You exhaled sharply, almost fighting back tears. You’d think you could avoid simple arithmetic mistakes, but apparently doing tensor products comes easier than simple addition to you. Shoving your backpack on your chair, you stuff in your laptop and the test haphazardly, not caring that it’s going to get messed and crumpled up in your backpack after your folders and binders jostle around. Fuck that test.

You wouldn’t normally act as if the test had personally wronged you—trust, you were not going to get that heated were it any class. But because of this one class, one person, you knew it was coming. The inevitable.

"Better luck next time." The voice, drenched in smug satisfaction, slithered through the air behind you, his voice and demeanor like a slimy, slimy snake. 

Your jaw tightened, but you forced yourself to remain calm as you turned around. And there he was—Gojo Satoru, the bane of your existence, a plague upon your academic record, a walking, talking statistical anomaly who somehow managed to be both infuriatingly brilliant and aggressively insufferable.

He leaned against the desk beside yours, glasses sliding down just enough to reveal the glint of those ridiculously blue eyes. He crosses his arms while they’re covered in that ridiculous, ugly sweater he’s wearing—he’s probably going for the old money aesthetic, but he doesn’t need to know he gives off more “finance bro that helps billionaires evade taxes,” or whatever finance bros do.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” you sniff, pretending to act nonchalant while you grab your backpack, swinging it roughly on your shoulder like it was the weight of your grievances against him.

"The test." Gojo unfolded a crisp sheet of paper with the kind of theatrical flourish reserved for revealing royal decrees. A perfect 100, circled in bold red ink.

Your stomach twisted. This is what those two points meant. Two stupid, meaningless, soul-crushing, rage-inducing points.

"Guess that makes it… what, five to three this semester?" He tapped his chin, pretending to count, as if the score wasn’t already seared into your brain like an irreversible branding. "My lead, obviously. But hey, if you ever need tutoring, I could always squeeze you in."

You bite the inside of your cheek in frustration. “I wouldn’t want to impose on the time for any of your hobbies. After all, when will you get the time to watch anime? My 5000 Year Old Girlfriend is Stuck in a Twelve Year Old’s Body, was it?”

He presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt, as if your words had truly pierced him through his chest. “Tut, tut. After all this time, I’d think you’d have my anime preferences memorized since you’re so obsessed with me. It’s Digimon, not whatever pedophilic shit you think I jerk off too.” He pauses, and then his voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “But you know Fred, the grad student TA that holds recitation every Wednesday? I just know he’s probably a Discord mod of a server that sends, like, daily tentacle porn. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on the Megan's law registry either.”

Now, you have to hold back your smile because Gojo has a point. Fred is not just any TA. Fred is the grad student that mentors you on a research project; the program’s super selective, so when you realized you got him, you couldn’t just back out and give up the opportunity. However, Fred isn’t just a weird–-he’s sooo handsy with his greasy ass hands, so you accept any and all Fred slander. Because he’s your research advisor, you can’t wait to finish the project any faster. He probably would be into underage girls, but you don’t need to express your approval to Gojo, or worst of all, let him think he’s funny. God knows that would get into his head. “Yea, yea. Whatever. Anyways, I hope you have fun with your Pokemon—”

“Digimon.”

“—or whatever. I’m leaving. Some of us have things to do. Later, Gojo.”

You turned on your heel, lest Gojo hook you in with another taunt. 

Maybe you needed to blow off some steam, if you’re allowing yourself to lose to Gojo. 

Worst of all, it’s become a streak, like two times in a row—one on this quiz, and the other on the midterm a few weeks back. Your mind goes back to the last women in STEM recruiting event you had went to, and, how, in the middle of taking a bite of the delicious margherita pizza they offered, you registered that the woman in the panel had insisted that what helped her power through her PhD and dickwad supervisors was by exercising. Her fervor over pilates could almost qualify as a cult pitch, but it made you pause at the moment. Before you continued to further engorge yourself on the food offered on the charcuterie board. 

But maybe it was time to hone your focus in, and some sweaty endorphins might help you get just that. 

You’re not really surprised the demographic at your university’s gym looks like the way it does. After all, not only was it renowned for its academics (from all the nepo babies like Gojo whose families donated buildings and had like four generations of alumnus), but it was also a Division I school. So not only was the gym packed but it was packed with men.

As you walked in the hallway towards the room that contained weight machines, gym bag slung over your shoulder, you eyed the glistening backs of the (D1, mind you) men’s swim team through the glass that separated your path and the swimming pool. 

Wow, those Speedos really hugged their asses. You imagined Gojo in one, and almost snorted. Rich boy nerd Satoru definitely didn’t  learn how to swim; his family’s mansion probably had a twenty year old personal lifeguard that Gojo lost his virginity to, or something. Regardless, he would squint in his silly swim goggles, the exact antithesis of sex appeal while his glow-in-the-dark eyes lit up the pool while he stroked, cheeks puffed like a pufferfish.

Regardless, the smell of testosterone that hits you when you enter the weight area is almost nauseating, and, if you’re honest, a little intimidating. You’re not exactly the fittest of people, so you quickly speed walk past the grunting and sweaty men at the squat machines and barbells, avoiding eye contact and praying furiously that none of them perceive you.

 When you reach the dumbbell stands, you hunch over, taking random light weights. Then, you pretend you know what you’re doing while jumping every so slightly whenever anyone comes in six foot distance of you. It’s only when another girl comes in to grab a weight (and when she bends over, you definitely ogle her ass in a way that would get you slapped if you were a man) that your gaze removes itself from where it was focused on the 2.5 lb dumbbell you were previously bicep curling with. To see him.

The glint of ivory hair is unmistakable—you’ve basically gotten off to the fantasy of razoring it off in his sleep. His blue eyes are bored, pretty boy face framed in glasses. Now, he’s giving teenage boy turned to Andrew Tate after a breakup. Black sweatshirt and sweatpants that are too small, because they cling to his legs in a form-defining way. He’s walking over, hands in his pockets, to a barbell station. Slaps some guys on the shoulder as he goes through, gets a lot of daps. 

Which is weird to you, because you only the Gojo inside your physics class, not outside. He’s a fucking nerd—a loser that spends his time beefing with you, so why is he so popular when he gives you the time of day?

There are three dimensions to gaining alpha status, or whatever they call male popularity. You have to be 1) rich, 2) really physically fit, or 3) just really charismatic. Considering that Gojo—in all his clothing—-looks like a twink moreso than ripped gym bro, it’s definitely not dimension two. So you conclude that it’s because he’s rich and probably throws yacht parties so these ripped guys don’t push him into a locker, or something.

When he finally reaches his destination, you smirk to yourself. With that scrawny build underneath all those loose sweaters, you know he’s only going to be able to lift the bar, no plates. After all, he was warming up. insulting Gojo in countless of ways by taking jabs at his physique mentally, so you barely register that he’s grabbing for the hem of his sweatshirt, peeling it up—

To reveal his bare torso.

Your first thought: Wow, he has huge bazonkas.

That has easily got to be one of the most built physiques you’ve seen at your college so far. His pectorals basically pop out out of his torso as he moves to grab plates. First, he grabs a really big plate—you’re not a gym expert, so you wouldn’t know the weight—and stacks it. And stacks another. And another. And another, until you’re sure it’s definitely more than your bodyweight.

As you’re staring at him in awe, your 2.5 lb dumbbells hang limply by your sides, abandoning all pretense of training to openly gawk at the clench of his biceps, the sweat rolling down his temple, and the set of his jaw as he stares holes into the bar. And by the way there’s heat creeping up your cheeks you realize one thing:

You’re screwed.

“You know what?”

You keep your eyes on your notes firmly, refusing to look at Gojo sitting right next to you. You don’t know why he always chooses to sit next to you on recitation, really—it’s not like you’re receptive to his company. After all, he could be doing other things—like metaphorically sucking a TA’s dick by talking about their research, where Gojo probably knows more about the TA’s research than they do themselves. 

From your periphery, you notice Gojo pouting, then scooting his chair (dragging it, so it makes a god awful screeching noise against the floor tiles that has you cringing) until he’s so close that he slings an arm on the back of your chair and leans in closer and closer. You’re fighting to keep your eyes on your notes, face heating up traitorously until you feel his breath fan across your neck because he’s just so close.

“Rude, ignoring me. Look where that got you.” He then points to a problem on your paper, one you were currently working on. “You’re doing that wrong.”

You finally turn to glare at him, but he’s closer than you anticipated, his face just inches from yours. His grin is all sharp edges and knowing amusement, and it makes your stomach flip in a way you refuse to acknowledge.

“I’m not doing it wrong,” you argue, despite the creeping suspicion that, okay, maybe you did mess up somewhere.

“Oh, really?” Gojo drawls, tilting his head slightly. “Then why is your integral off by a factor of two?”

Your eyes snap back to your notes, scanning through the equations—and, dammit, he’s right.

You huff, begrudgingly erasing the mistake. “Whatever.”

“You know, you should really be thanking me,” Gojo muses, still leaning way too close for comfort. “If I weren’t here, who knows how many mistakes you’d make?”

“She’d have me,” comes a greasy voice, and you have to fight the tears in your eyes that arise when Fred (the aforementioned pedophilic TA and your research advisor) comes, his moldy cheese stench following him as he takes a seat from across you and Gojo. You grudgingly turn your face away from where it was so close to Gojo’s to look at him and sigh inwardly. At least Gojo’s face was prettier to look at.

“Hi, Fred,” you smile tightly, willing him to go away. “We’re good here, so you can help out other students—”

“How was your weekend?” He instead replies, and you wince. Stealing a quick glance at Gojo, it seems that his jaw and posture are uncharacteristically tense. 

“Lot of work for the class and for, uh, our research,” you respond, nodding and averting your gaze to your paper and feigning working on a problem so that he would get the hint.

Fred, unfortunately, does not get the hint. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes too focused on you. “You really ought to take breaks, you know. You can give me the code late. Someone as cute as you shouldn’t stress so much. You’ll get wrinkles.”

Your fingers tighten around your pencil, your skin crawling at the way his tone veers into something too familiar, too patronizing. You open your mouth to give a clipped response, but Gojo beats you to it.

“Oh? Didn’t know you were an expert on skincare, Fred,” Gojo drawls, his voice deceptively light. His arm, which was still resting on the back of your chair, shifts just slightly—not quite pulling you in, but making his presence more noticeable. “Though, if we’re giving out advice, maybe you should take your own. I mean, stress must be rough on you too, right? All those late nights grading papers, staring at screens. Takes a toll.”

Fred bristles, but Gojo just smiles lazily, pushing up his glasses as he tilts his head. “Actually, you know what? Maybe we should all focus on our own business. Like, say, teaching, instead of weirdly hovering over students. Crazy thought, huh?”

You swear you see the muscle in Fred’s jaw twitch, but he forces out an awkward chuckle, shifting uncomfortably. “Right, right. Just looking out for her.”

“Don’t worry,” Gojo interrupts smoothly, now fully leaning into your space, his arm draping a little lower behind your chair, “I think she’s got plenty of people looking out for her already.” His voice is soft, but there’s an undeniable edge beneath the words.

Fred lingers for a second too long, but finally, he mutters something about helping another student and stands, walking off with an air of forced nonchalance.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, slumping slightly in your seat. Gojo hums beside you, his fingers tapping idly against the back of your chair.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he teases, but there’s something in his tone that’s softer than usual. He then makes a show of stretching, raising his arms. His sweater rides up a bit, exposing his lower abs and peeks of white that has you averting your gaze, the heat creeping up at his proximity once again. Then, his arm back on your chair. Weirdly, you find that you don’t mind it.

You sigh, resigned. You’ll figure out these feelings later. “Yeah. Thanks, Gojo.”

But you don’t immediately go back to your work, because Gojo suddenly hunches down and whispers in your ear. “Yea, I definitely saw an underage anime girl sticker on his laptop.”

Your responding snort is so loud everyone turns to look at you and Gojo, who is now sporting a mischievous and satisfied smile.

It starts with a single drop, fat and cold where it splats against your wrist. You glance up from your phone just in time to see the sky split open.

“Shit,” you mutter, stuffing your phone into your bag. The library doors shut behind you with a heavy clang, sealing away the scent of old books and the quiet hum of studying students. Outside, the air is thick with the petrichor of freshly fallen rain, and within seconds, the pavement is slick, puddles forming in the uneven cracks of the sidewalk. The streetlights reflect off the wet ground, casting fragmented golden glows against the darkening sky. You’d been studying to grind for the upcoming assignments; after all, to rival Gojo is a no small feat. It’s just unfortunate it seems to take you thousand times more effort than it does for Gojo.

“Guess we’re stuck together, huh?”

You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

Satoru Gojo, standing beside you under the library’s narrow overhang, wearing that insufferable grin like he’s amused by the entire situation. Like the rain personally fell from the sky just to give him an opportunity to bother you.

“I’ll take my chances,” you say flatly, shifting your bag on your shoulder. But as you peer past the downpour, your stomach sinks. The rain is merciless, an unrelenting sheet of water stretching as far as you can see. There’s no way you’re making it back to your dorm without looking like you took a fully clothed shower.

Gojo hums, pulling something out of his bag. You blink when he flicks open a half-broken umbrella, the metal ribs slightly bent like it’s barely holding itself together. He gives it a little shake, sending droplets flying, before glancing at you with a smirk.

“Well?” He lifts a brow. “Wanna be smart about this?”

You do not want to be smart about this. You want to wait out the rain or make a break for it. But the storm shows no signs of letting up, and the thought of walking through it alone makes you hesitate.

Reluctantly, you sigh. “Fine. But I get most of the cover.”

“Hey, sharing is caring.” He tilts the umbrella slightly, just enough to make a point.

With great reluctance, you step closer. The moment you do, you regret it.

Gojo is warm. Even in the damp, chilled air, he radiates heat, standing so close that his sleeve brushes against yours. He smells good, too—like expensive laundry detergent with a faint undercurrent of something sweet, something distinctly him.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stare straight ahead as the two of you start walking. The rain pounds against the umbrella, droplets cascading off the edges, and with every step, you’re hyper-aware of the way Gojo moves beside you—loose-limbed, annoyingly graceful, a stark contrast to the crooked metal above your heads.

“Man, this thing’s on its last leg,” he muses, tilting the umbrella just slightly. Water dribbles off the side, landing directly onto your shoulder.

“Gojo!” you yelp, recoiling as the cold soaks through your shirt.

“Oops.” He does not sound remotely sorry.

You glare at him, but before you can snap back, he shrugs off his jacket and—without preamble—drapes it over you.

You freeze.

It’s warm, still carrying the heat of his body, and it smells so much like him—clean, sweet, dizzyingly familiar. Your brain short-circuits.

You force yourself to breathe, keeping your gaze firmly ahead. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice tight.

“I wanted to.”

Something in his tone makes your stomach flip. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, and—

Damn him. Damn him.

Water drips from his bangs, clinging to the sharp edges of his jawline, sliding down the curve of his throat. His shirt sticks to his skin, fabric clinging in a way that reveals the toned lines of his arms, the broad plane of his chest. He’s watching the rain, the usual teasing glint in his eyes softened into something contemplative.

You swear your eggs just recently got released, for you cannot help but avoid your ever going attraction to Satoru Gojo except the age-old excuse: ovulation. Your mind wanders to how his arms would feel around your head, to lay on his chest, how he’d be able to manhandle you, force you to take it—

But you’re snapped out of your inappropriate thoughts by what he says next.

“You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like this. Just us, no grades, no competing.”

You pause.

He says it so simply, so easily, like it’s nothing at all. But the words settle deep, curling somewhere warm inside you, and you don’t know what to do with them.

So you do what you do best: you shove them away, bury them beneath years of rivalry, of late-night study sessions fueled by caffeine and stubbornness, of sharp words and sharper glances.

You roll your eyes, forcing a scoff. “Don’t get used to it.”

But even as you say it, your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, holding it a little tighter.

It’s been a week since you saw Gojo. He had dropped you at your dorm in a surprisingly gentlemanly way, and you had insisted on returning the jacket only after washing it, to be courteous. What you didn’t mention was how you kept repeatedly smelling it in your dorm whenever you got a reprieve from your roommate’s eyes because Gojo smelled like expensive cologne and he did one thing most nerds / physics majors don’t do: shower. This fact, unfortunately, made you more attracted to him because the bar is truly in hell.

You’ve concluded that these…feelings can’t hurt you and that it isn’t real, like a beefy and shirtless Gojo-looking demon that’ll jump and surprise you from under your bed. So you move on your life, caught in the ever perpetual slog of studying and researching. 

Thus, you find yourself at the library once more.

The night hums low around you, quiet except for the occasional shuffle of paper and the distant hum of the library’s espresso machine (only librarians could use it, however. you fervently thought that was a form of elitism, but you digress). You’re at the corner table, the one by the window, where the dim light pools just enough to illuminate your notes but not enough to make you feel like you’re being studied under a microscope. You think you’re alone—until you aren’t.

You don’t have to look up to know it’s him.

Satoru Gojo is hard to miss, even when he’s not trying. He slides into the chair across from you with the kind of ease that makes it seem like he belongs there, like he was always going to end up sitting across from you tonight. His hair is tousled, white strands falling forward in a way that makes him look softer under the warm light. His glasses are perched low on his nose, a rare sight given that he usually has them pushed up like some kind of pretentious scholar.

The two of you don’t speak.

It’s surprising, really. Gojo never runs out of things to say, whether it’s an obnoxious quip or some unnecessarily insightful observation that makes you want to throw your textbook at his face. But tonight, he just pulls out his own notes, taps his pen against the edge of his lips, and starts reading.

You should focus on your own studying, but something about this—this silence, this late-night haze, this tiny moment carved out of time—makes your mind wander. You steal glances when you think he won’t notice. His brows furrow when he’s concentrating, his jaw tightens when he’s stuck on something, and when he exhales, it’s this slow, measured thing, like he’s trying not to get frustrated. He’s just—

He’s just really there.

You’ve spent years defining Gojo as your rival. Your competition. The person standing in your way at every academic milestone. And yet, somehow, somewhere, he’s slipped into something else, something harder to define. Because you’ve seen him like this before—when he’s so focused that he forgets the world around him, when he bites his lip in thought, when he gets so caught up in something that he mutters under his breath without realizing it. And for the first time, it dawns on you: you don’t actually hate it.

You don’t hate this comfortable silence. This moment of peace, a white flag waving lazily between you both.

The hours blur. The café starts to empty. Your notes turn into background noise. It’s late, and the warmth from inside lulls you into something dangerously close to comfort.

A soft sound breaks through the quiet.

You glance up and freeze.

Gojo’s head has tilted to the side, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. His hand is curled loosely around his pen, and his breathing has evened out. He’s asleep.

For a moment, you don’t move. You barely breathe.

Gojo, asleep, is not something you’ve seen before. He’s always in motion, always buzzing with energy, always running his mouth about something. But right now, he’s still. His long lashes cast faint shadows over his cheekbones, and the tension he always carries—the cocky bravado, the smirking sharpness—is nowhere to be found. He just looks… peaceful.

Cutie.

What?

The thought slips in so quickly, so effortlessly, that it nearly makes you jolt. But when you look at him again—head tilted just slightly, glasses slipping down his nose, breathing slow and even—you can’t deny that the word fits. He looks like a lazy cat napping in a sunbeam, limbs loose, utterly unguarded. It’s so unlike him that you find yourself staring, caught in the contrast.

Your fingers twitch. Before you can stop yourself, you reach forward, slow and hesitant, to push his glasses back up his nose. But you catch yourself just before you touch him, as if the warmth of his skin might burn. Your hand hovers in the air for a fraction of a second too long, and then—

You pull away.

Your heart is pounding. It’s fine. It’s nothing. You just need to get out of here.

You gather your things quietly, glancing back at him one last time before slipping out the door into the cool night air. The moment you step outside, you take a breath, deep and shaking. The world feels different now. You feel different now.

Because for the first time, it isn’t just that you find Gojo attractive.

It’s that you care.

And you don’t know what the hell to do about it.

The gym, once again, smells like sweat and overpriced protein powder.

You don’t know what’s possessed you to come here today. Maybe it’s because you keep telling yourself that you need to exercise more, or maybe it’s because you need to take a break from studying before your brain melts. But deep down, if you’re really being honest with yourself, you know the real reason.

Gojo is here.

You spotted him the first time by accident. You were on the treadmill, barely jogging at a pace that wouldn’t embarrass you, when you caught a flash of white hair across the gym floor. And there he was—dressed in a fitted black sleeveless top and joggers, casually loading plates onto a barbell.

And he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

It was a stupid, inconsequential detail, but it made all the difference. Without them, he didn’t look like the annoying academic rival who constantly got under your skin, flashing his smug grin as he beat you in exams by the smallest possible margins. He looked… sharp. Unfiltered. Effortlessly attractive in a way that made your stomach tighten in ways you didn’t like.

You’d seen him in his regular clothes before, of course. You knew he had broad shoulders and long legs, that his body wasn’t just a lanky frame hidden behind layers of sweaters. But here, in the gym, watching him roll his shoulders as he prepped for another set—it hit differently. He was lean but muscular, his arms flexing as he adjusted his grip on the bar, and for some godforsaken reason, you couldn’t look away.

You shouldn’t be watching him. You should be focusing on your own workout, pretending you don’t care. But the way his shirt clung to his back, the way his forearms tensed, the way he exhaled sharply as he lifted—

You’re so screwed.

