愛 │"YOU THE REAL MVP, MY LOVE."
about. Satoru Gojo, Japan’s biggest player, decides he wants the team’s hot reporter— Amid the media circus, she’s the real fucking MVP for taking that dick.
pairing. basketball player!satoru x reporter!reader
word. 12.77k
content. filthy sex with Satoru, spitting, multiple positions, degradation, praise kink, size kink, edging, shameless teasing, public/interview humiliation, exhibitionism, and a ton of filthy banter. Heavy cursing, intense power play, and unapologetic domination included. Reader discretion absolutely advised.
notes. i absolutely love the idea of whipped satoru...
The arena was still vibrating from the last buzzer. Confetti rained down from the rafters like glittering snow, painting the hardwood in a storm of gold and silver. The crowd was deafening—roaring, stomping, chanting “MVP! MVP!”—a chant reserved for only one man tonight.
Satoru Gojo stood at center court, jersey clinging to his tall frame, his pale hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, a grin plastered across his face that was cocky and boyish all at once. His teammates swarmed him, arms slung around shoulders, shoving him, laughing, pouring water bottles over his head until his jersey darkened and clung to every line of muscle.
He was the star, but he wasn’t alone—behind him, Toji grinned sharp and wolfish, towering with his arms crossed like nothing about this game had winded him. Suguru had already pulled his hair out of its tie, pushing it back with one hand as he caught Choso in a headlock, both of them laughing hoarsely. And Sukuna? He wasn’t celebrating so much as snarling through a smile, tattoos gleaming under the stadium lights as he pointed two fingers at the scoreboard like “You see that? That’s us.”
But the cameras weren’t just on them. They were on him.
Gojo Gojo Gojo. Another championship. Another MVP. Another perfect stat line.
The big screens flashed his face, slow-motion highlights replaying above the crowd—the fadeaway three, the impossible no-look pass, the final slam dunk that sealed the win. His name echoed off the walls, until the announcer’s voice cut through:
“Ladies and gentlemen, your Finals MVP… Satoru Gojo!”
He bowed dramatically, dripping sweat, holding up the shiny gold trophy as though it weighed nothing at all. Cameras popped, flashes blinding, and he basked in it, smug as a god under the lights.
Then, someone tapped him on the shoulder. A staffer with a headset shouted over the chaos,
“Gojo! Courtside postgame interview! Now!”
Satoru’s grin widened, if that was even possible. He ruffled his wet hair back, leaned into Suguru with a lazy slap to his chest, and muttered, “Try not to miss me too much, yeah?” before swaggering toward the baseline where the broadcast team waited. His long strides carried him across the confetti-slick court, every eye following him—because Gojo never just walked. He prowled like he owned the whole damn place.
And that’s when he saw you.
Standing under the glaring lights, microphone in hand, hair perfectly styled despite the chaos, press badge gleaming against your fitted blazer. You had the poise of someone used to live TV, posture sharp, voice rehearsed—but the moment his gaze landed on you, Satoru swore the whole stadium dulled around the edges. You weren’t just another sideline reporter. You were pretty. And not just in the neat, polished way reporters usually were. There was something soft in your features, something magnetic in the way your eyes lifted to meet his as he approached.
Gojo slowed down, smirk tugging at his lips. He was supposed to be answering questions about the game, the championship, his career-defining night. But all he could think was—
Well damn. Guess I just won twice tonight.
The courtside was chaos, but controlled chaos. Crew members hustled back and forth, sound checks crackling through headsets, a cameraman already angling for the best shot. You stood in the middle of it all, calm against the storm, glancing down at your notes with the kind of focus that made it clear—this wasn’t your first finals, and you weren’t here to be distracted.
A powder brush dabbed against your cheek once more, and you thanked the makeup tech quickly before she rushed off. You adjusted your earpiece, straightened the lapel of your blazer, and let out a steadying breath. Three minutes live with Gojo. Just basketball questions. Keep it sharp.
And not once—not once—did you spare him a glance as he ambled toward you, even though the heat of his presence was unmistakable. Six-foot-six of sweat-slick muscle, his jersey clinging to broad shoulders, that trophy still in one hand like it was part of his anatomy. He smirked when he noticed you deliberately ignoring him, leaning a little closer than necessary while a sound tech clipped a mic to his collar.
The camera light flipped red. Live.
Your smile bloomed instantly, professional and practiced, your voice smooth as velvet through the mic. “Congratulations to the Tokyo Kaisen on their championship win tonight, and of course, Finals MVP—Satoru Gojo is with me now. Satoru, another incredible performance, thirty-eight points, twelve assists, eight rebounds—what’s going through your mind right now?”
Satoru didn’t answer right away. Instead, his tongue darted out, slow and careless, licking his lips before he gave you that lazy grin. He tilted the trophy in his hand like he might hand it to you, then thought better of it.
“Mm, what’s going through my mind?” he drawled, pretending to think while his eyes roamed—lingering a little too long on your mouth, the way the gloss caught the stadium lights. “Honestly, I could give you the boring answer—team effort, hard work, yadda yadda…” He leaned a little closer, blue eyes flicking back to yours. “But truthfully? I’m just glad you’re the one asking me.”
The camera didn’t catch your quick inhale, but it caught the way his grin widened, shameless.
You held steady, professionalism locking your spine. “Well, it was a team effort,” you said firmly, ignoring the way his gaze burned into you. “But you’ve been consistently strong all season. What was your mindset going into a game of this magnitude?”
Gojo finally tore his eyes off your mouth—just to trail them down your figure instead. That fitted blazer hugged your waist perfectly, the pencil skirt skimming your hips, heels giving your posture an elegance that made his throat dry. God, you were gorgeous. Too gorgeous to be stuck courtside with a mic. He couldn’t stop licking his lips, couldn’t stop shifting like he needed to bite down on something.
“My mindset?” he repeated, smirking when you glanced up at him again, all business. “To win. Always. I don’t like losing—never have, never will.” He paused, smirk deepening. “But if I’m being honest… looking like that in front of me? You’re making it real hard to concentrate on basketball right now.”
The director waved frantically off-camera, mouthing Keep it about the game! But Gojo only chuckled, eyes glued to you like the crowd, the cameras, the whole world had vanished.
And that was the dangerous part—he wasn’t trying to flirt like his usual cocky self. His voice dropped lower, his grin softened when he looked at you, his attention sharpened like you were the only one who mattered. Gojo Satoru, star of the court, MVP of the season, was whipped. And he wasn’t even trying to hide it.
You didn’t break. Not even when his eyes dipped down to your mouth again. Your grip on the mic was steady, your smile easy, your voice unwavering as you shifted to the next question.
“You’ve spoken all season about trust between teammates,” you said, glancing at your notes before meeting his gaze again. “How important was that trust in pulling off tonight’s win?”
Gojo exhaled through his nose, jaw flexing as he forced himself to focus. Basketball. Game. Not her mouth. Not her legs. Not the way that blouse hugged her just right under the blazer. He shoved his tongue against his teeth, swallowed, then finally dragged his eyes back up where they belonged.
“Trust’s everything,” he said, voice softer now, less of that cocky lilt. “You can’t drop forty by yourself. I know if I dish it to Suguru, he’s draining it. Toji’s gonna muscle through anyone in the paint. Sukuna—he’ll kill me if I don’t pass when he’s open.” His grin flashed, boyish and bright for the cameras. “We’re a unit. They trust me, I trust them. That’s how you win championships.”
It was a perfect answer, clean and sharp, and yet even then his gaze lingered—just a second too long. His grin softened when he looked at you, like the cameras and crowd didn’t exist. Like you were the only one he was really talking to.
You kept rolling. “Well, it certainly showed. Last question—this is your third championship, second MVP. What’s next for you, Satoru Gojo?”
He tilted his head, lips parting as if he had something smooth to say—something that would get the director screaming in your earpiece—but before he could answer, a shadow loomed behind him.
“Don’t even think about it—”
Too late.
A bucket of freezing water cascaded straight down over his head. Gojo flinched, shouting, his hair plastering instantly to his forehead, jersey clinging even tighter. He whipped around to see Choso and Suguru cracking up behind him, Toji smirking like the devil himself with an empty cooler still in hand. Sukuna just crossed his tattooed arms and barked a laugh.
