Satoru Gojo

It’s been one year, two months, and twenty-one days since Satoru Gojo very, very reluctantly scrawled his name across the divorce papers you practically shoved into his hands. Papers that made everything final. Papers that should’ve given you both closure.

But if there’s one thing about Satoru, it’s that he doesn’t do “closure.”

And to say he was still not handling your divorce well was a complete understatement.

He still wears his wedding ring some days, just to piss you off. He still brings you up in casual conversation with mutual friends as if you’re still married, pretending it’s “no big deal.” He still flirts shamelessly whenever you run into each other at the grocery store or at neighborhood gatherings, like the last year never happened.

He tells everyone, including you, that he’s moved on, that he’s “totally fine,” and definitely not constantly planning out ideas and excuses he could use to worm his way back into your life and maybe—just maybe—into your bed.

His “totally fine” is showing up at your favorite coffee shop at the exact time you usually go, loudly claiming it’s “his spot.” It’s him offering to help carry your groceries and somehow eating half the snacks before you even get home. It’s him still introducing you as “my wife—uh, ex-wife—for now,” with the world’s most unconvincing cough.

He’s a total mess. A tall, loud, ridiculous mess of a man who still can’t seem to grasp that you divorced him. And the worst part? Sometimes—when he’s being sweet instead of infuriating, still acting as if he has every right to just show up on your doorstep, bouquet of flowers in hand, even after a year—you wonder if he’ll ever move on or keep clinging like an oh-so-patient puppydog.

But here’s the thing about Satoru: deep down, he doesn’t actually believe you’re divorced. Not really. In his mind, you’re both just on a really, really long “break.” A rough patch. Something you’ll both laugh about one day when you “officially” get back together.

But you? You’ve finally taken the risk and dived headfirst back into the dating pool. Lawyers, doctors, even a firefighter once—you’ve met some really great people, even if you’ve had your fair share of weirdos—but the majority were decent. Mature. Definitely not your ex-husband.

You met this really great guy a little while back—Andrew—kind, sweet, funny. The ideal type of man with a deep voice and a perfect smile that would make any girl swoon. He holds doors open, remembers your coffee order, and actually listens when you talk—like really listens, not just nods along while scrolling through his phone. He’s stable, dependable, the sort of man you could actually picture building a calm, steady future with. Well, maybe not that far—yet.

You’ve only gone on two dates so far, but have been texting constantly.

So when you got a picture of him—shirtless and teasing below the waistband, muscles cut like something out of a wet dream—you couldn’t help but send one back.

You propped yourself up on the bed, angling your phone just right, the soft light spilling across your skin. The photo you took left very little to the imagination: wearing that black-laced lingerie you bought a few weeks ago, flushed, looking at the camera from beneath your lashes in a way that only made it more tempting, your thighs parted just enough to tease.

You clicked send before you could second-guess yourself.

One careless tap of your finger, one name too high on your contact list, and you sent your ex-husband—Satoru Gojo of all people—your nudes.

Full, undeniable, in-your-face proof that you still look good enough to make his pulse race and his mind wander to places you swore he’d never be invited to again.

And you didn’t even notice until it was far, far too late.

When Satoru got the notification—your notification—he damn near flung his phone in the air with the force of how badly he fumbled to pick it up, jamming his fingers against the screen till it loaded and holy shit.

His mouth was bone-dry. His dick, however, was not.

You hadn’t even gotten the chance to unsend them before Satoru’s flood of responses came in—photos, audios, emojis, more photos—and then, radio silence. You should’ve known that quiet meant something even worse was coming.

He spent a good two hours jerking off till his cock was raw and his fist ached—and of course, documenting it to his beloved wife who totally meant to send it to him. It’s proof you want to get back together—that this really had been just a small break you needed. You still love him, of course!

Ten dick-pics, a shower, and speeding past twenty red-lights later, he finally makes it to your front door, a bouquet of roses in his hand and his pockets stuffed full of packets of flavoured XXL condoms.

He knocked once, softly. Then resorted to banging on the door, calling out loud enough that you were already certain the neighbors were poking their heads out the window with the biggest, most dopiest grin.

“Babyyyy! Open up! Special delivery for my super hot wife!”

He didn’t let up on his relentless knocking on your door till he finally heard the latch—standing proudly in all his six-foot-something, stupidly-handsome glory. Grinning ear to ear like you’d just invited him to prom, roses dangling from one hand, condoms stuffed so obviously in his hoodie pocket you nearly groaned out loud.

“Baaabe! I came as fast as I could—don’t worry, I stretched first—I missed you! I was wondering when you’d finally come around, but—”

He blinks, tilting his head when he notices your surprised, very not impressed expression, his grin faltering slightly as he speaks—borderline whiny.

“Hey, don’t act so surprised, you literally sent me a picture? You know… of you? The lingerie? The one that nearly made me cum in my pants?—oh wait, it did—”

“ANYWAY!”

He leans closer to the doorframe, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes wide and bright, sniffing as he chews on his bottom lip, holding out the flowers to you. The wedding ring he is still wearing glints in the light. A hopeful look, desperate for your approval gleaming in his eyes as he continues to cling like a golden retriever.

“Sooo… seriously, can I come in? We need to make up for lost time, gorgeous.”