gojosgotogirl

[gojosgotogirl]

To all my precious Gojo waifus: He died so he could be reincarnated in another universe and become your husband. I hope this helps.

[gojosgotogirl]

the quiet strength of satoru gojo: why parts of the fandom underestimate the strongest

time for a deep dive into one of the most misunderstood characters in jujutsu kaisen—satoru gojo—and why the fandom's persistent framing of him in comparison to suguru geto reveals something deeply uncomfortable about how many people process strength, trauma, healing, and emotional resilience. this isn’t just about two characters. it’s about the narratives people choose to uplift, the pain they validate, and the quiet courage they ignore.

the empathy gap that drives me insane

here’s the thing that’s been gnawing at me for months: this fandom will go to wild, mental-acrobatic extremes to empathize with suguru geto. people say things like: “he was traumatized by watching his friends die,” “he was exhausted by the expectations of protecting non-sorcerers,” “he was too young to handle the burden of being powerful,” or “the system failed him and pushed him to that point.”

and listen—none of that is untrue. trauma is real. the curse of empathy is real. grief and pain can twist even the most grounded person. suguru’s fall is tragic. the world he inhabited was cruel and unrelenting. he was pushed to a breaking point. his descent into villainy wasn’t born out of malice, but anguish.

but here’s what boggles the mind: the same people who empathize with suguru’s unraveling turn around and paint satoru gojo—who endured every single one of those agonies and then some—as emotionally shallow, arrogant, naive, or even emotionally dependent on suguru to keep him human. as if satoru only had worth when filtered through suguru’s emotional lens.

the double standard is staggering. the math isn’t mathing. the logic unravels when you actually sit with it.

the uncomfortable truth about relatability

here's what i think is really happening: people empathize with suguru because his response to trauma is relatably human. giving up when things get too hard? most people have been there. choosing cruelty when the world feels endlessly cruel? they can imagine that spiral. breaking under pressure and lashing out at the world that hurt you? that's a very human-sized reaction to human-sized pain.

suguru's villain arc follows a pattern people recognize: good person faces trauma → trauma overwhelms their coping mechanisms → they break → they choose a path that hurts others. it's tragic, it's understandable, and most importantly, it's something many can see themselves potentially doing under the right (wrong) circumstances.

but satoru represents something that makes people fundamentally uncomfortable: incomprehensible resilience in the face of circumstances that should have broken him.

he had every single reason to become exactly what suguru became—isolated, bitter, convinced that non-sorcerers were beneath him, willing to burn down the system that failed him. the fact that he didn't isn't just impressive; it's almost alien in its strength.

and because many can't relate to that kind of resilience, they diminish it. they rewrite his story to make it more palatable, more human-sized. they make him dependent on suguru for his moral compass. they act like his principles came from somewhere outside himself rather than from an internal strength most people can't even comprehend.

a personal perspective: why suguru's actions are inexcusable

as someone who tends toward pessimism about the world and human nature, i find it fascinating that i can't muster even a shred of empathy for suguru's choices. i understand being disillusioned. i understand seeing the worst in people and systems. i understand feeling like everything is fucked and meaningless.

but genocide? murdering innocent people, including children? deciding that an entire group of humans deserves to die because some of them are awful? that's not a trauma response—that's a moral failing. that's choosing to become the exact kind of monster that makes the world darker.

pessimistic people often have the clearest view of how broken systems and circumstances can be, but recognizing that the world is cruel doesn't make cruelty acceptable. if anything, it should make you more determined not to add to the suffering. the fact that people can empathize with "i'm hurt so i'll hurt others" while struggling to understand "i'm hurt but i'll try to heal others" says everything about what kind of strength they can imagine themselves capable of.

satoru saw the same darkness suguru did—saw it even more clearly because of his isolation—and his response was "i'm going to try to make this better." that's not naivety. that's choosing hope as an act of defiance against despair.

the myth of suguru as satoru's moral anchor

this might be one of the most persistent misreadings in the entire fandom: the idea that suguru was responsible for satoru’s humanity. that he grounded him. saved him. kept him kind. that without him, satoru would’ve become something monstrous.

but let’s actually look at what canon—and context—shows us.

suguru's background: he had a loving family, recognition, camaraderie, a sense of purpose. people looked up to him. his morality was affirmed and echoed back.

satoru's background: born into isolation. groomed for a title, not a life. dehumanized from the moment he displayed power. forced into leadership before he was ready. no one taught him how to care—he just did, anyway.

and here’s the key difference: satoru didn’t learn restraint from suguru. he didn’t need a moral compass handed to him. this is someone who, as a literal child with godlike power, never misused it—not even out of spite. he had every reason to lash out, to fall, to become everything the world feared he would—but he didn’t. he made the choice not to. over and over. alone.

people point to lines like “should we kill them?” and treat them as some crisis of ethics, as if he was one breath away from becoming a villain. but that was a teenager processing grief and asking for a second opinion—not a boy on the edge of darkness. the fact that he even asked proves he already had the conscience people think he lacked. and when suguru fell, when he committed atrocities, when word reached satoru that his best friend had massacred an entire village—he didn’t believe it. he couldn’t. not because he was blind, but because he didn’t want to believe it was true.

that denial wasn’t proof of emotional dependence. it was grief. real, raw, deeply human grief. but grief doesn’t erase autonomy.

because here’s the truth: if satoru had truly needed suguru to stay good, then he would’ve broken right alongside him. but he didn’t. he chose to keep going. he didn’t become bitter. he didn’t turn cruel. he became a teacher. he started reforming a system everyone else accepted as immutable. he chose the future.

their bond mattered—but it wasn’t his foundation. people reduce satoru to “the boy who lost his best friend” as if that’s the most interesting thing about him, as if that one rupture defines every action after. but that flattens him. suguru was significant, yes. but significance isn’t destiny. and grief isn’t identity.

satoru's emotional arc isn’t about trying to rewrite the past. it’s about refusing to let that past define him. his love doesn’t rot into vengeance—it turns into action. he protects kids who could end up like suguru. he shoulders responsibility others run from. he teaches. he reforms. and he does it despite the pain, not because someone pulled him back from it.

he’s not a weapon on a leash, held back from destruction by a single lost friendship. he’s the one who disarms himself. every time. not because anyone taught him how—but because he wants to do better. because he knows what he’s capable of. because he cares, even when the world doesn’t care back.

so no, suguru wasn’t his moral anchor. he was a companion, once. someone who could relate to the burden. someone he loved. but satoru’s principles were never borrowed. they were born in silence, held together through loneliness, and reaffirmed with every act of kindness he chose after he lost suguru.

and that’s the kind of strength people keep refusing to see—because it's the kind they can’t imagine themselves having.

the empathy that never arrives

and that’s maybe the most frustrating part: that satoru—despite carrying more weight than anyone else in the story—rarely receives the empathy people so freely extend to others. the fandom will analyze every angle of suguru’s pain, dissect his fall, explain his choices, mourn what he became. but when it comes to satoru? the same kindness isn’t offered. people praise his power, his technique, his fights—but they rarely sit with how hard it must have been to stay soft. to keep choosing others. to keep choosing hope.

it’s like he’s too strong to be seen as vulnerable, too capable to be comforted. even fans fall into the same trap the jujutsu world did: they assume he’ll always endure, so they don’t bother asking if he’s okay. and they certainly don’t pause to understand how lonely that endurance must feel.

he never asked to be the strongest. and yet he lives every day carrying the cost of that title, quietly making the right choices when the wrong ones would be so much easier. he shows up. he gives. he believes. and still—he gets picked apart more for what he didn’t do than he gets recognized for everything he chooses to hold back.

when people say satoru gojo is emotionally shallow, or arrogant, or only human because of someone else—they’re echoing the same erasure the jujutsu higher-ups inflicted on him. they saw a weapon. fandom sees a trope. both refuse to look deeper. and maybe that’s what makes his quiet strength all the more tragic: that even now, after everything, so many still can’t find it in themselves to treat his endurance with the same empathy they give to someone who gave up.

the strength nobody wants to acknowledge

everyone talks about satoru being the strongest in terms of raw power. six eyes, infinity, hollow purple—yeah, he's op as hell. but his real strength, the one that actually defines him as a character, is something entirely different.

satoru gojo looked at a world that:

isolated him from birth

treated him as a weapon rather than a person

gave him godlike power with no guidance on how to use it responsibly

failed to protect his best friend

constantly demanded everything from him while giving nothing back

would have been perfectly fine with him becoming a tyrant as long as he protected their interests

and he said “no, i'm going to be better than this.”

not because someone taught him to be better. not because he had a strong support system. not because the world gave him reasons to hope. he chose to be better because that's who he decided to be, in the face of every circumstance that should have made him worse.

he chose to:

become a teacher who genuinely cares about his students' wellbeing and growth

work within a corrupt system to change it rather than tear it down

use his power to protect rather than dominate

maintain his sense of humor and humanity despite carrying unimaginable burdens

believe in the next generation enough to literally bet his life on them

never stop trying to save people, even people who've given up on themselves

the mischaracterization that reveals others' limitations

the way parts of this fandom consistently underestimate satoru's internal strength reveals something uncomfortable about how many people process exceptional resilience. they're so used to stories where good people are broken by bad circumstances that they don't know what to do with a character who endures and remains good anyway.

so they rewrite his story. they make him naive instead of recognizing that he chooses to see the world's potential for good despite evidence to the contrary. they make him emotionally dependent instead of acknowledging that he formed deep bonds despite having no model for healthy relationships. they make his strength into a weakness, his principles into privilege, his resilience into denial.

but here's the thing: satoru gojo spent his entire life surrounded by people who would have been perfectly fine with him becoming a monster. the zenin clan would have loved a satoru who believed in might makes right. the higher-ups would have been thrilled with a satoru who saw non-sorcerers as expendable. a corrupt system would have welcomed a corrupted strongest sorcerer with open arms.

the fact that he looked at all of that and said “i choose to be kind anyway” isn't naivety. it's not privilege. it's not emotional dependence.

it's moral strength on a level that most people can't even conceptualize, let alone replicate.

why suguru's fall makes satoru's resilience more impressive, not less

suguru had advantages satoru never did: a loving family, natural social connections, validation from others, a clear sense of purpose. and when the pressure became too much, he broke. that's human. that's understandable. that's tragic.

but it also makes satoru's resilience even more remarkable. he had fewer resources, less support, more pressure, and greater isolation. by every logical measure, he should have broken first and broken harder.

the fact that he didn't isn't a failure of the writing or a sign that his trauma wasn't “real enough.” it's evidence of a kind of internal strength that's so rare it seems almost fictional—which, ironically, is probably why it appears in fiction.

the flower quote and understanding without reciprocity

satoru once said something about being able to admire a flower without expecting it to understand you in return. it was about his relationship with regular people—how he could protect and care for them without needing them to comprehend his experience or validate his choices.

that quote encapsulates everything about his character that people miss. he didn't need others to understand his burden to make it worth carrying. he didn't need validation to know his principles were right. he didn't need reciprocity to keep giving.

most people in his world either feared him, used him, or put him on a pedestal. very few actually saw him as a complete person with his own struggles and growth. and yet he kept protecting them anyway. that's not emotional detachment—that's love so profound it doesn't require understanding to exist.

the love that bears the unbearable

satoru himself said that “love is the most twisted curse of all,” but his entire character arc is proof that love—not romantic love, but love for humanity, for the future, for people who will never know his name—is also the only force strong enough to bear the unbearable.

he loved his students enough to die for the possibility of their future. he loved the world enough to keep protecting it even when it gave him nothing but pain in return. he loved the idea of change enough to work within a system he could have easily destroyed.

that kind of love doesn't come from external validation or support systems. it comes from a depth of character that's almost incomprehensible in its strength.

recognizing true strength when you see it

as someone who naturally tends toward cynicism about human nature and the world's capacity for good, i find satoru's character deeply moving precisely because his hope isn't naive—it's defiant. he sees the darkness clearly and chooses light anyway. he understands how cruel people can be and decides to be kind anyway. he knows the system is broken and works to fix it anyway.

that's not the behavior of someone who doesn't understand pain or hasn't experienced trauma. that's the behavior of someone who has looked directly into the abyss and decided not to become it.

people who truly understand satoru gojo recognize that his greatest power was never his cursed technique—it was his refusal to let the world's darkness consume his capacity for love. that's a strength so rare and so valuable that it deserves to be seen and celebrated, not diminished or rewritten to fit more comfortable narratives about how people respond to pain.

the real tragedy

the real tragedy isn't that suguru fell—though that is tragic. the real tragedy is that satoru spent his entire life being misunderstood, even by people who claimed to care about him. he was seen as a weapon by his enemies, a tool by the system, and apparently, according to large portions of this fandom, as incomplete without the person who ultimately chose to become everything he stood against.

satoru gojo deserved to be seen for what he actually was: not just the strongest sorcerer, but one of the strongest people to ever exist in any story. his power was never his most impressive trait. his most impressive trait was that he had every reason to become a monster and chose to be a protector instead.

conclusion: putting respect on his name

satoru gojo might be overrated in powerscaling discussions, but he's criminally underrated in character analysis. large portions of this fandom will write thesis-length posts about why various morally gray characters deserve sympathy and understanding, but somehow can't extend that same analytical energy to recognizing the almost supernatural level of moral fortitude it took for satoru to become who he was.

his greatest strength was never infinity or six eyes. his greatest strength was looking at a world designed to corrupt him and choosing love anyway. choosing hope anyway. choosing to believe in others anyway.

if that's not the most powerful character writing in the series, then people are reading different stories.

it's time for more people to stop underestimating satoru gojo's heart and start recognizing it as the most impressive thing about him. because in a world full of characters who break under pressure, he stands as proof that sometimes—rarely, miraculously—people can endure the unendurable and come out kinder instead of crueler.

and that's a kind of strength that deserves more respect than certain parts of this fandom have ever given it.

