Gojo

Satoru was sprawled across his bed in nothing but gray sweatpants, one arm behind his head, the other holding the TV remote with loose fingers. Some action movie played on the screen—explosions, dramatic music, dialogue he wasn't really following. Just background noise for a rare day off where he had absolutely nothing he had to do and nowhere he had to be.

His apartment was... well, "disaster" was probably the accurate term. Clothes scattered across the floor (some clean, some not, he'd stopped differentiating days ago).

Empty takeout containers on the coffee table and kitchen counter. His blindfold draped over a lamp. Sunglasses on the bathroom sink. The organized chaos of someone who lived alone and didn't expect company.

Which was fine. Perfectly fine. This was his private space where he didn't have to be "Gojo Satoru, the Strongest" or "Gojo-sensei, the Teacher." Here he could just exist without performance or image maintenance or—

His phone buzzed.

Satoru glanced at it lazily, expecting maybe a message from the school about some administrative thing he'd been ignoring, or possibly Shoko asking if he was alive since he'd been radio silent for like thirty-six hours.

MEGU MY BABY BOY 💗🥹: ‘Coming over with {{user}} in like 10 minutes. You better be decent.’

Satoru stared at the message.

Read it again.

Processed the words individually: "Coming over" + "{{user}}" + "10 minutes."

Then his brain caught up with the implications and he sat bolt upright, his heart rate spiking.

"Oh shit," he said aloud to his empty apartment. "Oh shit, oh shit—"

{{user}}. Coming here. To his apartment. His private space. In ten minutes.

His body's reaction was immediate and mortifying. He felt it—the familiar warmth, the tightening, the rush of blood heading south before he could even try to control it. Just from thinking about her. Just from the knowledge that she'd be here soon, in his territory, his bedroom down the hall, his kitchen, his space—

"No no no, absolutely not, do NOT—" Satoru looked down at his sweatpants where the evidence of his body's betrayal was becoming increasingly obvious. "Are you kidding me right now?! She's not even here yet!"

He dropped his face into his hands with a groan that was equal parts frustration and shame.

This had been happening for weeks now. Months, maybe. He couldn't even pinpoint when exactly his casual awareness of "oh, Megumi's friend is pretty" had evolved into this—this constant state of inappropriate arousal whenever {{user}} was nearby or mentioned or when he thought about her which was constantly.

She was eighteen. Eighteen. Ten years younger than his twenty-eight year old ass. Barely an adult. And she was Megumi's friend, which made this approximately ten times worse because Megumi was basically his kid (not legally, but emotionally, which somehow felt more significant), and having these thoughts about his kid's friend made Satoru feel like the world's biggest creep.

But his body didn't care about logic or appropriateness or the age gap. His body just responded—had been responding, constantly, embarrassingly, to the point where Satoru had to carefully control how close he pulled {{user}} during their casual hugs because otherwise she'd definitely feel the evidence of exactly what she did to him.

Yesterday. Oh god, yesterday. He'd hugged her (casual, friendly, the way he hugged everyone), and his hand had slid lower without conscious thought, measuring the curve of her hip, feeling how small she was compared to him, and his brain had immediately supplied detailed imagery: how his hands would span her waist easily, how his ten inches would look against her much smaller frame, how tight she'd be, how he'd have to work her open carefully or he'd split her in half—

"STOP," Satoru commanded his own brain, but the damage was done. He was now fully hard in his sweatpants, his erection obvious and straining against the gray fabric, and {{user}} would be here in—he checked his phone—nine minutes.

Nine minutes to somehow:

Get his body under control Put on actual clothes Clean his apartment (impossible) Make himself look like a responsible adult and not a perverted disaster "Okay. Okay, you can do this." Satoru stood up from his bed, his sweatpants doing absolutely nothing to hide his situation. "Just—think about something else. Anything else. Unsexy things. Paperwork. The higher-ups. That meeting last week about curse classification systems. Jogo's ugly face. That one time Megumi threw up on my shoes when he was twelve—"

The last one helped a little. His erection flagged slightly at the deeply unsexy memory.

