly. “You can outsmart every single person in this room, including me. So why do you stand there and talk like that? Like you’re proud of being… shallow?”

He stared at you, really stared this time, stunned. No one had ever said that to him before, he didn’t even know what to do with it.

You let out another breath, stepping back slightly, creating space that felt necessary now. “I’m not gonna stand there and laugh while you tear down people like that just to fit in,” you said. “I’m not doing that.”

“That’s not what I—” he started, voice rougher now, but it faltered halfway through. Because he didn’t know how to finish it, because part of him knew you weren’t wrong. All of him, really.

Instead of arguing, instead of explaining, he stepped forward, closed the space again and pulled you into him. It was messy, desperate. His arms wrapped around you tight, almost too tight, trying to keep you from leaving just by holding on. His head dropped forward, pressing into your shoulder, his breath warm and uneven against your skin.

“Please don’t leave…” he mumbled, voice muffled, softer now, rougher. “Don’t—just don’t go, okay?”

You stiffened immediately. Your hands came up, pressing against his chest, trying to push him back.

“Gojo—”

“C’mon, Squeaky.” he said, pulling back just enough to look at you, his grip still firm on your arms. His eyes were glassy now, unfocused in a way that made your stomach twist. “Let’s just—let’s go somewhere else. Yeah? Get food or something. You like tacos. Let’s go get tacos.” His words tumbled over each other, jumbled and unorganized, his grip still tight on you like if he let go, you’d disappear.

Your chest ached. Because part of you wanted to say yes, wanted to pretend it didn’t matter, wanted to go back.

But you didn’t.

You pushed against him again, firmer this time, and this time, he let go. His hands dropped slightly, just enough for you to step back fully.

“No,” you said.

Quiet.

Clear.

Final.

He blinked at you, like the word didn’t register. “—what?”

“I said no,” you repeated, your voice steady even if your chest didn’t feel it. “I’m leaving.”

“Why?” he asked, softer now, almost helpless. “It was just a joke—”

“That’s the problem,” you cut in. “It wasn’t funny.” 

That landed. You saw it, his expression falter. You looked at him for a second longer.

The neon handprints still smeared across his shirt, at the way his hair was a mess from dancing, at how he looked at you now—confused, a little desperate, like he didn’t understand how things had unraveled this fast, alcohol still hazing his mind.

And it hurt more than it should’ve.

“I’m not one of your jokes,” you said finally. Then you turned. And this time when you walked away, you didn’t stop.

Thank you so much for reading.. please let me know your thought/theories! Love getting feedback on my work <3

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[lacrimadreams]

Put Him In His Place ᥫ᭡. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Chapter 05-> previous

pairings - Lovesick!Fratjo x Badass!reader (f/m)

WC- 11.5k

♡ ₊˚‧ WARNINGS :: No use of Y/N :: Frat boy Gojo:: Yearner Gojo :: Fluff:: TENSION!:: ANGST:: Nerd Fratjo :: Eventual smut -> (more tags coming soon) :: Strong female MC :: Neuroscience Major MC:: HEAT :: Intimacy:: Grinding:: Dirty dancing:: Sensuality:: Teasing:: Smoking (Marijuana):: Drinking:: Partying::Nicknames:: Slowburn:: (probably more to come!)

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: Hey yallll here's five. LOVE this chapter. Thank you all for your support! More coming very soon. 🎧ྀི♪⋆.✮MUSIC RECS: - Rush - Troye Sivan - One Dance - Drake - Rude Boy - Rihanna DANCING SCENE + AFTER: - Yeah! - Usher - Dangerous Woman - Ariana Grande - Do I Wanna Know? - Arctic Monkeys - King Of The Fall - The Weeknd

The bass hit you before you even reached the door. It was low and heavy, vibrating through the pavement like a second heartbeat, pulsing up your shoes and ingraining into your chest. You could almost feel the earth shaking under you. 

Becca squeezed your hand once as you both stepped up onto the porch, her curls bouncing with the movement, blonde strands catching flashes of neon from inside. “Okay,” she said, glancing at you sideways. “Last chance to turn back and go study like the responsible academic weapon you are.”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting the strap of your small bag over your shoulder. “I’m fine.”

“Mhm.” She knocked twice. Unnecessary, considering the door was already half open—and pushed it the rest of the way in. The party swallowed you whole the second you stepped inside. 

It was exactly what you expected, yet somehow still more. The house was big, ridiculously so, with an open layout that made everything feel connected. The living room bled into the kitchen, which spilled into a hallway where people were already crowding and laughing and yelling over the music.

The lights, or really the lack of them, made everything feel surreal. Dim overhead bulbs flickered occasionally, but most of the illumination came from strips of neon lining the walls and furniture: electric pinks, greens, blues that shined in time with the music.

Every few seconds, the main lights would cut completely, leaving everything in darkness, and then everything glowed. Paint streaked across arms, faces, shirts. Handprints on walls. Neon signs flickering to life like they’d been waiting for the dark. People lit up in pieces– bracelets, necklaces, shoes– like constellations moving through the room. Then the lights would come back, and it would start all over again.

You stepped further in, taking it in, your eyes adjusting. Everyone was dressed the same in a way that still somehow looked different; black tops, black shorts, black dresses. A blank canvas for the glow. Your outfit blended right in.

A black fitted tank top clung to you, stopping just high enough to show a small sliver of your lower stomach when you moved. Black shorts hugged your waist and hips, simple but clean. The light-up necklace around your neck blinked softly in shifting colors, matching the bracelets stacked loosely around your wrist. Your hair was pulled back into two tight Dutch braids, neat and practical—but still soft around your face, a few strands escaping from your hairline.

Becca looked at you again, then down at your outfit. “…Yeah,” she said slowly. “This is not a ‘just came to hang out’ outfit.”

You snorted. “Shut it.”

She grinned, bumping her shoulder into yours as you both moved further into the crowd. “I thought you had that Anatomy test tomorrow.”

“I do.”

She stopped walking, turning to look at you fully, one brow raised.“You did,” she repeated.

You kept walking. “I still do.”

She followed, catching up easily. “You never go out the day before something graded.”

You shrugged. “It’s one night.”

“Mhm.”

You could feel her looking at you. Hard. She gasped. “Ohhh,” she said slowly, dragging it out. “I wonder why.”

You groaned under your breath. “Becca—”

“No, wait,” she continued, gasping dramatically. “I’m so sorry. Not why—for whom.”

You shot her a look. “Be quiet, your lipsticks gonna rub off if you keep talking.”

She laughed, grabbing your arm and pulling you into a quick side hug. “Relax, I’m kidding,” she said, though the grin on her face said she absolutely was not. You rolled your eyes again, but you were smiling. She leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. “Enjoy your night, squeaky,” she said, softer now. “And tell me everything after.”

You huffed a quiet laugh.“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“Unfortunately.”

She pulled back, already scanning the room. “I’m gonna go grab punch and find Brayden,” she added. “Call me if you need me.”

You nodded. “Bye, Duck. Love you.”

“Love you.”

And just like that, she was gone, slipping into the crowd, blonde curls bouncing as she disappeared between people, already waving at someone across the room.

You stood there for a second, alone, hyperaware of your surroundings. The music thumped around you, voices overlapping, laughter cutting through the noise in bursts. Someone brushed past your shoulder, muttering a quick “sorry” before disappearing again.

You adjusted your bag slightly, fingers brushing over the small bottles tucked inside. Your bottles. The glow mixture. You’d brought a few from the lab, different colors this time. You’d stayed up a little later tweaking the formulas, adjusting concentrations, testing how they reacted under different light levels.

Not for any big reason. Just because. Because it was fun. Because you could. Because a small, annoying part of you wondered what his face would look like when he saw them.

You exhaled quietly, glancing around the room again, scanning, trying not to be obvious. 

“You look like you’re searching for something.” The voice came from your left, too close.

You turned slowly and immediately regretted it. 

He was standing in front of you, one hand holding a red cup and the other tucked lazily in his sweatpant pocket, fist slightly dragging them down to show a sliver of his lower abdomen. Ashy pink hair, sharp features, dark tattoos staining his skin, the kind of smirk that felt practiced—like he’d used it a hundred times and expected it to work every time. Yup, this was definitely a frat guy.

Sukuna. You didn’t know his name yet, but you knew the type instantly.

Your expression flattened just slightly. “…Am I?”

He pushed off his foot, stepping a little closer. “Yeah,” he said, eyes dragging over you in a way that made your skin prickle. “Or maybe you’re just lost.”

“I’m not.”

He hummed. “Could’ve fooled me, pretty girl.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bold.”

He grinned. “What? You like that? Just me observing, sweetheart.”

You crossed your arms loosely. “And what else are you observing?”

He tilted his head slightly, like he was considering how to phrase it. “…That you don’t look like you belong here. Let me take you upstairs, sweetheart.”

There was a beat, then you let out a short laugh. “Wow.”

“What?”

“That might be the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

He chuckled, unfazed. “Wasn’t a pickup line.”

“Right.”

“More like an opening statement.”

You stared at him. “…That’s worse.”

He stepped closer again, too close.

“You here alone?” he asked.

“No.”

“Your friends ditched you?”

“No.”

He smirked.

“Then where are they?”

You tilted your head. “Why? Wanna take all of us to bed at once?”

“Tempting offer.” He smiled. “You think you could set it up?”

Your irritation spiked, fast and immediate.You let out a quiet breath through your nose, uncrossing your arms. “Let me save you some time,” you said flatly. “You don’t have a chance with one girl of value, let alone multiple.”

His smirk twitched slightly, but didn’t drop. “C’mon,” he said. “Don’t be like that.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “Like what?”

“Difficult.”

There it was, that word something in your expression shifted, sharpened.

“Difficult?” you deadpanned. “Maybe you’re just not that interesting.”

The music pulsed louder for a second. Or maybe it just felt like it did, because the look on his face changed. “Feisty,” he said, a little amused now.

You glared back. 

Across the room, Gojo noticed you instantly.

He hadn’t meant to. He was mid-conversation, half listening to something Toji was saying, something about how he wanted to fuck a girl in one of his classes, while Geto leaned back against the couch with that knowing, amused look he always had when he was letting chaos unfold without interfering.

Gojo had a drink in his hand, head tipped back slightly as he took a long sip, the burn settling easy in his chest. And then he saw you, right in the middle of the living room. Black on black, blending in with everyone else, but still somehow standing out. The light-up necklace around your throat blinked softly, your bracelets catching flashes of neon as the lights flickered. Your hair was braided back, clean and tight, and it made your face look sharper somehow. Clearer.

And in your hands, water bottles filled with something glowing.

Of course. Of course you brought your own. Gojo’s mouth twitched slightly, and then his eyes shifted to the person standing way too close to you. Sukuna.

And the look on your face—

God.

It was kind of hilarious. Flat. Irritated. That very specific expression you got when someone was already on your nerves and had about five seconds left before you said something they weren’t gonna recover from.

Gojo’s jaw tightened just a little.

“…You even listening?” Toji asked, nudging him with his elbow.

Gojo didn’t answer, didn’t look away.

Geto followed his gaze and paused, huffing a quiet laugh under his breath. “…Oh, this should be good.”

Gojo exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yeah,” he muttered. He tipped his head back and chugged the rest of his drink, no hesitation, no pacing– just downed it. 

Toji blinked. “...Goddamn. Okay.”

The bottle hit the table a second later with a dull thud. Gojo didn’t say anything, just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and started walking toward you. He didn’t rush, but there was something in the way he moved. Direct, purposeful, making people shift out of his way without really knowing why. The crowd blurred a little as he pushed through it, shoulders brushing against strangers, music pounding louder the closer he got to the center of the room.His eyes didn’t leave you. Not once.

You were just about to walk away, done with the conversation, already turning your body slightly when an arm slid around your waist. Warm. Firm. Familiar.

You froze for half a second. Your head snapped up, and there he was. Gojo. Right beside you. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of your top, his hand resting just above your hip like it belonged there. Casual, effortless. Like it wasn’t even a question.

You blinked, caught off guard. There was a flicker of something, surprise, maybe a little fluster, but it disappeared almost as quickly as it came. You masked it easily, your expression settling back into something controlled.

But your heart, your heart definitely noticed.

Gojo didn’t look at you right away, his attention was on Sukuna. He gave him a small, deadpanned smile, the kind that wasn’t really a smile at all. “Problem?” he asked.

Sukuna looked between the two of you. Once. Then again. His confusion lasted exactly half a second. His eyes widened slightly. “Oh—” A beat. Then he let out a short, incredulous laugh. “OH—This is slap girl?!”

Gojo groaned immediately, dropping his head back slightly. “Can we not call her that—”

You, however, smiled, bright and unbothered. You liked that nickname. “That’s me,” you said, shifting your weight slightly, still very aware of Gojo’s arm around you. “Nice to meet you…” You tilted your head just a little. “…Kind of.”

Sukuna snorted. “Damn. Didn’t realize it was you. I was expecting like.. a crazy chick with blue hair or something. Mm.. and big boobs”

You blinked in mild surprise. Gojo shot him a desperate look at his words, screaming ‘SERIOUSLY, bro?!’

Sukuna stuttered, held his hands up slightly in mock surrender. “Relax, man. I was just talking.”

“Yeah,” Gojo replied flatly. “I saw.” There was a subtle edge there. Sukuna noticed it, of course he did. His smirk returned, but it shifted, less cocky, more entertained.

“Didn’t know you had a claim here,” he said.

Gojo didn’t even blink. “I don’t.” His arm didn’t move. If anything, his hand settled just slightly more securely at your waist.“But she’s not interested, Kuna. I could see it from the other side of the room.” he added.

You glanced at him briefly, then back at Sukuna, whose eyes dropped to you. You shrugged a little, grinning at him. Sukuna exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. I get it.” He stepped back slightly, hands still raised.”

Gojo didn’t respond, just watched him.

Sukuna’s gaze flicked between you one last time. Then he smirked. “Give me one second.” And just like that, he disappeared back into the crowd.

The space around you shifted, quieter somehow even with the music still pounding. Gojo’s arm was still around you, and you both noticed. 

You exhaled softly, looking up at him. “…Nice timing.”

He looked down at you then, eyes raking over your face, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. He was taking in the braids. The necklace. The faint glow of the bottles still in your hand.“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, lips twitching. “Another thirty seconds and he would’ve tested his luck.”

Gojo huffed a quiet laugh, free hand coming up to rub his cheek where you had put a big purple bruise not too long ago. “Wouldn’t have gone well for him. ”

“No,” you agreed lightly. “It wouldn’t have.”

There was a small pause. “…You came,” he said quietly.

“I said I would.”

“Yeah,” he nodded. His thumb shifted slightly against your side without him realizing, a small movement, barely there. “Didn’t think you’d actually show,” he added.

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Your lack of faith in me is crazy.”

“I have faith,” he said. “Just… not in your ability to choose fun over studying.”

You snorted. “Rude.”

“Accurate.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, then you lifted one of the bottles slightly. “You like the theme?” you asked.

His gaze dropped to it, the neon liquid inside catching the light. “…You made those?”

“Maybe.”

He looked back at you, and something in his expression softened again, that same look from the lab. “That’s insane,” he said quietly.

You shrugged. “It’s fun makin’ em.”

He studied you for a second longer. His arm loosened slightly, not fully leaving your waist, but moving just enough to give you space. “C’mon,” he said again, a little softer this time, nodding toward the counter where people were crowded around bottles and cups. “Let’s get you something to drink before you start assaulting more people with neon chemicals.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, adjusting your grip on the bottles in your hands. “That was one time.”

“You literally attacked me.”

“You deserved it. And you attacked me right back!”

“Debatable.” He started guiding you through the crowd—not forcefully, just a light pressure at your side, his hand still resting at your waist like it had settled there without asking permission.

The music pulsed around you as you moved, bodies shifting, people brushing past. Someone laughed too loud behind you, someone else spilled something on the floor, and through it all, Gojo kept a steady path forward like he knew exactly where he was going. You glanced up at him briefly. “…So this is your natural habitat, huh?”

He smirked.

“Yeah. Impressive, right?”

“Very,” you said dryly. “The sticky floors really tie it together.”

“Hey,” he nudged you lightly. “That’s years of neglected cleaning you’re disrespecting.”

“Mm. I can tell.”

He laughed under his breath, and yet again it felt like it was just the two of you in the middle of everything else.

You were almost at the kitchen. Almost. When—

“Satoruuuu.”

The voice cut through the music like it had been waiting. Gojo froze. You felt it immediately, the subtle shift in his posture, the way his hand tensed just slightly against your side.

He exhaled slowly. “…Don’t turn around,” he muttered.

You blinked. “…That’s never a good sign.”

Too late. Multiple footsteps approached, and you turned anyway.

Sukuna. Of course. Grinning like he’d just set something up and was about to enjoy the outcome. And behind him, three more guys. All very different, all very obviously together.

You instinctively took a small step back. Not out of fear, just genuine surprise at the cult meeting forming in front of you. Gojo’s hand dropped from your waist almost immediately. “Guys,” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Can we not do this right now?”

Sukuna laughed. “What?” he said, spreading his arms slightly. “Embarrassed of us?”

“Yes.”

Sukuna ignored that completely. “I said give me a second for a reason, didn’t I?”

You glanced between them, then back at Gojo. “…You have a welcoming committee?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Wow. I feel so special.”

“You should,” Sukuna cut in. “You’re the first girl he’s ever not scared off in five minutes.”

Gojo shot him a look. “I hate you.”

“Love you too.”

Before you could respond, one of the other guys stepped forward, the one with long dark hair tied back loosely, expression calm—almost too calm for the environment. He reached for your hand gently, oddly respectful. You let him. He lifted it slightly and pressed a light kiss to the back of your knuckles. “Welcome to the house..” he said smoothly.

You blinked twice. That was not what you expected at all. You tilted your head slightly, studying him. “…You’re way too polite to be here.”

He smiled faintly. “I get that a lot.”

Gojo snorted quietly behind him. “Don’t let him fool you.”

“Please,” the guy—Geto, you assumed—said mildly. “I’m on my best behavior.”

“Liar.”

You let out a small laugh. “I believe it,” you said. “No one just casually does that at a frat party unless they’re either very practiced or very suspicious.”

Geto’s smile widened just slightly. “Maybe both.”

“Dangerous combination.”

“I try.”

“Alright, enough of the gentleman act,” Sukuna cut in, gesturing to the others. “We’re here to meet slap girl.”

Gojo groaned again at the nickname. “She has a name.”

You smiled. “I don’t mind it.”

“Of course you don’t,” Gojo muttered. 

The other two stepped forward now. One was tall, broad, with messy dark hair and a lazy posture that somehow still felt… imposing. He looked you over once, assessing. “…You’re the one that hit him?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yep.”

He huffed a short laugh. “Nice.”

You grinned. “Thanks.”

“Toji,” he said, jerking his chin slightly.

You gave a small nod. “Neat. ” The last one stepped forward more quietly. Blonde. Neat. Composed in a way that stood out immediately in a room like this. He adjusted his sleeve slightly before speaking. “…Nanami,” he said.

You nodded. “Squeaky.”

There was a brief pause.

Then “…That is not your real name,” he said.

You smiled. “No, it’s not.”

“…Good.”

You let out a small laugh. There was a beat, then suddenly you realized all of them were looking at you, curious, measuring.. a little too interested. Gojo shifted beside you. “…Can you all stop staring at her like that?”

Sukuna smirked. “What? We’re observing.”

“Oh, well um. Stop..”

“To be fair,” you cut in lightly, “you did bring me into a house full of strangers.”

“You walked in willingly.”

“Details.”

Toji huffed a quiet laugh. “I like her.”

“Yeah,” Sukuna added. “She’s got a mouth on her.”

You tilted your head. “And you don’t?”

He grinned. “Fair.”

Geto glanced at the bottles still in your hands. “…What’s that?”

You lifted one slightly. “Glow paint.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You made that?”

“Yeah.”

Sukuna leaned in. “No way.”

Toji grabbed one, inspecting it. “…This is actually kinda sick.”

Nanami studied it more quietly. “…Is it safe?”

You nodded. “Completely non-toxic.”

“Good,” he said simply.

“Relax,” you added, glancing at him. “I’m not trying to poison your entire frat.”

“That would be inconvenient.”

You smiled. “Very.”

Gojo watched all of this happen like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was seeing. The way you answered easily, how you didn’t hesitate to use your wit, how you matched their energy without trying too hard. You weren’t intimidated or even trying to impress them, you were just… you. And somehow they were eating it up.

“…Okay,” Gojo muttered under his breath. “Can we go now?”

Sukana snorted. “Wow,” he said.. “You trying to get rid of me already?”

“I’m trying to get you a drink,” he shot back.

“To calm me down after meeting your… unique friends?”

Sukuna laughed. “Unique?”

You nodded seriously. “Absolutely. I’m intrigued. And a little scared”

Toji snorted sarcastically. “Yeah, because you look terrified.”

“I’m masking it well.”

Nanami shook his head slightly, almost amused. “She’s fine.”

Geto smiled. “She’s more than fine.”

Gojo rolled his eyes. “Great. Can I have her back now?”

“You want a drink, why don’t we all join you, Satoru?” Sukuna said, grin sharp and needling, “you talk a big game, ‘Squeaky’. Let's see if your alcohol tolerance matches your wit.”

You tilted your head slightly, unimpressed but entertained.

Toji cut in, folding his arms loosely, “we haven’t seen any proof yet.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Proof of what?”

Sukuna’s eyes flicked over you once, assessing, challenging. “That you can keep up.”

There it was. You felt Gojo shift beside you subtly, like he already knew where this was going. “…Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, low enough that only you heard.

You glanced at him, then back at Sukuna. A slow grin spread across your face. “Oh, I can keep up.”

Sukuna’s smile widened. “Yeah?”

You shrugged. “Try me.”

“Oh, she’s in,” Toji laughed, pushing off the counter. “Let’s go.”

Nanami sighed under his breath. “…This is a terrible idea.”

Geto smiled faintly. “And yet, you’re coming with us.”

Nanami adjusted his sleeve. “…Of course I am.”

The garage was louder than the rest of the house, if that was even possible. Music blasted from a speaker shoved into the corner, bass rattling against the walls, the air thick with heat and sweat and the sharp smell of alcohol. People crowded around a long folding table set up in the middle—cups stacked into pyramids, liquid sloshing, hands moving too fast to follow.

Rage cage.

Stack cup.

Chaos.

Exactly what you expected, exactly what you signed up for. “Alright!” Sukuna called, grabbing a stack of cups and slamming them down onto the table. “We got a challenger!”

A few heads turned, eyes landed on you, curious, interested. Someone whistled.

“Toji, don’t break her,” a guy laughed from the side.

You snorted. “Worry about yourself.”

Gojo hovered close to your side as the group gathered around the table, his presence quieter now—but there. Always there. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, leaning slightly toward you so you could hear him over the noise.

You glanced at him, smiling. “Relax, snowman.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He studied your face for a second, huffing a quiet laugh. “…You’re insane.”

“You like it.”

“I do.”

Cups were filled. Liquid sloshing, hands moving, people shouting rules that no one was fully listening to. You rolled your shoulders back slightly, setting your bottles off to the side, game mode.

“Alright, Squeaky,” Sukuna said, tossing you a cup. “Let’s see what you got.”

You caught it easily. “Don’t cry when I win.”

“Toji,” Sukuna called, ignoring you, “keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t cheat.”

Toji snorted. “She doesn’t look like the cheating type.”

“I don’t cheat,” you added. “I just win.”

Gojo let out a short laugh beside you. “…God, you’re cocky.”

“Guess you’re rubbing off on me, Snowman.”

“I absolutely am not. That’s all you.”

—--------------

“GO!”

The game exploded into motion. Cups moved, hands grabbed, liquid splashed.

You didn’t hesitate, you just moved, chugging the first cup like it was nothing, the burn hitting your throat fast and hard but not slowing you down. You flipped it, slammed it down, grabbed the next without missing a beat.

Someone cursed next to you. You didn’t look, didn’t care. The world narrowed into the table—the rhythm, the motion, the speed.

“Holy shit—”

“She’s fast—”

“Watch it—watch it—”

You laughed under your breath, breath already coming a little quicker, warmth spreading through your chest as the alcohol hit. Gojo stood just to your right, half playing, half watching you like he couldn’t decide which one he was more focused on. “…Okay,” he muttered, grabbing his own cup slower. “Okay, I see you.”

“You’re falling behind,” you shot back, already finishing another.

“I told you I have a low tolerance!” 

You giggled, actually giggled. It slipped out easier now, lighter. “Skill issue.”

“Rude.”

—--------------------

The game blurred, fast, loud, and messy. Cups knocked over, laughter spilling over itself, people shouting instructions that didn’t matter, you kept going. Kept up, more than kept up, you were ahead.

Toji raised an eyebrow mid-game. “…Damn.”

Sukuna let out a sharp laugh. “Okay—okay, I see it now.”

Geto shook his head, amused. “She’s committed.”

Nanami muttered something about poor decision-making under his breath—but he was still playing.

And you, well you were thriving.

—--------------------

At some point you grabbed Gojo’s arm. He blinked, caught off guard. “…What—?”

“C’mere,” you said, already looping your arm through his.

He froze for half a second. Then realized.“…Oh.”

The crowd noticed instantly.

“OHHHH—”

“Couple shot—!”

“Do it—do it—”

You grinned, lifting your cup. “Don’t slow me down, snowman.”

“Hey,” he scoffed, but he was smiling now, something softer underneath it. “You’re the one dragging me into this. My liver might fail tonight.”

“Drink.”

“Bossy.”

“Drink.”

He laughed. You both tipped your heads back at the same time. The liquid burned sharper this time, your arms linked, shoulders brushing, his presence right there—close, warm, solid. You could feel him swallow, hear it. The world tilted slightly, then snapped back into place. You slammed the cup down, he followed half a second later. You looked at him, grinning. He stared right back at you, a little flushed, breathless. “…You’re insane,” he said again.

You laughed. “Keep up.”

—--------------------

The game kept going. Everything started to blur together—the lights, the music, the shouting, the constant movement of hands and cups and bodies. You lost track of how many rounds, how many drinks. Didn’t matter, you just kept going. At some point, someone knocked into you, and you stumbled slightly. 

Gojo’s hand caught your arm instantly, steadying you. “Careful,” he said, voice lower now, closer.

“I’m fine,” you said, breathless but smiling.

He smiled at you. “I can see that.”

—--------------------

By the time it started winding down, the energy had changed, looser, sloppier. The kind of messy, end of the game chaos where people were laughing a little too loud, leaning a little too heavily on the table, missing cups they definitely would’ve made ten minutes ago.

You, somehow weren’t, your movements had slowed just a fraction, a soft warmth settling under your skin, your head feeling a little lighter—but you were steady. Balanced. Present. Tipsy, comfortably so.

Meanwhile Sukuna missed his cup entirely and didn’t even notice until someone shouted it. Toji was leaning half his weight on the table, blinking like he was trying to remember where he was. Nanami had that very specific, tightly controlled expression of someone who was deeply regretting his life choices but refusing to show it. Geto just looked amused.

Gojo— Gojo was somewhere in between.

Not gone, but definitely enjoying life a bit more than you at the moment, a little looser around the edges. A little slower to react. His cheeks faintly flushed, hair slightly more disheveled than usual, that easy grin sitting on his face like it belonged there.

And his eyes still glued on you.

“Alright,” Sukuna finally exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair as he leaned back. “I’m calling it.”

“To reclaim your dignity?” you asked, tilting your head.

“To preserve what little I have left,” he shot back.

Toji let out a long breath. “…Yeah. I’m done.”

Nanami nodded once, like this was a business decision. “Agreed.”

Geto clapped his hands together once, light and amused. “Well,” he said, looking at you, “I believe we have a winner.”

Sukuna snorted. “Yeah,” he admitted. “We do.” He pointed at Gojo. “You got a powerful one, man.”

Gojo blinked. “…A powerful one?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you cut in immediately.

“Too late,” Toji muttered.

And then Toji let out the loudest, most unapologetic burp imaginable. The table went silent for half a second. 

“Ew—what the hell—”

“Dude—”

“Have some class—”

You, however, laughed. Cackled actually, the slight buzz making everything funny, head tipping back slightly, shoulders shaking, the sound bright and real and completely unfiltered.

Toji grinned. “See?” he said, gesturing at you. “She gets it.”

“Absolutely not,” Nanami muttered.

“Absolutely not.,” you agreed, still laughing. “Though I will admit, that was impressive.”

“Thank you,” Toji said, nodding like he’d just been honored.

Sukuna reached behind him, grabbing something off the table. “Alright,” he said, holding it up. “Since we’re doing this properly—” A cheap plastic trophy, gold-colored, slightly crooked, definitely something he found last minute at the dollar tree.

You stared at it for a second, and then your grin widened. “Oh my god.” Before anyone could say anything, you stepped up onto the table, quick and easy. 

“HEY—” someone yelled.

“Careful—”

Too late. You were already up there, balancing effortlessly despite the drinks, grabbing the trophy out of Sukuna’s hand and holding it high above your head. “I’D LIKE TO THANK—” you started loudly, voice cutting through the noise.

The crowd around you turned, some laughing, some cheering.

“I’D LIKE TO THANK MYSELF,” you continued, pointing dramatically at your chest, “FOR BEING BETTER THAN ALL OF YOU.”

“BOOO—”

“RIGGED—”

“She’s insane—”

You grinned, spinning slightly on the table, the neon lights catching on your bracelets, your necklace, the faint glow still smeared along your arms.

“I WORKED HARD FOR THIS,” you declared.

“YOU DRANK HARD,” Sukuna shot back.

“KEY WORD: HARD!!!”

The laughter around you swelled, chaotic, loud and alive. Gojo stood at the edge of the table, looking up at you, and for a bit everything else blurred out, the noise, people, music. All of it.

Because you were standing there. Laughing. Completely unbothered. Completely yourself. A little flushed, a little glowing under the lights, hair slightly messy now from the night, but still beautiful. Real, unfiltered, so irreparable human. You weren’t trying to impress anyone or play a role, you were just you.

And somehow, that made it impossible for him to look away. His chest tightened slightly, heavy in a way he didn’t quite understand yet. He exhaled slowly, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips..

He was in trouble.

“AND FINALLY—” you were still going, completely committed to your fake speech, “I’D LIKE TO DEDICATE THIS WIN TO—” 

Your foot slipped, just slightly. The table edge caught wrong, your balance shifting—

“Whoa—”

Your body tipped forward, and then warm hands caught you. Firm. Immediate. Gojo. He stepped in without thinking, hands gripping your waist as you stumbled down off the table, pulling you steady against him before you could fall. For a second you were just there, close, your hands instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders, your balance still catching up.

You blinked, then glanced up at him. He was already looking at you, smiling. Soft. Easy. A little breathless. “Careful,” he said, voice low.

You let out a small laugh, still catching your breath. “Yeah, yeah.”

“You good?”

“Always.”

He didn’t move his hands right away. Neither did you. The noise of the room rushed back in around you, but the space between you felt… quieter somehow. Smaller.

You tilted your head slightly, still smiling. “Nice catch, snowman.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Had to save the trophy.”

You gasped. “Wow.”

“Priorities. I mean.. Look at it. It is a beaut.” You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t step away immediately either. He opened his mouth slightly, closed it, hesitating. “…You wanna dance?” he asked. It was casual, not a big deal. But his heart was beating so hard he thought it might literally jump out toward you. 

You grinned. “Yeah.” You leaned over the table, grabbing the nearest bottle without even checking what it was, taking a quick swig. The burn hit sharp, but you didn’t flinch. “Let’s go,” you added, breathing a little lighter now. He laughed, shaking his head, but he didn’t argue. He just took your hand and led you back into the crowd.

The music hit harder the closer you got to the center of the house. The bass thudded through the floorboards, up your legs, settling somewhere in your chest like it belonged there. The air was warmer here, thicker, bodies packed close, moving in sync and completely out of sync at the same time.

Gojo didn’t let go of your hand.

Not when you pushed through the last bit of the crowd, not when you stepped into the middle of it all. And the second you stopped, you grinned, wide and unfiltered before you started dancing.

Your shoulders rolled into the beat, hips following, your bracelets flickering in soft bursts of neon as your hands moved through the air. Your head tipped back for a second, laughter slipping out of you like it didn’t need permission.The alcohol sat warm in your veins, loosening everything just enough to make it feel effortless.

Gojo watched you for half a second and joined in. It wasn’t coordinated or polished, it was messy, a little chaotic, completely in rhythm with the music and nothing else, the kind of dancing that didn’t care who was watching.  Gojo followed your movement, stepping closer, laughing under his breath when you bumped into him slightly.

“Watch it,” he said, smiling.

“You’re in my space,” you shot back, grinning.

“This is my house.”

“Then why am I having more fun?”

“You always have this much fun?” he leaned in just enough for you to hear him over the music.

“Only when I’m winning.”

“You’re still on that?”

“I will always be on that.”

He laughed, bumping his shoulder lightly into yours as the bass dropped harder, the crowd around you erupting louder with it.

And then—

The lights cut completely. The room dropped into darkness so fast it felt like everything paused for half a second. You heard collective groans around you.

“Oh come on—”

“Who killed it—”

“Fix it—”

But before the complaints could even settle: 

“FEAR NOT!” Sukuna’s voice rang out like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

You turned, squinting slightly through the dim. He was standing on the couch again, arms thrown up like he was hosting something, grin wild and a little unhinged.

“Toji!” he barked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Toji laughed, already climbing up beside him.

And then you saw them, your bottles. You barked out a laugh. “No—no way—”

Too late, they popped the caps and started smearing the neon across the walls.

The room lit up instantly, brighter than before. Streaks of glowing color dragged across every surface they could reach– walls, pillars, even the edge of the couch—lighting the room in chaotic bursts of neon. It bled into everything, reflecting off skin, clothes, hair—turning people into moving, glowing shapes in the dark.

The crowd loved it, cheering, laughing. Someone started chanting Sukuna’s name.

You just stood there for a second, laughing. Full, loud, completely unfiltered.

“They’re taking the credit for all my work!” you said, but you were already moving again, already caught up in it.

Gojo glanced at you. “…You’re not even mad.”

“How could I be?” you shot back, spinning slightly as the glow caught your arms. “This is kind of awesome.”

The music picked up again, harder, faster, and you leaned into it fully.  Your hands reached up without thinking, fingers tugging at the ends of your braids. You pulled one loose—then the other—quick, messy, not caring about neatness as you shook your head slightly, letting your hair fall free.