[gojosgotogirl]

Summary: Suguru Geto and MC have been happily married for three years, but maybe not all is as it seems on the surface. After MC returns early from a trip to New York, she finds her husband in bed with another woman. Distraught, confused, and irate, she drives to his best friend's house, convinced that he helped Suguru cheat. What she doesn't expect from Satoru's cocky, know-it-all, unserious manwhore demeanor is comfort and passion. Somewhere the lines between love, hate, and tolerance blur, leaving MC in a messy tangle of relationships, feelings, and letting go.

Pairings: Satoru Gojo x Reader, Suguru Geto x Reader

Rating: Mature (18+)

Word Count: 6.5k

Content Warnings: Infidelity, Explicit Sexual Material, Graphic Depictions of Mental Health Issues, Body Dysmorphia/Disordered Eating, Heavy Angst

⚠️ READ AT YOUR OWN RISK ⚠️

[[A/N: This is a 1st person reader fic. MC will have no name, no hair or eye color, and no physical descriptors other than being chubby. This is not a self-ship, or self-insert fic. I just fucking HATE writing in 2nd person. Additionally, this is by and large a Gojo x Reader fic, it is not Suguru-centric. Lastly, and most importantly, THIS IS NOT AND WILL NOT BE A SATOSUGU FIC. ]]

Chapter I.

Here's the thing, I know I'm splitting. A puppet on strings has more control over its body than I do over mine. I've been driving around for the last three hours crying hysterically, swinging between sobbing and screaming. My entire world is upside down; my heart has been ripped from my chest still beating. There's a reel in my mind, looping the sickening memory over and over again. I might throw up. Alongside the memory is a chorus of questions: why, how, when?

I think I recognized her—a petite redhead that his best friend had as his weekly arm candy about three months ago. My mouth presses into a thin line. Did he have something to do with this? Satoru has never liked me. The day Suguru proposed, I know Satoru tried to talk him out of it, tried to convince him that we were too young, that he was settling.

My hands move automatically, flipping the car in a sharp U-turn. I can’t control the nervous energy pumping through me, making my hands shake, my free foot bounce. Driving probably was not the move to make, but I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t just stay still and there wasn’t shot in hell I was staying in that house a second longer. I got the video and left as quietly as I came in, like a ghost, like I’d never gotten back early from my trip.

I'm not sure what’s worse. Knowing what I know now or never knowing but being played the fool just the same. My fingers clench around the soft leather of the steering wheel cover at the thought. It’s better that I know. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

The drive is a blur. Speed limit signs, lights, and stop signs. Did I race the whole way over? Did I stop at all the lights? My park job is not great, to say the least, when I whip into a space in the clean, well-lit garage of Satoru’s apartment complex. I’ve only ever been here once before—last year when Suguru and I came over for some Christmas party he was throwing.

Somehow, I make it into the lobby and take the elevator up to the very top floor because, of course, he needs the penthouse. My nails tap against the metal support bar wrapped around the middle of the elevator, an off-key sound amongst the benign elevator music.

What am I doing? It’s 3 AM.

When the elevator doors open though, my feet keep moving, propelling me toward the single door in what's essentially a waiting room. I bring my fist down on the door hard, nearly frantic. Answer the damn door. I knock again and again, slamming my fist against the wood like that’ll fix this aching, bleeding hole in my chest.

Then, I hear something shouted through the door. “Jesus Christ, can you wait three fucking minutes? Somebody had better be dying or the building had better be on fire.” My hand drops lifelessly to my side just as the lock clicks and the door flies open.

Satoru Gojo stands in the darkened doorway of his apartment, the clinical lighting from outside pouring over the hard planes and ridges of his abdominal muscles. Of course, he answers the door in his boxers. His blue eyes trace over me, a mix of surprise and confusion flitting across his features. He flashes me that fake-ass megawatt smile he gives when he’s feeling uncomfortable. “Mrs. Geto,” he croons, leaning up against the doorway, his tall frame and broad shoulders dominating the space.

He and I have never spent more than two minutes alone together. Most of our interactions have been limited to brief, tense small talk or snide comments on his part. Most of the time I have Suguru to act as a buffer, but, we’ll, that’s out of the question now.

I know I look insane—tears and snot streaming down my face, my hair a mess, my glasses askew and filthy, a half-manic look in my eye, limbs shaking. So different from the quiet, wallflower skin he’s always seen me in. “Did you know?” It comes out as a rasp, my voice rough from overuse. It’s a simple question in my mind and yet my heart is beating wildly in my chest.

“Well, I'm afraid you’re going to have to be a little more specific than that, honey,” he replies lazily, one of those large shoulders rising and falling with the same grace and power of a lion.

I give him a look of pure venom, which seems to startle him, though that expression is swiftly hidden. “Did you know that Suguru is cheating on me?” My voice shakes as I clarify what exactly I'm asking about.

About five different emotions flash across his face in quick succession—confusion, shock irritation, disbelief, and something else I'm not sure about. “Oh come on, at least say something believable,” Satoru replies with a chuckle, like I'm just screwing around, like this is fun for me, “He’s so whipped for you, it’s not even funny.”

“Believable?” The laughter that follows is mirthless, cold, and empty. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I unlock it, bring up my camera roll to the most recent capture, and shove it toward him. “Is this believable enough?” My voice is icy and sharp as a knife.

He takes the phone. The sounds of grunting, moaning, and the slap of skin on skin fill the tense silence between us when he hits play. His blue eyes are wide and round, flicking over the screen. “Shit,” he whispers.

“Is it believable enough?” I repeat my question in that same edged voice.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s believable enough,” he replies quietly, pushing the phone back into my hands. I close the video and shove the device back into my pocket.

“So I ask you again, did you know?” I say, unable to let that thought go. I’m not even sure what I’ll do if he says yes, something that will land me with the label of crazy bitch, I'm sure.

“What? No. Jesus. No. Just what kind of guy do you think I am?” he says quickly, raking his long fingers through his hair.

“So you didn’t help him? You didn’t set them up?”

“No, Mrs. Geto, I did not—”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” I practically scream it, the sentence rattling in my throat on the way out, and my foot slams hard against the floor. “Don’t call me that,” it comes out small, pathetic this time, my shoulders caving inward. Then, the tears start again—hot, salty, and utterly uncontrollable.

“Okay, hey, wait a second—” His words come through in bits and pieces. “Inside,” “Neighbors,” “Causing a scene.”

What am I doing here? What am I doing? I don’t even realize I'm whispering it aloud, repeating it again and again. Before I can mortify myself further, I turn on heel in stiff, robotic movements and start back toward the elevator. Two steps. That’s how far I make it before a large hand is wrapping around my wrist, jerking me to a stop.

“Uh-uh, you’re not going anywhere, sweetheart,” Satoru says and I can hear the fucking smirk in his voice. “Think I'm letting you drive like this? Nah, you'll be a danger to anyone else on the road, not to mention yourself. You shouldn’t have driven anywhere in the first place.”

For a good long moment, I stand there frozen, a muscle in my jaw feathering as my teeth grind together so hard it hurts. “Who the fuck cares?” I let out, “Who cares if something happens to me?” There’s a logical part of my mind that knows I have a few people who would care, but I'm so deeply in my split that it’s drowned out by the constant beat of he doesn’t want me anymore.

“See, those are not the words of someone I trust behind a wheel,” Satoru says jokingly, but there’s an undercurrent of something else. “No can do, sweetie. You’re staying with me tonight. Do not pass go, do not collect 200$.”

“Satoru Gojo, I am so serious. Let go of me,” my voice is shaking as I try to hold it together, try to keep myself from falling apart on his doorstep. I give my arm a tug, attempting to break free, but he holds firm. “I mean it.”

“So did I,” he replies cheekily, “You’re not going anywhere. I’ll tie you to a chair if I have to, honey.” A pause as he clears his throat. When he continues, he sounds awkward, but like he’s trying not to sound awkward. His tone softer somehow, he adds, “Come on, it could be fun. I have ice-cream, Netflix, and a really comfortable couch.”

“Do you really think I'm concerned about having fun?” I bite out.

There’s another small stretch pf silence before he replies, “No, but you’re also not going anywhere without my say-so, so may as well make the best of it, huh, sweetheart?”

Finally, I whip around to face him, only to shoot him another venomous glare. “Asshole!”

He just shrugs, the name rolling off him like water on wax, before dragging me forcibly into his apartment, steering me toward the couch, and pushing me down lightly. “Stay here. Don’t move I’m going to go get rid of my guest,” he says with a lopsided smile and then strides off. Of course, he’s got someone over.

His apartment is gorgeous, but barren. There are no family pictures. No décor beyond that which was clearly chosen by a highly paid interior decorator. It's almost more like an art gallery than a home.

What Suguru and I had was a home. I choke back a sob, my hand coming up to cover my mouth, but I can't stop the tears from flooding my eyes and dripping down my cheeks. My foot begins to bounce again, that nervous energy holding me in an iron grip.

Several minutes later, Satoru is guiding some modelesque dark-haired woman out of his apartment. She tries to ask him questions, but he shuts her down masterfully. I don’t miss the curious side-eye she gives me as her heels click across the hardwood floors, the silent who are you and what could you possibly have to do with him?

When Satoru comes back, he crouches down in front of me so we’re eye level and says, “Alright, give me the low down. Tell me exactly what happened.”

It takes me a long time to reply as I have to get my thoughts into some semblance of order. My eyes flick between my lap and his face, my fingers tracing nervous circles on the soft fabric of my sweatpants. “I don’t know if he told you, but I got my first major gallery showing this week,” I murmur, my voice raspy and hollow. All of the joy in my accomplishment has been tainted. “I was in New York for two weeks, or I was supposed to be. I was supposed to be there until the day after tomorrow, but I came home early because I, because I missed him.” The last sentence comes out coated in the bitterness of disgust at myself and how pathetic I must seem. “I wanted to surprise him, but I guess the joke’s on me.”

I pause, trying to scrape together a moment of calm before I have to say the part that makes my stomach churn out loud. “I snuck into the house because I wanted to scare him, but when I walked inside, I saw women’s shoes, a dress, a bra.” God, I might legitimately vomit. “So I crept upstairs and through the cracked door, I saw him fucking her in our marriage bed.” A sob punches its way out of my throat. “O-our marriage bed,” I repeat brokenly, the phrase cut apart by my weeping. As if the affair isn’t bad enough, to fuck her in our marriage bed of all places. It's like adding insult to injury.

Satoru doesn’t rush me, but he doesn’t offer me any comfort either, which isn’t surprising. I'm pretty sure the man is allergic to emotional vulnerability and sincerity. He shifts from knee to knee, his eyes darting around—on me, away, on me, away. Taking a breath, I finish, “I took the video, snuck back out, drove around for a few hours, and here I am. He doesn’t even know I'm back from New York.”

“And what exactly made you think I knew about the affair? Let alone helped him with it?” He almost seems affronted.

“She was one of your girls,” I say the last word like it's derogatory, not toward her but toward him. “You brought her to our party last month. And, well, I know you don’t like me. I know you tried to talk Suguru out of marrying me.”

“Oh.” A large hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck. “Look, that wasn’t personal. I just, y’know, didn’t think he was ready to get married.” Then, he shoots me a look that’s borderline smug and says, “Besides, I was right anyway. I mean, look at you. You showed up, a mess, on my doorstep because he’s having an affair. If he was ready to get married, cheating would never have crossed his mind.”

I was right anyway. The sentence punches me in the gut and forces another sob out of my throat. I hunch over, curling in on myself, like a flower visibly wilting and dying. My entire body is trembling with the force of sobs, each one wracking my body until I'm gasping for air.

“Shit. Fuck. I'm sorry. Okay? I don’t know how to do this,” Satoru mutters, his hands fluttering around like there’s something tangible he should be fixing. “It was fucked up, alright? I shouldn’t have tried to talk him out of marrying you. Not my place. Is that right? Is that what you want to hear?” That makes me want to slap him, but I just cry harder, my sobs becoming hysterical and unhinged. “Jesus Christ, woman. You need to calm down. You’re going to make yourself sick or pass out.” But I can’t calm down. I can’t. Not while that memory of Suguru screwing the pretty, model-like redhead lives rent-free in my mind. I see it in perfect 4k clarity every time I close my eyes. The muscles of his back flexing. Her long, dainty legs wrapped around his waist. One perfectly manicured hand twisted in those long, silky raven locks.

One moment, I'm curled in on myself. The next, I'm being crushed against Satoru’s broad, leanly-muscled chest, long, strong arms wrapped around me. My glasses tilt sideways and he plucks them from my face. “Breathe with me,” he whispers against my head, his warm breath seeping through my hair. “Come on, you can do it, princess. In and out, nice and slow.” His breaths slow dramatically, one of his hands sliding up and down my back in time with each inhale and exhale. He’s so warm and for the first time since I saw that horrible scene, I feel just a little less alone.

It takes a long time, but eventually my breathing falls in sync with his. My sobbing winds down into hiccups, gasps, and sniffles. Every once in a while, I’ll burst into another round of sobs, but they’re short lived.