You gasped and stepped back, but not fast enough. The spray caught your blouse, soaking through just enough to make the fabric cling to your skin. Your eyes widened, but your professional smile stayed glued in place as you let out a light laugh into the mic.
“Well—looks like the celebration isn’t quite over down here!” you said brightly, as the cameraman fought to keep the shot steady through his own laughter. “Satoru Gojo, congratulations again on the win and the MVP. Back to you guys at the desk.”
The red camera light blinked off.
Gojo blinked water out of his lashes, standing there like a drenched cat, his grin breaking wider by the second. He shook his head like a dog, droplets flying everywhere, and leaned just close enough that only you could hear him murmur, voice low and rough with laughter,
“…Guess I’m not the only one who got wet tonight.”
The interview wrapped, the camera light dimming as crew swarmed in to reset. You exhaled, shoulders relaxing the moment the director’s voice left your ear. Already, one of the staff was guiding you toward the tunnel, a spare jacket draped over their arm in case you wanted to cover the damp patch on your blouse. You offered a polite smile, thanking them, already thinking about getting back to the media room, maybe even changing before the next segment.
Behind you, the team’s celebrations rolled on like thunder. Whoops and hollers echoed through the arena—Suguru tossing his head back in laughter, Toji dragging Sukuna into a rare half-embrace that looked more like a wrestling match, Choso already half-drenched in beer someone had cracked open too early. Gojo was right in the middle of it, arms around two teammates, flashing that blinding grin for every camera shoved in his face.
And then—he pulled away.
“Hold on a sec, boys.” He peeled his arm off Suguru’s shoulder, ignoring the jeers, the “Ohhh, where you going, MVP?” that followed him. The trophy was shoved into someone else’s hands as he slipped free of the crowd, water still dripping from the ends of his white hair, jersey clinging to every hard line of muscle. He didn’t care. His eyes were on you.
You’d just tucked your notes back into your folder when his shadow loomed.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he said, low enough that only you could hear it over the chaos.
You blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by the closeness, the way his pale lashes were still wet, the mischievous grin softened into something far more intent.
“Oh,” you said, recovering with that same gentle composure you always had. Your smile was warm, professional but undeniably sweet. You offered your name softly, like a secret shared between the two of you in the noisy arena.
Satoru rolled it around on his tongue immediately, savoring it like the finest wine. His grin widened, wolfish at the edges. “Pretty,” he murmured, just loud enough for you. “Suits you.”
You gave a little laugh, ducking your head as you adjusted the jacket staff had draped over your shoulders. “You should be celebrating with your teammates, not bothering me.”
“Celebrating’s better when I know who to toast to,” he shot back without missing a beat, tilting his head so he could keep your gaze locked with his. His lips quirked, eyes glinting with something that wasn’t just postgame adrenaline. “Besides… think I deserve more than one win tonight.”
The staffer tugged at your elbow gently, reminding you of the schedule, but Satoru lingered, leaning down just enough that his damp hair nearly brushed your forehead, voice dropping to a husky whisper only you could catch—
“Don’t run off too quick, sweetheart. I’ll come find you.”
You slipped into the tunnel with the staff, your heels clicking against concrete, a jacket draped around your shoulders. The scent of champagne and sweat faded behind you, swallowed by the busy shuffle of crew and media staff prepping the next segment.
Satoru stood where you’d left him, hands shoved into the waistband of his shorts, watching until you disappeared. A rare thing—him silent, grin tugging but softer, almost dazed.
Suguru noticed.
“Holy shit,” Suguru drawled, sliding up beside him with his hair dripping, towel slung lazily around his neck. He bumped his shoulder against Satoru’s, smirking when the MVP didn’t even flinch. “Don’t tell me the great Gojo Satoru just got fucking starstruck.”
That broke the trance. Satoru scoffed, running a hand through his soaked hair, but his ears burned red. “Shut the fuck up, Suguru.”
“Shut the fuck up, he says,” Toji chimed in, sauntering over with a beer already half-empty in his fist. His grin was wicked, eyes sharp like he’d just sniffed blood in the water. “Never seen you look at anyone like that before, kid. You were about two seconds from dropping on one knee right there on the court.”
Choso barked a laugh, towel still draped over his head. “No way. Gojo? Whipped?”
“Whipped,” Suguru confirmed, eyes glinting as he leaned forward, elbow digging into Satoru’s ribs. “Did you see the way he was looking at her? Bro, if the cameras weren’t on, you’d have been down bad enough to beg for her number right there.”
Satoru rolled his eyes, tugging the towel Suguru had around his neck and smacking him with it. “You’re all full of shit. I was just answering questions. Doing my job.”
“Answering questions?” Sukuna finally cut in, his grin sharp, tattoos flexing as he crossed his arms. “You weren’t answering questions, you were eye-fucking her so hard I thought the broadcast was about to go NSFW.”
The group howled with laughter, and Satoru swore, shoving at Sukuna’s shoulder while trying to hide the flush creeping down his neck.
“Fuck off. All of you,” he muttered, but it only made them laugh harder.
“Just admit it,” Suguru said, smirk smug as hell. “Gojo Satoru, MVP, finals hero, biggest flirt in the league… caught his match. You’re fucked, man. Absolutely fucked.”
And for once, Gojo didn’t have a comeback. He just grinned, crooked and a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck as he thought of you again.
“...Yeah,” he admitted under his breath, not quite meeting their eyes. “Maybe I am.”
The boys erupted again, jeers and curses echoing through the tunnel, but Satoru didn’t care. He was still thinking about the way your name had sounded on his tongue.
The hotel suite was chaos in the way only a championship night could be. Jerseys were peeled off, showers were running in rotation, room service trays already littering the coffee table—half-eaten burgers, fries dumped out of cartons, empty champagne bottles from the team’s celebratory stash. Music was blaring from Toji’s speaker, bass rattling the floor.
Satoru lay sprawled across one of the couches in nothing but black sweats, a towel still slung over his shoulders, phone held above his face as he scrolled. His wet hair stuck up in every direction, but he didn’t care—he was too busy cackling.
“Holy shit, you guys gotta see this,” he wheezed, rolling over to shove his phone in Suguru’s face.
Suguru, sitting cross-legged on the other end of the couch braiding his hair back, took one look and groaned. “Oh my god.”
On the screen was a TikTok edit already racking up views—slow-motion shots of the interview, zoomed in on the way Gojo kept licking his lips, then your smile, then back to his stare. Someone had slapped text over it: ‘he wants that cookie soooo bad’ followed by crying emojis.
Suguru snorted, biting down a laugh. “They’re eating you alive, man.”
Satoru only grinned wider. “Can’t even blame them. Cookie looked good as hell.”
“Cookie looked unbothered as hell,” Toji cut in from the armchair, towel draped over his head as he scrolled his own phone. “You were drooling and she didn’t even blink. That’s cold.”
“Cold-blooded,” Sukuna agreed, leaning against the window with a beer in his hand. He held his phone up, smirk devilish. “Yo, check this—someone made a compilation already. ‘Gojo Satoru trying not to flirt on live TV challenge (impossible).’”
The room erupted in laughter.
Choso, sprawled belly-down on the carpet with his feet kicked up, waved his phone. “This one says, ‘bro, the game wasn’t the only thing he was trying to score tonight.’”
“HA!” Suguru doubled over, braid half-finished, practically crying.
“‘She’s asking about rebounds, he’s thinking about bending her over,’” Toji read aloud, wheezing.
Even Sukuna cracked, laughing dark and loud, slapping his knee.
Satoru groaned, dragging a hand down his face but still grinning like a fool. “You’re all assholes. Every single one of you.”
“Assholes telling the truth,” Suguru teased, smirk tugging at his lips. He tossed a hair tie at Satoru’s chest. “Admit it—you’re fucking whipped.”
The MVP just sprawled back again, arms behind his head, grin crooked but shameless. “Maybe I am,” he said, drawl lazy, “and she’s worth it.”
That earned a round of groans and catcalls, Toji throwing a fry at him, Sukuna muttering, “Jesus, get a room already.”
But then Choso shoved his phone closer to Satoru, wide-eyed. “Look—someone captioned the clip, ‘Gojo’s not hearing shit, he’s just thinking about eating her alive.’”
