𝖑𝖎𝖟

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 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—