guys PLEASE put ur age in bio or i will have to block u 🙏🙏 this is a nsfw mdni blog
but also do not interact if you're looking for roleplay or sexual contact 💔 this is not that kind of space, merely somewhere i can fangirl over my very fictional interests
avid naoya and mahito hater buti'm not gonna hate on you for personal preferences like who you like i just express my hatred for them here time to time i litch like sukuna
however mamaguro and tsumiki erasure is NOT welcome here
You love being Satoru Gojo's girlfriend, he dotes on you, takes you on dates, spoils you - just one little problem, you are perpetually ovulating around him! Is wanting your nerdy boyfriend's cock in your mouth really such a bad thing? Satoru wants to wait for the perfect moment for your first time, though! He'll totally wait even when you're wearing that slutty lil dress and grinding on him, right?
pairings - nerd! gojo x girlfriend! reader
warnings - cute and silly, oral over panties/boxers, Satoru edging tf outta us -- reader is horny, Shoko/Hime, Sukuna being a fratboy dick, jealous Toru, rough blow jobs, p in v sex, first time, squirting, teasing, fingering, creampie, consent, breed kink, making your nerdy boyfriend feral and spit in your mouth <3
art creds here!!
this was a comm for my angel @cantarcantar!! ty for understanding that my life was like INSANE - ilysm for being patient <3 wc - 10.1k
It took you almost two years of crushing on Satoru Gojo to actually become his girlfriend, and you’re loving every minute of it. From being too damn shy to admit you like him, to very awkwardly trying to confess and every chance just utterly failing – to then instead becoming the very best of friends.
You two were finally ‘officially together’ as a couple.
Oh, and it was everything, being in his arms, swallowed up by those huge biceps he had hidden underneath his starch white dress shirts. Hearing that little laugh from his lips, all of those sweet little kisses he bestowed upon you – truly, all the feelings blossoming between the two of you in the most beautiful way, especially over the months of truly being his girlfriend.
He’d take you out for all day movie marathons, going to play bumper cars, mini golf, you name it – Satoru was down for it. Every date was a meticulously planned out one too, with little to no down time aside from the drive to and from. Perhaps that’s where you would sneak just the littlest pecks on his neck, hear his sighs as he gripped the gear shift of that fancy sports car.
Satoru adored you – and you adored him.
You were all his. There was no one else in the entire world than the boy who could never quite tie that tie on correctly, always just a little crooked for you to straighten out.
Yet with that came you being unreasonably horny all the fucking time, who wouldn’t be with Satoru though? Those long fingers pressing into your waist, the way that bulge pressed between your thighs, plump lips slipping up your throat. Every time it even got just a little close, maybe you were grinding so good that you were about to cum from that – he paused it.
Wearing a cute, bashful little smile on his face, fogged up, thick rimmed glasses – murmuring sweetheart in a voice that’s designed to make your pussy drip, and you feel like a complete pervert for wanting to beg for more. God, imagining his cock in your throat alone had you desperate and needy, let alone having him filling you, pumping you full, taking you first.
Maybe you are a pervert, truly.
You’ve tried so hard to be patient, you want him to want it as badly as you do, but every time you’re making out with your boyfriend – the top of the dean’s list and ultimate dungeon master for DnD – Satoru Gojo?
Every time his big ass hands grip your waist and he drags you down against his length, before he puts a pause on it?
You can’t even think about it.
You’re pumping your fingers in your needy cunt just thinking about it after every damn date with this boy. Whining out in your bed with your hips bucking up, gasps escaping your lips desperately in your empty room. Pumping faster and faster until you’ve got that sticky release all over your hand.
It’s almost as if you have this sort of ritual now, before you see your boyfriend and right after/.
Your rose toy is probably fucking tired of you.
As if you don’t you ache so damn bad around him it’s painful, hard not to shamelessly hump his thigh till you cum. No, the toy? This takes the edge off just a bit, but even the way you moan his name in your sleep is endlessly hilarious to your poor roommates that have to hear you between the walls of your off campus apartment.
“Still a virgin?” Utahime asked with a laugh when you had woken up this morning, getting ready to see Satoru.
“Not by choice,” you grumble, shaking your head and grabbing a coffee pod from the little rack, popping your favorite inside and pressing the on button. The aroma hits immediately, waking your tired brain.
You’d had the filthiest damn dream of him fucking your tits, cock sliding up and down in messy strokes that had you needing a damn shower right now.
You’re just perpetually ovulating.
Satoru is the perfect boyfriend, truly he is. He’s sweet, he’s a gentleman despite his blue eyes and where they glance too long. Mostly, he cares. You’ve fallen so in love with him so quickly over these past few months, but every time you think that things might progress, Satoru stops it. Gently lifting you up off his lap and sighing, kissing his way up your jaw, his snowy lashes tickling your cheek.
‘Sweetheart, let’s pause this,’ he would murmur those words all sweet and sultry against your skin after almost sucking on those nipples that just stay hard around this man, instead hovering a breath away so it ghosts your tits. Those huge hands brushing just underneath them.
It’s torture, really.
‘Oh, okay Toru,’ you’d whisper back, he’d moan and kiss up your neck, breaths tickling your skin. ‘Mnh…’
‘You’re so beautiful, god look at you.’
It was just wrong to talk to you like that!
“You poor baby. At least you have your toy collection,” Shoko teases, sneaking in and brushing your hair back. “Extensive, too.”
You flip her off, peeking at the phone then and seeing Satoru's name pop up.
Study session?
“Dick session?” She asks, you gasp, as if affronted at such a suggestion.
“I would never assume such a thing!”
You hope so.
*****
It’s not.
No, it’s not a dick session at all.
It really is an actual goddamn study session – both of you were sitting there in Satoru’s living room, his place was far fancier than anywhere, but that came from him being the Dean’s very son. It intimidated you a little at first, but now you’ve grown comfortable, as he made you feel so special.
Today though?
Well, you can’t focus on anything but how badly you’d love to kneel and suck your nerdy boyfriend, his thighs spread wide all slutty.
God his legs are long.
You bet his cock is-
“And this equation?” Satoru teasingly asks you, distracting you from your slutty freaking brain.
You're not even sure what stumbles out of your mouth for an answer, without saying how thick you think the circumference of his cock must be.
That is something you’ve done with your past experiences, and you know you’re good at it. You could easily deep throat a man and you wanted to see his cock so damn bad – could he be a challenge, though?
Your eyes drift down his chest, he peeks at you curiously.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He asks casually, spinning his pen between his fingers and studying you. “Hard question?”
“Um… yeah, a very hard time…”
Stop that! Stop looking at his dick print!
“The question is hard?”
“Uh… the question… yes.” You feel like a damn pervert every time you’re around him, can’t you chill and let things happen when they happen?
He sighs and stands up, stretching his arms up over his head, his abdomen revealed when his dress shirt rides up, showing those little v cuts that make your ovulating brain just a million times worse. It’s like you’re in heat. It's so pathetic right now – maybe you should avoid him till it stops.
“Let’s take a break then.”
“Yeah?”
He chuckles at how eager you are at the thought and comes up to you, leaning down with a hand on each arm of your chair, tilting his head so some of that soft white hair falls over his forehead. You brush a bit of it back and he kisses your palm, lips warm and sweet.
“You’ve been such a good girl, how can I not treat you a bit?” Your heart hammers in your chest, until those next words spill from his lips. “Boba?”
“What? Huh?” You blink as he eases back, pulling up his phone and leaning against the desk. “Boba??”
“Yeah, Boba, I’ll buy you some, I know you love it,” he smiles curiously as you bury your face in your hands. “No Boba? Matcha then?”
“I’m um…” About to cum if he touches you once even. “No, I guess Boba is fine. Thanks Toru.” you manage to say, thighs pressing together, Satoru frowns, kneeling now and gently taking your hands off your face, seeing your blush.
“Are you sick!? You’re all flushed!”
“I’m not-”
“You’re burning,” he touches your cheek in concern, and you almost fucking feel bad – you’re not sick, you’re ovulating. “Baby girl, let’s get you to a doctor right now!"
“No, no I feel fine, I’m not warm because of that,” you shift in your seat and whine out at just that friction. “Promise.”
He frowns and watches you carefully. “You’re hurting, it could be the start of something!”
“Well yeah I hurt,” you sigh as he spreads your thighs and kneels between them, shoving at him. “You’ll make it even worse down there.”
“I’ll make what worse, exactly? Your…” He trails off then, seeing your panties and blushing himself, pink dancing across his high cheekbones and dusting them in that rose. “Y-your… your panties are so… uh… s-soaked and…”
You should freak out at this proximity, at just how much he can finally see of you, but all you can do is whine again, as his eyes shoot back up to yours. “I’m okay, promise.”
“Am I neglecting my pretty girlfriend?” He asks softly, just a little nervous. Satoru has never touched anyone but you, but he’s extensively studied the female anatomy, and how to make you cum.
He just wanted your first time to be perfect.
That’s why he was waiting – the last thing he needed was for you to not enjoy your first time, though he knows you’re a little more experienced than he is – Satoru’s hardly kissed anyone before you. Not because he couldn’t – he just had no interest in that sort of thing until he met you – and even then, he really couldn’t find the damn courage to ask you out forever.
“No I’m being a damn pervert,” you cover your face and he chuckles at that.
“You’re being a what, now?”
You sink into the seat, mumbling. “You heard me.”
He’d been your best friend for so long, thinking there was no chance in the world – always jerking his cock with any article of clothing you’d leave in his room, like a filthy depraved pervert – and you think you were one perverted here?
Does him wanting the timing to be just right making you think that?
Satoru exhales softly, just a hint of what he wants to say slipping from his plump lips.
“What, do you touch your little pussy thinking of me?”
His voice has you lowering your hands, he spreads those thighs and slides up your skirt, making you moan out, head falling back, your hands gripping the arms of the chair even tighter.
“Wha-?” You can’t even finish your damn word.
“Asked you a question, baby.”
“God,” he’s diabolical without knowing – or maybe he does know. You’re trembling as you lean back, letting his thumb brush on your clit and gasping at the touch, already getting slick from a brush on your skin. “What question?”
“Not paying attention, tsk,” he clicks his tongue and his teeth nip your inner thigh, sinking in and making you whine out. “Do you touch her?”
“Y-yes,” he hums a bit, tugging your panties up until your lips are visible, that dark spot growing as slick starts pouring. “Please…”
“Be patient, baby,” he leans back now, smirking at you. “Show me?”
“Are you sure you…”
“Please? I wanna see so bad,” you blush now, you masturbate sure – but not in front of people! “I’ll show you?”
“Show me you um… jerking off?”
“Yeah, I mean… yeah?” You sigh a bit.
“Toru…”
“Mmm?”
“Why don’t I um… suck you?” He is bright red now, he’s almost busting just thinking of your mouth – that won’t do. His first blow job and he busts in one go!? No, Satoru has to jerk it three times before he gets the privilege of fucking your pretty little mouth, of feeling your pink tongue on him.
“Not yet.”
“Not yet? But you’re so hard,” you giggle and tease him with your foot nudging his thigh, he glares and catches it, shoving it wide. “Not yet, then. So you just wanna see me touch myself?”
“God yes, dreamed of that since…” He trails off then, he doesn’t want to admit just how long he’s jerked off to you, because it was before you even knew who Satoru Gojo was. “Lemme see.”
“Okay…” you lean back, running your fingertips over your panties, slipping underneath and leaning your head back, eyes fluttering shut, hearing Satoru’s soft little whine. “Toru…”
“Fuck,” he thought he could handle this, but he’s utterly failing, he can’t even see your pretty pussy and he’s already throbbing, leaking so much pre it hurts, sticking to his brand new digimon boxers. “You’re s’pretty, sweetheart.”
You blush as you look at him with dazed eyes, running little circles right around your puffy clit, coated in hot slick as it dribbles out of your panties. He swipes some of it on his fingers, studying it carefully, his tongue going to lap at it, moaning as the sweetness coats his tongue.
“Oh you’re t-tasting me,” it makes you needier, until you have to plunge two fingers inside your messy, quivering hole, that loud squelch echoing in your ears. He’s gripping your thigh with one hand bruising until you cry out.
“Fuck, so s-sorry… baby I hurt… y-you…”
“No, no, like it,” he moans and puts his hand back on your thigh, squeezing again so hard it aches. He's jerking his cock faster, whining out when he sees your slick fingers pull out of your panties. You press your cum soaked fingers to his lips and he eagerly wraps them around, sucking them off. “Toru…”
“So sweet, my pretty girlfriend,” his glasses fog up when he leans down, licking your inner thigh that is trembling, sliding higher until his tongue is on you – but it's not on your skin, it's on the soaked cotton of your panties.
“Fuck…” he moans as he gets those juices that are spilling through the fabric, his and squeezing his own cock as your thighs sit over his shoulders.
“More, please,” you're tugging at his hair so hard it hurts, bucking up your hips for more. “I need you, please.”
“Such a needy girlfriend,” he murmurs, thumb circling his drooling tip, looking up at you with desperation in his pretty blue eyes. “You want me to lick it more for you?”
Your answer is a little nod, even having him lick you over your panties is more than you've ever had done, and fuck it feels good. Sinful as he trails a long, slow stripe over the fabric, the tip stopping right over your twitchy clit, his moan is muffled against the damp cotton.
“Toru!” He's lost in your scent, in that taste, the little hints of lace decorating your panties rough against his tongue, the sound is fucking filthy.
Satoru tugs those panties up more firmly, strings of gossamer saliva dripping and dissolving, peering up at you with flushed cheeks. “Like that, baby? Is this what you were thinking about instead of studying?”
Your only answer is to nod quickly, a jerky little motion as he sees those puffy lips just swallowing the damp material. He swipes his tongue over and over, the heat and wetness of his mouth making your entire body tremble. You feel it heating up, hearing the messy sounds of his own cock fucking his fist, wishing it were your throat instead.
"Oh god, Toru," you whimper out it so pathetically, your hands tangling in his soft white hair, fluffy and silky underneath your touch, trying to pull him closer, to shove his face where you need it. “Not enough, mnh!”
He chuckles against your puffy cunt, the vibration and the quick lave of his tongue have you on edge. Pulse racing as he had the audacity to tease you, landing a wet smack on your cunt that had you pathetic.
"Ah - ah," he clicks his tongue, catching your wrists in one of his stupidly large hands and pinning them against your waist, smirking at you in a way that's utterly not dirty at all. "No touching yet, sweetheart. I'm taking my time with you."
“Meanie,” he chuckles again, but you love it – feeling that strength as he grips you so tight. “My panties are ruined, Toru.”
“Mmm. Yes they are,” he tugs them again, looking at how wet the material is, just a pathetic little scrap of fabric with your juices pouring.
Instead of showing you mercy and moving them, he just presses them further against you again, tongue shoving that fabric until it's flush with your needy clit, you swear you can feel his tastebuds as that tongue drags through the fabric, pausing everywhere that has you jerking and honing in.
Like this nerdy boy is studying you.
Oh. He is.
He's methodical, almost clinical with his research of your needy, clothed cunt just separated by this pathetic little piece of fabric, his tongue pressing more firmly against your soppy lil hole. She is pulsing around nothing, torturous strokes, pressing his fingers up and down, you're hot and sticky underneath his touch.
“Toru!” Your wrists are still pinned, his cock forgotten even though it's dripping down onto the soft, plush rug below his knees. Satoru finds your clit again and looks up under snowy lashes, you watch the drips of slick connect with that wickedly long tongue.
“Mmm. I bet I could see myself inside you,” he whispers, you suck in a breath at that, as if he is measuring the distance of your entrance to your belly button, easing your wrists to tug up your top, nipping your puffy lips over the fabric. “Scientifically.”
“Then experiment, scientifically.” He chuckles like the little shit he is, finding your clit once more, a hand pressing where he imagines his cock would bulge out.
“You are so needy f'me, s'pretty like this,” his words slur as he wraps his plump lips around your twitchy clit, barely concealed and swollen underneath the cotton material that is dripping wet. He pulls it in his mouth and sucks it hard through your panties, humming against you.
You're aching, cunt filling his hungry mouth as your hands land back on his hair, his movements making you cry out and buck your hips against his mouth for more.
“So sweet right now, god, look at that…”
Satoru is so close to cumming when he grabs his cock at the base again, squeezing so goddamn hard – he could almost bet that if he felt your cunt without the fabric, he'd spurt his white ropes everywhere.
Make a mess of you.
“Mnh. You close, sweetheart?”
Your answer is a jerky little nod, as he keeps torturing you with this fucking barrier, his teeth grazing that tiny clit ever so lightly through the fabric, making you scream out, your head falling back. Your panties are absolutely ruined now, utterly transparent with your slick and his spit coating them, your sweet little cries rushing through his ears.
Satoru? Well, he laps at the mess he's making happily, his tongue coating the entire area in circles that deliberately avoid that spot until you're twitching, tears falling down your cheeks.
"Such a messy girl," he moans out those words, eyes black when they peek up at you, his voice husky as your slick clings to his lips. "Soaking these pretty little panties f’me.”
“Please, Toru… move ‘em please,” he smirks and decides to have mercy on you, tugging them to the side of one of your lips and exhaling, watching the slick drool and spill down. You gasp as the air hits your cunt, already aching and needy, the dampness making it a cool shock.
“Fuck, you're so pretty,” he murmurs, his cock just about to bust without his touch, he glides his tongue from your ass all the way to your clit, looking right up at you. “Is this what you were thinking of, hmm? My tongue inside you?”
“Your cock, too,” he chuckles against you, but just a couple more flicks has you close, as he spreads your cunt wide, studying your every expression.
“Look at that. My slutty little girlfriend.”
Satoru is trying his best to hold it together, but when his tongue glides into your gummy walls and they grip him, he's too far gone, slurping up every bit of the cum that just pours out. You shatter so damn pretty, squirting all over his face, dripping down his chin until it's glossy, his cock starts pulsing right with your hole, imagining her milking him.
“F-fuckk….”
“Toru, mnh! S'good I… please…” You’re overheated, body sensitive, it’s just not enough, even with his tongue lavishing every bit of your pussy.
Not enough.
“Please what, baby? Mnh,” he grips his veiny cock as he cums with his tongue on your clit, more of your mess drenching his throat, his face, his shirt. His white ropes coat his hand, lashes fluttering shut as he savors your jumping clit in his mouth, whining against you.
“Want your cock in my mouth, Toru please…” he exhales, breath making you jolt, looking up at you with a blush.
“I um…” he leans back on his knees and you see the mess, blushing at it.
“I didn't touch you though…”
“Didn't need to,” he's clearly a little embarrassed, you take his cum soaked hand then – dripping white – and wrap your mouth around one of his thick fingers. “Oh fuck…”
You suck him right off, tasting that salty white substance and moaning as it hits your taste buds. Satoru pulls back and laps it off his own fingers, before kissing you right with it, the mess spilling between your mouths and dripping down.
Satoru Gojo – your nerdy boyfriend with an insane Digimon collection was a fucking freak, greedily drinking his own cum off your mouth.
You’re trembling when the door knocks, and you faintly remember that he has ordered you boba. He’s the epitome of a perfect boyfriend after that, considerate, caring, cleaning the little rivulets of your own release from your inner thighs – you’re stuck back on the opposite side of the bed, cuddling him and watching a movie.
Satoru even has the audacity to snore after, heavy body wrapping as you ache to get filled by him – at least the movie was so damn boring you drift off right next to him.
****
“I’m gonna die a virgin,” you mumble to Shoko and Utahime the next weekend, aside from more heated kisses and grinding on Satoru’s thigh after your well planned out dates – nothing.
You’re aching.
How much use could your rose toy really see!? And now you even have two more toys going along with it, though you doubt any of them are getting close to Satoru and how good he must feel. No ‘clit sucker’ could come close to what that nerdy little mouth could do.
“You look like you’re dying, girl, damn…” Utahime earns your glare. “Is it that bad?”
“He finally got me off and…” You blush now, unable to finish your sentence, remembering his tongue drinking up your juices.
“Does he know what a clit is?”
“Very much so, it was so good.”
They look surprised.
“You all have no clue, he really was,” Shoko laughs at that, leaning back and hitting the vape, handing it over to you. “No, no.”
“You need a smoke, sweets,” you grimace, brushing your hair back, pacing back and forth as the two girls watch you, snuggling with each other. “You’re pacing holes in the carpet.”
“I can’t handle this, I just… god I wanna suck his dick, is it so terrible? He hasn’t even let me touch it. I sound like a horny ass man, I hate it. I wanna respect him, I really do.”
“You wanna respect him with his cock in your throat?” Shoko finishes.
“Yes. I mean!? I will respect him without the cock in my mouth! You two are menaces.”
They’re laughing like the brats they are, blowing smoke in each other’s mouths, you damn near moan in frustration. Satoru’s gotten you off that one time, then since then he has gone right back to worshipping you in the sweet way he always did, as if you’ll what – forget about his tongue?
His stupidly long fingers…
The cum on your tongue that you lapped right off!?
The taste.
“Ugh -” you lean back and sink further into the couch. “I really am gonna die.”
“Can’t die, we’ve got that party tonight,” Utahime teases, kissing Shoko’s lips and giggling just a bit, you pout at the two of them.
In public Satoru would kiss your hand at best.
Where on earth even had that freak come from that spit his cum in your mouth last week!? He’s all gone again – the pocket protector wearing Nerd Gojo in his place, like some twin fucking took over for a minute.
“I can’t go to a party and get drunk, I’ll make a fool of myself around him, one drink and my pussy has a mind of its own…” You finally sit down, plopping back into the seat. “I feel like a pervert.”
“You are! Let’s just call you fucking pervy Sage.”
“Hey!” You glare at Utahime, Shoko is inhaling another puff of smoke, you cough just a bit.
“Hah – Sanji from One-”
“Don’t even!? I’m not that bad,” you huff at her, frowning now. “I swear I'm not trying to be pervy. God, what is in this weed?”
“Hmm,” Shoko tugs Utahime on her lap. “I wonder if he's scared you'll like … bite his dick.”
“You're so fucking mean,” you cough a little more, eyes watering as you scowl at the two of them.
“Look slutty, like really slutty,” Shoko walks up now, tilting your chin up and crooking her lips up at the corner. “Something that screams – fuck me.”
“He licked my panties and didn’t even…”
“Really slutty,” Utahime agrees, tapping her chin. “Ooh! I know, I have the perfect outfit in mind, that little black dress of yours.”
“But it’s too small for me now! It’s from like high school, and thanks to you two cooking all the time, my hips-”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what? Oh…”
You trail off now, realizing what everyone knew – that Satoru loves your hips, he grabbed on to them every chance he got, even when he was just a little bit shy.
“Okay…”
They kiss again in front of you, laughing a bit, making you lovesick for your man – your nerdy man who you wish would kiss you in that way, tongues all dripping. It’s not even fair.
“All lovey dovey, fuck you both.”
They’re so hot and rude laughing at you – you decide to just disappear, you don’t need your hot ass best friends making out in front of you when you’re already in pain from the constant edging from Satoru. You are rushing to your room and trying on outfit after outfit, before finally deciding on the exact fucking one they brought up.
You would look as sexy as you could and hopefully get your boyfriend to not be able to resist you.
But also you’ll respect his decision, dammit! You can wait as long as he wants to, even if you were absolutely gonna put your tits and ass out there for him. Looking in the mirror and touching up your lipstick, swiping a finger across your lower lip to smudge it just a tad.
“Oh damn you look hot, Sanji,” Utahime says when you come out.
“I am not Sanji.”
“You are.”
“Fuck you both!”
*****
Satoru can’t keep his damn eyes off you.
Fuck you’re pretty tonight.
That damn little black dress clinging to your skin is fucking ruining Satoru’s mind, brain short circuiting as the two of you navigate the insanely packed frat house, one of his hands on the small of your back protectively. People are all bumping into everyone, stumbling around, absolutely no chance he lets someone hurt you by accident.
