rue

why would they? it’s just Gojo and his signature headphones again—those reliable green ones with the cord disappearing into his pocket, plugged firmly into his white xperia. just another lazy afternoon for the campus golden boy, soaking up the warmth like he has all the time in the world. with his dark sunglasses shielding those crystal blue eyes, he looks less like a student dozing peacefully between classes and more like someone who wandered straight out of a college brochure: effortlessly handsome, impossibly relaxed, the kind of person the admissions office plasters easily across every poster.

a picture-perfect student.

but pouring into his ears isn’t his usual playlist—it’s you. or the video you recorded just for him last night, to be precise. the wet, filthy sounds are unmistakable—obscene squelches of your drenched pussy as you plunge two fingers deep inside yourself, pumping faster, harder, the lewd noises echoing with every thrust.

“Satoru… haa—yes, right there,” you moan on the recording, voice cracking with desperation. the audio captures everything in raw detail: the breathy gasps, the messy glide of your fingers through your soaking folds, the rhythmic schlick-schlick-schlick that grows louder as you chase your release.

a contented hum escapes him as the clip keeps playing, a low thrum of arousal pooling hot in his gut. his cock stirs eagerly against the front of his slacks, but he doesn’t bother hiding the lazy shift of his hips as he settles more comfortably. the smirk on his face deepens, a stark contrast to the peaceful image he’s currently projecting to the world; here he is, in broad daylight on a bustling college campus, secretly listening to his needy girlfriend finger-fucking herself. no one can hear your sloppy rhythm, or your cock-hungry moans, or how you gasp his name as you come; those wired headphones keep his perversion perfectly hidden.

it puts him in the best mood—energized, cocky, ready to crush the rest of the day. it has him buzzing with anticipation, already picturing later when he’ll see you in person. he has something delicious to look forward to: teasing you about the video, making you recreate those sounds live, watching you fall apart under his hands.

he doesn’t move when the audio loops back to the beginning. instead, he just sits there, letting the filtered sunrays warm his pale face as his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

a group of guys from his quantum physics class wanders by, lifting a hand the moment they spot him. “Gojo! new playlist?”

if only they fucking knew.

he barely plucks one earbud out, flashing them a grin that doesn’t betray a thing. “yeah… something special. really hits the spot.” his voice is casual, effortless, and they laugh as they continue across the courtyard, none the wiser.

classic Gojo, they think.

back in those headphones, your voice hits that peak again—“Satoru, I’m… hmph, fuck!”—followed by a flood of pure ecstasy as you come hard, fingers burying deeper as your pussy clenches and gushes around them.

Gojo lets out a quiet, satisfied breath as he tips his head farther back against the rough bark, exposing the long column of his throat. his adam’s apple bobs with a slow swallow while the recording starts over once more.

yeah… if only they knew.

1 NEW MESSAGE baby’s first jjk post. kinda nervous. gulp. hey y’all…

you used to be an ambitious young woman. your previous everyday life was defined by schedules and a plan that was expected to last you for as long as you would have wanted it to. as long as you kept working and pushing towards your goal, nothing could come between you.

at the age of 17 you got into a prestigious school of arts for ballet. you lived and breathed ballet. it was your everlasting passion. whatever happened in a dance studio was between you and your ambitious heart. 

your parents supported you through it all. they funded your practices and everything in-between–from attires to entrance fees for special events.

they were more than proud and excited for you when you shared with them the news of your acceptance. it was like their dream came true through you. your happiness was theirs. 

thankfully the university was not more than 2 hours away from home, so coming and going was as easy as filling in a coloring book. 

weekdays were spent in studios for dance, and regular sit-in classes for your core courses. not that it interested you in the slightest, but you excelled none-the-less. 

whereas weekends were split in between extra studio practices (saturdays) and at home (sundays). some days you had to stay on campus to participate in rehearsals for upcoming showcases, competitions or the events themselves. for these occasions your parents were happy to drive down there to see you. 

never missing the opportunity to see their darling girl.

you were an only child. it’s why your parents always spoiled you. they made sure nothing was missing in your life. it’s why they were behind you in every decision you made, making light of the good and bad.  

3 years as a student and you were at the peak of your dance career. you were constantly booked for the lead roles in ballet recitals, sought out for tips from the lower classmen, praised by your professors, acknowledged constantly by your peers, and offered countless opportunities to advance in your pursuit of your goal. 

it was possibly the happiest you could have been. 

unfortunately, good things don’t last. no matter how much you want them to, or fight against all forces to prolong them.

in your last year as a student, tragedy struck. you met a boy. a boy who would soon ruin everything you worked so hard for. 

a man, who at the snap of his fingers, could demolish every single step you’ve carved out for yourself. 

you met him on your way to class. he had dark black hair with white strands grazing the tips of it. chocolate brown eyes that reflected against the sun. he was tall, some could say handsome, and a charming yet unjarring smile. any girl would fall for him. 

just not you. to you, he was a distraction–an unsettling one at that. 

he had introduced himself to you as naoya zenin (bitchass naoya). a sweet name for the devil in disguise. he never failed to emphasize the last name: zenin. a remarkable yet well-known name. given that it was the same one as the president of the school. 

the declaration itself caused a nasty shiver to run down your spine at the mere thought of it. 

one thing lead to another and he continued to pursue you, in which you continued to politely decline. 

“i’m sorry but i’m not interested in a relationship right now. you’re a great guy, surely there are many girls interested in you.”

“yes, but they're not as great as you.”

it was then that you realized that he wasn’t necessarily interested in you. but rather what you brought to the table, which was ultimately, the status of a talented young woman at her peak. 

men like him want someone they can have around their arm. they want someone that’ll make them look good. someone to be there as an accessory to their greatness. 

unfortunately for you, naoya came to the conclusion that it had to be you. whether you liked it or not. 

no way in hell were you going to let this boy use you this way. so, you didn’t, but he offered an ultimatum. 

“alright then, why don’t we just become friends then?” you had to play it safe with a boy of his status.

you accepted. what was the harm in a friendship, you knew you wouldn’t have time to maintain it anyway. with how busy your schedule was, he’d get bored, lose interested, and leave you alone for good. 

but the zenin’s are insistent, and naoya was no different. 

always at your doorstop. constantly sending you messages, looking to hangout, begging to see you or know your schedule. anything that you knew, he wanted to know. 

so you would leave him on delivered, seen, or just completely decline his advances. 

if he wanted to be your friend, he had to know that this is how it was going to be. and that simply didn’t work for naoya. 

“come on. just one party, and we’ll leave it at that.” 

“fine, but im leaving at 10, i have a dance rehearsal tomorrow morning at 8”, after this you were going to put your foot down and let him go from your life, given that he’d brought nothing but distraction. 

“wonderful” was, sadly, the last thing you remember from that night. you woke up the next day, wearing clothes that weren’t yours, in a room that wasn’t yours, next to someone you most definitely recognized, and a camera pointed in the direction of your sleeping position. 

your heart was in your stomach. you remember the countless notifications on your phone, the one you found tossed haphazardly on the floor of the living room in the unfamiliar apartment. the way your hands trembled like an after effect of a drug that was yet to wear off.  

you quickly and anxiously looked for the remainder of your things. after gathering it all, you zoomed out of the apartment, praying that whatever you may have thought happened at the apartment didn’t. 

a buzz came from the back of your jean pocket, but you ignored it. desperately trying to get to where you needed to be: dance rehearsals. you tried to ignore the weird looks you received while on your way to the studio. 

after arriving, you dashed to the locker room, thankful to your past self for always being overly prepared, having had an extra pair of ballet shoes and practice clothes. 

quickly changing into the clothes you're quietly and quickly slipping into the dance studio, positioning yourself in the back. hoping your instructor does everything but notice your tardiness, but as the top student of the program, your presence goes anything but unnoticed. 

“miss LN,” your professor's voice echoed painfully across the studio and her tone made you stiff, “a word please.”

you felt about 20 sets of eyes turning to look at you. you follow behind your instructor, entering her office stationed beside the massive studio. 

you hear the door shut behind her, yet you remain rooted in your spot in front of her desk. 

“why are you here?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. her eyes were nothing but deep pools of emotionless cobalt, and her dark red stained lips do nothing but give her a harsher look. 

you’re a little taken aback by her question, confused to say the least. “excuse me?” you chuckle awkwardly and nervously. 

“we had a dance rehearsal this morning at 8 for the upcoming showcase, didn't we?” you question. 

she purses her lips, “yes we did, but i am afraid that statement no longer includes you.” she says coldly.

you stare at her with wide shocked eyes. “by the look on your face i am quite certain you are not aware. i suggest you check your email.”

she rounds her desk once again, heading for the door, but halting her movements to get her last words in, “and by the time rehearsals are done, i want your locker cleared out, and your access key to the studio left on my desk.” 

the door slams shut behind her. the slam of the door echoes into the deafening silence.

you’re shaking in your seat. what the hell is going on?

remembering you left your phone in your locker—given that the only thing you’re allowed to bring inside the studio is a water bottle. you retrieve your cellphone, and unlock it. 

you tremble a little as you scroll through the endless amount of messages, until you settle on the email sent by the institution. 

Dear Ms. YN LN,

It is with deep regret that we inform you that after careful consideration we have decided to terminate your position as a student at our institution. Effective immediately. 

We also have to acquaint you with the reason for this decision. On May 24 of 2025, we received an anonymous tip accompanied by a link to an adult website. The link featured a public accessed video of you, in which you were identified, and another faceless individual engaging in less than appropriate behaviour. This video was reviewed by a university appointed council to verify your involvement. 

While we respect personal freedoms and the autonomy of our students outside of the classroom, participating in publicly available adult content, undermines the core values of our university.

A permanent notation reading “Dismissed for Conduct Violation” will be placed on your academic transcript. This status may impact future applications for admission, transfer, or professional certification.

We encourage you to take this time to reflect on the importance of personal accountability and the broader implications of public conduct.

Sincerely,

Naobito Zenin Dean of Students  Office of Student Conduct and Academic Integrity Shibuya School of Arts University

now, you’re 25 years old. existing in a bustling city with nothing worth living for. 

after you read the email, your entire world fell apart. you cleared out your things from your dorm and the locker room.

you didn't break the news to your parents. so, you pretended that you were still attending school. your plan was complete school in any way shape or form. but higher education comes with a price. an expensive one at that.

it was difficult. the video blew up and it completely shattered your reputation. not like it was your choice, considering that pieces of that night were foggy to non-existent.

however, things never stay hidden forever: your parents somehow found out about it. so you ran away. back then, you didn't think you could have faced your parents. you still don't think you could. you were a coward.

the only thing that plagued your mind was that the image of their picture perfect-talented daughter was completely tainted.

what would they think of you? how could you face them after everything that happened?

fearful that they'd somehow track you down, you left everything behind. took a bus to the next city over, and stayed with a dear friend of yours: utahime.

utahime worked at a nearby high school as a supervisor. she insisted on helping you find a job, but who would hire you? most definitely not a school.

the only thing you knew to do, was dance. so, you looked up strip clubs looking to hire pole dancers, and came across a decent ad online.

it’s sickening how fast anything can be swept away from beneath you, even as you stand on it. some are lucky to remain standing, while others fall straight on their ass–like you. 

you weren’t supposed to work tonight, but your boss called you, hoping that you’d perform a solo show tonight. he said he’d pay you double your regular pay. something about a big name in the crowd tonight. 

you couldn’t care less. you needed the money. 

you tuned out the rest of the call after the talk about the pay. it was an offer you simply could not refuse. 

even if it meant missing utahime’s monthly gathering dinner. you’d just have to explain to her when you arrived at the apartment later tonight. 

you fix your lip stick in the tiny mirror taped to the door of your locker, making sure it’s perfect. 

you swallow the lump in your throat when you remember how it felt to get ready before a rehearsal, your mom was always there to adjust your hair accessories, but now it’s just you. 