You force yourself to look away, grabbing the smallest dumbbells available and curling them in what has to be the weakest excuse for a workout imaginable. You’re barely paying attention to what you’re doing, too busy sneaking glances at Gojo between sets. It’s pathetic, but at least no one else is watching you.

Or so you think.

Because then she appears.

A girl.

Tall, toned, and effortlessly gorgeous, with sleek hair pulled into a high ponytail. She strides over to Gojo with a confidence you could never dream of and smiles at him, saying something that makes him laugh. Her ass is definitely bigger than yours, and she’s in this coordinated, cute, pink set, looking like she walked straight out of a fitness TikTok. You can’t hear what they’re talking about over the sound of weights clanking and some obnoxious EDM song blasting through the speakers, but you can see it. The way she leans in, the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way Gojo—

—smiles at her. That easy, lazy grin he always wears when he’s teasing you, except this time, it isn’t for you.

Your grip tightens around the dumbbells, something ugly curling in your chest. It gets worse when she gestures toward the squat rack, and Gojo nods before moving behind her, hands hovering just slightly as she sets up for a squat. You watch as he spots her, one hand resting lightly on her lower back, close enough to correct her form but far enough to be polite. He’s focused, watching her movements carefully, murmuring something that makes her laugh before she drops into another rep.

Your stomach twists.

This is stupid. You have no reason to be feeling this way.

It’s then that it hits you—you can have your silly little academic rival moments with Gojo, but, in the end, you’re just a footnote in his story, a fleeting challenge in a life where everything already belongs to him. He quite literally has generational wealth; he’s not going to spend his life buried in grant applications or clawing for recognition in a field that demands twice the effort for half the reward. He’ll be the one funding the research, sitting at the head of the table, making decisions that shape the future. And you? You’ll be one of the many who struggle just to be in the same room.

He’s the guy who spends his vacations on yachts or private islands—not just surrounded by wealth, but by people who belong there. Girls who glide through life with the same effortless ease as him, girls who don’t second-guess if they deserve to be in the spaces they occupy. Girls who don’t have to fight for their place at the table because it was always set for them.

Girls that are his equal—equally attractive, equally smart, equally rich.

Not you.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to look away, but the image is burned into your mind. The easy way he talks to her. The way she tilts her head when she listens. The way he doesn’t even know you’re here.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care.

But you do.

You grip the dumbbells tighter, exhaling sharply. Then you put them back, pick up your water bottle, and walk out of the gym before you do something stupid.

The office is too small. Too suffocating. Too filled with the weight of unspoken words and the sharp-edged smile of Fred, the TA, as he leans back in his chair and laces his fingers together.

"You know," he begins, voice sickly sweet, "I really expected more from you."

You sit stiffly in the chair across from him, your hands curled into fists in your lap, nails digging crescents into your skin. Your heart pounds, but your face remains carefully neutral. You've been called into his office under the guise of "academic guidance," but you know better. You always know better.

"I don't know what you mean," you say, keeping your voice even.

Fred exhales dramatically, shaking his head. "Come on. You and I both know you're barely keeping up in this project of ours."

You grit your teeth. You're not barely keeping up. You're giving him your work at the highest level, at its best. But Fred—Fred has always had a way of twisting things, making you feel small, insignificant, like your achievements are nothing more than accidents.

“I think my progress speaks for itself,” you respond tightly. Mind you, while he was supposed to be your mentor, you’ve done 80% of the work.

But you think Gojo’s defense of you ran deep into Fred’s heart because by the way he’s sleazily smirking at you, you know he’s trying to get back at you.

He smirks. "Your progress? Sure, you’re smart. But you think that’s enough? You think anyone’s going to care about a girl like you when there are people out there who don’t have to struggle to be exceptional?" He leans forward, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. "You’re wasting your time. The best you can hope for is being someone’s assistant. Maybe a glorified research grunt if you’re lucky. Just like for me."

Your stomach twists. You shouldn’t care. You know you shouldn’t care. But the words burrow deep, hitting a place inside you that already doubts, that already wonders if you’re nothing more than a temporary obstacle in a world built for people like Gojo Satoru—people born brilliant, born wealthy, born effortless.

Fred’s eyes flick over you, assessing, smug. "You’re working yourself to the bone for what? You’ll never be at the top. Not really."

The bitterness of the situation really dawns on you—Gojo’s the one who took a jab at Fred last week, not you. But you’re the one who’s left to deal with its consequences. You’re not going to assign blame and lament that it’s not Gojo in this office dealing with him. It was in your defense, after all. 

But Fred’s words remind you. You’ll never be at the top. At Gojo’s level, who’s at the top without even seeming to put in effort.

You’ll never be his equal.

You stand abruptly, shoving your chair back so hard it scrapes against the floor. "If that’s all, I have work to do."

Fred chuckles, leaning back, clearly pleased with himself. "Sure, sure. Don’t say I never tried to give you advice."

You don’t respond. You just walk out, gripping your bag so tightly your knuckles turn white, the echo of his words following you down the hall, settling in your bones like lead.

The hallway is too bright. Too loud. Too full of people who don’t know that you’re on the verge of crumpling in on yourself like a dying star.

Your breath feels too shallow, too quick, and there’s a weight pressing down on your chest that no amount of rationalizing can shake off. It’s not even your meeting with Fred—just a slow accumulation of stress and exhaustion and frustration that’s settled deep in your bones. A grade lower than expected, an upcoming deadline you’re nowhere near prepared for, a general sense of drowning no matter how hard you try to keep up. It’s all too much, and your hands are starting to shake from how tightly you’re gripping the strap of your bag.

You just need to get out of here. You need air, space, something.

But, of course, the universe has a cruel sense of humor, because when you round the corner, you slam straight into Satoru Gojo.

“Whoa—”

Your balance is already precarious from the way you were rushing, and the impact sends you stumbling. For a split second, you think you might actually fall—your ankle twists awkwardly, the world tilts—and then there’s a strong hand gripping your wrist, another bracing against your back, steadying you before you can hit the ground.

You don’t process what happens immediately. Your mind is still stuck on too much, too fast, can’t breathe, and it takes you a second to realize that Gojo is holding you upright, his hands firm but careful, his expression hovering somewhere between amusement and concern.

“Jeez, what’s the rush?” he teases, but his voice lacks its usual careless lilt. He’s searching your face now, eyes narrowing behind his glasses, and that’s when you realize: you must look as bad as you feel.

Shit.

You jerk away from him, a little too fast, a little too sharp. “I’m fine.”

Gojo doesn’t look convinced. “You sure? Because it kinda seemed like you were about to pass out on the spot.”

“I said I’m fine.” You adjust your bag over your shoulder, shifting your weight onto your other foot, ignoring the faint throb in your ankle. “Go bother someone else.”

Most of the time, that’s enough to send him off with an exaggerated sigh and a smirk. But not today.

Today, Gojo just stands there, watching you like he’s trying to piece something together—like you’re a problem he wants to solve. He doesn’t press, not yet, but the silence stretches, and it’s unbearable, because you can feel the weight of his gaze, and you don’t want to be seen like this. Not by him.

So you give him a tight nod in dismissal, and walk away.

There’s a knock at your door. You frown because you didn’t expect any visitors, and you’re in your sleepwear. Regardless, you pad your way lazily and open the door.

To see Gojo.

What the fuck.

He’s drenched in the glow of the hallway light, looking entirely too at home despite standing on your threshold. His hair is still slightly damp from the rain, white strands falling over his forehead in careless disarray. He’s not wearing his glasses.

"Why are you here?" you demand, gripping the doorframe, willing your voice to stay steady.

He quirks an eyebrow, tilting his head just slightly. “You’re holding my jacket hostage.”

Oh. Right.

You make your way to your wardrobe, where the now-cleaned jacket hangs neatly on a hanger. Grabbing it, you hand it over to Gojo, who’s standing at your threshold while eyeing the insides of your dorm, as if trying to take in what your living space looks like. You shove it into his chest, stepping back like the heat of it burns. "Here."

Gojo takes it, but instead of leaving like a normal person, he lingers, running his fingers over the material like he’s checking for something. Then,, he lifts a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it in that way that only makes his biceps flex, his lean muscles shifting beneath his shirt. You hate that you notice.

A beat passes.

"You know," he muses, far too casually, "you seemed a little disheveled back there."

Your stomach twists. "It's not a big deal—"

"—Bullshit." His voice cuts through yours, sharp and immediate. He shifts, stepping just the tiniest bit closer, his tone losing its usual teasing lilt. “You’re lying. I saw what you looked like. What happened?”

“It's none of your business,” you say, stiffening. “Nor is it a big deal, really.”

Gojo exhales, something heavy in the sound. His eyes don’t leave yours, and for once, they aren’t filled with their usual mirth or mischief. Just something searching, something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t have the strength to deal with right now.

"You always do that," he says, softer now, but no less intense. “Act like no one’s supposed to care. Like you’re carrying the world alone.”

Your fingers curl into your palms. Your lips press together. You don’t want to hear this. You don’t want to acknowledge the way his words settle too close to the truth.

And then, quietly, Gojo asks, “Do you not consider me your equal?”

You swallow.

Your silence must be enough of an answer because something shifts in his expression. It isn’t anger exactly, but it’s something close—something bitter and disappointed and aching all at once.

"You’re the one who shuts me out, you know." His voice is sharp now, edged with frustration. "You act like I'm the one keeping you at a distance, but every time I try to get close, you push me away."

Your throat tightens. “Why do you even care?”

Gojo lets out a breath, his head tilting just slightly, eyes scanning your face like you’re something he’s trying to figure out. Then he laughs, quiet and humorless.

“You really don’t know?”

“I—” Your voice wavers. “What do you mean—”

“For a girl so smart, you sure do act stupid.” He steps forward then, closing the space between you just enough to make you want to back away, but your feet don’t move. His voice drops lower. "Do you think I talk to you because I give a fuck about physics?"

Your brain short-circuits. “What—”

He groans, dragging a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I give zero fucks about the class or any class, trust me. I have better things to do than to try to aim for 100s on every test."

Your heart is pounding now, too loud, too fast. “Then why—”

"God," he exhales, tipping his head back, like he's debating whether or not he should even say it. Then, after a beat, he looks at you again, and whatever is in his eyes makes your stomach flip, makes your breath hitch.

Something in your chest lurches, but before you can even process it, he huffs a laugh—like he’s just remembered something ridiculous.

"You didn’t even look my way the first week," he says, eyes flicking over your face, searching. "I could tell you only cared about anyone that could challenge you. Like, it wasn’t even until I did better than you on the second midterm that you even talked to me."

You open your mouth, then close it, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Because—yeah. He’s not wrong. You had ignored him, dismissed him as just another overconfident rich kid who thought he was smarter than he was. It wasn’t until he proved himself, until he became a real obstacle in your path, that you bothered to acknowledge him.

Gojo smiles, but it’s not cocky this time—it’s small, almost rueful. "And then you looked at me like I was finally real. Like I existed."

Your breath hitches.

He shrugs, eyes dropping for a brief second before snapping back up to yours. "So, yeah. Maybe I started trying harder. Maybe I cared about all those stupid tests because it meant I got to see that fire in your eyes, that I got to be the one you were pushing against." He rubs the back of his neck, his biceps flexing in a way that would usually annoy you, but right now, you’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

Gojo stares at you for a long moment, gaze unwavering, like he’s daring you to say something—anything.

Your chest feels too tight, your pulse erratic, and you don’t know what to do with the way Gojo is looking at you—like you’re something precious, something worth holding onto.

But he’s wrong. He has to be wrong.

“You can’t like me,” you whisper.

Gojo frowns, expression shifting. “What?”

Your throat clenches, and before you can stop it, heat pricks at your eyes, blurring your vision. “You can’t like me,” you say again, voice cracking. “I can’t even match you.”

Gojo's face slackens, his teasing demeanor completely gone.

"You do everything so effortlessly," you force out, your fists clenching at your sides. "It’s so infuriating." A shaky breath escapes you, and you shake your head, looking down. “So why would you even want this? You make me feel this way, and I—I hate you for it.”

For a second, there’s only silence.

Then, Gojo exhales softly.

“Is that what you think?” His voice is so gentle it makes something inside you ache.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Gojo shifts, stepping forward slowly, carefully, like you’re something fragile. And then—then he reaches out, his fingers ghosting along your wrist before curling around it, grounding you. “It’s not effortless,” he murmurs. “I try so hard. You just don’t see it because I don’t want you to.”

"You really don’t get it, do you?" His voice is quieter now, something dangerously close to vulnerable. His fingers twitch at his sides. "I care because it’s you."

You shake your head, still not understanding, still unable to believe it.

Gojo watches you for a moment, then exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You act like I just woke up one day and decided to like you.” He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no real amusement in it. “Do you know how long I’ve been stuck on you? How infuriating it was, realizing that no matter how much attention I got, the only person I wanted it from was too busy treating me like an obstacle?”

Your breath catches.

“I tried everything,” he continues, voice rougher now. “Teasing you, annoying you, beating you in tests, losing to you in tests. It didn’t matter what I did, because you—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “You only saw me when I gave you a reason to compete.”

Your fingers tremble slightly at your sides. You don’t know what to say, don’t even know what you can say.

And suddenly, everything—the teasing, the constant pestering, the way he always had to be around you—it all clicks into place.

Your heart hammers in your chest, and before you can second-guess it, before you can even think, you surge forward and kiss him.

It’s a mess of a kiss—too rushed, too desperate, all clashing teeth and uneven breaths—but Gojo groans softly against your lips, like he’s been waiting for this. His hands are on you immediately, one slipping around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he presses you flush against him.

You’re dizzy. Overwhelmed. But it’s good. It’s him, and you don’t want to stop.

When you finally pull away, breathless and unsteady, Gojo is grinning, his lips slightly swollen.

“Worth the wait,” he murmurs, eyes shining.

You avert your gaze, fully blushing now. “But I—” You take a look at him, then hide your face in your hands. “I’m a stalker.”

“Maybe I’m into that.”

“No,” you bemoan. “I’ve stalked you at the gym, and I—” Your voice drops into a shameful whisper. “You were good. Like, stupidly good. Like, making everyone stare at you good.”

His lips twitch. “You were staring too, huh?”

You glare at him, but he just grins, all teeth, clearly eating this up.

“I hated it,” you insist, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “I hated that you’re already smarter than me, that you already have all these advantages, and then—and then you also have that? Like, it’s just unfair. You’re unfair.”

Gojo is silent for a second, and you think you’ve screwed up, but then exhales a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “You are so cute.”

“Stop it!” you whine, but you don’t protest when he pulls you closer and locks your lips with his another time. You clutch the front of his shirt, drag your hands on his chest, his arms, everywhere. Then, you guide his to firmly clutch your ass, to which he freezes.

“We can stop here. We don’t have to do anymore than this, and—”

But you interrupt him, slamming your lips against his once more. Grabbing him by the shoulder you pull him into your room and slam the door behind you, pushing him against the door. “Fuck no.”

He laughs breathlessly, then continues to switch your position, now you against the door. “Thank god. Now, jump.”

You do, and you almost moan at how easily he grabs you in his arms, your legs straddling him. It’s like you weigh nothing to him as he carries you over to your bed and manhandles you into it, following not long after.

When he gets on top of you, he maintains eye contact as he pulls your shirt over your head, trailing kisses down to your neck, the valley of your breasts (but not before giving each of the girls their own tender kiss), and your stomach. With his eyes boring into you, he slowly, teasingly drags the pants you were wearing down your legs until you’re just in your panties.

You let out a noise, and he coos. “I know, I know, baby.” He gives you a gentle kiss on the top of your mound, and you clench, squirming from the contact. “Let me take my time, though.”

He gently, but firmly, lays a hand on your hip as he starts licking the crotch of your panties. It’s truly maddening—the sensation is there, but you oh so wish his skilled tongue was meeting your skin, bare and electric.

He’s taking his time laving, ravishing your taste, but you’ve had enough. “Gojo, please,” you sob, throwing your head back and grinding further into his tongue, which he welcomes. “Stop teasing.”

“Mmmm,” he pretends to think, all while focused and looking only at your crotch, now rubbing your clit in small, miniscule circles. “I can, but,” and now he’s just mocking you, with the way he adopts a babying tone, “I think you’re going to have to beg for it.”

You groan in frustration as a response, but he only clicks his tongue as his fingers reach and finally rid you of your panties. He spreads your folds with two fingers, his face oh so close to your bare pussy. But instead of finally giving you what you want,  he clicks his tongue, pouting as if you’re the one forcing him to be a bastard. “Yea, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to earn it.”

Before you can respond, he holds out his tongue and inches his face even closer to your bare folds until you can feel his warm breath over it. “You just have to say please.” Then, he ahhh-s, as if holding his tongue out to a doctor and says, “Look I’m so close—ahhh.”

You can only plead with him. “Please, Gojo.”

“No, it’s Satoru to you now, baby.”

“Satoru, please eat me out.”

He smiles. “Yeaa, that’s my girl.” And proceeds to eat you out in a way that has your toes curling.

He acts like a man eating his last meal on death row. It’s the masterful combination of laving over your folds, kissing your clit, and groaning and making noises that has you inching closer and closer to your orgasm. When you tell him, you’re close, he does exactly what he’s supposed to do—keep doing what he’s doing, same spot, same tempo, same pressure.

With a cry of his name, you come quickly, and he takes your writhing hips and their motion like a champ, easing you through it. When you feel the all-too-familiar feel of over sensitivity, you grab his hair and pull him towards your face, kissing him tenderly. 

He maneuvers his huge frame to lay down next to you, and you fall easily into a gentle embrace. It’s a comfortable silence, as he burrows his face into your chest and you stroke his hair gently.

Gentler than how you’ve ever treated him.

It’s this thought exactly that you voice to him. “You know,” you muse softly. “I was such a bitch to you.” This gets his attention, because he moves from where he was comfortable (your boobs) to look at you in alarm. “Like, I was always mean, and like acting all high and mighty—”

“Whatever you think you did, it was hot,” he interrupts you, grinning boyishly. “Like damn when you insult me I get all fired up—”

“Satoru!” You laugh, shocked, looking down at him. “You’re crazy.”

“Yea,” he winks. “Crazy for you.”

You smile softly at that, biting your lip. “I mean, I get that.” You feel his curious gaze rove over you and heat creeps up your neck as you confess, “Like I was stalking you at the gym. I saw you one time, and um. You definitely have a sleeper build.”

He hums. “I get that a lot.”

“Yea,” you blurt. “you’re really hot. Like you have really big arms, which I definitely didn’t notice in all those sweaters you wear. You could definitely throw me around.”

Silence.

When you look down at him, he’s looking at you mischievously. He sits up, takes off his shirt, and says, “Want to test that theory?”

The both of you test the theory, indeed—it’s a nice nod to your guys’ academic, theoretical physics roots. But instead of some theory involving dark matter or quantum physics debated while in class, this theory takes all night to prove.

general masterlist

a/n special thank you to @purplegemadventures ily pookie <3 we were discussing how a lot of fics so far have made seem nerd gojo really cute and shy but we tried to envision a shit eating sassy diva just like hidden inventory arc <3 like what that one anon said i need my gojo to be a little annoying cocky (but cute) bastard (or, i quote, "your gojo makes me want to oil his scalp and give him an aggressive head massage and mess his hair up"). ANYWAYS props to that one anon that dropped the "nerd gojo with sleeper build" and my beloved @tiramisuandlove i love you forever

The question comes as the dreaded meeting with the higher-ups looms, a gathering he's been dodging all day. It technically began ten minutes ago, and you barely managed to wrangle him into his formal kimono just twenty minutes earlier. You sigh, fingers brushing his hair. “Satoru, you know what they think of me. I'm not exactly their favorite person.” You’re both standing in the middle of your shared bedroom, you imploring him to be on time for his meeting to avoid getting even further shit from the higher-ups.

Mind you, you’re the more rational one between you and Satoru—in fact, most of the people who know you would agree that you’re a very mature, wise person in general (with the exception of some circumstances, of course). And despite the respect your skill commands, the higher-ups have never warmed to you, not since you refused to play a pawn in their games. Marrying Satoru, the one jujutsu sorcerer they could never control, only amplified their discontent. They see you both as threats—powerful sorcerers bonded in defiance.

At the mention of "higher-ups," Satoru's pout deepens, and his pleading voice grows more insistent. “Pleeeease,” he drags out, practically whining. “I have separation anxiety.”

You feel a pang of sympathy. These meetings are miserable for him—hours trapped in a room with men twice his age, trying to dictate his every move. “I don’t know, Satoru…” you murmur, hesitating.

But Satoru takes advantage of your softening resolve, hugging you tighter, his face pressing into you again. “Don’t make me go in there alone!” he says, his voice muffled. “You have no idea how much you silence them. One word from you, and they all think twice. I’m already one step away from wanting to kill them all.”

A sigh escapes you as you realize he’s not letting up. And while you’re reluctant, you know that your presence, your opinion—one of the few he truly values—might actually give him a sense of calm in that harsh room. “Alright, alright,” you concede finally, hand smoothing the fabric of his sleeve. "But no making a scene." 

His answering smirk is smug, giving you a fat, sloppy kiss on your cheek that you’re not afraid to show your partial-disgust about. You all but have to wrestle him off of you white he’s smothering you in kisses, getting out something about how much loves you, oh so thankful to have such a wise wifey like you as you get ready in a kimono similar to his and head to the limo waiting outside of the manor you and Gojo reside in. 

As soon as you get in, Gojo turns sharply to Ijichi, who’s shifting the gear. “Put the divider up.”