Moreso, Satoru Gojo can’t get his fucking hands off you, no, he can feel your warmth right through the thin layer of cotton material, fingers splaying across it. He reminds himself in his head over and over just what a horrible thing it would be to fucking take your first time at a frat party, even as he has to adjust his cock, turning from you to face the wall for a moment.
“Everything okay, Toru?” You ask softly, hand on his back, he laughs, a fake and terrible attempt at being normal, turning right back around to you.
“Me!? Yes, yes. Do you need a drink, babydoll?” He asks.
The music kicks on as he speaks, and all you can see are his plump lips forming words, ringing from how damn loud they’re blaring the worst dance music known to man. “What!!”
“A drink!!”
“Huh?”
“A DRINK-”
The music pauses for just a minute, switching to something else but leaving multiple people to stare at Nerdy Gojo shouting.
You blink a bit at his shouting, he swears he’ll kill Suguru and Nanami for having the audacity to fucking laugh at him and his pain. Them smoking weed earlier and trying to give him every tip known to man on how to bury said tip right against that surely cute little cervix.
As if Satoru hadn’t studied extensively.
“Yes, please,” you smile all pretty, letting him guide you through, he just about loses it from the sheer amount of eyes locked onto you, gripping you just a little too tight, feeling the curve of those breedable hips underneath his fingertips.
Imagine having them bent over, his hands fit so perfect-
No, he can make it another night, a dumb frat party was not the time or place for something so precious as your first time. Even if you smell that good, and you’re dancing all over him, giggling, your ass brushing right against where his cock has tented his dark jeans.
Your drink in one hand, the other in his as he pulls you against him, for a nerdy boy, Gojo can absolutely move his body. You feel so goddamn good against him, with your waist in his grip now, his lips pressed against your ear – he can inhale that sweet scent you just naturally fucking have.
That’s when he realizes he’s about to cum if your ass rubs up on his cock one more damn time with those heels making you tall enough, he could bend you over and slide it right in. God he bets you’re so wet too.
Satoru has to pull back, making you blink just a bit in confusion, he downs the rest of his drink, smiling apologetically.
“Bathroom, sweetheart.”
“Oh, um… okay, want me to-”
Satoru runs the fuck off.
Maybe you’re doing too much, shit… you were absolutely grinding all up on Satoru because you were craving him so bad. You needed to give him more time! If the roles were reversed, you know he would, even if he may want to as badly as you do. Going to pour yourself a shot, you throw it back and let your eyes shut, sighing just a bit as it burns your throat.
You need to ease up and let Satoru take his time, even if you have to press your thighs together to resist the needy urge of rubbing your cunt on anything right now.
Maybe you are fucking Sanji.
*****
Satoru’s leaned back on the door, unzipping his pants and seeing his reddened cockhead, and just how fucking swollen it is. He’s jerking his cock desperately, whimpering out as the door gets knocked on, banged on in fact by fucking Sukuna of all people.
“Gotta take a piss man, stop jerking it.”
“I’m not!? I’m pissing right now – w-wait,” Satoru is jerking it of course, but how dare Sukuna call him out on it. Dickhead fratboy that he is, he’s chuckling outside of the door, but none of it is getting rid of Satoru’s throbbing erection.
He’s just way too needy, too sensitive, he can see his reflection in the mirror – those flushed pink cheeks. Sukuna thankfully fucks off, but Satoru can't even cum with just his hand, not when he knows your little fist would feel so much better, when your mouth and pussy would grip him.
No, Satoru is left tortured.
*****
You are alone for some time, concerned if he was somehow drunk or sick when the leader of the frat – the slutty ass, pink haired jock named Sukuna comes up to you, sipping his cup and flickering his red eyes up and down your face.
“Hmm, Gojo left you all alone?”
“And?” You scoff, rolling your eyes at him now, he smirks just a bit, leaning close. “He’s busy. Okay?”
“Mmm… yeah,” he peeks over his shoulder now, then looks right back down at you. “So.”
“So, what?”
He grins all big. “Wanna play beer pong?”
“Beer pong?”
“Mhm,” he tugs at a little lock of your hair. “Bet I stomp your ass at it. Look like such a good girl.”
“Hah you think I've never been to a party!?”
“Never seen you before aside from with your nerdy lover boy,” he pours you a drink now and inclines his head.
“I've partied, just… usually me and Toru are busy.”
He snorts at that.
So busy your boyfriend is jerking his cock in the bathroom.
“I see, so busy, huh?”
“Yes but…” you curse now, shaking your head. Satoru has been gone fifteen minutes and won't answer a text, a game of beer pong wouldn't hurt. “Fine then.”
It doesn’t take long until there is an entire gathering of people to watch you absolutely annihilate Ryomen Sukuna in beer pong, to the point he is fucking furious. You're landing the pong ball in every cup, decimating the entire frat at a certain point, giggling as you study them, down to the last shot, against Sukuna again.
“Beginners luck or some shit,” he’s fucking furious – you swear you see his vein ticking underneath his jaw.
Satoru is still not here.
You’re worried but you’re also enjoying the cheers, especially when you land that last one, giggling as the frat brothers who were talking all that shit about the nerdy girlfriend of Satoru moments before are now staring in disbelief. With one final, perfect arc, the ball splashes into the last cup.
It really is beginner's luck.
But.
Also, fuck Sukuna.
"Damn, girl!" someone yells, and you take a little bow, rubbing it right in Sukuna’s face now, who is slamming down the rest of his beer.
Surely he drank enough to get annihilated – but somehow still standing just normal, big ass man has some insane tolerance because those eyes look completely aware.
"Guess I'm not such a good girl after all, huh?" you tease Sukuna, who's standing there looking down at you, setting the cup down and crushing it.
“Hmmm,” his red eyes dilate just a bit as he steps closer to you, suddenly making you feel just a bit nervous.
Satoru hates Sukuna.
It’s well known, since high school the two of them have been overcompetitive and absolutely insane against each other. He’d be fucking furious if he saw you anywhere near him at all. You peek and see him across the crowd then, getting a text from Shoko blinging on your phone.
He’s really mad.
He is.
You get another text now from Utahime, biting down on your lower lip.
Make him jealous and maybe you’ll get dicked down, Sanji.
“I’m not Sanji,” Sukuna raises a brow, lips twitching. “I’m not.”
“Sanji? Who the fuck is that?”
“One piece?”
“Nerd – hey, wait,” you’re turning and he grabs your wrist for just a moment. “Shit, I mean… you’re right, you’re not a good girl, huh?”
“I sure beat your ass,” you say, pausing when he reaches out, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they brush a stray piece of hair back from your face, rough knuckles brushing against your cheek for a second too long.
"You did, you're full of surprises, brat.”
“Brat? Whatever…”
You can feel Satoru’s eyes on you – you’d pull back, but part of you wonders if making him jealous would bring that freak out that spit cum in your mouth – maybe you are a brat. You sip your drink, remaining normal.
“I’m dating Satoru, you’re too close.”
“Would nerdy ass Satoru know what to do, how to handle your ass?” He taunts, your eyes narrow, his laugh echoing despite the music as your boyfriend starts shoving his way through. “Show you that digimon collection?”
“I’m very pleased, thank you.”
“You look like you need to get your attitude fucked right out of you,” your fingers itch to slap him now. “If he fucks up, you know where to find me.”
“No thank you, I- Toru!”
Satoru is between you and Sukuna, shoving him off and glaring right at him – perhaps the two tallest men at the party right face to face, Sukuna’s smirk making Satoru want to punch him.
“Why are you so close to my future wife?”
“Wife?” You blush and he glares at you.
“Yes, and baby momma – but you’re being a brat,” he whispers, Sukuna snorts at that.
“She is a brat.”
“You can’t call her that,” he shoves the big ass man and takes your hand now. “She has better shit to do than talk to you.”
“Aw, but we were having fun,” Satoru is dragging you away, you blink just a bit, almost scowling at Sukuna who blows you a kiss.
What a dick.
BUT.
Satoru is fuming, and he’s hot.
You’re so toxic!
“What’s wrong, Toru? I was just playing some beer pong,” you say all innocently, as he drags you past everyone, you’re struggling to keep up with his long strides. “Um… what’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong!? Hah,” he’s laughing, psychotic and feral like you turned on a switch in his brain, when he finally starts getting some privacy. “Everything.”
“I don’t get it…”
“He was hitting on you,” Satoru yanks you away in the center of the party, you barely bite back your giggle at how excited you are to see him this way, looking ever so serious when he glares down at you.
Maybe you are evil, loving how mad he is, how jealous he is when he presses you against the hallway wall on the other side of the party, you can feel the music humming through the walls, but not as fast as your heart is racing looking up at your blue eyed boyfriend. Blue eyed angry boyfriend.
This isn't sweet Satoru at all, no – he's completely fucking unhinged, his chest rising and falling with his quickened breaths, cupping your face and jerking your chin to look up at him.
“You think he was?” You ask softly, making him raise a brow. “I thought he was just… being nice?”
You make him laugh without humor now, thumb brushing across your lip. “Are you being bratty, sweetheart? Teasing me, making me jealous?”
“What? No,” you straight up fucking lie to his face, batting your lashes all innocent and cute, but you can tell my that little smirk he doesn’t buy any of it for shit right now.
“No?”
“No, I was just talking, Toru. Isn't that fine?” You trail your hands up his chest, wrapping your fingers around to hook behind his neck, tugging him down to face you. “It’s fine for me to make friends, isn’t it?”
“Not when he's looking at these pretty tits,” he cups one, making you suck in a breath – your needy boyfriend is never this bold. “They're not his to look at.”
“Oh?” You lean forward now, tip toeing as he leans low, thumb brushing over a nipple, making it perk up for his touch. “Are they yours? Yours to look at?”
He’s losing it, his pulse hammering behind his ears, in his wrists, everywhere was hammering, his mouth practically salivating as he cups that tit right where anyone can see, big hand squishing it. You gasp out at the sensation, your lashes fluttering closed, little whines mingling against his lips.
“Yes, mine, every inch of you is mine,” Satoru shakes his head now with a soft laugh. “He thought he could dance with you. Kiss your lips? Lips that are mine.”
“All yours,” you open your eyes and giggle again, earning his scowl. “Sorry you're just so cute like this.”
Satoru blinks.
“Oh, I’m cute?”
You go to press a kiss when he snatches you up in one swoop, you gasp and wrap your arms around his neck now. Thighs trembling as he carries you to some room he finds, stumbling you in and shoving you right against the door.
“You think I'm cute,” he presses his cock against your slick heat, slutty little panties practically ruined for him, grinding his cock until you're gasping out. “Well I think that you're a brat.”
You gasp. “Me?”
Two people calling you that.
Well… maybe you are.
“You are bratty, with those pretty fucking lips,” he's kissing you filthy, tongues dancing, saliva dripping between you both, easing you down so that you slide against his body achingly slow. “Maybe I should shut your bratty mouth up.”
Oh fuck.
“Yes please?” He glares at your big fucking grin.
“On your knees then, sweetheart,” you so eagerly obey, he laughs softly, his heart hammering in his chest, a mix of being utterly furious, nervous about his first time, and dumbstruck by the sight of your heart eyes. “Look at you, bein’ such a good girl – but are you really that desperate to suck me?”
“Please yes,” you have no shame – all you want is Satoru’s cock deep and buried in the back of your throat. “If you want though! C-consent.”
“As if I haven’t wanted this for years,” he shakes his head and tilts your chin up, sighing. “I wanted to do it all perfect, to lick and kiss every inch, worship your body until you were writhing, so fucking needy for it.”
Satoru unclicks his belt, the metallic click hitting your ears. “Mnh… years?”
"Years," he repeats softly, unbuttoning his jeans entirely too slow for you, you go to move your hands and he halts them with a little smack, you bite down on your lip, aching. “Hands on your thighs, you’ll listen to me for once, since you’ve been driving me so fucking crazy.”
“Me, making you crazy, really,” you do as he says though – eagerly – palms on your thighs, he laughs a bit, the sound of his zipper lowering echoing in the room even with the reverberating walls.
“You know every time you drag that messy cunt on me it ruins me, right?” He draws out that word, sighing now. "Every time you wore those little skirts and bent over, every time you'd bite your lip while concentrating…”
Satoru drags a thumb down your lip now, achingly slow against the plumpness that moves underneath it, your teeth nip on his thumb teasingly, and then you let him push your mouth open.
“Open real wide, sweetheart,” you do just that, and he can’t help but whimper as he presses down on your tongue, as if he’s studying the recesses of your open, eager mouth. “Wider, can’t you? For me?”
You listen eagerly, opening wide and fucking obscene, your tongue out for any bit of him he wants to give you, core just aching.
“Fuck, I've imagined this exact moment."
Satoru won’t tell you just how long he has, either, he swallows – just a bit nervous now.
“Suck,” you suck his digits, slurping them and moaning around them, imagining his cock instead, loving how dominant he’s being. “Stop.”
You obey, making him raise a brow.
“You like me tellin’ you what to do? Is that why you got me so fucking mad, so jealous, to have you listen?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, as he shoves his jeans down, and the hard, thick length of his bugle strains against the thin fabric of his boxers. “Pokemon? You traitor!”
“I can’t wait to shut your mouth up tonight,” you giggle at that, Satoru sighs and frowns at them, brushing your hair back a bit. “They were a gift, okay?”
“I’ll buy you digimon ones.”
“God, you’re so perfect,” you’re still giggling, when he gently smacks your face – the lightest little touch that has you almost moaning. “Open up again, yeah? Be a good girl, baby.”
“Mmm, yes,” you nod your head, doing just as he says – the side of freaky Satoru you only saw hints of last week when he’d lavished your panties with his long tongue.
“You got me jealous on purpose, yeah? Wore that slutty outfit to fucking ruin me, wanted cock in your throat that bad? Got me fucking leaking so much… fuck…”
Your answer is to keep that mouth open, leaning forward as you lap your tongue along the damp spot where his pre cum has already soaked through, right over a traitorous yellow pikachu. You’ll make more fun of that later, right now he’s jerking his hips, hissing at the drag of your cute lil tongue on him.
“Fuck…” You’re teasing him just like he did you – licking and sucking his tip over the damp cotton of his boxers. “Act so sweet and you’re evil, shouldn’t feel that good through that… mmm…”
Satoru’s letting you suck around his fat cockhead, slurping every bit of his white cum from it, tongue lolling right along that slit over and over.
“Torturing me back?”
“Yep,” you lick your lips, making him sigh, shaking his head now.
“Go on then, take what’s all yours…" his voice is low, hoarse damn near as he for the very first time pulls his cock out, letting it spring free, slapping against his lower abdomen with a loud, wet smack. “Can you fit all of it?”
You knew he’d be big.
You didn’t know he’d be that big, with his jeans undone all slutty, his pokemon boxers shoved down – his cock is perfect, just the right amount of thick and entirely too fucking long, with a prominent pale blue vein running along the underside. You’re literally drooling as he strokes it right in front of you, the head flushed a deep, pretty pink as it leaks white.
You’re soaked, fucking ruined.
“I can.”
You cannot.
Maybe?
You will try!
“Go on then, sweetheart, lemme see how good you can take all of me,” he chuckles as you lean forward without hesitation, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the tip. “Teasin’ me more?”
You lap your tongue up, keeping your hands right where he asked you too, sliding underneath so you hit that frenum. His sharp inhale is met with his huge hand tugging in your hair so hard it hurts, pulling at the hairs on the nape of your neck.
“Fuck… greedy lil mouth,” he’s damn near slurring his words when you swirl your little tongue around the head, lapping up the salty taste of his cock underneath, brushing along that vein. He whimpers out when you wrap your lips around it and suck. “Oh my… f-fuck…”
Satoru loses it the first time you really suck his cock, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head, pushing you down further as his other hand rests on the doorway, beginning to move so that he’s choking you. You’re whining out, aching to touch your cunt so bad you slide your fingers down.
“So desperate,” he tuts his tongue, fucking your throat now, his cock slamming the back of it as tears spill. “B-baby, is this s’okay?”
You pull back as he does, with a wet, filthy pop, grinning. “I want it, all the way deep in my throat, Toru, I can take it.”
“You can take all of it in that tiny lil’ throat? When she’s this tight?” He whispers, your nod makes him glare now. “Have you done this?”
You blink a bit. “Yes?”
“Then I’ll fuck your throat so hard you’ll forget anything but me,” he takes you over now, slamming deep inside, you’re whimpering as one of his feet spread your thighs, and you’re soaking his black boot. “That’s it, rutting on my boot and taking cock like a little slut, hmm?”
“Mnhgh…” you’re done for, this is exactly what you needed, him railing your throat until you can’t think, until you’re gagging and tears are spilling.
“Look at me,” he orders softly, you do just that as he presses deep, sniffling as you try to take all of him, he hisses as he feels his tip stretching that tight throat, his Adam's apple bobbing. “You know I fucking love you? And respect you?”
You giggle around him and he glares.
“You have to know if I’m gonna say all this,” you pull back again, fingers all coated in your slick, gliding it along his sticky tip.
“I know you love me, Toru. I love you…” He sighs, touching your cheek. “I love you talking to me this way, you could be meaner.”
“Oh? Fuck my frustration on your throat?”
“Please?”
“You’re ruining me,” he mumbles, slamming right back inside, now that he knows you’re okay, he can lose control, see how much you can take, as you grind on that shoe, nails now pressing in the muscles of his thighs, jeans slipping down. “Want our first time to really be right against this door? Shove your slutty skirt up and ruin your cunt for fuckin’ anyone?”
God, Satoru’s sexy like this, fogged glasses and all.
Your answer is to take him all the way, your nose brushing against the white hair, the tufts of it tickling your nose, he’s stuttering now, unable to stop himself from fucking faster, harder, the wet sounds mixing with his whines. He doesn’t hold them back, either, every time he does he feels a fresh gush of wetness even over that leather, he can see it shimmering as he pulls back and slaps his cock on your mouth.
“Slutty girl, this all f’me, huh? Not that fucking loser downstairs?”
“All you.”
“Hold that tongue out,” you do just that, and Satoru slaps his tip on your tongue over and over, as you keep grinding on him. “Can’t believe you’re this much of a pretty little whore, god I thought you were a good girl?”
“Toru… please…”
“Please what?” You just keep rubbing. “Desperate, fuck… stand up.”
You can hardly do that when he helps you by tugging you up, spitting directly in your mouth, you swallow it greedily, earning his pathetic moan as he turns you, shoving you against that door. “Mnh!”
“Stop me before I fill all your fucking holes with cum,” he’s kissing down your neck, his glasses cool against your neck, whines escaping his lips as he shoves that slutty lil dress up the gentle curve of your hip. “All of them, I’ll have your cunt drippin’, your throat full, fuck that ass while I’m at it.”
“Mngh, please, please,” it’s all you can do but to arch.
“That needy?” He’s tugging your panties to the side, dragging his tip up and down over and over, moans escaping his lips when he bends down, turning your face to him. “First time in a frat house against a door? You’re so wet do I even need to finger you right now?”
“Already did,” you answered, he laughs, shaking his head and kissing you, rubbing even more, teasing your slit with the fat head of his cock until you’re weak, your thighs shaking. “Please, please….”
“Please what, fuck your cunt for the first time? That’s what you’ve been wanting, me to lose it, huh?”
“Yeah,” he scoffs, teasing even more, mouth messy and mean as he bumps your clit, until you squirt right down his length, dripping all down the carpet.
Sukuna’s carpet – it’s his room you faintly notice, as you see the little pictures on the walls.
You wonder if Satoru meant that.
“Squirting already, haven’t even fucked you yet,” he pulls back and bends down, slamming his cock so deep you scream out, head falling back as he tugs your hair, making your ass arch out as he fills you. “Oh my g-god… baby…”
“Toru,” he lets you adjust to his thickness, the very first time your cunt has ever been filled – and this wasn’t how he wanted to do it.
He wanted to stretch you out – one finger, two, then three – but you’re so soaked you suck him right in. Such a tight, perfect fit he can hardly take it, bending down to press sweet kisses on your bare shoulders, easing back and shoving in again, taking your hand and placing it on your tummy, pressing so you feel it all.
“Feel me here?” He asks softly, desperately – worried for a moment with how tight you are that he’s hurt you, but your answer is to look back at him with those slutty, parted lips and dilated eyes, nodding. “Who’s inside you?”
“You, Toru.” you answer, cunt spasming as she’s already close, his body overtaking you, wrapping and tugging, shoving even deeper.
“Who’s first?”
“You.”
“Who’s gonna make this cunt stretch out?”
“Y-you and… ah!”
“Mine, mine… fuck you’re all mine,” Satoru gave you that minute to adjust, a last mercy before your nerdy boyfriend fucking loses his mind. “Mine, this pretty body, this perfect pussy… you… mine…”
“Yours,” you whisper it over and over as Satoru fucks your messy cunt, even though it’s hard to take, you’re so full it feels perfect, letting his hand wrap your throat, fingers pressing on either side of your windpipe. “Ah!”
“Hah – such a perfect fit, made f’me,” he’s fucking you so deep you feel him everywhere, cock gliding in and out of your sticky, gummy walls, fucking you so goddamn messy it's dripping down between your thighs. “B-babyyy…”
You arch for more when he pulls out of your cunt with a filthy squelch and you whine from the loss. “Back in, please…”
He lifts and carries you to the bed, thighs shoved wide, feral now as he shoves back inside and sees himself moving inside you. Every slick glide smoothing your puffy cervix, until she is bruised and aching, that dress shoved higher, panties tugged firmly to the side. He uses both to move in you, laughing as you gasp out, as your thighs tremble.
“Aw, is it too much, sweetheart? Too deep?”
Feral Satoru is here, mixed with sweet Toru, but his cock is anything but sweet – the way it stretches you out, fucking ruins you, pummels your cunt so deep you’re about to cum all over his length, already sensitive.
“Mhm!”
“Full of me?”
“Nghhhh…”
You don't know how the fuck else to answer, it all is entirely too much, the way he can see his cock print, his insane laugh, those blue eyes glittering with the frames fallen off. So blue it hurts to look at, eyes almost threatening to close.
“Nuh-uh, eyes on me, that's it,” Satoru keeps pumping into your cunt, leaning up to shove your thighs against your tits, smushing them as he fucks you dumb.
He knows it too.
“Can't think?”
“mmm, nnnhhh,” your answer is pathetic and just a babble really, as your nerdy, once virgin boyfriend pummels your messy, needy cunt until she's stuffed so full it hurts. Your nails pressing into biceps, digging in as he stretches your puffy lips on it.
“Can’t even fucking talk – already?” Your eyes roll back in your skull as his cock ruins your pussy, so deep you do feel him all over.
“Gonna pump you so full, hah will you finish college without me breeding your cunt?” Satoru Gojo is batshit insane, as he leans over you, bending you so that you're folded in half under his heavy weight. “What would you do then, hmm? If I breed your slutty cunt? Make you mine.”
“Want it, mmm,” you’re utterly fucking shameless about it, feeling his bruising grip, his cock getting creamy at the base as his heavy balls slap.
“Jerked it in the bathroom, had me so hard,” you bite down on your lip, gasps escaping your throat, eyes locked. “You love that, huh? Driving me insane, slutty dress, pretty body… god…”
He presses your thighs down enough to tug your tits out, gripping them and exhaling, thumbs brushing your nipples until they’re peaks.
"Look at you," he pants, "taking my cock so well, pretty girl. You’re just such a good little slut for me, aren't you?"
You can only moan in response, your body trembling as he hits that spot inside you that makes your vision go white, your answer is to grip his hips with your thighs, letting him cup your face, pumping you so full that you can feel it all over. Warm and hot when he whines out so pathetically in your ringing ears, slutty little moans falling from your lips.