“What will help you? Have you eaten? Do you want some tea? A shower? The water pressure here is off the charts. It’s like getting a free massage.” He says lightheartedly and I can’t tell if he’s trying to make me feel more comfortable or himself.

“No, no food,” I rasp out, my face pressed into the crook of his shoulder, “I'm too anxious. I'll throw it right back up.” I pause and my fingers press into the muscles of his back. “I don’t want to be alone,” I whisper very quietly at the suggestion of a shower. A shower would definitely help; it's what I normally do when I'm splitting or my anxiety is particularly bad. However, the idea of being alone makes my eyes water with another round of tears.

“Okay, well, you need to get some rest at least. You’ve got to be jet-lagged,” he suggests, his silvery brows rising. “Plus, you’ve been screaming like a banshee for the last half an hour. You have to have worn yourself out. Y’know, kind of like a baby.”

I shake my head and mumble, “Not tired. Too anxious.”

“Oh, so you’re really going to be a kid about this?” He says teasingly and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Fine. If you’re not tired and you’re not hungry, then you’re taking a shower. You gotta do something, sweetheart. You can’t just sob your heart out all night.”

I mean, I definitely can. Instead of being a smart ass, my fingers tightening in his muscles even more. Tears start to roll down my cheeks again and I let out, “Please, I don’t want to be alone.” Pathetic.

“No, no, don’t start crying again. Please. You literally just stopped. How those big eyes hold so many tears is a mystery to me,” he says swiftly, his hands sliding up to my shoulders. When I start to cry even harder, he continues, “I'll come with you. Okay? You don’t have to be alone. Alright? I promise.”

I take a deep, shaky breath and squeak out, “Okay.” It’s not like he’d be attracted to me and I'm far to familiar with his philandering ways to be attracted to him in a serious way. That’s not to say he’s not attractive. No, the man is gorgeous, the way a marble statue is gorgeous. They share the same meaningless smiles and carven bodies.

Gently, he ruffles my hair, which earns him a scowl, and helps me up. With a hand on the small of my back, he guides me down the hall, through his massive bedroom, and into the ensuite. After gesturing for me to deal with my clothes, he turns the lights off, plunging the room into a deep, complete darkness.

I undress by feel alone, slipping my cardigan off, which hides my belly weight, then my t-shirt and pants. I hear each of his footsteps, then the creak and rush of the shower coming on. Slipping off my panties, I murmur, “I can’t see.”

I'm glad he can’t see me. My style leans toward baggy and shapeless, or it does now anyway, but I’ve always dressed rather modesty. It's what happens when your mother picks apart your body as a teen—you start to do it yourself as you get older. I’ve gone from heavy to skinny and now back to a little heavy again, thanks to the birth control I went on at Suguru’s behest.

“I’m just not in a place in my career where I feel comfortable bringing a child into our home. I’m close to a promotion. I can feel it. Once I make it to state’s attorney, we can revisit this topic.” Was he really too busy with work? Or another affair? Did he just not want to have children with me?

“I've got you,” Satoru says, drawing me out of my thoughts, as his hand finds the small of my back. Despite my own opinions on his character, I find it to be comforting, even if it’s just the basic comfort of another person. He guides me into the shower, keeping me steady, even when I stumble. The water hits my skin, hot and soothing. His presence looms behind me, my skin humming with it, despite the distance he’s keeping from me. Gooseflesh prickles across my body. I turn my face into the spray of water, relishing the sensation of it pelting against my closed eyes, my forehead, and my cheeks.

Three years of marriage down the drain. Five years of my life wasted. Another sob works its way out of me, past my trembling lips. My knees start to give, but Satoru is faster, pulling me into his arms again without a word. “It's okay. It's gonna be fine. You’ll see. Everything will work itself out,” he whispers all-too-optimistically against my soaked hair.

“Liar,” I choke out, “Don’t fucking lie to me. My marriage is over.” The last word is torn from me violently and I lapse into sobs again. “It’s over. All over.” I can never recover from having seen Suguru screwing that woman. It’ll be burned into my mind until the end of time. My voice comes out small and wounded as I whisper, “What's wrong with me?”

“Well, you’re kind of acting a little unhinged if you’re asking for my opinion,” he says teasingly, but a moment later, he adds softly, “Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re fine.”

“I'm sorry,” I mumble, “I'm really sorry.” I want to tell him that discovering the affair triggered my BPD and I’ve been splitting since. I want to tell him that I feel like I'm on a tightrope and I'm one wrong move away from tumbling to my timely end.

“Don’t apologize. Just relax.” There’s a gentle, tentative brush along my shoulders before his fingers dig into them, spreading and pushing the muscle in a way that makes me sigh. “Calm down,” he murmurs, like he's trying to soothe a wild animal. His hands rove over my back, massaging it with expertise I didn’t expect. His hands pause when the reach the place where my back curves into my ass, his fingers flexing against my skin. Time seems to freeze for a moment and some small, distant voice in my head whispers that I should stop him. Right as I decide to ignore it, he seems to arrive at the same conclusion because each of his hands cups one of my ass cheeks, squeezing the generous curves.

“Christ, you’re thick,” he mutters under his breath, like it slipped out without his notice. “Wouldn't know under all those clothes you hide behind,” he adds, almost to himself. His hands return to massaging, but it feels like he’s taking his time now, doing it for himself more than me. His hands glide further down, loosening the muscles in my pillow-y thighs and I hum at the attention. A shiver rolls through my body as his hands slide up my sides, his touch feather-light. They creep under my arms to cup my breasts. A strangled sound comes out of him and he yanks me against him, the sound of my shoulders hitting his chest wet and loud. “They’re soft,” he murmurs.

Oh god. His absurdly long fingers masterfully knead the sensitive flesh. When they reach my nipples, he stops, hesitates. One of those fingers gives a nipple an experimental flick. The whimper that comes out of me is embarrassing, my face flushing. I’m grateful for the cover of darkness, hiding my shame. There's another moment of hesitation. Then, without warning he’s stroking, pinching, and tugging gently on the firm buds. “Tell you a secret,” he whispers, his voice almost drowned out by the shower, but impossible to miss from the way his breath is hot against my ear. Another shiver rolls through my body and I find myself sinking against him. “Every day, I meet so many ass man. Ass this. Ass that. But me? I'm a tit man. Just wanna bury my face in ‘em. Plus …” he trails off and tugs sharply on both nipples, eliciting a gasp from me, “It’s been a long time since I’ve had real ones in my hands. I forgot how soft they are.” He finishes by grasping each fleshy globe in a hand and squeezing firmly, my pert nipples pressed against his palms. “Fuck, they feel good,” his voice is a low register against my cheek, the words spoken like some forbidden magic.

A distraction. Suddenly, it occurs to me that I was always going to end up here, not necessarily with him, but with someone. If not him, then any other nameless, faceless man to fill this void in me where all the love for my husband and the love I thought he had for me once lived.

A low, shameful whine leaves my lips, even as I back myself against him, grinding my ass against the hard cock brushing against it. He lets out a hiss against my ear, his hands flying down to my hips to take them in a firm grip. “Don’t. I can’t.” He sounds like he’s in genuine pain, like it kills him to stop me.

“If you don’t, then I'm leaving your apartment and going to find someone who will,” I say quietly, but not meekly. I mean it too, with every molecule of my being. “I just, I need to feel like a person, like someone that matters.” Even if it’s only a Band-Aid on a bullet wound.

“I don’t want to take advantage—”

“I know what I'm doing,” I cut him off. “Don’t act like I’m without agency. I was being serious. If it’s not you, I'm leaving to find someone else who will give me what I want. And what I want right now is to forget my own name.”

He stiffens. For a moment, it's like I can hear the rasp of our breathing echoing above the rasp of the shower, perfectly in sync. Then, he relaxes against me, one hand remaining on my hip, the other returning to my breast. I grind my ass against his cock again, relishing the thickness, the perfect mushroom tip, the length. No wonder he’s so cocky. He hisses at the contact, his hips bucking forward almost instinctively. It quickly turns into a groan as his length pushes between my thighs, rubbing against my folds. His hands clench on me. “Jesus, I could fuck your thighs,” he mutters absently. The hand on my hip slips around front, his fingers slowly parting my folds and teasing that nub of nerves at the apex of my thighs. My hips jerk at contact.

I should have put the pieces together about Suguru’s affair. For the last few months, I’ve been the only one initiating intimacy and when I have, it’s like it became a chore to him somewhere along the line. He used to want me, crave me, but he hasn’t touched me in over a month. I need this. I need to feel wanted, even if it’s only lust, even if it’s only temporary.

The pad of his thumb circles my clit, not quite touching it, but grazing it. A gasp is pulled from my throat and I grind against his hand, seeking that friction from his fingers, his cock. The hand on my breast drops to my hip to hold me in place and he says tightly as his fingers curl into my skin, “Hold still. Just let me feel you, okay? You’re making it difficult for me, sweetheart.” The hand on my hip shifts to my belly, his fingers digging in to cellulite that hangs over my pelvis. “Oh, this is nice. It's so soft and squishy.”

I stiffen at how he grabs one of the places I'm most insecure about, but his grip doesn’t loosen. Instead, his other hand joins it, squashing and kneading my belly. My face is burning and so are my eyes, but they’re hidden under the shroud of darkness.

He pushes his hips forward, grinding his length against my folds, while his hands traverse my body, stroking and squeezing to his heart’s content. His breathing is heavy and ragged against my ear, the hot puffs tickling the shell with each exhale. He toys expertly with my clit, skating around it, flicking it occasionally, but never quite giving me the contact I'm desperate for. Every moment that passes, the space between my thighs grows wetter and wetter, dripping down onto his engorged cock.

“Please,” I murmur at last, as close to begging as I’ll ever get.

“Such good manners,” he croons arrogantly, that infuriating thumb skipping across my clit. “Please what, princess, hmm?”

“Don’t tease me,” I complain through gritted teeth as I grind my slick center against his length. My god, he’s huge. That’s not to say Suguru isn’t big, but Jesus fucking Christ. Instead of replying, he gives my clit a flick and then pushes his thumb down right on top of it. “Not in the mood for teasing.”

“Ask nicely,” he shoots back, swirling his thumb in a smooth figure eight motion. My body jumps at each contact and my teeth grind together, stifling the moans trying escape me. “Come on, say it,” he whispers against my ear like a taunt.

I shudder against him and gasp out, “Please, I want you inside me.” I hate how pathetic I sound, how needy. Right now, he’s not my husband’s best friend, he's not a self-obsessed modelizer, he's just a man that I'm using to fill the ugly wound in my heart.

“See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” He says, pushing the head of his cock between my folds until he’s nudging at my soaked entrance. “Fuck, you’re so wet.” His fingers work harder and faster over my swollen clit as he bucks his hips gently, tormenting my drooling hole, but never quite sliding inside. “Feel that? Feel how hard I am? I'm gonna stretch you out nice and easy for me.” Slowly, he guides me forward until my body is pressed flush with the tile of the shower, frigid despite the hot water pouring down on us. Then, he does just that. Inch by agonizing inch, he fills me, his thick, veiny cock pushing into my slick walls.

“Oh god,” I gasp out as he stretches me deliciously, effortlessly hitting spots inside me that I didn’t even know I had, until he’s fully sheathed to the hilt. My eyes screw shut and the tips of my fingers scrape the grout as they curl. Ohgodohgodohgod. The dual sensation of his fingers rapt attention to my clit and him inside me is enough to make me let out a long moan.

“That's it. Big stretch,” he murmurs, “You’re so fucking tight around me, squeezing me. Fuck.” He still isn't moving, his cock kissing my cervix. “God.” His free hand gathers my wrists (because of course one of his hands is big enough to hold both my wrists) and he pins them to the wall above my head. That thick length twitches inside me and I let out a whimper. Satoru just chuckles at my plight, still unmoving, and he leans in close to rest his chin in the crook of my shoulder. “I didn’t know you were so responsive,” he teases, “You keep yourself on a very tight leash, huh?”

Instead of trying to get out a sentence, I wiggle my ass against him, earning me a sharp hiss. Almost like a punishment, he draws his hand away from my clit and give me a sharp smack on a ass cheek. I let out a cry of surprise and pain. “Jerk,” I bite out between ragged pants.

Then, he does the unthinkable. He pulls out of me, drawing a petulant whine from my lips. No, I need this. Please. But I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. Before I can complain though, I'm being spun around, picked up, and pushed against the frigid wall so fast it makes my head spin.

“Would a jerk do this?” He counters, easing himself back inside me with a groan. His hips stutter for a second and he curses under his breath. “I can't get over how goddamn tight your pussy is, like it was made for me. And dripping wet. Fuck.”

Between his dirty talk and the feeling of him sliding back inside me, I'm a moaning, trembling mess and he’s barely done anything. Maybe I'm just that desperate for attention. “That’s-that’s exactly what a jerk would—”

My sentence is cut off by his mouth finding mine in the darkness. At the same time, he starts to gently rock his hips. Bastard. Despite myself, I let out a lascivious sound, my mouth moving against his, my arms wrapping loosely around his neck, hands sliding into his short, prickly undercut, then into the sopping fringe on top. One of his hands supports my hips, the other stays against the wall by my head.

Each thrust makes me forget a little bit more. Forget that Suguru cheated on me. Forget that my marriage is over. Forget that I'm so fucking alone. The kiss breaks and we’re both gasping for breath. I can feel each hot puffs of air against my cheek.

