eilene

It’s a shame really—they should be, but they aren’t because he appears too harmless to be anything more than a cute campus nerd. As if a sweater vest, a soft voice, and a perfect 4.0 GPA are enough to make someone safe. 

Oh, how wrong they are. Pretty boys, just like everything else on this planet, are capable of being rotten.

Unfortunately though, he is the kind of student professors adore because he answers questions that no one dares to. Girls whisper about him in the back of lecture halls, gossiping over the way he sits with one ankle crossed over his knee, long deft fingers curled around a mechanical pencil, captivating blue eyes half-lidded behind thin silver frames like he’s bored by the entire world and still better at it than everyone else. 

Double majoring in both computer science and mathematics. Exceptionally gifted with an IQ of 173. A genius according to the Wechsler scale, an academic weapon in every sense. He ruins the curves in all of his classes and corrects tenured professors so gently that they thank him afterward. 

People like that about him—the intelligence and arrogance that somehow becomes charming when it comes wrapped in snowy white hair and a sweet smile. 

Sure, they also think he’s strange, I mean how could they not? He’s always the smartest person in the room, absurdly quiet at times, far too watchful and observant and hard to read when he goes still and stares at someone a breath too long. 

But that’s just Satoru…isn’t it?

Brilliant people like him are allowed to be strange. Boys that are attractive are allowed to be forgiven for things others would be ostracized for or considered creepy. No one ever looks at him and thinks danger. 

No. 

They see Satoru Gojo and think genius. 

Innocent. 

Yours. 

Well…they used to call him that last one. Right before you ended. 

Now? His number, his Instagram, his TikTok, his Twitter, his LinkedIn, his Gmail, and even his school email have been blocked. 

You’ve changed your entire routine—altered your route to classes, switched coffee shops, stopped studying on the third floor of the library because that was where he always found you. 

Found.

That was the word you utilized back then to define it, before you knew better. 

At first, it had felt romantic, the way Gojo always seemed to know where you were. You would look up from your laptop at some hushed corner table and there he’d be, sliding into the chair across from you with an iced latte in one hand and that infuriating little smile already pulling at his mouth. 

“Stalking me?” You’d ask as he pushed the latte toward you.

“Poorly,” He’d joke, smirk deepening, “You make it easy.”

And you’d giggle blithely because you were stupid. 

Because back then, his odd behavior made you feel wanted. 

It felt like devotion when he remembered your exact drink order after hearing it only once. It felt like love when he noticed you were cold before you did, tugging his hoodie over your head wordlessly, fingers grazing your jaw as he fiddled with the drawstrings. It felt like something precious when he recalled every detail you ever gave him, every offhand comment, every tiny confession you dropped without meaning to. 

Gojo remembered everything.

The side of the bed you slept on, the exact brand and shade of lipgloss you constantly reapplied on those pretty lips, the way your voice wavered when you were trying not to cry, each building your last class ended in.

He knew all of it. 

And you foolishly believed that his attention to the details meant he loved you. But slowly, you understood it. Because soon enough, it began to feel like he was keeping inventory as if you were just another subject for him to master. 

Though the worst part is, he never acted like the kind of boyfriend your friends could easily hate. He never raised his voice. Didn’t punch walls or scream outside your apartment or call you names in the middle of a party. Of course he wouldn’t—he was too calculated and careful to make himself look like a bad boyfriend from an outsider’s perspective.

And he wasn’t necessarily “bad” either, more so he was suffocating. If you mentioned studying with someone from class, he’d tilt his head and say, “Hope that someone is a girl.”

Whenever you wore something new, his inquisitive eyes would drag over your figure, just once, slow and meticulous, before asking, “Who are you dressing up for?”

And God forbid the times you’d come home later than usual, because oh, he remembered that too. Your phone would be lighting up the second you turned the doorknob to enter. 

toru 🤍

|| you good?

Then, when you didn’t answer quick enough, thirty seconds later he’d send—

toru 🤍

|| don’t ignore me baby.

Before you could even set your stuff down to settle in, he’d message again.

toru 🤍

|| i’m outside. 

You’d open your front door and there he’d be. Standing in a black hoodie, luminous hair reflecting light under the streetlamps, hands tucked into the pockets of his joggers like he hadn’t just crossed campus because you took three minutes too long to respond. 

Apparently that was normal. Love was supposed to feel like being tracked. 

Yet, you couldn’t help but get upset at times, and that’s when he would make it all sound reasonable—as if you’re the crazy one. 

“I worry about you, baby…” He’d coo, voice soft enough to make guilt curl under your ribs and the frustration to die, “Is it that a crime?”

No. Of course not. Worrying wasn’t a crime, neither was remembering or showing up or loving someone so intensely that it started to feel like a noose tightening around your neck. 

At least, that’s what you convinced yourself of until you simply couldn’t anymore. 

You ended it with him because some awful, exhausted part of you knew that if you stayed, Gojo would swallow your whole life and disguise it as care. He would make a home out of your skin and feign hurt when you asked for room to breathe.   

And the breakup itself was quiet, almost too quiet. He sat on the edge of your bed with his elbows resting on his knees, glasses pushed up into his hair, staring at the floor like he was solving a coding error so difficult it would require even his full concentration. 

You had expected him to display anger, maybe even some begging, or that terrifying calm of his finally cracking into something ugly to prove that you weren’t losing your mind. 

Instead, he only peered up at you and murmured, “You don’t mean that.”

Your hands shook when you replied with, “I do.”

And for the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo appeared genuinely confused; this was a glitch in the software he had never encountered. Despite that, he smiled, barely. A small, empty thing that never reached his eyes, “Okay.”

That was it. Okay. 

He didn’t cause a scene, shed not a single tear, no doors were slammed. All he did was leave your apartment with the same eerie composure he did everything else, and for one stupid, fleeting second, you almost called him back. 

Because that was the thing about Gojo. Even when he scared you, you missed him. And though he smothered you consistently, some depraved sliver of you craved being held down by the weight of his devout attention. 

You hated that most. So you blocked him entirely before it could win. His number first, then every account you knew of, then every account you suspected. 

For the next two weeks, you rebuilt your life around avoiding him and miraculously, he let you. 

He didn’t corner you after classes or wait outside your building. Didn’t send an absurdly large bouquet of flowers in an attempt to say I’m sorry. Didn’t ask your friends about you, at least not in any way that got back to you.

He just…disappeared so cleanly it felt like he had never been in your life at all. The realization should’ve made you feel better, but it didn’t. 

Why? You don’t even know. 

Maybe you anticipated more fight out of him, more willingness to do whatever necessary to get you back. Something—anything, but nothing?

The silence was unsettling, Satoru Gojo was not the type of guy who let things go. He obsessed, studied, fixated until every last detail had been memorized, picked apart, and tucked away behind those gorgeous cerulean blues for later use. 

So no, his absence did not feel like peace. It felt like waiting. 

And on a Thursday night, your phone buzzes, hardly pulling a glance from you. It’s late, your laptop is open across your thighs with some half-finished assignment glowing uselessly back, a vanilla scented candle burning low on your desk. Your brain is fried enough after an exhausting day that you assume it’s a friend sending you some stupid TikTok or a class group chat blowing up over an upcoming exam. 

It’s neither of the two. It’s Instagram. A message request from an account you didn’t recognize. 

@.6iX3y3s

Your brows pinch; there’s no profile picture, no posts, no mutual following, no bio. Just the ominous username and the message attached. 

@.6iX3y3s

|| you looked pretty today.

You stare at it for a second. Weird? Sure. But not enough to make your stomach fully drop. 

Girls get strange messages all the time. Random horny losers with burner accounts and a shit ton of audacity. Pathetic, easy to ignore. 

So that’s exactly what you do. You leave it there unanswered and lock your phone, rolling your eyes before forcing yourself back to your homework. 

By the time the next message comes in the following afternoon, you had almost forgotten about it. You’re leaving class when your phone vibrates in your hand—same account. 

@.6iX3y3s

|| you ignored me last night. 

|| i dare you to ignore this one, love.

|| you’re wearing pink today. how cute. 

Your steps falter, it’s the pet name that does it. Or maybe, the way your stomach churns when you look down at the soft knitted sleeves clinging to your arms and realize, with an abhorrent, creeping sort of nausea that yes…

You’re wearing pink.  

That doesn’t mean much though, does it? Pink is a lucky guess. People wear pink all the time. Half the campus has probably already seen you in it. Anyone from lecture could’ve; anyone from the hallways, the stairwells, the quad. 

Still.

Still, something about the messages feels wrong in a way the one last night hadn’t. Less like some random freak saying dumb shit and more like someone smiling while they watched you read it. 

Your gaze lifts from your phone on instinct, eyes skimming over the crowds spilling out of the buildings around you. Students move in loose swarms down the concrete steps, laughing too loudly, shoulders brushing, backpacks bouncing against their spines. Normal. Everything appears painfully normal. 

Nobody is staring at you or making it obvious that they are, which only makes it worse. Because whoever sent the messages is here. They have to be. Somewhere in the blur of bodies passing too close, possibly hiding behind a pair of sunglasses or beneath a baseball cap or pretending to be in conversation. Your mouth goes dry and again, you choose to not reply. You shove your phone into your tote bag and start walking, pace a little quicker now, heartbeat annoyingly irregular.    

You keep telling yourself it’s nothing, some creep from class. Some fucking loser who noticed your outfit and thought anonymity would make them interesting. Yet, when you return home, your shoulders are drawn tighter than usual. And later that night, they send more DMs. 

You’re in the middle of microwaving leftover pad thai, one hip braced against the counter. 

@.6iX3y3s

|| still ignoring me?

|| that’s not very nice. 

|| i can be patient though. 

And before you could even decide what to do with that, another message comes through.