“Takin’ all of it, god…” He kisses you even as you shatter, your cunt spasming all around his veiny length, milking him for every drop. “So fucking greedy. So needy.”
He leans down and captures your lips, spurts of cum still pouring, you can feel him twitching, nails pressing into the strong muscles of his back. “Toru… l-love… toru y-you…”
“Cock drunk, sweetheart?” He teases, like the menace he really is – but he also lovingly caresses your cheek. “You took me like you were made for me.”
“I did?” You’re so damn drunk off him you’re slurring your words, pussy achingly empty, feeling his cum slipping out.
“You did a very good job. Such a good girl.”
“Yay!”
Satoru snorts at you, shaking his head and peppering kisses, leaned up on an arm, his shirt half open, revealing the hard planes of his chest. “You’re s’cute… I wanted to take it easy your first time.”
“I loved it,” you admit, yawning now, peeking around the room. “Mmm, can we go home though?”
“Of course we will,” he kisses down your body though, breath ghosting your thighs, spreading them to watch the filthy mess of his cum pour out, groaning. “You’re wasting it all, baby.”
“Hmm? Ah!” Satoru scoops some of that mess up against his fingertips, shoving it right back inside your quivering hole. You’re gripping him tight, thighs clamping down on his hand, as he smirks. “Toru you’re… crazy…”
“Mmm, you really have no idea what I have wanted to do,” he clicks his tongue, pushing that cum deep again, watching your every expression. “Gonna keep you so full of cum it’ll drip everywhere.”
Satoru does not just fuck you once, no – he makes sure to bend you over in the backseat of his car, fucking cum back inside. Once you're at his house he is pumping ropes of cum on your tits, laughing at how messy you get coated in white, before spreading it all over your body.
Satoru fingers and fucks all that cum inside until you're a trembling mess in his arms, passing out and snoring.
“So funny you started all this but then couldn't keep up, hmm?” He teases softly, cleaning you up, cock sore from how you gripped him, how much he came. But even the sight of milky drops escaping your hole had him damn near twitching back to life, groaning against your skin.
*****
“Good morning,” your nerdy boyfriend is littered in pretty kiss marks, indentions of your teeth all down his neck, a loopy smile on his face as he stands there shirtless, glasses firmly back on.
“Oh! Good morning…” you thought you'd be the one to ruin Satoru Gojo, ride his cock till he whimpered and cried from overstimulation.
You had no clue he'd fuck you so good you couldn't sit up right without his help, cupping your face and leaning down to kiss your lips, tilting your chin up and smirking. You're a mess.
A pretty mess.
Hair fucked up, covered in fingerprints and hickies, taking the coffee he brings and sipping it, sighing as it hits your tongue. “Mmm… good morning.”
“Don't you look pretty in my bed?” He muses, smirking on his features. “I wonder what Sukuna thought of his bed covered in your squirt.”
A blush heats up your cheeks. “I didn't squirt that much!?!?!”
“You really did,” you shove him playfully, giggling then. “My cum too though.”
“You did it on purpose, his room!”
“Me? Never.”
Satoru absolutely did.
That's what Sukuna gets for hitting on his girlfriend, dried up cum all on his blankets – as if he could handle you ❤️
heheh i hope ya'll liked horny reader for a change!!!
synopsis: if you could you'd have fought it but you know you're not,
from the start they knew you were wrong.
content: gojo satoru x fem!reader, MDNI (18+ ONLY), college au, friends with benefits, s3x worker gojo satoru, ANGST, trauma, addictions.
notes: ive realized as the story progresses I really dont know what to write in these mf notes anymore woohoo yay wow! anyways, you can find chapter 18 right after this one, 2 for the price of 1!
TAGLIST CLOSED
MASTERLIST - MOODBOARD - CHAPTER I, CHAPTER II, CHAPTER III, CHAPTER IV, CHAPTER V, CHAPTER VI, CHAPTER VII, CHAPTER VIII, CHAPTER IX, CHAPTER X, CHAPTER XI, CHAPTER XII, CHAPTER XIII, CHAPTER XIV, CHAPTER XV, CHAPTER XVI, >> CHAPTER XVIII
I.
The town knows.
Towns like this always know.
Information spreads through gossip networks faster than disease, mutating with each retelling.
The girl who got herself gang-raped.
The prostitute who finally got what was coming.
The whore who climbed into the wrong car.
They don’t say it to her face but Emi can feel it when she walks through the store reaching for bread.
Poor little whore.
Their thoughts press against her skin, sticky and suffocating, a second skin she can’t peel off no matter how hard she scrubs in the shower.
She scrubs until her skin is raw and red but the feeling doesn’t leave, clinging like oil.
This is what happens to girls like this.
She can feel the judgment radiating from the church ladies who clutch their purses tighter when she passes, from the men who look at her with disgust and desire that means they’d fuck her if they thought they could get away with it but would never acknowledge her in daylight.
She’s been marked now, branded.
The stares cut into her like daggers, reopening wounds that haven’t even begun to scar.
They remind her that what happened in that house with those ten men isn’t over, will never be over, will follow her through every aisle of every store for the rest of her existence.
She wants to scream at them.
She wants to grab their pressed collars and shake them.
She wants to ask them what makes them so different, what makes their fucking so holy when they’re spreading their legs for husbands who beat them and cheat on them.
Women have sex with their cheating husbands for free, she thinks, so what’s so bad about getting paid for it?
Men are going to use women’s bodies regardless.
She was just unlucky, that’s all.
Wrong place, wrong car, wrong men.
Everyone is a coward, she decides, everyone who looks at her with judgment, everyone who pretends that what happened to her is different from what happens behind closed doors in houses with white picket fences and families who pray together on Sundays.
And yet.
Even though she tries lying to herself, and tells herself that she’s the brave one, there’s something growing inside her that wasn’t there before, something that started that night in that house and has been spreading through her bloodstream like poison, slow and inexorable, turning her organs black from the inside out.
The poison of death.
The knowledge that she doesn’t want to be alive anymore, that being alive requires too much effort, too many moments like this where she has to walk through stores while people think their daggers at her.
Where she has to wake up every morning and remember that she has a body and that body has been used in ways that can’t be undone, can’t be washed off, no matter how many showers she takes or how many times she tells herself it doesn’t matter.
Kill yourself kill yourself kill yourself whispers through her thoughts, the voice of someone who loves her enough to offer mercy, and she’s starting to listen.
Emi’s starting to believe that maybe the sweet arms of Mother Death are kinder than this, more honest about what they want from her which is nothing except the end of being a body that generates sensations she doesn’t want to feel.
In her dreams Death is the final fuck you to everyone who ever thought they owned pieces of her.
Death is the warm cloud she imagines when she’s high enough, where God and the angels exist as a family that actually wanted her, voices that say it’s going to be okay sweet child of God instead of this is what happens to girls like you.
II.
The drugs start again
Ones that require veins and faith and the absolute certainty that you’d rather be anywhere except here, including the chemical wasteland of altered consciousness and the risk of never coming back.
She finds a dealer two towns over and the first time she shoots up she’s alone in a gas station bathroom that smells like piss and industrial cleaner, her belt around her arm, the needle finding the vein on the second try.
Then, she’s not there anymore.
She’s somewhere warm and weightless, floating on clouds that feel like a mother’s arms.
The angels are there and they’re beautiful, incandescent, made of light and unconditional love.
They tell her she’s forgiven, she’s clean, she’s worthy, she’s safe.
Sweet child of God, they say, and she believes them because the high has burned away her ability to doubt, has rewritten her neurochemistry into something that can believe in mercy and imagine a universe where she matters for reasons beyond what men can extract from her body.
When she comes down the bathroom is the same, the smell is the same, her life is the same.
But now she knows she has a place to go when the poison of wanting to die becomes unbearable and she needs temporary relief before the final kind.
III.
She stops talking as much.
The Emi who used to fill silences with jokes and provocations and her dark humor has gone quiet, has started sitting by the lake for hours just staring at the water.
Her spark is gone.
It has been replaced by something that looks like Emi but isn’t Emi anymore, a shell going through the motions of existing without its animating force.
She knows Satoru’s drinking again, she can smell it on him.
And it’s her fault.
That’s what she thinks sitting by the lake with her knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins.
It’s her fault Satoru’s drinking, her fault he’s backsliding, her fault his eyes have gone dead again.
If she had never let those men beat her up.
If she had lied about it, kept her mouth shut, suffered in silence the way women are supposed to suffer, then maybe Satoru would still be okay, would still have that fragile hope that was starting to grow before she crushed it with her trauma.
Everything she touches turns to poison.
Everyone who tries to care about her gets contaminated.
She’s a disease vector, proof that some people are fundamentally toxic and the kindest thing they can do is remove themselves from proximity to anyone who might still be salvageable.
IV.
Satoru comes to her on a Tuesday night when the mosquitoes are out.
He sits down next to her on the dock without asking, and you're there too.
You've been there, watching Emi watch the water as usual, feeling useless and voyeuristic.
Satoru pulls cash from his pocket—folded bills, more than Emi would make in a week.
"Here," he says, pressing the money into her hand, his fingers lingering on hers for a moment longer than necessary.
"So you don't have to go to work tonight. Take a rest, okay?"
Emi looks at the money in her hand and rage shocks her back into her body, defibrillator restarting her pulse.
She knows.
She knows before the thought has fully formed in your mind, before you've connected the dots.
You've just realized what this money means and where it came from and what Satoru had to do to get it.
"Where did you get this?"
"Emi, don't—" Satoru starts.
"Where did you get this?"
She’s standing, the money crumpled in her fist, and there’s heartbreak and fury in her eyes as she's looking at him.
"Emi—"
"Oh, you fuckin’ didn't."
But she knows he did, can see it in the way he won't meet her eyes.
"You fuckin’ idiot, you said you were done"
"Well, I needed the money"
"For what?"
She's screaming now, disturbing the fake peace surrounding them. "For me? You think I want this? You think I want your fuckin’ dirty money?"
"It's not—"
"It is."
She throws the money at him, bills scattering, floating on the breeze, landing in the dirt.
"You went back to being’ a whore" Her voice breaks. "How could you go back to that?"
"How can you?" Satoru's voice rises to match hers, angry and hurt. "You're out there doin’ god knows what with god knows who, and I'm supposed to just watch?"
"That's different"
"It’s not."
He stands now too, and they're facing each other.
"We're the same, Emi, we're the exact fucking same. So don't—don't act like you're better than this."
Emi grabs his vodka bottle—the one he's been nursing since he arrived,—and smashes it on the dock, glass exploding, alcohol soaking into the wood, the smell sharp in the summer air.
The sound of breaking stops them both.
Silence except for the lake, the cicadas, your own breathing.
Emi's hands are shaking. "We're both gonna die doin’ this, you know that, yeah?"
Satoru doesn't answer.
"We're both going to fuckin’ die and there's nothin’ anyone can do about it because this is who we are, Satoru.”
V.
You watch this happen, watching through glass.
A barrier you can't name but can feel with absolute certainty: the distance between you and them, the void that separates your understanding from theirs, the canyon that can't be crossed no matter how much you love them.
Twin lotuses in the mud.
Two flowers growing from the same filth, roots tangled together underground where you can't see, feeding from the same contaminated soil, identical in their beauty and their rot, in their bloom and their decay, in their will to grow toward light and their inability to escape the mud that birthed them.
You've never understood them.
You've loved Satoru, or convinced yourself that was was what you felt when really it was fascination, maybe, or the narcissism of thinking you could fix someone by wanting them enough.
But you don't know what it's like.
The closest you've come to it was that guy putting his hand up your shirt at a party junior year and you saying no and him stopping, being embarrassed, apologizing.
Your first time was in your high school boyfriend's bed with rose petals he'd scattered because he'd seen it in a movie, with a boy who loved you, who asked if you were okay, who held you after, who told you you were beautiful.
There's a void between you and them, a crater, a chasm so wide and deep that you could spend your whole life trying to cross it and never make it halfway.
You live in different countries, speak different languages, operate under different laws of physics where gravity works differently.
What are you supposed to say? What words exist in your language that translate to theirs?
How do you comfort people whose wounds you've never suffered, whose pain you can't imagine except in the abstract, whose choices make sense in their context but seem like pure madness in yours?
Don't do this to yourself, you could say, but that's meaningless because they're not doing it to themselves, it's being done to them and has always been done to them.
You deserve better, you could offer, but that's worse because deserving has nothing to do with getting, because the universe doesn't operate on merit, because good things don't happen to good people and bad things aren't punishment for moral failing.
I love you, but they already know that, and your love doesn't fix anything, just adds another weight to carry and another person to worry about disappointing.
You're an intruder here. An outsider. A tourist.
The lotus flowers grow in mud but you've never touched mud, not the kind that grows things and rots things in equal measure, not the kind that births beauty and death.
You live in clean water, in chlorinated pools, in sanitized spaces where pain is theoretical and trauma is something that happens to other people, to people in stories, to people like Emi and Satoru who you can observe from safe distance and tell yourself you understand even though you don’t understand.
You stand on your side with your clean hands and body and your rose petals and teenage romance, and you watch them love each other violently, with the absolute certainty that love won't save them but at least they won't die alone.
The money lies in the dirt, scattered, worthless now, bills getting damp.
Emi's hands are bleeding from the broken glass and she doesn't seem to notice.
Satoru's crying and trying not to let anyone notice.
You're standing there with nothing to offer except noticing, which isn't enough.
Twin lotuses bloom in the mud.
And you stand in your clean water wondering why they won't just climb out, why they won't just leave the filth behind.
The mud is home, the filth is familiar, trying to transplant them to clean water would kill them faster than letting them rot in the soil they know.
in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) series
pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader
summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be nextand you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved—
until you wake up from your dream, gasping.why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?
warnings ⸺eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied
masterlist
01 ⸺ What a Weird Fucking Dream
the first day of your semester is precendeted by a very odd dream involving sorcerers and a hot ass husband. which you then see in lecture (3.7k)
02 ⸺ Note to Self: Don't Call Random Guys your Husband (soon!)
You can’t just tell people to ‘get a VPN (Virtual Private Network)’. Buying a VPN is like buying a house. It’s very very important. Having no VPN or having a ‘wrong’ one can seriously damage your life. Especially for Americans because their privacy laws are garbage. I am going to try explain why you should get a VPN but bare with me, I am from Germany and my English is far from perfect.
Let’s start with a simple test.
Click this link here: https://whatismyipaddress.com/
It will tell your IP adres, your ISP (internet service provider), and your location. The location might not be very accurate, but then again, it’s just a simple website. Imagine what the government can do!
So basically, everyone can find out where you live. But there is more danger. Your ISP. Your ISP logs your every move online and they are required to keep it in case the government wants access to it (or if a 3rd party wants to buy your data (yikes). They have everything. What websites you visit. How long you stay on a website. What you download. Your search terms. European laws are more subtle on this but if you are from the US you are #@*#&, especially because Trump doesn’t support the open internet. It’s scary but maybe in the future you can’t get a job because the recruiter knows your searched on ‘how to deal with depression’ or anythings else that’s supposed to be private because it’s your f*cking right. Or you get a $100k fine because you pirated a movie 15 years ago. You need a VPN. You’re dumb for not using one. but what does a VPN do?
A VPN encrypts all your data so if it were be intercepted no one can ‘crack the code’ and damage your privacy.
Usually being online goes like this (simplified): Your computer —-> ISP (—–> keeps data —–> sells it)
But with a VPN it goes like: Your computer —–> VPN (encrypts data)—–> ISP (ISP can’t see shit)
Furthermore, a VPN hides your IP address and location by giving you another IP address located in Spain for example (you can often choose from a list and change as many times as you want).
Now that you know why you should get a VPN and what is does it is important to educate yourself because people often choose the wrong VPN. VPN providers are also businesses and have to obey the law. If you choose a VPN provider located in the US then you are throwing your money away because the laws in the US shits on your privacy. If the US gov wants the provider to give all their logs they have to obey. The ISP still can’t see what you are doing online and sell your data but the US gov can interfere with your VPN provider so NEVER CHOOSE A PROVIDER LOCATED IN THE US.
I just wanted to make that very clear so my followers don’t buy false security.
There is still more danger!
Who says your VPN provider isn’t selling your data? You need to check their logging policy. Do they keep logs? If yes, what for? For how long do they keep them? Tip: Choose a provider who doesn’t keep logs
More about law
The US is part of the Five Eyes program (the worst):
The Five Eyes, often abbreviated as FVEY, is an intelligence alliance comprising Australia, Canada, New Zealand, the United Kingdom and the United States. These countries are bound by the multilateral UKUSA Agreement, a treaty for joint cooperation in signals intelligence (source)
There is also a Nine Eyes (bit better) and Fourteen Eyes Program (better).
You don’t want a VPN provider who is located in one the Five Eyes countries.
If you had to choose go for a provider located in a country that’s part of the Fourteen Eyes Program or even better, go for a country that isn’t part of any program!
I know this is a shitty explanation and please pardon my english but now it’s time to do your own research. Take your privacy seriously. Maybe WWIII breaks out and you get killed for liking the ‘wrong’ FB-page.
Go to this website: https://thatoneprivacysite.net/simple-vpn-comparison-chart/
Make sure that your future VPN provider both has green boxes for Privacy Jurisdiction and Privacy Logging.
I recommend ovpn.se and trust.zone. ovpn is located in Sweden so they are part of the 14 Eyes Program and they keep minimal logs. Their business ethics, however, are alright.
Trustzone is located in the Seychelles. No country can interfere and their privacy jurisdiction is the best you can get. The US want your data but needs to get it from Trustzone? The Seychelles will simply give them the finger and wave them goodbye. However, this makes this provider very appealing for people who torrent and criminals because they keep no logs (and that is how it shoud be) Also, there are almost no marketing efforts so this provider is one the cheapest)
Also, often providers such as ExpressVPN are being called ‘The Best’ on websites about VPNs but know that this is just marketing which also makes those provider more expensive (and they too shit on your privacy)
This must be the worst article you have ever read but please, please take your privacy very seriously.
EDIT: I got many people asking me which provider I use. For those who want to know, I use Trust Zone. They offer a free 3-day trial with no strings attached. But still do your own research!
I am also with Trustzone but I think you forgot to explain one of it’s most important features. It protects you when you are using someone else’s Wi-Fi.
If you are at Starbucks and you use their Wi-Fi your privacy is at risk. Anyone with ill intentions could steal your information. Especially if you are using an unsecured Wi-Fi hotspot. With a VPN your data gets encrypted so no one can steal it.
Wait, what’s going, on? Did trump destroy internet privacy with a bill or something? Where’s the news? Oh wait, why am I getting visions of Alex Jones and selling water purifiers?
He hasn’t yet but he says he wants to. And if he is serious about it it would be really easy to do. Since all our data is already recorded, as the person above explained.
@elvesfromthedeep just brought the current situation in the US to my attention (March 30, 2017).
Sources
Anger as US internet privacy law scrapped
Congress just voted to let internet providers sell your browsing history
To all my friends in the US, please read this entire post. Making everyone aware of VPNs is going to be my mission. Your privacy matters. Please reblog this post.
Don’t tell me you just wanted to scroll past this. Stop looking at pictures of cats for a moment, okay? Don’t you realize how important this is? This is dangerous! ‘America, the best FREE country in the world’ my ass.
With this new law your ISP can sell your Internet history which could include passwords, usernames, religion, credit card numbers, race and much more to the highest bidder. So here is what I want you to do.
You are going to read the whole thing and before you think ’this is so important. Let me reblog this real quick and go back to admiring cats again-’ NO! Don’t reblog this. Take action first. Then reblog. Sign up for a free trial! Trust.Zone offers one (here). Yes. It might be difficult to set up a VPN for some people. But is that going to stop you from protecting yourself and your family? 30 minutes. 30 minutes is all that it takes. 5 if you know how to install software. The problem with some of you is that you see ‘difficult’ as something negative. I want you to see difficult differently. I need you to push through this stuff. You are going to protect yourself. There is nothing negative about that.
VPNs are fun and costsaving too! A VPN bypasses geographical restrictions so you can access websites you normally can’t or you could start Netflix’s one month free trial over and over again- forever. And it’s legal! (unless you use it to buy weapons etc.,)
Don’t tell yourself that you are too tired and that you will do this tomorrow. Because that isn’t going to happen and you know it. You have to do this right now. You only have to click on it. Don’t let this/shit/life just happen to you. Take yourself seriously. Get a VPN.
Privacy is not a privilege, it’s a fundamental human right
Hey is thatoneprivacysite still good? The link works and it does take me to an article about vpns, but it just looks like an ad for expressvpn with extra steps.
I had Trust.Zone when this post first started making the rounds on Tumblr and I forgot about it after Biden took office. I recently sent them an email asking why my subscription wasn’t automatically renewed and why their website hasn’t changed since 2017(?). Their answer:
Shady people, good people, this company only cares about privacy and doesn’t care who it serves. But now with Trump and Musk this is the only VPN I’ll use.
I understand some people might not want to use this VPN on moral grounds, but it’s genuinely one of the very few VPNs set up in a way that no authority can touch you. ExpressVPN and other ‘popular’ options operate in jurisdictions favorable for profits but their privacy is just a band-aid our government can easily rip off if it demands information. I’m a trans man, I’m afraid of our government, and at this point, I simply don’t care anymore.
For a second I was like noooooo, not this long post again! Haven’t seen it in years and I always thought it was a bit extreme and exaggerated. Now that we are in 2025, I am like, nahh, these people knew what they were talking about all along. First time I am reblogging this.
The argument against VPNs has always been, “but I have nothing to hide.” Now that an unpredictable lunatic is in charge, purging based on whatever whim strikes him, that sentiment is quickly fading. VPNs aren’t just about hiding personal secrets; they’re about protecting freedom, autonomy, and your basic right to live without unjust scrutiny or arbitrary persecution.
lowkey thinking about ex bf!geto being so mean n jealous when he finds out you're seeing his best friend gojo :(( college!au//infedility
➽────────────────────────❥
"you can come out, coward." geto's voice is monotone, pressed to the bedroom door. of course, you'd expect him to be at one of shoko's parties, but you weren't ready to face him. you and gojo just went official a few days prior, and you and geto only broke it off three months ago.
geto has an issue letting go, so you definitely slept with him in the meantime. but, that's just the way reality works. these are fast times, early-20's, loveless -- not an environment to handle loosely. geto was, unfortunately, a loose cannon. he had the empathy of a dead goldfish, if you're being generous, and you need more. it's safe to say, you're a bit sensitive and needy.
"you know i wouldn't give a fuck if it was someone other than gojo. you did that just to piss me off."
you retreated into shoko's room as soon as you saw his dark hair among the crowd, shutting and locking the door before he caught your wind and followed suit. he's just too crazy -- too observant. but, now you're locked between your crazy ex and a second-floor window. you were gonna have to let him in.
"gojo's just so sweet to me..."
"he's sweet to everyone!" his voice is picking up emotion, growling just a few inches away. "let me in and we can deal with this like adults." now, he's begging. using that tone he knows you can't say no to.
one of two things could happen if you open this door: you two would have sex or... have sex.
you know what this is.
"no, geto. i can hear the intention in your voice." now, you're begging him. you don't want to do anything to hurt the sweetest thing that's ever happened to you, but you can't escape geto. you don't think you have it in you to say no, so all you can hope for is for geto to stand up straight and walk away.
"please go away."
your heart rushes in your chest when you feel the knob jiggling against your hand.
a few seconds pass of silence before he whispers, "gojo would understand."
eventually, you let him in.
but, he doesn't rush you. instead, he steps forward calmly, hands tucked in his baggy sweatpants. his hair is in a loose bun, and all those fucking emotions come rushing back like a tsunami.
he waits until you click the door shut before peeking over his shoulder at you, drawing a scary, devious smirk. there's bags under his eyes - purple like he's been losing sleep.
