frat!gojo messing with shy!reader
The bass thumped through the sprawling frat house like a second heartbeat, vibrating up through the sticky floorboards and into your bones. Red Solo cups littered every surface, the air thick with the scent of cheap beer, weed, and too much cologne. You stood near the edge of the crowded living room, nursing a drink you barely sipped, feeling painfully out of place in your simple black top and jeans. Parties like this weren’t your scene. Too loud. Too chaotic. Too many eyes.
But he was here. Satoru Gojo. The undisputed king of this fraternity, with his snow-white hair that somehow looked effortlessly perfect even under the dim, flashing lights, and those piercing blue eyes that could cut through a crowd like a laser. Tall—stupidly, unfairly tall—and built like he spent just enough time at the gym to make every movement look predatory and graceful at once. He wasn’t your boyfriend. Not even close. But the way he sought you out, the endless flirting, the stolen moments… it was something. A situationship that left you dizzy and frustrated and aching in ways you didn’t want to admit.
You spotted him across the room almost immediately, like your body had a radar tuned only to him. He was lounging on a worn leather couch, surrounded by his usual crew—laughing loud, gesturing wildly as he told some story that had everyone leaning in. His long legs were stretched out, one arm draped over the back of the couch, the other holding a drink he barely touched. Even from here, his presence sucked all the oxygen out of the space.
A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips. He didn’t break eye contact as he said something to the group that made them erupt in laughter. Then, deliberately, he glanced back at you—checking. Making sure you were watching. Making sure the joke landed with you. Your cheeks burned. You looked away first, staring down into your cup like it held the secrets of the universe.
A few minutes later, he was moving through the crowd toward you. People parted for him without thinking, like he was magnetic. He stopped right in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.
“Lost, babe?” he drawled, voice low and teasing, cutting through the noise like it was made just for your ears. He bent down slightly, that stupid height forcing him to lean in so he could “hear you better,” even though you hadn’t said a word. His breath brushed your ear, warm and minty with a hint of whatever overpriced drink he’d been sipping. “You look like you’re about two seconds from bolting.”
“I’m fine,” you mumbled, hating how small your voice sounded. Shy. Always so shy around him, while he radiated confidence like it was air.
“Oh?” He straightened just enough to look down at you properly, but his hand came up, fingers gentle but firm under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. You tried to glance away again—embarrassment flooding hot through your chest—but he wouldn’t let you. “None of that. Look at me when I’m talking to you, yeah? There she is.” His thumb brushed your jaw, mocking and affectionate all at once. “Poor thing. So shy tonight. What’s got you all flustered, hm?”
You hated him. Hated how your stomach flipped at the contact, how your pulse hammered against his fingertips. He knew exactly what he was doing. He always did.
The night blurred after that—more drinks pressed into your hand (non-alcoholic ones, you noticed, because he paid attention), more teasing comments whispered just for you when no one else was looking. He’d pull you into conversations with his friends, an arm slung casually around your shoulders like it belonged there, only to squeeze you closer when you got quiet. Every time you laughed at something he said—soft, reluctant giggles—he’d seek you out with those blue eyes again, satisfaction gleaming in them like he’d won something.
Later, the party spilled out into the backyard, string lights twinkling overhead, the air cooler but still thick with energy. You were sitting on the edge of a picnic table, legs swinging, when he appeared again. This time he had his hoodie on, the black fabric stretched across his broad shoulders. He was mid-laugh with someone, but his gaze kept drifting back to you.
“Come here,” he said suddenly, crooking a finger. You hesitated, but he closed the distance himself, stepping between your knees where you sat. “You’re too far away. I don’t like it.”
“Satoru…” you started, voice barely above a whisper.
“Shh.” He tugged at the zipper of his hoodie, pulling it down in one smooth motion. Then he shrugged it off, and—god—his white t-shirt rode up with it. The movement revealed a strip of toned, pale skin at his waist, the sharp V of his hips disappearing into low-slung jeans, the faint trail of white hair leading down. Muscles flexed as he tossed the hoodie aside onto the table beside you. He didn’t fix the shirt right away. Just let you look, that smirk deepening when your eyes lingered.
“See something you like?” he murmured, bending down again so his face was level with yours. Close. Too close. His hands braced on the table on either side of your hips, caging you in without touching. “Poor thing. You’re staring again. Can’t help it, can you?”
Your face flamed. You tried to duck your head, but his hand was there instantly—fingers catching your chin, forcing your gaze back to his. “Eyes on me. I like when you look at me like that. All wide-eyed and overwhelmed. It’s cute.” His voice dropped lower, intense, the mocking edge sharpening into something darker. “Makes me want to see just how much more I can make you blush.”
He stayed like that for a long moment, breath mingling with yours, the party noise fading into background static. His thumb traced your lower lip, slow and deliberate. You could smell his cologne—clean, crisp, expensive—and feel the heat rolling off his body. Every nerve ending was on fire. He wasn’t yours, not officially, but in moments like this, it felt like the whole world narrowed to just the two of you.
“You hate it, don’t you?” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he leaned in even closer. “How easily I get under your skin. How one little look from across the room has you pressing your thighs together. How when I do this—” He pulled back just enough to tug his shirt down properly, but not before flashing you another deliberate glimpse of that abs line, “—you forget how to breathe.”
You swallowed hard, heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. “Satoru, we’re… this isn’t—”
“Not my girlfriend,” he finished for you, voice laced with dark amusement. “I know. But you keep coming back. Keep letting me pull you into dark corners and make you look at me like I’m the only thing that exists.” His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted. “Because you are shy, baby. So fucking shy and sweet, and it drives me insane. Makes me want to ruin that composure until you’re moaning my name instead of hiding behind it.”
The intensity in his eyes was overwhelming—bright blue, almost glowing under the string lights. He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. He just held you there, bent over you, making you feel small and claimed and seen. Across the yard, someone called his name, but he ignored them, focus locked entirely on you.
“Tell me to stop,” he challenged softly, lips hovering inches from yours. “Tell me you don’t want me watching you from across every room like you’re mine to stare at. Tell me you don’t get wet when I bend down to hear your quiet little voice. Tell me, and I’ll walk away.”
You couldn’t. Your lips parted, but no words came. Just a shaky breath.
He chuckled, low and victorious. “That’s what I thought, poor thing.” His fingers tightened gently in your hair. “Now laugh at my next joke like a good girl, yeah? I want to see that pretty smile while I’m thinking about all the ways I’m going to make you fall apart later.”
He straightened up then, pulling you off the table with him like it was nothing. His hoodie was tossed over your shoulders instead—warm from his body, smelling like him—marking you without a word. Back inside, he dove right back into the group, telling another story with that effortless charisma, but every few seconds his eyes found yours. Checking. Waiting for your laugh. Making sure you felt the weight of his attention like a physical touch.
