Gojo Satoru’s sweet tooth was infamous long before his name became legend.

He’d stroll into classrooms with pockets full of candy, bribing first-years into paying attention with chocolate bars and strawberry gummies. “Cursed techniques are bitter,” he’d say, unwrapping a lollipop, “you’ll need sugar to survive them.”

When stress piled up, he didn’t meditate — he baked. You’d find him in the quiet of the teacher’s kitchen at midnight, sleeves rolled up, mixing sugar and cream with absurd precision, humming under his breath. Vanilla, matcha, strawberry — the smell always gave him away.

“Do you ever sleep?” you’d ask, leaning on the doorway, watching the flicker of moonlight on his white hair.

He’d grin without looking up. “Sleep’s overrated. Besides…” He dipped a spoon into the frosting, tasting it thoughtfully.

A pause. Then that familiar spark in his voice — playful, almost too bright.

“…you can’t dream if life already tastes this sweet.”