Gojo watched it happen, eyes stuck onto you like he couldn’t help it, the way your hair fell around your shoulders, a little messy now, a little wild, how you ruffled it out with your hands, laughing to yourself like it didn’t matter, like nothing did except this moment.

His grin didn’t leave his face, it was ingrained, soft and a little disbelieving. Because… you. Like this. Carefree. Bright. Completely unfiltered. You were.. God, you were everything.

“Hey—!” You barely had time to react before arms wrapped around you from behind—

But not Gojo’s. You turned quickly— “BECCA—!” You practically launched yourself at her, arms around her shoulders, pulling her into a tight hug, your laughter spilling out again, a little louder, a little looser now. “You’re hereee!” you said into her shoulder.

“I’ve been here!” she laughed, hugging you back just as tight. “You disappeared!”

“I was busy winning.”

“Of course you were.” She pulled back slightly, hands still on your arms as she looked at you, really looked. Hair loose. Eyes bright. Slight flush across your cheeks. “…You’re tipsy,” she said, grinning.

You squinted, holding your fingers up in front of her, almost touching. “Un poquito”

“Sure.” She glanced over your shoulder at Gojo, then pointed at you, mouthing crazy.

Gojo huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, mouthed back I know.

Becca’s grin widened. “Be nice to him,” she stage-whispered to you.

“I am nice!”

“Riiight okay. Don’t beat his ass again is what I’m trying to say.”

You leaned into her ear, “honestly, if I did I have a feeling he might like it.” She cackled in response.

You danced with her for a bit, spinning, laughing, bumping into each other, the kind of easy, familiar movement that came from years of knowing someone. But eventually she squeezed your hand.

“I really have to pee and then I think I’m tapping out for the night,” she said, already backing up. “You’ll be okay here?”

You nodded, still dancing, and she laughed at you. “Don’t do anything too insane.”

“No promises!”

And then with a grin she was gone again. You were turned away from Gojo, and he took an opportunity before he could overthink it.

You were caught up in the music again, in the lights, in the way your body moved without thinking—hair loose now, brushing your shoulders as you laughed to yourself, completely unaware of him moving behind you. And then huge hands found your hips, warm and firm and certain.

You gasped—soft, surprised—the sound barely audible under the music, but it left you before you could stop it.

And then he pulled, enough to draw you back into him in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his like it had been meant to land there.

Your back pressed to his chest, your ass to his evident bulge. You almost slipped out a moan. He was solid. Warm. Close. Too close to pretend it was nothing. For a split second, your breath caught, your hands hovered mid-air like you weren’t sure what to do with them. Behind you, you felt him lean in slightly—felt the shift of his chest against your back, the faint brush of his breath near your ear. “Hey,” he said, low, a grin threading through his voice.

You swallowed, tilting your head just enough to glance back at him, catching that familiar, infuriatingly confident smile—except it wasn’t entirely the same. There was something else in it now, something softer. Something darker. 

“…Hi,” you managed, voice just a little quieter than before.

His hands adjusted slightly on your hips, not sliding anywhere they shouldn’t, just settling more naturally, thumbs pressing into your skin lightly like he was grounding himself as much as you. And then the music pulled you back in. Your body moved again instinctively, and this time, he moved with you. 

Every shift of your hips met the steady rhythm of his behind you, your movements syncing without thought, the space between you completely gone. The subtle way he followed your lead instead of taking it—letting you set the pace, matching you beat for beat like he didn’t want to break whatever this was. You could feel everything. The rise and fall of his breathing, the way his grip tightened just slightly when the crowd pressed in too close, how he tried to shift his hips back from you so you wouldn’t notice how hard he really was. But it was too late. 

You let your ass tip back just slightly for a second, just enough to brush against the crotch of his sweats. It was light, you could even play it off as accidental if you wanted to. You felt his breath hitch, a small hiss leaving his lips in echoed silence against the booming speakers. Your lips curved.

He recovered quickly. “Still think you’re having more fun?” he murmured, voice low, closer now, right near your ear, barely there but impossible to ignore. You turned your head slightly again, your cheek brushing his neck. “Obviously,” you said, a hint of a smile in your voice.

He huffed a quiet laugh, but it came out softer this time. “Trust me, you’re wrong. Never been this giddy in my life.”

You grinned “Yeah?” Your hands finally found somewhere to settle—resting lightly over where his sat on your hips, pulling them closer. Acknowledging it, the contact, the moment. Your fingers shifted slightly over his, absentminded, tracing the edge of his knuckles as you kept moving, and his grip tightened just a fraction.

Around you, the party blurred. The music still loud, people still moving, neon lights still flashing across skin and walls—but it all felt a little distant, secondary. Because right here, this moment was just yours. The warmth of him behind you, the steady rhythm you both fell into, how neither of you pulled away, not even a little, not even when you probably should have

You slipped out of his hold for a second, just to turn, just to move differently for a moment. Your body facing him now instead of away, your hands brushing his arms as you shifted. And before you could even think about stepping away, he caught your wrist lightly, guiding you back into his arms. 

Your hand landed flat on his chest to catch yourself, fingers unintentionally digging into the broad, muscular skin through his shirt. His arms circled around you, one hand resting on the side of your waist while the other snaked to your lower back. You shivered as his thumpad grazed your bare skin, a shot of heat pooling right where it shouldn’t. 

The music still pounded around you, neon lights flickering across his face, catching in his hair, reflecting faintly in his eyes, and he was already looking at you. “…Mind if I do something bad?” His voice cut through the moment, low, almost amused—but there was something underneath it. Something quieter.

You blinked, tilted your head slightly. “…That depends.”

His lips twitched. “On?”

You didn’t answer right away, just watched him. “On how bad,” you said finally, a small, curious smile pulling at your mouth.

That was all the permission he needed. One of his hands slipped away from your waist and the absence was immediate, noticeable. He reached into his pocket, movements unhurried, like he had all the time in the world—even though the music was loud, the crowd pressing in, everything moving fast around you.

He pulled something out. A joint, you recognized the second it caught the light. Your eyes dropped to it, then lifted back to him. Something in your expression shifted, something knowing, amused, as a slow smile spread across your face. “Well, whadya know…” you murmured, voice softer now, edged with quiet humor. “He’s a pothead too, huh?”

He grinned, pleased.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I had you pegged for a vodka-cranberry kind of guy.”

He snorted. “That’s offensive.”

“Is it wrong?”

“…A little.” He smiled, eyes glued to yours as he brought the joint up to his lips. His expression changed, like he was checking, asking you again if it was okay without saying it out loud. You didn’t look away, didn’t move, just holding his gaze. That was enough. 

The lighter clicked, a small, sharp sound that somehow sliced through everything else. For a second, the flame lit his face—warm, flickering, catching in the blue ocean of his eyes. Then he inhaled, slow and deliberate. The tip of the joint glowed faintly. You watched. You couldn’t not.

The way his chest rose slightly. The way his shoulders relaxed as he exhaled, smoke curling from his lips in soft, lazy spirals that drifted between you. Some of it brushed your face, the scent wrapping around you before you could think about it—earthy, faintly sweet, blending with the heat of the room, the press of bodies, the neon glow.

Your breathing spiked just slightly. The music changed just then, shifting into a heavier tune, lower, a darker song that didn’t demand as much energy. Your movements adjusted on their own, less chaotic now, more purposeful. Closer. Your hands shifting slightly onto his arms, your fingers curling just a little more, grounding yourself without realizing it. His grip followed suit, tightening. 

Your eyes flicked down to his shirt, black and basically untouched, sprinkled with some bits of glow here and there, but nothing like yours. Barrel compared to everything around you. You frowned slightly, a small, instinctive pout forming before you could stop it. Your gaze dropped and lifted back to him. 

He caught it immediately, he always did. His lips curved slightly, the joint still resting between them as he tilted his head down just enough, eyes narrowing in quiet amusement. “What?” he murmured, voice low, smoke slipping between the word.

You hesitated for half a second. “You don’t have any glow,” you said, like it actually mattered, genuinely bothered you. Your fingers shifted slightly against his arm, thumb brushing absentmindedly against the fabric of his shirt like you were confirming it.

He didn’t look down, didn’t check, didn’t break eye contact– not once. He held your gaze steadily, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before it settled. “I’ve got plenty.”

You almost swooned right there. You could physically feel the pressure curling in your lower stomach, the lightness caused by the alcohol making your head fuzzy in all the right ways. It sat somewhere low in your chest, heavier than it should’ve been, echoing in a way that didn’t quite match the chaos around you. The music still pulsed through the floor, through your ribs, people still moving and laughing and shouting—but it all felt just slightly out of focus compared to him. Compared to the way he was looking at you.

You inhaled slowly, you needed the breath to steady something, and then your hand lifted. The movement wasn’t even fully conscious, brain acting on its own agenda.  Your fingers moved toward him, toward the faint curl of smoke still drifting from his lips, and brushed lightly against his hand as you took the joint from him. The contact was brief, but not accidental, your skin grazing just enough to register, just enough to linger.

His lips parted as you pulled it away, soft and quiet. His eyes didn’t leave yours. Not even for a second. You brought it to your mouth, holding his gaze, and inhaled slowly. The smoke filled your lungs, warm and thick, curling inward and settling deep before you let it out in a controlled exhale. It hit almost instantly this time, just a slight shift, a soft buzz at the edges of everything. The lights stretched a little longer, the music sank deeper into your body, your limbs felt a fraction heavier but somehow more fluid at the same time.

You were still completely there, still in control, just… looser. Warmer. More aware of everything that mattered—and right now, that was him. Because he was still staring at you, fully, completely entranced, like he was trying to memorize every indent on your skin.

Or maybe like he already had.

Your hand dropped then, slipping into your bag without breaking eye contact. You went slow, didn’t fumble—just moved with the same slow, deliberate rhythm that everything had taken on, moving felt like it took a year, your fingers found the bottle immediately. The last one.

You pulled it out, the neon liquid inside catching what little light there was, glowing faintly even before you opened it. His gaze flicked down to it for the briefest second, curiosity sparking, but it didn’t linger. It went right back to your face, like that’s where it belonged.

You twisted the cap open, the small click feeling louder than it should’ve. You tipped it into your palm. The liquid coated your skin in a soft, luminous sheen, dripping slightly between your fingers before you spread it, rubbing your hands together agonizingly slow, making sure it covered every inch. Because you knew he was watching, you could feel it, how his eyes tracked every movement like he didn’t want to miss a single second of it, how his shoulders had stiffened slightly. 

You stepped closer, as if there had even been space left to close. Your hands lifted, hovering for just a moment over his chest, right where his shirt was still bare, still dark, untouched by everything else glowing around you.

And then you placed them there, flat and firm, right over him.The contact wasn’t shy. Your palms pressed against him, and you felt it immediately—the warmth of his body beneath the fabric, the slight tension in his muscular chest as your hands settled there. The neon transferred instantly, glowing bright against the black, spreading under your touch.

You didn’t look down, you didn’t need to, you just dragged your hands down, painfully slow. Your fingers spread slightly as they moved, the glowing liquid streaking across his chest in uneven lines, catching the light with every inch you covered. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing under your palms, feel the way his chest expanded slightly, then held, then shifted again as your hands moved lower.

He didn’t stop you, didn’t move, but his body reacted anyway. He swallowed, you felt it, felt it in the way his muscle kept tensing under your touch, subtle but unmistakable. Felt it in the slight hitch in his breath, the way it caught and didn’t quite settle again.

A sound slipped from him then, soft, unintended, A quiet, breathy whimper that he clearly hadn’t meant to make, your name. Your fingers slowed even more at that, registering it. You really liked it. Then they continued, dragging lower, finishing the motion, leaving glowing streaks all the way down his shirt before finally stopping.

Your gaze dropped then, not to your hands, but to his lips, slightly parted, still, the faint trace of smoke lingering there. Then back up to his eyes, darker now, pupils dilated and locked onto you, something in them that hadn’t been there before.

You shifted the joint in your mouth slowly, holding it between your canines as you tilted your head just slightly, your expression softening into something almost satisfied. “There…” you murmured, voice quiet, just for him.

Your hands didn’t leave him right away, they lingered there for a second longer, pressed lightly against his chest, feeling the warmth, the tension, the way his breathing hadn’t quite evened out yet. Then, finally, you let them fall, but your eyes stayed exactly where they were the entire time, waiting to see what he’d do next.

The glow you’d smeared across him pulsed faintly in the dark, streaked over the black fabric, uneven and messy in a way that made it feel more intentional. Your palms still held the faint tacky warmth of the neon, your skin buzzing—not just from the alcohol, not just from the smoke, but from him. From how close he was.

His hands moved, they slipped from your waist, slowly enough that you felt the absence before you understood the intention, before you realized he wasn’t pulling away. His fingers found yours, curling around them, warmer now, slightly damp with the paint you’d just spread over him. 

There was something almost grounding in it, the way his hands enclosed yours, steady and sure, like he needed to feel it, needed to feel you, before anything else. His thumbs began to move, dragging slowly over your palms, smearing the neon across your skin and his, blending the glow between you until it was impossible to tell whose was whose anymore.

You let out a soft breath, barely noticeable even to yourself. The joint was still resting between your lips, and when you exhaled, the smoke drifted forward in a slow, lazy stream, curling between you before brushing against his face.

He didn’t pull away, instead, his eyes stayed locked on yours as he leaned in—slowly, deliberately—closing that already small distance even more. His lips parted slightly as he moved into the space your breath had just filled, inhaling the smoke from you like it belonged to him. 

The effect hit sharper this time. The warmth in your chest deepened, spread, softened the edges of everything. The music felt thicker, heavier, the neon lights stretching just slightly in your vision. He let your hands go then, but only because he had somewhere else to put them.

One of his hands lifted, slower now, like he was fully aware of every inch of movement. His fingers brushed the side of your neck first, light—so light it almost didn’t feel real—before settling more firmly. His thumb rested just under your jaw for a second, and then he dragged it down. You felt every inch of it.

Over your throat, across your collarbone, down the slope of your shoulder. The neon smeared as he moved, transferring from his skin to yours in glowing streaks, his palm flattening slightly as it followed the curve of your body.

Your breath hitched.. His other hand had already started moving too, beginning higher this time—just beneath your chest, fingers brushing the edge of your ribcage through the thin fabric. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t press too hard. Just enough for you to feel it.

And then he dragged it down, slow and steady, following the line of your waist like he was tracing something he didn’t want to forget, his touch warm and deliberate, the contrast of the cool neon against your skin making every inch feel sharper.

The space between you had almost disappeared now, your bodies closer than before, your chest rising and falling just slightly faster, brushing against his. Your faces were only a few centimeters apart, close enough that you could feel his breath every time he exhaled. Warm and uneven, unsure, mirroring yours.  Your eyes flickered down for a second again, to his lips, slightly parted—before pulling back up to meet his gaze again.

Still there, still watching you like he hadn’t blinked in minutes. His hands didn’t stop moving. They shifted lower, sliding around your sides, settling at your lower back, pulling you just a little closer without fully closing the space. It wasn’t forceful. It didn’t need to be. Your body followed anyway instinctively, leaning in just slightly, enough to press into him, enough to feel the heat of him through both your clothes.

The joint was still between your lips, you’d almost forgotten about it, but he hadn’t. His gaze dipped again, just briefly, before he leaned forward that final fraction of space. Your breath caught—this time noticeably—as his face moved closer, so close you could feel the faint brush of him before anything even happened.

And then he bit down gently on the joint, pulling it from your mouth, careful, his lips brushing just barely against it as he took it back, the contact so brief it almost didn’t count—but it lingered anyway. His hands moved further, spreading the smooth liquid down over your ass, thick fingers reaching under the suppleness gently to pull up, squeezing lightly, a breathy pant escaping his lips at the feel of you.

He pulled back just enough to create the smallest bit of space again, the joint now resting between his own lips, his eyes still locked on yours. Neither of you moved. His hands were still at your ass, yours hovered near his chest, uncertain for the first time all night. In the middle of all that noise, all those people, all that chaos, it felt like it was just the two of you.

 “..God, Squeaky–”

“YO—GOJO!”

Sukuna’s voice cut straight through everything—loud, abrasive, completely out of place against the slow, heavy quiet that had built between you. “Why does this drink taste like someone pissed in it, man—I'm not even joking—”

It was instant. You and Gojo separated like you’d both been caught doing something you couldn’t explain, fast—too fast to be casual. Your hands dropped from his chest, his grip loosened from your back, and suddenly there was space again. Air. Distance that hadn’t been there seconds ago.

It felt wrong.

Sukuna stopped mid-step when he actually looked at you both. His expression shifted—realization hitting in a slow, awkward wave. His brows lifted slightly, then his mouth twisted. His eyes roved over you, spotting the neon pink handprints on the back of your shorts. “…shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “My bad. Didn’t mean to, uh—” he gestured vaguely between the two of you, “—interrupt whatever the hell that was.”

Gojo didn’t laugh, he just stared at him, eyes narrowed, jaw set, still a little hazy but visibly irritated. “What about the fucking drinks?” he snapped, voice sharp, like he was clinging to the interruption just to redirect the moment.

Sukuna blinked, thrown for half a second, then scoffed. “I’m serious, dude—try it. It’s suspicious.”

“Everything you drink is suspicious,” a voice drawled from behind him. Toji. He and Nanami stepped up a second later, both of them clearly drawn in by the noise. Toji looked amused immediately, eyes flicking between Sukuna’s cup, Gojo’s expression, and then—finally—you.

Nanami was quieter, more observant. His gaze landed on you and stayed there a second longer than comfortable, taking in details the others didn’t bother to. That’s when Sukuna noticed it, the joint still hanging lazily from Gojo’s lips.

Then your eyes. Still just a little glassy, a faint red lining the edges, your expression softer than usual—but not gone. Not out of control. Just altered.

His brows shot up. “…wait,” he said slowly, pointing between you and Gojo. “No fucking way.”

You didn’t move, didn’t flinch. “What?” you asked, tone flat, unimpressed.

“You smoke?” Sukuna let out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. That’s—yeah, didn’t expect that at all. Thought you were like… I don’t know—library princess or something. Straight A’s, drinks water at parties, leaves before midnight.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unbothered. “I just outdrank you and half your little circus like thirty minutes ago.”

Toji barked out a laugh at that, hand coming up to cover his mouth like he was trying—poorly—not to react too hard. “She’s not wrong,” he said, nudging Sukuna with his elbow. “You were struggling.”

“Shut up,” Sukuna shot back, but he was still grinning, eyes flicking back to you with renewed interest. “Alright, fine. Didn’t peg you for that either.”

Nanami finally spoke then, his tone even, almost too neutral. “That doesn’t mean much in this house.” His gaze stayed on you, steady, analytical. “Most people here drink themselves stupid to feel like they belong,” he continued. “You don’t seem like the type.”

It wasn’t outright rude, but it wasn’t kind either. More like a test. You shifted your weight slightly, something small tightening in your chest, though you didn’t show it on your face. “Depends what you think ‘the type’ is,” you replied evenly.

Sukuna snorted, crossing his arms. “He means you don’t seem like one of those try-hard academic robots. Y’know—the ones who walk into a party like they’re doing field research and spend the whole night judging everyone.”

“To be fair,” Toji added lazily, “those ones are the worst. Act like they’re above it, but still show up.”

Nanami didn’t disagree. “They tend to lack self-awareness,” he said simply.

Sukuna laughed again, louder this time, gesturing toward you. “Yeah, but she’s not like that. She’s got—what, neuroscience or whatever, right? And she’s not a total buzzkill. That’s rare.”

“High-functioning,” Toji added, glancing at the faint glow still smeared along your arms.

“Dangerous combo,” Sukuna said, nodding. “Smart, hot, and not calling campus security every five minutes. You scored a good one, Gojo.” He raised up his glass of piss drink.

You let out a quiet breath through your nose, something between a laugh and not quite that. Before you could respond, a familiar weight dropped over your shoulders. Gojo’s arm, loose and warm. He pulled you in just slightly, his hand settling against your upper arm like it belonged there, like it had every right to be there. You tilted your head up instinctively, eyes finding his, expecting… something. Defense, a correction, anything. 

But he was grinning. Too wide, too easy, eyes just a little unfocused. “Damn right,” he said, voice louder than necessary, words slipping out without hesitation. “She’s not like those fucking losers.”

Sukuna huffed a laugh, already nodding along. “Yeah, those types are insufferable. All that ‘I’m better than you’ shit—like relax, it’s college, not an ethics competition.”

“To be fair,” Toji added, “half of them don’t even know how to talk to people. You say one thing wrong and they look at you like you just shot their dog.”

Nanami didn’t laugh this time, but he didn’t interrupt either.

Gojo just kept going. “Yeah, like—no offense—but most of them are fucking miserable,” he said, tightening his grip on your shoulder just slightly, like he was emphasizing the point. “All book-smart, zero social skills, think they’re above everything. It’s annoying as hell. No one cares how interested you are in fuckass algebra, keep it to yourself.”

Your smile faltered, just a little.

“Walking GPA calculators,” Sukuna added. “No personality, no chill.”

“Exactly,” Gojo said, nodding, completely missing it. “But she’s not like that. She’s actually—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to, because the damage was already done. It settled, slow, quiet, heavy. Your eyes widened, the shift so small it would’ve gone unnoticed to anyone who wasn’t looking for it—but you felt it, sharp and immediate, right in the center of your chest. Like something had slipped out from under you without warning.

The music was still loud. Bass still vibrating through the floor, through your ribs, people still moving around you like nothing had changed. But something had. Completely.

Your mind cleared in an instant. The warmth from the alcohol, the soft haze from the weed—it all pulled back just enough for everything to feel too sharp instead. Too clear. Every word he’d just said replaying, louder now, stripped of the careless tone he’d used when he said them.

Those other nerds.

Fucking miserable.

No personality.

And suddenly, the arm around your shoulders felt wrong, heavy in a way it hadn’t before.

You shifted under it, subtle but firm, lifting your shoulder just enough for his arm to slide off. It dropped back to his side without resistance, like he didn’t even process it at first. Your gaze lowered, fixed somewhere near the floor, your fingers curling slightly at your sides as you swallowed. “I’m gonna go,” you muttered.

It wasn’t loud, but it was enough. Sukuna blinked, confusion flashing across his face. “Wait—what?” Toji straightened slightly, brows lifting. Nanami’s gaze sharpened, like he’d caught something the others hadn’t yet.

And Gojo— 

Gojo went still.

Completely.

You didn’t look back, didn’t explain. You just turned and started walking, weaving through the crowd, past bodies and noise and flashing neon, your heart beating a little too fast, your chest too tight. 

It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t have hit this hard, but it did, because it wasn’t just what he said, it was how easy it came out.

“Hey—” His voice came from behind you, closer than you expected. Footsteps followed—quicker, uneven, catching up fast. “Hey, wait—” His hand caught your wrist lightly, not rough, but enough to stop you. You turned, faster than you meant to, something sharp in your expression now, something that hadn’t been there all night.

“What?” you snapped. It came out harsher than you intended, but you didn’t take it back.

He blinked at you, thrown off immediately, like he hadn’t expected that tone from you. Not you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, brows pulling together, confusion lacing through his voice. He took a small step closer, like he was trying to close the distance again, like he didn’t understand why it had opened in the first place.

You stared at him for a second, then let out a short, disbelieving breath. “‘Losers’?” you said, the word cutting sharper this time. “Did you even hear yourself back there?”

His expression shifted—confusion deepening, a flicker of defensiveness creeping in. “What? I was just—”

“Just what?” you cut in. “Just talking shit? Just trying to be funny?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Because there wasn’t a good answer.

You shook your head, a humorless laugh slipping out as you ran a hand through your hair. “I don’t get why you do that,” you said, quieter now but more pointed, each word landing more deliberately than the last. “Why you act like you’re—like that.”

“Like what?” he asked, a little sharper now, like he was starting to feel cornered.

“Like you’re stupid,” you said plainly.

That stopped him. Cold. His entire expression shifted, something real breaking through the haze for the first time since you’d met him. “…what?” he said, softer now.

“I’ve seen you,” you continued, your voice steady despite the tightness in your chest. “You’re not dumb. You’re not even close. You catch things other people miss. You pick up on stuff fast. You—” you hesitated, searching for the right words, then shook your head slightly. “You can outsmart every single person in this room, including me. So why do you stand there and talk like that? Like you’re proud of being… shallow?”

He stared at you, really stared this time, stunned. No one had ever said that to him before, he didn’t even know what to do with it.

You let out another breath, stepping back slightly, creating space that felt necessary now. “I’m not gonna stand there and laugh while you tear down people like that just to fit in,” you said. “I’m not doing that.”

“That’s not what I—” he started, voice rougher now, but it faltered halfway through. Because he didn’t know how to finish it, because part of him knew you weren’t wrong. All of him, really.

Instead of arguing, instead of explaining, he stepped forward, closed the space again and pulled you into him. It was messy, desperate. His arms wrapped around you tight, almost too tight, trying to keep you from leaving just by holding on. His head dropped forward, pressing into your shoulder, his breath warm and uneven against your skin.

“Please don’t leave…” he mumbled, voice muffled, softer now, rougher. “Don’t—just don’t go, okay?”

You stiffened immediately. Your hands came up, pressing against his chest, trying to push him back.

“Gojo—”

“C’mon, Squeaky.” he said, pulling back just enough to look at you, his grip still firm on your arms. His eyes were glassy now, unfocused in a way that made your stomach twist. “Let’s just—let’s go somewhere else. Yeah? Get food or something. You like tacos. Let’s go get tacos.” His words tumbled over each other, jumbled and unorganized, his grip still tight on you like if he let go, you’d disappear.

Your chest ached. Because part of you wanted to say yes, wanted to pretend it didn’t matter, wanted to go back.

But you didn’t.

You pushed against him again, firmer this time, and this time, he let go. His hands dropped slightly, just enough for you to step back fully.

“No,” you said.

Quiet.

Clear.

Final.

He blinked at you, like the word didn’t register. “—what?”

“I said no,” you repeated, your voice steady even if your chest didn’t feel it. “I’m leaving.”

“Why?” he asked, softer now, almost helpless. “It was just a joke—”

“That’s the problem,” you cut in. “It wasn’t funny.” 

That landed. You saw it, his expression falter. You looked at him for a second longer.

The neon handprints still smeared across his shirt, at the way his hair was a mess from dancing, at how he looked at you now—confused, a little desperate, like he didn’t understand how things had unraveled this fast, alcohol still hazing his mind.

And it hurt more than it should’ve.

“I’m not one of your jokes,” you said finally. Then you turned. And this time when you walked away, you didn’t stop.

Thank you so much for reading.. please let me know your thought/theories! Love getting feedback on my work <3

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[lacrimadreams]

Put Him In His Place ᥫ᭡. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Chapter 05-> previous -> next

pairings - Lovesick!Fratjo x Badass!reader (f/m)

WC- 11.5k

♡ ₊˚‧ WARNINGS :: No use of Y/N :: Frat boy Gojo:: Yearner Gojo :: Fluff:: TENSION!:: ANGST:: Nerd Fratjo :: Eventual smut -> (more tags coming soon) :: Strong female MC :: Neuroscience Major MC:: HEAT :: Intimacy:: Grinding:: Dirty dancing:: Sensuality:: Teasing:: Smoking (Marijuana):: Drinking:: Partying::Nicknames:: Slowburn:: (probably more to come!)

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: Hey yallll here's five. LOVE this chapter. Thank you all for your support! More coming very soon. 🎧ྀི♪⋆.✮MUSIC RECS: - Rush - Troye Sivan - One Dance - Drake - Rude Boy - Rihanna DANCING SCENE + AFTER: - Yeah! - Usher - Dangerous Woman - Ariana Grande - Do I Wanna Know? - Arctic Monkeys - King Of The Fall - The Weeknd

The bass hit you before you even reached the door. It was low and heavy, vibrating through the pavement like a second heartbeat, pulsing up your shoes and ingraining into your chest. You could almost feel the earth shaking under you. 

Becca squeezed your hand once as you both stepped up onto the porch, her curls bouncing with the movement, blonde strands catching flashes of neon from inside. “Okay,” she said, glancing at you sideways. “Last chance to turn back and go study like the responsible academic weapon you are.”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting the strap of your small bag over your shoulder. “I’m fine.”

“Mhm.” She knocked twice. Unnecessary, considering the door was already half open—and pushed it the rest of the way in. The party swallowed you whole the second you stepped inside. 

It was exactly what you expected, yet somehow still more. The house was big, ridiculously so, with an open layout that made everything feel connected. The living room bled into the kitchen, which spilled into a hallway where people were already crowding and laughing and yelling over the music.

The lights, or really the lack of them, made everything feel surreal. Dim overhead bulbs flickered occasionally, but most of the illumination came from strips of neon lining the walls and furniture: electric pinks, greens, blues that shined in time with the music.

Every few seconds, the main lights would cut completely, leaving everything in darkness, and then everything glowed. Paint streaked across arms, faces, shirts. Handprints on walls. Neon signs flickering to life like they’d been waiting for the dark. People lit up in pieces– bracelets, necklaces, shoes– like constellations moving through the room. Then the lights would come back, and it would start all over again.

You stepped further in, taking it in, your eyes adjusting. Everyone was dressed the same in a way that still somehow looked different; black tops, black shorts, black dresses. A blank canvas for the glow. Your outfit blended right in.

A black fitted tank top clung to you, stopping just high enough to show a small sliver of your lower stomach when you moved. Black shorts hugged your waist and hips, simple but clean. The light-up necklace around your neck blinked softly in shifting colors, matching the bracelets stacked loosely around your wrist. Your hair was pulled back into two tight Dutch braids, neat and practical—but still soft around your face, a few strands escaping from your hairline.

Becca looked at you again, then down at your outfit. “…Yeah,” she said slowly. “This is not a ‘just came to hang out’ outfit.”

You snorted. “Shut it.”

She grinned, bumping her shoulder into yours as you both moved further into the crowd. “I thought you had that Anatomy test tomorrow.”

“I do.”

She stopped walking, turning to look at you fully, one brow raised.“You did,” she repeated.

You kept walking. “I still do.”

She followed, catching up easily. “You never go out the day before something graded.”

You shrugged. “It’s one night.”

“Mhm.”

You could feel her looking at you. Hard. She gasped. “Ohhh,” she said slowly, dragging it out. “I wonder why.”

You groaned under your breath. “Becca—”

“No, wait,” she continued, gasping dramatically. “I’m so sorry. Not why—for whom.”

You shot her a look. “Be quiet, your lipsticks gonna rub off if you keep talking.”

She laughed, grabbing your arm and pulling you into a quick side hug. “Relax, I’m kidding,” she said, though the grin on her face said she absolutely was not. You rolled your eyes again, but you were smiling. She leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. “Enjoy your night, squeaky,” she said, softer now. “And tell me everything after.”

You huffed a quiet laugh.“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“Unfortunately.”

She pulled back, already scanning the room. “I’m gonna go grab punch and find Brayden,” she added. “Call me if you need me.”

You nodded. “Bye, Duck. Love you.”

“Love you.”

And just like that, she was gone, slipping into the crowd, blonde curls bouncing as she disappeared between people, already waving at someone across the room.

You stood there for a second, alone, hyperaware of your surroundings. The music thumped around you, voices overlapping, laughter cutting through the noise in bursts. Someone brushed past your shoulder, muttering a quick “sorry” before disappearing again.

You adjusted your bag slightly, fingers brushing over the small bottles tucked inside. Your bottles. The glow mixture. You’d brought a few from the lab, different colors this time. You’d stayed up a little later tweaking the formulas, adjusting concentrations, testing how they reacted under different light levels.

Not for any big reason. Just because. Because it was fun. Because you could. Because a small, annoying part of you wondered what his face would look like when he saw them.

You exhaled quietly, glancing around the room again, scanning, trying not to be obvious. 

“You look like you’re searching for something.” The voice came from your left, too close.

You turned slowly and immediately regretted it. 

He was standing in front of you, one hand holding a red cup and the other tucked lazily in his sweatpant pocket, fist slightly dragging them down to show a sliver of his lower abdomen. Ashy pink hair, sharp features, dark tattoos staining his skin, the kind of smirk that felt practiced—like he’d used it a hundred times and expected it to work every time. Yup, this was definitely a frat guy.

Sukuna. You didn’t know his name yet, but you knew the type instantly.

Your expression flattened just slightly. “…Am I?”

He pushed off his foot, stepping a little closer. “Yeah,” he said, eyes dragging over you in a way that made your skin prickle. “Or maybe you’re just lost.”

“I’m not.”

He hummed. “Could’ve fooled me, pretty girl.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bold.”

He grinned. “What? You like that? Just me observing, sweetheart.”

You crossed your arms loosely. “And what else are you observing?”

He tilted his head slightly, like he was considering how to phrase it. “…That you don’t look like you belong here. Let me take you upstairs, sweetheart.”

There was a beat, then you let out a short laugh. “Wow.”

“What?”

“That might be the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

He chuckled, unfazed. “Wasn’t a pickup line.”

“Right.”

“More like an opening statement.”

You stared at him. “…That’s worse.”

He stepped closer again, too close.

“You here alone?” he asked.

“No.”

“Your friends ditched you?”

“No.”

He smirked.

“Then where are they?”

You tilted your head. “Why? Wanna take all of us to bed at once?”

“Tempting offer.” He smiled. “You think you could set it up?”

Your irritation spiked, fast and immediate.You let out a quiet breath through your nose, uncrossing your arms. “Let me save you some time,” you said flatly. “You don’t have a chance with one girl of value, let alone multiple.”

His smirk twitched slightly, but didn’t drop. “C’mon,” he said. “Don’t be like that.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “Like what?”

“Difficult.”

There it was, that word something in your expression shifted, sharpened.

“Difficult?” you deadpanned. “Maybe you’re just not that interesting.”

The music pulsed louder for a second. Or maybe it just felt like it did, because the look on his face changed. “Feisty,” he said, a little amused now.

You glared back. 

Across the room, Gojo noticed you instantly.

He hadn’t meant to. He was mid-conversation, half listening to something Toji was saying, something about how he wanted to fuck a girl in one of his classes, while Geto leaned back against the couch with that knowing, amused look he always had when he was letting chaos unfold without interfering.

Gojo had a drink in his hand, head tipped back slightly as he took a long sip, the burn settling easy in his chest. And then he saw you, right in the middle of the living room. Black on black, blending in with everyone else, but still somehow standing out. The light-up necklace around your throat blinked softly, your bracelets catching flashes of neon as the lights flickered. Your hair was braided back, clean and tight, and it made your face look sharper somehow. Clearer.