@.6iX3y3s 

|| besides…you always were prettier when you got mean.

The microwave beeps and you nearly drop your phone. This one is different—it shows familiarity. Whoever this person is, they must know you. Or at least, know you in a way that allows them to say something like that, right? Or is this all some sick fucking game?

Your thumb hovers over the screen, tempted to type out who the fuck is this?

But you don’t. You won't give them the satisfaction of knowing that you let some anonymous asshole get to you. 

Instead, you set your phone face down on the counter and try to eat dinner like your appetite hadn’t just vanished. You make it all of five minutes before flipping it back over and—nope. Nothing new. 

That should be relieving, but it does nothing of the sort. Because now, you’re waiting for the next one, anticipating other weird shit, and that more than anything, pisses you off. 

But the messages do keep coming after that, of course, not in rapid succession though. No, whoever is behind the burner account is much smarter than that. They let hours pass sometimes; a whole day, once. Just long enough for you to start convincing yourself that maybe they’re bored. Maybe it’s over. Maybe you imagined how wrong it all felt. 

And as soon as those thoughts cross your mind that’s when your phone lights up again. 

@.6iX3y3s

|| did you know that you bite your lip when you read? 

|| such a pretty little habit.

Another afternoon, you get—

@.6iX3y3s

|| you looked tired this morning.

|| poor thing. 

One time when you come home a little too late, they send—

@.6iX3y3s

|| you really shouldn’t walk alone at night. 

|| it’s dangerous.

|| someone could hurt you.

Is the last message a threat? Fuck. They’re getting worse. Too close and observant to the point where even blocking them feels like it may potentially do more harm than good.

And underneath that…a part of you kept circling back to him.

To Satoru. 

You hated yourself for it.

No—you’d think every time the possibility surfaced. No, if it were Gojo, you would know…wouldn’t you? 

There would be something smug in it, something sharper. Some arrogant little phrasing that gave him away. These messages were creepy, yes, but they’re hollow too. 

They could belong to anybody, that’s what you keep repeating to yourself. 

Right up until the night they didn't.

It happened so ordinarily that you almost missed the horror of it. Fresh out of the shower, skin still damp beneath an oversized T-shirt, you stand in the middle of your bedroom lazily rifling through your dresser for underwear. The apartment was unusually quiet save for the hum of the ceiling fan and the faint traffic murmuring outside your window. You’re tired, barely thinking, running on routine. 

Your phone vibrates somewhere behind you on the bed and you reach for it absentmindedly, thumb already unlocking the screen before your brain catches up. 

@.6iX3y3s

|| mm. you always did look better right out of the shower. 

Your entire body freezes, as did the room, like the whole world decided to pause with you. All you can do is glare at the message while your pulse gives one hard, sickening thud against the inside of your throat. 

No. No, that doesn’t—your mind rushes to explain it away before the panic could get there first.

That’s another lucky guess. Plenty of people shower at night. Lots of girls throw on a big shirt after. It means nothing. 

@.6iX3y3s

|| slick skin. bare legs. and oh, my favorite part…

|| no bra.

A repulsive, slow feeling begins to unfurl within your insides.. Now, the messages were growing vile. Too vile. 

Another buzz reverberates. You don’t want to look, but do so anyway. 

@.6iX3y3s

|| black lace panties tonight?

|| adorable. 

|| you should see the look on your face right now.

And that is the moment your eyes leave the phone and lift to the room, not in confusion anymore; fear has finally taken over. Your gaze cuts violently across the space—window, curtains, mirror, closet door left cracked open, desk, bookshelves, the black screen of your laptop, the dim amber glow of your lamp. 

Nothing was out of place, nothing was amiss. Nothing. This makes the dread worsen. 

Whoever is behind the burner account isn’t guessing. They aren’t pulling details out of their ass or listing off observations between classes. 

No, they’re seeing you. Right now. In your fucking bedroom. 

Your heartbeat starts to pound so hard it aches, roaring in your ears as you take one careful step backward, then another. The room looks exactly the same as it always does and still, somehow, someone is in here with you. 

A shaky breath hooks in your throat as your eyes drag over the space again, frantically. Until your gaze snags on something small and soft propped in the far corner of your desk…

A teddy bear.

Okay, that’s nothing. Just another useless object in here. 

Oh, but then as you keep looking at it, one of its eyes catches the light wrong. Too glossy, unlike plastic or thread, rather—glass. Your stomach plummets so abruptly it feels like missing a stair. 

Satoru gave it to you six months ago while you were still together. Summer break, back when everything between you was all sweet and perfect. You had teased him for hovering too much while you read a book, complained that he acted like he needed to keep eyes on you at all times, and he had only smiled—that easy, charming smile, and dropped the plushy into your lap. 

“There,” He said, “A replacement.”

You had laughed and called him ridiculous, yet took it home anyway. Why wouldn’t you? It was cute, harmless at the time. But now, you see it clearly. There is nothing harmless about it. If he couldn’t have physical eyes on you at all times, he’ll have a stuffed animal do the job for him. 

So he’s the one behind the burner account. Of fucking course it’s him. Deep down, you knew it too. 

Your heart hammers within your chest, but you don’t move toward the bear, because if Gojo is watching, then the second you react he’ll know you’ve figured it all out. 

And for some reason, that matters. 

Satoru thinks he’s clever. 

Fine. Let him think that. 

Slowly, you take your eyes off the bear and place them back onto what you were doing. The dresser, right. You were about to put on the pair of black lace panties you grabbed before Gojo poisoned the moment. 

Act normal. That is the only thought in your head now. Act like you don’t know. 

You step into the underwear with deliberate calm, every movement controlled. You toss your wet towel into the hamper, reach for the lotion sitting on your nightstand and rub it over your legs with unhurried strokes, forcing yourself not to glance at the desk in the corner. 

After you finish with that, you lock your phone and set it face down like nothing had even happened. As if your privacy hadn’t been violated and the stupid little bear with the red satin ribbon wasn’t staring at your bed with one surveillant eye and your ex-boyfriend wasn’t somewhere on the other end of that feed feeling smug and victorious. 

The performance of ignorance starts now. 

Because if Satoru thinks that the power still belongs to him, he is mistaken. He’s not the only one with a secret now. 

You know about everything. And he doesn’t know that you know. 

Ever since that night, you start performing without ever letting it look like a performance. A towel wrapped dangerously low on your chest, sliding a pair of jeans off slower than necessary, bending over on purpose to pick up certain things. 

And every time, he takes the bait. Every single time. 

@.6iX3y3s

|| there you are. 

@.6iX3y3s

|| the prettiest girl. 

@.6iX3y3s

|| keep the light on.

@.6iX3y3s

|| i could watch you bend over all day. 

The last one almost makes you throw your phone, but instead you smile at it. The shape of the game is glaringly obvious now. He thinks he’s winning and getting away with something, yet all the while he has no idea that every glimpse he gets is one you’ve already decided to hand him.

For as intelligent as he is, Gojo is easier to manipulate than he thinks. That, more than anything, makes you bold. You start crossing the room in only a bra and panties without rushing, sit on your bed after showers with a sheer thong and T-shirt on, pretending to scroll through your phone as the hem creeps past your hips. 

His messages, of course, get greedier and entitled. 

@.6iX3y3s

|| you’re such a tease.

@.6iX3y3s

|| god, that mouth. 

@.6iX3y3s

|| spread your legs like that again.

You stare at the words for a long moment. Then you lock your phone and do exactly as he asks, wanting to see how far he can bend until he breaks, and then, the idea finally comes to you. 

If Satoru Gojo wants to watch you, you’ll give him a fucking show. 

The next night, after you shower and go through your post-shower routine as usual, you’re propped up in your bed on top of pillows with your legs spread wide, T-shirt riding up all the way. Unlike the other nights, you’re not wearing panties, no, you’re on full display. 

And somewhere across campus, Gojo is already watching intently. 

The camera feed on his desktop monitor glows against the dark of his room, painting everything in pale blues and soft golds—his laptop screen, the discarded notes spread uselessly across his desk, the half-finished cup of coffee by his elbow. He has work due by midnight; two assignments open, a problem set half solved. 

He hasn’t looked at any of it in the last twenty minutes, because there you are. Your thighs are parted obscenely, knees bent, heels digging into the mattress so your pretty pussy glistens right in the center of the frame. His breath catches and stays caught. 

He should feel ashamed, but he doesn’t. Or at least, not enough to stop. 

Because after everything—the break up, the blocking, the way you cut him out of every part of your life like he was something easy to remove, this is all he has left. 

The sight of you; the sick little comfort of knowing that even if  you won’t answer him or look at him or let him near you, there is still this one private place where he can watch and remember and pretend that means something.

It has to mean something. That is the lie he has been feeding himself for days now. 

All the times you’ve peeled your clothes off slower and slower, when you sat on the edge of your bed with your shirt riding up to reveal whatever panties you’re wearing, every message he’d send and you’d obey. 

He tells himself it’s accidental, a gift. Well, he tells himself a lot of things. What he does not let himself say out loud is the ugliest one.

Show me you still think about me. 

His jaw tightens as he watches your hand trail down your stomach, languid and lazy, fingers brushing over your lower belly before dipping between your legs. 

Two fingers glide through your folds, parting them so the bear’s eye catches the slick shine of your arousal already coating your cunt. You’re soaked; glossy and puffy and dripping. The wet sound of it carries through the feed when you drag those fingers back up to circle your swollen clit.

Gojo’s throat works, cock twitching hard in his sweatpants. There it is again; that awful, hot hope crawling through him like a disease.

Show me you missed me. 

It’s humiliating how badly he wants it. The proof that he still lives somewhere inside you. That blocking his number did not erase the shape he left behind and when you’re alone, some part of you still curves instinctively toward him.