“You sound so pretty when you moan,” he whispers, “Never knew you could be so loud.” He lets out a shaky sound that’s almost like a laugh. “Gonna make you scream, baby.” He punctuates the sentence with a sharp thrust that makes me see stars. My head tilts back against the tiled wall, the moan drawn out of me downright pornographic. “Just like that,” he says with wicked delight. My arms shake as I cling to him like it means something.

The hand on the wall comes between us, finally returning to my clit and engaging in a slow torture. His thrusts become lazy, languid, but no less deep. My arms wrapped around his neck, I’m moaning, whimpering, and worst of all crying out for him, right against his ear. “Satoru,” I gasp out, “Fuck.”

His hips stutter for second as do his fingers. “Oh, that’s hot. Say my name again.” As if determined to make me do it, his fingers begin punishing my clit in fast, sweeping strokes.

I'm not even embarrassed when I cry out, “Oh God, Satoru. I—Oh, fuck.”

It only spurs him on. Those lazy, languid thrusts become more powerful, faster and he keeps up that brutal pace on my clit. “So sexy. Such a nice little cunt,” he mutters, almost to himself, his breathing ragged.

Every thrust, every sweeping motion across my sensitive clit draws me higher and higher. I moan in such a pathetic, needy way, my hands clutching at him, nails digging into the muscles of his back. My thighs are trembling, the muscles in my feet and calves twitching. The slick sound of him rutting into me is like music to my ears.

“Oh fuck,” Satoru groans, plunging his thick, perfect cock inside me so hard the tip of it pummels my cervix. “So, so tight. Gonna come for me? Need you to come for me, sweetheart.” His thrusts are hard and fast, uncontrolled, like he's moving on impulse.

This is nothing like it was ever was with Suguru. Or anyone else for that matter. With Suguru, everything is methodical, like he’s a director and the bed is his stage. The men before weren’t really anything to write home about. With Satoru though? It’s a little unhinged, almost overwhelming.

“S-Satoru,” I let out, my eyes screwing shut as that familiar tension builds up in my gut.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against my ear between gasps and pants. “Come for me, pretty girl. I want to feel you come all over me.” His fingers don’t let up, sweeping over my clit and back again, neither do his thrusts. That tension inside me snaps and my cunt clenches down on the length of him inside me. “Satoru, oh God, Satoru,” I cry out his name over and over, intermingled with curses and unintelligible noise.

Yes. This is what I needed. God, I feel so whole. My walls flutter around him as my cunt gushes and spasms. The entirety of my body feels light and tingly, arcs of pleasure shooting through every part of me. Right now. I have no name. I have no life behind me. I just am. My mind is at last mercifully silent.

“Fuckfuckfuck, sweetheart,” he groans out, driving his fat cock as deep as it can go. A shudder rolls through his body and I feel his length twitch again and again and again as he fills me with his warm, sticky cum. That sensation alone is almost enough to make me fall apart again.

For several minutes, we stay like that, both of us breathing heavily. He doesn’t pull out and I'm glad of it. Let me stay filled as long as possible. Eventually though, he lets out a long sigh and sets me down on trembling legs.

“You didn’t even try and pull out,” I say it like a complaint, but deep down, I loved it, just like I love the feeling of his cum inside me, dripping into my folds.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, just manhandles me under the water. The silence continues as he rinses the space between my legs and then washes my hair. Only when he reaches to twist the knob, shutting the water off, does he finally say, “This can’t happen again.”

My teeth sink into my lower lip. For some reason, my heart is racing, but I swallow and say calmly, “I'm not stupid, Satoru. I know you’re incapable of relationships. Besides, I know a pity fuck when I see one.”

The second it's out of my mouth, his grip is tight on my arm. Even though I can’t see him, I somehow know he's staring at me intensely. “It wasn’t a pity fuck,” he says, “But it can’t happen again. For about twenty different reasons. The first one is that you’re married. To my best friend, I might add.”

I just scoff. “Suguru stepped out of our marriage first, thus breaking the bond of matrimony. Our marriage is nothing more than a piece of paper now.”

“C’mon, you don’t mean that. You’re just pissed off and—”

“Stop doing that!” I snap, cutting him off. “I’m not just pissed off. I can’t even fucking look at him. Why do you think I didn’t confront him? The idea of seeing him, talking to him? It makes me fucking sick.” I pause, a shiver rolling through me as the air around us begins to cool. Just to make a point, my hands find his body in the dark. I push myself right up against him, pulling him down to me and pressing my mouth against his. Despite his words, he kisses me back, his arms winding around my waist. Our mouths dance together in a synchronous push and pull. It makes me feel alive. Eventually, I break the kiss to gasp for air, but I don’t pull away entirely. Instead, I whisper against his lips, “Again.”

There’s a heartbeat’s pause, then a sigh. Even though it sounds like he's giving in, he doesn't sound put out at all. In fact, he sounds rather excited. “Okay.”

[gojosgotogirl]

Another in Gojo polaroid. Learning male anatomy is hard.

[gojosgotogirl]

Nine Crimes

A Satoru Gojo x OC (reader) x Suguru Geto fic

WARNINGS: ANGST, OC/READER IS A LITTLE CHUBBY, MENTIONS OF SELF-HARM, INFIDELITY, ABUSE, HEAVY MENTAL HEALTH TOPICS, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT

~READ AT YOUR OWN RISK~

Word Count: 6.5k

(A/N: Hello and welcome to my arena. This has been floating around in my head for a minute. This will be several chapters long if it gets enough engagement. Feel free to like, reblog, etc. It motivates me to post. Do not share to places outside of tumblr. PS. Smut is in the second half, but fair warning, it’s going to get smuttier and kinkier as the story goes on. The only reason it's tagged OC is because it's written in first person. MC will not have a name or any physical descriptors beyond being chubby. Thank you for reading 💙💙💙)

I.

Here's the thing, I know I'm splitting. A puppet on strings has more control over its body than I do of mine. I've been driving around for the last three hours crying hysterically, swinging between sobbing and screaming. My entire world is upside down; my heart has been ripped from my chest still beating. There's a reel in my mind, looping the sickening memory over and over again. I might throw up. Alongside the memory is a chorus of questions: why, how, when?

I think I recognized her—a petite redhead that his best friend had as his weekly arm candy about three months ago. My mouth presses into a thin line. Did he have something to do with this? Satoru has never liked me. The day Suguru proposed, I know Satoru tried to talk him out of it, tried to convince him that we were too young, that he was settling.

My hands move automatically, flipping the car in a sharp U-turn. I can’t control the nervous energy pumping through me, making my hands shake, my free foot bounce. Driving probably was not the move to make, but I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t just stay still and there wasn’t shot in hell I was staying in that house a second longer. I got the video and left as quietly as I came in, like a ghost, like I’d never gotten back early from my trip.

I'm not sure what’s worse. Knowing what I know now or never knowing but being played the fool just the same. My fingers clench around the soft leather of the steering wheel cover at the thought. It’s better that I know. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

The drive is a blur. Speed limit signs, lights, stop signs. Did I race the whole way over? Did I stop at all the lights? My park job is not great to say the least when I whip into a space in the clean, well-lit garage of Satoru’s apartment complex. I’ve only ever been here once before—last year when Suguru and I came over for some Christmas party he was throwing.

Somehow, I make it into the lobby and take the elevator up to the very top floor because, of course, he needs the penthouse. My nails tap against the metal support bar wrapped around the middle of the elevator, an off-key sound amongst the benign elevator music.

What am I doing? It’s 3 AM.

When the elevator doors open though, my feet keep moving, propelling me toward the single door in what's essentially a waiting room. I bring my fist down on the door hard, nearly frantic. Answer the damn door. I knock again and again, slamming my fist against the wood like that’ll fix this aching, bleeding hole in my chest.

Then, I hear something shouted through the door. “Jesus Christ, can you wait three fucking minutes? Somebody had better be dying or the building had better be on fire.” My hand drops lifelessly to my side just as the lock clicks and the door flies open.

Satoru Gojo stands in the darkened doorway of his apartment, the clinical lighting from outside pouring over the hard planes and ridges of his abdominal muscles. Of course, he answers the door in his boxers. His blue eyes trace over me, a mix of surprise and confusion flitting across his features. He flashes me that fake-ass megawatt smile he gives when he’s feeling uncomfortable. “Mrs. Geto,” he croons, leaning up against the doorway, his tall frame and broad shoulders dominating the space.

He and I have never spent more than two minutes alone together. Most of our interactions have been limited to brief, tense small talk or snide comments on his part. Most of the time I have Suguru to act as a buffer, but, well, that’s out of the question now.

I know I look insane—tears and snot streaming down my face, my hair a mess, my glasses askew and filthy, a half-manic look in my eye, limbs shaking. So different from the quiet, wallflower skin he’s always seen me in. “Did you know?” It comes out as a rasp, my voice rough from overuse. It’s a simple question in my mind and yet my heart is beating wildly in my chest.

“Well, I'm afraid you’re going to have to be a little more specific than that, honey,” he replies lazily, one of those large shoulders rising and falling with the same grace and power of a lion.

I give him a look of pure venom, which seems to startle him, though that expression is swiftly hidden. “Did you know that Suguru is cheating on me?” My voice shakes as I clarify what exactly I'm asking about.

About five different emotions flash across his face in quick succession—confusion, shock irritation, disbelief, and something else I'm not sure about. “Oh come on, at least say something believable,” Satoru replies with a chuckle, like I'm just screwing around, like this is fun for me, “He’s so whipped for you, it’s not even funny.”

“Believable?” The laughter that follows is mirthless, cold, empty. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I unlock it, bring up my camera roll to the most recent capture, and shove it toward him. “Is this believable enough?” My voice is icy and sharp as a knife.

He takes the phone. The sounds of grunting, moaning, and the slap of skin on skin fill the tense silence between us when he hits play. His blue eyes are wide and round, flicking over the screen. “Shit,” he whispers.

“Is it believable enough?” I repeat my question in that edged voice.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s believable enough,” he replies quietly, pushing the phone back into my hands. I close the video and shove the device back into my pocket.

“So I ask you again, did you know?” I say, unable to let that thought go. I’m not even sure what I’ll do if he says yes, something that will land me with the label of crazy bitch, I'm sure.

“What? No. Jesus. No. Just what kind of guy do you think I am?” he says quickly, raking his long fingers through his hair.

“So you didn’t help him? You didn’t set them up?”

“No, Mrs. Geto, I did not—”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” I practically scream it, the sentence rattling in my throat on the way out, and my foot slams hard against the floor. “Don’t call me that,” it comes out small, pathetic this time, my shoulders caving inward. Then, the tears start again—hot, salty, and utterly uncontrollable.

“Okay, hey, wait a second—” His words come through in bits and pieces. “Inside,” “Neighbors,” “Causing a scene.”

What am I doing here? What am I doing? I don’t even realize I'm whispering it aloud, repeating it again and again. Before I can mortify myself further, I turn on heel in stiff, robotic movements and start back toward the elevator. Two steps. That’s how far I make it before a large hand is wrapping around my wrist, jerking me to a stop.

“Uh-uh, you’re not going anywhere, sweetheart,” Satoru says and I can hear the fucking smirk in his voice. “Think I'm letting you drive like this? Nah, you'll be a danger to anyone else on the road, not to mention yourself. You shouldn’t have driven anywhere in the first place.”

For a good long moment, I stand there frozen, a muscle in my jaw feathering as my teeth grind together so hard it hurts. “Who the fuck cares?” I let out, “Who cares if something happens to me?” There’s a logical part of my mind that knows I have a few people who would care, but I'm so deeply in my split that it’s drowned out by the constant beat of he doesn’t want me anymore.

“See, those are not the words of someone I trust behind a wheel,” Satoru says jokingly, but there’s an undercurrent of something else. “No can do, sweetie. You’re staying with me tonight. Do not pass go, do not collect 200$.”

“Satoru Gojo, I am so serious. Let go of me,” my voice is shaking as I try to hold it together, try to keep myself from falling apart on his doorstep. I give my arm a tug, attempting to break free, but he holds firm. “I mean it.”

“So did I,” he replies cheekily, “You’re not going anywhere. I’ll tie you to a chair if I have to, honey.” A pause as he clears his throat. When he continues, he sounds awkward, but like he’s trying not to sound awkward. His tone softer somehow, he adds, “Come on, it could be fun. I have ice-cream, Netflix, and a really comfortable couch.”

“Do you really think I'm concerned about having fun?” I bite out.

There’s another small stretch pf silence before he replies, “No, but you’re also not going anywhere without my say-so, so may as well make the best of it, huh, sweetheart?”

Finally, I whip around to face him, only to shoot him another venomous glare. “Asshole!”

He just shrugs, the name rolling off him like water on wax, before dragging me forcibly into his apartment, steering me toward the couch, and pushing me down lightly. “Stay here. Don’t move I’m going to go get rid of my guest,” he says with a lopsided smile and then strides off. Of course he’s got someone over.

His apartment is gorgeous, but barren. There are no family pictures. No décor beyond that which was clearly chosen by a highly paid interior decorator. It's almost more like an art gallery than a home.

What Suguru and I had was a home. I choke back a sob, my hand coming up to cover my mouth, but I can't stop the tears from flooding my eyes and dripping down my cheeks. My foot begins to bounce again, that nervous energy holding me in an iron grip.

