☆: “break my heart and i swear i’m moving on with your favorite athlete” (or whatever sabrina said)
or: your boyfriend breaks up with you so you bang his favorite frat boy
the bass from the speakers pulses through the soles of your shoes, up through your legs, rattling somewhere behind your sternum where the ache still lives. your friend had practically dragged you here, dangling the promise of “free drinks” and “just one night, please, you need this” until you’d finally capitulated and let her do your eyeliner. you don’t want to be here. you also don’t want to be at home, scrolling through her instagram and watching her post stories from what used to be your boyfriend’s apartment.
former boyfriend. you’re still getting used to the shape of that word.
“drink,” your friend says, pressing something cold and fruity into your hand. she’s already scanning the room with the practiced efficiency of someone on a mission. “and stop making that face.”
“the ‘i’d rather be anywhere else’ face.”
you take a long sip of the drink.
the party is exactly what you’d expect from a frat house on a saturday. crowded, loud, smelling faintly of beer and expensive cologne. you let your friend pull you through the current of people, nodding along to whatever she’s saying about some guy she met, when you hear it. a laugh. not just any laugh. the laugh. the kind that makes a room tilt slightly on its axis, the kind that belongs to someone who has never once in their life felt awkward at a party. your eyes find him automatically, the way eyes always find the brightest thing in a room.
he’s tall. unfairly, almost obnoxiously tall, slouched against the kitchen doorframe like the architecture arranged itself around him. white hair, worn like it’s the most natural thing in the world. sunglasses pushed up over his eyes like a headband, which should look ridiculous and somehow doesn’t. he’s laughing at something his friend said, head tipped back, and the sound cuts clean through the music.
satoru gojo. you know the name because your ex used to say it the way people say the names of athletes they’ll never be. “gojo’s insane, honestly.” “gojo could have gone pro.” gojo this, gojo that. you’d smiled and nodded and felt vaguely secondary.
as if he can feel the weight of being perceived, his gaze swings across the room and lands on you. he doesn’t look away. you should. you don’t. one corner of his mouth pulls up, slow and deliberate, and he tilts his chin in the smallest possible acknowledgment. the universal language of ‘i see you seeing me.’
“uh oh,” your friend says quietly beside you.
“you are.” she sounds delighted. “go talk to him.”
“i don’t even—” but he’s already moving.
he moves through the party the way water moves around rocks unhurried, inevitable. people part for him without seeming to notice they’re doing it. he’s still looking at you when he stops, close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes. up close, he’s worse. better. both. you aren’t entirely sure. his eyes are the particular blue of something that shouldn’t exist naturally, and he’s looking at you like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen all night, which you’re almost certain is a practiced expression but can’t fully talk yourself out of caring about.
“you were staring,” he says. his voice is low, easy.
“you walked over here,” you point out.
“fair.” he takes a sip of whatever’s in his cup without breaking eye contact. “satoru.”
both brows lift. “should i be flattered or concerned?”
“my ex talked about you constantly.” it comes out before you’ve fully decided to say it, and you watch him process it. the ex, the past tense, the fact that you’re at a party alone on what is clearly not a great night for you.
you roll your eyes. “like you were a god or something.”
he grins, and it’s terrible, it’s devastating, it’s the grin of someone who has been told this before and has made a complete peace with it. “smart guy.”
“he’s really not,” you say, and take a drink.
gojo studies you for a moment. there’s something underneath the easy confidence, you notice something that’s actually paying attention. “what’s his name?”
“curiosity.” you tell him. you watch the recognition flicker across his face. he knows the name, or knows of him, which tracks. your ex had practically orbited this man’s reputation for two years without ever actually meeting him.
“hm.” Gojo tips his head to the side. “and he’s an ex as of—”
“four days.” he says it like he’s tasting the number. “and you’re here.”
“my friend thought it would help.”
you look at him. at the white hair and the lazy posture and the eyes that are still, annoyingly, completely focused on you. you think about your ex, who had worshipped this person from a distance, who had made you feel like background noise for the last six months without you fully realizing it until he was already gone, already with her, already rewriting history.
something mean and bright flickers to life in your chest.
“it’s starting to,” you say.
he catches it. the shift in your tone, the specific texture of what you mean. you see the moment he catches it. his chin dips slightly, eyes darkening at the edges, and the grin that follows is different from the last one. less performative. more interested.
“he really looked up to you,” you say, conversational, like you’re discussing the weather. “it would probably bother him. knowing i was here. talking to you.”
gojo is quiet for a moment, which you suspect is rare for him. he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t fully categorize, like he’s recalculating something, like you’ve been slightly more interesting than advertised.
