pairing: satoru gojo x fem!reader. warnings: jjk manga spoilers (hidden inventory arc), reader has name tags: friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn (IM SERIOUS), clan politics, forbidden relationship, eventual smut (i will tag the chapter)
you arrive at jujutsu high with no knowledge on how to wield the strange cursed energy within you - and a magnetic pull that disrupts everything satoru gojo thought he understood. as your powers intertwine, the truth of your past begins to surface, you realize that your connection goes deeper than either of you expected.
A night of jealousy spirals into something neither of you can take back, when Satoru finally claims what he’s been craving all along, the truth is inescapable – you were never just friends. contains smut (oral fem!receiving, piv sex)
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a/n: gojo one shot!! this takes place as an au within the through the static universe taking place after chapter 15, but can be read as standalone and no knowledge of static!verse is needed !!
“You can't lie to me.” He cuts you off, closer now, so close his forehead almost brushes yours. “You didn’t kiss him because you wanted him. You kissed him because you wanted me to see. Because you wanted me to feel exactly what you were feeling this morning when you saw me with Mei Mei.”
When you step outside, it’s colder than you were expecting. The night air has turned sharp in the last few hours, cool enough to raise goosebumps across your arms. Somewhere in the distance, cicadas hum their low, restless chorus, blurring with the muffled thrum of the party’s music behind you. You wrap your arms around yourself, but it doesn't chase away the feeling. You can still feel the faint, electric residue of Naoya’s touch – the phantom of where his fingers had pressed at your waist, the way his palm had skimmed over the curve of your back.
You don't know why you let him kiss you. You shouldn't have, not really. But seeing Satoru this morning with Mei Mei, leaning over her, flirting with her – it left you with a sour taste in your mouth. So maybe you kissed Naoya to get back at him, to give him a taste of his own medicine.
And you know you shouldn't care that he was with Mei Mei. Just like he shouldn't care that you were with Naoya. Because somehow, in this lie you've built together, you let yourselves believe that you’re just friends, that there's nothing there between you.
You don't expect to see Satoru when you step outside. He’s leaning against the porch railing with his back against it, staring up at the night sky. The porch light catches in his white hair, faintly haloing him like he doesn’t belong in the dark at all – something too bright pretending it knows how to hide.
He’s always been too bright.
The wood creaks under your steps, and his head turns.
His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders loose in a way that feels too rehearsed. But it’s his eyes that pin you in place. No sunglasses, just that icy, unflinching blue that feels like it’s peeling you open.
For a second, neither of you says anything. You’re painfully aware of every beat of your heart.
“Sorry,” you say, finally exhaling the breath you were holding, “I just needed some air.”
You take a step closer, resting your hip against the railing beside him.
“Yeah, I bet.” The words are casual on the surface, but they curl at the edges with something sharp.
Your head snaps toward him. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“You and Naoya seemed awfully…cozy.” His voice tilts lazily on the word, like he’s playing with it.
You lift your chin, meeting his gaze head on. “We were talking.”
A humorless half-smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Is that what you call it?”
Your eyes narrow. “Why do you care?”
“I don't.” He shrugs, but his jaw flexes, and he looks away, staring at the night sky instead of at you.
You laugh, bitter and short. “Right. Of course not.”
“You shouldn’t waste your time with guys like that.” He says after a moment, quieter now, like it’s not just a suggestion but a warning.
Naoya’s words from earlier echo in your mind.
Gojo is your keeper.
That's what Satoru really is. The Gojo clan assigned him to watch you, to monitor you. To make sure you don't get too strong – to kill you if he has to. Because they're scared of your technique, of what it means to Limitless.
And something inside you bristles. Because at first, you thought he was different. Protecting you. Standing up to his clan for you. Choosing you. Only going along with what the clan wanted as a guise to keep you safe. But really, you think, Satoru Gojo likes being the one holding the leash. Naoya was right, after all.
“You're not my keeper.” You spit out “You can't tell me what to do.”
He chuckles, low. “Funny. I don't remember you complaining when I agreed to be your ‘keeper’ and saved your ass from the elders.”
You take a step back, anger flaring. “That's not fair. I didn't – I didn't ask you to do that.”
“He doesn't give a shit about you, you know that, right? He’s just using you to get under my skin. To mess with my clan.”
Your mouth twists, and the words that leave you are laced with venom you don’t bother to soften. “Shouldn't you be getting back to Mei Mei?”
His grin curves slow and dangerous, and you want nothing more than to smack it off of his face. But he takes a step closer to you, and you freeze, all your muscles tight.
“Ohhhh. So that's what this is about. You're jealous.” Satoru coos out the last word. He's enjoying this now.
Your stomach twists. “Don't flatter yourself.”
He's closer now, arms on the railing on either side of you, pinning you in.
“You think I didn't notice? Didn't see the way you looked at me and Mei Mei?” He laughs once under his breath, but it’s not really amused – it’s strained, the kind of laugh someone makes when they’re holding back something dangerous. His hand comes up, fingers brushing against your arm before you can flinch away. “You think I can't feel your cursed energy spike when you're mad?”
“Shut up.” You snap, but it’s too sharp, too quick. The words betray you.
“You can't lie to me.” He cuts you off, closer now, so close his forehead almost brushes yours. “You didn’t kiss him because you wanted him. You kissed him because you wanted me to see. Because you wanted me to feel exactly what you were feeling this morning when you saw me with Mei Mei.”
The air between you cackles with something more than just cursed energy – it's charged and electric, nearly unbearable. His eyes stare into yours, unshielding and too raw, brimming over with an emotion you can't name. You try to turn your head, to look anywhere but into those eyes that strip you bare, but his hand comes up, cradling your jaw, firm enough to hold you still but trembling with restraint.
“Tell me I'm wrong.” He whispers, “Because you know it worked. The whole time you were letting him touch you, letting him kiss you in front of everyone – I was going fucking insane. I wanted to rip him off of you.”
Your breath falters. “You can't say stuff like that. Not when you're all over Mei Mei and fucking every girl who even looks your way.”
His mouth twists, almost a smirk, but there’s no humor in it – just sharp edges, his teeth clenched behind it.
“Oh, so that’s what you think?” His thumb brushes over your jaw, deceptively soft even though his grip holds you in place. “That it’s all the same? Them and you?” He leans closer until your noses almost touch, his voice a low rasp. “Don’t you get it? None of them matter. They’re distractions. Noise. Whatever I can do to stop thinking about you for five fucking seconds.”
Your chest tightens, your breath caught somewhere between defiance and collapse. “You said you just wanted to be friends.”
“So did you.” He breathes.
Just a few short months ago, Satoru sat beside you as you laid in a hospital bed in the aftermath of Tojo Fushiguro. Stomach ripped open, beaten and bloodied. Satoru was the one to bring your limp body to Shoko.
You remember that day in bits and pieces. Remember the way Satoru’s face dropped when he saw you, the smirk on Toji’s when he realized his opening. He used you – used your pain to distract Satoru, to catch him off guard to land what he thought was a deadly blow. And it would've been, too – had Satoru not realized reverse curse technique at the last second.
The Gojo elders already hated you. Hate your legacy, your clan technique, hated the way it can nullify or amplify Limitless. If they had it their way, they'd murder you just like they had your ancestors. But Satoru wouldn't allow it, he stood between them and you. But there's no way they would let you live now – not if they knew you were a weakness to Satoru Gojo. So when the reality started to set in, you both swallowed your pride and want and everything unsaid between you, and decided to just be friends. To cut things off before they could ever get serious.