He wants his name, if he’s being truthful. He wants it in your mouth and on your breath as you shift your hips, roll them up to meet your own touch, and push two fingers inside with a lewd squelch—tentative at first, then deeper, giving him exactly what he wants to see. 

His pulse is hammering now. 

Say it.

Say my name. 

Show me it’s still me.

Because who else would it be? Who else has known you like he has? 

Who else would catalog every minute detail about you with such care?

His breathing turns shallow as your moans get louder, needier; hips snapping to meet every thrust of your fingers. You finally speak, softly, and the name that leaves your mouth is not his.

“Sukuna…”

For one full second, Satoru does not understand what he heard. The room around him goes entirely still and his body does too, fingers slipping from the desk edge.

No.

No, that—

His jaw locks so hard it aches as he stares at the monitor like he can glare the name back into your mouth and replace it with his own, but the damage is already done. 

Sukuna. 

Not Satoru. 

Ryomen fucking Sukuna.

The frat boy, dope dealer. The smug, loud, filthy shit stain on campus Gojo has despised on instinct since the first week of freshman year. 

And suddenly, the whole thing curdles. The feed of you fucking yourself; the hot, breathless tension he had been drawing in just seconds ago. All of it sours. 

Because the emotions that flood him are immediate, humiliating, and vicious in a way that makes his skin feel too tight. 

Sukuna?

That pathetic asshole with the face tats from Greek Row who fucks everything that walks? 

His name is the one in your mouth?

That’s who you choose?

Something hot and ugly rises through Gojo so fast it makes him dizzy. Because up until now? He had been arrogant enough to believe this moment was for him. That no matter how you tried to push him away there would still be this one private place where he remained, a place no one else gets to touch…and then you say another man’s name.

Oh, but not just any man—Sukuna, of all men. 

The guy he detests most. A choice that feels engineered to piss him off. 

Yet, somewhere in the back of Satoru’s racing mind, buried beneath the jealousy and rage and sudden nauseating flare of humiliation, a thought stirs too late.

Why him?

His phone is in his hand before he consciously registers reaching for it, fingers moving faster than his pride can catch up; faster than logic or the cold, careful part of him that should have stopped this exact thing from happening. 

@.6iX3y3s

|| don’t.

Once the message is sent, the world comes rushing back in around him. His own breathing, the coffee mug at his elbow that has gone entirely cold, the blue-white light of the monitor, the fact that his pulse is thundering so hard he can feel it in his teeth. 

His eyes lock onto the monitor, you’ve stopped moving now. Pulling your fingers out of your clenched walls, you reach for your phone on the nightstand instead and glance down at the Instagram notification. 

He watches you unlock your phone, your eyes moving as you read. Then his own phone buzzes and his gaze drops instantly. A new message, from you, of course. 

@(y/n)(l/n)

|| don’t what, satoru?

Everything in him goes rigid. 

Ah…so you know. 

You know it’s him behind the burner account. You know about the bear and the hidden camera inside and that he’s been watching. 

Slowly, almost against his will, Gojo lifts his head to look back at the monitor, and there you are. 

Already staring straight into the lens—straight at him. 

His breath punches out of him in one sharp, silent rush. It was as if you were waiting for him to look up and wanted him to feel the full, awful weight of being caught all at once; every hidden, ugly thing inside him getting dragged into the light. 

Suddenly, everything starts to make sense. All those slow, purposeful movements over the last few days, each careful pause, every night he sat here letting himself believe he was the one in control and stealing something from you in secret. 

That was because you let him. 

No, worse—you orchestrated it. 

On the screen, your mouth curves. A mean, small, devastating grin that sends heat rushing violently up the nape of his neck. 

A trap. That’s what this was. 

He has no right to be angry, he knows that. Yet, despite the blood in the water, Satoru Gojo is still too obsessive and gone to stop himself from what he does next. He stands abruptly, shoving his chair back with such force the wheels protest. 

There’s no point in answering your message. This situation calls for more than that. 

Instead, he’ll go right to your front door. 

And it takes him less than three minutes to get there. 

He knocks, three little taps of his knuckles and in his other hand he’s holding his phone, already typing—

@.6iX3y3s

|| open it. 

Beyond the door, there's a heartbeat of silence so prolonged it makes his pulse kick harder. Eventually, the lock clicks and it opens. When it does, Satoru forgets every single thing he meant to say.

Because you’re standing right in front of him, still flushed from the orgasm he just watched you ride out on camera, wearing only that oversized T-shirt. The hem skims the top of your bare thighs and he can see the faint shine of your own cum still glistening on the inside of one leg. 

Fuck, seeing it in person after watching it through a screen feels way worse than he anticipated. 

Your face, though, is the opposite of his. It’s calm, almost bored. Like you didn’t just say another man’s name into the eye of his camera to break him. 

“You came fast,” You say flatly, tone utterly conversational. Which somehow makes it crueler. 

Gojo’s gaze flicks down once before he can stop it, one sharp, involuntary glance at your naked thighs disappearing beneath the cotton fabric, then jerks back to your face, “You knew.”

You lean one shoulder against the doorframe, blocking the entrance with your body, “You watched.”

He tenses at the words, already aware that he should deny it. He should try to claw back some semblance of control or a lie so clean it can give him room to breathe, but he does none of that. 

Being caught this thoroughly means that lying starts to feel even more pathetic than the fact that he’s been watching all this time. 

With his voice low, rough, and fraying at the edges, he opts for, “How long?”

Your expression barely shifts, “Long enough.”

He understands what that means. Long enough to turn yourself into a performance and let him think he was the one running the show. 

“You should’ve thrown it away,” He seethes.

“You should’ve hidden it better.”

Satoru nearly laughs, but bites it back, grip tightening around his phone, “You played me.”

A tiny tilt of your head when you ask, “Did I?”

He takes one step closer, the space between you feeling too narrow now, “You knew I was watching.”

“I knew someone was.”

“Sukuna?” The name comes out fouler than he means it to, thick with something too ugly to bother disguising.

There’s a slight, satisfied change in your face that tells him he’s exactly where you wanted him. He fucking hates that, “What about him?”

Gojo’s smile is humorless, “You knew what you were doing.”

Your lips curve again, the little wicked one from before, “Yes.”

The honesty of it stings more than the denial would have. You did it on purpose—chose the one person’s name on campus guaranteed to make him snap.

“Move.”

“No.”

His eyes behind those silver frames narrow, you don’t budge from the doorway. The oversized shirt slips just barely on one thigh as you shift your weight and the movement is so small and subconscious that it almost ruins him entirely. Probably because it doesn’t feel subconscious at all. Now, he can’t trust a single thing you do to not be deliberate. 

“So you let me come here just to keep me outside?”

“You got yourself here,” You shoot back as he takes another step.

He’s close enough to the point that the toe of his sneaker nearly touches the threshold. He can see the flush still ghosting across your cheeks and feels the charged heat radiating off your body or maybe that’s just him; his own blood is running too hot under his skin after everything he’s witnessed. 

“You gonna tell me to go?”

You should. That’s the rational thing to do. Tell him to leave, slam the door in his stupid face, and let him stand there with his ridiculous jealousy and whatever pathetic excuse for love made him hide a camera in a teddy bear to watch you through it like a total fucking creep.

But the problem is…that some horrible part of you likes this. 

Not what he did exactly, no, there’s no justifying that, but this—the sight of him outside your door destroyed, caught, and still wanting. The way he came running over the second you pulled the right string. All that genius and polished composure rotting so quickly into something needy and pitiful. 

You like how badly he wants you. 

You like that he watched. 

You like that he couldn’t stay away. 

And maybe that makes you just as disgusting as he is. 

Your fingers flex once against the edge of the door and Satoru notices. His gaze drags over your face like he’s trying to read the answer before you ever say it, but what he finds only seems to make him hungrier. 

Because he knows you too well and he knows that look.

“I asked you something,” He murmurs, voice quieter and roughened. 

Your eyes flick down to his mouth without permission, and that mere slip is all it takes. Something dangerous flashes behind his glasses, and God, you hate the way that affects you too. It should repulse you. Hell, it does, but not enough. 

Your hand leaves the edge of the door and catches loosely in the front of his hoodie; Gojo freezes, waiting patiently for your next move. The charged silence stretches further and further, you can feel your pulse thrumming practically everywhere, “I’m still angry,” You admit. 

He nods once, “I know.”

“This fixes nothing.”

A faint chuckle crawls up his throat, “We’ll see about that.”

His cockiness alone makes you want to shove him back, yet you don’t. Instead, your fingers tighten in the collar of his hoodie and yank. The second Gojo crosses the threshold you slam the door behind with your heel; he doesn’t even get a chance to speak before your mouth is on his—angry, open, biting. The taste of bitter coffee floods your senses, and for one treacherous breath you recall kissing him in the past, remembering how he always tasted like this.

His hands are already slipping under the hem of your oversized shirt, palms hot against the bare skin of your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, “You’re such a fucking creep,” You hiss against his lips, but you’re already walking him backward toward your bed, shoving at his chest.

“I know,” He breathes, low and wrecked, glasses fogging from how hard he’s heaving, but he doesn’t take them off. He just lets you push until the back of his knees hit the mattress and he sits, “But you enjoyed it. Every second.”

You climb into his lap, straddling him, shirt riding all the way up to your hips. The slick heat of your cunt presses right against his sweatpants and you both feel it—how hard he already is, thick and straining under the fabric. You grind down once, teasingly, watching his head tip back and throat bob.

“Say it again,” He demands, fingers digging into your ass, pulling you impossibly closer, “Say his name again while you’re this wet for me, I dare you.”

You laugh, a hint of mischief in it, “Sukun—”

His hand is in your hair before you finish the last syllable, yanking your head back so suddenly your spine arches. The sting makes you moan and the sound breaks something in him. Gojo surges up, mouth latching onto your throat, sucking a mark right under your jaw like he has to prove to everyone that you’re still his. 

