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Your moans were the first thing Gojo heard on his way to class.
Quiet, muffled by the heavy wooden door of the storage room, but definitely there, almost imperceptible among the general racket of college. Gojo stopped, turned his head. He crept up to the door, pushed it ajar very, very slowly and there you were, your legs tightly wrapped around Daigo Shibara’s waist, your face nestled against his shoulder in a poor attempt to muffle your meek noises of pleasure. The representative of your class held you just as tight, thrusting relentlessly underneath your bunched up skirt, his face buried in your neck which he kept peppering with loving, desperate little kisses. You tilted your head and he took the cue, biting softly into the skin, tearing another strangled moan from your whimpering lips.
Gojo watched, as if in a dream, and listened to the whiny little sounds spilling one after the other from your lips. He had imagined those very sounds, had carefully crafted them in his mind, recreating your voice as his hand had snaked toward his throbbing cock. He watched the way your features twisted in obvious pleasure, the way your body moved effortlessly along Daigo’s, the genuine love with which you took the representative’s thrusts, kissed his hair and his neck soothingly, the way your fingers curled gently in his locks, guiding his head there or there. It told of a real bond, one that had gone on far longer than he could have suspected.
It made him fucking sick.
Several options flashed through his mind, as quick as lightning, each as tempting as the other. He could swing the door wide open, without a word, and let his fellow comrades enjoy the spectacle, you and Daigo too engrossed in fucking each other up to realize what would be happening. Or, even better, he could just grab you both and toss you half-naked on the dirty college floor, your crumpled skirt bunched up over your ass, your breasts poking out of your half-opened collar. He could imagine your face, wide with shock and horror, your arms flying to hastily cover yourself under the endless mockery of your classmates. Finally, he could take out his phone, quietly record the whole thing and show it to you later to make you realize how much of a slut you were after sending it to the class group chat.
It was too good to picture, but Gojo didn’t move.
He just stayed there, motionless, watching you giving another guy what should have rightfully been his: the little twitch of your lips, the tender kisses on his ear, the enthusiastic rolls of your hips.
It had been quite some time since Gojo had a thing for you. It wasn’t really surprising, given how outspoken and gleeful you were. Your words could be rough, sometimes driving your classmates away, but they spoke of an unshakable confidence Gojo could only compare to his, something he dreamed of seeing in his future girlfriend. You were pretty, of course, that was also an undeniable fact. Really pretty. There wasn’t a day when you didn’t show up with a tantalizing new hue of inviting lipstick on your lips, or a new pair of pantyhose hugging your legs in all the best way. That was another facet of your confidence that Gojo really liked. You knew your worth and you weren’t afraid to show it.
That made your betrayal even bitterer now.
Gojo had never made an open move on you yet; just the usual passing glance or charming smile, but nothing more. After all, as he had said to Geto, he had plenty of time. You weren’t going anywhere and there wasn’t any competition he should have been afraid of. He was sure you would end up drifting toward him anyway; it was only natural. He was a catch, the top student of his class, rich, popular, basically everything you could ask for. There was no reason that you shouldn’t come to him at some point. Girls always came to him, not the other way around.
He couldn’t have guessed how wrong he was.
Gojo frowned, his blue eyes still locked on your panting figure, trying to guess how long you two had been together exactly. There was a definite ease, a gentle familiarity in your shared movements as Daigo carefully put you back on the ground, smiling, and you tiptoeing to kiss his cheek. Gojo quickly backed away, not even bothering to close the door, letting his nails sink painfully into his shaking fist. His cheeks were burning with a strange kind of humiliation. He had been bested by a nobody, an average, ordinary-looking guy, with nothing special going on for himself; no money, no real good grades, no real talent. How could someone as lovely as you could lower herself to fuck such a pathetic loser? Did you have no shame?
What stung him the most though was the extent of your deception. No one, absolutely no one at school had even suspected you were dating someone. No rumors, no gossip had reached him, and God knew he was hooked on those, being the best way to gather information or blackmail, depending on the nature of what was said in the hallways. You, despite your outspoken nature, had sparked nothing: it seemed like you had been playing your part wonderfully well. Gojo had been watching you thoroughly and he hadn’t seen anything, no furtive smiles, no shy glances, no cute blushing. You behaved with Daigo as if he was one of your classmates and nothing more, and Gojo would have kept thinking it was the case if it hadn’t been for your muffled moans in the storage room.
