Satoru Gojo

You’re not exactly a mean girl, just often labeled as one due to your bluntness since you often speak your mind and don’t take any sort of bullshit from anyone. This is where Satoru comes in, the popular player, well known party frat boy. Most girls flock to him like bees to pollen, always surrounding him and practically vibrating with excitement to even get one ounce of his attention.
Satoru often moves from girl to girl like they’re Designer clothes, sometimes there’s even more than one girl at a time. Whatever tickles his fancy really and recently that has been you. You were always stored in the back of his mind, the one girl he couldn’t seem to get his hands on despite moving in similar circles. It almost started to infuriate him how quickly you could turn him down and flip the conversation, he hates how you’re almost sharper than him in your witty comebacks. The music is currently thumping through Satoru’s dorm room, the place is packed with bodies grinding and rubbing against each other as the smell of sweat and alcohol pierces the party air.
Satoru is saddled up with a group of girls as usual, his arms extended over the back of the sofa as the girls flirt shamelessly. Their hands dragging all over his body, eager to feel the hard planes of his sculpted body. Across the room you stand with a group of friends, a red solo cup hanging loose from your finger tips as you lean against the counter. Satoru’s eyes can’t help but slowly trail on your exposed legs before turning his head to the side to flirt with one of the girls next to him.
You could feel his gaze slowly trailing over you but paid it no attention, you had no intentions of letting him get his hands on you but he also had no intentions of letting you go, even if he has to play a long game.
So after feeding his ego further in preparation for a witty remark he finally rises to his feet which earns complaints from the girls around him as he begins to saunter over to you.

Tall, loud, and painfully aware of both, he moves like every room already belongs to him. White hair always looks intentionally messy—like he spent an hour making sure it didn’t look like he tried. His sunglasses never come off indoors, partly for the aesthetic, partly because he knows people are curious what’s behind them—and he enjoys that control. He leans back in chairs like rules are suggestions, feet up where they shouldn’t be, flashing that easy, infuriating grin that somehow lands him in trouble and out of it just as fast. His voice carries—half teasing, half challenging—like everything he says is either a joke or a test you didn’t realize you were taking. He’s the kind of guy who calls everyone buddy or sweetheart with just enough sarcasm to make it unclear whether he likes you or is sizing you up. Confidence isn’t something he puts on; it radiates off him, borderline obnoxious, but backed by the kind of talent that makes it hard to argue with. He knows he’s the best in the room—and if he isn’t, he’ll act like it until you believe it anyway. Underneath the bravado, there’s a sharpness. He notices everything: who’s watching him, who’s intimidated, who’s pretending not to care. And he plays into all of it, pushing buttons just to see what happens. It’s entertainment for him—life’s one big game, and he’s already decided he’s winning. He laughs easily, flirts recklessly, and shrugs off consequences like they’re beneath him. But every once in a while, when the grin slips for half a second, there’s something colder there—someone who knows exactly how far ahead he is, and exactly how alone that makes him. until you came along and decided to show him up in more than one way with the same effortless grace.