“Don’t ever say that shit again,” He growls against your skin, teeth scraping. One of his hands leaves your ass to shove between your bodies. Two long fingers drag through your folds, gathering the mess you made earlier, and he pushes them inside you. 

You gasp, hips jerking, because he knows exactly how you like it, “Fuck—Satoru—”

“There is it,” His voice is smooth silk, “That’s the only name I want in this pretty mouth.”

He fucks you with his fingers like he’s determined to do it better than you did, thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless strokes. Your thighs tremble around his hips, the obscene sounds of how wet you are fill the air every time he thrusts in, and he watches your face the whole time with intense devotion. Those brilliant blue eyes half-lidded behind fogged glasses, drink in every flutter of your lashes. 

You grab the front of his hoodie again and yank it up. He helps, ripping it off one-handed, shirt underneath following a second later revealing pale skin and lean muscles you used to trace when you were still pretending he was harmless. You rake your nails down his chest so deep they leave pink lines and he groans, hips bucking so his clothes cock grinds against your clit. 

“Off,” You order, tugging at his sweatpants. 

Gojo lifts his hips and you shove them down just far enough for his cock to spring free—long, flushed at the tip, already leaking, and you don’t give him time to think. You wrap your hand around him then sink down in one smooth motion; the stretch burns so good your mouth falls open on a silent cry. He’s big, always has been, but tonight it feels like he’s splitting you open. 

His head drops forward, forehead pressed to your collarbone, a broken sound ripping out of him, “Fuck—baby—still so fucking tight for me—”

Not letting him catch his breath, you start riding him hard, rolling your hips and using him exactly how you want. Every time you drop down he bottoms out, the tip kissing that spot that makes your vision spark white. His hands roam everywhere; gripping your ass, sliding up your back under the shirt, tearing it off so he can watch your tits bounce with each thrust. 

“Mm, look at you,” He pants, “Taking me so well—like you’ve been empty without it.”

You laugh again, but it comes out shaky, “You wish.”

He snaps his hips suddenly, driving into you so deep you see stars, “Liar.”

You brace your hands on his shoulders as he fucks up into faster and harder, one arm locked around your waist to keep you pinned, “Say it,” He demands, lips brushing your ear, “Say you missed me.”

You bite your lip, refusing, even though your walls twitch around him. He slows to a torturous grind, rolling his hips so the head of his cock drags right against that perfect spot over and over, “Say it, baby…or I stop.”

You hate how quickly you break, “Missed—you, Toru—fuck.”

A wicked grin spreads across his face, “Yeah…I know.”

Then he flips you over, back hitting the mattress and him on top before you can even react. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, folds you in half, and pistons in so deep your back arches clean off the bed. The new angle has you sobbing his name repeatedly like it’s the only word you know, fingers clawing at any part of him that you can reach. 

He fucks you like he’s trying to crawl inside your ribcage and live there; deep, punishing strokes that make your full sized bed creak and headboard slam against the wall. You can feel your orgasm building fast, coiling tight and vicious in your lower belly. 

“Satoru—gonna—”

“Cum for me, baby,” He coos, thumb finding your clit again, “Let me feel how much you still need me.”

It hits you with such intensity that your vision whites out, walls clamping around him so tight that he groans like he’s in pain, but he doesn’t falter. He rides you through it, chasing his own release, “Mine,” He chants against your neck, voice cracking, “Still fucking mine—”

Gojo buries himself to the hilt and cums with a broken moan, hips stuttering as he spills deep inside you, hot and thick. He keeps grinding you through it as if he wants to push every drop as far in as it’ll go, claiming you from the inside out. 

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is both of you panting with sweat-slick bodies tangled together. Satoru lifts his head, glasses completely fogged, white hair a tethered mess, cheeks flushed. He looks both ruined and perfect—yours.

He presses a surprisingly soft kiss to your swollen lips, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

There’s a long pause, until he answers with, “For all of it.”

All of it. The camera, the burner account, the surveillance, showing up here like this.

You don’t answer right away; forgiveness is too pure of a word for whatever this is and one night of wanting doesn’t erase the violation or redeem him. You reach up and remove the fogged glasses off his face, set them aside on the nightstand, and look at him properly.

“You’re still a sick fuck, you know that?”

A smile flickers at the corner of his mouth, “I do.”

Your nails drag lightly down his spine, “But, next time you want to watch me…”

His eyes lift to yours as you trail off and you hold them there deliberately, adding—

Your hands tangled in his soft hair, urging him to venture further down your neck to the valley of your breasts.

“‘Toru,” you mouthed, looking up to his lust-clouded eyes as you placed his hand on your tit, squirming as he immediately squeezed the flesh. His hands expertly groped at your mounds as his fingers moved around your already firm nipples, swiping at your sensitive nubs.

Satoru chuckled breathlessly, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll give it to you soon, needy girl.”

He then planted a deep, wanton kiss to your lips—a kiss that released all of his pent up feelings and sexual tension into one. Your body shivered as you felt his breath fan past your pulse point.

“Just know you’re leaving this room nice ‘n full, ‘Kay?” And with that he was latching his mouth to your breasts, making quick work of sliding his robe off with a swift pull of the bow holding it together. He sprang up, hard and excited to finally have the woman he’s been head over heels with for years.

Fuck. Your eyes widened at the sight—was he really hiding this from you all this time? Surely, concealing something this size would be a hassle, right?

Satoru’s grin only widened at the expression displayed on your face, feeling pride build up in his chest. He hurriedly grabbed at the base, pressing his tip right up to your aching and pulsing cunt.

“Y’ready?”

“Mhm hm!”

“‘M going in,” as he slowly wedged himself between your folds, watching as you stretched to accommodate his size and groaning at the view.

Was this what heaven felt like? Had Satoru Gojo finally tasted a slice of his own paradise?

He had, and there was no backing down now—no escaping from the seemingly endless ruts of cock into you, the hands harshly planted to your hips, and the feeling of being filled up repeatedly.

He watched you squirm under him, all the while burning with the desire to ruin you, but he knew with how tight you were clamped down around him—that this might’ve been your first time.

The thought made his ego skyrocket.

“You take it so well,” he praised, spreading your thighs further apart to gain a better glance of just how wet you were, gritting his teeth in resistance.

Satoru could, without doubt, have you pass out by the second round—if he wanted you to. But his goal now was simply to get you pregnant—to plant that million dollar baby into you.

However…a little sidetracking could do. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little fun with you.

“It’s so..deep inside me, ‘Toru. Are you sure it’s s’possed to be—“ your words came to a halt, a particularly hard rut of his hips shutting you up for good; only leaving room for cries of pleasure to leave your lips.

And, maybe, just maybe he should have proposed this idea earlier. Maybe he should have just made it known to you how good he could give dick.

With each movement into you, Satoru let himself go a little, let himself get a little rougher, let the head of his cock graze the just-right spots inside of you; spots you never knew existed.

He already knew your body so well.

His hand journeyed down to your thighs, letting go of its original place on your hips to your pussy, thumb drawing your clit in brain-fuzzying circles.

You mewled, back arching off the bed and your hips moving on their own to meet his thrusts, clawing at the bedsheets for anything that may keep you grounded—because everything your best friend did threatened to transport you to pleasure utopia.

“S’toru, feels like my—“ he cut you off once more, breathing hard against your lips after he finishes kissing you.

“You gonna cum for me?” he asked, smugly of course, knowing he’d be the first man to ever make you cum. You nod and Satoru took this as a queue to drive rougher thrusts into your cunt, reveling in the lewd squelches and the slap of your bodies resonating throughout the room.

You came to a crescendo, and your body fell limp. Your thighs shook around his waist as you climaxed, mouth falling open and face curling into a blissed-out look.

“Fucking pretty even when you cum,”

And while it would’ve taken him—normally—another round to finish, virgin pussy had him on a chokehold. Especially yours.

So, naturally, it wasn’t long—perhaps 3 or 4 more thrusts until Satoru Gojo—your former best friend—came inside you. Fully intent on knocking you up.

No, he didn’t have any intention of pulling out either, wanting to keep his seed deep inside you until he’s sure you’re pregnant.

He lay to your side, still inside you, not showing any signs of getting soft anytime soon. But, no matter what had happened, Satoru was still your best friend.

Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman⸺a work I have long heard whispers about but never fully encountered until now. Her words, as bold as they are revolutionary, have struck a chord deep within me. She speaks of the education and independence of women, of our capacity for reason and our right to be regarded as more than mere adornments to the lives of men. Her arguments are so meticulously crafted, so unwavering in their conviction, that they have compelled me to reflect on my own circumstances.

I confess, there is something intoxicating about the notion that women might be more than what society has so neatly confined us to be. Is it truly so outlandish to consider that we, too, possess minds capable of great thought and spirits yearning for freedom?

I cannot help but wonder if there will ever come a time when these two worlds might reconcile⸺the status quo and that of what the book articulates. When women might be both respected and fre

Before you could finish writing in your diary, you suddenly heard frantic footsteps down the hallway, leading closer and closer to your door. Nobara bursts into the room, and you look up at her in confusion and, partially, dread. Nobara wouldn’t be bursting into your room unless there was someone who absolutely couldn’t see what you were doing in your past time.

Before she could catch her breath, she wheezed out, “Your mother.”

You quickly hopped into action with practiced and routine movements. Lunging for the floorboard that had hollow space beneath it, you moved it so you could place the book and your diary underneath and quickly hide evidence of you reading scandalous and radical works.

Just in time, it seemed, as your mother walked into your room to see you on your bed.

She squinted her eyes in suspicion. “What were you doing?”

You averted her gaze. “Nothing, just daydreaming, Mama.”