And in your hands, water bottles filled with something glowing.

Of course. Of course you brought your own. Gojo’s mouth twitched slightly, and then his eyes shifted to the person standing way too close to you. Sukuna.

And the look on your face—

God.

It was kind of hilarious. Flat. Irritated. That very specific expression you got when someone was already on your nerves and had about five seconds left before you said something they weren’t gonna recover from.

Gojo’s jaw tightened just a little.

“…You even listening?” Toji asked, nudging him with his elbow.

Gojo didn’t answer, didn’t look away.

Geto followed his gaze and paused, huffing a quiet laugh under his breath. “…Oh, this should be good.”

Gojo exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yeah,” he muttered. He tipped his head back and chugged the rest of his drink, no hesitation, no pacing– just downed it. 

Toji blinked. “...Goddamn. Okay.”

The bottle hit the table a second later with a dull thud. Gojo didn’t say anything, just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and started walking toward you. He didn’t rush, but there was something in the way he moved. Direct, purposeful, making people shift out of his way without really knowing why. The crowd blurred a little as he pushed through it, shoulders brushing against strangers, music pounding louder the closer he got to the center of the room.His eyes didn’t leave you. Not once.

You were just about to walk away, done with the conversation, already turning your body slightly when an arm slid around your waist. Warm. Firm. Familiar.

You froze for half a second. Your head snapped up, and there he was. Gojo. Right beside you. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of your top, his hand resting just above your hip like it belonged there. Casual, effortless. Like it wasn’t even a question.

You blinked, caught off guard. There was a flicker of something, surprise, maybe a little fluster, but it disappeared almost as quickly as it came. You masked it easily, your expression settling back into something controlled.

But your heart, your heart definitely noticed.

Gojo didn’t look at you right away, his attention was on Sukuna. He gave him a small, deadpanned smile, the kind that wasn’t really a smile at all. “Problem?” he asked.

Sukuna looked between the two of you. Once. Then again. His confusion lasted exactly half a second. His eyes widened slightly. “Oh—” A beat. Then he let out a short, incredulous laugh. “OH—This is slap girl?!”

Gojo groaned immediately, dropping his head back slightly. “Can we not call her that—”

You, however, smiled, bright and unbothered. You liked that nickname. “That’s me,” you said, shifting your weight slightly, still very aware of Gojo’s arm around you. “Nice to meet you…” You tilted your head just a little. “…Kind of.”

Sukuna snorted. “Damn. Didn’t realize it was you. I was expecting like.. a crazy chick with blue hair or something. Mm.. and big boobs”

You blinked in mild surprise. Gojo shot him a desperate look at his words, screaming ‘SERIOUSLY, bro?!’

Sukuna stuttered, held his hands up slightly in mock surrender. “Relax, man. I was just talking.”

“Yeah,” Gojo replied flatly. “I saw.” There was a subtle edge there. Sukuna noticed it, of course he did. His smirk returned, but it shifted, less cocky, more entertained.

“Didn’t know you had a claim here,” he said.

Gojo didn’t even blink. “I don’t.” His arm didn’t move. If anything, his hand settled just slightly more securely at your waist.“But she’s not interested, Kuna. I could see it from the other side of the room.” he added.

You glanced at him briefly, then back at Sukuna, whose eyes dropped to you. You shrugged a little, grinning at him. Sukuna exhaled a short laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. I get it.” He stepped back slightly, hands still raised.”

Gojo didn’t respond, just watched him.

Sukuna’s gaze flicked between you one last time. Then he smirked. “Give me one second.” And just like that, he disappeared back into the crowd.

The space around you shifted, quieter somehow even with the music still pounding. Gojo’s arm was still around you, and you both noticed. 

You exhaled softly, looking up at him. “…Nice timing.”

He looked down at you then, eyes raking over your face, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. He was taking in the braids. The necklace. The faint glow of the bottles still in your hand.“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, lips twitching. “Another thirty seconds and he would’ve tested his luck.”

Gojo huffed a quiet laugh, free hand coming up to rub his cheek where you had put a big purple bruise not too long ago. “Wouldn’t have gone well for him. ”

“No,” you agreed lightly. “It wouldn’t have.”

There was a small pause. “…You came,” he said quietly.

“I said I would.”

“Yeah,” he nodded. His thumb shifted slightly against your side without him realizing, a small movement, barely there. “Didn’t think you’d actually show,” he added.

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Your lack of faith in me is crazy.”

“I have faith,” he said. “Just… not in your ability to choose fun over studying.”

You snorted. “Rude.”

“Accurate.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, then you lifted one of the bottles slightly. “You like the theme?” you asked.

His gaze dropped to it, the neon liquid inside catching the light. “…You made those?”

“Maybe.”

He looked back at you, and something in his expression softened again, that same look from the lab. “That’s insane,” he said quietly.

You shrugged. “It’s fun makin’ em.”

He studied you for a second longer. His arm loosened slightly, not fully leaving your waist, but moving just enough to give you space. “C’mon,” he said again, a little softer this time, nodding toward the counter where people were crowded around bottles and cups. “Let’s get you something to drink before you start assaulting more people with neon chemicals.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, adjusting your grip on the bottles in your hands. “That was one time.”

“You literally attacked me.”

“You deserved it. And you attacked me right back!”

“Debatable.” He started guiding you through the crowd—not forcefully, just a light pressure at your side, his hand still resting at your waist like it had settled there without asking permission.

The music pulsed around you as you moved, bodies shifting, people brushing past. Someone laughed too loud behind you, someone else spilled something on the floor, and through it all, Gojo kept a steady path forward like he knew exactly where he was going. You glanced up at him briefly. “…So this is your natural habitat, huh?”

He smirked.

“Yeah. Impressive, right?”

“Very,” you said dryly. “The sticky floors really tie it together.”

“Hey,” he nudged you lightly. “That’s years of neglected cleaning you’re disrespecting.”

“Mm. I can tell.”

He laughed under his breath, and yet again it felt like it was just the two of you in the middle of everything else.

You were almost at the kitchen. Almost. When—

“Satoruuuu.”

The voice cut through the music like it had been waiting. Gojo froze. You felt it immediately, the subtle shift in his posture, the way his hand tensed just slightly against your side.

He exhaled slowly. “…Don’t turn around,” he muttered.

You blinked. “…That’s never a good sign.”

Too late. Multiple footsteps approached, and you turned anyway.

Sukuna. Of course. Grinning like he’d just set something up and was about to enjoy the outcome. And behind him, three more guys. All very different, all very obviously together.

You instinctively took a small step back. Not out of fear, just genuine surprise at the cult meeting forming in front of you. Gojo’s hand dropped from your waist almost immediately. “Guys,” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Can we not do this right now?”

Sukuna laughed. “What?” he said, spreading his arms slightly. “Embarrassed of us?”

“Yes.”

Sukuna ignored that completely. “I said give me a second for a reason, didn’t I?”

You glanced between them, then back at Gojo. “…You have a welcoming committee?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Wow. I feel so special.”

“You should,” Sukuna cut in. “You’re the first girl he’s ever not scared off in five minutes.”

Gojo shot him a look. “I hate you.”

“Love you too.”

Before you could respond, one of the other guys stepped forward, the one with long dark hair tied back loosely, expression calm—almost too calm for the environment. He reached for your hand gently, oddly respectful. You let him. He lifted it slightly and pressed a light kiss to the back of your knuckles. “Welcome to the house..” he said smoothly.

You blinked twice. That was not what you expected at all. You tilted your head slightly, studying him. “…You’re way too polite to be here.”

He smiled faintly. “I get that a lot.”

Gojo snorted quietly behind him. “Don’t let him fool you.”

“Please,” the guy—Geto, you assumed—said mildly. “I’m on my best behavior.”

“Liar.”

You let out a small laugh. “I believe it,” you said. “No one just casually does that at a frat party unless they’re either very practiced or very suspicious.”

Geto’s smile widened just slightly. “Maybe both.”

“Dangerous combination.”

“I try.”

“Alright, enough of the gentleman act,” Sukuna cut in, gesturing to the others. “We’re here to meet slap girl.”

Gojo groaned again at the nickname. “She has a name.”

You smiled. “I don’t mind it.”

“Of course you don’t,” Gojo muttered. 

The other two stepped forward now. One was tall, broad, with messy dark hair and a lazy posture that somehow still felt… imposing. He looked you over once, assessing. “…You’re the one that hit him?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yep.”

He huffed a short laugh. “Nice.”

You grinned. “Thanks.”

“Toji,” he said, jerking his chin slightly.

You gave a small nod. “Neat. ” The last one stepped forward more quietly. Blonde. Neat. Composed in a way that stood out immediately in a room like this. He adjusted his sleeve slightly before speaking. “…Nanami,” he said.

You nodded. “Squeaky.”

There was a brief pause.

Then “…That is not your real name,” he said.

You smiled. “No, it’s not.”

“…Good.”

You let out a small laugh. There was a beat, then suddenly you realized all of them were looking at you, curious, measuring.. a little too interested. Gojo shifted beside you. “…Can you all stop staring at her like that?”

Sukuna smirked. “What? We’re observing.”

“Oh, well um. Stop..”

“To be fair,” you cut in lightly, “you did bring me into a house full of strangers.”

“You walked in willingly.”

“Details.”

Toji huffed a quiet laugh. “I like her.”

“Yeah,” Sukuna added. “She’s got a mouth on her.”

You tilted your head. “And you don’t?”

He grinned. “Fair.”

Geto glanced at the bottles still in your hands. “…What’s that?”

You lifted one slightly. “Glow paint.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You made that?”

“Yeah.”

Sukuna leaned in. “No way.”

Toji grabbed one, inspecting it. “…This is actually kinda sick.”

Nanami studied it more quietly. “…Is it safe?”

You nodded. “Completely non-toxic.”

“Good,” he said simply.

“Relax,” you added, glancing at him. “I’m not trying to poison your entire frat.”

“That would be inconvenient.”

You smiled. “Very.”

Gojo watched all of this happen like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was seeing. The way you answered easily, how you didn’t hesitate to use your wit, how you matched their energy without trying too hard. You weren’t intimidated or even trying to impress them, you were just… you. And somehow they were eating it up.

“…Okay,” Gojo muttered under his breath. “Can we go now?”

Sukana snorted. “Wow,” he said.. “You trying to get rid of me already?”

“I’m trying to get you a drink,” he shot back.

“To calm me down after meeting your… unique friends?”

Sukuna laughed. “Unique?”

You nodded seriously. “Absolutely. I’m intrigued. And a little scared”

Toji snorted sarcastically. “Yeah, because you look terrified.”

“I’m masking it well.”

Nanami shook his head slightly, almost amused. “She’s fine.”

Geto smiled. “She’s more than fine.”

Gojo rolled his eyes. “Great. Can I have her back now?”

“You want a drink, why don’t we all join you, Satoru?” Sukuna said, grin sharp and needling, “you talk a big game, ‘Squeaky’. Let's see if your alcohol tolerance matches your wit.”

You tilted your head slightly, unimpressed but entertained.

Toji cut in, folding his arms loosely, “we haven’t seen any proof yet.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Proof of what?”

Sukuna’s eyes flicked over you once, assessing, challenging. “That you can keep up.”

There it was. You felt Gojo shift beside you subtly, like he already knew where this was going. “…Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, low enough that only you heard.

You glanced at him, then back at Sukuna. A slow grin spread across your face. “Oh, I can keep up.”

Sukuna’s smile widened. “Yeah?”

You shrugged. “Try me.”

“Oh, she’s in,” Toji laughed, pushing off the counter. “Let’s go.”

Nanami sighed under his breath. “…This is a terrible idea.”

Geto smiled faintly. “And yet, you’re coming with us.”

Nanami adjusted his sleeve. “…Of course I am.”

The garage was louder than the rest of the house, if that was even possible. Music blasted from a speaker shoved into the corner, bass rattling against the walls, the air thick with heat and sweat and the sharp smell of alcohol. People crowded around a long folding table set up in the middle—cups stacked into pyramids, liquid sloshing, hands moving too fast to follow.

Rage cage.

Stack cup.

Chaos.

Exactly what you expected, exactly what you signed up for. “Alright!” Sukuna called, grabbing a stack of cups and slamming them down onto the table. “We got a challenger!”

A few heads turned, eyes landed on you, curious, interested. Someone whistled.

“Toji, don’t break her,” a guy laughed from the side.

You snorted. “Worry about yourself.”

Gojo hovered close to your side as the group gathered around the table, his presence quieter now—but there. Always there. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, leaning slightly toward you so you could hear him over the noise.

You glanced at him, smiling. “Relax, snowman.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He studied your face for a second, huffing a quiet laugh. “…You’re insane.”

“You like it.”

“I do.”

Cups were filled. Liquid sloshing, hands moving, people shouting rules that no one was fully listening to. You rolled your shoulders back slightly, setting your bottles off to the side, game mode.

“Alright, Squeaky,” Sukuna said, tossing you a cup. “Let’s see what you got.”

You caught it easily. “Don’t cry when I win.”

“Toji,” Sukuna called, ignoring you, “keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t cheat.”

Toji snorted. “She doesn’t look like the cheating type.”

“I don’t cheat,” you added. “I just win.”

Gojo let out a short laugh beside you. “…God, you’re cocky.”

“Guess you’re rubbing off on me, Snowman.”

“I absolutely am not. That’s all you.”

—--------------

“GO!”

The game exploded into motion. Cups moved, hands grabbed, liquid splashed.

You didn’t hesitate, you just moved, chugging the first cup like it was nothing, the burn hitting your throat fast and hard but not slowing you down. You flipped it, slammed it down, grabbed the next without missing a beat.

Someone cursed next to you. You didn’t look, didn’t care. The world narrowed into the table—the rhythm, the motion, the speed.

“Holy shit—”

“She’s fast—”

“Watch it—watch it—”

You laughed under your breath, breath already coming a little quicker, warmth spreading through your chest as the alcohol hit. Gojo stood just to your right, half playing, half watching you like he couldn’t decide which one he was more focused on. “…Okay,” he muttered, grabbing his own cup slower. “Okay, I see you.”

“You’re falling behind,” you shot back, already finishing another.

“I told you I have a low tolerance!” 

You giggled, actually giggled. It slipped out easier now, lighter. “Skill issue.”

“Rude.”

—--------------------

The game blurred, fast, loud, and messy. Cups knocked over, laughter spilling over itself, people shouting instructions that didn’t matter, you kept going. Kept up, more than kept up, you were ahead.

Toji raised an eyebrow mid-game. “…Damn.”

Sukuna let out a sharp laugh. “Okay—okay, I see it now.”

Geto shook his head, amused. “She’s committed.”

Nanami muttered something about poor decision-making under his breath—but he was still playing.

And you, well you were thriving.

—--------------------

At some point you grabbed Gojo’s arm. He blinked, caught off guard. “…What—?”

“C’mere,” you said, already looping your arm through his.

He froze for half a second. Then realized.“…Oh.”

The crowd noticed instantly.

“OHHHH—”

“Couple shot—!”

“Do it—do it—”

You grinned, lifting your cup. “Don’t slow me down, snowman.”

“Hey,” he scoffed, but he was smiling now, something softer underneath it. “You’re the one dragging me into this. My liver might fail tonight.”

“Drink.”

“Bossy.”

“Drink.”

He laughed. You both tipped your heads back at the same time. The liquid burned sharper this time, your arms linked, shoulders brushing, his presence right there—close, warm, solid. You could feel him swallow, hear it. The world tilted slightly, then snapped back into place. You slammed the cup down, he followed half a second later. You looked at him, grinning. He stared right back at you, a little flushed, breathless. “…You’re insane,” he said again.

You laughed. “Keep up.”

—--------------------

The game kept going. Everything started to blur together—the lights, the music, the shouting, the constant movement of hands and cups and bodies. You lost track of how many rounds, how many drinks. Didn’t matter, you just kept going. At some point, someone knocked into you, and you stumbled slightly. 

Gojo’s hand caught your arm instantly, steadying you. “Careful,” he said, voice lower now, closer.

“I’m fine,” you said, breathless but smiling.

He smiled at you. “I can see that.”

—--------------------

By the time it started winding down, the energy had changed, looser, sloppier. The kind of messy, end of the game chaos where people were laughing a little too loud, leaning a little too heavily on the table, missing cups they definitely would’ve made ten minutes ago.

You, somehow weren’t, your movements had slowed just a fraction, a soft warmth settling under your skin, your head feeling a little lighter—but you were steady. Balanced. Present. Tipsy, comfortably so.

Meanwhile Sukuna missed his cup entirely and didn’t even notice until someone shouted it. Toji was leaning half his weight on the table, blinking like he was trying to remember where he was. Nanami had that very specific, tightly controlled expression of someone who was deeply regretting his life choices but refusing to show it. Geto just looked amused.

Gojo— Gojo was somewhere in between.

Not gone, but definitely enjoying life a bit more than you at the moment, a little looser around the edges. A little slower to react. His cheeks faintly flushed, hair slightly more disheveled than usual, that easy grin sitting on his face like it belonged there.

And his eyes still glued on you.

“Alright,” Sukuna finally exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair as he leaned back. “I’m calling it.”

“To reclaim your dignity?” you asked, tilting your head.

“To preserve what little I have left,” he shot back.

Toji let out a long breath. “…Yeah. I’m done.”

Nanami nodded once, like this was a business decision. “Agreed.”

Geto clapped his hands together once, light and amused. “Well,” he said, looking at you, “I believe we have a winner.”

Sukuna snorted. “Yeah,” he admitted. “We do.” He pointed at Gojo. “You got a powerful one, man.”

Gojo blinked. “…A powerful one?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you cut in immediately.

“Too late,” Toji muttered.

And then Toji let out the loudest, most unapologetic burp imaginable. The table went silent for half a second. 

“Ew—what the hell—”

“Dude—”

“Have some class—”

You, however, laughed. Cackled actually, the slight buzz making everything funny, head tipping back slightly, shoulders shaking, the sound bright and real and completely unfiltered.

Toji grinned. “See?” he said, gesturing at you. “She gets it.”

“Absolutely not,” Nanami muttered.

“Absolutely not.,” you agreed, still laughing. “Though I will admit, that was impressive.”

“Thank you,” Toji said, nodding like he’d just been honored.

Sukuna reached behind him, grabbing something off the table. “Alright,” he said, holding it up. “Since we’re doing this properly—” A cheap plastic trophy, gold-colored, slightly crooked, definitely something he found last minute at the dollar tree.

You stared at it for a second, and then your grin widened. “Oh my god.” Before anyone could say anything, you stepped up onto the table, quick and easy. 

“HEY—” someone yelled.

“Careful—”

Too late. You were already up there, balancing effortlessly despite the drinks, grabbing the trophy out of Sukuna’s hand and holding it high above your head. “I’D LIKE TO THANK—” you started loudly, voice cutting through the noise.

The crowd around you turned, some laughing, some cheering.

“I’D LIKE TO THANK MYSELF,” you continued, pointing dramatically at your chest, “FOR BEING BETTER THAN ALL OF YOU.”

“BOOO—”

“RIGGED—”

“She’s insane—”

You grinned, spinning slightly on the table, the neon lights catching on your bracelets, your necklace, the faint glow still smeared along your arms.

“I WORKED HARD FOR THIS,” you declared.

“YOU DRANK HARD,” Sukuna shot back.

“KEY WORD: HARD!!!”

The laughter around you swelled, chaotic, loud and alive. Gojo stood at the edge of the table, looking up at you, and for a bit everything else blurred out, the noise, people, music. All of it.

Because you were standing there. Laughing. Completely unbothered. Completely yourself. A little flushed, a little glowing under the lights, hair slightly messy now from the night, but still beautiful. Real, unfiltered, so irreparable human. You weren’t trying to impress anyone or play a role, you were just you.

And somehow, that made it impossible for him to look away. His chest tightened slightly, heavy in a way he didn’t quite understand yet. He exhaled slowly, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips..

He was in trouble.

“AND FINALLY—” you were still going, completely committed to your fake speech, “I’D LIKE TO DEDICATE THIS WIN TO—” 

Your foot slipped, just slightly. The table edge caught wrong, your balance shifting—

“Whoa—”

Your body tipped forward, and then warm hands caught you. Firm. Immediate. Gojo. He stepped in without thinking, hands gripping your waist as you stumbled down off the table, pulling you steady against him before you could fall. For a second you were just there, close, your hands instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders, your balance still catching up.

You blinked, then glanced up at him. He was already looking at you, smiling. Soft. Easy. A little breathless. “Careful,” he said, voice low.

You let out a small laugh, still catching your breath. “Yeah, yeah.”

“You good?”

“Always.”

He didn’t move his hands right away. Neither did you. The noise of the room rushed back in around you, but the space between you felt… quieter somehow. Smaller.

You tilted your head slightly, still smiling. “Nice catch, snowman.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Had to save the trophy.”

You gasped. “Wow.”

“Priorities. I mean.. Look at it. It is a beaut.” You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t step away immediately either. He opened his mouth slightly, closed it, hesitating. “…You wanna dance?” he asked. It was casual, not a big deal. But his heart was beating so hard he thought it might literally jump out toward you. 

You grinned. “Yeah.” You leaned over the table, grabbing the nearest bottle without even checking what it was, taking a quick swig. The burn hit sharp, but you didn’t flinch. “Let’s go,” you added, breathing a little lighter now. He laughed, shaking his head, but he didn’t argue. He just took your hand and led you back into the crowd.

The music hit harder the closer you got to the center of the house. The bass thudded through the floorboards, up your legs, settling somewhere in your chest like it belonged there. The air was warmer here, thicker, bodies packed close, moving in sync and completely out of sync at the same time.

Gojo didn’t let go of your hand.

Not when you pushed through the last bit of the crowd, not when you stepped into the middle of it all. And the second you stopped, you grinned, wide and unfiltered before you started dancing.

Your shoulders rolled into the beat, hips following, your bracelets flickering in soft bursts of neon as your hands moved through the air. Your head tipped back for a second, laughter slipping out of you like it didn’t need permission.The alcohol sat warm in your veins, loosening everything just enough to make it feel effortless.

Gojo watched you for half a second and joined in. It wasn’t coordinated or polished, it was messy, a little chaotic, completely in rhythm with the music and nothing else, the kind of dancing that didn’t care who was watching.  Gojo followed your movement, stepping closer, laughing under his breath when you bumped into him slightly.

“Watch it,” he said, smiling.

“You’re in my space,” you shot back, grinning.

“This is my house.”

“Then why am I having more fun?”

“You always have this much fun?” he leaned in just enough for you to hear him over the music.

“Only when I’m winning.”

“You’re still on that?”

“I will always be on that.”

He laughed, bumping his shoulder lightly into yours as the bass dropped harder, the crowd around you erupting louder with it.

And then—

The lights cut completely. The room dropped into darkness so fast it felt like everything paused for half a second. You heard collective groans around you.

“Oh come on—”

“Who killed it—”

“Fix it—”

But before the complaints could even settle: 

“FEAR NOT!” Sukuna’s voice rang out like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

You turned, squinting slightly through the dim. He was standing on the couch again, arms thrown up like he was hosting something, grin wild and a little unhinged.

“Toji!” he barked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Toji laughed, already climbing up beside him.

And then you saw them, your bottles. You barked out a laugh. “No—no way—”

Too late, they popped the caps and started smearing the neon across the walls.

The room lit up instantly, brighter than before. Streaks of glowing color dragged across every surface they could reach– walls, pillars, even the edge of the couch—lighting the room in chaotic bursts of neon. It bled into everything, reflecting off skin, clothes, hair—turning people into moving, glowing shapes in the dark.

The crowd loved it, cheering, laughing. Someone started chanting Sukuna’s name.

You just stood there for a second, laughing. Full, loud, completely unfiltered.

“They’re taking the credit for all my work!” you said, but you were already moving again, already caught up in it.

Gojo glanced at you. “…You’re not even mad.”

“How could I be?” you shot back, spinning slightly as the glow caught your arms. “This is kind of awesome.”

The music picked up again, harder, faster, and you leaned into it fully.  Your hands reached up without thinking, fingers tugging at the ends of your braids. You pulled one loose—then the other—quick, messy, not caring about neatness as you shook your head slightly, letting your hair fall free.

Gojo watched it happen, eyes stuck onto you like he couldn’t help it, the way your hair fell around your shoulders, a little messy now, a little wild, how you ruffled it out with your hands, laughing to yourself like it didn’t matter, like nothing did except this moment.

His grin didn’t leave his face, it was ingrained, soft and a little disbelieving. Because… you. Like this. Carefree. Bright. Completely unfiltered. You were.. God, you were everything.

“Hey—!” You barely had time to react before arms wrapped around you from behind—

But not Gojo’s. You turned quickly— “BECCA—!” You practically launched yourself at her, arms around her shoulders, pulling her into a tight hug, your laughter spilling out again, a little louder, a little looser now. “You’re hereee!” you said into her shoulder.

“I’ve been here!” she laughed, hugging you back just as tight. “You disappeared!”

“I was busy winning.”

“Of course you were.” She pulled back slightly, hands still on your arms as she looked at you, really looked. Hair loose. Eyes bright. Slight flush across your cheeks. “…You’re tipsy,” she said, grinning.

You squinted, holding your fingers up in front of her, almost touching. “Un poquito”

“Sure.” She glanced over your shoulder at Gojo, then pointed at you, mouthing crazy.

Gojo huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, mouthed back I know.

Becca’s grin widened. “Be nice to him,” she stage-whispered to you.

“I am nice!”

“Riiight okay. Don’t beat his ass again is what I’m trying to say.”

You leaned into her ear, “honestly, if I did I have a feeling he might like it.” She cackled in response.

You danced with her for a bit, spinning, laughing, bumping into each other, the kind of easy, familiar movement that came from years of knowing someone. But eventually she squeezed your hand.

“I really have to pee and then I think I’m tapping out for the night,” she said, already backing up. “You’ll be okay here?”

You nodded, still dancing, and she laughed at you. “Don’t do anything too insane.”

“No promises!”

And then with a grin she was gone again. You were turned away from Gojo, and he took an opportunity before he could overthink it.

You were caught up in the music again, in the lights, in the way your body moved without thinking—hair loose now, brushing your shoulders as you laughed to yourself, completely unaware of him moving behind you. And then huge hands found your hips, warm and firm and certain.

You gasped—soft, surprised—the sound barely audible under the music, but it left you before you could stop it.

And then he pulled, enough to draw you back into him in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his like it had been meant to land there.

Your back pressed to his chest, your ass to his evident bulge. You almost slipped out a moan. He was solid. Warm. Close. Too close to pretend it was nothing. For a split second, your breath caught, your hands hovered mid-air like you weren’t sure what to do with them. Behind you, you felt him lean in slightly—felt the shift of his chest against your back, the faint brush of his breath near your ear. “Hey,” he said, low, a grin threading through his voice.

You swallowed, tilting your head just enough to glance back at him, catching that familiar, infuriatingly confident smile—except it wasn’t entirely the same. There was something else in it now, something softer. Something darker. 

“…Hi,” you managed, voice just a little quieter than before.

His hands adjusted slightly on your hips, not sliding anywhere they shouldn’t, just settling more naturally, thumbs pressing into your skin lightly like he was grounding himself as much as you. And then the music pulled you back in. Your body moved again instinctively, and this time, he moved with you. 

Every shift of your hips met the steady rhythm of his behind you, your movements syncing without thought, the space between you completely gone. The subtle way he followed your lead instead of taking it—letting you set the pace, matching you beat for beat like he didn’t want to break whatever this was. You could feel everything. The rise and fall of his breathing, the way his grip tightened just slightly when the crowd pressed in too close, how he tried to shift his hips back from you so you wouldn’t notice how hard he really was. But it was too late. 

You let your ass tip back just slightly for a second, just enough to brush against the crotch of his sweats. It was light, you could even play it off as accidental if you wanted to. You felt his breath hitch, a small hiss leaving his lips in echoed silence against the booming speakers. Your lips curved.

He recovered quickly. “Still think you’re having more fun?” he murmured, voice low, closer now, right near your ear, barely there but impossible to ignore. You turned your head slightly again, your cheek brushing his neck. “Obviously,” you said, a hint of a smile in your voice.

He huffed a quiet laugh, but it came out softer this time. “Trust me, you’re wrong. Never been this giddy in my life.”

You grinned “Yeah?” Your hands finally found somewhere to settle—resting lightly over where his sat on your hips, pulling them closer. Acknowledging it, the contact, the moment. Your fingers shifted slightly over his, absentminded, tracing the edge of his knuckles as you kept moving, and his grip tightened just a fraction.

Around you, the party blurred. The music still loud, people still moving, neon lights still flashing across skin and walls—but it all felt a little distant, secondary. Because right here, this moment was just yours. The warmth of him behind you, the steady rhythm you both fell into, how neither of you pulled away, not even a little, not even when you probably should have

You slipped out of his hold for a second, just to turn, just to move differently for a moment. Your body facing him now instead of away, your hands brushing his arms as you shifted. And before you could even think about stepping away, he caught your wrist lightly, guiding you back into his arms. 

Your hand landed flat on his chest to catch yourself, fingers unintentionally digging into the broad, muscular skin through his shirt. His arms circled around you, one hand resting on the side of your waist while the other snaked to your lower back. You shivered as his thumpad grazed your bare skin, a shot of heat pooling right where it shouldn’t. 

The music still pounded around you, neon lights flickering across his face, catching in his hair, reflecting faintly in his eyes, and he was already looking at you. “…Mind if I do something bad?” His voice cut through the moment, low, almost amused—but there was something underneath it. Something quieter.

You blinked, tilted your head slightly. “…That depends.”

His lips twitched. “On?”

You didn’t answer right away, just watched him. “On how bad,” you said finally, a small, curious smile pulling at your mouth.

That was all the permission he needed. One of his hands slipped away from your waist and the absence was immediate, noticeable. He reached into his pocket, movements unhurried, like he had all the time in the world—even though the music was loud, the crowd pressing in, everything moving fast around you.

He pulled something out. A joint, you recognized the second it caught the light. Your eyes dropped to it, then lifted back to him. Something in your expression shifted, something knowing, amused, as a slow smile spread across your face. “Well, whadya know…” you murmured, voice softer now, edged with quiet humor. “He’s a pothead too, huh?”

He grinned, pleased.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I had you pegged for a vodka-cranberry kind of guy.”

He snorted. “That’s offensive.”

“Is it wrong?”

“…A little.” He smiled, eyes glued to yours as he brought the joint up to his lips. His expression changed, like he was checking, asking you again if it was okay without saying it out loud. You didn’t look away, didn’t move, just holding his gaze. That was enough. 

The lighter clicked, a small, sharp sound that somehow sliced through everything else. For a second, the flame lit his face—warm, flickering, catching in the blue ocean of his eyes. Then he inhaled, slow and deliberate. The tip of the joint glowed faintly. You watched. You couldn’t not.

The way his chest rose slightly. The way his shoulders relaxed as he exhaled, smoke curling from his lips in soft, lazy spirals that drifted between you. Some of it brushed your face, the scent wrapping around you before you could think about it—earthy, faintly sweet, blending with the heat of the room, the press of bodies, the neon glow.

Your breathing spiked just slightly. The music changed just then, shifting into a heavier tune, lower, a darker song that didn’t demand as much energy. Your movements adjusted on their own, less chaotic now, more purposeful. Closer. Your hands shifting slightly onto his arms, your fingers curling just a little more, grounding yourself without realizing it. His grip followed suit, tightening. 

Your eyes flicked down to his shirt, black and basically untouched, sprinkled with some bits of glow here and there, but nothing like yours. Barrel compared to everything around you. You frowned slightly, a small, instinctive pout forming before you could stop it. Your gaze dropped and lifted back to him. 

He caught it immediately, he always did. His lips curved slightly, the joint still resting between them as he tilted his head down just enough, eyes narrowing in quiet amusement. “What?” he murmured, voice low, smoke slipping between the word.

You hesitated for half a second. “You don’t have any glow,” you said, like it actually mattered, genuinely bothered you. Your fingers shifted slightly against his arm, thumb brushing absentmindedly against the fabric of his shirt like you were confirming it.

He didn’t look down, didn’t check, didn’t break eye contact– not once. He held your gaze steadily, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before it settled. “I’ve got plenty.”

You almost swooned right there. You could physically feel the pressure curling in your lower stomach, the lightness caused by the alcohol making your head fuzzy in all the right ways. It sat somewhere low in your chest, heavier than it should’ve been, echoing in a way that didn’t quite match the chaos around you. The music still pulsed through the floor, through your ribs, people still moving and laughing and shouting—but it all felt just slightly out of focus compared to him. Compared to the way he was looking at you.

You inhaled slowly, you needed the breath to steady something, and then your hand lifted. The movement wasn’t even fully conscious, brain acting on its own agenda.  Your fingers moved toward him, toward the faint curl of smoke still drifting from his lips, and brushed lightly against his hand as you took the joint from him. The contact was brief, but not accidental, your skin grazing just enough to register, just enough to linger.

His lips parted as you pulled it away, soft and quiet. His eyes didn’t leave yours. Not even for a second. You brought it to your mouth, holding his gaze, and inhaled slowly. The smoke filled your lungs, warm and thick, curling inward and settling deep before you let it out in a controlled exhale. It hit almost instantly this time, just a slight shift, a soft buzz at the edges of everything. The lights stretched a little longer, the music sank deeper into your body, your limbs felt a fraction heavier but somehow more fluid at the same time.

You were still completely there, still in control, just… looser. Warmer. More aware of everything that mattered—and right now, that was him. Because he was still staring at you, fully, completely entranced, like he was trying to memorize every indent on your skin.

Or maybe like he already had.

Your hand dropped then, slipping into your bag without breaking eye contact. You went slow, didn’t fumble—just moved with the same slow, deliberate rhythm that everything had taken on, moving felt like it took a year, your fingers found the bottle immediately. The last one.

You pulled it out, the neon liquid inside catching what little light there was, glowing faintly even before you opened it. His gaze flicked down to it for the briefest second, curiosity sparking, but it didn’t linger. It went right back to your face, like that’s where it belonged.

You twisted the cap open, the small click feeling louder than it should’ve. You tipped it into your palm. The liquid coated your skin in a soft, luminous sheen, dripping slightly between your fingers before you spread it, rubbing your hands together agonizingly slow, making sure it covered every inch. Because you knew he was watching, you could feel it, how his eyes tracked every movement like he didn’t want to miss a single second of it, how his shoulders had stiffened slightly. 