“O-Okay, Gojo-san.” A little intimidated by the commanding tone in your husband’s voice, he quickly presses the button to activate the screen, and Gojo pounces on you, grabbing you and hoisting you up by your sides to put you on his lap.

“Satoru!” you exclaim, surprised as he captures his lips with yours. His hands roam your body as he moans, almost obnoxiously, because he knows you’re always paranoid whenever he initiates anything in public. Your crotch aligns with his thigh, big and stuffed with muscle as he drives your hips to grind on him, and despite yourself and your circumstances, you find yourself leaning into his touch.

“My pretty wife,” he purrs, now trailing kisses down your jaw and into your neck. “So pretty, so supportive.”

Despite his dizzying movements, you try to get a hold of yourself. “Satoru, we shouldn’t be doing this here. We need to discuss what to sa—”

“Fuck that,” he sighs, so breathless that you want to cave in.

“No, but—”

His eyes darken, and his hands start creeping up your legs, going slowly and slowly closer to your pussy. “Baby, you know I value what you have to say,” and his fingers graze your folds, making you leak even more with his teasing, “but I wanna listen to something else.”

He drags his index finger up and down your slit, making you whimper. His fingers then prod into your hole, putting pressure there but not quite delving in. “Satoru,” you whine out, clutching his upper arms as he has his way while toying with you.

“Yea, that’s what I wanna hear,” he groans, giving you a kiss. It is then that he rewards you with inserting his digit in, curling to hit your spot as he fingers you. HIs other arm is around you, holding your panties’ crotch to the side to allow him to touch you. “My good girl.”

As he’s touching you, the squelching sounds fills the enclosure you’re in and you’re desperately praying to God Ijichi can’t hear the lewd things the both of you are doing in the back. You’re just reduced to whimpering, unable to reject Satoru’s dizzying touches, his free hand leaving your panties to grope at your inner thighs, ass, and breasts. It’s like he’s devouring you with his kisses, urgent, as he continues curling his fingers. 

Between kisses, you try to get out a “Satoru—mmph,” smooch, “we shouldn’t be—mm” smooch, “shouldn’t be doing this here!” 

“What,” he drawls, and with the glint in his eyes you know the fucker’s trying to toy with you, knows what he’s doing is mischievous. “I can’t touch my wife?”

Before you could utter a response, however, the limo suddenly slows, and the sensation of using the brakes to stop the car makes you sober up. “We’re here, Satoru we need to go—-” As you’re trying to rip yourself off his lap, he pulls out the finger that was inside you and uses his hand instead to entangle it with the crotch of your panties, pulling and pulling until the cloth is nothing but shreds, falling off your body.

Oh my god, you were not paid enough for this shit.

With his oh-so-irritating eyes—the same ones that you spent despising in your early school years—he looks at you through his pretty white lashes as he makes a show of sniffing the now tattered shreds that were your panties and putting them in his pocket. Under your kimono, you can feel your slick escaping your panties as the cool air wafts through it, landing on your pussy. You look at him in disbelief. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

He giggles, giving you a kiss on the cheek while helping you off his lap, putting a hand on your head to make sure you didn’t bump your head against the car’s ceiling. “Let’s go and deal with those hags, my love.”

To be honest, you don’t really understand why Satoru is so handsy today. He’s on some sort of man-ovulation, you think, as you stride into the room. Even ripping off your panties was a bit excessive, if not out of pocket (no pun intended). Breaking out of your thoughts, you grounded yourself in the present, noticing hostile eyes turned towards your husband, and then you. You match their barely-subtle glares with a stink eye of your own, holding your chin up as you walk past them dismissively. Just as you’re about to take a seat next to Gojo—being mindful of your kimono so you don’t flash any of these old bastards—one of them speaks up. 

“Gojo-sama, why is this woman here?”

You continue to take your seat, noticing Satoru’s jaw clenched. But right as he’s about to say something, you cut in for him. “This woman,” and you smile, deceptively sweet, “is the lady of the clan. It would do you well to remember the hierarchy of the Gojo clan.” You don’t need to turn to look at your husband to know he has a proud smile on his face, making no effort to hide his smugness. What shocks you instead is that he swings an arm around you, effectively dragging you closer to him until you’re basically sitting on his lap, and his hands go to roam your sides.

Now, some old grandpa starts talking, commencing the meeting, on their usual bullshit of the need for extermination of Sukuna’s vessel, but Satoru pays them no mind. Instead, what they receive in response is non-committal hums as his hands drag themselves up your stomach and down where your legs are crossed to the hem of your kimono, and then under. 

Any semblance of paying attention to the meeting and responding to their infuriating beliefs leaves your mind as you blank out, panicking that Satoru is trying to commit public indecency with you. As an argument erupts between the higher ups about something, you turn to Gojo to furiously whisper, “What is wrong with you today?! Cut it out.”

In your life, you’ve fought many curses, first grade and even special grade included as you climbed up the ranks of Jujutsu sorcery despite having a non-sorcerer upbringing. What you will never be able to defeat, however, is your husband’s charm. Satoru knows what he’s doing as he lets out a deep moan in your ear, making you squeak and become even more flustered, as he continues to make lewd noises, puffs of his breath fanning across your neck. 

a/n gojo the type to start moaning randomly to make you fold #sorrynotsorry 

The indecency of all of it—-Gojo basically whimpering in your ear sweet nothings like good girl, that’s my wife, gonna let me finger you in front of all these ugly hags, right?—-being loud in your ear but also just quiet enough that you’d only hear made you so wet, heat throbbing between your thighs as Satoru’s hands start rubbing your fold. It’s a teasing touch, one not enough to satisfy you but to stimulate you nonetheless. 

It’s just when his index finger starts slowly circling around your clit that you buck your hips slightly, making him look at you teasingly, peering down at you from above your shoulder. “Oh you liked that, didn’t you?”

“I hate you,” you puff out, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck as Satoru’s circles on your clit get more tangibly, simulating you oh so deliciously. To make sure you hold yourself up, you set your elbows down on the table, Satoru’s arms engulfing you as you’re forced to take whatever touches he’s giving you under the table. 

“She’s so loud,” he whispers, pointing out the noises your pussy was making as his digits roved over your folds. The squelches were tangibly there, audible to anyone who would strain their ears. You could tell your lack of response to the meeting was catching attention, because there were several eyes towards you, waiting for something; it was then you realized that they had posed a question but were simply too fucked out to respond. 

A voice comes out to reprimand your husband sharply. “Gojo-sama, this is hardly appropriate.”

Satoru chuckles, not stopping his ministrations as he picks up a cup filled with water, his smug gaze still turned towards you while observing and appreciating your every hiccup and reaction. “Can’t my spouse attend this meeting? I value her opinion above everyone else’s in this room, after all,” he drawls, lodging his chin in the curve of your neck. “Besides,” and he flashes a dangerous grin to the man who spoke out, “weren’t you the ones who were oh so worried about me not having an heir?” 

At this point, you’ve filtered out all noises, focusing and honing in on the sensation of your orgasm coming. His digits are playful, curling up to hit your g-spot repeatedly, his palm tickling your clit. Each time he hits your spongy spot a bout of electricity runs up your body, pulling you closer and closer to your orgasm. 

“But guess what,” and he gives you a kiss on the cheek, despite the aversion the rest of the higher ups have to any displays of affection, “we can solve that problem right here, right now.” He punctuates it with a harsh sink of his fingers into your plush cunt, and, with that, you finally cream his fingers, a result of Satoru teasing you all day now. You try to temper the shakes wracking your body by slamming your fist against the table, trying not to moan out.

It seems that no one’s seen you riding out your orgasm out so visible, because there are gasps around the room at how obscene Gojo’s suggestion was. “It is shameful of you to be saying such things, Gojo-sama!” one of them sputters out, red with anger and outrage. 

Your husband not so subtly rolls his eyes. “Then don’t bring it up all the time, old man.” Satoru knows how touchy and vulnerable you are right after you cum, so he’s running his hands softly up and down your thighs to quell your quivers affectionately. “Actually, what about this? You all haven’t witnessed us consummate our marriage, correct?” He smirks. “What about witnessing the heir-making next time?”

general masterlist

a/n pls see the vision like i want gojo to claim me and rail me into next tuesday while the higher ups just watch uncomfortably like maybe i am a freak like that. like gojo would be so obsessed with how he's claiming you in front of the fuckers that piss him off so much...might do a part two if pookiesa like this :P

His gaze rested somewhere over your shoulder, unfocused, as though whatever occupied his mind was infinitely more interesting than the story you'd been telling for the last ten minutes.

Silence settled, broken only by the quiet scrape of silverware against ceramic as you pretended to enjoy the food.

You weren’t going to make a scene. You weren’t. "...Are you even listening?"

"I am," he said, smiling to himself. He had been doing that often today.

Fucking liar.

You slowed down eating, remembering the hour you’d spent on your make-up, doing it and then taking it off and redoing it. Knowing your high-strung mood was able to ruin the night, you’d begun the night much more casual, but when you realized he wasn’t going to talk, you’d grown nervous and started talking like a blabbermouth. 

Maybe your story didn’t matter anyhow, especially to a man like him, but the fact he couldn’t even scramble up the tiniest bit of interest was killing you here.

If you ranked on his priorities, it must not be very high.

You gave a small laugh, trying to brush it off, still sounding very hurt even to your ears. “You don’t even know what I said.”

A pause.

He blinked innocently, and held steady eye-contact, as if compensating for the rest of dinner where he’d stared everywhere except at you. You even wore a push-up bra tonight and a plunging neckline to avoid having this happen again, but it seemed the days where you could look nice and have his full undivided attention on you were done. 

Now he came home, showered, threw on some fucking graphic tee-shirt- it bothered you greatly- while you were looking overdressed. “You were talking about someone misunderstanding you. Someone from your watercolor class.””

You stared at him.

Watercolor class.

You weren’t deaf. You’d heard the slight derision he’d unintentionally added when saying those words. How lowly you were. Boring him with a story about being slighted at a watercolor class. He didn’t care, he didn’t care, he didn’t care.

You picked up your fork, before immediately placing it back down next to your plate, and realized how this scene looked, how civilian, how boring. He had to be restless out of his fucking mind, sitting here with you. The fact he’d even deigned to show up, to grace you with his time, and here you were, starting a domestic dispute with ravioli in front of you. 

You couldn’t help yourself. “You just guessed.”

He had the gall to sigh. “I didn’t.”

“You did.” 

"I didn't guess." Chrollo’s voice was patient. Similar to the way someone speaks to a child throwing a tantrum over nothing. He’d been doing that often lately, and it only made a shiver run down your spine. "You mentioned it three times this week. The instructor who kept correcting your brushwork in front of everyone."

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Had you? You couldn't remember. The online watercolor class was something you'd taken up back then to fill the hours when he was gone, which was often, which was most of the time, and when Chrollo came back smelling like places you'd never see and people you'd never meet, you talked. Filled the silence. Apparently about your brushwork and the people who couldn’t appreciate it.

"You think it's stupid," you said flatly.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." You said, feeling the edges of your mouth pulled down. “It’s not hard to figure out. Your face practically screams it.”

Chrollo set down his wine glass with a soft clink. The candlelight caught the cross on his forehead, made it look almost holy, which was laughable, which was insane, but here you were, upset that your boyfriend (was he your boyfriend? He'd never used the word) wasn't paying enough attention to your cleavage at dinner.

"You're being difficult," 

"I'm not trying to be.” You said, looking in a different direction just so he wouldn’t notice the twitching of your lips. If you cried, this night truly couldn’t be saved anymore. He wouldn’t touch you when you cried, and it wasn’t like he fucked you as often as he used to. “I’m just a bit upset.”

"Is there any need to be?"

God, you hated when he did that. 

Made you feel like you were the one being unreasonable when he was the one who'd disappeared for two weeks without so much as a text. Last time he hadn’t even woken you up to say goodbye.

"Forget it." You reached for your wine and took a longer sip than was probably advisable. "Tell me about your trip."

He mirrored taking the wine glass, but took a much more modest sip. "You wouldn't find it interesting."

"Try me."

"No."

Just like that. No. Like the conversation was a door he could simply close, and you didn't have the key, had never had the key, would never be given the key because you weren't good enough, weren’t smart enough, weren’t in-group enough, weren’t-

You weren't enough. 

That was the thing, wasn't it? You saw it in the way he looked at you sometimes, when he thought you weren't paying attention. Like he was constantly calculating your value and finding the sum wanting. You tried to meet his standards every day, but like your adoptive mother back in Meteor City had repeated to you daily ‘the stench of a gutter rat would always follow you’. 

Chrollo had managed to prove otherwise for himself, but he was an exception.

You weren’t.

Just a gutter rat wearing perfume. 

"You know what?" Your laugh came out brittle, sharp-edged. "Fine. No problem."

You turned away, fingers trembling as you fixed your hair. 

"I have someone anyway," you said, the words arriving fully formed, if a bit higher than your normal pitch. "Someone who actually wants to listen to me."

When he didn't respond you added more bullshit.

"He's in love with me, fully. I didn't think you'd mind, since you're gona most of the time anyway." You weren't sure if you were going too far, but your mouth kept spouting out words. "We've... had sex. Here."

That got his attention. For a second you wondered if he’d get mad, furious, even. He’d demand to know who, and you’d hold onto the lie for as long as it took for him to realize how much he treasured you. Or even if he’d just touch you and say kind things to you out of jealousy and greed, that was fine too. Just anything.

You heard the shift in his breathing.

And then he laughed out loud, a full-on enthusiastic noise you'd not heard come from Chrollo ever before.

"Who would your lover even be?" Chrollo said after a while, leaning forward, placing his elbows on the table. “Can’t believe it. A sordid affair in my own house.”

You didn't turn around. Couldn't. "Does it matter? The point is, I don't need your approval. Not anymore."

It was theatrical, ridiculous. As if it was even possible for you to ever love someone other than Chrollo, but as it seemed Chrollo had forgotten about how important he was to you, or at least about how important you were supposed to be to him, you didn’t care. Sometimes you had to be the gutter rat wearing perfume and own it, rather than apologize for the scent underneath.

Chrollo suddenly stood up and walked over.

"You know," he said, pulling out his necklace from underneath his shirt, "for someone claiming she doesn't need my approval, you spend a remarkable amount of time arguing with me."

You glared at him as he lowered himself beside your chair. 

Had you been moving too much during the conversation?  Vaguely you remembered that he wouldn’t have accepted that at all at the start. He preferred you motionless back then, just in his lap and holding onto him. At least back then he demanded your attention, and you could hardly understand where all that desire had gone.

And then he grabbed the key attached to the necklace and… unlocked the cuffs keeping your legs bound to the chair.

Wait…

“What?” You said as he moved on to your other foot, pulling loose the cuffs, the skin underneath raw and scarred in a way they’d been for years. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

You could hardly believe what he was doing.

“Why.. why would you..”

"I’ve decided that I approve."

The words were so simple that for a second you wondered if you'd heard him correctly.

"What?"

When you didn’t remove your ankles from the cuffs even though he’d unlocked them, he took them both off personally and stood up, placing the iron cuffs on their respective place in the corner of the room. It’d been… what? Six years since you’d ever been as loosely contained as you were now.

Chrollo smiled gently and pet your head for a few moments. "I said I approve."

"You approve," you repeated, staring at him.

"Completely."

His hand slid from your hair to your cheek, cradling your face with a tenderness that didn’t match the humor you could see swirling around in his eyes. Grey eyes crinkled as he stared at you, though you’d never been good at accurately reading exactly what was going on inside him.

For one reckless second, you wanted to close the distance between you. Kiss him. Apologize for whatever invisible line you'd crossed. Fix whatever had gone so catastrophically wrong that he’d release your chains like it was nothing.

“Of… what?”

"Of this affair you've somehow managed to begin," he continued, his tone taking on an almost exaggerated nonchalance. "I must admit, I didn't think you had it in you."

His gaze drifted lower.

"And since you don’t need me anymore, these..." He tilted his head ever so slightly. "Those cuffs are no longer necessary, don't you think?"

It wasn’t difficult to know what you looked like right now. Restless, scared, and utterly lost. Was he cutting you loose?!  

“You're confused.” His thumb brushed lightly over your cheek before he withdrew his hand entirely, as if even that small touch had become unnecessary. “I understand.”

“No.” You stood too quickly, your legs buckling. Your hands caught the edge of the chair before you could fall.

He didn't reach for you.

That, more than anything, made your pulse race.

He simply watched you stumble with an amused glint in his eyes.“Careful.”

You stared at him, waiting for the inevitable. For him to sigh, to pull you back into his lap, to remind you how fragile you were, how it was all just a joke, how he’d cut off your legs if you ever truly cheated on him. Instead he merely walked back to his seat and raised his glass of wine to his lips.When you just looked at him, utterly lost, he chuckled.

“You're free to walk around, you know.” He said. 

You narrowed your eyes. "...You're not going to stop me?"

“Why would I?”

His answer landed with horrifying ease.

“You've been unsatisfied, haven’t you? I wouldn’t want to keep you against your will, now, wouldn’t I..”

"I—"

"So stand."

You did.

Your knees trembled violently.

Without consciously deciding to, your gaze drifted across the apartment until it settled on the front door. 

You hadn't been outside in months –not once—and somewhere along the way you'd stopped thinking about the door altogether. It had become just another piece of furniture, another fixture of the apartment that existed without meaning anything. Now, all at once, it seemed impossibly real. It was only a few meters away, an ordinary wooden door with a polished brass handle, close enough that you could cross the distance in seconds if you wanted to.

If you wanted to.

Your eyes lingered there a heartbeat too long.

Chrollo caught the movement immediately.

"You may leave if you wish."

"..."

"I won't stop you."

Your heart hammered so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

"What game is this?" you whispered. “Are you trying to be funny?”

"There isn't one."

"You've never..." You laughed once, short and breathless. "You've never let me walk anywhere alone."

"And now I am."

"You chained me to a chair."

"I did."

"You told me I'd never survive without you." You cried out. “That I’d be dead before daybreak if I ever left.”

Chrollo shrugged. "I believed that at the time."

"At the time?" you echoed, and you hated how disappointed you sounded.

His expression remained infuriatingly mild.

"People change."

"No," you said immediately.”No!”

"No?"

"You don't."

For the first time, something almost amused crossed his face.

He moved past you toward the bookshelf, selecting a volume with the same casual interest someone might have in deciding what to read before bed.

"If you've grown tired of living here," he said without looking at you, "you're welcome to find somewhere else."

Your stomach twisted, but your disappointment melted into rage when you saw him sit down and open his book. He was so full of shit. SO. FULL. OF. SHIT.

"Well, fine.” You said, seethingly, “I’m done with this.”

You took one step toward the door.

For the first time in years, the door was unlocked and you could walk right out. Right into the real world. It’d be a little breezy, being late into July, and you weren’t exactly dressed for that, so with quivering legs you walked towards your bedroom, got a jacket, and without even looking at Chrollo another time, you left the apartment.

It’d been close to six months since you’d gone outside, and it was years since you’d gone outside unattended. 

There’d been no need to. Your life was good here. There were rules, there was structure, love, central heating, food, and no need to fight.

Considering you’d expected to die long before you’d reach your twenties, every day had been a gift with Chrollo. Every morning, waking up in a warm bed, next to the love of your life, felt like you’d been reborn and given a chance few residents from Meteor City were ever given.

The Chrollo of today was sanctified, in your mind, yet realer than ever, considering you’d lived with him for years and had been allowed to see his more human side more often. Back then, when you were young and starving for anything real, he’d been larger than life. He always stood far away, giving speeches and standing at the forefront of every event that was worth anything in Meteor City. When the Troupe left, and became a point of pride for Meteorites, they were as good as celebrities.

And then he came back. And you met him. Talked to him. He remembered you. Remembered the colour your headband had been, the one you’d worn for years while watching the troupe perform their original plays.Admiration had turned into love, and you remembered the first time you’d made love to him with perfect clarity.

He sought you out whenever he visited.

A lot had happened since then, a turning point was when you’d come back to your small room back in Meteor City and noticed it was completely empty, with Chrollo sitting on your cot, explaining that he was moving you, saying it was something he ‘felt like doing’. 

Considering you’d been close to leaving Meteor City yourself, to try your luck in the outside world and probably die in some gutter after having your organs stolen (the outskirts of Meteor City were always looking for stragglers no one would miss) this wasn’t something that troubled you greatly.

It started to rain, and you pulled up the hood of your jacket.

The rain came down in that miserable, persistent way that never seemed to commit to becoming a storm yet somehow still managed to soak through fabric, collecting on your eyelashes and dripping from the edge of your hood as you wandered without direction.

Your shoes were splashing through shallow puddles that reflected distorted neon signs and apartment windows lit by people who had no idea how extraordinary your afternoon had become, how the entirety of your entire life had shifted because one man had decided that after years of insisting the world would devour you the moment you stepped outside, he suddenly couldn't be bothered to stop you from opening the front door.

Every few steps you glanced over your shoulder, not because you were afraid of the strangers moving around you with umbrellas and shopping bags and phones pressed to their ears, but because surely, surely, eventually you would catch sight of the familiar silhouette that had followed you everywhere your life had ever allowed you to go, the black coat, the measured pace, the neutral expression that would eventually harden into irritation before he took your wrist and informed you that you'd made enough of a scene. 

Every glance was met with disappointment. 

The first ten minutes were infuriating. The next ten became insulting.

By the time you reached a busier district where storefronts crowded against one another and people flowed continuously across crosswalks despite the weather, the anger had settled into something uglier than rage because rage at least implied there was someone standing opposite you to receive it, someone listening, someone reacting, whereas this felt like screaming into a pillow for no one’s entertainment.

