Chapter Text
The bass from the Sigma Kappa Rho house thumped against your ribs like a second, less reliable heartbeat. You leaned against the cool brick wall just outside the circle of garish porch lights, clutching the slim, leather-bound journal to your chest like a shield. Inside its pages pulsed the story you’d poured your soul into for months – a modern retelling of Persephone, laced with yearning and shadows.
You’d written it for him . For Satoru Gojo.
From your vantage point, you could see flashes of him inside – a shock of impossibly white hair, a laugh that cut through the noise, broad shoulders clad in a ridiculously soft-looking cashmere sweater that probably cost more than your textbooks for the semester.
The Captain of the Varsity Swim Team. Sigma Kappa Rho’s golden boy. Your boyfriend. The center of a universe that sometimes felt like it spun solely for his amusement.
A familiar pang, equal parts adoration and something thinner, more brittle, tightened in your chest. Perfection. That’s what everyone saw. Gojo Satoru and his perfectly curated girlfriend.
You, the Literature major with the quiet wit that made him laugh, the face that looked just right tucked under his chin in Instagram pictures, the body he paraded in tiny dresses at his frat’s endless soirees. You fit the image he projected: effortless, desirable, his.
"Hey, gorgeous! Hiding from the peasants?" Shoko Ieiri materialized beside you, a red plastic cup in hand, her usual sardonic smile in place. She was Pre-Med, sharp as a scalpel, and one of the few people who saw through the Gojo-filter, mostly because she couldn’t be bothered to look through it.
"Just… pre-gaming the crowd," you deflected, forcing a smile. "Gojo wanted me here 'looking irresistible'by ten." You mimicked his playful, commanding tone.
Shoko snorted, taking a sip. "Irresistible for who? Him or his ego’s reflection in the trophy case?" She nudged you gently. "Seriously though, you okay? You look like you’re about to present your thesis to a pack of wolves, not hand your boyfriend a love letter."
Was it that obvious? The journal felt suddenly heavy, vulnerable. "It’s not a love letter," you protested weakly. "It’s a story. I wrote it. For him."
Shoko’s dark eyes softened minutely. "Ah. The Persephone thing. Big step, handing him your underworld." She studied your face. "Just… remember you’re the one holding the pomegranate seeds, okay? Don’t let him trick you into swallowing them all at once."
Before you could untangle her typically cryptic advice, a familiar voice, smooth as aged whiskey and twice as intoxicating, cut through the din.
"There you are, my little shadow! I was starting to think you’d gotten lost." Gojo Satoru appeared, seemingly conjured from the pulsating lights and smoke. His arm snaked possessively around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He smelled like chlorine faintly overlaid with cedar and something uniquely him – a scent that still made your stomach flip, even after a year.
He nuzzled your temple, his lips brushing your skin. "Missed you," he murmured, the words vibrating against your ear, sending a predictable shiver down your spine. His hand slid lower, fingers splaying possessively over your hip bone, hidden from Shoko’s view by his body. The touch was electric, demanding, instantly pulling your focus entirely onto him. "You look devastating, by the way. That dress… fuck." His gaze, intense and blue as a glacial lake, raked over the short, silky black dress he’d specifically picked out. "Perfect."
Shoko raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable. "I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it. Try not to break any public decency laws, Gojo." She melted back into the crowd.
Gojo chuckled, low and rich. "No promises, Shoko!" He turned his full attention back to you, his thumb tracing circles on your exposed hip. "C’mon," he breathed, his voice dropping to an intimate register that bypassed your rational mind and went straight to your core.
"Party’s loud. Too many people. I need a minute with just you." His eyes held a familiar, predatory glint, the one that promised heat and oblivion. "Upstairs. Now."
He didn’t wait for an answer, already steering you through the throng of bodies. People parted for Gojo Satoru like the Red Sea. Whispers followed him – "That’s Gojo… Captain of Swim… rich as hell… lucky bitch…" – washing over you, a familiar tide of envy and awe you’d learned to float on.
His grip on your waist tightened, a silent command to keep pace. You clutched the journal tighter, the story momentarily forgotten, replaced by the insistent thrum of anticipation he always ignited.
He led you through the chaotic living room – a sea of red cups, grinding bodies, and the sticky-sweet smell of spilled punch – and up the grand, slightly grimy staircase of the frat house.
