(times)envy

GOJO.

DELICACY. WHERE YOUR FLAVOUR IS SAVOURED.

If the tin foil hats are right, and there is a government agent watching Satoru Gojo through his phone camera, he’s sure they’d classify him as nothing more than a sad sack of shit right about now.

Pathetic. A cuck loser who is chronically unable to live and let live. 

There’s a woman on his phone screen whose name is also a colour. ‘Magenta’ (25, Gemini, ESFJ, if you were wondering) loves long walks on the beach and men who make their beds in the morning. Gojo snorts, splayed out across the plush sofa in his living room. No need to make your bed when you sleep on the couch.

Or when you avoid your bedroom as a whole. 

Magenta’s profile is annoyingly normal. The little badge beside her name declares her ‘Sweet & Tangy’, whatever that means. She’s pretty, seems to have her life together, definitely wouldn’t put up with his piles of shit like you did… and still, he’s unimpressed.

You’ve spoilt him, really. Gone and rotted him from the inside out, given him high expectations and a refined palate to boot. You’ve ruined him, ruined the appeal of domestic life, ruined shared meals and photo albums and sleeping in his own bed and you’ve certainly ruined sex as well. Granted, he’s not on the app to find someone to lay down for him, but he’s also not on the app for Magenta. Or anyone else that isn’t you. Left he swipes!

Satoru works through the next few ‘flavours’ without much care. Sweet, salty, bitter… all of the flavour profiles in the world flash before his eyes, and for a man married to his meals, not one of them piques his interest. He wishes he could feign it and message a few women (or men) to attempt a new beginning, but doing so would mean things are really over with you. Akin to the unforgivable sin in his eyes. Such blasphemy.

He continues on with his left-swiping feat until he reaches his daily limit and has to pay an unreasonable amount of money to continue on with his search. It isn’t until late into the night that you finally grace his screen. 

The photo that frontlines your profile is one that he’s never seen before. It’s pretty, you’re pretty, and god he misses you. Seeing you like this, advertising yourself for people to shop for, makes him want to cry. Or throw up. He can never tell if he’s love-sick or just sick-sick anymore. 

But fuck, you look good.

Groaning at the way his pants tighten at the sight of you, Gojo’s eyes travel over your profile. ‘Ambiguous’ is your listed flavour, which makes him laugh out loud in the vast expanse of his empty living room. He knows your flavour like it’s his own, and it certainly isn’t ambiguous. It’s an art, how you taste—the salt of your skin and the sweetness of your core and the strong iron of a bloodied lip when you bite his too hard. 

He’s reaching down to palm himself over his pyjama pants before he can even register his own actions. His heart is sick with regret and grief and every other blue-coloured emotion under the sun, but you’ve Pavlov’d the poor man into undiluted need at the bare fucking thought of you. 

He hisses out a long breath, his cock twitching under his palm, and Gojo mouths a quick ‘sorry’ to the digital version of you on his screen before breaking the seal of his waistband and reaching in to stroke himself properly. 

You never used to give him handjobs, though not for lack of trying. Gojo’s always been a ‘more more more’ kind of man, and believes with his whole heart that using the same hand he holds on dates for such filthy things is an insult to the every last inch of your body that he could use, rinse, recycle, and reuse over and over again. That pretty mouth of yours. Your tits. Thighs. Cunt. Ass.

Maybe he’s a masochist. Jerking himself off to the sight of you actively moving on would be tiered next to self-immolation on his big tier-list of self harm practices. But you’re just so pretty, and he misses you oh so much and his cock won’t stir for anything other than you, whether you’re his or not. 

Maybe he’s a cuck.

“Fuck,” he groans, lifting his hips a little as his pace quickens. He swipes on your first photo to reveal the next, simultaneously smearing the pre beading at his tip all around. This new picture is… one he’s definitely seen before. 

A quick glance to the left gives Gojo a nice long look at the framed photo that sits on his coffee table.The two of you after a long night out with friends, sitting side-by-side, hand-in-hand, heart-in-heart. Gojo’s strokes quicken a little at the memory, and then come to a complete stop when he glances back to his phone and it registers that he’s looking at just half of the existing photo.

You’ve cropped him out. 

“What the…” he squints, pulling his hand from his pants and using two fingers, still messy with his precome, to zoom in on the  photo. There, right at the edge of the frame, he can see a sliver of his hand holding yours. 

Ha. Despite your best efforts, you can’t get rid of him entirely. Gojo takes pride in knowing that no matter what, there will always be some part of him left behind. Be it is fingers intertwined with yours in a photo, or one of the many pairs of socks he’s left at your place, or the marks he’s left on your heart and soul.

He’s rock hard and throbbing, but his dick is forgotten in his pants as he swipes to your next photo, and then the next, and the next. Seeing you is hard but not foreign—hell, he has your photo as his lockscreen still—but seeing you actively moving on is… devastating? Heartbreaking?