Satoru barked out a laugh, rolling onto his side, hair still damp and sticking to his face. “Fuck yeah I was.”
They all burst out laughing again, the suite practically shaking with the noise.
Suguru finally stood, smoothing his hair back and heading toward the bedroom. “Alright, love-struck MVP, put your pants on. We’ve got an afterparty to get to.”
Satoru stretched, popping his shoulders, still grinning like a man who’d just won more than a championship. “Don’t worry, I’ll look good enough to catch her eye again.” He glanced at the mirror, flashing himself a wink. “Third time’s the charm.”
The rest of the team groaned, but there was no hiding it—Gojo Satoru was on cloud nine, and nothing, not even their relentless teasing, was bringing him down.
The afterparty was nothing short of decadent. The ballroom was packed wall to wall—teammates, staff, media, sponsors, even celebrities who hadn’t watched a single game but wanted to ride the championship buzz. Chandeliers glittered above, glasses clinked, and bass from the DJ thrummed through the floorboards.
“TO THREE FUCKING RINGS!” Toji roared, slamming back a shot with Sukuna beside him, both of them already half-drunk, shoulders heavy with sweat and celebration.
“Three rings, two MVPs, and one dumbass who can’t stop licking his lips on live TV,” Suguru quipped, clinking his glass with Choso as they all burst into laughter again.
Gojo rolled his eyes but grinned anyway, nursing a glass of champagne. He stood a little apart, gaze drifting over the crowd, restless. People were congratulating him left and right—slaps on the back, women slipping hands down his arm, sponsors trying to catch his attention—but he kept brushing them off with polite smiles.
He was looking for you.
And his teammates knew it.
“You’re not slick, man,” Choso muttered, bumping his shoulder as he leaned in to grab a drink from the bar. “The way your head keeps spinning like you’re waiting for her to walk in—pathetic.”
“Pathetic,” Sukuna echoed with a nasty grin, though his eyes were sharp as he scanned the crowd too. “Where’s your princess, Gojo?”
Suguru chuckled, sipping his drink. “Relax, he’s just trying to make sure the cookie shows up. Can’t blame him.”
Gojo groaned, running a hand through his perfectly styled white hair. “You fuckers are worse than the internet.”
And then—there you were.
You slipped into the room like you belonged there, satin catching the light with every step. The dress hugged every curve, the kind of elegant cut that was just as modest as it was devastating, gliding over your hips before spilling down your legs. The color made your skin glow, your smile dazzling as you laughed softly at something one of the execs said. You weren’t holding a mic anymore, but you still carried yourself like you were the center of the spotlight.
Gojo froze.
“Oh, fuck me,” he muttered under his breath, heart lurching into his throat. The champagne in his hand suddenly felt useless, his mouth dry. The confidence he’d oozed in front of the cameras, in front of the whole arena, evaporated the second he saw you smile like that.
Suguru caught it instantly. He smirked, clapping a hand to Satoru’s back. “Aaand there it is. He’s gone. Absolutely gone.”
Toji leaned in, smirk cruel. “MVP’s scared of a girl in a dress."
“Scared?” Sukuna sneered, eyes glinting with amusement. “Look at him. Motherfucker’s about to choke on his own tongue.”
Gojo didn’t even argue. He couldn’t. His eyes were locked on you, the way the higher-ups leaned in too close when they spoke, the way you tipped your head politely, satin dress shimmering with each shift of your body.
“Don’t just stand there like a pussy,” Toji barked, smacking the back of his head. “Go fucking talk to her.”
“Yeah,” Suguru added, grinning ear to ear. “Before someone else does.”
Satoru swallowed hard, tugged at his collar, and muttered under his breath, “…Shit. Why am I nervous?”
Because for once in his life, it wasn’t a game, and you weren’t just anyone.
The bass from the DJ thrummed through the ballroom floor, champagne glasses clinking in celebration. Everyone was drunk on victory—managers, execs, players from other teams. Satoru sat with his teammates at a low-lit lounge area, sprawled out in a chair with his long legs spread, but his eyes weren’t on the bottles or the people cheering them on. They were glued to you across the room.
You were in satin—soft, glossy, hugging every curve like it was made for you. The way you tilted your head back when you laughed with those higher-ups? It made his stomach twist in a way he wasn’t used to. He had dealt with interviews, pressure, finals, shit-talking crowds—but this? This was different. This was nerve-wracking.
“Man, he’s fucking cooked,” Suguru snickered, swirling his drink, leaning back like he’d been waiting for this moment. “Look at him. He’s not even hearing us.”
Toji let out a low chuckle. “He’s eye-fucking her so hard, I’m starting to feel shy, and she’s across the damn room.”
Even Choso cracked a smirk, raising his brows. “Go talk to her, bro. Sitting here drooling isn’t a strategy.”
Satoru dragged his fingers through his damp hair, already messy from the night. “You guys sound real confident for people who aren’t about to go crash a conversation with three higher-ups breathing down her neck.”
“Yeah,” Suguru clapped him on the shoulder with a shit-eating grin. “But you’re Satoru Gojo. Golden boy. MVP. They’re already kissing your ass. You think they’re gonna get mad if you steal five minutes of their staff’s time?”
The boys started hyping him up—clapping his back, whistling, tossing out “Go get her”s like they were at practice again.
Finally, with a long exhale, Satoru stood. “Fuck it.” He adjusted his jacket, ignoring every hand that reached out to shake his, every congratulation shouted as he passed. People tried to stop him—execs, reporters, random women wanting pictures—but he brushed by them all, focused on you.
The higher-ups you’d been talking to noticed him first. Their faces lit up, hands already extended.
“Gojo! Hell of a game tonight!”
“Outstanding performance, really. You pulled through for the team in a way only you could.”
He gave them one of his trademark grins—sharp, cocky, charming as hell—but it didn’t linger on them. His head tilted slightly, blue eyes locking on you like no one else in the room existed.
Then he dropped his voice just for you.
“Hey…”
The word was simple, almost too casual, but the weight of it, the way it slipped from him like he’d been dying to say it all night, made your heart skip.
“Well then—we’ll leave you two. Staff always works hard behind the scenes. Gojo, take good care.”
And just like that, they melted away, leaving you standing in your satin dress with a half-empty champagne flute, and him, nervous energy rolling off his tall frame like static.
“Hey,” he repeated, softer this time.
You smiled, professional, the same way you’d been with everyone else tonight. “Congratulations again, Gojo. That was… an incredible game.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking a little on his heels, like he didn’t quite know where to put all that restless energy. “You keep saying my name like that, I might actually start thinking you’re a fan.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the teasing lilt in his voice. “Well, I am staff. I’m supposed to root for the team.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He tilted his head, grinning but his ears a little pink. “You saying it like you mean it.”
You laughed softly, brushing it off like it was nothing. “You’re reading into it.”
“Am I?” he shot back, trying to sound smooth, but his thumb rubbed anxiously over the edge of his pocket.
You tilted your champagne glass slightly, lips curved politely, playing oblivious to the way his gaze dragged over you like he was memorizing every inch. “I think you’re still a little high off that win. Maybe all that adrenaline’s making you mishear things.”
His grin faltered for half a second—like he didn’t expect you to parry so easily—but then he leaned in just enough for only you to hear, voice low, teasing again though nervous at the edges.
“Or maybe I just know exactly what I’m hearing.”
Your laugh came light, practiced, the kind you’d given countless players over the years to smooth things over. You lifted your glass, angling it toward him.
“Well,” you said gently, “whether or not you’re hearing things, I’m sure you’ll be answering that same compliment from every reporter in this room tonight. It was a record-breaking performance. You should be proud.”
Satoru blinked, like he hadn’t expected you to pivot so neatly. “...Proud, huh?” He scratched the back of his neck, lips quirking. “Kinda hard to focus on stats when there’s something else worth celebrating standing right in front of me.”
You shook your head with a polite little smile, refusing to let his words rattle you. “Your teammates are probably waiting on you. Don’t let me be the reason you miss out on your own party.”
He huffed out a laugh, dramatic, like you’d wounded him. “Damn. Cold. I’m tryna flirt, and you’re giving me the ‘go be with your friends’ line?”