The noise receded slightly with each step. His room was on the second floor, the door marked with a stylized ‘SG’ in peeling gold paint. He fished a key from his pocket, unlocked it, and pulled you inside, shutting the door firmly behind you, plunging you into relative quiet punctuated only by the muffled bass below.
Gojo’s room was a study in controlled chaos. Expensive sneakers lay discarded near the door. A sleek laptop sat open on a messy desk piled with textbooks and protein bar wrappers.
Framed photos adorned the walls: Gojo holding swimming trophies, Gojo surrounded by laughing frat brothers, Gojo with his arm around you at some beach party last summer, both of you looking sun-kissed and impossibly happy.
A king-size bed dominated the space, covered in dark grey sheets that looked sinfully soft. The air held his signature scent, stronger here, mixed with the faint, clean smell of laundry detergent.
He didn’t turn on the overhead light, just the small, dim lamp on his bedside table, casting long shadows. He leaned back against the closed door, eyes raking over you again in the half-light. "God, you look good enough to eat," he stated, his voice rough. There was no preamble, no soft words. The switch from charming boyfriend to demanding lover was instantaneous, a transition you knew well but that still left you slightly breathless.
He pushed off the door and closed the distance between you in two strides. His hands were on you immediately, one tangling in your hair, tilting your head back, the other sliding down your back, pulling you hard against him.
You could feel the solid wall of his chest, the rapid beat of his heart, the undeniable evidence of his arousal pressing against your stomach. He kissed you, not with tenderness, but with a fierce, consuming hunger that stole the breath from your lungs. His tongue invaded your mouth, claiming, demanding a response.
You kissed him back, the journal falling from your numb fingers to land with a soft thud on the plush rug. Your hands found purchase on his shoulders, then slid up into his impossably soft hair.
The world outside – the party, the story, Shoko’s warning – dissolved. There was only Gojo: his heat, his strength, the intoxicating scent of him, the demanding pressure of his mouth and hands. It was a drug you were willingly addicted to, this feeling of being wanted by him, even if the wanting sometimes felt… performative.
"Missed this," he growled against your lips, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as he carried you the few steps to the bed. He laid you down on the cool sheets, his body covering yours instantly, a heavy, welcome weight. His kisses trailed down your jaw, your neck, biting lightly at the sensitive spot below your ear, drawing a gasp from you.
"Missed you," he murmured, the words vibrating against your skin. "My girl."
My girl. The words echoed in the haze of desire. Possessive. Defining. Sometimes they felt like a brand, other times, like now, wrapped in the heat of his touch, they felt like a promise.
He peeled the thin straps of your dress down your shoulders, his mouth following the path his fingers took, kissing, licking, biting with a controlled ferocity that made you arch against him.
The dress pooled around your waist. His hands were everywhere – cupping your breasts through the lace of your bra, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened into aching points, sliding down your stomach, slipping under the waistband of your panties. You gasped, your hips lifting off the bed, seeking friction, seeking him.
"Always so eager for me," he observed, a dark chuckle rumbling in his chest. He hooked his fingers into the sides of your panties and dragged them down your legs, tossing them aside. His gaze burned over your naked skin. "
So fucking pretty. Perfect." He leaned down, his breath hot against your inner thigh. "Perfect mine."
He didn’t linger. Gojo was never one for prolonged foreplay unless it served his own enjoyment. He shifted, quickly shedding his own clothes – the cashmere sweater, the perfectly fitted jeans, the designer boxer briefs – revealing the sculpted body of an elite athlete, honed by countless hours in the pool. Lean muscle rippled under smooth skin, the faint scent of chlorine still clinging faintly. He knelt between your legs, his eyes locked on yours, intense and unreadable in the dim light.
He guided himself to your entrance, the blunt head pressing against your wet heat. He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. He pushed in with one smooth, powerful stroke, filling you completely, stealing the air from your lungs in a choked gasp. He groaned, a deep, visceral sound.
"Fuck. Yes. So tight. Always so tight for me, baby."
He set a punishing pace immediately, driving into you with deep, relentless thrusts that pushed you up the bed. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging in, holding you in place, controlling the angle, the depth.
It was intense, almost brutal, designed to overwhelm. Your back arched, your fingers scrabbling at the sheets, cries ripped from your throat with each powerful surge. The headboard thudded rhythmically against the wall, a counterpoint to the muffled bass below and the slick, wet sounds of your bodies joining.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough, strained. You forced your eyes open, meeting his blazing blue gaze. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his white hair slightly mussed. He looked predatory, magnificent, utterly in control.