“you know,” he says slowly, “most people who want to use me for something try to be subtle about it.”
“god, no.” the grin again, wider this time.
“so you’re okay with it?”
he leans down slightly, just enough to close the distance between his eye level and yours, and his voice drops into something that is specifically, deliberately for you. “sweetheart, i’m more than okay with it.” a pause. “tell me his name again.”
you do. he nods slowly, like he’s filing it away, like this is information he intends to enjoy having. “and you want him to know?”
“i want him to find out,” you correct. “there’s a difference.”
gojo stares at you for one long moment. then he laughs “yeah,” he says, and the look on his face is something close to genuine. “okay. i can make that happen.”
he gets you another drink first, which you hadn’t expected.
not because he disappears to the kitchen and comes back, but because he takes your cup right out of your hand, glances at what’s left in it, and flags down someone passing through without ever fully stepping away from you. you drink. he watches you do it with the particular attention of someone who isn’t pretending to be elsewhere, and you’re not used to that, you realize. being watched like you’re the whole point.
“come on,” he says eventually, tilting his head toward the stairs.
your pulse kicks. “that’s smooth.”
“works doesn’t it?,” he winks, completely sincere.
his room is cleaner than you’d expected, which you tell him, and he looks mildly offended in a way that makes you laugh again.
“what did you expect, a crime scene?”
“i don’t know. posters. dirty laundry.”
“i have standards.” he closes the door, and the noise from downstairs drops to a muffled pulse. without the crowd and the bass and the constant motion of the party, it’s suddenly very quiet, very small, just the two of you and the lamp he clicked on that casts everything in warm yellow. he’s looking at you again. not moving yet, just…looking.
“you can change your mind,” he says. “about any of this.”
it surprises you enough that you pause. “i know.”
“okay.” you hold his gaze. “i haven’t.”
something shifts in him then, the easy looseness of the party version of him settling into something more focused, more present. he crosses the room toward you unhurried and when he reaches up to brush your hair back from your face, his hand is warm, the touch lighter than you’d have expected from someone his size.
“he’s gonna be so pissed” Gojo says quietly, and his voice has dropped into something low and even that does things to your ability to think clearly.
“i know.” his thumb traces your jaw, tilting your face up slightly. “i just like saying it.”
“handsome? talented? great?”
“mm.” his mouth curves. “you like it.”
the irritating part is that he’s not wrong, and you think he can tell, because he makes a soft sound of satisfaction and closes the last of the distance between you. his lips are firm, demanding, and you part yours for him without a thought, a small, needy sound escaping your throat. his tongue slides against yours, hot and skilled, and the hand on your jaw slides back into your hair, fisting gently to tilt your head just how he wants it. you taste the faint sweetness of whatever he was drinking earlier and the pure, potent heat of him. your hands, which had been curled into loose fists at your sides, come up to grip the front of his tee. he breaks the kiss, his breath warm against your wet lips. “look at you,” he murmurs, voice a low, rough vibration. “comin’ to my room, to my bed, all because your ex-boyfriend was a dumbass.”
“that’s not—” you start to protest, but he silences you with another kiss, this one deeper. his other hand finds your hip, his big palm almost spanning it, pulling you against him. you can feel the hard, undeniable length of him pressing against your stomach, and a jolt of pure, liquid heat goes straight to your core.
“it is,” he says against your mouth. “and it’s the hottest fucking thing i’ve seen all semester.” the words should offend you. they don’t. they make you clench, empty and aching. he feels it, the subtle tremor that runs through you, and his grin is a wicked, knowing thing. he walks you backwards, his control absolute, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his unmade bed. with a gentle but undeniable pressure, he guides you down until you’re laying on the soft comforter. he stands over you, all towering height and pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. your breath catches. you’d seen him at parties, of course, but up close… his chest is broad, sculpted, dusted with fine white hair that trails down over a defined abdomen. he’s built, every inch of him.
“lose this,” he says, his fingers hooking into the hem of your top. you lift your arms, and he pulls it off, tossing it aside. his eyes, a bright, focused blue, rake over your lace bra. “pretty.” his thumbs brush over the peaks of your nipples through the fabric, and you arch into the touch with a gasp. “sensitive, too. perfect.” he unhooks your bra with practiced ease, and the cool air of the room hits your bare skin a second before his hands do. he palms your breasts, his touch firm, weighing them, his thumbs circling your nipples until they’re tight, aching buds. he leans down, his mouth capturing one, and you cry out. his tongue flicks, then he sucks, deep and rhythmic, while his fingers pinch and roll the other. the dual sensations are overwhelming, sharp threads of pleasure pulling tight from your breasts down to the throbbing between your legs. “gojo,” you whimper, your hands tangling in his soft, white hair. he releases your breast with a soft, wet pop and looks up at you. “what do you need, baby?”