You slowed near a crowded intersection and deliberately remained there while the pedestrian light changed twice, refusing to move with the current of people.

Chrollo had hated crowds. Hated strangers touching you. Hated not knowing exactly where your hands were, where your eyes were looking, who had looked at you in return. He would've been beside you already, fingers wrapping around your arm with deceptive gentleness, steering you away while calmly explaining that if you insisted on behaving carelessly he would simply have to make decisions on your behalf.

You needed him to do that!

How dare he make you dependent on him, and then just… lose interest?!

Nothing happened, though you did receive an annoyed shove from a man that was sick of you standing still in the middle of the crowd.

You laughed under your breath, but it came out brittle, almost hysterical, because perhaps he was watching after all, perhaps he was hidden somewhere above the street or across it, comfortably invisible, waiting to see what you would do now that he'd granted you this ridiculous little experiment in independence, and if that were true then you refused to give him the satisfaction of behaving exactly as expected.

And if that were true, then you refused to give him the satisfaction of behaving exactly as expected.

So you did the opposite.

You crossed streets without checking as carefully as you should have, lingered outside bars where loud conversations spilled into the rain, wandered through narrow alleyways that instinct alone insisted were terrible ideas, and every time your pulse lurched with anticipation because surely this would be enough. This would be the moment he'd step out from the shadows with that soft, disappointed sigh that somehow always sounded more frightening than anger.

The longer he didn't show up, the bolder you became.

You started talking.

At first it was harmless. Small conversations with strangers waiting at crosswalks or sitting beside you on a bench, comments that drifted naturally into stories before either of you quite realized it. You spoke about the Phantom Troupe, watching their expressions shift as you calmly insisted they were real and casually revealed some names, some info, some confidential stuff you’d picked up over the years. 

Sometimes the strangers humored you. Sometimes they looked concerned. Most simply excused themselves at the first opportunity.

You told them anyway.

You described their members, their abilities, the crimes everyone knew they'd committed and the ones no one else possibly could have known about, your voice growing steadier every time you repeated the story.

No one believed you. At least not to your face.

Which somehow made it even easier.

In a department store, while pretending to browse kitchen appliances, you noticed an unattended whiteboard set up to advertise some sale. Someone had left a handful of dry-erase markers beside it.

You hesitated for all of three seconds.

Then, with a grin that felt almost delirious, you uncapped one of the markers and began writing.

THE PHANTOM TROUPE IS CLOSE

Beneath it, you listed every member you could remember, adding the spider logo, fragments of information that made perfect sense to you and would look completely unhinged to anyone else who happened to walk by. You even scribbled a warning beneath it all.

IF YOU SEE THEM, RUN.

When you stepped back to admire your work, a woman pushing a shopping cart slowed beside the display, reading the board with growing confusion before glancing suspiciously in your direction.

You smiled at her and walked away.

Your heart hammered so hard it hurt.

By the time you stepped back onto the open street, the rain had dwindled to a light drizzle, and you carried yourself with the strange certainty of someone who had already died.

There was no version of this where Chrollo simply let it go.

He had never tolerated betrayal, unless it served him, and he despised half-assed plans like these. You had spent the afternoon telling strangers about the Phantom Troupe, writing their names where anyone could see them, scattering pieces of their existence into the world with reckless abandon. If he hadn't been watching before, surely he would be now.

Sooner or later, he would find you.

And when he did, there were only two possibilities.

Either he still loved you enough to drag you back home, lock the door behind you, and keep you alive at his side...

Or he'd kill you where you stood.

Oddly enough, you found yourself hoping for one of those outcomes.

Because the only thing you couldn't bear—the only thing that made your chest tighten until you could hardly breathe—was the possibility that none of it had mattered. That he had truly grown indifferent. That you could scream his secrets into crowded streets, carve the Phantom Troupe's name onto every wall in the city, and he still wouldn't think you worth coming after.

Death was terrifying.

But indifference was unbearable. You would not accept becoming forgettable.

The night had grown… cold.

You’d been sitting on a park bench close to your home for a few hours now. 

Waiting.

The realization began creeping in with nauseating slowness that he might actually have meant every word he'd said, because he simply...didn't care enough anymore to interfere, and somehow that possibility hurt infinitely more than the years of chains and locked doors ever had 

Because captivity at least required some sort of attention whereas indifference required absolutely nothing at all.

If he cared even a little , he'd have to come closer now. He'd just have to go outside. He'd have to find you. You weren’t even far. He could probably find you within a few minutes. It wasn’t hard.

You waited.

Nothing.

NOTHING.

The absurdity of it ignited another flash of fury so hot that your vision blurred, and before you could stop yourself you began entertaining another set of increasingly childish, increasingly desperate ideas solely because they all shared one purpose: making him react. 

You could walk into the nearest police station and tell them your ‘boyfriend’ had kept you imprisoned for years. You could flirt openly with some stranger, kiss the first attractive person who smiled at you, sit in their lap if necessary, just to see if he’d hear and care about it. You could disappear entirely, board the first train leaving the city without checking the destination, and wait to see whether he'd appear in the carriage before the doors closed.

Every fantasy ended exactly the same way.

With him not coming.

With him remaining exactly where you'd left him, comfortably seated with his book, turning another page while the apartment gradually cooled around him and the side of the bed where you slept remained empty for the first night in years.

You stood up from the park bench.

"...Come on," you muttered beneath your breath, staring at the wet pavement as tears fell down your face. "Come get me."

You lasted another hour before you decided to walk up to your own doom.

The freedom that had felt so impossibly vast when you first stepped through the apartment door had quietly collapsed into an exhausting absence of direction, every street asking you to decide where to go next when for years those decisions had simply... never been yours, and somewhere beneath the anger you found yourself wondering whether Chrollo had known that would happen, whether this entire miserable afternoon had been another one of his carefully arranged lessons whose purpose you wouldn't understand until long after it was over.

Having returned home, you stared up at the familiar windows for several long moments.

The front door opened exactly as it always had, and the dinner table welcomed you, the food still plated and cold. The candles were still burning, so you walked towards them and blew them out.

The apartment was silent.

The bedroom door stood open.

Chrollo was already in bed.

One lamp burned softly on the nightstand, casting warm amber light across the room, and Chrollo looked up only briefly as you appeared in the doorway. He was sitting upright, a book in his hands, his black hair loosely framing his face. You’d feel better knowing he’d not just gone to sleep during your entire ordeal, but you could tell by how far he was in the book that he’d truly just sat down here and read.

"Welcome back," he said, with no real emotion behind it.

You pushed some wet hair back and walked towards your closet, grabbing some dry clothes. Better to act like nothing was wrong and postpone your own death. You'd rather be throttled in your sleep. "I came back."

The silence stretched.

You hated it, and silently took off your wet clothing, the cold having seeped through to your bones. It didn’t matter. After you’d taken your pants off, you swallowed down some feelings as you placed the garment on the floor, not caring to walk towards the hamper. You were exhausted, cold, but still felt more awake than ever.  Another deep breath, and you broke the silence. "You really weren't going to come after me."

His voice drifted through the darkness, and you could hear the cold amusement layered underneath his voice."You came home, didn’t you?"

You didn’t have to think about your response. "I wanted you to."

The words escaped before you had the chance to reconsider them.

You hated how small they sounded.

"I know," he said quietly. “But I can tell you had fun, didn’t you?”

Your chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt. God, he had to know what you’d done. And if he didn't yet, he would know soon enough.

Something inside your chest twisted painfully.

You fidgeted with the dry shirt you’d grabbed, putting it on so you could avoid looking at him. “I’m not cheating on you.” 

He huffed out a laugh at your attempt to change the subject, closing his book and placing it on the nightstand. “I know.”

Taking a deep breath, you suddenly decided that this was another hell in itself. You’d returned, he probably knew about your misdeeds, there’d be punishment (or not, you still couldn’t figure out how he felt), but this half-and-half treatment walking on eggshells was horrifying. 

You crossed the room before you could think better of it, climbing onto the mattress with movements that felt strangely unfamiliar after spending the entire day convincing yourself you wouldn't return, and for a moment you simply looked at him.

As you climbed on top of him, feeling yourself wear a determined expression, he merely met your gaze with impassive gray eyes.

At least he didn’t push you away.

You leaned forward first.

The kiss was tentative at first, more a question on whether or not he was okay with this, your lips barely brushing his as though expecting him to turn away at the last second simply to prove that he could, but he didn't.

His hand rose slowly to cradle the side of your face, familiar enough to make your throat tighten, and he returned the kiss without any passion from his side, leaving you with the unsettling feeling that he was allowing you to choose every inch of the distance between you.

You kissed him again before the first one had truly ended, harder this time, closing the space between you until your bodies were nearly pressed together. Your fingers slid into his hair almost desperately, curling through the dark strands as you tugged him closer—not enough to hurt, only enough to erase the last few inches separating you, enough that you could convince yourself he was real, that he was here, that he was still yours. 

When you finally drew back, neither of you spoke.

His thumb brushed once across your cheek before his hand fell away again.

You let yourself fall down beside him almost automatically, facing him, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing in the darkness while the events of the day refused to settle into anything that resembled understanding. 

The room was warm, you were holding onto him, he wasn't leaving you or killing you, yet.

It’d have to be enough, for now.

The man’s presence wasn’t the not-nice part. (It was often nice when people admired the same things you did, because it meant they might ask you about them. And as many years as you had under your belt visiting these same paintings, these same steps, you knew quite a lot.)

The not-nice part was that there was a man standing in front of your favorite painting, and he was staring at (horror!) the wrong thing. 

As you trace your familiar steps, coming agonizingly closer, you can see that he’s not looking at the painting but the frame. The frame! Of all things! He’s got his head tilted just-so, looking at it this way and that. Like he’s admiring it. He stops only when your footsteps get close enough to make it clear that you’re about to stop at the same spot.

“The frame isn’t period authentic,” you say, perhaps a bit too loudly, “There’s no point in looking at it.”

The man hums. You half-wonder if he’ll snap at you, people sometimes do.. But instead he looks back at the painting, as if he’s trying to see what you mean. “What makes you say it isn’t period authentic?” 

His voice is low, a murmur. Out of respect for the museum, maybe, or he’s just embarrassed at being called out. You don’t bother trying to figure it out, because the question he asked is more than enough to have you ready to spill out the words.

“Well,” you begin, swallowing because you can already tell it’s going to take a while. “For one, it’s gilded with aluminum.” When he doesn’t respond, you smile, unbidden. “And of course, aluminum isn’t suitable for water gilding.” Your finger points to the frame (an unwelcome frame, in your opinion–but again, it was the painting, not the frame, that one ought to look at) and wiggles. “The era this painting was made, water gilding was the most popular. They certainly wouldn’t have used an inferior material like aluminum to do water gilding.”

“I see,” he says, after a moment. “Is that all?”

It is, naturally enough, not all.

“No!” You say, maybe too loud, because he raises an eyebrow. But you press on. “If it was just the frame material, that would be one thing. Not everything was water gilded, of course, it was just the most popular. But the real tell…” 

And you might be reading him wrong (you do that a lot) but he does lean in, doesn’t he? Because he’s interested in what you have to say. You think. It would be welcome, anyway.

“The real tell,” you continue, pointing here and there on the frame. “Are the fasteners. Especially around the joints..” You press on before he thanks you, because he shouldn’t thank you before you give him the really important detail here. 

“When the painting was made, they didn’t have keyed stretchers yet.” You point here, and there. “These made it easier to expand the frame, or make it smaller, simply by sliding the keys and tightening the screw. Before,” and there’s a laugh in your voice, “it was a pain when you wanted to take a painting out and swap it for something else. But with these newer ones, it was much simpler!”

There is a beat or two, and you wonder if he’s going to scoff and give you that smirky little smile people give when you’ve shared too much information that they apparently didn’t want. (Even if it was fascinating information, nonetheless.) 

But he doesn’t. Curiously, and it’s a pleasant sort of curiosity, his smile isn’t smirky at all–it’s pleased. Happy, even, if your guess was as good as gold. 

“Thank you,” he says, eyeing the frame–still the wrong part, you think–again. “I wasn’t aware that frames held such nuance.” He glances at you. “I appreciate your insight.”

Insight. Huh. No one has ever called it that before. Word-vomit, yes. Over-explaining, definitely. “Stuff no one cares about,” that one was pretty common. But insight–that was new. And it was, like his smile, perfectly pleasant. It made you feel almost fluttery. 

“Most people don’t appreciate it,” you admit, too honest. “But the frame isn’t the important part of the painting, anyway…” 

The next time he looks towards the painting he, thank goodness, actually looks at the painting within the frame. “Is this your favorite painting?”

“Of course.” The words come quick and sure.

“Why of course?”

Sometimes you wonder if other people have a switch that lets them choose when to hold back, 

and when to indulge in their words. Because you find it very, very hard. Especially when it’s something like this, something like a painting you adore, something like being asked to explain why it is your favorite painting.

But this stranger asked about it, so even if this mysterious switch did exist, you certainly would have slammed the “full speed ahead” setting without hesitation.

“Well…”

This stranger gets to learn about it all. About the artist (Henri Lamorliere) and why he chose the subject (a village scene in the winter) and who commissioned it (a prince who owned the land and later died from complications related, presumably, to his gout) and how it ended up here, in this city, of all places. (That was, indeed, a longer story–involving said potentially dubious origins that you were more than happy to indulge in, considering the stranger’s interest.)

As for why it is, of course, your favorite–it is because of all the tiny details, small things, inconsequential and silly to most, but details that keep you coming again and again. A child depicting playing in the snow with friends; a couple ice skating, with one leg clearly losing balance, forever frozen before the young man falls straight on his bum; a woman with a bucket, frowning, staring into a frozen water well; a farmer carefully draping warm blankets over his horses; a streak of mud revealed underneath the pristine snow as a cart of firewood is pulled along; and on and on. It’s not just a painting, it’s a frozen moment, people forever engaging in these mundane or delightful or simplistic moments.

When you are done (and you must admit, you talked for quite a while) the man doesn’t roll his eyes or sigh or say that he must be off, which is very often the case when you talk too much. 

Instead he, of all things, smiles.

“Thank you,” he says, and before you can ask why, continues: “How fascinating. I didn’t know the history of the piece as well I as I thought.” His eyes roam over the painting, the details you cling to. “And I never thought much about the scene being depicted.” He glances at you. “Not in the way you have, at least.”

It might be an insult. It might not. 

“When you come here as much as I do, you learn a lot.” 

He hums. Seems to consider something. And then, he asks:

“Would you like to share a coffee?” If you’re not mistaken, there’s a warmth to his voice. A bit of humor, too. Maybe he didn’t hate your diatribe about the piece, in the end. 

But–well. It won’t work out, at least not without a concession on his part. (And yours, too, not that he’d understand it.)

“I only get coffee after I see the rest of my paintings.” A pause, something heated piercing the apple of your cheeks. “Um. They’re not my paintings. I didn’t paint them. I don’t have any work on display,” you explain, as if he needs that clarification. “I think of some of them as mine, because I visit them when I come here.”

Sometimes, when there’s time to ponder on it, you liken actions to machinery. It starts with thoughts. They go through a certain process before resulting in an expression or a word. That’s what you think of, now, as you watch this stranger taking in what you said. His own thoughts are no doubt moving through the cogs, being sent this way and that on some conveyor belt, ending in his final action. 

Though it isn’t one you expected.

“Well then,” he says. “May I accompany you to see the rest of your paintings, so that I could join you for coffee?”

Huh.

It’s a break in the routine, sure. But he didn’t roll his eyes while you talked or quickly excuse himself to get out of hearing what you had to say. And if he was willing to listen, and follow your route, well–it might just be okay.

You don’t exactly plan to smile when you answer, but it creeps along your lips all the same.

“I suppose you could,” you say, and that smile quirks. “If you can keep up.”

“My name is Chrollo,” he replies, oddly, like it’s an answer. 

–

Chrollo does, in fact, keep up. More than that, he engages in conversation with you, offering counterpoints, asking questions, even going so far as to ask how you learned such-and-such a detail. 

Despite the interruption that he presents, it’s not unwelcome. It’s nice, actually, and as the afternoon goes on, you almost regret that there aren’t more paintings on your usual stop. But it’s not like the afternoon stops when you visit Boy and his Dog, one of the museum’s quirkier paintings; it is, yes, a Boy and his Dog. But the dog is wearing human clothes, and the boy is running wild on a broken leash. 

(The painting always makes you smile. When the stranger asks why, you’re almost–well, perhaps actually–rude when you explain: “Because it’s all backwards, of course.”)

After Boy and his Dog comes coffee. And if your newfound companion is relieved to have finally gotten to the part he asked you about earlier this afternoon, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he watches; he watches as you approach the counter and the barista greets you by name, already starting your familiar order before you say a word.

“You come here often,” he says, and it’s not a question.

You nod and eye the pastry case. “It’s tradition,” you say, not taking your eyes off the goodies displayed inside the climate controlled glass. If they have fresh cinnamon buns, you get one of them. If they aren’t fresh, you stick to the prepackaged cookies. “Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.” 

The glaze isn’t hard, but smooth, a bit of it still runny along the edges.

Fresh.

“One cinnamon roll, please,” you order. Then pause, because that isn’t quite right today, is it? “I mean, two.” But is that right, either? You eye Chrollo and something like a smile plays at the edge of his lips. “Er, well, if you’d like one, that is–”

“I would, thank you.” It’s a relief to not have to walk back the order, and the barista behind the counter swiftly bags them up.

Chrollo orders his own coffee before you can offer to add his to your tab, but that’s all right. At least you’re buying him the cinnamon bun. It’s nice to help others, especially someone who was patient enough to listen. (Not just listen, though, you remind yourself. Actively engage with you, which is far better. And more rare.)

You’re in the middle of your cinnamon bun–literally, fork stabbing the middle part first, which is the softest, gooeist part–when he speaks up.

“I enjoyed our conversation today.” Soft, almost as if he didn’t say the words often. Maybe, and this was perhaps too egotistical of you, he didn’t. 

“Mm,” you say, because you really did want to eat that middle part first, and the explosion of sticky-sweet cinnamon goodness in your mouth prevented further words for a few moments. Something about this seems to amuse him, and he places a hand over his mouth before he chuckles.

“What?” There is still some cinnamon roll still clinging to your teeth. 

“Nothing,” he murmurs, though it wasn’t nothing at all. “I was simply thinking that I might see you on Thursday. If that’s all right.”

Your mouth quirks. It’s not irritation that you’re feeling. Not really. But he was something new, a blip in your schedule. Still, he didn’t make a mess of things. He listened, and it was nice, actually, for someone to not shoo you away like some gnat the moment you got going on a favorite topic.

“It’s all right,” you say, mind still wavering, but voice already made up. “If you can still keep up.”

He snorts, and nothing more.

–

On Thursday, he’s there. Standing by your favorite painting. And staring, again, at the unimpressive, unimportant frame. Of all things–again! 

“You–” And it’s strange, how easily the indignation bleeds into your words. “But I already told you about the frame–”

But when Chrollo turns, he’s smiling, and it takes you a few slow moments to realize that he was kidding. Ah. It was… It was a joke. 

There’s a flush in your cheeks as you stuff your hands into your jacket pocket. “I’m not good with jokes,” you admit. 

He stuffs his own hands in his pockets and you can’t decide if it’s intentional mimicry or if he simply does the same thing in an awkward situation. (And which of these options is better, really?) 

“Nor am I, it seems.”

That, for some reason, makes you laugh.

Makes him laugh.

Makes the afternoon start off on a better foot.

Later on, after paintings and coffee, Chrollo insists on coming to the museum Saturday to see you again. 

You don’t protest.

–

It’s remarkable how quickly Chrollo becomes a part of your daily routine, and how swiftly he moves from being solely within your once-tidy museum routine to the outside. 

To things like asking you out to dinner, and when you explain that on Tuesday evenings after work you go home and make breakfast for dinner, he insists on taking you to a diner-style restaurant to maintain your breakfast meal while not intruding on your home life.

Which is considerate, you think, that he understands that you’re wary of inviting a relatively new acquaintance into your home. But–going out to eat is not what you usually do. At least he doesn’t comment when you fidget too much, when you don’t look in the waitress’s eyes as you order, and when you seem relieved when the check comes. 

You like him better for it. 

–

Chrollo doesn’t tell you that you’re doing things wrong. Which is nice. It’s not that most people tell you flat out that you’re doing something wrong, at least not since you’ve become an adult. But you can tell by their looks; pinched eyebrows and frowns, glances, murmured comments to their peers. 

Chrollo does none of this. 

Chrollo does, however, often forget how you like things; or rather, how you don’t like things. 

He gets too close. A hand that brushes your thigh when you sit together for lunch or coffee, his arm slung around your shoulder when the museum gets too crowded and you start to feel the crush of it crawling up your back. A term of endearment slipped in at the end of the night. Goodnight, dearest. 

Maybe it’s a lot to remember, or maybe he’s just forgetful. There are other options that sometimes sneak up in your mind–maybe he’s doing it on purpose–but they are swiped away so quickly. 

Because it’s Chrollo. He listens to you, he actually pays attention to what you say. He doesn’t mind that you sometimes have trouble making eye contact or that you get flustered in ordinary situations. 

More than that–

He’s your friend. Someone who listens, who has something interesting to say, who seems to actually care about you. He’s the first friend you’ve had in a long time, and you were willing to put up with his forgetfulness in order to keep that friendship alive and well.

Even if it meant having to bat his hand away from your thigh on more than one occasion. 