"That’s it," he growled, thrusting harder, deeper, hitting a spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyelids. "Look at me while I fuck you. See who you belong to."
I belong to you.
The unspoken words echoed in the frantic pounding of your heart. His words, the deep, possessive thrusts, the intensity of his gaze – it all combined to create a potent illusion of connection, of being needed. It was intoxicating. You felt desired, claimed, seen, even if only in this raw, physical way. Your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting his thrusts. Pleasure coiled tight in your belly, sharp and urgent.
"Satoru…" you gasped, his name a plea, a prayer on your lips.
"Come on," he urged, his pace becoming even more frantic, his breathing harsh in your ear. "Come for me. Show me how much you need this. How much you need me."
The command, the sheer force of him, the friction building relentlessly – it tipped you over the edge. A sharp cry tore from your throat as your body convulsed around him, wave after wave of intense pleasure crashing through you, white-hot and obliterating. You clenched around him, your vision blurring.
He groaned, a guttural sound of triumph, and followed you over the edge with a few final, powerful thrusts, spilling himself deep inside you with a shuddering gasp.
He collapsed on top of you for a moment, his weight crushing, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. The only sounds were your combined panting and the relentless thump of the party below.
The connection shattered almost instantly. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, his gaze sweeping over your flushed face, your sweat-slicked skin, your breasts still heaving.
There was satisfaction in his eyes, but no lingering tenderness, no softness. It was the look of a man who had conquered, claimed, and was already moving on.
"Good girl," he murmured, the words flat, devoid of the heat they’d held moments before. He rolled off you, sitting up on the edge of the bed, his back to you. He ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck, I needed that. Stressful week."
You lay there, suddenly feeling cold and exposed despite the warmth of the room. The high of the orgasm was fading rapidly, replaced by a familiar hollow ache.
Good girl.
Like a pet that performed a trick correctly. You pulled the sheet up over yourself, a flimsy barrier. Your eyes darted to the floor where your journal lay, forgotten. The story about Persephone, about being claimed, about finding power in the darkness… it felt absurd now, naive.
Gojo stood up, stretching languidly, his naked form a masterpiece of casual arrogance. He walked to his en-suite bathroom without a backward glance. You heard the tap run, the sound of water splashing. He emerged a minute later, a towel slung low around his hips, dampening his abs. He didn’t look at you as he rummaged in his dresser for clean boxers and jeans.
"Party’s probably hitting its peak," he said conversationally, pulling on the boxers. "You should head down soon. Mingle. Be seen." He finally turned, his gaze landing on you still huddled under the sheet.
A flicker of something – impatience? – crossed his face. "C’mon, get up. Shower if you need to." He gestured vaguely towards the bathroom. "I want everyone to know exactly who you belong to tonight." He said it with a smirk, like it was a compliment, a badge of honor.
He pulled a fresh, black designer t-shirt over his head. "I gotta head back down. Nobara and Megumi are probably causing chaos." He leaned down, giving you a quick, hard kiss that tasted more like obligation than passion.
"Don’t be late, yeah? Want my arm candy on display." He winked, a flash of that blinding, charming smile that made lesser hearts swoon, and then he was gone, shutting the door behind him with a firm click.
Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant thud of music. You were alone. The scent of sex hung in the air, cloying now. The phantom feel of his hands, his weight, his possession lingered on your skin, but it felt cold, like a brand that had already begun to fade. You stared at the closed door, the emptiness in your chest expanding, threatening to swallow you whole.
Arm candy. On display. Who you belong to.
Slowly, mechanically, you pushed back the sheet and swung your legs over the side of the bed. Your body felt used, hollow. You spotted the journal on the floor. The leather cover seemed to mock you. You picked it up, the smooth surface cool under your fingertips. Your underworld, Shoko had called it. What a joke. Gojo wouldn’t understand Persephone’s power. He’d only see the abduction, the claim.
He wouldn’t see her .
You needed air. You needed to not be in this room that smelled like him and the ghost of intimacy that felt less like connection and more like consumption.
Shower first. Wash him off.
You walked into the bathroom on shaky legs, avoiding your reflection in the mirror. The hot water sluiced over your skin, stinging slightly where his fingers had dug in, but it couldn’t wash away the feeling of being… emptied. Performed. Pretty and empty.