You stepped closer, as if there had even been space left to close. Your hands lifted, hovering for just a moment over his chest, right where his shirt was still bare, still dark, untouched by everything else glowing around you.

And then you placed them there, flat and firm, right over him.The contact wasn’t shy. Your palms pressed against him, and you felt it immediately—the warmth of his body beneath the fabric, the slight tension in his muscular chest as your hands settled there. The neon transferred instantly, glowing bright against the black, spreading under your touch.

You didn’t look down, you didn’t need to, you just dragged your hands down, painfully slow. Your fingers spread slightly as they moved, the glowing liquid streaking across his chest in uneven lines, catching the light with every inch you covered. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing under your palms, feel the way his chest expanded slightly, then held, then shifted again as your hands moved lower.

He didn’t stop you, didn’t move, but his body reacted anyway. He swallowed, you felt it, felt it in the way his muscle kept tensing under your touch, subtle but unmistakable. Felt it in the slight hitch in his breath, the way it caught and didn’t quite settle again.

A sound slipped from him then, soft, unintended, A quiet, breathy whimper that he clearly hadn’t meant to make, your name. Your fingers slowed even more at that, registering it. You really liked it. Then they continued, dragging lower, finishing the motion, leaving glowing streaks all the way down his shirt before finally stopping.

Your gaze dropped then, not to your hands, but to his lips, slightly parted, still, the faint trace of smoke lingering there. Then back up to his eyes, darker now, pupils dilated and locked onto you, something in them that hadn’t been there before.

You shifted the joint in your mouth slowly, holding it between your canines as you tilted your head just slightly, your expression softening into something almost satisfied. “There…” you murmured, voice quiet, just for him.

Your hands didn’t leave him right away, they lingered there for a second longer, pressed lightly against his chest, feeling the warmth, the tension, the way his breathing hadn’t quite evened out yet. Then, finally, you let them fall, but your eyes stayed exactly where they were the entire time, waiting to see what he’d do next.

The glow you’d smeared across him pulsed faintly in the dark, streaked over the black fabric, uneven and messy in a way that made it feel more intentional. Your palms still held the faint tacky warmth of the neon, your skin buzzing—not just from the alcohol, not just from the smoke, but from him. From how close he was.

His hands moved, they slipped from your waist, slowly enough that you felt the absence before you understood the intention, before you realized he wasn’t pulling away. His fingers found yours, curling around them, warmer now, slightly damp with the paint you’d just spread over him. 

There was something almost grounding in it, the way his hands enclosed yours, steady and sure, like he needed to feel it, needed to feel you, before anything else. His thumbs began to move, dragging slowly over your palms, smearing the neon across your skin and his, blending the glow between you until it was impossible to tell whose was whose anymore.

You let out a soft breath, barely noticeable even to yourself. The joint was still resting between your lips, and when you exhaled, the smoke drifted forward in a slow, lazy stream, curling between you before brushing against his face.

He didn’t pull away, instead, his eyes stayed locked on yours as he leaned in—slowly, deliberately—closing that already small distance even more. His lips parted slightly as he moved into the space your breath had just filled, inhaling the smoke from you like it belonged to him. 

The effect hit sharper this time. The warmth in your chest deepened, spread, softened the edges of everything. The music felt thicker, heavier, the neon lights stretching just slightly in your vision. He let your hands go then, but only because he had somewhere else to put them.

One of his hands lifted, slower now, like he was fully aware of every inch of movement. His fingers brushed the side of your neck first, light—so light it almost didn’t feel real—before settling more firmly. His thumb rested just under your jaw for a second, and then he dragged it down. You felt every inch of it.

Over your throat, across your collarbone, down the slope of your shoulder. The neon smeared as he moved, transferring from his skin to yours in glowing streaks, his palm flattening slightly as it followed the curve of your body.

Your breath hitched.. His other hand had already started moving too, beginning higher this time—just beneath your chest, fingers brushing the edge of your ribcage through the thin fabric. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t press too hard. Just enough for you to feel it.

And then he dragged it down, slow and steady, following the line of your waist like he was tracing something he didn’t want to forget, his touch warm and deliberate, the contrast of the cool neon against your skin making every inch feel sharper.

The space between you had almost disappeared now, your bodies closer than before, your chest rising and falling just slightly faster, brushing against his. Your faces were only a few centimeters apart, close enough that you could feel his breath every time he exhaled. Warm and uneven, unsure, mirroring yours.  Your eyes flickered down for a second again, to his lips, slightly parted—before pulling back up to meet his gaze again.

Still there, still watching you like he hadn’t blinked in minutes. His hands didn’t stop moving. They shifted lower, sliding around your sides, settling at your lower back, pulling you just a little closer without fully closing the space. It wasn’t forceful. It didn’t need to be. Your body followed anyway instinctively, leaning in just slightly, enough to press into him, enough to feel the heat of him through both your clothes.

The joint was still between your lips, you’d almost forgotten about it, but he hadn’t. His gaze dipped again, just briefly, before he leaned forward that final fraction of space. Your breath caught—this time noticeably—as his face moved closer, so close you could feel the faint brush of him before anything even happened.

And then he bit down gently on the joint, pulling it from your mouth, careful, his lips brushing just barely against it as he took it back, the contact so brief it almost didn’t count—but it lingered anyway. His hands moved further, spreading the smooth liquid down over your ass, thick fingers reaching under the suppleness gently to pull up, squeezing lightly, a breathy pant escaping his lips at the feel of you.

He pulled back just enough to create the smallest bit of space again, the joint now resting between his own lips, his eyes still locked on yours. Neither of you moved. His hands were still at your ass, yours hovered near his chest, uncertain for the first time all night. In the middle of all that noise, all those people, all that chaos, it felt like it was just the two of you.

 “..God, Squeaky–”

“YO—GOJO!”

Sukuna’s voice cut straight through everything—loud, abrasive, completely out of place against the slow, heavy quiet that had built between you. “Why does this drink taste like someone pissed in it, man—I'm not even joking—”

It was instant. You and Gojo separated like you’d both been caught doing something you couldn’t explain, fast—too fast to be casual. Your hands dropped from his chest, his grip loosened from your back, and suddenly there was space again. Air. Distance that hadn’t been there seconds ago.

It felt wrong.

Sukuna stopped mid-step when he actually looked at you both. His expression shifted—realization hitting in a slow, awkward wave. His brows lifted slightly, then his mouth twisted. His eyes roved over you, spotting the neon pink handprints on the back of your shorts. “…shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “My bad. Didn’t mean to, uh—” he gestured vaguely between the two of you, “—interrupt whatever the hell that was.”

Gojo didn’t laugh, he just stared at him, eyes narrowed, jaw set, still a little hazy but visibly irritated. “What about the fucking drinks?” he snapped, voice sharp, like he was clinging to the interruption just to redirect the moment.

Sukuna blinked, thrown for half a second, then scoffed. “I’m serious, dude—try it. It’s suspicious.”

“Everything you drink is suspicious,” a voice drawled from behind him. Toji. He and Nanami stepped up a second later, both of them clearly drawn in by the noise. Toji looked amused immediately, eyes flicking between Sukuna’s cup, Gojo’s expression, and then—finally—you.

Nanami was quieter, more observant. His gaze landed on you and stayed there a second longer than comfortable, taking in details the others didn’t bother to. That’s when Sukuna noticed it, the joint still hanging lazily from Gojo’s lips.

Then your eyes. Still just a little glassy, a faint red lining the edges, your expression softer than usual—but not gone. Not out of control. Just altered.

His brows shot up. “…wait,” he said slowly, pointing between you and Gojo. “No fucking way.”

You didn’t move, didn’t flinch. “What?” you asked, tone flat, unimpressed.

“You smoke?” Sukuna let out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. That’s—yeah, didn’t expect that at all. Thought you were like… I don’t know—library princess or something. Straight A’s, drinks water at parties, leaves before midnight.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unbothered. “I just outdrank you and half your little circus like thirty minutes ago.”

Toji barked out a laugh at that, hand coming up to cover his mouth like he was trying—poorly—not to react too hard. “She’s not wrong,” he said, nudging Sukuna with his elbow. “You were struggling.”

“Shut up,” Sukuna shot back, but he was still grinning, eyes flicking back to you with renewed interest. “Alright, fine. Didn’t peg you for that either.”

Nanami finally spoke then, his tone even, almost too neutral. “That doesn’t mean much in this house.” His gaze stayed on you, steady, analytical. “Most people here drink themselves stupid to feel like they belong,” he continued. “You don’t seem like the type.”

It wasn’t outright rude, but it wasn’t kind either. More like a test. You shifted your weight slightly, something small tightening in your chest, though you didn’t show it on your face. “Depends what you think ‘the type’ is,” you replied evenly.

Sukuna snorted, crossing his arms. “He means you don’t seem like one of those try-hard academic robots. Y’know—the ones who walk into a party like they’re doing field research and spend the whole night judging everyone.”

“To be fair,” Toji added lazily, “those ones are the worst. Act like they’re above it, but still show up.”

Nanami didn’t disagree. “They tend to lack self-awareness,” he said simply.

Sukuna laughed again, louder this time, gesturing toward you. “Yeah, but she’s not like that. She’s got—what, neuroscience or whatever, right? And she’s not a total buzzkill. That’s rare.”

“High-functioning,” Toji added, glancing at the faint glow still smeared along your arms.

“Dangerous combo,” Sukuna said, nodding. “Smart, hot, and not calling campus security every five minutes. You scored a good one, Gojo.” He raised up his glass of piss drink.

You let out a quiet breath through your nose, something between a laugh and not quite that. Before you could respond, a familiar weight dropped over your shoulders. Gojo’s arm, loose and warm. He pulled you in just slightly, his hand settling against your upper arm like it belonged there, like it had every right to be there. You tilted your head up instinctively, eyes finding his, expecting… something. Defense, a correction, anything. 

But he was grinning. Too wide, too easy, eyes just a little unfocused. “Damn right,” he said, voice louder than necessary, words slipping out without hesitation. “She’s not like those fucking losers.”

Sukuna huffed a laugh, already nodding along. “Yeah, those types are insufferable. All that ‘I’m better than you’ shit—like relax, it’s college, not an ethics competition.”

“To be fair,” Toji added, “half of them don’t even know how to talk to people. You say one thing wrong and they look at you like you just shot their dog.”

Nanami didn’t laugh this time, but he didn’t interrupt either.

Gojo just kept going. “Yeah, like—no offense—but most of them are fucking miserable,” he said, tightening his grip on your shoulder just slightly, like he was emphasizing the point. “All book-smart, zero social skills, think they’re above everything. It’s annoying as hell. No one cares how interested you are in fuckass algebra, keep it to yourself.”

Your smile faltered, just a little.

“Walking GPA calculators,” Sukuna added. “No personality, no chill.”

“Exactly,” Gojo said, nodding, completely missing it. “But she’s not like that. She’s actually—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to, because the damage was already done. It settled, slow, quiet, heavy. Your eyes widened, the shift so small it would’ve gone unnoticed to anyone who wasn’t looking for it—but you felt it, sharp and immediate, right in the center of your chest. Like something had slipped out from under you without warning.

The music was still loud. Bass still vibrating through the floor, through your ribs, people still moving around you like nothing had changed. But something had. Completely.

Your mind cleared in an instant. The warmth from the alcohol, the soft haze from the weed—it all pulled back just enough for everything to feel too sharp instead. Too clear. Every word he’d just said replaying, louder now, stripped of the careless tone he’d used when he said them.

Those other nerds.

Fucking miserable.

No personality.

And suddenly, the arm around your shoulders felt wrong, heavy in a way it hadn’t before.

You shifted under it, subtle but firm, lifting your shoulder just enough for his arm to slide off. It dropped back to his side without resistance, like he didn’t even process it at first. Your gaze lowered, fixed somewhere near the floor, your fingers curling slightly at your sides as you swallowed. “I’m gonna go,” you muttered.

It wasn’t loud, but it was enough. Sukuna blinked, confusion flashing across his face. “Wait—what?” Toji straightened slightly, brows lifting. Nanami’s gaze sharpened, like he’d caught something the others hadn’t yet.

And Gojo— 

Gojo went still.

Completely.

You didn’t look back, didn’t explain. You just turned and started walking, weaving through the crowd, past bodies and noise and flashing neon, your heart beating a little too fast, your chest too tight. 

It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t have hit this hard, but it did, because it wasn’t just what he said, it was how easy it came out.

“Hey—” His voice came from behind you, closer than you expected. Footsteps followed—quicker, uneven, catching up fast. “Hey, wait—” His hand caught your wrist lightly, not rough, but enough to stop you. You turned, faster than you meant to, something sharp in your expression now, something that hadn’t been there all night.

“What?” you snapped. It came out harsher than you intended, but you didn’t take it back.

He blinked at you, thrown off immediately, like he hadn’t expected that tone from you. Not you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, brows pulling together, confusion lacing through his voice. He took a small step closer, like he was trying to close the distance again, like he didn’t understand why it had opened in the first place.

You stared at him for a second, then let out a short, disbelieving breath. “‘Losers’?” you said, the word cutting sharper this time. “Did you even hear yourself back there?”

His expression shifted—confusion deepening, a flicker of defensiveness creeping in. “What? I was just—”

“Just what?” you cut in. “Just talking shit? Just trying to be funny?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Because there wasn’t a good answer.

You shook your head, a humorless laugh slipping out as you ran a hand through your hair. “I don’t get why you do that,” you said, quieter now but more pointed, each word landing more deliberately than the last. “Why you act like you’re—like that.”

“Like what?” he asked, a little sharper now, like he was starting to feel cornered.

“Like you’re stupid,” you said plainly.

That stopped him. Cold. His entire expression shifted, something real breaking through the haze for the first time since you’d met him. “…what?” he said, softer now.

“I’ve seen you,” you continued, your voice steady despite the tightness in your chest. “You’re not dumb. You’re not even close. You catch things other people miss. You pick up on stuff fast. You—” you hesitated, searching for the right words, then shook your head slightly. “You can outsmart every single person in this room, including me. So why do you stand there and talk like that? Like you’re proud of being… shallow?”

He stared at you, really stared this time, stunned. No one had ever said that to him before, he didn’t even know what to do with it.

You let out another breath, stepping back slightly, creating space that felt necessary now. “I’m not gonna stand there and laugh while you tear down people like that just to fit in,” you said. “I’m not doing that.”

“That’s not what I—” he started, voice rougher now, but it faltered halfway through. Because he didn’t know how to finish it, because part of him knew you weren’t wrong. All of him, really.

Instead of arguing, instead of explaining, he stepped forward, closed the space again and pulled you into him. It was messy, desperate. His arms wrapped around you tight, almost too tight, trying to keep you from leaving just by holding on. His head dropped forward, pressing into your shoulder, his breath warm and uneven against your skin.

“Please don’t leave…” he mumbled, voice muffled, softer now, rougher. “Don’t—just don’t go, okay?”

You stiffened immediately. Your hands came up, pressing against his chest, trying to push him back.

“Gojo—”

“C’mon, Squeaky.” he said, pulling back just enough to look at you, his grip still firm on your arms. His eyes were glassy now, unfocused in a way that made your stomach twist. “Let’s just—let’s go somewhere else. Yeah? Get food or something. You like tacos. Let’s go get tacos.” His words tumbled over each other, jumbled and unorganized, his grip still tight on you like if he let go, you’d disappear.

Your chest ached. Because part of you wanted to say yes, wanted to pretend it didn’t matter, wanted to go back.

But you didn’t.

You pushed against him again, firmer this time, and this time, he let go. His hands dropped slightly, just enough for you to step back fully.

“No,” you said.

Quiet.

Clear.

Final.

He blinked at you, like the word didn’t register. “—what?”

“I said no,” you repeated, your voice steady even if your chest didn’t feel it. “I’m leaving.”

“Why?” he asked, softer now, almost helpless. “It was just a joke—”

“That’s the problem,” you cut in. “It wasn’t funny.” 

That landed. You saw it, his expression falter. You looked at him for a second longer.

The neon handprints still smeared across his shirt, at the way his hair was a mess from dancing, at how he looked at you now—confused, a little desperate, like he didn’t understand how things had unraveled this fast, alcohol still hazing his mind.

And it hurt more than it should’ve.

“I’m not one of your jokes,” you said finally. Then you turned. And this time when you walked away, you didn’t stop.

Thank you so much for reading.. please let me know your thought/theories! Love getting feedback on my work <3

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[lacrimadreams]

Put Him In His Place ᥫ᭡. Gojo Satoru x Reader

MINI-SERIES MASTERLIST

pairings - Lovesick!Fratjo x Badass!reader (f/m)

TOTAL WC- 8.6k -> (will increase)

♡ ₊˚‧ WARNINGS :: No use of Y/N :: Frat boy Gojo:: Ass Gojo :: Assault?:: Drinking:: Substance abuse :: Eventual jealousy :: Eventual smut -> (more tags coming soon) :: Strong female mc :: NSFW:: (probably more to come!) : Yearner Gojo :: Fluff:: Partying:: Kissing :: Mild WLW :: Neuroscience Major MC :: Masturbation :: Nicknames:: (probably more to come!)

CHAPTER 1-

CHAPTER 2-

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4 -> NEW!

CHAPTER 5 -> Coming later this week!

[lacrimadreams]

Currently working on chapter 5 and guys.. get ready for some #HEAT

[lacrimadreams]

Put Him In His Place ᥫ᭡. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Chapter 04 -> previous

pairings - Lovesick!Fratjo x Badass!reader (f/m)

WC- 7.4k

♡ ₊˚‧ WARNINGS :: No use of Y/N :: Frat boy Gojo:: Yearner Gojo :: Fluff:: TENSION!:: Nerd Fratjo :: Eventual smut -> (more tags coming soon) :: Strong female MC :: Neuroscience Major MC:: HEAT :: Nicknames:: (probably more to come!)

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: Heyyy here is chapter 4. I am currently on a writing grind so chapter five should be out soon. For my KMLYI and TROU readers, I love you and updates are definitely coming. 🥹 I am just currently hyperfixated on this series. I promise I will feed you. !🎧ྀི♪⋆.✮MUSIC RECS: - Walk to Class - Malcom Todd - Stargazing - The Neighborhood - What is Love (12" mix) - Haddaway

It had been about two weeks of late-night texts, random calls that stretched longer than either of you planned, library sessions that somehow turned into inside jokes and shared snacks and the quiet kind of comfort that crept in without asking. Two weeks of not defining anything. Just… existing in it.

Gojo spotted you before you spotted him. He was cutting across campus, one hand hooked lazily in the pocket of his hoodie, the other holding his phone as he half listened to an alpha-male podcast Sukana had insisted he try. He was taking a different- than-usual route home after leaving his class early because of… no reason in particular. Just a small detour through the science department for some added steps, no biggie. The afternoon was busy, students moving between classes, voices overlapping, the usual rush of campus life that he’d learned to tune out.

But then he spotted you across the quad, and just like that, everything else blurred a little. You were walking beside one of the professors; older, sharp posture, the kind of presence that made people instinctively stand straighter when he passed. You had a box in your arms, balanced against your hip, but that didn’t stop you from talking. 

And you were talking a lot. Hands moving as you explained something. Fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the box when you emphasized a point. Your brows pulled together slightly—not in confusion, but in concentration.

That look. 

Gojo slowed his steps without realizing it, because this wasn’t the version of you he was used to. This wasn’t the one who laughed at his stupid jokes or teased him over a test at four in the morning. You were in your element, completely focused, confident and comfortable. You belonged there, right in the middle of that conversation, holding your own without hesitation. 

The professor nodded as you spoke, occasionally interjecting, and you responded easily—no awkward pauses, no second-guessing.

Gojo leaned lightly against a nearby railing, watching you as he took his airpods out. Not in a creepy way, at least to him, just… observing. Of course she’s like this, he thought. Of course you were good at this too. There was a strange kind of pride in it. Not the loud, boastful kind. Just something quieter, sitting low in his chest, warm and steady. He didn’t interrupt. Just waited.

Eventually, the conversation slowed. The professor said something final, and you nodded, adjusting the box slightly in your arms, your grip tightening just a bit like it was starting to get heavy. “Thank you again,” you said, voice polite but still warm.

“Of course,” the professor replied. “Let me know if there are any further complications with the relocation.”

You nodded. “Will do.”

And then he was gone, just like that, leaving you standing there alone, shifting the weight of the box again with a small exhale.

Gojo pushed off the railing immediately. He didn’t even think about it, just started walking toward you. You didn’t notice him right away.

You were too busy adjusting your hold on the box, trying to balance it more comfortably against your hip. Then you turned and there he was. Your whole expression changed in real time: surprise flickered across your face first, then recognition, then—

That smile.

“Gojo?”

God.

That smile.

He felt it hit him immediately, right in the chest like it always did—quick and a little too strong for something that should’ve been normal by now. “Hey, Squeaky,” he said, trying to sound casual.

You blinked at him, like you were still processing the fact that he was just… here. “What are you doing here?” you asked, shifting the box again. “I thought you had class right now.”

“I did,” he said easily.

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “…Did?”

“I made a decision.”

You huffed a small laugh. “Wow. Academic dedication at its finest.”

“Thank you,” he nodded seriously. “I work very hard at not working.”

You shook your head, but you were smiling. He let his gaze drop to the box in your arms. It was heavier than you were letting on—that much was obvious. Your fingers were curled a little tighter around the edges, your shoulders subtly tense. “What’s all that?” he asked.

You followed his gaze, then sighed, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“Don’t even ask.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

You adjusted the box again, letting out a small, exasperated breath. “Chem lab rooms have a gas leak,” you said. “So now everything’s getting moved to a different building until they fix it.”

Gojo blinked. “…That sounds incredibly unsafe.”

“It probably is.”

“And they’re making you carry stuff?” You shrugged slightly, though the movement was limited by the box. “I mean– We all have to help by carrying our own, at least. Equipment, samples, notes—everything. And I have one I need to work on asap unfortunately.”

He watched you for a second, then glanced at the box again before looking back up at you. A slow grin spread across his face. “Dangerous chemicals, hm?... Can I come?”

You blinked. “Come?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping a little closer. “I wanna see this whole lab setup you’ve got going on.”

You let out a short laugh, like you weren’t sure if he was serious. “You say that now.”

“I mean it.” 

You studied him for a second. Really looked at him. There was something genuine there. Curiosity, sure—but also something softer. Like he just truly wanted to be around.

“It would be fun,” you admitted slowly. “But—” You adjusted the box again. “You need a science lanyard to be in the lab. Like, actually. They’ll kick you out if you don’t have one.””

Gojo didn’t even pause. “Okay.”

You frowned. “…Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not something you can just—”

He was already leaning forward, peering into the box in your arms. “Hold on.”

“Snowman—”

Too late. He reached in, shifting aside a stack of neatly stacked beakers, fingers moving like he was rummaging through something that definitely didn’t belong to him.

“Wait—don’t—”

“Got one.”

You blinked. “What—”

You stared as he pulled it out, then instinctively leaned in to inspect the name printed on the plastic tab. There was a brief moment of silence.

And then you laughed. Full on cackled. “Absolutely not.”

Gojo glanced down at the badge. then back at you. “What?”

You pointed at it, barely able to keep a straight face. “Read it.”

He looked again.

Dr. Reginald T. Bunsen

He sputtered out a laugh.“…That’s perfect.”

You shook your head, still laughing. “You cannot wear that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s clearly fake.”

He scoffed. “It says ‘Doctor.’ Show some respect.”

“Gojo–”

“Dr. Bunsen, actually.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh again. “This is how we get in trouble.”

He was already slipping it over his head. “There.”

The lanyard settled against his chest. He adjusted it like he was genuinely preparing for a professional setting. “Well?” He spread his arms slightly. “Do I look qualified?”

You looked at him..

Casual hoodie. Messy white hair. And a fake ID that said Dr. Reginald T. Bunsen.

You exhaled sharply, trying to contain another laugh. “You look ridiculous.”

He opened his mouth in faux offense. “I look distinguished. The only thing pending is a crisp lab coat like yours.”

You snorted “You look like a squatter. Put on a lab coat and you’ll be a mad scientist squatter.”

He grinned. “Worth it.”

You shook your head again, still smiling as you shifted the box—Or tried to.

Because suddenly, the weight was gone. You blinked. “…Hey—”

Gojo had already taken it like it was nothing. He adjusted it in his arms, balancing it easily against his side.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said.

“I know.”

“Then why—”

He shrugged, glancing down at you briefly. “Because you look like you’ve been carrying it for a while.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. There wasn’t really a response to that. “…Thanks,” you said finally, a little quieter.

He nodded once, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Which way?”

You hesitated for half a second.

Then pointed. “…That building.”

He shifted the box slightly, securing his grip.

“Lead the way, Squeaky.”

You started walking next to him, close enough that your shoulders brushed once, lightly. Neither of you commented on it. The campus noise picked back up around you as you walked, but it felt muted somehow. It wasn’t the focus. But this: walking side by side, talking about nothing and everything, heading somewhere together, it was.

The path to the other building wasn’t far, but it wasn’t exactly short either. It was long enough for conversation to settle in, for the rhythm of walking next to each other smooth out in something comfortable. 

At first, you started talking about something random. Something about one of your professors—how he pronounced “mitochondria” differently every single time like he was trying out new accents for fun.

“And I swear,” you were saying, adjusting the strap of your bag as you walked, “last week he said it like mee-toe-chon-dree-ah and I almost lost it in the middle of class.”

Gojo nodded. “Tragic.”

“Right? Like pick one and commit.”

“Consistency is important.”

“Exactly.”

He sounded like he was listening. And technically he was, just not in the way he should’ve been.Because while you talked, Gojo’s attention kept drifting, not away from you exactly, just… deeper into you.

The way your hands moved when you explained things, even something as stupid as a professor’s pronunciation habits. The way your eyebrows lifted when you emphasized a point. The way your mouth curved when you were trying not to laugh at your own story. Your voice, too; easy, animated, slipping between teasing and thoughtful without effort. He found himself watching your face more than anything else, tracking every expression like it mattered, a TV show he couldn’t miss.

“…and then Becca had the audacity to tell me I was overreacting,” you continued, glancing over at him. “Which—first of all, I was not—”

Gojo nodded again. “Obviously not.”

“—because if someone mispronounces something that many times, it becomes a problem, y'know? I start to question if he knows the material he’s teaching us–”

“Mhm.”

“—and—” You paused, your steps slowing slightly. “…Gojo.”

He blinked. “…Yeah?”

You stopped walking entirely, turning to face him. Your eyes narrowed just a little, lips twitching like you were holding back a smile. “Hellooo?” you said, waving your hand in front of his face. “Earth to snowman?”

He froze for half a second, then blinked again, snapping back like someone had flipped a switch. “…I’m here.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve said ‘tragic,’ ‘consistency is important,’ and ‘obviously not’ in the last two minutes.”

He paused. “…Those are all valid responses.”

You stared at him, huffing out a laugh, shaking your head. “You weren’t listening.”

“I was listening.”

“What did I just say then?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. “…You were talking about mitochondria.”

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Oh my god.”

He grinned, a little sheepish this time. “Hey, I got the general theme.”

“You’re about to get a knuckle sandwich.” You started walking again, and he fell back into step beside you without missing a beat. “Where’d you even come from just now?” you asked, glancing at him.

He shrugged, shifting the box slightly in his arms. “Nowhere.”

You gave him a look. “Mhm.”

There was a small pause, then you added, more casually— “So… you skipped class.”

He hummed. “Allegedly.”

You bumped your shoulder lightly into his. “Don’t ‘allegedly’ me. You literally just said you made a decision.”

“It was a good decision.”

“How?”

“Because now I’m here.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a hint of a smile there. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

He glanced down at you briefly. “What was the question?”

“How do you just skip class like that?” you said. “Don’t you have, like, grades to worry about?”

He shrugged again. “Not really.”

You frowned slightly. “…What do you mean ‘not really’?”

“I mean,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world, “I have hundreds in everything.”

You stopped walking again. “…You have what?”

He stopped too, turning slightly to look at you. “Hundreds.”

“In everything?”

“Yeah.”

You stared at him. Actually stared. “…You’re joking.”

I’m not.”

“You’re telling me you skip class and still have hundreds in everything?”

“Yeah.”

There was a pause. A long one.

“…That’s insane.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shifting the box again. “It’s not that impressive.”

“Not that impressive?” you repeated, disbelief written all over your face. “Gojo, most people are fighting for their lives to get like a seventy.”

He shrugged. “It’s an easy major.”

You blinked. “…Business?”

“Yeah.”

You considered that for a second, then nodded slowly. “I mean… okay, yeah, it’s not engineering level suffering.”

“Exactly.”

“But,” you added, pointing at him slightly, “that doesn’t make hundreds in everything normal.”

He waved it off. “It’s fine.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“No, it’s not just ‘fine.’ Are you in the honors college?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think they even have the business major as an option for the honors school. I mean, it is kind of for future bums, so.”

You studied him for a second. “But evidently you aren’t a future bum.”

Gojo felt something in his chest tighten slightly. Just a little. He smirked, defaulting. “Careful, Squeaky. You’re gonna inflate my ego.”

You didn’t smile this time. “Your ego’s already inflated.”

“Fair.”

But you were still looking at him like you were trying to figure something out.

He looked away first. “…We’re here, right?” he said, nodding toward the building ahead.

You glanced up, then nodded. “Yeah. This is it.”

The building was quieter, less crowded than the main science halls. The kind of place people only went if they had a reason to be there. You walked up the steps, pushing the door open with your shoulder. “Careful,” you said, holding it open for him. “Don’t let Dr. Bunsen’s credentials intimidate anyone.”

He snorted as he stepped inside. “I think they’ll be honored.”

You rolled your eyes, letting the door close behind you as you led the way down the hallway. “Lab’s just down here.”

Your footsteps echoed lightly against the floor as you walked, the air inside cooler, quieter. You reached the door and pushed it open, stepping inside. Gojo followed and then he halted completely, like he’d hit something invisible in the doorway. 

The room opened up wider than he expected.

Long tables stretched across the space, cluttered but intentionally arranged, each one holding equipment that wasn’t just there for show. Oscilloscopes, sensors, measurement devices, wires coiled neatly instead of tangled. Setups mid-experiment, paused like someone had stepped away with the intention of coming back. The lighting was softer than the hallway– overhead fluorescents, sure, but dimmed slightly, diffused across the room instead of glaring down.

It wasn’t loud. No bubbling beakers or chatter, since there was nobody else in the space, just a quiet hum from machines.Gojo’s grip on the box shifted slightly. He hadn’t even realized his hands had tightened.His eyes moved slowly across the room, taking in details without trying to, like muscle memory. Something in him already knew what to look for. The angle of a setup, how the wires were connected. His brain started filling in blanks automatically.

That’s measuring voltage.That setup’s probably for wave interference.They’re using—

He stopped himself. Or tried to, because the thoughts kept coming anyway. Effortless, familiar, not quite as forgotten as he’d thought. Memories overwhelmed his mind. Before, the classroom had always been empty, just like it was now. Empty except for him. 

It was always after school—late enough that the halls were quiet, the usual noise replaced with that hollow echo of distant lockers slamming somewhere far away.

Gojo had sat in the second row because he liked the angle, liked the way he could see the board clearly without craning his neck. Liked how close it felt to the center of things. His notebook was open, pages already filled with cramped writing, arrows connecting ideas, scribbles in the margins where he’d tried to correct himself mid-thought.

The problem on the board had been erased halfway through because they ran out of time. That had bothered him.

It always bothered him. So he stayed. He leaned forward, pen tapping lightly against the page as he stared at the half-finished equation, eyes narrowing slightly. “…No, that’s not right,” he muttered to himself.

He crossed something out. Rewrote it. Adjusted a variable. Tried again. And again. And again. Time passed without him noticing, it always did when he got like this. It was like his brain locked into something and refused to let go until it understood—not just memorized, not just copied. understood.

He didn’t hear the door open at first. Didn’t hear the until—

“What are you still doing here?”

Gojo blinked, glancing up. Masamichi Yaga, Gojo’s former idol and physics teacher, had stood by the doorway, bag slung over one shoulder, clearly halfway out for the day. “Oh,” Gojo said, sitting up a little. “I was just finishing that problem earlier–.”

Yaga frowned slightly. “…You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Gojo said. “I just—” He hesitated, then gestured vaguely at the board. “It didn’t sit right.. leaving it halfway done like that.”

There was a pause. Yaga looked at the board. Then at him. “…You’re trying to derive it yourself?”

Gojo shrugged. “Yeah.”

Another pause, longer this time. Then— Yaga set his bag down and walked back into the room, picking up a piece of chalk. “Show me what you’ve got so far.” 

It became a thing after that. Unofficially and unscheduled, Gojo started staying after class, more often than not. At first, the teachers would try to send him home.“You’ve done enough, Satoru” “You don’t need to go this far, Satoru.” “This is too far beyond the curriculum, Satoru”

But that didn’t stop him, if anything, it made him more curious. So eventually they stopped pushing him out. He learned the rhythm of it– the quiet of empty classrooms, how the world felt smaller when it was just him, a problem, and someone willing to guide him just enough.

Not giving answers– he hated when people did that. But he appreciated a nudge here and there, still allowing him to figure it out. He loved the feeling of something clicking into place after struggling with it. Loved the way his mind would stretch, pull, rearrange itself until suddenly, everything made sense. 

Which it definitely didn’t right now. He took a step further inside the lab, then another. The box felt lighter now, even though it wasn’t, or maybe he just wasn’t noticing it anymore. Something else had taken over. His chest constricted slightly in recognition,  gaze lingering on one of the tables near the center of the room. A half-completed setup sat there—notes scattered beside it, equations scribbled hastily across a sheet of paper, like someone had been in the middle of figuring something out and had to leave.

Gojo’s fingers twitched slightly against the side of the box. He could almost– almost step over there. Pick up the pen. Finish it. The thought came so naturally it startled him. His shoulders stiffened slightly, like his body didn’t quite know what to do with that.

“Snowman.”

Your voice. Somewhere to his right. Close. Real.

He didn’t respond, didn’t move. His eyes were still fixed on that table, the setup. 

That feeling.

“Gojo.”

Still nothing. He wasn’t trying to ignore you, he genuinely couldn’t quite pull himself out of it yet.

It had him just for a second too long.

“Snowman!”