But as he's standing in front of you now, noses nearly brushing, so close you can feel his breath on you – it all feels too heavy to ignore.
Every memory, every unspoken word, every near-death and every small, protective gesture flashes through your mind at once. The way he’d carried you, had shielded you, had put himself in harm’s way over and over – Satoru had always been there. Always. And now, standing here, pinning you gently yet firmly against the railing, every wall you’d built between you feels like it’s crumbling in an instant.
Your chest hitches, heart hammering. “It’s… not that simple.l you manage, voice shaky, almost lost beneath the weight of the night and the way his gaze pierces you.
“It never is.” He murmurs, hand coming up to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear before gently cupping your cheek. “But I don't care. I’d kill them all – if you wanted me to. Anybody that wants to hurt you, or separate us. I don't care about the consequences.”
The words hit you like a tidal wave. You can’t think; your defenses, your careful lines about being “just friends,” all of it dissolves in the heat of his presence.
Before you can stop yourself, you close the gap between you, tugging his lips into yours. The kiss is hard, desperate – hungry like you've both been wanting this for months, years even. His hands cup your face , thumbs brushing along your jaw, and then slide down your neck, over your shoulders, gripping your waist, pressing you tight against him like he’s scared you’ll slip away. Every motion is claiming, aching with all the things neither of you could say in daylight or in front of anyone else.
You fist your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, until there’s no space left between you. The porch light hums above, the cicadas drone in the trees, and still it feels like the only sound in the world is the uneven rhythm of your breaths.
When you let his tongue in, he groans into your mouth, and he's exploring every inch, every crevice of you. His hands and lips and tongue are burning into you with such a ferocity you can barely think straight. Your knees threaten to buckle beneath him but he catches you instantly, pressing your back into the rough wood of the railing with a possessive, desperate intensity that leaves you gasping for air between kisses. Every brush of his fingers, every pull of his mouth, is like fire, igniting something deep inside you that you didn’t know could burn so fiercely.
He pulls away, kissing along your jaw, down your neck, nipping and sucking until he finds the spot that makes you whimper. His teeth scrape lightly there, and your breath stutters, the heat pooling low in your stomach sharp and dizzying.
“Do you have any idea,” He murmurs against your skin, voice rough, “how long I’ve wanted this?” You gasp when he presses himself into you, the feeling of his growing erection pressing into your thigh. “How long I've wanted you?”
One hand brushes across where the hem of your dress meets your thigh, sliding up to grip your bare ass with a deft squeeze.
“You’re all I can ever fucking think about.” He groans, lips pressing back along your jaw, your cheeks, “The way your energy resonates with mine, I've never felt anything like it, anything like you–” He cuts himself off with a harsh kiss, and you nod against him because you know exactly what he means. You feel it too.
Every time your cursed energy merges with him, electrifying and intoxicating. The feeling of slipping through infinity to him. Being the only person alive who can do that, who can make him vulnerable. You remember the day after practice when it first happened, when he pinned you against the training ground and you couldn't tell if he was going to punch you or kiss you, couldn't tell if it excited him or terrified him.
Maybe both, you think. Because you felt the same.
Just like you do now, as his fingers glide up along your bare thigh, bunching up the fabric as he slides up to the waistband of your panties, fingers circling where it rests along your hip bone.
The porch is dim, half-shadowed, but the thought of someone opening the door, of someone seeing, only makes your pulse race faster. It’s dangerous, reckless, and yet you can’t stop – don’t want to stop. His hand slips to your thigh, lifting it slightly against his hip, pressing you tighter against him. The rough scrape of wood against your back is drowned by the fire curling through your veins.
“Satoru–” you whimper into his mouth, “N-not here.”
“Say it.” He breathes, his lips brushing yours, blue eyes burning through the dark. “Tell me you want me.”
Your chest aches, your whole body trembling with the weight of it. And then, finally, you let it break free.
“I want you.”
The sound he makes is guttural, raw, like the words undid him completely. His mouth claims yours again, harsher now, need bleeding into every kiss, every touch.
When he pulls away, his pupils are blown and lips bruised. There's a thin strand of saliva stretching from your lips to his and he smirks. “I need you to boost my energy for a second.”
You furrow your brows in confusion, but do as your told anyway. With a soft nod, your hands are on his chest, and with an intense focus, your energy slowly flows into his, mixing with it intrinsically to where neither of you can tell where yours ends and his begins.
“Hold on.” He murmurs, and in a split second, space and time is bending around you, and in a flash you're no longer on the creaky, old porch outside the party. You glance around – you’re in his dorm room.
“Did you just –”
“Teleport you? Yeah.” He grins down at you, hands placed firmly on your hips, fingers smoothing circles around the skin there through the fabric of your dress. “I've been practicing, but taking someone else with me is proving to be a little difficult still.”
His lips are kissing along your jaw until he finds your lips, “But you were exactly what I needed to make it work.”
His mouth claims yours again, but it’s different now. Not sharp, not desperate the way it had been on the porch—this is slower, more deliberate, like he wants to memorize every second of it. His hand traces up your spine, pulling you closer until you can feel the hard line of his chest against yours, the hammer of his heartbeat syncing with your own.
Your fingers fist in the fabric of his shirt, and when he deepens the kiss, you swear the world tilts again – there's nothing but him, his warmth, his taste, the way he makes you feel like the center of his universe.
You break just long enough to gasp out his name, but he's kissing you again, softer, reverent in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. His lips trail to your jaw, then down the column of your throat. The touch makes your skin prickle, your breath hitch. You’ve never felt him like this – unguarded, hungry, almost trembling with restraint.
“Tell me to stop,” He mumbles against the skin of your neck, “and I will.”
Your hands slide up into his hair, pulling his face back to yours. “I don’t want you to stop.”
Something in him breaks. His laugh is low, disbelieving, almost pained. “God, you’re gonna kill me.”
His hands scoop under your ass, lifting you before you can protest, carrying you the few steps to his bed. The mattress dips under your weight as he lowers you down gently, as he braces himself above you. His hair falls into his eyes, soft like liquid moonlight, lips swollen from your kisses, and for once – he doesn't look untouchable. He looks undone, unguarded.
And then he's on you like a man starved. Each kiss is hungrier than the next as his hands roam freely, sliding up under where you dress has bunched around your waist. His fingers ghost across your stomach, your ribs, and you shiver as he slips it off over your head easily.
He leans back, taking in the sight of you with a hunger and admiration in your eyes. You, panting beneath him, clad in just your bra and underwear, hair splayed out around your head across his mattress like a halo. You look beautiful like this, he thinks. And he whispers that in your ear as he takes off your bra, drinking in the sound of your moans as he takes your nipple into his mouth, his hand massaging the other, gently flicking and teasing your nipple.
Your movements are hurried when you pull his clothes off. First his shirt, your fingers gripping and scratching across his abs, his toned arms, feeling every muscle in his back move under your touch. His pants come next, and you're both down to just your underwear. His fingers find their way to the front of your clothes cunt, and when you gasp at the contact, he slips his tongue into your mouth, swallowing your moans at his soft ministrations.
He stops, just for a second, fingers playing with the waistband, looking down at you. “Is this okay?”
Your hips buck into his touch, nodding softly, hands reaching to palm him through his boxers. You smile as he hissed out a breath. “Need you. Please.”
He’s quick to flick your underwear away, kissing down your body, your collarbone, your breasts, your stomach. He kisses each of your thighs, and from his spot nestled between your legs, he looks up at you like you're something holy.