You dressed mechanically, choosing the silver heels. They did make your legs look long, but putting them on felt like donning armor for a battle you didn’t want to fight. You slipped the journal into your small, glittery clutch – a pathetic, lingering hope flickering despite the numbness.
Maybe… maybe when things are quieter. Maybe later.
You took a deep breath, plastered on what you hoped was a convincing, carefree smile, and opened the door. The noise from downstairs hit you like a physical wave. You descended the stairs, scanning the packed living room for that shock of white hair. He wasn’t immediately visible. You spotted Shoko near the makeshift bar, talking animatedly with a guy from her Anatomy class. She caught your eye and gave a subtle thumbs-up/questioning look.
You forced a brighter smile and nodded, mouthing ‘I’m okay’.
The lie scraped against your throat like broken glass, but the mask was well-practiced. You clutched the red cup like a lifeline, its cheap plastic bending under your white-knuckled grip. Mingle. Be seen. Gojo’s command echoed in your hollow chest, a cold counterpoint to the suffocating heat of bodies and bass.
You drifted into the churning mass of Sigma Kappa Rho, a lone ship tossed in a sea of sweat, spilled beer, and predatory laughter. Faces blurred – drunken grins, leering stares, Shoko’s fleeting look of concern as she turned back to her conversation.
Your eyes scanned relentlessly, hunting for that beacon of white hair. Where was he? He’d barely been gone fifteen minutes. He wanted you here, wanted you on display beside him. The thought should have been comforting.
It felt like a leash.
Time bled away in pulses of thumping bass and flickering strobe lights. You accepted another drink you didn’t want. You exchanged air kisses and hollow pleasantries with people whose names evaporated the moment they left your lips.
You were performing, a perfect porcelain doll in a too-short black dress and silver heels, smiling emptily while your insides felt scraped raw. The journal in your clutch was a lead weight, a monument to your naivety. Persephone. Power in the darkness. What a joke. The only darkness here was the one settling over your heart.
Nearly half an hour had crawled by when you finally spotted him.
He emerged from the kitchen, a fresh bottle of expensive-looking whiskey dangling carelessly from his fingers. Nobara Kugisaki and Megumi Fushiguro flanked him, Nobara gesturing wildly as she recounted some story, Megumi looking characteristically stoic. Gojo threw his head back and laughed, the sound bright and effortless, cutting through the din. For a heart-stopping second, his gaze swept over the crowd – and landed on you.
Relief, sweet and sharp, flooded you. You took a step towards him, your smile becoming genuine for the first time since leaving his room.
He saw you. He was coming back.
But his eyes slid over you. Past you. As if you were just another piece of furniture in the Sigma Kappa Rho living room. The smile didn't falter, but it didn't acknowledge you either. He clapped Megumi on the shoulder, said something that made Nobara snort, and then his attention was snagged by a burst of raucous laughter near the back patio doors.
Yuki Tsukumo stood there, a halo of fiery red hair catching the dim light, leaning against the doorframe. She held a martini glass, swirling the liquid with a lazy finger. Her eyes, sharp and amused, were fixed on Gojo. She raised her glass in a silent, mocking toast.
Gojo’s grin widened, turning wolfish. He raised his whiskey bottle in response, a silent, intimate exchange that excluded everyone else in the room. He didn’t look back at you. He started weaving through the crowd, heading straight for Yuki, Nobara and Megumi trailing behind him like afterthoughts.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through you. No. Talk to me. See me. You pushed through a group of swaying dancers, ignoring their protests, your heels catching on sticky floorboards. You reached him just as he was about to breach Yuki’s orbit.
"Satoru?" Your voice sounded too loud, too desperate, even to your own ears.
He stopped, turning with an exaggerated slowness. His blue eyes, when they finally focused on you, held a flicker of surprise that quickly morphed into thinly veiled impatience.
"Hey. You made it down." His tone was casual, dismissive. His gaze flicked over your shoulder towards Yuki, who was watching the exchange with undisguised interest, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.
"I... I was looking for you," you stammered, hating the tremor in your voice. "You said... you wanted me here."
"Yeah, babe. Looking good." His compliment was rote, an automatic reflex. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, a gesture that felt like an afterthought, devoid of the heat it had held upstairs.
