jun🐑

And okay, there had been a handful of heated hookups after long nights of breastfeeding and soothing your daughter back to sleep in her crib, where you'd begrudgingly let him pry your thighs apart on the couch to bury his tongue inside of you or sleepily fuck you on the stained cushions with your face buried in the pillows. But you'd made it clear each time that you still couldn't stand him.

You were using him for sex.

The sad thing was he didn't mind.

Not when his skin was on yours, when your mouth was still saying his name instead of someone else's.

He tried to propose to you. Four times.

You called him a manchild for thinking a marriage would make the two of you magically work.

"Think she'd say yes if I asked her on a real date then?" Sukuna said, trying to piss him off today as he leaned back in his own chair and chuckled. He didn't like the way he said real. Like the two of you had been on something that could've qualified as a date before without him knowing.

God, the only reason that asshole even came was because he heard that you were dropping off her.

"Don't even think about it," Gojo groaned, tempted to reach across the table and throttle him for suggesting it.

Having a baby with someone he was hopelessly in love with was hard enough.

Did all of his friends have to fucking audition to be the stepfather?

Sukuna hadn't even known you until after he'd knocked you up.

Never met you until you begrudgingly showed up to the frat house with a pregnancy test in hand and a scowl etched across your pretty face.

"I mean, who would you rather have be the stepdaddy?" Sukuna dryly mocked, actively ragebaiting him as he snagged the muffin that had been meant for you, unwrapping it and taking a big bite before talking with a full mouth. "Me? Or Suguru?"

Gojo would actually rather die than watch either of them marry you.

What the fuck was he supposed to do to stop them from speaking to you though?

Especially when the latter had managed to end up firmly planted in your good graces with those irritatingly smooth lines of his? Cooking you meals and murmuring in your ear what a good mother you were?

All while he just fucking sat there and stumbled over his words, feeling shittier and shittier as they tried to steal you and his daughter right out from underneath his nose.

"Neither," he grimaced, turning his attention back to his baby.

She was awake, kicking her legs in her seat as he bent forward to unbuckle her, carefully picking her up before placing her in his lap.

His heart pounded in his chest, pressure pushing down and making his ribs constrict at the thought of fucking this up.

He didn't know how to be a father. Not really. He'd never even been anyone's boyfriend. Never had any pets growing up to take care of.

Becoming frat president was the first real responsibility he ever had.

And now he had an entire human that was half-him to raise.

Drunk idiots were a lot fucking different than a baby. Who needed to be fed and bathed and loved and a million other overwhelming things he was struggling to keep track of.

She blinked up at him, familiar blue eyes squinting at him before they started to well up with tears, face scrunching up like she was about to start wailing.

He tried bouncing her up and down, but it only seemed to make her more upset, panic bubbling up before Sukuna was getting up out of his seat.

"Here," he grunted, scooping her out of his arms and cradling her against his chest as if it came naturally. "I've got her."

Her tiny body relaxed, eyes softening as he murmured something under his breath - not to Gojo, but to her. Soothing her in a way that simply didn't come naturally to him.

Going from on the verge of bawling to batting her lashes in a matter of seconds.

His daughter didn't even prefer him.

And he only had himself to blame.

Maybe if he managed to make up with you sooner, actually make you his, he could actually be living with you full time. Sharing a bed, sharing breakfast, being there to handle all the dirty diaper changes and spilled milk instead of just stopping in and begging you to let him stay to do night shafts.

You didn't trust him. Thought he was just a temporary fixture. Someone who was here for now instead of forever.

Every time he got close to convincing you he was here permanently, he always screwed it up.

God, he almost missed you giving birth just because some goddamn sorority girl stole his phone at a stupid party Suguru had insisted he show up to for at least an hour. But he'd been the one to accept the first beer - and the second.

The shots were harder to excuse.

If it wasn't for you calling Suguru in between contractions, he probably wouldn't have gotten there minutes before you had to start pushing. You had glared at him, stray strands of hair sticking to your forehead as you studied the glazed over look in his eyes and scoffed that you could smell the alcohol on him.

All he'd done was stain the memory of meeting your baby for the first time.

Fucked it all up from that very first moment.

He overheard you on the phone a couple days later, muttering something about how you couldn't believe he couldn't just stay sober when he knew you were about to go into labor any day.

Gojo hadn't touched a drink since.

He still had to show up to parties sometimes, had frat duties he couldn't exactly dodge, but he didn't let it interfere with him being a dad anymore.

"You're lucky she looks like you," Sukuna muttered, reaching up to scruff up her hair.

"Yeah," he swallowed, although part of him still wished she had more of you.

"No one would believe she's actually yours if she didn't," he dryly commented, picking out the the stitches of wounds Gojo was still licking.

"Can you stop being a dick for like, a day?" Gojo grumbled, rubbing his eyes as he glanced away from his daughter out the window at the people passing by on the street.

Staring a little too long at the happy families, his mouth twitching down at the tiny kids chattering to their parents, struggling to accept the fact that one day his own would be that be that big.

"I'm just sayin'," he shrugged. "How'd you even get her to fuck you?"

Sheer luck?

Pure chance that you somehow found his stupidity cute when you weren't sober?

He had etched the night in his head, held onto the memory with the worry that it could somehow be ripped from him too.

One of the few moments he'd gotten with you that was relatively untainted by everything that happened since.

Playing it back like a movie in his head, convinced that if he closed your eyes, he could smell the perfume you wore that night, feel your skin on his again.

He'd barely been brave enough to work up the courage to come over to you, jittery as he made an awful joke about running into you here while you tilted your head to the side and replied that you were surprised he even recognized you.

It wasn't like he'd even spoken to you before.

Not technically.

He'd bumped into you once after class, too distracted on his phone to pay attention to what was actually in front of him. In his defense, you weren't looking either, leaning against the wall to rummage through your bag for something with one hand and a coffee clutched in the other one.

The collision spilled your drink, mostly onto the floor as he immediately stopped and gawked at what just happened while you huffed an insult under your breath.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but you just glared up at him like he was worse than gum getting stuck on the soles of your shoes, nose scrunching up as you rolled your eyes and sarcastically thanked him for wasting the one treat you'd gotten yourself this week.

Gojo was pretty sure he fell in love with you from the first scowl.

Clumsily shoving his hands in his pockets and fumbling for a fifty from his wallet, holding it out as he tried to convince his tongue to move and tell you to take it. But you just shook your head and mumbled that you were going to find a janitor to mop up the mess.

His crush hadn't ended there.

Not when he couldn't stop himself from picking you out every time you passed by him on campus, feeling like a creep when he tried to come up with some way to casually run into you again.

So, yeah, when you showed up to his frat house, wearing a pretty little dress and sipping shitty beer out of a solo cup, he was rushing over before any of his brothers could notice how cute you looked when you frowned.

"Come to spill my drink?" You sarcastically asked, arching up an eyebrow when he inserted himself in the space next to you.

"That was an accident," he pouted, pushing out his bottom lip and hoping you didn't find it completely cringy. "Can't I make it up to you?"

He couldn't fucking believe it when your mouth curled up in a soft smile instead of an automatic scoff, his heart slamming so hard against his ribs he was sure it was going to burst before he even got your number.

"What do you have in mind?" You asked.

He was ready to get on his knees then.

More with every second you spent by his side, giggling at his awful attempts of flirting as you kept him at arm's length, forcing him to try harder than he had with any other girl before just to take a single body shot off of you.

His cock throbbing and aching in his jeans when your lips softly pressed against his collarbone, drifting up to drink the vodka you poured in the divot above it. His hands had been on your waist, fingers sinking in like he couldn't quite tell if you were real or just some dizzyingly beautiful hallucination his drunk brain had conjured up.

It wasn't until he managed to pull you back into his room, bending you over the bed and shimmying your dress down that he let himself believe this was actually happening.

"So you fuck every girl you take body shots with?" You teased, out of breath while he felt his own get caught in his throat at all your exposed skin.

"Just you," he lied.

Although, now that he was with you, he couldn't remember a single one that had come before.

"Uh-huh," you muttered, not believing it for a second.

He wished you had.

"You're the prettiest girl at this party," he purred, although he was already thinking that maybe he should've said planet as he dragged his tongue over the inside of your thigh, up to where your lace panties were still bunched between your legs. Leaving a damp patch as he greedily tried to eat you out through the thin fabric, acting like a desperate loser in love with someone leagues above him.

Gojo always thought he was a catch.

Cocky enough to find confidence in his position as class president, in his body and his brains, in his financial and social status.

But he couldn't shake the fucking feeling you thought he was beneath you.

It only made him crave you more.

It wasn't good enough to have you writhing underneath him, chest heaving when he finally buried his cock inside of you, hastily just grabbing a random condom from the closest drawer and carelessly sheathing himself in it. It wasn't enough to make you moan his name as he bottomed out again and again, focused more on your pleasure than how tight the condom was as his fingers sloppily played with your clit.

Gracelessly grinding as deep as he could inside you, gritting his teeth as he watched every tiny flicker of your face, searching it for a tiny inkling of passion, of hunger that wasn't just primal.

Gojo wanted you to want him for him.

Not just a quick fuck that you'd forget about sooner rather than later.

Still, he never meant for the condom to break.

He'd known from the second he saw it register on your face that you weren't going to give him a second chance. That he'd totally fucking blown it as he stammered out apologies and spread your thighs further apart to fish out the broken bits of condom from inside you, cum leaking down your thighs as you bit your lip and stared at the ceiling.

"Are you on birth control?" He asked, his voice thin and strained as he pulled out the last piece, a funny feeling settling in the pit of his stomach at the sight of his own cum dripping out of you, the way the panties he'd forgotten to fully take off of you had gotten soaked as you stared at him with unfettered irritation.

"No," you spoke quietly, a hint of embarrassment shining in your eyes as you looked away from him to the state of his messy room. "I don't really do...this."

"Oh," he swallowed.

He didn't know what to say.

What to do. How to fix something he'd never had before.

So he just awkwardly threw away the condom, chewing the inside of his cheek as he tried to put on a casual grin. "Do you, uh, wanna shower or something? Stay the night?"

"Fine," you muttered, the mood still ruined no matter what he did to lift it again. Anxiety creeping in and making his usual aftercare routine awkward and tense until you were both laying on different sides of the bed, him staring at your back while you faced away from him.

He hoped that you would be there the next morning.

That the next day would be the start of a different story. He'd take you out for breakfast and reassure you that you probably wouldn't get pregnant anyway.

Really, what were the chances of it even happening?

He fell asleep fantasizing about ways to make you fall for him too.

But you were gone when he got up, rolling over to find a cold place where your body should be.

The bed was empty, your clothes missing from the floor and no note left behind.

No phone number for him to call or text to beg for a date. He stopped seeing you around campus too.

In some sick way, he felt a fucked-up sense of satisfaction when you showed back up to tell him you were pregnant.

He thought that it'd mean you were stuck with him.

Not that he'd be spending the next year scrambling to keep your attention to himself.

And away from them.

Sukuna reclined back more in his chair, his hard features softening as he dragged his thumb to wipe away the drool from his daughter's mouth.

"You're kind of a shitty dad, dude," Sukuna grunted, not even glancing up at him.

Was he?

He didn't know what a good one looked like.

His dad had barely been there for him growing up. Too busy to be at the dinner table or attend his soccer games.

"Can you stop talking like you're her stepdad?" Gojo grumbled, exhaling as he held out his arms, ready to take her back just for his baby to betray him again, clinging onto Sukuna's shirt with her tiny fists.

"I'm not the one you should be pissy with," Sukuna shrugged, a little glint in his eyes that made his stomach churn. Already aware that something he wouldn't want to hear was about to leave his friend's mouth. "Suguru's the one taking her out to dinner tonight."

Since when?

His jaw locked, fist clenching under the table at the thought of you and Suguru sitting at a table together at some fancy place, his hand sneaking out to brush over yours as he ordered you wine and wooed you.

How the hell was he supposed to let his best friend fuck his baby momma?

"Do you know where?"

a/n: i'll let you guys name their baby, drop suggestions in the comments!!

Funny thing about it all is nobody seems to have noticed that he’s out of the house at certain hours throughout the week. Consistently. So really, it’s on them for not trying hard enough to find answers to their invasive little questions. 

Hm. Actually, no. On the off chance that they do ask what he’s up to on a night like tonight, he’ll just lie, say he’s at the gym or something. He’s not exactly allowed to tell, which is fine; he’s more than willing to keep a little secret. 

That little secret was tucked away in a nice apartment that had a view of the entire city. A tranquil little place when he’s not around, he’s pretty sure— just not when he’s around.

The bed’s steadily rocking underneath the uneven weight Satoru creates. Relentless smacking— skin to skin, hips to ass, the dirty little squelch that comes with it. 

There’s a view, but it’s not the city. 

“Arch that back some more— yeaahhh, just like that.”

He pounds into you, balls hitting heavy against your clit as he pulls you back to meet each thrust. Moans spill from your lips, taking every single inch he drills into you. The stretch is insane as he works his heavy cock in and out of you like it’s nothing. 

If there’s one thing about him, it’s that he can fuck. He can go on for hours, put you in any position, have you begging and crying, dwindle you down to nothing but a babbling mess from how many orgasms he can work out of you. 

He wears you out. 

Yet still, at the end of every night—

“Kay’. We’re done here, you can leave now.” 

You are so fucking mean.

The first time Satoru heard those words come out of your mouth, he was distraught. How dare you throw him out after the backshots he had given you?! He made you cum so hard you cried! Then you just throw him out of your apartment like some useless whore– like he was nothing but a fucking slut! He had more to offer than just his dick, he’ll have you know. 

Now he’s a little less emotional and more… 

“You sure? I could stay longer and help you with chores… or something.”

You look around your room, which is spotless aside from his t-shirt and jeans scattered on the floor. “Sure. Why don’t you start by picking up your clothes, putting them on, and then getting out?”

“Oh, come on. Seriously?” he throws his head back and groans rather childishly. “That’s a little rude, no?” 

“So was the way you were talking to your little girlfriend on the phone earlier,” you hop off the bed and throw on a big t-shirt that said Modelo on it. 

Satoru gets one final look at your ass as you do so and finds himself getting oddly jealous, wondering if the shirt was actually yours or if it belonged to an ex. He ends up telling himself it’s yours, ignoring that you’ve told him how much you hated beer in the past. Delusional? Perhaps, but he’d rather not hurt his own feelings right now.

“Carmen’s not my girlfriend,” he huffs out a laugh as he tries to explain, “I don’t even know why she called me. We haven’t fucked in months.” 

He also tried to tell you that he hasn’t slept with anyone since he started sleeping with you, but you didn’t seem to care much about either. The entire time, you were just throwing his clothes at him while he absentmindedly got dressed. He continues to yap away once he’s up and fully dressed, so you grab him by the wrist and start walking towards the door. 

“And you wouldn’t believe all the shit the guys have given me for turning girls down. One of them started calling me Celibate Satoru, can you believe that?”

“I sure can.” You open the door, walk around him, and start pushing him out. 

“They don’t even know— assholes, they’d take it all back so fast if they saw you,” he huffs out a laugh, trying to cope with the fact that he’s not allowed to tell anybody about you two. 

You laugh with him. “You better hope they don’t, ‘cause if they do–”

“You’ll bite my dick off– yeah, yeah. I know.” You never said you’d bite his dick off. Satoru turns around when he’s fully out of the door to reveal the dopey grin on his face. “So, same time next week?”

“Yup! Bye Gojo.”

He scoffs. “I thought I told you to call me Sa–”

He didn’t get to finish that sentence. You shut the door in his face. 

Gojo was a nice guy… at least to you, he was. You’re sure a lot of others would say the complete opposite, judging by the way he snapped at the girl earlier for calling him and telling her to lose his number. You felt sorry for her and also felt thankful that you didn’t have to deal with a guy like him when you were 21. 

You tried not to reflect too much, it’d just end with you being disappointed in yourself for even letting him into your apartment in the first place. It’s all for fun, but still, you should know better. 

Satoru’s a piece of work. Comes from a family swimming in money and has never been told no in his life. He’s impulsive. Very hedonistic, very immature— some people grow out of it, but you have a feeling he’ll never change since he’s never had to work hard for anything in his life. 

He is the last person you’d ever want to date, and for someone who usually dated older men— preferably men like his rich father— fucking a frat boy was just embarrassing on your part.

It’s too bad he’s genuinely one of the best fucks of your life— add in the dick piercing, the stamina that came with being a rugby player, and the fact that he spends every moment with you wanting to please you, and he was hard to get rid of. 

You met Satoru at the gym. You’d think he’d go to the one at his university, but no, he just had to get a membership at the luxury gym that’s on the other side of town. The only reason why you chose to get a membership there, rather than the more affordable gym down the street, was so that you could avoid annoying ass kids. 

Spoiler: It didn’t work. 

He didn’t approach you right away. It started with a couple of stares here and there, all of which you pretended not to see since his attention was the last thing you wanted. You can admit that if he were a little older, you would’ve indulged, but it was clear he was a college student, given how he’s worn t-shirts and hoodies with his university’s name on them. Most professional settings wouldn’t allow piercings either— he’s covered in them. One on his nose, one on his eyebrow, multiple on his ears, and a tongue ring. Not to mention the one he surprised you with when he first came over.

Of course, pretending not to notice an attention whore like Satoru Gojo didn’t work, and you soon found out just how annoyingly persistent he can be.

He started going to the gym at the same time as you. It felt like the machines he used just got closer and closer to you with each visit, up until he boldly used the treadmill right next to you one day— you weren’t having that, by the way, and got off less than a minute later. You could be talking to a trainer or one of the staff members, and he’d shimmy his way into the conversation just to get you to look at him and say something, but his attempts were met with you excusing yourself. 

It got to a point where he didn’t even care about what was said, he just wanted your attention, good or bad. When he finally did get it, it was neither. You were tired of him before he even opened his mouth. 

Imagine this: the annoying little shit coincidentally goes into the sauna at the same time as you, even though you could’ve sworn you saw him walking out the door with his duffle bag thrown over his shoulder. How he managed to strip down into nothing but his slutty little rugby shorts in so little time? You have no clue. His knee was all scraped up though, so it was safe to assume that he fell during the process. 

You gave him a curt smile and closed your eyes.

He still opened his mouth.

“Great sauna, isn’t it?”

Did he just deepen his voice? Christ.

The awkward and pathetic attempt at small talk never made you want to murder yourself more in that moment. You tried not to sound as annoyed as you were when you let out a sigh. 

“It is,” you murmured back, closing your eyes again in hopes that would be the end of it. 

It wasn’t. 

“I love coming here— nice little escape from everything,” he blissfully said.

You couldn’t imagine what the hell that brat needed to escape from. If only you could say the same, you’ve spent more time dodging him than you have working out the past three weeks. 

“Name's Satoru, by the way,” he flashed you a smile. 

You’re not a heartless wretch, so you threw him a bone and told him your name, too. Which was a mistake, the one thing you’ve learned is to never feel sorry for Satoru, give him an inch and he’ll shamelessly take a mile. Minutes later, you’re internally groaning. You hated how smooth he was when asking if you wanted to grab drinks later that night. All the charm and charisma that oozed out of him would put any narcissist to shame. 

“Did you seriously follow me into the sauna just to ask me out?”

He had to pause because that’s not what you were supposed to say, but he was too emotionally invested at that point to give up. 

“Maybe,” he chirps, averting his gaze for a moment. “I swear I wasn’t trying to be weird, though.”

You smile as your eyes scan him from top to bottom, more so out of judgment than interest. “Stripping down into nothing but the male version of booty shorts isn’t weird?”

“Ugh— ok, yeah, fine— maybe it is a little weird,” he sighs, throwing a towel over his shoulders as an attempt to cover up. “Let's just.. Forget about that. Yeah?” You continue to just stare at him, and he clears his throat. “I’d still love to take you out sometime and get to know you a little better. Whatcha think? My treat.”

Age doesn’t matter, you’ll fold too once you see what he’s hiding under his “booty shorts”. Everyone does. 

You cross your arms and lean back on the wooden bench. “I’m sorry– how old are you again?”

“I’m graduating this year,” he proudly says, making your face drop in disbelief— he’s well aware that he’s too young for you, and he’s still trying?

“Right.” The judgment in your tone was loud and clear, continuing to look at him as if he were a harmless spider— there’s no fear or concern, just peeved at how it managed to find its way into your vicinity. “So you’re 21…” You tried pulling more information out of him, “since that’s the age you need to be to order a drink.” 

“Soon,” he continues to tiptoe around the truth. “Everyone knows me, though. Nobody's gonna check my I.D.” 

Besides, he has a fake. He’s had one since he was 16. 

