you only say it when you’re drunk (18+)
art creds: m3yunzu/secremeyun, aransmind
content warning: explicit sexual content (smut), heavy alcohol use, drunk confessions, jealousy, strong language, enemies to lovers tension, lots of heated arguments, college au, frat gojo, 18+, fluff,
gojo satoru is everywhere you don’t want him to be. loud, smug, and annoyingly hot, the frat president spends half his time pushing your buttons and the other half pretending he doesn’t care when you push back. everyone swears you two are basically dating. you both deny it instantly. until the nights he gets drunk and the filter disappears. “i don’t actually hate you, you know.” suddenly the arguments feel like flirting, the jealousy burns hotter than it should, and one sober morning after a chaotic party changes everything. because hating him was easy. wanting him? that’s the part neither of you saw coming.
you’ve known satoru gojo for exactly eighteen months, three weeks, and two days. not that you’re counting. it’s just that the universe keeps shoving him into your orbit like it’s got a personal vendetta. same lectures where he sits in the back row with his long legs stretched out, sunglasses on indoors, somehow still acing every quiz while you grind in the front row taking meticulous notes. same mutual friends who throw you together at every group study session or late-night food run.
same stupid campus events where everyone pretends they’re not here for the free booze and the drama. he’s the frat president with the white hair that somehow never looks messy even after three keg stands, always in the center of every room, laughing too loud, drawing every eye like he was born for the spotlight. you? you’re the one who keeps getting dragged along because your roommate is dating his vice president, suguru geto, and apparently that makes you part of the ecosystem now, whether you like it or not.
at first it’s just eye rolls across the quad when he walks by with his usual crew. then it’s passing comments at parties. “you always look like you’re one bad song away from calling the cops on all of us,” he says once, leaning against the porch railing with that smirk that makes you want to smack him and ruin his pretty face.
you fire back without missing a beat, “and you look like you’ve never had a single original thought in your life. you’re just coasting on pretty privilege, aren’t you?” the crowd around you laughs like it’s prime entertainment. he just tilts his head, eyes bright behind those stupid designer shades even at night, and says, “cute. keep going, i like it when you get all fired up. makes my night more interesting.”
it escalates from there. every time your circles collide he finds a new button to push. you call him out for showing up hungover to a group project meeting, reeking of last night’s regrets while everyone else actually prepared. he teases you relentlessly for being the only person who actually reads the syllabus front to back and color-codes her notes. your friends start placing bets on how long it’ll take before one of you snaps or finally hooks up.
shoko just lights another cigarette, exhales slowly, and mutters, “you two are basically dating at this point, you know that right? all that bickering is foreplay.” you both deny it instantly, voices overlapping in perfect sync “absolutely not!” and “as if.” and the denial only makes everyone laugh harder. geto just shakes his head with that knowing smile, like he’s been waiting for this trainwreck for months.
the arguments feel like foreplay and neither of you will admit it, even to yourselves.
tonight is the big spring party at the his house, the one where the music is too loud and the lights are too low and the kitchen is the only place that isn’t completely packed with bodies grinding to whatever playlist the sophomores threw together. red solo cups litter every surface, the air thick with cheap beer, weed smoke, and too much cologne. you’re there because your roommate begged you not to be a hermit again, and because you’re trying (and failing) not to think about the fact that gojo’s been staring at you from across the living room for the last twenty minutes.
his gaze cutting through the crowd like he can’t help himself. you weave through the chaos, dodging a game of beer pong that’s already gotten way too sloppy, and end up in the kitchen grabbing a bottle of water when he stumbles in, taller than everyone, hair falling into his eyes, cheeks flushed from whatever he’s been drinking all night.
“look who it is,” he says, voice lower than usual, a little rough around the edges. “miss uptight herself. come to lecture me about responsible drinking again? or are you finally here to have some actual fun?”
you snort, twisting the cap off your water. “someone has to keep you in check. you’re one shot away from face-planting into the punch bowl again, like last month when you tried to crowd-surf and nearly took out the whole coffee table.”
he laughs, but it’s softer this time, almost fond instead of mocking. he steps closer. way too close, the way he always does when he’s past tipsy. the counter digs into your lower back. his eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide, but he’s still got that signature smirk tugging at his lips. “hey, you know i don’t actually hate you, right?”
the words hit like a record scratch in the middle of the bass-heavy music. you laugh, sharp and disbelieving, trying to play it off. “yeah, okay, gojo. you’re drunk. save the heartfelt shit for someone who believes it.”