“geez angel, leave some for the rest of us will you?” your coworker beside you jokes. you have moved to adjusting the straps of your tight pink performance bra when she breaks you out of your melancholic day dream. 

angel. the stage name given to you after your audition for this job. something about the way you danced resembled that of a soft angelic ballerina. 

you still remember the way your face slightly dropped at the mention of it. 

you find nothing humorous in her statement, nor her implication. 

the locker room however, finds it quite enlightening, “yeah angel, always stealing all the clients”, the grip on your locker room briefly tightens in an attempt to ground yourself. i don’t mean to, you internalize. 

you’re far from proud about what you do, dancing on stage in front of men makes your skin crawl. it wasn't necessarily about dancing on a pole, but rather who you did it for.

their faces full of lust and dark fantasies make your stomach churn. the look on their faces shows you how their sick minds envision you. the way they’d jump on stage if given the chance.

despite it all, it’s about whatever keeps you dancing. regardless of the audience, this was the only way you could continue your passion. in some sick way, it was the last piece of yourself you could salvage.

your expressions stay neutral, staring blankly at the vacant inside of your locker room. a stark contrast to everyone elses. while they have pictures, sparkles or some sort of personal touch. yours is lifeless and empty. 

you’re starting to feel a little resemblance to it. 

you sigh and close your locker room, body glitter at hand. “sorry,” you mutter, not really knowing what else to say. 

glitter particles stick to your body as you spray it all over yourself. 

“angel you’re up next,” calls the stage manager. years ago, the words would have thrilled you, now they fill a void–a void you try to fill when you pretend you’re doing something else on stage. 

you tighten your mountain high heel straps and make your way over to the stage. 

you shut down your conscious when you take the first step of your heels lands on the stage.

the lights dim and your hand grips the pole. you shut your eyes, and pretend you’re somewhere else dancing ballet. 

a place where the music is something else, and your purpose belongs for your own pleasure. a place where no man could hurt you again. 

the music starts, and you dance. 

2 HOURS AGO

gojo feels sick to his stomach. it’s his 29th birthday and geto thought it was a bright idea to bring him to a strip club. 

“come on loosen up,” he says, patting him down. they’re both still in their expensively tailored work suits. fresh out of a boring birthday dinner with the higher ups. 

gojo shoves geto away, “how can i loosen up when we’re here?” he bites back, “at a fucking strip club,” he says in disgust. 

geto gives him a look, “hey”, he warns him with a level headed look, “don’t be such a dick, i know you’re just being an asshole because of how pent up you’ve been with work.” 

gojo stares at him with an unimpressed stare. any other day he’d be more than happy to just be anywhere in the city doing anything that wasn’t work related. 

however, the mountain of piled up work cases he has to look over sit—not only physically, but mentally—as a constant burden. 

he’s been needed at work more than usual. all thanks to his grandfather who had stepped down as the CEO of Gojo Law Co., and stood up as the chairman. he had handed down the business to gojo less than a month ago. 

with absolutely no heads up. anyone can imagine how stressed he is. 

thankfully, geto was promoted to president. 

given how powerful they were as a duo in the courtroom, one can only imagine how great they’d do managing an entire firm.

geto sighs before looking at gojo, “listen i get it, you want to live up to his standards, but you can’t do it with a stick up your ass. so stop moping around and try and get your dick wet once in a while. you didn’t seem to have a problem doing it in college.”

he slings his arm around gojo’s shoulders and drags him into the strip club. 

thankfully, gojo doesn’t put up much of a fight. 

-

a whiff of cigarettes hits gojo’s sensitive nose immediately. 

the place seems well kept, better than most he’s seen in the past. security seems tight and well established, given the big bulky men stationed in different parts of the club. the music is loud and the lights are dimmed down, and different colors dim in and out. 

it’s quite a massive place. it’s spacious now but he knows that during rush hour it’s incredibly packed. he can tell that whatever they have going here, sells well and is provided on an expensive silver platter.  

there’s women walking around in tight revealing waitress costumes, holding bottles or serving platters with perfectly decorated beverages. their walks are elegant as they stride in their towering high heels. 

their smiles are bright, and certain. one could mistake them for genuine happiness. 

there’s small table dancing poles scattered around the place accompanied by comfortable booths surrounding them, but what captures his attention the most is the empty massive stage positioned towards the far end of the club covered by heavy curtains. 

the lights are completely turned off for that section of the club, but the timer displaced at the top of the curtains gives him something to anticipate. a timer that piques his interest.

he nudges geto in the midst of their journey to the bar. he tilts his chin in the direction of the stage, "what's that?” he makes an educated guess that it’s why his best friend brought him here in the first place. 

geto looks over to the direction he gestured to, and grins, “that,” he points, “is the countdown for the main event tonight. it’s actually why i brought you here.” he confessed, confirming gojo’s initial suspicion. 

gojo continues to stare at the stage. before geto interrupts him with a gentle shove towards the bar. 

two drinks in hand later, they slither their way through the crowd and to the front row. where their vip section awaits them. 

geto nods at the security surrounding their booth, and they move to create a path in the direction of their seats. 

once they’re seated and comfortable the lights dim further, leaving the club almost pitch black. aside from the lights directly above the stage. almost like it’s putting whoever will dance in their own bubble. 

gojo watches intently as the curtains open, and there stands a woman. 

you grip the pole, but your eyes remain gently shut. your pose is enticing, the music is yet to start, but you’re already setting the tone. 

gojo's mouth gapes open a tiny bit when your head rolls back, and the hair previously covering you exposes your neck. 

when your head returns forward again your eyes are open, but they hold an unreadable emotion, almost as if you were on autopilot. 

you’re nothing short of stunning. a woman with a face like yours could entice anyone. gojo was no exception. 

gojo studies you intently. from the clothes you wear, to the look on your face. the transparent slip on dress makes you look like a model on the cover of a lingerie magazine. beneath it you wear lingerie. 

the lighting of the stage defines your face in a manner that sharpens your already defined features. with the slow movement of the lights, they catch the sparkles scattered around your revealed body. 

it almost drives him insane how breathtaking you are. 

almost. but he knows what this is. it’s your job to make him feel this way. he doesn’t want to say it’s in your nature to evoke these feelings but something in the back of his mind nags at him that it’s far too easy for you to kindle these feelings in any man. 

he’s confused. 

gojo has had more than his fair share of sexual encounters. and he means more than fair. but he doesn’t think he’s seen anyone of your caliber, and he’s only looking at your face. 

there's cheers, and an ‘oh yeah baby!’ shouted from the crowd. a few whistles are scattered around too. 

gojo can’t find it in himself to do the same. despite the incredible pull he currently feels towards you all he can do is lean forward from his seat, inching his way to the edge of it. all he can do is gape at you. 

the slow sensual tune of a song begins, and you spin around the pole. your moves are elegant, fluid, and slow. it’s like you’re floating. there’s a certain gentle yet precise form in which you move. 

almost that of a ballerina, he notes. he doesn’t know why, but it hurts to watch you up there. 

his eyes desperately try to remain staring into yours, but occasionally a strands of hair will settle on your face, shielding you from the audience. 

your eyes are glazed over. 

despite your obvious attractiveness, he feels far from aroused. 

you spin on the pole before descending onto the floor, you’re now laying on the floor. within gojo’s reach. but he has no desire to invade your space. you’re in your element. 

your back arches, like the invisible string tied to your heart has been pulled. seconds later you’re back on the pole, moving again. 

gojo’s completely entranced by you. sucked into your world, but he can’t envision what you’re seeing in your head. he can’t understand it. all he can see is a shell of you. 

when your performance finishes, he’s left with a tiny gaping hole in his heart. 

one he’d like to expand by getting to know you. 

even if it means coming here every night to see you.

feel more than welcome to submit a request <3 . join my tag list : ⟢ join my girlypop disc: link ‹𝟹

TAGLIST : @luvwithau : @sugacor3 : @bloopsstuff : @fushitoru : @serenityfauna : @luna-v-roiya : @rjswrld : @fartm : @bammbi-jeon127 : @gojoslefttoenail : @laviefantasie : @red-viewe : @danakul : @xchannelorange : @honoredalone : @plutosgold : @jotarohat : @shadowytiger : @um-no-ok : @lavender-hvze : @nvmlolo : @rintcrous : @jaelahh-blog-blog : @fuckerenyaeger : @bigbodiezz : @simp-plague : @lialia3945 : @gojostit : @fangirlingoverfanfic : @deluluforcarlos55 : @manyno : @bammbi-jeon127 : @kurookinnie : @meowforluv : @bontensbarbie : @ravenqueennn : @elainananana123 : @riachan94 : @floquis : @momoewn : @Francess-world : @satorusbunnyy :

His manner isn’t necessarily wrong, not so much as it is unexpected. The ‘new year, new fuck’ competition of Azabu was practically famous among the young men certain to attend— the sons of the sons who started it, and all their nephews or cousins or any synonym for a pig of a relative that they could come up with. And, luckily enough, they had the privilege to be top candidates.

The competition was started by the current dean’s uncle, a horny fuck-all type who would take any and all excuse to boost his ego while tearing down a girls— or maybe he really did just want a good lay. But, it grew and grew and grew, and now it was almost ritualistic, a second identity of worthiness in the form of fucking a virgin before anyone else did.

Sure, they were nothing but thrilled for it as high school reached an end, or even the first or second year of university. But now it just seemed dull.

But, traditions are custom, and customs are a necessity. It’s almost become lore throughout their little clique of affluence; whispered stories from childhood turned into real competition after a long wait, especially from a group of people who so rarely have to wait for anything. It’s inspiring, they think, means to associate themselves with a lower class; normalize themselves just a little more.

Alumni share stories at functions, putting the frat in fraternizing, nonchalance on the tips of their tongues. Sometimes the tone almost feels dark, and Suguru thinks if he were a better person he’d feel some type of sympathy for the girls. Any fragment of empathy he had wiped away when he won for the first time, though, wide smirk as his year mates glared at him; memories of the tight, albeit idiotic, girl engrained behind the lids of his eyes.

Even so, it gets old quick. And it’s not like they don’t fuck dumb, stupid, silly girls with nothing to say for the rest of the year anyway. So, he can’t quite figure out what Gojo is all too excited about.

“Well try to make sure your dick doesn’t get hard from the thought, you fucking freak.” There’s a giggle from the other man, a scoff too, and he pushes his hand out at him.

This is crucial. This is who they are together. A pair— whether it’s a pair of awful men or not.

There’s also a sense of trepidation that comes with it, of course. It’s exclusive, more so than they already are, and if you do one thing wrong- speak a little too loud, come off too brash, give a lackluster lie after actually getting caught— you’re out. And whose pride would want that?

“It’s stupid we always gotta wait for them to sit us down, it’s not like we don’t know what’s coming up.” He scoffs, arms crossing over his chest. “Plus, what a fucking weird thing to say to your kid.”

“I mean the whole thing’s odd if you think about it.” Gojo shrugs, hands stuffed in his pockets, forearms bare against the linen of his trousers.