“Oh wow.” 

You still didn’t sound very impressed, not that it stopped him. He somehow was able to go home with your number in his phone that day, mainly because he was starting to annoy you, and giving him your number was the easiest way to get him to stop— harmless spider, remember? He was probably more of a gnat at that point, though, but harmless nonetheless. 

From that point going forward, you ignored him at the gym and his text messages. You could go on your phone and scroll for a minute before seeing a text sent from your end. Now that you think about it, you only texted him back once. 

Unknown Number: i feel like im being edged rn 😔 what’s a man gotta do to get a text back??

You: typing…

You: 

You: typing…

You: turn 21

Unknown Number: bet

You read that response and immediately regretted it. 

He came back a month later, the day after his birthday, and you unfortunately gave in. 

And by giving in, you met him halfway and asked if he wanted to come over. He was hot, but there was no way in hell you wanted to be seen in public with him. Being a man as easy as Satoru, he said yes and spent the entire night putting you in every single position he’s ever imagined having you in. You swear he hit every room on purpose— just bending you over every surface and folding you up in every position. 

You’ve never had someone throw you around that much before. He fucked you like it was some god-given right. You were so far gone that you would’ve done anything he told you to; you’re just glad his only goal that night was to impress you. 

And he did, hence why you are still letting him come over a couple of times a week. Maybe more, maybe less. 

He’s tried to get you to come over to his place before, to which you refused for obvious reasons, and berated him enough to make him never ask you a question as insulting as that ever again. 

He’s also tried to coordinate your gym visits in the past. 

It was a month into whatever little arrangement you had— you say that because you’ve never made an agreement, aside from telling him to never talk to you, talk about you, or approach you in public. 

It would come as a surprise to no one if he spent the whole day there just waiting for you to show up. 

He didn’t even give you a chance to go into the locker and put your things away before attempting to walk up to you. You had just walked past the front desk— head down, phone up— and felt like there was something off, and what do you know? He was walking in a straight line towards you as if you hadn’t banned him from speaking to you in public. 

Luckily, the women's locker room was directly to your left, so you turned and walked there as fast as your legs could take you. You were pissed, slamming your duffel bag down onto one of the benches to spend a minute or two pacing back and forth. There was no way in hell you were going home, so you pulled up with messages with him and sent him a text.

You: Do not fucking embarrass me.

You: Don’t even come near me.  

S. Gojo: fine .

It wasn’t another 20 minutes until you finally stepped out of the locker room, mostly ready to spend the next 30 minutes working out. Usually, it’s 45 minutes to an hour, but you gave yourself some grace, even though you really should’ve been getting the most out of your membership with how pricey it was.

The first 20 minutes were fine— peaceful. You ended up letting your guard down as you fell under the assumption that Satoru left, given how he was nowhere to be found. Then, 2 minutes into using the stairmaster, someone got on the one right next to you, despite the entire row being empty. 

He was met with a scowl. The only response he had for it was throwing his palms out and grimacing right back at you, as if to say, I’m not doing anything wrong.

Minutes later, he’s reaching over and grabbing your water bottle to take a sip from. Mind you, he already had one with him. It had more water in it than yours. 

That was the moment you knew Satoru really wasn’t shit. 

He casually gave it back with a smile, trying to act all cute and be funny, so you sent your water bottle flying at his big head. 

“Ow!” he frowns, rubbing the side of his head, having absolutely no right to look as shocked as he did. “That hurt!”

“Suck it up,” you snapped at him in a hushed tone. “You’re lucky I didn’t lodge it down your throat and drown you.”

“Why would you do either?!” he threw his arms out.

“I don’t know— why would you reach over and drink from my water bottle when you have your own?!”

“Because I wanted water that had some of your backwash in it??” he says, as if it should’ve been obvious. 

To this day, you still don’t know if he was trying to throw you off or if he was being serious.

“If I hear one more word come out of your mouth while I’m here, even if you’re 10 feet away and talking to someone else, I’m fucking blocking you.”

“. . .” You could see the panic in his eyes as his face dropped. “Okay— 10 feet away is fucking crazy—”

“Stop. Talking.”

He opens his mouth, quickly decides he’d rather not find out if you were bluffing or not, and closes it.

You hated being strict with people— you had no other choice but to be strict with Satoru. You could draw a line, explicitly tell him not to cross it and why, and he’d walk right up to it and tap his toe on the other side, just to see if you’d say anything.

With the way you talk about him and talk to him, it’d be easy to assume that you hated him— you complain about the shit he does, you yell at him often, you look at him at times and start to wonder if he was just a sign sent by god to finally get therapy. But you don’t dislike him, let alone hate him.  

On the occasion that you don’t kick him out right after you two fuck, he’s really not that bad to be around. If circumstances were different, you wouldn’t mind being friends with him. He’s easy to talk to, easy to get along with when he’s not actively and purposely fucking around and finding out. You honestly enjoy talking to him here and there. 

Truly.

Except for when he’s talking about anything frat-related. More often than not, it’s dumb and genuinely a waste of your time to listen to. Not to mention the fact that you don’t need any more reminders of who you’ve been welcoming into your home. 

You were pushing thirty for Christ's sake. It'd be one thing if he were just a one-night stand, but he’s not. He raids your pantry when you’re not looking and, on multiple occasions, has purposely left his boxers behind as some sort of parting gift.

It’s gotten easier with time— the embarrassment that washes over you when he says something stupid, that is. Like whatever went down at some party he threw or some joke one of his “brothers” told him. It’s still a waste of your time, but you’ve grown to just let him talk about it rather than shut him down to avoid that pang of guilt you sometimes get when you’re around him. 

There’s the disappointment and the embarrassment, and lately, there’s the odd form of pity you have for him. You’ve always known you were going to have to let Gojo down one day and cut things off completely, you’re not quite sure how he’d take it, though. 

There was some hope that he’d get bored with you and move on to someone new, but that’s slowly diminishing. He’s volunteered to get tested for STDs weekly and sends you the results. He hasn’t slept with anyone else, either, which is shocking. You’ve gotten a glimpse of his phone and his messages, all of which were unopened texts from the girls he’s probably led on in the past— ignoring them all for a woman who does the same to him more than half the time.

Sometimes you wonder if he notices that, too. He has to. You say he’s stupid all the time, but he’s smarter than he lets on. 

—

S. Gojo: how’s my pretty girl doing?? ((:

You: what do u want

S. Gojo: 😭damn not even a question mark?? I didn’t even ask u for anything 😔

You: i can tell when u want something. now what is it

S. Gojo: can i come over after practice today? pretty please

S. Gojo: it ends at 3 today

You: im not even home

S. Gojo: ik i have a key

You: you took my spare key?

You: give it back

S. Gojo: today? (:

You: im not even home by then. I don’t want u there, you’re gonna make a mess

S. Gojo: wtf? I never make a mess

You: what do you even wanna come over for

S. Gojo: i don’t wanna be home later

You: why

S. Gojo: there’s a few sorority girls coming over and they don’t like me

You: why

S. Gojo: it’s just bc of some bet during freshman years

S. Gojo: they’re not over it

You: pig

S. Gojo: i didn’t even tell you what it was!

You: please don’t

You: but ya, no. go to the library or something

S. Gojo: PLEEEEEAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSEEEEEEEEEEE

S. Gojo: FUCK i’ll have takeout ready for you when you get off work ffs

S. Gojo: have some compassion these bitches are gonna try to CHOP my DICK off PLEASE

You: maybe you never deserved one to begin with

S. Gojo: BRO???

You: kiddinggg

You: have some pad thai ready for me. I also expect the place to be vacuumed 

S. Gojo: i got u

S. Gojo: i can do your laundry too if you want

You: stop trying to sniff my panties you fucking freak

S. Gojo: ):

You’re home at 5:15 on the dot, and you’re met with the lovely smell of all-purpose cleaner despite only telling Satoru to vacuum. So naturally, you’re in a good mood when you walk into the living room and hang your purse up in the hallway. 

Satoru’s on the couch, turning to look at you and doing that stupid nod he does when he doesn’t feel like verbally greeting someone. 

You slip out of your heels and walk up. “Did you clean the kitchen?”

“A little,” he hums, taking the opportunity to pretty much eye fuck you since you don’t pay much attention to him as you look into the kitchen. 

“What do you want?” you ask suspiciously, turning to look at him lounging back on your couch, half-naked. He’s got nothing but a pair of socks and rugby shorts on, and you can’t help but take a look at his thighs. You don’t ask why his titties are out on display, though, knowing he’d make a comment about how hard he worked cleaning the place. 

“Nothin’,” he shrugs, feigning innocence. The slight twitch of his lip right after gives him away, not that you give it much attention. “How was work?”

“Long,” you yawn. “Slow, too— felt like I was on my phone the entire time.”

He tilts his head, getting ready to fuck with you despite it not even being 5 minutes since you walked through the door. “Are you complaining about doing nothing at work today?”

“Uh, yeah,” you mimic his tone. “I hate looking at the clock all day.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I’m gonna remember this the next time you complain about work being too busy.”

You smile and hum. “Do that, and I’m shoving my socks down your throat.”

“Kinky.” You start to walk away, and Satoru takes the opportunity to reach over the couch, biting his lip as he strikes a palm over your ass. “What else are you tryna do to me?” 

“Choke you,” you boredly say as you walk into your room, but end up smiling when you hear him laugh. You come out a couple of minutes later in a pair of shorts and a tank top. “Where’s the food?”

“The fridge,” he responds, seemingly distracted. 

Only for him to grab your wrist right before you walk past behind him. 

You whip your head around and click your tongue. “What?” you whine, eyes narrowing as you shoot him an irritated look. 

“How hungry are you right now?” he asks, tongue in cheek as he keeps a firm grip on your wrists. 

“Hungry enough.”

“Starving?” There’s an obnoxious glint in his eyes as he asks. 

You scoff. “Does it fucking matter?” 

“Mmmmmm, a little.” He blatantly checks you out as he hums, not struggling to hold on to your wrist at all. He leans over the couch to get a better look at your shorts, his other hand reaching forward to snap your shorts against your skin. “I like these.”

“Let me guess, you’d like them better on the floor.” 

“Something like that— come here,” He stifles a laugh, pulling you closer until you're up against the couch. He snakes an arm around your waist to keep you from leaving, pressing kisses all over your chest. “Been waiting for you forever– give me a minute or two.” 

“You expect me to believe it’ll just be a minute or two?” You smile, trying to keep your breath from hitching as he gets closer to your neck. 

“Mhm. It’s a lie, though.” He places one last kiss against your collarbone, then pulls a hum out of you as he licks a slow, fat stripe up your neck. He tops it off with a couple of kisses along your jaw before nipping at your ear. “How about I work up that appetite a little, hm?”

Your lids grow heavy, each word growing breathier than the last with each kiss and touch. “My stomach’s gonna start hurting.” 

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, running his big hand down your back to your ass, giving it a squeeze before his palm lands on it. “You won’t be thinking about it.” 

He steps over the couch and starts nudging you towards your room, dick print against the fabric of his shorts on full display. 

“No?”

“Nope,” the grin on his face grows, “I’ll keep you distracted.”

And distracted you were. 

Whining as you trembled and clenched around his cock while he worked it into you. You’re at the edge of the bed— bent over for him, back in the craziest arch as he gives you the deepest strokes. The round metal studs under his tip add the right amount of pressure as it drags over your gummy spot.  

He leans back, suppressing a laugh at the sight of your fucked out face and the creamy ring already starting to grow around his base. He’s barely done anything, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he saw drool stains right where your face is pressed up against. It’s always like this, your attitude just magically disappearing the moment he gets near your pussy. Doesn’t matter if it’s his dick, his fingers, his tongue— they’ve all made the miracle of getting you to say please happen. 

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, just mesmerized at the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you. His attention only gets pulled away once he hears a soft, drawn-out moan leave your lips, his hands unconsciously moving up to your hips for him to knead. “You alright?”

“Mhm— go faster.” The demand sounds so sweet falling from your lips, how could he say no?

He rests a knee against the bed and leans over your body. Chest pressed up against your back, caging you in. You rest your head on his forearm, unknowingly letting him get a full view of the tears he’s about to give you. He picks up the pace, angling himself just right with each thrust, watching your eyebrows slightly pinch as your breathing picks up. 

“Can’t believe you wanted to wait for this,” he starts to poke fun at you, and it somehow goes straight to your core. “The hell were you thinkin’, huh?”

“I don’t know,” you murmur. 

“Were you thinking at all?”

“Shut up.” You get whinier with the change of pace. “Can you just– mmh yeah.”

“Yeah?” He grins as you lose your train of thought, rolling his hips nice and slow, working his tip right over that spot that has you curling your toes. “Like that?”

“Mhm,” you hum, fingers starting to dig into his bicep as the praises slowly fall from your mouth. “Feels so good.”

“I knoww– you’re droolin’ on my arm already,” he stifles a laugh as he mocks you, brushing some hair out of your face to grab your chin, turning your head toward him. 

He leans down to kiss you, and it’s nothing short of messy. It's all tongue and wet smacks once he held you down and crashed his lips into yours, just rough and hungry. Greed is what comes to mind once you pull away— lips all swollen and covered in spit, out of breath, heat creeping up your neck. 

It’s just selfish— who grabs people like that?

The hand on your jaw wraps around your neck, and you soon find yourself taking in a sharp breath as Satoru crashes his lips into yours again. His hips continue to rock into you, grinding every inch of himself up against your gummy walls, trying to knock the air out of you as he tries to take it for himself. 

He bites your bottom lip, and you’re giggling as he slowly pulls back, dying out at your throat once he gets back to work. His shallow thrusts grow deep, making your eyes start to glaze over as the fat head of his cock hits and rubs against a spot you’re sure only he can reach. 

“Ready?” he murmurs in your ear. 

“What are you–” 

He bites your bottom lip, then starts fucking you like you owed him your soul or something. He drills every single inch of his cock into you, the sharp sounds of his hips striking against your ass cutting through the air, nearly bringing you to tears from how overwhelming it all is.

“F-Fuck!” you choke out a whine, shoving your face down on the bed, unable to keep up with how fast he’s going. Your cunt stretches around his cock, walls fluttering and squeezing around his length as he pounds you into the bed. Low groans slip through his lips as he sees a mess of slick and cream starting to coat his shaft.

He goes faster. The obscene wet slaps of him pounding your pussy and his heavy balls slapping against your clit grow louder, messier. You’re clawing at your sheets and holding back choked moans each time he slams his tip against your cervix. Your legs start to tremble, struggling to keep them open when each thrust pushes you forward with all the force behind them. 

You start to feel something in your core begin to wrap up and coil, and you are not ready for it. You find yourself crawling forward, trying to close your thighs, all without even realizing it. Satoru lets out a laugh that fades into a low groan as your walls squeeze and tremble around him. 

He teases you as he drags you back by your hips, his ragged voice dripping in amusement.

“You running from me, baby? Where’s this pussy goin’, huh?” He nudges your thighs back apart with his knee, pulling you back on his cock and holding you in place, hips flush against your ass as he lazily grinds into you. 

“Yeah, c'mere— m’not done with you yet.” he rasps, picking up the pace back up again until a messy wet squelch can be heard between you as he pounds you out. He presses your back further down into an arch, fucking into you at a deeper angle. “Mmmm— there we go— just stay right there for me.” 

“Sa— fuck— t-toru!” Your breath shatters as you gasp, pressure starting to build all over again. 

You don’t see the way he smirks when you cry his name like that.

“I know— M’sorry, baby.”

He’s not. A hand slides up your spine to get a fistful of your hair, pulling you up against his chest in one swift go. His pace doesn’t falter as a strong arm wraps around your waist, holding you against him while his lips graze the shell of your ear. 

“Look how good I’m fuckin’ you, though— looks like you’re about to start crying.” He smiles, feeling you squeeze around him as the messy squelch in between your legs becomes more pronounced. 

“T-too much,” you sputter out.

“You should probably cum them,” he offers as if it were a simple solution. “If you want, I can work it out of ya.”

“F-fuck,” you inhale sharply. “Please.”

He lets out a low, pleased hum before he just starts slamming into you, making the bed shake as he starts to knock the absolute wind out of you. His free hand snakes down, slipping down in between your legs until the pads of his fingers find your clit. You tense as he presses on it firmly, breath faltering once he starts rubbing little circles. 

His grip around your waist tightens as he keeps going, not minding your nails as they start scratching and digging into his arm. Soon you’re let out a sharp cry, trembling as you start gushing all over his cock. 

And the way you pussy clamps down and just starts milking him has his thrust growing sloppy, fucking you both through it. 

“Fuck— fuuck,” he lets out a breathy groan, doubling over and nearly squeezing you to death when he starts pumping you full of hot cum, flooding your sensitive walls. He breathes heavy, grinding against you, giving you every last drop. “Shit— that was so fuckin’ good— are you alright?” 

You’re lying limp in his arms, nodding weakly, trying to catch your breath. “Uh-huh”

“You’re so shaky right now,” he heaves, gently letting you down on the bed. “I fucked you good this time.”

“Shut up,” you barely snap at him, “Go get me my food, I can’t fucking walk right now.”

“Fuck— I’m sorry. Don’t kick me out.”

“Get me my fucking food.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he nods, putting his boxers on and walking out of your room with a little smile on his face. 

. . .

He’s leaning against the fridge as he lets his mind run off for a bit, aside from the microwave whirring in the background, it’s quiet— a rare occurrence for Satoru. He doesn’t snap back to reality until he hears footsteps coming up behind him. 

He looks over his shoulder to see you back in the clothes he nearly ripped trying to get off you. And that you’re walking perfectly fine. 

“Thought you couldn’t walk,” he points at you, gesturing his finger up and down.

“So did I,” you shrug, wrapping your fingers around the fridge handle and pulling it open to retrieve a white claw. You can physically feel Satoru staring at you, while something in your spirit is telling you that he’s waiting for you to offer him one. 

You crack it open as you turn to look at him. 

“Can I help you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Initially, his eyes drift to the drink in your hand and look at it quite longingly. “That looks good.”

“It is good,” you say, then obnoxiously take a sip. “Pairs really well with noodles.”

“I’m sure.” His tones flat as he looks back at the drink. 

You have no idea why he’s so set on waiting for you to offer him one, but you eventually do because you’d rather not get into some weird silent war with him. “Would you like one?”

“Yes, I would,” he says with a blissful sigh, reaching into the fridge to get one for himself. 

The microwave beeps, you open it, and take the plate out yourself. “You know you can just grab one, right?”

The can cracks and he takes a sip, then nods. “I know, I just wanted you to offer me one.”

“Yeah, you made that pretty obvious,” you laugh and walk to the living room, and Satoru naturally follows. “Do you want some of my food, too?”

“No— appreciate you asking, though.”

“Sure,” you say, before muttering, “weirdo.”

He’s the first one to grab the remote and put something on, taking advantage of the fact that you haven’t pushed him out yet, like you do 60% percent of the time. The 40% is too random for him to be able to tell when it’ll happen next. 

You weren’t planning on kicking him out too soon today, though, since he’s currently hiding from an entire group of women.

“Wait, so what did you do to get those girls to hate you?”

“Got dared to homie hop.” He casually shrugs, taking a sip from the can. “Over the course of one weekend.”

“What is wrong with you?” you ask with the utmost disappointment. 

He points to himself. “In my defense, I was 18.”

“I guess.” You stifle a laugh before feeding yourself another fork full of food. “I’m surprised they still hate you that much.”

“Yeah, I got dared to do it again last year,” he finally mentions, just as casual as the last time. 

You pause for a moment as you try to think of an answer. You never do. “Yeah, I think I’d hate you, too.” 

He delusionally brushes you off. “You would’ve loved me. I’m a great friend.”

There's a contemplative look on your face as you tilt your head, thinking of all he’s revealed to you about himself, which is probably just a 3rd of all he’s done. “I’m sure you are.”

“I am,” he scoffs. 

“Yeah— that’s what I said.” You laugh, wiping the side of your mouth off with a napkin before throwing it on the empty plate, getting up to put it away.

You're in the kitchen when Satoru raises his voice to say something to you. 

“I am your friend, right?” he asks. 

You close the dishwasher and walk back out into the living room, there’s a slight pout on his face as he walks for an answer. 

“Yeah,” you let out an amused sigh. “You’re my special friend.”

“Yeah?” He sinks further back into the sofa, looking more pleased. “Special enough to talk to outside of here?” 

“Fuck no,” you say with zero hesitation, wiping the smile off his face again. “You wouldn’t be special anymore. Is that what you want? You wanna be an average normie?”

There are two things in this world that Satoru would never want to be— average and poor.