“i’m not that drunk.” he leans in even more, one hand bracing on the counter beside your hip, caging you in without quite touching. you can smell his expensive cologne mixed with beer and something sweeter, maybe the cherry shots he was doing earlier. “i notice shit about you. like how you always twist that little silver ring of yours on your finger when you’re pretending not to be nervous in a crowd. or how you quote that one pretentious philosophy book when you’re trying to win an argument and shut everyone up. you’re the only person who actually challenges me. makes everything… interesting. makes me want to be better, even if i act like i don’t.”
your heart does something stupid and traitorous in your chest. you shove at his chest lightly, but there’s no real force behind it. “stop. you’re going to regret this tomorrow when you’re sober and back to your usual asshole routine.”
he doesn’t move an inch. his free hand comes up, fingers hovering like he wants to touch your cheek but isn’t quite brave enough yet. “i think about you more than i should. way more. even when i’m in class pretending to pay attention. even when i’m supposed to be running shit here. you’re always in my head, trouble.”
the kitchen spins a little. not just from the alcohol in the air. someone walks in, sees the two of you pressed close like this, and immediately backs out with a knowing grin and a muttered “finally.” you brush the whole thing off as best you can, tell him he’ll regret every word tomorrow, and slip away before he can say anything else that might crack your walls wider. the next morning he’s back to normal. teasing you across the brunch table like the words never left his mouth, sliding you an extra pancake with a wink. “morning, princess. sleep okay after saving me from myself again?”
you hate how much it stings. how much you wish the drunk version would stick around.
it becomes a pattern after that. every party, every late-night gathering where alcohol loosens his tongue, he seeks you out like a magnet. gets too close on the house couch, fingers brushing your knee “accidentally” while he murmurs, “you’re prettier when you’re mad at me. makes me want to keep pushing just to see that fire.” another time, outside under the string lights with the bass thumping faintly through the walls, he admits quietly, “i wait to see if you’ll show up every time. it’s annoying how much i look for you in every room.” sober him never acknowledges any of it the next day. he just smirks like always and calls you “trouble,” like the confessions were nothing but drunk nonsense.
your friends won’t shut up about it. geto claps him on the back during one of their house meetings and says, “dude, just ask her out already before someone else does.” gojo flips him off with a laugh that sounds a little forced. you deny everything louder whenever shoko brings it up, but the tension is thickening, slow and unbearable, like honey dripping into your veins and sticking everything together. his insults start sounding suspiciously like compliments. he remembers you hate olives on pizza and always picks them off your slice without being asked. he saves you the last slice of cake at group events. he ends up next to you every single time, shoulder brushing yours, like gravity itself insists on pulling you together no matter how much you bicker.
then there’s the jealousy that cracks everything open wider.
it’s at another party mid-april, the air thick with smoke and bass and too many bodies pressed together on the makeshift dance floor. you’re in the corner talking to a guy from your psych class. nice enough, funny in a low-key way, the kind of chill that feels like a vacation from gojo’s constant high-energy bullshit, when gojo appears like a storm cloud rolling in fast. he doesn’t interrupt at first. just stands a few feet away, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched, those blue eyes locked on the way the guy laughs at something you said and leans in a little too close to hear you over the music. you can feel the shift in the air, heavy and electric, like the moment before lightning strikes.
later, when the guy steps away to grab fresh drinks, gojo corners you by the staircase, voice low and edged with something raw and ugly he usually keeps locked tight behind that effortless smirk. “didn’t know you were into guys who wear cargo shorts and talk about their gpa like it’s some kind of foreplay. real catch there, princess. hope he recites the textbook while he’s trying to impress you.” the words drip with jealousy he doesn’t bother hiding this time. his eyes darker than the dim party lights should allow, shoulders tense like he’s fighting the urge to drag you away right there.
you snap back that it’s none of his damn business who you talk to, that he doesn’t get to act possessive when he’s the one who pretends every drunk confession never happened, when he leaves you hanging every sober morning wondering if any of it was real. he laughs, but it’s short and bitter, no real humor in it, and for the first time the argument doesn’t feel like your usual charged flirting. it feels like something cracking wide open, like he’s one second away from admitting how much it actually bothers him to see you give anyone else even a fraction of the attention he craves. you both storm off in opposite directions, hearts pounding harder than the music, leaving the party early and separately for once. the awkward sober morning after that one is the worst yet. texts ignored on both sides, glances carefully avoided in the dining hall, the silence between you heavier and more loaded than any insult you’ve ever thrown.
the shift finally happens on the last friday in april, another frat rager that’s somehow even louder and messier than usual. this time you’re the one who’s had too much. shots with your roommate turning into dancing in the living room turning into the world going soft and spinning around the edges. gojo is stone-cold sober for once, playing designated driver because geto’s out of town for the weekend. you find him in the backyard, away from the worst of the chaos, leaning against the wooden fence with moonlight catching in his white hair like it was painted there just to make him look unfairly beautiful and calm. suddenly everything you’ve been swallowing down for months spills out in a messy, slurred rush.