And maybe you are.
If he's a god, you're the only thing that can touch him.
He swipes his fingers through your folds and stifles a groan, smirking as he brings them to his lips, releasing with an exaggerated suck. “Shit, you're already so fucking wet.”
His breath is hot against your skin, and the anticipation alone has you trembling. When his tongue finally meets you, it’s slow, deliberate – like he’s savoring every reaction, every shiver and gasp he pulls from you. His hands pin your thighs open as if he’s terrified you’ll try to close them, terrified of losing access to the taste of you.
The noises spilling from you only seem to spur him on, each moan making his touch more insistent, his tongue more desperate. He drags his mouth over you with a reverence that borders on worship, like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, the only thing that’s ever mattered.
Your fingers knot into his hair, tugging him closer, urging him deeper, and he groans into you, the vibration sending another sharp wave of pleasure spiraling through your body. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t falter – if anything, he gets more frantic, as though consuming you is the only thing keeping him alive.
Your breath hitches, and your hips lift of their own accord, chasing him, needing more. He moans again when you tug at his hair, and the sound rattles you – it’s desperate, hungry, his. You cry out his name, high and shaky, and he doubles down, pushing you right to the edge with relentless, skillful strokes.
When you finally come undone against his mouth, it’s shattering, stars exploding behind your eyes, the world disappearing until there’s nothing but him. He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, until your thighs threaten to close around his head, and only then does he drag himself back up your body, lips pressing along the way -/ kissing you like he wants to stake a claim on every inch of you.
By the time his mouth crashes back onto yours, you taste yourself on his tongue, and the heat in your chest swells dangerously, dizzyingly. His hands are shaking now, cupping your face like he can’t believe you’re real, like he’s terrified this moment will slip through his fingers.
And then he’s grinding down against you, hard and insistent through the thin barrier of his boxers, and the both of you groan into each other’s mouths at the friction. He’s unraveling just as much as you are, losing that careful, cocky control he always wears like armor.
And then he's pulling himself from his boxers. His cock springs free, flushed and heavy in his hand, the tip already slick with precum. He hisses through his teeth at the brush of cool air, but his eyes never leave yours – blown wide, burning with something equal parts devotion and need for you .
“You feel that?” His voice is hoarse and low as he grinds himself along your folds, coating himself in your slick without pushing in yet. His head drops, forehead pressed to yours, the words spilling out hot against your lips. “All this for me. No one else could ever get you like this, can they?”
But you can't answer. He's dragging himself over you again, the swollen head catching on your clit and making you cry out. His grin is sharp, but there’s wonder in it too. “Bet Naoya couldn’t have made you sound like that.”
“Satoru, please–”
Then hips rock again, slow, deliberate, and his restraint is unraveling by the second. His lips brush yours, then your cheek, then your ear. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders, desperate, dizzy. “I’m yours.”
He groans into your ear as he sinks into you – slowly, agonizingly slow at first, stretching you inch by inch until he's buried to the hilt and you're gasping beneath him. His head tips back, throat working as a guttural curse rips from him. “Fuck, you’re perfect. So tight – made for me.”
Your body clings to him, trembling, and his hands are everywhere – on your waist, your thighs, your face – like he doesn’t know where to hold you first, only that he has to. Satoru doesn't move at first, just stays buried inside you, and the stretch is so good and you're so full but it's not enough, and the whimper that escapes him since tingles of pride down your whole body.
His thrusts start shallow, teasing, until your legs wrap around him and pull him deeper, breaking his control completely. “Nobody gets me like you do – you were fuckin’ made for me, weren’t you?”
You can only answer in moans as he picks up his pace, snapping his hips forward at a rougher, relentless speed and your hands are gripping and scratching anywhere you can reach, his shoulders, his biceps, his back. A hand snakes down between your bodies, fingers circling your clit.
Your walls flutter around him, and he feels it – god, he feels it – his pace stuttering as a ragged groan rips from his chest. His forehead slams back against yours, sweat-slick and desperate.
“I-I'm close–” You manage to choke out.
The pleasure is overwhelming and his thrusts are merciless now, hips slamming into you with a rhythm that has the headboard knocking against the wall. His free hand slides up, tangling in your hair to keep you locked against him, his lips brushing over yours between broken words. “Cum for me. I wanna feel you cum on my dick – need to – fuck, I need to feel it.”
The sound of you crying for him leaves him feeling wrecked – like he’s been waiting his whole life just to hear it. His fingers work your clit with brutal precision, determined to drag you under with him. “Good girl. My girl. Nobody else – fuckin’ nobody else gets to touch you like this.”
Your back arches as another wave builds sharp and fast, your whole body trembling against him. He’s relentless, driving into you so deep the coil inside you snaps, pleasure detonating like wildfire. You sob his name as your release crashes over you, your body spasming around him, milking him.
“God, you're fucking perfect.” He’s cursing loud and filthy in your ear, his pace going erratic as your walls clamp down around him. His hips slam forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his release tears through him, hot and overwhelming. He holds you there, pressed impossibly close, his groans spilling into your skin as he empties into you.
For a long, breathless moment, neither of you move. The only sounds filling the room are mingled breaths and frantic beating of your hearts. He doesn't pull out right away, just stays deep in you, face buried in your neck, arms wrapped tight around you like he can't stand the thought of letting you go, not when he's finally got you where he wants you after all this time.
Eventually, you feel his lips press softly to your neck, then you jaw, then cheek, and his hand comes up to wrap behind your head.
He's beautiful like this. Messy, snow-white hair, bright eyes looking clearer than ever. His eyes stare into yours as his fingers trace along your jaw. You reach up, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his lips that leaves him smiling down at you.
“Just friends, my ass.” He whispers, leaning in to kiss you again.
warnings: smut, some angst (gojo is a little shit), masturbation, oral (f! receiving), piv sex, gojo is pining, all characters 18+
a/n: this is a oneshot that takes place within the through the static universe but you don't have to read that for this! but if you wanna read the main fic this is based off of, click here :)
this is my first time writing smut i hope it's okay 🫣
It should be him.
That’s all Satoru can think as he stews alone in his room.
Not Naoya Zenin with his smug little smirk and stupid fucking hair. Not the heir to a clan that still measures power in bloodlines and etiquette. No– he should be the one standing beside you.
The image replays in his head on loop: Naoya brushing your hair behind your ear, fingers lingering. You laughing – laughing – at one of his dumbass jokes, fingers grazing his arm. And the worst part? You let him. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t shove him off.
He knows it’s probably just to make him jealous. You’re clever like that. Sharp. But it still works, and it still hurts.
Since the start of the sparring event, Naoya’s been all over you. And Satoru– brilliant, invincible Satoru– had to go and make it worse.
“You should be careful with him.” He warned you earlier that afternoon, when the two of you were finally alone. “He’s an asshole.”
Your left eye twitched. Barely noticeable. But Satoru noticed. He always notices. He knows you better than anyone. He knows you only do that when you’re annoyed.
“You should spend less time worrying about me and get back to Mei Mei.” You replied coolly. “I’m sure she’s getting lonely.”
Your voice was flat, calm– but laced with that quiet edge that always cuts deeper than yelling ever could. He’s under your skin. He can tell.
Satoru laughed, trying to play it off. “Oh, that’s what this is about, huh? You’re jealous?”
He cooed it like it was nothing, and you just crossed your arms.
“I’m not jealous. I’m just saying you looked cozy with her this morning.” You jutted your chin toward the training grounds. “And besides, we’re just friends.”