Several minutes later, Satoru is guiding some modelesque dark-haired woman out of his apartment. She tries to ask him questions, but he shuts her down masterfully. I don’t miss the curious side-eye she gives me as her heels click across the hardwood floors, the silent who are you and what could you possibly have to do with him?

When Satoru comes back, he crouches down in front of me so we’re eye level and says, “Alright, give me the low down. Tell me exactly what happened.”

It takes me a long time to reply as I have to get my thoughts into some semblance of order. My eyes flick between my lap and his face, my fingers tracing nervous circles on the soft fabric of my sweatpants. “I don’t know if he told you, but I got my first major gallery showing this week,” I murmur, my voice raspy and hollow. All of the joy in my accomplishment has been tainted. “I was in New York for two weeks, or I was supposed to be. I was supposed to be there until the day after tomorrow, but I came home early because I, because I missed him.” The last sentence comes out coated in the bitterness of disgust at myself and how pathetic I must seem. “I wanted to surprise him, but I guess the joke’s on me.”

I pause, trying to scrape together a moment of calm before I have to say the part that makes my stomach churn out loud. “I snuck into the house because I wanted to scare him, but when I walked inside, I saw women’s shoes, a dress, a bra.” God, I might legitimately vomit. “So I crept upstairs and through the cracked door, I saw him fucking her in our marriage bed.” A sob punches its way out of my throat. “O-our marriage-marriage bed,” I repeat brokenly, the phrase cut apart by my weeping. As if the affair isn’t bad enough, to fuck her in our marriage bed of all places. It's like adding insult to injury.

Satoru doesn’t rush me, but he doesn’t offer me any comfort either, which isn’t surprising. I'm pretty sure the man is allergic to emotional vulnerability and sincerity. He shifts from knee to knee, his eyes darting around—on me, away, on me, away. Taking a breath, I finish, “I took the video, snuck back out, drove around for a few hours, and here I am. He doesn’t even know I'm back from New York.”

“And what exactly made you think I knew about the affair? Let alone helped him with it?” He almost seems affronted.

“She was one of your girls,” I say the last word like its derogatory, not toward her but toward him. “You brought her to our party last month. And, well, I know you don’t like me. I know you tried to talk Suguru out of marrying me.”

“Oh.” A large hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck. “Look, that wasn’t personal. I just, y’know, didn’t think he was ready to get married.” Then, he shoots me a look that’s borderline smug and says, “Besides, I was right anyway. I mean, look at you. You showed up, a mess, on my doorstep because he’s having an affair. If he was ready to get married, cheating would never have crossed his mind.”

I was right anyway. The sentence punches me in the gut and forces another sob out of my throat. I hunch over, curling in on myself, like a flower visibly wilting and dying. My entire body is trembling with the force of sobs, each one wracking my body until I'm gasping for air.

“Shit. Fuck. I'm sorry. Okay? I don’t know how to do this,” Satoru mutters, his hands fluttering around like there’s something tangible he should be fixing. “It was fucked up, alright? I shouldn’t have tried to talk him out of marrying you. Not my place. Is that right? Is that what you want to hear?” That makes me want to slap him, but I just cry harder, my sobs becoming hysterical and unhinged. “Jesus Christ, woman. You need to calm down. You’re going to make yourself sick or pass out.” But I can’t calm down. I can’t. Not while that memory of Suguru screwing the pretty, model-like redhead lives rent free in my mind. I see it in perfect 4k clarity every time I close my eyes. The muscles of his back flexing. Her long, dainty legs wrapped around his waist. One perfectly manicured hand twisted in those long, silky raven locks.

One moment, I'm curled in on myself. The next, I'm being crushed against Satoru’s broad, leanly-muscled chest, long, strong arms wrapped around me. My glasses tilt sideways and he plucks them from my face. “Breathe with me,” he whispers against my head, his warm breath seeping through my hair. “Come on, you can do it, princess. In and out, nice and slow.” His breaths slow dramatically, one of his hands sliding up and down my back in time with each inhale and exhale. He’s so warm and for the first time since I saw that horrible scene, I feel just a little less alone.

It takes a long time, but eventually my breathing falls in sync with his. My sobbing winds down into hiccups, gasps, and sniffles. Every once in a while, I’ll burst into another round of sobs, but they’re short lived.

“What will help you? Have you eaten? Do you want some tea? A shower? The water pressure here is off the charts. It’s like getting a free massage.” He says lightheartedly and I can’t tell if he’s trying to make me feel more comfortable or himself.

“No, no food,” I rasp out, my face pressed into the crook of his shoulder, “I'm too anxious. I'll throw it right back up.” I pause and my fingers press into the muscles of his back. “I don’t want to be alone,” I whisper very quietly at the suggestion of a shower. A shower would definitely help; it's what I normally do when I'm splitting or my anxiety is particularly bad. However, the idea of being alone makes my eyes water with another round of tears.

“Okay, well, you need to get some rest at least. You’ve got to be jet-lagged,” he suggests, his silvery brows rising. “Plus, you’ve been screaming like a banshee for the last half an hour. You have to have worn yourself out. Y’know, kind of like a baby.”

I shake my head and mumble, “Not tired. Too anxious.”

“Oh, so you’re really going to be a kid about this?” He says teasingly and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Fine. If you’re not tired and you’re not hungry, then you’re taking a shower. You gotta do something, sweetheart. You can’t just sob your heart out all night.”

I mean, I definitely can. Instead of being a smart ass, my fingers tightening in his muscles even more. Tears start to roll down my cheeks again and I let out, “Please, I don’t want to be alone.” Pathetic.

“No, no, don’t start crying again. Please. You literally just stopped. How those big eyes hold so many tears is a mystery to me,” he says swiftly, his hands sliding up to my shoulders. When I start to cry even harder, he continues, “I'll come with you. Okay? You don’t have to be alone. Alright? I promise.”

I take a deep, shaky breath and squeak out, “Okay.” It’s not like he’d be attracted to me and I'm far to familiar with his philandering ways to be attracted to him in a serious way. That’s not to say he’s not attractive. No, the man is gorgeous, the way a marble statue is gorgeous. They share the same meaningless smiles and carven bodies.

Gently, he ruffles my hair, which earns him a scowl, and helps me up. With a hand on the small of my back, he guides me down the hall, through his massive bedroom, and into the ensuite. After gesturing for me to deal with my clothes, he turns the lights off, plunging the room into a deep, complete darkness.

I undress by feel alone, slipping my cardigan off, which hides my belly weight, then my t-shirt and pants. I hear each of his footsteps, then the creak and rush of the shower coming on. Slipping off my panties, I murmur, “I can’t see.”

I'm glad he can’t see me. My style leans toward baggy and shapeless, or it does now anyway, but I’ve always dressed rather modesty. It's what happens when your mother picks apart your body as a teen—you start to do it yourself as you get older. I’ve gone from heavy to skinny and now back to a little heavy again, thanks to the birth control I went on at Suguru’s behest.

“I’m just not in a place in my career where I feel comfortable bringing a child into our home. I’m close to a promotion. I can feel it. Once I make it to state’s attorney, we can revisit this topic.” Was he really too busy with work? Or another affair? Did he just not want to have children with me?

“I've got you,” Satoru says, drawing me out of my thoughts, as his hand finds the small of my back. Despite my own opinions on his character, I find it to be comforting, even if it’s just the basic comfort of another person. He guides me into the shower, keeping me steady, even when I stumble. The water hits my skin, hot and soothing. His presence looms behind me, my skin humming with it, despite the distance he’s keeping from me. Gooseflesh prickles across my body. I turn my face into the spray of water, relishing the sensation of it pelting against my closed eyes, my forehead, and my cheeks.

Three years of marriage down the drain. Five years of my life wasted. Another sob works its way out of me, past my trembling lips. My knees start to give, but Satoru is faster, pulling me into his arms again without a word. “It's okay. It's gonna be fine. You’ll see. Everything will work itself out,” he whispers all-too-optimistically against my soaked hair.

“Liar,” I choke out, “Don’t fucking lie to me. My marriage is over.” The last word is torn from me violently and I lapse into sobs again. “It’s over. All over.” I can never recover from having seen Suguru screwing that woman. It’ll be burned into my mind until the end of time. My voice comes out small and wounded as I whisper, “What's wrong with me?”

“Well, you’re kind of acting a little unhinged if you’re asking for my opinion,” he says teasingly, but a moment later, he adds softly, “Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re fine.”

“I'm sorry,” I mumble, “I'm really sorry.” I want to tell him that discovering the affair triggered my BPD and I’ve been splitting since. I want to tell him that I feel like I'm on a tightrope and I'm one wrong move away from tumbling to my timely end.

“Don’t apologize. Just relax.” There’s a gentle, tentative brush along my shoulders before his fingers dig into them, spreading and pushing the muscle in a way that makes me sigh. “Calm down,” he murmurs, like he's trying to soothe a wild animal. His hands rove over my back, massaging it with expertise I didn’t expect. His hands pause when the reach the place where my back curves into my ass, his fingers flexing against my skin. Time seems to freeze for a moment and some small, distant voice in my head whispers that I should stop him. Right as I decide to ignore it, he seems to arrive at the same conclusion because each of his hands cups one of my ass cheeks, squeezing the generous curves.

“Christ, you’re thick,” he mutters under his breath, like it slipped out without his notice. “Wouldn't know under all those clothes you hide behind,” he adds, almost to himself. His hands return to massaging, but it feels like he’s taking his time now, doing it for himself more than me. His hands glide further down, loosening the muscles in my pillow-y thighs and I hum at the attention. A shiver rolls through my body as his hands slide up my sides, his touch feather-light. They creep under my arms to cup my breasts. A strangled sound comes out of him and he yanks me against him, the sound of my shoulders hitting his chest wet and loud. “They’re soft,” he murmurs.

Oh god. His absurdly long fingers masterfully knead the sensitive flesh. When they reach my nipples, he stops, hesitates. One of those fingers gives a nipple an experimental flick. The whimper that comes out of me is embarrassing, my face flushing. I’m grateful for the cover of darkness, hiding my shame. There's another moment of hesitation. Then, without warning he’s stroking, pinching, and tugging gently on the firm buds. “Tell you a secret,” he whispers, his voice almost drowned out by the shower, but impossible to miss from the way his breath is hot against my ear. Another shiver rolls through my body and I find myself sinking against him. “Every day, I meet so many ass man. Ass this. Ass that. But me? I'm a tit man. Just wanna bury my face in ‘em. Plus …” he trails off and tugs sharply on both nipples, eliciting a gasp from me, “It’s been a long time since I’ve had real ones in my hands. I forgot how soft they are.” He finishes by grasping each fleshy globe in a hand and squeezing firmly, my pert nipples pressed against his palms. “Fuck, they feel good,” his voice is a low register against my cheek, the words spoken like some forbidden magic.

A distraction. Suddenly, it occurs to me that I was always going to end up here, not necessarily with him, but with someone. If not him, then any other nameless, faceless man to fill this void in me where all the love for my husband and the love I thought he had for me once lived.

A low, shameful whine leaves my lips, even as I back myself against him, grinding my ass against the hard cock brushing against it. He lets out a hiss against my ear, his hands flying down to my hips to take them in a firm grip. “Don’t. I can’t.” He sounds like he’s in genuine pain, like it kills him to stop me.

“If you don’t, then I'm leaving your apartment and going to find someone who will,” I say quietly, but not meekly. I mean it too, with every molecule of my being. “I just, I need to feel like a person, like someone that matters.” Even if it’s only a Band-Aid on a bullet wound.

“I don’t want to take advantage—”

“I know what I'm doing,” I cut him off. “Don’t act like I’m without agency. I was being serious. If it’s not you, I'm leaving to find someone else who will give me what I want. And what I want right now is to forget my own name.”

He stiffens. For a moment, it's like I can hear the rasp of our breathing echoing above the rasp of the shower, perfectly in sync. Then, he relaxes against me, one hand remaining on my hip, the other returning to my breast. I grind my ass against his cock again, relishing the thickness, the perfect mushroom tip, the length. No wonder he’s so cocky. He hisses at the contact, his hips bucking forward almost instinctively. It quickly turns into groan as his length pushes between my thighs, rubbing against my folds. His hands clench on me. “Jesus, I could fuck your thighs,” he mutters absently. The hand on my hip slips around front, his fingers slowly parting my folds and teasing that nub of nerves at the apex of my thighs. My hips jerk at contact.

I should have put the pieces together about Suguru’s affair. For the last few months, I’ve been the only one initiating intimacy and when I have, it’s like it became a chore to him somewhere along the line. He used to want me, crave me, but he hasn’t touched me in over a month. I need this. I need to feel wanted, even if it’s only lust, even if it’s only temporary.

The pad of his thumb circles my clit, not quite touching it, but grazing it. A gasp is pulled from my throat and I grind against his hand, seeking that friction from his fingers, his cock. The hand on my breast drops to my hip to hold me in place and he says tightly as his fingers curl into my skin, “Hold still. Just let me feel you, okay? You’re making it difficult for me, sweetheart.” The hand on my hip shifts to my belly, his fingers digging in to cellulite that hangs over my pelvis. “Oh, this is nice. It's so soft and squishy.”

I stiffen at how he grabs one of the places I'm most insecure about, but his grip doesn’t loosen. Instead, his other hand joins it, squashing and kneading my belly. My face is burning and so are my eyes, but they’re hidden under the shroud of darkness.