His eyes were already drifting back to Yuki. "Listen, gotta catch up with Tsukumo about that... project thing. Super boring, wouldn't interest you." He flashed that blinding, empty smile. "Mingle, yeah? Be my shining star. I’ll find you later."
He didn’t wait for a response. He just leaned in, pressed a hard, quick kiss to your temple – a brand, not a caress – and then he was gone, closing the distance to Yuki in three long strides.
He draped an arm around her shoulders with a familiarity that stole your breath. Yuki laughed at something he murmured, tossing her red hair, her hand coming up to rest lightly on his chest. She shot you a look over his shoulder – not triumphant, but pitying. It was infinitely worse.
You stood frozen, the phantom press of his lips on your temple burning like ice. The noise of the party crashed over you, a meaningless roar. A project? At a Sigma party?
The flimsy lie was an insult. He hadn't even tried.
Another twenty minutes crawled by. You were a ghost haunting your own life. You stood near the makeshift bar, nursing the same warm beer, watching Gojo hold court. He was the sun, and everyone orbited him – Nobara, Megumi, a few other swim team guys, and Yuki, always Yuki, close at his side. Her laughter mingled with his. His hand rested casually on the small of her back as he leaned down to hear her whisper something.
They looked... easy. Intimate. A unit.
Yuki’s hand rested possessively low on his back now, her fingers dipping just below the waistband of his jeans. Gojo leaned down, his lips brushing her ear as she laughed, the sound bright and sharp, cutting through the bass and straight into your hollow chest.
A fresh wave of nausea, hot and acrid, rolled through you. Enough. You couldn’t stand here another second, a ghost haunting your own humiliation. You needed out. Now. The air felt thick, suffocating, saturated with the cloying scent of beer, sweat, and his lingering cedar cologne.
You abandoned your cup on a sticky table, the cheap liquid sloshing over your fingers. Without looking back, you shoved through the crowd, ignoring protests, your silver heels catching on the sticky floorboards as you stumbled towards the heavy oak front door.
The cool night air hit you like a physical slap as you burst outside. You gulped it down, leaning against the rough brick wall of the Sigma house, the distant thud of the party vibrating through the stone. Tears, hot and shameful, blurred the garish porch lights and the laughing groups milling on the lawn. My girl. Arm candy. The words were barbed wire around your heart. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to erase the image of Gojo’s easy smile directed at Yuki, of his hand on her back.
Minutes bled by. The cold seeped through the thin silk of your dress, making you shiver. The initial, blinding panic dulled into a heavy, throbbing ache deep in your chest. Where was your phone? You fumbled with your glittery clutch, fingers numb and clumsy. Inside: lip gloss, a crumpled ten-dollar bill, your keys... but no phone. Shit. You must have dropped it when you fled his room, or maybe downstairs in the chaos. Panic, sharp and fresh, pierced the numbness.
Your lifeline. Your connection to Shoko, to a ride, to safety .
The thought of going back in was paralyzing. The noise, the lights, him... But you needed that phone. Desperately. You couldn’t stay out here all night. You couldn’t walk back to the dorms alone in these heels, not in this state. Taking a shuddering breath, you wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand, smearing mascara you didn’t care about. You had to be quick.
In and out. Find the phone. Avoid him .
You pushed off the wall, steeling yourself. The noise hit you again as you slipped back through the front door, a physical wall of sound and heat. You kept your head down, weaving through the packed living room, eyes scanning the sticky floor near the bar, the edges of furniture – anywhere your phone might have fallen. No sign. Think. You’d been near the bar, then near the hallway…maybe you’d dropped it there.
The hallway was a pocket of relative quiet after the living room’s assault. Your heels clicked too loudly on the hardwood. Just find the phone. Get out. You retraced your earlier steps, eyes glued to the floor, heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
You passed the closed study doors. Nothing. Then, you neared the door to the small library nook. It was closed now. Had it been closed before? You couldn’t remember. You paused, bending slightly to peer under a dusty console table nearby. No phone.
Then you heard it.
Muffled, but unmistakable through the heavy wood. A low, feminine moan. Sharp. Pleasured. Followed by the rhythmic, protesting groan of old leather springs under sustained weight.
Creak… creak… creak…
Ice flooded your veins. No. Not possible. But Horrifyingly familiar. The lead weight of dread that had lifted slightly outside crashed back with crushing force. Your hand, trembling violently, reached out, not for a phone, but for the doorknob. It turned easily under your clammy palm.