“you’re such an asshole,” you tell him, words tumbling over each other but honest in a way sober you never allows. “you say all that shit when you’re drunk and then pretend it never happened the next day. you notice things about me that no one else does. you think about me. you get jealous like you have any right when i talk to other people. and i—god, i care what you think of me. i hate how much i care. i hate that i look for you in every single room too. i hate that i want you so bad even when you’re driving me fucking insane with that stupid smirk and your endless teasing.”
he goes very still against the fence. the usual smirk is completely gone. just those ridiculous blue eyes, wide and unguarded for once, moonlight reflecting in them like stars.
“say that again,” he says quietly. no teasing. just raw need in his voice.
you do. you step closer on unsteady legs, swaying a little into his space, and repeat every messy, vulnerable truth. he catches your elbow gently to steady you, and this time his touch lingers like it means everything. the air between you feels electric, charged with months—years, almost—of bickering and almost-touches and half-confessions finally snapping taut and breaking.
“i don’t hate you either,” he admits, voice rough and low, like the words have been fighting to get out for ages. “never did. not even close. i just… didn’t know how to say the rest without sounding like a complete idiot. sober me is a coward, apparently. always has been when it comes to you.” he laughs once, soft and self-deprecating, and reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising tenderness. the gentleness undoes you more than any drunk confession ever could. “i think about you all the time. even when i’m pretending i don’t. especially then. you make everything better. louder. brighter. more fun. i don’t know how to do any of this without you anymore. you challenge me and it makes me want to be someone worth challenging.”
you kiss him first. messy and desperate, tasting like cheap vodka and months of relief and want. he makes a soft surprised sound in the back of his throat before his hands slide to your waist, pulling you flush against his tall frame like he’s been waiting lifetimes for permission. the kiss deepens fast, turns hungry and heated, all the tension that’s been building between you exploding at once. when you finally break apart for air, foreheads pressed together and breaths mingling, he whispers against your lips, “stay with me tonight. no take-backs in the morning. please. i don’t think i can pretend anymore.”
the walk upstairs to his room is a blur of stumbling steps, shared laughter that bubbles up between kisses, and more heated presses against the hallway walls where his hands slip under the hem of your shirt like he physically can’t wait another second. once the door clicks shut behind you the rest of the world disappears completely. his hands are everywhere. reverent and greedy at the same time, peeling off your clothes like he’s memorizing every inch of skin he reveals. “been wanting this for so fucking long,” he murmurs against your neck, nipping softly at the sensitive spot below your ear, then soothing it with his tongue. you arch into him, fingers threading through that stupid perfect white hair and tugging just enough to make him groan like the sound alone could ruin him completely.
he’s surprisingly gentle at first despite the hunger, all long limbs and whispered praises as he lays you down on his unmade bed that still smells like his cologne. “look at you,” he breathes, eyes dark and reverent as they rake over you, kissing a slow trail down your stomach. “so fucking pretty when you’re not yelling at me. so pretty when you are, too. god, i love how you never back down from me.” then that familiar smirk returns, but it’s softer now, warmer, full of affection instead of arrogance, and he spends what feels like hours teasing you open with his fingers and mouth. slow, deliberate circles of his tongue around your clit until your thighs shake around his head, until you’re begging with his name like a prayer, hips bucking up desperately. he hums against you like he’s savoring every moan and gasp, like he’s been starving for the taste of you for months and finally gets to indulge.
when he finally slides into you, slow and deep at first, eyes locked on yours the entire time. the stretch is perfect, overwhelming in the best way. you both gasp at the same time, foreheads pressed together. “fuck,” he mutters, voice strained as his hips roll in shallow thrusts that make you see stars. “you feel… god, you feel like home or something. that’s stupid, right? but it’s true. you’re it for me.” it’s not stupid. you tell him so by rolling your hips up to meet his, nails digging into his broad shoulders, and the pace shifts harder, faster, deeper, the kind of desperate, relentless rhythm that only comes after months of denial and tension. he fucks you like he’s making up for every single argument, every ignored confession, every time he walked away sober and left you wondering. his mouth stays on yours or on your neck, murmuring filthy praises mixed with soft ones—“so tight for me, baby. taking me so well. been dreaming about this”—until you cum first, clenching around him hard with his name breaking on your lips. he follows right after, hips stuttering as he buries himself deep, burying his face in your neck like he never wants to leave, whispering your name like it’s the only word that matters.