He took his seat, his usual snarky expression locked in a deep, angry frown, ignoring Geto’s puzzled look as his best friend sat next to him. His eyes were locked on the door of the classroom where students were filing in with faces just as unhappy as his, though for different reasons. While his classmates took their seats in a rustle of paper and quiet chatter, his mind wandered back to your lips parting to let out those breathless moans he had dreamed of hearing at night. How many dates did you go on with that boyfriend of yours in secret? How many kisses had he stolen already? How many times had you two fucked like this, unheard of in the school? How many gifts, how many secret rides to the university together, how many meals shared? How many things had you given, things that he should have had?
He clenched his fist on the table again as his mind kept spiraling in an uncontrollable whirlwind of jealousy and righteous anger. Daigo made him sick, but you were clearly worse. A fresh wave of loathing rose in his throat, bringing the bitter taste of bile.
His thoughts were cut short when you entered the classroom, all fresh and smiling, head held high, Daigo trailing behind you, looking as disinterested as a student going into afternoon classes could be. Gojo’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the subtle way in which your hands adjusted your collar, nor the reddened hickey adorning your neck beneath. His hand clenched again and he felt Geto nudge him slightly. Gojo turned and met his best friend’s questioning look with a scowl.
“What’s wrong with you?” Geto asked, leaning toward him while the teacher entered.
“She fucked him,” was all Gojo retorted before class started.
He didn’t pay any attention to his best friend’s even more bewildered look. His eyes kept going back to you during class, to the hickey peeking just above the white collar of your neatly arranged shirt, to your perfectly calm expression, with serious and focused features, so different from the face twisted in pleasure Gojo had seen barely a few minutes ago. Your breathless moans kept ringing in his ears, tormenting his mind while the teacher droned on and the class slept as usual.
The bell hadn’t even finished ringing that half of the students had already packed their stuff, filing out the door with much more enthusiasm than when they came in. Gojo didn’t move, his gaze locked on you, watching your precise movements as you put your notebooks and laptop in your bag.
“Don’t wait for me,” he said to Geto without even turning. “I have some stuff to take care of.”
Geto knew better than to discuss his best friend’s whims and left without a word, doing his best to ignore you on his way out. Daigo followed soon after, slinging his bag over his shoulder without so much as glancing at you. Why should he? Gojo thought sarcastically, following the representative with his eyes. Your relationship didn’t exist here.
Soon there was no one but you and Gojo in the empty classroom.
Gojo stood up, hands shoved in his pockets and walked over to you, displaying a calmness he was very far from feeling.
“Y/N.”
You looked up, your eyes wide with cautious curiosity. Gojo didn’t leave you any time to answer. His body moved on his own, driven by the jealousy that had brewed and boiled in his chest over the past hour he had been sitting across from you.
He yanked you toward him, ignoring your short, surprised yelp as his lips immediately latched onto a spot on the soft column of your neck. You were too stunned to even react, frozen in a state of shock while his mouth eagerly worked on your skin, harshly sucking and pulling it with little nips of his teeth. In a fit of greed he gave your neck a quick little swipe of his tongue, dragging the wet muscle over your flesh. The taste of your skin was even better than he had imagined; sweet, sugary, with a tad of salty sweat; tangible, even better than your muffled little whimpers. Gojo couldn’t resist sinking his teeth in, letting out a soft moan against the crook of your neck when your tender flesh gave way under the firm bite. The sharp pain jolted you out of your paralysis and you yelped, tearing yourself away from him with a harsh shove.
“What the hell?!” you hissed, your hand harshly rubbing the patch of sink he had bitten.
Gojo simply smiled. You were beautiful like this, with your burning gaze, your perfectly styled hair slightly disheveled, your collar all wrinkled and creased, your skin full of sweat and slimy leaks of spit dripping over the purple, blossoming hickey adorned by tiny indents his teeth had left. Your features twisted in disgust. The slap that came next didn’t even faze him: he fully expected it. It was harsh and fiery, like you, and he welcomed the pain as gladly as he had welcomed the sweet taste of your skin on his tongue.
You stared at him, panting, rubbing your neck where the faint sting of the bite had started pulsing in your flesh, wiping away the spit on your hand. His smile widened, and he leaned over to whisper mockingly in your ear.
“I think it looks good on you. Much better than the one he gave you.”