Unlocked.
You pushed the door open, the movement silent on well-oiled hinges.
The sight that filled the doorway hit you with the force of a sledgehammer, driving the air from your lungs in a silent, agonized rush.
Gojo Satoru. Your boyfriend. Shirtless now, his perfect torso gleaming with sweat under the weak light filtering through the dusty window. His expensive jeans were pushed down just past his hips. And he was moving.
Thrusting.
Beneath him, her legs wrapped high around his waist, her fiery red hair fanned out against the cracked leather of the couch, was Yuki Tsukumo. Her head was thrown back, a low, throaty moan escaping her lips as her fingers dug into his bare shoulders.
"Fuck, Satoru... yes..." she gasped, arching against him.
Gojo’s response was a guttural groan, his hips snapping forward with that familiar, powerful rhythm you knew intimately. "So fucking tight, Yuki... knew you would be..."
You stood frozen in the doorway, the world tilting violently on its axis. Your breath caught in your throat, a sharp, involuntary gasp escaping you—quiet, but enough. The sound made Gojo’s head snap up.
His eyes, those mesmerizing blue eyes that had just gazed possessively at you, locked onto yours. There was no shock. No guilt. Just a flicker of annoyance, quickly masked by his usual lazy arrogance. Hedidn’t stop moving. He didn’t pull out. He just… looked at you. A slow, infuriatingly unapologetic smirk touched his lips.
Yuki followed his gaze, her eyes widening slightly when she saw you. A flush spread across her cheeks, but she made no move to push Gojo away. Instead, a small, almost challenging smile touched her lips as she looked back up at Gojo, tightening her legs around him.
"Oops," Gojo drawled, his voice rough but utterly composed, still moving inside her. "Looks like we have an audience, babe." He directed the comment to Yuki, not you.
You couldn’t breathe. The numbness shattered, replaced by a searing, white-hot pain that tore through your chest, radiating outwards, turning your limbs to ice. The world narrowed to the horrifying tableau: the rhythmic movement of his hips, the flush on Yuki’s face, Gojo’s smirk, the cold indifference in his eyes as they met yours.
"Satoru…" Your voice was a raw whisper, barely audible over the thudding of your own heart and the bass from the living room.
He actually chuckled, a low, cruel sound. "Relax, babe," he said, his tone dismissive, like he was calming a fussy child. "It’s just sex. This is college. Chill." He punctuated the last word with another deliberate thrust, making Yuki gasp and arch against him. His eyes never left yours, holding your shattered gaze with icy amusement.
"Go back to the party. I’ll find you later."
Chill. The word echoed in the sudden, ringing silence of your own mind. This is college. Just sex. Chill. The casual dismissal, the utter lack of remorse, the sheer cruelty of him continuing while you watched… it was the final, brutal shattering of the fragile porcelain world you’d lived in.
A choked sob escaped your lips. You stumbled back, the image of them burned onto your retinas. You turned and fled down the hallway, blind with tears, shoving past oblivious partygoers who yelled after you.
The noise, the lights, the smells – it all became a sickening, overwhelming blur. You burst out of the front door, gulping in the cool night air like a drowning woman. The world spun. You leaned against the brick wall, retching, but nothing came up except bile and the bitter taste of betrayal.
My girl. Pretty and empty. Arm candy. Chill.
The words looped in your head, a toxic mantra. You pushed off the wall, stumbling away from the frat house, away from the music, away from him. You didn’t know where you were going. You just needed to run.
Tears streamed down your face, hot and unchecked. The glittery clutch with the journal felt like a lead weight in your hand, a monument to your stupidity. You fumbled with it, pulling out your phone with shaking fingers.
You couldn’t call Shoko. Not now. Not while the image was so fresh, so violently raw. You opened a rideshare app, your vision blurred, typing in your dorm address with clumsy stabs.
A group of loud frat guys spilled out of another house, blocking the sidewalk. One of them leered at you. "Whoa, lost princess? You look like you could use a drink!" He held out a bottle of cheap vodka.
Normally, you would have politely declined, ducked your head, walked faster. But the numbness was returning, mixed with a terrifying, reckless rage.
Chill? Fuck chilling.
You snatched the bottle from his hand. "Thanks," you slurred, the word thick with tears. You tilted it back, the harsh, burning liquid searing your throat, making you cough violently. But you took another gulp, then another, welcoming the fiery oblivion it promised. The frat guy laughed, impressed, and his friends cheered.