–

It’s Friday evening. 

Friday evening should be relaxing. The end of the work week, a time to grab a favorite frozen dinner from the freezer and relax in front of the TV with a show that you’ve seen a thousand times. 

Once it’s over, you’ll turn on the news and you might work on a puzzle or write in your journal or slowly make progress on an embroidery kit you picked up 2 years ago and have only ventured into a few times.

You might do these things, except–well. 

Except everything has fallen apart.

Your shaking fingers almost don’t manage to pick out Chrollo on your contacts, and it’s a wonder your phone doesn’t crash to the ground and break into a million pieces with how much your hands tremble.

“Hello?”

He barely gets the word out and you’re already blubbering into the phone, incoherent, words bubbling out with no time to make them more understandable. They choke out, stuttered and half-baked, before you finally beg for the one person who might understand your distress. 

“It’s–it’s–and–they–and–it’s–g-g-g-...Chrollo–please-come-over.”

He manages the trek in record time, impossibly fast, but you don’t pay attention. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s here and you don’t even protest this time when he sees your sobbing form and immediately scoops you into his arms.

It’s almost comforting, the way he squeezes you, gives you something to feel grounded. One of his hands inches a bit lower on your back than you’d like but even that doesn’t matter, doesn’t even register, because his presence has calmed you down enough to spit out the terrible truth:

“They stole it.” You gulp in a great, heaving gasp. “The Village in Winter. Someone… someone stole it.”

Chrollo’s body tenses. The news drones on in the background, but it’s moved on to something less important now. As if something could be less important than this. There’s a great big hole where the painting used to be, on the wall, in your mind.

Chrollo steps in or rather, steps back, placing one hand on your chin–the sensation makes something itch down your back, but you ignore it, because such things can be ignored in a time of great distress. “You are truly upset,” he says, finally, slowly. 

“Of course I am!” Your own hands come up now, grabbing the one on your chin, tugging it down so you can squeeze it with great abandon. Chrollo doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s all wrong–” It’s wrong, too, the way that other hand still rests far too low on your back. “It won’t be there. I love that painting. I love it and now when we go to the museum tomorrow, it won’t be there!”

Chrollo’s hand on your lower back begins to stroke. Maybe it’s soothing. Or meant to be; you have to give him credit, you think, for rushing over and trying to calm you down. 

“We don’t have to be there,” he murmurs.

Which does nothing to calm you down at all, because of course–

“We do have to be there.” Bitterness sets your jaw hard. “We do have to be there, and it will be all wrong.” The thought of all those precious details lost to you forever, the stories you’ve wound through again and again in your head. Even the new routine of admiring them with Chrollo, who always takes interest in the wrong part of the painting–that will be gone, too.

And it’s wrong, wrong, wrong. The world feels worse for it. What would be the point of going to the museum, when you’ve lost some integral part of yourself, all thanks to the work of some lowlife thieves?

Chrollo finally pulls himself away from you, a frown set on his lips. He glances around your living room, the disrupted Friday evening routine that is begging to be set back into place without all the pieces. 

“Have you had your tea? You always drink it while you watch the news, don’t you?”

You do. Yes. Not tonight, though. At least not more than that first sip before it was interrupted by the horror of the news report. 

“I was too upset to finish it,” you admit. “It’s on the counter.” But if you could finish it, maybe it would help. Now that Chrollo’s here to set everything back into order. It wouldn’t make things right–nothing could, except the restoration of that pivotal painting–but it’s a start. A comfort.

 “Could you…” 

He’s already on his way to the kitchen, a hand slipping into his pocket. “Of course. I’ll warm it up for you.”

“Thanks,” you force out, the word heavy on your tongue. Yes. Thank goodness Chrollo is here to set things into place. He knows what you like and need, wandering hands notwithstanding. So it comes as no surprise when he emerges from the kitchen with a newly warmed cup of tea and you stumble on shaking legs to the sofa.

Microwaved tea never tastes the same, and it’s no exception here. It’s almost too bitter now. But you choke it down anyway while Chrollo sits next to you, eyes on the screen, the flickering bar underneath the next program that repeats the news about the museum break-in.

Theft suspected to be the work of professional thieves. More updates on stolen paintings will emerge as staff inventory the losses. At least three security guards found dead…

The world spins. Literally, the world spins, and you reach out a hand and stand up on reflex with the anxiety that spreads through your chest.

“Chrollo?” He’s there, sitting next to you, but he falls in and out of focus as your vision wobbles.

“Yes, love?” 

“I don’t feel very…” The word never comes before everything goes black, and you only just register the awful sensation of falling and being caught in someone’s sturdy hands before you faint.

–

Someone has shoved cotton into your mouth. That’s the only explanation your mind comes up with when the world returns and all you can taste is stale dryness. Someone must have shoved cotton into your mouth at some point before the blackness and this bleary, foggy wake-up.

But why would they do that, and why does your head feel so fuzzy, and why does the world feel like it’s moving? There’s an awful sound underneath you too, almost like rushing and wheels mixed together, like heavy traffic or–or a train. 

Oh. Oh, no.

Air comes in great gulping gasps as you heave yourself forward and sensations assault your senses. A leather seat underneath you, the sun dimmed by drawn curtains, warm, stale air, the sound of rolling wheels and ground underneath you–and Chrollo. Chrollo sitting your opposite, on the same type of leather seat.

You’re on a train. You’re awake and on a train and Chrollo is sitting in front of you.

It’s a dream. Maybe. That’s what you think as you swallow up the cotton feeling, smacking your lips, craving the realization that this is nothing but a bizarre nightmare.

But nightmares don’t feel like this. This is real. It’s your body that feels sluggish and heavy, your eyes blinking away an awful, long sleep. Your voice that croaks out the words that half-stick to the roof of your mouth:

“Chrollo? Where… am I?” 

There’s another question that clings to the back of it–What happened?--but the low curl in your gut makes you avoid it for now.

Chrollo, for his part, looks appropriately serious for the bizarre situation you’ve woken up in. He leans forward, folding his hands together, as he scans your face. For what? An injury? Is that why you’re here? You fell and hit your head and the only solution was a specialist who is only available in the next city, so Chrollo booked you the first tickets on the next train and he didn’t have time to warn you before–

“Dearest.”

The low curling in your stomach squirms, too. He knows you hate those pet names. It was easier to ignore them back then. When the two of you were strolling through the museum or he was indulgently watching you reorganize your books. When you weren’t suddenly on a train, feeling like you got hit over the head with a hammer.

A strange place, a strange Chrollo.

An answer might come, but your mouth is still too sticky and Chrollo interrupts what you might have said, anyway.

“We’re on a train.”

After a moment, a slow word comes. “Yes.” You swallow. “I know that.”

Chrollo smiles. It might be indulgent, but all you can think is: has his smile always been so condescending?

“Do you know why we’re on a train?”

Well. It would be stupid to say “yes,” when you don’t know the answer. 

So you spit out the runaround thought from earlier, though even to your ears, it sounds more ridiculous with every passing word.

“I fell and hit my head and the only solution was a specialist who is only available in the next city, so you booked the first tickets on the next train and you didn’t have time to warn you before–”

He doesn’t call you an endearing nickname (thank goodness) this time but instead his smile widens, just enough to make it look like he wants to coo at you. It’s gross and sticky and you rub at your arms to make some of the feeling go away.

“Stop that. I’m not a child.” 

His smile doesn’t waver, which only sparks a rush of indignation. The world has stopped feeling quite so heavy and when you sit up, you move to pull aside the curtains, if only to find out where in the world you’re at. 

The countryside that’s rolling by isn’t remotely familiar. All lush and green and pretty. Are you even in the same region? The same country? 

“How… how long was I asleep?” No, that’s not the right question. “Why was I asleep? I don’t remember…” Falling asleep at all. And what you do remember doesn’t fit inside this puzzle. You’d been watching the news, and there was the terrible report about the theft at the museum, and then Chrollo came over, and you drank your tea. One plus one should equal two, not waking up on a train.

Chrollo hums, and the sound brings you back. The ground rolls heavy underneath you two, separated by the carpeted floor. 

“I drugged your tea,” he says, plainly enough. 

It can’t be what he said, though. You’re hearing things. Maybe you suffered a blow to the head. That might actually make things.

“You what… my what?” 

“I drugged your tea,” he repeats. Calm and clear and you’re certain that you’ve heard him right this time, only it’s still all wrong. Because this is Chrollo. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t. But he did. He said so. So the only thing left to wonder is:

“Why would you do that?”

“I enjoy your company,” he says, still leaning forward. “Very much so. And it was time for me to leave town, but the thought of leaving without you, well…”

Now, there are no “right” answers to this question. No one ever catalogs the proper responses to a hypothetical question about drugging one’s tea. Still, what he tells you doesn’t sound like the sort of answer one should give. 

Kidnapping someone for ransom, sure. Kidnapping someone because they found out some terrible secret and no one else can no, understandable. Kidnapping someone to kill them because you’re secretly a murderer, again, makes sense.

Kidnapping you because he likes you? 

It’s so wrong, so out of place, that you don’t answer. Can’t answer. There’s something sticky keeping your mouth shut and that something is Chrollo’s lack of common sense.

And then, of all things, he puts a hand on your shoulder. Firm. Irritating. A touch you want to shake but when you try, his grip keeps you in place. It’s too much. Too heavy and personal. It was something to be brushed off before, swept under the rug while you focused on what you liked about him.

But now? 

You must be glaring. There’s a moment where you take stock of your expressions. Your eyebrows feel low and heavy, so they must be furrowed. Your mouth is dry and open. And your eyes are… well. It’s understandable to cry. 

Worst of all, though, is that Chrollo’s hand goes from your shoulders to your cheeks, and it’s when he wipes at your tears that you finally fling your body backwards with enough force that the back of your head smacks against the wall.

It helps, this pain. This motion. So you do it again. Move your head forward and then back, feeling the firm smack of the wood against your head. 

Thump. Thump. Thump.

An ordinary person might look shocked. An ordinary person might cry out and tell you that you're hurting yourself.

Chrollo, however, simply looks like he’s admiring a painting. He takes in the details, his head tilting just so. 

“I packed some of your favorite things,” he says after a while, over the sound of your skull smacking against the wall. “Once we arrive at our destination, we can unpack some of them. It could help you calm down.” 

“I want to go home,” you reply, between thumps. “I want to go home.”

He doesn’t reply, which is as good as a “no.”

“I’m taking you with me,” he says, still calmly, like you aren’t trapped on a train, like you aren’t banging your head with increasing intensity against the wood.

“I don’t want to go with you,” is all you can say, helplessness straining your voice. “I want–I want–” And when you look around, all you can see are these walls, the window, Chrollo. There are a thousand things that you want right now, and none of them are here.

You want your old microwave with the 7 button that sticks so you have to push it hard every time, you want the pink flower rug in your living room that you’ve had since childhood, you want your pumpkin-shaped mug with the chip on the handle, you want your blankets and your bed and the alarm clock on the side table on the left side, so you can wake up and easily roll over to hit the snooze button–

It’s only when Chrollo says your name that you realize you’ve been saying all of this, to him or to yourself, you’re not sure. There’s something stupidly hungry in the way he looks at you. It’s in the way he listens, too. Like he’s hanging onto every word so he can pick them all apart, splaying them open to reveal something inside.

But what? And why?

He doesn’t tell you. Instead, he hums. It’s a low grounded sound. It makes you feel–and you hate it, it’s gross, this feeling–comforted. Almost. Sort of. The way it used to, when you were feeling out of sorts and he swooped in to get you off the ledge.

Only this time he’s the one who pushed you to it, first.

“I’m not taking you home,” he says with a finality that makes your body jerk. “But you can view me as your new home, if it helps.” The smile he gives is warm and kind and if you were sitting in the museum over a cup of coffee, maybe you’d believe it.

“But you can view me as your new home, if it helps.”

It doesn’t help.

–

Your upper arm hurts from the way Chrollo gripped you in the hotel lobby.

“Don’t try anything, dearest,” he’d said, on the way in. Quiet and calm and sticky on the dearest. He might as well have been telling you that he was ordering in for dinner. “I’ll kill everyone in this hotel if you do. I’d rather not have to clean up any messes tonight. I’m sure you understand.”

The words should have shocked you. Or maybe they did, and you’re still in such an inward frenzy that you can’t seem to react to anything within the freezing utter bewilderment of your present situation. 

So you didn’t say anything, though he gripped you hard all the same. And now you’re sitting on some oversized sterile hotel room bed that smells too much like sharp laundry detergent. There’s a mint on the pillow. You bet it tastes like soap.

“We’ll be staying here for a few nights,” Chrollo murmurs. The pair of suitcases he’d brought in are on top of the bed, and there’s a shock to your system when he unzips one of them and you recognize what’s inside.

It’s filled with your things–your hairbrush, a wellworn paperback copy of your favorite book, a bottle of your tried-and-true face wash.

Your clothes. (Well. Some of them.) Right down to your underwear, neatly folded on top. Chrollo had–taken them. Touched them. Been through your things, clearly. 

“You…” The word comes out all strangled, and heat rises to your cheeks for more than one reason. “You really…” You really kidnapped me, you really planned it out, you really went through my private things and plucked them up. 

He takes the pause in your thoughts to crouch down, peering into your face like he might yank the words out himself.

“Yes? What is it?”

“You... you…” And the words you want to ask are stuck between your teeth until you force them out. “Why did you do this? It’s not just… it can’t be just because you,” and your mind reels to remember what he said on the train. “Because you enjoy my company.”

Chrollo says nothing for a moment. A whole lot of nothing. Your mind is working too fast and you expect him to smile or grin, expect him to give some terribly wicked speech like a villain in a movie you’ve seen a thousand times.

Instead he blinks. Instead he frowns.

Instead his hand reaches out to grip your chin and you don’t have time to register the uncomfortable buzz from being touched when says something so softly that you have to strain to hear it.

“Oh, dearest. Don’t you know?”

When your chin does try to jerk away from his touch, it grows tighter, even as his gaze seems to soften. It’s a strange look on Chrollo’s face. Chrollo has looked contemplative, yes; contemplative and intrigued and annoyed, even, when some museum-goers were being too loud for your liking. He’s even looked sympathetic.

But soft? It’s new. It’s unwanted. And the expression stays on his face despite both of those terrible qualities.

“I care for you,” he says, repeating his earlier words. “Not just as a friend. But…” He turns your head this way and that. It makes you feel like a prized horse at auction. “I believe… as something more.”

Not just as a friend… 

Not just as a friend–

“Not just as a friend.” Your repetition comes out all stilted. Maybe because of the hand on your jaw. Maybe because the words seem to creak out of you, every syllable one step down the staircase you’d rather avoid descending.

Something like a film reel flickers through your memories. Little moments, brought back to the forefront with a disgusting clarity. Why had you brushed him off so often? Because you were lonely; because he was your friend. Or so you thought.

But the way he pushed past what you wanted so often seems calculated now. The times he sat too close and let his thigh brush against yours; the way he didn’t hear you, or so he said, when you’d asked him to please stop calling you those soft, sweet pet names. The times he claimed not to be hungry only to ask if he could share your meal afterwards–the way his fingers brushed against yours when he accidentally (or was it?) reached for a bite at the same time.

“The whole time,” you bite out, acid rising in your throat. Your fingers curl against your thighs and there’s a terrible urge to knock them into something. “Were you like this… the whole time?”

Amusement crinkles through the softness in his face. It’s just as grating as nails on a chalkboard. “Did you really not notice?”

Shame flushes through you, heating up your cheeks, your chest, the very air in the room. “Of course not,” you spit out, words sounding more stilted with every passing moment. “Most people wouldn’t notice–notice that.”

At some point, he’s let go of your chin, and you take the moment of the realization to scoot backwards on the bed. Away from him and closer to the dingy looking headboard, which might have been pretty once upon a time, but was now scratched and chipped.

“Of course they would,” he counters, climbing onto the bed like some sort of terrible cat. “And they have, with far less effort on my part.” He pauses, a smile. “Not out of any genuine affection, of course. Don’t worry about that. Only to get something I wanted.”

He’s closer, now. Too close. His hand cups not your chin this time, but your cheek, and there’s only a few moments in between his face and yours. What if he…? 

“Stop,” you say, desperate, helpless. “Don’t touch me.” He doesn’t stop. He leans in closer and you smack against the headboard. “Why aren’t you listening to me?”

What he says makes about as much sense as jello salad. Which is to say, no damn sense at all. “I am listening.” The almost-coo in his voice makes you want to hurl. “I’m hearing what you can’t say out loud, that’s all.”

But that’s not true. Is it? There’s too much going on. He’s too close and this room smells like soap and you ought to be home, not here, with yourself, not Chrollo. The muchness of it all has you aching to get away and make sense of it all, some way, some how.

“I always say what I want to say,” you manage, but you can’t hide the question in it. Isn’t that true? Isn’t that how it’s always been? It’s why people tend to look at you strangely sometimes. It’s why you were often too much for them, when it came down to it.

“You think you do, my dear.” His thumb rubs against your cheek. The touch is sandpaper. “But there’s something else inside you, I think. Something stuck that I’d like to crack open and pull out, if I could.” The fondness in his tone is out of place with the world around you. “If you’d let me.”

You need him to stop touching you. You need him to get away. You need this entire room to vanish, the sight of it, the smell of it, the feel of the unfamiliar sheets underneath you. A sound comes out, something short, stacatto–

“No.” 

And Chrollo doesn’t leave and his thumb keeps rubbing your cheek, so you bring your arm up, smacking him away. Only his arm doesn’t move at all. It’s like hitting a pole–sturdy and impossibly strong.

So you try again, and again, and the sensation of hitting his arm isn’t helpful or soothing. It only makes your breath come in faster, makes the world spin. His breath grows faster, too, and you can’t begin to imagine why.

“You’ll grow to like this in time,” Chrollo says, finally, a touch of a sigh in his voice. “You’ll grow to like me.” 

“No,” you say again, even though it doesn’t help. 

In response, Chrollo simply continues to stroke your cheek.

–

In his defense–not that you are defending him–Chrollo said nothing when you’d taken the first opportunity to abandon the bed and build something like a fort in the corner of the room. It wasn’t anything like the pop up tent you used to have as a child (then a teenager and, sometimes, in a pinch, as an adult) but it would do. A fort made from blankets and some of the bed pillows, despite the detergent stink.

Anything to avoid sleeping in the same bed as Chrollo. More than that, anything to be alone, or something like it. You rocked yourself to sleep and dreamt about the museum. 

In the morning, you wake up and remember everything in one great gulping heave. Your body tenses when you hear Chrollo walking around the room–the sound of the sink, the toilet, the rustling of clothes–until his footsteps stop outside your makeshift shelter.

He pops his head inside without so much as a warning.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

The glare he receives is enough of a response. He chuckles it away, easy as a gnat.

“I’d like to show you something. It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises,” you reply, voice tired and dull. He’s going to show you anyway. He knows it, and you do, too.

He holds open the drape of your fort but you don’t have the energy to be grateful that he at least didn’t drag you out of it. Your limbs feel heavy and awful as you crawl out, and the hotel room in the daylight looks no better than it did at night. 

But Chrollo must have done some unpacking while you slept, because there are a few more things scattered around. His clothing, slipped into hangers. Toiletries–his and yours–on top of the chest of drawers.

And something set against the wall, covered in a plain black tarp. 

The surprise, it seems. Curiosity prickles at you. Maybe it’s a good distraction from everything else. Maybe you’re just genuinely interested in what could possibly lay underneath.

Chrollo’s smile almost looks youthful as he tugs at the edge of the tarp, and you see a flash of black as he pulls it away, revealing the treasure underneath.

The Village in Winter.

It’s all wrong. It’s naked, without the frame, propped up in some hotel room surrounded by chipped furniture and laundry smells.

There is no air left in the room, no water left in your lungs. You could cough up a thousand years of dust right now and still not run out.

“You stole it,” you manage to say. Chrollo simply nods and looks for all the world like he’s showing you something he’s proud of; and he is, you think. Proud of everything. The urge to fall down swims through you, and you grip the wall.  

“You were a great help,” Chrollo says, voice soft and confident and anything but assuring. “We were struggling with the best way to remove it without damaging the work underneath.” He tilts his head, just so, the same way he did that first morning in the museum. 

Nothing is the same as that first morning in the museum.

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

It was a miracle that you got Sukuna to get into the family carriage without causing an exhibition of yourselves at the gallery. With the way you had ushered Sukuna—-praying he did not cause a tumult in the main hall—Choso and Yuji had recognized your forms coursing towards the exit quite easily, and made to follow you both.

However, as soon as you all had seated yourselves in the carriage: “Sister, what did I just see?”

You groan. It’s not easy to pacify your older brother once he’s set off—he easily sees through any words meant to calm. Sukuna is seated in front of you, appearing like a kettle with smoke blowing out of the orifices of his ears. Choso and Yuji exchange equally confused glances as you carefully answer, “Well, Brother, I had…felt a little wired and thought that a period of repose might do me and my nerves some good. And I…happened to encounter Lord Gojo—”

“What?!” comes from Choso and Yuji at once, while Sukuna exhales in anger.

His jaw is clenched, so much that you suppose it would make a fine knife. “And, pray tell, why did you stay there? Let me remind you that you seemed in no hurry to escape that…that bastard’s company—”

“Sukuna!” you cry out in outrage. “I know you abhor him so, but that does not mean you should lose propriety—”

“You’re defending him now? Sister, did it take a few words from him for you to forget all that he has done to you?”