He crosses his arms and scoffs. “You really know how to turn a situation around on other people, don’t you? That’s pretty evil, y’know that?”

You feign innocence, looking at him all concerned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Whatever,” he rises from his seat, accepting your evil nature and his role as your special little slut. “Can we shower together?”

You give a bored look, knowing he’s gonna try to get you to scrub his back. “Fine.”

. . .

Tonight’s just like every other Friday night. The bass of the music bouncing off the walls, loud conversations happening in every direction. Most people are having a good time, while some are crying their eyes out over something that’ll seem minuscule a couple years from now. The only thing that’s changed is Satoru hasn’t, and most likely won't, bring a girl up to his room tonight. 

For once, all of his attention is on playing his fifth round of beer pong. 

The guys will still give him shit for the sudden change, but it was never a bad thing, just odd. They’ve given up on theories as to why after realizing Satoru really wasn’t going to cave and tell them this time around. Not even Suguru. He doesn’t need to ask, though, he knows Satoru is fucking someone. With how secretive he’s been though, he’s most likely sneaking around with someone that’ll get him in trouble if word gets out. Like the wife of one of his father's very affluent and important friends, perhaps? It was on brand for him.

It wasn’t that serious. Suguru will find out, eventually. He just hopes it doesn’t end badly for his friend that’s brought enough scandals for his family, being the problem child he’s always been. Hell, he’s being problematic right now, pulling Suguru out of his thoughts as some poor girl tugs on Satoru’s shirt.

Suguru has no idea what she said to him, but he steps in a little closer, pretending to focus on the game as he listens to whatever his friend has to say. Satoru barely looks at her and responds, not only rudely, but with quite possibly the most ridiculous words Suguru has ever heard come out of his mouth. 

“Sorry, sweetheart– I like my women a little more grown.” 

Mind you, they were in the same year. 

She laughs, there’s still stars in her eyes as she looks at him. “Wait, what?”

He shortens it. “M’not interested.”

“Why?” she asks, eyes growing dull. 

And Satoru, having already lost his patience, takes a step back and looks at her from head to toe, looking for another reason. It’s quite embarrassing— standing there and waiting for someone to figure out what they don’t like about you. 

“Yeaah, no.” He takes another look at her. “You just don’t do it for me— sorry.”

You’d think it’d be fine since he didn’t point out any of her features, but being told you ‘don’t do it’ for someone that you’ve already fucked doesn’t feel very good, nor does realizing that he completely forgot that they have, multiple times. He’s gotten drunk and fucked a lot of people. Keyword: Drunk. He doesn’t remember most of the time, hence his initial confusion when she threw a drink in his face. 

Unfazed, he wipes the remnants of her drink off his face, throwing her off in the process as he treats it like it’s a common occurrence and that he’s used to it (he’s very used to it).

“You just proved my fuckin’ point,” Satoru says, still unimpressed as he takes his shirt off and continues to casually wipe himself off. “Grow up.”

The comment makes her realize he was being dead serious with his original reason for rejecting her, even though he had zero problem with fucking her at the beginning of the year. “Oh fuck you, Gojo,” she ends up cursing at him as she storms off, furious and embarrassed.

“Yeah– not happening!” he laughs and yells back loud enough for her to hear.

Suguru just laughs because fucking called it. He totally was seeing someone older, and Satoru's response gave it away. Suguru doesn’t mention it, though. “You coulda been a little nicer, y’know?”

“Whatever,” he waves him off, knowing he could’ve been ruder, but chose not to. “I’ll probably never see her again after graduation, anyway.”

Suguru shrugs. “You never know.”

Satoru ruffles his hair with the semi-damp t-shirt in his hand, wondering why his friend decided to embrace his inner Gandhi when he’s just as bad as him. Satoru literally watched him tell a girl to stop crying after he cut things off with her, then added salt to the wound by giving her some speech about how she wouldn’t run after a snake and explain how being bitten made her feel. Suguru wasn’t technically wrong, but he did not have to say all that. With that being said, he wasn’t in the mood to listen to Suguru lecture him any more though, and lets the comment go. 

“I’m gonna go wash the rest of this shit off,” he says, referring to the sheer pink stain on his hair. 

Suguru pats his back a couple of times as he continues to laugh. “Have fun with that. Try not to run into her or friends.”

Satoru hoped not, that mini-meltdown was enough for him. He wasn’t stumbling or anything, but having to walk through crowds to get to his room made him realize he was drunker than he realized, not that it made him feel any remorse for the words he said. They did not warrant getting a drink thrown in his face. 

The first thing he does when he gets to his room is kick out a couple making out on his bed, throwing a couple of insults and threats their way as they scurry out of his room. Then he walks into his bathroom to wash his hair off in the sink, which leads to him completely stripping down in frustration and hopping in the shower, in hopes that it’d sober him up a bit. 

It doesn’t— it just makes him want to call it a night. 

He dries himself off and throws on a pair of boxers and sweats before sitting down on his bed with his phone in hand. His thumb hovers over the call button as he stares at your contact. The room continues to spin as he wonders if you were even awake. It was pushing midnight. 

After spending way too much time wondering if you’d answer, his thumb hits the screen. The phone rings once. Twice. Then a third time.

“What do you think you’re doing calling me this late?” you immediately grill him, your smooth and unhurried tone making you sound more amused than anything. 

He smiles as he stifles a laugh. “I can’t call you and say what’s up now?”

“People don’t usually call someone at midnight to say what's up.”

“M’not like other people,” he chuckles, though you know deep down inside, he wouldn’t dare put himself in the same category as a regular person. There isn’t one mirror he’s walked by and hasn’t looked at— the way Satoru looks at his own reflection could send anyone into a crisis, wondering if their spouses really did love them as much as they claimed.

“Yeah, you’re real different,” you respond blandly, coming off as trying to knock him down a peg, when really you’re just trying to move on. “Anyways, what do you want?”

“You should let me come over,” he doesn’t hesitate to say, slurring his words slightly. 

“No.”

He pulls his phone away from his ear and looks at it with his brows pinched together, all hurt from how you didn’t even bother thinking about it before giving him an answer. 

“Why not?” he grumbles, finding himself more offended than usual. “I miss you.”

He’s reminded that you don’t actually hate him when you begin to laugh at how endearing he can be, even when he’s just complaining. “I saw you two days ago.”

“What can I say, baby?” he murmurs, the stupid grin on his face widening when he hears you click your tongue. “You make it hard not to with that tight little p—”

Are you drunk right now?” You cut him off, wiping the smile right off that little pervert's face. 

“Maybe.” 

He hears you let out a disgusted scoff on the other side of the phone. “Ew, no. I don’t wanna fuck you when you’re all drunk and sloppy.”

At first, he lets out this noise that can only be described as what a pout would sound like if you could hear it. “First of all, I’m not sloppy. Second, I wasn’t asking to fuck, just let me spend the night. It’s loud here— buncha’ hooligans running around.” 

“So you can fuck with my sleep?”

“Baby, I would never fuck with your beauty sleep,” he swears. “I’m a beast— not a fuckin’ monster.”

“You are such a fucking loser.” You pinch your nosebridge as you sigh and mutter under your breath. “You’ll be fine. Just take another shot and put some earplugs in.”

“I don’t have any!” 

“Headphones then,” you curtly say. “Anyways, I’m going to bed now—”

“No, wait—”

“Good night~”

Click.

Satoru’s left staring at the wall in disbelief, jaw all the way to the floor. Surely you could’ve offered him a couch— but you didn’t bother, and the thought adds to the betrayal that’s already exacerbated from all the shots he’s taken earlier. It doesn’t go away, it just simmers once he’s processed the fact that you basically told him that he could suffer and fucking die, for all you cared, before hanging up. 

The music’s so loud that the walls are fucking shaking, there’s no point in noise cancelling headphones when he can feelhow loud it is. His eyes dart between his phone, his dresser, and the door before finally getting up with an irritated sigh. 

“Fuck this.”

. . .

Instead of sleeping, like you said you would when hanging up on Satoru, you continued to watch what you put on the tv prior to answering your phone. Though with how late it was, your eyes inevitably grew heavier with each blink, and you found yourself beginning to doze off. 

Until a knock on the door and the muffled sound of your name being called snaps you right back to reality. 

“I swear to god if that’s—” you begin murmuring to yourself as you walk up to the door, cutting yourself off because no shit it’s Satoru. You can’t think of anybody else who would still come over despite being told no.  

You swing the door open, annoyed that it doesn’t swing outwards, it would’ve been nice to hit him with it. He’s leaning against the entryway to stop himself from swaying in place, as carefree as ever. 

“What are you doing here?!”

Immediately, he begins to beg. “You have got to let me sleep here— some nasty couple fucked on my bed and there’s a group of psychos hunting me down with pitchforks.”

He was not going back there, and if a little truth-twisting is what it takes to get you to let him, then so be it.

Your face twists in annoyance. “Hunt you down for what?!”

“For turning one of them down.” He throws his arms out, pretending to be outraged. “Threw a drink in my face and everything just because I wouldn’t fuck her! And now my bed smells like rotten fish—”

“Just get inside,” you snap at him, feeling an incoming headache starting to form from his theatrics.

“Thank you.”

Despite showering and brushing his teeth, you can still smell some of the alcohol radiating off of him as he walks past you. Irritated, you shut the door a little too harshly, missing the way the man flinched as he stood there and waited for you. You completely ignore him, walking to the coffee table and picking up the remote to turn the T.V off. You walk off to your room after, with Satoru following right behind you like a lost puppy. 

The decorative pillows get plucked off the bed one by one. The only reason why he doesn’t ask if you need help with anything is that he is a little too scared to ask. You pull the duvet back and whip your head around to look at him. 

“Get in,” you order, and he quickly walks around to the other side, pulling his shirt over his head and leaving his sweats on. “And do not wake me up tonight.”

“Kay’,” he says quietly, slipping the covers. 

You follow, after killing the lights, sighing as you lay your head back and close your eyes. He awkwardly lies there at first, arms pulling the blanket up to his chest, staring at the ceiling. It’s not how he sleeps, and frankly, he is really fucking uncomfortable. He’s also scared to move right now.

But Satoru is Satoru, and at the very last minute, turns and snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. He slides a leg in between yours, and you open your mouth to protest, only to get cut off by his slightly nervous voice. 

“Good night.” 

. . .

Satoru wakes up twice. 

Once at 6:00 am to a pounding headache. He got up to look for an over the counter painkiller. Luckily, he found some in the first cabinet he opened in your kitchen and downed more than he should’ve before getting back in bed, throwing an arm and a leg over you, and falling back asleep. 

Then again, at 11:00 am, when he hears some shuffling around the room and realizes you are no longer next to him. 

He opens one eye and mumbles, “Where are you going?” 

You’re in a hurry as you put a pair of socks on. “To a pilates class.” 

“Can I come?” he pops his head up and asks, struggling to open both eyes.

There’s an incredulous look on your face when you pause and look at him. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one, you look like a fucking mess right now.” He didn’t really need to hear that, he already figured it out since he feels like one right now. “Two, I don’t need you sitting alone in the corner, watching me for an hour straight.”

“That’s mean as fuck.”

“Not one lie was told,” you argue back, getting the last sock on and rising to your feet. “I’m not kicking you out just yet, so you can stay if you want.” 

“Oh, I fuckin’ will.” It comes out as if kicking him out was never an option to begin with, earning himself a little side eye that he was too busy stretching his arms out to notice. You quickly let it go, figuring the hangover was doing a number on him. “Do you have food?”

“Yeah, just look around in the fridge.” You look at your watch, then throw your bag over your shoulder after realizing you’re just barely running on time. “I’ll be back in like an hour.”

“Kay’,” he yawns, lying back against the pillow and closing his eyes once you're out of view. 

As much as his head hurts, he’s glad he’s suffering here and not at the house. It’s quiet, your bed’s comfy, time actually feels like it’s running slow for once. There are another 15 minutes of peace before it is ruined by the ring of his phone. 

Before he reaches for it on the nightstand, he takes a few seconds to shove his face into the  pillow and let out a slew of curses. He picks up the phone and answers, as if his head wasn’t pounding more than ever. 

It’s Suguru, who’s not as concerned as he is confused. “Hey, so— you’re not home.”

“M’not,” Satoru mumbles. 

Suguru gives him room to explain, but speaks again when he realizes Satoru’s not going to take any of it. “Where are you then?” Again, not concerned, just confused.

“At a friend’s,” Satoru vaguely says. Even in his current fucked up state, he still remembers that you don’t want him talking about you at all. 

“...and this is the friend that you’re not fucking and avoiding everyone for, right?”

He lets out a laugh. “Exactly.”

At least Suguru’s smart and is able to read between the lines, meaning that was enough information for him. “Alright.” He laughs with him. “I’ll let you go then. Have fun with your friend.”

“I will.”

Right after he hangs up, he hears another notification go off that’s not from his phone. He hears the ping a couple more times and quickly realizes it’s your phone hiding under the sheets. You were in too much of a rush to realize you forgot to bring it with you. 

Satoru’s not one to look through someone else’s phone. He never has, never cared to, never felt the need to. So fighting the urge not to was not only something new, but incredibly fucking difficult. It’s literally right in his hand. He even knows your passcode from the one time he watched you unlock it because his memory’s perfect. 

One minute. He’ll just give himself one minute to take a peek. 

. . . 

It’s been several. 

Putting it down, while he’s in the middle of scrolling through a particular conversation, feels impossible. Even when he knows he’s just ruining his own morning by looking at it, he continues to read and make mental notes. 

His names Shiu. 37 years old. Moderately successful. 

Boring as fuck. 

He can tell when someone’s forcing themselves to keep a conversation alive, and can’t wrap his head around why you’d even bother when it’s over shit you have zero interest in. Shiu hasn’t even complimented you once. Nothing about you physically, not even the bare minimum of making a comment about how he enjoys talking to you, since it’s you carrying all of these dry, meaningless conversations. 

It's like he just expects you to talk to him. 

He continues to scroll, getting closer to the more recent messages, and Satoru finally sees something interesting. Not for you or Shiu, but for him. Reservations for your date next weekend. The first date. 

And also your last.

. . . 

Before you met him, Shiu wasn’t someone you’d ever imagined yourself being with. He’s calm, quiet, and more of a listener than he was a talker. Not much of a joker or a gossiper. 

He was just stable. Rooted. Shiu is a man who couldn’t be moved. 

He was a safe choice. A smart one. A mellow man with a successful career. Given your track record of failed relationships with men that you chose based on how exciting you found them, maybe it was time to be smarter.

Some may say it was settling, but you say it’s being practical and choosing what’s best for you. 

After a few weeks of casual texting, you were finally having dinner with him tonight. You weren’t exactly excited, but you weren’t nervous either— maybe this is him rubbing off of you. 

You’re not sure, honestly. 

It feels like there’s something missing, and in its place is the weight of something that refuses to show itself to you, as if its sole purpose was to burden you with confusion. 

You take one last look at yourself before you leave, smoothing your hand over the long, tight black dress you chose to wear. Flattering, not too revealing. The same for your shoes, just simple black kitten heels. 

At the last minute, Satoru manages to squeeze his way into your mind as you randomly recall the last time you saw him, which was exactly a week ago. The only thing that was off was his supernatural ability to bounce back from a hangover in under an hour. He was fine by the time you got home— at least fine enough to follow you into the bathroom for some shower sex. 

You haven’t heard from him since he went home that day. You should be relieved, you wanted him to get bored with you and pull away, yet here you are, wondering why you haven’t heard from him. 

. . .

Shiu wasn’t a man who couldn’t be moved— that would require being passionate about something, and so far, he’s about as dry as a matchstick.

And maybe there is something that he’s passionate about, but you doubt it. It’s not necessarily a complaint, just a change in the way you saw him. Shame on you for building up a false idea of him in your head. 

At least he’s still calm and quiet— you’re just hoping that all there is to him. 

As for now, Shiu was like a constant stream of water that never changed in temperature. He was a place on earth where the weather never changed. A solid 70 degrees, every single day. Acceptable. Easy to digest. Nothing out of the ordinary is ever likely to happen with him. 

He’s still a safe choice.

You’re not exactly sure how it’d be what’s best for you, though. You liked surprises— they turned an ordinary day into a day worth remembering— a life without them was just a forgotten past and pointless future. 

You could be acting a little dramatic over it right now, but you are honestly sick and fucking tired of getting absolutely nowhere with all the guys you’ve dated and spoken to.

Which is why you push yourself to consider that Shiu could just be a little shy, it's only 15 minutes into your date after all. You remind yourself that opening up takes time, for reasons that make only you feel better. 

You haven’t had a quarter life crisis yet, but learning that you’ve spent all this time swinging sledge hammers and wrecking balls at a safe that’s been empty from the start might finally take you there. 

You take a sip of your wine and set it back down. “Do you know what you’re gonna order?” 

He slowly shakes his head, humming  indecisively. “Not yet.” 

You wait for him to say something else, but to no one’s surprise, he doesn’t. “You mentioned it’s your 9th time coming here. Do you have any favorites that you reorder?” 

He hums again. “Nah. The food here’s decent, but I haven’t had anything that’s stood out to me just yet.” 

It’s not often people leave you speechless, especially on first dates, but here you are. Tight lipped, eye threatening to twitch. 

“Wow— you’re 9th time here, and you still haven’t found a dish that left you satisfied at the end of the meal?” 

You’re really hoping he backtracks and corrects you. Coming to a restaurant you don’t like that many times was one of the most ridiculous things you’ve ever heard. 

“Not yet,” he smiles and shakes his head, as if wasting his time and money on a restaurant he didn’t like was just a silly little quirk of his. “Maybe today will be the day.” 

Why the fuck would he take you here?

“Fingers crossed,” you force out a light laugh, feeling your patience start to fade.  “So you’re just gonna keep coming here until you’ve gone through the entire menu?” 

“Yeah, I guess,” he chuckles, not catching the slight irritation in your tone. “What can you do, you know?” 

“I mean… you can always try new restaurants,” you suggest. 

“Nah.” He waves a hand as if that's doing too much. “Easy to stay here. I already know what to expect.” 

It took the amount of discipline a sergeant had to hold back on saying that this wasn’t the doctor's office or the fucking barber shop. 

You can absolutely check other places out.

Does this guy not understand free will exists? 

“Makes sense,” you lie, pushing out all the enthusiasm you’re able to put forward. “No point in fixing something if it’s not broken, you know?” 

“Exactly,” he proudly nods. 

“There you two are!” 

…You were going to kill yourself if it’s who you think it is. 

At first, you ignored the familiar voice and instead took an extra big sip of wine. 

He hates being ignored though, so instead of pulling up a seat between you and your date as he had originally planned, he sits right next to Shiu and smiles at the way you instantly freeze. 

You hate to admit how good he looked tonight. His hair’s styled for once, loosely brushed back with some expensive styling cream. You can’t help but notice how much sharper his eyes look with his hair out of his face. More rough and intimidating. He was in a white button up, tailored to perfection, rolled up at his elbows, leaving the top buttons of the shirt unbuttoned to show off the chain he always wore. Grey tweed trousers, also tailored to perfection. 

“My bad— ran into some traffic on the way here.” 

Satoru turns to Shiu, who’s even more confused than you, and holds his hand out for a handshake, giving him a veryformal introduction. 

Afterwards, Satoru proceeds to pluck the menu out of your date's hand. 

“Alright, Shiu, what are we getting tonight?” 

Shiu is visibly appalled when he looks at you, but doesn’t say anything because he’s never had a stranger do that before. Especially when the stranger’s as eccentric as Satoru. 

“I— I don’t know.” Your date stumbles on his words at first from the surprise of Satoru’s sudden appearance. “I didn’t get to finish looking through the menu.” 

“Wait— really?” 

Satoru looks at his watch and sees how you two have been here for nearly 20 minutes, and he still hasn’t picked something. He doesn’t wait for a response and hands the menu back since he already found what he liked, which sucks for you because now he can direct his attention elsewhere. 

He leans back and nods at you, because you haven’t spoken at all yet. 

“What’re you getting?” You catch the split second his entire expression darkens. He is fucking pissed.

“The cod and asparagus,” you murmur. 

“That’s fucking disgusting,” he says through a smile, playing it off as a joke even though you both know it’s not. “Your palate sucks though, so I’m not surprised.” 

“Yeah, no— it’s fucking awful,” you let out a laugh. “I need to start eating better— feels like I’ve been eating nothing but junk the past few months.” 

His face drops, and just before he’s about to say something 10x ruder, Shiu cuts in. 

“I’m sorry, I’m still confused,” he takes several steps back to about 5 minutes ago, “was there some sort of mix up here? I thought this was a date-date, not a dinner with… friends.” Shiu looks back at you, and you’re no help, you’re just glaring. 