“I’m not sure that was flirting,” you replied evenly, though your eyes sparkled just slightly. “Sounded more like deflecting from your own hard work.”
“Deflecting?” He leaned down a bit closer, grin turning sharper, as if daring you to break character. “I don’t need to deflect. I know I’m good. What I don’t know is why you keep dodging me like I’m some rookie trying his luck.”
You steadied yourself, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, voice calm and firm even though the way his gaze pinned you made your skin prickle. “Because I’m working. And you’re celebrating. Two very different things.”
He chuckled under his breath, tilting his head like you’d just confirmed what he suspected. “See? You keep saying that, but I don’t buy it. You’re enjoying this just as much as I am.”
“Or maybe,” you countered softly, sipping from your glass, “I’m just good at my job.”
That made him bite his lip, eyes glittering, like he was half-amused, half-exasperated. He stood there for a moment, trying to decide if he should push harder or play it cool, before muttering—low, just for you— “You make it real hard to keep it professional, y’know that?”
Your smile didn’t falter, though the warmth in your tone sharpened just enough to cut.
“Whatever you’re doing, Gojo… I’m not buying it.”
His brows shot up. “What?”
“You’ve got a reputation,” you said plainly, lowering your glass to your side. “I’ve heard the stories. The girls, the flirting, the late-night photos. I don’t doubt you’re charming, but I don’t have the time—or the patience—for a playboy.”
For once, Satoru looked… stunned. His mouth actually opened, like he was scrambling for words. “Wait—hold on, that’s not—”
“I’ve been doing this job long enough to know when someone’s trying to run game,” you continued, calm but firm, satin catching in the light as you shifted. “And I’m too busy to be dealing with all that.”
His usual grin slipped, something more genuine flickering underneath. “I’m not—look, yeah, okay, I used to mess around, but that’s not what this is. I’m not just… running some line on you.”
You tilted your head, the polite professional smile sliding back into place. “Then maybe you’ll prove me wrong. Until then… enjoy your night, champ.”
And just like that, you turned, satin brushing over your curves as you walked away, leaving him standing there with his defense hanging in the air.
Satoru Gojo. The MVP. The man who never missed a shot, never heard no, never walked off the court without a crowd screaming his name.
Rejected.
His teammates were still hyping each other up across the room, but Satoru just stood there, blinking like you’d knocked the wind out of him more than any game ever could.
Satoru made his way back to their section, shoulders slouched in a way that didn’t fit the guy who’d just won the championship MVP. The others noticed instantly.
Toji smirked, leaning back with a whiskey glass dangling from his fingers. “The fuck happened to you? You look like somebody dunked on your ass.”
Suguru narrowed his eyes, lips twitching. “Wait. Don’t tell me. You shot your shot and she—” He didn’t even finish before his laugh spilled out.
Choso, of all people, cracked the faintest grin, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”
Sukuna barked out a low, cruel laugh, tattoos flexing with the way his shoulders shook. “No way. The golden boy actually got curved? Out here thinkin’ he’s untouchable.” He clapped his hands once, loud, just to punctuate it. “That’s fucking rich.”
The whole table started in, layering jokes, cackling, calling him out. Satoru just stood there, blank. Didn’t even try to bite back. He sank into the couch, grabbed a beer off the table, and stared at the label like it had the answers to the universe.
The laughter slowed as they caught on to how quiet he was.
Then, out of nowhere, he blurted:
“…Am I a playboy?”
The silence hit like a brick wall. Suguru blinked hard, then dragged a hand over his face. Toji nearly spat out his drink. Choso muttered, deadpan, “Seriously?”
Sukuna leaned forward, grinning sharp and mean. “You’re really asking us that? After all the shit you’ve pulled? After all the times you couldn’t even remember half their names the next morning?” He tilted his head, smirking. “Yeah, Gojo. You’re a fucking playboy.”
Toji barked a laugh, slapping the table. “Un-fucking-believable. He’s actually hurt over this. Goddamn.”
Suguru sighed, though his smirk lingered. “She must’ve read you like a book if you’re sitting here questioning yourself. Never thought I’d see the day.”
Satoru dragged his hand down his face with a groan, slumping deeper into the couch. For once, there was no comeback, no grin—just that stung look, like he didn’t know what the hell to do with himself.
Satoru sat there sulking, staring into his beer like it might give him divine wisdom.
Toji leaned over, snorting. “This is rich. The man with the biggest ego in the league just got fucking humbled by a pretty face in satin. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”
Sukuna howled, slamming his fist against the table. “He’s still processing it! Look at him—man’s in denial. Probably replaying it in his head like it was game tape.” He leaned closer, mocking. “‘Uh, coach, where did I go wrong? She hit me with the cold shoulder, what’s the play?’”
Choso’s voice cut through, flat as ever. “You’re pathetic. All that talent, all those rings, and you fold over one reporter.”
That got Sukuna roaring again, tears at the corner of his eyes. Toji couldn’t stop grinning, shaking his head like he’d just won a bet he never placed.
Satoru groaned, tipping his head back against the couch. “You assholes are enjoying this way too much.”
“Damn right,” Sukuna shot back. “You’ve been coasting your whole career, never heard the word ‘no’ in your life. Bout time someone put you in your place.”
“Fuck off,” Satoru muttered, running his hands through his damp hair.
Suguru, who’d been lounging with his drink, finally spoke up. His tone was smooth, lazy, but his smirk cut deep. “You know, Satoru… maybe it’s not that she doesn’t like you. Maybe she just doesn’t like the version of you she thinks she knows.”
Satoru lifted his head a fraction, narrowing his eyes. “…The hell does that mean?”
Suguru swirled his glass, eyes glinting. “Means your reputation caught up to you. You’ve been fucking around for so long people assume that’s all you are. And she’s not the type to waste time. So either you prove her wrong… or you keep sitting here pouting like a jackass.”
Toji whistled low, impressed. “Damn. He actually gave you something useful instead of roasting your ass.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Suguru replied smoothly, clinking his glass against Toji’s.
Satoru muttered under his breath, half to himself, “Prove her wrong, huh?”
Sukuna rolled his eyes, leaning back. “Good luck with that, lover boy. Can’t wait to watch you crash and burn again.”
The others burst into laughter while Satoru sat there, jaw clenched, already scheming.
You weren’t the type who got swept up in charm. Not in college, not when you clawed your way into the industry, and definitely not now. You’d built a reputation on being sharp, polished, untouchable. The kind of reporter who asked the hard questions without flinching, who didn’t linger at afterparties hoping for selfies, who never once slipped her professionalism for the sake of a pretty face in a jersey.
You had deadlines, early mornings, a career to protect. You didn’t have time for distractions—especially not the six-foot-six, blue-eyed kind with a history of breaking records and hearts.
Which is exactly why, when you stepped out of your rideshare the next morning, coffee in hand, your stomach flipped.
Because leaning against a sleek, black imported car parked right in front of your apartment building—like he owned the whole damn street—was none other than Satoru fucking Gojo.
The same man you’d turned down less than twelve hours ago.
He was in sweats and a fitted long-sleeve that clung to his broad chest, hair still damp like he hadn’t bothered to dry it properly after a shower. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but his grin was clear as day. That cocky, shit-eating grin that told you he was way too comfortable standing there like some scene out of a bad rom-com.
Your first thought: No way. Absolutely not.
Your second thought, one you tried to squash instantly: God, he looks good.
Satoru pushed off the car casually, hands tucked in his pockets as he strolled toward you. “Morning, sweetheart.”
You froze mid-step, keys in hand, staring at him like he’d lost his mind. “Gojo. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” he said simply, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
You blinked. “Outside my apartment?”
He shrugged, smile widening. “Where else am I supposed to wait? Thought about sending flowers but, you know… this felt more personal.”
For a moment, all you could do was gape, your brain scrambling. Reporters didn’t end up on the front page for dating players. Reporters ended up fired for dating players. And yet here he was, the biggest playboy in the league, standing in front of your building like he had all the time in the world.
And worse—like he wasn’t planning to leave until you gave him something.
Your grip tightened around your coffee cup, voice sharp. “How did you even know I lived here?”