That did it. He blinked, hard, surfacing from underwater. The room snapped back into focus around him—less hazy, less distant. You were standing right in front of him now, brows drawn together slightly, one hand resting on your hip. Concerned? Angry? A little bit of both. 

“…What is up with you and zoning out all the time?” you asked. “Am I really that boring?!”

Gojo stared at you for a second. The words didn’t fully register at first, but then they did, and he shook his head quickly. “No—what? No.” His voice sounded a little off, even to him.

He glanced past you, back at the room for just a second before forcing his eyes back to your face. Grounding.

“Is this… a physics lab?” he asked.

You let out a small sigh, like this was the least surprising part of the situation. “Yeah.” You stepped past him, reaching for the box. He let go of it automatically, barely noticing as you took the weight back. “We had to take what we could get,” you continued, already moving further into the room. “Chem labs are down, bio labs are packed, so this was basically the only option.” You set the box down on one of the tables, already starting to unpack it. “I mean, it’s not ideal, but we can make it work.”

Gojo stayed where he was for a second longer. Just a second. His eyes drifted one last time across the room, lingering. He didn’t want to look away yet, looking away meant letting go of something.

“…You okay?” Your voice again, softer this time.

He blinked, pulling himself fully back, nodding. “Yeah.” A beat. “…Yeah, I’m good.”

You watched him for a moment, not fully convinced, but you didn’t push. “Okay,” you said.

You turned back to the table, pulling things out of the box, organizing them like you always did—methodical, precise. There was a small pause. Then you glanced over your shoulder. “…Let’s get started on the lab then?”

Gojo exhaled slowly, rolled his shoulders once, like he was shaking something off, then stepped forward further into the room, into the space he hadn’t let himself touch in years.“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “Let’s do it.”

You didn’t waste any time once everything was set up, that was something Gojo noticed immediately. One second you were joking with him in the hallway, rolling your eyes at his fake credentials– and the next, you were moving with purpose. Opening the box, pulling things out one by one, organizing them across the table with this quiet efficiency that made it clear you’d done this a hundred times before.

“Okay,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, scanning the setup. “We’re gonna need—” Your fingers moved quickly. Glassware first. A clean beaker. Then another. Pipettes, carefully placed. A small rack of labeled vials. You checked each one, not  trusting them to be right unless you verified it yourself.

Gojo stood there for a second, watching, not daring to interrupt, just  taking it in.

Then you glanced up. “Goggles,” you said, pointing.

He blinked. “…Already?”

“Yes, already.”

He sighed dramatically, reaching over to grab a pair. “This is how they ruin the aesthetic.”

You snorted under your breath as you slid your own on. “Trust me, you’ll survive.”

He slipped them on anyway, adjusting them slightly over his eyes. You looked at him, paused, then pointed again. “Hairnet too.”

He froze. “…Absolutely not.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Snowman.”

“No.”

“Gojo.”

“I’m not hiding my hair,” he said, offended. “This is, like, fifty percent of my personality.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reached for one anyway. “It might all fall off if you get the wrong chemicals in it.”

He blinked. “…What?”

“Yeah,” you said casually, already tying your own hair back tighter. “Some compounds can be pretty harsh. Would be tragic, really.”

There was a beat. Then—

“…You’re lying.”

You looked at him, completely serious. “Am I?”

Another beat. He stared at you, then grabbed the hairnet. “Give it.”

You laughed as he tugged it over his head, carefully—too carefully—like he was trying to preserve every strand underneath. “Wow,” you said, leaning back slightly to take him in. “Dr. Bunsen is looking very professional right now.”

“Don’t talk to me,” he muttered, adjusting it again. “This is a temporary look.”

“You look great.”

“I look like I’ve given up.”

“You look safe.” 

He rolled his eyes but reached for a lab apron anyway, slipping it on with a quiet huff. “Alright,” he said. “What are we doing?”

You turned back to the table, picking up one of the vials. “We’re making a fluorescent dye,” you said. “From scratch.”

He raised an eyebrow. “…That sounds kinda cool.”

“It is.”

“And easy.”

You paused, slowly turning to look at him. “…Easy?”

He shrugged, leaning against the edge of the table. “I mean, it glows, right? How hard can it be?”

You stared at him for a second, smiling.. “Oh, okay.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “That sounded like a trap.”

“If it’s so easy,” you said sweetly, crossing your arms, “explain how it works.”

He opened his mouth. Paused. Closed it. “…Okay, hold on.”

You waited. He tapped his finger against the table, thinking. “…It’s, like… a reaction.”

You said nothing.

“…That produces… light.”

You raised an eyebrow. “How?”

He hesitated. “…Chemically?”

You smiled. “Go on.”

He exhaled. “…Checkmate.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Thought so.”

“Hey, I said it sounded easy,” he defended. “Didn’t say I knew how to do it.”

“Mhm.” You turned back to the setup, grabbing a clean beaker and placing it carefully in front of you. “Alright,” you said, slipping back into focus. “Watch.”

He leaned in slightly, closer than before, actually paying attention now.

“Fluorescent dyes work because of their molecular structure,” you explained, reaching for a small amber bottle. “They absorb light at one wavelength and then emit it at another—usually visible light.” 

You poured a small amount of clear liquid into the beaker. “First, we need a base solvent.”

He nodded slowly, eyes tracking your movements. “What is that?”

“Ethanol,” you said. “Helps dissolve everything evenly.”

“Got it.”

You reached for another vial, this one labeled more precisely. “Then we’re adding a precursor compound—something with a conjugated system.”

He tilted his head slightly. “…A what?”

You glanced at him briefly. “Basically a structure with alternating double bonds. It lets electrons move more freely.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

You poured a measured amount into the solution, swirling it gently. “And when those electrons get excited—like when they absorb UV light—they jump to a higher energy state.”

You grabbed a pipette, drawing up a small amount of another reagent. “Then when they fall back down, they release that energy as light.” You added the liquid carefully. “Which is what makes it glow.”

Gojo watched the way your hands moved—steady, precise. Confident.

“You make that sound way easier than it is,” he said.

You smirked slightly. “Because I know what I’m doing.”

“Show-off.”

“Not my fault.” You handed him a pipette. “Your turn.”

He blinked. “…You trust me?”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, stepping closer to the table. “Alright, Dr. Bunsen at your service.”

You pointed to one of the labeled vials. “Take that one. Slowly.”

He picked it up carefully, reading the label. “Okay…”

“Draw up about two milliliters.”

He followed your instructions, a little more focused than usual. You watched him, observing, nodding as he did it right, clean and controlled. “…Not bad,” you admitted.

He smirked slightly. “I have hidden talents.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

“Add it slowly,” you said, nodding toward the beaker.

He did, eyes narrowing slightly in concentration as he let the liquid drip in. The solution shifted—subtle, but noticeable. “Whoa,” he murmured. “It changed.”

“Yeah,” you said, watching it with him. “Reaction’s starting.” 

He glanced at you. “That’s actually kinda cool.”

“Told you.”

There was a small pause. 

“…You’re different like this,” he said.

You blinked, glancing up at him.

“What?”

“Like—” he gestured vaguely, “when you’re explaining stuff.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“…Different how?”

He hesitated, shrugging. “Just more… focused? I dig it.” His face immediately burned. ‘I dig it?’ smooth. Veeery smooth. 

You held his gaze for a second, then looked back down at the beaker, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I guess.”

He didn’t say anything else. 

Eventually, the reaction settled into something slower. It was evidently still working, but it was alive, an in-between stage where nothing dramatic was happening all at once, but everything was quietly changing underneath the surface.

You adjusted the position of the beaker under the small UV lamp, angling it just slightly. “Okay… give it a few minutes. But you can watch it change.,” you murmured.

Gojo leaned in. Close enough that his shoulder brushed yours for half a second before he stilled—then didn’t move away. He didn’t even notice, because the second the light hit, the solution in your beaker started responding. It was faint, barely there, a soft, ghost-like glow curling through the liquid like it was waking up, stretching into itself. A smooth, growing color bloomed through the solution, shifting as it caught the light at different angles. It wasn’t one flat shade either, it had depth. Movement. 

Gojo went completely still.“…Whoa.” It came out quiet. Real.

His eyes stayed locked on it, following the way the glow pulsed faintly as you tilted the beaker just a little more. “Wait—wait, do that again,” he said, leaning closer.

You huffed a soft laugh but tilted it again anyway. The color shifted, deepening and catching differently against the light. Gojo let out a quiet breath through his nose. “No way.”

You glanced at him and paused. He looked… different. More than just interested or impressed, he looked genuinely fascinated, like a kid pressed up against glass at an aquarium. His brows were pulled together slightly, eyes narrowed just enough to track every little change, every flicker of light,like he didn’t want to miss anything.

Your smile softened without you meaning to. “…You good?” you asked lightly.

He didn’t answer right away. “AH…It’s glowing!” he said, like that explained everything.

You let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. That’s kind of the point.”

“No, but like—” he gestured vaguely, still staring, “it’s actually glowing.”

You shook your head, amused. “Breaking news: fluorescent dye fluoresces.”

“Don’t ruin this for me.”

You laughed again, turning slightly back toward your notes. He finally tore his eyes away—reluctantly—and glanced down at his own beaker.

There was a pause.

“…Mine looks like sewage.”

You looked over, and yeah. It did, a murky, unfortunate shade of brown sat at the bottom, doing absolutely nothing interesting. You bit your lip, a small laugh slipping out. “Okay, in your defense,” you said, trying to sound serious, “that’s not entirely your fault.”

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s not?”

“…Mostly not.”

“Wow.”

“You probably just messed up a ratio somewhere,” you added, stepping closer to take a look. “Or added something too fast.”

He frowned slightly, looking down at it again. “I did exactly what you said.”

“Did you swirl after the second reagent?”

“…No.”

You nodded. “There it is.”

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. “Unbelievable.”

You laughed softly, nudging his arm with yours. “Hey, for your first time? Not bad.”

“It’s brown.”

“It’s experimental.”

“It’s ugly.”

You grinned. “Beauty is subjective.”

He glanced at your beaker, then back at his. “…That one’s objectively better.”

You hummed. “Yeah, that one’s kinda pretty.”

He looked back at yours again.

Still growing in color, shifting, working.

“…Squeaky,” he said after a second.

You looked up.

“You have to bring me to every lab you have now.”

You blinked. “…Every lab?”

“Yeah.”

“Gojo.”

“I’m serious.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you reached for your notebook. “They’re not all this fun.”

“I don’t care.”

“This one was a choice lab,” you explained, flipping to a clean page. “I picked it because I knew it’d be interesting.”

“Good choice.”

“Most of them are just repetitive procedures,” you added, starting to jot things down. “Measurements, controls, writing reports—it’s not always glowing liquids and cool reactions.”

He leaned against the table, watching you now, not the beaker, you. “You make it look fun,” he said.

You paused for half a second, then continued writing, a small smile tugging at your lips. “That’s because I like it.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Even the boring ones?”

“Especially the boring ones,” you said. “That’s where you actually learn stuff.”

He watched the way your pen moved across the page; quick, neat, organized. “What are you writing?” he asked.

“Data.”

“Already?”

“Yeah,” you said, not looking up. “Observations, reaction timing, color changes—everything matters.”

He hummed softly. “You’re so… put together.”

You snorted. “Absolutely not.”

“No, you are,” he insisted. “You’ve got color-coded pens, organized notes, you know exactly what you’re doing—”

“I’ve also had two mental breakdowns over a quiz since last week.”

“That’s balance.”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “Please.”

There was a small pause.

“…Can I try again?”

You looked up. His eyes flicked to the empty glassware nearby.. “…With the swirling this time.”

You smiled softly. “Yeah,” you said, nudging a clean beaker toward him. “Go ahead.”

He straightened slightly, rolling his shoulders back like he was resetting. “Okay.” He straightened slightly, rolling his shoulders back like he was resetting. You watched him as he started again, more careful this time.

New beaker. Clean slate. Shoulders squared just a little straighter, like this time he was actually going to win. “Alright,” he muttered under his breath, reaching for the ethanol again. “Swirl. Don’t rush. Don’t mess it up.”

You didn’t say anything this time, just watched, let him do it. He measured more carefully now—slower, steadier. His movements weren’t sloppy or rushed like before; there was intention behind them, a quiet focus that crept in when he actually tried. You noticed that, tucked it away somewhere in the back of your mind.

He added the solvent. Swirled. Added the precursor. Swirled again, this time deliberately, trying to make a point. “See?” he said, glancing at you. “Learning.”

You hummed, unimpressed on purpose. “We’ll see.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, then went back to it, adding the next reagent with a little more care than before. The liquid shifted, and for a second—a second—it looked promising, a faint change in clarity. A hint of something forming.

Gojo leaned in. “Wait—wait—”

Then it settled back into that same dull, murky brown. Flat. Lifeless. Absolutely refusing to do anything interesting.

“…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

You tried to hold back a cackle but failed. “Okay—okay, now it’s a little your fault.”

He groaned, dragging both hands down his face, hairnet crinkling softly. “I did everything right that time.”

“Almost everything.”

“What did I miss?”

You stepped closer, peering into his beaker again. “Your temperature’s off,” you said, tapping the side lightly. “You didn’t let it stabilize long enough before adding the last reagent.”

He stared at it. Then at you. Then back at it. “…This is rigged.”

“It’s chemistry.”

“It’s evil.”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder lightly. “You’ll get it eventually.”

“I don’t have time for ‘eventually,’” he muttered. “I have a reputation.”

“Oh, I’m sure your frat boy image will recover from one failed dye experiment.”

He shot you a look. “Don’t mock my legacy.”

“Your legacy is brown goo.”

“Wow.”

You grinned, turning back to your own beaker. “Alright,” you said, picking it up slightly, examining it under the light. “Mine’s done.”

Gojo perked up immediately, leaning in again.

“…That looks the same.”

You glanced at him.

“What?”

“It looks the same,” he repeated, squinting at it. “It’s just… pink. It’s not glowing or anything.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s because you’re looking at it under normal light.”

He frowned. “…Okay?”

You smiled. “Turn off the lights.”

There was a pause. “…Why?”

“Just do it.”

He hesitated for half a second longer, then shrugged, walking over to the switch by the door. “Alright, Dr. Mysterious—”

Click. The room fell into darkness. It wasn’t pitch black, just dim enough that shapes blurred, outlines softened.

And then the beaker in your hand lit up.

Neon pink.

Bright. Electric. Almost unreal.

It glowed like it had its own heartbeat, the color swirling gently as the liquid shifted in your grip, casting soft pink light against your fingers, your wrist, the edge of the table.

Gojo froze. Actually froze. “…No way.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. “Told you.”

He stepped closer immediately, eyes wide, completely locked on it. “No—no way.”

He leaned in, like getting closer would somehow make it more real. “You made that… from that?” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the now-irrelevant pile of powders and clear liquids.

You laughed softly. “Yeah.”

“That’s insane.” 

“I know.”

He stared at it like he was trying to memorize it, he couldn’t quite believe it was happening right in front of him. “You made—” he cut himself off, shaking his head, laughing under his breath. “That’s actually crazy.”

You tilted the beaker slightly, watching the glow shift again. An idea. You glanced at him, at the way he was still completely mesmerized. And before you could second guess it, you dipped your fingers into the beaker.

Gojo didn’t even notice at first, still staring, processing

Until you reached forward and smeared a bright streak of neon pink across his shirt. Right over his chest.

There was a split second of silence.

Then—

“HEY—!” Gojo jumped back, stumbling slightly as he looked down at himself, then back at you. “WHAT—are you—are you trying to kill me?!”

You were already laughing, actually laughing. “It’s non-toxic, relax!”

“You dunked your hand in chemicals and then put it on me!”

“Yeah!”

“That’s insane behavior!” He looked down again, eyes wide as the pink glow soaked into the fabric, lighting up against the dark material of his shirt and apron. “…Okay that’s kinda cool.”

You snorted. “Thought so.”

He looked back up at you, and something in his expression shifted. Subtle. Mischievous. Dangerous. “…Oh, you’re done.”

Your smile faltered slightly. “…What.”

He didn’t answer, just slowly dipped his own hand into the beaker. You watched it happen in real time. “…Gojo.”

He pulled his hand out, neon pink dripping faintly from his fingers. “…Gojo.” He took a step toward you, slow, deliberate.

You took a step back. “Don’t—”

Another step forward.

You laughed, already backing away faster now. “Don’t you dare—”

“Oh, I dare,” he said, voice low with amusement.

You turned and ran. He shot after you. “This is completely against building rules!” you yelped, darting around one of the tables.

“Rules are made to be broken!” he shot back, chasing after you. It made everything feel… surreal, like you were moving through shadows, flashes of neon catching on surfaces, on skin, on fabric. You ducked around another table. He followed, faster.

“You’re insane!” you laughed, breathless.

“You started it!”

“I did not think you’d escalate this far!”

“That’s on you!”

You squeaked when he got too close, dodging around a stool, nearly tripping over your own feet.

“Careful—” he called, laughing.

“Don’t tell me to be careful when you’re chasing me with chemicals!”

“They’re safe chemicals! You said that like five seconds ago!”

You spotted an opening, hopping up on the lab table to escape. Your hands braced behind you as you scooched back just enough to put space between you and him–

But it didn’t work. He was already there, one step, that’s all it took. 

His hands came down on either side of you, palms flat against the table, boxing you in without actually touching you. The movement was quick, instinctive— he didn’t think about it, just did it.

And suddenly there was nowhere to go. Your back pressed lightly against the cool surface behind you, legs bent at the edge of the table, his frame standing between them without quite touching. Close. Too close.

The laughter died in your throat slowly, getting caught somewhere on the way out, because the second you looked up, he wasn’t laughing anymore. Not really. The grin he had while chasing you was still there, but it had faded, softened into something quieter. His breathing was a little heavier, chest rising and falling just slightly faster than normal.

Your own breath mirrored it without you realizing. For a second, neither of you said anything. The room was still dim, the only real light coming from the faint neon glow staining his shirt, your hands, the beaker somewhere behind you.

It painted everything differently, softer, warmer. His eyes looked darker like this, more focused– completely on you. Your heart did something painfully stupid in your chest, too fast, too loud, like it forgot how to act normal. You became painfully aware of everything at once.

How close he was. How his arms were braced around you. How easy it would be to lean forward— How easy it would be to—

You swallowed. “…You’re breaking, like, ten lab safety laws right now,” you said, but your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.

He didn’t move, didn't look away. “Worth it,” he murmured. And it wasn’t cocky this time, wasn't teasing. Just honest.

That did something to you, something small, but noticeable.Your fingers curled slightly against the table under you. He shifted just a fraction closer, not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel the heat of him now, even in the cool room.

Your breath caught just barely. And he noticed. Of course he did.

His gaze flickered, quick, subtle, down to your lips for half a second before coming back up to your eyes. It was small, but it was there, and it changed everything. The air felt heavier suddenly, thicker, something building in the space between you that neither of you knew how to deal with just yet.

Then slowly, he lifted his hand, the one still faintly glowing. You tensed instinctively, expecting him to smear it across your shirt like you had done before, to break the moment with something stupid—

But he didn’t. His hand paused, hesitated, choosing something different. Gentler. His fingers slid lightly along your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone as he cupped your face. Soft. Careful. The contact was warm, grounding.

And for a second you forgot how to breathe.

His thumb moved, dragging the neon pink across your skin in a slow, deliberate streak, intentionally. You felt it more than you saw it, the slight turn of his thumb, the warmth of his touch, the way his hand steadied your face without holding too tight.

Your lips parted slightly without meaning to.

And then—

A soft giggle slipped out, quiet, breathless. “…That’s unfair,” you murmured.

His mouth curved, just a little. “Is it?”

“You didn’t even attack me properly.”

“I  just upgraded my strategy, Squeaky”

You huffed a small laugh, your hands instinctively coming up to lightly wrap around his wrist, not pushing him away, just laying there. Close.

He stilled for half a second at that, then letting his hand drop slowly. The absence of it felt louder than it should. You both noticed, but neither of you said anything about it. He stepped back just enough to give you space again.

The moment shifted with it, loosening slightly, the tension easing but not disappearing completely. It lingered in the way you were still looking at each other. His smile came back, that familiar one, the one with the slight dimple, easy and a little crooked. But there was something softer underneath it now, something you hadn’t seen before.

“If you’re into this whole neon thing,” he said, voice lighter again, like he was giving you an out, “you should come to the frat party tomorrow night.”

You blinked, still a little caught in the moment. “…Another frat party?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging slightly. “Glow-in-the-dark theme.”

You glanced down at your hands, still faintly glowing, then back up at him. A small smile spread across your face. “…Of course it is.”

He grinned. “It fits, doesn’t it?”

You let out a quiet laugh. It did. Way more than you wanted to admit. You met his eyes again and nodded. “I’ll be there.”

Something in his expression shifted, quick, subtle, but real. He hadn’t been completely sure what you would say. He was glad you agreed. 

“Yeah?” he asks, softer.

“Yeah,” you repeat.

And this time, neither of you looked away immediately.

Thank you so much for reading.. please let me know your thought/theories! Love getting feedback on my work <3

@hatoslay divider creds

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[lacrimadreams]

Put Him In His Place ᥫ᭡. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Chapter 04 -> previous

pairings - Lovesick!Fratjo x Badass!reader (f/m)

WC- 7.4k

♡ ₊˚‧ WARNINGS :: No use of Y/N :: Frat boy Gojo:: Yearner Gojo :: Fluff:: TENSION!:: Nerd Fratjo :: Eventual smut -> (more tags coming soon) :: Strong female MC :: Neuroscience Major MC:: HEAT :: Nicknames:: (probably more to come!)

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: Heyyy here is chapter 4. I am currently on a writing grind so chapter five should be out soon. For my KMLYI and TROU readers, I love you and updates are definitely coming. 🥹 I am just currently hyperfixated on this series. I promise I will feed you. !🎧ྀི♪⋆.✮MUSIC RECS: - Walk to Class - Malcom Todd - Stargazing - The Neighborhood - What is Love (12" mix) - Haddaway

It had been about two weeks of late-night texts, random calls that stretched longer than either of you planned, library sessions that somehow turned into inside jokes and shared snacks and the quiet kind of comfort that crept in without asking. Two weeks of not defining anything. Just… existing in it.

Gojo spotted you before you spotted him. He was cutting across campus, one hand hooked lazily in the pocket of his hoodie, the other holding his phone as he half listened to an alpha-male podcast Sukana had insisted he try. He was taking a different- than-usual route home after leaving his class early because of… no reason in particular. Just a small detour through the science department for some added steps, no biggie. The afternoon was busy, students moving between classes, voices overlapping, the usual rush of campus life that he’d learned to tune out.

But then he spotted you across the quad, and just like that, everything else blurred a little. You were walking beside one of the professors; older, sharp posture, the kind of presence that made people instinctively stand straighter when he passed. You had a box in your arms, balanced against your hip, but that didn’t stop you from talking. 

And you were talking a lot. Hands moving as you explained something. Fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the box when you emphasized a point. Your brows pulled together slightly—not in confusion, but in concentration.

That look. 

Gojo slowed his steps without realizing it, because this wasn’t the version of you he was used to. This wasn’t the one who laughed at his stupid jokes or teased him over a test at four in the morning. You were in your element, completely focused, confident and comfortable. You belonged there, right in the middle of that conversation, holding your own without hesitation. 

The professor nodded as you spoke, occasionally interjecting, and you responded easily—no awkward pauses, no second-guessing.

Gojo leaned lightly against a nearby railing, watching you as he took his airpods out. Not in a creepy way, at least to him, just… observing. Of course she’s like this, he thought. Of course you were good at this too. There was a strange kind of pride in it. Not the loud, boastful kind. Just something quieter, sitting low in his chest, warm and steady. He didn’t interrupt. Just waited.

Eventually, the conversation slowed. The professor said something final, and you nodded, adjusting the box slightly in your arms, your grip tightening just a bit like it was starting to get heavy. “Thank you again,” you said, voice polite but still warm.

“Of course,” the professor replied. “Let me know if there are any further complications with the relocation.”

You nodded. “Will do.”

And then he was gone, just like that, leaving you standing there alone, shifting the weight of the box again with a small exhale.

Gojo pushed off the railing immediately. He didn’t even think about it, just started walking toward you. You didn’t notice him right away.

You were too busy adjusting your hold on the box, trying to balance it more comfortably against your hip. Then you turned and there he was. Your whole expression changed in real time: surprise flickered across your face first, then recognition, then—

That smile.

“Gojo?”

God.

That smile.

He felt it hit him immediately, right in the chest like it always did—quick and a little too strong for something that should’ve been normal by now. “Hey, Squeaky,” he said, trying to sound casual.

You blinked at him, like you were still processing the fact that he was just… here. “What are you doing here?” you asked, shifting the box again. “I thought you had class right now.”

“I did,” he said easily.

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “…Did?”

“I made a decision.”

You huffed a small laugh. “Wow. Academic dedication at its finest.”

“Thank you,” he nodded seriously. “I work very hard at not working.”

You shook your head, but you were smiling. He let his gaze drop to the box in your arms. It was heavier than you were letting on—that much was obvious. Your fingers were curled a little tighter around the edges, your shoulders subtly tense. “What’s all that?” he asked.

You followed his gaze, then sighed, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“Don’t even ask.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

You adjusted the box again, letting out a small, exasperated breath. “Chem lab rooms have a gas leak,” you said. “So now everything’s getting moved to a different building until they fix it.”

Gojo blinked. “…That sounds incredibly unsafe.”

“It probably is.”

“And they’re making you carry stuff?” You shrugged slightly, though the movement was limited by the box. “I mean– We all have to help by carrying our own, at least. Equipment, samples, notes—everything. And I have one I need to work on asap unfortunately.”

He watched you for a second, then glanced at the box again before looking back up at you. A slow grin spread across his face. “Dangerous chemicals, hm?... Can I come?”

You blinked. “Come?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping a little closer. “I wanna see this whole lab setup you’ve got going on.”

You let out a short laugh, like you weren’t sure if he was serious. “You say that now.”

“I mean it.” 

You studied him for a second. Really looked at him. There was something genuine there. Curiosity, sure—but also something softer. Like he just truly wanted to be around.

“It would be fun,” you admitted slowly. “But—” You adjusted the box again. “You need a science lanyard to be in the lab. Like, actually. They’ll kick you out if you don’t have one.””

Gojo didn’t even pause. “Okay.”

You frowned. “…Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not something you can just—”

He was already leaning forward, peering into the box in your arms. “Hold on.”

“Snowman—”

Too late. He reached in, shifting aside a stack of neatly stacked beakers, fingers moving like he was rummaging through something that definitely didn’t belong to him.

“Wait—don’t—”

“Got one.”

You blinked. “What—”

You stared as he pulled it out, then instinctively leaned in to inspect the name printed on the plastic tab. There was a brief moment of silence.

And then you laughed. Full on cackled. “Absolutely not.”

Gojo glanced down at the badge. then back at you. “What?”

You pointed at it, barely able to keep a straight face. “Read it.”

He looked again.

Dr. Reginald T. Bunsen

He sputtered out a laugh.“…That’s perfect.”

You shook your head, still laughing. “You cannot wear that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s clearly fake.”

He scoffed. “It says ‘Doctor.’ Show some respect.”

“Gojo–”

“Dr. Bunsen, actually.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh again. “This is how we get in trouble.”

He was already slipping it over his head. “There.”

The lanyard settled against his chest. He adjusted it like he was genuinely preparing for a professional setting. “Well?” He spread his arms slightly. “Do I look qualified?”

You looked at him..

Casual hoodie. Messy white hair. And a fake ID that said Dr. Reginald T. Bunsen.

You exhaled sharply, trying to contain another laugh. “You look ridiculous.”

He opened his mouth in faux offense. “I look distinguished. The only thing pending is a crisp lab coat like yours.”

You snorted “You look like a squatter. Put on a lab coat and you’ll be a mad scientist squatter.”

He grinned. “Worth it.”

You shook your head again, still smiling as you shifted the box—Or tried to.

Because suddenly, the weight was gone. You blinked. “…Hey—”

Gojo had already taken it like it was nothing. He adjusted it in his arms, balancing it easily against his side.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said.

“I know.”

“Then why—”

He shrugged, glancing down at you briefly. “Because you look like you’ve been carrying it for a while.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. There wasn’t really a response to that. “…Thanks,” you said finally, a little quieter.

He nodded once, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Which way?”

You hesitated for half a second.

Then pointed. “…That building.”

He shifted the box slightly, securing his grip.

“Lead the way, Squeaky.”

You started walking next to him, close enough that your shoulders brushed once, lightly. Neither of you commented on it. The campus noise picked back up around you as you walked, but it felt muted somehow. It wasn’t the focus. But this: walking side by side, talking about nothing and everything, heading somewhere together, it was.

The path to the other building wasn’t far, but it wasn’t exactly short either. It was long enough for conversation to settle in, for the rhythm of walking next to each other smooth out in something comfortable. 

At first, you started talking about something random. Something about one of your professors—how he pronounced “mitochondria” differently every single time like he was trying out new accents for fun.

“And I swear,” you were saying, adjusting the strap of your bag as you walked, “last week he said it like mee-toe-chon-dree-ah and I almost lost it in the middle of class.”

Gojo nodded. “Tragic.”

“Right? Like pick one and commit.”

“Consistency is important.”

“Exactly.”

He sounded like he was listening. And technically he was, just not in the way he should’ve been.Because while you talked, Gojo’s attention kept drifting, not away from you exactly, just… deeper into you.

The way your hands moved when you explained things, even something as stupid as a professor’s pronunciation habits. The way your eyebrows lifted when you emphasized a point. The way your mouth curved when you were trying not to laugh at your own story. Your voice, too; easy, animated, slipping between teasing and thoughtful without effort. He found himself watching your face more than anything else, tracking every expression like it mattered, a TV show he couldn’t miss.

“…and then Becca had the audacity to tell me I was overreacting,” you continued, glancing over at him. “Which—first of all, I was not—”

Gojo nodded again. “Obviously not.”

“—because if someone mispronounces something that many times, it becomes a problem, y'know? I start to question if he knows the material he’s teaching us–”

“Mhm.”

“—and—” You paused, your steps slowing slightly. “…Gojo.”

He blinked. “…Yeah?”

You stopped walking entirely, turning to face him. Your eyes narrowed just a little, lips twitching like you were holding back a smile. “Hellooo?” you said, waving your hand in front of his face. “Earth to snowman?”

He froze for half a second, then blinked again, snapping back like someone had flipped a switch. “…I’m here.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve said ‘tragic,’ ‘consistency is important,’ and ‘obviously not’ in the last two minutes.”

He paused. “…Those are all valid responses.”

You stared at him, huffing out a laugh, shaking your head. “You weren’t listening.”

“I was listening.”

“What did I just say then?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. “…You were talking about mitochondria.”

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Oh my god.”

He grinned, a little sheepish this time. “Hey, I got the general theme.”

“You’re about to get a knuckle sandwich.” You started walking again, and he fell back into step beside you without missing a beat. “Where’d you even come from just now?” you asked, glancing at him.

He shrugged, shifting the box slightly in his arms. “Nowhere.”

You gave him a look. “Mhm.”

There was a small pause, then you added, more casually— “So… you skipped class.”

He hummed. “Allegedly.”

You bumped your shoulder lightly into his. “Don’t ‘allegedly’ me. You literally just said you made a decision.”

“It was a good decision.”

“How?”

“Because now I’m here.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a hint of a smile there. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

He glanced down at you briefly. “What was the question?”

“How do you just skip class like that?” you said. “Don’t you have, like, grades to worry about?”

He shrugged again. “Not really.”

You frowned slightly. “…What do you mean ‘not really’?”

“I mean,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world, “I have hundreds in everything.”

You stopped walking again. “…You have what?”

He stopped too, turning slightly to look at you. “Hundreds.”

“In everything?”

“Yeah.”

You stared at him. Actually stared. “…You’re joking.”

I’m not.”

“You’re telling me you skip class and still have hundreds in everything?”

“Yeah.”

There was a pause. A long one.

“…That’s insane.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shifting the box again. “It’s not that impressive.”

“Not that impressive?” you repeated, disbelief written all over your face. “Gojo, most people are fighting for their lives to get like a seventy.”

He shrugged. “It’s an easy major.”

You blinked. “…Business?”

“Yeah.”

You considered that for a second, then nodded slowly. “I mean… okay, yeah, it’s not engineering level suffering.”

“Exactly.”

“But,” you added, pointing at him slightly, “that doesn’t make hundreds in everything normal.”

He waved it off. “It’s fine.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“No, it’s not just ‘fine.’ Are you in the honors college?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think they even have the business major as an option for the honors school. I mean, it is kind of for future bums, so.”

You studied him for a second. “But evidently you aren’t a future bum.”

Gojo felt something in his chest tighten slightly. Just a little. He smirked, defaulting. “Careful, Squeaky. You’re gonna inflate my ego.”

You didn’t smile this time. “Your ego’s already inflated.”

“Fair.”

But you were still looking at him like you were trying to figure something out.

He looked away first. “…We’re here, right?” he said, nodding toward the building ahead.

You glanced up, then nodded. “Yeah. This is it.”

The building was quieter, less crowded than the main science halls. The kind of place people only went if they had a reason to be there. You walked up the steps, pushing the door open with your shoulder. “Careful,” you said, holding it open for him. “Don’t let Dr. Bunsen’s credentials intimidate anyone.”

He snorted as he stepped inside. “I think they’ll be honored.”

You rolled your eyes, letting the door close behind you as you led the way down the hallway. “Lab’s just down here.”

Your footsteps echoed lightly against the floor as you walked, the air inside cooler, quieter. You reached the door and pushed it open, stepping inside. Gojo followed and then he halted completely, like he’d hit something invisible in the doorway. 

The room opened up wider than he expected.

Long tables stretched across the space, cluttered but intentionally arranged, each one holding equipment that wasn’t just there for show. Oscilloscopes, sensors, measurement devices, wires coiled neatly instead of tangled. Setups mid-experiment, paused like someone had stepped away with the intention of coming back. The lighting was softer than the hallway– overhead fluorescents, sure, but dimmed slightly, diffused across the room instead of glaring down.

It wasn’t loud. No bubbling beakers or chatter, since there was nobody else in the space, just a quiet hum from machines.Gojo’s grip on the box shifted slightly. He hadn’t even realized his hands had tightened.His eyes moved slowly across the room, taking in details without trying to, like muscle memory. Something in him already knew what to look for. The angle of a setup, how the wires were connected. His brain started filling in blanks automatically.