"i don't think i'll ever understand you..."
then, he rushes you. just like always -- hands in hair, thrusting pelvises, teeth against teeth. dirty, careless, and nothing but passion. his hands are in your shirt, closing both huge palms against your shoulder blades. he's kissing over your nose, tucking a knee between your thighs.
this body-to-body is cruel -- you don't have it in you to catch a breath. all you can taste is suguru, his cigarette smoke, the miso on his tongue, and the tang of liquor.
it's so perfect and familiar that you don't think you can let it go.
the concept of creating an entire blog dedicated to shaming writers and calling their supporters “parasocial” is insane because to me, nothing is more parasocial than creating a whole ass account made for that reason .
half the shit that is being sent by other gross people isn’t even true. if you’re going to accuse someone of using ai , then at least have the proof to show so and have the courage to stop hiding behind anons.
and then these girls have the audacity to say that it’s not their fault writers are being doxxed / harassed / getting their personal problems out to the public when it quite literally is. you gave people the opportunity and you ENCOURAGED them into talking badly about others
if your whole goal was to bring attention to the usage of ai in the writing community , you three could’ve done that a very different way that doesn’t involve cyber bullying.
if you’re upset because of the influx amount of smut being written , support those who post fluff. reblog comment and follow their blog . make a post recommending said blogs so others have the ability to read what they want.
and the way they drew the line when a big blog was mentioned and said “we don’t have anything against them” meaning you have something against the rest of us ?
asking for people not to call out minors who are writing smut and refusing to post asks regarding that matter just proves that these girls behind the account are minors themselves
the blog is disgusting itself but the people who engaged with it for negative reason aren’t any better. you can’t cry about our community being toxic when you’re just making it worse.
a little birdie told me that my works have been copied, word for word, by user @leonsbunni . she has me blocked, so i couldn’t find out on my own, but two of ‘her fics’ on her masterlist are my works—copied by the exact letter—except it’s changed to ‘leon’ from the game resident evil.
i have no idea what this person thought they would achieve with this. maybe they loved the little attention they’re getting by copying my fics and getting 1k+ notes on them, people praising and supporting them unknowingly . . . whatever it is, this behavior is absolutely unacceptable. plagiarism is never okay.
that’s why i decided to make this little announcement so other writers don’t have to go through this with said account & to prevent this from happening again. for the readers to know that she has not written anything herself & to spread this so no one will unknowingly support a copycat.
please spread the word and block / report her. thank you !
below are the screenshots;
i have yet to find out who the fic ‘midnight cravings’ is from / if they actually wrote it themselves bcs im sceptical of everything. if anyone has read it before and knows who she copied that from, if she did, let me know.
UPDATE REGARDING HER ‘APOLOGY’:
this is funny because i literally had been urging her to make an apology/statement on her own through our dms. i have been the person to suggest it to her, she couldn’t come up with it on her own. which, again, is sad.
she’s still trying to victimise herself and downplay her failed plagiarism. she kept trying to convince me she had apologised multiple times before in her dms with me, but she really hasn’t, until i basically forced it out of her with my own messages. again, she can’t do shit herself.
also, about homophobic/racial slurs being sent to her, i clearly have told her three times i haven’t put up anyone to do this. i even told my mutuals to just block her and not send her hate, and she knows of this, but is trying to pin it on me. what my thousands of followers and the people of different fandoms who’ve seen this post, is not my responsibility as i have never put them up to it. i do not condone using any bigoted language either, which i have told her multiple times, but she’s still trying to villainise me badddd.
i would have loved some evidence on that part of the hate, but she never sent it. her asks, comments, reblogs and dms were quickly all off so i have no idea how she received ‘such hate’ either. she might be lying to get sympathy point lol
anyway, she is trying to sound like she did no wrong. i had to be the adult and stop the convo at one point bcs she kept being more heated about it and trying to downplay everything, so that i did.
i told her, if she makes a new account let it be her own writing. if she plagiarises again, i will not hesitate to use my platform to get her new account too.
synopsis: you've spent years being bullied by the pretty, white-haired princess the rest of your boarding school adores. who would have thought that whole time she was secretly crushing on you? or catfishing you?
pairing: yandere fem!gojo x loser!reader
wc: 7.1k
content: mdni, angst and smut mostly, DUBCON, fem!gojo referred to as toru, basically k-drama style bullying lmfao, catfishing, fem!toru roping suguru into her schemes to catfish reader, sending risque photos and videos, pining, obsession, stalking, isolation, fem!toru is down so bad it's FILTHY, betrayal, emotional hurt, reader lowk about to have a mental breakdown, fem!toru is delusional and in love, confessions, sorta blackmail, conflicting feelings, hotel room hookup, kissing, groping, fingering, degradation, fem!toru is GETTING her wife girlfriend
a/n: art by @/rezijellyfish !! this was a commission for my sweet angel @sadlittlecucumber !!
“Are you staring at my tits?”
You weren’t. Seriously. But when she was dramatically huffing and bouncing like that, your stare did flicker down for a fraction of a second and that was enough to secure a haughty scoff from your tormenter.
“God, do you ever stop checking me out?” Toru haughtily huffed at you, the edge of a freshly manicured nail scraping against your chin as she forced your head up. Careful not to let her fingers actually touch you, as if you had some disgusting disease she could touch if your skin brushed against yours. “My eyes are up here.”
Painfully blue. So intense they seemed to sear through you, shrink you down into something small enough for her to pick up and play with like a toy she enjoyed torturing.
Staring at you like you were something to devour.
From the very first day you started at this stupid all-girls school and had the misfortune of accidentally dropping one of your bags on her foot in the hallway while you moved into your dorm, she had decided you were the object of her animosity.
And despite how much time had passed, how many times you tried to clear the air and stay as fucking far as possible from her, she always seemed to find and remind you of just how much power she had here. Over you.
“I’m just trying to go back to my dorm,” you muttered, averting your stare as you stepped back, attempting to walk around her – and through the forming crowd of gossiping onlookers eager for some fresh rumor to sink their teeth into.
Toru would be happy to give it to them.
Tossing her soft, white hair over her shoulder, loose waves bouncing as she haughtily laughed and looked back at all the people surrounding the two of you. Any one of them ready and willing to support her when you were standing there practically as proof of what happened when you pissed her off.
“What? Sneak any shots up my skirt today to add to your perverted shrine?” She accused, your face flushing at the absurd insinuation.
Despite her frequent assertions otherwise, you were neither a lesbian nor hopelessly in love with her.
Her ego was just so huge, it was probably just inconceivable to her that someone could exist without wanting her.
But no matter how many times you swore you weren’t secretly obsessed with her and that there was no fucking shrine hidden in your closet or under your bed, she’d been saying the same shit long enough that no one believed you.
“Can you just leave me alone?” You frowned, forcing your way through the crowd to get past her as she called out some other teasing remark about you going to rub one out.
Loathing couldn’t quite suffice for just how much you couldn’t stand her.
Hate boiling and burning beneath your skin every time she hurled a new taunt your way, when she’d find you eating lunch in a single bathroom stall just to make your meals hell too, mocking you with glossy lips and a glittering smile while the rest of your class treated her like an angel even when her antics annoyed them.
And when the girl that could do no wrong wished the worst for you, well, it seemed the worst was all you got.
The rest of the student body had started treating you like shit too. Sneering and scolding you for staring, everyone convinced you had to be some sort of predator just because she said you liked girls.
People didn’t grin at you in the hallways.
Just glared.
Your room had been ransacked a few times, clothes tattered and wrecked with staff that didn’t care to scold them. Your lunches knocked out of your hand. Stupid notes stuck to your back during class.
There wasn’t a single person in this fucking place that wanted to be your friend.
But you guessed it didn’t matter.
You didn’t have that much longer left stuck here.
Graduation was coming up soon – and despite the hell boarding school had been, the scholarship you’d been granted to attend had set you up for a pretty nice looking future. One without Toru.
You locked the door to your room behind you, dropping your bag to the ground before collapsing onto your bed. Exhaling as your eyes shut, a migraine budding behind them from spending another day attempting to avoid her and failing miserably.
Rolling over to pluck your phone from your pocket, your mouth reflexively curled up into a smile at the name on the screen. The one bright light in the midst of this pit of misery filled with pretty girls who thought you were pining after them and tried to punish you for it.
All of them absolutely clueless that you were already taken.
By a man they would definitely be desperate to call theirs too.
You’d been seeing Satoshi for two years.
Sorta.
You hadn’t officially met him yet. Not when you started talking through a dating app. Back then, you’d been craving any company so much you had caved and downloaded a bunch. And you had lucked out to land an equally lonely person.
Your relationship had been fairly casual at first, late night conversations where you stayed up until your eyes were sore and you nearly fell asleep sitting up in half your classes. Things had picked up this past year, the photos that used to be half your face or whatever you were doing escalating to more…intimate images. His questions turned more personal too, picking apart your brain until he knew probably more about you than anyone you’d ever met before.
Sure, it wasn’t conventional. But he had sent plenty of his own questionable pictures and voice messages to quell any of your suspicions. He never asked for money either, instead showering you with attention and sending you expensive gifts (although everyone on your floor was convinced you were spending what little money you had sending them to yourself). He was wearing a uniform from an all-boys boarding school not all that far away in a lot of them – but between sports and classes and busy schedules, neither of you had been able to arrange a proper meet up.
Until this weekend.
Finally, you’d be able to do something other than giggle and grin at the photos of his pretty washboard abs and replay his thick, groggy good morning messages.
He made reservations at a fancy hotel nearby, promising that he’d be waiting for you there with the biggest bouquet he could buy and wearing his best outfit in blue, sending you sweet messages about how badly he was aching to be yours in person instead of just online.
Most people would think you made him up.
And honestly, at first, when you tried to dispel the rumors and whispers about you being a lesbian by protesting and bringing up that you literally had a boyfriend, but when he actually went to another school, no one would believe you.
Eventually, you gave up. Stopped seeing a point in swearing the truth when everyone else would always prefer the lie.
It gave them someone lower on the totem pole to push around.
Kept them safe from Toru’s reign of terror.
Why would they listen?
You told yourself that you were almost free. So fucking close to being out of her reach.
They could all worship at her feet and follow her around like the lost puppies they were. You weren’t going to be a loser lingering in her shadow forever. Not when you still had your support in Satoshi.
A new notification buzzed on your phone, breath catching in your throat in anticipation as you clicked on it too fast, before you could even read it.
You should’ve looked.
An unknown number and a nasty word stared back at you, your fingers automatically moving to block the number and delete it with a frown.
Immediately re-opening your messages with Satoshi as you sniffled a little, too exhausted to keep the swirling emotions inside you at bay as you sent a short message, biting your lip until you tasted the blood on your tongue.
Can you talk right now?
ε✿з
“Please, please, please, please-”
“God, do you ever shut up?” Suguru groaned, rubbing his temple while Toru thrusted the phone in his face.
“But I need your help,” she whined, pouting harder as he squinted at the messages.
“You said you’d tell your girlfriend last month,” he annoyingly reminded her, brows knitting together in irritation as he reluctantly took the phone anyway, readjusting on his bed after she unceremoniously burst into his room after getting a ride all the way to their rival boarding school. “Don’t particularly feel like doing this for two more years.”
God, what good was a best friend if they wouldn’t help in a time of need? Wasn’t he supposed to be a wingman?
“I’m telling her this weekend,” Toru frowned back, folding her arms across her chest as she glanced around his dorm room. It was honestly cleaner than hers, in shades of gray and green instead of the soft blue she was used to. Books actually neatly stacked on his desk instead of scattered haphazardly on every surface. “I wanna make it romantic. Like, book a hotel room and everything.”
Buy you flowers, maybe an expensive set of lingerie, have them scatter rose petals over the bed and leave champagne on the table. Book a couples massage and take you out to a fancy dinner? Sure, she’d probably have to apologize for being a bit of a bitch to you over the years, but once you saw how serious she was about being in a relationship with you, couldn’t you just let bygones by bygones?
Suguru arched one of those thin eyebrows, giving her one of those irksome looks that implied he didn’t think it was a good idea.
But he was a man.
What did they know?
“You think she’s going to take it well?” He tentatively asked, and she couldn’t help scoff.
“She likes Satoshi. Satoshi is me,” she simply said, gesturing with her hands as if it should be obvious. “Besides, shouldn’t she be grateful for my attention? Anyone would be.”
Suguru laughed, like it was a joke.
But she just scowled back at him, completely serious as she tried to get what he didn’t get about the whole thing.
Whoever got to be with her was the lucky one.
Toru was beyond beautiful. Wealthy. Wore the best clothes and went to all the best vacation spots every year. Who wouldn’t want to be hers?
It was just common sense.
She’d been worshipped from the day she was born. It wasn’t like she was expecting you to do the same. She just wanted you to see how fortunate you were to have her favor.
God, any girl would die to be in your shoes. Guys too, actually, beg for her attention and crawl on their knees for the tiniest slice of the attention she gave you.
Sure, maybe she wasn’t always good at getting it across verbally, but she couldn’t risk someone else sneaking in and stealing your attention! Besides, her mouth seemed to always speak for itself around you, never saying exactly what she intended to when all her brain could think of was the shape of your lips and how your uniform clung to your tits since she’d bribed the office to keep sending you the size down.
She could admit that she could be a little aggressive, but she just wanted you to finally fucking admit that you wanted her too. Not just play hard to get and avoid her all the damn time.
“She’s probably just going to complain about you,” Suguru warned her, jealousy flaring up in her chest as she ran her fingers through her hair.
What the hell did he know?
At least you were talking about her.
Toru would rather your thoughts revolve around her than to be nothing to you at all.
“She was definitely checking out my tits today,” she defensively argued, even though Suguru was still making an annoying face at her. So what if he didn’t believe her?
You had, hadn’t you? This wasn’t just totally in her head?
Maybe you didn’t even realize you’d done it. Toru had been trying her hardest to get you to see that you were obviously a lesbian like her, that the two of you were clearly compatible.
“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, and she wanted to yank the pillow out from underneath his head and smother him with it.
“Are you going to call her or not?” She pouted, returning to the point as he slowly scrolled through the messages.
She imagined you back in your own bed, maybe biting your pretty lips until they were swollen, breaking the skin as you waited for a response. Would you let Toru lick the blood off if you knew it was her on the other end?
“For fifty bucks,” he exhaled, and she once again contemplated suffocating him.
But she was still shrugging down her purse, digging through its messy contents to pull out a hundred and toss it at him.
“You’re such a dick,” she derisively huffed, even though she had started this whole arrangement by promising to pay him a couple years ago. Begging him to let her use his photos to catfish you, and despite his initial moral protests that it was wrong, blah blah blah, he eventually caved in.
It wasn’t ever supposed to last this long.
She meant to tell you months ago. But there were always pesky little flies buzzing around every time she tried to talk to you at school, and she couldn’t get the correct words to leave her lips when everyone was always watching the two of you together.
God, even when she tried to talk to you in the bathroom when you ate your lunch in there alone, people still fucking followed her.
“You better pull your pants down a little and snap a pic if I’m paying you,” she hissed at her only actual friend, just for Suguru to roll his eyes at her again from his lazy position on the bed.
God, did she have to do everything herself?
She climbed on top, grabbing his slacks by the hips and wiggling it down as low as she could without revealing his disgusting dick. She didn't really understand what you could possibly find appealing about the obviously inferior gender, but maybe it was just because you didn't know better yet. Hadn't seen what her pretty tits looked like without her uniform covering them or properly experienced a woman’s touch.
“Are you serious-”
Toru ignored Suguru, tugging his shirt up too and snagging the phone back, carefully angling it to snap a photo that captured his dark happy trail, the defined muscles and ridges of his abs and hitting send.
It was almost instantly marked as seen.
She stared at the screen, willing your response, wishing for something in return and grinning wildly when you sent an image back.
Your uniform removed to reveal your gorgeous tits pressed together in a pretty white bra. Had you picked it out for her? Or well, Satoshi? Your face wasn’t in it, but she could imagine what expression you were making. How your lashes might flutter, how your bottom lip might push out.
Were you touching yourself?
“Do you still want me to call her or do you wanna go rub one out?” Suguru sarcastically asked, his voice thick with sleep from the nap she ‘rudely’ interrupted.
“Ask her to send a video of her doing that,” she demanded, holding the phone back out while he let out a low exhale, shutting his eyes like he hadn’t meant to sign up for that.
“Do I at least get to watch the video if she sends it?” He grumbled, and Toru glared back at him, folding her arms across her chest as she gritted her teeth.
“Fine,” she begrudgingly accepted.
It was only natural, she supposed. She spent almost every day bragging to him about how gorgeous you were, rambling about all the cute faces you made and funny things you’d said. Of course, he’d want to experience the little pieces of you Toru was generous enough to share.
He took the phone, hitting the call button as Toru gestured for him to put in on speaker while it rang. He did, and you only took a second to answer.
“Hi,” your soft voice breathed on the other end, and a jolt of excitement shot through Toru.
You sounded so adorable. She just wanted to take a bite. Sink her teeth into you so deep you’d be stuck with the bite marks for the rest of your life.
“Hey, pretty girl,” Suguru greeted, keeping a straight face while Toru suppressed actually giggling at the light sound of your pretty laughter through the phone.
“What are you doing?” You asked, all sweet and sincere.
“Just thinkin’ about you,” Suguru smoothly replied. Toru couldn’t help rolling her eyes at him, having a hard time believing any girl could actually be stupid enough to-
“Really?”
Nevermind.
This was exactly why you needed Toru. Sure, Suguru was her best friend, but moronic men like him would never be able to take care of you like she could!
“I liked that photo you sent me,” he murmured into the phone, pitching his voice down while Toru’s nails bit into her palm, imprinting half-circles into them as she heard your breathing hitch on the other end.
“Y-yeah?” You stuttered a little bit, as precious as always. A little awkward, too, but that was part of what made you so addicting. What made Toru so desperate to be the one you were stammering and stumbling over your words for. “I liked yours.”
“You wanna show me just how much?” Suguru spoke slowly, leaving the implication up in the air for you to jump to your own conclusion.
To decide just how badly you wanted to please Satoshi.
“You want another photo?” You asked after a moment, temptation teetering there. Toru was dying to touch you. Be there in your bed as she heard your sheets rustling underneath your body through the grainy line. Replaying all the pretty expressions you’d worn in the hall earlier, imagining how different the one you had on now was.
“I want more, angel,” Suguru replied, immediately reminding Toru that you still didn’t know you were hers yet, still enveloped in this boy version of her that she and Suguru fabricated. “Are you touching yourself for me?”
“Maybe,” you shyly said, close enough to a confession.
“Think you could record it for me, sweetheart?” He hummed, careful not to sound demanding, just issuing a little dare she knew you would take out of fear of disappointing him.
“If you really want me to,” you hesitantly replied, all light and airy. Barely needing to be nudged to agree to send a video of your breathy moans, one where your fingers would slip underneath your matching panties as you cried out after someone that never really existed.
“Good girl.”
You didn’t even ask him not to show anyone else.
Just blindly trusted him.
Would you still feel the same when you knew it was really her? Follow her lead and stay on her leash?
Sometimes, you sorta reminded Toru of a lost little lamb. One she had to shepherd back into place. It wasn’t like she was trying to put the crook around your neck, to pull you close, but she’d do what she had to just to have you.
ε✿з
Be there in five. Can’t wait for you to finally be mine.
“Can I help you, miss?” A hotel employee startled you, blinking hard a few times in surprise as you swallowed hard and shook your head.
“I’m, um, just waiting on someone,” you answered with a tight smile, grateful when they seemed to accept that answer, nodding politely and walking away as you rested against the wall rather than taking a seat on one of the stiff couches clustered together by coffee tables nearby.
You were too anxious to sit.
Nerves racing under your skin as you continuously checked the time, smoothing out the skirt you picked out and glancing down at the revealing shirt you’d chosen after he made a comment about how much he was looking forward to burying his face against your breasts.
But as minute five came and passed, you still hadn’t spotted a single sign of him.
You felt like an idiot, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you kept scanning the lobby for a glimpse of blue like he promised. Pulling up your phone to read and reread his latest message for comfort.
Fingers tapping the keyboard, typing out a message to ask if he was close only to delete it and try to reword it, wasting another few minutes struggling to come up with something not totally desperate to say only to come up empty.
A familiar giggle made your blood run cold.
In a single instant, your mood was spoiled, rotten, head snapping in trepidation as you saw the blue you were searching for at the receptionist’s desk. Just on the wrong person.
A tight blue dress clinging to the hips of your least favorite person, pushing her boobs up and riding high on her thighs as she turned towards you, eyes locking onto yours like she already knew you’d be here.
The receptionist passed her two keycards, and she had to readjust the huge bouquet of flowers in her hand to grab it before she started walking towards you, her tall heels clicking against the tiled lobby.
“Don’t you look adorable?” She smiled at you. Smiled. You were pretty sure your brain short-circuited. Overwhelmed by the fact a compliment had left her lips with not a hint of cruelty. Perhaps a sliver of condescension, but unless your stare was suddenly deceiving you (and you so badly wished it was) she actually appeared genuine.
“W-what are you-” You started stammering, heat rushing up to your face as she stepped even closer, looking down at you with amusement glittering in her pretty eyes as she pushed the flowers into your arms.
“I'm Satoshi, silly,” she hummed, her mouth curling up in a smirk that just screamed she was proud of her scheme.
“No, no,” you bluntly said, struggling to breathe when her words threatened to unravel years of a relationship you’d been clinging to, counting on to keep your sanity intact. “He called me. Sent me voice messages, photos-”
“I had to get my friend Suguru to help,” she admitted, fake sympathy in her practiced smile as she reached out and touched your cheek. Caressed it with her soft fingers while you stood there in too much shock to recoil. “But all the conversations were me, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
The word had never made you feel so fucking sick before.
Satoshi had called you that all the time. But he was apparently her, and the realization that all your raw vulnerabilities, all the times you poured your heart and soul out just for Toru to be on the receiving end. All those reassurances you’d hung onto, the pretty words you copied down into diaries and woven into your brain, they all belonged to her.
Betrayal burning through you as you tried to process the depth of their deception. How many layers to it were there? How much time had she spent just to keep up this charade? Pretending to be a fucking man to what?
Humiliate you even more than she did on a daily basis?
“Am I just a sick joke to you?” You asked, voice thick with hurt you couldn't hide anymore. She tormented you for years. What the hell else were you supposed to think?
“You're my girlfriend?” She retorted, tilting her head to the side as if she couldn't understand what you were confused about.
“You hate me,” you pointed out, mentally replaying every mean word out of her mouth from the day you met. All the times she accused you of wanting to have sex with her and basically being a lovesick loser.
“I like you,” she corrected you, and you got the distinct impression this wasn't exactly the reaction she'd been expecting from you.
And in the next thick pause, the silence where you stared at her with an open mouth, you realized that perhaps she'd been projecting.
That maybe the obsessed one had been her all along.
You stepped back, shaking your head as you heard yourself scoff.
“Do you just want me to say sorry?” Toru asked, her glittery lip gloss catching the light as she dramatically pouted. “I am, you know, I just get so excited when I see you, it’s hard to hold it in.”
You blinked.
Her eyes shifted down to your chest, openly ogling you as pink bloomed against her pretty cheeks, her fingers slipping back into your hair like you were a couple.
As if, in any universe, this could be considered normal.
You wanted to scream.
To storm off and slam the glass door behind you.
Go back to your room and cry into the pillow after you scrubbed every stupid photo and video you ever saved of Satoshi from your phone.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to graduate and get as far from Toru as possible, find a place with your boyfriend and start a new life where you could forget about the past few years you’d spent here.