Satoru’s smirk didn’t falter, but there was something sheepish behind it. He scratched the back of his neck. “Pulled a few strings with the media team. Wasn’t easy, by the way. You’re like Fort Knox with your info.”
Your jaw dropped. “You what?” The repulsion in your tone was instant, your stomach twisting. “Gojo, that’s—no. I said already, no. So please—just leave.”
You moved past him, heels clicking against the pavement, but before you could reach the door he stepped smoothly into your path, blocking you.
This time, though, the cocky grin slipped. He held his hands up like he was surrendering, his voice quieter, stripped of all the teasing. “Wait. Just—hear me out, okay?”
You glared at him, ready to snap, but something in his face stopped you. He wasn’t smirking anymore. No sunglasses, no swagger. Just those ridiculously blue eyes searching yours with a sincerity you hadn’t expected.
“I know what people say about me,” he started, voice low. “And yeah… a lot of it’s true. I’ve been reckless. I’ve been stupid. But when I saw you out there—on the court, doing your job like you were the only one in control—I couldn’t look away. And last night? When you shut me down?” He gave a short laugh, but it was self-deprecating, almost nervous. “It didn’t piss me off. It just… made me want to prove you wrong.”
You folded your arms, trying not to let the words get to you. “You think one speech erases years of—”
“I don’t expect it to,” he cut in quickly. “But I’m not here to bullshit you. Not this time. I just want a chance. One chance. To show you I’m not the guy you think I am anymore.”
Silence hung between you, heavy, the morning air sharp against your skin. You should’ve walked away. You should’ve kept your wall up. But the sincerity in his voice—how raw it sounded without the joke coating—made your chest tighten.
You sighed, finally breaking the tension. “You’re really not going to leave unless I give in, are you?”
Satoru’s grin flickered back, softer this time. “Not a chance.”
You closed your eyes, shaking your head at yourself. “Fine. One chance. That’s it. You blow it, and we’re done. Understand?”
He lit up like you’d just handed him another championship trophy, grin so wide it made your stomach flip. “Crystal clear.”
When you moved past him again, this time he didn’t block your way—just fell into step beside you, hands in his pockets, humming like he’d already won something far more important than MVP.
You slid into the passenger seat, the leather still warm from the sun, and gave him a look that could cut glass. “Where are you even planning on taking me, Gojo? It’s nine in the morning.”
He slid behind the wheel like he owned the world, buckling his seatbelt with an infuriatingly casual grin. “Patience, princess. Not every date’s candlelight and champagne.”
You huffed, sinking back against the seat. “This isn’t a date.”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached behind him, fumbling in the backseat. When he straightened again, there it was in his hand: a bouquet. Real flowers, not gas-station cheap, but an actual wrapped bouquet of deep red tulips and baby’s breath, tied with ribbon.
He set it on your lap like it belonged there. “Okay, maybe it’s a little bit of a date.”
You froze, staring at the bouquet like it had personally offended you. The scent drifted up, subtle and sweet, making your chest tighten. Your fingers twitched, not sure whether to shove it back at him or cradle it like it was too fragile.
“Gojo…” you finally muttered, voice lower than you meant it to be. “I don’t… know what to do with this.”
He leaned one elbow on the steering wheel, tilting his head to watch you. The cocky smirk wasn’t gone, but it was tempered with something softer. “Usually people just say thank you.”
You shot him a look, cheeks warming despite yourself. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” he admitted quietly, grin easing into something less practiced. “That’s the point. You don’t have to know. Just… take it. Let me figure out the rest.”
The flowers rested against your thighs, vivid and alive, and for the first time since you’d met him, you didn’t have an immediate comeback.
You were still reeling when he slid into the driver’s seat, like you’d accidentally stepped into an alternate universe. Gojo Satoru—Mr. Headlines, Mr. Every-Girl’s-Dream, Mr. Can’t-Keep-His-Shirt-On-At-Afterparties—had just pulled flowers out of his backseat like some corny romance drama lead. You’d almost laughed, except the way he held them out was… different. Not smug. Not taunting. Just… sincere. And that was the part that disarmed you most.
The ride was quiet—suspiciously quiet for him. No jokes, no half-cooked innuendo. Just his hands gripping the wheel like he wasn’t sure if he was doing this right. When he finally pulled into the lot, you blinked in surprise. No valet. No five-star entrance. Just a hole-in-the-wall café tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore, the kind of place you came to when you wanted to vanish from the world for an hour.
He turned off the engine, then rounded the car to open your door. It was automatic, effortless—but you were caught off guard anyway. You stepped out slowly, clutching the flowers like you didn’t know what to do with them.
Inside, the café was warm, quiet, filled with the smell of coffee beans and fresh bread. Definitely not what you expected from him. You slipped into the booth, still watching him with suspicion.
“You don’t have to do all this,” you said finally, tone sharper than you intended. “The flowers, the car, the breakfast—whatever this is. It’s… unnecessary.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and for once there wasn’t even a trace of that signature smirk. “Maybe it is. But I wanted to.”
You rolled your eyes, but your pulse betrayed you, thudding too loud in your ears. “Gojo—”
“Satoru.” He cut in, soft but firm. His blue eyes met yours, unguarded in a way that unsettled you more than all his games put together. “Call me Satoru. I’m not trying to sell you some flashy version of me. I’m not trying to make you another story for the tabloids. I just—” He hesitated, swallowing like the words were heavier than he expected. “I just think you’re… beautiful. And not the way people call everyone beautiful. You’re the kind of beautiful that makes me want to slow down for once.”
Your mouth went dry. You opened it, closed it again. The café’s hum of quiet chatter filled the silence you couldn’t.
He gave a short, almost nervous laugh. “And yeah, I know my reputation. I know what you think of me. But for once, I’m not playing.”
You stared at him, unsure if you should be pissed, flattered, or terrified of how close his words came to slipping under your skin.
And that’s how this whole fiasco started—with you, of all people, dating the biggest player in Japan.
You weren’t proud of it at first. In fact, every time you caught yourself smiling at a text from him, you’d roll your eyes so hard you’d give yourself a headache. This was Gojo Satoru. The man who could flirt with a lamppost and make it blush. The man whose name was basically synonymous with “scandal.” And yet, somehow, he had wormed his way into your mornings, your late nights, and—worst of all—your thoughts.
It started small. He showed up at your office one day with takeout from that one ramen place you’d raved about in passing. “I pulled some strings,” he’d said smugly, until you found out the ‘strings’ were just him begging the owner to open early. Then there were the random coffee runs, him standing in your doorway with two cups like he hadn’t already been waiting twenty minutes just to catch you between meetings.
The dates, though—that was where you realized he wasn’t just throwing money at you. Sure, he could’ve whisked you off to the flashiest rooftop bars and private clubs, but instead he took you to places so… normal it disarmed you. A mom-and-pop bakery where the owner knew his order by heart. An aquarium at night where he walked you through every exhibit like a tour guide, making dumb fish puns until you laughed so hard you cried. A tiny vinyl shop where he insisted you pick out records together, claiming you couldn’t really know a person until you knew their taste in music.
But then came the bigger surprises, the kind that made your chest ache in ways you didn’t want to admit. Once, he dragged you out of bed at dawn just to drive to the coast so you could watch the sunrise. You grumbled the whole ride there, only to find him setting out a blanket and thermos of coffee like he’d planned it for weeks. Another time, after you’d had a rough day, he showed up with your favorite snacks and put on a cheesy rom-com, dramatically reenacting half the lines until you were snorting into your pillow.
Slowly, against your better judgment, the walls you’d built against him started to crack.
Because he wasn’t just showing up. He was showing up in the ways that mattered. Remembering details. Listening. Making space for you without trying to overshadow you.
And maybe that was the biggest surprise of all—that Gojo Satoru, the man you once swore was nothing but a cocky, spoiled playboy, was patient. With you. With your doubts. With every time you tried to push him away, he simply leaned closer, steady and unshaken, like he had all the time in the world to wait for you to believe him.
So yes, it was messy. Yes, it was unexpected. Yes, it made absolutely no sense. But slowly, surely, it made you certain of him.
It hit you on a random Tuesday.
Satoru had texted you at some ungodly hour—something about, “Day off, yeah? Come watch me cook these losers in practice 😎”—and against every ounce of logic, you went.