“A date?” Satoru huffs out a laugh, making the man look like an idiot for even thinking this was a date. “It’s been dinner this whole time. You’re the one who booked a reservation for four, our other friend couldn’t make it.” 

Shiu's face twists in confusion. “What? No, no, no— I booked the reservation under two.”

“No, you didn’t. It was booked under four,” he sadly breaks it to him. “You can go ask the receptionist if you want, but I swear it’s four.” 

Shiu gets up from his seat to go talk to the receptionist, because he knows he booked it for two— he’s not fucking crazy. 

And it’s true, he’s not. Satoru’s the crazy one here.

He’s still gonna go home believing he is though, since the receptionist got paid to change the booking information and lie to him. 

Satoru laughs just thinking about it, then downs the rest of Shiu’s wine, ready to gaslight him over that, too. 

Finally, he looks back at you and feels a sick sense of satisfaction. You’re angry… baffled, in complete and utter disbelief— you’re looking at him like you’re two seconds away from jumping over the table and strangling him. 

Though in the end, you gather yourself together as you finally ask: “What are you doing here, Satoru?” 

“Why the fuck are you on a date with someone right now?” His tone clipped, it sounds like he’s about to throw a fit.

“I—“ you stop for a moment, reminding yourself not to yell. “Satoru, we’re not in a relationship.” 

“Fine, then,” he decides to rephrase it, “why are you trying to replace me? And with him? Seriously?!” 

“What’s wrong with him?!” 

“He looks like a sleazy pornstar from the 80s!”

“Not everything is about looks—“

He laughs and cocks his head to the side. “Ok, what is it then? Is his dick bigger than mine?”

Your brows pinch together. Of course, he’s worried about that. “No— I haven’t even seen it yet.” 

“Yet?!” his voice broke. 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” 

You try to use a more stern tone to get him to relax, but you don’t think it’ll work. Satoru looks fucking devastated.

“What’s next, you're gonna have babies with him?”

Your jaw drops at his conclusion. “What? No! Do you not realize how dramatic you sound right now?” 

“I’m being replaced by a man with fucking pornstache!” he points to himself and says. 

“Excuse me?” You’re both interrupted by a timid waitress. “Um– the man that was here earlier just left.”

“I’m not surprised,” you mutter until your breath. 

“Yeah…” she sighs, almost apologizing for it. “Were you guys ready to order?”

You glance back at Satoru, and he’s looking away with his arms crossed. “Could I just get the bill for the drinks?”

“Oh, no worries about that! It’s all been covered already by Mr. Gojo. You can just head out when you’re ready.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Of course! Have a good n–” she cuts herself off, knowing damn well you weren’t. “Take care.”

You would’ve laughed at how timid she was if you weren’t so irritated, and instead just nod and smile. You look back at the date crasher, contemplating whether you should thank him or not for trying to cover the bill, but hold off, knowing he probably only did it to assert even more dominance over your date than he already has. 

“We’re leaving.” You rise up and grab your purse. Satoru doesn't even look at you, let alone move an inch, because he’s throwing a fucking tantrum, so you slam your hand on the table. “Get up.”

He gets up.

There’s a slight pout on Satoru’s face as he follows you out of the restaurant and into the parking lot. His hands are shoved in his pockets, dragging his feet. 

“Where’s your car?” you ask. 

“There,” he mumbled and nodded in its direction, then suddenly, you’re pinching his ear and yanking on it. 

“Ow—”

“Walk,” you say through gritted teeth, pinching harder. 

“Ow– fuck– I am,” he chokes out. “Ow, ow, ow.”

You continued to drag him through the parking lot, ignoring his pleas for you to let go. 

“Suck it up,” you coldly respond. “You were asking for it when you crashed my date.”

“I’m sorry, I… ugh— I’m really not, he was lame as fuck, but still— your nails, ow.”

“Exactly, so get over it,” you continue to scold him. “Can’t believe you fucking did that.”

“Because you—”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” you cut him off, giving his ear one last tug, leaving him next to the driver's side door of his car. “Take me home. Now.”

gojo when reader said she hasn’t seen it “yet”:

When that happens, you either turn away fast enough that you don’t get to see his smile drop or see him wear whatever expression you think he’ll have, or you can’t tear your eyes away quickly enough to miss the half hearted wave he gives you. 

It’s better when he doesn’t see you, you think. That wave is more crushing than anything he’d say. 

Naturally, you’ve blocked him. 

You always block guys you’re done with. It gives you peace of mind. Except this guy doesn’t; you wonder all the time if he’s tried contacting you, and what he’s said. Maybe he changed his mind and begged for you to give him another chance, maybe he declared his undying love for you, maybe he’ll vow to dedicate himself to you for the rest of time. 

None of those are likely though, because he would have chased after you the first couple times he spotted you on campus. But he hasn’t. Not even once. And you walk away slowly on purpose to give him the opportunity.

He’s never taken it.

“So, it’s over?” Brittany asks, plucking her eyebrows in her vanity, and occasionally looking at you through the mirror. “You ended it with him?”

You’re in her apartment, spread eagle on her bed and staring up at the ceiling wondering why she doesn’t have glow-in-the-dark stickers of stars. Her place smells like vanilla candles and expensive setting spray. Usually you’d fawn over the delicate scent, now you’re left feeling more suffocated.

It’s tradition for you to go crying to her after every heartbreak, but you’re not crying right now. You’re just taking shallow breaths. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Careful not to inhale too deeply in case something inside you splinters.

“Sure,” you say. 

She sighs and puts her plucker down. “Babes, you don’t have to pretend you’re okay — I’m not going to gossip to those bitches, or any bitches, you know that.”

Through your lashes, you stare at her. Brittany’s been your friend since you were children. Two girls meant for more than the provincial life you were born in, destined to wear hot pink mini skirts and tight dresses in a conservative town. You’ve followed each other your entire lives — sleepovers, first kisses, college applications half-finished at her kitchen table — and you know her loyalty is to you before any man. You can tell her anything.

Despite that, you still say, “I am okay. He’s just some nerd, I’m gonna be fine, trust me.”

Her pursed lips suggest she won’t be trusting you. 

Which is fine. 

You’re not exactly trying very hard to convince her — you’re wearing a hoodie and sweatpants for Prada sake. Sure, it’s a sexy pink hoodie and Juicy Couture sweatpants, but the outfit tells the whole story. This is your version of waving a white flag. Hair unstyled. Makeup smudged into yesterday. No armor. She knows you’re devastated, and highkey suicidal, and you can’t bring yourself to pretend otherwise. 

You just can’t say it. You can’t say the words, say that for the first time in your life you’re actually experiencing real heartbreak, and it’s robbing you of the ability to breathe. 

It hurts.

It hurts a lot. 

All the other times don’t even compare. The other times had you moping for a bit, stalking socials until your eyes burned, comparing yourself to whoever the bastard cheated on you with, buying curses from Etsy witches at 2 a.m., and eventually getting over them by getting under someone else. You’d call it empowerment. Reinvention. A glow-up.

This time, however, you don’t do any of those things. You don’t even think about getting revenge. You don’t want to hurt him. It’s not like he said anything wrong to begin with. He was probably right actually; you’re not in love with him. He was just nice and you liked it. 

This time you’re just tired. 

Bone-deep tired. The kind sleep doesn’t fix. And you so desperately want to sleep the day away, you want to let the paint on your toes crack and peel off, for your acrylics to grow out, lashes to fall off, and for your body to wither away. 

“Is there a cute bridge nearby I can jump off?”

Brittany fixes you a blank look. “Not funny.” Then she groans, coming to stand over you and smacks you with a pillow. “Get up. I’m tired of your bad vibes ruining my Me Time. Why don’t you do some retail therapy? That always made you feel better, didn’t it?”

Releasing a heavy breath, you tell her, “I already did. I have boxes upon boxes in my room still unopened. I tried to find happiness at the bottom of a shopping cart, and I’ve dug myself into further debt. It didn’t even make me feel better.”

None of the cute thongs or super high high heels you’ve gotten numbed the pain for even a second. You did look really cute in everything you bought though. 

A ping goes off on her phone. She checks it. 

Then she slams her hands on the bed, making you bounce. Brittany squeals. You wince.

“Okay, you better wax that hairy, depressed vaj of yours because we’ve got a frat party to sleep our way through tonight.”

“No,” you groan, already feeling the hangover clouding your mind. “I’m not in a partying mood.”

“That’s too damn bad because you’re coming with me and that’s that.”

Surprisingly strong hands roll you off the bed and drag you into the bathroom, and you know you’re going to walk out of here sore and bruised and in tears. 

Terrific.

.

.

.

It’s been a while since you’ve been at a party, and you have missed it — the fun songs that get your hips swaying without permission, the sting of alcohol that burns a clean line down your throat and washes any doubts and stress away, and not to mention the hypnotic gyration of bodies that mutes insecurities and self-consciousness for a moment. 

The air is thick with sweat, cheap cologne, something sickly sweet, and it feels like slipping back into a skin you used to live in. This is a damn good party, courtesy of Alpha Alpha Alpha and its president, Sukuna Ryomen — the kind of party people talk about all semester, the kind that makes freshmen reckless and seniors nostalgic for the rest of their lives.

Since you left him on read, he hasn’t texted you; he’s not the type to chase. The fact that he reached out at all to begin with would have won you over if you weren’t so in love with—

“Where have you been, doll?”

You grimace at the term of endearment.

You know, without looking back, that the captain of the hockey team has crept up behind you, whispering loudly in your ear so you can hear him over the blaring bass of the music. His firm hands grip your hips, hauling your ass to his front where he grinds his semi unashamedly.

“Around,” you reply, sipping on your cranberry vodka whilst you feel the music course through your veins, a synthetic courage buzzing under your skin.

Scarred lips graze the shell of your ear. “Yeah? Well, I missed ya. Missed this sexy ass and tight pussy. Wanna let me have my fill upstairs, like old times?”

Elbowing him off with a scowl, you say, “No, Fushiguro. Not after you slept with Jeanette before making me suck your dick the same night — that was freaking disgusting, by the way.”

“It was hot for me.”

His annoying laugh catches the attention of people around. Guys give him a nod of recognition and girls bite their lips, and both look him up and down with desire and envy. When they see the hand he has making its way to grope your tit through your thin shirt, the ones who want him and only him snarl before turning away, and the ones that want you too grin knowingly.

This was your life before…him.

Hated for being pretty and popular, and lusted for exactly the same reasons. A month or two ago, you would’ve been high from the attention, dizzy on it, collecting glances everywhere you go. Now you’re just exhausted. 

Despite that, you feel some dull thrill growing from where he touches you — a familiar, shallow spark that promises distraction if nothing else.

Lips murmur kisses up and down your neck, hands squeeze your hip and breast, his body presses insistently against yours. Toji has always been a fun time; he knows exactly what he’s doing and has never left you unsatisfied. He’s easy. Predictable. Safe in the way a bad habit is safe.

But you shouldn’t.

You didn’t even want to be at this party, didn’t want to be freshly waxed all over, all shiny and glittery, didn’t want to be dancing or drinking, or groped by some horny asshole who has no sense of loyalty, and you suspect actually likes causing girl drama.

All you wanted was hi— to be alone.

As you’re about to shove him off for good, you catch a flash of white in the corner of your eyes. Your head snaps in the direction, heart lurching stupidly in your chest. Shoulders slump in disappointment soon after.

It’s just someone taking their shirt off.

Of course he’s not here. This isn’t his scene. Plus, it’s Friday night — he’ll be at the games café with his friends, probably laughing about you and your pathetic confession, or building Lego sets and inside jokes, or making new memories in the toilet stall with his working dick. 

And even if he was here, what were you going to do? Beg? Apologise? Roll over and flash him your pussy like it was going to convince him you’re good enough to be loved? 

“Come on, ma,” Toji mutters. “Lemme make you feel good. I’ll make you forget all about that guy you’ve been with.”

“What guy?” you weakly ask, suddenly feeling lightheaded, like the room has tilted on its axis.

Toji spins you around, gripping the back of your neck to keep you in place as he grins down at you. “The nerd, doll. The rich one. Nora was telling me all about how smitten you were.”

“You mean when she was bouncing on your dick?” you scoff. Who told him he could call Eleanor by a nickname?

He smacks a wet kiss on your glossy lips, leaving behind the wheaty taste of beer. “Nah, ain’t nobody having full conversations when they’re on my dick — she was on my face, which you could be in ten seconds if you follow me upstairs.”

A harsh smack warms your ass cheek. 

“Don’t make me wait long.”

With that, he leaves you.

Coldness wafts over your body that not even the warm bodies around you can fill.

Then, you’re having a moment of clarity — you’re standing in the middle of the room with a drink you didn’t ask for, bass rattling your bones, sweat and cheap perfume clinging to the air in a sickly way. Strobe lights slice everyone into fragments. Laughter sounds warped, metallic.

This was your scene, your thing, your routine. Not Lego’s and fantasy movies, gameboards, Mariokart, and good fucking sex that ends in cuddles and kisses. Not slow mornings and shared blankets and someone looking at you like you were more than a spectacle.

Yet, tonight it all feels wrong, like you’re wearing someone else’s skin. Brittany’s off blowing someone’s brains out, you’re sure, and you know she won’t mind if you leave as long as you let her know, and so you keep thinking you’ll leave after one song, after one sip, after one more person tells you how good you look.

You don’t.

Because the moment the beat drops, the ache in your chest dulls just a little. The thoughts that circle his name — his voice, his hands, the way he used to look at you when you laughed like you weren’t performing — get shoved to the back of your skull by flashing lights and bodies pressed too close.

It’s addictive, this numbness. The way strangers’ smiles demand nothing of you. The way dancing lets you pretend you’re still the girl who came here for fun instead of survival. You hate that it works. You hate that you’re already planning the next party, even as you swear this one will be your last.

Because you can pretend as much as you like that you’re no longer the same girl, that you’ve learnt, grown, evolved, but deep down, you know, as much as everyone else does, you will never be more than a cheap thrill.

So, you push your way through the crowd, dumping your drink in some plant that’s probably fake, heading for the wide open door which leads into the night and back home, where it’s safe, where it’s quiet, where he won’t be, and turn right to the stairs.

“Took you long enough,” someone says, smirking and palming his hard-on through his jeans. 

Toji’s waiting by the door, wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and mouthing at your neck as someone else eyes you up and down.

“Ryomen,” you say. “Did you have to set a trap for me?”

He pushes off the bed, strolling over to you. Tattooed hands grope your ass, pulling you flush to his front. The frat president of Alpha3 licks the seam of your lips, tickling the surface with his tongue piercing. He rasps, “You’re a flighty thing, sue me.”

The other guy slides his hand up your skirt, squeezing your ass and letting a finger push in under your thong, where you’re still not very wet at all. He curses and spits on his fingers, then rubs it on your pussy. Toji huffs and notes, “She’s been distracted by that Gojo kid, too busy to suck our dicks.”

Sukuna tuts. “Bad girl. You know this pussy likes to be passed around.”

“Quit it with the talking,” you drawl, grabbing both of their dicks to hear them groan and shut the fuck up. “Put your honey where your mouth is.”

They laugh. 

“God, you’re fucking stupid. It’s almost a turn off.”

“What do I always say? Let your cunt do all the talking, doll, remember? It’s smarter than you, that’s for sure.”

You roll your eyes. “Is someone gonna eat my pussy or what?”

Toji grunts. “We’re gonna get to that, don’t you worry.”

Falling back on the bed, one holds you by your waist as you come to straddle his lap like you’ve done many times before, and the other settles behind, pinning you between them.

Clothes fall to the floor, and the party downstairs becomes a mere hum through the moans and groans of three bodies joining.

And for the night, you do forget all about him.

.

.

.

“Do you believe in love?”

The blond man slides his gaze back to you as though he’d forgotten you’re lying naked on his bed, messy hair creating a halo around your head on his pillow. He’s tucking himself back in his slacks, zipping it, before buckling the belt he hadn’t even fully removed before he thrusted inside you.

He’s a professor of History. A father. Widowed. 

You’ve had a sexual relationship with him since first year, when he met you at a bar and you made up some story about being a working woman at some law firm. He’d taken you back to his place, fucked you in a way not many of the boys from your hometown had ever, and was surprised, to say the least, when he saw you at orientation. 

Professor Nanami was kinda disgusted with you, and with himself. He refused to see you for weeks, shrugging you off when you’d cozy up to him in the hallways. But he couldn’t resist you for very long. 

Of course not. 

How could he when you wore the tightest, shortest skirts around him? When you had foregone bras under your basically see-through tops, batting your lashes and bending over his desk ‘to pick something up on the other side?’

Maybe it was because his wife had just died, or was dying —you didn’t think to ask for the details — or maybe he just really liked you, but you’ve had a consistent relationship ever since he caved and ate you out on his desk. Every Monday evening, his least favourite day of the week, you’d pop by his place and get your back blown out.

Always the same position — prone bone. Your face buried in the pillows, ass hiked up, head occasionally banging against the headboard. 

First he eats you out, you blow him, and then he’s inside you. 

Like clockwork.

No kissing, not much talking, no staying over. 

There used to be a time when you’d push it. When you’d pretend he’d fucked you to exhaustion and you couldn’t lift a single muscle, hoping he’d let you stay just this once, but he was insistent; he’d rustle you awake, a stern look on his face, and with painkillers and a glass of water by the bedside table.

He wouldn’t even let you leave a toothbrush at his place. 

It was easy to start things back up with him. You showed up at his office, knocking and with a sultry grin. He pushed his chair back, beckoned you over with two fingers, and you thought he might say something like he missed you or ask where you’ve been. He didn’t. He just guided you down to kneel between his legs.

The rest was history, as they say, which is funny because he’s a History professor!

Nanami runs a hand through his hair.

“Yes.”

You roll onto your side, propping your head up on your palm, watching him button his shirt with the kind of care one would reserve for defusing bombs: each button fastened with intention, each cuff aligned, crisp, controlled, contained. It’s almost military. Or maybe militant. What would S—

Nope. Don’t go there.

Happy to get an answer from him, you enquire, “Did you love your wife?”

He stills at that, but recovers quickly. Clasping his watch on his wrist, he wonders, “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, you know,” you reply as casually as you can, prodding the wet spots left on the bedsheets, “just curious. You never really talk about her.”

“Because the dead should be left where they are.”

There’s no bite in it. Just fact.

You sit up, the sheet slipping to your waist. He doesn’t look. Not out of disgust. Not out of desire. Simply discipline. As if you’re another detail in the room to catalogue and move past. Whereas other guys would have greedily drank up your figure to get fired up for another round. You don’t mind it.

Getting to your feet, you tug on your underwear. You remark, “You’re a History prof — isn’t it your whole thing to not let the dead rest?”

That gets a slight quirk of his lips. “I’m a contrarian.”

“Figures.” You huff. Then, you insist. “So? Did ya?”

Nanami meets your eyes through the reflection of the mirror. He doesn’t smile when he answers, “With all my heart.”

That doesn’t make you jealous, doesn’t make you sad or angry. It’s just what it is. But it does make you think. Voice quieter, you ask, “How do you know if you love someone? Like, really love them, and not like just be horny for them?”

“Did you meet someone?”

At surface level, it’s conversational. Polite. However, you know from years of office sex and Monday fuckings that Nanami’s not the kind of person to pry; he’s being cautious, worried that you mean him. It almost makes you laugh. 

“No, I was just wondering,” you say, trying to comb through your hair. 

He hums, handing you your phone.

So predictable. 

Men are always so frightened by the prospect of you falling in love with them, as if you’re so fucking terriblem, as if it means you’ll be baby trapping them. And yeah, maybe you are terrible. You’re shallow, dumb, and mean. Maybe he saw that and that’s why he didn’t want you for more than a wet pussy. 

But you can’t change who you are at the very rotten core…

Can you?

Soon, you’re being taken to the door, and just as you’re about to leave you look back at him, watching him already closing the door.

“You never answered my question.”

Nanami doesn’t need to ask for clarification to know what question you’re talking about. He pauses for a second, and it’s a rare moment of hesitation you don’t see him take very often at all. The man’s knowledgeable, wise, older. Whatever’s crossing his mind you probably couldn’t ever hope to understand. Perhaps he won’t answer. Perhaps he’ll even scold you for prying. 

But he doesn’t.

Staring down at you, he says, “When every minute of every day without them is like dying a thousand deaths without any of the relief, and you can only hope to forget them for a second.”

And the door’s shut in your face.

.

.

.

“Thank you for meeting me again!”

Yuji sits across from you at a cafe on the top floor of the student union building. He’d asked to meet, to treat you to coffee and cake after helping him get a date with a girl.