“I’m not defending him.” You pinch your nose in frustration—you were quickly finding that the carriage was rather too small for such a heated exchange. “Rather, I am trying to tell you that Lord Gojo and I are now on amicable terms—”

“What?”

“Are you both incapable of uttering out more than a singular word?!” you snap towards your other brothers once more. “After he had taken the fall in my stead at the park, would it not be natural to reconsider his positions and thoughts? 

It was as if you had just suggested that he eat out of his own chamber pot, for Sukuna’s look to you was more than a blend of incredulity and fury. Harsh breaths escaped him, loud and jarring, and served as testament to how seriously he was understanding your assertions. He searched for words, failed multiple times, and then bit out a “I had thought you more intelligent than this.”

You snorted in fury. “For your sake, I am going to dismiss that from my mind, for I am very well endowed with the capacity to reason, thank you very much—-”

“You indubitably are not, seeing it only took a few pleasantries and flirtations from that sob for you to accede and disregard all that he has done to you—”

“And you are the one inflamed—irrationally so, for your kind knowledge—without even listening to what I have to articulate about the matter—”

“It does not matter what you say!” he calls loudly, so much so you see your other brothers flinch. You could sense an intervention from Choso coming, one commonplace in such disputes. “I will never express my consent for you to marry that man, nor will I permit this insensibility from you!”

“There was no mention of matrimony here, and the insensible one is you, not me, to be drawing such ridiculous determinations from my words!”

“I know what this leads towards, and there’s nothing not insensible from being benevolent and civil towards him—”

“I do not care what you have to say,” you sigh furiously. “It would do you good to remember that you not the lord of the house nor are you my mother—but you do seem to have an affinity for taking the role often–”

Your brother laughs, and each chuckle is filled with a chord of anger. “Oh, hoho. If you believe I am acting like Mother, maybe I should cease any hope for you, as well.” In his anger, he did not see the tinge of hurt flash across your face. “Perhaps I never should have come to your avail, if you are to act this insolent—” 

“Sukuna!” Choso interrupts him, harshly. “Mind your words!”

When your brother was experiencing a fit of anger, it was as if he was a bull gone berserk. If it was one individual angering him, waving the red flag, it would take another shade of vermillion to redirect his ire. Although he was quick in understanding people’s dispositions and, as he matured, learned to gain more tact with his words, he was still the same with his family: unable to cease charging after the nearest point until he felt the matter resolved. Only, rather than slow his momentum after his previous mark, he continued the fervor, or in a particularly heated exchange, upped the ante even more.

Today, Sukuna’s anger did not spare Choso. “Do not tell me to mind my words when I know how much minding you have done for our sister, Choso.” He practically spits out his name. “Staying idle, letting Mother have her way with her schemes with trying to get Sister married to a known rake—I truly have been grappling between deciding if you truly have just lost your mind or ceased to care about our sister—”

“Unlike you,” Choso’s words are calm but furious nonetheless. “I choose to trust our sister and give her the autonomy to decide what is best for her. It would make me no better than Mama,” Sukuna’s jaw clenches at the obvious statement thrown at him, ”to force her to abide by my bidding and follow only my thoughts, none of her own.”

“Surely you understand that there is a difference between trust, and guidance? Where were you when Sister had disappeared today, when she was no longer by His Grace’s side?”

In an uncommon manner, Yuji echoes his words. “Indeed, where were you, brother?”

Be rest assured that your brother is no true animal, he is a man. A man diverted easily by one thing: gossip. Thus, it was as if the red flag had vanished, and his head turned to shoot a look, one with guarded curiosity, towards the younger brother, and some of the foreboding you had been feeling throughout the heated exchange faded.  “Was he not with you?”

“No, rather…” Yuji’s brow is furrowed as he tries to recall the events, and his countenance lights up when the memory comes to the forefront of his mind. “I believe I saw him conversing with a lady—”

After the object of Sukuna’s fury had been diverted from you to Choso, you had become a spectator—with it, came the chance for you to calm your temper. All to say: you were truly about to enjoy Sukuna probing into Choso’s affairs, rather than yours with Gojo.

“And who was this fair lady you were so occupied with, Choso?”

A blush creeps its way up Choso’s neck.  “I—”

“I think her hair was of a fair, blonde color!” Yuji interrupts.

At this, Choso snaps, “I was simply aiming to refresh myself and head to the retiring room. Yuji is spinning tales filled with misrepresentations—”

Sukuna crosses his arms, a true image of ease while Choso the shade of a ripe rhubarb. “Ah, but there must be something to represent for him to recount your whereabouts with a certain lady—”

“Even so, I may have encountered many ladies. There is no need to single out any one.”

“Oh!” Sukuna widens his eyes in jest, nodding as if in understanding, and from Yuji comes, “Our brother is so fetching he has lost count of all the ladies that propose him!” This earns him a bark of laughter from Sukuna, while Choso groans in vexation.

The prospect of Choso courting a lady was indeed quite interesting—you were biding your time to comment on the matter, for you aimed to kindle the mischievous energy in the room. In the matters of gossip, you remained silent until you could contribute to the situation in a manner that would leave the victim sweating further.

Thus, while Yuji and Sukuna were riotously laughing, your voice interrupted them in a succinct manner, your tone innocent. “I wonder, if it was indeed true Yuji last saw Choso with a lady before he retired, what was the true manner in which you refreshed yourself, Choso?”

This opens another round of merriment, courtesy of your younger and middle brother, while Choso is left at a loss of words. As the wheels of your carriage take you further and further towards your manor, the teasing jabs of Sukuna and Yuji are enough to allow you to sit back, reflecting on the afternoon and what had happened.

He should be finishing the entries of the ledger for today.

On the matter of business, particularly that of his family, Gojo has been an excellent student. His focus never wavers—if you would ask him to do a task that required six hours of endless work and accounting, he would be able to do it with ease. Notwithstanding, in the recent past, it seems that his focus only gravitates towards a certain diary. He can’t help but grab it multiple times, size its contents endlessly, and then audibly groan in aggravation as he realizes he’s drifted off in his thoughts and the person who had penned the very words perturbing him.  

The action, almost like a vexing mannerism he had developed, lent time the ability to progress faster—it seemed that every time he wished to take a break from his work, his hand would drop his pen and instinctively wander towards the offending object situated on his desk. Furthermore, every time he opened the pages of the diary, he would be absolutely absorbed by the words he read there. In rather deficient and rushed handwriting it read:

March the 14th

Thoughts upon Mr. P. Cartwright’s recent pamphlet, On the Nature of Governance and Gentle Reform

I cannot but find fault in his suggestion that the land-owning class alone possess foresight enough to administer lasting peace. Is it not the case that lived experience—particularly that of women and tradespeople—might supply the very insights the gentry lack?

I am struck by the phrase: "The crown must not only wear gold, but bear the weight of silence between its people." I know not whether he meant it as metaphor or lament, but it lingered in my thoughts the remainder of the evening.

My brother scoffed at the piece, which only compels me further to engage with its ideas.

He reads it again.

Though he tells himself he ought to focus on the ledgers, on the minute accounting of the family’s trading affairs, it is this diary—your diary—that distracts and ensnares. And in this entry, all about some dry-sounding pamphlet and even drier politics, you somehow manage to sound precisely as you did that day in town: curious, self-possessed, maddeningly earnest.

It was a glimpse through the window of your thoughts and constitution then, and he had just tasted another just a few days ago, while looking at the painting. 

Perhaps, we are simply of different minds.

I meant to thank you. For what you did last time.

Gojo’s pride is a powerful entity. It is not easily tempered, nor does it submit itself readily to introspection. To admit a misstep—to confess even inwardly that one has been less than just—is no small undertaking.

And yet, there is a growing unease in him when he recalls how freely he had once spoken of you. With derision, perhaps not in tone, but certainly in implication. Called you simple. He had thought himself discerning, perhaps even clever, for observing what he believed to be your uncomplicated ways.

Now, he began to wonder whether it had been discernment at all—or merely impatience, a failure of character that prevented him from looking more deeply.

You had not been simple. Far from it. Rather, you had been precise—deliberate. A careful calculation, one that had fully accounted for the particular brand of foolishness Mr. Gojo so often exhibited. And yet, curiously, the knowledge did not leave him bitter at having been outwitted.

Instead, it stirred something else entirely: a reluctant admiration, tinged with curiosity. Should fortune ever permit their paths to cross again, he resolved, he would at least endeavour to be civil—perhaps even amiable—in short, something nearer to an acquaintance than an adversary.

These frequent excursions to the countryside, you found, were irritating you to no end. It seemed as if just yesterday you had traveled to Kent, and the ton was packing their carriages to visit yet another well-placed young man’s grand manor in the countryside. This came with less fanfare, of course, since your mama hadn’t chosen to scheme with Lord Geto’s mama this time to get you to the manor early. Reflecting on the memory, the affair was both a hassle and simply too theatrical.

After you had broken your fast, the instructions from your mama were clear: visit your room and make sure no essential item was left before you all headed to the Geto manor. Of course, you had wanted to exchange with her a retort along the lines of “if I had truly forgotten something behind for the short visit, I truly did not need it” but you knew voicing so was not wise. Instead, you idly traversed the staircase to your room to give it a half-hearted once over. 

Inside was Nobara, with a vexed look on her face. Once she noted your presence in the room, she became even more furious. “How would you have made do without your hair comb?” she reprimanded, and you searched for the offending object to find it was on your bed. “Would I have just used my bare fingers to arrange your hair?”

“That would have sufficed,” you respond airily, to which you get a vexed look that you do not notice, for you are too busy lazily glancing over the rest of your room for anything you may have missed. “Your hands are rather lovely and would serve as dainty hair combs.”

“Humph!” Nobara scoffed. “You would not find it so lovely if it was my fingers pulling your hair to rid it of its tangles.”

You could not help a bemused smile, the corners of your mouth pulling up almost of their own accord. “Perhaps not,” you replied, sitting down onto the bed in a most unladylike manner. Nobara clucked her tongue as you pick up the tortoise-shell comb and turn it over in your hands as if it were an object of intrigue. 

Nobara has moved to your wardrobe, eyeing it like an enemy on the battlefield. “I suppose you will not be needing your silk shawl,” she says, her back to you but her tone sharpened like a blade.  

“It is not that necessary,” you say, wondering if this trip will be as tiresome as you expect. “The weather in Kent has been quite warm lately, and I’m sure Geto manor will not be any different.”

“Then packing your parasol would be in due order,” she sighed, and you kept on idyllically examining your hair comb. The sounds of Nobara rummaging throughout your room to pack essential items and accessories disrupt the otherwise still silence.

Then, Nobara interrupts, as if voicing a thought revolving in her head. "Do you feel that he will be there?"

You felt a quiet dread settle upon you as the conversation turned. “Nobara, surely you must know he will be in attendance. Lord Geto and Mr. Gojo are scarcely to be seen apart, and by all accounts, they are possessed of a most affectionate friendship. I think it only natural for Mr. Gojo to accompany him.”

“But are you quite certain,” Nobara inquired, her brow slightly raised, “that you will be able to avoid speaking with him?”

You paused, considering. “It would, of course, be incumbent upon me, as a lady of some standing, to offer a civil word should circumstances demand it. Yet I cannot imagine why there should be such unease on the matter. After last week’s unfortunate events, I had thought that Mr. Gojo and I had come to some form of understanding—if not reconciliation, then at least a courteous truce.”

Nobara, who had been made thoroughly acquainted with the particulars of that encounter—and indeed with the quarrel that had followed with Mr. Sukuna—could not conceal her displeasure.

“Even if the two of you are capable of exchanging pleasantries, I would caution against complacency. But,” she added, softening somewhat, “I am not inclined to worry overmuch—for you are now being courted by Duke Nanami, and whatever once existed between yourself and Mr. Gojo must, by necessity, be consigned to the past.”

Though Nobara spoke with the clarity and firmness of truth, a faint restlessness stirred within you. It was not opposition, precisely—but neither was it agreement.

“We might still be friends,” you said, rather more hastily than intended. “It is hardly improper, I think. That he is not my suitor should not preclude a friendship—however much my brother may disapprove.”

“I suppose,” Nobara replied, though not without some reluctance. “And yet I must confess, your disposition towards him strikes me as altogether too yielding, considering the trials you have endured on his account. I cannot help but fear his attentions are less than sincere. He slandered you most grievously among his peers, and when confronted, displayed neither remorse nor explanation. Might it not be, rather, that he seeks to regain your favour—having discovered, too late, that he cannot so easily relinquish the diamond of the season?”

You pressed your lips together, unwilling to offer immediate assent. Nobara, as ever, spoke with reason—but still, you could not bring yourself to share in her conclusion. “If he were truly endeavouring to secure my affections,” you said at length, with measured caution, “I do not believe he would confine himself to mere civil discourse in a lonely corridor. No, I am more inclined to think he seeks only to establish a peace between us.”

But Nobara’s expression betrayed no such optimism. “If you are persuaded that his motives are sincere, then I shall not press you further. Yet you must consider the judgement of your brothers—”

The mention of them rekindled your irritation. The memory of your altercation with Sukuna still lingered, raw and recent, and before you could temper your response, the words escaped.

“My brothers are far too impassioned to hear a word of reason! They have constructed an entire narrative upon their own suspicions, and will not so much as allow me to speak in my own defence.” You sighed, a note of exasperation slipping into your voice. “It is utterly maddening, Nobara!”

Nobara looked at you with pity. "I understand your position, my dear, and Sukuna is very ill-tempered. But," and Nobara paused, as if wading through uncharted waters, "you must understand that you are their only sister, and, naturally, they are protective over you." 

You look down at your lap, silent, and she sighs. "I suppose the loss of the master of the house had truly led them to bear the responsibility of being the head of the house. Choso inherited the title, but Sukuna clearly feels the need to support him in the role." 

You suppose she had reason; after all, Sukuna would rather you become a spinster than get whisked off in some unhappy marriage, even if it would bring your family more power to be married to a duke-to-be like Lord Gojo. It will go unsaid these couple of days (you were still angry at him for undermining you so), but you truly do appreciate your brothers. Even Yuji, who was akin to a gluttonous beast and admired Lord Gojo.

The death of your father had not been easy and had affected your family in many different ways. While Choso had hardened into a man from the timid babe he once was, Sukuna had sought to grow more independent, furthering his education. Yuji was too young to remember your father, and your mama had remembered it all too well. It is what propelled her to make sure you secured a good match, for to her, lacking a husband truly crumbled the foundations of her stable life.

You and your mama have quarreled this season, but you cannot truly resent for her what she has done. After all, she had struggled but succeeded to keep her place in society in the wake of widowhood, all so you would not feel its weight when seeking a match. 

Being reminded of this struggle further serves to remind you how you truly have squandered your time this season. While you had gotten a hint of a proposal from Duke Nanami, you would have to admit you had bid your time in his presence being a bit absentminded than what was proper. This affair with Gojo had truly led you off course.

As if realizing your thoughts, Nobara softened. “I understand that you, as a young lady, feel the need to fulfill your duty and secure a husband. However, you must remember that you are exactly that—a young lady.” Her tone turns coy as she turns to you, bearing a simper on her face. “If you must endure the season, then why not do so with a touch of mischief? A harmless prank upon Mr. Gojo—or perhaps even a few artful flirtations—surely that would not be so very unreasonable?”

"Well...I suppose you have reason," you hesitantly reply. "However, would such antics not sully my reputation as the diamond?"

“Nonsense!” she cried, waving her hand with theatrical flair. “If there are young ladies of some notoriety who can contrive to spill punch upon their own bodices—or upon the gowns of others—to draw attention and yet suffer no loss of standing, I see no reason why you might not indulge in a few playful flirtations.”

Grudgingly, you agree. "I suppose. But," and you purse your lips, "I do not think any exchange I have with Gojo further will be of a flirtatious nature. I surmise that I have repulsed him with my nature, for him to break off our mamas' arrangement and intentions."

"No one can say definitively what the young lord is thinking," Nobara replies. She moves the final stack of clothes she had finished folding inside a container and claps her hands together. "But what I can say is that you must not bear such a load. It would be a pity if you underwent this season and got married without truly experiencing true drama. After all, what is being so young for?"

Her suggestion was as dangerous as it was alluring. You were well aware that such frivolities, however harmless they might seem in theory, could prove quite ruinous in execution. And yet, the notion of abandoning the constant vigilance, of engaging in conversation without carefully measuring every syllable—perhaps even indulging in a touch of mischief—held a singular appeal. “Nobara, should your counsel result in the tarnishing of my reputation—or worse, in a scolding from my hot-headed brother or Mama herself—I shall see to it that your tea is thoroughly despoiled next week.”

"You will do no such thing!"

The interior of the Gojo carriage was quiet, save for the occasional sounds of nature that filtered in through the ornate doors. 

Satoru stood in his seat, observing the landscapes that slid by and played with his cuffs. To his opposite sat his mother, who was similarly looking upon the vast grassy countryside that they encountered on their passage to Lord Geto's manor.

It was this exact situation that Satoru was dreading to find himself in. Ever since his...decision concerning you before the house party in Kent, he had been keenly avoiding conversing with one person: his mama. 

Such evasions had not been difficult to manage. Satoru’s calendar was never wanting for engagements, duties, and last-minute obligations with which to shield himself. But time, relentless as ever, had brought him here—boxed into a carriage, and worse, into silence. A silence that now pressed heavily upon him.

Satoru could not help but feel afraid.

At last, she said, "Satoru."

“Yes, Mother,” he replied too swiftly—and, to his mortification, at a pitch rather higher than was respectable. He coughed.

“There is a matter I have been meaning to discuss with you,” she said, turning her gaze not upon him but fully to the passing landscape, rendering her expression utterly inscrutable. “But it seems that every time I make the attempt, you have taken refuge in your study under the pretext of some important task or another.”

Satoru could feel the disapproval roiling off her in waves, and swallowed. "I was simply attending to my duties, mother. Surely you cannot find me at fault."

At length, a single word passed her lips—“Interesting.” It was not the word itself that unsettled him, but the tone, which held all the quiet condemnation of someone who had seen straight through him. A mother, after all, is rarely deceived.

Quiet blanketed the carriage once more, and his mother's face was still turned away from him. Satoru moved to wipe the sweat from his hands.

"I suppose you know what I am seeking to ask you."

He grimaced. "Why the greenery is quite nice outside?"

"No," she responded dryly. "Why you made that absolute blunder and humiliated me---"

"Humiliated is a bit much, isn't it?" Satoru remarked. "Maybe my inclinations did not match yours, but it was a mutual decision made between me and Miss Itadori!"

"Decisions can be rash! I know your nature, Satoru---I am your mother!" she admonished, finally facing him with unconcealed disapproval on her face. "I truly worry for you, for I do not think you understand the true nature of marriage---"

"I solely understand the nature of marriage that I feel is best for me---"

“Do not interrupt me,” she snapped, and he fell silent, though not without a glance of obvious irritation. She observed him a moment longer, then sighed—deeply, as if mourning the loss of something no one else could see.

“What a shame,” she said, the disappointment in her voice now tinged with regret. “The two of you already seemed as comfortable as a couple years married. I had thought your compatibility rather promising.”

Satoru exhaled, exasperated. “Mother, your idea of compatibility and my own are irreconcilable. I cannot be expected to suffer under principles I do not share. Simply put, I disagree.”

“Your principles, whatever they may be, are just that—your principles. They are underdeveloped, as expected of someone at your tender age and lack the fortitude found in those with experience. I have experienced love with your father and found myself in a quite agreeable marriage. You should share my principles!”

“However, I do not,” Satoru responds back, remaining unconvinced. “You are not the arbiter of what deems a marriage well and fine, nor are you in my position. To me, you are solely discussing so-called principles because of your pride and how it has felled when I did not accept the match you had meticulously arranged for me.”

Instead of anger flashing across her face at disrespect, Duchess Gojo instead held a muted expression, as if almost amused. Looking upon it, Satoru felt like a child once more who had to crane his neck to see his mother, the enormity in their age and experience creating such a divide. At last, she sighed. “Then so be it. Your life is yours to live, and your principles are your own to develop. I can only help but worry for you.” However, her expression turned sharp. “But I do not approve of the way you and Miss Itadori have completely cut ties. Do apologize, I cannot face her mother after your petulant actions.”

Satoru could protest further, but he had realized that he had been relieved of the many scoldings he was sure were going to fall onto him. Acquiescing, he bowed his head. “Whatever you say, Mother.”

Naturally, when the ton arrives, the Geto manor’s gardens are bustling with noble gentlemen and ladies resting idyllically under both the pavilions and their sunshades. Most of the youths are standing near the refreshments, eager to chance a conversation with potential matches, or, like you, resting with their families.

Shaded from the glaring heat of the sun, you sip your tea, sighing in contentment at its taste. No matter what your complaints were, you could not deny that the Geto Manor was beautiful and lavish. Attendants fluttered between the guests, offering any pastries or refreshments, and the gardens were plentiful in green grass and beautiful flowers. The architecture was truly a marvel to look at, and the manor great in size.

You jokingly thought that if your courtship with Duke Nanami were to fail, Lord Geto would not be a terrible second option.

“The view here is splendid, is it not my dear?” Your mother echoed your thoughts, taking a bit of pastry into her hands.

You watched as she bit into it, and the shade of a satisfied look crossed over her face. “I wholeheartedly agree, Mama. The weather, too, makes it a lovely day.”