It’s doing something to him, is what. Something gross and tight in his stomach, like jealousy but a whole lot sharper. Maybe it’s anxiety.

Satoru is sure that a simple Google search would gift him fifty different statistics and news reports relating to dating apps like Delicacy and ill-intentioned perverts and predators. How can he protect you when you’re doing stupid shit like this? Parading your beauty and single status to men who most certainly aren’t who they say they are.

They’ll appeal to you, say the things you want to hear. Be the man you want to date and fuck and settle down with. Some other guy will know what it’s like to have you beneath him. He’ll feel your lips at his ear and your legs around his waist. He’ll see your good days and bad nights and do as he pleases with your heart and mind and body. But how could you ever know who he truly is? 

You could be talking to anyone. 

Bad things happen when Satoru Gojo gets ideas. He’s sitting upright on the couch and forgetting all about the leaking mess in his pants as soon as the thought strikes him.

You could be talking to anyone.

Leaving your Delicacy profile on his home page so that he doesn’t lose his chance to swipe right, Gojo navigates to his own blank profile. He had put a placeholder name in when he signed up, but Delicacy doesn’t require photos to start swiping—he’s a blank page. He’s anyone.

He knows, of course, that you aren’t naive enough to match with a blank page. He also knows that you certainly wouldn’t match with him if he were to put his own pictures and name up. He’s sure of that much when it comes to you, but he doesn’t know who you would match with. He’s always been the only man in your immediate vicinity, and definitely the only man you’ve admitted to being attracted to.

Well… him and Geto. 

“Shit,” Gojo squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose with his right hand before remembering where that hand has just been and pulling it away. He can’t fall back into that mindset. Gojo’s odd obsession with your potential attraction to his best friend was the crumbling point of your relationship and frankly, he’s not sure he wants to know whether you’d match with Geto given the chance. 

He can’t revert to the person he was six months ago. He’s fixed things with Suguru, they’re okay now, and maybe he could do the same with you. Maybe he could apologise and admit to a sick jealousy that clouded his judgement and take back all of the things he said and did. 

Plus, it’s a total breach of privacy—for you and Geto. It’s immoral and unjust and Satoru couldn’t handle losing his best friend after all the work he’s put into making things okay again. Even if it is to hold on to the fine thread he has left of you. 

Even if Geto says he hasn’t spoken to you since the break up, out of respect for Gojo’s broken heart. 

Even if neither of you ever had to find out.

YOU.

There’s a very strong moral argument against fucking your ex boyfriend’s best friend. You think it’s even listed as a ‘taboo’ subgenre on most porn sites, and would definitely get you a few ‘horrible person’ accusations in an ‘Am-I-The-Asshole-For-Having-Regular-Sex-With-My-Ex-Boyfriend’s-Life-Long-Best-Friend?’ post on Reddit.

But it takes two to tango, and you’re a single woman with no residual loyalties to Gojo. Geto, however, has stronger reasoning against being balls-deep inside of his best friend’s ex-girlfriend. He’s even more bound by moral code than you are. So if you’re going to hell for this, at least Geto will be keeping the lava-bed warm right beside you. 

Plus, you’re pretty sure the third stage of grief is rebound sex. Or something like bargaining, but you’ve spent your whole life being told that everyone grieves differently, so you’ll take your third step as it comes.

Or as he comes.

You smile at your own joke and wrap your legs tighter around the waist of your tryst as his slow and deep strokes lull you into some sort of reflective trance. You don’t know when you started having sex in missionary—doggy only used to be the rule. No eye contact or kissing or dirty talk or saying the other person’s name. Nothing to remind the other that this was happening between you. 

The first time you and Geto had sex, things were rough and fast and exactly the kind of distraction from your wrongdoings that you needed. But now, five and a half months into what was meant to be a one-night-stand, things have become softer and slower and have given you more and more time to reflect. 

You try to dodge the thoughts that creep slowly into your brain, but once you’ve got that idiot’s face on your mind, it’s impossible not to think about Satoru. You wonder what he’s doing—if he’s laid down for someone new,or if he’s still wallowing in the loss of you. 

A rather large part of you hopes it’s the latter. The thought of him fucking another girl into the mattress you used to share makes your stomach curl, though that might just be from the depths that Geto is hitting inside of you. 

You feel so fucking good, and so fucking bad, all at the same time. 

Maybe you want to cry.

Despite your inner turmoils, your body shudders with each drag of Geto’s weighty cock inside of you. He’s different to Gojo: thicker, a little less flexible in the hips but more forceful in his thrusts, even when he’s going slow. Gojo used to roll with you, like the soft blue waves far out in the ocean. Geto is the white water crashing onto the beach. Still, he’s dedicated to your pleasure. Sometimes you wonder if he’s trying to prove something to you, trying to stake claim or stand on Gojo’s podium when it comes to making you come. 