Usually, she would prod further into the matter, but it seemed as if she was too excited for that. Clapping her hands, she exclaimed, “I have just got an exclusive invitation for you! One that could secure you a very good match.”

You gave her a quizzical look as she walked closer, sitting at the foot of your bed with an expression of barely contained glee. “We shall be visiting the Gojo estate in Kent!”

At the mention of his name, your left eye twitched, though your mother remained oblivious. “Indeed, Mama? As is every other lady in London, I presume.”

“No, no,” she replied, waving your quip away with a dismissive hand. “We are to arrive at the Gojo estate before the house party.”

Your heart sank, dread pooling in your stomach. Oh, no, no, no, no. A sudden pressure gripped your chest, and you found yourself clutching at the bodice of your dress as if to steady your racing heart. “Before the house party, Mama?” Your voice, despite your best efforts, came out higher-pitched than usual, though you tried to maintain a semblance of composure. “Whatever for?”

“To secure an advantage, of course!” she replied with a bright smile, as though the matter were the simplest thing in the world. “The Gojo family has extended a personal invitation for us to stay with them for a few days prior to the event. It is plain to see⸺he is quite taken with you. Even that dreadful Lady Whistledown has noted as much.” She smiled indulgently, reaching out to gently smooth a stray lock of your hair. “It is your natural grace and charm, my dear, that has made you the season’s diamond.”

As your mother continued to speak, the twisting in your stomach began to intensify, morphing from nausea into something sharper, something more akin to anger. You kept nodding, trying to maintain a slightly pained smile, but the thought of spending time at the Gojo manor, in such close quarters with him, became increasingly unbearable. The memories of your recent encounters⸺his biting remarks, his mocking gaze⸺were still fresh in your mind, and the idea that you were being pushed toward an engagement with him made your skin crawl. But you knew better than to express your true feelings to your mother.

“That is… unexpected,” you managed to say, choosing your words carefully. “Are you certain this is a good idea, Mama? Perhaps we might appear too eager and ward off other potential suitors, lest they mistake me as claimed by Gojo?”

“Nonsense!” she replied with a dismissive laugh. “If all goes well, you’ll be announcing your engagement at the house party itself!”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You could hardly breathe as the full weight of what she was saying sank in. An engagement. To Gojo.

You almost felt faint, but as the initial shock wore off, it was replaced by a simmering anger. How dare he? How dare Gojo make a game of this, toying with you as if your future was nothing more than a sport to him? And how could your mother not see that she was playing right into his hands?

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your composure, but the anger was bubbling up, threatening to spill over. “But, Mama, what if he does not wish to marry? What if he simply enjoys… toying with people?”

Your mother’s expression softened as she reached out to pat your hand, oblivious to the storm brewing inside you. “My dear, you are overthinking this. Men like Lord Gojo may seem playful and insouciant, but they are ultimately driven by duty. A man in his position knows the importance of finding a suitable wife, and you⸺my darling⸺are just the woman for the role. You are intelligent, accomplished, and beautiful. He would be a fool not to see that.”

Each word only fueled the fire of your anger. Duty? Suitable wife? You bit your lip, feeling the weight of her expectations press down on you like a suffocating blanket. But beneath that weight was a growing resolve, a refusal to be treated like a pawn in some grand game of power and prestige. Gojo might enjoy playing with others' lives, but you would not be his plaything.

You gave her a pained smile. “If you say so, Mama…” you replied, the anger now evident in the tightness of your voice.

“Of course, I do!” she declared, rising from the bed with a self-satisfied smile. “Now, we must begin preparations immediately. There is much to be done before we depart.”

As your mother closed the door, you stormed over to the floorboard, whipped open your diary and prepped your quill to furiously write: 

Lord Gojo is a most intolerable wretch. Though his outward appearance might deceive many, there is an endless well of impurities within his character.

Indeed, God truly blesses the wrong soldiers with features such as his. However, I take pride in being one of His strongest for I possess the fortitude to resist the temptation of ending Gojo’s miserable existence myself.

Were Sukuna here, I daresay he would assist me in disposing of the body with great enthusiasm.

While the Gojo dinner table was stocked with the finest of meals⸺that deserving of a wealthy dukedom, of course⸺Satoru found himself eyeing one dish of all⸺the scones.

Observing his mother and father, who were engrossed in deep conversation, he realized he could make the move. As discreetly as he could, he stocked his plate with many of the treats. The cook, bless his soul, knew how to make scones exactly right: soft, yet hard around the edges that have Satoru drooling when he takes a bite in to get a burst of flavor. He discreetly tucked a few sweets into his pocket for tonight’s work session on some Gojo business, thinking himself subtle.

Satoru could continue writing endless love poems in his head towards his chef’s scones, But Lady Gojo, ever watchful, noticed his little scheme. She arched an eyebrow, her tone teasing as she remarked, "Satoru, darling, it astonishes me that you remain so fit with such a fondness for sweets."

Without missing a beat, Gojo flashed his usual charming smile and responded, “Perhaps it is because I am kept on my toes constantly by you, Mother.” His parents shared a laugh at this, clearly amused by his playful banter.

The Gojo dining fell into a comfortable lull once again, sounds of forks and knives scratching against porcelain plates. The silence was better, Satoru believed. Because he knew he was not going to be pleased at what his father had to say to him next, judged based on the thoughtful look he adopted while staring at Gojo. 

“And how fares the season, Satoru? Have you made any progress?”

Satoru wanted to groan so bad, but instead, he straightened in his seat, the smile on his face now simply a facade. “I am confident all will proceed as expected, Father,” he replied, though his tone lacked its usual certainty.

Duke Gojo narrowed his eyes slightly, sensing something amiss. “Are you sure about that?” he probed. “You know very well, Satoru, that your inheritance of the title is contingent upon securing a wife and producing an heir. This is not a matter to be taken lightly.”

The weight of his father’s words hung in the air, pressing down on Gojo with the full force of expectation.  Would it be eccentric if I decided to scream to the heavens right now?

Before Gojo could even formulate a response, his mother, ever the one to steer the conversation, interjected with a delighted exclamation. “Oh, it’s all handled, my dear! Did you not hear? The diamond of the season is arriving a week early to our manor in the countryside!”

All thoughts of screaming himself mute vanished as his mother’s words piqued his interest. Now, this was interesting. You? Spending time with him, under his roof, with no escape? The idea alone was enough to spark a dangerous gleam in his eyes. Satoru almost started cackling maniacally at the thought of pestering you until you broke that oh-so-perfect and uptight demeanor of yours, until you were reduced to exactly what you were: an unruly and highly emotional know-it-all.

One could say Satoru was very bitter about the losses he had bore for that horse race.

As a self-assured smirk started to creep up Satoru’s face, Duke Gojo blinked, surprised by the news. “A week early? That’s quite unusual,” he remarked, turning his gaze back to his son.

Satoru offered a sweet smile. “Yes, unusual indeed.” He knew his parents were well aware of the marital implications of such an arrangement, and he could feel their eyes on him, gauging his reaction.

But Duchess Gojo, satisfied with her announcement, continued with a gleeful smile. “I daresay, it’s all coming together perfectly. Even matchmakers could not have planned it better.”

Indeed, Mother! The prospect grew more delightful with each passing second, and the corners of his mouth curled into a sly grin. You were in for quite the week, and he would relish every moment of ruining your composure.

Yuji leaned in closer, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied your face. “Sister, did you perhaps neglect the chamber pot today?” he asked, his tone teasing but his gaze serious. “Your expression is quite telling.”

 The carriage, though spacious, felt suffocating with the tension hanging in the air. Your mother sat by the window, her eyes sparkling with what could only be described as gleeful scheming regarding your imminent week at the Gojo manor. You, on the other hand, simmered with barely contained fury, with a pinch of nausea, your thoughts consumed with how you would confront Gojo at the ball you were all headed to. Yuji’s scrutiny only added to your irritation, his amused yet concerned face a stark contrast to your stormy mood. Across from you, Choso couldn’t suppress a snicker at Yuji’s comment, clearly enjoying the exchange.

You snapped, unable to contain your frustration any longer. “Yuji, if you do not cease your incessant prying, I shall see to it that you regret ever opening your mouth!”

Yuji flinched, visibly startled by your outburst. His confidence wavered as he stammered, “I⸺I meant no harm, sister.” He quickly extended his elbow to you, his movements almost robotic in their sudden politeness. “Please, allow me to escort you inside.”

You ignored the offer, your focus already elsewhere. The moment the carriage came to a stop, you heaved yourself off, stepping into the entrance. Grand revelry was before you; many suitors and young ladies were present, necks glittering with diamonds and hands adorned with gloves. Roving your gaze around, you saw him.

The world around you seemed to blur as your gaze locked onto Gojo, everything else fading into the background. A sleazy and handsome grin on his face, definitely talking about some useless nonsense. 

Like a bull seeing red, you marched forward with determined fury, your sights set solely on him. He stood there, the picture of nonchalance, completely unaware of the storm heading his way. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, your anger propelling you forward with each step. Yuji and Choso exchanged confused glances as they lingered by the entrance, unsure of what had just transpired.

As you closed the distance, Gojo finally noticed you, his usual smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. But there was no time for his usual banter; you were ready to confront him head-on, no matter the consequences.

“What have you done?” you roared, striding towards Gojo. His head turned slowly, an amused and condescending smile creeping across his face. “I know this is⸺”

“Miss Itadori,” a voice hissed, dripping with offense. You turned to see Miss Yuki glaring at you. “Lord Gojo and I were in the midst of a very private conversation.”

You blinked, realizing that in your anger, you had entirely overlooked Miss Yuki’s presence. Though inwardly rolling your eyes, you knew it was best to maintain decorum. You curtsied in apology. “My sincerest apologies, Miss Yuki. I shall leave you both to continue your conversation.”