You and your mama had not truly talked. With Sukuna’s overbearing presence—and tendency to intrude into conversation he did not like the topic of—you and your mama had been rendered silent, the much needed conversation between you two tabled. However, after such a long day of travels to the Geto Manor, it seemed that all your brothers were winded; currently, all three of them were slumbering or winding down in their respective rooms. Neither you or your mama protested in the slightest when they had expressed their inclinations.

Without the boys, lazing in the garden and observing others felt less overbearing, for it was lacking of Sukun’s perpetual, acute stare on you. In the silence, both of you observed the flurry of conversation around the both of you. 

Before you could converse on any unaddressed topic amongst the both of you, there came sounds of graceful steps behind you. “If it isn’t Miss Itadori!”

You turn, to face Duchess Gojo and both you and your mama stand up. Curtsying, you respond, “Your Grace.”

“How is the season, my dear?” She makes herself at home, pulling a chair, which confuses you. You would understand sharing a few words as courtesy with you and your mama, but after the whole affair at the Gojo house party, you would assume her no longer interested, or at the very least, that she would avert any possible conversations with you. Instead, she seems enthusiastic in seeking out your presence.

"It is all good and well, Your Grace," you bow your head and smile at her.

"Good, good," she sighs and then pointedly looks at you. "I do want to apologize, my dear, for what happened at Kent. It was a surprise to me and you, I assure you," she sighs, her lips pursed in disapproval at the memory.

Your smile is a bit strained, and you fear to look at your mama’s countenance. "No worries, Your Grace. Not all pairs are suitable matches, but I do wish well for Lord Gojo's future and that he succeeds in finding another match that suits him better."

You can't help but think that Duchess Gojo looks a bit dejected at your response. She smiles ruefully and lets out a sigh while picking up her teacup with her pinky. 

You all spend some time in silence, for, after all, what more do you have to converse upon? Even your mama and Duchess Gojo could not delve and gossip on your pairing with Gojo, for it was no longer a pairing. However, if you were to leave, Duchess Gojo and your mama could find steady company in other gossiping matters that surely circulated amongst each other. 

Tired with the uncomfortable environment, you quickly found a reprieve. "I find myself quite parched. If you'll excuse me---"

"No worries, my dear," Duchess Gojo waves her hand, and you cannot help but think her expression mischievous. "The boys are there, and they'll fetch one for you. Then, in the general direction of the refreshments, she calls out, "Would one of you dears please fetch Miss Itadori here some water?" 

The boys?

Slowly, you turn toward the refreshments table. There, amid crystal decanters and glinting glass, stood three towering, unmistakable figures: Duke Nanami, Lord Geto, and—most arrestingly—Lord Gojo.

They had only just arrived, it seemed. The typical flurry of debutantes and dowagers had not yet descended upon them, leaving the trio in a rare moment of unbothered conversation. At Duchess Gojo’s call, all three turned their heads. Two reached instinctively for a glass of water at once.

Your eyes found him instantly. Gojo’s hand hesitated mid-air, his fingers brushing the rim of the glass just as Duke Nanami's touched it too. For a moment, neither man yielded. Then Gojo, blinking as if suddenly aware of himself, withdrew his hand with a smile so swift and unreadable it might have passed unnoticed. Nanami took the glass.

It was an exchange so small that anyone else might have missed it. But you did not. And the inexplicable flutter in your chest made you glance away, determinedly occupying yourself with the steam curling from your tea.

Duke Nanami arrived a moment later, offering you the drink with a courteous nod. “My lady.”

"Why don't the three of you keep us some company?" Your mama invites him. 

"Of course." He then beckons Lord Gojo and Geto, and you cannot help but think Lord Gojo a bit too casual in agreeing to sit near you. Any exchange with him was bound to tread precarious ground—even if, lately, that ground had proven less treacherous than imagined.

“Did you all just arrive?” The way Duchess Gojo glanced over the three—and scarcely glanced at Gojo—made you wonder if any quarrels had erupted between the two.

"Yes." It is Lord Geto who replies, one leg over the other and reclined in his seat. You couldn't help but think him very relaxed for a host. To your side sits Duke Nanami, with Geto right next to him and Gojo exactly opposite from you. "However, Gojo here had taken his fine time getting ready.”

Gojo clears his throat, the sound soft but pointed, but not before shooting Lord Geto a glare, and the display reminds you of how deep their friendship ran. He turned back then, but had not fully done so before catching your eye.

There was a flicker of something—too fleeting to name—before he schooled his expression. “I simply wished to arrive at my most presentable. It would be terribly rude to do otherwise, would it not?”

“Indeed,” Duke Nanami dryly replied.

Now that Nanami was here, your mother turned to him with interest, watching him carefully. “I hope the passage here was not too tiring, Your Grace?”

“It was not. The route was quite scenic, and I enjoyed conversing with my mother,” Nanami responds.

Your mama smiles at him, satisfied. “It is very kind of you to be so caring towards your mother,” she sighs. “She must get lonely, at times, being a widow.”

He nods. Your gaze wanders from him, to the person sitting across from you; you startle to see Gojo’s eyes already on you. You both avert your eyes back to Nanami. “Mother is social, she makes do.”

“It must be so hard after the death of your father for you to handle the dukedom,” she coos. The promise of gleaning wealth—for you, but consequently for her—really candies her word and tone.

However, Nanami, ever the humble gentleman, bows his head. “I simply do the duty the title bestowed upon me requires.”

Your mama hums sweetly, as if in understanding. “Oh, but you must have even more affairs to handle after the great sum of land I heard you bought in the Americas.”

Silently, you gape at her. You understand her enthusiasm, for Nanami is the one courting you and the ton is abuzz with rumors of his proposal. However, you are uneasy about how guileless her words are. Duke Nanami, however, seems unfazed. “It was indeed a good deal.”

Then, another voice speaks up. “Indeed. Father had bought quite a lot of sum from it, as well, after I had advised him to.” You all turn, to find Gojo lazed back in his chair; you noticed, however, his leg was shaking minutely beneath the table. “Any deal in the Americas has great probability of being con work, but my insight had told me that it would not be such a bad idea for the land we invested in.”

Nanami agrees. “I had only bought it after Gojo had recommended it to me.”

You couldn’t help yourself. “How wise of you, Lord Gojo. Perhaps you should consider politics.” Once all the stares turned to you, you bit your tongue, vexed at yourself for speaking out.

Gojo, particularly, stared at you, until a barely-there smile began to play at his lips. “God forbid. I’ve enough headaches managing my father's estate. Though, should the House ever require a charming distraction, I’m happy to volunteer.”

You can’t bite back your smile anymore, either. “So long as the House is in need of charm and not actual solutions.”

Geto barks out a laugh, and Nanami hides his chuckle with a cough. You feel Gojo’s eyes on you, and Gojo replies, with a trace of amusement in his tone, “Ah, but charm is a solution. To many things.”

“Mostly to boredom,” Geto voices, watching the conversation with interest.

“And don’t we all suffer so,” Gojo dryly remarks.

Upon this exchange, your mother interrupts, turning her gaze to Nanami once more. “Still, I imagine such responsibilities weigh heavily,” she sighs, as if forlorn. “Perhaps it’s why so many in your station choose to settle down early, to share the burden.”

Once more, he has the perfect answer. “I would argue partnership brings clarity to duty, not escape from it.”

Your mama practically glowed. She turned to you as though Nanami had just recited scripture, and you gave her a small, warning look that she did not heed in the slightest.

"How beautifully put," she sighed. "And so true. I imagine a man of your station has no shortage of responsibilities. The dukedom, the estates, the tenants—"

"And Parliament," Nanami added, with his usual quiet precision. "Though I confess I find the agricultural matters most rewarding. There is something grounding in knowing your land well."

Your mama clasped her hands together as though he had composed a sonnet. "Oh, how admirable! Don't you think so, dear?"

"Very admirable," you agreed, because it was, and you doubt agriculture was a quarrelsome topic.

"I have recently taken an interest in crop rotation, actually," Nanami continued, speaking to your mama but including you with a courteous tilt of his head. "There are new methods coming from the Continent that I believe—"

"I've implemented those."

The table turned to Gojo.

He was sitting with one arm draped over the back of his chair, the picture of nonchalance, as though the words had simply wandered out of him without his permission. When the silence prompted him to continue, he gave a mild shrug.

"The four-field system. I introduced it on the northern estate last spring. Yields were up by a considerable margin." He examined his teacup with an air of studied disinterest. "I could send you my steward's notes, Nanami, if you'd like."

Nanami regarded him evenly. "That would be appreciated."

"Of course." Gojo took a sip of his tea. Then, as though it were an afterthought: "We've also begun drainage improvements on the eastern marshland. Father thought it a waste, but the surveyor's projections were rather compelling. I oversaw the plans myself."

"How industrious of you," Duchess Gojo remarked, in a tone that suggested she had never once seen her son oversee so much as a breakfast tray.

"I have hidden depths, Mother."

You pressed your lips together very hard.

Your mama, undeterred, steered the ship back to Nanami. "And your home in the country, Your Grace—I hear it is magnificent. How many rooms, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I have never counted them," Nanami admitted, with what you suspected was deliberate modesty.

"Forty-seven," Gojo supplied, as if plucking the number from thin air. Then, just as casually: "Ours has sixty-two, but who's counting?"

He caught your eye, and to his credit, had the decency to look only slightly pleased with himself. You raised a brow at him. He responded by raising his teacup, as though toasting you.

"Lord Gojo," you said, keeping your voice light, "I did not realize you took such careful inventory of your peers' homes."

"I take careful inventory of everything, Miss Itadori. It is a point of pride."

"Is it also a point of pride to announce it at tea?"

Geto made a sound into his cup that he poorly disguised as a cough.

"Only when the company is worth impressing."

"Then you must be terribly selective about your tea parties."

"Extremely. I attend only the finest."

"And yet you were late to this one."

"Fashionably," he corrected, raising a finger.

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"It is what I am calling it, and I am a lord, so it becomes fact."

"I don't think that is how facts work."

"And I don't think you should concern yourself with how lords work, Miss Itadori, and yet here we are." His eyes were bright, and the smile that played about his mouth was no longer the performative one he wore for ballrooms. It was smaller, more crooked, and entirely directed at you.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep your own smile from growing any wider, and somewhere between his absurdity and your inability to stop engaging with it, you became aware of the silence around you.

Your mama was staring. Not displeased, exactly, but certainly bewildered, as though she had opened a door expecting a broom closet and found a ballroom. Duchess Gojo had set down her teacup entirely and was watching the two of you with an expression of poorly concealed interest.

Nanami's face, as ever, revealed nothing. He sipped his tea with the composure of a man who had watched the weather change and found it unremarkable.

But beside him Geto's gaze slid toward Nanami. It was not a look anyone at the table could have caught, angled as it was, low and sidelong, carrying the particular weight of a question that could not be asked aloud.

Nanami did not turn his head. But after a moment, almost imperceptibly, he set his teacup down a fraction harder than necessary.

Geto looked away. The answer, it seemed, had been received.

"Well," your mama said, rallying herself with the determination of a general regrouping after an unexpected flank, "I do believe the orchestra is beginning the next set. How lovely."

"Indeed," Duchess Gojo murmured, though she was not looking at the orchestra at all.

The dining hall is blanketed in the warmth of candlelight and a tune is playing on the piano, accompanied with the sound of cutlery and low, soft conversations. This, paired with the cooler air seeping in from the night sky, sets up a comfortable atmosphere as you dine with your mother and brothers, who finally woke from their slumber or whatever else they were during their rest.

“The wine is quite good,” Choso murmurs. It is his second glass. You notice your brother seems a bit more anxious than usual, with his leg shaking anxiously; you presume it restlessness from sleeping an obscene amount in the day.

Sukuna snorts, ever derisive. “If you believe this to be good, you would go mad after tasting some of the drinks in the wineries in France.”

“A man goes to Europe once and never ceases to talk about it,” you murmur bitterly, but everyone on the table hears you; an uncomfortable silence fills the air.

The man in question interrupts, anger hardly concealed. “I, at the very least, am touring and exploring the world instead of endeavoring to fall into the arms of a man who has humiliated me.” Sukuna did not mince his words—-the both of you had not reconciled ever since leaving the art gallery. 

Pinching your brow, and procuring all the patience you had, you lowly bit out, “Must you be like this? Right now, when we are on a stay?”

He clenched his jaw. “I could ask that of you as well, Sister.”

“Oh, simmer down you two,” your mother impatiently scoffs, interrupting your squabble. The both of you, brother and sister, hmmphed, arms crossed identically. “We are not in our home. It would suit you both well to behave accordingly.”

Thus, silence fell as you all continued dining, save for the occasional sound of pleasure from Yuji at the victuals—the Geto Manor had fine chefs indeed. You almost started to believe the rest of the dinner would go easily, until your mother interrupted once more. “How do you perceive Duke Nanami’s attentions?”

Ah, she’s started to demand answers. “I suppose he is in due order to propose.” You make no mention of the fact that he already—in some sense—had.

She hums, the sound not exactly pleased but rather indicating that the news was moderately satisfactory. “And why do you suppose so?”

You pause. “He has spent quite some time with me at balls as of late, after Lord Gojo had broken off our courtship.”

At the mention of Gojo, there are varying reactions across the table: Sukuna comes to attention, and, consequently, so does Choso. Yuji continues feasting vulgarly, paying no attention to the conversation, while your mother asks, “I did mean to ask you, dear. Today, you and Lord Gojo seemed agreeable; is a match with Lord Gojo truly out of the question?”

A tense but loaded silence ensues and you feel your heart bumping faster, a strange feeling swelling up your throat. In the end, however, you cannot muster a response, to which Sukuna retaliates against. “Sister, you cannot be serious.”

“What? I had yet to answer Mama and still you come at me with such fervor! Patience is a virtu—”

“I’m tired of your antics!” Sukuna says, loudly, to which your mother sends him a pointed look, displeasure painted all over her countenance. He presses his lips together and, in a pained effort, takes a great sigh and continues in a lowered voice, “Lord Gojo has embarrassed you, Sister. It would do you well to forget that man. I do not know why, after I have re-iterated my opinion multiple times, you still yearn for that man in such a foolish manner.”

At this fortuitous time, Yuji decides to cease feeding on the meat and chimes in. “But, Brother, the lord is quite fit! I think you would find pleasure in sporting with him. I believe that, for once, Sister had made the right choice.”

“Fit,” Sukuna repeats through gritted teeth. “You would have our sister wed a man based on his physique?”

“Well, not, not quite—”

“Enough, Yuji. If I were you I would cease speaking immediately,” Choso sighs, though not unkindly. Your brother wilts, returning to his plate and cutting through a piece of lamb rather gloomily.

But the damage is done. Sukuna's gaze has not left you, and you feel it like a brand against the side of your face. You busy yourself with your wine glass, turning the stem between your fingers, but the silence stretches too thin, too taut, and it is Choso who breaks the silence.

“Sister,” Choso says, in a careful manner. His voice and its cadence seem to tread lightly, as if trying very hard not to be cruel. “You hesitated.”

“I beg your pardon?”

"When Mama asked if Lord Gojo was out of the question. You did not say yes." He is not accusatory in the way Sukuna is. 

“It is settled.”

“Then why did you not say so?”

The table, all of a sudden, feels smaller. The background noises, which were previously surrounding you comfortably, seem to be quieter than ever. You set your glass down,  one you did not even realize were taking a sip out of nervously. The wine dips and crests over the rim, staining the white tablecloth. “I apologize if my response did not come as swiftly as to your exacting standards.”

"Do not deflect," Sukuna cuts in, leaning forward, and you can see the restraint your mother's earlier reprimand bought him is now spent entirely. "He asks you a direct question and you dance around it as you always do. You are still thinking of him. Admit it."

“I am not—”

 "You are." Sukuna's voice drops, and the quietness of it is worse than his shouting. "I watched you today, at the gallery. The way you looked at him. The way you spoke to him—as though nothing had transpired between you, as though he had not cast you aside like some common—"

"Sukuna." Your mother's voice is iron now, a warning forged in steel.

He stops. But only just. His jaw works, teeth grinding behind closed lips, and his eyes—your eyes, your same eyes, the ones you share by blood—burn with a fury that you know, deep down, is born not of contempt but of something far more tender. He is angry because he loves you.

And you cannot even tell him he is wrong.

"Yuji is not entirely without sense," you say quietly, and you do not know why you say it. Perhaps it is spite. Perhaps it is exhaustion. Perhaps it is simply the truth, clawing its way out of you against your will. "Lord Gojo is not—he is not what you paint him to be. He was kind to me. Genuinely kind. And I do not think it unreasonable to—"

"To what?" Sukuna's composure shatters. He rises slightly from his seat, napkin falling from his lap, and your mother reaches for his arm but he shakes her off. "To go crawling back? To let him toy with you a second time? You are a daughter of this house. You are my sister. And I will not sit idle while you throw yourself at the feet of a man who has already proven he does not value you as he ought."

The words land like a slap. But they are not untrue.

Your throat tightens. The room blurs at its edges, and you realize with a swell of horror that your eyes are hot, that if you remain at this table a moment longer you will cry in front of all of them, and that is something your pride, battered and bruised as it is, will not survive.

You stand. Your chair scrapes against the floor with an ugly sound that cuts through the piano's melody.

"Sister—" Choso starts.

"I find I have lost my appetite," you say. Your voice is steady, but your hands are not. You press them flat against your skirts to still them. "If you will excuse me."

"Sit down," your mother says, but it is more tired than commanding, and you pretend not to hear.

"Sis, I didn't mean to—" Yuji begins, eyes wide and stricken with guilt, as though he understands that his well-meaning comment was the spark that set the powder alight.

"It is alright, Yuji. Enjoy your meal." You touch his shoulder as you pass and you do not look at Sukuna. 

You walk from the dining hall with your back straight and your chin raised, and it is only when you have turned the corner, when the warmth of candlelight gives way to the cooler dark of the corridor, that your composure fractures. You press your back against the wall, the stone cold through the fabric of your dress, and you breathe—once, twice—willing the sting behind your eyes to retreat.

From the dining hall, muffled but unmistakable, you hear your mother's voice: "Are you satisfied now?"

And Sukuna's reply, quieter than you have ever heard him: "She needed to hear it."

The smell of jasmine and dusty books wafts through the air as bookshelves surround you. It seems to be a recurring manner of yours to be going to your host’s libraries as you take a book from the shelves.

You wander through the shelves and, with the corner of your eye, notice a book Sukuna had mentioned once. Despite your current animosity at the man, you go and grab the copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho, the spine slightly cracked and weathered at the edges.

The dust simmers in the air, almost sparking through the moonlight peeking in. You settle down on a reading chair, with a candle lamp burning fragrantly. For the first time this evening, your shoulders loosen and you thumb the pages of the book.

Suddenly, you hear the shuffle of footsteps walking slowly towards your direction. You are much too wearied from the course of events of the evening, however, to be truly alarmed. Instead, you continue reading from The Mysteries of Udolpho in the hopes that the impending intruder passes you by. 

You turn a page. Emily is now alone in a castle she did not choose with people whose intention she cannot parse.

The sound gets closer and closer. It stops. Then a “Miss Itadori, I didn’t know you had such a palate for terror.”

You look up to see a somber yet teasing Lord Gojo standing at the edge of the bookshelf, half in moonlight and half in shadow, his cravat loosened just slightly—as though he, too, had been slowly shedding the evening.

prev. the art gallery | next. soon!

general masterlist | series masterlist

a/n sooo....ahahah hi guyhs :3 being a uni student is so hard and had me busier than expected :( however i am j*bless this summer so i will be writing more and (hopefully) finishing the bridgerton series. i missed you all so much and i was really really missing writing and being a whole human being w hobbies. that being said i do have an exciting update!!!!

soooo i'm thinking of starting commissions/some paid membership stuff/a ko-fi. i am a broke college student and i think if anyone with a big heart (and wallet) would love to support me and my writing, i would soso appreciative.

i plan on offering "membership" tiers. i.e. those who join as members would get my writing 1-2 weeks to a month before it gets posted on here. i also plan on having exclusive content solely released to those who are members as well as more say on what i get to write next. let me know what you guys think! i don't plan on posting any differently on my main tho, just more perks for anyone who chooses to support me :3

that being said if u r broke i hear u so relatable i love u still. i will make sure you are not starved for content <3

ok anyways will be answering asks and posting more on what i'm writing / prioritizing on the feed. keep an eye for my ko-fi and thank you to ml mr.pati @herfudanshipati for beta-reading this chapter :333

choso in the carriage ride back

no more to say keep an eye on the updates. i missed you guys so much and am so excited to read the reblogs and comments and asks teeeheee

reblog and comment to lmk your thoughts!

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Gentle Reader,

It seems that the next excursion polite society will be undertaking is at the art gallery, here in London itself. Filled with beautiful and evoking pieces, will it evoke affections and fuel potential matches? After all, it seems that the venue contains many hidden alcoves and hallways for potential confessions and intimate colloquies—so intimate that they are proposals.

One of these proposals this Author cannot help but speculate upon—that of Miss Itadori and Duke Nanami’s. After all, at every ball the fine lady and gentleman seem to be engaged in personal and amiable conversation; it appears clear to everyone in their surroundings that our season’s diamond has captured His Grace’s affections. But, dear reader, is this to amount to a future with wedding bells and blushing babes? Only time will tell; for now, your Author has no promises. After all, it seems that this season is sure to contain many surprises at every turn.

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow across your bedroom. The scent of lavender lingered in the air, likely from the sachet Nobara had insisted on tucking into your dresser to “keep you from smelling like an old book.” She stood behind you now, deft hands working through your hair with practiced ease, twisting locks into an elegant style fit for the day’s engagements.