You froze. Gojo smirked. Your eyes widened, the anger in your eyes replaced by dismay. For the first time since he had known you, you truly looked at a loss for words. Then your eyes clouded again and you straightened, holding your head high, looking as proud as you could despite the purplish hue the spot on your neck was taking.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t fucking come close to me again.”
With that you whirled around, huffing, your hand still glued to the embarrassing evidence imprinted on your flesh. Gojo watched storm out of the classroom, all fierce and haughty, but the little tremors of your hands didn’t escape him.
This was going to be fun.
Gojo walked leisurely toward the cafeteria, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other locked around a can of soda he had just bought at the nearest vending machine. He had decided there would be no time to waste, no when it came to begin your lesson.
His eyes swept over the rows and rows of chattering students stuffing themselves with food, each talking louder than their neighbors. If the majority were overexcited, some were bored, or some simply grim-looking, drained by the classes. Soon enough his gaze found Daigo Shibara sitting at a table, talking happily with a group of your class. Gojo looked around and spotted you not very far, sitting with a cluster of gossiping girls. He couldn’t stop another smirk when he saw the way you had tried to adjust your collar, straightening and stretching the white fabric in a clever attempt to disguise the hickey. If on the outside you looked as cheerful and radiant as usual, smiling politely and chirping in a funny joke from time to time, Gojo easily guessed your inward uneasiness with the way your twitching fingers kept coming back to rub your neck and the furtive littles glances you kept throwing around.
It was perfect.
He walked lazily, unbothered, going unseen among the rows of students, smiling when he felt your gaze lock on him as he neared the table where Daigo was sitting, grinning when a gasp of shock escaped your lips while he poured the contents of the can over your boyfriend’s head. The racket in the refectory gradually died down, replaced by a fearful hush while students turned to watch the syrupy liquid trickle down the representative’s astounded face, sticking to his hair in soaked clumps, dripping down his nose, trickling down his chin to stain the white of his uniform. The silence lingered. Then a very faint snicker erupted somewhere. Then another, slightly louder. And another. Soon the mocking, jeering noise spread like wildfire among the tables, swelling until the refectory was bursting with harsh, scornful laughter and sneers, all echoing one another. Daigo stood completely still, gazing at Gojo through a daze of pure, genuine incomprehension, but Gojo didn’t even spare him a glance. He had eyes only for your beautiful, harsh, scorching gaze, full of seething anger, your fists shaking with repressed fury, your lips pursed in a thin line. You looked even more gorgeous, glowering at him. Gojo felt prouder seeing your eyes dart between him and Daigo, clearly itching to go over and comfort the pathetic excuse you had chosen for a boyfriend, but unable to do so without openly revealing your relationship. You scoffed in disgust at his smug look, looking away while your boyfriend stood up, shoulders hunched miserably under the never-ending jeering of his classmates.
It didn’t take long for the taunting to begin after this, growing slowly but surely. It was subtle, but it was also easy for Gojo to catch on to the little but undeniable signs. A few mockeries when Daigo entered class. Some innocent shoves in the hallway when the representative had to move classes. Hidden snorts, mocking glances, unashamed whispering. Gojo watched it all on the side, satisfied to see his action being mimicked and reverberated so effectively by his classmates. He only had to nudge them a little. With enough encouragement, a crowd was too eager to follow. After all, if the most popular guy in the university was allowed to make fun of the quiet representative, why shouldn’t they? And hey, if Gojo had been pissed enough to do something as harsh as this, surely Daigo had deserved it in some way? That was one of many rumors and chitchat Gojo had managed to collect over the past few days. Geto had heard and seen many on the screen of his phone, in forums or private group chats. The class and the rest of the university were buzzing with quiet excitement, fueled by cruel, social bloodlust only teenagers and young adults were keen on feeding. This was just too funny.
The funniest of all was your reaction, though.
Each day Gojo got to see your quiet, desperate worry whenever Daigo shyly stepped in, trying his best to ignore the smirks of his classmates was a blessing. Each time you raised your hand in class, pretending to have some sickness or cramps to try and find an excuse to be alone with Daigo, Gojo would raise his hand just as quickly to accompany you. You would quietly settle down, glowering at him with all the silent fury you were capable of mustering.
It was heaven.
Your attention was finally on him and him only, as it always should have been. You were constantly on your toes, glancing over your shoulder, throwing him a dirty glare whenever you caught sight of his white hair. The quiet pain you felt, the forced isolation you had to endure from your boyfriend, the constant sneer and the distressed face Daigo now wore were an absolute delight to watch. It was excellent payback, as hurtful and bitter as what you put Gojo through that day when he had to listen to those sweet, infernal moans of yours.