“What did I do to ever deserve you doing this to me?” You breathed, a hot lump forming in your throat as you tried to hold back the sob that wanted to break out. Hyper aware of how hard you tried on your makeup this morning, how much time you’d spent picking out what to wear and how to style your hair, desperate to impress someone who apparently didn’t even exist.
The tears were welling up anyway, heavy in your lashes and collecting in the corners of your eyes as you felt the stares of people passing by. The whispering you’d gotten used to whenever you were around Toru.
Her face scrunched up, her annoyingly pretty mouth parting as she moved her hand to drag her thumb underneath your eyes. Wiping away your tears while she tilted her head to the side, loose waves bouncing in time with her huff, “Are you seriously crying?”
“You catfished me,” you said, hating how crushed you sounded. But you were. In a handful of seconds, she had decimated any ounce of your confidence you had left. Reduced you to rubble under her stupid red-bottomed heels and then rubbed it into the glossy tiles you were standing on. “You’ve been calling me a lesbian for years, but you-”
“That’s because you are one,” she said, perfectly plucked brows knitting together tightly as she took a small step closer. Almost enough for both your chests to touch, her eyes drifting back down for what felt like the twentieth time at your shirt. “I mean, I am too, was it not obvious?”
No, it absolutely wasn’t fucking obvious, but the way she said it was enough to make you freeze.
Honestly, if anything, you thought she was a little homophobic before this, but you didn’t know how she’d take that.
“Come on, you can just admit that you were crushing on me, you don’t have to keep-” You made some sound at her insane statement, pure disgust mixing with the scoff that escaped.
“I hate you,” you half-whispered. Loathing burning in those three short words as you tried to find the strength to move. But she didn’t flinch. Just pursed her lips together as she batted her soft, white lashes at you.
“You told Satoshi you loved him last night,” she so unhelpfully reminded you, speaking slowly as if she was giving you time to think between her words. “That means you love me.”
“I-”
You couldn’t even get out what you wanted to say when she started twirling a loose strand of your hair around one of her long fingers.
Was she actually trying to seduce you?
Her chest pressed against yours, not sparing so much as a glance to anyone else in the lobby despite how much attention she had to know she was drawing as you felt her tits through her thin dress rubbing against yours like you were playing the starring role in a cheap porno.
“Think about all those late nights we stayed up together,” she purred, looking down at you the same way she always did, and you wondered how you ever could have missed the hunger in them before.
Well, that wasn’t quite true. You’d seen it.
You just hadn’t realized what she was starving for.
“All those times we talked about our families and our lives and what we wanted to do with them. All the stuff we wanted to do together,” Toru hummed, her nose nearly brushing against yours now too. You were struggling to wrap your head around the idea of her being the one you spilled everything too. Fuck, how many times had you complained to her about her?
“I didn’t know-” You started, but she made a soft shushing sound that somehow shut you up.
“We can still do all of it,” she promised, like you had any interest in any of it now that you knew what a fool you’d been for putting your trust in someone you never actually knew. In her. “Me and you.”
You got the impression in your already flustered brain that she was trying to be romantic.
That this was all supposed to be some grand gesture to show you that her feelings were genuine.
But it just felt like fresh embarrassment.
Your heart slamming against your rib cage while your thoughts ran in the same panicked circles, falling apart in front of a room full of strangers.
It sort of felt like you were being proposed to in public. Forced to say yes to not seem like a total asshole when everyone else was probably convinced she was earnestly confessing to you.
And after years of being around her, you already had the experience to know the universe would always side with her.
“What do you expect me to say?” You finally spoke, flat-out dumbfounded as your voice trembled. Her treachery was already twisting into something else in your stomach, your body attempting to turn it into something flattering just so you could cope with it. The intoxicating scent of her perfume stuffing your nostrils and clouding your thinking as you struggled to sort out all the different emotions rattling around inside you.
The hurt and the heartache and the conflicting feelings of loss and longing for someone that wasn’t there. The scariest part was that some sliver of you was starting to consider Toru.
Starting to want her.
Acknowledging that you couldn’t actually have Satoshi, and coming to the conclusion that she was the closest fucking thing you had.
The thought itself was incredibly depressing.
“I love you, Toru?” She offered, doing her own impression of your voice.
“I don’t,” you argued, although you weren’t sure how convincing it actually came out when her proximity left your voice quivering.
“What? You only loved me as a boy then?” She grinded her sharp canines, not quite glaring, but clearly unhappy as her blue eyes bored into yours.
“How was I supposed to know my boyfriend was you?”
Other than the fact he was obviously too good to be true. A guy like that would never be interested in you. No, the only person who was, apparently, was your insane classmate who’d been pretending to be a man for two years just to get you to fall for her.
You almost wished this was simply blackmail. That she just wanted to hold your humiliation over your head.
This felt so much worse. So much ickier.
Especially when your body was beginning to betray your mind just with her touch, her scent, warping what your senses with her cruel fingers and soft skin.
“A girlfriend is way better than a boyfriend,” she huffed at you, rolling her eyes like you should already know that.
“You want to be my girlfriend?” You asked, meant to be rhetorical rather than serious. But her eyes lit up, lips lifting up into a blinding smile as she nodded.
“Duh.”
No. No. No.
This could not be-
“Let’s go check out our room,” she hummed, effortlessly changing the subject as she backed off only to grab your wrist. Throwing an annoyed look over her shoulder at all the passerbys who had not-so-subtly paused to watch whatever was happening between both of you. “So annoying how people are always obsessed with me.”
Too blind to see how much of a hypocrite she was being.
You were too stunned to stop her. Feet uselessly following after her as her pale fingertips dug deeper into your skin, dragging you around like you were just an accessory on her arm.
Feeling almost like you were floating along, trying to tell yourself that this was all just some fucked-up dream you’d wake up from before you got there.
But you didn’t.
Just standing there like an idiot when she was holding the keycard up to the door, glancing down to realize you were still holding the flowers in your other limp hand.
The saddest part was you were pretty sure no one else would give you anything as remotely nice as these.
“I wasn’t trying to ask you to be-” You tried one more time, but she was already opening the door and pulling you in.
“You know, you’re kinda being ungrateful,” she huffed, shutting the door with a heavy thud as she dropped her designer purse on the floor. You didn’t even think she knew how much it cost. Probably just purchased it without considering how many meals that much money could’ve bought someone else.
“I’m ungrateful?” You echoed, hurt coiling hot in your core as you stared in disbelief at her in front of you. You wanted it to be hurt, at least, forcing yourself to look away only to find rose petals all over the floor.
She reached around to start pulling down the zipper of her dress, stepping out of her heels without pausing before shimmying her clothes off.
Shit.
She wasn’t wearing a fucking shred underneath.
You weren’t a lesbian. At least, you were pretty sure you weren’t a lesbian. But something was fluttering inside you against your will at the subtle bounce of her breasts when she bent over to pick up a rose petal and pinch it between her fingers, pouting like she was disappointed by the color of them.
“I mean, you have me in front of you, and you’re not even appreciating it,” she complained.
“If you’re expecting me to beg for you-” you started, awkwardly turning to place the flowers on the closest table, but that only gave her the opportunity to move closer. To bridge the gap between you.
“I’m not,” she argued back, but the mischievous little grin on her face was enough to cast doubt. “But you will anyway.”
Your mouth fell open, and it felt like she had your heart in her fist, squeezing it to watch the blood slowly drip out.
“I’ve seen how pretty you look begging,” she murmured, and that heat simmering inside you just creeped higher, flooding your face as you realized what she meant. Remembered all those videos you’d sent her thinking Satoshi was seeing them. “Wanna hear it for myself.”
And before you could even deal with the notion that Toru had a plethora of videos of you masturbating stashed away, that she probably had fingered herself to you, she was kissing you.
She tasted like candy.
Sugary sweet gloss melting onto your lips as her mouth messily collided with yours. You froze for a few moments, but your lips started to kiss her back. Parting to let her tongue slip in as you were torn between telling her to stop and letting this continue.
What could you do?
What should you do?
If she sent those videos to anyone, your life would be fucking ruined. But you didn’t want to just be Toru’s pet, something she doted on in secret and embarrassed in public.
And at the same time, your body was reacting to hers almost instinctively, leaning forward instead of pulling away, despite your arms falling to your side, unsure if you could even touch her back.
Toru, on the other hand, was grabbing a handful of your ass – and one of your tits too. Groping and squeezing while her tongue explored your mouth like she owned it all.
Maybe if you gave into her now, if you let her have this, have you this once, you could still just leave anyway after graduation. Change your number when you changed cities, fuck, maybe changed countries if it meant getting away from the war she was waging between your head and heart.
“You’re such a bitch,” you breathed when she broke the kiss, knowing that if she kissed you again, you weren’t going to stop her either.
She laughed. At that, or maybe just at you.
And then she was grabbing your hips, twisting you around and guiding you back to the bed, pushing you down on it hard enough to knock the air from your chest.
“Don’t be a brat,” she pouted, pushing her glossy lips out as she easily rolled up your little skirt around your hips. Grinning at the sight of your lacy little panties, the pure white shade that came a little too close to her hair that she quickly pulled down around your thighs next.
“I’m not a-”
Your words died in your throat as she slipped a delicate finger inside your warmth before you could protest what exactly you were. No better than a bitch in heat when just an experimental circle had a broken gasp escaping your mouth.
She smiled at you again, pride and amusement shining like stars in her blue stare. You supposed she’d just found a new way to play with her favorite toy.
“You’re so cute,” she complimented, climbing on top of you, her knee nudging your thighs further apart as her other hand trailed underneath your shirt.
You swallowed hard. You knew you should say something else.
Tell her to fuck off.
But nothing came out.
All the words dried up as she dragged her finger even deeper inside you.
And then added another digit. Slowly getting to work stretching you open, feeling the way your walls started to squeeze down reflexively as she held your stare hostage.
“You wanna tell me just how much you don’t like me?” She condescendingly hummed, daring you to disagree with her.
“Do you hate me?” You asked instead, still struggling to wrap your head around the fact this was happening, no longer confident in something you had been certain of an hour ago. That somehow, you were proving her right. That just by being underneath her like this, with the taste of her candied lip gloss on your mouth and her fingers stuffing you full, you had become exactly what she said you were.
A loser in love with her.
You tried to tell yourself again that you weren’t.
“I’m literally, like, in love with you,” she pouted, a hint of a familiar whine in it like she was sick of saying the same thing in different ways. “What do I have to do to make you see that, hm, pretty?”
Probably erase the past few years from your memory, but you had a feeling she might engineer something like a car accident if it had the chance to cause retrograde amnesia – and force you to let her take care of you.
And then her thumb drifted over your clit, and you forgot what you were thinking anyway with the soft pressure she applied.
“Doesn’t it feel good?” She hummed, begging to rub careful circles over it, your body tensing as your chest tightened at the sensation. Your overheating core threatened to send shivers down your spine as her fingertips prodded deeper, faster.
“T-Toru-” You didn’t know what you were even trying to say, brows knitting together as sweat started to drip down your forehead, everything inside you quickly grew all fuzzy.
“You know, no one else could make you feel this good, sweetheart,” she said, teasing you as her thumb pressed that sensitive bud between your thighs like it was a goddamn button.
Activating an embarrassingly primal part of your brain as you felt the pleasure build closer towards a climax you couldn’t believe you might be having.
“No one else will ever know you like I do,” Toru continued, and you loathed that she might be correct. You told her everything. Every thought. Every secret. Every dream. You didn’t think you’d ever be able to trust anyone else like that again. “Love you like I do.”
You wanted to hate this as much as you hated her.
But her fingers were longer than yours, hitting spots you couldn't on your own as she slipped a third one in, swirling it around to tease you with that pretty, lilting laugh of hers.
“Look at you,” she cooed, still mocking you even when you were in her hotel bed. “Soaked on my fingers like a slut.”
You were.
Shaking and squirming as her fingers pumped in and out of you, whimpering weakly as she played you like a goddamn instrument. You knew you were going to cum.
Knew that she’d won.
Toru had made a mess of you. Unravelled you into a million little pieces that probably would never be put back together again.
“That’s it, my pretty little lamb,” she cooed, and you wished your head was a little clearer to understand what she giggled about next. Your thighs trembling when she finally crooked her fingers just right, her thumb dragging over your clit with the perfect amount of pressure to finally make you cum for her.
Your eyes drifting down to her bare body over you, her perfect tits, her flawless skin, the shape of her hips and thighs as her fingers worked in and out of you, her thumb working you through your orgasm as you broke.
Bent into something unrecognizable under her pressure, her presence, blinking as your brain basically stopped functioning when she filled it with just thoughts of her.
Watching numbly when she stood up and walked to her bag and back, white hair spilling over her shoulder as she tilted her head to the side to look at the phone in her hand, squinting at the screen as she angled it to capture where you were splayed out in the bleached white sheets.
THE WORST GUY YOU'VE EVER MET (and the best sex you've ever had)
mdni. smut. angst. starring suguru geto.
having sex with a curse-wielding cult leader was certainly a bad idea.
but when it was geto on top of you?
how the hell were you supposed to say no?
his thick cock stretching your walls out, dragging in and out at a filthy pace like he wanted to make sure everyone in your building heard the lewd squelch of his steady thrusts as he forced your face into the pillow.
it wasn't sloppy.
he never was.
every mean pump was precise, pulling you apart in a million pieces to make sure you remembered he was the only one who could put you back together again.
tonight was just another reminder.
you guessed he'd been watching you with gojo, waiting from the shadows for his former best friend to bid you good night with a soft kiss to your cheek before he came in to claim the real prize.
your pussy.
splitting you open and spreading you out on the sheets he used to sleep on, murmuring nasty things in your ears about moving on as if that was something the two of you had ever been capable of.
molding you to each thick ridge and imprinting every vein inside you, reshaping you around his needs while you ran your fingers down his shoulder blades, marking him the only way you knew how, with scratches and hickies that would fade with time.
the ache he left in you when he defected still hadn't disappeared after a decade.
only occasionally occupied on nights like these where you both caved in to your carnal urges. where you pretended the sex could make up for the months you went without seeing each other - your paths that weren't supposed to cross.
tell yourself that him pumping you full of his cum meant nothing, that the way his dark purple eyes drifted over the white leaking down your thighs as he trailed hie hands over your soft skin was just a symptom of whatever sickness you both seemed to have when it came to each other.
forgetting was only ever feasible when it was his mouth latched on your clit, your fingers tangled in his hair as his tongue lapped at the sensitive bud until you were crying out his name.
promising him that you were still his, even after all these years.
you would always be.
maybe you weren't married, but you'd still made a vow to him once to love him forever. you intended to keep it.
i’m a writer on here and my smut gets thousands, sometimes 10k+ notes, while my fluff barely breaks the surface. and that’s fine, i write what i enjoy. but it is frustrating seeing people complain about the lack of fluff/angst when those same posts just… don’t get interacted with
tumblr isn’t some mysterious entity pushing only one type of content for no reason—it runs on interaction. what you like, reblog, comment on—that’s what spreads. so if the majority of engagement is going toward smut, then yeah, that’s what’s going to dominate your feed and the tags
and it kind of sucks as a writer to put time and effort into softer or more emotional pieces and watch them get ignored, while the content people claim to be “tired of” is the only thing that actually gets boosted
also nothing against OP at all, this isn’t about them specifically, it just reminded me of this ongoing thing
Yet another new study debunked the basis for the anti-trans sports bans. It was never about sports but for creating legal avenues for exclusion and abjection. This is one of the largest analyses ever conducted, involving 52 studies and 6,485 trans people. Read the study here.
Yet another new study debunked the basis for the anti-trans sports bans. It was never about sports but for creating legal avenues for exclusion and abjection. This is one of the largest analyses ever conducted, involving 52 studies and 6,485 trans people. Read the study here.
My toxic fandom take is that I think that it's awful how much we can talk to creators and get answers from them word of god style. We should be out here in a godless place rooting for scraps of lore in the media like truffle pigs out in the fields
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: You knew you were fighting fire for fire. You told yourself that time and distance could quiet him, but one night, one touch, and you remember exactly what you lost.
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Gojo Satoru x f!Reader slight Hiromi Higuruma x f!Reader
𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: suggestive themes throughout; infidelity (they both cheat on their current spouses multiple times); morally grey characters; sort of exes?; sort of second chance? or third really; minor character death (gojo's mother); heavy angst; explicit sexual content (oral f!receiving, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation); pregnancy and miscarriage; 18+ mdni
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 14.8K
𝐀/𝐍: This was initially a scrapped scene from another fanfic, and somehow it ended up becoming longer than the original fic 🤓✌️ Also wrote this for Tali @feyrinnn 🤍 She has some of the best ex-Gojo fanfics hence the angst tag. Art credit: @_seitens on Twitter
9 years ago
Zurich always looks composed from a distance—precise, clean. Impossibly orderly.
The lake is still tonight, reflecting the gold spill of chandeliers from the grand hotel ballroom as if wealth itself were something that could be mirrored and contained. The air is crisp enough to sharpen your lungs when you inhale, cool enough to make everything feel intentional.
Inside, the atmosphere is warmer. Crystal glasses clink under ceilings painted with restrained opulence. Laughter hums in low, expensive frequencies. Conversations drift between German, French, English, Japanese—numbers translated seamlessly across languages because capital is the only universal dialect that matters here.
Men and women in tailored suits swirl champagne that costs more than what most households make in a month while discussing debt ceilings and sovereign bonds like they’re arranging floral centerpieces. Markets rise and fall between sips. Entire regions are reduced to bullet points.
You stand at the edge of it all in silk, the exact shade your mother approved.
“Chin up,” she had murmured earlier, adjusting the line of your dress with careful fingers. “You have your grandmother’s posture. Don’t waste it.”
Your father hadn’t hugged you. He never does before events like this. He stands behind you instead, hands clasped behind his back, voice measured. “Speak slowly,” he said. “Pause before numbers. Let them process you before they process your data.”
Not your ideas but your data.
You nodded. You always nod, like you’re afraid not to.
Across the room, you see a similar choreography unfolding.
Gojo stands near one of the long tables lined with glass flutes, black suit tailored too well for a nineteen-year-old. His father’s hand rests on his shoulder—not affectionate—corrective.
“Don’t provoke unnecessarily,” his father says, voice low but firm. “This is not a university debate.”
Gojo smiles lazily. “I’m aware.”
“You are representing the company.”
“I always am.”
There’s something in the exchange that tightens your jaw. You’ve both been chosen this year. Youngest keynote speakers in the summit’s history. Two heirs. Two rivals. Two projections of legacy wrapped in polite applause.
Your names are called back-to-back.
The applause swells as you ascend the stage. The lights are brighter than you expected, the room appearing larger from here. You register the crowd in fragments—Swiss regulators, EU financial commissioners, hedge fund managers from New York, tech investors from Singapore. Men who build empires by restructuring other people’s collapses.
You take your position at the podium first.
“Good evening,” you begin, voice steady. “It’s an honor to address this year’s summit.” The screen behind you illuminates with clean graphs as you finish with the pleasantries. “The past decade has redefined volatility. Between the 2008 global financial crisis and the continuing recalibration of post-recession fiscal policy, markets are no longer reacting to shocks—they are anticipating structural transformation.”
You move deliberately, controlled, willing your voice to carry cleanly across the room. “Emerging markets have demonstrated an average best annualised growth rate over the last five years, outpacing developed economies constrained by aging infrastructure and debt saturation. However, growth without regulatory harmonisation invites instability.”
A subtle shift in the audience spreads like approval.
“You cannot scale risk indefinitely,” you continue. “Liquidity must be paired with accountability. Expansion without sustainable debt management becomes exploitation masquerading as innovation.”
You step aside slightly, signaling transition. Gojo approaches the second podium. He doesn’t look at his notes.
“Exploitation is an interesting word,” he says lightly, glancing towards you rather than the audience.
A ripple of attention cuts through the crowd.
“The global economy was built on risk,” he continues. “Not caution. The industrial revolution didn’t wait for regulatory harmonisation. Neither did the tech sector.” He gestures toward the screen, flipping to his slide. “High-yield markets outperform conservative portfolios by over ten-year cycles when managed with strategic leverage. The question isn’t whether expansion carries risk. It’s whether you have the conviction to sustain it.”
You can feel his gaze trained on you. He isn’t presenting parallel to you. He’s responding. You maintain composure still.
“Conviction,” you say evenly, “is admirable. But unchecked conviction is what led to the subprime mortgage crisis—cheapened overconfidence in perpetual growth models.”
“Or,” he counters smoothly, “it was poor risk assessment, not ambition, that caused collapse.”
A few murmurs.
“Ambition divorced from ethical oversight,” you reply, turning fully toward him now, “becomes systemic exploitation.”
He tilts his head. “Exploitation,” he repeats, a low chuckle. “That’s almost Marxist.”
A faint laugh comes from somewhere in the audience. You don’t flinch.
“Marx critiqued capital concentration, not growth itself,” you say coolly. “His concern was imbalance.”
“And striking that imbalance while it's hot,” Gojo says, stepping closer to the center, “is what drives innovation.” He looks at the audience now. “Capitalism thrives on asymmetry. Disruption requires someone to be behind while someone else pushes forward.”
“Disruption,” you counter, “without redistribution, entrenches inequality.”
A pause. He smiles slightly. “Adam Smith argued for the invisible hand,” he says. “Markets self-correct, self-interest inadvertently promotes societal prosperity.”
“Smith also assumed moral actors,” you respond immediately. “Modern corporations are not moral entities.”
A sharper murmur now. Interest building. Gojo’s eyes gleam.
“So what’s your alternative?” he asks. “State control? Central planning?”
“I’m advocating structural guardrails,” you say. “Growth should not require collapse as its precursor.”
He leans slightly against his podium.
“Collapse,” he says softly, “is sometimes necessary.”
You stiffen.
“For evolution.”
The word hangs.
“Schumpeter called it ‘creative destruction,’” he continues. “Innovation replaces stagnation. Inefficient structures fall.”
“And people?” you ask quietly. “Do they fall too?”
The room stills more noticeably now. Gojo doesn’t hesitate.“They adapt.”
Your pulse spikes.
“Not everyone has equal capacity to adapt,” you say.
“That’s not the market’s responsibility.”
“Then whose is it?”
Silence.
You step forward, reclaiming the center. “Financial architecture shapes social outcomes,” you say, voice firm but measured. “We cannot pretend markets operate in moral vacuums.”
He watches you closely now.
“You want the system to be ethical,” he says.
“I want it to be sustainable.”
“And I want it to be dominant.”
There it is—the line between you.
You breathe once. “Dominance without sustainability falls to pieces,” you say calmly.
“And sustainability without dominance stagnates.”
A long beat; you let it hang. Then you turn back to the audience. “Which is precisely why the future of global finance cannot be ideological. It must be adaptive.”
Your composure returns fully now. You steer the closing remarks back into balanced language—regulatory frameworks, cross-border cooperation, long-term infrastructure investment. You cannot let him edge you on anymore than he has.
He lets you redirect, but you can feel the shift in the room. What began as two promising heirs delivering aligned projections became something sharper. Personal.
The applause is louder than before. But it’s different too, curious almost.
Your father’s expression is unreadable when you leave the stage. Your mother’s smile is fixed, immaculate. Gojo’s father claps once before leaning in to whisper something to his son as you both descend the stage. You don’t hear what he says, you only see Gojo’s jaw tighten slightly before he pulls away.
The rest of the evening blurs into congratulations, introductions, strategic compliments disguised as warnings. Your mother loops her arm through yours before you can pivot toward him. “Minister Schmidt is eager to speak with you,” she murmurs.
“I need a moment—”
“Not now.” Her grip tightens just enough.
You stand through another conversation about cross-continental energy partnerships while your gaze drifts toward the ballroom exits.
He’s gone.
Hours pass. Champagne drains. Voices lower. Music softens. By the time you finally slip free, the ballroom has thinned to lingering clusters of power unwilling to admit exhaustion.