He pushes his hips forward, grinding his length against my folds, while his hands traverse my body, stroking and squeezing to his heart’s content. His breathing is heavy and ragged against my ear, the hot puffs tickling the shell with each exhale. He toys expertly with my clit, skating around it, flicking it occasionally, but never quite giving me the contact I'm desperate for. Every moment that passes, the space between my thighs grows wetter and wetter, dripping down onto his engorged cock.

“Please,” I murmur at last, as close to begging as I’ll ever get.

“Such good manners,” he croons arrogantly, that infuriating thumb skipping across my clit. “Please what, princess, hmm?”

“Don’t tease me,” I complain through gritted teeth as I grind my slick center against his length. My god he’s huge. That’s not to say Suguru isn’t big, but Jesus fucking Christ. Instead of replying, he gives my clit a flick and then pushes his thumb down right on top of it. “Not in the mood for teasing.”

“Ask nicely,” he shoots back, swirling his thumb in a smooth figure eight motion. My body jumps at each contact and my teeth grind together, stifling the moans trying escape me. “Come on, say it,” he whispers against my ear like a taunt.

I shudder against him and gasp out, “Please, I want you inside me.” I hate how pathetic I sound, how needy. Right now, he’s not my husband’s best friend, he's not a self-obsessed modelizer, he's just a man that I'm using to fill the ugly wound in my heart.

“See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” He says, pushing the head of his cock between my folds until he’s nudging at my soaked entrance. “Fuck, you’re so wet.” His fingers work harder and faster over my swollen clit as he bucks his hips gently, tormenting my drooling hole, but never quite sliding inside. “Feel that? Feel how hard I am? I'm gonna stretch you out nice and easy for me.” Slowly, he guides me forward until my body is pressed flush with the tile of the shower, frigid despite the hot water pouring down on us. Then, he does just that. Inch by agonizing inch, he fills me, his thick, veiny cock pushing into my slick walls.

“Oh god,” I gasp out as he stretches me deliciously, effortlessly hitting spots inside me that I didn’t even know I had, until he’s fully sheathed to the hilt. My eyes screw shut and the tips of my fingers scrape the grout as they curl. Ohgodohgodohgod. The dual sensation of his fingers rapt attention to my clit and him inside me is enough to make me let out a long moan.

“That's it. Big stretch,” he murmurs, “You’re so fucking tight around me, squeezing me. Fuck.” He still isn't moving, his cock kissing my cervix. “God.” His free hand gathers my wrists (because of course one of his hands is big enough to hold both my wrists) and he pins them to the wall above my head. That thick length twitches inside me and I let out a whimper. Satoru just chuckles at my plight, still unmoving, and he leans in close to rest his chin in the crook of my shoulder. “I didn’t know you were so responsive,” he teases, “You keep yourself on a very tight leash, huh?”

Instead of trying to get out a sentence, I wiggle my ass against him, earning me a sharp hiss. Almost like a punishment, he draws his hand away from my clit and give me a sharp smack on a ass cheek. I let out a cry of surprise and pain. “Jerk,” I bite out between ragged pants.

Then, he does the unthinkable. He pulls out of me, drawing a petulant whine from my lips. No, I need this. Please. But I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. Before I can complain though, I'm being spun around, picked up, and pushed against the frigid wall so fast it makes my head spin.

“Would a jerk do this?” He counters, easing himself back inside me with a groan. His hips stutter for a second and he curses under his breath. “I can't get over how goddamn tight your pussy is, like it was made for me. And dripping wet. Fuck.”

Between his dirty talk and the feeling of him sliding back inside me, I'm a moan, trembling mess and he’s barely done anything. Maybe I'm just that desperate for attention. “That’s-that’s exactly what a jerk would—”

My sentence is cut off by his mouth finding mine in the darkness. At the same time, he starts to gently rock his hips. Bastard. Despite myself, I let out a lascivious sound, my mouth moving against his, my arms wrapping loosely around his neck, hands sliding into his short, prickly undercut, then into the sopping fringe on top. One of his hands supports my hips, the other stays against the wall by my head.

Each thrust makes me forget a little bit more. Forget that Suguru cheated on me. Forget that my marriage is over. Forget that I'm so fucking alone. The kiss breaks and we’re both gasping for breath. I can feel each hot puffs of air against my cheek.

“You sound so pretty when you moan,” he whispers, “Never knew you could be so loud.” He lets out a shaky sound that’s almost like a laugh. “Gonna make you scream, baby.” He punctuates the sentence with a sharp thrust that makes me see stars. My head tilts back against the tiled wall, the moan drawn out of me downright pornographic. “Just like that,” he says with wicked delight. My arms shake as cling to him like it means something.

The hand on the wall comes between us, finally returning to my clit and engaging in a slow torture. His thrusts become lazy, languid, but no less deep. My arms wrapped around his neck, I’m moaning, whimpering, and worst of all crying out for him, right against his ear. “Satoru,” I gasp out, “Fuck.”

His hips stutter for second as do his fingers. “Oh, that’s hot. Say my name again.” As if determined to make me do it, his fingers begin punishing my clit in fast, sweeping strokes.

I'm not even embarrassed when I cry out, “Oh God, Satoru. I—Oh, fuck.”

It only spurs him on. Those lazy, languid thrusts become more powerful, faster and he keeps up that brutal pace on my clit. “So sexy. Such a nice little cunt,” he mutters, almost to himself, his breathing ragged.

Every thrust, every sweeping motion across my sensitive clit draws me higher and higher. I moan in such a pathetic, needy way, my hands clutching at him, nails digging into the muscles of his back. My thighs are trembling, the muscles in my feet and calves twitching. The slick sound of him rutting into me is like music to my ears.

“Oh fuck,” Satoru groans, plunging his thick, perfect cock inside me so hard the tip of it pummels my cervix. “So, so tight. Gonna come for me? Need you to come for me, sweetheart.” His thrust are hard and fast, but precise.

This is nothing like it was ever was with Suguru. Or anyone else for that matter. With Suguru, everything is methodical, like he’s a director and the bed is his stage. The men before weren’t really anything to write home about. With Satoru though? It’s a little unhinged, almost overwhelming.

“S-Satoru,” I let out, my eyes screwing shut as that familiar tension builds up in my gut.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against my ear between gasps and pants. “Come for me, pretty girl. I want to feel you come on my dick.” His fingers don’t let up, sweeping over my clit and back again, neither do his thrusts. That tension inside me snaps and my cunt clenches down on the length of him inside me. “Satoru, oh God, Satoru,” I cry out his name over and over, intermingled with curses and unintelligible noise.

Yes. This is what I needed. God, I feel so whole. My walls flutter around him as my cunt gushes and spasms. The entirety of my body feels light and tingly, arcs of pleasure shooting through every part of me. Right now. I have no name. I have no life behind me. I just am. My mind is at last mercifully silent.

“Fuckfuckfuck, sweetheart,” he groans out, driving his fat cock as deep as it can go. A shudder rolls through his body and I feel his length twitches again and again and again as he fills me with his warm, sticky cum. That sensation alone is almost enough to make me fall apart again.

For several minutes, we stay like that, both of us breathing heavily. He doesn’t pull out and I'm glad of it. Let me stay filled as long as possible. Eventually though, he lets out a long sigh and sets me down on trembling legs.

“You didn’t even try and pull out,” I say it like it’s a complaint, but deep down, I loved it, just like I love the feeling of his cum inside me, dripping into my folds.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, just manhandles me under the water. The silence continues as he washes my hair, rinses of the space between my legs. Only when he reaches to twist the knob, shutting the water off, does he finally say, “This can’t happen again.”

My teeth sink into my lower lip. For some reason my heart is racing, but I swallow and say calmly, “I'm not stupid, Satoru. I know you’re not into relationships. Besides, I know a pity when I see one.”

In a split second, his grip is tight on my arm. Even though I can’t see him, I somehow know he's staring at me intensely. “It wasn’t a pity fuck,” he says, “But it can’t happen again. For about twenty different reasons. The first one being that you’re married. To my best friend, I might add.”

I just scoff. “Suguru stepped out of our marriage first, thus breaking the bond of matrimony. Our marriage is nothing more than a piece of paper now.”

“C’mon, you don’t mean that. You’re just pissed off and—”

“Stop doing that!” I snap, cutting him off. “I’m not just pissed off. I can’t even fucking look at him. Why do you think I didn’t confront him? The idea of seeing him, talking to him? It makes me fucking sick.” I pause, a shiver rolling through me as the air around us begins to cool. Just to make a point, my hands find his body in the dark. I push myself right up against him, pulling him down to me and pressing my mouth against his. Despite his words, he kisses me back, his arms winding around my waist. Our mouths dance together in a synchronous push and pull. It makes me feel alive. Eventually, I break the kiss to gasp for air, but I don’t pull away entirely. Instead, I whisper against his lips, “Again.”

There’s a heartbeat’s pause, then a sigh. “Okay.”

[gojosgotogirl]

Nine Crimes

A Satoru Gojo x OC (reader) x Suguru Geto fic

WARNINGS: ANGST, OC/READER IS A LITTLE CHUBBY, MENTIONS OF SELF-HARM, INFIDELITY, ABUSE, HEAVY MENTAL HEALTH TOPICS, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT

~READ AT YOUR OWN RISK~

Word Count: 6.5k

(A/N: Hello and welcome to my arena. This has been floating around in my head for a minute. This will be several chapters long if it gets enough engagement. Feel free to like, reblog, etc. It motivates me to post. Do not share to places outside of tumblr. PS. Smut is in the second half, but fair warning, it’s going to get smuttier and kinkier as the story goes on. The only reason it's tagged OC is because it's written in first person. MC will not have a name or any physical descriptors beyond being chubby. Thank you for reading 💙💙💙)

I.

Here's the thing, I know I'm splitting. A puppet on strings has more control over its body than I do of mine. I've been driving around for the last three hours crying hysterically, swinging between sobbing and screaming. My entire world is upside down; my heart has been ripped from my chest still beating. There's a reel in my mind, looping the sickening memory over and over again. I might throw up. Alongside the memory is a chorus of questions: why, how, when?

I think I recognized her—a petite redhead that his best friend had as his weekly arm candy about three months ago. My mouth presses into a thin line. Did he have something to do with this? Satoru has never liked me. The day Suguru proposed, I know Satoru tried to talk him out of it, tried to convince him that we were too young, that he was settling.

My hands move automatically, flipping the car in a sharp U-turn. I can’t control the nervous energy pumping through me, making my hands shake, my free foot bounce. Driving probably was not the move to make, but I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t just stay still and there wasn’t shot in hell I was staying in that house a second longer. I got the video and left as quietly as I came in, like a ghost, like I’d never gotten back early from my trip.

I'm not sure what’s worse. Knowing what I know now or never knowing but being played the fool just the same. My fingers clench around the soft leather of the steering wheel cover at the thought. It’s better that I know. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

The drive is a blur. Speed limit signs, lights, stop signs. Did I race the whole way over? Did I stop at all the lights? My park job is not great to say the least when I whip into a space in the clean, well-lit garage of Satoru’s apartment complex. I’ve only ever been here once before—last year when Suguru and I came over for some Christmas party he was throwing.

Somehow, I make it into the lobby and take the elevator up to the very top floor because, of course, he needs the penthouse. My nails tap against the metal support bar wrapped around the middle of the elevator, an off-key sound amongst the benign elevator music.

What am I doing? It’s 3 AM.

When the elevator doors open though, my feet keep moving, propelling me toward the single door in what's essentially a waiting room. I bring my fist down on the door hard, nearly frantic. Answer the damn door. I knock again and again, slamming my fist against the wood like that’ll fix this aching, bleeding hole in my chest.

Then, I hear something shouted through the door. “Jesus Christ, can you wait three fucking minutes? Somebody had better be dying or the building had better be on fire.” My hand drops lifelessly to my side just as the lock clicks and the door flies open.

Satoru Gojo stands in the darkened doorway of his apartment, the clinical lighting from outside pouring over the hard planes and ridges of his abdominal muscles. Of course, he answers the door in his boxers. His blue eyes trace over me, a mix of surprise and confusion flitting across his features. He flashes me that fake-ass megawatt smile he gives when he’s feeling uncomfortable. “Mrs. Geto,” he croons, leaning up against the doorway, his tall frame and broad shoulders dominating the space.

He and I have never spent more than two minutes alone together. Most of our interactions have been limited to brief, tense small talk or snide comments on his part. Most of the time I have Suguru to act as a buffer, but, well, that’s out of the question now.

I know I look insane—tears and snot streaming down my face, my hair a mess, my glasses askew and filthy, a half-manic look in my eye, limbs shaking. So different from the quiet, wallflower skin he’s always seen me in. “Did you know?” It comes out as a rasp, my voice rough from overuse. It’s a simple question in my mind and yet my heart is beating wildly in my chest.

“Well, I'm afraid you’re going to have to be a little more specific than that, honey,” he replies lazily, one of those large shoulders rising and falling with the same grace and power of a lion.

I give him a look of pure venom, which seems to startle him, though that expression is swiftly hidden. “Did you know that Suguru is cheating on me?” My voice shakes as I clarify what exactly I'm asking about.

About five different emotions flash across his face in quick succession—confusion, shock irritation, disbelief, and something else I'm not sure about. “Oh come on, at least say something believable,” Satoru replies with a chuckle, like I'm just screwing around, like this is fun for me, “He’s so whipped for you, it’s not even funny.”

“Believable?” The laughter that follows is mirthless, cold, empty. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I unlock it, bring up my camera roll to the most recent capture, and shove it toward him. “Is this believable enough?” My voice is icy and sharp as a knife.