His long hair falls over your face, caging you in as he looks down at you. God, he’s pretty. You like watching him like this, all breathless and tracing the seam of pleasure that exists between the two of you.  You like how his lips turn up in a smile, even as he’s balls deep inside of you. Makes you forget that you’re doing something bad. 

What makes him laugh, though, is when your phone chimes on the mattress to your left, and you turn under the weight of him to grab it. 

“How romantic,” Geto snorts as you thumb your phone open and try to get a glimpse of your screen from behind the thick trunk of his bicep, which is keeping him perched above you. “You’re not doing a great job at wooing me right now, checking your phone when I’m about to finish.”

“You aren’t about to finish,” you lift your head a little, smiling up at him—he always speeds up before he comes, and he’s still taking his sweet time with you. “And I’m not trying to woo you.”

“I’m hurt,” your tryst speaks plainly, moving his arm so you can see your phone, and diverting his attention to covering the exposed column of your neck in wet, open-mouthed kisses.

A notification from Delicacy, the dating app you downloaded on a whim a few days ago, greets you. Someone new likes your flavour!

You snort at the branding of the app and unlock your phone, navigating to the Delicacy app, but before you can see who your next true love is, Geto’s hair is falling into your face once again.

“We have got to get you a claw clip,” you turn your hair to avoid getting a mouthful of his silken locks. 

“Complaints, complaints,” Suguru bites your shoulder, which must make you tighten around him because he’s groaning in turn and raking his hips out to slam into you with a little extra force. 

You slap his arm. “Let me on top.”

“Gladly.”

You’re being flipped in seconds, almost losing your phone in the process, though before you can blink you’re sat nice and snug on Geto’s cock. Gravity is your best friend, pulling you down and filling you up even deeper in the same breath.

You close your eyes and take a moment, which Geto uses to appreciate his new eye-level view of your tits. He’s pawing at them with one hand, grabbing your hip with the other and slowly guiding you to ride him nice and proper.

Delicacy loads up on your phone as you hold it between the two of you. Geto shakes with another laugh when he sees it, which you punish him for by squeezing around his cock so hard that he chokes on the laugh.

“So,” he sing-songs and you tilt the screen up and check your likes. “Who’s the lucky guy that gets to savour your flavour?”

But the rolling of your hips stops, and Geto frowns as you still on his throbbing cock. Did he say something wrong? You bite your lip, and he tries for a glimpse of your screen to no avail.

“You are, apparently,” you say incredulously, half a laugh slipping from your lips as you turn your phone and shove it into Geto’s confused face. “Unless you’ve got a hot clone I don’t know about, I think I’m being catfished.”

Suguru likes you!

And there he is, staring back at himself on the face of a Delicacy profile labelled ‘sweet & salty’. It’s a relatively old photo, maybe scraped from his social media, though all of his accounts are private and certainly not privy to anyone who’d want to catfish people as him online… right?

“Holy shit,” he blinks, and then smiles. He’s unsure as to whether he should laugh at the absurdity of his being inside of you when you get the match, or grow angry at his likeness being used for unsavoury activities like these. Then, he laughs at the pun in his head. Unsavoury. 

“What should I do?” you ask.

“We could finish…” Suguru shuffles his hips a little beneath yours, the thought of delaying his release sending an ache through his balls already. You give him another sharp Look Of Warning and he scrunches his face up. “Right. Sorry.”

“I feel like you should care more about this than you do, what if someone is using your face to scam people out of their money?”

“I do care” Suguru placates. “I do, focusing is just really hard when I’m really hard and—”

“Suguru.”

“Yes. You should report the profile.”

You look at him, try not to stare at the fucked-out look on his pretty face, and fail. If someone’s using him to scam people out of their life savings, they’re fucked. He’s so… beautiful. People are evil, exploiting the lonely hearts of the world for a dollar. 

You nod. “That would be the wise choice.”

A moment of silence sits between the two of you, both staring down at the fake profile. A bad idea rolls into your mind, and you’re about to push it away and do the sensible thing, but when you glance up to Geto you find he’s already grinning back at you.

GOJO.

Satoru regrets his choice the second he finishes building his profile into a mock-up of Geto’s major talking points, but he’s swiping right on your profile regardless.

He turns his phone off and throws it onto the couch beside him.

Ideally, you won’t even see the like, because you don’t use the damn app. In the little daydream he entertains, Gojo is in his own head about nothing, and you’re spending your nights tossing and turning in bed because of just how badly you miss him. Someday soon, you’ll reach out and tell him you forgive him, and love him, and want nothing more than to run off into the sunset together. You’ll get married, fuck into each morning, and then some more once the sun has risen. 

The fantasy lasts all of five minutes until his phone pings, and he’s picking it up to a notification from Delicacy that makes him want to throw up.

You have a new match!