You step onto the balcony for air, and the cold hits immediately. Zurich at night feels different from inside the ballroom. Quieter and more honest.
He’s there, too, leaning over the railing, back to the doors, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. Smoke curls upward like something deliberate.
You almost retreat.
Instead, you step forward. “What was that?” you demand.
He doesn’t turn.
“What was what?”
“Don’t deflect,” you snap. “You went off script.”
He exhales smoke slowly. “Did I?”
“You turned it into a debate.”
“It was one.”
“This wasn’t a university lecture hall.”
“No,” he agrees.
He finally glances over his shoulder at you.
“You sounded like your father,” he says.
You stiffen.
“And you sounded reckless.”
A faint smirk touches his mouth. “Maybe if you weren’t always following the script, I wouldn’t have to push.”
You step closer. “I was delivering a structured presentation.”
“You were delivering something safe.”
Safe—the word needles under your skin.
“I wasn’t here to win a philosophical argument.”
“You’re always here to win, don’t lie to yourself now.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
He straightens fully now, turning to face you, a glint in his eyes like he knows he hit a nerve. “Why? You think I sabotaged you, darling?”
“You redirected the narrative.”
“Maybe I was giving you an opportunity.”
“To do what? Embarrass myself?”
“To fight back.”
Your pulse spikes again. “I did fight back.”
“You recovered,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
You stare at him. “What do you want?” you ask sharply.
He studies you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight.
“I thought you’d be better at it by now,” he says casually.
“Better at what?”
“Not being predictable.”
The insult lands. “I am not predictable.”
“You are,” he says simply. “You always take the high ground. You always choose the composed response. You always say what’s strategically correct.”
“And you think that’s a flaw?”
“I think it makes you run. It makes you late.”
“Late for what?”
“For this.”
He steps closer.
For the first time all night, there are no investors. No parents. No audience. Just you and him and the cold air, the sharp, resinous accent of cigarette smoke filling the space quickly.
“You’re afraid to misstep,” he says quietly. “You’re afraid to lose control.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“You are.”
You glare at him. “And what are you?” you shoot back. “Uncontrolled genius?”
He laughs softly. “I don’t wait for permission.”
“Neither do I.”
He tilts his head.
“Then why are you still standing over there?”
You realize there’s space between you. Too much. You close it without thinking.
Now you’re close enough to see the faint frost of breath between you.
“You think I can’t surprise you?” you challenge.
His gaze drops to your mouth briefly before returning to your eyes. “I think you won’t.” The arrogance in it. The certainty. Your heart pounds harder—not with anger. With something sharper. “Maybe,” he says quietly, “if you stopped trying to be perfect, you’d actually win.”
“I don’t need you to let me win.”
“I wouldn’t.”
The silence stretches. The city hums below. Your hands are trembling slightly, but you don’t move them.
“Why do you do this?” you ask, softer now.
“Do what?”
“Push.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Because he doesn’t know how to say it yet. Because neither of you have a language for this.
Instead, he closes the remaining distance.
It’s not gentle. It’s not rehearsed. It’s collision. His mouth finds yours like it’s been calculating its trajectory for years. Your back hits the cold stone wall behind you. The cigarette drops somewhere forgotten. For a split second, you freeze. Then your fingers grip his lapel.
He kisses you like he debates—without hesitation, without apology. Teeth grazing, breath sharp, hands firm at your waist.
You gasp against his mouth. It isn’t polished. It isn’t careful. It’s nineteen and furious and uncontained.
Your heart feels like it’s breaking through your ribs.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. Your lips are parted. Your composure shattered.
“You’re not safe,” he says softly.
You don’t know if he means from himself or you, but you pull him back anyway.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
Present
Milan feels unusually stylish and softer at night, in a way no other city does. Or maybe it’s just the after.
You’re sprawled across the hotel sheets, bare skin against expensive linen that still smells faintly of him. The city breathes beyond the french windows—muted sound of car on gravel, distant laughter, a siren somewhere far below—where marble spires and the midnight beats share the same heartbeat.
This was another European conference. Another “coincidence.” Another night you’ll pretend doesn’t define you.
He stands near the balcony with his back to you, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, lazily tied, careless in that deliberate way of his. Moonlight cuts across his shoulders, tracing the lines of a body that’s older now—stronger, more refined, less reckless but no less dangerous.
He’s on the phone.
“—move the New York investors to third quarter. If we announce before the board signs off, it’ll look like we’re compensating.”
His voice carries easily through the suite. It's smoother than you remember, controlled but amused too.
You close your eyes and just listen. It’s still him. But it isn’t. There’s a weight to it now. Authority earned instead of inherited. A polish that wasn’t there when you were nineteen and furious and drunk on ambition, and you remember being nineteen, standing across from him on that stage, arguing about policy and ethics while pretending you weren’t aware of how close he was standing.
Back then he sounded like he was daring the world to stop him. Now he sounds like the world already tried and failed. Now he doesn’t need proximity to unsettle you.
A faint voice answers through the speaker. You don’t need to hear it clearly to know who it is. Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with what you were doing twenty minutes ago.
Suguru. Your close friend. His closest confidant. The one person in your life who would look at you with something dangerously close to understanding if he ever found out.
Gojo huffs a quiet laugh. “Relax. My father’s pressing for the Milan branch because he thinks expansion equals dominance. The board thinks it equals liability. I think they’re both dramatic.” A pause. “No, I’ll handle it.”
He shifts his weight. You watch the muscles in his back move. Watch the way he leans one hand against the glass like he owns the skyline. And he probably does.
You remember Zurich again. The balcony. The way he leaned too close then, too.
He ends the call with a quiet, “We’ll talk about Mumbai tomorrow.”
Silence settles. For a second, he just stands there. Then he exhales and turns.
Your heart betrays you. It flips—small, traitorous, automatic. You school your face into neutrality before he crosses the room. And he doesn’t rush, it seems like he never does anymore.
He slides back onto the bed beside you, mattress dipping with his weight. His hand finds yours without asking, fingers threading through yours as if it’s habit.
“Was it Suguru?” you ask, tone light, detached. As if you didn’t already know.
“Yeah.” His thumb brushes over your knuckles absentmindedly. “New international branch. Milan’s just the beginning.”
His fingers shift, and then he’s toying with the ring on your hand. Not your wedding band. The other one—the slim, understated ring his mother gave you when you were twelve after you’d beaten him at chess and refused to let him sulk about it.
You’d resized it years ago. Quietly. Without telling anyone. You never took it off since.
He twists it gently now, like he’s checking it’s still there. “My father’s pushing hard for Mumbai, though,” he continues. “Board’s against it. Thinks it’s too aggressive.”
“You don’t?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “I like aggressive.”
You huff a soft breath that isn’t quite a laugh.
You talk numbers after that. Market risks. Regulatory headaches. The politics of expansion. It’s easy—too easy—to slip into this rhythm with him. You’ve always been like this. Fire meeting fire, but intelligent enough to turn it into strategy. So you ask him whether Milan is the next goal.
“Yes,” he says. “Milan is the pilot. If it works, we move into the southeast next.”
“Ambitious,” you murmur.
“I don’t do small.”
His hand slides from your fingers to your wrist, then back again, like he’s mapping something he already knows by heart. His touch is idle but it isn’t innocent. His thumb drifts up the inside of your forearm, barely there.
Your breath shifts before you can stop it. He notices. Of course he does, but he doesn’t comment.
“My father wants the announcement this quarter,” he continues. “The consultants think it's not the right time. They agree with the directors.”
“And you?” you ask.
His gaze drops to your mouth. “I think aggression is misunderstood. It’s only reckless if you lose.”
You tilt your head. “Or if you get caught.”
His lips twitch.
His hand leaves yours, sliding up your arm, over your shoulder, then down your bare waist. Slow. Distracted. Like he’s not even thinking about it.
You hate that it works.
“I told Suguru to draft it anyway,” he says. “I’ll handle the resistance.”
“You always do.”
“That’s because I’m usually right.”
“Arrogant.”
“You mean accurate.”
His palm flattens against your hip, thumb pressing into the sensitive dip of bone, too close to the persistent throbbing between your legs. The sheet shifts lower. His eyes follow it.
Then he says it. Casual. Thoughtless. “I mentioned it to Rei.”
Her name lands between you like a dropped glass. His hand stills. You feel it too, the exact second he realizes. The room goes quiet in a way that has nothing to do with sound.
“What does she think?” you ask evenly.
He studies your face, searching for damage. “She thinks we should wait another year.”
“Rei’s cautious,” you reply. “It’s one of her better traits.”
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “That wasn’t—”
“I know what it wasn’t.”
Your tone is too calm. You sit up, letting the sheet fall completely this time. If he’s going to say her name in this bed, you won’t pretend modesty.
“I should go,” you say lightly. “It’s late.”
“You don’t have to—” He runs a hand through his hair, trying to swat the tension away like it’s a minor inconvenience. “Don’t make it weird.”
Weird. You almost laugh.
Then his phone lights up on the bedside table, and like the universe needs to send more reminders, Rei's name glows across the screen. It rings once, the sound cutting through the room like a verdict.
Neither of you move.
It rings again. As proof. As evidence. A reminder of vows, of dinners you’ve attended together, of hands you’ve shaken across tables pretending not to know how he looks when he says your name in the dark.
It rings a third time.
You break eye contact first.
You swing your legs off the bed and stand, gathering your dress from the floor. The fabric feels heavier now. You step into it without looking at him, pulling it up over skin that still remembers his hands. Behind you, the ringing continues.
He doesn’t reach for the phone.
“Answer it,” you say quietly, slipping into your shoes.
Another ring.
He looks at you instead.
You pick up your clutch, smoothing your hair like this is just another departure, just another hotel, just another calculated mistake.
The ringing stops.
The silence afterward is worse.
Another night of mistakes, just another morning you’ll both pretend didn’t happen.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
You don’t know when memory stopped feeling like nostalgia and started feeling like evidence. Maybe it was tonight. Maybe it was the first time he said Rei’s name in the same room where he’d just had his mouth on you.
But when you close your eyes, you don’t see Milan.
You see the beginning.
Your families were never simple.
It started with your grandfathers—friends first, inseparable in the way only young men with ambition and too much confidence can be. They built their first ventures side by side, celebrated milestones at the same tables, toasted to futures they assumed would always overlap.
Then came competition. Not loud. Not theatrical. Just gradual divergence. A deal here. A contract there. A subtle shift from partnership to rivalry.
By the time your fathers inherited the empires, they inherited the resentment too. They grew up together—same schools, same universities, same stories about how things used to be better. They stood in each other’s weddings. They smiled in photographs. And then they competed like men trying to outrun ghosts.
You were supposed to be the continuation of that animosity. But rivalry never quite found space with you. Your mothers made sure of it. They weren’t sisters by blood, but they might as well have been. They shared recipes, secrets, jewellery, exhaustion. When your mother travelled, you stayed at his house. When his mother was overwhelmed, you sat at her kitchen counter and licked cake batter off a spoon while she complained about board meetings.
She treated you like her own daughter.
You can still see her hands—elegant, steady—sliding the last brownie onto your plate even when Gojo protested. You can still hear her laugh when you beat him at chess for the umpteenth time and refused to let him blame the board.
She would give you her dresses sometimes. “You’ll wear it better than I ever did,” she’d say, ignoring his dramatic groan in the background. Occasionally, she’d unclasp a necklace from her throat and fasten it around yours just to see how it looked.
And then there was the ring—the last thing she gave you before the cancer hollowed her out. Blue diamond. Aquamarine. The exact shade of her eyes.
The exact shade of his.
“I was saving this,” she told you quietly, pressing it into your palm while hospital machines hummed around her. “For someone important.”
You were twelve then.
You don’t know what she would think if she could see you now—slipping out of hotel rooms, lying to your husband, letting her son press you into mattresses that don’t belong to either of you. You don’t know if she would feel betrayed or if she would understand. You don’t know if she'd still treat you the same.
After she died, everything shifted. Your families, once forced into proximity by the women who softened them, drifted apart again. Business hardened. Dinners stopped. Invitations thinned.
But somehow, you and Gojo kept finding reasons. Excuses. Anything that pulled you two together. Board meetings your fathers couldn’t attend. University events that required “representation.” Campus debates that turned into late-night arguments in empty lecture halls.
You clashed constantly. In public, it was policy. Strategy. Market ethics. You tore into each other with clipped precision, voices calm, words sharp enough to draw blood. In private, it was something else entirely. Something unguarded, hungry and electric.
But it didn’t happen in one night; it took seven years before he had kissed you after your families became distant. Seven years of shoulder nudges and lingering stares. Seven years of pretending proximity didn’t mean anything. Seven years of learning exactly how far you could lean into him before someone noticed.
It wasn’t romantic. It was inevitable.
Not three years after that, your father called you into his office and told you it was time. You were only twenty-two. The U.S. branch needed restructuring, leadership, vision.
You needed distance.
Moreover you weren’t exactly dating. There had never been a label to destroy. You were just explosive during the day and reckless at night. Arguments in lecture halls. Fingers tangled in his hair hours later as he made your whole body come alive. No promises. No future plans. Just momentum.
So you made a choice. You chose power. You chose expansion, influence, independence. You chose to leave Japan. You chose to leave him.
He didn’t fight very hard either. That’s the part that still unsettles you.
There was no grand declaration. No airport confession. Just a long look across the room and an understanding that ambition would always outrank affection.
You moved on.
Four years later, you married Hiromi Higuruma. A good man. A strategic match. Stability wrapped in charm.
A year after you, he married too—Rei—your best friend.
You didn’t see him once in those six years. Not at conferences. Not at galas. Not even accidentally. It was as if the world understood that proximity would be catastrophic.
Until Zurich five months ago.
Your father stood at the podium and announced the merger with Gojo Enterprises like it was history correcting itself.
And then you saw him.
Across the very same glassed-in balcony, older, broader, infuriatingly composed, the same place where he’d first closed the gap between the two of you.
The first words exchanged were clipped. Polished. Drenched in professional courtesy.
“You’ve done well in the U.S.,” he’d said.
“So have you,” you replied. “I hear Lyon is ambitious.”
Insults disguised as admiration.
It should have ended there. Instead, it evolved. Formal texts about schedules became late-night emails about projections. Emails became commentary. Commentary became something layered, something suggestive. Still articulate. Still precise. Just more dangerous.
He never hid that he was married to Rei. You never pretended you weren’t married too. They were open truths.
You clashed the way you always had—sharp, strategic, addicted to opposition. But things weren’t simpler now. If anything, they were worse because now you understood exactly what you were risking, and you wanted it anyway.
You still remember the first time you saw them together.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no warning. You were in your apartment in New York, cross-legged on the couch, half-listening to a conference recap on television while scrolling mindlessly through Instagram. It was late, and you were tired, vulnerable in the way you only are when your guard is down and the world feels far away.
And then his face appeared. Not in a headline. Not in a business feature. In a photograph on Rei’s account.
Sunlight. A terrace in Tokyo. His hand tucked into the front pocket of her jeans as he pulled her back against him, hugging her from behind. He was smiling—not the sharp, public smirk he wore at board meetings, but something easier. Softer than anything you had seen after you turned twelve—domestic even.
You remember staring at the blue of his eyes through the screen, absurdly offended that they looked the same but so different at the same time.
The caption was simple. No explanation. No announcement. But it didn’t need one.
You scrolled past it but your fingers had a mind of their own and you scrolled back up. Zoomed in like you were looking for evidence of something—distance, tension, reluctance. There was none. You told yourself it was logical. Of course they would make sense. Rei was intelligent, composed, socially flawless. She understood the weight of legacy. She would never embarrass him. She would never leave.
Two years later, the article came out. You weren’t looking for it but it found you anyway. A business publication first, then society pages, just few days before your own wedding.
Merger speculation buried under something more personal: Gojo Satoru of Gojo Enterprises Announces Engagement to Ayase Rei, heiress to—You didn’t read the rest—you didn’t need to.
There was a photograph again. Formal this time. Intentional. Her hand extended slightly forward, the ring unmistakable. His hand at the small of her back. He looked composed.
You wondered if he’d chosen the ring himself. You wondered if he’d hesitated. You wondered why you cared.
You locked your phone and set it facedown on your desk like it had personally offended you.
You told yourself this was what adults did. They moved on. They married appropriately. They built empires instead of indulging impulses.
The formal invitation came a year later, not by mail but directly to you. Hiromi handed it to you one evening when you came home from work. It was thick cardstock. Tasteful. Expensive without being vulgar.
“Gojo’s getting married,” Hiromi said lightly, loosening his tie. “Rei sent it personally. She said she’d be hurt if you didn’t attend.”
You took the envelope from him carefully, as if it might detonate. Your name and Hiromi's were written in elegant calligraphy together. You slid the card out. The date. The venue. Tokyo. A union between two powerful, influential families softened into alliance.
Hiromi smiled at you. “It’ll be good for business.”
You nodded. “Of course,” you replied smoothly. “We should go.” Your voice didn’t shake. Your hands didn’t tremble.
But later that night—like tonight in Milan—alone in the bathroom, you stared at your reflection and touched the blue ring on your finger, and you wondered when exactly you’d lost the right to feel anything about it at all.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
The merger gala is obscene in the way only old money can be. Gold-leaf ceilings. Crystal chandeliers cascading like frozen rain. A string quartet tucked beneath a sweeping staircase, playing something classical and restrained while waiters glide through the room with champagne flutes balanced like offerings.
Influence hums louder than the music. Politicians. CEOs. Legacy heirs pretending they built what they inherited. You stand among them in silk and diamonds, Hiromi’s hand resting at the small of your back—steady, grounding, respectable. He looks every bit the composed executive: tailored tuxedo, measured smile, eyes always calculating the next alliance.
Across the room, you see him. Black suit. Impeccable cut. Effortless posture. Rei at his side in something gold that catches the light every time she turns her head. She looks luminous. Untouchable. Perfect for him.
Your stomach twists. Three hours ago, he had you bent over the backseat of his car in a private underground garage, hands gripping your waist hard enough to leave faint impressions. His mouth had been impatient, hungry and careless as he'd fucked you until you only remembered his name.
Now he leans down and presses a polished, gentle kiss to Rei’s lips. It's soft and public. Appropriate.
You feel it like a bruise blooming under your ribs.
“Smile,” Hiromi murmurs under his breath, guiding you forward. “We’re being watched.”
He steers you toward an older man near the champagne tower—silver-haired, sharp-eyed, the kind of executive who survived three recessions by predicting the fourth.
“Mr. Takahashi,” Hiromi greets warmly.
Takahashi laughs. “Hiro! Good to see you, son. I heard the U.S. branch exceeded projections.”
“By 8.6%,” you reply smoothly before Hiromi can. “Mostly due to restructuring our debt exposure before the rate hikes.”
Takahashi’s brows lift, impressed. “You anticipated the federal adjustments?”
“We anticipated volatility,” you correct gently. “Central banks have been telegraphing restraint for months. Anyone surprised simply wasn’t listening.”
A small approving hum.
“And what do you make of Gojo’s expansion into Milan?” Takahashi asks casually. “Bold, considering liquidity concerns.”
“Bold is one word,” you say lightly. “Overleveraged is another.”
Hiromi gives you a subtle warning glance. Before you can soften it, Hiromi gestures over your shoulder. “Ah—Satoru. Rei. Join us.”
Your spine goes rigid.
They approach with composed smiles.
Up close, you can still smell him beneath the cologne.
Takahashi inclines his head. “We were just discussing your Milan expansion.”
Gojo’s eyes flick to you briefly. Assessing. Amused.
“Were you?” he asks mildly. “I hope I’m not being audited without representation.”
“Only debated,” you reply.
Rei laughs softly. “That sounds familiar.”
Gojo takes two champagne flute from a passing tray, handing one to Rei.
“The Milan branch isn’t about immediate liquidity,” he says smoothly. “It’s about positioning. When rates stabilise, we’ll already own the infrastructure.”
“Assuming stabilisation happens within your projected window,” you counter. “If inflation persists, you’re sitting on expensive real estate and a board that already doubts you.”
“The board doubts everything,” he says. “That’s their function.”
“And risk management is yours.”
His gaze sharpens. “You think I’m mismanaging risk?”
“I think,” you reply evenly, “that expansion for the sake of dominance is a relic of how our fathers operated. The market isn’t impressed by ego anymore.”
A faint murmur ripples through the small circle forming around you.
Gojo tilts his head slightly. “You assume it’s ego.”
“What else would you call pushing forward when the data suggests caution?”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Conviction.”
“Conviction without adaptability becomes liability.”
The words that leaves your mouth are the exact mirror of what you'd said at Zurich. He smiles like he knows that as well.
“And adaptability without conviction becomes cowardice.”
The word lands harder than it should.
Rei steps in lightly. “I think both strategies have merit. Timing is the real variable—”
But you’re already looking at him. “Cowardice?” you echo. “You mean impatience.”
“I mean vision,” he replies coolly. “You used to understand that.”
Hiromi’s hand presses more firmly into your back. A silent warning.
“You’re conflating recklessness with vision,” you say. “There’s a difference.”
He steps closer, not enough to scandalize, just enough to narrow the space.
“Is there?” he asks quietly. “Or is that what you tell yourself now?”
Takahashi clears his throat softly, sensing the shift.
You keep your tone measured. “Sustainable power requires restraint.”
Gojo’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “And yet,” he says, voice lower now, more personal beneath the polish, “you’re the one who told me that hesitation is how empires decay.”
Your breath catches. The room feels suddenly too warm. He doesn’t look away.
“You said,” he continues, eyes locked on yours, “‘That’s what power means. Choosing expansion even when it costs you something.’”
The exact words from the night before you left for the U.S. You remember his room. The scent. The way you convinced yourself you were brave.
It stuns you and he sees it. And he doesn’t stop. “You chose power then,” he adds quietly. “So don’t stand here and pretend you’re morally superior because you’re cautious now.”
Rei’s smile has faded. “Satoru—”
Hiromi’s voice sharpens slightly. “Let’s keep this professional.”
But Gojo’s gaze is unrelenting. “Or is it,” he says softly, only for you, “that you don’t stand by your own judgments anymore?”
That hits.
Because it isn’t about Milan anymore. It’s about you leaving. About you marrying stability. About you standing in a gilded ballroom pretending you aren’t unraveling.
Your fingers move unconsciously to the blue ring on your hand. You twist it hard until the metal bites into your skin, the subtle nervous habit you’ve never shaken. He notices like he always does. His expression flickers—just briefly—with something like regret.
“I didn’t mean—” he starts.
Hiromi steps fully between you now.
“That’s enough,” Hiromi says evenly, but there’s steel beneath it. “You’ve crossed a line.”
Gojo straightens, composure snapping back into place like a tailored jacket.
Rei touches his arm lightly. “This isn’t the time.”
No. It isn’t.
The quartet continues playing. Champagne continues pouring. Laughter continues to echo from across the hall like nothing fractured here at all.
Hiromi’s hand closes around yours. “Excuse us,” he says politely.
You don’t look at Gojo again as Hiromi guides you away through the glittering crowd.
But you can still feel his eyes on you.
And the echo of your own words, thrown back at you like a verdict.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
The drive home is silent. It's not tense, not accusatory. Just controlled in the way you’ve learned Hiromi is. He keeps one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting loosely near the gear shift. He doesn’t ask you what that was back there. He doesn’t mention Gojo’s tone. He doesn’t mention the way your fingers wouldn’t stop twisting that ring.
He gives you dignity. You almost wish he wouldn’t.
The city lights smear past the window. Gold. White. Red. You see none of it. All you hear is his voice, your words.
That’s what power means.
Over and over.
When the car pulls into the driveway, you’re already unbuckling your seatbelt. Inside, the house is dim and immaculate. Still. Safe. You can do safe.