Just friends.
The words sit like glass in his throat. His eyes search your face for a flicker of something– regret, want, anything – but you won’t meet his gaze.
Maybe that’s what you are. Friends. Maybe that’s all you’re allowed to be now. Ever since that night at the arcade– since you kissed him in the photobooth, soft and sudden, the taste of cotton candy still on your lips and everything changed.
That night has rooted itself into him like a thorn he can’t remove. And yeah, maybe he only has half the photo strip – but it’s the important half. The half with the kiss. Your lips against his. That’s what he folded into his wallet, tucked between IDs and credit cards like it was holy.
And then your brother got involved. Asahi made it clear: Satoru was dangerous. He was a risk. The last thing you needed was the higher-ups sniffing out something romantic between you two. It was already a miracle they let you live– because of your name, your technique, your bloodline.
So you fell in line. Of course you did. You weren’t the type to obey authority blindly, but Asahi wasn’t just anyone. He was your family. Your anchor. You listened, because you love him. Because you’re loyal. Because you always put others first.
So you and Satoru became friends again. You trained. You sparred. You laughed. You moved on.
Or…you tried to.
But for Satoru, there are nights like this one. Nights when the memory of your kiss won’t fade. When he traces the edge of that old photo strip and thinks about the noise you made when he cupped your face with his hands.
It’s pathetic. He knows that.
And yet, here he is. Sweating in the heat of his room, uniform shirt unbuttoned, sprawled against his headboard, dick in his hand, thoughts clouded with you.
He lets his mind wander too far.
You’d let him touch you, wouldn’t you?
You always start shy, cautious, but he’s seen the spark behind your eyes. You’d open up for him, blooming under his hands. He knows you would. You’d press your thighs apart for him, maybe nervously at first – chewing your lip, glancing up from under your lashes – but God, the moment he kisses down your stomach, hooks his arms around your legs and spreads you open, you’d be soaked for him.
He’d take his time with you. Lick you until your legs were trembling and your voice broke on his name. “Satoru, please, I can’t–”
But he wouldn’t stop. Not until you came on his tongue, crying and breathless. He’d drink in every sound, every twitch, memorizing how you taste.
Then he’d pull you onto his lap and let you ride him slow, like he has all the time in the world. You’d gasp when he fills you, walls fluttering around him, fingers digging into his shoulders. He’d keep one hand on your ass, the other on your tits, palming and squeezing like he owns them – because in this moment, he does.
And you’d look so fucking pretty like that. Hair sticking to your cheeks, lips parted, your perfect pussy taking everything he gives you. You’d be tight and wet and warm and his, all his.
“Fuck, baby,” he’d groan. “Look at you– fuck –look at you taking me.”
He wants to ruin you. Wants to love you so good you forget every other man who ever looked at you sideways. Especially Naoya fucking Zenin.
He strokes himself harder now, eyes shut tight, lips parted. His hips buck into his fist. He imagines you underneath him, chest rising with every ragged breath, hands curled in his sheets.
“Yeah,” he pants. “Cum for me. Let me feel it, baby. Fuck–”
And he does. He comes hard, jaw clenched, ropes of cum striping across his hand and stomach.
“Satoru!”
His name again – but it’s not from his fantasy. It’s you. Knocking. Voice clear as day.
He freezes, eyes flying open, blinking at the ceiling as reality crashes down on him like a wave. His hand is slick and wet, his uniform pants stained, and his fucking door is unlocked –
“SA-TO-RU!”
Shit. Panic kicks in. He scrambles, wiping himself off with the first ratty shirt he can find. His pants are hopeless. There’s a visible stain, big on the front. He yanks them down, kicks them off, pulls on the nearest pair of sweatpants and hopes for the best.
“J-just a sec!” he calls, breath still shallow, hair plastered to his forehead.
When he finally cracks the door open, he’s a mess. Glasses crooked. Shirt barely buttoned. And there you are, arms crossed, leaning against the frame. Unamused.
It's cute.
“Miss me already?” He tries to joke, voice still breathless.
You roll your eyes. “I was coming to see if you were going to the party tonight, but never mind. This is what I get for trying to extend an olive branch.”
You’re turning before he can stop you, but he grabs your hand, then instantly regrets it. That hand. The hand that was just covered in cum because of thoughts of you. He pulls back like it’s burned him and shoves it in his pocket, tries to play it off.
“Hey, now. I love olives. I’ll walk with you.” He doesn't, but that doesn't matter right now.
You give him a skeptical once-over. “Right now? In that?”
He glances down. Grey sweats. A wrinkled, half-open shirt. His hair was surely still a mess, he's sure of it. He looked like a wreck.
But he just grins, shameless. “Yup.”
He steps out beside you, tossing an arm around your shoulder like nothing happened, like he hadn’t just come in his hands thinking about you three minutes ago.
And in a low murmur, right by your ear, he says, “I gotta show these losers that even dressed like this, I’m still better looking than all of them.”
note: oh snap there's some jealousy and pining in this one! they are 18 now so Gojo's deranged pov gets to come through in this one lol. In my head Gojo is just BARELY on the edge of going yandere but he hides it well lmfao anyway beware cuz Naoya is in this LOL pls lmk what you think! stuff gets a little heavy next chapter as we go towards the end of the HI arc....
tw: suggestive language, sexual themes (no actual smut tho)
By the time your opponent hits the ground, the bell has already been rung and Yaga’s voice booms across the field, announcing the match is over – You won.
You kept your cursed energy consistent. No surges, no wild outbursts. Your technique was clean and focused, nulling their cursed energy long enough to land three powerful jabs, sending your opponent tumbling back.
This time, there were no suspicious glances or whispers about your energy. No clan elders screaming for your detainment. Just the sound of your fists landing where they were meant to and your opponent slamming the ground, too slow to recover. The sound of the crowd erupting like this was any regular spar.
The last Kyoto-Tokyo School sparring event was effectively cancelled after your… outburst. After the cursed cuffs were placed on your wrists. After you and your brother were crammed into the council room, having to sit in silence as the elders debated whether you should live or die.
But not this time. You stood your ground. You stayed in control – you won.
You should feel proud. And you do.
But the feeling doesn't last.
Because across the field, under the overhang of the main building, Satoru is leaning far too close to Mei Mei. She's backed against the wall, cool and composed, while one of his arms braces beside her head like he's marking his territory. Her hand slides slowly up his chest, nails dragging lightly over the fabric. She laughs at something he says – soft, amused, indulgent.
And then he's leaning down even closer, his mouth brushing her ear as he whispers something that makes her smile coyly, her hand moving to touch his bicep, slow and deliberate.
You look away.
Something flickers sharp and ugly beneath your ribs – something cold and unfamiliar and hard to name. You try to swallow the sour taste in your mouth away.
“You fight like you're tired of holding back.”
You glance over.
Naoya Zenin stands to your left, looking down at you, that all too confident smirk plastered on his face. He looks you up and down – like he’s taking stock. Like he’s surprised. Impressed, maybe.
“Gotta admit I'm bummed I missed the last spar event.” He says cooly, sliding next to you on the bench. “I heard it was…exciting.”
He's so close his thighs brush against yours but you don't move away yet. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s defiance. Or maybe it’s the lingering image of Satoru’s fingers brushing Mei Mei’s waist that makes you stay put.
You eye him carefully. “What makes you think I'm holding back?”
He leans closer and you catch a whiff of the spearmint gum he must have chewed earlier, the soft musk of sweat he worked up during his spar earlier that morning. His eyes don't leave yours.