You wanted to say no. The idea of hanging out with his friend was weird. And you’d been wondering how much he had told them about everything, if he’d told them you were some psycho, and that he never wants to see you again. You thought that Yuji might cuss you out, might call you a dirty whore or something. But he insisted. Pleaded. And you’re not against free things. 

“It’s whatever. I’m just glad she said yes after all the work we put in.”

“No, seriously,” he says, pushing the slice of strawberry shortcake toward you like an offering. “You saved my life.”

“That’s dramatic.” You take a bite, thinking about how a certain someone loves sweet things more than you do and he’d devour this in seconds. 

“It’s not! Do you know how many times I almost texted her ‘hey’ with four y’s?” He shudders. “You stopped me from ruining everything.”

You snort despite yourself. “You’re welcome for protecting you from yourself.”

He grins, then softens a little. “She said I seemed…thoughtful. That I actually listened to her.”

“Well,” you shrug, stirring your iced latte a little too hard, “you did. Eventually.”

He laughs. “After you made me rewrite that message six times.”

“Seven, actually.”

“Seven,” he concedes easily. Yuji pipes up, eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’m taking her to an arcade this weekend, then we’ll get some boba, walk around for a bit.”

No one’s ever taken you to an arcade or gotten you boba. Is this how nerds date? Is that what he’s doing with some girl right now? Did he ever think about taking you on a date like that? What kind of boba does he like? Probably something insanely sweet and elaborate, he’d convince you to try it despite your complaining, and it’d turn out to be your most favourite thing in the world.

The third floor is busy — cutlery clinking, espresso machines hissing, students drifting past with backpacks and too-loud laughter. You keep your eyes on the condensation sliding down your cup.  

A barista calls out a complicated order. A group of girls squeal over something on a phone screen. A tall figure in white passes near the railing and your spine stiffens before you can stop it.

Not him.

Different build. Different posture.

You take a sip of your drink even though it’s gone watery.

Yuji softly says, “He does that too.”

Your eyes dart to him. He hadn’t said his name, and yet your heart’s pounding as if he had. So fucking pathetic. Shuffling in your seat, you say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“He’s always looking around every room, looking at whoever walks in through the door, eyeing the crowds. He even smiles when he thinks he sees you, then frowns when it’s someone else,” Yuji elaborates. There’s a bittersweet expression on his face, and you wonder if he wears one too. You pretend your heart doesn’t skip a beat at the thought that he might be searching for you in every face that passes by. “I think he really misses you.”

“No, he doesn’t,” you reply immediately, before your brain could even process the words. Then you sit up, meeting his eyes for the first time since sitting across from the pink-haired guy, who looks so much like some other guy you know. “Yuji, we were never in a real relationship, did he tell you that?”

That furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”

So he didn’t.

“It was a deal we made. I won’t go into the specifics,” you say, waving a hand. “But we weren’t actually dating. It was just pretend.”

Yuji shakes his head, leaning forward. “But he was always talking about you, about the things you like, the things you don’t. He’d see clothes in stores and say, oh she’d hate that, or that would suit her. He’d text you all the time and well, I’ve never seen him smile at his phone like that before. Even movies we’d rewatch, he’d talk on and on about what you thought about it or how he thinks you’d hate it, and so he can’t wait to watch it with you. None of that seemed like pretend to me.”

Every word builds the pit in your stomach, growing it bigger and bigger until you feel so heavy you think you could create your own gravitational pull, like someone had once explained the Sun does. 

Voice trembling more than you want it to, you deny all of that. “It was pretend. He’s just really good at playing his part. But it’s not like we didn’t get along. He just didn’t lo—” Love me, you wanted to say. Instead, you gulp, and continue, “He just didn’t like me like that.”

The guy shakes his head again. He looks so deeply troubled by the news, and wholly unconvinced. 

“I think you’re wrong,” he says, then quickly adds, “respectfully. He’s quieter these days, always wanting to go out, stay at our place, and go to every event possible. He’s always super tired now. I thought it was because you two had an argument; I didn’t know it was because you broke up.”

“We didn’t break up,” you tell him, firmer than you intended it to come out. “We just ended our deal. It’s different.”

“Not to him,” Yuji argues. “He’s clearly miserable. I’ve never seen him so down.”

You sip your drink, gaze flitting away so you won’t see the flashes of memories of a man you can’t see right now in his eyes. Numbly, you say, “He’s just missing the routine we had. He’ll get over it.”

 “Can’t you two just make up?”

“No, Yuji. It’s not that simple.”

“It can be.”

Tired of where the conversation headed, you stand up, fixing your skirt. “Thanks for the coffee, and you’re welcome for helping you bag your girl. Good luck, and whatever.”

Then you leave before he can say anything else about him.

Inside the elevator, you slump against the mirror. Your face is reflected back all around you. It’s unnerving to see the dark circles under your eyes and the slight shake in your eyeliner. You snatch your gaze away. Can everyone tell you’re grieving something that was never alive? 

A ping warns that the elevator is stopping. Someone gets in, but you’re only looking at the buttons. 

“Diapers?”

You freeze. 

Beat up converse, blue jeans, white shirt under a blue sweater, full lips, glasses, and white hair. 

Your heart drops to the ground floor. 

He’s really here. 

And it’s just the two of you. 

The air feels thinner somehow. The elevator suddenly feels too small. The mirrored walls reflect you from every angle — your stiff posture, his towering frame, the space between you that somehow feels charged.

The doors slide shut with a soft, definitive ding.

You’re trapped.

“What are you doing here?” Satoru asks, smiling widely. He takes a step towards you reflexively, arms rising. You step back. His smile falters, but doesn’t disappear altogether. 

Steeling your spine, you reply coldly, “Meeting a friend.”

“Oh.” He leans back against the mirror too, arms crossed. “I was studying. Got a big exam to prepare for. It’s gonna be killer.”

“Cool.”

Your voice comes out flat, but your pulse is screaming. The hum of the lights grows louder. The faint scent of his cologne — clean, annoyingly familiar — threads into your lungs and drags memories behind it.

There’s a tremble in your voice you hadn’t shaken off. Can he hear it? Can he tell you’ve been miserable? Is he rejoicing in it? Does he feel victorious? Validated?

Does he look at you and think, See? You were just confused.

Satoru wonders, “How have you been then? What have you been up to?”

Who the hell does he think he is? How can he possibly talk to you so casually, like you’re long time friends passing each other by? 

Inhaling deeply, you let out a tense breath. “Look, we don’t have to do this. We don’t have to be all good with each other. We were strangers to each other before and we’re strangers to each other now. No more and less.”

“No more or less,” he corrects automatically.

“Fuck off.”

You can hear the sheepish smile in his voice when he mutters, “Sorry.”

The elevator shudders lightly as it passes another floor. Then his expression shifts. The brightness dims.

“I was genuinely asking,” he says, softer now. “I really am wondering how you’ve been…” Then, even softer, he adds, “I missed you.”

No no no no no.

He can’t talk to you like that, he can’t say shit like that, he can’t weaken your resolve, he can’t pretend he fucking cares. He doesn’t get to miss you after telling you you mistook gratitude for love. After implying you only wanted him because he was the first man who treated you like you mattered.

Hands shaking, you clench them into fists so he won’t see. “Don’t.”

“I do,” he whispers, insistent. “I haven’t been sleeping much since ‘cause I keep thinking about all the things I said.” 

You don’t want to hear this. 

You can’t. 

You’re supposed to be moving on, accepting that what you had wasn’t real, that it was all just some game. He wasn’t supposed to be here; it’s too soon. You wanted to face him properly, completely unaffected so that he’d never know just how hurt you were.

Satoru steps closer. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I was flustered, y’know, like you caught me off guard, and—”

“Stop it, Satoru,” you hiss, whipping around. 

Your breath gets caught in your throat.

Fuck he really does look terrible, or as terrible as he can possible look — he has dark circles under his eyes too, his hair looks like he’s been running his hands through them, pulling hard, and he looks even paler than usual. His sweater is fluffier than usual, Converse more scuffed, and there’s a quake in his hands as they twitch.

When your eyes meet, through his glasses his gaze softens. “Oh, baby.”

He’s so close all it takes is one step to cross the distance, to hug him tightly, to yank him down for a kiss and wash everything away. Satoru smells the same as you remember, all clean and fresh, and it’s comforting, reassuring. 

The door opens.

“There you are,” a voice says. “Did you bring my clothes back from your place?”

Satoru breaks eye contact first, looking at the newcomer. He releases a breath, combing his hair back. “Hey, Sho. Yeah, I’ve got them.”

It’s her again. 

She’s sucking on a lollipop, raising a brow at you. A smile plays on her lips. It’s mocking, like she knows something you don’t.

It’s so easy for them to talk like that, isn’t it? So casual, so natural, like they’ve been dating for years. Did you ever sound like that with him to others? Did people feel jealousy ripping them apart from the inside, threatening to bring them to their knees? 

“Good for you, Gojo,” you snark. The words taste acidic. Petty. Beneath even you. But you can’t stop them. “You’re finally using your fixed dick to its fullest.”

“What? No, wait, baby—”

You leave, heels clacking on the polished floor. 

Someone calls your name, panicked, but you don’t turn around. Not even when the elevator doors slide shut behind you. Not even when the first tear slips down your cheek. Not even when the sob you’ve been choking back finally breaks free in the empty corridor.

That’s really fucking good for him.

Just perfect.

Peachy.

.

.

.

He’s been trying to contact you. 

A TheSmartest_1 had followed you on Insta. It had no profile picture, no other friends, no posts, but you knew who it was immediately. He sent a message. It plainly read: I didn’t sleep with her, her washing machine broke. Pls unblock me.

It no longer matters to you if he did or didn’t; you’ve cried over it enough. Plus, it’s not like you’re some blushing virgin. But still, the thought of it didn’t settle right, and even if he denies it, the damage to your heart has been done.

You set your account to private and removed him. 

Then you received an email from one of your professors, talking about how someone had interrupted a lecture shouting your name, and that he had to inform this individual you don’t attend your lectures, which was the cue for him to lecture you about the importance of good attendance and full investment in your education. 

It confused you. 

Not the scolding. Whatever Satoru’s up to. 

A lot. 

Why was he looking for you? Why was he trying to reach out? What else did he want? Was his dick broken and he wanted you to slap him back to health? Or did you leave something behind in his apartment?

The old you would have confronted him, asked him what the fuck he wanted, maybe blown him as a parting gift. The you now could only curl up in your bed, staring at the message and feeling tempted to hear him out.

You’re curious, that’s all.

Since the elevator, you’d been crying on and off. You ignored Brittany’s attempts to see you, claiming to have mono, and definitely ignored Eleanor and Jeanette’s accusations of you being pregnant. 

You wish you were pregnant. At least then he’d have a reason to stick by you. 

It’s not too late to fake it, you suppose. 

No, that’s stupid.

No one would believe you’re pregnant with your impeccable figure. 

Eventually, everyone’s messages stopped, like they had accepted you’re a shut-in now. You didn’t go to see Nanami on Monday, didn’t seek out Choso for some weed and cunnilingus in the backseat, or Geto for an orgy with his groupies. And it was good. 

There’s peace and quiet now. 

You can do the bare minimum for your studies, don’t have to do your makeup or shave or even wear anything other than some ratty T-shirt from home you never threw out. 

But it also means listening to the voices in your head telling you you’re not good enough for anyone. It means having to bask in the dull clenches of your heart every time you’re reminded of him. It means rolling over in bed and reaching out for a warm body that pulls you in and mutters about how good you smell, and being jolted awake when your arm falls through air. 

You can’t even doomscroll anymore; your feed’s been corrupted by videos of people building Lego sets, of film analysis, of all the work the Gojo Foundation has been doing. It’s like everywhere you look he’s there, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. Once, you replayed the same video of him attending some event in a suit, with his hair slicked back, and his glasses swapped out for sunglasses, for hours. 

When you shut your eyes, the video still played in your mind, like it’d been burnt into your retina.

A ping goes off on your phone. 

Lazily, you pick it up and blink through the blur of your eyes, which had gotten used to the darkness of your room. Jeanette sent you a picture, and captioned it: I want the next turn when she’s done with him.

You sit up.

It’s a picture of two people. A man.

Him.

He’s on campus, standing under a veranda as rain pours heavily, holding designer shopping bags — Tiffany, Chanel, Prada — and laughing with a girl.

“No fucking way.”

The covers are thrown on the floor with the speed you jump out of bed, fighting through the sudden lightheadedness that threatens to send you falling, and hurriedly gathering your lipgloss and mini skirt off the floor. The curtains are torn open and the grey sky glares back at you. It’s pouring. 

It must have been taken recently, if not just now.

Sheets of rain slam against the windows, blurring the campus into watercolour streaks.

You move fast. Faster than you have in like a month. Shower on. Teeth brushed. Concealer under your eyes to hide the proof that your heart’s been shattered into a million pieces and not even nail glue could fix it back up.

You pick the tightest top you own. The shortest skirt. Something that says you are not the pathetic thing you’ve been rotting into.  Lip gloss swiped on. Hair brushed until it shines. Mascara layered thick. You’d rather die than be seen all ugly and disgusting by anyone, least of all him and that skank.

The cold hits instantly when you step outside.

Rain soaks through your clothes within seconds, clinging the fabric to your skin. The mini skirt rides up as wind whips through campus, biting at your thighs. Your shoes splash through puddles with every march you make across the quad.

Students stare, point, laugh. You don’t care.

Your phone is still open to the picture Jeanette sent. You zoom in as you walk. It’s by the Quad, just a little away from the Physics building, where he liked to hang back in his free time to chat to professors in their offices. 

The environment starts matching the background of the picture.

You’re here.

And there he is.

Satoru fucking Gojo.

Under the stone veranda outside the humanities building, dry and sheltered, laughing like the world is light. He looks exactly like how he did in the picture, except now that you can see him in all of his glory, you can see there’s even more designer bags hanging off his arms. 

You can also see the girl beside him.

It’s Brittany.

Your Brittany.

The girl who held your hair back when you threw up. Who listened to you cry about him. Who promised time will heal all wounds, who said she liked him for you. 

It’s really her.

What you’re seeing in front of you, the abomination that it is, is exactly what you expected, yet in your frantic hurry to be near perfect, you’d manage to convince yourself you saw wrong or it looked like her but it wasn’t, or that Jeanette had done something to the picture. 

But no, she’s with him. She’s the one he was laughing with, the one that had stopped him from seeking you out. And he’s the reason she stopped texting you to ask if she could see you today or the next day.  

The rain pounds down harder, plastering your hair to your face, your mascara threatening to bleed.

He sees you first. 

His smile drops instantly. The bags go still in his hand. Brittany follows his gaze, confused. And when she sees you, her eyes widen in panic, in fucking guilt.

“Babe…” she began, but you cut her off.

“What the fuck is this?” you demand. Your hands are shaking. Your entire body’s trembling, whether from the cold or from the delirious fury crackling inside of you, you couldn’t tell.

“Hey—” he starts.

“Shut up.” You don’t even look at him. Your eyes are on her. On your best fucking friend. “How could you?” you scream.

Jeanette, you expected. Eleanor too. But Brittany? Your Brittany, making a man who was never really yours hers?

Were you so unloveable that no one would consider your feelings for even one fucking minute? Was there something genuinely wrong with you? Did you have a corrupting force inside that makes everyone stab their daggers in your back?

Brittany steps forward. “It’s not what you think.”

“Not what I think?” You laugh, hysterical, gesturing wildly at the shopping bags and their general closeness. “You’re on a date. With him. You’re telling me I’m mistaken?”

“It’s not a date,” she insists, exasperated.

Gojo cuts in, “It isn’t.”

“Oh my God, don’t.” Your voice is almost hoarse from how loud you’re shouting over the pounding of the rain, which threatens to send your legs buckling under you from its sheer force. “Do not stand there and pretend like you didn’t ruin me and then move on to her.”

Water drips off your lashes. You’re freezing now, teeth almost chattering, but adrenaline keeps you upright.

Brittany’s hands reach for you. Your glare pins her to where she stands. In spite of that, she sighs and says, “You need to calm down.”

“You listened to me cry about him,” you say, voice cracking completely now. “You told me he was bad for me. You said I deserved better, that I just need therapy. Is this your version of therapy? Sleeping with him?”

Gojo steps forward. “Okay, that’s enough—”

“Stay out of it!” you snap at him. Even now, he’s defending her, choosing to protect her from you, because you’re some big monster in their eyes. You’re the one trampling all over their Happy Ever After. 

His jaw tightens.

You’re soaked to the bone. Your fingers are numb. Your arms are goosebumped and aching, legs itchy from the cold. You must look insane — mascara’s running down your face, stinging your eyes.

But you don’t care.

Because they’re dry. Sheltered. Together. And they look so fucking good together, so happy, and it’s you who wiped the smiles off their faces, it’s you who’s disturbing them, ruining their day.

“You’re dead to me,” you say to both of them. 

Gojo’s expression shifts at that. Something almost pained flickers there.

But you don’t stay to analyse it. You turn and walk away. No umbrella. No coat. Just the cold and the humiliation and the sound of your own ragged breathing as the sky roars above you.

Marching back the way you came, you pant, rain water dripping inside your mouth. It tastes salty. You don’t see the people looking at you, the phones held up recording everything, and you don’t know if Jeanette had seen everything. 

You can’t pretend you don’t care about that, about any of this, because in all the years you’d spent debasing yourself over and over again for a shed of attention from some asshole, you’d never been more hurt, never been more devastated. Whatever was left of your heart has been set on fire, leaving behind ashes. And there were witnesses, videos that’ll remind you of the worst moment of your life.

Who are you going to turn to now?

Who was going to hug you, give you a pep talk, who was going to make you feel like a real person? 

Who do you have?

“Wait!”

You turn around, arms tightly hugging yourself. “What the hell do you want?”

Gojo bends over, hands on his knees and gasping for air. His clothes and hair are soaked. He’s not wearing his glasses, yet he peers up at you like he’s never seen you more clearly. Your spine stiffens. “I want to talk, to explain.”

Disgust deepening on your face, you sneer at him. “Spare me. I don’t want to hear every sorry detail.”

“Sordid,” he says, then shakes his head. “Sorry, sorry. Habit.” 

Straightening, he musters a weak smile, trying to look friendly, reassuring. His bright eyes scan your face, then your body, and his smile drops. “You’re cold,” he notes, then grimaces. “I don’t have a jacket on me; my sweater’s soaked. But you can have it, if you want.”

“Stop!” you screech, stomping your foot and sending puddles around your splattering. “Stop pretending you give a shit. Go back to that fucking bitch and die.”

He leaps forward as you make a move to walk away. Gojo cages you in his arms, keeping you there with him. His heat envelopes you.

You gasp, outraged. “How dare you!”

With a grimace, he says, “I know, I know. Sorry. I just need you to listen to me.”

“I don’t want to,” you grit out. 

This is the closest to him you’ve been in a long time. You can feel the familiar hardness of his body, the strength in his arms, the pounding of his heart which matches yours in a perfect rhythm and tempo. 

Gojo’s brows are furrowed so hard he forms a deep wrinkle that threatens to become a permanent fixture on his face. “I’m not sleeping with her.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, it’s true,” he insists, body a wall against your resistance. “I ran into her on campus this morning, and I saw an opportunity to reach you, to talk to you — I asked her to help me get you back.”

That stops your squirming. 

“I asked her what to do, how I can win you back, make you accept my apology. And she said you’re materialistic; you like gifts. Well, she didn’t want to help me at first. In fact, she screamed some pretty horrible things at me when I first asked, which I deserved. But she eventually quietened down when I said I’d do whatever, no matter the cost.”

It’s true. You do like gifts, but who doesn’t? 

And you’re not very happy to hear how she’d been talking about you, like liking gifts was some kind of character flaw. Although…a massive part of you has been calmed upon hearing that they’re not sleeping together. Of course, he could be lying, but Gojo’s not the type. He’s honest, a trait he displayed so brutally you’ve been left picking up the pieces in the wake of his truth.

Regardless, you’re on edge.

He continues, speaking quite fast as though he knows your wrath will resurface and he might lose his chance for good if he doesn’t hurry up, “So we went shopping.”

“All those gifts…they were for me?” you ask, blinking.

A small smile graces his lips. “Yeah,” he replies. “I’m not good at girl shopping, or shopping for anything that’s not a toy, so I really appreciated her expertise.”

“Those are expensive brands,” you note like an idiot, not really knowing what to say. Slowly, your body succumbs to his embrace, unable to help itself.

“I can afford it,” Gojo says simply. 