The door hasn’t even fully closed before you turn to Hiromi. You don’t hesitate. Your hands grab the lapels of his jacket and you kiss him. It’s immediate. Desperate in a way that doesn’t fit the polished woman from the gala. Your mouth presses to his like you’re trying to outrun something.
He startles softly against you. “Hey—”
You kiss him again.
His hands come up automatically to steady your waist. “Slow down,” he murmurs gently. “Have a drink first. You barely touched anything.”
“I don’t want a drink.” Your voice is breathless, thinner than you’d like. “I need you. Right now, please.”
He searches your face for a second—concern flickering there—but he doesn’t question you further.
He nods. “Okay.”
He kisses you back, and Hiromi is warm, solid and familiar in his own way. His hands slide carefully down your back, measured, considerate. He walks you toward the bedroom without breaking the kiss, fingers smoothing over your waist like he’s afraid you might bruise.
He’s always careful. That’s the problem.
Your dress slips from your shoulders under his patient touch. He inhales softly against your skin like he’s savoring you.
You close your eyes, and immediately you feel different hands. They are not gentle. Not reverent. Firm fingers digging into your hips. A mouth that doesn’t ask. A pace that doesn’t wait for permission because it already knows you’ll say yes.
Your breath stutters.
Hiromi misreads it as pleasure.
His palm cups your cheek, tender. “You’re shaking,” he whispers.
“I’m fine,” you say quickly, even though you aren’t.
His kisses trail down slowly, unhurried, attentive. He takes his time like this is something to be appreciated, something careful and shared.
But you need friction. You need to be held in place. You need—
You squeeze your eyes shut tighter.
Don’t.
His hands roam softly over your body, reacquainting, rediscovering. He’s always been this way, methodical, generous, intent on your comfort.
He murmurs your name like it’s something fragile.
Three hours ago, your name was bitten into your skin.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, not because you’re overwhelmed with him—but because you’re trying to anchor yourself here. In this room. In this marriage. In the man who chose you without games or rivalry or inherited war.
He presses his forehead to yours, breath warm. “Talk to me,” he says quietly. “You’ve been distant all evening.”
Guilt slices cleanly through you.
“I just needed to forget about work,” you manage.
He nods, accepting it. He lays you back gently, like you’re something precious. You hate yourself for wishing he wouldn’t. His touch is slow. Devoted. He pays attention to every small shift in your breathing, every slight arch of your back. He adjusts for you. Softens for you.
And all you can think about is how the wrong hands felt better.
A soft hitch escapes you, too sharp.
Hiromi stills immediately. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” You shake your head quickly. “Don’t stop.”
He resumes, slower if anything, as though afraid of overwhelming you.
You turn your face into the pillow for a second, eyes open, staring at nothing. You feel split in two. One half here—under your husband’s careful touch, wrapped in safety. The other still in a dark car, breath stolen, hands pinned, pulse racing from something reckless and consuming.
Hiromi whispers your name again, reverent.
Gojo never whispers.
Heat climbs up your throat—not desire. Shame. Even now—even with your husband’s mouth against your skin, his hands mapping you like he’s memorising something sacred, all you can think about is someone else.
You grip the sheets harder, trying to force yourself into the moment. Trying to focus on the warmth, the rhythm, the softness.
It should be enough. He is enough. He has always been enough.
But your body betrays you in the smallest ways—responding, yes, but not igniting. Not unraveling. Not losing control the way you did earlier.
Hiromi kisses you like he loves you.
And you lie there realizing that love has never been the thing that undoes you.
When it’s over, he pulls you into his chest immediately, arms wrapping around you protectively. He presses a kiss into your hair.
“I hate when he talks to you like that,” he murmurs quietly.
Your stomach drops.
“He doesn’t get to question your judgment.”
You don’t answer.
Because the worst part isn’t that Gojo questioned you, it’s that you wanted him to, and that terrifies you far more than any argument ever could.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
Few days pass but not cleanly, not peacefully.
Gojo reaches out.
But he is not obsessive or reckless about it. Just carefully timed pings that sound urgent.
A text: We need to talk.
A missed call at 10:42 p.m.
Another message two days later: You don’t get to run away now.
You stare at each one until the screen dims. You don’t respond. The guilt has settled too deep now—thick and slow, like something rotting under the surface. It seeps into everything. Into the way you speak to Hiromi. Into the way you avoid Rei’s messages in the group chat. Into the way you wake up at 3 a.m. with your pulse racing and no name on your lips.
Today is Aunt Yua’s fifteenth death anniversary. The Gojo family is holding a formal memorial at the main estate—carefully worded speeches, white lilies, press carefully filtered out but still present in whispers.
She would have hated it. You can almost hear her laugh—low and warm—complaining about unnecessary spectacle. So you don’t go to the main house, you take the smaller path instead, the one that curves behind the estate and opens into her favorite garden.
It’s quiet here, just an hour outside of Tokyo, but it feels further. The air smells like damp earth and early autumn. Cicadas hum lazily in the distance.
At the centre, the tree stands tall now. You and Gojo had planted it when you were four. His hands had been covered in dirt. You’d cried because you thought you’d killed it by packing the soil too tight. Aunt Yua had crouched between you, laughing, telling you trees were stronger than you thought.
It towers over you now, steady and rooted.
You sit beneath it with the old photo album resting in your lap—the one you, your mother, and Aunt Yua used to flip through on quiet afternoons when the men were at work arguing about mergers and market share. The cover is worn out from time and distance.
You open it carefully then.
The first picture is of you as a newborn, wrapped in white and sleeping. Beside you, one-year-old Gojo sits propped up awkwardly, eyes wide and intensely focused on your tiny face. Even then, he looks like he’s studying you, like he’s assessing you.
You let out a shaky breath.
You turn the page.
Summer vacations by the coast. Sand in your hair. Him chasing you with a bucket of water. Aunt Yua in a wide-brimmed hat, pretending to scold both of you while smiling too brightly.
Another page. Baking evenings in the Gojo kitchen. Flour on your cheeks. His mother stealing the last bottle of juice for you. Badminton matches in the garden. You mid-swing. Him mid-complaint.
Then few more pages and you’re twelve.
There’s a picture of you wearing the blue ring up to the light, Aunt Yua and your mother in deep conversation, and Gojo’s gaze directly trained on you.
And then there’s nothing. No more pages filled. No more you.
The album ends before the fractures begin.
You don’t realize you’re crying until a tear drops onto the plastic sleeve covering the photograph. It distorts his baby face for a second.
You wipe at your cheeks quickly, but more follow.
You feel worse than you have in years.
Your mother barely calls anymore. Even when she does, the conversations are polite and surface-level as if intimacy requires too much energy.
Your father only talks in projections and targets now. Growth. Expansion. Legacy.
Rei—your friend whom you have know for as long as you have also know Gojo—is married to him.
And somehow, despite everything, it feels like you’ve now lost Gojo too.
Not just recently too.
You think about it, the damned pattern. People orbit you for a while. Close enough to mean something, close enough to want something. And then something shifts, they drift or you do. You don’t know if you’re guarded or if there’s something rotten in you that spoils what gets too close.
Gojo was the only constant until he wasn’t. Until you left for the U.S., for dreams that don’t mean half as much as he does. You realise that now, but you’re too late now.
You press the album to your chest, shoulders shaking now.
If only you hadn’t left for the U.S, if you’d stayed, if you’d chosen differently, then maybe you wouldn’t be sitting here alone under a tree that remembers more about you than anyone does now.
You don’t hear the car.
You don’t hear the gravel shift under tires.
You don’t hear footsteps on the garden path.
You only feel it when the weight shifts in front of you.
You look up through blurred vision. He’s crouching there—Gojo, suit jacket discarded somewhere, white shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. Hair slightly disheveled like he ran a hand through it too many times.
He doesn’t say your name. He just looks at you—at the tears, at the album in your lap, at the way your fingers are clutching the edge of the page like it’s the only solid thing left.
Gently, he reaches forward and takes the album from your hands. You don’t resist when he sets it aside in the grass. And then he pulls you into him. This time there’s no hesitation in his hands, no calculation. Just arms wrapping around you fully, pulling you against his chest.
It breaks something.
You haven’t cried like this in fifteen years.
Not at her funeral.
Not when you left Japan.
Not when you got married.
Not even in Milan.
But here, under the tree you planted together, with his heartbeat steady under your ear, you shatter.
Your fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt as your forehead presses into his shoulder. The sobs come raw and unrestrained, ugly and loud in a way you’ve never allowed yourself to be. Your composure—the carefully built calm, the sharp intellect, the untouchable exterior—collapses completely.
He doesn’t tell you to stop. He doesn’t tell you to be strong. His hand cradles the back of your head the way his mother used to.
“I know,” he murmurs quietly. That’s all.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
You don’t even realize when the tears stop.
Somewhere between the broken sobs and the clutching of the photo album, your body just empties itself, leaving your chest tight and raw, your stomach twisting in protest.
Gojo doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t say a word, just presses his jacket against your back and guides you to the car. Your legs wobble with each step. You clutch the seat as he starts the engine, head spinning and the world tilts.
By the time you reach the vacation house—fifteen years preserved like a museum—you barely make it inside before the nausea hits full force. You barely make it to the bathroom. The sound of retching echoes off the tiled walls. Gojo kneels beside you, steady and patient, holding your hair back so it doesn’t cling to your sweat-soaked cheeks. His hand rubs slow circles on your back, grounding you, reminding you you’re not alone.
When it’s over, he doesn’t speak. He just wipes your tears, pats your shoulder, and guides you to the living space.
It’s unchanged. The same throw blankets. The same pillows stacked just so. Fifteen years and it’s like time hasn’t moved at all.
You move into his room and he follows, hands still brushing yours. This was always your spot. Where you would play formation on rainy afternoons, arguing over rules, pushing each other, competitive even when the adults were too absorbed in flour, spoons, or board documents to notice.
You slump against the pillows, still trembling, hair damp and clinging to your cheeks. The room smells faintly of old wood and the faint hint of the ocean breeze that drifts through the open window. He kneels beside you at first, rubbing your back slowly, like he’s trying to coax your muscles to remember they’re still flesh, not tension.
He sits close to you, and then, for the first time in forever, you hear him say it:
“I miss her.”
Your chest tightens.
The words sit between you and the room feels smaller somehow. The ocean air that slips through the window doesn’t cool anything.
“I know,” you say quietly.
He stills.
Then, very softly, “No. You don’t.”
He’s sitting sideways at the edge of the bed, legs hanging off, elbows resting loosely on his thighs. But then he turns fully towards you, while his gaze remains steady, unflinching.
“I was thirteen,” he says. It doesn't come out dramatic nor broken, but factual, almost like he has already gone over this numerous times before. “I never thought she’d actually die. Cancer was something adults whispered about. Something that happened to other families. Not ours.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“I remember being angry. All the time. At everyone.” A faint, humourless breath leaves him. “My father would be on conference calls in the hallway outside her hospital room. Investors. Board members. Expansion plans. He never stopped.”
You picture it easily. The polished shoes on sterile tile. The low, controlled voice discussing markets while machines hummed. You had been there for the most part to witness it.
“I hated it,” Gojo continues. “How everything kept moving. Like the world hadn’t noticed.” His fingers curl loosely against his palm. “And she just…smiled.”
He looks down at his hands. “She never once complained. Not about the treatments. Not about the pain.” His throat shifts. “She’d ask me about school. About chess. About whether I’d beaten you at it lately.”
Your chest constricts.
“One day,” he says, tone turning almost clinical, like he’s reciting a case study instead of a memory, “she asked how my day went.”
He pauses.
“And I couldn’t remember a single thing about it.” His mouth curves faintly, but there’s no amusement in it. “I was so angry that I couldn’t even remember something as basic as my day. Angry that she was pretending things were normal. Angry that my father was pretending this wasn’t happening. Angry that no one was furious.”
His eyes flick up to yours.
“So I snapped at her.” The words fall clean. “I told her to stop acting like everything was fine. Told her she didn’t have to pretend for me. I said I was tired of answering her stupid questions.”
The silence after that is heavy.
“She didn’t argue, she didn’t scold me,” he adds quietly. “She just looked at me. She said she’d hate for me to remember her as bitter and angry.”
Your fingers tighten in the blanket. You didn’t know any of this.
“She collapsed the next morning. Early. Before visiting hours.” His voice doesn’t shake. “Everyone had been saying she was improving.”
A long breath.
“I didn’t get to say goodbye.” His eyes shift slowly down to your hand. You don’t know what he sees first, his mother's ring or your wedding band. “I didn’t get to say I was sorry.” His gaze lingers there. “Didn’t get to say I loved her.”
The room feels unbearably still.
Then he looks up at you fully again, and there’s no deflection in him now. No arrogance. No strategy.
“I don’t want to make the same mistake again,” he says quietly. “With you.”
Your breath falters. You hold his gaze, but something inside you twists.
“I wish,” you say, voice thinner than you intended, “that you’d said that all those years ago.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
“When I was twenty-two,” you continue, “I didn’t come to you for permission, Satoru.” You swallow. “I came for a promise.”
His expression shifts barely, something so soft, so transient that you wonder if your eyes are playing tricks on you.
“I wanted you to fight for me,” you admit. “To be angry at me. To make me stay.”
The confession feels like peeling skin.
He inhales slowly.
“I thought you’d already decided,” he says. “You had the U.S. branch lined up. Your father had announced it to half the board. You were…” He searches for the word. “Certain.”
“In a way, I was,” you say quietly. “It’s always been easier for me to follow the plans people lay out. To execute them perfectly.” Your mouth curves faintly. “You know that.”
He does.
“You didn’t give me an opening,” he says. Not accusing, just honest. “You told me it was the right strategic move. That long-term positioning mattered more than short-term attachment.”
You flinch slightly at your own language thrown back at you.
“I was waiting,” you say.
“For what?”
“For you.” Your voice cracks despite yourself. “For a text. A call. Anything.”
His eyes soften, but there’s frustration in them too—old and unresolved.
“I tried,” he says.
You look at him sharply.
“The morning you were leaving.” His jaw tightens. “And a week later. After you posted that first photo in New York.”
The skyline. The glass tower. The caption about new beginnings.
“I had your number open a month later,” he says. “Thumb over the call button.”
“Why didn’t you press it?”
He laughs softly. It comes out bitter. “Because I didn’t know what those three years meant to you, between Zurich and you leaving just like that.”
The words land harder than they should.
“Were we supposed to be something more?” he asks quietly. “Did you want a relationship? A label? Or was it just...physical?”
You stare at him. “Was that what you thought?”
“I didn’t know,” he admits. “You never said anything.”
You shake your head slowly, almost in disbelief.
“What about now?”
His gaze sharpens.
“What do these past few months mean?” you ask. “The late-night hotel rooms. Sneaking out separately. Lying to Rei. Lying to Hiromi.” Your throat tightens. “What does that mean?”
Silence stretches.
Then, steady and certain: “It’s always been more, you know that.”
He doesn’t hesitate. His hand lifts slightly, hovering near your wrist but not touching yet.
“It was never just sex,” he says. “Not when we were nineteen. Not when you left. Not now.”
You look away because you do know. You’ve always known that much.
He shifts closer. Close enough that his knee presses between yours. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him even without contact.
“This time,” he says softly, “I’m asking you.”
Your pulse stutters.
“What do you want?”
The question is simple but it devastates you. You stare at the space between you. At the faint crease in his shirt. At the familiar line of his collarbone.
“I don’t know,” you whisper, finally. And that’s the most honest thing you’ve said all year.
He nods as if he knew the answer before you even do.
“But it has to stop,” you add quickly. “We can’t keep hurting them.”
Them. Rei’s careful composure. Hiromi’s steady hands. The people who chose you cleanly.
You finally look back at him. “This has to be the last time.”
The words taste like surrender.
He studies you for a long moment. Something wars behind his eyes—defiance, grief, inevitability.
Then he nods once. “Okay.”
It sounds like agreement. It feels like a countdown.
You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s him. It doesn’t matter.
His hand comes to your face, not gentle this time, not careful. Your fingers fist into his shirt as you pull him in. The kiss is immediate—hungry, consuming—months and years and missed phone calls collapsing into one violent point of contact.
There’s no softness in it. No reverence. It’s teeth and breath and hands gripping like this is something being taken and stolen all at once. He kisses you like an ending. Like he’s trying to memorise you. Like he’s furious at the universe and at you and at himself.
Your back hits the headboard harder than you expect. His mouth moves to your jaw, your throat, like he’s reclaiming territory he never stopped believing was his.
“This is the last time,” you whisper against his mouth when he comes back up again.
He doesn’t argue, but the way he kisses you, it feels nothing like goodbye, instead it feels like the beginning of something neither of you have the discipline to survive.
You focus on the way his mouth is on yours. Heat. The taste of him. A low sound from his chest—almost a groan—as he kisses you. Not memory. Not imagination. Not some cruel echo of what used to be. And the tears come again. Not because of his hand in your hair, tightening just enough to tilt your head back. Not because your feet ache as you rise toward him, chasing more, chasing closer. But because it is difficult.
It is so, unbearably difficult.
Every instinct in you says don’t believe this. Don’t let it settle into something real. Don’t let hope root itself again. Hope is reckless. Hope is expensive.
It tells you to stop. But instead, you force yourself to breathe through it. Through him. Through the way your body wants to fold into this like it was built for it. Through the way your chest tightens with something dangerously close to relief.
You want to cry under his kisses, and the sob threatens—sharp, humiliating. He probably feels it in the tremor of your breath, the uneven exhale against his lips. His tongue brushes your teeth and you gasp into his mouth. And you kiss him back.
Hungry, yes. God, yes.
But not desperate. Not undone yet.
You want him. That part has never been unclear. But you meet him now with intention, with awareness. With choice. Not with blind starvation, especially not with the kind of need that erases you.
Your hands slide up into his hair, not clinging—anchoring. You pull him closer because you decide to. Because you are choosing this collision, this fire, this impossible man in your arms.
You let out a quiet breath against his lips as he eases you back onto the bed, until you lay flat beneath him. He shifts with you, slowly moving lower as his hands trail gently down your sides, his touch warm and hurried but restrained like he wants this to last forever.
His hands are burning against your skin, a deliberate, slow heat as he undoes your jeans, the metallic snap echoing in your ears before he slides the denim down, leaving you bare and shivering in the sudden cool air. Your breath hitches when his hands graze your thighs, lingering just a second too long.
Driven by the intensity in his gaze, you reach up, your fingers trembling slightly as you loosen the string of your top around your neck. You pull it over your head, the fabric catching on your hair for a second before falling away, finally freeing you from your clothes and leaving you breathless.
He leans down to press a kiss to the hollow of your pulse, that specific spot that makes your head swim. You tilt your head back, giving him full access to your throat as his teeth grazes your skin.
You're down to only your underwear, already damp and slick, but he denies you immediate relief. Instead, he slowly traces his mouth down your body, planting scorching kisses on your flushed skin—the sting of teeth, quickly softened by a languid, teasing lick—that makes your core clench around nothing.
“Satoru,” you breathe as his palm slides down your stomach, tracing the edge of your underwear, a focused brush of touch. “I nee—”
He answers by slipping his fingers over the front of your underwear, so light you can barely feel them, and your hips lift to get him to finally hurry up. Firm, his hands grip your thighs hard, forcing you back down. Frustrated, you fist the sheets; anything to channel the tension building in you.
Against your thighs, he presses kisses, just shy of where you actually need him.
“Please, just—oh—”
His tongue slides down the crease of your hip, teasing the edge where your underwear meets your thigh, and the warm air of his breath hits the wet front of your underwear and his nose draws up your slit, covered by cotton. Your hips move again, but his hands on your hips keep you pinned to the bed.
“You were saying?” His steady voice contrasts with the slight tremble in your legs.
His teeth tease your skin, and he tugs your underwear down, the conflict in you giving way to pleasure as he pushes your leg open, dragging your underwear completely down your legs. The moan that leaves your mouth is caught somewhere between frustration and anticipation, a desperate sound, his name on your tongue.
He glances up just as his tongue slips over your clit, and he sucks so gently you look away, unable to watch. It's unlike the times when he consumes you, leaving no space for a thought to settle—you can feel the tension tightening in your stomach and you feel like you might just cry with the intensity of how much you want him to just—
He slips his tongue inside you, sending a rush of unbearable heat across your body right where you need him. A long moan draws out of you as he sets a slow pace, tongue in and out, then dragging up to your clit—just on the side of too slow, too much—and you feel your orgasm build—not the usual rush of the high, but the jarring contrast of how he’s licking into you, and how fast your climax builds, a simplicity that’s cruel almost, that washes you clean, pushes you right to the edge with a roar of frustration at how it’s not enough, and breaks.
But there’s barely a moment to relax into the momentary soothe of the aftermath, barely a moment for you to catch your breath, barely a moment for you to come down from the high. Because he doesn’t pull away, and the frayed fragments of that shattered pleasure begin to sharpen again, gathering heat and pulse until they press against you like a remembered touch that refuses to soften. You’re still too sensitive, and you try to move away, but he only stretches you out more, drawing one of your legs over his shoulder and grounding the other knee to the bed in a way that pushes the flat of his tongue harder against your clit.
There is a near-pain in it, in the way your want reshapes itself around him, twisting and breathing again—foreign and familiar all at once—and you shift instinctively, as though your body remembers the language before your mind can name it.
“Fuck—” Words catch in your throat before they even form. “Sato—ah—It’s too much. I can’t—”
“You will,” he says, voice roughed over. He doesn’t relent. Instead, he pushes two long fingers into you, and the burn from the sudden stretch makes your eyes water. Your toes curl, and your hips start to ache with how he is holding you open for him. You look at the ceiling—anything to focus on because it's more than you can take, and you keep struggling, bleary pleasure building again but still too far.
Your legs shake again, giving out.
You can't what?
Your mind oscillates between the taste of something darker, deeper, twisted—beyond the sense of more that lurks inside you for him, like brushing against the reserves of what you try to ignore. Because it has to be embarrassing—shameful to want this, want him this bad—things that you usually keep under control rightfully but not when it comes to him. Some responsibility stripped, some freedom found in the loss of control, some comfort in the arms of a man you shouldn't be with. This want only grows—want— too small a word for its inevitability. It feels uncovered, essential, the core of you that remains as everything else is stripped away. As you’re pushed further, fears surface—too much, not enough—fragile hopes laid bare until they ache, until they feel almost dangerous in their honesty.
And yet you let go. In the clench of your teeth, the stretch of your body, something releases—tension tightening, gathering, racing towards a breaking point you can’t quite grasp. As if he pushes you to the core of what remains in you, revealing only the side of you that exists with him. You don’t choose this version of yourself; you don’t decide to become her. It's a decision your body makes, and you come again.
“Again,” He whispers your name against your skin. There’s nothing for your body to do as he forces you to take it, nothing for your mind to correct and judge and shame, nothing as you're stretched out under him, needing, desperate, too far gone to feel any guilt.
“Please, don’t—Don’t—”
There's no clarity to it—the begging—you don’t know if you want him to stop or ruin you. He pushes another finger in, pressing you deeper into the mattress, and you let the tears slide down your temples.
“I'm not done with you,” he says, but you hear it in his voice, the rawness, the shaky breath he lets out. “Stay with me.”
“No, I—” There’s a blur in your eyes, you don’t know what you want to say. So you focus on the feeling of his fingers moving inside you, and it scares you. How much you want the wrong things, the hunger that eats and eats, engulfs anything in it’s fire, that consumes and fuels itself. But that dull of shame, that burn of guilt, that white noise of overwhelm, it only blazes inside you more. You don’t know what to call this.
Your body releases into his hand, and the moment your body gives in, he adds a fourth finger.