He’s right, of course. Even if neither of them feel guilt for their actions, they can’t ignore the sinking feeling in their stomach when their own fathers sit them down and incite such a twisted view on them.

Be that as it may, it’s not too bad when that’s all they know, and it’s not like either of them are going to complain at a quick orgasm, a nice pair of tits, and that goddamn feeling of triumph.

“Do you think they’ll cry again?” Satoru mocks, brimming with glee as he leans in the direction of his friend. “It’s always funny, dontcha think?”

“As if you’d know,” There’s a smirk despite the aggression in his tone. “Dunno why it matters so much to you, you already got bitches babbling about you all the time.”

Gojo sighs, expression bored and childish and fucking greedy. “Yeah, I know but…” His voice peters out, lost in the room. Elation bubbles back into his features, warming his cheeks and animating his eyes as he looks at Suguru.

“Yknow, I heard the dean has a daughter starting, actually. Real sweet gal, even wrote a whole fucking magazine article about the importance of ‘saving your innocence’” his voice wobbles, eyes rolling as he sneers. “for someone you really love.”

“Sounds like she’s ugly.”

“Thought so, too, but..” He trails off, hand fishing in his back pocket for his phone, pupils dilating at the light on his screen. It doesn’t take him long to find the photo; clearly he’s been sitting on his discovery for awhile, anticipating when he could tell him. “Look.”

Suguru doesn’t like to be wrong, much less will he ever admit it. “Holy shit.” You aren’t necessarily the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, probably not even the prettiest he’s seen in the last month, but you were definitely something.

Maybe it was the curve of your jaw or the tint in your lips, but the photo set something off in him. On the surface he thinks it’s the just barely explicit face you’re making in your mirror, phone in hand as you look into your lens, but really, honestly, if he’s searching deep down— it’s the fact he knows you’re the one girl who wouldn’t just throw herself on him if he so kindly asked.

“Sugu, are you ever bored of this? It feels too easy, right?” Suddenly Gojo’s previous excitement feels misplaced, voice itching for more. “Hardest part about it is finding out who’s actually a virgin or not, and that’s pretty simple with how awkward they get.”

“What are you saying?” Maybe he already knows, maybe he’s hoping for the obvious, but he asks like he doesn’t care. The former moves fast, hand steady on the desk as he leans far too close for comfort. In any other situation, he’d probably be met with a harsh jab to the face, but this feels different— secret.

“Let’s do something, on our own, just you and me.” He almost seems too impatient, pressure digging into the ground from the toes of his shoes and gaze begging. It was the kind of thing that made you want to agree, if nothing else to just feel a fraction of the way he seemed to be. Before Suguru could even consider the idea, test the waters and make Gojo beg a little bit, said boy opened his mouth again.

“I mean, unless you’re not up for it. You don’t really seem like the type to make a girl give it up for love.” He snickers, raising the back of his hand to his forehead as he feigns swooning.

“Geto, I— I love you.” His voice is high, wheezy in his imitation and a little rude. “I think.. I think I’m ready- I want it to be you.” He cuts himself off with his own laugh, hand circling over his mouth to try to stifle himself. “Could you imagine?”

“The fuck does that mean?!”

“Cmon, Suguru, you’re not really the endearing type.” He’s edging him now, tone manipulative and pressing and snarky and Suguru knows— of course he knows, but it can’t help but irk him.

“What are you thinking?” And now Gojo’s beaming again, feet guiding him back across the room to his bag, books stacked neatly inside, lying even against each other. He pulls out a magazine and tosses it to him haphazardly before he reaches back for a notebook and a pen.

“Page 36, read it.” The article is cheesy. It’s too long and feels like something right off a self care Facebook page. Suguru is sure he physically recoiled a couple times reading it; especially when you wrote ‘Virginity is a miracle— the ability to show someone how much you love them in such an intimate way should be saved for someone special.’.

It’s shocking that you’re the daughter of the man who oversees their little sex game.

Suguru thinks you’re vile— embarrassing and pathetic and a huge fucking waste of what seems like a really good pair of blowjob eyes. It makes his skin crawl and he verbally scoffs when he reads your finishing sentence about cherishing your virtues, so focused on the arrogance in your punctuation that he doesn’t even hear Gojo’s laugh.

“Pretentious as shit, right?” He snorts, eyes flickered as he recites the passage in his head. “It’s gonna feel so good to fuck the words right out of her mouth.” Suguru didn’t know what he expected from his friend, but it wasn’t that. It’s clear through, through and through, that he’s dedicated to the idea.

“I mean sure, I guess you’ll have your turn. Maybe she’ll fuck just about anyone after I win.”

“Wait, so you’re in?”

“Whatever.”

“Fuck yeah!” He’s joyful, fist pumping into his chest in a quick celebration before he’s holding up his notebook, standing directly across the floor from the desk.

The wood is dark, deep and marbled, glazed over the top and lined with little symbols of power in the form of trophies. It’s clearly something too nice to serve as a welcome mat, but nonetheless Suguru rests his heels on the surface, ankles crossed over each other as he leans back in his chair. His eyes point to the ceiling to look at anything other than the annoyance in front of him.

“Well clearly we need to set up some rules.” He sneers in his seat when he remembers not looking at him won’t make him shut up.

“Okay well we have the obvious: whoever fucks first wins. And I mean fucks, none of that sloppy anal shit. Doesn’t count.” It’s almost funny, but neither of them acknowledge it. If they do, that’ll come hand in hand with the fact they’re acting just like their fathers.

“She has to be sober.” He didn’t really expect himself to say that, but he did expect Satoru to whine.

Gojo lets it sit in the air for a second before he nods curtly and jots something done.

“Would it be too cocky to say she has to cum?” The journal’s away from his face now and someone could, and probably would, argue that the walls are lucky to see the boyish grin he’s got. His smirk pulls up at the corners of his lips, but Suguru just finds it vexing. Gojo is far too full of himself, he thinks, and he hates to admit there’s good reason.

Nonetheless, he has to give him a little shit. “Do they normally not with you?”

“Hey! That’s not what I meant, asshole.” There’s something sweet to Satoru, under all the sickening that is his personality. It makes people understand just why girls fall for him, and definitely helps him keep a good image to the public.

And there’s something smart to him that makes you feel like he could really pull whatever he wanted off. It makes the idea of competing with just him much more appealing.

“Are we gonna have like a— fuck I don’t know— like a time limit?”

“Fuck is this? A video game?”

“I mean no, but competition wise if it takes us like half a year isn’t that kind of stupid? Because who’s to say she won’t ‘really love you’ by then, and then you’re not making her go against anything, yknow?” And there's also something meticulous about him that makes him aggravating as all hell.

“Fine. A month.”

“Just a month?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Plus, anything longer than that and we’d just be a couple of fucking losers chasing after a bitch.” Suguru knows Gojo is giving him a look without even seeing it, the slightly judgmental and almost kind one he does. “What? You’re the one who said it to begin with.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever. A month.” It’s silent for a second, comfortable with all their years of each other, before he clears his throat.

“That it then?” Maybe they’re the same kind of evil. Maybe they deserve each other.

“One more, actually.” There’s that feeling from him again, the tone that makes Suguru want to agree aimlessly for no fucking reason other than the possible rush. And before he can fester; before his skin can start to crawl and his hands can get clammy just from that sheer desire in his voice, Gojo grins.

“You need proof. And I don’t mean her saying it, because you can bribe anyone into saying anything. Gotta show it, photo or video or something, balls deep or whatever the fuck.” That almost makes Suguru laugh.

“I don’t think she’s gonna go for that one, no matter how good the dick is.”

“She doesn’t have to know.” Now he’s really thrilled. He doesn’t know what it is, but that lights something in him, stirs in his stomach and causes a little quiver in his brow.

“Fuck yeah, man,” he’s really laughing now, pointing at the journal harshly. “write that shit down.”

There’s something unspoken over them now, a deeper bond than they thought they could have. Neither of them would ever admit it, but it feels like they’re those two high schoolers again, counting down til they can become something fucking great. This is the feeling they’re supposed to get from their fathers’ stupid fucking contest. This is actual competition, a chance to actually win.

A new air falls on them, mixed back in with that warm, rich breeze.

“Okay, that settles that then.” Gojo offers, fingers tapping the binding of his book. “She has to be attending the start of the year banquet so that’ll be an excuse to meet her. Everything from then on is up to us.” Suguru always dreaded that shitty event, but now he finds himself doing mental math to count how far away it is.

Even if the whole thing is trivial, and even if you seem like the most uptight thing ever, Suguru is a man of pride. And prideful he’ll be.

“We still gotta do the ‘new year’ thing, you know. They’ll burst a fucking artery if we say we’re not interested.” His voice is gravelly and calm and so not anything he’s feeling, but he thinks Gojo buys it when he chuckles.

“Can you be excommunicated from being a womanizer? Because I think we would be.” They’re almost joking like everything is normal. It’s different, so much different, but they’re acting the same.

“I’m gonna go grab some water and maybe call one of your maids to make lunch, you want anything?” Suguru shakes his head, shifting in his seat as he tries his hardest not to look at the journal Satoru set on the side table.

“Suit yourself, I’ll be back.”

“Whatever,” He waits after Gojo walks out. Waits a good forty five seconds before he stands up, and he crosses the room in about three.

He glances over at the thrown aside notebook, eyes quick as he scans it. The handwriting is adjacent to messy, scattered and the page is littered with semi vulgar doodles and side bars. It’s coherent, though, and even though they both know Gojo had no intention of giving it to him, it’s got his signature at the bottom.

1. Full fucking!! Penis in vagina

2. No signs of being inebriated. Absolutely stone cold sober

3. If it takes longer than a month after everyone is introduced we’re both “a couple of fucking losers” (< Sugu’s words)

4. Orgasms are important ! Or at least near orgasms (she is a virgin)

5. Photo / video proof. If you can’t get it, you aren’t in it (haha! get it?)

He snickers at four, the uneasy tone in the second sentence almost self deprecating. Despite that, he can’t help but feel a smidge of respect that he ended up adding it to begin with.

He grabs the pen from the table, pressing into the paper too hard as he leaves his chicken scratch of a John Hancock. Okay, maybe this will be fun.

What mattered, however, was that they were there, filling the apartment with noise and warmth and the smell of someone’s cologne. A body beside yours in the dark.

You didn't like to be alone. Being alone meant coming home to the particular kind of silence that lives in empty apartments. Cold floors, with dead air.

And you couldn’t stand it.

So you didn’t. You took whatever was offered with both hands, held it too tight, loved it too fast. Whether they treated you right or not was secondary. An ounce of attention was enough to temporarily mend whatever piece of you had come loose that week. You were very good at this. Very practiced. You’d had a lot of practice.

A quick scroll through your camera could tell the whole story for you. A new face every other month, and none of the endings were clean. Not a single one.

The echo of slammed doors and unreturned keys. Texts sent at 2am that you’d be embarrassed about by morning, except you weren’t. Not really. Not enough to stop.

Because here was the thing about you that no one except maybe your therapist (who you stopped seeing) understood:

Hurt was where you felt safe.

You knew the geography of heartbreak so well you could navigate it in the dark. You knew exactly how long the crying would last (3 days, 4 if you’d really meant it), knew the specific hollow feeling that came after, knew how long before the next one appeared and made you forget.

It was a reliable cycle. A terrible, reliable cycle that you had no real interest in breaking because at least inside it, you weren’t alone.

That was all before Gojo Satoru.

The club was the kind of loud that got inside your chest.