“Aren't you?” Naoya’s voice is smooth and measured, a quiet challenge under the polish. “I know all about your technique. How the Gojo elders feel about you. How they keep you under lock and key.”
You lift your chin slightly. “I'm not under anyone's key.”
“Sure.” He huffs a small laugh. “But he's still your keeper, isn't he?”
You don't have to ask who he means.
“He’s not –” You start, but he cuts you off.
“I'm not judging. I just think it's a shame.” He tilts his head closer to you. “Someone like you shouldn't be stuck under someone else’s thumb. Not when you could be something bigger – on your own. Or with people who actually see you for what you are.”
His knee presses more firmly against yours, not enough to be inappropriate – just enough to be undeniable. It’s like a game he’s too comfortable playing. But it doesn’t feel slimy. It feels like strategy. Like he’s trying to figure out what kind of queen you are before making a move on the board.
Your eyes narrow. “Yeah? And what's that?”
Naoya’s smirk deepens, gaze dragging slowly down to your hands – bruised knuckles, flecks of cursed energy still lingering faintly under your skin – before meeting your eyes again.
His gaze is full-on predatory now but you don't shy away from it. You stare at him dead on.
“Something dangerous.” He says, almost like it's a compliment. His voice lowers just a notch. “You're not someone who should be hidden away. You should be feared.”
You snort, dry. “Is that supposed to win me over or something?”
“No.” He chuckles with you, “If I wanted to win you over, I would've brought flowers. But something tells me that kind of thing doesn't work on you.”
You hum in response. When he speaks again, he's cool and assured, staring you down with that same cocky grin. “I'm just saying I'm not afraid of what you can do.”
That catches you, just a little. Enough for him to see it and grin wider.
“I think you're wasted under Gojo’s thumb. The Zenin clan?” His grin turns sharper. “We don't leash power like yours. We marry it.”
You can't stifle your laugh. “Did you just propose?”
Naoya laughs, low and smooth. “Relax, I said ‘we’. I didn't say ‘me’. Yet.”
You shake your head, but your smile flickers. It’s small and guarded – but it’s there. “And what if I don't want to be some clan wife?”
He eyes you, knowingly, calculative. “But you want to be powerful.”
It's not a question.
Across the field, movement catches your eye – just in time to catch Satoru glancing your way.
He stands half-shadowed by the building’s edge, his arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into his hair like he forgot they were even there. The look on his face is unreadable – calm on the surface, but tight at the edges. His eyes are narrowed at where your body touches Naoya, at the way his thigh presses into the side of yours, the way onebis arms is wrapped coolly behind you on the bench.
You don’t move.
If anything, you tilt your chin, meeting Satoru’s gaze across the courtyard with steady, deliberate indifference – just long enough to make sure he sees you not looking away.
Then, slowly, you turn back to Naoya. “You think power comes from clans.”
“I think clans know how to protect it,” He replies. “And elevate it. Especially when it threatens the balance.”
You raise a brow. “And what's in it for you?”
Naoya leans back slightly, smirking like he already won something. He shrugs. “Power. The satisfaction of being right. Pissing off the Gojo clan. The list could go on.”
His hand lifts, casual as anything, and brushes a bit of imaginary lint from your sleeve – a light touch that lingers just a second longer than necessary. Your pulse ticks, and it surprises you that the gesture doesn't feel necessarily unwelcome. You don’t stop him.
“I meant it when I said you shouldn’t be leashed.” He murmurs. “And if Gojo can’t see that…”
He lets the sentence trail off, unfinished and ripe with implication.
Before you can respond, you catch a flicker of movement from the edge of your vision – Satoru, now gone from his perch near the building.
You inhale slowly, steadying yourself.
Naoya watches you closely, his voice low and edged with amusement. “I'll see you at the party tonight, yeah?”
You nod once, sharp and noncommittal. “Probably.”
The party is louder than expected.
It’s tucked away in one of the older buildings at the edge of campus – the kind of place that probably used to be an archive or faculty dorm, now quietly ignored. The higher-ups no doubt know it’s happening. Maybe they’ve even decided one night of letting loose is a necessary evil. That you've earned it after a successful spar event, after a summer as busy as this one. The music’s a little too loud, drinks are being passed a little too freely – spiked, of course, courtesy of Geto and Shoko smuggling it in, and there’s an electric buzz in the air – like all the pent up energy of overworked sorcerers is begging to break free.
You came with Shoko, after trading earrings and mascara and a shared swig from a flask she pulled from her sock drawer. Now she’s somewhere near the back, deep in conversation with Utahime, both of them flushed from whatever was in that punch bowl. Nanami and Ijichi are posted up in a corner, nodding at each other like they’re conducting a mission briefing instead of making small talk. You can tell by the look on Nanami’s face that he's clearly wondering if it’s too early to leave.
Haibara finds you quickly, handing you a drink with that large grin plastered on his face. He stays with you while you both nurse your drinks, making small talk about things like Nanami’s impressive take down during his match, or the new restaurant in Shibuya he’s desperate to go try. When your drinks are empty, he doesn't waste a beat to go grab refills (“Our first drinking party! How exciting!” and then you're left alone.
You lean against the edge of a dusty bookshelf and examine the room, half-listening to the pop song pulsing from the old speaker in the corner.
The lights are low, tinted orange by paper lanterns strung up haphazardly around the ceiling beams. One of the Kyoto students yells out a toast from across the room. Laughter follows. Someone else starts a game of cards with cursed dice.
Your eyes track lazily toward the far side of the room, where the crowd thins just enough for you to make out the person you’ve been pretending not to notice all night.
Satoru.
He’s standing with Mei Mei and Geto, drink in one hand, sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He says something that earns a chuckle from Geto, and Mei Mei shakes her head with a smirk, brushing her fingers along Satoru’s forearm like it's second nature.
His hand lingers at the small of her back longer than it should. She doesn’t push him off. Of course she doesn’t.
You know it’s nothing. You know it.
But it sits in your chest like a live wire.
You know Satoru has been with plenty of girls over the last year. You know the stories. The nights he doesn’t come back to his room. The whispers he trades with Geto when they think no one’s listening. You’re not naïve. You’ve heard every careless detail. But he’s never made you see it before, not like this. He’s never made it so hard to ignore. Never rubbed it in your face like he is tonight.
You know you have no right to be mad. It's selfish to expect him to never be with anyone else because he's so clearly not yours. And yet, that sour, green feeling bubbles in the pit of your stomach every time you look at him with her. And you hate it.
The way it tightens your throat. The way it makes your fingers curl around your cup, knuckles stiff. The way it makes your cursed energy hum beneath your skin like it’s been waiting for an excuse to flare. You keep your expression neutral, but you know better than to assume it’s working. You’re no good at masking anything around him.
And the worst part is you know he can feel your anger, can feel you brewing over here in the corner. That he can feel the way your cursed anger surges every time you see him lean down to brush his mouth against Mei Mei’s ear in a whisper.
You shouldn’t be watching. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t feel like your ribs are too tight around your lungs.
But you do.
“You look like you could use another drink.”
You startle and turn, finding Naoya Zenin standing too close – so close you scold yourself for being too lost in thought to notice him sooner. He’s holding two plastic red cups, and doesn’t wait for you to answer before holding one out to you.
You eye the drink before taking it, stacking your empty cup under it.
“Good timing.” You say.
Naoya smiles. “Yeah, I have a gift for that.”