Gojo took care to never stray far from those rumors, nurturing them with loving attention. He had instructed Geto to spread some in other classes, to further cement your boyfriend’s status as the punchbag of the whole school while he himself fed multiple chats, messages, and forums with discreet but efficient lies. Soon there would be no coming back for Daigo from the role of the perpetual but necessary victim.
If the teasing had been mostly harmless until now, it began to turn sourer under Gojo’s manipulation. The messages became much more vicious, the shoves more brutal, the whispering even more venomous. No matter how hard you tried to soothe things, to talk casually to restore Daigo’s reputation, the harm had already been done.
The day Daigo walked in with a bloody lip and a black eye was perhaps the best of Gojo’s life, especially when he saw your eyes widening in absolute shock. The representative sat down at his desk covered in graffiti, head drooping, hands folded, ignoring the hushed whispers. Gojo found him even more pathetic than usual, with his disheveled hair and torn shirt. It was just too funny. You watched helplessly, hands gripping your desk, eyes darting around to find the culprits of such a crime, as if you had any chance of finding them. Gojo was enamored, practically feeling the waves of distress rolling off you at the back of the classroom. Your eyes locked with his. Your lips curled in a disdainful scoff and you looked away. His twisted in a smile.
Gojo swore you were doing it on purpose. The tight pantyhose, your short skirt swaying to the rhythm of your hips, the brazen, provocative shade of red you had painted your lips with today. It had been weeks since he had touched that day in class, when he had been lucky enough to taste your skin with his lips and your flesh with his tongue, adding even more fuel to the many dirty fantasies he satisfied himself with at night.
He was tired of waiting for you to come around. You had made no move to talk to him, hadn’t sought a confrontation or even an explanation for his behavior. He had been certain that your unbreakable pride and strong temper would have been enough to bring you back to him, if only to seek some answers, but you had done nothing of the sort. Your blazing eyes and rebellious despair had been enough to satisfy him for a while, but now he wished for more.
He was very curious to see how you would react when he let his hand drag over to your ass in the hallway, cupping it and giving it a firm squeeze through the thin fabric of your skirt. Your surprised gasp made him smile. The hint of fear in your eyes as you whirled around to spit a flow of curses at him made him hard.
After that, nothing was enough to quell the hunger that tiny, fearful spark had ignited in him. A few burning kisses to your neck, a light smack to your ass, a quick pinch to your waist, a gentle stroke to your shoulder, anything to steal a small piece of you, to keep the memory of your sweet, sugary taste alive in his mouth and in his mind. The angrier and more paranoid you became, the bolder and more impatient he got. The need to touch you became an itch crawling under his skin. Gojo spaced out during class, tapped his foot impatiently during lessons, his gaze always seeking you, always craving you. He had been more than patient, giving you enough time to come back to your senses, or to at least ditch the outcast Daigo had become, but the fact that you had done neither of those things had simply worsened the possessive itch he felt growing each day. Didn’t he deserve his reward now? How could you be the only one to make him suffer like this? Despite everything he had done, you still retained that small amount of power over him, and his inability to change that infuriated him even more than he wanted to admit. So he kept following, trailing you, waiting, craving.
The day you let your guard down finally came.
You were too worn out. Too careless. The constant worrying about Daigo, the quiet burden nestled in your chest every day, your stifling fear of Gojo had gotten the better of your usual sharpness. You didn’t realize you were alone in the classroom as you wiped your tears. You didn’t hear the door open quietly behind you.
“Hey, princess.”
Gojo smiled as you whirled around. Your carefully applied makeup was smeared all over your cheeks, with the perfect lines of your mascara dripping in sad little streaks over your cheekbones. Your mask of confidence had eventually fallen off, with your pretty features all wrinkled and twisted by anxiety. You were alone, sad, exhausted.
Gojo couldn’t have dreamt better.
He stepped over to you, his smile widening as you hastily scoffed, your lovely face already hardening into the disdainful scowl he was used to see, but this time Gojo didn’t let it faze him. You were the weak one here. Not the other way around.
“Aaw,” he cooed mockingly, meeting your glare with a smirk of his own. “Are you crying, princess?”
“Don’t call me princess.”