That’s measuring voltage.That setup’s probably for wave interference.They’re using—

He stopped himself. Or tried to, because the thoughts kept coming anyway. Effortless, familiar, not quite as forgotten as he’d thought. Memories overwhelmed his mind. Before, the classroom had always been empty, just like it was now. Empty except for him. 

It was always after school—late enough that the halls were quiet, the usual noise replaced with that hollow echo of distant lockers slamming somewhere far away.

Gojo had sat in the second row because he liked the angle, liked the way he could see the board clearly without craning his neck. Liked how close it felt to the center of things. His notebook was open, pages already filled with cramped writing, arrows connecting ideas, scribbles in the margins where he’d tried to correct himself mid-thought.

The problem on the board had been erased halfway through because they ran out of time. That had bothered him.

It always bothered him. So he stayed. He leaned forward, pen tapping lightly against the page as he stared at the half-finished equation, eyes narrowing slightly. “…No, that’s not right,” he muttered to himself.

He crossed something out. Rewrote it. Adjusted a variable. Tried again. And again. And again. Time passed without him noticing, it always did when he got like this. It was like his brain locked into something and refused to let go until it understood—not just memorized, not just copied. understood.

He didn’t hear the door open at first. Didn’t hear the until—

“What are you still doing here?”

Gojo blinked, glancing up. Masamichi Yaga, Gojo’s former idol and physics teacher, had stood by the doorway, bag slung over one shoulder, clearly halfway out for the day. “Oh,” Gojo said, sitting up a little. “I was just finishing that problem earlier–.”

Yaga frowned slightly. “…You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Gojo said. “I just—” He hesitated, then gestured vaguely at the board. “It didn’t sit right.. leaving it halfway done like that.”

There was a pause. Yaga looked at the board. Then at him. “…You’re trying to derive it yourself?”

Gojo shrugged. “Yeah.”

Another pause, longer this time. Then— Yaga set his bag down and walked back into the room, picking up a piece of chalk. “Show me what you’ve got so far.” 

It became a thing after that. Unofficially and unscheduled, Gojo started staying after class, more often than not. At first, the teachers would try to send him home.“You’ve done enough, Satoru” “You don’t need to go this far, Satoru.” “This is too far beyond the curriculum, Satoru”

But that didn’t stop him, if anything, it made him more curious. So eventually they stopped pushing him out. He learned the rhythm of it– the quiet of empty classrooms, how the world felt smaller when it was just him, a problem, and someone willing to guide him just enough.

Not giving answers– he hated when people did that. But he appreciated a nudge here and there, still allowing him to figure it out. He loved the feeling of something clicking into place after struggling with it. Loved the way his mind would stretch, pull, rearrange itself until suddenly, everything made sense. 

Which it definitely didn’t right now. He took a step further inside the lab, then another. The box felt lighter now, even though it wasn’t, or maybe he just wasn’t noticing it anymore. Something else had taken over. His chest constricted slightly in recognition,  gaze lingering on one of the tables near the center of the room. A half-completed setup sat there—notes scattered beside it, equations scribbled hastily across a sheet of paper, like someone had been in the middle of figuring something out and had to leave.

Gojo’s fingers twitched slightly against the side of the box. He could almost– almost step over there. Pick up the pen. Finish it. The thought came so naturally it startled him. His shoulders stiffened slightly, like his body didn’t quite know what to do with that.

“Snowman.”

Your voice. Somewhere to his right. Close. Real.

He didn’t respond, didn’t move. His eyes were still fixed on that table, the setup. 

That feeling.

“Gojo.”

Still nothing. He wasn’t trying to ignore you, he genuinely couldn’t quite pull himself out of it yet.

It had him just for a second too long.

“Snowman!”

That did it. He blinked, hard, surfacing from underwater. The room snapped back into focus around him—less hazy, less distant. You were standing right in front of him now, brows drawn together slightly, one hand resting on your hip. Concerned? Angry? A little bit of both. 

“…What is up with you and zoning out all the time?” you asked. “Am I really that boring?!”

Gojo stared at you for a second. The words didn’t fully register at first, but then they did, and he shook his head quickly. “No—what? No.” His voice sounded a little off, even to him.

He glanced past you, back at the room for just a second before forcing his eyes back to your face. Grounding.

“Is this… a physics lab?” he asked.

You let out a small sigh, like this was the least surprising part of the situation. “Yeah.” You stepped past him, reaching for the box. He let go of it automatically, barely noticing as you took the weight back. “We had to take what we could get,” you continued, already moving further into the room. “Chem labs are down, bio labs are packed, so this was basically the only option.” You set the box down on one of the tables, already starting to unpack it. “I mean, it’s not ideal, but we can make it work.”

Gojo stayed where he was for a second longer. Just a second. His eyes drifted one last time across the room, lingering. He didn’t want to look away yet, looking away meant letting go of something.

“…You okay?” Your voice again, softer this time.

He blinked, pulling himself fully back, nodding. “Yeah.” A beat. “…Yeah, I’m good.”

You watched him for a moment, not fully convinced, but you didn’t push. “Okay,” you said.

You turned back to the table, pulling things out of the box, organizing them like you always did—methodical, precise. There was a small pause. Then you glanced over your shoulder. “…Let’s get started on the lab then?”

Gojo exhaled slowly, rolled his shoulders once, like he was shaking something off, then stepped forward further into the room, into the space he hadn’t let himself touch in years.“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “Let’s do it.”

You didn’t waste any time once everything was set up, that was something Gojo noticed immediately. One second you were joking with him in the hallway, rolling your eyes at his fake credentials– and the next, you were moving with purpose. Opening the box, pulling things out one by one, organizing them across the table with this quiet efficiency that made it clear you’d done this a hundred times before.

“Okay,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, scanning the setup. “We’re gonna need—” Your fingers moved quickly. Glassware first. A clean beaker. Then another. Pipettes, carefully placed. A small rack of labeled vials. You checked each one, not  trusting them to be right unless you verified it yourself.

Gojo stood there for a second, watching, not daring to interrupt, just  taking it in.

Then you glanced up. “Goggles,” you said, pointing.

He blinked. “…Already?”

“Yes, already.”

He sighed dramatically, reaching over to grab a pair. “This is how they ruin the aesthetic.”

You snorted under your breath as you slid your own on. “Trust me, you’ll survive.”

He slipped them on anyway, adjusting them slightly over his eyes. You looked at him, paused, then pointed again. “Hairnet too.”

He froze. “…Absolutely not.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Snowman.”

“No.”

“Gojo.”

“I’m not hiding my hair,” he said, offended. “This is, like, fifty percent of my personality.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reached for one anyway. “It might all fall off if you get the wrong chemicals in it.”

He blinked. “…What?”

“Yeah,” you said casually, already tying your own hair back tighter. “Some compounds can be pretty harsh. Would be tragic, really.”

There was a beat. Then—

“…You’re lying.”

You looked at him, completely serious. “Am I?”

Another beat. He stared at you, then grabbed the hairnet. “Give it.”

You laughed as he tugged it over his head, carefully—too carefully—like he was trying to preserve every strand underneath. “Wow,” you said, leaning back slightly to take him in. “Dr. Bunsen is looking very professional right now.”

“Don’t talk to me,” he muttered, adjusting it again. “This is a temporary look.”

“You look great.”

“I look like I’ve given up.”

“You look safe.” 

He rolled his eyes but reached for a lab apron anyway, slipping it on with a quiet huff. “Alright,” he said. “What are we doing?”

You turned back to the table, picking up one of the vials. “We’re making a fluorescent dye,” you said. “From scratch.”

He raised an eyebrow. “…That sounds kinda cool.”

“It is.”

“And easy.”

You paused, slowly turning to look at him. “…Easy?”

He shrugged, leaning against the edge of the table. “I mean, it glows, right? How hard can it be?”

You stared at him for a second, smiling.. “Oh, okay.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “That sounded like a trap.”

“If it’s so easy,” you said sweetly, crossing your arms, “explain how it works.”

He opened his mouth. Paused. Closed it. “…Okay, hold on.”

You waited. He tapped his finger against the table, thinking. “…It’s, like… a reaction.”

You said nothing.

“…That produces… light.”

You raised an eyebrow. “How?”

He hesitated. “…Chemically?”

You smiled. “Go on.”

He exhaled. “…Checkmate.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Thought so.”

“Hey, I said it sounded easy,” he defended. “Didn’t say I knew how to do it.”

“Mhm.” You turned back to the setup, grabbing a clean beaker and placing it carefully in front of you. “Alright,” you said, slipping back into focus. “Watch.”

He leaned in slightly, closer than before, actually paying attention now.

“Fluorescent dyes work because of their molecular structure,” you explained, reaching for a small amber bottle. “They absorb light at one wavelength and then emit it at another—usually visible light.” 

You poured a small amount of clear liquid into the beaker. “First, we need a base solvent.”

He nodded slowly, eyes tracking your movements. “What is that?”

“Ethanol,” you said. “Helps dissolve everything evenly.”

“Got it.”

You reached for another vial, this one labeled more precisely. “Then we’re adding a precursor compound—something with a conjugated system.”

He tilted his head slightly. “…A what?”

You glanced at him briefly. “Basically a structure with alternating double bonds. It lets electrons move more freely.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

You poured a measured amount into the solution, swirling it gently. “And when those electrons get excited—like when they absorb UV light—they jump to a higher energy state.”

You grabbed a pipette, drawing up a small amount of another reagent. “Then when they fall back down, they release that energy as light.” You added the liquid carefully. “Which is what makes it glow.”

Gojo watched the way your hands moved—steady, precise. Confident.

“You make that sound way easier than it is,” he said.

You smirked slightly. “Because I know what I’m doing.”

“Show-off.”

“Not my fault.” You handed him a pipette. “Your turn.”

He blinked. “…You trust me?”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, stepping closer to the table. “Alright, Dr. Bunsen at your service.”

You pointed to one of the labeled vials. “Take that one. Slowly.”

He picked it up carefully, reading the label. “Okay…”

“Draw up about two milliliters.”

He followed your instructions, a little more focused than usual. You watched him, observing, nodding as he did it right, clean and controlled. “…Not bad,” you admitted.

He smirked slightly. “I have hidden talents.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

“Add it slowly,” you said, nodding toward the beaker.

He did, eyes narrowing slightly in concentration as he let the liquid drip in. The solution shifted—subtle, but noticeable. “Whoa,” he murmured. “It changed.”

“Yeah,” you said, watching it with him. “Reaction’s starting.” 

He glanced at you. “That’s actually kinda cool.”

“Told you.”

There was a small pause. 

“…You’re different like this,” he said.

You blinked, glancing up at him.

“What?”

“Like—” he gestured vaguely, “when you’re explaining stuff.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“…Different how?”

He hesitated, shrugging. “Just more… focused? I dig it.” His face immediately burned. ‘I dig it?’ smooth. Veeery smooth. 

You held his gaze for a second, then looked back down at the beaker, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I guess.”

He didn’t say anything else. 

Eventually, the reaction settled into something slower. It was evidently still working, but it was alive, an in-between stage where nothing dramatic was happening all at once, but everything was quietly changing underneath the surface.

You adjusted the position of the beaker under the small UV lamp, angling it just slightly. “Okay… give it a few minutes. But you can watch it change.,” you murmured.

Gojo leaned in. Close enough that his shoulder brushed yours for half a second before he stilled—then didn’t move away. He didn’t even notice, because the second the light hit, the solution in your beaker started responding. It was faint, barely there, a soft, ghost-like glow curling through the liquid like it was waking up, stretching into itself. A smooth, growing color bloomed through the solution, shifting as it caught the light at different angles. It wasn’t one flat shade either, it had depth. Movement. 

Gojo went completely still.“…Whoa.” It came out quiet. Real.

His eyes stayed locked on it, following the way the glow pulsed faintly as you tilted the beaker just a little more. “Wait—wait, do that again,” he said, leaning closer.

You huffed a soft laugh but tilted it again anyway. The color shifted, deepening and catching differently against the light. Gojo let out a quiet breath through his nose. “No way.”

You glanced at him and paused. He looked… different. More than just interested or impressed, he looked genuinely fascinated, like a kid pressed up against glass at an aquarium. His brows were pulled together slightly, eyes narrowed just enough to track every little change, every flicker of light,like he didn’t want to miss anything.

Your smile softened without you meaning to. “…You good?” you asked lightly.

He didn’t answer right away. “AH…It’s glowing!” he said, like that explained everything.

You let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. That’s kind of the point.”

“No, but like—” he gestured vaguely, still staring, “it’s actually glowing.”

You shook your head, amused. “Breaking news: fluorescent dye fluoresces.”

“Don’t ruin this for me.”

You laughed again, turning slightly back toward your notes. He finally tore his eyes away—reluctantly—and glanced down at his own beaker.

There was a pause.

“…Mine looks like sewage.”

You looked over, and yeah. It did, a murky, unfortunate shade of brown sat at the bottom, doing absolutely nothing interesting. You bit your lip, a small laugh slipping out. “Okay, in your defense,” you said, trying to sound serious, “that’s not entirely your fault.”

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s not?”

“…Mostly not.”

“Wow.”

“You probably just messed up a ratio somewhere,” you added, stepping closer to take a look. “Or added something too fast.”

He frowned slightly, looking down at it again. “I did exactly what you said.”

“Did you swirl after the second reagent?”

“…No.”

You nodded. “There it is.”

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. “Unbelievable.”

You laughed softly, nudging his arm with yours. “Hey, for your first time? Not bad.”

“It’s brown.”

“It’s experimental.”

“It’s ugly.”

You grinned. “Beauty is subjective.”

He glanced at your beaker, then back at his. “…That one’s objectively better.”

You hummed. “Yeah, that one’s kinda pretty.”

He looked back at yours again.

Still growing in color, shifting, working.

“…Squeaky,” he said after a second.

You looked up.

“You have to bring me to every lab you have now.”

You blinked. “…Every lab?”

“Yeah.”

“Gojo.”

“I’m serious.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you reached for your notebook. “They’re not all this fun.”

“I don’t care.”

“This one was a choice lab,” you explained, flipping to a clean page. “I picked it because I knew it’d be interesting.”

“Good choice.”

“Most of them are just repetitive procedures,” you added, starting to jot things down. “Measurements, controls, writing reports—it’s not always glowing liquids and cool reactions.”

He leaned against the table, watching you now, not the beaker, you. “You make it look fun,” he said.

You paused for half a second, then continued writing, a small smile tugging at your lips. “That’s because I like it.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Even the boring ones?”

“Especially the boring ones,” you said. “That’s where you actually learn stuff.”

He watched the way your pen moved across the page; quick, neat, organized. “What are you writing?” he asked.

“Data.”

“Already?”

“Yeah,” you said, not looking up. “Observations, reaction timing, color changes—everything matters.”

He hummed softly. “You’re so… put together.”

You snorted. “Absolutely not.”

“No, you are,” he insisted. “You’ve got color-coded pens, organized notes, you know exactly what you’re doing—”

“I’ve also had two mental breakdowns over a quiz since last week.”

“That’s balance.”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “Please.”

There was a small pause.

“…Can I try again?”

You looked up. His eyes flicked to the empty glassware nearby.. “…With the swirling this time.”

You smiled softly. “Yeah,” you said, nudging a clean beaker toward him. “Go ahead.”

He straightened slightly, rolling his shoulders back like he was resetting. “Okay.” He straightened slightly, rolling his shoulders back like he was resetting. You watched him as he started again, more careful this time.

New beaker. Clean slate. Shoulders squared just a little straighter, like this time he was actually going to win. “Alright,” he muttered under his breath, reaching for the ethanol again. “Swirl. Don’t rush. Don’t mess it up.”

You didn’t say anything this time, just watched, let him do it. He measured more carefully now—slower, steadier. His movements weren’t sloppy or rushed like before; there was intention behind them, a quiet focus that crept in when he actually tried. You noticed that, tucked it away somewhere in the back of your mind.

He added the solvent. Swirled. Added the precursor. Swirled again, this time deliberately, trying to make a point. “See?” he said, glancing at you. “Learning.”

You hummed, unimpressed on purpose. “We’ll see.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, then went back to it, adding the next reagent with a little more care than before. The liquid shifted, and for a second—a second—it looked promising, a faint change in clarity. A hint of something forming.

Gojo leaned in. “Wait—wait—”

Then it settled back into that same dull, murky brown. Flat. Lifeless. Absolutely refusing to do anything interesting.

“…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

You tried to hold back a cackle but failed. “Okay—okay, now it’s a little your fault.”

He groaned, dragging both hands down his face, hairnet crinkling softly. “I did everything right that time.”

“Almost everything.”

“What did I miss?”

You stepped closer, peering into his beaker again. “Your temperature’s off,” you said, tapping the side lightly. “You didn’t let it stabilize long enough before adding the last reagent.”

He stared at it. Then at you. Then back at it. “…This is rigged.”

“It’s chemistry.”

“It’s evil.”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder lightly. “You’ll get it eventually.”

“I don’t have time for ‘eventually,’” he muttered. “I have a reputation.”

“Oh, I’m sure your frat boy image will recover from one failed dye experiment.”

He shot you a look. “Don’t mock my legacy.”

“Your legacy is brown goo.”

“Wow.”

You grinned, turning back to your own beaker. “Alright,” you said, picking it up slightly, examining it under the light. “Mine’s done.”

Gojo perked up immediately, leaning in again.

“…That looks the same.”

You glanced at him.

“What?”

“It looks the same,” he repeated, squinting at it. “It’s just… pink. It’s not glowing or anything.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s because you’re looking at it under normal light.”

He frowned. “…Okay?”

You smiled. “Turn off the lights.”

There was a pause. “…Why?”

“Just do it.”

He hesitated for half a second longer, then shrugged, walking over to the switch by the door. “Alright, Dr. Mysterious—”

Click. The room fell into darkness. It wasn’t pitch black, just dim enough that shapes blurred, outlines softened.

And then the beaker in your hand lit up.

Neon pink.

Bright. Electric. Almost unreal.

It glowed like it had its own heartbeat, the color swirling gently as the liquid shifted in your grip, casting soft pink light against your fingers, your wrist, the edge of the table.

Gojo froze. Actually froze. “…No way.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. “Told you.”

He stepped closer immediately, eyes wide, completely locked on it. “No—no way.”

He leaned in, like getting closer would somehow make it more real. “You made that… from that?” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the now-irrelevant pile of powders and clear liquids.

You laughed softly. “Yeah.”

“That’s insane.” 

“I know.”

He stared at it like he was trying to memorize it, he couldn’t quite believe it was happening right in front of him. “You made—” he cut himself off, shaking his head, laughing under his breath. “That’s actually crazy.”

You tilted the beaker slightly, watching the glow shift again. An idea. You glanced at him, at the way he was still completely mesmerized. And before you could second guess it, you dipped your fingers into the beaker.

Gojo didn’t even notice at first, still staring, processing

Until you reached forward and smeared a bright streak of neon pink across his shirt. Right over his chest.

There was a split second of silence.

Then—

“HEY—!” Gojo jumped back, stumbling slightly as he looked down at himself, then back at you. “WHAT—are you—are you trying to kill me?!”

You were already laughing, actually laughing. “It’s non-toxic, relax!”

“You dunked your hand in chemicals and then put it on me!”

“Yeah!”

“That’s insane behavior!” He looked down again, eyes wide as the pink glow soaked into the fabric, lighting up against the dark material of his shirt and apron. “…Okay that’s kinda cool.”

You snorted. “Thought so.”

He looked back up at you, and something in his expression shifted. Subtle. Mischievous. Dangerous. “…Oh, you’re done.”

Your smile faltered slightly. “…What.”

He didn’t answer, just slowly dipped his own hand into the beaker. You watched it happen in real time. “…Gojo.”

He pulled his hand out, neon pink dripping faintly from his fingers. “…Gojo.” He took a step toward you, slow, deliberate.

You took a step back. “Don’t—”

Another step forward.

You laughed, already backing away faster now. “Don’t you dare—”

“Oh, I dare,” he said, voice low with amusement.

You turned and ran. He shot after you. “This is completely against building rules!” you yelped, darting around one of the tables.

“Rules are made to be broken!” he shot back, chasing after you. It made everything feel… surreal, like you were moving through shadows, flashes of neon catching on surfaces, on skin, on fabric. You ducked around another table. He followed, faster.

“You’re insane!” you laughed, breathless.

“You started it!”

“I did not think you’d escalate this far!”

“That’s on you!”

You squeaked when he got too close, dodging around a stool, nearly tripping over your own feet.

“Careful—” he called, laughing.

“Don’t tell me to be careful when you’re chasing me with chemicals!”

“They’re safe chemicals! You said that like five seconds ago!”

You spotted an opening, hopping up on the lab table to escape. Your hands braced behind you as you scooched back just enough to put space between you and him–

But it didn’t work. He was already there, one step, that’s all it took. 

His hands came down on either side of you, palms flat against the table, boxing you in without actually touching you. The movement was quick, instinctive— he didn’t think about it, just did it.

And suddenly there was nowhere to go. Your back pressed lightly against the cool surface behind you, legs bent at the edge of the table, his frame standing between them without quite touching. Close. Too close.

The laughter died in your throat slowly, getting caught somewhere on the way out, because the second you looked up, he wasn’t laughing anymore. Not really. The grin he had while chasing you was still there, but it had faded, softened into something quieter. His breathing was a little heavier, chest rising and falling just slightly faster than normal.

Your own breath mirrored it without you realizing. For a second, neither of you said anything. The room was still dim, the only real light coming from the faint neon glow staining his shirt, your hands, the beaker somewhere behind you.

It painted everything differently, softer, warmer. His eyes looked darker like this, more focused– completely on you. Your heart did something painfully stupid in your chest, too fast, too loud, like it forgot how to act normal. You became painfully aware of everything at once.

How close he was. How his arms were braced around you. How easy it would be to lean forward— How easy it would be to—

You swallowed. “…You’re breaking, like, ten lab safety laws right now,” you said, but your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.

He didn’t move, didn't look away. “Worth it,” he murmured. And it wasn’t cocky this time, wasn't teasing. Just honest.

That did something to you, something small, but noticeable.Your fingers curled slightly against the table under you. He shifted just a fraction closer, not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel the heat of him now, even in the cool room.

Your breath caught just barely. And he noticed. Of course he did.

His gaze flickered, quick, subtle, down to your lips for half a second before coming back up to your eyes. It was small, but it was there, and it changed everything. The air felt heavier suddenly, thicker, something building in the space between you that neither of you knew how to deal with just yet.

Then slowly, he lifted his hand, the one still faintly glowing. You tensed instinctively, expecting him to smear it across your shirt like you had done before, to break the moment with something stupid—

But he didn’t. His hand paused, hesitated, choosing something different. Gentler. His fingers slid lightly along your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone as he cupped your face. Soft. Careful. The contact was warm, grounding.

And for a second you forgot how to breathe.

His thumb moved, dragging the neon pink across your skin in a slow, deliberate streak, intentionally. You felt it more than you saw it, the slight turn of his thumb, the warmth of his touch, the way his hand steadied your face without holding too tight.

Your lips parted slightly without meaning to.

And then—

A soft giggle slipped out, quiet, breathless. “…That’s unfair,” you murmured.

His mouth curved, just a little. “Is it?”

“You didn’t even attack me properly.”

“I  just upgraded my strategy, Squeaky”

You huffed a small laugh, your hands instinctively coming up to lightly wrap around his wrist, not pushing him away, just laying there. Close.

He stilled for half a second at that, then letting his hand drop slowly. The absence of it felt louder than it should. You both noticed, but neither of you said anything about it. He stepped back just enough to give you space again.

The moment shifted with it, loosening slightly, the tension easing but not disappearing completely. It lingered in the way you were still looking at each other. His smile came back, that familiar one, the one with the slight dimple, easy and a little crooked. But there was something softer underneath it now, something you hadn’t seen before.

“If you’re into this whole neon thing,” he said, voice lighter again, like he was giving you an out, “you should come to the frat party tomorrow night.”

You blinked, still a little caught in the moment. “…Another frat party?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging slightly. “Glow-in-the-dark theme.”

You glanced down at your hands, still faintly glowing, then back up at him. A small smile spread across your face. “…Of course it is.”

He grinned. “It fits, doesn’t it?”

You let out a quiet laugh. It did. Way more than you wanted to admit. You met his eyes again and nodded. “I’ll be there.”

Something in his expression shifted, quick, subtle, but real. He hadn’t been completely sure what you would say. He was glad you agreed. 

“Yeah?” he asks, softer.

“Yeah,” you repeat.

And this time, neither of you looked away immediately.

Thank you so much for reading.. please let me know your thought/theories! Love getting feedback on my work <3

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[lacrimadreams]

Put Him In His Place ᥫ᭡. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Chapter 04 -> previous -> next

pairings - Lovesick!Fratjo x Badass!reader (f/m)

WC- 7.4k

♡ ₊˚‧ WARNINGS :: No use of Y/N :: Frat boy Gojo:: Yearner Gojo :: Fluff:: TENSION!:: Nerd Fratjo :: Eventual smut -> (more tags coming soon) :: Strong female MC :: Neuroscience Major MC:: HEAT :: Nicknames:: (probably more to come!)

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: Heyyy here is chapter 4. I am currently on a writing grind so chapter five should be out soon. For my KMLYI and TROU readers, I love you and updates are definitely coming. 🥹 I am just currently hyperfixated on this series. I promise I will feed you. !🎧ྀི♪⋆.✮MUSIC RECS: - Walk to Class - Malcom Todd - Stargazing - The Neighborhood - What is Love (12" mix) - Haddaway

It had been about two weeks of late-night texts, random calls that stretched longer than either of you planned, library sessions that somehow turned into inside jokes and shared snacks and the quiet kind of comfort that crept in without asking. Two weeks of not defining anything. Just… existing in it.

Gojo spotted you before you spotted him. He was cutting across campus, one hand hooked lazily in the pocket of his hoodie, the other holding his phone as he half listened to an alpha-male podcast Sukana had insisted he try. He was taking a different- than-usual route home after leaving his class early because of… no reason in particular. Just a small detour through the science department for some added steps, no biggie. The afternoon was busy, students moving between classes, voices overlapping, the usual rush of campus life that he’d learned to tune out.

But then he spotted you across the quad, and just like that, everything else blurred a little. You were walking beside one of the professors; older, sharp posture, the kind of presence that made people instinctively stand straighter when he passed. You had a box in your arms, balanced against your hip, but that didn’t stop you from talking. 

And you were talking a lot. Hands moving as you explained something. Fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the box when you emphasized a point. Your brows pulled together slightly—not in confusion, but in concentration.

That look. 

Gojo slowed his steps without realizing it, because this wasn’t the version of you he was used to. This wasn’t the one who laughed at his stupid jokes or teased him over a test at four in the morning. You were in your element, completely focused, confident and comfortable. You belonged there, right in the middle of that conversation, holding your own without hesitation. 

The professor nodded as you spoke, occasionally interjecting, and you responded easily—no awkward pauses, no second-guessing.

Gojo leaned lightly against a nearby railing, watching you as he took his airpods out. Not in a creepy way, at least to him, just… observing. Of course she’s like this, he thought. Of course you were good at this too. There was a strange kind of pride in it. Not the loud, boastful kind. Just something quieter, sitting low in his chest, warm and steady. He didn’t interrupt. Just waited.

Eventually, the conversation slowed. The professor said something final, and you nodded, adjusting the box slightly in your arms, your grip tightening just a bit like it was starting to get heavy. “Thank you again,” you said, voice polite but still warm.

“Of course,” the professor replied. “Let me know if there are any further complications with the relocation.”

You nodded. “Will do.”

And then he was gone, just like that, leaving you standing there alone, shifting the weight of the box again with a small exhale.

Gojo pushed off the railing immediately. He didn’t even think about it, just started walking toward you. You didn’t notice him right away.

You were too busy adjusting your hold on the box, trying to balance it more comfortably against your hip. Then you turned and there he was. Your whole expression changed in real time: surprise flickered across your face first, then recognition, then—

That smile.

“Gojo?”

God.

That smile.

He felt it hit him immediately, right in the chest like it always did—quick and a little too strong for something that should’ve been normal by now. “Hey, Squeaky,” he said, trying to sound casual.

You blinked at him, like you were still processing the fact that he was just… here. “What are you doing here?” you asked, shifting the box again. “I thought you had class right now.”

“I did,” he said easily.

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “…Did?”

“I made a decision.”

You huffed a small laugh. “Wow. Academic dedication at its finest.”

“Thank you,” he nodded seriously. “I work very hard at not working.”

You shook your head, but you were smiling. He let his gaze drop to the box in your arms. It was heavier than you were letting on—that much was obvious. Your fingers were curled a little tighter around the edges, your shoulders subtly tense. “What’s all that?” he asked.

You followed his gaze, then sighed, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“Don’t even ask.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

You adjusted the box again, letting out a small, exasperated breath. “Chem lab rooms have a gas leak,” you said. “So now everything’s getting moved to a different building until they fix it.”

Gojo blinked. “…That sounds incredibly unsafe.”

“It probably is.”

“And they’re making you carry stuff?” You shrugged slightly, though the movement was limited by the box. “I mean– We all have to help by carrying our own, at least. Equipment, samples, notes—everything. And I have one I need to work on asap unfortunately.”

He watched you for a second, then glanced at the box again before looking back up at you. A slow grin spread across his face. “Dangerous chemicals, hm?... Can I come?”

You blinked. “Come?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping a little closer. “I wanna see this whole lab setup you’ve got going on.”

You let out a short laugh, like you weren’t sure if he was serious. “You say that now.”

“I mean it.” 

You studied him for a second. Really looked at him. There was something genuine there. Curiosity, sure—but also something softer. Like he just truly wanted to be around.

“It would be fun,” you admitted slowly. “But—” You adjusted the box again. “You need a science lanyard to be in the lab. Like, actually. They’ll kick you out if you don’t have one.””

Gojo didn’t even pause. “Okay.”

You frowned. “…Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not something you can just—”

He was already leaning forward, peering into the box in your arms. “Hold on.”

“Snowman—”

Too late. He reached in, shifting aside a stack of neatly stacked beakers, fingers moving like he was rummaging through something that definitely didn’t belong to him.

“Wait—don’t—”

“Got one.”

You blinked. “What—”

You stared as he pulled it out, then instinctively leaned in to inspect the name printed on the plastic tab. There was a brief moment of silence.

And then you laughed. Full on cackled. “Absolutely not.”

Gojo glanced down at the badge. then back at you. “What?”

You pointed at it, barely able to keep a straight face. “Read it.”

He looked again.

Dr. Reginald T. Bunsen

He sputtered out a laugh.“…That’s perfect.”

You shook your head, still laughing. “You cannot wear that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s clearly fake.”

He scoffed. “It says ‘Doctor.’ Show some respect.”

“Gojo–”

“Dr. Bunsen, actually.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh again. “This is how we get in trouble.”

He was already slipping it over his head. “There.”

The lanyard settled against his chest. He adjusted it like he was genuinely preparing for a professional setting. “Well?” He spread his arms slightly. “Do I look qualified?”

You looked at him..

Casual hoodie. Messy white hair. And a fake ID that said Dr. Reginald T. Bunsen.

You exhaled sharply, trying to contain another laugh. “You look ridiculous.”

He opened his mouth in faux offense. “I look distinguished. The only thing pending is a crisp lab coat like yours.”

You snorted “You look like a squatter. Put on a lab coat and you’ll be a mad scientist squatter.”

He grinned. “Worth it.”

You shook your head again, still smiling as you shifted the box—Or tried to.

Because suddenly, the weight was gone. You blinked. “…Hey—”

Gojo had already taken it like it was nothing. He adjusted it in his arms, balancing it easily against his side.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said.

“I know.”

“Then why—”

He shrugged, glancing down at you briefly. “Because you look like you’ve been carrying it for a while.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. There wasn’t really a response to that. “…Thanks,” you said finally, a little quieter.

He nodded once, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Which way?”

You hesitated for half a second.

Then pointed. “…That building.”

He shifted the box slightly, securing his grip.

“Lead the way, Squeaky.”

You started walking next to him, close enough that your shoulders brushed once, lightly. Neither of you commented on it. The campus noise picked back up around you as you walked, but it felt muted somehow. It wasn’t the focus. But this: walking side by side, talking about nothing and everything, heading somewhere together, it was.

The path to the other building wasn’t far, but it wasn’t exactly short either. It was long enough for conversation to settle in, for the rhythm of walking next to each other smooth out in something comfortable. 

At first, you started talking about something random. Something about one of your professors—how he pronounced “mitochondria” differently every single time like he was trying out new accents for fun.

“And I swear,” you were saying, adjusting the strap of your bag as you walked, “last week he said it like mee-toe-chon-dree-ah and I almost lost it in the middle of class.”

Gojo nodded. “Tragic.”

“Right? Like pick one and commit.”

“Consistency is important.”

“Exactly.”

He sounded like he was listening. And technically he was, just not in the way he should’ve been.Because while you talked, Gojo’s attention kept drifting, not away from you exactly, just… deeper into you.

The way your hands moved when you explained things, even something as stupid as a professor’s pronunciation habits. The way your eyebrows lifted when you emphasized a point. The way your mouth curved when you were trying not to laugh at your own story. Your voice, too; easy, animated, slipping between teasing and thoughtful without effort. He found himself watching your face more than anything else, tracking every expression like it mattered, a TV show he couldn’t miss.

“…and then Becca had the audacity to tell me I was overreacting,” you continued, glancing over at him. “Which—first of all, I was not—”

Gojo nodded again. “Obviously not.”

“—because if someone mispronounces something that many times, it becomes a problem, y'know? I start to question if he knows the material he’s teaching us–”

“Mhm.”

“—and—” You paused, your steps slowing slightly. “…Gojo.”

He blinked. “…Yeah?”

You stopped walking entirely, turning to face him. Your eyes narrowed just a little, lips twitching like you were holding back a smile. “Hellooo?” you said, waving your hand in front of his face. “Earth to snowman?”

He froze for half a second, then blinked again, snapping back like someone had flipped a switch. “…I’m here.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve said ‘tragic,’ ‘consistency is important,’ and ‘obviously not’ in the last two minutes.”

He paused. “…Those are all valid responses.”

You stared at him, huffing out a laugh, shaking your head. “You weren’t listening.”

“I was listening.”

“What did I just say then?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. “…You were talking about mitochondria.”

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Oh my god.”

He grinned, a little sheepish this time. “Hey, I got the general theme.”