He looks irritatingly good. His hair is messy, but in a way that feels like he spent a meticulous amount of time to achieve that look. He's in a sleek black button up with the top three buttons undone, black pants. You can smell the expensive cologne wafting off of him, strong and overwhelming to your senses, but not in a way that's inherently unpleasant.
He tips his cup against yours in a soft clink, then takes a long drink, eyes never really leaving you. The music pulses around you, hazy and distant, as if the party is happening somewhere else entirely.
“You looked like you were ready to set the room on fire.” He studies you, tilting his head slightly. “Thought maybe you could use… a distraction.“
You raise a brow. “That's what you want to be tonight?”
“Most people want me for more than one night,” His grin is devious as he leans in, voice low as his warm breath hits your cheek. “But if that’s all you think you can handle…”
“You seem awfully confident.” You take a slow slip from your drink. It's strong and dark, and your expression sours at the taste.
He smirks. “Just figured you needed someone to step in.”
You glance back across the room. Satoru’s arm is draped over Mei Mei’s shoulders now, pulling her into his side as they chat with Geto and another Kyoto student. As soon as you look over, his head turns. His sunglasses are on, but you can tell he's looking right at you.
Naoya steps in front of you, blocking your view of Satoru.
“You gonna tell me you haven't been stewing over here?” He bites back a smirk. “Watching him?”
You lift your chin defiantly. “I’m not stewing.”
“You know, it's funny.” He snickers. “I almost felt bad for you. Entire family murdered by the Gojo clan, and now they're the ones controlling your life, your freedom, your power…” he trails off.
He's so close you can smell the alcohol on his breath.
He continues, “But I think you like it. Like being leashed – when he’s the one holding the chain.”
Your jaw tenses.
Naoya’s gaze drags across your face, hungry for the reaction he knows he’s getting.
“That's not true.” You argue.
“Yeah?” He exhales, “Prove it.”
“You think I like this?” You bite out. “The surveillance, the control? You think I don't know what they think of me? That they’re just waiting for my strength to surpass what they deem acceptable so they can call for my execution?”
Naoya doesn't flinch at your outburst. If anything, it amuses him more, drinking you in. His fingers find your wrist, tracing small circles on the delicate skin. The contact is feather-light, but it leaves a heavy weight behind.
“I think,” he says smoothly, “you like that he's the one in charge of you. The one watching you, deciding what lines you can and can't cross. You like knowing he’s the only one who can stop you. That he’s the one they’ll send to kill you – if you ever step too far out of line.”
Your throat tightens. You hate how the words land. How they hit something buried and unspoken. Something you haven’t let yourself think about – haven’t dared name.
“It was his grandfather, you know – that ordered your father’s murder.” He says it so casually, with the easy shrug of one of his shoulders, and your whole body feels like it's full of static.
“Fuck you.” You breathe.
You’re shaking now – not visibly, but deep, in the bones. Rage or shame, you don’t know. Maybe both.
Naoya just smiles, cruel and calm. “I’m offering you a way out, you know. You don’t have to keep licking his boots just to survive. You're better than that”
You don’t respond. You can’t.
Because you’re not sure what would come out if you opened your mouth. A scream. A sob. Or worse – an agreement.
You hate the Gojo clan. You know this as sure as you know you like a splash of milk in your coffee but no sugar. And this is a fact you know as intrinsic to your being as breathing. You hate them. Youhatethemhatethemhatethem.
But you don't hate Satoru. You've never been able to bring yourself to that. Even now. Right now, you despise him. Want to smack him and spit in his face and punch him and then kiss it better and do it all over again. But you don't hate him.
From your peripheral, you can tell Satoru has migrated in the room to be back into your field of view. To watch you. But you don't let your gaze turn towards him. Instead, you keep your eyes fixed on Naoya’s, your jaw set.
“I wonder– ” He murmurs, the hand on your wrist ghosting up your forearm,, “–how pissed he would be if I kissed you right now.”
Your breath hitches.
And Naoya sees it.
He sees all of it – the tremble in your armor, the bite in your voice, the desperation you’re trying to bury under every sharp word and steel-edged glare. His expression shifts – less triumphant now, more intrigued. Almost like he didn’t expect you to get this rattled. Or maybe like he did, and he’s proud of the mess he’s made.
“He won't care.” You force yourself to speak. “We’re just friends.”
“Oh?” His hand slides from your wrist to the curve of your jaw, fingers brushing the underside like he’s testing the edge of a blade. His eyes drop to your mouth and linger there before meeting your gaze again. “The same way he's friends with Mei Mei?”
You blink, caught off guard, the words hitting harder than they have any right to. Naoya doesn’t press – he doesn’t need to. The implication hangs between you, thick and sour, settling in your chest like ash.
His mouth twitches into something close to a smirk, but it’s quieter now – less smug, more predatory. Calculated. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Exactly where the weak spots are.
“You can lie to yourself all you want.” His voice low as his thumb brushes beneath your bottom lip. Then his hand tightens around your jaw, fingers rooting into your hairline. It's not rough, it doesn't hurt, but he wants you to know that it can. “But don’t bother lying to me.”
Your heart quickens, and there's a warmth in the depths of your stomach. Your lips part, just for a second, but that's all he needs.
Because in the next second, his lips are on yours.
It's not hesitant, or soft or searching. It's deliberate. Territorial. His lips press to yours with the kind of confidence that says he knew this would happen before you did – and that fact should make you angry, but it doesn't. Not when when you feel this electric.
It's heat and teeth and manipulation – the kind of kiss that doesn't ask permission, just takes.
And in that moment, you let him.
Maybe it’s the anger. Maybe you know deep down, in some ways, Naoya’s right about all of it. Or maybe it’s Satoru – or it’s you, wanting to feel something else for once. Something that doesn’t coil like guilt in your stomach.
Naoya’s fingers dig into your hair as he pulls you closer, and his other hand slides down your spine, too familiar. He kisses like he knows it’ll haunt you later, and that’s exactly why he’s doing it.
The kiss feels like a challenge. A battle for dominance that neither of you are willing to give up. It’s fast and heated and thrilling in the way a fire is when you know you’re too close – but you don’t back away.
It's nothing like kissing Satoru Gojo.
Satoru kissed you like he needed you as much as he needed air. But even when his touch was hungry, it was reverent, gentle – like you were something precious beneath his fingertips. Kissing him made the world stop, the buzzing in your head quieted and you felt like you were weightless, like you were floating straight into the sun but you didn't care if you burned.
Naoya wants your body. Your power. To control you, to own you.
Satoru just wanted you.
And you think that, maybe, that's what makes this all even worse.
Because even now – with Naoya’s hands on your body and his tongue in your mouth – you're still only thinking about Satoru.
Your teeth catch Naoya’s bottom lip when you finally pull back – not playfully, not gently – and he exhales something between a laugh and a low curse. His eyes are gleaming now, all sharp edge and satisfaction. He’s looking at you like you're a prized possession and a weapon all at once.
Naoya’s lip is bleeding from where you bit. You can see the faint smear of blood as he exhales, and instead of wiping it away, he lets it sit there– like a badge of pride.
“You’d be unstoppable.” He murmurs, voice low, as if he’s confiding a secret instead of twisting a knife. “You and me. A Zenin and a Denraku.. Do you have any idea how much power that would hold?”
You blink, breath still shallow. He doesn’t give you space. His fingers slide from your jaw to the back of your neck, possessive and practiced – not tender.