The retort was as sharp as your tongue, as usual. Gojo’s mocking smirk twisted in a nasty grin, rows of white teeth peeking out under curled lips as he took another step toward you.
“Why not? It suits you.”
“You’re not my boyfriend.”
Gojo stilled. His grin froze. A small, imperceptible twitch crossed his face. Then his lips curled upwards again.
“I could be,” he said softly, cooing his words as gently as he could. “If you’d let me.”
Even though he couldn’t ignore the pang of irritation and hurt your icy reply had wounded his heart with, he still wanted to give you a chance. You were smart. That boyfriend of yours had been nothing but trouble, bringing you worries after worries, whereas he, with all his power, could fix everything. Make the pain go away. These weeks had been enough to show you just how weak and unfit the guy you had chosen was compared to you. Surely, after all this, you had to realize Gojo was the best choice, in every way possible. Right?
The look of pure scorn of your face told him otherwise. He straightened up, his face hardening and you scoffed again, one hand hastily wiping your tears, last remnants of weakness, off your face.
“You think I’d let you be my boyfriend? Seriously?”
“And why not?” he spat, the first signs of irritation twisting his handsome features.
He stopped right in front of you, glaring down at you while you looked up to meet his gaze with an equally angered stare.
“Why not?! Are you kidding me? You really don’t”-
You stopped suddenly, sighing, as if all the fight had been suddenly drained out of you. You had never looked as tired and beaten as you did now. You turned your back, ready to leave. The sight of the back of your uniform made something bristle very deeply inside Gojo. Your eyes, looking away from him, already seeking an exit, away from him, always away from him. Clearly he wasn’t worth your time.
That was when he saw red.
The surprised yelp you let out was cut short as your face was slammed against the wooden surface of the desk. Slender fingers curled in a tight grip around your neck, holding you down while Gojo’s body pressed insistently against yours from behind, the fabric of his pants rubbing against your naked thighs.
“No, no, please, tell me, princess.” The words dripped off his tongue like poisoned honey, each one laced with a deadly, quiet fury. You froze completely, heart pounding wildly in your chest. “Please tell me why you don’t want me as your boyfriend.”
You stayed silent for a few seconds. Then you decided to hell with it.
“Because you’re insane,” you spat, weeks and weeks of accumulated loathing surfacing back in your chest despite your fear. “You’re fucking insane.”
That didn’t seem to affect him much, though, as he leaned in to nuzzle lovingly against your head.
“I am?” he echoed mockingly, his usual playfulness already covering the sting your words had brought.
You let out a hiss of disgust when his lips brushed over your trembling skin, leaving a trail of needy little kisses up to your ear, where his teeth closed around the soft flesh of your earlobe, tugging it mercilessly. You turned your head in an attempt to avoid him, your cheek mushed against the desk but he followed just as quickly, forcing his lips against your face in a possessive kiss. The hand that wasn’t holding you down crawled under your skirt, lifting it up until the cold air hit your bare thighs. You squirmed even more and hissed again when he let his fingers trail against your thigh in a feather-light caress before closing over your ass cheek in a firm grip.
“I’ll show you,” he whispered gently, planting another kiss you couldn’t avoid.
“Don’t touch me,” you snarled, the angry words muffled by the desk.
You refused to imagine just how pitiful you must have looked right now with your hair all disheveled, your ruined makeup dripping against the stupid desk, and worst of all, your thighs and ass all on display for him, this depraved and whiny guy, to see. To feel his sleazy gaze on you during class was one thing you had managed to handle. To feel his greedy hand squeezing your ass was another.
“Get the fuck off, Satoru. I swear I’ll make you pay.”
Gojo scoffed as he groped the flesh again, kneading it firmly.
“Oh yeah? How?”
A light, condescending smack against your ass punctuated those words, and you bit back a whimper.
“Because I don’t see anyone there.”
Another smack, slightly harsher. The sound echoed softly in the empty classroom and you shivered, forcing the acid retort down your throat, not wanting to make things worse.
“And it’s not like anyone’d believe you either.”
You didn’t answer. You knew he was right. Sure, Gojo could be a bit of an asshole sometimes, but his reputation was mostly spotless, and he had carved a perfect black sheep out of Daigo already. You had no weapons of your own. You weren’t despised, but you knew you wouldn’t be taken seriously enough for others to turn against the most popular boy in university either. Your defiance was all you had left. With this in mind you sunk into a stubborn, impassible silence, but your harsh glare, your tousled locks, the ruffled fabric of your pulled off skirt was like a dream to Gojo. He smiled at your sudden quietness, grinding his hips forward teasingly until his hardening cock, straining against the fabric of his pants, rubbed resolutely against your panties.