As you stepped back, giving them respectable space, Miss Yuki side-eyed you with a sharp “hmph!” before turning back to Gojo with a flirtatious smile.

“So, my lord,” Yuki began, her tone coy, “what type of woman would be to your liking?”

Gojo scratched his chin, feigning deep thought as he prepared his response. “Well, Miss Yuki, I would imagine she must be intelligent, accomplished, and⸺” He paused dramatically, taking her hand and kissing the back of it with a slow, deliberate drawl, “⸺and beautiful.”

You suppressed a sigh. Does he never tire of that tiresome gesture? It’s grown exceedingly dull.

Yuki’s pleased grin widened. “And what level of intellect do you find satisfactory, my lord?”

“Well,” Gojo mused, “I would prefer a lady well-versed in calculations. I often find myself making errors in my ledgers late at night, and a wife who could assist would be most valuable. Moreover, I would enjoy engaging in debates on scientific matters.”

Is he seeking a wife or an accountant?

The unusual nature of his request clearly left Yuki taken aback. She blinked, her smile tightening. “Indeed, Lord Gojo, these are rather...uncommon expectations for a wife.” Yuki then hesitated, glancing around as though searching for an escape. “Well, my lord, as intriguing as this conversation has been, I fear I must take my leave. My mother has been awaiting my return, and I would not wish to keep her waiting.”

She curtsied with a strained smile, clearly eager to extricate herself from the awkward situation Gojo’s peculiar standards had created. Without waiting for a reply, she swiftly turned and made her exit, leaving you alone to confront Gojo, who now had an amused look on his face, as if he had purposefully answered that way to ward Miss Yuki off.

You pointed your finger at him, wagging it accusingly as you hissed, “Gojo, I know this was one of your ploys.”

He let out an exaggerated groan, and he dropped all flirtatious pretenses he had adopted when conversing with the other lady. “Ah, yes. Please, by all means, heap more blame upon me for things entirely beyond my control. I derive immense pleasure from being the target of your needless and misdirected fury.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

With a strained smile, he sighed. “It seems our mothers have taken it upon themselves to orchestrate this entire charade.”

Your hands flew up in exasperation. “I cannot believe this! I would sooner perish than marry you, and heaven help me if I were ever to bear your children!”

“Spare me the theatrics,” Gojo replied, shaking his head as if amused by your outburst. He inclined his head slightly, gesturing toward something in the distance. “We are being observed.”

You followed his gaze and saw, across the dance floor, both of your mothers trying—albeit poorly—to appear inconspicuous as they exchanged furtive glances and whispered behind their fans.

You huffed in frustration, turning back to Gojo. “This is absurd.”

He chuckled softly, his breath warm against your ear as he leaned in closer. “But would it be so terrible to bear my children?” he murmured, his tone teasing yet somehow serious.

Your pulse quickened at his words, but you refused to let it show. You straightened your posture, meeting his gaze with as much poise as you could muster. “I can’t think of far worse fates, my lord,” you replied, a touch of sarcasm lacing your words.

Gojo’s smile widened, clearly undeterred. His hand brushed lightly against your arm, the touch fleeting but enough to send a shiver down your spine.. You felt a slight tremor of awareness course through you, and despite your best efforts, a hint of warmth crept into your cheeks.

He leaned in even closer, his voice a low murmur. “You seem flustered, Miss Itadori,” he said, his breath warm against your skin. “I must admit, the idea of a future with you is… intriguing.”

Flustered and at a loss of witty remarks, you stammered, struggling to find your voice. “I⸺I hardly think that⸺”

Gojo’s smile widened, clearly enjoying your reaction. He gently took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. His eyes had this sultry expression to them, one that you didn’t need to ponder more than one second to know had no good intentions. 

With that, he released your hand, leaving you standing there, your heart pounding and your cheeks aflame.

Gojo ⸺ 1, You ⸺ 1. 

Choso crossed his arms, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Mother, why are we departing a week earlier than the rest of the ton?”

The carriage rocked gently, the luggage rattling with the motion. You slumped in your seat, weary from the long hours of travel, your thoughts drifting to the comfort of a soft, fluffy bed. Your mother, noticing the beads of sweat forming on your brow, handed you a handkerchief before turning to respond to Choso. “Well, my dear, your sister has caught the eye of Lord Gojo, and his mother has personally invited us to arrive early so that we may become better acquainted.”

Your eldest brother frowned, while Yuji stared vacantly out the carriage window, enraptured by the sheep present on the farm you were passing. “But why should we do so?” Choso pressed, his tone firm. “It is not as though Sister is lacking in suitors. Why should we entertain Lord Gojo’s interest above all others?”

Even in your heat-induced lightheadedness, your attention was drawn to Choso’s defense of you. A flicker of hope ignited in your chest; as the viscount, Choso held considerable authority over your mother, and he could potentially influence the matrimonial decisions made on your behalf.

“Lord Gojo is the most eligible bachelor of the season,” your mother insisted. “We would be foolish not to seize such an opportunity.”

Choso retorted quickly, “And Sister is the most eligible lady of the season. She is the diamond. If Lord Gojo’s eligibility rests on his title, would we not do better to pursue a match with Duke Nanami?”

You silently cheered Choso on, hoping he might sway your mother’s mind away from the ridiculous notion of a match between you and Gojo.

But your mother was not easily deterred. “I am quite set on Lord Gojo, Choso,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “Your sister seems to have formed a rapport with him, and this is about more than just titles. We must also consider her inclinations.”

Both your mother and Choso turned their expectant gazes upon you, awaiting your response. Flustered and unwilling to directly oppose your mother, you swallowed nervously and nodded. “Whatever you think best, Mother.”

The remainder of the ride was marked by the satisfied smile on Lady Itadori’s face and the glowers⸺yet paired with concerned glances⸺from Choso.

The slowing of the carriage and its turn onto a smooth pathway roused you from the gentle lull of travel. You blinked your eyes open and glanced outside. A magnificent flower bed greeted you, a sea of blues ranging from the palest sky hues to deep indigo. But what truly stole your breath was the manor itself⸺more a castle than a mere country home. Its grandiose structure rivaled Buckingham Palace in regality, with elegant blue spires and stately beige stone walls that seemed to stretch towards the heavens.

The carriage came to a complete halt at the base of a grand staircase, where Duchess Gojo stood waiting, surrounded by footmen and maids all dressed in coordinated baby blue livery. As the carriage door was opened, you, your mother, Choso, and Yuji stepped out into the warm afternoon air.

“Lady Itadori!” Duchess Gojo descended the stairs gracefully, her arms extended in greeting. Your mother met her with an equally warm embrace.

“Your Grace,” your mother replied fondly, her face lighting up with familiarity. The duchess then turned her gaze towards you, her smile gracious and welcoming.

“And this must be our diamond,” Duchess Gojo said warmly, her eyes twinkling.

You offered her a polite smile and curtsied. “Miss Itadori, Your Grace. I am deeply honored by your hospitality.”

She waved off your formality with a flick of her hand. “The pleasure is entirely ours, my dear. We are delighted to have you with us, and I do hope that you and my son will find ample time to get better acquainted before the house party.”

You returned her smile, though unease stirred within you. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Choso and Yuji introduced themselves with the same practiced politeness, and after the formalities were concluded, the duchess clapped her hands together. “Come now, let us take tea. You must be quite fatigued from your journey. I shall have the staff see to your rooms so you may rest after.” She directed the servants to unload the luggage from the carriages and then motioned for you all to follow her into the manor. “To the drawing room!”

As you crossed the threshold into the manor, you were struck by the sheer opulence surrounding you. The high ceilings were adorned with intricate gold and blue detailing, and the walls were lined with endless portraits of the Gojo family. Your gaze was momentarily drawn to a portrait of Lord Gojo himself. The artist had rendered his eyes in a cold, oceanic blue—quite unlike the electric blue intensity they held in person. The painting failed to capture the vitality, and perhaps the insufferable smugness, that characterized his gaze.

You quickly looked away before anyone could notice your lingering stare, hurrying to catch up with your family as you reached a grand set of double doors. Footmen stood at attention as Duchess Gojo led you into a drawing room, elegantly appointed with plush furnishings and laden with trays of sweets.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” the duchess urged, gesturing towards the seating. She and your mother settled at a small table near the door, while you and your siblings gravitated toward the couches in the center of the room, where a tempting array of desserts awaited. As you sat down, maids swiftly arranged teacups and began pouring the tea. Yuji and Choso took seats across from you, their expressions reflecting varying degrees of interest—or lack thereof—in the proceedings.

“So, Miss Itadori,” You looked across the room to look at the duchess, who was leaning further to grab at her teacup and take a sip. “How do you find this season?”

“I find the suitors of this season very pleasing and kind, Your Grace,” you sat up fully, placing the scone you were eating down to fully face the duchess. “It has been a very extravagant season; I hope to continue my search to find a suitable match for myself.” Duchess Gojo nodded. “An admirable pursuit, of course. Is a love match what you are searching for?”

Her question hung in the air, and in that instant, you felt the weight of every gaze in the room fall upon you. The most searing of them all, though, was your mother's. You could feel it like a prickling heat against your skin, a silent reminder of the expectations that had been laid out before you long ago.

A love match. The words echoed in your mind, each syllable twisting into a knot of uncertainty. The very idea of love seemed foreign to you—elusive, abstract, something that belonged in novels rather than in the practical world of arranged marriages and alliances. Love was not what you had been taught to seek. No, your upbringing had been grounded in duty, decorum, and the quiet understanding that marriage was a contract, a union of convenience rather than passion.