You told yourself it was just curiosity. That you’d never actually seen him in his element outside of the big games, the lights, the cameras. But when you stepped into that echoing gym, the squeak of sneakers on polished wood, the sharp slap of the ball against the floor, the way his voice carried above everyone else’s—you froze.
He looked… happy.
Not cocky, not smug, not the showman he always was for the press. Just happy. Laughing with Suguru after sinking a three. Cussing Sukuna out when he elbowed too hard. Pointing at Toji like he was calling his own shot before weaving through and dunking anyway.
And then he saw you.
In the middle of drills, sweat dripping down his temples, hair tied back haphazardly—he grinned at you like you were the only person in that cavernous gym. And in that split second, you weren’t the reporter, you weren’t someone he was trying to impress. You were just… his.
He jogged over during a water break, panting, still buzzing with energy. “You came,” he said, like it wasn’t obvious, like it wasn’t written all over your face that you’d been caught staring.
Before you could answer, he pressed the ball into your hands. “C’mon. Take a shot.”
You laughed nervously. “Satoru, no. I’ll embarrass myself.”
“That’s impossible.” His voice was softer now, low enough that only you could hear. “You could trip over your own feet and I’d still think you were perfect.”
And god, you hated him for saying it like that—so earnestly, with none of the usual teasing lilt.
The boys started chanting from the court, egging you on. You rolled your eyes, muttered a curse, and stepped up to the line. You tossed the ball—not graceful, not skilled—and it bounced off the rim. Groans erupted from the peanut gallery.
But before you could retreat in shame, Satoru caught the rebound and, without hesitation, jumped up and slammed it through the hoop. Then he landed, arms out wide, announcing to everyone like he’d just won another championship:
“That’s an assist, baby!”
The gym roared with laughter, Toji yelling that he was whipped, Choso mumbling about secondhand embarrassment—but you? You just stood there, clutching your face because for the first time, you felt it.
That tight, terrifying squeeze in your chest.
Oh shit. I’m in love with him.
A new season meant new headlines, new pressure, new fire in every game. The arena buzzed like it always did, every seat packed, fans screaming themselves hoarse. You should’ve been locked in—ready to take notes, draft sharp questions for the postgame, keep your mind where it belonged: on your job.
But instead, your eyes strayed to him.
Gojo Satoru. Star of the team. Your… whatever he was now.
Earlier that afternoon, before tip-off, he’d shown up at your apartment with a cocky grin and his team jersey draped over his arm. “For you,” he’d said, pressing it against your chest like it was a gift of the highest order. His name sprawled across the back, his number shining bold. “So everyone knows who you’re with.”
You’d sighed, trying not to melt. “Satoru, I can’t. I have to look professional for work.”
“Professional, shmofessional,” he’d whined, slouching dramatically on your couch. “They already know you’re smarter than everyone in the room. Can’t you at least let them know you’re mine, too?”
You’d laughed, kissed his cheek, and slipped into your blazer instead. And though he sulked all the way to the arena, you didn’t think much of it.
Until now.
Something was wrong.
On the court, he wasn’t himself. His movements were sluggish, his shots rimmed out, his passes missed the mark. This was the same man who could practically close his eyes and still sink a three, but tonight? He was losing.
The crowd noticed. The commentators noticed. Hell, even his teammates were shooting him looks.
And you… you sat there in your pressed blouse and neat slacks, clutching your reporter’s notebook with a sinking feeling in your gut.
Because you didn’t know why—but for the first time since you’d met him, Satoru Gojo didn’t look unstoppable. He looked distracted. And every time his eyes flicked up into the stands, finding you not in his jersey but in neutral colors instead… it was like watching his light flicker.
Was he seriously—seriously—being like this just because you didn’t wear his damn jersey?
You sat there for another two minutes, notebook limp in your lap, watching him miss another free throw, and that was it. You were done.
You sucked in a deep breath, muttered under your breath about how absolutely ridiculous this man was, and stood up. Making your way to the staff room, you tossed your blazer over a chair, tugged your blouse free from your skirt, and pulled the jersey over your head.
Gojo Satoru’s jersey. His name sprawled bold across your back, his number gleaming like it was the only one that mattered.
Thankfully, the skirt you’d chosen for work was loose and flowy, just brushing your knees, and somehow—infuriatingly—it matched the blue trim on the jersey. You caught your reflection in the mirror and groaned.
“This man, I swear to god…” you muttered, but your cheeks were warm anyway.
By the time you stepped back out into the stands, the arena was alive with restless energy, the fans buzzing with confusion at Gojo’s off-game. His teammates were starting to pick up his slack, but it was obvious—they needed him.
And then he looked up.
His gaze swept the seats, searching, distracted, until it landed on you.
You. In his jersey.
And just like that, the switch flipped. His grin cracked wide across his face, cocky and sharp, like the man you knew. He smacked the ball back from Suguru, dribbled once, twice, and sank a clean, effortless three-pointer that sent the arena roaring.
“Unbelievable,” you breathed, pressing a hand over your face as the crowd around you went wild. “He’s actually insane.”
But when he jogged backward down the court, pointing right at you in front of everyone—crowd, cameras, his teammates—you felt it down to your bones.
Gojo Satoru wasn’t just playing for the championship. He was playing for you.
The shift was immediate.
The moment Satoru spotted you in that jersey, he went from sluggish to electric. It was like someone flipped a damn breaker inside him—the swagger came back, the confidence, the way he moved like the court was built for him.
Suguru gave him a look the next play down, catching his pass clean before sending it back. “Oh, so you’re awake now?”
“Shut up and watch,” Satoru smirked, pivoting hard and cutting through two defenders like they weren’t even there. The dunk that followed rattled the rim so loud it echoed through the entire arena.
The crowd exploded.
“THAT’S the Gojo I know!” Sukuna barked from the bench, clapping once, his grin sharp and feral. “Don’t think I didn’t see what turned you on.”
Toji snorted, wiping his face with a towel. “Man really needs his girl wearing his name before he remembers how to play ball. Jesus Christ.”
Choso, deadpan as ever, added, “Down bad.”
Suguru couldn’t help but laugh, jogging back on defense. “He’s not even denying it.”
And he wasn’t.
Because the next possession, Satoru hit another three. Then another. And another. Every time the ball left his hands, the net barely even whispered on the way down. It was poetry, pure muscle memory and instinct—but his eyes kept flicking back to you.
You, standing there in his jersey, skirt swishing when you cheered despite yourself.
The commentators were losing it, the fans on their feet, the entire stadium chanting his name like he’d been reborn. But for him? The game had narrowed into something stupidly, selfishly simple.
He was going to win this for you.
By the final buzzer, the scoreboard read like a miracle comeback. Gojo: thirty points. Ten rebounds. Seven assists. A highlight reel crammed into one game.
The crowd was thunderous, chanting his name, papers flying in the air, the arena shaking like the roof would rip right off. His teammates surrounded him, clapping his back, tugging at his jersey, yelling in his ear.
But Suguru just leaned close enough to mutter, “You realize everyone knows now, right?”
Satoru grinned, breathless, sweat slick on his temples. “Good.”
Toji barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Whipped, Gojo. Absolutely fucking whipped.”
And Sukuna—never one to pass on salt—pointed right at you in the stands. “Hope she knows she’s basically the sixth man now. Put her in the stat sheet.”
Choso only added, “Should’ve worn it from the start. We’d have blown them out by forty.”
Their voices were drowned out by the roar of the crowd, the celebration, the storm of confetti canons firing overhead. But Satoru’s gaze? His grin? His little two-fingered salute from the middle of the court?
All of it was aimed straight at you.
You were still catching your breath from screaming like a lunatic in the stands when a staffer tapped your shoulder, clipboard in hand and panic in their eyes.
“Reporter, you’re up. Post-game interview. We’re live in two.”
Your stomach dropped.
You glanced down at yourself—still in Satoru’s oversized jersey, your professional blouse balled up and forgotten in the staff room. The hem nearly swallowed your skirt, and your press badge looked completely ridiculous clipped to the neckline.
“Okay, um—just let me get changed real quick—”
“No time,” the staffer cut in, already steering you toward the tunnel where cameras were setting up. “We go live in less than two minutes.”