“Fuck off,” you huffed weakly, gritting your teeth at the tingling sensation between your thighs. It wasn’t enough to draw pleasure out of you, but you couldn’t ignore the heat that was starting to pool in your pussy at the repeated friction.
“You’re so stubborn,” he chuckled lightly, still grinding his hips against your bent-over body.
You gasped loudly when his hand suddenly snaked at your front and pinched your nipple hard through your shirt, digits rolling the peak again and again, twisting it until it perked, hard and sensitive, against the white fabric. You let a breathless moan when he repeated the motion, slowly and painfully, on your other nipple.
“There we go,” he whispered smugly, giving it another good pinch for good measure.
The sweet, slight sting of pain tore a small, almost imperceptible moan from your lips. His hand came back on your ass, his slender fingers sinking in the plump flesh, squeezing it painfully before slithering under your panties. You tried to get up only, to be immediately slammed back down on the desk when he hooked one teasing finger over the fabric and slowly pulled it down. You barely had time to muffle out some protest or to prepare yourself before he suddenly slammed himself into you, tearing a pained cry from your shivering body, his hips grinding deep, rough thrusts against your slick thighs. You were unable to repress the moans bubbling up your throat, arching slightly when his hand came back to toy with your sore nipple, pulling on it over the thin fabric of your shirt, mixing pain with pleasure.
“You sure you don’t wanna change your mind, princess?” he mumbled between grunts. “It’s not too late, y’know.”
You closed your eyes as pleasure built up between your legs, pulsing in your body in hot waves along his rhythm, fueled by the relentless teasing of your nipple. You simply shook your head, not trusting yourself to speak right now. Whatever you might be feeling, you didn’t want to give him even the slightest hint of victory over yourself.
“Aw, come on,” he asked playfully, not slowing down one bit. If anything, his hips picked up the pace. “Just ditch that loser already!”
You didn’t answer, tightening your lips in a thin line. The harsh slap against your ass told you your silence wasn’t appreciated.
“Come on, princess,” Gojo repeated, letting out soft moans of his own. “Why him? Why not me?” he whined between thrusts, ignoring just how petulant and pathetic his voice sounded right now.
Gojo didn’t get any other answers than your breathless moans, the ones that should have been his from the very start. Your refusal to respond despite the fog of pleasure he put you through, the only remain of resistance left in you, infuriated him even more and he intensified his pace, listening gleefully to the obscene sound of his skin snapping against yours, watching your obstinate expression flinch and twist beneath him while his hips slammed mercilessly against the jiggling flesh of your ass.
“You’re so fucking stubborn,” he groaned, leaning down again to rest of forehead against your nape. He felt another whine coming, childish and pathetic at your refusal to comply. With a sudden burst of accumulated frustration his teeth closed over your skin in an angry, punishing bite, sinking deeply until blood flooded his tongue and you whined as pain spread in the soft column of your nape.
It was too much for you. Your eyes rolled back while the orgasm finally hit you like a tidal wave, shaking throughout your body and you arched off the desk, bending against his own body while he held you firmly.
The classroom fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by soft pants. You waited, eyes squeezed shut, sweat pooling in your armpits and shame leaking down your body the same way his seed dripped over your thigh when his voice finally came through, cold, harsh and unforgiving.
“Tell me. Me or him?”
You opened your eyes softly. Gojo stared down at you, one hand clasped over your bleeding nape, a trickle of your own blood dripping down his bloody lips, twisted in a quiet snarl of jealousy. Bloodshot, widened blue irises glowered at your small, quivering form and you closed your eyes again. You thought about Daigo’s black eye, his split lip, the numerous insults carved on his desk, the gentle love in his eyes. You thought about Gojo’s stare crawling all over you, the burning hatred locked behind his apparent nonchalance, his lips lingering on your neck, the madness with which he had kept tormenting you with.
“You.”
The word left your lips before you even realized it. The hold on your nape softened, the nails pulled back from your skin, replaced by a gentle, loving kiss. You let out a sigh. Of relief, pain, or perhaps both. Gojo’s snarl died on his lips, replaced by a tender smile.
“Good girl.”
Finally, finally, you had seen reason.