Bass moving through the floor, through your heels, settling somewhere behind your sternum like a second heartbeat keeping you alive, shaking your entire being. The lights flashed at a pace that should’ve been illegal. Sweaty bodies pressed tightly together on the dance floor, everyone moving the way people only move when they’ve had enough to drink to forget they’re watched.

You loved it here. You always had.

Your friend's twenty-first birthday, and she was glowing with heat.

Her tiara lay crooked on her head, drink raised to the ceiling, shrieking along to a song you didn’t know the words to. You were right there with her. Heels as tall as skyscrapers–that should hurt, but feel just right, a dress that was doing its job maybe a little too well, mascara that had already run once and been fixed in the bathroom mirror with practiced efficiency.

The bouncers knew your name. That said everything.

You’d been dancing for 40 minutes straight when someone tapped your shoulders. Your friend, not the birthday girl, the other one, the one who always noticed things. She leaned in close enough that her voice shockingly cut through the loud bass of the noise.

“That man,” she said, and tilted her chin in his direction.

You turned.

The VIP section was elevated slightly above the floor, blocked off by a velvet rope that felt more like a suggestion than a barrier for the people inside it. There was a group up there–laughing, easy with each other, the particular looseness of people who didn’t have to worry about anything. But your eyes moved past all of them immediately.

Because there was one man sitting slightly apart from the rest. Leaned back in his chair the way men sit when they own whatever room they’re in. One arm resting along the booth’s edge. A glass held loosely in his hand, nearly forgotten.

He was looking directly at you.

The first thing you noticed were his eyes. Even across the distance, even through the erratic lights, they were startling. A pale, blue and sharp in a way that felt deliberate, like they’d been designed specifically to make you feel seen. His hair was white. Not bleached, not platinum, but white. It looked silvery in the club light, falling across his forehead just slightly.

He dressed in a way that suggested he’d come from somewhere that mattered: a semi formal shirt with the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled to the forearm, like someone had interrupted him mid-meeting and he hadn’t cared enough to fix it.

He was older than the usual. Not in a way that put you off, but in a way that settled something, like a note that played different than the others yet better.

He smiled slowly. Like he’d been waiting for you to notice him, and had been entirely confident that you would.

The ring on his left hand caught the light. You saw it, and noted it. You filed it somewhere very far back in your mind and started walking toward him.

You didn’t remember which one of you spoke first. You thought maybe it was him. He had that quality about him. Like speaking first cost him nothing, like he’d never in his life been nervous about whether someone would respond.

His name was Satoru.

He said it like it was funny, like he knew what it did to people. He was charming in a way that felt almost lazy. The charm of someone who’d never had to try very hard for anything, which should’ve annoyed you, but instead just made you want to be the thing he finally tried for.

He bought you a drink. Then another. He wasn’t handsy or aggressive the way a lot of men were at places like this. He just talked to you, actually talked, like you were interesting, like your words were worth following.

He asked questions and then listened to the answers, really listened, head tilted slightly. You felt the warm glow of his full attention like stepping into the sunlight.

You were aware, somewhere beneath the music, the alcohol, and the particular electricity of his gaze, that you were in trouble.

You went with him anyway.

One thing led to another–with you it always did. And you found yourself in a penthouse apartment that wasn’t yours, standing in a kitchen that cost more than your entire building, wearing comfortably less than you’d started the night with.

He was a careful lover. Attentive in a way that surprised you. And afterward, when you were half asleep in sheets that smelled expensive, he was still awake, and he told you about her.

His wife.

The word sat in the air between you for a moment.

“We’re in the process of a divorce,” he said. Not defensive. Just matter-of-fact, he was informing you of something logistical. The way people say ‘it's raining’.

The breath you let out was so relieved it embarrassed you. You’d thought–for a second, lying there–that you’d just helped someone ruin something intact. But a marriage already in the process of ending was different. You were just on the other side of a door that was already swinging open.

You told yourself that.

He offered an arrangement. Simple, uncomplicated. Just this–whenever he needed it, whenever you both needed it. No expectations.

You said yes. You always said yes. It was so shameless.

Something shifted. You couldn’t tell when it happened.

Maybe it was the third time he stayed past sunrise. Maybe it was the morning you woke up to the smell of coffee already made, finding him in your kitchen, barefoot on your cold tile, looking completely unbothered and somehow at home. He’d found the good mug without being told. He’d figured out your coffee order by watching you make it once.

Small things. But your whole life, no one had ever paid enough attention to learn the small things.

He started cooking for you. Not anything crazy, just meals, easy and warm. Pancakes on Saturday mornings when neither of you had anywhere to be. He’d stand at the stove in nothing but grey sweatpants, and you’d come up behind him and press your palms flat against his back, and he’d hum–actually hum, some low song under his breath–and cover your hands with his for a moment before going back to the spatula.

And sometimes a simple tender press of your lips on his skin was enough to rile him up. He would grab you and fuck you senseless on the kitchen counter. Your moans would echo throughout the open space of his penthouse.

“Yeah, you like that?” he breathlessly asked, speeding up his thrusts. A deep groan leaves his lips at the feel of you clenching around him. “Dirty girl…”, panting against your neck before sweetly pressing a kiss on your throat. Your boobs bouncing, nipples grazing his chest. Pancakes long forgotten.

He was so passionate. In some moments, he would place a hand on top of your head, soothing you before the impending toe-curling orgasm that was approaching. Gojo never failed to talk you through any of it.

“Fuck–yes! Just like that baby” his harsh pace remained the same, but his moans and whimpers increased in volume. “I’m so close– please,” he begged.

He would beg you. No one had ever done that before.

At some point, he began to treat you like something more. He stopped using condoms and began to finish inside of you every time. Like he wanted to start a family–like he wanted a future with you.

Always telling you not to waste it, but he always stayed inside your cunt afterward, keeping the both of you connected, shifting his hips before he got hard again and would slowly thrust into your sensitive pussy again.

It was the bare minimum. You knew that. You’d been in enough situationships to know what men who are actually trying look like versus men who are simply doing the least required to keep you available.

But no one had ever given you the minimum before.

So to you, it felt like everything.

He was gentle with you in a way no one had ever bothered to be. He handled you carefully, like you were something that had value beyond just sex. After, what felt like, endless sex he’d help you with the small, tender domestic things: your hair, your clothes, the glass of water he always put on your nightstand without being asked. He’d pull you into his chest when you were both drifting off and keep you there, arm heavy and warm across your waist, chin against the top of your head.

It made you feel safe, and wanted.

And in the morning, still soft with sleep, you’d trace the lines of him with your fingertips. The curve of his shoulder, the dip of his spine, letting yourself imagine, just quietly, just to yourself, a life that looked like a permanent version of this facade you’ve created inside your head.

You never said it out loud. You were too scared to shatter the fragile image of what you both had.

But you felt it accumulating in you anyway. The particular helpless tenderness of someone who started to love someone they were never supposed to.

He stopped using condoms somewhere around the second month.

You noticed. You didn’t say anything.

It felt like a language you didn’t want to translate out loud, because the translation: He wants you close, he wants no distance, he wants— Was too much to decipher. So you kept it quietly, folded up small in your chest. Evidence of something. You weren’t sure what yet.

He would stay afterward, keep you close like he was in no hurry to leave, like there was nowhere else he wanted to be. He’d murmur low against your ear. Your name, sometimes. Small things that meant nothing and everything depending on how you held them.

You’re everything to me, he told you once.

You laughed it off, but quiet inside you’d gone quiet. Quiet enough to hear your heart beat in a rhythm that sounded a lot like the sound of love.

The rain started sometime after he left. 

Or maybe it had already been raining and you’d only just noticed. It was hard to say. Time had gone soft at the edges. The room was dark except for the uncoordinated flashes of lightning that came through the window and lit everything up for a second before dropping you back into the darkness. 

You were lying on top of the covers, the silk bedsheet pulled up to your chin, staring at the ceiling. 

He’d been gone 30 minutes. You knew because you’d watched the clock. 3:20 am when the door clicked shut. 3:50 am now. 30 minutes of lying exactly like this, not moving, because moving would make it real. And you weren’t ready for it to be real yet. 

The tears came without your permission to. Just slipped out sideways, running into your hair, and writing the pillowcase. You didn’t wipe them. You knew more were to come. 

You thought about what he’d said before he left. 

You’d asked him to stay. Not a big ask. Not an ‘I love you’, not a ‘what are we’. Just a tender, ‘stay, until morning, just stay with me’. You’d reached for his back while he was buttoning his shirt. He’d shifted before your fingers could land. Like he could sense you coming and had already decided. 

‘Don’t be bothersome. I already told you, I can’t.’

His back still to you. His voice was completely flat. 

Bothersome. 

You pressed your face into the pillow that still smelled like him and let yourself cry properly then. The ugly kind, the kind that hurts your throat. 

Outside, the rain was coming down hard enough that you could hear it against the glass, and you were grateful for it, almost. The city is crying with you. 

He’d been like this for weeks now. Coming over, staying less and less. Leaving you in a particular way–not physically wrecked, but mentally scattered. Like he’d taken something when he left that you hadn’t agreed to give. His eyes had changed. They’d gone somewhere far away, somewhere you didn’t have access to. They looked at you now with a kind of absence that was almost worse than cruelty. 

You could fight cruelty, but you didn’t know what to do with someone who looked through you. 

You cried until you fell asleep with your fingers still curled in the pillow. 

10 am.

The knock woke you. Your face felt swollen, tight with dried tears. Grey light was coming through the curtains. The rain is still going, soft and persistent now where it had been punishing this earlier this morning. You lay still for a second, oriented yourself. 

Your apartment. Your bed. The specific quality of silence that meant you were alone. 

You hated it. 

The knock came again, sharper. 

You got up. Caught your naked reflection in the mirror as you reached for the robe at the foot of the bed. Mascara tracked down both cheeks, hair a disaster, a bruise of a mark on your throat he’d put there last night while you were still something he wanted. You looked exactly what you were. 

Someone who’d been having a very bad night for several weeks running. 

The robe was pink satin. You cinched it tight and went to the robe. 

There was only one person it could be. 

You opened it. 

Satoru. 

He was dressed like he hadn’t been home. The same shirt from last night, untucked now, jacket over it. His hair was slightly disheveled in a way that looked beautiful on him. Everything looked beautiful on him. It was one of the most annoying things about him. 

His eyes moved over you–quick, and professional. The way he assessed everything else. 

They landed briefly on your chest where the robe gaped slightly, before he cleared his throat and looked past you into the apartment. 

“Can I come in?” While he posed it like a question it felt more of a demand as he walked in, shuffling past you, “We need to talk.”

Something in his voice made the back of your neck go cold, and the rest of your skin prickle.

You sat across from each other on the couch, and you watched him find the words. More importantly his hands. They lay still on his knees. 

Whatever was happening between you two had become too large to keep pretending it wasn’t there. Because a man who cooks you breakfast and keeps you close and looks at you the way he looked at you had to feel something. 

You thought a lot of things. 

“My ex-wife and I have decided to work our relationship out.”

The words landed in your chest like something dropped from a height. 

You heard them. You understood them. Some part of your brain was already tallying the damage. But your face didn't know what to do yet, so it cracked into a small involuntary smile — the wrong reflex, the no this is a joke reflex — and then you saw the look on his face and the smile died immediately.

"What?" you asked. Your voice came out wrong. Too quiet, too small.

He sighed. The sigh that meant he found you tedious. You knew that sigh. You'd started to know all of his sounds.

"Don't make me repeat myself. You heard me."