afterward he doesn’t pull away even for a second. he tugs you against his chest, one arm slung possessively over your waist, fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles on your bare skin while the other hand strokes gently through your hair. the room is quiet except for your slowing breaths and the occasional soft kiss he presses to your temple, your shoulder, anywhere his mouth can reach. “no more hiding,” he says softly into the dark, voice warm and certain. “i’m done pretending i don’t want this. don’t want you. all the time. even when you’re calling me an idiot and threatening to report me for noise violations. especially then.”
you smile into his collarbone, pressing a lazy kiss there, your body still humming with aftershocks. “good. because i’m done pretending i don’t like when you push my buttons. i like all of it. the teasing, the drunk confessions, the way you look at me like i’m the only person in any room who actually matters.”
he chuckles, the sound rumbling warmly through both of you, and pulls the blanket up over your tangled bodies. “we’re still gonna argue, you know. i’m still gonna win most of them.”
“already living the dream, baby.”
the next morning there’s no awkwardness at all, just sunlight spilling golden across the tangled sheets and his arm still heavy and warm around your waist like even in sleep he’s afraid you’ll disappear. you wake first, blinking against the light, and spend a long moment just tracing idle patterns on his bare chest, watching the way his face looks softer in repose. white lashes against his cheeks, lips slightly parted. he stirs after a while with a sleepy hum, eyes cracking open to find yours, and instead of pulling away he just smiles. wide, boyish, and genuinely happy, and pulls you closer until your legs tangle together completely.
“morning, trouble,” he murmurs, voice deliciously rough from sleep and everything you did last night. he presses a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips like he’s savoring the fact that he finally can. “don’t even think about sneaking out or pretending this was a one-time thing. i made plans for us.”
those plans turn out to be him making you breakfast exactly how you like it. toast with bananas on top with sweet coffee on side while you steal one of his oversized hoodies that smells like him and curl up on his bed again, legs tucked under you. he brings the mugs over, sets them on the nightstand, and climbs right back in, wrapping around you from behind like a human blanket, chin resting on your shoulder. “so,” he says quietly, nuzzling into your neck and pressing soft kisses there between words, voice still a little shy in a way you’ve never heard from the confident frat president. “we’re doing this, right? for real this time. no more drunk-only truths. no more pretending the next day. you’re mine now. and i’m yours. all the stupid fights, all the late nights studying together just so i can annoy you, all the parties where i only show up hoping you’ll be there. all of it.”
you turn in his arms, cupping his face gently, thumbs brushing over his sharp cheekbones as you look into those impossibly blue eyes. “yeah, satoru. all of it. i want the real you. the smug frat boy who drives me crazy with his teasing and the guy who remembers i hate olives on pizza and who looks at me like i hung the moon when he thinks i’m not paying attention. i want the arguments and the make-ups. i want mornings like this.”
he grins, wide and boyish and so full of affection it makes your chest ache, and kisses you slow and sweet, like he’s got all the time in the world now that the walls are finally down. the kiss turns deeper after a while, hands wandering lazily under the hoodie, but it’s not rushed or desperate this time. just warm and affectionate and full of quiet laughter when his hair falls in your face and you push it back with a playful grumble. you spend the whole morning like that. tangled up in his sheets, trading soft confessions and inside jokes between kisses, planning nothing bigger than “skip our morning classes and stay in bed all day.” he feeds you bites of toast, whispering how pretty you look wearing nothing but his hoodie, how he’s been thinking about waking up exactly like this for months on end.
“i love how you challenge me,” he admits quietly later, forehead against yours as you both sip coffee and bask in the sunlight. “no one else does. it makes me better. makes everything feel worth it.”
you melt a little more, pulling him closer and kissing the corner of his mouth. “i love how you never back down. even when you’re wrong. especially when you’re wrong. it makes me feel alive.”
he laughs, bright and open and completely unguarded, and rolls you gently under him again. not for more heat this time but just to pepper your entire face with playful kisses until you’re both giggling like idiots, the kind of light, happy laughter that comes after finally giving in. the tension everyone around you had seen for months was never hate at all. it was always this. pulling you closer even when it looked like pushing away. your friends will never let either of you live it down, geto’s already blowing up his phone with a string of “finally, you idiot” texts and shoko’s sending memes about “enemies to lovers speedrun” but for once you don’t care at all. he calls you “trouble” this time and it sounds exactly like “i love you,” even if neither of you says the words out loud yet. when he says it you believe him completely, and you say it back in the way you kiss him like he’s yours now.
it feels like the start of something real, something loud and perfect that neither of you ever want to end.
© miziyaos ۶ৎ ⋆˙⟡ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ———