“please what?” he prompts, his voice a low tease. his hand slides down your stomach, over the waistband of your jeans, and presses firmly against the heat you’re radiating. you buck against his palm. “use your words. tell me what this pretty pussy needs.”
“you,” you gasp, beyond pride. “i need you to touch me.”
“good girl.” the praise washes over you, warm and sticky-sweet. he undoes your jeans, yanking them and your panties down your legs in one rough, efficient motion. you’re naked now, exposed under his heavy-lidded gaze, while he’s still in his low-slung sweatpants. the inequality is thrilling. he pushes your knees apart, settling between them on the bed. “look at that,” he whispers, his finger tracing your slick folds, not entering, just painting lazy, maddening circles around your clit. “soaked for me already. just from a few kisses and some dirty talk. you really are my perfect slut, aren’t you?”
you can only nod, your hips trying to chase his elusive touch. he chuckles, low and dark. “uh-uh. be still.” he finally slides a thick finger inside you, and your back bows off the bed. “fuck”
“tight,” he groans, working his finger in and out, curling it just right. “so fucking tight and hot.” he adds a second finger, stretching you, the burn a perfect counterpoint to the pleasure. his thumb finds your clit, applying a steady, circular pressure that has you seeing stars. he watches your face, watches every flutter of your eyelids, every bitten lip. “that’s it. come on my fingers. show me how good it feels.” it’s too much, and not enough. the coiling tension snaps, and you shatter with a choked scream, your inner muscles clenching rhythmically around his invading fingers. he works you through it, murmuring, “yeah, that’s it. good girl. just the first one.”
as the aftershocks subside, he withdraws his glistening fingers and brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan of appreciation. your brain short-circuits at the sight. before you can recover, he’s moving you. with effortless strength, he rolls you onto your stomach. a pillow is shoved under your hips, lifting your ass. you feel him shift behind you, the sound of his sweatpants being pushed down. then the hot, heavy weight of him settles over you, his chest pressing against your back. “gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he breathes into your ear, his voice guttural. “he’s gonna see you tomorrow and just know. he’ll see you walk and know you’re full of me.”
the head of his cock nudges against your soaked entrance. he’s huge, thick, and you tense for a second. “shhh,” he soothes, one hand coming around your front, splaying possessively over your lower stomach. the other arm slides under your throat, his bicep, hard as a rock, cradling your head, his hand coming to cup your chin, forcing your gaze up towards the headboard. you’re utterly pinned, held in place by his strength. “take it. take me.”
the stretch is so good, a slow, burning fullness that steals your breath. he doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated, his hips flush against your ass, his length buried to the hilt inside you. you feel impossibly full, stretched to your limit. “oh, god,” you moan, the sound muffled by his arm. “God had nothing to do with this,” he says lowly, and begins to move. his pace is relentless, deep, pounding strokes that jolt you forward with every thrust. the arm under your neck keeps your head up, forcing you to feel every inch of the ride, to watch yourself in the hazy reflection of his dark TV screen across the room, a tangle of limbs, his powerful body dominating yours. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixed with your ragged gasps and his low, animalistic grunts.
“you feel that?” he grits out, his hips pistoning. “you feel how deep i am? no one’s ever been this deep in you. no one’s ever fucked you this good.” he’s right. you can’t think. you can only feel. the drag of his cock inside you, the bruising grip of his hands, the hot puff of his breath against your ear as he whispers more filth. “such a good fucking girl for coming to me… taking my cock so well… gonna make you cum again… ruin this pretty cunt for good…” his words are a catalyst. the friction, the fullness, the sheer overwhelming everything of him builds another climax, faster and harder than the first. it crashes over you, a tidal wave of white-hot pleasure that makes you scream, your body clamping down on him like a vice. he lets out a ragged curse, his rhythm faltering. “fuck, yes, squeeze me just like that…” his thrusts become harder, faster, losing their rhythm as he chases his own release. with a final, brutal drive, he buries himself deep and groans, long and low, his whole body shuddering against yours as he spills hot inside you.
for a long moment, the only sounds are your shared, ragged breathing. he stays buried within you, his weight a comforting, claiming pressure. slowly, he loosens his grip, the arm under your neck relaxing. he presses a surprisingly soft kiss to your shoulder.
“still thinking about your ex?” he murmurs, his voice hoarse.
you manage a breathless, delirious laugh. “who?”