The things he'd said.

‘We've been in the process of a divorce for over a year.’

‘I stopped loving her long before you.’

You stared at a point just past his shoulder. 

A sudden surge of emotions crashing into you, and attached with them fleeting memories. You thought about the way he used to press a kiss to your forehead before he got up. About the Sunday morning six weeks ago when he'd fallen back asleep with his face in your neck and you'd lain there for an hour, not moving, not wanting to break it.

Don't be bothersome.

"Be realistic," he said. His voice was measured. Not unkind exactly, but the way a person is not unkind when they're saying something they've already decided. "This was always temporary. Until she and I could figure things out."

You didn't say anything.

The silence was so full it had a shape.

A single tear ran down your face. You didn't reach up to stop it. You let it go.

He was so full of shit, and he knew it. 

The unmistakable glint of the wedding ring was there. It had always been there whether literally or figuratively. You’d seen it the very first night and looked away. Even when it got to a point where he no longer wore it, the ring had physically fused itself into his finger, leaving behind a vivid reminder of who he really belonged to. 

The silence stretched. 

Satoru waited. Patient, and composed. The way he was composed about everything. Like the world rearranged itself around his convenience and he’d simply learned to expect it. He watched you process it the way you imagined he watched most things: from a mildly curious to an already past it. 

That composure is what broke you open. 

"You told me," you started. Your voice came out wrong — too thin, too close to the surface of a thunderstorm in the middle of the ocean. You stopped, swallowed down the knot in your throat, and tried again. "You told me you weren't in love with her anymore."

"Things change."

"Things change." You repeated in a broken disbelieving laugh. It came out horrible, wet at the edges. "That's such—” You cut off, “okay.” You start again. “That's what you're giving me."

"I don't know what you want me to say." His voice was so even. So even. Like you were a mildly inconvenient meeting he hadn't been able to reschedule. "I was honest with you from the beginning about what this was."

"You weren't."

"I told you —"

"You told me you were getting a divorce." You were on your feet now, voice raising. You didn't remember standing up. "You told me you'd stopped loving her. You told me I was —" your voice cracked, and you hated yourself for it, hated how much he could still hear it in you "— you said things, Satoru."

"I said what was true at the time."

"At the time? Do you hear yourself? What’s wrong with you?"

"People's feelings change. That's not something I can control —"

"You are so full of shit." You cut him off, a shaky finger pointing at him in accusation. You watched it shake and couldn't make it stop. "Stop talking to me like I'm stupid. Stop using that voice with me."

"What voice?"

"That voice." You gestured at him, at all of him, the whole infuriating composed tableau of him sitting on your couch like he owned it. "The one you use when you've already decided the conversation is over. Don't do that to me. I deserve more than that."

Something flickered across his face. Gone before you could name it.

"You knew what this was," he said in a quieter tone. Almost gentle, which was worse.

And that — that — was when it cracked all the way through.

"I knew what you told me it was," you said, and your voice finally broke on it, split down the middle, and the tears came and you didn't even try to stop them because what was the point now, what was the point of any of it now. "I knew what you showed me. Every morning you stayed. Every time you — you cooked for me, Satoru, you used to hold my face and you'd just look at me like —" you pressed your hand over your mouth for a second, trying to hold it in, failing "— like I was something that mattered to you —"

"You did matter —"

"Did." The word came out sharp enough that he stopped. "Don't you dare say that to me right now. Don't soften it. If I mattered then look me in the eye and tell me she matters more and just say it, stop wrapping it in —"

"You're being dramatic."

The room went very still.

"Dramatic."

"You're spiraling. I understand you're upset, but —"

"Get out."

"—we're adults, and if you'd just —"

"Get out of my house." Your voice climbed and you let it. Three weeks of his cold eyes and his shorter visits and his back turned to you in the dark, three weeks before that of slowly understanding you were being managed, handled, kept at a careful distance by someone who knew exactly what distance to keep — all of it rose up in your throat at once. "You don't get to sit there and call me dramatic. You don't get to sit there and be calm right now, I swear to god —"

"You need to lower your voice —"

"I will not lower my voice in my own apartment!" 

He stood. Finally, good — you needed him vertical, needed to be able to look at him properly when you said what you were about to say.

"You made me feel crazy," you told him. Shaking now, properly shaking, mascara already gone. "These last few weeks — pulling away and then coming back and then pulling away again — I thought it was something I did. I kept trying to figure out what I did." More broken sobs. "There's a headline about you and your wife right now. Did you know that? It's been out for six hours. Six hours while you were — while we were —"

His jaw tightened. First crack in the composure.

"That's not —"

"Were you with her before you came here tonight?"

Silence.

The specific quality of that silence told you everything.

Something in your chest caved in completely. 

"Okay," you said very quietly. "Okay." However the tears in your eyes betrayed your vocal acceptance. 

You walked to the door. Pull it open. Stood there with your hand on the knob and your robe coming loose at the tie and your eyes absolutely ruined and you looked at him across the apartment — at the man who had made you feel more cared for and more stupid than anyone in your entire life — and you said:

"Get out. And don't come back."

He looked at you for a long moment. That same unreadable thing moved across his face. You still didn't know what it was. You'd spent months learning his expressions and you still didn't know what he looked like when he actually felt something.

Maybe that was the answer.

He crossed the apartment. Then paused in the doorway close enough that you could smell him — his cologne, something else underneath it, something that didn't belong to you.

He didn't say anything.

Your hand found the vase on the entryway table before your brain caught up with it — the small ceramic one, blue, that you'd bought at a market in the West Village on a Sunday he'd come with you, that you'd carried home in a paper bag while he walked beside you with his hand on the back of your neck — and you threw it.

Not at him. Not quite. It hit the wall two feet to his left and exploded into pieces, and the sound of it was enormous in the small hallway, and blue ceramic skittered across the floor between you both.

Silence.

He looked at the wall. Then at the floor. Then, slowly, at you.

You were breathing hard. Your throwing arm was still extended. You looked insane and you knew it and you didn't care, you couldn't care right now, there was no room left in you for caring about how you looked.

Something moved in his expression — not fear, not even surprise, something more complicated and faster than either of those things. There and gone.

He left.

The door clicked shut and you held it together for exactly three more seconds before your legs gave out and you slid down the wall beside the door and sat on the cold floor and came completely apart.

–

You threw up in the bathroom.

Then you slid down the cabinet onto the floor and sat with your knees pulled to your chest and stayed there for a long time.

You felt pathetic. You were aware of the patheticness from a slight distance, the way you sometimes watched yourself from a removed angle during the worst moments. Look at her on the bathroom floor. Look at her crying over a man who was never hers.

Overall, you felt embarrassed. 

But the awareness didn't help. It never did.

Because Satoru hadn't just been an affair, or a mistake, or a bad habit. He'd been the first person in your entire adult life who'd made you feel like your presence was something to be cared for rather than consumed. He'd taken the parts of you that were most obviously broken and handled them without flinching. He'd made you feel like being loved was possible. Not because he'd said it — he never said it — but because of the way, the small unspoken way of a person who is choosing you continuously, quietly.

Or so you'd thought.

You'd been so sure then. 

Your hands found the little chain around your neck — the delicate one with the S, that he'd clasped there himself four months ago with such careful fingers — and you pulled it, hoping the clasp would break. 

But no, Gojo never bought anything cheap. However the irrational part of your brain kept pulling. The chain left an angry thin red line on your skin. 

You screeched in frustration before grabbing it at the edges and pulling it apart. You threw it against the wall. The sound it made hitting the tile was too small for how much you hated it. 

Screaming at it like it personally offended you, and in a way, it did. Anything of his offended you. 

Then you went through the apartment.

The things he'd given you, the things that smelled like him, the things that had accumulated in your space over months the way a person leaves traces of themselves without meaning to. You dealt with all of it. You were not gentle. It felt necessary, the way certain kinds of destruction feel necessary — not good, but necessary, like stabbing something.

The tears didn't stop. They had been going for so long now that they'd lost their urgency and become simply a condition. A weather front settled over you.

At some point you picked up your phone. A nasty habit of yours, reaching for your phone in desperate need of a distraction, even if it lasted for a few minutes. 

The notification was already there. News alert, pushed to your screen, waiting for you.

"GOJO SATORU AND EX-WIFE DECIDE TO REKINDLE THE FLAME." CLICK HERE TO KEEP READING. (you can actually click it to read the newspaper i made one).

There was a photo. Him, and a woman who looked like the kind of woman men left other women for. She was beautiful in a composed, expensive way. His hand was on her waist. He was smiling.

You put the phone face-down on the floor.

You sat in the wreckage of your own apartment, and you let yourself feel every terrible bit of it.

It's not like you were dating.

That's the part that makes it worse, somehow. There's no clean word for what you were. And it was not a girlfriend. Not lover, even — lover implies mutuality, implies something shared and chosen. You were a situation nested between his chaotic life. Something to fill the space in his life while the real thing got itself sorted out.

You know that now.

You hadn't known it then — or maybe deep down you did and simply refused, the way you refused all kinds of information that threatened to interrupt what you wanted to feel. You were very good at refusal.

You could say it was a lifetime of practice.

But the possibilities — that's what kept getting you. Not what was, but what could have been if it had been real. If deep down somewhere inside he'd meant any of it. You'd built a whole quiet architecture of a future in the privacy of your own head, furnished it with Sunday mornings and inside jokes and a ring he would have chosen just for you, and now you had to take it all apart piece by piece, put it in boxes and there was no one to help you carry it out.

Three weeks of crying yourself to sleep. Three weeks of waking up and for one half-second forgetting, before it hits you again. Three weeks of his absence sitting in your apartment like a presence, like the negative space of a person.

So you did what you always did when something got too heavy to hold.

You put it down, walked away from it, and forced yourself to believe that it was fine. 

It had never been real anyway, I am fine.

You put on the shortest dress you owned, called your friend, and went out.

Your oldest and most reliable skill: To forget and pretend. 

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And your mother had snagged him while working as a waitress in a minimum-wage strip club. Your relationship with her was strained at best, especially since your biological father showed no interest in fighting for custody. You were nothing more than a drunk accident. 

Growing up in a cramped trailer home, your parents believed in hands-on discipline, forgetting sometimes that you were just a child—noisy, curious, and prone to defiance. Their version of love left you feeling depressed, on edge, and struggling with social anxiety. 

Now, as an adult, you found yourself still living with your mother, as your scholarships barely covered your education expenses.

Maybe Satoru’s arrival was a blessing in disguise. If he married your mother, he could take her away to his mansion, leaving you in the relative comfort of your trailer home. You might even inherit the ancient Nissan with its surprisingly functional engine. 

 Oh, how you could relate to that car. 

Right now, Satoru was in the living room with your mom, chomping down on take-out steak and potatoes while she rambled on about her grand wedding plans. She insisted on having someone named Polly or Molly as the maid-of-honour instead of you—some stripper friend, apparently. But honestly, you weren't keen on being part of the wedding anyway.

In all honesty, you felt pity for Satoru. He was an idiot if he couldn’t see through your mother’s true intentions. You could blame it on the fact that he was in his late-thirties and a business big-shot who’d fuck anything in a tiny skirt. Or maybe, in some minuscule possibility, he actually loved your mom.

You scoffed at that idea. 

Your mom was as lovable as a bout of constipation before a crucial job interview.