Sighing, you pat his chest. He gets the memo and carefully places you down on your feet. The rain’s still pouring, not as heavy as it was before, but certainly heavy enough that there’s no one out in the park other than you two.

You mutter, “If this is because of what I said in the closet, then I’m sorry — your whole family thing doesn’t actually interest me very much, no offence. It just came out, because I realised you’d never properly invested in me, in our relationship. I’m not trying to use you for your money.”

“I know,” he replies, cradling your face in his soft, wet hands. “I know. I just wanted to do whatever I could to make you give me a chance, at least to apologise properly and explain myself.”

Gojo wipes the water droplets hanging off your fake lashes, and the mascara dirtying your face. 

In spite of the weather, his hands are warm. They almost make you forget about everything. 

“You don’t have to explain anything. You’re right. About everything,” you say, avoiding those piercing eyes that felt like they could see everything in the limitless void of yours. “We had an agreement: experimental sex, pretending, and absolutely no falling in love. I ruined all of it. I’m sorry I blew it all up. You must have felt so uncomfortable.”

“I was,” he agrees, sadness lacing his voice. “But not because I was mad ‘you blew it up,’ or whatever you’re thinking. I was uncomfortable because you sprung something on me that I hadn’t been thinking about on purpose.”

“What?”

“I love you,” he says. 

You shake your head, breath growing shallower and shallower by the second. You try to pry his hands off you. “No, no, stop it.”

“Yes,” Gojo promises, holding your face still and forcing you to look into his eyes, unobscured. “I love you, but I forced myself not to. I abandoned that idea and squashed it down, wayyy down, because it was wrong, because it would make you uncomfortable, because it would push you away. I mean, I didn’t know it then, that it was love, but I knew what I felt for you far exceeded friendship.”

Blood rushes through your head, threatening to drown his voice out. You gulp a sob building in your throat, fighting the urge to run, to deny this is happening. In all the time you’d spent wallowing, replaying everything and imagining all sorts of future scenarios, this never occurred to you.

You never thought he could actually love you.

“That night, in the diner, I sat across from you, watched you drum your pretty nails, bat your long lashes, scowl at every other patron, and I knew I was in trouble,” Gojo says, thumb brushing your cheek absentmindedly. “And when you begrudgingly admitted that you liked fries with the milkshake, all cute and wanting to pretend you didn’t, my heart was basically yours, and it’s stayed yours throughout this whole thing. And it’s still yours now, even if you don’t want it, even if you have someone else’s, even if you’ll just throw it away. Because I don’t care what you do with it — it’s no good to me if it’s not beating for you.”

He opens his mouth to say more, but you’ve heard enough.

Grabbing him by his sweater, you yank him towards you, smashing your lips against his. As lightning flashes above you and thunder soon follows, you lose yourself in his taste, a taste you’d forgotten. 

Satoru melts, hands falling from your face to your waist, clutching you closer until your front’s flushed with his, until not an atom separated you from him.

“I do want your heart,” you tell him. “I want to squeeze it, dig my nails into it, stomp on it, and make you feel everything I felt. And I will do what I want with it, because you’re right, Satoru; your heart’s mine, and I’ll scalp every bitch that tries to take it.”

A great, big smile brightens his entire face. The brightest smile you’ve ever seen, the most genuine, most stunning smile. He pecks your lips, once and twice and again, and says, “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever had anyone tell me.”

“I can be sweet,” you reply, shrugging.

He nods. “The sweetest.”

Then he laughs, combing his drenched hair back. Satoru parts from you, spinning under the rain with his arms wide open, and eyes shut, basking in the darkness of the clouds. Droplets fly off him, some landing on you.

“I feel like screaming Eureka!” he yells so loud the trees rustle.

You laugh, uncaring of the strange looks people give you two, and actually giving an elderly couple a middle finger whilst he isn’t looking.

When he moves to adjust something on his face and then frown, you finally ask the question you’d been wondering since you saw the picture: “Where are your glasses?”

“Oh, um,” he stammers, sheepish. A pink hue grows on his cheeks. “I left it in one of the bags today, after I went to the opticians to get, um, contacts.”

“Contacts?”

“I don’t know. I thought you’d like me better if I didn’t look so…nerdy. It’s stupid, I know. I was just desperate, I guess.” Then he pauses, peering at you through his white flashes. “Do you like it? It’s kinda itchy on my eyes; I can get used to it though.”

Your thumb brushes over his eyelids. “I like you better with your glasses actually. It’s always fun when they get foggy and you just throw them off so you can eat me out better.”

A grin pulls at his lips. He kisses you again, and mumbles a simple, “Noted.”

“Speaking of bags,” you start, looking around and behind him, “what about my gifts? Where did you put them?”

Satoru blinks, then scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. He confesses, “I left them back with Brittany, but I don’t think I actually asked her to wait for me, so there’s a good chance they’ve been taken. I’ll buy it all again. Oh! Wait!”

He fishes in his pocket, fumbling against the soaked and shrunken pockets of his jeans. Metal clings and colourful keychains dangle in the air. 

The pink tinting his cheeks darken, as do the tips of his ears. He avoids your eyes. “I had these made when I was out with the guys a while back; I don’t know why I didn’t give it to you sooner — maybe I was just worried you’ll think it’s cringe or something. You can take it as a placeholder in the meantime.”

Snatching it from his hand, you marvel at it with wide eyes.

It’s you two.

No, it’s Toru and his little wife. 

Tears well up again.

“No, no,” he says, cradling your face again with a worried expression. “No, baby, I’m sorry. You hate it, don’t you? Of course you do. I mean after what I said, about how they’re just toys—”

You shake your head. “No, Satoru. I love it. I love Toru and his scary wife.”

He smiles, relieved, and whispers against your forehead, “I love them too. I love them so much. And now,” he says, hooking the Lego man on his belt loop and, with your suggestion, hooks the woman on your bra strap because that’s the only place you have to keep her, “they’ll be with us forever.”

“Definitely longer than the end of the school year, right?” you ask, looking up at him through your lashes.

Satoru kisses you.

“To infinity and beyond, if I can help it.”

Giggling, you point out, “That sounds like a really long time.”

More kisses are peppered on your face, lips, and neck, and basically anywhere he can reach. He mutters on your wet skin, sounding much more serious and solemn, “Not long enough, if you ask me actually.” He whispers. “Never long enough. No amount of time could make up for what we lost, but I’ll try. By Merlin, I’ll try.”

You brush hair away from his face, realising that the rain had basically disappeared as the sun begins warming your skin some time during your conversation. 

“Let’s just start with forever, shall we?”

“Good idea, Diapers.”

.

.

.

“Pastel pink or hot pink, Toru?”

His glossy eyes lazily flit up through his foggy glasses. Tongue completely flat against your puffy clit, his words come out muffled when he answers, “What about something blue?”

You pout, brushing his hair back just so you can bunch it in a tight fist, yanking to get a wince out of him and so he’ll bury his face even deeper into your pussy. “But I wanted a pink set.”

Satoru pets your thigh, lapping up your juices. He says, “Get whatever you want, wifey, just get something in blue too.”

Beaming, you gleefully check out the La Perla lingerie sets you’ve picked out, too excited to wait till they arrived. Ahh, you’re going to look so good in the lace. He definitely won’t be allowed to cum on them, which means he’ll have to cum inside. 

Sure, you already have loads of fancy clothes and shoes and bags from him, but what you really like are the lingerie sets. You have finer tastes. Scandalous tastes. Which he appreciates, and is always happy to indulge in. His place and yours are packed full of things he’d bought for you on a whim, and you’re running out of space and occasions to wear any of them. You really should tell him to stop spending money on you, but alas, it brings him joy so you shouldn’t rob him of the pleasure of spoiling you.

It’s a Saturday morning, and he’d woken up first. He couldn’t handle being the only one up, so he woke you up with his lips sucking your clit hard. If he was anyone else, you’d have been pissed to miss on valuable beauty sleep, but he’s your Satoru so whatever.

When you cum, he shoves a pillow under your hips and lines his leaking cock to your pulsing hole, far too impatient to wait for the last waves to subside. Mewling, you chastise him, “You’re in too much of a hurry; a pussy like mine needs to be appreciated in all its glory, Toru.”

“You’re right, baby,” he mutters, kissing your neck. “Always right.”

Every inch he pushes in robs you of more and more air, until you’re completely breathless as he fills you up. It’s always so fucking good. Your legs clamp around his hips, ankles hooking behind his ass and pulling him deeper and deeper. Satoru bottoms out with a groan, whole body trembling. 

He leisurely thrusts inside, taking his sweet time to reacquaint himself with your gummy walls. 

Humming, you wonder, “Did you dust my orchid?”

Satoru nods, rocking his hips inside in short, shallow thrusts, prodding your g-spot over and over again with his flushed cockhead. “Yeah. Lego sets tend to collect dust quite quickly. I -hah- made sure to be careful of any loose pieces, don’t worry.”

“Thank you. You know that took me ages to build, and I chipped one of my nails too.

A grin forms on his swollen lips. He replies, “Don’t have to thank me for anything; I’m always careful with your sets.”

“Oh, that’s right,” you coo, pinching his cheeks. “My boyfriend likes to make himself useful, doesn’t he?”

“He does indeed. He loves making his girlfriend happy.”

“As he should.”

You’re gushing around his fat cock, clinging to him tightly. The morning sunlight’s warming your skin, reminding you that there’s a whole day ahead, and as much as you’d love to, you can’t spend it in bed, or in the shower, against the window, on the kitchen island, the sofa, the coffee table, the—

The point’s clear.

Sharp nails run down his back, no doubt leaving marks on his pale skin. “Mm, Satoru, we might be late for the meeting if we don’t hurry up.”

“Can’t we just skip?” he asks, whining on your chest, and licking the beads of sweat forming down the valley of your breasts. 

In a blink of an eye, you have him pinned beneath you, cock still lodged firmly inside your cunt. “Now, now, that’s not very good of you.”

“Punish me then,” he retorts quickly. He had that locked and loaded. 

You lightly tap his cheek, moaning in satisfaction when he pulses inside of you. “It’s not a punishment if you like it.”

“Hmm, you’re so smart, baby.”

“Thank you,” you say, giggling.

Satoru smiles up at you through his glasses, eyes full of adoration. Your heart beats so loud you think he might hear it. Grinding in circles, you pick his glasses off his face and slide it on your nose bridge. 

“Jeez, how do you even live without these?” The prescription’s high. It’s blurry, already giving you a headache. “You’re sure you’re not actually blind?”

His cock throbs, and his hips buck up, cockhead kissing your cervix. You gasp, steadying yourself on his chest.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he grits out. 

A sly smile creeps up on your lips. Cooing, you draw a line down his chest, watching the red mark form, staking your claim. “Aw, do you think I’m pretty wearing your glasses, Satoru? Does it make you want to cum inside of my pretty pussy so soon?”

“Yes, yes,” Satoru gasps out. His hands clutch your hips, fingers digging into the slippery skin. “You’re so pretty, so fucking pretty.”

“Well of course I—”

A Marina song blares. Your attention darts to the phone on the bedside table. Rolling your eyes, you lean over to pick it up, dropping back down on his cock with an extra force so he’ll whimper and call out your name. You shush him with a glare, which has no real heat to it.

“Hello?”

“The nerve to be late when you’re the one who invited me here,” a snarky voice says, bored and irritated. 

Your hips are still circling on his pelvis, wringing out obscene squeeeeelches! that you hope Brittany doesn’t hear, but you don’t really care either way. You replace the glasses back on his face, finding the thick lenses doing more damage to your eyes than the hours you spend looking at your phone.

Satoru’s panicked eyes meet yours. He whispers, “W-we should stop.”

“Shush,” you mouth at him. Then, louder, you say to her, “Relax, we’re on our way. It’s just traffic-y.”

“Right,” she replies, dragging the word. “You really think I’m gonna buy that when I can literally hear your boyfriend straining not to bust a nut in the background.”

Ah, well, that’s fair — Satoru’s not being very quiet even though he’s trying his best; panting to get some air in his brain so he can think clearly, squirming so he won’t start violently thrusting upwards, and biting his lip as his eyes flit about your body, finding any bit of visual stimulation is killing him. 

Not the least bit apologetic, you say, “Whoops.”

“Whatever, whore. Just get over here already. Some greasy loser is eyeing me up, and I’m so bored I’m actually considering it.”

You laugh. “Oh, that’s just Ian. Don’t mind him. Although, I think you’d really like Dave, the barista.” 

“Ew, he’s ugly,” she screeches.

Desperate to cum already, you hurriedly say, “We’ll talk more later. Byeee.”

Grinning down at your boyfriend, you throw your phone somewhere. The malevolent glint in your eyes makes him gulp, and throb. “You’ve got ten minutes to make me cum two more times. You got it in you, Six Eyes?”

Satoru chuckles, cheeks flushed and hands pulling you down so he can reach your lips. “Hell yeah, baby.”

The ten minutes become thirty, and you end up a whole hour late to the meeting. 

The bustle of the cafe on a Saturday morning slams into you in full force. A table full of people sit up straighter when they see you both. Some of them wave, one gives you a finger you reflect right back to her.

“Hey guys!”

Your boyfriend pulls a chair back for you, and you thank him with a kiss to his cheeks that some gush at, and another gags at. That makes you kiss him on his lips to pull another gag out before sitting down and giving them all a fake, apologetic smile. 

You pop a gum in your mouth to wash the taste of cum from your mouth lest Brit smells it and gives you hell. “So sorry we’re late. We just had car troubles.”

Satoru nods, arm thrown over the back of your chair, hand resting on your shoulder. “Yeah, was a very bumpy ride. Sorry guys.” You squeeze his thigh, fighting the urge to laugh with him.

Opposite you, Brittany gives a disbelieving look. “You guys are disgusting, I hate you both.”

“Tuna mayo.” 

“Why, what happened?” Haibara asks, blinking. 

Beside him, Ijichi adjusts his glasses and mumbles, “I believe they’re lying about being late because of traffic.”

“We were having sex and lost track of time,” you confess with no shred of guilt.“Sue us.”

Some of the guys blush.

This isn’t the first time you’ve been late to a meeting with your friends; it happens so often they’ve actually started giving you the wrong time so you’d show up on time, and yet it almost never works. You’ve become one of those repulsive couples in movies that you roll your eyes at, and it’s the greatest thing ever. Because if there’s anything you like more than orgasms, it’s making other people jealous.

Yuji, awkwardly wanting to move on, claps his hands, scanning the big table with a growing glimmer in his competitive eyes. He announces, “Everything’s set up, we’re all here — I think we’re ready to go.”

Unsure, your bestie inspects the little pieces and the board in front of her. She asks, “None of this makes sense to me. What exactly am I supposed to do?” 

Satoru proudly boasts, “Since my wifey here won the last game, I think she should do the honours of breaking your virginity.”

“Gross,” the two of you say in unison, fighting back smiles when your eyes meet. 

As everyone’s eyes land on you, you pick up your piece, twirling it between manicured fingers. When you sense everyone growing tiresome with the wait, you finally say, “It’s simple. I roll. I pick a card and make a move based on what it says. And then I inevitably get targeted because apparently I’m ‘too strategic’.”

“You are too strategic,” Yuji argues, already narrowing his eyes at you as though he’ll be able to see into your mind and anticipate your next underhanded move. “Last time you built an entire alliance just to wipe me out for no reason.”

“It’s called foresight,” you reply primly.

“It’s called manipulation,” Haibara corrects — not as an insult, on the contrary, it seems like a compliment. “But you’re right, Itadori! We need to stop her reign of terror.”

“I concur.”

“Bonito flakes.”

Jaw dropping, you scoff. “Oh so now it’s okay to gang up on people? Real honourable, you guys.”

“Don’t worry, wifey. I’ll protect you,” the man beside you promises.

“You’re the first one I’m eliminating,” you say, matter-of-factly. Since you learnt the rules of the game, he’s stopped going easy on you, stopped setting things up so you could win. Now, he’s an enemy. “I’d rather lose than let you win.”

Under your hand, something grows. His eyes sparkle when he realises you know, but he’s not ashamed at all. He never is; he’s just happy his dick is working.

Satoru can’t help himself; he pinches your chin and drags you over to give a kiss on your lips. He deepens it despite the playful complaints the whole table gives about ‘not rubbing it in’ and ‘getting a room’. When he parts, he’s chewing and leaning back in his chair like nothing happened. 

That sly bastard…

Waving a hand in your face to grab your attention, Brittany asks with a lot of attitude, “Cool, but how do I win?”

You smile, leaning back in your chair too. Head resting on his shoulder and playing with the keychain on his belt, you tell her, “It’s not about winning, Brit, you silly goose.”

Satoru presses a kiss to the top of your head, a smile growing in your hair.

“It’s all about good storytelling.”

Eleanor laughs so loudly everyone in the entire cafe turns to look. “Oh my god, she’s dating a nerd. Did you hit your head on the way down to rock bottom?”

Eyes narrowing, you ask, voice razor sharp, “Is there something wrong with nerds?”

Brittany pipes up, attempting to diffuse the tension with a question directed at your boyfriend. “Satoru, tell us what qualities attracted you to our bestie over here.”

She’s the only one who knows of your little challenge with her. The other two only know that you’ve started seeing someone new and it’s more serious than any other relationship you’ve ever had. They probably don’t believe you — you know them well enough to know that they think this is another one of your new phases. 

They’re not wrong, but you’re intent on proving them wrong. 

The fact that Satoru showed up to meet them at all is already a huge step (most of your exes only got acquainted with their tits and vaj, and behind your back). You lasting a couple more months with him would be miraculous, and they’d never be able to say another thing about your poor tastes in men. Especially since none of them had ever had a boyfriend for longer than one month, at least not without them cheating. 

You bet they’re aware of that.

And they’ll try their very best to sabotage you. 

‘Keep your wisps about you,’ you warned him before entering the cafe. 

‘Wits, babe, and yeah, don’t worry about me. I’ll be on my best behaviour,’ he replied.

The words ‘it’s not you I’m worried about’ almost left your glossy, perfect lips but you kept it in. You didn’t want to frighten him.

Satoru has an arm resting on the back of your chair. He rubs your shoulder, an act they all notice. Casually, he answers, “Boy, where do I begin? She’s really funny. I like that she’s honest and never holds back her thoughts, that she has a great sense of style and isn’t afraid to be adventurous, and she’s sweet and kind. I’m really looking forward to getting to know her even better.”

That was such a good answer, it stuns them all, you included. No guy’s ever had so many nice things to say about you. You give him a grateful smile, one which he returns. Sure, he probably doesn’t mean it, but the fact that he could conjure up any qualities at all meant a lot. 

Most guys usually point to your fantastic head game and mean arch. 

Brittany gives you a look of approval. He’s won her over already. Now, for the other two. 

Eleanor purses her lip, refusing to admit defeat with the first line of attack. And Jeanette scoffs; she’s not the kind to hide her thoughts and opinions at all.

Cue evidence A: 

“You mean, she’s blunt and tactless, dresses like a whore, and has nothing going on in her head.” She turns to you, plastering an innocent smile. “No offence, babes. You know I meant that as a compliment.”

She didn’t, but you don’t call her out on it. Instead, you say, “Yeah, maybe he meant that. Doesn’t change the fact that he likes me though.”

Satoru chuckles, sipping on his caramel frappe with extra caramel, which he offers to you and sips some more when you turn it down. “I meant it exactly how I said it. I genuinely like her — she keeps me on my toes. There’s really no one like her.”

That phony ass smile tightens, eyes flicking between you and Satoru as if the bitch’s searching for cracks, for flaws, and weaknesses to exploit. She leans forward, pushing out her cleavage. “Wow,” she says, dragging the word out. “You’re really…articulate.”

You feel your jaw tighten immediately. There it is.

Her gaze lingers on him a second too long, basically eye-fucking him. 

“I wouldn’t have pegged you as her type. But I guess opposites attract.” A beat, eyes flicking to you, then back to him. “You ever thought about dating someone a little more…low-maintenance?”

Your snort slips out before you can stop it. “Oh my god, Jeanette,” you say, flat. “Do you hear yourself?”

She doesn’t even look at you. Just bats her lashes at Satoru, dismissing you like background noise. “I’m just saying. Some girls can be a lot. I’m sure you’ve noticed.” 

Heat flares sharp and familiar in your chest — anger, yes, but also something uglier. 

Sure, maybe he’d like someone who doesn’t take exactly an hour to do their makeup, doesn’t brush their hair exactly a thousand times because you’d seen Barbie do it, and matches her thong to her shoes, but that person isn’t ever going to be her.