You pushed past them, the bottle clutched like a lifeline. You walked aimlessly, the campus landmarks blurring together – the imposing library, the modern science center, the darkened windows of lecture halls.
The alcohol hit fast and hard, fueled by adrenaline and despair. The sharp pain dulled into a heavy, throbbing ache, punctuated by bursts of hysterical, tearful laughter that scared even you. You took another long pull from the vodka bottle. It was half-empty now. Or half-full? What did it matter? Nothing mattered.
Pretty and empty.
You stumbled over a raised paving stone, barely catching yourself. The journal in your clutch felt like it was burning a hole through the fabric. Persephone. Stupid, naive Persephone. Hades at least wanted her. Gojo just wanted the image. The accessory. The body on display, the silence, thecompliance. And when that wasn’t enough… he just took someone else.
Right where you could see. Right after telling you you were his .
The bitter laughter bubbled up again, turning into a sob. You tripped again, this time falling onto the cool, damp grass of one of the expansive campus quads. You didn’t get up. You just rolled onto your back, staring up at the hazy, light-polluted sky where only the brightest stars dared to shine. The bottle slipped from your fingers, spilling its remaining contents onto the grass.
The world tilted and spun lazily. The muffled sounds of distant parties seemed miles away. The cold seeped through your thin dress, but you barely felt it. The numbness was winning, a thick, warm blanket wrapping around the jagged shards of your heart.
Chill. Just chill.
Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes, tracing cold paths down your temples and into your hair. You closed your eyes. Maybe if you stayed here, the earth would swallow you whole. Maybe you’d just dissolve into the damp grass, another forgotten casualty of Satoru Gojo’s perfect, golden world.
Time lost meaning. Seconds bled into minutes. The chill deepened, making you shiver violently. The alcohol haze thickened, pulling you towards unconsciousness.
The image of Gojo and Yuki played on a loop behind your closed eyelids, a grotesque slideshow.
My girl. Chill.
A crunch of footsteps on grass nearby. Heavy. Purposeful. Not the stumbling gait of a drunk student.
You didn’t open your eyes. You didn’t care. Let it be campus security. Let it be another frat guy looking for an easy target. Let it be the fucking Grim Reaper. Anything was better than this hollow, shattered feeling.
The footsteps stopped. Very close. You could feel a presence looming over you, blocking out the meager light from the distant lampposts. It wasn’t the nervous energy of security. It wasn’t the predatory leer of a frat boy. This presence radiated something else entirely. A raw, barely contained intensity. A stillness that felt more dangerous than any movement.
Slowly, forcing your heavy eyelids open, you looked up.
The figure standing over you was silhouetted against the sky, massive and imposing. Broad shoulders strained against the fabric of a plain black t-shirt. Arms thick with corded muscle were crossed over a powerful chest. Dark, intricate tattoos snaked up his neck, disappearing into the short, shock of spiky pink hair. But it was his face that held you frozen.
Sharp, almost cruel features. High cheekbones. A strong jaw shadowed with stubble. And his eyes… Even in the dim light, they burned. Two points of ferocious amber fire, narrowed, assessing you with an unnerving, detached intensity.
They scanned your tear-streaked face, your smudged makeup, your flimsy dress hiked up around your thighs from the fall, the empty vodka bottle lying beside you.
His gaze lingered for a fraction of a second on the silver heels, now stained with grass and spilled beer.
He didn’t look concerned. He didn’t look curious. He looked… irritated. And faintly intrigued, like a predator examining wounded, unexpected prey.
You shrank back instinctively, a whimper escaping your lips. Who was this? He looked like he’d walked straight out of a nightmare – or a fight ring. There was a faint, metallic scent clinging to him, cutting through the smell of damp earth and alcohol. You looked down, your blurry vision struggling to focus. On his worn, heavy boots… there were dark, wet smears. Almost black in the low light. It took your alcohol-fogged brain a moment to process.
Blood.
Fresh blood, staining the leather around his knuckles and smeared on the laces. Your breath hitched, a fresh wave of fear cutting through the numbness.
He tilted his head, those burning eyes pinning you to the ground. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in your bones. It held no pity. No offer of help. Just a blunt, unsettling question:
"You gonna lie there and freeze, Princess? Or you wanna see what real fire looks like?"