Next to Satoru, a refined, too tall and too attractive, Brioni-suits-only, your mother looked like his maid. The drugs and the drinking had aged her fifty times her current age. She was more of a tenant, a sloppy, sex-driven roommate than someone who birthed you. Sometimes you’d catch yourself staring at her, wondering: Does she even deserve a funeral? 

Three knocks thudded against your door, and without waiting for an invitation, Satoru poked his head in. The man was anti-privacy at all times. You didn’t want to give the benefit of the doubt by blaming it on your tiny home, but common courtesy was a universal law. One that failed to apply to your mother and him. 

“Yes?” you asked, focused on writing out your lecture notes instead of giving him attention. 

A shadow casted over your table, two firm hands gripping either side of the edge. Satoru leaned down until his cheek was an inch from yours. He was also anti-spatial awareness. 

“Your dinner’s getting cold.” 

You avoided looking into his abnormally blue eyes, keeping your focus fixed on a single word on your paper. His breath brushed against your cheek, making your heart skip a beat.

You had to admit, he was one of the most attractive men you’d ever met when your mother first introduced you to him. Sometimes you even found yourself jealous that a man of his calibre was with a woman like her. And the bastard knew he was sexy, too. He’d stroll into the kitchen shirtless, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips, while you were having breakfast before school. Whenever you needed to use the bathroom, he’d casually step out with only a towel wrapped around his waist, his abs right in your face.

If your mom could snag Gojo Satoru, you were convinced Tom Hardy would be head over heels for you.

“Are you even listening?” Satoru’s playful tone turned serious.

“I'll eat when I feel like it,” you retorted, stomach rumbling. He let out a chuckle against your skin, goosebumps rising in response. Your gaze flicked to his bare ring finger, and a twisted part of you hoped it stayed that way. Your mother didn’t deserve happiness. She didn’t deserve Satoru. She’d bleed his pockets dry without a second thought.

“Got your earphones in or something?” Satoru tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Hey, Y/N?” he whispered directly into the canal, lips grazing your lobe.

“No.” You shifted uncomfortably, smoothing your hair back over your heated ear. His fingertips were calloused and rough against your skin. You hated how he sometimes made those damn tingles ripple on your back from a single smirk or a look. “They broke.” 

“Want me to buy you new ones?” 

“No, thank you.” You tilted your head away, not wanting him to catch your side profile. “If that’s all, you can leave. I’m sure my mother’s dying for your attention.”

“She’s in the bathroom,” he pointed out, “and I haven’t seen you all day. You’re not ignoring me, are you?”

Admittedly, you were. 

When you returned from college, he stood there in his well-pressed suit, and a rush of conflicting emotions surged within you at the sight, forcing you to barricade yourself in your room for the rest of the afternoon and evening.

“What’s this, sweetheart?” He ran a hand over your arm covered with goosebumps. “You cold?” 

“Go away, Satoru.” You retreated in your chair and snatched your cardigan, wrapping it around yourself. Your hand sharply pointed at the door. “Now.” 

Satoru licked his lips, and unfolded to his six-foot-something height. “You know, I don’t appreciate your attitude. Especially if we’re going to be a family soon.”

“You’ll never be my family.” You pointed to the side. “And that woman isn’t my family either. So, just leave me alone, okay? Please.” Frustration ran through your fingers as you raked them through your hair. “Get out—”

“Not until I fix your perspective on me.” Satoru strode to the door and slammed it shut, locking it firmly. Your eyes widened in fear as you met his intense gaze. “I’ve been patient with you, baby. Really, I have. You mean something special to me, even if you don’t see it that way.”

“Satoru—“

“I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to talk. Sit down.” He gestured sternly to the chair. “Sit the fuck down.”

The edge in his voice compelled you to obey, perching nervously on the edge of the seat. Your phone sat in your pocket—a lifeline should things go south. Despite knowing him for a year, you still didn’t trust yourself alone with him.

Satoru settled on the bed, leaning forward with his hands clasped, giving off an aura of authority. It felt like being summoned to the principal's office. “What’s the problem here?”

“There’s no problem,” you insisted, stealing a glance at the door.

“Look at me,” Satoru demanded, his head cocked, drawing your gaze to his piercing sky-blue eyes. “You look at me when I’m talking to you. What’s the problem?”

“There's no—“

“There is a fucking problem when you’re hardly ever around the house. You’re up before dawn for breakfast, and then you stroll in at ten at night.” A dark intensity shadowed his eyes. “I know damn well your last class ends at five, so what the hell are you doing between those six hours?”

Your chin trembled. “Studying—”

“Don't you dare lie to me.”

“I’m not. I’m— I hang out with friends at the library and we study together—“

“Friends or a friend?”

This motherfucker.

Your fingers wrapped tightly around the armrest. But of course he knew you’d been seeing a boy from one of your lectures. You and Yuji had begun innocently enough, studying together, then sneaking kisses around campus, until it evolved into dates. Just last night, he popped the question, asking you to be his girlfriend. But all you could manage was an uncertain “I need time to think.” There was a nagging feeling in your mind, in your very core, that held you back from saying yes.

Satoru’s smirk deepened.

“Why do you care, anyway?” you hissed. “It’s none of your damn business. You’re not my dad.”

“Not yet.”

“You’ll never be my dad, Satoru. Get that through your thick skull and stop treating me like I’m some kind of kid.” Your breath hitched, growing louder as he shrugged off his blazer and started rolling up his sleeves.

“Back in my day, we had something called discipline. I know it might be a foreign concept to you—”

“Oh, I’m well acquainted with it.” In the heat of the moment, you lifted your shirt to reveal burn marks and belt scars on your skin. Quickly, you covered it back up. “Please, don’t tell my mom I showed you that.”

Satoru stared at the wounds now shielded by a thrifted sweater. Anyone would mark you with pity if they saw the canvas of torture on your back from breathing too loudly or leaving the lamp light on in the living room. Minor things that didn’t deserve major damage. 

“I won’t if you can keep a secret of mine, too.” 

You regarded him with hesitation but nodded nevertheless. 

Leaning closer, Satoru confessed, “I don't want to marry your mom.”

The shock was diminutive. Satoru wasn’t an idiot as you were beginning to assume he was. Obviously, a man of his stature could see straight through your mother’s wicked intentions. 

The million-dollar question was: “If you didn’t wanna marry her, why drag her along for six months? I mean, she’s a bitch, yes, but why go through all of that whining and nagging?” 

Satoru smiled at you.  

“What?” you asked. 

“You, Y/N,” he said. “You’re the reason why.” He grabbed the armrests and wheeled your chair close so that your legs were compressed between his. “The night I met your mother, she briefly showed me pictures of you. And I’ve never been the same since.” His hand laid gently on your cheek, thumb caressing over your left brow. “You had such sad eyes in all of them. I wanted to know the cause of what was hurting you. I felt this urge to take your pain away.” The next words were a soft caress on your scars. “Take you away.” 

You couldn’t allow yourself to breathe. “Satoru—”

“I know you’re scared.”

“Satoru, this isn’t— I don’t—”

“Hey, hey, hey. Eyes on me, baby.” He cupped both your cheeks now, lowering his head to look you in your eyes. “I’ve waited patiently, Y/N. Believe me, I have. I’ve seen the shit that woman’s done to you, said to you, says about you. You don’t belong here in this dump. You never did. Just because you’re bonded by blood doesn’t mean she’s your family.” Satoru glanced at the door, making sure your mother hadn't come out of the bathroom, then he pulled you from the chair onto his lap. You gripped his shoulders, stifling a yelp. “I'm going to take care of you now. You understand?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, sweetheart. But I’m gonna do it anyway.” His smile was irresistible. “Starting with getting you some headphones.”

“You slept with her,” you muttered. “My mother. More than once.”

“Yeah? Eavesdropping through the walls?”

“They're paper-thin.”

Satoru’s hand twined around your nape. “If you think I put my dick in that woman, you’re wrong. Sure, she’s fucking needy, but I’ve got boundaries.” He raised his hands and wiggled his fingers. “These worked perfectly fine.” 

You noticed the thickness of his fingers, the size of his palm, which was larger than yours. “This is wrong, Satoru. You shouldn’t be doing this. We shouldn’t be doing this.” But you want to, you want to, you want to. You shut your thoughts and confined them to the back of your brain. “I don’t even like you that much. You’re kind of a dick.” 

Satoru laughed with his head dropping onto your shoulder. “Kind of?”

“A lot.” 

“Much better.” He drew back and placed his hand on your jaw, lifting it so he could look down at you with that signature air of superiority. Goosebumps prickled your skin once more. His gaze followed the path of your swallow down your throat before locking back onto your eyes. “What would you do if I kissed you?”

Instinctively, you licked your lips. “Like, right now?” 

“Next year.” 

You rolled your eyes at his sarcasm, glancing over at your locked bedroom door. What was taking your mother so long? Why wasn’t she loudly demanding Satoru’s attention while she shopped online with his card?

It annoyed you how Satoru put up with her self-centred behaviour just to stay close to you, always making sure you were okay when your mom could be a handful, though she was usually on her best behaviour when he was around.

You frowned, refocusing on him. “Just this once.” You placed your hands on his cheeks, feeling the smooth, pale beneath your fingertips. “After this, we can’t—”

Satoru interrupted you with a kiss, sinking his tongue deep into the crevice of your mouth. 

Struggling to match his intense rhythm, your movements felt awkward, your teeth clashing together as you fumbled to find a place for your hands on his broad frame. The boys you had kissed were slower, allowing you breathers in between, holding just onto your face or hands.

But Satoru . . . Satoru was different. He had you arched backward, supported only by his strong hands. Your arms clung tightly around his neck, fingers tangled in his soft, white hair. Then, as he lifted himself onto his feet, you wrapped your legs around his narrow waist, settling yourself onto the table.

He nipped at your lower lip, eliciting a gasp from you, and seized the moment to kiss you harder, faster, desperately. His hand slid up the front of your sweater, skimming the burn mark and moving up to caress your right breast. He pulled at your said stone-hard nipple, making you mewl from the pinching sensation. “Fuck, your tits are so soft. Give me a taste, baby.” 

“Satoru, wait—”

Too late. 

He swiftly lifted your sweater and drew a chair closer, placing himself directly in front of you. As your eyes locked, he leaned in, gently taking your nipple into his mouth. You bit back a gasp, feeling the intense pressure as he pulled the sensitive bud. Your head arched back as he continued to explore with his lips and teeth. 

When he finally pulled away, your nipples were left tingling and discoloured. He trailed kisses down your chest, moving to your soft stomach, and then he slipped his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants. “Let me see your pussy.” 

“No.”

“Let me see it.” 

“No, Satoru. My mom—”

“Fuck her. Show me your pussy now.”

His crassness was going to be the death of you. You swallowed your anxiety, knowing your mother could knock on the door at any moment, and lifted your hips. He pulled down your sweatpants and spread your legs, a smirk playing across his face as he noticed the damp spot on your panties.

“It’s a natural reaction,” you mumbled. 

“Better be whenever you see me.” Satoru hoisted your legs onto his shoulders and gave a long lick to the spot. You slumped back against the wall, stomach rising and lifting as he continued lapping like a parched beast. “Let’s get these pretty panties off of you.” 

“Satoru, maybe we shouldn’t do this,” you said as you naturally pulled one leg out of your underwear, followed by the other, leaving you completely bare and ready for him. “This is wrong. We’re a decade apart in age for fucks sake. If anyone found out—if my mom found out— I can’t— I just don’t think it’s right for us to do this.”

Right? 

“No?” he questioned as he roughly parted your slick, glistening folds with his coarse thumbs. “Fuck me. Your pussy is even more perfect than in my dreams.” 