You swore your entire career flashed before your eyes. Getting fired, blacklisted, replaced by some fresh intern who would never let this happen. You were practically hyperventilating as they shoved a mic into your hand.
And then—because the universe hated you—a second voice rang out.
“Gojo! Interview, let’s go!” another crew member shouted, waving him over.
Satoru jogged up, hair damp, jersey sticking to his skin, still buzzing from victory. The moment his eyes landed on you in his number, professionalism officially went off the rails.
“Holy shit,” he grinned, and before you could sidestep him, he scooped you right into his arms again, hugging you like the cameras weren’t already being adjusted. “You look so good in my name, sweetheart.”
You hissed, trying to shove him off, your mic dangerously close to picking up every word. “Satoru! This is live television—”
“Then everyone’s about to see how happy I am,” he shot back, annoyingly smug, one arm still draped heavy across your shoulders.
The director’s voice blared from somewhere behind the cameras: “Positions, people! And… we’re live in five, four—”
You wanted to scream. Instead, you plastered on the brightest professional smile you could muster, standing straight despite Satoru being right there, radiating heat, his arm snug over you like he was claiming real estate.
“—three, two, one!”
The red light blinked on.
And there he was. Gojo Satoru. Fresh MVP, dripping sweat, grinning wide at the camera with his arm slung over you like you were his prize, not the one supposed to be running this damn interview.
You managed, through clenched teeth and a dazzling smile, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are here with tonight’s MVP, Gojo Satoru—fresh off a stunning comeback performance. Satoru, congratulations on the win.”
He leaned into the mic, eyes glinting. “Thanks, baby. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
The crowd behind the camera lost their minds.
The red light on the camera burned bright, and your smile was glued in place like your entire career depended on it—because it did.
“Gojo Satoru,” you began smoothly, voice steady even though his arm was still heavy across your shoulders, “another MVP performance tonight, and quite the comeback in the second half. What changed for you out there?”
He didn’t even glance at the camera. His ice-blue eyes slid straight to you, lips curving into that lazy grin that made you want to strangle him and kiss him all at once.
“What changed?” he echoed, pretending to think as he licked his lips. Then, without missing a beat: “Well, I looked up and saw my girl in my jersey. And suddenly, I couldn’t let her down, y’know?”
You almost dropped the mic. Almost.
Behind the camera, the director slapped his headset, mouthing WHAT THE HELL while Suguru and Sukuna were visible over his shoulder, doubled over in silent laughter.
Your laugh was professional, airy, definitely fake. “Right. Uh, motivation comes in many forms, I suppose.” You tried steering it back, fast. “Can you walk us through that final quarter? You put up fifteen points alone—”
“Mmhm.” He nodded, but his gaze didn’t waver from you. “But you’re not gonna mention that assist? The one where you bricked the shot and I turned it into a dunk?”
The arena crowd erupted in laughter—they were eating this up.
You ground your teeth behind another smile. “I’m pretty sure you were the one holding the ball, Satoru.”
He leaned closer to the mic, eyes still locked on you. “Doesn’t matter. You gave me the reason to score.”
The staff nearly fainted. The director yelled, “CUT TO CROWD, CUT TO CROWD!” but it was too late. The damage was done.
You pressed forward, desperate to salvage any professionalism. “So, looking ahead to the next game, what do you think this team needs to—”
“Oh, that’s easy.” He interrupted again, smirk curling. “I just need her in the stands. Preferably in my bed after—”
“Satoru!” you snapped under your breath, jabbing your elbow into his ribs hard enough to make him grunt. Your mic stayed trained on the camera like nothing had happened. “Next game, fans can expect more energy from Gojo Satoru. Back to you.”
The second the director yelled cut, you spun on him, whisper-shouting, “What is wrong with you!?”
But he just leaned down, sweat-slick hair falling in his eyes, and murmured low so only you could hear, “Everything’s right when you’re wearing my name, sweetheart.”
-
-
-
What happened didn’t help you at all. God should’ve had mercy on you, because Satoru Gojo clearly had none.
One second you’re still replaying how you almost lost your career on live TV, his arm draped over your shoulders like you were his trophy, the director screaming, “We’re live!” while you prayed to combust. The next, you’re in his hotel room, bent over the edge of the mattress, his oversized jersey swallowing your frame while he’s absolutely drilling into you from behind.
“Still in my jersey, huh?” his voice is smug as hell, laughter rasping out between sharp thrusts that make your knees knock. “—‘We’re live in two minutes, there’s no time for that!’” he mimics the staff in a high-pitched whine, then smacks your ass so hard you jolt. “Guess they were right, weren’t they? No time for you to change.”
“Shut—shut up, Gojo—!” you manage to gasp, palms clawing at the sheets as his hips slam against yours.
But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
“Oh, don’t get shy now. You looked so professional on camera, all serious, trying to steer the interview back like you weren’t dripping under my arm the whole time.” He leans forward, chest flush to your back, grinding his cock so deep into you that you choke. “Bet every viewer at home knew exactly what I was doing to you later.”
You want to tell him no one knew, that it was still salvageable, that your boss didn’t text you yet. But then he grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head back, and murmurs, “Smile for the camera, sweetheart. Oh wait—no camera this time, just me.”
The bastard laughs so hard at his own joke you almost scream in frustration. Almost. But then he angles his thrusts different and suddenly your voice comes out broken, needy, humiliating.
“Yeah, that’s the sound,” he groans, snapping his hips faster. “Fuck, you sound better than when you were trying to hold it together on stage. All polite, all professional.” His teeth graze your ear, and you nearly collapse when he mutters: “Let me interview you now—question one: how good does my dick feel?”
You shove back against him out of pure defiance, but it only makes him groan and laugh harder.
“God, you’re a menace,” you pant.
“And you’re still wearing my number across your back.” Another smack to your ass, another sharp thrust that rattles you. “You think you’re ever gonna live this down at work? Nah. Every time you go on camera, every time you interview someone else—they’re gonna remember this. That jersey. Me.”
It’s humiliating how much his taunting makes your walls squeeze around him, how much it fuels him to fuck you harder, rougher, laughing into your neck like this is the best entertainment of his life.
Your arms were trembling, cheek pressed against the sheets, breaths ragged as his thrusts kept knocking your body forward. You tried to form words—anything—but all that left your mouth was a strangled, “Oh my god—”
He barked out a laugh, the kind that made your stomach twist, cock slamming into you so deep you saw stars. His voice dropped low and wicked against your ear:
“God isn’t here, baby. You say my name.” Another brutal thrust. “Gojo. Satoru. Say it like you did when the mics weren’t hot.”
You shook your head, more a whimper than a protest, and his hand slid around your throat—not choking, just holding, forcing your back to arch, forcing your voice out.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he drawled, the playful arrogance from the interview dripping into something filthier, hungrier. “You think I waited this long just to fuck you quiet? No, no. I’ve been waiting for this moment—” he punctuated each word with sharp, merciless thrusts that had you clutching the sheets— “since the second you walked into that stadium looking all buttoned-up and professional. And now look at you.”
Your skirt was rucked up to your waist, his jersey swallowing your frame, your hair a mess from his grip. He was pounding you so hard the headboard rattled against the wall, the sound obscene in the otherwise sleek hotel room.
“Wearing my name on your back while I fuck you stupid,” he groaned, voice cracking just slightly as he drove in deep, his hips relentless. “Shit, you don’t even get it—you think this was about a game? Nah. You were the game. And I’m winning.”
“Satoru—” you gasped finally, voice breaking.
“There we go,” he smirked, loosening his hold just enough to press a sloppy kiss to your temple. Then he leaned back, both hands gripping your hips like handles, slamming you back onto his cock harder, faster, until your knees nearly gave out.
“Yeah, say it again. Louder. Don’t make me remind you who you belong to, jersey or not.”
You tried to bite your tongue, but the pace he set was ruthless, your body betraying you with every sound that spilled out. He chuckled darkly every time you moaned his name, every time your voice cracked, feeding off it like it was better than any victory on the court.
“Fuck, look at you. Can’t keep it professional now, can you?” he teased between heavy breaths. “All it took was me in your guts and suddenly my good little interviewer’s falling apart.”
And still—he didn’t let you come. He’d edge you close, dragging your body into bliss, then slowing just enough to keep you on the brink, laughing under his breath when you whined.