“I'm serious. You don't have to be some caged bird for them.” His gaze flickers to Satoru’s side of the room. “They’ll never really trust you. Not when they’re the ones who wiped your bloodline off the map.”
Your stomach churns, but Naoya’s voice goes silky-smooth, coaxing.
“I’m offering something better. You’d have status, safety. Money. Influence. You wouldn't just be Gojo’s little pet monster tucked away until the elders decide you’re too much trouble.”
You stay silent, watching him.
You can faintly feel Satoru’s energy buzzing, standing out brighter and more frenzied than everyone else’s. He’s not in the room anymore, you didn't notice him leave, but he's still near – you can feel that much.
The corners of his mouth lift, slow and calculated. “With me, you wouldn’t be caged. You’d be used properly.”
That word stings. You notice it immediately – used – but he says it like he thinks it’s a compliment. Like it’s a promise he swears to keep.
He says it like you’d be his weapon. Like that’s better than being the Gojo’s prisoner.
But then, as if the mask slips for just a second, he adds, almost lazily, “And don’t think I’d let you slack off like the rest of the women in my family. You’re not soft. You’d earn your place beside me.”
It’s a backhanded compliment. And it hits with all the grace of a curse: You’re not like the others.
Like he doesn’t really think women belong there.
Just you. Just because you’re useful to him.
Not equal. Not free.
Just his.
And you knew that’s what he thought this whole time. You know what the Zenin’s are, how they operate, but hearing it so blatant like this still feels like a slap across the face. You slide from his grasp. “I need some air.”
–
Satoru’s laughing.
He keeps it light – jokes around with Suguru like he always does, heckles Nanami for getting his sleeve torn during his match, smirking at everyone like he doesn’t have a single thought deeper than where’s the next drink.
It’s a good mask. One he’s perfected. And tonight, it feels necessary. Because underneath all the noise and charisma and practiced charm, something sharp is twisting in his chest. Something raw and ugly and dangerous.
Something that's been there since earlier that afternoon – when he saw you and Naoya Zenin. It was more than a casual conversation amongst school colleagues, that much he could tell. When Naoya leaned into you, invaded your space, Satoru could feel the way your energy surged. Not from anger, but from excitement. He expected you to push Naoya, to bite back with something snarky like you always do, but you didn't. You didn't push him away. You didn't walk off. You liked it, welcomed it even. The whole thing makes something inside Satoru feel rotten.
So, yeah, he's laughing. He’s being Gojo – the brightest in the room, the loudest. It's the safest. Because if he’s loud enough, cocky enough, no one will realize he’s freaking the fuck out inside over something as minuscule as a girl he kissed once, that he's friends with, talking to some guy he hates.
He throws an arm around Asahi’s shoulders and drags him toward the snack table. “You ever gonna shoot your shot with Shoko, buddy?”
Asahi furrows his brows. “Huh?”
“Come on,” Satoru grins. “You had a thing, right? A little ‘will they, won't they’ type?”
Asahi blinks at him. “Dude, what—? She's my best friend. And she's with Utahime. Are you joking right now?
Satoru pauses mid-grab into the bowl of chips. “She’s what?”
“They’ve been dating for like three months.” Asahi says flatly.
Satoru glances across the room. Sure enough, Shoko is curled up against Utahime on the couch, her drink half-finished and her fingers lazily tracing patterns along Utahime’s thigh.
“Huh. Guess I missed that detail.” He shrugs.
Asahi snorts. “For someone who sees everything, you're kind of oblivious sometimes.”
Satoru frowns but doesn't have a chance to reply as Mei Mei’s slides in next to him, a knowing smirk on her face like she heard everything. “Don’t be silly, Gojo – everyone knows he likes that Kyoto second year. You know, the cute red head.”
Satoru’s brows shoot up, pivoting toward Asahi. “Huhhhh? Since when?!”
Asahi is blushing, sputtering, trying to deny it – but the rest of the noise fades into the background, because Satoru’s attention has started to drift again.
Back to you.
In the back corner of the room, you’re leaning against a bookshelf, drink in hand. You’re laughing at something Haibara says, your mouth tilted up in a wide smile. The kind of smile that reaches your eyes, all tilted lips and scrunched nose and that low pulse of joy that makes his throat tighten. There’s something sharp in his chest. Something stupid. Something he should be better than.
You’re glowing. You always do – but tonight you’re not hiding it. Not under your uniform, not under resentment or restraint. You’re wearing that dress – the one that clings to your body like it was made for you. The one that makes his mouth dry and his thoughts disintegrate.
It’s infuriating.
Because it’s not just tonight. It’s always like this now.
You’re not that quiet first-year anymore. Not the timid girl who flinched at the way cursed energy clung to her skin like something foul. You’ve come into yourself. You burn now. You bite back. And it’s driving him insane.
You don’t even realize how much of his headspace you take up.
He’s been with his fair share of girls this year – probably more than he should’ve. Enough to know the difference between touch and connection, to know that there is none with any of these girls. Enough to know that no matter who it is, it’s your name that ghosts through his mind when he’s alone. Your voice. Your mouth. That look you gave him the other week when you sucked icing off his finger like you knew exactly what you were doing. Like you wanted him to break.
And he did, later that night, all alone in his dorm room. Just like he always does when he thinks about you late at night. When it’s quiet and the others are asleep, and he's touching himself, thinking about your mouth – your voice – your temper. The way you argue with him like you’re not afraid. The way you slam doors and shove him back and look at him like you see him.
The way you’d feel if he dragged you into his lap and kissed the fight right out of your mouth.
The way your cursed energy might hum against his skin if you let him inside you.
And when you glanced at him from across the field earlier that day – past Naoya’s shoulder, with that defiant little tilt to your head – it had sent heat rushing straight to his gut.
He wanted to kiss you stupid then. Push you up against the wall and make you forget every smug thing Naoya ever said to you.
But he didn’t.
The elders told him to be wary. That your resonance could destabilize him if allowed to evolve unchecked. That your presence was a risk, a threat to Gojo bloodlines, to the balance of Limitless.
He should hate that about you.
He should hate you.
Your cursed technique could destabilize him. Could short-circuit the balance of Limitless. Could destroy everything he’s built. You’re a threat, by design.
But that’s the problem.
Because you're the most exciting threat he's ever felt. The only thing that excites him nowadays. In a world where he can flatten neighborhoods with the snap of a finger, can handle Special Grades with ease, you're what gets his heart rate up.
He can’t stop thinking about the way your cursed energy pulses beneath the surface like it’s seeking him out. How it brushes against his defenses, and instead of repelling it, he wants to feel it deeper. Wants to test the edge of how far you can push before it breaks him open.
He knows he can't have you.
Not the way he wants.
Not when the elders would twist it into something vile. Not when they’d try to use it against you, like they already did once. Not when Asahi is watching. Always watching.
He remembers that conversation from months ago – after you got stabbed and nearly bled out in front of him. When Asahi looked him straight in the eye and didn’t need to say it out loud.
Stay away from her.
It wasn’t just about Satoru, or what you can do to the Gojo clan.
It was about what it would do to you.
And Satoru knows Asahi’s not wrong. The elders would never let it slide. They’d call it manipulation, seduction, corruption of something precious or whatever excuse they come up with. They’d find ways to isolate you or use you or hurt you, just to punish him.
And you? You go along with it. Because you love your brother. Because you’d do what’s right, even if it cost you something you wanted.
So instead of thinking, instead of letting himself spiral into that same aching gravity that always pulls him back to you, he grabs a drink and retreats to Mei Mei.
