THE GOJO TWINS || PUNNANI

The club was loud in the way that made your teeth rattle.

Bass bleeding through the floor, into your heels, up through your bones — the kind of loud that made thinking feel optional.

You had a fake ID burning a hole in your purse incase a sugar daddy wanted to take you home. The plan had been simple. Find someone interesting.

Simple.

And then they happened.

---

You noticed the white hair first.

Not because it was subtle — it was the opposite of subtle — but because it caught the light in a way that made you think whoever it belonged to had specifically engineered their entire look around getting attention.

The one beside him was nearly identical. Same height. Same jaw. Same ridiculous white hair.

But where the first one wore his confidence like a weapon — cap tilted, arms loose, already grinning at you like he knew something you didn't — the second one stood adjacent to that energy.

Like he'd learned it secondhand. Same face, softer execution. Glasses. A green shirt tucked into white formal trousers that had absolutely no business looking that good in a club.

Twins.

You had exactly two seconds to process this before the one with the cap opened his mouth.

---

"Yo." He said it like a greeting and a verdict. His gaze did a full, unhurried sweep of you — chin to chest to hip — and he didn't even have the decency to look guilty about it. "You have real nice tits and ass. Couldn't help myself."

You blinked.

The audacity. The sheer, uncut audacity of this man.

Any other night, you would've flipped him off and walked away. You'd done it before. You'd do it again. But something kept your feet planted and your mouth closed, and you were honest enough with yourself to admit it wasn't just his face — though his face was, objectively, criminal — it was the way he said it. Not leering.

Not gross.

Just... direct. Like commenting on the weather. Like he'd looked at you and decided the most efficient thing to do was simply tell the truth.

"Satoru." The other one stepped forward fast — practically materialized between the two of you — and the flush crawling up his neck was visible even in club lighting.

He pushed his glasses up and turned to his twin with an expression that was ninety percent mortification and ten percent I have been dealing with you my entire life.

"You cannot — you have to learn how to appreciate women properly, oh my god—"

He turned back to you. He couldn't quite meet your eyes.

"I'm so sorry. He's — that's just how he is, please don't take it personally." A small, sheepish smile. He scratched the back of his neck. "What he meant to say is that you're really beautiful."

You looked at him for a moment.

Okay. So one of them has manners.

"Really?" Satoru's voice came over his twin's shoulder, unbothered and entirely too amused. "You weren't saying that when you spotted her across the room." He let the implication hang for a second, perfectly calibrated. "What he actually meant to say—"

"Satoru, I swear to every god—"

"—is that he would very much like to—" Satoru stuck his tongue out. Two fingers. A gesture that should've been childish and somehow wasn't. He grinned at your expression. "Yeah. That."

Satoru stretched — arms over his head, white t-shirt riding up just enough — and fixed the brim of his cap like he hadn't just said any of that. He extended a hand toward you. Easy. Certain. The kind of handshake that assumed you'd take it.

"I'm Satoru Gojo," he said. "And that—" a thumb jerked sideways, "—is my twin, Toru. He's less fun at parties but he grows on you."

"I'm standing right here," Toru said flatly.

"I know."

You should have walked away.

You took his hand instead.

---

The penthouse was not what you expected and somehow exactly what you should have.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. The city spread out beneath them like something from a movie. Modern lighting — warm, low, the kind specifically designed to make every surface look expensive and every person look good.

You stood in the middle of the living room and did a slow turn, taking it in, and when you turned back around both of them were watching you with very different expressions.

The situation clarified itself.

There were two of them.

One of you.

Oh.

---

Your clothes were on the floor before you'd fully decided to let them be.

You didn't feel pressured. You felt, if anything, like the most interesting thing in the room, which was saying something because the room had floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the entire city.

But they'd arranged you — arranged was the word, because that was what it felt like, deliberate and certain — with your back arched over the arm of the couch. Hips elevated.

Face up, tilted back, the city skyline visible upside-down through the window behind Satoru's head.

Face up because Satoru Gojo had exactly one setting and it was direct eye contact.

---

He'd pushed his jeans low on his hips, white t-shirt still on — of course it was, he was exactly the type — and he held your jaw with one large hand. Not rough. Just... certain.

"Pretty mouth," he said. Conversational. Like he was noting it for the record. His thumb pressed light against your lower lip, pulling it down just slightly. "Gonna take care of me with it, yeah?"

You didn't answer. He didn't seem to need you to.

Behind you, Toru's hands were warm on your hips — steadying, almost careful — and you could feel the tension in him, the quiet war between his nerves and whatever was underneath them. His thumbs traced small circles against your skin. Thinking. Processing. Being Toru about it.

"She looks—" he started, voice lower than you'd heard it all night.

"I know," Satoru said. His eyes flicked up to his twin. "Stop staring and do something, Toru, we're not in a museum."

"I'm — I'm working up to it," Toru said, and the flush on his face had gone from his neck to his ears, and somehow that was the thing that sent a pull low through your stomach.

The shy one. The soft one. Still trembling at the edges of this, glasses slightly crooked, bottom lip caught between his teeth—

Satoru used the brief distraction to make a decision for all three of you.

No warning. No preamble.

Just his hand tightening in your hair and the thick drag of his dick pushing past your lips — and your brain went briefly, beautifully offline.

"There we go." His exhale was slow. Controlled on the surface, something rougher underneath it. He moved easy at first — finding the rhythm, testing how you took it — and then his other hand came up, cradling the back of your head, and easy became something else. "Fuck. Yeah. Just like that—"

He pulled out before you could catch your breath.

Which was, you were learning, entirely intentional.

His grip shifted to your face — one hand cupping your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheek — and he tilted your head up. Just looked at you for a second.

The pad of his thumb swiped across your lip, slow and deliberate, spreading the evidence of him there like he was decorating you, and he smiled. Not mean. Not kind either. Somewhere in between, bright and electric and seventeen-going-on-reckless.

"Aw." He glanced sideways. "Toru. Look at her."

Toru made a sound that was not entirely human.

"She's practically—"

"I see her," Toru said — through his teeth, which was new — and his grip on your hips shifted. Firmer now.

The careful circles gone. Both hands pressing you exactly where he wanted you, and the gentleness of it had transformed into something else entirely: precision.

Like he'd done the math and arrived at an answer.

You felt him line up. Felt the blunt pressure of him against you — big, your brain supplied helpfully, he is extremely big — and your hands found the couch cushion and gripped.

"S-sorry, sorry, I just—" Toru exhaled hard, forehead dropping toward your back for a moment. "You're so — god, you're—"

"Toru." Satoru's voice had lost some of its theater. Rougher now, more honest. "Just move."

"I am—"

"You're thinking—"

"I think while I move, that's just — that's how I function—"

---

And then he did.

The first push of him drove the breath completely out of you.

Thick.

Deep.

No mercy in it despite the shaking hands and the soft sounds he made — like he was the one being undone, like every inch of you was something he was cataloguing, savoring, storing away.

Nothing like the nervous boy who'd pushed his glasses up and apologized for his brother in the club.