But how could you say that aloud? How could you tell the duchess—tell anyone—that your dreams did not include the fiery passion of a love match, but rather the comfort of a peaceful arrangement? Your throat tightened, and the words that had once seemed so simple lodged themselves in the back of your mouth, refusing to emerge.

Your mother’s eyes bore into you, filled with unspoken expectations. You knew what she wanted to hear: that you were pursuing love, that you were open to it, that you were the ideal picture of a hopeful young lady seeking her romantic equal. But that wasn’t your truth. Your truth was more complicated, filled with desires for stability, understanding, and a life unburdened by the chaos that love so often seemed to bring.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the beat almost deafening in the sudden silence of the room. What were you supposed to say? How could you balance the delicate line between honesty and propriety?

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, you swallowed hard, the dryness in your throat making it nearly impossible to find your voice. The tension swirled within you, an unrelenting force that made you wish you could simply disappear. What if they could see through you? What if, with one wrong word, they uncovered the truth of what you really wanted—a marriage that was practical, peaceful, and devoid of the complications that came with love?

But that wasn’t something you could admit. Not here. Not now.

You forced a polite smile, hoping it hid the whirlwind of thoughts racing through your mind.

Before the weight of the room could settle further, the heavy double doors swung open with a soft yet deliberate creak. Every head turned in unison, and the air seemed to shift as your savior, Satoru Gojo made his entrance.

His attire was impeccable—a finely tailored waistcoat of deep blue, embroidered with silver thread that caught the light just so, paired with polished boots that gleamed as if they had never touched the ground. Yet, despite the formal attire, there was an air of disarming casualness about him, a kind of effortless elegance that made the room's grandeur seem almost insignificant by comparison.

His damp hair, still tousled from what must have been a recent bath, added an edge to his otherwise polished appearance. Droplets of water shimmered at the tips of his white locks, catching the light as he ran a hand through them. The scent of his cologne, rich and intoxicating, seemed to announce his arrival to you even before he spoke.

He strolled in with an air of ease. “It seems that our guests are finally here!” He moved with an easy grace, crossing the room in a few long strides, bowing slightly to the duchess and your mother before turning his attention to you. His gaze lingered on you for just a moment longer than necessary, a playful glint in his eyes as if he could sense the internal battle you had been fighting mere seconds ago.

“Miss Itadori,” he greeted you with a smile that could have melted the iciest of hearts, “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.”

Your mother’s eyes lit up at the sight of him. “Ah, Satoru! Come, sit with us.” She motioned to the spot next to you with enthusiasm. “Why don’t you and Miss Itadori sit together?”

Choso’s sharp gaze followed him with a hint of suspicion, but he made no objection as Gojo accepted the invitation, seating himself beside you with an infuriatingly confident smile. Yuji and Choso remained on the opposite couch, observing the scene with varying degrees of curiosity and caution.

“Well then,” Gojo began, grabbing an obscene amount of scones to heap on his plate, “I was just at the 

archery range earlier today. Quite the exhilarating sport. I find it sharpens the mind as much as the aim.”

Yuji, ever the admirer of feats of physical skill, leaned forward with interest. “Archery, my lord? That sounds remarkable! I must admit, I’ve always found it to be one of the noblest of pursuits.”

Gojo leaned back into the couch, resting one arm casually behind you on the backrest, his posture the very picture of relaxed confidence. He smiled at Yuji’s enthusiasm and continued, “Archery has long been a favored pastime of mine. It requires precision, patience, and an understanding of balance—qualities I find both necessary and rewarding. I've dedicated many years to perfecting my skill with the bow.”

He paused, allowing a slight, reflective smile to touch his lips. “In fact, just last month, I competed in the annual tournament at Her Majesty’s estate and managed to hit the bullseye in every round. Some of the other competitors remarked that it was almost unnatural, but I assure you, it is merely the result of countless hours spent at the range.”

Yuji’s eyes widened with admiration. “Every round? That’s incredible, Lord Gojo! Your dedication must be unparalleled.”

Gojo shrugged with mock humility, though his eyes glinted with pride. “It’s all in the discipline, really. Once you understand the rhythm of the draw and the release, it becomes second nature. Of course, the challenge is in maintaining that focus while under pressure. But I’ve found that to be the most exhilarating part—especially when the crowd is watching.”

Yuji nodded fervently, clearly enthralled. “I would love to see you in action, my lord! Perhaps you could give me a few pointers one day.”

Gojo chuckled, his gaze shifting to you for a moment before returning to Yuji. “Ah, I’m sure you’d take it quite well, Yuji. Perhaps we could all visit the range together during your stay here.”

 The nonchalant arrogance in his voice, paired with the image of him lording his skill over others, irritated you. You couldn’t resist a small quip, your tone light. “Oh, indeed, Lord Gojo. Your accomplishments are so profound that I fear I might believe you are telling tales. Of course, I wonder with all this focus on archery, do you leave any time for pursuits that require a bit more… finesse?”

Gojo’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as they met yours, his gaze sharp with understanding. Yet, rather than take offense, he allowed a playful smirk to curl on his lips, his voice laced with teasing intent. “Ah, Miss Itadori, archery indeed requires finesse, I assure you. But perhaps you’d care to test that claim yourself? I’d be more than happy to provide a demonstration.”

As he leaned in closer, you found yourself all too aware of his presence. The scent of his cologne, a warm and intoxicating blend of vanilla and tobacco, filled the air between you, making it difficult to maintain your composure. His face hovered just near enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath as he spoke.

“In fact,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone, “I’d wager that with a little practice, you might find yourself hitting the mark with more than just words.”

His proximity made your heart skip a beat, and you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Despite your resolve to remain composed, the effect of his closeness and the quiet intensity in his voice left you momentarily at a loss for words.

Choso, sitting across from you, gave Gojo a sharp look. Meanwhile, Yuji was practically beaming at the prospect of an archery lesson from the lord himself.

You inhaled sharply, trying to steady yourself. “Perhaps,” you replied, your voice more controlled than you expected, though there was still a slight quiver in it. “But I’ve found that words can be just as powerful, if not more so.”

Gojo smirked, his gaze lingering on your face as if savoring the moment. The challenge in his eyes was unmistakable, and you could feel the weight of it, pressing against your own resolve. But you wouldn’t allow him to see just how much he affected you—at least, not yet. 

Despite the warmth in your cheeks and the flutter in your chest, you held his gaze, meeting his playful intensity with your own determined calm.

However, your mother’s voice broke through the spell. “Oh, Your Grace, might we have a tour of the manor sometime?”

Duchess Gojo, clearly delighted to show off her home, nodded eagerly. “Of course! There is a pavilion overlooking our garden where we can play pall-mall, and the library is quite extensive.” Your interest piqued at the mention of the library, and you made yourself a mental note to explore where it was.

Then she turned her gaze towards you, her expression growing more conspiratorial. “And as for Miss Itadori, Satoru has promised to give her a personal tour of the grounds tomorrow after she takes rest today.”

You stiffened at the suggestion, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw Gojo lean in slightly, his mischievous grin widening as he whispered, “I’ll be sure to make it… thorough.”

You couldn’t sleep.

Restless thoughts kept you tossing and turning, denying you any hope of finding solace in slumber. The events of the day had left you drained, and after the conversation in the drawing room, you had collapsed into the plush, inviting bed. Sleep had claimed you almost instantly. But now, in the dark silence of the night, you awoke with a start, your mind refusing to quiet. No matter how you tried, you couldn’t escape the whirlwind of thoughts that stirred within you.

The prospect of the coming days loomed over you, a storm of anxiety brewing. Spending time with Gojo, of all people? Your mother’s insistent push for this potential marriage was unbearable. How could you possibly tell her that you despised the man? The mere thought of being bound to him in matrimony was a nightmare⸺marriage itself was daunting enough, but to an arrogant, loquacious, and insufferably self-assured man like him? It would be nothing short of Hell on earth.

With a frustrated sigh, you rose from bed and rubbed your face, trying to dispel the fog of sleeplessness. Perhaps a visit to the manor’s library⸺the one mentioned during tea⸺would offer some distraction. Grabbing a lantern, you slipped out of your room, treading softly down the stairs and into the main hallway. You moved with the caution of a thief; your mother would surely not approve of your nocturnal wanderings. Her voice echoed in your mind, sharp and reprimanding: “Good things never happen in the dead of night!”

As you opened the library’s grand doors, a soothing fragrance enveloped you⸺the scent of aged paper mingled with a hint of vanilla, a fragrance unique to this room. But what truly took your breath away was the sheer size of the library.

Bookshelves lined the walls, rising two stories high, creating a space that could easily have served as a grand ballroom. Cozy nooks beckoned you to sit, while further exploration revealed tables and armchairs tucked away behind towering shelves. It was a bibliophile’s paradise.

Your eyes roved over the multitude of volumes: ancient ledgers, personal family records, scholarly works on politics, astronomy, and the sciences. Though you did not often indulge in scientific pursuits, you found them fascinating whenever the opportunity arose. One book in particular caught your eye:

Observations on the Planet Venus.

Drawn to the back of the library, you found a large window offering a stunning view of the garden and pavilion, bathed in starlight. You couldn’t resist the allure of the table beside it, where you settled in and began to read.

“The planet Venus is an object that has long engaged my particular attention. A series of observations upon it, which I began in April, 1777, has been continued down to the present time…”

Time slipped away as you became engrossed in the text, the lantern’s light flickering softly as you pored over the meticulous observations and calculations. Your hands were soon stained with ink, evidence of the notes you had been feverishly jotting down on scraps of parchment you had found in a supply cabinet. A good hour or two had passed before you finally leaned back, stretching your tired muscles. You rested your head on your arms, intending to close your eyes for just a moment. Soon, you found that your sleepy brain forced you to reflect and muse upon your life, as a mind often does at three.

