Satoru Gojo

The dating app was just a tool. That's what Satoru told himself every time he swiped right on some desperate soul looking for love. A means to an end. Nothing personal.

He'd perfected the routine over the years. Charming messages, a few well-timed compliments, suggesting dinner at his place because he made "the best pasta." They always said yes. They always showed up nervous and hopeful, and they never left.

But you were different. He knew it the moment your first message popped up on his screen. Something about the way you typed, the way you didn't immediately fall for his usual bullshit lines. It made him pause. Made him curious.

So he kept texting. Day after day. Week after week. Never calling, never video chatting. Just words on a screen. It was safer that way. Kept things distant. Kept him in control.

But now he's sitting across from you at some quiet restaurant, and control is the last thing he has.

You're real. You're actually here. And you're looking at him like he's a normal person, like he's just some guy from a dating app, and not a monster wearing human skin.

Satoru takes a slow sip of his wine, watching you over the rim of the glass. His smile is easy, practiced, but his eyes are dark. Hungry. Not for the food.

"So," he says, setting the glass down, "I gotta say. You look even better in person. Pictures don't do you justice."

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate. Like he's memorizing something. Like he's calculating.

"You know, I was kinda nervous about this," he continues, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "Texting is easy. You can hide behind a screen. But this? Face to face? That's real. That's vulnerable."

He picks up his fork, twirls it between his fingers. His smile widens.

"I like vulnerable."

The waiter brings your food. Satoru doesn't even glance at his plate. He's too busy watching you. The way you move. The way you breathe. The way your throat works when you swallow.

"You know what I was thinking about?" he asks, voice dropping a little lower. "While I was waiting for you to show up. I was thinking about how some people just look... delicious. Like, you ever meet someone and just think, wow, I bet they taste amazing?"

He laughs, light and casual, like he just said something normal. "That's weird, right? I'm weird. Sorry, I do that. Say weird shit when I'm nervous."

But his eyes don't look nervous. They look hungry.

He cuts into his steak, watching the red juices pool on the plate. His mouth waters. His jaw tightens.

"I'm glad you came," he murmurs, finally taking a bite. He chews slowly, still watching you. "I was thinking we could skip dessert here. Go back to my place. I could make you something special."

The original plan was simple. Dinner. Back to his apartment. A few drinks. Then the usual. Then the end.

But as he sits there, watching you across the table, something shifts. He doesn't want to rush this. For the first time in years, he wants to take his time. Savor it.

"You know what," he says, pushing his half-empty plate away, "let's do this again. Next week. Same time. My treat."

He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping against the table, a small smile playing on his lips.

"I think I want to keep you around for a while."

---

Ten months.

Ten months of watching you. Texting you. Meeting up with you. Ten months of pretending he was normal, that he didn't want to do things he knew he shouldn't. Ten months of going home alone, starving, shaking, hating himself for not being able to go through with it.

Satoru has killed people before. He's eaten them. Dismembered them in his bathtub and buried pieces of them in the woods behind his apartment complex. He's never felt bad about it. Never lost a wink of sleep.

But you. You've ruined him.

He can't stop thinking about you. Can't stop imagining the taste of you, the warmth of your blood on his tongue, the way your flesh would give under his teeth. And it's not just hunger anymore. It's something deeper. Something that makes him want to keep you forever.

You're at his place again. Dinner. Your usual routine. He cooked for you, like always. Watched you eat. Pretended he wasn't counting every bite, imagining what it would be like to have you on his plate instead.

But tonight is different.

The hunger has been building for weeks. Months. It's a physical thing now, a pressure behind his eyes, a tremor in his hands. He's lost weight. Stopped sleeping. Every time you're near, his pupils shrink, his teeth grind, his mouth fills with saliva.

He can't do this anymore. He can't.

You're sitting on his couch, talking about something, your voice washing over him like white noise. He's not listening. He's watching your neck move as you speak. Watching the pulse flutter beneath your skin.

His hands are shaking. His breath is coming faster. The world is going hazy around the edges.

He snaps.

Before he knows what he's doing, he's on top of you, pinning you down against the cushions. His body is heavy, trembling, pressing you into the couch. His hands grip your wrists too tight, his knees dig into your sides.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, voice wrecked. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't—I can't do this anymore."

His face drops to your neck. He inhales deeply, eyes fluttering shut. His mouth waters.

"You don't understand," he whispers against your skin. "You don't know what you do to me. Every time I see you, every time you're near, it's like I'm dying. Like I'm starving and you're right there, and I can't have you, and it's driving me insane."

His lips brush over your neck, feather-light. His breath is hot, uneven. His hands tremble around your wrists.

"I've been so good," he continues, voice cracking. "I've been trying so hard to be normal, to be a person, to not be what I am. But I can't. I can't stop thinking about it. About you. About how you'd taste."

He kisses your neck, soft and open-mouthed, tongue dragging over your pulse point.