“Fuck—oh my God—”
You can barely breathe now, and he just won’t stop—mouth, tongue, fingers—the feeling like he won’t stop until he has seen all of you—and you—you don’t deserve it, there’s no way you do—but he keeps going.
Your vision blacks out, your body going in defense.
“Come on, love.” Between your thighs, his voice sends a low vibration that makes heat bloom again somewhere in you. “One more. I know you can give it to me”
It's like he's building you up just to tear you down, and yet you're limp under the weight of it like you'd beg for more if your throat didn't burn. Your body feels ravaged but the need for more until you're the only thing he sees—you really need that. Your stomach coils and he is still fucking you with his fingers, still eating you out like he wants you to collapse, like he wants you to break and break, like there’s a chance he will pick up the pieces of you, but you know he won’t be here when you wake up tomorrow.
As he keeps building the pace, keeps going, you just can’t. You don’t know how to tell him—and you don't want to—you can’t possibly be more broken, he can't possibly want you. But he doesn’t want to listen, not in the way that he doesn’t stop, doesn’t look up, doesn’t ask for permission. He just takes and takes.
The first crack of pleasure splits you, and it’s haunting then, the ability to want something so base with abandon, without regret, without repentance. You know you've crossed too many lines, but you just can’t get away from it, not when he’s the one giving it to you.
And if you follow this hunger to the end—if there is an end—what will be left of you? Or is this it, the core of you, the only meaning you get? Your desire, your ambition, the striving that should shame you, but instead feels like freedom.
And when you realize you don’t want to leave, that you want to stay right here, you try to crush that truth. You try to make the heat rising in you mean nothing. You try to let it pass. You come this time with no breath left in your lungs, and you barely register the shift in weight, the pull of heat away from you.
You can only swallow back a sob, and then a whine as he pushes his length into you, controlled and persistent until he’s fully inside you and then finally, his mouth finds yours—a kiss so soft and slow, and at complete odds with how his hips withdraw and thrust back into you.
He makes you take your own pain, holding you through it—it’s unrelenting—violence contained in your chest with nowhere to go, tragedy in your bones. It’s so much easier to let others hurt you, fuck you until you can’t think, rather than face your own hurt.
Things like culpability, liability, accountability, they mean nothing as he starts fucking you, thrusting into you like you were born for him to undo, his own breath low, catching as he thrusts into you again and again. Your body is beyond exhausted, on the cusp of breaking down—and the force with which he drives into you, it makes all the thoughts expire.
Leaning back he tilts your hips up, reaching deeper into you. You’re held together just by the way his hands wander over your stomach, your breasts, your throat—tightening just slightly so.
You reach between your bodies to touch yourself, to free yourself of this, of him—
Fingers grasp your wrist.
“Don’t,” he murmurs into your ear, against the skin of your jaw, his breath making your skin rush. “Don’t. I'll take care of you.”
Your eyes flutter shut at that, and you let yourself finally relax. Heavens, you want him. You stop resisting—he's the one fucking you, he's the one who pushes you, he's the one who keeps showing up, like maybe—maybe—you mean something to him.
As you start to come, he kisses you again, fingers making good on his promise as they rub hard circles against your clit, guiding you through the high. You’re barely in your body to feel it—a grunt, a thrust against your hips, then the feeling of him finishing inside you as you drift back into your body.
He looks at you then, and it’s not expectant but patient, a few breaths of shared silence and shared space. Tears track down your cheeks, the sobs shaking you slowly as you curl onto your side, knees to your chest like it'd protect you.
He slides in behind you, drawing you back against his chest as he turns you to face him. The movement is slow, almost careful, like he’s handling something already cracked. The sheets whisper as he pulls them up around you both, tucking them in close, as if that might hold everything together for a few more hours.
His lips find your hair, then your temple—soft, lingering kisses that ache with everything he isn’t saying. He keeps you close, but there’s a fragility in it now, like he knows this closeness has an edge. His hand rests at your back, not gripping, just memorising. He holds you like he’s trying to make the moment last.
And in the quiet, wrapped in his warmth and the weight of what’s coming, you drift to sleep.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
The text is still open when you park outside their house.
Come tomorrow. He won’t be here. I would rather hear it from you.
You sit there longer than you should. He had told her. You don’t know how. You don’t know what he said. You only know that Rei filed for divorce the next morning.
You step out of the car before you can change your mind.
When the door opens, it’s Rei. She’s dressed beautifully, as always, yellow silk, hair pinned back softly, pearl studs. There’s nothing severe about her. Nothing sharp.
But she doesn’t smile. That’s how you know.
She gives a small nod instead and steps aside. You follow her into the living room. It looks the same as it always has—sunlight through tall windows, low cream sofas, fresh flowers arranged carefully on the table. A home built for peace.
She sits at the table across from you. Neither of you reach for tea.
Usually, you’re the articulate one. You always have been. The one who fills silence before it becomes awkward. Today, you have nothing.
Rei studies you for a long moment. “You look thinner,” she says gently.
“I haven’t been sleeping,” you admit.
“Yes,” she says evenly. “I'd assumed so.”
It’s not cruel. It still cuts, though. Your stomach turns. You swallow against it, fingers tightening in your lap. You hadn’t eaten this morning. You couldn’t.
“Do you need water?” she asks.
You shake your head.
She folds her hands together. “Satoru told me,” she says quietly.
You nod.
Her voice doesn’t shake as she continues. “He came home early. Sat at the dining table. He asked if we could talk.”
You can picture it too clearly. The careful way he would have said her name. The way he would have chosen his words.
“He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t blame you. He didn’t blame me.” A small breath. “He just said there was something he should have told me sooner.”
Your throat tightens.
“He said it wasn’t sudden. That it was…history.” Her eyes flicker up to yours. “He said it had always been there.”
You feel dizzy.
“He apologized,” she continues. “More than once.”
Of course he did.
“He said he never meant to hurt me. That he thought he could manage it.” Her lips press together faintly. “That he thought it would pass.”
Your stomach flips sharply. You press your palm against it without thinking.
Rei notices. “Are you alright?”
You nod too quickly. “I’m fine.”
You are not.
The nausea rises suddenly—hot, suffocating.
“Excuse me,” you manage.
You barely make it down the hallway before you’re gripping the edge of her bathroom sink, the world tilting violently. You don’t throw up, but your body tries. Your stomach contracts painfully against nothing.
Footsteps approach. Rei stops in the doorway. She doesn’t touch you. She doesn’t hover. She just waits.
After a moment, she steps forward quietly and turns on the tap, wetting a small towel. She hands it to you.
“Sit,” she says gently.
You sink onto the closed toilet lid, pressing the cool cloth to your face.
The humiliation burns. You betrayed her. And she’s the one steadying you.
When the wave passes, you whisper, “I’m sorry.”
She leans back against the counter. “I know.”
Not absolution. Quiet acknowledgment.
You both stay there for a moment in the soft light of her bathroom, the intimacy of it almost unbearable. When you return to the living room, something has shifted. Not hostility. Just something close to clarity.
“You don’t have to explain,” Rei says quietly once you’re seated again.
You open your mouth anyway. She shakes her head.
“I don’t want the details. I don’t want timelines. I don’t want hotel names.” A faint pause. “I don’t want to know which cities.”
Your silence says enough.
She looks at you carefully. “Was it worth it?” she asks.
You don’t answer immediately.
Because the honest answer is complicated but she deserves more than just honesty from you.
“Yes,” you say finally.
Her breath catches—just barely.
“That’s what I thought.”
The room feels very still.
“You were always the one he couldn’t finish with,” she says softly.
You close your eyes briefly.
“I’m not blaming you,” she adds quickly. “Please don’t hear it that way. He was gentle with me. He tried. He showed up. He learned how I take my tea. He listened when I spoke about my work.” A small, almost fond smile. “He would sit through charity galas he hated because I asked.”
You can see it. You know it’s true.
“He wasn’t cruel,” she says. “He wasn’t absent.”
You stare at your lap, lost of any words.
“I think,” she says slowly, “he hoped if he built something steady enough, it would quiet whatever he feels for you.”
Your hands tremble slightly.
“It didn’t. I don’t think he ever loved me,” she says.
There’s no bitterness in it. Just sorrow.
“But he cared for me,” she adds. “Deeply. In his way.”
You nod.
“And I loved him,” she says simply.
That lands harder than anything else.
“I knew,” she continues after a moment. “Even before I had proof. The way he said your name was different. Like he was bracing for impact. I always felt like I was competing with something unfinished. Not you. The version of you that left.”
You don’t defend yourself. You don’t say you waited. You don’t say you were young.
You just sit there and accept it.
“We can’t be friends after this,” she says softly.
You inhale shakily.
“I don’t hate you,” she adds.
You wish she did.
“But I won’t stand next to you at events and pretend we survived this.”
“I understand.”
She studies you for a long moment—the exhaustion, the guilt, the ring you still wear.
“I just wish,” she says quietly, “that trying had been enough.”
A tear slips down her cheek before she can stop it. She wipes it away immediately.
Your throat burns. For a second, you almost reach for her but you decide against it.
At the door, she speaks once more. “Take care of yourself,” she says softly.
It’s not forgiveness. It’s habit.
The door closes behind you.
And for the first time in your life, you don’t have her to go back to.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
The next year doesn’t move in order. It fractures. Some moments are sharp enough to cut. Some are fog.
You remember going home from Rei’s house and barely making it through your own front door before you’re in the bathroom again, retching. Your hands grip the marble counter. Your reflection looks hollowed out.
You reach for your phone to check if Hiromi has texted. That’s when you see the date. You count once. Then again. Three months.
Your mouth turns metallic.
No.
You stand there very still.
Then you go to the pharmacy two streets over because you can’t bear the idea of anyone recognising you. You wear sunglasses even though it’s dusk.
Two faint lines.
You stare at the test until your vision blurs. You take another. Positive.
You sit on the cold tile floor for a long time, the tests lined up on the edge of the sink like evidence.
It can’t be Hiromi’s. You had slept with him once in months. The gala night. Not even three weeks ago.
You don’t tell him that night. You don’t tell him the next morning. Instead, you call the only person who has never once asked you to be good—Shoko. She doesn’t gasp. She doesn’t judge. She just says, “Come in tomorrow morning. I’ll clear the schedule.”
You don’t cry at the appointment. You don’t let yourself. You sit under white lights while machines hum and numbers blink and your heart feels like it’s somewhere outside your body.
Shoko is quiet longer than she needs to be. Then she turns the screen away gently.
“You’re not pregnant,” she says carefully.
Your brain doesn’t process it at first.
“You were,” she adds softly. “It looks like an early miscarriage.”
The word feels clinical. Miscarriage.
You nod like she’s discussing cholesterol. The details blur—hCG levels, no heartbeat—they don’t matter. You walk out with pamphlets you never read, prescriptions that don’t make sense.
The first month after the appointment feels unreal. Your body returns to normal faster than your mind does. There’s no visible proof anything happened. No scar. No announcement. No explanation required.
You go to work the next morning. You sit through a four-hour infrastructure budget review while a man from Oslo explains port modernization strategies. You nod at the right times. You annotate margins. You ask pointed questions about regulatory exposure.
No one notices that your palms won’t stop sweating.
At night, you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, pressing your hand flat against your abdomen as if you’re checking for something that isn’t there.
You never wanted children. Not once in your life did you sit around imagining nurseries or names or small hands gripping your fingers.
So why does it feel like something was taken from you?
Like a possibility, like a version of yourself you hadn’t considered, and the grief isn’t maternal, it’s existential. And that’s worse, because you don’t have any word for it.
You don’t tell him even now.
But you draft the message twice. You also delete it twice.
You know he would have shown up that night you talked to Rei. That’s the dangerous part. He would have dropped everything, driven across the city, sat on your bathroom floor like he did in the vacation house.
He would have made it about both of you. You can’t let that happen.
This one thing, you decide, will not belong to him. You choose to carry it alone, not because you’re strong, but because it’s consequence.
And you deserve to feel it fully.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
One night, you sit across from Hiromi at the dining table you picked together and you tell him, all of it. There is no screaming. No glass thrown. No accusations.
He listens. He closes his eyes once, briefly. Then he nods. “I knew,” he says quietly. “I was waiting for you to decide.”
You hate yourself then. You hate that the two people you hurt most were the kindest. That the two of you never hid it as well as you thought.
Rei, who had once cried when you had scraped your knees.
Hiromi, who never once made you feel small.
You wish, with a sharpness that feels like punishment, that you were a better person.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
The first public appearance after the divorces is brutal. It's at a sustainability summit in Singapore two weeks after the papers go through. Speculation pieces dressed up as financial journalism. Both your teams had moved fast—statements about “private matters” and “mutual decisions.”
But the timing is too neat. Two divorces. One halted merger.
The board pulls back. Investors get nervous. Your fathers stop speaking to each other entirely. The merger between the companies freezes mid-process like a deal caught in ice.
The press is surgical. They don’t ask about the marriages directly. They don’t need to.
“Do you believe personal instability affects executive performance?”
“Has the halted merger impacted your liquidity forecast?”
“Do you anticipate reputational damage?”
You answer calmly. “Personal matters do not interfere with operational strategy.”
Across the stage, he answers similarly.
But when the moderator shifts the question—“Would you consider revisiting the merger in the future?”—you both pause half a second too long. You don’t look at him. You don’t know if he looks at you.
“Not at this time,” you say.
“Market conditions are not favorable,” he says at the same moment.
You stand in conference rooms defending projections while headlines run your name beside the word scandal.
Afterwards, you find yourselves alone near a service corridor. It’s quiet now; neutral lighting, no cameras, no more performance.
He studies you for a second. “You handled that well.”
“So did you.”
A pause.
“You eating?” he asks casually.
“Yes.”
It’s a lie.
He nods once, like he knows it is.
Neither of you step closer. But neither of you step away too. It feels almost civilized, despite seeing him up so close.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
Your divorce continues to mutate in cycles. One month it’s headlines. The next it’s opinion pieces. Then it’s analysis framed as corporate psychology: “Legacy Entanglements and Executive Risk” or “Personal Impulses in High-Stakes Leadership”.
Your father calls one evening. He doesn’t stop to ask if you’re okay, but to ask if you’re stabilizing investor confidence.
“I am,” you reply.
“Good.”
The call ends.
You sit there afterward realizing that at no point did he ask you about how you were doing, what you were doing, nothing about Gojo.
It stings less than it used to.
That’s growth, you think.
Or numbness.
Then there are those quiet almosts—the ruin, the temptation.
A winter charity auction.
You stand across the room from him while bidding escalates for a contemporary sculpture. You raise your paddle, and he raises his. A stubborn back and forth, not to win the art, but to test.
At ten million, you lower yours. He lets it go at ten-five.
Later, as people applaud the final bidder, he murmurs near your shoulder, “You hesitated.”
“I calculated.”
He almost smiles. “Still the same.”
And for a split second, you both assume—we’ll circle back.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
Spring comes.
You pour yourself into the new division, not as rebellion but necessity. If you’re going to be judged, let it be for execution.
You choose projects no one wants because they aren’t glamorous. Rural grid expansion. Sustainable port retrofitting. Climate-resilient infrastructure in regions investors deem “unstable.”
Your margins are thin. Your timelines long. Board members question you.
“Why not pursue higher-yield markets?”
“Because long-term positioning requires foundational integrity,” you answer.
You stop needing applause. You finally stop needing to win rooms. Now, you start caring more about outcomes than dominance.
It unsettles people. It unsettles you even more.
You see him less socially, and more and more professionally. Panels. Committees. Advisory boards.
There’s a subtle shift in him too. He speaks less about dominance. More about durability. He never references your debate in Zurich at nineteen. But sometimes, when he presents, you hear echoes.
Guardrails. Stability. Measured expansion.
You wonder if that’s coincidence. You don’t ask.
One night, late, after a Tokyo economic forum, you both end up in the parking structure at the same time, like your universes were meant to clash no matter how high you pick yourself.
You lean against your car, exhausted. He stands three feet away.
“You look different,” he says.
“So do you.”
“You ever think,” he starts, then stops.
“What?”
“That if we just wait long enough, it’ll line up.”
You consider that—not emotionally—strategically.
“We’ve been waiting our entire lives,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t argue. That’s new.
For a second, the air thickens. Old instinct pulls at you. Familiar gravity.
He steps closer, and you see his jaw tightening when he stops himself. You see the restraint in the way his fists clench. You don’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
“Goodnight,” he says instead.
And you realize something subtle and terrifying.
For the first time, neither of you chased the other.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
The grief changes shape over time and the hollowness dulls. It is like disorientation. An interruption in narrative continuity. You had always assumed control over your trajectory. For a brief moment, biology overruled that assumption.
The loss reminds you that not everything is governed by discipline.
You do not cry.
But you feel the absence like negative space in architecture—visible only because of what surrounds it.
And sometimes, when you’re reviewing projections late at night, you calculate timelines unconsciously.
If it had continued. If it had been viable.
You shut those thoughts down immediately.
You chose this. You chose to deal with it alone.
He doesn’t need to carry it now, not when you've managed it for this long. You deserved him once maybe, or at least you thought you did. Now, you’re less certain that deserving him was ever the point.
Maybe you needed to deserve yourself first.
Not as someone’s rival. Not as someone’s weakness. Not as someone’s inevitability.
You needed to deserve yourself as your own person.
That realization doesn’t arrive dramatically, it settles slowly.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
By autumn, the noise fades. The press moves on. Investors regain confidence.
Your new division secures its first major long-term contract. You don’t celebrate loudly. You just stand in your office after everyone leaves and you let yourself feel proud. Not because someone noticed, but because you built something difficult alone.
And you still see him. But the pull is different now. Less urgent. Less consuming. More...aware. You are no longer orbiting blindly. You are choosing distance.
And he is respecting it.
That, more than anything, tells you you’ve both changed.
And when Zurich appears on the calendar again, it does not feel like fate, not like your worlds are stitched together by design. It feels like a test of who you have become in the absence of each other.
You are at the same annual function you both presented at ten years ago, back when you were ambitious and unscarred, back when the world still felt theoretical.
The ballroom looks smaller now. Or maybe you’ve grown.
You present first—measured, confident, unhurried. Not proving anything. Not seeking applause.
When he speaks, you don’t analyze his tone. You don’t count the ways he’s changed. You just listen.
Later, the party thins.
Clusters form—laughing, loosened, slightly drunk on champagne and legacy.
You step out onto the balcony for air. The night is cold like it always is around this time. The city glows below.
He’s already there, leaning against the railing, an unlit cigarette between his lips, just like he did ten years ago when you were both reckless enough to think proximity wasn’t dangerous.
This time, your mind doesn’t catalogue exits neither does your heart armour itself.
You don’t tell yourself this is a mistake.
You don’t call it weakness, or nostalgia, or some lonely hour playing tricks on you.
Instead, it feels like returning to a place your heart has always known by memory, back at a place that has taught you more things about yourself than any other. It's like tracing a map you once folded away, only to realize your hands never forgot the shape of it.
There’s no rush, no panic either, just a quiet recognition settling into your chest.
You feel as though you’ve finally circled back to him. Not by accident. Not by impulse. But by something steadier than that, something patient.
As if every detour, every almost, every attempt to outrun what you felt was only part of a wider arc bending you here.
And standing in this moment, you understand: this isn’t falling backward. It’s arriving. Arriving at where it truly lies.
You don’t hesitate. You don’t rehearse what you’ll say or measure the distance like it’s something dangerous. You just walk towards him.
He shifts before you reach him, like he feels it too. And it’s subtle—a breath that deepens, shoulders that square, his head lifting a fraction as if something unseen has brushed against him. As if the air between you has changed temperature. As if he’s known, all along, that this moment would find its way back.
You’re a step away when he speaks, still looking out at the city, but you hear the smile forming, soft and a little tentative.
YOUR WATERPROOF MAKE UP IS HERE ꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ nora's beauty salon (or just the 7k followers celebration)
LIP GLOSS: girlfriend!shoko ieiri after discovering your nerdy side ˚.✦
You haven't been dating enough to have her going through your comic book collection.
She appeared in your apartment too late at night without a warning and now she's roaming through your book shelves next to your bed, opening and closing different comic books.
And you are laying in your bed, hands covering your face, trying to not die of embarrassment. Shoko is not even saying anything, you expected her to make fun of you, call you a loser and dump you right there. But she's just checking the books and seeing the figurines.
"What's your favorite superhero?" she asks all of a sudden.
"Huh?" You lift your arm from your face (that is terribly flushed of embarrassment).
Shoko smiles, looking at your from her shoulder while tilting her head. "You have a lot of different comics of different superheroes. What's your favorite?"
You swallow hard, fingers still half-covering your burning cheeks like that’s going to hide anything.
“Uh… Wonder Woman,” you mumble, barely loud enough to reach her. “And… Green Lantern. Hal Jordan one, mostly. Sometimes Kyle. Depends on the run.”
Shoko doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smirk the way she does when she catches you in literally any other vulnerable moment.
Instead she pulls a random volume off the shelf and flips it open like she’s actually interested.
“Wonder Woman,” she repeats slowly, thoughtful. “Because of the lasso? Or because she can just… yeet a tank and then give a speech about peace afterward?”
You blink. She’s not mocking you. She’s… curious?
“Both?” Your voice cracks like you’re thirteen again. You clear your throat and try again. “She’s strong but she doesn’t… she doesn’t make being strong look easy or cruel. She’s kind on purpose. And angry on purpose. And she’ll still try to talk first even when she knows she could crush someone. That’s… rare.”
Shoko hums, sliding the comic back but keeping her fingers on the spine like she’s marking her place in the conversation.
“Green Lantern?”
You groan and roll onto your side, pulling the blanket up to your nose like it’s body armor.
“You’re really gonna make me say it out loud?”
“Yep.” She turns fully toward you now, leaning one hip against the shelf, arms crossed. Her eyes are bright and patient in that terrifying Shoko way that means she’s not letting this go. “Spill.”
You exhale through your nose like you’re preparing to walk into battle.
“…Willpower. Obviously. But it’s not just ‘oh cool green laser constructs.’ It’s that the ring chooses you because it thinks you have the capacity to overcome fear. Not that you’re fearless. That you can be terrified out of your mind and still choose to move forward anyway. That’s…” You trail off, suddenly hyper-aware that you’re monologuing in your underwear while the woman you’ve been dating for two months watches you with soft, focused eyes. “…stupid. Sorry. I’m talking too much. You can stop me any time.”
“I’m not stopping you.” She pushes off the shelf and walks the two steps to the bed. Doesn’t sit yet, just stands there looking down at you with the tiniest upward curve to her lips. “Keep going. Why Hal over the others?”
You stare up at her, heart thudding so loud you’re sure she can hear it.
“Because he’s a mess. Like, catastrophically bad at feelings, makes terrible decisions, crashes and burns spectacularly, but the ring never gives up on him. Even when he gives up on himself. It just… keeps showing up saying ‘you’re still worth this power.’ I think about that a lot.”
Silence stretches for maybe three seconds.
Then Shoko climbs onto the bed, straddling your thighs over the blanket, casual as if she’s done it a thousand times. She leans down until her forearms bracket your head and you’re caged in the best-worst way possible.
“You know,” she murmurs, “for someone so embarrassed about this thirty seconds ago, you sure have a lot of feelings about fictional space cops and Amazon princesses.”
You make a small, strangled noise.
“Tell me about your favorite runs, the ones you would recommend to me.”
Your face reignites.
“…You’re evil.”
“Maybe.” She brushes her nose against yours, barely there. “But I’m listening. So talk, nerd.”
And somehow, against every instinct screaming at you to hide under the pillow, you do.
You start with Woman of Tomorrow, talking about the gorgeous art and touching story. Then with Mister Miracle and his clear depression, you mention a Medieval Elseworld with beautiful art, Batman: The Long Halloween and all the plot twists... and somewhere in the middle, you realize Shoko is laughing softly against your collarbone.