He didn’t let you catch your breath. One hard pull and you were flat on your back, legs splayed, the mattress dipping under the raw force of him as he pinned you—mating press style—chest to chest, hips marauding with no mercy. The room shrank to the press of his body and the relentless slap of skin on skin.
“Look at you,” he rasped, voice thick, leaning so close you could feel the heat of his breath on your lips. He smirked, eyes hooded and dangerous. “Taking it like a champ, baby. You gonna make me proud?”
Your hands went instinctively to his shoulders, then snarled into his hair as he drove into you again and again. Each thrust was harder than the last, tailing that delicious ache from your core right up into your ribs. The headboard thudded—rhythm and percussion to his relentless tempo.
He laughed—short, sharp, delighted—at the way you trembled. “God, you look so stupidly good under me.” His fingers splayed at your hips, thumb digging into the meat of your thigh like he wanted you marked. “Say it. Say you’re mine. Say my name.”
You pushed and pushed for breath, for words that came out in a broken, wet whisper between gasps. “Satoru—” it slipped from you with more heat than you’d planned and he groaned, a sound that vibrated straight through you.
Then he did something that made your stomach flip and a ridiculous, feral part of you melt: he leaned down and spat—right into your open mouth. Not a gentle, romantic press of lips, but a rough, possessive spit that mixed with your saliva. He held your gaze in the mirror as you swallowed, watching the reflection of your own surrender.
“Good girl,” he snarled, voice thick with approval. He used that spit like it was his private lubricant, slicking between your lips with his tongue before capturing your mouth in a bruising, possessive kiss—half praise, half claim. The taste of him was metallic and hot; you tasted the salt of sweat and the tang of victory all at once.
You could only shake your head against the bed, throat bobbing with every ragged inhale. He slammed harder, a punishing, rhythmic fuck that had your nails white on his shoulders and the room echoing with your sounds.
He eased momentarily only to slide his hand up to your mouth, fingers warm and slick, and pry it open. Another spit—this time slower, deliberate—dropped into your mouth and he watched you swallow it with a savage, delighted grin. “Keep that down,” he instructed, rough and ridiculously pleased at your compliance. “That’s mine. Don’t be shy.”
Your vision blurred. The mirror reflected two figures: you, exposed and trembling, and him—all predatory grace—dominating you with a grin that said he meant to savor every second. He rotated his hips, angling his cock so each plunge hit a spot that made your toes curl. The pleasure built like a storm; you rose toward some sharp, dizzy edge, and he dragged you back with a laugh that sounded equal parts triumph and mischief.
“You’re not allowed to come yet,” he said, voice steady and absolute. “Not until I say so. Not until I hear you beg to wear this jersey every damn game. Not until I hear you promise to tell the camera about your favorite parts of me.”
It was ridiculous. It was obscene. It pushed every professional instinct, every sensible barricade you’d built, to shreds. And it—infuriatingly, embarrassingly—worked. Your body rode the brink, tethered to his will, every nerve screaming for release while his hands and hips orchestrated that delicious denial.
He set a new pace—faster, meaner, more intimate—driving into you with a cadence that left no room for thought, only sensation. Between hard kisses and harsher thrusts he whispered filthy little plays on the interview banter you’d shared—inside jokes, mock compliments, that ridiculous, private swagger that made the room both a stage and a confession booth.
You were drowning in the press of him, in the taste and the spit and the shameless possessiveness, in the mirror’s unblinking witness. The world outside the hotel—cameras, fans, headlines—felt as distant as a different life. All that existed was the rhythm of his hips, the command of his voice, and the way he kept you teetering, not yet undone, waiting to pull the final cord.
He slowed just enough to let you gasp, let your legs quiver beneath him, then hauled you up to the edge of the cliff again, eyes bright and merciless.
“Beg for it,” he demanded, the grin a razor. “Tell me you want me to finish you off, tell me you’ll wear my name and mean it.”
Your reply cracked out—a broken, desperate whisper—full of surrender and need and the metallic aftertaste of his spit as it lingered on your tongue.
You crawl back toward the edge of the cliff, breath ragged and scraping, words tumbling out of you raw and urgent—nothing polished, nothing rehearsed. “Please—please, Toru—” you beg, voice breaking, the nickname slipping out hot and desperate in a way that makes your skin prickle.
It lands like a punch.
He goes still for a heartbeat, pupils blown wide, that feral grin softening into something that looks dangerously like worship. “Toru?” he rasps, voice thick and hungry. He’s always liked his name said a certain way; hearing you shorten it, make it intimate, strips whatever control he’d been playing with down to bone. He answers with motion—hands like anchors at your hips, hauling you up so your ribs press into his chest, changing the angle, claiming you harder.
“Say it again,” he breathes, low and rough. “Say it like you mean it.”
“Satoru—no—Toru—please—” you choke, the syllables tearing out of you with heat and surrender.
That’s all he needs. It’s the word that flips something locked and deadly serious inside him; the grin that follows is less teasing now and utterly victorious. He drives into you with a force that knocks the air from your lungs—each thrust harder, faster, closer—until all the world narrows to the burn at your core and the press of his body over yours.
Your moans become the only punctuation. You’re helpless to do anything but ride the waves he’s making, nails scoring his back, breath stuttering in your throat. He hushes you with a brutal, claiming kiss, and the mirror catches every flash of the hunger on his face—the way his jaw works, the slick of sweat at his temple, the bright, sharp look in his eyes that says he’s finally crossed his own line.
“Fuck,” he growls, voice a thunderclap. “Say it louder. Make me remember you like this.”
“Toru—Toru—” you cry, the name a prayer and a dare, spilling from you over and over until you’re shaking, raw with want. Each time you say it, his strokes get faster, more ruthless, as if the sound feeds him oxygen. He buries himself harder, nails digging into your hips, breath ragged and fast.
The world fractures into a white-hot rope of sensation that starts low and climbs, and you feel it—an impossible tightening, an unspooling heat that swallows the rest of your thoughts. Your muscles clamp, and the first wave rips through you with a force that makes your vision white at the edges. You come around him—hard, everything collapsing and then reassembling as your body convulses in delicious, humiliating spasms.
He doesn’t let up. If anything, he speeds up, meeting you thrust for thrust, riding your orgasm like a champion until you’re left breathless and shaking beneath him. Your name is a ragged stream of sound; his only answer is a guttural, raw noise that’s half-roar, half-pleasure.
Then he folds, too—sudden and total. His hips stutter, a deep, hot pulse, and you feel him flood you, whole and fierce and claiming. He keeps moving, fucking you through his release as if to make sure the world will remember this moment, until his muscles quake and he collapses forward, forehead pressed to the back of your neck, breath hot and heavy across your skin.
For a long second the two of you are simply that—pressed together, chest to chest, sweat cooling between your bodies. You taste him on your lips when you pull away enough to blink; his grin is softer now, almost tender, a look that’s equal parts smug and stunned.
“You were perfect,” he whispers into your hair, thumb rubbing light circles on your lower back. “God, you were perfect.”
You laugh, shaky, molten and relieved, and it turns into a small, breathless sound that feels like the only right thing in the room. You bury your face against his shoulder and whisper, half teasing, half sincere, “Don’t tell Suguru I let you win.”
He huffs a laugh, kissing the crown of your head. “Not a chance. I’ll make sure they all know.”
And for once, wrapped in the aftermath—messy, loud, utterly yours—you let yourself believe it.
The media frenzy was insane. Memes of the “jersey incident” interview were everywhere, fans started calling you #TheRealMVP, and management? They panicked. You half-expected to be fired, until Satoru waltzed into that meeting, flashed his grin, and promised, “We won’t be too public about it whenever she interviews me.”
Of course, he left out the part where he’d crash your interviews with opposing players just to sling an arm around you on camera. But management’s hands were tied—ratings were through the roof, sponsors were drooling, and honestly? You were bringing in more clicks than some of the players.
So they let it slide. His teammates roasted you both constantly, fans shipped it like a rom-com, and Satoru made no effort to keep things subtle. And despite the chaos, despite the memes, despite him being an absolute menace… everyone knew the truth.
You weren’t just dating Gojo Satoru. You were the real MVP.