“Shit,” you whispered, exhaling deeply as he ran his tongue across the curve, collecting the beginning of your release. The tip of his tongue rapidly flicked your clit. You shifted restlessly, biting your lip to stifle the sounds escaping you. Instead, you let out muffled gasps and deep sighs, struggling to maintain control. 

“I’m gonna put in a finger now.” 

“What—?” 

Satoru pushed his middle finger into your entrance, hissing out through his teeth. “Oh, you’re tight. You’re so fucking tight.” He smiled at the fact and continued lapping at your throbbing pussy, sucking your swollen, reddish clit into his mouth. You banged a fist on the table, rattling the stationary on it. “One more.” 

His ring finger thrusted in, and you released the cries building up inside you. Fuck it, right? Your mother would just assume you’re watching a heartbreaking movie. 

Squelching sounds filled your bedroom from the vigorous pace of his thick, skilled fingers. You couldn’t make any more sounds with your fist, so you gripped his hair. Satoru’s chuckle was muffled as he expertly sucked you off, holding you down by your stomach. You weren’t going to be the same—

The lights of a car flashed across your bedroom walls. 

“She’s home,” said Satoru before diving back in. 

“She— She wasn’t in the bathroom?!” 

He shook his head and winked. 

“Where was she?” 

Satoru pulled away but continued exploring with his fingers and leaned over you. “I sent her shopping.” He scowled as he looked over his shoulder. “Surprised she’s home early. I didn’t even get to fuck you.” 

Your eyes widened. “You were going to?” 

He looked back, the long tendrils of his hair poking his eyes. “Tomorrow.” 

“We can’t do this ag—” 

“Satoru, I’m home!” your mother’s voice said in the background, followed by sounds of what was clearly an abundance of shopping bags. “I wanna do a fashion show for you.” 

You pulled in your smile when he rolled his eyes, head shaking. “You’re going to have to file for bankruptcy if you stay with her.” The pads of your soft fingers touched his jaw. “Don’t stay with her, Satoru. Don’t stay with her for me. I can tell you it isn’t—”

“Worth it?” He pushed his fingers deeper inside you, hitting the spot that had your eyes balling to the back of your head. “You’re worth every fucking penny, baby.” 

His words came out crushed, gritted, biting the delicate flesh of your throat. “Today, I fucked you with my mouth and fingers. Tomorrow, it’ll be my cock. For the rest of your life, you’ll take every inch of what I give you in your little cunt, in your pretty mouth, and in your tight ass without complaining you’re not worth it.” 

He curled his fingers tightly in the back of your hair. “Then, you’ll take my card and spend it on whatever the fuck you want—cars, an island, headphones, lingerie for sure—without complaining you’re not worth it.” His lips brushed over yours, voice lowered for your ears. “You will wear the diamond ring I give you. You will take my last name. You will be the mother of my children. You will be buried next to me. Because you’re fucking worth it, baby. You’ll always be.” 

You came with a cry crushed by his mouth, his fingers sliding out of you as he held your naked, sweaty body close to his chest. He laid you down on your bed and quickly covered you with a blanket, picking up your clothes and tossing them in your closet. As you watched him run his hands through his hair, fixing your chair and wiping your desk with one of your notebook papers, tsking at your lack of a tissue box. 

Just then, your mother knocked at your door, rattling your doorknob. “Y/N. Why the fuck is your door locked?” 

You stammered, brows raising at Satoru, who stood calmly against your closet door. “Uh, I was—I was masturbating!” 

“Jesus Christ,” your mother muttered. 

Satoru stifled his laugh behind his palm, head shaking at your ludicrous confession. 

“Yup. I’m naked, and there’s some hardcore porn playing on my laptop. So, don’t come in. It’s embarrassing.” You scrambled to sit up as Satoru made his way to your bed, removing the blanket away. “What are you doing?” He drew your legs apart and sunk down, licking the mess you’d made clean with his tongue. “Ah, fuck. Fuck, Sa—” You caught yourself before his name could slip. 

Your mother banged her fist on your door. “Would you keep it the fuck down? I don’t need the neighbors hearing you being a whore.”

You smiled down at him, and said, “Sorry,” to your mom. 

“Wrap it up. Have you seen Satoru anywhere?” 

You glanced down as he kissed your clit. “Nope.” 

“Fucking hell. Where the hell is he? Not picking up his phone . . . ” The sounds of her footsteps retreating made you breathe easier, falling back on your pillows. 

Satoru’s smirk appeared in your view, and he leaned down to kiss you with your juices coated on his soft, pink lips. “Can I sleep with you tonight, baby?” 

“But . . .” 

“I’ll let her know it was a work emergency.” 

You sighed, nodding, and made space for him on the side. He wrapped you up in his arms while you laid your head on his chest. “How are you going to get out of this?” 

“I don’t know yet.” 

When you woke up the next morning, Satoru wasn’t in your room. 

You stretched and groaned from the ache between your legs, fanning the bare spot with your hands. Your eyes glued to the table where your lecture notes were neatly tucked away in your binder. Except for the one he used to wipe the surface. You picked it up and smiled before locking it in your drawer. 

You’re worth it. 

The sentence echoed in your brain as a morning greeting. And suddenly starting another mundane day didn’t feel like shit anymore. You showered with Satoru’s body wash, imagining he was in front of you, those soft lips pulled up into an amused scowl. Your fingers instinctively pushed inside you, your back hitting the wall as you pumped them in and out of you, remembering last night's forbiddenness. 

Eventually, you stepped out to save on water bills and found your mother in the kitchen, brewing coffee. And they were two mugs—one being Satoru’s. He was here. Probably still in your mother’s bed, but he was here. 

Your mother didn’t bother greeting you and instead muttered, “Whore.” For a second, anxiety lashed at out from thinking she’d found out you were finger-fucked by her fiancé, but then you remembered the masturbation excuse you’d given her. 

Honestly, fuck her. You didn’t give a shit about feeling guilty. If anything, you wanted more. You wanted a lot. You wanted Satoru to fulfill your lewd desires, starting with leaving your pathetic excuse of a mother. You needed to separate yourself from her first by moving out. 

Once you were dressed for school, taking extra time to fix your make-up and hair, you stepped back into the kitchen and nearly stumbled from Satoru sitting on the stool next to yours. He glanced over his shoulder and winked. 

You gulped and entered the kitchen, preparing a cereal bowl and feeling his eyes tracking your back. Your ass, mostly. You knew this because you were wearing your tightest jeans with a blouse tucked in, giving him a full display of your curvy behind. 

Taking your cereal bowl, you sat next to him. Your mother was facing the stove, flipping flapjacks while focused on some drama episode on her phone. Next to you, Satoru lit a cigarette and the smoke wandered in front of your eyes. 

Your stool was suddenly scraped close to his. You suppressed your yelp and faced him—

Satoru gripped your jaw and crushed his lips to yours, the taste of bitter tar and minty toothpaste confusing your taste buds. You pushed him back and whipped your head towards your mother, just meters away, and unaware of what happened behind her back. 

Satoru chuckled under his breath as he took a long drag and blew the smoke in the opposite direction. “Eat.” 

Your insides were performing an acrobatic show from how attractive he looked in the morning. No shirt, as always, baggy sweats that contoured his thigh muscles and his prominent bulge when he was sitting. His snow-white hair was damp from a shower, poking his eyes that didn’t seem to leave your face. 

Right as you went for your first bite, Satoru curled his arm around your waist. You tried to push it away, but he persisted, staring straight ahead and enjoying his smoke. His fingers undid the button of your jeans and lowered down your zipper. 

“Satoru,” you mouthed as a warning. “We can’t.” 

He flicked a side-glance at you and leaned close to your ear. “Then next time don’t wear my body-wash.” His lips pressed below your earlobe, and easily, he slipped his fingers into your panties. “Fuck,” he breathed against your skin. “Wet already, baby?” 

You inched forward, biting your bottom lip, watching your mother stack the flapjacks onto the plate one by one. Satoru rubbed your clit in slow circles, chuckling again as his fingers parted your soaked folds. The excitement of the situation was turning you on, but so was the mingled fear. 

Satoru pulled out his finger just as your mother turned around and you pulled down your blouse to cover your unbutton jeans, shoving a spoonful of cereal into your mouth. 

“Jesus, eat like a human,” your mother commented, placing the plate of flapjacks onto the island. She turned back around to search the cabinets for syrup. 

You glared at Satoru as he licked his fingers clean. He grabbed your jaw and whispered against your lips, “I’m fucking you tonight,” before leaving the stool to pour himself a cup of coffee. 

You were a distracted mess during your lectures, shifting in your seat or rubbing your legs together whenever the thought of Satoru’s fingers or tongue or that mischievous smirk of his flashed before your eyes. You even rejected Yuji’s affections and assumed the guilt of his mopiness would eat you alive, but instead, you felt relieved. The countless hours you’d spend at the library to stay away from home were suddenly cut down as you found yourself taking the bus back home, temple resting against the cold window as Satoru’s promise this morning rang in your brain.

I’m fucking you tonight. 

You smiled. 

But your excitement was cut short when you found your mother on the living room couch, scrolling through her laptop, home for some goddamn reason. 

“You’re early,” she commented without acknowledging you with her eyes. 

You cleared your throat. “The library was closed for renovation. Where’s the fiancé?” 

“Why do you care?” 

You gulped. Hard. “Just wondering.” 

She rolled her eyes. “He’s at work.” 

Nodding, you entered your room and dropped everything. You stripped out of your clothes and clambered into your bed, hoping that sleep would tick away the time it’ll take for Satoru to return home. 

You closed your eyes and sucked in a deep breath before forcing yourself into sleep. 

But it didn’t come easy to you as you started vividly dreaming of Satoru’s smirking mouth on your sore pussy, sucking on your tender clit, the coarseness of his tongue shoving into your tight, tight hole. You felt his fingers trace circles over your nipples, pinching and pulling the sensitive buds, making you squeak. You moaned from the wet love-bites he left on your neck, soothing them with gentle kisses, his large, rough palms exploring the expanse of your stomach. 

And then you felt his lips on yours, felt his tongue push open your mouth and seek your tongue.  

He bit down on your bottom lip and you jerked. 

You jerked awake and met a pair of ocean-blue eyes glinting in the sliver of moonlight peeking from your curtains. He was here. Satoru was here. In your room, leaning over your body, with his lips glistening and your pre-cum coating his chin.

“Satoru . . .” You sucked in a sharp breath and pinched your arm to make sure this wasn’t some fantastical nightmare. 

But it was real. 

It was so real. 

“Did you know you moan my name in your sleep?” 

You glanced down at your bare pussy, at your panties thrown onto the floor. “Were you eating me out in my sleep?” 

“Mm-hmm.” 

“That’s— I mean, well—”

“Didn’t like it? I was only trying to wake you up.” He curled a strand of your hair around his finger. 

“No, I liked it. I thought I was dreaming.” 

“You dream of me eating you out?” Satoru pinched the side of your waist and your knee jabbed his ribs. He chuckled in the crook of your neck, kissing your racing pulse. “I’m gonna fuck you until you pass out, baby. Then I’ll continue fucking you in your dreams, too.” He drew his face back and you took it in your hands, raising your head and kissing his dirty, wet mouth. 

“Do it,” was all you whispered. 

Satoru yanked down your bra, freeing your breasts with a bounce. “I want to suck on them.” You nodded and laid a hand on the back of his head as he dived down to pull your left nipple into his mouth. He groaned and rubbed his clothed erection against your clit. 