“I came across something interesting in my brother’s study last night,” Nobara said conversationally, sliding a pin into place. “A rather compelling critique on the landowning gentry—Reflections on the Inequity of Titles—have you read it?”

Your attention perked at the mention of the text. “Yes,” you said, your brows knitting as you searched your memory. “It argues against inherited privilege and the consolidation of power within a select few, does it not? I recall making notes on it.”

As you spoke, you shifted slightly in your seat, the urge to review your thoughts overtaking you. Almost without thinking, your hand reached toward the hidden compartment in the floorboards—a small, carefully loosened plank where you kept your private writings. Your commonplace diary contained notes on radical philosophies you could never openly share, and even—if you were to be honest with yourself—a few stray reflections on Gojo (before it all went askew) that you had not yet had the courage to confront.

While you rummaged through the possible planks to find the hollow one, Nobara remarked, “There have been whispers of you among the maids, as well.”

You paused, turning to look at her fully as she twiddled with the ends of your comb. “Well, what do they say?”

She paused for a brief moment, as if weighing the effect her words could have on you. However, your closest companion was not one to mince words—especially if they would end up as beneficial for you, no matter how harsh. “That you’ve recovered from Lord Gojo quite well, and that you as a duchess is on the horizon—not as Mrs. Gojo, but Mrs. Nanami.”

Oh. This was not the least bit surprising—even your mama had heard these rumors. Part of you was concerned as to how your mother had gotten ahold of these whispers, given that Sukuna had long forbade her to attend balls with you after her last…episode, but it seemed that your mama had jaundiced channels of retrieving information herself. That, or the Whistledown had reported on it, which you would be ignorant to, for you did not care for gossip lately.

You wave a hand, and soon find the hollow space in your floorboards. “Those rumors may be all just hearsay soon enough, I suppose.” Then, you pull the floorboard where your diary is supposed to reside. “After all, Christ knows my luck with the creatures called men—”

Your fingers brushed against empty space.

Your breath caught.

The floorboard was there. The hollow beneath it remained. But your diary—your most guarded possession—was gone.

A sharp jolt of panic shot through you. You froze, your heartbeat thundering in your ears as your stomach twisted. No, no—perhaps you had misplaced it? You tried to recall, but the memory eluded you, replaced by a rising dread that gripped your chest in an iron vice.

The last you remember of it was packing it so that you could take it to the Gojo manor. Did you use it there? You did. If you recall correctly, you had done so in Nobara’s company, where you were secretly observing Gojo’s show of archery to Yuji on the balcony. After that, it was all a blur.

“Everything alright?” Nobara asked, tugging your hair slightly as she adjusted the style.

You barely heard her, your hands still hovering near the empty space as if willing the book to reappear. You wracked your brain carefully, trying to will in a memory where you had, in fact, succeeded to retrieve it from the Gojo countryside residence. A moment where you had packed it or a recollection of picking it up from the balcony—

Just as your thoughts began to spiral, the door burst open.

“Oi Sister, are you ready yet?” Yuji’s voice rang through the room, cutting through your panic. He leaned against the doorway with a lazy grin, arms crossed over his chest. “You do know we have to pay a visit to the art gallery today, correct?”

You barely had time to compose yourself, forcing a steady breath as you pulled your hand away from the floor. Nobara swatted at Yuji with a hairbrush, scolding him for his lack of manners, but you could hardly focus on their banter.

Your diary was missing.

And someone had taken it.

The art gallery was abuzz with the murmurs of the ton, the usual symphony of rustling silk, polite laughter, and the occasional overzealous exclamation from an admirer who fancied themselves an aesthete. Candles flickered in their sconces, casting a warm, golden light over the oil paintings that lined the walls—portraits of long-dead nobility, pastoral scenes meant to evoke longing for a simpler time, and a few ambitious attempts at allegory that left much to be desired.

As you walked hand in hand with Nanami, the weight of his palm in yours both familiar and grounding, your mind wandered elsewhere—back to the morning, to the jolt of panic that had seized you when you realized your diary was missing.

It had been a frantic affair. Nobara had barely twisted the last pin into your hair when you had rushed to the hidden space beneath the floorboards, expecting to feel the familiar worn leather beneath your fingertips. But it was gone. The shock of it had knocked the breath from your lungs, sent your thoughts scattering into a storm of fragmented memories—where had you last seen it? Had you truly packed it? No, you had taken it with you to the Gojo estate, that much you knew. But had you brought it back? The certainty evaded you, slipping through your grasp like water.

Before you could dwell further, Yuji had appeared in the doorway, cheerfully oblivious to your distress as he urged you to hurry. 

Choso had been more perceptive, his dark eyes lingering on your face as the four of you were ushered into the carriage. "Something wrong?" he had asked, quiet and measured.

You had shaken your head. What were you to say? That your diary—your most personal possession, filled with your thoughts, your observations, your private musings—had vanished into thin air? That the last place you remembered having it was the very home of the man who vexed you most? The thought alone had made your stomach twist. So instead, you had murmured some excuse about being distracted, about having not yet woken fully, and let the conversation drift elsewhere as the carriage rattled down the cobbled streets toward the gallery.

Now, standing in the midst of polite society, surrounded by paintings and candlelight and the low hum of cultured voices, the unease still clung to you.

"It is a fine collection," Nanami remarked beside you, his gaze sweeping over a landscape of rolling hills. "Though I must say, the artist’s depiction of light is rather conventional. There is no true feeling to it, only a replication of what is expected."

You nodded, your agreement automatic. "Indeed. It lacks a certain… depth. The brushwork is delicate, but there is no challenge in it, no provocation of thought."

Nanami hummed in approval. "Precisely."

The conversation continued in this fashion—pleasant, agreeable, effortless. But with each passing moment, a strange disquiet settled over you. Your mind drifted, not toward the paintings, nor to the man at your side, but to something far removed from this genteel setting.

The diary.

You had searched again this morning before leaving, hands trembling as you sifted through your belongings, the panic curling in your stomach like a tightening noose. Yet it was not there. No matter how many times you retraced your steps, no matter how much you willed the memory to sharpen, the last certain recollection you had was of the Gojo estate—of the evening spent watching Satoru’s archery from the balcony, of penning your thoughts in the quiet company of Nobara. And after that? Nothing.

Had you left it behind? Had someone found it?

A fresh wave of unease coursed through you. If it had been discovered, if its contents had been read—

"Are you feeling unwell?"

Nanami’s voice pulled you back to the present. You turned to him, startled, and realized belatedly that you had grown silent. His brow was slightly furrowed, his concern subtle yet unmistakable.

"I—no," you hastily assured him, forcing a small smile. "Merely lost in thought, Your Grace."

His gaze lingered, as if gauging the truth of your words, before he continued, seemingly appeased. "I was saying," he began, as the two of you came to a stop before a grand painting of a woman reading by candlelight, "that I should like to spend my life in such quiet appreciation of art and literature. With a loving wife, of course, who shares the same sensibilities."

The words were spoken casually, but the weight of them struck you like a blow. You stiffened, the meaning settling into place a second too late.

“It is time the Nanami dukedom get its duchess,” he continues, seeming to pay no mind to how you’ve frozen like a deer hunted. He turns to you, looking to you with a twinkle in his eyes, one you could not read. “And I seem to have found a very…capable option.”

“I see,” you force out, swallowing nervously. 

“Indeed.” For a beat too long, Duke Nanami looks at you, but then says, “And I would suppose I’ve done my utmost to show what a dutiful, respectful husband I can be—after all, it is freedom that makes one prosper, not a gilded cage. 

"Furthermore, I have my fancy on someone who fits this description," he continued, his tone carefully measured. "But I am unsure if she would accept my proposal." He glanced at you then, his gaze steady. "Do you think she would?"

The air seemed to thin around you.

It would take a fool to miss what His Grace was implying—hand in hand, after you’ve both been courting each other for a week or so now, it is quite clear he’s using this to test the waters. To gauge your reaction.

The air in the gallery suddenly felt too thick, too heavy, pressing in from all sides. You had been aware, on some distant level, of Nanami’s affections. He had always been steady, always constant, always present. But to hear it spoken so plainly, so deliberately—it sent a sharp, startling panic through you.

Your thoughts scrambled, grasping for something—anything—to say. Did you want this? He was everything a woman could ask for in a husband. Kind. Thoughtful. Intelligent. A man of great integrity. There was nothing about him that should make you hesitate.

And yet, you were hesitating.

"I think…" Your voice was too thin, too unsteady. "I think she would have to ponder upon it. For marriage is no small covenant."

It was a poor deflection, and you knew it the moment the words left your lips. Nanami’s expression remained composed, but there was something in the silence that followed—something in the way his gaze lingered on you, as if seeing past your carefully chosen words.

You needed to leave.

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" you blurted out, taking a half-step back. "I—I believe I should like to get some air."

Nanami studied you for a fraction too long before inclining his head. "Of course."

You curtsied hastily, turning away before he could say anything else. The moment you stepped away from him, your breath came out in a shallow, uneven exhale. Marble walls, floors, and ornately framed pieces of art blurred together, dresses and suits melding together in the edges of your vision. 

You didn’t know why this reaction had seized you so violently, only that it had. And you had no answer for it. You stumbled your way, heart pounding as you sought a respite—then, pinpointing an empty hallway. 

As you made your way to the target space, you heard other voices calling out to you—some of them might even be your brothers’. However, you were in no headspace to offer coherence responses, not over the beating of your heart. 

When you finally arrived, you were relieved to find that the hallway was blissfully quiet. Away from the bustling crowd and the low hum of conversation, you finally allowed yourself to exhale, pressing a cool hand to your neck as if that alone could soothe the rapid beat of your pulse.

Nanami’s words still lingered in your mind, coiling around your thoughts like a vice. Do you think she will accept?

Your breath had caught before you could form a proper response. You should have expected it—Nanami was nothing if not deliberate, never speaking without intent—but somehow, the weight of it still unsettled you. It had been a question and yet not a question at all.

A proposal loomed on the horizon.

You turned, gaze sweeping the dimly lit corridor until it landed on a single painting near the end of the hall.

Unlike the grand, gilded masterpieces displayed in the main gallery, this one had been tucked away from the grandeur. It lacked the polish of a commissioned work, the smooth elegance of a court-approved artist. And yet, something about it pulled you in.

Your fingers skimmed over the folds of your gown as you steadied yourself, gaze flicking upward to the painting before you. It was unlike the others in the exhibition—less grand in scale, less ostentatious in its display of wealth or pedigree. There were no poised noblewomen adorned in lace, no battlefields drenched in glory, no sweeping landscapes inviting idle admiration. Instead, it was a quiet tableau: a man standing beneath a twilight sky, arm outstretched toward a woman who stood just beyond his reach. Her posture was composed, her hands clasped before her, the tilt of her chin ever so slightly downward. She was not running, not spurning him—but she was not reaching back either.

Your brow furrowed as you studied it further. It was not a painting that offered easy interpretation. Was it longing? Was it duty? Was it loss? The artist had chosen to render their expressions in subtlety, eschewing exaggerated pathos for something far more ambiguous. The man was reaching—but did he truly expect to grasp her hand? The woman was still—but did she wish to be? The tension between them sat heavy in the air, much like the one that had lingered in your own chest ever since—

Before you could ponder upon the painting for long, however, you heard footsteps. Approaching in the hallway, they echoed softly in quiet chamber—after all, it was only you and the person who was approaching, seeming to need a reprieve of their own as well in the hidden alcove. 

But you didn’t need to see the person to know who he was.

Soft, unhurried, yet a bit shaken. By now, you had grown familiar with the rhythm of his gait—the lazy confidence in his stride, the way his heels struck the floor just a bit too deliberately, as if he never truly moved without purpose, even when he pretended otherwise. Right now, they were a little bit too arrhythmical to truly match the attitude you were far too familiar with at the beginning of the season.

A prickle of awareness traced along your spine, your pulse betraying you with its quickened tempo. But you kept your eyes fixed forward, feigning complete absorption in the painting before you. It was not as if you were eager for company—not after the morning’s ordeal, not after Nanami’s near-proposal, not when your mind was already tangled enough without the added complication of Gojo Satoru.

Yet he did not call your name, nor did he demand your attention. He merely came to stand beside you, hands clasped lazily behind his back, exhaling softly as he, too, observed the artwork.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, with the same easy lilt he always carried, Gojo remarked, “This is quite the departure from the usual fare.”

You nodded, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your gloves. “Indeed.”

Silence stretched between you once more. He did not press you for further conversation, and for that, you were strangely grateful. It was unlike him, really—so rarely was he subdued, so rarely did he refrain from prodding and teasing and making his presence unbearably known. But here, in this dim-lit corridor, he was simply… standing beside you.

A quiet hum. The faintest shift of weight. You could feel him looking at you now, though you refused to meet his gaze, instead fixing your gaze on the painting, the frame, anything almost desperately to calm your racing heart before you could have an over-the-top ebullition once more, embarrassing yourself in front of him for the nth time this season. 

A brief silence settled, and then—

“Are you enjoying the gallery?”

The question was polite, normal, and unremarkable. You latched onto it like a lifeline.

“It’s a fine collection,” you replied, keeping your voice carefully measured. “Some works are predictable, but others are…” You gestured vaguely toward the piece in front of you. “Surprising.”

Gojo hummed in agreement, stepping closer—not intrusively, but just enough that you could catch the scent of tobacco leaves and something subtly sweet. “That’s one way to put it. Though I have to say, you look like you’re concentrating awfully hard.”

You blinked, glancing at him briefly before looking back at the painting. “It’s a rather curious piece.”

“That it is,” he agreed, hands tucked behind his back as he regarded it. “But, like I said, a bit dreary. The colors are not vibrant, and there is much to be desired in regards to their harmony.”

You almost smiled at that. “Not everything has to be grand and gilded to have meaning.”

“A fair point.”

Another pause.

“You came with your brothers, didn’t you?” he asked.

“I did,” you said, grateful for the change in topic. “They were speaking with some friends when I last saw them. And you?”

“Oh, you know how it is.” He waved a hand. “Came with Geto, ended up being dragged into conversation with half the room.”

You nodded, the corners of your lips tugging upward just slightly. “A best friend’s love, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.”

A comfortable silence fell over the both of you. At the opportunity given to you—of not having to fill the silence courteously with further small talk—you instead set aim on settling your heart. Pressing a hand to your bosom, you took in deep breaths until your frantic pulse became more regular. 

Finally, he spoke again. “It is rather unusual, though.”

You inhaled slowly. “How so?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Most paintings of this sort would either commit fully to tragedy or leave some feeble hope within the composition. But this—” He gestured lightly. “There is no resolution. No grand confession, no dramatic refusal. It simply is.”

You found yourself exhaling, your posture easing ever so slightly. “That is precisely what intrigues me.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “So we agree.”

You huffed softly. “A rare occurrence, indeed.”

Gojo chuckled at that, shifting his weight as he observed the painting anew. “Still,” he mused, “I do think the artist intends for us to sympathize with the man. See how he reaches? How he refuses to yield to their distance? A weaker man might call it tragic.”

Your brow arched slightly, turning your gaze toward him. “And what would a stronger man call it?”

Gojo hummed. “Hopeful.”

You studied him for a moment. Then, returning your attention to the painting, you shook your head. “I disagree.”

“Of course you do.”

“The woman is not simply distant—she is removed,” you continued, ignoring the teasing—softer than the one you recognize—edge to his voice. “She does not reach back, not because she is afraid or reluctant, but because she cannot. She is bound by something greater than yearning.”

Gojo exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression flickering with amusement. “You think it is duty, then?”

“What else could it be?”

His gaze lingered on the canvas, his smile fading just slightly. “Perhaps love.”

Something in your chest stilled.

Gojo let the words settle, slow and deliberate, before finally turning to face you fully. The candlelight cast his features in soft relief, catching on the silver embroidery of his waistcoat, the pale strands of his hair, the unmistakable glint in his eyes. “I find it rather grim—albeit in a different direction than of yours,” he remarked. “Rather than fear of what she cannot, it is better that love and duty do not coexist, for their amalgam can prove troublesome.”

You parted your lips, but hesitation stilled your tongue. Not because you lacked an answer, but because—for all your certainty earlier—you were no longer so sure.

A moment passed.

Finally, you exhaled, your posture softening by a fraction. “Perhaps,” you said, voice even, “we are simply of different minds.”

Gojo studied you for a beat longer before a slow, knowing smile curled at the corner of his lips. He inclined his head ever so slightly. “As we so often are.”

It was not a challenge. Not a victory.

Merely an understanding.

As you stood there, the conversation settling between you, you found yourself thinking—not just of the painting, not just of duty and love, but of him. Of what he had done for you. Of how, despite everything—despite his arrogance, his sharp tongue, the way he had needled and provoked you, the way he had wounded your pride in ways no one else ever had—he had still stood by you when it truly mattered. When the moment arrived, when the weight of the world bore down on you, he had not hesitated. He had not faltered.

It was no small thing.

Perhaps he was not someone you could court, not someone who fit the shape of the life you had imagined for yourself. Perhaps he was not someone you could love—not in the way you had once thought love should be. But he did not need to be an enemy.

Not anymore.

There were worse things in this world than an unbearable, impossible man who, despite it all, had proven himself in the ways that truly counted.

When Satoru had wandered into the hidden hallway to escape Suguru’s notorious actions, he had not expected to find you. But it seems that the day was full of surprises, for he hadn’t expected your sentiments and posture about him to have changed.

Gojo had expected a sharp tongue, a ready rebuttal, the usual resistance you always met him with. Instead, you spoke with a peculiar softness tonight, your responses thoughtful, your gaze lingering not on him, but on the painting before you. He had not expected you to be so—what was the word?—empathetic. You had a ready answer for everything, a thoughtfulness to your opinions that was neither contrived nor merely spoken to please. And so, he found himself asking more, pressing you for further insights, testing the depth of your knowledge not to challenge, but because he wanted to hear what you had to say. At first, when he had wandered in, you seemed completely distraught but had seemed to ease your way into comfort, even in his presence.

Curious thing, that.

“You truly have an answer for everything,” he murmured at one point, more to himself than to you.

You glanced at him sidelong, the corner of your lips tugging in what might have been amusement. “You say it as though it is a fault.”

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “On the contrary, it is rather impressive.”

You inclined her head, not as a show of modesty but of simple acknowledgment. And for a brief moment, Satoru found himself simply… looking at you.

Your hair was finely arranged, swept up with delicate precision, though a few strands framed your face in an artful softness. The candlelight played upon the curve of your cheek, your lashes casting faint shadows upon your skin. Your dress—subtle in its elegance—complimented you in a way that felt effortless, the cut revealing just enough of the delicate arch of your throat, the slope of your shoulders, without ever breaching the realm of impropriety. You had always carried herself well, but there was something about you tonight, something that held his gaze longer than he intended.

He might have lingered longer still, might have remained entranced by the way the flickering light moved across your skin, had you not turned to him suddenly and called his name.

“My lord?”

He blinked, startled out of his reverie. “Hm?”

You studied him for a beat, her expression unreadable, before you simply exhaled and turned your gaze back to the painting. “I meant to thank you,” you said, voice quieter now. “For what you did last time.”

He knew what you referred to at once. The day he had defended you. The accusations that had been hurled at your feet, the venom spat in your direction—he had not tolerated it, would not have suffered it, no matter what might have stood between them.

Satoru felt the tips of his ears warm, though he smirked to deflect from it. “Ah. Well. It was merely a matter of preserving your honor.”

You turned to him fully now, your gaze steady. “You need not have done so.”

Satoru shrugged, though he found himself holding that gaze longer than he should have. “I could not stand to hear such things said of you.”

A quiet pause stretched between you both, and something in your expression shifted. A sort of understanding, perhaps. A recognition of something he could not yet name. He could not tell how long you both stood there like that, neither looking away, nor breaking the quiet that had settled so easily between you.

Then—

“Ah, here you are.”

Gojo turned sharply, his expression cooling the moment he recognized the voice.

Sukuna stood at the entrance of the hallway, his presence an unwelcome disruption to the delicate moment that had just transpired. His gaze flickered between you and Gojo, a slow, dangerous scowl settling over his features. “What the hell—”

You stiffened, immediately stepping away from Gojo, though his gaze remained steady on you. "Sukuna—"

"You’re with him?" he snapped, his tone sharp with outrage. His glare darted toward Satoru, seething. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Not here," you hissed under your breath, already moving toward him. "Let us leave, brother."

Sukuna's jaw tightened, but his glare burned hot as he pointed a warning finger at Satoru. It was almost comical how his figure seemed to be an impenetrable boulder as you—tiny in comparison to his frame—tried to shove him out to salvage whatever grace you could in your exist. “Lord Gojo, you—!”

But it was to no avail, for you had hastily quieted whatever ill reprimand Mister Sukuna Itadori had to throw towards him by shoving a hand over his mouth. Then, you grabbed his arm, practically dragging him away, as you cast one last, hurried glance at Gojo. "Good evening, my lord." And then you were gone, Sukuna stalking beside you, fuming, while Gojo remained behind, watching you disappear into the halls lined with art.

prev. the embers | next. soon!

general masterlist | series masterlist

a/n is this....character development??

i hope this appeased anyone who was beginning to worry that miss itadori was a bit too antagonistic ... i have my beta readers to thank otherwise we never would've made it out the trenches

reader after nanami dropped the bomb on her

lowk i dont have much else to say but uhhh streets been saying there's gonna be another forced proximity library scene soon but how would i know what happens lolz

reblog and comment to lmk ur thoughts!

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