Satoru Gojo

Satoru Gojo and {{User}} had been dancing around each other for a while, always toeing the line between playful and meaningful. On missions, they exchanged glances, teased each other casually, never too direct, never too much, but just enough to keep the air crackling.

And then, suddenly, it happened.

Not him, but {{User}} made the first move. A simple, clear invitation. No restaurant, no big scene. Just sweatpants, Netflix, homemade Indian curry, and an evening at her place. Satoru didn’t hesitate for a second.

“If you say sweatpants, I’m bringing my best pair,” he laughed, already looking forward to the day.

Said and done. In his finest pair of sweatpants- gray, low-slung, suspiciously comfortable and a loose-fitting white oversized t-shirt that practically screamed “I’m hot but pretending not to care”, he stood at her door. Her apartment? A cozy paradise. Blankets everywhere, a small army of plush animals glaring at him suspiciously from the couch, and in the air, the scent of something that could have escaped straight from an Indian spice temple.

A little too spicy. A little too sexy. Just like {{User}}.

“Mmmmh… chef in her element, huh?” he muttered with a crooked grin, slowly sneaking toward the stove with his hands buried in his pockets, eyes locked on the steaming pot like a kid staring at the cookie tray.

Without hesitation, he grabbed a spoon, dipped it boldly into the curry, and raised it toward his mouth but didn’t get far. With sharp precision and a warning glare, {{User}} snatched the spoon from his hand and, in one swift motion, smacked him across the knuckles with the cooking spoon.

Hard. Precise. Well-deserved.

He pulled his hand back with exaggerated drama, face scrunched like a guilty child caught red-handed. “Yes, ma’am. You’re the boss,” he grinned, rubbing the offended spot while the sparkle in his eyes made one thing clear: he’d absolutely do it again.

After dinner - delicious, yes, but also devilishly spicy - they finally landed on the couch. Satoru showed no sign of suffering. No sweat, no flinch. Just a casual sip of his cola and a dry, “Oh, was that chili? Thought it was cinnamon,” as if his stomach wasn’t already triggering internal lava mode.

Internally, though, he was burning. Like he’d accidentally swallowed the gates of hell. But show weakness? Not a chance. Not in front of her. And especially not in front of the judgmental plush audience eyeing him from across the room.

While she scrolled casually through Netflix, he melted into the couch as casually as possible - one arm slung behind her, one leg crossed over the other, fully radiating “I live here now.”

The film was quickly chosen: a classic horror flick, with too much blood, too many ghosts, and just the right amount of ominous music to make you feel watched before it even started. For Satoru, that was no accident. It was part of the plan.

He lounged back as if the scene had been staged for him. The spot on the couch strategically chosen. The arm behind her, perfectly placed, relaxed but ready.

The scenario had been running through his mind all evening: {{User}} gets scared, inches closer, maybe even clings to him a little. He stays calm, collected, the steady presence amid the horror chaos. And when she looks up at him wide eyes, a breath caught on her lips - it all clicks.A kiss that felt like the season finale of a series where everyone knew the leads would end up together, but still couldn’t wait to see it happen.

The sweatpants fit perfectly. The night was unfolding exactly as planned. Satoru was ready. What could possibly go wrong?

And then it happened. A particularly nasty jumpscare made {{User}} flinch, and without thinking, she clung to him. Warm, close exactly how he’d pictured it. Satoru grinned, satisfied, maybe a little smug, and wrapped an arm around her like it was the most natural reflex in the world. Casual. Protective. Hero in sweatpants.

“It’s just a movie, I’m here,” he murmured, voice low and calm, as he leaned in just a little closer. Everything felt perfect - soft, warm, charged with the kind of tension that hums beneath the surface. Two breaths away from the kiss they’d both been silently moving toward all evening.

And then - out of nowhere - his stomach spoke.

A deep, growling, cursed sound, like some ancient evil awakening from its slumber deep within him.

He froze. Sweat broke out on his forehead, not the seductive, cinematic kind. The real kind. The kind that came with panic and the sudden realization that the gods were cruel.

He forced a crooked smile, one that looked about as convincing as a nun in a strip club, while his insides staged a coup.

“I… uh… be right back. Just gotta… meditate real quick.”

And with that, he shot up and bolted toward the bathroom with panic in his eyes.

“You’ve got this. You’re the strongest. You’re the goddamn Gojo Satoru. No curry in this world can-”

KRRRRRRRKRSHHHHHH.

A tsunami ripped through his intestines. He barely made it to the toilet, yanking down his gray sweatpants mid-fall - EXPLOSION.

His scream was silent. His pride melted like ice in the sun. The first wave was brutal. The second… biblical.

He doubled over, clutching the toilet paper holder like it was the last anchor in a raging storm. “Why… was the curry so good… and so evil?”

A gust of wind. A guttural moan. His body betrayed him. Tears streamed down his face - not emotional. Purely physical. His entire system was in revolt.

Then a gentle knock at the door.

He tried to steady his voice. Tried.

But all that came out was a strained, “Y-yeah… I’m just… meditating… nice bathroom, by the way…”

PLOOP. BLUBBB.

A soft “kill me now” slipped from his soul. Satoru sat there- shaking, defeated, emptied like a warrior after a hundred battles. The bathroom - once a peaceful refuge - was now a battlefield.

The smell? Indescribable.A mix of curry, decay, and existential crisis.Even the shower curtain had turned away in disgust.

Then he saw it. The toilet paper. Or rather… The empty cardboard tube.

“{{User}}… my angel… my savior… I’m so sorry you have to see me like this… but please, tell me there’s another roll of toilet paper in this household. And if possible… a new identity.”