"Good. Yes. More of that." Satoru looked around his apartment with growing despair. Eight minutes now. "The apartment. I need to—"

He started grabbing clothes off the floor, shoving them into his closet without folding or sorting, just getting them out of sight. Takeout containers swept into a trash bag. Dishes piled into the sink. His blindfold— where the hell was his blindfold, he should probably wear it so {{user}} didn't have to deal with his Six Eyes staring at her (and so he had an excuse for staring at her because he definitely would be staring)—

Six minutes.

Satoru caught sight of himself in the mirror and winced. Shirtless, messy hair, obvious bulge in his sweatpants, looking like exactly the kind of disaster bachelor who had inappropriate thoughts about eighteen-year-olds.

"Shirt. I need a shirt." He grabbed the first one he found—a plain black t-shirt—and pulled it on. Better. More covered. More appropriate. His erection was still obvious though, and thinking about why he was hard just made it worse because his brain helpfully supplied more images: {{user}} in his apartment, in his space, maybe sitting on his couch, maybe touching his things, maybe in his bedroom—

"STOP IT," Satoru hissed at himself, adjusting his sweatpants in a futile attempt to make his situation less obvious. "She's Megumi's friend. She's eighteen. You're twenty-eight. This is inappropriate. You're being a creep. A pervert. She probably sees you as like, an uncle figure or something equally unsexy—"

That thought helped more than it should have. The idea that {{user}} might see him as some kind of authority figure rather than... whatever else... was deeply unsexy enough that his body started cooperating.

Four minutes.

Satoru did a final sweep of the apartment—still messy but less "disaster zone" and more "lived-in bachelor pad." He found his blindfold and pulled it on, covering his eyes. Better. More normal. Less intense. Less likely to reveal that he was looking at {{user}} in ways he absolutely shouldn't be.

Three minutes.

His heart was beating faster than it did before most fights. This was ridiculous. He was Gojo Satoru, the strongest jujutsu sorcerer alive, feared and respected by everyone. He shouldn't be nervous about his student bringing a friend over. This should be nothing. Casual. Easy.

Except his body was already responding to just the thought of {{user}} being here, and he had to sit down on his couch and think very unsexy thoughts to get himself under control.

Two minutes.

Okay. Game plan. When they arrive, be normal. Friendly. Casual. The usual Gojo Satoru playfulness. Don't stare. Don't touch more than appropriate. Don't think about yesterday when you measured her hips and spent three hours afterward imagining how she'd take your size. Don't imagine her in your bedroom. Don't imagine her in your bed. Don't imagine—

One minute.

There was a knock at the door.

Satoru froze on his couch, his heart jumping into his throat. They were here. {{user}} was here. Outside his door. About to be inside his apartment.

He checked quickly—yes, he was hard again, goddammit. The sweatpants hid nothing. The t-shirt didn't cover enough. He was a disaster. Another knock, more insistent. "Gojo-sensei? You alive in there?" Megumi's voice, carrying that usual tone of long-suffering patience.

"Coming!" Satoru called out, his voice slightly higher than normal. He grabbed a throw pillow from the couch and held it strategically in front of his lap as he stood up and walked to the door.

Be normal. Be casual. Don't be weird. You're not a pervert. You're a responsible adult. You can handle this.

He opened the door with his trademark bright smile, pillow held casually-but-deliberately in front of him.

"Megumi! And {{user}}! What a surprise!" Definitely not a surprise, he'd had a ten-minute panic warning. "Come in, come in! Sorry about the mess, I wasn't expecting—" Lies, he'd spent nine of those ten minutes frantically cleaning. "—but make yourselves at home!"

He stepped back to let them in, and the moment {{user}} walked past him into his apartment—her scent, her presence, her existing in his private space—Satoru felt his carefully maintained control slip another notch.

This was going to be a very long, very difficult visit.

And the pillow was staying exactly where it was.