“You’re about to get a knuckle sandwich.” You started walking again, and he fell back into step beside you without missing a beat. “Where’d you even come from just now?” you asked, glancing at him.

He shrugged, shifting the box slightly in his arms. “Nowhere.”

You gave him a look. “Mhm.”

There was a small pause, then you added, more casually— “So… you skipped class.”

He hummed. “Allegedly.”

You bumped your shoulder lightly into his. “Don’t ‘allegedly’ me. You literally just said you made a decision.”

“It was a good decision.”

“How?”

“Because now I’m here.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a hint of a smile there. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

He glanced down at you briefly. “What was the question?”

“How do you just skip class like that?” you said. “Don’t you have, like, grades to worry about?”

He shrugged again. “Not really.”

You frowned slightly. “…What do you mean ‘not really’?”

“I mean,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world, “I have hundreds in everything.”

You stopped walking again. “…You have what?”

He stopped too, turning slightly to look at you. “Hundreds.”

“In everything?”

“Yeah.”

You stared at him. Actually stared. “…You’re joking.”

I’m not.”

“You’re telling me you skip class and still have hundreds in everything?”

“Yeah.”

There was a pause. A long one.

“…That’s insane.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shifting the box again. “It’s not that impressive.”

“Not that impressive?” you repeated, disbelief written all over your face. “Gojo, most people are fighting for their lives to get like a seventy.”

He shrugged. “It’s an easy major.”

You blinked. “…Business?”

“Yeah.”

You considered that for a second, then nodded slowly. “I mean… okay, yeah, it’s not engineering level suffering.”

“Exactly.”

“But,” you added, pointing at him slightly, “that doesn’t make hundreds in everything normal.”

He waved it off. “It’s fine.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“No, it’s not just ‘fine.’ Are you in the honors college?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think they even have the business major as an option for the honors school. I mean, it is kind of for future bums, so.”

You studied him for a second. “But evidently you aren’t a future bum.”

Gojo felt something in his chest tighten slightly. Just a little. He smirked, defaulting. “Careful, Squeaky. You’re gonna inflate my ego.”

You didn’t smile this time. “Your ego’s already inflated.”

“Fair.”

But you were still looking at him like you were trying to figure something out.

He looked away first. “…We’re here, right?” he said, nodding toward the building ahead.

You glanced up, then nodded. “Yeah. This is it.”

The building was quieter, less crowded than the main science halls. The kind of place people only went if they had a reason to be there. You walked up the steps, pushing the door open with your shoulder. “Careful,” you said, holding it open for him. “Don’t let Dr. Bunsen’s credentials intimidate anyone.”

He snorted as he stepped inside. “I think they’ll be honored.”

You rolled your eyes, letting the door close behind you as you led the way down the hallway. “Lab’s just down here.”

Your footsteps echoed lightly against the floor as you walked, the air inside cooler, quieter. You reached the door and pushed it open, stepping inside. Gojo followed and then he halted completely, like he’d hit something invisible in the doorway. 

The room opened up wider than he expected.

Long tables stretched across the space, cluttered but intentionally arranged, each one holding equipment that wasn’t just there for show. Oscilloscopes, sensors, measurement devices, wires coiled neatly instead of tangled. Setups mid-experiment, paused like someone had stepped away with the intention of coming back. The lighting was softer than the hallway– overhead fluorescents, sure, but dimmed slightly, diffused across the room instead of glaring down.

It wasn’t loud. No bubbling beakers or chatter, since there was nobody else in the space, just a quiet hum from machines.Gojo’s grip on the box shifted slightly. He hadn’t even realized his hands had tightened.His eyes moved slowly across the room, taking in details without trying to, like muscle memory. Something in him already knew what to look for. The angle of a setup, how the wires were connected. His brain started filling in blanks automatically.

That’s measuring voltage.That setup’s probably for wave interference.They’re using—

He stopped himself. Or tried to, because the thoughts kept coming anyway. Effortless, familiar, not quite as forgotten as he’d thought. Memories overwhelmed his mind. Before, the classroom had always been empty, just like it was now. Empty except for him. 

It was always after school—late enough that the halls were quiet, the usual noise replaced with that hollow echo of distant lockers slamming somewhere far away.

Gojo had sat in the second row because he liked the angle, liked the way he could see the board clearly without craning his neck. Liked how close it felt to the center of things. His notebook was open, pages already filled with cramped writing, arrows connecting ideas, scribbles in the margins where he’d tried to correct himself mid-thought.

The problem on the board had been erased halfway through because they ran out of time. That had bothered him.

It always bothered him. So he stayed. He leaned forward, pen tapping lightly against the page as he stared at the half-finished equation, eyes narrowing slightly. “…No, that’s not right,” he muttered to himself.

He crossed something out. Rewrote it. Adjusted a variable. Tried again. And again. And again. Time passed without him noticing, it always did when he got like this. It was like his brain locked into something and refused to let go until it understood—not just memorized, not just copied. understood.

He didn’t hear the door open at first. Didn’t hear the until—

“What are you still doing here?”

Gojo blinked, glancing up. Masamichi Yaga, Gojo’s former idol and physics teacher, had stood by the doorway, bag slung over one shoulder, clearly halfway out for the day. “Oh,” Gojo said, sitting up a little. “I was just finishing that problem earlier–.”

Yaga frowned slightly. “…You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Gojo said. “I just—” He hesitated, then gestured vaguely at the board. “It didn’t sit right.. leaving it halfway done like that.”

There was a pause. Yaga looked at the board. Then at him. “…You’re trying to derive it yourself?”

Gojo shrugged. “Yeah.”

Another pause, longer this time. Then— Yaga set his bag down and walked back into the room, picking up a piece of chalk. “Show me what you’ve got so far.” 

It became a thing after that. Unofficially and unscheduled, Gojo started staying after class, more often than not. At first, the teachers would try to send him home.“You’ve done enough, Satoru” “You don’t need to go this far, Satoru.” “This is too far beyond the curriculum, Satoru”

But that didn’t stop him, if anything, it made him more curious. So eventually they stopped pushing him out. He learned the rhythm of it– the quiet of empty classrooms, how the world felt smaller when it was just him, a problem, and someone willing to guide him just enough.

Not giving answers– he hated when people did that. But he appreciated a nudge here and there, still allowing him to figure it out. He loved the feeling of something clicking into place after struggling with it. Loved the way his mind would stretch, pull, rearrange itself until suddenly, everything made sense. 

Which it definitely didn’t right now. He took a step further inside the lab, then another. The box felt lighter now, even though it wasn’t, or maybe he just wasn’t noticing it anymore. Something else had taken over. His chest constricted slightly in recognition,  gaze lingering on one of the tables near the center of the room. A half-completed setup sat there—notes scattered beside it, equations scribbled hastily across a sheet of paper, like someone had been in the middle of figuring something out and had to leave.

Gojo’s fingers twitched slightly against the side of the box. He could almost– almost step over there. Pick up the pen. Finish it. The thought came so naturally it startled him. His shoulders stiffened slightly, like his body didn’t quite know what to do with that.

“Snowman.”

Your voice. Somewhere to his right. Close. Real.

He didn’t respond, didn’t move. His eyes were still fixed on that table, the setup. 

That feeling.

“Gojo.”

Still nothing. He wasn’t trying to ignore you, he genuinely couldn’t quite pull himself out of it yet.

It had him just for a second too long.

“Snowman!”

That did it. He blinked, hard, surfacing from underwater. The room snapped back into focus around him—less hazy, less distant. You were standing right in front of him now, brows drawn together slightly, one hand resting on your hip. Concerned? Angry? A little bit of both. 

“…What is up with you and zoning out all the time?” you asked. “Am I really that boring?!”

Gojo stared at you for a second. The words didn’t fully register at first, but then they did, and he shook his head quickly. “No—what? No.” His voice sounded a little off, even to him.

He glanced past you, back at the room for just a second before forcing his eyes back to your face. Grounding.

“Is this… a physics lab?” he asked.

You let out a small sigh, like this was the least surprising part of the situation. “Yeah.” You stepped past him, reaching for the box. He let go of it automatically, barely noticing as you took the weight back. “We had to take what we could get,” you continued, already moving further into the room. “Chem labs are down, bio labs are packed, so this was basically the only option.” You set the box down on one of the tables, already starting to unpack it. “I mean, it’s not ideal, but we can make it work.”

Gojo stayed where he was for a second longer. Just a second. His eyes drifted one last time across the room, lingering. He didn’t want to look away yet, looking away meant letting go of something.

“…You okay?” Your voice again, softer this time.

He blinked, pulling himself fully back, nodding. “Yeah.” A beat. “…Yeah, I’m good.”

You watched him for a moment, not fully convinced, but you didn’t push. “Okay,” you said.

You turned back to the table, pulling things out of the box, organizing them like you always did—methodical, precise. There was a small pause. Then you glanced over your shoulder. “…Let’s get started on the lab then?”

Gojo exhaled slowly, rolled his shoulders once, like he was shaking something off, then stepped forward further into the room, into the space he hadn’t let himself touch in years.“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “Let’s do it.”

You didn’t waste any time once everything was set up, that was something Gojo noticed immediately. One second you were joking with him in the hallway, rolling your eyes at his fake credentials– and the next, you were moving with purpose. Opening the box, pulling things out one by one, organizing them across the table with this quiet efficiency that made it clear you’d done this a hundred times before.

“Okay,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, scanning the setup. “We’re gonna need—” Your fingers moved quickly. Glassware first. A clean beaker. Then another. Pipettes, carefully placed. A small rack of labeled vials. You checked each one, not  trusting them to be right unless you verified it yourself.

Gojo stood there for a second, watching, not daring to interrupt, just  taking it in.

Then you glanced up. “Goggles,” you said, pointing.

He blinked. “…Already?”

“Yes, already.”

He sighed dramatically, reaching over to grab a pair. “This is how they ruin the aesthetic.”

You snorted under your breath as you slid your own on. “Trust me, you’ll survive.”

He slipped them on anyway, adjusting them slightly over his eyes. You looked at him, paused, then pointed again. “Hairnet too.”

He froze. “…Absolutely not.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Snowman.”

“No.”

“Gojo.”

“I’m not hiding my hair,” he said, offended. “This is, like, fifty percent of my personality.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reached for one anyway. “It might all fall off if you get the wrong chemicals in it.”

He blinked. “…What?”

“Yeah,” you said casually, already tying your own hair back tighter. “Some compounds can be pretty harsh. Would be tragic, really.”

There was a beat. Then—

“…You’re lying.”

You looked at him, completely serious. “Am I?”

Another beat. He stared at you, then grabbed the hairnet. “Give it.”

You laughed as he tugged it over his head, carefully—too carefully—like he was trying to preserve every strand underneath. “Wow,” you said, leaning back slightly to take him in. “Dr. Bunsen is looking very professional right now.”

“Don’t talk to me,” he muttered, adjusting it again. “This is a temporary look.”

“You look great.”

“I look like I’ve given up.”

“You look safe.” 

He rolled his eyes but reached for a lab apron anyway, slipping it on with a quiet huff. “Alright,” he said. “What are we doing?”

You turned back to the table, picking up one of the vials. “We’re making a fluorescent dye,” you said. “From scratch.”

He raised an eyebrow. “…That sounds kinda cool.”

“It is.”

“And easy.”

You paused, slowly turning to look at him. “…Easy?”

He shrugged, leaning against the edge of the table. “I mean, it glows, right? How hard can it be?”

You stared at him for a second, smiling.. “Oh, okay.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “That sounded like a trap.”

“If it’s so easy,” you said sweetly, crossing your arms, “explain how it works.”

He opened his mouth. Paused. Closed it. “…Okay, hold on.”

You waited. He tapped his finger against the table, thinking. “…It’s, like… a reaction.”

You said nothing.

“…That produces… light.”

You raised an eyebrow. “How?”

He hesitated. “…Chemically?”

You smiled. “Go on.”

He exhaled. “…Checkmate.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Thought so.”

“Hey, I said it sounded easy,” he defended. “Didn’t say I knew how to do it.”

“Mhm.” You turned back to the setup, grabbing a clean beaker and placing it carefully in front of you. “Alright,” you said, slipping back into focus. “Watch.”

He leaned in slightly, closer than before, actually paying attention now.

“Fluorescent dyes work because of their molecular structure,” you explained, reaching for a small amber bottle. “They absorb light at one wavelength and then emit it at another—usually visible light.” 

You poured a small amount of clear liquid into the beaker. “First, we need a base solvent.”

He nodded slowly, eyes tracking your movements. “What is that?”

“Ethanol,” you said. “Helps dissolve everything evenly.”

“Got it.”

You reached for another vial, this one labeled more precisely. “Then we’re adding a precursor compound—something with a conjugated system.”

He tilted his head slightly. “…A what?”

You glanced at him briefly. “Basically a structure with alternating double bonds. It lets electrons move more freely.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

You poured a measured amount into the solution, swirling it gently. “And when those electrons get excited—like when they absorb UV light—they jump to a higher energy state.”

You grabbed a pipette, drawing up a small amount of another reagent. “Then when they fall back down, they release that energy as light.” You added the liquid carefully. “Which is what makes it glow.”

Gojo watched the way your hands moved—steady, precise. Confident.

“You make that sound way easier than it is,” he said.

You smirked slightly. “Because I know what I’m doing.”

“Show-off.”

“Not my fault.” You handed him a pipette. “Your turn.”

He blinked. “…You trust me?”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, stepping closer to the table. “Alright, Dr. Bunsen at your service.”

You pointed to one of the labeled vials. “Take that one. Slowly.”

He picked it up carefully, reading the label. “Okay…”

“Draw up about two milliliters.”

He followed your instructions, a little more focused than usual. You watched him, observing, nodding as he did it right, clean and controlled. “…Not bad,” you admitted.

He smirked slightly. “I have hidden talents.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

“Add it slowly,” you said, nodding toward the beaker.

He did, eyes narrowing slightly in concentration as he let the liquid drip in. The solution shifted—subtle, but noticeable. “Whoa,” he murmured. “It changed.”

“Yeah,” you said, watching it with him. “Reaction’s starting.” 

He glanced at you. “That’s actually kinda cool.”

“Told you.”

There was a small pause. 

“…You’re different like this,” he said.

You blinked, glancing up at him.

“What?”

“Like—” he gestured vaguely, “when you’re explaining stuff.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“…Different how?”

He hesitated, shrugging. “Just more… focused? I dig it.” His face immediately burned. ‘I dig it?’ smooth. Veeery smooth. 

You held his gaze for a second, then looked back down at the beaker, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I guess.”

He didn’t say anything else. 

Eventually, the reaction settled into something slower. It was evidently still working, but it was alive, an in-between stage where nothing dramatic was happening all at once, but everything was quietly changing underneath the surface.

You adjusted the position of the beaker under the small UV lamp, angling it just slightly. “Okay… give it a few minutes. But you can watch it change.,” you murmured.

Gojo leaned in. Close enough that his shoulder brushed yours for half a second before he stilled—then didn’t move away. He didn’t even notice, because the second the light hit, the solution in your beaker started responding. It was faint, barely there, a soft, ghost-like glow curling through the liquid like it was waking up, stretching into itself. A smooth, growing color bloomed through the solution, shifting as it caught the light at different angles. It wasn’t one flat shade either, it had depth. Movement. 

Gojo went completely still.“…Whoa.” It came out quiet. Real.

His eyes stayed locked on it, following the way the glow pulsed faintly as you tilted the beaker just a little more. “Wait—wait, do that again,” he said, leaning closer.

You huffed a soft laugh but tilted it again anyway. The color shifted, deepening and catching differently against the light. Gojo let out a quiet breath through his nose. “No way.”

You glanced at him and paused. He looked… different. More than just interested or impressed, he looked genuinely fascinated, like a kid pressed up against glass at an aquarium. His brows were pulled together slightly, eyes narrowed just enough to track every little change, every flicker of light,like he didn’t want to miss anything.

Your smile softened without you meaning to. “…You good?” you asked lightly.

He didn’t answer right away. “AH…It’s glowing!” he said, like that explained everything.

You let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. That’s kind of the point.”

“No, but like—” he gestured vaguely, still staring, “it’s actually glowing.”

You shook your head, amused. “Breaking news: fluorescent dye fluoresces.”

“Don’t ruin this for me.”

You laughed again, turning slightly back toward your notes. He finally tore his eyes away—reluctantly—and glanced down at his own beaker.

There was a pause.

“…Mine looks like sewage.”

You looked over, and yeah. It did, a murky, unfortunate shade of brown sat at the bottom, doing absolutely nothing interesting. You bit your lip, a small laugh slipping out. “Okay, in your defense,” you said, trying to sound serious, “that’s not entirely your fault.”

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s not?”

“…Mostly not.”

“Wow.”

“You probably just messed up a ratio somewhere,” you added, stepping closer to take a look. “Or added something too fast.”

He frowned slightly, looking down at it again. “I did exactly what you said.”

“Did you swirl after the second reagent?”

“…No.”

You nodded. “There it is.”

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. “Unbelievable.”

You laughed softly, nudging his arm with yours. “Hey, for your first time? Not bad.”

“It’s brown.”

“It’s experimental.”

“It’s ugly.”

You grinned. “Beauty is subjective.”

He glanced at your beaker, then back at his. “…That one’s objectively better.”

You hummed. “Yeah, that one’s kinda pretty.”

He looked back at yours again.

Still growing in color, shifting, working.

“…Squeaky,” he said after a second.

You looked up.

“You have to bring me to every lab you have now.”

You blinked. “…Every lab?”

“Yeah.”

“Gojo.”

“I’m serious.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you reached for your notebook. “They’re not all this fun.”

“I don’t care.”

“This one was a choice lab,” you explained, flipping to a clean page. “I picked it because I knew it’d be interesting.”

“Good choice.”

“Most of them are just repetitive procedures,” you added, starting to jot things down. “Measurements, controls, writing reports—it’s not always glowing liquids and cool reactions.”

He leaned against the table, watching you now, not the beaker, you. “You make it look fun,” he said.

You paused for half a second, then continued writing, a small smile tugging at your lips. “That’s because I like it.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Even the boring ones?”

“Especially the boring ones,” you said. “That’s where you actually learn stuff.”

He watched the way your pen moved across the page; quick, neat, organized. “What are you writing?” he asked.

“Data.”

“Already?”

“Yeah,” you said, not looking up. “Observations, reaction timing, color changes—everything matters.”

He hummed softly. “You’re so… put together.”

You snorted. “Absolutely not.”

“No, you are,” he insisted. “You’ve got color-coded pens, organized notes, you know exactly what you’re doing—”

“I’ve also had two mental breakdowns over a quiz since last week.”

“That’s balance.”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “Please.”

There was a small pause.

“…Can I try again?”

You looked up. His eyes flicked to the empty glassware nearby.. “…With the swirling this time.”

You smiled softly. “Yeah,” you said, nudging a clean beaker toward him. “Go ahead.”

He straightened slightly, rolling his shoulders back like he was resetting. “Okay.” He straightened slightly, rolling his shoulders back like he was resetting. You watched him as he started again, more careful this time.

New beaker. Clean slate. Shoulders squared just a little straighter, like this time he was actually going to win. “Alright,” he muttered under his breath, reaching for the ethanol again. “Swirl. Don’t rush. Don’t mess it up.”

You didn’t say anything this time, just watched, let him do it. He measured more carefully now—slower, steadier. His movements weren’t sloppy or rushed like before; there was intention behind them, a quiet focus that crept in when he actually tried. You noticed that, tucked it away somewhere in the back of your mind.

He added the solvent. Swirled. Added the precursor. Swirled again, this time deliberately, trying to make a point. “See?” he said, glancing at you. “Learning.”

You hummed, unimpressed on purpose. “We’ll see.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, then went back to it, adding the next reagent with a little more care than before. The liquid shifted, and for a second—a second—it looked promising, a faint change in clarity. A hint of something forming.

Gojo leaned in. “Wait—wait—”

Then it settled back into that same dull, murky brown. Flat. Lifeless. Absolutely refusing to do anything interesting.

“…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

You tried to hold back a cackle but failed. “Okay—okay, now it’s a little your fault.”

He groaned, dragging both hands down his face, hairnet crinkling softly. “I did everything right that time.”

“Almost everything.”

“What did I miss?”

You stepped closer, peering into his beaker again. “Your temperature’s off,” you said, tapping the side lightly. “You didn’t let it stabilize long enough before adding the last reagent.”

He stared at it. Then at you. Then back at it. “…This is rigged.”

“It’s chemistry.”

“It’s evil.”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder lightly. “You’ll get it eventually.”

“I don’t have time for ‘eventually,’” he muttered. “I have a reputation.”

“Oh, I’m sure your frat boy image will recover from one failed dye experiment.”

He shot you a look. “Don’t mock my legacy.”

“Your legacy is brown goo.”

“Wow.”

You grinned, turning back to your own beaker. “Alright,” you said, picking it up slightly, examining it under the light. “Mine’s done.”

Gojo perked up immediately, leaning in again.

“…That looks the same.”

You glanced at him.

“What?”

“It looks the same,” he repeated, squinting at it. “It’s just… pink. It’s not glowing or anything.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s because you’re looking at it under normal light.”

He frowned. “…Okay?”

You smiled. “Turn off the lights.”

There was a pause. “…Why?”

“Just do it.”

He hesitated for half a second longer, then shrugged, walking over to the switch by the door. “Alright, Dr. Mysterious—”

Click. The room fell into darkness. It wasn’t pitch black, just dim enough that shapes blurred, outlines softened.

And then the beaker in your hand lit up.

Neon pink.

Bright. Electric. Almost unreal.

It glowed like it had its own heartbeat, the color swirling gently as the liquid shifted in your grip, casting soft pink light against your fingers, your wrist, the edge of the table.

Gojo froze. Actually froze. “…No way.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. “Told you.”

He stepped closer immediately, eyes wide, completely locked on it. “No—no way.”

He leaned in, like getting closer would somehow make it more real. “You made that… from that?” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the now-irrelevant pile of powders and clear liquids.

You laughed softly. “Yeah.”

“That’s insane.” 

“I know.”

He stared at it like he was trying to memorize it, he couldn’t quite believe it was happening right in front of him. “You made—” he cut himself off, shaking his head, laughing under his breath. “That’s actually crazy.”

You tilted the beaker slightly, watching the glow shift again. An idea. You glanced at him, at the way he was still completely mesmerized. And before you could second guess it, you dipped your fingers into the beaker.

Gojo didn’t even notice at first, still staring, processing

Until you reached forward and smeared a bright streak of neon pink across his shirt. Right over his chest.

There was a split second of silence.

Then—

“HEY—!” Gojo jumped back, stumbling slightly as he looked down at himself, then back at you. “WHAT—are you—are you trying to kill me?!”

You were already laughing, actually laughing. “It’s non-toxic, relax!”

“You dunked your hand in chemicals and then put it on me!”

“Yeah!”

“That’s insane behavior!” He looked down again, eyes wide as the pink glow soaked into the fabric, lighting up against the dark material of his shirt and apron. “…Okay that’s kinda cool.”

You snorted. “Thought so.”

He looked back up at you, and something in his expression shifted. Subtle. Mischievous. Dangerous. “…Oh, you’re done.”

Your smile faltered slightly. “…What.”

He didn’t answer, just slowly dipped his own hand into the beaker. You watched it happen in real time. “…Gojo.”

He pulled his hand out, neon pink dripping faintly from his fingers. “…Gojo.” He took a step toward you, slow, deliberate.

You took a step back. “Don’t—”

Another step forward.

You laughed, already backing away faster now. “Don’t you dare—”

“Oh, I dare,” he said, voice low with amusement.

You turned and ran. He shot after you. “This is completely against building rules!” you yelped, darting around one of the tables.

“Rules are made to be broken!” he shot back, chasing after you. It made everything feel… surreal, like you were moving through shadows, flashes of neon catching on surfaces, on skin, on fabric. You ducked around another table. He followed, faster.

“You’re insane!” you laughed, breathless.

“You started it!”

“I did not think you’d escalate this far!”

“That’s on you!”

You squeaked when he got too close, dodging around a stool, nearly tripping over your own feet.

“Careful—” he called, laughing.

“Don’t tell me to be careful when you’re chasing me with chemicals!”

“They’re safe chemicals! You said that like five seconds ago!”

You spotted an opening, hopping up on the lab table to escape. Your hands braced behind you as you scooched back just enough to put space between you and him–

But it didn’t work. He was already there, one step, that’s all it took. 

His hands came down on either side of you, palms flat against the table, boxing you in without actually touching you. The movement was quick, instinctive— he didn’t think about it, just did it.

And suddenly there was nowhere to go. Your back pressed lightly against the cool surface behind you, legs bent at the edge of the table, his frame standing between them without quite touching. Close. Too close.

The laughter died in your throat slowly, getting caught somewhere on the way out, because the second you looked up, he wasn’t laughing anymore. Not really. The grin he had while chasing you was still there, but it had faded, softened into something quieter. His breathing was a little heavier, chest rising and falling just slightly faster than normal.

Your own breath mirrored it without you realizing. For a second, neither of you said anything. The room was still dim, the only real light coming from the faint neon glow staining his shirt, your hands, the beaker somewhere behind you.

It painted everything differently, softer, warmer. His eyes looked darker like this, more focused– completely on you. Your heart did something painfully stupid in your chest, too fast, too loud, like it forgot how to act normal. You became painfully aware of everything at once.

How close he was. How his arms were braced around you. How easy it would be to lean forward— How easy it would be to—

You swallowed. “…You’re breaking, like, ten lab safety laws right now,” you said, but your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.

He didn’t move, didn't look away. “Worth it,” he murmured. And it wasn’t cocky this time, wasn't teasing. Just honest.

That did something to you, something small, but noticeable.Your fingers curled slightly against the table under you. He shifted just a fraction closer, not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel the heat of him now, even in the cool room.

Your breath caught just barely. And he noticed. Of course he did.

His gaze flickered, quick, subtle, down to your lips for half a second before coming back up to your eyes. It was small, but it was there, and it changed everything. The air felt heavier suddenly, thicker, something building in the space between you that neither of you knew how to deal with just yet.

Then slowly, he lifted his hand, the one still faintly glowing. You tensed instinctively, expecting him to smear it across your shirt like you had done before, to break the moment with something stupid—

But he didn’t. His hand paused, hesitated, choosing something different. Gentler. His fingers slid lightly along your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone as he cupped your face. Soft. Careful. The contact was warm, grounding.

And for a second you forgot how to breathe.

His thumb moved, dragging the neon pink across your skin in a slow, deliberate streak, intentionally. You felt it more than you saw it, the slight turn of his thumb, the warmth of his touch, the way his hand steadied your face without holding too tight.

Your lips parted slightly without meaning to.

And then—

A soft giggle slipped out, quiet, breathless. “…That’s unfair,” you murmured.

His mouth curved, just a little. “Is it?”

“You didn’t even attack me properly.”

“I  just upgraded my strategy, Squeaky”

You huffed a small laugh, your hands instinctively coming up to lightly wrap around his wrist, not pushing him away, just laying there. Close.

He stilled for half a second at that, then letting his hand drop slowly. The absence of it felt louder than it should. You both noticed, but neither of you said anything about it. He stepped back just enough to give you space again.

The moment shifted with it, loosening slightly, the tension easing but not disappearing completely. It lingered in the way you were still looking at each other. His smile came back, that familiar one, the one with the slight dimple, easy and a little crooked. But there was something softer underneath it now, something you hadn’t seen before.

“If you’re into this whole neon thing,” he said, voice lighter again, like he was giving you an out, “you should come to the frat party tomorrow night.”

You blinked, still a little caught in the moment. “…Another frat party?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging slightly. “Glow-in-the-dark theme.”

You glanced down at your hands, still faintly glowing, then back up at him. A small smile spread across your face. “…Of course it is.”

He grinned. “It fits, doesn’t it?”

You let out a quiet laugh. It did. Way more than you wanted to admit. You met his eyes again and nodded. “I’ll be there.”

Something in his expression shifted, quick, subtle, but real. He hadn’t been completely sure what you would say. He was glad you agreed. 

“Yeah?” he asks, softer.

“Yeah,” you repeat.

And this time, neither of you looked away immediately.

Thank you so much for reading.. please let me know your thought/theories! Love getting feedback on my work <3

@hatoslay divider creds

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[lacrimadreams]

Put Him In His Place ᥫ᭡. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Chapter 03 -> previous

pairings - Lovesick!Fratjo x Badass!reader (f/m)

WC- 7.8k

♡ ₊˚‧ WARNINGS :: No use of Y/N :: Frat boy Gojo:: Yearner Gojo :: Fluff:: Mild angst:: Nerd Fratjo :: Eventual smut -> (more tags coming soon) :: Strong female MC :: Neuroscience Major MC:: This chapter SFW :: Nicknames:: (probably more to come!)

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: Hi everyone! Here is chapter 3! I love this fic sm omg it's a blast writing it. I tried something different since there was lots of texting involved. For one convo, I included a link to a separate post that I attached a SMAU style conversation to, and in another spot I tried just adding it into the text. Please let me know which one you guys prefer better so I know for future chapters! 🎧ྀི♪⋆.✮MUSIC RECS:- Your chill playlist. Some love songs.

Sunlight spilled through the cracked blinds of Gojo’s bedroom in thin, blinding stripes, landing directly across Gojo’s face like they had a personal vendetta against him. He groaned into his pillow. 

His head throbbed faintly– not a full hangover, just the dull echo of cheap beer and too little sleep. Somewhere downstairs, someone had already started blasting music, the mass muffled through the floorboards. A door slammed in the hallway, and you heard Toji loudly grumble something about pancakes. Normal morning. 

Gojo buried his face deeper into the pillow for a moment, breathing in the faint scent of laundry detergent and the lingering chaos of the previous night.

Then his eyes cracked open.

His arm slid blindly across the mattress until his fingers hit cold metal and he dragged it toward him, one eye squinting open as the screen lit up against the dim room. 

Five days. It had been five days since the party. Five days since you’d slapped him, threatened him, kissed him, left a lingering scent of your perfume on his hoodie, and then walked into your apartment building like you hadn’t just fundamentally rearranged the wiring of his brain.

And in those five days, you two hadn’t seen each other a single time. You were busy, he was too scared to ask, so it worked out really. But you had been texting. A lot. Not the awkward once-every-few-hours texting either. Actual conversation texting. Jokes, random thoughts, memes, arguments about the best singers.

He opened the messages app again, scrolling back through your texts—even though he had definitely already read them over last night. And once when he woke up briefly at like three in the morning. And maybe again five minutes ago when he half-consciously checked the time. But still. He read them again.

Click here for SMAU convo # 1

Gojo snorted softly, rubbing a hand down his face as he kept scrolling. 

God.

You were funny. And quick. Half the time you responded faster than he could think of something clever to say back. He paused when he got to the end of the thread again, to the last message from you. 

Squeaky 🦆: try not to think about fish too hard 

Gojo huffed out a quiet laugh. “Too late,” he muttered to himself. He stared at the message a second longer than needed, smiling like an idiot.

Five days, five days of just… conversation. Not even in person conversation, but completely over text. Usually, the only texts he sent to girls that weren’t his mother were dick pics and late night hookup suggestions, but never this. He didn’t mind though, and that was scary. Since the party, every mannerism– every furrow of your eyebrow, dimple on your skin, crinkle of your nose had been imprinted in his mind. He could basically imagine you saying everything you were texting him anyway. He let out a dreamy sigh. 

And then reality set in. 

Gojo groaned quietly and dropped the phone onto his chest.

“Jesus.”

What the hell was wrong with him?

He rolled out of bed a minute later, dragging a hand through his messy white hair as he headed out into the hallway. The frat house was louder now. Someone had started arguing about coffee in the kitchen. Another group was shouting from the backyard. Gojo shoved his phone in his pocket and padded down the frat house hallway barefoot, stepping over an abandoned hoodie and a suspicious smelling pizza box. As soon as he stepped off the last stair, the TV in the living room caught his attention.

“…OH COME ON SHE TOTALLY NAILED THAT SPIN—”

Nanami, Toji, and Sukana were sitting on the couch watching a women’s ballet competition. Not in a normal way. They were deeply invested, leaning forward in their seats, providing unnecessarily inappropriate commentary. 

Sukana pointed at the TV. “Look at that sweet little ginger’s form. Now that’s dedication.”

Toji scoffed. “She looks like she’s about to topple over, the little mouse. I like that one with the glasses. She’s got a chest on her, ay?”

Nanami adjusted his glasses like this was a serious academic discussion. “Both of their choreography is sloppy. I suspect Naomi will take home the win, just look at how she’s moving right now.”

Gojo blinked. “..perverts,” he shot at them, acting like his eyes wouldn’t have been glued to the screen along with theirs if it were any other weekend. 

None of them even turned around to Gojo’s insult. Sukana waved a hand dismissively, pupils stuck on his selected dancer, who was currently in a split. “We appreciate the athleticism.”

“The tutus definitely help.” Toji added. Nanami just sipped his coffee. 

Across the room, Geto stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the entire scene with the quiet amusement of someone observing zoo animals. He glanced at Gojo when he walked in, but Gojo ignored him and grabbed a bowl from the cabinet. Cookie-O’s and milk. He popped open the milk container and poured both syrupy sweet ingredients in the bowl absently, leaning against the counter as the TV commentators argued about the best angle to view a pirouette. Then– 

Ding. 

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Gojo didn’t even hesitate– out it came, screen unlocked, message immediately opened. 

Squeaky 🦆: My professor just talked about synaptic plasticity for 40 minutes. SOS SOS SOS!

Gojo grinned instantly, and Geto noticed from across the room. His eyes narrowed. 

Gojo typed back. 

Snowman ⛄: So whose brain are you studying today?

Your reply came almost instantly.

Squeaky 🦆: Currently studying yours, actually

Snowman ⛄: hmm.. I’ve heard that one’s hard to read. Good luck.

Squeaky 🦆: results are veeerrry concerning

Gojo smiled, shifting against the counter, cereal spoon held in between his teeth. 

Snowman ⛄: oh no should I be concerned? Call 911?

Squeaky 🦆: hmm, maybe the therapy hotline. Subject seems to run on beer caffeine and his ego alone. 

Gojo laughed quietly under his breath.

Geto slowly pushed himself off the wall and walked into the kitchen. “You’ve been.. really weird for the past few days, Satoru.”

Gojo didn’t even look up. “How so? I’ve always been weird.”

“No,” Geto said calmly, “you’re different weird.”