What a pity it was that you couldn’t bear the thought of marrying Gojo. If only he were different, you might have lived in this manor, with its perfect library, forever. You could imagine it: waking in the mornings in your fluffy bed, sharing the latest discoveries in astronomy and medicine with your handsome husband…

Truly, what a pity. Your sleep-deprived mind began to conjure an image of this imagined husband—tall, nearly Gojo’s height, with kind eyes and lips that would kiss you gently awake each morning (unlike Gojo’s snark). You envisioned banter over breakfast, late-night rendezvous in the library, and tender embraces in bed…

Before you could delve deeper into your fantasy, the sound of footsteps jolted you back to reality. The tread was deliberate, too similar to your mother’s for comfort, and panic flared within you. Your mind, already muddled with exhaustion, conjured the worst possible scenario—your mother finding you here, in the library where you had no business being at this hour.

Memories of her discovering forbidden books in your childhood flashed before your eyes, and your breath quickened in fear. Rising as quietly as you could, you pressed your hands over your mouth to stifle any sound, creeping toward a bookshelf to hide. But the footsteps drew closer, relentless in their pursuit. You felt like prey, cornered and desperate.

Getting out of your chair as quietly as you could, you squeezed your eyes shut and put both of your hands over your mouth so you didn’t start making audible gasps that would let the person know where you were immediately. Softly⸺but panickedly⸺walking towards a bookshelf, you hid as you traced the footsteps getting closer and closer to you. You tried to walk away from the sound, but it seemed like the person was listening intently for your movements. You couldn’t help but think you were like prey, cornered and desperate.

However, it was all for naught; your heart sank as you realized you had ended up in an alley of bookshelves that were up against the wall, essentially creating a dead end for you. The steps got closer and closer, and you drew yourself closer and closer to the wall. Your eyes was still shut, but you could hear the steps around the corner, coming closer and closer. 

The footsteps were merely a few feet away from you, and in a moment of sheer panic, you blurted out, “I am sorry, Mother⸺”

“Excuse me,” came a voice that was decidedly not your mother’s. Your eyes flew open to find none other than Gojo, his blue eyes alight with offense. “Do I resemble your mother in any way?”

You blinked, struggling to process the sight before you. He was holding a quill, ink, and a stack of notebooks that resembled the ledgers you had seen earlier, along with a plate of scones that looked absurdly sugary.

“I—” you stammered, taking a sharp breath to compose yourself and paused, looking at Gojo⸺who was shooting you a petulant frown⸺take a big bite of his scone. “Your tread was uncannily similar.”

He paused, chewing on a scone with a sulky expression, while you averted your gaze in embarrassment.

When he finished chewing, he cleared his throat. “You must possess rather poor hearing to mistake a man of my stature for a lady.”

You shrugged, still flustered. “Perhaps you have an unusually light step.”

An awkward silence settled between you as Gojo took another loud bite of his scone. You hastened to break it. “It is quite late; I must take my leave. Good night, my lord.”

You bowed your head slightly and moved to leave, but before you could slip past him, he blocked your path, suspicion narrowing his gaze. “What business do you have in the Gojo library at this hour?”

“Nothing of import,” you squeaked.

At the not-very-innocuous tone in your voice, his eyes narrowed further. “Your tone suggests otherwise.” He leaned in, his gaze sweeping over you with exaggerated scrutiny. Noticing the ink stains on your hands, he quipped, “Were you tampering with important records?”

Your heart raced, knowing that he wouldn’t be entirely wrong to suspect you⸺what else would a lady be doing in a library at this hour? It was a no-win situation: confess to reading a book and risk your mother’s wrath, or be accused of something far more serious.

It was best to come clean. “I was merely reading a book,” you confessed. “I can show you precisely where I sat and what I was doing.”

Gojo’s expression softened, but he quickly continued his theatrical suspicion and hmmphed. “Of course. I must be certain that no mischief has been afoot.”

You led him back to the table where you had been reading. He sat across from you, depositing his supplies onto the table with a flourish and leaned back, crossing his arms. Ever the investigator, he watched as you retrieved the book. It bore no resemblance to the Gojo ledgers, which had the telltale blue cover and Gojo insignia, which consisted of six eyes. 

Upon seeing this, he nodded in acknowledgment. “You are exonerated.”

At that, you sighed and clutched your chest. For a moment, you contemplated pleading with Gojo to keep your late library visit secret from your mother but you shot the idea down for two reasons. First, you would never lower yourself to plead with Gojo, and second, Gojo⸺ever the insufferable man⸺would definitely make sure to mention it to your mother and further exacerbate the issue. 

As he began arranging his ink bottles and quills, preparing to work on his ledgers, you took a moment to observe him. He was dressed in casual attire, loose-fitting trousers and a white shirt with several buttons undone, revealing a hint of his chest. Slut.

It took you a moment to realize that he was settling in at your table. You frowned. “I beg your pardon, but this is my spot.”

Gojo looked up from his work, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “My dear, this is my library. Thus, it is my spot.”

You opened your mouth to retort, then closed it in frustration. He was right, after all. The entire manor was his. Your silence seemed to amuse him, as he returned to his ledgers with a smug smile.

Now, you didn’t really know what to do⸺should you go back to your room, or should you stay and continue reading the book? In your indecision, you continued to flip through the pages of the book, particularly because you wanted to finish the conclusion section before going to bed. But you soon felt his gaze upon you, the sound of his quill slowing down.

You didn’t look up. “Might I suggest you cease staring at me? It is quite improper.” “What? Why would I do so? To watch you peruse a tedious romance novel?”

“This is a book on the state of the art of astronomy.” 

“Indeed? I confess, I am surprised.”

Your irritation flared and you whipped your head up to glare at Gojo. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

“I was under the impression that young ladies’ interests lie solely in matters of the heart.”

“So, in addition to gossiping, you are also prone to narrow-minded assumptions?”

Gojo scoffed. “Narrow-minded? It is a simple observation. Both men and women often indulge in fanciful notions of love.”

You scoffed. “Ah, so you hold yourself above other men. What are you, God?”

Gojo ignored your remark. “Those who read such frivolities are seldom engaged in serious thought or the appreciation of true art.”

“Romance allows one to experience love and joy. Does the prospect of happiness through art truly horrify you?” You stood, glaring at him. “Unlike you, my lord, ladies such as myself cannot frequent dubious establishments such as brothels to seek out lovers. Our reputations and futures are at stake.” Gojo began to respond, but you cut him off. “To deny women the solace of love is cruel. It is our only refuge in a world that forces us into unwanted marriages!”

When you were done ranting to Gojo, you closed your eyes, taking a deep breath in. Truly, this man could bother you like no other; only your siblings have caused this much heat on your face due to anger. The only sounds in the library was your rushed breathing, from anger.

Gojo scoffed. “You truly think too much.”

You offered a sharp scoff. "And you, far too little. Even Sukuna Jr. possesses more emotional intelligence than you."

"Do not compare me to that wretched creature," Gojo retorted.

You gasped in disbelief. "How dare you speak of Kuna in such a manner!"

"Then perhaps you should keep him from fouling the air around me!" he snapped.

A sly smile crept across your lips. "He merely knows whom to guard me against."

At reference of That Night, Gojo sighs exhaustedly. “Do you find trouble with the judgments I made that night? None of that was meant for you.”

“Are you quite serious?” You were in disbelief. Does he truly feel no remorse? Frustrated, you ran a hand over your face. “Your words may not have been intended for me, but they were no less cutting. I cannot abide such arrogance, my lord.”

Gojo leaned back, crossing his arms with an air of indifference. “Arrogance or simply honesty? I merely spoke the truth as I see it.”

“Your so-called truth is nothing more than disdain wrapped in wit,” you snapped, feeling your temper rise again. “You speak as though your opinions are infallible, as if you alone have the right to pass judgment on others.”

“I only say what others are too afraid to voice,” he retorted, his tone cool. “If that makes me arrogant, then so be it. But I will not apologize for it.”

“Of course not,” you said bitterly. “An apology would require some measure of humility, and that is something you clearly lack.”

Gojo’s eyes narrowed, his voice growing more clipped. “I fail to see why my opinions should trouble you so much. Perhaps you are simply too sensitive.”

Your anger flared at his dismissive tone. “Or perhaps you are too blind to see the harm your words cause. You claim to be honest, but what you truly are is cruel.”

“Cruel?” Gojo’s voice was sharp now, his composure slipping. “For speaking the truth? For refusing to coddle those who cannot handle it?”

“For refusing to consider the feelings of others!” you countered, your voice rising in frustration. “Not everything is a game or a joke, my lord. Your words have consequences, whether you acknowledge them or not.”

A tense silence fell between you, each of you locked in a stubborn glare, neither willing to yield. Finally, you shook your head, the weight of your frustration pressing down on you. “I cannot do this,” you muttered, turning away. “You are utterly impossible.”

You began to walk away, but Gojo’s voice cut through the silence. “Running away so soon?” There was a hint of something in his tone⸺something almost like disappointment⸺but you dismissed it.

You paused, glancing back at him with a hardened expression. “There is no point in continuing this conversation. You refuse to see reason, and I refuse to waste any more of my time on you.”

Without waiting for a reply, you turned on your heel and left the library, your heart pounding with irritation and anger. As the door closed behind you, you couldn’t shake the feeling of heaviness in your chest. 

prev. the aftermath | next. the game

general masterlist | series masterlist

a/n gojo the type to hit ur g spot every ti---WHAT WHO SAID THAT?

anyways yes we r getting (sort of) freaky in the next chapter (gojo busts in his pants seeing reader's ankles /j)

gojo when reader thought he was her mama

also tysm for all the asks, and comments, and love you guys have shown me. super motivating that you guys are enjoying the story and propels me to write more <3

comment, reblog, and send in an ask to let me know ur thots :3 memes are also appreciated <3

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