Satoru Gojo

You’ve known Satoru Gojo for years. Top of the class, glasses perpetually slipping down his nose, hoodies and baggy jeans his armor of choice, always the one answering questions before anyone else had even finished raising a hand.

He’s your friend. Your quiet, steady, occasionally teasing friend. The one you might have had a little crush on, if you were being honest with yourself.

What you didn’t know, what no one else knew, was that behind closed doors, Satoru had a secret. One he kept buried under study notes, oversized hoodies, and a perpetual air of "I’m too smart to be caught off guard."

He posted NSFW cosplay content online. Videos where his face was never fully shown. Blurred, cropped, hidden behind wigs or masks, but his body was unmistakable.

The comments were feral. Down bad didn’t even begin to cover it. And every time he read them, Satoru Gojo—unshakable, composed, brilliant—felt his ears burn.

So when he suggested a study session with you—because you’d been struggling with the topic lately—it felt normal. Friendly. Casual. Nothing about it hinted at the chaos waiting just beneath the surface.

Except today, apparently, he had completely forgotten.

You texted him while on your way. No response. Do Not Disturb, of course. He was... busy. Very busy.

By the time you reached his dorm, you’d knocked more than once. Still nothing. With a quiet sigh, you used the spare key he’d given you long ago, back when trust had been simple and uncomplicated.

The first thing that hit you was the sound.

Low bass. Heavy, pulsing audio leaking through his bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. It wasn’t music he’d ever play out loud— too deep, too slow, too intentional.

You paused, confused... then took a step forward anyway.

Through the narrow gap, red LED lights washed the room in a dark, cinematic glow. The audio grew clearer, vibrating through the floorboards, and then...

You saw him.

Satoru was perched on his chair, legs spread just a little too wide, shirtless, chest and stomach slick with oil that caught the red light with every movement. He was half-dressed in a sloppy Sephiroth cosplay—the long silver wig slightly crooked, black pants hanging dangerously low on his hips, a long sword propped neatly against the bed behind him like a prop he’d almost forgotten about.

His phone sat on a stand in front of him, angled carefully, cropped from his jaw down to his upper thighs. Perfect framing. Deliberate.

His hands slid slowly over his chest and abs, fingers dragging through the oil in practiced, unhurried motions. Sometimes they dipped lower, brushing just close enough to make his breath hitch, soft sounds slipping from him without thought. Quiet whimpers, barely audible moans woven into the bass of the audio, like he’d forgotten anyone else existed.

The fabric of his pants did very little to hide the effect. The outline beneath them was unmistakable—long and heavy, pressing upward as he shifted, a slow curve visible through the thin material. It strained when his hips rolled forward slightly, firm and unapologetically present, like his body had stopped caring about subtlety entirely.

For several seconds, he didn’t notice you at all.

You stood frozen just outside the doorway, heart pounding, watching as he adjusted his hair, tilted his head just right for the camera, fingers gliding over his body like this was second nature.

Then your foot shifted.

The floorboard creaked.

Everything detonated at once.

Satoru’s head snapped up faster than seemed humanly possible. "What?! No- wait!" he yelped, chair scraping as he jolted back, arms flailing. His glasses slid off the desk, the phone stand wobbled dangerously, and somehow, the audio jumped louder as his elbow smacked the controls.

"I-I didn’t! Uh- you... you weren’t supposed-!" His words tripped over each other, panic spilling out in real time.

He lunged for the phone, fumbling before finally managing to angle it away and kill the volume.

The wig slipped off with the movement, tumbling to the floor as his white hair fell back into its usual fluffy, tousled mess. A second later, the red LEDs blinked off, replaced by the warm, soft glow of his desk lamp—domestic and familiar, like nothing scandalous had just happened.

Satoru turned to face you.

Still shirtless. Chest still glistening. Skin flushed from his ears all the way down his neck.

He stood there, hands fidgeting uselessly at his sides, eyes wide and mortified, breath uneven as if he hadn’t quite caught it yet.

"O-oh-" he started, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks burning. "I swear I wasn’t... like this... you..." his hand twitched, accidentally brushing just a little against the sensitive bulge straining beneath his pants, and he froze, eyes widening even more as he let out an involuntary whimper, "ngh... weren’t supposed to see me like this..."