You bit down on your tongue as he pulled your nipple with his teeth and freed it, marveling at your breast bouncing again. He gathered both cups in his hands and squeezed them, pressing his face in between. His tongue sloppily licked around your areola, dividing his mouth’s attention to either nipple, abusing them until they’re numb and coal hot. 

Satoru didn’t say a word as he rested back on his knees and lowered his sweatpants. Your breath hitched at the sight of his thick, long erection springing out into action. He gripped the base of it and rubbed up and down in slow motions. That was so not going to fit. 

“You know how long I’ve been between your legs?” he whispered. 

You shook your head. 

“An hour, baby. I was eating your little pussy out for an hour.” He leaned over you again and rubbed the hilt of his cock over your drenched folds. “I’ve never eaten anyone out before.” 

You blushed. “Oh.” 

Satoru smiled at your reaction and pushed his tip onto your clit, watching you squirm and cling to your bedsheets. “Condom or not?” 

“I take birth control.” 

He stopped immediately. An irritated scowl. “What? Why the fuck do you take birth control? Have you been fucking around.” 

“What? No. There’s a lot more uses for birth control than just, you know, birth control. I have a hormonal imbalance issue. It happened last year, so my doctor prescribed me the pill.” You stifle a smile as he breathes out a sigh of relief, dropping his forehead against yours. “Don’t worry, handsome. You’re my first.” 

“And I sure as fuck better be your last.” 

You kissed the tip of his nose. Satoru shook his head and grabbed his shaft, positioning it at your entrance. “My mother’s not home. Is she?” 

“She’s asleep.” 

Fuck. There was no doubt you were going to be loud. Satoru must’ve noticed your turmoil and lowered himself, saying, “Bite down on my shoulder if it hurts. Which it fucking will.” 

You nodded and curled your arms around his neck, widening your legs for him to settle in comfortably. The large tip of his cock pressed inside of you, making you shudder and tuck your lips inside. 

Satoru rolled his hips forward, inching more of himself inside, expanding your walls. “Fuck, baby. My cock’s not even half way in from how tight you are.” He rolled his hips forward again and your teeth clamped down on his skin. “Fuck, fuck. Okay, here we go, baby. Here we go.” He pushed in again and your back arched, feeling his tip tickle your womb. “That’s it, sweetheart. Breathe for me. Okay?” 

“Hurts,” you murmured, squeezing the soul out of his neck. 

“It’s not a walk in the park, that’s for sure.” Satoru curled one arm below your waist and lifted it, adding a pillow underneath. He started with slow ministrations, getting himself comfortable inside your quivering, cushioned walls. “Oh, fuck me, baby. I’ve been losing my mind to be inside of you.” His words served as a minor distraction from the stinging pain. “I stole one of your panties after you left for school, and wrapped it around my cock, jerking off until my dick was going to break. I’ve never come so hard in my life.” 

You tried at a giggle, combing your fingers down the back of his head. He pecked your jaw and pulled his hips back, only halfway out of you, before jamming back in. Your teeth met his skin again, a strained moan leaving you. Satoru continued this rhythm for a few minutes before bringing you up to sit on his lap. 

You drew back, head rolling back as you felt him so full and thick inside of you, surely poking past your damn stomach. Your small hands grabbed his shoulders as he gently bounced you on his cock. His hands rotated your hips back and forth, slowly and surely. 

“Look at these fucking tits bouncing in my face,” he whispered, enthralled by the sight of your breasts moving in tandem with his thrusts. “Such big fucking tits for such a little girl.” 

“I’m— I’m not a little girl, Satoru.” 

He gripped the back of your hair. “You’re my girl. Understood?” You hissed as he pulled at your scalp, then crushed his mouth against yours. The bed beneath you creaked too loud, and if your mother woke up, asking what the fuck was happening, you wouldn’t have the power to lie. 

Satoru laid you back and grabbed your ankles, pushing your legs up. He rutted into you like a madman, heavy balls slapping against your ass, the sweat clinging to the tendrils of his white hair falling like raindrops on your face, trailing down to your chest where you squeezed your breasts. “Yes, fuck, fuck, fuck. Play with your nipples, baby.” 

He watched you pinch and pull and dig your nail into the soft flesh. You felt his dick twitch, and somehow, maybe, grew larger—you didn’t know anything that was happening.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, grabbing your headboard with his left hand and his right hand wrapping around your throat. “Your pussy, your tits, your ass, your mouth—they all belong to me, baby. You belong to me. Do you understand?” He ruthlessly slammed into, making you choke out a breathless scream. 

“Mine.” Thrust. “All.” Thrust. “Fucking.” Thrust. “Mine.” 

You passed out. 

Satoru chuckled as your eyes fell shut, and released his hand around your neck. He planted his palms beside your head and slowed down his vicious pace, giving your sweaty face small kisses. “God, you’re so beautiful. I could watch you sleep for hours.” And he had on multiple occasions, but that was a secret he wouldn’t clue you in on. “Just a little more, sweetheart.” 

He continued to work his cock inside of you, and in a matter of minutes, his warm release filled your sore hole. Satoru pulled out and pried your legs apart, watching his come leak out of you with a smug smile. He eyed you still sleeping and scoffed a chuckle. “Missed out on the best part.” 

Grabbing one of your t-shirts from the closet, Satoru cleaned you between your legs and your body, sneaking a kiss on each nipple. He lowered himself at your side and pulled up at the sheets to cover both your bodies. Satoru kept you glued to his chest, massaging your scalp, down to your bare ass. His eyes closed slowly, very slowly, and then he was joining you in dreamland. 

You woke up on a hard surface. 

A sharp hiss pushed out through your teeth as you shifted a leg. You lower half felt like someone had stuck a thousand needles in there. To relieve pain, you laid still and took deep breaths, trying to remember what happened last night when your orgasm knocked you out cold. 

You were definitely cleaned up, and desperately needed to pee as the mobility in your lower region began to sink in, but something strong was belted around your body. Slowly, you turned your cheek back to find Satoru, sound asleep, with his face buried in the crook of your neck. A smile spread to your lips and you allowed yourself to relax for a couple of minutes, listening to the sounds of his subtle breathing and how they tickled your skin. 

BANG! BANG! BANG! 

You jolted from the violent raps on your door, followed by your mother’s grating voice. 

“Y/N! Why the fuck is your door locked again? And don’t say your masturbating, or else I’ll break that fucking phone of yours into pieces!” she shouted from the other side. Satoru stirred behind you, pulling you closer to his chest, and still, somehow, very much asleep. “Get your ass out of bed right now.” 

“Just give me a minute,” you said, muttering curses at her. “Satoru.” You pat his arm. “Satoru, wake up. My mom’s outside.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Have you seen Satoru?” your mother suddenly asked, and your heart stuttered. “His car’s parked outside, but he isn’t home. Did he go out for a run?” 

“I-I don’t know.” You removed his arm from your waist, giving you space to turn yourself around and gently slap his cheek. “Satoru, wake up. My mom’s right outside the door.” 

“What?” he whined out loud in his sleep. 

Oh, shit. 

“Is there someone in your room?” Your mother started to rattle your door knob. “Open this fucking door, Y/N!” 

“Mom— I—” 

“Open this door!” 

Satoru groaned from the early morning racket and at last opened his eyes, sitting up straight. He saw the franticness on your face, the fresh tears in your eyes, then at the door that was being violently shook. “Fucking bitch.” He got out of bed, naked as hell, and before you could claw him back to you, he unlocked the door. “You ruined our fucking sleep.” 

“What the fuck?” Your mother screeched, staggering back and hitting the wall behind her. She glanced back at you, sitting on your bed, with your bed sheet pulled up to cover your chest. “You— You—”

“Look, I’m gonna make this simple for you, sweetheart.” Satoru nonchalantly scratched the back of his head. “I’m not making you my wife. Easy as that.” He pointed his thumb back at you. “She’s my wife. Well, she’ll soon be my wife after I take her out of this dump you call a home.” 

Your mother had no other emotion but unadulterated rage, a furious bull who just caught sight of the red marks on your necks. She shoved past Satoru and inside your room. 

“Mom, please. I-I can explain— I—” You cornered into your bed as she raised her hand to slap your soul out of you—

“Agh!” 

You opened your tightly squeezed eyes and found your mother crashing to her knees with Satoru gripping her wrist and yanking her away from your bed. He released her and turned to you, cupping your crying face in his hands, brushing his thumbs over your eyes. He nodded, and though you weren’t sure what he was trying to say, you somehow just knew. So, you nodded back. 

Satoru handed you your clothes from the floor while he watched your mother curse you from where she sat on the ground, clutched to her bruised wrist, screaming about horrible, horrible things she’d do to you. “Changed, baby?” he asked back at you. 

“Yes.” 

“Good. Pack your shit.” 

You passed a look at your monstrous mother and tipped your chin up. 

As you packed your necessities in your bag, Satoru kept a watch on her, giving you smiles whenever you passed by him. You had to force him to wear his boxers because frankly, you didn’t want your mother ogling something that was yours. 

“I’m gonna go get my stuff,” Satoru said, placing a hand on the top of your head. “You’ll be okay?” 

You nodded. “Don’t take too long.” 

Satoru kissed your forehead and exited the room, leaving just you and your mother, who was still on the floor with her wrist in her hold. 

“He’ll break you,” she muttered, eyes half-asleep. “You think you’re the most important thing to him in the world right now, but believe me, girl, I’ve seen a thousand men like him at the club, and he’s the worst of them.” Her laughter echoed inside your brain, making you recoil from where you sat at the edge of your bed. “He made you promises, didn’t he? Yeah, well, spoiler alert. They’re empty. Like you’re fucking head. You're just a shell for him to finish inside.” 

“Don’t project your insecurities on me,” you snapped back. She narrowed her eyes on you. “What, he never finished in you, let alone fuck you? Is that it?” A newfound hatred took root in you and caused you to stand and make your way over to her. “He can’t break something that’s already broken. And I may not be the most important thing to him right now, or ever, but I’d rather be with someone who doesn’t extinguish their cheap cigarettes on me.” 

Your mother’s eyes loosened their restraints and lowered to her lap in shame. She exhaled heavily and tucked her knees up to her chest, looking so small, so easy to crush. 

But she was your mother whether you liked it or not. The only time you wanted to see her hurt was in your brain and right now. If any other bastard had laid his hand on her for no reason, you would’ve killed him. What Satoru did to her wrist was out of self-defense—his first instinct was to protect you from her abuse. 

You didn’t feel guilty seeing her this way. 

“Where will you go?” she asked quietly. 

“None of your business.” You glanced around your small room, and the outside where everything was, indeed, a fucking dump. “But I’ll send you money every now and then to keep surviving. Does that work with you?” 

Your mother’s pride didn’t produce a response. 

Crouching down, you brushed the strands from her face and cupped her cheek. She looked weaker, almost corpse-like from all those drugs she consumed at the strip-club. “Since you couldn’t take care of me, at least take care of yourself, Mom.” You leaned in and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. 

Feeling somewhat of a closure, you stood up with your large duffel bag, and closed the bedroom door behind you. 

Satoru stood leaning against the wall beside your door with a soft smile. You reflected back and he pulled in for a hug, pecking your crown. “They’re not empty promises,” he whispered, lifting your chin up. “And you’re not fucking broken.” 

You nodded, lifting on your toes to kiss him. “Let’s go home, Satoru.” 

“Let’s go home, baby.”