Satoru Gojo

You finally noticed him when a junior from the track team cornered you behind the gym.

You were minding your business—hood up, black nail polish chipped, earbuds blasting some band no one at that school could name—when one of Satoru’s teammates made the mistake of smacking your ass and saying something gross about your mouth.

You didn’t react. You never do. Just rolled your eyes, muttered something about boiling his blood for ritual use later, and started to walk off.

That should’ve been the end of it.

But Satoru was there.

You didn’t even know he’d seen. But apparently, he’d been skipping practice to watch you smoke behind the bleachers again. Creepy. Consistent.

And he saw red.

Next thing anyone knew, the junior was shoved against the lockers, Satoru’s helmet crashing to the ground. “You talk to her again, I’ll fold your legs backward,” he spat, loud enough for the hallway to freeze. “You’re not even on varsity. Don’t talk like you’ve earned the right.”

People stared. Murmured.

You blinked. That was new.

By last period, the rumors were spreading like a plague. And Satoru?

Satoru was sitting behind you in chemistry, twirling your hair around his finger and muttering, “You seriously let losers like that talk to you? Do you not have standards, you swamp-dwelling little hex factory?”

You slapped his hand. He laughed like he’d won something.

He walked you home that day. “Not because I care,” he explained. “I just don’t want my future wife kidnapped before prom. Gotta keep your freaky ass alive.”

You flicked ash onto his sneakers.

He grinned wider.

---

He first saw you in detention.

He was in for skipping algebra to get head in the equipment shed. You were in for drawing pentagrams on your desk and allegedly cursing the vice principal.

You were sitting cross-legged on the table, boots on the seat, hoodie too big, chipped black nail polish scratching a Sharpie “fuck off” into your notebook. There was a frog keychain hanging off your bag. The air smelled like weed and Clove cigarettes.

You didn’t look at him once.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

It was the first time someone didn’t break their neck looking when Satoru Gojo walked into a room. And he’d just had his dick sucked. He was glowing. But you didn’t even twitch.

And that’s when it started.

The hyperfixation.

The watching-from-across-the-quad thing. The unspoken ritual where you’d flick him off in the hall and he’d hiss “goth gremlin” under his breath like a prayer. The morning announcements where he once—completely unprompted—said “Support our football team. And don’t do devil worship. Some of you bitches stink of sulfur.” Then looked right at you.

He once put a dead lizard in your locker with a glittery note that said “Is this your familiar?” and acted offended when you kept it.

You once cursed him with “erectile rage” after he hit your vape and called it “zaza for witches.” He had a boner and a nosebleed for 40 minutes. It became a legend.

He called you disgusting. Disturbing. Deranged.

He also memorized your schedule. Pulled fire alarms when you skipped school so no one else got your seat in detention. Took pictures of your little doodles when you weren’t looking. Called your eyeliner “a masterpiece of war crimes.”

And once—when no one was around—he picked a crushed, half-burned clove cigarette off the pavement where you’d been standing and pocketed it like it was a locket of hair.

He’s the golden boy. You’re a walking hex.

And it would’ve made sense to leave it there. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Because every time you rolled your eyes at him like he was gum on your boot—every time you told him to choke on a crystal or stuck your tongue out in that ugly, adorable way—he felt something godawful bloom in his chest.

Satoru doesn’t like you.

Satoru is afflicted by you.

---

You find it in your locker between fourth and fifth: a small, black velvet pouch. No name. Just a sticky note with sloppy handwriting.

“idk which ones you like but the lady said obsidian is for protection. like from dumbasses like me. –SG”

Inside? A jumbled handful of crystals. Obsidian. Amethyst. Moonstone. One that might just be a shiny rock from the parking lot. They’re all warm—like he’s been holding them too long. Like he debated giving them to you in person and chickened out at the last second.

Later that day, he sees you across the hall. Doesn’t say anything. Just taps his chest over his heart twice and mouths, “Did it work?”

He gets shoved into a locker by a passing teammate before he sees your smirk.

---

You heard him talking once. In the gym. Locker room echoing like a confession booth.

“She smells like smoke and grave dirt,” he said to Suguru, voice all dreamy and depraved. “It’s so hot. She’s like, clinically unapproachable. I asked if she wanted to come to my party and she said ‘I’d rather boil my skin off in a cauldron, quarterback.’ I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

Suguru had stared at him like he was brain-damaged.

Another time, you walked in on him talking to two cheerleaders—one of which was quite literally sitting on his lap.

“Y’know,” one girl giggled, “people say she’s a freak. Like, she eats roadkill and stuff.”

Satoru’s response?

“Yeah?” he smirked. “Well she’s got the best ass in school, so maybe the deer diet works.”

The girl on his lap went still. You just walked away.

You didn’t hear the part where he muttered, “I’d let her stab me. Just a little. Like a ritual knife. Sexy bloodletting. Anyway.”

---

It got worse after Halloween.

You came to school with fake blood under your eyes, black lipstick smeared halfway to your ears, and a shirt that said “I hexed your dad.”

Satoru failed his chem quiz that day.

He asked to borrow your notes once. You handed them over. Every “i” dotted with pentagrams. The page smelled like sage and sin.

He sniffed it.

Openly.

“Bro, what are you doing?” Nanami asked, horrified.

“Let me suffer in peace,” he whispered, cradling your paper like scripture.

---

You’re crouched behind the bleachers during sixth period again. No one dares follow you here—not after what happened to that one girl who tried to film your “ritual.”

But today, there’s the sound of cleats crunching dead leaves.

Of course.

“You hiding from me, spooky?”

Satoru Gojo. Quarterback. King of the pep rally. Walking hormone with a perfect smile and no shame. He’s already sweating through his practice tee like he wants your attention.

You don’t look up.

He crouches next to you anyway, stretching his long legs out and nudging your thigh with his knee.

“Hey,” he says again, tone dipping lower. “You cursed me or something? ‘Cause I swear to god, I’ve been hard since third period.”

You arch an eyebrow. He grins, but it’s almost nervous now. Desperate, in his own cocky way.

“I can’t even jerk off to cheerleaders anymore,” he whispers. “It’s only you. Only when I’m picturing you sitting on my face reading fucking tarot cards or whatever.”

Your silence makes him fidget.

“Say something, come on. Glare at me. Threaten to hex my dick off. I’ll say thank you.”

Still nothing. He groans like he’s physically in pain.

“You don’t get it, do you? I’m the guy girls fake orgasms for. I invented hallway head. And I’m begging some goth gremlin with a frog keychain to spit in my mouth.”

He’s panting by the end of it, eyes wide, waiting for a reaction. You finally glance his way—cool, unimpressed, annoyed.

It makes him grin.

“God, you’re such a bitch,” he whispers. “It’s fucking hot.”

And just like that, he’s scrambling to his feet, brushing grass off his pants, trying to salvage his dignity.

“I’ll be in the weight room if you wanna come ruin my life some more,” he tosses over his shoulder.

Then adds, softer—

“Please.”