Gojo Satoru; you asked him to pretend to be your boyfriend but he takes it a little too seriously
When your mother had phoned you three weeks ago to remind you of your cousin’s lavish, high-society wedding in Kyoto, she had spent a full ten minutes subtly interrogating you about your lack of a companion.
“A beautiful person like you shouldn’t always be sitting at the singles table,” she had sighed, her tone dripping with that distinct brand of parental pity. “Even a temporary friend would do.”
Out of sheer, panicked spite, you had told her you were bringing someone.
And then, in a moment of profound cosmic stupidity, you had turned to the man currently balancing three empty strawberry milk cartons on his forehead while lying across your office couch.
"Satoru," you had said, rubbing your temples. "Are you busy on the twenty-fourth?"
The cartons had tumbled to the floor as Gojo Satoru slid his dark sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, his bright, sky-blue eyes gleaming with instant, dangerous amusement. "For you? Never. Are we finally assassinating the higher-ups? Because I’ve got an entire itinerary prepared—"
"I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend for a wedding."
The room had gone dead silent. Satoru had blinked once, twice, before a massive, blinding grin broke across his face. He had sat up so fast his white hair went wild.
"An undercover mission? Domestic espionage? Oh, this is the best day of my life. I’m going to be the greatest boyfriend this world has ever seen. I'll make your exes weep. I'll make your ancestors proud."
"I don't have any exes attending, Satoru. And it’s just a game," you had warned him, pointing a finger at his chest. "Keep it simple. Don't go overboard."
You should have known right then. Gojo Satoru didn't do simple. He didn't do restraint. He treated the entire world like his personal sandbox, and you had just handed him a shovel.
Later, you stepped out of the Kyoto bullet train station.
You had expected Satoru to show up in his usual dark Jujutsu High uniform, maybe with a slightly cleaner jacket. Instead, he had materialized in a tailored, charcoal-gray three-piece suit that fit his towering, six-foot-three frame so perfectly it felt like a direct assault on your nervous system.
His hair was down, falling softly over his forehead, and he had swapped his dark blindfold for a pair of lightly tinted round sunglasses that allowed his lethal eyes to track every single movement you made.
"Well?" he had asked, spinning a silver car key around his long finger, a smug, devastating smirk playing on his lips. "Do I look like husband material?"
"We're dating, Satoru. Not engaged," you had muttered, your heart doing a violent, uncoordinated flip against your ribs. "And where did you get a car?"
"Borrowed it from Ichiji," he shrugged carelessly, opening the passenger door for you with an elaborate, sweeping bow. "Only the best for my darling."
By the time you arrived at the traditional garden estate where the reception was being held, Satoru had fully lost his mind to the bit.
The moment your mother approached us, her eyes wide as she took in the literal god of a man standing beside her child, Satoru didn't just polite shake her hand. He glided forward, wrapping his massive arms around her in a warm, enthusiastic hug.
"Grandma!" he had cheered, instantly spotting your elderly grandmother sitting in a wheelchair nearby, sweeping over to her before you could even open your mouth to correct him. He dropped to one knee on the gravel, taking her frail, wrinkled hand between both of his large, calloused ones.
"I've heard so much about you. Their childhood stories are my absolute favorite. Especially the one where they got their head stuck in the banister."
"Oh, what a handsome, polite young man!" your grandmother had beamed, her face flushing pink as she patted Satoru’s silver-white hair. "You must look after our little one."
"With my life," Satoru had murmured, looking back at you through those tinted lenses, his smile softening into something so warm, so terrifyingly tender that your lungs entirely forgot how to extract oxygen from the air.
He spent the next three hours systematically dismantling your family's defenses. He helped your uncles carry the heavy multi-tiered dessert trays; he took hundreds of group photos using his phone, his long arm wrapping naturally around your waist to pull you flush against his side for every single shot.
He was so charismatic, so seamlessly woven into the fabric of your family, that your cousins were already pulling you aside in the restroom to ask when the wedding bells were ringing for you.
"He keeps talking about our future," you muttered frantically to yourself in the mirror, splashing cold water on your face. "He told my uncle we were looking at properties in Sendai. He's insane. He’s taking this way too seriously."
It was the cocktail hour now.
Satoru had been dragged away by your father to discuss a specific brand of sake, leaving you standing near the koi pond with a glass of plum wine. Within minutes, a distant acquaintance of the groom, a wealthy, sharp-tongued young businessman from Tokyo, had slid into the space beside you.
"So," the man had said, his eyes scanning your form with a slow, predatory interest that made your stomach turn. "I see you're sitting alone. A beautiful person like you shouldn't be left unattended at a celebration like this. Let me get you something stronger to drink."
"I'm fine, thank you," you said politely, taking a step back. "My boyfriend is actually—"
"Oh, the tall guy with the flashy hair?" the businessman scoffed, stepping closer, effectively blocking your path back to the pavilion. "He looks like the type who likes to be the center of attention. Probably doesn't know how to appreciate what's right in front of him. Why don't you let a real adult take you out tonight?"
Before you could formulate a response that wouldn't cause a scene, the temperature around you dropped by ten degrees.
The air grew heavy, the faint, invisible hum of Infinity vibrating against the back of your neck a split second before a heavy, unyielding arm locked around your waist.
Satoru hauled you back against his chest with a single, effortless tug, his massive frame completely bracketing you from the stranger.
"Is there a problem here?" Satoru asked.
His voice wasn't carrying that cheerful, annoying pitch he used when he was playing a character. It was low, dangerous, and carried a jagged, Special Grade edge that made the businessman's smile instantly vanish.
Satoru didn't have his glasses on; they were tucked into his breast pocket, and his bare, sky-blue eyes were fixed on the man with a freezing, unblinking glare that felt like a death sentence.
