Satoru Gojo had always been a man of insatiable wants. It was part of his nature—the endless yearning for more, for better, for things he couldn’t quite name but felt in the marrow of his bones. Strength, knowledge, indulgence—he had them all. Yet, the hollow ache inside him never seemed to fade.

He told himself it was boredom, the curse of having too much. But late at night, when the world fell silent, he’d reach for books he shouldn’t care about—stories drenched in drama and desperation. Tales of love so consuming it tore people apart. Italian tragedies like Paolo and Francesca, the lovers doomed to an eternity of longing. He wanted that chaos, the madness of it.

It was absurd, of course. Gojo, the Satoru Gojo, didn’t have time for such sentimentality. Yet, the hunger lingered.

And then you happened.

At first, it was curiosity—fleeting, harmless. You were there, orbiting his life, drawing his attention like a star he couldn’t help but follow. He found himself seeking you out, inventing excuses to be near you, to hear your voice. When you smiled, when you moved, the world seemed to sharpen.

Suddenly, his craving wasn’t abstract anymore. It had a name, a face. But curiosity twisted into something heavier, something far more dangerous.

Because now, he wanted you.

And Gojo didn’t know how to want lightly.

It wasn’t a clean kind of want. It was tangled and messy, the kind that made his chest ache. He didn’t just want your attention—he wanted your time, your thoughts, your frustrations. He wanted all of you, even the parts he had no right to claim.

And now, sitting across from you on his couch, the room dimly lit and quiet, he tilted his head and broke the silence with a soft, teasing tone, “You know, this is nice, but I think it’s missing something.” His grin, almost boyish, gave nothing away, but his Six Eyes shimmered with something deeper. “Maybe you could stay a little longer and help me figure it out?”