He takes the phone. The sounds of grunting, moaning, and the slap of skin on skin fill the tense silence between us when he hits play. His blue eyes are wide and round, flicking over the screen. “Shit,” he whispers.

“Is it believable enough?” I repeat my question in that edged voice.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s believable enough,” he replies quietly, pushing the phone back into my hands. I close the video and shove the device back into my pocket.

“So I ask you again, did you know?” I say, unable to let that thought go. I’m not even sure what I’ll do if he says yes, something that will land me with the label of crazy bitch, I'm sure.

“What? No. Jesus. No. Just what kind of guy do you think I am?” he says quickly, raking his long fingers through his hair.

“So you didn’t help him? You didn’t set them up?”

“No, Mrs. Geto, I did not—”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” I practically scream it, the sentence rattling in my throat on the way out, and my foot slams hard against the floor. “Don’t call me that,” it comes out small, pathetic this time, my shoulders caving inward. Then, the tears start again—hot, salty, and utterly uncontrollable.

“Okay, hey, wait a second—” His words come through in bits and pieces. “Inside,” “Neighbors,” “Causing a scene.”

What am I doing here? What am I doing? I don’t even realize I'm whispering it aloud, repeating it again and again. Before I can mortify myself further, I turn on heel in stiff, robotic movements and start back toward the elevator. Two steps. That’s how far I make it before a large hand is wrapping around my wrist, jerking me to a stop.

“Uh-uh, you’re not going anywhere, sweetheart,” Satoru says and I can hear the fucking smirk in his voice. “Think I'm letting you drive like this? Nah, you'll be a danger to anyone else on the road, not to mention yourself. You shouldn’t have driven anywhere in the first place.”

For a good long moment, I stand there frozen, a muscle in my jaw feathering as my teeth grind together so hard it hurts. “Who the fuck cares?” I let out, “Who cares if something happens to me?” There’s a logical part of my mind that knows I have a few people who would care, but I'm so deeply in my split that it’s drowned out by the constant beat of he doesn’t want me anymore.

“See, those are not the words of someone I trust behind a wheel,” Satoru says jokingly, but there’s an undercurrent of something else. “No can do, sweetie. You’re staying with me tonight. Do not pass go, do not collect 200$.”

“Satoru Gojo, I am so serious. Let go of me,” my voice is shaking as I try to hold it together, try to keep myself from falling apart on his doorstep. I give my arm a tug, attempting to break free, but he holds firm. “I mean it.”

“So did I,” he replies cheekily, “You’re not going anywhere. I’ll tie you to a chair if I have to, honey.” A pause as he clears his throat. When he continues, he sounds awkward, but like he’s trying not to sound awkward. His tone softer somehow, he adds, “Come on, it could be fun. I have ice-cream, Netflix, and a really comfortable couch.”

“Do you really think I'm concerned about having fun?” I bite out.

There’s another small stretch pf silence before he replies, “No, but you’re also not going anywhere without my say-so, so may as well make the best of it, huh, sweetheart?”

Finally, I whip around to face him, only to shoot him another venomous glare. “Asshole!”

He just shrugs, the name rolling off him like water on wax, before dragging me forcibly into his apartment, steering me toward the couch, and pushing me down lightly. “Stay here. Don’t move I’m going to go get rid of my guest,” he says with a lopsided smile and then strides off. Of course he’s got someone over.

His apartment is gorgeous, but barren. There are no family pictures. No décor beyond that which was clearly chosen by a highly paid interior decorator. It's almost more like an art gallery than a home.

What Suguru and I had was a home. I choke back a sob, my hand coming up to cover my mouth, but I can't stop the tears from flooding my eyes and dripping down my cheeks. My foot begins to bounce again, that nervous energy holding me in an iron grip.

Several minutes later, Satoru is guiding some modelesque dark-haired woman out of his apartment. She tries to ask him questions, but he shuts her down masterfully. I don’t miss the curious side-eye she gives me as her heels click across the hardwood floors, the silent who are you and what could you possibly have to do with him?

When Satoru comes back, he crouches down in front of me so we’re eye level and says, “Alright, give me the low down. Tell me exactly what happened.”

It takes me a long time to reply as I have to get my thoughts into some semblance of order. My eyes flick between my lap and his face, my fingers tracing nervous circles on the soft fabric of my sweatpants. “I don’t know if he told you, but I got my first major gallery showing this week,” I murmur, my voice raspy and hollow. All of the joy in my accomplishment has been tainted. “I was in New York for two weeks, or I was supposed to be. I was supposed to be there until the day after tomorrow, but I came home early because I, because I missed him.” The last sentence comes out coated in the bitterness of disgust at myself and how pathetic I must seem. “I wanted to surprise him, but I guess the joke’s on me.”

I pause, trying to scrape together a moment of calm before I have to say the part that makes my stomach churn out loud. “I snuck into the house because I wanted to scare him, but when I walked inside, I saw women’s shoes, a dress, a bra.” God, I might legitimately vomit. “So I crept upstairs and through the cracked door, I saw him fucking her in our marriage bed.” A sob punches its way out of my throat. “O-our marriage-marriage bed,” I repeat brokenly, the phrase cut apart by my weeping. As if the affair isn’t bad enough, to fuck her in our marriage bed of all places. It's like adding insult to injury.

Satoru doesn’t rush me, but he doesn’t offer me any comfort either, which isn’t surprising. I'm pretty sure the man is allergic to emotional vulnerability and sincerity. He shifts from knee to knee, his eyes darting around—on me, away, on me, away. Taking a breath, I finish, “I took the video, snuck back out, drove around for a few hours, and here I am. He doesn’t even know I'm back from New York.”

“And what exactly made you think I knew about the affair? Let alone helped him with it?” He almost seems affronted.

“She was one of your girls,” I say the last word like its derogatory, not toward her but toward him. “You brought her to our party last month. And, well, I know you don’t like me. I know you tried to talk Suguru out of marrying me.”

“Oh.” A large hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck. “Look, that wasn’t personal. I just, y’know, didn’t think he was ready to get married.” Then, he shoots me a look that’s borderline smug and says, “Besides, I was right anyway. I mean, look at you. You showed up, a mess, on my doorstep because he’s having an affair. If he was ready to get married, cheating would never have crossed his mind.”

I was right anyway. The sentence punches me in the gut and forces another sob out of my throat. I hunch over, curling in on myself, like a flower visibly wilting and dying. My entire body is trembling with the force of sobs, each one wracking my body until I'm gasping for air.

“Shit. Fuck. I'm sorry. Okay? I don’t know how to do this,” Satoru mutters, his hands fluttering around like there’s something tangible he should be fixing. “It was fucked up, alright? I shouldn’t have tried to talk him out of marrying you. Not my place. Is that right? Is that what you want to hear?” That makes me want to slap him, but I just cry harder, my sobs becoming hysterical and unhinged. “Jesus Christ, woman. You need to calm down. You’re going to make yourself sick or pass out.” But I can’t calm down. I can’t. Not while that memory of Suguru screwing the pretty, model-like redhead lives rent free in my mind. I see it in perfect 4k clarity every time I close my eyes. The muscles of his back flexing. Her long, dainty legs wrapped around his waist. One perfectly manicured hand twisted in those long, silky raven locks.

One moment, I'm curled in on myself. The next, I'm being crushed against Satoru’s broad, leanly-muscled chest, long, strong arms wrapped around me. My glasses tilt sideways and he plucks them from my face. “Breathe with me,” he whispers against my head, his warm breath seeping through my hair. “Come on, you can do it, princess. In and out, nice and slow.” His breaths slow dramatically, one of his hands sliding up and down my back in time with each inhale and exhale. He’s so warm and for the first time since I saw that horrible scene, I feel just a little less alone.

It takes a long time, but eventually my breathing falls in sync with his. My sobbing winds down into hiccups, gasps, and sniffles. Every once in a while, I’ll burst into another round of sobs, but they’re short lived.

“What will help you? Have you eaten? Do you want some tea? A shower? The water pressure here is off the charts. It’s like getting a free massage.” He says lightheartedly and I can’t tell if he’s trying to make me feel more comfortable or himself.

“No, no food,” I rasp out, my face pressed into the crook of his shoulder, “I'm too anxious. I'll throw it right back up.” I pause and my fingers press into the muscles of his back. “I don’t want to be alone,” I whisper very quietly at the suggestion of a shower. A shower would definitely help; it's what I normally do when I'm splitting or my anxiety is particularly bad. However, the idea of being alone makes my eyes water with another round of tears.

“Okay, well, you need to get some rest at least. You’ve got to be jet-lagged,” he suggests, his silvery brows rising. “Plus, you’ve been screaming like a banshee for the last half an hour. You have to have worn yourself out. Y’know, kind of like a baby.”

I shake my head and mumble, “Not tired. Too anxious.”

“Oh, so you’re really going to be a kid about this?” He says teasingly and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Fine. If you’re not tired and you’re not hungry, then you’re taking a shower. You gotta do something, sweetheart. You can’t just sob your heart out all night.”

I mean, I definitely can. Instead of being a smart ass, my fingers tightening in his muscles even more. Tears start to roll down my cheeks again and I let out, “Please, I don’t want to be alone.” Pathetic.

“No, no, don’t start crying again. Please. You literally just stopped. How those big eyes hold so many tears is a mystery to me,” he says swiftly, his hands sliding up to my shoulders. When I start to cry even harder, he continues, “I'll come with you. Okay? You don’t have to be alone. Alright? I promise.”

I take a deep, shaky breath and squeak out, “Okay.” It’s not like he’d be attracted to me and I'm far to familiar with his philandering ways to be attracted to him in a serious way. That’s not to say he’s not attractive. No, the man is gorgeous, the way a marble statue is gorgeous. They share the same meaningless smiles and carven bodies.

Gently, he ruffles my hair, which earns him a scowl, and helps me up. With a hand on the small of my back, he guides me down the hall, through his massive bedroom, and into the ensuite. After gesturing for me to deal with my clothes, he turns the lights off, plunging the room into a deep, complete darkness.

I undress by feel alone, slipping my cardigan off, which hides my belly weight, then my t-shirt and pants. I hear each of his footsteps, then the creak and rush of the shower coming on. Slipping off my panties, I murmur, “I can’t see.”

I'm glad he can’t see me. My style leans toward baggy and shapeless, or it does now anyway, but I’ve always dressed rather modesty. It's what happens when your mother picks apart your body as a teen—you start to do it yourself as you get older. I’ve gone from heavy to skinny and now back to a little heavy again, thanks to the birth control I went on at Suguru’s behest.

“I’m just not in a place in my career where I feel comfortable bringing a child into our home. I’m close to a promotion. I can feel it. Once I make it to state’s attorney, we can revisit this topic.” Was he really too busy with work? Or another affair? Did he just not want to have children with me?

“I've got you,” Satoru says, drawing me out of my thoughts, as his hand finds the small of my back. Despite my own opinions on his character, I find it to be comforting, even if it’s just the basic comfort of another person. He guides me into the shower, keeping me steady, even when I stumble. The water hits my skin, hot and soothing. His presence looms behind me, my skin humming with it, despite the distance he’s keeping from me. Gooseflesh prickles across my body. I turn my face into the spray of water, relishing the sensation of it pelting against my closed eyes, my forehead, and my cheeks.

Three years of marriage down the drain. Five years of my life wasted. Another sob works its way out of me, past my trembling lips. My knees start to give, but Satoru is faster, pulling me into his arms again without a word. “It's okay. It's gonna be fine. You’ll see. Everything will work itself out,” he whispers all-too-optimistically against my soaked hair.

“Liar,” I choke out, “Don’t fucking lie to me. My marriage is over.” The last word is torn from me violently and I lapse into sobs again. “It’s over. All over.” I can never recover from having seen Suguru screwing that woman. It’ll be burned into my mind until the end of time. My voice comes out small and wounded as I whisper, “What's wrong with me?”

“Well, you’re kind of acting a little unhinged if you’re asking for my opinion,” he says teasingly, but a moment later, he adds softly, “Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re fine.”

“I'm sorry,” I mumble, “I'm really sorry.” I want to tell him that discovering the affair triggered my BPD and I’ve been splitting since. I want to tell him that I feel like I'm on a tightrope and I'm one wrong move away from tumbling to my timely end.

“Don’t apologize. Just relax.” There’s a gentle, tentative brush along my shoulders before his fingers dig into them, spreading and pushing the muscle in a way that makes me sigh. “Calm down,” he murmurs, like he's trying to soothe a wild animal. His hands rove over my back, massaging it with expertise I didn’t expect. His hands pause when the reach the place where my back curves into my ass, his fingers flexing against my skin. Time seems to freeze for a moment and some small, distant voice in my head whispers that I should stop him. Right as I decide to ignore it, he seems to arrive at the same conclusion because each of his hands cups one of my ass cheeks, squeezing the generous curves.

“Christ, you’re thick,” he mutters under his breath, like it slipped out without his notice. “Wouldn't know under all those clothes you hide behind,” he adds, almost to himself. His hands return to massaging, but it feels like he’s taking his time now, doing it for himself more than me. His hands glide further down, loosening the muscles in my pillow-y thighs and I hum at the attention. A shiver rolls through my body as his hands slide up my sides, his touch feather-light. They creep under my arms to cup my breasts. A strangled sound comes out of him and he yanks me against him, the sound of my shoulders hitting his chest wet and loud. “They’re soft,” he murmurs.