The cunt takes a pharmacy-load of vitamins and supplements every morning, and has weekly visits at her ‘dermatologist’, though you all know that’s just code for ‘plastic surgeon’. If she was dropped off in the middle of the sea, she’d float. God, you wish someone would drop her off in the ocean; you’d pay big money.

Eleanor hums in agreement, stirring her drink leisurely. “Yeah. She’s always been…intense.” Her eyes rake over you, sharp and assessing. “I’m surprised you’re handling it so well.” She smiles, all teeth. “Guess miracles do happen.”

“Sorry,” you say coolly, “should I start dimming my personality to make everyone else more comfortable? Is that the new trend? At least, I have one, Eleanor; I don’t make it a habit of following whatever Gwyneth Paltrow and Kylie Jenner are doing.” 

Their smiles sharpen, just as Brittany sighs. “Can we cut it with the catty drama? I haven’t had my daily orgasm yet, so this is bad feng shui.”

Satoru’s hand tightens slightly on your shoulder — grounding, reminding you he’s here. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t rise to the bait. Whereas the few men that had reached this stage usually agree, or excuse themselves to the bathroom, with one of these cunts not-so-discreetly following behind.

He simply looks at Jeanette, calm as still water.

“I actually really appreciate her intensity,” he says evenly, adjusting his glasses so they can all see his eyes clearly. “She knows what she wants, and she’s not afraid to say it. Most people, on the other hand, hide their intentions behind pretty words. My girlfriend just comes out and says it. That’s not a flaw, not at all.’” His thumb shifts, warm, reassuring. “I think it’s the most refreshing thing ever.”

For half a second, you forget how to breathe.

Not because he defended you — plenty of men have done that, albeit badly, loudly, and in a way that invites you even more scrutiny later. But because he did it like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t a favour. Like you were worth defending without theatrics. Like he would do it again and again and again. 

Jeanette blinks.

Once.

Twice.

“Well,” she says lightly, recovering fast, laughter brittle at the edges, “if you ever get tired of that, I’m way more chill.” She tilts her head, hair cascading over her shoulder and down her cropped white cardigan that barely clasps. “And I’m always free.”

You feel the familiar surge of anger again, sharpening into something that could kill. Before, she would have the decency to do it behind your back, letting you find out from the lingering scent of her perfume on their skin, or glitter all over their car seats, or more blatant, by her bejewelled thong under their pillow. Now, she’s doing it right to your face, no more subtexts. 

Your mouth opens, ready to knock the cunt down a peg or two, or all of them. 

But Satoru beats you to it. 

“No, thank you,” he replies pleasantly. “And I’m not interested.”

No bite. No edge. Just a fact, delivered like a solved equation.

Jeanette lets out a laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes, tapping her acrylic nails on the table to calm the growing sense of humiliation that darkened her eyes. “Relax, I’m joking.”

“I’m not,” he says, smile as pleasant as it’s always been, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. It reminds you of the smile he used to show you, back before he remembered your name.

Eleanor clicks her tongue, rolling her eyes. “Wow. Someone’s whipped.”

Smiling sweetly, slow and deliberate, you drawl, “Jealous, Nora?”

“You’ve changed,” Jeanette says, accusing. “You used to be fun, used to have standards.”

You shrug, unbothered on the surface, though something inside you twists. “I still am. I just don’t tolerate bullshit as much anymore.”

Satoru nods along, cutting in, “It’s one of my favourite things about her.”

Eleanor snarks, “You only say that because she sucks your disgusting, virgin dick.”

“Fuck off, you stupid cunt,” you snap, nails digging into the palms of your hands. “If you say another shitty thing about my man, I’m going to report you to the school for fucking the Dean.”

The whole cafe quietens.

She flinches back like she’d been slapped, and thankfully, she has enough shame to keep her mouth shut. So does the Bitchier to her Bitch.

Finally, Brittany, who’d remained mostly silent and watching, laughs. “I like this one. He’s smart and sweet and a fighter. Good for you, babes.”

Glossy lips stretching into a victorious grin, you press a kiss to his cheek to punctuate your win and declare loud enough for all of them to hear:

“He’s great in bed too.”

The morning meeting in the cafe ends pretty quickly after that, not that you’re remotely upset by the fact. You’d been counting down the seconds till you could get away from those vapid, shallow bitches, which is an unfair assessment, you must admit, because you’re just as vapid and shallow and bitchy. Perhaps more so. 

What he must think of you, to be surrounded by hateful mirror copies.

“H-hey, s-slow down — my dick’s not going anywhere.”

“Shush,” you tell him.

Back behind the bike shed no one ever uses, you’d shoved him to the brick walls and torn down his pants so you could mouth at his marvellous cock. Satoru holds your hair back from your face, hips rutting forward despite his words. 

His cheeks are flushed. Glasses foggy already. And by god, he looks good enough to eat all mussed up and flustered because of your mouth. 

Satoru groans out, “You look positively stunning. Hngh, love this lipgloss on you, makes your lips look so juicy.”

Every vein, every ridge, every drop of pre — you feel it all.

He doesn’t cum in your mouth. 

Instead, he brings you up and spins the two of you around. Your cheek presses against the rough surface and you curse the fact that you’re likely to break out from it. The orgasm better be worth it.

“You got this wet from sucking me, Diapers?” he asks, sucking on the skin on the curve of your neck.

Mewling, you reply, “Yes. I’m so wet, so horny. Fuck me good, Toru. Need it so bad.”

Fingers finding your clit from the front as fingers push inside your cunt from behind, you’re immediately prepped for his cock with expert skill. Satoru’s clearly gotten very comfortable with your body; he finds the spot and rhythm you like so quickly, anyone would feel humiliated at how rapidly you start gushing around the long, slender digits.

Soon, he replaces those fingers with his condom-covered cock and your eyes roll to the back of your head at the incredible stretch.

“Always so fucking tight.” His teeth are gritted, fingers digging into your hips and definitely leaving bruises you’ll get wet over when you see them in the mirror later.

“So big,” you breathe out, hips pushing back to speed up the process of filling you up. “You’re so fucking big, Satoru!”

He swears, “You can take it.”

The two of you fuck each other like animals — just pure beastly movements, chasing highs, all while the threat of people stumbling upon you looms over your sweaty, grinding bodies. Maybe that’s what you two like, maybe that’s what gets you so close to the edge so hastily.

Your moans are muffled by his hand, preventing you from screaming his name. 

“Hey, you okay?”

You snap out of your thoughts. Satoru is staring down at you, a slight furrow in his brows. The two of you are walking through campus, having gotten out of your system the need to feel each other and get any tension out of your bodies. He has classes, and you have retail therapy to attend.

Without needing to ask, you know he’s referring to how quiet you’ve been since you walked away from the bike shed with your cum dripping down your thigh. There’s no reason to lie to him; he probably guessed it already. 

Nodding, you say, “I was just thinking about how shitty my friends are, and how I should be embarrassed and ashamed, I don’t know.”

His friends had been so kind, so patient, and welcoming. They didn’t make you feel small at all, didn’t try to tear you down, or undermine Satoru in front of you. That said a lot about him, and a lot about you. 

Cradling your face and stopping you from walking further, he smiles reassuringly. “Hey, I liked them.” 

You give him a blank look. He grimaces. 

“Okay, fine, I didn’t — they’re mean and catty, and I hated every second we spent with them.” Pausing for a second, he musters a half-hearted, “But Brittany seemed nice!”

Your cheeks are smushed in his hands, and your words come out a little garbled when you say, “They suck, I know. I’m just sorry they made you uncomfortable. They had no right saying horrible things about you.”

Satoru shakes his head. “No, baby, I hated them because they said horrible things about you. I can’t believe anyone would say things like that about their friends. I was so mad for you.”

He really does look mad. Or as mad as you imagine he can get. Mostly, he just has a pout on his lips. Although, he does mimic karate chops like he’d ever actually get violent, towards anyone, much less women. Still, there’s sincerity in his voice, and in his eyes, and it steals your breath.

Getting on your tiptoes, you kiss his pout away. 

“Woah,” he says, touching his lips when you part. Satoru blinks at you, disbelieving, and you wonder if he hated it. “That was my first kiss,” he marvels aloud. “That’s our first kiss.”

As you pick at a small ball of lint on his sweater, you ask quietly, “Is it too much? I know we’re not really dating, but I thought it was okay.”

He smacks his lips to yours, and again, then once more. Satoru’s smile brightens his entire face and you have to squint against its luminosity. “Are you kidding? I’ve been wanting to kiss you since forever — I thought you didn’t want to.”

Truthfully, you reveal, “I didn’t want to at the start. I thought boundaries would be good, even though we’re fucking. Now, I want to.”

Satoru wonders, “What changed your mind?”

You press close, peering up at him through your false lashes. “You. How you defended me in there, how you kept your cool, and said all those nice things about me. Men don’t tend to do that, not unless they want to get in my pants.”

Wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug, he swings you two side by side. People walk past; neither of you care about the looks they give you. Satoru shrugs. “I just told the truth. We haven’t known each other long, but I genuinely think you’re a cool person. Don’t let them get into your head.”

Why is it so easy to be so openly touchy with him, to talk and say how you’re feeling? How is he so casual, so easygoing, like being this close with you comes naturally to him? 

It sends your heart racing.

Satoru pecks your lips again, licking the gloss that sticks to him. “Alright, I gotta head to class. Come over tonight? I wanna start the next Lord of the Rings film with you. I’ll talk you through the ingenious cinematography, but also we’ve got a lot of kissing to catch up on. I want to kiss until my temperamental mini me salutes you.”

You smile. 

“Sounds fun.”

.

.

.

You fall into a natural routine, coming over to his place after classes every night. 

On Monday, you watch the most recent episodes of Star Trek. 

“Star Trek’s not Star Wars?” you ask, grinding down on his body. 

Satoru’s arms are wrapped around your body, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he peppers wet kisses there. Softly, he mutters, hips rutting upwards, “No, baby, they’re both sci-fi but -hah- completely -ngh so tight- different universes.”

Cockwarming was your condition to watch something nerdy, one which he readily agreed to. 

Now, all inches of his cock is lodged tightly in your pulsing pussy. All your clothes are still on, dirtied by your combined juices. It’s hot and humid in the air around you, though neither of you seem to care. 

“I don’t get it,” you say, guiding one of his hands to your tit. He gropes reflexively, flicking your nipple through the material of your shirt. “There’s over fifty seasons of this? Why?”

Cock throbbing, he moans right into your ear. “I-I don’t know, but gosh, I love when you ask questions. Your voice is so pretty. I could cum from listening to you.”

You bite back a smile, hips lifting up and up until only his tip remains. “Yeah?” Then you slam your body down, cockhead prodding your g-spot harshly and kissing your cervix. 

Satoru gasps. “Fuck!”

His whole body spasms, and searing cum soaks his condom, and you think, it’s a shame that he’s wearing one to begin with. 

Weakly, he grumbles, “Meanie.”

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “You love it.”

Satoru kisses your cheek, hand creeping around to rub your clit. “Guilty.” 

On Tuesday evening, you’re forced to finally get started on your own Lego set: the orchid set.

You picked it because it looked elegant on the box, pretty petals and delicate stems  — something that should have been effortless. The reality, however, is a scatter of tiny plastic pieces across Satoru’s coffee table, each one apparently designed to test your patience, which admittedly has always been very frail. 

In your defence however, you’ve never built anything like this before, and your long, glossy nails keep clicking uselessly against the studs instead of gripping them, sending the tiny things scrambling away from your fury.

Satoru helps you — he picks out the pieces you’ll need, organising them into piles as instructed by the booklet. Sitting behind you on the floor, his legs are stretched out on either side of your hips, the instruction booklet open and neatly flattened. He’s maddeningly calm about it, already sorting the pieces into little colour-coded piles, because of course he does. 

He looked like you kicked his dog when you just emptied the bags onto the table.

“Okay,” he says, nudging a green piece toward you, “you’ll want this one next.”

You squint at it, pinch it between two fingers, and promptly drop it. “Oh my god,” you groan. “Who are these even made for? Ants?”

His chuckle isn’t condescending, but if it had been, you would have shoved a piece down his dick hole. Satoru reaches around you, his arms encasing yours as he guides your hands. His fingers are warm, steady, and everything yours aren’t. 

“No, no,” he murmurs, adjusting your grip. “You’re a space away. If you miss a layer here, you won’t be able to add the leaves later.”

You do as he says, clicking the piece into place at last. The small, stupid satisfaction makes you huff out a breath. It’s probably been hours at this point; your neck is sore from looking down for so long.

“I hate this, Toru,” you complain, letting your weight fall back into him. His chest is solid at your back, familiar already. “My eyes and neck hurt. How can you do this for hours and years and not develop a hunchback?”

“I know, I know,” he coos, immediately brushing the crown of your head with a gentle kiss. One hand stays steadying the base of the orchid whilst the other rubs slow circles into your shoulder, exactly where it hurts. “You’re doing really well though. Let’s get to step ten and take a break, alright? I’ll massage your neck for you.”

And, despite yourself, you go back to building.

But after an important piece is ‘lost’, you two get distracted fucking against the glass of his floor-to-ceiling window, and fogging it up so bad, the only clear bit is the imprint of your bodies joined together.

On Wednesday, he teaches you how to play Mario Kart.

You start off sulking on his sofa, controller heavy and foreign in your hands, legs tucked up beneath you, and bracing for boredom. Naturally, it’d been his suggestion. You wanted to go shopping, but he said shopping is for girls who go to their classes, and girls who skip get to be punished with only the best game in the entire world.

Of course, you thought he meant sex so you agreed. 

Nerds never mean sex.

The game boots up with cheerful little chimes that already feel patronising. You tell him, flatly, that you don’t do racing games, that you hate losing, and that if a cartoon turtle shell hits you, you might scream.

Satoru just laughs and settles beside you, thigh warm against yours. “That’s half the fun,” he says, nudging you with his elbow. “Okay. Peach or Daisy?”

“Obviously Peach,” you scoff. “I’m not a peasant.”

“Correct answer,” he nods solemnly. His hands cover yours, adjusting your grip on the controller. “Accelerate with this. Throw with this. We’re on 50cc so things won’t be too fast. Once you finish in the top five, we can move onto the faster versions.”

Rolling your eyes, you shrug him off. “I’m not a baby; I can figure it out on my own.”

Undeterred, he grins and pecks your cheek, like he can’t help but find you cute. “Whatever you say, sweetiepie. Alright, we’re a-go.”

The countdown starts. You immediately panic.

You jerk the controller too hard, veering straight into a wall, and let out a shriek that echoes through his living room. 

Satoru doesn’t tease you, not even a little; he reaches over and steadies your hands, his own wrapping around yours again. You pretend tingles don’t explode where he touches. “Okay,” he murmurs, leaning close, his mouth near your ear. “Breathe. Pretend you’re chasing after Jeanette, and once you catch up to her you’re going to turtle her so hard she crashes.”

“Oh, she’s going down.” Glaring at the fat spiky turtle on the screen, you shuffle on your seat, bracing to kill a bitch. It even looks like her.

And then, finally, you get it. You get into a groove, learning to lean into the curves of the track and anticipating the ramps, the attacks from behind, and knowing when to utilise power ups so you can catch her. You drift accidentally, then on purpose. When you overtake the Bowser, your mouth drops open.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, eyes not leaving the screen. “Did you see that?”

You feel his grin rather than see it when he says, “I did. That was perfect — you’re a natural.”

Your chest warms, something smug and pleased unfurling under your ribs. You don’t even realise you’re smiling until your cheeks ache. “Of course I’m perfect. I’m coming for you next, nerd.”

“That’s so hot,” he mumbles before he shakes it off and says, “You’re on!”

On Thursday, you paint your toes on his bed as he taps away on his laptop, doing nerd homework or something. He warned you before you came over that he might be too busy to be very fun, but you told him you didn’t care, you just wanted company.

True to his words, he’s been typing away for two hours now, occasionally getting up to write equations on his whiteboard and kiss you when he figures it out.

It surprised you to find out he does homework shirtless — he says thinking hard overheats him. Somehow, Satoru had made being studious hot, and you often spend much of your time under his desk and between his legs, sucking him to get yourself off. Well, he gets off too, of course, but it’s mostly for yourself.

Unfortunately, you’d already used up your blowjob privileges tonight so you have to leave him to it.

Whatever. 

Your phone chimes. You read the message and type a reply. “Hey, Toru?”

“Hmm, baby?”

“Yuji finally got a date with the girl he likes from high school. Pretty cool, right?”

“Yeah,” he replies absentmindedly, keyboard tiptapping. Then he pauses. Turning in his seat, he looks at you through his glasses. “Yuji? Date? Girl? How do you know all of this?”

With a shrug, you blow on the paint on your big toe, being careful not to move too fast or too much, in case your entire progress is lost and you have to start over again. “He ran into me on Monday, when I was skipping class. Asked for my number and we’ve been chatting since. He wanted my advice and insight to bag a girl. And you know me, I’m so charitable I couldn’t say no.”

Satoru spins a pen between his fingers, thinking hard about something else other than equations. “You’ve been helping my friend out?”

“Uhuh — someone had to since you’re all clueless with women.”

He pushes his chair back and strolls over to you. His abs are all you can see as he towers over you. When you peer up, he’s grinning devilishly down at you. That look spells trouble, and orgasms. Your fanny flutters before you can even tell her to start revving her engines. 

The nerd’s got awful timing though.

Hand trying to shove him away, you firmly say, “Satoru, no. Wait until my nails are dry first.”

Shaking his head, he kneels down in front of you. “Can’t. I’m thirsty now.” 

In a flash, you’re yanked to your back, bouncing slightly. He grips your ankles tightly, throwing them over his broad shoulders all whilst his eyes are fixed on what’s between your legs.

You stare up at the ceiling, defeated. Panties pushed to the side, you can only sigh when you feel his tongue urging your clit out of its hood. “What about your nerd homework?”

Satoru huffs, practically making out with your cunt. “It’s just homework, babe. Don’t worry; I’ll get it done. Worry about cumming on my face and quenching your boyfriend’s thirst — I’m practically dehydrated.”

Another chime on your phone. You read it, growing breathless quickly with how expertly he laps up your growing wetness. “Yuji wants to treat me to lunch, to thank me.” He sucks on your clit, hard. You squeal. “Toru!”

When you glare down at him, you’re surprised to find him glaring right back at you through his glasses. No, at your phone. Petulantly, he mumbles, “Tell him you’re busy.”

“He didn’t even say what day yet.”

“Tell him you’re busy all days, everyday.”

Smiling wryly, you ask, “Busy with what?”

Two fingers worm their way into your pussy, unhesitating as they curl up and prod that gummy spot inside you. The squelches he wrings out brings heat to your cheeks. Satoru’s words vibrate right against your clit, and your back arches: “Busy with your boyfriend.”

You laugh, running your hand through his hair and keeping it out of his face. “I didn’t realise you’re the jealous type.”

He shakes his head, thrusting his fingers faster inside you just to hear your breath stutter and to feel your legs quiver. Satoru kisses your inner thigh. “I’m possessive,” he corrects. “I don’t like to share. Not even with Itadori.”

“Yeah?”

“Hmm. I didn’t like sharing my pens, my dino erasers, Transformer toys, and I definitely don’t want to share my girl and her perfect pussy with anyone.”

SLURRRRP!

When you finally cum minutes later, he climbs up your body, peppering kisses up your torso, spreading your own juices over your skin. Oddly, you don’t mind it. 

Glasses removed and thrown to the side, Satoru whispers against your lips right as his cock begins prodding your entrance, “You’re mine. All mine.”

You don’t correct him.

On Friday, he gets a break from school work. Dark circles have begun surfacing under his eyes — courtesy of how you’ve added more things on his plate, you’re sure — and you decide action must be taken to keep your boyfriend’s face looking flawless.

Sitting on his lap, in his bed, you apply one of your clay masks on his skin, making sure to spread it nice and thin. Meanwhile, you have to keep replenishing the cucumber slices on his eyes because Satoru won’t stop eating them.

“Stop,” you whine. “It won’t work if you don’t have the cucumbers.”

Satoru’s chuckle is restrained; the clay’s already hardening, making it hard for his mouth to move. Still, he manages. “The effects cucumbers have are pretty limited to calming puffiness, mostly due to their coolness, so it’s more of a temperature thing than a vegetable thing. You could put ice on my eyes and it’ll do the same job.”

You smack his chest. “Don’t ruin this for me.”

His thumb brushes your hip bone under your panties. He says, “Sorry, baby. Pop one last cucumber into my mouth and I’ll behave.”

Replacing the two missing over his eyes and sliding one onto his tongue, you get back to work, clipping his hair back so it doesn’t stick to the mask. 