She looks incredible – she always does. And she knows how to play his game. She leans into his touch without flinching, lets her fingers trail over his chest like it’s no big deal. Because she cares just as little as Satoru does. She laughs at his jokes, tilts her head when he leans in close, lets his hand rest just a little too low on her back.
It’s not like he’s pretending.
Mei Mei’s hot. Skilled. Confident. If he pushed, she’d probably push back, and maybe that’s all he needs tonight – someone to distract him. Someone to burn through so he stops thinking about you.
But it doesn’t work.
Not when Naoya is sliding in next to you in Haibara’s absence, like a predatory sneaking up to attack the helpless fawn. The way he leans in is calculated – measured closeness disguised as interest. And Gojo knows it. Knows that look all too well. It’s the same one he wears when he’s toying with someone before a fight. Like a cat playing with his prey before he kills it.
But you're not helpless, Satoru knows that. So why aren't you pushing Naoya away when he puts his slimey hands on you – when he's brushing your wrist, grabbing your hip, pulling you closer to him? Why are you letting him touch you?
Mei Mei's rubbing his arm now. Satoru briefly registers her whispering in his ear, but he has no idea what she says, because now Naoya’s face to face with you, blocking the view of you with his back to Satoru, and oh shit – he's leaning down and your hands wrapping around his neck and what the fuck?
You're kissing him. You're kissing Naoya fucking Zenin right here in the middle of this party and there's nothing Satoru can do but grit his teeth and fucking bare it. The grip on his empty cup is so tight that the plastic collapses under the pressure in his hand with a loud snap.
He can't be here. He can't watch this. He can't watch someone else touch what he can't have. He has to get out of there before he does something stupid, before he flattens this entire forest, before he makes everyone collateral damage to his wants.
—
When you step outside, it’s colder than you were expecting. The night air has turned sharp in the last few hours, cool enough to raise goosebumps across your arms. Somewhere in the distance, cicadas hum their low, restless chorus, blurring with the muffled thrum of the party’s music behind you. You wrap your arms around yourself, but it doesn't chase away the feeling. You can still feel the faint, electric residue of Naoya’s touch – the phantom of where his fingers had pressed at your waist, the way his palm had skimmed over the curve of your back.
You don't expect to see Satoru. He’s leaning against the porch railing with his back against it, staring up at the night sky. The porch light catches in his white hair, faintly haloing him like he doesn’t belong in the dark at all – something too bright pretending it knows how to hide.
He’s always been too bright.
The wood creaks under your steps, and his head turns.
His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders loose in a way that feels too rehearsed. But it’s his eyes that pin you in place. No sunglasses, just that icy, unflinching blue that feels like it’s peeling you open.
For a second, neither of you says anything. You’re painfully aware of every beat of your heart.
“Sorry,” you say, finally exhaling the breath you were holding, “I just needed some air.”
You take a step closer, resting your hip against the railing beside him.
“Yeah, I bet.” The words are casual on the surface, but they curl at the edges with something sharp.
Your head snaps toward him. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“You and Naoya seemed awfully…cozy.” His voice tilts lazily on the word, like he’s playing with it.
You lift your chin, meeting his gaze head on. “We were talking.”
A humorless half-smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Is that what you call it?”
Your eyes narrow. “Why do you care?”
“I don't.” He shrugs, but his jaw flexes, and he looks away, staring at the night sky instead of at you.
You laugh, bitter and short. “Right. Of course not.”
“You shouldn’t waste your time with guys like that.” He says after a moment, quieter now, like it’s not just a suggestion but a warning.
Naoya’s words echo in your mind.
He's your keeper.
That's what Satoru really is. The Gojo clan assigned him to watch you, to monitor you. To make sure you don't get too strong – to kill you if he has to.
And something inside you bristles. Because at first, you thought he was different. Protecting you. Standing up to his clan for you. Choosing you. Only going along with what the clan wanted as a guise to keep you safe. But really, you think, Satoru Gojo likes being the one holding the leash. Naoya was right, after all. .
“You're not my keeper.” You spit out “You can't tell me what to do.”
He chuckles, low. “Funny. I don't remember you complaining when I agreed to be your ‘keeper’ and saved your ass from the elders.”
You take a step back, anger flaring. “That's not fair. I didn't – I didn't ask you to do that.”
“He doesn't give a shit about you, you know that, right? He’s just using you to get under my skin. To mess with my clan.”
Your mouth twists, and the words that leave you are laced with venom you don’t bother to soften. “Shouldn't you be getting back to Mei Mei?”
His grin curves slow and dangerous, and you want nothing more than to smack it off of his face. But he takes a step closer to you, and you freeze, all your muscles tight.
“Ohhhh. So that's what this is about. You're jealous.” Satoru coos out the last word. He's enjoying this now.
Your pulse spikes at the word and heat immediately crawls up your neck because you know he can tell. He can always tell.
“Please. I'm not jealous.” You say, a bit too fast.
Satoru’s grin deepens, like he’s found a loose thread and is going to keep pulling until you unravel.
“Sure you’re not.” He murmurs, stepping closer until the porch rail digs into your spine. “You just couldn’t stand seeing me with someone else.”
“You're projecting.” You scoff. “I think you're the jealous one.”
He tilts his head, the blue of his eyes sharpening. “And if I said I was?”
“I’d say…” Your throat tightens, but you don’t flinch. “That you have no right to be jealous.”
You force yourself to hold his gaze, even as his height looms and the faint scent of his cologne pushes past your defenses. Satoru leans in, close enough that his voice dips into something lower, rougher. “Exactly – because we’re just friends, right?”
You hate the way your chest feels too small, like your ribs can’t quite contain your heartbeat. Hate the way the space between you feels charged, every inch thick with the possibility of what might happen if either of you leaned just a little closer.
But you can't do that. Asahi has only ever asked of you in your entire life – and it's this. You can't be with Satoru like that, no matter how much you want to sometimes. No matter how much you look back at your half of that old arcade photobooth photo, think about the way his lips felt, his hands felt.
It's too dangerous for you, your legacy – maybe even Satoru. You know Asahi’s right. You know the clan elders would have a fucking hay day if they ever found out something more was happening between you. They'd probably call for your execution right then and there. Or maybe they’d be more subtle, send a couple assassins your way.
Either way, you know it all ends the same.
“Right.” You swallow, “We’re just friends.”
His grin falters, just for a split second – but you see it. He studies you for a moment, unreadable. Then, slowly, he steps away from you, plants his hands back into his pockets and eyes you coldly. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
You stare at each other for a long time, too long, probably. Neither of you wanting to be the first to admit defeat and walk away. The porch light hums above you, flickering every so often, and you think to yourself that the bulb needs to be replaced soon. The music inside still thrums along. The world is still spinning, even if you feel frozen on this old porch.
Neither of you moves. Neither of you blinks.
But finally, you do. With a sigh, you turn on your feet and leave. You can feel his energy burning behind you the entire walk back to your dorm room.
soooo do we care about au's of through the static (that can be read stand alone) that would go into if Gojo and static!mc confessed their feelings sooner than in canon and included mayhaps some smut (like how should be me is a through the static au)
through the static au with ~smut~
yes thx
no not interested
just for tiff
Voting ended onAug 10, 2025
Ik it's not everyone's cup of tea so the canon smut is extremely limited and won't be until like chapter 25 rip
but if it is your cup of tea then there could potentially be some more au vibes
i fear i lied and the smut won't be in the next chapter because this is getting to be sooooo long i think i should split it. but ill prob post both at the same time ?????!