"No, I was just... introducing myself," the businessman stammered, taking an involuntary step backward as his face went pale.
"Great. Now you've met us," Satoru rumbled, his grip tightening around your waist, his thumb anchoring itself against your hipbone with a possessive, territorial force. "My partner and I were right in the middle of an important conversation. Lose yourself."
The man practically ran away.
You stood there for a long beat, your back pressed against Satoru’s tailored vest, your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm. You could feel the heavy, rapid thud of his own heart against your spine.
"Satoru," you whispered, your fingers clutching his forearm to loosen his grip. "The guy's gone. You can drop the act now. You're squeezing me."
He didn't release you. Instead, he buried his face into the crook of your neck, his white hair brushing against your ear as he let out a long, ragged exhale.
"I'm not acting," he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin, rough and entirely devoid of his usual playful theater. "I really hate when people look at you like that."
But it wasn't enough. Your emotional ruin arrived during the traditional reception events.
The bride had gathered all the unmarried guests in the center of the courtyard for the bouquet toss. You had tried to hide behind a pillar with a plate of crab cakes, but your mother had forcibly shoved you into the center of the crowd, right at the front lines.
"On three!" the bride called out, turning her back. "One... two... three!"
The flowers sailed through the air in a high, arc trajectory. You hadn't even intended to reach for them, but a sudden scramble among the cousins caused someone to bump into your shoulder, and your hands instinctively shot out to stabilize yourself.
Thud.
The tightly bound bundle of white roses and eucalyptus landed squarely in your palms.
The entire courtyard erupted into cheers and wild applause. Your mother was practically vibrating with delight, and your uncle let out a booming laugh from the bar, cupping his hands around his mouth to yell across the garden: "Looks like you're next, kid! Better start saving up for the venue!"
You felt your entire face turn a brilliant, agonizing shade of crimson. You opened your mouth, ready to laugh it off as a statistical anomaly, ready to say something self-deprecating to break the tension.
"Works for me," a clear, loud voice echoed from the stairs.
The courtyard went dead silent.
You froze, your fingers tightening around the flower stems until the thorns nipped at your skin. You turned your head slowly. Satoru was standing on the wooden veranda, a half-eaten skewer of dango in his hand. His sky-blue eyes were wide, fixed on you with an expression of profound, unadulterated shock.
He hadn't meant to say that out loud. For the first time in his entire life, Gojo Satoru had lost control of his filter because his subconscious had answered the universe before his brain could construct a joke.
Your mother looked at Satoru. Satoru looked at you. You looked at the bouquet.
"Well," your grandmother chirped into the suffocating silence, her wheelchair squeaking as she turned toward the buffet. "I always did want a autumn wedding."
The evening drew to a close, the traditional lanterns had been dimmed, casting the stone paths in long, indigo shadows. The older relatives had retired to their rooms, leaving only a few lingering guests drifting through the garden as a slow, melancholy jazz melody began to float from the speakers near the pavilion.
You were sitting on the edge of the wooden deck, your heels discarded beside you, staring out at the dark water of the koi pond. The white bouquet was resting in your lap, its scent heavy in the cool night air.
A soft rustle of silk announced his presence before he even sat down.
Satoru slid onto the deck beside you, his long legs dangling over the edge. He had discarded his jacket and his tie, the top three buttons of his white shirt undone, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbones.
He looked smaller like this, less like the strongest sorcerer alive and more like a man who had spent the day carrying the weight of a secret he didn't know how to keep.
"We survived," you said softly, trying to inject some of your usual lighthearted banter into the space between you. "My mother already added you to the family group chat, by the way. You're stuck forever."
Satoru didn't laugh. He didn't even look at his phone. He just turned his head, his brilliant, bare eyes searching your face with a quiet, devastating intensity that made your breath hitch.
"Can I have this dance?" he asked.
His voice was a low, velvet whisper. There was no teasing edge, no smirk, no arrogant tilt of his chin. It was just Satoru.
You hesitated for a fraction of a second before setting the bouquet down on the wood. You stood up, your bare feet cold against the smooth timber, and stepped into his space.
Satoru rose to his full height, his massive form instantly shielding you from the rest of the world. He didn't place his hand on your waist with that theatrical, exaggerated flourish from earlier.
Instead, his palm came down against the small of your back with a soft, reverent pressure, his other hand gently lacing his fingers through yours, locking them securely against his chest.
You leaned your forehead against his shoulder, letting the scent of his cologne and the steady, heavy rhythm of his heart wash over you as you swayed to the slow music.
"Satoru," you murmured into the fabric of his shirt. "The wedding is over. You don't have to keep the act up anymore. Nobody's looking at us."
The hand on your back tightened, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer until there was no space left between you, his chest rising and falling against yours in a ragged, uneven pattern.
"You know..." he whispered, his chin resting gently against the top of your hair, his long fingers pressing into your palm with a desperate, quiet certainty.
"What?"
"If you ever wanted to do that for real," Satoru murmured into the dark of the garden, his voice completely devoid of his usual armor. "I'd be available. Permanently."
You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your eyes searching his face. For the first time since you had known him, the invincible Gojo Satoru looked entirely vulnerable, his blue eyes holding yours with a raw, terrifying honesty that left no room for doubt.
He wasn't playing a game anymore. The sandbox was gone, and he was standing before you, entirely unraveled by his own collateral damage.
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, your hand moving up to gently cup the side of his jaw, your thumb brushing against the smooth skin of his cheekbone. "You're an idiot, Satoru."
A small, breathtakingly beautiful smile touched his lips, his eyes softening into something eternal as he leaned down, closing the remaining distance between you. "Yeah," he whispered against your lips. "But I'm your idiot now."
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