You’re so focused on coating every inch of his face, you don’t realise sneaky hands are inching you further and further down his body by the second until a hump is bumping against your clit. You moan.

“Ugh, Satoru, you said you’ll behave,” you complain, though your hips are beginning to move on their own.

He stops hiding the control he has over your body and is now openly dragging you back and forth on his clothed, and very hard, cock. His cockhead catches on your panties through the two layers, and already you feel a wet spot forming on your gusset.

“I know, I know,” he says, groaning so loudly the vibrations rushes through your spine and sparks in your clit. “I just couldn’t help myself — I could feel how warm your pussy was on my skin and that was all I could think about. I deserve punishment, I understand. Do what you must — slap me, pinch me, mark me up — I’m all yours.”

Your hand comes up to wrap around his neck, and you squeeze only hard enough to feel his cock throb under you. “Pain whore,” you drawl.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The smile in his voice gives him away. He ruts up into you, hastening the humping. Satoru’s tone shifts quickly, and he pleads, “Faster, baby. Wanna cum in my boxers. Want to make a mess.”

Bracing yourself on his abdomen, you rub yourself on his dick, faster and faster until you’re mewling above him. “And who’ll clean it up?” you ask him.

“Me,” he answers quickly. Frustrated, he snatches the cucumbers and throws them in his mouth. His dazzling eyes find you immediately, and his gaze softens. “You’re so -hngh- pretty,” he breathes out. “So, so pretty.”

“I know.”

The two of you cum together, shuddering and spasming. 

The cucumbers are finished before the mask’s ready to wash off.

Saturday starts off with his face between your legs, cleaning up the juices you couldn’t be bothered to clean up when he fucked you to sleep the night before. You’d never been eaten out more by a single guy than when you started dating Satoru, and no one’s gonna find you complaining any time soon.

“Hit me,” he rasps, sleep still coursing through his voice.

“Alright, hotshot. 5-Down. ‘Composer of the “Enigma Variations."’”

Satoru licks a stripe up your slit, humming as he mulls over your taste and the possible answer. “Elgar. Easy.”

He does the NYT crossword every morning, something to wake up his brain, he explained. You like waking your brain up with a pretty outfit, Clueless intro style, but to each their own. He insisted you read it out to him so he could test his multi-tasking skills, and who were you to say no when you’re getting your pussy ate out of the deal?

You scan further down the grid. “23-Across. ‘What might be raised in a toast?’ Eight letters.”

He grins lazily, fucking his fingers into your pulsing entrance so you can hear your own lewd squeeeelching! “Spirits — double meaning. It’s Saturday. They love that.”

“Oh God,” you gasp out, chest caving. 

Of course he’d be good at crosswords, and of course he’d be so cocky over it. Ever since he’s learnt just how to make you cum in less than ten minutes, he’s been insufferable. Sometimes he calls himself a sex god, and you have to remind him he’s only fucked one person. 

SMACK!

Your hips jolt. Your eyes glare down at him. Where did he learn to slap your clit to get your attention?

“Focus, Diapers; I’m not letting this pretty pussy go until I’ve completed the crossword.”

“Fuck you.”

Satoru leaves a wet kiss on your clit, slobbering all over it and chuckling when it begins to flutter under his obscene touch. “We’ll get to that in a bit,” he promises.

He winks and dives straight into your pussy.

“NGH!”

On Sunday morning, you head down from his room to find him whipping up breakfast. He spots you and beams. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Have I graduated from Diapers now?”

“Never.” Satoru shakes his head, giving you a hug so tight one would think he didn’t spend an hour rutting inside you that morning. “How did you sleep?”

Sitting on the island, you watch him, specifically his back muscles flexing with every movement. Casually, you answer, “Fine. I’d sleep better if you stopped hogging the blanket and kicking me in your sleep though.”

“My bad,” he says, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “I’ve always been told I’m an active sleeper.”

A ping on your phone drags your attention away from his perfect body. You frown. Sukuna’s texting you — he never texts first. It’s been two months since you last spoke to him, and all the conversation was just him asking for reimbursement for the singular bite you took of his sandwich, that broke asshole. 

He sent you a dick pic and asked if you’re free anytime this week. Wonder what he wants, you think sarcastically. You leave him on read. 

Satoru plates the food, serving it up in front of you. His brows are furrowed and he wonders, “Everything okay? You look like you’re going to stab someone with a butter knife; please don’t let it be me.”

You shake your head. “It’s nothing.”

The nerd in front of you has never sent you a dick pic. He rarely ever texts you first to ask to fuck actually; he mostly sends you memes, tiktoks, or simple messages asking how your day was. It’s you who sends him nudes, who gives him your location so he knows where to find and fuck you.  

Usually you’d find it offensive if a guy wasn’t being aggressive with his expression of attraction to you, but Satoru is starting to make you think sending nudes unprompted in the middle of the day isn’t normal. 

Weird.

As he scarfs down his food, you suddenly ask, “What’re you gonna do after we break up?”

He blinks, then gulps his food down. “Woah, that came out of nowhere — uh, I guess I’ll go back to my usual routine. Haven’t visited the Robotics Society in a while.”

“What about girls? And sex?”

Satoru tilts his head and ponders for a second. “I don’t know; I haven’t really been thinking about it. I’ll probably go with the flow, see what I want when the time comes.”

That’s not quite the answer you wanted. Well, actually, you don’t know what answer you wanted. Maybe you wanted him to confirm that he’s going to be seeing other people so you won’t feel that you’ll jump into someone else’s bed immediately after. Or maybe…you wanted the opposite.

“Why do you ask?”

You shake your head. “No reason. Thanks for the breakfast, Toru.”

.

.

.

You don’t see him for a couple days after that. 

Satoru texts everyday — multiple times, actually, practically every hour. He asks if he can see you, maybe after class, for dinner, or at his place. If he’s done something wrong, offended you, if it’s some kind of sex play and if it is then it’s partially working. But you don’t reply. You don’t really know why you won’t respond; it’s not like he said anything wrong. 

When your phone chimes again, Brittany groans out, “Text him back already, oh my god.”

Sipping on your matcha, you wave her off. “Mind your own business.”

She fixes you a look. “It is my business when you won’t put your phone on silent.”

So what if you like to know when he’s texting you? Is that a crime? 

It was her idea to see you, something about how she was starting to forget what you looked like. And you did want to see her, to hang around someone who understood you because she, more or less, shared the same flaws. You just wanted to be around someone more your speed, someone not so infuriatingly perfect. 

“You’re doing it again,” she notes.

“Doing what again?”

Leaning forward to meet your eyes and steal your attention from the window leading into the campus, Brittany explains, “It. Self-sabotage. I thought Gojo was fixing that habit of yours, the one that leads you to make bad decisions.”

Dismissively, you huff. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you should be replying to the poor guy.” Then she sighs, leaning back into her seat. A strange look passes on her face, something akin to disappointment and it makes your skin crawl. “He’s different to us, to the guys we date; he’s normal, smart, and sincere. I could tell that much from one look at him. You’re probably breaking his heart every time you don’t reply to him.”

The thought of him sitting around, waiting for you to read his messages, sends a pang through your chest. You swallow it down. “Fine, whatever, I’ll text him back later.”

Brittany rolls her eyes at your tone. 

A silence settles over you two, leaving the chaotic mingling of other peoples’ conversations to fill the space between you. Usually, you two would be gossiping about Jeanette and Eleanor, the dumbass guys you let sleep over, or whatever happened at the last frat party you attended. Now, all you want to talk about is Satoru.

About how he drools in his sleep and pretends it’s your pussy juice in the morning with pink cheeks, how he can go from cuddling you so tightly that you think you might pass out to kicking you away as he mumbles about some physics equation, and how he fights sleep to begin with because he wants to stay up as long as he can talking about his day to you.

But you won’t, because she’d question you on it, ask a very important question that you don’t think you can answer right now, or ever.

Not one to stay silent, Brittany pipes up again, musing whilst admiring her new acrylic nails. “You know, I’m surprised you’re leaving this guy on a short leash. Rich kids are always in vogue.”

You frown. “How do you know he’s rich?” 

You’ve figured as much — his apartment speaks for itself — but she couldn’t have seen his apartment. 

Brittany looks at you like you’re an idiot. “Um, babes, everyone knows. He’s a fucking Gojo.” She sees nothing clicking in your eyes. Exasperated, she groans and explains further. “You know, like the Gojo Foundation. They own hotel chains around the world.” 

When you just blankly blinks, she sits up, brows furrowing.

“Girl, his name’s on almost half of the buildings on this damn campus. It’s on the library, for goodness’ sake. Actually, forget it, how could you possibly know what plaque is on buildings you never visit.”

Satoru’s just normal rich, like the other guys on campus who wear designer clothes and live off their parents’ money. He’s not a chair ball or whatever the word is. If he was, you’d know.

“You’re probably mistak––”

“Is that him right now?”

You follow her gaze through the window. A white-haired guy in a sweater and thick-framed glasses stands outside, talking to someone. 

A girl.

Before she can stop you, you practically sprint out of the cafe and into the open air.

“Satoru?”

Blue eyes slide over to your approaching figure. It is him; you’d know those eyes anywhere. He straightens up. “Oh, hey.”

“Don’t hey me — who the fuck is this bitch?”

The girl cocks a brow, inhaling her cigarette leisurely and blowing the smoke right into your face. You waft it away, hardening your glare and feeling like clawing her smug face till she’s disfigured. She’s pretty in an alternative way, in a way that said she doesn’t spend hours primping and wearing anything she wasn’t uncomfortable in. And that sets your blood boiling.

She asks, “Satoru, who’s the crazy woman giving me death glares right now?”

“Excuse me?” You’re seething. If this was a cartoon, you’d have smoke fumes leaving your ears. You take a step forward, about to teach her a lesson about who exactly you are.

Satoru beats you to it. 

“She’s just a friend, Sho. I’ll explain later. You should probably go; you’ll be late to class.”

They’re standing so closely their hands are practically brushing against each other. Why was he with her to begin with? Since when did he have friends who are girls? Aren’t nerds supposed to be a stumbling, bumbling mess around women? Aren’t you the one exception because you’re just so pure of heart?

‘Sho’ chuckles and waves goodbye to the both of you, though not before she drawls, “Be careful, Satoru. She seems scary.”

Why the fuck did she look you up and down and chuckle? And why didn’t he tell her you’re not scary at all, even though you are because you purposefully chose stiletto shaped nails for clawing?

Panting with anger, you turn your wrathful stare to him. “You did it again.”

Satoru scratches the back of his neck and grimaces. He knows exactly what he did and he doesn’t jump to apologise. Instead, he makes an excuse: “She’s a longtime friend. She’ll have more questions if I say you’re my girlfriend.”

“But I am your girlfriend. What’s wrong with letting that skank know?”

His brows knit together. “Don’t call her that. She’s a good friend of mine.”

“I’ll call her whatever I want, because you’re my boyfriend.”

“Your fake boyfriend,” he reminds you. You step back like he struck you. Satoru sighs and reaches for you. “I’m sorry — this isn’t how I wanted this to go. I missed you. Where have you been?”

He looks just as you remember: perfect skin, gorgeous eyes, muscular but lean frame hidden under bulky sweaters, and beat up converse. His smell is clean, like the detergent that clings to the clothes you bring over to his place, and it’s so distracting. 

The tension in your body doesn’t disappear, even as he hugs you to his chest, swaying you side to side and nuzzling the top of your head. 

You push back, and say, “Let’s go to the janitor’s closet.”

When the door closes, he’s shoved onto it. Your lips slam into his, not wasting a single second to deepen it. Satoru hadn’t fought you; he just smiled, like it relieved him to know you were still the same.

Tongues wrestle against each other with breathy moans. His hands are all over your body — squeezing your hips, your ass, your tits, holding the back of your head to keep you right where he wants you.

“Missed this,” he groans. “Missed you so bad.”

His knee slides between yours, bumping right up against your pussy. You hump it, delirious with his warmth, the hardness of his body, and the soft texture of his sweater.

Your hands make quick work of his belt, unbuckling it and freeing his cock. 

Satoru’s fingers slide into your thong from under your skirt. He gasps. “You’re soaked. Fuck.” He smears your wetness around, using it to glide and ease his sudden rubbing of your clit. Whines leave your lips and he greedily swallows it all. 

Overwhelmed, you tell him, “Put it in already.”

“But you’re not prepped enough,” he argues, fingers pushing inside your cunt despite your words. 

You pull them out and say, “Now, Satoru. Fuck me already.”

When you use that tone — the one that renders him all stupid and dopey — he can never say no, so he nods.

He lifts you up with ease, your legs wrapping around his hips. With your back pressed against the door now, he pushes inside. You both moan. The stretch stings, bringing tears to your eyes. It’s been a while, and your pussy’s complaining.

“So fucking tight,” he grits out, glasses fogging up. “ I think I might cum early.”

“Don’t you dare, Satoru.”

As soon as he bottoms out, he’s pulling out to ram back inside. You almost scream. He’s fucking you so hard you almost see stars. There’s something unforgiving about his hips, the way they don’t slow down, don’t care about how sore you’re going to be later. 

It’s a far cry from how clumsy and uncoordinated he was a couple weeks ago. 

Satoru whines, “Feels so good. Missed this so much.”

You missed this too, missed his strong arms carrying you so easily, firm hands holding you like you’re priceless, lips sucking on your neck to taste your skin, clumsily stumbling over to your mouth where you exchange moans. 

In this moment, you kick yourself for ever having put a pause in fucking him; it’s a crime to leave this majestic dick unsucked and unfucked. Truly. They should lock you up in his bed to be fucked all day and night, that’ll teach you.

“I don’t like seeing you -hngh- with other -hah fuck!- other girls,” you confess, whispering right into his ears.

Playfully, he asks, “What about when we –mmm loosen up, baby, thaaat’s it- break up?”

The door rattles on its hinges behind you. There’s no doubt that if anyone’s walking down the hall, they’d know what was going on inside, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when he’s filling you up so good after days of not seeing him, not when his fat cockhead’s prodding your g-spot and kissing your cervix with his leaking tip.

There’s nothing classy about this hookup; it’s all grunts, grinding, and groaning. You’re two animals seeking quick and shallow release.

You can feel every inch of him, every ridge, every vein and it’s fucking wonderful.

It takes only a minute or two for you to reach your high.

You pant in each other’s mouths, legs weak and bodies shaking. Satoru kisses you, smiling dopily. Back on your feet, you both fix your clothes up. 

He frowns, spotting the milky drop trailing down your thigh and curses under his breath. He grabs the roll of tissue off the shelf and wipes it up. “Fuck, baby, I’m sorry. I forgot to put a condom on. Will you be okay? Do we need to go to a pharmacy?”

“No, it’s okay,” you tell him, yanking him up from between your legs. “I’m on the pill.”

Satoru exhales in relief and leaves a kiss on the inside of your wrist. “Do you want to head back to mine?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you ignore his question and ask your own, “What if we don’t break up?”

“Huh?”

You pace the length of the floor, which is not very long at all. Hands fiddling with each other, you say, “Earlier, when I said I don’t like you with other girls, and you said, what about after we break up — what if we don’t? What if we just keep doing this, but like for real, and not fake? We just keep dating and break up when we want to? And then there’d be no other girls, just me. Just you and me.”

He runs a hand through his hair, a serious look on his face. “That’s not what we agreed on.”

“I know,” you quickly cut in, scratching the inside of your wrist. “But agreements can change, y’know? Who’s to say ours can’t?”

Leaning against the door, he mulls your words over. He takes too long though, and every second that passes has you itching and itching more. Why is he taking so long to think? Why doesn’t he have an immediate answer? He wants the same thing, right?

Who’d pass you up when so many men would die to have a second with you? 

Unable to help yourself, you end up blurting out, “Why don’t you buy me gifts? And not just Legos and takeaway, like proper gifts? Clothes, jewellery, bags.”

Satoru blinks, then he stands taller. “Is that what this is about? My family’s money?”

You shake your head. “No, no, of course not. I’m just asking because that’s what people in real relationships do, right?”

And you weren’t lying. His family’s name didn’t matter to you; you only just found out today, and you’d made up your mind days ago. It’s just been nibbling away since your best friend brought it up — the idea that there’s lines and lines of girls wanting him, that as soon as you let go, he’ll be snatched up because he’s a hot commodity on the dating market.

It’s too late though. Your careless words have hardened something in his gaze. You sense it immediately, the way he doesn’t look at you like you’re his friend, like you’re back to being that stranger following him in the library. Chest clenching, you step forward and no more when Satoru doesn’t immediately open his arms to you.

Slowly, dragging the words out as if you should know this better than he does, he reminds you, “We aren’t in a real relationship. You wanted to show your friends you can be with a ‘nerd’ and I wanted to cum.”

You stumble back. 

Weakly, you mutter, “I know, but that’s what I’m saying — let’s make it real.”

“Why?” he immediately asks.

“Because…” 

Satoru doesn’t relent. “Why should we make this real? I mean, technically, this should’ve ended as soon as you proved to your friends you can happily date ‘nerds’, right?”

He keeps staring at you, waiting for you to string the words together, even as your eyes dart around. He fills up the closet so much that you think you’re running out of room to breathe. Has he always been that tall? 

“Why?” he asks again, placing so much emphasis on the word you can actually feel its weight sinking and causing cracks in the ground.

A little dizzy with the heat of his unblinking attention, you finally admit, “Because I think I’m in love with you.”

His shoulders drop. He takes his glasses off and runs a hand down his face. He makes an exasperated sound, as if you’ve just said the most ridiculous, unserious thing in the world and he can’t fathom what you’re thinking at all.

“What about you?” you find the strength to ask, and cringing immediately when your mind registers the childish, hopeful tone of your voice. “A-aren’t you falling in love with me?”

“Stop, stop, stop,” Satoru begs, hands coming up to maintain the distance, almost like erecting a shield. “You’re not ‘in love’ with me. You’re not. You can’t fall in love with someone you look down on, someone you’re using, someone you would never even talk to if not for all of this.”

Anger sparks inside of you suddenly. You snap, “Don’t speak for me. I know what I feel.”

He asserts, “No, you don’t.” 

Then he laughs, but there’s no humour in his voice. 

“You’ve never properly let me in — we’re always at my place, I don’t even know where you live, you’ve got me down as ‘Hot Nerd’ in your contacts, and just today, you’ve been ignoring me for days. That’s not love. You just think it is because I’m the only guy you’ve been with that hasn’t been a complete asshole to you.”

“That’s not true,” you mumble.

Satoru continues, “You’re not in a position to be in a real relationship, let’s face it. This whole thing started off as an ego thing; you wanted to prove to your friend that you can bag any man you want, and it happened to be me. It could have been anyone else.”

The way he speaks about you makes you feel dirty, like you’re some cheap whore. It reminds you too much of the way your exes have looked at you, have talked about you to their friends, most of whom would then grin at you like they were next. Your knees wobble.

You feel chastised, and you hate the feeling so much you feel bile rising in your throat. Voice trembling, you ask, “You don’t want a real relationship with me?”

“We do have a real relationship,” Satoru starts, taking a deep breath to gather his thoughts, or maybe to get a good grasp of patience. “We’re good friends, besides all the sex.”

“But don’t you want to be more than friends? Don’t you want to date me for real?”

Satoru’s shoulder drops in disappointment, and you know it’s because he was hoping you’d see where he’s coming from and drop all of this already. You wish you could too, but something about the tight confines of this closet makes you feel brave, makes you feel like it’s now or never. 

Honestly, he answers, “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

“What about Toru? A-and his strict wife, and their movie theatre?”

You don’t know why you bring them up, and he doesn’t either. 

Blinking, he says, “They’re toys. What do they have to do with anything?”

You’re grasping at straws, you know it, and maybe later, when this is all over, you’ll think about walking into oncoming traffic in shame at how low you’ve sunk. Even at the very worst relationships you’ve had, with the most toxic men that you somehow wanted the approval of, you’ve never laid it all out on the table, never admitted weakness so quickly. What happened to you?

“Do you think…” your voice trails off with a crack, and there’s a rash forming on your skin now from where you’ve been subconsciously scratching. “Do you think you can fall in love with me? Like I’ve fallen for you?”

He sees your skin and he reaches for your wrist, but you snatch it away. You don’t want his pity, you want his answer, you want his love.

 “You can’t be in love with someone you look down on,” Satoru repeats, voice barely above a whisper now, like it was advice he wanted you to desperately take.

He turns around and opens the door. Cool air rushes in and you have to hug yourself for warmth.

Uncaring to hide the bitterness in your voice, you spit out, “Are you talking to me or to yourself?”

He doesn’t answer.

And that’s the last you see of Satoru Gojo.