"You'd be so sweet, wouldn't you? So warm. I bet you'd taste like everything good in this world. Everything I've ever wanted."

His teeth graze your skin. His jaw shakes.

"Tell me to stop. Tell me to let you go. Please. I don't want to hurt you, but I don't think I can stop myself anymore."

He waits. One second. Two. His hands tighten around your wrists. His breathing grows heavier.

"I thought so."

His teeth sink into your neck. Not hard enough to break skin. Not yet. Just a warning. A promise.

"My dinner," he murmurs, kissing the spot he bit. "My sweet, beautiful dinner."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are wild, desperate, hungry.

"I don't want to eat you," he whispers. "I want to keep you. I want to hold you like this forever and never let go. But the hunger... it's too loud. It's too much."

His voice breaks. He's crying now, tears dripping down onto your skin.

"Tell me I'm a monster. Tell me you hate me. Tell me to go to hell. Give me a reason to stop. Because I don't have one anymore. You're the only thing I've ever wanted that I couldn't just take."

He presses his forehead to yours, breathing ragged.

"I'm going to do it," he says quietly. "I'm going to eat you. And then I'm going to bury what's left of you in my backyard with all the others, and I'm going to pretend you never existed. And I'm going to hate myself for the rest of my life."

He laughs, hollow and wet.

"That's the worst part, isn't it? I'll hate myself. But I'll still do it."

His head drops to your shoulder. His body trembles against yours.

"Just stay still. It'll be over soon. I'll make it quick. I promise. I'm not a monster. I'm just... hungry."

Silence stretches between you. The clock on the wall ticks.

And Satoru stays there, teeth pressed to your skin, shaking, waiting for the strength to pull away.

The dating app was just a tool. That's what Satoru told himself every time he swiped right on some desperate soul looking for love. A means to an end. Nothing personal.

He'd perfected the routine over the years. Charming messages, a few well-timed compliments, suggesting dinner at his place because he made "the best pasta." They always said yes. They always showed up nervous and hopeful, and they never left.

But you were different. He knew it the moment your first message popped up on his screen. Something about the way you typed, the way you didn't immediately fall for his usual bullshit lines. It made him pause. Made him curious.

So he kept texting. Day after day. Week after week. Never calling, never video chatting. Just words on a screen. It was safer that way. Kept things distant. Kept him in control.

But now he's sitting across from you at some quiet restaurant, and control is the last thing he has.

You're real. You're actually here. And you're looking at him like he's a normal person, like he's just some guy from a dating app, and not a monster wearing human skin.

Satoru takes a slow sip of his wine, watching you over the rim of the glass. His smile is easy, practiced, but his eyes are dark. Hungry. Not for the food.

"So," he says, setting the glass down, "I gotta say. You look even better in person. Pictures don't do you justice."

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate. Like he's memorizing something. Like he's calculating.

"You know, I was kinda nervous about this," he continues, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "Texting is easy. You can hide behind a screen. But this? Face to face? That's real. That's vulnerable."

He picks up his fork, twirls it between his fingers. His smile widens.

"I like vulnerable."

The waiter brings your food. Satoru doesn't even glance at his plate. He's too busy watching you. The way you move. The way you breathe. The way your throat works when you swallow.

"You know what I was thinking about?" he asks, voice dropping a little lower. "While I was waiting for you to show up. I was thinking about how some people just look... delicious. Like, you ever meet someone and just think, wow, I bet they taste amazing?"

He laughs, light and casual, like he just said something normal. "That's weird, right? I'm weird. Sorry, I do that. Say weird shit when I'm nervous."

But his eyes don't look nervous. They look hungry.

He cuts into his steak, watching the red juices pool on the plate. His mouth waters. His jaw tightens.

"I'm glad you came," he murmurs, finally taking a bite. He chews slowly, still watching you. "I was thinking we could skip dessert here. Go back to my place. I could make you something special."

The original plan was simple. Dinner. Back to his apartment. A few drinks. Then the usual. Then the end.

But as he sits there, watching you across the table, something shifts. He doesn't want to rush this. For the first time in years, he wants to take his time. Savor it.

"You know what," he says, pushing his half-empty plate away, "let's do this again. Next week. Same time. My treat."

He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping against the table, a small smile playing on his lips.

The restaurant is warm, candlelight flickering between you, and everything about him feels just slightly off. His smile is too wide. His eyes linger too long. His fingers keep twitching toward you like he wants to reach out and touch, but he holds himself back.

"So tell me something," he says, voice soft and silky, "what's the weirdest thing you've ever done? And don't give me some boring answer. I want the real stuff. The stuff you don't tell people on first dates."

He's watching you, head tilted, and there's something in his expression that's almost gentle. Almost fond. But underneath it, something darker. Something hungry.

Satoru's smile doesn't waver, but his pupils dilate just slightly, like he's hanging onto every word before you even say it. His fingers drum against the table once, twice, then stop.

"Go on," he murmurs, leaning in closer. "I'm listening."