Gojo put his phone face up on the counter and looked up at Geto, shoveling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. Geto leaned against the counter beside him.“You keep smiling at your phone.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I’m just texting.”

“With who.”

“No one.”

Geto’s eyes flicked down. He saw the name at the top of the screen.

Squeaky 🦆

Geto slowly raised one eyebrow. “…Squeaky? Who the hell?..”

Gojo froze. Oh no. Geto’s expression shifted from curiosity to delighted realization in about two seconds. “Oh my god.”

Gojo shoved his phone back into his pocket.“Don’t.”

“You got her number.”

“I get lots of numbers.”

Geto snapped his fingers suddenly.  “You disappeared that night.. you went home with her?! Wait no… you walked her!”

Gojo paused mid-bite. “I walk people places all the time.” His voice cracked at the weakness of the excuse.

Behind them, Toji suddenly spoke from the couch. “What?.”

Nanami looked over his shoulder. Sukana turned around slowly. “Wait a fucking minute.”

Toji pointed. “You’re telling me Gojo got the slap girl’s number?”

Gojo groaned. “Suguru, you fucking turd, you told them about the slap?”

The room exploded. Gojo had basically confirmed it.

“NO WAY.”

“YOU WALKED HER HOME??”

“Dude we need to meet her.”

Gojo rubbed his temples. “You people are exhausting.”

Geto leaned closer. “Show me the texts.”

“No.”

“Toji.”

Toji stood up immediately.

“On it.”

Gojo backed up. “Don’t you dare.”

Nanami stood too.

Sukana cracked his knuckles dramatically. “Hand it over, blueballs.”

Gojo clutched his phone. “This is harassment.”

Geto grinned. “You saved her as ‘Squeaky’.”

Gojo glared. “It’s an inside joke! Now leave me alone.”

“Hmm, inside jokes already? What’s next, you two planning to go on a picnic? ”

“Shut up.”

Toji leaned over his shoulder suddenly. “So she is the one who slapped you?”

Gojo sighed. “Yes.”

Sukana nodded approvingly. “Strong woman.”

Gojo stared at all of them. “Nosy fucks. Back up! I’m just starting to talk to her– there’s no way I’m throwing her straight into the lion's den by meeting all of you.”

Geto smirked. “I don’t need to officially meet her. She seems like the perfect match for you, Satoru. You need someone to help you stop being so full of yourself.”

Gojo frowned. “Hey, I did nothing wrong here– why the hell am I catching strays?”

Sukana tapped his chin. “Damn, she hit you right across the face in front of everyone and then let you walk her home.. What if this girl plays you for a change, hm Gojo?”

Gojo opened his mouth to respond—

Ding.

His phone vibrated again, the shrill sound resounding across the kitchen. 

Everyone froze. Slowly. Very slowly.

All eyes turned toward Gojo, and he looked down at the screen cautiously, backing up. “…Don’t make this weird.”

Geto folded his arms. “Read it.”

“No.”

“Read it.”

Gojo hesitated. Then glanced down.

And despite himself—

He smiled.

Sukana groaned loudly.

“Oh my god you have it BAD.”

Squeaky 🦆: wondering if you know what libraries are

and if the answer to that question is yes you should meet me at the Martin library at two pm. I have a quiz and need someone to make sure I study instead of scroll on my phone

Gojo shoved the last spoon of cereal in his mouth and dropped the bowl in the sink, already halfway up the stairs before Sukana called out for him. 

“HEY– GOJO THIS INTERROGATION ISN’T OVER YET–” 

“Sorry! Got plans.”

Snowman ⛄: be there in thirty

—--------------------

Gojo had never been this nervous to go somewhere in his life. Not to a party, a fame, not even to the dean’s office that one time he definitely should have been nervous. 

But walking to the library?

For some reason, his stomach felt weird.

Not full-on anxiety, but that uncomfortable, restless energy that made it impossible to walk normally. Like he was too aware of himself. Too aware of where his hands were, how fast he was walking, whether his hair looked stupid, whether he should’ve worn something different.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and exhaled slowly.

This was ridiculous. It was just the library.

And he’d only spent… twenty minutes deciding what to wear this morning.

Which was already insane, because Gojo never cared about what he wore. Usually it was whatever T-shirt he found first on the floor and a hoodie thrown over it.

But today he’d stood in front of his closet like an idiot.

Too dressed up felt desperate.Too messy felt careless. Too nice felt like a date.

Which it absolutely was not.

Definitely not.

So he’d finally settled on a plain white T-shirt and grey sweatpants. Something casual. Something normal. Something that didn’t scream I tried for half an hour to look like I didn’t try. Still, he’d checked himself in the mirror twice before leaving. Actually, three times.

Gojo groaned quietly under his breath as he turned the corner toward campus, the coffee carrier in his hand wobbling slightly. Right. The coffee. That had also been a disaster.

He’d stopped at a café on the way, mostly because it felt weird showing up empty-handed, but also because you’d mentioned you were exhausted and drowning in a lab report. Coffee felt like a normal thing to bring. A thoughtful thing. A very casual, not-at-all-trying-too-hard thing. At  least, that’s what he’d told himself while standing in line.

Then the barista had smiled politely and asked, “What can I get started for you?” And his brain had completely blanked.

Because he had no idea what you drank. Black coffee? Iced? Something healthy and serious like a brainiac like you probably drank? Or something sweet? He’d just stood there for a second too long, staring at the menu like it was written in another language.

The barista tilted her head slightly. “Take your time.”

Gojo had panicked. “I’ll just take two of my usual.” The words left his mouth before he even processed them. Which meant he was now walking across campus holding two of the most sickeningly sweet drinks known to mankind.

Birthday cake flavored latte. Extra whipped cream. Sprinkles.

He stared down at them again, horrified. “What am I doing,” he muttered under his breath. Who brings birthday cake lattes to someone studying in a library? What if you hated sweet drinks? What if you were one of those people who drank black coffee and judged everyone else silently? What if you looked at the drink and immediately realized how immature he was?

He groaned again, dragging a hand down his face.

“Get it together,” he whispered to himself. He shifted the coffee carrier into one hand and adjusted the strap of his backpack with the other. The backpack was another thing.

He didn’t even need it. Gojo had a hundred in every class. Literally. He barely studied and still somehow managed perfect scores like it was nothing. It wasn’t something he bragged about,it just… happened. School had always been like that for him. Concepts stuck in his head instantly, formulas made sense immediately, lectures felt like someone repeating things he already understood. Still, he’d packed the backpack anyway.

Just in case.

Just in case you asked what he was working on. In case he needed something random to do with his hands. In case he wanted to look like he actually belonged in a place like the library. Because the truth was, once upon a time, he had. 

Gojo hadn’t always been like this; the loud laugh, careless grin, the effortless, untouchable confidence people swore he was born with. 

That version of himself was built deliberately. Carefully. Piece by piece. Because the person he used to be didn’t survive. 

Back in high school. Gojo had been.. quiet. Remarkably so. Not in a shy or nervous way or the kind that came from insecurity, he just didn’t see the point in talking when he was thinking. And he was always thinking about something. 

Physics had gotten to him early, like something had clicked in his brain that didn’t quite click the same way for other people. He remembered the exact moment, too. Sitting in class, half-listening, when his teacher explained something about motion– velocity, acceleration, something simple. But the way it connected, the way one idea folded into the next like a chain reaction, it stuck. And then it didn’t stop. 

He started seeing it everywhere. In the way things fell. In the way light hit surfaces. In the way the world moved around him. It wasn’t just schoolwork, it was understanding, He’d been handed a key and suddenly doors kept unlocking. He chased that feeling. Stayed up late watching lectures meant for college students. Filled notebooks with equations that went way past what they were learning in class. Sat in the front row because he genuinely wanted to hear every word.

He didn’t notice the looks at first, the whispers, the way people rolled their eyes when he raised his hand again. He didn’t notice because he didn’t care. Until they made sure he did.

It started small.

Comments under their breath.

“Dude, do you ever shut up?” “Why do you care so much?” “Freak.”

He brushed it off at first. He thought if he just ignored it, it would stop.But it didn’t, it just got louder, more direct. They started knocking his books out of his hands in the hallway. Snatching his notes. Mocking the way he talked, the way he explained things when teachers asked him questions.

And Gojo—

Gojo didn’t fight back.

He could if he wanted to, but he just didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand why being interested in something made people hate him. Why caring meant he was a target.

The nickname came later.

“Six Eyes.”

At first, he thought it was about how much he noticed. How he always seemed to catch details other people missed. He was wrong.

It was about the glasses, and apparently his lack of idiocracy. “Four eyes wasn’t enough for you, huh?” one of them had laughed once, flicking the frame at his face. “You see everything, don’t you? Freak.” Six eyes. Too much. Too observant. Too different.

The day everything snapped was… stupid. There was no big buildup or dramatic moment.

Gojo had been digging through his bag, trying to find a worksheet, half-focused on something he’d been thinking about in class earlier. Something about force—about how small changes created bigger reactions over time.

He didn’t hear them come up behind him. Just felt the shove. Hard.

His shoulder slammed into the metal locker with a dull clang, books slipping from his grip and scattering across the floor. Laughter. “Watch where you’re going, Six Eyes. Aren’t you supposed to see everything?”

Gojo turned, instinctively pushing his glasses up his nose. “I didn’t—”

The punch came fast. Not even aimed at his face.

But at the glasses. They cracked on impact. The frame snapped sideways, one lens shattering instantly. For a second, everything went white, then blurry, then sharp pain as tiny shards of glass scraped against his cheek, his temple, just beneath his eye.

He staggered back slightly, more from shock than force. The hallway erupted in laughter.

“Damn.”

“Yo, he’s blind now.”

“Six Eyes can’t see shit.”

Gojo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, one hand hovering near his face, feeling the sting where the glass had cut him. His vision was uneven—one side clear, the other distorted and fractured.

And all he could hear was laughter. Not just them, but other people too. Watching, not stepping in or saying anything at all. Just.. laughing.

That was the moment. Unrelated to the pain, the blood, even the humiliation. It was the realization. Clear. Cold. Immediate.

This is what I get for being like this.

For caring, standing out. For being too much.

Something in him shut off quietly. The next day, he didn’t bring his notebooks, didn’t sit in the front row, didn’t raise his hand. Someone asked him a question in class, and for the first time— He shrugged and said, “I don’t know.” Even though he did.

After that, it was easy, easier than it should’ve been. Contacts replaced glasses, the gym became routine, he stopped talking about the things he loved.

Stopped reacting. Stopped caring—or at least, that’s what he told himself, because people liked that version of him better. The version that didn’t make them uncomfortable. The version that didn’t make them feel like they were being outdone just by existing in the same room.

By the time senior year rolled around, he wasn’t “Six Eyes” anymore. He was just Satoru Gojo: Tall. Athletic. Easygoing. Someone people laughed with instead of at, hanging out with the same guys who had pummeled him before. 

And when college applications came? He didn’t even hesitate. Physics wasn’t on the list. Not once. He chose general business. Something broad, safe, expected frat material. 

By the time he got to college, the transformation was complete.

He built a persona so convincing that no one questioned it.

Frat parties, constant hookups, confidence that bordered on arrogance, a smile that said nothing mattered. And eventually, he started to believe it himself, or at least, he got good enough at pretending that the difference didn’t matter.

Until now.

Until a girl in a black lace dress looked at him like he wasn’t impressive, wasn’t intimidating, like the persona he’d built wasn’t anything special at all. And still chose to talk to him. Still chose to laugh with him.

Still chose to stand her ground without flinching.

And then casually mentioned her passion like it wasn’t something she loved with her entire chest. Like it wasn’t something worth hiding. You talked about neuroscience the way he used to talk about physics. Like it actually mattered. And instead of laughing at you for it, he liked it. More than liked it. It made something in his chest feel weird and tight and warm at the same time.

Gojo exhaled slowly, fingers tightening slightly around the coffee carrier.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t thought about any of that in years. Not the glasses or even the stupid ass nickname, not the version of himself that used to stay up until two in the morning solving problems just because he wanted to understand. He’d buried and replaced it long ago. But now– talking to you? Something was digging it back up. 

And he didn’t know if that was a good thing, or something that was about to ruin everything he had hated and covered  about himself. 

He snapped out of his thoughts. He shifted the coffee carrier in his hand again, suddenly hyper-aware of how fast his heart was beating. “What am I doing,” he muttered again quietly.

He took a slow breath, then pushed the library doors open. It was a little different than he expected. That low, steady hum of people existing in the same space without interrupting each other. Pages turned and chairs shifted over the thinly carpeted floor. There was the occasional cough and loud whispers being shushed at by the grouchy librarian. 

It felt odd. So different from the Sigma Phi house, unlike anything he’d been around in a long time. Gojo stepped further inside, adjusting the strap of his backpack, eyes scanning the rows of tables. For a second, he didn’t see you. Then he noticed the corner table, isolated near the windows. You. 

His steps slowed without him meaning to. You were exactly how he’d pictured you, and somehow still nothing like what he’d expected. Your binder was spread open in front of you, pages spilling out in controlled chaos: notes layered over other notes, diagrams, highlighted sections in at least four different colors. Loose papers fanned across the table like you’d run out of space halfway through organizing them. But somehow it wasn’t messy– it looked intentional. 

Your pens were lined up neatly to your right, arranged in a perfect rainbow order like you’d taken the time to place each one exactly where it belonged. Your laptop sat open, screen filled with what looked like dense lecture notes and diagrams Gojo didn’t even try to understand from this distance.

You had headphones on. Your hair was pulled into a loose braid that fell over your shoulder, a few strands slipping free near your face, and you were wearing a UTokyo sweatshirt and sweatpants. Casual. Comfortable. Something in Gojo’s chest loosened slightly. Good, he hadn’t overdressed, hadn’t shown up looking like an idiot trying too hard.

You were just you. But your expression…

Your brows were slightly furrowed, lips pressed together, eyes locked onto the textbook in front of you with a kind of intense focus that almost looked like irritation.

Gojo huffed quietly under his breath.

She looks like she’s about to fight that page.

He shifted the coffee carrier in his hand, suddenly hyper-aware of everything again. He started toward your table, each step feeling louder than it should’ve. Closer. Closer. And then he was there, standing just beside your table, awkwardly holding two ridiculously sweet coffees and pretending like his heart wasn’t beating a little too fast.

You didn’t notice him immediately, still staring at your textbook, still frowning slightly.

He cleared his throat softly. Nothing. He hesitated, then shifted his weight. 

“…Hey, Squeaky.”

Your eyes flicked up instantly, and the second you saw him you smiled. A real one. Warm. Easy, and familiar. 

And Gojo’s brain just stopped. For a second, everything in his chest tightened so abruptly it almost hurt.

Oh.

You looked… good.

Not in the obvious, dressed-up, party way.

Just—

Good.

“Hey, Snowman,” you said, pulling one side of your headphones off your ear. Your voice was a little quieter than it had been at the party, more relaxed.

Gojo blinked once, forcing his brain to catch up. “Hey,” he echoed, shifting the coffee carrier slightly like he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands.

You glanced at it, then back up at him. “Did you bring me something?”

“Uh—yeah,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t sure what you drank so I just—”

He cut himself off. Why was he explaining this so awkwardly? He cleared his throat. “I got coffee.”

You raised your brows slightly, amused.

“Wow.”

“I know.”

“Very thoughtful of you.”

“Don’t make it a thing.”

You smiled again, pushing your headphones fully off now and setting them around your neck. Gojo set the coffee carrier down on the table, sliding into the chair across from you. His eyes flicked briefly over your notes again. “Why do you look so irritated?” he asked.

You blinked at him. “I—what?”

“You were glaring at your textbook,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “I thought it offended you or something.” There was a beat. Then you laughed. Not loud enough to disturb anyone—but enough to turn a couple heads nearby.

“That’s just my focusing face,” you said, covering your mouth slightly as you laughed. “Oh my god, was it that bad?”

Gojo leaned back slightly in his chair, considering.

“…You looked like you were about to report it to the authorities.”

You groaned. “Stop.”

“I’m serious.”

You dropped your head for a second, shaking it. “That’s so embarrassing.”

“Don’t worry,” he added. “It’s kind of intimidating.”

You looked up again, narrowing your eyes at him playfully. “That is not helping.”

He grinned slightly. Then, remembering— “Oh—here.” He grabbed one of the drinks and slid it toward you. There was a tiny pause in his chest as you took it. This was the moment. You peeled back the lid slightly, glancing at the whipped cream piled high on top, the sprinkles scattered across it.

Gojo braced himself.

She’s gonna hate it.

You took a sip. He watched your face carefully.

Waiting.

You blinked once. Then your eyes lit up. “Oh.”

Gojo blinked.

“Oh?”

“This is good,” you said, taking another sip, like you were double-checking. “Wait, this is actually really good.”

He stared at you. “…It’s not too sweet?”

You shook your head immediately. “No, I like it.”

Another sip. 

“Okay, yeah, this is dangerous.”

Gojo let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah, why are you so surprised?” you said, nodding, eyebrow raising a bit in confusion. “I mean, I usually drink matcha—” 

He tilted his head. “That tracks.”

“—but,” you continued, ignoring him, “I also fully support excessive whipped cream.” You gestured at the cup. “This is like… morally correct.”

He snorted. “Morally correct?”

“Yeah.” You took another sip. “lab report’s due tonight. The sugar will keep me alive.”

Gojo leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “That sounds unhealthy.”

“It is.”

“Future doctor just out here admitting that?”

“Openly.”

He shook his head. “You’re insane. I will personally email this information to med schools.”

You pointed at him with your pen.

“And yet you’re the one who brought me this.”

“Accidentally.”

Sure.” You smiled into your drink, clearly pleased.

Gojo watched you for a second longer than he should’ve. Something about this, sitting here, talking, watching you casually sip the coffee he got you, it felt… Easy. Like it made sense.

He glanced down at your notes again, curiosity creeping in. “What are you working on?”

You followed his gaze, then sighed dramatically. “Neural pathways.”

He nodded slowly. “Ah.”

“Don’t pretend you know what that is.”

“I absolutely do.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Really.”

“Yeah.” He gestured vaguely at your notebook. “Brains… and stuff.”

You stared at him. “…Wow.”

“I’m basically an expert.”

“Incredible.” You leaned back slightly, crossing your arms. “Please, enlighten me.”

Gojo grinned. “Well—” He paused, tapping his chin. “You’re the student. Why don’t you tell me and I'll let you know if you’re correct, hm? Since you’re in the presence of such a guru.”

You blinked at him.

Then laughed again, shaking your head, and reached for your pen again. “God, you’re insufferable.”

Gojo grinned, leaning back in his chair like he’d just said something brilliant. “I’ve been told.”

You flipped your notebook around so it was angled more toward him, tapping the page with the end of your pen. “Alright, guru. Try to keep up.”

He leaned forward immediately, resting his elbows on the table, chin in his hand. Way too attentive for someone who’d just been joking. “Go on.”

You pointed to a rough diagram—lines branching out, little circles at the ends, arrows connecting different sections. “So… neural pathways are basically how information travels through your brain,” you started. “Like—how thoughts, movements, memories, all of that actually gets from point A to point B.”

Gojo nodded slowly, eyes following where you pointed. “Okay.”

“You’ve got neurons,” you continued, tapping one of the circles. “These little guys. They send signals to each other through electrical and chemical impulses.”

He hummed, tilting his head slightly. “Electrical and chemical. Fancy.”

You ignored that. “They don’t actually touch, though,” you said, drawing a tiny gap between two points. “There’s a space between them called a synapse. So the signal has to jump across using neurotransmitters.”

Gojo’s brows lifted a little. Gojo’s brows lifted a little. “…So it’s like passing a note in class.”

You paused. Considered that. “…Actually,” you admitted, “yeah. That’s not a terrible way to think about it.”

He smirked slightly, pleased with himself. “Thank you.”

You rolled your eyes but kept going. “And the more you use a certain pathway, like, the more you repeat a thought or a behavior, the stronger that connection gets.” You drew over one of the lines again, making it darker. “Like this. It becomes ingrained. Your brain basically goes ‘oh, we’ve done this before’ and it’s easier the next time.”

Gojo watched your hand as you moved, following along more closely than he expected himself to. “So like… muscle memory?” he asked. 

“Exactly,” you said, glancing up at him. “Or habits. Or even the way you think about things.”

There was a small pause. Then you added, a little softer— “It’s also how people unlearn stuff, too. You can weaken pathways if you stop using them.”

Gojo’s gaze flicked up to your face for a second at that, and a thought flashed through his mind. He had unlearned everything he’d ever truly enjoyed. That path of his was weakened, his intellectual side. 

Would he ever get that back? 

Something about the way you said it felt… intentional. But you were already looking back down at your notes. “So yeah,” you finished, tapping the page lightly. “That’s the basic idea.” You leaned back slightly, crossing your arms again. “Go ahead. Judge my explanation, oh wise one.”

There was a beat. Gojo didn’t answer right away. Instead of his usual lazy grin, something in his expression shifted—subtler, more focused.

“Not exactly,” he said.

You blinked, glancing up.

“…What?”

He tilted his head toward your notes.

“You explained how pathways strengthen with repetition,” he said, voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “But it’s not just repetition, right?”

You stilled a little.

He continued, almost absentmindedly, like he was working it out as he spoke. “It’s also about efficiency. Like—the brain isn’t just reinforcing the path, it’s optimizing it. Less resistance, faster transmission.” He gestured lightly. “That’s why habits feel automatic after a while. You’re not just remembering—you’re reducing the effort it takes to get there.”

You stared at him. He didn’t notice, or maybe he did, and just didn’t react. “And if you stop using a pathway,” he added, eyes flicking back to the page, “it’s not like it disappears immediately. It just gets… overridden. Like other signals take priority. That’s why breaking habits is harder than building new ones, right? Because you’re not starting from zero, you’re competing with something that’s already efficient.”

Silence. A long one.

Gojo finally looked up. “…What?”

You were still staring at him. “…Where did that come from?” you asked slowly.

He blinked. “What?”

“That,” you said, pointing at him slightly. “You don’t get to just say something like that after ‘brains and stuff.’”

He let out a short huff of a laugh, leaning back again, but there was something just slightly off in it now. “Lucky guess.”

You didn’t buy it for a second. “…That was not a lucky guess.”

He shrugged, looking away for a moment. “I pay attention.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “No, you understood it– lowkey more than I do at the moment.”

There was a difference. A clear one. And you’d heard it.

He shifted in his seat, rolling his shoulder slightly like he suddenly didn’t know what to do with the attention. “It wasn’t that complicated,” he said, a little quieter.

You leaned forward now, studying him properly. “That’s not true.”

He glanced back at you. Your expression wasn’t teasing anymore. It was… curious. Genuine.

“You’ve learned stuff like this before, haven’t you?” you asked.

Gojo paused. Just for a second. Then he smirked, defaulting back, just a little.

“Careful, Squeaky,” he said lightly. “You’re gonna ruin my reputation.” 

You didn’t smile. Didn’t let it slide. “…What reputation?”

He held your gaze for a second longer this time. And for just a moment, that usual, easy confidence didn’t quite land the same. Like it was… placed there.On purpose.

Then he leaned back again, stretching his arms casually like nothing had happened. “The one where I don’t know what neural pathways are.”

You huffed a small laugh, but your eyes lingered on him a second longer. “…Yeah,” you murmured. “Right.”

But something about the way he’d explained it, the way it had come so naturally, so clearly— It didn’t match the version of him you’d been seeing.

Not the frat boy.

Not the guy who joked his way through everything.

This was something else.

And you noticed.

Gojo lingered for a second after that last exchange, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself now that he’d actually made it here.

Then he cleared his throat lightly, reached down, and pulled his laptop out of his bag.

“Alright,” he muttered, flipping it open. “Time to be productive.”

You glanced up at him over the rim of your cup, clearly amused. “Productive, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, already clicking through tabs. “I do that sometimes.”

“I believe it.”

“Occasionally. Don’t get used to it.”

You snorted softly and went back to your notes. Gojo opened up something for his marketing class—some slide deck, something about consumer behavior. He didn’t even really look at it at first. Just enough to make it look like he was doing something.

Because, realistically, he didn’t need to. He had a perfect grade in the class. In all his classes, actually.

He skimmed through things, absorbed them once, and that was usually enough. It wasn’t something he talked about, ever. Didn’t really fit the whole frat president, doesn’t care about school image—but it had always been like that. The closest he had come to bringing up his past was about thirty seconds ago. He focused back on his work. 

Easy. Too easy. Still, he kept the screen open, scrolling occasionally, typing something here and there just to keep up appearances.

Across from him, you were fully locked in. Highlighter in hand, pen tapping lightly against the page, eyes moving back and forth across your notes with that same intense focus he’d seen earlier. Every once in a while, your brows would pinch together again.

There it was. The face.

He had to bite back a grin.

About forty minutes passed like that.

Quiet, comfortable, somehow.

The kind of silence that didn’t feel awkward.

Then suddenly— You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms over your head with a quiet groan. “Okay,” you muttered. “My brain is officially fried.”

Gojo glanced up immediately. “Already?”

You shot him a look. “Already? I’ve been here for like three hours.”

He blinked. “…Do you even have time to shower?”

You ignored him, already reaching into your bag.

“Five minute break,” you said, like you were announcing it to yourself more than him.

He watched as you pulled something out. Small. Rectangular. Familiar.

Gojo leaned forward slightly. “…Is that—”

You clicked it on, and the screen lit up.

Nintendo Switch.

And then—

Digimon.

Gojo froze. Actually froze. “No way,” he said under his breath.

You glanced up mid-button press. “What?”

“You play Digimon?” 

You paused. Looked at him. Really looked at him this time. “…Yeah?”

There was a beat. 

“Listen, I know it's weird, okay but it’s a destresser and–”

Gojo sat up straighter. “I love Digimon.” He cut you off.

Your expression shifted immediately. Surprise. Actual, genuine surprise.

“…You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“You?” you said, gesturing vaguely at him. “Mr. ‘too cool for school,’  you?”

He scoffed. “Okay, first of all, I am too cool for school.”

“Mm.”

“Second of all,” he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice like this was serious, “Digimon World? Elite.”

Your eyes lit up. “Stop.”

“I’m serious.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

You stared at him for another second. Then “You’ve played Digimon World?”

“Yeah.”

You leaned forward now too, completely abandoning your break posture. “Which one?”

“The original.” 

Your mouth dropped open slightly. “Oh my god.”

“I’m telling you.”

“No way.”

“You think I’m lying?”

“I thought you were gonna say you saw it once when you were like ten.”

Gojo smirked. “Wow. No faith.”

You shook your head, still looking at him like you were recalculating something. “That is so unexpected.”

“Why?”

“Because,” you said, gesturing again, “you look like you’d bully someone for playing Digimon.”

That sort of hit a nerve, and he blinked. “…Okay, that’s rude.”

You laughed. “I’m serious!”

“I would never.”

“Mhm.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms. “I have layers.”

You snorted. “Yeah. I’m starting to see that.”

The five minute break turned into ten.

Then fifteen.

Then you reluctantly sighed and set the Switch down. “Okay,” you said, dragging your notebook back toward you. “Back to work.”

Gojo groaned. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You didn’t even look up. “Snowman.”

He slumped slightly in his chair. “This is torture.”

“You chose to come here.”

“I didn’t realize it would be like this.”

You glanced up. “Like what?”

He gestured vaguely at everything. “The… studying. The quiet. The responsibility.”

You rolled your eyes. “You didn’t think there would be quiet and studying at a library? Have you taken reality check 101, I think you’d really benefit from that class.”

He ignored you. “Let’s leave.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

He leaned forward, dropping his head onto the table dramatically. “We’ve been here forever.”

“You can go home if you want,” you said simply, flipping a page. “I’m not holding you hostage.”

Gojo immediately lifted his head and stared at you. “Are you serious?”

You blinked. “…Yeah?”

He looked at you like you’d just said something insane. “I’m not leaving.” There was no hesitation in it, no joke.

You paused, then smiled slightly, something softer this time. “Okay,” you said. “Then chill.”

He huffed. “I am chill.”

“Debatable.” You tapped your pen against your notebook. “Finish your marketing work.”

He groaned again but sat up properly. “…Fine.”

A small pause. Then you added, almost casually— “We can go get food after.”

Gojo stilled. “…Food?”

You nodded, already writing again. “Yeah. If you survive.”

He leaned back slowly, a satisfied smirk creeping onto his face. “Alright.. I can survive.”

Hours passed.

And somewhere between the complaining, the studying, and the occasional side conversations, something shifted subtly. You started talking more, about random things at first, then real things, like how you ended up here. “I’m actually on a partial sports scholarship,” you said at one point, tapping your pen against your lip.

Gojo blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“For what?”

You smiled a little. “Tennis.”

He looked you up and down, like he was recalculating again. “…That makes sense.”

“Hm..”

“No, I mean it—”

“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”

“It was one.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

Later, your phone lit up on the table. Gojo’s eyes flicked to it without thinking. Lockscreen.

A hamster. Tiny floppy ears. Big yet beady eyes.

He leaned forward slightly. “That your hamster?”

You glanced down. “Oh—yeah.” You smiled immediately.

“Her name’s Pitbull.”

Gojo felt something in his chest tug slightly at the way your whole face softened, but he tried to hold back a laugh. “You have a girl hamster named Pitbull.”

“Don’t judge.”

“I’m not judging.”

“You’re judging.”

“I’m appreciating.”

You snorted. “She’s back home. My parents send me pictures all the time.”

You picked up your phone for a second, flipping through a couple photos. “Look.”

Gojo leaned in. Your shoulders brushed. Just slightly. But it was enough.

The picture was… cute. Really cute. And somehow, the rodent really did look like a pitbull.

“…Okay,” he admitted. “I get it.”

You grinned. “Right?”

By the time it hit around 9 PM, the library had thinned out. Fewer people, quieter. The librarians were getting ready to close up. The lights felt softer somehow.

Gojo, on the other hand, was done. Completely done. He’d long since stopped pretending to study. At some point, his head had dropped onto his folded arms on the table. And then, he'd fallen asleep, just like that.

You noticed after a minute, Looked up from your notes. Paused.

There he was, face half-buried in his arm, breathing slow and even. Completely knocked out. You stared at him for a second, then huffed out a quiet laugh. “Unbelievable.”

You set your pen down. Looked around. No one was paying attention. Then, carefully, you reached out and took his hand, flipped it over, and started drawing. Small at first, a little doodle near his thumb. Then a duck, obviously. You bit your lip, trying not to laugh as you added details. Maybe a tiny speech bubble. Something stupid.

Your fingers brushed against his skin occasionally as you worked, Warm. Relaxed. Unaware.

And for a moment, you just… looked at him. Not the loud version, not the cocky version or the guy from the party. Just him. You had overlooked a part of him, and you were determined to know more. 

You didn’t realize how long you’d been watching him. At some point, your pen had stilled in your hand, your notes forgotten as your eyes lingered on the quiet rise and fall of his shoulders, the way his hair had fallen messily across his forehead, softer like this, unbothered, unstyled. The sharp edges of his usual presence dulled down into something easier. Something real.

You exhaled quietly, then reached out. “Gojo,” you said softly. Nothing. You hesitated, then nudged his arm gently. “Snowman.”

He shifted, brows furrowing slightly, a quiet, almost irritated sound leaving him as he tried to sink further into his arms.

You smiled despite yourself. “Hey,” you murmured. “Wake up.”

Another small nudge. This time, his fingers twitched. Then slowly—very slowly—he stirred. His head shifted against his arm, eyes squeezing tighter for a second before finally blinking open, unfocused at first. You watched as he adjusted to the light, gaze drifting lazily before landing on you. There was a pause.

And then, a soft, half-asleep smile tugged at his lips. “Hi, Squeaky.” He said, voice slightly raspy. 

Your heart did something stupid. Actually stupid. Like a full, unexpected stutter in your chest that caught you off guard.

You blinked, looking at him a second too long before forcing yourself to recover. “Hi,” you said, a little quieter than you meant to.

He pushed himself up slowly, dragging a hand down his face, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “Mm,” he hummed, voice still rough, low in a way that made something warm creep up your spine. He stretched his neck slightly, then planted his hands on the table and started to stand.

You shifted in your seat, suddenly aware again. “Uh—if you’re too tired we don’t have to still go get food, I mean—um—” You tripped over the words. Because right as you started talking, he stood and stretched, arms lifting above his head, back arching slightly, the bottom hem of his T-shirt rising just enough to expose a strip of his lower abdomen—

Defined.

Effortlessly.

His eyes squeezed shut the way people’s do when they stretch, completely unaware, completely unbothered. You looked away immediately.

“—we can just, like, call it for tonight,” you finished, a little too quickly. Smooth. Very smooth.

Gojo let out a quiet exhale as he dropped his arms, rolling his shoulders back before dragging a hand through his already messy hair, making it worse in the process. He blinked down at you, then frowned slightly. “You’re letting me go home unfed?”

You looked back at him. “…What?”

He tilted his head, like this was obvious. “No, Squeaky,” he said, voice steadier now, a hint of amusement creeping back in. “You made a promise.”

You stared at him for half a second, then huffed a small laugh, shaking your head. “I did not—”

“You absolutely did.”

“I said maybe we’d get food.”

He pointed at you. “Verbal contract.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“Too late.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. He slung his backpack over one shoulder, adjusting it casually, then looked back down at you.

“C’mon, Squeaky” he added, softer this time. “Let’s go.” He wanted to stay. He wasn’t even considering leaving.

You held his gaze for a second, then stood, grabbing your things, sliding your notebook into your bag. “Alright,” you said, zipping it up. “Alright.”

He watched you for a second, that same small, almost absent smile still lingering. You adjusted your strap, then looked up at him. “Tacos or burgers?”

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[lacrimadreams]

Put Him In His Place ᥫ᭡. Gojo Satoru x Reader

MINI-SERIES MASTERLIST

pairings - Lovesick!Fratjo x Badass!reader (f/m)

TOTAL WC- 8.6k -> (will increase)

♡ ₊˚‧ WARNINGS :: No use of Y/N :: Frat boy Gojo:: Ass Gojo :: Assault?:: Drinking:: Substance abuse :: Eventual jealousy :: Eventual smut -> (more tags coming soon) :: Strong female mc :: NSFW:: (probably more to come!) : Yearner Gojo :: Fluff:: Partying:: Kissing :: Mild WLW :: Neuroscience Major MC :: Masturbation :: Nicknames:: (probably more to come!)

CHAPTER 1-

CHAPTER 2-

CHAPTER 3- (NEW)!