Oh god. His absurdly long fingers masterfully knead the sensitive flesh. When they reach my nipples, he stops, hesitates. One of those fingers gives a nipple an experimental flick. The whimper that comes out of me is embarrassing, my face flushing. I’m grateful for the cover of darkness, hiding my shame. There's another moment of hesitation. Then, without warning he’s stroking, pinching, and tugging gently on the firm buds. “Tell you a secret,” he whispers, his voice almost drowned out by the shower, but impossible to miss from the way his breath is hot against my ear. Another shiver rolls through my body and I find myself sinking against him. “Every day, I meet so many ass man. Ass this. Ass that. But me? I'm a tit man. Just wanna bury my face in ‘em. Plus …” he trails off and tugs sharply on both nipples, eliciting a gasp from me, “It’s been a long time since I’ve had real ones in my hands. I forgot how soft they are.” He finishes by grasping each fleshy globe in a hand and squeezing firmly, my pert nipples pressed against his palms. “Fuck, they feel good,” his voice is a low register against my cheek, the words spoken like some forbidden magic.

A distraction. Suddenly, it occurs to me that I was always going to end up here, not necessarily with him, but with someone. If not him, then any other nameless, faceless man to fill this void in me where all the love for my husband and the love I thought he had for me once lived.

A low, shameful whine leaves my lips, even as I back myself against him, grinding my ass against the hard cock brushing against it. He lets out a hiss against my ear, his hands flying down to my hips to take them in a firm grip. “Don’t. I can’t.” He sounds like he’s in genuine pain, like it kills him to stop me.

“If you don’t, then I'm leaving your apartment and going to find someone who will,” I say quietly, but not meekly. I mean it too, with every molecule of my being. “I just, I need to feel like a person, like someone that matters.” Even if it’s only a Band-Aid on a bullet wound.

“I don’t want to take advantage—”

“I know what I'm doing,” I cut him off. “Don’t act like I’m without agency. I was being serious. If it’s not you, I'm leaving to find someone else who will give me what I want. And what I want right now is to forget my own name.”

He stiffens. For a moment, it's like I can hear the rasp of our breathing echoing above the rasp of the shower, perfectly in sync. Then, he relaxes against me, one hand remaining on my hip, the other returning to my breast. I grind my ass against his cock again, relishing the thickness, the perfect mushroom tip, the length. No wonder he’s so cocky. He hisses at the contact, his hips bucking forward almost instinctively. It quickly turns into groan as his length pushes between my thighs, rubbing against my folds. His hands clench on me. “Jesus, I could fuck your thighs,” he mutters absently. The hand on my hip slips around front, his fingers slowly parting my folds and teasing that nub of nerves at the apex of my thighs. My hips jerk at contact.

I should have put the pieces together about Suguru’s affair. For the last few months, I’ve been the only one initiating intimacy and when I have, it’s like it became a chore to him somewhere along the line. He used to want me, crave me, but he hasn’t touched me in over a month. I need this. I need to feel wanted, even if it’s only lust, even if it’s only temporary.

The pad of his thumb circles my clit, not quite touching it, but grazing it. A gasp is pulled from my throat and I grind against his hand, seeking that friction from his fingers, his cock. The hand on my breast drops to my hip to hold me in place and he says tightly as his fingers curl into my skin, “Hold still. Just let me feel you, okay? You’re making it difficult for me, sweetheart.” The hand on my hip shifts to my belly, his fingers digging in to cellulite that hangs over my pelvis. “Oh, this is nice. It's so soft and squishy.”

I stiffen at how he grabs one of the places I'm most insecure about, but his grip doesn’t loosen. Instead, his other hand joins it, squashing and kneading my belly. My face is burning and so are my eyes, but they’re hidden under the shroud of darkness.

He pushes his hips forward, grinding his length against my folds, while his hands traverse my body, stroking and squeezing to his heart’s content. His breathing is heavy and ragged against my ear, the hot puffs tickling the shell with each exhale. He toys expertly with my clit, skating around it, flicking it occasionally, but never quite giving me the contact I'm desperate for. Every moment that passes, the space between my thighs grows wetter and wetter, dripping down onto his engorged cock.

“Please,” I murmur at last, as close to begging as I’ll ever get.

“Such good manners,” he croons arrogantly, that infuriating thumb skipping across my clit. “Please what, princess, hmm?”

“Don’t tease me,” I complain through gritted teeth as I grind my slick center against his length. My god he’s huge. That’s not to say Suguru isn’t big, but Jesus fucking Christ. Instead of replying, he gives my clit a flick and then pushes his thumb down right on top of it. “Not in the mood for teasing.”

“Ask nicely,” he shoots back, swirling his thumb in a smooth figure eight motion. My body jumps at each contact and my teeth grind together, stifling the moans trying escape me. “Come on, say it,” he whispers against my ear like a taunt.

I shudder against him and gasp out, “Please, I want you inside me.” I hate how pathetic I sound, how needy. Right now, he’s not my husband’s best friend, he's not a self-obsessed modelizer, he's just a man that I'm using to fill the ugly wound in my heart.

“See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” He says, pushing the head of his cock between my folds until he’s nudging at my soaked entrance. “Fuck, you’re so wet.” His fingers work harder and faster over my swollen clit as he bucks his hips gently, tormenting my drooling hole, but never quite sliding inside. “Feel that? Feel how hard I am? I'm gonna stretch you out nice and easy for me.” Slowly, he guides me forward until my body is pressed flush with the tile of the shower, frigid despite the hot water pouring down on us. Then, he does just that. Inch by agonizing inch, he fills me, his thick, veiny cock pushing into my slick walls.

“Oh god,” I gasp out as he stretches me deliciously, effortlessly hitting spots inside me that I didn’t even know I had, until he’s fully sheathed to the hilt. My eyes screw shut and the tips of my fingers scrape the grout as they curl. Ohgodohgodohgod. The dual sensation of his fingers rapt attention to my clit and him inside me is enough to make me let out a long moan.

“That's it. Big stretch,” he murmurs, “You’re so fucking tight around me, squeezing me. Fuck.” He still isn't moving, his cock kissing my cervix. “God.” His free hand gathers my wrists (because of course one of his hands is big enough to hold both my wrists) and he pins them to the wall above my head. That thick length twitches inside me and I let out a whimper. Satoru just chuckles at my plight, still unmoving, and he leans in close to rest his chin in the crook of my shoulder. “I didn’t know you were so responsive,” he teases, “You keep yourself on a very tight leash, huh?”

Instead of trying to get out a sentence, I wiggle my ass against him, earning me a sharp hiss. Almost like a punishment, he draws his hand away from my clit and give me a sharp smack on a ass cheek. I let out a cry of surprise and pain. “Jerk,” I bite out between ragged pants.

Then, he does the unthinkable. He pulls out of me, drawing a petulant whine from my lips. No, I need this. Please. But I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. Before I can complain though, I'm being spun around, picked up, and pushed against the frigid wall so fast it makes my head spin.

“Would a jerk do this?” He counters, easing himself back inside me with a groan. His hips stutter for a second and he curses under his breath. “I can't get over how goddamn tight your pussy is, like it was made for me. And dripping wet. Fuck.”

Between his dirty talk and the feeling of him sliding back inside me, I'm a moan, trembling mess and he’s barely done anything. Maybe I'm just that desperate for attention. “That’s-that’s exactly what a jerk would—”

My sentence is cut off by his mouth finding mine in the darkness. At the same time, he starts to gently rock his hips. Bastard. Despite myself, I let out a lascivious sound, my mouth moving against his, my arms wrapping loosely around his neck, hands sliding into his short, prickly undercut, then into the sopping fringe on top. One of his hands supports my hips, the other stays against the wall by my head.

Each thrust makes me forget a little bit more. Forget that Suguru cheated on me. Forget that my marriage is over. Forget that I'm so fucking alone. The kiss breaks and we’re both gasping for breath. I can feel each hot puffs of air against my cheek.

“You sound so pretty when you moan,” he whispers, “Never knew you could be so loud.” He lets out a shaky sound that’s almost like a laugh. “Gonna make you scream, baby.” He punctuates the sentence with a sharp thrust that makes me see stars. My head tilts back against the tiled wall, the moan drawn out of me downright pornographic. “Just like that,” he says with wicked delight. My arms shake as cling to him like it means something.

The hand on the wall comes between us, finally returning to my clit and engaging in a slow torture. His thrusts become lazy, languid, but no less deep. My arms wrapped around his neck, I’m moaning, whimpering, and worst of all crying out for him, right against his ear. “Satoru,” I gasp out, “Fuck.”

His hips stutter for second as do his fingers. “Oh, that’s hot. Say my name again.” As if determined to make me do it, his fingers begin punishing my clit in fast, sweeping strokes.

I'm not even embarrassed when I cry out, “Oh God, Satoru. I—Oh, fuck.”

It only spurs him on. Those lazy, languid thrusts become more powerful, faster and he keeps up that brutal pace on my clit. “So sexy. Such a nice little cunt,” he mutters, almost to himself, his breathing ragged.

Every thrust, every sweeping motion across my sensitive clit draws me higher and higher. I moan in such a pathetic, needy way, my hands clutching at him, nails digging into the muscles of his back. My thighs are trembling, the muscles in my feet and calves twitching. The slick sound of him rutting into me is like music to my ears.

“Oh fuck,” Satoru groans, plunging his thick, perfect cock inside me so hard the tip of it pummels my cervix. “So, so tight. Gonna come for me? Need you to come for me, sweetheart.” His thrust are hard and fast, but precise.

This is nothing like it was ever was with Suguru. Or anyone else for that matter. With Suguru, everything is methodical, like he’s a director and the bed is his stage. The men before weren’t really anything to write home about. With Satoru though? It’s a little unhinged, almost overwhelming.

“S-Satoru,” I let out, my eyes screwing shut as that familiar tension builds up in my gut.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against my ear between gasps and pants. “Come for me, pretty girl. I want to feel you come on my dick.” His fingers don’t let up, sweeping over my clit and back again, neither do his thrusts. That tension inside me snaps and my cunt clenches down on the length of him inside me. “Satoru, oh God, Satoru,” I cry out his name over and over, intermingled with curses and unintelligible noise.

Yes. This is what I needed. God, I feel so whole. My walls flutter around him as my cunt gushes and spasms. The entirety of my body feels light and tingly, arcs of pleasure shooting through every part of me. Right now. I have no name. I have no life behind me. I just am. My mind is at last mercifully silent.

“Fuckfuckfuck, sweetheart,” he groans out, driving his fat cock as deep as it can go. A shudder rolls through his body and I feel his length twitches again and again and again as he fills me with his warm, sticky cum. That sensation alone is almost enough to make me fall apart again.

For several minutes, we stay like that, both of us breathing heavily. He doesn’t pull out and I'm glad of it. Let me stay filled as long as possible. Eventually though, he lets out a long sigh and sets me down on trembling legs.

“You didn’t even try and pull out,” I say it like it’s a complaint, but deep down, I loved it, just like I love the feeling of his cum inside me, dripping into my folds.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, just manhandles me under the water. The silence continues as he washes my hair, rinses of the space between my legs. Only when he reaches to twist the knob, shutting the water off, does he finally say, “This can’t happen again.”

My teeth sink into my lower lip. For some reason my heart is racing, but I swallow and say calmly, “I'm not stupid, Satoru. I know you’re not into relationships. Besides, I know a pity when I see one.”

In a split second, his grip is tight on my arm. Even though I can’t see him, I somehow know he's staring at me intensely. “It wasn’t a pity fuck,” he says, “But it can’t happen again. For about twenty different reasons. The first one being that you’re married. To my best friend, I might add.”

I just scoff. “Suguru stepped out of our marriage first, thus breaking the bond of matrimony. Our marriage is nothing more than a piece of paper now.”

“C’mon, you don’t mean that. You’re just pissed off and—”

“Stop doing that!” I snap, cutting him off. “I’m not just pissed off. I can’t even fucking look at him. Why do you think I didn’t confront him? The idea of seeing him, talking to him? It makes me fucking sick.” I pause, a shiver rolling through me as the air around us begins to cool. Just to make a point, my hands find his body in the dark. I push myself right up against him, pulling him down to me and pressing my mouth against his. Despite his words, he kisses me back, his arms winding around my waist. Our mouths dance together in a synchronous push and pull. It makes me feel alive. Eventually, I break the kiss to gasp for air, but I don’t pull away entirely. Instead, I whisper against his lips, “Again.”

There’s a heartbeat’s pause, then a sigh. “Okay.”

[gojosgotogirl]

training

[gojosgotogirl]

happy fathers to HIM

[gojosgotogirl]

the strongest

"What do those eyes see through?"

ib: tumblr/gabriella0807

[gojosgotogirl]

Baby, come help me in the shower 💖

[gojosgotogirl]

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the prettiest boy of them all?

Trick question, it’s me.

All for you baby

[gojosgotogirl]

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the prettiest boy of them all?

Trick question, it’s me.

All for you baby

[gojosgotogirl]

Artist note: even as an adult, being called my full name make feel like I'm in trouble.

[gojosgotogirl]

he will cheat by distracting you with a kith mwah

[gojosgotogirl]

au where gojo gets more into guitar and starts a band called 6 eyes

[gojosgotogirl]

Okay okay but I'm obsessed with the idea of Satoru being unwittingly married to a rich CEO. I always see CEO!Gojo but what about GojoxBillionaire!CEO.

I just love flipping traditional power dynamics (especially with his character cuz bby is the strongest) and exploring the nature of power in all its forms.